Speculum Enigmate Chapter 12

The Summer Ballroom was vast, able to fit hundreds of souls within its marble walls with ease. The soaring windows let copious amounts of red light inside that shone upon the polished floor like a lake of ruby wine. Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling on thick cables, each one a complex knot of golden threads and jewels that blazed with a hundred electro-candles, light dancing on the reflective gems to make them appear on fire. Thick pillars lined the walls, rising to rounded arches quite unlike the sharp angles of Late Gothic architecture. The floor was laden with rounded tables, piled high with sweetened meats and rare fruits and alcoholic nectars, that filled the air with an overpowering aroma of fermented sugar.

Persion didn't like it, his genhanced senses were overloaded with the scents of the feast, clingy smells coating the insides of his nostrils with gooey residue. He wished he could don his helmet and cut off the scent with recycled air but that would send entirely the wrong message. The Lieutenant had been invited to a ceremonial feast and hadn't known how to politely refuse, so had reluctantly attended. At first he had assumed it was to welcome the Storm Heralds to Pascum but he been informed it was to formally introduce the Governor's heir to his new fiancé, which for some reason seemed to be important to the locals. Persion had brought Yones and Memnos along for moral support, the notion of bringing Jediah, Gotram or Zeax had made his guts clench in dread so he'd left them with the squads. Truthfully he thought they'd got the better end of the deal.

Around the three Space Marines hundreds of pampered nobles and merchant princes mingled, not letting the towering Transhumans interrupt their fun. Men were dressed in flowing robes, tied tight around the waist but with flaring shoulders and high collars. The material was mostly black but decorated with writhing dragons and heraldic beasts, denoting some social order amongst them. Women wore brighter colours with floral designs, the dresses were diminutive in form but favoured hanging sleeves that dropped below their knees. Their hair was braided upwards, rising into elaborate displays of swirls and knots that competed with their rivals for ridiculous impracticality. Together the crowd ate and drank, they laughed and whispered behind each other's backs and they danced in clouds of plumage. Half the ballroom's length was bare so the rich and powerful could prance about in long lines and circles, moving to a rhythm belted out by a band of musicians who plucked lutes in a corner. The Space Marines were drawing a lot of sly glances but no one tried to approach them, if the crowd shared the common folk's resentment of the Astartes they were disguising it behind a veil of polite disinterest.

Persion glowered over the heads of the crowd but his brooding was interrupted as Yones said, "Pass the salt."

Persion looked left to see the Intercessor tucking into a plate of sweet meats. It seemed bizarre to look upon the giant Primaris holding a small Porcelain plate in his Ceramite gauntlets, picking up braised meat with a tiny fork. Persion frowned as he asked, "Do what?"

Yones waved his fork and said, "Salt, pass the salt."

Persion was so bemused he picked up a small cellar from the table and passed it over as he asked, "Why are you eating that muck?"

"It's not too bad with seasoning," Yones replied, "Besides someone told me to take every opportunity to fill up, else we'll be living on Synthi-gruel."

Persion's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he probed, "This 'someone' wouldn't happen to be Champion of Third Company, would he?"

"He might be," Yones replied with a mouthful of food.

"Don't start copying Novak," Persion sighed, "One loudmouth is enough."

Yones swallowed his morsel and then asked, "Does that mean you'll be sticking to Synthi-gruel?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Persion allowed as he picked up a morsel in his hand and bit into it. As he expected it was unbearably sweet, but still better than standard rations, it was hard to imagine anything tasting worse.

As he chewed Memnos muttered, "Look at this lot, dancing like there is nothing wrong. You'd hardly know the galaxy is aflame."

Yones sniffed, "Never underestimate the ability of the ruling classes to ignore a problem, so long as they think someone else can deal with it. Useless pampered songbirds, if Orks invaded they'd probably not admit to any danger until the Greenskins were battering down their door."

Persion heard their words but countered, "You underestimate them, these people aren't here to dance. I've seen enough of these sort of things to know this so-called party is nothing but an excuse to plot and intrigue. Even now this lot will be making deals and betraying them, allegiances will be shifting and power blocs vying for supremacy. Everyone here is looking to advance themselves over their rivals and they all know it. Behind every vapid smile will be a broken promise, every insincere compliment will be a cover for a cunning scheme."

Yones lifted an eyebrow as he asked, "You seen a lot of parties?"

"It's the same the galaxy over," Persion sighed, "Captain Toran is fond of saying the collective Imperial Departmentos and Adepta act less like a government and more like a summit of warring tribes."

The others nodded at Persion's declaration, agreeing with his sentiment, yet unexpectedly another voice cut in "You're in my way." Persion frowned as he looked down, then leaned over to peer almost directly at his own feet. Standing before him was a short girl, with an irritated expression. Persion recognised her as the Governor's daughter, Otlie Bassail. Normally nobody could take a Space Marine unawares but she had not registered as a threat to his subconscious and so passed unremarked. She was glaring up at him with eyes like chips of flint and Persion could not help but notice she eschewed the floral dresses and wore a khaki suit, with small but military grade boots that were tapped with plasteel toes. Nearby was a harried looking maid, whose face told a tail of lengthy and bitter arguments over her attire.

Persion stares at the girl and growled, "Do you know who I am?"

Otlie glared up at him and sneered, "You're the one doing a excellent impression of a roadblock."

Out of the corner of his eye Persion saw Yones hiding a chuckle at the sight of a Transhuman giant being faced down by a girl no more than eight Terran years old and the Lieutenant stated, "Now see here little lady."

"Don't talk down to me!" Otlie snapped, "I'm no lady, I am a soldier."

"A soldier," Persion queried disbelievingly, "Does your mother know about this?"

"Which one?" Otlie snapped back, "My Genic mother is a wizened old crone, the woman who bore me ran off the moment she got paid and the endless succession of maids want to dress me up as doll. I wont have it, I'm training to join the Guard as an officer. I will be a General one day."

Yones was going red as he fought to suppress his laughter and Persion said, "Don't you have a responsibility to obey your family?"

"I have a higher responsibility to fight for the God-Emperor," Otlie snapped, "It is the duty of all His citizens to take up arms in defence of His realm. You want someone to sit at home and get fat then talk to my brother, useless waste of skin that he is."

"Your brother?" Persion queried, "The one whose getting married?"

Otlie snorted, "Yes him, not that he's happy about it. He doesn't want to get wedded, not to Proam's scheming minx at least. He's got no interest in ruling Pascum, all he loves is books. She'll be running the government before you know it."

"You don't approve," Persion asked.

"My approval is as irrelevant as your chatter," Otlie hissed, "Are you going to move or am I going to have to make you move?"

Persion had no idea how to respond to the spitefull ball of vitriol glaring up at him. He could break her with one hand, even step on her and squish her with his weight, but instead he moved to one side and allowed her to pass. Otlie stomped off the fretful maid in tow as Yones chortled, "That was priceless."

Persion glared at him as he snapped, "If you breath one word of this to Novak you'll be guarding latrines for the rest of your days."

He turned to speak to Memnos but to his surprise the Apothecary was talking to someone else. It was that man with the cold eyes, Odrin and a woman in black, whose eyes looked like chips of ice in her flawless face. Persion listened as the woman remarked, "Such magnificent workmanship, the reinforced bone structure, the sculpted musculature. I had heard of the Astartes but I had no idea Terra's Genic breeding program was so advanced."

Memnos replied sternly, "You proceed from a false assumption, Astartes are not born we are chosen. Uplifted and gene-forged in puberty by the Emperor's benevolence and wisdom."

"Post-natal transfiguration and gene-resplicing?" the woman mused putting a gloved hand to her dark lips then pronounced her judgement, "Painful."

"You have no idea," Persion declared as he joined the conversation.

Odrin smiled but his eyes held no warmth as he said, "Ah the noble Lieutenant, I was hoping to speak to you. May I introduce Matriarch Tyvis, of the Genic Council."

Tyvis turned to Persion and questioned, "What happened to your hand?"

Persion lifted his right arm which was augmetic from the elbow down and proudly declared, "Lost it in battle."

Tyvis tutted, "Didn't you think to replace it with a vat-grown replicae?"

Persion retorted in offense, "An Astartes does not hide his wounds, he wears them proudly as badges of courage and sacrifice."

Tyvis snorted, "Foolish bravado, my savants could weave a replacement indistinguishable from your original, right down to the genetic level."

It seemed Memnos' professional curiosity was peeked for he asked, "Truly? How would you overcome Stem cell mutation and telomere differential between the cloned tissue and the host?"

"Child's play," Tyvis sneered, "The Genic council overcame such piffling details long before the Imperium found us."

"Interesting," Memnos pondered, "Your gene-tech must be a wonder of Archetoech."

Tyvis replied smugly, "Many a Mechancius Genator petitions to examine our most ancient devices. Though few meet our stringent criteria, only the most learned and respectful of Savants may enter our domes. You strike me as such a one, you should come and view our work first-hand."

Persion suspected she was more interested in Memnos' gene-forged body than his mind, the wonders of the Emperor's gene-craft had never been surpassed in ten thousands years, even Primaris were merely an extension of the Astartes design. Persion shook his head and said, "That is not our mission here."

Odrin looked up and asked, "What is your mission, many want to know."

Persion informed him, "We are here to support the Bassail Dynasty and make sure the Emergency Tithe is paid."

Odrin lifted an eyebrow as he mused, "So you won't be laying waste to our cities or trying to convert us to your creed. You are merely here to remind us of our master's lash?"

Persion refuted that, "We are here to support the Emperor's appointed Governor. If that means standing at her shoulder or attending a wedding then we shall do so."

"Well, that is fortuitous," Odrin replied, "Viscount Proam would be outraged if anything untoward happened to his daughter's pair-bonding."

Persion's eyes drifted over the crowd to where a rotund man was laughing among a crowd of flatterers, his many chins wobbling as he downed a glass of some sweet nectar and his lackeys tittering vapidly. Persion judged this a man used to getting his own way, so rich and powerful none would dare say no to him. If what he'd heard about the weakness of the Bassail heir was correct then this man would soon be running the planet, through his daughter, and the Viscount seemed to know it to be true.

Persion muttered, "He looks like a man with good reason to be happy."

Odrin affirmed, "Yes, weddings are cause for celebration on Pascum, royal weddings doubly so. The Genic council plans each union with meticulous detail and planning, screening bloodlines to perfection."

The children of the Governor made Persion doubt that assertion and he suspected this Genic Council might be exaggerating their prowess. He could practically hear Furion harping in his ear that no amount of tinkering with genes could replace a warrior's heart or indomitable spirit. The will required to become Astartes could not be bred, which was why only one in a hundred aspirants survived to claim the lauded rank of Brother.

Persion noted the man had no companion and needled, "Were you not deemed suitable for a union?"

Odrin however didn't seem put out as he corrected, "I merely wait for my designated bride to reach proper age. She should be born in another five months."

"Your bride isn't born yet?!" Persion yelped in shock.

Yet Tyvis explained primly, "Perfection takes time to get right, but the genic prognostications are sublime. Our auguries predict a fruitful union, once she is old enough to bear children and wed Odrin. We are not savages, to marry children off before they are capable of breeding."

Persion had no idea how to respond, even as a Space Marine had a vague notion that people didn't start planning their offspring until they were grown. Half-remembered recollections of growing up on Trux were that adolescents tended to make their own arrangements between themselves and adults only stepped in to formalise matters once someone's belly started to grow. Thankfully he was saved from explaining that as a commotion at the far end of the hall drew all eyes. It was the Governor, emerging from behind golden doors in her looming life-support throne and she wasn't alone. With her were a half-dozen people, none of this planet.

"Our other honoured guests arrive at last," Odrin declared.

"Guests?" Persion asked in confusion.

"Yes the Lady Vevara arrived just before you did," Odrin stated.

Yet Persion barely heard him for his eyes fell on the newcomers, one in particular. A lithe and tall individual whose movements betrayed an alien nature in every inhuman gesture. Persion's hackles rose at the sight and his hearts thundered with instinctive loathing as centuries of war and Hypno-indoctrination demanded a response. Yones sounded bemused as he asked, "Is that an Eldar?"

Yet Persion's hand was already on the haft of his Friction-axe as he snarled, "Xenos! Kill it, kill it now!"