Let The Galaxy Burn

by Marc

  The face of the prefectus was exactly what Lexio had been waiting for, and he closed his eyes as the memory trigger activated his verbatimem. His conscious mind receded and he chanted the translation of the message scroll without any awareness of what he was saying. The message made Kayle skid to a halt next to the cipher and stare at him in disbelief.

  ‘You must kill the Historicus today – they know too much.’

  LOYALTY’S REWARD

  Simon Jowett

  THE VOX-ENHANCED BELLS of the nearby Ecclesiarchy chapel were sounding vespers when Kleist spotted them. They had only just stepped into the bar. There were three of them – well-dressed, but not ostentatiously so. They wouldn’t have looked out of place among the crowds in one of the uptown bars or restaurants, but here, close to the landing fields, they stood out among the off-duty loaders and packers who made up the regular clientele at the Split Pig.

  Several heads turned as the newcomers made their way slowly towards the bar – then turned quickly back to stare into drinks or strike up conversations with companions. The strangers’ expensive suits couldn’t hide the heavy muscles beneath their fabric or the air of suppressed violence that hung around them like a dark cloud. Even Ernst, the bar’s permanently-stewed mascot, didn’t try to tap the newcomers for a free drink.

  The walls shook and a dull roar filled the bar as a heavy cargo shuttle passed overhead, drowning out the sound of the call to worship as it made its way from the landing fields to the Merchants’ Guild transport barge that waited for it in low orbit. The fields were busy day and night; Equus III was the most ore-rich world on this edge of the segmentum and Praxis its most prosperous city. The Split Pig was not a place to go if you wanted peace and quiet.

  From his booth at the rear of the room, Leon Kleist scanned the bar’s dimly-lit interior, hoping to spot a group of Imperial Guard troopers on shore leave from their orbiting transport. The Split Pig was a favourite among Guardsmen in transit with only a few hours of furlough before their next journey through the warp. No luck.

  Kleist looked back towards the bar and saw one of the newcomers beckon to the bartender. The young man stopped stacking glasses and sauntered towards the stranger, wiping his hands on his apron, ready to take his order. Kleist knew that the stranger didn’t want a drink; he and his companions wanted information.

  While he talked to the bartender, the stranger’s companions surveyed the room. Kleist slid as far back into his booth as possible, while still keeping the three of them just in view. He felt the beginnings of panic swirl in his gut. What had he been thinking? He should have kept his mouth shut! His eyes darted nervously towards the rest room door. All he needed was a chance to…

  The ascending shuttle’s sonic boom rattled the glasses on their shelves. None of the regulars took any notice. The bartender continued talking; Kleist saw him point towards his booth. But all three strangers glanced upwards, surprised by the aerial concussion. One of them slid a hand inside his jacket, unconsciously reaching for a concealed weapon.

  Kleist ran for the door.

  From behind him came the sound of chairs being overturned, shouts and the sound of glasses breaking. He slammed through the door and raced down the short, poorly-lit passageway towards the rest room. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the noise.

  Before it reached the latrines, the passageway branched right. Kleist took the turn and sprinted towards the door that led to the alley behind the bar. He knew that it would be a matter of seconds before the three strangers were on his tail – there wasn’t enough of a crowd in the bar to slow them down for very long – but, once he was outside, he stood a better chance of losing them.

  Kleist cursed himself as he ran. If he hadn’t stayed for that last drink. If the drunken conversation hadn’t turned to old man Gaudi’s death.

  And if he hadn’t started shooting his mouth off.

  He straight-armed the door at the end of the passage and found himself in the garbage-strewn alley. From here he could go left, across the main street and head home – though only the Emperor knew what he would tell his wife – or right and take the back way towards the landing fields. There was a local Arbites sub-station at the field gates, but Kleist couldn’t risk the planetary representatives of Imperial law probing too deeply into his business dealings. Right now the idea of being on some distant world felt very appealing. Unfortunately, he was not alone.

  ‘Hey, Leon, I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  The man was tall, well-dressed in the same unobtrusive style as the strangers in the bar and carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew that, in this case, a one-on-one confrontation meant the odds were already stacked in his favour. A thin scar ran the length of the right side of his face, from the hairline of his slicked-back, sandy-coloured hair, almost to the point of his narrow chin. He was not a stranger.

  ‘Mister… Mister Kravi…’ Kleist managed to stammer. And then his world exploded.

  HE DIDN’T REMEMBER landing in the filth at the foot of the wall. He rolled painfully onto his front and pushed himself up onto all fours. His mouth was full – it felt as if he had swallowed as much of the muck as now covered his clothes. He spat. A large gobbet of blood hit the back of his left hand. As he stared at it, blinking away the tears that had inexplicably appeared, fogging his vision, another joined it, this time falling from his nose. He raised an unsteady hand to the centre of his face, pressed gently and felt the grinding of cartilage against bone. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes.

  ‘That hurt, Leon?’ Someone was standing over him. A pair of expensive-looking shoes stood in the muck a short way from him. Kleist craned his neck to look up at the man who spoke.

  The fist slammed into the side of his face. Stars exploded behind his eyes and his supporting arm gave way. Gasping with pain and surprise, he inhaled a mouthful of filth.

  A hand reached for his shoulder, turning him onto his back. Coughing, fighting down the urge to vomit, he stared up at Mikhail Kravi, right arm of Aldo Graumann, the Protektor, or local boss, for the Haus Gaudi, which had run this part of the hive for as long as anyone could remember.

  ‘I… I’m sorry!’ Kleist stuttered. Feet sliding in the slime that coated the alley’s flagstones, he began to push himself away from Kravi, towards the rear wall of the bar, expecting every heartbeat to be his last.

  ‘Sorry for what, Leon? Sorry for shooting your mouth off to your buddies in the Transport Confederation, or sorry for making me come down here and braise my knuckles on your face?’

  Kravi seemed amused to watch him slide along the ground, then push himself up into a half-seated position against the wall. Only now did Kleist dare to shift his gaze from Kravi’s face.

  He noticed that the three strangers from the bar now stood a short way behind their leader, hands clasped, mute witnesses to his humiliation.

  Kravi dropped to his haunches in front of Kleist, and locked eyes with him.

  ‘You see, Leon, word reached Mister Graumann that you’d been telling your pals that now Graf Gaudi was dead, Emperor bless his departed soul, you didn’t see why you should keep on paying tribute to… what did you call him… “his whore-hopping whelp”? Was that it?’

  Kleist started shaking his head in a feeble, pointless attempt at denial. Kravi reached out, caught his chin in one large hand and held his head still.

  ‘That’s the Graf’s grandson you were calling a whelp, Leon. The new Graf. You think that, just because he’s young and likes to have a good time, that he’s not going to be interested in taking care of business?’

  ‘N-no.’ Kleist spluttered. A mixture of blood and alley-filth dribbled down his chin. He wanted to say something, anything that would prevent Kravi from hitting him again. ‘It… it was the drink.’

  ‘You know, that’s what I thought, when Mister Graumann told me what he’d heard. You meet up with some friends and colleagues, you eat, drink a little too much wine, it goes to your head and you say some crazy things
.’ Kravi’s voice was soft, reasonable. ‘I knew you wouldn’t have forgotten all the help the old Graf had given you, all the contracts he put your way, the competitors he persuaded not to bid for runs along your routes. He gave you the route from the refineries to the landing fields and I knew you respected him for that.’

  Kleist tried to nod, but Kravi’s hand was like an iron glove clamped around his jaw.

  ‘I knew, once you’d had time to think about it, you’d respect the new Graf in just the same way. More, even. I guess that’s why you came to this toilet, instead of one of the nicer places near your home: to think things through. Am I right?’ He released his grip on Kleist’s jaw and the older, fatter man nodded like a chastened child.

  ‘That’s good.’ Kravi stood, smoothed back some strands of hair that had fallen about his face. ‘Now there’s going to be a gathering in honour of the new Grafs accession. Everyone’s going to be there, paying tribute. And I know whose tribute is going to be the biggest of all, don’t I, Leon?’

  Kleist nodded again. He had noticed a clammy sensation between his legs and realised that, at some point, he had wet himself like a newborn. Hot tears – not of pain, but of humiliation – rolled down his cheeks.

  ‘I’m glad we had this little talk.’ Kravi beckoned to his men and they moved forward, passing Kravi as he stepped away from Kleist. ‘My associates here are going to tidy you up and get you home safely to your lovely wife and that very pretty daughter of yours. The gathering is the day after tomorrow at the compound. That gives you time to organise your tribute in the proper manner. If you look out of your window before then and happen to see one of my men outside your home, don’t worry. He’ll be there to make sure nothing interferes with your preparations.

  ‘After all.’ Kravi added as two of his men hauled Kleist to his feet, ‘you know we only have your best interests at heart.’

  THE LAYOUT OF the Haus Gaudi compound had changed little since its construction at the end of the First Age of Vendetta, the blood-soaked decades that followed the founding of Equus III’s first industrial colonies. This was a rich world; the opportunities for profit – legitimate or otherwise – were boundless. The houses that would one day control the black economy of Equus III grew out of loose-knit gangs of street thugs, entrepreneurs who had failed to prosper in legitimate trade, crewmen who had grown tired of life aboard the Merchant Guild’s ships, and discharged members of the Imperial Guard regiments which had accompanied the first settlers.

  The First Age of Vendetta saw allegiances harden into blood loyalty as the gangs jockeyed for position and power. The weaker houses were absorbed by the more powerful, the better organised, or else they were eliminated. An observer who looked only at the spires and towers of Equus III’s rapidly expanding cities, or at the vast wealth generated by the burgeoning trade in refined ores, would be unaware of the war being fought in the shadows.

  Franz Gaudi, the first Graf, had seen his house come close to extinction during this time. He was determined that it should not happen again. The compound, set on the banks of a lake on the outskirts of Praxis, beyond the curtain wall that marked the boundary of the hive proper, most of it constructed below ground level and surrounded by a high, hexagonal wall, was the result.

  The Second Age of Vendetta was a quieter, less blood-soaked affair, marked by assassinations and the occasional skirmish over territory. Like the players of some abstruse intellectual game, the Grafs of the remaining houses directed their street-soldiers against their rivals, gaining control of the illegal interests in one territory, only to lose control of another. Where the First Age had lasted decades, the Second lasted centuries.

  Bruno Gaudi had been young and ambitious when he became Graf. Over time, he saw both his sons die – one by an assassin’s blade, the other gunned down on a street corner – and came to the conclusion that, during the whole of the Second Age of Vendetta, there had been only one real casualty: profit.

  From its unpromising position at the end of the First Age of Vendetta, Haus Gaudi had grown to become one of the most influential criminal entities in Praxis. When its Graf spoke, people listened. For Bruno, the only real surprise was how readily the other Grafs agreed with him. Endless vendettas had got in the way of doing business, had depleted the houses’ funds and wasted their manpower. Peace, they agreed, was the only answer. Ritual and respect should replace the blade and the gun. Each house could then concentrate on exacting tribute from those who operated within their agreed territories; violence would be directed only against those who refused to pay. After lengthy negotiations, the Second Age of Vendetta came to an end around the long table in the subterranean sanctum of the Gaudi compound.

  ‘GRAF GAUDI, IN honour of your grandfather’s memory – may the Emperor bless his soul – and of your accession, I offer this in tribute.’

  With a trembling hand, Leon Kleist placed the dataslate on the polished surface of the long table. Viktor Gaudi, pale-skinned and sharp-featured, clad in a high-collared suit of crimson velvet, reached forward, picked up the slate in one slim, elegantly-manicured hand and thumbed its screen into life.

  The room was panelled with dark wood and discreetly lit; the back-lit screen cast a pale green glow over his face. Gaudi raised an eyebrow as he read the display, then passed it back to the slightly older man who stood at his left shoulder – Filip Brek, formerly a minor member of the dead Graf’s inner circle and Viktor’s companion on his visits to the fleshpots of Praxis, now elevated to the major role of Grafsberator, the Graf’s most valued advisor.

  ‘You have been most generous.’ Gaudi said quietly. ‘Exceptionally so. In memory of my beloved grandfather, I thank you.’

  ‘The honour is mine,’ Kleist replied, more loudly than was necessary, in an attempt to disguise his nerves. Kravi and his boss, Graumann, stood behind him, flanking the door, overseeing the tributes from their part of the hive. Kleist was the last; he could feel their gaze burning into his back. Before ushering Kleist and the others down the long corridor to the sanctum, Kravi had checked the slate, then shown it to Graumann.

  The older man had whistled appreciatively – and so he should. Kleist had liquidated over a third of his assets to ensure that this tribute was sufficiently extravagant for him to escape another beating.

  ‘The Haus Gaudi does not forget its friends.’ Gaudi nodded towards the door, ending the interview. ‘Aldo, stay a while.’ he added as Kleist took an unsteady step backwards, then turned. Ahead of him, Kravi stepped forward to open the door. As Kleist passed, Kravi nodded and smiled a self-satisfied, predator’s smile before following him into the corridor and closing the door behind them.

  ‘You did well in there, Leon.’ Kravi said as they walked along the corridor. Panelled with the same warm, dark wood as the sanctum, it was lined with niches, in which busts of long-dead Grafs stood atop stone plinths. Kravi kept pace with Kleist, one or two steps behind him, a menacing voice at his shoulder. ‘There’s just one more thing I wanted to ask you.

  ‘Your daughter – what does she like to do?’

  ‘THE GRAF’S PLEASED with you, boy.’ Graumann blinked as his eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight. The second of Equus III’s twin suns was dipping towards the tops of the trees that ringed the lake. He had found Kravi standing at the battlements atop the hexagonal wall that surrounded the compound. In all the years since its construction, no one had ever tried to breach the wall, but its rock-and-plasteel bulk, metres thick, looked capable of withstanding any assault short of orbital bombardment.

  ‘Yeah?’ Kravi might sound relaxed, unconcerned, but Graumann knew that was an act. He remembered the hot-tempered young street hustler who had been caught boosting liquor from a vehicle owned by a trader under Haus Gaudi protection. He had already been given a working-over by Graumann’s men, but he still stared defiantly out at Graumann from a swollen, bruised face. Normally, his men wouldn’t bother their boss with such an incident, but Kravi was the son of another trader under Gaudi protection.
Apparently, the kid had seen Graumann’s men, their expensive clothes and cars, and decided that their line of business was more appealing. Graumann had found himself admiring the boy’s guts and decided to give him a chance to learn the business from the inside.

  ‘You won’t regret it.’ Kravi had slurred through split lips. Graumann had laughed out loud at that – even then, when most people would simply be grateful to still be alive, this kid was trying to hustle him! But Kravi had made good on his promise; Graumann did not regret taking him on.

  ‘The Graf asked about Kleist’s tribute.’ Graumann said. Taking a silk kerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the sweat that beaded his forehead after the climb to the battlements. He was getting old, older than he liked to admit, even to himself. ‘I told him that you’d prevailed upon Leon’s better nature. He liked that. He’s got something in mind, I can tell. Now the old Graf’s gone – Emperor bless him – he’s looking to stir things up.’

  ‘Stir things up how?’ This time, there was no mistaking the interest in Kravi’s voice.

  ‘He didn’t say, but, as I was leaving, someone came into the sanctum through another door. Not a Haus man. Seemed pretty friendly with Brek.’ He patted the broad expanse of jacket that covered his midriff.

  ‘Something in here tells me things are going to get interesting.’

  THERE WAS NO recoil when he triggered the alien weapon. For a moment, Kravi feared that the firing mechanism had malfunctioned. If this was so, and if all of the weapons the Graf had delivered to the Graumann crew were defective, then he and his men would die here, in a storage depot under the protection of Haus Reisiger.

  And then his target – a heavily-built Reisiger enforcer – dropped suddenly to his knees, his features pulped, the top third of his skull sheared off. The laspistol he had been in the process of drawing from a shoulder holster concealed inside his jacket clattered to the floor from nerveless fingers, then the corpse pitched forward and lay still.