by Various
‘Heretic!’ growled Devynius, grasping at the noblewoman’s bladed wrist.
‘This is no heresy,’ replied Lady Solheindal-Thess. ‘This is the future. We will bring you down.’
The blade lanced at Devynius’s face. Devynius grabbed her wrist and bent it back – it should have snapped in Devynius’s fist but the alien armour’s joints were reinforced and powered, and the noblewoman span underneath him and suddenly a second blade, extended from her other forearm, was cutting at his throat.
Devynius ducked back before his throat was slit. The blade sliced off a chunk of his shoulder guard. He brought his power sword down overhead, arcing down at the noblewoman. The jets on the back of her armour fired and threw herself over Devynius’s head again, her wrist still in his grip, as the sword came down and carved a deep furrow in the wooden floor.
The noblewoman’s twin guns fired. Devynius let the armour of his shoulder guard and breastplate absorb two shots, and he pulled her in. The jets fought against him but Devynius put a foot against the frame of the burning book table and hauled her towards him.
Panic flared on her face. The defiance melted even as Devynius brought the power sword around at her. The twin pulse carbines swivelled to aim at Devynius’s face, just a thought needed to fire another point-blank burst into Devynius.
The sword sliced through Lady Solheindal-Thess at waist height. It passed straight through her, the power field carving through the armour plates around her abdomen and lower back. Devynius slammed the upper half of her into the table, crunching through the wood. She disappeared in a flood of burning pages.
Devynius dropped to one knee and took stock of the battle. Dozens were dead, draped over the councilmen’s benches or in heaps of burning finery on the floor. Some of them clutched the tau pulse rifles; others had simply been caught in the crossfire, blasted apart by bolter shells or pulse rounds.
Twenty or thirty of the xenophiles had formed an organised firebase, sniping at Devynius’s fire-team from behind the casings of a choir of notary servitors. The servitors’ casings were packed with enough clockwork to absorb the worst of the fire and the few whose pasty torsos had yet to be damaged continued to clack away with quill-tipped fingers, blank dead faces staring impassively across the corpse-choked chamber.
Brother Thaxos’s fire-team appeared among the sculptures of the throne, where the council’s speaker oversaw debates. It was of massive carved hardwood, the core of a gigantic single tree, solid enough to turn away the pulse rifle shots that spattered against it. Thaxos led his battle-brothers in hammering a wave of bolter fire into the servitors, throwing the xenophiles into cover and blasting ragged wet holes in those caught in the open.
The pulse fire coming towards Devynius died down. He strode through the remains of the burning table, dropping the severed lower half of Lady Solheindal-Thess. His own fire-team followed him as he flicked his bolt pistol back into his hand and lent his own fire to Thaxos’s, blasting the arm off a xenophile at the elbow as the man leaned out to snipe at the advancing Ultramarines. Brother Merovos vaporised a servitor with a blast of plasma and the xenophile behind it stumbled, burning, the rifle dropping from his hands.
In moments, Devynius’s fire-team were among them. Devynius had spent thousands of hours in the duelling circles and drilling-halls of the Ultramarines fortress-monastery on Macragge, and the muscle memory kicked in as he lashed out with his power sword. Thaxos’s fire-team ceased fire as Devynius struck off a head here, an arm there, impaled another heretic in the blade’s point and shot another through the chest with his bolt pistol. Brother Silen cracked a skull with the butt of his bolter and Devynius spotted Brother Timesus putting a shot through the head of a heretic struggling on the floor – Timesus’s arm hung loose at his side, blood turning the blue of his armour black.
It was over. The xenophiles were dead. Those who had tried to flee as Devynius charged had been shot down by Thaxos, who wore a generous handful of marksman’s honours hanging from the lower edge of his right pauldron and was known throughout the Chapter as an outstanding shot. Devynius waved his squad into a perimeter formation and walked through the debris towards the heap of burning books.
He pushed Lady Solheindal-Thess’s body out of the fire. Her face was largely untouched but the alien armour plates were blackened by the flames. Her eyes were open, a trickle of blood running from her mouth.
‘Thought she was one of ours,’ said Thaxos. ‘She was on the list, wasn’t she?’
‘She was,’ said Devynius.
‘What is this she was wearing?’
‘Tau battlesuit technology,’ said Devynius. ‘They turn up among xenophile nobles from time to time. Symbols of rebellion and prestige. I doubt she bought it for hard cash, though. The tau bought her loyalty with their trinkets.’
‘Captain,’ said a trembling voice from nearby. ‘It is captain, isn’t it?’
Devynius saw a young nobleman picking himself up from one of the bullet-riddled benches. His face was bloody and he had torn away the jacket of his dark blue uniform. Tatters of silver brocade hung from his shoulder. He had the look of one who had trained for hunting and war but did not make it his vocation, too slight and pale to be a soldier.
‘Devynius of the Ultramarines. You are?’
The nobleman was forcing himself not to look at the body of Lady Solheindal-Thess at Devynius’s feet. ‘Baron Maelenar,’ said the young man. ‘Of House Maelenar.’
Devynius consulted the screen of his auspex scanner, cycling through the intelligence reports on Briseis. House Maelenar-Kolgor was considered loyal, with a reasonable level of confidence. The baron had ascended to his rank after the recent death of his great-uncle, the house patriarch. There were no other notes on the young man. ‘Then House Maelenar is the first to stake its claim,’ said Devynius.
‘There will be great uncertainty,’ said Baron Maelenar, carefully picking his words. ‘The city will need leadership.’
‘That didn’t take long,’ said Thaxos. ‘And I take it his lordship is the one to provide it?’
‘My family is old,’ said the baron. ‘We have connections, and our loyalty is certain.’
‘That is what they said,’ replied Devynius, indicating the body of Lady Solheindal-Thess, ‘about her.’
‘And I am more aware than anyone of the consequences of disloyalty,’ said the baron.
Devynius looked at this man, who had just seen family and friends shot down before his eyes, who had narrowly avoided joining them in the crossfire, and yet who even now was politicking his way towards supremacy for his house. It was not an attitude that endeared a man to a son of Ultramar like Devynius, but it also suggested someone who put political pragmatism above everything else and would do whatever he was told if it meant House Maelenar took power in Port Memnor and kept it. As unpleasant as the idea was, Baron Maelenar might be just the sort of man the Imperium needed.
‘You are the speaker of the council,’ said Devynius. ‘The Imperial war effort will make demands of you. Can you fulfil them?’
‘There are precedents,’ replied the baron. His colour was coming back and his voice was steadier – politicking was a world he was comfortable in, and engaging in it let him banish the events from a few minutes ago. ‘Emergency decrees. There is one that gives the speaker the power to select council members. It does not specify a number, so long as decisions are quorate. It was created in case the city was infected and carriers of an infectious disease had to be kept out of the chamber but I can enact it now and put loyal men into the council. There will be no legal hindrance to the demands of the Imperium.’
‘Do it,’ said Devynius.
‘When the bodies are gone,’ said the baron.
‘Now,’ said Devynius. ‘Brothers,’ he voxed to his squad. ‘Report. Casualties?’
‘I’ll need patching up,’ came the reply from Brother Timesus. ‘It’s
more a humiliation than a hindrance.’
‘Took a hit to the thigh,’ added Brother Oiolas of Thaxos’s fire-team. ‘I’m still mobile.’
With the penetrative power of the tau pulse rifles, that was a fortunately low tally of casualties. Two hit, and neither badly. That was the only fortunate thing about the events of the last few minutes.
‘Why did they bring guns?’ asked Baron Maelenar. ‘And why in here, in the chamber?’
‘Because the tau wanted a bloodbath,’ replied Devynius. ‘If we had arrested the xenophiles quickly and quietly, the people of Port Memnor might never hear of it. The xenos gave their followers guns and told them to fight back if the Imperium played its hand, so there would be deaths that cannot be ignored. People like Lady Solheindal-Thess here were supposed to help stabilise the city so we could root out the xenophiles and take control of the spaceport without violence. Now, there will be violence. This scene will be repeated a hundred times in the streets. Look on the wages of conspiring with the alien, baron. The tau would see everyone in Port Memnor shot down like this if it meant they could deny the city to the Imperium.’
‘We must calm the population,’ said Baron Maelenar. ‘A gesture. A link between the Imperium and the people of Briseis, something significant. Magos Skepteris is the most senior official of the Imperium in the city. We will use her.’
‘Do it soon,’ said Devynius. ‘Word will be on the streets already.’
Functionaries and servitors were already picking through the carnage, finding survivors and summoning help. A few shocked-looking nobles and officials, evidently those who had experience with administering medical aid, were being herded into the chamber to staunch the bleeding of those who could be saved. Soon industrial servitors would be brought in to cart away the bodies and begin clearing the debris. Devynius didn’t know where Baron Maelenar would convene his new council, but it wouldn’t be here.
‘Your orders, captain?’ said Brother Thaxos.
‘Withdraw to the Lawkeepers’ Precinct,’ said Devynius. ‘We can do no more good here. Space Marines bring fear wherever they go, even when we don’t want to. Our presence will make it impossible for the baron to calm things down.’
‘And then?’
‘The mission continues,’ said Devynius. ‘Our objectives are unchanged. This went poorly, but the xenophiles are gone from the city’s government. That at least has been accomplished. The spaceport remains our primary goal.’
‘Of course, captain. Brothers! Move out, we are done here!’
As the Ultramarines moved out of the chamber, a servitor dragged the two halves of Lady Solheindal-Thess out of the smouldering debris, beginning the long and perhaps impossible task of scouring the stain of death from Port Memnor’s parliament.
The Chrono-Wrights’ District was the heart of Port Memnor. It was the oldest quarter of the city and the centre of its precision engineering industry. Its buildings were the oldest in the city, the first constructed by the tribes brought together by the Imperial colonists, all age-rounded stone forming alleyways and switchbacks around hidden fountains and courtyards. Channels in the narrow streets siphoned away the heavy metals and toxins used in the countless small workshops, draining them away into the city’s sewers. The resulting chemical haze hanging around the district forced the younger labourers and artisans to wear rebreathers – the older ones had become immune to the effects, their lungs blistered and leathery like weather-beaten skin.
It was those older workers, the veterans of Chrono-Wrights’ District, who emerged first. It was a pre-appointed hour, passed by word of mouth at etching tables and clockworkers’ benches. As one tens of thousands put down their tools and came out into the open, still wearing the battered acid-stained overalls over work-tightened muscles. They rolled up their sleeves and exposed their chests to reveal the tattoos and scars marking them as members of the ancient Briseian tribes. It was not done in the city to display adherence to the old ways so openly – it was far more the fashion to deny that ancient and savage past when the people of Briseis had roamed the blasted landscape and carved out lives from the unyielding slate. Now they wore those symbols proudly: the clouded planet, the knot of snakes, the crossed swords, the shattered mountain.
The streets filled. The narrow alleys were choked and the fountain squares were crowded. Banners were raised, carrying the same symbols the people wore on their skin. Few spoke – this was a grim business, a necessary one, and one they did not take on lightly. It was a gathering on a scale that had not been seen for centuries, not since the Port Memnor Water Tax Riots, and while those times had been sparked by spontaneous anger, this was an organised gesture that even the Imperium could not ignore.
Sergeant Seanoa watched the crowd grow. It would soon be impossible to move through the streets of the Chrono-Wrights’ District at all, even for Space Marines. From the window of the clock tower he could see the organisers moving between the people, passing on instructions, messengers and heralds appointed by whoever orchestrated this protest.
‘We could cut them down from here,’ said Tagamala, Seanoa’s squadmate. ‘Load up with Stalker shells and snipe them one by one.’
‘There would be bedlam,’ said Seanoa. ‘Crushes and stampedes.’
‘And a great many xenophiles would die,’ said Tagamala. ‘Is that not why we are here?’
‘The portents of the knife gather around you,’ said Seanoa, regarding his fellow Jade Dragon. Tagamala’s armour and his faceplate were scored with deep marks cut by a heated mono-edged combat knife, to match the scars he wore on his face beneath. The designs on his armour wove the images of his portents into it – knives, serrated edges and hooked fangs. ‘Those are the only thoughts you have. If you could slit every throat in this galaxy you would do it, but sometimes a knife through the neck is not what we need.’
‘If the Ultramarine has you so scolded, then why carry a gun at all?’ said Tagamala.
‘Speak thus again, brother, and we will see just to whom the knife comes easiest,’ replied Seanoa. ‘There is a place on our fleet where a blade is placed between us to see who will get to it first.’
There was no anger in Seanoa’s voice, no more threat than the bearing of a Space Marine naturally gave him. Other Chapters might rely on a chain of command and deference to rank, artificial constraints on the souls of men. The Jade Dragons organised themselves according to the rules of nature, to the apparent capacity and willingness for one to kill another. Other Chapters would not understand such bonds, at once brotherhood and predation. It was one of the many secrets the Jade Dragons kept.
The clock tower was at the heart of the Chrono-Wrights’ District, itself a clockwork marvel with a face bedecked with thousands of automated soldiers that fought a battle on the stroke of every hour. Its lower workings connected to Port Memnor’s mass transit system, which made it a useful base for observing events in the Chrono-Wrights’ District. As the people had spilled into the alleys, the Jade Dragons had been drawn there by the scent of conflict, to watch and wait.
A preacher’s voice was raised over the low murmur of the throng. ‘Your Emperor watches!’ he cried. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been pontificating non-stop for hours. ‘Your Emperor hears! He will snatch you up and cast you into the sky!’ He grabbed a woman by the shoulders, shaking her. ‘Your loved ones! Your friends! The penance will fall upon all!’ He was an old man with a drawn and pale face, in dark robes that dragged down in the effluent channel running down the street. He wore a heavy pack with bundles, pans and trinkets hanging off it – an itinerant preacher, a missionary who went from place to place spreading the word. The backbone of the Imperial faith when the Ecclesiarchy was far away.
One of the workers wrapped an arm around the old man’s throat and hauled him away from the woman. Others crowded around him and he disappeared from view, now just a ripple in the crowd as the protestors laid into him with boots and
fists.
‘Who will throw off the yoke?’ cried out one of the assailants, holding a bloody fist high.
‘All of us!’ came the reply from all around. Banners unfurled from top floor windows. ‘Briseis will rise! The tribes will rise!’
Bright gunfire streaked into the sky, fired by hidden gunmen.
‘Pulse fire,’ voxed Seanoa. ‘Stand by.’
Chanting and singing broke out, rippling back and forth across the district – heretic hymns of freedom and independence. The Imperial eagle was dragged down from above the doorway of a factorium. A column toppled and a statue fell. More banners were held high, stained with age, hung with fetishes and scalps.
One of them was the hide of a sea creature, gnarled with barnacles. The tribesmen gathered around it wore the garb of the Thundercliff tribe, their bare torsos covered with serpentine coils, what little they wore in the dark green of their tribe. Two of them clambered onto the upper level of a fountain, unravelling the banner down to the ground. The sea monster’s spine ran down the middle of it and the skin of its many webbed limbs hung on either side. Men and women of the Thundercliff rallied around it, chanting and singing as the fronds of scaly skin flapped around them.
‘Do you see it, brothers?’ voxed Seanoa.
‘I do,’ said Brother Tagamala.
‘And I,’ said Brother Vai’ia.
One by one the squad sounded off, looking on from the windows and rooftops of the watchtower.
‘Because I must be sure,’ said Seanoa, ‘that you see what I do. I cannot stand up and speak of it without knowing my brothers have in their hearts what I have.’
‘Then pronounce on it, brother-sergeant,’ said Tagamala, taking his part in the ritual forms that had to be gone through if the portent was to be properly recognised.
