The Fourth Speaker [40kish]
Posted: 2007-02-15 07:37pm
Just wrote this up for fun. 40k seems to be short on proper superhero stories in the Marvel or DC tradition, so I decided to write one. Too, I guess, 40k is just an easy universe to tell stories in. If I do more, I'll concentrate a bit more on the political/conspiratorial aspect of it, but for now, it is what it is.
There's scarcely an original item in the story, unless you call a shameless remix of Batman, Spiderman, V for Vendetta, and the 40k universe 'original', but I had fun writing it, and if you can tolerate pulp fiction, I think you'll have fun reading it, too.
---
The Fourth Speaker
Feil
A map lay unfurled on the table, it's edges held down by rough scraps of broken stoneware. Its crinkled brown surface, illuminated by the dim, inconstant light of the flickering candles, displayed a faded schematic of a building. More than a building. A palace. A fortress.
A church.
'Are you sure about this?' asked one of them.
'Now is not the time for doubts!' hissed another.
'Our plan is sound,' intoned the third, his old voice soft but firm.
'We do His work,' whispered the forth, low voice cold. 'Put aside your fears. We are ready.'
'We will be branded Heretic, you know,' said the first, taking a half-step back.
'I know,' answered the fourth. 'I know.'
---
What am I, you ask?
A traitor? Heretic? Murderer? Assassin?
A saint?
If I am a saint, then I am a saint of death.
I am invisible among the crowd. The long, heavy coat that I wear, the thick belt, the dark fedora low over my head, the high collar, are mirrored by dozens of other citizens moving through the cold spring to their jobs, to their homes, to their lovers and their dealers, to their priests and their bribe-takers, to their clandestine appointments, to the public stonings and burnings, here in this hive of corruption.
Every man of them has his face down, his hat pulled low. Every woman is draped in a long shawl, to hide her face and her shape from prying eyes. It is not safe to stand out. Not here.
I am well-suited for my role. I am of average height. My face is plain. My strength is in density, not bulk. I thank the Emperor for these gifts.
They let me do His work.
Revolution.
This is no world of the Emperor, though we pay our taxes to Holy Terra.
This is a world of greed, of corruption. The governors grow fat on stolen tithe-money, while the citizens starve. Innocent men and women are dragged from their homes every day for imagined offenses, to sate the popular demand for action, for a scapegoat, for blood.
Perhaps I am a surgeon. A little cutting, to stem the flow of blood before it is too late.
We had waited for many years. Not I—we. The Order. Ever in secrecy, ever meeting in the Emperor's name, bringing up our families, our sons, our daughters, to worship the Emperor and follow His truths—that toil in the ways of righteousness is most holy prayer, that evil must be opposed where'er it shows its ugly head, that by the blood of martyrs the Imperium survives.
Perhaps we waited too long. Gave too many second-chances. We hoped, in our naivety, that the cancer would cure itself. Now the time is close. We have no option now. Heresy is brewing, treason's rot is stirring. In every face and every street, I see the filth and corruption of a world on the brink.
It is time. Time for this world to turn back to the Emperor's light. Time for justice. Time for truth. Time for hope, for fair laws, for fair wages, for medical treatment.
Time to end the shed of blood, the glut of gore, the vile, chaotic, addiction to murder that this world has developed.
Time, most of all, more importantly than anything else, to excise the cancer that has grown, grown in the church and the Administratum, the Arbites and the police, the law and the culture, before the treasonous, heretical filth who rule this world of Man lead us head first into the darkest heresy. Lead us there... when? In a decade? A year? A month? Tomorrow?
The time is now.
The darkness is dawning in the west, pushing back the illuminating light of the sun. The Emperor grants me the gift of Darkness, that I may do my work.
My heart begins to beat faster as I disappear into the alleyway that will take me to the building.
---
Here, too, a candle flickered. Its light caught and twinkled on the edge of a gilt Aquila not covered by the sackcloth sheet tossed over it.
The bishop looked up angrily, and tugged the edge of the sheet down over the icon, lest it mock him while he acted.
Here, too, there were four figures. The bishop, and three who entered, one by one, by the door.
'Well?' the bishop demanded. 'Where is it? Where is it!'
'Here, my lord. Just as you asked.'
The bishop smiled, rubbing his pale hands together in anticipation.
The visitor withdrew a lump of bloody cloth from his satchel and unwrapped it slowly, as if it contained something of greatest holiness.
It was a heart.
And it was still beating.
'Is it... is it really...'
'Yes, my lord. We took it from her while she still lived, while still she had her virginity, while she was still pure. We performed the rites exactly as you told us—and look!—it beats still, just as you said it would.'
'The True Emperor smiles on you, my friends! Truly, you have done His work!'
Grinning like a madman, he reached for the hideous organ with both his hands.
---
In a shower of shattered glass, I fall.
Fall, coat flying about me like the great wings of an Eagle, holy symbol of the Emperor's might. Fall, hands clasped together over my chest in His holy Aquila, sigil against evil and heresy.
How I came to be here is of no importance. Did I not tell you that I am invisible? I go as the Emperor wills, and none can stop me. Did I not tell you? I am the saint of death.
They notice me as I descend, surrounded by a gleaming halo of glass-shards. One cries out. The man holding the heart nearly drops it; the priest snatches it from the air, its bloody surface tainting his pudgy palms as it quivers and throbs with unholy life.
I land in a roll, and come to my feet, though I have fallen ten meters. From their aquila-clasp over my chest, my hands rise—a las-lock pistol in each.
'Ave Imperator.' I rasp, still keeping my head low that my hat hides my wrathful face. One of the visitors reaches into his robe for a weapon. I fire.
The weapon screams, emitting a cloud of smoke and fire as the las-pack is energized at once; 30 megajoules of incandescent death strike the armed one, and his torso disappears into a violent explosion of pink steam. The candles are blown to the richly-carpeted floor by the wash of superheated gas that tears him limb from limb; a small flame licks up, begins to burn.
I fire the second pistol. Again, it screams, like the high, long screech of the eagle on the hunt. The man who had carried the desecrated piece of flesh crumples to the ground, the molecules of his head a briefly-glowing halo of superheated steam and burning flesh. I can taste the acrid taste of las-smoke and vapourized flesh.
Already, I am upon the third, spent pistols reversed in my hands. He raises his hands to avert the Emperor's Vengeance. I slam a knee into his crotch, and he stops cold. The first hammer-blow of my pistol-but caves in his trachea; the second impacts his left temple, and he topples to the ground.
The fire has licked up higher, now, bathing the room in ruddy radiance. I am between the bishop and the door. He tries to dart past me, still carrying his beating heart for whatever damned ritual he seeks to perform. I lash out with my foot, catching him in the knee; it snaps, and he tumbles down.
Slowly, deliberately, I reload the right-hand pistol. The only sound is the crackle of flames, the priest's wet, rapid breathing.
I can smell his fear mingling with the smoke that wafts past my face in hot waves. I can feel his trembling through the soles of my boots.
I am a hunter, and he my prey. I fix my beshadowed gaze on his face, and he looks up as if commanded.
'What do you want?' he asks.
'Justice,' I growl.
The click of the hammer locking back sounds loud and harsh in the fire-lit dark.
'Why—what are you doing here?'
'I do the Emperor's work.'
'Who—who are you? What are you?'
'I am the Fourth Speaker,' I say, and fire.
The Revolution is begun.
There's scarcely an original item in the story, unless you call a shameless remix of Batman, Spiderman, V for Vendetta, and the 40k universe 'original', but I had fun writing it, and if you can tolerate pulp fiction, I think you'll have fun reading it, too.
---
The Fourth Speaker
Feil
A map lay unfurled on the table, it's edges held down by rough scraps of broken stoneware. Its crinkled brown surface, illuminated by the dim, inconstant light of the flickering candles, displayed a faded schematic of a building. More than a building. A palace. A fortress.
A church.
'Are you sure about this?' asked one of them.
'Now is not the time for doubts!' hissed another.
'Our plan is sound,' intoned the third, his old voice soft but firm.
'We do His work,' whispered the forth, low voice cold. 'Put aside your fears. We are ready.'
'We will be branded Heretic, you know,' said the first, taking a half-step back.
'I know,' answered the fourth. 'I know.'
---
What am I, you ask?
A traitor? Heretic? Murderer? Assassin?
A saint?
If I am a saint, then I am a saint of death.
I am invisible among the crowd. The long, heavy coat that I wear, the thick belt, the dark fedora low over my head, the high collar, are mirrored by dozens of other citizens moving through the cold spring to their jobs, to their homes, to their lovers and their dealers, to their priests and their bribe-takers, to their clandestine appointments, to the public stonings and burnings, here in this hive of corruption.
Every man of them has his face down, his hat pulled low. Every woman is draped in a long shawl, to hide her face and her shape from prying eyes. It is not safe to stand out. Not here.
I am well-suited for my role. I am of average height. My face is plain. My strength is in density, not bulk. I thank the Emperor for these gifts.
They let me do His work.
Revolution.
This is no world of the Emperor, though we pay our taxes to Holy Terra.
This is a world of greed, of corruption. The governors grow fat on stolen tithe-money, while the citizens starve. Innocent men and women are dragged from their homes every day for imagined offenses, to sate the popular demand for action, for a scapegoat, for blood.
Perhaps I am a surgeon. A little cutting, to stem the flow of blood before it is too late.
We had waited for many years. Not I—we. The Order. Ever in secrecy, ever meeting in the Emperor's name, bringing up our families, our sons, our daughters, to worship the Emperor and follow His truths—that toil in the ways of righteousness is most holy prayer, that evil must be opposed where'er it shows its ugly head, that by the blood of martyrs the Imperium survives.
Perhaps we waited too long. Gave too many second-chances. We hoped, in our naivety, that the cancer would cure itself. Now the time is close. We have no option now. Heresy is brewing, treason's rot is stirring. In every face and every street, I see the filth and corruption of a world on the brink.
It is time. Time for this world to turn back to the Emperor's light. Time for justice. Time for truth. Time for hope, for fair laws, for fair wages, for medical treatment.
Time to end the shed of blood, the glut of gore, the vile, chaotic, addiction to murder that this world has developed.
Time, most of all, more importantly than anything else, to excise the cancer that has grown, grown in the church and the Administratum, the Arbites and the police, the law and the culture, before the treasonous, heretical filth who rule this world of Man lead us head first into the darkest heresy. Lead us there... when? In a decade? A year? A month? Tomorrow?
The time is now.
The darkness is dawning in the west, pushing back the illuminating light of the sun. The Emperor grants me the gift of Darkness, that I may do my work.
My heart begins to beat faster as I disappear into the alleyway that will take me to the building.
---
Here, too, a candle flickered. Its light caught and twinkled on the edge of a gilt Aquila not covered by the sackcloth sheet tossed over it.
The bishop looked up angrily, and tugged the edge of the sheet down over the icon, lest it mock him while he acted.
Here, too, there were four figures. The bishop, and three who entered, one by one, by the door.
'Well?' the bishop demanded. 'Where is it? Where is it!'
'Here, my lord. Just as you asked.'
The bishop smiled, rubbing his pale hands together in anticipation.
The visitor withdrew a lump of bloody cloth from his satchel and unwrapped it slowly, as if it contained something of greatest holiness.
It was a heart.
And it was still beating.
'Is it... is it really...'
'Yes, my lord. We took it from her while she still lived, while still she had her virginity, while she was still pure. We performed the rites exactly as you told us—and look!—it beats still, just as you said it would.'
'The True Emperor smiles on you, my friends! Truly, you have done His work!'
Grinning like a madman, he reached for the hideous organ with both his hands.
---
In a shower of shattered glass, I fall.
Fall, coat flying about me like the great wings of an Eagle, holy symbol of the Emperor's might. Fall, hands clasped together over my chest in His holy Aquila, sigil against evil and heresy.
How I came to be here is of no importance. Did I not tell you that I am invisible? I go as the Emperor wills, and none can stop me. Did I not tell you? I am the saint of death.
They notice me as I descend, surrounded by a gleaming halo of glass-shards. One cries out. The man holding the heart nearly drops it; the priest snatches it from the air, its bloody surface tainting his pudgy palms as it quivers and throbs with unholy life.
I land in a roll, and come to my feet, though I have fallen ten meters. From their aquila-clasp over my chest, my hands rise—a las-lock pistol in each.
'Ave Imperator.' I rasp, still keeping my head low that my hat hides my wrathful face. One of the visitors reaches into his robe for a weapon. I fire.
The weapon screams, emitting a cloud of smoke and fire as the las-pack is energized at once; 30 megajoules of incandescent death strike the armed one, and his torso disappears into a violent explosion of pink steam. The candles are blown to the richly-carpeted floor by the wash of superheated gas that tears him limb from limb; a small flame licks up, begins to burn.
I fire the second pistol. Again, it screams, like the high, long screech of the eagle on the hunt. The man who had carried the desecrated piece of flesh crumples to the ground, the molecules of his head a briefly-glowing halo of superheated steam and burning flesh. I can taste the acrid taste of las-smoke and vapourized flesh.
Already, I am upon the third, spent pistols reversed in my hands. He raises his hands to avert the Emperor's Vengeance. I slam a knee into his crotch, and he stops cold. The first hammer-blow of my pistol-but caves in his trachea; the second impacts his left temple, and he topples to the ground.
The fire has licked up higher, now, bathing the room in ruddy radiance. I am between the bishop and the door. He tries to dart past me, still carrying his beating heart for whatever damned ritual he seeks to perform. I lash out with my foot, catching him in the knee; it snaps, and he tumbles down.
Slowly, deliberately, I reload the right-hand pistol. The only sound is the crackle of flames, the priest's wet, rapid breathing.
I can smell his fear mingling with the smoke that wafts past my face in hot waves. I can feel his trembling through the soles of my boots.
I am a hunter, and he my prey. I fix my beshadowed gaze on his face, and he looks up as if commanded.
'What do you want?' he asks.
'Justice,' I growl.
The click of the hammer locking back sounds loud and harsh in the fire-lit dark.
'Why—what are you doing here?'
'I do the Emperor's work.'
'Who—who are you? What are you?'
'I am the Fourth Speaker,' I say, and fire.
The Revolution is begun.