There was no longer any sunrise on this world, nor did the sun
set upon the passing of the day. Even day itself was something of an amorphous
concept; for below this planet’s surface, within the tiers and tunnels that
burrowed through the earth like capillaries through flesh, it was always a
twilit realm of gloomy orange from the endless parades of sodium lamps and
guttering candles. Above ground, the sky was forever a turgid grey-green
expanse from the untold generations of pollutants that caged the upper
atmosphere and left the world beneath its shelter in an enduring demimonde of
dusk.
The surface itself was a suffocating mass of twisting thoroughfares,
boulevards, streets, lanes and alleys, framed by an anachronistic jumble of
timeless edifices of varying sizes, from the truly monolithic to the simply
immense. Whilst most of the buildings had been erected from a cornucopia of differing
materials, from the drab grey of ferrocrete to the alabaster white of marble
riddled with contrasting coloured veins, time had desaturated them all
monochromatic so that even the most opulent of architecture, gilded in gold,
stood alongside its brutalistic neighbour equally under the same dull film of
greasy, olive-hued, soot. To look at the urban sprawl for too long was to
invite a dizzying sense of claustrophobic vertigo as the panoramic scape loomed
inwards, breaking from euclidian geometry and threatened to fold in on itself
like a tidal wave of liquid masonry.
An undulating current of human beings asphyxiated the wider
avenues with a congestion of bodies, dressed in an anarchic collection of uniformly
bland coveralls, robes and other purely functional clothing. The high-rise
highways, which looped above the bowed heads of the thronging workers upon
gargantuan pillars of ferrocrete, where similarly gridlocked with uncounted,
smog-belching, vehicles, from the smaller, personal autos to the massive tracked
road-leviathans. Soporific psalms sang from vox-poles to placate the herd.
Votives and maxims were displayed from giant vid-screens, suspended in the air
by means of arcane technology, further cementing the axiomatic truths of the
Imperial Creed.
This was Holy Terra. Not the ivory towers and glittering
spires basking under a pellucid sky often depicted in the artistic renditions
upon commemorative hololiths and daguerreotypes peddled out to the gullible tourists
and pilgrims. He had heard that this was the way Astropaths saw this world,
bathed in the eternal golden glow of the Emperor’s beneficence. However this
was the real Holy Terra, a chaotic stinking cesspool of decay, a perpetual
engine at the heart of the Imperium maintained by oceans of sweat and blood.
Magistrate Danforth beheld all this from one of the
innumerable balconies that studded the skin of the Hall of Judgement, that basalt
cathedral of law which was like unto a city in itself, ringed by fearsome
palisades of black iron. Spanning several miles in either direction, when viewed
from above, it took on the aspect of a forbidding sable gauntlet, reminding the
populous that no one can escape from the Emperor’s hand of justice.
The magistrate sighed heavily and turned away from the
blighted vista. He didn’t have time to lose himself in such sour contemplations,
his age and experience had made him irascible and malcontent with the actual realities
of Holy Terra compared to the hallowed utopia spoken of in the hymnals of the
Ecclesiarchy and seen through the glassy eyes of the pilgrims that flock to
this sullied beacon. For a brief moment, he envied their delusions.
The tip of his staff of office clacked against the marble
floor with every alternate footfall. His ceremonial garments and ornamental
coronal collar behind a bedizened mitre were heavy and weighed him down,
slowing his stride measurably. He took a right turn from the main concourse and
found himself surrounded by endless rows of colossal open cabinets which
stretched high into the vaulted ceiling a mile above his head, each on crammed
with books, scrolls, single leaves and a million other mediums for recording
the dictates of law. The delicately painted frescos, depicting the ancient
Terran gods of law, were fading and crumbling in disrepair. A complex latticework
of pulleys and guy ropes had been strung from the ceiling on thousands of
looped hooks, installed long after the need for such artistic decoration had
been overridden by the need to reach the top selves once the centuries of legal
documentation, redrafts, legislations, citations, precedents, transcripts,
regulations, statutes, enactments, decrees, edicts, rulings, motions,
directives, proclamations and case studies had transformed the great Book of
Judgement into an unwieldy library of itself. Here on Holy Terra was the most
comprehensive collection of sector, subsector and planetary law ever collected
and collated by ten millennia of long forgotten law adepts. There were many
such repositories elsewhere in the complex.
Shadows of spider-like subordinates danced above him as they
slid and slithered along the cables to retrieve elusive scraps of judicial
particulars for the hundreds of cases being brought to the courtrooms daily.
Scribes and assistants skittered between the shelves at ground level, often
labouring under armfuls of weighted tomes. Danforth slowed his pace further and
skirted around a pair of mechanised servitors as they fumigated the selves; one
swinging the implanted nozzle of its arm left and right, whilst the other
worked the pump handle of a large canister.
Eventually, he reached one of the many piers of the internal
canal network – by far the most expedient way to travel across the many acres
of the Hall of Judgement – and carefully stepped onto the waiting barge already
laden with many volumes, piled high, ready to be ferried to other sections. A
quick command to the servitor manning the tiller and the barge made way to the
soft burbling of its engines.
Danforth dipped his staff on several occasions as they moved
under walkways and gantries and even had to kneel once as they passed through a
particularly low bridge of ancient stone. The journey itself was almost serene
and the magistrate took a moment to reflect on the sheer majesty that was the
Hall of Judgement as the barge trundled along a lofty aqueduct overlooking a
pristine, spacious auditorium (one of many) that connected to multiple courtrooms.
Defendants and plaintiffs commingled with pardoners and advocates whilst they
waited for their cases to be called.
The engine stalled, slowing the barge as it drifted towards
the terminus pier. Danforth stepped off and strode down an unassuming corridor
underlit by stagnant, blackened torches burning sluggishly in iron sconces. He
passed by unmarked doors of heavy, lacquered wood; these led to audience
chambers of the Marshals of the Court, peerless law masters answerable only to
the Grand Provost Marshal herself. Halting in front of one among many, the
magistrate took an even breath before grasping the ringed handle, turning it
and stepping across the threshold.
The chamber itself was kept in shadows, the only light
filtering down from a pallid lamp set into the centre of the domed ceiling.
What Danforth could see through the gloom reminded him of a courtroom, but more
austere; the spectator pews were entirely absent, as were the jurors box, the
dock and examination stand. The Reeve’s pulpit had been replaced by three
raised alcoves overlooking the entire room. Four great statues stood in each
corner, muscled behemoths of black stone wearing loincloths and helmets shaped
into a canine form. They each had an arm outstretched where a set of scales
hung from a clenched fist. Standing sentry in the half-light at their feet, the
sinister cowls of the court proctors silently watched as the magistrate
approached the circle of light, their gloved hands whining slightly as they
tightened around heavy maces.
For the second time that day, Danforth knelt and bowed his
head keeping his staff of office held upright. Minutes seemed to stretch into
an eternity before a booming voice shattered the dense stillness;
“All Rise! Marshals of the Court in attendance!”
Danforth stood once more, in time to see three silhouettes
take their place in the alcoves before him. Swathed in darkness, only their
outlines were visible, exuding a palpable menace.
“Magistrate Danforth,” intoned the central shadow, “you
requested this hearing. Explain why?”
“M’lords,” spoke Danforth through lips suddenly dry with apprehension,
“A worrying pattern has begun to emerge within the reports across Holy Terra;
from hushed mentions in conversations picked up by our auritus teams to recent interrogations
of arrested recidivists and heretics….”
Danforth paused, abruptly disquieted as to whether this matter
was worthy of Marshals attention, until he was prompted to continue by one of
the shadows audibly clearing his throat.
“A common word has been appearing in the records: Pilgrym.”
“Pilgrims!?” came an incredulous hiss from the left, “There
are thousands of pilgrims disembarking daily onto the soil of Holy Terra!”
“Do you expect us to task every precinct on Holy Terra to
find this elusive pilgrim amongst such a sizable flock?” scoffed the right.
“With respect, M’lords,” beseeched Danforth, as the
momentary feelings of foolishness drained through him, “I’m not referring to
pilgrims, but Pilgrym. It’s in an archaic format and capitalized; I believe it
to be a moniker, or perhaps a title.”
“What threat do you apply to this ‘Pilgrym’, if he, she or
it exists?” enquired the left.
“At the moment, that is still undetermined, M’lords,”
replied Danforth, almost apologetically, “currently there have been no crimes
directly attributed to the Pilgrym, if it is even a person. However with the
notable rise in convictions of heresy in recent months, I am concerned that
this Pilgrym could be a herald of woe, fanning the flames of apostasy with the
mere mention of the name.”
The magistrate let the shadows digest his suspicions without
interruption; heralds of woe were exceptionally rare cases and almost unheard
of on Holy Terra since the reign of Vandire the Malefactor, where a single
individual can be found responsible through machinations for plunging an entire
world into the darkness of anarchy and lawlessness.
“This could then be a matter of faith,” mused the centre, “you
could leave this with the Ministorum for the moment and let them handle it with
their own brand of piety and re-education.”
“We deal in the matters of law,” concurred the right, “let
such affairs of theocratic doctrine be dealt with by the pontiffs and their
confessors.”
“I would be happy to, M’lords,” asserted Danforth, “but with
the internecine strife between the ratified sub-cults of the Imperial Creed
also on the rise, I must distrust the Church’s capabilities to control their
own affairs.”
Danforth could almost hear the whispered consultations
between the trio of shadows.
“Very well, Magistrate Danforth,” declared the centre,” we
will issue you with a warrant of law in this inquest. Ensure your investigation
is conducted by this writ and make your reports regular so that we may ascertain
whether further action or resources are required. In Lex Imperialis Absolutus.”
“In Lex Imperialis Absolutus.” Danforth repeated before
bowing slightly and leaving the chamber.
