Lords and Tyrants

by Warhammer 40K

  Gut-deep.

  ‘It was evident that the subject had sustained himself by cannibalising a dead comrade,’ the drone repeated.

  Cannibalism? Kyuhai thought. The practice was not unknown among some species – indeed it was revered by the kroot – but among the gue’la it was regarded as extremely deviant behaviour.

  ‘The matter was not noted as a cause for concern?’ he asked.

  ‘The presiding Ethereal, Aun’vre Kto’kovo, deemed it within acceptable parameters of gue’la degeneracy.’

  ‘Proceed,’ Kyuhai said, supressing a rare flicker of irritation. Even among his own caste there were too many who dismissed the gue’la as primitives.

  ‘Following screening and remedial therapy, the subject was inducted into the Kir’qath auxiliary academy on Sa’cea sept, where he demonstrated exceptional aptitude aligned with a robust commitment to the Tau’va. His initial posting…’

  Five years of faultless service to the Greater Good followed, with Voyle fighting on various battlegrounds at the fringes of the empire. The Seeker listened to it all, though he was certain he had already found the key to Voyle’s anomaly. Now he had to make sense of it – and decide whether Ulver Voyle was an asset or a liability.

  ‘No,’ Voyle rasped, over and over, but no matter how often he repeated it, the truth would not be denied. As the days of his confinement had stretched into untold weeks, his soul had narrowed towards nothingness. Starved of hope for retribution, even his rage had dimmed, yet his body had fought on. Somewhere blood deep – much deeper than he could see – it had been unwilling to die. When his suit’s rations were exhausted he’d scavenged from the corpse beside him in the silo, and then when its supplies were also gone…

  Voyle retched and slammed a fist against his sleeping cell.

  ‘What am I?’ he snarled into the darkness within.

  And for the first time the darkness answered, but its voice came from without.

  – THE SECOND CIRCLE –

  THRESHOLD

  The Yuxa system had eleven planets, but only two harboured life – Phaedra, a fungus infested water world, and Scitalyss, a bloated gas giant whose outer layers swarmed with phantasmal aeriform vermin. It was to the second of these that the Whispering Hand was bound, though its destination was not the planet itself, but the lesser leviathan suspended in its anaemic exosphere.

  From a distance the structure appeared to be a dark blemish against Scitalyss’ ochre and russet swirl, but as the vessel drew closer the mote grew spiny and misshapen, like a tumour in metastasis. Closer still it resolved into a sprawl of interconnected metal modules of varying size and shape. A monolithic spindle rose from the centre of the tangle, towering over the other structures and trailing titanic extraction pipes into the world below. The spindle’s cog-like tiers shimmered with lights as they revolved, but further from the centre the expanse grew dark and the domes of its component modules were cracked open to the void, as though they had been wracked by some terrible violence.

  Though the sprawl was artificial it was still a cancer, for its growth had long ago become rampant and perverse, twisted out of any semblance of order by the countless masters who had presided over it. Most had begun their stewardship in sobriety, but few had ended that way, for despite the intent of its architects, discord ran deep in this place. Whether it was the influence of the baleful giant it leeched upon or the consequence of some intrinsic flaw, the skyhive was tainted, its history saturated in strife. And yet it had endured across millennia, grudgingly paying its tithes to the Imperium and never quite embracing a heresy that would have invited retaliation. There were myriad such cancers growing in the cracks of the Imperium, but few as furtive.

  The place had acquired many names, some truer than others. Its formal designation was Scitalyss-Altus, and its current masters had ­ennobled it as the Unfolding Nexus, however to the millions who eked out a living in its corroded avenues it was simply the Rat’s Cradle.

  I do not like it, Por’el Adibh decided, not at all.

  The skyhive rotated slowly above the conclave table, its tangled lineaments reproduced in perfect holographic fidelity. Its presence felt like a taint upon the room. Upon her…

  Taint? Adibh dismissed the notion. Such irrationality had corroded the collective psyche of the gue’la. It had no place in the thinking of a t’au.

  ‘Your thoughts, shas’el?’ she asked.

  ‘It is dangerous,’ Akuryo replied. He stood on the opposite side of the table, his form distorted by the hologram.

  ‘I concur,’ Adibh said, ‘yet we must proceed with the mission.’

  They were alone in the conclave chamber. Her first impressions of the Fire Warrior had proved correct and over the passing days she had come to value his counsel, even to regard him as a friend. After the artifice of the Whispertide Congress his directness was bracing.

  ‘Why?’ Akuryo asked. ‘Why are we taking this risk, por’el? The true reason.’

  ‘Because the High Ambassador has decreed it,’ she replied. ‘The Yuxa system interests him.’ She raised a hand to stem his next question. ‘I do not know why. Por’o Seishin keeps his own counsel, but we must trust his judgement.’

  ‘He is young,’ Akuryo said flatly.

  ‘He is gifted,’ Adibh corrected, thinking of her idealistic, driven superior. ‘Exceptionally so… The empire recognises and rewards talent.’

  Akuryo was silent for a moment, brooding. ‘It is fortunate that a Seeker walks beside us on this path,’ he said finally. ‘We are due to dock in nine hours. I must go, por’el.’

  ‘Why Bhoral?’ Adibh asked as he turned to go.

  ‘I do not understand?’

  ‘Why did you choose Shas’vre Bhoral as your aide?’ The question had nagged at her for some time. At first she had assumed the warriors were old comrades, perhaps even Ta’lissera bonded, but she had seen no warmth between them. Indeed, Akuryo seemed closer to his gue’vesa than to his fellow Fire Warrior.

  ‘I did not choose her,’ he said stiffly. ‘She was assigned to me for the mission.’

  Do you trust her? Adibh wanted to ask, but that was absurd. ‘Thank you, shas’el,’ she said instead. ‘See to your troops.’

  When he was gone she returned her attention to the hologram. She wasn’t sure why she had asked the question or why Akuryo’s answer troubled her. In fact, the closer they drew to their objective the less certain she was of anything.

  Alone in the darkness of his serenity cell, Ulver Voyle listened to the Voice. It had grown stronger over the past few days, swelling from a subliminal murmur to an evanescent whispering, yet its words still eluded him.

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ he hissed.

  – THE THIRD CIRCLE –

  INSIDE

  Por’el Adibh’s nostril slits dilated with disgust as she stepped onto the ship’s disembarkation ramp and the acid stench of the skyhive hit her. She imagined a broken machine leaking the black sludge that powered so much of the Imperium’s technology. Quelling her nausea, she studied the immense expanse of the hanger bay as she descended, her data drone hovering above her head like a domed halo. The walls of the cavernous chamber were corroded and slick with filth, its floor knotted with trailing pipes and discarded tools. Dozens of sub-human labourers toiled among the labyrinth of machinery, their bodies crudely fused to metal limbs, their eyes as vacant as their minds. It had always puzzled Adibh that the Imperium embraced such atrocities while condemning the elegant drones of the T’au Empire.

  So much of their suffering is self-inflicted, she mused.

  ‘Noteworthy,’ Fio’vre Daukh declared beside her. Adibh didn’t know whether the stocky engineer was referring to the odour or some obscure detail only he could see, but she had learnt not enquire after such remarks; Daukh’s concept of noteworthy rarely converged with anyone else’s. He had found much of note during their app
roach to the hive, while Adibh had seen only decrepitude. Why had Fai’sahl led them to this floating sewer city?

  Akuryo and another armoured figure were waiting for her at the foot of the ramp. They had donned their helmets so their faces were hidden behind flat, sensor-studded visors that gave them an impassive machine-like aspect. Akuryo’s mottled crimson armour bore a five-armed sunburst on its breastplate – personal colours and heraldry granted to him when he’d earned his rank. In contrast, his companion’s uniform was the stark, unadorned white of the Whispertide Concordance.

  ‘Your gue’vesa understand there is to be no violence, shas’el?’ Adibh asked, indicating the human soldiers lined up on either side of the ramp. Both the support teams were present, the troops’ rifles slung over their shoulders as they crouched in the stance of watchful-repose. They wore lighter variants of the Fire Warriors’ armour, retaining the breastplates and shoulder pads, but lacking the contoured plates that sheathed their superiors’ limbs. Their helmets were fitted with tinted lenses that covered their eyes, but left their faces bare.

  ‘The Stormlit know their duty,’ Akuryo replied, referring to his troops as an extension of himself. It was a great honour and several of the gue’vesa puffed out their chests at his words.

  ‘I have faith in your faith,’ Adibh acknowledged, then appraised the warrior beside Akuryo. The deception was flawless. Despite the armour and helmet, she had expected to feel something, but all she sensed was what her eyes told her: this was just another Fire Warrior. It was as if the Seeker had somehow constricted his spirit when he had donned the armour.

  He has become what he seems to be, she thought.

  There was a pneumatic hiss as the hanger’s hatch split down the centre and retracted to either side, spilling bright light into the chamber.

  ‘And so we begin,’ Adibh murmured as a robed figure entered.

  His vision enhanced by the sensors of his borrowed helmet, Kyuhai studied the newcomer as it approached. Though it was swathed in a hooded purple mantle there were subtle qualities of posture and gait that spoke volumes to his refined sensibilities.

  ‘Por’vre Fai’sahl,’ Adibh declared when the stranger stopped before them.

  She saw it too, Kyuhai realised, impressed. Few outside the Ethereal caste were so perceptive.

  ‘You know me too well, old friend,’ the newcomer said, pushing back its hood to reveal the familiar face of the missing emissary. He smiled and stretched out his arms to encompass the others. ‘On behalf of the Order of the Ever-Turning Cog, I offer you welcome to the Unfolding Nexus, a new born engine of reason among the benighted gue’la!’

  Kyuhai was perplexed. On the hololith Fai’sahl had appeared pompous – superficial even – but in person he was almost electric, as though an avid vitality burned within him.

  ‘It has been too many years since we last conversed, Por’vre Adibh,’ the emissary continued warmly, turning back to Adibh.

  ‘Por’el,’ she corrected. ‘I was elevated shortly after your disappearance.’

  ‘My apologies, por’el.’ Fai’sahl bowed his head. ‘It pleases me that your talents have been recognised.’ Smoothly, he reached out and grasped her hands. It was a brazen gesture that breached all etiquette and Adibh stiffened visibly.

  ‘I have so much to share with you,’ Fai’sahl said, his eyes bright. ‘This gue’la relic harbours many wonders that may advance the Greater Good.’

  ‘You came alone, emissary?’ Akuryo asked bluntly.

  Fai’sahl turned to the Fire Warrior, his smile unwavering. ‘No, but we thought it best that you were greeted by one who is known to you.’

  ‘But I do not know you.’ Akuryo indicated the iron talisman hanging from the emissary’s neck – a four-toothed cog embossed with the double-loop of infinity. ‘Nor do I recognise the sept you now speak for.’

  ‘I bear the Cog Eternal as a mark of respect,’ Fai’sahl said. His smile remained, but the warmth had slipped from his eyes.

  ‘Your message indicated urgency, por’vre,’ Adibh interjected, extricating her hands. ‘I would like to meet these remarkable gue’la you have uncovered.’

  ‘Of course, por’el…’ Fai’sahl’s gaze swept over the party. ‘Your embassy was not accompanied by an exalted one?’

  ‘Unfortunately they are few and the needs of the empire many,’ Adibh replied.

  Kyuhai studied Fai’sahl’s face, expecting relief or disappointment, but there was nothing.

  I cannot read him, he realised. How can that be?

  On impulse he glanced at the gue’vesa troops, searching for Voyle. The big man stood at the front of his team, his expression distant, as if his attention was elsewhere. Though they had talked occasionally during the remainder of the voyage Kyuhai was no closer to deciphering the man’s significance. And yet he did not doubt it.

  ‘Chance is a myth perpetuated by those who only see what seems to be,’ Kyuhai’s master had taught. ‘A Seeker looks beneath the lies and finds the lines that bind. And where they have become twisted or frayed, he follows, for his path is to mend when he can or excise when he cannot.’

  It was the first axiom of the Yasu’caor, the philosophy by which a Seeker served the Greater Good.

  My path has led me true, Kyuhai judged, returning his attention to Fai’sahl’s smiling, empty face. Nothing is what it seems here.

  ‘Support Team One, the ship is under your watch. Be vigilant!’ Akuryo commanded as he strode towards the hanger doors. ‘Team Two, with me!’

  Voyle shook his head, trying to break free of the Voice that haunted – or hunted? – him.

  ‘Gue’vesa’ui?’ someone said behind him. He turned and stared at the expectant faces of… Who were they?

  ‘Voyle, the shas’el calls us!’ a hatchet-faced woman snapped.

  Erzul, he remembered and the rest followed.

  ‘Move out,’ he ordered. ‘Go!’

  Am I losing my mind? Voyle wondered as he followed his squad. Somehow the prospect troubled him less than any of the alternatives he could imagine.

  Three vehicles waited outside the spaceport. Two were open-topped trucks, the third a massive armoured car emblazoned with the sigil of the Ever-Turning Cog. A group of robed figures watched over them, their long-barrelled rifles levelled at the surrounding buildings. More were stationed along the segmented wall that encircled the spaceport like a metal serpent. Floodlights illuminated the perimeter, but beyond their reach everything was swathed in gloom. Voyle looked up and counted less than a dozen lights in the iron sky of the dome. He knew each was a vast, burning globe, but it would take hundreds to illuminate a city-sized territory like this one.

  This whole region is dying, he guessed, remembering the many dark modules he’d seen from space.

  As the party approached the vehicles Voyle saw the guards’ purple robes were embroidered with the concentric rings of Unity, but the bronze masks they wore under their hoods were less reassuring, for they were fashioned to resemble something more insect than man, with jutting compound jaws and bulbous, multi-faceted lenses.

  ‘Watchmen of the Second Rotation,’ the t’au emissary explained. ‘They are here for your protection.’

  ‘Protection from what?’ the Stormlight demanded.

  ‘Regrettably the Order’s enlightenment is not entirely unopposed. A few dissident factions remain active in the outer districts, but they are as inchoate as they are ignorant,’ Fai’sahl said dismissively. ‘The spaceport is under the Order’s jurisdiction, but to reach the Alpha Axis we must traverse a… troubled… region.’

  ‘I advise against proceeding, por’el,’ the Stormlight warned Adibh. ‘Let their leaders meet us here.’

  With a whir of gyros one of the guards marched towards them, its footsteps reverberating under its weight. It was taller and more powerfully built than its fellows, its chest encased in a slab-like b
reastplate. In place of a hood it wore a backswept helmet with a vertically slit visor that pulsed with blue light. An augmetic arm extended from its right shoulder, dwarfing the limb below and terminating in a three-fingered claw. Alongside that monstrous appendage the watchman’s ornate rifle looked almost delicate.

  ‘My designation is Aiode-Alpha, Warden Prime,’ the warrior said in a pristine, but lifeless female voice. ‘Your security is my primary directive. Please board the transports.’ It rapped a gauntlet against its breastplate. ‘For the Greatest Good.’

  ‘There is no cause for concern,’ Fai’sahl urged. ‘The Warden is the Order’s preeminent guardian.’

  ‘Be advised that I have made provisions for our safety,’ Adibh warned him. ‘My ship expects to receive a coded data-burst from my drone every hour. Any breach of this will be construed as a hostile act.’

  ‘I am familiar with first contact protocol,’ Fai’sahl said gently, ‘but this is not a first contact. I assure you, the Order’s offer of friendship is sincere.’

  ‘As is the Empire’s,’ Adibh parried, ‘but the Open Hand must be firm of grip. You will respect my precautions, por’vre.’

  ‘Naturally, por’el.’ Fai’sahl bowed.

  Adibh turned to Akuryo. ‘We will proceed.’

  The gue’vesa climbed into the back of a truck while Fai’sahl ushered the t’au into the armoured car. The watchmen boarded the second truck, lining up along its sides in regimented ranks with the Warden at their centre. Voyle gripped the guardrail as his vehicle surged forward and took its place at the rear of the convoy, with the other truck leading and the car shielded between them. Once they were underway his troops began to talk, eager to weigh up their strange hosts, but he silenced them.

  ‘Stay sharp,’ he ordered, unslinging his pulse rifle. ‘Trust nothing.’

  ‘How far?’ Akuryo asked. He hadn’t removed his helmet and its sensors glowed in the dingy cabin of the armoured car. Adibh suspected he would have preferred to travel with his troops, but was unwilling to leave her side.