Ultimus Romanorum

Execution Hour

Fiori's World, the same day.

Friedrichburg Sector Command Base. Provost Marshal's Penitentiary.

Outside the sound had never really stopped. It came and went in waves, rising and falling, screaming and shouting, building to a crescendo before dropping down to a low murmuring. Inside, the man waited. It was close but the walls deafened the sound somewhat, dulling the sharpness of it. You could almost forget where you were.

Now the sound came through sharper, he didn't even need to look up to know the outer doors were opening. The calm measured footsteps along the floor halted when a jangling of metal sounded the keys. He looked up now. It was Haller. He'd no weapon drawn as he opened the door, but the four provosts behind him were enough insurance against that. Picked men, they were anonymous behind their mirrored visors and bulky body armour. It lent them all the individuality of a termite soldier.

“It's time” Haller said softly, stepping back. The man blinked now at the influx of light, rising slowly. He took a breath and stood straight, his shoulders squaring and his head level. His expression calm, he stepped forward and allowed himself to be manacled. Giving a curt nod to Haller, he was marched down the corridor.

He'd asked for permission to die in his uniform. It had been denied. The unspoken reason had hung tawdry, tinged with shame and embarrassment at the hearing. That he'd disgraced it and was unworthy of wearing it. The presiding panel had avoided his gaze as he'd stood there silent before them. All he wore were simple prison overalls now.

Haller walked beside him, both of them flanked by the provosts. There was a serene silence almost despite his friend's guilt. Haller had requested the duty, the last obligation he could owe a former friend.

The noise intensified as they stepped outside. The crowd had assembled, been waiting for hours. Baying for blood and wanting to see it. It was going to be televised and sent halfway across the sector, all to show how a traitor died.

He eyed the gallows dispassionately, head not high but not hung either. He was stiff and obedient to the guards commands but his stride seemed to slow now. A request had been made for a firing squad. That too had been denied.

He flinched as a projectile hit him. A scuffle broke out in the crowd as riot troopers waded inwith shock mauls and batons to quell any dissent. Behind the barriers more of them armed with assault rifles eyed the mass dispassionately, if the order came in over the comm, they'd gladly open fire into the crowd. It was what they'd been trained to do, what they'd been made do. And he'd been one of them.

The corridor had seemed a mile long. Now outside on the platforms, the distance was neglible. The final few steps seemed to just evaporate and he stood there now, acutely aware of the wire noose.

Guzman, Baumgartner, Schroe, Tanaka, the others, they'd all been shot. They had only followed orders at the end of the day. But for him, an outsider, only this public display would do. He looked up at the sky, savouring the last feel of the sun on his face. Strange how he'd forgotten how good it could feel. Or how blue and calm the sky seemed. He breathed out before dropping his head to allow the hood over his face, darkness closing in. The last thing he felt was the noose tighten before he dropped.