Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 115
Vanderspeak was awoken by a faint jolt, shaking the cot hard enough to rattle his head against the wall. The alarm sent him tumbling to the floor, fighting the thin sheets. His arms flailed with the synthflax material, thinking he was under attack. After a moment of confused wrestling then he tore it free and leapt to his feet. He rushed to the vox-unit on the wall and hit a rune, contacting the bridge.
"Vanderspeak here, report!" he barked.
"General?" a confused watch officer replied.
"What hit us?!" Vanderspeak demanded.
"Hit us... Sir, we ran over a Leman Russ hull, and jolted the suspension but the Terricoli predicted it would cause us no issues. We proceed on course."
Vanderspeak rubbed his brow, "What of the Terrans?"
"They have withdrawn to the third line completely. Our units lacked the fuel to pursue. We had to let them go. No immediate threats detected."
"I see," Vanderspeak sighed, "Contact me if any emergencies unfold and have Disquisitor Von Tor attend me in my quarters."
Vanderspeak dropped the line before any response was forthcoming, then he looked down. He was dressed in his shirt and breeches, crumpled and unlovely. He'd been bone tired when he came to bed, pausing only to kick off his boots and jacket, thankfully remembering to hang up his Inferno pistol before falling into bed. His chin was stubbly and he smelled bad, that wouldn't do. Vanderspeak's quarters were modest, with a bed, desk and metal cabinet along with a devotional shrine and an ablution chamber. Meaner than a junior officer's billet in the Hive spire, but on a mobile war fort it was luxurious.
Severcole rubbed his hand over his head, then went to empty his bladder. After that he used the small basin to shave, scraping whiskers off his chin. Halfway through he paused, remembering something. In his befuddled state he'd asked for the Disquisitor to visit. He didn't know why he had done that, some vague impulse of sleep compelling him to act. He racked his brain, trying to recapture the dream. It was slippery and half-formed, but important. When he remembered why he gritted his teeth and nearly threw down the razor.
Vanderspeak stilled his hand and forced himself to finish. He threw his dirty clothes into the bottom of his cabinet, then dressed in laundered clothes. He was just pulling on his boots when the door opened, Von Tor, entering without waiting for permission. The Disquisitor looked disgustingly fresh, despite having as little sleep as the General. His robe was crisp and his many rings glittered. He looked jovial, despite the lingering paleness of his skin after the recent encounter with Neurotoxins.
"Disquisitor, you didn't knock," Vanderspeak snapped.
Von Tor cocked an eyebrow, "I thought we were past all that Severcole."
"You thought wrong," Vanderspeak retorted, "Jethro."
"You sound aggrieved, but surely all is well. We have driven further and faster in two days than your people have managed in seventeen years."
"Sit down with me," Vanderspeak gestured as he pulled out a metal chair. The Disquisitor did as bid, sitting at the narrow desk, two of the most powerful men on Tellaris, squatting together at a desk fit only for a third-grade lexsavant. To Vanderspeak's surprise the Disquisitor reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of greenish fruit, with purpling underbellies. Fresh and ripe, succulent, the kind of produce not seen on Tellaris in decades. The import of his words nearly died as the General eyed the fruit, his mouth watering.
"Ploin?" Von Tor proffered one.
"Where'd you get that?" Vanderspeak asked as he reached out to hold the delicate prize.
"Rank has its privileges," Von Tor chuckled.
"But they grow nowhere in this system. To ship here, store it, preserve it fresh... the cost must be exorbitant."
Von Tor held up his Ploin at eye level and turned it to and fro, "Consider it a gift from the Ur-council, a small trifle compared to the bounty we offer. We understand that effort must be rewarded. You have done great things Severcole, and we expect further greatness in the future. Novans appreciate drive and ambition, we value the young and the dynamic."
Vanderspeak scowled as his purpose came back to him, "And yet you are not Novan, you were born on Terra. You were an Inquisitor once, before you turned coat for the Disquisition."
Von Tor shrugged, "Terra is a rotten cesspit of moribund nepotism, a sinkhole of depravity and corruption. The monument to past glory that is the Senatorum Imperialis cares nothing for human life, only that status quo is maintained. The Ecclessiarchy has drained all temporal and spiritual power into itself, the other Departmentos are hollow shells, mindlessly repeating ancient directives that long ago stopped having relevance We Novans are not like those fossils on Terra, expecting fealty as our due and giving nothing back in return. After all if men have no investment in the state, why should they not seek other and darker powers?
Vanderspeak dropped his Ploin-fruit on the table, "And so you gift us a Capitol Imperialis."
"You are welcome," Von Tor smiled.
"Don't play me for a fool!" Vanderspeak snarled.
"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean."
Vanderspeak growled, "Seventeen years the Land Leviathans bled for our world, seventeen years of blood-soaked slaughter and sacrifice. You fed our forges and our bellies just enough to keep us from submitting to Terra, but never sufficient to win. Then, when our final defeat is at hand, you roll out a marvellous weapon to win the war outright. Invicta Nova, do not think I missed the connotations, Novan."
Von Tor feigned sadness, "I am disheartened that you suspect me of being dishonest. I wanted the war won many years ago, but your father dragged his heels."
"My father?" Vanderspeak blinked.
"The old High Plutocrat didn't want to win if meant depending on our help, and he only begrudgingly accepted our trade. He stalled and delayed the final dedication of Invicta Nova, always another stress-test or consecration, always another strategy to try first. But he is gone now and your triumph is at hand. Your people sing in gladness that you are in command."
Von Tor punched a nail into the Ploin and syrupy juices ran out. He put it to his lips and drank deep, sucking the goodness out. The smell hit Vanderspeak's nostrils and he almost reached for his fruit, but he withheld. The Disquisitor was a masterful liar, and not be trusted.
Vanderspeak drummed his fingers on the table as he mused, "I try to imagine my father sitting amongst the Ur-council. Debating policy and politics... it always ends in a vicious screaming match."
Von Tor smirked, "He was a larger-than-life character, but the Ur-council has many big personalities, we would have adjusted for him."
Vanderspeak glared accusingly, "How fortunate for you that you do not have to."
Von Tor's eyes hardened, "I hardly see how your father's death benefits me."
Vanderspeak hissed, "If my father were to join Nova Terra there's no way he would accept a subservient position. The only way he could stomach the Ur-council is if he was leading it. We both know that he'd have caused no end of trouble for you and your masters. But there was another option. A younger man, less stubborn and more pliant, one who displays no interest in politics. A naive fool who will do as he's told and call it duty."
Von Tor began dismissively peeling his Ploin to get at the curd beneath, "I sense an accusation forming."
Vanderspeak pressed the matter, "Haldrist noted we wouldn't have got this far without me, how true he was, if my father had lived we would never have succeeded, but that's only half the story. Disquisition, the Novan counterpart to the Inquisition. You have your Regulorium to stand in for the Administratum, your own Orthopraxy to preach and the Adjudication to enforce your laws. The Moriae Schismatics bring you your own Titanicus and Knight Houses. How strange it is that you have no counterpart for the Assassins... or maybe you do. Tell me, Disquisitor, did the High Lords send that Eversor to kill my father, or did you?!"
Von Tor paused his motions to say, "Few men confront a Disquisitor and walk away."
Vanderspeak snorted, "Fewer men fight an Eversor and live to tell the tale, yet we both did. You made sure I carried your Displacer and your antidotes were exactly what was needed to spare your life. That Eversor could have killed us both at any moment, but I surmise it was programmed not to kill you or me. Still your assassin pulled at its leash, wise of you to carry a safeguard."
"Idle speculation gets men killed," Von Tor hissed.
"You won't kill me now, if you didn't need me, I'd be dead already."
Von Tor lowered his hands and sighed, "You seem to be forgetting the facts. Your father started a rebellion he could not win, and refused the aid of those who would save him. Stubborn and bitter, he denied to his last breath that Tellaris requires Novan protection. Invicta Nova may drive the Terrans from your soil, but they will be back. Another invasion fleet will arrive next year, and the year after that and the year after that. They won't stop, they can't. Only one thing can keep them at bay: the Ur-council. Our fleets can protect your planet, the peace treaty between the High Lords and Ur-council can shelter your world. You need us, you know it to be true."
Vanderspeak retorted, "And you need our Superheavies. I know you are beset by horrors from the Halo Stars. Lose Tellaris and the Novans will bleed their strength away to nothing. Terra can walk over you at their leisure."
"I do not deny it," Von Tor admitted, "But it does not change the facts."
"You claim to be clean sweep from the corruption of Terra, dynamic and fresh, but scratch the surface and you find just more of the same old Grox-dung."
Von Tor's eyes darkened, "We are nothing like them! Terra is rotten to the core, a festering swamp of warring factions. We are better than they are, we are going to win. But you... you have a choice to make. Embrace the power and rewards of the Novans, or wither and die. Share a repast with us or starve, those are the options."
Von Tor matched deeds to words, pulling a slice of the Ploin free and swallowing it. Vanderspeak wanted to slap it from his hands but could not deny the truth. Without aid Tellaris would crumble and the rebellion would fail. Vanderspeak's people needed victory more than ever, for themselves and to cleanse the galaxy of the corruption that had taken root among the High Lords. The God-Emperor himself looked to Tellaris to make it right, they were His favoured people, the ones who would build a better Imperium. That hope could not be allowed to gutter out. No matter what Vanderspeak suspected he could not deny that he needed the Novans, and he needed Von Tor. Without breaking eye contact Vanderspeak picked up the spare Ploin and broke the skin. Rich juices ran over his fingers as he lifted it to his lips to sup deep. The taste became bitter on his tongue but he drank it all down with firm resolve. He could stomach this for his people's sake, he had to.