Except that he had.
Four tau’cyrs of pretending to be a warrior and now... now where was he? Stalking his way through his own vessel, fighting a guerrilla battle throughout the once serene living spaces and recreation suites of the Or’es Tash’var, ignoring the stench of singed bodies, picking off humans as they sprinted hither and thither in disorder, killing and killing and killing. The kroothound was barely a memory anymore, the horror of its destruction eclipsed a hundredfold by the insanity of a single rotaa.
The Trial by Fire, they called it. After four tau’cyrs of service a shas’la would face the judgement of an examining commander to determine their progression of rank, following a demonstration of ability. Most Trials were artificial affairs: a complex series of simulations, courses and non-lethal combat in the battledomes. They were regarded as festivals; holidays during which all castes would come together in the colossal auditoria to cheer and speculate upon which warriors would be deemed worthy of promotion. There was no sense of “success” or “failure”—to remain a shas’la was without dishonour, a celebration of discovering one’s niche and serving the tau’va in the best possible fashion.
But there had always been incidents of the trials being eclipsed by external hostilities, and — ever pragmatic — the Shas’ar’tol saw no reason not to make use of the young shas’las. They could fight for the Greater Good whilst being judged; it was in many ways a purer test of their abilities.
Sooner or later, once all this insanity was over, a critical shas’vre would sit and review the captured footage from each shas’la’s helmet-optics, poring over the sensory information, their reactions, their movements... their decisions.
Kais frowned. Someone would judge him, too. How would they see his actions? Would they see the effectiveness, the successes, the victories? Or would they see the racing heart and the enjoyment? Would they look through his eyes upon his works and see the skill of a shas’ui, or the savagery of the Mont’au?
Kais turned a corner and froze, the telltale light spillage of flickering gunfire dancing across a wall nearby. He twisted, keeping the carbine between him and the wide glass-fronted chamber at his side.
A vision of hell opened up before his eyes. On the other side of the glass the regroup point was under attack. A knot of tau pathfinders — lightly armed scouts with little of the plate armour a line warrior sported — exchanged close fire with a black tide of gue’la troopers, their pale skin invisible beneath bulbous airmasks and flak jackets. Kais hurried to find the connecting door to the chamber, helplessly watching the combat as if on a por’hui screen.
The shas’las were being cut down one by one, flipped from their meagre cover by the chattering gue’la weapons then pulverised, disintegrating in liquid disarray, screams cut short. The colliding shells created a shivering hailstorm of ricochets across the floor, some even punching at the great viewing gallery windows that opened up to the void beyond, sending tiny fissures scuttling across the surface.
Kais spotted the chamber doorway from the promenade and sprinted forwards, racking his grenade launcher hungrily. This time he could enjoy the violence, safe in the knowledge that he was helping his comrades. This time there’d be no guilt.
The door slid closed with a rasp, blocking his entry. Kais skidded to a halt before it, confused.
“Shas’el?” he commed, bewildered, “Shas’el — you need to open this door!”
“It’s on override, Kais. Standby...” Kais thought he heard Lusha hiss lightly, “Oh, by the path.
“Shas’el?”
“The AI’s detected a breach.”
“A... I don’t unders—”
The cobweb of shatterlines scampering across the gallery windows blossomed, sudden rosettes of gossamer lurching into existence and, just as quickly, vanishing. The windows belched outwards into nothingness.
One raik’or the room was a battleground: overturned arc benches and fragmented fio’sorral sculptures lying in disarray; the next, emptiness. There was the briefest impression of speed, a blur of rushing shapes and clutching limbs, then only the silent vastness of vacuum. A body tumbled serenely past the yawning windows, chest caved in, eyes bulging, trailing frozen blood-crystals like a necklace of diamonds.
Kais gagged inside his helmet, backing away from the awful vision. The enormity of the destruction, the sudden, natural power of it-He envied it.
“L-la’Kais...” Lusha sounded shaken. There’s no time. You have to get to the engine bay.”
“They. They’re all gone.”
“La’Kais. Do you hear me?”
“They’re gone. All of them.”
“La’Kais!”
He snapped back to reality with a jolt, tearing his eyes away from the scene. That split-second vision of rushing bodies, venting air... it wouldn’t leave his mind.
“You can do this, Kais.”
“I don’t know, Shas’el. These decks are crawling... It’s too much...”
“The other cadres are engaged elsewhere, Shas’la. We’ll reroute as soon as we can.” A strange taint entered Lusha’s voice — fear, perhaps? Or guilt? “You can do this,” he repeated, sighing.
Kais frowned, feeling the fear creeping into him again. Not the conventional horror of death or injury or pain, rather the fear of overreaching; the fear of uninhibited insanity, the fear of once again revelling in his own unwanted appetite for destruction. He hadn’t asked to be a killer, hadn’t strived all his life to develop the rage and the spite that, unbidden, came naturally to him. He wanted to scream: It’s not fair!
With every human they sent him against it became harder to pretend that he was doing it for them, doing it for their tau’va, doing it for their “Greater Good”, their pure racial goal that eluded him with infuriating intangibility. Every time he killed for them, it became harder to deny that really, secretly, he was doing it for himself.
Kais searched for words, unable to contain the turmoil any longer.
“Shas’el?”
“Yes, Shas’la?”
“Why me?”
Lusha sounded concerned. “What do you mean?”
“Why... Why do I have to be the one to...” His voice faltered. The words didn’t sound right; to express them could only expose the selfishness at their heart. “I’m damning myself!” he cried, a bubble of uncertainly and rage puncturing obscenely in his soul.
Lusha took a long time to answer.
“You’re the only one who can do this, La’Kais.”
“But—”
“Fire warrior! Nobody ever pretended it would be easy.”
Kais hung his head. “Yes, Shas’el.” There was nothing else he could say.
“Get to the power core, Shas’la. You’re our only hope.”
Kais’s hand rested on the wafer in its pouch.
No expansion without equilibrium.
No conquest without control...
Military words. Aggressive words. Expansion, conquest. Victory, violence. But always tempered by control, by balance.
Maybe it deserved another try. He took a deep breath, focused his mind upon an ideal far greater than he could hope to appreciate, and scuttled away across the promenade.
Captain Bortailis Seylind had enjoyed a long and eventful career.
He received his military commission at the early age of nineteen and was thrust quickly into the terrifying world of combat service. He saw active duty on the Fell Core hiveworld when the rebellion began; he assisted in the mop-up operation after the Space Marines had dealt with the genestealer infestation; he was there when the first “nid spores landed and he personally oversaw the clearance of Hive Tertius after the vent system was breached. He was in orbit, looking down, when the Exterminatus virus-bomb punctured the atmosphere of the doomed planet.