To Solomon

The short farewell is followed by hectic activity. The acolytes are sent to a waiting speeder, and just before the vehicle rises into the polluted skies over Hive Sibellus, a menial hands in a portable stummer – a final gift. A few hours later, the acolytes are on board of the Hand of Finn, cobra-class destroyer and part of the Saint Urthur squadron, unexpectedly and hurriedly commanded by Battlefleet Calixis to reinforce orbital defences in the Solomon system.

Mercifully, the voyage through the warp is without incident this time. The two guests are shunned by the ratings and ignored by the officers: strange cargo to be delivered safely and without fuss. They spent the time training in a disused cargo hold and familiarizing themselves with the destination of their voyage: Solomon, classified as hive world, population 13 billion, seat of the Chancellery Court. Tithe exactus maxima. Although the air on the surface is scrubbed by block sized atmosphere cleaners spread all over this dying world, visitors are advised to keep respirators and chem coats close to them at all times. Sometimes, the acolytes see signs of other passengers, locked away in the belly of the ship: forced immigrants and indentures bound for a world so polluted and used up that it is no longer able to sustain its population level, and adepts and scribblers sent to do the Emperor’s work in the Chancellery Court. Solomon is an ancient, played-out world, and the passengers on the Finn mirror its terminal tiredness.

After a few weeks in the warp, the Saint Urthur squadron drops out of the Empyrean over Solomon. The world shows the ravages of nearly a millennium of unmitigated industrial use. Its landmasses are colored red and orange, with the large hive structures and massive blast railways and pipelines clearly visible from orbit. Its seas are black and covered by roiling storm clouds. Near the hives, the seas shimmer as megatons of chemical effluvia are streaming into the poisoned waters. No polar ice caps remain. Hundreds of craft litter the skies above the planet, transports, freighters, warships of all sizes.

Drizz and Yuri are bundled into an aquila-lander bound for the Chancellery Court and have to share the craft with a dozen ashen faced subaltern scriveners, fingering their lucky charms and black books. After a drop of twenty minutes, the lander comes to rest on the huge airfield of the Chancellery Court. It disgorges the acolytes and the whimpering scriveners and howls back into the skies. To the left and right of our heroes, scores of landers drop in and blast off – Drizz cannot help but think of an orbital invasion, but instead of warriors here are brigades of sullen adepts, grimly weaving their scrolls, dataslates and records, stumbling out of the landing craft, with waves of defeated men streaming from the monumental building before the acolytes. It is this dark giant that houses the final arbiter of all questions judiciary in the Calixis Sector, a power even sector governor Hax on Scintilla has to obey – in theory. Large green stablights fail to illuminate the façade of the black behemoth, the dreaded Chancellery Court, where a legion of judges, adepts, ministerials, scriveners and data-helots weigh, compare and deliberate, often for decades, where the fates of whole worlds are decided with the flick of a quill. A whole galaxy of advisors, fix-makers, intercessors and flunkies mills before this mountain of black stone, its only ornament a huge clock face, showing the thirteen hours of Solomon’s day cycle. A flight of steps large enough to accommodate a dozen regiments of the imperial guard leads to the massive gates of the Court. On the stairs, supplicants, heirs of lesser consequence and utter beggars, to weak for the trek up ´to the gate, wait for word from the halls of the court. Some of them have been living in their makeshift tents for years, cared for by water merchants and the so-called good friars-on-the-steps, waiting for a verdict.

The acolytes hurry along, pausing only to hand over their weapons to one of the innumerable guard posts, receiving a paper slip with an astronomically high number on it in return. Then they enter the great halls of the Chancellery Court. They register the rows upon rows of typing menials, the clouds of servoskulls carrying missives, scrolls and parchments, the little clots and groups of high and low officials, filling the halls with a never-ending murmur, and their hearts sink. Finding Marr is going to be a nightmare. But the Inquisition brooks no delay. A heavily augmented adept in a slate-colored robe accosts them. After making sure of their identity, the insufferable official leads them to a rickety elevator. He answers the acolytes’ questions with barely hidden arrogance and irritating curtness - every word is a reprimand for their tardiness and ignorance, a lament for those being kept from their real tasks and duties in order to guide around boorish visitors. The acolytes learn next to nothing from him. With the briefest of farewells, the adept leaves the duo in front of room 13 on floor 39, a dusty, small balcony high over the milling, viscous chaos of the Court. Behind this little, black door under the unadorned brass marker, Marr awaits.