Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 202

Carmilla was the first ship to reach the rendezvous. The wounded light cruiser picked her way through the turbulence and surveyor hash to find the waiting civilian ships right where they should be. The cargo ships were glad to her, greeting the ship with a barrage of panicked and frantic questions, demands for relief and pleas for protection. Carmilla brushed them off with short rebukes over the vox, reminding them to stay put and await the rest of the fleet. Questions as to the outcome of the battle were ignored, learning what happened would only spread fear and alarm. So the cruiser settled in to wait for Wyvern and Jormungandr.

The journey was over but Captain Hornan's day was not. He spent several more hours coordinating repairs and rotating wounded crewmen. Supplies were demanded from civilian ships and shuttled over to replenish Carmilla's stores, replacement ratings too, conscripted to serve the guns and engines, for these unfortunates it was merely trading one prison for another. The process took hours to complete and by the end Juto was exhausted. When the last shuttle was docked he handed over the watch to a subordinate and made for his quarters.

The journey was not long but it gave him time to reflect. The battle had cost them dear and it was blindly obvious that another encounter with the Revenge would end the Imperials. Withdrawal was the only option, but it presented challenges all its own. Their forces were depleted and insufficient to fend off a heavy assault. His former plan to divide the fleet and hope to be among those not hunted down was no longer viable, but neither was leaving in one group. Perhaps they should scatter and let every ship fend for itself, but that was no guarantee either. Civilians were sloppy and careless void-farers, few if any could escape under their own direction. Hornan had no answers to the problem, he was fresh out of ideas and too tired to strategize, sleep seemed the best option right now.

Wearily Hornan made his way past bustling officers and sweating ratings and entered his quarters. Stepping inside his private sanctuary was a relief and he shrugged his jacket off gratefully. The noise of his entrance drew his manservant out, the lanky man stepping into the main room with an expectant expression. Hornan ignored him as he removed his weapons and boots then sank into a chair with a curt, "Bring me something to eat."

"Of course," Vigoro replied as he ducked back into the kitchenette and began preparing a repast.

Hornan leaned back and closed his eyes as he felt the tension in his muscles. He was tempted to go straight to bed but knew he needed to eat first. The demands of command were many and a captain had to learn to manage his own requirements. He would be no good to anyone if he passed out on the bridge. Commissar Landry would shoot him for weakness and probably enjoy it. That thought made Hornan open his eyes and he saw Vigoro emerge with a plate of meats and vegetables.

Vigoro set the plate down and as the Captain set to eating asked, "I hear we reached the rendezvous."

Between mouthfuls Hornan replied, "You heard right."

Vigoro noted, "Then we have a chance to reconsider our situation."

Hornan paused with a tuber in hand as he eyed the man and said, "You have something to say?"

Vigoro nodded reluctantly as he answered, "There are certain family matters that need addressing."

"This again!" Hornan spat as he threw down the vegetable, "I told you I don't care about my relatives."

Suddenly another voice cried, "Then what of your own history, do you care about that?!"

Hornan started as a man stepped out of the kitchenette. Instantly Hornan was on his feet, diving for his weapons. He drew his chainsword and pistol and aimed them at the man as he spat, "Intruder!"

"Peace!" Vigoro cried as he stepped between them, "This man is no enemy; he comes at the behest of your family."

"You knew about this?" hissed Hornan.

"I did," Vigoro replied, "This man is a retainer, he has served your bloodline for many years. He has come to discharge a mission given to him by your forbearers."

Hornan eyed the man, who had not moved a muscle, and growled, "You intrude into my private abode. Do you at least have a name?"

The man replied, "I have a hundred, but you can call me Whistler."

"That's not your real name," Hornan accused.

"Of course not, but it suffices for now. I have a message to deliver, then I will disappear and you will never see me again."

Hornan kept his pistol close as he gestured to a chair. Whistler didn't seem bothered as he strode over, his pace measured and calm and Hornan saw he had been rebuilt with extensive augmetics. His limbs were laced with silver and his eyes were metal orbs in his skull. Supremely skilled craftsmanship had gone into making him post-human, expensive work that must have cost a considerable sum. Whoever this man was he must be very valuable and trusted to receive such boons, the kind of blessings only the richest members of his bloodline could have afforded before their fall from grace.

Whistler sat and eyed Hornan patiently, waiting for him to sit down. Hornan sat across from the man with his pistol held level and growled, "Out with it then."

Whistler raised an eyebrow as he said, "No questions as to my connection to your family?"

"You'd only lie to me," Hornan spat.

"True," Whistler remarked with a sly grin, "But the details of my life are inconsequential compared to yours."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hornan hissed.

Whistler leaned back and said, "What do you know of your family's history?"

"Not much," Hornan replied, "We were a minor household, running the Juvenat works on Bakka. Then my elders went mad and rebelled against the Imperium. A mad act of reckless idiocy that cost us dear."

Whistler shook his head and said, "They didn't tell you anything, I suppose it's up to me to fill in the blanks. Very well, know that you are right; your family did rebel but not out of madness. They discovered something shocking and damning about the Imperium, something they couldn't stomach. They rose up, expecting others to join them, only to be cruelly surprised by the indifference of other families. They moved too fast you see, out of pride and moral self-righteousness, a blunder that proved their downfall."

Hornan eyed the man and growled, "You were there?"

"I was, I saw it all, including what sparked the rebellion."

"Which was?"

Whistler sighed, "Best you see for yourself."

He drew back his arm and revealed a micro-projector built into his palm. A shaky holo-image appeared, hovering over his hand to display a recording. It was a dank corridor inside some ship, a mildewed passage indistinguishable from a billion others. Hornan leaned in and probed, "Where's this?"

"While you've been running around fighting in the void I've been in the mass-conveyors, gathering proof. You're seeing through my eyes, as I examined the wealth of Lutum."

"I don't follow," Hornan uttered.

"The wealth of Lutum, the bounty your crusade sent you to claim. What did you think that was? Minerals, coinage, foodstuffs, Lutum was hardly rich in such fodder, but what it did have was people, billions and billions of people stuffed into its Hive Cities. That's what your leaders sent you to claim, flesh and blood to service the needs of the Imperium."

Hornan shrugged, "So what, they are heretics and the Navy always needs more hands to run the guns. Do you know how many men die on an average Imperial ship on a normal day; hundreds. We need to replace our losses constantly."

Whistler shook his head sadly and said, "If that was all it was there would never have been a rebellion but it's far worse than that. Observe."

The image swayed and Hornan squinted to see a strange room appearing in the corridor. It was a white-panelled space set behind thick glassic walls and filled with medical equipment. In the room a circle of men in sterile red-suits bent over a central table, knives and cutting saws busily at work. They were hovering over a metal gurney, strapped to which was a young boy, barely into his teens. His chest had been surgically opened and they were performing some strange operation on him. No, they weren't operating, Hornan realised, they were extracting his organs. One by one they removed his heart, lungs, liver, spleen and intestines, sealing them into canopic jars which were locked tight. They emptied the chest cavity entirely and then started on the head, taking eyes and teeth and brain tissue. Even for one raised in an Imperium where Servitors and press-ganging were commonplace it was a revolting sight and made his gore rise. They cut the boy apart like a butcher dismantling a grox, taking his life for an unknown purpose. Then the image turned and Hornan beheld a double row of chambers as far as the eye could see, all doing the same thing.

"What are they doing?" Hornan gulped.

"The answer to that lies in your family business," Whistler replied.

Moments passed and then Hornan's eyes widened as he gasped, "Juvenat… we owned the Juvenat works."

Whistler nodded solemnly, "Aye Juvenant, the means by which rich old nobles can extend their lives for centuries. Did you never wonder how it worked?"

"I… I thought the Mechanicus made chemical anti-agapics and used cloned-flesh," Hornan stammered.

"Maybe on the most advanced planets like Macragge, but clone-flesh is expensive," Whistler shrugged, "Why pay top coinage when it's cheaper to round up the poor and destitute? Profit margins always meant more than human life in most quarters."

"They use organs from living people?" Hornan breathed in horror as bile rose in his throat.

Whistler sighed, "Healthy livers to replace wine-rotted ones, new hearts to replace ailing ones, young bone marrow to rejuvenate brittle bones. Kidneys, eyes, nerves, taut skin and silky hair, even teeth. After that the bodies will be rendered down into gene-elixirs and life-extending potions, every last cell pulped to extract the essence of youth. The mighty feed off the vitality of the poor to extend their lives, culling others to sustain their debauchery for a few more years."

"How… many?" Hornan whispered.

"There are three Mass-Conveyors working around the clock. This shipment should render enough material to service the nobility of an average Hive world. Of course that won't last long, so they'll need another shipment and another. It varies in effectiveness but I estimate for every extra year of life a decadent sot enjoys, a person has died."

"It's not possible," Hornan gasped, "So many people, word would get out."

Whistler shrugged, "How much of the galactic population are rich enough to enjoy Juvenant treatments? A tenth of a percent, a hundredth, few enough not to draw notice. Besides those who plan these things are cunning enough to harvest far from sight, on newly-reconquered planets or backwater worlds where none will comment on thousands going missing. No point pissing in your own fishing pond I suppose. But the truth is it goes unremarked because nobody wants to know, nobody ever asks where the means to extend their lives comes from."

"My family were a part of this?" Hornan accused, "They knew!"

"Not at first, they merely bought out the treatment works and contented themselves shuffling paper and reaping profits. Never asked any inconvenient questions of the workers; they're Mechanicus-trained so they don't care anyway. Then one day one of your uncles got curious as to what actually happened on the factory-floor and you know the rest."

Hornan sagged back in his chair as the truth sank in. All his life he had known of servitors and penal legions but they were criminals or heretics. Press-ganging usually occurred in slums or underhives, where everyone was guilty of some crime or another. But this was too far, whole populations scooped up and torn apart, all to feed the selfish lusts of a scant few. His preconceptions of his society were upended, this was damning in every way, those he had looked up to were vampire-ghouls, feasting on the blood and bone of others to slake their needs. Hornan was sickened by the thought and not least of all that he had played a part in it, he had bowed and scraped to the authors of this travesty, yearning for their praise like a whipped dog. They had used him, all his life they had used him as they had these people and in that moment he swore they would never use him again.

"I will not stand for this," Hornan hissed.

"That's your concern," Whistler said, "I've done my duty to your bloodline. I have other places to be, you won't see me again. It's up to you what you do with this information but I will say this, be smarter than your family was. Whatever you decide to do, make sure to win."

Whistler pulled a data-crystal from his wrist and tossed it over. Then he stood up and strode out the door, letting it slide shut behind him. Hornan knew he would be true to his word and would never return. He sat there; staring at the crystal in his hands and knowing the recording within could overthrow governments and topple dynasties. The weight of it lay upon his soul and he knew he could not set it aside.

Slowly he growled, "All my life have I begged for scraps of praise and fleeting promotion. I humbled myself; only to be passed over again and again as the mighty butchered their own people. What is the respect of men like that worth: nothing! I am done with them, done with their hypocrisy and lies. Curse them; curse the cruel and uncaring Emperor on his throne of gold, I refuse to be a part of this sham Imperium anymore."

Vigoro stepped forward and said, "Master I urge caution, your forebears spoke this way and rushed their plans. It was their undoing. You must be careful of the enemies you make."

Hornan hissed, "I am surrounded by enemies. A Space Marine obsessed with getting us all killed, a commissar looking to shoot me in the back. Heretics… at least the heretics are honest about trying to kill me. I'd rather have an honest enemy than a false friend. Yes, the heretics… they are the key."

Vigoro bowed slightly as he said, "I shall follow whatever path you determine, but play your hand carefully. You must be confident in your power before revealing your intentions."

Hornan gripped the crystal so tight it dug into his skin and knifed his bones as he growled, "The Carmilla serves Terra no more, I will take her for my own and steer my own course, heeding no master but myself. Many will follow me, Ambos, Gansay, Tinag… they have no love for Terra. The rest I will turn to my cause or cull, starting with Commissar Landry. I've had enough of that martinet; I will gut him with my own hands and enjoy seeing the life fade from his eyes."