+ Recruitment Drive +
The Outspeaker stopped a few steps from the diplomat’s delegation, planting his feet theatrically in the dust. Grabbing his ragged belt-buckle in one hand, he cocked his head and pinched his calloused thumb to his middle finger, forming a ring. Touching it to his chin, he chucked his jaw forward and spoke, his eyes insolent.“You want get us fight f’you, Throne?”
The tribe spread into a loose – and intimidating, Jean thought – semicircle around the Outspeaker
as Jean dismounted. The women and men of the tribe were sullen; their postures alternately listless and hostile. Denims and leathers, gathered and much-patched, clothed the group. A magpie selection of glass shishas, fluorescents, and beaten plate-metals draped from bangles; and thick patches of scar-material decorated exposed flesh in chequerboard patterns. The crescent was gathering in, such that Jean could not look at all of them at once. His equine whinnied, trying to shuffle backwards, and he tightened his grip on the bridle, welcoming the distraction. Determinedly, he addressed the group’s leader.
“Being a Paxtitect has become considerably more exciting recently, Outspeaker.” Jean began, his voice pitched with a wavering bonhomie. The Outspeaker’s leathery face split into a leering grin, revealing a row of teeth black with ritual patterning and sharpened to points. “You’re not the first wary recruits.” The smile vanished as quickly as it came, and a few hisses came from the tribe as the younger members shifted warily. Jean was well aware the tension he felt was far from hidden; but it was not the tribe’s theatrics that had spoiled his sleep for the past days.
Such posturing displays as the tribe were showing were becoming well-known to Jean. The cultures of the core worlds were old. Nearly two centuries of Imperial rule had passed here, fealty to the Throne was strident in the population centres, but the plains of planets like Lamb’s World were dotted with men and women to whom Compliance had simply meant a change in the goods from the trade-caravans. Most of the ratty tribes the Imperials were trying to arm were suspicious; cold. Jean had been relieved finally to be dispatched to a gathering outpost that had requested arming – too few of the populace were fortifying the cities.
The Outspeaker gestured with his pinched hand again; and Jean hoped it was more wary than openly disrespectful. He longed to remove his dust goggles and rub his tired, tired eyes.
“No ‘cruits here, Throne,” his sharp teeth pinched the title contemptuously, “an’ if you wise, you watch your mouth, blood-of-mine.” Jean’s disquiet gave way to his impatience a little as he replied.
“I mean no disrespect, Outspeaker: you requested the summons. You’ve volunteered these troops.” The line of Imperial Army Rough Riders shuffled imperceptibly closer behind him as the semi-circle tightened.
“Right truly; Throne,” the Outspeaker said, eyeing the Imperial troops behind the Paxtitect, “I sent requests to speak wit’ you. But... I ’n’ us, well... we ain’t too sure why for even you want us fight f’you, Throne. You got big armies, isn’t it?” The Outspeaker leered, grabbed a nearby girl and pulled her forward while he spoke, forcing her to brandish her wiry, pale arms. “Why the Emp’rah suddenly need some Spider muscle?” A few of the tribe broke into a sneering laugh as the girl licked her palm insolently, slapped it between her legs and thrust her pelvis at Jean, whose face remained impassive.
“Or sumfin’ else off the Spiders!” she hooted as the Outspeaker pulled her back.
“See, we-and-all don’t really see much future in fightin’ for you ‘gainst the Sarfers, Throne,” continued the Outspeaker over the tribe’s laughter. “Way’s I see it is that’ll be goin’ on whether we fights or not. Way’s I see it; is we wants some ‘quipment; seems you and your boys can 'sell' us some.” His sunken, eyes glittered as he met Jean’s gaze.
Jean’s patience snapped. “This isn’t about the Southside war, you piece of shit! A Ceasefire was declared two cycles back!” he barked at the startled Outspeaker. The tribe’s expressions darkened, and a couple of Rough Riders raised their lasrifles, only to find the tribe drawing weapons of their own. A nervous corporal touched Jean’s shoulder, tentatively. “Get your hands off me!” Jean yelled, feeling his fears slide away. So what if the tribe killed him and his men? It would all be relative if the world couldn’t be rallied in time.
He turned back, addressing the semicircle in a cracking voice. “This isn’t a request any more – it’s a draft. The whole hemisphere is being drafted.”
“The hemisphere? A draft?” The Outspeaker’s face wavered between incredulity and outright disbelief. “The Peedee Effers wiped out the hrud, way back.” His voice was a mirthless chuckle as he regained his poise. “You’re tellin’ me the bendies are back? Needs us to wipe your behind, Throne?”.
Before anyone could stop him, Jean took two quick steps forward and grabbed the startled tribesman by his collar.
“I couldn’t give two groxballs about your dreary tribe, you shit!” Jean’s arms trembled, filled with cold determination and fear. “But there is an army coming that will set the galaxy on fire. It’s not going to give a grox’s balls about you, or me, or this whole forsaken continent.” The Outspeaker’s eyes were wide. “Horus is coming. Here. He’s bringing tanks, artillery, Titans; more regiments of traitors, oathbreakers and recidivists than your dim lobes can count. He’s bringing Astartes, and he’s going to attack us.”
“Right now, I need you to grab a gun, follow me, and man a trench. In about two weeks, this planet – this sector – is going to burn. Our world dies, squealing, here; or you can fight next to me – and every man, woman and child that wants to see another harvest.” Shaking with fury, he dropped the pallid Outspeaker in front of the speechless crowd.
The atmosphere quivered. Jean's eyes narrowed.
“So. What’s it going to be?”
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