"Praise the Governor!"
"Praise the Governor!"
Amid the howling vox-speakers of the servo-skulls and the rhythmic blare of ceremonial horns, the Planetary Governor stood atop his gilded palanquin, draped in robes of deep crimson and gold, his face beaming with self-satisfied pride.
Rings glittered on his fingers as he waved vigorously to the crowds on either side of the parade route.
The mass of hive citizens responded fervently, leaping and shouting in perfect synchronization, their cries merging into a single deafening wave of orchestrated adulation that made the Governor's skin quiver.
The only flaw in this splendid scene, the Governor mused, was the sheer lifelessness of their expressions, empty, mechanical, like soulless servitors offering meaningless praise.
Well, such was the nature of the wretched masses, he thought smugly. They needed purpose, and he gave it to them.
A collared slave girl hurried from the rear of the procession, her bare feet striking the stone between tracked parade vehicles and marching guards, passed briskly through an inspection by the Governor's Guard, and presented him with a sheet of parchment, her hands trembling.
"My Lord… urgent communique," she whispered, lowering her eyes.
The interruption did not anger the Governor.
He knew this particular slave was trained well enough never to disturb him without urgent cause.
With his left hand, the Governor took the parchment while continuing to wave magnanimously with his empty right hand. His ears soaked in the surrounding praise, a choir of devotion swelling like music in his veins, but his eyes remained fixed on the document.
It was a simple message.
A fellow Governor, named Ode, wished to purchase a shipment of Talon-supplied weapons and power armor at the fastest possible speed, offering no Thrones or Imperial credits, but raw commodities: manpower, gold, silver, and materiel.
The wording indicated urgency, no negotiation, no delay, and no attempt to disguise the lack of currency.
The Governor grinned. Opportunity cloaked in desperation, he recognized it immediately.
He recalled the earlier "aid package" sent by the so-called Lord of Talon, a common-born upstart who had dared issue a sector-wide mobilization order, distributing arms and equipment to reinforce planetary militias. Lasguns, power armor for officers, ammunition by the ton…
Unregulated charity masquerading as duty. Dangerous. And profitable.
"Of course, of course," the Governor muttered, tucking the parchment away. He would begin loading the gear for shipment to Governor Ode as soon as this parade ended.
But first, more important matters.
"Praise me!" the Governor bellowed at the crowd, voice amplified through the palanquin's vox-throats.
The crowd roared even louder in return.
The parade advanced into the great central square of the hive city, a vast plaza surrounded by monumental golden statues of every past Governor.
This was the most crowded part of the city, hundreds of thousands of citizens crammed into vast open spaces between giant sightseeing structures.
Above, massive holo-projectors displayed the Governor's image to every corner of the plaza.
From the pinnacle of the clocktower, a figure clad in black-and-gold warplate, Grey watched the procession below with icy eyes.
At the precise moment when the parade reached the square's center, Grey stepped off the 40-meter-spire without hesitation.
No jump pack.
No kinetic dampeners.
No augmentation protocols.
He simply fell.
Like a hammer of the Emperor, he crashed down from forty meters, a sonic shockwave rippling outward as the stone plaza buckled beneath him, but he stood upright, unfazed.
From behind his back, Grey drew a double-headed Aquila staff and planted it into the ground.
A replica of the Lord of Talon's own sceptre, crafted as a badge of authority, every Thunderborn in Talon's service carried one.
The impact stunned the square.
His appearance immediately caught the attention of the Governor, his guards, and nearly ten thousand soldiers of the Planetary Defense Force.
The guards formed a tight circle around the Governor, while the Defense Force created a firing line 100 meters from Grey, raising the lasguns ironically supplied by Talon's system, ready to fire.
Grey said nothing.
But within his mind, his bio-processor seized control of every broadcast channel in the square.
The giant hololiths, which moments ago displayed the Governor's grand visage, now projected the lone figure of a Thunderborn.
To any who knew even a little of Talon, it was unmistakable.
A Thunderborn had come.
And he spoke with the authority of the Lord of Talon himself.
....
"Governor of Industrial World Seven, System Fifteen..."
Grey's voice thundered from every speaker, every iron-mouthed servitor.
"I hereby pronounce your crimes.
You ignored the mobilization orders issued by the Lord of Talon. You illegally sold military aid meant to defend the Imperium.
In the name of the Lord of Talon, you are sentenced to death.
By His mercy, you are granted final words. They shall be recorded and broadcast across the entire system."
Grey lifted a small recording device.
The condemned Governor opened his mouth but no words came out.
He had so much he wished to protest, how the Lord of Talon had no right to command other systems, how they were equals in authority, how selling the arms was only common sense...
He remembered the endless meetings in the Echelon chambers, the debates over jurisdiction, the veiled threats hidden behind smiles.
He wasn't some provincial baron, damn it!
His family traced their line back to the Founding Wars! How dare this Talon-borne upstart judge him like some common thief?
Why had the weapons been sent here at all, if absolute loyalty was expected?
Why this... grotesque public execution?
But all these thoughts tangled in his mind, and at last all he could blurt out was:
"Isn't this your fault?! You sent the weapons here knowing we weren't under your direct control! How is that different from giving them away?!"
Beneath his visor, a hidden smile curled across Grey's face.
Everyone, even the lowliest workers in Talon's forges, had known this would happen.
Some fools would always steal the weapons.
And those fools had volunteered themselves for an example.
"Final statement recorded," Grey said dispassionately, tossing the recorder aside.
At once, the Planetary Defense Force soldiers opened fire.
Grey triggered Bullet-Time mode.
Raising the Aquila staff off the ground, he activated the embedded micro-gravity generator at the advancing soldiers.
A thirty-meter-wide gravitational well materialized directly in the enemy's ranks, crushing dozens into pulp and clearing a path through the firing line.
Still within bullet-time, Grey blurred forward.
The surviving soldiers hadn't even yet realized their comrades had been pulverized.
Grey sprinted through the gap, charging straight at the Governor's personal guards. He struck the first with a single armored fist, smashing the man's skull into his torso.
As normal time resumed, panic rippled through the troops, someone or something had just flown past them. They looked around and then noticed the mangled remains of their fellow troops splattered across the ground.
The Governor's personal guards reacted quickly, opening fire as Grey reached the base of the platform. But they were swiftly picked off by blasts from his shoulder-mounted lascannons.
"N-No! W-wait, please!" the Governor shrieked, scrambling backwards atop his palanquin.
Grey advanced remorselessly.
He grabbed the Governor by the leg, dragged him back, and with a single, brutal swing of the staff, caved in his ribcage.
With a sickening crack and a scream, the scepter smashed down. Then came the arms. Then the legs. Blow after brutal blow, until nothing recognizable remained.
On the giant hololiths, the mangled corpse was displayed for all to see.
Grey scanned the body with his cybernetic eye.
Inside the Governor's robes, he found a folded letter.
Unfolding it, Grey read the sender's name aloud.
"Governor Ode…"
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