Civilians in Warhammer 40,000 AD - Part 2
By Kid Kyoto
This is the second part of my series on civilian live in Warhammer 40k, it provides a 'typical' Imperial city and some short stories on life for an Imperial subject.
You can see the first part here:
http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/Civilian_Life_in_Warhammer_40%2C000_AD
The City of Puerto d'Morsus
Located on the southern continent of the world of Kharib, Puerto d'Morsus (or Port of Pain in the vernacular) is a valuable gateway to the forests, farms and mines of the south. From here ocean-going vessels move raw materials to the north and bring finished goods to the south. With over ten million people it is the fourth largest city on Kharib, and the largest city on the southern continent.
The ominous name is attributed to the legions of prisoners and exiles sent to carve the city out of the primeval jungles millennia ago. It is said their burial mound became the site of the Baron's palace.
Districts and Society
The city is cresent-shaped following the shape of the bay and sandwiched between the ocean before it and the mountains to its rear. The center of the city is a sprawling transit center where caravans, airships, ocean vessels and orbital shuttles compete for space as they move their cargos. A mid-sized space port sees several cargo shuttles leave daily carrying certain rare herbs and animal pelts to orbiting traders. Markets surround the transit hub where millions of thrones change hands daily to keep the wheels of commerce and industry moving.
The streets are always clogged with overloaded cargo carriers, armored caravans returning from the interior, underpowered motor carts making deliveries and street vendors trying to make a living. Above them tower the banks and trading houses the conduct this eternal dance.
Uphill from the main city can be found the villas and palaces of the rich and powerful. High walls and even flickering void shields protect them from criminals, cults and assassins. Skimmers and fliers land in their gardens to whisk important men to their destinations without having to endure the indignity of the streets. Less important functionaries much make do with town cars or armored limosines.
As the capital of the southern region it is ruled by the Baron d'Morsus, usually a cousin or sibling of the Governor. He has authority over the entire region, within the limits set by the Governor and the Imperium itself of course. His palace sits on the highest peak overlooking the city. On a clear day he can see the lights of the northern hives on the horizon.
Puerto d'Morsus boasts a small Imperial quarter where the countless arms of the Administrum keep watch on this half of the world. A senior Adept from the Sub-Sector Capitol has theoretical command over most of the Imperial officials through in practice most of them follow the commands of their own orders and ministries. Arbites control the many gates to this sector keeping out unwanted visitors.
Neigboring the Imperial Sector is the Grand Cathedral with its towering spires and complex of monestaries, convents, hospitals, libraries, schools and orphanages. While the Imperial Sector is austere and drab, the Cathedral sector is grand and colorful, continuously impressing visitors with the power and wealth of the Ecclesiarchy.
A much smaller Mechanicus Sector borders the two. High walls allow only glimpses of the tech priests and servitors within. Only a privlaged few can gain access to this imposing complex.
The vast majority of the population are laborers in the many warehouses, packaging plants and refineries that receive shipments from the interior. They are matched by the armies of scribes and clerks who track the goods moving from south to the north and vice versa. There is a small middle class of merchants, craftsmen and freeholders along with a cadre of wealthy traders trying to work their way into ranks of the nobility.
To the west are several miles of bombed out ruins from some long-forgotten civil war. The last ten Barons have pledged to rebuild it but the outcasts and mutants who inhabit these wastes and build shanty towns from the rubble have proven unusually adept at defending their homes. The last such attempt was conducted by a cult known as the Emperor's Purifying Flame and it ended with the complete destruction of the would-be cleansers. Since then no one has been too eager to try and clear out the western reaches. The residents keep to themselves and their vice houses are a useful outlet for workers to blow off steam.
Which is a good thing because crime and violence are endemic in the slums of Puerto d'Morsus. Rival gangs kill each other for a share of the lucrative smuggling trade. Cheap borach houses lead inebriated workers to occasionally chop each other to death with the harvest blades they all seem to carry. Violence against women and children is expected from all 'real men'. Only the most spectaular and brutal killings ever earn the notice of the authorities.
And for over a century the Puritan and Orthodox sects have tried to settle their doctrinal differences through suicide bombs and the occasionally bloody raid on the other sect's temples. Off-worlders still struggle to understand exactly what the difference between the sects is and how they came to hate each other so much.
Venturing into the interior there are hundreds of isolated settlements. Usually built around a mine, a river port or a farm, these settlements are almost invariably walled and defended. The residents rarely leave, after all the wastes are dangerous and unsettled, and they have everything they need in the compound.
There are occasional reports of Orks or heretical cults in the forests and mountains, the PDF does its best to hunt them down.
Military and Law Enforcement
Just as the city is divided into factions, so too are military and law enforcement.
The Imperium has a small armed presence, a few hundred Arbites supplemented by no more than a few dozen Battle Sisters and a handful of Inquisition and other operatives. They are backed up by nearly a thousand Imperial Guard troops posted outside the city to protect vital landing pads and seaports. Of course in a time of crisis all Imperial Adepts can be expected to bear arms for the Emperor, though with varying levels of skill.
The largest military force is the Planetary Defense Force detachement. Most troops are sent from the north to ensure their loyalty is to the Governor and not the local authorities. Officers are regularly rotated for the same reason. The PDF detachment consists of several thousand troops whose quality and equipment is nearly that of the Imperial Guard. They lack much of the Guard's heavy artillery but they rarely face the sort of major threats which would require that sort of firepower. Unlike the Guard, who are mainly confined to their base, the PDF spends more of its time in the field, hunting pirates on the high seas, pursuing bandits in the jungles and mountains and occasionally suppressing rebellious settlements.
The Baron directly commands the Baronial Guard, enforcers who keep the peace on a day-to-day basis. They're deliberately starved of funds and thus are lightly equipped compared to the PDF or Imperial Guard. Despite their grand name most of them have little more than a worn out laspistol and an ill-fitting uniform. But they're the men on the street doing everything from directing traffic to putting down full scale riots. The Baron himself employs expensive off-world mercenaries for his personal bodyguard as he does not trust the loyalty of the PDF or the ability of the Baronial Guard.
In times of crisis the Baron can also mobilize militias and reserves, essentially conscripting the workforce of the city into a massive low-quality infantry force. This has not happened in over 300 years, since an Ork Rok crash-landed in the desert and lay siege to the city but occasional drills are held to ensure some form of readiness.
Most of the trading houses, factories, and other businesses maintain their own guard forces of varying quality. Patrols of vigilanties, little better than the criminals they claim to hunt exert control in other areas of the city. These private forces far outnumber the Baronial Guard and contribute to keeping the peace within their own domains. Cults and criminal gangs lurk in the shadows of the city. So long as no one important is harmed they are usually left to their own devices though on occasion the Baron must demonstrate his authority by making examples of some.
Outside the city various forces vie for control. Bandits and nomadic tribes (the difference is usually just semantic) control certain areas but are content to collect tolls from travelers. Unusually violent groups are bad for business and are soon put down by the PDF.
The Temple of St Ollanius Pius stands deep in the mountains several hundred miles from Puerto d'Morsus. Within its walls are hundreds of warrior priests whose skill with the chain sword and fire staff make them fearsome foes. They are generally content to remain in their bastion, communing with the Emperor and sharpening their skills but they have at times come down from the mountain to deal with some perceived injustice, usually one associated with late or insufficient tithes.
Each settlement of course has its own society. Some are company towns under the control of an autocratic administrator, others are democracies feudal estates or cults. Each will have its own militia and defenses, suffient to stand off bandits (or it wouldn't still be there) and perhaps greater threats. They're far enough from the city they do not get much supervision from planetary or Imperial authorities.
Life During Wartime
Some short stories about civilian life in Puerto d'Morsus.
The Driver and the Adept
Otto Nicolaus guided his Iron Ox through the crowed alleyways of Puerto d’Morsus dodging pedestrians and street vendors to slowly make his way towards the imposing Western Gate.
“Yuh okeh thah?” He asked, his accent almost impenetrable to Adept Heinrich, even after a decade in the city.
“Pardon?”
“You? Okay? There?” the road master repeated, speaking slowly and carefully with the tone of voice usually reserved for children or idiots.
“What? Yes, quite fine.” Heinrich was sitting in the passenger or ‘shotgun’ seat trying to catch a glimpse of the road through the narrow vision slit in front of him. The space in the back of the armored car was filled with crates and boxes, including Heinrich’s own tool kit, the outer hull covered in sacks and barrels. The only other place for him to ride was the running board where two rough looking men with autoguns hung. It was an uncomfortable perch but he wasn’t going to complain.
“Don’t worry, been driving fifty years. Hardly ever lost my cargo.” Otto offered. Adept Heinrich was not reassured.
Normally he would wait for a PDF or Imperial Guard convoy to leave the city but Mining Settlement #86 had a broken cognator and Adept Heinrich was one of the few who could still fix one. Until it was fixed there would be no records of production and expenditures, no way to calculate its proper tithe. So Adept Heinrich was taken from his comfortable desk where he served as deputy overseer at the Imperial Ministry of Exploitable Resources, Bureau of Mining and Minerals, Office of Tithe Assessment and put on the first vehicle out there - Otto’s Iron Ox-Pattern armored car, colloquially referred to as ‘Rude Dog’.
“Rude Dog been through a lot. Three hundred years old if he’s a day. My Great-Great got him when House Taitt was purged.”
Heinrich tried to remember who House Taitt was but could not. There were too many factions and families in the local politics for him to keep track of.
“My Grand rebuilt the engine. Good job too. Still got ‘em watching over me.” Otto pointed at the line of four skulls hanging over the driver’s seat. Adept Heinrich respectfully bowed his head and made the sign of the Aquila towards these honored ancestors. He hoped their spirits would continue watching over the battered truck for at least one more journey.
“Made my own improvements too. Rude Dog’s a survivor, they knew how to build them back then, not the cheap off-world crap you see nowadays.”
As if to underline Otto’s point they passed the burning wreck of a Hermes Towncar. A group of redemptionist cultists danced around it, occasionally pouring fuel on the flames. Heinrich wondered what had caused the violence, or if it had any cause at all.
“One time got caught by ‘dox mob.” Otto spat. Heinrich noted he wore a brass Aquila of the sort worn by Puritans rather than the silver Aquilas preferred by the Orthodox sect. Even after 10 years he still could not understand the differences between the two branches of the Imperial faith or tell you anything about them save that they despised each other.
“They were beating on the sides trying to rip my doors open so I gave ‘em a taste of the juicer, made ‘em dance like mud flitters!” Otto slapped his leg at the memory and pointed to a switch. Wires ran to several powerful batteries and then to the hull. To Heinrich’s eyes it seemed a crude but potentially effective way to deter attackers. “Ran down some of them too. Damn ‘doxers, they marry their sisters you know.”
“Yes, I have heard that.” Heinrich had also heard that Puritans copulate with pigs but decided against sharing that cultural insight.
“Nother time, caravan, wagon master was cheap y’know, too cheap, didn’t pay the bands.”
“Bands?” Heinrich asked wondering how music came into it.
“Bands, y’know, vroom! Dakka! Dakka! Dakka!” He pantomimed motorcycles attaching a caravan. “Bands!”
“Ah yes, the bandits.” Heinrich said uncomfortably. He’d heard stories about their cruelty. A few years back he’d made a similar trip to an isolated promethium rig but he’d been taken in an Imperial Guard Valkyrie with a team of heavily armed guardsmen as an escort. Of course that was before half the garrison was redeployed to Armageddon. These days the Guard Colonel said he barely had enough men to secure his own encampment much less ferry around minor Adepts.
“Bands! He cheap, he no pay, bands come outta nowhere, hundred, thousand of them. Me and the boys we dump the cargo and we run. Rude Dog take us home. Wagon Master, he truck break down in sand. Now he skull on some Band’s bike.” The driver laughed and Heinrich managed an uncomfortable chuckle.
“So, you’re not um, cheap are you?”
“Haw! You think I drive fifty years if I cheap?” He waved a hand at a collection of medallions and tokens hanging from the vehicle’s ceiling. Heinrich assumed they were the marks of different gangs he’d paid off. At least he hoped that’s what they meant. For all he knew they were just good luck charms.
“Bands no bother Rude Dog. Only Solos, and them boys” he gestured at the two road guards on the running board “they take care of Solos.”
“That’s quite reassuring.” Heinrich concluded uneasily. He remembered hearing something about solo raiders, bikers too psychotic and violent for even the bandit gangs. He prayed they didn’t run into one of them.
Still, the adept could clearly see this vehicle was centuries old and it wouldn’t still be around unless the driver knew what he was doing. And surely the Ministry would never send him out unless the driver was reputable!
Right?
Squinting through the armor glass slit he could see they were almost at the city gates. A small band of the Baron’s men were checking papers. They stopped the Macedon-Pattern cargo hauler in front of Rude Dog and an animated argument with the crew of it. Finally the driver was pulled from his seat and struck several times with a cudgel.
“You see, he cheap, he no pay Baron’s men. They gotta eat too. Now me, me no cheap.”
Heinrich sighed heavily. It was going to be a long trip.
The Rookie
“Your uniform and your weapon.” The quartermaster said handing the young man a tunic and an autogun.
“And your ammo.” He passed over three bullets.
U’Hara looked down at them. “There’s only 3 of them.” He observed.
“Haw! Looks like you got a smart one there! Must be a mentat!” The quartermaster howled. Behind U’Hara, his new partner Gorgon also laughed.
“What were you expecting an astares bolt gun? Ammo’s precious, don’t you know there’s a war on? Now get dressed and let’s go. Don’t want to be late for your first patrol eh?”
U’Hara nodded eagerly and pulled the tunic over his grey jumpsuit, it came on easily since it was a few sizes too big. It was once a rich purple trimmed in gold, the colors of the baron. But now it was faded to a pinkish grey. In training they told him his uniform would be made from ballistic fabric that could stop most blades and small arms, but this felt like simple canvas. There was also a patched hole in the front with some dark brown stains around it. He tried not to think about it.
He loaded the rifle with all 3 bullets and slung it over his shoulder. He put on his cap and was ready to go.
They walked out of the fortified Baronial Guard station into the sweltering streets. It had just rained and now the rain was turning into steam. U’Hara began to sweat under his heavy tunic. It might not be ballistic cloth but it was hot.
Along the streets U’Hara saw the occasional cyber-skull mounted on a pole or over a doorway. When he was a kid his mother said they were the eyes of the Emperor watching diligently for crime. In training he learned they hadn’t worked in three centuries, though the tech adepts assured them they would be repaired soon.
Gorgon led him through the narrow alleys and crowded streets to jewelry shop. The shop was a low-end dealer, mainly selling gold-plated (or more accurately, gold painted) chains and icons to the masses. But even it boasted armor-glass windows several inches thick and two muscle boys carrying shot-cannons and chain axes. They looked over U’Hara and flashed smiles, their teeth were made of steel, filed to points. Gorgon motioned for U’Hara to wait near the front. He greeted the proprietor by name, and the two vanished into a back room.
U’Hara caught snatches of conversation.
“…paid last week…”
“…that was my old partner, this is for my new partner…”
“…bleeding me dry…”
“…shame if something happened…”
Finally Gorgon emerged smiling and U’Hara followed him out the door. Once they were around the corner Gorgon shoved a handful of bills into U’Hara’s pocket. “Here you go, the owner’s contribution to the watchman’s benevolent fund.” U’Hara pulled them out, “This is three hundred Eagles! That’s more than a month’s pay!”
“A month’s pay? That’s funny. Kid, we ain’t gotten any pay from the baron in a year. And that was barely a half-month’s salary. I gave up counting how much back pay I’m owed. Good thing the benevolent fund takes care of us huh? We gotta eat.”
“Um, yeah, I guess.”
“Tell you what, tomorrow I’ll take you by Enzo’s get you a real gun, and some ammo for it. Maybe even a uniform that can stop more than a butter knife.”
After several more stops U’Hara had a thousand Eagles in his pocket and from the glances he stole Gorgon had quite a bit more. They’d been ‘patrolling’ for hours and not investigated a single crime or responded to a single call. He asked about it.
“How you think we’d get a call, you have a vox caster?”
“I thought you had-“
“Mine died a couple of years ago, quartermaster says they’re on order. So we walk, and we watch. If we happen to see something, we can respond.”
As if on cue U’Hara heard gunshots a few streets away. Gorgon led him in the opposite direction.
The horizon was turning red with dusk and they turned back towards the Guard House. U’Hara looked at his chronometer, he noted they still had several hours left in their shift.
“Yes we do kid, but if you want to live to spend some of those Eagles you’ll come with me. Once it’s dark the gang-cults come out, and they don’t want to see the Baronial Guard around this part of town.”
U’Hara noted the street stalls were packing up. Steel gates were coming down in the shops. Only a few bars which displayed various gang signs seemed to be staying open. At the Guard House heavy stubbers and grenade launchers were already deployed around the entrance. Soon after U’Hara and Gorgon entered the armored doors were closed and sealed. Already Watch members were napping on benches or at their desks. Outside U’Hara could hear the crack of las fire.
Gorgon broke out a set of Royal Trumps and started a game. U’Hara joined in. From the looks of things it was going to be a long dull night.
A Visitor From Another World
Philippe stepped through the airlock hatch into the spaceport's hall and his senses were immediately assaulted by the heat, humidity and of course the smell of thousands and thousands of unwashed bodies.
It was one of those worlds.
Philippe was the Seneschal of the House Milreines Trade Ship New Grounds. Well, to be more precise he was the Deputy Assistant to the Seneschal Tetris, but as far as anyone on this backwater city of a backwater world was concerned he was a man of power, wealth and influence. While his superiors visited the hives of the north to negoiate multi-million throne deals Philippe was dispatched here to work on some minor agreements for exotic luxary products. It wasn't much but he knew he had to pay his dues. He'd only been with the House a few decades, in time, and with hard work and good fortune he would be the one sipping emerald wine in the upper level of a miles-high spire while some lesser minion visited the stinking pits in search of trinkets.
He adjusted the squirter on his lapel and deeply inhaled its fragrant mists. I wondered if there was a market here for squirters, he doubted it. The local mucky-mucks were probably used to the stench.
A small man in grey robes approached him, his every gesture proclaiming obsequious devotion. He bowed deeply and Philippe nodded his head. He'd never met this man before, but he knew the type.
"Your excellency I am Moseley of the guest house High Crown, I will see to your all your needs during your stay. Please follow me, transportation is waiting."
The servant droned on as they walked outside. The heat and the stench only got worse. Philippe wished he'd worn lighter robes, he made a note to chastise his staff for failing to properly prepare him for the heat.
A Salon Royale was waiting outside, the black armored limo towering over the Hermes Towncars and motor carts waiting for the more common passengers. Philippe's body guards and scribe climbed into the servants' compartment while Philippe and Moseley boarded the lavish guest compartment. It wasn't as lavish as the Salon Royale he had in Soloton, but was better maintained than the one on Tempus IV. Inside Philippe found a pink-haired serving girl dressed in a light diaphanous gown and glittery makeup on her mammaries. Philippe nodded at her and accepted a drink.
The trip was only a few leagues but took over an hour, the narrow road from the spaceport was overwhelmed with trucks, cars, even animal carts. Through it all Moseley babbled on and on highlighting what the servant must have imagined were points of interest for his obscure town on a backwater world. Philippe tuned him out and focused on reviewing the prices of the arborial snake skins and sabrelynx pelts he was here to negociate for. And the serving girl's curves of course.
At one point there were some thumps on the limos hull and the vehicle shook. Moseley fell silent (finally) and looked up in alarm but soon they could hear the characteristic hum of the limo's pop-up multilaser. The thumps ceased. Apparently whomever caused the disturbance left to seek easier prey and they continued on.
As the armored limo approached the city wall Philippe noted the high metal towers protruding at regular intervals. Moseley said something about a city-wide void shield but to Philippe's eye the projectors were neglected and rusted. He doubted they'd been used in centuries.
Soon the limo passed through the gates of the guest house and a silent elevator brought Philippe to his penthouse. He had a few hours to relax before his first appointment with a local pelt trader. The suite wasn't as large as the one he had on Tempus IV but it was better appointed than the one on Soloton. Moseley bowed and exited the room but the pink-haired serving girl remained.
Good.
At least this backwater understood the basics of hospitality.
Murder Most Foul
Rincoln watched the ore train recede into the distance with a smile. The arrival of the once-a-month (or for the last ten years, once-every-few-months) ore train was always a time of celebration at Mining Camp #49. It meant the arrival of fresh supplies, back pay, mail, new workers and best of all a brief reprieve for most of the miners as the camp focused on unloading the train and reloading the ore.
Tonight was a celebration for the camp's 10,000 inhabitants and Rincoln could hear the sounds of merriment from the dorms, tents and shacks. In nine-months there would be a mini-baby boom among the wives and whores who made up its female population. With the train on its way Rincoln could finally join the revelry, as a foreman he'd not been able to relax until now. At least the overseer had declared tomorrow a half-day holiday, he'd be able to sleep in to well past dawn.
He headed for the Nervous Grox, a bar his work unit tended to favor. Of course calling it a bar raised certain expectations, it was nothing more than a tin-roofed shack with a rough wooden plank for the bartender. Old Nanon had run it for more than 10 years, since her husband died in the mines. She charged a fair price and hardly watered the drinks at all. It was a good place, Rincoln favored it over the Supervisor's Mess where he always had to be on his guard among his peers and rivals. In the Nervous Grox he could be himself among his workers. He could already taste his first sip of Boracha.
Then a scream interrupted his thoughts! There was a scrum outside the Nervous Grox as the people inside tried to run away from the screams, and the people outside tried to run towards them. Rincoln pulled out his truncheon and swatted aside some of the workers and charged in. He saw it all in a second.
Big Stad lay face down in the dirt in a pool of his own blood. Chim stood over his, a broken bottle in one hand, his hand and chest covered in Stad's blood. He was standing there in shock, his lips moving but nothing coming out.
Damn.
Rincoln didn't need an Arbites investigator to tell him what happened. Stad was a bully pure and simple. He'd been extorting pay from the rest of the unit for years, making them kick back some of their hard-earned Eagles and Thrones for his 'protection'. But Rincoln was sure that wasn't the issue here. Stad had also been banging Chim's wife for months. Everyone around had averted their eyes, and Chim had carried on in ignorance, imagining that his wife's sudden coldness was just the lonely mood of young woman trapped a thousand leagues from civilization. Rincoln would bet a years pay to a bottle of Boracha that Chim had just found out the real cause of the problem.
He did quick calculation. For all his bluster Stad was unpopular and a lazy worker. Chim was quiet, diligent and hard-working. He'd just been pushed too far. Rincoln nodded to himself and made a decision.
He slammed his truncheon on the bar to get everyone's attention.
"OK then, it's obvious what happened here. Stad tripped and cut himself on a broken bottle, then Chim tried to help him but it was too late. Am I right?"
There were a few muted grumblings.
"I said am I right!"
There were more positive noises this time.
"That's what you all saw right?"
Nods, half-hearted voices of ascent.
"OK then, you, you and you take Stad down to pits and let the Preacher know we'll have a service tomorrow. Chim, you and your wife go home, get cleaned up. The rest of you... This is a party! Nanon, the next round is on me!"
The beat-up muse-player in the corner started again filling the bar with lively songs. One of Nanon's girls half heartedly tried to wash away the blood. The miners slowly got back to their drinks. After all celebrations were few and far between, there was no reason to let a small thing like this stop the party.
Justice for All
Wierick held his breath.
Ten years. Ten years of court rooms and lobbying, of solicitors and arguments, of waiting in endless queues and being sent from one office to another. And it all came down to this.
He stood in Courtroom #49 of the Puerto d’Morsus Hall of Justice where a three-century old man, his body held together by endless tubes and wires was finally ruling on his case. The hall was crowded with Wierick's friends and relatives who had supported him for these ten long years along with other claimants he had met on the way who came to see one of their own finally get justice.
The solicitor from House Cannatella stood opposite them. Other than his client, Rish Cannatella they were alone. For House Cannatella this was a minor matter, an irritant, but for Wierick this was his entire life.
BOOM!
The gavel came down like the Emperor's own thunderbolt. The room fell silent.
"I have reviewed the case." Baronial Adjudicator Maitland said. His whispering voice amplified by the Laud Hailers built into the courtroom's gargoyles. The effect was like he was whispering in the ear of everyone in the room. Several people turned their heads half expecting to find the judge had manifested beside them.
"I find that the contract between the tradesman Christophere Wierick and House Cannatella was improperly executed. While the order was fulfilled late-"
"Because those skull suckers lied!" Yelled one of Wiericks old employees. Briglia had stood by him for ten years. Wierick shook his head as his former foreman was beaten and dragged from the courtroom by uniformed guard. After ten years he should have known not to interrupt the Adjudicator.
"Ahem. Although the order fulfilled late, Wierick should only have owed a partial refund. The seizure of his workshop and home was improper and illegal."
Cries of triumph and whoops of joy went up from the audience. Ten years ago Rish Cannatella hired Wierick, a tradesman with a small workshop of his own, to produce 1000 lenses for their pict-catchers. He was honored to get the contract, to have one of the largest trading houses recognize the quality of his work and reward him with their commerce. He'd borrowed money, hired more staff and worked nonstop for six months to fulfill the order only to be told they were incorrect and be given new specs. He went further into debt and provided the 'correct' lenses three months late. It was only then that he realized the truth of the matter. House Cannatella had given him an impossible order so that when he failed they could seize his growing workshop and end any chance his workshop might one day become a rival to their factories. If he had not been blinded by their flattery he might have seen it sooner.
And now...
"Therefore I require House Cannatella return to Wierick his land and holdings."
"Your worship, I fear that is no longer possible." The solicitor said. His face was a mask of sorrow and regret but Rish Cannatella grinned like a arborial snake about to pounce on a fluff hopper. "Tradesman Wierick's workshop was sold to Clan Desmaris a few days ago. It was a small, inefficient workshop, we really had no use for it."
Cries of despair and rage filled the room. They were silenced only when the gun servitors rumbled to life and played their red targeting beams across the onlookers.
A tear ran down Wierick's cheek. After so many years, after so much heart ache he would never again see his beloved home?
"Well then." The Adjudicator hissed. "I command the money from that sale be given to Tradesman Wierick at once."
The solicitor nodded and bowed to the Adjudicator. As before his face was the very model of sincere contrition but Rish Cannatella giggled like a little girl. Wierick felt fear rising in his gut. Something was wrong. Wasn't Clan Desmaris related to House Cannatella?
The Solicitor opened his purse and carefully counted out ten Golden Eagles and laid them on the table before Wierick. Wierick knew his workshop earned ten times that in a day!
"There you are sir, our proceeds from the sale. As I said it was a small and insignificant workshop."
The room exploded in rage. Cries went up from every quarter and the onlookers began to chant 'Justice! Justice!' Even blows from the guards did nothing to silence their outrage.
Finally a short burst into the ceiling from a gun servitor's heavy bolter restored some order.
"Your worship if there is nothing further..." The solicitor began.
The Adjudicator laughed. It was a scary sound, like this hiss of a body giving up its last breath.
"Well played Cannatella, well played. You knew the contract was illegal, you knew how I would rule, so you sold it to your cousin for a pitiful sum. Well played indeed."
"Your worship I assure you House Cannatella had no-"
"However, you have not yet followed my instructions."
"Your worship?"
"Did I not order you pay Tradesman Wierick the money from the sale?"
"I have your worship, I can show you this was the precise amount we were paid."
"Ah! But are those the exact coins you were paid?"
"I, uh, your worship, I do not believe they were..."
"And can you produce, with proof, the correct ten coins?"
"What is this nonsense!" Rish Cannatella demanded. A red targeting beam played across his forehead and he returned to his seat.
"What to do, what to do..." The Adjudicator hissed as if deep in thought. "I commanded you pay Wierick the money you received, yet you cannot. You know the penalty for failing to obey?"
The gun servitors turned towards the solicitor and his client.
"Please your worship!"
"Mercy!"
"Perhaps there is way however... A way we could ensure Tradesman Wierick got the money that is his."
"Your worship, anything...."
"Rish Cannatella you will immediately surrender to Wierick the contents of all your vaults, every last copper skull and brass bolt. Everything. Guards, you will escort him home now and oversee the transfer of funds."
Cannatella trembled as the guards lifted him from his chair and applied manacles. Wierick too was in shock. House Cannatella was one of the richest trade houses in the city, Rish Cannatella's fortune must number in the millions of Golden Eagles. Even if much of it was in property his cash holdings were more money than Wierick had seen in his life.
He felt hands on his tattered robes, he was lifted onto the shoulders of his friends and carried triumphantly through the Hall. Cheers went up, petitioners ran to him, seeking to touch him, seeking his blessing for their own cases. He had entered a penniless begger, longing only for justice and left a rich man!
Justice had been done.
Dispossessed
Porter knew it was coming. He'd known for years. Every day he and other miners went a little deeper into the ground and every day they came up with a little less ore. The mine was dying.
By the end he was only going down 3 or 4 days out of ten, spending the rest of his time drinking, dicing and avoiding his wife and screaming kids. With less work came less pay. They all went to bed a bit hungry.
So when the word came down for 1000 miners and their families to pack their belongings and get in the train he wasn't shocked. He told them this was coming, he'd been telling them for years.
At least they were getting new jobs. The Company said the train would take them to a new mining camp where there was plenty of work. That was good. He'd heard stories how sometimes other companies just stopped sending trains with their food and supplies and pay and let the jungle reclaim the mine. And the miners. But the Company promised them a new mining camp and new jobs. They promised.
He scratched the stump at the end of his arm. It itched where his prostetic drill used to be. The sawbones removed it a few days back. They promised he'd get a new drill at the new mine.
The train had been running for days through the mountains then down into the jungle until that gave way to the savannah. He wondered what was going on. They all did. They all figured the train would go up to South Point and they'd change to another line and go back into the mountains to the new mine. Instead it just kept going.
The passenger car was steel and the doors were securely locked. No way to the other cars and no way out the sides even if they wanted to take the risk. Bonsel tried zapping a lock with his old laspistol but the weak beam barely scorched the metal. There'd been some water jugs and boxes of iron-rats when they got on but they were gone days ago. Around the time the only toilet overflowed and its stink filled the car.
There was no one from the Company in the car, maybe no one on the train. No one to tell them were they were going. He figured all the other cars were the same. So him and his wife and his kids and the 50 other folks in the car sweated and griped and fretted as the train continued on its way.
One of the kids spotted it first. She was still small, she could fit her head through the bars in the window and look out. She shouted and one of the women had a mirror and she used it to look forwards. The kid was right, it was a city, they were headed for a city!
Porter figured it must be Puerto D'Morsus and told them all. He'd never been farther than South Point but his grand-dad had been as far as Puerto D'Morsus once. He said the buildings there were taller than mountains and people there paid you in gold coins and not in scrip. Porter figured the Company was brining them there and then they'd leave for the new Mine and jobs. He told everyone and they cheered.
It took hours for the lights on the horizon to become a city. It just kept growing, getting bigger and bigger in that little mirror. They passed through massive gates into a station bigger than the whole mining camp! The doors finally opened and they stumbled out enjoying their first freedom in days.
No sooner had the hundreds of miners and families emerged and unloaded their bags then the doors closed again and the train disappeared. They were left alone in the massive hall with only a few cleaning servitors for company. A few ran after the train, they'd been too slow in unloading and it left with their belongings.
There was no one from the company.
No one to tell them about the new mine or the new jobs.
Porter tried to buy some hot buns and cha but the vendor wouldn't take scrip. He had to use some of his precious store of copper coins. After a few hours of fretting and grumbling some bully boys from the train line came by trying to tell the 1000 angry miners to move along. Porter and the rest gave them some lumps and proceeded to wait for the Company to come tell them about the new mine and their jobs.
A few hours later about a hundred bully boys in purple and mustard tunics came by. The Baron's men. They had autoguns and shotguns and even heavy stubbers. Behind them were two armored cars with some grim-looking gun barrels sticking out. One of them, who must be the leader judging from how his tunic was clean and had no holes, marched up and demanded to know their business.
He endured a torrent of gripes, insults and demands until he got the gist of the story.
"Warp-damned skuzz lickers..." He hissed. The arrival hall's acustics carried his oath to each and every miner. "Dumped another load in my lap."
He raised his voice ordering them all into a line. There was more grumbling but a few bursts from the armored cars put an end to that. The Baron's men took up positions along their side. Soon a line close to a quarter of a kilometer long, all dressed in orange overalls marched out of the station.
"Who they think we is?" Porter grumbled. "Chaos twists? We good people. We just want to go to the new mine, get our jobs! We wanna talk to the Company!" But he kept his grumblings low, mindful of the armed men close at hand.
They were marched through the streets. Normally the miners and their families would be gaping in awe at the buildings and sights but for now they just wanted some food and rest and to find out about their new mine!
In time they came to a fence, on the other side they could see ruined buildings and smoke rising from cooking fires. The Baron's men led them to a gate and marched them through, Porter noticed the Baron's men stayed on the other side. A sign said 'Western Reaches Checkpoint #23', Porter could read it, he'd learned his letters at the Mine's Scholastica.
"What's this?" He demanded from on of the Baron's men.
"Your new home!" the man laughed. Porter advanced menacingly at him but the man's shotgun disuaded him. He rejoined the ranks of miners marching into the ruined quarter.
Six years ago Porter had been on an ore truck the broke down in the jungle. It took three days of walking, stalked by wild beasts and bushmen until he arrived back at the mine. This felt a lot like that.
He heard the howl of some mutant critter. The crackle of a gun fire. He could see curious natives advancing on the party of miners.
For more than 30 years Porter had been a Company Man. Every bite of food, every scrap of clothing, every last brass bolt in his pocket came from the Company. Each night when he sat down to eat the Padre reminded them to thank the Emperor and the Company for the food on their plates. The Emperor and the Company, he had faith in both. Now he realized there would be no new mine. No new jobs. They'd been cast out, a thousand miles from home in the depths of Puerto D'Morsus.
He picked up a rock and threw it at the ragged outcast headed for his family. The other miners started forming a ring. What weapons they had were taken out and loaded. Some desperate souls ran for the gate but were gunned down by the Baron's men.
They advanced into the ruined quarter.
Price War
Cornwall marched under the hot noon sun. The aging clerk marched with the rest of his work unit, mostly burly line workers from the factory. They shouldered their slug throwers and autoguns (a few just had wooden dummy weapons) and practiced marching, kneeling, running and aiming. His limbs ached.
At least he wasn't Big Nix. The barrel-chested machinist's technical skills had won him the 'honor' of manning and maintaining the work unit's heavy stubber. He had to lug close to 100 pounds of gun with another 50 pounds of ammo. His apprentice, Little Klouy was his loader and carried another 150 pounds of ammo on his young shoulders.
According to the thick book of factory regulations, House Occident's Factory Milita was supposed to conduct monthly drills. In practice Cornwall could not remember seeing one in the last decade. Now they were out on the parade ground twice a week for the last three months. Looking around he saw several unfamiliar faces. Some wore the fine robes of House Occident's sales staff, soft men brought in from the House's distant showrooms and dealerships. Others wore the dusty blue coveralls of delivery men and drivers. There were even women from the factory's laundries and kitchens marching alongside the men. Children from the factory's tutoring centers ran up and down the field, practicing delivering ammo or relaying messages.
There were rumors everywhere. Cornwall knew for a fact Machine Shop Theta has been given over entirely to producing autoguns. And the steel that normally went into making House Occident's cryo chests and room chillers was being shaped into crude armor plates for the House's fleet of delivery trucks.
Some said it the orks had returned. Cornwall hoped it was not true, he'd seen the display of ork skulls at the Factory's chapel and feared the thought of encountering one of them in the flesh. Others said the Baron's bastard son was marching on the city with an army of bandits, mutants and bushmen to claim the throne. Some whispered reassuringly that this was all a show, the Factory manager was just trying to impress his betters by showing how quickly he could organize the workers.
He heard a clattering sound from outside. A series of pops and thuds. Were they doing some road work out there.
He saw smoke rising over the wall. Suddenly people were shouting and running. An explosion tore off the nearest set of gates and three armored cars drove through the wreckage. Behind the followed hundreds of men in the green and orange coveralls of the High Ayre Consortium. They began firing into the crowd of House Occident workers.
Cornwall looked to his platoon commander, Militia Lieutenant Barrington. Despite the title Barrington was just a boy of fifteen, the son of some mid-level overseer sent to drill the troops and gain some 'management experience'. Now the boy stood stunned, dumbfounded. It was Nix who saved them. He dropped to his knees, rested the big gun on an ammo box and fired. The clatter of the gun brought Barrington to his senses.
"R-ready! T-take aim! Fire!"
A series of clicks greeted the final command. Naturally the workers drilled with their weapons unloaded!
"Uh load! Load damnit!"
Cornwall fumbled at his belt for the small box of ammo. By then the High Ayre attackers had rallied and were firing into their line. By then half the Occident workers had fled, next to Cornwall a woman dropped to her knees and recited the Cantacle of Protection. "The Emperor is my shield, I shall not fear" she repeated over and over until a bullet took off half her head. Barrington dropped to his knees, clutching a wound in his stomach and crying out for his mother. Cornwall took aim and squeezed the trigger, he had the pleasure of seeing a High Ayre man fall with a red stain on his green coveralls.
For years the off-world High Ayre Consortium had undercut House Occident's prices putting strain on the producer's resources. Now apparently the trade war had turned hot.
Cornwall fired again.
Crime and Punishment
Rath screamed. He didn't want to, but it hurt so much.
The ink man offered him a bottle of boracha but he shook his head. He needed his wits about him. The pain made him sharp. The ink man shrugged and jabbed Rath again with a heated prod, burning away his vivid gang tattoos.
He watched another Scarlet Scorpion disappear under the hot iron and muffled another scream.
It wasn't his fault! He wasn't even there!
Three weeks ago some of the guys spotted a girl, a real looker, with the kind of body even a drab farm girl's robe couldn't hide. She was just off the train from some cesspool of a village in the interior, made a wrong turn and ended up in Scarlet Scorpion turf. Well the boys were bored, a bit drunk and she was like a gift from the Emperor himself.
It was her fault really. If she'd been a bit friendlier they wouldn't have had to use the knife at all hardly.
How were they supposed to know?
Apparently, and Rath was still putting the pieces together, but apparently farm girl was in town to see her sister, and her sister was a serving wench up at the High Crowne. And sis had caught the eye and the ear and other body parts of the Baron's nephew.
So the girl goes all boo-hoo-hoo to the sister. And the sister goes all boo-hoo-hoo to the nephew and the nephew goes all righteous rage to the Baron and before you can say 'opps won't happen again' the place is crawling with gunmen. And not just the Baron's buffoons but hard men, bounty hunters pulled in from the bush, Enforcers from the North Hives, even some mercenaries from off-world. And all of them, every last one, looking for Scarlet Scorpions.
Now the Scorps, they didn't take this lying down. They called in their buddies, their juves, their cousins, their allies, anyone they could get, they was gonna show everyone they couldn't just march into Scorp turf without a fight.
That lasted about 3 days. It ended when what was left of the Scrops, their buddies, their juves, their cousins and everyone else gathered in an old PDF bunker to lick their wounds. Five minutes later the place went up like the fireworks on Liberation Day. And it wasn't no local firepot or prometium bomb either, we're talking mil-grade demo charges. Big boom-boom.
Lucky Rath was over at his girlfriend's place getting sewed up from some shrapnel he caught. Soon as he heard he grabbed his stash and spend the rest of the week in a sewer tunnel.
Now he figured it was time to get out of town. It cost him half his stash but an old buddy of his promised to slip him onto a lumber train leaving tonight. He'd spend a few months breathing clean air and chopping trees, then come back and start to rebuild.
But first a little stop to take care of these tats. Never know who'll see them and remember something. Nice thing about a bunch of nasty burn scars, no one's ever too eager to look too long at them.
Yep, just another tree-cutter with some nasty scars, that's all anyone will see.
The ink man finished and left the room to get some ointment and bandages. Rath let out a sigh and slumped back on the chair. The worst thing is it wasn't even his fault. He wasn't even there. But the dumb girl could only remember the Scrop tats, so the Baron wanted Scorp tats. Word on the street was they were paying ten gold eagles a tat. A few hours ago Rath's hide was worth over a hundred eagles.
The ink man was an old buddy of Rath's and stone deaf too, he figured he could trust him. If he couldn't... well he was gone in a few hours anyway.
Rath looked at the dial on the wall, another six hours till his train ride. He was almost a free man.
Then he heard the thud.
He tried to jump to his feet but the burns on his back and arms slowed him down. Gingerly he got up off the chair and limped towards his satchel. All he could think about was the old autopistol he had in there. Just a few more feet and-
Stars exploded in Rath's eyes, a comet slammed into the side of his head and a black hole slammed him to the floor.
From Rath's new perspective on the floor the guy was about 12 feet tall and had a shotgun the size of a battle cannon. He has the dark leathery skin of someone who spends too much time in the bush and a badge with a stylized wolf-head around his neck. A bounty hunter then.
Crap.
"You got the wrong guy man, I ain't never heard of the Scarlet-"
Another comet slammed into Rath's skull. OK so that wouldn't work, but Rath hadn't survived twenty years on the street without learning some tricks.
He gingerly made his way to his knees and let out a pitiful wail.
"Please don't kill me! Please!"
The hunter stood there, still as one of the Astres statues outside the Cathedral.
"I know where they're hiding! I can take you to Big Cense, Red Tomer, all those guys! Just please, please don't kill me!"
Rath had no idea where Cense or Tomer were, or even if they were still alive, but if they were he figured he knew 2 or 3 places where they might be.
The man nodded. Rath got up and made his way to the door. The hunter walking behind him. It was a shame, Rath liked those guys, but hey that was life on the streets.
As he walked out he saw the ink man counting his coins. They nodded at each other. No hard feelings huh? Just life on the streets.
Graduation Day
Anil's head would not stop moving. Everywhere he looked there was another one! He knew it was rude to stare, but they were like angels, like muses, like the mythical goddesses of ancient Carrib, before the Emperor came.
And they were everywhere!
He'd seen women before of course. But always in their dull grey robes at the trading house or old women at their market stalls. These women were something else, in the bloom of their maidenhood, wearing brief tunics that revealed their calves and even their knees to his gaze. He heard them giggle and cast his eyes downward.
Anil turned 25 just a few months ago and his superiors at the trading house were hinting it was time for him to become a family man. Besides getting married would entitle him to a larger housing allowance and let him move from 18-hour to 14-hour work shifts. After all a man needs time with his family. But he had no idea how to go about it. He'd grown up in a boy's home, never really talked to any women until he started at the training house seven years ago, and then only to ask for reports or a hot cup of cha. Fortunately his boss, Supervisor Lowe, offered to take him here.
Saint Marda's Academy for Disadvantaged Young Ladies sat in the mountains behind Puerto D'Morsus a few hours away on narrow winding roads. When they arrived at its looming walls and iron gates Anil expected to find a grim fortress or dark prison, not this garden of delights all around him.
"Sister Lucia!" Lowe cried and embraced the large woman. She greeted him with kisses on his cheeks.
"Supervisor Lowe, back again so soon? Don't tell me Creta didn't work out?"
"No, she's wonderful, all your girls are wonderful." He patted his belly. "She's keeping me well fed! I'm here with young Anil, I've been telling him it's time to take a bride and, by the grace of the Emperor, start a family. Anil, this is Sister Lucia, with her help I found my wife, my maid and my cook here."
"Your grace" Anil bowed. He wasn't quite sure which holy order Sister Lucia belonged to but knew that politeness would never hurt.
"Well come, come, we're all set up for you in the Hall of 1000 Virgin Martyrs."
Anil kept his eyes lowered this time, watching only his feet as he shuffled along. Still he could hear the giggles and whispers around him.
Soon he was seated in a luxurious padded chair, by far the most comfortable thing he had sat on in his life. He sipped a sweet nectar from a frosted glass given to him by another angel in a tunic even briefer than the ones they girls in the hall wore. He felt strange stirring below his belt line and was glad the weight of his robes hid any embarrassment.
Sister Lucia clapped her hands and three girls in the corner began to play on flute, lyre and drums. From behind a curtain another angel emerged, gifted with the grace of the legendary Muses herself! She seemed to float above the crude stone floor, her diaphanous garments flying around her as if they had a life of their own. Anil was struck dumb!
At his side Supervisor Lowe seemed to ignore the girl instead carrying on a whispered conversation with Sister Lucia.
All too soon the music stopped, the girl collapsed in a heap, bowed her forehead to the floor and took her leave.
"I... I'll take her!" Anil cried leaping to his feet. "How much!"
The room fell deadly quiet, looks of shock and scandal filled the faces of everyone in the room as if Anil had cursed the Emperor on the Cathedral floor. He stood there red-faced, wondering what retribution would come.
But then Sister Lucia laughed merrily and helped Anil back into his seat. "A fine jest Master Anil, a fine jest indeed."
The other girls laughed awkwardly.
"For I am sure you know well that this is no harlotry, this is a respected school for respectable young women. Our graduates are trained in the performing arts, cooking, sewing, entertaining and of course their wifely duties."
"Yes... of course..."
"And naturally you know we do not 'sell' our women, this is not some slave auction, this is a place where men of stature might find suitable matches."
"Yes... suitable... she is quite-"
"Though of course it is hard in these troubled times to maintain this school, why our fuel bill alone... But I bore you. Suffice to say a small contribution for the upkeep of this center would not be unwelcome."
"No, yes, of course, I... how small a contribution?"
At this point Supervisor Lowe sighed loudly and pulled his employee close. "Son, you've already embarrassed yourself once today, don't do it again by buying the first thing they show you. I thought you were better than that. It's just like buying grox, make sure you see the whole herd, and check their teeth before you put cash on the table."
"Yes sire, of course sire."
"Now then, now that the 'jest' is over, have that girl bring over some more drinks and bring out the next one. I'm in the market for another maid myself you know."
Sister Lucia clapped and the music began again.
Dinner and a Movie
Heinrick boarded the Civil Transporter an hour before sundown. Already the common-use seats were full, the only vacant seats were those in the front reserved for higher-ranking adepts than he. He managed to find a choice spot however before on of the air gargoyles which granted him occasional gusts of chilled air as the Transporter filled with hive workers, scribes, and the occasional servitor. His bones already ached from the lurching of the poorly maintained vehicle and he had another two hours before he arrived at his destination.
He wished he'd been able to take a hire car but he'd already saved all he could for months and barely had enough for tonight.
Finally the transporter lurched towards his stop. Heinrick shouted several times and fought his way through the dense throng in time to leap off the back as the transporter lurched away.
Heinrick waited nervously under the illuminated sign of Yervis Yohanson's Palace of Culture. His freshly shaved head aglow with a thin film of persperation, his heart aflutter, would she actually come?
Then through the ever-present chemical mists he saw her, her hair in a short bowl cut, her shapeless gray adeptus robes doing little to hide her feminine charms, Hildegard Quandt, the newest adept in his section.
She'd been transferred to the section, fresh from the Schola Progenium just a few weeks ago, to replace old Hiram whose implants had finally failed. They found him drooling under his desk one morning. Since that blessed day Heinrick had the joy of sitting just three workstations back and two over from the vision of loveliness known as Hildegard. It had taken two weeks to finally work up the courage to pass her a note during prayer services asking to speak to her during the half hour of free time they had between the end of their shift and when they were expected in their dorms at opposite ends of the compound. He'd timidly suggested that they use the upcoming Feast of the Emperor's Holy Might to attend a screening of the Saga of Yarrick-Hero of Armaggedon Vol 1, a vid drama highly recommended to instilling proper feelings of loyalty and inspirational courage.
He did not mention how his dorm mates had recommended it for certain steamy scenes which, they said, would certainly help get Hildegard in the right mood.
It was the bravest thing Heinrick had done in his life.
And when she accepted it was the happiest day of his life.
He greeted her with a shallow bow and she reciprocated awkwardly. She blushed and giggled.
Heinrick showed his copper aquila marking him as a Gamma class adept. The servo skull's eyes lit up green and the two were admitted. A mere Alpha, Hildegrad was duly impressed, she would have to labor for years in the knowledge looms before she was able to gain access to amenities such as the Palace of Culture on her own.
But Heinrick's pride turned to disappointment when he tried to get admittance to the plush balcony seats only to have the servo skull's eyes glow red and the waiting gun servitor growl ominously. The two quickly backed away and they took seats in the common level.
Just in time too, as the doors sealed, the lights dimmed and the waiting servitor orchestra began to play The Battle Hymn of the Adeptus Astres followed by Hail, Hail Clan Häupl the anthem of the current ruling family. Then the music servitors were lowered back into their pit, the curtains pulled back and the show began. Servo skulls buzzed overhead to ensure the audience were giving the vid drama their full attention.
The story began with with Yarrick's birth on the sacred mountain of Alto where he was tended by a flock of two headed eagles. It continued through his parents' tragic death and Yarrick's upbringing in the Schola Progenium where the brilliant young student was soon lecturing his own instructors on the finer points of the Imperial Creed.
There Yarrick met a fellow adept Margit Nünke and the two soon developed a relationship, often holding hands below the lunchroom table and, in one of the anticipated steamy scenes, kissing her cheek in a deserted stairwell.
During that scene Heinrick daringly slipped his hand into Hildegrad's slender fingers. And to his eternal joy, she closed his fingers over his. But they quickly jerked their hands apart when a prowling servo skull shined its searchlight in their direction.
Then the story took on a different tone as marauding Orks attacked the Schola compound and the young cadets had to rise to its defense.
In the final scene as Yarrick stood triumphant over his foul Xenos foes as Margit emerged from an underground shelter. She ran to him and embraced the young hero. Yarrick realizing that attachment to the weaker sex would only hinder him pushed her away. When she began to weep and wail and demand he stay with her the Hero of the Imperium drew his bolt pistol and calmly shot her for impairing a Cadet Commissar in the performance of his sacred duties.
As the credits rolled he received a message packet with his first assignment as a Commissar, to a planet known as Armaggedon.
The lights returned and Heimrick and Hildegrad filed out silently along with the other adepts. They casually bowed to one another and walked away in opposite directions.
They never spoke again.
Final Comments
Huh, ran out of space again.
So check out Part III here:
http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/Civilian_Life_in_Warhammer_40k_-_Part_3
More stories, and profiles of typical Imperial Subjects.