by Guy Haley
‘Enlighten me,’ said Borowik tightly.
‘To be given the devil’s choice is to be given a pair of options which cannot be chosen between in any good conscience. You see, we face the devil’s choice today. A choice you give us.’ She sat back and stared imperiously at the representatives of the Adeptus Administratum. At the bottom of the dais’ twenty-seven steps they seemed small and insignificant. She was set high over them by birth and circumstance, a planetary governor, whereas they were merely functionaries of a remote, half-dead god. They were surrounded by her officials, her officers and family, who glittered in their finery brighter than the stars of any firmament. The various lords-superior of her council and the minor lords-civil were useless to her in this choice. But they outnumbered the delegation several times over, and that counted for something. The local Administratum functionaries, uncomfortable looking in the group, were the delegation’s only allies, and unreliable ones at that.
However distant the Imperium, however small its agents seemed, its reach was great. Huratal held a planet by her birth; these men, these scribblers, could put her off her throne with the stroke of a pen. She was gambling everything. A devil’s choice indeed.
‘We do not have the men,’ she said. ‘We cannot comply.’ Three hundred noble faces looked from her to the visiting adepts.
‘You proclaim open rebellion. To withhold men from the tithe of the Departmento Munitorum is gross treason, Governatrice,’ said Borowik.
‘How many times do we have to say it?’ she said. Her face flushed. ‘We relayed this information to you via astropath. Again by direct hololith whilst you were still in orbit. We have been visited by the recruitment fleets of the Departmento Munitorum eight times in the last seven years. Every one of those eight times, we have complied quickly and to the letter. You already have every able-bodied man we can spare. This ninth time, we say no! We do not have the men,’ she said, enunciating her words very carefully. ‘Can you comprehend what we are saying?’
Querol stepped forwards. ‘If... if I may?’ he said apologetically. Borowik nodded. ‘What of your planetary garrison?’ Querol said. He licked his lips and consulted his data-slate. ‘Our records indicate you have thirteen regiments under arms.’ He was a small, sweaty man, with a small, sweaty man’s stridulating voice.
‘Had, Tithemaster Querol, had. Do you note our use of the past tense there? Had! You have had your one-tenth of men, and then another, and another, and another. We have fewer than five hundred thousand men under arms to defend this world and all its dependencies in our system. Our factories are empty. The husbands of our wives are missing. The fathers of our children,’ she opened one pudgy hand quickly, ‘gone.’
‘If you have men, then you must give them, and freely,’ said Borowik. ‘Or you shall suffer the consequences.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It is not enough. It never will be enough for you.’
Querol licked his fat, purple lips and tried a conciliatory smile. ‘This is but a little misunderstanding, senior assessor. I am sure our lady can spare them for the greater glory of the Imperium. The Lord Solar Macharius requires more troops if he is to conclude his glorious conquests.’
With great effort, Huratal heaved herself from her throne. Scattering cup-sized canids before her, she descended the steps, forcing aside the gaggle of minor heirs she had to attend on her, and came to a halt only three steps from the bottom. Shock at her descent whispered around the court like wind through reeds.
‘No! You do not hear, though you have ears. We say again, we cannot spare them. The Lord Solar’s crusade has bled this planet dry. All systems in this subsector report increased incidences of xenos raids. Five months ago, our outermost outposts were attacked. They will be attacked again. The enemies of mankind smell blood in the water. If we are weak, then we will perish.’
‘Then raise more troops,’ said Borowik.
‘From where? Who will man our factories and our fields?’ she said, her voice trembling with anger. ‘If we give my men to you, we will not be able to pay the due exacta, a tithe as important as yours, as so many other parasites like you impress upon us. On the one hand, we have the Departmento Exacta, on the other, the Departmento Munitorum. Who shall go without?’
‘Then put your women to work, your children,’ said Borowik. ‘You have a population of one point five billion on this world alone. Four times that much in the Gerat star system. Cogitator simulation suggests you can rearrange your workforce sufficiently to provide Terra’s due with a drop-off of a few tenths of a per cent and fulfil the requirements of the Astra Militarum immediately. I am sure my colleagues of the Departmento Exacta will be merciful.’
Huratal laughed, sending her pulse skyrocketing and her chins jiggling. ‘Mercy? Your kind knows nothing of mercy. You have ink in your veins. What happens when you return again for more men?’ she said. ‘Who do we give you? Our babes? Our livestock? This then, is the devil’s choice we have. Give you what you demand, and risk disappointing another coterie of bureaucrats. Neither branch of your organisation is tolerant of failure. What would you have us do?’
A nervous titter sounded from somewhere in the court. She silenced it with a glare that swept out over her relatives and vassals like a las-beam.
‘Local governance is not our concern,’ said Borowik. ‘The fulfilment of the tithe is. Every problem must be overcome individually. This matter at hand can be addressed immediately. You choose not to do so. Other issues that arise may be dealt with as they emerge. Dozens of worlds fall to the Lord Solar Macharius. The Imperium expands on your doorstep. Your system stands to benefit much from the increase in trade and shipping passing through this subsector from the new territories.’
‘Pain now, plenty tomorrow?’ she snorted. ‘We have heard that too many times from the mouths of Imperial officials. What do I tell my people when the xenos come and burn their cities? We have heard the reports from nearby systems. We are not the only ones to refuse. Genthus has declined.’
‘Ah, well. Genthus has been retaken, and its governor replaced,’ said Querol gently.
‘Yes. But if we decline, and then another world and another, can you retake them all? This level of recruitment is unsustainable. The subsector strains under your demands. We cannot bear it. We will not. We refuse. Others will follow.’
‘I ask you one more time for the Imperial record, Governatrice, are you denying us our due?’ Borowik looked down his nose, nostrils arched at the smell of stale perfume and sweat coming off her.
‘Listen to us, you foolish man!’ she bellowed. ‘We are denying you. The line has to be drawn here, before we run out of sand to mark.’
Borowik looked around the court, its high ceilings of marble, the glittering chandeliers, the gold and statuary and other trappings of Huratal’s wealth.
‘Do you see this, Querol? Such riches. All this glory is not yours, Governatrice. This belongs to the Emperor of Mankind. You belong to Him. We all do. To deny our request is to defy His Will. I say one final time, comply with the tithe. I will give you no more chances to redeem yourself.’
Huratal smiled, an expression made up of sorrow, bitterness and despair. ‘We are sure we can come to an accommodation to prevent any unpleasantness. Give Geratomro a few more years.’
‘We cannot,’ said Borowik. ‘The data says you can pay, so pay you shall.’
‘The data is wrong,’ said Huratal, vainly attempting to hide the plea in her words.
‘Nevertheless, it says you can pay. There is no negotiation.’
‘Then so be it!’ she said. She exhaled with relief. There was no backing out now. ‘Our ancestor, Magor, settled this world seven thousand years ago. For long periods we have known no Imperial interference. We have fared well enough. This is our world by right. Take your empty threats away.’
‘They are not empty. Think you that we shall cut ties and let you drift, to return with the
world on its knees once you have tasted the poisonous fruits of liberty? Geratomro is of too high value to be allowed to secede. You will be invaded,’ said Borowik unpleasantly, as if he savoured the prospect.
‘There is no force in this part of the segmentum big enough to take a planet like Geratomro, unless you divert fleets and men from the crusade. Withdraw your demand, understand our position. Leave us be, and you will be short fifty thousand men. If you do not, the deficit will be ever so much greater.
‘My lady, we cannot. There is no space for discretion in the workings of the Departmento Munitorum. If our orders say fifty thousand men, then fifty thousand men you must provide. You court censure already with that thing you have bred,’ he said, looking to Missrine II’s crib.
‘Succession must be assured,’ she said. ‘Another duty.’
‘Not in that manner. But it shall be overlooked, if you comply.’
‘Now you threaten our daughter. No and no again. It is our final answer.’
Borowik bowed. ‘Then you know what will occur now.’ Borowik’s guards aimed their guns at Huratal. The court babbled in fear. Huratal raised her hand. The crowds seethed as yellow-robed warriors pushed their way out, and raised their own weapons. Along the galleries of the hall, others emerged from auspex-shielded positions and pointed their guns down at the delegation.
‘Unwise,’ said Borowik.
The Departmento Munitorum’s soldiery opened fire. A fraction of a second later, so did Huratal’s men.
Ruby beams of las-light snapped around the chamber, sending the court scattering. Obese nobles fled in all directions in an explosion of yellow and gold. Dozens of them were cut down in the cross-fire, but fewer than might be expected, for the soldiers in black were gunning only for Huratal.
She stood in the heart of destruction, a score of las-beams striking at her. Her conversion field flared brightly with every shot, absorbing and re-emitting the energy of the weapons as blinding light. Behind her, Missrine II’s crib wobbled as its in-built field did the same. Through the field glare she saw men topple, cut down by her personal guard’s merciless shots. Most of Borowik’s entourage were unarmed. Priests died with prayers on their lips. Cyborgs bled blood and oil. Querol ducked behind his gaunt master, only to be taken by a shot from behind. His data-slate, that instrument of Terran tyranny, shattered upon the floor. More than any amount of spilt blood, that gave her satisfaction.
The last of the black-clad guards died. Hopeless defiance. They never stood a chance. Never advance into enemy territory when your enemy holds a superior firing position. Huratal had learned that at her father’s knee.
‘Cease firing!’ bellowed Oravan.
The Yellow Guard rounded up the few survivors. Huratal’s conversion field sparkled and went out. She breathed in deeply, tired by her exertions. Behind her, her monstrous child wailed in its crib, but her wet nurses were all dead and she went uncomforted. Picking her way through the corpses of her minor heirs Huratal huffed her way up the twenty-seven stairs and settled herself back into her cushions. She plucked one up that smoked with multiple las-burns and tossed it aside. Canids lapped at bloody puddles.
‘My lady Governatrice,’ said Oravan. ‘Our artillery is ranged against the Adeptus Arbites precinct house. The ordnance of the polar defence fortress is locked upon Borowik’s ship. Both await your command to fire.’
‘It is given,’ she said. ‘Obliterate them. Geratomro stands apart.’
‘My lady Governatrice,’ said Oravan, and bowed. He made to go. Huratal halted him.
‘Beware guilt, captain. Their protestations of common cause hid that they were trespassers, for all their writs and parchments that said otherwise,’ said Huratal. ‘Find us the Lord-At-Peace. Tell him he is relieved of duty while hostilities continue. Bring us the Lord-At-War. He is needed now.’
‘Yes, my lady Governatrice,’ said Oravan.
The surviving members of the court crept out from their hiding places, aghast at the carnage wrought upon their fellows. Huratal did not mourn the court’s thinning; it had been getting unmanageable.
‘And find us Heir the Second Dostain,’ she said. ‘We must tell him he was right.’
Chapter Two
VISIONS
THE EXCELLENT, BLACK TEMPLARS STRIKE CRUISER
THE WARP
010398.M41
Black plasteel boots rang on deck-plating. Chaplain Meodric strode through the dark corridors of the strike cruiser Excellent, two brothers of the Reclusiam marching after him. The hour was late, if only according to ship time. They were deep in the warp. There was no temporal law which affected that dread realm, no turning of worlds to bring day and night, nor spinning atoms to count the passing of seconds. The least of its insanities, Meodric thought, but still he regarded himself as safe, even in the heart of the enemy’s territory. The Geller field cocooned the plasteel skin of the ship the same way that his faith protected his ceramite-armoured body. To know that dread powers were all around and they could not touch him was proof of the Emperor’s might.
Further evidence of this was that he had been called out during the last watch. The Emperor was reaching out to the Michaelus Crusade, and he had to respond.
The spinal corridor of the Excellent was quiet at that hour. A sole brother on penitent’s patrol stepped smartly past, clashing his fist against his chest armour in salute. In dark rooms servitors performed mindless maintenance routines. A Chapter cenobite hurried across a transverse corridor, head and arms engulfed in his habit. The unaltered man was tiny, emaciated by fasting, but Meodric touched the forehead of his skull helm out of respect to his holiness.
The Sanctum was the lesser of the cruiser’s two chapels, yet it was still vast, occupying a space three decks deep. Its spires and towers extended into the void either side of the spinal way. The thoroughfare split either side of a steep stair that plunged down towards the Sanctum’s doors. Meodric and his guard descended past trophies from ancient crusades half-hidden in niches, or encysted in time-yellowed bubbles of protective plastek resins. The guard-of-the-watch had two sentries stationed at the chapel door at all times. These warriors saluted their spiritual leader, and pushed the gates inwards. Meodric went through without breaking stride, his footsteps echoing from the high chapel vaulting. Starlight shone through tall armourglass windows trapped in traceries of pure adamantium. Forests of candles in heavy stands flickered in the draught from his passing. The Sanctum’s nave was deserted but for a handful of red-robed cenobites, these bound to tend to the chapel and never depart its precincts.
Adelard waited for Meodric by the archway to the confessional. He was dressed in the bone-white-and-black robes of the order, emblazoned with a red gothic cross. In the gloom he blended into the heavy curtains blocking the archway.
‘My lord Chaplain,’ Adelard said. ‘I thank you for breaking your rest.’
‘I am at the Emperor’s call. I come when He commands.’ Meodric’s voice was harsh from his vox-emitters. ‘It has happened again?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Adelard. ‘Bastoigne woke me an hour ago in a state of agitation.’
‘And Brother Poldus has already seen him?’
‘Yes, my lord. The apothecarion report that he is healthy, and that no biochemical imbalance is present.’
‘Then rejoice, brother, for it is likely Brother Bastoigne has the favour of the Emperor.’
‘Praise be,’ murmured Adelard.
‘You are concerned for his welfare?’
‘He was my neophyte once. The bond never truly goes.’
‘Then put your trust in the Emperor, brother. All will be well, for whatever the cause, it is in the Emperor’s plan. He who seeth clearly, seeth far. And none sees so far or so clearly as the Lord of Man.’
Meodric thrust aside the curtains and went inside. His warriors took up station side by side, blocking the archway. Adelard
opened his hand, then let it drop and went to pray before the great effigy of the Emperor Vengeful that dominated the forward wall of the chapel.
Bastoigne looked up at Meodric’s entrance. Sound baffles kept the room isolated to preserve the shame of the brothers within from those who might be listening without. Black Templars confessed their failings in squad groups, and so the room was circular, set around with a bench big enough to accommodate a dozen or more of the giant, transhuman warriors. That night Bastoigne was alone. Like Adelard, he was garbed in the loose bone habit and black tabard the Black Templars wore when not in armour.
‘Lord Chaplain,’ Bastoigne said, and fell to his knees. He bowed his head, oiled hair falling forwards to obscure his face.
Meodric held up his crozius over the younger warrior’s head. The disruption field ignited with a crack, filling the cell with the smell of ozone.
‘You swear all that you speak to me in here shall be the truth?’
‘I do, my lord,’ said Bastoigne.
Meodric thumbed off the field and touched Bastoigne’s shoulders with his crozius. ‘Then the blessing of the Emperor be upon you. Rise.’
Bastoigne did so hesitantly. Sweat gleamed in the stubble of the shaved sides of his head.
‘Sit and be at ease, my brother,’ said Meodric, ‘and speak unto me, for I am the priest of the Emperor.’
The Space Marines sat at opposite sides of the room. Meodric’s helm lenses glowed, highlighting the bones cast into his armour in wicked red.
‘I have had another vision, my lord. I... I am sorry to seek your guidance at this hour, I...’
‘Do not apologise,’ said Meodric sternly. ‘Tell me of your vision.’
‘I was in battle. There was a fire that burned no material, but that seared the soul. From a doorway of flesh many beings came. I...’
‘Go on, my brother.’
‘They were, they were creatures. Fell beings.’
‘Xenos?’
‘Not xenos, no, Chaplain, but something else. I do not know what they were. They were...’ He searched for a word to fit. ‘Hellish.’