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Warhammer 40,000

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 might of His inexhaustible armies a million worlds stand against the dark.

Yet, He is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so that His may continue to burn.

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. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.

This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement. Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.

There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.

Preface

PREFACE

An Imperial propagandist’s first duty is to the truth.

More precisely, their duty is to the Imperium’s truth, the sacred creed preaching that humanity’s manifest destiny is to rule the galaxy. In enacting that creed we suffer not the heretic, the witch nor the xenos to live. In their annihilation, we fulfil the will of the God-Emperor and the Imperial Throne.

Imperial records state that victory on planet Bacchus was bought in blood by the brave pilots of the Aeronautica Imperialis. More specifically, that the ork air offensive was blunted by the battered remnants of the 2208th Expeditionary Air Wing, spearheaded by the esteemed flight commander Lucille von Shard.

If a citizen were to dispute this account, and somehow avoid interrogation and execution, they could be directed towards the popular pict The Glorious Martyrdom of the 2208th. This sanctioned account of the war chronicles the 2208th’s tireless crusade against the greenskin menace and contains actual footage of front-line combat.

I should know. I was the one who captured it.

But the pict is a lie. It does not tally with my recollections of the conflict, or the original data-files from which it was spliced, and bears scant resemblance to the truth.

Hence this account.

I do not scribe it for my own benefit. My memories of the war are perfectly preserved in myriad data-files. I could conjure any moment, relive any exchange, if I so desired. Nor do I write in recognition of the pilots and ground crew who gave their lives for the Imperium. Frankly, the sanctioned account portrays most of them in a far more positive light than they deserve.

And I certainly do not write it for Flight Commander Shard, who demonstrated repeatedly the scant regard she held for truth, propriety or the institutions of the Imperium. Her legend is founded on falsehoods and lies, her persona as crafted as any gutter pict. When I picture her now, it is as I last saw her. Her aircraft dark and silent, suspended in the cold void of space. Alone. At peace.

I write this because I am an Imperial propagandist, and an honest one at that. I draw scant solace from the sanitised account of the war. Indeed, I question if we truly serve the Throne by perpetuating such lies and falsehoods, however much they flatter or venerate.

Do we not owe it to the God-Emperor to speak the truth?

Even if, sometimes, it does not tally with the Imperium’s Truth?

Chapter one

CHAPTER ONE

I cannot tell you when war began on Bacchus.

I could provide the date that Imperial forces were dispatched to the once prosperous agri world to combat the mounting ork threat. But greenskins emerged from the swamps years prior, local forces suppressing their numbers for almost a decade before their sudden plea for assistance. Many had already lost loved ones or limbs before official records decree the conflict even started. Their war began early.

My war began in a dingy cabin nestled deep within Orbital Station Salus, the monolithic space station suspended above Bacchus. I awaited authorisation to depart for the planet below, and had for over a day. There were either atmospheric irregularities or hostile forces operating in the area, depending on whether one believed the official account or overheard whispers in corridors.

With my meagre possessions and ample equipment already stowed, there was little I could do but wait. My time was occupied watching a tiresome recruitment pict, even though I had already endured it a dozen times or more. It was, after all, the reason I was there. The holo-display projected a grainy image of an ork warrior. A wiry creature, clad only in a scrap of loincloth, the greenskin was nevertheless imposing, its tusks bared in a snarl, a crude spear brandished with intent. It sniffed the air, like a bloodhound, before roaring and surging forward, intent on its prey.

‘On the agri world of Bacchus, vile xenos beasts threaten the loyal citizens of the Imperium!’

As the narrator’s voice crackled into life, the panned shot revealed an Imperial citizen fleeing, dragging a child behind her. Their attire was not in keeping with Bacchus, for the image had been cut from a far older pict and crudely spliced into the more recent footage. The work was sloppy, either that of an amateur or someone who cared little for their subject or reputation.

The woman stumbled, falling just as the ork loomed behind her, its spear poised for the killing blow. She tried to cover her child with her body, even as the boy glared at the ork with undisguised hatred.

I paused the playback, the image freezing.

The footage presented some classic archetypes: the mother embodying noble sacri­fice, her child angry and defiant despite the xenos threat ably represented by the ork. I could see the intent. But the seams between the cuts were painfully apparent, noticeable to even the most dull-witted menial worker. The footage of the ork was genuine from what I could tell; the way its feet sank into the burnt-orange swamp would be difficult to simulate. Conversely, the woman had been deposited on a convenient stretch of rock in a crude attempt to disguise the pict-seam. She was beautiful in a restrained way, and I was sure I had seen her in a previous vid. Beware the Foul Mutants! perhaps, or All Heretics Will Fall.

‘Restore playback,’ I murmured.

The ork raised its spear, poised to impale both mother and child.

‘But the God-Emperor protects the faithful. Look to the skies!’

The narrator’s intransient optimism was grating. But at his words all three figures raised their heads, glancing upwards as if on command. Cue the roar of an engine, the pict zooming in on a distant spec hurtling through the sky.

The ork barely had time to raise its hand-hewn weapon before a las-bolt sheared off its head. It stood a moment, despite the absence of cranium, before pitching forward, the focus of the vid shifting to the mother and child. Both stood proud, her arms crossed in the sign of the aquila, her son offering a salute crisp enough to satisfy even the most stringent commissar.

‘No matter how craven the xenos or foul the heretic, we need not fear. The brave pilots of the Aeronautica Imperialis are our impenetrable shield!’

An aircraft zoomed overhead, the shot cutting to the pilot, who returned the boy’s salute even as his Thunderbolt fighter hurtled over the swamplands. The fighter’s top speed is over one thousand miles per hour, and the pilot would barely have seen the child, let alone been able to plant a tank-piercing las-bolt between the ork’s eyes. But here he was, finding time to make nice with the citizenry during his fly-by.

It was galling.

Of course, my peers would shrug and say, so what? The purpose of these vids is to reassure the masses, or inspire fresh recruits to enlist. It does not matter whether they are accurate, as in all probability none of the menial workers who join the Imperial Navy will ever get the chance to fly; that is the preserve of the nobility. All that matters is that the audience leave the vid flush with conviction and a desire to serve, and that enough enlist to fulfil the roles of ground crew, indentured workers and mechanicals.

But I maintained that such a poorly crafted vid could only encourage ridicule. And the recruitment figures suggested I was right.

The aircraft now swept over the swamp, its Avenger bolt cannons scything down an ork horde – a weapon that the standard fighter variant previously shown should not have had. Amateurs.

The orks’ response was to hurl spears and insults, whilst the narrator continued to extol the inevitability of humanity’s victory and the inferiority of the greenskins. It seemed the recruitment drive was focused on portraying the war as a thrilling adventure that could conclude at any moment, urging citizens to enlist before it was too late and the fighting ended. Not an inaccurate assessment, if one were to listen to some of the whispering in the corridors, but not for the reasons suggested in the pict.

By the Throne, it was tiresome. But I persisted, for what followed was the only shot in the pict worth a damn.

A second craft lurched into view, wobbling above the swamp at barely a walking pace. It was constructed from wood, though the rear-mounted engine looked to be assembled from scrap metal. It belched thick black clouds, the holo-display struggling to depict the smoke as anything more than static. Its pilot was a haggard-looking ork who appeared to be missing an eye and more than a few tusks. As the Thunderbolt fighter soared overhead, the ork attempted to fire a crude cannon mounted beneath its craft, but the recoil pitched it off balance and subsequently into the swamp. A rather impressive explosion followed, but I found myself winding back the footage until the ork flyer was visible again.

I had first thought it fake, the wooden aircraft spliced in to lighten the pict and ridicule the greenskins. But there were no seams. It was real, though the precise age of the footage was impossible to determine.

I frowned. I am no tech-priest, but it seemed impossible that such a craft could fly; I have used field latrines that were more aerodynamic. Yet somehow the orks found a way. There was something almost admirable about their ingenuity.

Admirable, and troubling.

The vox suddenly whined into life. I shut down the playback, opening the channel.

‘Propagandist Simlex?’ said a voice.

‘Yes?’

‘We are ready to depart, sir.’

‘Thank you. I will be there shortly,’ I replied, closing the vox-channel and rising to my feet. I should have felt elated, for finally my work would begin. But I found myself dwelling on that primitive ork aircraft. It was disconcerting seeing such a savage creature achieving powered flight. Humanity mastered the skies millennia ago, and our fighters and bombers have changed little since then, for the same sacred designs are portrayed in picts and murals stretching back centuries.

The orks on Bacchus began cobbling aircraft from scrap a few score years ago. Yet recent reports suggested they now possessed something akin to an actual air force.

As I departed, I found myself wondering if the greenskins’ aspirations ended there.

The flight sergeant stood at the corridor’s end, rigid as a sabre, his hair seemingly welded in place, his uniform unmarked by stain or crease. He was the model of an Imperial soldier, except for his face. Somehow, even when attempting to appear stern and sombre, he looked poised to break into a smile. As I hurried closer, he threw a salute so earnest it risked a head injury.

‘Propagandist Simlex?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Flight Sergeant Plient, sir!’ he said. ‘Well, Acting Flight Sergeant Plient. Field promotion, sir, though I’m not sure the paperwork has been filed.’

He already sounded apologetic.

‘My pleasure to make your acquaintance, acting flight sergeant,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘I take it we are ready to depart?’

‘Yes, sir. I have your cases secured and stowed aboard the Arvus lighter. Just awaiting some last-minute clearance.’

I nodded, my gaze already drawn to the viewport behind him. From it, I could see a tapestry of glittering stars, each a priceless gem in the God-Emperor’s Imperium. The scale was terrifying, but also strangely comforting. Suns blazed and planets progressed along predestined paths, ambivalent to the follies of man. It all seemed so ordered from such a vantage point, as though the galaxy were on the cusp of peace. The rim of the planet Bacchus was barely visible beneath, framed by a halo of violet light.

‘Sir?’

I glanced round, having almost forgotten Flight Sergeant Plient.

‘I’ve just been informed we have an opening, sir. Need to depart.’ He gestured to the launch bay.

I nodded, following him through to the vessel. I had never ridden an Arvus lighter, nor even seen one before. It was a stub-nosed cargo shuttle, unarmed and seemingly unremarkable. Plient opened the rear doors, revealing an interior hastily refitted to transport human cargo. A trio of flight seats were bolted to the floor. My cases lay beside them, secured in place by mag-clamps.

‘Please take a seat, sir. We will be departing soon,’ Plient said, smiling as he slid the door shut behind me.

I glanced at the three identical chairs and, after a couple of false starts, opted for the seat on the left, closest to my cases. The flight harness was unfamiliar, and seemed intent on slicing through my shoulder. Plient’s voice crackled through the vox-channel.

‘All set, sir?’

‘Yes, acting flight sergeant,’ I said. ‘Ready as I will ever be.’

‘Nervous, sir?’

‘A little. Though more excited. I’ve never made planetfall in a craft like this.’

‘Understandable, sir. Though I should caution you that the shift between gravitational fields is disconcerting. Some nausea is not uncommon.’

‘I’ll try not to make a mess of your vessel,’ I said, smiling. ‘I suppose for a pilot such as yourself atmospheric re-entry is just another day’s work?’

‘That’s what I should say,’ Plient replied. ‘But, between you and me, I never get used to it. It’s magical, sir. Awe-inspiring. Except for the nausea.’

‘I wish I could see the way you do.’

‘I can arrange that, sir. You are not the first passenger to make such a request.’

Ahead of me, just above the cockpit door, a shaded pict screen lit up. I craned my neck, cursing myself for picking the wrong chair. My reward was a view of the now-familiar stars. They looked smaller on the pict screen, less significant.

‘The ship has external viewers?’ I said. ‘Is that standard?’

‘No, sir, but this vessel regularly ferried dignitaries before the war. Some of them enjoyed a view.’

‘Thank you, Acting Flight Sergeant Plient.’

‘I’m here to help, sir. Stand by for launch.’

My nails dug into the armrests. I willed myself to relax, taking a deep, slow breath, trying to unpick my apprehension. I had reservations about the journey, of course, but that was not the root of the unease. Nerves were not unknown to me; I felt positively queasy before arriving on the shrine world of Sacristy. But the pict I’d produced, a biopic of the life of Brannicus the Thrice-Maimed, had been received as my finest work. The infamous scene of the saint beating three hundred sinners to death armed only with his own severed leg is still regarded as a cinema-pict masterpiece.

But this was different. This time I would be on the front lines, obtaining live footage from an actual conflict, whilst balancing the whims of at least two masters. My unease was driven as much by the political pitfalls surrounding my work as it was by the prospect of imminent death on the surface below.

The craft shuddered, breaking out of the gravitational pull of Orbital Station Salus. A vast shadow blotted out the stars as Bacchus loomed into view. The moderately prosperous agri world was known for the quality of its wine but precious little else. Viewed from the shuttle, its surface was a dirty orange, with little indication of habitation or geographical variance. A casual observer might assume that deserts lay beneath them, the sands devoid of life.

They would be sorely mistaken.

A lurch. It was subtle now, for we were between gravities. But I felt my back press into the flight seat as the orange sphere swelled to fill the screen.

‘Stand by, sir. It is about to get dicey.’

The screen flashed white as we commenced re-entry, flames lapping at its rim and seemingly consuming the planet below. They were purple, the tips edged in magenta, presumably a by-product of the atmosphere. A small sliver of me, the eternal propagandist, wondered how this might affect the project, whether I needed to adjust the lenses to minimise light diffusion, or should embrace the conditions to make my pict visually distinct.

The remainder of me was focused on holding down my breakfast, with mixed success.

‘Enjoying the ride, sir?’

‘It’s a unique experience,’ I replied, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. The limb felt extraordinarily heavy, the craft’s systems unable to fully compensate for the acceleration. ‘Though I confess I am used to larger craft, where I suspect the ride is smoother.’

‘True enough, sir. But a larger craft makes for a bigger target. Our re-entry is less likely to be spotted by the orks.’

There was something in his tone. A seriousness. But I assumed he was merely focused on his duties. I still pictured the greenskins as spear-brandishing brutes flying flimsy wooden planes, despite more recent reports. I could not conceive them posing a threat to a void-worthy vessel.

I would learn otherwise.

Chapter two

CHAPTER TWO

After the thrill of broaching Bacchus’ atmosphere, the actual planet was rather banal. The landscape comprised one vast swamp, the monotony broken only by dank foliage. My research indicated the rest of the world was similar, barring the inhospitable poles. It was also the poorest planet of the subsector, lacking the stark beauty of Hedon or rich mineral reserves of Plutous. Though the world was habitable, its population was minimal, clumped on the few scraps of land that did not require permanent drainage. In fact, were Bacchus swallowed by a warp storm, Subsector Yossarian would be unlikely to miss it, at least until one of Hedon’s nobles noted the wine-cask was empty.

We were low enough now that I could just make out the gnarl-vines threading through the lagoons. Their distilled fruits were the world’s saving grace, the backbone of its economy and the only thing preventing it becoming little more than a vassal to its more prosperous neighbours.

As we levelled out, I was surprised to see a trio of fighters circling beneath us.

‘Plient?’ I said, my voice climbing an octave. ‘What is that?’

‘Our escort, sir. Squadron Anisoptera. They were waiting planetside. Our Arvus lighter is unarmed, so we have three Lightning fighters accompanying us.’

‘Are you expecting trouble? I thought we were behind the front line?’

‘It’s a precaution. We are far from the hotspots, but I’m afraid air combat does not have strict front lines. Still, it is only a few leagues to Planetary Governor Dolos’ château. Don’t worry, sir, I’ll get you there in one piece.’

‘I have every faith in you,’ I said, pleased my voice sounded steady.

‘Would you like a display, sir? The squad would be happy to demonstrate their skills.’

‘Thank you, but that is unnecessary.’

‘Are you sure? Our escort would be delighted to appear in the pict.’

‘My recording equipment is all stowed,’ I replied, glancing to my cases. ‘Perhaps, once I’m settled, we can arrange something.’

‘Understood, sir.’

There was no change in his tone, but I wondered if I had offended him. Perhaps these pilots had hoped to be the focus of the pict, or at least prominent figures. But I had assumed the flight would be uneventful, and with my cases magnetically sealed I had no means of recording the journey.

Flanked by our escort, we soared over the endless lagoon, flying lower than I would have expected. I unpacked my data-slate, studying fragments of footage and the assorted files I had been given regarding Bacchus and its customs, preparing myself for our arrival. But the craft suddenly lurched right, almost causing me to drop the device. On the pict screen, I caught sight of one of our escorts moving into position ahead of us.

‘Plient?’ I asked. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We picked up a little vox-chatter indicating a few hostiles may have slipped into our airspace. We’re shifting formation, but giving them a wide berth. No sense engaging and putting you in jeopardy, sir.’

‘Orks, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

I frowned, recalling the primitive wooden flyer. It seemed incongruous such beasts utilising actual aircraft, despite reported technological advancements. The idea such savage creatures could pilot functional war machines, let alone manufacture them, seemed absurd.

‘How numerous are these forces?’ I asked.

‘Unknown, sir. My apologies, I need to liaise with command. Stand by.’

I nodded. A pointless gesture as he could not see me. Admittedly, being unseen is an advantage to my trade. I am neither a tall nor striking man, my hair dark and face unremarkable, the only notable feature a surgical scar tucked along my hairline. Anonymity suits me well enough, and I am content to fade into the background whilst others strut the stage. But I am used to observing the performance. Being trapped in a metal box high above an unfamiliar planet was disconcerting, and doubly so with hostiles inbound. With my equipment stowed, my perceptions were limited to what I could observe through the pict screen.

Which abruptly went dark.

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