There Is Only War

by Various

  Brielle grinned widely as she settled in for the wait for the drinks. ‘Yes, Ganna. That’s exactly what we want. Now will you relax?’

  With that, Brielle set her feet upon the low table, crossing her heavy boots as she tried to work out what was happening on the gilded stage. Entertainment varied so wildly across the Imperium it was often damn near impossible to decipher what was going on, each depending on so many different cultural idioms they made little or no sense to outsiders. Even amongst those cultures that weren’t rooted in a single location, the galaxy was such a huge place that what entertained one audience was utterly impenetrable to another. Nevertheless, Brielle had been raised in the uniquely free, wide-roaming culture of a rogue trader clan, and certainly considered herself open minded when it came to such things. What she saw unfolding on the stage before her however was quite some way from anything she had seen before.

  The stage was obscured by banks of drifting smoke illuminated red, violet and purple by the array of lumen-bulbs mounted at its head, but as Brielle watched, the smoke drifted past, turning what was a hazy, half-seen blur into something shockingly solid. At the centre of the stage stood an impossibly tall, almost skeletally thin man wearing a bizarre costume that seemed to be made from a hundred different items of clothing thrown randomly together. On his head he wore a tall stovepipe hat and his eyes were made bug-like and bulging by a pair of heavy duty goggles inset with magnifying glass. He held in one hand an ancient brass vox-horn, while the other gesticulated towards the other dozen or so figure sharing the stage with him.

  The stage show was clearly some form of exhibition, and the spectacle on display was a group of mutants whose bodies were so malformed by genetic deviation they would have been shot on sight on any civilised world, and most frontier or badland ones too. Brielle’s first reaction was to reach for the laspistol holstered in her belt, but she caught herself before her hand could close around the grip. Clearly, if the mutants were dangerous they wouldn’t be on show in such a way, she told herself, though in truth she was far from convinced that was the case.

  The largest of the mutants was a hulking brute, and Brielle was only slightly relieved to see its ankles were clapped in heavy irons, a long, heavy chain snaking off behind the striped curtain behind. It was at least as massive as an ogryn, one of the stable, largely tolerated mutant strains recognised by most of the Imperium as a sanctioned branch of the human family tree. But its size was the only thing the beast had in common with the ogryns. Its skin looked like pockmarked bark and its hands, which were clad in heavy metal straps, were long, serrated claws. Its face was barely visible off centre in its chest, and consisted of a huge lower jaw, a massive brow and a pair of beady black eyes nestled in the folds between.

  As if this hulking brute wasn’t unusual enough, the rest of the mutants clustered on the stage were just as extreme, though thankfully none were anywhere near so large. One had multiple-jointed arms three times the normal length, while another had three heads, none of which had any visible mouth. One mutant was little more than a head mounted in a bizarre mechanical ambulatory contraption, while another had no head at all, its facial features set instead in the centre of a grossly distended belly.

  With a flourish that brought forth another wave of applause from the audience, the scarecrow like impresario introduced the next act. The lights dimmed to be replaced by a single, harsh sodium beam, and as the applause died away a stir of movement from overhead drew Brielle’s attention.

  To a flurry of wheezing, atonal music emanating from a pit out of sight in front of the stage, a garishly painted hoop descended from the rafters over the stage, and seated daintily upon it was a female figure that sent the crowd truly wild. Its legs were fused together into a shape resembling the body of a fish, but that was far from its strangest feature. Upon its shoulders sat two heads, each of which dominated by hugely pouting, bright red lips. Neither face had any other features, yet the crowd clearly viewed the figure as the very pinnacle of female beauty. Even as Brielle watched, the figure stirred into motion, her hips writhing suggestively until the hoop in which she was perched began to swing back and forth, each pass taking her further out over the whooping crowd, who reached upwards with groping hands to get just a touch of the object of their devotion.

  ‘Enjoying the show?’ a voice said from behind Brielle, and she froze, determined not to betray the fact that she hadn’t heard the figure approach. She had been entranced by the figure swinging in the hoop, hypnotised by the truly bizarre spectacle, but her attention, if not her gaze, was now entirely fixed on the man who had spoken.

  ‘Seen better,’ she said casually as Ganna turned around to look at the speaker directly. Brielle herself waited a few seconds more, then turned her head languidly to face him, praying as she did so that the front would work.

  The speaker was, as she had guessed it would be, the man she had come to Quag to meet. His name was Baron Gussy, though Brielle had been unable to discover if either or both were titles, affectations or nicknames. While at first glance he appeared a tall, slender man of indeterminate age, that effect was only short lived. He wore the outfit of some ancient princeling, consisting of a jerkin made of brightly shimmering material, puffed sleeves, garish hose and an improbably large codpiece that brought a dirty smirk to Brielle’s lips. But again, as outlandish as it was, it wasn’t his attire that made his appearance unusual, it was his features.

  Baron Gussy was a patchwork man, in every sense of the word. Every one of his features had been bought, or more often simply taken, from someone else, and recombined into the form standing over Brielle right now. His face was a jigsaw puzzle, each small section grafted to the next. Brielle had no idea how he thought the effect looked anything like natural, for no two parts were exactly matched. Perhaps that was the point, she realised. Perhaps he sought to deliberately project an air of macabre eccentricity, the better to put those he dealt with at a disadvantage.

  Brielle’s source had told her that the effect was not limited to the Baron’s face however, and that every organ in his body had been sourced from someone else’s, to create, so he told the loose-lipped doxies that kept him warm each night, the perfect example of mankind. Brielle couldn’t see it herself.

  His mismatched lips twisted into an unctuous grin, the baron bowed slightly at the waste and with a flourish indicated a shadowed alcove guarded by several more stubjacks of the type she had confronted outside. As she stood, she couldn’t help but notice the covetous glance he cast towards the crate held between the two servitors.

  ‘Shall we retire to somewhere more private, Madam Gerrit?’ he said. Making her way past the baron, Brielle could not help but notice the furtive glances cast her way by many amongst the crowd. Many were appeared unhealthily curious, but the acid glares of a pair of richly dressed women nearby made her scowl with irritation, for clearly they thought her some morsel picked up for the baron’s entertainment.

  ‘Come on, Ganna,’ she snapped as the waitress returned with their Asuave, a nasty little glimmer in her otherwise blank eyes.

  Accompanied by a trio of obviously glanded house stubjacks, Baron Gussy led Brielle and her party through the crowded establishment, the masses parting without complaint as they advanced. Brielle fought the urge to pat the pocket hidden in the breast of her frock coat, and forced herself to be calm. She knew what she was doing, she told herself. She was walking right into the jaws of a trap, that was what she was doing, but that was the entire point of this little expedition…

  At length, the lead stubjack reached an archway decorated with some mad artisan’s ideal of baroque finery, and turned to wait as the rest caught up. Brielle took the brief opportunity to study the scene, acutely aware that she might have need to exit it very quickly indeed if this all went wrong. The low arch led off to a private seating area, a low table set between plush, cushioned sofas. A low hanging chandelier, its guttering flames blue from the gas that f
ed them, provided just enough light for clandestine business to be conducted comfortably in the shadowy nook.

  ‘Please,’ Baron Gussy demurred as he took position beside the arch, the stubjack looming behind him. ‘Make yourself comfortable. But first, Madam Gerrit, you will understand if take a few… precautions.’

  Brielle’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she remained silent until she had some idea what the baron was intimating. Eyes open, mouth shut, that was what her father had taught her, and he’d done alright for himself, she mused.

  At a nod from the baron, the stubjack following on behind the group reached into the inside of his jacket, Brielle’s breath catching in her throat as she and Ganna exchanged a silent look. But she doubted Gussy intended harm, not quite yet at least, yet she was still relieved when the stubjack pulled nothing more dangerous than a portable scanning device from his pocket.

  Brielle swallowed hard, but kept her expression as uncaring as she could as the stubjack ambled up to her, the scanner’s main unit in one hand, and its detectrix-wand in the other. She raised one eyebrow in mild surprise that the lump had the skills to operate the device. But then, she’d once seen a ptera-squirrel trained to serve drinks to the worthies of a minor Navigator House, only for the creature to enter the second stage of its life cycle, morph into a ravening beast of teeth and claws, and butcher half the family before the dessert course had even been fully served.

  ‘’scuse me, ma’am,’ the man slurred as he approached, gesturing with the wand for Brielle to raise her arms. She felt a flush of irritation and the intense desire to knee the meathead in the groin, and the feeling only got more intense as he wafted the wand up and down, tracing the contours of her body as the control unit bleeped and burbled. Even when the machine chimed to indicate no hidden weapons had been detected, the stubjack continued to play the wand over Brielle’s body, until a cough from his master caused him to step back, a sneer on his grox-ugly face.

  ‘She’s clear,’ the leering goon announced, and ambled up to Ganna with less enthusiasm than he had Brielle. ‘Up,’ he ordered, but before the pilot could raise his arms, Brielle interjected.

  ‘He’s heavily augmented. He’ll set that thing off even on its lowest threshold.’

  The stubjack hesitated and looked to the baron for guidance.

  ‘Then he can wait out here,’ said Gussy, his tone sending a quiver of silent revulsion up Brielle’s spine. ‘He’ll be well looked after; you have my word on that. Now, Madam Gerrit, shall we?’

  Brielle met Ganna’s eye, the pilot nodding slightly to ensure her that he was fine with waiting outside, though he was obviously less than happy to allow her to enter the baron’s lair on her own. Telling herself it would all work out to plan, Brielle waved the two servitors forward towards the arch.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, madam,’ Baron Gussy said, the faintest hint of triumph in his voice.

  Brielle’s heart thundered in her chest, but she managed to keep her voice level as she replied, ‘Baron, the exchange?’

  ‘Has nothing to do with that crate, Brielle. I’ve been in this business for a while, you know, and can spot a decoy easily enough. I assume the item is secreted about your person, in some shielded pocket perhaps?’

  Brielle afforded the smug bastard a shallow tip of the head and flashed him an ego-quenching smile. ‘Fair enough,’ she said, and gestured for the servitors to set the crate down out of the way, before stepping beneath the low archway and into the private alcove.

  Without waiting to be invited, Brielle seated herself amongst the plush cushions, leaning back in an effort to appear entirely at ease with the situation despite what she felt inside. The air was sweet with incense, and not the sacred type burned in the shrines of the Ecclesiarchy. Despite its veneer of luxury, the place was cheap and dirty, soiled with a heady mix of sin and ennui.

  ‘Ah,’ said the baron, his voice dripping with what he evidently thought was sophistication and charm. Brielle had been patronised by far better men than he and she only ever tolerated it when there was a profit to be made. Now, sadly, was one of those times. ‘Make yourself comfortable, my dear, and we’ll begin.’

  With a curt gesture, the baron despatched one of the stubjacks standing in the archway, before seating himself opposite the low table from Brielle. The flickering gaslight cast by the low chandelier seemed to exaggerate the patchwork effect of his skin and highlight the fact that each of his eyes was a different colour and size. In fact, the way he was sitting, it appeared almost as if his legs were a different length, the joints somehow wrong.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re all out of Erisian Hors d’age,’ he said, a sly glint in his eye, the smaller, dark brown one. ‘Though I was once offered an early first century M.37 amasec from the equatorial foothills of San Leor.’

  Always the amasec, Brielle thought to herself. With a million worlds in the Imperium you’d think these people would try something different…

  ‘I’m fine,’ Brielle replied, not actually wanting to risk drinking whatever might be set before her.

  ‘Quite sensible,’ said the baron. ‘Perhaps later, after we’ve done business, eh?’

  Not on your life, Brielle thought sharply. ‘That would be nice,’ she said sweetly. ‘Speaking of which…?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the baron, reclining back into the cushioned seating as he spoke. It was clear from the predatory glint in his eye that he was about to play all of his hand at once, as Brielle had been counting on him doing. ‘You have the item on your person. Please place it on the table where I can see it.’

  Hesitating slightly for effect, Brielle smiled coyly. She reached up and slid her hand into the lining of her frock coat’s left breast, watching him follow the movement with his mismatched eyes. With a deft motion, she unsealed the hidden, null-weave lined pocket and withdrew an object the size and shape of a simple, unadorned ring.

  Reaching forward slowly, she placed the ring in the centre of the table, before leaning back to watch the baron’s reaction. By the gleam in his eye, the larger, blue one this time, she knew he was hooked.

  ‘What is its pedigree?’ he said, his gazed fixed with unwavering intensity on the small item.

  ‘It was retrieved from one of the rediscovered fane worlds spinward of the Ring of Fire,’ said Brielle, and as far as she knew it had been.

  ‘By who?’ he demanded, his voice tinged with something akin to lust.

  ‘By a flesh-wright clan out of the fourth quadrant,’ she said, though that part of the tale was far from certain too.

  ‘And you came into possession of it how?’ he leered, his mask of sophistication and charm now almost entirely slipped. ‘Tell me how you found this… wonder.’

  ‘The flesh-wrights were contracted by a… competitor of the Arcadius,’ she said, more certain of this part of the story, for she had been present throughout much of it. ‘But they came off worse in a small war over trade rights with the Ultima Centaur annex. This,’ she waved languidly towards the ring, ‘Was part of the settlement.’

  ‘Have you… tested it?’ the baron all but whispered.

  You must be mad, Brielle thought. She knew full well what it was said to be capable of. The ring was said to be imbued with the power of some impossibly ancient and thankfully extinct xenos race, that when worn, reshaped the flesh of the bearer into new and extreme forms. It was said that it took a mind of great power to control the drastic process, but that the results were spectacular, or hideous, depending on the willpower of the wearer. Though Brielle herself was undecided on the veracity of the claims, she had little doubt that Baron Gussy was mad enough to believe them and to try to utilise the artefact’s power, hence the exchange.

  Speaking of which, Brielle thought. ‘And you have the icon ready?’ she asked, making every effort to sound casual and relaxed despite her fluttering belly. If he’d just produce the icon and let her get on her way
, she knew an eldar corsair prince who was prepared to cede a paradise world for possession of it.

  But she knew it wasn’t going to be that simple.

  Tearing his eyes from the small ring in the centre of the table, Baron Gussy leaned back in the sofa and as he did so, he reached up to his own collar, just as Brielle had minutes before. Undoing the first few buttons of his jerkin and the shirt beneath, he revealed far more than the patchwork skin of his chest. About his neck, secured by a simple leather thong was a gleaming, bone white pendant, a sacred icon a mad alien was prepared to pay an entire world to possess.

  ‘How much is this worth to you?’ said Gussy.

  Here we go, thought Brielle. She knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it, though a small part of her had dared hope he might be reasonable.

  ‘How much are you worth?’ he continued.

  ‘Baron,’ she said, interrupting him in the hope that he might allow himself to be diverted, and to avoid the otherwise inevitable unpleasantness. ‘I’d far rather…’

  ‘I’d far rather you listen, my dear,’ he interjected. ‘Rather than interrupt. It’s so rude.’

  Brielle nodded sullenly, allowing the fool his moment of valediction.

  ‘I’ve decided I want to expand my operations. I think a spot of extortion is in order.’

  Brielle sighed and cast her eyes to the ceiling in what she hoped was a display of nonchalant dismissal. ‘Go on then,’ she breathed. ‘Name it.’

  The little display had the effect Brielle had hoped for, the baron’s expression changing instantly from haughty pseudo-sophistication to flushed annoyance. Strange, she thought, how each section of the flesh on his patchwork face went a slightly different colour.

  ‘You shall remain here,’ he said coldly, all pretence of civility gone. ‘Your father shall receive my demand when I’ve considered just what you might be worth.’