Thomas Goodrich - Black Flag: Guerrilla Warfare on the Western Border, 1861-1865

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred

centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden

Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the

will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the

might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass

writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of

Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for

whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that

he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues

his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the

daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route

between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican,

the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast

armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds.

Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes,

the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their

comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and

countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant

Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus

Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their

multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the

ever-present threat from aliens, heretics,

mutantsand worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold

billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody

regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.

Forget the power of technology and science, for so much

has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the

promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim

dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst

the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and

the laughter of thirsting gods.

What is the greatest failure against which we must guard?

The failure to die when death would serve the Emperors purpose.

Daenyathos, Catechisms Martial

Present arms! yelled Lord Globus Falken, and thousands of troops drew uptheir autoguns to salute the Aristarchical Pavilion. Magnificent in white bearskins and jackets of midnight blue and silver brocade, the Warders of the Vanqualian Republic trooped in perfect formation across the grand Processional Quarter with the banners of their ancient regiments flying alongside the topmost spires of Palatium. They were by far the mightiest fighting force in the Scaephan sector, the primary defenders of the Obsidian system and the proud sons of Vanqualis, and they looked the part. Their officers were resplendent in the heraldry of the Falken family from which they all hailed, and even the casings of their artillery and the hulls of their tanks shone in brass and blue.

Sloppy this year, said Count Luchosin Falken, whose uniform was so ornateit looked like his ample frame was swathed in hundreds of clashing flags. In a way it was, for he had to symbolise all the regiments of the Warders. The sun beat down hard on Palatium. The Aristarchical Pavilion, tented in silks and with several valet-servitors trundling around serving drinks, was one of the few places in the Processional Quarter that was not sweltering. Even so, Count Luchosin sweated gently where he sat.

Globus has got them digging trenches and mucking out the horses, said LadyAkania Falken-Kaal, standing idly beside Count Luchosin. Lady Akania looked rather more rakish than most of the men, sporting an athletes frame under hercavalry-womans uniform and an eye patch thanks to a hunting accident in heryouth. No damn respect.

Lord Sovelin Falken, sweating under his bearskin and the heavy crimson sash of the Vanqualian Artillery, looked out across the sea of marching men and their forest of raised autoguns. To him it was still astonishing, a wondrous and powerful statement of Vanqualiss stability and traditions. Far away from thejungles that surrounded Palatium and covered the continent of Nevermourn, there were towering hives with billions of citizens who lived and died beneath their churning factories. Were it not for the rule of the Falken family, and the traditions such as the Trooping of the Warding Standard, the whole of Vanqualis would be like that. Nevermourn, a continent of magnificent natural beauty, was a miracle. It was far more fashionable to denounce it as dull and crude, but it filled Lord Sovelins heart with pride.

Globus wants them ready to fight, said Lord Sovelin. I dont think theresanything wrong with that.

Lady Akania cocked her one visible eyebrow. Fight? This is not an army forfighting, Sovelin! This is an army for reminding those vermin in the cities who is in charge. If it werent for that the citizens might realise there are moreof them than there are of us. The Falkens rule Vanqualis by magnificence, Sovelin, not by the gun! Killing them in the streets is fine for the rest of the Imperium but we do things differently. Do you not agree it is better this way?

Of course, Lady Akania, said Sovelin. Lady Akania was an aunt of his acouple of times removed, though he was not much younger, and he was fairly sure she had seniority over him. Most of the family members on the Pavilion were higher up the ladder than Sovelin, which was probably why he had been palmed off on the artillery.

Fight! snorted Lord Luchosin with derision. Whats there to fight?

A sharp volley of gunshots rippled across the assembled troops, tens of thousands of autoguns loosed off to salute the sons and daughters of the Falken family. With perfect timing the regimental bands opened up and blared the ancient songs of war and rulership, the rhythm punctuated by volleys of disciplined gunfire. It echoed around the white stone spires of Palatium and the immense jungle trees that crowded up around the city walls, around the regimental banners and the gilded eagles atop the minarets of the Temple of Imperator Ascendant.

No respect, spat Lady Akania. She turned and walked off briskly, wavingaway a regimental underling who tried to get her attention. He was carrying a field vox-unit.

Not now, said Lord Globus. Its not the time.

My lord, said the officer. It is a communication from Fleet AdmiralThalak.

Thalak has no idea what we are doing here! growled Lord Globus. The mansa peasant. He can wait.

Sovelin waved over the officer. The man was sweating and it wasnt just fromthe heat. He wore the uniform of the Mechanised Cavalry.

Its the emergency channel, my lord, said the officer.

Give it to me, said Sovelin. He took the vox handset and put it to his ear,wincing at the harsh screech of feedback.

the love of the Throne! shouted a voice, barely distinguishable from thehowl of static. The Starstrider is down! Theyve hit the docks! Theyrekilling us up here! Theyre killing us!

Killing us, you hear?

Fleet Admiral Thalak was thrown off his feet as the Sanctis Chirosian rocked again, as if it were afloat in an endless sea and great waves were battering against it. Thalaks head cracked against the deck and the vox handsetkicked out of his hand and clattered away.

Hot blood sprayed over him. He coughed, covering his face, trying to wipe it out of his eyes with the sleeve of his black Naval greatcoat. The sound was tremendous, metal screamingand men screaming, too, screams cut short as steelpounded against steel.