Eldar Shuttle Majestic Finch
Southwestern corner of the Tempestus Segmentum
1/2 Light year to the galactic south-east from the Rekhel star.
Onshin despised this being...if a being was truly what sat across the table in front of him. An ape, an animal that had become too smart for it's own good. An ape that made demands, no less, as if it owned it's betters and not the other way around.
Onshin was tall, even for his kin, at 2.1 meters, but Hesker was tall as well being only three centimeters shorter. The eldar's skin was much paler than his counterpart. Where Callen's skin was the ashen grey of most spacers of his race, Onshin's was white as milk. Callen's duster was a dark brown, and he had the tricorn hat typical of his profession, with dark green breeches and a vest to match his coat. He cut an impressive figure, not merely tall but also broad shouldered, though Onshin noticed some primitive cosmetic improvements via facial surgery and dental correction. Callen clearly had not always been as handsome as he was now.
Onshin wore full battle regalia. Crude threats of force often made impacts upon humans, and Onshin wanted everything in his favor. Between the two banshees flanking the door and the autarch, it was likely they would match ten humans in a fight. Callen, for his part, was all alone and wielding not even a laspistol. But for somebody so severely outmatched, Callen looked unperturbed. Onshin grudgingly gave him a small modicum of respect for that. Emphasis on small.
This meeting was the result of blind broadcasts via the Rogue Trader into the expanse of space beyond the Rekhel system. Clumsy, even for a human. But they served their purpose, letting Onshin understand that negotiation was a viable option. The Eldar held rogue traders to be valuable gems in human society. Not that any self-respecting Eldar feared the Monkeigh, but it was far more beneficial to settle things through mutual agreement... and laying waste to fleets of humans was both time consuming and boring in the extreme. But now that an audience had been granted, he was audacious. He was demanding. Like a child at the overdue attention of it's doting mother, Callen simply came in and stated, not asked, his wants.
"I want these raids stopped."
"Stop the raids...Why? We've taken mere snacks and trinkets. And we've left your fellow...humans unscratched."
The monkeigh in front of him contorted it's face in a show of distaste.
"Frankly, I'd be more comfortable if you took the crew and left the foodstores. Slaves can be replaced more easily."
My, my, what a slip. Giving out such information so casually...Onshin thought about it. The human was hiding something. Didn't want him to know something. His mind made several connections.
"You're foodstores are running out."
The ape's eyes dilated ever so slightly. He then leaned back, messaging his chin, a pretense at a neutral look. On one of his fellow monkeigh, the ploy might have worked, but Onshin pressed in.
"30 billion inhabitants across the system, only a single world to grow food for them all, along with a meager moon for farming aquatic fauna. It's not enough. You rely on the food shipments coming in. If I don't stop taking your food shipments, the system starves to death within the century."
His opponent opened his mouth in carefully fabricated indignation, prepared to respond with a threat, but Onshin beat him to it. "You call your fleet and they'll be chasing sensor shadows for the next hundred years. You'll look like a fool, and be relieved of your position for wasting their time. After which time we return to to prey on your ships and we starve you out anyways."
The monkeigh sighed. "I fold."
Onshin was unfamiliar with the term.
"What do you want? Name your price. Gold? Some of the heavy elements from the moons? Name what you need, and I'll do my best to make it happen. It'll be a stretch, it'll cost us a couple of billion lives at least. But I can get more out of those moons if you need it. So long as the forge worlds are still able to pay the tithes, I don't care what I need to do."
The autarch nodded, understanding now. "I want you."
The Captain stared, not comprehending momentarily. The Eldar clarified.
"Your bodies, and your war-making equipment. Your system has at least two thousand post-human warriors at their disposal, along with countless m-...humans and near-human warriors with significant numbers of combat vehicles. I need them."
The so-called lord Callen Hesker gaped like a fish. "Post-human...you mean the space marines? You want me to pledge to you our emperor's finest, along with guard regiments and ogryns? Dear autarch...do you have any idea what a lord general commissar is? Or perhaps you have never heard of the inquisition?
"Not only do I not have the power to fulfill your request, but if I tried, my brain would be splattered all over the hull in a matter of moments for sedition, heresy, and sympathizing with xenos forces! It would take at least ten years if not more to petition a crusade in the system, if they even cleared it. I can only assume you want the greenskins to the north scrubbed from their holes?"
Onshin nodded, though the fact was that it didn't really matter who earned the wrath of the monkeigh guns, so long as the system was left undefended. No need to let Hesker know that, of course. Let him make is own assumptions, the autarch wouldn't stop him.
"Well, that's not happening. The administratum is many things, but it is not suicidally stupid. Launching a crusade into the north would attract every Ork looking for a fight; which means, as you well know, every single ork to the north period. Doing so could ignite a massive Waaagh and mire this sector in war for the next thousand years! It would divert massive amounts of our designated tithe, needed elsewhere on other fronts, to be used in-system for self defense. All so that a xeno princeling could get his hands on a few new worlds? I am by no means a patriotic individual, autarch, but if my death warrant is to be signed, I will do it for my own emperor, and not for you."
Callen Hesker leaned back in his chair, looking fiercely resolute. Onshin thought for a few seconds.
"You believe you would be doing all this solely for my benefit?"
Hesker shot him what he supposed passed as a poisonous glare. "You have me over a barrel, am I supposed to think you're doing it out of charity?"
"This particular princeling wants no such worlds. Indeed, this could work to your great advantage. The greenskins have in their control many worlds which might be converted to the manufacture of food-stuffs. No more food shipments from out of system. And I'm sure you would make make much better neighbors then the orks."
Hesker looked aside to a particularly interesting spot on the wall.
"Yes, I have thought of that myself. But it's still nothing to risk a waaagh over. Had it been the case, I would have petitioned the administratum already."
Onshin sighed patiently. If manipulating the humans could be done, the easiest path would be here in this room. While prodding them could be achieved in other ways, this was the most direct, and by far the least bothersome. Onshin collected his thoughts for a moment. There had to be some way to get all the forces to leave the system voluntarily, but so far the human had proven more shrewd than he had imagined they would be. The Imperium, especially their post humans, could and often did make strategically unviable blunders. He had hoped Callen would be one of those overambitious militant commanders. But clearly, the man had already seen the situation from that angle, and wasn't biting. He would need convincing.
"If you had allies in such a war, would you be willing to commit?"
"And where might I find such allies? Will you be marching alongside us?" Hesker snorted disbelievingly.
Ludicrous. Onshin needed all his forces here in the Rekhel system to watch the trap after it was baited.
"Certain factions might be bought. You had said that you might be willing to pay in the deaths of a few billion servants to pay us in valuable metals. We might redirect that materiel elsewhere to secure ourselves some...mercenaries."
Hesker narrowed his eyes. "Why? Why all this? Why take the effort? What is your gain in this?"
"Friendlier neighbors, of course. The orks are not the most placid species, we would welcome someone with more intelligence and less...odor."
Hesker continued staring. Clearly, he wasn't buying this. Onshin sighed in a feint of defeat. The lie would be easier this way, if the human believed he had forced his opponent into telling the truth, to let him think he had a bargaining chip.
"One of our maiden worlds to the galactic northeast. The orks prepare for waaagh even as we speak. Not against you, against our cousins. We need a...diversion." As the best lies always did, this one had a kernel of truth, to keep it palpable. There was indeed a maiden world there that did exist, but Jusai-Iex hadn't contacted them in centuries.
"We're still forgetting the administratum. They won't authorize a crusade anytime soon."
"I was under the impression that this system was beyond the oversight of your overlords, at least for the moment. Your Path grants you some powers to go forward as you wish."
Hesker began chewing at his lip, deep in thought.
"They do offer us a bit in the way of autonomy. But I would have to entice quite a few of the local players into this gambit. And the Space Marines do as they will, regardless of what I might think in the matter. The planetary governors, most certainly, will need to get off their cushy behinds and be moved to act. Not an easy feat."
"But it will be done." Onshin's voice now brooked no argument. Now that he knew it could be done, it would be.
"Oh? Will it?" Hesker asked conservatively.
"If you thought my corsairs a nuisance before, know that they were merely being playful. They preyed on your transports merely for sport. I assure you that they can be much more...driven when tasked to eradicate an enemy. You will mobilize, or you will be starved out. And when you are starved out, we will go after every evacuation craft, we will slay you in your billions as you flee your burning system. That maiden world will be saved, or your kind will suffer for it. One of our species is worth more than a billion of yours. Losing an entire planet...is unacceptable."
Hesker could have done many things, and indeed Onshin had seen humans do many things, especially when openly threatened. But among humans, he was especially dignified and collected. A dignified ape, but dignified nonetheless. He stood.
"Your maiden world will be saved. At considerable expense. But you will owe us. You speak of honor. All your kind jabber of it, while taking our ships. You won't harm a surrendered enemy, you say. This is a favor. A favor that costs the Imperium a considerable price. It will be repaid."
Onshin let him believe that. He was dealing with scavengers, after all. What did he care what they believed? These humans were merely picking at the bones of what the Eldar had been millenia ago. If a vulture believed in a debt being owed him, it did not necessarily make it so.
111th Guard Regiment Garrison: Rekhel III
Rekhel III was a brutal planet with brutish occupants. A planet covered completely in ice a kilometer thick in even the thinnest places. Water Ice, to be precise, not frozen methane or carbon dioxide. Water and Ogryn were the primary exports of Rekhel III, with most of the former going to the desert wastes of Rekhel I.
Why couldn't the two planets be reversed? Thought Atticus, not for the first time as he exited the administration hab. Just then the wind gusted, forcing him to pull his coat around him tighter. Of course if this blasted planet was closer to the Rekhel Star, then I'm sure the Galaxy would have seen fit to make sure it was some sort of horrid death world with a hundred varieties of poisonous bugs and vines that try to eat you. Because Emperor forbid anything ever be easy.
In many ways, the Ogryn were actually the least brutish thing about the planet. Living in ice caves and huddling together to keep warm, the Ogryn at least had enough cognizance to understand concepts like forgiveness, mercy, and respect.
The ecology of Rekhel III seemed to be made up of four things: a type of fungus that used biological processes to make heat. This was fed on by overlarge rat creatures so fuzzy as to look like waddling balls of fluff. Said fluffballs fed lean and very agile creatures that looked like wolves but were more biologically akin to bears, Rekhel Ice Foxes. The Ice Foxes were known to be cunning, very nearly matching the Ogryn for their intelligence, hence the name. The Ice foxes, of course, fed the Ogryns. But the fungus attached to the intestines of all who consumed it, and endured. Thus, whenever an animal on Rekhel III defecated, the fungus was already there, the spores exiting the digestive track as well.
To say that Atticus did anything but trudge stubbornly across the windblown ice would be an injustice. The commissar was an older, frail looking man, his horshoe of grey hair hidden by a black ushanka. His old bones creaked with every step. The commissar's regularly indomitable, ramrod straight posture was bowed by the necessity of providing the smallest possible target for the merciless wind to bite at.
Atticus breathed a sharp exhale of relief as he entered the next facility, the indoor firing range. The planet was so cold that the machine spirits themselves often balked at working in such conditions. Atticus had heard about the first regiment that had been stationed here, who had tried to conduct a field exercise outdoors. Half the regiment had died of cold, half of the remainder had been killed by Ice Foxes, and nobody had made it through the affair without severe frostbite on their fingers, toes, and faces. If the survivors had not found the ogryn caves when they did, they would have also died. And thus the Ogryn had been discovered.
Atticus stamped his feet and shed his gloves so he could stick his fingers in his armpits. After roughly thirty seconds to recover from a walk that had taken twice that many steps, he made it to the desk to requisition twenty four rounds of 20mm cannon. Today he would be evaluating the performance of an Ogryn from his regiment's 7th companies third platoon. An Ogryn by name of Beals.
In a way, Atticus Kanklin relished working alongside the Ogyrin. Yes, they were crude (and sometimes smelly, if you didn't remind them to wash). But they didn't care that he was a commissar. Didn't care that he could have any one of them executed. And it was refreshing, wonderfully so. Here, there was no barrier to true friendship. No careful mental filtering of what might or might not be considered heresy. Sure, some of the troops were more subtle about it than others, but none save the Ogryn were truly immune to the affect. The Ogryn didn't carefully sort out everything they said just to make sure it made him happy. They didn't rework their entire language and way of communicating just for him. And it...it made him feel like he belonged. Belonging. That feeling when you were truly appreciated, a feeling he had not felt since his graduation among his peers in the Scholus Progenium. Not an obstacle to be worked around or a burden to be borne, but a person.
That feeling was what he got when he saw Beals looking at him with delight as he approached his place on the shooting range. "Atty! Aya, Commy-Sar! Come an' see me shoot? See me shoot for da Emprar?"
Atticus couldn't hide his grin. "Yes, Beals. I came to see you shoot."
"Been workin'. Been workin' I has, so I can shoot for da Emprar an' make him proud!" Beals puffed out his chest and stood straighter.
"Oh, have you? You've been drilling like I showed you?"
"Yesh, yesh. Drillin' lots and lots!"
"Very good, Bealsy, the emperor loves diligence. You've done him a service. Now let's see what you've got."
Beaming, Beals looked around quickly for his autocannon. It was a specialized variant with a rotary magazine of twelve rounds, each to be fired singly. It was also much sturdier than most autocannons, working on a mechanical function rather than electronics. Only the Ogryns could handle the trigger pull for such a monstrous mechanism. They had commissioned them specifically from the adeptus mechanicus for the Ogryns of the 111th. Sadly, the paperwork for the lascannons he had requisitioned had not gone through yet. It was possible that they could arrive tomorrow, or that they wouldn't arrive in his lifetime. Such was the way of the administratum. Beals overlooked his autocannon once, twice, then found it on the third scan of the area. Upon recovering it, he turned to the commissar and gave him a sharp salute with his autocannon over his shoulder. Smiling, Atticus motioned for him to continue.
"Anda one; ayup." He brought his autocannon to his shoulder once and aimed down the sights, his stance and form that of a model marksman. Damn, but it had taken hour upon painstaking hour to get him to remember that. But now he was doing it all on his own. The commissar couldn't have been happier. Beals lowered the autocannon to his relaxed position.
"Anda two; ayup." He mimmicked his previous motion. "Anda three; ayup...anda...uh...d'uh..."
"Four" Atticus provided. Beals screwed up his face in embarrassment. "Yup yup. Anda four!"
From here, Atticus helped Beals count out the motions.
"And five. And six. And seven..." And on he went, with Beals repeating the same perfect motion every time like the loyal soldier that he was. Once the Ogryn got to twenty, Atticus cheered him and applauded. Beals looked like he had won a medal.
"Sometimes," Beals whispered conspiratorially "Sometimes I forget the numbers and lose count. So I just keep doin' em until my arms get real tired."
"It is the effort that matters, Beals. The Emperor sees you, and his heart swells with pride."
Beals blushed and looked at the ground. "D'aaaw, I ain't nothin', mister Atty-kus. You're all smart like y'are and makin' sure ever'one gets der food and whatnot..."
"We all have a place in His divine service. But moving on..." Atticus leaned in and inquired mischievously "you wanna shoot for real?"
Beals audibly gasped. "You mean like with missus Sarah? With real bullets?" Atticus smirked. "Yes, with real bullets." To an outsider such a question sounded silly, but anyone who knew Ogryns also knew that they would happily fire their weapons from sunrise to sunset just to see the bright lights, hear the loud noise, and watch with glee the destruction they reaped on anything around them. Leaving such creatures the authority to requisition their own ammunition was obviously out of the question. As such, each corporal would requisition ammunition for their Ogryns as needed at each training period. Beals clapped and whooped. "Awright! We gunna shoot for real!"
A voice echoed across the firing range, interrupted by the crack of lasgun fire. "Second Squad reporting for eval, sir!" Atticus and Beals turned. The good corporal was here, along with the rest of the squad. The troops of Rekhel III were dressed much like the Valhallan Ice Warriors because, of course, they had to be. Atticus made a mental commentary of the solidarity. He wouldn't go so far as to say he was impressed, but it did look good for Sarah and the squad to show up at the evaluation. It was halfway expected. On the one hand, most squads in the 111th looked upon their Ogryns as a cross between beloved pets and squad mascots, so they wanted to be there whenever their Ogryn went to the medicae, or received a commendation, or so on. On the other hand, this was an evaluation, and an evaluation was usually done by a commissar. And nobody liked seeing a commissar if they could avoid it.
"Sarah! Aww, the whole team is all here!" Beals was ecstatic. Atticus couldn't help but do a mental roll-call. Sarah, Paul, David, Solomon, Eric, Francis, Randal, Merissa, Nathan, and Beals made the centerpiece. A Section composed of three fireteams and one Ogryn, which had three sister sections with their own similar set up and their own Ogryn. The fireteam made up the smallest sub-unit of the Imperial Guard, three soldiers. Three fireteams made up a squad. Four squads made up a platoon. It was hard for most adepts in the Order Dialogus to grasp that the entire Imperial Guard was made upon billions of tight-knit groups like these. They weren't just lists of names and payrolls. They were jury-rigged families forged on the battlefield in lieu of the real thing.
Families that your position will forever set you apart from.
Atticus winced. Such thoughts had no place in the mind of a Commissar. His position was a reality of war. It was naive to assume that men, left to their own devices, would do their duty as a simple matter of pride. Some people simply didn't have integrity, in fact whole groups of people thought the word a rather subjective one. They would compromise. They would buckle. They would lie to themselves to make the heretical sound pure, and the pure sound damnable. It was the Commissar's role to see to it that his men were untainted. In it's own way, it truly was a favor. After all, it was better for a man to feed his mortal body to the guns of the enemy than to feed his immortal soul to the monsters of the warp.
He cleared his head. There would be time to stew on matters of ethics later. "Right then. Let us have this show on the road, shall we?"
"Yep yep! Got bullets?" The Ogryn's excitement was tangible.
"In his right hand, Beals."
The Ogryn looked down, his eyes widening. "Oh!"
"You remember how to load it?" Atticus asked. The ogryn's face scowled in determination, as if the loading mechanism were his most hated enemy. "Yup yup. Press the thing-"
"-The thing?" Atticus inquired sharply. Beals shook his head "Not THAT thing...not da...trigger. The button on da side here" and Beals lifted the autocannon to illustrate his point, finger resting next to the cylinder release. "Andja press it," Beals pressed it. "Andja pull it out." Beals did so. "And put da bullets in it."
"Very good, Beals. Will you kindly do so?"
"Yessir."
Beals rested the barrel on the ground delicately and began loading the cylinder with rounds. Atticus noted this with some satisfaction . Beals had failed his last evaluation by trying to lift the cannon one-handed while trying to load it in futile fashion with the other. In the process, he had pointed it at the commissar, which technically was an offense that could be punishable by immediate and summary execution. Luckily, Atticus had no wish to make an utterly pointless display of discipline by destroying a valuable resource to the Imperium. And on a secondary note, not as important as the first, it would have been ethically wrong as Beals clearly had no intention of killing or threatening the commissar. Atticus made it a point to display the Emperor's mercy where it could be afforded.
Once Beals had loaded the weapon, he carefully brought it to cradle in his arms, looking proud of his accomplishment.
"All right. Now the fun begins. We will have several pop-up targets for you, Beals. I want you to fire two, and only two rounds at each target. Will you be able to do that?" Atticus asked. Beals nodded his head solemnly.
"Alright. Target lane six clear for firing!" Beals readied his weapon and pointed it down range.
"Target lane Six, confirmed clear for firing!" came the response from the Target Master. Atticus brought up his timepiece.
"Evaluation beginning on my mark...Mark!"
The targets were cut-outs of orkoids. Beal's accuracy was impressive, proving the oft repeated phrase about Ogryns: "Not stupid, simply focused." Every hit was on or near center mass, right at the center of the chest of each orkoid. He managed to empty his gun in just over six seconds.
"Load!" Sarah shouted. Beals did so, fumbling only a split second on the cylinder release and inserting a moon clip into the oversized weapon. He snapped the cylinder shut and readied the weapon again. Beals repeated the process, downing another six targets.
Silence enveloped the group, broken by only the occasional snap of lasgun fire as one of the other lanes fired. The squad looked between Beals and the Commissar with baited breath. Beals looked nervous, wondering if he had done something wrong. Atticus couldn't help but smirk. This was the affect a regimental commissar had on the average infantry man. He looked at the squad with mock anger. "Your Ogryn just passed his evaluation with flying colors! Why do I hear no cheering, you miserable rats?!"
Rogue Trader Vessel Golden Opportunity, above Rekhel III
Lord Callen Hesker sipped at his scotch. This visitor to his system was most definitely not welcome. A vessel, who had immediately hailed him as he came back from his most unprofitable meeting with the Eldar.
Prepare for a customs inspection.
A customs inspection! It was like being frisked upon entering his own home. His family had brought this system back into the fold of the imperium shortly after the Great Crusade millennia ago! His family was the closest thing the High Lords of Terra had to a founder for this damnable blot on the star charts. And now he had a thousand stormtroopers rummaging his ship like he was some common vagrant freight tramp! It was completely undignified. And he had told them as such.
To which they had replied:
We are sent from the Ordo Hereticus under the command of Itzal Hermenigildo. Your ship will be boarded and searched. If you attempt to resist or flee the system you will be fired upon.
No. No, this was not a good day at all.
He took another sip of his scotch.
