Realization of their predicament came slowly to the inhabitants of Hydra Volantis, but when it did, the general reaction was disbelief and fear. Families gathered together in this moment of grim uncertainty, co-workers whispered amongst themselves, questioning what this development could mean for their quiet colony. The Ancients had returned, and they were nothing like the old stories had suggested.
The Planetary Governor Jerteff Eibel knew exactly what it meant the moment power armored soldiers breached the door to his underground vault, finding him surrounded by lavish comforts whilst his people suffered and died on the surface above.
He had tried to explain to them, tell them that the people had obviously done something to anger the God-Emperor, and that His glorious majesty had obviously wished it of him to survive the depredations of the xenos invasion. They did not listen, instead they trained their weapons upon him and his senior staff, demanding their absolute compliance under pain of death. Eibel could not help releasing a few drops of urine into his undergarments in that moment.
Next he found himself in white room, there was no doors, vents, or even a visible source of the dull light that illuminated the totally featureless walls, floor, and ceiling, it made him feel as if he had been sealed in some unnatural, hingeless box, forever forgotten. Except he was not forgotten, sometimes he would wake up inside a strange room, strapped to a table surrounded by unfathomable machines and beings wearing white suits and blank-faced masks.
"A mind so easily disjointed by random stimuli is a symptom of madness, this can be encouraged."
They had needles, bizarre glinting arcane things. But they endowed little pain to the senses, at least not pain he was fully cognizant of. They asked him the same things, again and again. He told them that he was faithful, that he was not a bad man, it was the peasants that were to blame.
They did not believe him.
"A mind so easily disjointed by random stimuli is a symptom of madness, this can be encouraged."
Then the visions started. He would be lying on his back inside the white box without hinge or lid. What he saw varied, and seemed connected to what the medicae did to him during their sessions – he preferred to think of them as "medicae" and not sorcerers – they summoned shapes of light from their palms, which they used to manipulate the machinery around them, in particular the lights.
The lights were not normal, they blinked at different intensities, different combinations. He could not tell how many were in the room, concentrations of photons kissed at his peripheral vision at times, so there may have been more behind him. But they were doing something to his head, his thoughts became heavier, his face tingled, and his vision blurred around the edges.
They asked their questions again and again, when his answers failed to satisfy, the lights would be turned on.
When the lights came slowly, blinking in pairs, or one at a time nothing much happened. The masked faces would loom over him, their voices spoke directly into his head. These witch medicae only appeared when the lights would be turned on.
When the lights came faster, flickering quickly from one angle to the next, sometimes flashing twice, he began to see anomalies with skittering feet and too many eyes, crawling forth to embrace him.
And when the lights ran so fast his eyes could not follow, he could not discern anything as his mind becomes mush and cold sweat erupts upon his skin. He could only watch the kaleidoscopic barrage of strobes as they sought to melt away the last of his sane thoughts.
"A mind so easily disjointed by random stimuli is a symptom of madness, this can be encouraged."
He had asked them many times; why they were doing this to them, what was the point of the lights. Each time he did so, they gave him the lights, over time linear trains of thought became increasingly difficult to maintain, as his mind seemed to be perpetually kept in a semi-liquid state, thoughts became stuck in the mud, but his memories still stood clear.
He remembered the one session where a medicae took pity on him and answered: "A mind so easily disjointed by random stimuli is a symptom of madness, this can be encouraged."
The medicae started turning on the lights.
Eventually he gave them everything, every scrap of knowledge they asked for he offered freely. As a 'reward' he had been allowed to mingle with other prisoners, the ones who presumably went through similar ordeals as himself.
They had put something in his head, cursed him in some unnatural way. Some form of techno-sorcery he had never known to exist. Where images flashed so quickly, he failed to consciously register it.
Sometimes when he blinked, a scene was conjured within that brief moment of darkness. These unnatural sights did not appear every time, sometimes hours would pass before they returned to haunt him again, and even when it first started the frequency was irregular. There was no way for him to predict when it would happen.
The image was of his people. He saw them, broken, mutilated, torn to shreds. He never got to see these horrific scenes quite clearly, because the image was only there for an instant, even if he kept his eyes shut.
He was haunted, by the corpses, by the blood, and other things.
Eibel prayed desperately to the God-Emperor for deliverance, but it seemed He on Terra had abandoned him to his fate.
These unnatural humans were punishing him, he had realized. Not out of anything he did, but what he failed to do. His duty. Because he had done what every other person who feared death would do, flee and survive. They could not have that.
Today inside the common room, he encountered someone he knew. His trade secretary, one of the people he saw worthy to accompany him into the vault, Arnis Gamod. Arnis ignored him, there was no recognition in his eyes, consumed by his own troubles Eibel would have payed him no further mind if he did not notice the sporadic trembles afflicting the man's posture.
"A mind so easily disjointed by random stimuli is a symptom of madness, this can be encouraged."
He watched Gamod closely, observed as occasionally when his eyes closed, tremors would run through his hands followed by a sharp intake of breath. He would then look behind him, as if checking to see if some hidden monster was stalking him.
He cried more than he usually did that night, imploring the Emperor harder than ever to reach His hand out and rescue him from this nightmare. It was not until morning when the solution finally came to him.
The interrogators standing over the body appraised the scene, uncaring of the blood pooling around the corpse which marred the all round cleanliness of it's surroundings. The shard of scrap metal lay bloody on the edge of the deceased governor's fingertips. The tallest of them gave a slight sigh of exasperation.
"Had he waited a few more days, he would have been released," he commented with a stiff tone of obvious irritation.
"His spirit was weak," the shorter, a woman commented, "Many of these 'Imperials' exhibit several deficits in body and character, it does not surprise me he was driven to ending it so soon."
"Shall I have medical revive him?" the man asked.
"No, he has given us all we need," she replied dispassionately, "He had no place among us save for being an example to his former subjects. Have the body taken to the morgue and recycled."
"By your command." the man said.
As the woman left the cell, the man knelt down by the corpse and slowly shut it's eyes with two fingers. Perhaps he should have informed the man that dementia was a symptom of encouragement, when the mind failed so grossly to maintain a linear train of thought, when the id withered into a primal cycle of self harm, as the super-ego collapsed upon itself to be left in ruins. But again that was the intention. Mankind was a race ruled by responsibility, and those that shirked responsibility were dishonored men. The Reclamation demanded that the shirkers be made examples of, for humanity could no longer allow such defective elements to hold it back from it's destiny.
"A mind so easily disjointed by random stimuli is a symptom of madness, this can be encouraged."
Colonel August Chelkar was out of a job. His story was the same as every other member of the PDF, the Ancients had quickly gone to work dismantling every face of Imperial authority on the planet, and that included the armed forces. There had been some resistance, which had been promptly quashed under the martial heels of the new rulers of this planet. The governor and his cabinet had not resurfaced from whatever hole he had crawled into when the roks first started falling, which meant that either the orks got to him, or the Federation did.
Which was why August had sequestered himself to a small bar in Arkistead, trying to lay low and keep below the Federation's notice. Some members of the PDF higher up on the chain of command had already been taken away, most of them were eventually released but some had been adversely changed by whatever the Ancients had done to them. It was enough to make the former colonel very paranoid, not knowing whether he would be woken up one night by power suited police officers kicking his door down intent on his abduction. He now slept with a fully loaded bolt-pistol on the night stand within easy reach.
Today he was extra alert, he was supposed to meet someone.
He sipped deeply from the dark, steaming drink in front of him. It was probably one of the few things the Feds brought that did not strike him as menacingly alien, it was like recaf but a million times more satisfying, a magical beverage called coffee. He had thought it was only a myth.
He was brought out of his musings when a medium built man took a seat next to him, August cast a sidelong glance at the newcomer, taking in his tan complexion, bald head and black goatee. "Mahad."
Major Adar Mahad was August's second in command before the Federation effectively dissolved the PDF, he was also a close friend of his throughout his career. He was one of the few people he could trust implicitly in this time of uncertainty. Too many people were stepping in line with the Federation, although ending all disease, correcting food and water shortages in addition to reigning in the criminal elements may have had as much to do with that as destroying the orks, and the fear they passively projected upon the populace.
"Colonel," he said with a nod as he silently gestured the barkeep to give him the same thing August was having.
"Have any trouble getting here?" August asked him.
"I got held up at one of their checkpoints, nothing serious; at least I hope not," the man said with a shrug. Looks like I'm not the only one worried about getting grabbed. August thought.
"Any word from the cogboys?" August inquired.
"I have called in to the other settlements, there are no techpriests to be found, it's like they completely vanished from their haunts," Adar murmured darkly, "The Feds have taken them, there is no doubt about it." Which meant that they were all being held at the Panopticon, or Rapture City as the Ancients preferred to call their subterranean super-metropolis. But there were rumors running around that they had a much bigger headquarters in space called 'The Citadel' probably a starfort of some design.
"Fragging bastards," August growled under his breath, at this point it would take nothing less than Lord Macharius coming back from the dead to bring this world back under the rule of the Imperium. But something had to be done, August was not one to bow to the will of heretics, no matter how much techno-sorcery was brought into the equation. But their technology made all conventional means of resistance an act of supreme futility, he had to think smart, and without the Mechanicus their intellectual resources were limited. But resistance had to start somewhere, and the sooner that they got in front of the Federation's mounting influence, the better it would be for the loyalists that remained.
"You think they will be coming after you soon?" Adar questioned, concern etched upon his narrow face.
"I think they are already watching me," August admitted, "They are waiting for a reason to bring me in, why else would they put it off for so long?"
Before Adar could answer a metal cup containing the marvelous black liquid was placed in front of him. August waited as his friend took a long sip of his coffee, impatient for his response. Setting down the cup he spoke. "It could mean many things, perhaps nothing at all. Are you thinking about throwing in the towel?"
"No, I have a plan," August said a little hotly, "But I can't discuss it here. Gather who you can trust, I will do the same; wait for my next message, I will tell you when and where."
The two men finished their coffee, Adar left first, August followed him minutes after. Upon exiting signs of the Ancients control was more apparent. No longer did he need to use a filter to keep the dust from entering his lungs, a massive dome shaped invisible barrier had been erected over the city, insulating the inhabitants from the choking winds.
Strange floating machines patrolled above the streets, their large swivel mounted eyes gazing at pedestrians as their anti-grav pylons propelled them along. Occasionally sleek aircraft would pass by overhead.
The hustle and bustle of the city had been replaced by enforced silence; something had to be done. August whispered a prayer under his breath as he made his way back to his dwelling, all the time feeling invisible eyes screwing into his back.
He stood in the midst of a swirling sea of lights, each individual mote resolved into detailed holographic representations of star systems. The ones he was focused on were the ones that had been highlighted and marked as reconnoitered. For the past month, Tarson Kerensky had been sending ships and probes to explore the surrounding region, assessing each and every one for signs of life, particularly human life.
In the two months since breaking the xenos invasion. The Federation Enclave had effectively reclaimed Hydra Volantis, a provisional meritocracy had been established upon the ruins of the former oligarchy, and the masses were beginning to step in line. With the planet under control, he was free to attend to the Reclamation. It was going to be more difficult than he first imagined.
The more here heard back from his subordinates about the Imperium of Man, the more agitated he became. It appeared that the Fugitive had been the one to successfully grab the power reigns of Terra in the end, for who else could have done the things supposedly accomplished by the now thankfully dead psychic? Kerensky only had a bare inkling of what the Fugitive truly was, an ageless creature who while supposedly taking mankind's side, operated and thought in ways that were strictly inhuman. The idea that such a mutant could rise to command the whole of the human race galled the admiral to no end.
Worse was the legacy he left behind. The Imperium of Man. The fact that the Fugitive crowned himself an emperor only proved the inherent megalomania and misanthropy of psykers, the knowledge he also proclaimed himself a god suggested an arrogance to rival the worst of the eldar race.
The Imperium was apparently some kind of dystopian confederacy, a collection of upwards a million worlds loosely connected to a political nerve center based on Terra. Technology was slowly becoming a myth, almost a religious institution in and of itself, and extreme persecution was meted out to those who questioned the morality or necessity of the endless conflicts or the divine rule of the Emperor.
There was no sub-space comm network, nor any other way for quick communication, instead they leaned on the use of inefficient telepaths to relay messages, meaning that emergency maydays may take weeks or even months to reach the ordained authorities. The warp drive technology was significantly behind the curve, it was dangerous and unpredictable to those who chose to risk it. What was worse was the number of enemies that the Imperium had made for humanity, the Orks were only the tip of the mountain. Worlds along the fringe were being pillaged, plundered, or in some cases outright destroyed.
This neo-feudal political system ran counter to everything that the Federation stood for, from harboring mutants to it's gross inefficiency. It was a stagnant cesspool of corruption and unproductive governance that all but screamed out to be burnt to the ground.
And that was exactly what Kerensky planned to do, there was no room for negotiation or fairness, only the absolute reclamation of humanity would suffice.
His current forces were easily enough to reclaim the sector Hydra Volantis was situated in, this far from Terra the Imperium had a limited military presence, but to move beyond the Reach he would need larger fleets and armies to breech the massed defenses further into their territory. But for now, plans for the liberation of the Centaurus Reach were in the process of being drawn up, expeditionary fleets were being organized, and bioworks factories were being turned over to produce entire generations of citizens that would serve the cause of mankind to their dying breath.
It was then when his mindlink registered another presence coming into the astrometrics lab.
"You called to see me Tarson?" an accented male voice asked from behind.
"Stand next to me Alexi, there is something I need to show you," Kerensky said, turning to regard his guest. Vice Admiral Alexi Keeler was a man of broader build and slightly shorter height than himself. Alexi was the admiral's friend and protege, possessed of a sharp wit and a tactical genius rivaled by few.
"I have already reviewed the reports on the Imperium Tarson," Alexi said with a tone of disinterest as he moved to stand next to the Enclave's supreme commander. "They bear little threat to our ultimate agenda."
"Then you have seen nothing," Tarson replied as he looked to one of the small system representations floating in front of him. The image blew up and expanded, revealing a binary system with half a dozen planets, one world was isolated from the rest.
"Morandil IV, five-thousand-one-hundred-and-thirty-three lightyears from here, is being invaded," Kerensky explained. A live-capture feed being supplied by the drone sent to the system filled up the space in front of them. It showed endless hordes of ravening, insectoid monstrosities descending upon encircled defenders, scythe-like limbs cutting into lightly armored bodies with ease.
"The Imperials call them Tyranids," Kerensky explained to the slightly alarmed Alexi, "We do not have much information on them yet, but this is just one of the threats we must address alongside the Imperium." he dismissed the live feed, "You must go into this with both eyes open. Once started it must be seen through to the end. Are you prepared to go all the way with this, Alexi?"
There was silence between them for a few moments, "Yes," Alexi finally answered, "I am prepared to see this through all the way, my good admiral."
"Good," Kerensky smiled, "You will need that conviction for the first step." He gestured to a collection of systems which were highlighted by his mental command. "The Armory World of Voltrat Lionis, the Forge World of Maestros Prime, and the Imperial Navy rally point over Balmora II, these targets must fall before we can begin bringing the sector under Federal compliance."
"Thoughtful of the Imperials to put all their eggs in three baskets." Alexi commented.
"It will be their downfall," Kerensky agreed, "For now there is much work to be done."
It would not be long until they were ready to strike, and Kerensky genuinely pitied the ones that would stand in their way.
On a far flung world steeped in unrest, a man of trim build dressed in a black leather great coat, crimson sash, and various authoritative adornments reclined easily upon a chair within a stately apartment. A well used chainsword lay against the armrest to his right, and a similarly worn but highly serviceable laspistol lay on the table to his left.
The comforting warmth of a fire roared in an alcove in front of him, the heat tempting him to slip off his stuffy great coat. But for now he could not be bothered to do so, engrossed as he was reading the play-by-play for his favorite scrumball team.
A telltale itch on the back of his hand distracted him from fully enjoying the Harriers latest victory, and a small spectre of paranoia and dread started coloring his thoughts.
A malodorous armoa chose that moment to invade his nostrils, alerting him to the arrival of his aide.
"Tanna, sir?" The disheveled Valhallan asked.
"Yes, Jurgen thank you," the Commissar replied gratefully. As he imbibed the drink, the self-obsessed political officer felt his nerves settle, the strong bitter taste chased the dread away. But still he remained somewhat troubled, as if some galaxy shattering calamity was coming his way and once more he would be in a life or death struggle.
Unbeknownst to him, trouble had already arrived in the form of an unidentified ship falling out of the warp on the system's outer edge.
A/N: Not much action in this chapter aside from a little grimdark. I cut it short here so I can give the next part the full amount of justice. Really this is just my way to break into a two month timeskip. Still not sure if I did any good with it.
Also, three guesses who the Commissar is, the first two don't count.
