Confessions of a Heretic, Part IV
Parts I, of the Egistarum Confessions may be found here
Part II of the Egistarum Confessions may be foundhere
Part III of the Egistarum Confessions may be found here
Part V of the Egistarum Confessions may be found here
I am a broken man.
There's a frigid tinge to the air. It doesn't feel quite right. Too thin. Or maybe it's the wood-fired smog? Cold. Windy as well. Two years since the Imperium abandoned me, I am here. A nothing world. One of any number of planets the Imperium has forgotten about, or never cared for in the first place.
I think this place is the latter. It’s a shithole. Scraggy mountains, barren steppes, tundra as far as the eye can see. Occasionally a forest of stunted trees, as depressed as every other terrain feature. If there was mineral wealth here at one point, it’s long since been strip mined away. So long ago that there’s no trace of where the mines once were. There’s some small-scale industry. Enough to ensure that the planet can’t be described as “pristine wilderness”. Some ranching too, I suppose, massive estates of tundra and steppe owned by the pissant local robber barons. Those same barons form what passes for a government here. Add the occasional dash of mob rule and pinch of frontier justice.
Do you really care what its name is? I don’t.
Mons Grespius.
I have a well-used lasgun. Flak-Jacket. Helmet. Greatcoat. Webbing. Boots. Rucksack. Bedding roll. Cooking kit. Entrenching tool. Bayonet. Gas mask. Peaked cap. Sun-visor. These have been with me since the beginning. I have some newer companions. Ten new powerpacks. Three shirts. Two trousers. Four pairs of socks and underwear. A promissory note from the arrogant, thrill-seeking son of an unctuous and credit-grubbing rancher entitling the bearer to be paid two hundred Thrones, made out to the firm of Thems & Bennetts. The irony that this frozen lump of rock uses the nomenclature of an official Imperium currency an acid aftertaste. That’s everything. It’s all either being worn or already packed neatly, ready to move on with me. My rent’s late. I’ll wait until the eviction notice arrives, waving around in the hand of a pompous Sheriff puffed up on his own importance. I’ll go quietly; If I make a scene the Sheriff may swell up and burst from all the excitement.
Do you really care what my name is? I don’t.
Ictar Egistarum.
I don’t steal, if that’s what you think. Old habits die hard. I’m a private contractor. Hired exclusively for the last four months by a freight hauling consortium. It’s an ostensibly legitimate business. As for the side that I deal with, well, on a world like this legality is a flexible concept.
There is, however, one key exception to its lawlessness. There is a single spaceport capable of handling delivery of bulk goods from passing void-freighters, and, surprisingly enough, even outside of Imperial space inter-stellar commerce is rather common. Officially the ruling oligarchs split the proceeds of import tariffs between them. Strictly, meticulously, and in accordance with a constantly revised legal code. Unofficially they all have their fingers in separate smuggling operations, attempting to run small volume, high value goods from space to planet and pocketing the profit without having to share a Throne with their partners in government sanctioned extortion. Officially the Gendarmes tasked with anti-smuggling play a game of Battlecruiser and Frigate with the smugglers, while unofficially they fight a political war within themselves: the officers all belong to the ruling class and are desperately keen to bring their rival families’ smuggling operations to a premature end, while allowing their own families’ enterprises to flourish.
I’m in Braemar. A true border town. Steel foundry several kloms down the rail line. Lumber and wool warehouses at the marshalling yards. The town centre only consists of a few blocks. Most buildings are unassuming. The town hall is, if not magnificent, at least grand. This town belongs to the Muicks, and the town hall a symbol of that family’s power. It’s one of only two buildings constructed in a manner that apes the Imperial style. Even I have to admit, it’s a good imitation. Coppery-red, standing out proudly from its drab, piss-stained, grey and off-white peers. The arches are excellently proportioned, the stained glass managing that curiously contradictory mix of gaudy yet austere that the best Imperial artisans achieve.
The only other construct that matches its colonial splendour is the cathedral. Dedicated to the Immortal God Emperor. Even here. On a world I doubt was even touched during the Great Crusade. If I could get away with it, I’d burn the place to the ground. To think that these inbred backwater fricks dare to pretend that they have some kind of connection to the Emperor. They’re leaches. All too happy to exist in the shadow of safety the Imperium projects, rely on His Guiding Astronimicon to keep open lines of communication with surrounding systems. Yet not a bastard alive here has so much as shed sweat for Him.
I died for Him.
Again and again and again. Yet He has not deemed me worthy to accept my sacrifice. He never will. His blasted Imperium will carry on without me, of course, as it always has. I suppose I do not even hate those who still believe in that Imperium. Envy them, if anything. At least they still have something to fight for. I wonder if they say the right prayers. The ones the commissars aren’t keen on. The ones that beg the Emperor not to abandon them. Night after night.
It’s getting dark. The monotonous grey of a broken holo-vid surrenders limply to soft blackness. I march on my way. There’s no point in dallying here. I’m expected anyway. The offices of Brennan & Walton Import Co. My contractors. In, off a non-descript street lit by the wan light of street lights and Hab lights. Through a spartan Atrium and past an exceptionally bored receptionist and two security guards. Nodded onwards and into the bowels of the beast. Glass and wood panelled doors, two flights of stairs, downwards. Into a clinically clean storage room. Interesting night tonight. I’m early, but already there’s a larger crowd than normal. More of the stock has been moved aside from the centre of the room than usual, and about thirty extra seats are set out. And, most noteworthy of all, she’s there.
Lillian. I don’t know her last name. But, oh how she desperately wants it to be Muick. Her boyfriend isn’t here yet. Late, probably. Not that we need him. He’s just around to keep up appearances. This entire outfit is her baby. Sharply beautiful features note my presence and nod a curt recognition. “Ictar, a word?” Requests that aren’t requests. I follow her into her back-room office.
“Before we begin, I wanted to run through the agenda with you. There’s a particularly valuable shipment in tonight, in the highlands.”
“I figured, there wouldn’t be so many expected at briefing otherwise.”
“Yes, but that’s not why I’m talking to you. You’re taking the lead on this transfer, instead of fire-team lead.”
I try not to take too long digesting this news. I have the very unpleasant feeling that she can sense the gears of my mind turning over.
“Yes ma’am. Any particulars I need to know?”
“Nothing that we won’t go over in the briefing proper.” Curt and business-like, as always.
A very interesting night indeed. The outfit trusts me. My current position is testament to that fact. Someone with no connections to House Muick in charge of a team lead is rare enough. Being given responsibility for the fire-team is unprecedented, as far as I am aware. It’s a vital role. Not only are we the muscle expected to intimidate recalcitrant trading partners, but also have the task of shooting our way out of trouble if it ever finds us. Furthermore, we are even tasked with a limited scope for on-site negotiations and afforded even larger leeway for attempts at talking our way out of trouble before going weapons hot. Sure, due to my military experience and Academy education I am a natural fit for the job, but the trust such a position demands is exceptionally difficult for an outsider to gain.
I’ve earned it. What I haven’t earned is op-leader. Especially of one this size. Judging by numbers alone it looks like extra muscle, at least one extra fire-team, as well as an extra loading team and lorry crew. Sure, I’ve run ops before, but small scale ones that only required my fire-team alone and with smuggling contacts we had well established relationships with. To my knowledge, there has never been an op as large as this without a Muick tagging along to supervise.
A hot op then. Rad-carbine hot. Too dangerous for a Muick to put one of their precious necks on the line. Lucrative enough to go ahead with anyway. Lillian never comes along on ops anyway, she’s far too ambitious for that. Six months in the Gendarmes’ gaol and her boyfriend will have forgotten about her. He certainly won’t be interested in making her one of the family anymore. Which leaves me. Still, a curious choice.
“I’ll be getting a raise, ma’am?”
“Of course, Ictar. 500 Thrones for successful delivery.”
I fight the urge to whistle. Forget rad-carbine heat. This is going to be hotter than the surface of Mars. There’s time to stew over my deductions between Lillian ending our conversation and the full briefing beginning shortly thereafter.
Two lorries, two fire-teams. Hitch a lift on an empty timber cargo train to Tioram Mòr. Drive the lorries to Pick up thirty kloms deep within the forest that surrounds that logging village. Everyone has already been officially logged as forestry workers and their security escort under false names. All relevant documents will be provided. Instructions for drop off to be received at pick up by way of encrypted one-time-pad. For my eyes, only. Lillian’s explanation for the increased security presence is a large, valuable shipment from a new, potentially flaky supplier. Utter groxshit, of course. Still.
It’s going to be an exciting night. And I haven’t felt excitement, or anything for that matter, in such a long time.
Posted Apr 21, 2017, 5:16 PM UTC · edited