The Infinite and the Divine (Warhammer 40,000)

by Robert Rath

Trazyn had travelled the galaxy for so long he’d forgotten what year he’d started. Collecting. Studying. Ordering the cultures of the cosmos. And one thing he’d learned was that every society thought their mountain was special. That it was more sacred than the mountain worshipped by their neighbouring tribe. That it was the one true axis of the universe. Even when informed that their sacred ridge was merely the random connection of tectonic plates, or their blessed sword a very old but relatively common alien relic – a revelation they universally did not appreciate, he found – they clung to their stories.

‘The Ammunos Dynasty is naught but inert metal now – you can’t steal from the dead, that’s called archaeology.

‘The stacks are full, my lord. We are over capacity. I have humbly suggested that we expand the collection into the space currently occupied by the wine cellars.’ ‘But then where would I put my wine, librarian?’ ‘You… you do not drink wine, my lord.’ ‘Of course I don’t,’ Trazyn snapped. ‘It’s far too valuable. Request denied. Enlist excavation wraiths to dig another chamber.’

‘Priceless and worthless are the same thing,’

The selection process took two standard years of bickering, politicking, and the occasional threat of violence. It was, in other words, a standard necron court case.

‘If you make a formal request through the proper channels, we can certainly arrange its return,’ Trazyn said. He of course made all decisions regarding the gallery, but had always found that ‘we’ was a magical word for deflecting blame.

Horus’ body was likely being venerated somewhere in the Eye of Terror, after all, and the Emperor was just sitting there on Terra. Seemed a waste, such a historic figure left to rot like that. Trazyn could do a far better job at preservation and restoration.

Trazyn chuckled, his laughter rising, becoming more throaty, echoing off the walls of the cavernous bridge. Deciding he didn’t like the lonely sound, he waved a hand, and the bridge crew – hardwired into instrument cartouches and command cradles – hollowly laughed along with him.

‘Trazyn. Our ships are without atmosphere, unpressurised,’ Orikan said. ‘Do orks… breathe?’ A pause. ‘They have lungs.’ Prepare to repel boarders, Orikan signalled. In case.

But even so, there were few things in the galaxy more dangerous than an ork having fun.

‘If the enemy surrounds you, there are only two tactical options. The first is to break out of the encirclement and retreat, which – if successful – will preserve your army but ensure the chroniclers remember you as a defeated fool. The second is to fight to the death, in which case, you will destroy your army but the histories will laud you as a slain hero. Given these two options, I consider encirclement generally inadvisable.’

‘History requires two parties – the historian and their audience. Without that, one is just talking to oneself. So kindly stop screaming and you might learn something.’ – Trazyn the Infinite, guiding human guests through the Prismatic Gallery

While it is true that even the best plans may fail, improvisation has a negligible success rate. – Lord Solar Macharius, Collected Maxims

‘Master Orikan,’ responded Phillias, ‘having given a fair amount of reports myself I know when someone is making immobility sound like progress.

And it might, at that. But not all signals are to be listened to. Follow it if you must, but do not try to decipher it. Do not dwell on it. As you well know, data can change the systems that take it in. Data can carry a curse. That is impossible. The sermon makes a believer a fanatic. The political treatise turns the indifferent into a revolutionary. A lie exposed ruins a friendship. New information always affects the system that consumes it, at times catastrophically. That is the curse of data. All data. But data can be corrupted as well.

‘You stupid bastard,’ sneered Orikan. ‘You got us box seats to a coup.’ ‘Well, the reviews were very good.’