The voice was tentative. “Captain Derrida?” Derrida glanced up from his papers at the intervox. Vangor’s temerity surprised his commander. His office secretary, a clean-cut man in his late twenties, had never been shy. Perhaps Derrida had not concealed his discomfiture so well as he thought. “Go ahead.”

  “I…there’s someone to see you, sir.” Derrida was about to inquire about this unexpected visitor’s identity when the door to his office hissed open. Surprise momentarily rooted the Captain to his chair.

  “Hello, Thomas,” said Marius, stepping into the room. The Duke had exchanged his elaborate robes of state for simpler dress. He wore a neat civilian suit, its weave a rich charcoal, buttoned to the neck. His long hair, combed back neatly from his brow, sported none of its usual decoration. He smiled sympathetically at Derrida and the Captain was surprised by how genuine the expression seemed. Not waiting to be invited, Marius advanced and sat in one of the two leather chairs opposite Derrida’s dark coaltimber desk, throwing one leg over the other and resting his arms along the round structure of the chair.

  “My lord—“ Derrida began to rise, then halted at a gesture from the Duke. The older man glanced around the room, taking in the room’s sparse décor. System charts lined the walls above file cabinets painted a hard gunmetal gray. Dossiers and reports lined the top of the containers, piled into basket sporting category labels. Derrida liked to stay apprised of the latest developments in planetary industry. He had always felt that information was the singular key to successful control. That was why this conflict with the Children felt so unbearable, he supposed. Every day, it seemed that they knew less about rebel operations.

  “I have not visited you here before,” said Marius, his gaze lingering on a chart detailing the layout of the Electric Heart. “I owe you an apology for neglecting to do so.”

  “It’s nothing, lord,” Derrida responded hastily. It was true. Marius had always taken a special interest in his career, indeed, his rise to his current position had been startling rapid. Still, the Duke had never called on Derrida personally, always summoning the Captain to join him in some other location, usually the throne room. That state of affairs seemed perfectly natural—the Duke was an exceptionally busy man. Which begged the question, why had he chosen to come here now?

  “Your recovery, it proceeds smoothly?”

  “I am in perfect health, your grace. The medicae assured me that I can carry out my duties without impediment.”

  The Duke nodded appreciatively. “I am glad to heart it. You agree with their assessment?” A chill ran down the soldier’s spine. “Oh, be at ease, Captain. This is not a tribunal. Your position is secure. There is no one I trust more. But a leader has a responsibility to care for those who follow him. And so, I ask again, are you well? Is there any support you require that I may provide?”

  Derrida shook his head. “No, lord. I am up to the task of carrying on.”

  “Good, good. Well then, why don’t you tell me what happened down there?”

  Derrida frowned. “It’s in my report, sir?”

  “I know that, I read it this morning. It provided me with all the essential details, from a military and administrative perspective. You did well down there. But I want to hear the other side of it, the human side.”

  Derrida swallowed. “Yes, well. It began when they shot me.”

  The Children sprang the trap with terrifying ease.

  In the same instant that Absalom fired, a dozen other guards and substation engineers turned upon the ducal force. Blades flashed in the harsh artificial light and the air crackled with the energy of lasgun fire. The sound was especially disturbing. There were none of the typical sounds of a military engagement, no bellowing war cries or shouted orders, no screams of the wounded. Instead, Derrida’s men grunted in stunned surprise as they felt their organs rupture and flesh melt, or else thudded dully to the floor, gurgling and choking on their bodies own fluids.

  The Children engaged their opponents with a lethal precision previously unseen. Gone were the frantic assaults of past days, replaced by a merciless tactical excellence. This was not simply an ambush, it was a slaughter.

  Derrida’s nerves exploded with agony as the bolt struck him in the belly, melting flesh away like butter. Bile raced into his throat, fleeing the chaos in his organs, bursting through his teeth and spraying Absalom’s face. The young man staggered backward and Derrida, driven by instinct alone, threw himself forward. His left hand wrapped around the laspistol’s barrel, his shot nerves blinded to the weapon’s scorching heat, while the fingers of his right clawed at Absalom’s neck. The two men tumbled to the floor.

  A handful of the planetary guardsmen escaped the initial attack. These pulled together into tight formations, sheltering behind machinery and creating killing corridors. They fired with the indiscriminating terror of hunters transformed suddenly into prey, blasting servitors and attackers alike as they hastened to eliminate every sign of hostile movement.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Absalom gagged, lungs straining for air. He fought with one arm to bring the lasgun up toward Derrida and hammered at the soldier’s skull with the other. For the moment, the loyalist held the advantage, his greater weight pinning Absalom to the floor. It would not last. Derrida felt his strength seeping away with every passing second. His head spun with dizziness and he vomited again, drawing a strangled gasp of pain from Absalom as the acid struck his eyes.

  Above and behind the grappling men, Angus croaked impotently, his chest and arms encircled by the mechanized limbs of a seemingly harmless servitor grunt. His feet kicked helplessly and his ribs cracked audibly as the worker drone tightened its grip. The vessels in his eyes, swollen with strain, burst, and the doughty veteran began to weep blood. The vertebrae in his spine popped free from one another and he slacked. A moment later, he died. The drone, heedless, continued to tighten its grip.

  He did not perish in vain. At his hip, a small metal box chirped away, the dead man’s thumb still pressed against its activator switch. A dozen similar chimes echoed from the surviving loyalist forces, their emergency communicators signaling a Red Level threat to all nearby forces. Outside the substation, every available Enforcer and guardsmen scrambled to respond, rushing towards the towering structures of the Electric Heart.

  Inside, Derrida’s strength finally failed. He slumped forward, his shoulder striking Absalom’s chin as he did, his seared waist pinning the younger man’s weapon to the floor. Puffing, Absalom pried the man’s slack fingers away from his throat, sucking down the stinking oily air in greedy gulps. He pushed at the limp body, his jaw aching, his eyes bloodshot. Just as he was beginning to lift it, however, it crushed back down, the weight of Angus’s body overwhelming him as the servitor, apparently satisfied that its task was finished, released the corpse and began searching for a new target.

  “Miles? Miles!?” a worried voice sounded in his earpiece. He tried to respond and discovered that he could not articulate a single word around the swelling in his jaw. Already flooded with adrenaline, he felt the icy tendrils of panic claw at his cerebrum as he heard someone issue orders for the Children to withdraw and activate the explosive charges.

  “—damage to the substation proved to be considerable. Current estimates suggest—” Derrida halted as the Duke raised a hand. “Yes, I understand. As I said, I read your report.” He sighed. “I am sorry about the Sergeant, about Angus. He was your superior officer at one point, yes?”

  “He was, your grace.” More than that, he had been a friend. A real friend, for all his faults, and one of the few soldiers on this world who had not transformed into a blabbering sycophant when Derrida had been placed in charge of the guard. “He…he will be missed.”

  “An admirable man, I think. His emergency ping was the first to activate. Lieutenant Tolliver’s account indicated that the primary bomb was deactivated a mere three standard seconds before detonation.”

  It was true. Angus’s quick reaction had saved the core of the Electric Heart and, by extension, saved Derrida, too. He had attended the burial, wanting to pay his respects to the man one final time. He wished he had not. The sight of a dead friend is never easy, even for a soldier, but the troubling sight had been compounded by the state of Angus’s body. It resembled nothing so much as a deformed doll, twisted and mangled by the wicked play of some cruel child.

  “Thomas?” Derrida blinked, realizing that he had missed something. He apologized hastily, but the Duke merely studied him. When he finally spoke again, there was pity in his piercing eyes. “Thomas, do you understand why this is necessary?”

  “Why what is necessary, your grace?”

  The Duke studied him a moment more. “I admire you, Thomas. I know that may be difficult to believe. My longevity and position have conferred upon me a status approaching something like divinity. And, in a way, it is right for you all to regard me in this light. I will be a god, Thomas, when this is all done.” He smiled warmly. “I recognize that may sound like hubris. In truth, however, it is simply necessity. Divinity alone can shelter this world and its people from the storm which now rages beyond our borders.”

  Derrida could not suppress a slight frown. “As you say, your grace.”

  “Yes, Thomas, as I say, although I can tell that you do not realize why my words must be true, why they must become true. This puzzles me, to some extent, because you ought to understand better than anyone. You are my truest son, my most loyal brother. Does this not strike you as curious? I have numberless captains who are more indulgent, more devoted to the pursuit of the pleasures promised by Almighty Slaanesh. Their ardor is commendable, but their theology is lacking. What we pursue as the great god’s followers is not merely pleasure. It is perfection. To forget that fact, to settle for mere pleasure, is anathema to our purpose.”

  “Forgive me, lord, but if this is the case…why do you allow our men to indulge themselves in so many distractions? We could have obliterated the Children, by now, if it were not for the fact that half our forces at any time are locked away in pleasure houses.”

  The Duke chuckled. “There are many types of perfection, Captain. I admire the path which you have chosen most of all, but other pathways do exist. As for the Children, they remain necessary, in their own way. For, when we take to the stars in the years ahead, we will need to be sharp. So long as this rabble serves to prepare us for that eventuality, we must not become so fixated upon them that we lose sight of the great perfection which lies ahead.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The Duke rose. “Are you free this evening? I have something I would like you to see.”

  “I have a great deal to catch up on here, your grace.” Derrida said. It was true, at least partially. There were always more matters requiring his attention.

  The Duke straightened his jacket. “Very well, then, but call on me tomorrow. I think it is time your instruction in the things of our master proceeds. The appointed time is almost here, Thomas. And you have been chosen for a great honor. A very great honor, indeed.”