Warmaster?’
‘He wants you in. Told me to tell you that himself. He appreciated your work. He admired your sense of honour. “Tarik,” he said to me, “if anyone’s going to take Sejanus’s place, it should be Loken.” That’s what he said.’
‘Did he?’
‘No.’
Loken looked up. Torgaddon was coming at him with his axe high and whirling. Loken ducked, side-stepped, and thumped the butt of his tabar’s haft into Torgaddon’s side, causing Torgaddon to misstep and stumble.
Torgaddon exploded in laughter. ‘Yes! Yes, he did. Terra, you’re too easy, Garvi. Too easy. The look on your face!’
Loken smiled thinly. Torgaddon looked at the axe in his hand, and then tossed it aside, as if suddenly bored with the whole thing. It landed with a clatter in the shadows off the mat.
‘So what do you say?’ Torgaddon asked. ‘What do I tell them? Are you in?’
‘Sir, it would be the finest honour of my life,’ Loken said.
Torgaddon nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, it would,’ he said, ‘and here’s your first lesson. You call me Tarik.’
I T WAS SAID that the iterators were selected via a process even more rigorous and scrupulous than the induction mechanisms of the Astartes. ‘One man in a thousand might become a Legion warrior,’ so the sentiment went, ‘but only one in a hundred thousand is fit to be an iterator.’
Loken could believe that. A prospective Astartes had to be sturdy, fit, genetically receptive, and ripe for enhancement. A chassis of meat and bone upon which a warrior could be built.
But to be an iterator, a person had to have certain rare gifts that belied enhancement. Insight, articulacy, political genius, keen intelligence. The latter could be boosted, either digitally or pharmaceutically, of course, and a mind could be tutored in history, ethic-politics and rhetoric. A person could be taught what to think, and how to express that line of thought, but he couldn’t be taught how to think.
Loken loved to watch the iterators at work. On occasions, he had delayed the withdrawal of his company so that he could follow their functionaries around conquered cities and watch as they addressed the crowds. It was like watching the sun come out across a field of wheat.
Kyril Sindermann was the finest iterator Loken had ever seen. Sindermann held the post of primary iterator in the 63rd Expedition, and was responsible for the shaping of the message. He had, it was well known, a deep and intimate friendship with the Warmaster, as well as the expedition master and the senior equerries. And his name was known by the Emperor himself.
Sindermann was finishing a briefing in the School of Iterators when Loken strayed into the audience hall, a long vault set deep in the belly of the Vengeful Spirit. Two thousand men and women, each dressed in the simple, beige robes of their office, sat in the banks of tiered seating, rapt by his every word.
‘To sum up, for I’ve been speaking far too long,’ Sindermann was saying, ‘this recent episode allows us to observe genuine blood and sinew beneath the wordy skin of our philosophy. The truth we convey is the truth, because we say it is the truth. Is that enough?’
He shrugged.
‘I don’t believe so. “My truth is better than your truth” is a school-yard squabble, not the basis of a culture. “I am right, so you are wrong” is a syllogism that collapses as soon as one applies any of a number of fundamental ethical tools. I am right, ergo, you are wrong. We can’t construct a constitution on that, and we cannot, should not, will not be persuaded to iterate on its basis. It would make us what?’
He looked out across his audience. A number of hands were raised.
‘There?’
‘Liars.’
Sindermann smiled. His words were being amplified by the array of vox mics set around his podium, and his face magnified by picter onto the hololithic wall behind him. On the wall, his smile was three metres wide.
‘I was thinking bullies, or demagogues,
‘He wants you in. Told me to tell you that himself. He appreciated your work. He admired your sense of honour. “Tarik,” he said to me, “if anyone’s going to take Sejanus’s place, it should be Loken.” That’s what he said.’
‘Did he?’
‘No.’
Loken looked up. Torgaddon was coming at him with his axe high and whirling. Loken ducked, side-stepped, and thumped the butt of his tabar’s haft into Torgaddon’s side, causing Torgaddon to misstep and stumble.
Torgaddon exploded in laughter. ‘Yes! Yes, he did. Terra, you’re too easy, Garvi. Too easy. The look on your face!’
Loken smiled thinly. Torgaddon looked at the axe in his hand, and then tossed it aside, as if suddenly bored with the whole thing. It landed with a clatter in the shadows off the mat.
‘So what do you say?’ Torgaddon asked. ‘What do I tell them? Are you in?’
‘Sir, it would be the finest honour of my life,’ Loken said.
Torgaddon nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, it would,’ he said, ‘and here’s your first lesson. You call me Tarik.’
I T WAS SAID that the iterators were selected via a process even more rigorous and scrupulous than the induction mechanisms of the Astartes. ‘One man in a thousand might become a Legion warrior,’ so the sentiment went, ‘but only one in a hundred thousand is fit to be an iterator.’
Loken could believe that. A prospective Astartes had to be sturdy, fit, genetically receptive, and ripe for enhancement. A chassis of meat and bone upon which a warrior could be built.
But to be an iterator, a person had to have certain rare gifts that belied enhancement. Insight, articulacy, political genius, keen intelligence. The latter could be boosted, either digitally or pharmaceutically, of course, and a mind could be tutored in history, ethic-politics and rhetoric. A person could be taught what to think, and how to express that line of thought, but he couldn’t be taught how to think.
Loken loved to watch the iterators at work. On occasions, he had delayed the withdrawal of his company so that he could follow their functionaries around conquered cities and watch as they addressed the crowds. It was like watching the sun come out across a field of wheat.
Kyril Sindermann was the finest iterator Loken had ever seen. Sindermann held the post of primary iterator in the 63rd Expedition, and was responsible for the shaping of the message. He had, it was well known, a deep and intimate friendship with the Warmaster, as well as the expedition master and the senior equerries. And his name was known by the Emperor himself.
Sindermann was finishing a briefing in the School of Iterators when Loken strayed into the audience hall, a long vault set deep in the belly of the Vengeful Spirit. Two thousand men and women, each dressed in the simple, beige robes of their office, sat in the banks of tiered seating, rapt by his every word.
‘To sum up, for I’ve been speaking far too long,’ Sindermann was saying, ‘this recent episode allows us to observe genuine blood and sinew beneath the wordy skin of our philosophy. The truth we convey is the truth, because we say it is the truth. Is that enough?’
He shrugged.
‘I don’t believe so. “My truth is better than your truth” is a school-yard squabble, not the basis of a culture. “I am right, so you are wrong” is a syllogism that collapses as soon as one applies any of a number of fundamental ethical tools. I am right, ergo, you are wrong. We can’t construct a constitution on that, and we cannot, should not, will not be persuaded to iterate on its basis. It would make us what?’
He looked out across his audience. A number of hands were raised.
‘There?’
‘Liars.’
Sindermann smiled. His words were being amplified by the array of vox mics set around his podium, and his face magnified by picter onto the hololithic wall behind him. On the wall, his smile was three metres wide.
‘I was thinking bullies, or demagogues,
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