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PLAGUE, DECEIT,
TEMPTATION & WAR by
Laurence Sinclair The only light in the room was shining directly into
her eyes, and the construction of the chair she was seated in prevented her from
turning her head. So she closed her
eyes. But even through her eyelids
she could make out a red glare. Suddenly
it faded. She opened her eyes
again. The tiny cell was illuminated now, and the door
opposite open. As it closed, she
looked up at the man that had just entered. He was not particularly tall, but the long black
robe he wore gave the impression of greater height.
On his chest was emblazoned a large capital 'I', with two lines running
horizontally through it. He was an
Inquisitor. His long grey hair
swept over his shoulders and down his back, framing his square, pale face.
His eyes were ringed with red, maybe through lack of sleep, and were
staring at her. He didn't blink,
not once. 'Sister Lemnia, of the Adepta Sororitas Order of the
Key?' he said, his voice gravely and deep. They were the first words she had heard spoken to
her for several days. Since she had
been abducted from the Scourge of
Sin she had not even seen another living soul, just been kept locked in this
room, strapped to this chair. Her
arms were free to move, and every morning she had found a bowl of some soup like
substance waiting for her when she woke. She
didn't quite know how to reply. It
had been a while since she herself
had spoken. At first she had been
full of fire, demanding to know why she was being subjected to such treatment,
but it had gradually cooled as the inevitability of her situation had dawned on
her. Now, of course, the reason for
her imprisonment was clear. The inquisitor sat down on the chair that was on the
other side of the table. He moved
the latest empty soup bowl to one side, and leaned forward. 'Sister Lemnia, of the Adepta Sororitas Order of
the Key?' he said again, his voice still gravely and deep. She nodded, once. 'I have a few questions to ask of you.
I hope you don't mind.' 'Ask.' 'You give me permission to question you, full and
unconditional?' It was a strange question, but she nodded anyway.
In her current condition, she would have agreed to having both of her
hands cut off if he would just let her go. She saw the inquisitor close his eyes, slowly and
purposefully. He sat silent for a
few moments, and she wondered when he was going to ask her a question.
When he did ask, she had no choice but to answer. The inquisitor did not use his voice to
interrogate, he used his mind. Swiftly
he was inside her head, tearing at her from the inside, relentless in his
pursuit of knowledge. She could
feel his dark prescence moving behind her eyes, feel the pain as parts of her
brain were drained of memory. Flashes
of her past danced before her eyes, too fleeting to be recognized, and the pain
intensified. She grasped the sides of her head with both hands, for
all the good that it did. This was
no pain that she had been trained to repress, and she was forced to scream, to
give vent somehow to the terrible forces wracking her.
She would have recited a prayer, had she been able to remember any.
She thrashed in the chair, but only for a moment.
One final glimpse of the inquisitor's face, as his eyes slowly closed,
and then there was nothing. Inquisitor Prada opened his eyes.
She had known nothing of worth. She
had merely confirmed his fears. The
Prioress of the Convent Prioris had ordered the apprehension of the Vengeful
Mace by the Scourge of Sin, having
this Sister Famulous carry out her orders. But she had no idea who it was who had killed the Prioress.
Back to square one. He got to his feet, turning to face the security
recording device in the corner of the room, hanging from the ceiling. 'Interrogation terminated at eighteen oh six
hours, glory to He that sleeps.' he stated flatly. Sparing one last glance at the mindless thing
hanging loose in the interrogation throne he left the room, stepping aside to
allow a servitor to enter to carry the body away.
He was not surprised to find Inquisitor Nilgood waiting for him in the
dark corridor. It had been him,
after all, who had retrieved the informant.
'Nothing?' he whispered. 'Nothing.' Prada confirmed. 'Was there any particular reason why you wished to see me,
brother?' Nilgood's eyes widened at this, and he gulped
once before speaking. 'I have news
of our next assignment.' Our? Prada
didn't like the sound of that. While
he knew as little of Nilgood as he did of any of his other fellow inquisitors,
he did know an anal retentive glory hog when he saw one. Even now Nilgood's robes were smooth, freshly pressed, and
his face was utterly clean shaven, his hair cropped close on the top of his
head. Even when undercover he kept
his personal standards, even insisting on using the same name on all of his
assignments (of course, being able to cleanse people's memories made it
irrelevant what name you used, but Prada liked to eliminate any chance of
discovery). Prada sighed. 'You
can tell me later, once I have rested. I must recover my strength after the interrogation.' 'It is a draining experience?' Nilgood asked, his
eyes still wide. Rarely, for an
inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus, he had no psychic ability to speak of, and was
quite in awe of his fellows' prowess in mind reading, telekinesis and exorcism.
He did, though, have a 'closed' mind, one quite impervious to even the
most concentrated psychic scanning. This
was what made him so valuable as an infiltrator. 'It takes a whole day to prepare, and a whole day
to recover.' Prada told him, as they calmly proceeded down the corridor,
ignoring the wails emanating from the many cells that lined the walls.
'Contact me again this time tomorrow.
I shall be in my chamber.' 'Very good, brother.
Emperor be with you.' Nilgood
turned and walked back the way he had came, allowing Prada to move off towards
the habitation and meditation wing of the building. This section of the facility encompassed ten square miles
alone. As he slowly wended his way through the maze like
corridors of the Ordo Malleus' inner sanctum, Prada rolled the events of recent
times around in his mind. He was
being deliberately reassigned, which meant that whoever it was that was behind
the corruption of the Black Ships had influence.
They feared that he may discover too much. Of course, he had no proof, and there was no way he could
protest against his orders. He
would just have to complete his mission swiftly, and keep his eyes open.
No heretic would defy his scrutiny for long, and in time he would smoke
the traitor out, inquisitor or not. He winced as an unwanted memory floated into his
consciousness. Surrounded by
sororitas, all lashing themselves with a flail, as they knelt before an altar
and raised their voices in adoration. He
winced again as he felt the pain of flagellation against his own shoulder and
chest, and stopped for a moment. In time, the deja vu and flashbacks would cease, all
memory of the infomant would be gone forever.
Until then, he would have to live with these alternate recollections, as
he had with each and every single one of the guilty that he had interrogated
over the years. He had thought he
would have gotten used to it by now, but how could you get used to reliving the
life of another in a single day? He
snarled at his own weakness. He had
been granted a gift by the blessed Emperor, to see into the hearts of the
tainted. The price that he had to
pay was to accept some of their guilt, lessen their pain and give their souls a
chance of redemption. It didn't
mean he had to accept it though. He
brought his bionic fist crashing into the wall, before straightening up and
resuming his journey. *** The heavy throb of the discordant music, all beating
drums, wailing souls and thrashing bass, echoed in his ears.
The scents of sweet perfumes, mortal fears and fresh blood caressed his
nose. His own blood, along with
that of his children, tasted sweet in his mouth.
The warm flesh, alive or dead, male or female, human or otherwise, made
his fingertips tingle. Behind his
closed eyelids he watched as the drug-induced images danced for his pleasure,
capering in time with the rhythm of the music.
The music, building to a crescendo.
Time soon. Reluctantly he
withdrew his hands from whatever it was beside him, and ran them through his
own, luxuriously smooth hair, as he joined his drug dancers in swaying to the
beat. The noise cut out, its very absence playing with his
imagination. Gripping tight with
his hands, he pushed his own head deep into the liquid. It closed over his head, and he sucked it in, nostril and
mouth. Blood, sweat, bile and all
other bodily fluids were present in the mix, and all fresh. All too soon he dragged himself clear, spitting from his
mouth the divine liquid as he sang his praises. 'Slaanesh!' he whooped, exhorting the Lord of Pleasure.
'Slaanesh! Join your loyal
devotees in their delicious, decadent debauchery!' His arms dropped to his sides as his head lolled back,
bubbling with laughter. Soon would
come the daemonettes to sate his hunger, to slake his thirst.
Then he too would come unto them, and the mutual worship would last long
into the night, not that it mattered to him whether this was day or night.
It was all the same, a background to his own joyous celebrations. What was keeping them? They should be upon him by now, their claws exploring his
crevasses as his tongue explored theirs. His
excitement was starting to lessen, the moment would pass!
He allowed his bloated eyeballs to push their lids aside, to open and
gaze upon the dull mortal realm. His
mind was too addled to distinguish between the gaudily painted reality of his
boudoir and the insanely decorated conjurations of his narcotics.
But before him was a being that transcended both worlds, almost bringing
him to his senses. It was pale, its flesh smooth and unblemished.
Its long limbs allowed it to step towards him with elegance.
The face's small, well defined features invited him to reach forward, to
touch them and enjoy them. The body
was naked, slim and muscled. Lower
down, he percieved it to be androgenous, and yet also hermaphrodite,
occasionally male or female. It
warped before his very eyes, sliding between all these forms and others he had
only dreamed of with the aid of the strongest drugs.
He must have this thing. Slaanesh's
bounty was generous tonight. Then it opened its eyes, staring straight into his.
They were green, edge to edge, flickering with power.
He rose to meet the gaze, raising his arms to embrace the child of Chaos.
With one pass of a long nailed hand it halted his advances, bringing its
finger up to his lips to silence his entreaties. 'Hedon Epicurusss..' It let his name slide from its
mouth a syllable at a time, revealing perfectly white teeth, razor sharp and
nursed by a large, pale pink tongue. In
that moment he belonged to it, and would do whatever it asked of him.
He didn't bother wondering how it knew his name, for he knew it for what
it truly was. The Prince of Chaos.
It swept around behind him, running its hands over his
naked body, its touch making all those years with the daemons worthless by
comparison. 'I have a favour to
asssk of you...' As if he was going to refuse.
He closed his eyes and let the questing hands explore him. 'You willllll go unto the world of the Pestilent One,
and there willllll find for me a certain woman...' His eyes opened. A
woman. A real woman. 'Yesss, Epicurusss...' The voice closed his eyes again,
as he sank into the cushions. 'A
woman... Not one of my falllssse
daemonettesss, but a mortalll creature lllike youselllf...
The one pllleasssure you have not enjoyed in allllll your lllong lllife...
A reward for your yearsss of dedication, and a token of my trussst before
I elllevate you into my pantheon...' 'How will I know this woman?' Epicurus sighed, feeling
his Prince clambour on top of him, its weight slight enough to leave its hands
with their gentle, arousing touch. 'Husssh, Epicurusss, alllll in good time...
For now, take the pleasssuresss I offer, and rejoice...' Epicurus sank deeper into the cushions, and opened his
mouth. *** Hesperides sank onto the bed they had given her.
It wasn't particularly comfortable, but at least it had sheets.
But then, so had the last one. This
time, she had carefully checked underneath first, and, praise the Emperor, there
was nothing under this bed. At last things were going right.
The supply ship Pride of Antionio had arrived a whole day early, and now she could
put the whole incident with the eschatologist out of her mind forever.
He was aboard this vessel somewhere, but his quarters were far enough
away from hers to ensure that, Emperor willing, they should never have to meet.
She had never known six days to last so long... While she had been unable to pay for passage to Terra,
having no money whatsoever, the Emperor had smiled upon her, as the ship was en
route there anyway. The captain had
organised his journey so that all his stops were in a direct line (taking into
account the vagaries of warp travel) and after Tantalus there were no more
destinations save Holy Earth. Having
unexpectantly gained the cargo due for D'Arethon's expedition, the crew could
expect to make extra profit by selling it on to the Priesthood of Earth.
This bonus, they reckoned, should make up for the inconvenience of two
extra passengers. Inconvenience! The
ship was huge! Having only three
deliveries left, it was now travelling light, with plenty of space to spare,
many crewmen having disembarked at previous ports.
Protected from any marauding pirates by a group of five Sword class
escorts, she was reasonably confident that this ship was not going to get
boarded by Eldar in the near future. She settled back onto the bed, pulling the sheets over
herself and closing her eyes. This
time, she was sure that nothing could go wrong. The Emperor's trials were over for now, He was allowing her
rest before her actual trial before the prioress, when her faith would truly be
put to the test. But she was firm
in her belief; in escaping death so many times the Emperor had shown His
forgiveness, and she had nothing to fear. Yes, nothing to worry about now.
As she drifted off into a rare, dreamless sleep, she wondered what
Tantalus would be like. *** 'Gentlemen, Tantalus is an abomination!' The Imperial Guard officers seated around the table
mumbled agreement with this statement. Not
one of them dared to look Colonel Stilicho in the eye.
There wasn't anything particularly frightening about his gaze, he just
took it for granted that people only caught eye contact if they wanted to speak
to him. He was an unremarkable man
to look upon, his starched grey uniform adding size to his slight frame.
His face was, more often than not, blank and devoid of expression.
His features were well proportioned, and he had no particularly
distinguishing marks by which he could be recognised. A face that could easily be forgotten. That could be why the room was decorated with so many
paintings of him, commissioned from many famous artists from around the galaxy,
one from each world he had liberated. Or
it could be vanity. As they avoided
the gaze of the flesh and blood man before them, so too the officers avoided
that of his simulacrums. Sometimes
it was hard to tell the difference. Colonel Stilicho was standing before his assembled
staff, hands clasped behind his back, as they sat as his table and drank his
tea. He swept along each of them in
turn, waiting for one to reply. When
he realised that they were not going to, he continued. 'As none of our scouting parties have returned, I can
only assume that the dissidents defending the planet are more heavily equipped
than I first assumed. So we are
going to wait. I have been informed
that we are to be allowed the honour of a company of the Adeptus Astartes to
assist us.' He closed his eyes and turned his back, waiting for the
murmers to die down. It was always
the same; mention Space Marines and everyone got all excited.
Stilicho had seen them in action before, something that none of the pups
seated behind him could boast of. He
had to admit that they were indeed impressive soldiers, but after battle he had
found their manners sadly lacking. And
a soldier without manners is little more than a beast. 'They are to form a beach head for us.' he announced,
turning once more to face his audience. 'They
will clear the way for our glorious Boudiccan regiments to crush the enemy, so I
expect none of our men will actually get to fight alongside them.' Not that that was much of a surprise. 'And we are also going to act as hosts to an
Inquisitorial presence.' At these words the officers shifted uncomfortably in
their seats. Not through any actual
necessity, but to convey their feelings to their fellows without having to
actually speak. Stilicho shook his
head. 'They will be acting as advisors, instructing us as to
the nature of the enemy. These are no normal rebels, gentlemen.
They are heretics.' Eye contact. 'Yes, Captain Thornycroft?' The unfortunate was silent for a moment, his large
brown eyes held in place by the colonel's.
'Heretics, sir?' he managed. Heretics. As
if he didn't know what the term meant. But
it did provide a chance for Stilicho to discipline him.
Whether or not he had actually done anything wrong was irrelevant; he
didn't want any of his officers starting to think that he was going soft. 'Yes, heretics. They
have turned their backs upon the blessed Emperor and given themselves over to
the worship of idols. For that our
Lord demands vengeance. Pray to
him, Thornycroft, that you may be granted the honour of slaying his enemies on
that planet down there.' 'I will, sir.' 'I believe that that is all, gentlemen.
When you have finished your tea you may leave. I will see you all at
tomorrow's morning cycle prayer session.' He waited until they had all saluted him, one by one,
and left his quarters. Then he
carefully gathered up their cups and took them away to be cleansed. *** As she sat alone at the table with her meal,
Hesperides wondered where it was that the crew ate. No one here, whether sitting at a table or queueing, tray in
hand, was wearing a uniform. Not
even the food distribution servitor behind the counter. Those here were Imperial citizens, those wealthy enough to be
able to afford the luxury of inter-planetary transport.
Born into a noble family, more than likely.
Or traders, though they were much rarer.
Judging by the variety of garish clothing sported by
the diners, they were citizens. Extravagence
was almost a religion amongst their kind, spending more money to keep up with
fashion than a feudal world raised to pay its tithes.
Hesperides had never actually talked to them (they were of course above
conversing with mere soldiers), but had been in their company many a time.
On several occasions she had acted as honour guard to a cardinal, or
other ranking Ecclesiarchy official, and to them fell the unpleasant business of
dealing with these... She stopped herself.
It was wrong even to think ill
of one's betters. Best to think of
something else. Like this meal.
She hadn't had a chance to look at it up until now, being too concerned
with thoughtful introspection. It
was piled haphazardly upon a plain metal tray (the servitor serving service more
a production line than a gormet chef), but she could more or less make out the
different food groups. The creamy
mush was some form of vegetable, mashed up good and covered in a watery brown
substance that had also spilled onto the dessert (which was... white).
There was meat, solid when she prodded it with her knife.
She tried not to imagine what creatures were bred for slaughter on these
massive cruisers. At least the
drink was seperate, in its own metal beaker.
She peered inside. It was clear. No matter how unappetising the meal, the Emperor had
provided, and so she must reciprocate. She
closed her eyes and brought her hands together on the table.
'Excuse me, do you not know that it is bad manners to
place one's elbows upon the table?' queried a voice, querulous and slow. She opened her eyes, praying to the Emperor that her
table was not about to be patronised by one of the dinner hall's 'nobler'
clientele. She needn't have
worried. She looked up into a bare
face that sported an integral pair of spectacles.
And an inane grin. 'Eschatologist Prolixite.' she smiled, trying to get at
least some good will into her voice. He took this as an invitation to sit down, and did so.
No longer was he dressed in swathes of red robe, but a considerably less
bulky robe of variable greyness. His
meal looked no different from hers. 'It is a pleasure to see you again.' he said. 'Yes...' What could she say to him?
Well, as there was no chance of getting rid of him...
'Will you join me in thanking the Emperor for His generous bounty?' He nodded, and brought his hands together as she had
done. She hoped that he closed his
eyes too, but she couldn't see while she had her own closed.
She quietly whispered their thanks to the Emperor, letting the regularity
of the ritual calm her. When she
had finished, she found herself meeting Prolixite's curious gaze. 'I must say, you have an extraordinary knowledge of the
Litanies of Faith.' he said. 'I
have not heard that one for some time. Not
since the last time that I broke fast with that missionary, what was his name
again?' While he racked his brain for the answer, Hesperides
began her meal. The tasteless
vegetable matter was probably some form of recycled product, bland and without
taste, which, she assumed, was the reason why the rich but sour gravy had been
poured on so liberally. While
tough, the meat was at least edible, but unremarkable.
Taking a sip from her beaker, she was pleasantly surprised to find that
it was simple water, second hand maybe, but clean and pure. Prolixite was once again reciting tales of his life,
and not touching his food. She ate
and made the minimum reaction to his words necessary to convey the sense that
she was paying attention. He spoke
of his time alongside missionaries and rogue traders before he was attatched to
the explorators and D'Arethon. By
some twist of fate, his journeys must have been with some of the most
outrageously lucky of the Imperium's adventurers, never once meeting hostile
aliens, contacting lost colonies or indeed doing anything that may have made his
story in the least bit interesting. He
had managed to gather quite a variety of artefacts from his travels, each of
which he described lovingly. Then
he stopped. 'What's wrong?' Hesperides asked, wondering what it was
that had finally managed to quieten him. 'Gone, they are all gone now.' he gasped, his voice low
now. 'All lost on Amunre, and when
I was so close to finishing my collection!
Just one more, and then I'd have been off to ICV-103, complete and
finished! Now I am finished, all
right. There is nothing left for me
now, they were all irreplaceable!' Hesperides paused in her eating of the sweet yet
mysterious dessert. She had never
thought that the quiet and boring eschatologist would have been capable of
anger, but now she was seeing it first hand, along with a whole gamut of other
emotions. She supposed she should
try to comfort him, but she didn't have much experience of doing that. 'What was so special about these artefacts?' she
hazarded, scooping up her last spoonful of dessert. Prolixite paused.
'Nothing that would interest you, I am sure.' he smiled. Strange,
she had thought of him as a boastful man. 'But I am sure that I am digressing.
Ah, I was complimenting you on your religious knowledge.
Maybe there is more than a little truth in that tale you told me on
Amunre, about you being of the Sisterhood.' She swallowed. Now
was not the time for him to start believing her.
She wanted to keep her profile low for now, and she was sure that, boring
as he may be, there would be people aboard that would listen to him.
The Emperor alone knew what could happen. 'I see you haven't finished your meal yet.' she
blurted. 'But I have.
I won't disrupt you, your food will only get cold, eh?
I'll leave you to it. Good
day.' She was on her feet and walking away before he could
raise a protest. She willed herself
not to look back, to keep her gaze fixed ahead of her. Her tray was dumped into the pile to be cleansed, and then
she made her way back to her chamber. May
the Emperor deliver her from all eschatologists. *** It had been weeks now. For all the boasting of the marines as a rapid strike force,
they were painfully slow at bringing themselves to undertake a task as lowly as
aiding a mere Imperial Guard operation. Stilicho
paced back and forth in his office. Anything could be happening down on Tantalus while he was
forced to wait! But finally the
intercom buzzed with the message he had been waiting for. 'Colonel, the captain requests your prescence
immediately.' Stilicho swung around in midstep and punched a button
on his desk console to acknowledge his receipt of the message.
There could only be one thing the captain would deem important enough to
disturb him. Hands clasped behind
his back, he strode from his quarters. As
the blast doors closed behind him, he nodded to the guardsmen standing to
attention outside, and they saluted before falling into step behind him as he
began his journey to meet the captain. Through endless corridors they marched, grey steel
flanking them all the time, the only decoration the occasional yellow and black
warning sign, or a turn off into another section of the vessel.
The neon illuminators flickered regularly, conserving the ship's power,
while steam drifted up from the irregularly spaced floor grilles.
Stilicho ignored it all. He
had seen it before, and would a hundred times again, Emperor willing.
He spared not a single glance for the Navy personnel that they passed;
they were not the captain, and so did not concern him.
Then the passage ended, upon the wall ahead a solid
plasteel Imperial Eagle, its wingspan at least as much as Stilicho was tall.
He pressed his thumb into its single eye socket, which glowed white for a
second before the emblem split down the middle, metal sheets sliding aside to
reveal a small chamber. Darker even than the corridor, its single occupant was
a servitor of no particular note, dressed in an ill fitting navy uniform.
Stilicho and his entourage entered its room, turning to present their
backs to it. 'Take me to the captain.' Stilicho said. The doors closed again, and the servitor performed some
motion that the guardsmen could not, and indeed were forbidden to, see.
There was a lurch, and then the rough upwards motion was all too apparant.
The Gothic prayers droning through a speaker somewhere in the roof did
nothing to ease either journey or mind. Stilicho
didn't like this method of transportation.
What was wrong with simple steps? Tiring
maybe, but they did improve one's humility, and keep one fit.
He got little enough exercise as it was, and he was getting no younger.
It seemed like a lifetime since he had last seen action, and he yearned
for it once more. The lift eventually juddered to a halt, causing both
guardsmen to stumble. Stilicho kept
perfect balance. The doors opened
and the three of them exited hurridly, entering the brightly lit tunnel that led
to the main bridge of the ship. Ratings
standing by the door moved aside as soon as they saw the Imperial Guard Colonel
approach, and Stilicho stepped onto the bridge. The smoke was more pronounced here, clinging lazily to
censers that hung from the vaulted ceiling.
Seated at various alcoves around the cavernous chamber were crew members
at their various tasks, mostly bolted into their machines by wires leading from
the wall to some body part, their fingers working at time worn keyboards while
green light played over their faces. The
continuous tapping was the only noise, amplified by the vastness of the space
around them into the movements of a thousand tap dancers beating a rhythm on a
continent sized stage. In the centre of the room, raised upon a dais to
provide a better view of the large star chart hung between the stained glass
windows depicting famed Naval victories, was a throne.
Unlike the rest of the command chamber, there was not even the slightest
hint of technology present, not a single conduit or control panel.
It was merely large, a towering ediface of black marble carved to
represent a winged skull. It
swivelled around, and Stilicho was in the prescence of the captain of the Righteous
Abhorrance for the first time since he had come aboard. Captain Hurst was not a big man, but his girth was
quite impressive, only just restrained by his tight belt.
His ruddy hair was starting to thin upon his pale head and his face was
permanantly split by an unflattering smirk.
Only his green eyes conveyed some sense of the seriousness of the
situation. He got to his feet and straightened a few of the
creases in his many buttoned uniform. Firmly
inserting his head into his peaked cap, he nodded to Stilicho.
The colonel returned the gesture, and indicated to the attendant
guardsmen that they should wait outside. 'Colonel Stilicho, I believe you are the only man
aboard this ship who can explain this.' the Captain mumbled.
'Take a look.' Stilicho's eyes followed the line of the captain's
outswept arm to the servitor attended scanner station.
A flickering green holographic outline of a battleship glowed in the air
above the black console, surrounded by a continually updating series of
statistics and diagnostic information that was of no meaning or importance to
Stilicho. 'A Space Marine Battle Barge.' he said simply, raising
his eyebrows as he returned his gaze to Hurst.
'I would have thought that the Emperor's Navy is more than capable of
identifying such a vessel without the aid of the Imperial Guard.' 'I know what it is - colonel.' The captain somehow
managed to restrain his bile behind his gritted teeth.
'I was merely hoping, offhand, you understand, that you might possibly
know what in the seven hells it is doing here?' Inside, Stilicho smiled at the captain's unease.
'Oh, that would merely be the help I requested from the Adeptus.' 'I should have guessed. An Imperial Guard company can't take a simple planet without
the aid of an entire company of Space Marines.
I don't know why we can't just bombard the place from orbit.' 'Orbital bombardment is so impersonal, Hurst.
Anyone can order a servitor to push a button to release the Emperor's
Wrath. It is a true test of a man's
stature to face the enemies of the Imperium face to face and spit in their
diseased eyes.' 'Nice.' The smirk was genuine now.
'Anyway, why aren't they responding to our astropathic messages?
We don't even know which of the blessed Emperor's chapters they belong
to.' Stilicho shrugged.
'Who cares? As long as they
get the job done and save valuable manpower.
They are tools to be used when necessary, nothing more.
Let them keep their secrets. What
care I for their arrogance? You and
I know that we're better than them.' 'Aye. They're
not even human.' 'Would you care to join me for a drink, captain?
To our inevitable victory. Maybe,
if the Emperor smiles upon us, a few of His marines may even survive to greet my
landing parties.' 'As He wills it.' Hurst smiled. *** As Hesperides reached her chamber, she found someone
waiting for her inside. Dressed in
the humble brown habit of a well-to-do clergyman, he must have gained access
with his obviously superior security clearance.
The single illumination globe of the cell was already
glowing when she entered, and he was standing in the centre of the room, in
clear view. The crown of his head
was carefully shaved, forming a neat circle of dark hair, while his chin was
quite unshaved, showing the early signs of beard growth. His face, like the rest of him, was podgy but not quite fat.
Toying with the large jewelled rings on his fingers, he glanced at her
with half-closed, disinterested eyes. 'Citizen Hesperides?' he asked of her, not a single
note of concern in his rich voice. 'Yes?' she answered, unsure of quite what his
appearance portended. Did he know
who she really was? 'I am the Emperor's menial servant, Pontifex Astra
Gartre of His Divine Majesty's Pride of
Antionio.' He stopped playing
with his jewellry and rocked back on his heels as he finished the announcement.
'I have been informed, by quite loyal citizens, that there is something
that you are hiding from the crew of this glorious vessel.' He knew! 'Is it true that you are, or were, a member of the
Ministorum's holy Sisterhood?' Prolixite must have told him.
Such a wild accusation could easily be dismissed.
But she was going to have to tell someone when she reached Terra anyway.
She may as well tell this pontifex now and have him sort out any
administrative problems. It would
save her, and the Emperor, much time. 'Yes, what you have been told is as true as the
Emperor's word.' she told him. 'I
have become seperated from my Order and now wish to be reunited with my
sisters.' 'Might I be so bold as to ask for some form of proof of
your identity? Emperor forgive me
my mistrust, but any wild harlot could claim to be a Daughter of the Emperor.
No offence.' he smiled. Proof... She
didn't have her armour, the hospitaller robe and clothes from the dig carried no
insignia... 'I guess that there's only my tattoo.' she shrugged. 'Tattoo?' 'All the sisters of my Order are tattooed when they are
ordained fully into the ranks of the battle sisters.
It is a tradition dating back many millennia, and we bear them with
pride.' She stood slightly taller
at mention of the Argent Shroud's glorious history, something that the preacher
before her could never boast of being a part of. Gartre's eyes twinkled. 'Of course!' he gasped.
'Boy!' Somehow she had not noticed him when she entered, but
now that the pontifex's attendant brought himself into his master's attentions,
she could see him clearly. His age
could be measured in single figures, but rather than childish innocence his face
was filled with pride and a bearing that hinted at total obedience to his lord.
He was dressed more lavishly than Gartre, his robe white with a red trim,
the gothic lettering of hymnals picked out in gold.
On his back he wore a large bag that was almost spilling over with
machinary; vox catchers and casters, a scribe's tools, simple firearms and
polished human skulls. It was to
this bulging sack that the pontifex put his attention, digging around without a
care to his servant's comfort. The
boy bore all the pain that the rummaging must have caused without complaint, and
even Hesperides was impressed by his pain threshold. 'I should have remembered!' Gartre said as he finally
removed an obscure device with a flourish.
'The Sororitas are each gifted with the Emperor's mark, that the faithful
may know them. I am sure, however,'
here he looked directly at her, 'that you did not know exactly how
the Emperor's servants may identify them.
It's not that hard to copy a design of ink on flesh, but the substances
used by your superiors is rather special. This
holy rood can tell between those pure in heart and the forgeries of heretics.
Now, where is this tattoo?' She pulled the collar of the rather worse for wear
hospitaller down, exposing her collarbone and the tattoo inscribed into her
flesh. The symbol of the Argent
Shroud; the haloed skull of the Emperor, the same as that imprinted on the holy
shroud stored deep in the Convent Prioris.
Cut into her above her heart, showing her love for none but the Emperor. Gartre drew out the sharp needle that formed one end of
the identifier. Without warning he
stabbed it into her, a faint trickle of her blood running between the skull's
eye sockets. On instinct she lashed
out, her fist connecting with his chin and sending him reeling.
He brought the back of his hand to his lip. 'I'm bleeding.' he observed. 'You're not the only one.' Hesperides muttered, dabbing
at her own wound. 'Not to worry. The
blood is a good sign - had you not bled, I would have had you burnt as a witch.'
He waved the identificator before her.
She could see a red rune glowing in the bulbous section linked to the
needle by fine string like wire. 'And
your tattoo is genuine. You are who
you say you are.' She pulled her robe back up again.
'So you will contact the convent and tell them to expect my return?' 'All in good time.
It's a little bit chaotic back home, I'm sure. They probably haven't even initiated the new prioress yet.
Besides which we have a stop at Tantalus beforehand. Plenty of time for
you to tell me how you came to be in this predicament.' It would probably do her good to confess to someone.
It would be best not to mention the inquisitor though. *** 'A pity
you could not join us for luncheon, inquisitors.'
Stilicho said. Neither robed figure said anything in return.
Unusually for the Inquisition, they had no entourage accompanying them.
There were just the two, as different from each other as fire and water.
One was tall and tanned, his head completely shaved and wearing an expression of
boredom. The other was short and
stocky, the grim face scowling, the long hair trailing behind him. Both wore extravagent, hoodless black robes, covered in
symbols of ancient and unknown design. 'Now that you're here, I expect you'll be wanting to
get straight to work.' Hurst
offered. The shorter of the two turned to him.
The gaze of the pale old man was accusing, though Hurst knew he had
committed no crime. It accused him
anyway, promising vengeance. He looked away. 'The manner of our work is of no concern to you,
Captain Hurst.' the inquisitor rumbled. 'We
are here to instruct the Imperial Guard upon the nature of the enemy we face.
You are quite safe here. Return
to your quarters and pray for our success.' The captain saluted, stopping to let the three others
continue down the corridor. Prada
noticed the thoughts he spared for him, but chose to leave them be for now.
There were more important things to worry about.
And they had better be
important, to have dragged him to this obscure world. 'No need to apologize, colonel.' he said, anticipating
Stilicho's next remark. 'In my
experiences, Navy personnel are rather adept at over estimating their own
importance. You have assembled all
the officers who will be making planetfall.' 'I... have, my lord.' 'Take us directly to them. There can be no more delay.
Even now I am sure the noble Astartes are paying in blood for every
second we waste.' Stilicho moved ahead, to lead the small party.
Nilgood shuffled slightly closer to Prada. 'Do you suspect either of them?' he whispered. 'They are both loyal to the Emperor.' the other
replied. 'Now refrain from speaking
to me when in the company of others. One
can never be sure who is listening.' The inquisitors moved apart once more, and followed the
Imperial Guard colonel to what served as the Boudiccan briefing chapel aboard
the Righteous Abhorrance. *** Gartre brushed aside the bead curtain that hung from
the archway. The room beyond was
much more spartan than his own luxuriously decorated cell, but he tried to
ignore it as best he could. Daubed
on each of the walls, in a red substance he prayed was paint, were crude
approximations of eyes, surrounded by swirling patterns of many limbed
creatures. Another dominated the
tiled floor, and it was in this mystical circle that the astropath sat, cross
legged, palms outstretched. 'Pythia.' At the mention of her name, the astropath cocked her
head in the preacher's direction, as if she could see him.
Which she couldn't. Both her
eyes, or rather the sockets where she may once have had eyes, were sewn up with
thick black thread. They bulged
from her sunken, lined face. Gartre brought his sleeve to his face, to ward away the
unwashed stench of the ragged witch. 'I
have a message for you to deliver to Terra.' The blind seer shook her frail head slowly, from side
to side. 'Too late, father monk.'
she smiled, revealing remarkably well preserved teeth. 'We approach Tantalus, and I cannot penetrate the psychic
screen erected by the Navy. None
save those with the appropriate authorisation may now communicate either to or
from the planet, and we are within its field of effect.' 'A Navy blockade?
But the message is of importance to the Ecclesiarch himself!' 'Tell that to the sailor boys, not I, father monk.
I can help you not.' Gartre left the mutant to her own devices and returned
to an area of more normality. It
was probably only a matter of a planet failing to pay tithe requirements that
was causing this inconvenience, nothing to worry about. But the Navy would insist on searching a supply ship such as
the Pride of Antionio, bound as it was
for a rebel planet. A man of his
position was above suspicion though, and if he could keep Hesperides hidden from
them they could be back to Terra in no time, and the whole sorry affair would be
over with. Mind thus resolved, he
set off back to his room for a nice lie down. *** 'The enemy are not men like us.
They have turned their backs to the blessed Emperor and forsworn His
protection. We of pure heart and
devotion have the advantage over them, for our cause is just, but do not
underestimate them.' Prada paused
in his rhetoric and depressed a button on the panel he held in his hand.
A green tri-d holo projector whirred into action,
projecting images into the centre of the room, twice the height of the
inquisitor, but barely a quarter the height of the chapel's mosaiced ceiling.
Nilgood, alone in a corner, dimmed the illuminators.
The light from the projector washed over the faces of the assembled
officers. Prada almost smiled.
He had their full attention now, whereas before they slumped in their
seats, filled either with boredom or fear of the Inquisition.
It was ironic that the thing that enraptured them so
much was one of the Empyrean's most disgusting spawn. Humanoid in shape, its skin dribbled with slime and excrement
spewing from toothed orifices in chest and limb. From one claw drooped a sabre of pitted corrosion.
A single eye peered from beneath the pustule heavy brows, without iris or
pupil. Prada noticed some of the
guardsmen start to turn a quite different shade of green. Of course, the projection was not totally accurate.
Certain details had been omitted, others exaggerated, for the true horror
of the creature's daemonic appearance was too blasphemous to portray to the
Emperor's vassals. Small though the
chance was, corruption was always a possibility, something that could not be
tolerated. Even after the taking of
Tantalus Prada would personally supervise the cleansing of these guardsmen, as
the final, ultimate precaution. 'This is the true enemy. Things of plague and bile, that the fallen will summon them
from the Warp to fight for them. While
the traitors and heretics will die as easily as the men they once were, these
beasts are something else. Utter
eradication with flame and shell is the only way to be sure of a chance of
putting them down for good, and even then they may survive.
Not to mention the fact that their corpses
are capable of spreading infection of the most lethal kind.
Disease will be their greatest weapon, and I have seen whole regiments
wiped out by a single plague carrier in my time.' Nilgood watched with mild interest as Prada impressed
upon the Boudiccans the importance of protecting themselves from the Rot, and
how to identify the signs of infection. How
the demagogues would use vile magics, even give themselves over to possession,
to defeat the Imperium. It was
impressive. He'd seen and heard it
all before, of course, but not with this edge of brilliance.
His being here was excess to requirements.
Prada didn't need any assistance. He
was in his element. And yet his
superiors had been so adamant that he watch over him.
Presumably they knew something that he didn't.
Of course they did, he corrected himself.
The Inquisition knew all. *** Gartre was amongst the the senior 'crew members'
(despite his allegiance to the Ministorum rather than the trader captain)
gathered together by the Naval boarding party.
The officer in charge was tall and thin, dressed in a perfectly smooth
navy uniform and with an impressively peaked cap. 'Your crew and cargo are the property of the Navy now,
captain.' he told the captain. 'I
hope that this indefinate detainment does not inconvenience you too much.' 'Don't I at least get some compensation?
Half the food stuffs aboard are bound for holy Terra itself, and the
Priesthood pays a princely sum for our wares.' 'Those foodstuffs will go to provisioning the Imperial
Guard regiments involved in the liberation of Tantalus.' the officer informed
him. 'There can be no greater
compensation than knowing you are serving the Emperor.' The captain bowed his head, finally acknowledging that
the officer was right. Gartre was
not so sure. Stuck here, for the
Emperor alone knew how long, how could he return Hesperides to the Ecclesiarch? 'May the Emperor excuse me, brother.' he said, by way
of gaining the officer's attention. 'Yes, preacher?' the Naval man rounded on him with a
glint in his eye that didn't look too promising. Not that Gartre was that good a judge of character. 'I am bound for Terra on important Ecclesiarchal
business, and I am sure the Ecclesiarch will take a dim view of your detaining
me.' He looked the impertinent
officer in the eye, awaiting his apology. 'No longer, brother.'
smiled the other. 'The Emperor will
be requiring the crew of this ship to personally distribute His rations come
planetfall.' At Gartre's gaping
response, his smile grew broader. 'But
I would spare you that ignomity. The
Imperial Guard require spiritual sustenance as well as physical.
I am sure you will not object to performing the masses of war and last
rites for our brave lads.' How dare he! 'Do
I look like a preacher to you, brother? I am a pontifex astra, and my appointed task is to deliver a
most important item to the Palace itself, not chant hymnals for uncouth cut
throats!' 'I'll ignore that Admittance of Doubt, brother.' the
officer said, his face grim once again. 'Brought on by anxiety, I assume.
There is no need to worry. Being
as blessed by the Emperor as you are, I'm sure that you will survive the
liberation and go on to complete your errand.' Gartre was too speechless to reply.
He knew that they were far from Terra, but surely his position carried some
weight even out in the dark of space? 'Unless there are any more questions, I will leave you
to organise the Emperor's rations. Deployment
of the guard will commence in one Imperial day, so the Emperor expects you to be
ready by then.' As the officer strode smartly away, Gartre turned away
from the others so that they could not see his face. What was he going to do
now? *** The Pride of
Antionio had already begun its descent to the planet below by the time he
found her. All aboard was turmoil
as Naval administrators 'assisted' in the division of rations between the
various regiments involved, 'to save time later'.
Not to mention the disturbance when Third Officer Becker objected
violently to the whole operation, along with several of the less inferior
nobles. They hadn't even bothered
to clean away the bodies. Hesperides was in her own quarters, somewhere the
administrators hadn't reached yet. It
was the higher class rooms that had been cleared first, Gartre's own chamber
requisitioned for a reason that the young pup in charge didn't feel he needed to
know. Only the fresh memory of what
had happened to Becker had prevented him giving him a piece of his mind. 'What is going on?' she asked as, red faced and
unattended, he entered. 'The Emperor has seen fit to have us drafted into the
Navy.' Gartre noted sourly. She tilted her head to one side.
'Come again?' 'The Guard need supplies, we've got them, they're
taking them. Which means there just
might be a slight delay before we get
to Terra.' It took her a few moments to decipher the pontifex's
clumsy sarcasm. 'You mean we're
going to Tantalus?' 'I don't know what they plan to do with the rest of the
crew, but they plan to have me act as a battlefield preacher.' Hesperides
moved a hand to her mouth to cover her humour at Gartre's grimace.
'You just stick close to me and keep out of trouble and we can survive.' Had he not been so flustered, he may have realised that
that was not the right thing to say in the circumstances. 'Keep out of trouble?
Hide like some craven mutant while there are still enemies of the Emperor
to be sanctified?' She could feel
the old rage building within her, lowering her hand and clenching a fist.
It had been a while since she had felt anger this pure, and it was
calming to have it back, like the return of an old friend.
'We need not fear death when our cause is just!
If you wish to survive, brother, you must do your utmost to uphold the
good name of the Emperor!' 'Well said. You
could learn a thing or two from this girl, preacher.' From the corner into which he had backed, Gartre
noticed that a Navy officer, the Navy
officer, had entered the room, flanked as before by a pair of ratings, only this
time they carried crates and not shotguns. All Hesperides saw was a man in blue who had called her a
girl. 'In fact, I think that your devotion to the Emperor
could be an inspiration to all of His troops this day.
You will be useful.' Hesperides stood tall, answering him with silence.
Once more the Emperor was letting her glimpse His design.
She was to redeem herself in battle.
By the looks of things Gartre wasn't thinking along exactly the same
lines as she. Reluctant acceptance
and exasperation radiated from him in just a single glance from the corner of
the eye. But she knew that it was
for his own good. He would thank
her for this afterwoods. If the
Emperor found them both worthy of further life in His service. 'Sadly, this dingy cell is of considerably less
use.' the officer sniffed, completing his inspection in a matter of
seconds. Hesperides noticed a glare
from Gartre when his back was turned, and for once shared her opinion with that
of the pontifex. His self
importance, derived from his uniform only, was a dozen times worse than any
snobbery of the proudest noble. She
closed her eyes and thought calming thoughts. Still the sharp, acrid voice interrupted.
'Stay here until further notice. I
will see to it that some weapons are arranged.' She heard the click of his boots on the grille outside
fade, and the doors shudder shut. Then
Gartre's oily, though cracked now, voice. 'Couldn't
you have just kept quiet?' A
whinging tone. 'I'm sure they might
even make you carry a banner now.' 'That's enough.' she said, fixing him firmly in her
sights. 'You should be proud that
the Emperor has chosen you for this duty.' 'The Emperor didn't choose this!
Some fat general in his study makes the decisions, or has other people to
do it for him!' Gartre mumbled, 'We're going to die!' 'No we're not.' she said firmly.
'Because we have faith. We
will survive. Whoever it was that decided that we should take part in this
was merely following the Emperor's wishes.
He knows all, sees all. Everything
that happens is His will.' The wild look in his eye still wasn't one of
enthusiasm. 'Pray with me.' she suggested, trying to make her voice
calm, like Coronis'... had... been.. 'P-pray
to the Emperor, thanking him for the honour He does his, and asking for His
strength in the trials that lie ahead.' He sank forward, and she caught him as he began to cry. *** The Imperial Guard didn't deploy from drop pods, like
the Space Marines did. A normal man
or woman would have trouble surviving the velocities without severely damaging
disorientation, not to mention the prohibitive costs of building such craft,
which were used only once before being discarded. The High Command judged it a necessary sacrifice to have low
speed, city sized transport ships instead.
In the interests of safety, of course. The landing had been planned to perfection.
Although the marines had still refused to even notify Colonel Stilicho of
their victory, the dispatch of a number of surveillance servitors had been
enough to convince him that a landing site had been cleared.
The buildings of the city, its name of no importance,
were dwarfed by the huge silver craft. The
shrivelled native flora of Tantalus vanished beneath the heat of their descent,
even more being levelled at the impact of their touch down.
For Imperial ships, they were smooth and plain.
They had few gun ports, and the only decoration was the black eagle on
the front. They were not there to be looked at. They had one purpose only, which they excelled at. From within regiment after regiment of Boudiccan
Imperial Guard poured, covering the newly cleared plain like a swarm of locusts.
Dressed in their identical grey uniforms and with face masks of polished
silver, they were like an army of gargoyles brought to life.
The masks were intended to intimidate their enemies, and were only just
accepted as non-heretical by the Ecclesiarchy.
The staring eyes and fanged mouths were still thought of as slightly
suspicious, but the Boudiccans' loyalty to the Emperor was beyond doubt. As was their discipline. Within seconds of their deployment, they had organised
themselves into their respective regiments, companies, platoons and squads.
Standing ramrod straight, and a safe distance away from the mighty
engines of the transports that were powering up again, they awaited the arrival
of their commanders without a word. The more extravagant, but smaller, personal craft of
the various captains and colonels were only a few minutes behind their troops,
and accompanied by the munitorum, administratum, ecclesiarchal and press ganged
vessels. The Navy had assured them
that all orbital defences had been destroyed and that Tantalus' level of
technology was not high enough to accommodate ground based lasers, but still
Stilicho had wanted to send his men in before him.
He left nothing to chance. As the colonel, together with his various flunkies and
servants, stepped down the ramp to gaze onto what was apparently the capital of
Tantalus' sole continent, a guardsman from the thirtieth regiment ran up to him
and saluted, his face unmasked. 'Sir, we have encountered no resistance so far, but
there is no sign of any Space Marines either.' Stilicho wasn't surprised. Letting the guardsman return to his comrades, he turned to
admire the deployment of his tanks and men.
From what he had seen, and been told by the inquisitor, this operation
should be over in a matter of weeks. The
city sprawled in the valley before him was supposed to be foremost of this
world, and if it was anything to go by, the others would be little more than mud
huts compared to the glorious skyscrapers of Boudicca.
Few of the buildings rose above five stories, and those that did were
covered in shell holes. Whether
from the initial rebellion or the marine assault he had no idea.
He briefly wondered where the marines themselves had
got to. Presumably they had taken
it upon themselves to liberate this world single handedly, and had moved off to
the other cities, leaving his guardsmen the glorious duty of holding the
recaptured territories. Bastards. He waved his personal vox catcher operator
forwards. 'Each of the regimental
commanders knows their objective already.' he told him.
'When our beach head has been firmly established here, we will commence
our prayer session, and then proceed to carry out the offensive.' The young officer hurriedly relayed these orders
to the colonel's subordinates through the large vox caster carried by two
servitors, while Stilicho motioned to the rest of his command staff. 'I think we have time for a little tea,
gentlemen.' he said. *** Hesperides felt more than a little out of place
amongst the dozens of preachers gathered by Stilicho to bless his troops.
They were all plump, balding men, but had about them an air that told her
that they had seen action before. Several
had scars to prove it, one or two sported bionic implants. If she felt isolated, Gartre must have felt even
more so. When he wasn't fidgeting
with his rosarius, he was doing so with the many large-jeweled rings on his
fingers. Hesperides noticed that
none of the other holy men sported such extravagances.
They wore robes faded with age and stained with food, and had simple
cruxs whittled from wood or cast crudely of rusted metal.
Truly humble, she thought. Already the others were moving amongst the flock
of guardsmen, who had removed their masks for the blessing.
They anointed heads with water from pearly vials, laid hands upon arms
and blessed any artefact proffered to them, all the time maintaining a chant,
each preacher intoning a different hymnal, yet in perfect synchronization with
the others. Hesperides was not impressed.
Few of the troopers joined in with any of the prayers, and the priests
only bothered to bless those who asked for it.
Veneration of the Emperor was not the paramount thing in anyone's mind
here - they were just hoping that they might live another day.
The prayers demanded protection from the Emperor, showing little respect,
not even offering in return the promise of spilling much heathen blood. But they couldn't know any better. One of the Emperor's most important teachings was of
understanding. All men had
differences, but all were united in their abhorrence of aliens and mutants.
She had been raised in a convent, spending the whole of her life praising
the Emperor's beneficence. These
men probably had families, loved ones, other things on their minds.
Of course their worship was not as pure as hers, but she should not hate
them for it. Only Gartre was not tending to the masses.
He was staring blankly into the air.
'Shouldn't you be doing something?' she prompted. 'I can't.' he admitted. 'Not before so many. I
don't even know any psalms, no prayers or hymns... And there are so many of them...' 'We only have to attend to one platoon.' she
reminded him, laying a hand on his shoulder and turning him to face his charges,
still standing to attention but looking slightly uncomfortable.
'Is that too much?' 'Yes! I'm
not cut out for preaching! I am a
pontifex astra, and bellowing is not one of my talents.
I'd also prefer to stay alive for as long as possible.' Hesperides was about to try one last attempt to
lift him from his pit of self pity and blasphemy (naming staying alive as one's
chief aim! Had he no shame?), when
their dialogue was interrupted by the platoon commissar. 'My men are waiting for your spiritual tutoring.'
he told Gartre. His black greatcoat
was buttoned up all the way to protect him from Tantalus' chill climate and his
foot tall peaked cap balanced perfectly upon his bald head.
His still, grim face struck an interesting contrast with the pontifex's
florid, flinching features, even more so than the fact that, even with the hat,
the commissar only came up as far as the other's chest. 'Just a few more minutes to compose myself...' 'No more excuses, preacher. I find your lack of emboldening spirit most distressing.'
His leather gloved hand flexed meaningfully near his pistol holster. Gartre fell to his knees, clasping his hands
together, doubtless intending to beg for his worthless life. Reluctantly, Hesperides interceded on his behalf. 'My companion merely needs to make his own peace
with the Emperor before he can do the same for your men, commissar.' she told
him, risking a smile. 'See?' While not looking convinced, the commissar still
nodded curtly. 'One minute more.' As he strode back to where the guardsmen still
stood, she hauled Gartre to his feet. 'Okay, so you can't actually preach can you?
You've still got your rosarius and libers, haven't you?' 'Y-' 'These men don't want much, simply touching them
will be enough in most cases. Get
out there and do your best. I'll
take care of the hymnal.' Hesitantly, Gartre made his way over to the
guardsmen, and she noticed that as soon as he got within a couple of feet of
them they began to pull whatever meager possessions they had from their pockets
or chains, to be blessed. Gartre
seemed to be performing the necessary rituals somewhat reluctantly, trying to
keep as far from the soldiers as possible while drawing cruxs in the air above
their kneeling forms. The commissar was looking directly at her.
Doubtless he was an experienced officer, and knew what was supposed to
come next. But she had no liber,
and the droning of the priests, often mumbling or misplacing words in their
sermons, was too much for her to concentrate.
She would have to keep to something simple, something she knew by heart.
She cleared her throat, and for the first time felt nervousness. She had addressed crowds before, battalions of sisters almost
equal in number to the guardsmen here, but something was different now.
Of course she hadn't raised her voice above a normal speaking voice for
several months, but she was sure she could still bellow with the best of them.
No, what was worrying her was the fact that they were... men. The sisterhood she had known had been raised almost
from birth to praise the Emperor with their whole existence, and while she did
not question the piety of the guardsmen, it wasn't the same.
They were too distracted by Gartre to be noticing her now, but when she
began to speak, they would look at her. She
remembered the way Prolixite had looked at her. They probably wouldn't know the words, anyway.
What was the good of prayer if not all participated?
But the commissar was becoming impatient once more.
Gartre had almost circumambulated the whole platoon, and a few were
putting their charms back where they had gotten them from in anticipation of
what she was supposed to do next. She bit her lip, and closed her eyes for a moment.
Lacking the time or calm to dredge an appropriate dirge from her memory,
she launched herself into the Fede
Imperialis. She was quiet at first, almost speaking to herself, but
the commissar soon began to join in. She
had been surprised, but afterwards realized that most officers, and certainly
ones as rigid in their dedication to discipline as commissars, would be well
read enough to know almost as much holy verse as a sororitas novice.
She raised her voice experimentally as she reached the passages of
protection. The commissar kept pace
with her, and she fancied she heard Gartre's voice somewhere, altough she
couldn't discern what it was saying. Then
the sound of dozens of voices speaking at once. 'Our Emperor protect us!' They joined in with the chorus.
While the average guardsman's knowledge of the litanies of faith was
rudimentary at best, there was nothing like a repetitive battle chant to bring
them together. Not that she considered the Fede
repetitive for a single moment. She
and the commissar spoke aloud the start to each line, while the guardsmen
finished it. She opened her eyes
and looked at them. All had their
eyes directed toward the heavens, their voices loud enough for the Emperor
himself to hear. She raised her
gaze as well, and with them her spirits. Whether
it was the comforting words of a lost past, the feeling of elation she got from
having this effect on so many, or else an act of the Emperor himself, she knew
not. But all fear was driven from
her, and when the last words of mutual xenophobia had passed from her lips, she
lowered her eyes to see righteous fire burning in the eyes of the men before her
as well. She still had it. *** Stilicho and his small group of bodyguards and
advisors remained up the hills, together with an entire regiment of men and
tanks kept in reserve, to be committed when needed, or protect their liege lord.
The blessings had been finished, orders dispatched, and the rest of the
army was already mobilised and en route to their respective objectives.
There was only one problem. 'The enemy may intend to retake their capital,
but they will find the Boudiccans a lot harder to shift than the small entourage
of an Imperial Commander.' Stilicho announced to his subordinates. Gazing over the panoramic holo display of the
surrounding countryside, provided courtesy of what little aerial reconnaisance
could be afforded on this campaign, showed a belligerent horde of red dots
headed towards the capital city of Tantalus, where the fifth regiment was only
just entering the outskirts. 'They still have an hour or so to prepare before
the enemy arrives.' Statistician Ptebes informed the colonel. Stilicho turned to Vox Catcher Charud.
'Inform Colonel MacPreece of the situation, and that we have reserves
ready and waiting should he require them.' 'Not that he will.' he murmured as the vox
operator moved away. 'These
peasants have no military experience, and should be routed with minimal loss of
life.' The assembled yes-men and servitors congratulated
the colonel on his astute observation. 'What if they have a host of daemons at their beck and
call? With two inquisitors with us,
we can not fail.' Then the thing
that had been gnawing at the edge of his consciousness finally came into full realization.
'Where are the inquisitors?' 'They are accompanying the fifth, my lord.'
Lieutenant Turgid said. 'Apparently
they wish to investigate the source of the rebellion here.
Work out why it started.' 'I know why it started, guardsmen.' Stilicho
snarled. 'A severe lack of
discipline on this planet! Not a
single Arbitrator precinct! What is
the Imperium coming to.... Why was
I not informed of the inquisitors' plans? Why
did they only tell you?' 'I don't know, sire.
I don't know how I know. All
I know is, that I know.' 'Damned witchcraft.' The Colonel grimaced, then
pulled his laspistol from its ivory holster and shot Turgid through the head.
'I'll have none of that in my regiment.
Scribe Jowles, remind me to speak to those inquisitors when this is
over...' Then he returned to his study of the battle map,
leaving a pair of servitors to carry the corpse away. *** The city was dead.
Roads were torn by shell craters, and what wasn't was strewn with
corpses, ripped asunder by bolter rounds. The
buildings, their sleek concrete exteriors bearing the marks of evisceration as
rubble pooled near their bases, shook periodically at the heavy tread of leman
russ battle tanks bearing down the streets, causing not a little masonry to drop
down towards the infantry that advanced in their wake.
But it was the stench that got to Hesperides.
Not from the corpses, but from the air.
Nothing tangible, but something wrong.
Just .... wrong. She checked her autorifle again, but it was still as it had
been last time she had checked. Gartre,
walking beside her and between her and the commissar looked even more worried,
being, as he was, weaponless. He
hugged his liber tightly, and stared blankly forwards, avoiding the fanatical
eye of the commissar. If the
guardsmen behind them were feeling anything, she still wouldn't have been ble to
tell if she had been looking at them. They
were masked once more. Totally
silent. And of course the tank crawling in front showed
no distress. A hulking behemoth,
its grey paint job matched perfectly the shattered urban landscape around it.
Its twin barreled turret swung from side to side occasionally, as if
scanning the area. Its indomitable
form served as a reminder of the Emperor's might, eternal and invincible. For
the first time she wondered what manner of foe this war was being waged against. Then there was a roar, and something tore a hole
through the left hand sponson of the tank.
Something detonated within, and the track was torn from the body, the
hull slewing into a building by the side of the road, bringing large chunks of
stone raining down onto the turret, killing the gunner even as he opened his
hatch to see what was wrong. The commissar was shouting now, and the guardsmen
hastening to obey. Another missile
streaked down from above, this time throwing shrapnel into the ranks of the
densely packed guardsmen behind Hesperides.
She grabbed Gartre and pulled him behind a pile of rocks forming natural
cover in a lay-by. She heard the
stomp of heavy boots as Boudiccans followed her example, or acted on their own
initiative. All but the commissar
caught their breath or screamed with pain behind their shield, while the unlucky
ones lay spread eagled in the new crater. The commissar was firing into the smoke from the
wrecked tank. At first she thought
he had been driven mad, but then she saw humanoid shapes emerging from the
buildings. They carried rifles and
swathed themselves in fragments of torn clthing, being in the most naked.
Which exposed their deformities. Their
skin was criss crossed with boils, spots and blemishes, or bleeding profusely
from a hundred sores. The
guardsmen joined the commissar in his righteous cleansing, cutting down the
plague ridden rebels even as they emerged from their hiding places. Hesperides was about to join them, when there was
a noise behind her, not as loud as the pattering crack of lasfire but somewhat
nearer in proximity. Someone had
fallen from an upper story of the building, and was writhing on the ground with
a broken back. She saw immediately
that it was a cultist, and at this distance was even more repulsed.
He had no hair, and his eyes were blank and pupil-less.
Before she had time to note the finer details, others were jumping down
too, each corpse leaving the fall slightly less hazardous to those who followed
them. She realized what had happened.
The guardsmen had seen the buildings as unsafe, sure to collapse at any
time. No one could possibly have
suspected that an enemy would think to launch an ambush from inside them...
She forgot all about Gartre, puncturing the wave of bodies with fire from
her autogun. They fell back
slightly, and she shouted out, alerting the guardsmen to the nature of the
attack. They were surrounded. When she looked around to see if anyone had taken
notice of her, she saw that they had found out for themselves.
Armed with only crude clubs, the sheer numbers of the cultists had
overwhelmed the guardsmen. Some
were clambering forth from manholes, covered durng the advance by the corpses
but cleared again by the missiles even now raining down from the highest reaches
of the towers, killing loyalist and traitor indiscriminately.
Gartre squealed like a stuck pig as he was impaled on a
bayonet snatched from the hands of a dying guardsmen.
His killer ripped it free and then dropped it as bullets opened his
chest. Hesperides saw that Gartre
was dead, but in avenging his death she had done some good.
All around her were the depraved and diseased deviants, some shuffling
slowly towards her, others running their hands over the bodies of the slain. She couldn't see any living guardsmen, but she could still
hear the commissar, calling to the Emperor. She invoked his name too, throwing her back to
the wall as she emptied her gun into the savage pack. Then there was a burst of flame, as if He had heard her
prayer and sent divine assistance. But
then a power armoured figure strode into view, crushing charring bodies beneath
its feet. It was decked out in
black robes, but still bore the symbol of the Inquisition upon its chest.
It swung its combi-weapon around to take the head off one cultist that
had survived the flamer burst, shouting to her something.
She stood frozen for a moment, recalling the last time
she had seen an inquisitor. She had
been saved from death then as well, but had had to endure something worse.
This was a different man, bald and calm as he unsheathed his power sword
to lay about the men that were throwing themselves at him.
She wanted to help, but couldn't. She
was out of ammunition, and the weapons scattered around were most likely tainted
by the plague. He was shouting at her to run.
He had even cleared a path; away from the fighting, the dark recesses of
the building were lifeless, safe. Her
duty to the Emperor was to fight His enemies with all her strength, but she was
sure that somewhere in one of the ancient tomes there was a passage on living to
fight again. The screams of dying
men and things that had been men receded behind her as she ducked beneath a
broken pipe and stopped before a door. It
shuddered at the impact of some explosives somewhere outside. What was she doing?
Her headlong rush away from battle was against all of her instincts, all
her training. Maybe she had been
psychically controlled by the inquisitor? No,
excuses were the refuge of the weak. It
had been her own cowardice that had brought her here, nothing else.
There would be serious penance to be done once the battle was won.
But the look on Gartre's eyes as his soul had gone to meet the Emperor...
No. She
would go out there, take whatever weapon came to hand and fight to her last
breath. She did not deserve life
for her treachery, both to the Emperor and her fellow man.
And anyway, if she just sat here, whoever found her would kill her.
Better to die doing as He intended.
As she raised herself to her feet, she found that she
was out of breath. Without the
adrenalin of battle around her, she was tired.
What she wouldn't give for her old suit of power armour... Then someone grabbed her roughly by the shoulder,
with a strength that was more than human. She
was briefly aware of a sulphurous smell before something small and sharp stabbed
into her other shoulder. And then
she blacked out again. *** She saw her feet.
Someone had removed her boots. Her arms ached. She
was being held up by someone, or possibly two people.
And it was cold. She refocused her gaze on the rest of her body between her
feet and her eyes. They hadn't just
removed her boots. With a concentrated effort, she raised her head to look
straight ahead. The light was dim,
but it was enough to see by. Someone
sat cross-legged before her, an all enclosing sheet of white cloth obscuring it
completely. 'Lasivius, Liberteen, you may leave us.' A soft
voice, from the sitting person. She was lowered onto her knees, and from there
sprawled on the ground. Judging by
the tread of the departing retainers, they were very heavy.
She tried to concentrate, but whatever had been injected into her was
pretty powerful. Injected. She
was thinking clearly enough to recognized that she had been injected.
Maybe it was starting to wear off.
Sitting up, she examined her surroundings.
This was not Tantalus. The
room was large, as big as a temple. Save
for the small space where she and the other sat, the rest was enshrouded in
darkness. That other was now standing up.
Who was he? Just when she
was starting to find herself back in a relatively familiar situation, he had to
show up and spoil everything. This was it. She
had had enough of being pushed around, enough of being told what to do, of not
being in control. Leading the
guardsmen in prayer, they had been hanging on her every word. Now she was back in the dark, at the mercy of others.
No more. She launched herself to her feet, and swayed
unsteadily. She opened her mouth to
speak, but then remembered that she was naked.
So was the man. The
sheet had fallen from him, but his skin was just as pale.
All along his chest and legs short tentacles writhed, probing the air
while he smiled. He stepped
forwards, and she stepped back, her confidence suddenly gone.
The Emperor had never intended for her to go unclothed, and it was disconcerting. She forced her gaze from the mutation in the man's lower
torso, she stared him defiantly in the face. 'Welcome, my dear.
It would seem that my prayers have been answered.
A chance for us to be aroused by spilling the blood of Nurgal's
degenerate spawn, and now this to finish off with.
All praise Slaanesh!' He raised his hands high, and began to laugh.
But all too soon his laughter gave way to a scream of terror.
He began to glow with a light that blinded Hesperides.
And she wished that she had been deafened too, so terrible were the
wails. It took her a while to be able to see again, and
when she did she wasn't sure that she wanted to.
The mutant was gone, and in his place stood something that glowed with an
otherworldly purity. Inhumanly
tall, it reached out to her with perfect hands.
It spoke with a voice so soft that she strained to hear it.
'You'll pardon me for being so direct, my dear, but my
time grows short...' Without realizing it, she had allowed the arms to
encircle her, their cold warmth leeching the strength from her bones.
She was staring into green eyes, edge to edge.
A tongue licked her face, and something she tried not to think about
licked her leg. She tried to resist, but the thing was forcing her to the
ground, the cold flagstone's warming as she touched them. And then it didn't seem so bad.
The pain of it entering her was horrendous, but somehow she didn't mind.
She felt numbed, as if she had been injected again.
But it was just the clammy touch of this thing, of this- Daemon. It was happening again. But it couldn't, this had to be a dream!
She opened her mouth to scream, but that only gave the thing an
opportunity to let its snake like tongue down her throat.
The agony seemed like an eternity, but then it was
over, the heat leaving her and the firm grip softening.
She pushed the thing away from her, but when she opened her eyes she saw
that it wasn't there anymore. Instead,
a burnt husk, charred as if with a flamer, was lying atop of her.
She rolled away from it, but the damage had been done. She coughed up a gobbet of phlegm, and rubbed her hair from
her eyes. Two figures stood looking down at her.
Covered from head to toe in archaic armour, they were Space Marines.
She tried to get away from them, but it was futile.
This was not a dream that she was going to wake up from quite so soon.
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