Planetkill, page 5
‘Well done, midshipman.’ Kaizen pulled Marcher back down into cover. ‘Good job protecting your cargo.’
Kaizen took the data-slate back from Marcher’s unresisting hand and peered at it. ‘I’d check them anyway if I were you, as I believe you’ve invalidated your receipt.’
The young Bahani named Asphar gritted his teeth as the lifter rocket struggled against the planet’s gravity and the pressure piled upon his body. Though he could feel himself being crushed, he was not scared. They had told him that this would happen. Had told him to expect it. He had not been scared when they had closed the cargo container lid upon him; not even when they had taken him to see the patriarch who had explained the mission he was to undertake. One of the Bahani’s young starwarriors, the patriarch had called him; one who would cleanse the sins of all the Bahani people in the eyes of the Emperor by punishing His false servants. That was the Imperial men, Asphar knew, who had come to Bahani using the Emperor’s name but then had despoiled His gift to them.
The Bahani people had been blind to it, the patriarch had explained, but their eyes had been opened in time. This last shipment was to be the vehicle of the Emperor’s wrath upon them and Asphar was to be His herald. Then, when their mission was complete, the Emperor would guide them home as heroes.
They had chosen only the best, the patriarch had told him that. Asphar was the best of his class, the smartest, the fittest, the most faithful. It was no immodesty to say so; he rejoiced in the gifts that the Emperor had given him. And so, even as the lifter rocket threatened to shake itself apart, he forced himself to unclench his teeth and begin to pray. He would not be scared.
The Relentless, a Lunar-class cruiser, warship of the most-revered Emperor’s Navy, hung in silent orbit as the Imperial departure from Bahani continued apace. From the tip of its heavy prow, with armour metres thick, to the mighty engines at its stern it measured more than eight kilometres long and over a mile high. Every crenelation, every tower that festooned its hull was unique, having been repaired or replaced countless times over its centuries of service. Every cannon and launcher that made up the batteries along its flanks had its name and a gun-crew whose sole purpose was its service.
The man who now commanded those guns, First Officer Ward, sat quietly in his study, secreted within the suite of rooms that were his personal quarters. It was not a large chamber, and it felt all the more crowded because of the trophies that hung from every wall. Rich, thick furs covered the dull battleship walls; a set of razor-sharp antlers crested the doorway, the heads of dead animals and xenos species were crowded on every surface. Each of them, at one time or another, had crossed paths with the Relentless.
He had not garnered them all himself, of course. No, they were a tradition, one that each second-in-command had continued and built upon for generations now. He had added his own choice pieces, though: the skull of a stegadon, the chair made from a dragon turtle shell, and the arm of an insectoid xenos species (the head was too hideous to display). The collection had become most imposing and it gave him a great sense of continuity: in its way it kept alive all those great men who had come before him.
It had been just that comfort that he had sought today. He had brought the shift reports back with him to read, but they were still untouched in a pile upon the desk. Instead, he stared at a harqeagle, posed with wings spread and considered the ambitions of his second, Lieutenant Commander Guir.
After the old captain had died in such an unfortunate manner, the two of them had agreed that it would have been unwise to expedite word back to the admirals of Battlefleet Bethesba back at Emcor. The old captain had been so well-loved by both officers and crew, and his death so sudden, they reasoned, that to replace him quickly with a newcomer, a captain unversed in the ways and traditions of the Relentless, could damage ship morale irrevocably. So they had delayed sending the communiqué as long as possible and Ward had quietly assumed the responsibilities of the captaincy.
Last shift, however, Guir had asked out of the blue whether an acknowledgement had been received from Battlefleet. Ward had said that it had not and Guir, after a moment, had let the matter drop. That moment’s pause had been telling. He had checked with his informants on the upper decks and they had confirmed his suspicions. His authority was being questioned; the occasional joke, an inflection in a comment, nothing more, but he knew how quickly such talk could turn serious. Perhaps once, in the glory years of Battlefleet Bethesba, the officer corps of the Relentless had served selflessly, out of pride and loyalty to the Emperor, but now all that seemed to motivate them was personal profit and advancement. Much of his time as first officer had been spent ensuring the officers stayed in line, but since taking over the onus of the captaincy he had had to delegate that to Guir. Perhaps he should not have trusted him so.
Ward regretted now the decision to delay the news of the old captain’s death. He had realised that they would not foist an outsider upon them; they would offer him the post. Though promotion to the captaincy of a cruiser of the line such as the Relentless would be quite a jump in rank, who better than he to take on the role? And once he was confirmed as captain his officers would instinctively buckle down again.
In the meantime, though, they had grown slack, complacent and they were taking liberties with his authority. They didn’t see him as a proper captain. They needed to be reminded of their place and the power he had over each of them. An example needed to be made. One which would bring his officers back to him and not solidify the opposition. Someone who was easily replaced.
Ward picked up the sheaf of reports again and started to flick through them. One of them had caught his eye before. There. The report of the incident on the surface by one Midshipman Marcher.
‘And so for the heroism in the face of the enemy displayed by Midshipman Dal Henrik Marcher and attested to by Governor Kaizen, he shall at this time be accorded the rank of sub-lieutenant with all the duties and privileges thereof…’
Those words still rang proudly within Marcher’s head as he stood at his new post on the command deck. He had been attached to the Imperia Ordinatus and was only a short distance away from where the imposing master of ordnance sat surrounded by servitors, each one linked into a battery of consoles feeding them data regarding the ready condition of the ship’s torpedoes and smaller craft. In battle, this position would resound with a cacophony of noises; for the moment, however, it was quiet. More so than usual even. A solemn ceremony was about to begin.
Marcher looked up at the bridge which formed an arch across the width of the command deck. Up there he could see the first officer standing calmly upon the central dais and beside him, Governor Kaizen, unaccompanied for once by his retinue. The two of them were about to kill a world.
The quiet in the Ordnance station was broken by the crackle of the master’s vox. He turned his head slightly to hear it better and then beckoned Marcher over.
‘Commander Ward requested this,’ the master grunted, handing him a data-slate. ‘Take it up to him.’
Marcher froze ‘Now, sir?’ he managed. Disturb him just as the ceremony was starting?
‘Of course now. Get to it.’ The master turned back to his screens.
Marcher strode as quickly as formality allowed up the side of the bridge to the central dais. His heart pounded as he approached the first officer, who was engaged in conversation by the Governor. For a moment Marcher held back, unsure whether he was to interrupt them, but then the first officer turned and acknowledged him.
‘Thank you, sub-lieutenant,’ he said, taking the pad. ‘Governor, I believe you’re already acquainted with our newest commissioned officer.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Kaizen said, concealing his annoyance at the interruption.
‘Congratulations,’ he said, struggling for something else to say. ‘I’m sure you’ll do the Battlefleet proud.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Marcher replied unbidden. ‘I most certainly intend to, Governor, sir.’
Kaizen glanced back and Marcher realised that he had spoken out of turn. He could feel the eyes of everyone on the dais looking at him: Commissar Bedrossian sitting back beside the captain’s chair, Senior Armsman Vickers standing coolly at ease, the bridge officers at their consoles to the front. Lieutenant Roche was one of them, he had half-turned to watch. Marcher felt the blood rush to his face but forced it back with an effort of will. He was not a child midshipman any longer, he was an officer and he would hold steady in the face of any consequences.
‘Well said, Sub-Lieutenant Marcher,’ the first officer announced. ‘Now, Governor, shall we begin?’
The Governor nodded and Marcher, relieved, began to edge away.
‘Sub-Lieutenant,’ the first officer continued, handing the pad back to him. ‘I shall attend to this once we are done here. You may as well wait and observe the proceedings. It is, after all, an historic occasion. Don’t you agree, Governor?’
The Governor nodded again and the two of them took up their positions at the front of the dais.
‘I, Governor Horsl Kaizen, speak for the Adeptus Terra. For this world before us designated 129 Tai D, known as Bahani, I hereby declare all tithe-treaties void and debts extant cancelled and declare this world as orbis cassi – of no further worth.’
‘I, Commander Tomias Ward, first officer of the Emperor’s warship Relentless, speak for Battlefleet Bethesba. For this world before us designated 129 Tai D, I hereby declare this world as orbis non contegnum. We entrust the defence of this world back to its people. May they stand strong and faithful in their new age of His service.’
Marcher watched as Commander Ward stepped down to the bridge vox-officer, who glanced up, waiting for him to confirm the order.
‘Do it.’
The vox-officer tapped a single key. In an instant the communiqué flashed from his screen to the command deck data-nexus and from there flew through space to strike its intended target: one of Bahani’s orbital beacons. Within the same second, the beacon digested its contents and had taken the necessary action and passed the same message onto its fellows. The message itself was complex, it had taken days to prepare with the necessary encryptions, authorisations and passwords, but its essence was simple:
You are no longer a part of the Imperium.
The planet would be excised from the Administratum’s great volumes of the Emperor’s worlds; if it were attacked, the Imperium would not listen to its cries for help. Trade and transport routes would be redefined, no longer would the merchant fleets that Bahani relied upon for its food venture there.
The twelve million inhabitants of Bahani, the indentured workers insufficiently valuable to take away, did not know it, but their doom had come. Their machinery would break down and they would freeze in the nights and bake in the day. Food stores would be exhausted and they would inevitably fight amongst themselves and kill to hold those few areas where something could still be grown. Their numbers would be devastated, the civilisation they had built would be extinguished and the few who survived would fall prey to marauding xenos raiders and the monsters that lurked in the dark.
On the bridge of the Relentless the vox-officer signalled to Commander Ward that the communiqué had been sent and received.
‘Well,’ Ward said, turning to Kaizen, ‘Now that’s done, Governor, would you dine with us before you return to your ship? I find I have quite an appetite.’
Twelve hours later, the Imperial convoy broke orbit and left Bahani behind. At its centre travelled the Gloriana Vance, the Barbican-class liner carrying the Administratum officials and those valuable goods and machinery deemed worthy of removal in the evacuation. In formation around it were the Spur, Illys and Onyx, Sword-class frigates assigned as escort. Behind these trailed three dozen cargo scows carrying the last shipment of processed ore that the factories of Bahani would produce. At the fore, dwarfing the smaller ships, the cruiser Relentless majestically swung into the lead position.
Marcher watched the planet recede into the distance from his post on the command deck. How different he felt from when they had arrived. He had risen fast, he thought with no small sense of self-satisfaction, and now that his abilities had caught the first officer’s eye that rise would continue.
Asphar, hidden within a cargo container in the dark hold of the scow designated Terminus Three, felt the change in direction, but thought nothing of it. He had faith that he would see his home soon enough.
Far away, hidden in the darkness of space, other eyes watched the laden convoy depart. The souls they had abandoned on the planet would keep, but here was a prize that they could not let slip away. A command was given in an alien tongue and a portion of the darkness shifted to follow the human fleet.
The first jump of the journey back passed without incident, though for the Navigators of the Relentless it was grindingly slow. On each occasion they chanced across a favourable warp current that would normally speed their progress they had to cross-tack and delay to allow the cargo scows to keep pace. Thanks to their exhausting labour, however, all ships were undamaged and in formation when the fleet emerged back into realspace.
After allowing time for the warp engines to recharge, Commander Ward formally handed over defence of the convoy to Lieutenant Zeath, commanding the Spur. The convoy jumped out; the Relentless was finally free.
Asphar’s heart raced and his blood pounded in his ears. Now, he was scared. He clutched the sides of the container to ensure they were still solid. He could have sworn he saw them ripple and flow during that last jump. He had heard of warp jumps; they had allowed the brightest of his class the privilege to talk to one of the traders who journeyed between the stars. He had discounted much of what the trader had said of the jump into the maelstrom as fiction told to impress children, but all of it was true. The sounds and sights were bad enough, but he had been rattled and shaken within his little cell as though he were a die within a gaming pot. He checked his suit and helmet again, and praised the Emperor when he found no tears or cracks in either. The cargo scows did not bother keeping much atmosphere within their holds. Without his suit and air canisters he would never have survived.
His current canister was running low, no doubt he was breathing far too hard. He had to make it last longer or he would suffocate in here. He took up another and made to connect it when he noticed the gauge. It read empty. It hadn’t been used already, he was sure of that, he had been very careful to keep those he had used separate. He turned the canister over; maybe it was the gauge that was broken. No, there it was, an imperfection in one of the welds. All the air inside had slowly leaked away. Asphar’s heart started to beat harder again. He could not stay hidden within his container. He would have to venture out into the ship.
Even though Marcher’s commission would remain unconfirmed until Battlefleet could give their approval, he was entitled to every privilege his new rank conferred. The latest was an appointment with the Gastromo of the junior officers’ mess to transfer his tab and dining rights there. Marcher had felt a warm thrill as he stepped inside the mess. He had been there before, but only running messages or errands. Never with the chance to appreciate it. Never as an equal. Now he was free to take his ease there off-shift, sit in the deep, brass-studded chairs or spend an evening at the bar talking with his fellow officers. It was all so different to eating amongst the, sometimes frankly puerile, midshipmen.
It was mid-shift so the mess was mostly empty. He recognised Lieutenant Roche in a chair, engrossed in something he was reading, and a few of the acting sub-lieutenants. Strange, Marcher thought, not long ago, they would have chased him out of here unless he were on official business. Today, they had to address him as ‘Sir’.
The Gastromo greeted him formally and brought out the necessary dockets for him to sign. He, at least, was not fazed by their change of circumstances. And so it should be with me, Marcher considered. It was the proper way for an officer to behave. The necessary slips signed, the Gastromo offered to serve him his first drink, which he happily accepted. Inspired with a sense of fellow-feeling, Marcher paid for a glass to be sent to Lieutenant Roche as well. A server took it over and discreetly interrupted Roche from his reading. Roche glanced up to listen, his eyes flicked over to Marcher.
Marcher raised his glass slightly in salute and turned back, satisfied, to the bar. The server reappeared and whispered hurriedly to the Gastromo, the glass was untouched.
‘I am afraid the gentleman declined your offer, sir.’
‘What’s that?’ Marcher turned back but Roche was already leaving. The acting sub-lieutenants saw him go and, recognising Marcher, walked out as well.
‘Would you care for it yourself?’ the Gastromo asked with such courtesy as to be condescending.
‘No,’ Marcher grimaced, trying to contain the mixture of anger and embarrassment welling up inside him. ‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ll take it,’ a figure spoke behind him. It was Senior Armsman Vickers. Marcher nodded and Vickers scooped the glass up easily in his large hand and took a sip.
‘My compliments, Mister Marcher.’
‘Thank you, Mister Vickers.’ Marcher did not know if the senior armsman was even allowed in the junior officers’ mess. Technically he held no commission, indeed the midshipmen scuttlebutt was that he had come aboard as a conscript in the work gangs who toiled below decks. How he had risen out of that pit to the post he now held had been the topic of much speculation amongst them, and a good few tall tales. Whatever his status, Marcher said to himself, eyeing the tapestry of scars the senior armsman wore; he was not going to be the one to ask him to leave.
