THE TITHE COMES FIRST

Deep within the Imperium Nihilus, Planetary Governor Leopold XVII considers the
fate of his planet and its people. Cut off from the light of the Astronomican,
Leopold knows that he must do his duty in this short story by Callum Davis.

They are all dead.
He cycled through the words over and
over again in his head, as he had done for
many moons.
They are all dead.
Leopold was pacing the length of the Hall of
Achievement, accompanied by six candle-bearing
servo skulls. Every scrap of space on its high walls
was devoted to framed certificas of fulfilled tithes
going back centuries. The documents appeared to
move of their own volition in the flickering
candlelight, as if the souls of those who wrote them
dwelt within.
Not once had his family failed in their duties as
planetary governors. Grain, promethium, soldiers,
piscids, fresh water – all had been supplied on
time and in the exact volume required. This place,
where he could look upon the memory of their
achievements, had always been his refuge, his
place of calm. The place that reminded him of his
purpose and what truly mattered.
The halls stretched further than the eye could see.
He stopped to look at one certifica, a document
from the Adeptus Astartes Black Templars Chapter
confirming that a thousand aspirants had been
yielded from their population, the most genetically
and spiritually robust of its sons. He still
remembered that day, in his grandmother’s reign.
He was only eleven at the time, but he recalled
every detail. The glorious Space Marines clad in
perfectly polished ebon and ivory armour plate,
their weapons and tabards adorned with the
Imperial cross. The smiles on the faces of the boys
selected as they waved to a cheering crowd a
million in number.
I wonder where those boys are now, he thought.
What victories have they won? What enemies have
they vanquished? To where have they brought the
Emperor’s light? ‘I wish they would bring it back to
us now,’ he said, then heaved a sigh. He couldn’t
help but wonder if any had been slain in the trials
and campaigns they would have been inevitably
put through. The idea saddened him, but he knew
that if they had perished, it would have been for
the Imperium. He felt pride that he and his world
had been able to play a small part in that.
He walked on before stopping at a portrait. It was
of him, painted many years before.
Each governor’s picture was painted at the start of
their reign. Many generations before, it had been
painted towards the end, but his great great
grandmother had put an end to that.
She decided that she would look her best for
future generations, and she didn’t want to die
before the work was completed and never be able
to see herself on the walls with her ancestors.
‘So here I am,’ he said. He had been an imposing
youth, filled with vigour. His hair remained neatly
trimmed to Astra Militarum standards, but now was
receding and greyed.
Wrinkles were now stark around tired eyes. He
hadn’t smiled in months, not since the stars
twisted, but he took some small pride in that his
muscle had not yet turned to fat, and that the regal
blue ceremonial uniform he wore was the same
size, though the regimen required to maintain his
physique was somewhat more difficult now than it
had felt twenty-seven years before. He read the
plaque beneath the image:
Each line was progressively bigger than the
previous, to emphasise what mattered the most.
He looked down the length of the wall at all the
tithe certificas of his career. He remembered those
times of success with great fondness, though it only
made him dread the future. He pictured priests
chanting the rites of sealing as produce was put into
storage for transport and servitors counted grains to
ensure that each Munitorum container held the
exact quantity stipulated. He remembered the
parades of freshly raised regiments of Astra
Militarum – uniforms gleaming – marching in perfect
order along the Via Magnifica before his palace,
ready to be deployed off-world to protect the
Emperor’s holy realm. He could still smell the
clouds of incense smoke billowing from hundreds of
swinging censors borne by the white-clad priests
and acolytes who went with the soldiers. He
marvelled at the thought of all of the mouths fed by
Taenara’s food, all the vehicles and ships powered
by the fuel extracted from her soil, and the thirst
quenched by her fresh water.
‘And now it is all over,’ he said to himself.
He began to weep.
The family shrine glowed in candlelight, the gold,
silver, and platinum decorating the sanctuary alive
with the flame’s colours. Here Leopold had prayed
every morning and every night for his entire life.
Before he knelt, he paused to look at the artefacts
arrayed around and on it, family heirlooms left by
his ancestors over generations. There was a
stained-glass image of a Black Templar warrior
incorporated by his grandmother; a pair of artisan
laspistols, detailed gold filigree laid into their
grips; a naval cutlass, blade engraved with the
names of the ships on which its wielder once
served; small vessels of grain, piscids, water, and
promethium, the planet’s chief exports; skulls of
deceased children and faithful servants.
All were laid before the image of the throne in
offering and thanks. Leopold had one day hoped
that his numerous campaign medals would lay here.
They may yet, he thought, taking a knee on the
bare stone floor and bowing his head.
He prayed. ‘Lord Emperor, with humility I kneel
before you. For shelter and sustenance, I thank
you. I am pledged to you, heart and soul and
sword. And now I beg that you hear my
beseechments. I beg that those who do not share
my view be persuaded. I beg for the strength to do
what must be done should they not be. God-
Emperor, we need your light. We need your word.’
Leopold knelt in silence for several minutes,
desperately hoping for answer. He heard the creak of
the door open and the footsteps of military boots.
The servo-skulls rushed to meet the new arrival,
digital weapons clicking into action as their machine
spirits’ anger was roused. The person stopped.
‘Lord, I have come as ordered,’ the man said.
‘Stand down, siblings,’ Leopold said. The servoskulls
returned to their brother as they reshrouded
their weapons. The man knelt next to
Leopold. He wore a similar rich blue ceremonial
uniform to that of the governor, his chest bedecked
with campaign medals. Many matched those
Leopold wore. His boots were so well polished
they reflected light like an unspoiled mountain
stream. He removed a peaked cap, which he
delicately placed on the floor next to him, the
badge of his rank displayed on it facing towards
the shrine in deference.
‘Thank you, Hias,’ said Leopold. ‘I am sorry to say
that even decades after our youth, I still need you.’
‘After Phigon, Leopold, I vowed my loyalty. What
would you have me do?’
Leopold handed him a sealed roll of parchment.
Hias read it silently.
‘Leopold … the entire council? Your daughter?’
‘Only if they cannot be persuaded. Only then. I
know … Only then. We must maintain order.’
‘What you are proposing—’
‘Is what is necessary. I have agonised over it
since … You know what happened to the stars …
what happened to the Astropaths. We must
manage this ourselves. We will not be able to hear
from others outside … If indeed any are even out
there. The people’s strength hangs in the balance
even now. The slightest push could see it broken.’
‘You know that it won’t end with this.’
‘I know.’
Hias said nothing for several seconds before
nodding. ‘I have loyal soldiers. We can do what is
necessary. But please, Leopold, if my service and
loyalty have meant anything to you, do everything
to make sure they aren’t needed.’
Leopold squeezed his friend’s shoulder. ‘You have
my word, Hias, before my family’s personal shrine
to the Emperor. Before my ancestors’ eyes.’
‘Governor. Father. The stars themselves have
rotted. How can we pretend otherwise? To even
glance at it churns the stomach and loosens the
bowels,’ said Councillor Anica. As representative
for the granaries, she wore delicate flax robes and
sat in a throne of wicker before a stained-glass
window depicting a wreath made of wheat
overlaying an Imperial eagle.
‘What will we do if the tithe ships don’t come?’
asked Councillor Nela. She sat on a throne of bare
steel with skulls embedded into arms that faced
the rest of the council chamber. Her grey combat
fatigues blended in with her seat. The stained
glass behind her depicted a
lasgun crossed with a
chainsword, this too over
an Imperial eagle,
indicating she was
responsible for
planetary defence.
The other councillors
nodded in agreement.
They represented the
promethium refineries,
piscid farms,
desalination
factorums, Astra Militarum,
Administratum, and
Ministorum. Each had a
bespoke throne around the
rotunda with a tall window behind
them representing the organisation they belonged
to and led. The chamber’s floor was a single
continuous mosaic depicting scenes from Imperial
legend suffused with imagery and symbols
representing the Imperium, Taenara, and its
people. Its walls were lined with braziers shaped
into gargoyles and mythical creatures.
‘What will we do if they come to collect?’ added
Councillor Sphaerio of the Administratum in his
croaky voice. His long grey beard touched the floor
between his feet, and his face was so heavily
wrinkled that his eyes were practically obscured.
‘Should my colleagues and masters change the
tithe, we shall have no way of knowing what the
new requirements are.’
Leopold rose. His servo-skulls were not with him.
The council’s strict rules forbade weapons or aides
in the chamber.
‘Points well made, all,’ he said. ‘The star-rot
presents us with challenges unprecedented. The
people are afraid, and with no Astropaths we have
no means of ascertaining what has happened to
the wider Imperium. We risk failing the tithe. We
cannot assume that this has affected any other
world. Life must continue as normal. Honoured
councillors, we know where our tithes go from
here. We have many hundreds of transport ships
in orbit. Even without communication from the
Administratum and Munitorum we can continue to
fulfil what we currently understand to be our
requirements. We will have achieved stability for
our people and done our duty to the best of our
knowledge given the circumstances.’ He sat down.
Sphaerio spoke again. ‘I sympathise with your
reasoning, governor. But I fear what you ask is
impossible. The captains’ council tell me that their
navigators are badly shaken, those that have
survived. They babble warnings of strife and
death. Few countenance travelling at all.’
‘These are bad omens, councillors,’ said Tranio of
the Astra Militarum. ‘Should any of this be truth,
sending armed men away from this world would be
an exercise in poor judgement, and one that could
place this world and her people at immense risk.’
‘This world has not come under attack in centuries,’
said Leopold. ‘Taenaran Grenadiers have fought
with distinction across the Imperium. If the
portents are bad, the Emperor will need them
abroad more than ever.’
‘They are of even less use if there is no more
Taenara, lord,’ said Tranio.
‘If they do not arrive, we will be seen as traitors,’
said Leopold. ‘Aloysius, what says the
Ministorum?’ Leopold hoped that a man of the
faith would see things from his point of view.
The priest did not speak for several seconds,
apparently gathering his thoughts as his eyes
darted around, taking in the details of the floor
mosaic. Speak, man, thought Leopold. You’ve seen that
floor a thousand times.
‘These are dark times indeed, lord,’ said the softspoken
priest, each word carefully pronounced as if
a lifetime of prayer had rendered normal human
conversation a consciously difficult task. ‘I find the
Emperor’s desires almost impossible to determine,
though I pray daily to hear his voice. Any course of
action requires great risk on all our parts. I can
certainly say that our people, while strong in faith as
always, grow more concerned with each passing
hour. I daresay stability and a return to normalcy is
what many seek.’
‘We are in agreement, then, we mus—’
‘But I must say also,’ continued the priest, as if the
governor had not spoken, ‘that sending ships full
of their sons and resources into the sky-befouled
will not offer them that either.’
You fool, thought Leopold. Why is it so hard to see we
must continue?
Councillor Arianitah represented the promethium
refineries. A hatchet-faced woman, her robes of
office were a modified version of the overalls worn
by refinery workers, made to fit, with silver and
bronze thread woven in among its fibres. She rose
from her throne, which was made entirely from
refinery piping. ‘It seems we are all in agreement,
governor. Consolidation of resources at this time is
most prudent. We can stockpile our tithes and
provide them en masse to the Imperium on
demand when it is able to contact and reach us.’
Leopold stood now, aghast. ‘If the Imperium
returns finding us stockpiling resources and raising
Militarum regiments that aren’t sent off-world, its
representatives will think we have rebelled. That.
Is not. Acceptable.’ He remembered again the
Black Templars he had seen in his youth, but now
he thought of them with fear rather than awe.
The discussion went on for many hours. For all his
efforts, all his keen mind, learning, and dedication
to his purpose, Leopold could not sway the
council. Nothing could persuade them that they
should be doing everything they could to maintain
the tithe despite the circumstances. The closest
thing to compromise that could be achieved was to
send ships out to find other worlds and explain
what had happened to their Astropaths and many
of their Navigators.
But that was not enough for Leopold. He knew
such efforts would not be deemed sufficient by the
wider Imperium upon their inevitable return. The
Administratum was not known for its mercy. Not
even his daughter would be swayed. With a
modicum of support, he might have been able to
persuade one or two others and shift the balance
of opinion. But that had not happened. Whilst his
powers gave him the authority to overrule them,
realistically he could not expect them to follow his
plans to the letter without fuss. There would be
resistance at every turn. The tithe would still not
be met. That could not be allowed.
He loathed himself for being too lenient with them
over the years, for not reminding them that the
authority was his and his alone. He had been
weak, and now, when it mattered most, they lacked
the faith and willingness to sacrifice what was
necessary – and it was all his fault.
Leopold thought about his plan. What it would
mean. What it would cost. He spent some time in
silence, listening to them bicker over minutiae.
They had served well for many years, all of them.
But they did not see the broader tapestry in all
this. They were wilfully blind to the damage it
would do to their people and the risks it entailed.
They all knew the stories of how the previous
governorship dynasty failed and how his family
had taken over a millennium ago. The Imperium
did not forgive failure.
The councillors also would not feel the shame that
he would. They did not have the ghosts of their
ancestors watching as intently from beyond the
veil of history. He watched his daughter, arguing
about long-term grain storage. He was ashamed
that he could not sway her, that his failure to do so
would result in so terrible a fate. He had failed in
teaching her how the sin of disloyalty could seed
from what was believed to be good counsel. But he
was proud of her eloquence, intelligence, and
skilfully made arguments. She would have made a
superb governor. The thought was nearly enough
to break him, but he knew that the Imperium’s
punishments would be far worse should the
council’s ideas be implemented than what would
have to happen now.
Agreement is impossible.
For the sake of the planet.
For the sake of the family.
I have no choice.
Leopold rose from his seat. The intense discussion
ceased almost immediately.
‘Councillors, I must take my leave for a short break.
Continue without me, I shall not be long.’ Striding
across the mosaicked floor with all the dignity he
could muster, he deliberately did not look his
daughter in the eye, but he was intercepted by his
daughter shortly before he reached the chamber’s
mahogany doors.
‘Father, I am sorry to argue against you like this in
the council. But I just cannot agree with your plans.
I have no desire to undermine you, but I must be
honest in my arguments and discussions. It is the
way you always taught me to be.’
Please, daughter, do not make this any harder!
Leopold felt a lump rise in his throat. He took a
deep breath.
‘Do not apologise. I know you only do your best for
our world, and I love you for it.’
He paused and forced a weak smile. ‘I am also
sorry.’ Without another word, he pulled open the
heavy doors that led into the chamber and
stepped out, closing them behind him. He could
barely hold back his tears.
He initiated a miniature vox device on his wrist.
‘Hias. It is time. I did my best. I am sorry. They
would see us fail … They would see us destroyed
… That cannot be allowed.’
There was no response for a short while, but
Leopold knew that Hias could be trusted. ‘Yes
lord,’ he said finally. Within minutes, he heard the
chamber’s other entrance open. Desperate regret
filled him, but it was too late. He heard the crash
of booted feet on the mosaicked floor – the
councillors’ shouts of outrage, disbelief, and fear,
his daughter’s among them, followed by the harsh
crack of lasgun fire. Then there was silence. He
slumped against the wall outside, head in his
hands and tears streaming out of his eyes.
God-Emperor forgive me.