Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 93
The sermon had been going on for an hour already, but the crowd didn't fidget. In tightly packed rows the great and the good of Holorus Hive sat in rapt attention, listening to the High Nuncio's lecture. Reciting scathing condemnations of Terran debauchery and how the decadent High Lords had failed the sacred duty laid upon them. Endless praise was heaped upon the God-Emperor but for those who claimed to serve His will, there was only scorn. The Tellarites had stomached the rancid stagnation as long as any man could bear, but it had gone too far. The righteous and the just must throw off the shackles of Terra and join the true faith. So the preacher exhorted and the crowd lapped up every word.
General Severcole Vanderspeak sat in the pews with his hands folded in his lap and allowed his eyes to unfocus. He did not see the ornate finery of the Templum, nor the rich tapestries embroidered with scenes of Tellerite conquests. The smoking braziers were merely a backdrop and the echoing speech was a buzz in his augmetic ears. It wasn't that he disagreed with the sentiment, he embraced every word, it was only that he'd heard the speech so many times he could practically recite it word for word. High Nuncio Trellane had been making the same declaration for years, literally. The man had died a decade ago and then been rebuilt as a Servitor, so to keep echoing his words for eternity.
Out of the corner of his eye Vanderspeak examined the congregation. Lords and ladies of high birth and ambitious men of industry. They listened with amazement in their eyes, but he wondered how many of them were actually listening to the speech. Like him they'd played this scene out over and over, right down to their clothes. Musty shoulder pads, dulled jewels in hair and frayed hems on skirts told a sorry tale, even the richest Tellarites couldn't afford the luxuries they expected, a far more distressing concern for them than the billions of soldier's lives lost in the conflict.
The sermon concluded on the same note it always did and the crowd rose to thunderous applause. Severcole was with them, banging his hands together till they hurt. He didn't dare show anything less than total enthusiasm, no one did, to hint that the rebellion was not storming to total victory was a death sentence in these times. Few were deluded enough to think the rebellion was going well, even amongst pampered the nobility, but they dealt with that by collectively pretending nothing was wrong.
The crowd began to shuffle out as the High Nunico was wheeled away on tracks built into his podium. Vanderspeak however sat down saying, "You may as well get comfortable."
Gun-Captain Haldrist looked to the door and protested, "Everyone else is leaving."
"They're mingling, everyone talking to everyone, trust me it will take half an hour before you'd even see the door."
Haldrist sat his rear down and waited. It was the first time the Gun-captain had attended the service and he looked suitably impressed. Normally one so lowly as he would never have been let through the door, but Vanderspeak's position was grand enough to permit aides. Haldrist had performed well in the last sortie and seemed likely to rise to staff-rank in due course. Enough men had, casualty rates among the senior leadership were high, even though most of them sheltered behind Colossi armour and shields.
Haldrist leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "Did you hear the reports?"
Vanderspeak glanced about but the din was great enough to cover loose talk and he had long mastered the trick of speaking without moving his lips, it was safe enough, if they were careful. "Do tell?"
"That artillery park we destroyed, the Terrans replaced it within three days."
"And?" Vanderspeak remarked.
"Two thousand good men died for nothing. Our lines didn't shift one inch, the Terrans replaced their losses without even noticing. No matter how many sorties we mount they just keep coming, it's like trying to hold back the tide with our bare hands."
Vanderspeak scowled, "You'd better shut your mouth."
Haldrist blinked, "I'm only..."
"This war can only end with a resounding Tellarite victory. Everyone knows it to be true. To say otherwise is to invite descension and discord, something my father will not tolerate. If you intend to rise to staff-rank you'd better learn to watch your tongue, even in private. If you can't then jump off the top of the spire, before you find yourself being pushed."
Haldrist fell quiet, his grimy features downcast. Vanderspeak however was distracted as a page pushed his way through the crowd, apologising to those he ruffled as he passed. The lad squirmed his way to where the General sat, then bowed over the pew and said, "General, the High Plutocrat demands you attend upon him."
"Of course," Vanderspeak allowed, "Lead on."
The pair rose to their feet and followed the page, elbowing their way through the crowd. Some turned to protest but settled down when they saw who was shoving past them. After several tense minutes the trio reached an elevator shaft, protected by armed guards in frayed tunics that had once been fine. They were waved past without comment and entered a Glassic elevator, which began to ascend rapidly as the page pulled a lever.
Vanderspeak gazed out the windows as they shot upwards, climbing the outside of the spire. As soon as they cleared the Templum the vista opened up, a stunning sweep of the planet, dwelling under a yellow sky. Despite the eternal pollution of Tellaris Vanderspeak could make out the Hive walls far below, and the Tellarite trenchworks running from one horizon to the other. The gap between them and the Terran lines looked minuscule from this height, and beyond the Isthmus between two continents. From the Bleached Sea to the Rad Spoils the trenches stretched, marking the front line of the Rebellion. Beyond his sight lay the Hives and spaceports the Terrans had overrun, bringing in fresh troops daily. A mere tenth of the planet lay in Terra's grip but they could advance no further unless they broke out of this chokepoint, which Vanderspeak had dedicated his life to preventing.
A tinge of melancholy touched his heart. Twenty years ago the Tellarite armies had bestrode the stars, taking advantage of Terra's squabble with the Novans to carve out a pocket empire. For six months they'd rampaged freely, but they'd underestimated Terra's resolve. A massive counterattack had seen their armies shattered and fleets destroyed. Three years of frantic retreat and rearguard actions, all the way back to the haven of Tellaris. Here they had checked the Terrans, holding the endless hordes at bay, but unable to dislodge them from their world. Seventeen years of carnage on an unimaginable scale, without any prospect of victory or defeat.
They reached the spire summit and disappeared into an armoured gullet. Momentary darkness embraced them, then they slowed and came to a halt. The interior door ground open and Vanderspeak stepped into a palace of faded grandeur. The welcoming hall, once a euphoric vision of brass and silver, was now aged and threadbare. The brass fittings had gone green, the silver had tarnished and the carpet was worn thin in places, its patterns so worn down as to be unrecognisable. Once beautiful, bejewelled chandeliers hung like toothless gums, their riches plundered to pay for the war effort and the gold had been stripped from doorways and name-plaques. The air was uncomfortably warm, as air exchangers spluttered impotently and the heat of the levels below built up, while the heavy perfume sprayed liberally didn't quite cover the scent of mildew. It was a monument to stubborn pride and wilful blindness to the passing of time, a refusal to accept that the best years were behind and the glory of youth had long departed. The home of a man refusing to accept his fashions no longer suited his advancing years and only emphasised his age rather than concealed it.
The man himself was far worse. Limping towards them came Horace Vanderspeak, High Plutocrat of Tellaris. He was a withered giant, his muscles long since wasted and his spine crooked. He walked with a cane, leaning painfully with every step yet refusing the aid of a hoverchair. His jacket was overburdened with medals and his scalp was covered by an extremely bad combover, and yet in his eyes was fire and grit. The look of a man who had conquered worlds and then fought over every bloody inch of the road home. He wasn't beaten, and he wouldn't be until he was in the cold hard ground.
"Severcole!" the High Plutocrat hollered in a hoarse voice, "My conquering son!"
"High Plutocrat," Severcole Vanderspeak bowed to his father.
"Quit playing the general for five minutes, give your father your hand."
Severcole did as bid, gripping a palm that felt like a purse full of bones, "My congratulations on another fine victory."
Horace dropped his hand and snorted, "I should be saying that to you, you gave the Terran scum a fine drubbing!"
"Only thanks to your strategy."
"Pish posh, you cut a fine figure doing it as I do say. Still can't understand why you insist on driving about in a mere Hellhound though, when there are Colossi available."
Haldrist stiffened at the disparaging of his beloved superheavy but Severcole covered, "Lead from the front, it is the Vanderspeak way. You did the same when you conquered the stars."
"Aye, those were fine days," Horace sighed, "But look at us now, fighting over the same patch of mud for seventeen years. Selling our shells and tanks to Novans, just to feed our workers."
"Backstabbing Novans, almost as bad as the Terrans," Haldrist muttered.
"Now, now they aren't that bad," Horace demurred, "Jethro Von Tor promises us ever greater victuals and a place in the Ur-council, after we win our freedom."
Severcole narrowed his eyes at the mention of the Novan envoy, "Does the Disquisitor promise us Titans?"
Horace grimaced in distaste, "Still no, the terms of the peace between Terran and Novan do not allow shipping weapons to conflict zones, but food and raw material neither side can deny passage to. The Novans feed our bellies and our forges, and they get our shells and Superheavies. All we need to do is break the Terrans and drive them from our world!"
The fire in the old man's voice was inspiring but Severcole grumbled, "A single Titan maniple could end this war in a day."
Horace poked him in the chest with a bony finger, "Is it the Novans who trouble you, or the Disquisitor himself?"
Vanderspeak's lip curled, "Von Tor is a turncoat already, how do we know he won't betray us too? Any man born on Terra is suspect in my eyes, but an Inquisitor throwing away his Rosette, nobody leaves the Inquisition, especially not to join the Disquisition."
Horace's jovial demeanour faded as he growled, "Von Tor is the chosen Novan envoy, and we will embrace him. If we'd gone straight to the Ur-Council twenty years ago we wouldn't be in this mess. That was my mistake, don't make it yours too."
"They only want our shells," Severcole protested.
"They all do!" Horace snorted, "Tellaris is the greatest manufactory of artillery and Superheavies for three Sectors in all directions, they'd be fools to throw that away. I will hear no more on this matter."
Severcole fell silent, not wishing to press the matter further. As the Vanderspeak heir he could act forthrightly, but even he dared not argue with his father's decisions. Severcole wasn't the oldest son, merely the only one who'd lived this long. All his brothers had or died gloriously in forlorn hopes or desperate rearguards. Severcole had no wish to join them, Horace could always sire more sons if he ran out of heirs.
The old man shook his liver-spotted head, "Now onto the day's business. Your sortie drew blood and no mistake!"
"A fine victory for the Land Leviathans," Severcole deflected.
"Pissing into the wind is what it was," Horace laughed, "But it put the Terrans right where we want them!"
"Did it?" a most cautious response.
Horace flashed yellowing teeth, "You think I'm senile, sending my armies out to die over and over. What you call idiocy I call strategy! Over the last eighteen months I've allowed our attacks to fall into a pattern. We hit their artillery; they double it. We hit them again, they redouble again. They've become accustomed to our sorties, thinking we've grown predictable. Even now they ready for the next attack, expecting us to hit the artillery."
Severcole felt a cold thrill run down his back, "You've been lulling the Terrans into a false sense of security?"
"As you'd know, if you came to headquarters every once in a while, like you're supposed to! Know that while we flung shells across no-man's land our miners have been digging, slowly and quietly, to avoid the seismic surveyors, so deep as to bypass Terran counter-miners. Eighteen months it took to dig that tunnel, but at last it has crossed the lines. We're half a kilometre under their feet and they don't even know it. A few more weeks of careful digging and we'll have a three Baneblade-wide highway straight into their mess tents!"
"This, this is remarkable," Severcole gulped.
"Thought you'd like it, and I want you to spearhead the attack. Your Hellhammer will be the first to taste fresh air and carve a path through the Terran's soft underbelly."
Haldrist gulped, "This could move the frontline kilometres."
"It could drive the Terrans off-world for good," Severcole breathed, "If we can disrupt their command right as the Land Leviathans launch a major offensive, we could roll them all the way back to the spaceports."
Horace slapped his arm, "You understand, the end of the war is sight! The Rebellion will succeed and Tellaris will be free. All you have to do is follow my plan and we cannot fail!"
Severcole nodded solemnly, "I won't fail you father, God-Emperor willing, the next time we meet it will be when we toast our final victory!"