Fire Warrior

It was only when the initial shock had faded, when he blinked through the film of eur’ii moisture covering his eyes, that the sense of sharpened agony began to blossom. An ugly laceration marred his upper arm, a blistering mess of cauterised flesh and singed fio’dr fabric. The pain clouded the world and stole his ability to think.

To Kais it seemed as natural as taking a breath: his mind phased out the world and replaced it with a grey dreamscape. There were words.

They said:

No expansion without equilibrium.

No conquest without control.

Pursue success in serenity

And service to the tau’va.

He breathed. He saw himself as part of the machine. Focus was the key.

The pain went away.

He jerked the knife from its holster on his hip, twisting to look up at the gue’la, its shaking hands taking aim for a second shot. He threw the knife and rolled. All one movement. Perfect. Precise.

The lasgun fired just as the knife hit the guard in the neck, a surgical incision parting flesh like water. No blood. Not yet. The las-bolt kicked a block of stone from the floor, scant tor’ils from Kais’s head. He hissed in shock.

The human stared right at Kais. Right into the optic of his helmet, knife hilt protruding absurdly, perpendicular to his horrified features. Then he dropped the gun and his head flopped forwards like an opening lid, fountaining liquid ruby.

Reality came to Kais piece by piece. He retrieved his knife and clamped a medipack onto his blistered arm. He reloaded the gun. All without thought; mechanical, going through the paces, operating to the parameters of a simple, shell-shocked program. A machine.

Through the thick windows of the control room he could peer down into the exercise yard at the compound’s centre, four heavyset access ramps preventing him — or anyone — from reaching the subterranean cells. He transferred his attention to the myriad controls spread out before him, utterly unable to decipher even a single runic inscription.

He sighed, balled his fist tightly, raised his arm, and applied the only form of engineering he understood. After several raik’ors of destructive attention, he appeared to have hit the correct control. Out in the yard, lifting like the yawning mouths of slumbering giants, the access ramps began to open.

“He’s gaining entry as we speak, Shas’o,” the transmitter reported, tiny speaker drone following the general around like a faithful ui’t cub. He paused at a schematic of the prison’s upper levels and nodded.

Shas’o Sa’cea Udas was pleased. Everything was going according to plan, thus far. The serene, rounded interior of the warship Ores Tash’var enclosed him in a womb of pleasant silence and contemplation: the perfect platform from which to conduct a war.

“Good.” he replied, the small drone rolling onto its back to expose a microphone array. “Excellent. Is he unharmed?”

“A minor wound, Shas’o. Nothing serious.”

“Indeed. Tell me, El’Lusha — what’s the name of this shas’vre? The por’hui have been requesting details for their next bulletin.”

There was a pause on the comm. Udas glanced at the drone, perplexed. When finally the red “receiving” light blinked, Lusha’s voice sounded reluctant, even embarrassed. “He’s not a shas’vre, O’Udas.”

The general blinked. The schematic on the wall refreshed itself, an AI assembled melange of radar, lasergrid and high altitude survey-drone telemetry melded together, now showing the access ramps in the prison courtyard hanging open.

“El’Lusha...” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Who did you send?”

“I assure you, Shas’o, my choice is more than capable.”

“Who?”

“Shas’la T’au Kais.”

“A shas’la?”

“Yes, Shas’o. I made a decision based upon the requirements of the mission. I believe he’s the best for the job.”

Udas forced himself to calm, mumbling the D’havre meditation. There was no sense in anger.

“El’Lusha... Perhaps you might explain to me what possessed you to send a shas’la on a mission vital to the security of the Empire.”

The words seemed to come from far away.

“It was something O’Shi’ur said to me once, Shas’o. He... he told me that sometimes even broken components can be useful to the machine...”

“Broken components? Shas’el, explain yours—”

“Forgive me, Shas’o — I have to go. The fortress guns are being rema

The comm went dead. Udas pursed his lips, fighting his irritation.

“Dismissed,” he grumbled to the drone, still circling his head. It drifted off.

He composed himself and turned around. Kor’o Natash Tyra, captain of the Or’es Tash’var, stood resplendent in his pale flightrobes at the centre of a swarm of drones, each one inscribed with a simple control icon. Every now and again, in response to a comm signal or fluttering display readout on the two sleek console drones at the head of the suspended swarm, O’T’yra would depress the touchpad on a drone’s casing transmitting whatever relevant orders might be required to some distant part of the ship’s crew. Other air caste perso

“Kor’o?” he grunted, approaching.

“Shas’o,” the captain returned with a nod, tall frame towering over Udas’s squat form.

“Commence bombardment.”

Warden-Sergeant DiGril peered through the sniper slit on the prison’s upper level and shook his head. Something was wrong.

Beyond the walls the massed alien forces, lurking and weaving through the billowing sand, domed helmets hazing in and out of the airborne filth like deep-sea predators prowling the murk, were slowly but unmistakably creeping backwards. Not retreating, exactly; rather... backing off. Giving some space.

Emperor knew the prison needed it. Finally the reinforcement shuttles had started arriving from Lettica, picking their way through the churning smoke, harried by the xeno assault craft. Two had gone down, right in front of his eyes, the poor bastards inside strapped down and helpless in their seats as some warp-damned alien knocked a hole through their boat’s engine. Fire and death and the stink of burnt meat. Not the way he wanted to go.

Not that he particularly wanted to go any way, given the chance. Certainly not shot through the head like Warden-Captain Praeter, downstairs. Someone had found his body and a

DiGril hadn’t joined the swollen ranks of the Emperor’s Adeptus Detentio just to die at the hands of some godless xenogen, a resolution that he had firmly continued to support by secreting himself in the most remote section of the prison he could find. Discretion, he had always maintained, was the better part of valour.

If truth be told, Warden-Sergeant DiGril had (until this morning) thoroughly enjoyed his posting to this backwater world. The planetary governor’s renowned intolerance to criminality meant that those citizens foolish enough to break the law were more likely to find themselves executed than incarcerated; a state of affairs that had kept the vast compound all but deserted in recent years. DiGril had, on occasion, mentally questioned the sense in constructing such a formidable penal fortress if one never intended to use it, but having quickly settled into his undemanding role he knew better than to cause a fuss.