Base。
DeViers had felt it only proper to invite them； absolutely certain that they would decline。 He
would not have asked them otherwise。 Propriety had backfired on him； however； as all three had
come。 He still couldn’t understand why。 They had expressly told him that they wouldn’t be able to
eat the food his chef prepared。 One of them — the perpetually wheezing； twitching Armadron —
seemed to lack anything that even approximated a functioning mouth。 From what deViers had
glimpsed so far under that shadowy hood； it appeared that the adept’s entire head was encased in
twin hemispheres of steel； absolutely featureless but for a single glowing green eye。 In terms of
aesthetics； the other two weren’t much better。
Sennesdiar； the highest ranking of the three — though his robes bore no markings to denote this
— was also the largest figure in the room； his misshapen bulk nearly twice the mass of anyone else
present。 His robes were perforated all across his back； allowing a number of strange serpentine
appendages to fall all the way to the floor where they coiled around the legs of his chair； their metal
segments gleaming in the light。 Sennesdiar’s face — what little could be seen of it under his cowl —
was grotesque； the flesh pale and bloodless； little more； in places； than flaps of skin stapled over dull
steel； and his tiny mouth was a lipless slash that reminded deViers of nothing so much as a fresh
stab wound。 The effect was a mask that made a mockery of human features。
The last of the three； Xephous； was no better。 In some ways； he was actually worse； for his
complex arrangement of mandibles and visual receptors gave him the aspect of a nightmarish
biomechanical crab； and the intermittent clacking sounds that issued from him only added to the
effect。
By the Golden Throne of Terra； thought deViers； between the three of them； they’re enough to
ruin a man’s appetite。
The more human guests had filled their glasses and were pushing their chairs back so that they
might rise to their feet for the general’s toast。
DeViers turned his eyes away from the tech…priests； glad that the ever…considerate Gruber had
seated them among the men at the far end of the table。 Much nearer and； thankfully； much easier to
behold； were Bishop Augustus and High Commissar Morten。
The bishop； seated on the general’s immediate right； was a tall； almost skeletally thin man in his
late seventies with a prodigiously long nose。 His tanned skin shimmered with a coating of the most
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expensive and richly…scented oils； and precious gems glittered from the rings that graced each of his
long fingers。 Like the tech…priests； Bishop Augustus wore voluminous and finely made robes；
though his were a dazzling white； symbolising a spiritual purity far beyond the grasp of other； lesser
men。 That was worth a laugh； thought deViers。 If rumours about the bishop were true； he was
anything but pure。 On Cadia； he would have been publicly executed for his unorthodox
predilections； but； perhaps； deViers told himself； the rumours were exactly that： idle rumours。 The
bishop was a fine conversationalist； already winning smiles and laughter from a number of the
officers as they had listened intently to his anecdotes before being seated around the table。 It was
much more than could be said for his Martian counterparts。
The high commissar； seated on the general’s immediate left； was a striking figure of a man；
clearly of fine noble stock； dressed immaculately in his gold…braided tunic and black silk shirt。 Such
were Morten’s good looks that the only other man present whose features stood up to any kind of
comparison was Major General Bergen； whom deViers always thought looked just as if he’d
stepped straight out of a recruitment poster。
As was only proper； High Commissar Morten had dispensed with his stiffened cap while at the
table； but it was impossible to look at the man without seeing the ghost of it still perched firmly on
his head； such was the strength of his identity。 He was； in deViers’ opinion； the quintessential
political officer。 Unswerving and utterly uncompromising in his duty； he had served with the 18th
Army Group for the last eleven years and； though he and deViers had never developed anything that
could be called a friendship； the general enjoyed the man’s professional respect and returned it in
kind。
The absence of friendship was no great loss。 After all； deViers told himself； one must be careful
around these commissars。
All his guests were standing now； their eyes on him； goblets filled and at the ready。 DeViers
lifted his straight out in front of him； took a breath； and projected his voice。
“To success； gentlemen；” he said。 “To success and victory！”
“Success and victory！” they replied with fervour。 Excepting the Mechanicus； each of the guests
threw back his glass and drank。 When they had finished； deViers gestured them back into their seats；
smiling broadly at them。
Look at them； Mohamar； he thought； eating out of your hand。 To success and victory； indeed；
and to immortality； for I will have the glory I seek。 And Throne help any bastard that gets in my
way。
Major General Gerard Bergen looked down at his plate with absolute revulsion。 What the devil was
this abomination？ The starter had been bad enough — chilled bladdercrab with ormin and caprium
— so obscenely rich that he’d felt his stomach churning； though the general’s other guests had
seemed to enjoy it immensely judging by their praise for the general’s personal chef。 Now the old
man’s servants brought out the main course — quivering mountains of dark red meat that looked
dangerously undercooked。
The general’s adjutant； Gruber； placed himself on the old man’s right and proudly announced；
“Lightly roasted auroch heart stuffed with jellied grox liver and dogwort。”
Murmurs of appreciation sounded from around the table； but Bergen studied the thing on his
plate as if it were an alien life form。 It sat there glistening wetly in the light from the lamps； its
pungent aroma clawing at his nostrils。 He hoped the expression of delight he was struggling to
maintain was enough to fool the general。 He looked up the table involuntarily and immediately
wished he hadn’t。 DeViers caught his eye。 Bergen put extra effort into his artificial smile and saw
the old man grin back； buying into his act。
He turned back to the food。 Maybe it tastes better than it looks； he thought； but I doubt it。
Bergen considered himself a down…to…earth man for someone of his breeding and rank — it was；
in fact； the thing he liked best about himself — and it required effort on his part to maintain the
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social niceties so important to his station in the classist upper echelons of the Imperial Guard。
Whether on the battlefield or off it； he liked to live as his men did； eating standard…issue rations and
sleeping on a standard…issue bedroll； washing and shaving as little or as often as his men were able
to。 Such things allowed him a better understanding of the condition of his troops； of how far he
could push them before they would start to come undone。 Such information was critical to a good
commander。 Some of the old…school officers； a few of the colonels and majors seated around him
perhaps； also held to such practices； but they were in the minority。 Bergen’s regimental commanders
— Vinnemann； Marrenburg and Graves — had been allowed to abstain from attending the dinner so
that they might continue their preparations for deployment； a concession that Bergen greatly envied
them。 DeViers hadn’t given him that option。 The old man had been adamant that all his divisional
commanders attend。
Lifting his cutlery； Bergen began slicing bite…sized chunks from the undercooked heart。 Spearing
one with his fork； he lifted it towards his mouth。 Here goes nothing； he told himself； and popped it
in。 The texture was highly unpleasant； but he was forced to admit that it tasted a lot better than it
looked。
While the general’s guests concentrated on the main course； the level of conversation dropped；
stifled by the efforts of cutting and chewing； and of chasing each mouthful down with a sip of
amasec。 But it wasn’t long until most of the plates lay empty save a smear of sauce on each； and a
flock of servants emerged from the side corridors to clear them away。
Bergen sat back in silence and watched the others interact。 His stomach was threatening to rebel
against him。
Bishop Augustus dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a white silk napkin and said；
“Exquisite； general； but quite cruel； don’t you think； to acclimatise us to such outstanding fare？ I
suspect Golgotha offers nothing so delicious or refined。”
General deViers faced the bishop； but gestured down the table to Tech…Magos Sennesdiar。
“The honoured magos；” he said； “tells me that most of the animal and plant life on this world is
fatal if ingested。 Is that not so； magos？”
The blaring voice that replied was like a vox…caster unit with the volume turned up too high。
Like most of the others； Bergen winced。
“If you’ll permit me； general；” boomed the tech…magos； each word toneless and harsh； “the
probability of death would depend on the amount and type of matter ingested； the body…weight and
constitution of the individual in question； the availability and quality of medical assistance—”
From Bergen’s left； a few seats further down the table； the crab…faced Tech…Adept Xephous
emitted a sudden burst of noise； high…pitched and raw； like fingernails scraping on a blackboard。 His
superior immediately replied with a similar condensed sonic burst。 Bergen knew this for what it
was。 The tech…priests were communicating in Binary； the ancient machine…language of the Martian
priesthood。 When Sennesdiar reverted to speaking in Gothic a moment later； his voice was pitched
just right。 “My apologies； gentlemen。 My adept informs me that my vocaliser settings may have
caused you some discomfort。 Is this setting acceptable？”
“A great improvement； magos；” said General deViers。
“Then I shall continue listing the variables relevant to the question of toxicity in—”
DeViers held up a hand and cut the tech…priest off mid…sentence。 “Thank you； magos； but that
will not be necessary。 A simple yes or no would have sufficed。”
“It is not a simple matter；” said the tech…priest。 “I shall have an acolyte…logis compile a report for
you on the subject。 We have significant amounts of relevant data。”
“If you must；” said deViers； winking at Bishop Augustus； “but I’d rather you just warn me if I’m
about to bite down on something I shouldn’t。”
You wouldn’t want to bite off more than you could chew； thought Bergen automatically。
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“Actually；” continued General deViers； turning from the tech…magos； “I’d like to hear the high
commissar’s thoughts on this amasec。 Commodore Galbraithe graciously donated eighteen bottles of
the stuff for our little celebration。 Such a pity that he wasn’t able to share it with us in person。”
“Wasn’t able？” asked Major General Rennkamp brusquely； “Or wasn’t willing？ I’ve heard the
old spacer hasn’t been ground…side for over twenty years。 You’d need a direct order from the High
Lords to get him off that Helicon Star of his。”