For a long time people considered it an act of treason. No, it would be fair to say it stands as the most treasonous move in the history of our system. The usurpation of the planetary government, a bloody rebellion sponsored by the church itself.
But in truth, it had all started with good intention, good leadership and good cause. They acted in secrecy, a coalition of the willing, all gathered in the shadows of the slums, in the underground, organizing. Word spread, and hope grew; no one could have ever dared something as this before, and with the supposed sponsorship by the Cult Imperialis, all people knew they were about to know justice in action.
In truth it was not very romantic, not in the planning. By day the main conspirators went about their work, playing a low profile, staying careful, sure nothing was astray in the image of serenity. At night though, and in times of restfulness for the populace, places of loyal people became gathering grounds.
In the minds of the people, who would see the uniform marches and secret meetings, there was a huge ballad at play, a brave, romantic dance of secrecy. Yes it was secret, but not nearly as interesting as one might think a rebellion would be.
Yes, there was recruiting and many stories and many people to share them. With the help of Djokhar Dudayev, held in great renown with the people the revolution quickly had the support of every man and women of the city, and with the help of merchant leaders like Ivan Serov, the word and support spread across the empty plains of the world to every other city, new outcroppings of cloaked conspirators rising, with civilian enlistees to back them.
Though in truth, most of the forces came from the new Planetary Defense Force, led by their General Aleksei Novikov. Governor Lazarus was not a Warmaster in their memory, just an old legend, and they'd never fought by his side. The General was their leader, and he'd been there in the cloak and dagger meeting, in the shadow.
None of it was hard to procure, not the resources or men. The most difficult aspect of it all was seeping their blunt propaganda into the minds of the people, and letting them know in the end it was the church's will, and therefore the Emperor's. And that wasn't very difficult for a group as wise as theirs.
They called it the March Revolution, and not a soul forgot, not a soul dared be found elsewhere when the day they'd all been speaking of came.
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We marched a proud force, straight up the main road to the capitol, right uphill to the massive citadel looming over our city. A deep gust threw down at us, through the cobblestone lanes, wide enough to accompany my closest allies and our army.
And yea, it was an army. My men didn't need convincing; they saw the way Lazarus had left our world, and they trusted me in all things. No blood needed to be shed, that they knew, but if the men atop their high towers and peaks could see our devotion and unity, they would see our righteousness.
And that failing, we had our armour at our sides, our mechanized companies, thousands of men marching in formation under the unified banner; the red clothe, the eye of the Arch Bishop.
Our people lined the buildings, watching silently, nervous but proud of us, prouder than the day we rode home through victory. This was the liberation of the planet we protected.
Before us, the shadow of the great Victory Spire loomed, a mess of towers and peaks of metal, a testament to the hero of our world, the one who'd grown old and failed us many times over. Behind us, a massive city sprawled in sickness and decay, begging for its saviors. To our sides, our people watched from the windows and roofs, anxious.
And I rode at the front, with the new heroes of our world.
I was with Arch Bishop Mavichel when it came down to his words, riding upon my honored Baneblade steed, all of us robed in the uniforms of our trade. Rightfully, I was in our PDF's red armor, all my medals upon me, all the regalia, and I stood among other great men, politicians in their suits, men of the Munitorum and Clergy and Mechanicum in their gowns and armor. At our front, rightly leading us as he had done from the start, stood Father Mavichel.
The one thing connected us all was the red cloak, the cloak we'd all worn for secrecy, but now wore for distinction. They were blood red and unadorned, in the color of our systems oldest tradition. Mavichel wore only this, his body obscured in red clothe.
All moved as one, and stopped as one when his hand rose in the air. He looked up calmly at the men gathered at the lowest balcony, ready to discuss their surrender. What they had to defend themselves with, an army rivaling my own, the men left behind as we campaigned to keep our planet safe, lined the walls of the Victory Spire, ready to fight if the need arose.
"Look now, all people upon this day, the peculiarity of these events. Our people here have come to a crossroads, a point where one infallible word and letter has met another, the unstoppable force and the immovable object. This is a long standing riddle, a conundrum with which philosophers look down upon lesser men. But we, we are great men, I say."
As whenever he spoke, not a foreign word flittered in the air about him, not a wisp of wind challenging him with a sound to work to lessen his message. Gods looked down on us that day; they let all be silent for him, because in the end he would be forever right.
Mavichel waited for a moment, a small creature of a thrall-man whispering these words into the whitened, atrophied form of Lazarus. Lazarus's face showed no response, his mind to far gone beyond him to allow him to play any part in this. It was, in the end, just a respect paid to what was left of the Warmaster.
"But let us not take this in vanity, but as a responsibility. We are great men, and this is a great day, when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object. Let us come to a great, wise, and peaceful resolution."
In my mind, I find what the politicians said in response tedious and hollow, more of a pleasantry, like letting Lazarus attend the meeting. They didn't need to speak, Mavichel could do all that for them, he could tell them what was going to happen, and no matter how he put it, it would be just. The man speaking in the place of their organization, the government, was plain and not nearly the character that Mavichel was.
Tales told of how romantic, how fantastic it was, but those were just tales for people who needed them for these proceedings to be as imperative as they really were. Though tales they were, it had all been beautiful.
There was little in the way of back and forth between us, each one of the men on my Baneblade stepped forth and made the case and speech they'd prepared, and the representatives in their balcony made their response, that was not far beyond full agreement. We would win that day; we would have our way.
When the first shot came, it was a strange, strange moment.
For a few seconds no one spoke, knowing something had gone wrong somewhere, something had fallen through. Everyone stood silent, staring at where the representative had once been. It was wrong, all of it.
Without warning the whole city exploded in screams of dismay and anger, chaos claiming a beautiful day and making it black. Laser fire cried out in response to the sudden assassination, everyone scrambling for some kind of direction.
I saw Father Mavichel recoil and thought the worst, quickly going to him. His tanned features went a deep pale, those wise brown orbs of his growing wide in disbelief.
"Father! Father, let's get you to safety, Father," I moaned, my composure lost as fire reigned the air his words once graced. Mavichel's reply was weak and conveyed his inability to understand. He was saying something; staring up at where the man had once been, up at the sky, searching for his God. Our God.
"What is it Father?" I asked, all our wise conspirators dissipating into the roiling mass of death and miscommunication. I held him as he fell to the ground. He had been so wise, and so young.
"Who…? Who did this…? Who's to blame?" he asked, so many questions he suddenly didn't have any more wise answers for. "Where did we go wrong…?"
"I don't know Father, I just don't know…"
I'm not proud of how I acted. I knew he was going to die, and I knew my men needed direction in this Hell of a day. But my strength was gone from me. I watched a prophet, no, a messiah, die in my arms. There was nothing I could do.
He didn't respond to me though, he stared right up into the sky, never relenting with that look, knowing somewhere he had been lead astray.
"Was it not your word, my Emperor…?"
Before I knew it there were men at my side, and I could feel my tank firing away with a fever below me. They didn't take me, they took him, he was the one he needed his people. But my people needed me.
In a flash, I was back in the battle, but quickly I knew there was no fight to be fought. There were as many men here, struggling in a storm of melee and bloody death, as I had seen in my greatest action. There were no maneuvers, no tactics or formations. All we could do was flee, let who was left defend us in their panic.
It all blurred together inside the safety of the armour. I didn't say a word; all I could do was lay silent. I heard my men's voices and the background over the vox-systems. They were dying, but now it was in vain. It was over for all of us, for the government, for the church, for our planet and our people. We could never reconcile this.
"All available and unengaged units fall back! Flee to wherever is still safe! We must reorganize, we've lost…" I heard a man cry, my second-in-command, right at my side. "Take our leaders with you if you can…"
There was no more I could do, I knew it was over. It had been perfect…
"Honor the Arch Bishop…"
People told me later, and I heard over the vox, the tanks were firing, ordinance shells violating the beauty of the Parade Route, where heroes marched in victory. Buildings collapsed in flames, the bystanders to a wonderful day of resolution killed because no one knew who to shoot anymore. There were too many people, it was beyond avoiding.
Outside, the men were calling for their leaders, for direction. We were two sides of a conflict, but still we wore the same uniform that had united us, brothers in battle, even on that Black Day.
No one spoke in our flight. A few wept silently. It hadn't taken much, but suddenly no one knew who we were fighting for…
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They called it the March Revolution, and not a soul forgot, not a soul dared be found elsewhere when the day they'd all been speaking of came.