by Guy Haley
If you don’t take it, a rich man will.
– Paragonian proverb
Chapter Nine
An uncle’s concerns
MATUA SUPERIOR
GERATOMRO
083298.M41
Unsurprisingly, Bannick’s uncle had secured himself a fine house in the city’s richest area as his billet. Bannick walked up the broad street to it with his senses alert, but no attack came. There were no partisans launching reprisals, no rioting mobs of common civilians. Matua Superior had rolled over and given up without a fight. The street was quiet. Many houses were shuttered and lightless, excepting those commandeered by the Astra Militarum commanders. The rich had fled. Such was always the way. There wasn’t so much as a las-scorch on the stucco fronts of the mansions. Not one leaf was out of place in their expansive gardens. It was pristine, like war had never come here.
Still, he went cautiously. He was an obvious target in his dress uniform, bright red jacket, white-and-purple sash and his medal for his actions on Kalidar prominent on his chest. All his death required was one fanatic and an unguarded moment. He told himself to be calm. Without a hab-sized tank and five inches of plasteel to protect him, he felt vulnerable. He was getting soft.
He stopped before the biggest house on the street. Gates swung open at his approach, leading to a block-paved driveway lined with inset yellow lumens and crowded with civilian groundcars and small Militarum transports. Local insect analogues chirruped in the bushes. Far off, a group of people laughed and shouted, but there was no one about in the grounds of the house fronting the road. At the rear of the house glass broke, and there was more laughter. A short flight of semi-circular steps led up to the porch, poorly lit by low-quality lumens. He stood in the pool of light, feeling more vulnerable than before. The back of his neck crawled in expectation of a sniper’s bullet.
He pulled the bell rope. A ponderous chime sounded inside. The door was opened instantly by a man in a sergeant’s uniform crossed by a sash in the Bannick livery. The higher officers of Paragon always seemed to have servants, wherever they went. Light spilt onto the house steps and conversation, laughter, music and the clink of glasses pushed out into the night, but the sergeant was as forbidding as a bastion.
‘Yes?’ said the sergeant. People moved behind him, viewed through the door as if through a pict screen. Another servant whisked past, bearing a silver plate laden with delicacies. Bannick, hungry, involuntarily followed it with his eyes.
‘I am Honoured Lieutenant Colaron Vor Artem Lo Bannick, here to see Lord Colonel Bannick Vardamon Vor Anselm Lo Bannick.’
The sergeant gave him an unfriendly stare.
‘Papers?’ he said. Bannick kept his face neutral. What a farce. He pushed his chest out a little further so his medal took the light, made a show of adjusting the hilt of the power sword given to him by Captain-General Iskhandrian himself. The sergeant retained his expression of studied scorn.
Bannick pulled out his identity papers and handed them over. The servant examined them minutely, turning over every page in the book. He squinted at the pict-ID, bringing it closer to his face, then held it at arm’s length, eyes flicking from Bannick’s pict to his face and back again.
‘I assure you it is me, sergeant.’
The sergeant handed back his identity pass, and his face changed completely, going from disdainful to servile in an eye-blink. Not touching on apologetic as it did so, Bannick noted.
‘This way, honoured lieutenant. Your uncle is expecting you.’ The sergeant stepped back, arms wide and welcoming.
Of course he is, thought Bannick. With a curt nod, he went through the door and into a world he’d never thought to visit again.
Vardamon had done his best to recreate Paragon high society in his stolen mansion. Most of the people there were Paragonian officers, brightly clad in dress uniform. The others were Imperial officials, fleet officers, Departmento Munitorum divisio heads. There were plenty of women there, nearly all of them local, flirting and drinking with their conquerors. Bannick spotted a few other officers from other worlds, but no Atraxians. He wondered at that.
‘This way, sir,’ said the sergeant, gesturing to a showpiece staircase heavy with bronze. Bannick followed the sergeant upstairs. A pair of liveried footmen who appeared to have no formal connection with the military opened doors. He was shown in to a small antechamber. Inside were six chairs in two facing rows of three, a low table decorated with dried flowers, a bookcase, a clock and Jonas Artem Lo Bannick.
‘Good evening,’ said Bannick.
‘Hello, Colaron,’ said Jonas neutrally. He was sprawled untidily in the chair, legs thrust out in front of him.
Bannick took a seat opposite his cousin.
‘You look like a shelled crustacean without your tank,’ Jonas said. ‘You’re even the right colour tonight.’ He took a swig of his drink.
Jonas meant to rile him. Bannick had earlier decided if they came across each other again, he would not respond.
‘Funny thing that, I was just thinking the same before I got here,’ Bannick said.
‘Really?’
‘Really. It changes your perspective, riding about in one of the most powerful assets on a battlefield. Do you have a long association with the Lucky Eights?’
‘I do. Get to ride them all the time. My platoon’s permanently attached.’
‘Then you know what I mean, then.’
Jonas shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Not one of the Eighth’s Stormlords has taken significant damage in twenty-five years. I hear the oldest is over four thousand years old. That’s impressive, for assault tanks.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ said Jonas. ‘That’s why they call them lucky. Thing is, they have an unusually high casualty rate for the men they carry. Pretty much every time they go out, one of the platoons boards the one-way to the Emperor’s side. It takes a day or two to slop out the gore from the fighting deck. Trust me, I know. So maybe I don’t know what you’re talking about, riding around in your giant fortress on tracks.’
‘Tankers die too,’ said Bannick
‘We all do eventually,’ said Jonas. ‘It’s a little easier to stay alive behind half a foot of armour.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Bannick.
Jonas narrowed his eyes, wrong-footed by Bannick’s unwillingness to fight.
‘This uncle of yours, what’s he like?’ said Jonas. ‘I’ve heard of him. Never seen him.’
‘He left Paragon when I was very young. I met him again before I joined up. Once since – he was fighting on a different part of the front on Kalidar, and was transported on a different barge. He was promoted while I was fighting on Agritha. I can’t give you a full answer.’
‘Then give me a partial one.’
‘He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’
Jonas snorted.
The door opened.
‘Lord Colonel Bannick Vardamon Vor Anselm Lo Bannick,’ announced one of the doormen.
‘A doubled clan name?’ said Jonas as he and Bannick got up. ‘I didn’t know he was so important. We’re in trouble then.’
Vardamon came into the room in an evident hurry, wiping his hands on a cloth. He passed it to the servant, who withdrew. The younger Bannicks saluted.
‘Uncle,’ said Colaron Bannick.
‘Kinsman,’ said Jonas Bannick.
Vardamon scowled at them. ‘You two are in a lot of hot water right now. Come with me.’
Whoever’s study it was that Vardamon had appropriated had appalling taste. The walls were covered in flock wallpaper of violently clashing colours. The desk was similarly decorated, a distressed white base colour decorated in complicated designs of blue and orange that looked like they had been thrown on. Vardamon frowned deeply at it as he waved his relatives into the room.
‘Sit! Sit, the pair of you. I’ll get us
drinks.’
He went to an occasional table that matched the desk, where a decanter of gleece waited. He poured generous measures for all three of them.
‘Sit, go on!’ he said. There were two chairs in front of the desk, right next to each other. Jonas and Bannick eyed each other warily before taking them.
Vardamon went round the back of the desk.
‘Look at the size of this chair!’ he said. ‘You know, on this world, gluttony is respected as a sign of nobility. All their ruling classes are huge basdacks. No wonder they’re losing. Excess is the enemy of discipline.’
He plonked the glasses of gleece down before his kinsmen and sat down. Good living had rounded the colonel out, but he was lost in the chair. He laced his hands together and looked at them sternly for a couple of seconds apiece, the focusing lens of his augmetic eye whirring as it changed focus. He was greyer and heavier than when last he and Bannick had met, and had grown a thick moustache. ‘I’ll get to the point quickly,’ he said. ‘There are many far more important people than you downstairs, and I should be talking with them, not you.’
Jonas took up his glass. He sipped it appreciatively. Bannick followed suit. The gleece was exceptional. He had not had anything near this quality since they’d shipped out three years ago.
‘Verkerigen’s throwing his weight about now Iskhandrian is no longer de facto commander-in-chief. Command’s been devolved,’ said Vardamon. ‘What with the fleets and group coming in from Genthus and the previous force here, the army’s grown too big. There are too many equally qualified generals barking about their right to command for even Iskhandrian to shout them all down. This is a delicate time for everybody.’
‘Do you think he should stand down?’
‘I’m doing the talking here, Colaron, but if you must know I think Iskhandrian should stay in charge. I know he’s not from home but he’s a better general than Verkerigen ever will be, and far more dynamic than that fossil the Atraxians defer to when they’re not sure.’
‘Grand Captain Olgau?’ said Bannick.
‘That’s him. Ceremonial post, mostly, but I hear once an Atraxian Captain-General begins to lose authority, they call in the old men, and that we do not need.’
Vardamon slurped his gleece. ‘And I do not need this enmity,’ he said, looking pointedly between Jonas and Colaron Bannick. ‘I am caught in a delicate position. Verkerigen expects me to support him in his goal of securing higher office. I do not want that either. Your altercation is a distraction and an embarrassment that undermines my reputation. What were you thinking? The pair of you, members of the finest stems of the Bannick Optics clan, raised to be gentlemen, having punch-ups at the scene of an execution? Where’s your damn respect?’
‘I threw no punches, uncle,’ said Bannick.
‘Quiet, Colaron. We all know from your history that you are perfectly capable of provoking people into rash actions. And you, I don’t know you personally, Jonas. Your mother is his aunt, correct?’
‘That is so, sir,’ said Jonas.
‘Never met her. That makes you more kin to him than me. Not enough to make me care for you on its own, but enough to embarrass me badly if you make a hash of things. That’s a bad spot to put me in.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jonas.
‘Care to tell me why you punched your cousin, a fellow officer, in the guts in front of a Throne-blessed commissar?’
Jonas rolled his glass around in his hands, warming the gleece. He met Vardamon’s eyes defiantly.
‘All my life, I’ve wished to be a tank commander. To follow in the glorious footsteps of our ancestors as an officer of armour, as is our custom and my right.’
‘I see. You wear the uniform of foot, however. How did this make you assault Colaron here?’
‘You know of his disgrace at home,’ said Jonas. ‘I hear it was you that secured the annulment of his draft exemption.’
‘That is so, as a favour to my blood.’
‘Well, because of your actions, if I may be so bold, sir, Bannick did not marry into the Turranigen clan, and because he did not marry, the proposed alliance between their clan and our own collapsed. Very acrimoniously. We lost hundreds of thousands of Paragonian dira. Someone had to take the blame. Of course, Colaron’s father’s family was judged blameless. The weakness flows in female blood, isn’t that what they say? So all we Artem Lo Bannicks were thrown into disgrace. It was a close-run thing anyway. The entire financial stem suffered, but my branch of the stem, oh, we suffered the most. The vors of our branch were stripped of that title. I was denied the honour of mechanised command. It could have been worse. Some of the lesser clansmen were sent to the foundries, including some I was close to.’
‘What?’ said Bannick. The colour drained from his face. ‘Jonas... I... I am so sorry–’
‘Save your apologies. I am trying to think.’ Vardamon sighed. He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘All this is regrettable.’
‘Fine words,’ said Jonas.
‘Oh do get hold of yourself! What is done is done. It can’t be helped by belting people.’
‘It made me feel better,’ said Jonas mildly.
‘How you didn’t get shot on the spot...’ said Vardamon.
‘Suliban and I are friends, sir,’
‘Commissars don’t have friends, you stupid little arse!’ Vardaman’s fist thumped into the table. ‘You are my clansmen and my close kinsmen. Under clan law, you are my responsibility. I want to hear that this affair is over. Colaron?’
‘Yes, uncle,’ said Bannick. ‘Over.’
‘Jonas?’
Jonas nodded after a moment’s thought. ‘Very well.’
Bannick stood. ‘Jonas Artem Lo Bannick, cousin. Please accept my most sincere apologies. I never wanted to fight Tuparillio with sharps, I did not intend to, and throughout the duel I kept my blade dull. I certainly did not want to kill him, and if I had known the deeper repercussions I would never have accepted his challenge, no matter the dishonour it would have caused me. As it is, I should have done more to set it right once I... Once I killed him.’
‘You could have shot yourself,’ said Jonas.
‘I probably would have. I do not deny my responsibility. I behaved less than honourably towards Kaithalar Lo Turranigen. That I did not know Tuparillio was in love with her until it was too late does not lessen my crime there in the slightest.’
This reply made Jonas pause. He stood too, and extended his hand. ‘Apology accepted then.’ They shook hands. ‘You know, you are annoyingly hard to be angry at. I’ve spent most of the last couple of years fulminating against the injustice of my suffering for your actions. I expected to find an insufferable plank of a man but you seem... Upright.’
‘My regret hounds me still,’ said Bannick. ‘I’ll never be free of it. If I could take one moment back in my life and relive it, it would be the moment Tuparillio died.’
‘Well then. Well,’ said Vardamon in relief. ‘That’s settled. Jonas, as we’re so close in blood ties, you may call me uncle also.’
‘Thank you... uncle.’
‘Well, go on. That’s it. Go and enjoy this party. The pair of you are beginning to be noticed. If you are careful, more careful than you have been, a glorious career awaits.’
‘Sir, uncle. Might I beg your indulgence?’ said Jonas.
‘Be brief.’ Vardamon stood and adjusted his sash and medals.
‘I do not quite comprehend why they sent so many of us here. I mean, this place is a walkover. One of the army groups could have dealt with it, surely? We retook Genthus with a tenth of the men. From what I hear there were half as many men on Kalidar to fight the orks, and here we’re only fighting the militia.’
‘I can trust you not to repeat anything I say outside of these walls?’
‘You can,’ said Jonas. Bannick nodded.
‘This is a
show of force, clansmen. We are here beating out brushfires sparked off by the need to supply Macharius’ crusade, and have damn near started one ourselves. A smaller force could triumph, naturally. But with greater collateral damage. In face of our arrival, already three other cities have surrendered. There are four responses to widespread rebellion – a show of force, exterminatus, neglect, or planetary bombardment.
‘As for the second, this world needs to be working for the Imperium, not scorched to ash. There are not so many planets in all of human space that we can afford to cast them aside lightly. Neglect is often effective, over the centennial scale. The industry of Geratomro is only modest, but waiting for the system to beg to come back to us would be slow and the planet would likely deteriorate. Furthermore, abandonment would encourage the others. We could bomb the place into submission, but Geratomro would be severely downgraded, not to mention the human cost. So, a show of force. By showing this subsector, where unrest simmers dangerously, that the Imperium is capable of assembling a major fighting force even while the greatest crusade since the Emperor walked the stars is under way, it will discourage discontent turning to outright rebellion elsewhere.’
Bannick remembered Cortein giving him a similar speech, but he had gone further, talking about individual lives. Vardamon’s reasoning reminded Bannick that there were powerful men in the Imperium who would think nothing of destroying a world. He shifted uneasily in his seat.
‘Take heart, my boys. We are winning this war, and in doing so preventing a host of others. In the human body there are trillions of cells – all it takes is for one to turn cancerous to threaten the whole. So here also, this city is but one among many billions. We have restored it to proper function, and prevented it from threatening the body entire. If the amount of force seems disproportionate, then consider the alternatives and be thankful. Now, I have pressing business downstairs. You are dismissed. Next time we meet, it better be under better auspices.’
Jonas and Bannick spent little time in the party. There were too many captains and colonels for them to feel at ease. They spoke briefly with Hannick, whose skin looked paler than ever against the bright red of his uniform. He had come to rely on a stick, and stifled his coughs with a handkerchief. Their conversation became awkward, and so Jonas and Colaron took their leave and went to stand at the edge of the party, by the buffet.
