Ramides Cluster, Installment 2
Here’s the next part of the ongoing novel-in-training ‘The Ramides Cluster Crusade Book I’. Enjoy!
Basilica of Divine Glory, Ceredes.
Ceredes, proud capital of Marghen, bruised and blackened by recent events, bustled. When the Tau had occupied the planet, they’d left much of the original building work as it was. The only buildings destroyed were those that acted as Imperial bastions during the initial attack, and had been demolished during short-lived sieges. The Arbites Precinct, the city’s Guard barracks, and a handful of outlying buildings in the Administratum sector. The only buildings they had specifically targeted for destruction were the temples, shrines and cathedrals dedicated to the Emperor. These had been flattened with demolition charges, or pinpoint barrages from their Broadside armour units. It seemed that this force of Tau at least, had learned the lessons of Imperial faith. They wanted to supplant the Imperial Cult with their greater good, and wanted to annihilate any possible inspiring rallying points for the scattered remnants of Marghen’s defenders.
For that, if nothing else, Major Erid Nove hated the aliens. Bad enough that they dare set foot on one of the Emperors worlds, but to desecrate and destroy His temples? He couldn’t even find the words to voice his disgust. That was why he’d volunteered to take charge of Arcadian operations in the city. Everywhere the Tau and their Kroot slaves had settled, the Emperors places of worship had been destroyed, but here in the planets capital was the Ecclesiarchys primary cathedral on Marghen, the magnificent Basilica of Divine Glory. Now it was little more than expansive ruins, basalt and marble pillars jutting up from the smashed and burned stone that was heaped inside it’s vast perimeter. Here he could help the effort to rebuild these shattered temples, and play a part, however small, in restoring this worlds faith.
Around him, in the abandoned office building requisitioned as by the Administratum as their base of operations, wall-mounted cogitators whirred and hummed, staffed by men, and servitors hard-wired into them. Guardsmen of the 3rd, local defence forces, and Administratum staff passed in and out constantly, carrying messages or orders. This was the hub for the reconstruction of Ceredes, and Major Nove had made sure that he was assigned charge of the military detail attached to it. He knew that others of his regiment were out there in the world, hunting the last of the aliens, and killing in the Emperors name. Their efforts were appreciated, but Nove wanted to be here, helping build something lasting and tangible in tribute to the Emperor.
On the plate glass screen before him, pict images of the Basilica before the invasion were scrolling, showing the immense structure from every conceivable angle. Marghen’s sun reflected almost blindingly from the huge brass steeple at the south end in the current picture. Nove knew from recent reports that much of the brass from that magnificent edifice had been recovered, and would be re-forged into the Basilica’s new steeple. In his minds eye, he imagined walking the pavements around the grand structure (…fragging idiot…), morning sunlight blazing from the (…eat the toe of my boot!) polished angles of the steeple, streams people flocking in to receive (…gak you!)…
Nove turned from the monitor in a blur of speed, his pleasant day-dream rudely shattered by the unpleasant conversations of reality – the small fire-team assigned to the office this evening. The men hated this posting, and Nove had ordered punishments for a dozen men already when he’d heard them complaining too loudly. It wasn’t that he personally resented the dislike the men had for this posting, but if something wasn’t seen to be done, one of the Ministorum busy-bodies would likely take it into their heads to complain to the General, or the Commissar and that would be a barrel full of Grox-dung none of them really wanted opened. This time however, they’d interrupted him.
It was easy enough to spot the Riflemen on duty – they were the ones in the 3rd’s dress uniform, currently resting on a pile of cased Masonic equipment, rifles propped against the wall beside them. The three of them were of a height with one another, placing them within an inch of Nove’s own height..
“Attention!” barked Nove, bearing down on the three, causing a passing scribe to almost stumble as he avoided the aggravated Major. The three troopers leapt to their feet, one of them – Nove thought it was Gaffren – knocking over the flight crate he’d been sitting on. It landed with a crash, and a flutter of purity seals, marked with symbols of the Administratum and the Cogitator unit. “What the frag are you three gretchin doing in here?”
It looked as though they were all about to answer at once, but a screeching voice cut through the noise of the room, silencing the three troopers, and making the Major wish he were a less pious man, so he could cuss.
“Major! Do you realise what your man has just sent crashing to the floor?” Nove turned to the source of that nasty voice as it scurried across the office, various scribes and servitors trailing with it “That is a level fourteen Cogitator unit! It is several thousand years older than the gung-ho trooper that so casually tosses it around, and is worth considerably more to this enterprise than the four of you combined!” Nove opened his mouth, but was given no chance to speak “Damage to just one of that units processing coils could see all of you consigned to a Penal Legion! Emperor protect us, if you are the men here safeguarding our valuable equipment!”
“Administrator,” Nove managed at last “I can only apologise for my back-bred troopers, and promise you that if it’s needed, I’ll escort them to the Commissar for Penal conscription myself” Startled looks lit up the faces of the three Riflemen. The Administrator didn’t seem impressed.
Adjutant-Administrator Hyrem Genolios Ferrius, the man in charge of Adeptus Adminstratum operations here in Ceredes was skinny, pale, bald, and generally unhealthy looking. His dark robes of office were always immaculate, and Nove had heard it rumoured that a whole team of Servitors was responsible for making sure he was never dishevelled or less-than-perfect looking. His attention to detail would try the patience of a Saint, and his voice would… well, it wasn’t a very nice voice. Like nails on a slate-board. His train of adjutants, scribes, and servitors formed a semi-circle around the three troopers, awaiting their masters decision on this little debacle.
“At the very least get those boar-like soldiers out of my offices! I cannot work with such slab-headed cretins around me!” grated the pale Administrator. Nove span on his heel before the shrill words were well out of the others mouth.
“Detail! Get your sorry arses out of that door before I bayonet you all!” he roared. The three Riflemen snapped hasty salutes, snatched up their lasguns, and practically scurried from the room, regrouping outside the blast-taped windows, on the dusty pavement.
Orange sunlight slanted through the shattered remains of buildings across the street as Marghen’s sun sank towards the horizon. It reflected from the polished silver buttons and buckles of the Arcadians dress jackets and kit, making them glow like small orange suns. This minor detail was completely lost on Major Erid Nove as he stormed from the bustling command centre, and commenced a blistering verbal barrage at the three unfortunate troopers…
