Pyromaniac Hellhound Pilot
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The lights went up.
Bancroft straightened, staring at the podium. He’d been in the Hall of the First before, of course – anyone who lived in Hive Providence and had business in the upper spires had – but he’d only seen it cleared for official ceremonies a handful of times.
And he’d never been the focus of one before.
Traffic through the enormous hall had been detoured, street-vendors and urchins had been cleared away, and the Adeptus Arbites and hive enforcers had set up a perimeter to keep the crowds back. Vox-damping systems had been turned on over the outer edges of the Hall, keeping noise from spectators down to manageable levels – meanwhile, cunningly wrought laud-hailing networks had been activated near the ceremonial thoroughfare, the machine spirits echoing and amplifying the voices of the participants. It had the unfortunate side effect of turning the small sounds of people shuffling into an embarrassingly loud rumble. Then again, perhaps that was intentional. This was supposed to be a solemn moment. And yet all he could think about was how much his scalp itched. He’d always kept his hair neat, but the brutally short regulation cut was a new experience. So was the grey-and-brown dress uniform. He probably cut a fairly dashing figure, but he felt a fool.
Bancroft’s eyes snapped to the front as someone cleared his throat. His brows lifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, turning his full attention to the man at the large, ornate podium. He was clad in billowing, impossibly floating robes, the bulky vox-implants along his jaw concealed by a golden ash-scarf, his face wrinkled by age and his bald head gleaming in the light, but his eyes still sharp as ever. The man’s features were familiar to everyone in the hall – this was Lord Marius Hallamar, Ashfall’s planetary governor, duly appointed representative of the Imperium at large and ruler of Hive Providence. He only appeared in public for the most important of occasions…and this was important indeed. Bancroft could feel himself start to break out in a light sweat.
Don’t be nervous. There’s no reason for it. You can do this.
Hallamar cleared his throat, the sound a rasping echo. “Citizens of Ashfall.” He began, raising his gaze to the vaulted, barely-visible ceiling. The crowd went silent. “On this day, we give thanks to our forefathers.” His hand brushed the domed top of the podium – tracing the inlaid skull of Gelathar Hallamar, the first Imperial governor, his distant ancestor. The gesture was not lost on those in the hall. The governor paused a moment, then continued again. “To our forefathers, and to all mankind. To the God-Emperor on Terra and to his most glorious Imperium. Today, my sons and daughters, is the day that Ashfall gives back. Step forward, the commanders.”
Bancroft swallowed. His feet responded robotically as he approached the podium. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the horrifically scarred face of Leon Serdiuk – formerly lieutenant, now a major. Now his executive officer. The man’s augmetic eyes weren’t even the worst of it. And on his right, he could hear the gentle hum of a gilded servo-skull’s gravitic engines. Which would be his fate, he wondered? He could hear the shuffle of feet behind him – his peers, the sons and daughters of Hive Providence’s nobility, alongside bold veteran officers of the Ashfallen PDF. His responsibility.
Which would be their fate?
“Ezariah Bancroft.” Hallamar intoned sternly, and the hall was filled with rustling as the procession knelt. “This is a grave charge laid upon you. Do you swear to uphold the laws of the Imperium, to obey your commanders, to act as is just and right in the defense of humanity? Do you swear to let the light of the Emperor guide you in all things, and if need be, to lay down your life in his service?”
Bancroft would have swallowed again, but he couldn’t. His mouth was too dry. “I do.” He thought the words a weak whisper, but they came out strong. The vox-amplifiers echoed and rebounded them. It was as if a giant had spoken.
Lord Hallamar nodded, his face twitching. He was smiling behind the ash-scarf. “Then rise, Colonel Bancroft, and perform your duty. I declare the twenty-first regiment of the Ashfallen Stormcrows re-founded, and under your command. The Emperor protects.”
If it hadn’t been for the dampers around the edges of the hall, Bancroft swore the cheers would have deafened him.
The lights went up.
So did Keral Thorne’s headache. She groaned, blowing a strand of long, dark hair out of her face, her eyelids twitching but unwilling to open quite yet. What had she done the night before? Gone up to Third Grate…Throne on Terra, what a dive that place was, but the rotgut was cheap – she’d gone up there…Grox, Vederman, and Sethel had been with her, but it wasn’t a gang thing, was just supposed to be a night on what passed for the town in the west corner of the Earthing District, but those sewer-frakking Runoff Rats had no sense of timing, so of COURSE they’d decided to try and raid one of their protected manufactorums, and of COURSE she’d had to link up with the rest of the Dustrunners and then things had escalated…
She had a vague memory of biting someone on the ear. Must have been a good fight.
Someone stirred nearby. Keral’s eye twitched open. She shut it just as quickly. She’d been looking at Grox, and on the best of days, the man look like he’d been caught in a particularly nasty industrial press. This was not one of his best days. Someone had taken something heavy to his nose. She paused, trying to filter the brief image through her brain
.
They had been on the floor of some vast, unfurnished, chamber, starkly lit by flickering glow-tubes…why were they on the floor? …and who were the other shapes she’d seen?
“ON YOUR FEET, GANGER SCUM!”
The shout cut through her headache like a chainblade. Keral yowled, sat up, then yowled again. Her eyes opened blearily. There were people climbing to their feet all over the room. Dustrunners…Runoff Rats…Ventbreakers…a bunch in colors and tattoos that she didn’t recognize. All hive gangs. And there…blurry shapes at the edge of the room, near a massive pair of double doors…her eyes focused.
Enforcers in bulky riot gear. PDF troopers. A couple of – her heart skipped a beat for a second – a couple of people in the uniforms of the Adeptus Arbites…that couldn’t be good. And…a trio of figures. A tall, spare man, his eyes like chips of granite, flanked by a shorter, stockier man and a wiry-looking woman. All three of them were in long, dark coats with peaked caps. The sight of them did more to sober her up than a gallon of recaff and a cold shower. That meant this was –
“All yours, Commissar Dalos.” A smirking PDF sergeant said, stepping aside and saluting. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on Thorne. Blearily, she noticed he had a bloodstained bandage over one ear. “…watch that one.”
The Commissar gave a curt nod, then stepped into the room, flanked by the other two. He didn’t bother looking around at the room…even though half the gangers had clambered to their feet. Evidently, he didn’t consider them a threat. For a moment, he was silent. And then…
“Murder.” His mouth snapped shut after the word, like a trap closing. He waited a heartbeat, then continued. “Robbery. Blackmail, riot, assault, trespass, willful destruction of Imperial property, any number of minor tech-heresies…your list of crimes, ladies and gentlemen, are too long for me to detail here.” He nodded behind him, to the Arbitrators. “It is not, however, too long for them. I can assure you that they have a detailed record for everyone in this room. EVERYONE.” His gaze bored into the crowd. “Ashfall cannot afford to tolerate such lawlessness. Quotas must be met…tithes calculated…order must be maintained. It may be a frontier world, but that does not make it exempt from Imperial law. You have two choices.” He paused again, making sure he had the attention of everyone in the room. “The twenty-first Ashfallen Stormcrows have been re-founded, and the regiment is in need of guardsmen. You may volunteer…or you may be brought to justice.” Slowly, he unholstered his bolt pistol, checking it over casually. “For many of you, the sentencing will be swift.”
For a moment, there was a brief, horrified silence. Then, someone cleared their throat.
“…where do I sign?” Keral Thorne asked in a hoarse voice.
The lights went up.
The slight figure’s head rose. This was unusual. By Vanahym’s internal clock – which was impeccable, it was one of the things the masters had insisted on developing – it was no later than two hours past the first watch. The lights stayed off for at least another half-hour. Vanahym found that a lengthy period of darkness aided contemplation. Contemplation was…important. It gave clarity. Purpose. Control.
The door to the little room slid open – this was also unusual. Visitors were rare – Vanahym’s assignments usually arrived by recorded messages delivered to the cogitator terminal built into the wall of the room. Something bobbed and wove through the air…a servo-skull, weighed down by bulky pict-recording equipment. Vanahym regarded it with curiosity. This was very unusual. The skull was chattering to itself, apparently broadcasting a conversation on the other end of the pict-recorder. The voice sounded…testy.
“...because I’m an unholy Warp-wielding monstrosity, but I’m the Emperor’s unholy Warp-wielding monstrosity, and I think that gives me the right to avoid being on the same bloody planet – THRONE! IT’S LOOKING AT – “
There was a brief, scuffling, scrambling noise. The voice was silent. Then –
“No. Nope, can’t do it. Kill the picture.”
A different voice cut in, the tone coaxing. “My Lord...you don’t want it talking to you, how will you know if your order is understood?”
A pause.
“…well, fine, I’ll just turn my back, then. This is ridiculous. Just…just tell me what it’s doing, Thaddeus.”
“Yes, my Lord. It’s watching the skull.”
“Don’t tell me that – “
Another pause. Vanahym sat very, very still, not blinking. Finally, the first voice continued.
“…can you hear me?”
Vanahym nodded, the movement slow, almost sinuous.
“It nodded, my Lord.”
“Good.” The voice cleared its throat. “My name is Jakhar Mance. I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos…and I have an assignment for you.”
As he spoke, the skull began to flash little holo-displays, records of authority, the requisite clearance for what Mance was proposing. Vanahym’s eyes flickered over them, verifying each one as it passed. They were all in order.
“You will depart in three hours’ time aboard the voidship Harbinger of Might. It will have the proper clearance for a merchant vessel assigned to maintaining supply lines for an Imperial battlegroup; this will only be part of its duties. You are to be transported aboard this vessel to the battlegroup and assist them – discreetly. Your presence should remain a secret unless absolutely necessary. More specific details of your mission will be transferred to you once aboard the ship. Is this understood?”
Vanahym nodded again.
“Your orders are understood, my Lord.”
“Capital. Cut the feed.”
The servo-skull’s eyes flashed, and then dimmed. It whirred softly, then turned and hovered away, the door closing behind it. Vanahym regarded its passage for a moment, then rose, silently padding over to an alcove in the wall. Its contents were meticulously arranged. Canisters of synskin…an ornate box, containing rows of carefully-packed grenades…and a mask, pale white, the eyes empty and staring – save for the third one. That was sealed shut. Unless, of course, Vanahym willed it open, and activated the circuitry. The assassin’s lips moved. The sound that came out was faint, barely audible.
“Non scitur…et videtur.”
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