With a push of a button, Anson could kill thousands of the God Emperor’s loyal warriors. It wasn’t a bomb or a trigger, but it would be just as effective. It would just be a single character glyph on a supply order. Something so small, but so important. Just like how small but important a single character was to Brian… with an “i”. 

Just one of thousands of nearly identical clerks sitting at his terminal in the massive Adeptus Administratum hall, Ordinate Anson stared at the blinking icon on his screen, which flashed incessantly, waiting for him to input the next glyph. The flashing icon was like a silent timer, counting down until he would have to make a choice. Anson placed his head in his hands as a small voice cried out desperately in his mind. 

‘You are a loyal servant of the God Emperor! Do what is right.’

But then another voice answered. A voice that was more insidious and had been growing louder since Anson had received that dreaded notice. 

‘A false god deserves no loyalty. Make them pay for what they took from you.’

Anson looked up and then held his finger above the glyph markings of the keyboard in front of him. Should he press the icon for “III” or “IV”? It seemed such a trivial thing. One single glyph amongst the millions pressed by the thousands of scribes working in rows upon rows in these hallowed candle-lit halls, feeding the bureaucracy of an Imperium that stretched across millions of planets. But this supply order Anson was assigned to complete was anything but trivial to the soldiers of the 224th Naxion Grenadiers. The requisition form determined what resupply they would receive. If Anson pressed the correct glyph, the soldiers would receive urgently needed power cells for their issued Mk III lasguns. If he pressed the other, the Grenadiers with empty lasguns would be unable to hold back the tyranids of Hive Fleet Novacula, and would be swept up in a mass of black and blue chitin as crates of recently delivered but incompatible and useless Mk IV powercells sat in supply depots behind them. 

The small voice in his head tried to use reason to win the argument. ‘The 224th is made up of thousands of people just like Brian. Men and women who have families that love them. You would be dooming them to a fate just like your brother.’

But the voice that continued to grow louder used the power of burning emotion. ‘The system cared nothing about you or your brother. Why should you care about it?’

Anson let his hand fall away from the keyboard and instead reached for the small scrap of parchment in his pocket that had set him down this path. It was a notice that all family members of the Astrum Militarum dreaded receiving. Cold. Bureaucratic. Detached. Lifechanging. 

Through teary eyes, Anson read the notice again. 

‘We regret to inform you that Guardsman Bryan MacDonald was killed in action. As a fallen hero of the Imperium, he will walk forever in the Emperor’s light.’

The stronger voice raged in disgust. ‘Bryan… BRYAN! Was his sacrifice so meaningless that they couldn’t even spell his name correctly? How can he walk in the Emperor’s light, if the Imperium doesn’t even know his real name?’

Anson looked up at his terminal screen again. This moment would determine the fate of so many lives. Not just the thousands of guardsmen in the 224th, but his own life as well. Would there be any coming back from a decision like this?

Anson was desperate for the fading voice to keep him in the Emperor’s grace. He had dedicated his entire life to Imperial service. His brother had been killed for it. The years of listening to Ecclesiarchy sermons. The endless toil. Living day to day under the oppressive hand of the Imperium. Anson had believed that it had all been for something. All of the pain was to help humanity continue along the Emperor’s path. It couldn’t all just be a lie… could it?

He pleaded with the voice. Please, convince me not to do this. Tell me some truth that will bring me back into the light.

All the voice could say was a tiny whisper that Anson could barely hear in his own head.

‘The Emperor protects.’

The stronger voice seemed to almost smile at the utter inadequacy of such empty platitudes. It knew it had won. ‘He didn’t protect your brother, though.’

The small voice had no response. In fact, Anson would never hear from it ever again.

The tears had stopped flowing from Anson’s eyes. Now they were filled with determination and hate. With a trembling finger, he reached up and pressed the glyph marked “IV.” The 224th would be receiving useless supplies and would pay the ultimate price for their false emperor’s sins. 

Now that he had made his choice, Anson felt freer than he had ever felt living under the Imperial boot. He was no longer an insignificant cog. One day, he would be forgotten like his brother, but until then, he would make his existence mean something.

His fight against the Imperium was now a personal one. He wouldn’t be some mindless chaos cultist who fought with a rusty lasgun or sharpened blade on some distant battlefield. They may kill an Imperial guardsman or two for their insane gods. Whereas Anson was done with gods. As a traitor Ordinate from the Adeptus Administratum, he could kill thousands at a time and do it for his own reasons. The Imperial bureaucracy was so bloated and mismanaged, a mis-typed requisition form here or an incorrect fleet movement order there would never be noticed. Anson would be a silent but steady worm, eating away at the rotten foundation of the Imperium one wrong glyph at a time. It would be his revenge against a system that killed his brother Brian… spelt with an “i”.