Stars and Shadows - Chapter 1

The morning dawn has come, and with it, a gorgeous view of the city and the bustling movement that flowed through its streets. The day is bright, surprising even the planners of the event, who consulted countless analytical databases, pulling from dozens of reams of old reports and the most accurate meteorological data they had. The thick, dense clouds of dark smoke that cover the sky don’t give way, really; they never do on Utoria, second hive world and mining colony of the Alderine sector, a little world of little import beyond the rapidly vanishing veins of minerals beneath its broken, craggy stone surface. The light is brighter than the norm, however; the atmosphere is particularly riled up, a symptom of radiation storms half a continent away giving off great lighting.

“Look upon the works of the God Emperor!” Cries out a voice, booming from a thousand speakers surrounding the central plaza, and the figures that stand in it. “ See those that walk upon His streets, wielding glory and righteous fury in his name!”

The servo-skulls and cherubs quiet themselves, mechanical angels fluttering alongside company banners detailing the kills, victories and holy sacrifices of the many standing beneath them. , the sound dropping off from a triumphant chorus to a background choir as the speech begins. Standing at the podium, framed by a backdrop of the highest-ranking Imperial Guardsmen in the sector, is the Planetary Governor, to one side of him the Brigadier General of the sector. “I gaze today upon a beautiful view, steel and purity in the name of our Lord covering the streets of this city and this world! Once more, we preserve the glorious legacy started by thousands of our forefathers of standing together in unison to safeguard our families and home against any threat, and for this, the dedication and majesty of our Imperial Guard cannot be overstated!”

The crowd eats up his words, cheering loudly, and much of that energy can be felt in the troops as well, though they stand silently at parade attention. Over half of the member of the Imperial Guard of the Tau System, fourth home of the Thrones, are present and in their full and best regalia. The Tau system hasn’t seen a true rebellion in over sixty years, and besides the occasional skirmish against the Grey, hasn’t had real combat within its borders in nearly a decade, but to look at the firepower and enthusiasm on display in the courtyard, one might think it had just won a war.

The families on the sidelines cheer on their children and siblings and spouses, returned from a nonexistent conflict into the safety of their homes once again, and the planners and officers and officials of the city and the planet and the system smile and wave and cheer as the morale of the city shifts. Not every soldier smiles, though. Some of them keep their heads down, a sense of duty or fear of reprisal keeping their focus tight, while others avoid the looks cast around them, hoping not to be recognized in their official uniforms by pasts they tried to leave behind. Out of all of them, some look even angry, frustrated at the thought of returning here.

Sikari Hiveborn is one such individual. Stony-faced, her expression perfectly neutral, she marches in time to the music, each step hitting the floor with slightly more force than is strictly required at each pre-rehearsed response. She stands tall amidst the soldiers, shorter than most but by only a small margin; 167 centimeters to the exact point, and slenderer than she is broad, she holds tightly to the saber at her hip, ceremonial in nature but still kept as clean and sharp as she can make it, her curls chafing under the tight brim of the formal hat she wears. On the other hip rests a bolt-pistol, a thing that is as brute and obtrusive as her sword is ornate and useless, it’s massive size making it more of a blocky shotgun than a pistol in shape. It’s not official regalia, per se; she’d be less reprimanded at the end of this had she brought along a simpler las-pistol, but this is her weapon, the one part of all this that hasn’t changed. And Thrones know she was going to come here wearing something practical.

Fuck them. Fuck them all. Fuck the parade, the spectacle of it, the idiots waving, the assholes laughing, and the proud pieces of shit walking beside her. She maintains the façade, the professionalism, the poker face she spent years relying on, but even still the disdain seeps through it to get her side-glances from some of the soldiers she marches with. She hears the slight chuckle from behind her, and it does little to ease the aggression.

“Wear a smile, captain!” Jacobi whispers behind her, the thick accent and depth to his voice at odds with his wiry frame. “Don’t you know we’re celebrating? A long due return from the line of duty!”

Usually she’d be the first to whip up a retort or push him into shutting the hell up with a reprimand, but between the bolt pistol and her rank there’s already too many eyes on her as it is to start talking mid-ceremony. How Jacobi gets away with it is both a measure of his talent at sneakily snarking and a mystery. As it is, she lets it slide. And then, in part to shut him up and in part to keep him talking, manages to quirk her lips into a slight smile.

“I meant a smile, Captain,” he says behind her, “not something even more murderous. You’ve gone from grouchy to looking like you’re picturing a massacre, you villain!”

She hears a grunt and a slight misstep behind her, one quickly corrected, as Jaks elbows Jacobi in the ribs, to a slight laugh from the latter. While she doesn’t always stick the two next to each other, Jaks’ respect for the pack dynamic often makes her an excellent counter to Jacobi’s tendency to be an ass whenever he gets bored or nervous or bored (he gets bored quite often). She takes the opportunity to make sure Jacobi’s goofing off hasn’t infected anyone else in her squadron.

With her at the head, her squadron consists of three rows, herself, her more competent trio, and the less experienced soldiers at the back, with experience and competence dictating placement (mostly). The front trio, as varied as they are competent, starts with Jacobi, who she’s known since basic training, sculpted but lean and much too tall for his own good, rich tan skin and bright blue eyes beneath an ever-so-slightly modified uniform and a smile that makes her want to punch him every time she sees it. Beside him are Jaks and Marquis, the two of them unsurprisingly close. They’re both underhivers, like her, but where Jaks comes from a tribe that had her grow tall, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, Marquis, always the quiet one, is dwarfed by her, stocky, practical in all aspects and entirely disinterested in the proceedings. He gives her the slightest nod as she looks over him, eyes cold and professional and deeply bored.

Behind them in the back row walk Liones, Tah, and Michael. As casual and relaxed as the front row is, the back row stand curt and at attention apart from each other. It took her hours to convince Tah not to come out bedecked in her totems, especially on this day of “Praise for the Mother of Steel and Smoke”, and even with that victory she can still see some bulges that don’t come from her uniform, gears and tokens and bits of metal under the fabric. Liones stands as far from her as he can without breaking formation or seemingly visibly rude, which, in High-Hive body language, is basically as close as you can get to politely telling someone to fuck off and die. He stands almost as tall as Jacobi, but twice as well presented, jet black hair pressed perfectly, uniform without a single wrinkle or non-standard modification. Michael, on the other side of Tah, seems just as uncomfortable, but he always seems uncomfortable, so it’s harder to tell. An anxious mess, a stocky, soft young man who looks tense enough that Sikari is vaguely concerned about his blood pressure, but he’s holding himself well, and despite his clear discomfort with Tah and Liones both, outside the direct presence of the more aggressive members of the squad, he’s seemingly keeping himself together.

“In the face of chaos and madness,” Governor Seraphi yells, the transmitters making sure he’s heard by everyone across the city; “Out of the dangers of the void and the horrors of rebellion and malformation, we have endured! For nearly two hundred years, Utoria has endured, as a bastion of the ever-growing Tau system! By the work of our glorious might and the brave chosen warriors of the Thrones and the Emperor On High, we stand here at the three hundredth anniversary of the founding of our world, at the three hundredth anniversary of the fourth wave of colonization and the conquest of yet another generation of the Blessed.”

Consolidation of concerns, or CoC, is the official unofficial term for it. Putting all the problem eggs in one basket.. It was their way of rewarding her for progress; record-breaking marksmanship, and a keen tactical mind that led her to more victories in the war games than any other commander in her group, and when she was finally assigned a squadron of her own… well. By her third week, they’d started transferring out her own troops for the problem children of the other squadrons, sending her way all the dysfunctional, mutinous or otherwise troublesome soldiers her way.

She’s made it work well enough so far. They’re still in uniform, anyways. And now, the parade.

They started in the massive, cubed structures of the hanging port docks, antigrav and complex architecture hanging miles from the side of the tallest spires, like a floating tower of  blocks and floating platforms, optimized and brutalist. They made their way through the midcity, where buildings are packed tightly alongside centers of commerce, markets, and entertainment centers, all piled high but not quite claustrophobic, not for the natives anyways. Many of the buildings are connected by walkways and higher streets, like a web of coral branching from one to other, making many lives literally never have to step foot on the main thoroughfares or the routes down lower into the city.

The march took the troops across the entirety of the city, keeping them mostly away from the slums and lower areas by planning the route through the larger open streets of the central city. The city proper starts almost two miles below them, beneath the planet’s crust, and the massive, overwhelming monolith of metal and technology rises from the ground like an artificial mountain, from miles below almost to the top of the atmosphere. They began the march already miles above the deeper slums and factories, into the artisan and bureaucrat tiers of habitation. Those same bureaucrats, merchants and specialists came out in droves, many of them following alongside the procession of soldiers in their gold and grey uniforms, standing proud.

Recruitment, celebration, and nostalgia all in one pumping, crying, orderly procession, the musicians and servo-skulls floating about with cherub-like faces and beautiful banners all trumpeting choruses and music in time to the march.

She heard some of them cheering.

“Ave Imperator! Pax Imperium!”

“Blessings be! Mercy of the Thrones!”

“Thrones bless the troops, haha!”

“Hope you bloody well killed some of those Grey fucks for us!”

A cacophony of voices, all of them overlapping, only the loudest and most distinct bubbling up here and there. She’s glad to be towards the middle, further from view; the poor bastards on the sidelines need ear mufflers or medical appointments, so close to noise like that.

Then came the wall. Massive, towering, two hundred and fifty meters high, well over any building beneath it as the city slopes up towards it. Surrounding its base are more official buildings, places where the Administratum work, the main base of the Arbiters of the Law in the city, each in charge of maintaining all bureaucracy and all judicial practices for an entire world and beyond, respectively. Between the two institutions are dozens of offices, buildings, warehouses, garages and more, and they form a sort of secondary wall against the lower levels, wrapping around the northern side of the wall like a buffer.

The parade reached and crosses through the gates, massive things, almost 20 feet or hardened concrete and steel worked into a complex and artistic latticework, depicting beautiful imagery of the Emperor and his mighty armies first landing on this world during the Fourth Expansion. Beyond it, the architecture changes entirely; where before it was utilitarian, decorated but functional, here as the doors open, the soldiers can see beyond them, some for the first time in their lives.

The towers are gold and crystal, glass and marble. There is more colored glass than clear, and everywhere one looks, plants grow and provide bioluminescence and perfume across gilded walkways, luxury vehicles fly through the air like birds above, and each and every building is designed uniquely, each one distinct. Past these that line the main thoroughfare are the palaces, home to the Lords and Ladies of this city and this world, each one with tiered gardens and entire communities of buildings around them. At the end of their walk, at the end of their journey, straight ahead, is a massive, mile-wide pavilion that fills nearly to the brink, standing in the shadow of the tallest building in this world; the Imperial Palace.

Despite herself she couldn’t help but be in awe of her surroundings. The courtyard itself is almost shockingly alive, surrounding the troops with more lush, verdant green life than she’s ever seen, trees, grass and bushes all arrayed around a massive central rockrete pavilion with a large stage and podium erected at their far end. At the opposite side of the plaza, highlighting the stage and standing like a massive monument into the sky, stands the palace itself, a spire of shimmering beauty, its snow-white marble complemented by enormous and artistic spirals and etchings of gold and steel.

Now, back in the moment, she can’t help but feel like the speech being given doesn’t live up to the hype.

“The galaxy is vast, my children!” Governor Seraphi cries out. “It is cold, and full of stars, and unconquerable for any, save the Emperor and the Thrones! Only in the Imperium Divine have we ever flourished beyond our solar system! Only in the wisdom of the Lords and the might of the Guard have we so advanced, and now, we see before us some of the mightiest examples of those same specimens. Without each and every one of you, the filth of the Grey, the horrors of treason, the excesses of the Blessed would threaten the homes and lives of the many beating hearts of Utoria! And for this, today, we thank you!”

Pale, with a smile gene-altered to perfection adorning a face with flourishing high cheekbones and rich, luscious golden hair, the man obviously puts far more effort into his appearance than is strictly necessary (or, she thinks to herself, tasteful). Relatively young for a planetary governor, he’s still had his fair share of regenerative treatments, his 120 years of age tailored to make him appear like a mere 30, and he peacocks on the stadium, preening to be seen by so many in a full regalia that almost hurts to look at. He stands out from most of even those on his podium; while there are several Noble houses, some mercantile and others militant and even some administrative, all favoring different fashions of extravagance from austere, brutalist and blocky to flowing iridescent feather-combos, a member of the Holy Magos stands off to the side as well. They appear nearly alien, flesh long lost or replaced in favor of home-grown biomodifications, military grade cybernetics, and exo and endo-skeletal replacements, all leading to a glowing crown of crackling, crystalline pillars of lightning, suspended and captured in anti-entropic fields. Off to the other side, as far from the Magos as they can be on stage, one of the exceedingly rare members of the Blessed stands, their features outlined in lawful gold and alabaster implants and surgical tattoos that mark them out as a member of the Golden Art, crucial to interplanetary travel, communications, and Reflect-management. All stand glorious; most also stand bored, and hiding it not quite well enough for Sikari not to notice.

As she loses focus on the particulars of the speech, her attention drifts, keeping an ear out in the background for any cues to stomp or cheer in response to something while she begins picking details out of the group. She starts running scenarios; if she was to move her squad there, and attack that target there (a particularly smug looking aristocrat, dressed in ridiculous levels of golden lace), how would each of them react?

What would be the best move to ensure the kill with everyone surviving? How would it differ if she let Jaks go a bit behind, get anxious, push forward and be a shield, gunned down to give them time? Michael, Liones and Tah would remain near the rear to be effective, unless she places them as sacrifices, shielded by some of the others and being used mostly as field medics and covering fire. It would provide the most security for Michael, hopefully giving him the space he needs to center his shots, and Liones would work best as a marksman, his ego inflated enough by her asking him to coordinate the fire of the other two that he might focus on the task rather than positioning, all while Tah keeps her field kit handy, her strangely detached nature making her ideal out of everyone in the group for battlefield ministrations. Behind them, Marquis and Jaks would make up the true rearguard, their perfect coordination and the relative ease with which they follow instruction letting her give them some free reign without needing to micromanage them as much, while beside her, in the front middle, would be Jacobi, eliminating anything that got too close and acting as a forward pusher while she supports him, pointing out anything he might miss and patching up the cohesiveness of the unit while she focuses on the big picture.

Jacobi and Jacks could go first, Jacobi’s playfulness playing off Jacks’ near-feral pack mentality, keeping him centered while also being smart enough to guide each other, more with body language than words. It’s not a well-coordinated thing by any means, and she can’t help but think what would mostly likely go wrong; Jaks breaking from the group on her own, Jacobi overreaching to try and guard someone else in the squad, Michael somehow tripping up the center and rear, Liones trying to take command-

Dead ends. Ugh. Still, fun to think through. Like a puzzle.

It still perturbs her how much she relies on Jacobi; he’s there to pick up the slack in a way she still needs. The rumors between the two of them have remained just that, but it’s hard not to enjoy some measure of his company when he’s the only person who hasn’t tried to overthrow her or challenge her or fuck with her. It makes him feel less trustworthy. Probably says more about her than him.

The speech continues, repeating the same beats over and over. Bit by bit, she runs out of scenarios, each target chosen and executed in a new pattern, a new sequence, run all the way through as far as she can take them. Still ends with their deaths. She could imagine them winning, magically, sure, but the realism is the point. Without it, it’s just passing fancy. With it, it’s… passing fancy with a practical application. Even still, there’s only so many different openings from here, and she lets her mind drift further out, picturing other avenues. How she’d approach the same list of targets if coming from that side alley, or that upper window, how’d she’d defend if something attacked them now, how she’d advance from that-

There, in the corner, the alleyway. Someone standing there, too quiet, hidden away. Behind the crowd by more steps than needed to see over them, away from the light of the sun and the city. Their garments aren’t quite as nice as that of the other nobles around, each of them dressed like ostentatious peacocks while the stray figure seems appropriate, but only barely. A lower house, perhaps? No regality, no flair, no eyes tracking them, like they’re hiding in plain sight by being just a bit too plain and just posh enough.

It’s the eyes. Something’s wrong with the eyes, something strange. There’s a sort of glow to them. The little light in the alley reflects, glowing in the dark, felinid and off. There’s a moment where Sikari shifts her whole focus over to the individual, and in that tiny shift of posture, from well over a hundred meters away, the strange noble twitches and meets her gaze.

They’re not felinid. Those are recognizable, gene-spliced in an afternoon with the right permits, something with plenty of variation but a simple core change. These eyes… they’re too far away to see details, but she can see those details change. The reflection goes flat, the reflectiveness leaving them as she watches, and… does the color change too?

A mutant? An Artist, hiding out, unidentified? Mutation might be possible, but even in the lower hive, outside the deeper sumps and oldest depths, it’s rare to find something that subtle and that intense, eyes that can change like that. And a Artist, unrecognized, unmarked, unrestrained?

It could be something simpler, of course, contacts or purposeful genetic modding, something possible and far more acceptable, but not normally, not for someone in those clothes. She takes the young noble’s face to mind, androgynous and pale, memorizing the details. She memorizes the face, the appearance, the shape and design of the clothes (shades of grey, purple and red feathers interwoven near the joints, noticeably lackluster high collar), height, weight-

A nobleman, mutant or not it doesn’t matter, not to some sergeant from the Imperial Guard. An Arbiter, perhaps, or one of their Judges, might be able do something. She could do that. Ruin their life, make them answer questions, put them on the target list of one of those arbitrators. Not much reward, but… maybe some kind of earned favor, if it turns out ok? That could work. Establish herself a bit, move forward, move up, see if she can’t get a further promotion.

Sikari makes a face. Like she ate something sour, there but gone in a moment. The aftertaste of the idea, like being back home, back under the city, in the gutters and organs.

She turns away from the mutant. Ignores the grayish, slightly purple skin. The too-wide, too-bright eyes. She lets Jacobi tease her about her scowl, and watches the parade.