Only War: Stories from the 41st Millennium, page 32
Perhaps, in another age, free of war and conflict, the Exodites might return to breathe life anew into the planet, reigniting the embers of the World Spirit left to smoulder. But if peace was to be bought at such a price, Itheíul wondered, would any of the aeldari be left to see it?
‘Saim-Hann bled for the lives of many,’ Itheíul said. ‘Yet I do not understand why you had to be first to the beast. The chieftain was so close. Had we delayed our assault–’
Honour is nothing if there is not survival, Arsan interrupted. His anger cooled, the baritone near-voice of his psychic projection settled into a tone of counsel. When I looked upon the skein, fate balanced victory upon our intervention. Cainasairre was destined to fail, and the clan would perish with him. The deaths at the gate would have been many. Such sacrifice was the only path.
‘You knew you would die?’
It was a possibility, just as there were many strands in which we would never even make it to the Devourer. As in all decisions we make, the future can change over the smallest choice. Our kin fight on across a thousand battlefields, battling so the aeldari might yet see that future.
‘Why did you not warn me? I could have acted, I could have stopped–’
I could not turn back from victory, even if such a route might lead to my death. And if that was to be the outcome, I would not let you put my life before your own. Yet now you face another kind of death.
Itheíul opened her mouth to protest, to say that any threat here in the craftworld’s heart would have been met by the entirety of Saim-Hann’s defenders, but she knew this was not the danger of which her brother’s spirit warned her. She looked down to her hands: she had taken on a ghostly complexion. How many cycles had passed since she had last seen the light of the craftworld’s artificial sun? When had she last eaten, or laughed amongst her kin?
Lingering on the Path of Grief is a slow death, but death all the same, Itheíul.
Itheíul nodded, despite the gesture’s redundancy. She leaned forward and lifted her brother’s spirit stone to her chest. Warmth still lingered, and a galaxy of light swirled beneath its glasslike surface. She stood and took the spear in her other hand, a tingle of psychic energy thrumming through her fingers. She stepped forward slowly, into the light of the infinity circuit. It was time to return her brother to the craftworld’s heart, and take the first steps along a new path.
VOICE OF EXPERIENCE
J C STEARNS
I’ve given up trying to get my xenos friends to understand the true size of humanity’s galactic population. When I speak of figures in multiples of quadrillions, there’s always an inevitable breakdown in communication where my listener assumes one of two things: either I have a faulty grasp of mathematics, or one of us has a faulty grasp of the other’s language. I’m not aware of any hive worlds subsumed into the Greater Good thus far, so to my knowledge the t’au have never actually seen the extent of mankind’s fecundity. I, however, have been to many hive worlds, and jostled shoulder to shoulder in crowds so massive that their edges couldn’t be seen by the naked eye. I have a solid grasp of the scope of humanity’s size, and consequently I understand what a monumental honour it is to be counted among the infinitesimally small percentage of that population who have stood within arm’s reach of an ethereal, and been treated as a sure and loyal friend.
‘Gue’vesa’vres,’ he said, and inclined his bald head in my direction in the slightest of bows.
My new title still felt strange to hear. Trusted human helper, translated literally – a reflection of my position on the station, the highest-ranking of the human auxiliaries aboard the Suu’suamyth. Originally the Glory of Argyre, the orbital shipyard had come into t’au possession early in the Fifth Sphere expansion.
I bowed my own head in respect. The other t’au that were present did as well. Aun’song made it easy to respect him. The ethereal was graceful and poised. After a life spent in trenches and foxholes, up to my knees in the blood of my own troops and the dismembered corpses of the enemy, his presence was like something bordering on the divine.
‘Your service to the Greater Good has been nothing less than impeccable, Kalice Arkady.’ The even curve of the low, oblong table suggested no head, but the deference of the other commanders would have made it clear who the leader was even if I hadn’t known his caste. When he spoke, the four other t’au hung on his every word. I’ve never seen anyone in the Imperium given that degree of attention out of respect rather than fear.
‘You honour me, wise one,’ I said. My T’au was clumsy, but I saw El’Ganret, the representative of the water caste, smile and give me a slight nod of encouragement.
The other three were much harder to read, but then most t’au are. They can’t be read by their faces. Their emotions are instead betrayed by secondary clues such as tone, inflection and body language.
There were no bodyguards in the room, which demonstrated a stupendous level of trust in me, although I have no doubt that all four of the representatives – most notably the dour-faced and compactly muscled fire caste commander – would have borne me down and beaten me to death with their bare hands before they allowed their ethereal to come to harm.
‘Your service honours you,’ Aun’song replied, ‘and by turn, honours us.’
In the society of the Imperium, this sort of back and forth would have been so much high-handed jaw-flapping. Honorifics and accolades hadn’t mattered much to me in those days. A campaign medal and a pretty speech from a famed general might mean something to the rank and file, but by the time I’d made lieutenant I already knew what it really amounted to: nothing. Empty words that didn’t cost the lords anything and would keep the grunts on the front lines. The t’au, on the other hand, set great store in their words. It meant something to them that we belonged, that we knew we were as much a part of their empire as they were. That integrity meant more than all the speeches in the galaxy ever could.
‘How then may I honour us further, wise one?’ These conversations, while rewarding, could also go on for a ludicrous length of time if one side didn’t move to business first, and I’d long since learned that the t’au expected a certain degree of impatience among their alien allies. Being able to save face for everyone while still moving the conversation along was one of the many valuable skills I’d developed.
The representatives looked at one another in a scattering of half-glances – the t’au equivalent of uncomfortable fidgeting. There was something that they were clearly uneasy about.
El’Ufafri, the bulky fire caste commander, I knew. His skin showed the grey pebbling along its edges indicative of old age in his people, which wasn’t terribly surprising. I knew he was one of the members of the Fourth Sphere expansion and that he had been transferred to the station to command the fire caste forces here in recognition of his many achievements. Beyond that we’d had precious little interaction, even though I was theoretically his direct subordinate. He avoided my presence and I had begun to think he might harbour ill feelings towards humans in general. Not a surprising attitude for the Fourth Sphere warriors, who had suffered hardships beyond imagining, first in their long sojourn in the warp, then again later in the years of isolation in the Nem’yar Atoll. As a veteran myself, I could hardly bear a grudge against him for the psychological scars of his battles.
The air and earth caste members of the administrative council aboard the station were almost complete mysteries to me. I’d been before the council twice before, which were the only times I’d even seen the air caste representative. Tall and willowy like the rest of her caste, she had a tendency towards brusqueness that would have bordered on rudeness in human society, but she spoke to her peers in the same manner she did to me, so I assumed it was a trait of her culture rather than a reflection of her views towards aliens. The earth caste representative and I had met a handful of times on the station since most of the humans aboard worked as engineering labourers that operated under the earth caste’s jurisdiction.
‘You are familiar with the collapse of the loading ring yesterday?’ Por’el Ganret was by far the most familiar of the advisory council which served, for most purposes, as the ruling body of the space station. I knew there was an ethereal council of indeterminate membership as well, although they rarely interacted with the rest of the facility and only occasionally chose to issue orders to the advisory council. At least, that was the image which was maintained.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘Seven people were killed, unfortunately.’ Six humans and a t’au. I was not only familiar, I’d signed the mortifaction notices for the deceased personally. I could still remember each of their names.
‘A great and sorrowful loss,’ said El’Ganret. I believed him. Like all of the water caste, his face had a much greater range of expression than was usual amongst the other t’au – a trait that made him far more relatable. The sympathy on his features was genuine, which I appreciated. ‘Of even greater sorrow is the truth – it was not seven, but seventeen who perished. A further ten members of the earth caste were immolated when the ring was destroyed.’
I was shocked, but the rest of the council didn’t react. Clearly this was information they were already aware of. Transparency wasn’t a huge virtue for the t’au, which I suspect is a commonality in leaders the galaxy over. Outright falsehoods, however, were comparatively rare and it was enough to take me aback. Surely there was a reasonable explanation.
‘Nor is this the first accident,’ said El’Ganret. ‘The engine failure on the Dawning Eye did not claim an empty ship through an autopilot misfire, as has been publicly reported. There were twenty-two t’au aboard the vessel when it broke from its trajectory and exploded.’
‘You suspect sabotage.’ It wasn’t a question. The pieces were all there. Two accidents were a coincidence, but I immediately began to recall others. ‘The pressure failure last month on deck twenty-one? The air regulation malfunction on the departing cruiser before that?’
El’Ganret nodded gravely. ‘Beginning with the toxicity-driven food shortage two months ago, yes.’
I was troubled that I’d heard nothing and angered that someone had struck out against us in this way, but not horribly surprised. The gue’vesa who had accompanied the Fifth Sphere fleet from the t’au homeland to the Nem’yar Atoll were drawn from many human communities, some of which were recent additions to the T’au Empire. Misguided Throne loyalists were something to be expected: those that were too indoctrinated into the Cult Imperator to accept the Greater Good, but unable to escape before their worlds had joined the empire. Such malcontents often kept their heads down and most eventually saw reason, but they sometimes formed small resistance cells that could prove a nuisance to fleet operations.
‘You suspect humans.’ That wasn’t a question either. The council had reported the human deaths while downplaying the t’au ones. They were refusing to give the terrorists any attention for their actions while doing a damn fine job of making it appear that the sabotage was doing more harm to their own people than to the t’au.
Aun’song gave a slight nod.
‘Quite.’ El’Ganret nodded again, smiling at me as though I were a particularly bright scholam pupil. ‘Given your military background and your position among the humans, we believed it would be in our best interest to have you spearheading the inquiry. If it should come to light that we’re investigating the gue’vesa population, it will ease tensions to have a human trusted by both sides asking the questions.’ He glanced at Aun’song, who nodded again. ‘We also feel that it would do well to show the other species aboard the station that you have our full trust as well. To this end, we’ve authorised jidan protocols for the duration. Your mandate will be in effect until all of the saboteurs have been brought to justice.’
‘Make no mistake, Kalice Arkady, a swift resolution to this matter is required.’ El’Ufafri’s voice was soft and high, at odds with his martial appearance. ‘Each successive attack has escalated in severity. If one of these attacks were to reach a station commander, or one of the ethereals, the effect on station morale and operations would be catastrophic.’
He reached beneath his robes and then leaned across the table to set a pulse pistol in front of me. I nodded, swelling with importance. Jidan, or the bearing of live weapons outside of a military theatre, was an honour rarely accorded to anyone not of the fire caste. This was a tangible, visible reminder of the respect that I was being granted.
‘I am honoured to serve,’ I said.
‘We are honoured by your service,’ El’Ganret replied. He bowed his head. ‘Your liaison will meet you shortly.’
I paused for a moment, then stood and bowed myself, recognising a dismissal when I heard one. I’d never worked with a t’au in a position of equal partnership before. The idea was exciting.
I smiled as I left the administration chamber. Formerly an officer’s lounge, it was positioned high up within the station, elevated above the lower decks. The large windows had been kept phase-tinted when the station was under human control so that the overseers could see the labourers on the assembly bay floor, but not be seen themselves. The t’au, however, kept the windows clear so that those working below could see their leaders hard at work as well.
The small mag-lift up to the chamber had been replaced with a short staircase, which was the source of my constant amusement whenever I was summoned there. Built by earth caste members, the stairs had been designed with ungulate feet in mind which meant the steps were shallow and steep and always left my calves aching. Plantigrade staircases were uncommon in the T’au Empire.
A water caste t’au was waiting for me at the base of the stairs. A small drone, no larger than my hand, hovered over his shoulder.
‘They should be ready for you, friend,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘No, oru’vesa,’ he said, bowing. ‘They have already seen me. I am to be your liaison.’
I smiled again, processing the information. I had anticipated working with a fire warrior, perhaps even one of the honoured shas’vre, but of course they had paired me with a member of the water caste. This mission was more social than it was military, after all.
I bowed and he extended his hand, giving me a broad grin that was quite uncharacteristic of the t’au. He was on the short side even for a member of the water caste, but as I shook his hand I could feel a compact, wiry strength. He didn’t wear the robes customary among t’au civilians, eschewing them for a pair of pale, loose trousers, a simple tunic and a vest that had been embellished with spiralling beadwork in blues and reds.
‘Captain Kalice Arkady, commander of the Follaxian 113th Irregulars. Order of the Adamant Tread, awarded the Heart of the Crown on Syndythos, bearer of the Crimson Skull.’ I didn’t have to give him a full list of my names and honorifics, but what would seem laughably formal among human society was considered polite to my t’au friends, and I was always willing to take the extra moment to show them that I had a basic grasp of their culture. ‘Arkady to her friends.’
My new partner nodded, his lips pursed. ‘Very excellent. I am Por’ui Fi’rios Kau’kartyr. I am accustomed to being referred to as Kartyr by my human friends.’
‘Kartyr, then. Do you have much experience with this sort of thing?’ His XR-0 drone drifted around me in a loose, slow spiral as I spoke, recording my appearance, voice and other personal details for its records. I stood still to make its task as quick as possible.
‘I have some,’ he said, ‘although I have always before been stationed on worlds where t’au made up the bulk of the population.’ He hesitated. ‘But I am a kar’tyr, a hunter of justice. This will not be my first investigation.’
I nodded. He wasn’t what I’d expected. I knew the t’au had to have some form of law enforcement – military law breeds resentment in civilian populations, after all – still, I had never seen a t’au prison or heard them reference criminal codes. A criminal investigator he might be, but I had no idea what form that would take. He could occupy the same role as an inquisitor for all I knew, or he might be nothing more than the equivalent of a street-level enforcer. There was no telling.
‘I suggest we begin by examining the records in the station’s database and investigate any personnel with a history of disciplinary infractions.’ He gestured towards the hall that would take us to the datacore, but I shook my head.
‘I understand where you’re coming from,’ I said, ‘but that would not be productive. The workers with disciplinary infractions under the Imperium would have been punished for things like duty dereliction, or theft of materials for, say, distilling liquor. At best, the ones prone to fomenting rebellion would have been the citizens most likely to have embraced the t’au.’
‘What would be your suggestion?’ Kartyr smiled in a way I found slightly patronising.
‘The materials used in the sabotage are similar. I think we’ll get a better result if we try to find out where they came from.’ I smiled back, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. ‘If we’re seen to be tracking the materials it’ll look better. If we’re just interrogating humans as our first step it would be ammunition for the saboteurs to convince people that the t’au see humans as problems to be managed, rather than the partners we are.’
‘Ably reasoned, I suppose. I would be honoured to allow you to take the lead, of course.’ He bowed his head to me and I couldn’t help but nod back. The politeness of the water caste was infectious. Rogue traders, planetary governors and even certain inquisitors could be persuaded by their charm. Still, his word choice irked me somewhat. It was possible he was just being overly formal in the way his people tended towards, but I couldn’t shake the possibility that he was intentionally trying to establish which one of us was really in charge.
