Ship of Fools

by Hackinslash

Summary:

What if I wrote a Rogue Trader story that wasn't all about the Rogue Trader?
Post-game events, old and new characters, multiple POV.

This work is a sequel to "All Things To All People" which you can read at the link below - but you should be able to follow along fine without it! Expect the sequel to reach a similar size eventually. Updates are short and frequent (daily ish).
https://archiveofourown.org/works/55291558

Contains DLC material and extensive author-created nonsense. Canon adherence is loose but - I hope - sincere. Imagine I'm a big hairy Space Wolf telling a saga if it helps.

Content advisory: explicit sex and violence here and there, sex chapters are skippable, you'll see content warnings in all the chapter summaries. This fic has trans and gender diverse characters (including most of the AdMechs).

Chapter 1: Chapter One

A drekkar drifts upon a sea of stars.

There is no drum-beat and no creaking of sails - for there is no wind, not even a solar wind. There is no rushing swell against the drekkar’s wooden hull. Neither the cold oceans of Fenris nor even the treacherous currents of the Warp can touch the simple vessel.

A sailor strains against the growing dark.

The weight of waterless oceans drags upon the blade of Ulva’s oar. It should not be this effortful. Is she not supposed to be taller, stronger? There should be others aboard this vessel. Pack-mates, harpoon-wielding sailors. Yet no shipmate sits beside Ulva on the rowing bench.

This scene is wrong.

Ulva lets out a growl of frustration as she tugs on her oar again. Her utterance sounds like a pup’s helpless whine. She knows she is pulling the drekkar around in circles. One kraken-hunter cannot haul a ship through the Ice-Girt Sea all by herself. What does the All-father expect her to do?

May Morkai bite the lazy arse of the thrall who sits on the opposite bench and disdains to touch his oar! Ulva scowls across at him. His form is treacherous and indistinct, as if he invites UIva to speak his details into being, to pin down his essence. His is a tall form, unnatural and ill-fed. Still, there is cunning and strength in the shape of it, the scent of it.

Ulva does not find it monstrous. She remembers the taste of the All-father’s cunning and strength, the gifts he lends to his children and their children. Still, she is offended by the presence of this rower who does not row. He has no place in Kjalhalla, she knows that much.

A formless face - a tall, helmeted face - turns to regard Ulva.

She cannot see his eyes. Ulva has no memory of the wraith’s face. He was armoured when they fought, and he remained armoured in death. It was a good fight, a close fight. Morkai the Two-Headed had watched the battle intently. His hot breath on the nape of his prey, hungry, close. But Morkai had gone hungry in the end. There had been a long slumber, a long journey that narrowly skirted the realms of the afterlife.

The drekkar, forever becalmed, forever circling. This journey was familiar…

Ulfar Everlost would be cheated by death once again. Such was his wyrd.

At least he knew who to blame. For as long as the xenos kept him company, he would be unable to pass on to Kjalhalla’s great feasting-halls. Russ’s Wolves would not abide an Aeldari visitor intruding upon their afterlife.

Ulfar grunted, hauled his oar in and let it rest on its rowlocks. Now that he had the measure of his true self, he could conjure up his muscles, his Wolf-skin, his beard and battle-scars. His will held true: he was himself once more. The interloper seemed unperturbed by Ulfar’s transformation. Perhaps he simply did not care about mon-keigh physiology. Ulfar glowered at him.

“Do you not have some place to be, Wyrd-Seer?”

A flat plane of pale wraithbone turned to face Ulfar. The Astartes was used to speaking with masked companions. He could discern the meaning behind the faint tilt of the Aeldari’s head. It was clear that the dead Farseer did not understand Low Gothic.

“By the Fang… you push the boundaries of my hospitality.”

Ulfar grumpily assembled his fingers into the Shape of an Aeldari greeting. It was not easy. He had spent so long in the guise of a rower that his hands had cramped into curled mitts. Hopefully the spoken Tongue would be easier. The Ranger Lanaevyss would be displeased if her otan had become rusty. A near-death experience was no excuse for laziness.

An idling coracle / torrents that thirst / a fearful leap

Ulfar could not help adding a few Red-state barbs of sarcasm into his phrasing. This Farseer was timid indeed, if he had loitered aboard Ulfar’s drekkar for this many centuries by choice! The Aeldari responded with a gesture of his own - a fleet, sinuous dance of the fingers that Ulfar could not interpret. Helmet and face-plate melted away. A ghost stared back at him.

The apparition was nothing like the Farseers of Clan Crudarach. He wore his hair cropped close around the temples. A fan of fine scars spread across the left side of his face. Their silvered edges reminded Ulfar of Saint Elmo’s fire, gathered around a drekkar’s masthead in the thick of a storm. The Farseer’s eyes were the same silvered sheen, sunk deep in gaunt sockets. The xenos observed the Wolf with a soldier’s jaded stare. Ulfar counted three long breaths, eight beats of his slumbering double hearts, before the ghost deigned to speak.

The curtain parts / this wooden world / a scene too small for two

The ghostly Farseer’s voice was as silvery as his eyes, quieter and higher-pitched than Ulfar had anticipated.

White State was meant to be a clinical, even-tempered use of the Tongue. Why, then, did Ulfar recognise despondent notes in the Farseer’s tone? Was he being self-deprecating? The Astartes grumbled at his own lack of understanding. The cryptic habits of xenos made him feel slow and foolish. He hated the idea that an arrogant Aeldari might look down on his Shield-Brothers because of some conversational mistake. Ulfar had better be wary around this old ghost.

“Hrrn, is my inner world too simple for your liking, Wyrd-seer? If that is so, then you do not loiter here by choice.

Foes battle-bound, by old blood bonded.
The fur-girt ferryman was forced forth to fetch you.
Yet swimming souls sink, while Sai’lanthresh lurks.
See Morkai’s jester, the unwitting huskaerl,
Kept from heart’s home by unnatural Nature.”

Ulfar followed up his impromptu recital with a broad, fang-baring grin. The Farseer might not know the Wolf’s words but there was power in poetry, in the rough rower’s cadence of skald-chant and the patter of a Solitaire’s blank verse alike. If the Aeldari was as cunning as the rest of his kind, he would pick up the intent behind Ulfar’s performance.

The ghost’s straight-backed form straightened further still. It was not necessary for dead men to breathe, but the xenos went through the movements of a quick inhalation. Ulfar hoped to underscore his point with visual proof. He concentrated hard on his armoured form, especially the contours of his heavy blue-grey cuirass with its wolf-skull motif and padded lining. Ulfar tucked two armoured fingers beneath his beard and inside the neckline of his armour, searching the narrow opening between the padding and his hairy chest.

He found what he needed in the cleft between his pectoral muscles, dangling from its leather cord. Ulfar pulled out the bundle of talismans - the charm that Skjaddi Twice-Thinker had made for him, an array of monstrous teeth, bones and other trophies. None of that was useful, but the square of knotted silk would interest Ulfar’s unwelcome passenger. The Wolf loosened it carefully, fumbling with his big gauntleted hands until it slid free. Ulfar smoothed the brightly coloured fabric assiduously across his knee, making sure that the Farseer recognised its diamond pattern before the Astartes stowed the keepsake away under his armour once more.

The ghost blinked and tilted his head sharply. The Farseer began to haltingly make use of the Tongue:

A deadly jest / a fool’s warning / a war trophy?

Ulfar had to laugh mightily at the bewildered xenos.

“By the Fang, wraith, are you flattering me? If I entered a duel with an Arebennian, the only prize I would claim is oblivion. But there is more to the black-souled ones than death and fear, Wyrd-Seer. They are poets at heart. Not all contests between skalds must be violent.”

The Astartes realised mid-mime that he could simply conjure the illusion of a drinking horn. Alas, his mouthful of imaginary mjod had neither scent nor taste. Even so, he was glad to assert some control over his stasis-induced visions. The Farseer raised a silvery eyebrow, but seemed to accept the Wolf’s story. Ulfar waved away his drinking vessel: it dissipated between his armoured fingers as he reverted to the Aeladri’s native language.

A motley ferryman / the ship turns back / the Wolf shall play Fetch!

The Astartes chuckled to himself, quite pleased with his turn of phrase. The Tongue lacked the weight of old Fenrisian, but it had a playful charm.

“Tell me the name of the one whose soul we must retrieve.”

The Farseer’s ghostly form rocked silently on its wooden bench. The ghost shook its head and would not respond, even when Ulfar switched back to Aeldari and made accompanying gestures with his armoured hands. The xenos had forgotten himself. The silence grew long. Ulfar became frustrated with his passenger’s silence. He bared his long teeth again.

“We do not have all eternity, Wyrd-Seer. Do you accept my offer or not?”

Ulfar’s eyes met his old foe’s ghostly ones. They shared a long, unblinking stare of mutual distrust and annoyance. The Farseer was the first to lower his spectral gaze, to Ulfar’s satisfaction. The dead Aeldari sighed, took up his ghostly oar and began to ply it.

The voyage to the land of the living would be less tiresome with company - even if the company was irritating. Ulfar prayed to Russ and the All-father for patience. He was itching to get back.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Summary:

One city, two inhabitants.

Dargonus, City of Spires, City of Smog. The capital of von Valancius Protectorate could inspire, and it could also wreck your lungs if you wandered too close to sea level without a filter-mask on.

The morning view out of the southern porthole would make a good subject for one of Lady Cassia’s paintings. The east-facing vertical plantations were doing their level best to soak up the pollution, but glaucous smog still pillowed and thronged about the base of Spire Indomitus, obscuring the great buttress pipes of its effluent outflows. A swirl in the cloudbank indicated the presence of a distant body of water, kilometres below - the gap in the canopy of buildings upon buildings creating an oasis of thin sunlight to feed the stacks upon stacks of algae vats and hydroponic arrays.

The planet had once been wrapped in water, in the time of Saint Drusus and his pioneering shipmates - a blue bead dotted with steppes and mountains that rose from vast oceans. One brackish lake was all that remained of that sweet wet abundance. Lord Captain Como von Valancius had rejected a proposal to siphon it, around the time that the construction of Spire Indomitus had begun to send scaffolding above the cloudbanks. The lake’s gunk wasn’t even drinkable, not without extensive processing. But when the Maw had slammed shut and the Koronus Expanse’s star-lanes had become jumbled, that murky puddle had helped to keep Dargonus fed for a crucial couple of months. And the locals had gotten fond of it.

Could they really afford to give up one of the planet’s small safeguards against future disaster?

Meister Timun Ravor instinctively brought his free hand up to the back of his neck, scratching for the connector cables that should have denoted his rank as Master Helmsman. The Void-damned cerebellar implant had given him headaches for so long that he almost missed its sting, now that the augmetic was finally recalibrated. His fingertips found no cables, just the soft oval nubs of connectors against the neat curve of a stainless steel panel, warm from his body heat. The other hand held a big mug of broth-in-a-cup, but he found little comfort in its savoury aroma.

It was supposed to be a day of rest. He couldn’t say he enjoyed the stillness.

Dargonus weighed heavy on him, but gravity was something he could acclimate to - or offset with discreet braces at his knee joints and the help of a good girdle. Ravor’s brain had a harder time adapting to the scale of a whole planet. His little hab-pod was high up Spire von Valancius, close to the starport. A nostalgic location, a decent spot for an old Voidsman to make into a bolt-hole. But it was also a compromise, not high up enough to really bring him close to the stars.

Instead Timun suffered the encasement of the hive city’s horizon.

The sky curved over him like an upturned beggar’s bowl, trapping him underneath. He took a cautious sip of his broth - it tasted vaguely of mushrooms - to brace him for another look at the view below his porthole. Down, down into that soupy fog and the abyss below it - an impossible perspective that made him want to jump out into empty air. Below him, billions of citizens went about their lives, impossibly distant from this impromptu Crow’s Nest. Bloody Throne, no wonder people called them ‘Hive Cities’: was it any wonder the Noble Houses thought of their own workers as ants?

Of course, from orbit everyone looked equally insignificant. That thought relieved Ravor for a second, then set him to fretting again. He tried not to think about Rykad minoris, but the memory wriggled in his mind like a maggot in hardtack.

All life-bearing planets were vulnerable. Bubbles in the Void, set to pop at any minute.

Folks with power didn’t like when the old ways got rearranged. If the wider Imperium sniffed out Dargonus’s political upheaval, they might decide the whole planet wasn’t worth saving. Even if they didn’t go for Exterminatus, if Spire von Valancius got hit with a tactical orbital strike, it’d be a bloody catastrophe. Dargonians would have a lot more to worry about than the fate of one smelly old lake.

All Timun could really do was keep going. He had his life here, and it was a good ‘un.

Meister Ravor loved designing new grav-vehicles, especially the jetbikes - gorgeous things, full of grace and power. There was so much he could do just by recombining old STC schematics. Aye, he was glad the Cog-Priests allowed him to experiment! He wouldn’t have had that luxury under Lady Theodora, before the Discontinuing Cult started up. The Tech-Priests with the funny white robes seemed happy enough to sell Ravor bits of blueprint and buy engine prototypes back off him when he was done playing with them. And he knew better than to ask too many questions about their mutually useful arrangement.

Timun enjoyed the throng of a factory floor best of all. The place made him think of a voidship. It was nice and compact: every cove had their proper role and stuck to it, nice and diligently. They made beautiful machines together, and it felt good to see ‘em zipping around the causeways and alleys of Dargonus. Give the planetside land-lubbers a taste of life on the wing, that was Timun’s dream. Meister Ravor was getting kind of famous for his designs, and he liked being known. He’d done right well for a Lower-Decker, right well indeed.

But this invitation from the Guild of Industry had startled him. Ravor the Voidsman, with his borrowed star-name and his old medals and his too-tight blue uniform jacket - they wanted him, him of all people, to represent them in the Assembly of Convocation. Saints and bloody stars, Master Helmsman Ravor had never been a great lover of Humanity! Even now that his headaches were gone, his way of speaking was - well - blunt’d be an understatement. Maybe that was the point, and the Guild wanted someone who wasn’t afraid of plain speaking, or afraid of pissing off a certain ex-Nob who’d clawed his way onto the Assembly.

Janris bloody Dargon. He might’ve ditched the Danrok name and cut ties with his House, but he could still put on Nob airs and play Nob games. Timun had to respect his old shipmate - the cove had worked damned hard to get where he was. Janris had a pretty big heart under all the cravats and frills. Even so, Ravor could see why the Guild hated his political game. The idea of making the Assembly of Convocation into a carbon copy of the old House of Houses stuck in people’s craws. It’d be mocking the Lord Cap’n, really, to take a representative system and use it to shaft regular folks and line rich ones’ pockets all over again. Janris was setting a dangerous example. Maybe he did need a watchdog.

The Void-damned invitation letter was still sitting in the inside pocket of Meister Ravor’s uniform jacket. If he kept it there any longer, he felt like it’d burn a hole in the fabric. Timun stared down at the fathomless cloud-banks.

What in Holy Terra’s name was he getting himself into?

 

___

 

Everything came back to sustenance in the end. Men could hardly feed themselves on mere dreams. One had to be pragmatic.

Citizen Tribune Janris Dargon, formerly High Factotum Janris Danrok, cradled a green apple in his broad hand. The skin was thick and glossy, the flesh beneath it crisp enough to break a Spire-dweller’s rotten teeth. The fruits of the Ecclesiarchy were hardy little cooking hybrids, their seeds brought in cryo-arks all the way from Calixis, thousands of years ago. Their original Terran cultivars could no longer grow in the cradle of Humankind. How fortunate that the original Voidfaring pioneers had been obsessed with these trees, planting them all across the galaxy.

Catering crews patrolled the dining nook, adjusting homespun cushions on low chairs (real wood carpentry, of course). Quite a bit of effort went into creating the appearance of simple dinnertime intimacy. Janris was going to serve tangy green slices of this Drusian-era apple along with the tanna course. On the face of it, syrup-laden bonbons and tiered cakes might look like the more decadent alternative. Anyone with a head for logistics would see these small, crisp, fresh apples and understand the miracle of their existence.

In the early days of Dargonus’s settlement there had been whole groves of apples, among the plains and the horse nomads, fanned by temperate sea breezes. The hive world would never accommodate the trees now. The apple in Danrok’s palm might as well be a gem of the same size, such was its rarity. It was not bioengineered to suit the local agri-worlds - and as such, it had to be grown in its very own controlled environment. Janris had invested the equivalent of a noblewoman’s annual rejuvenat budget on the prototype.

Under a representative system, one where he stood on the side of the citizenry, Janris’s expressions of luxury needed to be subtle but indisputable. Abandoning all show of wealth was political suicide - Janris had got where he was by being an excellent administrator and an even better merchant, and people respected him as long as he proved he was still capable of generating enough profit to line their winter coats. But he could not be seen to crave any trace of noble pageantry. The break between Janris and his former family in House Danrok needed to remain absolute. Otherwise, he’d lose his chances of dominating the Assembly.

He had therefore abandoned his frogged coatees, velvet waistcoats, lacy sleeves and even his beloved cravats in favour of something more streamlined. Calixian hanfu suited him. Its looseness made Dargonus’s warm surface temperatures bearable for a gentleman of his size. Its double-breasted outer robes had a certain courtly elegance. The plain dark fabric disguised any soot-stains he might acquire from touring the middle spires in one of Meister Ravor’s beautiful convertible grav-cars. The simple shapes called Lord Captain Como von Valancius’ pared-down style to mind, without requiring Janris to copy the Rogue Trader’s heraldic colours.

Above all, Calixian traditional dress had recently come into fashion among Dargonus’s more liberal educated classes. Centuries of debate about whether the style derived from Aeldari influences and was thus a kind of xenoheresy were eradicated all at once, with the publication of a small monograph confirming the style’s historical roots that went all the way back to Segmentum Solar. Not everyone recognised the pen-name of its author, one Henri Corbin. But Janris knew, as did those in high places, that this was the alias of a certain Lord Inquisitor. His good opinion all but cemented hanfu as the style for canny citizens who wished to appear pious and loyal.

The caterers bobbed a citizen’s polite reverence in passing - a friendly nod had replaced a serf’s pathetic grovel. Janris Dargon approved the efficiency of the interaction as he nodded back. He thought about his time on the Venatrix’s bridge, the comradely looks and half-bows exchanged between the servants of the von Valancius dynasty. Above all, he missed the banter. Vigdis’s subtle jokes crackling through her vox implant, Abelard’s moustache twitching as he suppressed a smile. Forius’s obtuse medical rants. Master Helmsman Ravor’s constant teasing, which he thought he’d hated at the time. What a team they’d all made. Facing up to gods and monsters. Fixing Dargonus should have been an easier task by comparison… if only he still had his shipmates to rely on!

The catering crews retreated, and Janris’s guests would arrive very shortly via elevator - on time, if the landlubbers knew what was good for business. He would personally conduct the tanna ceremony, he could manage that much for a group of ten. The host flexed his brow to activate the semi-transparent heads-up display on his eye augmetic, scanning back over the first few entries on the guest list. He’d have to serve these ones first.

++ IDROS, Bennik: Media Baronet +
+ SCRIVEN, Fillip: Adeptus Administratum Tithe-Counter +
+ TARN, Dr Erica (esq), Chem-Prince and biosophist ++

Dargon paused at the mention of a hereditary title. The Assembly of Convocation didn’t attract aspiring nobles - maybe Dr Tarn’s parent had earned their rank through actual merit.

++ANTILOQUAX, Jaq: CEO, Antiloquax Personal Security +
+ Supplementary note: They’ve changed pronouns again +
+ KIKKULI, Pavel: Sponsor of Team Blue ++

Janris knew Pavel’s name and face rather well - he’d made headlines when the former High Factotum was just a boy, for his exploits in jetbike racing. Apparently he had gone into management after he retired from the saddle.

A note at the very bottom of the list simply read:

++ Do NOT Admit Vyvyan ++

Dargon rolled his unaugmented eye at the reminder. The shock-jock journalist was a novelty born of this new representative system, a different and less predictable creature than the Imperium’s usual staid propagandists. Janris disapproved of him on principle. Vyvyan was more of an attack dog than an ally, one better kept at a minimum safe distance from more delicate affairs. Any good demagogue needed a mouthpiece, but did they have to be so crass?

The soft chime of the elevator drew Janris out of his glum reverie. The politician contracted the eye muscles behind his augmetic’s ruby-tinted lens, triggering a tiny mechanism somewhere within its bulky frame. The text disappeared as he set his priceless green apple down on the tanna-table, folded his hands and turned to welcome his allies with a wide, beatific smile.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Summary:

Life on Vheabos VI is rough... Wait, who are these coves?

Bran cautiously flexed his right shoulder, the one with the scar tissue. The marks weren’t obvious - a series of lozenge-shaped keloid scars devoid of body hair, just a little glossier and pinker than the rest of his skin. He’d donned a sleeveless muscle vest to show off his upper arms, but this crowd wouldn’t find his physique intimidating.

Bran’s opponents were unsettled by his eyes, though. The left one was a steady greenish-grey, nothing to write home about. Its partner held an ice-blue intensity that made it look almost artificial. When the referee shone their little hand-lumen in his face to check for signs of concussion, a tapetum glowed back at them. Even hardened convicts thought twice about glaring back at that mismatched stare.

It was an excellent misdirection. With Bran’s hair wrapped in a do-rag and the rest of his attire kept carefully neutral, few people would be able to recall anything besides that weird eyeball. Those that had the wit to look further might notice Bran’s scuffed khaki pants and Astra Militarum-issue boots. He wouldn’t be the first disgraced veteran to make it to the slums of Vheabos VI and take up a brutal side hustle to make ends meet.

Pankration was a rough sport by the standards of Segmentum Solar. A couple of gentlemanly rules prohibited eye gouging, biting and striking people in the genitals. Little else was off-limits, as long as people could get back to the mines or the penal battalions or the voidship docks after wounds were swabbed and winnings exchanged. The chaos suited Bran well. He’d always hated Blood Bowl and other silly team sports. A one on one battle, full of guile and brutality, was a more satisfying outlet. The violence felt more honest, somehow. More personal.

He’d already demolished a sly little Obscura dealer who’d tried to smuggle a razor blade into the arena under his wrist wraps. Bran had taunted the cheater and drawn him into an arm-bar as soon as he realised the trick. When Bran inverted the dealer’s elbow-joint with a swift bit of leverage, the razor had dug into the man’s own wrist. A spatter of fresh blood remained in the sand where the dealer had nearly bled out. Bran was standing over it now. He flared his nostrils, taking a theatrical sniff.

That little shit had evaded the local Arbites for months. Some jobs were just easier if you handled them personally.

The next contender was a semi-regular fixture at the Pankration cages. A big cove, bigger than Bran, which was quite a feat. Bran wondered where he got the extra rations from. It took a steady intake of protein to maintain that sort of muscle mass, unless his opponent had some other secret advantage… nobody was going to care much if a penal-world boxer used Rampage or stimms on the side. His opponent didn’t have the ropey neck veins or flushed face of a regular juicer though. Curious.

The referee was more of an announcer than a proper arbiter - tough enough to break up squabbles between gamblers or competitors, but his role was to excite the spectators. He cracked on with his usual excitable patter of Vheaban trade slang, mixed with the Koronus Expanse’s choicest selection of swear words. Bran could swear some of the lingo had been picked up from the local Corsair crews. He suppressed a smile, making a mental note to check the crowd for unusually tall and gangly guests on his way out.

They introduced him like they always did, as Bran the Bruiser. His opponent got the colourful ringside alias of Starchaser. The sobriquet seemed too flashy for the man. When Bran faced him, the word that came to mind was ‘stolid’. His was a placid, almost bovine face; the man's muscular jaw contrasted with his fringe of wayward, curly hair. He looked like a big, innocent kid who'd been kept back a year in Schola. Starchaser blinked in acknowledgement when the referee called for the match to begin.

Bran had half a heartbeat to detect his opponent’s killing intent and get his head the fuck out of the way. This grox had horns! He pitched his right hip downward, not bothering to take a step back but instead letting his head drop away. A right-handed straight punch whistled past Bran’s left ear, narrowly missing the chance to flatten the cartilage.

Focus, man, focus.

Two options were available to Bran from here. He could encourage the rotation of his body, support himself on his palms and bring a left knee up to smash Starchaser right in the solar plexus. The move was too flashy, too memorable. Instead he ground the heel of his right foot outward, almost coming into a squat over that leg and foot. Bran got a feeble jab in under Starchaser’s left arm, but the angle was off and he couldn’t connect properly with the man’s ribs. Nor could he trip the man while his own body was off balance. Bran resorted to a sweep with his left leg, reversing the direction of his body and forcing Starchaser to wheel around and face him.

The bastard kept his back turned just long enough for it to feel like a taunt. Bran wasn’t going to be baited. Instead he took the opportunity to examine his opponent from behind. He couldn’t see any obvious asymmetries or weak points. The cove was a walking wall of muscle. It almost made Bran feel proud for the Human species. In another life, the fellow would have made a fine Astartes candidate.

There wasn’t time to reflect on alternate realities. Starchaser whipped round with all the speed that Bran had expected of him. Fighting force with force would not end well. Bran crossed his arms - usually a silly move against a flurry of jackhammer punches, but he wasn’t intending to form a static block with his limbs, Instead, he brought them upward in the same fluid motion that he’d practiced in laboriously slow motion a thousand times. Starchaser’s strike deflected skyward. Aeldari callisthenics had its uses in battle.

The big man realised he was about to get caught in an overextended position and corrected his stance so that Bran couldn’t quite land his intended counter and achieve a clean takedown. Even so, Starchaser was exposed for a body blow. Bran didn’t think twice about deploying a knee this time. It wasn’t sporting to go for a nut shot, but he could still land nasty, numbing strikes against the man’s inside thigh and abdomen.

Regular ringside action had honed Bran’s senses to the point where he could sense an impending headbutt. He ducked and scooted out of the way on pure instinct, not bothering to look. Starchaser’s outflung arm thwacked him across the shoulder. It wasn’t damaging, but it still stung like a bitch. Good. He needed a wake-up call. It was also good for him to lose a few of his bouts - climbing the Pankration rankings would draw too much attention to his face and his name, and Bran didn’t want that kind of trouble.

Each fighter bodied a few punches and traded a few brutal, boot-clad kicks in what Bran had to admit was a surprisingly even match-up. He wanted to face this cove again, away from a howling audience, for a friendly spar. Void take the competitive aspect of the match, he was having fun tonight! Alas, it was time for Bran to put on a good show, fold and take the loss. Bran’s arms were tired enough for it to feel convincing when Starchaser’s mean right hook slid over his guard and popped him squarely across the cheekbone.

Bran let himself stumble, biting his cheek so that when he spat into the sand, there was a spray of visceral pink. The crowd made their usual orgasmic noises, hollers and moans. Some punters would be upset that Bran the Bruiser was underperforming. He really didn’t care for their little dramas. Bran caught Starchaser’s left fist in his right hand, tensing it so that their arms formed an archway. He gripped hard. Allowed a shiver to creep along his arm. Stared at Starchaser with his unnatural blue eye. Only once his opponent held his gaze and acknowledged him did Bran finally concede and drop to one knee.

And that was that. He collected himself, ignored the hoots of the audience and the clash of upraised palms against the ringside safety mesh, and dragged himself back to the ablution stall. When Bran glanced in the mirror he realised he’d got a nosebleed from the exertion. He pressed a fingertip against the side of his nostril and stopped the flow with as much subtlety as he could muster. A splash of tepid recycled water, a wipe with an old towel, and he was ready to depart. Bran grabbed the Expanse’s most tattered-looking leather coat, a thing so slashed and stained that nobody would bother to steal it, and slung it round his shoulders. He longed for a warm bed and a good sleep.

The night wasn’t over.

A network of catwalks, gantries and big rope nets held the Pankration cages suspended over an old crater. Bran remembered when the cavernous indentation had been full of toxic blue fire. Years ago now. Throne, what an unlikely place for him to have made a friend… though calling that particular association a mere friendship belied both its depth and its excessive complications. Bran’s thumb found a slashed gap in his leather coat and poked out of a pocket. He looked down at it, wiggled it and permitted himself a rueful little smile.

A whole shanty town spanned the crater now, an almost organic construction of dense prefab boxes, corrugated plasteel lean-tos and dim alleyways. Privacy was a luxury in this place: Bran stepped through the back of a fast food kitchenette, sidled past some greasy vats and shinned up a sloped steel stepladder. The passageway cut between the open walls of two random squatters’ sleeping spots. Bran passed through the far wall, up half a level and onto another catwalk, this one fashioned out of old maglev rails with loops of steel rebar for handholds.

'Starchaser' loitered on a platform at the far end of the walkway.

The big man looked unbothered: he sat on the bare steel with his legs dangling into the void, one hand keeping his sweaty brown curls off his brow, puffing on the scrounged butt of a lho stick. Bran hadn’t expected him to be a smoker. Starchaser smiled wryly up at Bran when he approached, flicking the miserable stub into the crater below.

“I’m supposed to be quitting the stuff. Thought I’d try and remember what all the fuss was about.” Starchaser glanced after the tiny ember as it vanished. “Emperor knows why. It tastes like groxshit.”

Bran lowered himself onto the platform and sat on his leather coattails.

“Did you really expect someone would discard good quality lho in a place like this?”

Starchaser’s big head gave a tiny upward bob that might have even been a silent laugh.

“Guess not. That, and things aren’t ever as good as you remember them.”

Bran’s right hand drifted up and very nearly scratched the back of his neck, where the fabric of his do-rag bunched. He changed actions and flipped up his jacket collar instead.

“What’s the alternative? Starting something new?”

“Trying to.” A muscular right hand extended towards Bran at chest height. “Real name’s Clif Aster. Just call me Clif.”

Bran took the hand and clasped it. The gesture should have been businesslike, but they were both still warm from their match, they smelled of sweat, and they were sitting close together in a tight space. Bran opened his mouth to introduce himself properly, but Aster gave a slow, small smile and a single shake of his head.

“The lads have a bet going. Most popular theory is, you’re an ex-cop.”

Bran chuckled at that. It wouldn't be the first time someone had accused him of being an off-duty Arbites.

“Ex-Imperial Guard, if you must know. I’ve been discharged for quite some time.” It was always better to answer questions truthfully if possible, even if those truths contained holes large enough to accommodate a Voidship.

Aster raised his brows - his eyes were brown and quite large, with a droopy softness to their expression that reminded Bran of cows once more. Strange, that a pit fighter should conjure childhood memories of Feudal-world fields. Clif glanced at Bran’s face, no doubt noting a few stray wrinkles on its surface. Bran did not look his age, but he looked weathered enough.

“That’s brave. Retired guy like you, coming on down to the pit fights. You’re a tough bird.”

Bran gestured back at Clif’s hand, which was done with the handshake but remained unconsciously half-extended, the index finger and thumb kept in a loose pinch.

“It’s much like your lho-stick habit. I’ve seen enough combat for a lifetime. But one gets a taste for violence. It becomes hard to give it up entirely.”

Clif Aster folded his fingers into a soft cat’s cradle, resting his hands across his knees. Bran noticed a dim row of numerals etched across the back of the man’s left hand. Penal Battalion tattoos. Most convicts also acquired ink in other places, but the visible parts of Clif’s skin seemed clean. Bran pondered that little mystery while Aster’s booted feet swung gently in empty air. The big man would speak when he was ready. He was frowning just a little, licking the place where his lips had held the lho stub. It wasn’t the worst of tells, considering his life was about to change.

“You’re hiring, aren’t you.”

Bran nodded. Clif didn’t even glance his way, he was that confident in his assessment of the situation.

“I need to know the job’s clean. Clean enough, I mean. I’ve got a wee girl on Dargonus, she’s on the Path.” The Path to Citizenship programme. He’d done his stint in the Penal Battalion for her sake, then. “She doesn’t know I’m alive. Still, I can’t do anything that’ll wreck her chances.”

A few more hints at the man’s story. Fatherhood didn’t make him innocent - it didn’t make him a good man. Good men tended not to survive on Vheabos VI. Even so, it was encouraging to hear the fellow had standards.

“I understand. I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about.”

Bran reached inside his filthy coat and groped around one of the torn sections of lining till he found the little card of plastic scrip he was looking for.

“Do you read?”

Clif’s face reddened for the first time all night - he hadn’t flushed like that in the ring.

“I’m not great at it. Have to sound out long words, and I’m slow. But I can read an address.”

Bran gave him an encouraging smile. Aster was more of an asset than he knew.

“That’s very good, Clif. Let’s meet at this pool hall after the next clock-off. We can have a drink and talk. No obligations.” A quick pause, as he handed the card over and Aster tucked it into a pocket of his cargo pants. “I might even teach you some regicide.”

“Got to ask. What kind of a name is Bran? Did someone name you after a nutribar?”

Bran allowed himself a proper belly laugh this time.

“I believe it’s an old Terran name for a kind of bird.”

Yeah, he’d fit right in.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Summary:

The collective noun for multiple Tech-Priests is: a Cloud, a Noosphere and on rare occasions - a Gestalt.

Magos Errant. Chief Enginseer. These were aspirational designations.

Once, unit Asclepius had been a simple Lexmechanic, a cog among other human cogs in the great and marvellous workings of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They had been content in their role. Asclepius had always been curious, but never acquisitive. Their tendency to share precious information and to take on menial roles had been noted by their Tech-siblings, and their roles were adjusted accordingly.

Their eventual designation of Computator-General was a compromise, vague enough to
cover the rambling breadth of Asclepius’s interests. Their dilettante habits earned the exasperation of their teachers, the confusion of their peers and the crude insult ‘cog of all trades’. Only the Omnissiah could be an expert in all fields: Asclepius’s broad curiosity was seen as either a kind of hubris or a kind of noncommittal laziness. In all unit Asclepius’s wildest data-dreams, they had never once stumbled upon a noospheric algorithm that predicted their current status - and yet it suited them.

A Magos Errant needed to know all, comprehend all. Well - a little of all things, at least. Travelling with a Rogue Trader, one never knew what challenges an Explorator might face. Unit Asclepius had the flexibility of mind to delve into all kinds of knowledge. They even kept practicing a little medicae on the side. It was the perfect calling.

Unit Asclepius caught sight of their reflection in the polished steel sheen of a surgical table. They noted the following interesting data-point: nothing about them had changed externally since their promotion. The average layperson would find the Chief Enginseer’s appearance nonstandard compared with that of other Tech-Priests: the mask-like housing of their left eye augmetic, for example, was designed to mimic the contours of the sacred human form. A few baseline humans had remarked upon unit Asclepius’s curly blonde hair - in their judgement, Tech-Priests ought to have no hair at all! But ranks and designations? A layperson did not care. All members of the Brotherhood of Mars were more or less the same in their eyes.

Unit Asclepius’s titles only mattered to the extent that they facilitated service. Did the Lord Captain not share the same sentiment? A leader serves. This statement was not simply true. It was resonant. Asclepius felt it in the steel of their chassis and the bones of their sacred human form.

Every Integrator-class member of the Amarnat Collective had a specialist function, in addition to the contribution of their votes and their opinions. Each function represented an essential aspect of the human condition. Asclepius had chosen the aspect of Humility.

The old Amarnat had not been humble. They had been many things - paranoid, nihilistic - things that no longer reflected the philosophy of Discontinuation or served its new purpose. Judgement and Imagination remained. Magos Dominus Opticon-22 brought Duty to the mix, along with a certain flair for warfare. The Disciples of Discontinuation were now an army, and the movement needed a military strategist.

More than that, the movement needed an ironclad plan to secure its future. This was the purpose of the Noospheric Congress.

Unsure whether there ought to be a dress code for such a rare and sacred occasion, unit Asclepius had spent many computational cycles pondering their sartorial options. Pasqal had bequeathed them a small collection of robes: it was a kind gesture, for Asclepius had returned to the Venatrix with just the one set of holy vestments. Of course, Kitarius never failed to coat everything with tufts of shedded ginger and brown fur when she found her way into the wardrobe. At least she restricted her claw-sharpening activities to a patch of old carpet that Asclepius had hauled into the maintenance bay.

It felt comforting to slide into something once worn by a beloved Tech-sibling. Creativity was Abel’s strong suit, and their sartorial advice was sorely missed. Asclepius ended up choosing something unexciting: a sleeveless ankle-length peplos in heavy red synth-drill. They added a separate hood, dagged in front to resemble a cog pattern, whose folds could accommodate a small diagnostic mechadendrite - or a ship cat, if Kitarius felt like going for a ride around the upper decks.

It was no easy thing to engineer long-distance data-communion in real time. The Amarnats were intrinsically linked thanks to their deep mental integration, but there were limits to the strength and complexity of the relationship. While units Asclepius, Pasqal and Abel had remained together on the Venatrix, they could dip into each other’s sensations and cognitive processes at will, as long as everyone consented to the experience. Doing so with the gulf of the Immaterium between them took power. A lot of power.

Chief Enginseer Asclepius was fortunate to have a Tech-Sibling as a Lord Captain. Laypersons might not have understood the finer details, but unit Como von Valancius comprehended the cause of Discontinuation. They did not hesitate to grant unit Asclepius permission to fire up the ship’s Warp engines. All they asked was that the volunteer who delivered the payload and triggered the reactor be a member of the Disciples. Two dozen eager Technomats had offered their services. Unit Asclepius let a random number generator select the martyr.

Asclepius kept comms open to register the unit’s final binharic prayers, remaining connected to their augmetic parts through the ship’s cogitator arrays. The Chief Enginseer registered the moment when a miniature sun was born deep within the Voidship’s hull, when the resulting surge of heat and light obliterated the martyr’s body and brought them into the machine god’s eternal embrace. Many Tech-siblings had died and would continue to die for the movement. That these deaths were numerous did not make any of them less significant.

Nomos were already instantiating within the noospheric instance when unit Asclepius arrived. No physical transposition was involved: any Tech-Priest with functioning augmetics could activate the senses of their True Flesh and conjure up a world of binharic signals, luminous and wondrous, where they could see the forms of their brethren. The level of fidelity depended upon a Tech-Priest’s augmetics and the extent of their implants. Unit Asclepius was blessed with two fully mechanical arms and could therefore freely touch and manipulate constructs and mechanical items through the blessed interface.

Normally, binocular eye augmetics would be required to achieve a proper depth of field and micron-level detail in the scene. Nomos were able to refine the Materium - including its electronic aspect - to such a precise degree that this communion appeared to its participants with almost complete accuracy. The noosphere’s reality was unlike that of realspace, however.

A greenish holographic sheen danced in the background, which did not have to be rendered in the same detail but instead devolved into pixelated mist. The disproportionate flare and definition of any mechanical parts, combined with the visual effect caused by residual organic bodies and mental wavelengths, meant that people and machines stood out far more than furniture or non sentient lifeforms.

The deep intensity of perception that accompanied it all, the signs of faith embodied in this world away from the world - unit Asclepius could not have described it to a non-believer. Kitarius was unable to appreciate the wondrous scene. The ship cat’s dark fur stood on end as she wandered into the holographic field, and she retreated to the safety of Asclepius’s diagnostic cogitator. Fortunately the Magos Errant had switched off its keyboard in advance.

Nomos themself were experimenting with a new bipedal instantiation. They still wore the crescent shape around their brow - something that might be a halo, or a crown, or a yoke depending on interpretation. Above the dome of their cranium, a tiny hovering ball of fire glowed yellow, the colour of ancient Sol. It was an unearthly flame, a miniaturised sun - or a representation of one, it was never entirely clear when one was dealing with part of a C’Tan.

The rest of Nomos’s simulated body was rather short and distinctly human-shaped, although the appearance and clothing wavered and morphed. Body parts sometimes appeared more soft, or more masculine, sometimes gaunt and sometimes corpulent. This was part of the entity’s attempt to practice empathy.

“Omnissiah’s blessings be with you, Observer Nomos. May your labours be effective and fruitful.”

Asclepius did not simply make the sign of the cog, but conjured up a warm scintilla of the machine god’s light within the crook of their augmetic hand. Non-initiates would only ever see the gesture as a salute, not comprehending the deeper miracle. Nomos created a simple mouth shape on the blank mask of their countenance, then curved the edges up into a smile. They were starting to get a better sense of the way the cheeks creased - the early attempts at emotional display had been uncanny, but this was almost pleasant.

“Hello, cousin Asclepius! Nomos are unsure if the Omnissiah’s blessings truly extend to a stardust-eating xenos, but we sincerely appreciate your good wishes. It brings Nomos joy to see you in the noosphere, and to be seen as well.”

There was a note of genuine joy in the entity’s simulated voice. Nomos were ever-curious, and this Noospheric Congress was just another exciting new experiment for them.

Magos Dominus Opticon-22 was next to appear, emerging in a pleasant green shower of photons. A long train of oil-specked and bloodstained red fabric would conceal most of their True Flesh from unenlightened eyes, but here in the noosphere the metal parts radiated a blessed and menacing aura. Opticon-22’s many small optical implants, spread over their forehead like the eyes of a spider, glowed vivid blue. They were mentally connected with a squadron of Skitarii: unit Asclepius perceived the threads of shared consciousness as a nest of fine glowing hairs, stretching behind Opticon-22’s cranial implant and into the distance. The ancient Explorator had more than enough processing power to handle this meeting while interfacing and giving directives to their crew.

Faint pops of background static and wafts of binharic cant indicated a hive of activity in Opticon-22’s proximity. The Cognisance Fleet had been unable to restore functionality to the decommissioned Ark Hermetico, but they could still break the massive ship and recover the precious metals and surviving archaetoech within. Tech-Priests and recolligers worked round the clock under Opticon-22’s watch, disassembling one massive battleship even as they constructed a nimbler, more modern fleet out of its remains.

Nothing was truly lost: it simply changed to fit the times.

The Tech-siblings engaged in a complex ritual where they shared harmonic patterns alongside strings of machine code. The result was somewhere between an electronic handshake protocol and a digital embrace. Kindness was not an attribute commonly associated with dealings between members of the Adeptus Mechanicus - clarity and logic usually prevailed in discussions, along with a hint of suspicion, for most Tech-Priests were secretive. Opticon-22 was a firm believer in camaraderie, so their greeting carried an unmistakable sincerity. Their binharic song resonated with jolly major chords, loud and boisterous. Even their augmetic weapons arrays and mechadendrites waggled up and down with the briskness of a marching band.

“Glory to the Omnissiah / the machine god / the ecstasy of comprehension. This unit acknowledges your newly upgraded status, Magos Errant / Chief Enginseer Asclepius. You wear your rank lightly / humbly / deservingly, as befits a servant of Discontinuation. This unit registers positive emotions regarding our Tech-sibling / ally / friend.”

That was about as emotive as the synonym-obsessed old Magos Dominus ever got.

Magos Errant Asclepius ran one last quick diagnostic scan of the Venatrix’s computational arrays. Kitarius must have picked up on their anxiety, because she sauntered over and headbutted Asclepius’s metal-reinforced leg. Connecting with Opticon-22 was one matter, but the next communications challenge was… unprecedented. It would take the combined powers of the Speculator, Nomos’s unique gifts and the full output of a Voidship’s Warp engines to trace the flimsy and wavering engrams of the other participants.

Another shower of green particles cascaded out of the ether. This time, the greenish hues darkened and lingered as they resolved into jagged shadows. Unit Asclepius had never been to Commorragh in person, but their duties brought them in contact with Drukhari technology and even, at times, on board their vessels. The Tech-Priest comprehended the scenery, even as they marvelled that it could show up in the noosphere with such fidelity.

Technology was built into Aeldari furnishings, just as it was built into Aeldari bodies - but wasn’t it all deeply profane? In a just world, the machine god would reject it and it could not intrude upon their communion. Then again, that would make unit Aclepius’s work much harder: imagine if they could not scan xenotechnology or determine its function.

Speaking of alien bodies… Magos Pasqal’s form was as ornate and beautiful as ever, but the scar-like pattern around their abdominal cavity marked old wounds. Necrofilim tech, implanted by the leeches of Commorragh and thankfully excised before it could corrupt the Messiah of Discontinuing. A vibrant golden cascade of energy tumbled out of unit Pasqal’s metallic ribcage, floated like a gossamer river across the Magos’s chest and around the vibrant glow of their metal left arm. The energetic skein connected with a lanky, grey-green shadow, illuminating the caverns of a multiple-chambered biomechanical heart.

Unit Asclepius could not see the xenos who carried that heart, not in full. Old surgical interventions, not human-made, gave a vague impression of limbs and nebulous floating organics. A gorgeous electoo crawled up the Drukhari’s right arm: Asclepius noted that it had been considerably extended since their time on the Venatrix. The crystalline pattern carried tiny discharges of the Motive Force from the main chip on the subject’s inside wrist, all the way up in a filigree sleeve and terminated in a discreet implant embedded in the xenos’s neck, just under the earlobe. That implant bore the skull-and-cog symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus. In the other direction, little threads of subcutaneous microfilament connected the wrist chip with a tiny augmetic connector: slender, pointed metal now replaced the Drukhari’s right index fingernail. All else was indistinct, save for the eyes: bright turquoise pinpricks ringed with gold.

So what unit Pasqal had asserted was true. The xenos had glimpsed something in the abyss. He could see what was happening in the noosphere. This should not happen - this could not happen if he did not, on some level, believe in the machine god. The thought made Asclepius’s organic digestive organs stir uncomfortably. They chose to disregard the stimulus for now. Squeamishness was unproductive.

Sickly green-grey darkness found its counterpart in the next violent cascade of colour. Opticon-22 let out a turbulent cascade of binharic cant and hurried to turn down the gain on their opticals. Unit Asclepius instinctively blinked with their unaugmented eye, even though this had no bearing on their experience in the noosphere. Phosphenes danced on the back of their skull for half a dozen computational cycles before the glare faded into something bearable.

“By the Omnissiah, unit Abel-”

“This unit is registering temporary ocular trauma, stand by-”

“Kae-morag, Lanaevyss, make your damnable tree calm down!”

Amid the binharic protests and synthesised vox-lines, Nomos were giggling merrily. Unit Asclepius discerned their shifting humanoid form strolling across the space and reaching out a synthesised hand to pet the enormous column of colour and light. The overwhelming glare slowly adjusted until it was bearable. Just in time, too: unit Asclepius theorised that they could have all become Electro-Priess on the spot if they had remained in the presence of so much raw energetic output for much longer.

Steelheart was correct. The structure glowing in the noosphere did indeed resemble a tree. It bore glowing biomechanical roots and branches that fanned out like the bronchioles of a lung, above and below. Its massive central chamber - what unit Asclepius now thought of as the ‘trunk’ - held just enough space to accommodate two living forms that nestled closely against each other.

The tall one was indistinct, both like and unlike Steelheart. Something delineated her head, like a basket or a crown: a small lens sat over the dim hollow where an eye would be, and the Magos Errant could see something moving behind it. A fine wire connected with a vox-bead at ear level, though Asclepius could not see the cartilage of the outer ear. This must be how Lanaevyss was able to participate in the Communion.

The sight of Logis Abel’s augmetic body always filled unit Asclepius with awe. Not even Magos Dominus Opticon-22 had so fully embraced the path of the True Flesh, if one considered the Crux Mechanicus to be solely a quotient of organic to machine parts. So much of Abel was metal. They blazed in the noosphere like a beacon, outshining even the massive tree structure that cradled them. The Omnissiah’s fire had blessed Abel: no true believer could deny their purity of spirit or the strength of their connection to the machine god’s creative impulse. Only the small patch of unaugmented craniofacial tissue around and above Logis Abel’s right eye was dimmer than the rest.

The strange overlap of such different noospheric forms activated a data-point within the Magos Errant’s long term memory banks. The symbol of the xenos entity known as Asuryan looked rather similar to this arrangement. A bright patch in a dark swirl, a dark patch in a bright swirl, opposites blending endlessly together. Asclepius had never considered the sign to be aesthetically pleasing before. Now they reevaluated that assessment.

After the binharic complaints had abated to a soft background murmur, each participant looked to their colleagues, wondering who had the right to speak first in such an arrangement. Kitarius’s soft meow punctuated the relative quiet, although only Asclepius acknowledged the little beast. This Amarnat was still feeling its way ahead: the new collective was young, unaccustomed to boldness. Yet bold they must be, if they were to survive and spread their gospel of innovation.

“Greetings, fellow Tech-Disciples. Integrators, minds of my mind. Observers. Be welcome. Let the cycle be discontinued.”

“Let the cycle be discontinued.”

Magos Pasqal had taken the initiative, and the others had fallen in step for now. The pattern was characteristic for them. The old Collective never had a formal leader, but Judgement tended to dominate over less direct forms of expression in group conversations. However, Opticon-22 was not going to acquiesce to an implied power structure without putting their two bytes in. Unit Asclepius had turned to the old Magos Dominus before they even began to vocalise.

“Our Tech-brethren assail / confront us with more than weaponry. Plasma and steel are effective tools in prescribed circumstances / robust debate scenarios. This unit is suboptimally equipped to prevail in social endeavours, yet our duty calls us to educate the faithful through nonviolent means. We request intellectual assistance.”

Asclepius raised an augmetic finger. “Query: is the unit Opticon-22 referring to proselytism?”

Pasqal’s internal mechanisms emitted a small chromatic chord of dissatisfaction. Logis Abel chimed in.

“We said we would not proselytise, but demonstrate.”

“Demonstrations are difficult when this collective remains incomplete / deficient.” Opticon-22’s mechanical implements writhed, and their secondary weapon attachment craned forward in an assertive pose.

“Our opponents debate us, citing the Catechism of Maintenance and Renewal against us. The inherent logic in such a method is imperfect, yet we struggle to demonstrate that which we know to be true. We abide by the Blessed Amarnat’s algorithmic proof and the doctrine of calculated Discontinuation, but the complexity of its calculations is difficult for one specialised in warfare / economics to articulate. Unit Pasqal, you were always better at these matters than I.”

“Unit Axiomantha’s wisdom would have been invaluable to us. I miss her very much.”

Pasqal’s outline shifted as their quartet of mechadendrites wrapped protectively around their sacred human form. A familiar twinge of pain rippled through all the Integrator class participants. When one of them was injured, they all shared the martyrdom. Opticon-22’s manipulator arm drooped just a fraction in sympathy. Even the shadowy xenos flinched, not due to any Omnissiah-sanctioned connection but purely out of instinct. For Magos Pasqal to activate self-asceticism protocols over their dead Tech-companion was regrettable, but understandable. The Magos was still grieving Axiomantha’s loss. The passing of multiple solar cycles had done nothing to attenuate their sadness.

“I am blessed with the ability to wield the Eschatos, yet it grieves me that I lack the comprehension to explain its intricacies. Logic remains lost to us. This unit can show… but not explain. The incompleteness is…” Pasqal let out a heavy binharic sigh, “Suboptimal.”

“A well-chosen image is worth a thousand logical proofs, since only one in a thousand units choose to follow the path of logic.” Logis Abel’s binharic song took on soothing undertones. “Seeing is equivalent to believing, and only the Omnissiah’s wisdom is complete. Do not disregard your blessing simply because you judge it to be imperfect.”

Asclepius had witnessed the Eschatos in person: words could not explain its danger or its brilliance. The Magos Errant longed to see the beauty of the original Amarnat’s vision manifest in realspace once more. Their innermost circuits thrilled with potentia at the idea of watching Pasqal channel the Omnissian spirit again.

“We sincerely request your aid, Pasqal. Can you not emerge from hiding and demonstrate the revelation of the Eschatos to our followers one more time? If they could see it, they would surely comprehend its significance.”

“This statement is true.” Opticon-22 intoned. “Was it not your deployment of the Eschatos that revealed where my true duty lay? I would register pleasure / transcendence / gratitude if unit Pasqal would consent to invoke it among our faithful.”

“Archmagos-” The Drukhari’s voice sounded fainter than the binharic chatter, but Asclepius could still detect a note of agitation. Pasqal cut off their Tech-Disciple with a slow circular gesture of their augmetic left arm.

“Request denied, unit Opticon-22. My presence on the front lines of this regrettable conflict would only grant our political opponents the excuse they need to turn the full attention of the Fabricator-General against you. This unit - and Logis Abel - must remain in exile, until we can confirm that the assassination order against us has been rescinded.”

“Understood, but Tech-sibling Asclepius and I are part of Amarnat as well. Should we not bear the same punitive effects for the collective’s perceived crime / sin / failing? The alternative is not just / equitable! We are your comrades!” The noosphere around Opticon-22 flared to match their growing temper. “Let us bear our challenges together!”

“Gestalt-existence is not a valid transgression. If it were, the Fabricator-General deserves annihilation as well.”

Logis Abel’s voice was not particularly loud, but its firmness of tone and the will behind it was enough to override Opticon-22’s protests. The little Logis shifted their limbs within the hollow of the great energy-tree’s trunk. Observer Lanaevyss moved her body aside to assist the little Logis, and the pleasant symmetry of their earlier embrace was disrupted.

It was rather bold of unit Abel to issue threatening remarks against the supreme leader of Mars and the self-proclaimed overseer of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Asclepius could not imagine a scenario where they would entertain such risky thought patterns, much less voice them. Then again, Asclepius did not fully comprehend the pain of losing not just colleagues, but parts of one's own mind. They prayed to the machine god that they would never experience such loss.

“The old Amarnat both is, and is not the new Amarnat. This unit declares that there are no opponents in this conflict, Magos Dominus. There are only Tech-siblings who have yet to become enlightened.”

The Magos Errant agreed with unit Abel on that point. Logis Abel was far more voluble in the noosphere than in realspace. Unit Asclepius was glad that they had found the courage to speak up. They gestured for their Tech-comrade to continue.

“Proposal: our detractors remain confused over the supposed nature of our crimes, and do not know whether they are permitted to wage open war against our newer aspects. This is to our advantage. Let them question and prevaricate while we innovate.”

Innovation was a dangerous word: in conservative circles, it was considered synonymous with Tech-heresy. Unit Asclepius sighed.

“Your time spent with unit Pasqal has left you prone to hubris, unit Abel. Nevertheless, your statements are not false. Sincerity in faith, coupled with proof that sustainable change is possible without resorting to apostasy, will gradually dispel any rumours about the intentions of Amarnat.”

Opticon-22 flailed their mechadendrites around. “This unit dislikes receiving an incomplete picture / a fairy story / a best case scenario. We request that you deal in facts, not hypotheses.”

Nomos were flickering around the edges. Their limbs resolved into something resembling a feminine form, stout around the thighs, with a suggestion of musculature in the arms. Unit Asclepius nodded in their direction.

“I would like to offer the floor to our other Observers.”

The entity did not speak, to Asclepius’s surprise. Instead they redirected the group’s attention to Observer Lanaevyss.

“You wish to hear from me?”

Magos Pasqal emitted an amused rumble from their onboard speakers.

“Why not, Tech-Gardener Lanaevyss? Your excellent awareness has been noted.”

The glowing basket of Yrliet’s cranial augmetics rotated in Logis Abel’s direction. The Tech-Priest responded with a soft murmur in the Aeldari Tongue. Whatever unit Abel had just said, it seemed to encourage unit Lanaevyss. The hazy contours of her form straightened, and her cranial augmetics rotated to look straight ahead, as if she were scouting an invisible horizon.

“Very well, gentle poet, I will try to discern Amarnat’s dilemma. What do I see… It is difficult to define the structure of so many interwoven minds. The Amarnat Collective is like a beautiful robe that has been picked apart at the seams. You try to sew it back together into a new form, but even a well-drafted pattern needs sufficient fabric in order to create a worthy garment. If the Collective were a physical structure, I would say that it is missing two supporting pillars.”

Pasqal hung their head lugubriously. “Axiomantha is not the only unit whose absence hampers our function. We lost a great beacon of faith when Tarzus perished.”

“Is there to be no place for healthy distrust among your compatriots, Archmagos?” That was the Drukhari chiming in. “I see no keen blades here, only one clumsy hammer.” The dim shape pointed at Opticon-22, who grumbled a low bass note in response.

“This unit dislikes your tone, xenos.” The Magos Dominus’s appendages waved menacingly around them, adding to their spider-like appearance. Asclepius tutted in disapproval.

“I request that you desist, honoured Magos Dominus. Your pride does not invalidate our guest’s statement. This group is prone to airy speculation. We must ground ourselves in reality. If not, causality will humble us.”

“Request - grudgingly - accepted. But only because it comes from you, Magos Errant.”

Unit Asclepius was momentarily distracted by the sensation of sharp little claws attempting to climb the skirts of their robe. They bent their knees a little and sent a mechadendrite down to appease Kitarius with a scratch under the chin. Pasqal turned to their xenos Tech-Disciple, disrupting the brilliant glimmering thread that connected their beings at chest height even as they picked up the thread of the discussion.

“Unit Steelheart, are you volunteering to become our resident doubter?”

“My dear Archmagos, I wouldn’t dare! Mon’keigh - ah - human plots require human minds to untangle their nuances. Besides, trickery was never my strong suit.”

Unit Asclepius blinked their unaugmented eye in surprise. Most Drukhari would not admit to anything resembling a personal weakness. Marazhai was a nonstandard example of his species: scratch the surface of his conceit, and self-deprecation lay underneath. Or self-awareness. Interesting.

Nomos brought their arms into a contemplative pose. The effect was like watching a well-articulated puppet rather than an actual person. They still had some way to go with emulating proper human movement.

“Nomos may supplement logical discussions and support predictive modelling with our computational power. Nonetheless, we are deeply reluctant to simulate mental conditions that involve deceit, arrogance or cruelty. We worry that by focusing on the negatives of mortal behaviour, we might come to evoke aspects of our own inherent nature that we dislike. Nomos are sorry if that inconveniences our friend Amarnat.”

“It is all right, Nomos.” Logis Abel spoke kindly. “You have chosen to focus on the potential for good in this universe, and none of us would ever deny you that choice. You are an Explorator of virtue. Your crusade is valid and noble.”

“Some of my brethren have wondered whether Archmagos Pasqal’s coterie are part of the Dark Mechanicum.” Unit Steelheart pondered out loud. “That raises eyebrows in the Dark City, but not hackles. Enlisting a friendly Yngir would constitute a step over the line.”

“Do the xenos think we are Tech-heretics to such a degree?” Asclepius made the warding sign of the cog, feeling the reassuring flash of warmth as it activated the usual noospheric pulse. “Omnissiah protect us from these insinuations… nothing is worth invoking the Ruinous Powers. I pray your kin continue to comprehend that.”

“If we are not numerous enough to dispel such incorrect / disparaging rumours, then we must recruit more Integrator class members.” Opticon-22 had regained their composure, and now began broadcasting a quiet and simple prayer in binharic cant.

“The unit Lanaevyss has made a valid assessment. This unit prioritises strength of faith over cunning, if a choice must be made between equally useful candidates. Protecting against reputational damage is paramount.”

Pasqal took up the thread of Opticon-22’s binharic tune, supplementing it so that the melody became harmony.

“Our Observer class guests have helped maintain Amarnat’s unstable state, but the waveform of our algorithm cannot resolve without true integration. Both pillars are vital. The Collective requires Faith and something to counteract Faith.”

“Nor should our intelligence be prone to emotional imbalance.” Abel ruminated within their mystical tree-trunk, leaning back against Observer Lanaevyss’s shadowy form. “We no longer require the bitter cynicism of Nihel, or the convoluted ravings of Dementz. The tide has shifted. We need something else, something sharp and logical, a kind of common sense not often seen among Tech-Priests.”

“Not a blade like a sword, then. Something delicate.” Unit Steelheart murmured in Abel’s direction. “It suits this gathering.”

Asclepius imagined Kitarius’s claws, sheathing and unsheathing as the ship cat flexed its furry digits. Then they pictured their favourite scalpel. Precise. Clean. A tool for a healer. Sometimes unit Asclepius needed to cut away corruption in order to save a life…

“Sage Emelina. She would be perfect.”

The thought rose unbidden in the Magos Errant’s consciousness and their onboard vox-relays had communicated it before they could stop themselves.

 

“Really?” The Drukhari’s voice ascended to a startlingly high pitch before they cut themselves off. Someone did not want to have their Observer privileges revoked.

“The Sage’s brain resembles Stygian cheese.”

Nomos had just played back Asclepius’s own vox-recording to the group. They had conducted scans after the techsorcism. The Magos Errant slumped their shoulders upon hearing the tinny sound of their own diagnostic opinion. Nomos only added to Asclepius’s embarrassment by replaying their more recent speech about the dangers of invoking the Ruinous Powers. Unit Asclepius covered their face with their hands. Yrliet’s shadowy form turned towards the Magos Errant, her head cocked to one side.

“Sha’eil’s influence upon Lady Emelina was severe, is that not so?”

Unit Lanaevyss did not intend to sound unkind. It was clear that both the Aeldari participants were deeply unsettled by the prospect of interfacing with a mind that had been touched by Chaos. She had given Asclepius a chance to calm down and collect their thoughts. The Magos Errant was grateful for the consideration.

“This statement is regrettably true. Segments of unit Lichtenhart’s mind were cordoned off, but she is a risk in her current state. I suggested this candidate: before you shame me, let me explore why I consider her to be a worthy addition to the collective. Please.”

A slight pause, then Magos Pasqal broke the silence. “Request approved.”

“The Expanse is isolated. Sages are rare in this sector. We cannot safely send for someone else, nor expect them to understand our cause. Lady Emelina’s knowledge of espionage is invaluable, as is her impressive eidetic memory. But it is her common sense that interests me most of all. Unit Lichtenhart perceived the context of Discontinuation and understood its intent almost instantly. She would be glad to support our cause, provided we…”

Asclepius stammered and nearly reverted into binharic nonsense, but steadied their resolve. “Provided we can engage the services of a fully specialised Techsorcist, to ensure that all traces of Chaos are correctly purged from her system.”

“Where will one of those be found, Magos Errant?” Opticon-22 crossed their arms and several of their mechanical appendages in a display of extreme sullenness.

“This unit will turn over every asteroid in the Koronus Expanse to find one.” No use going back now. Asclepius had made their suggestion, and now they might as well commit to it.

“Integrator class members, colleagues and beloved Tech-siblings, our path forward is clear. Recruiting a pillar of Faith shall be our first priority. Recruiting a pillar of Skepticism is our ultimate goal. Until then, our respective efforts continue. Are we united in comprehension?”

A fourfold harmony of binharic voices swelled and intertwined. Unit Asclepius intoned with the strident voice of Opticon-22, the stern wisdom of Pasqal and the poet’s intensity of Abel:

“Let the cycle be discontinued!”

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Summary:

Meanwhile, in the Dark City...

Those adorable Technomats knew how to take direction. The Salamander had commissioned an adjustable bed, and the little Cog-Priests had really run with the concept. It could be made as ergonomic - or as spiky - as needed. Patients of all shapes and sizes, from Pain Engines to humans, from Colossi to Ratlings, could be serviced here.

The Salamander felt for the rows of discreet levers underneath the surgical bed’s non-slip surface. He was put in mind of a Harp of Agony with all its pedals, although these ones were arrayed at hip-height, within easy reach of his biomechanical tendrils. The Salamander caressed their rounded ends with a carefree tentacle, calibrating the gesture so that he did not activate any surprise mechanisms. He could take his time to properly test all the bed’s functions later, preferably with the help of a few volunteers. There were always so many eager specimens.

He liked to classify his test subjects into groups. Most of the Drukhari were mere customers, level-headed players in the Dark City’s great game of ambition. They invariably wanted a performance boost, a leg-up against their rivals, and they paid well for it. The Salamander could understand their logic. He was powerful in body and in mind. His survival depended on maintaining that dominance. Refining the work that Tervantias had started was a pleasure, but also a duty for him. Haemonculi were obsessed with innovation and medical theatrics. The Salamander was not about to give his colleagues an opportunity to look down upon him or his work.

He’d teach them to underestimate a mon’keigh.

Speaking of underestimation, it was pathetically easy to spot the medico-industrial espionage goons, or the ambitious idiots casing the labs to plan an assassination attempt. What part of ‘former Holy Inquisition agent’ did these cack-handed buffoons not understand? The Salamander preferred to keep things sanitary within his surgical bay. Lately he’d been forced to compromise and impale a few captives just outside the premises, half-servitorised so that they spent their time warning other would-be offenders against trying anything rash. The Salamander put them into standby mode during Vespers so that they could make their peace with Slaanesh or… whatever other things they venerated, he wasn’t well-versed in Sslyth religious practices. The point was, he had no intentions of being a fucking monster, even if he did have to play these petty Drukhari games to get the point across.

Fortunately, his job brought him joy as well as annoyance. The Salamander’s favourite specimens were true enthusiasts of self-experimentation, the ones who understood pain’s place in the universe. Too many foolish Drukhari aspired to mete it out but never receive it. Too few were prepared to embrace their own suffering, driven instead by fear of their self-spawned god. Oh, by the Throne, it was lovely to find someone who was here for the pure art of surgery! The older ones understood something that many of the younger ones did not. To experience pain, to shoulder its yoke without complaint, was a path to strength and self-acceptance. To comprehension, as the little Red Priests would say.

The Disciples of Discontinuation had a more nuanced understanding of pain than half these damned Arena brats. The Salamander chuckled: his throat emitted a deep gurgle as he felt his larynx vibrate around his breathing tube. He would have to purge his spit-valve, but that task could wait for another chron or two. The airway was clear: his discomfort was subtle enough to stimulate an ambient trickle of parasympathetic pleasure along his spinal augmetics and through some of his tendrils.

The Salamander flexed his feet downward until his toes trailed along the floor, enjoying the cool and sterile touch of plasteel beneath him. He pivoted balletically on one foot, supported by the two thick tentacles that hung down behind his back. A lick of electrostatic noise buzzed all the way from ankle to shoulder, thrilling his primal impulse centres and eliciting a wet purr from his ravaged lungs. A hypnic twitch flexed his outsized shoulder muscles.

Pain and power. Suffering and strength. The Salamander idly wondered if this was how the God-Emperor Himself experienced the duality of Humankind.

His reverie was interrupted by a distant scraping sound. The Haemonculus allowed his rotation to continue full circle until he faced the surgery’s doorway. A dozen assistants waited in discreet wall niches to spring out and defend him at a single command: they were not necessary now. The Salamander’s latest visitor appeared to be in some discomfort. Exquisitely refined sensory organs picked up traces of blood and oil.

Antiseptic mist dispensers activated around the entranceway to greet the little figure that slouched its way around the corner of the adjoining corridor. It was a Skitarius unit, that much was evident from their metal limbs and large, baby-blue eye augmetics. This model was covered in a loose, wide-sleeved overtunic of waxed gabardine. Once it might have been white with a red cog-patterned hem: the Dark City’s patina of grime and gore had utterly ruined the sturdy fabric.

Fresh blood dripped from the long bladed spikes at the Skitarius unit’s elbows. That explained how the little unit had got into the lab. The Salamander was pleased that he had an excuse to rebuild his guards, and perhaps improve upon their design.

“My, my. You have been a busy little Ruststalker.”

The Salamander’s voicebox emitted a resonant low growl, whether he meant to sound intimidating or not. Wrack physiology was not exactly subtle: he did his best with the organs at his disposal.

“Which Magos Dominus has sent you to me? What is the intention of this visit?”

The little cog-puppet jittered and emitted a mournful burble in binharic cant. Its eye-lenses flickered red for just a moment before returning to their usual serene shade of blue. They weren’t the talkative sort. The Salamander could read Sacred Machine Code, but processing binharic auditory signals wasn’t his strong suit. Even so, he could intuit this little unit’s situation.

“A broken tool without a Master. That is what you are - is this statement true, small one?”

The wide saucer-like augmetics flared a vivid green, then returned to normal as the Skitarius bobbed its head. The Salamander slithered closer on his tentacles, eager to examine the unit’s face. The eyes were the prettiest thing about it, set in an irradiated mass of indistinct flesh. The Salamander wasn’t going to judge, for he had scars of his own. He was more worried about the hairline crack that had spoiled the surface of one blue lens. The damage wasn’t serious enough to compromise the human eyeball underneath, but he still wanted to examine it. A lidless eye was such a fascinating thing - quite beautiful in its tenderness.

“You have caught my interest. State your requirements, lost one.”

The Ruststalker’s torso began to twitch beneath the unit’s stained robe as they hiked the fabric up. There was more machine than human on display underneath. A layperson might not have considered the act of self-exposure sensual at all, but coming from a servant of the Adeptus Mechanicus? The Skitarius was showing a great deal of trust in The Salamander, at the very least. He wondered if they could pick up traces of his old human implants, somewhere deep within his gorgeous form sculpted out of bioengineered brawn and Drukhari technology.

A fat slot in the Rustsalker’s belly disgorged a long sheet of corrugated printer paper. The wheezing, scraping sound of the printing head and internal autoquills gave The Salamander an odd spasm of nostalgia. The Skitarius’s injured limbs and awkward elbow joints meant that they had a little trouble bending to retrieve the printout and then handing it to The Salamander, but they managed the task in the end. The Haemonculus knew better than to diminish the little unit’s pride by intervening.

The contents of the readout - circuit diagrams and schematics - piqued his interest. The Salamander had to wonder which sly Magos Dominus had kept this precious information squirreled away in their personal collection, and how the Skitarius had come by such precious data. He cleared his throat - Void take that infernal phlegm!

“I think I can divine your intent. You wish for me to make you stronger, do you not?”

Another green flash from the Ruststalker’s lenses. Yes. The Salamander understood that desire all too intimately. He’d once been in this creature’s position, grovelling earnestly in front of a Haemonculus. The Salamander rumbled out something that might have been a laugh, if he still had the lungs for it.

“Request acknowledged. This knowledge should suffice as payment. Let us clean you properly, and I have some diagnostics to run before we can explore some of these modifications. I do hope you enjoy pain, it is a necessary component of the testing process -”

The Skitarius’s limbs trembled as the unit scampered towards the surgical bed. Their eyes flashed a staccato of green pulses. Someone was excited to get started.

 

____

 

Sixty-five storeys above the Salamander’s laboratory, a biomechanical heart kept an unwavering rhythm. Battles and bacchanals alike would not dissuade it from its thumping metre. Only its original owner held any sway over that heart. The current host of this steadfast metronome thought about mon’keigh pushing oars in the belly of a seagoing drekkar. Rowers, chanting to keep time as they heaved and shoved against the tide. The regular pull of muscles and ventricles, turning into crude poetry over millennia of repetition.

How many times did this heart need to beat before he could say, this is my sea-song?

The River Khaides gurgled in Commorragh’s twisting fog, sinuously finding a path between and through the buttresses of the adjacent spires. The Dark City’s unorthodox approach to gravity placed the waterway not quite overhead, but at an angle to Tempest’s Finial. The occupants of early Mars would look side-on at the Galaxy and call that outflung splash in the night sky the Milky Way. According to the Archmagos, the Khaides occupied a similar position relative to this spire’s lookout.

Marazhai Steelheart had not spent the first two hundred years of his life looking at the scenery. Even now, a fraction of his attention crept away from Commorragh’s purplish vista, scanning for hazards. The tip of the Black Heart Kabal’s ugly fat ziggurat left a dark blob in his peripheral vision. It had been nearly a cycle since the last assassination attempt. He was overdue for an unwelcome visitor.

Much as he would love to flatter his own ego and claim that the Dark City’s denizens were happy with his approach to spire management, Marazhai’s Tech-Mentor was very strict about correcting such cognitive biases. If Marazhai did not want to be threatened with a cranial augmetic, he ought to apply Occam’s Razor in this situation.

The simplest and most obvious reason why assassins would stay away was this: the minnows were scattering at the approach of a bigger fish. Slaanesh’s seaside teemed with predatory action. Regrettably, the Archon knew that to be more than just a metaphor.

The heavy signet ring on Marazhai’s right hand clicked repeatedly against the steel railing that Archmagos Amarnat had insisted upon welding across this perfectly stable observation platform. Marazhai noticed his wayward hand, stilled its motion and lingered for a half-second on the signet’s cameo inlay. A human skull, carved in relief upon a blood-red gemstone. A symbol of yet another risk taken, another thing he stood to lose.

Marazhai Aezyrraesh’s soul was safe by Drukhari standards: but what about his body and his life? More importantly, what about his spire and his people? The Shrieking Tempest had not come all this way through blood and fire and the gauntlet of Aeldari bureaucracy just to be eradicated. He had to believe that.

“Observation: Tech-Disciple Steelheart is attempting to calculate probabilities in an equation with too many unknown variables.”

Marazhai stood up a little straighter at unit Pasqal’s approach. His heart would have leapt, were the biomechanical marvel not steadfastly committed to matching the Archmagos’s own biorhythms. And of course, unit Pasqal was serene. Marazhai smiled out at the landscape of spire-tips and passing gondolas. He felt better already.

“My heart! Your timing is impeccable as ever. Are you about to grace your wayward pupil with a lecture? A reprimand, even?”

The Archon let a salacious tone creep into his voice. He thought about arching his back just a fraction. His darling Archmagos always did appreciate the view from behind.

The gold and copper wires woven into Marazhai’s black braid whispered against the beetle-green metal of his cuirass when he tipped his head back, squinting for the outline of the river through all that oily fog. The Red Priest went barefoot around the spire: the neoprene cushions and carbon-fibre fascia of the Archmagos’s inner ambulatory augmetics softened the Tech-Priest’s approach to a gentle whirring patter.

“This unit sensed your internal distress. We seek to soothe and to advise our Tech-Disciple. Query: have you slaked your Fatal Thirst since your last sleep cycle? Do you require maintenance?”

Ah, Tech-Priests were always so adorably inept at flirting! A muscular right arm and an augmetic left arm wrapped around Marazhai’s waist. Pasqal’s body was wide enough to protect the Archon’s entire back, a mental image that made the Drukhari sigh and relax back into the embrace. Marazhai purred and flexed his legs just enough to be sure that the Tech-Priest acknowledged their bodily contact. A tiny skip of the Archon’s own heartbeat indicated that he was getting results.

“I will gladly indulge you once I have done away with doubt. Its ugly spectre haunts me like a Mandrake of late, my heart. How many variables can my plans feasibly withstand, in your estimation?”

Marazhai kept his voice light and level, but his senses were attuned to the body behind him. By Isha, he had picked up Pasqal’s scent! They’d elaborated on their usual machine-oil blend with tinctures of myrrh and night lotus. Marazhai imagined turning in Pasqal’s arms, parting the Tech-Priest’s robes to bare their right shoulder and biting into the warm swell of their trapezius muscle until they drew blood. Tech-Priests tasted like spices and static.

A mechadendrite wrapping around Marazhai’s braid drew him out of his reverie with the gentlest of tugs. Mm, play with my hair, Archmagos. Pasqal’s metal left arm skimmed across Marazhai’s hipbone with deceptive delicacy.

“The addition of each succeeding variable exponentially increases the complexity of a problem. Therefore, this unit hypothesises that removing even one variable from your mental model will be highly beneficial.”

Marazhai did not need to see his Tech-Mentor to know that they would be making a very smug expression underneath their respirator mask. He leaned forward over the meddlesome Red Priest’s safety barrier, placing himself at the centre of a tableau with the Dark City as his backdrop and Pasqal as his observer and muse. The Archon eased himself up onto his tiptoes. The mechadendrite he knew to be Rousseau held onto his braid, instinctively keeping him from keeling over into the abyss. They’d played this little game before.

“A fine suggestion, my dear Archmagos. Let us cut away all other worries and focus on the one variable that eclipses all others. I no longer need to doubt that Lord Vect will send for me. We have demonstrated that we keep the City’s customs and meet its obligations in our own way. The logical next step is for Commorragh’s self-appointed ruler to make his own judgement about… all of this.”

Marazhai’s left arm parted ways with the railing, indicating the sixty-six storeys of Upper Spire construction that stretched away into the gloom below the observation platform. Far beneath them, beneath a cloud-bank of toxic murk that marked the ‘shoulder’ of the main spire, hundreds of irregularly-sized buttresses, struts and crumbling chambers anchored the Archon’s nascent fiefdom against the Webway’s pungent, soggy innards.

Marazhai’s hips ground against the steel railing. He decided to push his luck and embrace a little more danger. Pasqal had his back. The Archon let go with his right arm and extended it down the outside of the railing, caressing its steel bars as sensuously as he could manage. His torso was flexible: Marazhai’s body bent fully over the rail. He could reach through the bars and grab his own ankles if he wished. Pasqal liked it when he did that.

A forceful slap jolted Marazhai’s left buttock and made the railing judder. His maintenance partner was cross enough to spank him with their augmetic left arm. Pasqal had calibrated the impact not to crush any bones, but by Isha, he would be left with a massive welt! The Archmagos pressed up against the tender spot, letting out a low-pitched binharic rumble that resonated through Marazhai’s pelvis. The Archon’s heart had kicked up a gear. He gritted his teeth to prevent himself from crying out too loudly - the last thing he wanted was to catch the attention of any nearby guards. Instead he let out a faint groan of agonised ecstasy. Pasqal tutted at him: the clicking of the Archmagos’s neoprene-tipped tongue against gold-plated teeth was muffled by their ornate respirator mask.

“Unit Marazhai is being disobedient.”

“How so, dear Archmagos?”

“You comprehend very well what you have done.”

A trio of mechadendrites swept round to assist Rousseau in taking hold of the Archon’s body. Florestan and Eusebius laid hold of an arm each, and Vitruvius, always the violent one of the quartet, snaked around Marazhai’s throat. Archmagos Pasqal hauled him back into an upright position despite his attempts to keep hold of the railing - fuck, the Red Priest was strong when they wanted to be! Pasqal did not let go once the Archon was upright. The Tech-Priest’s arms kept him fast in an intense hug.

“This unit is concerned for your safety. Your behaviour has become more reckless than usual. We request that you cease. I have risked too much and journeyed too far to lose my favourite Tech-Disciple.”

Marazhai felt a faint pang of remorse. Archons were not supposed to experience such things - sentiment was meant to be a liability in the corridors of power. His mother would have disapproved. But Marazhai was more than just an Aezyrraesh. He had responsibilities that extended beyond his spire and his species. Pasqal was right.

“I promise that I will not rush towards my impending doom, Archmagos. Concern for your future will keep me in check, if not concern for my own skin.”

Pasqual let out a dainty arpeggio of binharic laughter. Marazhai felt his face grow hot. His fingers twitched. The Archon wriggled his arms and shoulders, straining against the mechadendrites until the Archmagos relented and let him turn around in their restrictive embrace. Marazhai ducked his head up under the wide hem of Pasqal’s hood, nestling against their unaugmented right cheek, pressing kisses against the delicate seam where the Archmagos’s respirator gave way to bare skin.

“My heart, I am being serious.”

Pasqual was still murmuring with mechanical amusement, so Marazhai pulled away and stared them right in the face. One intelligent green human eye regarded him with the faint crinkle of a smile at its corner. Its augmetic counterpart glowed warmly, like a little orange sun in a fading sky. Marazhai thought of snatched stars and cold, darkened worlds. His innards coiled in his belly.

Pasqal must not come to harm. Little else mattered.

“If Lord Vect summons me and I do not return to the spire, if I cannot protect you and your followers, your own life might be forfeit, and I cannot.... Kae-morag, this is what I was worried about! I did not want to drag you into the Dark City’s games, you know that!”

Marazhai took a ragged breath and fell silent. A little teal spark reflected in Pasqal’s augmetic lens - the Archon was letting emotion get the better of him. His heart continued to mark time as steadily as ever. Marazhai focused on its faint clockwork sound. He calmed himself, just as he had been taught.

The Archmagos’s artificial eye dimmed and adjusted to an even-tempered shade of green, almost the match of the organic one. Pasqual brought up their right hand to caress Marazhai’s face. The Tech-Priest’s dainty metal index finger traced the Archon’s cheekbone as it had done hundreds of times before. Marazhai could trace the movement of tiny ligaments within the prosthetic digit, could sense the interface of circuitry against flesh, the place where steel met cells. Most of all, he felt the intensity of Pasqal’s attention, the way the Tech-Priest took in every last detail of their Tech-Disciple’s face.

Marazhai was still an object of curiosity for this infinitely perceptive being… the thought made him shiver with pleasure. The Archmagos sensed his excitement, reflecting and redoubling the sensation with a faint shudder of their own, their metal breastplate reverberating against Marazhai’s chest. They stood for a moment, heart to mechanical heart, their bodies perfectly synchronous. Archmagos Pasqal’s organic eye crinkled into an even merrier expression.

“We both assessed the risks and opportunities long before we came to Commorragh, my Disciple. Our plans remain sound. Unit Kharael is capable of managing the Spire in your absence. As for the Way of Discontinuation - the Omnissiah knows all, comprehends all. Knowledge shall prevail, and so shall my people.”

“I do not like the prospect of leaving you unattended. I am your sworn man, Archmagos -”

“You are my friend and my heart, Marazhai. That is why I know all will be well.”

Chapter 6: Chapter Six

Summary:

Piracy. Mayhem. Daycare.

CW: Drukhari violence

Chartist Carrier Dugong made an awkward, limping path through realspace. The planets of the Egarian Dominion peppered the Void here like scattered seeds, desiccated, infertile. There was no safe place where the merchants could dock their damaged vessel. All they could do was orient themselves in the direction of Rubycon Encarmine, their Pleasure World destination, and perform what repairs they could. Only one of the massive twin Warp engines at the carrier’s stern showed signs of life.

It had been millennia since the Egarian Dominion’s original inhabitants had built their maze-like towns and lived their alien lives. Pirates did not mind squatting in the dusty labyrinths with their low ceilings and tight passageways. They did not mind playing the slow waiting game, for they knew where the cargo ships passed on their way through Winterscale’s Realm. The Scurvy Bint had found easy pickings today.

Pirate vessels conformed to no known Imperial standard. This one had been a scout ship in some former, more peaceful life. Its captain, Elver Green-Gills, had kitted it out with enough firepower to classify it as a Destroyer. And why not? They did not have to endure long Warp jumps. All they needed to do was find the sheltering lee of an asteroid field or a gas cloud, spring their trap and make off with the plunder.

Elver sat poised on the Voidship’s command throne, his vox-hailer dangling from the manipulator claw that stood in for his left hand. Every good pirate needed a menacing prosthetic, after all. Timing was vital: his gunners stood ready, and so did the mad Enginseer who he’d hired out of Footfall to tend his engines. The Scurvy Bint ran hot, but she ran fast: a little radiation was well worth the spoils of a surprise conquest. Once the Dugong blundered into strike range, Elver Green-Gills flexed his claw, the vox sprang to life and he set his plan in motion.

Lascannon salvos peppered the carrier’s rear voidshields with a bloom of blue puncture marks. The heavy freighter began to slowly rotate out of the way, rolling off-kilter from the usual ecliptic-aligned position taken by Imperial Voidships. The Dugong’s belly was exposed. Captain Green-Gills gave the order to launch the boarding pods. His prize loomed huge in the raider vessel’s auspices, taking up half the screen. Her hull felt close enough to touch. Elver couldn’t wait to cut her open and claim what was inside.

The Egarians were not alive to watch the scene. Yet the pirates were not alone in the dusty labyrinths, nor did they shelter unseen among the tumbling rocks and ice-floes of the Void.

The Scurvy Bint’s auspices were trained squarely on the Dugong, and its captain’s attention had wandered toward dreams of treasure and wenches. He did not see the wavering shimmer in the starfield, or the doom in his own stars, until his helmsman screeched at him from her post.

“Drukhari to port and starboard and - and aft!”

Elver bellowed at his crew to mask up and repel boarders. The Dugong’s massive hull blocked his way out, but if he could somehow ram through, and rendezvous with his boarding parties-

Wait, what had happened to his boarding parties?

The Scurvy Bint rocked with percussive impacts. Captain Green-Gills made a grab with his claw-hand before the turbulence could knock him off his throne. The auspices flared - too late! - and klaxons sounded the return of his own Void-forsaken boarding pods.

The xenos motherfuckers had rammed him with his own vessels.

Elver had one brief moment to curse his luck and slap a respirator onto his face before the ceiling of the Scurvy Bint’s observation deck gave way. A drilling tip the size of an industrial excavator crashed through the window-frame and ploughed its way through the top deck, obliterating the bo’sun and wrenching the helmsman’s left arm clean off. She collapsed moaning on the bloodstrewn deck before shock and suffocation took her.

The long teardrop shapes of Drukhari helmets gleamed like drops of noxious toxin in the emergency lighting. Elver knew death was coming either way. He fingered at the stim-pak on his hip, dialling the dosage up to the maximum. With any luck, his heart would give out before he suffered too badly.

Slim armour-clad legs strode towards his position, registering his fear, closing in on him. This one wore a spiked plume and a cape made of flayed skin - human skin, Elver realised, and his heart rate redoubled. This was it. This was the end of Pirate Captain Elver Green-Gills…

The helmeted head turned and tilted sideways, listening to unseen sounds. Then it turned back towards Captain Elver, inscrutable under that dark carapace sheen. The xenos spoke in stilted but resonant Low Gothic.

“Stay put. I have to take this.”

The fucking xenos turned away, hunching with a gauntleted hand pressed to the side of its helmet. Elver was left sitting on the command throne in a puddle of his own piss.

 

____

 

A haphazard chorus of wails and gleeful caterwauls assaulted Archon Marazhai’s eardrums. The Kabal of the Shrieking Tempest was living up to its new name. A thin scream stood out from the others, being higher in both pitch and location. One of the child hostages was being flung up in the air.

Marazhai glanced over at Vesper the Pain Engine and his latest victim. Second Blade Dennesh’s youngest Trueborn offspring wriggled in Vesper’s clutches. A brace of mighty tentacles latched about the little terror’s waist and flung him towards the ceiling. Vesper could be counted upon to calibrate his throws so that no part of the brat became impaled on the light fixtures. Another thrilling shriek of delight intermingled with vertigo - it was a very tall ceiling - and the little hostage came tumbling back down into the Pain Engine’s waiting embrace. The Dennesh child called out the only Low Gothic word he knew: ‘uppies’.

Kae-morag, how Farkaza would have hated this!

Marazhai smiled to himself. The Trueborn larvae could have their fill of discipline when they returned to their own families. His rivals thought that keeping his allies’ children captive was a ploy to keep their parents in line. Marazhai Aezyrraesh didn’t mind the assumption: any reasonable Drukhari would interpret his actions in such a light. They couldn’t conceive of the idea that an Archon might court favour among his subordinates - much less that he would appeal to their children.

Let the brats remember their time at the spire with fondness. Let them think of Marazhai as - how did Rogue Trader Como put it? - ‘the fun uncle’. In a century or so, it would be fascinating to see where their true loyalties lay.

Besides, the little beasts livened up the place. There was something so refreshing, so uncomplicated, so... animalistic about the emotions of children! Their intense joys and sorrows were splashes of primary colour on Commoragh’s muddied canvas. Let them enjoy the feeling of novelty and constant discovery before their families - and their Fatal Thirst - bound them to the tedium of grim obligation.

Speaking of obligations, Marazhai had Dracon Rendwrayth on the vox. His mellifluous formalities crackled through the heavy static of background radiation: still, how brilliant it was that the Dracon had managed to jury-rig an old Explorator beacon and get something close to real-time contact going!

The harvest ripens / spoiled peelings / plump at the core

Rendwrayth was equivocating, a remarkable achievement since he stuck doggedly to no-nonsense White State expressions. The man’s success as a raid leader could be attributed to a certain bluntness and clarity of thought. He’d be useless in Commorragh’s twisting corridors of power, but he was quick on the hunt and reliable with his deliveries. That was the impression he strove to give, at least. Marazhai was familiar with the performance. He’d done something rather similar to earn his own promotion to Dracon.

“Rish, relax. If you say we’ll get our quota then we shall get our quota. You are impeccable as always. Is there a radiation leak?”

Dracon Rendwrayth hovered silently for a few long seconds. He was not being impolite: the cogitator arrays that translated mon-keigh binharic signals into a vox-pattern and back just took a while to finish their labours. When he responded, he reverted to a less formal style, mirroring Marazhai’s casual use of The Tongue.

“This statement is true, Archon. There will be twisted forms among our prey, either the work of cleaving atoms, or the work of Sha’eil. I will send you the portion that is suitable for servitorisation.” Rendwrayth’s diction stumbled as he switched languages to use the Red Priests’ jargon. “Requesting permission to sate the raiding team’s Thirst with the imperfect stock, so that they will have the strength for one last sortie.”

“An entirely sensible proposal, Rish, do as you see fit.”

Tarrying in realspace imposed quite the physical and mental burden on these raiders. Marazhai sometimes wished he could impart his own impressive tolerance upon his followers. His title of Voidfarer was not for nothing… Ah, but then he’d lose a competitive edge over his dear depraved siblings.

“I am calling you to inform you about a minor incident involving your daughter Elektra. Worry not, Dracon, she is quite safe. She simply decided to perform surgery on young Melyor Apophyss, who is also a hostage in the spire.”

Marazhai waited out the slow seconds, observing the precise moment when the news reached Dracon Rendwrayth’s ears. Lady Vhelyn Apophyss was Rish’s equal, and a stone cold bitch. Rendwrayth would not relish the prospect of grovelling before her.

“Elektra - what exactly did Elektra do, Lord Archon?”

Oh, his panic was palpable even over the vox call! Elektra had been trying to eavesdrop on the conversation ever since Marazhai had mentioned her parent’s name. He waved her over from her hilariously inept hiding place behind a servitor’s metal legs.

“I have the young lady right here - Elektra, do you have something to say to your father?”

The naughty little ur-ghul came dashing over to the vox, pigtails flying. Her leggings and both sleeves of her top were sticky with half-dried blood. Elektra had wiped a crusty red-brown smear across her mouth and chin. Marazhai tutted, summoned the nearest servitor and grabbed a wet-wipe out of a slot in its chassis.

“Meyyor asked me to do suyjewy on him, papa, he asked me so many times! He says he wants to be a Skitawyius and have big wong wegs-”

Marazhai interrupted the Trueborn hostage’s juvenile diction with a wet-wipe to the face.

“Fortunately the incisions were quite clean. We have recovered both legs and will have them reattached to Melyor in no time. I have already informed Dracon Apophyss of the situation, and she took the news in stride. This is simply a courtesy call.”

Rendwrayth’s shoulders relaxed until his pauldron spikes were no longer up around his ears.

“Your forethought is appreciated, Archon. I will see to it that Elektra chooses her targets more thoughtfully.”

“She shows promise for her age. The young lady is welcome to practice in the Servitorium any time she wishes. Good hunting, Dracon.”

The vox-link cut off with one last flurry of white noise and a mechanical shriek. Elektra hovered at Marazhai’s side, looking up at the Archon with big, watery eyes.

“Why can’t we give Meyyor big Skitawyius legs, uncle Mawazhai?”

Melyor certainly would not be getting Skitarii legs. Lady Vhelyn would have a fit!

“Your playmate is still very small, Elektra. If you put leg augmetics onto his child’s body, he would grow right out of them.”

“Oh. Uh. I’m gunna go talk to him, bye bye.”

The tiny hostage scampered off at top speed. What a cute little monster.

 

___

 

The stims racked Elver Green-Gills with a cascade of twitches as they raced through his system. His respirator mask lay discarded in his lap: every inhalation felt as though it was crushing his ribcage inward. His pulse pounded in his skull with the force of a macrocannon barrage. The pirate’s end was coming. Every synapse and cell in his body hastened towards the blessed relief of flatline and then -

What were the words to that Guardsman’s prayer he’d been taught a lifetime ago? His tongue tasted of ash. The fingers of Elver’s right hand twitched against the thin layer of frost that had begun to encase his glove. The Void was cold. Its emptiness made it so: it had been waiting to pull Elver’s soul from his frame.

The God-Emperor wasn’t coming to pick him out of the trash-heap. He’d known that for a long time. So what else was there, in the darkness beyond? Elver closed his eyes, focusing on the red pulse behind his eyelids, waiting for the great quiet to claim him.

Slim fingers placed the respirator back over his face.

No. No! He had to go now, it was his time, Emperor help him, it was his time-

That same slender had grasped his left arm with inhuman strength, tugging back the sleeve of his jacket, tilting his claw-hand back and forth. The beetle-black helmet was gazing at him - he kept his eyes screwed shut but he knew, oh Throne somehow he knew. A disdainful syllable in a tongue he didn’t understand, but he’d heard it before, in certain ports, in certain Void stations, at certain meetings.

He knew he was the prize this time. Him and his crew.

His traitor of a heart refused to give out even as that slim and precise hand showed its talons, even as its gauntleted fingers slit his trouser-leg open from thigh to knee, even as that hand made a second pass that parted his skin with just a whisper of a touch, a tiny line of itching pain. His blood beaded and boiled in the Void - his chem-soaked, hot blood sublimating into the fading atmosphere of that cold, cold cabin.

Elver’s defeat had just begun.

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

Summary:

Night swimming.

A sea of stars above, a star-littered sea below. The Lilaethan’s embrace, dark, blood-warm and expansive.

Tomorrow there would be cold rockcrete under canvas-shod feet, thin gruel, itchy uniform fabric sparking static against half-healed implant sites. Aleena would probably get the smack of a bamboo cane round the back of her thighs, or the hot pain of a shock baton pressed against the small of her back.

But that was tomorrow. Right now, there was night swimming, the thrill of transgression, the comfort of surf rolling against flotsam-strewn beach grit. And that black, sparkling sky hanging over the three of them like an overturned bowl. So many sparks in the dark.

It must break the Drill Abbotts’ stony little hearts that they weren’t allowed to just beat Aleena and her friends to death. It’d be a waste of talent: good psykers were scarce in the Expanse. At least that’s what Olivar said. He knew a lot about those teachers. Oli had passed on a scrap of prophecy - something about an Assignment tomorrow. Whatever that was, it sounded final. Aleena submerged herself in the salt water. She was ready to leave her home planet, but she wasn’t sure if she could survive without Oli and An.

Sneaking out was a fantastic distraction. A little thrill of leftover adrenaline ran along Aleena’s arms as she paddled. The trio hadn’t taken a big risk in a while - damn, it felt good! Oli had tried to wimp out of the adventure like he always did, but the prospect of going night swimming with two girls had won him over in the end. Boys were easy like that. His job was to scan for night guards. Aleena offered stealth, keeping the trio’s footfalls silent, distracting the patrolling Drill Abbott with fake giggles that echoed down distant corridors. Anguilla did the heavy lifting, unfastening screws and parting drainage grilles from their chunky plasteel frames. The hard part of her job was memorising the layout - everything had to go back the way it was when they were done. If their handlers realised that the trip hadn’t just gone on another kitchen raid, but that they’d gotten out of the facility, they’d be in the kind of trouble that baby psykers didn’t survive.

Anguilla was reckless enough to go for it anyway. Oli might not be a Danrok on paper anymore, but he was still some Nob’s kid when it came down to it. Maybe the risks were less stark for him. Maybe they were all being equally suicidal. Aleena decided that she didn’t care.

She resurfaced, and her eardrums swelled with sound - a rush of breeze from the shore, carrying the distant yawps and clucks of nocturnal jungle creatures. The Lilaethan’s ocean wasn’t as salty as Aleena had expected. The water felt soothing against her skin. The open water and sea air smelled crisp and only a little bit fishy. The shoreline had stunk of rotten seaweed and stale oil. They’d waded barefoot over a pile of rubbish near the outflow of the runoff pipe that they’d used as an escape route. Good thing it was monsoon season, and the pipe was getting regularly rinsed with rainwater. Even better, tonight was a break in the usual seasonal routine of drizzle mixed with torrential jungle downpours.

Two human contours interrupted the waves’ dark, star-speckled rhythm. Olivar bobbed high in the water, his shoulders tilting this way and that as he found a comfortable paddling rhythm. The little diviner leaned backward, letting out a confused noise when his buoyant legs broke the surface. He’d clearly never been swimming before. Aleena decided not to make fun of his soft little belly or his helpless posture. After a couple of attempts, Oli managed to roll over onto his front.

Anguilla used her telekinesis to hold her body steady in the waves. Aleena could feel the traces of her classmate’s power dissipating softly through the water. Wasn’t that cheating? An’s shoulders were tense, her spine almost rigid: only her long plaits trailed chaotically out behind her. Aleena wished that An would let herself relax for once, let the ocean carry some of her worries for a while.

Oli propelled himself towards An with a laborious sequence of frog-like kicks, reaching out his hand for a high five. Anguilla courteously met him half-way. The resonant slap of wet palms was followed by a big splash. Oli had pitched face-down into the sea. Anguilla hauled him up again, finally letting herself giggle. That was a relief. Aleena swam over to join them. It felt strange, not having to fight against a river current.

“How are the gills feeling, An?”

Anguilla held up the arm that had high-fived Oli, and levitated herself higher in the water. Olivar predictably turned his head aside, despite the fact that he’d seen An’s tits dozens of times. He was being more gallant than bashful at this point. Aleena couldn’t see the parallel slits between Anguilla’s ribs, not in this near-darkness. She could hear something, though. A sonomancer’s skill came from the ability to focus on the sounds you needed to hear and filter out the ones that weren’t useful. Aleena picked out the faintest ripple of noise - the sound of six little frilled openings fluttering in the night air. An’s lips were closed, but she was breathing.

“Oh, whoa…” now Oli was looking, all thoughts of chivalry forgotten as he focused intently on the side of Anguilla’s ribcage. An gasped a lungful of air and let her torso drop back into the water with a soft plop.

“I don’t think it’s ever been this pleasant to flex them!” Aleena didn’t have to see the psyker’s face to know that she was grinning. “What about you, Leena, how’s your skin?”

“Never better.” Aleena felt her arms and realised that their usual itchy, papery texture was completely smoothed over. Water always felt so much better than the Scholastica Psykana’s oppressively dry, overprocessed air. “The salt tingles a bit. I wish they’d let us go in the ocean.”

“The sea is amazing! Waoo!” Oli kicked his legs with the glee of a little kid. “I wonder if the ocean on Dargonus used to be like this, back when we still had one.” He paused mid-kick. “I’ve got no idea why one would give up something like this.”

“Pssh, ‘we’... you’ll be lucky to even see Dargonus again, chunks.” An channeled a precise stream of saltwater towards Oli’s right ear. He sensed it coming and bobbed his head out of the way at the last second.

“Whatever, stick insect. Try not being such a grumpy grox.”

Aleena heard An stick her tongue out and give a Footfall cheer in Oli’s direction. At least she had stopped using her telekinesis on the boy.

Tomorrow, tomorrow… Void damn it. Aleena ducked her head under the water again, listening just in case the Lilaethan offered any watery words of support. Maybe she could avoid tomorrow, maybe she could just slip away. But that would get the other two in trouble. Oli and An… they both wanted to get sanctioned, they didn’t want to run away. Aleena couldn’t just abandon her friends.

They all had their burdens. Oli had his dumb noble family expectations. An had… whatever the Void was going on with the Iceman. And Leena - well. No pressure. All she had was the future of an entire new abhuman sub-species resting on her skinny little shoulders.

At least the water could take some of that weight, for now.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

Summary:

Psyker school of hard knocks.
CW: blood and guts.

Drill Abbot Justinian's head burst apart clumsily like a ripe pomegranate in the hands of a hungry child. Chunks of his cranium, bone and plasteel, protruded stark and pale from the gory mess. Justinian's augmetic fist still gripped Oblate Olivar's lapel and the flap of his double breasted kirtle. Olivar's mouth, open and quiet, a little scarlet blossom. A fatty gobbet of the Drill Abbott's brain matter clung to the young Diviner's left cheek.

Anguilla could see it all from her refuge under the desk. One steel leg had buckled inward - her fingers gripped against the indentation until they hurt. The plastic storage compartment prickled against the nape of her neck and the ridges of her braid. Static discharges, or the remnants of Oblate Yvette's electrochemical powers. The floor felt even colder and harder than usual. Temperature fluctuations were a bad sign. Justinian might have been a hardarse, but you could rely on him to assert firm control over reality. The Warp was reacting to his sudden absence.

Eyes open, An. Keep your mind sharp.

Anguilla had three jobs right now, ranked in order of importance. What would Mister Iceman say to her right now?

First, stay alive. All eyes were off her and squarely on the remains of the Drill Abbott.

Second, keep observing the situation. She'd need to keep as many details as possible in her memory, because if they made it out of here alive, someone would be coming with questions. The Holy Inquisition, most likely. Shit. Shit!

Calm yourself. The third task was to de-escalate the situation. The Scholastica Psykana was a small place. Guards would be here, and if they saw a trace of Warp taint, they might not stop at shock-batons and stiflers.

Oblate Uriel Peele was building up energy for something, possibly an attempt at healing Justinian's shattered head. That voidship had definitely sailed. With the Veil this sketchy, the biomancer risked a breach. Anguilla resorted to the one use of her powers that - she hoped and fucking prayed - would not worsen the damage. She called out the God-Emperor's name.

It was a crummy job. She was exhausted from the Drill Abbott's training - they all were. The golden psychoactive syllable on her tongue wavered and dissolved into a crude jumble of noise that reminded her of her first attempts at the Aeldari Tongue. It was enough to get the attention of her classmates, though.

The Drill Abbot's dead legs could no longer support the man's bulk. His torso went into a diagonal slide, and his augmetic arm went with it, still clutching Olivar's clothing. The Diviner seemed behind the beat for once, stumbling sideways before he could wrestle his arm out of the sleeveless kirtle. His hair clung wetly to his forehead, obscuring his eyes. His breath was coming fast, sobbing.

The half-empty chalice of Justinian's head smacked against the hard floor. Uriel skidded to their knees too late to catch it. The biomancer in training sat weeping over the mess, praying to the various Saints of the Expanse, with snot and tears dripping from their beaky nose.

Oblate Maynard shouted something in Leiran. He nearly set the damn room on fire - again - but Oblate Arkive put their big stocky body in front of his upraised arms, and the pyromancer wisely stood down. Oblate Aleena had already settled into a cross-legged sitting position. She must have heard the guards coming. Her usually vibrant hair was singed and frizzed at the ends, and patches of her tunic had melted away around the shoulders, exposing her papery skin. She hated heat and fire even more than Anguilla did.

Various servitors were the first to burst into the room. This was standard protocol when dealing with psyker candidates. Servitor parts could usually be repaired, but their human trainers were harder to replace. Anguilla wondered whether there was another Blank in the Koronus Expanse capable of doing Justinian's careful, brutal work. Rogue Trader Como von Valancius could hardly be expected to step in and help... and thank the Throne for that. The Lord Captain was properly scary.

Humans came next. No Aeldari would show up, not in this Emperor-fearing compound - though An knew that any runaways from the Scholastica Psykana would face all kinds of xenos-related hazards if they took their chances in the jungles of Janus. Human guards were bad enough, with their long prodding shock-sticks and their electrified nets and the disgusting psy-stiflers. At least they were predictable.

Anguilla sat tight, letting go of the desk. When a servitor took hold of her shelter and lifted it aside, she let the unit do its work. If she'd been stronger and inclined to resist, she could have slammed both servitor and desk against the ceiling. But not now.

Now, she just wanted to sleep. Anguilla wanted to forget the sight of the Drill Abbott's shattered head and slumped body, of Olivar Danrok and Uriel Peele covered in blood. The scene was too familiar.

She missed her mum.

The psy-stifler clamped around Anguilla's neck, catching her braid as it did so. Someone pressed a tranquiliser gun against the flesh of her outer thigh, she felt a jab and a sting through her braies, and then her thoughts went away altogether.

 

____

 

Olivar could neither sit nor lie down comfortably.

He’d been standing when the guards had entered, and that meant he had received a stun-gun cartridge to his left buttock. It was a kindness, really - a strike to the back of his skull might have knocked him out, but it might also have given him lasting brain damage. Even in a crisis situation, the Scholastica Psykana’s human minders wanted to protect their precious Diviner-in-training.

The trouble was, they’d also tranquilised him in the right buttock. Now Olivar was left with no safe bit of padding to prop himself against the floor of the holding cell. He resorted to lying on his belly, with the greasy bit of foam that passed for a pillow tucked under his chest. The narrow room smelled of piss in one corner. No amount of bleach and water could wash away the psychic imprint of a terrified prisoner.

Ah, to think the great Olivar Danrok had once complained about the promptness of his chamberpot collection to some mortified chamberlain! Oli wondered what had happened to that shy little maid. Probably chucked out on the streets of Dargonus without a reference. Olivar’s wince and squirm had nothing to do with the pain in his backside.

Well, praise Him on Terra, Olivar was still alive at least. His childhood wealth of blessings was mostly squandered, and Oli was determined to appreciate every scrap of hope that remained within his grasp. He hitched his head up and away from the rockcrete floor, trying to get his dangling fringe off the ground. Slowly Olivar turned his face to the side, listening, looking. Opening his mind to signs that might not necessarily be perceptible to a regular human.

Another smell emanated from the cell adjacent to Olivar’s. A waft of smoky char, rising in opposition to the acrid tang of years-old ghost piss. Maynard had set off a pyrokinetic blast, and Aleena had been too slow to avoid the brunt of it. One of them was in that holding cell now. Olivar was still weak after the physical and mental strain of his encounter with Drill Abbot Justinian… an image of the man’s shattered cranium startled the young psyker, and he took a moment to breathe and run through a Litany of Calming before he tried to do anything with the Warp. Passive observation was really all he could risk.

The presence in the adjacent cell had a silvery, spiky character to it. Years of time and training allowed him to recognise Aleena’s signature in the Warp. Was he discerning her soul? Olivar was never too sure on that point, just as he was never too sure what souls were. The more conservative instructors at the Scholastica Psykana treated souls like coins or counters - things that belonged to the Master of Mankind, things that shouldn’t go into machines and things that xenos probably didn’t possess.

The more open-minded types, the tall veiled tutors House Cassini provided, would scoff at the conservatives and ask difficult questions in front of the Oblates. Questions like, “Why do we call Aeldari gems soulstones?” or “What is the difference between a soul, a ghost and a daemon?” Oli got the distinct impression that these questions did not belong in the Imperium’s standard curriculum. When on Janus, do as the Janusians do…

All Olivar could say was that Aleena felt different, just as Drill Abbott Justinian had felt different. Aleena was a local, and she had some of the local mutations - the delicate reptilian skin, the bright green eyes. Oli winced again. His former family would probably have hunted hers for sport. And why? Because she was a mutant? Olivar was a mutant too.

At least Aleena’s energy signature was pretty to look at. A psychic Blank’s character wasn’t silvery or pointy. Looking at Justinian was like looking off the edge of a cliff, into a grey, fog-smothered chasm. Olivar had always struggled to make eye contact with the man. And now he was dead. Throne, he was dead…

Olivar wondered for a tense minute whether he, a mere Oblate, had the mental capacity to crack open a Blank’s skull. But how? His powers had been depleted at the time. His talents lay in observation and analysis, not in the application of brute force. If Leena had shouted the teacher to pieces, he’d have felt an echo of the scream in his classmate’s mind. Maybe Anguilla had done it? She was a telekine… Oli dismissed the thought even more quickly. The girls had been just as exhausted as he was. It had taken the last of An’s strength just to put the fires out. And - not to sugarcoat it, but neither kid was dumb enough to squander a future career in the Holy Inquisition by picking fights with a Drill Abbot.

Stars, none of them should have done it! None of them could have done it! Even bloody Maynard, the classmate with the worst temper, had the willpower to hold back with his flames. Justinian had pushed them and pushed them that day, and even then… Why had he done that? Why had he been so extreme, with a group of near-graduates at that? Some final test of their capabilities, perhaps?

Olivar was giving himself a headache from all the speculation. He pulled his senses back in, as far as they would go. The nature of his gifts meant he was always getting little tingles of feedback from the waking world around him, but here in isolation it wasn’t so bad. Below the rockcrete floor and foundations, there was solid earth, and below that, magma. The life-blood of an abundant planet. She had a kind of signature too, rolling and slow. Olivar took a breath in, feeling his soft tummy press against the floor. He held it there, trying to slow his hammering heart to the timing of that ancient pulse.

Lilaethan. Lilaethan.

Exhale and sink, sink back against the floor, against the earth. Stay, stay and listen.

He’d just have to wait and see what came next.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Summary:

Where's life taking these kids?

Aleena wasn’t outnumbered for once. Two humans, two retches. Well - one and a half retches. But still, this jungle was more or less her home turf. It was nice to relax and let the rain wash away all the anxiety of the last few days.

Sure, she and her classmates were technically under investigation, and they didn’t have a teacher anymore, and now she was going to Avalon at basically no notice… but it was, like, whatever. Things like food and shelter were grown-up people's problems. She was off Scholastica Psykana grounds, and for now, that was all Aleena cared about.

Freedom! Sweet Emperor, freedom and a change of scene from that awful prison of a school! Mirth bubbled up inside her until Aleena couldn’t help laughing just a little.

The Drill Abbotts really hadn’t known what to do with the three problem prodigies, had they? The trio was on their way to… presumably stay under the care of House Cassini, until the Inquisition came to tidy up. A Navigator could handle a few naughty psykers better than a gaggle of baton-wielding old farts whose pet Blank had just died.

Sure, they’d all had a rough sanctioning, but they’d survived. It could have been worse… a whole lot worse. Aleena made a furtive Aquila sign under the folds of her raincoat and thanked Him on Terra one last time for good measure. Oli pretended not to notice the gesture. He could be a real gent sometimes. An’s attention was wandering like usual. She was probably busy thinking about books.

Trees the size of hab-blocks shuffled past them at a leisurely jogging speed. Up in the canopy, enormous bromeliads clung to outflung branches, filling up with rain. Aleena imagined paddling her feet in the pools made by broad, tough leaves. Lizards and beetles and birds spent their whole lives among the branches, never touching the ground. Long shaggy ferns made a cluster of smaller tree trunks by the roadside look like a group of bearded old men trying to hitch a ride.

Their driver hummed a little tune in his local dialect - the language was tonal and full of interesting flicks and clicks. Aleena couldn’t understand the words any more, and that made her feel sad. She’d really only learned baby talk. The guy’s driving song bore enough resemblance to some of the Technomats’ binharic litanies that Aleena suspected he was trying to soothe his vehicle’s machine spirit. Travelling during monsoon had to be rough on his tractor. Then again, he could be singing a herdsman’s call. The indifferent group of grolpaca that trailed along on either side of the makeshift road didn’t seem to care about the noise one way or the other, but they did stay out of the tractor’s path.

The tractor-driver didn’t have a name. That wasn’t too strange: most full-blooded retches didn’t bother with names. Aleena’s dad had named her mostly so she could get on the Imperial census if she wanted. She’d felt special, being a retch with a name. It almost made up for the cold queasy feeling that she was missing out on something important.

The Lilaethan’s Children, that was a kindly euphemism that the local Aeldari used for her mum’s people. It meant fuck all - Aleena had seen the way the Aeldari looked at the retches when they thought nobody was looking back. Their eyes were full of pity, it was grotesque. At least humans stared at you honestly, whether you were a psyker or a gecko-skinned mutant.

“Rain’s quite nice.”

Trust a Dargonian to talk about the weather. Olivar’s cheery interruption contrasted with his hunched posture. Oli, Aleena and Anguilla were all perched on the back of the tractor, squashed into a makeshift wooden bin that smelled of dead grass and bird feed. The driver had chucked in a few old grain sacks to make the ride less painful. An was fidgeting like always. The telekine kept trying to hover her bum over the seat, but she was getting tired from the long, jostling trip. They’d all have aches and bruises by sunset.

Only Oli had his hood up. Aleena and Anguilla both liked a bit of wet weather, for skin-related reasons: An had her Voidborn quirks, and Aleena’s genetics were engineered for life in the jungle. Poor pasty Olivar really suffered away from the cloistered life of the Scholastica Psykana. Aleena could see his shoulders trembling under his plastic raincoat, even in the muggy monsoon heat. He wasn’t cut out for life in the wild. That didn’t prevent him from putting on a brave face. He squirmed round in his seat and leaned forward till he was in earshot of the driver.

“I’ve never seen a machine like this one! I can tell you take good care of her, she handles well in the wet.”

To Aleena’s surprise, the driver stopped humming his little tune and graced the teenager with a response in halting Low Gothic.

“Yes, very pretty. She is an old Red Priest machine. Before they use Harvester-Mountains, Red Priests farm with her. Try surveying Lilaethan, but their success is… not so great.”

The retch clicked his tongue, showing his peg-like teeth. He seemed amused by the Tech-Priests’ failure.

“Now they don’t need her, so they sell her and we use her for farming near Lilaethan sacred places. Works good: Navigators happy, Ghosts happy, Jungle happy. Machine god is happy too.”

The tractor-driver gave his metal steed a little pat and went back to concentrating on the road. Aleena was happy not to distract him. If he veered away from the reinforced section of path and into a ditch, they would be stuck in the mud until the rains halted… and in monsoon season, that could take weeks.

“Did you see the planks in the roadway, Aleena?” Oli looked far more excited than the situation called for. “I can’t believe they’re using wood - real wood - on something like a jungle path. Just think of the scale!”

Anguilla blinked at him. “What are you going on about, Olivar?”

Olivar rolled his eyes. “You don’t get it, An.”

“I don’t get what’s so special about wood, no. There’s trees all around us.”

“On Dargonus, this’d just be inconceivable. You could dig all those logs out of the road, ship them to the Spires and sell them for a fortune. Several fortunes, in fact.”

“Who’s going to ship them? Who’s digging them up and hauling them out of the jungle? And won’t that mean no-one can travel to Avalon without a grav-car?”

Oli huffed and crossed his arms. “You’re a killjoy, An.”

Aleena shut them both up with a quick flex of her jaw. The noise of rain on their shoulders, the tractor’s beleaguered diesel engine and the rustling of their raincoats faded away. Instead, Aleena heard the clattering of jungle leaves, the bleat of a grolpaca and the confused grunt of the tractor driver, who she’d kept just out of the radius of her psykana.

“”T-t-t! No witch tricks back there, missy. Herd get scared, all right?”

Aleena unclenched her teeth. The tractor was audible once more.

“Sorry, uncle!”

The tractor-driver just waved a nonchalant hand over his shoulder.

“Living with Navigators makes a man relaxed about psykana, it seems.” Olivar carried on as if the driver wasn’t right there. Anguilla glanced sidelong at the diviner, then rolled her eyes away.

“Between House Cassini, the Genetors and the jungle Aeldari, he’s probably seen a lot that looks like magic. Leena, what was it like growing up in Avalon?”

Aleena shrugged off another drizzle of warm rain. It felt nice, the way it ran across the backs of her hands. She let some of it puddle in her lap, in a divot of her raincoat. A little friend.

“I’m not sure what parts of my childhood would be exciting to a kid who grew up on a Voidship or in a Hive Spire. There was always greenery and water everywhere, that’s probably exotic to you guys, right?”

Oli was listening eagerly - he seemed invested in the tale, at least. It was always hard to tell what An was thinking. She had a tendency to let her face go still and neutral when she was listening.

“We did a lot of work with plants, that’s mostly what I remember. My mum’s side got way too into it. Farming’s like… a sacred thing in retch culture. You know how the AdMechs really love their machines? It’s like that, but with plants. It’s supposed to help the Lilaethan, I guess. I don’t think I ever really understood what farming meant to mum. And Bil - I mean my dad - he was kind of between places, on account of settling down with mum. I liked the tech and the canned food and the trinkets he’d bring in from the Agri-compounds. Now I find Imperium things a bit boring, but when I was little? His treasures felt like magic.”

Aleena tailed off, not sure what else she could add. Her childhood seemed worlds away. She was nervous about going back to mud huts in the forest. That wasn't her place any longer. The sonomancer noticed Anguilla blinking away a stray raindrop with her left eye. It was just a little flick with her extra eyelid, the transparent one that closed from the side. Aleena was happy. It meant that An was relaxed. She only let her mutations show around friends.

“Did you ever see any of the forest ghosts?” Anguilla fidgeted with her damp braid.

“An, not this again.” Olivar tucked his knees up under the hem of his raincoat. The gesture was far too late to save his sodden trousers. “Don’t you think it’s a bad idea for psykers to be around ghosts? I wouldn’t be so curious about them. They’re liable to possess us, if we get too close.” He made the sign of the Aquila as well as his plastic-clad arms would allow.

An made a sour face. “Is that what your diviner’s sense tells you, Oli?”

The boy glowered back at Anguilla.

“No, I’m just being sensible. I feel bad enough about going to Avalon - no disrespect to you or your hometown, Leena, I’m sure the place itself is all right. It’s more like… ugh, I don’t know. They sent us by ourselves, isn’t that weird to you both?”

Aleena looked around at the jungle. Dense foliage on all sides, lots of hungry beasts…

“If we run away, they’ll either track us or we’ll die in the reserve. They couldn’t keep us in a big group because our supervisor died. As long as we can’t get off-world, they may as well just send us on a field trip. And I assume House Cassini said they’d look after us. That all makes sense, right?”

“No it doesn’t.” Anguilla experimented with swinging her legs off the back of the wooden box that they were using as a seat, then clambered back into a lopsided cross-legged position. “Maybe if we weren’t so close to graduating, they wouldn’t care if we got hurt. But we’re not, like, Astropaths. I got the feeling that we’re… more of an investment.”

Olivar chuckled from under his hood. “Is that a diviner’s hunch? Finally seeing the light there, An?”

He’d poked a tender spot in Anguilla’s psyche. Aleena wanted to silence him with sorcery, but she remembered the driver’s gentle warning and just shushed him instead. Anguilla’s shoulders slouched.

“Stars, I wish. You’re so lucky, Oli. The God-Emperor gave you such a cool gift. I just feel so dumb for even trying to learn it.”

Aleena reached over and patted her hand. “You’re pretty much the opposite of dumb.”

“Yeah, An, you’re a big smarty pants. Your brains are so muscular, you can throw a whole desk just by flexing those lobes! Grr!” Olivar poked a finger at his temples and pulled a strenuous face until Anguilla cracked a faint smile. He leaned back: his beaming satisfaction could not be shaken, even when his hood fell backward and he had to rescue it before it turned into an impromptu bucket.

“Chin up, girls! We’ve got each other. There’s nothing we can’t handle.”

Olivar could reassure them all he liked: the doubts he’d expressed earlier lingered in Aleena’s mind for the rest of the ride. Something was dicey about this whole situation.

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

Summary:

Boarding-house blues.

“All right, call it. Aeldari or Navigator?”

Aleena pitched her body forward so that her centre of gravity hung right over the edge of the tiled roof. She didn’t seem to care that her fingertips dipped into the gutter. Olivar watched her as she watched the stranger from her vantage point.

The game had its challenges. Navigators were extremely tall and wore many layers to hide their mutations when they went out in public. Here in Avalon, where Asuryani refugees were an open secret, the xenos could mimic the House Cassini style to walk around in disguise. The psykers couldn’t rely on their inborn sense for others’ Warp sensitivity either: Navigators swam in the Warp almost from birth, and Asuryani tended to have a natural attunement with Sha’eil. Oli’s powers gave him an edge - which is why he wasn’t playing.

“Hrm.” Leena scrunched her nose. “The boxy head-dress is giving Navigator, and the robes are all blue and purple.”

She didn’t sound confident. Anguilla saw a chance to interrupt and took it.

“The print on the sleeves, though - see the design that looks a bit like two tadpoles? That might be Asuryan’s symbol.”

“It’s not in black and white though.”

“Both groups keep borrowing each other’s styles.” Anguilla crossed her arms to match her legs. Rainwater dribbled from her elbows. “Shit, this is harder than I thought.”

“Don’t take it so seriously, An!” Leena opened her mouth with a grin, sticking her tongue out to catch the rain. “Ith juth a game.”

“He’s an Aeldari.”

Olivar’s words were out before he knew better. The tall, veiled shopper down in the market turned away from the stall where they had been browsing. A retch attendant stood by, holding a bamboo umbrella with an elongated handle. They snapped it open on cue and the shopper began meandering away, taking careful but dextrous steps on his high chopines.

An’s mind was a river: surging, barely contained by high embankments. Leena thought in layers that built on one another like the branches of a jungle tree. The stranger evoked metaphors that made no sense: a tunnel that was also a net. Ten games of regicide happening all at once. A box of knives, each one carving and scraping at the warm body that moved inside - but also, somehow, a quivering being trapped in that same box. Oli suppressed the urge to cover his eyes. He already knew it wouldn’t block out the imagery.

“I don’t think he likes us watching. We should go back inside.”

Anguilla went first, grumbling something about spoilsport Diviners. Aleena wanted to stay out in the rain. Oli had to beckon her twice before she scrambled back over the tiles and into the compound’s open window.

He’d been terribly wrong in his assumption that Navigator House Cassini would take in the Trouble Trio. Neither of the girls had criticised him about the botched prediction. They’d been just as surprised to find themselves hosted by xenos.

Living in an Asuryani dwelling was profoundly boring for three teenaged psykers. The place was simply furnished even by Schola standards - the most interesting things were the wall hangings and paintings. Most surfaces were kept fastidiously neat but some of the lower ledges, those that escaped a cleaner’s notice, bore a heavy layer of jungle dust and old cobwebs.

Nothing was designed to be ergonomic for human bodies. Aeldari beds were hard, flat things with hollow wooden shelves for pillows. The tables were low to the ground, Calixis style, and the psykers had to sit on floor mats to eat. Oli longed to borrow one of the tiny blue plastic stools from the local market, just to give his poor arse some comfort. Food involved a lot of fresh and dried fruit, boiled roots and starch cakes wrapped up in leaves. Aleena liked to pretend they were at a fancy dinner party, offering Olivar the salt - except nothing had much salt or spice in it. The only meat dish appeared to be some kind of baked locust. It was actually quite nice once Oli worked up the courage to take a bite.

It was like living in a museum. The trio spent their days making up games and trying not to break anything important. Every morning and evening they all prayed to the God-Emperor (skipping over the parts about shunning the xenos, which seemed rude in context). They would do their mental training, meditating like they did in Schola. Oli wondered what life as an Aeldari child would be like. From his standpoint, it seemed dreary.

Anguilla, for all her fidgety tendencies, seemed to be the most comfortable about her situation. The compound was quite large. Even if there was no opportunity for them to go outside, An could still explore the mud-brick halls and corridors. She knew all kinds of Aeldari words, and could point out the identities of figures in the tapestries or gesso murals that looked indistinguishable to Oli and Leena. That’s Vaul, that’s Lileath. They were supposed to be gods, An said. Olivar just saw them as taller people. Lileath was probably his favourite design, her dark skin made her stand out so she was easy to recognise. She had little white freckles, like stars in the night sky.

An showed Oli his first piece of wraithbone: one of many curved struts embedded into the internal walls. Nothing she promised could tempt him to touch those long, tapering ribs. They radiated the raw, intense emotions of toddlers. It was like walking through a room full of screaming babies. Leena was enraptured by the stuff, though, petting it as if she’d miraculously met a grolpaca that was friendly.

Maybe it was a retch thing, or maybe Aleena just got along with everyone including walls.

“Hey, An, can you teach us how to say hi? I feel bad, not being able to talk to our hosts.”

Classic Leena. Never mind that they were three human kids stuck living with xenos in extremely dicey circumstances, she wanted to make friends! Olivar wished, not for the first time, that they’d just gone to House Cassini like he’d hoped. Saints and stars, this wasn’t fair.

Olivar still had bad dreams about Drill Abbot Justinian grabbing his collar… the Blank cursing as he drained Oli’s life away. Red, red, Justinian’s face and thoughts were both a violent blood red. Justinian’s head kept coming apart in his nightmares. Oli couldn’t do anything to stop it, all he could do was watch. All he could ever do was watch.

He wanted to be among humans. He was scared. How were the girls so calm about this? At least neither of them could read the mounting panic in his mind.

Anguilla flattened her palms out until her fingers almost hyperextended. She rotated her wrist and arm till the fingers of one hand pointed towards the ground. Oli thought about the soil under his feet. The floor was just hard-packed earth, burnished till it was glossy and red. The Lilaethan’s body. He took a breath, and felt stable again.

Anguilla’s other hand came up in the opposite direction, pointing towards her right ear - not fully vertical. The hand looked like it was tacking to windward. Olivar remembered sailboats on pleasure worlds. There were even a few here on Janus. He’d learned to sail in another life, one he’d taken for granted. He copied the gesture, then laughed faintly at himself when he realised he was mirroring Anguilla and had got the shape backwards.

“No, that’s actually good! Oli, you just said hi back to me. Hi, Oli!” She made the Shape again, and Oli returned the gesture with his own one.

“Hi, An.”

Aleena giggled and made the planes of her hand flex back and forth like a pair of wings.

“Make a little Eagle for the Emperor, flap your hands - and make it soar…” Wow, Oli hadn't heard that silly chidren's song in years!

“Oh my Throoone, Leena, that’s toootally heresy…” Anguilla completely lost her composure and joined in the giggling, trying to capture Leena’s naughty bird. Leena hopped away, flapping her fingers and extending them above her head.

Something tickled up Olivar’s spine and into his brain-pan.

“Maybe you two should calm down, I don’t think it’s a good idea if you-”

A stern-looking Asuryani stepped into the corridor.

They were a solid three feet taller than Olivar. Even the girls, whose respective ancestries had granted them a few more inches of stature, seemed very young and small compared to their host. Olivar’s hands were already at chest height, so he shakily made his little greeting sign.

This Aeldari was a woman, based on the general flavour of her mind. People tended to broadcast how they wanted you to refer to them. Olivar’s teenage instincts drew his attention to her deficiency of dress - relative to human norms, at least. A nipple peeked between many layers of beaded necklaces. Oli gritted his teeth and forced himself to stare at a Warp-based shimmer somewhere around her left shoulder, at the edges of her body envelope.

He couldn't recognise most of the images his mind was suggesting: too alien, too jarring. It hurt his eyes to concentrate on her energy and not her body, but that was still better than offending his host and possibly getting himself killed. He heard Anguilla snigger, and felt himself starting to blush. The Aeldari didn’t seem to feel anything but boredom in the presence of the three kids. Thank the Throne for that.

“Farseer Eklendyl wishes to see you. Follow me.”

Her Low Gothic was heavily accented. Her tone sounded imperious, but Olivar could detect no particular malice in her thoughts. She was just confident, in the way that nobles were confident. Since he’d been disowned, Oli had come to understand the worries that came with a precarious life. The Aeldari was arrogant if you decided she was arrogant: Olivar preferred to think of it as self-assurance. Whatever happened to her, she held an absolute belief that she would be fine.

The Asuryani’s certainty made him want to follow her. Anguilla’s curiosity led her on - Oli found the metaphor for her emotion, a Bonfire Night sparkler. Leena was content to amble along behind the other two. Going with the flow. She leaned her head forward so that she could speak quietly to Olivar and Anguilla at once.

“What’s a Farseer, An?”

“They’re important elders, and really strong psykers.”

Oli did his best to straighten his back. If a mere attendant seemed haughty, what would an Aeldari noble feel like?

“It’s the man from the market.”

The others didn’t challenge Oli’s assertion. Why would they, given his abilities? He knew they’d drawn attention, dammit! Olivar prayed that they weren’t in too much trouble.

The young psyker’s pulse slammed in his head with every footfall. Keep it together, Oli. Keep it together. Oh, my Emperor, it’s a lot, it’s a lot… Breathe, Oli. Breathe. Lilaethan. Lilaethan Lilaethan oh Throne help me.

Olivar vaguely registered Aleena’s worried face floating in his peripheral vision, the crook of her shoulder warm against him as she braced his body upright, trying to soothe him. Anguilla was saying something in halting xenos patter, her eyes shifting from Olivar to - oh Throne - to Farseer Eklendyl who was in the room and close and loud and blazing his way into Oli’s head.

He sat upon a simple wicker chair, but he was regal in every way - his bearing, his robes, his stern countenance. Teardrop-shaped stones blazed upon his brow and at his breast. Olivar could hardly bear to look at him.

At least this gentleman wasn’t naked. That was the last coherent thought Olivar was able to form before his inner voice went away altogether, forced to defer to a strong and ancient will.

The Farseer spoke in his complicated Tongue and he was a fire, and his alien words became fire, and their heat against the back of Oli’s brain became signs and the signs became something that Olivar could comprehend, not in Low Gothic but in a torrent of images and sound.

A Forest. Oli knew the forest, he’d ridden through it on the tractor. A shape loomed into the idea of Forest, a cyclopean syllable that turned on its side and became a massive boulder. A thing of Nature and not of Nature - someone had shaped it. A device, yet no kind of device that Oli recognised. There were shapes… struggling deep inside it. The rock’s crevices held story after story after story, so many that Oli didn’t want to look too long or he might get sucked inside as well.

Oh, it hurt to absorb so many images and emotions all at once… Afraid as Olivar was, this felt too important for him to ignore. Oli tried to remember the thoughts but they were too numerous and vivid. They kept slipping away from him, overrun by the next vision and the next and the next.

Eklendyl showed him long-limbed shadows, moving in the jungle at night. Ghosts rushed through the canopy, disturbed, dangerous, hunting. A threat to the elantach.

What’s an elantach, Oli wondered: and then he saw people he didn’t recognise, whirling and dancing and wearing costumes. His blood buffeted his eardrums - his headache was only getting more intense. Olivar saw a young Navigator playing ten games of regicide all at once. He saw his uncle Janris, smiling as a group of Aeldari children played around him. Oli nearly blinked the vision away in surprise.

These were the Rogue Trader’s people. They were Farseer Eklendyl’s point of reference when he remembered the very, very few humans who were not just cruel enemies. The thought made Olivar sad. The image he’d glimpsed at the market - the box and the knives. Old pain. He felt the tears flowing down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. Ah Throne, he was getting a nosebleed.

Pull back, Oli.

Olivar could feel his knees starting to buckle. His throat was constricted, his body unsteady. He felt his diaphragm ache and realised he had been sobbing. Now that Eklendyl’s second-hand strength had gone out of him, not even Aleena’s support could prevent Olivar from sagging into a slumped sitting position on the polished earth floor. Oli touched it. The Lilaethan helped him to orient himself.

“Please! Leave him alone!”

Sweet, brave Aleena was calling out to the Farseer in Low Gothic, while Anguilla continued to plead in the man’s own language. Olivar reached a hand up to each of the girls and waved them down. This tongue felt thick.

“It’s …. ‘Sallright….”

The polished earthen floor surged up to meet him. The last thing he remembered was red.

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven

Summary:

Aeldari spa day.

She was far too old to be crawling around in mud. The Crudarach diaspora’s few toddlers would probably enjoy the experience. Emelina was far too mindful of the inevitability that a second, water based bath would follow this medicinal one. Citizens of the Imperium were generally more inclined towards ablutions of the soap-and-flannel kind. Aeldari liked to soak. Of course, they did not have to contend with prune-like fingertips or the embarrassment of showing off wrinkles and spotty skin.

Emelina could not immerse herself fully in the bathing pit, of course. Her cranial augmetics were far too delicate for that. Ben Cassini had thoughtfully gifted her a waterproof cap to guard against accidental splashing: the young Navigator preferred to oil his woolly white curls instead of rinsing them.

The Sage had acquired a modest bathing-suit from House Cassini’s donation pile, as well. Regular humans’ distaste for the Navigators’ cosmetic mutations made the House reluctant to show off their gills and other biological quirks, even when swimming in a private pool. The suit’s fabric was synthetic and stretchy, a vibrant purple with hints of blue and silver trim around the neckline. It had short sleeves and little trunk-like legs: Eklendyl would not have to see Emelina’s wobbly upper arms. Not that he would ever show his displeasure with the mon’keigh form, of course. The Farseer was quite gallant in that respect.

She still felt terribly silly, needing assistance to ease herself into the mud. Antimon offered Emelina a strong and slender hand, which she gratefully took for support. He even remembered to guard her left flank: her muscles were still relatively weak and her reflexes rather slow up that whole side of her body, ever since…

… Emelina winced as something within her temporal lobe seized up. A circuit, broken. An impulse, diverting itself away from whatever her memory banks had been about to recall.

Antimon knew to be patient and wait. She gave his hand a squeeze, unsure how long she’d paused in her descent, letting him know she was back in control of her faculties. Most Asuryani did not care to touch each other. They considered even hand-holding to be intimate, which was logical enough if one understood Aeldari biology. Taste and touch and smell were intense experiences for them, and they lacked humans’ capacity to dissociate and ignore things that bothered them. Emelina was grateful for Antimon’s forbearance.

The Sage used her feet to feel for the ledge she knew had been built into the side of the pool. Sitting down was a slow business, but not too arduous. The mud was pleasantly warm and had a faint chemical fragrance - not just the eggy whiff of brimstone, but something akin to the scent of sacred Mechanicus oils. It felt good to take the weight off her stiff legs and recline back against the shelf of the bathing pit’s edge. The rockcrete was warm, too. Emelina felt like one of Janus’s big iguanas, relaxing in the sun.

Farseer Eklendyl strutted out from under the shade of a nearby portico. His bathrobe didn’t quite reach his knees: Emelina guessed that he had appropriated it from a mon’keigh vendor in Avalon’s market. The fabric looked natural and hand-dyed: tawny yellows and patches of bright orange were set off with geometric quilted sections marked in blue-green thread. All these hues clashed with his eyes and the teardrop-shaped spirit stone set into his forehead. Asuryani colour schemes didn’t seem to follow any sort of human logic… perhaps they perceived pigments differently, or perhaps Eklendyl just had terrible taste. Emelina Sage found it interesting that human clothiers had adapted their wares to suit local preferences.

Eklendyl was quick to shed his vibrant garment: young Antimon made himself scarce, stopping only to collect the dropped robe on his way indoors. Emelina was terribly jealous of the old Aeldari’s vigour. Time had barely affected the suppleness of his sun-browned skin or the grace of his long limbs. Even so, the years had marked him. Emelina had learned how to read his kin’s inscrutable faces for signs of age and stress - a certain leanness in the countenance, a deepening of the widow’s peak, the slight lengthening of the ears and nose, small deformities in their cartilage. Eklendyl bore all of these subtle marks.

The Farseer’s pale hair was marred with rough patches where scar tissue on Eklendyl’s scalp had twisted the follicles at odd angles. He would be forever marked from his ordeals in the Dark City and the stress of his subsequent efforts to rebuild his clan. Eklendyl’s irises were a deep murex purple - almost maroon-coloured around the inner ring. Only a few blue-ish shards remained around their outer edges. The red stones embedded in his forehead and sternum were generously sized - perhaps their materials had not been so scarce when Eklendyl was first inducted into his Infinity Circuit.

How old did that make the Farseer? He had to be ancient. Old enough to remember a time before the Fall of the Aeldari Empire? It was possible. The thought made Sage Emelina’s head start to ache, and she forced herself to let it go.

“Snake-Sage. You are well?”

Aeldari symbology associated snakes with knowledge and secrets. Eklendyl’s little nickname for Emelina was flattering, in a way - it meant he thought she was smart. The Farseer tended to stumble over the pronunciation of ‘Lichtenhart’, so his choice of a cognomen might have also been a way to save face.

Throne, he was an impressive sight! Emelina tried not to stare at the little rows of densely-packed muscle tissue under the Farseer’s arms as he put his hair up into a small bun. His age and leanness made every contour obvious, including the places where musculature and sinew gave way to subcutaneous panels of dense chitinous tissue. A large scar on Eklendyl’s armoured flanks pointed in a long and enticing diagonal down past his hips, to a section of his body that had thankfully disappeared beneath the mud. It really wasn’t fair.

“You are turning into quite the strapping Exodite, my dear.”

Emelina permitted herself a little cackle, knowing the old Farseer would wince during his descent into the bathing pit. He hadn’t always been this cavalier about undressing in front of others. Crudarach sounded like it had been an austere place. The jungle must seem riotous by comparison.

Seven suns whirl past / a new man stands / an ineffective sundial
Lileath’s stones mark time / we must walk / a step is a lesson

Eklendyl’s nebulous use of the Tongue reflected a life spent in esoteric contemplation. The Farseer shrugged, disturbing the mud around him with a wet slurping noise as he immersed his arms. Was that tiny exhalation out of his nose a sign of amusement or humility? It might have been both. The Farseer switched from his native Tongue into Low Gothic. That was for the best - not because Emelina had any difficulties translating, but because Eklendyl needed the practice.

“I am… old dog, learning new tricks. Is not that the mon’keigh saying? Maybe old self was mistaken. Maybe Exodites correct about certain things. But only some things.”

Eklendyl extended a hand palm-down and patted against the surface of the hot mud, disrupting the surface tension. Emelina gave her own hands an experimental flex. The mud felt squishy between her fingers.

“It does us good to enjoy a little sunshine on our weary limbs, my dear Eklendyl. I am glad we are not too proud to soak our old bones. Though I must say that I need the soak more than you do. You look positively radiant compared to this rickety chassis.”

Emelina held up a muddy hand - her skin was papery and delicate around the knuckles, and the planet’s genetors and rejuvenat specialists could do little to reverse the depletion of her collagen reserves.

“Hm.”

Eklendyl smeared the mud off his forearm. Its gleaming surface highlighted a few odd patches of texture on the old Aeldari’s skin. There would be old scars underneath - the bath’s murky coating disguised the many small strips of slightly paler scar tissue highlighted by Eklendyl’s golden tan.

Body and mind / both vessels cracked / healing has limits

He was speaking for them both.

Emelina was unsure exactly what had happened to Farseer Eklendyl while the Drukhari had imprisoned him. It had cast some sort of shadow across his soul. She had intuited that much when a visiting Arebennian, the one who called themselves Nocturne of Oblivion, had taken a voracious interest in Eklendyl. To speculate further was to nudge up against the limits of her own cognition, to stray into territory that she herself had cordoned off. And that would hurt. Emelina’s options were sorely restricted… so much was lost to her these days. But she could comfort her friend.

“Did I tell you about a lovely Calixian tradition, my dear Eklendyl? The Scintillan locals call it kintsugi, although the origins of that word are lost on me. If a vessel shatters - I imagine that’s a common occurrence when one lives atop of Ambulon - some artisans like to rebuild the shards into their former shape, using a decorative filler like gold. The results are quite pretty, in a haphazard sort of way.”

Metal veins / organic fissures / your head?

Eklendyl tapped at his own cranium, and a hint of mischief glimmered in his eyes. Emelina pouted back at him.

“My chromium dome is not a repair job, you tease! It amplifies my exceptional capacity to store and sort memories. At least, it used to. Now, I am fairly certain it keeps me on this side of the Veil. Therefore you ought to be glad that your wizened mon’keigh friend wears such an interesting hat under her bathing-cap.”

“You were not always broken, Snake-sage. Always cranky, yes.”

“Cranky? Where did you even learn that word? Cranky… by the Emperor.”

What a hypocrite the old Farseer was! Emelina had seen his foul moods - the psychic ambience was rank enough to send Asuryani and retch alike scuttling for cover. Sage Emelina was quite capable of resisting his little tantrums, and had scolded him out of a stormy spell on several occasions. It was one of the reasons they got on so well. As for where Emelina had learned that particular trick… that was another mystery, locked away behind her protective firewalls.

“Speaking of emotional outpourings, Eklendyl dear, I heard you put the fear of Sha’eil into our three young psyker guests.”

The mud slopped and glorped as the Farseer shifted his hands into the Asuryani Shape denoting regret. There were no direct ways to express apology in the Aeldari language - maybe humans and xenos could have got along better if such a word existed, but Emelina doubted that. Humans could say ‘sorry’, but they seldom meant it. Sincerity was rare in the galaxy, and innocence even rarer… for some reason that thought gave the Sage a twinge of discomfort in the frontal lobe. She couldn’t say why.

“They’re not mind-readers, dear. Well - young Olivar Danrok might have some notion, but the others won’t understand your intent.”

“I show.”

“You gave the poor child terrifying visions with no context. This is why you ought to practice your Low Gothic, Eklendyl. I know you find it clumsy, but it has its uses.”

The Farseer sank lower in the mud, until it engulfed the soulstone on his chest and lapped around his shoulders.

“Kae-morag. You fix this?”

Ah, there it was. Emelina wondered why he had been so eager to join her in the mud-bath. It was an excuse to ask her for a favour in private, among other things.

“Sly old boy. My usefulness has its limits, as does my cognition…” The Sage enjoyed acting coy. “I ought to stay out of these matters, really…” Emelina averted her gaze, turned her head aside just a little, then peeked back at the Farseer. Eklendyl inhaled, sending a slow ripple through the mud as his chest expanded. He let out a long sigh.

“Pretty please.” He looked utterly unamused.

“Ah, now how could I possibly say no to a well-worded request from a handsome young Asuryani?”

Another deep sigh.

“I… thirty times your age, Snake-Sage.”

“Well, you don’t look a day over two thousand.”

The Farseer chuckled. “Silver tongued mon’keigh.”

“You know you love it.”

They both closed their eyes in silence, letting the mud ease the weight of their burdens and the sun’s heat melt away their worries for a few more blissful minutes.

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve

Summary:

Clif Aster gets a job.

Clif Aster had been meeting with Bran on and off for a few weeks now. The location was never the same: Clif ran through the list of his interactions with the odd-eyed recruiter, trying to fit them into a wider context.

The pool hall where they’d had their first proper conversation was one of those notorious neutral places, the kind of quiet spot where rival gang leaders would go to talk terms - or to hook up with each other on the down-low. Bran had managed to get himself a private corner, complete with makeshift curtains, canvas-padded bench-bags and a low recaf table. On it was a beaten-up copper samovar, a regicide set and a bottle of the richest amasec Clif had ever tasted. He’d done his best not to overindulge, and to stay out of the way of the resident gangers. Some of the thugs looked Clif over with the odd derisive sneer. Nobody dared to do more than glance at Bran.

Their second meeting was during Market Day, in Promethium Plaza. For an underground venue, it was spacious: the domed cavern ceiling had once been full of rare minerals. Both sides of the plaza were packed tight with ergonomic hab-block dwellings. They were only about five cycles old: their inhabitants seemed optimistic about moving from mining slums into the new housing projects, but Clif wasn’t so sure that joy would last.

In the plaza itself, haphazard phosphorescent signs and chem-dyed banners competed for attention, and hawkers shouted over the noise of grav-haulers, vox-speakers broadcasting hymns, the town bell and even a barrel organ. Clif had found a moment to discreetly lean into Bran’s personal space - using a passing handcart as an excuse - and inform him about the lean-looking woman who’d been following them. Bran had nodded his thanks. He’d made that scratching motion at the back of his neck, one of his usual tells when they were playing board games… No, that was more of a tap than a scratch. The woman had made herself scarce right away. They must have kept in contact using vox-beads.

The third meeting wasn’t a meeting at all, but a shared shift of forklift work over at the mines. Clif didn’t know how Bran knew he had his vehicle licence, and he really didn’t want to know. Throne, that guy was strong! He could heave a full pallet around like it was nothing. Clif wondered why he even bothered with the forklift. There was something about Bran’s build, too - he’d had bare arms during their Pankration match, Clif swore he’d got a good read on the man’s bulk at the time. He’d seemed… bigger then. Wider, at any rate. He might be bulking and then cutting for a different look, sure - but nobody cut that fast without using some serious chems.

The fourth time, Clif had been blown away by his discovery - there were luxury establishments on Vheabos VI of all planets! It had been a while since he’d been offworld, but still - the tiny gated enclave had an amazing selection of wares. Clif had to conclude that it was all smuggled, or else being stored here till the locals could barter it for spicier goods. The Kasballicans had to be involved. Who else would invest so heavily into a backwater world? Not pirates - this outfit was way too tidy for pirates. Clif had looked around warily before going into the address specified on Bran’s latest visiting card. He expected trouble.

Instead he’d been treated to the sight of a very dapper Bran in Calixian-style courtly attire, leaning jauntily against an oversized tailor’s dummy with a measuring-tape looped around his neck. Clif had wandered into a suit shop.

The attendants scuttled away with a wave of Bran’s hand, and to Clif Aster’s utter astonishment, the man took his measurements with the efficiency and ease of a bored professional. Perhaps he’d intended to check the ex-convict for hidden tattoos. Well, he’d be disappointed in that case: many weeks under the Corsairs’ lasers had erased all the extracurricular ink from his short but eventful prison sentence. At the end of the performance, Bran had invited Clif to choose any item he liked from the store. Clif politely demurred, instead asking for the funds to buy a pair of good second-hand boots from the Guard surplus store. New clothes were an invitation to get mugged.

Now Clif fiddled with the slim rectangle of plastic in his fingers. He knew the address: it was the location of a large commercial hangar. Was this it? Was he about to get hired, or drafted? This might be his last chance to walk away.

No, the time to walk away was back at the pool hall. If he’d drunk a bit more amasec, or cheated at regicide, or started a bar fight, he’d be out on his arse. Bran’s people knew who he was. They knew where he worked and where he lived - all their meeting destinations had been close enough for him to reach on foot.

Clif had theories. Void take him, he was curious now! Curious about the job, curious about Vheabos VI and above all, he was curious about Bran. So he swallowed his fear and passed through the body scanners at the gates.

All Clif’s business was in order, rent paid up, hab-cell empty. Ida could have dibs on it, if she ever got out on parole. She wouldn’t miss him, that was for sure. And Dru - well - whatever he did next, the kid was safe.

Nobody had told him precisely where to go - another little test, maybe. The hangar was full of activity. Clif made out the blocky shapes of several freight haulers, loading pallet-stacks of promethium drums and great slabs of volcanic stone. A lost-looking Explorator Tech-Priest sat on a bench, surrounded by their protection detail of Skitarii. Clif was better off avoiding them. A Crime Lord grandee, probably some cartel type’s spoiled kid, flaunted rings and gold-plated augmetics while demanding to see someone’s manager. The show was a flashy distraction. Clif tore his eyes away from the scene.

An unmarked black aircraft caught his attention. It was longer and sleeker than the usual Arvus model, but it could work as an air-to-orbit shuttle if the pilot was careful. There was a kind of silent luxury about the vessel: its owner would have to pay for two landing pads every time they touched down, and it probably needed specialist Technomats to maintain it. Clif couldn’t see any sign of an insignia or a Noble House’s coat of arms. This had to be his target. Clif took a curving path towards the ship, veering towards it at the last minute, trying to look spontaneous.

He didn’t recognise the man waiting at the top of the gangway. The cove was old in a spry way, grey hair, neat moustache, grey clothes. Someone had paid for him to get rejuvenat, but he couldn’t afford to do it regularly. The older guy had seen combat in his younger years - a lot of combat, the kind that leaves many small scars and marks. If he wore augmetics they were discreet ones: the only other impression Clif got was a feeling of deep unease. If this cove wasn’t standing directly in his way, would he have even noticed him? Clif decided to offer the guy a short bow - more a quick dip of his head. Nothing could have persuaded him to shake the man’s hand.

“Emperor protects, uncle. I’m here for a meeting with… Henri Corbin.”

It was a long shot. Clif was making a wild guess at Bran’s identity - or one of Bran’s identities, at least. The tailor thing had got him wondering, and that had got him reading the fashion rags at the local barber shop. He just had a feeling.

The older man’s moustache twitched in one corner, the first sign of emotion he’d made in their whole exchange so far.

“Is that so, huh? And who may I say is calling upon Ser Corbin?” Was that sarcasm Clif detected in the cove’s voice? What kind of attendant was he?

“Uh… Ibis.” Yeah, let’s go with that. Guy likes his bird names. Clif couldn’t articulate why, but he was damned if he was going to give his real name to the creepy doorman.

The old cove turned his back, stepped into the recesses of the ship - then called back over his shoulder.

“Well, come on then!”

Clif shuffled across the threshold as nonchalantly as possible. Sleek black doors whispered shut behind him.

Fuck. Fuck.

There were a lot of closed doors on this shuttle. Little rooms. Hopefully they carried cargo, not people. The layout directed Clif’s attention towards the bow, where a wider doorway was marked out with subtle bands of gold trim. He had one chance to get a word in with the grey old man, and he took it.

“What should I call you, uncle?”

The old cove approached the doorway. He pressed the palm of his hand against a very specific section of its featureless surface. Something clicked and Clif heard a soft chime. The doorman stood aside just far enough for Clif to squeeze past him. The feeling of claustrophobia was too intense for Clif to ignore. The old man’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Raven’s right, you’ve got a spine.” His chin crinkled as he gave Clif the tiniest of upward nods. “You can call me Froscher. Now pull up your pants and get in there.”

Clif got in there.

The upholstered ceiling curved to fit the vehicle’s narrow fuselage. If Clif wanted to, he could reach up and prod at its soft indented contours. A roll-down shutter set into the far wall probably connected through to the cockpit and pilot’s berth. The remaining space was impeccably designed: Clif registered a small Tech-maintenance bay, a compact bookshelf and a high-end comms array, all within easy reach of the cabin’s occupant. The trim was all real wood and leather.

A gleam of gold and red to Clif’s left caught his attention: colourful fabric hung on a peg next to a compact Imperial shrine. Aster made a subtle prayer-sign in its direction. If Him on Terra saw fit to throw a bit of extra good luck his way, Clif would not say no to the favour.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”

Bran had shed any attempt to sound like a common Voidfarer. His smooth Mid-Galactic accent came straight out of a pict-drama. Clif was looking forward to hearing the man speak again. A high-backed office chair blocked his view: all he could see of Bran was the top of his head - the man was not wearing a hat for once - and his right hand and forearm. Bran swiped at a dataslate with white-gloved fingers, and his sleeve was the same crisp, matching white. Of all the things to wear to a dirty prison planet…

The only other chair in the cabin was similar to Bran’s, with a slightly lower back and wider seat. Clif sheepishly approached and took a perch. Real grox-leather. He’d never sat on anything so expensive in his life. His new boss swiveled towards him.

He’d had theories.

Perhaps he should have had fantasies instead. Throne, the man looked good in a uniform. Now that he was clean-cut, the square symmetrical shapes of his cheeks and jaw took on a statuesque definition. His pale right eye shone against the long, sharp shadow of his nose. Clif didn’t know this man. But he could no longer deny that he knew this face.

The pict-casts did not do him justice.

“So! Ser…” Clif forced his voice back down from a squeak to its usual smoky timbre. “What should I call you in this setting?”

“I haven’t been a Ser in a very long time.” That serious face made a thin smile, but Clif thought he caught a hint of self-deprecating mirth in the man’s eyes.

“My full title, should anyone ask, is Lord Inquisitor Heinrix van Calox. I must say I enjoyed being ‘Bran’. It is a shame that protocol must come between us.”

“Does Henri Corbin really exist, milord, or is he just another of your aliases? Bran, Corbin, Raven - I’m guessing they’re all the same bird.”

“A perceptive assumption! I see Froscher has used my callsign outside of vox channels… again.” The Lord Inquisitor’s brow furrowed for a moment.

“Believe it or not, Corbin is a name I was born with. And yes - I see that your active mind is hard at work, tracing my history. I am not originally from the Expanse, nor even from the Calixis Sector.”

“Your accent sounds… noble, milord.” Almost too noble. Most real Nobs didn’t enunciate Low Gothic like that, there was always some drunken slur or lazy cluster of syllables in the mix - like they wanted someone else to do the work of trying to understand them. Lord van Calox spoke too cleanly.

“I did spend quite some time in Segmentum Solar. Proper Terran diction honours the Emperor. At least - so my tutors were at pains to tell me.”

Another thin smile. This did not feel like a conversation between a servant and his employer. Clif should have been sweating and fretting, but… there was enough of Bran in this man for him to suppress that instinct to flee.

“I enjoy your questions, Clif. This is an excellent time for you to ask them.”

“Not meaning any kind of offence to you or the Holy Inquisition, Ser - uh, milord. Don’t you have people for this? Like Froscher, for example? He could have black-bagged me at any time. I’m sure he could have taken me.” Not that the idea of being in close physical contact with Froscher was appealing to Clif. He shivered thinking about it.

“Froscher is an interesting character - he is direct to the point of rudeness, but I admire his honesty and his loyalty. And you are correct - he is more than capable of apprehending you or any other individual in the Expanse, with two possible exceptions. Hm, perhaps only one… I ought to check where a certain Rillietan is performing this season…”

Clif didn’t recognise that word, but it sounded alien. He decided to listen and absorb more of Lord van Calox’s body language while the man finished his tangential thought and tapped a quick note into his personal cogitator. Clif realised for the first time that there was no obvious place for an onboard servitor - the cabin was far too cramped for that. He didn’t smell any incense either, just a faint hint of scented machine oil. Was there a hidden brain encased in the bulkhead?

The Lord Inquisitor’s hand moved fluidly from the cogitator’s keyboard to the armrest of his chair, then to the knee of his crisp white trousers - he sat carelessly, almost sensually, with one ankle resting on the opposing knee. The tip of Lord van Calox’s braid had been fastened with a red velvet ribbon. It dangled a little too close to the man’s lap. Clif dragged his eyes away before he could be accused of impropriety. If the Inquisitor noticed, he did not seem to care.

“I believe we have a mutual interest in one another, Master Aster. If I need Enforcers, I can easily requisition troops from the Vheabos VI Penal Battalion - your old comrades in arms. You have a keen mind, one that is wasted in such service. It took you a mere three rounds of regicide to become familiar with the Cadian Defence.”

“Is that unusual?”

Lord van Calox exhaled gently through his nose. His ice-blue right eye glinted faintly.

“The Inquisition is spread thin in the Expanse, Clif. I am in need of people who can think for themselves, form conclusions and take decisive action for the good of this sector.”

The Lord Inquisitor leaned forward, propping his elbow over his knee. That vivid mismatched gaze bored into Clif.

“I want you to become an Acolyte.”

Lord van Calox leaned right back again before Clif could get a response out - perhaps it was for the best, how was he supposed to say no to someone with that much power? The Inquisitor picked up the dataslate he had been consulting earlier and handed it to Clif.

“Here is the autopsy report on the man you murdered ten years ago. It may be of interest.”

Clif took the slate carefully in both hands. He half expected it to be weighed down with the burden of old guilt - but no, it was just a regular dataslate. He mumbled his way through the records, trying not to mix up any letters or words. Several medical-sounding terms eluded him. He understood the section about wounds just fine, though. Bludgeoning. Laceration. Long words for a quick and messy act of violence. A couple of lines stood out among the dancing jumble.

“Tumour.” He put a finger under the next line to steady his vision. “Mutation.”

Clif glanced up from the slate at the Lord Inquisitor, who was watching him intently - almost… like he was looking at Clif’s insides…

“Who was he, milord?”

“He was a priest of the Ecclesiarchy.” Shit. Clif hadn’t realised. He hadn’t been dressed in any robes… just those grubby leathers.

“Um. Don’t they give people full health checks when they volunteer to become priests?”

Clif was pretty certain about that. His estranged daughter was living with the Ecclesiarchy, in one of their big churches. The big hats didn’t recruit obvious mutants - they’d checked to make sure Dru had the right number of fingers and toes.

“They do indeed, Master Aster, they do indeed. Tell me - in the time that I’ve observed you, you have never seemed like a man who is prone to random violence. Provocations aside, why did you kill this person?”

“He smelled wrong.”

Clif felt the heat surge to his face. He realised he sounded insane. Had he just fucked everything up?

“Intriguing.”

The Lord Inquisitor took the dataslate back. His face was impassive - no, it was alert, but the man wasn’t focusing on Clif. He looked like he was pondering a regicide problem.

Aster waited just in case Lord van Calox decided to share his insights. The distinct pause, followed by a backwards shift in the Inquisitor’s body language, made it clear that the subject of Clif’s criminal past was not up for further discussion. Maybe that was for the best. Lord van Calox’s expression brightened: he clapped his gloved hands together, dispelling any residual tension in the room.

“I think that concludes the less formal aspects of the evaluation process. You’ll need to travel with me to Dargonus, then eventually on to Foulstone to take your official vows of service, but in the meantime - I happen to have a uniform in exactly your size.”

There was genuine mirth in the Inquisitor’s voice. So that was why he’d taken Clif’s measurements!

“Report back to Froscher, he’ll get you settled in.” Lord van Calox extended a gloved hand. “Welcome to the Holy Inquisition, Agent Aster.”

Agent Aster. It did have a nice ring to it.

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen

Summary:

Hal meets some colleagues.

The pale oval of her face would’ve been the envy of Calixian nobility: its pattern of nicks and scars, less so. Her black hair was kept up in a bun: the cartilage of her left ear had been patched with a slim band of golden metal. What appeared to be a hand-drilled hole in the lobe served as an anchor point for a vox-bead when it was not in use. Clif supposed she could loop an earring through there, too, if she wanted. Practical.

Whoever had once shot this woman in the face with a splinter rifle was now dead. Clif Aster felt sure of that. She extended a small red-gloved hand to him in greeting. Clif’s new uniform creaked when he reached out to shake it.

“Interrogator Emma Xue - I’ve heard a bit about you, Almost-Acolyte Aster. Then again, I suppose that is my job.”

Her fingers were strong. Xue gave Clif a very understated smile. The Interrogator’s expression reminded him of seasoned Pankration fighters squaring up in the ring. Friendly apex predators. Their politeness told you: Nothing personal, kid, but I’m about to kick your arse. Then again, her facial muscles might just be damaged. Clif decided to choose the less scary interpretation until he got to know her better.

“Emperor’s blessings on you, Interrogator. And thanks for going out of your way to greet me. I expect I’ll be relying on my seniors a fair bit as I learn the ropes.”

“I’ll try to be patient with you.” This time the smile left a faint crinkle at the corner of Xue’s right eye - but not the left one. So she did have some nerve damage. Clif decided it was best not to stare, in case she mistook his curiosity for pity. The red of her gloves stood out.

“Are those a badge of office, Interrogator?”

“I think it’s just a practical design. I’ll leave you to guess what an Interrogator’s duties might involve. We can’t all keep our pretty fingers clean like Raven does.”

Okay, no, she was scary and Clif’s first assessment of her was correct. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, mirroring Xue’s stance.

“You really love to get a read on people, don’t you, Clif Aster? I don’t bite: I just enjoy winding up overthinkers like you. Come on - a big boy like you must have an appetite, and we can’t all subsist off noodles and paranoia like our beloved Lord Inquisitor. Let’s hit the mess hall. My shout.”

Xue’s tone left no room for disagreement. She wasn’t asking him on a lunch date, this was more like a test. Clif let his nod become a small reverence and aligned himself to fall in step with her.

“You even bow like a martial artist. Froscher thinks he can smarten you up, but I’m not so sure. Maybe I’ll bet against him.”

The Velvet Glove was the strangest Voidship Clif Aster had ever been on. The Acolytes’ decks were relatively streamlined, if festooned with Imperial shrine upon Imperial shrine. Someone clearly loved their candles… but the sacred decorations seemed more recent than the main design of the ship. Normally the bulkheads would be constructed with inbuilt nooks so that prefabricated shrines could be placed without restricting the main thoroughfare. Here, they’d been bolted onto the plasteel.

In a wild inversion of social norms, the communal spaces were more opulent than the upper decks. Every wall seemed to be padded or papered in deep reds: doorways were encrusted with gaudy curlicues and chunks of millennia-old plaster. The mess hall - not the Officers’ Mess, mind you, but the big one for regular troops - was lit with rows of small chandeliers. Lumens and crystals were missing here and there among the clustered arms and cups, but the effect was still magnificent. Tin-tile panels reflected and refracted the lights until the ceiling seemed like a field of stars.

“Not our doing. The Inquisition doesn’t have that kind of money.”

Xue tapped a gloved finger against the leg of her uniform, redirecting Clif’s attention before he could make a tit of himself. He was grateful for the discreet gesture.

“This yacht used to belong to Rogue Trader Aspyce Chorda - I see you’ve heard of her. Her descendant Incendia is a bit holier-than-thou, and didn’t approve of her ancestor’s piratical antics. So this luxury craft is on long-term loan to the Lord Inquisitor. Well, his predecessor, strictly speaking, but nobody’s come to collect.”

Refectory-style tables with built-in bench seating lined the mess hall. Xue and Aster availed themselves of a lunch tray each: Clif carefully swung his legs around, but Xue just put her palms on the table and hopped into her spot with both feet at once. It was such a weirdly acrobatic mannerism that Clif nearly lost his train of thought. He considered the kinds of work questions that might be acceptable to ask in a profession that was prone to secrecy.

“Have you served more than one Lord Inquisitor? I’m curious to know if they’re all like Lord van Calox.” Aster appreciated his mouthful of spicy black beans. Good chow.

“Ha! I must be showing my age.” Emma Xue really didn’t look old. “I’ve been in two Conclaves and served three Inquisitors, though the first one wasn’t a Lord but a Lady. I grew up on Scintilla, got recruited out of a tanna-house of all places, and busted my ass all the way up to Acolyte.”

Xue gave Clif a look that was more teasing than critical as she shovelled back a spoonful of bean mix, swallowing while it was still hot.

“Don’t worry, big boy, I’m sure you’ve earned your stripes. My boss shipped me through The Maw and transferred me to make up the numbers for the Koronus Conclave, which was building itself back up from jack all. The Expanse tends to eat Inquisitors up and spit ‘em out. Aquairre, Marr... and now Calcazar I suppose. To answer your real question, though: no two Inquisitors are the same. Some get a hard-on for burning every witch they come across, and some-”

“And some are witches.” Clif poked at his beans.

“Well. Sanctioned psykers.” Xue gave Clif a sidelong glance. “Do not fuck with van Calox.”

“Throne, I’d never! I was just wondering if he cheated in the ring.”

Xue beamed at him like he’d just said his first words. The scars on the left side of her face crinkled up into faint waves… like tiny sand dunes.

“That’s not his style, big boy.” Another heaping spoonful of food vanished down Xue’s gullet.

“So he’s…” Good? Honourable? Clif didn’t even know what he was trying to say.

“He’s new to the job. The Lord Inquisitor likes to keep a tight-knit team. He lets us plan our own missions and he makes sure nobody operates alone. It’s a nice change after Calcazar. I don’t regret risking my neck for van Calox. I think that’s about as good as it gets. Want to go back for seconds?”

Holy Throne, her plate was clean already. Clif hastily scraped up his leftovers and shifted on his bench seat.

“Yeah, all right.”

 

___

 

The new kid kept gravitating towards the veterans. He could have sought out other raw recruits - Raven had taken on a batch of ex-convicts and ambitious sorts during their stay on Vheabos VI, like he always did. He requisitioned them twenty at a time, looking to train them, not just use them as cannon fodder. It was a slow way to build an army, but it weeded out potential dissenters and saboteurs. Aster had plenty in common with the other greenhorns. He could’ve sought them out in the mess hall, bonded a bit, trained with them in a group. Nobody was forcing him to become an Acolyte; he could've stuck to being an Enforcer or just a plainclothes agent.

That wasn’t Clif Aster’s style. The kid had good interpersonal instincts and a nose for groxshit. He’d ignored his peers. Instead he’d sniffed out the crew members with skills and experience and was busy attaching himself to them. Hal Froscher wanted to know why.

Froscher’s duties as an Inquisition Observer weren’t official: on paper he was Heinrix’s aide. The crew didn’t always know he was watching. The Emperor had given him a talent for seeing without being seen. If his presence imparted a vague feeling of unease, if people glanced around the corridors behind them after he’d already gone, they seldom identified the source of their paranoia. His other abilities, his old jobs - those were something he barely spoke about even with Xue or van Calox. The crew knew he could kick arse, though, even at his age.

So it was both surprising and unsurprising for young Aster to request a sparring match with him. Unsurprising in the sense that young ex-convicts often fell back on their prison instincts: when they entered a new institution they’d always get the measure of the meanest bastard on the block. Surprising, because Froscher didn’t see Clif displaying the usual body language.

Normally, tough in-fighting types would square up and puff their chests out a little before they got down to business. Clif was the ideal Imperial specimen, he had plenty of muscles to flex. It wasn’t something you’d see an Aeldari doing - Hal wondered if the xenos compared humans with primates because of the difference in threat displays. Then again, a Jokaero wouldn’t bother with a big show, they’d just casually rip your arms off, so who knew.

Clif acted more like the Jokaero: he didn’t shift his feet into a fencer’s angular stance like an Aeldari would, so he wasn’t cribbing from a Corsair’s playbook. He kept his stance very relaxed, even as he invited Froscher to spar. Nothing in his posture gave away his actual fighting style.

Oh, you’re a clean son of a grox, aren’t you, Aster? Clean as the skin on those forearms. A real professional. Of course, you’re still about to get your arse handed to you.

Hal’s fist was in Clif’s solar plexus before - oh - the kid had skidded backwards at the last second and avoided the impact. Aster looked correctly wary of Froscher’s timing. His downward glance told Hal that Clif hadn’t actually seen the punch coming. Maybe the kid was sensitive to his anti-psychic aura. Oho, did Raven have a budding psyker on his hands?

Froscher decided to do a little in-fighting of his own. He’d soon confirm his suspicions if his proximity made the kid retch or pass out. Hal would have to be careful not to trigger an awakening: the Velvet Glove was in the middle of a shallow Warp jump, just scooting over to the next system, but it was still a bad time to deal with a newborn psyker.

To Clif’s credit, the big lad didn’t skip away to safety when Froscher closed in on him. Aster wasn’t looking comfortable - few people were in the presence of a psychic Null - but Froscher wasn’t noxious enough to drain the life out of him, and the kid wasn’t enough of a sorcerer to wilt on the spot. They were similar, then: just gifted enough to be interesting, two sides of a coin. Hal was starting to understand why Heinrix had been so insistent on recruiting this one.

Aster’s Pankration experience had given him the good sense to roll his shoulders backward and take some of the percussive impact out of Froscher’s body blows. The kid would have some nasty bruises tomorrow, but he’d managed to keep his ribcage intact. He protected his head with a Corsair-inspired deflection that Hal swore the kid had picked up from sparring with van Calox. He was a pretty quick study, then. Unfortunately for Clif, Froscher had been trained from childhood to kill Aeldari: the kid’s fluid deflection was rewarded with a kick to his midsection.

Clif was too sluggish to dodge out of the way this time. Hal reckoned the lad was holding up pretty well despite his opponent’s enervating influence. Aster could maybe go for a couple more rounds before he’d be ready to take an unscheduled nap. Froscher could feel the slight pins-and-needles tingle where the limits of his faint aura met Clif’s body envelope. It was nothing compared to the pain of choking out a Farseer. Hal could do this all day.

Inexperienced fighters were easily tempted into tit-for-tat fighting: if you hit them with a blow to the gut, they’d try to deliver a blow to the gut as payback. Froscher left his midsection just exposed enough to be inviting. The young man got in close, braving the nausea that caused him to go a bit pale when he slid under Hal’s guard. But Clif didn’t take Hal’s bait. Instead he went for a devious little knee strike.

Honour prevented the kid from hitting Hal with a nut shot - Clif went for the inner thigh instead. Stupid call. Froscher’s bioengineered thigh muscles tensed for the impact and took the blow just fine. Clif, meanwhile, hopped back a couple of steps and flexed his right leg.

You weren’t expecting your kneecap to hurt like that, were you, kid?

Since Aster now wanted to put some distance between them, Froscher decided he was free to show off a bit. Decades of practice made the next move as natural as breathing: flex the left leg, engage the enhanced tissue of the knee and thigh, feel that impulse down the calf muscle and Achilles tendon, then spring up and flex the arch of the foot. Hal had learned many kinds of leaps: a fox’s vertical hop, a cat’s sinuous strike, the horizontal bounding charge of a cyber-mastiff. This was a dancer’s manoeuvre, learned the hard way from tangling with Harlequins. The sudden verticality, the colourful whirl in mid-air, it was all engineered to startle the opponent.

Aster had the presence of mind to set up a counter with his elbow. There was no time for him to get out of the way, so he did his best in the circumstances. Froscher pivoted out of his telegraphed move - a spinning head-high kick that curved downwards. Hal used Clif’s own upraised arm as a fulcrum to twist the trajectory of his movement. Froscher flicked the back of one knee behind Clif’s neck, wrapping both legs round the kid’s head like a vise. For the finisher, Hal flexed his own spine backwards in a suplex motion and rammed his elbow into the small of Aster’s back.

Froscher didn’t want to permanently damage the kid, so he didn’t apply enough force to snap Clif’s neck. He didn’t strike Clif’s spine or his liver with that vicious elbow. Hal also didn’t crush the kid’s head between his thighs - that would’ve been a classic Harlequin move, messy but impressive. Instead Froscher untangled his legs from around Clif’s head and disengaged with a backwards flic-flac.

Aster slumped to his knees and vomited. He managed to remain conscious, which was a good sign. The kid also had the good sense to raise his left arm and wave a gesture of surrender. He knew Froscher had let him off easy.

“Gimme a second…”

Clif groggily took a few breaths, then slowly got to his feet. It took the kid a while to shake off the torpor. Froscher just did what he did best, stood back and watched.

Froscher watched him shuffle to the edge of the training ground, and Hal thought that he was going to leave and salve his wounded pride. Instead the youngster got a bucket, a towel and some rags. Clif rinsed the vomit out of his mouth and wiped his chin. Then he went back in-ring and rinsed away the sad little puddle he’d made. Only once he’d finished tidying up did he flex his knee and elbow, testing his weight on the leg that had connected with Froscher’s thigh. Aster appeared satisfied: he adopted his earlier relaxed posture and approached Froscher once more.

Nice and clean again, huh, kid? Just how you like it. You’d rinse away your own shadow if you could. I know the feeling.

“Thanks for the spar, uncle. Could you show me that kick and twist attack once more?”

Hal wasn’t the expressive sort, but he had to crack a lopsided smile at the kid’s eagerness.

“Most humans can’t pull off my little dance moves. I assume you’re aware of that, kid, you don’t seem like you’ve got nutripaste for brains.”

Clif smiled back, mirroring Hal’s body language with a slight shift of his hips. Canny bastard! He’s trying to get on my good side.

“That’s fine. I’d still like to see it again.”

What in the Void was his deal? Was the youngster ambitious or just a masochist? No, he didn’t have that Drukhari look to him - Hal couldn't see a perverse glint in the kid’s eyes. Damn weird things, Clif’s eyes - their big, placid brown pools reflected everything and gave away nothing.

Aster’s gaze felt just a little too earnest. Froscher felt seen - and he wasn’t used to being seen. It was like making eye contact with an Aeldari, but without the ensuing reaction of mutual disgust. The kid was unnaturally observant, all right. Clif should dislike Hal: the flavours of their respective souls didn’t pair well. If Aster was disguising his discomfort, the kid was doing a damn good job of it.

Froscher recognised that focus. Clif had left the ring, he’d got his breath back, but his mind had never left the fight. Everything he’d done - the cleaning break, even this conversation - was a tactic to learn more about his opponent.

Or maybe it wasn’t about the fight. Maybe Hal was just being paranoid and the kid genuinely wanted to make friends.

Dammit. Raven was right: he’d make a good agent.

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen

Summary:

Meanwhile, on Fenris...

“I saw a ghost on the drekkar, this time. The shape of another man.”

Speaker Kasper’s breath went in, held fast, then passed out through the aperture of his mask. The skull motif hid the twist of his mouth, much like the bulk of his armour hid his body language. Ulfar tried not to assume that the Speaker of the Dead was displeased.

“A Shield-Brother?”

“No.”

Speaker Kasper knew that it was not so. Perhaps he had hoped otherwise. This time his exhalation was accompanied by a low murmur, not quite a growl. Ulfar could see the older Wolf’s breath in the chill air. A little cloud: it dissipated as soon as it appeared.

“Who was he, then?”

A xenos, wearing a Farseer’s robes. But Ulfar could not tell him that.

“An old foe.”

“Morkai’s voyage is seldom shared with an enemy… hrrrn. That is a two-faced omen. I am not surprised. Yours has always been a strange wyrd, Brother Ulfar.”

Speaker Kasper flexed the massive digits of his power gauntlet. Ulfar strained to hear the faint hiss of tiny servos within the armour. The Speaker of the Dead loomed large in the confined space of Ulfar’s medicae bay. His Shield-Brother was bulky enough to make even an Astartes-sized seat seem small.

They must be on Fenris, though there was no window to show Ulfar the time of day or the view from the Fang. He knew the smell of this room from the last time he had slept the long sleep of stasis. Twice now, his soul’s drekkar had carried him halfway to Kjalhalla. Twice now, it had circled back and left him in the mortal world.

Ulfar inhaled and tasted a faint, familiar tang of ozone and salt. The crisp air cut through the unpleasant halitosis that coated his tongue. His eyes were still crusted with a thick layer of sleep-dust. His hips felt stiff, and there were bed-sores on his lower back. Waking from a coma felt just as disgusting the second time around.

Some of the medicae bay’s details were not as they had been the last time Ulfar Everlost had rested here. There were no Tech-Priest thralls in attendance. Speaker Kasper held vigil alone. The old Wolf’s cloak had changed in the intervening decades since their last meeting. A new patch of lush, dark fur decorated his right shoulder where he had once worn Fenrisian wolf-hide. A xenobeast: Ulfar did not recognise the species. Yet another battle that he had missed.

“How long did I spend in stasis this time?”

“You slept for eight passes of the ice-floes.”

Ulfar managed to smile at the news, despite the itching of his eyes and the dryness of his lips.

“For the Everlost, that is not so long!”

The skull-faced mask turned as swiftly as a bird’s head, pivoting to stare directly at Ulfar.

“You know that you must leave this place, Ulfar.”

“But, vlak, I have only just reached home…”

Ocean-grey eyes observed the bed-bound Astartes from the hollows of bony eye sockets. Ulfar was surprised by the sadness in Speaker Kasper’s gaze. Had he held vigil during Ulfar’s slow transition back to consciousness?

Ulfar looked down at his hands. Intravenous fluid lines connected with the dataports in the skin of his forearms, ferrying clean blood and nutrients through the warm, fat tubes. His beard was an overgrown mess of red knots in the lower half of his peripheral vision. He was hardly the vision of a mighty warrior.

Ulfar’s muscles were only slightly atrophied. He could don his Wolf-Skin and walk out of here today if duty required it, even if he was not yet strong enough for battle. What awaited him? A shuttle? A mission? Ulfar glanced back up at the Speaker of the Dead, looking for answers in his skull-face.

“You will have the time you need to recover. I ask that you do not linger over-long in the feasting hall. The Stormbiters are visiting the Fang.” Speaker Kasper’s helmet tilted back, and the older Astartes let out a long sigh. “I will handle Thorbald’s tantrums. Focus on resting.”

Ulfar wondered what distorted tales Thorbald Ironhide might have brought back with him from the Koronus Expanse. Grudges tended to fester among Space Wolves, long after bruises had healed. Ulfar would never be welcome among the Stormbiters again, not after Eufrates. Speaker Kasper shook his skull-helm slowly from side to side.

“The Great Companies ought to stand together against the growing storm. Instead our Wolf-packs scuffle over petty trifles.”

Ulfar paused halfway through untangling his beard. Was a xenos’s honour really that petty? It must seem so in Kasper's eyes. Ulfar's hand went to rest upon his cuirass out of instinct. He was not wearing his Wolf-Skin. His fingers grasped at his shirt-front. Ulfar's hearts thundered under his palm: he remembered the sting of an Assassinorum needle, the pain of paralysis that had stilled the hammering in his chest.

Cursed be that traitorous Inquisitor, for robbing him of his battle with the Yngir! Curse Calcazar for robbing him of a proper end!

An armoured hand touched the back of Ulfar’s clenched fist with unexpected gentleness. The Speaker of the Dead opened his other gauntlet.

“Are you looking for this, myn ven?”

Ulfar recognised Skjaddi Twice-Thinker’s rune-inscribed amulet, the bones and teeth of old trophies, the leather strap that kept his keepsakes bound together. He recognised the flash of diamond-patterned silk, blue and purple and gold. A kind friend must have tied it in place.

Ah, yes. That reminded him: He had made a promise to that irritating old ghost, had he not? Speaker Kasper was cunning enough to guess that Ulfar was keeping secrets, but the older Wolf did not chide him for it.

“I kept your possessions safe, as I have kept you safe while you slumbered, Shield-Brother.”

Ulfar bowed his head. “I am in your debt, Speaker.”

“Not at all, skald.”

There was a smile somewhere under the skull-mask, Ulfar could tell. He had learned to intuit these things from the tilt of a head, the play of shadows against wraithbone.

“The All-Father’s rainbow is a difficult omen, Brother Ulfar. It appears where the sun’s light touches the edge of a storm. I saw its colours in the air before you woke. Has your storm passed, or is it about to break upon us? I hope that I have read the bones correctly.”

A Speaker of the Dead did not trade in uncertainties. Ulfar’s hackles bristled as if he had brushed up against a Blacksoul’s chill-inducing aura. Was there any good choice of words for what Ulfar wanted to ask? Speaker Kasper leaned forward slightly, cutting Ulfar’s questions off before he could voice them.

“A two-faced omen dances in the rain.
We will not host Oblivion again.”

There was a trace of self-satisfied amusement in Speaker Kasper’s voice. Ulfar tried not to let his shoulders sag with relief, even as his hearts redoubled their rhythm.

The Arebennian was alive! That meant many things… the Yngir must have been defeated. Ulfar anxiously wondered if the little aett-vater and their other huskaerls had made it out alive, but he sensed that now was not the time to bother a Speaker of the Dead with questions. The old Wolf leaned back again, crossing his arms with a wheeze of servomotors and the faint scrape of metal against metal.

“It will be difficult enough for my Shield-Siblings and I to take up the hunt, if the All-Father calls us to fight against your… fellow skald. The taste of battle turns bitter in the mouth, when foes have once shared mjod and hearth-tales.”

Ulfar gaped. How in Russ’s name had that happened? An Aeldari Solitaire, drinking at the Fang? There should have been a bloodbath! Ulfar lurched forward, snagging himself on a nutrient tube, dying to hear the details of this outlandish saga. Speaker Kasper wagged an armoured index finger at him.

“Quench your hopes for more than this brief truce, Brother Ulfar. Your dealings with the motley one have forced you to the very fringe of our pack. The wind is keen and chilly there. You cannot continue to act as the All-Father’s unthinking weapon. You cannot be as you were before. You must learn to become the Grey Hunter before your time, journeying alone towards wisdom. It is a journey I know well. I do not envy you, Shield-Brother.”

Speaker Kasper’s exhausted bulk sagged under the weight of his fur-clad pauldrons. Ulfar tried not to let his own shoulders drop. He had put the Speaker of the Dead in a difficult situation, but he refused to feel ashamed about it.

“I have wandered the stars before. It is a burden I can bear alone.”

Ulfar felt lighter already. Yes. He could leave the Fang behind, if it came to that...

“Easy now, red-blooded pup!”

Speaker Kasper’s laughter was a low rumble, softer than Ulfar had expected.

“I will not force you into defiance. The bones speak to me of a duty and a purpose that awaits a lone Wolf. For most of your Shield-Brothers, service in the Death Watch would be considered a penance. In this case, I think the task will suit you very well. Read this.”

Speaker Kasper produced a worn dataslate with startling alacrity, whipping it out from under his fur-trimmed cape and tossing it in Ulfar’s lap. The stuttering green sigils were upside down, but Ulfar made out the headings at a glance.

“I have heard no sagas of this new Calixian Inquisitor's deeds, Brother Ulfar, but I think he is known to you.”

Now it was Ulfar’s turn to smile. Mirth swelled in his belly and worked its way up to his chest. Laughter made his ribcage ache, but he did not care. Calcazar had met his well-deserved end: ah, praise the All-Father’s sweet vindictive justice! And the Aett-vater thrived. That was good news indeed.

Perhaps he did not have to be an entirely lone Wolf after all.

Chapter 15: Chapter Fifteen

Summary:

Definitely A Normal Robot, Nothing To See Here.

++ KOHEI POSTERITY DATA-LOG #4206.163.29.350/Alpha ++

+ LOCATION: Mundus Valancius / Dargonus Sector #a5a292 / Adeptus Administratum Central Processing Complex +

+ MISSION: Preparations for Kiava Gamma pilgrimage +

Hey Kohei, are you getting this? It’s your buddy Andros-10 here. Your visual processing’s been somewhat laggy in recent cycles, so the vid I’m recording might be out of sync. It’s worth running the images, I promise.

So this unit’s name is Caffeinator-Censer Cubis Delphim. Ancestors, I’m never going to get over these Far-spacer Brokhyr and their idents! The whimsy levels are off the charts. This Delphim character amuses me. They’re a special one even among the Cogs, and quite eccentric. I’ll draw your attention to the crab-legs below the samovar. That’s right, you're looking at a Dark Mechanicum-pattern chassis with the spikes sawn off. Apparently the Administratum either doesn’t know what they have here, or they don't care. Look, don’t ask me about human hypocrisy. It’s not like the Warp has any claim on me, I have no skin in this game. Or any skin at all, haha.

Hernkyn Gerda’s here too, buddy! I know you love to see her so let me just rotate my dome and get her on cam. Yep, she is still as short-tempered as ever. If you’ve got a problem with her attitude, Kohei, just remember: you created her specs. Or maybe you don’t remember any more. I don’t know, take it up with the Crucible. I still think she’s cute. Easily my favourite organic buddy this millennium. You should make more redheads.

The stuff I’m about to put in my alimentary hatch is called recaf. Yep, same old humans, still addicted to caffeine. This Delphim loon hasn’t got a working frontal lobe, but by the Hearth, they make a great cup of joe. Do you think I should tell them how to make Bru? Ah, I probably shouldn’t. If one of these Far-spacers drank it, they’d get the turbo shits. It would be funny though.

What? Oh, fair enough, Gerda. Hey Kohei, we’re going to see the Mistress of Seals now. Maybe I’ll show you more Imperium Brokhyr-Priests later. Ugh, and I have to pretend to be a Kastelan while I’m in this office, it’s the worst. I have no mouth and I must scream. That’s just my little joke, Kohei. But yeah. You know how it is with these Far-spacers.

I’ll leave you with the vox-recording of Gerda’s chat, all right? Stay frosty! Andros OUT.

++ VID-FEED: TERMINATED ++

++ FANE_KOHEI SYNC PROTOCOLS: UPLOAD PAUSED ++

++ BUFFERING… ++

 

___

 

Quills and paper dance.
Human history’s a scroll:
People are its ink.

That was how it had started. Gerda had suggested to Andros that they pass the time in the queue by composing a renga together - each adding on the other’s snippets of poetry till they made a long chain. Andros had kindly furnished a roll of ticker-paper to keep track.

After the first few chrons, they’d run out of roll. Andros started another one. And another. The last entry in their wee game looked like this:

Far-spacers are pigs.
Can we please just kill them all?
Ancestors Help Me.

That was Andros-10 all right. Underneath the final line, the cranky robot had printed a grouping of tightly spaced punctuation marks. If you squinted, the pattern crudely depicted a couple of angry faces. The only time Andros had ever worn a facial expression was when Gerda, practically a babe at the time, had drawn eyebrows onto their dome with a black marker pen. The Ironkin wasn’t built to show the outward signs of their frustration, but it was building up, all right.

Thousands of sleepy, scruffy humans had shuffled around Gerda, as they waited for chron after chron. The jostling crowd was aggravating. The Adeptus Administratum’s waiting rooms were not set up with adequate bathroom facilities. Andros didn’t need to go. They liked the performance of using the toilet even if they didn’t shit - for them it was about the gossip and camaraderie of taking a break with shift-buddies, and besides, bathroom break time was their Hearth-given right. It was well for Gerda too. The old Hernkyn could hold her waste in for days if she really had to, and her coveralls held a discreet catheter attachment that she could use whenever. As for the rest of the petitioners, the scabby wee scads were lacking in basic dignity. Their options involved going where they stood or losing their place in the queue, so guess which option they chose. Even with servitors coming by to mop the floors, the place reeked of piss and sweat.

The most offensive aspect of this bureaucratic purgatory was its utter inefficiency. Gerda had the inbuilt instincts of all Kin: she was aching to do something with her hands, to move out of the queue and go sort that overflowing filing cabinet in the corner, to get a mop or possibly a flamer and flush the piss and vermin out of the waiting room’s dankest crevices. Ancestors, give her something to do that was anything but fuckin’ waiting!

First they’d gone to the front counter and waited for some tosspot to direct them to the AdMech enquiries desk. Then some snivelling Technomat said they couldn’t be seen without an AdMech electoo. Then Gerda got the go-ahead to use her old dog-tags from the Imperial Guard. Thank the Fane she’d done that tour of duty sprucing up Titan World Lucius’s anti-Voidcraft cannons, because that had got her into the AdMech’s good books. Not that it mattered, because when they did finally see a person and not a servo-skull, Andros couldn’t get certified for shite. They weren’t a Martian-made Kastelan unit, and they had no serial number or paperwork that matched up to any of the known Imperial worlds.

Gerda wanted to scream. One bloody look at Andros’s chassis would tell you that they were clearly human made. Their suit had that archaeotech vibe, sure - they didn’t have stupid eagles or skull motifs drawn on ‘em, but the design screamed Kastelan, inspired by the sacred human form. What more did these cog-brains want? Nothing doing, the lousy lumps! The Coggies turned ‘em away and back to the regular Administratum offices they trudged, with Gerda lugging a stack of new forms, somethin’ about registering salvage. Salvage her fucking arse! Andros had practically raised her. Imagine calling your uncle ‘salvage’, fuck’s sake.

This back and forth would never have taken place if Andros had just been able to say “Hey, I’m a citizen, I can sign a pilgrim’s petition on my own behalf!” But that was an objectively fuckin’ terrible idea. Even Como, Gerda’s own nibling, was careful to hide behind a thick veil of plausible deniability where it came to the curmudgeonly robots. An intelligent machine? One without a hint of brain matter inside its shiny metal globe-head? Oh yeah, that was a right problem in the Imperium. A right problem indeed.

Maybe the Mistress of Seals would be able to sort ‘em out with some kind of special dispensation. Gerda didn’t fancy her odds. Madam Cera had the face of a villainous boss from one of her childhood camp-tales. Her tight wee mouth was all puckered up like a ship-cat’s arse. She was thin, too. Her arms were near as skinny as the quills she pushed. Maybe her buttocks were soft from all that sitting and bossin’ about, but the rest of her was all scrag and sinew. She’d be a tough customer.

“Smooth casting and good pickings to ye, Madam Cera.” Gerda’s stocky torso wasn’t designed for bendability, but she managed an attempt at a bow. One hand formed the sign of the Cog over the apron of her coveralls - old Forge World habits died hard.

“Speak quickly, abhuman, or go away!”

The Mistress of Seals barely glanced up from the sheaf of paperwork she was examining. A jointed manipulator arm - quite fine work, Gerda noted - whipped out from the lass’s chair, extended over her shoulder and flicked a misshapen purity seal off one of the documents. Madam Cera waved at a flustered attendant, who took the document and dashed off to correct it. The skinny woman finally gave Gerda and Andros-10 some attention. She raised an eyebrow behind her multifocal lenses in the robot’s direction.

“I am not insulting you, by the way. My time is equally precious and my patience equally limited, no matter who weasels their way into my office. You are known to me, Lay-Enginseer Auxiliary Gerda. Was it necessary to bring your metal companion here? Space is at a premium in this study, and they are not compact.”

Andros made a mournful noise in binharic cant. Gerda had advised them not to speak during the meeting, and like bloody usual, they would exploit every possible loophole in that advice. She turned towards the grouchy robot and, when nobody was watching, grimaced at them in the hope that they’d stop makin’ a scene. Gerda focused back on Madam Cera before the lass lost patience with them.

“AdMechs wanted to inspect the Kastelan unit in person, Mam Cera. They’re pretty rare, as you know: the petitioners out in the hall were gettin’ distracted, seeing one up close. That’s inefficient, innit? So I thought, it were well if I just brought ‘em in here, out of sight.”

“I see your point. You have been causing quite the stir around my offices, Mistress Gerda. Might I enquire what’s been causing you to kick up such a fuss?”

“Kick up such a-” Gerda’s fists tensed. She tucked them into the pockets of her coveralls, hoping Andros wouldn’t notice.

“This whole visit has been an absolute shitshow, pardon my Voidsman’s tongue there, Mam Cera. Three full Shifts and two Downtimes we’ve spent, just lollygaggin’ in the waiting rooms. Two more full Shifts at least, if we’re countin’ the waste of time that was the bloody AdMechs’ offices! Ancestors, to think of all I could’a been getting on with in that time… Feedin’ the Void, it is. Surely you can’t abide such waste, Mam Cera.”

The harried-looking attendant had scrambled back, deposited another stack of paperwork on the Mistress of Seals’ desk and scarpered as quick as a Void-rat. The woman had already turned to pick up another document from her existing bundle.

“And?”

“And what?”

Maram Cera looked down her nose at Gerda. Her right eye was distorted and fish-like as it stared through her magnifying lenses.

“Have you concluded your litany of complaints or am I to expect more, Auxiliary Gerda?”

The Hernkyn scowled and huffed. A stray curl of greying ginger hair fluttered up from her fringe, she noticed it was out of place and that made her angrier somehow. Inefficient. Disorderly. Void could take this awful bloody place…

“What was the point o’ sendin’ us hither and yon, up desk down desk, if your answer were just goin’ to be No?”

“Procedure.”

“Sod yer Procedure.”

“I beg your pardon!”

The skittering of autoquills had abruptly stopped. Madam Cera’s face was pale as waxworks, with two wee pink circles at her cheekbones. She wasn’t a big human, but she was taller than Gerda - most Dargonians were. The Mistress of Seals used every inch of that height to wither Gerda with a savage glare.

“Tradition and Procedure are the blessed gifts of the God-Emperor and Master of Mankind, Auxiliary Gerda. I expected better from a Squat Trader who has moved within Imperial circles. While you are a guest in the von Valancius Protectorate, Rogue Trader Como has seen fit to accord you with certain courtesies. Those courtesies come with obligations. This is my House, Squat. While you are in it, you shall obey my rules. They are inviolate and unchanging.”

“Then why have the rules changed on us, Mam Cera? We were takin’ holy pilgrimages to the blessed Machine Spirit on Kiava Gamma, and it weren’t any kind of problem to the Cog-Priests. Now all of a sudden they say the Kastelans can’t come! T’en’t right! If it ain’t you making these changes, then who’s makin’ trouble for me and mine?”

Madam Cera drummed her fingers impatiently on her desk. “Take it up with the legislature, with the Cognisance Fleet - or better yet, go trouble your precious Rogue Trader about it. It is not my concern. I fail to see why we are both wasting time over a few souped-up jerrycans.”

Andros, who had loomed silently behind Gerda this whole time, started up an absolute racket. Mechanisms whirred, panels of plasteel cladding lifted and an arsenal of mining tools emerged, clacking and drilling and fixin’ to be as menacing as possible. Gerda frantically pressed against Andros’s torso plate, concealing the gigantic cutting laser she knew the robot kept in their tummy.

“Calm your bloody cogs, come on, mate!” Shit, shit! This was the last thing she bloody needed! “I’m so sorry Mam Cera, they’re just uh, reacting to the ambient stress levels, I’ll calm down and then Andros’ll calm down too!” Gerda looked daggers up at the Kastelan’s featureless head. “If they bloody know what’s good for ‘em.”

A fresh feed of ticker tape emerged from Andros’s belly. This time, the mess of typographical symbols vaguely resembled a row of hazard symbols: GHS02, Flammable Material. Gerda tore off the paper tape, nodded and tucked it into her coveralls. There were worse ways for an Ironkin to vent their displeasure. Hang in there, big buddy.

Two crisp hand-claps: Multiple servitors came barging into the study at Madam Cera’s summons.

“These petitioners are causing a disturbance. Escort them from the premises at once.”

The servitors stepped forward in unison, all leading with the right foot. It was clear they intended to lay hold of the visitors.

“I really don’t think that’s a great -”

Gerda’s feeble protest was almost inaudible over the sounds of whirring limbs and crunching, rusty joints. Fane’s sake, these constructs had seen better days. The Hernkyn let her limbs go limp as the servitors grabbed her, trying not to worsen the situation.

Andros’s internal speakers blared. Kark it! Gerda had made the wrong move. Andros-10 thought she had been harmed. The Kastelan’s protective instincts were kicking in. The unit took a massive stride towards Gerda, dragging along three servitors that clung to their legs. Andros swung an articulated arm out sideways, catching two servitors at neck-height that were trying to surge in and tackle the enormous Ironkin.

Their heads sheared away from their augmetic-studded bodies on impact, making less of a mess than Gerda had anticipated. The red liquid squelching out of their severed necks was sacred oil and nanoferrite solution. The servitors’ human components must have gotten desiccated and plastinated with age.

She could fix this. She could fix this. Ohhh, Fane, please let her fix this…

Gerda got behind the Kastelan and shoved them out into the hallway before they could harm anyone who actually mattered. Ancestors, this day just kept getting worse.

Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen

Summary:

Trouble at t'mill.

The vox calls started just after the whistles blew to kick off the first shift. Timun Ravor felt the vibration of his vox-bead over the ambient whir and clank of robotic arms getting into position. The hefty clang of the first plasteel panel as it entered the assembly line coincided with the sinking of his own heart. Void damn it! All he wanted was to build some grav-cars. He should never have let those Assembly lads coax him into joining the Guild.

Platon’s message was first in the queue. Ravor got on well with the guy - his athletic constitution made Ravor’s Voidborn frame look positively svelte by comparison. When they went out drinking together, Ravor could pretend to be the dapper one. Platon didn’t mince words, either. The only drawback about him was his voice. Years of Pankration battling had given the big guy cauliflower ears and partial deafness that the cove refused to offset with a cochlear augmetic. When Platon spoke, it was always good common sense but fuck, he was loud. Ravor turned down the volume on his vox-bead as soon as he’d scarpered back into the Foreman’s office, bracing himself for the usual booming greeting.

“RAVOR MATE-” Timun adjusted the volume a bit more. “I hate to bother you at work, but it’s in your interests to hear this before the rest of Dargonus gets wind of it. My boys in the Stevedores’ Union were supposed to make a Tithe delivery this morning, but they’re stuck!”

Timun caught sight of his own scowling face in the thick polythene window that separated him from the din of the factory floor.

“If you’re asking me to unstick you, shipmate, I’ve got my hands full.”

“Oh, it’s bigger than that, comrade. There’s no push that’ll unstick this particular logjam.” That piqued Ravor’s interest. He had units of his own to ship. How far did this logistical holdup spread? He let Platon carry on.

“The Tithe goes to the Adeptus Administratum for audit and tagging. Only, when my boys dropped the containers off, nobody was there to pick up the bloody shipment! Now we’ve got goods just clogging up the warehouses, going nowhere. Emperor knows what’ll happen if the loading zones get full.”

That wasn’t necessarily the end of the world for Ravor: he had his Tithe obligations sorted, and if shipping through the usual channels got blocked, he could always lean on… other customers. Still, it wasn’t like the quill-pushers to be so lax.

“Sounds like a right kark-up. Did your coves get hold of anyone on the staff?”

“Not a one! No Tech-Priests, no Conveyancer-Surveyors, not even a bloody servitor. All they did see was a bunch of, and I quote, ‘huge fucking battle robots’ standing outside all the entrances to the Administratum compound.”

Holy fucking shit! Visions of Necrons flashed in Timun Ravor’s imagination before he blinked them away. He was being paranoid. If those metal bastards were rampaging, the whole planet would be on high alert. This had to be some other groxcrap.

Was it some new outbreak of the Cognisance Fleet civil war? Ravor was under the impression that the Adeptus Mechanicus preferred keeping their feud to the outskirts of the Expanse. Can’t have any uneducated laypersons peeking at their sacred war machines, and all that. He struggled to get his head around the idea of someone waving their codpiece around on the von Valancius capital world in such a blatant manner. Lord Cap’n Como would be hopping mad about it.

Ah, now he understood Platon’s panic. It wasn’t really about the delay in the Tithe - who gave a Voidsman’s damn about the Tithe, except for the Arbites and the quill-pushers? A logistics guy wouldn’t care that much. If Como von Valancius decided to solve this problem with tactical bombardment, the Stevedore-General’s precious cargo would become collateral damage. Platon must be worried about his work crews, too. He wasn’t a shitty boss.

“Okay, settle down, lad. Otto or that 386 weirdo are our best shot at getting through to the Tech-Priests. Keep your people away from the site just in case, I’ll make some calls.”

He didn’t even have to enter Otto-8’s credentials, as it happened: the eccentric Mediator-Subcontractor had already opened up a vid channel. Ravor acknowledged the signal and opened up a pict-chat. There were several other calls in the queue. He really missed Vox Master Vigdis at times like these.

“Omnissiah’s blessings, unit Ravor.”

“All right mate, I was just thinking about you too. What’s the word on this Administratum business?”

The vid-feed jerked diagonally: Otto-8 was holding a camera up with their mechadendrites, and they were excitable enough to be flailing the mechanical limbs around. Ravor caught a glimpse of the Administratum Office’s familiar bunker-like bulk in the distance - easily identifiable even in the grey and green colours of the vid-feed.

“Master Ravor, I do not think I can commence negotiations with the units on the premises. They do not answer to any of the standard binharic hails, and… their presence is intimidating.”

The camera steadied itself, focused over Otto’s shoulder and zoomed in. Big bipedal shapes loitered at the office’s main entrance. They were approximately Ulfar-sized, Timun reckoned, tall and wide. Except… They lacked the easy and obvious reference point of a human head between their massive shoulder plates. Instead, each unit had a featureless, shallow dome.

Yeah, there was something familiar about these coves, all right.

“Otto, stand down. And above all, do not try to give them commands, or hit them with scrap-code, or any of that other dodgy stuff you do. This is Rogue Trader business, I’m damn sure of it. Do not engage with these Kastelan units. Do you comprehend?”

“Kastelans?” Otto-8’s voicebox warbled and the Mediator-Subcontractor made the sign of the Cog. “Yes. Yes, I comprehend. I will stay… well away, and observe. Otto out.”

It was unusual for a Tech-Priest to be so spooked. Ravor reminded himself to keep an extra eye on Otto.

The jetbike-maker knew Craven-386 would have their vox on silent like always, so they tapped out a quick written warning and sent it to their onboard comms arrays. The next time they accessed their CPU, they’d see his message. Ravor didn’t particularly like Craven-386, but he wouldn’t be responsible for that nosy little cog’s death.

Lastly, he fingered the intercom switch.

“Aldo? I’ve got a Code Sextant. You’re cleared to finish this run without me. Behave yourself, lads, and listen to your Shift Supervisor. Ravor Out.”

The former Master Helmsman and current captain of industry was still nostalgically attached to his old officer’s coatee. He hadn’t had time to take it off: he shoved its double breasted flap back in place with one hand as he burst out the back door of the Foreman’s office. Clattering his way up the metal staircase at speed took effort. Void take the planet’s gravity, Ravor’s knees would hate him later!

There was a narrow grav-pad on the factory roof, reserved for management. A fully fueled KHAN Tempest waited for him there - his highest-performance racing prototype, one of only two with this paint job in existence. She was Timun’s pride and joy, sleek and savage. Her Omnissian red fuselage beckoned him to climb aboard.

The Tempest models needed augmetic interfacing to really work their magic. Fortunately Ravor’s old implants weren’t just for show: the reinforced metal disc that replaced his left ear contained retractable connectors that plugged nicely into the vehicle’s control panel. The jetbike roared to life under his hands, the kickstands retracted and the grav-pads kicked in with a sensuous rumble.

Timun Ravor clipped on a respirator mask, dug his heels in and spurred the machine to maximum acceleration. He pulled the steering array skyward, aiming to smash through the Dargonian cloudbanks. He had three timezones to cover, and one man’s wiles to beat.

Bloody Nob Danrok wasn’t going to get there first this time.

 

____

 

Citizen Tribune Janris Dargon registered the wasp-like whine of a Doppler-compressed jetbike engine, emanating from somewhere in the smog behind him. He turned his head just far enough for his eye augmetic to pick up a distant speck of movement.

Perhaps it was better if he waited for Ravor to alight upon the landing dock before he engaged with these enigmatic Kastelans. He trusted the man’s judgement in a crisis.

“One moment if you please, my metal friends.”

Dargon cracked his best High Factotum smile at the featureless dome in front of him, hitched up the front of his hanfu just a little and strolled back the way he’d come. Master Ravor had foolishly taken off without donning a proper helmet. Dirty frost melted off his respirator and beard: his exposed cheekbones were lined with a faint rim of soot. It must have been an uncomfortable ride. Janris fished out a large linen handkerchief from his robe’s commodious sleeve and offered it to the man.

“How -” Ravor frowned at the handkerchief, then accepted it and gave his beard a quick wipe. “How by all the Saints did you manage to get here so fucking fast, Nob Danrok?”

“It’s Dargon now, my erstwhile shipmate, and I am happy to call us equals under the law. Congratulations on your new star-name, by the way. Timun is a fine choice. What a lovely way to honour our former glory days of dynastic service.”

“Damn it, Janris.” Ravor looked from Dargon’s beaming face to the handkerchief in his hand, then back up at his old colleague. “Yeah, all right. We shouldn’t let politics get in the way. I’d still like to know who tipped you off.”

“Ah, Master Ravor, you impugn me! I can still ride at speed, notwithstanding this fuselage.” Janris patted his tummy.

“Fsh, you can hardly see it under all that silk, mate!” By the Throne, was that a compliment from Ravor? “We both know you can’t outrun my Tempest. Go on, fess up.”

“As it happens, Tithe-Counter Scriven sent me a confounding message just a few hours ago. I could have left him alone, but he is usually most pedantic with his missives. So here I am, investigating. I wasn’t expecting to encounter these burly door-keepers.”

Ravor sighed. “Please tell me you haven’t tried bossing the Kastelans around.” As if Janris would dare do such a thing!

“Ah, so that’s what we’re calling them today! Yes, I quite understand. Mustn’t make a fuss. So far the metal picket line hasn’t done much - and its members have been stalwart in their silence. They do seem to have summoned refreshments, however.”

Eight pointy metal crab-legs ferried a large samovar among the Kastelans, clicking and chugging and emitting a thin trail of steam. Ravor grunted his way off the jetbike - he must be terribly stiff - and squinted at the familiar silhouette.

“Saints and stars, Janris. It’s the bloody recaf-pot!”

Caffeinator-Censer Cubis Delphim clattered to the fore.

“Well, man, we oughtn’t to keep them waiting. You might smell recaf - but I smell a business opportunity!” Janris hustled over to the unorthodox refreshment device before Ravor could object. The former Master Helmsman made a swift grab for the Citizen Tribune’s silk-clad shoulder.

“Hold on a chron, shipmate. That’s the can you gave to the Mistress of Seals, right?”

“They are the very same, indeed.”

“Okay. See if you can get through to ‘em. I’ll run interference with the big ones.”

One other shape hovered hither and thither among the burly robotic picketers. Janris spied a servo-skull, listing to one side under the weight of the board it carried in its mechadendrites. A short message was painted on it in hesitant block capitals. Janris speculated that the calligrapher might have been writing with their feet. The placard read:

PIGLRIMS RIGHTS ARE ROBOTS RIGHTS

The servo-skull continued its strange weaving trajectory between the picketers and the Caffeinator-Censer. Then its onboard sensors alighted upon Timun Ravor. Dargon hunched down in the lee of the Caffeinator-Censer, hoping that his shapeless garments and the samovar’s bulk would keep him concealed from the over-eager assistant. This particular unit was notorious. Ravor boomed at the skull, oblivious.

“Servo-skull unit, what in the bloody blazing Throne do you think you are doing?”

The unit’s onboard speakers chimed noisily, then emitted a synthesised vox-signal in an unremittingly cheerful tone.

+ HI THERE! IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE TRYING TO ACCESS THE BLESSED ADEPTUS ADMINISTRATUM OFFICES. CAN I HELP YOU WITH THAT? +

Several chromium plated Kastelan domes swivelled in unison to witness the conversation.

Janris fossicked furtively within his sleeves and praised the Emperor when he found his chatelaine still had sticky-paper in the dispenser. This operation would take every ounce of his patience and legerdemain.

“If you want to help me, mate, why does it look like you’re on the side of the units that’re getting in the way?”

+ IT’S MY JOB TO ASSIST ALL VISITORS TO THE BLESSED ADEPTUS ADMINISTRATUM OFFICES. I’M HERE TO HELP! +

“Cute, the cog-skull wants to be useful. Fuck me sideways with a Void-Kraken…”

+ I’M SORRY, ACCESS TO XENOBIOLOGICAL SPECIMENS IS NOT WITHIN MY SCOPE OF FUNCTION. HOW ELSE CAN I BE OF ASSISTANCE TO YOU TODAY? +

“Listen here, you bag of bolts-”

+ I AM LISTENING. I’M HERE TO HELP! +

“What’s your ident anyway?”

Janris suspected that Ravor was planning to get the defective servo-skull decommissioned. That was unlikely to happen. Scriven seemed to think the Mistress of Seals kept the unit as a pet. That did give Dargon some ideas, though… Damn! He couldn’t whisper to Ravor without drawing attention to himself! He’d just have to hope the cove would use his own initiative.

+ THIS UNIT IS DESIGNATED: ASSISTIVE SERVO-SKULL 151-PPY. BUT YOU CAN CALL ME CLIPPY! +

Ravor let out a soft “what the fuck…” under his breath, then regained his patience. By Master Helmsman standards, he was doing really, really well.

“All right then… unit… Clippy. You can count, right?”

The servo-skull beeped in the affirmative, waggling excitedly at the prospect of being useful to the nice new human.

“There are Administratum personnel inside, aren’t there? Organics? Alive?”

+ YES! THIS UNIT RECORDS NINE HUNDRED ORGANIC PERSONNEL ON THE PREMISES, IN ADDITION TO PETITIONERS AND - TWO - OPERATIONAL SERVITORS. I’M HAPPY TO HELP!+

Bloody Throne, this gaggle of Kastelans had disabled over a thousand servitors. Janris gulped. Ravor seemed to take the news in stride. Did he know something Janris didn’t?

“All right, that’s useful information. Uh.. thanks.” Ravor squinted at the servo-skull, and the servo-skull smiled back. Not that its toothy little jaw could make any other kind of expression.

“Next request. I want you to count the number of petitioners inside the premises - to the nearest ten people is fine - and pass that information on to whoever is outside. Wait!”

The servo-skull had swivelled around, eager to follow Ravor’s instruction. The momentum of its mechadendrites caused it to rock on its base when the grav-pad in its cranium came to a sudden halt. The little helper lost their grip on the placard, which clattered onto the rockcrete footpath. Unit 151-PPY stared down at it, their attachments drooping forlornly. The surrounding Kastelan units bent ever so slightly to follow the servo-skull’s dejected gaze. Janris thought about orphans for a brief, disquieting moment, then went back to his performance of filling up a cup of steaming hot recaf. At least Caffeinator-Censer Delphim wasn’t talking back to him. Ravor carried on delivering his no-nonsense instructions.

“The people inside need food and water. That’s very important, do you comprehend? We can’t let them starve. Can you also go inside and count how many rations are in the offices? I want you to tell the Kastelan units if the Administratum staff need more supplies.”

+ YES OF COURSE! THIS UNIT WILL GO MAKE A STOCKTAKE RIGHT AWAY. HAVE AN EMPEROR-BLESSED DAY! +

The servo-skull whirred towards the offices’ big steel doors, and a Kastelan levered them open just far enough to admit the little unit. Neither of the men were particularly surprised. The picketers operated on their own programming. It might be capricious and complex, but the big units didn’t like harming humans. They wouldn’t let the people inside starve.

Janris beat a retreat with two fresh paper vessels of steaming recaf in hand. He waggled his sleeve to get Timun Ravor’s attention, and the Voidborn availed himself of a serving. They waited till they were all the way back over in the vehicle bay to confer.

“So, did it go all right?”

“Yes, shipmate, it went all right.” Janris had managed to tuck a note inside a crevice of Delphim’s chassis without scalding his fingers. It was a minor miracle.

“Can’t say I enjoyed having those big lugs hovering all over us.” Ravor gave the Citizen Tribune a curt upward nod. “You’re all right sometimes, Dargon.”

Janris regretted no longer having a handkerchief to wipe his sweating neck. His recaf cup jiggled. The strain of his little adventure was catching up with him.

“Always a pleasure, Master Ravor.”

Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen

Summary:

Let's see how Abelard is getting on in retirement!

On any other Thronesday, he’d have been en route to Spire von Valancius for his regularly scheduled appointment with Clementia. The lady was expecting again, and that meant she was constantly bothered by well-wishers. Most of the toadies who came to pester her while she carried out her administrative duties were trying to advance some petty personal agenda or other. Young master Erlenmeyer, her current husband, ran interference when he could. Erlenmeyer’s duties as a Chem-Prince called for him to be on Janus at present. That left Clementia sorely in need of some grandfatherly guidance.

Saints and stars, if only they had simply stayed in their habitations beneath Spire von Valancius’s palatial district! Abelard would have been quite content to remain there for the duration of his retirement, ensconced in his modest study with his books and his model Voidships. An elderly gentleman had no business transposing himself to a lofty nouveau-riche enclosure. He and his various medical complaints knocked around in the Werserian ‘palace’ like an old jerrycan in the back of a grav-hauler. It was undignified.

Perhaps the place would not have seemed so empty if Qatharina were here. She would doubtless have found a way to liven up the new-fangled architecture with lively ornamentation. Where Abelard Werserian saw a drafty barn and grimaced at its vast air conditioning bill, she might have seen potential. As it was - the new Noble House squatted atop the new, shiny Spire Indomitus. It was not plain - Abelard would never insult the Rogue Trader’s taste! It was simply… very recently built, and thus lacking in the usual rococo ornamentation.

Abelard’s one consolation was this: if he lowered the parlour’s shutters in the evening, dimmed his augmetic eye and squinted just right at the sunset, he could imagine that he was on the bridge of a Voidship preparing for Warp translation.

Pacing was bad for his knee implants. He forced himself to shorten his stride a little.

Damn this nonsense with the shuttles! Abelard was no longer a Navis Imperialis officer and could hardly expect to hail a military transport, but he could certainly charter a commercial vehicle for his regular comings and goings. The cancellation message had flabbergasted him. What in the blazes had gone wrong with the spire’s transportation timetables?

A younger and pettier man might have stewed and glowered and concocted conspiracies behind the mess-up. Abelard was not that kind of man. His Senechal’s instincts remained sharp. Something more interesting was afoot, and he would uncover it. All he needed was an ally, someone curious and adept with technology. His great-granddaughter Astartia fit the bill just splendidly.

“Opa!”

The bubbly lass hurried across the parlour’s polished flagstones with a whirl of frothy petticoats and a neat clicking of kitten heels. Her vigor contrasted with Abelard’s creaky knee implants and somewhat stout bearing - aristocratic delicacies had a terrible effect on his waistline. Still, Abelard managed a gallant bow as she approached.

Astartia remained the studious sort, but House Werserian’s elevation to the nobility had precipitated changes in her dress. Abelard would charitably describe young Lady Astartia’s appearance as… whimsical. Experimentation dominated in all her sartorial endeavours. Today she had somehow styled her hair into large nodules that projected from either side of her bonnet like a pair of bulbous xenobeast horns. The combination of striped purple silk and yellow trim on Astartia’s day-dress was… experimental, certainly. Abelard did his best to take it in stride and tried not to think of Warp horrors. After all, the young lady herself was charming.

“This is a bit like playing Detective, isn’t it? I’m ever so glad to be of help, you know.”

The old officer suspected that Lady Astartia was more excited about the prospect of novel interactions with sacred technology than she was about spending time with her elderly relatives. Even so, it was good to have her company. Astartia’s portrait, and her appearance in vox-calls, was rather reserved - stilted, even. Abelard recalled her nervous energy at the Magnae Accessio several years ago. Anyone who met her in a lively social setting would assume she was rather shy, and he admitted his opinion of the girl had been rather similar before his retirement. Now that he shared a house with Lady Astartia, he was able to pick up on her fey moods, the sudden vigor that captured her analytical mind when it fixated upon some new target.

They linked arms and made a short ambulatory tour of the palace’s mid-level. The technical bays saw few visitors, so the corridors here were dreadfully plain. Blessedly few Imperial subjects had ever heard of Necrons, much less had the misfortune to see one of their tombs at any distance. Abelard could not help seeing shades of xenos malfeasance in the slabs and angles of bare rockcrete. One could affix chandeliers to the ceiling of a bunker, but it still looked like a damned bunker. Or a mausoleum.

Dear, dear! The elder Werserian had better not spend his declining years moping, that simply would not do! Astartia’s chatter had stirred him out of his gloom. Yes, he was grateful to pass the time among family.

One particular cogitator was far older than the building that surrounded it: this was their destination. Abelard had heard some tales of its provenance, most of which he declared to be tommy-rot. It had reportedly survived the collapse of Spire Gideon, only to be dug out by salvagers and restored to full working condition. Never mind that the cyber-gargoyle joined to it at the waist would surely have been crushed to bits! Abelard strongly suspected that the dynasty had acquired it through underhanded means. He was not about to look a gift cyber-gargoyle in the mouth, however.

Mechanisms stirred at their approach, no doubt sensing the life signs of two Werserians. When a cogitator first awoke, the noises it emitted were not dissimilar to those made by an old basset hound stirring by a fireside. A little shimmer in the air above the power banks indicated that the internals were warming up rather nicely. Abelard could have warmed a nice cup of tanna on top of the potentia block if he wanted to - although if he'd done so in the presence of Magos Pasqal, the former Chief Enginseer would have menaced him with all four mechadendrites for his disrespect.

Lady Astartia leaned over the console and smiled back at the data-screen when it flickered to life and presented the usual Imperium-standard command prompt. Habit drove Abelard’s fingers to begin typing in a Navis-issue standard search request function, but a little gloved hand on his forearm made him pause before hitting the Execute key.

“Don’t tell me your old Opa’s made a typographical error! Dear me… although at my age, such things are to be expected, I suppose.”

Astartia giggled. “You are as sharp as ever, fear not. Only… we are not on board a Voidship any longer, Opa. You were just about to ask this cogitator to scan the transit records for an entire Hive Spire, and that sort of search is a far more challenging task. Our poor machine spirit could get very cross with us. Let’s just put some limits on the query, shall we?”

With a gallant bow, Abelard surrendered the controls to his great-granddaughter. It was intriguing to watch a surfacer’s approach to the Catechism of Routine Operations. For one thing, Lady Astartia addressed the machine spirit with a cajoling tone that was leagues away from the spirit of Imperial Navy commands. A civilian cogitator must prefer a civil request. She even patted the cyber-gargoyle on the crown of its head when she anointed it with the sacred oils. Behavioural niceties aside, Abelard appreciated the precision of her machine language. She was correct: her query would prove far more useful.

“Now we just need to wait and let the good boy finish his analysis.”

Abelard had never heard anyone call a cogitator a ‘good boy’. That was Astartia for you! Figures began to scroll up the vid-screen in familiar, regimented lines of green Gothic characters and neat little numerals. Ticker-tape spewed from a slot in the cogitator’s side. Thanks to Lady Astartia’s prompt ministrations, the machine did not overheat. When the calculation was done, she lit a thin taper of incense and slotted it onto the offering dish as a little thank-you to the cogitator. Abelard, meanwhile, was busy scanning through the readouts and scratching his bristly chops. The eye implant was useful for this sort of work: it had a subroutine that picked out disparities in number sets and highlighted them in his optical display.

“By the Emperor, this is highly irregular!”

“Are those numbers supposed to show the delay between shuttle schedules and the actual arrival times?” Astartia was sharp as a tack: and the trend in those numbers was concerning. Abelard frowned at the slow crawl of numbers up the vid-screen. His frown deepened when the column grew by an extra digit.

“If any of the Venatrix’s freight crews made such a disastrous hash of things, they would be marched right out of an airlock! Saints and stars…”

There must be a lot more at play than a simple issue with one shuttle company. The more Abelard analysed the data, the more logjams he could see. Freighter delays led to civilian skylanes becoming congested. The trouble had spread across both Hexes 3 and 4, the Commercium and Industrial districts. Abelard smelled a foul-up - but there was no mutiny or revolt. He and his family would have been mobilised to help respond to civilian unrest. As for extraplanetary threats, the former Seneschal still enjoyed a few privileges and would quickly learn of such matters. What was this nonsense?

“All those poor porters and commuters.” Astartia shook her head sadly at the vid-screen. ”The transit queues in the middle spires must be nightmarish.”

Queues…

“Void-dammit, why didn’t I think of it sooner! Begging your pardon, Astartia.” The young lady didn’t seem scandalised by Abelard’s curse. Throne knew she’d probably heard all sorts of things growing up in an Imperial Navy household.

“Everything centres on the Adeptus Administratum premises, just here. Humph! How typical for them to mire our beautiful city in red tape and purity seals.”

“What on Terra are we going to do, Opa? We really ought to do something.”

Much as Abelard would like to sit in his palatial bunker and wait out the situation, he knew his great-grandchild was right. He harboured a certain fondness for the Dargonian working man. Nobles were a slimy lot, lacking in a certain brash sincerity that Abelard felt was a true mark of humanity. He ought to act. Going up against the Administratum alone, even as the patriarch of a Noble House, was pure foolishness. But he did still have friends in high orbit, who might be better placed to ask tough questions.

“We are going to inform Lord Cap- I mean, Rogue Trader von Valancius.”

Astartia’s face fell. She was disappointed in her old Opa, wasn’t she?

“I thought you said you wanted to be free of that life.” She didn’t want him to come out of retirement. Abelard found her little pout rather sweet. The lass was fonder of him than he’d guessed.

“I am hardly placing myself under the Rogue Trader’s heel by doing them a courtesy, Astartia. They helped me when Lady Clementia was in trouble, and it is only right for me to return that kindness. As a friend.”

“Hmm. If I catch you buckling on your sword and breastplate, I shall be very cross.”

She really was starting to take after Qatharina in certain ways, specifically in the delivery of well-meaning scolding. Abelard tipped up the brim of Lady Astartia’s bonnet and gave her a little kiss on the forehead.

“I promise I shall do nothing of the sort, my dear.”

Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen

Summary:

Efreet secundus, and an unlikely pair of neighbours.

Palm fronds splayed against the purple sky like the fingers of beseeching hands. The arid ground was still bitterly cold: gravel and ice crystals crunched under Jae’s riding boots.

All of her guests would still be asleep. Jae had found the conversation pit full of dozing bodies, human and inhuman, surrounded by empty bottles and burned-out lho sticks. Kasballicans expected her to hold parties: every sip of amasec, every sweet word traded over rolls of the dice or rounds of Tarot was part of a larger game. Shadow Baroness Heydari no longer had the luxury of losing herself in her own revels, not among these jackals.

If an early morning ride was the reward for her own temperance, then she would embrace it just as she embraced all the Exalted One’s blessings. For as dangerous as Jae’s life was, she considered herself blessed.

Nousha was always hesitant so early in the morning. She bleated in protest and reared her head back, threatening to spit upon Jae’s riding gear. At least that was better than taking a bite out of Jae’s hair.

“Vae vae, dahanet servis mishe! See what your auntie Jae has brought you.”

The Cold Trader had come armed with treats of dried sweet tubers, for even the worst of azhis could be swayed by bribes. Nousha sniffed at Jae’s upraised palm, then huffed contentedly. Her big muzzle picked up the treats with surprising delicacy. She batted her long eyelashes back at Jae. A few scratches on the scaled dewlap under her chin, and the grolpaca was ready for her harness.

The reptile-camelid hybrids were resilient but lazy beasts. If Jae had left Nousha alone she would have slept through both the hottest and coldest parts of the day. The gravity on Efreet secundus was lighter than Terran standard: that was the only reason Jae could ride her. Even then, Nousha’s back needed the support of a special saddle to redistribute Jae’s weight. By the time Jae had set off across the dunes, the distant pearl of Dargonus had begun to fade out of the sky and the sun of Mundus Valancius was rising to take its place.

Jae had perhaps two hours of safe riding time before Nousha would need to rest in the shade. She contemplated making a quick lap of her palace and returning to wait for her guests. Nousha had other ideas. She was already pulling in the direction Jae’s heart and habits wanted the Cold Trader to go.

Surely there was no harm in taking shelter at the house of a beautiful neighbour.

The Priory of the One Star lacked the grandeur of Foulstone’s great temples and Tech-Shrines. Four steel hab-block shells marked its corners, each one facing in cardinal directions relative to the position of Holy Terra herself. Jae approached with the sun at her back - its presence was baking hot, already threatening to burn the skin on the nape of her neck. Fortunately her riding gear had a linen hood.

The Cold Trader encountered little in the way of ostentation on her ride through the outer walls, past the entryway with its dust-encrusted servitor. The fortifications were designed to repel the desert heat as well as unwanted guests: tall, sloping slabs built up with clay bricks and improvised rockcrete sections. Small niches at head height kept the statuettes of female Saints safe from the elements. Jae could see fresh offerings in some of the alcoves: folded votive papers, plastic flowers, burned-out stumps of holy incense. Strange, how closely they resembled old lho-sticks in this state.

Shallow canals ran along the Terran compass-lines, keeping the inner courtyards cool and feeding thirsty acacia trees. Jae heard a distant booming sound and steered her mount towards its source, trotting in the shelter of a colonnade. She found a shaded place to hitch Nousha, loosened her riding-tack and set her up with a feed-bag. Jae could only shake so much sand out of her boots and cloak and hair. Once she was more or less presentable, she continued towards the sound on foot.

The indistinct booming resolved itself into a percussive rhythm as the Shadow Baroness got closer. Past dense, thorny hedges and plasteel sheds there was an exercise yard. Forty women had gathered to practice beating upon twenty massive drums that were propped up on frames in the sand. Jae had secured some large sections of grox-hide and gifted them to the Priory so that they could make these instruments.

Forty women, who were about to become forty Sisters of Battle. Where one shining star of the Imperial Faith had once graced the skies of the Koronus Expanse, Jae was about to watch a whole constellation rise.

They drummed with certainty and precision, each Novice Dialogus interweaving the strikes of her batons among the arms and bodies of her partners. One woman would step aside on the upbeat of the weaving rhythm and her comrade would swiftly place a foot in the divot the previous drummer had left in the sand, turning to strike the downbeat on the same skin. At the same time, the baton in the drummer’s free hand would lift above her shoulder, outstretched and ready for the following performer to make it resound with the swift clack of wood on wood.

This dance was a morning routine, and each participant must have learnt her place by heart. Even so, Jae saw no signs of ease or boredom, no sleepy expression amongst the women’s sweating faces. They all applied themselves with intensity born of camaraderie and pure faith. In everything she did, a Sister of Battle aspired to be perfect. The God-Emperor and Master of Mankind demanded no less of His ideal followers and the guards of the Ecclesiarchy.

Jae’s heart continued to leap after the drumbeats had fallen silent. May the Exalted One be merciful to her, she had a terrible weakness. The sight of these holy women made her blush, and she was glad to be standing in the shade of an overhang.

Kos nagu, Jae! It is audacious enough that you have eyes for the Prioress.

Her self-castigation was the cue for the true light of her eyes to appear. Three crisp, gloved hand-claps called the Novices Dialogus to attention. Now that they were no longer wielding their batons but instead shuffling into lines, Jae realised how young the Novices were. Prioress Argenta was taking lajoon little girls out of the Schola Progenium and shaping them into something more. The Cold Trader noticed a faint tremble in the hand of the Novice at the end of one row. The girl’s body language was rigid, quivering. She was eager to please the woman she considered a Saint, and just as anxious not to let her down. Jae could relate.

“Fine work, Novices. I’m starting to see real cohesion here. Livia, good solo: remember to keep your gestures precise and clean, so the others know when to come in. Penitentia, you’re rounding your shoulders for the sideways strikes. A wider stance should correct that. Take a water break and change into your robes, girls, you’ll have devotional drills at Terce. The Emperor protects!”

“Praise the Emperor!” All the Novices shouted in unison, made the sign of the Aquila and jogged towards the nearest large building.

Prioress Argenta’s prim countenance gave way to a warm smile as she turned towards Jae. The Cold Trader felt herself bathed in radiance from head to toe, a mix of piety and lovesickness. Ah, she was unworthy of such a sight!

“Peace and the God-Emperor’s blessings be with you, dear neighbour!” Argenta strode right through the blazing sunshine towards Jae, her pale hair fluttering in the dusty breeze. The Prioress swept an outflung arm around the Cold Trader’s shoulder while Jae was still trying to recover her wits and her breath.

“Your devotion to this Priory brings me joy, Baroness Heydari. And at such an hour, too - you must have arisen before dawn. What a fine example you are setting for the citizens of the Expanse!”

A black-gloved hand teasingly ruffled sand out of Jae’s hair. The synthetic leather was hot where it brushed the Cold Trader’s scalp. By the Exalted One, how did Argenta manage to wear such a uniform in this heat?

“Khak bar saram, for I must confess to you a terrible thing, oh most radiant Prioress.”

Argenta raised the elbow of her free arm and ducked her head a little. “Oh my, don’t tell me I smell of perspiration…”

Heydari could not suppress a raw laugh. The Saint of the Expanse, worried about sweat? What an idea! The Cold Trader felt her nerves loosen their hold upon her heart and her augmetic-studded throat. She could breathe more easily, even with this impossible woman at her side.

“I would never find the slightest thing about you distasteful, joon am.”

Argenta’s smile quirked sideways. They’d played this little game before.

“Naughty Kasballican. You ought to live not for me, but for the Emperor.”

“Efreeti expressions, as you well know, are full of fond hyperbole. This humble servant can choose another, noreh chesham.”

Argenta was starting to go red in the cheeks for reasons that had nothing to do with her armour.

“That just means ‘light of my eyes’. You say that to everyone.”

Jae giggled. “Atashe delam.”

“Perhaps if I shot at you with a flamer, you would reconsider that invitation.”

“Hamsar am.”

“Tch. You are incorrigible.” Argenta patted the crest of Jae’s augmetic pauldron, taking care not to jostle the Cold Trader’s rotator cuff. She seemed content to accept the endearment.

Meisterin Korra had been feeding the Prioress translations for Jae’s more colourful Efreeti expressions. This one alluded to an equal partnership… or to something more. It all depended upon the context. Jae told herself that it was only a harmless deception, a way to rescue her pride and soothe her vanity. Prioress Argenta was so far above Jae Heydari, not simply out of her league but out of her whole world. The best she could hope for was this camaraderie, and even that was priceless. To be touched by a Living Saint - Jae’s artificial trachea spasmed at the thought, and her breath hitched in her chest.

The Prioress was strong for her size. Her arms were used to handling a heavy bolter, and were more than capable of steering Jae towards a shade-drenched alcove.

“You still have not told me your dire confession, Baroness.” Mischief shone in Argenta’s eyes.

“Argenta shereen, can you not see it in my countenance and hear it in my foolish words? I do not come here only for the Exalted One’s blessings. I am as smitten as any one of your Novices.”

“Ah, but you are brave enough to be honest, and that is why I enjoy your company.”

The Prioress struggled her way out of her heavy gloves and ran a sticky hand through her fringe. Her hair, usually white-blonde, was so caked with dust that it had turned a shade darker.

“My own confession is this: I am imperfect and only a woman. Despite that, I must be a beacon of light to this Protectorate and to its people. I need to uphold a noble example for my Novices to emulate. And it is difficult, Jae. I do not enjoy playing the role that the God-Emperor has given me.”

The Prioress was still radiant and strong. She stood with her back straight, with glancing rays of dust-muted sunshine glinting off her robes. Argenta was beautiful even when she was tired. Something followed her into all the dark places of the soul, illuminating her humanity. If Jae embraced the Prioress right now, she did not think she would be able to let go.

“It is not at all the same thing for me to wear a decadent mask as it is for you to wear a pious one, shereen. I cannot presume to know the burdens that the Exalted One has placed upon you along with His blessing. But I understand what it is to be a woman who must also become a symbol. Perhaps that is why we tease each other, hamsar am.”

Argenta looked at her hands, streaked with pale dirt. “Perhaps that is why, yes.”

The Prioress’s bottom lip moved a fraction - she was chewing on her lip. A blink, a decision, and Prioress Argenta made eye contact with Jae Haydari once more.

“There is something you could do for me. A favour I am asking, as a friend. If it’s not-”

“Anything, shereen.”

Argenta scoffed. “You say ‘anything’ too quickly! What if I sent you on a Holy Crusade?”

It was Jae’s turn to scoff. “Light of my eyes, you would not do such a thing! Very well, I will do anything for my radiant angel so long as I do not need to completely abandon the Kasballicans. There. I am being sensible!”

“I should not take you away from your duties for more than a moment - we would not even need to leave this star system.”

“Oho, a trip to Dargonus? Is it for a secret assignation?” Jae gasped. “An elopement?”

Argenta made a deeply unamused face.

“Kherm rikhtan, shereen. My ship is at your disposal. You can count on this adoring and humble servant to smuggle the Holy Prioress wherever her heart might desire to go.”

“Thank you, Jae. And - er - sooty nardy?”

The Shadow Baroness let out a great belly laugh.

“I think you mean ‘sooti nadi’, shereen. Of course. This is just between us girls.”

Chapter 19: Chapter Nineteen

Summary:

The ladies try their hand at diplomacy.

So much luxury was overwhelming. Argenta was used to simple clay and rockcrete walls, to bells and prayers and combat drills. Every cornice and crevice of Jae Heydari’s pleasure-craft was a different colour, a hundred gaudy details vying for the Prioress’s attention.

She did not dare to touch the statues for fear that they might be made by inhuman hands. The Order of the Blessed Martyr was strict on that point. The tools of the xenos, whether barbaric or beautiful, were anathema to the Sisters of Battle. Argenta must remain incorruptible, and that meant severing herself from the tempting aspects of all that did not cleave to the God-Emperor’s plan.

The damask patterns of velveteen wallpaper made the Prioress turn her eyes away. The repeating curlicues of gold embroidery against purple were too reminiscent of the Warp’s dangerous currents. Only their symmetry was reassuring: for the Arch-Enemy feared all forms of order.

One piece of wall art was rendered in a geometry that Argenta found more pleasing. Her new role called for new devotions and new skills: one such skill was that of observation. The colour scheme of the painted panel in front of her was calming: white, blue and a pleasant buttery yellow that made her think of her childhood. Astra Militarum soldiers could not afford gold trim, so their shrines and Saints’ ikons were daubed in Safety Yellow paint. Holy Terra was meant to have a yellow sun, though Argenta had never seen it.

Jae Heydari strolled up behind the Prioress, not bothering to disguise her steps. Her attire was a throwback to older, more precarious times: a vibrant velvet coatee that she’d left open at the front to show off striped trousers and a pair of riding-boots that made Argenta momentarily envious. She was not wearing her usual brace of Drukhari pistols. Argenta was grateful for that. The Shadow Baroness’s throat augmetic sparkled with crystals and needed no further decoration: yet Jae had strung something else around her neck, a plain cord that tapered into the depths of her cleavage... Argenta decided that was quite enough observation for the moment.

“It is a depiction of the Exalted One, hamsar am. How fitting that your eyes should seek it out.”

She meant the wall panel, not her breasts. The Prioress looked at the sacred geometry again, trying and failing to make out any hints of the God-Emperor’s usual hierography. He was often depicted with flames or a radiant halo behind Him - sometimes with wings - but always, He had a sacred human form. The shape in front of Argenta evoked none of those things. Lines and curves drew the eye towards a centre, a culmination that never quite eventuated. Argenta experienced a pleasant yearning.

“I suppose only a very few mortals have ever seen His majesty in person.”

The founders of the Adepta Sororitas numbered among that privileged handful. What had they seen when they entered that great golden chamber? Argenta herself could not say. When she prayed, she felt a radiance settle upon her, but it was comfortable - its intensity screened from her. Otherwise its heat might have been unbearable.

“Quite so, shereen! Efreet is a long way from Holy Terra. Our only guesses at the Exalted One’s form came from books, and nobody was eager to record those guesses in a painted image. The Master of Humankind is perfect, and mere mortals are not. Many scholars used al-handasa, a marriage of mathematics and art, to reach toward His perfection.”

“Do no Efreeti artists use the sacred human form as a basis for such depictions?”

“Hamsar am, these are sacred human forms. Do you not see the human hand that has made these marks, the human tongue that has uttered prayers over its composition? A machine might imitate this painting, but veneration cannot be imitated. That is why you came to stand in front of this portrait, is it not?”

Argenta felt a flicker of amusement. “And here I was thinking that Magos Pasqal might appreciate this kind of art.”

Only they weren’t a Magos any more. They were hiding from their fellow Tech-Priests: half of the Cognizance Fleet had branded them a heretic. The Prioress wondered if her holy calling would bring her into conflict with the renegade Archmagos Amarnat. It would be a battle of faiths: her will against Pasqal’s. She did not relish the thought, for they had been allies once.

“Argenta shereen, let us look instead at these wayward Kastelans. You did not take this humble servant of the Imperium all the way to the accursed Administratum only to admire my quarters - although, I would not mind at all if we stayed here instead!”

“You’re terrible. And the Administratum is not ‘cursed’, it performs a vital role in the workings of the Imperium.”

“Pedar sag, there is nothing blessed about those queues!”

“Martyrdom is a holy act.” The Prioress tried not to laugh at Jae’s scowling expression as she breezed past the Cold Trader and made for the pleasure-craft’s rear exit.

When Rogue Trader Como had told Argenta about ‘a group of Kastelans’ she had imagined robots standing in a neat formation, exactly the same distance apart, a stoic and impenetrable wall of steel. The view through Jae’s binoculars was… oddly mundane. They might have been a pair of Imperial Guard snipers scouting out an enemy position while their foes were caught off-guard.

For one thing, supply crates had been haphazardly piled up in all directions. Some were non-perishable goods left by frustrated stevedores and desperate merchants. Others had once contained supplies for the human hostages inside the offices. A pair of massive robots had pulled up a crate each, stacked three empty pallets between them, and proceeded to interact with one another like customers at a recaf shop. There were cans of… something on the pallets between them, a great many cans. One of the Kastelans picked up a can with a careful pinch of its manipulator arm, then set it down again. Were they playing a board game?

“Those ashmags are loitering! Don’t they look just like lazy troops without a Sergeant to boss them around?” Jae chuckled and took back her binoculars for another peek. “That one is leaning against the wall with his knee out. All he needs is a lho-stick and he becomes the perfect soldier.”

“If those are soldiers, then where is their Commissar?” Argenta clicked her tongue. Something didn’t add up. Wasn’t that Squat woman, Gerda, supposed to be masterminding all this? “What’s your assessment of the situation, Baroness Heydari?”

“It looks like a serfs’ revolt. Maybe the Kastelans are not fond of this Gerda. I don’t think these metal azhis are taking any kind of direction, shereen.”

The Prioress decided on a course of action. She checked the bolt pistol in her holster - a heavy boltgun was far too conspicuous and likely to draw pre-emptive fire from the Kastelans. The holy Armour of the One Star would protect her, but Jae Heydari was not so well covered.

“Jae, whatever happens next… just go with it.”

“Just go with it? I would trust you with my life, hamsar am.”

Argenta grasped Jae around her unaugmented upper arm, careful not to squeeze too firmly with the gauntleted fingers of her power armour. She marched them both straight towards the Kastelan units. The robots must have been aware of her presence, but they took their time moving to face her. Jae was right - they had the body language of sleepy Guardsmen. It was uncanny to see something metal adopt a careless slouch.

Como had told Argenta that the Kastelans were capable of speech: but they did not address her. Up close, the Sister of Battle could see small differences between the different units. This was also odd: she’d seen Skitarii mix and match their uniforms and augmetics, but one would never see a servitor with a jaunty decoration on its body to distinguish it from the rest. The marks were subtle - a pattern of rivets on a mechanical arm’s outer casing, a few stripes of red and black industrial tape forming a bright cross-hatch on a Kastelan’s knee for no good reason. Most of the decorations adorned the front-facing parts of the robots. Argenta took another look. Had they put the marks on themselves?

One robot took the initiative to stand right in front of the Prioress and block her passage. This model showed a lot of wear and tear. Extreme heat had given the shoulder-plates of its chassis a rainbow-patterned gradient that resembled the surface of an oil slick. The dome of its head seemed untouched by the scorch mark. At the base of its collar - for that was how Argenta imagined the elliptical casing that housed its dome - someone had painted a small letter X in bright paint. Safety Yellow.

“Are you the one called Andros-X?”

Mechanisms whirred inside the Kastelan’s chest cavity, the dome of its head rotated this way and that, its body twitched. It did not speak. Something about its stance, the way it held its forelimbs out just a little bit from its body, made Argenta wonder if it wanted to speak, but was somehow being prevented from doing so. Instead, it made two odd little chirps.

The thing was massive. Even in her power armour, the Prioress wondered how well she would fare against a backhanded slap from its mighty hand-claws. Other Kastelans had begun to shuffle over to Argenta and Jae, almost in spite of themselves. That was it, they were… gravitating towards their visitors.

“I am Argenta. I represent the Sisters Dialogus, and I am here to speak with Gerda and the Mistress of Seals.” If she still lives… no, Como had very specifically said the hostages were alive. Still no word from the robots. Their collective fidgeting resulted in a whine of servos and the clomp of many metal feet.

“Every moment your… Jae, help me-”

“-Industrial action?”

“-Your industrial action continues, the more you are endangering not only yourselves, not only the people in this building, but all the souls on Dargonus itself.”

The Prioress gestured around at the piles of crates and containers stacked up on that entranceway alone. Thousands more were beginning to form hab-block-high pyramids in the loading docks below Dargonus’s starports.

“The Administratum is the lifeblood of this planet. When you impede its work, you harm billions of innocent people. Billions.” She glared up at the X-marked Kastelan, watching its fidgeting intensify. Something in its chassis was beginning to emit a low whine.

“Perhaps you do not understand. Perhaps you must be confronted with the reality of life or death.”

Emperor, forgive her for what she was about to do. Prioress Argenta’s armoured hand wrestled Jae Heydari’s body in front of her own. An overpowered arm-bar constricted Jae’s augmetic-studded throat, pulling upwards until the poor woman was forced onto her tiptoes, kicking and squirming fruitlessly in Argenta’s grasp. Not even her augmetic left arm could do anything but scrape and screech off the Armour of the One Star.

“Ex -alt -” Jae ground the metal cords of her neck augmetic against Argenta’s forearm, twisting her head to gasp for air. “What are you doing? Argenta, plea-”

Prioress Argenta squeezed harder until the Cold Trader let out a helpless choking noise. She raised her bolt pistol and placed its oversized steel barrel against Jae Heydari’s temple.

“You will let us inside, or by the God-Emperor and Master of Mankind, I swear I will end this woman’s life.”

There was no room for compromise or surrender in her gaze. Jae kicked and wriggled in the Prioress’s unflinching grasp. Argenta stared up at that Kastellan’s featureless dome… and it stepped aside.

The Prioress tossed her bolt pistol down, kept Jae in her grasp and marched both of them towards the nearest entrance. Only once she and Jae had slammed the Administratum Offices’ massive adamantium doors behind them did they both teeter and gasp and clutch at each other for support.

“Holy fucking shit, that was terrifying.”

Jae had dropped all her pretensions of royalty for the moment. She stared straight ahead: her eyes dripped dark rivulets of mascara. Jae was gulping for air. Argenta hurried to her side, checking her windpipe for signs of damage. Had she squeezed too hard? The augmetics were unharmed, but even so…

“Oh, Jae. I should never have done that… Jae, I’m so sorry.”

Another breath, slower this time, deeper. The Cold Trader was pushing through her moment of panic. Heydari leaned her forehead against Argenta’s, resting her hands on the Prioress’s shoulders and allowing the Sister of Battle to hold her upright for just a moment. Then the Shadow Baroness found her footing, pulling back to a more appropriate distance.

“I said I would trust you with my life, hamsar am. Khak bar saram.”

“No, no, this was my fault. I made a mistake.”

How much it had once cost her to admit to her own human frailty! How much had changed in just a few intervening years. A Sister Pronatus could enjoy the purity of blessed ignorance, she could be the Emperor’s unthinking instrument… but a Prioress and a negotiator needed to know her own flaws.

Besides - Jae knew Argenta was no saint. She knew about the blood on the little Sister’s hands. Why was she still so… so…

“It was the right play, shereen. You had to be the one threatening me, it would not have worked the other way around. Those metal azhis would never have trusted the word of a filthy Kasballican.”

Jae smiled her chirpy little smile, but the sight of those kohl-streaked cheeks and tired eyes made Argenta’s guts twist. The Cold Trader was as perceptive as ever… but did she have to be so self-deprecating? Argenta tried to summon the right words.

“It was all I could think of at the time. I knew the Kastelans were programmed to look after humans, and that they… they want to act as people do. I played on a conscience they do not truly possess…”

No, by the Throne, she was spouting excuses! She could do better than this.

“It was foolish of me. Things could have gone terribly wrong. I should never have gambled with my friend’s life. I promise I won’t ever do that again, Jae. I’ll always protect you. I can swear it if you like-”

The Shadow Baroness laid the warm palm of her human hand, still damp with sweat, against Argenta’s cheek.

“There is no need to promise anything, hamsar am. I will always have faith in you.”

Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty

Summary:

Snacks and negotiations.

What in the Emperor’s name was so odd about corpse starch?

That Squat was being unnecessarily fussy. Madam Cera was content to make use of all her emergency supplies, whatever their nature. There were a lot of spices and condiments among the consignments that had come through to the Administratum Office. It seemed that the Kastelans had only a passing familiarity with humans’ dietary preferences, and just took a bit of everything from the crates that were no doubt piling up outside.

The Mistress of Seals sighed heavily at the thought of all those goods, all the essential things that a planet might both need and provide to the greater Imperium, stacked up and useless. The amount of paperwork that awaited her, even if this was all over, would surely make an impressive stack of its own. Naturally she had a duty to remain alive and somehow take care of it all, but the thought was irritating. That bloody Gerda and her bloody robots!

Enough of that. If Madam Cera did not concentrate, she would burn the Calixian chill-pepper granules and make the dish bitter. It would be a dreadful lapse if she wasted Imperial provisions. Someone around here had to set a good example.

Hernkyn Gerda - an interesting title that had now been added to Madam Cera’s comprehensive memory banks - had a spoon in one massive hand and a steel can in the other. She had been halfway through fossicking in the can for something pale and tremulous, preserved macapuno pulp if Madam Cera was not mistaken. Now she watched patiently, sitting on an overturned crate, observing how the Mistress of Seals made dinner.

A quarter portion of minced grox-meat had already gone into the improvised pan along with the dry spices. Next would come the fermented bean paste and red chili oil, both of which came in industrial-sized jars. Madam Cera only needed a few spoonfuls of each ingredient. She had started her career in the Administratum as a line cook, making gruels and inexpensive yet nourishing meals for the clerks. This recipe was one she knew by rote.

The ingredients mixed quickly. Caffeinator-Censer Cubis Delphim kept their legs nice and steady: they did not seem to mind that their samovar attachment had been temporarily removed. The sentient cafetiere’s central heating unit was proving invaluable. Mistress Gerda had likewise made herself useful, dishing out a defunct servitor’s cuirass plate to make a serviceable wok. Time to add the corpse starch now. The neatly-diced cubes wiggled as Madam Cera slid them into the pan.

A bit of careful ladling to get the sauce over the starch, a judicious stir, and the Mistress of Seals had cooked her own meal for the first time in… two centuries and twenty-six years. It tasted just as rich and punchy as she remembered. She was rather proud of her efforts. Gerda looked enviously from her can of jellied pulp to Madam Cera’s food, then back again. The Squat mournfully raised another wiggly spoonful to her mouth.

That’s what you get for dragging me into a hostage situation, young lady!

It was in such a state that the Mistress of Seals and her unwelcome companion found themselves receiving visitors. The ever resilient unit 151-PPY announced their arrival by wafting in through the study’s book hatch and letting out a little binharic fanfare. Madam Cera wondered what the slippery little servo-skull had done to survive the Kastelans’ purge of the servitorial staff. Then the main door to the study slid open, rattling a little on its rails - for nobody remained to keep the mechanisms oiled. Even Gerda winced at the noise.

“Ooh, shereen, something smells absolutely delightful!”

What in the shredder’s teeth was Jae Heydari doing here? Madam Cera had expected either rescuers or diplomats, not a mangy Kasballican. At least Prioress Argenta was a more welcome sight. She looked particularly resplendent in her shiny black power armour. The Mistress of Seals had only seen it in picts, never in person. It would be intriguing to catalogue such an artifact. Unfortunately, as a holy relic, it had special status and fell outside the Administratum’s purview.

“It is the scheduled chron for meal breaks and fortifying prayer. Given the circumstances, however, I am happy for us to engage in any conversation that might remove the obstacles that currently afflict this Office’s blessed function. Hernkyn Gerda, I suspect both these former associates of the von Valancius dynasty are known to you.”

The Squat nodded contentedly.

“It’s well to see you both looking hale and prospering. Baroness Heydari - silent running and fair trade to you and yours. And I hear you’re a Prioress now, Argenta! Hard work does us good, and that’s a solid Truth, if you two are any example.”

That scamp Heydari had the gall to taste Madam Cera’s meal: the affront caused by this act was significantly diminished by the Cold Trader’s subsequent ample praise of the dish’s flavour profile. Hernkyn Gerda seemed content to remain seated on top of her crate while the others found chairs. The Squat’s slight elevation did bring her a little closer to matching the height of the regular humans in the room. She was still unnaturally broad and a bit too rough-and-tumble for Madam Cera’s liking.

“Esteemed dammars, I could not help noticing quite a few dismembered servitors lining the corridors as we came in.”

This statement was true: Madam Cera had insisted that Gerda help her stack the bodies in neat piles, or as neat enough as they could manage. The Squat had mopped the floor in the study: no red puddles remained, although the tiles now had a certain oily sheen to them.

“I am afraid the Caffeinator-Censer and this servo-skull are all that remains of our once significant ancillary staff.” The Mistress of Seals clicked her tongue at Gerda, who took Madam Cera’s sharp stare in stride. “It is a lamentable loss of efficiency! I have attempted to calculate the costs required to bring us back up to functional staffing levels. The outlook for our budget is disastrous, not to mention the time it might take to source units from other offices.”

“Most honourable Mistress of Seals, this humble servant of the Imperium may be of some assistance in procuring excellent quality replacements. All manufactured according to reputable human designs, of course.”

The Cold Trader had hastened to add the qualifying sentence, and with good reason. Madam Cera had seen some of the ugly appendages the Xenarite Tech-Priests put on their creations, and she would have none of that rubbish conducting Imperial business in her office! The Mistress of Seals wondered what kind of agenda lay behind Jae’s offer.

“An interesting proposal. However, I highly doubt you would secure me such valuable replacements free of charge, Mistress Heydari.”

Prioress Argenta seemed content not to interrupt their exchange. Her benevolent gaze meandered from Madam Cera to Hernkyn Gerda and back again, taking in the scene. Jae, meanwhile, had turned her attention towards the Squat.

“I am sure Hernkyn Gerda understands how dreadfully upsetting it is to experience inefficiency in the course of one’s duties. And I am likewise sure the dammar appreciates the cost of such inefficiency.”

“Too right! I’m aching to get out of here and go back on shift.” Gerda kicked her stumpy legs, knocking her heels against the side of the crate. “Not to mention gettin’ back to the Hearthspake. That’s like your Assembly of Convocation deal, but for Squats. Golden Ancestor knows what they’ll decide to do about this whole situation. I’ve got to calm the grey-beards down before they all get hernias.”

Prioress Argenta leaned forward in her chair, and her power armour gave a faint hiss as servos activated.

“If you were able to evacuate the Kastelans and explain the situation to the rest of your crew, what are your chances of persuading them to offer financial compensation to the Administratum?”

The Squat scratched her chin for a moment, curling a fat finger underneath it.

“I can make it work. We might end up paying you in raw materials instead of Thrones, but I’ll find a way to cover your costs. The servitor damage was our Kin’s fubar- I mean our Kin’s mistake, beggin’ your pardon mam Cera.” Gerda glanced sheepishly over at the Mistress of Seals.

“The last big thing we beat up was the damn Necrons. The Kastelans are still burning their Hearths over it, and it’s made ‘em more cranky than usual. That, and not gettin’ their usual pilgrimage duties isn’t exactly helping stabilise their algorithms, if you’re riding my slipstream. They’re hard-wired to respect human lives, which is why all the petitioners are fine. But a servitor’s kind of a grey area in their programming. I should have thought of that sooner.”

Madam Cera’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying that your Kastelan companions saw servitors not as tools of the Imperium, but as threats?”

“In their defence, the servitors were trying to kick us out of the office at the time and… they sort of made a grab at me. That might have been enough to confuse Andros. The other Kastelans showed up afterwards. I was keen to get the frak out and run damage control, but, uh, I may have made some assurances and set some pretty big expectations about sortin’ out the Kiava Gamma pilgrimage issue. The Kastelans see me as the one who’s got to seal the deal and solve the problem.”

Argenta narrowed her eyes. “Are the Kastelans… angry at you, Mistress Gerda?”

“Nah nah, it’s, nah, it’s definitely not like that, come on, they’re Kastelans!”

The Squat’s eyes looked everywhere but at the Prioress. Madam Cera decided to focus on replacing the Caffeinator-Censer’s cafetiere attachment. She very much wanted her suspicions to remain suspicions at this point. Gerda bumbled on.

“It’s more like they are hard-wired to assist me in finishin’ the job. And… since the job is something closely related to them, they keep prioritising it over everything else. We’ve got to break the loop in their logic somehow.”

The Prioress steepled her gauntleted fingers with another whisper-faint hiss of her power armour. What a marvel its engineering was! Madam Cera discreetly deployed her assistive lens attachment to get a closer look at the relic.

“Lord Captain Como von Valancius promised your Kin the right of pilgrimage to commune with Null Caliph, the sacred machine spirit on Kiava Gamma. I understand the local Tech-Priests have been… difficult about this. Tell me, Hernkyn Gerda, does it inconvenience your people to visit Null Caliph without your Kastelan guardians?”

“Too right it does! It’s not an easy business, getting down into the core of a Forge World. The Tech-Priests can manage all right, they know the codes and pathways by heart. We’re stout folk, we can take the heat down there, but the passages aren’t built for us. The last part of the pilgrimage is more like a gauntlet. There’s a reason why we used to go down there in pairs, one Squat and one Kastelan. It’s tough, for sure - but to us, it’s worth it for the honour of seein’ such a special machine in person.”

Jae crossed her legs and fiddled with her hair, tutting to herself.

“Gerda shereen, it sounds an awful lot like the Adeptus Mechanicus bears some hostility towards you and your crew. It is almost as if they are trying to get you injured! Trust those metal ashmags to come up with a bureaucratic form of insult towards your kind. I think Como-sayyid would be intrigued by your tale.”

“A holy pilgrimage… hmm.” Argenta tapped her armoured fingers on her knee. The metal gave a soft chime rather than the usual steel clang.

“You say the Kastelans protect you on your journey. The Imperium’s faithful, whether they venerate the Omnissiah or the Emperor, rely upon items that they hold sacred. I have seen many such things during my time in the Orders Pronatus. Relics give pilgrims comfort and protection on their journeys.”

The Prioress knocked on her own armour to illustrate her point.

“If your Kastelan guardians were anointed and registered as holy relics, they would no longer fall under the jurisdiction of the Administratum. Under the terms of the Treaty of Mars, the Adeptus Mechanicus would be required to allow them passage along major pilgrimage routes. Would such a procedure interfere with the robots’ programming?”

“That solution’s a bit… different from our Kin’s ways, but I think we need to adapt. Mam Cera is right - we can’t take a deal from the Protectorate without doing our best to play by your rules. I won’t say no to a blessing from the Golden Ancestor. I’m willing to put your plan to the Hearthspake and give it a go.”

“Then please leave this matter in my care, Hernkyn Gerda.”

The Caffeinator-Censer carried their usual samovar once more. Madam Cera kept her misgivings to herself this time. The von Valancius dynasty had been good to the Administratum. It was better, on balance, to be dealing with abhumans rather than suffering under Lady Theodora’s corrupt incompetence.

Even so, there was something terribly off about these Squats. Madam Cera hoped that Lord Captain Como was making the right decision by letting them remain in the Expanse.

Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty One

Summary:

Animal husbandry.

A chorus of snarling and snapping echoed off dented ferrocrete walls and lacerated plasteel panelling. Ulfar instinctively took a half-step away from the outer casing of the nearest animal pen. Between the beats of his first and second heart, a massive impact resounded against the enclosure. The battle-beasts could try all they liked to break free, but it was too late for them to recover their stolen dinner.

Ulfar Everlost gritted his teeth and inhaled a frustrated sniff. The all-pervading stink of wolf piss and damp fur could not cover the tell-tale traces of musk on the wind. That cursed little wrath-badger had struck again. A score of enraged Fenrisian wolves howled after their nemesis.

A quick inspection of the outer fortification revealed a ragged, gouged tunnel through the rockcrete. Ufar had underestimated the thief’s capabilities again. Nobody had told him that wrath-badgers could dig through walls! He poked an armoured finger at the crumbling edges of the hole, where a piece of silver-streaked grey fur still clung. The rockcrete was at least a century old. The sly jaevel had exploited a weak spot. Ulfar spat upon the blood-streaked ground, into the half-melted divot where the trickster had dragged a massive chunk of raw meat through the snow.

“Trollin takka thig, beast!”

He needed to report the breach to the Wolfkeepers. That meant he would need to interact with his Shield-Brothers. Eight cycles ago, when he was a lone Wolf among mortals, he would have enjoyed such a task. Now, though…

A gust of ice-laden wind caught Ulfar on his way between the pens and the Fang’s main barracks. The Season of Frosts was never kind, not even to an Angel of the All-father. Ulfar absent-mindedly wiped a fleck of frozen blood off his forehead, the work of a particularly determined piece of hail. His body had recovered much of its strength. By the time he entered the wicket gate and let the wind slam it behind him, Ulfar’s skin had closed seamlessly.

He could not delay his exile any longer. Nor did he wish to linger at the Fang, accomplishing menial chores. The blade of his mind would grow dull in such service.

“What is it now, Everlost?”

Wolfkeeper Toskvig scowled at Ulfar under bushy black eyebrows, as if he did not already know what the trouble was.

“The wrath-badger bothers us again, Brother Toskvig.”

The Wolfkeeper’s scowl deepened when Ulfar called him ‘Brother’. There was no mistaking the antipathy in that look, or the sting of rejection. Ulfar Everlost would not be baited into trading insults. He allowed himself to observe the bushy-haired Astartes as if from afar. He was no arrogant cub. Ulfar imagined himself sitting all the way up in low orbit, at the apex of the Fang. Let these planet-bound youngsters trade rumours until the Season of Fire came. Whether of fame or of infamy, these pups were just jealous.
“The wrath-badger does not bother Us, Everlost. I think it bothers You.”

Ulfar smiled slyly, showing one of his long canine teeth.

“Vermin should know better than to bother a hungry old Wolf, Brother.”

It gave Ulfar great pleasure to amble away and leave the Wolfkeeper grumbling. He would not return. Speaker Kasper could not possibly object if Ulfar stopped helping a kaerl who did not want to be helped.

The sea of stars awaited.

 

____

 

“Cegorach!”

“Madam, you impugn me. Do you see with either your augmented or Nature-given eye any trace - even a scrap - of motley in my livery?”

Amos’s unwelcome companion cocked first one eye and then the other at him. She seemed unwilling to offer an opinion. Amos wondered whether she could even recognise colours. He confessed he knew precious little about Fenrisian zoology.

“Accusations of malign divinity aside, young lady, this is no way for you to treat a guest. By the Emperor - would you kindly stop interfering with my attire?”

It was unfortunate enough that the enormous raven had perched itself atop Amos’s helmet. He fervently hoped that she would not decide to excrete upon it. He had refurbished the pointed visor to an appropriate shade of bone-white in preparation for his visit to the Fang, and he wished to make as good of an impression as was feasible. Not that he cared overmuch for the good opinion of the Vylka Fenrika: they seemed more interested in drunken brawls than proper deportment. Amos simply did not wish to undermine the reputation of the Tenth Company.

The blasted bird had taken an interest in the double-headed Aquila painted on Amos’s right pauldron. She took an exploratory peck at one of its outstretched wings. The Aquila remained predictably unperturbed. The raven uttered another muffled ‘cegorach’ before turning her head aside, fossicking among her feathers and preening the unaugmented sections of her wings with fastidious insouciance.

Amos’s heightened senses prevented him from being horribly startled. A very large and rather smelly Space Wolf had managed to enter the terminal, walk his way through cargo and Technomats and get within pistol-shooting range of Amos. That was impressive. Perhaps if Amos had not been distracted by that avian menace, he would have seen the older Astartes coming. He squinted at the raven.

“Thing of evil.”

The bird stared gormlessly back.

“Troll balls, I have been called worse in my time, but not by such a stripling!”

The gigantic redhead’s voice bore the sonorous rumble of an oncoming storm. There was nothing subtle about him, not his bearing, nor the odd animal smell that rolled off him. The Wolf’s grin was just a little too toothy to seem entirely friendly. Amos abandoned any hope of getting his heirloom helmet back. He left it in the bird’s clutches, got to his feet with his usual fluid ease and noticed that the redhead was at least a foot taller than him. One of those vagaries of geneseed, he supposed. Amos offered the Space Wolf a deep, noiseless reverence.

“Ah - a conversational infelicity. I was addressing the creature. Incidentally, I could swear it just said something in Aeldari.”

Wonderful. Now Amos sounded utterly deranged. “I am making a terrible first impression, am I not? Let me try this again. Greetings, fellow Angel of the Emperor. Amos Ussher of the Raven Guard, at your service and - despite appearances - honoured to make your acquaintance.”

“Wrrawk! Troll balls!” The raven fluttered its wings proudly. The large Space Wolf glanced down at it.

“I see you have met Runa. She is a troublesome beast.” The grin dissipated into a thoughtful smile, then returned. Amos fancied he could hear the cogs turning in the old Wolf’s brain. “Perhaps you are two of a kind. There can be only one reason why a Raven would seek out a Wolf.”

So there was intelligence under all that hair.

“I presume that you must be Brother Ulfar Redmane? The one who I was instructed to meet?”

“We go by many deed-names, little bird.”

There was steel in the old Wolf’s gaze. His irises were a warm, burnished colour, more common among predators or birds of prey than humans. Amos would not be bullied. He matched that stare until the older Astartes leaned back a fraction, shrugged his fur-girt shoulders and relaxed his posture.

“But you are right. It is I, Ulfar. Sometimes I am Redmane, sometimes Everlost. But always, I am Ulfar.

Exile’s grim shackles, mind-fastened, ghostly,
Are an illusion. Long strays the hunter:
Far from the warm-hearted hearth must we linger.
This brings us honour, if we so wish it.

Remember my words, little Brother, and let no-one talk you into seeming smaller than you already are!”

Ulfar’s gigantic armoured hand ruffled Amos’s woolly hair. The younger Astartes swiftly ducked out of the way, for he was less than eager to get that odd animal smell on his fastidiously oiled curls. The big Wolf was just as intimidating when he was friendly.

“So! Well met, Brother Amos! Where are our other Shield-Brothers?”

“Ah.” Amos Ussher steadied himself against the impact of a jovial outflung arm against his power armour. Oh dear, Ulfar was a hugger. “I believe it is just us two.”

“WHAT?”

Amos focused intently on a tiny bead of spittle that had just leapt from Ulfar’s mouth and clung in his shaggy beard. The old Wolf actually growled - just like his namesake.

“Surely the Wyrd-weaving Jaerl needs a proper pack for his sinister errands.”

There was an ambiguity in Brother Ulfar’s words and in his body language. Amos had studied a modest but passable chunk of Astartes history. He had surmised from his research that relations between the Vylka Fenrika and the Inquisitorial Ordos were disastrous. Brother Ulfar was not outright denying the bad blood between the institutions… nor was he going out of his way to insult the Lord Inquisitor. Amos even discerned a modicum of respect in the older Battle-Brother’s tone. He had no idea what to do with that information, so he resorted to deflecting with humour.

“Verily, a pair barely makes a good hand at cards, let alone a full pack! If I had to guess at Lord van Calox’s intentions, I would surmise he plans an understated intervention?”

In that case, why would the Lord Inquisitor recruit brother Ulfar? A loud-mouthed Space Wolf was hardly inconspicuous. The redhead picked up on Amos’s uncertainty.

“Hrrn, I am asking that myself - the question of why he would need this old Shield-Brother at his back once more. Our wyrd remains shrouded in furs and fog. You.” Those predatory eyes locked onto Amos once more. “You have the smell of a Rune Priest about you.”

By the Throne, not this again.

“Brother, I barely have the talent to be considered a psyker. Certainly not sufficient for the Grey Knights to take an interest in my person. I am simply… rather good at not being seen.”

Ulfar’s glare turned stormy at the mention of Grey Knights, and Brother Amos made a mental note not to mention them again. These Wolves and their rock-headed prejudice against psykers… Brother Ulfar was not going to let the matter drop, was he?

“So you know about the Inquisition’s pawns, the meddling Witch-Knights.” The old Wolf made a show of spitting on the floor. “You are nothing like them, at least. I know little of Wyrd-ways, cub, but you remind me of my old Shield-Brother, Skjaddi Twice-Thinker. And Runa has bonded with you: that is a good sign. Be courteous to her, for you will not be rid of the Vegvisir once she decides to follow you.”

Amos shot a rueful look at the raven. That must be Runa. She was busy tapping the tip of his helmet’s visor, beak to beak.

“Wait, are you suggesting that I take the ill-omened beast with me?”

A shaggy red eyebrow rose, and that damnable grin returned.

“I do not think you have a choice in the matter, little Brother.”

Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty Two

Summary:

An education.

CW: brief mention of sexual harassment

Basic vocabulary. Sample texts. Grammar.

Clif had expected the grammar book to be his biggest challenge. Its dimensions were almost brick-like: its heavy binding was made from a resilient material that Clif didn’t recognise and fervently hoped was synthetic. The pages interested him too. They were water-resistant and had a waxy sheen, but the texture under his fingers was pliable and quite soft. The book’s spine was festooned with purity seals - their High Gothic inscriptions were a mystery to him. Clif understood the intent of the large letters that had been stamped in red ink on the frontispiece and end-plate, even if he didn’t know their meaning.

He was getting right into the forbidden stuff.

How did it feel? Clif Aster honestly couldn’t say - it was all happening so fast. Learning a xenos language was only one facet of his training. The martial arts lessons were exhilarating, if a little bewildering. He’d never even heard of half the techniques Xue kept drilling into him. Clif did know that they weren’t meant for use on human opponents. He considered the scenarios where certain moves would be useful: if a fighter had more than two arms, for instance. Some throws would only work if his sparring partner was very tall. Others were designed to compensate for an opponent’s unusually low centre of gravity. The Holy Inquisition’s problems came in all shapes and sizes.

Was it weird of him to say that he liked the uniform? It felt tidy - no, that wasn’t the right word. Of course it was nice to have something tailor-made, but comfort wasn’t the only thing he liked about it. Aster enjoyed being part of a team again. Maybe the uniform helped him to remember that feeling of comradeship. Maybe he just did better in an institution.

When Clif had finished his time with the Penal Battalion, he’d been unceremoniously sent back to Vheabos. Too many of his comrades had karked it for them to be called a proper unit any more, and those that survived didn’t have the luck of a dynastic commendation or the subsequent parole hearing. Clif’s battlefield heroics had left him friendless. He had arrived back on the mining planet wearing his demob jumpsuit, lonely and shell-shocked, with ink on his face and not a single Throne in his pocket.

He could have turned right around and gone back to prison - one punch to the wrong person’s head would have done it. But that’d have made him no better than Ida. So he’d given himself a star-name, Aster - the least imaginative choice possible, but it’d put Dru near the top of any Administratum waiting lists. For the next five years he committed everything to getting Dru off that Emperor-forsaken rock. And now here he was… protecting the Expanse, in his own quiet and slightly fucked-up way. Clif’s new job was just as hazardous as the ones before it. At least he’d leave a pretty-looking corpse this time.

If only he could keep memorising this xenos language… The grammar wasn’t too scary, once he realised how the colour system worked. All the words and bits of words were lined up in nice neat tables. Aeldari script was friendly to look at. The runes were blocky enough that they didn’t jump around the pages at him. There was a structure to it all - a big, complicated structure, but Clif could tackle it one section at a time.

No, it was the vocab that tripped him up. You’d think that lurking around the docks and hearing bits of Corsair slang over tattoo-removal sessions would make it easier, but all these long strings of syllables kept tripping Clif up. Why did the bloody xenos have such a roundabout way of naming simple objects? How come everything seemed to have a bunch of hidden meanings? What the fuck was an ‘idiom’ and how was he supposed to guess it?

Clif laid his index finger underneath the Aeldari word for ‘human’ - which, weirdly, was not ‘mon-keigh’ - and tried to wrap his clumsy tongue around the chain of syllables.

“Cre.. sis.. ta.. ww.. ee.. ad. Ath? Ah, Emperor’s balls!”

No wonder they just said ‘mon-keigh’. Clif tilted his head to the ceiling and let out a long and sincere swear word in the first and most colourful language that came to mind… which just happened to be Aeldari. At least he could curse properly.

“I see we are already making excellent progress!”

Clif Aster nearly levitated out of his seat.

“L-Lord Inquisitor, ser! Uh-”

He hadn’t seen, heard or so much as smelled Heinrix van Calox sneaking up on him. Yet here the man was, lounging against the bulkhead in one of his crisp white suits, white-gloved arms crossed nonchalantly, wearing his usual braid and the thin smile of someone who knows they’ve got the jump on their victim. By the Emperor, how long had he been watching?

“I’m not a Ser, remember? Technically, until you take your oath of service, I’m not even your superior.”

Clif gathered his wits.

“To be honest, ser - uh, milord van Calox-”

The Inquisitor let out an affable chuckle. “Raven is fine.”

“Right.” Why was Clif so damn nervous? “Well, Master Raven, it’s not going so well for me. I can get a sense of what I want to say, but I can’t get the words out right. It doesn’t… flow.”

He knew what the Corsairs sounded like. Their conversations, even the ones peppered with Low Gothic and other alien terms, shifted rapidly from thought to thought. It was like they braided ideas together, while Clif was struggling to grab onto a single piece of string.

“It is quite normal for trainee Agents to feel discouraged at this point in their education, Master Aster.”

Lord van Calox was matching Clif’s tone of voice, letting his own timbre grow deeper and a little softer: trying to put his new recruit at ease. Clif had seen this kind of tactic before: he’d been a door guard at a brothel. The working lads and lasses would sound one way in private, and another when they were with a client.

Aster anticipated the Inquisitor would want to sit across the table from him - a way to downplay his authority, so he wouldn’t be standing over his subordinate. Heinrix surprised him by taking a chair and pulling it right up next to Clif. The Lord Inquisitor took a seat with liquid, almost inhuman ease, resting his right forearm on the desk next to the massive Aeldari grammar book.

They were knee to knee, almost touching. Clif caught a hint of scent. Something peppery and green, almost a medicinal fragrance. Heinrix’s clothing must be treated with it - that explained how his uniform stayed so clean.

The Inquisitor’s shoulders rounded just a little as he leaned against the desk. A frown deepened the crease in his forehead. Clif felt the strange urge to smooth it away with his thumb. Heinrix van Calox looked tired.

“I hope my intrusion on your study time wasn’t too disconcerting. It is easy for me to forget that I am no longer simply an Interrogator - and that even fellow Acolytes can be uncomfortable in the presence of a senior colleague.”

“Your rank isn’t what makes me - uh - disconcerted.”

A slow blink, as the Inquisitor examined him once more with those mismatched eyes. Clif tried not to panic under scrutiny. Void-damn, why was the Inquisitor smiling at him? He shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.

“Are you perhaps uncomfortable in the presence of a psyker?”

“No!” Throne, that wasn’t what he’d meant! “No, I never - I don’t mind witches - I mean psykers, fuck. I even worked for one once.” God-Emperor help him!

“Oh, I know. Senna is a good woman, and a loyal servant of the Emperor. She gives excellent Tarot readings, too.”

Well then why did you tease me, you bloody menace? Clif could feel his face grow warm.

“Permission to talk about something else, ser - uh - Raven.” Clif’s eyes dropped to the accursed Aeldari 101 textbooks. Anything was better than witnessing the amusement on van Calox’s face, the merry twinkle of that ice-blue eye. He felt terribly exposed.

“To make up for the intrusion, perhaps I can help you improve your grasp of spoken Aeldari. I’m afraid my personal style is rather idiosyncratic: but in my experience, it can be better to find your own Path to mastering the Aeldari Tongue. We are not xenos, and we cannot emulate another species in full - nor, if I may be so bold, should we wish to do so. It is enough to understand and be understood.”

Clif dragged his vocabulary book towards the Inquisitor so that he could highlight some of the more troublesome phrases.

“What I don’t get, milord, is why the books have big long sentences like this, when you could just as easily get the gist across in two words if you mash ‘em together just right.”

“That is, indeed, the more prosaic way of speaking. I can tell you have spent time among the Corsairs. But tell me, what would you do if you encountered an older Aeldari, one who conveys their age and status through linguistic convolutions? This book is already a compromise. It contains a formal version of The Tongue that has itself been simplified from Classical Aeldari, just as High Gothic begets Low Gothic.”

“Karkin’ Void. All right, I think I get it.” This language was full of tests and traps: but so was any kind of language. The Aeldari just had way more time to add extra complications.

“Okay, I’ve got one more question. You said we couldn’t match the way the xenos talk, but this book is for humans, right? It has instructions on how to make this kind of ‘l’ sound… or is it an ‘r’? I can’t make my mouth do that flicky thing.”

“Mm. I heard you practising your consonants.”

The little furrow between van Calox’s brows deepened. If he scrunched his face like that every time he concentrated, no wonder the effort had left a permanent mark. Clif wondered why he didn’t just magic it away with his sorcery. He could certainly make his muscle mass come and go at will.

“I would need to examine you more closely, but it is possible you have a minor speech articulation disorder - something that limits your tongue’s range of motion.”

Clif frowned at this news. He didn’t like the idea that there was something wrong with him and he hadn’t known about it. The Inquisitor gave him a reassuring look. There was something a bit softer about the man’s expression. Genuine sympathy, perhaps, rather than the performance of camaraderie.

“It is nothing you need to worry about, Clif - merely one of the many natural variations in the sacred human form. I hesitate to call it a problem, really. May I take a look?”

Aster nodded his consent, unsure if he was about to be escorted to a medicae bay. Instead the Inquisitor leaned in, lifting his right hand off the desk. Heinrix placed the tip of his gloved hand in the divot of his patient’s chin. A crooked index finger cradled his jaw. Clif let his head hang a little looser, feeling his lips part just a little as he relaxed forwards to meet the contact.

He expected Heinrix to examine the inside of his mouth, but the Inquisitor just lowered his gaze a little. A gentle tilt of the hand turned Clif’s face to one side, then the other as that unrelenting gaze scanned him. Aster wondered if he could make out the places where he’d been inked. A stick-and-poke Aquila had once spread its crooked wings across one of Clif’s cheeks - it had been a bitch to get rid of. The Corsairs had stared and smiled and touched their little xenos stiffies while Clif sat in agony under the lasers. The Inquisitor’s methodical touch dispelled the embarrassing memory and replaced it with a more pleasant one.

The gloved hand receded, returning to rest easily against the desk. Heinrix’s touch had been warm, even through the gloves - Clif felt a contrasting chill in the air around him. The Inquisitor looked relaxed: whatever he had seen, he seemed to approve of it.

“It is really quite a simple matter. You are slightly tongue-tied.”

Clif was certainly lost for words - he’d just realised that Heinrix’s knee was resting ever so slightly in between his legs, and his brain did not know what to do with that information. That wasn’t what Raven meant, though, was it?

“There is a tiny anchoring tendon and a flap of skin beneath your tongue. In your case, the tendon is a little short and tight. I do not have to do anything if you do not wish for it, but… I could make a small and painless adjustment, if that would suit you.”

“Would you use your biomancy to do that?”

“I would. Surgery is another possibility, if you’re not comfortable-”

“Actually, milord, I’m kind of curious.”

Clif looked at the white-gloved fingers, the slight curvature of Heinrix’s palm against the desk. His pulse was insistent - he felt it in his throat. Was this what it felt like to look out on the unknown?

The Inquisitor turned his face aside just a little. His more natural-looking eye came into focus. Clif noticed that the iris wasn’t a solid brown: there was a band of deep grey-green along the outer rim, that blended into warmer colours as it converged on the centre. Heinrix leaned back and brought both palms down on his knees - the soft clap of the contact pulled Clif away from the reverie of observation. Lord van Calox got to his feet with the same effortless grace he had used to seat himself.

“Why don’t you take some time to think about it, Clif? Even good decisions ought to be made for the right reason.”

No-one had ever given Clif the option of saying no to a prison tattoo, or turning down a mission. He wasn’t used to having a choice in… most things, if he was honest. He felt lightheaded and faintly uneasy.

The Inquisitor headed over to the doorway: his pale uniform stood out against the corridor’s deep red wallpaper. Clif couldn’t let him leave just yet. He searched for something to say.

“What is the right reason?”

The question made the Lord Inquisitor turn back for a second, one ice-blue eye gleaming at the new recruit over his shoulder. Heinrix gave Clif a sly smile.

“That’s for you to find out, otan. Consider it part of your education.”

Clif Aster sat very still until he was sure the Inquisitor was gone. Then he turned straight back to his desk and started rummaging through the pages in his Aeldari dictionary.

Chapter 23: Chapter Twenty Three

Summary:

Political gamesmanship, radio and fruit.

“GOOD MORNING Eastern Lakeshore! You’re listening to Hex-3 Morning Madness on Frequency 808. It’s your buddy Vyvyan here - that’s double V, double Y! Ya know me, ya love me! And let me tell you it’s a frantic day down here in Hex-3 Commercium District. I gotta say, the Emperor’s blessing us this chron with just a One on the Air Toxicity Scale but are we taking off our respirators and enjoying some fresh air? Hoo-Wee, we are not! Boys, girls and sexy toasters, it is a karking MESS on those landing platforms today. Now I’m sure we’ve all had our struggles in the markets this month, the old Golden Boy Himself, bless His name, knows that canned goods should NOT be this hard to get hold of so close to Bonfire Night. Let’s hope our dynastic dynamos come up with a recipe for agar-loaf that doesn’t need peas and grox-chunks in it, am I right? Or better yet - say it with me, loyal subjects - PRAY FOR BARBECUE.”

Janris Dargon wondered how much his time was worth as he leafed through a modest stack of broadsheets and voxcast transcripts. He’d employed people to gather up the news that related to his interests and condense it for easier reading - that much was standard practice among Dargonus’s newly-minted crop of politicians. Could he trust anyone enough to appoint them as his version of a Master of Whispers, and if he did - what would be the optics of that decision? No, it was better for a Man of the People to do his own research. Even if that did mean spoiling his morning tanna time with Vyvyan’s awful radio segment.

“I am not gonna let this one go - Bonfire Night goes with barbecue, it’s such a good theme! Speaking of barbecue, a little feral ibis told me that our favourite secretive Saint - you know her, you love her, the nun with the big BIG gun - Argenta HERSELF was sighted near the Administratum Offices after all this logistical slapstick went down. What did she do? That’s between our lady and the Big Man Himself - the Emperor Redacts, ha ha ha! But don’t you despair, lovely listeners, because I did manage to snag an interview with the Mistress of Seals. She was able to tell me the name of a DASHING deliverer involved with un-fucking that which hath been fucked, and getting the blessed Imperial ticker-tape flowing once more. Praise be! And that person, dear listeners, was Citizen Tribune Janris Dargon.”

Janris’s eyebrows rose until his eye augmetic started to pinch. Keep my name out of your mouth, Vyvyan, for the Throne’s sake…

“Score a win for Team Blue! And it does seem that Team Green has taken a loss in this round of Assembly Blood-Bowl! The way this humble reporter heard it, our latest and most promising candidate on the opposing side of the Convocation floor took a running jump at the Administratum Office and didn’t even make it IN THE DOOR. Timun Ravor or as I like to call him, Ole Rockcrete, has no doubt rubbed yet ANOTHER buncha folks up the wrong way! It’s okay buddy, just take some of that pep and stick it in your jetbikes! Haha seriously we love your work, but why is this guy in the Assembly caucus again?”

Janris snapped the radio off with a scowl. That was not the order of events and Vyvyan bloody well knew it. This was the trouble with partial gag orders: when the media couldn't report on the meat of a situation, they made a meal out of whatever scraps were left. ‘Pray for barbecue’ indeed - fucking Vyvyan was butting right up against the limits of his remit and he knew it.

This tasteless interlude gave Dargon a mild headache. Well - it certainly couldn’t be any worse than Ravor’s old migraines. The Citizen Tribune suppressed his first instinct to just call the man and apologise. Knowing Timun Ravor’s schedule, he’d probably never listened to the shock-jock’s morning show. Janris might be calling his attention to a problem the old Helmsman never knew he had. All the same, Janris felt compelled to make some kind of a peace offering. Perhaps he’d send over a gift basket. Throne knew it was hard to come by fresh provisions at the moment…

 

___

 

Timun Ravor dropped the hamper onto the break-room table with a solid thud. The theatrical gesture was a bit hard on his arms - damn Dargonian gravity! - but it did get some of the unwanted energy out of his system.

“Dig in, comrades! Someone might be hoarding the spoils, but I bloody well won’t.”

A couple dozen mag-train workers clustered around the table. Nobody wanted to go first, and Ravor couldn’t say he blamed them. These were fresh goods - the hamper had a thin layer of insulation, so they remained slightly cool to the touch. Even an upper-spire functionary would be hard pressed to get hold of good, ripe fruit: most of these coves had never seen such luxuries outside of pict-dramas and advertisements.

Hari, their shift supervisor and the closest thing to a boss in this terminus, waggled the two remaining fingers on her left hand in a beckoning gesture. Just like that, the spell of class consciousness was broken and everyone shuffled forward to get an exotic snack.

Ravor was fine sitting back with Platon and watching this all play out. He’d taken a trip round a couple of the stevedores’ bases with the big man, focusing on the locations that had been worst affected by the Administratum stoush. Sure, the quill-pushers were on track to open their offices again, but the logjam wasn’t going away anytime soon.

The stories Timun had heard on the ground were rough as guts. Food riots at two distribution centres had become so serious that the PDF came stomping in and put their damn noses where they didn’t belong. Half a dozen of Timun’s workers had got caught up in the stampede to get away from overzealous soldier boys and their shock batons. The Arbites broke up the stoush and gave the local PDF officer a dog-bite on the bum and a slap on the wrist, but their intervention came too late for the stevedores. Now Timun’s lads were on bed-rest, all because they wanted to get some groceries.

People were pulling triple shifts just to get on top of the transit backlog. That made everyone exhausted to the point where folks started making mistakes. Those fuck-ups added to the overwhelming burden on Dargonus’s logistics, and so it got worse and worse in a self-fulfilling spiral.

A mag-train worker had fainted and fallen onto the tracks right in front of a junction turnout on the Hex-4 line and derailed a freight car: that car had crushed a score of loading dock workers. They’d all been killed or mangled in the accident. The mag-train workers wanted to patch things up with the stevedores - and Platon insisted on hanging out with Hari and her people to show his good will.

Ravor jotted a note onto his data-slate and handed it to Platon - he really didn’t want to whisper discreetly and get a loudly bellowed response from the deaf old boxer.

+ Y NO AUGMET. FOR HARI ? +

If she’d lost the fingers in an industrial accident, the von Valancius dynasty was supposed to have a deal going with the local Tech-Priests to cover a prosthetic replacement. Dextrous workers were productive servants of the Imperium, and all that. Platon shrugged and tapped out a reply with his big scarred thumbs. It took a while - literacy wasn’t his strong suit.

+ BORN WITH IT +

Ravor was glad he hadn’t asked her directly. He had his Voidborn quirks and she had her Planetborn ones. She was pretty lucky to have survived the purges after the uprising eight years back. Dargonian locals hadn’t been so fond of mutants at the time.

Hari Two-Fingers swaggered over to sit with her visitors, taking care to sit next to Ravor and away from Platon. She was carrying a fat slice of mango - Ravor recognised it from one of his rare shore-leave trips to Janus. Hari fiddled with the knot on the back of her kerchief till she got it off her head, then used it to wipe a dribble of mango juice from her chin. She held out the bright golden strip of fruit towards Timun, peel side down.

“Go on, have a bit!”

Ravor scowled and looked down his beaky nose at the offering.

“There’re too many people going without proper food. Feels weird to be helping myself.”

Hari just laughed - a short little bark, rough and honest. Throne, she was tiny! If folks saw the three of them sitting in a row, massive Platon, skinny Voidsman Ravor and pint-sized Hari, they’d find it quite a funny picture.

“Aw, come on, love! You know the Nobs up in the House of Houses eat whatever they like without a care for us unwashed masses. But you do care, and that makes you all right in my books. Eat up before the flies get at it.”

Timun grumbled but accepted the fruit in the end. It had a mixed texture - juicy and melting with just a hint of roughness on the inside edge - and it tasted like pure sunshine. Janris Dargon had enjoyed that sort of luxury whenever he wanted, back when he was the High Factotum for the von Valancius Protectorate and a Danrok to boot. No wonder he was a chunky lad - Timun would eat well, too, if all his meals were that sweet.

“Trying to buy my forgiveness with treats, is he? Platon, do I look like someone’s pet to you?”

The old Pankration champ slapped his knee - Ravor hastily turned down the volume on his ear augmetic before the decibels hit him.

“Pet! Ha ha ha, that’s a good one! Maybe someone’s pet lacerax! Because of the -” Platon mimed slicking his hair back.

“The head cables?”

They did look like a mane of tentacles if you viewed them from the right angle. Ravor scratched his beard and couldn’t help smiling just a little. If he couldn’t look friendly then he’d settle for looking fierce and maybe, even, a bit majestic.

“Don’t listen to the dicks on the radio, mate.” Hari patted Timun on the shoulder. “We know what you’ve done for those hostages. Me and the Trackies did a supply run.”

One of the workers piped up, talking around a mouthful of grapes.

“Yeah, guv! You got my auntie out of a jam, she was stuck in that Void-damn waiting room for nearly a month - and that’s before things went to shit! I’ll mention you in my prayers to Him-on-Terra.”

“Fact is, we need someone like you.” Platon nodded sagely as he loomed over Ravor’s shoulder.

“Team Green’s always been seen as rough sorts, and there ain’t any shame in that - we’re simple people and that keeps us honest, not like these ex-Nob types. The Assembly’s a smart place and we need smart folk in there to keep the Blues in line. You’ve got dynasty connections, you stood by the Emperor’s Chosen every day. You look good in a uniform, and you know a lot of the ins and outs, not just on Dargonus but the Expanse’s bigger goings-on. You’ve got all that and you’re still a true man of the people. That’s rare, squire.”

Flattery was not the way to placate an old Voidsman. Ravor grumbled some more.

“Easy up on the sweet talk, all right? Sticking out among the crew’s a job for a Rogue Trader, not a jumped-up Lower Decker.” Ravor huffed out his frustration.

“Kark it all, Platon! Why can’t Janris put his ego aside for a second? We used to be shipmates. I thought he was a good cove. Now… I don't know what to bloody think.”

Timun turned away, only to face Hari on the other front of the charm offensive.

“If your old shipmate doesn’t see your worth - fuck that bloke. We ride with you, comrade.”

Chapter 24: Chapter Twenty Four

Summary:

An unlikely industrial partnership.

CW: servitor-making.

A thousand servitors was quite a sizeable order to fill at such short notice. Normally the Kabal of the Shrieking Tempest produced batches of a hundred at a time: the equivalent of processing one day’s worth of arena fodder in one of the Dark City’s many little Wych Cult playgrounds. Flesh-Inspector Thraex wasn’t going to have much free time for a while. At least she could sate her Fatal Thirst as she went: the second-hand panic and apprehension of the incoming captives made for a light but varied snack.

The lesser Drukhari helpers would be invigorated by the proximity of so much butchery. Thraex’s challenge lay in getting them to moderate their zeal - it wouldn’t do to have some deranged assistant run wild on the vivisection floor, damaging perfectly good stock. The steel mon-keigh were strong and prepared to labour around the clock for the glory of the Messiah of Discontinuing. They were also prepared to discipline a few Kabalite troublemakers early in the shift, which generally served to keep the rest in line. That certainly made Thraex’s role easier.

A thousand servitors… yes, it could definitely be managed as long as the stock was prepared according to preset templates. That was where unit Lovelace-183 came in. The Red Priest was something of a Flesh-crafter. Despite their ugly physical form, they had a good eye for the business of turning sweaty, grimy mon-keigh into useful tools. The Red Priest was dutifully clanking their way towards Thraex’s station, covered in the blood-coloured vestments of their mechanical religion. The steel mon-keigh’s modesty couldn’t be further from Thraex’s standard work outfit: the Flesh-Inspector was clad in various suitably-placed leather straps and very little else. It got terribly warm on the sorting floor, and it was funny to watch the reactions of the mon-keigh captives when they caught sight of Drukhari bits. They inspected her flesh, then she inspected theirs. It was only fair.

“Xenos unit.”

Lovelace cupped their metal fingers into what passed for The Shape among these metal creatures - a simple sign, placed over the skull that adorned every Tech-Priest’s chest plate.

“Iron mon-keigh.”

Ugh. They had to communicate in that clumsy Low Gothic tongue. Neither of them spoke it fluently, since it wasn’t their first language - but it would do.

Their mutual greeting was always this perfunctory. Thraex made a great show of not bothering to look up from her screens. Her station featured an awkward fusion of technology: ugly green and black panels connected with a repurposed Imperial-issue auspex array. The device scanned for pre-existing implants in the bodies of the captives. Once Thraex had spotted a grenade, smuggled up inside someone’s rectum - that was quite a funny work story!

The biological scanners contained a whole mess of different parts. Thraex’s last console was Drukhari-designed, and monitored fluctuations in Sha’eil’s delicate veil. Anyone who showed signs of unusually bright soul-activity would be put aside for special processing. Inspector Thraex was one of the Spire’s few inhabitants who knew what happened to the Sha’eil-touched mon-keigh.

The ‘psykers’ might just be better off staying in Commorragh.

“Do not stand on ceremony, iron one. How narrow are the selection criteria this time?”

The Red Priest handed over the data-slate that contained the batch’s specifications. Thraex was unimpressed by the parameters that scrolled up on her screens.

“Kae-morag, what fuckery is this?”

She narrowed her eyes at Lovelace. The steel mon-keigh had silly little lenses instead of a proper face. Worse yet, the Tech-Priest was totally equanimous in the face of a pissed-off naked Drukhari. Isha’s tits, would it kill the metal bitch to have some kind of a reaction?

“Parameters conform with the request of the buyer, as they always do, unit Thraex. Requesting that you resume operations as soon as possible. Maximal efficiency will be beneficial for us both. Glory to the Omnissiah.”

Omnissiah this, Omnissiah that…

“I have ten score of Voidborn captives here, iron one. Voidborns! This readout calls for dumpy little Planet-born subjects, and I have tall skinny ones. We will be turning away dozens of suitable specimens at this rate. How is that not inefficient, you insufferable bolt-bag?”

Lovelace’s steel parts whirred and screeched as they shrugged. Perhaps it was for the best that Thraex could not see the intimate specifics of the Red Priest’s arrangements. She did pick up a hint of physical discomfort somewhere around the steel mon-keigh’s armpit. Was it deliberate or simply inefficient? Khaine’s sake, who knew with these ones.

“Unit Thraex’s impatience is unwarranted. Optimal servitor design should not stand out in any way, which therefore calls for Imperium-standard default physical dimensions-”

“Yes, you’re all puny imps, do what the Archon wants, Or Else. I comprehend, all right?”

Archon Aezyrraesh’s buyers were almost exclusively mon-keigh, acting through the brokerage of the Kasballica Mission. He’d kept his trade activities restricted to the Koronus expanse for the most part, since these were the hunting grounds he and his people knew the best - and that meant Flesh-Inspector Thraex knew who had insisted on these stupid specifications. Shadow Baroness Heydari: a smug little daemon. Thraex would quite like to gut the Cold Trader, but the mon-keigh was right to drive such a finicky bargain.

The key was to make the servitors look as mundane as possible, while maintaining consistent high quality. Nothing in their outward appearance could attract too much scrutiny. If this large batch of servitors was all intended for the same destination, and someone noticed a suspicious number of Voidborn bodies in the batch, questions would be asked about their provenance.

Thraex issued snappy commands in Drukhari to the Flesh-herders, and Lovelace echoed them in the Red Priests’ jarring electronic song. The assembly line of living meat started up, and the massive queue of servitor candidates started shuffling forward. Here and there the zap of an electric prod coaxed a straggler to keep up with the herd. Most of the captives were too exhausted or terrified to do more than moan or sob, but a few defiant individuals always piped up when they caught sight of Thraex. Silly mon-keigh! Their anger only warmed her veins and gave her libido a little tickle.

Archmagos Pasqual-Amarnat had created a mathematical model that optimised the desired flow of captives in from realspace, factoring in the inevitable wastage caused by the screening process and weeding out any undetected mutations or other biological issues. Its application looked like Thraex’s scanners, a gigantic conveyor belt and a well-timed disposal hatch.

If Thraex’s scanners spotted a mutation, the hatch would open and the captive would be fed to the meat-grinders below. Truly, this was an excellent place for Thraex to sit. There was always just enough time for her to hear a scream followed by the satisfying crunch of sinew and bones. Whichever ill-fated mon-keigh came next in the assembly line would always stare down in horror as the hatch slowly closed once more. Unfortunately for them, the Red Priests had already clamped them to the assembly line and paralysed their lower limbs with a well-placed spike in the back of the neck.

There weren’t too many rejects. The Shrieking Tempest’s Dracons and their raiding parties were happy to handle the initial check of stock, since they could keep the dregs. The arrangement was far more generous than that offered by other Kabal leaders, who automatically laid claim to all prisoners regardless of their utility.

The process, while a masterpiece of craft and logic, did lack a little something. Thraex missed the arena at times, the ambitious thrill of deadly artistry, the dance of blood and blade. But she wasn’t so young any more, about to celebrate her second millennium of life in Commorragh. She hadn't stayed intact for so long without learning to read the Dark City’s political currents. It was a maelstrom out there. Full civil war had been declared in the districts claimed by the Ynnari. Flesh-Inspector Thraex wanted none of that Sha’eil-cursed nonsense, much less the nonsense of distant family politics. She’d chosen the right side: picking no side at all.

Brute-force, repetitive pain might not taste the best but it was still filling - and the Shrieking Tempest didn’t need to rely on any Wych cults or hand-outs from rival Kabals to feed themselves. The banality of servitor creation did little to appease Sai’lanthresh: but Thraex suspected that was the whole point. Wasn’t that the reason why Archon Marazhai Aezyrraesh preferred to collude with the metal mon-keigh? He took no interest in the Thirsting God. Perhaps he no longer feared that she might capture his soul.

The more that Flesh-Inspector Thraex pondered it, the more she felt certain: the one who called himself Steelheart had shackled his soul to the Machine.

Chapter 25: Chapter Twenty Five

Summary:

An Inquisitor and an elevator.

Two trillion lives, give or take a few rounding errors, sat in the Expanse’s outstretched palm. Two trillion grains of sand: two trillion infinitesimal variances. On any given settlement in any given Protectorate at any time, a thousand minor scuffles might come to the Holy Inquisition’s notice. Most of those were trivial. Some might escalate in insidious and creeping ways, interweaving and concatenating into world-rending events.

It was Heinrix’s job to sift through all these reports, to find the grit of corruption or the gold of opportunity among all those grains of possibility.

The situation on Dargonus was, of course, known to him. How could it not be? The von Valancius Protectorate’s capital world lay on his standard pilgrimage of patrol, the endless back and forth from Foulstone all the way to Vheabos VI. A hold-up in the planet’s administration would be a noteworthy challenge for Como, but Heinrix himself was not overly concerned with the Rogue Trader’s Imperial Tithe obligations. Of course as a friend… as a very dear friend indeed… Yes, he was worried.

But it seemed all too obvious a play, didn’t it? He and Como displayed their mutual affection in public all the time, at high society parties and on festival days. They were both symbols of the Imperium, and it was important for the people of the Expanse to see them getting along. He’d situated the Inquisition’s new headquarters on Foulstone precisely because he wanted to align himself with Como’s new, more benevolent approach to governance.

Whoever was behind the incident on Dargonus must know Heinrix would take notice of their meddling. But who had stirred the pot?

The situation on Kiava Gamma was complicated. Heinrix wondered which Adeptus Mechanicus unit had decided to inconvenience the Kin in the first place. Null Caliph’s numinous presence attracted a few oddballs, to be sure. Yet there was also a strong conservative presence among the planet’s Tech-Brethren. Como had cracked down hard on the planet after rooting out a nasty strain of Chaos corruption. Heinrix could still feel its mark on his psyche - damn Calcazar for sending him there alone! Anything connected with that ghastly manufactorum had been purged with fire and prayer. The replacement Tech-Priests had a holy mission to zealously stamp out any traces of recurring malignity. A liberal Tech-Priest wouldn’t have had the power to turn away the Kastelans on a whim.

Was all this a dig at Amarnat, then, some rival needling at the rebel Archmagos’s erstwhile allies? Or it could simply be a stress-test of Dargonus’s new political system. Any one of the old Noble Houses might resent Rogue Trader Como’s intrusion upon their ancestral fiefs. Setting up a representative system alongside the old House of Houses was both a throwback to prehistoric Terra and a wild inversion of the Imperial norm. House Gaprak would have the means and motive to cause a disruption. But no, it was too obvious! Maybe someone was trying to make the Gapraks look bad…

Ah, Throne, now he had a headache.

Heinrix stretched out in his armchair, letting the nape of his neck settle into the crest of its padded leather back-rest. He’d already spent too much time and attention on this problem. Between that and the debacle with the Scholastica Psykana, he was beset with distractions… Throne preserve him from the misadventures of his errant ward!

The Lord Inquisitor caught himself with his gloved hand pinching between his eyebrows, and chided himself for persisting in his dreadful habit. That Void-damned crease above the bridge of his nose would only deepen if he kept squeezing it.

It was fine. If anyone could keep an eye on young Anguilla and her dubious new acquaintances, it was Emelina Iona Lichtenhart. He could rely on the Sage to keep the situation in hand until he was able to visit Janus in person.

Heinrix considered flexing a little biomancy to ease the cramp between his shoulder blades, but he quickly decided against that action. They were travelling through the Warp, entrusting their frail and precious human lives to the skill of Navigator Jericho. Better to be cautious, then, and not take any undue risks.

The Administratum crisis was a matter for Como to investigate. He could trust them to get the planet back under control. And if anyone raised concerns about the programming of Kastelan robot units, then his people could take care of those voices. It would be all right. He didn’t need to fuss so much.

Void dammit, why did he keep dwelling on Sage Emelina and her brain injury?

Calm yourself, van Calox. You got her out of danger… most of her, anyway. And you couldn’t have done it without Como’s kindness and quick thinking.

A letter - he’d write Como a letter. An invitation to chat over recaf, like the old days - something light-hearted and flirtatious in its wording. Master Pirate would appreciate that. Once they were safely out of the Warp, he’d engage an Astropath to relay its contents to the Venatrix. Thornton, perhaps. He had a wonderful knack for translating sensory elements, like the perfume on a sheet of parchment, into astral signals. He’d also enjoy fulfilling a work order that wasn’t full of mind-warping secrets… Inquisition life was tough on psykers. Heinrix certainly knew it.

Other business would inevitably come up, some pretext for him to linger planetside. Dargonus was large, after all, and where Humanity’s teeming masses congregated there would always be sins to sniff out. Como could handle damage control: his presence in the background might give them extra leverage by association. What did Froscher always say? Implied threats were an Inquisitor’s best friend. Hah! Emperor bless that old man.

Heinrix felt his face relax into a smile as he opened his desk drawer and began to search for a quill and a suitably pretty piece of paper.

 

___

 

Governor Urbend Drivestem had famously said of Spire Indomitus: the one advantage of ascending it was that it no longer impeded ones view of the rest of Dargonus. Iffy had to disagree. There was something gleefully ambitious about its phallic vertical thrust into the stratosphere. If Spire von Valancius resembled the apex of a great cathedral, then Spire Indomitus put her in mind of a Voidship’s dorsal lance. There was no compromise of form over function. The endless upward thread of the space elevator was as inspirational as any call to prayer. She was about to trace that same trajectory and pierce the heavens themselves, all for the glory of the von Valancius dynasty.

Urbend just couldn’t see the future with those runny, myopic eyes of his. Here was promise - here, Emperor willing, was progress. Iffy itched to take her place at its vanguard.

This wasn’t Iffy’s first time donning a deck officer’s coatee. She’d never worn quite so much adornment on the dynasty’s traditional blue-and-white fabric. Family connections notwithstanding, Iffy was confident she had earned every stripe. Fitting in with the Venatrix’s existing crew would take time and persistence - but by the Throne, she’d show them her worth!

Iffy’s carefully-tended fingers bunched into a determined little fist within her pristine white gloves. She couldn’t wait to get them nicely smudged with sacred oils and thermal paste. A first time with a Voidship’s mighty machine spirit never failed to get her blood pumping. The Venatrix bore a fearsome reputation. The tales about her were almost mythical - any flagship of her vintage came with a host of potentially lethal quirks. She’d be a challenge like no other.

Iffy hitched a breath, tried not to grin too broadly and pretended to fiddle with a bit of gold braid. She didn’t want to disconcert the other occupant of the space elevator. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied with the view of the upper spires and the swirling cloudbanks. One timezone to sunside, morning’s oranges and pinks were creeping in a gaudy crescent across the horizon. They were standing at the cusp of another spectacular Dargonian dawn.

“Cor…”

The young commissioned officer had his palms pressed against the plexglass surface of the space elevator. Childish as his excitement might seem, he had an impressive tolerance for heights. Iffy had seen many a dignitary insist on opaque screens to mask some of that monumental view and relieve the tremendous vertigo that accompanied planetary ascent. The upward momentum of the elevator must be rough on the lad’s legs and lumbar area - Iffy took note of the discreet braces that he kept hidden under his trousers. He had a decent tan. Either he was a Voidborn who had spent years on-planet, or he was planet-born with spacer ancestors. No wonder he was unafraid of heights. Iffy was curious to hear his voice.

“Quite spectacular, isn’t it?”

The young man started a little when Iffy made conversation, but her warm smile seemed to reassure him. This was far less awkward than engaging in vapid parlour talk: she pressed on.

“Please, make the most of the view. I hope you’ll get to see other worlds from orbit in the course of your duties. There’s really nothing like it.”

Aside from his terrible undercut, he was kind of cute. Once his augmetics finished healing up and his regrown hair no longer resembled a black mushroom, Iffy had a feeling he’d be quite popular among the junior officers.

“Thanks for that thought, ma’am.” The young man noticed Iffy’s stripes and offered her a salute that, while in proper Navy-style form, was just a little too crisp to seem natural. Odds were, he’d seen service but not on a ship.

“It’s likely I’ll see a great deal of the Void, ma’am, Emperor willing. Wing Commander Mattis Erebis, reporting for duty! At least, I will be once we’ve actually embarked.”

Erebis’s smile was sweetly self-effacing. Cute, and a fighter squadron leader to boot! Throne, he really would be popular. Iffy tried a coquettish look on him, and enjoyed the results just a little more than was proper.

“Till we’re officially on deck, you can call me Iphigenia. Or actually - Iffy to my friends.” The young officer would eventually work out that Iffy was a Drivestem, but she was not about to hasten that discovery. She hated it when people got - ugh - unctuous around her.

“Then I guess it’s only fair for you to call me Mattis. If you like, that is. Um, I’m not a Navis man and I confess I don’t actually know what your sigils of rank mean, ma’am.”

“In a few hours, I’m going to be the Venatrix’s new Master Helmsman.”

Iffy tried her best not to sound diffident about it, but actually saying those words out loud - Master Helmsman - was enough to kick her heart’s rhythm up a notch. Wing Commander Erebis broke out in an expansive blush upon hearing Iffy’s rank, but soon recovered his composure.

“Oh, gosh! Ma’am. Right. Well! It’s definitely an honour.”

“I’m still rather fond of flying small craft myself, Mattis. In fact, I’ll really miss climbing into cockpits at will once I’m wedded to the Voidship herself. Enjoy the freedom.”

“You must be amazing, ma’am. I’ve got no idea how anyone can interface with a proper Voidship’s machine spirit. A Fury Interceptor’s stroppy enough for me!”

Iffy laughed. The velvety darkness of the Void was beginning to overtake the view of Dargonus. Her home planet receded gently below her feet. Mattis was watching too, torn between nostalgia and adventure.

“My family’s down there. Funny, isn’t it? They came down from the stars, and now I’m going back up. To the same flagship, even.”

“I’m sure they’re very proud of you.” Iffy suppressed a grimace. She wasn’t entirely sure she could say the same about her own tribe. She doubted great-uncle Urbend twice removed saw little Iphigenia Drivestem as more than an easy way to curry favour with Lord Captain Como.

The majesty of the stars, and the looming immensity of a city-sized orbital platform, encouraged both passengers to fall silent. The space elevator’s blessed mechanisms toiled to bring them ever upward, until ‘up’ no longer had a meaning relative to the planet’s surface. Gravity loosened its hold on Iffy’s limbs. She heard Mattis let out a blissful, almost sensual sigh. He discreetly reached towards his hips and pressed at something under the fabric of his trousers. Now he possessed the advantage in terms of mobility and comfort. Iffy felt as though she were balancing on her tiptoes. She’d find her Void-legs once she was settled in.

Chunky plasteel panels enclosed the elevator with brutal suddenness. Now they were traversing the interior of the orbital Void station. Iffy braced herself against the wall, knowing that deceleration was imminent. The momentum nearly lifted her off her feet. Wing Commander Erebis offered her his hand with a courteous flourish, a gesture she appreciated once they came to a halt and her heels hit the deck again. Mattis continued his gallant streak by placing his body in the entrance to the elevator doors, letting his superior officer walk out first.

A red-headed woman stood in the antechamber, clearly not there to welcome the two new recruits but to depart on business of her own. Her vibrant mane made a lively contrast with her livery of von Valancius blue. She appeared to Iffy as both an officer and a civilian: she bore no stripes on the sleeve of her tailcoat, but she was wearing a pair of well-worn Navis Imperialis-issue jackboots.

Iffy’s noble upbringing asserted itself: she could not help noticing the excellent silk of the redheaded woman’s shirt and cravat, the fashionable tailored cut of her waistcoat and the impressive chatelaine that hung in its chron-pocket. Somebody was holding a very impressive set of purse strings.

By the Throne, this must be Alys Ambrogio, Janris Dargon’s successor! Iffy decided a polite reverence was in order. It was always wise to stay on the good side of a dynastic High Factotum. Ambrogio paid little attention to her surroundings. Iffy wasn’t surprised or offended. The logistical crisis on Dargonus had doubtless left Mistress Ambrogio preoccupied and exhausted.

Mattis bobbed a cheery little bow in Ambrogio’s general direction.

“Top of the chron, ma’am! Going down, I presume?”

The red-headed officer breezed past Wing Commander Erebis with only the briefest of acknowledgements and made a beeline for the elevator. Mattis turned back to Iffy with an expansive shrug and a self-effacing little grimace. The Master Helmsman-elect glanced towards the High Factotum’s retreating bottom.

“How odd. I don’t see why she had to blush like that.”

Chapter 26: Chapter Twenty Six

Summary:

Meat inspection.

Red Aquila sticker, murky greenish plastic sachet: the product in Alys’s hand was a crudely ambitious emulation of Necromunda’s export-grade packaging. The High Factotum held the vacuum-sealed packet by one corner, weighing it by feel. The portion was a bit lighter than she’d expected. She tilted the reflective plastic so that it wouldn’t catch the glare, and squinted at the letters imprinted on the side. Most standard ration packs carried a serial number or some nutritional information. These ne’er-do-wells had added a line of gaudy red text, its Low Gothic lettering somewhat distorted by the vacuum seal:

FINEST CORPSE STARCH: EVEN IN DEATH, I AM STILL SERVED

“Cute. Hey, heads up.”

Alys tossed the sachet in the general direction of Lettard Forius without bothering to look over her shoulder. She heard him fumble and eventually grab the package. He was getting better at catching them.

“Do not expect accurate readings. A market square is not a laboratory.”

“So you told me the last three times, Forius. Just do your best.”

By the time Ambrogio had pivoted away from the vendor to face the Master Surgeon, he had already begun clearing space on the stall’s trestle table. The oily-faced woman who had offered Alys the corpse starch ration wobbled her jowls and made a faint hoot of protest, but Lettard’s grim look made her take a half-step backwards. The vendor decided to take up her complaint with Ambrogio.

“Aurr, pay for the merchandise before you go opening it, mam!”

“I am not paying you a single oily rag of dynasty scrip until we’ve inspected this food.”

Alys remembered Interrogator Xue’s advice and made good use of body language. She planted both her hands palm-down on the table’s surface, supporting her body weight across it. She leaned in so assertively that her towering mess of red hair nearly brushed against the vendor’s chin.

“I require your name and credentials for the dynastic records of trade.”

“I’m Bennik, mam. Business name, Salumi’s Specialty Goods. Salumi, he’s the manufactorum boss. I just run the market stalls. Ere.”

Mistress Bennik indicated a laminated plastic sheet that hung forlornly across the back of the stall, along with a B Grade certificate of hygiene and what appeared to be a series of litanies for operating the cash register. Ambrogio fished her chatelaine out of her waistcoat pocket, found the miniaturised pict-recorder and snapped an image for future reference.

“Obliged.” Alys returned to the customer’s side of the trestle table.

The situation wasn’t great for either buyers or sellers. Dargonus’s open-air market usually sprawled across most of the Drusian Basilica’s adjoining public plaza. Today was a pilgrimage day, and that meant the priests and Planetary Defence Force had cordoned off a transit corridor between a double set of freight elevators and the Basilica’s front entrance. A neverending, irregular queue of Middle and Lower-Hive dwellers jostled and shambled through in awkward surges as the elevators disgorged more and more people. Many of the hivers relied on helpful nudges from the Drusians or angry shouts from the PDF guards to find their way forwards. They were unused to sunlight, even when it was filtered through a thin layer of smog.

The things the masses would do for a chance at citizenship…. Alys quietly thanked the Emperor that her dynastic service granted her perpetual voting rights. She didn’t like the idea of being herded into that Basilica for blood tests every couple of years. The hiver crowds scared her. Forius seemed to agree. Alys heard him huff in response to a guardsman’s shout and the confused bleat of a scrawny Lower-Hiver who had blundered into the cordon.

“Dreadful, aren’t they?”

“What, hivers?”

“People.”

“Aurr, that lot. Scummy buggers.” Bennik turned and spat in the general direction of the queue. Ambrogio silently noted the violation of hygiene protocols.

Forius remained stooped over his slab of suspicious corpse starch, fossicking under the plastic wrapping with a chem-auspex and a couple of biopsy snips. He wrinkled his nose and craned his head upwards. Alys took note of the way the skin on the nape of his neck wrinkled into thin parallel folds, under the high collar of his uniform. She suppressed a little shudder. The back of Lettard Forius’s head reminded her of a frightened lab animal, freshly shaved for testing. The Master Surgeon, Liege Tocara, Ronnie Doloroso… Alys tried to recall if she’d ever met a trustworthy bald man. Maybe Bakhval? He wasn’t bad for a pirate. Forius continued to observe the crowd of pilgrims.

“Incredible, is it not, what the combined effort of Humanity can engender. All these ragged individuals may achieve monumental feats of industry when they are properly directed and sustained by a unifying system. Yet the moment one leaves them to their own devices, blind and disoriented…” Forius tutted gently. “Disorder. Pure Brownian motion. And that smell!”

Ambrogio took a cautious sniff and got a noseful of the usual local pollution, but couldn’t pick up anything particularly rank. She redirected the Surgeon General’s attention to the sample in front of him.

“Do tell, Doctor Forius - how much of our mystery meat is, in fact, meat?”

Lettard twisted his neck around to squint at the High Factotum.

“I am not a Doctor, Ambrogio, I am a Surgeon. As for this dismal lump of so-called nutrition, I am sure it contained protein at some point in its life cycle. There is an abundance of algal paste, yeast extracts and for some reason a dash of chalk in the substrate. I am detecting recycled organic residue of the two and six-legged variety, but not enough for this slop to qualify as proper nutripaste. Protein, Ambrogio, protein is what the Voidship requires!”

The High Factotum glumly accepted Forius’s verdict. Void damn it all! They’d visited a dozen wholesale food vendors trying to get a good deal on rations. At least the more honest merchants had admitted they didn’t have enough meat or meat-like objects to feed a few thousand hungry Voidsmen. Ambrogio would have to blow out her budget and order more grox-flesh from Janus. Her next meeting with Lord Captain Como was just one more worry among many. She ran a gloved hand through her hair and made sure it wasn’t clinging against her forehead. The heat was clammy.

“Treaty of Mars, Article 260.12, Subsection Alpha. That guff doesn’t mean much to you, Mistress Bennik, so let me translate.”

Ambrogio picked up the food pouch and waved it in the vendor’s face - an oily droplet escaped from the hole where Forius had punctured the bag with his auspex and plopped onto Bennik’s already dirty apron.

“It means Salumi gets one chance - ONE chance - to demonstrate he can make a batch of actual nutritious food, before I send the Adeptus Mechanicus to purge and dismantle his manufactorum. There’s damn important rules around making corpse starch.”

“There were barely any corpses in the batch I just tested.” Forius chimed in. “Perhaps Mistress Bennik kept all the meat for herself, considering her poor cardiovascular health and overall greasiness.”

“False advertising sounds like something that would interest the Adeptus Administratum, doesn’t it, Master Surgeon? The Imperial Tithe includes food. Imagine if our Brave Imperial Guard discovered that the Koronus Expanse was shipping them adulterated rations!”

“Scandalous.” Lettard shook his head.

“The Arbites wouldn’t let it slide, would they?”

“They would not.” Lettard finished sterilising his biopsy tool and held it up to inspect it. Mistress Bennik shied away from its pointed tip with an “aurr” of concerned disapproval.

“Nor would the Holy Inquisition."

Alys felt a familiar red-gloved arm drape itself over her shoulder. The vendor fell backwards onto her arse, nearly kicking over the trestle table in the process.

“Aurr, I didn’t do it, mam!”

“Innocence, as they say in the business, proves nothing.”

Emma Xue leered down at the food vendor, who promptly started bawling.

Bennik’s histrionics were an excellent cover for Ambrogio’s own startled noises. Every time, every bloody, Throne-blessed time the Interrogator snuck up on her, it always took her off guard!

“Sweet bony Emperor’s golden bum, Xue… You’re on planet! I’d no idea!”

“Surprise! You know I’ve got your back…”

“...always,” they both intoned, imitating the Lord Inquisitor’s deadpan delivery. Ambrogio managed to sneak an arm around Xue’s waist for a moment and give her a brief conspiratorial squeeze. The unscarred side of Emma’s face crinkled into a cheery smile.

“Not that you need me. Looks like you’re doing great, babe.”

Forius gave Ambrogio the stink-eye. He was barely putting up with the market crowd: public displays of affection were clearly too much for his misanthropic soul. Alys gave him a data-stick encoded with a line of credit, along with instructions to purchase chems for his diagnostic laboratory. The Master Surgeon sloped off towards a civilian grav-cab, his gait lilting slightly - he was accustomed to the Voidship’s gravity, despite not being Voidborn himself, and always took days to adjust to solid ground.

“That gets him out of our hair.” Ambrogio linked her arm with Xue’s. Food shopping could wait for a few hours.

“Come on, Em! I know the best spot for some cheeky day-drinking.”

Chapter 27: Chapter Twenty Seven

Summary:

Fun in the bath-house.

CW: This is an explicit sex chapter.

The sturdy barrel-vaulted ceiling’s apex disappeared up into a layer of steam. Interrogator Xue followed its precise hemispheric curve as far as her vision would allow. At a guess, the main chamber was about four storeys tall. The Balneae Dargonis complex’s bulky outer shell must conceal maintenance spaces on an upper floor.

Throne-dammit, it was hard for her to turn off her Agent’s instincts! Xue might be on shore leave, but the Protectorate’s capital never slept - and neither did its criminals. What were the chances that an assassin was waiting in the bathhouse, lurking in the haze? Even worse, it was a public space. Talk about a security risk…

Emma flexed her gloves as she entered the changing rooms. She had other reasons to feel apprehensive. The Balneae weren’t as opulent as the noble-owned facilities on Scintilla: no gilded fixtures, no smooth-legged catamites holding feather fans. But a bathhouse was a bathhouse. It would attract its share of decadence in time. She’d seen enough of that in her early career.

Alys was so happy, though. A discreet plaque engraved with Ambrogio’s name was the only outward sign of the High Factotum’s involvement with the Balneae’s construction. This was her first really big project, and bless her, she was glowing with pride. Xue let Ambrogio cuddle up and steer the Interrogator by the elbow.

At least the changing rooms had been designed with some forethought. Servitor attendants kept watch over the lockers, ready to nab any would-be thieves. Ambrogio gestured excitedly at a cogitator interface: Emma noticed that its main housing was set into the wall, and its interface shrouded with heavy transparent plastic to help prevent water damage.

“The lockers are free for citizens to use: for everyone else, it’s a coin donation.”

Alys pressed her thumb against a discreet pad. Xue heard the click of an auto-needle: Ambrogio quickly pulled her thumb back and sucked at a tiny pinprick that welled with a drop of blood. Thumbprint and gene-analysis. It was quite a sophisticated system. Xue went fishing in her pockets for a spare Throne, but Ambrogio caught her wrist with a grin.

“Here’s something fun. Try putting your rosette under the electoo scanner.”

Xue furtively dug for the amulet that she’d kept tucked under her collar on a long, fine chain. She pulled it out but didn’t take it off: instead she leaned forward to waggle it under the little blue lumen that Ambrogio had indicated. The cogitator gave a chirp of recognition, and one of the adjoining lockers clicked open.

“Huh. That’s some top-notch tech.”

“Isn’t it though? Magos Errant Asclepius was incredibly helpful with the design work. They laid out the hypocaust schematics, too. Did you know a team of the Venatrix’s Pipewardens handled the installation?”

Xue paused in her inspection of the locker’s panelling - no listening devices seemed to be present.

“I did not know, and that surprises me. I imagine a group of Voidborn would have made quite the impression on Dargonus’s Upper Spire elites.”

Ambrogio’s gaze darted up and to the right as she cackled.

“I bet that clan will be telling legends about their planetside adventure for generations! The workers were so funny to watch, staring round at all the open spaces, scuttling under ceilings all the time. Physically speaking they’re the opposite of the Squats… but they’ve got certain habits in common.”

“Do the Squats ever bathe here?” Xue tried to keep her voice casual.

“Not their style. After the colossal fuck-up with the Administratum, they’ll stay away from the whole damn star system. At least they’d better, if they don’t want to face reprisals.”

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“Eh...” Alys shrugged her way out of her tailcoat. “We’ve got the Arbites to watch the PDF, and the PDF to watch any unruly elements. The riots aren’t any worse than usual. It’s the Mid-Hivers I worry about. You give someone a taste of luxury and take it away, and they get vengeful.” The High Factotum grimaced and shoved her bundle of blue velveteen into her locker.

“I’m sorry, babe. We said we wouldn’t talk shop.”

“When you know how many Thrones everything in the room costs, everything’s shop talk, isn’t it?”

Alys took hold of Xue’s left hand and began easing her red Interrogator’s glove off. Ambrogio worked with a slowness that was designed to both tease and reassure Emma. Alys pressed Xue’s exposed palm against her cheek before turning to nuzzle the scar tissue at the base of Emma’s thumb.

“I don’t know how you manage it, babe. All I do is keep trade secrets. You’ve got it worse than I do.”

Alys’s forehead was close enough for Xue to dart in and give her a tender kiss between the eyebrows. Ambrogio’s contented little sigh, the way she lingered in Emma’s personal space, made the Interrogator’s heart leap.

“You do more than just keep secrets, Emma. Sometimes, you build bathhouses.”

“And you make sure nobody blows the damn things up.” Ambrogio took hold of Emma’s shirt front. “Get your kit off - stop procrastinating. You can’t bathe in uniform.”

Alys’s elegant fingers knew exactly where to find the buttons and clasps that held Xue’s Inquisitorial garments in place. The High Factotum undid the Interrogator’s kevlar-lined jacket, then her linen undershirt. Alys gave an appreciative whistle when Emma’s breasts came into view. She knew she’d made the right decision not to bother with a bralette.

“Everyone’s going to see my scars.”

“Your scars are fucking sexy.” Ambrogio gave Xue’s belly a tickling caress, lingering on the patch of pale skin where Froscher had once shot the Interrogator in the gut. “Take an AdMech cape if you’re feeling self-conscious. Might make me less jealous.”

Ambrogio stuck her tongue out at Xue in between extricating her legs from her trousers. A venerable-looking grandma tottered past behind them, butt-naked with all her wrinkles and augmetics on display. Xue suddenly felt very silly.

The High Factotum packed up her kit, chatelaine and all, and shoved her locker closed. She grabbed a little towel and slung it over one freckled shoulder, clearly intending to swagger around in the buff. The blazing red frizz of her pubic hair drew Xue’s eye. There was no way the Interrogator was prepared to skulk around in a red plastic poncho next to this shameless goddess.

“Can we tuck my rosette somewhere?”

The amulet dangled forward as Xue leaned forward to haul her underpants off. Ambrogio giggled and cocked one knee outward, tilting her hips invitingly.

“Throne’s sake. Not there, you bloody daemonette.” It wouldn’t be the first time the rosette had taken a ride in an unsanctioned location… but this wasn’t the right setting.

“Put it in my bathing cap.”

Various items were neatly stacked on shelves next to the towels, while a couple of servitors stood guard in standby mode. Ambrogio grabbed a flat semicircle of red rubber, opened it out into a fitted hat and crammed it onto her head. Emma helped her to tuck a few wayward red curls in at the nape, then hid the rosette among the frizz.

The central frigidarium was an impressive display of a Rogue Trader’s power, if one understood the logistical challenges of getting that much water onto a Hive World and keeping it clean enough for bathing. The Drusian Basilica’s saline baptistery was a sad puddle compared to the massive central pool. Xue enjoyed the way the deep blue tiles gave the impression of a proper seashore. Tiny children splashed and squealed in a much shallower, smaller pond at the far end of the chamber.

Citizens of all shapes and sexes and ages thronged here. A small coterie of Tech-Priests clattered across the tiles in red plastic modesty robes, heading towards specialised ablution facilities. Fat-bellied magnates and underfed serfs milled around in a naked or near-naked state: some of them wore loincloths or towels around the waist, a few people had wrapped up augmetic limbs in preparation for swimming - but most of the bathers were as casually bare as Ambrogio.

Xue began to understand Lord Captain Como’s intentions. She’d assumed the Rogue Trader wanted to improve public hygiene and disguise it as a jingoistic statement. Dargonians loved their water, especially that brackish little marsh they called a sea. Bathing as a privilege of citizenship made sense. But a sneaky levelling of the social classes was also at work here. Remove the trappings of a person’s office, show off their sacred human form… It was remarkably similar to the tactics of interrogation. People all behaved pretty much the same once you made them naked and vulnerable.

“I believe I was promised a drink, Mistress Ambrogio.”

Alys’s pale, ample butt was incredibly inviting. Xue wasn’t sure how much longer she could restrain herself from squeezing it. She didn’t want to be seen copping a feel, though. The poolside scene was far too wholesome for that. Ambrogio caught Emma staring. So much for an Imperial Agent’s subtlety and stealth.

“Right this way, Mistress Interrogator.” Alys deliberately added a little extra sway to her stride. They were headed for one of the AdMech reserved areas. Xue noted that there were no Tech-Priests in the immediate vicinity.

“The perks of being a founder. I thought I’d reserve us a booth. Refreshments aren’t usually served in the Balneae - let’s call it a special favour for the Holy Inquisition.”

There wasn’t a great deal of space in the steam room, but the warm air smelled wonderful. Xue picked out traces of incense and herbal unguents in the smoky bouquet. She was shocked to discover that the long bench seats were covered in narrow slats of real wooden veneer. The cogs had managed to secure themselves a very plush little hiding spot.

Xue doubted she needed to worry about surveillance devices in here - the extreme humidity would cloud the lens of most small cameras, and the lighting was dim enough that one wouldn’t capture a good image anyway. The Interrogator couldn’t resist poking around the small cubby inlaid into one wall. She found no vox-beads, just an assortment of unguents and devices for cleaning dataports. A bottle of oil caught her eye: she picked it up, flipped the lid open and gave it an experimental sniff. The strong nutty scent made her hum appreciatively. She sat on the nearest bench and tapped a few drops out onto the top of her thighs.

Ambrogio had set a high-sided tray near the steam room’s hot element. Xue enjoyed the view as the High Factotum fetched a wide-lipped bottle of rice wine and a couple of tiny drinking cups. Xue took the bottle by the neck - her scarred fingertips brushed against Alys’s hand for a moment before Ambrogio relinquished Xue’s prize.

It had been years since Emma had drunk proper rice liquor. She took a careful sip of the blood-warm drink, feeling its alcoholic bite against her tongue and the aromatic tickle at the back of her throat. The steam made the wine’s effects kick in quickly. Acting on lightheaded instinct, Xue cupped Ambrogio’s freckled breast with her right hand. The High Factotum closed her eyes and let out a delighted gasp. Xue marvelled at the delicate fiery fringe of her eyelashes.

The woman’s pale skin was already flushed from ear to ear. Emma let her right hand navigate up over Alys’s collarbone - a faint notch under the skin indicated where it had once broken and healed, years ago - then trailed up the side of her neck and round to her nape. Xue’s fingertips found the taut rubber band of Alys’s swim cap. She pulled the High Factotum in for a deep, sensual kiss that tasted of sweet liquor. Xue counted many heartbeats before she was finally forced to let the other woman go and gasp a breath of wet, smoke-scented air.

“You’re fucking magnificent.”

Ambrogio pulled herself onto Xue’s lap so forcefully that they both nearly keeled backwards. Emma could feel the faint slick of anointing oil between her thighs and Alys’s gorgeous buttocks. Xue was all sinew and battle-marks - she had shaped her body in service to her dangerous work. Alys felt soft and safe and tender. Emma wondered what she found more addicting - the safe haven of Ambrogio’s body, or the playful fearlessness of her spirit. Everyone else saw Xue as a threat and stayed clear: Alys had pounced with ardent glee.

Xue was desperate to see Ambrogio’s fiery hair. She took hold of the bathing cap and gradually pulled it free of Alys’s head. The material sprang free with a wet snap. The Inquisitorial rosette clattered against something in the corner. Xue let out a wild giggle despite herself. Fuck it, they’d just have to hunt for it later. Alys was laughing too, in between furious open-mouthed kisses. Her curls tumbled messily around her shoulders. Throne, she was majestic.

Ambrogio pressed down with her pelvis and ground herself against Xue’s thigh. The sensation of slickness redoubled. Her labia and thighs felt burning hot against Xue’s skin, an invitation she couldn’t resist. Emma slid her right hand down the curve of Alys’s adorable little belly, questing through the underbrush of her pubic hair and down between her legs. The inescapable heat against Xue’s fingers made her hitch her breath. Her left hand made a wild grab and caught one of Ambrogio’s buttocks, trapping her. Xue forced the other woman to press her weight forward onto the Interrogator’s waiting fingertips. The moan Alys made when two of Emma’s fingers slid inside her was filthy enough to send the most staid Asuryani straight into Sai’lanthresh’s clutches.

She had no right to be this damn sexy.

Ambrogio was engrossed in her grinding rhythm against Xue’s hand and lap. Her kisses became uncoordinated, lapping licks against Emma’s cheekbone and the side of her neck. Xue adored the way Alys paid special attention to all of her scarred places. Her touch felt redeeming. Ambrogio enjoyed Xue as both a woman and as a warrior: their mutual, intimate trance allowed all contradictions and judgements to fall away. They could forget their roles and just be people.

Alys nibbled at Xue’s golden ear augmetic, tugging gently at it with her teeth. The contact tickled and stung, but not unpleasantly. Xue reined in her wandering mind, making sure she focused in on all the sensory feedback. She needed to remember how Alys felt, how she tasted. Neither of them could be sure when they would get another moment of privacy.

Ambrogio’s cunt clenched around Emma’s hand with renewed urgency. Alys’s head tipped back and she gulped shallow mouthfuls of steam-filled air. Xue could see the faint gleam of her front teeth - perfectly veneered, a sign of subtle luxury. Was Alys slumming it with the Interrogator? Xue dismissed the intrusive thought with a blink. Ambrogio was like her - she’d worked her way to her current station. She was tough and strong in her own way. It wasn’t fair to scrutinise her while she was distracted.

“Let yourself relax, babe.”

Alys had noticed Xue’s body language. She tensed and carefully shifted her hips up off Emma’s lap. Xue let out a faint moan of regret as she felt her fingers slip out of that tight wet sweet spot. Ambrogio was right, dammit.

Xue let the other woman help her into a reclining position. Alys lay on top of her, gradually settling her body against Xue’s muscles. They’d done this before. The weight always felt incredibly reassuring.

Ambrogio giggled. Emma felt the vibration of Alys’s body against her own. She glanced down and enjoyed the view of Ambrogio’s pale skin, with its constellation of freckles, pressed against her own scuffed soldier’s tan.

“Whatever would I do without you, Alys?”

Ambrogio scrunched her face in fake concentration.

“Hmm. You’d take up regicide and be Very Grumpy and Serious. Tsk tsk tsk.”

Alys made a devastatingly accurate van Calox face, and Emma started shaking so hard with poorly-concealed mirth that the High Factotum nearly slipped off her.

“Ah, bloody Throne, you can’t just spring that on me!”

Alys grinned impishly.

“Behold, a terrifying glimpse of your future.”

“Emperor, no! Mistress Ambrogio, help me avoid this terrible fate!”

“I think-” Alys kissed the tip of Xue’s nose - “I can-” She braced herself on her elbows and scooted lower, to kiss Alys’s throat - “help with that.”

Emma sat up just enough to watch Ambogio’s enticing journey down her body. Alys trailed kisses across her breasts and sternum, snuggled Xue’s abdomen with evident delight in her musculature, ticklishly licked Xue’s belly button. Every adorable gesture was an act of understated veneration. Xue was already purring and sighing and running her hands through Ambrogio’s hair by the time Alys was coaxing her legs apart. Xue let her thighs relax and her hips tip open, surrendering to gravity and to Alys’s hands and mouth.

Perfection. This had to be absolute perfection.

Chapter 28: Chapter Twenty Eight

Summary:

Lord Werserian runs into some familiar faces.

The Refectory of Eternal Vigilance was doing a roaring trade. Well-heeled pilgrims mingled with junior members of the Ecclesiarchy in the bustling atmosphere. Discreet vox-hailers broadcast intermittent prayers: an electronic chime sounded the quarter hour, and a couple of young Deacons hastened away from their bench, leaving half-finished cups of recaf behind. A server hustled to sweep that section of the long table before more pilgrims crowded in to claim the empty space.

Lord Werserian enjoyed the clamour: the shriek of steam wands and the burr of grinders put him in mind of Voidship machinery. The atmosphere was light-hearted, for many of the pilgrims had completed their civic rites and were now celebrating attaining Dargonian citizenship, along with its attendant privileges. Half a dozen Tech-Priests had commandeered a table and were chirping to each other in binharic cant. Abelard spotted a mischievous mechadendrite dip its auspex attachment into a cup and emerge covered in synth-milk foam. He caught himself missing Magos Pasqal’s company. That cantankerous old cog had always livened up the bridge.

Speaking of figures from his shipboard days… one section of the refectory was uncharacteristically empty. A sconce in the outer wall framed an elegant Gothic window whose coloured glass panes had been discreetly reinforced with a sheet of transparent plastek. Someone with an eye for interior design had converted the architectural feature into a nook. A regicide board was set up on a low, round table: and a familiar gentleman in a crisp white uniform was pretending to contemplate the pieces.

A mutual, unspoken understanding between the Ecclesiarchy and the Holy Inquisition ensured that there would never be any listening devices in this place. The Lord Inquisitor himself, however, might come and go as he pleased. Everyone kept him at a distance. Even the server that brought his recaf scuttled away promptly, not bothering to stick around for a tip. Heinrix van Calox did not seem to care about any perceived impoliteness. His white-gloved hand picked up his serving of recaf like an automaton and brought the cup to his lips, not waiting for the drink to cool. Abelard noticed the grey streaks in the Inquisitor’s long hair. A twinge of empathy made him approach Heinrix at his lonely table.

“House Werserian send their regards.”

Abelard bowed as best as he was able with his noble girth in the narrow environs. Lord van Calox emerged from his grim reverie and turned gracefully to face the older man.

“May the Emperor protect you and your family, Lord Werserian. You seem well.” Heinrix paused as if considering his next move in the conversation.

“I confess I am surprised that you would approach me - pleasantly so. I was under the impression that you disapproved of my extracurricular association with Como.”

“Lord Captain Como.” Abelard might no longer answer to Navis formalities, but his dynastic patron deserved a little respect. “I hardly think you would like it if I called your Lordship ‘young man’, as I once did on the Venatrix.”

“I would be deeply flattered.” Lord van Calox smiled wryly. “I received a message from Segmentum Solar, congratulating me on fifty years of Inquisitorial service. The message itself was at least a decade out of date... I am even older than my own estimate. I expect Froscher will not let me forget my lapse in calculation.”

“The Warp is fickle with voyagers. Let us be generous with one another, and assume that there is plenty of vigour left within our well-travelled frames.”

“Eloquently put, Lord Werserian. You know, if you’ve a mind for a round of regicide later, you are always welcome at my table.”

It was Abelard’s turn to smile. He leaned in conspiratorially.

“I would trounce you, young man.” Lord Werserian straightened his back, feeling a little stiffness in his spine. “Enjoy your assignation with the Lord Captain.”

Abelard left Heinrix van Calox to stew in his alcove. The man’s impatience was all too easy to read. Only one person would dare run late for a meeting with the Lord Inquisitor. Lord Werserian left the refectory, breathing easier as the clamour died down behind him. He’d intended to pay Reverend Doloroso a visit, say his monthly confession and go home. Now the elder Werserian was starting to get other, more roguish ideas.

Something had brought the Holy Inquisition to Dargonus. Not only was Abelard curious about the intervention, he was certain that Heinrix had not come to the Drusian Basilica without extra company. His meeting with Lord Captain Como at such a busy time was too distracting not to be a diversion of some kind.

The Basilica’s main chamber had been cleared of its usual seating and kneelers to accommodate more pilgrims. Red jute ropes and plasteel poles created cordons that channelled queues towards the sun-side transept, where canvas modesty screens allowed them to undergo basic genetic testing and a quick physical inspection. The choir, at the far end of the Basilica from Abelard’s viewpoint, was where pilgrims took their vows of devotion to the Emperor. They received a token from the Ecclesiarchy’s attendants, and took it to the other transept to get their paperwork verified. Some of the pilgrims needed fresh electoos, but many were simply here to renew their vows.

Abelard decided to get a better view of the proceedings. He wasn’t going to spot any Inquisition agents in this throng… but the Basilica had an upper floor, with access to its pipe organ and vox-hailers. The elder Werserian scouted around until he found a very narrow doorway with a set of circular stairs leading up. Someone had unhitched the red rope of a cordon and left it dangling from one wall-mounted hook. Abelard refastened it in place behind him as he ascended.

Whoever had designed this passage did not foresee its use by a body of Abelard’s height and stoutness. He had to duck his head at several intervals to avoid bashing his forehead on the stones of the stairway above him. Goodness me, what would Qatharina have thought of his antics if she were here to witness them?

Bless her, she’d probably have laughed and egged him on.

Tubular lumens set into the spiral stair’s narrow wall sconces had clearly not been maintained in decades. Their light was yellow and feeble: faint golden motes danced where Abelard’s hands scuffed the walls and stirred up dust. Lord Werserian found the ascent slow and claustrophobic. Even so, he managed not to overtax his knee augmetics or make too much noise along the way.

The stairwell emerged into a narrow mezzanine walkway high above the nave. Intersecting buttresses and supporting columns blocked Abelard’s view here and there. The overall construction was reminiscent of a Voidship’s bridge - although the maintenance walkways on the Venatrix were set even higher relative to the main chamber, and they did not have a helpful stone railing to prevent accidents.

If Abelard Werserian were a nosy Inquisition Acolyte, he would set himself up in the lee of one of those rockcrete columns and enjoy a fine view of the pilgrims. The former Seneschal hunched his body as low as his knees would permit, crept forwards - and felt a surge of satisfaction as he caught sight of someone’s protruding shoulder, exactly where he had predicted that an agent would be.

The stranger was a rather tall and muscular man, based on Abelard’s limited view. He had not noticed Lord Werserian approach, nor did he seem likely to notice. The man was completely focused on the nave below, tracking the movement of a group of children dressed in white as they headed towards the altar. Abelard recognised the children’s garments as smaller versions of Ecclesiarchy robes. They must be novices. He had heard about this: the children of Vheabos VI were often inducted into the Imperial church, since their convict parents were not in a position to attend to their upbringing. Eventually they, too, would join the pilgrims and become eligible for Dargonian citizenship.

Abelard looked at the man again - that young, muscular chap. His body had seen hard labour, or combat, or both. The newest iteration of the Inquisition uniform was understated compared to the old pauldron-and-cape style, but it was unmistakable. Someone had given the man a fresh military-style haircut with cropped back and sides, but he did not strike Lord Werserian as a greenhorn. Why had he not noticed the former Seneschal yet?

Lord Werserian concluded that he had stumbled upon something personal. He felt his face grow warm. He did not wish to intrude into anyone’s family affairs. Abelard held his breath, took a few careful steps backwards until the column completely blocked the view between him and the stranger. He kept backing away until he reached the top of the spiral stairs and turned to make a discreet descent.

A familiar gentleman stood waiting for him in the stairwell.

He ought not to have been so familiar: everything about his face and attire and bearing was intended to ensure that he did not stand out in a crowd. His neat grey moustache and short haircut were vaguely reminiscent of military styles. He wore a scuffed grey Astra Militarum-style jumper, the kind with canvas patches at the shoulder. It was the sort of thing many Mid-Hivers wore between work shifts, simple and cosy. Most observers would assume he was a retired Guardsman, if they took note of him at all. Only the synskin fabric of an armoured undersuit, just visible under the jumper’s neckline, gave him away as a plainclothes operative.

Caught in the act, Abelard had no choice but to offer him a respectful bow.

“Greetings, Acolyte Froscher. I hope you’ll indulge an old officer’s inquisitive streak.”

The other gentleman raised an eyebrow.

“Lord Werserian. Been a while, hasn’t it? I wasn’t expecting you to remember me by name.”

Aha, you slippery blighter! Abelard tried not to look smug. He was not at such a disadvantage after all.

“Your previous commander cast a long shadow. Now that you are free from his tenebrous influence, you have become notable in your own right.”

Froscher leaned back against the stonework. If the bricks dug uncomfortably into his neck and back, he did not show it. He stretched a leg out into empty space and flexed one foot, rather like a bored ship’s cat. Abelard had to admire how limber the man was for his age.

“I doubt that’s the case, Lord Werserian. I’ve got a talent for sliding out of people’s memories. You interrogate a witness, and they’ll say they saw a grey ghost.” Froscher tilted his face toward Abelard: the corner of his moustache twitched up into a wry smile. “But not you. How interesting.”

Abelard desperately wanted to ignore the Inquisition agent and escape down the stairs. If only he weren’t quite so ample around the middle, he could have tried to squeeze past. He thought about his family’s reputation, and decided not to attempt to wrestle the man. That younger agent was not far away. Abelard didn’t fancy his chances against two opponents.

“If you will permit a modest hypothesis, Froscher - perhaps my lengthy service in the presence of the Lord Captain has made me somewhat resistant to your natural talents.”

The agent responded with a slow blink. Abelard’s comment had hit close to the mark, and Froscher was deciding how to react. Lord Weserian held his gaze, and realised something else. The old man was just as reluctant to start a scuffle as Abelard was.

“You’re fond of the youngster, aren’t you?”

Froscher beckoned Abelard to follow him down the stairs.

“Man’s got a right to see his kid. You’re a family man yourself, you’ll understand.”

Werserian favourably revised his opinion of Lord van Calox. The man treated his Acolytes better than his predecessor. Froscher tapped at an irregular outcrop in the ceiling, alerting Abelard before he hit his head.

“So how’s the noble life, your Lordship? I half expected you to be wearing a wig with a model Voidship stuck in it, like old times.”

Abelard flushed. “That was a masquerade, as you well know. I was acting in the Rogue Trader’s interest.”

The back of Froscher’s head offered no insights into his reaction.

“A man can wear what he likes.”

The agent’s lean figure was lit from below by a guttering lumen as he turned back to give Abelard a wolfish grin.

“I didn’t even mention the frock you had on that night.”

The retired Seneschal felt like biting back.

“I do not appreciate being teased by a member of the Inquisition, young man.”

“Young? Bloody Throne, does everyone look young to you, mate?”

Abelard paused mid-stride. Thankfully his boot found the next step and he did not stumble blindly into Froscher. It was a manner of speech, no more. That blasted Aezyrraesh was technically older than Lord Werserian, even if he was a stripling by the standards of his species - and Abelard had called him ‘young man’ with barely an afterthought. Exactly how old was this limber, grey-haired cove anyway?

Froscher had blocked the stairwell again - they had almost completed their descent - and he was imposing upon Lord Werserian’s personal space in a manner that bordered upon impropriety. Abelard’s eye augmetic illuminated the other man’s face with a faint hint of red. Was the proximity supposed to be unpleasant? Werserian had to scoff. He was entirely habituated to Lord Captain Como’s fearsome miasma. Whatever powers the agent thought he had, they were no match for this tough old Voidsman.

“You are at liberty to examine whatever dossiers the Lord Inquisitor keeps on me, and determine which of us has seniority.”

Froscher considered the offer for a moment.

“It’s bad sportsmanship, looking up someone’s file without a good reason. How about we play it another way, your Nobleness? I hear you like board games.”

“That information is no doubt in my file as well.”

The agent grimaced.

“I’m not just a boring face, mate. Lichtenhart had me following the local regicide rankings. You’re right up there… I heard you were a Grandmaster or something.”

“Not a Grandmaster, Froscher.” Abelard smoothed his beard. “Merely a Master.”

“Sounds flash.”

The elder Werserian did not mind having his ego stroked. Froscher was behaving more courteously: they emerged into the Basilica’s nave, past the cordon that the agent had evidently unfastened on his way upstairs, and Abelard was technically free to make an exit. He lingered for a beat, curious to hear Froscher’s counter-offer.

“Let’s play a few rounds, shall we? Maybe drink a few rounds too, to make it interesting. If I survive past the mid-game, you call me Hal instead of ‘young man’. That entertaining enough for you?”

Abelard crossed his arms and crooked his finger under his chin in a manner that, on reflection, resembled the Lord Captain when they were being devious. Inspiration came to him, even as he realised that he was ever so slightly taller than the Inquisition agent.

What would happen if he adjusted his posture just a little to imitate the gait of a man in heavy power armour? Abelard let his index finger drift upward and linger against his lower lip. After all, he was calling the shots now. Why shouldn’t he evoke just a little of Calcazar’s swagger, just to see how Froscher would react?

“What if you happen to win a game, Acolyte? I assume you have a reward in mind.”

Froscher’s grey eyes, usually so nondescript, were twinkling with mirth.

“I see what you’re up to, you crafty bugger. It’d be damn long odds, but if I do pull it off… I want to call you something cute.”

Abelard scoffed. “I am hardly ‘cute’, Master Froscher.”

“Your impression of Javier was pretty cute, Your Lordship.”

“Dear me… I suppose I’ve nothing better to do with my time than indulge the whims of the Holy Inquisition. Win or lose, however, I refuse to let you call me by any of Lord Captain Como’s pet names. That privilege is reserved for the Rogue Trader.”

Froscher extended a gloved hand and they shook on the wager. Abelard could not resist testing the agent’s grip strength. They were surprisingly evenly matched. The elder Werserian had a concerning suspicion that Agent Froscher was holding back.

“You may call on me at my lodgings in Spire Indomitus. Good day, Acolyte.”

Froscher gave Abelard a courteous reverence - the old Seneschal envied his flexibility once again.

“I look forward to enjoying the view, Your Lordship.”

The grey hair and grey jumper soon disappeared among the crowd of pilgrims. Lord Werserian stayed in place for a moment, settling into a military At-Ease posture, quietly wondering what to do with himself.

Chapter 29: Chapter Twenty Nine

Summary:

Sometimes, privacy is not an option.

“Heinrix, darling, I am terribly sorry for the hold-up!”

Como von Valancius trotted across the refectory with careless haste, assuming - correctly- that everyone would get out of their way. The little Rogue Trader was an inch or two taller than usual, not that this made them stand out in any way among the other diners. Most Dragonian hivers were malnourished, and Como had grown up in similar conditions on their Forge World.

Still, they drew attention. Lord van Calox hesitated to equate the Rogue Trader’s anti-psychic aura with ‘charisma’. Anyone with a hint of sensitivity would find themselves unnerved in Como’s proximity. A sharing of personal space brought nausea: a touch of clothed skin, a chilly entropic tingle. And bare skin on skin, or lips touching lips… his mouth tingled, remembering the pain.

There was comfort to be found in oblivion.

Como offered the Lord Inquisitor an eager reverence before he could extricate himself from his seat and do the same. The Lord Captain seized hold of his right hand, brought his gloved fingers to their lips and kissed each of their tips in turn. The shock of contact was both enervating and thrilling.

“It took everything I had to pry Flag Lieutenant Sauerback away from my side. I promise I’ll be very penitent about my tardiness.”

The look that Como gave him across the back of his knuckles was too flagrant to be suggestive. They demanded every ounce of his attention. If only they were not meeting in public! Heinrix cleared his throat.

“Coincidentally, your Seneschal’s esteemed predecessor just stopped by for a chat.”

The deflection was helping Heinrix to regain his senses. He gestured for Como to sit at an adjoining chair. They scooted it closer, allowing the outside of the Rogue Trader’s knee to lightly skim against Heinrix’s leg. He thought about shuttle trips on old adventures, the camaraderie and illicit thrill of a plausibly deniable nudge against a fellow passenger before they went to face another enemy. Void take his wandering mind and his traitorous libido, he was getting distracted again…

“Oh! I miss Uncle Abbie, the bridge isn’t the same without him. How is he?”

“Portly.” Heinrix regretted his mean comment, but only a little. Como laughed heartily.

“Fat kin’s a happy kin, Gerda would say. It’s well.”

“That explains how the Squats earned their sobriquet.”

Heinrix allowed himself a sly smile. It was the wrong call: Como’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. The topic of abhumans was a sore subject, van Calox shouldn’t have brought it up.

“I suppose we must mention the short wide elephant in the room.”

Como ran a hand through their hair, copying one of Heinrix’s old tells. Their left hand rested on the back of their neck. To the Rogue Trader’s credit, they resisted the urge to itch the small, subtle patch of skin that had once borne the nasty burn scar of a cigar stub.

Como Stubbs. What an ugly joke on Mercy’s part, saddling them with that surname. Should Heinrix share what he knew about the Kasballican Prince’s activities? Perhaps, but not now and not here. Let them focus on the immediate crisis.

“I fear you must keep your adoptive family at a distance, Como, at least for the moment.”

Heinrix let his hand rest palm-up on the table, hoping the little Rogue Trader would take it. He very much wanted to comfort them, but he had to be circumspect. If he were too direct, Como might shy away from intimacy. Their mutual trust was more important than his selfish need to distract them.

“I trust you to do what’s best for Dargonus. But please know that you have my personal support, if it is ever needed. We are a team, Como.”

The Rogue Trader was staring at his hand, which still lay on the table like a dead spider. Heinrix felt oddly helpless. Como chose to close the gap between them in their own style, by tilting their body sideways and nudging against the Lord Inquisitor’s uniformed shoulder with their head.

“It doesn’t always feel that way. You’ve got your own problems. We don’t always get to share, do we, shipmate?”

Heinrix rescued his poor hand, reached his arm around Como’s shoulder and ruffled their ever-messy hair. Years of etiquette lessons and exposure to noble customs could never quite erase the Lord Captain’s scruffy charm. They grumbled a bit at the contact, but snuggled in closer against Heinrix’s side. The chilly, slightly clammy sensation of direct contact with a psychic Blank was rather nostalgic. Heinrix bent to murmur in Como’s ear.

“We could share a great many things, Master Pirate.”

Como leaned back against the crook of his arm.

“Heinrix, no.”

The little Rogue Trader patted his knee. The action was very gentle, as if Como were reassuring a child. When they drew their hand away again, the Inquisitor felt a lingering swell of warmth as circulation returned to his leg. He was already longing for another caress. Please, love. Just one more touch.

This wasn’t fair to Como. Heinrix reminded himself to take a breath.

“What if I… what if I said I needed you?”

His throat bobbed. Now that he had given his desires a voice, they felt impossible to ignore. Como shook their head slowly.

“You’re thinking with your dick, love, not your conscience. Get your shit together. You can’t just requisition me whenever you’re having a bad day.”

“Ser van Calox is being unchivalrous, and he knows it. Forgive me, Como.”

“I think Nurse van Calox needs to get laid, darling.”

Evoking Heinrix’s naughty alter ego never failed to make him blush. He dismissed his body’s reaction with an instinctive flex of his biomancy. Cold air fanned his face and shoulders, helping to calm him. Poor Como shivered in his embrace.

“Guilty as charged, Master Pirate. Will you take me into custody?”

The Rogue Trader gave a bitter little laugh.

“No. I grant you your freedom.”

Como’s little hands bunched into helpless fists. They pressed back against Heinrix’s arm and chest, letting him support them from behind at a lopsided angle. Heinrix scanned both their bodies out of habit. He could sense the Rogue Trader’s rapid heartbeat and his own heart’s delayed response. A sudden flow of circulation bloomed across Como’s cheeks, threatening tears. The Lord Inquisitor stroked each cheekbone with his fingertips, cooling, soothing, rescuing the little Rogue Trader’s composure. They reached up and clung to his thumb like a child, then let it go.

“Your biomancy, your history comes with demands that I barely understand. You need to be touched, and my capacity to help you with that particular requirement - Throne, I’m sounding like Pasqal again.” Como’s breath hitched. “Heinrix, I can’t do it. I should be happy that I’m growing stronger, shouldn’t I?”

The little Rogue Trader’s shoulders sank in defeat. A grey tendril of miasma seeped from Como’s mouth when they exhaled. Heinrix watched it curl slowly around the Lord Captain’s throat. His heart sank.

They were in the same predicament - he’d feared as much. With every passing year he grew more psychically endowed, while Como’s soul developed in the opposite direction. Physical intimacy between them was more perilous than ever.

“The Emperor willing, we - we can-”

We can what, van Calox? What can you possibly do? Throne, he felt impotent! At least Como waited before pulling away. Heinrix felt a double chill in his gut, mingling sensations of entropy and dread.

“Your retinue, the crew. Are they in danger?” If Heinrix ever hurt his own people with his sorcery, he knew he’d feel terrible. Como patted his knee again. Ah… bliss.

“Thankfully, they’re fine. My control’s getting better along with my powers. Provided I’m not, you know… distracted.”

Como was talking about sex. Heinrix immediately thought of their hips straddling him and riding him against that giant desk in the Lord Captain’s quarters. He fought valiantly to banish the mental image of their mutual, life-threatening, ecstatic release. Just one more touch… the force of his own craving shamed him. The little Rogue Trader thankfully did not seem to notice his desperation: they were busy demonstrating new ways to compress and flex their aura.

“Look how closely I can get the miasma to align with the body envelope! I’ll keep training on the voyage to Janus. I need to be ready for the Sanctioning graduates, I don’t want to spook the poor kids when I finally meet them.”

Heinrix’s shoulders stiffened. The Rogue Trader was planning to visit the Scholastica Psykana? This was the first he’d heard of it. He cursed inwardly. The timing could not be worse. That stupid dead instructor…

“What? Is something wrong?” Como moved away and turned in their seat to face him directly. “I thought we said no secrets, Lord Inquisitor.”

Blood rushed to Heinrix’s torso where the Rogue Trader had been reclining. Como hadn’t shared their plans either! Their hypocrisy stung him.

“I could say the same thing, Lord Captain.”

Como flinched. Heinrix instantly regretted his pettiness. He flexed his fingers, feeling the thin fabric of his gloves gently resist the pressure. It was oddly like manipulating the Warp. He took a long, deep breath.

“I will ensure that you know what I know. But let’s not do it here.”

Meeting in the refectory had been a terrible mistake. If they’d been in Como’s quarters, or on his yacht, he could have gathered the little Rogue Trader up in his arms and kissed all their misgivings away. He felt eyes on him - on both of them, watching for signs that the Koronus Expanse’s foremost power couple might be foundering. Heinrix got to his feet, feeling a slight head-rush. Como had not been lying about their powers. Their aura was definitely more potent than it had been a decade ago.

The Lord Inquisitor offered his hand to Como and helped them to stand. There was little he could do. If they continued their exchange, it would turn into a public argument. They both slipped into their respective, respectable roles. Lord Inquisitor van Calox gallantly kissed Como’s hand, they smiled at one another and strolled out of the refectory with practised ease.

Heinrix felt his heart breaking a little more with every step.

Chapter 30: Chapter Thirty

Summary:

Checks and balances.

“Please tell me your mission went well, Falcon.”

The Lord Inquisitor took comfort in the familiar contours of his big padded swivel chair. Its red leathery embrace wasn’t quite as enticing as Como’s lap, but it would do for now. Throne, he could feel the exhaustion in his bones. The Immaterium pressed ever so gently around him, not threatening but tempting. Heinrix pushed it away with barely a thought.

At least his will was strong. Its application, however, was proving inconsistent. That was why he had summoned Froscher: to be observed, and to be advised.

His aide stood at the right arm of the Lord Inquisitor’s chair, in the At-Ease position, with his hands tucked neatly behind his back. Heinrix had to smile at the man’s alert posture and the snappy tilt of his head. Froscher’s body language suited his new callsign.

“We had eyes on the asset, milord. She’s safe and well. Ibis wanted to express his thanks.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I advised him to go tell it to the boss.” Froscher’s moustache twitched into an understated smile. “Raven, you can’t expect to make friends with your crew if you keep hiding in your cabin.”

He made a fair point. “We are both accustomed to working alone. It takes time to overcome old habits. I will make more of an effort to be seen among the Acolytes.”

Froscher was quietly studying the Lord Inquisitor. Heinrix did not mind in the slightest. Professional oversight was part of his aide’s job. The old man would offer commentary when he was ready.

“Trouble in Paradise with the Lord Captain, is it?”

The Lord Inquisitor exhaled a thin stream of frost-laden air.

“I ought to be getting too old for such lovelorn nonsense, Hal.”

“Rubbish. Your heart’s never too old to push you around. Even the old grox-botherer himself wasn’t immune to the odd sentimental urge. You’ve just got to live with it.”

Heinrix leaned his elbow against the arm of the swivel chair, then supported his chin carefully on his palm. Weight upon weight upon weight. One timely push, and it would all come falling down.

“I remember our conversation in the Adeptus Amasecus.”

“Bloody Void, which one?”

“You still went by Pigeon back then. We had the house special, if I recall.”

Froscher suppressed a cough as if he were reliving the taste of spent promethium.

“Right. Nice little fireside chat. It’s not every day you plan an Inquisitorial coup.”

“You said that you respected a leader who was… dominant, for want of a better word. I have been aware, all these years, that I do not operate in the same way that Lord Calcazar once did. I enjoy offering our agents certain freedoms that we once lacked. With our limited numbers, I rely on the Acolytes in particular to make intelligent decisions.”

Heinrix glanced up at Froscher. He could see a whisper-faint reflection of his own ice-blue, sinister right eye in the man’s placid grey irises.

“I ask you the same question that I have always asked, and that I have always relied upon you to answer honestly. Am I fit for duty, Falcon?”

Froscher hunkered down into a squat with a fluid ease that made even Heinrix slightly envious. His expression was entirely untroubled. Heinrix knew what he was doing: by getting into the Lord Inquisitor’s personal space, he could assess the interaction between Heinrix’s considerable psychic power and Froscher’s own, faint shadow of psychic nullity.

“You can lead others or let them take the lead as you like, milord. The only will you need to worry about dominating is your own, and this -” Froscher extended a finger towards Heinrix’s forehead - “is the only thing you need to control. As long as you’re making conscious choices, then you’re still fit to command.”

The grey-haired agent stood and nodded a brief, informal acknowledgement in Heinrix van Calox’s direction. His casual approval was worth more to the Lord Inquisitor than any obsequious salute.

“See you, Raven.”

Froscher strode off without waiting for a farewell. Heinrix had to laugh at his insubordination. This was the kind of Inquisition conclave he was building, after all… by the Emperor, here they were facing innumerable cosmic threats and carrying on as if this were an Administratum staffroom.

Heinrix’s desk was temptingly close. He spun his chair to face it, transferred his elbow to the slightly more stable surface and rested his cheek in his palm. His face was warm, despite the chill that lingered around his brow. By the Throne… his interactions with Como were becoming increasingly taxing, on several levels. They had committed to a Harlequin-level farce when they’d decided to make their relationship public. If only Heinrix van Calox had foreseen the dangers of such a charade, not just to the Expanse but to his own bruised heart!

Heinrix’s head felt heavy: his biomancy managed to dispel some of the pressure, but a residual psychosomatic ache remained. He slid his hand up to his forehead until his gloved fingers tangled in his hair. A long, silver-grey lock came loose from his braid and dangled mockingly in front of his face. As if he needed another reminder that he was getting older…

Emperor help him, whatever was he supposed to do?

“Are you all right in there, teach?”

Heinrix paused with his hand still over his face.

That was young Aster’s voice.

Its intonation seemed perfectly calibrated to extract the secrets from the Expanse’s impressionable dowagers. The Inquisitor thought of lho-smokes shared in the trenches, furtive hands cupping the glow of embers to conceal the lads from sharp-eyed snipers. Heinrix thought, also, of his first proper drink of amasec - his father giving him a sip, the wide belly of a balloon glass resting in the old Knight Pilot’s broad palm. The alcohol had been lukewarm, almost blood-warm, when young Henri Corbin had tasted it.

Oh yes, Clif had potential. Heinrix just managed to croak out a response.

“I’ll bear with it. Thank you for your concern. What did you just call me?”

“Teach. Uh. Teacher?”

“Belay that.”

Heinrix hadn’t meant to sound impatient. His tension headache was taking a while to ebb. He could sense a slight change in the biosignature at the doorway as Aster’s impatience flared.

“I am trying to get my - my titles right. You’re the one who called me otan first, milord, and you’ve insisted we keep things informal when it’s the two of us. It’s a bloody minefield.”

Otan - an Aeldari term, something like a learner, something like a novice. A gentle tease lay in its tail. It was the nickname Yrliet Lanaevyss had chosen for Heinrix, and now he was passing on the tradition.

The Inquisitor swivelled around in his armchair, and the red leather creaked out a faint protest. Aster, the Acolyte-to-be, had copied Heinrix’s own game of lounging in the doorway - although in Clif’s case, the young man took up rather more space. He’d have made a spectacular reference model for a recruiting poster, kitted out in his jodhpurs and glossy block-heeled boots: the very image of Imperial masculinity. He’d left the jacket in his quarters, and the neck of his shirt was missing its stock and discreet Inquisition emblem. The vee of Clif’s open collar invited further investigation.

Heinrix chided himself for staring, then felt a ripple of self-deprecating amusement. Fool, you’re the one who designed him to look like this!

“It must be difficult for you to navigate my eccentricities at times, Clif. If it helps you to understand… My predecessor was a deeply authoritarian man. I have taken on his rank and his duty. I know I must order good people to venture into darkness and danger. Yet I also do not want to become like the last Lord Inquisitor: paranoid, unable to take reasonable criticism, convinced of his own rectitude no matter the circumstances. Calcazar’s rigidity was part of his downfall. I’m trying another Path.” Heinrix let himself tail off with a loose shrug.

Reeds in the wind / bowing for the storm / standing for the sun

That was a passable rendition of an Aeldari children’s proverb: Clif had clearly been powering through his homework. The diction remained a bit clumsy, but Mistress Lanaevyss would have been entertained by his efforts.

“You are progressing well with The Tongue! That’s an apt analogy. Even so, flexibility does not work in all situations. I am the opposite of pliant when it comes to thwarting the machinations of the Arch-Enemy. Anything that truly threatens the Expanse will be met with equal force by the Holy Inquisition and her allies.”

Aster’s chin crinkled a little when he scowled. His disapproval wasn’t directed at the Inquisitor, but at his own performance.

“I’m still falling over on the talking part. I told myself I’d do as much as I could. I think Froscher’s sick to death of me repeating the same vocal exercises over and over.”

That got a chuckle out of Heinrix - he was surprised that Aster had persuaded the old blighter to coach him in the first place. Clif clicked his tongue, presumably thinking about the short little tendon that tethered it in place.

“I’m not too proud to know when I’ve hit my limit, physically speaking. Is that offer of biomancy still on the table, milord?”

Oh, for the love of the Throne. “We’re going with ‘milord’ - really?”

Clif gave Heinrix a dark look. “You’re still not making this any easier for me.”

“What is wrong with Raven as an appellation?”

“It’s a callsign, not a name. That might work for old Froscher but it doesn’t work for me. You don’t wander up to me and call me Ibis - and if you did, we’d both sound bloody ridiculous.”

Heinrix beckoned Clif over. He really needed to get a second armchair in this office. The big recruit settled for perching on the edge of Heinrix’s desk, slouching his shoulders a bit so the resulting height disparity wasn’t as obvious. Considerate as ever: Heinrix had to appreciate his thoughtfulness.

“I’ve had a few nicknames in my time. Flesh-weaver, Iceman… please don’t call me that.” Heinrix felt a twinge as he wondered what had become of Mistress Tlass in the end. “I am always open to alternative offers.”

“Aw, but I like Iceman! I’ll give it some thought, milord. I’m still getting to know you. Reckon I should do some more of that.”

Clif looked the Inquisitor over. The younger man’s gaze was neither penetrating nor searching, but docile. His big brown eyes took their time wandering from Heinrix’s face, over the expanse of his uniform jacket, down to his white-gloved hands and then slowly back.

“Thank you for letting me see my girl. It means the world to me.”

Aster’s attention lingered on Heinrix’s mouth. Suspicion settled upon the Inquisitor like a thin frost: prickling his instincts, creeping over his lap, coiling inside him and leaving a chill in his belly.

He didn’t need to do anything invasive like scanning the young man. Heinrix could intuit Clif’s blind admiration, and he’d played games of plausible deniability with other men before. This particular game couldn’t go on, not when the Inquisitor had such a stark advantage. Heinrix would earn Clif’s loyalty in other ways.

The Inquisitor gripped the armrest of his chair. If he was going to belatedly set a boundary, Clif was entitled to some context for Heinrix’s change of heart.

“You asked me about biomancy. My conditional offer remains the same, Aster. Do you know why I instructed you to examine your intentions?”

Clif cracked a snaggle-toothed grin. His teeth might be lopsided, but they were all his own. Heinrix wondered how he’d managed to keep them intact - Penal Battalion service wasn’t exactly known to be kind on the body.

“I did have a good think about it, milord, but I can’t say I know why my opinion’s that important to you! If I were in your position and I had a comrade that needed fixing, I’d just fix them, no questions asked. If it makes them better at the job, why not do it? It’s no worse than going to the medicus or getting an augmetic, and the Guard slaps those on people all the time.”

“They certainly do.” With a great effort of will, Heinrix managed not to rub his right eye socket. He placed his right hand back on the arm of his chair, forcing himself to remain in control of his reactions. You are whole, van Calox. Your body is your own.

“Clif, you have considered the thought process of someone who is in command. I’m curious to know your perspective.”

“My perspective, eh?”

The Acolyte-in-training chose that moment to lean towards Heinrix and set his broad hand over the Inquisitor’s gloved fingers. He didn’t miss a trick, did he?

“Here’s what I think, milord. I don’t know what you’ve seen, or what you’ve done, or whatever’s been done to you that’s got you questioning your right to meddle with another man’s body. But I’ve spent enough time with Interrogator Xue to make an uneducated guess. What you’re suggesting isn’t the same thing, not by a long shot. You made the offer, Master Raven, and I said yes. Second-guessing my choice doesn’t make you a good boss. A good boss helps his people when they ask for it.”

Saints and stars, did Master Pirate have this man on the Rogue Trader’s payroll? This lecture was starting to sound familiar. Heinrix couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Como. Dear, haphazard little Como, whose bravery had charmed his heart and set him on quite the wayward journey. Even if they could no longer touch… ah, just one more touch!

Clif remained a little too close to Heinrix - perhaps misinterpreting the Inquisitor’s expression as a sign that his proximity was welcome.

“I told you I’m not afraid to ask for a leg-up once I’ve hit my limit. Judging by your headache, you might want to consider asking for some help of your own from time to time.”

Heinrix felt his brow knot and his mouth tense. Clif’s hand felt far too warm against his own, even through the glove. No. They were worlds apart.

“An Inquisitor does not ask for help, Aster. You may be insightful, but you cannot hope to fully understand my burden - nor should you. I would not have anyone else take on its dangers. I must do some things alone.”

“Milord, you’re being uncivil to Froscher and Xue and the rest of us.”

“Uncivil!” Heinrix barked out his response rather loudly, but Clif didn’t flinch. “I have shared far more information with my trusted acolytes than Calcazar ever did with his conclave! I am already taking a great risk by trusting you as much as I do.”

Aster sighed. “Nobody’s saying you don’t trust us. And from what I’ve seen, the Acolytes trust you with their lives. What I’m saying is that you can let yourself be human sometimes. You want to let yourself be just a man around us, don’t you?”

Heinrix flexed his jaw to work through the tension that was building there.

“I am a psyker.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

“That is all too easy for you to say, Aster. I advise you to wait and watch, since you seem to excel at observation. Watch me while I work. Watch me when my grim duty calls for me to call upon the Warp in full, instead of the parlour tricks and healing touches I have shown you. Watch my victims’ eyes bulge as I boil the blood in their veins and cook them from the inside out. You may reconsider your good opinion of me.”

Clif simply gave Heinrix a good-natured smile.

“I don’t scare easily, milord.”

“If torture doesn’t put you off, then consider that you are easily fifty years my junior.”

The smile turned into another cheeky, uneven grin.

“Keep trying.”

Heinrix had had enough. Only the acute awareness that the Veil was a little too thin and the Warp a little too close prevented the Inquisitor from summoning a raging snowstorm around his shoulders. Instead he dug his heels into the parquet floor and pushed the big armchair backwards. Too heavy to tip over, it screeched back several inches instead. Clif had a choice: withdraw his hand and keep his perch, or fall headlong into the Lord Inquisitor’s lap. Aster teetered backwards. There was a limit to his insubordination after all.

“Your damnable curiosity-” Heinrix crossed his arms, feeling the flex of white synthetic leather against his knuckles where he curled his fist against his side. “My interest is not an invitation, Aster.”

For a man his size, Clif did an excellent impression of a kicked puppy.

“I’m sorry, Lord Inquisitor.”

If Heinrix still had a fringe, he’d have run his hands through it.

“The fault is partly mine. Your perception has not misled you. You… are a fine young man, Aster, and that is one of the reasons why I believe you will become an excellent Acolyte. I have enjoyed our conversations these past weeks. I hope you can still feel at ease in my company. I would simply prefer our interactions to be more… collegial.”

“That sounds nice to me, too.”

Clif Aster had taken up his usual relaxed posture. His gentleness contrasted with his large frame. The young man could easily have been provoked by Heinrix’s frosty reaction. Fear, frustration, shame - these were all normal emotions that could spring up when someone set a boundary. Instead Clif seemed accepting, almost happy. His warm, cow-like eyes blinked slowly. Aster was entirely at peace.

It was the damnedest thing…

Chapter 31: Chapter Thirty One

Summary:

Froscher goes on a date.

It felt very strange to enter a noble house alone and through the front door. Hal Froscher’s missions generally called for a swift and discreet infiltration through a servants’ entrance or air conditioning duct. He preferred plain civvies over the usual stereotypical Assassinorum attire. Unless one was operating in hardspace, skin-tight black jumpsuits would only make you look like an obvious threat - or a latex fetishist. Froscher really didn’t see the appeal in those lanky Callidus girls. You never knew if you were getting the real thing, anyway.

Hal’s tactical gear for the evening was a little fancier than his usual, but still understated: Just an unadorned frock-coat with a matching waistcoat and long trousers - all in his signature grey, of course. Nothing could have induced him to wear breeches and stockings to Werserian’s digs. He looked enough like a pigeon as it was. Damn that prick Calcazar for giving him that bloody callsign!

Well, Hal wasn’t much to write home about. Just a little grey rat-bird in the big Hive City… Froscher made sure his moustache was symmetrical and his hair wasn’t sticking up. The front door was burnished to a steely sheen. He glanced at his reflection. Grey meets grey. At least he was tidy.

The footsteps on the other side were too light to belong to Lord Werserian and too enthusiastic to be a servitor’s. Froscher was still unprepared to meet quite such a dazzling young lady. Dazzling in the aposematic sense, that is - he’d seen Catachan Barking Toads with less alarming colouration than that frock. Orange, lilac and forest green was a memorable combination. Froscher took a note of it: if he ever needed to torture a haberdasher, now he knew exactly what to do.

The lass wasn’t un-handsome once the dress stopped blinding him. Smart, too: she hadn’t banished him round to the servants’ side door yet, but was instead eyeing him up in a jovial, wide-eyed sort of way. She had Lord Werserian’s eyes - well, hers matched his unaugmented one at least. Froscher decided that a gallant approach was in order. He performed what he hoped was a courteous bow.

“Bonsoir, madame. Hal Froscher at your service. I have an appointment - I am an acquaintance of your… grandfather’s?”

The young woman’s laugh was warm and unpretentious. She was certainly odd for a noble. Hal decided he liked her.

“A Frankish connection, oh la la! Technically Opa’s my great-grandfather, but never mind that - come in, come in! The air’s so thin and the wind’s dreadful up here. I’m Astartia, by the way.”

“A pleasure, Lady Astartia.”

Froscher did his best to conceal his surprise when the lady scooped her arm around his elbow and hustled him indoors. One grey-haired senior citizen was as good as another in her eyes, he supposed. Hal did his best to rein in his aura for the sake of her comfort, not that the young woman seemed bothered by it.

There was a certain grimly industrial magnificence to the Werserian estate. The corridors and anterooms were all very big, under-furnished and full of echoes. The family’s new money was showing. From a security standpoint, Hal had to approve. It would be very difficult for even a seasoned operative to find a good hiding place, or for them to sneak around without causing a reverberating clamour.

Hal noticed the lack of serving staff right away. The Werserians definitely had a full complement of hired helpers: he spotted laundry chutes and hampers, serving trolleys, dusters and aprons discreetly stashed down side passages - all within easy reach of the domestic staff. A few servitors trundled mindlessly in the halls, but it was odd for Lady Astartia to dash about unattended. She noticed Froscher’s quizzical glances.

“I expect you’re wondering about the help. With all the grocery shortages at the moment, I thought: why force all the servants to waste hours in food queues when we can just make them a nice dinner? They’re in the downstairs part of the manor. Dear Abelard and I are rather enjoying the quiet, if I’m honest!”

Lady Astartia’s ringlets bounced as she let out another hearty laugh. It echoed round the room, and she quickly covered up her mouth with her gloved hand. Froscher felt like a dim shadow next to her vibrant personality.

“It’s thoughtful of you to offer up your own food stocks, ma’am. The logjam could drag on for quite a while - are you not worried about running low on emergency supplies?”

“Don’t underestimate the hoarding tendencies of an old Imperial Navy family, Master Froscher!” Lady Astartia’s eyes twinkled. “We’ve got enough canned hardtack and corned grox in the cellars to last us a decade. Not that I’d recommend it as a healthy diet. Ah! Here we are. You’ve arrived at the perfect time. Isn’t that better than any painting?”

The view from the parlour’s floor-to-ceiling windows was spectacular. Dargonus had brought out all her best and gaudiest colours to adorn the horizon: the setting sun melted into oranges and vivid reds that set the clouds ablaze. Lord Werserian was right. This view was worth the long ascent in the elevator.

“Please get cosy, and just help yourself to anything in the drinks trolley. Lady Clementia and I have a Calixian opera to attend, so I’d better excuse myself. Opa - I mean Lord Werserian will be with you in just a minute. I hope you have a lovely date.”

Froscher pulled himself away from the magnificent cloudscape.

“Madame Astartia, it isn’t a-”

“Toodle-oo!” The young lady waved cheerily in Hal’s general direction and scooted for the exit before he could correct her.

 

___

 

Froscher wasn’t sure what he had expected a Dargonian noble to wear in off-duty hours - perhaps a smoking jacket? The elder Werserian looked like had rolled straight out of a rowdy mess hall. Hal had never seen him in such an informal state, not even when he’d been in his cups at that party on Janus. Abelard had rolled his shirtsleeves up past his elbows. Froscher noticed a fastidious detail: the old man had carefully folded his cuffs back instead of scrunching the fabric. Nice, sturdy linen - surreptitiously pricey. Hal noticed the way it strained around the other man’s arms.

Navis Imperialis-issue bracers held Abelard’s trousers neatly in place over his paunch. Someone had hand-embroidered little stars onto the straps a very long time ago. Lord Werserian hid at least one Voidsman’s tattoo under his uniform. An inked tentacle wound its way around the man’s left elbow and disappeared up under Abelard’s sleeve. A brave choice: It must have hurt to get needled in such a sensitive location.

Right now, the big fellow was smiling at the regicide board. The red light of his augmetic left eye gave his cheek a rather jovial cast in the evening light.

“I am relieved to find that you are more skilled than young van Calox, at least.”

Froscher huffed. “What, like that’s hard? I’m no Sage, but I’ve been on a lot of long, boring Warp trips. Plenty of time to practice. The boss does his best, but you can’t beat a sixty-year head start.”

Lord Werserian chuckled. “Grey hair does not always hide a nimble mind, but I see your point. Tell me, does Emelina Iona Lichtenhart instruct all her disciples in the same way?”

Hal’s fingers hovered over one of his Knights, but he had designs on another piece in his backline. His Citizens wouldn’t hold out for long under Lord Werserian’s onslaught. If he could just advance something more intimidating, he might get a foothold.

“Raven’s always been an overthinker, but that’s got nothing to do with Albatross’s play-style. As for me - I’ve got my weaknesses, sure. Doesn’t mean I’m going to bloody well share them by telling you what Emelina taught me.”

The Knight was looking tempting after all. Froscher enjoyed the way it leapt around a crowded board. There was something roguishly appealing about watching a relatively cheap piece wreak havoc in the early game. Hal let his little saboteur jump across and cause trouble for Lord Werserian’s Ecclesiarch.

“That’s inadvisable, young man. Would you like to retract your move?”

Froscher belatedly saw that he was now pinned. Eh, it was just a Knight.

“Looks like my operative’s hit a snag. May as well see what I can do to rescue the situation, since I’m here.”

“That is a valiant decision, Acolyte. I approve.”

“You know what? I think it’s time we had a few quiet ones.”

Abelard beamed. “A splendid suggestion! I have ransacked my liquor collection in readiness for the mission. What’s your poison? Amasec? Rahzvod? Gin?”

“Just give me the strongest stuff you’ve got, mate.”

The trap was set.

Chapter 32: Chapter Thirty Two

Summary:

Two old lads seduce each other.

CW: sex and inadvisable levels of drunkenness

“No, no, I tell you it does not matter how many times you attempt to set up the Cadian Defence, young man. It simply will not work with your style of play.”

Froscher picked up his slain Ecclesiarch and gave it a mournful look.

“Damn sniper of a Castellan up the back. You deserved better’n this, Ronnie. But that’s the Ecclesiarchy for you, the big hats make them into tempting targets.”

Abelard downed a shot to celebrate his latest capture.

“I like to think of the Castellans as macro-cannon barrages. Cumbersome as it is to set up a clear firing path for their attacks, they provide excellent cover - and they are deadly in the open Void, as you have just discovered.”

“It’s easy to forget about them when your opponent hasn’t moved his Castellan all game. Void-dammit, I was so close to nabbing your Primarch too.”

“With the Ecclesiarch that is about to fall to my remaining Knight? At least I assume he was part of your plan.”

“Your Knight can’t get him if - hey! How did that Citizen get there?”

Froscher relieved his tension by rattling off a string of spicy xenos swear-words. It was mostly a bluff: Hal was enjoying himself more than he let on. That didn’t stop Lord Werserian from leaning back in his high-backed seat, crossing his arms and having a laugh at Froscher’s expense. The parlour echoed with his good-natured baritone chuckling.

Hal hadn’t claimed any pieces lately, but he felt like sampling a little more of that medicinal-tasting liquor. His liver had been designed by the best genetors in Gothic Sector; it could take the punishment. Froscher topped off his drink and tapped his glass against Abelard’s.

“Been meaning to ask about the arm. That a Calixian tradition or something?” He indicated Abelard’s elbow.

“Ah, the mighty Void-kraken! I forget that those not native to the sector might be unfamiliar with our proud local Navis traditions. Here, let me show her off in all her glory.”

“Er, it’s no trouble, mate, you don’t -”

Hal didn’t object quickly enough. The old sailor, no doubt emboldened by drink, was already hauling his braces off his shoulders. Ah, Throne. All right, this was fine, Abelard was just flashing his ink. Drunk shipmates did that kind of thing all the time.

Lord Werserian was busy unbuttoning his shirt and took no notice of Hal’s flushed confusion. The bloke had an impressive thicket of chest hair under there. Was it coarse or silky… Bloody Throne! Froscher had no contingency plan for his opponent’s latest gambit, so he cautiously sipped his drink while Abelard stripped to the waist. Just a little mouthful. He didn’t want to seem too thirsty.

There was, indeed, a fine specimen of a Void-kraken engraved on Lord Werserian’s arm. Her rear fins curved up across the ball joint of Abelard’s shoulder, her mantle ran along the outer contours of his tricep, her bulbous eyes peeked out from his bicep and her tentacles embraced the curve of his elbow joint.

“This magnificent beast is a badge of pride. It is customary for Voidsmen to acquire one after their first successful trip through the Maw. This old girl just celebrated her first century. Now let me see if I can still make her wink!”

Abelard shifted in his chair, adopted a bodybuilder’s classic side chest pose and began to assiduously flex his bicep. Sweet fucking Throne, he was built!

Well, fuck it. Two could play that game. Froscher shifted forwards in his seat.

“That’s nothing. Want to see me do a standing split?”

 

___

 

“Well, the Void-kraken fucked an Inquisitor’s yacht…”

“Hey, ho, there she blows!”

Liquor sloshed in Abelard’s jug as he waved it in time to the Void shanty.

“How’s that even work, anyway? Beast must have bloody shitty eyesight.”

Froscher wished for better low-light vision himself. The damn blue wire looked like the damn grey wire.

“Stop getting distracted! That’s not how the song goes, young man.”

“Patience, old-timer.”

Maybe if he wiggled himself onto his back… this’d be a lot easier if he had a multitool. Hal heard a metallic shriek from somewhere above his position. He glanced up and found the retired Seneschal beaming down at him. The jagged chunk of plastek and metal in Abelard’s right hand was clearly intended to belong inside the wall.

“Sometimes you consult the appropriate treatises on Tactica Imperialis and… well, sod all that, some matters call for the direct approach.”

“You crazy son of a grox! That’s going to scar.”

“One more for the collection. Aha!”

The elder Werserian fossicked somewhere in the hole he’d just made. Froscher scooted away from the unfastened potentia socket that he’d been using to try and bypass the maintenance hatch’s safety protocols. To his annoyance, Abelard managed to fish out a small control switch, the same one that Hal had been trying to bypass. Something clicked deep inside the mutilated wall. The maintenance hatch was now accessible.

“The great outdoors awaits, Acolyte! Let us go forth!”

Froscher grabbed his bundled-up tailcoat off the floor and shoved the hateful thing under his left arm.

“That’s right. The fucking pigeon’s gonna fly.”

Hal shoved his fingers against the gap that had opened up in the parlour wall and applied all his considerable strength. The hatch pushed out an inch, then a couple more inches - and the wind caught it, sending it flapping wildly outwards. Froscher just managed to hang onto the door’s edge.

Cold air hit him like a hammer. Hal was suspended above an unimaginable drop. The cloudscape that had looked so serene from the shelter of the parlour rolled below him, dark purple and grey, menacing as a Culexus assassin’s aura.

“Grab onto me, mate!”

Karkin’ Throne, the air was thin up here! The wind snatched Froscher’s words and flung them away. Dargonus’s upper atmosphere felt like icicles in Hal’s throat. He wasn’t too sure of his foothold against the doorway, but then he felt the reassuring grip of Werserian’s massive arm around his hips, enfolding him, keeping him steady. Hal’s face was freezing cold from the night wind, but his midsection felt warm from the booze and the body contact.

Froscher remembered the stupid grey coat. He drew his left arm back and hurled the shameful bundle in a wide arc. Its tails extended and fluttered like frantic wings in the gale - and then it careened off into the distance, tumbling and spiralling.

“So long, motherfucker!”

Werserian hauled Froscher backwards and the hatch came with him, closing with a massive echoing slam. Hal sprawled against Abelard. His feet skated on the parlour floor - stupid rug! The Acolyte managed to twist himself so that he, and not his host, took the brunt of their fall. Saints and stars, Abelard was a heavy lad. Hal found it difficult to laugh with that big fuzzy chest pressed against his ribcage.

“Fuck me. That was a stupid idea.”

Those are two separate thoughts, Acolyte Froscher.

Lord Werserian’s augmetic eye shone like an interrogation lamp in Hal’s face. Its glare was too bright for Froscher to read the other man’s expression. Eventually, with a faint grunt of strain, the former Seneschal lifted his weight off Froscher’s body. His right arm was still dribbling blood, but the cut was thankfully superficial. Hal passed him a bottle of spirits and a handkerchief so he could clean himself up.

“Now, where were we? I believe it was mate in two moves, Acolyte.”

Froscher wagged his finger. “Game’s not over until it’s over, old-timer.”

 

___

 

Dawn came quick with rosy hands and an insistent hangover.

Froscher took inventory of his senses, trusting his custom-sculpted body to process the remains of whatever was in his system. He was lying on his back against something broad and incredibly soft. He felt smooth fabric under his palms. That was a good omen: it meant he hadn’t passed out on the floor, and the night’s antics hadn’t put him in a drunk tank.

He inhaled carefully through his nose. You could tell a lot about a place from its scent. He was in an enclosed room with filtered air. The fabric beneath him was infused with something floral. Hal picked up hints of sweat, most likely his own body odour. There was alcohol, too - empty bottles let off a distant reek of sublimating spirits, and a coating of herb-infused booze lingered on Hal’s tongue.

Froscher cautiously flexed his extremities. Something impeded the movement of his legs. There was fabric bunched around them, too heavy to be just bedsheets. He was definitely in someone’s bedroom… but he doubted this bed belonged to Lord Weserian.

The old agent’s suspicions were confirmed when he opened his eyes. There was far too much pink in the upholstery to suit the former Seneschal’s tastes. Judging from the violent colour scheme of the wallpaper, he’d ended up in Lady Astartia’s rooms. Well, shit, that’d be fun to explain.

A cluster of poison-addled synapses reactivated somewhere in Froscher’s lizard brain. He was suddenly very reluctant to look down. Bright yellow fabric caught his eye and made him overcome his creeping dread. Yep. Hal remembered making a lot of regicide-related wagers last night, all of which he’d lost. That went some way towards explaining why he’d fallen asleep wearing one of Lady Astartia’s tea dresses.

He still couldn’t move his left leg. Hal slowly sat up in bed, careful not to lose his composure, and shifted the mound of yellow petticoats aside. Lord Abelard Werserian was fast asleep next to him. The old man let out a contented rumble and snuggled against Froscher’s leg. Abelard’s beard rasped gently against the petticoats. His contentment would have been endearing if the man’s eye augmetic hadn’t just dug uncomfortably into Hal’s thigh.

Froscher was relatively slim, and the tea-dress was designed with a commodious front opening and a wide neckline. Hal was able to wriggle both his arms free from the sleeves. It took all his acrobatic guile to extricate his hips and legs from the bottom half of the frock without disturbing Lord Werserian. He spent the entire time mouthing silent prayers and trying not to knock over any of the bottles that littered the sideboard. Those were definitely not to Lady Astartia’s taste.

Hal recognised many of the vintages, even as he counted how many of the bottles were concerningly empty. A large earthenware jug caught his eye: hadn’t Abelard been waving it around earlier? There was no label affixed to the side, just a row of large hand-lettered runes that had been etched directly into the glaze. Froscher gave the jug’s open mouth a cautious sniff. He recognised that faint medicinal tang. He picked up the jug and gave it a slosh. The vessel contained only dregs. It was a miracle that they’d both survived.

Comfort was next on Froscher’s list of priorities. Now that he was frockless, he was increasingly aware that he was absolutely starkers. A hasty glance around the bedchamber showed no signs of his clothing. Void-dammit, you’d think that grey would stand out among all this pink! Maybe Werserian knew where he’d put his kit.

A soft baritone murmur drew Hal’s attention. Abelard stirred and rolled onto his back. His knee augmetics clicked together and his lower legs dangled off the edge of the bed. Hal couldn’t borrow any of Lord Werserian’s clothes - he wore only a pair of striped boxer shorts, long walking socks and a single house-slipper. Froscher noticed that instead of using sock garters, Abelard just clipped the band of his socks directly into the bottom of his knee implants. He couldn’t decide if the tactic was innovative or ridiculous.

Werserian’s eye-lens was still dormant and lightless. Every time he inhaled, the fringe of his moustache fluttered ever so slightly. His cheeks were still a little flushed from last night’s revels. Why was Hal staring? Froscher averted his gaze from Lord Werserian’s face, but made the terrible mistake of looking at his host’s shorts instead. Well, someone was awake… Holy Throne, this was no time to be inspecting anyone’s little Seneschal! No, Froscher needed to leave - he’d turn around, get his things and fade away into the background like he always did…

Abelard’s right arm reached out sideways. Hal spotted a sticking-plaster covering the cut he’d inflicted on himself last night. At least the big man hadn’t bled on the sheets. Lord Werserian’s hand fumbled against the mattress as if he were seeking Froscher’s residual body heat. Crap. He’d wake up at this rate.

Hal leaned over the bed and grabbed one of Lady Astartia’s fluffy pillows. There, old-timer, we’ll just put that cuddly substitute in the crook of your arm and you can sleep off your hangover in peace…

Strong fingers encircled Hal’s right wrist.

Froscher looked down. Werserian was still half asleep, his eye implant’s lumen a flickering orange pinpoint. The Acolyte decided not to make any sudden moves in case the old officer mistook him for a threat. The best thing to do was be as obvious and predictable as possible. Hal cleared his throat. No assassin would deliberately make noise.

Abelard picked up Froscher’s right hand and moved it towards his lips.

“Mh, Qatharina…”

“Hold on, mate. Whoever that is, I’m not-”

Hal’s voice crept up in pitch as Abelard opened his mouth and grazed Froscher’s fingertips with an open-mouthed kiss.

“I’m not h-her.”

Hal reminded himself that he could pull his hand away if he really wanted to. He was strong enough, he just had to make a decision. Lord Werserian’s face was growing more alert. His unaugmented eye focused on Hal, watching him ever more intently. There was no doubt that he now recognised whose body was leaning over him. Froscher was ever more aware of their intimate proximity, of his own nakedness and especially the positioning of his leg between Lord Werserian’s knees.

Just when Froscher decided he had better back off, the crafty bastard caught hold of his hand and slid the tips of Hal’s ring and middle fingers inside his mouth. Abelard shot Froscher an absolutely devious look. Hal could feel him laughing, could sense the rippling vibration of the man’s mouth against his fingertips. He closed his eyes to avoid Lord Werserian’s flirtatious stare, but that only drew attention to the fact that the man was coaxing Hal’s fingers even further into his mouth, and - and Holy Fucking Throne, he was sucking them.

Now was the time to either set a firm boundary or say something seductive, but Froscher’s brain was short-circuiting and he could not form a coherent sentence. Abelard licked his fingers and slid them in all the way to the knuckle. Arousal gripped Hal’s mid-section: his hard-on was so intense that he felt a painful twinge along the inside of his thighs, and he had to bend over a little to ease the tantalising ache. All he could think about was Abelard’s guileful expression and the feel of his lips… he hadn’t expected another man’s mouth to feel so soft.

No-one had ever done anything this nice for him.

Abelard’s right hand still lay on the mattress. It looked strong and inviting and warm. Froscher placed his free hand there, letting his scarred fingers rest lightly against Abelard’s palm. It was the only way Hal could manage to express his thanks.

Lord Werserian finally let Froscher extricate his fingers from the big man’s mouth. His hand tingled pleasantly. Hadn’t the contact been unpleasant for Abelard?

“Not that I’m questioning the best bloody morning I’ve had in years, but-”

“But you are questioning the best morning you’ve had in years.”

Lord Werserian’s natural eye twinkled mischievously. Hal let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Froscher finally gave himself permission to lower his body, little by little, until his belly brushed against the warm swell of Abelard’s stomach. He knew that from now on, every single time he did a push-up he’d imagine this incremental teasing descent.

‘Guilty as charged. I’ve got to hand it to you, Werserian - you’re one tough bugger.”

“So I have heard, Master Froscher. In case last night’s regicide score slipped your mind, young man, I’m afraid your mid-game tactics still need refinement.”

How could he be so nonchalant when Froscher was hovering so achingly close? Hal lowered his weight carefully onto his right elbow, still anxious not to startle or hurt the big man with a sudden nudge. He could feel the fabric of Abelard’s shorts brushing against his skin and he knew, oh sweet Throne he knew exactly how hard they both were.

Froscher was finally able to express what he wanted.

“How about a new deal? You get to call me ‘young man’ or whatever the Void else you want. I’ll even wear the dress, as long as you do that to me again. That thing you did with your mouth… and your lips and your tongue.”

There, he’d said the words. Hal trembled from the audacity of it.

Lord Werserian beamed up at Froscher. His broad hands found the Acolyte’s hips and pulled them flush against the big man’s body, filling Hal with a renewed surge of warmth.

“My attempt with your hand was just an expeditionary venture. Bring yourself up here, Hal, and I will endeavour to be of service. A Werserian does not leave a task unfinished.”

Chapter 33: Chapter Thirty Three

Summary:

Acolyte Aster takes shore leave, and things... take a turn.

CW: sleaze and violence

Clif still smelled faintly of talcum powder. Remy Thornton doused himself in the stuff, apparently considering it to be an acceptable substitute for taking a bath. He’d crop-dusted Aster with a fragrant cloud when the new recruit shook the Astropath’s arthritic hand. Clif flicked at the sleeve of his uniform. Nobody else was likely to notice the gleam of tiny mineral particles in the fabric - but Clif couldn’t help frowning every time he looked down at his cuffs.

Thornton fitted Aster’s mental image of your typical witch. He didn’t bother with shaving or cutting his hair: the psyker kept his talc-dusted beard and long frizzy hair corralled in small lopsided braids that he fastened with rubber bands. Remy appeared to be wearing a long nightshirt under his Inquisition-issue robes. He paired brown woolen socks with scuffed pilgrim sandals. Most eccentric of all was his choice of headgear. Someone with a rather surreal sense of humour had printed a pair of staring eyes onto a frilly sleeping mask. Thornton wore this apotropaic totem over his own sightless sockets at all times. In his own words, ‘you have to take a nap where you can get it, my boy!’

Remy didn’t seem to mind too much when Aster politely refused his request to gamble at cards. Clif had spent enough time watching Senna the Diviner at work to know that he could easily be fleeced by a blind man. Thornton didn’t have to count cards when he could see Aster’s hand from the young agent’s own perspective.

The heavy vellum scroll was beginning to feel sweaty in Clif’s hand. This was his first time directly requisitioning anything. How did these operations usually go? Would he have to kick someone out of their hab? His stomach tightened. Fortunately this wasn’t some Lower-Hive cesspit, just an impressive chunk of masonry with about a thousand windows facing out onto a manufactorum-sized convection shaft. The hab block appeared to have a custodian’s booth and some operational security cams. That was safe enough for Aster’s needs.

Technically this district was part of Hex 4, but gentrification of the slum was in full swing. The shaft allowed more affluent hivers to visit via grav-car and have fun away from the scrutiny of their peers. The setup was cute, too: enterprising locals had built makeshift balconies along the edges of the air-shaft, managing to skirt regulations just enough to avoid an Arbites crackdown. Sunlight didn’t really reach down here, so the place was in a perpetual lumen-spangled twilight, but you could grow lovely trailing carpets of hanging algae. Offcuts of Martian red canvas and von Valancius blue drapery had been repurposed to create makeshift awnings. It all evoked the optimistic bustle of humanity.

The custodian’s very short frame was made even shorter by her lack of legs - she scooted herself around on one of those little blue plastic stools that she’d fitted with castors. Clif didn’t even have to undo the purity seals on his notice of requisition. The little woman had a data-stick and a primitive aluminium key ready to go. She fished them out of a drawer, plopped them into Clif’s gloved palm and pressed a slightly sticky wrapped sweet into his hand for good measure. Her dialect was so impenetrable that Aster had no idea exactly where she was directing him: fortunately the room key had some numbers engraved into it. The custodian gave the agent a toothless grin and flapped her hands at him, indicating that he was dismissed.

Aster’s temporary lodgings had a plush but liminal ambience. Someone had left a stack of navy blue towels and a spare bedsheet on another of those ubiquitous plastic chairs. Everything was just a little too ergonomically neat to feel lived-in: Clif could smell the familiar whiff of industrial-grade cleaner emanating from the walled-off nook that acted as an ablution space. Still, there was a window with a view, a pull-down double bed and good sturdy carpet on the floor. As far as Clif Aster was concerned, this was pure luxury.

A small plastic sliding door was set into one of the walls. Clif investigated the compartment behind it, curious to know what kind of clientele usually hired these rooms. A dozen different uniforms hung on a rail: the shelf up top was stacked with hats of different designs, including berets and peaked caps.

Aster frowned. Impersonating an Imperial official was one of those crimes that would get you shot on sight. However, none of the regalia corresponded with any specific military or civilian order. PDF-style jodhpurs were too brightly coloured to be mistaken for actual Guard attire: no Commissar would wear a cap with neon-coloured braid, all the epaulettes were plain, and so on. These were clearly designed to be worn as costumes - just naughty enough to satisfy someone’s uniform fetish without getting them dragged in front of a firing squad.

So, it was that kind of a place, huh? Clif pondered his options for a night’s entertainment. He was in no hurry to go back to The Velvet Glove and idle away his shore leave with a smelly Astropath. It had been quite a while since he’d felt free to go out and socialise. Clif’s post-demob routine on Vheabos VI had been dull: he’d collect his Pankration winnings, acquire some greasy street food and roll home to his rented crib. He’d already seen Dru and confirmed that she was in safe hands. It wouldn’t do her any good if he forgot how to relax.

Aster’s few civilian garments made him resemble a plainclothes Arbites. He wouldn’t get far in this district if he looked like a complete tourist. But maybe if he mixed a few items from the costume nook with his own clothes, he could achieve something resembling a Look. Clif rummaged around for things that didn’t look too silly: a leatherette flight jacket caught his eye. Someone had sewn gold sequins in a stylised Aquila shape on the back. Aster liked the way they glittered in the light. The jacket was a bit narrow for his chest and shoulders, he wouldn’t be able to fasten it completely, but that didn’t matter.

A search of the smaller wall compartments yielded a few decent prizes. Aster desecrated an old pair of black fishnet tights by cutting the gusset out. With some wriggling and wrestling, Clif was able to get the waistband of the fishnets over his shoulders, shove his arms into the legs and his head through the crotch-hole, converting the garment into a very revealing impromptu undershirt. That’d go all right with the jacket.

Aster had trouble finding a pair of trousers that would fit over his calves and thighs. He ended up settling for a pair of worker’s slacks in chem-dyed blue. They were tight in the knees and sat indecently low on his hips, but the alternative was to wear a pair of leather pants with a hole where his arse would go. Bloody Throne, that would have gone down a treat in prison.

Clif covered his slightly too clean-cut hair with one of the fake Commissar caps, put his nice second-hand combat boots back on and left the laces untied. Aster grabbed a substitute ID and a credit stick out of his Inquisition duffel bag and gave himself a quick once-over in the reflective surface of the ablution nook’s wall. The phrase that came to mind was ‘fresh meat’. Mission accomplished: now he just had to find out where the party was.

Industrial loudhailers announced the transition to Vespers and then to Compline. Aster went with the evening crowd, following drunken workers and glammed-up revellers down a venerable four-lane travelator. He got a name for the party district, The 420, presumably named after the first three digits of the local hex-code address. Everything was a lot bigger and livelier than Vheabos VI. Clif had spent most of his Penal Battalion service in the underhives, grappling with Void-forsaken things in the pitch darkness. To think that just a click or two above his position, the Hive City had been so full of life and light!

Some scrawny fool blundered into Aster’s path and attempted to pick his pocket, then ran off clutching broken fingers. Apart from that, Clif enjoyed a peaceful stroll. He wasn’t used to seeing urban wildlife. Fat-toed geckos hunted the bugs that clustered around the street-lumens. A flock of raucous little parrots circled in the convection shaft’s air currents, cruising on the thermals. A smart-looking courtesan walked some fluffy, pampered crossbreed of an opossum and an iguana on a golden leash. Clif spotted a feral member of the same species absconding with someone’s half-eaten nutribar.

The coloured lumen-signs got more lurid and complex: the streets narrowed and started to smell of stale alcohol, urine and sweet lho smoke. A thumping, four-on-the-floor beat emanated from a sunken cellar to Clif’s left. On the other side of the alleyway, crumbling wrought iron stairs trailed up to a balcony where several woozy-looking Tech-Priests made an incomprehensible electronic din on their scratch-built instruments. Aster pitied whoever lived upstairs from the Cogs.

He eventually found a queue full of party-goers in various degrees of undress. Clif wasn’t in a hurry, and the club’s signage made him curious. The Emperor’s Bathhouse - Aster wasn’t entirely sure if the name was patriotic or heretical. He spent a little while chatting with the locals, letting himself get accustomed to their thick street dialect. Three nicely-dressed girls in synth-silk sheaths and lots of beaded jewellery took a shine to Clif. He was able to get inside by sticking close to them and sliding on through the entrance before the door guard had a chance to question him. Aster really didn’t want to show his ID, fake or otherwise.

The place must have been a manufactorum several centuries ago. A kilometre’s worth of overlaid construction had caused the building’s upper storey to cave in. The main dancefloor’s mighty steel-girded ceiling and buttressed walls were designed to withstand the full brunt of an industrial accident, and the chamber seemed quite safe by Hive City standards. Every bit of floor space was occupied with sweaty dancing hivers, packed shoulder to shoulder. An upbeat remix of that classic military hymn, Splendid Men of the Imperium, blasted over the vox-speakers: whoever had sampled the singer’s voice had decided to repeat the refrain ‘Men of the Imperium, Stand Up’ with enthusiastic insistence.

Some filthy-minded interior designer had decorated the ceiling space with hangings of shiny red fabric that radiated out from a central gilded chandelier. Once Clif recognised the resemblance to a massive sphincter, he could not shake the mental image. Disconcerted, he decided to go see if the Emperor’s Bathhouse had other entertainment on offer.

A vision in shiny black power armour greeted Aster. Its exaggerated contours were sculpted costume pieces, but the effect was still impressive.

“I see you are an admirer of the sacred human form.”

Clif had never been hit on by a Sister of Battle before. He’d never seen one in person either, though he was pretty sure no warrior would go into battle wearing such teetering platform heels. The good Sister’s bobbed white wig was a bit too artificial and her makeup too much of a caricature for her to be taking her role entirely seriously. The absolutely massive breastplate looked like it would double as a handy storage compartment.

“The Emperor protects, Sister.” Clif followed up his gallant bow with a sly grin.

“Ooh, you bet he does, sweetheart.” The Sister of Battle rapped her knuckles against one of her torpedo-shaped bosoms. “You’re wasted on that meat market out there. Feel like checking out the floor show?”

“That depends. Will you be gracing the stage tonight?”

Clif was rewarded with a sultry, lho-scarred laugh.

“You’re cute. Come on back.”

“What should I call you, ma’am?”

“Sister Vagina. The Emperor’s Sheath.” She poked her tongue lasciviously at him.

Aster proceeded through to a more private area of the nightclub. Instead of paying an entry fee, he accepted a good-natured grope from the Sister. He thought about returning the favour - he wasn’t averse to having a fling with a lad in drag - but he didn’t want to mess up her costume. Best to let her go get ready for her act.

There was a stark distinction between performers and clientele in this more intimate setting. This was the kind of backroom where scandals started and deals got sealed. Clif switched back into work mode, unable to resist investigating. He acquired a long-stemmed glass of something sparkling, found a good observation spot and began memorising as many details as he could.

Some of the patrons wore little half-masks in different Imperium-themed designs, an Aquila here, a golden cherub-face there. Others were happy to show off. Aster suspected he’d run into quite a few familiar faces if he ever had to run surveillance at a high-society function. The jewelled augmetics were a giveaway. You could fake fancy clothing, but tech was a lot harder to obtain.

As for the performers… at least, Aster assumed that’s what they were. If they were prostitutes, that was somehow much worse. All the costumed people were simulacrums of some Imperial holy figure. That was the true meaning behind the name of the Emperor’s Bathhouse. This was the theme of their secret entertainment.

Other cross-dressing Sisters of Battle meandered here and there, chatting up noble customers. They weren’t the only flavour of lascivious worship on offer: a slender young man wearing an Ecclesiarch’s hat and robes poked a stockinged leg out of a slit in the side of his costume and wiggled it at Clif. The Imperial Church would get a lot more confessions if they adopted that dress code!

Several muscle-bound young men wearing downscaled replicas of Astartes power armour patrolled from table to table, offering Aquila salutes to groups of drinkers. Clif watched as a well-heeled older woman tucked a fistful of Hundred-Throne bills inside a performer’s blue-painted chestplate. The young man blew her a kiss in response, and Clif felt a knot form in his stomach.

Did the Dargonian nobles like the idea of having sex with an enormous muscle-bound transhuman warrior? Veneration was one thing, but what if these patrons’ fantasy was a poorly disguised power trip? That had to be sacrilege.

Sinuous, unexpected harmonies played over the ambient music’s complicated beat. The air was hazy with the scent of body oil, lho smoke and perfumes whose notes Clif couldn’t identify. He leaned woozily against something plush. What in the Void was in that bubbly drink? It was going to his head. He regretted sipping it to blend in.

Sister Vagina did her thing on stage, lip-synching a zealous hymn while she shot iridescent foam out of a prop melta gun. For the punchline of her act, she struck a righteous pose and blew a stream of bubbles out of her artificial breasts. Aster had to admire her gusto. The audience seemed to enjoy the Sister too. They began shouting fervent prayers to the God-Emperor and cheering for the Adepta Sororitas. The Sister collected a healthy stack of donations, promising - in character - that she would be delivering them to the nearest orphanage. That got a mix of laughter and renewed cheers from her audience while she marched offstage.

Clif’s head hurt, but he managed to overcome his dizziness. He was grateful when the good Sister reemerged from a curtained side area and joined him in his quiet corner. Her antics had helped stir him out of his tipsy daze. She’d swapped out the fake power armour for booty shorts and a fake fur top, but kept the white wig and makeup.

“God-Emperor be praised, it feels so good to get out of that costume! Give us a sip, love.”

Aster obligingly handed over his abandoned glass to the Sister. She carefully smoothed out the sequins on the back of his jacket while she took a drink.

“You’re adorable, darling. Normally I’d pop out back for a durrie about now, but I want to see this new act. Main event’s quite the sight - I got a peek backstage, he’s built like a bloody hab-block. Must be juiced up on chems or something.”

Aster decided he might as well wait with her. It would be less conspicuous if they both slipped out the back together. The next act was probably going to be another sexy Astartes, and Clif could grit his teeth and get through that.

The background music swelled with sudden orchestral intensity, slowing from an upbeat party tempo to something solemn and ceremonial. Machines whirred and hissed behind the curtained stage, and plumes of coloured mist began to disperse across the floor. The room was awash with a haze of pinkish light. The backdrop was dark and shrouded in heavy fabric: a small golden spotlight lit the very apron of the stage, drawing the audience’s attention.

Aster vaguely recognised the music. He knew it was patriotic, but he couldn’t place its context. Where had he heard something like this before? More smoke billowed forth, and a chorus line of strange attendants came marching out on either side of the stage. They wore masks and loincloths, and their bodies had been generously coated with bronze paint. Clif tried not to show his confusion. He had come up against the limits of his knowledge. At least he now remembered the context for the slow, booming hymn. They’d played it in the Upper Hive after the battle for Dargonus. Clif remembered it from his commendation ceremony.

More attendants were stepping out, carrying a massive gaudy sedan chair. The music roared to a crescendo and the stage lights flared so intensely that Clif was blinded for a moment. The curtains had been pulled aside to reveal a gigantic starburst pattern painted across the back wall in yellow and gold. The whole room was now awash in Holy Terra’s light.

An impossible, radiant syllable bloomed in Clif Aster’s mind. He nearly dropped his empty glass: he fumbled with a table and managed to set it down. Clif felt an uncanny, warm glow in the very core of his chest. He did his best to keep his footing: he was far too disoriented to blame his giddiness on the drink.

These freaks had created a blasphemous imitation of the Golden Throne. They had even found someone mad enough to sit in the God-Emperor’s place.

The crowd erupted in ecstatic cacophony, shrieking their fanatical devotion over the music. Nobles scrambled out of their booths and began wading through the coloured smoke towards the stage. They tripped over each other and kept pressing forward on their hands and knees.

Clif glanced over at his companion. She hadn’t succumbed to the same frenzy as the patrons. Nor did Clif see any costumed figures amid the writhing bacchanal. Whatever this was, the performers weren’t part of it. Aster took hold of the Sister’s arm to get her attention.

“Go out the back. Now.”

The Sister darted a quick look at him. Her eyes widened when she saw Clif’s expression. As soon as he let go of her, she obediently ducked behind a curtain and out of sight.

Good. Agent Aster had one less thing to worry about.

Clif took a breath and held it. Throne knew what chems might be in that smoke. He took several careful strides forward, forcing his mind to remain calm. He no longer cared about attracting attention. His main objective was confirming what was real and what was the work of drugs or sorcery.

Another golden utterance resounded in Aster’s consciousness. His tied tongue had no hope of imitating its elusive contours. Some things could only be said with the mind. Should he feel scared right now? He kept moving forward, letting his instincts and his footwork guide him around the obstacles of flailing limbs and contorting bodies.

The painted attendants were either fighting off the audience or turning to flee the stage. What had started out as a solemn hymn had devolved into pure cacophony. Clif let the golden syllables smother it all. The false Throne’s occupant might be just a mortal man, but he was the key to understanding everything.

The good Sister had been right: his physique was truly massive, almost alien. The false Emperor was bared to the waist: gold laurels adorned his long, pitch-black hair. His bare skin had been painted and oiled until he resembled a statue rather than a person. A long white toga trailed down past the base of his sedan chair. Clif noticed the thick heel of a platformed sandal underneath one of its folds. That must be how he had created the illusion of superhuman height. Aster dared to glance up. He had to get a look at the man’s face.

Is it you? Am I just drugged out of my mind, or is it you?

The actor turned his head and fixed Agent Aster with slow, intense scrutiny. His right eye flared with an unnatural burst of radiance, like the tapetum of a predatory animal. For one awestruck moment, Clif saw him haloed in vivid supernatural light. Then the vision dissipated, and the false Emperor was a man once more.

By the Throne, it is you…

Someone grabbed Clif by the ankle. The frenzied nobles had almost reached their target. Agent Aster instinctively moved to protect the man in the sedan chair, but he stumbled and had to take a knee to recover his balance. Clif braced himself to turn around and fight, but he stopped when the false Emperor laid a hand on his shoulder.

The safest place he could possibly be was right next to the Lord Inquisitor.

A shimmering veil of gold descended to enclose Clif. Lord van Calox was using his will to create a protective perimeter. Aster was afraid to look around him. He sheltered at the Lord Inquisitor’s knees and murmured a simple Guardsman’s prayer, the first one that came to mind.

Clif recognised only some of the sounds around him, and those made his stomach churn with renewed nausea. Twisting gristle and snapping bone, the wet and grisly symphony of traumatised flesh - he’d seen enough carnage during his time in the Penal Battalion to guess what was happening.

Aster tasted blood and realised that he’d bitten the inside of his cheek in his distraction. The metallic tang paired uncomfortably well with the smell of guts and gore. There was something else in the air too, a cloying sweetness that churned in his belly and made his genitals tingle. How revolting…

Lord van Calox removed his hand from Clif’s shoulder. Aster finally dared to open his eyes and look up: the Lord Inquisitor was issuing signals with quick gestures to his left and right. Clif heard the familiar trample of combat boots, and the issuing of rapid-fire commands. Backup had arrived. Inquisition enforcers would corral the performers and anyone else who had survived the slaughter, and take them in for questioning. Throne only knew what had happened to the crowd out in the main dance hall.

Agent Aster got unsteadily to his feet. Heinrix van Calox lowered his arm: Clif saw that his burnished limbs were starting to tremble. The air around them felt deathly cold. The Lord Inquisitor’s golden wreath was encrusted with ice crystals. Aster watched as a thick layer of frost condensed and spread over the man’s shoulders.

What was going on? Where were the other troops? Who was going to help the Lord Inquisitor? Heinrix gave Clif a sharp, cautioning look and shook his head. His eyes darted towards the side of the stage. The Inquisitor didn’t want the Enforcers to see him in this state.

Aster slung an arm around Lord van Calox’s distorted body, doing his best to keep him upright. The man’s torso was cold, slippery and too hefty for Clif to get a proper grip. Too bad: he’d just have to try his best. He swore that somehow, he’d get his boss to safety.

Chapter 34: Chapter Thirty Four

Summary:

Golden God, Wet Man.

CW: suggestive situations, body horror

“Exactly how much heresy is it when a bloke, um, beats it while thinking about the Emperor?”

Heinrix managed a weak attempt at a laugh, which soon turned into a cough. Clif strained and managed not to drop the Lord Inquisitor. All the extra muscle mass around van Calox’s arms and shoulders was just dead weight at this point. The man’s legs were working overtime just to keep him upright.

“You bear witness to unnatural slaughter, and this is the first question you think to ask me?”

Agent Aster’s boss was in too much discomfort to notice him blush. A small mercy.

“The lads in the Battalion had this poster that they used to pass around.”

Lord van Calox sighed and slumped a little further against Clif’s shoulder. The Inquisitor’s trailing arm left a smear of golden brown where his body paint rubbed off against Aster’s flight jacket.

“Most Astra Militarum regiments have a similar tradition. Soldiers find comfort where they can, Aster. I doubt any of your comrades would lay a personal claim to Him on Terra, any more than they would begrudge their comrades offering Him a prayer before battle.”

Clif considered that thought while he got van Calox into a makeshift Infernus hold. The last few steps through the club’s dressing room were agonising. Clif tripped over the trailing hem of Heinrix’s costume as he wrestled with his superior’s ice-coated bulk. He staggered sideways and knocked his shin against the edge of something hard.

“Son of a motherfucking grox! Sorry, boss.”

“Be careful, Clif.” Heinrix’s voice sounded concerningly faint.

“Permission to get this Void-damned bedsheet off you, boss.” Aster kicked his leg free of its folds, cursing when his own boot came off his foot.

“Are you t-tempted by the Emperor’s sacred f-form?”

Even with his teeth chattering, van Calox was capable of smiling at Aster’s incandescent embarrassment.

“Throne help me, don’t rub it in!”

Clif grumbled to himself as he fumbled around the Lord Inquisitor’s waist. This was not at all how he’d hoped to undress the bloke. Aster managed to find the safety pins that held the section of trailing fabric snugly around Heinrix’s hips. Thankfully the Lord Inquisitor had kept his underwear on. The waistband of his trunks was yellow where the body paint had stained it. Now that the toga was off, the asymmetry of Heinrix’s distorted body was obvious. He was an Emperor from the waist up, and a very tired man everywhere else.

“What’s next? Are we rinsing you off?”

“If you would be s-so kind.”

A little flurry of snowflakes scattered across Clif’s forearm. It had to be a side effect of the psyker’s sorcery. Aster wagered that it took a lot of energy to summon all those muscles out of nothing. The two men staggered into the sad little cornice that passed for a shower. The only seating was one of the undersized blue stools that Aster kept seeing everywhere in the Middle Hives. The plastic creaked under Heinrix’s weight. The Lord Inquisitor sat so low on it that his knees nearly came up to his chest. It was a far cry from his usual fancy swivel chair.

A ribbed plastic hose was fitted with a basic shower head: Clif got the water running and waited for the colour to change from brown to pale yellow. That was as clean as it’d get: praise the Emperor, it was even lukewarm. Hopefully he could melt the Lord Inquisitor enough to stop him going into hypothermic shock. Heinrix laid trembling fingers over Clif’s hand where it grasped the arm of the shower attachment.

“H-hurry. Every moment I spend in this f-form is exhausting.”

Lord van Calox hunched forwards over his knees and clenched his hands together in a praying gesture. Clif took care to gather any trailing strands of wet hair away from the psyker’s face. The warm water was already beginning to rinse some of the oil and paint from the Inquisitor’s back: a faint trail of black dye mingled with the stream of metallic golden brown, and van Calox’s grey streaks slowly began to show again. Clif continued to rinse him, focusing on any patches of skin where frost crystals began to congregate.

“You may find this next part distressing.”

The Lord Inquisitor continued to humble himself in prayer. Clif couldn’t identify which litany he was reciting over the sound of running water, but he recognised the familiar rhythmic pattern of devotional speech. A queasy sensation rippled over Aster, chilling his skin in a way that went beyond the effects of a simple drop in air temperature. He felt all the little hairs bristling along his forearms. Clif’s mouth tingled.

This wasn’t the same brain-bending nausea that Agent Aster had experienced onstage. It was a more intimate performance, more localised. Lord van Calox was turning his sorcery inwards, taking control of the processes of his own body. Clif stared at the muscles of the psyker’s back, watching them as they began to pulse and squirm. He remembered the belly of a half-decayed corpse on the battlefield, the motion of hungry maggots just under the skin. That sweet, cloying scent was back. Thankfully it was far less intense, and the shower-water soon rinsed it away.

Heinrix must be enduring incredible pain. Aster heard the man’s teeth grinding together. The Lord Inquisitor had stopped praying and was now doing his best not to cry out. Clif wasn’t sure if he should touch the man’s shoulders. That might just hurt him even more.

Clif let the shower coax Heinrix through his ordeal instead, running warm water along the curve of his spine. The Lord Inquisitor had already managed to dispel most of his extra body mass - hopefully the bloke’s suffering would be over soon.

After another bout of psychic activity and muffled groaning, Heinrix finally straightened his posture. Aster heard the psyker’s spine creak as he tipped his head back and attempted to lean against the wall. Now that the Lord Inquisitor’s shoulders had shrunk back down to mortal size, the distance was too far for him to bridge. The plastic stool buckled and its molded legs started to crumple under Heinrix’s displaced weight. Clif overcame his squeamishness, ditched the shower hose and flung a protective arm around the Inquisitor’s back.

“Easy there, boss. Hey.” Heinrix took a massive, shuddering breath in Aster’s cradling arms. Clif felt him tense up as if he were about to push his agent away. “Hey. I’ve got you.”

Aster had done this before with dead and dying men. This time, his patient came back to life: one breath at a time, Clif could feel Henrix’s shakes subsiding as warmth returned to the psyker’s body. He was one resilient bastard.

“Thank you, Aster. I believe I can stand up now. May I borrow your steady arm once more?”

Clif got to his feet - the knees of his pants were even stiffer now that the heavy fabric was soaked - and bent to offer Heinrix a supporting elbow. A much smaller Inquisitor steadied himself against Clif’s outstretched arm, clinging on with both hands until he found a steady footing. Aster steered him out of the shower cornice and towards dry ground. To relieve some of the awkwardness, he did his best impression of a courtier leading a high society lady out onto a ballroom floor.

“If Ser van Calox would care to step this way…”

His antics were rewarded with a dry laugh.

“The God-Emperor’s providence has sent me an unlikely rescuer! Aster, I am curious to know how you tracked me to this den.”

Clif found a wretched but dry-looking towel and handed it to van Calox. The Lord Inquisitor ignored the rest of his body and immediately began drying his hair. Aster had to smile at his vanity.

“That’s funny, I was wondering if you’d set things up so I’d find my way here.”

“I’m afraid not. It would be cruel of me to decline your advances only to parade in front of you half naked.”

Heinrix’s ever-furrowed brow twitched upwards in sudden realisation. He winced, extricated the towel from his hair and hurriedly wrapped it around his midsection. Clif was foolish enough to glance towards the movement, and glimpsed some damp contours that he knew he’d remember for life. Bloody Throne!

“Gah. Sorry, Lord Inquisitor.”

Heinrix shrugged. “The fault is mine. As it is, I regret spoiling your opportunity to enjoy a pleasant evening of shore leave.”

“Why’d you do it?” Clif gestured at the discarded white fabric on the floor, still marked here and there by traces of gold paint and body oil.

“I received reports of possible heretical activity in Hex 4, including information about performers in costume. The… patriotic nature of the entertainment made it too ambiguous to immediately classify it as outright heresy. I decided to investigate. I approached the organisers behind this sordid club, disguising myself with biomancy and a little hair dye. While working as a performer, I could directly observe the patrons and determine how far the corruption extended.”

Clif busied himself looking for clothing that could cover up the Lord Inquisitor - and something to replace his own wet kit too, if he was lucky.

“You could have pretended to be a rich customer, right?”

“Perhaps, but that would have severely limited my interactions. I could not make eye contact with every other patron without raising their suspicions. A performer has an excellent view of everyone from the stage.”

“Technically, you could have just busted the joint and rounded everybody up.”

“Are you suggesting I should have purged everyone, Agent Aster? Your friend with the wig would not have survived, and neither would you.” Heinrix shook his head. “No, there is a difference between true corruption and simple hedonism. My predecessor might have advocated such methods, but I take a different view. Nobody is entirely innocent: but innocence proves nothing.”

Clif recognised the old Inquisition motto. Heinrix appeared to be interpreting its meaning in reverse. The Lord Inquisitor motioned for Aster to throw a heavy black jersey in his direction.

“If we eradicate every sinner, there will be no Humanity left for us to protect. I think that’s rather counterproductive, don’t you? Ah - I no longer fit this. May I exchange it for your flight jacket, Master Aster?”

“Sure, boss.”

Clif hauled it off and swapped garments, but not before van Calox laughed at the sight of the Acolyte’s improvised undershirt. The jersey felt pleasantly roomy around Aster’s shoulders after wearing that too-tight jacket. He liked the texture of its heavy yarn. It smelled nice, too: that same vaguely medicinal scent he’d detected on the Lord Inquisitor’s other clothing, something leafy that refreshed Clif’s breath when he inhaled it.

“Rosemary.”

Lord van Calox had caught him sniffing. Clif felt his face and throat grow warm. The Lord Inquisitor looked damn good in that flight jacket. The sequined wingtips of its Aquila fit perfectly across his shoulder blades. Aster averted his stare long enough for Heinrix to discard his towel and clamber into a random performer’s discarded leggings. Somehow this was worse than seeing him naked in the shower.

“Why did it have to be you, boss?”

Heinrix glanced up halfway through fastening his borrowed jacket. “Mm?”

“If you need a psyker, send some other witch inside. Need a big guy, you could have sent me. That operation was dicey.”

“The situation was more dangerous than you know, Clif.” Heinrix levelled his mismatched stare at Agent Aster. “The distortion of your senses, the compulsion and seizures that overcame the corrupted revellers… all of it was the work of the Ruinous Powers.”

“Shit.” Clif shivered. “I thought it was just chems in the smoke.”

“That is what we will tell any witnesses who we deem safe enough to release. A vat of industrial waste in the backrooms of an old manufactorum, a sudden toxic leak. I would prefer not to shoot more bystanders than necessary.” Heinrix smirked mirthlessly. “We will seal off the building under the same pretext: enforcers will purge the performance space with fire and holy water, then seal up the manufactorum and fill it with liquid rockcrete.”

Heinrix had regained his usual confident posture. He approached Aster, casually straightened the neck of his Acolyte’s jumper, then gave a tiny nod of approval.

“One can never be too careful when erasing the influence of She Who Thirsts.”

Aster’s skin prickled. He’d seen that epithet in his Aeldari textbooks - Sai’lanthresh - along with its Low Gothic translation. The xenos referred to her only through euphemisms, which meant they were deathly afraid of her. Clif carefully uncurled the tension from his fingers. His pulse was pounding in his ears. It was probably best if he remained ignorant about what had happened back on that stage.

“You knew it was dangerous, and you still went in alone.” Aster did his best to keep his voice calm. “Froscher’s going to be pissed off when he finds out about this.”

Heinrix’s smile turned sad.

“One cannot battle the influence of corruption without taking on some trace of its sin. Perhaps it flattered my ego to play the martyr’s part and… take one for the team, as my old Astra Militarum comrades would say. The Ruinous Powers lay all kinds of traps for a wayward mind.” The Lord Inquisitor averted his gaze, scoffing mirthlessly.

“I assumed that adopting the guise of Humanity’s sacred patron would feel less repulsive than donning the stolen robes of a cultist. I was wrong. It is pure hubris for a sanctioned psyker to appropriate a mere fraction of His power and assume His role, even momentarily. But this act of blasphemy is not the worst of my transgressions.”

Heinrix flicked a long section of damp hair over his shoulder.

“If there is any comfort to be had in my overall wretchedness, it is this: perhaps I have managed to dispel your well-meaning admiration. I am not the Emperor from your posters, Agent Aster. I am not even a particularly righteous man. I am as sadistic, and perverse, and insecure as any other mortal.” He paused. “Perhaps worse.”

Clif grinned.

“Everything you just said is more addictive than obscura to a certain kind of man.”

Heinrix’s right eye flared with sudden intensity. He turned his head aside for a moment. Clif could see his mouth twitch. He could kiss that tight little frown away.

“I hope you’re not that kind of man.”

“I know it’s not your intention to entice me, boss. That’s part of the appeal.”

“Stop it!”

The Lord Inquisitor’s hand grabbed Clif’s jumper - Heinrix’s jumper - by the neck. Aster hadn’t even seen him close the distance between them. The tapetum in the back of Heinrix’s unnatural eye was visible from this proximity. Clif had never seen the Inquisitor truly lose his temper before. Heinrix’s breath bloomed against Clif’s cheek. That look and its accompanying snarl of pure animal rage had Aster primed for a brawl.

Part of him still wanted to kiss the guy.

“I am in love with a xenos.”

Heinrix forced the words out through gritted teeth. Aster felt a fleck of warm spittle land on his bottom lip. He flinched backwards. The Inquisitor forced his expression back to something less feral, and gradually released his hold on Clif.

“What about the Rogue Trader-”

“-Como can handle him, Aster. You cannot.”

Heinrix’s heterochrome stare no longer blazed like a dying star. Even as he stepped away from Clif, his expression seemed strained - almost pleading.

“If you have any sense of self-preservation, you’ll stay away from me.”

The Lord Inquisitor turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. The Aquila’s golden sequins glittered across his back, intersected by a slash of greying hair. Heinrix didn’t bother to collect his footwear on the way out. Aster was worried he’d cut himself on the debris outside, or step in gore with his bare feet… stupid kid. Lord van Calox could fix himself with a single flex of his mind.

Clif felt useless. He stood by himself in the dressing-room for a bit, hugging his arms against his chest, feeling the Inquisitor’s heavy jersey prickle against his skin through his dumb fishnet vest.

Boss… I don’t have any sense of self-preservation.

Chapter 35: Chapter Thirty Five

Summary:

Meanwhile, in the Webway.

CW: Asuryani h-hand-holding...

The dragonflies had been a happy accident. They had never been dominant in this biome before: perhaps someone had kept them as pets or genecrafting experiments. Now that the dragonflies were free, they thrived in iridescent swarms near the fruiting vines. Their predation controlled the population of yellow beetles and tiny sap-sucking flies. And in turn, the honey gliders had found a new source of protein to supplement their diet.

The garden was as untamed as its keepers, no more and no less. Logic and instinct, technology and nature - the dualities of sentient life held sway here. As long as one of Crudarach’s children tended her soil and healed her wounds, she was Home.

Tech-Gardener Yrliet Lanaevyss was on observation duty. This gave her an excuse to scale her second favourite tree and find her customary vantage point in its canopy. One broad tree-limb had offered an excellent view of the forest. Yrliet found the indentation that she had worn into its upper flank - Nature’s adaptation, formed from years of supporting her weight.

She lay down. The bark, shaded by the leaves above, felt cool and smooth against her bare stomach. A convenient fork in the branch provided her with a nook where she could prop her long rifle. Forgoing clothing was no bother when Abel was her only company, but venturing this far from camp without protection always made Yrliet feel naked in a different sense - the sense of vulnerability, of relying on a thin dome for protection from the Void. The elantach’s gift, the Eye of Hecaton, was a welcome reassurance.

Yrliet braced her legs on either side of the branch in an Exodite’s splayed posture, relying on the pressure of her knees and the coarse texture of her gaiters and bracers to hold her in place. Once settled in, she could spend hours at a time almost motionless, watching the animals, counting their numbers. It was important to be exact. Logis Abel relied on her record-keeping.

The Aeldari Tech-Gardener’s eye was drawn to a disturbance in the glittering of dragonfly wings. She noticed a dark leathery shape on a distant section of treetop, perhaps as large as a child or a small mon’keigh. Yrliet’s hunting instincts flared to life. It was unusual for the Paths of the Ranger and the Gardener to align… but this creature was an outsider, an anomaly in the delicate biome.

Yrliet brought her long rifle into position across one bracer-clad forearm so that she could watch the beast through its targeting scope. She knew this species: Hoec’s Friend, a large bat. The creature was busy gorging itself on ripe fruit, ignoring the insects that clustered around it. Its fuzzy, pointed ears twitched with contentment. It must have been starving.

Yrliet guessed that it might have stumbled in through a Webway gate: Hoec’s Friend was so named because of their ability to detect and follow the currents of Sha’eil, although it would be charitable to call their random flight paths ‘navigation’. Who or what had found this pocket of the Webway? Corsairs? Intruders?

Anxiety knotted in Yrliet’s belly for a moment and made her flanks cramp with sudden tension. She reminded herself to breathe and think. Abel would counsel her to interpret the situation rationally. If outsiders had found Crudarach’s remains, they would not have eluded Yrliet’s notice. The more logical answer was that the Rillietan had visited the Craftworld to drop off supplies, and this bat was a stowaway.

“You have wandered far, furred Outcast.” Yrliet mumbled into her tree-trunk.

Yrliet wished she could chasten the False Faces for releasing such a large mammal into the ecosystem, but she knew they were long gone. The Tech-Gardener tutted to herself. It was immature of her masked cousins to flit in and out of the Webway unannounced, even if Cegorach found that sort of behaviour amusing.

Sated, the Hoec’s Friend inverted its fuzzy body and clung upside-down to a sagging cluster of fruit vines. It stretched its wings blissfully in the sun that filtered through the Craftworld’s dome. A lucky creature in a lucky bubble. Other domes and other sections no longer had working atmospheres.

Something twitched among the shaggy brown contours of the beast’s belly fur. Yrliet’s heart sank. The Hoec’s Friend was a female with a pup. This was disastrous.

As long as the beasts had fruit to feed on, they posed no threat. If they became hungry enough, the bats would begin to predate on whatever their psychic senses deemed most interesting. Yrliet and Abel were in great danger. If the pup grew larger, if the system became unbalanced - the Ranger’s long rifle was cool in her hands, its smooth contours waiting for her to line up the shot. Mother and child were in her sights. Her life and Abel’s life, or the life of two beasts: the calculation was grim in its simplicity.

The little pup’s pointed nose and tiny ears popped out of its mother’s pouch. It was curious to explore its new home.

“Kae-morag.”

Yrliet exhaled through her nose and shifted her hand away from the trigger. She was letting fear and assumptions guide her actions. Abel would be upset with her.

She needed to tell her fellow hermit about the interloper. Together, they would decide what to do.

Tech-Gardener Lanaevyss slung her long rifle over her bare shoulder, squatted up onto her haunches and readied herself for the long descent.

The great trees had existed in Yrliet’s childhood. Their leafy columns had kept watch over dwellings and temples and the winding contours of Crudarach’s streets. If the Asuryani elders had given a name to this particular species of tree, Yrliet had never bothered to learn it. Craftworlders tended not to look up at their surroundings or at the domes that enclosed them. How strange it seemed now, to have travelled through the Void and felt the lightness of an artificial continent under one’s feet without ever perceiving the wonder of such a creation. Only now did Yrliet truly listen to Crudarach, following the rhythms of the lifeforms that it sustained.

She took note of every patch of lichen and every clinging epiphyte that she passed. Condensation pooled in the leaf-whorls of a bromeliad. Tech-Gardener Lanaevyss measured its level with a fingertip. Water was life, and the Craftworld had a limited supply. Leaf litter had gathered in the crevices between the bromeliad’s outer leaves. The busy insects and natural decay would turn the mulch into soil. Nature formed an endless self-sustaining loop: Father Asuryan himself must have understood its nature, when the great Ancestor adopted its symbolism for his own heraldry.

Yrliet picked up the scent of sweet nectar on the faint, humid breeze. This was another of her duties: observing the airflow to make sure that the Craftworld’s atmospheric regulators still worked. Thankfully the ancient mechanisms had heeded Yrliet’s pleas thus far. She still felt silly every time she prayed in front of the power crystals - a proper Bonesinger would have known what to do instead of relying on superstition. But Logis Abel was insistent that her naive routine helped to appease the ‘machine spirits’.

Below the forested canopy, rotten husks of blighted dwellings and broken wraithbone spires cast fragmentary shades on what remained of the old footpaths. Vines and bushes sprouted wherever their roots could find a stable outcrop. What had once been a dead, bleached landscape was now bursting with tropical verdure.

The lowest section of the trunk was slippery and lacking in branches to help with the descent. Yrliet did her best to cling on with the bark soles of her slippers. If there was one luxury she missed from her wandering days, it was her old Ranger’s boots. The pair she had brought from the Venatrix were full of holes. Tech-Gardener Lanaevyss slid for the last few metres, ditched the long rifle before she hit the ground and sat heavily on her backside. She frowned up at the tree: it continued its serene vigil, unaware of her annoyance.

Yrliet permitted herself a moment’s irresponsibility. She gave the tree-trunk a small punch, and was rewarded with a splash of warm water from above.

“Observation: each action provokes a proportional and opposing reaction. Praise the Omnissiah.”

Yrliet looked back over her shoulder. She was pleasantly surprised to hear the little Logis speak out loud. Ever since the data-communion ritual, Abel had been all but silent. This was to be expected: the Red Priest often spent hours or days at a time in contemplation, communicating only through gesture or the music of their metal parts. Logis Abel would have made a passable Asuryani.

“Greetings, gentle poet. I trust your labours were effective and fruitful.”

Logis Abel resembled a woodland hermit more than a Tech-Priest. They had covered the parts their creed deemed most sacred with a weather-beaten hood and pelerine. One half of the particoloured fabric, once black, had been bleached to a watery grey under Crudarach’s grow-lamps. The Martian red sections were as vivid as ever. Over these garments, unit Abel wore a floppy straw hat that Yrliet had woven by hand. The little Logis’s chrome-steel plating afforded the rest of their body all the modesty that they needed.

What a funny pair of Exodites the two of them made, clinging to a few precious scraps of worldly nostalgia even as they slowly grew more and more like the animals around them! Abel seemed to pick up on Yrliet’s mild amusement, for their inner parts made a pleasant binharic chirp.

“Hello, bright soul. The Harlequin units have left us another gift of provisions. This unit regrets that we could not persuade them to stay and speak with you.”

Tech-Gardener Lanaevyss got to her feet in one smooth movement.

“The False Faces brought a Hoec’s Friend with them.”

“Ah! Another Vesper!”

Logis Abel brought their metal fingers together and formed The Shape denoting curiosity / pleasure / the joy of discovery. It was a gesture they made often. Yrliet noticed a little dirt in between the joints of each digit. They must have been planting seedlings again. Unit Abel’s hand curled into the sign of the Cog: its neat, enclosed curve reminded Yrliet of a fern frond.

“We welcome the inclusion of a new life-form in our hermitude.”

“It is not an inclusion, it is an intrusion.”

Yrliet expressed her displeasure with an incremental flick of her wrist. Unit Abel emitted a melodic binharic chuckle from behind their respirator mask.

“A Hoec’s Friend possesses empathy and intelligence. Our penance does not require us to avoid the company of an animal, unit Yrliet. We might learn a great deal from observing it. This unit looks forward to making new discoveries.”

Of course they did. Abel, my gentle poet, you are still an Explorator at heart…

“The harmony you describe may not last. The beast has a child. If the bats multiply, their need for food could easily disrupt the delicate balance we have cultivated. If that happens, I will become a hunter once more.”

Logis Abel’s human eye crinkled up into a smile.

“Disruption is part of my creed, Tech-Gardener. I welcome such a trial.”

The Red Priest’s calming influence was not enough to quell the unease in Yrliet’s soul, no matter how long she held her companion’s gaze. She caught sight of her reflection in the lens of Abel’s augmetic eye. This, along with glimpsing wavering shapes in the surface of ponds, was her only means of observing herself. Her face looked thin and tired.

“Abel, this is my - this is our home.”

That was right. Abel’s metal hands had worked hard to grow new life amid the rubble and decay. Yrliet could only bear the heartrending, impossible work of turning her kin’s grave into a garden if Abel was there to help her. They belonged at her side.

“One sudden change is enough to-” Yrliet’s voice wavered. “I am afraid to lose Crudarach again.”

A sweet mechanical melody resonated deep within the Red Priest’s glistening chassis.

“Have faith, bright soul. We have not laboured in vain. We will be safe.”

Yrliet felt her cheeks grow warm. She wondered if she was about to weep. If she did not find a safe outlet for her emotions, they would shake her mind apart.

“Your gaze has wandered, Tech-Gardener.”

The Logis’s voice, so kind and quiet, guided Yrliet back towards mindfulness. She lifted her gaze again, and caught the second-hand emerald gleam of her own awareness as it penetrated into Abel’s consciousness. The eye of a human, the eye of a machine - the distinction had been irrelevant for years. Both paths offered Yrliet a connection to Amarnat, through which she could immerse herself in Abel’s inner world. The journey to the centre of the Logis’s mind was as magical and strange as traversing the Webway: she took different turns and made new discoveries every time.

Such a bond was delicate. Yrliet needed something solid to renew and reinforce it, something... tangible.

“Gentle poet. May I hold your hand?”

Unit Abel extended their right arm, palm up, offering themselves to Yrliet.

“You are authorised.”

Abel’s voice had softened even further, consonants barely perceptible in a resonant binharic haze. They knew to wait for Yrliet to initiate the contact. They would only touch fingertips at first, a tentative dance of flesh against synskin-coated metal - Yrliet held her breath and felt the little Logis’s inner workings wind down to a slow purr, anticipating their inevitable connection.

They measured the final few millimetres between them. Yrliet’s senses became attuned and sensitised until every sensory stimulus was almost unbearably vivid. She could taste a hint of the raw earth where its scent had sublimated in the humid air. A whisper of faint static fuzz passed across Abel’s palm as the Red Priest amplified their own sensory feedback to match the intensity. The little Logis let out a tiny, cascading musical sigh.

All of Yrliet’s apprehensions melted away under Abel’s soft caress.

Chapter 36: Chapter Thirty Six

Summary:

Voidfaring misadventures and a throwback to the classic Rogue Trader TTRPG experience :D

This chapter marks the end of Act I in my extremely casual long-form story structure! I'll give myself a couple of days off from publishing, and then be back with Act II (which is all written and ready to roll). Thanks for reading along so far, next Act has more of a Voidship focus ;)

“Dilapidated though she may be, she remains quite the grand old lady!”

Brother Amos made a show of gazing around the halls of the Gilt Processionals, tracking the contours of adamantine reinforcing beams and doing a decent impersonation of an awestruck tourist. It still felt strange to see his fellow Angel wearing civilian clothes. Amos had acquired a black leather duster that more or less fit his broad frame. A flash of dark red silk adorned his throat, but he had otherwise kept to his usual monochromatic colour scheme. It was not easy to make a Raven Guard gaudy.

Young Amos kept his spine slightly curved and his shoulders hunched to disguise his height even as he craned his neck upwards. The Raven Guard’s awkward posture reminded Ulfar of a turtle. He was a tricky creature - not at all like Ulfar’s usual Shield-Brothers. Still, wandering with this runt of a pack-mate was better than wandering alone. Amos appeared to share that sentiment, for when he turned his head in bird-like fashion to look up at Ulfar, he wore a friendly expression.

“Perhaps one could even rename the station from Port Wander to Port Wonder. What say you to that, Angel of the Emperor?”

Strange pup. The old Wolf crossed his arms and bared his teeth just enough to convey his impatience.

“Hrrrn. I think that you are embarrassing yourself in front of the locals, little bird.”

Runa chose that moment to perk up and attempt to detach herself from her spot on Ulfar’s pauldron. The Fenrisian raven clearly wanted to position herself closer to her Astartes namesake. Ulfar reached up with his left hand and used his fingers to trap the bird’s feet, pinning her in place until she got the message. Runa gave one of Ulfar’s armoured knuckles an annoyed peck, but she settled down.

“Terrible beast. Dealing with one of you is bad enough.”

The Wolf placed his right hand on Amos Ussher’s hunched shoulder. Unfortunately, Amos was not so easily tamed… he had insisted upon this undisciplined ramble through the station. Ulfar vaguely understood the pup’s intent. Two stray Astartes could not march up to a Voidship Captain in full uniform and demand passage through the Maw without raising suspicion - and neither Ulfar nor Amos were eager to mention the name of a Lord Inquisitor in this lawless place. You never knew who might be listening. Instead, they would wander the halls until opportunity found them - an equally dangerous prospect.

It fell on Amos, then, to play the role of a naive and well-connected pilgrim. The young Raven’s genetically enhanced build was a mere seven feet tall - impressive, but still more or less small enough for him to pass himself off as a mortal. Ulfar’s nature could not be concealed: Amos turned this to his advantage. Prying eyes would fall upon the old Wolf. His ‘master’ Amos did not seem so unusual as long as he hid in his elder Shield-Brother’s shadow.

It was not exactly a bad plan… simply an aggravating one. Ulfar steered young Ussher’s shoulders towards him and hustled him forwards. There was no resisting the strength of a Wolf’s power armour.

“The Processional’s gilded halls are more brown than gold these days. I was here when they were first painted, and before that, and before that still. Many great hunts have either begun or ended here.

Long before Drusus, when the Maw slumbered,
Nameless, surrounded by perils unnumbered.
Throne-gelt and battles, pirates and plenty:
Fortunes are fleeting, made and soon scattered.

Port Wander’s fortunes fall and rise and fall again with the centuries, pup. You are young: take a few more turns around this warlike galaxy, and you will see an end to all things - and many new beginnings.”

“Spoken like a true Astartes, honoured Wolf.”

Amos made an exuberant sign of the Aquila, continuing to play the part of the cocky mortal even as he feigned humility.

“Still, to find so much history concentrated in one place… you have to admit it is exciting. Diplomacy, trade deals, battles… They say that a fragment of Gulgrog’s own flagship is still embedded in the underdecks! Have you seen it, milord?”

Ulfar enjoyed the way his rumbling laugh echoed around the Gilt Processional and made the nearby traders stare at him.

“Oh, the Great Toof! Of course I have seen it, pup. Such steel fangs are far more fearsome when they are still attached to the battering rams of an Ork Karrier.” The Wolf grinned wide enough to show off his own fangs. “A pity they do not make for convenient trophies.”

“Lord Ulfar Redmane, are you perchance suggesting-”

“A Wolf does not ‘suggest’, little bird. But I ‘suggest’ you think twice before you decide that I am lying.”

“In that case, shall we pay your magnificent war memento a visit right now? A few quiet tipples at the Bloodstone, you can tell me a nice saga about Gulgrog’s great siege… we shall have the full Port Wander experience!” Brother Amos’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief. “What do you say, blessed Angel?”

Ulfar frowned down at the little Brother. Young Amos was clearly working on some scheme. Still, a visit to a tavern did not sound so bad. If Ulfar was going to stick out in a crowd, it might as well be a crowd of drunken brawlers.

“Lead the way… huskaerl.” By the Fang, he was starting to enjoy this silly game.

 

___

 

The Bloodstone looked more like a shipwreck than a bar. Its interior walls had been smashed, mended and smashed again, and its furniture was a battered mess. Ulfar had seen recolligers’ dumping piles that were tidier than this. He actually found himself missing the relatively sensible layout of the Martyr’s Endurance. At least in Octaviana’s tavern, you could easily distinguish the scum who were spying on you from the regular scum who were simply trying to get drunk. This place made Ulfar’s hackles rise.

Young Amos ‘Winterscale’ was rolling ten bottles and two half-casks deep: the bottles had once contained triple distilled amasec, and the dregs of the half-casks smelled distinctly flammable. Runa was keeping herself entertained by playing with bottle-caps: she would pick them up in her massive beak, fiddle around with them until they were shiny-side up, and arrange them into different patterns. Amos was part way through misremembering the lyrics to a Void shanty about a horny Void-Kraken. His melodious baritone and Ulfar’s deep bass growl had attracted an audience.

An old pirate with cataract-fogged eyes kept trying to throw an arm around Amos’s shoulders. Ulfar stretched out one massive leg under the metal table, faking an expansive toothy yawn. The Astartes let his booted foot knock against the old pickpocket’s chair leg just as he decided to reach inside the lapels of young Amos’s coat. The blind man withdrew his hand like the eyestalk of a startled snail. Ulfar winked at him, Runa cawed in his direction and the pirate beat a panicked retreat.

Men, women and criminals of indeterminate nature all took their turns eyeing up the fresh meat. The little Brother pretended not to notice the attention. Amos was every inch the foolish, short-lived drunk. Even Ulfar had begun to wonder if the Raven Guard had not, in fact, been blessed with a second liver. Look at the pup! His gaze was completely unfocused!

A pair of triple-breasted mutants attempted to assault Brother Amos on two fronts. Their pick-up lines were unusually aggressive - something about wanting to confirm if Lord Calligos Winterscale’s genetic legacy had made his descendent as impressive as the old man in one specific department. Amos attempted to dissuade the girls’ advances in a courteous manner. This was woefully ineffective.

One girl’s hand was already fossicking in Amos’s pants by the time Ulfar had stood up, leaned across the table and grabbed her by her hair. The Wolf lifted Amos’s horny assailant out of the cub’s lap and dropped her unceremoniously on the floor. Her cries of pain and the other girl’s complaints were soon drowned out by a bellowed string of Fenrisian curses. Ulfar was reaching the limits of his patience.

“Come, cub. That is enough night life for you.”

“Wrrrawk! Goodnight.” Runa seemed to be in agreement.

Amos let his older Shield-Brother haul him to his feet. The blasted bird kept trying to sit on Ulfar’s head: he swatted the raven away with an angry grumble. Runa flapped after them as they left the bar. Nobody dared to chase after them for the drinks bill - which was just as well, because Ulfar had nothing to pay the tavern-keeper with. He murmured to Amos through gritted teeth.

“Damned cub. Why in Morkai’s name did you have to use the name of Winterscale?”

Amos waved an outstretched arm in front of him, still playing the drunkard.

“He’s big. I’m big. Can you not see the resemblance, good Ser Angel?”

Port Wander’s underdecks were a tangled and senseless mess of intersecting passageways. Many thoroughfares had once been maintenance shafts or drainpipes, designed to fit the body of a Technomat but not a fully armoured Space Marine. Amos pretended to drag Ulfar back and forth, stopping in front of narrow passageways and doubling back at random. His erratic movements were guiding the Battle-Brothers in the general direction of some private, very dangerous parts of the station. Was this where he intended to find a Voidship to take them through the gauntlet of the Maw?

It did not take long for someone to seize the bait.

Amos had brought them to a convergence of old service corridors. A central pit in the floor extended through the lowest habitable level of the Void station. They would have to traverse it to reach the passage beyond. Any refuse that fell into the pit would accelerate at increasing speed to the sublevel where the grav-generators operated at maximum strength: once they dropped past that point, nothing prevented the dreck from flying out into the Void. A rotted railing was the only safety measure. It was the ideal place for an enterprising gangster to throw their rivals for a loop.

“Cegorach!” Runa squawked out a warning.

Stubber fire rattled in the corridor behind them. A predictable ambush. Ulfar instinctively shoved Amos to the front. He slapped the side of his helmet and swore when the descending visor got stuck on his beard. No matter. Even in this undignified state, Ulfar was impervious to the mortals’ puny weapons. Young Amos would just have to take cover behind him.

The idiots with the stubbers were a mere appetiser: booming clangs resonated in the passageway on the far side of the pit chamber. Ulfar glanced and sniffed back over his shoulder, where Amos Ussher was preparing to face off against three enormous robots. The local scum had repaired them with scrap metal until they conformed to no specific Imperium design, yet at one point their frames had been wondrous indeed. Their wide-slung gait and featureless domed heads marked them as castoffs of the ancient Kastelan model. They must be even older than Port Wander itself.

Worthy opponents! Ulfar was pleased to note that the occupants of Port Wander had not underestimated the deadliness of a lone Wolf after all. He had a reputation to maintain.

“Leave the big fellows to me, Ser Angel!”

Runa let out a high-pitched battle squawk and launched herself past the Kastelan units. Amos broke into a dash and made his acrobatic leap across the open top of the pit, echoing the bird’s trajectory. Ulfar was damned if he was going to let the pup take all the danger and glory! He already had a hand on his bolt pistol - a Wolf knew better than to traverse Port Wander unarmed. A burst of bolter rounds was enough to make the most dedicated ganger reconsider his cowardly ways.

While the stubber crew scrambled for cover and worked out their next move, Ulfar unsheathed his combat knife. A few cuts with its serrated edge tore a convenient gash in the passageway’s curved ceiling. Ulfar flexed his fingers to activate the connection between his subdermal carapace and his Wolf-skin. The power armour did the rest. He grabbed the sheet metal from above, pulled it down to waist height and then got his boot on top of it. Another good push, and the entire passageway was more or less sealed off. Half-hearted stubber fire pinged off distorted plasteel as Ulfar turned his attention to the real combat.

Amos was a nimble little jaevel, Ulfar gave hm credit for that. Matching any of the large robots blow for blow without his power armour would only cripple the young Raven Guard, so he had resorted to ducking between the legs of the refitted Kastelan units. Whatever protocols the machines now followed, they were clearly not prepared to damage their metal comrades. A robot would draw back its massive manipulator claw, try to reach out and seize Amos, then encounter the leg of its comrade and pause in mid-grab. Young Ussher took advantage of the fractional delay to dance away and find shelter beneath the undercarriage of a different robot. Runa provided a flapping distraction wherever she could, confusing the machine-warriors even further.

A Kastelan bent to seize the Astartes from between its legs. Ulfar recognised the error of such a tactic. Amos ducked behind the robot’s back, made a swift vertical leap and kicked it in the place where a human would have shoulder blades. The machine tottered forwards, encumbered by the scrap metal that had been bolted onto its front parts. Another kick, and its upper torso went sprawling over the edge of the pit. It grabbed and grappled desperately to steady itself against the deck. Runa landed on its dome-head and started pecking at the shiny chrome surface.

The other two machines had not stood idle. Brother Ussher had to roll out of the way of another massive sweeping claw before it sent him sailing into the Void. The third robot had set its sights on Ulfar. Its right arm had been fitted with an unpleasant-looking cannon whose business end crackled with static: long potentia cables snaked up to an encased section mounted on its shoulder. The old Wolf suspected that its purpose was similar to that of a Gauss rifle. If the modified Kastelan unit struck Ulfar with an electromagnetic pulse, he would endure the pain - but the machine spirits inside his Wolf-skin would become angry. Ulfar had not spent so many long cycles in stasis only to be trapped inside his armour again.

Bolter rounds would do little against this hunk of steel… but in a poorly maintained Void station, every piece of debris was a potential weapon. Ulfar ripped another loose section of plasteel out of the wall and tossed it towards the Kastelan as hard as he could. All he needed to do was give it metal. The robot’s cannon hummed with an ultrasonic intensity that made Ulfar’s eardrums hurt. He was glad he had his helmet on. Amos must be in great pain. Ulfar had no time to worry about his Shield-Brother. A crackling bolt of potentia burst from the cannon’s mouth, sizzling and erupting everywhere it made contact with a conductive surface.

Ulfar ducked just in case: ancient beast instincts drove him to run on all fours in a charging tackle, converging on the robot’s undercarriage. He felt a lick of pain across his back like a lash of lightning - the lower edge of that nasty weapon’s beam - but praise Russ, the contact had not deprived him of the use of his limbs. The old Wolf brought up his arms at the last second, grasping the robot around its pot-bellied abdomen and slamming it back against the deck. Its arm went up and shot another electric blast at the ceiling. The entire room shuddered and fizzed in a shower of blue sparks.

Ulfar headbutted the robot right in the middle of its featureless dome. The impact did no damage to the Kastelan and left a dent in the face-plate of his helmet, but Ulfar did manage to shift the machine’s weight backwards. That was the opening he needed. He got his left hand up around the robot’s shoulder, found the weak point where its potentia cables entered the armoured cavity of its shoulder - and pulled. Ulfar got a surprise. The Gauss cannon was attached to the robot’s lower arm with a scratch-built splint of cheap plasteel: when he pulled at the cables, the whole section came away in his armoured hand, cannon and all.

“Hey, pup!”

Ulfar looked up, grinning as he brandished the cannon. Brother Amos appeared to be enjoying himself as well. He had climbed onto the back of the final robot and was prying it apart bit by bit, using a piece of scrap metal as a lever. The Kastelan unit shrieked and droned in binharic confusion as it lumbered about on its metal legs. Amos clung fast like a limpet even when the robot tried to back up and crush him against a wall.

“Brace yourself!”

Ulfar roared and levelled the Gauss cannon at the robot’s dome. The metal warriors were not immune to their own arsenal: even as the mighty cannon sputtered and exhausted its remaining potentia supply, it delivered enough punishment to the robot that its steel legs froze in place. Amos groaned but hung on. Ulfar watched as the Raven Guard descended from the robot’s back, tipped it forward into the pit and shook the discomfort out of his hands with two quick flicks.

“Fenrys hjolda.” Runa quietly declared victory before returning to the important work of claiming her spoils - in this case, a shiny metal bolt.

The wheezing servos and clumsy twitches of the remaining robots undermined an otherwise satisfying moment. Ulfar felt a little less irritable, at least, now that he had sated his appetite for violence. He gave Amos a small nod of acknowledgement… and someone in the corridor beyond offered the warriors a polite, gloved round of applause.

“So, looks like you might just be one of Calligos’s brats after all!”

“Top of the chron to you, madam.”

Amos offered a polite bow in the relevant direction. A middle-aged, muscular woman addressed them. She leaned against one of the curving walls with practised ease - keeping her footing in these tunnels was harder than it looked. Ulfar approved of the practical way she was dressed. She had the resources to afford complex, neat-looking implants and an excellent pair of boots, but she was content with sturdy overalls and a grox-hide jacket.

This mortal had money and influence. She chose to wear her status with humility. Her manner reminded Ulfar of Jaerl Como - though this woman was taller and larger than the Aett-vater. The woman noticed Ulfar noticing her.

“Hail to the blessed Angel of the Emperor. I sincerely hope you weren’t too offended by the antics of our Void station’s less savoury occupants.” The woman spat on the floor.

“The name is Mahvorn, daughter of Mahvorn, daughter of Mahvorn, and so on. I fix Voidships. At least, I used to fix Voidships. The damn things keep getting lost in the Maw, would you believe.”

Ulfar glared silently. This woman smelled of deceit. He was certain that she had set up the ambush as a test. Brother Amos no longer bothered to keep up his drunk act. His posture relaxed around the hips and shoulders, imitating the lounging stance of a bored courtier.

“What a shame! Gork’s Grin is dashed inconvenient for a great many people, Mistress Mahvorn. The passage to Footfall has become something of a gamble. It so happens that I am a gambling man - a man who has a good reason to seek out a certain Rogue Trader in the Koronus Expanse.”

Mahvorn swaggered over to the edge of the refuse pit, placing herself at the equidistant point of a triangle between herself, Amos and Ulfar. One of her feet landed more heavily than the other - she had an augmetic left leg under her trousers. The old Wolf appreciated the woman’s innate sense of pack dynamics. She wanted to position herself as an equal to two very large and dangerous beings. Mahvorn was brave.

“Gambling men tend to be short on liquidity, Master Winterscale. Either your purse or your brain must be light if you walked out on your tab at the Bloodstone, and you don’t strike me as entirely dumb. It’s a good thing our needs align.”

Mahvorn reached into the small front pocket of her overalls and pulled out two small objects: a data-stick, and what looked like a small black marble. Ulfar could not get a proper look at it, but he noticed Amos’s placid face crease into a momentary frown. Mahvorn noticed his distrust and smiled just enough to appease him.

“I’ve got crews to feed, young Master. The shortage of Voidship work means I’ve had to take on odd jobs. Someone commissioned me to send this small message through the Maw and deliver it to Lord Captain von Valancius. I was going to have the robots guard it, and hope for the best once they got to Footfall, but… well, they’re not the proud Kastelans they once were.”

Mahvorn nudged the still-twitching body of a fallen hench-machine with her boot, and shrugged apologetically when Runa gave her steel-capped toe a warning peck.

“Now, a mighty Angel of the Emperor and the relative of a Rogue Trader might do one better. I reckon you could even visit the Lord Captain in person. So, I’ll get you passage aboard a suitably unobtrusive vessel, and you pass the message on. Lord Astartes -” Mahvorn bobbed her head in Ulfar’s direction. “I know the Space Wolves value their honour. Your word’s good enough for me to seal the deal. Are you game?”

Ulfar raised one armoured fist in salute.

“I will swear to undertake this mission on your behalf, Mistress Mahvorn. As for obtaining an audience with the Aett- with Jaerl Como, I think this can also be done?” Ulfar glanced at Amos: his little Brother responded with a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, that will be entirely possible, Mistress Mahvorn. You may count on us - you have my word as a Winterscale.”

Amos took another, more gallant bow. It took all of Ulfar’s patience not to growl at the cheeky pup. Mahvorn clapped the palm of one gloved hand against her thigh in satisfaction.

“Excellent, excellent! Emperor be praised, this is all turning out well! The relevant details are on that data-stick, along with directions to my hangar.” Mahvorn dropped her treasures into Amos’s palm. “Silent vox and safe travels to you both, gentlemen.”

Mahvorn was clearly not one to linger over farewells. She strode back down the way she came. The two Astartes were left pondering their new possessions. Brother Amos turned the little black marble this way and that across his palm, eyeing its inscrutable form with deep concern.

“Silent vox indeed…”

Chapter 37: Chapter Thirty Seven

Summary:

Never too old for Beginner's Mind.

Today would have been an excellent day to sing something out of clay and powder, but Eklendyl was afraid of what he might conjure. He was an amateur Bonesinger at best: his elders used to make fun of his efforts in the medium. Somehow, he’d always persisted - stubborn enough to bludgeon something into being through sheer force of will. The process was tiring, but it was… a way he could articulate struggle.

Eklendyl had always been a complicated soul, but his inner contrarian was harder to subdue now that he was an exile. His thoughts often became tangled, then untangled, then tangled again. From time to time, Father Asuryan would grant him a reprieve. On those mornings when Eklendyl’s mind came alight with the dawn, his will aligned with the world around him. His troubles were not so pressing. Everything was clear and fluid in the shelter of the Lilaethan. His mind, a river. His limbs, tributaries of his will. Thoughtless thought, an easy cascade that flowed from intent to outcome along a straight and simple path.

The sense of ease was cruelly illusory. Eklendyl could no longer lay claim to mastery, for it always eluded him on those bad days when his spirit stones itched against his flesh. He could only approach matters like an otan, one lesson at a time, beseeching his own mind to cooperate at every step. Farseer Eklendyl’s knack for command was gone - his pride had been shattered along with his Craftworld. Some mornings were simply difficult. There was nothing the old man could do about it.

Eklendyl drew in a precise mouthful of humid air, held it, exhaled it. He tried to sit with the emptiness, holding his mouth closed. His robes itched. Discomfort made him relent and gulp another breath.

He hated feeling empty. He had already lost so much. No, he had thrown away so much, for the sake of winning a dispute that seemed utterly foolish in retrospect.

Perhaps, one day, Eklendyl would tell the Snake-Sage his confession: his choice, his casting vote had doomed his home. Yet he had to question his own judgement, even as he teetered on the brink of self-loathing. Was Eklendyl’s nadir of shame secretly a point of pride, an assumption that his decisions mattered? If the vote had gone the other way, Crudarach would have been just as doomed…

Stories could easily become traps. Eklendyl tapped the stone on his chest, and he chided himself for thinking in straight lines like a simple mon’keigh. He ought to know better. Fate was a tapestry woven from many threads, not a crude forward-facing impulse. Crudarach’s rot had set in long before the galaxy had decided to tear itself in half. Stagnation, complacency - the failings of an ageless, eternally bored species. Faults and failings spread like myriad hairline cracks, long before the final decisive impact caused a facade of perfection to collapse.

He would learn wisdom anew. The Farseer could become the otan. It was never too late for an old man to sit and listen.

The Lilaethan-Child’s fluttering voice caught Eklendyl’s attention. The one called Aleena sang with both her throat and her mind, interleaving two separate melodic lines into a simple but enticing harmony. The psychic component of her tune must be intended for her two companions, the Void-born girl and the dough-faced boy. Eklendyl felt their mirth as they attempted to sing along, stumbling over the syllables of the local Albion dialect. These three saw themselves as conspirators against a brutal and unjust universe - but their rebellion was still a light-hearted game, a story invented by three hopeful children.

Young even by the standards of a young race, the mon’keigh sorcerers were terribly vulnerable. Their unfiltered and clumsy approach to Sha’eil made Eklendyl’s own inner peace feel precarious. If his mind had still been unblemished, he would have looked on them with disdain. As it was… so long as an imperfect mind stayed strong against Sai’lanthresh, was its imperfection such a terrible sin?

Ah, may Lileath and Isha forgive him, he was getting soft in his dotage! “Live and let live” was one of Sage Emelina’s mon’keigh sayings… Kae-morag, how had a warlike species ever conceived of such a negligent philosophy? Yet how appropriate it seemed in a place like Avalon. Asuryani had ended up treating the aberrations of House Cassini and Lileath-touched mon’keigh offshoots as neighbours… and after a decade of such absurdity, it almost felt… normal.

None of the old Farseer’s predictions had prepared him for such an outcome.

“Lesson time, novices! Gather round.”

Snake-Sage Emelina’s psychic signature was distinctive in its patchwork incompleteness. Eklendyl could discern all the places where circuitry had touched the contours of her soul. Faint colourless emissions spelled out rapid cascades of all-or-nothing energy, overlapping in harmonic resonance and causing occasional spikes against Sha’eil’s background pattern. Other areas were wreathed in grey, indistinct and sinister - like a Blacksoul’s inner world. The barriers existed to protect both the Snake-Sage and the lifeforms around her. Eklendyl did not have to see behind them to understand the danger. In his own way, he kept parts of himself cordoned off from his kin.

Emelina’s fragmented consciousness gave her one minor advantage: the ability to surprise a Farseer. Once she knew she had the attention of the three Sha’eil-touched children, the Snake-Sage greeted Eklendyl with a beckoning wave of her left arm. The Farseer noted that when she made large gestures, it trembled less than usual.

“You too, honoured Farseer! I am doing this for your benefit as well, my dear.”

The child called Olivar, the one whose mind was as open as a lotus flower, awkwardly offered Eklendyl a seat. The Farseer sensed his anxiety and regret: the boy feared that he would experience another overwhelming vision in Eklendyl’s company, and he regretted that he had fetched only a stack of humble plastic stools. Mon’keigh seemed to think that persons of importance needed to sit on high thrones. Eklendyl scoffed at their simplicity. He was far too old to care about pageantry. He took a stool, hitched up his robe and sat cross-legged, straightening his back with deliberate poise. Hopefully the young mon’keigh would understand the lesson.

Snake-Sage Emelina adopted a pose of her own. The habits of teachers were common across both their species, it would seem. Eklendyl sensed her bring her considerable will to bear over the assembled pupils. The children’s lively minds and chatting tongues quietened as they allowed their elder to take the lead. No Sage was going to win against the Farseer in a war of wills. If he went along with the performance, it was out of curiosity. Eklendyl enjoyed watching Emelina in her element.

“The language you are about to learn is called Thoughtmark. It bears some superficial resemblances to both the Aeldari Shape and human tactical hand-signs. Honoured Eklendyl, Mistress Anguilla: you will have an advantage over your fellow learners, so I expect you to support them. This is not a contest.”

That last remark was directed at Anguilla, the World-Worker. She was an odd child, dreadfully impatient in both body and soul, but surprisingly fearless when she committed to an action. Some trickster of a creator had crammed all the volatility and stubbornness of an Exarch into her malnourished form. Eklendyl had not yet decided whether this made her strong against Sha’eil or not. Her hands were already straining to make the Shape - he could sense the speech and motor centres of Anguilla’s smooth little brain firing as she considered her linguistic options. Stop trying to stay two steps ahead of your instructor! Ah well. He had been much the same as a child. How many millennia ago was that, now?

Eklendyl felt the Snake-Sage’s attention upon him. He had better tame his mind: he suspected that Emelina would not be afraid to scold her elder.

“I would like us all to trust in the process of immersion. Thoughtmark is made for silence - Aleena, my dear, would you be so kind as to mask the noise of our common speech?”

The Lilaethan-Child grinned: her eyeteeth bore sharp little points. It was fitting - there was an overall leanness to her, a streak of wild instinct, more Drukhari than mon’keigh. Yet there was also earnest innocence, deep loneliness, an eagerness to understand the universe and her place in it. Aleena dared to meet the Farseer’s gaze even as she flexed her will and brought Sha’eil to heel. Eklendyl approved of her efficiency and control.

Now the only sound he could discern was the rhythmic fuzz of his own heartbeat, pulsing against his eardrums. The sound of the womb, the inward-turned sea. Lady Isha’s music.

The position of the Snake-Sage’s hands interested Eklendyl. She spread them a little wider than he was expecting, her left hand sitting up at attention while her right lay palm-up and parallel with her diaphragm. Eklendyl imagined her holding a moon-drum with its skin turned outward to face him. A flex of her fingers would be enough to make it resound. It was a position of readiness.

At first it was difficult to follow the Snake-Sage in conversation. She made no attempt to translate Thoughtmark’s forms into The Shape. She simply fluttered her hands around as if she expected her audience to know everything. Occasionally she would pause to bend and scribble an Aeldari character or Low Gothic word into the dirt. At other times she might refer to some nearby object with a wave of her right hand, then form the relevant Thoughtmark gesture, repeating it until her audience picked up the connection. Such clues were infrequent enough for the overall experience to be an exercise in guesswork.

Eklendyl could sense Olivar’s confusion intruding on his own concentration. The Farseer shot a quick thought in the child’s direction, just a nudge to dissuade him from broadcasting his emotions. Emelina’s reaction was immediate. She crossly held up a finger, looking first at Eklendyl and then at Olivar. They were evidently breaching the rules of her lesson. Out of the corner of his eye, Eklendyl noticed little Anguilla’s mouth contorting with silent mirth. Kae-morag, the children were fearless to the point of self-endangerment!

He wasn’t about to be shown up by a clutch of babies. There had to be a trick to Emelina’s lesson. Eklendyl noticed that she was doing something with the upper part of her face. Mon’keigh emotions tended to be expressed in predictable ways: a small grimace for a happy smile, a large one for anger, the eyebrows clenching to signal concern or disapproval and relaxing upward for surprise. The Snake-Sage kept making the frowning face, but the timing was wrong and she did not seem particularly upset. Was it a signal of some kind?

Eklendyl started mimicking the Sage’s facial tics. It felt deeply unnatural to do so. He kept being distracted by the way his brows furrowed around his spirit stone. He wondered if he would get new wrinkles if he kept this up. Eventually Eklendyl got the sense that the frowning face was something like… a question, or an invitation to the other ‘speaker’ to contribute to the conversation. Perversely, the face of surprise that the Farseer had always associated with gormless mon’keigh and their myriad foolish questions would then represent… a kind of closure. That wasn’t the right way around! Eklendyl decided to just take it in stride. Mon’keigh were hardly known for their consistency.

There was clearly more to Thoughtmark than making tactical signs. He could see connections and expressions that, while clearly simplified, felt like signifiers of deeper cultural ideas. The longer Eklendyl spent tracking the precise sweeps of Emelina’s palms, the more depth he perceived. He liked observing the angle of her thin fingers as they intersected in various ways. The language was far more prosaic and direct than the Shape, with a focus on concrete descriptions instead of layered synonyms. Eklendyl would describe its basic forms as crude. Even so, one could sculpt Wraithbone out of simple minerals, provided one had the patience and intelligence for it.

Emelina gestured with her left arm over her shoulder, throwing an imaginary item behind her. She seemed to do this whenever her hand-signs referenced things that had taken place in the past. “That’s history - throw it away.” How like a mon’keigh to make such a funny Shape! Eklendyl’s amusement bubbled up when he saw the careless face the Snake-Sage made as she mimed the action again. She was enjoying herself: she had forgotten, in the act of teaching, that she was supposed to be broken.

There were certain words that the Farseer needed, certain objects that he wanted to sign so that his young guests would understand their situation. Eklendyl lowered his eyebrows while signing the Thoughtmark sign for Door. It felt strange to contort his face, and even stranger to be asking someone for permission to act. He decided he enjoyed humility. It brought him closer to these mon’keigh - to these fellow otan - if only for a moment.

The improvisation seemed to work. Snake-Sage Emelina let him write a few Aeldari characters in the raw earth with his fingertips. Unlike the mon’keigh, he used several fingers of one hand simultaneously to make his marks: young Anguilla watched his gestures intently. At Emelina’s silent signal, Aleena dismissed her powers. A cacophony of bird-calls and distant Aeldari chatter rushed back to fill the courtyard. When Eklendyl decided to speak, he calibrated his voice to be just a little gentler than usual - but it was still startling to hear himself talk after communicating with hand-sign for so long.

“Kessei.”

Eklendyl could think of no way to circumvent the need for proper nouns. He etched the name into the earth, a single bold character encircled by a circular cartouche. Then he followed up with a combination of Thoughtmark gestures. He cast his hand back as the Snake-Sage had done, twice - for this person was ancient. His gestures turned tactical: this person is dangerous, perhaps an enemy. The signs for ranged combat and vision. Eklendyl used the Tongue to form an ambiguous series of ideas.

Infinite empathy / twisted honour / a Farseer’s blindness

Emelina and Anguilla would grasp some of his meaning. It was difficult to speak about Kessei. Eklendyl had not known the man - his was a name out of legend, after the time of the Ancestors but old enough for the great sorcerer to have battled Yngir’act during the War in Heaven. One should not have to speak ill of such an esteemed elder.

Anguilla sat pondering his words. Young Olivar was tracing the twisting loop of Father Asuryan’s holy symbol in the dirt, attempting to connect the Farseer’s emotionally charged visions with the new information.

“I saw the robed man - Kessei - as a ghost.” Olivar murmured, drawing another loop. “He was coloured like the Warp, only darker. I don’t understand - how can a ghost be haunted by other ghosts?”

Aleena looked at the ground, then at the Farseer, then at her fellow pupils. She was reluctant to speak, in case her words put distance between her and the rest of the group. Eklendyl nodded to help her dispel her anxiety.

“The Lilaethan bonds with the people who live here - maybe she’s done something to the ghosts, like she did something to us retches. A forced connection.”

Eklendyl held out his hand and tipped it from side to side.

“True and not-true. Lilaethan does not force. Kessei, not as kind as the Lilaethan. A tyrant. Long time… ugh… kae-morag, what is the good Shape…”

His clumsy tongue was butchering the mon’keigh speech again. It bothered him endlessly. Such an ugly language! Its basics came to him so readily, but its idioms and borrowed forms made it frustrating to tame. He hoped his irritation would not spread to the children.

Instead, Anguilla’s emotion bloomed excitedly in his mind. She had picked up on his half-formed thought, on the idea of sharing. Her soul spilled over with uncharacteristic shades of pastel pink and gold. Eklendyl quickly turned his head in the little mon’keigh’s direction.

“Yes, yes! The Sha’eil-seer with her loose feelings. This!”

The Farseer underscored his own jubilation by pointing excitedly at the soulstone embedded in his own chest. The little one must have met the Orsellio woman - the Navigator mon’keigh bore a crystal of her own, an unsightly thing that had been implanted without her consent. Anguilla’s memories had conjured a vivid image of the Navigator’s unnatural colours. Once Lady Cassia’s emotions had infiltrated a person’s mind, the experience would leave its traces on their soul forever.

“This, not-like. It is same. Same!”

Emelina laid her delicate, bony hand on Eklendyl’s knee. He was getting too insistent. He would scare the children. He restrained his mind, only to feel another upswelling of nebulous emotion when the Snake-Sage patted his leg and smiled at him. It had been… quite some time since anyone had dared to touch the Farseer the way she did. He did not hate it.

“Eklendyl, dear.” Snake-Sage Emelina regarded him thoughtfully. “I was unaware that the apparitions in the jungle had anything to do with the Starway Atlas. Are you certain that Navigator House Orsellio cannot help us with the recent difficulties?”

Regrettably, that was impossible. The Sha’eil seers had only made Kessei’s great work more dangerous by meddling with its components. Eklendyl was hesitant to speak with Emelina about such matters. He never knew which off-hand reference to Sha’eil and its turbulent mysteries would set off one of her dissociative headaches - and he hated to watch her become separated from herself. So he simply shook his head, hoping that she would trust him.

“Sha’eil-touched must do. Those close to Lilaethan, those who listen to her.” Eklendyl gestured towards Aleena. “Those who see.” He nodded to Olivar. “Those who shape.” Anguilla stroked a hand along her braid, soothing her apprehension. “And - one old man will join.”

Eklendyl indicated himself, placing his index finger against the stone in his forehead and then laying his palm against his chest, over the place where his heart roamed.

“We do not force. We -” The Farseer assembled something out of his rudiments of Thoughtmark. Signs for ceasefire and negotiation. It would not be quite that simple. Nothing was ever simple when dealing with restless souls.

“We finish and bring sleep.”

Chapter 38: Chapter Thirty Eight

Summary:

Lessons and shapes.

It was raining in the courtyard yet again. Oli took a deep, relaxed breath. The monsoon had drawn the humid pressure out of the air and released it with the downpour. It was still too hot for his liking, but he no longer felt the oppression that had clung to him ever since he’d arrived in Avalon.

Sage Emelina had advised the trio to take their time and consider the Farseer’s request. Oli didn’t see an issue with helping: he was a guest of the Aeldari after all, and he valued what remained of his noble’s pride. Besides, wasn’t a psyker supposed to earn his keep? Olivar didn’t like the idea of allowing a pack of angry xenos ghosts to keep roaming around the Lilaethan. People had already died because of the hauntings. The ghosts needed to be put to rest for good.

He felt certain that the girls would want to get involved - but he’d leave them to make up their own minds. For now, he could enjoy the sound of the rain and ponder the mysteries of the universe at his leisure.

Oli sensed Eklendyl’s approach, and leaned back against the compound’s outer wall for reassurance. Painted plaster felt rough against his fingertips: there was solid mud-brick underneath. The Lilaethan’s bones, holding him up. Olivar focused his mind on the rain: the hard hammered rhythm on the portico’s roof, its softer splashing echo where the Lilaethan’s tears fell against the bare earth. The courtyard’s puddles were almost blood-red in between the stepping stones and tufts of stray vegetation.

He felt very small.

The Aeldari had hitched up the hem of his robe so that it would not get wet. Oli spotted the brightly-coloured sash of some other garment around the Farseer’s waist, holding the robe’s impromptu folds in place. Olivar could see Eklendyl’s shins and bare feet. The top of one tanned instep was marked with a diagonal slash of pale scar tissue. The young psyker tried not to think about knives and claustrophobia. The rain sounds calmed his mind, allowing the unpleasant mental image to dissipate. The Farseer wasn’t here to talk about that.

“Sit, child.”

Eklendyl’s fingers formed the Thoughtmark sign for Take-Cover, but the Farseer immediately dismissed the shape with an open-palmed wave of his hand. His index fingers steepled together to show Prayer, a closer approximation for the mood he wanted to convey.

Olivar assumed that he would be sitting for a while. He disengaged himself from the wall, found an empty sack and folded it twice. Keeping his legs crossed felt much easier when he had something to prop under his bum. Eklendyl was content to wait until Oli had found a stable posture.

A single vertical motion carried the Farseer from standing to sitting in a loose half-lotus position. Olivar remembered a picnic he had attended as a toddler: he’d been fascinated by the hinges of the folding chairs. Eklendyl’s body language had reminded Oli of that smooth, controlled collapse. The Farseer’s mind responded with a ripple of mild amusement.

The Asuryani fixed Olivar with an intense stare. Oli’s animal instincts reacted poorly to the scrutiny. It was something to do with Eklendyl’s eyes: they were too large and too wide-set for Olivar not to interpret the stare as a predatory threat. The gleaming red stone in the Farseer’s forehead only drew attention to the Warp-tinged colour of his irises. Fortunately, there were other ways for two psykers to connect their souls.

Oli let his own eyelids flutter closed. He tried not to try, sketching the very faintest outlines of a Litany of Focusing, just enough to distract him from himself. He was attempting to keep his will in a carefully neutral state, not transmitting, not receiving, just becoming a blank canvas. He trusted Eklendyl to find a way into his mind.

Soon Oli no longer needed the words of the litany, and could just attend to his own breathing. In, hold, out, hold some more. Basic, animal stuff. It was quite pleasant.

A simple mental image formed somewhere in the back of Olivar’s consciousness: he recognised a double hinge, like the legs of a folding chair. A rod of fixed distance connected the two hinges, while a second piece dangled freely underneath. It looked something like the motor arm you’d see attached to a piston, the kind that converted vertical motion into torque and made a wheel go round. Eklendyl had illustrated the image in unrealistic neon colours. Oli could sense a playful mood underlying their connection.

Eklendyl’s inner world ebbed and flowed in the background. It was nothing like the emotional storm of their first meeting. His jagged shards had coalesced into something that, while still dramatic, had a cohesion to it: more of a shifting patchwork quilt than a mad kaleidoscope. Olivar was impressed by his restraint.

All right, what was the point of this imaginary mechanism? Oli studied its motion some more. The hinged shape was actually two pendulums that Eklendyl had tethered together. The top was anchored in place: Oli added a glowing dot to the free end of the lower rod so he could track its movement. It didn’t seem to be doing anything coherent at first, just looping on one side and then forming a different, wonky loop on the other side. But after a few passes, Olivar made out a complex symmetrical shape. Four big loops spread out like the wings of a moth: the moth’s antennae were represented by the pendulum’s initial vigorous drop, and its eventual echo on the other side before it repeated the pattern in reverse. Cute.

The shape seemed useful. It was definitely something Oli could visualise to retain his focus - or something he could project to screen his mind from prying influences. But Olivar felt like there could be more to it. What happened if you pushed the pendulum at different speeds, or started its motion from different angles? Did it always find symmetry?

Eklendyl rewarded the young psyker’s curiosity with an exponential increase in the complexity of his vision. Now a hundred different hinges were wiggling at once, all in fractionally different ways. Oli spread them out into a rough grid before his neurons burned out. He knew that he wasn’t going to be able to keep track of every single pendulum. The pulses of colour that rippled across the grid were distracting enough… Wait, was there some kind of logic to the overall pattern?

Olivar looked at a few pendulums at random. Depending on the piston-shape’s behaviour, the intensity and hue of its colour took on a different signature. The hinges that described consistent, stable shapes emitted calming greens and blues: those that skittered all over the place were illuminated in reds and pinks. There was a pattern of order and chaos here, if he could just see far enough to recognise it. Oli forced the pendulums to get smaller and smaller, thinking of the pict-cells on a dataslate.

Olivar saw an island of placid blue and green in a sea of pinkish-red, with a dark grey well at its centre. He felt Eklendyl’s gentle encouragement. He was on the trail of something now.

Humans had a natural tendency to classify objects, and Olivar followed that instinct. He examined the dark patch in his tapestry of perpetual motion. The mechanisms there were barely moving, just scooping back and forth listlessly. The motion was both orderly and unexciting. Things got a bit more energetic as Olivar shifted his focus further outward, exploring the blue and green regions. The patterns were lively here, pendulums swinging to a brisk marching beat.

And then there was the wild zone, all reds and purples and stomach-churning pinks. The imaginary mechanisms danced with ecstatic frenzy, spasming at random. It was such an obvious metaphor for the Warp that Oli berated himself for not recognising it sooner. He chose not to linger on the details: something about all that activity made his stomach hurt and his concentration waver. He forced the image to recede and grow distant.

And then he stopped.

It was just a tiny fleck, really - the smallest green reef in a sea of violent pink, a few pict-cells of stray information. Oli steeled his mind and focused on the anomaly. He had to strain to block out the chaotic flare all around, but he definitely wasn’t hallucinating it. There, among all the malfunctioning pendulums, was a cluster of energetic patterns that had managed to create symmetry. The shapes they wove were incredibly complex, but they held together.

An oasis in the Immaterium.

Oli opened his mind to relay a silent question: his first mental transmission back to the Farseer. He didn’t quite have the words he needed, but Eklendyl came to his aid: Olivar felt the impression of his own thoughts return to him, translated into something his brain could understand.

What is a Path?

Eklendyl responded with a single, intricate moving image. Oli’s simple hinged pendulum was no longer an adequate point of reference. Instead, a dozen intertwining points of light began to interact with each other in the Void. Olivar watched the elaborate, sinuous dance and let his thoughts follow its glowing contours. He recognised Eklendyl’s blazing energy signature. This was something very personal to the Farseer.

The image opened out into a three-dimensional projection. For a moment it seemed as though all the glowing bodies were veering along unstable orbits, ready to collide in a destructive blaze. At the last moment, two pinpoints veered off from the deadly convergence: one looped left, while its twin looped right. Olivar recognised the figure-eight symbol. He’d seen it painted on the walls of the Aeldari compound, inscribed over every doorway, embroidered on the hem of Eklendyl’s robe. That was Asuryan’s heraldry.

Oli opened his eyes. Eklendyl had been staring at him this whole time. Now that they had connected minds without traumatising each other, Olivar found the Farseer’s attention less intimidating. Eklendyl couldn’t delve into Oli’s mind without revealing something about himself in exchange. That realisation reassured the young psyker.

The Farseer remained in control of his will despite enduring terrible loss and torture. It was a miracle he hadn’t succumbed to Sha’eil. The elder’s pain passed over Oli like a shadow, then dissipated: chaos found its way back towards symmetry. Olivar vaguely registered the traces of tears running down his own cheeks. Pain wasn’t the lesson here. There was always the possibility of resilience, of redemption - of an oasis.

Conversation wasn’t necessary: Olivar could feel the echo of his own gratitude, his empathy, reflected and returned in kind by the Farseer. Eklendyl’s countenance was as stern as ever, but his body language and the rhythm of his breathing had relaxed. They nodded in acknowledgement to one another - the simultaneity of the action made Oli’s mind flare with amusement. Eklendyl tapped the soulstone on his chest, then rose to his feet with another effortless flex of his legs, apparently satisfied with the exchange. The Farseer walked straight out into the courtyard, splashing his bare feet in the red earthen puddles.

He’d be drenched! What was the point of hitching up his robe if Eklendyl was going to stand in the rain? Oli decided not to question the whims of an ancient Aeldari. It wasn’t very long until Vespers, and he had beans and rice to cook.

Chapter 39: Chapter Thirty Nine

Summary:

Just a nice little hike.

Even in the dry season - ‘dry’ being a relative term - it would have been a stretch to call the path through the deep jungle a road, or even a track. Rain had carved a muddy tributary between the buttress roots of gigantic trees. Aleena took note of its sinusoidal shape: a big wet snake slithering down a hillside. They would be unable to actually walk there. The mud was at least waist high and would suck unwary travellers under in moments.

Still, any clue to the local topography was valuable. Night came on quickly in the low light of the deep forest, and the dense foliage made it difficult for Aleena to determine the angle of the afternoon sun. That was assuming the sun even came out. The journey so far had been accompanied by two kinds of weather: drizzling rain and thunderous, hammering rain.

Anguilla sweated in her long-sleeved overshirt and leggings, choosing sticky discomfort over being eaten alive by the forest insects. Her shirt was wide at the waist to keep her vestigial gills comfortable. Now that the rain had thoroughly soaked it, the fabric clung to Anguilla’s ribs. Leena could see a faint ripple of movement underneath.

Both the girls were far better off than Oli. His shorter legs and poor tolerance for humidity meant that he was constantly lagging behind. Mud clung to the sides of his waders and gaiters, coating him right up to the thighs - he always found some puddle or treacherous patch of terrain to slip and fall in. Every time Olivar hurried to catch up with the group, he was burning more energy and putting himself at a disadvantage for the long haul. Aleena suspected that he would sleep heavily tonight.

The soundscape was incredible. Leena hadn’t been surrounded by such a diversity of animal calls since she was a tiny child - and even then, the retch enclaves had been close enough to more settled areas that the larger predators stayed away. Aleena could hear the call and distant response of lacerax Alpha matriarchs, each pack leader proclaiming her right to a different hilltop. Flocks of innumerable tiny insect-eating birds sang in complex patterns of supersonic trills and tweets, making the hairs on Leena’s forearms shiver whenever they swooped and banked in the canopy above. The treetops must be at least as tall as a full-sized hab block… incredible.

Slab-lizards and pythons slithered away from the bipedal interlopers, their gurgles and grunts followed by a wet plop when they took refuge in the mud. Gnats buzzed, hook-bills rattled and squawked, creatures Leena had never heard before hooted in the treetops. And penetrating the cacophony, she always heard the insistent spatter of rain.

Farseer Eklendyl was by far the strangest creature in the vicinity. He no longer resembled the stern and stiff-backed patriarch who had terrified Oli at their first meeting. No robes, no look of disdain. Instead he resembled a much larger version of the jungle’s poisonous frogs.

The Farseer wore the same long wading-boots and leg protection as the psykers, sized for his narrow legs. He had tucked the legs of his long orange loincloth into the tops of his boots. Leena recognised his yellow plastic hooded rain poncho as a popular style from the agri-complexes: someone had cut its side seams for ease of movement, leaving it with pointed flaps in the front and back.

The raincoat’s wide neck opening hung low enough for Leena to catch a peek of the spirit stone in the Farseer’s chest - the real one, not the decorative version that adorned his formal robes. Eklendyl’s otherwise bare arms were daubed with haphazard shapes in what appeared to be a mix of paint, mud and medicinal poultices.

To complete his haphazard look, the Farseer now kept his hair in two short pigtails that skimmed his shoulders. Anguilla had given him the idea, Eklendyl had instructed her to give him braids and she’d complied with only the tiniest of smiles. Aleena still had no idea who was pranking whom in that situation.

Leena wasn’t going to tell the Farseer that he looked ridiculous. The biting insects seemed to be leaving him alone. Despite the elder’s relative lack of facial expressiveness, Aleena didn’t need to be a telepath to tell he was enjoying the adventure. She envied his wiry old-man strength and his confident energy. Eklendyl knew exactly where he was going.

The Farseer tapped the trunk of a particularly impressive tree, then pointed upwards. Leena felt the Immaterium ripple as Olivar broadcast his relief. The poor kid was running on fumes and eager to rest for the night. Anguilla knew the evening routine: she unhitched a loop of jute rope from her pack’s plasteel harness, dropped the pack, flexed her own psykana and shinned up the tree with the rope slung over one shoulder. Once she got about halfway to the canopy, she secured an attachment point, clipped the rope in place and scrambled back down, perpendicular to the tree-trunk. One quick twist and a flip, and she landed foot-first in the leaf litter. Of course, An made her customary bow to the other psykers. Oli even offered polite applause.

Leena got busy setting up a belaying system with ropes and looped metal pins, anchoring everything to one of the massive buttress roots. It wasn’t an extravagant setup, but it would do the job of supporting them as they hauled supplies and sleeping gear up into the branches. The forest floor was far too dangerous and sodden for anyone to get a good night’s sleep at ground level. She expected to be the first person climbing the tree, but Eklendyl took the rope’s free end from her, assigned her to belaying duty and elected to take the heaviest pack up himself. Aleena nodded her thanks rather than forming the Shape - she already had one hand behind her back, taking the slack off the rope and using her hips and body weight as a friction brake.

Anguilla used her telekinesis to help Oli get his pack off. He collapsed against the tree trunk, breathing heavily before giving the girls a thumbs-up to indicate he was fine. An peered up the rope, watching Eklendyl’s disappearing legs as he climbed higher into the treetops.

“Don’t let the intrusive thoughts win, An.” Oli shook his head at her. Now Leena was deeply curious. She made eye contact with Anguilla.

“He hasn’t been to the toilet this whole time.” An squinted suspiciously upward. Oli looked mortified.

“An, you can’t just ask a Farseer if he poops!” His voice had dropped to a hiss.

“Technically you can ask him anything you want.” Aleena passed another loop of loose rope behind her back and pulled it taut. “I’m not saying you’d survive it, but.”

“Anguilla. No.” Olivar forestalled An before she could get another word out.

Eventually they had an entire campsite up among the branches. Each of them had a little hanging enclosure to sleep in: a canvas-bottomed hammock, a bag of fine netting that wrapped around the sides to keep the bugs out, and a waterproof flap to protect against the worst of the rain. The air was far too humid for them to ever feel entirely dry, but they would be safe from night-time predators.

Aleena settled into her hammock-bag, stashed her headlamp in the folds of the canvas overhang and snacked on a handful of Dri-Froot. The jungle was just as noisy after dark, but it felt comforting. Leena imagined that she was deep in the rumbling belly of a giant, contented beast. The Lilaethan’s gentle influence over this forest would keep her cosy and safe tonight. She didn’t have Oli’s powers, but she trusted her instincts.

Poor Anguilla wasn’t having such an easy time calming her ever-restless brain. Leena felt the distinctive signature of her psykana: An was swinging herself towards Leena’s sleeping pod, hand over hand along the big load-bearing branch. Aleena watched the fingers of Anguilla’s free hand rummage and find a gap in the mosquito netting. The other girl slipped wordlessly inside, closed the fabric behind her and immediately lay face-down across Aleena’s body.

“Can’t sleep, ‘m sorry. Had a bad dream.”

Her sprawling limbs felt clammy and slightly too cold for the jungle heat. Anguilla must be more exhausted than she had let on.

“Please, Leena. Make it quiet.”

It wasn’t hard to make the cries of night animals and the growl of distant thunder recede. Aleena made a little bubble of peace and calm for the two of them. An nibbled a bit of Dri-Froot out of her hand and wriggled her bare legs contentedly. Leena patted the crown of her head until she stopped fidgeting and began to relax into the sonomancer’s embrace.

“May the Emperor protect you, wiggly eel.”

An giggled at Aleena’s unorthodox blessing.

“I hope He protects you, so you can look after me.” Anguilla’s ribcage pressed against Leena’s body as she took a huge yawning breath. “Throne, I’m tired. Can I stay here for a little bit?”

She would absolutely not be returning to her own hammock, and Leena knew it. Still, the company was nice.

“Sure, An.”

Chapter 40: Chapter Forty

Summary:

A haunting.

Heed me.

Sha’eil is a fearsome weapon. Fear makes us grasp it by the blade.

Whatever else I may have been, I have never been afraid.

Ten turns of the Lilaethan around the pale star, it has taken. Four thousand comings and goings of the sun as it passed my prison. What an injustice, for me to be offered an escape from confinement and Sai’lanthresh’s grasp, only to be trapped again.

Whatever else I may have done, I do not deserve this punishment.

So I resort to my old tactics. I scheme, I struggle and I claw my way towards the light.

I am unafraid to use the weapons at my disposal, even if they are things of Sha’eil. Spirits blade-sharp and ancient, kindred spirits… kin who are not kin. Long has it taken me to convince them, to awaken them, to unpick the bindings laid by mon’keigh and soft-bodied Asuryani and reinforced by the Lilaethan herself.

The ghosts stir. The living come. Either I will triumph or I will be annihilated. Whatever happens, I will be free.

Heed me, Sha’eil.

 

___

 

“I hate it here.”

Aleena’s bony shoulders were hunched up around her ears. Anguilla could just see the pointed tip of her helix cartilage pop into view. It was so dark in the ‘cave’ that Leena’s red hair looked like old blood. The sonomancer had modulated the higher pitches out of her voice. An knew that trick: it meant her classmate was trying to seem sullen rather than scared.

Even that subtle flex of psykana made the stale air shimmer. A few drops of ambient moisture condensed and misted Anguilla’s forehead. Normally, the sensation would have been nice and soothing. Instead, she was extra aware of how delicate the Veil had become.

You’d think that a big hole in the forest floor would be visible from the sky, but the jungle canopy had closed over most of it. Anguilla understood why they hadn’t been able to just travel by aircraft, assuming the Asuryani enclave even had access to aircraft. The monsoon season and the tree cover would have presented major challenges. Anguilla doubted that auspices would work properly this far into the deep jungle. Without Farseer Eklendyl’s guidance, they never would have found the place.

What was the site’s original purpose, anyway? A temple? A laboratory? There had been masonry and streets in the area, before gigantic tree-trunks had torn it all to bits. Whether the hole in the ground was originally meant to be accessed by stairs or an elevator, An couldn’t say. There was no longer any sign of a console or steps - just a very deep pit, choked with trailing vines for the upper few storeys.

Further down, where the sunlight didn’t reach so well, there were mosses and glowing trails of sticky fungus. And past that, a smashed-up labyrinth. The corridors looked blocky and brutal - more in line with Imperium architecture than what Anguilla had seen of Asuryani buildings. There didn’t seem to be enough spikes or green metal for this to be a Drukhari complex, either. Was it even possible to make soulless Wraithbone?

The Immaterium got more oppressive the further they went. Anguilla knew what an impending Warp breach felt like - the Venatrix had its fair share of those. This wasn’t the same sensation, thank the Throne. It just made her itch. Her gumline, the beds of her fingernails, every single hair follicle on her skin… this was worse than being eaten by the jungle insects.

Anguilla realised that Olivar had been quiet for a long time. She tried to get his attention - his shoulder stiffened when she reached out to touch him, but he managed to contain his panic.

“It’s just me, Oli.” An felt like she should whisper, even though it was a silly impulse - the only things down here were lizards, three scared psyker kids and one grim-looking Farseer.

“Have you got any Diviner insights about where we are?”

Olivar gritted his teeth and responded in Thoughtmark. It was difficult to make out the exact signs in this dim light, but An recognised the shapes for Ambush and Silence. Someone was hiding here, keeping their mind concealed from Oli and Eklendyl’s senses.

“Well, that’s not concerning at all.”

Anguilla saw a faint flash - the reflection of the tapetum in Leena’s eyes, staring at her through the darkness. She resisted making further commentary.

The Wraithbone panels in this section all looked the same - rows and rows of them, thick ugly squares embedded into the walls. There was a vee-shaped notch at each corner, and a round inlaid stone adjoining each notch. Anguilla could see no other decoration or clue to explain what she was looking at.

The closest parallel she could draw to this layout came from her distant memories. Her mum and dad had worked the Venatrix’s pipes all their lives: An had spent a lot of time playing and exploring in empty runoff conduits and old service ducts. All the important pipes had emergency tributaries to release pressure, or to re-route essentials like water and air if the Voidship got damaged. The Aeldari panels weren’t the right shape, but they made her think about the hatches that kept the pipes separated.

This was a facility for keeping something contained.

Farseer Eklendyl did something with a section of the wall that Anguilla had completely missed on their way in, and the corridor that they were in came to life - or something like life. Instead of lumens coming on and potentia relays activating, the round stones started to emit a faint blue-green light. It was a bit stronger than the ambient glow of the sticky fungus, but nowhere near bright enough to be reassuring.

Eklendyl had lost the vigorous enthusiasm he’d shown in the open jungle. When the Farseer approached a panel to examine it, Anguilla noticed the way his walk had slowed and his back hunched. He suddenly carried the weight of ages. His face looked sallow in the artificial light. Anguilla turned her face away from him, not wanting to eavesdrop on his emotions. Oli had also put himself at a polite distance from Farseer Eklendyl. The Diviner looked like he was about to throw up. Aleena was on high alert, staring down the corridor, along the rows of panels. Maybe she could hear something that the others could not.

Well, that was odd… Anguilla could swear she’d just seen a different colour in the glow. She checked in with Olivar, but he was dissociating too much to acknowledge her gestures. Leena made eye contact with An and made a circling motion with her forefinger - offering to enclose the trio in silence. Anguilla shook her head. She wasn’t sure what the Immaterium would do - and using sorcery might alert whatever was hiding down here.

That faint pulse of colour tickled at the edges of Anguilla’s consciousness. She kept a Sanctic syllable curled at the back of her mind, ready to unleash it if this turned out to be a trick of the Ruinous Powers. Maybe it was wishful thinking, maybe she held onto a tiny mad hope that she was finally manifesting a bit of Divination ability… but An knew she had to investigate. The Warp wasn’t calling out to her. But someone was.

She stepped up to the panel where she’d seen that flicker of colour. What had Oli said about his vision? A purple ghost - purple like the Immaterium, but darker. Dark like the contours of a soul trap.

“You.”

The voice materialised directly inside Anguilla’s consciousness. Its telepathic signature was familiar. Someone was using Olivar. Anguilla shot a panicked glance back towards him: he stood stiffly, staring straight ahead. The sclerae of his eyes glowed purple, illuminating his irises from behind. Oli’s pupils were enormously dilated. Anguilla shuddered to see him looking so vulnerable.

“Eklendyl, help!”

Leena was beside the Farseer, dragging on the sleeve of his raincoat. Eklendyl’s body followed hers like a broken puppet. The voice would not let Anguilla go.

The Emperor’s holy golden syllable would help. An deployed it in a softer way than she’d planned, letting it settle over Oli and Leena, lending them strength. Anguilla wanted to talk a little more with this ghost before she started a fight. Something about it felt familiar.

“World-Weaver. Mon’keigh.”

Its cadence was feminine, each word spoken with the terse confidence of command. A xenos accent, grappling with Low Gothic - she clearly did not enjoy communicating in a human language. Anguilla tried to formulate the Tongue in a standard greeting pattern. The voice cut her off at once.

“You will not mutilate our language.”

Anguilla sheepishly closed her mouth and made a polite, equivocating gesture using the Shape instead. She could feel the Warp’s attention upon her… no, not the Warp itself, just this ghost’s presence. Who was she? This clearly wasn’t Kessei.

The voice laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, cruel and slightly abrasive, as if the speaker had not laughed out loud in a very long time.

“Of course I am not Kessei, stupid larva. He is gone, banished. His idiot machine mistook me for its true occupant and forced me in here. I avenged the insult by obliterating what was left of Kessei, one lingering cut at a time.” The voice purred with pleasure at the memory.

“You do not deserve my name, and yet… let me look at you, small mon’keigh.”

Anguilla’s peripheral vision was obliterated by lancing pain and another surge of purple. All she could focus on was that awful square of featureless Wraithbone and the ringing of her own ears. Someone laid hands against her temples: Leena, planting a comforting golden syllable at the source of An’s pain. The noise receded too late. The ghost had already seen something in Anguilla’s mind.

“Ugh, you smooth-brains have ugly thoughts. But your dreams did not deceive me… by Isha! It really is too funny.” The voice spat out the final word with special vehemence.

“You, a little larva, actually faced my pathetic brother and lived.” The ghostly laughter turned hysterical, then trailed off. “Kae-morag, I do not know whether to be amused or ashamed. Little Marzi… he could not even properly lay my soul to rest. What a disgrace to the name of Aezyrraesh.”

Now was the time to seize back control over her own will. Her anger was the pressure of liquid promethium in great steel pipes, building up behind the release valve, ready for An to let it loose.

“Uncle Marazhai is still alive and you are not, lady. Who’s the Void-damned disgrace?”

Getting the words out gave Anguilla a tension headache, but it felt good. So good, even when the voice shrieked in her head and the psyker felt the equal and opposite force of the ghost’s wrath bouncing back at her.

A burst of green and blue illuminated Anguilla’s mind for a moment. Eklendyl was finally intervening. An followed up his psychic push with another burst of Sanctic power, directing percussive force at the angry ghost.

I’m a telekine, bitch. I’ll push you all the way into Sai’lanthresh’s embrace if I have to.

Eklendyl roared. The ghost’s voice was gone, displaced by the Farseer’s phosphor-hot presence. Anguilla heard Olivar shriek - then her classmate’s voice was drowned out by the impact of Eklendyl’s pure and hideous rage.

AEZYRRAESH / TORTURER / DOOMED

New emotions rippled across Anguilla’s consciousness. Eklendyl’s incandescent retribution. The ghost’s shock and fear… her fear of the Farseer. Claws, scrabbling against Wraithbone, against refractive glass, always glancing back to harm their wielder.

Desperation and its echo. The Farseer and the Archon, trapped in a loop of pain.

Olivar’s hand tugged at the hem of An’s rain jacket. He’d crawled over to reach her. His cheeks were stained with something dark. Emperor only knows what he must be seeing, if this much was getting through to Anguilla. Oli silently mouthed something at her.

Help.

There was no obvious way for Anguilla to deal with the ghost. She cringed, brought her hands up and held them towards Eklendyl, splaying her fingers as wide as possible. She really didn’t want to hurt him. Her first telekinetic push blew back Eklendyl’s clothing and stirred up the air around him, but he stayed on his feet. The old man was incredibly resilient.

Again. Throw everything you have into it this time. The Lilaethan came to Anguilla’s aid, weaving her liquid serenity into the Immaterium’s gritty ugliness. Eklendyl’s fingertips were glowing with discharges of the motive force… or something uncannily like it. Anguilla could see crackling arcs forming in the humid air. He didn’t care who got caught in the blast any more. There was only rage.

Anguilla unleashed her left arm in a horizontal slapping motion. The Farseer did not slam into the wall as she had hoped, but he lost his footing and lurched sideways. It was enough to direct his hands away from the trio. Purplish-blue lightning leapt out and sizzled along the contours of the corridor. All the inlaid stones along the wall panels glowed with sudden brightness. Luckily, the panels held.

Murderer / Kin-killer / Fiend!

Then in Low Gothic: “Sha’eil - curse her-”

Farseer Eklendyl had completely lost his composure. He put everything into his howls of rage until his voice began to crack. His mouth contorted between sobbing and snarling. The sight of so much emotion on a usually placid face made Anguilla’s heart hurt.

Now that the space was illuminated, Anguilla could properly see the bloody mess of Olivar’s eyes, lips and cheeks. The poor guy was even bleeding from his ears. Leena squatted beside him, cradling the Diviner in her arms.

“Oh Throne, oh, fucking Throne, An, what do we do?”

Anguilla pointed at the raging Farseer, who - Emperor, no! - was building up for another lightning attack.

“Make him stop!”

Aleena’s expression hardened. Eklendyl raised both arms above his head, preparing to smite his captor’s ghost and anyone else who got in the way.

“Master Eklendyl! Look at you. Such a mess!”

Leena had barked out a fair impression of Sage Emelina’s bossiest, most scolding voice.

“Put those arms down right now, young man!”

Against all of Anguilla’s expectations, the Farseer actually paused.

He still blazed with anger, but now it was focused - like the narrow flame of a welding torch. The dreadful grimace was gone. Now he just looked old, and hard, and unbearably tired. Eklendyl spared Oli a glance. Anguilla was no mind-reader, but she saw the Farseer’s head tilt to one side with bird-like suddenness. Did he only now realise the harm he had done?

“She must suffer.”

Eklendyl murmured in Low Gothic to none of the trio in particular. Anguilla felt anger and impatience bubble up inside her again. The Farseer’s wide-eyed gaze turned suddenly to focus on her.

“Yermeryss Aezyrraesh.” The ghost’s name. Anguilla had never heard Uncle Marazhai mention his sister. “She is kin-killer. Drukhari. She do… this.”

Eklendyl pushed up the sleeve of his raincoat and smeared the painted markings away from his forearm. Anguilla saw fine scars on the bare skin. A lot of scars. The telekine’s own hands had started to shake. She tried to suppress the tremor by holding her left wrist with her right hand. She could call on the God-Emperor for strength… no, not yet.

“Did Yremeryss kill Crudarach?”

A quick shake of Eklendyl’s head. He took a stride towards the corrupted panel.

“Honoured Farseer, she’s spent years in a soul trap, and now this.”

What the fuck are you doing, An? She was committed now: she pressed on.

“I’m too young to understand your anger. I know that. But - when you get angry, I can tell it hurts you worse than it hurts her.”

Eklendyl’s jaw tensed. He continued to stare at Anguilla. The neutral mask of his expression, the coldness of his eyes, were more frightening than his earlier rage.

“I think you should give Yremeryss the Emp - I mean the Lilaethan’s Peace.”

“Do what her brother - your friend - wish?” The corner of Eklendyl’s mouth twitched with disdain. “No friends among Drukhari.”

“I don’t give a shit what Marazhai thinks.”

Anguilla fancied she heard the faint echo of Yeremeryss’s amusement in the back of her mind.

“She got rid of Kessei for us. If you let Yremeryss rest, the hauntings will stop for good. That was our original mission, honoured Eklendyl.”

“To put Drukhari in Lilaethan… insult. Danger.”

“With respect, she was clearly about to go into the Lilaethan when Kessei's machine got her. Don’t you think the planet would have found a way to warn you if there was a problem with that?”

Anguilla knew she was making a mad gamble. She had no idea how an Aeldari maiden world worked, for Emperor’s sake! The main thing was to keep the Farseer talking. The longer she could stall him, the less likely he was to give in to his violent impulses. Eklendyl raised his left hand in a familiar disciplining gesture… he was imitating Sage Emelina.

“I see what you do, eel child.” The Farseer inhaled, then let out a long sigh. “We fix wounds first. Then, I decide.”

Anguilla thought she might collapse with relief. Eklendyl’s posture had regained some of its accustomed ease. Even the Immaterium had calmed down a little, though that itchy haze was still in the air. Eklendyl silently laid his fingers over his chest, touching his spirit stone. He approached Olivar’s unresponsive body, still cradled in Leena’s arms - the Diviner had passed out from shock. The Farseer squatted to examine the boy, then paused and gave Anguilla one last stern glare over his shoulder.

“But only I decide.”

Stubborn old man.

Chapter 41: Chapter Forty One

Summary:

Delicate overtures.

Sage Emelina had been making great strides with her calligraphy. This was her fifth attempt at translating The Lament of Fallen Petals into a passable bilingual edition. Yksandr Aezyrraesh was a far trickier writer than Emelina had originally anticipated.

The Sage’s wondrous cerebral implants kept a precise record of the work as recited by a direct descendent: young Marazhai had the potential to be a fine orator if he would just apply himself. It was never enough to rely on the sounds of the Tongue, when one sought to understand an Aeldari work’s full meaning. Gestures of ink on papyrus stood in for the elegant dance of the speaker’s hands, and those gestures could offer all kinds of subtle hints. Granted, Emelina was doing a better job than the last human scholar at revealing the subtext - and she now disregarded the T’au attempt as the work of an innocent amateur with no sense for the Drukhari mindset. But still… Perhaps yet another revision was in order.

How fortunate that only the left side of her body had been paralysed - otherwise she would never have been able to manipulate a calligraphy pen. Using a proper brush was out of the question, particularly when dealing with a work of this size. Thirty stanzas… they were long and convoluted ones, too. The ancient Aeldari certainly had an abundance of leisure time.

Emelina’s own time would scarcely be enough to finish this project. She still experienced the odd tremor along her left arm, the occasional involuntary tic down one side of her jawline, even after years of careful rehabilitation and daily calisthenics. Antimon, the young Aeldari who had assigned himself the job of attending to the Sage, often told her how much progress she was making. What a sweet lad, trying to fool an old woman with kindness. Emelina knew that age was catching up to her.

There was no point in succumbing to melancholy. Today was an excellent day for focused work with nib and paper. Emelina had her study to herself, no chattering psyker children to bother her, and her desk was set up so that all her writing materials were within easy reach. The Sage had finally found a house-dress that was both modest enough to cover all her wrinkly bits and light enough to be comfortable in the jungle heat. She had no remaining excuses to procrastinate.

The Sage idly tapped the barrel of her steel-nibbed fountain pen against her bottom lip. What if her third reading of The Lament of Fallen Petals had been correct, and the whole work was just a political instruction manual in disguise? Yksandr’s imitators usually took that view. Their poetry was more self-aware, redolent with Red-state verbs and cynical commentary on the cut and thrust of post-Fall contention. The original Aezyrraesh underscored his imagery with a disarming sincerity that had always drawn Emelina to its Low Gothic translation. The human scholar had got something right - they’d captured Yksandr’s emotional state.

Is it or is it not a love poem? Sage Emelina peered at her own calligraphy. She’d have to make a choice, or she would never finish this bloody translation. Her left thumb toggled the tiny switch that controlled her auditory processing centres with an accuracy born of habit. Stanza twenty, line twelve… What was young Marazhai’s inflection in that passage again?

She was so engrossed in her linguistic dilemma that she almost missed the noise outside the door to her study. Emelina’s hand was not quite so deft at deactivating her recording function: young Aezyrraesh’s fervid references to treacherous river currents fizzed and glitched as they faded out of her mental soundscape.

Footsteps: long strides, made with light shoes. An Aeldari was pacing back and forth along the landing that adjoined her study. Emelina took note of the rhythm: the steps neared her door, swung away in a loop, retreated to the far end of the landing and looped back for another approach. Eklendyl would prevaricate for a while longer before he decided to enter. Emelina still had time for a quick tidy.

Her calligraphy set was easy to put away in its bamboo caddy. The Sage made sure to put the lid back on her inkwell. Emelina’s latest draft went into a large, shallow drawer. The Farseer was always very diplomatic about her translation project, but it seemed impolite for her to leave references to the Drukhari lying in plain sight. She wouldn’t want her dear friend to relive any unpleasant memories.

Saints and stars, what remained of her hair must look like a dandelion in a windstorm… Emelina tried to flatten a wayward tuft that tickled the nape of her neck. Not to mention that the day-dress was a more informal choice than she would prefer. My dear Eklendyl, would it be so hard for you to arrange a visit in advance? She could have made a fresh jug of iced tanna for them to share! Ah well. Knowing the Farseer, he would appear in some awful smock from one of Avalon’s pawn shops. She really had nothing to fret about.

Emelina could only wait so long for her visitor to take the initiative. She went over to the door, opened it and stepped out just in time for Eklendyl to return to the threshold.

The Farseer was a vision in holographic silk. Emelina paused in the doorway to gape up at him. The last time she had seen him don Asuryani full formal dress was at the Solitaire’s party… over eight Terran standard years ago now, if her wayward memory served her.

The blue-black sheen of his robes shifted and twinkled like the many hues of the Lilaethan’s sky, day passing into starlit night and back to day every time Eklendyl shifted his body. Some of the rune-like characters appliqued onto the robe’s chest panel and apron were so ancient and complex that even the Sage’s eidetic memory had difficulty grasping their full meaning.

Eklendyl’s sartorial endeavours extended to his hair and jewelry. His usual ponytail of patchy hair was miraculously glossy and smooth. The Farseer had gathered it into a symmetrical top-knot and fastened it in place with two gorgeous long Wraithbone pins. A tall beaded collar concealed his throat from chin to chest, disappearing into the neckline of his robe. He wore an iridescent ring on each finger of his right hand: he kept his left arm tucked in, holding something out of sight under the robe’s loose contours. Emelina noticed an unaccustomed flush of colour on Eklendyl’s lower lip. He had lined his eyes with kohl - and his ear-tips gleamed in the dappled afternoon light. Had he applied makeup to his ears?

This was all deeply perplexing. Emelina remembered to step back and offer a welcoming gesture with the Shape. Eklendyl had a habit of standing in the doorway until she specifically invited him in. He seemed far too tall and imposing to belong in such a cosy space. Emelina missed her barefoot conspirator - the Eklendyl who usually came to spend long hours here, trading regicide strategies and centuries-old jokes.

The Farseer himself was no less awkward. He would not sit at the regicide table when Emelina offered him his usual place. Eklendyl attempted to pace across the study as he had done on the landing. The room was far too small for his long strides, and he crossed the limited amount of central space in two steps. Eklendyl encountered Emelina’s writing desk, stopped just short of bumping into it and stared at its wooden surface and bare writing pad. The Sage simply had to say something, anything to break this awful tension.

“I heard that you returned safely from the deep forests, my dea- honoured Farseer. I was greatly relieved at the news.”

Of course, she was also a little cross that he had not come to see her immediately after his return… but she would forgive him for the mild discourtesy as soon as he shook off this strange formality. Emelina was caught between the urge to sit and her reluctance to be marooned opposite an empty armchair. Instead, she decided to approach Eklendyl and prop her hips against the edge of the desk. The position was very unladylike, but it put her in a position to confront - or at least to understand - whatever was going on with Eklendyl.

“Would you like to talk about your journey?”

The Farseer’s stiff posture relaxed just a fraction. His body language was no longer focused towards the desk, but made a half-turn to acknowledge the Sage’s presence.

Fingers clutch at sand / striking at an illusion / the foe walks away

Eklendyl made no proper Shape to accompany his grave pronouncement. Instead, he brought his right hand up and clutched at the holo-silk chest panel of his robe. He looked pained. Emelina watched as the Farseer took a breath, exhaled and forced his fingers to unclench. He then bent forward just far enough to set his right hand palm-down on the desk. Eklendyl regarded the limb as though it no longer belonged to him.

“We often end up shadow-boxing when we set out to hunt ghosts.”

Emelina murmured the words like a proverb: she was unsure exactly where she had heard them. Eklendyl emerged from his melancholy long enough to give her a quizzical look.

“Shadow box?”

That was more like her old, adorable Eklendyl! Emelina mimed the action of punching at empty air, then frowning in frustration and shrugging. Eklendyl responded with the tiniest permissible smile for an Asuryani of his station. Then he blinked and glanced down at his left arm with bird-like celerity.

“Ah. Box.”

He appeared to have just remembered the object tucked under his arm. Eklendyl carefully brought it out and laid a mysterious cylinder of woven wood on the desk, making sure it stood upright. He straightened his spine, turned to face Emelina properly and gave an imperious wave in the object’s general direction. They both paused in expectant confusion, until the Farseer broke the silence.

“You open.”

Emelina would have loved to comply with his instruction, but the intricacies of the object’s case were somewhat puzzling. There was clearly meant to be some trick in the way all the tiny lamellae of wooden veneer interlocked. A brain-teaser, was it? Emelina was always up for that sort of challenge. She pushed up the sleeves of her day-dress, then rolled them to keep them in place. Was she allowed to pick up the box? She kept the cylinder upright just to be safe, rotating it so she could look at its construction.

Eklendyl hovered desperately at her side. He reached out with both hands, but did not make contact with Emelina’s fingers. He was resisting the temptation to open the box for her. Why was he being so strange about touching? They had bumped into each other from time to time, Emelina had even initiated casual contact here and there and it had not seemed to upset the Farseer before. He was in a very odd mood.

Eventually she found the right tab and groove - one decisive push, and the entire casement unfolded itself like a wooden lotus flower. The protective slats were ingeniously designed to fold into the base. The gift would always come with its own carrying case.

She had not expected to see Imperium-made glass. The tiny terrarium was an impressive piece of human engineering, from its airtight dome to the handy sealed compartments where water and extra nutrients could be topped up as needed. There was even a miniaturised switch to activate bead-like lumens in a passable imitation of a day and night cycle. Emelina was unfamiliar with the species of epiphyte that grew under the dome - only that it was an orchid with the most delicate, pale lilac petals.

“My stars, it’s beautiful…”

Emelina turned to express her excited thanks to Eklendyl for such a lovely gift. Her smile faltered at the sight of his doleful expression. That terrible, rigid seriousness was no longer simply disconcerting, it was concerning. The Sage did not understand… she peered up at Eklendyl’s face, which looked almost like a mask under his makeup. He avoided her gaze with a quick sideways glance.

Was he even aware of the meaning behind this gift, when it was given between humans? Had Emelina inadvertently crossed some unspoken boundary? A horrified thought crept up from the Sage’s subconscious, one that she could not dispel. Was the immortalium intended as a farewell present? Emelina tried and failed to read Eklendyl’s stiff expression.

“Thank you, Eklendyl. I… will treasure this precious gift for as long as I am able.”

How many more years did she have in her, after all? Their association, however pleasant, was destined to be ephemeral. The gift of an immortalium didn’t mean much in that grim context.

The Farseer loomed in Emelina’s personal space with an almost violent suddenness. She hadn’t even seen him close the distance. He was so much taller than her… Emelina was suddenly, frighteningly aware of the disparity of strength between them. Eklendyl’s stare bored into her. What horrors did he see in her broken soul? Emelina felt the residual tremor of her old paralysis creep up from her left wrist to her shoulder. She prayed that her cheek muscles would not break into a spasm.

The Farseer continued to scan her with that baleful gaze. The corners of his mouth tensed. He flexed his jaw a fraction. Eklendyl felt brittle enough to snap under the slightest pressure. What had he seen in the forest? What had changed between them, or what was about to change? Emelina forced herself to meet his stare. She would not back away. She had already saved him from the Solitaire’s unholy hunger once. She would see this through.

Ah - she felt something come loose in the compartments of her mind. This was the worst time for her to have a dissociative shutdown.

Eklendyl brought his right hand up towards his forehead. His fingers were spasming and had curled into claws. Slowly, stiffly, he began to dig his long fingernails into the skin of his brow. That fool was trying to pry his spirit stone loose!

Emelina screamed inwardly against the constraints of her own broken consciousness. Her feeble left arm found a burst of unexpected strength. She seized the Farseer roughly by the wrist, bearing all of her weight down on his arm, trying to pry his hand away.

“Don’t! Eklendyl, don’t do it!”

The tormented Asuryani made a haphazard attempt to push her away. Emelina felt a spasm in her lower back, and couldn’t help crying out in pain. She’d collided with the edge of the writing desk. She heard the little terrarium totter and settle on its base.

Eklendyl tilted his body forward, drawing ragged breaths. His forehead streamed blood where he had gouged himself. Red blood, red stone. The Farseer’s eyes met Emelina’s once more, their murex-purple irises shattering outward into shards of palest blue.

She was still clinging to his arm. Void take him, Emelina was not about to let go until he had apologised! Let the Aeldari feel uncomfortable. What was he thinking, shoving an old woman around like that?

Eklendyl let out a small, ragged noise: Emelina could not tell if it was more of a laugh or a sob. He pressed into the contact, gently this time. The Sage felt his left arm fumble hesitantly around to embrace her from behind. Eklendyl’s fingertips lingered guiltily on the place where he had hurt her spine.

“Oh.” He gasped. “Terrible. Terrible.” Of course he had forgotten how to say ‘sorry’ in Low Gothic.

“You fool. You Void-damned fool.”

“Yes. Fool.”

Eklendyl nodded quietly, and a thin rivulet of blood trickled over the bridge of his nose.

The Farseer did not resist when Emelina pressed her head against his chest. The holo-silk felt hot against her cheek. Had Eklendyl always been this warm? Emelina wished she could rest here just a little longer.

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, silly man. And the next one.” She could hear his heartbeat through his robe. “Eklendyl, don’t hurt yourself.”

The Sage felt the faintest contact against the metal cap of her augmetic skull. She wasn’t accustomed to being touched there. She craned her neck back, trying to get a proper look at Eklendyl’s face once more. He gazed down at her, open-mouthed, distraught.

Had he just tried to kiss her?

“Emelina.”

Eklendy didn’t usually address her by her first name. Whatever had happened to ‘Snake-Sage’?

“Emelina.” The Farseer uttered her name with deliberate slowness, as if he were tasting the syllables for the first time. “Emelina Iona… little-heart…”

The Sage gasped out a relieved laugh before she could stop herself.

“Oh, you silly man.”

She released Eklendyl’s bloodstained wrist at last. What a shame that the beautiful shimmering silk had been marred along his sleeve! But it was somehow fitting. They were both imperfect, weren’t they? Emelina let her left hand rest against Eklendyl’s chest, over the delicate ornamentation that marked his heart’s home. His face softened. She’d never seen him weep before.

Emelina reached up and caressed the shimmering contours of Eklendyl’s jaw with the fingertips of her right hand. She realised that she was holding her breath in suspense. The Farseer turned his cheek so that it settled in the curve of her palm. She could feel his breath against the inside of her wrist… so warm.

“It’s Lichtenhart.”

Emelina raised herself up on tiptoes to meet Eklendyl’s stooping form, and pressed a soft kiss against his wounded forehead. He trembled at her touch.

“Light… in heart.”

Eklendyl’s expression was soft and perplexed as he fumbled with her name. He looked almost youthful in his clumsy innocence.

“Light-in-heart? I like the sound of that.”

Emelina and Eklendyl stood in a silent, cradling embrace until their hearts found a calming unison. If they had been younger, perhaps they would have stayed there for hours. As it was, they both needed to rest and heal. Emelina felt a sad pang as she finally made herself withdraw from the Farseer’s embrace. He looked just as bereft: that was a comfort.

“You do realise, Eklendyl dear, that I have no idea how to proceed.”

His face twitched up in a faint smile, and the blue holo-silk rippled like starlight as he shrugged.

“Pawn to King four?”

Emelina thumped her left hand ineffectually against his chest.

“You, sir, are entirely too silly!”

Eklendyl chuckled and patted the steel-capped crown of Emelina’s head. She pouted at him.

“The least you can do after bruising my back, young man, is invite me on a proper assignation.”

The Farseer took a reluctant half-step back and made a courtly reverence towards Sage Emelina in the proper Imperium fashion. His gallantry was only slightly undermined by the few stray drops of blood that fell from his forehead onto the floor. While Emelina was still caught unawares, Eklendyl captured her left hand with uncanny swiftness. He bent low to kiss each of her knuckles in turn, then each of her fingertips. He tilted his face up to make eye contact, ardently observing the Sage’s reaction.

“Assignation.” Eklendyl savoured the unfamiliar word. “Yes. We shall arrange.”

He bowed once more, studiously hitched up the hem of his formal robe, and made for the door with statuesque grace. Sage Emelina managed to stand and make the Shape of farewell without disgracing herself. Only when the door was closed behind him and she could no longer hear his receding footfalls did Emelina collapse into her waiting armchair.

She definitely wasn’t getting any more translation work done today.

Chapter 42: Chapter Forty Two

Summary:

The Holy Inquisition visits the jungle.

“Saints and bloody stars, look at it all!”

Agent Aster was going to get a pain in the neck if he kept staring up at the treetops. He’d taken only two breaks from his awestruck vigil: one, to check the integrity of his kit and two, to get out of the way of a passing rickshaw. Lord Inquisitor van Calox suppressed the urge to laugh when Interrogator Xue grabbed Clif by the scruff of his collar with one red-gloved hand and hauled the big fellow toward the side of the road.

A rickety grav-hauler rumbled past, weighed down with a motley cargo of crates, pallets and bunches of profane-looking yellow and green fruit. Three retches squatted on the vehicle’s brightly painted tailgate, all carrying bundles of provisions, and in one woman’s case, a wicker cage containing a surly-looking iguana. The grav-hauler’s exhaust evaporated the puddles in the road and sent up a plume of steam in its wake.

Monsoon season in Avalon was revoltingly clammy, but this did not deter Heinrix’s entourage. Interrogator Xue was busy making fun of Clif, whose enthusiasm for the jungle seemed undiminished by her teasing. Even the old cynic Froscher appeared to be in an uncharacteristically good mood.

Finally, things were going well. Heinrix would soon collect Oblate Anguilla and her little friends from the Asuryani compound, he would finally have the option to fill some gaps in his Inquisitorial roster, and this unfortunate business with the dead Scholastica Psykana instructor could be put to rest one way or another. Was it ideal that Como was also visiting the Agri-World? No, but they could come to an agreement in private. And after that - finally! - he could proceed on to Foulstone. It had been far too long since he’d buttered up the local informants.

Sweet Throne, the work never ended…

“You’re shitting me. That’s where Dri-Froot comes from?”

Xue had got on tiptoes to grab Clif in a tussling headlock.

“By the Emperor, big boy, could you be any more of a greenhorn? Where’d you think it came from?”

“I imagined… trays of greens with berries on them or something, not huge fucking trees!” Clif wriggled free of Xue’s grasp. “Wish my old comrades could have seen this.”

“Seems out of character for Penal Battalion hardarses to get inspired by a damn jungle.” Froscher had decided to add his two Thrones to the conversation. “There’s a fine line between a Death World and these feral Exodite enclaves. I’d quit pissing around if I were you, Ibis.”

“Sorry, Falcon.” Clif looked chastened.

“Fuck yourself, Falcon.” Xue ginned and gave her colleague a one-finger salute.

“He’s right though, Eagle. Soldiers don’t fight for trees. It’s just… “ Clif gestured at the streetscape full of people. “I thought green worlds were fancy resorts for rich Nobs. Didn’t consider there’d be so many civilians here. If they never have to see an Ork, well… that’s as good a reason to fight as any.” Agent Aster shrugged non-committally.

Xue rolled her eyes. “You can see lots of civvies anytime on Dargonus.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t met any of the sick fucks among this lot yet.” Clif gave her a snaggle-toothed grin. “Let me keep my innocence a while longer, Mistress Interrogator.”

“... proves nothing… but sure. Enjoy yourself while it lasts, big boy.”

Heinrix wondered whether an agri-serf with lungs full of pesticide fumes would consider their existence to be sweetly bucolic. If life in the hollowed-out caverns of Vheabos VI was the point of comparison, then perhaps being a worker on Janus was not so terrible. The Lord Inquisitor’s biomancy alerted him to signs of deprivation among the locals: missing fingers, rotten teeth, gaunt ribcages, soft bones. The colour and bustle of life in Avalon masked the worst of its poverty.

At least Heinrix had worked out where all the von Valancius Protectorate’s little blue chairs came from. One of Avalon’s few industrial buildings was a manufactorum where cassava starch went in and sheets of wobbly blue plastic came out. The stools themselves were heat-stamped into their squat signature shape in the next building over. Heinrix never would have expected an Agri-World to export furniture, but it made an odd kind of sense. The stools stacked easily and their light weight made them easy to ship. Flimsy as they were, they might be Como von Valancius’s most enduring legacy.

Three human workers who appeared to be agri-serfs, two retches and a harried-looking Tech-Novice in a red plastic raincoat were all taking refuge from the drizzle. They shared the same low table, sitting on those ubiquitous low stools. They were busy chowing down on fried grubs and cheap carb-paste, and paid no special attention to passers-by. Heinrix supposed his little conclave looked unexciting compared with imposing Navigators and tall, veiled Asuryani.

The Lord Inquisitor noted that the humans always passed the large central serving bowl to the novice Tech-Priest, who then scooped out a portion with their augmetic hand and gave it to the retches. There was a common prejudice against directly sharing food with the local mutants. Five years ago the retches would have squatted, table-less, on a mat in the street. Five years before that, the humans would most likely have attacked them on sight.

The road from Threat to Test Subject to Person was a long one.

Heinrix approached Agent Aster, and cringed inwardly when his psyker’s senses read the young Acolyte’s biosignature. Clif’s dopamine spiked every time the Lord Inquisitor gave him a scrap of attention. Heinrix had been the same with Lord Calcazar… at least in the beginning. Lord van Calox vehemently disagreed with his predecessor’s methods. Unfortunately, he could now understand how easy it was for a powerful man to take advantage of the people he was supposed to nurture.

“Tell me, Ibis, what do you make of Avalon’s retch population?”

Clif followed Heinrix’s line of sight and took a moment to observe the table of diners.

“The local mutants, huh? Are you worried I’ll randomly punch someone’s head in?” Clif gave Heinrix a sly look.

“Retches aren’t my problem unless you say they’re a problem, boss. If we’re talking about degrees of mutation, I’ve seen chems do worse to people. They’ve got the right number of limbs, and they work hard. Genetors seem happy to keep them around.”

Heinrix leaned in as close as was prudent - he didn’t want to provoke another giddy flutter in the young man’s limbic system.

“I was wondering how they smell, from your perspective.”

“Working out the limitations of my mutant-sniffing capabilities? That’s smart of you, boss.”

Clif did a decent imitation of the Inquisitor’s pondering pose - itself copied from Rogue Trader Como - by crooking his index finger under his jaw, a gesture that drew attention to the tiny cleft in his chin.

“They smell different, but not nasty. If I had to provide tasting notes - it’s like steam and warm rockcrete. You know how on Vheabos, they hose down the manufactorum floors sometimes?”

Heinrix nodded. “Petrichor.” Quite a pleasant odour.

“Join the Holy Inquisition, learn new words for things.”

Clif gave Heinrix an affable smile as he stored the information away in his memory centres. Even his brain activity was beautiful to watch… get it together, van Calox.

“Looks like we were expected.”

Emma Xue was alert once more, back straight, arms loose at her sides. The object of her sudden attention was lounging in floor-length, purplish veiled robes outside the entrance to a red-brick walled compound. Someone had painted a large stylised eye over the top of the gate. Navigator House symbolism did not customarily feature a shaded eyebrow or a hanging flourish in the corner. The Asuryani refugees were not fooling anyone.

“It’s hard to catch a Farseer unawares, Eagle. Of course we sent a runner on ahead. I wonder if the skinnies plan to throw another party for us!” Froscher nudged Xue in the back and she winced.

“Emperor’s sake, don’t even joke about that.”

“Come on, it was just one Solitaire. I could’ve taken him!”

“On a nice sunset stroll, sure. In a fight? Good luck, old-timer.”

The Lord Inquisitor offered the doorkeeper a discreet greeting using the Shape. He responded with a slow reverence, raindrops scattering off his veil as he bent forward, and led the acolytes inside. Heinrix recognised the face under the veil - Antimon, Sage Emelina’s designated helper and rehab nurse, had a distinctively beaky nose for an Aeldari. If he was here to greet visitors, the Inquisitor wondered who was looking after Emelina.

Courtesy dictated that Heinrix would be permitted to enter where he liked, while the rest of his conclave would remain in the portico and central courtyard. Froscher and Xue knew the drill: they promptly steered Clif towards a suitable waiting area. The three agents would most likely pass the time throwing dice and drinking cold tanna. One of the compound’s few child residents trotted up to Interrogator Xue and they exchanged polite greetings. She’d worked hard to preserve her good standing with the Asuryani refugees. A sensible precaution.

Now that Antimon no longer had to pass himself off as a Navigator, he gladly shed his outer robes and veiled headgear. Farseer Eklendyl’s lamentable dress sense was spreading to the compound’s other residents. Antimon wore a yellow skirt-like wrap around his hips, with vermillion leggings and sandals underneath. Like so many of the younger refugees, he’d elected to wear a beaded string vest instead of a tunic. The rows of beads followed the contours of his ribcage, radiating out from a vertical strap that ran parallel with the young Asuryani’s breastbone. Heinrix made a mental note of the style, resolving to incorporate it into his next dressmaking project.

A three-fold Path / bright youth awaits / wise patience

Antimon’s use of the Tongue was a little staid for his tender years, but Heinrix appreciated the show of respect. The Aeldari youth departed with graceful haste - more of a leggy canter than a purposeful stride.

The three psyker children soon came forth from one of the side chambers to greet the Lord Inquisitor… and praise the Emperor, Emelina Iona Lichtenhart was with them! Heinrix felt a tender pang of nostalgia at the sight of her. She looked well for her age: he could still sense the telltale signs of stroke damage down the left side of her body, but Antimon had done a wonderful job with her rehabilitation. Lord van Calox was grateful for that. Biomancy could restore dead tissue, but one could not simply conjure up neuroplasticity in an older brain. Particularly one that was missing so much of its former capacity…

He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t look sad. Emelina hated it when he moped. And in truth, she was doing well. Physical health wasn’t the only consideration. Emelina looked comfortable in the local garments: she’d even acquired a faint tan around the neckline of her smock. A kind smile brought crinkling laugh lines to her features. She’d always been so stern in her Inquisition days: now Emelina seemed more of a trickster than a teacher. If she was happy, then Heinrix would be happy for her.

The short one of the psyker trio - he must be Olivar Danrok - gave the Sage’s hand a little squeeze before he went to stand with his peers. A thoughtful kid: he showed every sign of one day becoming as plump as his uncle, an unfortunate side effect of the Danrok line’s genetic tailoring. One of their ancestors must have decided that rotundity gave the appearance of prosperity.

Heinrix knew little about young Olivar aside from his heritage and subsequent disownment. He could sympathise with the travails of an ostracised noble… poor chap. The Scholastica Psykana dossier said he was a Diviner. Olivar seemed far saner and more mentally collected than Idira Tlass ever had. Divination was a more nebulous talent than other psychic abilities. How would Heinrix test it? He considered doing something erratic, but hesitated to act out in front of the Asuryani.

“Probably not the best idea, my Lord Inquisitor.”

Oli smiled with cherubic sweetness and made a truly unctuous formal bow to Lord van Calox. Heinrix felt his brow furrow just a little further than normal. You cheeky little shit… all right, maybe Olivar was more like Mistress Tlass than he’d assumed.

“If you’ll permit me to introduce my classmate - Leena, this is Lord Heinrix van Calox. Lord Inquisitor, meet Aleena.”

Olivar hadn’t bothered introducing Anguilla and Heinrix to each other. Anguilla must have already told him that she knew the Lord Inquisitor. She was acting very aloof through the introductions… Throne, she’d grown tall! Her adult height only emphasised her Voidborn origins. At least she had benefited from Janus’s fresh air and sunshine. She looked well, if rather cagey.

Aleena fascinated Heinrix, and not purely because she was part retch. Her ability to manipulate sound was unusual enough that the Lord Inquisitor was still exploring all its potential applications. Combined with the Sanctic psykana the trio had learned from the Drill Abbotts, she might one day make a spectacularly effective daemonifuge. Physically speaking, she was a mix of features. Aleena might pass for a Voidborn or even an Aeldari depending on her attire and bearing.

The local Magi Biologis had shared a few insights on retch genome mapping… Aleena’s chromosomes were doubled up like those of a plant. Heinrix’s secret knowledge made him pay special attention to the greenish cast of her skin. For now, he had better put the girl at ease. The last thing she needed was to be treated like a lab specimen. Heinrix followed Olivar’s lead and played the gallant Ser van Calox, making sure he offered Aleena at least as much genteel courtesy as her peers. It appeared to soothe her anxiety somewhat.

“Oblate Aleena - it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. And yours as well, Olivar.” Heinrix cleared his throat. “Anguilla. You are looking very well.”

Throne, why did he have to be so awkward! Their reunion was even more uncomfortable than he’d anticipated. Think, man - what were you like as a teenager? Oh… right. You were a shell-shocked youngster with a paralysed right arm, being passed from platoon to platoon in the Astra Militarum. Probably not the best starting point upon which to build a working relationship… unless.

“I’m sure that your situation has not been easy, especially with all the upheaval of late. My condolences for the loss of your instructor. I can only hope that Sage Emelina has been taking far better care of you - and that I can offer you a measure of certainty and safety, now that I am here.”

“Good of you to show up.” Anguilla crossed her arms to underscore her displeasure. Her elbows were terribly bony. “Congratulations on the promotion, I feel like I should be bowing to you now - should I bow?” Heinrix’s ward clearly wanted to do anything but bow to him.

“That won’t be necessary.” The Lord Inquisitor nodded to the other children. “That goes for you as well, I think. We are all psykers here. To that extent, we are equal in the eyes of the God-Emperor and Master of Mankind.” He paused, glancing at Sage Emelina.

“And I think… I think it is important for young people to be young people when they are not on duty. If any of you have questions or concerns, you may speak them freely.” Emelina seemed to approve, so he persisted down this untravelled course.

“Anguilla knows my disposition can be a little frosty…” Heinrix allowed himself a faint smile at her expense. His biomancy picked up the exact moment when his pun hit: the telekine’s eyeroll only widened his smirk. “But do not let that frighten you off. I have even been known to take advice from time to time.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Aleena couldn’t resist bobbing her head just a little bit out of habit. One day he’d get her to stand proud. Olivar was too busy taking the Lord Inquisitor’s measure to make more than a token show of politeness.

As for Anguilla… she made a show of fiddling with one of her braids instead of meeting the Inquisitor’s gaze. She was still on the defensive, and would be for some time. Heinrix had a lot of work to do if he wanted his ward to open up. He considered her feistiness to be a good sign: he’d have been worried if the Drill Abbotts had managed to beat it out of her.

Damn, he was really curious to know how she’d fare in a sparring match.

“Eklendyl wanted to offer his regards.” Curious, that Sage Emelina had referred to the Farseer by his first name. “Would you care to take some tanna, play a round of regicide - perhaps even have your retinue stay over?”

“They are not a retinue, they are acolytes.” Heinrix caught himself mid-lecture. Emelina had purged all her memories relating to the Inquisition, he could hardly expect her to care about such pedantic matters. “It is a wise idea for us to give the Oblates some time, let them pack their things, say their goodbyes. Change, even change for the better, is hard on the young.”

“Change is hard on the old as well, dear boy! Let’s regroup to my study. May I borrow that fine strong arm of yours?”

Emelina’s hand felt terribly frail and light. Heinrix tried not to show his concern and focused instead on the act of walking and talking. The Inquisitor enjoyed having an excuse to slow his stride, to breathe the humid jungle air, to gather as many precious mental impressions of his mentor as possible.

They chatted about everything and nothing of importance. She was both Emelina and not-Emelina… at least, this was not the persona she had created in order to instruct him. Heinrix felt unsure about his own past: his companion’s mannerisms of speech or gesture would often put some dusty old conversation into a new, vivid context and make him question the stories he’d concocted to categorise his relationship with Sage Emelina Iona Lichtenhart.

He had molded himself into a dutiful hunter for her sake. Lord Calcazar had always encouraged Heinrix to prioritise intelligent utilitarian calculation over instinct and conscience, but Calcazar had lacked a consistent enough attention span to properly guide Heinrix along his vocational path. It was Sage Emelina who showed him the practical steps - or so Lord van Calox had thought.

Had she hidden away the vestiges of her own empathy all this time, enclosing them from his psychic senses in her compartmentalised augmetic brain? Why the deception? If Heinrix had known, he might have felt less alone in his ethical struggles. What a shame…

Which Emelina was real, the hard-nosed tactician or the sweet old lady? Throne, maybe both versions of her were true! Brains had two hemispheres for a reason: one person could play many roles, sometimes simultaneously, often in contradiction to each other. Heinrix’s own decisions were all too often steered by an agitated committee of fears, hopes and assumptions. It was unkind of him to judge Emelina too harshly. She’d probably done what she thought was best at the time. That was all anyone could do.

It pained him to abandon their pleasantly vacuous conversation, but Heinrix knew he couldn’t sustain it for much longer. His grim work occupied too much of his attention and time, to the extent that it impinged on his reserves of small talk. Still, he’d made Emelina smile, in a way she’d never smiled for him when he was an Acolyte. That was good enough, he told himself. It would have to be enough.

Sage Emelina’s little study was surprisingly well maintained. Heinrix remembered the habitual ‘ordered chaos’ of her old quarters, with artifacts and texts strewn on every surface and stacked on the floor. “Don’t you dare touch it, my boy, everything is in its place!” The recollection made Heinrix smile wistfully. She was still prone to keeping codices in stacks, but her loose odds and ends were corralled into boxes and caddies, and her raincoat was hung up on its own peg. Heinrix suspected Antimon’s influence was at play. He seemed like the sort to keep things tidy.

Two cosy wicker-backed armchairs adjoined a small regicide table. An earthenware jug and three small painted glasses were laid out on its surface. The setup looked inviting - except the addition of a third, high-backed chair threw the scene’s proportions out of balance.

Farseer Eklendyl was here, standing beside the table and framed by the stacks of books and paperwork behind him. He wore an iridescent sleeveless robe whose style was unfamiliar to Heinrix, perhaps a hybrid of Asuryani fashion with one of the local styles. Eklendyl’s upper arms were adorned with bands of soft metal: despite his casual demeanour, the Farseer had clearly put some thought into his presentation. Heinrix pretended not to notice the inflamed skin and half-healed, crescent-shaped marks on the Asuryani’s forehead. Even the strongest psykers had bad days. If anything, the thought was reassuring.

Eklendyl’s psychic signature blazed in the Immaterium. Lord van Calox’s long-term exposure to Como’s unusual aura had improved the biomancer’s ability to sense the contours of sorcerous energies. Most Asuryani practitioners kept their psykana tightly conformed to their physical body envelope: a mingling of souls, however brief, was to be avoided. This also explained the taboos around physical touch, which weren’t of great concern to other Aeldari. Eklendyl was no longer showing proper form, at least by Craftworld standards. His aura remained cohesive and impressively bright, yet it wavered like the currents of a great river, or the lambent edges of a roaring flame.

To Heinrix’s surprise, the Farseer offered the fanciest-looking seat to the Lord Inquisitor and settled into one of the wicker armchairs. He was unsure whether to feel gratified by this show of deference, or vaguely ostracised. Heinrix sensed an air of friendly collusion between Emelina and Eklendyl. The Inquisitor suppressed the incipient tic that threatened to creep into his maxillofacial muscles.

Farseer Eklendyl insisted upon serving the iced tanna. The Asuryani poured a generous measure into Heinrix’s glass, set it upon the table in front of him and rotated the little vessel a fraction so that its design was perfectly aligned. Eklendyl exercised the same precision born from millennia of practice with Emelina’s glass. Lord van Calox noted the slight inclination of the Aeldari’s posture as he presented the Seer with her serving. Eklendyl had not set the glass down. Instead he offered it directly to Emelina, who accepted it from his outstretched hands. Their fingertips brushed together. She smiled, and Eklendyl returned her smile.

Congratulations, honoured Farseer. You have succeeded in making a trained biomancer sick to their stomach.

How dare he - how dare he! The woman had a brain injury, for God-Emperor’s sake! The Lord Inquisitor scrambled to suppress the biological processes that governed his adrenaline output. Don’t you dare play the gallant idiot, van Calox. Dealing with melted ice crystals down the back of his shirt collar was a small price to pay for avoiding a diplomatic incident.

Somehow Heinrix managed to creak his way through a very stilted exchange where he politely inquired after his young charges and offered his thanks to the Aeldari enclave for their timely assistance. On that front, his gratitude was sincere at least. Throne, what a fool he’d been. He never should have left Lady Emelina all by herself on Janus, to be… predated upon by ancient xenos.

He had to go - he had to get himself away from the compound, anywhere he would not make a scene in front of Sage Emelina or his people. His frustration begged for release.

Did we have this weakness, too, in common? Emelina… oh, Emelina.

Chapter 43: Chapter Forty Three

Summary:

Bodies and machines prove uncooperative.

“Spirit of this machine, heed my commands.”

The amalgam of plasteel, adamantium and raw motive power beneath Clif’s body and between his legs continued to screech.

“That’s fine, buddy, you scream all you like. Let’s just take it easy, okay?”

This jetbike’s machine spirit was old, cranky and deeply upset with its new pilot. Not for the first time, Agent Aster wished he hadn’t lied to the Tech-Priest he’d issued with the requisitioning order. Steering grav-haulers was nothing - nothing! - like riding one of these freakish speed-beasts.

As long as he kept the jetbike pointed more or less straight ahead, didn’t mess around with the altitude and generally didn’t do anything sudden, Clif could keep the monstrous jet engine appeased. Mostly. He’d been blazing a path across the jungle canopy for hours now, the jetbike’s fuselage was uncomfortably hot, he kept getting scalded by gouts of steam every time he blundered through another rain squall, and the bike kept bucking under him at unexpected moments.

Worst of all, he had no idea how he was supposed to land the damn thing.

One small mercy: the coordinates he’d plugged into the bike’s dashboard vid-display were very close, almost in the crosshairs of the navigation targeting system. All Clif had to do was scout the area, find a place to land and… well, pray.

“I know we don’t talk a lot, machine god, but I really, really need you to work with me on this! I’m letting the engine pressure drop just a little bit… Omnissiah, please keep me in the sky…”

Talking to the blessed machine like a skittish beast always felt deeply awkward, but the Tech-Priests had always insisted the Battalion boys should be polite around their gear. Clif had seen plenty of reckless grunts lose fingers to weapon malfunctions, and he wasn’t about to second-guess a Cog’s advice. He even tried petting the jetbike’s dashboard before he reached for the choke switch - a shit idea, the chassis was hot enough to burn the tip of his index finger.

There was a damn fine line between giving too much throttle and downright stalling. The engine coughed at him - Saints and stars, the machine spirit simply did not want to play nice! Instead of a measured descent, Clif had just lost several metres of altitude in an ugly, stomach-wrenching plunge. He got the jetbike’s handlebars up in time to avoid colliding with the treetops, but only just. Forest creatures went scattering in all directions, disturbed by the hot plume of blazing air that had no doubt just singed the canopy as he passed.

He didn’t dare to look behind him. Clif had found a landmark, a break in the treetops, so he focused his attention on steering towards it. The bike had lost speed, but nowhere near enough for him to take his time observing the place.

Rain-crossed sunbeams glanced off a big flat surface - a body of water, great, now he stood a chance at surviving the landing without being impaled by a tree branch. White shoreline, some kind of construction. There wasn’t time to register its contours or whether the place was inhabited. The jetbike was going too fast and - hang on, was that an Arvus?

Clif’s rebellious ride let out a sudden guttering wail and swept the legs out from under him. The shoreline’s gleaming mirror tilted sideways, then disappeared altogether for a moment as the sudden impact of grav-forces short-circuited his brain. With a blink, he was back.

Fuck! He’d turned his head just a fraction too far, for just long enough to give the machine an excuse to misbehave. The jetbike’s tailpipe was now swinging outwards in a wide arc, forcing him into a spin. All Clif could do was pulse the throttle and hope that it was enough to break the bike out of a catastrophic nosedive.

The jetbike complained with an unholy howl. Clif yelled a desperate and deeply unorthodox prayer, which was completely lost in the sonic carnage. At this point it was a one-on-one battle between him and the machine spirit. An enormous double plume scoured the surface of the lake - a lake that felt suddenly very small, given how quickly he was speeding past it. One last agonising wrench with arms and hips somehow convinced the protesting bike to turn.. Turn… come on, Void-dammit!

The machine’s engines coughed and crackled again - the water, dammit, it was the water getting into the air intake! The fuselage bucked upward, hard, against Clif’s hips. Pain seared along his right leg. He felt himself lose his grip on the seat, the strap of his waist harness pulled and then tore. Instinctively, Clif made a desperate grab of the handlebars. He heard a crack: only when pain bloomed along the outside of his right forearm and his hand was suddenly powerless to hold on did he realise that he’d injured something.

After that he was just flying. The gleaming water skimmed below him, then closed in far, far too fast.

If only he’d passed out.

Instead, there was renewed pain all down his right side, a fuzzy roar in his eardrums and the radiating slap of the water’s impact against his back. At least he’d remembered to tuck and roll to the best of his ability. Ah, God-Emperor. Did he still remember how to swim?

First order of business: work out which way is up. Come on, Clif, eyes open, feel your buoyancy. The entire right side of his body was a fucking liability. Two vigorous, agonising kicks and a flailing sweep with his left arm got him into more or less the correct alignment. Water wasn’t that deep here: he’d probably scuffed himself on the terrain. Too much adrenaline to worry about it right now.

His head breached the surface tension. One gulp of sweet, sweet jungle air and - fuck! - his right arm betrayed him and sent him ducking back under. Clif was moving vertically in the water, dog-paddling with one cramped leg and one cracked hip. Up he came - a gulp, two flaps with both his arms, then under again.

This was bad. He needed to bring his arms out in a wide consistent stroke, kick his legs lizard-fashion, get some forward propulsion happening. No dice - his hip wouldn’t cooperate. Any attempt to splay the right knee out was too Void-damned painful. Clif let out a small groan, and cursed himself inwardly as the air bubbled out of his mouth.

Aster, you fucking idiot.

He could only see in waterlogged flashes - light, then blue-green turmoil, then light again. Clif’s peripheral vision was starting to get spotty. He no longer had a plan, just pure survival instinct - kick, flail, gulp air, sink again.

Just as he was ready to give up, Aster felt a steady upward pressure under his right arm. There wasn’t room in his brain or time in his mind to send a prayer of thanks the Emperor’s way. Like the bloody fool he was, Clif could only think one thing:

It’s him.

The best thing he could do to improve their chances of survival was find a consistent swimming rhythm. Aster took a moment to get his left arm and leg moving in relative unison. It took a few strokes and kicks for his rescuer to match the pace, but after that, Clif could feel his body buoying itself upward. Instead of tilting his chin back to gulp air, he focused on taking a clean breath, then bobbing back down for another kick. They were getting somewhere.

The water around his hips turned suddenly frigid: he felt a warm, strong palm press against the neck of his right femur. The familiar ripple of Lord van Calox’s sorcery passed through him, melting the pain away from his pelvis. The ominous twinge of tension in his thighs abated. Clif felt his poor confused genitals tingle from sheer relief. That was going to be difficult to explain to the Lord Inquisitor.

Heinrix was apparently in no hurry to come up for air. He kept his centre of mass a little lower in the water, supporting Clif’s right side as the agent found his strength. Clif’s knee knocked against something hard and sharp. They were nearing the lake’s edge. The pale surface of the shoreline must have been masonry of some kind. Gasping and spitting up water, the two men hauled each other to safety. Clif ended up half in, half out of the water, sprawled across his boss’s torso. He could feel the gentle patter of drizzle across his back.

He was too tired to move. Instead Aster just lay there face-down, his injured right leg resting between Heinrix’s knees and his head on the man’s chest. Something unfamiliar dug into Clif’s cheek from below, and he instinctively nudged the offending object aside with his nose. An amulet, a larger version of the one that Interrogator Xue always wore. It must have escaped the Inquisitor’s shirt-front while he was swimming. Clif wondered why Heinrix kept it hidden away.

“What have you learned today, Agent Aster?”

Lord van Calox’s right hand rested against the back of Clif’s head. The man’s fingertips were in his hair. Clif could feel their infinitesimal caress. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about it.

“Don’t joyride with a jetbike.”

Aster tried to sit up, but his right hand betrayed him with a fresh jolt of pain. Clif slumped heavily against Heinrix’s chest, knocking his chin against his boss’s sternum and biting the tip of his tongue.

“Aaouw. Groxshit.”

“Not quite the lesson I had in mind, but it’s a bad time for reprimands. Give me your hand.”

Clif shifted his right arm up so that Heinrix could examine his injury. His right index and middle fingers were awkwardly overextended. He flinched instinctively at the biomancer’s touch - there was definitely a break or sprain involved. A raindrop landed on the back of Clif’s hand, then scattered when he trembled. He kept thinking about the way the Lord Inquisitor had groaned and flinched in the shower… the way his body had distorted.

“I will make this as gentle as possible, Clif. You can trust me.”

Aster nodded hesitantly, and allowed Heinrix to explore the contours of his wrist and hand. He didn’t want to watch his fingers being manipulated back into place. Instead Clif closed his eyes. He concentrated on keeping his own breathing consistent. In, out, his ribcage and stomach gently swelling in time with each of Heinrix’s slow exhalations. Clif felt sheltered by the warm hollow of the other man’s diaphragm. In, out. A peaceful rhythm.

A flurry of frost settled and melted in Clif’s damp curls and across the broad expanse of Heinrix’s chest. The warm, soft rain contrasted pleasantly with Lord van Calox’s sorcerous chill. A few dark tufts of his body hair contrasted with the crisp white vee of the Inquisitor’s waterlogged shirt collar. He was in the same uniform he’d worn to the compound: only the jacket appeared to be missing.

The pain in Clif’s hand was no longer cringe-inducing. A faint dull ache born of fatigue was the only indication that he’d been injured. That familiar distinct tingle of sorcery lingered like lho-smoke, sweet and heady. Heinrix’s healing influence coruscated along Clif’s beleaguered tendons, bringing deep relief and deeper stimulation wherever witchery touched flesh.

When Aster finally dared to look at his hand, he was delighted to find that his fingers no longer twisted outward. When he flexed his wrist, the joint rotated with supple smoothness. The old persistent click in his carpal tunnel was gone, polished away by the Lord Inquisitor’s biomancy. Clif couldn’t prevent himself from grinning.

“Throne, you’re incredible!”

“Incredibly drenched, perhaps.” Heinrix tried to adjust his shirt collar and gave up. He graced Clif with the faintest of smiles. “It is… good to be of use.”

Aster was increasingly aware of their combined body heat, the comforting warm places where his limbs pressed against Lord van Calox. The heat spread to his face, his throat, between his thighs… oh, sweet Throne, he was cooked.

“I thought that was my line. Do I need another soaking to make us even?”

Heinrix raised an eyebrow.

“I was unaware that we were keeping score.” His smile broadened even as his voice lowered to a gentle murmur. “You can get up now, Aster.”

I’m already ‘up’ and you know it, you bloody tease! Clif scrambled onto dry land, red-faced with wordless mortification.

The scenery distracted the agent from his predicament. Blurred as the high-speed view from above had been, Clif could have sworn that the large pale arch-like structure hadn’t been part of it. Did some xenos trickery keep it hidden from a distance? The curving shapes were segmented almost like finger-bones: inlaid in each joint were teardrop-shaped sconces containing large smooth crystals. Aeldari tech. Clif had no idea how anyone would operate it, but the round platform and the enclosed shape told him one thing: Door. This enormous shape was a doorway, or something like it.

“What is this place, boss?” Clif could hear the sporadic dripping noise of the Lord Inquisitor wringing out his clothes. There seemed little point to the exercise: the ambient drizzle showed no signs of letting up. “Froscher guessed you’d be here, and Xue knew the coordinates.”

“I never took you for a snitch, Aster!” Heinrix’s voice was good-humoured. “I once escaped from Commorragh, the infamous Dark City of the Drukhari. This portal is where we emerged.”

An infamous place, and a famously inescapable place. Something didn’t add up with Heinrix’s story. Its subject matter seemed far too heavy for Lord van Calox to use such a nonchalant tone. Clif turned away from the empty portal and back to the Lord Inquisitor. Heinrix had given up trying to dry out his shirt. His body language was relaxed. He wasn’t here to reopen old war wounds. He was nostalgic.

“You ought to have seen me back then! I looked like a complete vagabond. Hal Froscher accused me of looking like a Corsair when he saw my attire.” Heinrix laughed as if he were recounting some trivial mishap.

“Why in the Emperor’s name would you feel good about any of that?”

Heinrix’s smile became a little sadder.

“Please don’t assume that Commorragh is in any way pleasant. If that city vanished from the face of the Webway, most of its own denizens would consider their fate to be a relief and a blessing. Drukhari are pathetic creatures - petty, obsessive and cursed with boredom.”

The Lord Inquisitor laid a fingertip on his right cheekbone. “While I was kidnapped in the Dark City, I suffered extensive damage to my right eye - self-inflicted under the influence of xenos trickery.” He pulled his shirt open a little more, just far enough to expose the scarred curve of his right shoulder. “And I earned these keepsakes, along with my first grey hairs. Commorragh is a mad place, Clif. I do not miss it. I miss the thrill of release, the joy of surviving to see the sun again - of the possibilities contained within that moment of freedom.”

Clif crossed his arms. The damp sleeves of his jacket squelched a little under his fingers.

"Escapism - is that what this was about? The jungle's fucking dangerous-"

Heinrix shrugged weakly. "I am used to operating alone. I'd have been fine."

“Well it's not just you any more, is it? Interrogator Xue and I were worried sick!"

Lecturing his own superior felt awkward, but Hal was speaking for the acolytes and not just himself. He pulled a wry smile to soften the blow.

"You ran off in a psychic snowstorm, took a shuttle and left the psyker kids behind with grumpy-grox Hal Froscher. I realise I’m a shit parent, but come on, boss. Are you really that scared of commitment?”

He’d meant to make a lighthearted jab, but he'd hit a raw nerve. Heinrix looked aghast.

“By the Emperor… Shit, Clif. Anguilla’s never going to forgive me!”

“Hey, hold on… “

Lord van Calox took a few agitated steps away from the Aeldari portal, glancing at the Arvus he’d arrived in. Clif hurried to catch up to him, and took hold of the psyker’s left elbow to get his attention.

“I’m sure it’s more complicated than that.”

“She won’t see it that way, will she!”

Another dusting of frost appeared around Heinrix’s head, and melted just as quickly in the tropical rain. The weather was starting to turn stormy again. Clif watched a rivulet of fresh water escape from Heinrix’s hairline and run down his temple, then the side of his cheek, then along his throat and into his collar.

“So what were you really looking for out here? Your Drukhari boyfriend?”

Heinrix flinched like a kicked dog. He slouched his shoulders forward, looking up to meet Clif’s gaze.

“I thought… Throne, I don’t know what I was thinking. Doors… go both ways. But there’s an entire Webway, an entire war-zone in between us, and I…” He exhaled a faint, mirthless laugh. “I wanted to imagine him stepping through that gate in all his finery. I wanted him to sense that I was lonely, and come for me. But he’s never going to come.”

Lord van Calox - Heinrix - the rain-drenched psyker took a half-step forward and wrapped his arms around Clif’s waist.

“Thank you, Aster - thank you for worrying about me.” He sighed. “I’ve behaved wretchedly again, haven’t I?”

“You weren’t the only one thinking with your dick today.” Clif felt Heinrix’s ribcage shudder with quiet laughter. “Anytime, boss.”

Chapter 44: Chapter Forty Four

Summary:

Clever Ravora!

“Who wants a tasty snack? Is it you, girl? Is it you?”

Vox Master Vigdis Surri Otta Toliman always appreciated an opportunity to observe the Lord Captain’s communication style. Como von Valancius did not commonly resort to bribery and baby talk. The combination worked spectacularly when wrangling the Expanse’s most spoiled lacerax.

Lord Captain Como’s chief weapon in their charm offensive was a large plasteel bucket full of fish, a recent acquisition from their latest trip to Janus. They bought pet food in bulk, freezing it in batches and saving the precious treats for days when Ravora needed a little extra incentive.

The Rogue Trader brandished a large half-thawed scomber by the tail. Vigdis did her best not to make eye contact with its mortified-looking fish face. She focused instead on the Lord Captain’s personal mechadendrite - its silvery metal coils were currently wrapped around the Rogue Trader’s neck. Bessie must be in sleep mode.

“Do you see the fishy, Ravora?”

The lacerax adopted an excited play stance, wiggling her head-tentacles excitedly and letting her long tongue hang out of her mouth. Ravora was very, very interested in the fishy.

“Asclepius, I hope you’re watching closely. Okay Ravora! Give me five plus seven.”

The lacerax settled her weight onto her back pairs of legs, extended her right front paw and began to excitedly tap her claws against the deck. A shredded patch on the bridge’s carpet, obliterated by excitable gouging swipes, indicated where Ravora had been practising her latest trick. Eight, nine, ten, eleven… twelve taps, then the beast withdrew her paw and promptly opened her jaws for her reward. Lord Captain Como tossed the fish over and Ravora gulped it down in one bite.

The first time Vox Master Vigdis had seen the lacerax feeding, she’d almost fainted - and then promptly cursed Jae Heydari for offering the Rogue Trader such a dangerous gift. Time and careful acquaintance had since taught her much about Ravora’s body language. The lacerax slept for hours at a stretch, and tended to hibernate during Warp journeys. It was wise to not run past her appointed ‘territory’ next to Lord Captain Como’s throne, and she was very protective of her Chosen Human (who happened to also be the Emperor’s Chosen).

As long as one took a few sensible precautions, Ravora was surprisingly easy to work around. The Chief Enginseer had persuaded her not to eat the servitors by supplying her with a massive custom-made rubber chew toy, which could be stuffed with nutripaste for added enrichment. She enjoyed being scratched behind her tentacle-mane with a well placed mechadendrite or autoquill stylus. Ravora and Vigdis had come to a mutual understanding. If anything, the beast was less cranky than her namesake. The Vox Master rather missed Timun Ravor’s mid-Vigil rants and dry sense of humour, but she’d always had to be mindful of his headaches.

“The Lord Captain’s hypothesis is improbable. This unit requests further demonstrations to establish whether results of behavioural experimentation are replicable.”

Magos Errant Asclepius crossed their augmetic arms, then entwined their dorsal-mounted mechadendrites over their shoulders. In this way, the Tech-Priest could broadcast their displeasure from both angles.

“Open yourself to the untapped possibilities of animal intelligence, unit Asclepius!” The Lord Captain made a kissy face at Ravora. “Look at her, isn’t she a clever girl? Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Asclepius’s human eye gazed up towards the bridge’s vaulted ceiling, and possibly beyond it into the Void itself. The Tech-Priest steeled themself for the martyrdom of hearing yet more baby talk.

“Which mathematical applications have you tested, unit Como?”

“Just addition and subtraction so far. Ooh, do you think she could handle multiplication if I demonstrated it for her? That’d take a lot of fish though… I’ve been using them as counters as well as rewards, since they’re about the only thing she’ll concentrate on.”

“This unit proposes the addition of a variable to the exercise. Let us repeat the unit Ravora’s test while obscuring her direct line of sight.”

The Rogue Trader tried walking around the Lord Captain’s ceremonial throne until the lacerax could no longer see them. This worked poorly. Ravora immediately started to trot after them, thinking she was being taken for a promenade. A couple of junior officers squawked and backed out of the way. Vigdis had instructed them in the subtle art of lacerax evasion: she was pleased to see that none of the deck officers broke into a run. That would have resulted in a percussive love-tackle and possibly, some First Aid. The Vox Master instinctively oriented her onboard auspex towards Master Surgeon Lettard Forius’s customary lurking-spot. He seemed content to watch the situation play out.

“Shit, this isn’t going to work. Magos-Errant, do you mind standing right there and fanning the skirt of your robes out a little?”

Vigdis sighed into her vox-array, and it let out a faint hiss of static. Lord Captain Como was about to do something undignified again, she felt sure of it. Sure enough, as soon as Asclepius had arranged themselves in position, the Rogue Trader ducked behind their legs with all the seriousness of a hip-shooter taking cover during a firefight. Once they confirmed that they were well concealed behind a curtain of Martian Red synth-drill, the Lord Captain called out another set of instructions to the lacerax.

“Okay Ravora! Give me thirteen minus four.”

The beast stood expectantly with her front paw hovering over the carpet. Ravora tilted her tentacled head to one side, sniffing the air. She let out a low rumble, the kind she made when she had been waiting a little too long for a treat.

“Thirteen minus four. Come on, girl! You can do it?”

The lacerax scuffed the disheveled carpet a couple of times with one half-hearted claw. Vigdis felt a pang of sympathy for the beast. She really was trying her best. Ravora let out a throaty noise of confusion: her naturally low-pitched voice meant that her complaint sounded like something between a gurgle and a bleat. Lord Captain Como relented, emerged from behind the Magos Errant and gave Ravora a fish as an apology.

“I still think she’s smart. Maybe it was a stretch to assume Ravora’s intelligence extended to understanding mathematics… Emperor knows how she was figuring out the calculations earlier.”

Vigdis raised the wrist-mounted stylus that currently stood in for her left hand.

“Vox Master Toliman. Any ideas?”

The Chief Enginseer had also turned to regard Vox Master with polite interest. Ravora was far too busy savouring her scomber to pay attention to the humans analysing her.

“Janusian Laceraxes are social animals. They form small, close-knit packs…” Vigdis tapped her stylus against the side of her leg, feeling the reassuring contact of metal against leather-clad metal. “Given the bond that Ravora has formed with you, Lord Captain, perhaps she is less interested in mathematics and more interested in whether you are happy.”

“This unit appreciates the opinions of a communications specialist.” Asclepius unwound their mechadendrites and let them float outward in a sinuous dance. “Your hypothesis has merit.”

“Hey, social intelligence is still intelligence!” Lord Captain Como was worrying at the left side of their neck again, a sign of mild distemper. “What was she doing? Telepathy?”

“This statement is false.” The Chief Enginseer’s vox-modulated tones were even more mechanical than usual. “Laceraxes are not psykers, unit Como. We have been over this.”

Vigdis interjected before they could get into another bickering match.

“It’s more likely that she was watching your body language, Lord Captain. I have noticed that Ravora’s head-tentacles always turn towards you when she is counting. Perhaps she can sense when she is getting close to the correct number of taps simply by picking up on your movements.”

“Ah, shit.” Lord Captain Como pulled a face: Ravora immediately purred and began to groom her front paw. “Iceman’s right, I do need to work on hiding my tells. Well, you’re still a good girl and a very intelligent girl, Ravora!”

The Rogue Trader put extra emphasis on the word ‘intelligent’ and shot Asclepius a mischievous look. The Magos Errant responded with a discordant binharic noise that, to Vigdis’s senses, somewhat resembled a mechanical fart. She decided it was probably best not to translate its meaning into Low Gothic. For a member of an esteemed gestalt consciousness, Asclepius Amarnat could be surprisingly immature.

Lord Captain Como offered the rest of the fish to their enormous pet. Ravora’s head-tentacles gripped the outside of the bucket while she thrust her whole muzzle inside. The visceral sounds of chewing and happy growling mingled with the low noise of the bridge elevator’s sacred mechanisms. Vigdis’s onboard comms relays received a discreet ping. The Rogue Trader’s errant swain had finally decided to show up.

Bessie the mechadendrite reactivated out of sleep mode, perking up from Lord Captain Como’s shoulder and twitching its manipulator array. The Rogue Trader’s reaction to Lord Inquisitor van Calox’s arrival was far more understated. Vigdis noticed that they made no effort to dissuade Ravora from her noisy repast: perhaps they had decided to trade one minor discourtesy for another.

Instead, it was the beast who looked up. The plasteel bucket fell to the carpeted deck with a juddering thud. A lone fish-head skittered onto the floor in front of the Lord Captain’s throne. Its rheumy wet eye stared up at Vigdis. The Vox Master’s buccal implants and face mask did little to suppress her nausea. The fish wasn’t to blame.

Vigdis Surri Otta Toliman did not have augmetic eyes. She could not see the outline of Lord Captain Como’s anti-psychic miasma. Experience had taught her to listen to the Gaussian crackle of her auspices and the revulsion of her instincts, and maintain her distance accordingly. The indistinct chill washed against her like the impact of a gigantic wingbeat. Ravora shook her tentacled mane and bared her teeth in a low roar. Asclepius’s mechadendrites reared up above the Chief Enginseer’s shoulders. They had both sensed the Rogue Trader’s displeasure.

Como, the Shadow of Rosetta. Como the xenos-tamer. Como the Daemonifuge. The little Rogue Trader wore no fancy white uniform or badge of office. Their bloodline was proof of their mandate, and their will could call the very Immaterium to heel.

Every deck officer and crew member instinctively looked to their Lord Captain, then at the Lord Inquisitor. Heinrix van Calox had arrived with no entourage or guards, nor did he need them while he was aboard the Venatrix. Doors would open for him, people would offer him polite reverence either out of respect or out of fear. He met Lord Captain Como’s flash of temper with iron-willed equanimity.

The friction lasted for only a moment. Seneschal Sauerback took it upon herself to call the bridge crew to order and herald the Lord Inquisitor’s arrival. The collective snapping of heels and thumping of fists against chests rippled along the bridge. Vigdis listened for the whine of servomotors and the clank of metal on metal as every nearby servitor saluted in unison. Moments like these made her feel proud of the Venatrix and its brave crew.

Como von Valancius spread both their arms wide, advanced a few strides and in that action, they dispelled the miasma that had just swept the space behind them. Vox Master Vigdis felt a familiar surge of warm vitality in the organic parts of her limbs. A psychic Blank’s entropy always left a shimmer of relief as it dissipated. Asclepius seemed unbothered by the Lord Captain’s outburst, but that always seemed to be the way with Cogs. Ravora remained in a protective stance with her head-tentacles turned towards Lord van Calox. Smart girl.

The rest of the performance was predictable: the courteous embrace, the good-humoured exchange of pleasantries, even the light-hearted laughter that would have seemed so uncharacteristic for van Calox a decade ago. It was all rote by this point. Como’s hand was the only variable in the routine: the Rogue Trader held out their fishy palm instead of resting it in the crook of Heinrix’s arm, then got on tiptoe to whisper something in the man’s ear. As usual, he showed no sign of minding the proximity.

Lord van Calox placed the flat of his hand against the small of the Lord Captain’s back, and the pair began a leisurely promenade towards the small side elevator that descended to the Rogue Trader’s private quarters. The bridge crew relaxed just long enough for First Officer Sauerback to issue more orders, then went scuttling back to their respective posts. All was orderly and normal on board the von Valancius flagship.

As Master of the Vox, it was Vigdis Toliman’s duty to ensure that the crew always saw their commander in precisely the manner that Lord Captain Como sought to project. She made eye contact with Ascleius’s augmetic lens. The Magos Errant responded with a quick binharic chirp. The Rogue Trader’s quarters were to be sealed for the duration of the meeting: not even Lieutenant Commander Vent would have access.

Let the Protectors of the Expanse have some privacy for once.

Chapter 45: Chapter Forty Five

Summary:

The psykers meet the Lord Captain.

Discoloured transparency with a smoke-grey swirl in the tint. Safety glass. A cup fell from hip-height and collided with a metal deck. A pop. Tiny square shards, everywhere at once: a whole constellation of shock. Less dangerous than the jagged kind, but still rough on little hands.

Olivar had tried his best not to snoop. He’d run through all the mental tricks the Drill Abbotts had taught him, plus a few of his own. Anguilla might not know that she wanted to broadcast, but she was pushing outwards with her mind. Anger doesn’t work like that, An. If you displace it outside of yourself, it just swarms and spreads. Oli wanted to tell her as much, but she wasn’t in a mood to listen.

Two looming towers faded into the haze of a Janusian rainstorm. Two fortresses, but neither of them was a home. Oli screwed up his face and forced Anguilla’s private thoughts out of his mind. He needed to concentrate on reality.

The trio stood in a mismatched row: the two tall girls together, with Olivar on the side furthest away from Anguilla - not that it had helped him respect her privacy. He looked at the toes of his shoes: their thin, worn synth-leather had been a bitch to polish, but he’d done his best. The carpet’s deep pile looked soft. Oli imagined his uncle standing here in front of the Rogue Trader’s desk. Did he give verbal reports, or just leave dataslates for the Lord Captain to look at later? What would Janris Danrok have done in Olivar’s place?

Aleena’s mind was quiet. No surprises there: she seemed to be rolling with the tides of fate. No strong emotions meant no vivid images to feed Oli’s powers. He should have been relieved about that. Instead, the uneasy void of Leena’s mind made him fidgety. What did she want? Fuck, what did he want?

The Rogue Trader was nauseating. High Factotum Ambrogio had briefed the psykers, so they’d all known what to expect. A faint scuff on the carpet, worn from repeated foot-marks, seemed to indicate a minimum safe distance from the dais with the big desk. Time and repeated exposure were supposed to make direct contact more tolerable. Olivar wondered exactly how long that’d take. He couldn’t help remembering what had happened the last time he’d been up close to a psychic Blank.

Como von Valancius was more powerful than Justinian had ever been. Oli looked at the Rogue Trader from a double perspective. The psyker’s human eyes took in the details of pose and costuming, noted the objects on the Lord Captain’s desk - this was a scene of power and control, deployed for Olivar’s edification. The eye of the mind, too, was open.

Oli did not expect Lord Captain Como to let any obvious images slip: if he did pick up a vision, that would mean the Rogue Trader had willed him to see it. Blanks were… odd, in any case. Contradictions, nebulous inversions, entropic crevasses made their inner worlds dangerous to navigate. Olivar wondered how the Voidship’s Astropaths managed to send messages on the Lord Captain’s behalf. They must get terrible headaches.

As expected, there wasn’t much to glean. More of a texture than an image, really. Lord Captain Como didn’t wear a lot of colour: their linen shirt was undyed and almost matched their sandy hair. They’d thrown a dark blue Corporal’s coatee over the top, confident that no-one on the flagship would mistake them for an actual junior NCO. A silver mechadendrite of custom design coiled round their throat instead of a necklace.

The Rogue Trader’s overall styling invoked masculinity, but the Lord Captain’s mental state wasn’t pushing Oli towards making a firm call on that. Their self-image was unorthodox. A container full of potentia? No, Como was imagining a tall cylindrical room lined with cogitators, crackling with lightning around the ceiling. Were they supposed to be the lightning or the enclosure that tamed it?

Only a worshipper of the Omnissiah would think about their own body in such an inorganic way. That explained the mechadendrite the Rogue Trader wore, as well as their metal index fingers and the electoos on their forearms. Olivar had no idea what all the implants were for. Electro-priest stuff? The Lord Captain’s eyes looked fine. Tech-heresy, maybe? Nah, the Lord Captain didn’t seem the type.

If he was honest, Oli had liked the Lord Captain from the moment he realised they were more or less the same height. It felt nice not to be surrounded by Voidborn beanpoles - no offence to Anguilla.

“Let me level with you.”

Crap! Had the Lord Captain picked up his thoughts? Nope… just a coincidence, calm down, Oli. The Rogue Trader glanced at a small widget on their desk: five ball bearings suspended in a cradle of wires. A fresh mental image: the ball bearing at the far end moved outward, then the pendulum swung back in and impacted against the rest of the row. Tick. But only the ball at the far end moved as a result. That didn’t seem right? Olivar wanted to try the toy out for himself.

“Whatever the representatives of the Holy Inquisition may have told you about joining their cadre, or conclave or whatever van Calox calls it… I’m afraid that won’t be happening.” Como glanced up at Anguilla-height. “At least not for a while.”

The dropped cup, the scattered glass. Olivar dared to turn his head and try to look past Aleena. He couldn’t see Anguilla directly. Instead, a clenched hand… the fist turned into a salute. Steel and ice, shards and storms. None of the trio talked back to the Rogue Trader. That would normally have been Anguilla’s role.

“Young people hate to hear that they’re young, but I’m pushing seventy so I can say what I Void-damn-well like.” Oli wondered who did the Lord Captain’s rejuvenat treatments - that medicus deserved a raise.

“I’ve seen the Iceman’s curriculum. He’s done a fine job of getting you Sanctioned, or as close as we can manage it without sticking you on a ship to Holy Terra. Credit where it’s due, but… your education’s been lacking in other ways. I think you three need life skills.”

Olivar raised his hand, realised that his fingers were trembling slightly and went to lower it again.

“You, Danrok kid. Oh, I heard you got disowned, bit shit, that. Go on, speak! I won’t bite.”

Lord Captain Como wasn’t mad. If they’d been angry, he’d have felt their aura and probably vomited all over his nicely polished shoes.

“Pardon, milord. What happened to Drill Abbott Justinian?”

“His head imploded.”

Olivar made a tremendous effort and resisted the urge to sigh. Como gave him a half-smile.

“You’re a good sport. Justinian apparently overextended himself while attempting to conduct an unsanctioned Assignment ritual. I can’t say I’ve seen many other psychic Blanks, let alone ones who have suffered a mental breach - it would appear that the force of such a breach turns inward rather than violently outward, as it does for a psyker.” The Lord Captain shrugged.

“I doubt that even a talented child psyker could have put a dent in Drill Abbott Justinian. Blanks are tough buggers. That leaves me with a bigger mystery, but it puts our current batch of students in the clear. I have no idea if that information’s meant to be classified, so let’s agree not to mention it around Lord van Calox, shall we?”

There didn’t seem to be much love lost between the Lord Inquisitor and the Rogue Trader. Weren’t they dating or something? Maybe this was some weird Old People kink, where they fought and made up to keep things fun. Nobles did that a lot.

Unaware of Olivar’s scathing assessment of their love life, Rogue Trader von Valancius fished some props out of a desk drawer to assist with the next part of their performance. Three rolls of heavy vellum paper with nicely-affixed purity seals, three basic dataslates with durable rubber coverings - the kind you’d see Technomats use on worksites. Last of all the Lord Captain pulled out three data-sticks, the kind that could carry digital gelt as well as information, affixed to thin blue lanyards.

“Okay, you three, here’s the deal. I’m going to give you some adult freedoms and in return, I expect you to behave like adults when you’re on duty. On the bridge, you salute and you call me Lord Captain. In here - eh, boss, uncle, I’m easy on titles. But out there, I’ve got a crew counting on me to make the hard calls.”

Keen grey eyes stared at each of the teenagers in turn. Como appeared satisfied with their level of respect.

“Whatever else you’re doing, my direct orders take top priority. If I ping you, you ping back. If you need me, ping Vox Master Vigdis. You three are temporarily in my retinue and under my direct protection. That means if you need to talk one-on-one, we schedule a private audience in this study. It also means that if anyone on this Voidship or on one of my worlds harasses you for any reason, they have insulted the Emperor’s Chosen and I will respond accordingly.”

Oli noticed that Lord Captain Como had focused their attention on Aleena as they made that last statement.

“As Sanctic psykers, your most important duty on board the Venatrix is responding to Warp breaches in your vicinity. Do not engage Warp entities directly - that’s my job. Focus on strengthening the will of the crew around you and getting as many people to safety as possible. Then you seal the affected bay, you get on the vox and let the strike teams deal with it. You want military training, talk to Lieutenant Commander Vent - she’s our Master at Arms.”

A pause.

“Come on, shipmates, you must have questions. I know Anguilla fuckin’ does.”

Aleena couldn’t help sniggering at Lord Captain Como’s sudden crudeness. Anguilla turned and mouthed a silent ‘no’ at her. Olivar went to her rescue as best as he could.

“Lord Captain, where will we be assigned when we’re not, um, contending with the forces of Chaos?”

It was the Rogue Trader’s turn to laugh.

“Throne, you sound anxious! Look - Olivar, wasn’t it? - The whole point of not letting the Lord Inquisitor snap you up is that it gives you options, and the ability to enjoy life a bit. A long-standing hole in my roster of senior staff means that I’ve got a very specific apprenticeship in mind for you. Fortunately, the job comes with decent perks to make up for the workload. As for you two, I’ve got some thoughts. Anguilla?”

The telekine had finally shown a glimmer of her usual curiosity.

“I was wondering what happened to the other children from the shipboard Schola.”

“An excellent question, and one I anticipated!” Como passed a data-slate over. “Your former classmates are settling into different roles around the flagship. I suggest you visit them and get reacquainted. Several Pipewarden clans have also expressed an interest in meeting with you.” The Rogue Trader smiled, and Olivar picked up an impression of genuine warmth.

“This Voidship was your home for ten years, Anguilla. Maybe you will decide that your place is at your guardian’s side after all. But whatever your decision, there will always be a home on the Venatrix for you. You have my word on that.”

Leena was starting to fidget. Oli risked a breach of etiquette to reach out, find the fingers of her left hand and give them an encouraging squeeze. Her fingertips felt cold.

“Aleena, Child of the Lilaethan.”

Lord Captain Como surprised Olivar by adopting a very Aeldari posture. He should have guessed that a Rogue Trader was habituated to dealing with xenos, but still… their use of the Shape, while impressively fluid, seemed terribly casual compared with Farseer Eklendyl’s precision. They made an interesting Shape, too: it flowed between ideas, evoking forests / a pearl in the Void / something about a voice, but also about pottery - or was it weaving? There was a lot going on here.

“Just Aleena is fine, Lord Captain. I’m only half a retch anyway.” Leena blushed pink under her green-tinged freckles.

“Half a retch is still all excellent, I’m sure! Aleena, let me admit the limits of my competence right away. I do not know what your role on this Voidship is - yet.” Lord Captain Como raised one shiny metal index finger.

“So here is what I will do. You’ll have a berth near Olivar and Anguilla, and I will make up a temporary rank for you. I have issued you with a pass that grants you the right to be stationed in any area of the flagship that you choose. Explore the Venatrix to its fullest, Aleena. Get to know my crew. Find a place that you like and a task that brings you fulfilment. Choice is a rarity in the Imperium. It is the best gift that I can think of to offer you.”

“You honour me, Lord Captain.”

Leena’s posture seemed as carefully neutral as ever. Only Olivar could see the kaleidoscope that her soul emitted. A hundred upon a hundred possibilities danced in a halo around her head, the myriad bright and dangerous colours of hope.

Chapter 46: Chapter Forty Six

Summary:

Unsanctioned relics and secrets held close.

The stupa had probably seen a lot more foot traffic in Lady Incendia’s day. Lord van Calox had to admire the efficiency of the shrine’s design. By entering the circular chamber and proceeding along its clockwise path, worshippers could pass the ikons and relics of Imperial Saints and holy figures without jostling or blocking each other’s pilgrimage. Every sacred item received their due portion of veneration, and the worshippers emerged from the exit door after making a near-complete rotation, presumably invigorated and ready to face the trials of mundane life.

Inquisition agents did still come here, of course, but most of the Enforcers and footsoldiers under Heinrix’s purview tended to conduct their worship during prayer-drill, with their squad members. Froscher insisted on a quarter-chron window of alone time in the stupa every so often, to wrestle with whatever inner daemons a former Culexus Assassin needed to face. Lord van Calox considered such personal accommodations a trifling price to pay for the man’s loyalty. It also gave the Lord Inquisitor a useful pretext to have the stupa vacated when necessary, as it was today.

Agent Aster took his time strolling around the stupa. The Acolyte-in-training had just come from a sparring session with Froscher when Heinrix had embarked on the Velvet Glove: the Lord Inquisitor’s low-urgency ping had nonetheless sent him jogging straight over to rendezvous with his boss. Clif’s assiduousness was sweet, and his recent exertions added an endearing flush to his soldier’s tan: but Heinrix hoped that in future, the Acolyte would learn to value his own time a little more.

Observant as always, Aster was busy taking note of all the different reliquaries in Incendia’s old collection. Some of the cases had been fitted with plexglas panels for monstrance, while other more fragile items were fully screened from the public gaze. A couple of bone fragments encased in rock crystal caught Clif’s eye. Heinrix took pleasure in watching the Acolyte figure out how the bone had been encapsulated. Supposedly the bone shards were meant to be splinters taken from the body of Saint Drusus himself. If Heinrix added up all the Drusian body parts from around the Koronus Expanse and put them into one coffin, he estimated that the resulting reliquary would be twelve feet long and bulging at the seams.

The Lord Inquisitor found it unsettling that none of these purported relics had proved to be heretical artifacts, or even dupes - at least, if someone prayed earnestly at a Shrine of Saint Drusus, they would be sure to leave with a light heart and a certain degree of mental fortification. Heinrix did not like the idea that a worshipper’s devotion might prove more efficacious than the substance of a relic itself. Yet were his own powers of biomancy not a kind of twisted proof that faith and willpower could triumph over the constraints of mortal flesh?

Heinrix’s stomach churned uneasily as he thought about the other, more important category of Imperial relics… those that pertained to the bodies of the God-Emperor and His own Sons. Como’s Warrant of Trade, for example, had been signed with an oversized pen by an enormous left hand in what Heinrix desperately hoped was human blood. Was it enough that the Venatrix’s crew, and by extension the von Valancius Protectorate, believed that the blood belonged to the Master of Mankind? How would one even prove such a thing, with the Maw closed and the Emperor Himself too preoccupied to verify His vassals’ ancient contracts? Some things just had to be taken on faith.

“Will you be putting this on display for the faithful too?” Clif held up the long rectangular box that He’d been carrying since his rendezvous in the landing bay. His eyes narrowed.

“I can tell when you’re trying not to laugh, boss. This isn’t some kind of initiation prank, is it?”

Heinrix couldn’t think of anything more profane than the scenario that Aster had just conjured in his mind. Ah, Throne, just imagine it… whole squads of Enforcers traipsing through the stupa, kneeling to pray in front of the Lord Inquisitor’s magnificence! Not even Calcazar’s massive ego would tempt him to that kind of heresy. It was bad enough when people admired the Inquisitorial rosette with inappropriate idolatry.

“I did not mean to make fun of you, Aster. Suffice it to say that we are not going to display this particular artifact.”

Imperial shrines did not only safeguard holy relics, they also happened to be one of the most secure locations on a Voidship. The Velvet Glove had no shortage of discreet storage compartments, thanks to its chequered history as a pirate queen’s pleasure craft: and at present, Heinrix van Calox had need of that discretion. The Lord Inquisitor approached one of the enclosed reliquaries, counted the cabochons inlaid across its golden case and pressed the boss of his signet ring against a hollow socket. The skull in the ring met its engraved match. With a click and a hiss, the reliquary’s front panel opened. Heinrix swung it out of the way and motioned for Clif to descend the narrow ship’s staircase that the empty reliquary had concealed.

“Hm. Didn’t know we’d be in an enclosed space. Should’ve taken a shower.”

“Relax, I am not that delicate.”

“Easy for you to say, boss. You always smell nice.”

Aster was being sincere, and he was embarrassed about it: Heinrix took care to restrain himself from scrutinising the Acolyte any further with his biomancy. It felt wrong to be so aware that another person liked him - wrong because he was Aster’s superior, and wrong because the Inquisitor had the advantage of senses that Aster did not.

Clif handled the steep ladder-like steps with practised ease. Heinrix wondered how many smugglers’ caches he’d visited, perhaps even hidden in, in his former life.

“Your own comfort comes first, Clif. This was merely a social call.”

The Lord Inquisitor managed the descent in one well-timed leap: Clif knew his body language well enough to step out of the way. Heinrix knew the secret room was well-insulated, and didn’t bother to mitigate the impact of his landing. All his uniformed stiffness and carefully orchestrated gentility on the Venatrix had irritated him. It felt good to flex both his body and his will for a moment.

“Funny place for a chat, boss.”

It was dark down here, aside from a few wall-mounted pin lumens that were half obstructed by contraband. Clif squinted around at the various crates and containers. Heinrix gently caught hold of Aster’s wrist and dissuaded him from poking at a decorative Drukhari chest before he envenomed his fingertips upon its spiked edges.

Lord Calcazar’s xeno-artifact collection made up more than three quarters of the stash: the remainder were items that Lord van Calox had confiscated. Most of those would go to the Inquisition base on Foulstone for triage, processing and in the majority of cases - incineration. The older xenoheretical items were not so easy to dispose of. Heinrix was still working out the origin and purpose of most of them, specifically whether they were related to Nomos in some way. He might just resort to asking the tamed C’Tan shard for advice at this rate. Better not to catastrophise to that extent… he was sure he still had options.

“I felt that I would be imposing on you if I invited you all the way over to my chambers for a simple conversation. Going into your quarters seemed inappropriate: I don’t want you to become the subject of unwanted rumours.”

Not that they both hadn’t done as much, but that was before the nightclub and the lake and… things. Plausible deniability had been on their side.

A quick glance at Clif: Heinrix had expected him to protest, to say the crew could think whatever they liked. Aster was smarter than the Inquisitor had given him credit for. If they began an affair - not that either of them had mentioned that word, affair, yet - it could expose them both to great danger.

“Cramped as it is, this repository is safe territory. Besides, I wasn’t lying about needing to secure that item away from prying eyes.”

Heinrix indicated the container in Clif’s hands. He sensed the man’s curiosity - he’d been curious ever since the Lord Inquisitor had handed him that box. Aster had noticed Lord van Calox’s attention. His biorhythms kicked into an amusing little feedback loop where Clif’s serotonin levels spiked in response to Heinrix’s eye contact - which, naturally, only made the Inquisitor want to tease him more. Heinrix had become absorbed in the act of observing all the little details in Aster’s big brown eyes. Clif’s pupils were starting to dilate as he adjusted to the darkness.

“I admit I’m curious.”

Oh no, Clif was far too tempting when he spoke softly like that. Neither of them could retreat, it would be too obvious of a rejection in this small room where every move felt theatrical.

“It must be a powerful and dangerous thing, if you traded it for three psykers.”

That… was not an accurate reflection of Heinrix’s exchange with the Lord Captain. If only Como had offered more than the promise of a favour in return for temporary custody of the three children, he might not still be feeling the sting of shame. He wasn’t ready to shape a child’s life - not when he had been so terribly mistaken about his own role model. Heinrix hadn’t just let Anguilla down, he had revealed his own irresponsibility. At least that could begin to change, starting now.

Heinrix laid his hands on the box, pressed the pad of his right thumb against a section of its unremarkable dark metal casing, and gestured for Clif to open it.

“I am curious to see what you make of this particular… artifact.”

Ethics could go to the Void - there was no way Heinrix was going to miss out on the entertainment value of watching Clif Aster’s reaction, biological stimuli included. Some opportunities just had to be taken.

First the Acolyte looked at it. He glanced up at Heinrix’s face, startled: then at the psyker’s body, then at his face again as Clif realised exactly where his subconscious had directed him. His mouth opened, then closed: he frowned, then opened his mouth again.

All sorts of interesting circulatory blooms and eddies flourished around his body. Heinrix could discern the currents of Aster’s oxygenated blood beneath his training clothes and his flushed skin. The fact that he was still fresh from exercising only made the chemical signature of his pheromones more enticing. Heinrix had to close his eyes for a moment and calm his own frenetic heartbeat. It wasn’t an effective tactic. His biomancer’s senses urged him to focus on Clif.

“So. It’s… very red.”

“My favourite colour.” Aster was fun to tease.

“With the low light, I thought it might be one of those rosettes for a second.”

Heinrix snickered. “Imagine that…”

Clif’s composure shattered as he did, in fact, imagine that.

“Xue would have a few complaints, I expect.” They both winced as they laughed. Heinrix, in particular, did not relish the thought of leaving himself in Interrogator Xue’s indelicate clutches. Clif couldn’t help giving the box another look.

“I’ve got to hand it to Lord Captain Como, I think they just invented a whole new class of blackmail material.”

“Oh, I doubt they’d ever use it against me.”

Clif glanced down at the box yet again. Throne, he seemed entranced by it…

“If you think about it, I guess it’s kind of flattering.” Heinrix wondered if he was about to pick up the item and measure its dimensions. “Someone had a lively imagination.”

The Inquisitor coughed to mask his pelvic discomfiture at the thought of Aster doing more than simply imagining things.

“All the same, I would prefer if my vital statistics were not on display. You can see why I was less than eager to place it in a shrine.”

“Oh? That’s… accurate?”

“Aside from the colour.”

Clif raised his big eyebrows. “Damn! Maybe you should make a shrine for it after all. Pretty sure the Emperor’s blessed something.”

“Don’t even think about it, Aster.”

Clif shook his head in wonderment. He closed the container with surprising gentleness, which only confused Heinrix’s poor body even further.

“I have so many questions.”

The Inquisitor suddenly felt like making Aster work a little harder for his answers. Maybe it was because Heinrix had become the victim of the teasing, and he wanted to regain some of his composure.

“Try thinking about the problem like an agent.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Well. Not bite.” Clif’s physiognomy did not lend itself well to dirty looks, but he managed to convey his own kind of doe-eyed salaciousness. “That’d be mean.”

Heinrix closed his eyes again. Don’t use the biomancy, that’s cheating.

“You and the Lord Captain, huh? I guess a psyker and a… one of what Froscher is, wouldn’t have an easy time getting it on. Did you get it made for them?” Heinrix kept his eyes shut and nodded.

“That was nice of you.”

Heinrix heard him step away just a bit. A small noise, somewhere beyond the swirling fleshy pink and fuzzy eigengrau of Heinrix’s obscured vision. Clif had stashed the box among the other containers. Aster returned to his place, then took another step closer to the Lord Inquisitor. It was impossible to ignore him at this proximity.

“Can you look at me?”

Heinrix opened his eyes. He’d known how close Clif was, felt his warmth, perceived his scent. It was all he could do not to clutch at the Acolyte like a hard-Void recolliger clinging to his tow-rope.

“They gave you back the…”

“-the Mark H-”

“-the Mark H.” Clif did his best to suppress his mirth when he saw Heinrix’s expression. The Acolyte was trying to be kind. “And despite wanting to keep it a secret, you still wanted me to know all about it.” His brow furrowed. “Why?”

Heinrix felt suddenly very tired.

“Because it is not needed. Como and I are no longer in a sexual relationship.” A stab of adrenaline made his guts seize, but he was inured to discomfort. “Nobody else must find out about this, Clif. I am deadly serious.”

Now was the time for him to seize Aster by the arm.

“This isn’t about my reputation, or about Lord Captain Como. This is about the Koronus Expanse, and public perceptions about its security. If people believe that we are anything less than the most steadfast and intimate of allies, civil unrest will be the least of our problems. Do you understand?”

Clif’s gaze shifted sideways, and he turned his face to follow.

“I don’t think you should have told me about this, boss.”

Aster couldn’t tear himself away for long: Heinrix could sense the competing impulses of his fear and his attraction. Fear never won such a battle. All the Inquisitor had to do was wait. He felt just a little twinge of guilt for the calculated nature of his actions, then dismissed the harshness of his self-judgement. Even if Heinrix could not read Clif’s body language, he would never have just let the man leave.

“Did you want me to keep an important secret, is that it? So I could feel like I had a bit of power over you for a change?”

“Not entirely.” Heinrix hadn’t considered that angle until Clif mentioned it. It wasn’t a bad idea to offer the Acolyte a few concessions but… “With all that stands in the way of -” he gulped- “of us, I wanted to remove at least this one obstacle.”

Now he had Aster’s complete attention. The Acolyte’s hand found Heinrix’s elbow, then his waist. Clif stared voraciously until Heinrix was almost too overwhelmed to keep speaking.

“Do not be envious of Como von Valancius. They do not know you personally, but I am sure they would wish you the best. In other circumstances I would be proud to have you on my arm at every public occasion.” It was difficult, even with biomancy, to keep his voice from wavering. “Unfortunately these are not the right circumstances.”

“You want it.” Clif’s breathing had become shallow.

The Acolyte pressed himself against Heinrix until their chests and then their hips were touching. As if it were not painfully, urgently obvious that Heinrix wanted Aster in all ways and at all times, oh, sweet Throne, he was bliss itself to hold…

“You want it as much as I do… Fuck, I can’t believe you actually broke up with a Rogue Trader just to prove a point.”

Aster laughed as he dipped his head to brush his cheek against Heinrix’s jaw. The faint hint of half-day stubble made the Inquisitor instinctively chase after the sensation with his own little nudge.

“You’re a bit crazy, Iceman, you do know that.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Heinrix’s laugh turned into an animal whimper as Clif nuzzled the side of his neck. Ah, Throne, he could feel every little press of the big man’s lips - such delicate touches! - with a laser-focused intensity that threatened to rob him of any remaining sanity.

“Mmm… proves nothin’-

Clif’s jovial, half-muffled murmur sent a glimmer of bioelectricity coursing from Heinrix’s throat up to his cheeks and earlobe. The mere contact of his breath was enough to be distracting. Aster had to kiss him properly - he had to, or Heinrix felt certain that he would die of sheer stupid, boyish longing.

“You drive me insane - your every look, your every touch-”

“-I want you to biomancy me.”

Heinrix pulled his head back for the longest moment that he could bear.

“What? I - Biomancy how?”

“Do magic to me, Heinrix.” Clif’s delivery was sultry enough to make a courtesan blush. “Right here, right now, fix my tongue. Show me your sorcery. I want you to.”

“Why now?”

The tempo of Clif’s heartbeat stepped up by several notches.

“Because I want you to kiss me while you do it.”

Was Clif’s request going to make both the kiss and the biomancy more difficult? Yes. Was Heinrix going to attempt it anyway? Absolutely.

Pride was the trap, not desire. If Heinrix was going to use his abilities safely, he needed to remember that. Don’t get swept up in the head-rush of controlling another man’s body: don’t try to force your powers on him. Just help him in the way he wants to be helped, and enjoy that feeling.

Yes…. yes, that was right. He’d always wanted to be a healer, not just a torturer.

“As you say, Clif. Here, let me hold you still.”

Heinrix let go of Aster and placed both his palms against the man’s chest in a grounding gesture. It was wisest to start with a baseline scan, so that he knew how Clif’s body behaved when it was in a neutral and pain-free state. Aster was brimming with hormonal excitement. Heinrix took a long, slow breath, waiting for Clif to echo his body language. What a strong heartbeat he had!

The linen fabric of Aster’s training shirt was pleasantly crisp against the Inquisitor’s fingertips. He moved his hands up a little, caressing the broad shape of Aster’s pectoral muscles - Nature had done magnificent work when she formed such a man… His index fingers found the rolled edge of the training shirt’s neckline. Heinrix suppressed the urge to grab at the fabric and tear the shirt open. He could do it - he could summon the strength in an instant. But he wasn’t a beast.

Instead he caressed each side of Clif’s neck, letting his hands find their way to the man’s nape and stroke their way up the short-cropped section of hair there. Heinrix was desperate to entangle his fingers in Aster’s loose brown curls. First, though, he needed to keep the Acolyte’s head stable. Heinrix used the balls of each thumb to press carefully against Clif’s masseter muscles and the square outer edges of his jaw. The big man’s mouth fell open - such full, strong lips - sweet Throne he looked inviting!

Clif gazed at Heinrix through heavy-lidded eyes. The low lighting made his long eyelashes stand out against the curve of his cheekbone when he blinked. Those big, brown, observant eyes… there was no doubt that he would concentrate on every moment of their kiss. The Inquisitor brought his face closer until the aquiline ridge of his nose brushed against Clif’s cheek. Aster had closed his eyes fully: Heinrix did the same but kept his biomancer’s senses enhanced to the fullest. Every impulse in every cell - Clif’s body and his own - it no longer mattered.

Their lips touched softly at first, an exchange as warm and indistinct as the mingling of their breath. Then Clif let out a tiny exultant cry. Heinrix surged forward, unable to restrain himself any longer.

Warm, strong, insistent - his lips and then his tongue and all the tiny muscles of his mouth were pressing and touching and discovering wonderful new sensations. He felt the faint scruff of Clif’s stubble against his cheek and chin; the languorous vibration of a half-swallowed moan. His taste, his scent, intoxicating in its raw immediacy.

Heinrix was used to painful kisses, to kisses that sapped his strength and forced him to keep some of his power in reserve. He’d been bitten by clumsy xenos fangs, lapped at by an Explorator’s forked augmetic tongue, chilled to the bone by Como’s contact. Now, for once, he could simply remember what it felt like to share himself with someone. Heinrix gasped despite his lack of need for air: Clif’s life-giving mouth closed around him once more.

He’d been waiting for this feeling for a very long time.

It took several long, sensuous moments for Heinrix van Calox to remember that he had a job to do. He let his right hand shift to cradle the back of Aster’s skull, murmuring appreciatively when his fingers tousled Clif’s hair. Oh, it was so soft and downy! Clif instinctively tilted his head back, relaxing his jaw even further. Since he had a very slight height advantage over the Inquisitor, this gave Heinrix a better angle to press in for an even deeper kiss.

The penetration of Heinrix’s tongue would be positively filthy in any other context. He brought his left hand down against the Acolyte’s larynx, using the contours of Clif’s voicebox as a point of reference and pressing very gently upward, aiming for the root of the tongue. A probing lick coaxed Clif to press his own tongue up against the roof of his palate. Good. Any natural assistance Aster could provide would help his physiology to adapt to the changes he was about to undergo.

Heinrix allowed his biomancy to ripple upward very subtly at first, loosening any rigid tissues, making sure he avoided any important nerve endings. He didn’t want the experience to be painful for Clif… if he could manage to make it pleasurable, that was an acceptable side effect. More than acceptable.

Another reassuring lapping motion with his tongue, a targeted pulse from his fingertips into the flesh of Clif’s lingual frenulum… Heinrix felt the little tendon loosen just a fraction. Excellent. He released the pressure of his fingertips against the big man’s throat, massaging the area just a little to soothe away any marks his fingernails might have left on the skin.

A quick pull back so that Clif could come up for air - Heinrix really must remember that the other man did not have Warp-enhanced lung capacity… Clif nearly choked on his gasp, and the Inquisitor hastily checked that his airway was safe and open. The Acolyte was simply taking the measure of his newly flexible tongue. His eyes were a little wet, his cheeks were so flushed that the sight of them renewed Heinrix’s already implacable hard-on, but he did not seem to be in undue discomfort.

The Inquisitor entertained himself by watching Clif explore the capabilities of his new vocal arrangement. He seemed delighted to find that he could roll his tongue up at the sides, as well as achieve the deep palatal flicks that had bedeviled him for weeks. Clif’s unmitigated joy was infectious. Heinrix found himself smiling - really smiling - even as he lavished the younger man’s skin with soft caresses.

Clif swallowed heavily. The memory and language centres of his brain had begun to shimmer in a cascade of firing neurons. Heinrix enjoyed the view as he waited for the young man to collect his thoughts.

Petals spread for the sun / a bird erupts in flight / magma coils in the earth

How precious! His pronunciation had a warrior’s roughness to it, but that made the contrast with his poetic choice of theme all the more charming. Aster had not improvised his passage of Aeldari motifs, nor had he cribbed it from any of the Inquisition’s grammar texts. He must have workshopped it, with the help of his peers, specifically to amend the flaws in his vocal technique. It was just like a soldier and an athlete to come up with exercises to help his tongue handle… well, the Tongue. His commitment was impressive.

Heinrix delighted in the big man’s pride finally being able to get the words out. If only he could show the Acolyte how intelligent and capable and remarkable he truly was! On impulse, he pressed his lips to Clif’s beautiful mouth once more.

“I changed my mind, Aster,” he gasped. “I don’t think I can keep you hidden after all.”

Chapter 47: Chapter Forty Seven

Summary:

A Farseer's attempts at courting.

CW, mild eroticism, the explicit stuff is in the next instalment.

Pride was the trap, not desire. To grasp, to snatch, to possess, to obsess - these were ways to court Sai’lanthresh, not one’s own lover. But to offer humility and respect, to cherish, to offer a sheltering embrace - these acts embodied the Path of the Cultivator. Lady Isha blessed all physical unions that were mindful and sincere.

Eklendyl had done his duty to the Craftworld several times, as was expected of a Farseer. He had sifted the skeins of causality, found Asuryani partners who were amenable to companionship and invited them to be his mating partners. He did not - could not - ever truly belong to any of them, a fact that had saddened Eklendyl only a little.

Farseers were important to the collective. Eklendyl was expected to produce gifted heirs. So he and the other elders had decided, after a vote of consensus, to pass him around like breeding stock for the good of all. Not that Ekendyl himself had seen his role in such crudely pastoral terms. He’d convinced himself that it was a privilege and a sacrifice.

Thousands of years… his own wants had never been clear to him in all that time. By Khaine, he felt like a fool! A proud fool, indeed. He had been insincere in his choice of companions, never truly putting his ego to the test of an intellectual equal. Eklendyl wished that he could go back and apologise to all the women he’d impregnated. Perhaps if he had bothered to learn more about their interests, encouraged the development of their souls instead of treating their interactions like a pleasant chore… but it was too late now. Most of them had died when Crudarach fell apart. More regrets on his conscience.

Should he feel humiliated that a much younger woman of another species had revealed his immaturity? Eklendyl had spent far too much time among the mon’keigh to believe that they were all the same. Many made music and wove pretty fabrics, many devoted decades of their fleeting lives to philosophy and beauty. Was it so strange that one of them in particular had the capacity to make him question his whole life?

The rest of the enclave would not understand his passion. They would deem it too sudden, too strange and above all too physical. Eklendyl no longer cared what the other Asuryani said about him. He was walking a Path that the others could not understand. It was for Lady Emelina’s sake that he took all precautions and shouldered all risks. He would not tolerate any slander against his companion: nor did he wish to broadcast his more intimate thoughts about her to the other exiles. He would respect the bounds dictated by mon’keigh privacy, out of respect for Emelina.

Emelina…. Oh, Emelina! He had learned to speak her name in a hundred different ways, playing with the syllables, turning all the manifold inflections that invoked Her upon his tongue and in his inner world until the great halls of his mind echoed with her afterimage. Emelina! How wonderful it was to give himself permission to invoke her, even if it was only a shade of her, one facet among so very many. What a beautiful and perplexing soul she had! If only it were not so dreadfully perilous for either of them to enter the other’s world, he would have bonded with her in a heartbeat.

The customary Asuryani ways were not open to them. Even so, Eklendyl should never have let himself grieve over that setback. Emelina - oh, sweet Emelina! - was right to hold him back when he thought of self-mutilation. He had nearly given into a childish impulse. Damaging his soulstone would have done nothing to ease Emelina’s burdens. He’d wished to make a single dramatic gesture, to tear himself down to her level - ha! - as if he had any right to feel superior in the midst of such pettiness!

Better to simply make a quiet resolution: he would never again surrender his will or his fate to the workings of an Infinity Circuit. For as long as he lived, he would not allow Asuryani prurience to scrub away his emotions or his precious memories. Emelina did not have to know what he was giving up. He wasn’t making the choice entirely for her sake.

“Devotion is a chain of small stitches.” One of Eklendyl’s bed-mates had told him this proverb… by Isha, how long ago? At least eight thousand years. He’d had no idea what she meant at the time, which was why her odd phrase had stuck in Eklendyl’s memory long after he had forgotten nearly everything else about her. He was grateful for her belated advice.

Hmm, small devotions… Eklendyl surveyed the unorthodox state of his personal chambers. He hoped that he had correctly interpreted the mon’keigh concept of private space: it evoked a forest-dweller’s search for safety, those enclosed cocoon-like hammocks hanging out of reach of predators. He had hung the draperies himself, enclosing a section of the large room from ceiling to polished earthen floor. The arrangement made Eklendyl think of a massive flower - white and lilac around the periphery, Emelina’s favourite colours, with crocus yellow sheets lining the interior.

Creating a bower that would accommodate an Asuryani’s tall frame while being soft enough for human comfort had presented more challenges than expected. Eklendyl had borrowed two mon’keigh-styled mattresses and laid them side to side, then covered everything with cushions and vibrant fabrics. The results conveyed a certain eclectic decadence.

The Farseer had made several furtive guesses at the kinds of things mon’keigh lovers might want to use in a seduction, and stashed a few items in his makeshift den. Good wine was a must, as were certain items that made the physical aspects of the… touching more amenable. Eklendyl had stopped short of dismembering flower parts all over the bed, though he kept a few large bunches in vases for their pleasant scent. Picking petals out of crevices after sexual congress sounded far too ridiculous for him to contemplate such indignities.

One final patrol around his chambers, to make sure the dampening crystals were correctly positioned. The rest of the compound would not be party to the psychic echoes of his ardour, a courtesy he was sure the others would appreciate. Lady Emelina would be arriving soon: of course his doubt chose that moment to question his appearance and attire. Naked to the waist like an Exodite barbarian… was it too much? Elaborate robes were clearly not the order of the day - he did not want to present poor Emelina with the sartorial equivalent of a puzzle-box.

A flustered impulse made Eklendyl pull out the bone pin that kept his ponytail in place and shake his hair loose around his shoulders. Maybe she would enjoy brushing it… kae-morag, what if he ended up on top of her and his hair tickled her face? A compromise, then: Eklendyl took hold of the two long white locks that dangled at his temples, fiddled with them and tied them behind his head. There. That would do.

What about his loincloth, was it too long, too complicated to figure out? Eklendyl untucked it in another fit of self-doubt. He shook out the soft yellow fabric, rearranging it into a simple skirt which he tied at the top of one hipbone. Now he was showing a decent amount of thigh, a view which he knew Emelina would appreciate. An additional lascivious impulse made him roll the improvised waistband even lower across his hips. He’d never given more than an amused half-thought to the way the Sage stared at his midriff. Now, however, the prospect that she would be… touching it… touching him there… O sweet Isha, he was terribly distracted!

A delicate knock at the curtained threshold startled him. The crystals worked both ways: Eklendyl could be caught unawares by visitors from the outside. Thankfully he had instructed Antimon to barricade the entrance to his rooms - Asuryani custom meant that he had no solid door to lock. He might need to install one, if he was expecting more ‘assignation’ visits from Emelina… oh, Emelina!

She slipped under the curtain as Eklendyl held up a hand to part the fabric for her. The Sage wore a vibrant red and yellow silk shawl around her shoulders, with a long flowing white tunic underneath it. She had tied a narrow red sash around her waist to give it form. Eklendyl spotted two more flashes of colour: the toe-tips of yellow slippers. Emelina was usually disinclined to wear vivid clothes. Eklendyl intuited that she had tried to guess his tastes. She would have been wonderful in anything, really.

The ever-changing ocean of Emelina’s mind was turbulent with emotive cross-currents. She had been bashful and self-conscious at the doorway. Something purred beneath the silvery metal cap that replaced most of her scalp: incipient thoughts, the urge to disguise her poor self-worth with a tart quip. Ah, Eklendyl knew this habit. He was prone to it himself.

Eklendyl longed to put his companion at ease, so he offered her his free left hand to hold, hoping that the contact would steady her physically and mentally. The movement drew Emelina’s gaze to the Farseer’s bare midriff. He watched her fully comprehend the extent of his undress. A succession of wildly intimate urges bubbled up from her subconscious. Emelina… ah, sweet Emelina, there is no need to blush in front of me!

To Eklendyl’s surprise and mild distress, he found that he, too, was growing warm in the face. This had never been a problem before - she had seen him bathing naked, and he had laughed off her roving looks with practised ease. But now that he knew he was permitted to touch, to act according to the images in her little fantasies, he was aching to try it.

Lady Emelina’s slender fingers found their way into his palm - such a light, little hand! Her touch evoked sun-dried linens and tender jungle leaves, the kiss of Crudarach’s dry and temperate breeze, the whisper of sand grains as they slid through salt-tipped fingers. The contact was more than enough to satisfy Eklendyl, but Emelina, lovely Emelina wanted to touch more than his hand. Eklendyl gave her fingers the gentlest of squeezes, then took her hand in both of his.

He looked deeply into her eyes, making sure he remained acutely aware of her desires as he guided those slim little fingers towards his bare flank. Eklendyl knew exactly where she wanted to caress him. It was not a place that an Asuryani would find especially sensual, merely the edges of his chitinous abdominal plating - something about the seam where Eklendyl’s firm stomach gave way to the anchor point of his psoas muscles was irresistible to the lady. To be scrutinised in such intricate detail was… very like her, and thus it no longer seemed incongruous.

And oh, that sensitivity of touch! Eklendyl always forgot the difference in strength between a mon’keigh and an Aeldari. Lady Emelina did not have to be so careful with him, especially not with his armoured contours, yet she was so delicate in the way she handled him. An image entered his mind from hers: she seemed to worry that he would scamper away like a little forest creature if she accidentally upset him. Eklendyl had to smile a little at that. Here he had been afraid to hurt her, and she was the one holding back!

“Great Throne… It’s all or nothing on the sartorial front with you, isn’t it sweetheart?”

Emelina was having a wonderful time stroking Eklendyl’s belly.

“My other robe is - in laundry.”

The Farseer’s attempt at levity was undermined by the way his breath caught and he gasped out the last word. O sweet Isha, Emelina’s hand had been joined by its partner, and her fingers were roving in opposing directions. One stimulus was already hard to handle, but two… Eklendyl’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. His mouth was hanging open in an ecstatic gasp. How mortifying…

“Eklendyl, dear. Am I - is it too much for you?”

He could sense Emelina’s concern. She could not read his mind. It was his duty to form coherent words, to reassure her that he was safe.

Shape anew / shivering touch / Emelina

Oh, she was caressing his chest… how he wished his wandering heart were not enclosed in a cage of fused ribs and gristle! Eklendyl wanted to show her how ardently it beat, how her touch raced through his viscera and resonated along his limbs. And she - he could hardly bear to think where Emelina’s other hand, her left hand, now lingered. It was as if she were sculpting his hipbones with those warm, assiduous fingers… liberating him from the raw earth, setting his body free one slow, easy caress at a time.

Emelina - sweet Emelina! - wanted to provoke him. Her mind hammered at him, broadcasting the enormity of her want. Good - good! Anything but the timidity that had hampered her earlier. If lust was what it took to convince her that she was everything Eklendyl needed, then he would demonstrate it for her to the best of his ability.

“Not too much. Not enough.”

The low hoarseness in Eklendyl’s voice shocked him - where had that faint growl come from? This was not the time for restraint. The Farseer allowed his body to flow forward and snatch Emelina up in a determined embrace. Her body was tiny and light. It cost Eklendyl no effort at all to carry her in the crook of one arm and cradle her back with the other. She made some insincere protests, mostly to mask her own indignity at being captured so easily. Eklendyl laughed and kissed away her complaints. It took very little for Emelina to surrender and throw both arms gleefully around his neck and shoulders. Eklendyl found that he enjoyed his roguish performance. Perhaps he had missed his true calling as a Corsair.

It was sweet Emelina’s turn to help Eklendyl navigate the curtained bower. Still perched in the crook of his right arm, she parted the layers of fabric with her outstretched hands. Somewhere in the giggling struggle, one of her slippers came off. Unsure how to set her down, Eklendyl sat backwards onto his cushioned nest. The mattresses were lower than he had anticipated. He ended up sprawling slightly and put his left arm out to support his body.

Her shawl had become dislodged from one shoulder. Eklendyl realised that he had pushed up the hem of her tunic, which was now bunched around her thighs. He could feel the fabric between the fingers of his right hand: his right arm was now pinned between his lap and Emelina’s thigh. He could not think of a more sweet entrapment.

“Wine! Stars, I need some courage!”

Emelina wriggled around in Eklendyl’s lap - an action that provoked a host of mind-obliterating impulses and left the Farseer light-headed. She moved to lower the hem of her tunic, but hesitated when Eklendyl objected. He’d shocked himself with another small growl. Where was this ungentlemanly behaviour coming from? Ah - his hand - when had he moved it to cover Emelina’s fingers? Her bare thigh was underneath… so fragile and soft, so unlike an Aeldari body. Why could he not stop touching her?

It took a supreme effort of will to release her. Emelina seized up a bottle of fruit wine, placed the wax-covered cork between her teeth and pulled it open. The animalism of the act left Eklendyl speechless. He had never seen Emelina in this aspect. She was… captivating. All that intimate contact and physical activity had left Eklendyl’s body tingling with raw sensation. The generative stamen that usually nestled so politely in his lap was rapidly unfurling and growing to full stiffness. Eklendyl could only sit back on the bed, grip the sheets and observe himself as his physical needs overtook him.

It is natural. Relax and let yourself be meek, child of Asuryan. It is just a body following Nature’s instructions.

Emelina took a gulp of wine directly from the bottle, then handed it to Eklendyl. He delighted in the idea of placing his mouth where her lips had so eagerly sipped. The liquor was sweeter and headier than he had expected: it tasted a little like Sha’eil, at the moment where one invoked its power in full. Enticing stuff indeed.

His lover crawled back into his lap, pausing to reach down and observe his helpless erection. Eklendyl felt his face and throat and loins grow hot as he drank in her admiration. Did she… truly enjoy him so much? He was about to form the words to ask her why, when Emelina took one hand and brushed it coyly against his skirt. Her fingertips trailed up the exposed skin of his inner right thigh and then - O, BY KAINE! Oh, Emelina!

Her palm had made contact with his staff through the fabric. Eklendyl tasted blood along with the wine. He’d reflexively bitten down against his lower lip. He sat up a little, seized Emelina around the waist and pulled her in for a desperate, full-mouthed kiss.

Chapter 48: Chapter Forty Eight

Summary:

Forbidden touch.

CW: Explicit sex scene ahead.

It was unlike Eklendyl to show intimacy with a locking of lips and tongue… but in the absence of soul-sharing, how else was one supposed to experience the blissful overlap of the lover with the beloved? The exchange was both equal and urgent, a sensuous dance that evoked the most tender parts of sex with none of its attendant violence. Emelina’s pleasure mingled with Eklendyl’s until he could no longer tell which of them was receiving sensation and which of them was giving it.

Textures and scents assailed him in an onslaught of wonders. The tender fuzz at the nape of Emelina’s neck, the smooth chromium curve of her scalp, both felt incredible under his fingertips. His left hand had found Lady Emelina’s skirt again and was busy coaxing it up around her thighs - an action that she encouraged with small scooping movements of her hips. Her little body moved upwards - she intended to straddle Eklendyl’s bare waist. He let out an incoherent groan as she brushed against his lap.

Terribly aware of her fragility and the tenderness of her body, Eklendyl listened attentively to the lady’s thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to please her and rejoice in the sight of her pleasure. Unfortunately, Emelina was of a similar mind. They both had to laugh about it.

“Ah, Emelina…

Two mirrored Exodites / gazing in the pond / break the tension

Please, you, show first?”

He really ought to improve his Low Gothic. Emelina misinterpreted his words: instead of showing him her intentions, she thought that he wanted her to show more of her body. Her hands went to the waistband of her tunic. Eklendyl was surprised to discover that what he had assumed to be a sash was attached to the rest: when Emelina untied it, a large front section of the tunic came loose with it. Eklendyl unfastened the little hook and eye that kept the dress fastened at the shoulder: Emelina shrugged her arms and shoulders free of the fabric, bundled up the tunic and tossed it somewhere behind Eklendyl’s head. He caught a faint puff of floral scent as it landed.

There was a scrap of covering underneath, sleeveless and silken to touch, just enough to cover her from breasts to hips. Emelina could easily have removed it along with the tunic, but this was some form of defence against his scrutiny. Her breathing was rapid: her hand trembled where it rested against Eklendyl’s shoulder. She lacked confidence that he would enjoy the sight of her vulnerable parts. While it was true that her body was soft and small, surely she could trust him not to hurt her.

No… Eklendyl had misunderstood again. She thought of herself as old, frail, no longer worthy of being seen. Emelina’s fear confused him. Eklendyl was ancient, covered with scars and flaws, and Emelina - oh, sweet Lady Emelina! - still thought that his body was beautiful. Why should he not feel the same way about her?

He knew what to do. He would prove it to her: if she would not bare herself for him, then he would convince her with his touch.

An enticing convex swell lent sheen and shadow to the little silk scrap. A second, pinpoint crescence marked the place where fabric pressed against Emelina’s nipple. Eklendyl’s body lacked the fluidity of youth but he had the grace to bend forwards, still holding Emelina over his belly, and press an open-mouthed kiss against her breast. The fabric slid against his lips, ticklish and liquid. He pressed a little closer, instinctively opening his mouth to accommodate her nipple and the soft pad behind it.

This, too, was wholly different from Asuryani courtship. Eklendyl had not expected the sensation to be so warm and yielding. The press of Lady Emelina’s nipple against the cleft of his tongue spurred him to salivation - an embarrassingly alimentary response. Eklendyl could not help thinking about the little steamed rice buns sold by Avalon’s street vendors. He felt a surge of shame. It was all too reminiscent of the Fatal Thirst. He had better not bite down upon sweet Emelina’s sweet breast: that would be proof of his descent into barbarity.

The peculiar taste and texture of damp silken fabric saved him from slipping. Eklendyl remembered to focus on Lady Emelina’s desires instead of his own cravings. Thankfully he had done nothing that the Sage considered perverse.

She wanted… ah, this was something Eklendyl could safely do for her. He was not too proud to give himself over to her exploration. The Farseer shifted his head to one side and briefly nestled his face in the soft cleft of Emelina’s breastbone to give him courage. He then tilted his face up, offering himself to her for inspection.

“You may,” he swallowed involuntarily- “You may touch. I… surrender.”

Those were not quite the proper words, but he hoped Lady Emelina would understand his intent. The act she was contemplating would be almost invasively intimate from his perspective, although it meant little to a mon’keigh. Eklendyl knew in his soul that he’d wanted this. Why else had he gone so far as to daub his ears with talc, even when he had dressed for her in his most forbiddingly formal attire - even when he had expected a prim rejection? It had been his own quiet fantasy: an urge destined to remain unvoiced. To anticipate its fulfilment was… almost too much. He would bear the suspense, for Emelina’s sake.

The Snake-sage began by pressing the pad of her right thumb against the little notch at the top of Eklendyl’s breastbone, where the spirit stone protected his chest. This touch was prohibited. There was a section of delicate tissue in the hollow below his larynx… a vulnerable place. None of the other Asuryani would hear Eklendyl’s voice or his mind if he cried out. She knew a hundred ways to hurt him: even if she no longer consciously recalled her vivisectionist’s skills, the body remembered what the mind repressed. Eklendyl was placing himself at Emelina’s mercy. To do so was both a comfort and a thrill.

Oh, her touch! Every caress amplified the intensity of Emelina’s thoughts, calling Eklendyl’s attention to motion and emotion alike. Even the most mundane soul came alight under the influence of desire, and Emelina… Sweet Emelina appeared before him like a shattered flame, like peony blooms scattered by buffeting winds, like the Lilaethan’s seashore tossing with white-caps under a storm. She had hidden her wild thoughts from him all this time. It was no small thing to keep secrets from a Farseer. To finally entrust him with this knowledge was a great and dangerous gift.

Her fingers traced the contours of his neck, then lingered on his jawline, feeling the tension in Eklendyl’s facial muscles as he strained under her touch. He had bared his teeth like a beast. His nerves were aflame, provoking him to lunge upward and claim another lustful, full-mouthed kiss - but sweet Emelina did not want that. She wanted to test his restraint. Her imagination promised so many enticing rewards if he could only hold still. Eklendyl let out a juddering breath. Emelina had begun to caress his earlobes…

Oh, Lady Isha, give him patience. Anything at all to prevent him from losing his composure under her t - -

It was no good. He was hers. By his giddy lust and by the coaxing of her fingers and hands, his will was lost. Subsumed in the action of skin against skin, in the incandescence of his nerve endings, in the depth of longing, he was no longer the honoured Farseer Eklendyl. He was a mote of light hurtling through the Webway of his own body. He might burst into a pure psychic supernova if he did not-

“Remember to breathe, sweetheart.”

An incongruous little spot of warmth against the tip of his long nose. Eklendyl had given him a chaste little kiss. The Farseer’s lungs burned as he inhaled: the air was sweet and full of Emelina’s scent. Her body’s chemical signature made his mind reel, and he nearly lost himself to sensation again. Another kiss, this time against the spirit stone in his forehead, kept his mind grounded.

Emelina’s slim hands continued to caress the cartilage of his ears, stroking from the pad of his tragus to the narrow point of his ear-tip with a precision born of experience. Eklendyl felt a stab of jealousy. Kae-morag, who else had she practiced on? Which other Aeldari did he need to silence so that he, and only he had the right to remember such a precious act?

Calm your pride, Eklendyl. Touch is just a gift of Nature. We cannot lay claim to what she offers freely. Simply let yourself enjoy it.

He had never come so close to losing himself, not even under the Arebennian’s soul-baring scrutiny. Emelina had come to his rescue then. He could trust her now.

Eklendyl grew aware of a spreading warmth across his lap. Emelina’s ministrations had caused her to shift backwards: she now straddled the crest of the Farseer’s narrow hips. Her passage had left a faint trail of slickness from his navel to the top of his pubic bone. The nudging plumpness of her buttocks against Eklendyl’s shaft was… singular. Alas, he could not do what his staff was urging him to do. His vigorous habits and Emelina’s frailty were a disastrous combination. Still, he rejoiced when she moved her hips again and brushed back against his twitching staff.

One temptation, at least, he would not resist: he took hold of Emelina’s plush rear end with both hands, massaging her delicate contours with his long fingers until he discovered how she liked to be touched. Long fondling caresses of her tailbone with his thumb spurred Emelina to sigh and press his mouth against her breast once more. Eklendyl busied himself with licking and sucking and stroking, delighting in his provocation.

His companion actually bit down against the flesh of Eklendyl’s shoulder, muffling her moans with a mouthful of lean muscle. The reflex only encouraged Eklendyl to go further. His motions nudged the silken modesty garment aside one kiss and one caress at a time, until it covered neither breast nor hips but pooled loosely around Emelina’s waist. Acting on impulse, Eklendyl reached even further around with his right hand and pressed the ridged cartilage of his staff snugly against the cleft of the Sage’s buttocks. She giggled as she sat back against him, then blessed him with a delightfully naughty grin.

The five-fold threshold / forbidden Void / a dangerous dare

Such invocations of the Tongue were beyond erotic, and went into taboo matters. Emelina was contemplating an impossibility - surely with her understanding of Aeldari anatomy, she knew that much! Eklendyl gaped and shook his head. A glimmer remained in the back of her mind… something she wanted to try, but that she kept screened away from him in one of her brain’s metal compartments. Kae-morag, what a tease!

Eklendyl slid his fingers between the base of his shaft and Emelina’s thighs, caressing her joining-place with a hesitancy born of curiosity. His Asuryani partners had used all kinds of euphemisms to describe their genitive organs: Isha’s Garden, the Place of Plenty. When Eklendyl probed Emelina for the proper words, she offered a refreshingly blunt response. Cunt. Eklendyl nearly laughed at its simplicity.

He coaxed his fingers against her velvety contours, just far enough to capture a trace of her wetness. Eklendyl drew his right hand back, brought his fingers to his lips and cautiously tasted them. Now it was Emelina’s turn to laugh at his innocent curiosity. Her juices tasted pleasant: a little salt, a little sweetness imbued with the familiar animal scent of sex. She would need extra help to accommodate his long fingers.

The Farseer resisted his urge to simply grab Lady Emelina and toss her on the bed. Instead, he lifted her off his lap with both hands, delighted by the way her soft rump moved in his fingers. Eklendyl carefully set her down on her back, pausing to reassure her with a soft kiss against her forehead. Now that she was distracted, Eklendyl could seize hold of that bothersome silken scrap and get rid of it. His desperation to make her fully naked was strong enough to obliterate all other thoughts for the moment.

Eklendyl shifted his body lower on the bed until he was able to kiss Emelina’s adorably soft belly. She wriggled in feeble protest, but soon let herself relax and enjoy his ministrations. That which she considered to be an embarrassing weak spot was a source of wonder and delight for the Farseer. He encouraged her to buck her pelvic girdle forward a little, rewarding her by caressing her tailbone once more. Her delicate little moans spurred him on. Eklendyl tugged the silk scrap down over Emelina’s hips, admiring the broad scoop of her pelvis and placing a little kiss against her hipbone. He moved his body again, pulling the fabric down past her knees, then finally removing it altogether. He bunched the silk against his face and inhaled deeply before tossing the scrap aside. The gesture was so vehement that it flew across the bower and smacked into one of the draped curtains.

Why was Lady Emelina still so hesitant to expose herself to him? As if she had not already bared her precious soul… Eklendyl gave her a brief reprieve by reaching for his collection of useful sex items. He found a little bottle of oil, anointed the palm of his hand and offered the hand to Emelina. She caressed his hand, sniffed it and gave it a little lick with the tip of her tongue - Eklendyl was not expecting the latter gesture, and nearly lost his balance when his body gave him a huge jolt of electrochemical feedback. At least the Sage seemed to approve of his choice. Eklendyl let his gaze linger on her face, then met her eyes. He wanted her to know that he was unafraid and ready to bring her to ecstasy.

Perhaps an indirect approach would startle her less. Eklendyl started by caressing the soles of Emelina’s feet - how small and pale they were! This was a fine way to calibrate his touch and work out the Sage’s limits and preferences. Eklendyl listened for her sighs and murmurs, learning which sounds meant that he was pressing too hard or teasing a sensitive place. He slid his hands up past her ankles - her skin was more papery and less fuzzy than he expected. Had she shaved her legs for him? What a thoughtful courtesy.

Emelina giggled when Eklendyl kissed her kneecap, but her giggling gave way to sensuous murmurs when he began to massage the inside of her thigh. It took great patience to make her relax enough for the Farseer to follow up with nuzzling kisses. Her scent enveloped him: the urgent mental signals of her mounting arousal spurred him on. Eklendyl’s left hand cupped Lady Emelina’s buttocks from below, encouraging her hips to splay outwards. He moved his shoulders and torso between her knees, testing the limits of her comfort, opening her to his touch.

The beautiful… cunt… was not so radically different from an Aeldari arrangement. Lady Emelina’s pleasure-gate was furnished with an extra layer of frilled skin and cushioning that made her private parts resemble a jungle flower. Her Pearl of Isha was set a little higher, and nestled under another small hood of skin in the lee of her pubic mound. Eklendyl intuited what to do. He anointed the fingers of his right hand with oil, poured a thin lubricating rivulet over her petal-like places and began to caress her with his fingers. She would tell him if he was being too firm or too hesitant - all he needed to do was heed her.

Once Eklendyl had found a slow, coaxing rhythm that matched the roll of Emelina’s hips, he bent to kiss the mound of sensitive tissue that kept watch over her cunt. To attack her too directly would only startle her: Eklendyl felt that he might have discovered a place on the mon’keigh body which rivalled the sensitivity of his own delicate parts. He approached the task with patience and grace: a slow, flat-tongued lick and press from below, introducing himself to Emelina’s hot little nub. The moan she gave him in return, the sudden entangling clutch of her little fingers in his loose hair, was more than enough recompense.

He started to lap at her like an eager hound, keeping the pace of his tongue slightly slower than the plunging action of his fingers. He had already managed to penetrate Emelina with two long muscular digits, up to the second joint of his knuckles. The eager action of her hips and the upward-urging tension in her thigh muscles let him know she could take more of him. Eklendyl pushed a little deeper inside, braced his fingers slightly apart and began to coax her cunt further open. O Isha be praised, she was so incredibly warm to touch! Tighter, too, than he was used to: although that might mean she needed to be plied with more oil. The last thing Eklendyl wanted to do was hurt her while she was in such an exposed position.

Yes, he’d do that: Lady Emelina was only disappointed for a moment when he slid out of her and reached for the lubricant again. The view of her flushed cunt and spreadeagled pelvis momentarily took Eklendyl’s breath away.

“Beautiful!”

He was smiling like a silly child. Not that sweet, wonderful Emelina seemed to mind. He could tell that she was enjoying the view of his near-naked body. Eklendyl took a moment to loosen the knot that held his skirt in place. He pulled the yellow fabric dangerously low over his hips - half his rump must be exposed in the back! - but he did not do away with it entirely. Emelina’s incandescent horny frustration was simply too delightful for him not to tease her just a little more.

Back to the task he went, with even greater eagerness than before. Now that he knew what Emelina liked, Eklendyl could act with greater confidence. He took hold of the Sage’s legs and slung them over his shoulders, smiling when she marvelled at his effortless strength. Now she was splayed entirely open for him, knees akimbo, with her full cunt and a hint of her glorious buttocks on display. Eklendyl caressed her Pearl of Isha with the tip of his index finger, mildly antagonising her with the precision of his touch - he knew her flesh was sensitive enough to find the contact incredibly teasing.

His fingertips rode the warm pink seam down through the cleft of her petal-like lips, right to the base of her cunt. Eklendyl allowed his thumbtip to press ever so subtly against Emelina’s perineum. She responded with a quick upward motion of her hips, impatient for him to penetrate her again. Never one to refuse a lady’s request, Eklendyl slid three fingers inside her this time. She gasped at the pleasant fullness of the contact. Only then did the Farseer close his lips around her Pearl of Isha and set about his work in earnest.

Coaxing and scooping, thrusting and kissing, lapping and sucking - Eklendyl’s muscles had learned the movements of this time-honoured dance long ago. He remembered and adapted old habits with a pleasure that mingled nostalgia with novelty. The act of servicing a woman never failed to make him marvel at Nature’s simple artistry. He ought to be swooning with desire. Instead he was content, pleasantly engrossed in the feeling of skin upon skin.

Emelina - oh, sweet perfect Emelina was making the most enchanting noises for him - for him! What a blessing! He chased her all the way to the peak of her excitement, gasping as he anticipated the first tremors that would be coming to her flesh. The way she tightened around his fingers - O, kae-morag, there was no better sensation than to feel the immediacy of cause and effect. No tangles of fate, no far-off perils, just his kisses and her moaning thrusts, his caress and her orgasmic abandonment. Emelina… oh, Emelina!

Tossed upon the currents of sweet Emelina’s desire, Eklendyl’s shipwrecked mind gradually found stability. He was still knuckle-deep inside her, cupping her pulsating cunt. All traces of fear and hesitation were gone, obliterated by the force of Lady Emelina’s orgasm. Eklendyl whined piteously when she slid herself out from under him and his fingers slipped free. The Farseer realised that there was more intimacy to come, although its exact nature remained an infuriating mystery.

“Oh my dear boy… my lovely Eklendyl. You are so good to me.”

Emelina reclined on her left hip and elbow. Her left side felt strong: perhaps their recent exercise had helped her tremors to subside. Eklendyl admired the overlapping contours of her thighs and the cute swell of her stomach. How could such a soft and fragile little body house such an indomitable mind? He mirrored her body language, offering his chest for her to caress.

“And now it is my turn to be good to you. Tsk, tsk!” She pressed a fingertip to Ekendyl’s lips as he opened them to protest, and cocked one silvered eyebrow at him.

“I won’t brook any objections. There is nothing selfish about a little give and take: and I won’t push my limits, I promise you that. Now, let’s have a proper look at you.”

Her right hand travelled down Eklendyl’s flanks until she found the knotted fabric at his hip. The Farseer instinctively glanced downward: the skirt had slipped so provocatively low that only his erection was keeping it in place. Eklendyl felt himself blush. Emelina wanted so very badly to admire his contours in full. He understood the impulse.

Gradually, with a few fumbling tremors, Eklendyl helped Lady Emelina to loosen his one remaining garment. He could not help clinging to his dignity for one bashful final moment before the Sage whisked his modesty away. His staff of Asuryan swung free and shameless, bounding upward to meet Emelina’s delighted gaze.

“Magnificent! Simply magnificent!”

Eklendyl could not resist smiling. He flattered himself that he did well for his age.

“Now lie back, dear. Let’s make you nice and comfortable.”

The Farseer sprawled contentedly in his nest of cushions, allowing Lady Emelina to arrange his naked limbs against the bedsheets. The sheltering screens of yellow and white cloth swayed ever so faintly in the humid monsoon air. He could not remember the last time he had felt so at peace. He sensed Emelina’s playful spirit, the glee she took in simply admiring his unclad form. Eklendyl wanted to cuddle her against his chest and lie with her in the bower for an eternity. The Snake-sage had other ideas. She had already begun pouring a concerning amount of oil over her hands and across Eklendyl’s pubic plate. Would this not create a mess on the sheets? He moved to sit up a little, but Emelina’s expression made it clear that he was not allowed to interfere.

Admittedly her fingers did feel incredible against the interleaving ridges of his subcutaneous chitin. The anointing oil, at first pleasantly cool where Emelina had poured it, soon warmed to Eklendyl’s body temperature. The Sage ran slightly cooler than he did, which only made her gentle touches more enticing. Oil had begun to seep between Eklendyl’s thighs. Lady Emelina eased his legs apart, chasing the little rivulets with her slim fingers, massaging his lean muscles. Her skill was astonishing. It must be taking vigorous effort for her to manipulate Eklendyl’s body at all, considering their differences in strength and anatomy. She was beginning to work up a sweat: Eklendyl could taste the faint chemical signature of the perspiration that beaded at the nape of her neck. He reached over to caress her brow.

That was apparently the encouragement she needed to go one step further. The Sage brought the tip of her right thumb and forefinger around until she just barely enclosed the base of Eklendyl’s staff. He twitched eagerly in response to her deft squeeze of encouragement. Emelina’s weaker left hand remained between Eklendyl’s thighs: he shifted his hips and opened himself a little further for her inspection. She immediately pressed the fingers of her left hand below the base of his shaft, curling the fingertips up and inward.

O Kurnous…. Eklendyl understood her intent at once. She kept working at this most tender section of skin until the Farseer’s loins grew tense in an entirely new way. In normal circumstances, an Aeldari man’s seed-pouch would stay safe and hidden in his body cavity. Only when performing the sacred generative act would it emerge… unless one was a degenerate of course. This intimate gesture was all the more shocking because of its rarity. Eklendyl did not try to tense himself or fight the descent of his seed-pouch. Instead he let it gradually swell until it filled Emelina’s palm. Oh, such delicate peril! Oh, Emelina!

The Sage cradled his Hunter’s Stones with near-infinite gentleness, even as her right hand began to caress the contours of his staff. Emelina seemed fascinated by the five bands of cartilage that encircled Eklendyl’s shaft. She explored them in careful increments, from his root to his glans and back again, letting her fingers skim over his skin before enveloping him with a reassuring squeeze against her palm. Each upward motion forced Eklendyl to gasp for air: each downward stroke and squeeze drew desperate moans out of him. He was an animal - an animal but oh, such a happy animal! His staff looked monstrously large in her small hands. Eklendyl could not tear his gaze away from Emelina’s enraptured face as she gazed down at his tenderest parts.

There was still more mischief in her eyes. Only now, at her complete mercy, did Eklendyl begin to see her plans for his pleasure. She wouldn’t - surely she couldn’t! - he would never have agreed to put her at such risk if he were not already nude, spreadeagled and trapped with his seed-pouch in her hand. Eklendyl frowned. He did not enjoy being played.

Emelina obliterated all thoughts of disapproval when she quickly bent forward and slipped the tip of Eklendyl’s glans into her mouth. A Corsair’s kiss! Yet another taboo act of bodily worship between Asuryani - anything that interfered with the begetting of heirs was generally considered excessive and thus, to be avoided. Eklendyl had lived long enough to experience quite a few such kisses, but never in all his fantasies had he expected to receive one from Lady Emelina. It was - Sea of Stars! - he struggled to trawl his memories for images that could evoke the sensation.

Immersion. Peril. Extreme vulnerability, the kind the Farseer had felt when he tried to gouge out his spirit stone. Deep welcoming warmth, the shimmering radiance of Emelina’s pleasure as she tasted him… ah, sweet Emelina, my unexpected salvation! Her delight brought him a renewed surge of spasmodic ecstasy that only redoubled the physical stimuli. Eklendyl’s staff bucked in Emelina’s hand - she lowered her mouth a little further to trap it in place - ah, was this how he would die? Maybe… maybe it was not so bad to slip away in pleasure’s embrace after all…

Be there for her, foolish man. Remember what she wants. Show her that you are thankful for this wonderful gift.

Eklendyl corralled his wits and focused in on the feeling that cascaded between his legs. Dozens of sensory experiences jostled for his attention. The teasing caress of Emelina’s fingers against one of his buttocks, the way she gathered a sip of air before she eased her lips around his cartilage, the way her palm rotated ever so slightly outward as she milked the base of his shaft… the warm wet press of her still-pulsating cunt against the top of his right thigh where she knelt to straddle it, oh, Emelina, sweet, wonderful Emelina!

Desperate for something to focus on amid the riot of stimuli, Eklendyl recalled what Emelina had said about the five-fold threshold. The rings along his staff were sometimes known as the gates of pleasure. Did she intend to conquer all five increments of his length? Lady Emelina had already managed to engulf two of his crenellations, and was working her way downwards onto the third. Her dedication was impressive.

Eklendyl made sure to tuck his hips back for a moment so that she could take another fortifying breath. Her cheeks were already flushed to a deep pink: the warmth contrasted with the glistening silvery cap of her scalp. Eklendyl cupped the back of her head in his right hand, stroking the nape of her neck where it met with the chrome other augmetics. A tender spot: she enjoyed his encouraging touch.

A sudden lapping movement with her tongue against Eklendyl’s shaft made his body spasm. He involuntarily clenched his fingertips and thrust back up with his pelvic girdle, forcing his shaft past the bridge of Emelina’s tongue and skimming the back of her throat. Kae-morag! How inconsiderate of him. Elendyl moaned out his apologies. Lady Emelina got her revenge by making judicious use of her teeth against his shaft, just behind the fourth gate of his pleasure. Her love-bite was lacking in Asuryani spikiness, but it still reminded Eklendyl of his vulnerability.

He would need to do everything in his power to suppress his instincts and avoid hammering at her in his lust. Eklendyl took his left hand and laid it over his own pubic plate, pressing down against his pelvis, giving Emelina room and reassurance that he would keep any further spasms in check. Her fingers met his: he took Emelina’s hand for a second, and they restored their trust through this gentle contact. The Sage came up for one great, racking breath and forced herself back down upon him.

“Emelina! Oh, oh…”

The Sage’s name felt so delicious on his lips that he lost all vocal control, letting out a guttural, choking moan. She had formed the ring of thumb and forefinger around Eklendyl’s root once more, as if setting herself a victory marker. The Farseer tipped his head back against the cushions, closed his eyes and listened to the urges of his body, to the insistent messages of Emelina’s mind. Down, down she forced herself to go, gulping and pressing his staff further into her, reaching towards her goal. Eklendyl could feel her starting to choke: tears stained her reddened cheeks. This was madness. He was about to pull her away when he felt her broadcast a determined No, as she clutched onto his hips with both hands and pulled herself onto him with as much force as she could muster.

Stubborn woman, she had actually done it. Eklendyl shook his head, and was about to chide her for taking such a risk - but the slow voluptuous glide of her tongue against him as she withdrew his shaft from her mouth silenced all objections. Sweet Emelina looked terribly pleased with herself. Very well then, Sage, enjoy your victory.

“Haah! Saints and stars! I can’t believe I actually managed it.”

Eklendyl permitted himself a rare toothy grin.

“Yes, you do wonderful, very good girl.”

He must have chosen the wrong words again. Eklendyl hadn’t expected the Sage to blush quite like that!

Emelina leaned forward and rested her upper body weight on her arms. Even at full extension, her head barely reached Eklendyl’s chest. He encouraged her to lower herself onto his torso, helping her to move until she found a comfortable position. Eklendyl went to pat the top of her shiny cranium with his right hand, but the Sage turned her head at the last second and brushed a quick kiss against his fingertips.

“It doesn’t feel right to leave your poor cock in suspense, sweetheart. Here, let me see if -”

Emelina shifted her legs again, brushing against Eklendyl’s staff and giggling when it stirred in response. She tilted her left hip up and back so that the Farseer could reach himself. Her right arm propped her up, and her left hand caressed his jaw and cheekbone, creeping towards Eklendyl’s right ear.

“I think we’ll find a way to finish you off somehow.”

“Emelina… Yes, touch.”

The Farseer took his staff in his hand, relaxing into a familiar centuries-old grip, and waited for Lady Emelina’s deft fingertips to unleash his desires once more.

Chapter 49: Chapter Forty Nine

Summary:

Bedside mannerisms.

Kitarius was being a very disobedient unit. Her customary form of entertainment while unit Asclepius was busy with research involved claw-sharpening: but the Chief Enginseer’s auspices and cochlear implant had picked up no familiar shredding sounds. They stoppered and racked the final few serum separating tubes in the medicae lab’s centrifuge, murmured a binharic prayer, sealed the circular hatch, checked the purity seal’s integrity, listening all the while for signs of feline activity. Nothing - not even the faint click and chirr of a yawn.

Bothersome sib. Where had she wandered off to now?

Unit Asclepius spared a few computational cycles to run a probability analysis. Unit Kitarius was not usually active at this hour of the Venatrix’s artificial day/night cycle. If a pest had infiltrated the medicae bays, she would immediately stir herself out of sleep mode and activate hunting protocols. The Magos Errant liked to think that Kitarius was intelligent enough to intuit her role as a member of the crew. Archmagos Pasqal would disagree, noting that all ship cats had a strong innate prey drive. They would no doubt go on to claim that Kitarius had never displayed any particular signs of loyalty. The Archmagos was, in layperson’s terms - a spoilsport.

The servos in Asclepius’ knee augmetics let out a gentle hiss as they squatted to check under the lab’s steel-topped tables. They found a discarded cat toy - the ball joint from Able Voidsman Weber’s old thumb augmetic, threaded through with a bit of vellum from a damaged purity seal that had been further compromised by unit Kitarius’s raking kicks. Alas, Kitarius herself was not here.

“Little sib? Prrrr-p?”

The Chief Enginseer adjusted their larynx so that their voice pitched a little higher than usual. Their calls did not appear to be effective, so they tried emitting a few binharic chirps of nonsense-data. Asclepius turned up their auditory auspices to maximum sensitivity. The examination ward was occupied: they discerned the voice of Master Surgeon Lettard Forius and at least two other persons. By the Omnissiah, what was he fiddling with now?

A couple of swinging doors and a short corridor connected the lab and the examination ward. Unit Asclepius’s right-hand mechadendrite, Dexter, removed their disposable face mask and latex hand coverings with a few efficient snips. Their counterpart, Sinister, dropped the items into a wall-mounted incinerator hatch as Asclepius navigated the corridor. The Magos Errant moved with an efficiency born of habit. Every part of the Voidship was committed to their deep memory engrams. They no longer needed to turn and look for the placement of doors or bulkheads or access panels. The machine spirit of the furthest door’s security cogitator sensed the Chief Enginseer’s approach and rotated the double doors outward to accommodate their passage.

“Dramatic as ever, Asclepius.”

Unit Forius seemed displeased about the Magos Errant’s entrance, but he seemed displeased about everything, so this data point was statistically insignificant. Unit Asclepius took a computational cycle to assess the situation.

The Surgeon was standing next to one of three occupied surgical beds: one was fixed, two were free-standing devices that he must have wheeled in for the examination. Each bed contained a young human-shaped person. The patients were in reclining positions, and unit Forius was standing with his body in the way so that the Chief Enginseer could not make a proper visual assessment: but there were other options. A quick consult of the charts that Forius had helpfully begun to compile in the medbay’s databanks indicated the patients were psykers, all with slight genetic variances to the normal human baseline.

That explained unit Forius’s uncharacteristic interest in person-to-person interaction. He was curious about the patients’ biological parameters rather than their wellbeing. Unit Asclepius suppressed the urge to emote by means of voluntary exhalation. The Master Surgeon possessed an intellect worthy of the Omnissiah’s blessing, but he lacked any concept of a bedside manner. He had even secured the patients to the examination tables with metal cuffs - an unnecessary use of restraints that was ultimately inefficient if one wanted to gain a patient’s long-term trust.

“Greetings, Master Surgeon. Have you seen Kitarius?”

“Your blasted -” Unit Forius’s stance rotated towards unit Asclepius, revealing the distressed-looking patient behind him. “That cat keeps getting under my feet, Asclepius. It is insanitary. I insist that you keep it contained. If that is impossible for you, then at least let me use it as a test subject.”

Dexter and Sinister were unhappy about the Surgeon’s suggestion. Unit Asclepius brought up their shining metal arms and waved the mechadendrites back down from their rearing threat display. There was no need to antagonise their colleague. Kitarius was far too wily for the Surgeon to ever catch her.

“Unit Forius, are you authorised to be taking medical samples from these three patients?”

One of the tall skinny ones sat up on her surgical bed, as far as her wrist restraints would allow.

“Like karkin’ Void he is! Would you tell the leech to stop messing with Leena?”

The small one at the far end appeared to be in a dissociative state: the patient that unit Forius had just been examining looked tearful and shaky. The Magos Errant approached her. They decided to doff their hood in the hopes that they would appear less intimidating: their skullcap and augmetic housing would cover the most sacred parts of their True Flesh.

“Hello, unit Aleena. I am Asclepius. As a member of the Lord Captain’s retinue, you have the right to choose a medical practitioner from among the available staff. Have you been informed of this right?”

Aleena was still sniffling: the other tall one, unit Anguilla, spoke up on her behalf.

“No, she bloody well has not.”

Unit Asclepius slowly turned to stare at the Master Surgeon: they activated the artificial eyelid of their left eye augmetic so that it closed in time with their natural one. The resulting uncanny blink had a tendency to disturb unit Forius.

“We will address this breach of standard protocol later. Units Olivar, Aleena, Anguilla: do you consent to a transfer of care?”

All the young psykers nodded, including unit Olivar who was barely responsive enough to do so.

“A satisfactory outcome. The laboratory is yours, Master Surgeon.”

There were only a narrow set of circumstances in which a Chief Enginseer could order a Master Surgeon around: therefore unit Asclepius chose not to issue an explicit command. Lettard Forius was well aware of Asclepius’s implicit status as a member of the Amarnat Collective, and their good standing with the Rogue Trader. He scowled, but he consented to withdraw.

“I just did you a favour, Cog. Your precious oath won’t let you take so much as a blood sample without sending you into an existential crisis. Well, you have your samples. You’re welcome.”

Unit Forius closed the swinging door behind him hard enough to make it swish a few times before it stabilised.

The Chief Enginseer’s first order of business was to release all the restraints on the surgical beds. Dexter and Sinister worked assiduously to expedite the operation. As soon as unit Anguilla was free, she hopped up and began to focus her psykana on unit Olivar’s bed. The restraints around his hands unclipped themselves. Unit Asclepius emitted a chirping binharic hiccup of surprise.

“You are dehydrated. This unit requests that you do not overexert yourself. Drinking water will be available in just a moment.”

Dexter particularly enjoyed helping, so unit Asclepius gave them the third paper cup to hold. The medicae bay was equipped with various spigots and devices for rinsing wounds and cleaning body parts. Soon, each psyker had their own little refreshment. Unit Asclepius noticed that Anguilla dipped her fingers into the water and dabbed them against the side of her ribcage. Unit Aleena’s skin looked dry and papery: she was doing something similar with the water and daubing it around her eye sockets.

“We will issue you both with additional clean water rations. I am here to make sure that you are comfortable. On behalf of the Lord Captain, this unit would like to apologise for the inappropriate behaviour of Master Surgeon Forius.”

“He’s like a machine.”

Unit Olivar had finally recovered enough composure to speak. The small psyker sat with his knees tucked up against his belly, and his arms cradling around his legs in a protective embrace. He visibly disliked wearing a surgical gown.

“This unit is curious about your assessment of unit Forius. We request - that is, please explain if you feel comfortable doing so.”

“Maybe I’m doing a disservice to machines, actually. Machine spirits have… moods. You can feel the humanity that went into making them - it comes across in a detached sort of way. Forius is missing his empathy entirely.” Unit Olivar shuddered. “I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

“Your request is noted. We are happy to be your primary practitioner, unit Olivar.”

The psyker’s heart rate and blood pressure were within acceptable parameters. It was better not to scrutinise him for now and let him relax.

“Why does the Lord Captain keep that creep around…” Unit Anguilla had crossed her arms to express her discontentment.

“The unit Forius’s research has saved millions, if not billions of lives.” Unit Asclepius’s twin mechadendrites gave a sinuous shrug. “This unit disagrees with Forius’s methodology, but he performs his function as intended. It is the Lord Captain’s decision, in any case.”

The Magos Errant returned to check on unit Aleena. Hm, they had tissues somewhere in one of their chest compartments, where was that packet? Sinister went for a rummage under the Tech-Priest’s peplos.

“You’re a funny sort of Tech-Priest, Mister Asclepius.”

“Leena, they’re not a Mister, they’re a Chief Enginseer! Emperor…” unit Anguilla rolled her eyes. Unit Asclepius focused their auspices on her and let Sinister offer the tissues to Aleena.

“The Janusian unit is correct. My configuration is non-standard. There is no need to take offense on my behalf, Anguilla.” Her name was familiar: unit Asclepius sifted through their long-term memory until a relevant data-point emerged.

“Ah. This unit recognises you. Apologies. You are somewhat… taller than we remembered.”

Her vestigial gills had grown more noticeable since the unit had undergone puberty, too, but there was no need to call attention to a person’s mutation unless it was relevant. The feature was common among Lower-Deck Pipewarden clans; unit Anguilla appeared to be unusually self-conscious about it. She struggled to meet Asclepius’s gaze.

“You’ve changed too, your face - you had three green lenses on one side, and now there’s a metal eye.”

Unit Asclepius’s expressiveness was limited by their facial augmetics, but they were able to emit a binharic warble that approximated a laugh.

“This unit distinctly recalls a certain Schola pupil’s advice about our facial augmetics. Did you not tell me that my lenses made me resemble a big scary spider?”

Unit Olivar tittered. A sudden circulatory spike made unit Anguilla’s cheeks go very red.

“Oh for love of the Throne - I was nine, Oli!”

The Chief Enginseer resisted the temptation to pat the young psyker’s head. She was a little too old to appreciate such gestures.

“This unit found your advice instructive. We prefer not to distress the younger patients: and we enjoy the additional emotive capacity that comes with this custom implant.” Unit Asclepius demonstrated with a wink of their golden augmetic eye.

Olivar’s little cry of surprise drew the Chief Enginseer’s attention. Unit Kitarius had jumped up onto the young psyker’s bed: she was butting her head against one of his shins. Unit Olivar cautiously shifted his body into a loose cross-legged posture and made a gentle clicking sound with his tongue - unit Asclepius made a mental note to attempt it later with their labiopalatal augmetics. The ship cat promptly stepped into Olivar’s lap, rotated her body by two hundred and fifty degrees, and sat down. Unit Kitarius rested her little chin on unit Olivar’s right thigh and turned her right cheek - the black-furred side of her face - towards him.

“Kitarius is requesting that you initiate palpation.”

“Uh… pats and scratches?”

Unit Asclepius solemnly nodded. Pats and scratches were an important aspect of feline maintenance.

“She does not usually approach humans, unit Olivar. You are fortunate.”

Both the psyker and his feline acquaintance were enjoying the physical contact. The Magos Errant was still a relative novice at reading the emotions of baseline humans, but they could tell that young Olivar was formulating a question. They turned to the other two patients.

“This unit suggests that you go and change back into your regular clothes while unit Olivar is temporarily occupied.”

Aleena and Anguilla nodded their grateful acceptance and scuttled off to dress themselves. Unit Asclepius would schedule consultations with each of them later. As soon as the other patients were out of the room, unit Olivar put a hesitant hand on the Chief Enginseer’s shiny metal forearm.

“Thank you so much. I’d really like your help with something, but… they would have teased me about it.”

“State your requirements.” Unit Asclepius had already hypothesised the subject matter, but they remained in listening mode. Their patients often surprised them at such times.

“I think I’ve had about four square meals since I got on board ship, and I’m already starting to gain weight.” Unit Olivar studiously avoided making eye contact with the Chief Enginseer.

“I can tell you don’t judge people about these things, but… I’m surrounded by Voidborn. I already stick out - or rather, I don’t stick out because I’m a shortarse. I’d prefer not to be both short and round, if it’s possible.”

Kitarius purred and snuggled contentedly against unit Olivar’s hand. This time she had offered the ginger-furred side of her face for the young psyker to pet. Asclepius admired her particoloured head. Its resemblance to the Opus Machina, the symbol of the Martian faith, had drawn the Tech-Priest’s attention to the little creature who they now called a friend.

“Conformity is not necessarily a virtue, unit Olivar. That which makes us distinct can make us both useful and interesting.”

“Like being a Tech-Priest. Or a psyker.”

Unit Asclepius made the biggest smile possible with their limited range of facial motion, trusting that unit Olivar’s unique mental functionality would let them comprehend the intent.

“We all have our biological quirks, unit Olivar.” The Magos Errant indicated their cochlear implant apparatus.

“Your ancestral line has voluntarily engineered their genetics to create a family of ectomorphs, as we are sure you know. There is little we can do about that. However, we encourage you to think about your physical parameters as creatively as possible. Example: the Lord Captain’s relatively small size makes their competitors underestimate them. Their stature presents tactical opportunities that are unavailable to, for example, unit Calligos Winterscale. Or myself.”

The psyker stopped petting Kitarius once she rolled onto her back and exposed her brown-and-ginger belly. He had discerned that her manoeuvre was a trap. Unit Kitarius responded with an indignant yell: Olivar was busy admiring unit Asclepius’s metal bicep.

“You do have some massive guns there. Maybe I should just get augmetic arms.”

“Would you like to become physically stronger, unit Olivar? Augmetics are not a requirement.”

“Actually, yeah. I’d like to handle long field missions without getting tired out. And being strong sounds nice.”

Dexter extended itself all the way to the nearest countertop, picked up a data-slate and fetched it over to unit Asclepius’s waiting hand.

“Thank you, Tech-sib! Unit Olivar, we will prescribe you with high-protein rations and formulate an exercise plan. If you require accountability, you are permitted to accompany this unit in the scheduled practice of callisthenics and weight training protocols.”

“Why do you need to exercise if your arms are made of metal?”

“Heed the first cardinal rule of the Rites of Organic Rehabilitation and Discipline. Thou shalt not skip leg day.”

“You’re not - hey. Hey! You’re having me on!”

There were no Rites of Organic Rehabilitation and Discipline. Unit Asclepius had just made them up. Unit Olivar made a deeply unimpressed face at the Chief Enginseer.

“What’s a malatek, Asclepius?”

Ah - an interesting observation. Yes, that side-thought had emerged from the Magos Errant’s mental algorithms in the course of making their little joke.

“A malatek is… hmm. The definition is inexact. They can be someone who interprets doctrine in strange ways. Or… they can be someone who makes a sacred vow not to harm laypersons. You heard what unit Forius said about my distaste for taking blood samples from patients. I do not… I do not set out to cause harm, unless the circumstances are incredibly specific. That is not my core programming. It is my choice.”

Kitarius was unimpressed by such a serious topic. She leapt off the bed, to unit Olivar’s mild disappointment, and sauntered over in the direction of the double swinging doors. She had been administered with a small electoo, and the doors opened just wide enough to admit her. Soon she would be bothering Master Surgeon Forius again. Unit Asclepius registered the emotions of mischief and amusement at the prospect.

“Why do you care so much about people who aren’t Tech-siblings?”

A curious mind! Dexter became very excited and reared up over Asclepius’s shoulder.

“That is the question, unit Olivar! Why does any sentient unit care for another sentient unit? Empathy clearly serves a purpose. Empathy improves social cohesion and facilitates mutual understanding. The Omnissiah knows all, comprehends all - including the comprehension of others’ needs and circumstances. This unit hypothesises that empathy is therefore a holy act. Universal comprehension ought to be universally available, should it not?”

“I don’t know, Asclepius. There’s a lot of unpleasant knowledge out there. The things I learned in Sanctioning training would scare most people.”

“What if those things were not fearsome, but instead able to be logically explained to a reasonable person?”

Olivar set his hands palm-up in the lap of his surgical gown. His eyes glanced up and to the right. He was recalling something.

“I guess it’s possible in at least some cases.”

“Then this unit has an obligation to be kind and calm rather than fearsome. At least, that is the way we see it. It is not -” how would Tech-Gardener Lanaevyss put it? “It is not a Path that is open to everyone. For every Asclepius, there must be a Forius. This unit counts themself lucky to be an Asclepius.”

“Which one am I? An Asclepius or a Forius?”

“You are an Olivar. Go and get changed.”

Chapter 50: Chapter Fifty

Summary:

Olivar is tested.

It started with a camellia plant on the hillside slopes of Paradise World Grantis. A bright green bush in a row of hundreds of other bushes. The work of harvesting its most precious new leaves was too precise to be left to servitors: a sentient human hand had pinched each double tip before transferring it to a basket containing many other such leaves. Sorting, sun-drying and grading followed from there. The noble houses of Grantis had packaged the tanna, sent it to Evayne Winterscale, and from there it had been gifted to Rogue Trader Como von Valancius. Lord Evayne had wrapped the light wooden crate in his dynasty’s livery: Calligos did not generally bother with such niceties.

Oblate Olivar knew all this because Lord Captain Como was working very, very hard on thinking about it.

Oli took a sip of green tanna, placing the fingers of one flattened hand under its base while he supported its rim with a pinch of thumb and forefinger. Perfectly in line with Calixian custom. He savoured the taste. He hadn’t experienced it since he was nine years old, before his abilities had manifested. Even so, he’d know this particular single-origin batch anywhere.

“Mm! Thanks, uncle. It’s impossible to get the good stuff anymore. Unless the Maw has miraculously started behaving again?”

Grantis had no tanna plantations.

Lord Captain Como took a rather indelicate sip from their own little cup in an attempt to disguise their amusement.

“Maw’s not answering to anyone, I’m afraid.”

That was a lie, too. Why was that a lie? Olivar decided that sort of question was above his pay grade… for now.

“Seriously good tanna aside, uncle, are you going to tell me about my new role on the Venatrix?”

“In good time.”

Olivar sighed and took another, larger sip. The tanna was really delicious.

“Master of Whispers.”

The Rogue Trader pouted. “Spoilsport.”

“I guess it makes sense. Who’s the lady with the henna and the jaw?”

“Octaviana Drusilla. She’s nominally a Kasballican: been helping out, as a reward for services rendered, sort of thing.”

Olivar glimpsed a seemingly unrelated mental image of a terrified aristocratic-looking man having his chest cavity peeled open by a Drukhari and… was that the Lord Inquisitor supervising the gruesome operation? Ugh, what a revolting memory! Now Oli was feeling nauseous for reasons that had nothing to do with the Lord Captain’s anti-psychic miasma. The psyker resorted to sniffing his tanna, and the vision dissipated in a puff of fragrant steam.

Oli preferred it when Lord Captain Como had their walls up. Should he ask them to - no. No, their broadcasts had to be deliberate. This was a test.

“R-right.”

“She’s been great, and so has Jae.” Something about a purple coat and a lot of brown hair. Como wasn’t prepared to reveal much about her. “But Octy misses her kid Matilda, and I can’t expect the smugglers to have a full and accurate picture of what’s going on. That’s where I hope you can come in. Learn the ropes.”

The Lord Captain’s criminal past was both an asset and a liability. If they took all their advice from Kasballicans, they’d end up with a skewed perspective. Oli could see the logic of taking on an apprentice from a different background.

“Would you be, um, giving me an official title?”

The last person to have formally held the title of Master of Whispers was Kunrad Voigtvir, well over a decade ago. Olivar didn’t relish the idea of filling a heretic’s shoes.

“Throne, no! Don’t make that face, kid. I’ll appoint you as my personal Diviner, like Idira Tlass was. I can have a Sanctioned one for once! Won’t that make Evvie jealous.”

Olivar set down his tanna cup and shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. The seat was perfectly sized and upholstered to fit Como’s slim frame, but it was a bit too narrow for him.

This was bad.

“You’re going to make me pose as your Diviner, as a cover story.”

“Either way, you’ll be listening out for secrets, won’t you?” The Rogue Trader looked very pleased with themselves.

“Uncle, I am… eighteen, maybe nineteen years old at the most.” Warp travel and the confines of Scholastica Psykana life meant that Olivar was forced to estimate his own age. “With respect, I’m not sure I’m ready to be the Master of anything.”

Como van Valancius was plotting something. Olivar was in an incredibly precarious position right now. What could he say to make the Rogue Trader change their mind that wouldn’t get him kicked off the ship? He couldn’t leave An and Leena behind. Crap.

Oli risked making eye contact with the Rogue Trader. It still felt like he was staring into the bottom of a ravine, but the vertigo wasn’t quite so awful this time. If the Lord Captain noticed his disquiet, they didn’t physically respond to it. They’d put their walls up again, though.

“This is exactly the sort of situation where an outside opinion comes in handy.”

Olivar stood up from his chair with such haste that he nearly knocked over the tanna table. He stared like a startled deer past the bookshelves and cogitator screens of the Lord Captain’s quarters, out towards the atrium - in the direction of its adjoining elevator platform. A luminous presence was slowly ascending. If Oli could detect it even at this distance…

“Uncle, forgive my impertinence, but have you been keeping an Aeldari Farseer on board the Venatrix all this time?”

“No, but I’m sure they’ll be flattered by the comparison.”

Lord Captain Como was unsurprised by the bright soul’s approach: admittedly, Olivar had rather given the game away. A quick image popped up in Oli’s consciousness: a stylised picture of a chair.

“Ah. Extra guest. Yep-”

The Lord Captain hopped out of their armchair and trotted towards the dais that was dominated by their big work desk. If it weren’t for their anti-psychic aura, Olivar might easily have mistaken them for a simple worker. The Emperor’s Chosen was just a person, one who apparently lacked the foresight to plan seating arrangements. Then again, a large empty chair would have given Olivar a few too many clues. Lord Captain Como began to slowly drag the oversized Captain’s seat out from behind the desk.

Olivar cringed as the chair’s heavy legs ground into the deep-pile carpet and threatened to rip it off its backing. He braced himself and dared to step inside the orbit of the Rogue Trader’s noxious aura. It felt revolting, but anything was better than watching his boss struggle to shift furniture all alone.

“Void take this thing - ah, thank you, you’re a dear!”

They managed to get the unwieldy chair off the desk’s dais and to the bottom of the stairs before Olivar and Como both needed to step back and take a breath.

“Happy - oh, shoot - happy to serve.”

Olivar’s throat and tongue tasted like rotten meat. How in the Void had Lord Inquisitor van Calox managed to get within three paces of the Lord Captain? Oli frantically put up a mental block before his powers decided to answer that question.

The activity had managed to distract him from the magnificent visitor’s approach. The big chair was clearly meant for them - for him - Como’s mind couldn’t help surrendering a few more clues in their excitement. A grand old man indeed. Grand… powerful… insightful.

Olivar felt his stomach begin to drop and twist. He returned to his original seat and stood behind it, clinging to its upholstered back for support.

No… no, no!

“Oblate Olivar, welcome to your official Assignment rating test! Allow me to introduce the most esteemed Zacchary Weisz, Choirmaster and Cantor of the von Valancius Astropathic Choir. Master Weisz, it is a rare honour for you to grace this humble servant of the Imperium with your presence.”

Olivar tried to use his human eyes and not his mind… to no avail. Master Weiz dominated everything. He was a phosphor-pale blaze in the Immaterium. Oli reflexively closed his eyes to block the glare - bad idea, bad idea! He felt the Warp’s pure sanctified incandescence begin to tear at his optic nerves. A stab of pain ran through him. He actually found himself taking a step closer to the Lord Captain. The murky eigengrau of their aura might taste nasty, but it felt cool and safe next to that all-consuming white fire.

It was no good. Olivar dropped to his knees. He felt the carpet’s thick pile between his fingers, and concentrated on the feeling. Eklendyl’s pendulums. Yeah. A good exercise. Breathe, stabilise, think of something that isn’t this horrendous brightness.

Lord Captain, Master Weisz... You need to tell them. Unburden your conscience, child.

“L… c…”

Olivar’s voice broke and he stuttered to a halt. Doesn’t matter. Go on, child. Just get the words out. Shit, why was this so hard? Shame was pressing at his throat… hard to breathe.

“Lord Captain Como von Valancius, I believe the young man has something to say to you.”

Oli’s cheeks were wet. Good. Nice and cool. Do not be afraid, this is the God-Emperor’s light. It will not hurt you if you stay calm. There, that is better.

“I’m not-” he choked. “I’m not a Diviner.”

There you go. You got the words out. Well done, child.

Olivar started crying again.

“I’m not a Diviner. I’m just a Telepath.”

The horrible brightness receded. Oli stayed on his knees, ready to accept whatever punishment was presumably coming.

Zacchary Weisz’s outline resolved out of the glare. His sacred human form became slowly easier to discern. It was like emerging from a darkened solitary confinement cell into the bright sunshine of the Lilaethan’s dry season. A bright flash, then one adjusted to the light. Olivar stared in wonderment at the man who had nearly obliterated him with his presence just moments ago.

He was both old and not old. Extreme stress had withered him: a lack of sleep made the sockets of his blind eyes even more hollow under the linen band that covered his lightless eyelids. Olivar perceived a great heavy cloak around his shoulders - an immensity of grief that dragged his posture down and slowed his feeble steps. Then, a transformation as the mighty Astropath raised his head and lifted his right hand. Radiance and steel, gold and glory shone forth. The human form was a husk: Master Weisz’s mind was his true self, an already capable instrument honed to superhuman perfection through his holy work.

In another life, Olivar might have become such a man. The thought made him shudder.

“He is already adapting. Look, Lord Captain.”

“Does that usually happen with Telepaths?”

“Mm. I did not unleash the Emperor’s light at full force. The young man will need the use of his eyes if he is to serve you. Still, he is remarkable. Quite promising.”

Olivar twisted his head to glare up at the Rogue Trader.

“You knew all about me.”

An involuntary sob and a twinge of pain in his diaphragm prevented Oli from following up with any of the swear words that were forming in his brain. The Lord Captain squatted next to Olivar, at a safe arm’s length away. Their anti-psychic aura helped to calm his jangling senses and prevent his psykana from going wild.

“I’m afraid so, Olivar.”

“So, what happens now? Do I go to the Choir? Out of an airlock?”

“Why would I do that? You were sensible enough to tell me the truth.”

Oli sat back on his arse. Technically yes, he had confessed, but Zacchary had urged him to do so. Had the Choirmaster just saved his hide? Master Weisz’s sightless face was inscrutable, and his mind was as impenetrable as adamantium.

“The plan remains the same.” Como raised an eyebrow. “What? You were good enough to fool all the instructors at the Scholastica Psykana, and the Acolytes of the Holy Inquisition. If it looks like a Diviner and acts like a Diviner… why not keep up the act?”

“Wait.” Olivar glanced at Zacchary and back at the Lord Captain. “How did you figure me out?”

“Easy. I have a really, really smart lacerax.”

Throne, they weren’t joking. Lord Captain Como even supplied Oli with a helpful mental image. A great tentacle-headed beast, eagerly doing tricks to please her chosen human. Fair enough. A psyker in training wasn’t too far removed from a beast in captivity.

The Choirmaster shuffled slowly over to Olivar, and Lord Captain Como made a respectful retreat. Oli recoiled at his approach as if he were flinching away from an open flame.

“I will not induct you into the Astropathic Choir, my child. There is no need for you to be so afraid of me… or of your own abilities, for you see their mirror in myself.”

Oli decided it was better to surrender to Master Weisz’s aura rather than try to assert his will. He clambered to his feet, made an approximation of a respectful bow and dared to - ah, Throne - touch Master Weisz’s arm and guide him to his fancy chair. Somehow Olivar was not obliterated on the spot by the contact. The Choirmaster let out a little wheeze as he sat down.

“Ahh. It is passing strange to visit the Lord Captain’s quarters after so long. You might imagine, Master Olivar, the difficulties of arranging a visit between a powerful psyker and an equally powerful Blank. Particularly for the purposes of conducting an Assignment ritual… it was necessary, however. If we had undertaken the ritual in the presence of the Choir, I would have lost good Astropaths. I could not make such a sacrifice.”

“Lost… as in… we’d have killed people.”

Olivar could see it. The Choirmaster’s imagination was a little too vivid. Poor blind people trapped in massive chairs, channelling the raw Immaterium. If they became possessed…. A discharge of the Motive Force. Those beautiful minds, gone in an instant. Oli doubled over and grimaced his way through a fit of dry-retching.

“You experienced visions like these before, did you not?” Master Weisz reached up to the top of the large chair, where Olivar was clinging onto one finial of the top rail, and petted his hand. “Mm, I see your memory. A visiting Telepath came to Janus, seeking Astropath candidates for the Tithe. You saw her mind, child, and you were afraid.”

“I’m sorry. I was a coward.”

“You were only ten years old.”

“Yes, but the lie… went on. The Drill Abbotts already thought I was a Diviner. I just never corrected them.”

“Once one commits to a foolish course, it is all too difficult to turn back.”

Master Zacchary’s heavy cloak of sadness had returned. He slumped a little lower in his high-backed seat. Oli felt a twinge of deep, old pain; then just as he was about to cry out in sympathy - gone. His senses were clean and clear. The Choirmaster had walled himself off completely.

“Here is my assessment of your abilities, young Olivar. Your capacity as a Receiver - your ability to discern and interpret the thoughts of others - is unparalleled. It also puts you at risk. As things stand, you would not last a day in my Choir. But this is no fault of your own, merely the result of improper training. You have the potential to create solid mental defences, and I have a very great deal of experience as a trainer of disciplined minds. We shall make a proper Resiliant of you yet, my child.”

“Scores, Zacchary! I’d love some actual scores!”

Lord Captain Como interjected and threw up their hands in exasperation. Oli felt a thin grey lick of their aura escape their body envelope, then snap back into place. The Choirmaster seemed unimpressed.

“Your damnable insistence on - tch - quantifying everything is typical of the Adeptus Mechanicus.”

Master Weisz hitched up his robes a little and crossed his skinny legs. Olivar noticed that he was wearing orthopaedic shoes. The Choirmaster must do an awful lot of standing.

“Considering this young man has the wit to pass off one school of psykana as another… hm, his Drill Abbotts had him down as a Theta, and I daresay that is an accurate assessment of his capacities as a Broadcaster and Resiliant. As a Receiver, however… let us be generous and put him at Delta-minus, shall we?”

Olivar could sense the Lord Captain’s jubilation. He bent over and murmured in the Choirmaster’s ear.

“Is that… good?”

Master Weisz let out a wheezing, toothless laugh.

“Is that good!” He drew a great breath and wheezed again. “Eh, you’re a babe in the woods, child. Did you know, Lord Captain, he is unaware just how close he came to being snapped up by that dreadful old Farseer.”

“Wait, what?” The Lord Captain blinked.

“Wait, what?” Olivar jerked his head back.

The Astropath just cackled at them.

Chapter 51: Chapter Fifty One

Summary:

The barber's chair is always a good place to get gossip.

“En’t he adorable, Octy? Are you Calixian, lad? You got cute eyes, just like a kitty.”

Octaviana took another sip of kvass out of her paper cup and enjoyed the show. Eddah had gone a bit overboard fussing over Olivar, but she deserved a bit of fun. It wasn’t every day the barber had a new retinue member to style. Funny, though, how Eddah had never complimented Octaviana Drusilla on her pretty cat’s eyes. Someone played favourites.

“Thanks for the compliment, Mistress Eddah. Your own eyes are very sharp! I picked up a few Calixian features from my mum’s side.”

“Ooh, ‘Mistress Eddah’! What a gentleman. You just sit right there and let those foils develop, young master Olivar. You’ll be absolutely blimming gorgeous by the time I’m done!”

The barber finished folding the last of many little plasteel-foil rectangles into place. Olivar’s head currently resembled a very shiny cluster grenade… or perhaps a bud of unprocessed lho. Octy herself wore a half head of similar foils: her henna needed a spruce-up.

“Eddah darling, can you grab us a real drink while you’re in the back?”

“Octaviana Drusilla, you’re a bloody booze hag!”

That wasn’t a no… Eddah pried open a segment of the barber-shop’s heavily postered wall and slipped through the hidden entrance. Oli had studiously avoided staring too long at any of the more pornographic pinups. Octy was still trying to guess the lad’s preferences.

“She’s not just telling you you’re cute to get tips. She really likes you.”

“I know!” Olivar blushed and grinned back at Octaviana.

“Hmph. And modest too.”

“You don’t understand what a novelty this is, auntie! I’m used to conversations going along the lines of ‘drop and give me twenty, witch!’ - I made two whole friends in Schola, both of whom are light years out of my league.”

The baby psyker put a hand up to fiddle with his hair, realised it was wrapped up, and put the hand back under his plastic barber’s apron.

“It’s nice to get compliments. Kind of weird, but nice.”

Octy let the rest of her fingers hold onto her cup as she pointed at Oli.

“Didn’t you get complimented enough when you were Fancy-Pants Master Danrok, buddy?”

Olivar tilted his head back and smiled at the ceiling. Not that there was much to smile at, just more posters, including an old Imperium recruiting poster with a sexy space nun on it. Maybe girls with guns were his thing.

“Sincere compliments, Octy? Not nearly enough. I can tell the difference.”

Must be hard being a Diviner, always knowing when someone was groxshitting you. Octaviana swivelled her chair around a little more. The youngster was growing on her.

“My Tillie’s about your age, I think. Maybe a bit older. Did you know she runs a whole bar?”

“No karking way!”

“You doubting me?” Octy put her elbow on the chair’s arm, and her metal chin in her hand. Pointy damn thing. “I left her in charge of the Martyr’s Endurance back on Footfall. To my everlasting fuckin’ shame, she’s been turning a better profit than I ever did.”

Olivar laughed good-naturedly, but his eyes lingered on Octaviana’s jaw. She wondered if his Diviner’s talents had told him how she got the implant. She told any customer who asked about it that she once took an uppercut from an Ork Freeboota, but the truth was more grim and prosaic. Just a rough interrogation. Inquisition motherfuckers...

Fortunately, Oli’s attention seemed to have strayed to the fresh implant on his own forehead. He’d chosen to have his little metal Aquila set in the place where a Navigator would keep their third eye. As far as witch-marks went, it looked a lot cleaner than a Sanctioning brand. The kid was doing his best not to scratch the skin around it.

“I wonder what’d be better: inheriting my former dad’s head for numbers or my former mum’s nose for intrigue.”

“Definitely the latter. You can always hire a Lexmechanic or buy off a book-keeper. The best person to keep a look out for backstabbers is always yourself, buddy.”

“I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, Octy, just my dataports.”

“You’ll be wanting some big boy psyker implants, yeah? I might know a girl who knows a guy. Do you have a preference on point of origin?”

Olivar gave a decisive nod. “Leiran is the best. Magos Errant Asclepius can give you the specs.”

“Nice one. You’re a discerning customer!”

That was easy enough when Olivar was spending the Rogue Trader’s Thrones. Still, he wasn’t quite the Noble-born idiot Octy had feared he might be. The psyker was treading a careful line between seeming friendly and not giving too much away. Oli’s chatter about his parents didn’t reveal a lot. It was common knowledge that he was an estranged Nob’s kid. If he was salty about being disowned, he wasn’t going to reveal his feelings to Octaviana Drusilla.

“That ‘girl who knows a guy’. Purple jacket, big hair. Lord Captain Como didn’t say much about her… Jae something?”

Octy sat back a little.

“That’s Baroness Jae Heydari to you, young man.”

Olivar flexed his small mouth just a little. He had a little brown mark on his left cheek, just like his dad. Octy had gone over a few vid-casts in preparation for taking Olivar on as an apprentice. Noble habits died hard, even for kids: Oli knew Jae wasn’t the real deal.

“A Kasballican Shadow Baroness. Good friend to have.” The psyker nudged the tip of his tongue out just a bit and licked his upper lip. Octy would have to train him out of that tell.

“Lord Captain’s got eyes on Footfall, Dargonus, here on the ship, and on Vheabos VI through the Mission. The Lilaethan has - people I can get in touch with.” Yeah, yeah, kid, I know about the xenos enclave. “I assume Foulstone’s covered too, if Como can rely on the Electro-Priests.”

Olivar hadn’t mentioned the Rogue Trader’s supposed partnership with the Holy Inquisition. Smart guy. It wasn’t something to be relied upon. Shifty fuckers…

“What about Kiava Gamma? Who’s taking point there?” Oli looked sharply at Octaviana. “Oh, great. Great. Fucking splendid.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Octy drained her cup.

“You didn’t have to, auntie. Leaving Vinnie Gaprak to run a Forge World in the middle of an AdMech civil war is not the choice I’d have made. If I complain about it to the Lord Captain, what are my chances of surviving the conversation? Oh, Eddah’s trying to eavesdrop.”

“Booze time! Fabulous.” Octaviana whirled her chair around. “Don’t bust a gut over Como, they’re a decent cove. They hired you for your insights, yeah?”

“Hey, Eddah, who’s that?” Olivar pointed at the ceiling. “Next to the Sister of Battle.”

The barber had brought out a bottle of something concerningly green, along with a trio of shot glasses. Octy hoped Eddah wasn’t about to get too wasted: the kid’s hair still needed a trim and pomade.

“Oh, old Nemesite. He’s a classic, that cove!”

The portrait wasn’t much: just a spraypainted decal on some old tarpaulin, depicting a face obscured by a red kerchief, a pair of eyes and a cap covering the hair. Exactly the kind of getup you’d wear if you wanted to remain notorious but unrecognised.

“How many Nemesites have we had, Octy? Every time a rumour spreads about the Lord Cap’n, there’s always a Nemesite story to match. He’s the one who’ll rise up and save the Lower Decks from tyranny, blah blah blah! It’s groxshite, o’course.”

“How’d you know it’s groxshit, Eddah?” Olivar had decided to perform the courtesy of pouring out shots for the ladies - a wise move, as he’d be the last person to drink.

“Well, all the so-called Nemesites Vent’s unearthed turned out to be con artists and ne’er-do-wells, didn’t they?” Eddah stood hips akimbo and squinted up at the portrait.

“I happen to know who wears the red rag. It’s the bleedin’ Lord Captain, Emperor praise ’em! Whenever there’s a Warp breach, they like to show up all sudden and kick the Void-forsaken monsters’ heads in! They’ve got to be in disguise, see, or Seneschal Sauerback’d never let ‘em get near.” Eddah held up her glass and tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially with her other forefinger. “Those idiot Lower-Deckers don’t know their own saviour.”

“Wow, Eddah, you know a lot about all this! Benefits of being the Lord Captain’s personal barber, I suppose.”

“Ey, Octy, did you tell him that? That’s supposed to be a bloody secret!” Eddah tossed her shot back with one practised gulp. “Fuckin’ oath.”

“Just a deduction. You are the finest barber on the Venatrix, after all.”

Olivar raised his glass and tapped it against Eddah’s, and he maintained eye contact with the barber through his first sip.

“Aaaou, you’re a charmer, you are.”

Nice save, buddy!

Chapter 52: Chapter Fifty Two

Summary:

Kids at the cantina.

One standard Terran hour of preparation: enough time to sort out the creases in Ensign Loy’s nice new uniform jacket, then realise that going to JoyJoy in a work jacket was fucking lame and put it back in the cubby, then have a minor existential crisis over what was considered cool, then just put on the same sleeveless black turtleneck vest like always.

At least Cong-chua’s hair was behaving today. It was such a good decision to get a neat five-point bob instead of doing all that combing. Gun Captain Kontos hadn’t remarked on the haircut aside from giving her a brief upward nod, but that was all the approval his new Ensign needed. Efficient, tidy - just the right style for an Ordinance officer.

She was going to make the old man proud. But first - Asa Toliman had been pestering Cong-chua to go out for celebration drinks. It had been a couple of months since their respective promotions. For the sake of their friendship, Loy couldn’t put off the girls’ night any longer.

JoyJoy Cantina was the usual gentrified meat market, albeit a little livelier since the Venatrix had resupplied on Janus. Tonight was the last chance for most of the non-essential crew to grab a beverage and relax before they braved another Warp jump. They weren’t going too far, and the route was stable. Even so, experienced Voidsmen knew that you didn’t let loose until you emerged back into realspace. Here they all were, flirting and attempting to dance in the cantina’s few open spaces. Someone drunkenly began warbling a clumsy rendition of Star of Terra into the karaoke machine. A couple of NCOs were sucking face in the corner.

Shit, was her lipstick too dark? Cong-chua repressed the urge to duck into JoyJoy’s decrepit excuse for a lavatorium and check it. If she looked severe, then whatever. Ordinance wasn’t likely to be on-call for the upcoming Warp translation, but unlike some girls - she glanced at Asa Toliman, already leaning over the bar with her arse jutting out like a grox in mating season - Loy wanted to stay awake and aware. That meant no synthol-addled binges and no boy-shaped distractions.

Emperor help her, she’d just manifested an admirer! Was he too short, too young for her or both at once? The child had scooted up to the bar in the lamest possible way - ew, don’t lean there, do you know how sticky that countertop is?

The kid moved his elbow with a more bashful version of his earlier shit-eating smile. That was an improvement. He had decent hair, at least, business in the back with funky henna-dipped curls up top. Someone had been to see Eddah.

“Hey.” The kid glanced past Cong-chua. “Who’s your cute friend?”

Oh, was Asa his type? Shit, she’d be all over him! Bless Ensign Toliman, really, she was a cute little starch-bun. Asa spent her work shifts managing everyone’s urgent demands. What she needed in a partner was someone big and kind - the kind of cove who’d help her get the barkeep’s attention and scare the local sleazebags away. Unfortunately, those types were not Asa’s type. Cong-chua caught the comms officer peeking at short-stack from behind her limp fringe.

“That’s Vox-Ensign Asa Toliman, and I’m-”

The little shit didn’t even stick around long enough for Cong-chua to say her fancy new title! He’d already focused his body language on Asa. Okay, fuck you too, buddy.

“Ensign Toliman of the distinguished Toliman line! It’s an honour. I’m Olivar - just Olivar, at your service.”

Cong-chua swatted downward and knocked Olivar’s arm out of the way just as he moved to take Asa’s hand and kiss it. Too late. Ensign Toliman was already eating up the attention. Her drink order forgotten for the moment, Asa pivoted on her seat at an angle that was perfectly calibrated to show off both her cleavage and her hips.

Maybe Loy needed a stiff drink after all.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you, Olivar? How old are you?”

“Eighteen, ma’am.”

Three shot-glasses full of synthol materialised on the countertop before Cong-chua could place an order. She looked from the bartender to Olivar and back again. The hair hadn’t been a coincidence; he must know the manager, Octy. The kid wasn’t a smuggler, was he? Nah, too baby-faced and not enough scars. Ensign Loy now had some entertainment for the evening - working out this little cove’s psychological profile. She occupied herself with her drink.

“I’m nineteen.” Asa said it like she was terribly world-weary. Cong-chua snorted, and a whiff of synthol nearly bleached her sinuses.

“That makes you my senior!” Oh no, Asa would love this shit. “I hope I can ask you for advice from time to time. I’ll need help getting to know my way around the bridge.”

“I’m twenty-one. That makes me senior to both of you.” Ensign Loy slugged her shot back.

“You don’t need to be so protective. He’s just trying to be nice.”

Toliman was pouting. She looked like a stray animal. Cong-chua hated when she did that, it was so hard to stay mad at her.

“It’s called separating you from the herd, Asa. But fine. Olivar, just Olivar. Feel like including me in our little chat?”

Olivar made a respectful bow to Cong-chua.

“Forgive me, Ensign Loy. I was under the impression that you didn’t want to be bothered with light conversation.”

“Cong-chuaaaa… you said you’d have fun tonight.” Asa’s maudlin eyes provoked a twinge in Ensign Loy’s conscience. “The big guns will be safe without you, babe.”

Cong-chua rolled her eyes. “I told you I’m working the torpedo bays, Asa, not the macro-cannons!”

Hang on. She’d never given her name and rank to Olivar. Cong-chua’s head felt suddenly woozy. Had she missed something here? Toliman was busy steering her by the arm towards one of the bar’s semi-enclosed alcoves. Loy let herself go with the flow for now, curious about Olivar’s next move.

“Vox Master Vigdis has an absolutely incredible mind! Her capacity to process and handle so much data in real-time is truly impressive. If you’ve inherited even a little bit of that talent, Ensign Asa, you have my profound respect.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in information flows, Master Olivar. Do you work in the field of comms as well?”

Ada made sure that Olivar took a seat on her side of the alcove, sharing a padded bench seat. Sneaky girl. Her companion acted hesitant for once.

“Er… in a way.”

Time to get this guy. Cong-chua pointed at the fresh implant on Olivar’s forehead.

“He’s a witch.”

Yeah, kid, I’ve seen some things. Idira Tlass going on obscura binges, vomiting black smoke, the whole nine light years. Anguilla crawling on the ceiling and throwing a poltergeist fit in the middle of Schola class. This Olivar character wasn’t obviously unhinged, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a walking time-bomb.

Ensign Loy wasn’t afraid to lock eyes with a psyker. Go ahead, creep, look at me all you want. I won’t give you the satisfaction of swooping in and hitting on my friend under false pretences. Olivar didn’t flinch or show any signs of shame. Cong-chua waited to see what he’d do: her curiosity turned to surprise when he calmly folded his palms over his heart to make the sign of the Aquila.

She felt… not exactly relaxed, but less afraid. Her throat and diaphragm went all warm in a way that had nothing to do with the drink she’d just swallowed. Cong-chua remembered other stuff from her Schola days, not just Anguilla’s freak-out. The nice Sister of Battle who had taught them songs and given them hugs whenever they wanted. Yeah. It hadn’t all been bad.

“I’m just a humble servant of the Emperor, Ensign.”

Olivar unfolded his hands, laid his left hand on the table and fiddled with the meniscus of his shot glass. Cong-chua noticed that he’d only taken a tiny sip of alcohol. He wasn’t anything like Mistress Tlass.

“Oh, you’re one of those holy psykers!” Asa’s interest had only redoubled since the reveal of Olivar’s abilities. “Just like the Lord Inquisitor.”

The Ensign sighed dreamily into her empty shot glass. There it was… Asa and her bad-boy obsession! Cong-chua couldn’t repress the urge to look at the ceiling and groan just a little. Maybe the God-Emperor would come and save her from second-hand embarrassment. Olivar gave Ensign Loy another one of his sheepish smiles.

"It looks like Mister Iceman has already requisitioned the lady’s affections.”

Cong-chua couldn’t help laughing, but it wasn’t entirely mean-spirited.

“Like she’s ever met the guy! The grimly troubled expression only looks hot on him from at least twenty paces away.” She pulled her surliest face to demonstrate.

“Ah-ha-ha, that’s the one!”

Olivar’s upraised right hand somehow summoned a server - did the JoyJoy even have table service? - bearing even more shots on a plasteel tray. How in the Throne was he pulling it off?

“You’re even better than Anguilla at doing The Face! But what if I up the ante?”

He put his right hand up and pinched the skin just underneath his new forehead implant.

“Ow.” The scowl wasn’t part of the act. “Forgot about that.”

“Twenty per cent grumpier with the frown, if you please, Master Olivar!” Loy was really starting to enjoy this.

“You guys are mean…” Asa consoled herself by claiming another drink.

“How’d you know Anguilla? Oh… oh shit, yeah, that makes sense.”

Olivar massaged the little pink spot between his eyebrows where he’d just pinched skin.

“I thought I was meant to be the Diviner, not you. But yes. We graduated together. Didn’t she… hasn’t An visited her classmates from the ship yet?” He set his chin in his hands.

“I didn’t even know she was still alive.”

Olivar let out a quick, fierce exhalation.

“Sorry, ladies! I think I might have to conclude this conversation a little early. Hopefully I’ll have the good fortune to speak with both of you at another time.”

The little psyker scooped up Asa’s right hand and claimed the genteel kiss that Ensign Loy had snatched from him earlier. He then fixed Cong-chua with an earnest, unusually intense look.

“Enjoy your drinks.”

Olivar hurried out of the bar. Cong-chua noticed that he didn’t stop to settle up his tab. Maybe he really did have retinue privileges. Asa swivelled her head to watch him as he left, her right hand still hovering awkwardly in the same position where he’d released it. Ensign Loy nudged Olivar’s abandoned shot glass towards her: Waste feeds the Void.

“Don’t even think about it, Toliman.”

Chapter 53: Chapter Fifty Three

Summary:

Immaterial concerns.

The ship’s electronic vox-hailers sounded twice. First, a string of bell-like chimes to mark the mid-point of Compline. Then, a softly-spoken reminder by Vox Master Toliman and Master Helmsman Drivestem that the Venatrix would be undergoing Warp translation at the first bell of Vigil. Master Helmsman Drivestem relayed the navigational conditions for the upcoming Warp trip: House Cassini’s latest Navigator-locum would already be up in the Sanctum making his mystical preparations.

A nice easy jump to get the young psykers used to it: that’s what the Lord Captain had assured Olivar. He wasn’t worried for his own sake, he’d endured one or two Warp trips as a child. But Aleena had never been offworld, let alone in the Warp. Normally he’d have trusted Anguilla to handle herself and potentially Leena as well, but not after what he’d just heard from Ensign Loy.

If he was a real Diviner, he’d know if An and Leena were in danger. Oli might be a charlatan, but he could at least check in on his friends.

The sight of the Rogue Trader’s pet psyker hurrying purposefully through the Middle Decks had everyone scooting out of Olivar’s way. Idira Tlass’s reputation protected him like a shroud. Oli was glad he’d collected his shipmates’ impressions of her. His predecessor was almost a caricature in their eyes - the irreverent, chaotic, untethered entity of every Witch-Finder’s wet dreams. Olivar wasn’t about to copy all the moves from her Leiran playbook, but at least he knew people’s expectations for him. He’d need to interpret the role of Diviner in a convincing way that didn’t make him feel ridiculous… a tough assignment.

In the Scholastica Psykana, he’d been just another student in the herd: the Drill Abbotts held all the power. His daily routine had been a tight, looping circuit: moving from his cell to his lessons, to the exercise yard, then back to his cell. The Venatrix was more or less free range for Oli: he hadn’t yet found a door scanner that wouldn’t respond to his electoo. Olivar could walk and walk and nobody would dare to stop him. People didn’t respect him yet, but they were cautious of him.

He felt powerful: then he thought about An and Leena, and he became a scared kid again.

The trio’s quarters were on the lowermost of the Upper Decks. The doors to their rooms were lined up in a row, linked by a section of freshly-carpeted corridor. The arrangement was convenient for the ship’s priests. It meant that they could daub the walls with one set of protective runes and apply one set of purity seals, counteracting the Warp’s malefic influence and hopefully limiting the damage caused by a psychic manifestation in the area. Olivar noticed servitors clumping up and down the halls, but no baseline humans.

He’d check on Anguilla first: if Leena decided she needed moral support, he’d be stuck in her room for the long haul. Oli held his wrist up to the scanner above the door chime before he pressed the button, to let her know it was him. The buzzer sounded: Oli could tell the room was occupied, so he waited in the corridor with his back to the bulkhead. Anguilla couldn’t be stubborn forever. Just as Olivar had grown bored enough to start counting the ceiling lumens, An’s door latch clicked. He slipped inside before she changed her mind about admitting him.

Throne, the room was dim! Olivar navigated by the light of a single tallow candle and the Telekine’s familiar psychic aura. There was a small writing-desk near the door, which Oli had to skirt around as he found a path over to the bay window seat where An had created a little refuge for herself. This side of the Voidship had no view of Janus or its sun: the stars left faint pinholes in the deep Void where they were not blocked by Anguilla’s body. The view in the Immaterium was clearer: Anguilla’s head and shoulders were silhouetted by a familiar golden glow that contrasted with the Warp’s usual pinkish-purple contours.

She’d inherited Lord van Calox’s old guestroom, from back when he was an Interrogator. Oli felt the faint echoes of intense psychic activity resonating along the bulkheads. Strong emotions indeed, if they had permeated the ship itself. Would Anguilla be okay sleeping here?

“Forgive the disarray, Master Danrok. Welcome to my humble abode.”

Anguilla’s voice sounded flat and joyless. Oli knew this scene well, and he knew the source of her disappointment.

“Hey, An.”

He found a spot in the bay window next to her and settled there, remembering how Ensign Toliman had scooted alongside him back at the cantina. Anguilla was concentrating on the deck of cards in her hand. She’d set it down in her lap as if she were about to discard it, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go. Why was she still obsessed with trying to awaken a Divination talent?

“You’re going to tell me it’s dumb to attempt a cartomancy reading with regular Tarot cards.”

“It’s not-” Oli caught himself before he got defensive. Instead he reached over, took the deck from Anguilla and started shuffling it.

“I’m not going to tell you that it’s dumb to go through a ritual with a normal deck. If it helps you stay focused for the trip, let’s do it.”

Anguilla leaned sideways and nudged her head against Olivar’s shoulder. He pulled out a card from the deck at random and held it up to the candle’s light. Three swords, impaling a mechanical-looking heart.

“Ew. At least the card’s upside-down. Could be worse.”

“Try telling that to the heart.”

Anguilla was thinking about the Lord Inquisitor. Wearing his white uniform, surrounded by snowflakes… he looked almost like a ghost. Olivar desperately wanted to give An a hug - or to punch Lord van Calox in his grumpy face, if that was an option.

Instead he just put the pack of cards aside, then adjusted the candle so that he could get a better view of his friend’s face. Her upper lip was glistening: Anguilla wiped her face on her sleeve. She was in long pyjamas, presumably to get comfortable for the Warp trip. Anguilla peeked over the top of her forearm, and the little Aquila on her forehead glimmered gold in the candlelight. They were a matching set.

“Your hair’s nice now.”

“You can’t even see it properly.”

Olivar hoped she couldn’t see him blushing.

“I wish I could see like you do, Oli.” The candle flame bobbed as Anguilla dropped her arm. The loose sleeve of her pyjama top made her look even frailer than usual. “There are so many potential choices I could make, and all of them feel like they are going to be shit.”

Anguilla let out a faint ripple of psykana as she exhaled. Olivar tried not to wince with guilt. Lord Captain Como had given him explicit instructions. He had to play the part of a Diviner for everyone, even his friends. Only Zacchary and the Rogue Trader knew his secret. An, I can’t see the future any better than you do. I’m just as lost.

“Did you see Leena yet?”

“Mmh, earlier, yeah. I thought I’d visit and offer moral support.”

Olivar picked up a mental image from Anguilla: Leena on her bed, lying under an ultraviolet lamp while a humidifier puffed steam into the air. She’d taken a lot of sleeping pills.

“Seems like she followed Asclepius’s prescription in the end.”

“After all that back and forth angsting about it, yes. Only my Voidfarer’s pride kept me from following suit.”

A little bit of Anguilla’s usual stubborn enthusiasm had crept back into her voice. She was thinking about men and metal, about the great beast in whose belly they both rode.

“You could have come out with me and mingled a bit, An. Made some new connections, rediscovered some old ones. The ship’s your home, isn’t it?”

“So that’s why you smell of second-hand lho smoke and stale kvass!” Anguilla nudged Olivar in the ribs with her pointy elbow. It only hurt him a little bit.

“You’ve got to get to know the ship herself, Oli, not just the crew. Planetsiders think of her as just a conveyance, but it’s different for Voidborn. You won’t understand us properly until you listen to her.”

Olivar couldn’t grasp Anguilla’s meaning simply by sifting through the images in her mind. She was reaching towards him across a deep sensory divide.

“I want to try that, An. What would you do, if you were me?”

Anguilla conjured up a mental image of Olivar - it was always a disconcerting experience for a Telepath to see themselves from someone else’s viewpoint. Sometimes An’s interpretations could be brutal; this time, she was really trying to empathise with Oli.

“I come from Pipewarden stock, so I’d swim along the pipes to get my bearings. But for someone like you… maybe explore the Middle and Upper Decks, at least to start off. Find holy ground, look at the flagship’s history. Get a sense of how many generations have spent their whole lives taking care of her and praying for her.”

Voidborn worked through the Warp jumps. Olivar resolved to stay out of their way, but he wanted to be out there in the halls for this Warp translation, not cowering in his bunk. Oli finally dared to put an arm around Anguilla’s waist and give her a little squeeze. She complained with a small grumble, but she accepted the comfort.

“Do you want to go for a walk with me, An?”

“Not this time, I’m wrung out.” This time when Anguilla butted him, she set her cheek against the top of Olivar’s head. “I’ll feel better knowing someone’s out there, listening to her.”

 

___

 

The Officers’ Deck wouldn’t have felt out of place in the chambers of an Upper Hive: Olivar took note of the wooden furniture, vaulted ceilings and plush surroundings. It all put him in mind of his father’s offices. Instead of clerks and merchants, jackbooted junior officers and Technomats hustled along the carpeted thoroughfares: instead of preparing for a grand party or an important trade deal, the crew undertook a final inventory and systems check before the Venatrix entered the Warp. But the overall sentiment was the same: hundreds of people temporarily setting aside their individual concerns in service of a greater good.

Olivar’s wanderings took him through a deserted librarium: every Voidsman had their place and duty, and only the Diviner was left with time to browse the bookshelves. There were many lovely codices here. The comforting smell of old vellum and leather book-bindings would appeal to Anguilla. Many centuries of happy readers had lingered at these desks and armchairs: the chamber carried their psychic patina. Olivar registered an indistinct pinkish haze, something he couldn’t identify but that made him feel calm as he strolled through its wafting after-image.

Retractable gangways offered an unexpected view of the Middle Decks’ many layers, cut through with what Olivar assumed was a convection shaft. Hints of incense and machine oil wafted up from below. The centre of the ship was almost as warm and humid as the Lilethan in summertime: a side effect of heat displacement from the mighty Warp engines and the ship’s reactor gearing up to launch the Venatrix into the unknown.

Vox-hailers sounded another chime, and Vigdis Surri Otta Toliman issued the crew with a calm reminder that the Warp translation process was soon to begin. Olivar was surprised to hear the Lord Captain’s voice crackle over the vox-speakers. They offered a short and rather casual prayer on the crew’s behalf, reassuring them that as final checks took place, Como von Valancius would be beseeching the God-Emperor to keep watch. Then after a slight delay, Oli heard the familiar notes of a simple Voidsman’s hymn being played on a pipe organ. It did not sound professionally recorded. Was the Lord Captain playing a tune for the crew?

The Diviner noticed some of the officers singing along with the hymn as they peered at cogitator screens or settled in at their appointed posts. Olivar reminded himself to learn the words to the local Void shanties and hymns: it was a good way to fit in. He hummed a bit of the chorus on his way to his intended destination. Find holy ground, Anguilla had said. He couldn’t think of a better place to ride out the Warp translation than in full view of the Great Cathedral.

Every member of the Ecclesiarchy would be busy in the Voidship’s many chapels and shrines, praying up a storm. Olivar had decided in advance not to bother them: a witch, even a sanctioned witch, would just be a controversial distraction. Fortunately there was a nice little balcony tucked away from the main thoroughfares. Oli lengthened his paces just a little: he’d reached one of the von Valancius dynastic trophy rooms, and he still had a bit of ground to cover before he’d be in position.

Strange things, these trophies: they sat on plinths and in cases in a seemingly haphazard order, with little classification or context. Some were clearly dangerous bits of xenotechnology. Oli scowled at an assortment of yellow and black-daubed metal that might, if one squinted hard, pass for a very large child’s clumsy approximation of a firearm. Two servitors would struggle just to lift the damn thing: and it stank of the Warp, even behind two heavy layers of plexiglas shielding.

The largest trophy was an outmoded model of Imperium armoured carrier: the smallest object Oli could spot was a fist-sized orb of dark blue matter, kept in a forcefield, that kept sublimating into a sparking gaseous state and then condensing into a fuzzy cluster of particles that resembled iron filings. Olivar instantly recognised the contours of an Asuryani helmet in one of the display cases - it was in such pristine condition that he doubted it had been claimed from a dead Aeldari body. He wondered if Farseer Eklendyl had ever worn something like this.

Nineteen generations of Rogue Traders had left their mark on the Venatrix, and those were just the dynastic members Oli had been able to find in the Voidship’s records. The trail went even further back, and at least three names were expunged from the master list. Olivar suspected the Holy Inquisition had forcefully redacted a few naughty heirs out of existence and appointed replacements. A Warrant of Trade, especially one signed by Him on Terra, was too precious a resource to waste. If Lord Captain Como didn’t make an heir in the natural way, someone would make sure a successor stepped up.

Ugly stuff. Oli already knew too much about Noble politics for his own good. The ship herself, though, had continuity all the way back through the ages. The Venatrix pre-dated the Fall of the Aeldari. Her miraculous engines had been constructed when the Emperor Himself was still striding the Galaxy on His mission of conquest. Parts and crew members and even Rogue Traders came and went, but the Voidship was the Voidship.

Olivar was beginning to understand why the Voidborn venerated the Venatrix at least as much as they venerated her Lord Captain.

Vox-speakers began a countdown overhead and Oli picked up the pace again. One more large set of double doors - his electoo sprung them open with a clack and a well-oiled hiss. Fifteen paces forward. The railing was waiting, and beyond and below - the view of holy ground. A whole Cathedral, travelling through the Void inside fortifications of adamantine and plasteel. By the Throne, what a sight it was, even for a Noble’s child.

Golden shimmers cascaded up from the Great Cathedral’s dedicated deck, rippling over Olivar’s face and chest like a sacred headwind. He pressed his hips and belly against the parapet, bracing his arms against the railing, and closed his eyes. Massive steel shutters were descending all around the Voidship’s bridge. Olivar felt them juddering through the masonry. He inhaled a long, slow breath and formed the God-Emperor’s holy syllables in the back of his mind.

Here it comes…

Olivar didn’t need the crackling countdown on the vox-speakers to know that the Voidship’s ancient machine spirits were coming to life. He began to perceive their steely alien echoes, diagrams of light and logic, coalescing and dissipating in timeless cascades around him. Oli was no Tech-Priest. He did not comprehend what he saw. A pattern was there, though - a web of information, connections and light. Something not a mind, but like a mind, had forced its shape onto the Materium.

Then reality began to tear itself open like an old wound.

This was the time to call out in prayer and emit the Sanctic syllables that Olivar had prepared. He let his will join with the golden glow. Faith would be his own personal Geller Field, his parapet, his bulwark against the jump. To walk bravely first into darkness was the Rogue Trader’s mandate and their duty. Every crew member had to take that step, too.

The Venatrix’s bulkheads rattled and her engines roared in a mighty prayer of fire and steel. The ship was with Oli, and Oli was with the ship - this great Ark of Humanity, kept alive by hopes and stubbornness. He clung tight to the railing, feeling the vertigo not of a forward thrust, but a headlong drop into the Immaterium. Feel the floor under your feet, Oli. Feel the Emperor’s power in your veins and in your mind. You’re safe.

The worst of it dissipated, as it always did, after the initial plunge. Now it was a question of faith in the Voidship’s Navigator and her sacred technology. Olivar forced himself to let go of the railing: his fingernails had dug into a mortared section of the masonry. Based on the pattern of wear and tear, he was not the only person to have clung on for dear life here.

Olivar’s head was fuzzy. He reminded himself to keep his breathing regular. The Great Cathedral stood in the same place, its golden spire as steady as the Astronomican. Oli took the time to admire the stained glass and sculptures of the large chamber below him. There was some seriously good art on display.

Oli felt a little proud when he saw a depiction of his own boss’s face, of Como’s face, among all the noble ancestral portraits. They looked a lot less scruffy in their official art, but that didn’t make the portrait a lie. Whoever had painted the Lord Captain was observant enough to capture their practicality and intelligence. This was the person whom Olivar had been called to serve. The Emperor’s Chosen. It was quite the opportunity.

An excellent place for contemplation.

Olivar whirled around and ducked under the parapet’s shelter in one swift move. He may as well have had a Drill Abbott’s laspistol aimed at his head. Defend, identify, purge - Oli’s habits from psykana training kicked in. A fresh barrage of holy syllables swarmed around him, protecting his body envelope before he had even begun to triangulate the Warp apparition’s signature.

“From the begetting of daemons, Emperor protect us!”

His voice broke a little under the stress - it doesn’t matter, Oli, stop that intruder!

Olivar pushed outward with his will and felt his psykana encounter the faint silhouette of something - a purplish gap in the golden glow. He focused all his efforts on repelling it.

Ow. Pardon the intrusion, colleague…

The image dissolved even as it left an outline on Olivar’s consciousness. A blue coatee and a pocket-chronometer. Curiosity, surprise with a hint of self-deprecation. Then it - he - was banished. Thank the God-Emperor for that!

Olivar’s calf muscles cramped as he got to his feet, and he slung his left arm back over the railing to steady himself. His mind wasn’t damaged: he muttered out another prayer just in case, slurring the spoken word just a little, but the Sanctic syllables in his mind were doing the important work of protecting him. What a terrible shock… his free hand was starting to shake.

Whatever Olivar had just banished, it wasn’t a daemon. Daemons didn’t apologise and step sheepishly back into the Immaterium when you confronted them. The apparition had felt nothing like the aggrieved shade of Yremeryss Aezyrraesh, and it had been tinged with faint shades of Immaterial purple. A ghost from the Warp? Fuck, the junior officers hadn’t been kidding when they’d said the Voidship was haunted!

…’colleague’?

He’d need to consult with Choirmaster Weisz. That meant visiting the Astropathic Chapel. Olivar’s guts twinged at the prospect of facing the old man and all his blind servants. There were scarier things aboard the Venatrix than ghostly apparitions…

Chapter 54: Chapter Fifty Four

Summary:

Leena begins to acquaint herself with the Voidship.

No Lilaethan under her feet. No Anguilla asking questions in her left ear, no Olivar feeding answers into her right ear. Aleena’s mind drifted in the Void: it made sense that her body wanted to replicate the feeling.

Amniotic suspense: that’s what An had called the experience of floating in the Lilaethan’s warm ocean. Leena had found her own way to swim aboard the flagship. She rode on a plume of hot air, tethered by an umbilical safety cable that she found she didn’t need. The hull scouts were taking good care of her so far. They didn’t seem to mind that Aleena was planet-born with strange skin. Everyone in the Remora clan was mutated to some degree.

She’d started her exploration at the ‘top’ of the Voidship rather than trying to prioritise status or function. Only when Aleena met with the hull scout clans did she realise her first mistake. Voidborn people who worked on the exterior of the flagship didn’t think in terms of ‘fore’, ‘aft’, ‘up’ or ‘down’. The Voidship was their planet and the ground under their feet was the metal of her outer hull.

Warp travel made excursions out into the hard Void a far more daunting and dangerous experience than normal, which meant that Leena wasn’t Void-walking today. Remora workers could still conduct hull repairs in the raw Warp in an emergency, for example to help seal off a compartment after a demonic incursion or Void-kraken attack, but the volunteers for such missions didn’t tend to come back alive.

Leena had always assumed that Void-krakens were a myth: Harri and Myrr had decided to prove her wrong by unearthing as many safety manuals and grisly trophies as possible. That’s how Leena had discovered that the Remoras weren’t just repair workers. When the mood took them, they enjoyed hunting in the perilous gap between Void-shields and adamantine plating. It turned out that all kinds of odd critters could survive in the hard Void.

Leena’s minders were twins with a habit of speaking and acting in messy synchronicity. The hard Void was silent - although with the raw Warp seething just outside the Geller Field, Aleena had no doubt she’d hear all kinds of nasty echoes at the moment. The twins’ habitual connection gave them an advantage when they ventured outside. When vox links stuttered, they could fall back on instincts and keep working in tandem. The pair were meant to be brother and sister, not that Leena could tell who was the brother and who was the sister. They were equally scrawny and lanky, to an extent that made Anguilla look positively curvaceous and small: and they were incredibly pale-skinned, with pinkish eyes and white eyelashes. Leena wondered if they were distantly related to one of the Navigator Houses.

For now, she kept her questions to herself. Myrr and Harri had already extended their courtesy by bringing Leena on this floating adventure: it wouldn’t be right to pry into their private lives. Besides, they weren’t big on talking in Low Gothic, preferring to use their clan’s own chirping dialect.

The Remoras had thought hard about the best place to bring a psyker. They’d decided upon a visit to the Voidship’s upper conning tower: the main cluster of auspex arrays were accessed via an enormous hollow vertical shaft, the same shaft where Aleena now bobbed in mid-air.

Aft of the conning tower, another sturdy jutting pillar housed the precious Navigator’s Sanctum. Leena suspected that would be one of the few places she was not authorised to go. A representative of House Cassini had embarked from Janus to supervise this leg of the Venatrix’s customary patrol route. As far as Aleena knew, there was still no dedicated Lord or Lady Navigator for the von Valancius flagship. House Cassini and House Orsellio swapped the duties back and forth for reasons known only to them.

It felt nice to be aware of the Navigator’s distant oversight. The grav-field might be particularly flimsy in this part of the Voidship, but the Geller Field was as strong as ever. Aleena hadn’t anticipated feeling this safe or this free in the middle of Warp travel.

She’d sunk a little lower in the access shaft than was ideal: if she dropped too far, she’d start to accelerate. Fortunately there were plenty of handholds and railings. Leena caught hold of the nearest one, used it to bob up a little higher, then kicked off against the railing with her soft-shoed feet. That was another oddity. She’d expected the hull check crews to wear hard-shelled Voidsuits all the time. Harri and Myrr were zipped into contoured synskin bodysuits with split-toed socks. If they needed to go outside, they could step into something more robust and cumbersome. Other Remoras didn’t even bother with footwear, preferring loose shorts and singlets as long as they were in low-grav. They wouldn’t look out of place at the seaside.

Myrr - or was it Harri? - giggled appreciatively as Leena zoomed along the access shaft, riding her plume of warm air. The Voidship was just like a big animal. It breathed, it grumbled and purred, it had its circulatory system with all those pipes Anguilla liked so much. The Venatrix even had a warm, living core. Leena opened her mind and her ears to its many little noises. How could anyone feel lonely when they were surrounded by so much activity?

A hint of Gaussian fuzz stood out against the sonic harmony. Aleena fumbled around with her handholds and moved herself closer. Harri was curious enough to follow her, and Myrr soon joined them. Aleena felt that it would be intruding upon the ship’s machine spirits and their chatter to speak out loud - these auspices were delicate. Instead she indicated the spot that had attracted her with its odd noise. Harri flipped their body upside-down, from Leena’s perspective at least, and began to fiddle around with different wires and switches that were a complete mystery to Aleena’s untrained gaze. The noise peaked and resolved into a melodious hum. Myrr rewarded Leena with a chirp and an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

She’d been useful!

 

___

 

Wing Commander Mattis Erebis would have been more comfortable taking this meeting on the Officer’s Deck, a well-appointed and above all well-surveilled space. As it was, Sonomancer Aleena had travelled all the way over to the hangar decks. He couldn’t very well turn away a member of the Lord Captain’s retinue. Thus he was stuck in a very small office with an underdressed teenager. He’d start going grey early at this rate.

“Did Iffy Drivestem send me here as a prank, ser?”

The ‘bivvy’ they occupied was a converted storage cupboard with room for a metal table, two steel chairs and a cogitator at the far end. Mattis sympathised with Aleena’s disappointment. She’d probably imagined a row of neatly-appointed Fury interceptors surrounded by Tech-Priests and smart young Void cadets. The administrative apparatus of the Venatrix’s fighter squadron was unromantic by comparison.

The young psyker was doing unspeakable things to her chair. Erebis did his best not to look at her limbs, but he could hear the faint squeak of her synskin jumpsuit’s fabric every time she wriggled around on the seat. He wondered how she managed to stay upright. Did they not have proper chairs on Janus? Why in the Void didn’t she have shoes on? The child’s messy mane of red hair only made her look more like a wild beast.

Ah, Mattis was being uncharitable. This girl’s whole world had just been upended. He, too, must have looked out of place when he first came to Dargonus.

“Young Mistress Aleena, allow me to apologise on the Master Helmsman’s behalf. As you may have gathered, my squadron is very new. I myself am still growing accustomed to the Venatrix and her crew. I can refer you to some of the younger pilots who are better placed to show you around this part of the Voidship.”

Rufus Swift ought to be reliable. Mattis swivelled on his chair and tapped a reminder into the cogitator behind him: a welcome excuse to avoid staring at the poor girl.

“So what can you personally do for me, Wing Commander?”

Mattis heard Aleena’s voice as if she had been sitting right in front of him. She must have distorted the sound with her powers. The result was terribly disconcerting. Erebis swivelled back around to face her. Dear me, did she have to be quite so… contoured? Whatever you do, man, don’t stare at anything below the neckline.

“Master Helmsman Drivestem was obviously born a Noble, while I was not.” Mattis flexed his long Voidborn legs to underscore his point. “I had to learn the customs and manners of polite society. I could offer my services as a mentor in that regard. I can only assume that is what Iphigenia - what the Master Helmsman had in mind when she sent you to me.”

Aleena’s teeth were a little too pointy and her smile a little too broad for Mattis’s comfort.

“Are you saying that my manners are inappropriate?”

Oh dear. Erebis pushed his fingers up under his fringe and massaged his hairline. He could feel a tension headache coming on.

“Frankly, yes.”

“Says the man with the haircut that looks like a penis.”

“It’s still growing out!”

Void take him, now he’d raised his voice to a child! Mattis took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

“You are testing the social boundaries in this place. I get it. I was a teenager once myself, believe it or not... But you have to understand, Aleena, both the power and the responsibility that comes from being a member of the Lord Captain’s retinue. Your antics could get me killed, to say nothing of the reputational damage…”

“What do you care about more, your reputation or getting killed?”

The sonomancer had stopped trying to molest her chair and was sitting upright, even if she did still have one leg tucked underneath her. Good. At least she wasn’t trying to get a rise out of him.

“To a Noble, it is all the same thing. Reputation is livelihood, livelihood is survival. If I’m honest, nobility is a flimsy thing. Status is ultimately conferred onto Noble Houses by the belief of their vassals. Looking the part isn’t just some game for us, it is all-important.”

Mattis drummed his fingertips on the desk. The metal felt pleasantly cool through the fabric of his gloves. Now came the awkward part of the lecture.

“Mistress Aleena, when you appear on the Voidship’s bridge wearing what many crew members would consider to be underwear, how do you think that reflects on the Rogue Trader?”

The sonomancer blinked twice.

“This kit is what the hull check crew gave me. It’s comfy, it covers all the bits.”

She shrugged, looked down to make sure the jumpsuit’s front zip hadn’t come too far undone, and appeared satisfied with her findings. The sonomancer paused, then suddenly leaned forward over her bent knee.

“Hey, it’s not like the Lord Captain cares about wearing fancy clothes! Why do I have to worry about what I’m wearing? This isn’t fair.”

“You are right, it isn’t fair.” Erebis sighed heavily.

“Let me put it another way. The Lord Captain bears the God-Emperor’s mandate, and has the power to incapacitate a person with a single thought. If they want to dress like a commoner, none of us would dare to question a Rogue Trader’s choice. If someone attacks them while they are incognito, I suppose that’s a risk the Lord Captain is willing to take. But you…”

Aleena scoffed. “I can make a man explode by screaming at him.”

“That’s… impressive… but I’d prefer it if you never had a reason to scream at him in the first place.”

Mattis was finally able to make eye contact with the girl. She’d crossed her arms over her breasts, which made his part in their interaction fractionally less awkward.

“You’re telling me that because of some creeps, I’m the one who has to care about what I wear? That’s groxshit.”

“It is rather. Sadly, I don’t make the rules.” Erebis looked at the ceiling for a moment. It was bare, very low and just a little bit damp. “Didn’t your instructors at the Scholastica Psykana advise you on these matters?”

“They gave us stuff to wear and told us which way round to wear it. Smocks, mostly.” That explained a great deal. “I know how to run diagnostics and maintenance on psy-implants, how to put a flak fest on and how to lace and clean combat boots.”

“What about social niceties? Etiquette, for example.”

“What's etiquette? Uh… I learned reading and writing and numbers, eating with a knife and fork, polite ways to greet fancy people. Oli taught me how to do a curtsey.”

Aleena looked so proud of her achievements. Iphigenia would have laughed at the poor lass. It was a good thing she was talking with Mattis.

“That’s a fine start.” Shit, what did young women find interesting? “How do you feel about dancing?”

“Eh?”

Aleena cocked her head to one side. The gesture was almost bird-like in its suddenness. Mattis knew what a xenos looked like: this girl could almost pass herself off as one, particularly if she were traversing the poorly-lit corridors of the Lower Decks. Maybe she was better off dressing for menace rather than modesty…

“I love moving to music. I hadn’t thought much about how people dance in the Imperium.” The sonomancer made a little clicking noise with her tongue. “Want to teach me?”

At least Mattis wouldn’t have to attempt a waltz while wearing cumbersome leg and lower back braces. If he could get Iphigenia to assist with the lessons, it might even be fun.

“I believe that would be possible. You’d need a chaperone, of course.”

Aleena tilted her head the other way. “What the Void’s a chaperone?”

Saints and stars, she was going to need a lot of help.

 

___

 

“My esteemed lady Aleena, may I present - the Bring and Take!”

Rufus Swift swept his right arm out and ushered his visitor into the Servitium Lavandi.

“Also known as the magical place where one Voidsman’s garbage becomes another’s garb. Crew members usually cash in dynastic scrip or exchange old clothes for new ones. You’ve got retinue privileges which means you can grab whatever you like, as much as you like, anytime. Lucky old you.”

“Lucky old me!”

Aleena’s laugh was a lot more resonant than Rufus expected. The laundry servitors took no notice of her, and continued to haul their big sacks of garments and rags; but several of the human staff glanced up from their sewing machines before returning to their tasks.

The Servitium Lavandi was split into four parts, each occupying a section of the same compartment. A side entrance to Rufus’s far left gave officers access to a self-service laundry room in a smaller prefabricated space. On the other side of the prefabricated divide, enormous industrial-grade machines bleached, washed and dried the Voidship’s bedsheets, rugs, draperies and tablecloths. Altar-cloths and religious vestments went through their own special wash cycle. Rufus assumed that the large vat next to the Ecclesiarchy-approved washing machine contained holy water.

The middle of the compartment was for sorting fabric waste and donated clothing. The piles of fabric and garments were up to two storeys high. Servitors carrying long poles would trudge up and poke the pile, scoop up armfuls from the resulting avalanche and dump it onto long tables to sort. Nearly all the fabric could be re-used: the Venatrix was in constant need of bandages, purity seals and writing paper.

The right hand side of the Servitium Lavandi was dedicated to clothing repair and redistribution. Once items were washed, mended and ordered according to size and type, they ended up in a large open-ended dressing room. It was to this room that Rufus led Aleena. He was on a mission from the Wing Commander. Hopefully she’d find something tolerable among the flagship’s castoffs.

“Oh, shoes! Look, there are so many…”

The psyker was already hastening over to the shoe racks. She looked a little silly wearing the split-toed socks of her synskin undersuit with the Wing Commander’s borrowed coatee over the top - kind of like a little kid dressing up in her dad’s uniform. The comparison made Rufus feel incredibly awkward.

He couldn’t work out whether he was supposed to treat Aleena like his peer or like a child. Wing Commander Erebis had specifically told him not to ‘get up to any funny business’, but Rufus doubted there was any real risk of that. Her skin was a bit too green to look right, and her habits were so erratic that it was hard for him to see her as a woman. Rufus Swift could get plenty of cuter looking girls if he wanted to, or guys for that matter. Everyone liked a hot young Interceptor pilot.

There was something familiar about Aleena’s unschooled enthusiasm. Was she an orphan like him? He’d been about her age when he’d graduated from tutoring the smaller children and left Schola to join the Void cadets. Rufus didn’t have time to linger on that thought. Instead he got behind the kid, took hold of her by the padded shoulders of her borrowed coat and steered the psyker in the direction of the Voidborn-sized shoes. The kid might be planet-born, but she was lanky enough that baseline human lasts would be too wide for her feet.

“This way, gremlin. You’ll drown in the other ones.”

Aleena had already started cooing over a pair of boots. They extended up over the knee - just the kind of dramatic look a teenager would pick. Rufus figured he’d get in trouble if he let her choose anything too impractical or blatantly sexual. At least the boots’ low block heels were sensible enough that she’d be safe running around in them. And look how happy Aleena was. He didn’t want to spoil that.

“You remind me of Anguilla.”

Swift’s comment was not taken as a compliment. Aleena paused mid-bend and whipped her head round to glare at him, sending her loose hair over her other shoulder in a flash of red.

“Anguilla, is it? Would Anguilla wear boots like these?”

Rufus silently conceded that she probably wouldn’t.

“I’m taking them.”

So much for his plans to pick out a few new bits of kit for himself. Aleena took a chaotic approach to dressing herself, putting her left foot into her right boot and then calling sadly for Rufus to help extricate her.

“I don’t get the point of these straps here.”

“That’s for attaching a weapon holster. Uh-”

“Well? Be useful and help me!”

The Wing Commander’s stern instructions weighed heavily on Rufus Swift’s mind as he knelt to fiddle with the thigh straps on Aleena’s boots. He tried not to think about the proximity of her jumpsuit and its zippered crotch. They really had to find her something to cover the area.

“I’m not supposed to be doing anything inappropriate.”

“You’re not inappropriate, you are helping a lady with a wardrobe malfunction.”

Rufus sniggered. Now she sounded like Anguilla: though he couldn’t possibly tell her that.

“Has anyone told you that you look like an Aeldari?”

“Huh.” Aleena held her right leg akimbo while Rufus finished adjusting her. “You’re into that, aren’t you? Naughty boy.”

Swift lowered his head to conceal the sudden warmth in his face.

“Please don’t get me in trouble.”

Aleena just snorted. “Have you even met an Aeldari?”

“Yes, when I was in Schola.” There, he’d done a pretty decent job with the footwear. Now Aleena just needed a belt or a skirt to go over the jumpsuit. “She was… kind.”

The psyker reached down and roughly tousled his hair.

“Someone had a crush!”

Rufus clumsily got to his feet.

“It was nice having another redhead around.” Never mind that his face was probably as red as his hair.

“Did people tease you about it?” Aleena was showing empathy for the first time since they’d been introduced.

“They stopped when Ambrogio got promoted.”

The young psyker gave Rufus an alarmingly toothy grin.

“Now there’s three of us! We’ll be invincible.”

Swift put his hand up to muss the psyker’s hair, but stopped just short of making contact. She was a retinue member after all. Aleena cocked her head at him.

“I’m not a xenos, you know. You can touch me.”

Rufus laid his palm over the chest of his flight suit instead.

“I’ve got an idea. The Furies don’t deploy during Warp jumps, so us pilots make up our own entertainment. It’s not much, just some drinking in the tunnels behind the torpedo bay. You’re welcome to join, though.”

He had no idea how he was going to convince the other stick-jockeys to let this feral kid tag along for the party, but she was fun enough to make the inconvenience worth it.

“Yeah all right.” Aleena grabbed Rufus’s sleeve and started to drag him over towards the garment racks.

“Help me pick some more clothes out. I’ve got nothing to wear.”

Chapter 55: Chapter Fifty Five

Summary:

Leena gets more than her fair share of adventure.

CW: suggestive situations, fight scenes

First a hike through the Lilaethan’s forest and now a hike through the Venatrix’s tunnels. Aleena hadn’t expected Voidfaring life to involve quite so much walking, or for the flagship’s innards to be so dark and swampy. Anyway - these were the fabled pipes that Anguilla was always going on about. The tunnel that the pilots had chosen for their party was absolutely massive, though still not as large as the Voidship’s torpedo tubes. Those were big enough to double as runways for the Fury Interceptors.

The scale of everything on the Venatrix was just a bit comical. All the archaeotech and all the oldest, fanciest rooms and thoroughfares on the ship seemed made for giants. Had humans just been way bigger ten thousand years ago? It wasn’t like Leena had a reliable basis for comparison. Look at the diversity of bodies on board ship right now!

Aleena had heard that there were these mutant people called Squats, who knew the Lord Captain - they were meant to be really short and really wide, just like their name implied. Then there were the Angels of the Emperor, who appeared to be both tall and wide. They sounded properly scary. Sadly, when Aleena had asked the Lord Captain if she could meet one, the Rogue Trader replied that they no longer had any Astartes on board.

What a pity. It’d be nice if Aleena could meet more of these mutated humans. She’d stick out a lot less in the company of other weirdos.

Rufus had diligently introduced her to all the young pilots before they had gone scrambling into the dark together. Leena remembered only Struan and Kona’s names, and then only because those two were her own age. They’d just finished their cadet training with the Dargonus Planetary Defence Force and transferred onto the Venatrix along with the squadron’s new Wing Commander.

Struan wasn’t as chunky as Oli, but the standard Dargonian body type was clearly short and dark haired. Kona was even more petite, which made her look far younger than her actual age. Both new recruits were giddy about their assignment. They spent the whole trip up the tunnels giggling and joking and dicking around. What a pair of big babies!

Aleena made sure to keep her distance from her supposed peers. A psyker always had to keep a little bit of willpower in reserve. Those children were distracting, and also aggravating. At least the older pilots seemed to share Leena’s mild disdain for the new kids. Only Rufus actually bothered to trade more than small talk with the psyker, but that was all right. He was the oldest, and thus the only one whose attention she actually cared about.

Aleena’s tall boots came in handy. The tunnel’s curved bottom was full of dirty water: someone had added a narrow walkway along one side, but the rockcrete was crumbling. Occasionally Aleena would stumble into a divot or step on a chunk of loose masonry, and splash in a smelly puddle. It was still far better than navigating the Lilaethan’s mud-choked forest floor.

The service tunnels made good noises: their thick plasteel walls made a satisfying echo when Aleena tapped them. The ever-present background hum of the Voidship’s engines was pretty strong here. The Venatrix was a big purring beast. Leena didn’t feel claustrophobic in a tunnel of this size. In fact, it was reassuring to know that there were many bulkheads and layers of hull between her and the raw Warp.

“So, what, are we just going to stand and drink with our backs to the tunnel?”

The sonomancer gave her powers a subtle flex so that her voice didn’t echo too far in the tunnel. Rufus was close enough to be caught in her noise-dampening bubble. She couldn’t see much of his face by the light of their little hand-lumens, but he nearly missed a step when he first spoke a response.

“There’s - there’s an adjoining service tunnel coming up, wait and see.”

Maybe he was - what was that word Erebis had used? - chaperoning her, but Swift was all right. Being the same height and having similar hair wasn’t a solid basis for comradeship, but it was something. And he did keep his left arm hovering slightly behind Aleena, presumably so he could catch her if she slipped in the dark. Most baseline humans wouldn’t even think about touching a psyker, let alone a retch.

“Good job, Ser Rufus. Your gallantry has earned you five Leena approval points.”

The sonomancer’s muffling influence made Swift’s laughter come out a little more sultry than he’d probably intended it to be.

“I wasn’t aware we were using a rating system. Is there a leader board?”

Oho. “Why do you care?”

Rufus’s hand-lumen bobbed as he shrugged. Its beam reflected off the tunnel’s sluggish water with a slight rainbow sheen.

“I might be the competitive type.”

Aleena’s stomach felt funny all of a sudden. Fortunately, the beam of her hand-lumen had just illuminated the contours of a small metal deck and its adjacent round hatch. This must be the service tunnel that Rufus had mentioned.

Everyone had to cram into the relatively narrow space, which meant the other pilots overcame their squeamishness and ventured inside the sonomancer’s personal space. Home-brewed beer and kvass was the drink of choice: one of the older pilots had drawn the short straw and been stuck carrying the box.

Struan tried to wrench the top off a beer bottle with his teeth. He cried out in discomfort as he nearly broke a molar. Kona cackled at him, confiscated the beer and then demonstrated pretty good technique with the bottle and a bit of peeling tunnel infrastructure. The beer fizzed everywhere and she hastened to slurp up the foam that began to run down the back of her hand. The other pilots thought this was great entertainment and let out whoops and hoots of encouragement.

It’d be rude not to join in with the drinking, even if Aleena did need to keep her wits together. She fetched a bottle of kvass out of the box and set it down on the rockcrete walkway just past the platform where everyone was standing. Could she use her sonomancy to settle some of the fizz inside? She squatted to examine the bottle more closely.

Rufus hunkered down next to Aleena, two open beer bottles in his hands, and passed one of them to her. The glass was cool at the bottom, but the neck was slightly warm from his hands. He still hadn’t touched her bare skin, but Leena could fix that. She let her fingers stray just a little further down the neck of the beer bottle until she made contact with the back of the pilot’s hand. Warm and soft. He didn’t make eye contact, but he didn’t flinch either.

“Do I get any more points, Lady Aleena?”

He was so into this. Leena flashed him a grin that she knew would be nice and toothy.

“I’ll let you know.”

She could hear the blood rushing around Rufus’s body as his heart rate kicked up. It was an irresponsible use of her psykana to listen in on someone for personal reasons. Aleena washed away the faint reproaches of imaginary Drill Abbotts with a big swig of beer. It tasted yeasty, a little bitter, but undeniably boozy.

“We do target practice sometimes, with the empty bottles.”

Rufus winced at the taste of his own bottle of home brew, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flight suit. Leena had wondered why he’d bothered to equip a laspistol for a drinking session.

“Doesn’t that leave a mess?”

Rufus shrugged. “Tunnels get cleaned every once in a while, so the glass just flushes away.”

“Set ‘em up on the crosswalk. I’ll show you something cool.”

“Sure. Do you need to borrow my weapon?”

Aleena leaned in with conspiratorial intent. “I am a weapon.”

She didn’t need torchlight to know how flustered she’d just made the guy.

Pilots chugged back their drinks, and Aleena collected a few empties from them, holding them in an awkward clinking bundle. She also grabbed a couple of unopened drinks out of the box, scampered along the crosswalk and spread the bottles out as best as she could on the uneven metal surface. Once this was done she returned with careful footsteps - she didn’t want the vibrations along the gangway to knock any of the targets over prematurely.

“Lumens on the bottles, everyone, and watch closely!”

Aleena felt like a mischievous Harlequin as she lapped up the attention of her curious and slightly apprehensive audience. She swept out the tails of her new-second-hand coat and dropped into a theatrical kneel, pressing the fingertips of her right hand against the metal gangway. The move was entirely unnecessary, but she wanted the pilots to understand the connection between her action and the bottles’ reaction.

It was easy to distinguish between the empty and full bottles: they resonated in totally different ways. A quick flex of her psykana and all the empty beer bottles hummed: a tiny tweak, and the glass shattered with a cascade of pops. Leena stood again, walked out to collect the unopened bottles, fetched them back and handed one each to Kona and Struan. Kona seemed particularly impressed with Aleena’s little trick.

The young pilots had short attention spans. It wasn’t long before everyone returned to drinking and trading insipid banter. Leena’s chosen target lingered in her orbit while his comrades sat in a tight circle to play a drinking game. She summoned another bubble of sonic interference and rested her pointed chin against the padded shoulder of Rufus’s flight suit.

“We’re ditching.”

The sonomancer slunk into the shadows before Rufus could object. She followed the main tunnel even deeper into the Voidship, listening for distant drips and clangs over the Voidship’s gentle rumble. She kept her hand-lumen switched off, keeping to the crumbling rockcrete walkway as she rounded the corner. Eventually she had walked far enough that the noise of the party behind her barely registered in her unaltered human senses.

Aleena’s eyes soon became used to the darkness, although she could only make out grey shapes. Rufus’s hand-lumen flickered against the wall by Aleena’s right hand, but it didn’t startle her. His hurried footsteps had made too much noise for that. She stopped just long enough for him to nudge up against the back of her coat.

“Don’t just take off! The others-” He sounded hoarse.

“The other pilots will assume - correctly - that you’ve snuck off with a girl. You do this pretty often, I’m guessing.”

Swift’s pulse gave him away. “Uh-”

“They won’t snitch on you to the Wing Commander, because they don’t want to get in trouble for being here. That’s why you brought me along, yeah?”

Rufus put his right hand against the tunnel wall and leaned heavily against it, letting his hand-lumen dangle down and drop a pool of pale light across both their toes. The pilot hung his head and grinned sheepishly up at Aleena through a disorderly fringe of red curls.

“You really are like no-one else.” His eyelashes were red, too, and quite long.

“How old are you, hot-shot?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Six years isn’t enough of a difference for you to be carrying on like you’re my uncle.” Aleena crossed her arms and slouched against the tunnel wall. It was a bit awkward. “Unless you think I’m like those babies in your squadron.”

Rufus tossed his head back with a quick laugh.

“Struan and Kona are… sheltered. You’ve clearly seen some things.”

He’d stepped a little closer. Aleena pressed both her hands against Rufus’s chest. The heavy fabric of his flight suit was slightly resilient under her fingers. His heartbeat thudded insistently under her right palm. It wasn’t too late to push him away.

“The normal rules don’t apply to you, do they?” Oh, that slow smile.

“Damn right. No rules for redheads.”

Now was the time to claim the kiss that Leena had been thinking about for hours. The first press of her lips against Rufus’s mouth was soft and slightly clumsy. The crisp scent of his shaving soap contrasted with the tunnel’s chemical smell. When he opened his mouth to kiss Aleena more deeply, she could taste the beer on his tongue. This was cosy; more than cosy. The psyker could hear her own blood rushing in her ears. She grabbed the front of Rufus’s flight suit on impulse and tugged at it. Closer, more.

Fuck, it felt good!

What a shame that they both had to come up for air. Aleena wrenched her lips free with a ragged gasp. Rufus had both hands on her hips, pulling her body against him. The roomy fabric of his uniform couldn’t hide his hard-on. The pilot tipped his head forward and rested his forehead against the lapel of Aleena’s big coat.

“...damn!”

Rufus gasped and moaned as he slid his hands under the psyker’s coat and began to caress her synskin-covered hips. He nudged a kiss against the side of Leena’s neck, in the place where her new laryngeal augmetics gave way to bare skin. Someone wasn’t reluctant about touching any more.

“Am I better than a xenos?”

“Oh, Throne, so much fucking better… Leena, you’re so damn hot…”

Aleena took hold of the pilot’s left hand and brought it round to the front of her jumpsuit.

“Good answer, hot-shot. For that you earn… mm, five more Leena points.”

Swift’s muffled laughter felt ticklish against her throat. Aleena guided Rufus’s fingers up her synskin’s zippered front, between her breasts, until she found its fastener. The little golden Aquila shape of her witch mark sat just underneath it. Rufus took hold of the tag and Leena dragged his arm slowly downward, all the way to the top of her belt.

“Leena-” Rufus’s voice sounded strained. Was he forcing something out or holding something back?

“Let’s not do this here.”

What? Aleena could think of only one way to disguise her confusion and the sting of rejection that accompanied it. She pried herself free from Swift’s embrace and started to run even further along the tunnel.

“Shit.” Her special hearing could pick up the sounds of Rufus’s frustration. “Leena, wait.”

He was quick on his feet. Aleena didn’t bother following the walkway any more: instead she let herself splash through the tunnel’s water where it was shallowest. Her movement stirred up a fresh whiff of unpleasant chem-fumes. She was starting to regret getting frisky with a stick-jockey in the first place. Never mind that he was cute. What a dumb way to get her first proper kiss - and no, trying kissing with Anguilla did not count.

The sonomancer’s booted foot caught on something in the dark. She pitched forward, instinctively muffling the sound of the collision, but her outstretched hands didn’t make it all the way to the water. Thank Throne for that… imagine getting a faceful of gunk on top of her embarrassment!

“Leena, please come back, I’m sorry.” Rufus’s clumsy boots and bobbing hand-lumen had caught up to her. “What’s that?”

Good question. She appeared to be leaning over something large, square and cold. Aleena felt its edges. Plasteel, heavy stuff too. This was a crate.

“Those should not be here.” Rufus shone his hand-lumen over the surface of Leena’s crate, then across to another box… and another. “I think we’ve just found contraband.”

Aleena immediately reinforced her sonomancy. There was a good chance that whoever had left the crates here would be coming back for their gear.

“Help me get this one open, Swift. Can’t report it if we don’t know what it is.”

Easier said than done… they didn’t have a prybar on them. Fortunately the plasteel was fastened in place with metal screws, and whoever had put the lid on had done so in a hurry. Leena got to work finding the metal’s resonant frequency and began to vibrate the screws until the threads loosened. The power pack of Rufus’s laspistol was held on with a small steel tab, which he used as an improvised screwdriver. Once there was room for them to get their fingers underneath the crate’s lid, a good wrench was enough to open it. They made a din, but Leena could keep the noise contained.

Throne, it was dark without a torch! Aleena struggled to identify the shapes in the crate. They looked like the coils of a big snake with metal scales. Rufus came to the rescue with his hand-lumen. Another long, metallic shape lay next to the coils. Both their heartbeats redoubled. Even Leena knew exactly what this was.

A firearm. A really, really big firearm. Those snaking coils were its ammunition. It could take down dozens of unarmoured Lower-Deckers in seconds.

“Shit!” Rufus’s hand-lumen juddered as he slapped the crate’s edge with his free hand.

“What’s in the other-” Rufus grabbed Aleena by the elbow.

“No. We go back. Now.”

Swift dragged Aleena back in the direction they’d come with such roughness that she tripped and fell against his shoulder. One of her stupid breasts nearly came out of her half-open jumpsuit, so she ended up groping with her free hand to try and zip herself back up while Rufus urged her to follow him.

“Emperor-dammit, be careful - ow, my tit-”

Company chose that exact mortifying moment to make an entrance because of course it Void-damned did.

“Rufus, run!”

It was Aleena’s turn to outpace the pilot. She didn’t give a shit about wading in the tunnel’s wastewater any more. People were coming, they were coming fast and one of them was really, really fucking big. Big enough to hoist that autogun, she felt sure. Its footfalls sounded odd, like it was carrying all its weight on one leg. But it wasn’t just the sound of approaching hostiles that had Leena sprinting for safety.

She felt bad. Really bad. The closest parallel her mind could draw was to that awful day with Drill Abbott Justinian, his clammy grey aura sucking the life out of his pupils.

Get away. She had to fucking get away. Even Lord Captain Como’s clammy presence would be better than whatever the Void this was.

The runners were fast. Rufus was keeping pace with Leena - good. She risked turning to look back over her shoulder. It was too dark for even her decent low-light vision to make out more than the shapes of shoulders. The pursuers had almost reached the crates.

Aleena halted, stood with her feet apart and screamed as hard as she could. Hopefully she’d targeted her powers so that Rufus wouldn’t be caught in the blast.

The Immaterium felt rough and scratchy against her skin and eyeballs and along her bones. This part was always unpleasant, but with the ship in the Warp and with Leena going full strength, the sensations were so much worse. She chided herself for not starting the fight with a Sanctic invocation. Maybe next time, if she survived this.

The indistinct grey shapes in front of her wavered and split. Two sets of feet no longer charged towards her position. Aleena’s shout overwhelmed every other sound in the tunnel, but she knew that gibbets of flesh and shattered bone fragments would be splashing all around those crates. Her next psychically-amplified scream targeted the crates themselves. Ammunition could be dangerous even when it wasn’t in a gun…

One of the crates went up with an almighty WHOOF.

She’d found the grenades.

Aleena had just enough time to fling her body backwards into the tunnel’s revolting wastewater before a plume of fire shot out. The giant plasteel corridor’s curving roof channeled the explosion towards her, bringing chunks of burning shrapnel with it. Leena scrunched her eyes closed as she hit the water and went under. Dirty water roared in her ears, and the fire’s flare lit up the skin of her eyelids, turning her view pink for a moment.

Throne, the gunk was in her nose. It took all her willpower not to retch. The Warp’s side effects were not helping either. Rufus - forget Rufus for now, his little laspistol wasn’t going to do much against those abominations. If he had any sense, he’d be fleeing.

Up, Leena! Get up or that big fucker will stomp on you! Aleena rolled onto her side and scrambled until her shoulder hit something hard. The rockcrete walkway. Good, at least she had a way to orient herself. Fighting head-on wasn’t an option, she had to get back to that crosswalk. Her head came up out of the wastewater and the sudden upward movement made Leena’s eardrums pop. Her first breath was putrid. The sonomancer realised that the slick on top of the wastewater had caught fire.

Shit. Her coat was also starting to catch fire.

At least she could see well enough not to freak out when Rufus’s hand grabbed for her. The pilot’s flight suit was soaked and marred with soot-stains. One of his trouser legs had a nasty-looking rip in the knee. Aleena caught hold of his wrist with her left hand and hauled herself up onto the walkway, and they were running again. Rufus occasionally stuck an arm out to fire his laspistol back down the tunnel, seemingly at random; but to his credit, one of the shots did find its mark. Aleena heard one of their pursuers let out an unpleasant gurgling scream, and another set of footsteps terminated in a heavy splash.

The psyker swatted at her smouldering coat with her hands. The Veil was patchy - all her fault, for overdoing it with her powers earlier. Her Drill Abbotts would have been disappointed. Then again, she was still alive and hadn’t summoned any daemons. A quick Sanctic prayer was probably all right. Leena murmured the God-Emperor’s name and let it envelop Rufus as well. She felt him pick up the pace with a slightly more sure-footed step.

Of course all the other damn pilots had vacated the party zone at the first sign of trouble. At least Aleena didn’t have to worry about them too. There was the metal causeway and the narrow alcove with its round metal hatch. They needed to get out through that service entrance. Rufus knew it too - he tugged on Aleena’s arm again, sending her staggering forwards towards it while he attempted to cover her with his laspistol.

A heavy click, and then another heavy double click penetrated the soundscape of splashing feet. It was Leena’s turn to seize Rufus by the arms and tug him towards her. The pilot didn’t have time to cry out. Instead, the tunnel erupted with the penetrating clamour of automatic arms fire.

Aleena couldn’t help blocking just a little of the noise, even though she was putting herself at risk of a Warp breach. The sound was too ghastly for her to handle it at full volume. Thankfully whatever behemoth was operating the autogun was moving slower than the other pursuers, they still had a corner to turn, and - if Anguilla’s ears did not deceive her - they had managed to shoot at least one comrade in the crossfire.

The hatch! The sonomancer scrabbled at it, trying to figure out how to get it open from this side. Come on, give me a lever or a wheel or a handle or something!

“Rufus, help!”

No luck, Void-dammit! Aleena sobbed out a prayer to the God-Emperor. She didn’t want to die in a horrible dark tunnel. Fuck you, Anguilla, and fuck your pipes, get me out of here… Swift’s body pushed into Leena’s back, pressing her awkwardly against the hatch. She heard the faint whine of his laspistol charging up for another volley.

This was it. The big fucker was coming around the corner. Aleena closed her eyes and formed one last blazing, golden Sanctic syllable.

Metal wrenched against rubber, and the hatch gave way in front of her.

Leena slid forward and slammed down hard against bare, cold steel. Rufus fell right after her, and the weight of his shoulders landed squarely against her solar plexus. The sonomancer choked and nearly retched. Heh. A retch, retching. Her night couldn’t get any more shameful.

The hatch slammed closed: someone had braced their left arm against it and shoved hard. Leena listened as she tried to sit up: Rufus’s autopistol had skittered across the deck somewhere. The person in front of the hatch had their back turned. Their right arm came up, fast: a click of metal against metal, another heavy cranking noise as they took hold of a lever and pulled it downward.

Then a giant roar, as if the Venatrix herself were complaining about the parasites in her pipes. Leena knew this sound. It was the roar of the Lilaethan’s tide. The rushing of water.

The entire corridor shook so violently that Aleena struggled to remain seated. All she could do was stare at the service hatch and the one who’d closed it, and listen to all that liquid rumbling and surging and purging the contents of the tunnel. It took a long time to die down. Leena had time to take the measure of the man who’d just saved them.

He was a big cove, particularly so if he was Voidborn. The back view was mostly overcoat, and that was made from some odd heavy fabric with a sheen to it, very stained and scorched. Both the man’s hands were covered in pink scar tissue that stood out against his olive skin: his coat’s sleeves were rolled up, and Leena could see the dark shapes of old tattoos on his forearms. A couple of fingers on his right hand had been replaced with augmetics. He reeked of smoke - lho smoke and other, more industrial kinds of soot. His hair was distinctive, too. It reminded Aleena of a lacerax’s head-tentacles.

Just the right amount of weird for her to feel comfortable around the guy.

“Hey.”

Great, Leena, can’t think of anything polite to say to your rescuer! He didn’t seem to mind, though. When he turned around to face her, his face seemed friendly enough - if rather scarred and covered in more soot.

“Hey, kid. I’m Einrich.”

The big man squatted down to her level. Then as though he were taking a simple work break, he fumbled in his coat, pulled out a lho stick and stuck it in his mouth. Leena watched as he then produced the end-tube and valve of a gas torch, toggled the switch and used its blue flame to light up a smoke.

“Dirty habit. Really chews through the ration allowance.”

Rufus chose that moment to clamber out of Aleena’s lap. The pilot zipped up the front of her still half-open jumpsuit, then gave the lho-smoker a hard look before beginning to investigate the gash in his leg. Leena took a deep breath of sweet, lho-tinged air.

“Thanks for the help, Einrich. Uh, I’m-”

“Aleena, the Sonomancer.” Einrich inhaled a delicate mouthful of sweet lho, then let it escape out of his mouth. “You’re a hard woman to forget! Let me tell you, you’ve made quite an impression on the bridge crew. And this upstanding and handsome gentleman is Rufus Swift, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Hi, Monteg.” Swift paused halfway through rolling up his pants leg and gave Einrich an Aquila salute. “Thank you for saving Aleena.”

“Oh, no need to be so formal, shipmate, it’s my job!” Einrich looked as if he were about to reach out and pinch Rufus’s cheek, but the pilot gave him another discouraging look.

“I haven’t seen you since your Schola days. You sure grew up nice and tall. And a fighter pilot, too! Bet you get all the girls.”

“Don’t tease me, uncle.” Rufus went back to investigating his leg. There was quite a nasty graze all down his shin, dirtied with wastewater. He’d need to disinfect it.

“You flushed the tunnel with something, didn’t you?” Aleena wondered who’d have the clearance to trigger such a major maintenance procedure.

“Smart kid. You’re lucky I didn’t have any bigger fires to fight - only an Infernus Master or the Chief Enginseer can trigger a big purge like that on demand.”

That would make Einrich the Infernus Master, then. Funny - he didn’t seem like the Master of much at all. Monteg paid no attention to Leena’s scrutiny as he patted the hatch behind him.

“These tunnels are meant to vent the discharge from torpedo rockets when they fire up for launch - and of course, we’ve got to get that old rocket fuel and soot out somehow! Your friend’s Fury Interceptors fly out those same torpedo tubes, so the tunnels in this compartment are nice and quiet right now. I’m betting some nasty buggers thought it’d make a fine hideout. Now that scum’s flushed into the Void, and good riddance to them.”

“Shit - the other pilots…” Rufus had gone pale.

“I wouldn’t worry about them. I sent a crew of Inferni round to the hangar, just in case any of the crims made it out before we flushed the pipe. They’re in good hands.”

Aleena cautiously tested her footing. Her legs felt incredibly shaky. Both Rufus and Enirich scrambled to their feet and they each put out a hand to help her up. The Infernus Master gave the young pilot a knowing look.

“I see how it is.” His affable smile broadened. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the Rogue Trader about your little tryst.”

Rufus’s mouth twitched, and his heart rate accelerated. Leena put a hand on his chest before he did anything stupid.

“I don’t want to ruin your reputation over one party that didn’t go anywhere, Rufus. We both need to get cleaned up.” And we need to get treated without the Lord Captain finding out, if possible. “Would Asclepius-”

“The Infernus Guild has First Aid supplies.” Einrich had an answer for everything. “We’ve got you covered.”

Leena gave Monteg one of her pointy-toothed grins and slapped him on the back. He didn’t seem put off by her feral antics at all.

“Cheers, uncle! You’re a real good sort, did you know that?” Leena summoned a small bubble of sonomancy - the effort was worth the slight headache it gave her - and muttered a few words for Einrich’s ears only. “I owe you one.”

“Anytime, kid.” Monteg lowered his voice to match. “Muties stick together.”

Chapter 56: Chapter Fifty Six

Summary:

Anguilla attempts a reunion.

Which of the furnishings in this cabin had the Iceman used?

Lord Captain Como had evidently refreshed the place after Interrogator van Calox stopped using it. The bed, mattress and blankets were all new and had a pleasant soap-and-plastic scent. Anguilla was glad about that. It would have been too damn weird for her to sleep in the same bed as her guardian, even after an eight year time gap.

It looked like the Rogue Trader had replaced all the votive essentials, too. Next to the Imperium-issue kneeler and hymnal stand, Anguilla noticed a pretty red flogger that hung from a nearby peg. Psykers often used flagellation along with regular prayer as a way to strengthen their minds. This accessory was very much the ‘child’ version, not designed to do any lasting damage. Anguilla suspected that a biomancer would have used something far nastier in his devotional routine.

She hadn’t expected to see a sewing machine here. An recognised its squat black shape, its little desk and foot pedal at once - the Voidship's laundry room had whole rows of these machines. The Interrogator must have requisitioned it. Anguilla hadn’t realised that Heinrix knew how to sew. What other secrets had he kept from her?

The cabin’s bay window was far less pretty now that the Voidship’s shutters had been lowered and its view of the stars was obscured - not that Anguilla wanted to peek out at the raw Warp. She tried to imagine the Interrogator reclining on the cushioned seat, holding a dataslate in his lap. Maybe he’d written his reports here. Maybe he’d cuddled with Uncle Marazhai while the silent stars kept watch.

She hadn’t told Oli or Leena about the Drukhari. Even beginning to explain his relationship with the Iceman would be nearly impossible. If Anguilla hadn’t seen the Dracon’s tenderness, she’d think the idea was crazy too.

Void take them both. She missed those old weirdos.

Lurking in her quarters - in Heinrix’s quarters, damn him! - was only worsening Anguilla’s mental state. It was time to take a walk.

Clothing herself was always a chore, so Anguilla defaulted to wearing black and grey like she always did. Leggings, singlet, plimsolls, a big cardigan thing she’d found in the cabin’s tiny closet. Its fabric smelled of mothballs and green herbs, with a faint hint of oil. Real wool - what a luxury... Anguilla had never seen the Interrogator wear anything like this. If the cardigan belonged to him, should she take it off? She didn’t want to carry his relics around like a sad orphan. The garment’s cosy warmth and reassuring weight made her keep it for now.

A long mirrored panel was set into the inside of the closet door. Anguilla peered at herself. Her nose was getting more prominent as she aged. Her Janusian tan and dark braided hair made An resemble her adoptive father. Anguilla felt an intrusive urge to chop her own braid off. Then she remembered how fastidious Uncle Marazhai was about his long hair. A moment of resentment towards Heinrix wasn’t a good enough reason to give up her pride.

Her long experience with Warp travel made her all too aware of the consequences if she stayed put and continued to sulk. Holy ground, somewhere away from the outer hull, was the best place for her to go. Besides, Oli kept pestering her about visiting her old Schola classmates. If she went to see Bufo, maybe he’d stop his well-intentioned nagging.

Anguilla’s head began to feel clearer the moment she closed the cabin door behind her. The corridor’s purity seals were all still intact. The merry glow of lumens and candles reminded her that she was safe. The Venatrix would take good care of her child. The route between the psykers’ rooms and the fancy Upper-Decker shrine was easy enough, a pleasant walk along plush red and blue carpet. An had never been to see the relics in person before. She was curious to see if the von Valancius shrine was even fancier than the Great Cathedral.

The big Gothic double doors promised a much grander space than the chamber Anguilla found herself in. It was still lovely; she now understood why Lord Captain Como hadn’t made the shrine accessible to the crew at large, though. There was room for between twenty and fifty pilgrims to circulate comfortably among the reliquaries and sculptures. The only grandiose object was a large statue of the God-Emperor, whose downcast skull-face kept a sedate vigil over His worshippers as they approached Him in prayer. The scene was intimate by the dynasty’s usual palatial standards… An was surprised that the Rogue Trader’s predecessors had kept the shrine so modest.

Everything was bright and pristine. Anguilla noticed that the mild tension headache she always felt during Warp travel had abated in this holy place. She slowly allowed her mind to trace the golden contours of the God-Emperor’s name - or a part of His name, at least. It felt right to channel her own tiny fragment of His will in a shrine dedicated to His veneration.

“The Emperor protects, child.”

An older planet-born man with a slightly jowly countenance had approached Anguilla while she invoked the Master of Mankind. His tall hat and floor-length white robes indicated his high status in the Ecclesiarchy. The old man’s stride was short, his shoulders relaxed into a slight hunch. He couldn’t be more different from Anguilla’s Drill Abbotts.

“And in this, we must be like Him.”

All Sanctioned psykers knew the response by rote. Anguilla was surprised by her own sincerity when she addressed the priest. She made a relaxed sign of the Aquila, and let her hands rest across her collarbones for a bit longer than usual. The gesture felt like a hug.

“I’m Anguilla, holy father. I was hoping that I might meet with Deacon Bufo.”

The priest’s smile made a great many dimples and crinkles appear around his eyes and cheeks. He must be quite a jovial cove if he had this many laugh lines. He seemed too friendly and far too humble to suit his vocation.

“How wonderful to have a visit from another of our newest retinue members! I am Confessor Adalbert: I sincerely hope we shall have other chances to converse. I met your colleague Olivar not long ago. Such devoted youngsters among us… It is a blessed sign. Young Bufo is here, yes indeed. He has been tending to the confessional arrays. The cogitators need a patient touch.”

Anguilla tried not to raise her eyebrows at that. Patience hadn’t exactly been one of Bufo’s virtues. The boy she remembered had been large, stocky and prone to boisterous physical altercations with anyone who teased the orphans.

“Doesn’t the company of witches bother you, Confessor?”

“Should it?” The old priest’s eyes twinkled. “The God-Emperor and Master of Mankind has seen fit to bestow an inkling of His divine power and make you an instrument of His will. I would rather not question His intentions - particularly since both my soul and my livelihood are dependent on Him!”

Anguilla smiled back at him. “You’re very kind for a priest, ser.” Pretty good-humoured, too.

Confessor Adalbert clasped his hands over his belly.

“We both know how precarious life can be, Anguilla - whether we live on board this miraculous Ark, or out among the stars. Life can be merciless at times. I believe it is our duty to bring forth that benevolence which does not exist in Nature.”

Adalbert shrugged, and he was all smiles again.

“The whims of an old man. Do not take me too seriously, Anguilla, and do not let me keep you from seeing your friend.”

One of the Omnissiah’s creations seemed curiously out of place in a room dedicated to the other flavour of Imperial worship. The priests had walled it off with folding paper screens and tucked it in a discreet corner. Anguilla had given confession in the Great Cathedral, and in some of the smaller Lower-Deck shrines scattered round the flagship. The booths were simple affairs with a kneeler and a brass tube to speak into. This cogitator appeared to handle the logistics of all those recordings. A nondescript junior priest was busy anointing different parts of the cogitator. He waved when Anguilla approached.

“Bufo?”

Was that really him? He’d always seemed so tall and strong in Anguilla’s imagination. Had he just stopped growing? The cove wasn’t much taller than Olivar, though he did have quite a bit more meat on his bones than the average Voidborn. The Ecclesiarchy must feed its servants pretty well.

“Welcome back, Anguilla! Oh - and may the Emperor’s light guide you.”

Bufo seemed to have just remembered he was a Deacon. Gosh, even his hands seemed plump and soft rather than made for punching!

“You look so… happy.”

The young man was no longer a desperate orphan with nothing to prove. He really did seem at peace. Good for him. Anguilla felt a little sad, though. She’d always tried to protect Bufo, but it looked like the Emperor was doing a better job of that. The Deacon beamed up at her.

“It’s good to show a calm demeanour around the machine spirit. It’s a very old and wise cogitator, and it enjoys serenity. I’m not sure if the relics like the peace and quiet here too, but I’d like to think they do.”

Anguilla doubted that was the case. Most of the holy artifacts here were weapons of some kind.

“I never thought I’d see you -” she nearly said ‘keeping the peace’ but changed tack halfway through that thought. Bufo had always been a kind kid at heart. “-again.”

“You’re all Sanctioned now.” The Deacon indicated the little golden Aquila symbol on Anguilla’s forehead. “That’s… really good, An. I’m glad you made it.”

“I’ve still got a lot to prove.” Come on, An, just take the compliment, he’s trying to be kind. “Thanks, though. I want to do my best.”

What was her ‘best’ in service of? Anguilla would have to do a lot more than catalogue some confessions and polish some relics if she was going to pull her weight as a Sanctioned witch. She wanted to earn a measure of respect… but whose respect mattered? The respect of her peers? Of Mister Iceman? Of the Rogue Trader? Of the God-Emperor Himself?

Deacon Bufo was eager to show Anguilla some of his favourite artifacts. The little Deacon tugged on the sleeve of Anguilla’s cardigan as he began telling her the ancient history of the nearest gleaming reliquary. The psyker noticed that the back of Bufo’s robe was a little long on him, and nearly trailed on the floor when he walked. It made him look like a child.

Lucky him. An hadn’t felt like a child in a long time.

 

___

 

“-have to tell the Lord Captain what you saw-”

“-you leave my brain the fuck alone, Oli-”

Anguilla’s headache was back in full force. What in the Void were her neighbours arguing about now? The shouting seemed to be coming from Aleena’s room.

“I don’t want to be a snitch, Leena.”

“You’re a Diviner, Olivar Danrok, you’re the God-Emperor’s snitch by definition.”

By the Throne, couldn’t they have at least closed the door? Anguilla barged her way inside and shut it behind her with a quick irritated flex of her telekinesis.

“Way to let the entire Voidship know about your moral dilemma. Hi, by the way.”

Aleena made a face like a kicked dog. Oli looked exhausted. He was in a chair, Leena was under her grow-lamps again. Anguilla couldn’t help noticing the sticking plasters on her hands.

“Olivar, I went to see one of the Schola kids. Although if I knew you’d both get into an argument, I would have stayed here.”

Aleena huffed and crossed her arms. She had some new kit on that made her look even more exotic than usual. Almost a crime lord fit. Anguilla didn’t hate it.

“I did not start the argument. Mister Mystical Visions over here decided to butt in.”

Anguilla leaned down and ruffled Olivar’s hair, but immediately regretted it. Her fingers were now covered in sticky hair gel.

“Did the voices tell you a secret, Olivar?”

The little Diviner rolled his eyes.

“I am not the one who’s keeping secrets from the Rogue Trader.”

Anguilla gave Leena her best disapproving look. “What kind of secrets? What’ve you been doing?”

“I’ve got a right to go where I karking well want to! Fuck, An, I knew you’d be a stick-in-the-arse about this but you too, Olivar? It’s private stuff!”

That stung. It wasn’t like Anguilla enjoyed being the sensible one. Oli had taken hold of Aleena’s bandaged hand.

“I saw explosions and gunfire, Leena! I’m worried about you!”

The sonomancer had blocked him out with a localised bubble of sorcery. Leena snatched her hand away and bared her pointed teeth at Olivar. For the Throne’s sake, she was so immature sometimes!

“At least tell the Lord Captain about the contraband.”

“Contraband! Leena, what the fuck!”

She was going to get them all kicked off the ship. Stupid, irresponsible, naive fucking child! Anguilla resisted the urge to hurl a table across the cabin. Aleena had tensed herself for a fight: An could see the long tendon twitching down the side of the other girl’s throat. The sonomancer balled her fists so hard that her knuckles stood out pale against the greenish tint of her skin.

“Get out of my business, Inquisition brat.”

Inquisition brat, huh? Anguilla really couldn’t escape the Iceman’s poisoned legacy, could she? Oli tried patting Aleena’s hand again, desperate to calm her down.

“I’ll talk with uncle Como - I mean the Lord Captain. They don’t need to know about your involvement, okay? I’ll… I’ll cover for you if I have to, tell them I had a vision about it or something.”

Throne, he was just as useless as Leena. Anguilla turned on her heel in a whirl of psykana, wrenched the door open again and shoved herself out into the corridor.

“You know what, fuck this. If you two want to get in trouble, then fine. Fine! I am so Void-damned tired of you both!”

Anguilla slammed the cabin door closed with so much telekinetic force that she left a hairline crack in the steel. It wasn’t nearly enough to get the tension out of her system. She leaned against the far wall of the corridor and felt the purity seals digging into her back and shoulder.

A drink. She needed a Void-damn drink.

Chapter 57: Chapter Fifty Seven

Summary:

Anguilla goes astray... very astray.

CW: bad trips and Death Cults

The first hit of obscura wearies the eye. The second hit of obscura diverts its gaze.

Anguilla wasn't even sure whose attention she wanted to evade. Damn it, she’d made several stupid judgement calls over the past few hours. Why had she blindly assumed that Octaviana Drusilla knew what was good for exhausted psykers?

Oh. Right, because of Idira and her insane ‘self-medication’ prescription. Relax, kid, this’ll help you take the edge off! Hah. It wasn’t like Octy would know any better than to assume it’d work the same for all psykers.

Saints and stars, in what way was this experience preferable to raw-dogging the Immaterium? Anguilla could still detect the Warp just beyond her reach, it was simply… grey rather than violently flesh-coloured. Her fingers felt soapy instead of itching. This was still suffering, just a different flavour of suffering.

It must be hard, being a Diviner. Anguilla wondered how Olivar managed to cope with all the visions in his head.

Ugh, her head… There was no way she wanted to crawl back to her room and face Oli’s pitying gaze. Aleena would gloat over Anguilla’s irresponsible little episode, too. No, she couldn’t deal with either of them. Throne, what a fiasco!

An was in rotten mental and physical shape. Could have been worse. At least the obscura was cut with a decent amount of lho. That meant Anguilla’s breath didn’t taste too repulsive. Now if she could just remember which part of the corridor was the floor, that’d be great. What had she just tripped on? Uh. Huh. A ventilation grille. Crawling on the ceiling, classic Anguilla. That explained why her braid was dangling over her head.

Oh well. Might as well go in the tubes. Once a Pipewarden’s kid, always a Pipewarden’s kid.

Eight years’ worth of growth had made An’s arse bigger and thus, the air ducts were a lot fiddlier for her to get around in. Where there was telekinesis there was a way. Anguilla slithered down into the ceiling, did a wriggle with her hips and gradually oriented herself relative to the Voidship’s grav-field. There wasn’t any need to strain herself with more psykana than was necessary. Wow, her head felt fuzzy…

Hm. Fuzzy thing. Shit! The cardigan, the dumb expensive cardigan! She felt foolish worrying about losing her clothes, but Anguilla couldn’t get it out of her mind. Octy. Octy would have hung onto it, after An took it off at the cantina. Okay, calm down. Would have gotten snagged on something in these pipes anyway.

The Void was bad and scary, and Anguilla did not look forward to the moment when the chems in her system wore off and it all began pressing in on her again. Okay then. Got to get away from the outer hull and move towards the innards of the ship, to holy ground. Yep. Holy ground. Ah, kark it! How was Anguilla supposed to show up at the shrine with Bufo there? She must look like a drunken wreck. What a spectacle she’d make of herself!

It’s okay. We’ve got other options. There were other holy places on the Venatrix, nice, quiet, tucked-away places. You just had to know which pipes to crawl in.

Anguilla considered how to purge some of the toxins out of her system. Telekinesis wasn’t all that far removed from biomancy, was it? She’d still be pushing stuff around, it’d simply be… pushing against her own flesh. Her damn arms were sweaty and shaky, and she could really use a steady hand to get around in these air ducts.

Anguilla concentrated her will and slowly turned it inward. The effort made her gasp for air. It was so different from her usual relationship with Warpstuff - like the Immaterium was cramming against her, trying to worm its way inside her body envelope. All she’d managed to do was give herself a nasty cramp in the stomach. Anguilla could feel a massive wave of nausea coming on. At least that would get the alcohol out of her guts.

After a few desperate scrambles, An was able to locate another ceiling grille. She wrenched it open just in time for a vile-tasting mix of bile and booze to come surging up her oesophagus. Fortunately, her telepathy made her an extremely accurate and proficient projectile vomiter. Unfortunately, she was still woozy enough to misjudge the position of the hatch. Most of it showered the corridor below, and the rest was now smeared across the front of her singlet.

Great. At least she was somewhat more sober. And since Anguilla was already filthy, she might as well continue deeper into the Venatrix’s hot, clammy belly.

Lots of good noises here. Leena would love the thunderous rumbling of the Freight Line, the din of people and metal and the bustle of Lower-Decks life. At least, Anguilla hoped so. This was where she’d been born, after all.

What a hot smelly mess! The air ducts had already begun to reek of brimstone and stale sweat. The smaller pipes and passageways weren’t too cluttered, but anything big enough to accommodate a human standing at full height would inevitably become occupied by opportunistic scavengers.

It was just a matter of time before she encountered a fat, confused-looking Void rat. It wouldn’t stand up to the force of her telekinesis, but she was feeling merciful today, so she just hissed at it and puffed her shoulders up a bit. The beast turned tail and skittered down a side passage that was a bit too small for Anguilla’s shoulders to fit.

Just like old times. Now came the tricky part.

Pipes weren’t sensibly arranged this far inside the Voidship. Anguilla thought of their tangles as varicose veins - impromptu diversions that bypassed a blockage somewhere important. You could still get through the tangle and find your way to the blocked place, but it took patience, effort and an unerring sense of direction. The key was to keep all your senses open. Anguilla listened to the great thrumming, purring heartbeat of the Venatrix’s engines, to the slow cadence of her life support systems. She felt the subtleties of the air currents across the hairs of her forearms, the damp places where condensation clung and dripped.

Once, she’d come across it. Once, she’d turned back, deciding that Marazhai’s gang of Shriekers were a safer bet. The Shriekers were all gone now, they’d followed their boss to Commorragh. These coves, though, would still be around.

One more sense was the most important of all, if she was going to find them again. Anguilla inhaled deeply through her nose, doing her best to ignore the smell of vomit on her clothes. An even more primal scent dominated here: that’s how she knew she was close. Old, raw metalwork began to mingle with a deeper, iron-rich reek.

Blood. Blood of the Voidship, the blood of men.

All humans needed air, just like they needed blood. Anguilla’s narrow thoroughfare of ventilation ducts took her all the way to the upper reaches of a great, hollow compartment. The view had changed very little in the passage of nearly a decade: a new walkway created a haphazard mezzanine where surefooted people might find passage. Anguilla couldn’t see anyone on her level at the moment, though.

One vast statue dominated the chamber: a grisly rendition of the God-Emperor, skeletal and holding a great chalice. He cleansed the floor below Him not with water but with a cascade of fresh blood. How did His worshippers manage to keep it flowing so cleanly, with not a single coagulated clump? Anguilla wished that her head were not still fuzzy from the obscura. She’d been disoriented the last time, too - but she was an adult now. She’d earned the respect of a fearsome xenos. She could face whatever this was.

The deck was a long way down. Anguilla would need to emerge from her air vent to get a proper view of its occupants. She bit down on the tip of her tongue just hard enough for the pain to sharpen her concentration. A careful manipulation of steel sheeting and rivets was required, and Anguilla needed to do it as silently as possible. She missed Leena’s powers right now. Distant sounds of chanting and clashing metal in the compartment below her gave An the opportunity to whip the rivets apart. All she needed to do now was hover the sheet metal in place and set it down. Anguilla cricked her neck, flexed her shoulders and began to squeeze herself out of her hiding place.

So far it had all gone reasonably well. This was definitely holy ground, just as she’d hoped. Anguilla could feel the strain of the Immaterium begin to slacken around her arms and throat. Maybe she could wait out her hangover up in the rafters and slink away unnoticed. Then again, she wanted more than anything to bear witness.

This wasn’t just some poky corner of the Venatrix. This might even be her beating, blood-filled heart.

Keeping her breaths shallow and her body on all fours, Anguilla crept out onto the metal gangway. Instinct made her stay close to the great statue of the God-Emperor: the noise of His bloodstained cascade would help to mask the sounds of her movement. She felt sheltered by His presence. Maybe she could perch upon His massive shoulder.

The stream of free-draining blood ran under grilles in the floor of the compartment, passing below a bone-strewn, gilded altar. A small procession of armoured Voidborn had gathered near that altar. There must be a hundred people down there, some adult sized, others much smaller.

The heaviest-armoured warriors stood in a parade formation, forming a thoroughfare for others to approach a large open coffin. One by one, the Voidborn walked up, paid their respects and walked away. Anguilla had a clear view of the casket’s occupant from here: a tall frail man covered in scars and old injuries. His long pale hair had been combed back, his bare hands crossed over his chest. A fresh, bloodless cut marked his throat from ear to ear. He was the only person in the room besides Anguilla who did not wear a mask and armour. Even in death, he looked powerful.

Everyone else resembled a living skeleton: their breastplates bore rib-like markings and their helmets were shaped to look like bone crests with eye sockets. Anguilla hitched a breath: were they wearing actual pieces of human bone? It made a strange kind of sense for them to be obsessed with both blood and bone. Was this a Chaos cult? Blood and skulls certainly seemed suspicious. But if that was the case, then why did Anguilla feel so safe?

She had to know. The golden Sanctic syllables were already forming in her head, desperate for her to unleash them. Perhaps if she’d been sober, Anguilla might have retreated and called for help… the thought spilled out of her along with the God-Emperor’s holy sorcery.

A great flash of golden radiance blazed against a backdrop of blood. A hundred little skull-faces turned in unison to look up at the statue.

There seemed little point in concealing herself now. Anguilla summoned her sorcery, supplementing her own powers with the Emperor’s might. The blood was a river and a road. She leapt into the statue’s chalice and coasted down along that hot red torrent, letting it coat her limbs and soak her clothing. The contact was clean - far cleaner than blood should have felt against her skin and hair.

Anguilla’s plimsoll-clad feet found the metal grate of the deck, and she alighted on a single graceful tiptoe. Her mind was clear and sober. She should have been terrified. Instead, she looked around at the assembled warriors, walked around the bone-strewn altar and approached the coffin. Her instincts made her kneel beside it for a moment and bow her head. It seemed only right for an unexpected visitor to show respect.

When she lifted her gaze again, half a dozen wicked-looking blades were pointing directly at her throat. The weapons belonged to the six tall warriors who had guarded the passage. Anguilla refused to let herself panic now. She’d faced Marazhai. These skeleton people were no worse than him.

“Suffer not the witch to live.”

A male voice, slightly muffled by the heavy bone mask he wore. The warrior held a two-handed sword: a thin, continuous trickle of blood coated the fuller that ran along its blade and dripped slowly from its pointed tip. The Drukhari would enjoy this sort of thing. Anguilla raised her chin and exposed her throat to his ridiculous phallic weapon.

“I’m not afraid of death. We go way back, Him and me.”

How funny that she was speaking the truth. Anguilla was scared of a few things - ridicule, rejection, inadequacy - but she hadn’t been afraid to die since Kunrad Voigtvir’s botched mutiny. Death meant she’d see her mum again at the Emperor’s side. Death meant she’d finally get some rest. She found herself smiling at the masked man.

“Death has not whispered this one’s name.”

A woman’s sonorous, intense voice. This warrior was far calmer than her comrade. Anguilla risked nicking her throat on the man’s oversized sword to turn and get a better look at the speaker. She was wearing a mask, too, but the bones on her uniform were bleached like finest ivory and the eye sockets of her skull-face were rimmed with gold. Dark, appraising eyes regarded Anguilla for a long moment.

“The eel-child who swims in the veins of the Ark. Your coming was foretold.”

The young psyker blinked and nearly sustained another sword-cut. This was a lot of new information to process. Golden Skull nodded at her.

“She will live, Third Spinner.”

Big Sword whipped his blade away from Anguilla’s face, and a droplet of ever-streaming blood spattered across her right cheek. The lower part of the man’s face was visible under his skull-mask. Anguilla could see the tension in his jaw.

“Who are you to tell us that she will live?”

“I am Viszier of the Bloodspun Web. I am the conduit of the Undying One’s will.”

“That remains to be seen, First Spinner.”

Big Sword snarled and turned away from his superior, slinging his oversized weapon over one shoulder. What a sore loser. The other warriors did not seem keen to question Golden Skull’s verdict. They returned to their duty of guarding the dead man’s casket.

Anguilla gave a reverential nod to Golden Skull. That seemed a polite enough greeting, considering the psyker was already kneeling. An got to her feet with deliberate slowness so that nobody would interpret her body language as a threat. Most of the blood from her sacred shower had flowed away and left her limbs surprisingly free of stickiness. The air around the altar was muggy and smelled of herbs and chems. Anguilla would not be surprised to find that the warriors used drugs as part of their rites.

“Thank you for sheltering this servant of the Emperor on your holy ground, Viszier.”

Anguilla followed up her little speech with the sign of the Aquila. Golden Skull seemed unimpressed.

“Devotees of the Bloodspun Web measure faith in actions, not words.”

“In that case, is there something I can do for you as thanks - or by way of apology for interrupting your funeral rite?”

Golden Skull held up a gloved hand and tapped the pointed tip of one armoured finger against her chin. Anguilla could just make out dark lipstick and a pale, pointy, scarred chin under the bottom of that fancy mask. It was like meeting a human Drukhari.

“You serve the Domin.”

“Domin? Eh?” The title sounded vaguely like High Gothic… a master? “Do you mean the Lord Inquisitor?” Fuck, it was always about Iceman.

“The Flesh-Weaver is unimportant.”

Huh. That was what the Aeldari called Heinrix. These skeleton warriors must have been watching him for a long time. Golden Skull dismissed him with a wave of her clawed hand.

“The Domin is… the one who guides the Ark of Salvation through the stars. The one who serves the Ark, and who we must serve in turn.”

“Oh, the Lord Captain! Yes, yes I do serve them. I’m in Lord Captain Como’s retinue.”

“You shall pass them a message, then. It is time for the Cult of the Bloodspun Web to pledge itself to the new Domin.”

Anguilla frowned. “Rogue Trader Como’s been sitting on the Lord Captain’s throne for well over a decade. They’re not new.”

Golden Skull shifted her arms and shoulders in a single sinuous movement. Her left toe tapped against the deck’s metal grille.

“There was a disagreement among the Cult about whether the Domin was the Domin. It is now resolved.” It didn’t look resolved.

“Lord Captain Como is a real von Valancius descendant, I swear - they even opened the Warrant Chamber for our Sanctioning ceremony!” Golden Skull did not react. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Lord Captain being a psychic Blank, does it?”

Golden Skull gave Anguilla a sharp look through the sockets of her mask.

“The last Viszier waited for the Undying One’s guidance about the Domin. No advice came, and so he did not act. The Domin is the Domin nonetheless. The Cult cannot remain masterless, or we will perish.”

“You were waiting for him to die.”

“Yes. Waiting.” That didn’t sound ominous at all.

“I promise I will pass on your message. Is there… Do you have a name I can pass on to the Domin? They won’t want to call you Viszier all the time.”

Golden Skull tilted her head in a disturbingly xenos-like fashion.

“Kibellah. That is what I am called.”

Chapter 58: Chapter Fifty Eight

Summary:

We meet a new Seneschal and a new Master at Arms!

Lieutenant Commander Avrila Vent had to wonder if this was what old man Werserian would have wanted.

True, she wore a Navis Imperialis uniform on every patrol. She did her best to act as a good Voidsman should, and to bring honour to Lord Abelard’s legacy. He’d even bequeathed one of his favourite Thunder-hammers to her. Alas, Vent seldom got to use it against her enemies of choice. Instead she took up shock-baton and shield against Voidborn who looked just a little too much like her own parents. It… was a living. It was her duty. What else was there to do but try her best?

The hand-me-down uniform’s breastplate felt constricting today. Vent wondered how many generations of dead men and women had worn this casing of steel, along with the weight of expectations, over their coatees of von Valancius blue. She’d have looked silly in Lord Werserian’s old armour. Maybe this was better.

Master at Arms… the role was a burden as much as a blessing. Flag Lieutenant Jocasta Sauerback had grudgingly handed over responsibility for the Venatrix’s security to Vent after her own promotion to Seneschal. The Lieutenant Commander suspected that Sauerback never saw the change in rank coming. She’d inherited her family’s healthy mistrust of Lord Captain Como’s leadership. The Rogue Trader had a penchant for diplomacy, backhanded dealings and random benevolent whims - for them to make such a hardarse into their new right hand woman was an interesting call.

Vent was starting to understand the Lord Captain’s reasoning a little better, now that the baby psykers were settling in. If Jocasta Sauerback had still been Master at Arms and Olivar ‘not-Danrok’ had been feeding her intel, their respective family ties would have got in the way of a good working relationship. It didn’t matter that both parties were effectively estranged from their Noble Houses. Blood ties had a way of entangling people.

Lieutenant Commander Vent, on the other mechadendrite, was a Voidship girl through and through. None of the crew were going to dispute her loyalty to the Venatrix above all else. If Avrila had to bring down the shock-baton on some ne’er-do-wells or root out the scum behind this latest contraband scandal, everyone on the Lower Decks would know she wasn’t doing it for the sake of Dargonian political bullshit, but for the Voidship’s best interests.

The Lord Captain had given Vent permission to… let’s say, try some different methods in an attempt to keep a tight ship. Lord Abelard wouldn’t have approved of all of them, but the old man wasn’t here now. Nor did Avrila have Jocasta’s sadistic zeal to tide her over. What she did have was allies among several Voidfarer clans. That might not count for much in the wider Expanse, but on the Venatrix it was always good to have the ear of the people who kept the life support systems running.

So, yeah, she knew all about the Cult of the Bloodspun Web. Sauerback was busy pitching a fit about them to the Rogue Trader, but Vent was happy to stand next to Ravora at the bottom of the Lord Captain’s throne and let the Seneschal vent her anger. Como von Valancius was both a pragmatist and a true believer at heart. They’d see the benefits of sponsoring an Imperial Death Cult’s activities.

People had weird notions about the Lord Captain. For example, they thought Como von Valancius was aberrant and irrational in their management of the Protectorate. Avrila had been watching the little Rogue Trader for over a decade, and her position made her aware of longer-term consequences and risks that regular civilians would never understand. There was a fist of adamantium inside the velvet glove of Lord Captain Como’s tolerance. The affable little cove in a Corporal’s coatee could hold their own against untold horrors. Nobody who had ever seen the Shadow of Rosetta repel a horde of Warp spawn with the sheer force of their will would ever dispute the Rogue Trader’s title of Daemonifuge.

Like recognises like: Como von Valancius would take one look at their new pet assassins and acknowledge their necessity.

Vent was far more worried about young Olivar’s report. The Diviner had delivered it in the Lord Captain’s study, and Master Weisz had corroborated his observations. Kunrad Fucking Voigtvir, lurking around the Venatrix in spectral form! It was an ill omen. Voidsmen didn’t brush off tales of shipboard hauntings; Jocasta might have scolded the psyker and told him to keep his visions to himself, but Avrila was going to take the kid seriously and keep her eyes peeled for that unholy ghost.

Vent took a moment to glance at Ravora. The lacerax seemed just as bored of the Seneschal’s tirades as Avrila was, but she might just be contemplating her next meal. Vox Master Vigdis was hovering around like she always did, no doubt resisting the temptation to pat Ravora while the Rogue Trader was consulting with their senior officers. Lucky woman: a lacerax wouldn’t snack on a hand that was made of metal.

The baby psykers sure had given Vent a lot more homework, hadn’t they? Hopefully that was good. It meant the kids were already earning their keep. The Master at Arms just prayed to the God-Emperor she could handle the pressure. It was nerve-wracking to know that Jocasta Sauerback was watching from the sidelines.

“An audience, my foot. Lord Captain, the Cult is planning to stage a parade in your Officers’ Deck!” Flag Lieutenant Sauerback kept her irritation in check as far as she was able, taking a single pace to the left, then swinging back around to face front, then glaring at Vent.

“It is an unconscionable lapse on the part of our Master of Arms for these bone-faced ghouls to bring us prisoners that we ought to have apprehended ourselves! If your Grace would only give us leave to enact more stringent measures and tame the filth of the Lower Decks, we would not even need to negotiate with a stray Voidborn clan.”

“We don’t negotiate with our own shipmates, Seneschal. They’re welcome to do us the favour of rounding up a few strays. As for taming anything to do with the Lower Decks… belay that idea. It’d be like trying to stamp out a gas fire.”

Right on cue, a distant click and whoosh from portside-and-fore signalled that Infernus Master Monteg was lighting up another lho stick with his acetylene torch. Avrila swore that he and the Lord Captain had a ‘bit’ going. She did her best not to smile at the Flag Lieutenant’s simmering rage.

Lord Captain Como’s posture was loose and relaxed: Avrila wouldn’t have been surprised if the little Rogue Trader had cocked a leg over the arm-rest of their own Captain’s Chair. They had wisely decided to use the furniture to maintain a height advantage over the Seneschal. Sauerback was as much of a bootlicker to her superiors as she was a harridan to her underlings. A bit of posturing went a long way with that slag.

“Lieutenant Commander Vent, I understand you had the opportunity to look into the identities of these alleged criminals. Have you found evidence of their misdeeds?”

Avrila had a dataslate at the ready: the Rogue Trader enjoyed looking over the finer details in private, away from the pageantry of these briefings.

“All but three are identified and their records confirmed, Lord Captain. Several captives were listed as candidates for servitorisation due to the nature of their crimes. You may want to consult the Chief Enginseer about their disposal.”

“Hm. I might just give the buggers their choice of punishment, if it’s not impacting our quotas. And our mystery three?”

“Suspected of worshipping the Ruinous Powers, Lord Captain. Their names and aliases are not on our ship’s manifests.”

Como von Valancius seldom passed up the opportunity to get physical with corrupted heretics. Vent avoided making eye contact with the Rogue Trader, knowing that a smile was coming - and with it, a calculating flex of that repulsive anti-psychic aura.

“A test of faith, is it? The Death Cult wants to see my abilities in action, no doubt. All right, shipmates, let’s give them what they want.”

And put the fear of the God-Emperor into the Death Cultists if they were anything less than devout, too. Avrila wasn’t looking forward to attending another of the Lord Captain’s little demonstrations. She’d already seen too many people choke on the infamous von Valancius miasma. They’d been bad people, sure, but there were cleaner ways to kill a crim.

“I will liaise with High Factotum Ambrogio and make a few modest preparations, Lord Captain.”

“Good - see to it. Let’s put on a spread for our Voidborn friends: food, clothes, whatever alms they won’t be too proud to accept. Make sure we give these cultists no less than we’d have offered to the Shriekers.” Vent dared to look the Lord Captain in the eye again: their face was stern. “We can’t afford to lose another set of eyes and ears. You’re both dismissed.”

Both Vent and Sauerback saluted and returned to their designated posts. Jocasta made a sour face in the general direction of the Infernus Master, no doubt wishing that she could make him her whipping boy once more. Avrila wasn’t having any of that. She was eager to keep the Inferni on side. Lord Captain Como wasn’t wrong about needing allies. Things were damn delicate on board the Venatrix. The Voidship needed all the help she could get.

Chapter 59: Chapter Fifty Nine

Summary:

More Warp related chicanery.

It was too much to hope that the messages from the Venatrix would be reasonable for once. Oh, how Remy had hoped for an end to his synaesthetic torture! A powerful psyker on one end of the conversation, a Blank on the other and poor, perpetually exhausted Remy Thornton was stuck in the middle. The slow devolution of the affair between the Lord Captain and the Lord Inquisitor should have meant less love talk and less harrowing mental imagery to haunt the Astropath’s sparse, restless dreams.

Alas for Remy and alas, apparently, for his colleague Zacchary! The unscheduled messages kept coming. Time to brace himself for more unhinged pillow talk.

Thornton had the slightly easier duty of the pair. He didn’t have to render the excitable second-hand ravings of Bessie the Mechadendrite into a comprehensible message. He also didn’t need to contend with as much of that Rogue Trader’s anti-psychic toxicity, because Choirmaster Weisz had already dealt with the brunt of it. All Thornton had to do was try very, very hard not to think about his own boss in the context of Como von Valancius’s sexual fantasies.

Dear Throne, Lord Calcazar might have been unpleasant to work for but he’d never sent any love notes via Astropath! Poor Zacchary had the worst of all worlds.

What was the blighter doing now? Remy couldn’t see any priority flags on the uncompiled transmission… it was decidedly unprofessional of the Choirmaster not to tag his brainwaves properly. Thornton immediately suspected shenanigans. Maybe a junior Astropath had let a psychic burst loose while they were in the middle of a seizure or some other conniption. If so, may that kid rest in peace at the Emperor’s side. Remy would deal with the transmission personally, just to make sure it didn’t contain scrap-code or corruption.

The Velvet Glove’s compiler was, Remy regretted to say, not quite as fancy as the one on the Venatrix. One didn’t always have the benefit of archaeotech. That said, he didn’t get enough messages to justify requisitioning that much cogitational power. Half a dozen Astropaths, ten good cyber-gargoyles and a couple of servo-skull scribes was sufficient to cover the daily business. The majority of Thornton’s Astropathic chapel was given over to encryption and decryption matrices, as befitted the Holy Inquisition’s needs.

The Astropath could see no obvious daemonic engrams in the initial readout, but there was something funny about the rune arrangement. Remy decided he needed to throw on his Inquisitorial dressing-gown, make a cup of recaf and play back one of the Lord Inquisitor’s pre-recorded Sanctic prayer-tapes. He fed the concertina folds of punched vellum into the feeder slot of a non-networked cogitator, got himself comfy and let the sacred machine do its thing.

If the message had come from a different source - or if it had been received by a civilian Astropath - the standard procedure would have been to ping back to sender, notify them of an unregistered transmission and request a psychic interface to either confirm the packet loss or re-send the missive. The thing was, this accidental connection might reveal valuable intel about the von Valancius dynasty. Lord van Calox made a big deal about ‘transparency’ and sharing information with Lord Captain Como, sure. But in Remy’s experience, every interaction between two people involved secrecy to some extent. The moment that a thought travelled from brain to mouth and changed from impulses into words, it lost some of its truth.

Remy’s timing with the recaf was well-practiced. He got through his mug of the Emperor’s sweet brown mercy just in time for the cogitator’s cyber-gargoyle to do its usual gurgle-and-bow, indicating that transcription was complete. Thornton tore off the short strip of ticker-tape that emerged from the cogitator’s far end.

By the Emperor, what was Zacchary Weisz smoking? Remy set his empty mug down on an empty Astropathic interfacing chair - that one was all greasy on the upholstery anyway, he wouldn’t grace its seat with his bony old arse - and flipped the ticker-tape upside down in case it made more sense that way. You never knew what kinds of encryption Weisz would try. Hm, not the most sensible juxtaposition of images, but Remy got a few synaesthetic readings this time.

The pinkish glimmers of a dawn that slowly, inexorably began to crest the curving horizon of a planet. Remy found it interesting that the sender could imagine it so clearly from a distance. They must be a Voidfarer, not to mention one who was used to gazing down on worlds from a Voidship’s bridge.

Sunrise ought to be a pleasant thing. Most humans were comforted by the return of the light. Not this sender, though. The vision was tinged with sulphurous notes of apprehension on the olfactory end. Wickedness was imminent.

“It’s a warning.”

Remy only had his cyber-gargoyles and servo-skulls to talk to: his few Astropath subordinates were either subsumed in a chair-induced fugue state or off grabbing a few hours of rest. That might be a mercy, if this message meant what Thornton thought it meant. He’d better send Choirmaster Weisz a response layered with maximum encryption. Inquisition protocols be damned, this was a mutual cause and Remy didn’t want his colleague to get caught off guard.

Better to seek forgiveness than permission for the breach of standard practice. Lord van Calox would understand. He’d always hated that fucking cult.

Who in the Void was Lillamedh, anyway?

 

___

 

“Ordinarily, how would you respond to a Warp apparition?”

Choirmaster Weisz kept his mental barriers strong against Olivar’s abilities. It wasn’t necessary in this case. The young psyker had a definitive answer prepared.

“I wouldn’t ‘respond’ at all. Banish it whence it came, or if that’s not an option, get backup.”

Zacchary’s withered hands continued to stroke the yellowed ivory keys of the Astropathic Chapel’s converted pipe organ as he chatted with Oli. The Choirmaster, true to his name, took a musical approach to calming his bevy of junior Astropaths. Olivar struggled to call the music a hymn. Melodic lines occasionally rose out of the mantra-like haze of lugubrious notes, but it wasn’t a tune one could hum. He thought of a cat’s cradle. Was Zacchary’s composition more like a hammock or more like a fishing net?

“A sensible answer. Your education on Janus was not entirely unorthodox, thank the Throne. In this case, however, the Lord Captain has other ideas.”

Olivar wondered if it was permissible to lean against the organ’s console. How did Zacchary manage to stand here for hours at a stretch? He was quietly impressed by the man’s fortitude. Ah well - Oli supposed he didn’t spend hours exercising with Asclepius just to sit on his behind all day. He widened his stance a little to relieve the discomfort from yesterday’s leg curls.

“What are Lord Captain Como’s specific instructions, uncle?”

Olivar wasn’t going to take Weisz’s bait and get all spluttery about the Rogue Trader’s potentially heretical advice until he had the full story. He worried less about being insubordinate and more about having a big emotional reaction in front of the Astropaths. Their work was delicate. If Oli wanted the Choirmaster to take him seriously, he needed to show that he could be equanimous.

Zacchary took his right hand off the uppermost manual for a moment, pulled out one of the wooden knobs in the organ’s panelling and went back to playing. The sound had changed. Neat trick, that. Leena would find it fascinating.

“One does not reach out to the Immaterium, Olivar - not without considerable preparation, and even then, the risks are tremendous.”

Zacchary let slip a fragmentary vision before his mental walls went up again. It wasn’t pleasant. Helpless young Astropaths, blind and bleeding, lost in the dark. Weisz changed chords, recaptured his train of thought and changed the subject.

“I have expressed my disapproval to the Lord Captain, but their orders are clear enough. The Rogue Trader has… had words with the entity once known as Kunrad Voigtvir. The last encounter was on the Frozen World of Salis Prime: this is the first time we have heard of him haunting the Venatrix. If he reappears and tries to engage with you, Olivar, then the Lord Captain would like you to observe him for as long as it is safe to do so.”

Weisz twisted his already grim face into a wrinkled frown. Arguably, no amount of contact with a Warp apparition was safe. The Choirmaster must have had a difficult discussion with Lord Captain Como if he was prepared to compromise like this. Maybe he considered Oli to be disposable in a way that his own Astropaths were not. It was hard to guess at his reasoning while he had all his defences at maximum.

“I will teach you as many protective techniques as I can. Until I deem that your mind is strong enough, please do not speak with that man - or whatever he is now. The circumstances are extreme, otherwise I would not contemplate putting a promising young psyker in harm’s way.”

“What circumstances?”

Zacchary sighed and finally removed his hands from the keys. The Astropathic mantra’s background noise droned on without him.

“We are being blackmailed by a lesser daemon, my child. That is how I read the situation, at any rate. Thwarted by your banishment, Voigtvir has now resorted to contacting the Holy Inquisition. The bastard even had the gall to use his old alias when he sent Thornton his little message. A reminder of the man he once was, and the many secrets he no doubt holds over this dynasty.”

Assuming the apparition had all the former Master of Whispers’ memories, Kunrad’s mere existence was a massive security breach waiting to happen. Olivar’s stomach felt uneasy thinking about it.

“So, what, Como von Valancius wants us to humour this thing?”

“They want us to identify what it is, how it is able to contact us and what it wants. Kunrad - or whatever Kunrad has become - was content to spend the last eight years in self-imposed exile, hiding in a pocket of the Warp. He is unaffiliated, or such was Lord Captain Como’s understanding of the situation at the time.”

A daemon - or a soul in hiding? Olivar thought about Eklendyl’s demonstration and those oases of stability in the thick of the Immaterium. Was it possible for a servant of the Ruinous Powers to escape the attention of his master? When the Telepath emerged from his speculation, Oli found that Zacchary was staring at him.

“Mm. Something along those lines; I believe enchanted mirrors are involved. Voigtvir risks blowing his cover by reaching out to haunt us. Risking the Holy Inquisition’s ire is an even more extreme resort.”

“What extremity’s making him extreme?”

“The Cult of the Final Dawn.”

Olivar had never seen Zacchary look outright angry before. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the old man had spat on the deck at the mention of the Cult. The Choirmaster’s right hand curled into a claw. Then Weisz retrieved his Astropath’s staff from the section of the console where he had propped it to play his hymn. The Choirmaster caressed its worn leather grip, and gradually calmed his emotions.

“You have read about the Protectorate’s recent history, so you know the threat the cult represents. We never did confirm that their leader was dead after the siege of Eufrates II. Now this apparition tells us that the cult has become active again.”

“Would Voigtvir really sell out his own cult?”

“His former cult, Olivar. They betrayed him, used him as a puppet and very nearly sacrificed him for their cause. There is no loyalty among Traitors, child.”

Oli’s skin felt clammy just thinking about the idea of being near Kunrad. He’d associated with Chaos worshippers, he’d accepted their gifts. There was no way Voigtvir’s soul was free of that taint, even if he’d parted ways with the Cult of the Final Dawn.

“The enemy of our enemy, huh… Throne, isn’t there some other way we can do this?”

Zacchary had set his staff down and was counting time, waiting for his opportunity to begin playing the Astropathic hymn’s nebulous melody once more.

“These are the risks a Rogue Trader takes - and thus, the risks their subjects must take. It is our collective duty to walk bravely first into darkness. You would have done all this and worse in the service of the Holy Inquisition, child.”

“Uncle, I’m scared.”

“Good.” Weisz punctuated his nod with a fresh chord. “You should be.”

Chapter 60: Chapter Sixty

Summary:

Kibellah and the Domin compare notes.

CW: self harm

“The carpet in the ablutions room is red, if you, uh…”

Kibellah paused with her scalpel half an inch away from her forearm. She was unused to worrying about the cleanliness of her rituals. Everything in the Lower Decks was usually covered in stains of one kind of another.

“There’s also antiseptic, needles and bandages. Standard Adeptus Mechanicus fare.”

Domin’Como was pointing towards a side passage within their already palatial chambers. Did they have even more space further in?

“I promise I’m not judging your cult’s practices, shipmate. One might as well have convenience and hygiene on one’s side. Surgery’s still an injury, as unit Asclepius would say.”

It cost Kibellah nothing to stand and follow the Domin. They were both hesitant to touch each other, or even to step within the bounds of a minimum safe radius. It would be difficult to become this person’s shadow if Kibellah could not even stand where a shadow ought to cast itself.

“Asclepius… they are the Machine Priest with the great metal arms, are they not?” The Labyrinth’s pattern kept calling to Kibellah, urging her to still her racing mind. If she could not carve it into her flesh, then perhaps she could carve it into something else. “They disapprove of me.”

“Oh come on, I’m sure they’re fine with-”

“-I was not expressing an opinion, Domin. I was stating what I see.”

Domin’Como had paused at the right hand entranceway in a short but luxurious corridor. Kibellah glanced to her left first. One never knew where a threat might lurk. She was a little surprised to see a large hammock strung across the opulently decorated room. A Voidsman’s touch. Where a mattress might normally live, Kibellah saw a soft, low, round shape covered in animal fur. The carpet nearby was wrecked with long scrape marks. The lacerax slept here. The Domin already had at least one loyal guard.

This was good. Maybe Kibellah did not have to feel quite so guilty for delaying the cult’s oath of fealty to the Domin.

“Step right this way, Lady Viszier!”

Domin’Como was enjoying the performance. Kibellah had a mask of bone, and the Domin wore a mask of affability over their blackened soul. Kibellah armoured herself in the trappings of death: the small and soft Rogue Trader bore death inside of them, as a reliquary bore the sacred bones of a Saint. Kibellah pondered the reversal of their forms as she dutifully entered the room the Domin had indicated.

This was an unusual room: Kibellah knew that the Domin and some of their people used it for bathing. The pool that occupied one end of the space had been much larger in Domin’Theodora’s time: Domin’Como had expressed a desire to save water for more essential matters, a decision that then-Second Spinner Kibellah had considered thoughtful.

In the place of the old pool, Domin’Como had installed various devices for the care and maintenance of Machine Priests. Kibellah spotted a long leather-topped bench, and a nook with attachments for the cleansing of metal parts and the mortification of flesh. No doubt the Domin considered this place more appropriate for ceremonial vulning.

“Mind if I watch while we converse, Viszier? Curiosity is either a sin or a virtue of mine.”

Domin’Como sat on the lip of the ablutions pool to finish rolling up their sleeves. Electoos had left faint blue-grey traces under the skin of their forearms. The Domin was a follower of the Undying One in His steel-clad guise. Kibellah concluded that they would be interested in her religious practices. So she sat, and bared her own arm, and thought carefully about what to carve.

“What do the Machine Priests say about pain, Domin?”

“You know you can call me Como.” Kibellah remained silent, and the Domin shrugged. “Worth a try. The Omnissiah’s teachings are interpreted with… variations, but pain is understood to be a path to understanding, as long as one is mindful in its application. Actually, give me a moment.”

The Domin leaned back slightly, splashed their bare hand in the pool and slicked their wet palm against the skin of the opposing forearm. They then did the same with the other arm and hand.

“Bit tidier than your approach, but -”

Domin’Como put their palms together and winced. A tiny thundercrack resonated off the tiled walls and ceiling, and a surge of the Motive Force illuminated the electoos engraved into the Domin’s arms. They had just passed a current of potentia through their own body.

“Hurts me a lot less than it hurts whoever I zap, but… I find that the Titan-speaker circuit has a way of drawing my awareness back into my body. I can use the discomfort to focus. You could say I find it - grounding.”

Kibellah sighed. Did listening to puns count as a form of martyrdom?

“All right, your turn.”

The forms of the cuts suggested themselves in an intricate dance of muscle memory. Kibellah traced out the small injury with a series of quick, light flicks. The cuts would itch, then burn, then fade to a tingle. It had been a long time since she had felt true pain.

“That salve’s antiseptic and stings. That one helps with clotting.”

Kibellah chose the lotion that would not facilitate healing. She might as well get the most use out of her ritual wound. Domin’Como noted her selection and nodded.

“Magos Pasqal had this little internal attachment for their asceticism protocols, like a really tiny circular saw. I never was brave enough to install something like that. You have my respect, Viszier Kibellah.”

“I make these incisions for training, not for pride.” Kibellah took a moment to clean the tip of her little vulning blade. “I could do something similar for you. It would lend you a measure of clarity and focus, much like your ritual with the Motive Force.”

“That would mean you’d need to get close to me. Forgive me for asking a personal question, Lady Viszier, but aren’t you a psyker?”

What? Kibellah’s gloved fingers twitched.

“I am no witch, Domin’Como. Witches are anathema. If I seem… gifted, that is merely the evidence of the Undying One whispering His will through me. For He is Death.”

“Ah, that might explain the impression I get.” The Domin was evading the truth, but that did not matter - Kibellah was not about to be swayed by the black-souled one’s opinion. “Even so, it might be unpleasant for you to touch my bare skin.”

“I will be quick, and touch you only with my blade. I have overcome pain and many attendant weaknesses of the flesh.”

“My fellow Tech-siblings do seem more tolerant of the whole anti-psychic situation. Perhaps it is the same for you… we’ll have to experiment to find out. I’d prefer it if you didn’t cut into my electoos, though… where’s a good spot for a fresh scar, in your expert opinion?”

Kibellah tilted her head and examined the Domin’s skin. Their shirt was open at the neck.

“You have scar tissue below your left ear, Domin, which you have chosen not to heal. We can use that, if you wish.”

“Mercy’s old burn mark?” Domin’Como reflexively reached up to scratch at it. “There’s something poetic about putting it to good use, and all my clothing’s designed not to interfere with the site. Sure, put one of your etchings on there.”

Kibellah used the pointed tips of her glove to move Domin’Como’s collar aside. She had not expected the Rogue Trader to start giggling and twitching.

“Sorry! It’s ticklish. I’ll try to take this more seriously, I know it’s aaaaOw.”

A few small intersecting cuts would be enough to engrave a section of the Labyrinth’s pattern onto the Domin’s flesh. Kibellah withdrew her scalpel and offered Domin’Como a piece of gauze to press against the cut.

‘There, it is done.”

She had felt a little cold, a little detached while she made contact with the Domin’s body envelope, but she had felt no pain. There was never any pain. Domin’Como swabbed at the side of their neck a couple of times, but quickly left the site alone.

“That wasn’t too bad at all! Bit late to ask now, but I hope this doesn’t count as, erm, a brand of ownership.”

“Only the Undying One has any claim over us, Domin. Why would you ask about that?”

“Ehh… just xenos things. Forget I said anything.”

“As you wish, Domin.”

Domin’Como squirmed for reasons that had nothing to do with their neck.

“It feels a lot less damaging than the cigar burn did. Stings quite a bit, but that’s the point of making these cuts, isn’t it?”

Kibellah nodded.

“It will be effective only until it heals. I would not damage your body, Domin. The pain helps us to understand and test our limits. It is an offering to the Undying One, yes - but He is in no hurry to take us into His arms before our appointed time.”

She permitted herself the very smallest of smiles under the cover of her skull-mask. His blessed mercy never failed to comfort her. The Domin leaned forward with their elbows propped on their knees.

“Just as the Omnissiah’s followers would not let their penchant for augmetics compromise their function, you’re also not trying to break your bodies with asceticism. I’m seeing strong correlations here.” They stared straight ahead for a moment.

“I’d better be honest with you, Viszier. It’s a great relief to find out that we have some ideology in common. When your Spinners showed up and began chopping criminals to bits, I had to wonder what kind of allies I’d just made. I was afraid I’d stumbled across a troupe of human Harlequins!”

Kibellah stiffened.

“We- we are nothing like that!”

Harlequins were a form of xenos - by the Undying One, was Kibellah’s destiny to become a sick parody of her cult’s tradtions? She was not prepared to follow the ways of the inhumans… no, no.

“I’ve upset you, haven’t I, shipmate?”

The Domin had taken a knee in front of Kibellah. The Viszier reeled backwards, disconcerted by the inversion of their roles. Domin’Como peered up at them.

“Shit, sorry. Curse it all, it’s hard to talk to a mask! Throne knows I’m out of my depth here.”

“We all wear masks, Domin. It is no trouble for me to remove this outward shell.”

Kibellah took off her skull-face and handed it to Domin’Como. The little Rogue Trader turned it over and stared into its eye sockets.

“Hello, friend.” They set it down on the leather-topped bench with a reverence that surprised Kibellah, then returned to their kneeling position next to the ablution pool.

“And hello to you, Kibellah! You’re quite lovely under there, though I suppose that’s irrelevant. As you said, people do tend to… present themselves to the universe a certain way. A Rogue Trader has to do a lot and be a lot all at once. It makes me wonder how you perceive me.”

“The sacred Tarot will tell me nothing about you.”

Domin’Como gave Kibellah a lopsided smile. A dimple appeared on their left cheek: the asymmetry was rather pleasing.

“That’s okay. Just use your eyes.”

The Viszier’s gaze took in the Domin’s external details. Messy hair, little flecks of colour like a constellation across their cheeks, fine wrinkles around the eyes that deepened when they smiled. The Rogue Trader’s flesh carried a history of injury and ageing. Medicae treatments had reversed some of the damage, but the Domin seemed unconcerned with covering up all the small flaws that marked their mortality. They were unafraid of their slow journey to meet the Undying One.

Once Kibellah saw past their black-souled aura, she realised that the Domin was not as she had imagined - the Viszier had expected to find a shattered vessel leaking darkness and mad grief. Domin’Como was humble - a vessel of unfired clay rather than one of crystal, perhaps. Less imposing, but far easier to repair.

“You are… human.”

Kibellah wondered if the Domin would laugh at such a simple description. Instead they nodded, put a hand up to the side of their neck and lightly pressed their fingertips against the mark that the Viszier had made.

“That’s more reassuring than you know. Thank you.”

Chapter 61: Chapter Sixty One

Summary:

A Spinner's working day.

CW: violence and bones

The sacred Tarot had picked an unpleasant little man this time, a thin man with a face like a Void rat. Third Spinner Zoltan knew the manner of his arrival: the Second Spinner, Io, had given voice to her vision of sulfur and soot and holy grime. The manner of the target’s death was Zoltan’s to choose.

Foulstone was the name of the touching-place. Zoltan had never gone planetside. He would never leave the boundaries of the Ark of Salvation, for his purpose and his life were bound to the Venatrix and to Her service. Touching-places always brought danger. This was difficult, because they also brought sustenance and needful things. The Ark needed nourishment. Sometimes nastiness slipped in, like a smear of taint in a tub of nutripaste.

This man - this un-person, for so the Tarot had marked him - bore a superficial visual resemblance to the Domin. He dressed in the undyed garb of Foulstone’s citizenry - an open-collared shirt, a pair of smudged overalls, thin canvas shoes. He wore his hair in the same manner as the Domin, too - thick in the middle and shaved on the sides, as though an animal had died while clinging to his scalp.

The Third Spinner harboured no superstitions about the coincidence. The Bloodspun Web was ready to kill a senior officer if the Undying One deemed that it must be done. Not even the Domin was technically exempt from judgement - although the Tarot still refused to reveal anything about the current Giver of Life and Master of the Ark. Status, physiognomy, past deeds were irrelevant to the assessment of Who Might Live and Who Must Die.

The rat-faced mark would sin, and very soon. Zoltan watched him only for as long as was required. All the Third Spinner needed was to understand the mark’s habits, to know where he would go when he wished to be alone. The hunt was not difficult. The new embarkee found fault with most of the people he met, and initiated several brutal hand-to-hand fights. He seemed to particularly disapprove of Voidborn, not that this was surprising to Zoltan. The mark was good with his fists, and even better with that little shiv he had smuggled onto the Ark. Rat-face had a particular talent for making his opponents bleed.

In other circumstances Zoltan might have admired his technique, but one all-important moral precept separated him from his mark. The rat-faced one took far too much pleasure in violence, to the extent that it was unnatural. The Third Spinner watched, for it was his duty to watch and understand his target. But he took no joy in watching. A follower of the Bloodspun Web thought only of duty while they worked.

The mark from Foulstone had stamina - more so than Zoltan had anticipated. This was a good lesson not to underestimate a small planetsider. He would be strong, but he lacked the Third Spinner’s sharpened senses. The mark thought only of himself and of the next opportunity to start a fight. Zoltan could smell the bloodlust on him.

The Undying One had chosen wisely, as always.

A hab cell - not a cell that belonged to the rat-faced mark, but a cell that had belonged to a woman who he had stabbed in the eye socket, who was now bleeding out three decks over. It was not Zoltan’s job to save her. It was his job to hunt the target. He waited in the cell, spreadeagled across the narrow ceiling, knowing that the rat-faced one had the key and was beginning to tire.

Rat-face entered, his forehead covered in sweat, his hair damp, his arms soaked up to the elbows in blood. He took care to look behind him before he closed the hab door. The target lacked the wit to look up, or he would have spotted the Third Spinner. He smelled of desperation and savage arousal. The mark cranked the tiny room’s Murphy bed up into the wall cavity, dropped to his knees on the bare floor and began to daub something on the deck with his bare, bloodied hands.

Zoltan dropped upon him. The mark turned unnaturally quickly to face his assassin, but he had no time to reach for his shiv. The Third Spinner had already slashed him across the throat. Two more cuts: the mark’s strange daubings were obscured by gouts of fresh blood.

The ritual was complete. The target would be dead before he hit the floor, although it took a little time for the cells of his body to catch up with that fact. Zoltan watched the rat-faced mark’s eyelids flutter, watched the pinkish froth of aerated blood pump out of the gash in his throat. Then the target was simply a bag of flesh: abandoned by the Undying One, a thing to be found by Amic’Avrila and her people in the hours to come.

Amic’Avrila would see the three ritual cuts. She would find the bloody shiv and the eight-pointed amulet on the rat-faced one’s corpse, and she would understand that the Undying One’s justice had been done. Zoltan felt no exultation upon completing his mission, but he was… relieved. Sated, perhaps. Now he could return to the Temple and take up his usual routine of training, guarding, waiting and quietly serving the Undying One’s will. He’d be at peace.

At least, that was what he had assumed.

When Zoltan returned to the Temple, he found someone in his proper place. His right hand lifted over his shoulder, found the well-worn leather grip of his Executioner's sword and stayed there. The fuller of his blade was longing for an infusion of fresh blood.

“Suffer not the witch to live.”

The Eel-child was squatting on the deck, balancing a human pelvis in her lap and rubbing at it. Her long braid trailed down her back and almost touched the floor. Zoltan really wanted to kick her off balance.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer a bit longer, Third Spinner.”

“Is that so? Outsiders cannot be here. Most are not foolish enough to visit.”

The Eel-child looked smugly up at him over her shoulder, entirely unbothered by what he had intended to be his most intimidating voice. He’d have to try harder.

“I have a writ of passage signed by the Rogue Trader. Io has agreed that I can be here as long as I make myself useful.” She indicated the bones she was cleaning.

Zoltan suspected that Second Spinner Io had only allowed the Eel-child to stay because she was sick of the witch picking fights with the Initiates. These visits had begun to follow a pattern: the Eel-child would appear through some unforeseen chink in the Temple’s defences, the Initiates would all take up arms and try to expel her, and the witch would beat the snot out of them. So far no Initiate had died in the altercations - a fact that only added to Zoltan’s sense of humiliation.

“Your bone cleaning technique is incorrect.”

The Eel-child had perked up - she seemed excited to receive criticism. The Third Spinner had not expected such a response.

“Oh! Please can you show me what to do, Amic’Zoltan?”

Amic - what in the blackest Void? You are not my friend, unholy thing! Zoltan scowled under his mask.

“Who gave you my name, witch?” And who has been teaching you our words?

“The Second Spinner did! My name’s Anguilla, by the way.”

By the Undying One, was Io trying to saddle him with this troublesome creature? Zoltan was used to encountering problems he could stab: sadly that did not seem to be an option.

“Bring your bone-piece, and follow me.”

The process of treating human bone was slow, its techniques ill-suited to a manufactorum-style setup. Zoltan preferred to think of each stage and the attendant equipment as rituals centred around a reliquary. The cleaned bones were put to many uses, some practical, some ceremonial. The goal was to not waste these potent symbols of death, and to treat them with a modicum of respect.

“The pelvic bone in your hands has not been fully macerated. Put it into the tank again. We will revisit it in another week.”

The Eel-child paused and leaned over the tank, sniffing the air. The Third Spinner sneered at her ignorance.

“The tank contains water and bones, nothing more. Your hands will not dissolve in it.”

The witch carefully immersed the pelvic bone in the water.

“I don’t mean to offend, but - do you use the flesh as well as the bones?”

The Third Spinner made a sour face.

“You are asking if we eat our dead. The question is offensive and you know it.”

The witch’s shoulders sank. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“It is better for you and thus the Domin to understand what is permitted and what is not permitted, than to speculate without asking. The waste from the maceration tanks becomes part of the Ark’s medicae waste, along with whatever we have already flensed.”

Zoltan took a little curved needle out of his sleeve, pricked the ring finger of his left hand and held the little red drop of blood up for the witch to inspect it.

“This can be both an offering and a tool. We use blood in rituals: sometimes we consume it, but only where our duty requires us to do so. The scent and taste of blood can tell us much about a target and how they live, or the circumstances in which a person has gone to meet the Undying One. Mortals are forbidden from tasting the flesh of thinking beings: only an Angel of the Undying One can hope to avoid the corruption that accompanies such an act. The sacred blood is not a food, and neither is the flesh. I hope all is now clear to you.”

“Very clear. Thank you for your explanation, Amic’Zoltan.”

For the love of the Undying One, why did the witch think he was her friend? Zoltan gritted his teeth and moved on to more cleaning demonstrations. The Third Spinner indicated a row of well-soaked vertebrae for the witch to lift out of the maceration tank. The pads between the segmented bones had already melted away into goo, and the spine broke apart at the Eel-child’s touch.

“Oh! The bones got separated. How do you make them go back into the shape of a spine again?”

Zoltan noticed the Eel-child eyeing up one of the decorative skeletons that adorned a nearby wall. Those bones belonged to one of his predecessors. Some day, it was likely that he would end up keeping his own silent, fleshless vigil over the Temple.

“We reattach the segments of the spine with salvaged wire and fill in the dissolved disks with ceramite putty. It takes skill to align the bones in an accurate approximation of the sacred human form. You are hasty, witch - there is still much cleaning to do.”

Next came the removal of grease. This was not so toxic: the cult made their own soap out of lye and rendered human body fat. Zoltan made up a fresh tub of soapy water, the Eel-child placed the vertebrae inside and Zoltan took care to ensure that the bones were aligned in the correct order.

“Last comes the bleaching. There is a proper and an improper way: we do not use the bleach-of-the-yellow-gas, the one that reeks, or we will damage the relics. We use the bleach-of-the-medicae, the one that foams as it cleanses. You will need to don gloves for this soaking.”

Zoltan transferred a pair of gleaming human femurs into the bleaching tank, making sure to wipe the soap solution from them first. The Eel-child was squinting at him.

“I expected more scrubbing. This seems… really slow.”

The Third Spinner clicked his tongue at her.

“This is the problem with witches! You are too obsessive in one direction. It is all to do with the shape of your curse. Your nature drives you to take shortcuts instead of trusting in your sacred human form. I have been watching you fight the Initiates. Always throwing and shoving… it is undisciplined. Not all things can be hurried along by the application of force.”

“Will the bones be ready to sculpt after bleaching, Third Spinner?”

“Oh no. No, we must rinse them with clean water and dry them. Then we coat them with sealant, bless them and finally we arrange them.” Zoltan gave the Eel-child a nasty smile. “More waiting. You must hate that.”

“I don’t love it.”

“Does that mean you will leave?” If so, may the Undying One be praised!

“I never said that.” The Eel-child was still contemplating the tanks. “This is interesting. I think I’ll keep visiting the Temple and finding more ways to be useful.”

How unfortunate.

Chapter 62: Chapter Sixty Two

Summary:

The Holy Inquisition makes planetfall on Foulstone (and the lads flirt)

The Velvet Glove hung in the shadow of the Venatrix like a remora sheltering against a shark’s belly. When the von Valancius flagship moved on to Footfall, the Inquisitorial yacht would remain attached to the great hub of Foulstone’s low-orbit docking platform. Its sleek archaeotech construction and black-on-black paint job would make it resemble a cautionary finger suspended over the Shrine World. All pilgrims and merchants would know that the Lord Inquisitor was once again in residence.

Heinrix wasn’t planning to use the Velvet Glove exclusively. Sometimes it was useful to send it on without him, or to let it idle in one system while he made discreet forays on a requisitioned vessel. Let the people believe he was holed up in the Inquisition’s official headquarters. Let malefactors try to hatch plots in the dark corners of the Koronus Expanse. Let the long and discreet arm of the Holy Inquisition reach out and unhurriedly catch them.

A Chimera armoured transport waited for Lord van Calox at the base of the Void elevator, as it always did. He’d kept the chassis plain, with brackets fitted into its exterior plating to attach different heraldry as needed. Foulstone didn’t have a large number of military vehicles, so this transport performed double duty as both von Valancius and Inquisition property. The large red initial and skull motif of the Holy Inquisition adorned each side of the Chimera, warning bandits and opportunists to stay clear.

Acolyte Froscher normally stayed near Heinrix for the duration of their ride into town, but today the old man seemed determined to babysit the soon-to-be Agent Aster. This left Heinrix free to open the top hatch of the Chimera and take in the view of Foulstone’s arid landscape.

A rockcrete and mud-brick sprawl of buildings and solar farms lined a dusty double highway that connected the transfer station to Foulstone’s main city. Heinrix could see the central plateau in the distance. The Monastery of the Hammer was built into its side, its only outward traces being a hive-like cluster of windows and a large industrial elevator. The Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium was somewhere deep within the plateau, accessible only to the Electro-Priests who maintained it. A large statue of Como von Valancius had been carved right into the rockface of its southernmost edge. The Inquisition’s headquarters occupied the plateau’s shaded southwestern foothills. Heinrix was looking forward to resting in a pleasantly cool study.

Froscher, Clif and the latest batch of Enforcer recruits had opened all the transport’s firing ports in an attempt to get fresh air, but it was still sweltering inside the Chimera. Heinrix had anticipated this, and issued everyone with their looser-styled Foulstone uniforms and some extra water rations. Thornton and Xue would catch up to the group later. Thornton was a walking biohazard who needed his own ride. Xue would be happy to linger with him in the transfer station while she said her goodbyes to Alys Ambrogio. Heinrix was relieved to see the Interrogator taking the time for personal matters. He had no wish to see her spend her days wandering as he had, lost in the never-ending grind of missions and deployments.

The Inquisition’s people might be tools of the God-Emperor, but they were also still mortal. Heinrix refused to believe that service to the Throne required complete detachment from basic human needs. How sad it was that many of his peers would think him mad or worse, heretical for allowing his subordinates their small comforts. Considering what was on Heinrix’s mind, any other moral stance would have been hypocritical.

The Inquisitor could not stop thinking about clothes - specifically, what he was planning to wear for Clif’s investiture ceremony and how damn perfect Aster would look in full parade dress. Of all the distractions to have… by the Emperor, what would his sisters say if they were here? He’d always teased them for obsessing over the latest ribbons and bonnets. Now the jackboot was firmly on the other foot.

Speaking of jackboots, would Aster prefer the vegetanned grox-leather or the polished xenohide? Perhaps he’d be stubborn enough to hang onto his second-hand combat boots from Vheabos VI. The thought made Heinrix smile, even as he chided himself for playing mental dress-ups with his Acolyte. Clif could make his own decisions, and praise the Throne for that! The young man’s independent streak only made him more charming.

A stray fleck of wind-borne dust helped Heinrix to snap out of his sartorial reverie by lodging itself in his left eye. He decided that a little biomancy might not go amiss. The frosty side effects would help to cool the interior of the Chimera and give his crew some temporary relief from the desert heat.

The Immaterium’s fleshy textures waited just out of reach for him, as they always did. The Lord Inquisitor closed his eyes, breathed in through his nostrils and focused his will. He brought his right arm down through the rubber-rimmed neck of the observation hatch, in the hopes that he might direct more cold air into the vehicle. The palm of his hand encountered an unexpected texture. Heinrix withdrew his arm again, and Clif Aster’s head followed it. Saints and stars, he’d just inadvertently patted the man like an obedient child!

Agent Aster seemed determined to wriggle his way up through the hatch and talk face to face. Heinrix attempted to make room for his Acolyte, deeply unsure of the logistics. He ended up having to help Clif wrestle his way out of the narrow space, flinching as Aster’s shoulder drove against his chest and made the Lord Inquisitor’s concealed rosette dig into his sternum. Clif pulled his arms free, took a gulp of dusty air and immediately winced with regret.

“The damn hatch is - uff - specced to accommodate two baseline humans!”

They both needed to raise their voices a little to be heard over the rattle of tank treads and the stiff breeze.

“Aster, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? We are both considerably better fed than the average Guardsman.”

Clif glanced down at his own robe-clad chest, which was wedged rather firmly against Heinrix’s pectorals. Only the Inquisitorial rosette and their uniforms stood in the way of their intimacy. Lord van Calox tried not to grimace at the symbolism of their arrangement. Aster seemed unfazed by his predicament.

“The Technomats might have to grease us up and get us un-stuck. Do you think the Emperor’s Angels suffer from this kind of problem?”

Heinrix laughed. It felt good to let go of his ruminations and embrace the silliness of the situation.

“I’ve no idea about Astartes, but I’ve seen an Ogryn become stuck in a sewer hole. The big fellow was so upset that he broke out and took half the pavement with him. Our Regiment had to pay for the property damage.”

“I never asked what you did in the Guard. Were you-” Clif twiddled his fingers in the air to mime his idea of what sorcery looked like. The gesture was cute in its innocence.

Heinrix nodded. “Many psykers serve in the Astra Militarum. I was no exception. It was hard going, but I enjoyed the comradeship.”

The wind caught Clif’s hair and left a loose coating of dust in his curls. Heinrix resisted the temptation to tousle it. He must be accumulating his own layer of dirt. When they got closer to the Monastery, the sand would start to mingle with soot: Foulstone was named after its coal deposits, and the locals did not rely solely on the Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium for heating and cooking. Aster didn’t seem to mind the air pollution in the slightest. Compared with Vheabos VI’s toxic fumes or Dargonus’s smog, it was rather mild.

“Froscher’s busy fleecing the men at cards.” Clif was looking ahead at Como’s massive devotional statue. The tip of his tongue instinctively flicked a bit of grit off his lower lip. “He and I had an interesting conversation in the terminal.”

The Lord Inquisitor tried not to make his inquisitiveness too obvious. This was difficult, considering their enforced proximity. He settled for raising an eyebrow and bringing his ear close to Clif’s mouth, hoping that the man might share more information if he no longer had to shout over the ambient noise.

“All’s well, I trust?”

Clif quickly turned towards Heinrix’s cheek, planted a little kiss there and drew back again.

“Oh, you’ll soon see.”

Agent Aster’s mischievous expression could have made a Sister of Battle drop her pants. By the Throne, he was a menace! Heinrix touched his own cheek with the fingertips of one gloved hand, a gesture that made Clif smile even wider.

“Come join the lads, boss. I think we’ve both eaten a ration bar’s worth of grit by now.”

Lord van Calox let Clif descend first, then followed and closed the Chimera’s hatch behind him. The transport was stuffy and had begun to smell of stale sweat. Hal Froscher was sitting cross-legged on the covered deck, overseeing a rousing game of five-card stud. The traditional stakes involved performing chores or small favours for the victor. Judging from the expressions of the Enforcers, it seemed likely that Froscher would enjoy easy living for the next couple of weeks.

Since Heinrix’s uniform was already streaked with pale dust, he thought nothing of sitting on the transport’s deck alongside the Enforcers. He summoned a hint of biomancer’s frost, and enjoyed watching the men gratefully inhale the cool air.

“Deal me in, Hal.”

It would be interesting to see if Heinrix could still muster a good poker face.

Chapter 63: Chapter Sixty Three

Summary:

Dealing with conflicts of interest.

Lord van Calox couldn’t help feeling proud whenever he entered Foulstone’s Inquisitorial Citadel. The compound had only been operational for seven years, but its squat composition, simple architecture and coat of weathered red-and-cream paint made it look nearly as ancient as the Monastery of the Hammer. It was an effective base of operations, easy to defend and maintain. Above all, it was a place that belonged and would always belong to the Holy Inquisition - no more borrowed ships and requisitioned buildings. Heinrix’s people finally had a home of their own.

The Citadel’s main gate was just large enough for the Chimera transport to drive through. A few stoic combat servitors stood at attention near the entranceway: human guards watched more discreetly from the main wall’s elevated cornices. The fortifications might look like simple rockcrete, but they concealed enough auspices to scan the entire settlement of Foulstone as well as vessels in orbit around the planet.

Inside the walls, colonnades and strategically positioned votive shrines offered a refuge from the sun and a handy source of cover in the event that the compound was breached. Each shrine responded to an encrypted keycode that would convert it into an impromptu bastion complete with its own ammunition stash and potentia supply. An Acolyte could hole up in there and survive for days if need be.

The Citadel’s main keep was decorated with the Inquisition’s heraldry on a cyclopean scale. A large red letter I extended for three storeys up the keep’s square pyramid. The keep’s second, smaller wedge contained surface-to-air missile emplacements and artillery, as well as housing holding cells, a barracks and a small laboratory. The final, smallest tier of the keep’s cake-like construction was Heinrix’s destination.

His chambers could only be reached via one of several false routes. A special elevator overseen by a cyber-gargoyle took the Lord Inquisitor up into the depths of the keep, then he took a side route along a corridor lined with surveillance cameras. A broad set of stairs took him the rest of the way into the upper compound. The topmost floor of the building was filled with steel plating, traps and dormant servitors - as well as more practical devices like dew collectors and air purifiers. Heinrix’s rooms were below this maintenance and defence level.

Ah, it was good to be planetside! The Inquisitor was looking forward to enjoying a more spacious form of privacy than the Velvet Glove could accommodate. Above all, a generous supply of hot running water would be a most welcome pleasure. His white uniform jacket, now no longer so white, went straight into the laundry hamper. Heinrix rubbed at the faint ring of dusty yellow that had gathered around the collar of his shirt, muttered to himself and discarded that too. The rosette stayed on, as it so often did.

Heinrix could have called for an attendant at any point, but he had enough of an old Guardsman’s habits to want to take care of himself. It wasn’t strictly necessary for the Lord Inquisitor to shave - he had tamed those particular facial hair follicles decades ago after getting sick of buying razor blades - but Heinrix still liked soaking his face with a hot towel and going through the motions of an adult man’s ablutions. The Inquisitor activated the califont, filled a large ceramite basin with hot water and leaned over to take a deep inhalation of steam. He found that the habit helped him to steady his mind.

Dark times called for a celebration of bright moments. He was about to formally appoint one of the best Acolytes he’d seen in decades. Better yet, the old guard from Calcazar’s Assassinorum days seemed to approve of the lad. Clif’s investiture was a discreet but important play in Lord van Calox’s longer term game. He needed new ideas that would mesh with the perspective of Froscher and Xue, he needed a strong contender in the field and above all he needed to show that he was capable of moving past Xavier Calcazar’s dark legacy.

Calixis was never far away - despite Nomos’s essential work impeding hostile deployments through the Maw, it was only a question of time before some busybody from the Tyrantine Cabal hustled their way through to Footfall. When that happened, Heinrix’s conclave needed to look competent. If Heinrix himself got into trouble - a distinct possibility, given his predecessor’s terrible track record - he could at least ensure the safety of his people. A new Inquisitor would hesitate to purge anyone from the Expanse’s roster, simply because good help was damned hard to find out here. All Heinrix needed to do was set the transition up to be as frictionless as possible.

It took conscious effort and one of Sage Emelina’s mental compartmentalisation techniques to make him set thoughts of his Acolytes aside and focus back on work. At least the Lord Inquisitor had now identified one urgent and intriguing problem that he could prioritise over the Expanse’s many nagging troubles.

Kiava Gamma merited special attention. The business between the local Tech-Priests and Como’s Votann friends hinted at disarray on the Forge World. Heinrix had dreamt about his old mission there, and the dreadful Tech-heresy that had afflicted the planet. He’d done his best, with Como’s backing, to purge the place of its corruption at the time, but… Ah, the dreaded ‘but’! The influence of Chaos was like an outbreak of knot-weed. A careful gardener could burn it back to the roots, till and salt the earth, but it only took one or two living seeds to make another infestation spring up in a season or two.

The Cult of the Final Dawn was back, at least in some capacity. So Remy Thornton had told the Lord Inquisitor, and van Calox saw no reason to doubt his most competent Astropath. That meant Uralon the Cruel was no doubt preaching his unholy gospel somewhere in the sector. Heinrix did not enjoy the thought of having to cross wills, let alone swords with the corrupted former Astartes. The battle on Eufrates II had been disturbing enough. Could Heinrix count on Lord Captain Como again? By the Throne, he hoped so.

Enough brooding, van Calox! A splash of hot water brought him out of his grim reverie. By his count, he had just enough time to make himself presentable before his next appointment. Heinrix towelled himself off, exchanged his jackboots for white leather loafers and threw a dark red cable-knit Voidsman’s jersey over his rosette. The evenings grew cold quickly on Foulstone, and he hadn’t had time to fully reactivate the air conditioning in his rooms.

The door panel’s polite chime made the subsequent knock at Heinrix’s door unnecessary, but he appreciated the courtesy of the gesture. Magos-Errant Asclepius was a thoughtful Cog compared with their Tech-twins: Pasqal would have barged in unannounced, and Abel would have avoided a face-to-face conversation. As for Opticon-22, if Heinrix ever received a visit from the old Magos Dominus it would be a bad sign. All members of Amarnat were welcome in the Citadel: Opticon-22 still had not forgiven the Inquisition for the debacle on Eufrates II, and was unlikely to show the current Lord Inquisitor anything but disdain.

“Do come in, Archmagos. I trust my people treated you with courtesy?”

Unit Asclepius breezed into the room, trailing a lightweight crimson cape and pair of mechadendrites behind them. The Tech-Priest had melded metal and biological musculature in one aesthetically consistent form. Their arms in particular were marvels of engineering, their silvered fascicles clustered to mimic the muscle groups of the human body.

Heinrix was put in mind of Ancient Terra’s pre-Imperium statues when he examined the Magos Errant: all such relics had been carefully defaced to obliterate any symbols of archaic religion, but replicas existed that continued to exalt the sacred human form and continue a tradition whose origins were lost to both living and written memory. Heinrix had been fortunate enough to glimpse a few priceless examples in the course of his Inquisition-endorsed education. Any good biomancer needed to know his anatomy.

“Informational exchange parameters were organised with adequate efficiency. This unit is grateful for the opportunity to speak with the Lord Inquisitor in private.”

Heinrix offered Asclepius a polite bow before ushering them to sit in a nearby red-upholstered armchair. It was unlikely that the Tech-Priest would accept cooked refreshments, so the Inquisitor has laid out a few victuals that were easy for a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus to digest: small strips of Dri-Froot, pre-cut squares of good quality nutripaste and fruit jelly, and a pitcher of strong sweet tanna. He helped himself to a glass, nodding with satisfaction when the Tech-Priest’s mechadendrite dipped into the pitcher to sample its flavour.

“I’m always happy to speak with the blessed Amarnat - or one of their component bodies.”

“And I am pleased to observe that the unit Heinrix is healthy and succeeding in his tasks.”

The little golden hatch of Asclepius’s augmetic left eye slid closed with the faintest of clicks when the Magos Errant blinked. Heinrix appreciated the Tech-Priest’s decision to replace their old lens with a more human-looking simulacrum. He wondered what the Chief Enginseer thought about his own biomancy-sculpted right eye.

“I’m doing my best. I can only hope that is enough to satisfy the Omnissiah.” The Lord Inquisitor smiled and took another sip of his drink. The hit of tannin-laced sugar helped to sharpen his mind.

“Is unit Pasqal faring well? I understand if you are not at liberty to share much news, but it would put my mind at ease to know that they are safe.”

Magos Errant Asclepius picked up a sliver of Dri-Froot and slipped it into their mouth. The process was always mildly disconcerting for Heinrix to watch: Asclepius’s face might still wear its original skin for the most part, but the Chief Enginseer’s mouth was so heavily augmented on the inside that Asclepius could no longer make the normal range of facial expressions. Heinrix wondered how they were still capable of macerating their food.

“It is my understanding that Archmagos Pasqal is operating within acceptable parameters of efficiency and well-being. Distance makes it difficult for me to reliably access their cognitive functions, but this unit is certain that they would want me to pass on their greetings.”

“What of Abel and Yrliet?”

“They continue to perform their new primary functions as intended. We are impressed by the progress they have made.”

That was excellent news on both fronts, assuming Heinrix could trust Asclepius’s report. If the Spire of the Shrieking Tempest stood, Heinrix could guarantee a reliable source of servitors for his own needs and enjoy slightly fewer Drukhari raids in the Expanse - although not even Archon Marazhai could prevent other Kabals from making sporadic forays into local realspace, his influence deterred his rivals from making more substantial invasions. Then there was the sensitive matter of Craftworld Crudarach. The Lord Inquisitor did not know exactly where the Harlequins had hidden it - presumably somewhere in the tangles of the Webway, or else in a far-flung star system. But the fact that Yrliet and Abel were making something out of its ruins was an important concession that might help stave off inevitable conflict with Craftworld Alaitoc when its advance fleet began arriving in the sector.

“I appreciate the news very much, Magos Errant. Tell me, is there something I might do for you?”

Asclepius brought a hand to their chest and made the sign of the Cog. Their mechadendrites entwined sinuously around their shoulders. Heinrix had always appreciated the harmonious dance of Man and Machine. His psyker’s senses could only perceive one half of the Omnissiah’s sacred harmony, but it was still fascinating to watch.

“We believe that you may have a personal interest in our request, unit Heinrix. The Amarnat Collective’s thoughts have turned toward the matter of Sage Emelina Iona Lichtenhart. Clarification: we have assessed the viability of her inclusion into the gestalt, assuming her consent of course.”

That was a surprise. The Lord Inquisitor carefully put down his tanna glass, steepled his fingers and fixed Asclepius with his sternest look.

“Archmagos, Sage Emelina is unsuitable for the task. It is a miracle that even part of her mind survives despite the corruption of the rest. I must strongly advise you against interfacing with the woman. The heretical scrap-code in her cerebral implants would be most eager to corrupt you.”

“This statement is true.”

The Chief Enginseer’s face appeared as placid as ever. Heinrix spotted faint traces of tension around their right eye, but no other noteworthy signs of stress. The Inquisitor attempted to follow the thread of Asclepius’s logic to its end.

“If you are seeking a way to definitively purge the taint of Chaos in Emelina’s augmetics, I am afraid I don’t have good news. I have often considered the viability of such a stratagem. My own efforts to find a competent Techsorcist in the Expanse have been fruitless. At this point, I feel it may be best for Lady Emelina to live out her remaining days in relative peace.”

“You speak of the Sage as if her premature death were inevitable. This need not be so.” Asclepius folded their silver-fingered hands in the lap of their red peplos.

“This unit has undertaken a vow to avoid human suffering. Our moral algorithm compels us to mention an alternative possibility for the Sage’s future. A successful Techsorcism would enable the Collective to confer the Adeptus Mechanicus’s life extension techniques upon unit Emelina.”

That certainly did alter the stakes of the undertaking. Heinrix hadn’t anticipated that the Tech-Priests would be willing to share their technology and their knowledge for the sake of a mere Sage. Emelina was not a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus herself, despite the extent of her augmentations. The Inquisitor would do almost anything to avert his mentor’s physical decline. His last visit to Janus had only underscored how little time the Sage had left. For her to be offered this lifeline… he had to at least give her the choice.

“I will redouble the search, Archmagos. And please convey my thanks to the Collective for their generous offer.”

“We will do so. Terminating informational exchange. May your labours continue to be effective and fruitful, Lord Inquisitor.”

Asclepius rose, made a careful reverence that included another flex of their mechadendrites, and strode out of Heinrix’s chambers. The Magos Errant was an interesting creature, more considerate than many of their Tech-brethren. They hadn’t wasted the Inquisitor’s time - which was a virtue. Heinrix preferred Pasqal’s bluntness and logical tendencies over Asclepius’s polite bedside mannerisms. He couldn’t tell whether the new Chief Enginseer was the Saint-like figure they seemed to be, or whether they were scheming behind his back. They were just a little too human to be trusted.

The door had not closed behind the retreating Tech-Priest. Lord van Calox allowed his biomancy to do the work of an auspex, releasing a little tendril of psykana towards the entrance. Guests did not come here unannounced. Either there had been a dreadful lapse of security and one of the Kin was here, or Froscher had something to share.

“It’s unlike you to dawdle, Hal. If you’re bearing bad news, then come inside and help me finish this meal. Perhaps it’ll take the edge off.”

Hal had also freshened up from his ride in the Chimera, although it would be a stretch to say that he smelled pleasant. The faintly clammy air of a psychic Null clung about him: nor did he mark himself with perfumes or even the astringent whiff of shaving soap. He wore his usual grey-on-grey attire. Heinrix could detect just a hint of adrenaline in the man’s system, more than a hurried stair climb could reasonably justify. He held a thick cardboard-wrapped bundle under his left arm. An Inquisition dossier, fastened with a purity seal.

“Do sit down.”

Heinrix did his best not to be overbearing. Since Asclepius hadn’t bothered to use a tanna glass, the Inquisitor appropriated their empty vessel and played Mother, serving a drink and snacks while Froscher collected himself. The Acolyte’s nerves dissipated. Froscher projected his customary neutral affect with a wry twist of his mouth that made one corner of his little grey moustache twitch.

“Of all the bloody things to put the fear of the Emperor into me…”

“Nonsense, Hal. You are the picture of professionalism, as ever.”

Heinrix admitted that he enjoyed the older man’s discomfiture just a little. All too often he was on the receiving end of Froscher’s jibes. The Inquisitor resolved not to bully the poor fellow.

Oh, shit - was Froscher thinking about retiring? Heinrix picked up a cube of nutripaste and scoffed it to forestall the incipient tingles of his own apprehension.

“Whatever you have to tell me, you may say it without fear.”

The Acolyte discreetly cleared his throat - so discreetly, in fact, that his cough made almost no sound.

“Per our recently established procedure, I’d like to report a conflict of interest.”

Hal Froscher wordlessly slid the heavy dossier across the low table towards Heinrix. Its wrapper made a faint crinkling rustle as the file’s momentum defeated the friction of cardboard against wooden veneer. The Inquisitor felt the need to make a little noise simply to overcome the awkwardness in the room. He picked up the dossier’s dust jacket, noting its heft. Heinrix glanced at its tags and stamps. The file bore a relatively high classification marker, but no incriminating stamps in red ink, condemnatory skulls or swaddling of sanctified tape.

A practised flick of his thumbnail popped the purity seal, the dust jacket slid open and the mystery would be revea -

Werserian?

Heinrix made no effort to conceal his reaction from Froscher. This… by the Throne, this was quite the surprise! Lord Werserian, eh? Emperor’s balls, the old Void-dog was one tough blighter to have set his sights on Hal! Then again, he’d always been a hardy chap.

In retrospect, it explained why the Acolyte had uncharacteristically requested shore leave when they were last on Dargonus. Good luck to old Froscher! Abelard was the loyal sort: he’d treat the Acolyte well, at least.

“Everything appears to be in order. Leave this in my care, Hal. I will undertake the necessary paperwork.” Heinrix couldn’t resist casting Froscher a mischievous look as he closed the dossier again. “Congratulations on bagging a Noble.”

It was worth the breach of professionalism to see Froscher splutter into his tanna glass. Heinrix knew just how to put the man at ease again.

“Actually, since we’re exchanging documents… Give me a moment, if you please.”

The Lord Inquisitor had planned to leave this until after Aster’s investiture ceremony, but now was as good a time as any. He hastened over to the blocky and forbidding work desk that dominated the far wall of his study - everything in his rooms was open-plan and screened off by adjustable paper screens. Hal seemed happy to wait with his snacks while Heinrix fetched his own parcel out of a side drawer and brought it over.

Clif’s dossier was a far slimmer and lighter affair than Abelard’s: Heinrix caught himself wondering how many such bundles would be required to record Froscher’s bloody work history. He estimated that an entire bookshelf might be enough to cover the man’s life. Alas, most of that record was sealed away in Lady Emelina’s intricate cerebral implants. And how large was the Lord Inquisitor’s own file? He’d managed to recover access to sections of it after Lord Calcazar’s demise, but a swathe of documents were stuck on the other side of the Maw. Maybe it was better that way. Heinrix wasn’t sure he wanted to read the full record of his transgressions.

“I’m glad you’re taking this seriously, mate. Kid deserves it.” Froscher tapped Clif’s file for emphasis. He hadn’t even opened the dust jacket: both men knew exactly who this was about. The Acolyte took a quick sip of tanna, swallowed and set the glass down.

“Any files you’d like me to give back into your care, Raven?”

Oh! Heinrix hadn’t given much thought to it.

“I suppose there’s no longer a need for you to have custody of the von Valancius stack. That ought to reduce your responsibilities by quite a bit.”

Froscher rewarded Heinrix with a curt upward nod. The biomancer sensed a little trickle of dopamine run through the man’s body and dissipate in the space of several heartbeats. Was the old Acolyte truly that relieved?

“You understand that we will need to keep up appearances, Hal.”

“Sure, sure! I’m just glad that if anyone accuses you of trying to raise the next Kobras Aquairre, I can sincerely tell them to get fucked.”

Heinrix had to laugh at that.

“Come now, Froscher! A psyker and a Blank can hardly be expected to have a child together. That kind of speculation carries all the verisimilitude of a madman’s conspiracy theory!”

Hal’s stare was unexpectedly stern.

“There’s more than one way to make a successor, Raven. Don’t think I’m blind to the way you and the Rogue Trader keep scrapping over the young Telekine. It sure as Throne sounds like a custody battle from this end of the vox-feed.”

Froscher was acting out of line. Heinrix crossed his arms and sat in a wide-kneed stance. He refused to be baited by his own Acolyte.

“Regardless, Anguilla does not carry the von Valancius blood. I personally oversaw the Scholastica Psykana’s gene-tests.”

Hal shrugged. “There’s always the Winterscale Option.”

“You’re assuming Como even wants that…” Heinrix pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t a matter of what the little ex-pirate wanted. The Koronus Expanse needed Rogue Trader dynasties, just as it needed a Lord Inquisitor.

“Fuck.”

Anguilla couldn’t escape being a pawn in some elder’s game, could she? Heinrix felt his diaphragm clench. Guilt was an odd sensation, like being gripped tight in a cold fist. The Inquisitor elected to ride it out rather than dismissing the feeling.

“I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned the Aezyrraesh file, Raven.”

Froscher had been waiting for the right time to stick the knife in. Heinrix stiffened, feeling a thin dusting of snow settle around him. Hal held his tanna glass like a fancy Dargonian lady, with his pinkie finger extended.

“Best way to get over a cove is to get under another cove, isn’t that right?”

Froscher covered his amusement with another delicate sip while Heinrix frantically ensorcelled his body back to something resembling an un-flustered state. The Inquisitor could feel his face twitching.

“You can’t excuse yourself from all your duties, Falcon. The Aezyrraesh dossier remains under your direct oversight.” The Lord Inquisitor picked up a bit of Dri-Froot and stared at it. “For now, at least.”

Acolyte Froscher sighed and leaned back in his armchair.

“I had to ask, mate.”

“You’re a good man, Hal. I won’t insult you by pretending that I have no weak points.”

Froscher scoffed.

“I’m… a man. Wouldn’t say any ex-Custodian gets to call themselves a good man. We’ve all got something on our record, van Calox. In fact, your slate’s still cleaner than most. Don’t forget that I’ve tagged a few gilded marks in my time. The Imperium’s rotten as shit.”

It was unusual for an Acolyte to speak so cynically, even one as blunt as Froscher. The Lord Inquisitor acknowledged the comment with a quick upward glance.

“If there’s rot in the Imperium, then we have a duty to keep our corner clean.”

It felt silly to want the Acolyte’s approval.

Hal crossed his legs in one graceful movement, resting his left ankle on his right knee and flinging his left arm over the back of the armchair.

“One mess at a time, boss, that’s how you do it.”

Chapter 64: Chapter Sixty Four

Summary:

The Holy Inquisition inducts a new Acolyte.

The last time Clif had attended a formal ceremony, the lead-up had been hurried. Drill Sergeants had yelled commands to the Battalion members over and over, forcing them to run through the prescribed steps until the soldiers performed their actions in a haze of muscle memory. Dargonus had nearly fallen: there wasn’t time to explain anything, much less to preen and parade. Clif barely recalled the march through the Upper Hives, past the Drusian Basilica packed with casualties and under the great triumphal arch whose flagstones had still borne the faint purplish traces of mutant blood.

He’d summoned just enough focus to remember the Rogue Trader on their podium, flanked by their retinue. Lord van Calox must have been in the group somewhere, but Clif hadn’t noticed him at the time. The one who’d caught his attention was an inhuman. Gangly, spike-clad, incongruously holding a human baby in his clawed hands. The mental image had been shocking enough to penetrate the haze of Clif’s exhausted apathy.

They’d never given him a medal - and fair enough too, bashing little shiny discs out of tin was low on the list of priorities compared with rebuilding Dargonus’s infrastructure. The commendation and the Rogue Trader’s official pardon were more than enough for Clif at the time. Now, as Interrogator Xue fussed over him and tacked various bits of finery onto the old convict’s dress uniform, he wondered if he hadn’t missed out on something important the last time around.

Agent Aster wasn’t fully sure what honour even was. Did it come from power, as a ruler gives a medal to a good soldier? Did it encompass whatever had possessed that crazy Hiver to give her baby to a Drukhari for kisses and coos? Was it something you kept to yourself like a secret, like a Lord Inquisitor putting on civilian clothes and going to a pit-fight? Or was it something you felt in the dry earth, in your broken bones, in the tears and joys of your comrades? He wanted to do more than taste its traces. He wanted to take it into himself.

Aspiring to anything less didn’t seem right. Clif was about to swear himself to real service - not to a man, because men were corruptible. Aster had seen enough of Lord Heinrix to know he expected his people to reach beyond the ties of command.

The guy had gone to Holy Terra itself. Imagine that. Maybe some day, huh, Aster?

For now, he was content with his more modest surroundings. The Inquisition Citadel had its own reception chamber, complete with purified air and a modest consecrated space. Emma Xue had informed Clif that a small but surprisingly influential audience would be present. She paused in the middle of arranging Clif’s loose curls. He tried to remember the last time anyone had fixed his hair for him. Ida’s disastrous experiments with pomade… classic Footfall ganger stuff.

“Before you worry that you’re violating some ancient and sacrosanct tradition, big boy, I want you to know something important. Raven is making this all up.”

Xue tutted to herself, eyeing up the angle of the sash that cut a bright red diagonal across the front of Aster’s uniform from shoulder to hip. Clif tilted his head to get her attention.

“Hasn’t the Inquisition been around for ages?” He needed something to do with his hands - the approaching ceremony had instilled a sudden need to fidget.

“Left hand on the pommel of the sword.” Clif complied with Xue’s instruction. He felt a little more grounded knowing that a weapon was there, even if it was a purely ceremonial one.

“Inquisition’s a few thousand years old, yes, but it’s also a secret society run by weirdos who can’t agree on anything.” The Interrogator gave Clif a conspiratorial smile: the burn marks around her eye flexed just a fraction.

“My own initiation to Acolyte was a tanna ceremony: the Inquisitor who recruited me on Scintilla sat me down, hand-whisked me a cup of the greenest bog-water you’ve ever seen and made me drink it. Best tanna I ever tasted.”

“Not everything is as it seems.”

“I believe that was the lesson, yeah. Calixians can get a little overbearing with their philosophy. Our beloved Raven is into chivalry.”

“What’s chivalry? Is that a Frankish term?”

“How to be a Knight. Rules of combat, social rules for Nobs. Ever wonder why people of the Rogue Trader’s calibre take prisoners, distribute alms to serfs, or do that thing where they have a whole conversation instead of simply murdering each other on sight?” Xue spread her hands wide. “Chivalry.”

Clif considered how to draw Emma into a deeper explanation without giving himself away.

“I think I’ve seen you do some… chivalry with Ambrogio.”

Xue withdrew her red-gloved fingers with a quick reflexive curl.

“Eh? Alys isn’t - well, I guess her new title makes her equivalent to a Noble now.” The Interrogator drummed her fingers against her thigh. “I wasn’t trying to be chivalrous. Do you reckon she’d like that carry-on?”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a complete novice, remember.”

“There’s books. I’ll show you. Now go forth and be dashing.”

“What in the Void’s ‘dashing’, Xue?”

The Interrogator looked Aster over and gave him an appraising nod.

“It’s what you look like right now, big boy. See you at the do.”

Clif faced several minutes of anxious waiting alongside the latest cohort of Inquisition Enforcers. They’d been his peers only a couple of months ago. Aster fretted over the gap in rank that was about to separate him from the other recruits. Was he really worthy of special attention? Clif made himself go through one of Hal Froscher’s pre-combat breathing exercises. He’d worked hard. He’d earned this chance not just during his time on the Velvet Glove, but through the years of conscious effort that had preceded it. Vheabos VI had tried to devour him and failed. If this was his reward for diligence, then he would trust in the God-Emperor and make the best of it.

The Enforcers were called into the reception chamber as a unit. Clif watched them march on ahead, lingering in the adjoining corridor all by himself and trying not to panic as he waited for his name to be called. He heard the familiar low-pitched call and clank of metal gauntlets against carapace chestplates. Twenty men and women were making the sign of the Aquila in disciplined unison. Imperial security was a vague and often-classified abstraction to these soldiers, but they would do their best for each other and for their new Lord. Clif had never worked under a Commissar, but he intuited that van Calox was employing a Commissar’s tactics. He might as well be the Emperor Himself to these people.

A polite spatter of applause, the collective turn-and-stamp of a score of booted feet… Clif’s turn was about to come, oh Emperor help him… How strange it was to have faced battles in sun-shrouded hive spires, down toxin-laced mining tunnels and on the surface of a dozen worlds, yet to be quivering over a short walk and an exchange of formalities. Was Clif experiencing fear or anticipation?

Emma Xue’s voice called his full name. Throne, at least he had a second name to use in front of the dignitaries! You’re a man, Clif, just like everyone else in that room. Time to act like one. Take a step forward.

Once he was moving, the nerves weren’t so overwhelming. Just like when he went on manoeuvres. The strip of red carpet, emblazoned with Inquisitorial heraldry, told him where to walk. Clif passed through a trailing cloud of incense. Someone was chanting prayers over the proceedings, but his brain blocked out all distractions. Get to the dais, keep your pace consistent like Xue coached you. Remember your dignity. Focus on Him.

Aster had expected the Lord Inquisitor to wear something imposing, or at least militaristic. Instead he resembled an Ecclesiarch without the tall mitre. Heinrix had layered his conclave’s loose, pale Foulstone-issue robes with a long-sleeved white tunic that trailed behind him when he stepped forward. Purity seals and embroidered passages from the Imperial Creed decorated the seams and hems of his garments. Heinrix had tucked his braid forward over his left shoulder: Clif noticed that it was woven not with white ribbons but with more long, narrow purity seals. The Inquisitor wore a plain silver diadem across his forehead, emblazoned with a small apotropaic eye that denoted his status as a Sanctic psyker. Other symbolism was less evident to Aster, but it was clear that the man intended to present himself as a servant of the God-Emperor rather than as a master of men.

“Acolyte-Candidate Clif Aster, step forward.”

This was Clif’s cue to approach the base of the small dais where Heinrix stood. As the Acolyte took a knee at the Lord Inquisitor’s feet, Heinrix uttered a sequence of golden syllables. The invocation was calm - Clif glanced up and saw that the Inquisitor’s mouth barely moved. The result was far less terrifying than Clif’s ordeal on Dargonus. Invisible sunlight settled over the room. Aster finally felt calm enough to register objects and people in his peripheral vision. The first faces he saw were those of Froscher and Xue, who stood quietly at either edge of Heinrix’s podium. His colleagues gave him strength for the next part.

“The Emperor protects, and in this we must be like Him. Today you swear fealty to no mortal man, but to the greater interests of all Humanity. We, the imperfect vessels of His might and His judgement, must show strength where others weaken. We must bring His light where there is darkness, venturing into the unknown with fire and a sword. We are His unsleeping eye and the hand that enacts His divine will. Acolyte-Candidate, are you prepared to prove yourself more than a Man?”

Clif folded both his hands over his breast, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“I am prepared.”

His heart fluttered as if it were trying to escape his ribcage. His uniform felt suddenly tight around his neck. Then Lord van Calox laid one gloved hand on his right shoulder, and Clif felt the tension dissipate from his body. It was time to repeat the vows that Heinrix read out to him.

“I solemnly promise and swear that I will bear true and faithful allegiance to the Most Holy God-Emperor, Lord of Terra and Master of Mankind. I promise to protect the safety and piety of the Koronus Expanse through loyal observance and obedience to the sworn representatives of the Holy Inquisition.”

Clif followed the Lord Inquisitor’s steady cadence, concentrating on the warm contact of the man’s hand against his shoulder.

“I promise to act with piety and courage, comply with the Imperium’s laws and keep the secrets entrusted to me.”

Heinrix paused for a fraction longer than was necessary, nearly breaking the rhythm of the oath. Clif kept his head bent forward but glanced upwards. The Lord Inquisitor met his gaze.

“If given a position of superiority, I promise to be forthright with my subordinates, be their counsellor and guide, and set them a good and encouraging example.”

Aster realised that Lord van Calox was quietly reaffirming his own vows.

“Acolyte-Candidate Clif Aster, do you swear to fulfil all these duties according to your honour and conscience?”

Heinrix’s white-gloved left hand left Clif’s shoulder, but remained hovering near his face. This was Aster’s cue to support the Lord Inquisitor’s outstretched fingers with his own, and to kiss the large signet ring on the Lord Inquisitor’s finger. He was technically not showing reverence to Lord van Calox but to the symbol of the God-Emperor Himself. Heinrix was just a humble instrument. In practice, the act felt far too intimate for such a public setting. Clif gave Heinrix’s fingers a subtle squeeze before he let go of the man’s hand.

“I do.”

Chivalry, eh… What a strangely appealing concept.

Psykana flared to fill the room, and Clif made sure to keep his head bowed. Lord van Calox had drawn his weapon - a long, wave-bladed sword that was definitely intended for use in combat. Heinrix’s sorcery would be channelling itself along that slim length of metal, demonstrating a sanctioned psyker’s Imperium-approved might.

The blade hummed and growled as Lord van Calox laid its edge against Aster’s left epaulette. The Lord Inquisitor made two precisely calibrated passes with the ensorcelled sword, up and over Clif’s head to his right shoulder, then back to his starting position. It was a test of trust. If Aster flinched, the force sword might easily cleave into his trapezius or his neck. No ordinary witch controlled the blade, therefore Clif was able to stay calm and marvel at the strange magic-infused ritual.

Another swoop of incandescent metal and the heat of weaponised psykana retreated. Lord van Calox would be raising his sword in a military salute. The force sword was sheathed with a swift clack, and the Immaterium’s unnatural haze dissipated. White-gloved fingers caressed the tip of Clif’s chin, coaxing him to lift his head.

“Rise, Acolyte Aster. May you walk in the Emperor’s light.”

It was done.

When Clif stood to make the sign of the Aquila, he felt taller. He turned with instinctive military precision to salute the room. The guests were applauding. He heard Xue’s soft gloved patter and Froscher’s unrestrained clapping on either side of him. The Enforcer soldiers broke into a rowdy cheer that brought a big comradely smile to Clif’s face. He hadn’t expected them to be proud of him.

The ceremony broke up fairly quickly. Xue dismissed the Enforcers and accompanied them out into the annex, and Clif immediately heard more muffled noises of celebration that receded as they trooped away. Aster’s instincts told him to linger in the reception chamber and take a measure of the guests. After all, he might soon be spying on them.

The glistening artificial musculature of a Tech-Priest caught his eye. The unit’s robes and augmetics were unusual, which meant that they enjoyed a high status. Aster spotted the insignia of the Explorators adorning a pair of brooches that the Tech-Priest had used to fasten their robes at the shoulders. He strode over and made the sign of the Cog.

“It’s a pleasure to meet one of the Omnissiah’s servants here.”

“Extending congratulations to unit Aster on obtaining your new status. We are Asclepius: our designation was also recently upgraded, to that of Magos Errant. Correction: we are not the only servant of the Omnissiah in attendance. Requesting permission to introduce you to Lord Captain Como von Valancius.”

“Permission granted, Magos Errant! And congratulations on your own promotion.”

Clif had no idea what a Magos Errant did: he reminded himself to look it up later. The Rogue Trader was deep in conference with the Lord Inquisitor when Asclepius beckoned Aster over to join them. Lord Captain Como wore what appeared to be a silver scarf around their neck, but it twitched and unfurled at Asclepius’s approach, revealing itself to be a kind of small mechadendrite. If the Rogue Trader was another Tech-Priest, that explained the hardware. They didn’t look the part in any other respects.

Hal Froscher’s sparring sessions had prepared Clif for the physical discomfort of an anti-psychic aura, but Lord Captain Como’s power felt very different from Froscher’s nebulous miasma. Acolyte Aster - he’d need to get used to his official title - was unafraid to step within polite conversation-making distance of the Rogue Trader. Lord van Calox was there, after all. He must be a strong psyker to act so casually around a psychic Blank. Clif reminded himself not to feed his own anxiety. If he remained calm and dignified, the encounter would be far less taxing on his body and mind.

“Presenting Their Grace the Lord Captain Como von Valancius, Rogue Trader of the Koronus Expanse, and their Tech-sibling Bessie. Unit Como, this is Acolyte Clif Aster.”

Bessie must be the mechadendrite, for Clif couldn’t see any other Tech-familiars in the vicinity. Aster made sure to nod in the device’s direction as well as offer a reverence to Lord Captain Como. The Rogue Trader returned Clif’s bow rather than shaking his hand, a polite gesture given the circumstances.

“Omnissiah’s blessings be upon you, Master Aster. I wanted to offer you a more personal commendation this time. Please feel free to step back if the incompatibility of our psychic signatures gives you any trouble.”

This time? Lord Captain Como must have either remembered Clif from Dargonus or - more likely - they’d done a little snooping of their own before the ceremony. Aster suspected the Rogue Trader was playing parlour games with Lord van Calox.

“It’s no trouble, your Grace. I’m honoured to see you in person again.”

“Is it rude of me to ask about the nature of your… sensitivity?”

The Lord Inquisitor politely cleared his throat before Clif could express his confusion, and he took that as a signal to shut up and let Heinrix cover for him. The little Rogue Trader glanced sideways at the Inquisitor and shrugged.

“Never mind. I’ve got a lady like that among my own retinue. The Emperor bestows what He bestows, it’s not for us to question His gifts too closely.”

Heinrix shifted his body weight slightly onto one hip, with a rustle of crisp white robes.

“I hear the Cult of the Bloodspun Web has finally approached you in person, Como.”

“Nice of them to drop by after… by the Throne, Heinrix, how many years has it been?”

The Lord Inquisitor smiled, took the Lord Captain’s right hand and kissed their fingers.

“Neither of us needs to be reminded of our age, Master Pirate.”

Clif was reminded of that last poker game Heinrix and Froscher had played in the back of the transport. The Enforcers had been smart enough to fold quickly, which left the two old men trading vague remarks and predatory glances over the cards. Aster was still unsure whether Froscher had lost the round on purpose. The Lord Inquisitor had given everyone extra rations afterwards and come out looking great, of course.

The way Clif read the situation, Heinrix was struggling to remain in a stalemate with the Rogue Trader. The Acolyte felt suddenly disinclined to remain a regicide piece in this particular game. He wanted to try a small gambit of his own.

“Speaking of time passing, your Grace’s restoration of Dargonus has been interesting to revisit in person. I would not have the opportunity to serve the Holy Inquisition if it weren’t for your reforms after the Deliverance.”

Clif’s comments were double-edged and he knew it. On one hand, he was deeply and genuinely grateful that Dru had a chance at a better life - the Rogue Trader’s new citizenship laws had made it possible. On the other hand, Aster had just sworn an oath to work for the other team, at least from Lord Captain Como’s perspective. Their benevolence might come around to bite them in the arse.

The Rogue Trader nodded curtly. Bessie. the little mechadendrite around their neck, eagerly reached towards Clif. He wasn’t bothered by the metal appendage. The things often had minds of their own. Lord Captain Como wasn’t rushing to accept Aster’s acknowledgement, but their artificial tentacle seemed far friendlier and less cynical.

“Hello, Bessie.” Aster put his hand out and let the mechadendrite place its little manipulator claw in his palm. The metal was warmer than he expected. “I don’t think I’ve ever shaken hands with a mechadendrite before. Unless the lady would prefer a kiss?”

Bessie responded with an enthusiastic wiggle, but the Rogue Trader coiled her away before Clif could make good on his offer.

“May the Emperor protect me from the charms of the Inquisition’s Acolytes.”

The Lord Captain smiled wryly at Aster. That appeared to be Clif’s cue to leave. Satisfied with his first diplomatic foray, Aster offered a deep bow that was directed more at Bessie than at the Lord Captain, nodded his deference to Heinrix and retreated to the relative safety of Hal Froscher’s company. The old man appeared to be having a great time observing from his customary obscurity.

“Hey, comrade.” Froscher’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Fancy a celebratory smoke?”

Aster nodded his assent and let Hal take his arm. The moment they were out of the reception room, both men stopped.

“You know I gave up my lho habit, Hal. What’s the play?”

“Come upstairs, kid. I’m going to show you all our disreputable secrets.”

Froscher brought the inside of his right wrist up against a completely nondescript wall panel. Of course there was a secret elevator door. Aster ought to have expected one, this was an Inquisition building after all. He shuffled into the elevator after Froscher, frowning up at the little blue ceiling lumens as they flickered to life.

“Why does it feel like you’re inviting me to eat the candy you’ve stashed in the back of an old grav-car, Hal?”

Froscher’s response was a dirty cackle that did nothing to alleviate Clif’s concern.

“To quote that old grox-botherer Calcazar, ignorance is a luxury neither you nor I can afford. We’re too far in to be free of sin.”

The elevator opened onto a corridor that was as cold and blue as the surrounding desert evening. More sad-looking little lumens and grey-painted rockcrete. If Acolyte Hal Froscher was a place, this is what he’d have looked like.

“Holding cells for prisoner intake, that way.” Froscher indicated side passages with a desultory flick of his fingers. “You know well enough what goes on there. It’s all Xue’s turf anyway. Let’s move on to the fun stuff.”

“Torture’s not the fun stuff?” Clif gestured at the blank rockcrete walls. “Could have fooled me.”

“Not for most of us, it fucking well isn’t.” Froscher’s steel-grey gaze bored into Hal. “Get a move along and don’t talk back to me, kid. It’s not safe to crack jokes around here.”

Aster made a mental note of the layout as he trailed past cell after cell and corridor after corridor. He estimated that the Citadel could incarcerate a thousand prisoners.

“It’s so extensive… I’m not seeing purity seals anywhere, Hal.”

“You never know who’s prayed over one of the damn things, that’s the trouble with purity tags. We don’t want to bring anything in here that encourages the Warp, including some Ecclesiarchy sop’s over-zealous wank-rag.” Clif winced at Froscher’s irreverence, but the old man didn’t seem to either notice or care.

“A metric fuck-load of psy-stiflers and a few coves like me are more than enough to ensure containment. How’s your head, kid?”

Clif hadn’t noticed the incipient migraine until Froscher mentioned it.

“Not pleasant, but I’ll live.” That reminded him, something had been on his mind before the headache had intruded.

“Froscher, am I a witch by any chance?”

The old Acolyte hooted with amusement.

“Dirty little Como took your number, I’ll bet! Fret not, O gallant Acolyte. Putting you next to a psyker is like putting me next to our monstrous old mate the Blessed Rogue Trader. No fucking comparison. You wouldn’t even be worth taking for a little trip on a big Black Ship.”

Clif felt the short hairs on his upper nape prick up.

“Senna mentioned something about Black Ships.”

His former employer had bad dreams and sometimes she’d scream in her sleep, loud enough for him to hear her two rooms over: Clif decided not to mention that part in front of Hal. A ship had taken her away as a child... The Citadel’s holding cells were for containing psykers until the Black Ships came.

“Where do we take them all?”

“All the way to Holy Terra, of course, assuming the Immaterium isn’t completely buggering up all Warp travel. Which it currently is.” Froscher shrugged. “Maybe one day we'll start using this part of the facility for its intended purpose. For now, it comes in handy when we bring in groups of cultists for a fireside chat.”

Mathematics wasn’t Aster’s strong suit. If the Koronus Expanse anticipated processing psykers in their thousands at a time, and he multiplied those numbers by even a conservative count of the wider Imperium’s planetary holdings…

“Fuck me, that’s a lot of psykers.” How did Holy Terra have the capacity to accommodate so many? “What do we even do with them all?”

“Sanction some, obviously. The rest go to the Throne.”

Suffer not the witch to live.

Clif clasped his left arm with his right hand, and laid his left hand on the pommel of his ceremonial sword like Xue had shown him. The gesture was a lot less comforting in the context of this dungeon and Clif’s tension headache.

“We’re talking about sacrifices.”

“Snacks.”

Hal put his hands behind his head and smiled beatifically, as if he hadn’t just uttered the most unpleasant word Clif could have imagined.

“Must be thirsty work, running the galaxy. Lucky old me, my soul tastes revolting.”

“Lucky old you.”

Clif’s mind reeled. Lucky old Heinrix, too, considering he clearly hadn’t been… eaten. This wasn’t the revelation he’d expected, not even close.

“You’re not having me on, are you? Sweet Throne. How do you even know all this?”

“That’s a bloody good question, kid! Not every Inquisition agent knows the gory details - not even every Inquisitor, maybe. But you, Ibis, are looking at a professional gibbeter of Traitors and Inhumans. I’m full of secrets, all the way down to my bones and gristle.”

Froscher reached his hand up until his fingers skimmed the ceiling. A faint trickle of rockcrete dust glimmered in the lumens as it dislodged.

“There are so very many people and things that want our beloved Emperor fully dead and not just confined to a golden chair. For the best part of two centuries, it was my job to hunt those people and make them dead instead.” Froscher lowered his arm around Clif’s broad shoulders. “All of this is my wee hobby in retirement. Nice and cosy.”

“Please can we get out of here.”

Aster’s head was really starting to give him trouble. Froscher relented and dragged him to yet another well-concealed doorway. The moment Clif emerged from the blue corridors, he felt his heart and his head grow light. The relief was a breath of pure sunshine. Aster felt suddenly incredibly grateful to be alive.

He wondered if Hal Froscher’s inner world was always as cold and blue as those corridors, and felt a twinge of pity for the old man - like a little grey skein of smog passing over his emotions.

“Thank the Emperor that’s over.”

Clif nearly laughed at himself for praising the Master of Mankind so soon after finding out that Him-on-Terra consumed human souls, but really, what was he supposed to do? He’d already sworn his oaths of allegiance. He’d felt the golden certainty of those Sanctic syllables. You could find out a terrible secret about someone you loved, and still love them. Right?

Hal was waiting for him to collect his wits.

“There’s more, though, isn’t there?”

Froscher sighed. “There’s always more to dig up, kid. It might make you feel better to know that the Emperor’s a better bet than the alternatives. Come on up: it’ll be easier if you’re comfortable for the next part.”

They proceeded up what appeared to be a set of emergency stairs, built to accommodate only one human body at a time. Aster managed to squeeze his way after Froscher, and after a few flights they emerged from a small door into the back end of a large and well-appointed workroom.

The walls were lined with enough shelves and armariums to house a couple of thousand books and the capsules of a few hundred scrolls. It might technically be called a librarium, although that was clearly not the room’s primary purpose. Folding chairs were neatly stacked against one wall; several long trestles and a massive war table occupied one third of the space.

Wheeled vertical panels held old and new star charts of the Koronus Expanse, the schematics for buildings and Hive districts that Clif didn’t recognise, and dozens of sheets of vellum daubed with symbols that hurt the Acolyte’s eyes when he looked at them. The moment that Clif winced and turned his head away from the nasty etchings, Froscher stepped a little closer to him and some of the discomfort faded.

“Thanks, mate.”

“Benefits of having a bloke like me on your team. It’s also why I’ve volunteered to give you your most important and dangerous order as a new Acolyte.”

Clif realised the anxiety was making his mouth dry. He tried swallowing to clear the itch from his throat. Froscher took Aster’s head in both hands.

“Don’t be scared, kid. Do the thing I showed you.”

Clif controlled his breathing, and the fear receded from his mind.

“Good work. Here are your orders, Acolyte. Be His light in the shadows. Shoulder the burden of knowledge so that others may be saved. In the name of the Emperor, remember the names of the Arch-enemy well, that you might know them and so vanquish them.”

It was Froscher’s turn to pause and take a steadying breath.

“Khorne. Nurgle. Tzeentch. Slaanesh.”

Something itched at the back of Aster’s mind. Froscher had just unlocked a door that could never be sealed again. Even the flippant old assassin looked uncharacteristically grim.

“The marks who get conned by that lot call their masters the Dread Four. In a universe full of nasty bastards, they’re the nastiest.”

Clif’s mouth tasted of ash and bile. He needed to sit down. Aster compromised and leaned heavily against the war table.

“Why… why do I know those names? Hal, is there something wrong with me?”

“Gods have a habit of getting into places. It happens to everyone who’s sworn in. I reckon they’ve always hung around, waiting for us to pop that bubble of ignorance.”

“A luxury neither you nor I can afford… Shit.” Clif’s shoulders felt heavy. “I get it.”

“Then you understand why we don’t go around telling random citizens of the Imperium about these buggers.”

The Ruinous Powers were real - and every time a human opened that little door in the back of their mind, those gods got stronger. How strange and pervasive Clif’s ignorance had been! Aster’s Penal Battalion had gunned down many cultists of the Final Dawn. He’d seen their nasty mutations and heard their weird chants. Clif prided himself in his perception - but all that time, he’d never acknowledged that the thing the cultists venerated actually existed. How could he have been that Void-damned stupid? Because the Imperium of Man willed it so. Aster clenched his left fist around the pommel of his sword.

“If gods and daemons are real, that means we can fight them.”

He wasn’t going to give in to despair or bitterness. This was an opportunity. Froscher clapped him on the shoulder with one lean, unnaturally strong hand.

“That’s the spirit, kid!” The old man actually winked.

“Don’t worry, you’re in capable hands. By the time I’ve finished your training, the daemons are going to be scared of you.”

Clif Aster almost believed him.

Chapter 65: Chapter Sixty Five

Summary:

Penance and kindness, temptation and humility.

CW: self harm and intimate foreplay, next chapter will be an explicit sex scene.

Every time the sword left its scabbard, Heinrix wielded two blades. The surgeon’s unyielding and precise descent through living flesh, the tight fulcrum of his will anchoring the material to the Immaterial: and the lambent blaze of its application, a gout of pure emotion birthing itself into the shape of ancient metal. The act of unsheathing was all the more painful because it was deliberate. Peeled and degloved for all to witness, Heinrix put the raw intensity of his own cursed nature on display every time he wielded that weapon.

If only he could put his abilities aside as easily as he set down his sword… but then Heinrix would not be Heinrix, and his burden would be meaningless. The Inquisitor did not want to escape his duty or himself. He’d had the choice to shackle himself to Como’s service and turn his back on the Holy Inquisition entirely. Thoughts of Hal and Emma and his poor, shattered conclave had made him turn down the Rogue Trader’s offer. Heinrix van Calox had been, for a time, Calcazar’s most promising and trusted successor. Who else could make up for his former mentor’s betrayal?

A decade later, Heinrix reflected that the choice had been good for him, too. The Lord Inquisitor had no desire to linger in another person’s shadow, but this was not a matter of pride. He simply needed to know himself. He would find his answers deep in the tangle of flesh and emotions that separated him from the Emperor’s endless mercy. He would discover what gave him the right to keep existing when so many others could not.

There had to be a reasoning, a gambit behind such a momentous sacrifice of thinking souls. Heinrix shuddered to think of the stakes behind a contest between gods. He could not criticise the Great Man upon the Throne. The Lord Inquisitor knew all about the brutal calculus of impossible trade-offs and deceptions for the sake of a greater calling. He also knew how much it hurt to be the one making those judgements.

Aster would forgive the Lord Inquisitor for his deception. The thought gave Heinrix no satisfaction. Instead, his stomach clenched and his face stung. Clif could have lived out his days in blessed ignorance. Should Heinrix have protected him? But then Clif would always be overlooked, another ex-convict among millions of downcast sinners and toiling serfs. It was a crime to see potential and not nurture it. Heinrix would have felt guilty no matter what path he chose.

The Lord Inquisitor wanted to punish himself.

He would need to be restrained with his penance. There was always a tipping point where the exercise became self-indulgent, and he was damned - quite literally so - if he would let Her of Six feed upon either his pain or his pride. A knotgrass flogger would be sufficient for the task: the device was on the list of sanctioned ascetic implements, and Heinrix liked its lack of ornamentation. The Ecclesiarchy’s obsession with performative agony tended to turn his stomach.

Heinrix’s hassock and kneeling-post were also relatively plain. He filled a black plastic basin with hot water from the califont and set it on the floor to his right. Next, Heinrix fetched a stack of small grey towels and tucked them against the base of the kneeler. If he did manage to injure himself, nothing was more annoying than tracking blood across the carpet in search of cleaning supplies.

Off came the pale Inquisition robes, along with their embroidered scriptural quotes. Heinrix hung his outer garments carefully and stashed them with his other uniforms. The psyker preferred not to wear his rosette of office when he was doing penance: it made him think of Calcazar and all the other arrogant Inquisitors who’d no doubt come before him. Heinrix would gladly atone for his own faults, but he didn’t have to bear the sins of his predecessors too. The amulet went into its own special tabernacle in the closet. Heinrix felt lighter the moment he took it off.

His long white undertunic and train trailed behind him as he walked back from the closet. He must resemble a Guisornian bride… or a nervous Ecclesiarchal oblate approaching his first communion. Heinrix was not prone to perspiration, but the tunic had lost its astringent herbal scent. He hauled the drapery over his head, tossed the garment in a laundry hamper and enjoyed the feel of the cool night air against his bare torso.

The penitent could dispense with his loafers, but shedding his pants would be courting a certain theatrical extremity that seemed ill-suited for the occasion. Heinrix took the waistband of his trousers and rolled it down over itself, just enough to create a lip with the bunched fabric. That would help to catch the bleeding and save the hassock and carpet. Heinrix still had those purity seals bound up in his braid: he coiled his hair up into a messy bun and used the vellum strips to tie everything in place.

He’d waited till the last to remove the psyker’s diadem from around his forehead. If it weren’t for his biomancy, Heinrix might have worn the symbol as a permanent brand or an implant on his brow. He turned the silver fillet in his hands, caressed its holy sign with his thumb and set the diadem on top of his kneeling-post, between the pages of his hymnal. The flogger was waiting for him: its rough leather handle was perfectly sized for his right hand. Heinrix already knew which litany he wanted to recite.

“Ave Imperator. I am low before Thee, like unto a mote of dust.”

The first cracking strike always felt the loudest, although it was never the strongest. Heinrix would have to calibrate his blows. The knotgrass tails thudded against the tense incline of his left trapezius: the psyker swapped hands and mirrored the action on his right side. It was best to distribute the damage evenly.

“Mine is the flaw and the fault. Semper humilis.”

Another set of criss-crossing blows. This time they landed with a stinging slap. Heinrix used just enough force to induce bruising and faintly lacerate the skin of his back. He didn’t want to make a mess of the room.

“Only Thou hast the power to restore and redeem Thy humble servant.”

The biomancer forced his natural abilities to retreat before he inflicted another set of strikes. He felt the tension in his body, a faint ache in his lower back caused by bending forward to receive the flagellation. There were traces of tightness at his temples and around his eyes. For a few shuddering breaths, he stopped praying and allowed himself to feel his true age. Throne, he was wretched. At least he wasn’t enjoying this.

One more set. Then he could rest for a while. It wouldn’t dispel his guilt, but it would temper his arrogance and remind him that he, too, was just a mortal. The knotgrass dug in hard. Heinrix gritted his teeth but a faint cry still spilled out of him. He drew in a quick sob. Damn, he’d made himself bleed more heavily than he’d planned and he still had the other side to finish. He flinched in anticipation of the discomfort, then drove the flogger home.

You’re done for now, van Calox. Anything else will just be indulging in excess.

Calling on his healing abilities was a tactile process, like manipulating hunks of raw dough or strands of uncarded wool. Heinrix was halfway through weaving the Immaterium into a simple healing pattern when the door’s polite chime called him out of his focus. That ought to be Froscher returning with his report. The Acolyte’s electoo would let him enter.

“Come in, Hal.”

He paused. That wasn’t Froscher.

The Inquisitor’s senses extended around and behind him, reaching towards the barely-perceptible object of his attention. Heinrix didn’t need his eyes to behold or beseech. He let the stolid, bloodied shape of his back and shoulders speak for itself.

Clif would come over to meet him. Heinrix listened for the man’s careful booted footsteps on the carpet, scanning the freshly-minted Acolyte’s biosignature. The Lord Inquisitor knew that he’d find the traces of stress in Aster’s system, but it still hurt to discover them. He’d laid that burden on Clif. It was his fault that the young man was anything but exultant in this, the moment of his elevation.

“Boss, your back-”

“It’s healing.”

The gouges in Heinrix’s flesh were already mended, the tears in his skin seamlessly melding back into their original taut envelope. Once the blood was wiped away, there would be no outward sign that he had ever hurt himself. If only all ills could be so efficiently erased.

Aster had moved to kneel at Heinrix’s left side. The big man put his hand on Heinrix’s forearm, and the Inquisitor realised that he was still holding the knotgrass flogger in a loose grip. Its long tendrils trailed down his back, harmless now that no-one was using them.

“You started without me.”

There was mirth in Clif’s voice but he wasn’t trying to mock van Calox, just hoping to dispel the awkwardness between them. The Acolyte’s fingers moved along Heinrix’s arm towards his wrist, applying a firm massaging motion. There was in fact a faint line of tension across Heinrix’s carpal tunnel that he had not noticed. The Inquisitor loosened his grip on the flogger’s handle even further, allowing Clif to take hold of the back of Heinrix’s palm with his slightly larger hand and coax it open.

“I’ve got a question about chivalry.”

Heinrix was taken aback. He used his free right hand to get the knotgrass tendrils off his shoulder and set his implement down. It felt a little silly to be kneeling up on the hassock, so he tried adjusting himself into a more casual seating position facing Aster.

“All the discoveries you have made today, all the dark secrets, and this is what you ask about. You continue to perplex me, Acolyte.”

Aster smiled. “I live to surprise.”

Clif had ideas of his own. He reached past Heinrix - for a tantalising moment the psyker thought the young man was going to embrace him - and took one of the towels. The Inquisitor glanced behind him and watched Aster carefully soak a corner of the towel in the now-lukewarm water, for Heinrix’s biomancy had cooled it somewhat.

“Turn around, and I’ll do your back.”

The Lord Inquisitor hadn’t expected such a thoughtful gesture. He was happy to oblige. The psyker sat cross-legged with his back to his Acolyte. Clif cleaned his bare skin with methodical strokes, starting at his shoulder blades and working downward. The careful motions of warm, damp fabric against newly-healed flesh felt like a different kind of blessing, one no less effective than the managed application of physical pain. What was better, suffering or the redemption that came after it?

“So, your question.”

Heinrix resisted the urge to lean his head back against Clif’s body. He ought to let the man finish his work, at least.

“I was thinking about that oath of service you wrote for the conclave. I promised to show kindness to the people under my command.”

Aster paused to dip his towel into the water again. Heinrix watched a pinkish swirl of dying blood disperse itself in the basin. How like the currents of the Immaterium it looked. The psyker waited for Clif to finish his thought.

“It’s about protecting people who aren’t as powerful as me, right?”

“I suppose so. Protecting the innocent, and being courteous to people of lower status, forms part of most chivalric codes.”

Heinrix could sense Aster’s heartbeat. The Acolyte’s slow, deliberate strokes with the towel belied its rapid insistence.

“If I want to be kind to you - if I want to protect you - does that mean I’m being insubordinate?"

The Inquisitor felt a slow trickle of tepid water creep into the waistband of his pants. Clif moved swiftly to mop up the worst of it. Heinrix could feel the big man’s circulation bloom with sudden - what? Excitement? Embarrassment?

“I assume you don’t mean protection in the way that a bodyguard customarily protects their commander.”

Heinrix knew that impulse rather well. He’d felt it for Calcazar, for a time. He’d briefly felt it for Como before realising that the little Rogue Trader was more than capable of looking after their own interest.

“I do not.”

Clif set his damp towel down and picked up a fresh, dry one. He began to swab at Heinrix’s back again, this time with a firmer scrubbing action. The pressure against Heinrix’s thoracic spine felt invigorating. He leaned back into it, and was rewarded with the faint bloom of Aster’s warm breath against his left shoulder.

“By the Throne, I can’t believe you’re unmarked under all the bloody mess. Why’d you do this anyway? Is it a psyker thing? Should I try it?”

Clif’s last sentence was laden with unexpected sensuality. The Lord Inquisitor wondered exactly where he stood on matters of what Magos Pasqal would have called ‘personal maintenance’. Aster didn’t seem the type to chase self-destruction, nor was he as doggedly dominant as Como. Heinrix would have to give the man room to express what he truly wanted.

“Inquisition Acolytes play little games, Clif. One involves telling a story, and the other person guesses whether or not the story is a lie. Flagellation and prayer are commonly-used methods that help a sanctioned psyker to reaffirm their faith and fend off the Immaterium’s distractions.”

Aster paused to press his towel against the small of Heinrix’s back. The contact felt wonderfully reassuring.

“What’s that, a half-arsed truth? It’s not very chivalrous of you to cheat in our very first game, Iceman.”

Heinrix finally let his head and shoulders rock back against Aster’s broad chest. The Acolyte’s dress jacket was unfastened in the front, as was the collar of his shirt. Heinrix glimpsed the flare of the great hot vein that snaked up Clif’s neck; he felt the way it throbbed. The psyker twisted round, tilting his chin just enough to bring his lips flush with the man’s throat. He murmured his answer, thrilling as he sensed Clif’s body stir in response.

“I believe we established that I am a terrible, sinful man who is not to be trusted.”

Aster’s laugh turned into a faint groan of frustrated pleasure.

“Void take you, Heinrix, you still haven’t answered my earlier question!”

His name… Clif had called him by his name! Those two clipped little syllables sounded so good on Aster’s tongue.

“Then let this be my answer.”

Heinrix brought his right arm up and across his body, letting his biomancy find the swiftest path for the gesture. His fingers took hold of Aster’s jaw, roughly dragging the man’s head around to face him. The Inquisitor disengaged from Clif’s shoulder just long enough to throw himself recklessly at his Acolyte, surging up from below to maul him with a desperate, full-mouthed kiss.

Aster grabbed him by the sodden waist of his pants and hauled Heinrix into the Acolyte’s lap. Heinrix grasped the front of Clif’s jacket and tugged it further open, desperate to remove the barriers in the way of their contact. Another pull, and Aster’s shirt-front split open with a faint scuff of rending fabric as a button gave way under the pressure of Heinrix’s unnatural strength. Clif appeared just as eager to rid himself of his garments. The Acolyte drew his arms back just long enough for the Inquisitor to wrestle his shirt and jacket down over his shoulders, wriggled free of both sleeves and sat back heavily against the carpet.

Heinrix let Clif snatch him up by the rolled waistband of his pants and straddle his hips against the Acolyte’s bare waist. The young man was impressively strong, too. Both of the Inquisitor’s palms found the warm, faintly textured curves of Aster’s pectoral muscles. Throne, he was so beautiful - like a sculpture brought to life! Heinrix wanted to caress every part of him, to memorise every shape until he could replicate Clif’s body in his dreams down to the minutest detail.

Clif’s hands strayed from Heinrix’s waist down over his hips and arse, cupping and kneading both his buttocks. Heinrix nearly lost himself in the mingling heat of their pelvic girdles. He could feel the answering echo of his own passion resonating through Clif’s limbs, and the insistent twitch of his own lust pulsing out a response, repeating and reinforcing the cycle of stimulation over and over.

It scarcely felt like they inhabited different bodies. All he had to do was reach out and bind himself to Clif’s perfect form, and he could forge an irrefutable, inescapable union…

No. No, not again!

Heinrix ground his erection against Aster’s well-muscled belly to break the feedback loop before extremity overtook him. He would not lose himself to the temptations of biomancy, not this time. The Acolyte gulped and tipped his head back before letting out a reedy, involuntary cry. Heinrix caressed Aster’s cheek with the heel of his hand, soothing him.

“Sorry, Clif. I didn’t mean to tease you.”

You deserve better than to become my pain toy.

The Inquisitor bore down on the younger man from above, plunging against his mouth, snatching gasps of air he did not need for the sheer pleasure of catching Clif’s scent. Heinrix’s exultant moan became a muffled hum when Aster returned the lunge with equal vigor, lips and tongue coming up to meet the Inquisitor halfway. He tasted incredible.

It took several attempts before Heinrix could finally, regretfully pull himself away from the kiss. Clif stared up at him, his hair hopelessly tousled. The young man’s big, gentle brown eyes were half-focused and misty with lust. The Inquisitor caressed Aster’s cheek to dissuade him from lunging at him again.

“Don’t let the Void take me, Clif.”

Why should the Void have him when Aster could take him instead?

Clif clutched Heinrix with renewed intensity and pressed his face against the psyker’s chest. His nerves and veins were an encircling net of potentia and heat. Did Aster intend to shield his Inquisitor against the Warp with the offering of his own body? Heinrix tangled his fingers in the man’s curls, so soft despite the perspiration that was beginning to cling at the young man’s scalp. The psyker let his left hand caress the broad planes of Clif’s back - so solid and strong. Nothing felt more real than the surety of this contact.

“I’ve got you, Heinrix,” Clif murmured against his breastbone. “I’ve got you.”

Chapter 66: Chapter Sixty Six

Summary:

A long-awaited culmination.

CW: explicit sex scene ahead.

The Lord Inquisitor was hardly a small man - nearly as tall as Clif, blessed with long legs and a broad back. Aster wasn’t afraid to pick him up. He’d carried comrades to safety before. Heinrix let out a startled cry when Clif swept him up in both arms, but the Lord Inquisitor made no other attempt to protest or resist. Instead, the psyker put both his arms around Clif’s shoulders, a gesture that made him far more comfortable to hold.

It appeared that Acolyte Aster was in charge of things, at least for the moment. He’d better find his bearings quickly before Heinrix started to get heavy in his embrace.

“Where can a couple of blokes get some privacy around here, Master van Calox?”

“Behind those partitions.”

Heinrix indicated the way with a tilt of his head. The Lord Inquisitor’s rooms were a modular setup with lots of temporary walls and folding screens to break up the big, bunker-like chamber. This particular set of walls extended all the way to the ceiling. It made sense for Lord van Calox to see to his most intimate needs there.

Thankfully the door to the ablutions area was still ajar, and Clif could manoeuvre them both inside without breaking his stride. He made a point of nudging the door closed behind him with the tip of his boot. The door’s latch clicked. Good. The last thing Aster wanted was for one of the inner circle to come blundering in on their private time.

Fancy people had fancy options for getting clean: Lord van Calox had both a large shower and a deep-sided bathtub. Considering Foulstone’s dry climate, his setup was luxurious. Heinrix caught Clif eyeing up the facilities.

“We don’t have to settle for a sponge-bath. Would my charming Acolyte care to take a dip in the tub with me?”

Aster took a few steps towards the big ceramite vessel. As he looked down into the tub, sudden apprehension gripped the pit of his stomach and he tottered backwards. The Acolyte hastily set Heinrix down before he sent them both crashing to the floor.

“Nope.”

By the Emperor, what was wrong with him? Lord van Calox was watching with concern on his face. Clif took a rasping breath, desperate for an excuse that would explain his aversion to the bath. He was damned if he understood what was going on.

“Too constricting.”

Wrong word, Clif! Heinrix glanced at the tub, then back at Aster.

“Ah - you came close to drowning on Janus. Anyone would be apprehensive about immersing themselves in water so soon after such an experience. Pardon me, Clif, my invitation was thoughtless.”

Heinrix stood in front of Clif and caressed the big man’s face with both hands. The Inquisitor’s fingers bore the calluses of a trained swordsman, but his palms were remarkably soft. It was a rare treat to see him without his gloves on.

“How about you? Had any trouble with showers, after that business on Dargonus?”

The psyker gave Aster an intense look.

“That is an interesting question. One never knows what nasty surprises the Immaterium holds. I believe it will be fine, provided I do not have to sit on another blue plastic stool.”

Heinrix’s bare chest was a wonderful sight. Clif loved the little dark tufts of body hair that nestled in the cleft between Heinrix’s pectorals. The Acolyte laid his right hand against van Calox’s breastbone, over the place where he usually kept that big rosette. Lucky rosette, it got to spend all day in warm, plush comfort.

“You’re not a mind-reader, Heinrix.” The Inquisitor visibly blushed when Clif mentioned him by name. Cute. “Don’t beat yourself up about the bathtub. If I don’t want to do something, I’ll tell you.”

“I will… try to do the same for you.”

Heinrix lowered his gaze, and he released Clif’s face, letting both his hands drop to rest on the Acolyte’s shoulders. Aster caught the psyker’s chin in his left hand and encouraged him to reestablish eye contact.

“Do you have a hard time saying no to people?”

The psyker’s right eye shone pale in the shadow of his long, sharp nose. He offered Clif a thin, lopsided smile.

“Not at all. I have developed a taste for refusing the demands of impertinent citizens. It is different when I become aware of an unspoken need, particularly when I am well-acquainted with the person who feels that need. My biomancer’s senses are far harder to ignore than an artfully-phrased request.” A short pause. “You are carrying tension in your shoulders.”

Clif leaned in a little closer. He wondered what needs the Lord Inquisitor might be keeping unvoiced. The man kept pouncing on him and then retreating just a fraction, as if this were a dance or a game of push and pull.

“I wouldn’t call myself a kind man, but I don’t want to be cruel to you.”

Heinrix let out a thin, bitter laugh.

“That’s my line, Aster.’

“How did you and Lord Captain Como work things out? The power-play between you is pretty damn intense.”

That was Lord van Calox’s cue to break away, as Clif had predicted. Heinrix turned his back, proceeded towards the shower and began to run the water. It was a bit disconcerting to see him with his hair coiled up in a bun. The sight reminded Clif of their earliest encounters on Vheabos VI. He’d been just as much of a mystery back then.

“If we are going to have this conversation, then I would prefer to do so without standing around in damp, bloodstained trousers.”

Clif perched himself against the edge of the bathtub.

“Fair enough. Help me get my boots off.”

Aster couldn’t tell if the situation was romantic or not. They were seconds away from bickering like an old couple. Clif remembered having a few similar moments with Ida, though their arguments had always flared into nasty shouting matches. Heinrix, never one to start conflict, took a knee. The Lord Inquisitor took hold of his Acolyte’s jackboots, first the left and then the right, so that Clif could haul his legs free. He nearly kicked the older man in the face with his flailing, but Heinrix scooted out of the way just in time.

“Karkin’ Void! Boss, why’d you design the damn things to be this tight?”

Heinrix gave Aster a saucy look. He looked oh, so very good when he was on his knees.

“I felt obliged to make you look your best. My own enjoyment of the view is merely an incidental pleasure.”

Clif took hold of Heinrix’s wrist before he could get up again. He met the Lord Inquisitor’s mismatched stare.

“Undo me.”

The shower-water hissed quietly in the background while Aster took the psyker’s hands and laid them against the top of his thighs. He was taking a risk here. What instinct would triumph - Heinrix’s disinclination to take orders, or his awareness of Clif’s desperate want?

After a long moment, the Lord Inquisitor shuffled closer, parted Clif’s legs and began to unfasten the Acolyte’s belt buckle.

“To answer your earlier question, Como and I tried our best to show one another courtesy in defiance of our physical incompatibility. There was an implicit cruelty behind our attraction: neither of us could give the other what they wanted, but we were both too greedy to pull away and risk abandonment.” Heinrix slid Clif’s belt free with one practised, fluid motion.

“We played a great many games, with teasing and silly names that let us both find a moment’s escape from our duty.” Heinrix had begun to work on the buttons of Clif’s trousers. “I expect it all sounds rather immature… Ah, what do we have here?”

The man’s inquisiting had paid off. Aster grinned at Heinrix’s expression of sudden delight, as the first vivid glimpse of the Acolyte’s bright red underwear came into view.

“I heard it was someone’s favourite colour.”

“You’re too good to me.” The psyker was still smiling, but his voice was choked with emotion.

“Did you love Como?”

“I thought I did. I suspect I was more in love with what they could give me: I told myself that it was enough to offer my loyal service in return.” Heinrix motioned for Clif to shift his hips so that he could take the Acolyte’s dress pants off. “I trust you won’t make the same mistake that I did. You’re a smarter man than I am.”

Aster kicked his legs free, stood up and helped Heinrix to stand as well. The Inquisitor gave his red-clad rump a friendly pat before Clif extricated himself from his underpants. He was in a strange liminal state of half-arousal and half-focus, still feeling his way through the conversation.

Heinrix gave the Acolyte’s naked form a brief, approving glance. Clif realised that he could probably discern all the details with his unnatural senses, and thus the big reveal wasn’t much of a surprise. It felt odd to consider all the other times the Inquisitor might have been mentally undressing him with his sorcery. To Clif’s surprise, he discovered he quite liked the idea of being seen in such a uniquely intimate way. His cock gave a little hop of delight, and Aster glanced down at it with a brief exhale of half-concealed mirth.

Heinrix’s gaze followed Clif downward, and they shared a blushing moment as if they were both still bashful teenagers. The psyker abruptly turned around, but he didn’t pull away this time. Instead, Heinrix encouraged Clif to grasp his hips from behind. Their bodies fit snugly together: the biomancer’s body ran hot when he wasn’t using his sorcery. He must have quite the fierce metabolism.

Clif spotted the faint lozenge-shaped patches of pale skin above Heinrix’s right shoulder, the scars he’d said he acquired in Commorragh. He decided to kiss them. The Inquisitor sighed contentedly and leaned back into the contact. Aster followed up with more fluttering kisses against the psyker’s throat.

“I wish I had more to say about my own loves and losses.”

Clif delighted in caressing Heinrix’s flanks and the crest of his hips where they jutted out from the man’s rolled-up waistband. He hoped he wasn’t prodding the Lord Inquisitor too ardently from behind.

“I had a sordid little ganger romance, got a girl pregnant, then acted like a bloody idiot and got us both sent to jail. She’s got every reason to hate me, and I won’t waste time and effort on hating her back. The rest is standard soldier stuff. Love in the trenches. Lonely hearts and wounded bodies. You’ve been there too.”

The psyker leaned a little more of his weight against Clif’s torso.

“I have.”

Heinrix’s voice was as soft as his body was hard. Clif slid a hand into the psyker’s pants, questing along the firm line of his quads. His fingers encountered an unusual texture: the fabric here was somehow rough and soft at the same time, like mesh that had been ripped, and there was far less of it than Aster had expected.

“Hold on. I’ve got to see this.”

Clif pulled Heinrix’s still-damp waistband the rest of the way down over his hips and arse. There wasn’t any fabric at all covering the psyker’s buttocks - fuck, they felt even better in Aster’s hands now that they were naked! Clif did everything in his power to resist his baser urges. His cock badly wanted to burrow into that hot muscular cleft. Heinrix snickered: the biomancer was all too aware of Clif’s terrible lust. Aster was almost too distracted to investigate the underwear situation, but he forced his hands to rove away from that glorious, sculpted rear.

The tiniest vee of fabric covered Heinrix’s tailbone, then narrowed into a couple of little strings that skirted around his hips. Everything was very low slung. The psyker bent forward a little to let his pants drop to the floor, and Aster took the opportunity to peek. It was white lace. Clif had heard about the stuff, seen it in picts and at a distance on Nobles’ clothes, but he’d never actually touched it. Naughty Inquisitor!

Wait, what did it look like in front? Clif grasped Heinrix by the hips again and swivelled his body around to the psyker’s right so that he could get a good look. There, half-concealed by whorls of flimsy fabric, was the unforgettable outline of his boss’s hard-on. The lace extended just far enough to contain the whole impressive package in a neat pouch. Only that tiny white string interrupted the view of Heinrix’s musculature, all the way from his belly down to his legs. Clif dearly wished that he knew more about the Nobles’ fancy artworks, so that he could compare the man with a priceless statue. Could any living artist manage to capture just how lovely he was?

“Saints and stars…” Clif caressed Heinrix’s leg again, wishing he could memorise all its contours.

“A frivolous habit of mine. I wasn’t expecting you to see the decoration.” Heinrix’s voice was low and throaty. “I hope you don’t mind it.”

“Mind it? I fucking love it!”

Clif followed up his caress by giving Heinrix’s earlobe a playful nip. He didn’t have to be a witch to sense the older man’s immense relief. The lacy underwear clearly meant more to him than just a silly fantasy. By the Throne, what did he have to do to get Heinrix in a dress? Aster was now impossibly, achingly hard. If he didn’t put this man in the shower right now, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. He leaned up against Heinrix to murmur in the man’s ear.

“Every time I think you can’t get any hotter, you go and blindside me with something like this. It’s torture.”

Heinrix caught Clif by the wrist.

“The good kind of torture, I trust.”

“Mm, the best kind.”

The psyker grinned back at Clif and started leading him into the shower, still wearing his little lace bag. Aster followed him in a daze of brain-fogged lust, unable to take his eyes off the other man’s magnificent rear end.

“Do you want your hair down now, or-”

“Perhaps later, when we go to bed.”

To bed! Clif felt dizzy. He’d imagined himself with the Lord Inquisitor in all sorts of compromising situations, but the thought of something as simple and domestic as sharing a mattress had seemed too far off, too impossible. Heinrix’s naked, resting form, tangled in warm sheets - and Clif right there, watching... holding him. Throne, it was so tantalising to picture! Aster fumbled as he tried to remove the last vestige of the Inquisitor’s modesty. He couldn’t prevent his fingers from trembling against the damp lace.

“Emperor knows we’ve shared a shower before. Why am I so bloody nervous?”

Heinrix came to Clif’s rescue. The psyker eased his erection out of its confinement, placed Aster’s palm against his bare package and encouraged the Acolyte to stroke him while Heinrix slipped out of his underthings. He was packing quite the impressive sidearm - it was one thing to see it in simulacrum and another to feel its living, twitching weight in Clif’s hand. The Acolyte closed his eyes and concentrated on the texture and shape of Heinrix’s cock. What a lovely thing, for another man to entrust him with something so personal and sensitive.

“You want something very badly, Clif, and you are afraid to ask for it.”

Aster let out a strangled cry as his own dick gave him away. The tingling heat in his lap had built to the point where his desire was painful.

“Void-dammit, what happened to your inability to resist a body’s unspoken needs and all that other groxshit?”

“I’d prefer it if you gave voice to your needs.”

Heinrix’s faint smile wasn’t intended to be cruel, but it inflamed Clif’s body even more and made his thigh muscles spasm with frustrated horniness.

“I want to have you, Heinrix.”

Aster couldn’t recognise his own voice. He’d never used such a guttural tone. His palm caressed the Inquisitor’s lap with infinite, almost teasing gentleness, no longer distinguishing between the man’s genitals and his thighs and his little muscular belly with its trail of tiny dark hairs. It was all wonderful.

“I want to - to plunge deep into you.”

Clif pressed a kiss against Heinrix’s forehead, and watched the psyker’s pale eye gleam as Aster shifted their faces closer.

“No games, no tricks, no hiding behind our ranks. I have to know you as a man.”

He was scared to see Heinrix’s face in full, in case he found any traces of disdain or disgust there. The sheer insubordination of his desires was shocking in itself. But he’d said his piece. He’d found the courage for that, at least. Even if the Lord Inquisitor said no, it wouldn’t be the end of their connection - he hoped. He prayed.

Heinrix nudged at the corner of Clif’s mouth with his lips: a muscular but tender touch. When Aster reciprocated, he kissed the tiny indentation of one of the psyker’s rare dimples. The man was smiling. Clif shuddered with inexpressible relief. Heinrix stroked his lower back in return. The combination of hands and warm shower water tingled all along Clif’s spine, without the need for the biomancer to use an ounce of his sorcery.

That was a good point, actually. He’d been holding back.

“Get the General in the buff, and you’ll take him up the chuff.”

Heinrix’s deployment of a crude Astra Militarum proverb was so unexpected that Clif nearly inhaled a mouthful of shower water when he burst out laughing. The damn Inquisitor wore a truly devilish expression, with just enough mock seriousness to make Aster kiss him again on impulse.

“I had no reason to assume you’d be up for a good railing. Then I saw your underthings, and, well…” Clif clenched his buttocks so that his dick flexed against Heinrix’s hip. “Hope sprang up.”

The psyker cocked an eyebrow. “It does that.”

Aster took both their implements in his hands, and pressed them together with all the earnestness of an Arbites presenting evidence in court.

“Please, please, fucking please tell me I can-”

“Sheathe yourself in me. Ravish me.” Heinrix rolled his hips invitingly, and Clif gasped at the feeling of their warm wet cocks sliding against each other. “Fuck me balls deep.”

“Oh… oh, Emperor…”

“He’s not here right now.” Heinrix smiled slyly.

“Don’t tease. Let’s get you soaped up, Master van Calox.”

Aster wasn’t used to having so many options for cleaning and prepping a bloke’s tender regions. Not only was there abundant hot water, Heinrix had a whole row of different bars and unguents in a wire rack affixed to the wall of the shower. The cubicle itself seemed pretty robust, with a solid-looking steel rail that made Clif ponder a few intimate possibilities. He already had his mind set on taking Heinrix to bed, though. It just seemed polite to make their first time a bit special. Was that chivalry? Aster felt like it might be.

He nearly picked up the first bar of soap, but realised it was a Bone White Miracle Bar - meant for cleaning your laundry, not something a Noble would use on his bare skin. Clif silently thanked the Emperor for averting an embarrassing mis-step. The green shape next to it smelled pleasantly herbal and felt soft and faintly oily to touch. What was that plant Heinrix liked… rosemary. It seemed like a better choice.

The Acolyte started with Heinrix’s chest, more for his own enjoyment than anything else. He wasted soap on lathering up the Lord Inquisitor’s body hair and rubbing the man’s pectorals in broad, indulgent circles. He’d buff the poor guy smooth if he kept this up! Fortunately, Heinrix seemed delighted by the attention. The psyker busied himself with both their cocks, warming them with soapy water and the cradling action of his hands. The contrast between his callused fingers and his tender palms was bliss itself.

Their bodies might not look too different, but the older man’s experience really showed in the way he expertly handled Clif’s shaft, anticipating every little twitch and flex. Aster wasn’t sure if Heinrix was using his biomancy - if that was the case, he was being subtle about it. Clif couldn’t feel that characteristic golden radiance or localised warmth, and the shower water was as hot as ever. Aster had said no tricks - maybe Heinrix took that to mean no sorcery.

A quick, deep breath - Cliff forced himself to get over another bout of nerves - and he brought both his arms, right hand still holding the soap, around to the small of Heinrix’s back. He started lathering his hands up there, stroking the top of the psyker’s tailbone so he wouldn’t be startled by later, more invasive encroachments. Heinrix chose that moment to take hold of Clif’s hips, pressing into their embrace and scooting his body up just a little to help Aster with his work. The Acolyte backed up slowly against the shower wall until he encountered the steel railing. The metal felt invigoratingly cool against his arse. Maybe he could help Heinrix get a purchase against the wall.

The Inquisitor seemed to intuit Clif’s intentions: he put his arms around the bigger man’s shoulders and scrambled up off the floor. Aster rested the psyker’s right knee against the railing, and Heinrix did the rest. Now he was really riding high: Clif could feel Heinrix’s lap pressing hard against his belly, with the tip of the man’s erection nudging against his solar plexus. Heinrix’s legs went into a wide, gripping straddle.

From this position, there was nothing that Clif could not reach and grasp and tease. He marvelled at the ease with which Heinrix was able to spread himself open for investigation. Aster coaxed Heinrix’s cheeks apart with a slow, firm gesture of his left hand. His soapy fingertips were starting to soften from the hot water. When the Acolyte explored the cleft between Heinrix’s buttocks, the texture he encountered was softer still.

“Bloody Throne, you’re smooth from stem to stern!”

Either he’d waxed the area, or he chose not to let pubic hair grow back there at all. The entire stretch from Heinrix’s taut ballsack to his tight little anus was pure velvety sensuality. Clif’s right hand was ready with the soap, caressing and pressing as tenderly as he could manage while still holding the other man up in such a vigorous clinch. The more thoroughly he could prepare things here, the better Heinrix would feel when Clif penetrated him. That thought made Aster grit his teeth and let out an inelegant animal grunt. His left hand couldn’t resist tickling Heinrix’s perineum. The psyker responded by biting down against Clif’s shoulder and moaning through a mouthful of flesh. They were both equally desperate, it seemed.

“How are we?” Clif teased a fingertip against the delicate pucker of Heinrix’s sphincter. “Ready to receive visitors?” He pressed into the contact a little further, and delighted as the psyker’s body spasmed.

“You… bed…” Heinrix groaned through gritted teeth. “Now.”

“As you say. Hang on tight!”

Clif got both his hands under Heinrix’s buttocks, took the man’s body weight and began to march them both towards what he desperately hoped was the partition that led to the Inquisitor’s sleeping quarters. He chuckled when Heinrix stuck a leg out and delicately turned off the shower with his bare foot. Clif was so preoccupied that he would have just kept the damn thing running. At least one of them had a shred of awareness left…

They were still dripping with shower-water. Clif shook his head to try and dislodge some of the moisture from his hair, a gesture that wasn’t very effective but that did seem to amuse the Inquisitor. They were warm-blooded lads, they’d dry off soon enough.

There was indeed a bed behind the adjoining screen wall - and by the Emperor, what a bed! It was spacious enough to fit an entire family across the mattress - or if the Lord Inquisitor so desired, he could host quite the party in those sheets. Everything was upholstered in red, reflecting Heinrix’s preferences, and the bed itself was a large wooden frame with tall posts at each corner and lengths of curtain that you could drape across for extra privacy or warmth.

Clif had never slept in anything remotely this luxurious. Even the mattress itself looked incredibly deep and soft. He hoped that it was resilient enough that he wouldn’t drown himself in its contours. Thankfully, when he flopped forwards and set Heinrix’s back and hips down against the bed, it didn’t seem to give way under their combined body weight. Aster retrieved his hands from under Heinrix’s bottom and pressed experimentally against the mattress. He must have made a serious face because the psyker was biting his lower lip, trying not to show his amusement.

“How’s a man supposed to fuck on this thing?” Clif growled. “Scoot up a bit.”

The Lord Inquisitor was clearly enjoying himself at his Acolyte’s expense, but he complied with Clif’s instructions. Heinrix’s dick bobbed rather charmingly as he settled himself into a reclining position on top of all the sheets and pillows. The red fabric contrasted nicely with the biomancer’s tanned limbs and slightly paler midriff.

“You look like you should be in a painting.”

Not that Clif knew enough about fine art to be more specific. There was just something pleasing about the arrangement of Heinrix’s legs, the way his body tapered from those broad shoulders to his angular hips - with just enough padding to soften out a few tempting curves where it counted. The fact that his skin was still slightly damp only highlighted the muscularity of his form. And oh Throne, his thighs! Clif could have filled a codex the size of an Aeldari grammar book with poems dedicated to each of Heinrix’s features, and he’d still have fantasies left over.

“Clif?” Aster brought himself out of his reverie, but couldn’t manage to stop staring at the nude Inquisitor. Heinrix smiled kindly at him. “You’ll find a few necessaries by the bedside.”

The Acolyte took a look in the nearby drawer while Heinrix fossicked around in the upholstery - probably towelling himself off with something. Bloody Throne, Clif was stunned by all the things Nobles appeared to consider ‘necessary’! Still, there were useful items here. Tissues, prophylactics, several bottles of what looked like oils; the trappings of a bachelor’s after-dark entertainment. Clif considered how Heinrix might have used them in his private time, and felt his heart skip a beat.

A hairbrush caught his attention. Aster felt like teasing out the preamble. He took out a wrapped lambskin and a bottle of mystery oil, setting them on the bedside table before he advanced on the Lord Inquisitor with the brush in his hand.

“I fucking love you with your hair down. Let me take care of you.”

“But of course, Master Aster.” Heinrix sat up very nicely for his Acolyte.

It was one of Clif’s many little regrets that he’d never be able to do Dru’s hair for her, but he still enjoyed the practice. The Inquisitor’s braid was messily tucked into itself: all Aster needed to do was untie the narrow strips of purity seal that held Heinrix’s bun together and the long braid, still slightly damp from the shower, uncurled itself to lie between the psyker’s shoulderblades.

Clif carefully untied the remaining knots in the seals, then unwound the three thick strands of Heinrix’s hair from the long sections of ribbon. The interplay of grey and glossy black sections was pretty to untangle. Aster felt as though he was working on a puzzle. The biomancer’s hair had spent so long in its plait that it had been pressed into temporary kink-like curls. Clif brushed it all out - he was surprised at how much longer the older man’s hair was when it wasn’t braided. Heinrix hummed happily, even when Clif caught the brush on a stray knotted section and had to work at it until it came loose.

“I feel like a damsel - or perhaps a show pony.” The psyker chuckled to himself. “I suppose it’s fitting, if I’m to be ridden presently.”

“Say I was to pull on it, about here.” Clif ran his fingers up under Heinrix’s hair at the nape of his neck. “Would that do it for you?”

“Mm, might be nice.” Heinrix tried to look over his shoulder, but Aster tutted at him and realigned his head for easier brushing. “You’ve done this before.”

“Some of the lads in prison miss having a girl around. And some other lads like doing girly things.” Clif had almost finished working a stubborn knot all the way down from the psyker’s nape to the ends of his hair. “I might’ve smuggled a few combs in when I came back from deployments. Ended up learning quite a bit from the skirts.”

Heinrix shifted his hips awkwardly as he arranged his legs into a Calixian-style kneeling posture.

“Your open-mindedness is starting to make a great deal of sense.”

“Where in the Void did you grow up, some backwater Feudal World?”

A short pause, then Heinrix sighed.

“That’s not far from the truth. Knight Worlds are depressingly conservative.”

The psyker collected his hair and arranged the glossy strands over his left shoulder, baring his upper back to Clif. He kept his shoulders proud and tall as he knelt up.

“For the record, I am still very much a man.”

Aster kissed the broad curve of his right shoulder before he moved to quickly discard the hairbrush and retrieve his bottle of oil.

“I noticed. Can I still call you beautiful?”

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“I think,” Clif caressed Heinrix’s flanks, “I think there isn’t a good enough word in Low Gothic for what you are.” He kissed the smooth jutting corner of the psyker’s jaw. “Might have to go hunting in some more xenos dictionaries for the perfect term.”

Heinrix laughed. “Heretic.”

“Watch out, mate, I’m infiltrating your sanctum.”

Aster’s horniness had abated while he brushed the Lord Inquisitor’s hair, but his libido returned with a vengeance the moment he popped the bottle open and started to oil up his hands. A moment of bravado made him flick a scented splash across the small of Heinrix’s back. The glossy oil mark looked far too much like a cumshot. Clif managed to turn his incipient squawk into a marginally more manly clearing of his throat, and hastened to work the oil down along the psyker’s tailbone.

Come on, mate, don’t disgrace your ancestors… Not that Clif had a clue about his parentage but still - he wasn’t a kid any more! It’d be mortifying if he blew his load before getting a chance to dip inside that incredible arse… ah Throne, get it together, Agent Aster.

Both Clif’s hands were busy: the pad of his left thumb kept a gentle pressure against Heinrix’s cute pucker, reminding the psyker of his nefarious intentions. Aster coaxed Heinrix to kneel forward into a table stance, easing the older man’s wonderfully muscular thighs apart far enough to cup the Lord Inquisitor’s testicles with his right hand. Throne, he wanted to reach around and grab his dick again - but Heinrix seemed to have anticipated that, and was cradling the base of his own shaft with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger.

Cliff glanced down and watched the psyker’s hand coax back and forth along that massive weapon of a cock, keeping things easy and relaxed. He still hadn’t used any sorcery. His boss was a paragon of patience. Aster renewed his own stroking actions, determined to keep his own eagerness in check.

“A popper would be fantastic about now…” Clif needed more oil if he was going to insinuate his way into the Lord Inquisitor’s arse. Even inserting one fingertip was a rigorous challenge - the man was incredibly hot and tight. Aster redoubled both his lubrication and his efforts.

“I’m afraid I usually find it easier to deploy my, ah, exceptional abilities. If you like- “

“Belay that, Heinrix, I’m not giving up yet.”

There was one other option, one not usually available to red-blooded lads in a crowded bivvy or a seedy bar, but the psyker’s whole situation was wonderfully clean and smooth… Aster decided to give it a try. He leaned in close enough to exhale a sigh against Heinrix’s rump, rested the tip of his nose against the man’s tailbone to orient himself, and let his left hand slide down to help keep those mighty glutes apart. This particular manoeuvre was a bit unorthodox by Clif’s standards. Hopefully he wouldn’t be smothered mid-meal.

At first it felt deeply strange to investigate the man with his tongue. If Clif had to draw a parallel, he’d compare it with his first time kissing someone. Heinrix cried out with surprise at first, but his noises soon turned into playful murmurs and then, as Clif found the right angle, the older man let out such a high-pitched and tender moan that Aster couldn’t help licking him again. The texture of warm, tightly-bunched skin against the surface of Clif’s tongue was incredibly detailed and delicate. It felt as though every instinct in Aster’s body was drawing him toward this one spot. In return, Heinrix put everything into receiving and reciprocating Clif’s soft touch.

The psyker cried out again, signalling neither pleasure nor pain but pure, unadulterated vulnerability. Clif wanted to hold the man’s hand and reassure him: he reached round Heinrix’s hips in the hope of stroking the back of his knuckles. Instead, Aster’s fingertips nudged against the velvety glans of the psyker’s cock. He was rock-hard, burning hot and leaking helplessly. The evidence of Heinrix’s erotic desperation made Clif moan involuntarily. The vibration passed along his tongue and must have stimulated Heinrix’s anus even further, because Clif felt something twitch and relax in response.

The Acolyte shifted back to kissing the Inquisitor’s tailbone - he felt like he would either suffocate or pass out from lust if he kept devouring the man from behind. Clif’s well-oiled fingers slid freely this time, dipping in and out of that tight little entrance until he felt confident enough to delve and press further. Heinrix would occasionally groan and clench tightly around Clif, pressing the Acolyte’s knuckles together.

Aster would not be deterred. He took control of the base of Heinrix’s shaft, using a delicate but insistent hold to prevent the man from backing away and evading Clif’s preparation. The biomancer had stopped trying to jerk himself off and was instead holding his own palm over the tip of his cock, as if he hoped to hold off his ejaculation that way. Clif twisted his fingers slightly and murmured with delight as he felt Heinrix spasm and lose his balance. The psyker’s left hand, no longer able to hold him up, had splayed out across the mattress and was gripping onto the bedsheets for dear life.

Clif had no idea if Heinrix was groaning in Low Gothic, Aeldari or some other language of pure sex. The Lord Inquisitor’s face was buried so far in his pillows that his love-talk was completely muffled. Aster gave another flex with his fingertips. Heinrix’s cock bucked. He was pretty damn sure he’d just skimmed the man’s prostate.

A moment’s reprieve, that’s all Clif had planned to give Heinrix before fucking him. The man looked damn good from behind, all flustered and spread against the bed like that, but something was missing. Aster realised that he was dying to see the man’s face and hear his cries in full. The Acolyte pulled his fingers away - nice and clean, they’d done well in the shower together - and tried not to laugh at poor Heinrix’s mewl of disappointment.

“Scoot over, gorgeous.”

The psyker needed a bit of help to roll back into his earlier reclining pose. He was a lot more dishevelled and sweaty than his earlier appearance, but his streaming hair and full, flushed lips made him even more irresistible than before. Fuck, he was pretty when he was turned on! Aster snatched up the prophylactic he’d secured earlier, flopped his body down on the bed and enjoyed the feel of all that soft fabric against his back - still fragrant and radiating a little of Heinrix’s impressive body heat.

“I thought it might be easier on you if I was the jetbike and you were the rider.”

Clif indicated his outstretched body, including what he had to acknowledge was a particularly bold-looking erection sticking up in the middle. Look at you go, you proud little soldier! That’s what playing with the Lord Inquisitor’s arse does to you. Heinrix poked at the very tip of Aster’s glans with an inquisitive index finger, teasing the urethra, and made a saucy face when Clif totally lost his composure.

“Bend me over the Golden Throne! He’s sensitive, dammit!”

Aster realised he’d tilted his head back and bared his throat amid the vehement throes of his reaction. That rather undermined his confident facade. Heinrix capitalised on Clif’s moment of weakness by confiscating the lambskin, taking the packet in his teeth and nipping it open.

“Allow me to take you in hand, Master Aster.”

Emperor’s mercy, this wasn’t half bad either! Heinrix’s devilish expression contrasted with the delicacy of his hands. It was the Inquisitor’s turn to avail himself of just a little oil, enough to mollify the texture of his callused fingers and send shivers along Clif’s shaft where the psyker anointed him. He still wasn’t using his witchery for any of this - ah, sweet Throne, it was all skill and dexterity!

Aster couldn’t summon the will to do anything but watch the man ply his cock. A pinch of Heinrix’s right hand positioned the rolled-up lambskin over Clif’s glans. The Inquisitor’s fingers slowly parted and spread the fine membrane over the tip of Aster’s dick with a slowness that nearly drove the Acolyte mad with anticipation. Heinrix stopped. What in the Void was he up to now, the teasing bastard?

The psyker bent forward, his loose hair cascading across Clif’s lap. Oh… oh sweet blessed Emperor.

He was working the lambskin down over Clif’s shaft with careful incremental motions of his muscular lips, keeping everything in place with his left hand as his mouth bobbed up and down. Aster could feel the pressing heat of the psyker’s tongue as Heinrix fully engulfed his tip. The Acolyte was drowning in pleasure. He frantically tried to summon some boring trivia to stave off the urge to thrust upward and come in the Inquisitor’s mouth. Heinrix seemed to anticipate the impulse, for he pushed firmly down against Clif’s legs with his right arm, pinning Aster against the sheets.

Come on, think of something boring. Aeldari vocab - no, no, too many thoughts about rivers and flowers and the warm bud of Heinrix’s gorgeous mouth opening onto - ah, help! Come on, Clif, focus. Boring planets. Frozen Worlds. Desert Worlds. Jungle Worlds. Burning Worlds. Paradise Worlds and oh, Heinrix’s lips felt like paradise… Aster clenched his teeth and let out a keening cry.

The lambskin was on, thank Throne. He didn’t think he could take much more of Heinrix’s mouth. How lovely he looked when he rose up from Clif’s lap, trailing his curtain of glossy dark hair. How wonderful the swell of his pectorals looked from this angle. How lively his eyes were, the pale one and the deep grey-green one with its subtle band of warmth around the iris. How intently he looked at Aster as he hooked a leg up over the Acolyte’s waiting lap, stalking his way up Clif’s body with pure controlled deliberation.

Oh yes. This was the view that Aster had been hoping to see.

Clif hastened to arrange his hips and furnish the Lord Inquisitor with a good angle of entry. He couldn’t resist staring down at the enticing diamond of open space between his spreadeagled lap and Heinrix’s straddling thighs. The psyker’s cock loomed over Clif’s belly, casting an evocative shadow that bobbed in time with Heinrix’s preparative ministrations.

A final anointing of the Inquisitor’s right hand, a caress to slick up Clif’s freshly-wrapped erection, and Heinrix reached back to cup himself. Aster watched the shadowed swell of the man’s scrotum grow taut as Heinrix pressed his fingers against his own body. His heart beat heavily, keeping time with the insistent pulse of his dick that reached inexorably up to meet the psyker’s descending pelvic girdle as that last tantalising gap was obliterated by the contact of their bodies.

A moment’s taut pressure, the pang of resistance and release - Heinrix drove himself down onto Clif with the full weight of his body. The act of impalement was almost feral in its suddenness, and drove the breath from his lungs. He’d never taken a man in such a way. The Lord Inquisitor - no, he wasn’t a Lord anymore, he was a living vector of pure liberated sensuality. Heinrix tipped his head back, exultant, his hair streaming behind him as he rode Clif’s hips. Neither of them tried to muffle or modulate their joyful cries.

Aster’s core and legs and hips had begun moving of their own accord, rising to the challenge of ravishing the psyker. He thrust up hard with his pelvis and lower back, resisting the softness of the bedsheets and flinging Heinrix into the air before sending him plunging back down onto Clif’s cock. Damn, it felt good to meet his match in athleticism! Aster hadn’t allowed himself to fuck this vigorously in ages.

Hands on both of Heinrix’s hips, Clif drove himself in and in and in again. Nothing seemed too intense or too primal for his partner. The psyker braced his hands against Clif’s chest and shoulders, clinging tightly to anchor himself as he forced his legs to spread even wider. Aster was there, responding by engaging his thigh muscles and mercilessly pressing the psyker’s body into the tightest clinch he could manage. He’d left finger-shaped bruises on the biomancer’s hips and thighs, but Heinrix didn’t seem to care.

The psyker tipped his body forward - Clif chased him with a swift contraction of his core muscles, making sure his cock didn’t slip out. Heinrix wasn’t escaping that easily! Aster gasped as the older man tossed his hair down over the Acolyte’s head, screening his face with a glossy dark curtain of fragrant locks. They lay perfectly face to face. Clif gasped, silently begging for a kiss, and Heinrix granted his wish. The lips that had not long ago been wrapped firmly around Aster’s shaft felt impossibly soft and sweet against his yearning mouth.

That was it. He couldn’t possibly hold back any more. With a tongue-stifled moan and a volley of desperate thrusting, Clif let his lust build to its final peak. He felt the hot knot of tension build like a fist behind his prostate, cascade in a crescendo of heat and pressure until his scrotum tensed and his pelvic floor spasmed. A few frenetic lunges were enough to give him merciful release, but the mind-shattering intensity of Clif’s passion forced inarticulate moans from him long after his body had run out of seed to spill.

At length he lay there, collapsed, destroyed, replete with dumb delight. When Clif finally convinced his heart to stop hammering for dear life, when he remembered to take deep breaths and relocate the remnants of his wits amid the rumpled sheets, his first thought was of Heinrix.

He hadn’t come.

Should he be worried?

Clif craned his head up, immediately feeling the results of his exertions as his neck refused to support the weight. He crashed back down against the pillows, engaged his shoulders and tried again. The Inquisitor was back in his saucy reclining pose, still sporting an impressive erection. He looked entirely unbothered, even smug. Aster glanced at the man’s cock again, then back at his smiling face.

“I can’t help feeling like I should have hung in there a bit longer.”

Heinrix put his hand out to idly caress Clif’s right nipple.

“On the contrary, my dear Aster! That,” the psyker nibbled his bottom lip, “was nothing short of spectacular.”

“But you-”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I managed to undo a man without using any biomancy?”

Heinrix beamed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with tiny but evident laugh lines. Clif had always assumed that his usual thin and faintly sardonic smiles were the fullest extent of the man’s good humor. This was an entirely new side of Lord van Calox. Aster hoped he’d see more of it.

“Void take the sorcery, you’re… Sorry, mate, I think I came so hard it smoothed my brains out. Give me a second to gather my wits.”

Clif shook his head vigorously, fumbled a few stray curls of sweaty hair out of his eyes and leaned up on his right elbow to give Heinrix a proper look. The psyker seemed content to lie back and observe his Acolyte. Clif’s gaze roved over his recumbent body.

“You really are beautiful.”

Heinrix’s smile quirked up with his customary lopsided air of mischief.

“Thank you, Master Aster, for stealing my lines yet again.”

Clif was too tired to laugh. Instead he hauled himself up into a compressed seated position. It’d take some time to get used to this damn mattress…

“Let me just dispose of the evidence -”

Aster got rid of the lambskin, relieved that they didn’t have to worry about a mess in the bed, and flopped back down alongside the naked Inquisitor. Heinrix had lowered some of the curtains around the bed-frame for a little extra cosiness. He smelled wonderful as usual, mingling hints of herbal soap with traces of perspiration and whatever he used to perfume his hair. Clif lazily caressed the man’s brow. The stern crease between Heinrix’s eyebrows had softened into a meek little dip.

“You seem different somehow.”

Aster tracked the steady, faint glow of the psyker’s odd eye. It burned low, like the last ember of a day-old fire. Heinrix stretched his limbs with unhurried ease: the motion freed a flap of bedsheet and blanket from under his body. The Inquisitor took hold of it and spread it over their legs, tucking the corner against the small of Clif’s back. He let out a satisfied huff and laid his head against Aster’s outflung right arm.

“I thought that the absence of my powers would make me old and frail.” Heinrix laid his palm gently over Aster’s heart. “Instead I feel young again. Imagine that.”

Clif patted the back of Heinrix’s hand.

“I would take credit, but I’ve lived a bit too much to be young.” He turned his cheek to kiss the crown of the psyker’s head. “I like this Heinrix. He’s sweet. Almost innocent.”

“... proves nothing.” They both intoned at the same time, and snickered, and hugged each other tighter.

“So, Clif.” Heinrix murmured into Aster’s chest. “I suppose this makes us lovers.”

The Acolyte couldn’t hide the sudden kick of his heartbeat.

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

Chapter 67: Chapter Sixty Seven

Summary:

Breakfast, banter and correspondence among the Acolytes.

“It’s blue.”

Young Aster peered doubtfully at Hal’s new shirt.

“It’s grey. Like everything else in your wardrobe, Froscher.”

“No it ain’t!” Hal untucked one of his shirt-tails and held it up against the fabric of his waistcoat to demonstrate.

“That is grey. And this - as you can clearly damn well see - has blue dye in it. Thus, it’s blue.”

Clif’s big brown eyes had a hint of mischief in them. The new Acolyte had brought Froscher a mug of recaf, hot and sweet like he liked it, which was funny since Hal had never told Aster how he liked his recaf. More than that, he’d handed the mug directly to Froscher instead of setting it down on the refectory table. The kid was plying him with little favours. If it weren’t for that fact, Hal might have been a lot crosser about the whole wardrobe disagreement.

“I’ve been wearing grey all my life, new blood. Imagine me traipsing around like some bloody Rillietan dancer. I’d look daft! Got to ease into this colourful stuff.”

Aster rolled his eyes.

“All right, tiebreaker! Hey, Thornton! Which colour is it, Parrot - true blue, or obviously grey with a faint suspicion of blue in the dye base?”

Remy Thornton was the kind of cove you smelled first, heard second and regretted seeing. Froscher felt sorry for the second-string baby psykers that had just come to replace Raven’s intended original trio. Getting carted from Janus to Foulstone was shocking enough without getting traumatised by an unwashed Astropath. Remy, of course, didn’t bother giving Clif a proper response to his damn-fool question. He just pointed to the ever-vigilant embroidered eyes of his sleep mask.

“All right, lover boys, settle down. I got a double migraine translating the messages that just came through for you catty queens, so you owe me. Fuck, one sec.”

Remy fished an open grox-jerky wrapper out of his dressing-gown pocket, sniffed it, concluded there was no more jerky and discarded it on the table. His second fossicking attempt brought forth a sealed envelope, which he handed to Clif. The stinky bugger might not have the use of his eyes, but he knew exactly where young Aster was. Thankfully, Froscher’s envelope was not in the pocket that smelled of dried meat.

“Thanks for keeping your brainwaves nice and clean, Hal. Appreciate the privacy. You’re a good gent. Also, the Werserian family gets their livery chem-dyed on Foulstone. Might want to look into buying your civvies in a better blue than that.”

Thornton waddled off, his sandals flapping loosely around his socked feet. Froscher picked up his coffee and sniffed it to hide his embarrassment.

“At least he thinks my shirt’s blue.”

“That’s because he’s reading your imagination, Falcon.” Clif was tearing into his envelope with a newbie’s energetic clumsiness.

“What a mess. You do it like this, kid.”

Hal demonstrated the easiest way to get one of Thornton’s very well-sealed packages open, with a flick of his pinkie fingernail and a practiced pass of his hand. Assassinorum requests tended to come with poison needles and other annoying groxshit that’d fuck you up if you tampered with the mail. Thankfully van Calox wasn’t that much of a sadist.

Froscher’s letter was copied out onto standard-issue ticker tape, but the formality of the writing made him guess that it had taken the form of a very polite and well-formatted letter before it was passed through the Astropath network. Abelard had invited him to some sort of charity event - the date was a while off. This clearly was not the kind of message one would send to a general audience, either. Hal scanned the text again to make sure he’d got it right the first time.

“Ooh, you old dog, you got a date!”

Clif was hovering in Froscher’s periphery, his face the picture of innocent delight were it not for the fact that he was clearly dining out on Hal’s discomfiture. What was worse, the fact that a psy-sensitive lad had decided to get in Froscher’s personal space or the fact that the old assassin had been too preoccupied to fend him off in the first place?

“I don’t know what half this guff even means, Ibis, don’t jump the lasgun.”

“Oh I think you do, Hal.” Aster cracked a smile that tempted Froscher to box his ears, but he refused to be baited by the new blood. “Surely a master assassin would need to infiltrate high society events. Surely he’d know what it means to Accompany-” Froscher ripped the tape out of Clif’s hand as he tried to read the rest- “the esteemed Lord Abelard Werserian and dine at his right hand, and pick up his hanky, bla bla bla.”

“Void take you, you little shit!” Hal shoved the invitation into his vest pocket, let his aura seethe around his shoulders and gave the new Acolyte the stink-eye. “Fuck, I’ve got nothing to wear.”

Hang on. Clif seemed far too perky, even by his usual wide-eyed and chummy standards. Froscher observed him for a bit while the Acolyte read his own mail. The news appeared to be mixed: Aster’s broad smile transformed into a look of confusion.

“I got something from Lord Werserian too… somehow.” Aster glanced over at Hal. “He informs me that Dru is making excellent progress as a Ministorum Novice. How does he know about this?”

“He’s a canny bastard. We… may have met at the Basilica. The old Voidsman must have put two and two together, buggered if I know how he knew that was your girl.”

If Froscher weren’t burdened with his anti-psychic aura, he’d have patted young Aster on the shoulder. Instead he had to settle for a knowing gesture with his index finger, halfway through taking another big sip of recaf.

“Not a bad thing for your wee lass to have someone important looking out for her while you’re in the field. You can trust the old codger, he’s raised a whole damn tribe of great-grandkids.”

Clif looked mollified. “If you think he’s on the level, then I’ll trust your judgement, mate.”

“Cheers for the vote of confidence.” Froscher took one last slurp of the Emperor’s sweet brown mercy before he addressed the lacerax in the room.

“So how was he?”

Clif nearly spat out his recaf. Hal just shrugged and gave him a toothy grin.

“What? I need to know if Thornton owes me ten Thrones.”

Acolyte Aster wiped his mouth hastily on the sleeve of his uniform, risked leaning into Froscher’s personal space and adopted such stereotypically shifty body language that Hal wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the kid or smack him round the back of the head. Come on, I trained you better than this!

“Hal, can we please not discuss this in front of the psyker trainees?”

Froscher spared the baby sorcerers a quick look. He wasn’t a damn babysitter, after all. Jackdaw and Kestrel - Yvette and Maynard - were the feisty ones. They were far too busy scrapping with each other to pay the Acolytes much attention. Jackdaw put her right hand down on the metal refectory table and used her powers to discreetly zap Maynard with electricity - the real stuff, not Warp lightning. Cute trick. The air above Maynard’s head wavered in a mirage of radiant heat. Yvette could try all she liked to taunt Kestrel, but he was far too in control of his emotions and his powers to start a fire here. The only kid likely to do any eavesdropping was Uriel Peele, who’d been given the callsign Magpie - but they were off doing a biomancy lesson with the Lord Inquisitor.

“I say this on behalf of teenagers everywhere, Ibis, I do not think they give a flaming shit about the love-lives of grown men.”

“Oh, but you do?” Aster checked himself before he raised his voice too much.

“I like you, kid. Might not look obvious, but I quite like the new Lord Inquisitor as well. If he treats you with anything less than his oath’s worth of respect, I expect you to bloody well tell me about it. For both your sakes.”

Clif stared into his mug.

“I’m not used to people fussing over me. You, Xue… Thornton too, in his own way. Now I get letters from Nobles and a Rogue Trader knows my name. It’s like my internal auspex is glitched out. Who’s Clif Aster any more? Not some dumb boxer from Vheabos VI…”

The Acolyte leaned his elbow on the table and looked sidelong as Froscher.

“And then I start chatting with Heinrix and it’s… I don’t know. It’s nice. Like we’re just a couple of old soldiers, which I suppose we both are,” Clif waved his hand around the Inquisition refectory, “despite all this.”

Aster tapped the rim of his mug with his fingers, maintaining his usual unhurried, observant eye contact.

“You tell me, Hal. Does it sound like he treats me badly?”

Froscher snickered. “It sounds like Remy owes me a tenner.”

Chapter 68: Chapter Sixty Eight

Summary:

Two politicians, two invitations.

The factory vox-hailer’s hoot sounded almost joyous. For Meister Ravor’s people it was an auspicious sign: they’d made it through another tiring but effective shift, and now it was time for the day shift to clock out. Whistles for work, hoots for home time. At least that’s how it was lately: time was, the assembly teams would’ve raced off to Hex 4’s pubs for a quick drink before they took care of dinner and sleep. Money and safety were both getting scarce, and that kind of carry-on would earn them a lecture from the workers’ families… or get them mugged. And Meister Ravor’s folk were luckier than many. Skilled labourers had it good - the cargo haulers, not so much. Hari and Platon had their hands full with industrial disputes and riot control.

Mediator-Subcontractor Otto-8 plied the main factory floor, directing traffic with their manipulator arms. Workers were meant to take a stretch and medicae break before clocking out, but most of them were eager to get away today. The fussy little Cog would probably put a flea in Ravor’s ear about that. Otto was mostly just trying to clear an efficient path to the Foreman’s office. Shift Supervisor Aldo must be a bloody psyker because he was noticeably absent whenever unit Otto came calling these days. Timun Ravor knew why, too. Let the Tech-Priest complain to the guy who made decisions, that would be Aldo’s logic.

The evening shift was much smaller, and would mostly be made up of maintenance workers: cleaners, a couple of hired Technomats, plus some of the brainier floor workers who’d been trained up under Otto-8’s pious guidance. Meister Ravor had to tread a fine line with the Adeptus Mechanicus and make sure they could trust his processes.

He could always have sucked it up and joined the Priesthood of Mars: Emperor knew he had enough metal in his head to meet the minimum requirements! But that didn’t sit right with the old Voidsman. He’d always been his own man. Not to mention, he’d have to choose a side in the Cog Civil War - and that would draw undue attention to his ‘angel’ investor. Heh. Angel his bony Voidborn arse! There were far worse things than AdMech compliance protocols.

“Hey Otto. Omnissiah be with you on this smoggy evening.”

It wasn’t necessary to hold the office door open for a cove who had multiple utility mechadendrites, but Timun did it anyway. Social awareness wasn’t one of Otto-8’s strong suits: the Cog immediately started scanning the Foreman’s office with their various auspices, and Ravor got a residual sizzle of static to the brain when he copped a wave of electromagnetic radiation. He did not miss those damn headaches!

“All’s ship-shape with the plant and personnel, I trust.”

That wasn’t a question. Ravor really just wanted the Tech-Priest to stamp his papers and leave him in peace for another few cycles.

“This statement is inaccurate. Unit Ravor’s reticule of industry is not shaped like a ship or any other kind of transport.”

Ravor looked down at his beaky nose at the Cog. “Not even a Rhino, unit Otto? It sure smells like the inside of an old troop transport in here.” He could always tell when the planetborns had been in the office. They were just a bit sweatier than the average Voidborn, and Timun was fussy about human smells.

“The unit Ravor’s observation is irrelevant.”

Otto-8 tapped the face-plate of their respirator. Free stink-filtering was definitely one upside to joining the Omnissians. The Mediator-Subcontractor hauled out several dataslates and began comparing their logs to the readout on the factory’s central cogitator array. Aldo had decided it was funny to put a flat-cap on the head of the cogitator’s cybergargoyle. Otto tutted in binharic, reached out with their artificial hand intending to remove it, then changed their mind.

“The Catechism of Maintenance and Renewal does not specifically forbid the application of headwear to appease the machine spirits. We request that you monitor the cybergargoyle and assess its efficiency.”

An experiment in productivity, huh? Ravor was happy to humour the eccentric Tech-Priest. He always felt that uniforms made people prouder of their jobs and therefore better workers. It’d be cute to see if the cybergargoyle enjoyed its jaunty new accessory.

“What’s your judgement on this humble factory, unit Otto? Will I get another lecture on the merits of using servitors instead of citizens with loyal souls?”

Otto-8’s mechadendrites writhed like a knot of mating snakes.

“Organics are a poor substitute for the efficiency of the blessed machine. We will never agree upon the specifics of production oversight and human resource engineering. However, all systems and procedures remain within tolerance and scale to suit the classification: bespoke small-batch transit production.”

“Good to hear it. You’re a star, Otto. Not a literal - uh, your labours are effective and fruitful, that’s what I’m getting at.”

Ravor tried not to grind his teeth. Saints’ blood, Cogs were a weird lot and Otto-8 was temperamental even by their standards. If he put a word wrong, he might lose the cove’s favour and then he’d really be in the shitter.

“Addendum: this unit collected the following item from the dispatch zone. It appears to be marked with your ident. We recommend exercising caution when deploying letter-opening attachments. Side effects may include: minor lacerations, superficial damage to extremities of bulk, ocular trauma.”

Ravor paused. It could be hate mail. It hadn’t been long since he’d got into politics, but the Meister had already begun to screen his vox-hails and Astropathic messages for scrap-code and offensive content. A physical letter was unusual enough to get his hackles up.

“Have you got a letter-opener among all those mechadendrites, mate?”

“This statement is true - unit Otto has been blessed with multifunctionality! Observe.”

The envelope did not burst open in a cloud of suspicious white powder or do anything dramatic at all. Bit of a let-down after taking all those precautions, really. Otto-8 passed the letter over: Timun Ravor took note of its good quality card stock. He reckoned that the paper had been pressed from real plant fibres! Fancy… The printing looked very nice too, probably a custom job. Nob stuff. It even had a watermark.

“Hm, a junket. Unit Otto, who’s Lady Astartia Werserian? She’d be a relative of Uncle Abbie - I mean Lord Abelard, I’m guessing?”

“Scanning ancestral records.” Something whirred inside Otto-8’s chassis. “She is the unit Abelard Werserian’s great-granddaughter.”

The Mediator-Subcontractor brought a mechadendrite in front of their respirator mask and held it up to mime consulting a chronometer. Their polite cough was tinged with a dissonant binharic chirp. Ravor intuited the Tech-Priest’s meaning.

“Oh, yeah, shit… all requirements are satisfied, cheers. Go home, mate! Machine god’s blessings to you and yours.”

The Tech-Priest didn’t even bother with a proper farewell. Instead they immediately took a 180 degree turn with the top half of their chassis, walked their legs and pelvic girdle around to follow the rest of their body and marched themselves right out of the Foreman’s office. They weren’t offended, they were just special like that. Ravor had pissed off plenty of colleagues in his time, so he could hardly complain if Otto acted discourteously.

Meister Timun unfolded his letter and laid it flat on the workbench next to the cogitator. Now there was a bloody conundrum! What would a good People’s Representative do about an invitation like this? The cybergargoyle’s head twitched downward as if it, too, was pondering the question.

If Ravor’s team had just clocked out, then he might have a hope of catching Hari Two-Fingers on her designated work break. Meister Timun activated the office’s vox relay, sent Hari a ping and remembered to mumble a prayer over the cogitator after the fact. Good thing unit Otto wasn’t here to criticise his violation of Omnissian best practice. It wasn’t long before Ravor got an acknowledgement from one of the Hex 4 Freight Hubs.

“Hari to Ravor. Wotcha, guv?”

Timun had to bark out a laugh at that.

“I’ll never be a guv, lass! Listen, what are you up to on St Drusus Day?”

The vox line spat a little fleck of static.

“I’ve got to work, don’t I? Why, love, what’s the tidings?”

“Charity gig for some Dargonian Schola outfit. Some Nob from House Werserian asked me to show up in my groppi mocker. I reckon they want Convocation faces there, since it’s raising dosh for what Lady Cass’d call ‘the lower orders’...” He scoffed. “I’ve a mind not to go, and half a mind to tell ’em I’m not a karking circus animal.”

More scuffling noises emitted from the vox-hailer. Ravor recognised Hari’s familiar finger-shuffle, the kind she did with her unorthodox hand when she was working on a problem.

“Is the Rogue Trader planning to show?”

“No bloody clue.” Hari had made a good point. This looked like quite the fancy ‘do’, and the Werserians were in good standing with the Lord Cap’n. He might enjoy a reunion…

“I reckon you’d better be there, duck. Orphanage fundraising sounds like Nob Danrok - I mean Dargon’s bag, don’t it? We wouldn’t want him taking all the glory for Team Blue.”

Ravor worked his tongue against his lips. He wasn’t thrilled about seeing Janris again after the awkwardness with the Administratum, but at least they wouldn’t be in a slanging match on opposing benches of the Assembly.

“Are you sure you won’t come with me? Be nice to… have a comrade in arms.”

Ravor winced - that was a coward’s way of putting it and he knew he’d just fumbled his request. The slight pause over the line confirmed his suspicions. Bugger.

“Don’t reckon it’s for the likes of me.”

“Come on, Hari! This ain’t about your fingers, is it?” Timun scowled. “I won’t stand for any kind of disrespect against you, you know that.”

What a shit situation! It didn’t seem proper, having a party on behalf of Lower-Hivers where Lower-Hivers couldn’t even feel welcome. Trust the Nobs to spoil everything.

“I really do have to work.” Hari’s voice sounded flat.

“... Right you are then. You go have your break, lass. Ravor out.”

The Meister clicked the vox off, glanced at the cybergargoyle and exhaled through his nose. These were grim times indeed, if he felt like confiding in a bloody servitor.

“At least you don’t have to worry about acting the fool in front of any ladies. No brain, no pain, eh?”

The cybergargoyle twitched but offered no other commentary - unsurprisingly, since it didn’t have much in the way of a mouth. Ravor straightened its cap.

“Keep watch over the plant for me, shipmate.”

Maybe a nice evening jetbike ride would improve his mood.

The days of peace and plenty were behind him, and Ravor could no longer just mount his KHAN Tempest and roar off into the sunset without first checking his promethium supplies. No-one had tried to siphon fuel from the tank on the factory roof today. Good. It was annoying as fuck that he even had to worry about thieves. Ironically, the jetbike was less of a risk. One-off vehicles, especially ones with such complicated controls, were almost impossible to fence. Plus, Ravor happened to personally know most of the potential buyers.

“Come on, gorgeous.”

Meister Timun was happy to go up in his knee-braces, padded pants and his customary old coatee. Gloves and a helmet were a must at this late hour: Ravor’s head protection was a custom job with special ports to access his cranial augmetics. Plugging into the Tempest felt like coming home. It wasn’t anything near the intimidating splendour of interfacing with the Venatrix, but it soothed a sore spot in the old Voidsman’s soul to become one with a feisty machine spirit. A kick, a twist of the wrist and she roared to life, sending man and bike soaring heavenward.

Drusus Basilica looked lovely as always, its gleaming dome rising grandly out of the smog. Timun Ravor spotted the twin plumes of smoke from the Great Crematorium, chuffing away busily as always. A wider, paler cloud of steam emanated from the roof of the new Balneae Dargonis. The bath-house would be busy right now, full of workers scrubbing the soot and sweat off their bodies. It wasn’t a good time to go expecting a relaxing soak, more’s the pity: Ravor couldn’t take three paces in there without being recognised, and he wasn’t used to being accosted by random citizens while he was in his underthings.

The two main Hive Spires almost looked functional from a distance. Spire Indomitus was least affected by the fallout from the Administratum crisis, despite the Administratum offices’ relative proximity to the much older Spire von Valancius. The newer construction sparkled and spangled in the receding sunset, as industrial lumens slowly switched on and the pale star of Mundus Valancius gave way to the comfort of the Motive Force.

It was in the darkness that you saw the poverty of Hex 4 and 5: where neon signs should have shone in the crevices of the Middle and Lower Hives, now Ravor saw only indistinct grey shapes. Throne only knew what it must be like for the poor bastards in the truly sunless regions of the Lightless Zone. Technically the habitable part of the Hive World went down to Hex 9, but no sane census-taker would risk journeying into such a seismically vulnerable hellscape.

Once the numbers gave way to letter codes, most everyone gave up trying to impose the rule of law. Hex D was the planet’s surface, home to the Wasteland Raiders, the great trash-pits and Dargonus’s last remaining section of open water. Maybe there was stuff below that, maybe it was all hopelessly crushed by kilometres of piled-up construction or millennia of history and maybe it was just a toxic geothermal slag-pit.

This was the place where Lord Captain Como von Valancius had decided to try out representative politics. Ravor despaired at the idea of representing all of that bloody mess. He could manage the working districts, maybe, with the Emperor’s providence and a few other minor miracles. They could only catch so many poor bastards in the safety net of citizenship. Everyone else was either a threat, or grist for the manufactorums.

At least Meister Timun could see down into the lightless places. The damn Nobs were trapped in their cage of wilful ignorance. It’d take a man who’d looked down from the Void on high to teach them perspective. Perhaps they wouldn’t learn even then, but someone had to bloody well try.

Might as well be him.

 

____

 

Racing ought not to be such a costly palaver. Technically, all one needed was a cove on a jetbike, somewhere they could go around in circles - jolly good show, job done! Alas for poor Janris Dargon, he was once again wrestling with his age-old nemesis: paperwork.

The profit and expense sheets were no trouble at all. Compared with the intricacies of auditing dynastic accounts, Team Blue’s entire financial portfolio was a doddle for the former High Factotum to manage. Organising a few races would involve a few billable chrons’ worth of calculations, some calls to persons in the know, and he’d be set. The trouble was that Dargonus’s jetbike races needed to be - ipso facto - held on Dargonus. The entire planet was one giant rambling city. That left the Citizen Tribune with incredibly limited options for racecourse planning.

One could always race at sea level - or what had once been sea level, before the Hive World began erecting spires everywhere and draining their own resources dry. But - ugh - descending all the way to Hex D required safety waivers galore. Janris would have to ratify treaties with the Wasteland Raiders and get their permission to pilot vehicles in their territory, which invariably meant answering some local warlord's tournament challenge. Worst of all, it was nigh-on impossible to film the action at ground level. Too much stray radiation, that’s what the Tech-Priests had told Janris at any rate… pict-cameras tended to either malfunction or get picked off and scavenged by the local mutants.

The alternative was to go high rather than low. Racers could weave between the chimneys of the manufactorums and the spiretop palaces of the Noble Houses. Citizens could watch everything from below, tune into the race on private vox-casters or stop in at one of the Middle Hive’s many betting places. And oh, were those betting houses full on race day! Food shortages and rising commodity prices had not deterred the locals from having a flutter. In fact, the scarcity only seemed to make them more eager for a lucky break. Janris marvelled at such poor logic. He supposed he could hardly expect better from the common rabble.

The trouble was that when a jetbike crashed in the upper reaches of the Hives, people not only took notice but demanded compensation for the damage. Team Blue therefore spent much of its days arranging liability insurance and filling out Administratum permits. The alternative was to revert to the miserable old days of arranging low-budget races in the dingy Lower Hives with the attendant smog and sleaze. Janris was having none of that! The Dargonian national sport was going to be jetbikes, damn it, and he would see it elevated to its proper standing. Anything less would be a disgrace to the planet’s original horse-loving settlers. A race ought to be a thing of beauty.

The contact of an electoo set off Master Dargon’s apartment door chime and broke the politician out of his equine reverie. His personal assistant must be finished with his errands.

“Good evening, Tribune!”

The familiar sound of boots being exchanged for house slippers and the rustle of heavy plastic signalled that Caspar Milquetoast had encountered inclement weather on the way up the spire.

“Thank you for inconveniencing yourself on my account, Caspar old chap. How fares the search for groceries?”

“One manages, Master Dargon, provided one has either time or Thrones to spare.” Janris paid Caspar the Thrones to make the time, as it were. The assistant’s limp little tonsure was even stragglier than usual thanks to its soaking. “We have tanna, alfajores, synth-milk and I managed to secure those chestnut-paste candies you liked last month.”

Janris clapped his accounting book shut with a satisfied sigh.

“Splendid fellow! Be sure to put a little something for yourself against the petty cash line. I’ve budgeted for it, never fear.”

“Also, your correspondence arrived. I took the liberty of screening it for objectionable content… Notable messages include a thank-you note from the Hex 4-C orphanage complex and an invitation from House Werserian.”

Hmm, no update from the esteemed Rogue Trader on the broader situation with the Squats or the Adeptus Administratum fiasco. Janris hoped that didn’t bode ill. At least Madam Cera had got her replacement servitors and the cargo was finally moving again. The real trouble was restoring market confidence. A logistical knock could really startle potential investors and stifle commerce. All the Noble Houses continued to hoard goods and cut back on their spending, which hurt the lower orders in turn. Janris beckoned Caspar over with one thick-fingered hand and collected the Werserian invitation.

“Look, it’s from Lady Astartia! I daresay this will be her first time organising a grand soiree. This ought to be entertaining, if only to see what colours she chooses for the drapery.” Janris winced at the thought.

“Would ser like assistance in procuring a companion for the event?”

“Oh goodness no.” Janris was embarrassed to even think of it. “It’s a fundraiser, you see, for the little ones. I couldn’t miss it, but… one oughtn’t to disport oneself at a charitable event with any old creature on one’s arm. No, dear Caspar, let me handle this affair. Also, old chap - for the thousandth time, I am not a ‘ser’.”

His assistant nodded politely. “But of course, Tribune. Shall I be going?”

“Oh, make use of the vestibule first and stay for a cup of tanna if you like. It’s wet out of doors, isn’t it? Can’t have you catching your death, man!”

“I’ll do that, then. You’re most kind.”

A foolish idea began to germinate in Janris’s mind as he watched Caspar shamble off in search of warm towels and a hair dryer. Any old skirt clearly would not do as a companion for such an occasion… but what about, say, a generous benefactor and a known patron of the Hive City’s orphaned children? It certainly would not hurt to invite such a person, especially if they were well-proportioned and charming to boot. Yes, the Tribune decided that perhaps he could be just a little daring this once.

Janris was in a dressing-gown and a rather bedraggled tunic at present, which was hardly appropriate attire for a pict-call. A vox chat ought to do the trick. He got up from his desk - by the Throne, his lower back did not enjoy taking his weight after sitting over those ledgers for so long! - and meandered over to a compact personal comms array set into the far wall of his office. That was the wonderful thing about apartment living, everything was so efficient and neat! He liked it far better than knocking around in a dusty old ancestral hall.

The array was powerful enough to manage in-system calls, although it took a while for its governing cogitator to process Janris’s request. A ping to Efreet secundus was a little outside its usual remit. The Citizen Tribune tapped the interface impatiently. Drat you, I have the Thrones to pay for the potentia and the cogitational cycles, you silly machine! Eventually his hail went through. Perhaps Janris ought to have secured himself a snack while he waited for the call to connect - ah!

“May the Exalted One bless your trades, esteemed dammar!” Shadow Baroness Jae Heydari’s voice sounded somewhat indistinct, but that was to be expected when calling off-planet. She sounded relaxed and mildly amused.

“I sincerely appreciate the sentiment and return it in kind, Baroness Heydari. I would wish you silent vox, too, but I am in fact delighted to receive you loud and clear!”

Janris heard Jae’s distant, melodious laughter. That boded rather well. He proceeded with his venture.

“I have heard word of a charity event taking place in Spire Indomitus - for the Schola Progenium and orphanage relief efforts. Upon receiving an invitation, I immediately wondered if the evening might be brightened by your presence.”

“Damet garm, shereen, you are too kind! When is this event?”

“Saint Drusus Day.” Janris felt his back pain fade away and a happy warm glow take its place. “If your gracious self would care to-”

“Ah khak bar saram, I must regretfully decline.” The vox-line crackled: Janris wondered if Baroness Heydari’s voluminous hair had brushed against her vox-bead, or if she had put her hand up against the device for a moment. “It is… a matter of religious observance. I truly appreciate the thought, however.”

The former High Factotum allowed himself a rueful chuckle.

“This humble servant of the Dargonian people knows better than to pit himself against the needs of our radiant Prioress. Do not worry, Baroness. Let’s meet some other time, perhaps, if you’ve a hankering for business talk.”

“You are most understanding, shereen.”

Janris uncoupled the vox array’s connectors, set his microphone and ear-bead down and stared into the blank, dark green square of the pict-display. The reflection that greeted him was a little older than he remembered. His face still bore the jowly traits of his estranged family line - its features, Janris fancied, had become a touch more dignified thanks to the passage of years and the absence of courtly fripperies. By the Throne, he did not miss having to wear periwigs! A step down in rank had brought him no closer to Jae Heydari’s bedchamber. It would seem, however, that he had earned a measure of the Cold Trader’s respect. Janris was surprised by the extent to which that thought consoled him.

Alas, now he would need to return to the intricacies of race-related broadcast permits. Tanna first, work second: Janris resolved that he would beat Caspar to the samovar this time. That chap would never address him like a fellow citizen if the Tribune kept treating him like a valet!

Chapter 69: Chapter Sixty Nine

Summary:

What is bugging the Seneschal?

The God-Emperor’s providence worked in entertaining ways sometimes. Foulstone had never enjoyed an easy climate - the pilgrim ships brought food on a seasonal basis, but its year-round inhabitants had to scratch out a living from dry, undernourished soil. Hoppers were a problem. In an especially arid year, they would transform into locusts and swarm, devouring clothing, leather, even soft plastics in their quest for sustenance. How fitting it was, then, that the hoppers were delicious when cooked. One year they ate the serfs out of house and home and the next - the bugs were on the menu.

Olivar wasn’t able to glean the whole story from his chapuline vendor. The hopper-seller’s Low Gothic was heavily accented, full of colourful vernacular and punctuated with what sounded like chirping - Oli wasn’t sure if the sound was supposed to imitate a local songbird or the tones of binharic cant. The seller also had a particoloured hood on - it wasn’t dagged with the white cog-pattern of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but its shape reminded the psyker of a Logis’s raiments.

It was Seneschal Sauerback who furnished Oli with a good mental picture of a locust. The roasted creatures on his skewers were no longer than the width of the psyker’s palm, and made convenient bite-sized snacks. Jocasta remembered the mutated, more vicious version - black and armoured like an insectile Drukhari, nearly as long as the Seneschal’s forearm with big angry-looking pincers. Olivar wondered if her paranoia had made the hoppers seem more fierce in her memory, but she didn’t seem like the type to indulge in hallucinations.

“Mistress please take, is - is gift. Please, you take.”

Flag Lieutenant Sauerback scowled at the hopper-seller. He quailed - and he would have grovelled if he possessed Olivar’s power of mind-sight. The Seneschal was thinking about punching the man’s face into a bloody concavity.

“You’re trying to bribe a representative of the von Valancius dynasty.”

“No! No is bribe, is -” The vendor let out a little chirp and shot Olivar a panicked look. The man’s knees were trembling.

“Wow, he can’t win either way with you, can he, Seneschal?” Oli passed the hopper-seller a newly-minted Throne that bore the von Valancius crest on one side and the Aquila on the other. “Emperor’s blessings, friend. You have a nice night.”

The vendor handed the extra skewers to Olivar, who waggled one in front of Jocasta’s face.

“Do eat, Madame. You’re thirsty and hungry.”

The Seneschal had decided to visit Foulstone in her Navis Imperialis uniform, breastplate and all. She must be starting to roast in that armour. Jocasta grumbled, but she took the skewer: after examining it as suspiciously as she regarded everything else, the Flag Lieutenant took a big bite. Chapulines were fatty and tasty once you got past the sight of roasted insect legs. Olivar dipped the back end of a hopper in some citrus-flavoured sauce, crunched his way through its roasted chitin exterior and enjoyed the little spicy kick that accompanied its nut-like flavour.

“You didn’t need to escort me all the way to the Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium, not that I mind having the protection. Why’d you do it, Seneschal? Keeping an eye on the new recruit?”

“If your little witch friends were not too feeble for this planet’s dry air, I would have sent them to tag along instead. You are under the Rogue Trader’s protection and I, at least, take that duty seriously. Find your own escort next time if my presence aggrieves you.”

Seneschal Sauerback did not appear to be lying, but she had also transferred her violent fantasies over to Olivar’s person. He didn’t enjoy the mental imagery of being punted along the street like a Blood-Bowl bladder, although at least he was unlikely to experience such punishment in real life. Oli searched in vain for a delicate way to address the situation.

“I don’t dislike taking a promenade with a Noble. We’re both far from Dargonus, admittedly for rather different reasons. I hope we can find common ground and work together for the dynasty’s benefit.”

Jocasta finished crunching and swallowing another chapuline, fixing Olivar with an appraising gaze as she did so.

“You really do sound like Janris at times, witch. I’m guessing you’ve divined my little habit. Imagining violence helps me stay in control of my actions - if you play the impulse out in your head first, you can choose whether or not to act on your thoughts. Don’t take it personally, witch, I hate everyone more or less the same.” The Seneschal swirled an insect leg in her little tub of sauce. “Except for the Lord Captain of course.”

“You like them?” Jocasta nodded, but didn’t glance at Oli. There was a shade of… something in the back of her mind that intrigued the psyker.

“Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I am glad you don’t assume that I would make myself an addled slave to duty for duty’s sake. My predecessor was honourable but his mind… could have been sharper in that respect.” Jocasta munched pensively. “I like to be honest, so I may as well say it: I didn’t think much of the Lord Captain until they promoted me. Always thought they were too soft-hearted to be the Emperor’s true Chosen. Once I saw them in the field, I realised how wrong I’d been. Now I consider it a privilege to wade into battle at the Lord Captain’s side.”

She sounded more like an Arch-Militant than a Seneschal. Olivar used a hopper leg to mop up a chunk of sauce from the bottom of his tub. The little red flakes must be chili: they tingled pleasantly against his palate.

“You’re thinking about Warp incursions right now.” Jocasta seemed unbothered by Oli’s observation, so he continued. “Having seen Bloodletters and berserk cultists run amok on the flagship, how do you interpret your own taste for violence?”

The Seneschal wasn’t one for expressive gestures: she twiddled an impaled insect instead of letting her amusement show.

“You’re a brave witch, I’ll give you credit for that. Most of the crew just bitch about me behind my back, calling me a bloodthirsty sadist. They’re right. I am.” She bit down hard on her roasted bug.

“I also hate causing disorder far more than I enjoy inflicting pain. The Rogue Trader gets the luxury of acting like a benevolent saviour because bitches like me do the necessary, brutal work for them. It’s about making hard calls and keeping the dynasty in good standing. If one of those daemons tries to get in my head, I’ll shove my power maul up their arse and tell them to get stuffed. I love the Emperor and I love my job.”

The Flag Lieutenant broadcast a mental image of a big, bold Aquila. Olivar sensed its context: he hadn’t personally visited House Sauerback’s palace since he was little, but this particular Aquila was emblazoned over their main gate. The vision was unusually nostalgic for the Seneschal - most of her thoughts involved imagined conspiracies, brutality, or ways she could intimidate the little people of the Koronus Expanse.

“Aren’t you worried about making enemies among the common citizens?”

Jocasta tossed her empty skewer away.

“Why in the Emperor’s name would I be concerned about them? It’s just some scum.”

Oli shrugged. “It only takes one twist of fortune for a Noble to become an outcast.”

“You would know about that.”

There wasn’t any particular disdain in the Seneschal’s tone, although she did briefly ponder old memories of unsanctioned psykers burning in Dargonian bonfires. Good old House Sauerback did not hold back with their public shows of faith.

“Hm. If it happens, it happens. I won’t second-guess my choices. Order is order, and someone has to be brave enough to enforce it.”

“Spoken like a true Noble, Seneschal.” Oli bobbed a small reverence in her direction.

The moment was only slightly undermined when Jocasta Sauerback imagined giving Olivar a swift kick up the backside.

Chapter 70: Chapter Seventy

Summary:

Meeting the Praetor-Electroid.

Rain was seldom seen, but lightning often flashed and flared above the Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium. When Nature did not bestow her electrostatic gifts on the temple’s lightning rods, the Electro-Priests generated the divine spark themselves.

A massive crevasse split the plateau of St Cognatius, neat as the blow of an axe. Praetor-Electroid Dahr-Impulse II had chosen the base of the gigantic cleft as the new resting place of Rykad minoris’s Miraculous Fusion Reactor. Protected by the earth itself, the Electro-Priests hoped that it would never again be assaulted by unbelievers. It was along the bottom of this majestic ravine that Olivar the Diviner now walked, barefoot and still shaking Foulstone’s dust and ash from his robes.

Gigantic prongs of electrified steel extended all the way up the crevasse, guiding leaping, spitting arcs of the Motive Force skyward in an endless blazing cascade. Believers scuttled here and there below the arrays: the majority were Electro-Priests but Olivar spotted a few servitors and other sacred engines. Pilgrims would only be admitted under a tightly-policed set of preconditions. Jocasta Sauerback was loitering grumpily near the entrance: Oli could only hope that she’d found a spot to rest in the shade. The canyon never saw direct sunlight. The floor under Olivar’s feet was sterile and cold. Even the air, tinged with ozone, felt artificial.

Whenever an Electro-Priest walked along the pilgrims’ passage, Oli took care to be polite and give them space. He did not try to be subtle about his movements - his relatively unaugmented body envelope might confuse their senses, and he didn’t want to cause a diplomatic incident by bumping into someone. These Tech-Priests were impressively muscular believers, especially by the standards of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Their bare, electoo-adorned arms reminded Olivar of Magos Errant Asclepius’s mighty chrome-clad thews - but the Electro-Priests seemed unwilling to replace their organic limbs with ones made entirely of metal. Something about the action of potentia against flesh must have inspired them to prefer the electoos. Was Lord Captain Como of a similar mind?

Another important detail stood out. Each one of the Electro-Priests was blind, at least by normal human standards. They all had cloth-bound hollows where eyeballs should have nestled in bony sockets. Olivar had heard that their initiation rites harnessed so much Motive Force that its currents liquified the organs, although he suspected a less scientific influence was at play. The Electro-Priests resembled Astropaths in certain important respects: they made up for a lack of eyes by being able to see the noosphere with perfect clarity. After what Oli had experienced in Choirmaster Weisz’s company, he felt sure that the Emperor - or the Omnissiah, as these priests called him - had a hand in such a transformation.

The Telepath’s Warp-endowed special sight was the only reason he had been able to request an audience with the Praetor-Electroid. Dahr-Impulse was reportedly curious to examine him. Olivar was uncomfortable at the prospect of being treated like a scientific curiosity by an impossibly ancient mummified monk, but he would bear the inconvenience. He needed to understand the different facets of Omnissian faith in the Koronus Expanse, and Oli wanted to form his own judgement rather than rely on Lord Captain Como’s biased account. This was his one chance to make a positive impression.

Olivar’s promenade had brought him to an odd little chamber: it popped out of the ground where the crevasse finally closed at its landward end, like the little end of a soft-boiled egg sitting in its cup. Unlike the eggs of Oli’s childhood memories, this one had a shell of dark grey burnished metal. The parabola of its exterior was dotted with nodules that connected to myriad unidentified hoses and tubes. What was this chamber? Some kind of Faraday cage? It wasn’t small enough to be a ‘pod’, nor was it large enough to be properly called a parlour. Oli braced himself, approached what appeared to be the visitors’ entrance and tried not to jump out of his skin when the doorway hissed open. A pleasantly astringent-smelling cloud of sacred incense billowed around Olivar’s ankles as he stepped inside.

It had to be some sort of clean-room. If Olivar were an incredibly old and frail Tech-Priest, he supposed that he, too, would be worried about guests bringing dirt and germs into his home. There was a person inside the chamber, getting dressed with their back to him. Olivar spotted the smooth outline of a bald head. An egg within an egg: the thought made him smile. This person was the wrong shape to be an Electro-Priest, not nearly muscular enough, and they were halfway through wrestling their way back into an armoured bodysuit. Oli politely cleared his throat.

“The Emperor protects. Shall I step out for a bit, or-”

The mystery guest looked over their shoulder at him and in a flash of telepathic connection, all was suddenly comfortable.

“Yvette! By the Saints, it’s great to see you!”

Oli stumbled forward through the incense, intending to wrap his fellow psyker in an enthusiastic bear-hug. He recalibrated his embrace at the last second when he sensed Yvette’s mild aversion and picked up her mental image: she had just received fresh electoos all down her arms, and was feeling a little delicate. Olivar made sure to clasp the Electromancer around her ribcage and shoulderblades so that he wouldn’t hurt her.

She still bore those pale, branching scars all down her back - like the twisted limbs of a tree, or the fiery tributaries of forked lightning. Oli could feel their faint texture under his palms. The psykers’ contact was friendly rather than sensual, despite her bare skin. The love of Yvette’s life was no being of flesh and bone, but the Motive Force itself. It made perfect sense for her to be visiting this temple.

“Oli, you’re okay!”

Yvette’s arms were still shaking from the electoo implanting process. Getting that much liquid crystal injected under her skin all at once must have been a trial. Olivar’s pomaded curls trembled where the Electromancer clutched at the back of his head, just above the sockets where his new dataports were still settling in. She wasn’t the only one getting used to new augmetics - or an absence of hair in certain areas.

“Praise the God-Emperor, we were so afraid when the Drill Abbotts took you three away. Are An and Leena-”

“They’re well, Yvette.”

“Oh thank Throne.”

The Electromancer sagged with relief and let some of her body weight press down onto Oli’s shoulders. It was strange - aside from the odd bout of rough-housing, Olivar had never got the sense that Yvette felt much kinship with the Trouble Trio. His special senses ought to have discovered any hints of hidden sentiment. Perhaps distance had made his classmate’s heart grow fonder.

Yvette disengaged from the hug and began what looked like an uncomfortable process of inserting her arms into the sleeves of her bodyglove. Oli took hold of the garment’s shoulders and helped her find the arm-holes. The Electromancer winced a bit as the armoured neoprene dragged against her tender skin. Despite that, she seemed excited.

“I got permission to pick a Star-name from the priests here.” Yvette’s mind shone with thoughts of electric cascades and lightning bolts. Her new name had to be something to do with potentia. “Can you guess what it is, O great Diviner?”

Ah, there was the familiar teasing tone that Oli was used to. Yvette was giving him plenty of images and names, but nothing stood out among them. They’d done mental training at the Scholastica Psykana, so Yvette had a good idea of Olivar’s limits. Her best defence was to overload him with stimulus. She also tried the old trick of zipping herself into her bodysuit with her cleavage facing towards Oli, but the trauma of bare Aeldari tits had immunised the Telepath against that sort of distraction. He picked one of the names in Yvette’s mind at random.

“Um… Teszla?”

The Electromancer’s tinkling laugh gave Olivar a twinge of nostalgia. He was glad she’d come through Sanctioning more or less unscathed… although alas, her pretty yellow hair hadn’t survived the process. A common side effect, and one of the less troublesome ones. They could have both fared worse.

“No, you silly! I’m going to be named after Saint Joule.” Her choice made perfect sense.

“That’s wonderful.” Oli wondered if he’d ever have the courage to pick a new second name for himself. He was still too attached to ‘Danrok’, at least for now. “So, you’re with the Holy Inquisition.”

It was an informed guess, nothing more, but Olivar’s experience at faking Diviner powers had taught him many things. If he presented a question like a statement, he was more likely to draw out an interesting response. Even if he was wrong, Yvette would feel compelled to correct him and reveal something in the process.

“Fuck, fuck. Stupid mind!”

Yvette balled her left fist and thumped the synskin-clad surface of her left thigh. A brief crackle of potentia dissipated across her leg. The Electromancer had always had a temper problem. She shook her fist out until the fingers loosened, then grabbed a bundle of loose fabric from a little shelf that was set into the chamber’s curved wall.

“Ah, whatever. You’d have seen the uniform sooner or later I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think you’re supposed to be a secret. Not one that Lord van Calox has kept from the Rogue Trader, at least.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing? Working for the von Valancius dynasty?”

“I’m Lord Captain Como’s new pet Diviner, yeah.” Olivar paused for a second, but his empathy won out over his better judgement. “Talk to the dressing-gown guy about learning Resiliance techniques. He’s an Astropath, right? He can help you with your mental walls.”

Yvette finished hauling her robes over her head, jutted her chin up and squinted at him. The bald crown of her head would take some getting used to.

“Awfully nice of you to make your own job harder. Why are you helping me?”

“Because I hope we get to meet again soon. And… witches should help each other out a bit, don’t you think?”

“Cute. In that case, I’ll see you round the Protectorate.”

Yvette retreated through the exit door, stepping silently on her bare feet. It closed behind her with a slurping sound of rubber seals and the click of a metal latch.

So, Heinrix van Calox had already recruited replacements for the Trouble Trio. Olivar wondered who the other two would be. Surely Maynard had been snapped up - the Leiran-born pyromancer had the best control and accuracy of his cohort, and fire was good against heretics of all kinds. As for replacement number three… shit, it could be anyone. If Oli saw Yvette again, he felt sure he could weasel some more information out of her. He grimaced. He didn’t like the direction his mind had just taken.

Maybe his conscience would feel a little cleaner once he’d fumigated himself. Oli knew how to read High Gothic, although that only went part-way towards elucidating the instructions printed on the chamber walls. The laminated sheet was half-obscured by steam and incense smoke, and the light was very poor here now that the door had closed. It wasn’t often that Olivar got to experience a space designed by blind people. He felt more out of place here than he had in the Aeldari compound on the Lilaethan. At least he could copy what Yvette had done and put the steps in reverse.

His outer garments were supposed to go up on that little shelf - now that his eyes were getting accustomed to the terrible lighting, Oli saw that he could swing a hatch down to close it. His own sartorial arrangements didn’t include body armour, an oversight he thought he might correct the next time he went planet-side. Olivar got his mantle and wimple off, shook the worst of the grit out of their loose linen folds and stashed them away. He’d dressed like the locals, in a knee-length brownish tunic with a T-shaped neckline that had side slits for access to pockets or weapons, and baggy tan-coloured pants with a drawstring waist. Such pilgrim’s garments were easy to doff, bundle up and tuck in their alcove.

As far as Olivar could determine, once he closed that hatch he ought to get a fresh dose of cleansing smoke. He already felt terribly exposed, and he was not about to give up his breeches for the sake of hygiene. Hopefully that would be fine. Oli took a breath, closed the compartment and waited to see what would happen.

Various devices clicked and whirred, and a small strip of pin-lumens lit up in a bluish cascade at floor-level. This seemed promising. A pleasantly warm draft of air began to circulate around Olivar’s head and upper body. He could smell menthol - the odour built until his eyes and nose began to water a little. The lower half of his body was already beginning to disappear in a great billowing cloud of chem-infused incense. Oli dipped into it with his hands and gathered up an armful of smoke. He pretended that it was bathwater, and that he was at the Balneae Dargonis doing his ablutions. Olivar did his best to transfer more handfuls of smoke up under his armpits, across his chest and across the nape of his neck.

Very fine spray nozzles emerged from the chamber’s curved walls and began to mist him with a clear alcoholic decoction. It lingered only briefly on his skin before it began to evaporate: Olivar hastened to get as much of the mist as possible onto his arms and hands, hoping that he could get them properly clean. The mentholated air stream started up again just as he was beginning to feel dizzy from the alcohol fumes.

A melodic biharic chime sounded, and the floor lumens stopped pulsing. The fumigation process appeared to be complete. A different hatch clicked open and revealed a compartment on the far side of the egg-like room, next to a second small door. Olivar examined its contents. The Electro-Priests had lent him one of their devotional kilts. Its fabric was a strange blend of textures, both leathery and plastic-like. The kilt’s pleated blood-red shape seemed too wide for Oli at first, but the belt ended up wrapping snugly around his waist. A flatter, apron-like section appeared designed to overlap in front - at least, Olivar hoped he’d put the thing on correctly. The psyker was glad there were no mirrors in the chamber. He resembled a rice-cake in a paper wrapper: the kilt’s dark waistband intersected his pale tummy with a starkness that drew far too much attention to his soft body.

Olivar opened the far door and stepped out into brightness. He squinted against the pulsating blue light that invaded his vision. Enormous ribbed pillars flanked the walls of the hall. They resembled the glowing cores of plasma rifles, scaled up to cyclopean proportions. Oli imagined that they would be every bit as deadly to touch.

There were many Electro-Priests here, wearing more gear than their Tech-siblings outside - although regardless of body conformation, none of them wore shirts over their electoos. The psyker had never seen their full ornamentation up close. The more senior worshippers wore sideways-mounted potentia coils fitted against their thoracic spine, mounted to the belt of their kilt in an arrangement that made them look like enormous snails. Some of them wore odd-looking cuffs: the metal did not make contact with their rubber-gloved hands but was instead held in place by special mechadendrites that moved with the Electro-Priest’s arms as they walked. Others bore more conventional-looking Omnissian axes or long polearms that looked like shock-prods. Every worshipper in this part of the temple wore boots with thick rubber soles. Oli’s bare feet felt especially delicate against the cold, pale floor.

Two Tech-Priests stepped up to greet him: one knelt in front of him without any preamble, and set a pair of rubber-lined clogs down. Thank the Throne for that! The last thing Olivar needed was to accidentally become a conductor for the Motive Force. He stepped into his new shoes and murmured his gratitude while making what he hoped was a proper Cog-sign. The other Tech-Priest anointed Oli with something pale and cool which he suspected was heat-sink paste: a dab between his shoulder blades, another dab on the crest of each of his shoulders, a little streak at the very top of his sternum. A thought occurred to Olivar as the Electro-Priest pressed a cool, gloved finger against the psyker’s brow.

“I ought to cover my hair, honoured Tech-Priests…”

The worshippers glanced at each other with sightless, paper-bound eye sockets. They exchanged a brief discourse in binharic cant. It was as Oli had suspected: with no eyes to see his organic parts, and not a follicle to spare between the whole lot of them, the Electro-Priests had not considered this aspect of visitor hygiene. One of them departed through what looked like a perilously small gap between the great potentia columns, then returned holding a roll of pale, plain cloth. Olivar offered his thanks for the courtesy, and made sure to wrap his hair up nicely for the Praetor-Electroid.

There was something oddly peaceful about the minds of these Electro-Priests. They all thought in complementary, overlapping mantras: now and then a more personal thought would surface in a worshipper’s mind, revealing their humanity, but the Tech-Priests let such temporary concerns waft away on a wave of the Omnissiah’s blessed current. Olivar found himself happily drifting along with the flow of their worship. If only Astropaths could remain like this, united in blessed communion instead of having to battle the Immaterium. It wouldn’t be such a burden to lose your eyes in order to know such deep peace and companionship.

Under the rippling, circuitous currents of the worshippers’ prayers, Oli began to feel a deeper, pulsing tide. Was this the presence of the Praetor-Electroid, or was he perceiving the machine spirit of the Miraculous Fusion Reactor? The Telepath wasn’t sure. The imagery that came to him was more like a mathematical expression or an architect’s diagram than a simple dream. Its nature was repetitive but not perfectly cyclical, as if something was in phase on an alien timescale that his mind lacked the ability to fully perceive.

The mental signal here was strong, but too simple for Oli to call it truly sentient. The image this consciousness supplied was hard to translate, but Olivar approximated it with Father Asuryan’s symbol: contrasts chasing each other in an infinite loop, each holding the tiniest spark of the opposite polarity. Maybe it was something to do with magnets. Anguilla could probably have supplied some tedious explanation, but she wasn’t here.

Olivar’s double escort of Electro-Priests led the way with slow, clomping steps. The psyker was clearly passing through a monastery. He didn’t recognise the meaning behind the complex circuit diagrams that the locals had daubed onto plaster frescoes between the glowing pillars and bundles of massed cables. Rock faces had been carved and polished to a textured sheen - their panels broke up the interchangeable masses of metal and glowing blue lumens and gave the place a much-needed human touch. Oli noted a salient detail: every plasterwork decoration and every ornament was covered in deep ridges, bumps and whorls. The Tech-Priests could feel the contours of their own artistry even if they had no eyes to appreciate its colours.

Stairs processed up a wide tunnel that the Omnissians had drilled right into the rock. Oli’s escort flanked the bottom of the stairs and stood at attention. It seemed he was meant to ascend, so Olivar farewelled them with a quick reverence to his left and right. The passage ahead of him was moist and dimly lit, but the stairs were precise and had excellent traction. Instead of a hand-rail, waist-high brackets held skeins of well-insulated potentia cables. They must be how the Tech-Priests supplied the upper rooms with the Motive Force.

The buzz and auditory fizz of immense potentia coils wasn’t the only hum in the soundscape. It took Olivar a long time to even register the noise over all the mechanical interference: no doubt Leena would have laughed at his feeble human senses. Only when he got to the top of the staircase and the passage opened up did Oli comprehend its origin. He stood in a round room, its floor and ceiling flattened and its walls curving outward. Instead of artworks or cogitators, the outer walls were lined with clear plastic panelling that sat slightly out from the bare rock face. The narrow air gap was filled almost entirely with a massive, bustling beehive. The insects’ thrumming dance perfectly complemented the noise of the machinery in the room’s centre, which operated the life support systems for a regal-looking tabernacle.

Praetor-Electroid Dahr-Impulse II lay on an inclined marble slab, embalmed and surrounded by arcane instruments and devices. His followers had fitted the tabernacle with vox-arrays and readout screens. Olivar was astonished to see that among the many feeder tubes and potentia cables extending into the ceiling, there were pipes of clear flexible plastic along which bees trundled, passing within the Praetor-Electroid’s limited field of vision as they went about their duties. Was beekeeping a hobby for the ancient Tech-Priest?

“You have arrived at a moment of Discontinuation - or of schism.”

Vox-speakers crackled as the Motive Voice stirred them to life; Dahr-Impulse’s synthetic voice was a sibilant wisp of silver until the room’s acoustics caught it and lent it a deeper reverberance. Olivar made the sign of the Cog. He couldn’t bear to speak just yet. The Praetor-Electroid’s mind was a layered cascade of moving fragments, like the discs of a kaleidoscope. The Telepath’s attempts to zoom out and simplify the pattern, as he’d done to cope with Farseer Eklendyl’s presence, only resulted in a headache-inducing fractal paradox.

Olivar thought about how Leena had caught blowflies when she got bored in class, not with speed but with patience. The flies never saw her descending hand, because they registered it as a stationary object. Dahr-Impulse experienced emotions on such a slow timescale that they barely left a psychic imprint - but the few traces Olivar could detect invoked the strength of adamantium and the lambent destructive force of hot plasma. What would happen to Oli if the Praetor-Electroid’s implacable intellect closed over him? The psyker had better not offend this fusion of man and machine.

“The bees are too many, and the hive prepares to split.” A string of green sigils scrolled up one of the vid-screens and disappeared before Oli could make out their meaning. “A new swarm will leave, upgrade a unit to the status of Queen and continue the cycle of productivity. I wish the little Explorators well.”

Olivar felt a little calmer wherever he averted his gaze from the mummified Tech-Priest and looked at the insects. He did his best not to let his voice crack when he spoke: the results weren’t as manly as he’d hoped, but they weren’t a quavering treble either.

“You see parallels between the hive and the Adeptus Mechanicus.”

A rhythmically-accented flutter of modal binharic chimes sent a tingle down Oli’s spine. He’d never heard a Tech-Priest speak in such a way: usually they communicated in harmonic undertones, distorted screeches or flashes of Gaussian fuzz. Dahr-Impulse II radiated serenity. His version of faith resembled the golden Sanctic invocations that Olivar had learned, but its colours were all silver and steel.

“This statement is partially true. All organised systems predicated upon a basis of informational exchange may learn something from observing the bees.”

“Has the Omnissiah blessed the bees?”

“Are the bees the meaning or the message, unit Olivar? A single bee is not blessed with comprehension: she knows only chem-signals and the worker’s dance. Consider your questions well before you seek answers from this old man.”

He’d called himself a ‘man’ and not a ‘unit’ - for a desiccated assemblage of jerky-like flesh, brittle bones and steel mechanisms, the Praetor-Electroid was certainly insistent about his humanity. If questions made the Tech-Priest cagey, then Oli might as well share observations and try to draw him into a conversation that way.

“I perceived a powerful machine intelligence on my pilgrimage to see you. That mind, and your mind… I’ve never seen anything quite like them. The machine spirit of the Venatrix is strong too, but very different.”

“Requesting informational exchange. We would be interested to hear the impressions granted to you by your Warp-sight.”

Olivar got the distinct feeling that ‘we’ encompassed more than simply the Praetor-Electroid. He did his best to convey the visual signals and hunches that he had experienced within the Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium, as well as his reflections on communing with the dynasty’s ancient flagship. Oli took care not to give any personal information away: he wanted to protect not just Lord Captain Como, but Choirmaster Weisz and Farseer Eklendyl, not to mention his own secrets! Fortunately the Praetor-Electroid didn’t probe too hard with his clarifying queries, and seemed content with the occasional polite deflection.

Dahr-Impulse deployed various auspices and a vox-recorder to capture Olivar’s conversation. Some of the cables around the Praetor-Electroid’s tabernacle twitched and stirred in ways that made Oli’s stomach churn. They weren’t mechadendrites… regular potentia cables shouldn’t be able to move like that. Could Dahr-Impulse use his own flavour of telekinesis? At length, the mummified Tech-Priest’s vox-speakers stirred to life once more.

“You have discerned well, and answered my queries patiently. I shall reward you with knowledge, unit Olivar. Many of my own believers consider the Miraculous Fusion Reactor and this mortal husk to be a sacred dyad. They are incorrect. The Reactor herself is the Queen of this electric hive. We Electro-Priests congregate around her for the purpose of her maintenance and the dissemination of her blessed energy.”

Olivar felt a little sweat under his bare armpits and between his shoulder blades, but he needed to ask the question that burned in the back of his mind.

“Is the Miraculous Fusion Reactor intelligent?”

The vox-speakers chugged with something that might be construed as mirth.

“She is a very large and complicated explosion containment system, unit Olivar. She is no more intelligent than any star in the void.”

Oli sincerely hoped that stars were not intelligent. He’d heard about what the Squats and the xenos could do to a star, and he’d rather think of that as mining and not torture. Dahr-Impulse continued, equanimous as ever.

“We are all cogs in the great mechanism of life. I can be replaced, just as I once replaced my august predecessor. Even the Queen herself could theoretically be replaced, and the circuit would still function. Only knowledge itself - and its transmission - is irreplaceable.”

“You keep thinking about schisms, honoured Praetor-Electroid.”

Olivar was becoming frustrated by the images that Dahr-Impulse kept broadcasting. They were odd, stale things, presented without a single shade of contextual emotion. For such an open mind, the Tech-Priest was difficult to read.

“This statement is true. Nor do I refer only to the Civil War of Discontinuation that flares across the Koronus Expanse. Time, iteration and interpretation have introduced many variations to the Omnissiah’s blessed wisdom. Some are obviously false, while others contain a germ of sincerity and validity. You wish to assess Kiava Gamma’s nature, do you not?”

Olivar swallowed heavily: his throat felt suddenly coarse. “I do. The planet’s history of Chaos corruption worries me. I also don’t know why the Squats are so interested in it.”

“Heretek is insidious. The Ruinous Powers constitute an existential threat. We have seen such forces first-hand, and we will never underestimate their danger.”

Olivar gritted his teeth as the Praetor-Electroid broadcast a vision that was for once unambiguously stained with raw emotion. Rykad minoris had been Dahr-Impulse’s home for many centuries before it fell to the Ruinous Powers. The Telepath felt the old Tech-Priest’s grief like an electric shock. Even watching the memories second-hand made Oli tremble with fear. A Daemon World… What a horror it was to know that such a thing could exist.

“A hive will not tolerate two Queens for long. One Queen always prevails over the other. Null Caliph has driven out the old corruption from Kiava Gamma. As long as the blessed machine spirit prevails, the planet will be stable.”

“That’s a relief to hear.”

“As for our distant Kin… They are a distressing variable. Much of their operational parameters remain a mystery to this old unit. They interpret the Omnissiah’s teachings differently, calling Him the Golden Ancestor: but they appear to respect and revere technology. Unit Como-314 speaks well of them, and thus I am prepared to tolerate them as part of the Omnissiah’s greater plan. The Kin appear to me as industrious bees in their own hive. I cannot determine the nature of their Queen. I see only that which makes us similar, not that which makes us different.”

The Praetor-Electroid’s answer was dissatisfying but sensible. Olivar had expected the old Tech-Priest to treat the Squats as a mere source of archaeotech and mineral resources. The fact that he did not automatically consider them anathema showed the extent of Como’s influence. One question remained.

“Is the Amarnat Collective another kind of hive?”

The Praetor-Electroid fell silent for what must have been a great many cogitational cycles. Olivar waited and listened to the ongoing murmur of the bees. Eventually the vox-speakers clicked back to life.

“Three years ago, unit Opticon-22 entered Data-communion with me. They claimed that the gestalt consciousness which formed the blessed Amarnat had no single governing intelligence. Of course their opinion is biased, since they are themselves a part of Amarnat.”

The Praetor-Electroid’s vox let out a short dissonant chord, like an electronic scoff.

“This unit remains skeptical. A Titan must have a Princeps: an army of Skitarii must have a Magos Dominus. It would be logical to conclude that Amarnat has a dominant component - a core to their shared consciousness, where one unit’s personality holds sway. To determine which of Amarnat’s parts is the true Queen, we must observe the collective’s behaviour.”

Dahr-Impulse had one very specific red-robed figure in mind.

“You think the Queen is Pasqal. Why?”

The vox-speakers emitted a quiet, descending arpeggio. “It is a hypothesis, based on Archmagos Pasqal’s emotional attachment to unit Como-314. We believe they are making suboptimal strategic decisions to protect the Rogue Trader’s interests.”

“The von Valancius Protectorate has been pretty quiet, but I could say the same about other areas like Winterscale’s Realm. Amarnat’s not taking out the Rogue Trader’s competition. That’s evidence against your hypothesis, honoured Praetor-Electroid.”

Then again, Oli wasn’t sure if Lord Captain Como wanted the responsibility of dealing with Calligos’s mismanaged mess. He tried to remember what he knew about the Cognisance Fleet and the Civil War.

“The actual combat tends to break out away from heavily populated systems or strategic locations. Either the Cognisance Fleet doesn’t want to tear everything apart with its infighting… or its combatants don’t want us to spy on their war.”

“Two statements may both be true at once. The desire for control and the protective impulse strike me as complementary aspects of the same psychosocial imperative. How regrettable… Many bright, intelligent sparks are being snuffed out for the sake of Discontinuation; yet we cannot seek an end to this internecine discord until we can determine who should take responsibility on each side.”

Olivar shot the Praetor-Electroid a sharp look. He immediately regretted turning his full attention to Dahr-Impulse’s convoluted mind, and lowered his gaze before his headache overwhelmed him.

“On each side? Surely the Conservatists have an obvious leader?”

“This statement is inconclusive.”

What? Dahr-Impulse seemed very well-connected. How could he not supply Olivar with the name of a Magos Dominus or a Fabricator-Censer? Unless he was talking about following the chain of command all the way back to Holy Mars… with the Maw playing up and communicating back to Segmentum Solar a haphazard crap-shoot, Oli could see how it might be difficult to know who was issuing commands.

This audience had been both perplexing and tiring. Olivar could feel exhaustion start to creep over him. He issued his politest thanks, made many reverences and retreated before his knees started to shake. He felt like a shred of damp scrip-paper, and nearly collapsed against one of the Electro-Priests when he made it back down the stairs. Despite his weariness, Oli felt a hint of… something. It wasn’t static electricity but it evoked a similar fizzing, prickling tingle along his extremities. One of the Tech-Priests nodded solemnly at the Telepath.

“His Holiness the Praetor-Electroid has blessed you. Praise the Omnissiah.”

Olivar looked down and saw nothing special, just his bare arms and pale belly. Only when he risked closing his eyes did he recognise the calm stillness that settled over his mind.

He picked up no images, no cluttered crowd of emotions or impressions. Just a quiet pulse at the edge of sentient thought, like the blinking of a solitary lumen or the infinitely slowed dance of a single electron. Dahr-Impulse had offered the perfect gift for an overwhelmed psyker - a moment of peace.

Chapter 71: Chapter Seventy One

Summary:

Anguilla continues to be a brat.

“Oh come on! Surely you can admit that the Omnissiah has a sense of humour.”

Viszier Kibellah wore no Spinner’s mask for the moment. Instead she arranged her countenance into a meticulously convincing display of patience.

“I see no reason why you would judge the Undying One thusly.”

The Domin seemed determined to pursue this thread of foolishness to its frayed end.

“You pulled that card out of your sacred Tarot deck this morning, what was it, the Hanged Martyr? And lo, we just dragged a naughty psyker out of the ceiling! How is that not funny?”

Domin’Como gave Veni’Anguilla a slight prod. The young witch squirmed feebly in Kibellah’s grasp: she was inverted much like the figure of the Hanged Martyr in the Tarot’s picture, held up by her right foot while the crown of her head bumped awkwardly against the carpet. The Domin’s blacksouled presence prevented the witch from using her powers to evade capture.

“Your jests are irrelevant, Domin. The Undying One does not care about the opinions of mortals.”

Kibellah set Veni’Anguilla’s leg down, making sure she did not stand on the young woman’s trailing braid as she did so. The witch’s passage through the air vents must have been arduous, for she was covered in grime and many small bruises. Her skin, already prone to dryness like so many of her Pipewarden kin, must be terribly itchy. In her beleaguered state, Anguilla resembled a beast more than a human. She had done quite well to infiltrate so far into the Lord Captain’s quarters. Kibellah would have to consult with Amic’Avrila on improving the security systems.

Domin’Como squatted near Anguilla’s head and regarded the young witch with an expression that was more concerned than stern.

“What’s going on, kid? You know you can visit me anytime using the elevator like a normal cove.”

Veni’Anguilla squirmed round into a face-up position. She must have been nauseous from her toils and from her proximity to the blacksouled Domin, but there was plenty of life - and anger - in her countenance when she sat up to speak.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you, uncle?” Anguilla glared daggers at the Viszier. “Except every time I try to get an audience, someone keeps getting in my Void-damn way!”

The great grey cloak of Death that hung over the Domin’s shoulders at all times now billowed out behind them, extending like the wings of the Undying One’s blessed cherubim. Kibellah could feel how the witch’s glowering rage had spread to her master.

“What’s the meaning of this, Kibellah?”

The Viszier did not fear Death, but the inevitability of this confrontation had been settling in her belly like a pool of cold soup for days. The Domin seemed far more imposing than their modest stature would suggest. There was a shadow in their gaze.

“I made a promise to these children, Viszier. You are not to turn Anguilla, or any of the other psykers away from my quarters. Do I make myself clear?”

Kibellah inclined her head. “Yes, Domin. I will do as you command.”

Veni’Anguilla made a snide little grimace up at the assassin as she finished getting back up off the carpet. The Hanged Martyr inverted was an unrepentant fool. Kibellah was too much of a professional to sneer back at the witch.

“You would do well to heed the message of your own card, Eel child. Patience might have won you a greater prize. Haste and foolhardiness are not a sure path to victory. The Labyrinth is no place for one who skips over all obstacles.”

The witch huffed. “Bloody Diviner.” There was bitter envy in her voice. “You sound just like Zoltan.”

“Good. Amic’Zoltan has worked hard to temper his bloodlust. He might teach you much.”

Veni’Anguilla’s temper flared again. She bared her eye-teeth in a frustrated snarl.

“Yeah he just fucking might, if you’d karking well let me learn from you!”

“Hold on.” Domin’Como held up the pointed metal tip of their index finger. “Anguilla, what exactly do you want to learn from the Bloodspun Web?”

“All of it.” Veni’Anguilla bunched her fists. “It’s groxshit that they won’t let me join just because I’m a psyker.”

The Domin drew in a sudden breath. Kibellah had anticipated such a reaction. She waited for the realisation to sink in.

“Join… Oh, Throne, what have I done wrong?” Domin’Como shook their head in disbelief. “Anguilla, do you truly want to become a Dealth Cultist?”

“Why not?” Veni’Anguilla tossed her braid defiantly over her shoulder. “It’s more than good enough for your new bodyguard.”

“This is just like you and the damn Shriekers all over again! Omnissiah help me…”

The Domin had started to scuttle back and forth like a cornered Void rat. Such behaviour lacked the dignity expected of the Undying One’s Chosen, but Kibellah was getting used to such moments of disappointment.

“I think I comprehend why the Viszier was getting in your way. I’ve got to know why you’re so determined about this, Anguilla. Throne, how in the Void would I ever explain it to your guardian?”

“The Iceman’s not my real dad. Fuck what he thinks.”

Veni’Anguilla had crossed her arms and adopted a wide stance. Kibellah recognised it as the pose of a door guard or a statue. The witch was used to relying on such acts of defiance to shield her from fear - not the fear of Death, but the fear of something softer and more insidious that lay outside of Kibellah’s understanding.

“I want to get strong so I can keep you safe, uncle. That’s what my real dad did and that’s what I want to do too. I could be one of your Shadows, stick by you-”

Both Kibellah and the Domin moved to object at the same time. The assassin politely took a half-step back and allowed Domin’Como the right of first reply. They were the Steward of the Ark, after all.

“I don’t want you to be my shadow, I want you to live a good life, Anguilla! Your own life!”

That was not what Kibellah had expected the Domin to say. What was wrong with living for someone else’s sake? Veni’Anguilla seemed just as puzzled.

“This is because you think he was bad at his job, isn’t it?” The witch’s eyes had grown hot. She would start weeping at any moment, but for now her rage held back her sadness.

“Say whatever you want to me, I’ve heard it all before from half the bloody crew. I won’t make a mistake like he did!”

“Anguilla.” Domin’Como reached out to hug the witch, but had to draw back from the contact - their blacksouled nature was simply not compatible with Veni’Anguilla’s comfort.

“You poor kid. Anguilla, I didn’t know Mort for very long but to me, he seemed brave and loyal. It would be incredibly rude for me to disparage the cove’s abilities. I have-” the little Rogue Trader’s voice hitched strangely. “I have the word of a Sister of Battle that he was a good man and a dedicated Arch-Militant. I’m sure he would be proud to hear that you want to follow his Path.”

The Viszier delicately cleared her throat.

“Following in your late father’s footsteps is fundamentally at odds with your desire to join our Cult. Even if we could accept you in the first place, which is forbidden by our sacred Tenets, you could not uphold his honour by doing so. To walk the Labyrinth and enter the Bloodspun Web is to sever all ties of family, friendship and memory. You would become a shadow who has forgotten your own mother and father. You would be a stranger to your witch comrades…”

“-not to mention your uncles.” Domin’Como and Veni’Anguilla locked eyes. “All your uncles, Anguilla. And everyone else who helped you through your awakening.”

The witch’s tears had begun to spill. Her long body trembled so strongly that her braid quivered along with her.

“Idira… I’d lose all my memories of her too?”

The Domin looked pleadingly up at their young charge.

“You’ve got more friends than you know. Including the ones who aren’t around to talk both of us out of our worst decisions. I don’t think you should forget them, do you?”

“Fuck.” Veni’Anguilla scrubbed at her eyes with grubby fists. Kibellah fought the impulse to take the witch’s hands and swab the dirt off them.

“Fine. Damn it. Void take all this. I guess I’ll just keep being a stupid witch.”

“You wish for strength and haste.”

The words had come out of the Viszier’s mouth unbidden, almost as if she were being directed by the Undying One’s will. The witch and the Domin both looked at her. The attention was unsettling.

“Heed the card that the sacred Tarot chose for you, Veni’Anguilla. I will not give you what you wish for, but I can offer you what you need.”

The young witch rolled her eyes. She was still so full of impatience.

“Everyone seems to have a different idea of what I need, but go on then - give me your two Thrones. What do I need?”

“The tempest and the glacier are both forces of Nature. Humanity may struggle and survive such extremities if that is the Undying One’s will, but it is the temperate moments that temper us for battle. We Spinners mortify our flesh and practice asceticism, but do you suppose that we never rest? We sew our eyes shut only to unfasten them: we dispense not only the Undying One’s justice but also His mercy. But you think you know better. You have given yourself over to a restless struggle.”

“Hey, that’s not true, I don’t-” All the Viszier had to do was remain silent as the witch’s protests faded into indistinct muttering.

“Veni’Anguilla, when was the last time you danced?”

The young woman blinked at the question.

“I don’t know. On the Voidship, before...”

Before she left the Ark: perhaps even before she became a witch. No wonder the Eel-child’s limbs seemed clumsy and ill-fitting. She had not been moving her body as the Undying One intended.

“We will teach you to dance with a sword in your hand. You will not become a Cultist: you will become no-one but yourself. Instead of strength and haste, we will teach you grace and patience.”

“Not grace and mali-” Domin’Como cut the witch off with a glare. Anguilla bit her lip to mask an incipient smile, glanced sideways, then abruptly took a knee in front of Kibellah.

“Forget I said anything, Viszier. I would be honoured to receive instruction from your Spinners.”

At least Veni’Anguilla had the wit to realise that it was not the Vizsier who would be training her. That privilege was reserved for the Domin alone. Kibellah was looking forward to witnessing Como von Valancius, the Steward of the Ark, take up the Spinner’s blades.

Chapter 72: Chapter Seventy Two

Summary:

Fighter practice!

The von Valancius flagship had a whole suite of training rooms, each fitted to suit the tastes of a different Rogue Trader and the needs of their followers. Anguilla recognised the shooting range from her childhood training sessions with Mistress Jae and Sister Argenta. It hadn’t changed very much, aside from some fresh masonry at the far end of the range - probably the result of someone’s overzealous work with a multi-melta or a rocket launcher. Anguilla felt relieved. She’d made some good memories in that place.

The callisthenics rooms and ablutions block adjoined several partitioned areas of a large open-plan deck. The larger sections were reserved for Enforcer training exercise and group drill. Some of Vent’s people paused in the middle of circuit training to salute Lord Captain Como and their companions. The little Rogue Trader had reserved their own little space nearby for melee combat practice. Anguilla noted that it was partitioned off with slightly thicker walls than normal.

It was as she’d suspected: a room fit for a Blank. The moment Anguilla stepped inside, the psyker felt her head grow slightly fuzzier. Applying a psy-dampening effect to an entire room must have been an expensive undertaking. She presumed from the way the Lord Captain pinched the bridge of their nose and blinked when they entered, that it did something to affect a Blank’s anti-psychic aura as well.

Olivar was waiting for them inside, along with two Voidborn dressed in the armour of the Bloodspun Web. Io and Zoltan, the Second and Third Spinners, had decided to grace the Lord Captain with their presence. Viszier Kibellah had, naturally, accompanied uncle Como to the training site in her capacity as the Domin’s shadow. Oli looked busy: the Diviner was setting up a small trestle table in one corner with water canteens, different sized armour pieces and some odd, bulky helmets. An meandered over to greet her fellow classmate.

“Top of the chron, Oli! Is Leena here too?”

“No, she said she had a thing. Check out all this kit the Spinners brought with them!”

Several long, heavy-looking bags with thick canvas handles lay on the floor next to the table. Weapon hilts protruded from the end of one bag: Anguilla recognised the cross-guard of a longsword. That was weird. She’d expected to train with the double shortblades of a Spinner today.

“Hey Amic’Zoltan.” An didn’t need to see under the Third Spinner’s mask to know he was scowling. Oh, how she enjoyed winding him up!

“Let’s have a good sparring session today, shipmate!”

The Telekine offered the assassin a friendly wave as if his grumble were a merry greeting. If he wanted the witch to stop bullying him, he needed to grow a thicker hide - emotionally speaking. The man was at least twenty per cent scar tissue, by Anguilla’s assessment.

“I shall gladly give you a lesson in the ways of Death, witch,” Zoltan growled in what was supposed to be a menacing tone. The Third Spinner’s act was somewhat undermined by the bright lighting and plain furnishings of the practice space. The Telekine smiled cutely back at him. Heh, suck it, Third Spinner.

“Curb your desire for violence, Amic’Zoltan. You are better than this.”

Io had put both hands on her hips to scold her junior colleague. The Second Spinner was a little shorter than the other Voidborn: Anguilla spotted a pair of pretty single-lidded cat’s eyes peeking through the eye sockets of her skull mask. Some of her ancestors must have been Calixian, just like Oli’s mum. She didn’t need height or a loud voice to call Zoltan to heel. A hint of matronly sternness and good use of body language was enough to make the scarred man turn and offer the Second Spinner a nod of acknowledgement. If anything, he seemed to respect Io more than the Viszier.

“Are we dancing with longer blades today?”

Uncle Como had trotted over to investigate the weapon bags. They seemed perky and ready to play. Anguilla preferred seeing them in this more casual, active mode. The Lord Captain behind the big desk was an act: this Como von Valancius seemed far more real, and likeable to boot. If novelty made uncle Como come out of their shell, then what in the Void might provoke Heinrix to show his true self? Anguilla shoved that thought out of her mind. She needed to armour up. Zoltan wasn’t going to go easy on her.

Ugh, what was this helmet? Everything else seemed sensible enough for training with blunted blades, but the head protection felt… unsettling. Anguilla was hesitant to even touch it. Only when she saw uncle Como pick up a custom-sized helmet and cram it on did she muster the courage to find something in her size.

“Ugh. Donning these things is repulsive every time - like wearing an Animus Speculum, I swear to Throne…” uncle Como was fiddling with their chin strap. “Don’t worry, Anguilla, it’s less disconcerting once you get used to it. Drink lots of water, or the fucking helmet will give you a splitting headache.”

That explained Oli’s assiduous preparations. Anguilla pushed her head protection into place and felt a chill descend over the top half of her skull. It was as if she’d given the Lord Captain a gentle headbutt. There had to be more psychic dampeners embedded in these things. Great… Well, she could still manage all right without her telekinesis. It wasn’t like they hadn’t put her through groxshit like this at the Scholastica Psykana.

Io helped Anguilla to pick out a blade, and the Telekine immediately paired up with Zoltan. At least the Third Spinner wasn’t using that ridiculous grooved chopper he insisted on carting around everywhere. The last thing uncle Como needed was blood dribbling all over the practice grounds. An’s head felt fuzzy, and she was annoyed by her limited peripheral vision. Time to get into a left-footed and left-handed starting stance. Normally she’d try and fake people out by starting right-handed, but Zoltan would see through dumb tricks like that. If she could get him to target her arm instead of her head and body, that might buy her more time to work him out.

Even with the silly hat on, uncle Como’s anti-psychic aura still leaked out when they fired up their adrenaline for a bout. Anguilla hadn’t picked the little Rogue Trader for a longsword user - and, in fact, the Lord Captain was going at it one-handed against Viszier Kibellah. The big blade looked ridiculous compared with uncle Como’s little body, but to their credit, they did seem to have it under control. Kibellah and uncle Como were clearly used to each other’s fighting style - they must have sparred before. The First Spinner effortlessly scooted backwards to avoid Como’s attempt at infighting, then snapped her blade around with a sweeping strike that crossed one forearm around the other -

-WRONNNNG-

Ouch! Zoltan had ruthlessly capitalised on Anguilla’s inattention and smacked her across the side of her helmet with the flat of his blade. The impact didn’t hurt, but the gong-like sound made An quail with embarrassment.

“Sorry sorry, I’ll focus!”

Shit, now she really had to do it. Find your will, An. Neutral stance, stick the sword out like the barrel of a Leman Russ tank, brace the back arm and protect your midsection… Hey, what if she went for a high guard instead? Zoltan advanced on her position in a furious blur of momentum. Step back, show him the pointy end! The Third Spinner veered out of the way, countering with lots of energy. Anguilla had taunted him into using too much force: she let him do the work for her instead of bringing their blades into a true cross. A little relaxed flick, and she could engineer something into a riposte if she was lucky.

Damn, not quite lucky enough! Anguilla got a pathetically shallow slice in, but Zoltan rolled his shoulder under it - in a real fight, he’d have got another graze for his collection. In return, Anguilla got something pointy to the solar plexus. Cross-guard strike. Honestly, it could have been worse. He was holding back. An nodded at him to acknowledge the hit, took a hop backwards to reset, but Zoltan got her by the wrist.

“An enemy is not going to let you disengage. Fight your way out, witch.”

Grappling was normally Anguilla’s strong point: her options were limited without the telekinesis, but she still had a bloody enormous helmet. The psyker beaned the Third Spinner right in his skull-mask and sent the assassin’s head snapping back. Uncle Como’s distinctive barking laugh rang out somewhere behind Anguilla’s right shoulder. No time to bask in the Lord Captain’s approval. Zoltan really wanted to trip her. Anguilla used every inch of her Pipewarden clan’s ancestral flexibility, dropping into an unnaturally low stance. She was shocked when Zoltan ducked low to meet her. Now they were fighting like a couple of Void rats in a sump.

All that sword was a liability at close quarters: An grabbed it halfway along the blade and tried to ram the cross-guard into Zoltan’s neck, like he’d hit her in the stomach earlier. She executed the move too slowly. Zoltan flicked a leg out in front of him and got Anguilla in the face-plate. She managed to convert her backwards sprawl into a half-roll and sprang back up onto her feet. At least she’d managed to bring them both into something resembling a civilised sword-fighting stance.

“Hey, Oli, are you just going to sit around looking pretty?”

An waved a beckoning arm in what she hoped was the Diviner’s general direction. She was already feeling pretty ragged after just a short encounter. Throne, any excuse to let her grab a breath! Zoltan gripped her upper arm again. Fuck, now what?

“Water. Did you not hear the Domin before, witch?”

Zoltan was brandishing two canteens: he handed one to Anguilla with a grunt.

The Third Spinner did not tilt his skull mask back: instead he wrenched the lacing of his armour open at the side and splashed water against his ribcage, letting it soak against his padded undertunic.

Gills. He had vestigial gills just like Anguilla did.

Cautiously, the psyker followed suit. She’d requested a custom-made bodysuit with side zips for this very reason. An made no attempt to hide her mutations from Zoltan. Instead she considered what she had recently learned from Kibellah. The Bloodspun Web’s initiates forgot all about their old families. She might be related to Zoltan, and he wouldn’t even know it. But that didn’t matter. They were both Pipewardens… both estranged Pipewardens, even.

Their next bout did not begin with a frenetic Zoltan charge. Anguilla brought the longsword up into the Lance guard, pointing the tip of her sword forward at a slight tilt. She wasn’t going to wait passively for Zoltan to close the distance, but she wanted to show Kibellah and Como that she could be patient. If he was as flexible as she was, they would have almost the same effective attack range: he was bigger and had a bit more reach. The best thing to do was flick under his guard and try to get in where he couldn’t use his preferred forceful style. Zoltan tried to intimidate her by doing some spinning nonsense with his longsword - cute, but he shouldn’t have used the weapon single-handed. He’d just surrendered his strength advantage.

Anguilla dropped from the high guard into what she hoped looked like an attempted stab at Zoltan’s feet. He’d capitalise with a downward head strike. Anguilla summoned as much speed as she could - she really missed her sorcery - and converted it into a forward lunge that ought to evade the Third Spinner’s blade as he corrected course. The move didn’t go off. Zoltan managed to get Anguilla’s upper arm with one of those sudden snapping strikes she’d seen Kibellah use earlier. Damn, she really needed to learn that trick! Still, she was glad she’d taken the risk. This was a lot more fun than training with the Drill Abbotts.

When she straightened from her bow of acknowledgement, An noticed that Zoltan was making direct eye contact with her through the holes of his skull-mask. He wouldn’t refrain from pummelling her, but he would no longer sneer at the witch, either.

The moment was broken with a sharp metallic clang and a whoop from uncle Como. Anguilla put her gloved hand up to call for a quick break: Zoltan seemed interested in whatever was going on behind the psyker as well. An turned around to find Olivar in an unexpected tussle with Second Spinner Io. This would be an entertaining watch!

Oli was usually a fan of small weapons - the Diviner was more of an analyst than a frontline combatant, and his short legs meant that he looked silly carting a long hunk of metal around. But if you gave the guy a staff to play with, he’d hand you your arse. Olivar seemed to be enjoying the longsword. He used every ounce of his planet-born body mass to wrestle control over the bout’s timing, pressing in against Io who seemed a bit shocked by the Diviner’s enthusiasm. Oli had one of those dreadful psy-suppressing helmets on. Strangely, it didn’t seem to be affecting his timing all that much. Maybe he was just naturally good at reading his opponent’s body language and didn’t need his sorcerous foresight.

Every time the Second Spinner countered his attacks and tried to get back on the offensive, Olivar would anticipate her moves and skip away at the last second. Then just as quickly, he’d close the distance until he was back in his effective range. Io had delivered multiple glancing blows to Oli’s extremities, but none had landed definitively enough for the Second Spinner’s satisfaction. She resorted to using a spinning assassin’s technique: with a flex and a flick of her long Voidborn limbs, the Second Spinner sent her body flying up and behind Olivar’s guard, twisting to aim for a diagonal strike across the flat of his back. Anguilla could see why the Spinners referred to their techniques as Blade-dancing. Io was beautiful to watch.

Oli, by contrast, was almost comical. The Diviner suddenly drove his longsword vertically into the training-room floor, where it lodged in place with a nasty crunch. Olivar then used his sword as the world’s clumsiest brake by clutching onto the cross-guard. He skidded down into a hilarious lounging position with the longsword projecting out of the floor just in front of his lap. Io’s sword clipped Oli’s forearm as he executed this bizarre tactic - he winced and shook his fingers, nodding to acknowledge the hit. Instead of capitalising on his prone and defenceless state, the Second Spinner stared down at him incredulously. Oli was patting the floor beside him.

“Would my lady - care to take - a small break?”

Chapter 73: Chapter Seventy Three

Summary:

A different kind of lesson.

“I know you said we’d take things slow, but this is actually tedious.”

Aleena hovered on the balls of her feet, then lowered herself down from her tiptoed stance. It was annoying to keep her right hand in Wing Commander Erebis’s grasp. The psyker had the impression that Mattis was meant to be keeping her stable, but she just felt trapped. Aleena stared straight ahead of her, just like Lady Iphigenia had instructed.

The view was unexciting. A nearby shelf held a stack of paperwork and a big chronometer, which marked every passing second of Leena’s ordeal. Her Sonomancer’s senses made its mechanical ticking intrude over the vox-player’s musical accompaniment - the machine would go out of phase with the pavane’s slow tempo, then match up with the beat again, over and over. Only the slight disorder of the room’s furniture gave Aleena any kind of thrill: a whole row of desks and chairs were pushed out of the way to make room for an impromptu dance-floor.

Maybe if they’d been in a proper ballroom instead of the Officers’ Deck, this would have felt less awkward. Leena began to feel a tickle on the tip of her nose, but her left hand was busy hoisting up the hem of her skirt. The faint crackle of static punctuating the vox-player’s tinny tune only made her more aware of her itch.

Emperor’s teeth, she could have been doing cool stuff with swords instead! Void take dumb uncle Mattis and his dumb dancing lessons and his dumb mushroom-looking haircut!

“All Dargonian balls start with this dance, Aleena. It is a sensible starting point for you too.”

Lady Iphigenia Drivestem had appointed herself as the class teacher. She’d kept most of her Master Helmsman’s finery on for the lesson: her epauletted coatee, shiny block-heeled boots and neat glossy bun gave the petite woman an air of prim authority. Aleena doubted she’d dress that way in an actual ballroom. If only they could swap outfits, they’d both be more comfortable… though Lady Iphigenia might trip on the hem of Leena’s borrowed dress. The thing was bright purple and embroidered with eye motifs. It clashed terribly with the psyker’s red hair and made her retch complexion look even greener than usual. Leena envied the Master Helmsman’s warm brown hair and planet-born tan.

“Try to imagine a whole row of couples in a big procession, showing off their finery.” Master Erebis offered Aleena a conciliatory smile. “It looks most impressive when everyone’s all moving together. Almost like a parade.”

The Sonomancer pouted. “You just described a walk, not a dance.”

“It is a walk!” Iphigenia interjected. An elegant walk with extra steps. Now turn in to face your partner and perform a reverence - hold it, one, two… then reset.” The Master Helmsman tapped out a basic rhythm with her conductor’s baton. “Pa, pa, pa-pa pa. Keep the music in mind. We are courtiers; refined, graceful creatures.”

“Graceful my arse. I feel like a Grand Cruiser doing manoeuvres.”

Leena came up from her curtsey, wondering what the point of crossing her ankles was when nobody could see under her dress in the first place. Lady Iphigenia would probably rap her across the knuckles with that baton if she caught the psyker squatting.

A faint chime from the office doorway gave Aleena a much-needed reprieve. The moment Lady Iphigenia turned her head in the chime’s direction, the Sonomancer dropped her petticoats and scratched her nose with her left hand. Mattis Erebis looked at her silently but kindly. He must have been through all this guff as a kid himself.

“Wing Commander, pardon the interruption but I - oh - er.”

Aleena snapped her head up, straightened her back and put her left hand behind her back. Rufus Swift had just entered the room. The pilot was clutching a data-slate and clearly intended to deliver it to the Wing Commander. Leena chided herself for being self-conscious in the first place. He’s just some guy, get it together…

“Kae-morag.” Aleena muttered the Aeldari swear under her breath, hoping that nobody would register it as a rude word. Human swears weren’t good enough to convey this level of embarrassment. She really wished she wasn’t dressed up like a Saints’ Day cake.

Rufus disguised his own discomfort with the usual military solution of snapping his heels together and giving his Wing Commander a crisp salute. Erebis relinquished Aleena’s hand to return the gesture with casual ease. The Wing Commander appeared to be settling into his new post.

“Emperor protects. What’s the word, lad?”

“The Order of the Hammer has respectfully requested a flyover for the Holiday of Saint Cognatius’s martyrdom, whose date falls within our layover window. Vox Master Vigdis said you were in the Officer’s Deck, and we need your signoff for the manoeuvre, ser.”

Rufus stiffly held out the dataslate.

“Thank you, Ensign Swift.” Mattis Erebis gave the slate a cursory scroll. “This all looks quite unremarkable: we ought to check whether the Cogs are planning to take any auspex readings that day. Our comms might jam their signals, but I expect we can plan our flight path to avoid them. You have my blessing to arrange some aerobatics. Throne knows Kona and Struan could use the practice in low orbit.”

“Thank you ser, I won’t take up any more of your time.” Rufus saluted Erebis, then the Master Helmsman, and then paused before offering Aleena a polite bow. “Good day, Madame Sonomancer.”

“Actually, might we detain you a little further?” Lady Iphigenia Drivestem strode towards Ensign Swift and fixed the young pilot with a lively expression.

“Dear Mattis is indulging me by serving as Aleena’s dance partner, but they make such an awkward pair. I thought perhaps someone fresher and less experienced might put the young lady at ease. What do you say, Master Swift? Do you have time for a lesson?”

Rufus glanced anxiously at Aleena, who shrugged at him - then at his commanding officer.

“I’m here to serve, ma’am.”

“That’s a capital idea, my Lady!” Erebis was eager to back out of dancing with Leena. The Sonomancer wouldn’t have been surprised if the Wing Commander had pushed the two redheads together. Fair enough, too: Aleena had already stood on his toes several times.

“Don’t sound the retreat just yet, Mattis dear.” Lady Iphigenia wagged her index finger saucily at the Wing Commander. “There’s a residual stiffness in your gait that I’d like to work out of you. I blame all those years of wearing leg braces. Fear not, I’ll make you lithe and light of foot!”

Now it was the Wing Commander’s turn to look embarrassed, but he did not protest. Lady Iphigenia went to reset the vox-player, and Erebis worked the glove off his right hand so that he could apply his thumb-print to the dataslate. Rufus took the opportunity to approach Aleena. The pilot took her right hand in his, cautiously at first, waiting to see if she’d withdraw from his touch.

“I hope this is all right with you, my Lady.”

Aleena grinned to see him acting so nervous around her. The Sonomancer was tempted to summon a small bubble of quiet around the two of them and make Rufus beg for more Leena points, but the grown-ups might notice their antics. Ensign Swift gave her fingers a little squeeze and brushed his thumb over her knuckles before he let go. It was the kind of thing friends might do to reassure each other. After making out in the Voidship’s tunnels, such a subtle gesture shouldn’t have felt exciting… but it was.

After resetting the vox-player, the Master Helmsman commanded it to broadcast a different set of tunes. Leena knew very little about the Imperium’s musical traditions but even she could tell that these dances were more modern, not to mention more lively. Lady Iphigenia encouraged Rufus and Aleena to stand face to face.

“Since Aleena finds the pavane so tiresome, let us attempt another staple of Imperial courtly dance - the waltz. Ensign Rufus, I presume you know a basic box-step pattern?”

“I do, ma’am.”

The pilot held his left arm out, hovering his hand palm-up as if he were supporting an invisible tanna cup. Aleena intuited that she was supposed to put her right hand in his. She did her best not to grumble, but gave her nose a quick scratch with her left hand in case she lost control of that arm as well. Rufus quirked a gingery eyebrow at the gesture, but he was polite enough not to comment on it.

“The waltz starts the same way. Remember, Mistress Aleena, that you are to step backwards on the downbeat and not forwards.” Poor Mattis’s right boot had suffered enough from Leena’s errant footsteps. She was determined not to crush Rufus’s toes as well.

“One large step, then two small ones to turn you on the spot: by the end of the three beats, you should both be facing backwards.”

“Oh, so when we finish the basic step the other way we’ll still be going in the same overall direction!” Leena was nervous about having to turn so fast and so often, but she could visualise the dance’s shape in her head. They’d be going around like ball bearings in an armature. Aleena was suddenly very aware of all the adjacent, heavy-looking furniture.

“Rufus, you have to steer me. I won’t be able to see Jack Squat. Please don’t crash us.”

Swift gave her a gallant smile. “I’ll do my very best not to knock us into anything.”

Lady Drivestem coughed. “Perhaps you ought to watch the Wing Commander demonstrate first.”

“Certainly!” Mattis Erebis sprang into action and offered his gloved hand to the Master Helmsman. “Would you do me the honour of this dance, Lady Iphigenia?”

The difference between their heights ought to have made Mattis and Iphigenia look silly together, but the Voidborn was clearly used to partnering with much shorter dancers. The positioning of his hands and the angle of his hips was perfectly calibrated to make his senior officer’s experience comfortable. Even with his terrible hair, Leena had to admit that the Wing Commander looked elegant. As she watched the dancers begin to wheel around the room in tandem, she began to discern some of the appeal behind the waltz. It’d feel nice to have Rufus’s dextrous hand supporting the small of her back as he spun her.

Aleena summoned a bubble of sonic privacy and leaned to whisper in the pilot’s ear.

“Someone’s got a crush.”

Wing Commander Erebis’s affection for Lady Iphigenia was blindingly obvious - just look at the way he stared at her! Ensign Swift turned his cheek to whisper back.

“You’re merciless.”

Rufus’s blushing cheeks stood out against his pale complexion. The young man’s reaction made no sense, unless…

Oh. Well, that was good too.

Chapter 74: Chapter Seventy Four

Summary:

Checkup time, with one obedient and one disobedient patient.

Chief Enginseer Asclepius had lined up several small planter pots along one of their zinc-topped workbenches. Some of them vaguely resembled the Lilaethan’s bromeliads, except that they lacked a central rainwater hole and were pale rather than dark green. Aleena liked their pretty geometric shapes. Others seemed like broad-leaved grasses until you touched them and realised that the leaves were as tough as grox-hide. Red and yellow stripes and blotches made the plants fun to look at. The Magos Errant must have transplanted them from Foulstone’s dry landscape.

Aleena wondered if it was possible for a plant to feel jealousy. Asclepius had evicted their new specimens from under the grow-lamps so that they could test the Sonomancer’s response to simulated sunlight. The Tech-Priest was clearly excited about the intricacies of Leena’s retch mutations. Their two utility mechadendrites kept breaking into wiggly dances behind Asclepius’s back. At least the Chief Enginseer wasn’t poking around under Aleena’s skin or trying to collect tissue samples. They also made an attempt to explain various features of Leena’s biology to her, most of which went over her head. She’d realised that Asclepius was attempting to treat her like a lab partner instead of a test subject.

“Hey, Asclepius, can I borrow your auspex for a second?” Leena held up her forearm, and the sudden movement made Kitarius leap down off the adjoining table with a soft thud. The beast was probably waiting for her turn under the lamps. “I want to see my skin up close, the way you can.”

The Magos Errant never really smiled, but one of their little on-board vox speakers made a pleasant tinkle. Aleena was starting to get better at interpreting Asclepius’s binharic chirps. The Sonomancer stopped the Chief Enginseer as they were about to open their mouth and speak.

“Wait, let me try and copy your little song.”

Even when she used her psykana, Aleena couldn’t quite get the tones right. Asclepius’s responding chirr was definitely approximating a laugh.

“We are surprised at your capacity for producing the sacred binharic tones, unit Aleena. I have not observed this linguistic phenomenon in unaugmented laypersons. This unit is experiencing emotional reactions that evoke an Explorator’s instincts.”

Aleena wondered if those emotions were positive or negative. It was difficult to read the Magos Errant’s masked, placid face.

“Is it rude of me to try and speak in binharic, uncle Asclepius?”

The Tech-Priest folded their arms. Asclepius had not forgotten about Aleena’s earlier request. One of their mechadendrites - Sinister, the left one - hovered over the Sonomancer’s outstretched forearm bearing various scanning devices. Normally the readouts would go straight into the Magos Errant’s brain implants, but if Leena put a vid-slate against the auspex, she should be able to see the imaging with her regular half-human half-retch eyes. At least that was the theory. It took her a couple of goes to find the right point of contact: the blank vid-slate reflected her own face back in its dark green-grey panel. Leena realised that she’d poked her tongue out while concentrating, and hastily tucked it back in again. A Drill Abbott would have caned her for that. Asclepius didn’t appear to have noticed her lapse in discipline.

“That is an interesting question, unit Aleena! Intention determines what is rude. We do not believe you would ever seek to demean the principles of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Then again, this unit’s core programming is nonstandard. Other units may not interpret simple curiosity as an intrinsic virtue. Ah. Let me assist you.”

The Chief Enginseer adjusted the vid-slate a fraction, and the little screen flared to life.

“Behold the miracle of flesh - the sacred human form in action, magnified for our comprehension. Know thyself, for understanding the body is a prerequisite to enlightenment.”

The greenish undertones in Aleena’s skin made the picture on the vid-slate resemble an orbital view of a forest. She could make out dozens of tiny ridges and flakes. Leena kept her arm as still as possible so that she didn’t blur the view.

“Help me support this arm, please. I had no idea my skin looked this craggy up close.” It certainly looked dry. “What happens if we mist it with water?”

“This unit appreciates your zeal for informational input.”

Dexter, Asclepius’s other mechadendrite, gently coiled around the base of Aleena’s forearm and helped her to steady it. The metal wasn’t cold - on the rare occasions when the Tech-Priest needed to touch her, they always seemed to warm themselves to match her body temperature.

“Applying hydration. Let us observe.”

Leena had expected the ridges on her skin to dissolve like soap flakes. The skin cells were a bit more stubborn than that: but as the water soaked in, she noticed that the angle of the ridges changed. On a cellular level, it looked like the surface of her skin was… pulsing. Pushing open. The pattern of green pigmentation changed too: under the warm grow-lights, it seemed to cluster underneath the skin ridges, forming a pattern of tiny green freckles.

“That feels really nice. Asclepius, am I breathing through my skin?”

“This statement is partially true. You do not possess lungs or a dedicated subcutaneous respiratory system. However, the chlorophyll in your dermis appears to be concentrated around chloroplasts -” The Tech-Priest coughed politely. “In layperson’s terms, you have tiny breathing holes that are shielded by your baseline human skin. In the presence of light and moisture, your skin can relax and nourish itself to a limited extent. It is quite extraordinary.”

Leena smiled down at her magnified skin.

“Mum always used to say that the retches had the forest inside them. So we really are part plant, huh?”

“Not exactly. Your skin is a symbiosis between your sacred human form and the phytoplankton - ah, that is, some extremely small plants that live upon you and nourish you.”

“Could I get rid of the green in my skin if I wanted to?”

That gave Aleena food for thought. Her unusual skin tone was the most obvious feature that made her stand out as a mutant. Without it, she’d pass for Voidborn. Asclepius put the slate and auspex away and turned to face her.

“We would not recommend doing so. This is a benign partnership. This unit lacks complete understanding of your biology, and such a drastic intervention might harm you. May we suggest another perspective?”

The Magos Explorator’s voice was a little more resonant than usual. They appeared to be genuinely concerned. Leena nibbled her lower lip with her pointed teeth.

“All right. I trust your judgement.”

“Judgement is not this unit’s primary function… but thank you for listening.” Asclepius intertwined their glistening metal fingers into a loose gesture that resembled the roof-beams of the flagship’s Great Cathedral.

“The Magi Biologis - a specialist sect of the Adeptus Mechanicus - seek to overcome weaknesses of the flesh by optimising human biology rather than replacing it with metal. You could always interpret your unique bodily configuration as a form of… optimisation.”

“I thought all the Tech-Priests had to be covered in metal.”

Asclepius’s vox-speakers chugged mirthfully. “That is a common misconception among laypersons.”

Huh. So, Aleena might not just be an accident of Nature but a possible improvement on it? She’d never heard any of the retches express much pride in themselves, and everyone else on the Lilaethan regarded them with pity or suspicion. Asclepius was the first person to compare her favourably with humans. Rufus had also said he preferred her to an Aeldari, which was… a weird data-point but still noteworthy.

Wait, should she even care what other people thought about her? As long as Aleena was in the Rogue Trader’s retinue, nobody had the right to mess with her for looking strange. She tried to sit up a little straighter. How did it feel? How would it feel to just… be?

“Do the Tech-Priests have any rules against letting psykers join up?”

The Chief Enginseer’s body grew still for a long moment. Even their mechadendrites, usually so fluid and curious, became inert: Sinister lay under the grow-lamps like a sleeping snake, while Dexter hung down to the floor. Kitarius trotted over to rub the black-furred side of her face against the implant’s manipulator claw. Leena suppressed the urge to bother the Magos Errant. Something was whirring away inside their metal parts. They hadn’t shut down. She rolled her sleeve back down, and heard a faint ping as some of the Chief Enginseer’s components came back online.

“Data-meditation complete.”

Asclepius had turned the left side of their face towards Aleena; it was also the most heavily augmented. The golden whorl of their cochlear implant gleamed even brighter under the scattered light from the grow-lamps. The masked side of their face was unreadable. Maybe Oli could have guessed the Tech-Priest’s emotions: Leena wished he was here to help.

“Are you all right, uncle Asclepius?”

“This unit is operating within standard parameters. We were… performing a consultation.”

The Magos Errant’s mechadendrites had sprung back to life, dancing and writhing behind the Tech-Priest’s back.

“The information you have requested is confidential. Many initiates of the Brotherhood of Mars would deny the existence of their psychic Tech-siblings. Nonetheless, they do exist. We quantify such units by different classifications depending on their abilities. Technomancers, Binharic Saints…” Asclepius drummed their metal fingertips on the table with a faint rippling click. “Some Techsorcists might fall under the definition.”

The Chief Enginseer’s voice had lowered in pitch and taken on an odd reverberating timbre. Had they activated an extra vox-speaker? The Tech-Priest’s human and augmetic eyes both stared at the Sonomancer with uncanny intensity. Asclepius usually took such care to act relaxed and friendly. The change in their bearing was subtle, but it still made Aleena’s skin prickle. The Chief Enginseer’s inbuilt vox-speakers let out a low, discordant note and the Tech-Priest abruptly closed the hatch of their artificial eye.

“No.”

The Tech-Priest murmured something to themselves at extremely low volume, in their native machine language. Leena desperately wished she could understand its nuance. Asclepius flexed their mechadendrites as if they were shaking off a cramp. When they spoke again, their voice had become lighter and less resonant.

“Unit Aleena, what motivated you to request that information?”

“The Lord Captain wanted me to find a vocation.”

“That is not a personal motivation, it is an instruction from unit Como. We would like to know about your own requirements.”

Aleena tried not to look too shocked. She wasn’t used to having adults ask her about what she wanted. Shit, what did she want?

“I’d like to learn binharic. I’d like to learn a lot of things, actually. Exploring the Voidship’s been…” Frightening? Adventurous? What word would Anguilla use? “Enlightening.”

Asclepius made another of those chugging mechanical belly-laughs.

“You do have an Explorator’s mindset. I approve.”

Sinister curled into a cute little scroll and pressed against the Tech-Priest’s chestplate. Aleena wondered if it was imitating Kitarius: the cat had decided to investigate something in the adjoining room.

“We will introduce you to our Tech-Disciple, Tihomir. Their proficiency with binharic communication is excellent… and we hope they will appreciate the opportunity to befriend a fellow young person. For now, this unit will have to suspend our other discussion. Unit Kitarius has spotted a visitor.”

The ship cat’s faint, repeated meows echoed next door. Aleena’s enhanced hearing could also pick up a string of muttered Voidsman’s curses.

“Oh, that’s uncle Einrich - I mean the Infernus Master.”

“Requesting assistance: the recalcitrant unit will not consent to a health checkup. Perhaps you could persuade him to see me.” The Tech-Priest got up, pulled a thick paper packet out of a nearby raised cupboard and set it on the bench. “Forius has filled the unit’s usual prescription. I will depart.”

The bulky Tech-Priest could move their body with surprising speed when they wanted to. Asclepius scooted off into their diagnostic lab before Aleena could object, leaving the double doors flapping in their wake. No sooner had the Magos Errant gone than Einrich Monteg shuffled into the examining room, looking sheepish, with Kitarius following warily at his heels.

“Heh. I’ve been busted.”

The non-augmetic sections of the Infernus Master’s hand were loosely swaddled in gauze. Aleena guessed that he’d done it one-handed.

“Bloody Throne. Let me fix that before you go, at least.”

“Shipmates can see to me, I’ll just get my usual stash of burn cream and go -” Aleena rolled her eyes at the stubborn old guy, and he sighed. “Fine. Here’s my arm, since you twisted it.”

Einrich plopped the offending limb down on the table under the grow-lights.

“Got to work on my tan in any case.” He grinned, and began fossicking around in the flap of his jacket.

“Looking for lho sticks already?” By the Emperor, couldn’t he stop his smoking habit long enough to avoid stinking up a medicus’s office?

“Now you see one reason why I won’t go for a checkup, kid. Asclepius would spend the whole time lecturing me about the tar in my lungs. I don’t see why: Void knows I inhale enough chems on the job as it is.”

“Building up a tolerance, uncle?”

“Hah! I’ll remember that excuse, it’s a good one.”

The burn under the bandages was moderately deep - the top layer of the Infernus Master’s skin was bright pink and weeping, and the supporting tissue had puffed up underneath. Aleena winced, and went to grab some of that cream from Einrich’s prescription bag.

“I don’t get you old men and your fear of medicae.” Leena tutted as she got the lid off one of the jars of cream. “Elek was the same, always useless about getting help with jungle parasites and weird rashes. Does it wound your pride to get patched up or something?”

“I reckon it does, kid.” Einrich didn’t even flinch when Aleena dabbed the cream onto his arm. “Being an Infernus is a damn dangerous job. By the standards of my clan, I’m practically venerable. Every scrape I get into feels like I’m losing small battles in the war for my own survival. I don’t need a medicus to remind me of my own mortality. Lettard gets it - he’s a good cove, he stays out of my hair.”

Aleena raised an eyebrow at that - Monteg might be the only person in the crew who had a good word to say about the Master Surgeon’s bedside manner. She repositioned a loose pad of gauze over Einrich’s burn, hoping that the fabric wouldn’t stick to the inflamed skin. Now all she needed to do was fix that wrapping. Ugh, he’d got it twisted around his forearm…

“Don’t reckon I know any Eleks on the flagship,” Einrich mused to himself.

“Oh, that’s my dad.”

“Did you lose him?”

The Infernus Master had bent his head forward under the grow-lamps to check on his arm: now he looked up at Leena with sad eyes. The yellow light brought the many little scars on his face into relief. They didn’t make him look tough: just the opposite, in fact.

“Elek’s not dead. He’s just… back on Janus. Doing trader stuff like always, I assume.”

Aleena used a subtle flex of sonomancy to mask the note of aggravation that had crept into her voice. She avoided the Infernus Master’s gaze. Fastening a couple of butterfly clips to close his bandages provided her with a good excuse to look away.

“That’s good, kid. Family’s important.”

“Is it?”

She let go of the Infernus Master’s bandaged arm and leaned back against the table. Leena heard Monteg’s breathing stop for a second. He knew he’d prodded a sore spot.

“I’ve got family, so yeah, I’d say they matter. Mia, my niece: Nemi, my little sis. Well, I say ‘little’ but… They’re both grown now. Keen to make their own way.”

“How old’s Mia?”

“Younger than you; old enough to work.”

Einrich’s expression turned grim for a second, but he quickly masked it with his usual smile.

“If you’re thinking about asking to ride along with the Inferni - don’t. I can’t guarantee your safety to Their Rogue Traderness, and the crew doesn’t appreciate the combination of psykers and fire. Have you ever seen Warp-fire, kid?”

Aleena thought about Maynard’s volatile abilities. There was a reason the Leiran boy devoted most of his training to improving his mental control. The last time she’d seen Maynard’s powers was during that awful incident with Drill Abbott Justinian… the Sonomancer blinked away the memory. It wasn’t one she wanted to relive in front of the Infernus Master.

“Yeah, I have. I guess that makes sense.” Leena felt a faint twinge in her stomach.

“Sorry to disappoint you, kid.” Einrich waved his bandaged arm and gave Aleena a lopsided smile. “Thanks for the patch-up job, Miss Sonomancer.”

“Anytime. Muties stick together.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I reckon they do.” Monteg had fished out a lho-stick and balanced it in the crook of his mouth: it waggled when he spoke. “I’ll see you on the bridge, kid.”

Chapter 75: Chapter Seventy Five

Summary:

An adorable visitor!

++ Nomos note: This marks the final chapter of Act II on our extremely informal personal progress bar. Act III is all written, so we should continue to post frequent-ish updates over the holiday break. Thanks so much to everyone who's read along so far, Nomos love you very much. The next Act has Warp shenanigans, swashbuckling, romance, riots and some extravagantly erotic moments in store! ++

It was funny how quickly new surroundings could become familiar. Leena still felt like she rattled around in her roomy shipboard quarters, but she’d marked out a space around her bed and begun to decorate it with keepsakes and oddities. Every time Aleena visited a different crew on the Voidship, she came away with another treasure. Her latest acquisition was a little section of rug from a week spent with the ship’s upholsterers. Leena had programmed the carpet-loom herself. She’d tried to create a stylised flower and palm-leaf design with white and green details against a blue background. The result was wonky, but Aleena still felt proud that she’d been able to make her own decoration.

The Sonomancer was getting handy with power tools. She’d bolted a metal shelf against the bulkhead, above the long edge of the mattress that faced the wall. Her grow-lamps were mounted into a bracket a bit higher up: this meant that the shelf got a good dose of artificial sunlight. Aleena had obtained the Rogue Trader’s permission to transplant a few samples from the vertical gardens. So far her collection included a covered plastic tray containing nutritious algae slurry and a dangling beard-like mat of lichen. Hopefully once uncle Asclepius’s succulents were established, the Tech-Priest would spare her some cuttings.

Leena filled up a plastic spray bottle that she’d acquired from a Janitori clan - some shipboard cleaning jobs were too delicate for servitors to manage them, and the psyker now knew all about those jobs in meticulous detail. Her bottle didn’t hold any solvents, just fresh water for her hanging garden. Aleena enjoyed misting the lichen and watching it slowly change colour from grey to greyish-green. It was a symbiotic being, just like her own skin. Asclepius was right - it felt satisfying to understand the workings of her own body.

Listen to her, she was beginning to sound like swotty Anguilla! Or nosy Olivar… Aleena wondered if that was such a bad thing. She was tired of feeling like the stupid one in the Trouble Trio.

Leena’s senses picked up the discreet shuffling of little feet against carpet in the corridor outside her room. Someone was debating whether to press the intercom button at her door. The Sonomancer decided to save them the fuss and go open the way herself. She hopped up, spray bottle still in one hand, and activated the security panel from her side. The door swung open with a click and a hiss.

Aleena was greeted with a startled beep. Her visitor was tiny, even by planetborn standards: their skinny limbs made Leena think of the Voidborn, but they were even shorter than Oli or the Lord Captain. Leena wondered if they’d been malnourished as a little child. The stranger was kitted out in a modified set of Adeptus Mechanicus robes: the red chaperon was loose and too large for its wearer, and its hood hung down over the visitor’s back. The kirtle was missing its signature white cog-pattern in places - the hems had been taken in to accommodate the little Tech-Novice’s short arms and legs. A pair of tiny unaugmented feet poked out from underneath, clad in home-made sandals.

“Um, hi.” Aleena tried to remember what to say to a Cog-worshipper. “Omnissiah be with you?”

The little visitor chirped several times, and untucked a worn-looking dataslate from the folds of their oversized robe. They held the screen up so that Leena could read it.

+HELLO UNIT ALEENA. OUR IDENT IS: TIHOMIR. WE ARE PLEASED TO MEET YOU.+

It seemed that the little Tech-Novice wasn’t much of a talker. Actually, Aleena guessed that wasn’t strictly true. They seemed to enjoy beeping and trilling rather a lot. Tihomir shuffled their weight back and forth from one sandalled foot to the other, a habit that only made them seem more pent-up.

“Nice to meet you too, sib. Uncle Asclepius said you’d teach me some binharic, yeah? Come on inside.”

She hadn’t expected them to be so young. It was hard to guess the Tech-Novice’s exact age, but based on their spotty face and soft features, they might just barely have hit puberty. That’d make Aleena, what… five, six, seven years older? About the same age gap separated her from Rufus. Leena wondered if she looked just as young and squishy from the pilot’s more experienced perspective.

Aleena took a closer look at the little Tech-Novice, avoiding too much eye contact in case she spooked the cove. The only augmetic she could spot was a complex-looking implant in the kid’s throat. Her own Sonomancer’s augmetics didn’t quite match, but it was still nice to note the similarities. Leena pointed at her implant, then Tihomir’s, and smiled. That got a happy beep out of the Tihomir.

“Do you need the data-slate for translating?” The Tech-Novice responded with a single binharic note that sounded affirmative: Leena made a note of its pitch. “What happens if you lose it?”

Tihomir let out a morose-sounding chord and held up their data-slate.

+COMMUNICATION IS DIFFICULT WITHOUT DATA-SLATE. WE WOULD BE SAD.+

Tihomir looked at Leena with soft, black eyes. The Tech-Novice’s pale skin made the kid’s facial features seem even darker by comparison. Aleena wondered how many times the Tech-Novice had been left voiceless. Did people bully them by taking the slate away?

“Poor cove.”

Leena put her hand up and was about to give Tihomir a pat, but stopped. It felt disrespectful for her to touch her teacher as if they were a pet. Instead, her hand just hung there in the air. Aleena went to make the Shape denoting - hmm - there wasn’t really an Aeldari word for apology…

Wait, she’d nearly forgotten something incredibly obvious!

“Oh shit! I can teach you Thoughtmark!”

Leena concentrated hard - her silly tongue was poking out again. She carefully made the appropriate Thoughtmark signs for ‘Short-Range’, ‘Scope’ and ‘Comms’, taking care to ensure Tihomir had time to see them.

“It’s a limited tactical language. If you drop your slate, you can use it to convey basic commands and ideas.” Aleena shrugged. “I only know a little bit, but Oli and An know some words too. I bet uncle Asclepius could help us look up more signs.”

Tihomir let out a string of different binharic noises - some were musical, others sounded more like grinding or clicking. They sat on the floor of Aleena’s room, motioned for her to sit in front of them, and propped their data-slate up against their crossed legs.

+INFORMATIONAL EXCHANGE APPROVED. I WILL RECORD SOME BASIC HEX-PHONEMES FOR YOU TO PRACTICE.+

Aleena had no idea what a hex-phoneme was, but she sat and listened carefully, repeating different basic chirps and beeps after Tihomir. It took a few tries before the little Tech-Novice was satisfied with her mimicry. In addition to the frequencies that a baseline human ear could detect, binharic cant contained special supersonic and subsonic modulations that seemed to convey extra meaning. Leena was lucky that she could train her psykana to pick up these nuances.

In return, the Sonomancer would make various different Thoughtmark signs and get Tihomir to repeat them back until they had the shape right. Aleena desperately hoped she’d remembered Sage Emelina’s instructions correctly, and that Tihomir could apply the sign language to conversations with other people. The little Tech-Novice was a fast learner. In between making their hand-shapes, she noticed that Tihomir enjoyed caressing the rough texture of her home-made rug in slow, circular gestures. Maybe they found it soothing.

For what Aleena could only assume were religious reasons, the first full sentence Tihomir had her recite out loud was +HELLO, WORLD.+ At least, that was its rather unassuming translation on the Tech-Priest’s data-slate. The binharic litany was a lot more extensive, and sounded like an accident involving a circular saw and a Warp abomination. The Sonomancer struggled not to giggle the first time she attempted to mimic Tihomir’s bizarre electronic squeals. Her throat implants tingled with the subsonic vibrations, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

Leena knew she’d got the pronunciation right after the first three tries. Her room’s security panel let out a sizzling shower of sparks. The Sonomancer let out a squawk of alarm, and shuffled backwards out of her cross-legged position on the mat to glance over her shoulder at the mechanism. The door clicked ajar and closed again: the security panel’s lumen flashed bright orange for a second before returning to its usual placid blue.

“Sweet fucking Throne! What in the Void did I just break?” Aleena glanced at Tihomir’s data-slate: she’d gotten into the habit of reading their conversations by now. “I hope we’re not stuck in here.”

+CONGRATULATIONS UNIT ALEENA. YOU HAVE JUST PERFORMED YOUR FIRST SUCCESSFUL RITE OF NOOSPHERIC COMMUNION. GLORY TO THE OMNISSIAH.+

Leena wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

“Yes but what does it mean? I don’t want to just throw binharic words out at random, I want to know what I’m asking the machine spirits to do! Otherwise it’s pointless.”

+YOU COULD STILL SABOTAGE THINGS?+ Tihomir’s eyebrows twitched upwards. They were much more expressive with their eyes than with their mouth, just like their mentor.

Leena scowled. “Careful, uncle Asclepius wouldn’t like that.”

Tihomir rocked side to side in their cross-legged stance like a human metronome, and let out a familiar chug of binharic amusement.

+CHIEF ENGINSEER IS VERY GOOD AT BREAKING MACHINES. YOU JUST HAVE NOT SEEN THEM DO IT.+ That was a surprise.

“But they’re so careful about not hurting humans. I assumed their vow would extend to machine spirits too.” Aleena huffed. “Tech-Priests are weird.”

+THIS STATEMENT IS TRUE. REQUEST YOU SHOW ME MORE THOUGHT-MARK SIGNS+ Tihomir blinked their big dark eyes. +PLEASE.+

“Sure, buddy.” Leena held up her left hand and curled it into a shape that wasn’t too different from the sign of the Cog. “This one means Secret.”

Chapter 76: Chapter Seventy Six

Summary:

Just a Cold Trading mission, or something more?

The planet looked like a big brown ball of dung from a distance. Even among the dead and deserted worlds of the Koronus Expanse, few could actually be called ugly. The icy spires and windswept tundra of Frozen Worlds held a glittering grandeur: molten torrents of flood basalt made Burning Worlds glow like hot coals in the dimmest Void. Illisk, however, was a windswept wreck of a planet. Worse yet, it was ill-omened.

If it were possible to spit onto the surface of Illisk from high orbit, Jae Heydari would have done so. Pedar sag, all she could do was stare at its ugliness, mutter a prayer to the Exalted One and hope that her business in this system would soon be out of the way. A brown plume looped out of the atmosphere as if it were trying to grab the Arvus shuttle. Meisterin Torra swore profusely in a mix of human and Stryxis slang as she fought to maintain control over the little craft. Jae clicked her tongue at the Cold Trader.

“Kaj dar o mariz boro, shereen.”

“Keep your frilly shirt on, Baroness. The Emperor will keep us safe, all right?”

“Hos-s-s, I hope so!”

Jae hated being in realspace so close to Ork territory. After a decade of relative inactivity, the Accursed Demesne was growing full of Greenskin pirates. Illisk itself was so hostile to life that Jae doubted even the Orks would bother claiming the planet, but you never knew with those azhis. If they found out that some ashmag humans had jury-rigged a Void station on low orbit here, it was only a matter of time before some enterprising Freebooter kaptin descended on the place. Vae, please let today not be the day!

Jae withdrew her fingers from her lips before she chewed her nail polish off. She hated so much about this situation: their vulnerability in the shuttle, their lack of knowledge about the Void station. Most of all, she was afraid for the people she had pulled into this grox-brained mission. Meisterin Torra, who had come with her through thick and thin. Her loyal Kasballican crew. Jae tried very, very hard not to think about her precious cargo. That, of all things, had to arrive on the Void station intact.

The Shadow Baroness risked a glance out of the shuttle window. The Arvus was coming into the Void station at a steep angle: Jae could see the very tip of a spire-like structure that pierced Illisk’s grimy storm clouds. It was not so different from the Void elevators that often topped Hive Spires: but it should not have been able to withstand the abrasion of the upper atmosphere. The sight of that unnatural dark shape jutting from the maelstrom caused the Cold Trader to shudder and hurriedly make the sign of the Aquila.

“Exalted One, deliver us.”

Torra scoffed from her place up front in the pilot’s seat. To her credit, she was doing an excellent job navigating the atmospheric storms.

“Emperor’s teeth, you’re going to make me worry too at this rate! Just think of the prize, Jae darling. What’s that proverb you’re always saying? Something about big fish?”

“The best fish,” Jae corrected her, “are found at the bottom of the pond.” Illisk was a very nasty, murky pond. There had better be a beautiful treasure here, not just a fucking fish.

The Arvus’s vox-hailer cracked with a gritty wash of static.

“Gonna take a bit of work to get a clean signal out of this groxshite. Hold on, boss.” Torra managed to tune the frequency and get something resembling a clear channel. “Silent vox, chegnars. D’you copy?”

A distant, deep voice replied in a heavy Calixian dialect. It wasn’t easy to make them out over the electromagnetic interference from planetside. How in the Void they managed to keep anything operational on that station was anyone’s guess.

“Reading you loud and… shitty, honestly. How the fuck do you live like this?” Torra chatted back over the vox. “Inward goods go to the upper level, pickup shuttle to the cargo bay, like we agreed. Copy?”

“R-gr th-t. St-by, airlock -d -p -” The vox sputtered into grainy interference. The Meisterin brought the shuttle around in a careful, wide arc and lined up a landing trajectory.

It was a generous stretch to call this smugglers’ den a Void station, really. What they had was a couple of broken-down old Chartist vessels - small ones, not designed to do more than skim the Warp. The oghdeh bastards had welded what was left of the Voidships together and used the half-dead engines to keep the miniature hulk in a sluggish orbit. The whole thing was a nasty business even by recolliger standards. Any good Tech-Priest would take one look and blow the whole thing to flaming shreds. That, however, was not Jae Heydari’s approach to dealing with the Expanse’s dirtiest filth.

She was going to give them a present.

Torra descended next to what had once been a Voidship’s bridge: the front section of the viewing deck, where the Captain’s throne would have sat, had caved in under strong external pressure at some point. The current occupants had added an incongruous plasteel hatch over the hole and jury-rigged an airlock: it seemed that the Arvus would alight on the gangway of the old bridge itself. That was certainly a first!

The Meisterin piloted them inside: they had just enough space to turn the shuttle around inside the old observation deck. Torra managed to get them a spot right next to the big double doors that would have led through to the ship’s old Officers’ quarters - assuming a Chartist vessel this small had a full complement of duty officers back in her heyday. Once the airlock was fully sealed, Jae popped the gangway and signalled for her Kasballicans to start the unloading process.

“Khaste nabashid, shereen.” The Baroness patted Torra on the shoulder as she exited the pilot’s seat. “Kor would have been proud of your flying.”

The Meisterin grinned back, showing her gold teeth: Falco had broken the woman’s incisors back in the day, but Torra only looked more splendid with her new replacements. They had both gained a few scars and fine lines over the years, but by the Exalted One, Jae was glad to have an old shipmate at her side!

One last check of the precious cargo, before the crew picked it up. Jae strode over to the massive crate, propped her augmetic left arm against it and gave the plasteel shell a quick pat.

“Joon am.” She murmured under her breath, low and sweet.

It was time to put on a show.

The ‘recolligers’ had sent a representative to greet Torra and the crew just inside the airlock doors, following Kasballican rendezvous protocols. The terrain behind him was a loose assemblage of old furniture from the derelict ship. It would provide some cover for defenders if a fight broke out: Jae and her people were rather exposed on their side of the room. That was to be expected: Heydari would have done the same in the trader’s place.

The greasy-looking man - if man he still was, under all those layers of stinking leather clothing - clearly possessed more teeth than sense, and more fingers than teeth. He’d shown his guests the courtesy of displaying his main weapon openly - a big archaeotech rifle, the kind the Winterscales used for hunting large game. A nice piece. No doubt he would have other wicked things concealed under his coat. He’d given Meisterin Torra no other name but the alias Yota. His gappy, unctuous smile gave way to a wavering, defensive grimace when he saw that Jae had tagged along.

“Shadow Baroness Heydari - ah - an unexpected pleasure, to see you in this humble corner of the Accursed Demesne.”

Torra tossed her head back and laughed at his hand-wringing ways, puncturing the tension.

“Check it out, boss - he’s doing taarof right back to you!”

Jae did not appreciate the oily creature’s attempt at politeness, but she bestowed a dazzling smile on him anyway. She heard footfalls behind her - six strong Kasballicans were slowly shuffling down the shuttle’s gangway, bearing their cargo like a Saint’s shrine on festival day.

“I heard tell of marvellous prizes from the far reaches of the Expanse, and I told myself - Jae, shereen, you absolutely must meet these brave recolligers in person! Naturally this representative of the Kasballica, the bearer of a Mercatum Tabula Officiale, stands ready to legitimise any purchases made in our mutually beneficial exchange.”

“I guess I can’t argue with that! Kappa, come out.” Yota waved a grimy-looking hand in the direction that led further into the Officers’ Deck. “Kappa’s my bursar. I figured, since you had such an interesting offer, she’d best be here as witness to the barter agreement.”

Kappa wasn’t alone: she came with her own retinue of malnourished-looking gangers. Jae’s people carefully bore the enormous crate through the doors of the Officers’ Deck and across the interior chamber’s scruffy carpeting. The bursar was a chinless older woman with sandy, thatch-like hair. Kappa wore a strange wide eye-patch that covered the entire left side of her forehead and part of her left cheekbone. The garment’s odd shape made Jae take a closer look at Yota. He wore a fingerless glove on one hand but not the other. The Baroness could swear that one of his coat-sleeves was more filled out than the other. The asymmetry was an unsettling tell.

The crew were still working on the fastenings that held the crate in place. Jae had affixed a couple of purity seals in one corner for dramatic purposes. She wasn’t expecting them to combust in the presence of this scum, but she wondered how the smugglers would react to the sacred amulets. Playfully, almost idly, she peeled one loose from the crate and started to fiddle with it as she strolled towards Yota. The trader didn’t flinch, but the bursar behind him averted her gaze. Jae smiled seraphically and stuck the purity seal onto the skull decoration of her artificial left shoulder with a faint plap.

“Oh, I have no doubt you will find our offer a most interesting one, good ser. It is all too easy to acquire Drukhari weapons or even Asuryani trinkets in these prosperous times. I thought I might provide you with something more scarce, as a token of… good faith.” Jae winked and stroked her purity seal. She was enjoying tormenting Kappa with it.

“The contents of your crate… is that what I think it is, Lady Baroness?” Yota squinted at the crew, then at the crate, then at Jae again. “Not something on the Order of the Hammer’s little shopping list, is it?”

“Ooh, you are so close to the mark, good dammar!” Jae clapped her hands together. “It is indeed a precious holy relic, one that is of interest to a great many prestigious individuals in the Expanse.”

Kappa’s eyes widened, and she seized Yota by his skinnier left arm. The bursar hissed at him, loud enough for Jae to hear. Silly wench.

“We got no use for this, boss, send it gone -”

“Belay your nonsense!” Yota slapped Kappa across the back of the head and she scrambled out of reach, snarling. “A thousand pardons, friends - it appears my bursar lacks the foresight to understand the value of a good investment.” The trader stared daggers at the bursar. “I have no doubt that retrieving a relic would benefit the reputation of our humble crew.”

This ashmag had more sense than his colleague. These were clearly corrupted servants of the Ruinous Powers. What better way to cover up the stench of Chaos than by trading or donating a holy item to the Drusians, the smaller Imperial sects or even to the Holy Inquisition itself? The nasty man must be counting up all the possibilities even now. Oh yes, he seemed more than happy with this arrangement. Jae inclined her head in his direction, still smiling like a Janusian crocolisk in the afternoon sun. Her prey was so close…

“Now that we have cleared that up, allow me to present to you - this most priceless and beautiful of treasures!”

With a wave of Jae’s hand, her crew pulled the front panel of the crate free, and it fell forward with a resonant thud against the scruffy carpet. The villainous azhis stood staring at the treasure within, gaping at its majesty.

Jae Heydari had not lied. It was indeed a priceless holy relic: shining, black, immaculate, tall, powerful. An ancient set of power armour, impossible to recreate with modern technology.

“Behold - the One Star.”

The helmet’s visor illuminated with a soft click. Servomotors whirred and before everyone’s eyes, the beetle-black limbs began to move.

The bursar let out a desperate wail, too late. There would be no redemption for the smugglers. Jae sprang out of the way just as the armoured figure raised her heavy bolter, and then - all was clamour and carnage.

The trader’s body exploded into a pulpy mess before he could deploy his hunting rifle. Kappa caught an explosive bolter round to the shoulder as she rolled out of the way, screaming blue murder. Her gangers dashed towards the safety of cover, but such safety would be short-lived under Prioress Argenta’s relentless barrage.

Jae risked a glance back at her crew. Kasballicans had ripped the side panels off the transport crate to create two jury-rigged shields: Meisterin Torra had designed the container with specially placed hand-holds and release clasps with this use in mind. Torra herself sheltered behind the back panel: she’d be assembling the sidearm from the pieces that she’d smuggled in her boot and waistcoat. So far, things were going to plan. Jae was the most exposed target - not ideal, but for now, the Prioress served as an effective distraction.

The Shadow Baroness had another objective in mind. This half-gutted ship did not have a working bridge, so there must be a command and control centre further inside. If these azhis had any sense, they would try to seal off the upper deck and trap the Kasballican landing party. Jae had her splinter pistols and her hand-auspex. She dashed along a side wall, trying to stay out of Argenta’s line of fire.

Jae cleared the wreckage of splintered furniture with a leap that nearly took the breath out of her. Vae, the years had not been kind! The Cold Trader landed on top of a smuggler, knocked them sprawling and followed up with a burst of toxic splinters that penetrated something important. Somewhere behind her, Kappa’s voice called out.

“For the Lord of Change!”

The bursar’s voice distorted into a keening wail. A nasty crunching sound heralded some sort of disgusting transformation - these oghdeh cultists always seemed to turn into monsters as a last resort. Jae didn’t have time to assist with the battle. She had faith that the Prioress could handle one of Tzeentch’s nasty little flesh-bags. Instead, she cleared the next set of doors before backup could arrive to seal them. A volley of splinters wrecked the emergency panel - that would impede the defenders’ efforts.

More smugglers were coming - Jae could hear their booted steps nearby. She whipped out the auspex and hastened to find cover. Fortunately, this was still an old Imperium ship and its layout was predictable. A nearby storage unit offered her a temporary shelter. The auspex readouts would broadcast across multiple encrypted connections: one feed went to the Prioress’s helmet, one went to Meisterin Torra’s own auspex - and the third feed relayed to the second shuttle, the one they had sent to the cargo bay.

Jae’s backup team was already making excellent progress through the aft section of the Voidship. It truly was inspiring what a group of Novice Sisters of Battle could accomplish. All the Baroness needed to do was show them what to target. Comms, cogitators and above all - records. For the Orders Dialogus, information was the most valuable prize of all.

Prioress Argenta’s armoured form charged into the room just in time for another wave of smugglers to enter and instantly regret their bravery. She mowed them down. Meisterin Torra followed with her Kasballicans. Just as before, Jae used the distraction to keep infiltrating new sections of the half-dead ship, poking her auspex down hallways and ducking into cover whenever someone tried to shoot at her. It was thrilling to enjoy the sights and sounds of battle after spending so much time cooped up in her office on Efreet secundus. And Jae confessed that she derived a special thrill from the sight of the Prioress wading into battle like a great gleaming statue.

I am bewildered by the magnificence of your beauty, and I wish to see you with a thousand eyes… Ah, it was not the Exalted One whom Jae Heydari wished to behold, not in this moment. Beauteous Argenta was more than enough of a miracle.

Jae’s auspex chirped: the tiny green square of its readout screen indicated an area where the Motive Force was especially active. That had to be the control centre she was looking for. The Baroness darted back to regroup with Prioress Argenta and Torra’s team - someone shot over her head with a lasgun, and she instinctively dropped onto all fours before sprinting away again. She smelled the distinctive tang of burned hair: the stray energy beam must have just missed Jae’s scalp. Pedar sag, that would be difficult to explain to her hairdresser!

Meisterin Torra was busy using Argenta’s armoured form as living cover: as Jae approached, she saw the Cold Trader poke a modified pistol out from under the Prioress’s arm and pop off a few shots in a corner that Argenta’s heavy bolter was too cumbersome to reach. Baroness Heydari reminded herself to engineer a similar situation for herself next time. Why should Torra get all of the fun?

Now that they knew where to go, it took very little time to reach the improvised comms room - which, of course, was obstructed by heavy steel doors. Argenta sighed and hoisted her heavy bolter, but Heydari had a better idea. She laid a hand on the Prioress’s right forearm, trying not to blush about the fact that she had just dared to touch a sacred object - the armour, or Argenta herself? Hos, don’t think about this now!

“Hamsar am, I see a hole.”

Argenta’s voice was distorted through her helmet and vox-speaker, but her good humour was still evident. Shooting up a den of heretics appeared to have relaxed the Prioress.

“I see a hole too!”

Argenta set the heavy bolter down and poked at Jae’s ruined hairstyle with an armoured finger. The Baroness huffed and indicated the ceiling.

“Enough about my hair’s holey martyrdom, joon am. Would you give me a boost?”

The smugglers had connected cogitators in a place that lacked a suitable supply of the Motive Force: they had therefore cut through the bulkheads at ceiling height to run potentia cables through. Jae could always have sabotaged the power supply, but she did not want to trap the Novices Dialogus in one of the Void station’s compartments. Instead, she would use this little rat-hole to her advantage and avoid damage to the cogitators inside.

Argenta seemed to intuit Jae’s plan: a pair of glossy black power gauntlets encircled the Shadow Baroness’s hips and hoisted her up in the air. After a couple of awkward manoeuvres, Baroness Heydari ended up standing on top of Argenta’s right pauldron. She felt like a pet gretchin perching on the shoulders of an Ork Warboss. Torra cackled at the sight, but Jae was determined not to let herself become distracted. She murmured a quick prayer to bless her grenade before she tossed it through the narrow opening.

This was a nasty little toxic surprise, engineered by the filthy xenos of the Expanse. The grenade would break apart and release a hissing yellow cloud of gas. Any unfortunate kaskhas on the other side of the doors would go down choking and gulping. Their eyes would bulge and redden, the muscles of their bodies would seize up and render them helpless. Jae refused to pity heretics, even as she remembered the awful sensation of retching on toxic gases.

It felt improper for the Baroness to simply jump down from her perch, so she allowed the Prioress to lower her back down. Did she blush in the process? Perhaps, but who could blame her. She had never felt so much like a genuine princess. Enough girlishness, Jae! There was more work to do. Heydari followed Torra’s gestures and ran for the nearest terminal. The Shadow Baroness had spent hours preparing an array of data-spikes, and she was not about to let them go to waste.

A fervent prayer to the Omnissiah and a handshake protocol would not be enough to convince the terminal’s stubborn machine to take Jae’s commands. On a whim, she took the purity seal from her artificial shoulder and stuck it onto the terminal’s steel casing. The device stopped spitting sparks at her, but it still needed extra encouragement. Jae deployed one of her data-spikes: it would unleash a torrent of commands and Tech-litanies to override the machine spirit’s objections. That was enough to get the nearest compartment open.

Prioress Argenta waded into the billowing gas, armed only with her powered gauntlets. A series of wet crunches echoed through the room. Argenta was punching the face of anyone inside who was still moving inside that toxic haze. After a little while, the smoke dispersed and the Kasballican team could safely enter. Jae followed, stepping delicately over the cratered-in heads and contorted bodies of dead smugglers. The crew’s mutations were evident even at a glance. Jae would need to check the cogitators for signs of Chaos corruption. She resisted the urge to crack her knuckles: her augmetic hand would have destroyed her human one.

“Let us hope, chegnars, that I do not bring shame to the Exalted One.”

The purity seal trick might work as a diagnostic tool. Jae borrowed one from Prioress Argenta this time - surely it was even more holy from the time it had spent adorning a Sister of Battle. The vid-screens did not change colour or spit out hex-code when Jae prayed over them. Praise the Exalted One, they did not have a Kiava Gamma situation on their hands just yet.

The machine spirits were old and very confused about the clumsy fusion of two different Voidship systems. It was easy enough to convince the cogitator that Jae and her boarding party were not a threat. Now the Novice Sisters would have a nice clear path to the cargo storage area. Argenta, Torra and the Kasballicans hurried on ahead to meet them while Jae stayed a while to soothe the cogitators and thank them for their help. Magos Pasqal’s dubious influence had made an unusually polite Tech-Thief out of the Shadow Baroness. She wondered what they would think of her these days. Probably, the grumpy old Tech-Priest would still threaten her with servitorisation. There was no pleasing these Cogs.

By the time Jae caught up with the boarding party, they had made good headway in sorting and inspecting the Void station’s cargo. Once again, Heydari marvelled at the ineptitude of these ashmags. Would it kill them to arrange and contain their spoils properly?

“Novice Hyejin, report. Do we have any casualties?”

The Prioress had raised her visor: a little wisp of white hair peeked out of her helmet as she addressed her trainee. Hyejin was the best gunner among the Novices, and had evidently been chosen to lead the backup team.

“None on our side, Prioress. The Emperor blesses us this day! Although… We encountered a Pink Horror and multiple heretics in the docking area. It was just as you predicted, Reverend Mother.”

Hyejin made the sign of the Aquila. She was trying not to show it, but her first proper battle with Chaos spawn had clearly unsettled her. Argenta carefully set an armoured hand on the Novice’s shoulder.

“Trust in the strength of your will and the God-Emperor’s fire in your heart, Hyejin. You and your team did well. Rejoice, for we have struck a blow against the Ruinous Powers and thwarted their plans!”

Novice Hyejin stood up straighter, and her eyes shone with sudden resolve.

“We won’t let you down, Reverend Mother!”

Hyejin hastened back to rejoin the other Novices Dialogus. Argenta approached Jae and drew them aside for a moment. The Shadow Baroness could not read the Prioress’s expression. She still appeared energised from the combat, but there was a softness in her smile that seemed at odds with her usual bold temperament.

“I shall never get used to being called Mother.” The corner of Argenta’s mouth quirked upward. “Did I lie to my own Novice just now, Jae?”

“I do not think so, shereen.” Heydari glanced after Hyejin, who was now trotting happily around with a data-slate, performing the duties of a librarium scribe. “We did stop this scum from troubling the Expanse. It will interfere with the Arch-enemy’s schemes.”

There was a tiny furrow between Argenta’s brows. Jae longed to kiss it away.

“As one of the smugglers died, they spoke to me. They said that the dawn would come.”

They both knew what that implied. The Final Dawn. That disgusting cult - had it not been eradicated after the siege of Eufrates II? Jae supposed that it was wishful thinking to expect a Chaos-tainted Astartes to simply give up and take his business elsewhere.

“By the Exalted One…” The Baroness shook her damaged curls. “The last time we confronted the azhis, we had a pack of Space Wolves and the Cognisance Fleet on our side. Who could we call upon this time?”

Argenta tapped her gauntleted fingers against the side of her thigh with a rippling click. Jae realised just how much taller the Prioress looked when she was wearing her holy armour. The Baroness tried not to blush at the thought. This really was not a good time for distractions. Argenta hummed something under her breath - Jae recognised the slow, soothing cadence of a hymn, but could not make out its exact tune.

“Inventing premature catastrophes would be playing into the Arch-enemy’s hands. I need to know what we are dealing with.” Argenta clicked her tongue. “And I need to judge whether the Lord Inquisitor will be an ally or a complication.”

Jae crossed her arms. “Illisk is not claimed by a Rogue Trader, but it adjoins Winterscale’s Domain. Do you think he was involved with this scum?”

“Lord Winterscale has already had one too many brushes with Chaos, but I am no more suspicious of him than of anyone else in the Expanse. He is not afraid to visit me and subject himself to rituals of penance. And his old corruption is of a different nature.”

“Como-sayyid did say to me once, that Nine and Eight are mortal enemies.”

Argenta scoffed. “Of course the Ruinous Powers work against each other! Such is the nature of villainy. We see such in-fighting amongst the xenos as well. Only the Emperor unites.”

Baroness Heydari decided not to mention the various petty conflicts that divided the Imperium-controlled segments of the Koronus Expanse. The Cogs’ civil war, the groxshit with the Squats and the Administratum, the endless feuds between Rogue Traders, even Argenta’s own distrust of Lord Inquisitor Heinrix van Calox could all count as in-fighting. The Prioress could be surprisingly naive at times. Then again, that was part of her charm.

“We found documents, Reverend Mother! At least, I think they’re documents.”

Another of the Novices Dialogus called out excitedly. This girl’s name was Alva: Jae recognised her when she looked up. All the Novices bleached their hair to resemble their patron saint Katherine, but Alva kept hers clipped short. The Paleo-historian had donned a headband fitted with an auspex and assistive vision lenses. Her headgear made her look somewhat like an insect from this distance.

Always curious about new finds, Jae hastened over to inspect Alva’s crate. These were definitely written records, but they were inscribed onto palm-sized tiles of fired clay rather than drawn in ink. The baroness was hard-pressed to call the rows of indentations ‘letters’ - they looked more like the agitated footprints of a very small bird. They were far too consistently laid out to be random, though.

“Well, that’s new.”

“On the contrary, it is very, very old.” Novice Alva pedantically corrected her.

“Fortunately, our Priory is well-suited to purify and translate the smugglers’ records. We will need a full prayer vigil to exorcise the tablets. May I undertake this task, Reverend Mother?”

Prioress Argenta nodded. The Priory of the One Star had special consecrated chambers dedicated to the decryption of ancient texts. It was the safest place Jae could think of to store a stack of mysterious tablets.

“We’ve got more clay over here, Reverend Mother.”

Hyejin called out and beckoned to the others in Calixian fashion. The Prioress took two heavy-footed steps forward, stopped and signalled the other Novices to remain in place.

“Stay exactly where you are, my children.”

Baroness Heydari recognised that urgent, flat tone of voice. Argenta was doing her best to prevent herself from panicking.

“Jae. Come see what I see.”

The crate itself was anomalous. The Cold Trader had seen goods from forested planets that were bundled up in wooden containers, but real wood was prohibitively expensive in most parts of the Imperium. Nor did this wood appear to have been fastened with nails. Jae examined the tongue-and-groove joins of the crate. It slotted together neatly and had then been bound with belts of braided canvas.

The inside of the container was packed tightly with straw and wood shavings. The cargo was made from ceramics, just as Novice Hyejin had said. The crate contained no tablets, only a single rounded vessel: an earthenware pot, not a large one, perhaps the size of an Efreeti water jug. The vessel had been enclosed with a wooden plug and sealed with a heavy layer of red wax. Someone had left a careful impression in the waxen glob that covered the pot’s wooden cork: a stylised image of a human skull, bisected down the middle and surrounded with a cog pattern.

Heydari glanced up at Argenta’s armoured form. The Prioress stared gloomily down at the cargo.

“Touch not the impure workings of the xenos.” Argenta made a warding sign and sighed heavily. “If only more people would heed the God-Emperor’s teachings, Jae! What’s done is done. We will need to find the blessed Amarnat.”

Jae felt a cold shiver run along her unaugmented arm. So this vessel truly did contain…

“Como-sayyid will know how to contact them.”

“By the Throne, I hope so. And thus, the descendant atones for the sins of their ancestor.”

The Baroness wished she could offer Prioress Argenta a word of encouragement, but nothing seemed fitting or anything less than flippant after making such a discovery. She focused instead on the more urgent problem.

Meisterin Torra would have to extract the dangerous cargo and bring it back to their chartered frigate, through unrelenting atmospheric turbulence, without breaking this delicate little pot. Because if the pot did break, none of them were making it back to Efreet secundus.

Chapter 77: Chapter Seventy Seven

Summary:

Girl Talk.

Prioress Argenta had never formally taken confession for a Navigator before. Lady Novator Orsellio still dropped by Efreet secundus for the odd heart-to-heart over a cup of tanna now and then, but Lady Cassia always took pains to keep the conversation light and friendly. If the Novator had qualms of the heart or troubles of the soul, she kept them well hidden from Argenta. She certainly had grown into a fine diplomat… ‘growing’ both upwards and outwards, judging from the contours of the Lady Novator’s veiled form. Lady Cassia’s second pregnancy appeared to be going well, but Argenta prayed for her health all the same.

Jae’s chartered Navigator was a less privileged scion of House Orsellio: Argenta had inferred as much from the scar across the man’s breastbone, a sign that he had once borne a chunk of the Starway Atlas. He had bared his body to the waist so that he could show proof of his devotional flagellation. Something clearly weighed upon the Navigator’s conscience, but it was difficult to know the details. The man’s tongue had been cut out: instead of speaking his confession, he could only draw strange abstract sketches and show them to the Prioress while thick, dark tears dribbled down his cheeks.

At least he would not be able to speak about their little trip to Illisk. Prioress Argenta would not be surprised if Jae and Torra had chosen to hire the Navigator for that specific reason. The Sister of Battle had prayed over the wretched fellow, and her attention seemed to have improved his resolve. She hadn’t even been able to learn the Navigator’s first name; now he was braving the Immaterium to bring her home safely.

Home… yes, she was starting to think of Efreet secundus and the Priory as home, wasn’t she? After years of wandering, Argenta was relieved to be part of a non-militant division of her Order. Faith could be ignited in the thick of battle, but its flame was best sustained in a place of peace.

This frigate had not been designed with Nobles’ needs in mind. Even this guest cabin was relatively small compared with Argenta’s old quarters on the von Valancius flagship. She preferred a room like this, homely and well-arranged, with everything kept in easy reach. The blessed Armour of the One Star was arrayed in a little enclosed niche made from a closet with the shelves removed: Argenta had cleaned all of its dark adamantine plates herself before packing it away.

There was something fitting about stashing a relic in such a humble place. All too often, pilgrims seemed to venerate the Imperium’s gilded reliquaries while forgetting about the stories behind the Saints. True virtue seldom thrived in luxury: Argenta would rather place her safety in the hands of Jae’s well-meaning lackeys than trust in the benevolence of Dargonus’s Noble Houses.

The Prioress was currently free of both her holy carapace and her young charges. The Novices Dialogus were excited about the ancient spoils they had recovered, and diligent about keeping the cargo secure. Sisters Alva and Penitentia had insisted that the girls take turns holding a prayer vigil for the entirety of the chartered frigate’s Warp trip back to Mundus Valancius. Argenta couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. Thus, until her own prayer shift was due, she had nothing to do but lounge around in her cosy cabin.

When the faithful are idle, heresy grows: Argenta hadn’t forgotten the words of her Order’s patron Saint. The Prioress was fortunate that Baroness Heydari could keep her company. They would pass the time together, strengthening their spirits and their friendship during the journey.

Speaking of Jae, here she was with a tray of snacks and what appeared to be a fresh pot of tanna. Emperor bless that woman for her thoughtfulness!

“May the Exalted One’s blessings be upon you, atashe delam!”

That Efreeti term meant… something about a fiery heart. Argenta supposed the literal interpretation was fitting, given Saint Katherine’s heritage and infamous temperament. Knowing Heydari, the Cold Trader had definitely smuggled in some flirtatious subtext.

“Not that I suppose a Sister of Battle needs an extra blessing.”

Jae gave the Prioress one of her signature cheeky smiles and brought her tray inside. That tanna smelled delightful, with strong undertones of mint and syrup.

“I couldn’t possibly say no to one of your blessings, Jae.”

“Oh really, shereen?”

“You wouldn’t believe how nice it is to have someone else offer for a change, instead of asking me to bless them.”

“Vay vay, that will not do. You will be in deficit at this rate!”

“Never fear, the Emperor extends an impressive line of credit to His faithful.” Argenta chuckled at Jae’s look of astonishment. “What? I can make jokes too.”

The Shadow Baroness needed no invitation to saunter over towards the room’s little side table and set her bounty down. Argenta noticed that Jae had tucked her usually abundant brown curls up in a tight, military-style bun. She guessed that the Cold Trader wanted to hide the damaged section of her hair.

“You’re less flashy than usual.”

Jae winced and laid a hand on her bun.

“Those kaskhas. How dare they touch a woman’s pride! But speak for yourself, Reverend Mother...” It was the Cold Trader’s turn to grin at Argenta’s discomfort.

“Oh no, do I look matronly in these trousers?” Come to think of it, this might be Jae’s first time seeing the Sister without her robes on.

“Not at all, hamsar am! You are always radiant.”

Damn, she’d hoped that the simple combination of long pants and an old Guardsman’s jumper might make her seem less saintly in Jae’s eyes. Argenta flopped into one of the little curve-backed armchairs that adjoined the side table. A sugar-coated cookie sat at a tempting angle: the Prioress captured it, scoffed it and grinned around a mouthful of crumbly sweetness.

“Would you still love me if I had mousy hair… or grey hair, for that matter?”

“You know I would love you no matter the guise, joon am.”

Thankfully Jae played off her comment with grace and lightness, otherwise Argenta would have choked upon her cookie and suffered the Order’s most inglorious martyrdom in history.

“I can’t help noticing that you offered me the Captain’s quarters, Jae.”

“Well… the other berths are a little too small to fit the One Star, shereen.”

Excuses, excuses! Heydari poured two glasses of hot tanna. Argenta picked one up and delighted in the way the fragrant steam danced in little swirls across the painted glass. Jae took a cautious half-sip of her own, then blew on the surface to cool it. She waved the painted nails of her unaugmented right hand at their relatively modest surroundings.

“If such opulence bothers you, we could always share the room.”

The Prioress really ought to have scolded her. Baroness Heydari pursed her lips and exhaled again, her face perfectly composed as if she’d said nothing out of turn. Ah, that was another difference… if Argenta wasn’t mistaken, the woman’s lip colour was lighter than usual. Jae still wore plenty of kohl around her eyes, but she hadn’t masked the rest of her face with her customary defensive layers of foundation and powder. The Prioress wasn’t the only one trying to set aside her pageantry.

“I hope you’ll dine with me, at the very least.”

A safe concession. Heydari’s expression brightened. She was so easy to please. The thought made Argenta’s heart tighten. The Prioress was already responsible for so many people’s happiness.

“Have I imposed upon you, joon am?”

Jae must have noticed something in Argenta’s expression.

“I…” She really ought not to assume that she could read Jae’s thoughts - and she was not bold enough to ask the woman what she wanted, not yet. The Prioress searched her own mind for something honest to share. That was the polite thing to do. With the Rogue Trader away, who else would take Argenta’s little confession?

“I am beginning to feel old.”

Argenta almost laughed at herself. Heretical cults, Tech-blight, untold threats at their doorstep and she actually cared about her own vanity? Inconceivable.

“Why is that so terrible, shereen? If we do get our share of grey hairs - not that you will ever catch me letting anyone see the roots, of course! - is that not a testament to our survival in this cold dark universe, where the Emperor’s light is our only comfort?”

Ah, Baroness Heydari the philosopher! Jae crossed her legs and took a dainty sip out of her tanna glass as if she had just pulled off some brilliant trade deal. It was rather cute. Argenta couldn’t help smiling despite her melancholy.

“Quite a few of the faithful expect me to be like the blessed Saint Katherine - or like my namesake, Saint Argenta.” She needed another cookie for this. “The key is in the name… the Order of our Martyred Lady. Emphasis on martyrdom. I rather wonder if any of the Orders Militant are expected to live into middle age.”

“It is a good thing that you are not a Sister Militant, then.”

Jae inched the cookie plate just a little bit closer to Argenta’s hovering hand. She made a move and captured another treat. The Cold Trader giggled as the Prioress devoured her second cookie. These things were really good.

“I don’t mind-” Argenta swallowed a crumbly mouthful. “I don’t mind dying for the God-Emperor, if my death helps protect Humanity’s innocence. But imagine a future where the Priory succeeds in its goal of securing peace for the Koronus Expanse. I have few doubts in life, but I wonder if I even have a place in the world I long to create. My Novices are all scholars, but the Emperor knows I am no great reader. What does a woman with nothing but a set of power armour and a very large gun do once she has outlived her utility?”

Jae cocked an eyebrow at Argenta over her tanna glass.

“Do not be so downcast, hamsar am! I thought your dealings with the Squats and the Administratum were impressive. You strike very good bargains for a Sister of Battle. Even in times of peace, we will always need kind and clever people to keep that peace.”

Argenta swallowed the compliment down with a large sip of tanna. A delicate hint of sweetener and the scent of mint lingered on her palate like a sacrament.

“Hum. I suspect you’re being too generous to this poor soldier.”

“How could I not be generous, light of my eyes? I too was a soldier once. Old comrades must be kind to one another.”

Argenta had been mistaken. Jae Heydari did not seem to rely upon her favour at all. Just look at the woman! She’d been through all kinds of trials and come out happy, or something damn close to it. The Shadow Baroness was hardly some weak supplicant. No, if anyone was afraid to voice her thoughts…

Ach, to the Void with all this! A Sister of Battle didn’t have room for fear in her life.

“If you’re offering favours, Baroness-”

“Anything for you, hamsar am!”

Argenta waggled her eyebrows at Jae, then grinned wolfishly when the Cold Trader hastily amended “-within reason-” and gulped a large mouthful of tea.

“I have spent the past eight years enviously regarding your swimming pool.”

The Baroness’s look of pure flustered confusion was a balm to Argenta’s soul.

“By the Exalted One. Do you wish to - to swim -”

“I believe it is customary for your guests to wear a bathing suit, yes? I might need some help picking one out.” Argenta glanced down at Jae’s spilling tanna glass. “Careful, Baroness, you’re getting your lap wet.”

“Sh-shereen…”

The Prioress helped herself to a third cookie. She was enjoying this far too much.

Chapter 78: Chapter Seventy Eight

Summary:

Tactical charm offensives.

(Note, this is a flirty chapter, the next one will be explicit)

The palm trees were not from Efreet. Jae’s home planet had been so thoroughly strip-mined that even the hardiest plants would no longer grow tall or bear proper fruit. The Shadow Baroness had sourced her first hundred palms from cuttings grown in the Calixis Sector and somehow managed to ship them through the Maw. Prioress Argenta decided it was better not to think about how much time, money and effort that venture had cost.

She’d always assumed the palm trees were one of the Cold Trader’s vanity projects. Argenta hadn’t even realised that one could collect a harvest from the strange trees - they’d looked too silly to be anything but decorative. With Dargonus’s commodities market still in shambles, any source of home-grown production on their little planetoid had suddenly become more precious than expected. Had Jae foreseen this?

 

It had taken the best part of a decade for the young palms to mature: this was their second season producing edible dates. Argenta was always fascinated to see what Jae’s workers could do with all the parts of the palm. Stalks, the sheaths of large fronds, the twigs left over after the date harvest could all be repurposed as household tools, matting or fragrant potpourri. Even the sun-hat that Argenta was currently wearing had been woven out of dried palm leaves. Large gauze bags kept the fruiting date stalks safe from Efreet secundus’s few birds and insects - most of the planetoid’s critters were opportunistic pests that had stowed away in cargo containers centuries ago, but a few were deliberately introduced pollinators.

Rounded clay vessels hung low against the trunks of the two token male palms: the trees earned their keep by providing Jae’s household with syrupy sap and molasses. Argenta thought about her own deadly little ceramic pot, now stashed in the basement of the Priory well away from any metal or technology. She kept visiting the basement each morning to add more cushioning, trying to soothe her fears that the pot had been jostled in the night.

She understood the Holy Inquisition’s temptation to hoard dangerous things. Imagine if more of those dreadful Necrons woke up from their unholy catacombs. How convenient it would be to throw a jar of Tech-blight at the metal creatures instead of throwing away human lives… The Prioress hung her head. If even the technology-obsessed Pasqal condemned the Tech-blight, then what right did she have to keep such a vile thing? It was too bound up with Theodora’s dark legacy not to be cursed.

Argenta wondered when she had become picky about the rules of engagement where it came to xenos. Bringing fire and a sword to the heathens was one thing, but the Tech-blight wasn’t a true weapon of war. Underhanded trickery was the Inquisition’s way - an ugly way. Sisters of Battle should not be ugly. They should be zealous, radiant, brave.

A dangling section of palm-leaf tickled the floppy brim of Argenta’s hat. The dry rustling sound brought her back to reality. The sunlight left bright spots in her vision when she craned her head up to look at the sky; she quickly redirected her gaze towards the dusty toes of her boots and blinked her incipient headache away. Argenta’s shirt was beginning to stick to the small of her back. The Prioress glanced around, wondering if any of Jae’s workers had seen her; it was bad form for a Sister of Battle to be caught brooding.

Curiously enough, the Baroness didn’t seem to use any servitors in the palm orchard. Argenta vaguely recalled the Cold Trader commenting that they depressed her. A wizened-looking lady was placidly filling half-buried ollas with water from a rusty jerrycan, and a boy with thin legs and knee-braces had just finished sweeping dust off the compound’s back step. Neither of them seemed to recognise the Sister without her usual robes and armour - and the hat covered her white hair. Thank the Emperor for that!

Everyone else had retreated to the shade of the stables or the inner rooms. Noon came quickly on Efreet secundus, and only foolish people stayed out in the sun. Foolish people who, for example, might be planning to use the compound’s open air swimming pool.

“Argenta shereen, light of my eyes!”

Jae lounged half-in and half-out of the shade, leaning against the back doorway’s mud-brick frame. Her pale, loose pants and slip-on shoes practically glowed in the noon sun, while her face and upper body were just a dim silhouette. The bare metal of her arm and throat augmetics glimmered faintly in the shade.

“Emperor’s blessings, Baroness! I have already seen to my beast.”

“Then hurry and escape from this heat!”

Argenta hastened to the back doorstep, divested herself of her hat and kicked the worst of the dust off her riding boots. She gave the Kasballican a polite peck on the cheek as she stepped through into the shade. The cool air was an incredible relief. So was Jae’s conspiratorial little smile. They’d only been separated for a couple of days since they’d landed, but Argenta had still missed her company.

“It really is good to see you… er, june arm.”

Jae giggled at Argenta’s terrible accent, and the Prioress tried not to feel too self-conscious. Languages really weren’t her strong suit - an awkward flaw for a leader of the Sisters Dialogus to have. The Cold Trader looped the Sister of Battle’s right arm in her own metal one and led her towards the interior courtyard.

Two women could take these little gestures of affection a long way before it was considered improper. That was both an opportunity and a problem. They had spent eight years dancing in this cosy, non-committal space that was more than acquaintance yet less than a romance. Now that Argenta was fully conscious of her own delaying tactics, she wanted to be done with pretences. Jae’s unaugmented hand patted the Prioress’s elbow as if she had just read the Sister’s mind.

“Praise the Exalted One, what a perfect day for a swim! Although I am surprised you did not defer your visit until after Saint Drusus Day, shereen.”

Argenta shot the Baroness a sidelong glance.

“Do I strike you as the patient type, Jae?”

The long sleeve of the Cold Trader’s free arm billowed when she shrugged. Something was different about Jae’s augmetics. The fringed skull-shaped epaulette that she usually wore on her left shoulder was gone, replaced with a smooth golden ball joint that seemed better suited for swimming.

“To be honest, joon am, you do not! I wasn’t certain that you would stay hidden long enough for us to spring our little surprise upon those azhi smugglers. It would be just like you to have stormed out of your crate with your weapons blazing, terrifying the heretics with a dreadful sermon.”

“Saints and stars, I admit I was tempted to do just that!”

Jae’s wonderful laugh echoed along the compound’s shaded colonnades. Darkness and sunlight took turns illuminating and cooling their figures. Argenta stayed on the sunward side, screening her companion from the desert heat. Her boots felt constricting. She wondered if she could ask Jae for a pair of slippers.

“Ten years ago I would have charged ahead, eager to play the part of a true Sister of Battle. But I promised that I would go along with your plan. I wanted to trust you - and in so doing, prove that your trust in me is justified.”

Jae snickered. “How fortunate it is that we are both women of faith!”

The Cold Trader leaned just a little into their embrace as they walked. Her hair smelled wonderful - she’d bound it loosely, so that it framed her face while staying neat. Would it be too strange if Argenta were to bury her face in those perfumed curls? Perhaps not. Perhaps just a caress. The Sister felt the agitation in her own pulse, pushed past it and just - reached her free left hand across to close the divide between them.

This wasn’t something a friend would do.

Jae halted for half a second, perplexed; Argenta took a swinging inward pace to steady herself. Her fingertips had found a lock of glossy hair that curved around the little tanned half-moon of Jae’s ear. Argenta flicked it free. The texture was a little heavier than she’d expected, but wonderfully smooth. The Sister felt a surge of elation, as if she’d just walked away unscathed from a frontal assault.

“I fear I shall be unable to relax until the Venatrix returns to Mundus Valancius and we can arrange the blessed Amarnat’s intervention.”

Fuck, why was she trying to deflect the conversation away from intimacy? Argenta forced herself to stay in the moment. Her head felt giddy. She could barely even focus on Jae, for Throne’s sake!

“Please help me take my mind off these grim matters, if only for a day.”

She resumed walking, putting a hand out to avoid immediately colliding with a column as she turned away. Its cool rockcrete surface felt so rough compared with Jae’s hair. Argenta’s limbs moved awkwardly, perhaps because she was used to wearing armour. Yes, surely that was the reason.

“By the Emperor… I am not sure I will ever get used to this terrible heat.”

Argenta, you dunce! Stop pretending that the bells of Sext and the noonday sun are what’s bothering you! And where was Jae Heydari to rescue her with a little joke or some off-handed flirtation when she needed it? She didn’t hear a peep out of the Baroness. Jae’s metal hand still rested loosely in the crook of her elbow. Argenta went to - oh no no no, don’t look at her. If she looked now, she might just die of embarrassment.

Jae let out a sad little sigh, then fell silent. The Prioress couldn’t help turning back to comfort her. The Cold Trader stood in front of her, trembling ever so slightly, just enough to make that loose lock of hair quiver against her cheek.

“Idira said something about us, hamsar am, before she…”

Before Diviner Tlass went away into the quiet dark places of the Expanse, with no hope of return. What a strangely understated way for such a boisterous woman to spend her last days. They’d fought like cats, but even so - Idira’s sad end troubled the Prioress. Argenta shivered despite the heat. Why was Jae mentioning such a gloomy subject?

“What did she tell you?”

And why had Jae not shared the witch’s divination sooner? Argenta had assumed - perhaps naively - that there were no more secrets between them. The curved overhang of the colonnade’s portal obscured Baroness Heydari’s face in shadow. Argenta shifted out of the sunlight, hoping to read the woman’s expression. Jae winced.

“She told me that we would never, ah-”

The Prioress’s serious expression made Jae avert her eyes for a second. The Baroness’s olive skin could not hide the blush on her cheek when she turned her head aside. Idira’s prophecy must have been something personal rather than catastrophic. Argenta saw an opportunity for teasing, and Jae was too charming for her not to press the advantage.

“You’re suddenly very reluctant to confess to a Sister of the Ecclesiarchy, Jae. It’s all right, you can trust me…”

She advanced into Heydari’s personal space one slow half-step at a time. The Cold Trader tried backing away, but she was also reluctant to let go of Argenta’s right arm. It felt more like a dance than a pursuit.

“Go on, tell me exactly what Idira said about us.” Jae’s blush had spread all the way to the top of her throat implant. Her reaction encouraged Argenta to crack what she hoped was a provocative smile. “Word for word.”

“Oh, Exalted One. Well…” Jae took a big breath, and her silver throat augmetics glimmered with a ripple of motion. “She said that you were never going to -” her eyes darted away- “to make love to me.”

That blasted witch!

Argenta’s expression made Jae back up until she bumped into a pillar. The Sister instinctively brought her left arm up and rested her forearm against the cool rockcrete, shielding the top of the Baroness’s head.

“You can say ‘fuck’ in front of me.”

Jae’s soft brown eyes looked directly at her. That little slanting scar on her forehead, a tiny white line intersecting her right eyebrow… Argenta could kiss it from here.

“I have made peace with it, joon am.” Throne, she had such long eyelashes… “Your heart is filled with the Exalted One, I can hardly expect you to - to desire a humble mortal.”

The Prioress pressed their foreheads together, not in a mere pilgrims’ greeting but drawing closer until the tips of their noses touched. Jae’s perfume mingled with the heat of their combined sweat, sublimating away the last traces of Argenta’s hesitation.

“And yet I do desire her.”

Jae’s metal arm tried in vain to keep a physical barrier between their bodies. She was straining at the brink of surrender.

“I will love you all the same, you do not have to-”

Her voice protested, but all too feebly: one touch was enough to make her fall silent. Argenta carefully liberated Jae’s poor, chivalrous augmetic arm, moving with just enough slow gentleness that the Cold Trader could still wriggle free if she wanted to. The Baroness simply braced herself with the pillar behind her, arching her back out from the cool rockcrete just far enough for the Sister to slip her free hand around and caress the little hollow.

“I think I must do this, Jae.” I think I’ll regret it forever if I don’t.

Heydari drew a tiny gasp, and her lips popped open even as her eyes fluttered closed. Argenta stole that precious mouthful of sweet air out of Jae’s waiting mouth. It was not enough to sate her conqueror’s appetite. She was desperate to storm the ramparts of Jae’s body. It took every ounce of the Sister’s patience to keep her kiss gentle. They had been waiting for so long to taste each other. They could both take their time savouring this perfect victory.

Oh, she was sweet to the touch! How could anything feel this soothing and this stimulating all at once? Jae’s nearness had quenched Argenta’s frustration, but the deeper, purer flame she bore inside herself like a secret had begun to blaze brighter than ever. By the Emperor, what was this woman? A tiny miracle made flesh? No, they were just a couple of weary soldiers. That they were able to create such transcendence together, imperfect as they were, was all the more miraculous.

Argenta’s only regret was that they could not spend all day locked in a single kiss. If it weren’t for the pillar pressing against Jae’s back, Argenta’s incipient heatstroke, their need to stop and breathe and giggle and quiver, she would have gladly lingered there forever. But that was the beauty of kisses: they came and went like a sunrise, and just like a sunrise, you could always hope for another one.

Jae - ah, she was so pretty with her hair all mussed and that vivid blush across her cheeks! The Shadow Baroness had cocked her hips and shifted down the pillar just far enough to match Argenta’s height. The hollow at the small of her back felt wonderful to caress; the Sister’s passionate grasp had loosened Jae’s shirt-tails out of her pants, and now Argenta felt a tantalising patch of bare, warm skin under her fingertips. Each coaxing stroke made Heydari let out another tiny, teasing gasp. Argenta wanted more.

“I wonder if I can pick you up.”

“Argenta shereen, what - Ah!”

The exercise was a little more complicated without power armour, but the Sister of Battle was able to shift her centre of gravity, take hold of Jae’s hips and hoist the Baroness over her right shoulder. Heydari kicked her legs and flailed her unaugmented arm - Argenta kept a careful hold of the metal one - and let out a delightful mix of shrieks and giggles.

“Kerm nariz, you naughty woman! I cannot believe a Reverend Mother is abducting me. Khak bar saret!”

“Settle down! It’s not the first time you’ve been for a ride on my shoulder.”

“Yes, but that time I was facing the other way around!”

Jae reached her free down behind Argenta’s back and unsuccessfully tried to spank the Sister. The Cold Trader’s own bottom was within easy reach, and sticking out quite temptingly. Argenta gave it a friendly pat.

“I thought you’d be proud of me! I finally discovered a treasure that I want to plunder.”

Jae let out a peal of laughter.

“That is a terrible idea, joon am, don’t you know these are volatile goods?”

“I’ll get you to safety, dear. Just point the way.”

Chapter 79: Chapter Seventy Nine

Summary:

Jae has fun with the nun.

CW: explicit sex scene ahead.

Jae Heydari, Shadow Baroness and Mistress of the Expanse had always considered virtue and vice to move in different worlds. One could explore the Materium, alighting upon the same planets and traversing the same stars, without ever perceiving the same truths that a truly holy person saw at every turn. Sharing the bridge of a Voidship with a pious Sister of Battle was more of an encounter than an acquaintance. Argenta kept her place at the Exalted One’s side, and opportunists like Jae had their own place - on top of the rabble, but still mingling with them in that lesser, unclean, unjust world.

It would have been so easy for Baroness Heydari to go on believing in such a comforting tragedy. That way she might have pretended that Sister Argenta was free from mortal cares. In Jae’s fantasy, at least one of them could be happy.

Instead, circumstances had led them to become neighbours. Well… those circumstances had been somewhat engineered by Jae herself. She had quietly chosen to puncture the bubble that separated their worlds, hoping for an equal partnership. Never in her most vivid dreams had she imagined this particular outcome.

Prioress Argenta the noble warrior was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a white-haired, foul-mouthed woman was sitting on the floor in Jae’s dressing room, rocking back and forth on the carpet, struggling to take her dusty boots off. By the Exalted One, what was happening?

The Baroness had retreated to the relative safety of her little cream-coloured chaise longue. She reclined on the upholstered surface where she usually laid out her outfits each morning, grateful that Argenta had given her mind a moment to process what was happening. So much for the holy absolution of Heydari’s oft-repeated, religiously inspired wet dreams! Argenta was acting like a horny Astra Militarum cadet, complete with her look of triumph when she finally managed to wrestle her legs free. The Prioress stuck an arm inside the shaft of one troublesome riding boot, waggled her hand back and forth to set it spinning and grinned up at Heydari like a naughty child.

“Thank the Emperor, I’m free!”

The boot went sailing across the room in a flat, floppy trajectory and nearly collided with a folding modesty screen. Prioress Argenta bounced up into a kneeling position and half-waddled, half-crawled her way over to the chaise. Jae’s feet were already bare - she had lost one slipper while being carried through her own palace like a captive princess from one of Lady Cassia’s romance novels, and had discreetly shed the other shoe while Argenta capered on the floor.

“Joon am, I feel as if I have unleashed a beast…”

Argenta laughed from her belly, exultant and low. She took hold of the Baroness’s left leg, caressing her up under the loose hem of her trousers from ankle to calf.

“Oh no. It’s more like… that shore leave feeling.”

Jae understood what she meant. All the troops excited and pent up, ready to paint the town… she remembered that head-rush, the simple thrill of survival. Jae patted the seat beside her, inviting the Sister to climb up and join her.

“You are such a happy animal, shereen.”

“Good.” Argenta got up from her knees, but she disobeyed the Baroness’s invitation. Instead the Prioress clambered directly into Jae’s lap. “That’s what I want to be.”

Heydari’s back wasn’t strong enough to support their combined weight at this angle. She hastily pivoted in her seat and put her augmetic hand out to break her fall as both women tottered backwards. If only she’d had the foresight to lean against the side of the chaise that had an armrest! Now the Cold Trader was pinned in a deeply compromising position, with her knees splayed awkwardly and a Sister of Battle lying between her legs.

“Bloody Throne - I mean, do be careful, hamsar am!”

There was little point in trying to act like a Noble when the Prioress was on the rampage. The moment Argenta found a handhold against the chaise, she set about pressing the advantage. Jae immediately found herself smothered in warmth - the contact of Argenta’s sun-warmed torso against her belly, the Sister’s questing hand twining in the curls of Jae’s hair, and the bloom of Argenta’s hot breath against her cheek.

The Prioress dipped her head to take one of Jae’s earrings in her teeth and give it a playful tug. Heydari laughed at her mumbled exclamation and expression of shock when the earring detached itself. Pierced ears were a liability - no good Kasballican would leave themselves with such a tempting weak point. Of course Argenta wouldn’t have known that. Jae decided to make a game of it.

“I shall give you all my treasures, atashe delam.”

She gave the Prioress her most captivating smile, then reached languorously around with her augmetic hand and plucked the other earring from its place. Next came the rings from both hands. Jae’s Aquila-studded gold signet, which she kissed before the took it off; the glittering cabochon in its adamantium setting that would withstand even the hardest of servo-driven punches; the cute little amethyst shard that Meisterin Torra had given her for her birthday. Jae placed each piece of jewelry in Argenta’s cupped hand, then tilted her head up so that she could shift her hair out of the way and unclasp her necklace’s delicate gold chain. She was rewarded with a tender, lingering kiss from the Sister.

Argenta carefully scooped up all the pretty trinkets and shifted away for a moment while she found a place to set them down. The Baroness’s skin tingled under the loose fabric of her blouse, a ghostly impression of their earlier contact. She would do anything - anything at all - to feel the soft and enticing weight of Argenta’s body press against her once more.

The Sister returned. Jae offered her a more comfortable landing this time. Argenta settled back into her place between the Cold Trader’s legs, but she did not close in for a kiss right away. She had unbuttoned the sleeves of her shirt: Heydari’s human hand found Argenta’s bare forearm and stroked it all the way up to the elbow. There were so many little scars… Jae caressed them, wishing she could memorise them all. The fond gesture drew a contented gasp from the Sister of Battle.

“This is the best gift.” Argenta’s silver-white hair cascaded forwards as she bent to kiss Jae’s forehead. “You, touching me…”

Jae’s heart sounded the heavy double drumbeat of her own surrender.

“I can give you more, shereen. You have only to ask.”

“Please.” Argenta choked. “Oh Emperor, please.”

The Sister rolled her hips against Heydari’s lap with desperate insistence as she begged.

“Want you… Oh Jae, please… let me undress you.”

“Oh? Do you intend to strip-search this naughty Kasballican?” Jae enfolded Argenta’s thighs with her own, biting down on a grin when the Sister let out the tiniest of moans.

“Do your worst, joon am.”

Vay, perhaps she should not have taunted the Prioress like that! The fire in Argenta’s eyes was all too familiar; only now, instead of unleashing the Exalted One’s fury upon HIs enemies, she acted upon a far more scandalous set of impulses. To touch, to taste, to lay bare… Jae was both the battlefield and the object of her amorous assault.

The Prioress was either too courteous or too aroused to discriminate between Jae’s augmetics and her human parts. Argenta kissed and lapped at the metallic crenellations of her throat implant, then moved lower to tease the little seam of scar tissue where it gave way to bare skin. The Sister’s hands, small but inescapably strong, busied themselves with unfastening more buttons: first Argenta’s shirt-front, then Jae’s, switching between tasks as if their bodies were one and the same.

The Cold Trader marvelled at the ease with which they both intuited each other’s movements. If either of them needed a moment to breathe, or flex an uncooperative limb, or corral a stray hair that clung somewhere awkward, the other would be ready to help in an instant. Should she have been surprised? They were both accustomed to dodging around the other’s line of fire in combat, and half the old wounds on their bodies were scrapes that the other woman had patched or - in a few hilarious cases of collateral damage - inflicted. After so many years dreaming about the undiscovered paradise of Argenta’s naked form, Jae was beginning to realise how much of it was already familiar terrain.

Her reverie was interrupted by the most childish behaviour from the Sister. Argenta had plunged her face directly into Jae’s cleavage and was now busy mauling the exposed parts of her bosom. Wonderful as that was, the Sister’s mock growling and open-mouthed bites were also incredibly ticklish. Heydari squawked despite her best attempts to remain seductive. Argenta glanced up, her cheeks still half-wedged between the Cold Trader’s breasts.

“So many years, Jae.” The Sister gave Heydari’s sternum a quick nuzzle. “I have spent so many Emperor-forsaken years being tantalised by this view. Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Jae could only lie there speechless as Argenta lapped at her cleavage with the very tip of her tongue - a delicate, languorous touch. The Sister turned her head and used the Cold Trader as a pillow for a moment, snuggling warmly.

“I am in such a terrible rush to catch up that I fear I shall stumble. What’s that prayer you love to recite? I am bewildered…”

“... By the magnificence of your beauty.” Jae caressed a little white loop of hair out of Argenta’s eyes, and the Prioress smiled quietly back at her.

“It is magnificent. Both you, and this feeling.”

Argenta sat up abruptly - Jae called out in soft protest and moved to follow her. The Sister calmed her with a soothing touch of her fingertips just inside the fold of Jae’s collar.

“I’m no philosopher, and not much of a romantic. I hope my lips and hands can do what my words cannot.”

Jae dared to make the first move for once, brushing Argenta’s shirt down over her shoulders. She envied the Prioress’s well-honed strength: the Cold Trader couldn’t resist bending down to kiss and lick one of the Sister’s biceps, knowing that Argenta would tease her for it… except she did not. She simply shrugged both arms out of her shirt and discarded it, then attempted to help Jae with her own disrobing. The Baroness showed Argenta how to unhook the hidden loop of thread that kept her left sleeve secured against her augmetic shoulder. Another intimate secret.

Argenta pressed close, firmly caressing Jae’s back as if she were trying to exorcise all the worries that had left tense knots under her shoulder blades. The Sister’s right hand moved lower - a quick grasping squeeze, and Argenta had managed to unhook the band of Jae’s bodice with suspicious ease.

“Mm, joon am, you’ve done this before.”

Argenta scoffed. “I’m a Sister of Battle, not a virgin!”

Jae was secretly relieved to be rid of what, in hindsight, was an over-engineered piece of underwear. She’d picked something out in cream with gold trim: it looked like the kind of thing you would use to truss up a young bride on her wedding night. The Sister of Battle only wore a simple band around her chest; all the Cold Trader had to do was lift it free and admire Argenta’s cute little breasts as she hoisted the loop of fabric over her head.

“Khak bar saram, of course you would have admirers.” Jae kissed the tip of Argenta’s nose. “Light of my eyes, I hope you will tell me if there are any current rivals I need to worry about.”

The Prioress gave Jae a saucy look. “Oh, really? What would you do about it?”

Argenta stretched her binding-strap in both hands like a slingshot, let go with one hand and laughed as the fabric sailed across the room. Baroness Heydari did her very best effort to sit up and look regal - an act that was undermined by her toplessness.

“I would challenge them to a duel.”

“Oh, for the Throne’s sake.” Argenta stuck her tongue out. “There isn’t anyone. Hasn’t been anyone. I mean, who else would there be but you?”

“I don’t know!” Heydari racked her brains for the most improbable candidate. “The Nocturne of Oblivion.”

“Oooh, don’t you bloody dare!”

Argenta took the bait beautifully, roaring and tackling Jae back down against the chaise.

“That’s it, you rogue. I’m confiscating your pants.”

“Oh no,” Jae rolled her eyes in dramatically feigned horror, “my honour…”

She was already unfastening her belt buckle to help the Sister. The Cold Trader hoisted her hips, realised that her legs were entwined with Argenta, and motioned for her to clamber up off the chaise. After a lot of giggling and tugging, they managed to liberate the Baroness from her trousers. She’d ended up lying completely backwards on the chaise, with her knees hanging over its curved armrest and her feet dangling in midair. At this point, the only thing standing in the way of her complete nudity was the tiniest pair of underpants she’d been able to find in her small-clothes drawer. The view from below must be rather shocking.

Argenta crept between Jae’s feet, wearing a decidedly profane expression, and parked her hips up against the armrest’s upholstered contours. The Cold Trader watched as the Prioress teased the top button of her slacks open. Jae’s mouth gaped, and she let out a little squeak. Argenta glanced up.

“What? Were you expecting it to be white as well?”

“I…”

Jae had been expecting a pair of matronly underpants… or any underpants at all. The cutest, softest-looking tuft of mousy hair had popped out to greet her. That wasn’t the reason for Jae’s astonishment. It was the view of Argenta’s lower body, the lean demarcation of sinews and muscles, the way each line and plane of her abdomen vied for the Cold Trader’s attention. Every part of her evoked pure, unadulterated feminine strength. Fervour and discipline had sculpted her to a perfection beyond Jae’s imagining. She would have prostrated herself in front of Argenta if she were not already in such a supplicant position.

The Sister dropped her slacks in one quick motion, unaware of Jae’s awestruck delight, then immediately butted her pelvis back up against the chaise’s curved arm. Frustrating as it was to not quite glimpse the Prioress’s most sacred tabernacle - pedar sag, that stupid interfering chair! - Jae soon found herself with new reasons to be distracted. Argenta grabbed Jae brusquely by the hips and tugged the Baroness towards her.

The Cold Trader’s metal shoulder joint let out a sudden hydraulic hiss, and Jae squealed in mock protest. The Sister’s strong arms had trapped her legs: unable to spread her knees out wide, she instead had to sling both her feet over Argenta’s right shoulder. This was a most undignified pose for a princess of Efreet! Jae gave the Sister of Battle an outraged look.

The Prioress did not seem to care. She was busy hoisting Jae’s buttocks up onto the chaise’s curved armrest. Argenta’s ungentle ministrations had already unseated the little frilly patch of silk that protected Jae’s modesty. Pah - as if she had ever been all that modest! And yet this final threshold felt - she could not say why - different, somehow, with Argenta. Not because she would be naked in front of a warrior of the Ecclesiarchy… because she was about to bare herself completely before the woman she loved. A woman who loved her too.

Kissing and stroking and fondling… the Prioress’s urgent touch was almost enough to make Jae sob. Every part of her body pleaded for more, more of this, further and deeper in. She writhed in Argenta’s grasp, wriggling her haunches in an attempt to encourage her partner. After several wordless struggles, some attempt at logical thought resurfaced from the turbulent shallows of Jae’s reptilian brain. Tell her what you want, ashmag!

“Undo me, atashe delam.”

Argenta paused in the middle of kissing the back of Jae’s ankle.

“Yes, ma’am!”

The Prioress’s right hand swept down, hooked the back of Jae’s panties and whipped the little frothy nothing of pale silk up over her hips and buttocks. The fabric was already sodden and wrecked beyond all hope of disguising Jae’s eagerness. Argenta rolled its double loop carefully along her thighs, keeping Jae’s ankles aloft and clasped together with her left hand. The Cold Trader felt like a trussed beast for a moment. The Sister continued to pull her panties past her knees, then up round her ankles, then finally over her toes. Argenta tossed the little damp triangle of silk in Jae’s face, which provoked a bout of the Astra Militarum’s finest swearing from the former Corporal Heydari. Jae cleared the accursed thing away from blocking her field of view - she didn’t need any further proof of her own hopeless arousal.

Argenta was already coaxing Jae’s thighs apart. The Sister gazed down at her tenderest places with the warm, worshipful look of a pilgrim viewing a holy relic. Jae wasn’t interested in veneration. She braced her feet against the armrest and splayed herself blatantly, vulgarly, taunting the Prioress to abandon her show of piety. Argenta wasted no time in lowering herself to the challenge.

That crown of pale, fine hair spilled across Jae’s hips and belly. The Sister’s left hand gripped Heydari’s right leg - by the Exalted One, she was so strong! The Cold Trader felt the press of soft little lips against the damp swell of her inner thigh. Then two licks, a small one followed by a deeper lick and press. Then an open-mouthed love bite. Argenta was calibrating her technique to suit Jae’s sensitivity. Her mouth already felt incredible against only a leg. Jae shuddered in anticipation of what she knew must happen next.

Softness, pure engulfing softness. The most beautiful woman in the Expanse was kissing and lapping at the very seat of her pleasure. Oh, my soul. My flame. How tender this is. How gentle and loving and good you are.

Jae was embarrassed to find that she was crooning all her love-thoughts out loud. Prioress Argenta responded with sweet murmurations of her own, her words muffled by the Baroness’s cunt and thighs. Jae wondered if she was singing, or praying, or uttering the filthiest locker-room talk. Every little flex of Argenta’s lips and mouth teased Jae back towards incoherence. They were both speaking in tongues.

The Cold Trader pressed forward, arching her back into an even steeper bridge, straining to meet the Prioress’s mouth. Deeper, hamsar am, you can claim more of me. Claim it all if you dare…

Something new teased against the trembling folds of Jae’s cunt - was it the tip of a tongue, or the tip of a finger? Curse it, she had no way to see! All that Heydari could do was focus her other senses on the contact and allow the Prioress to continue her exploration. Ah - sweet insistence! Both, it was both… Jae tossed her head back as far as her throat augmetics would allow, and let out a moan that mingled desperation with delight. Argenta’s left arm snaked around the Cold Trader’s leg and pinned her pelvic girdle in place. She could not escape the Prioress’s merciless advance - nor did she want to.

One, two fingers - pedar sag, just how much of Argenta’s hand was she planning to fit inside? A hot, insistent pressure began to work against Jae’s cunt, easing her open, although the manner of Argenta’s lovemaking was anything but easy. Even her kisses had turned into eager gulps. No sooner was Jae used to the lapping action of the Sister’s tongue than she changed tactics, tracing the delicate hooded contours around Jae’s clit in myriad obsessive looping motions.

Everything was maddening and exhilarating and overwhelming. That damned Prioress was stuffing everything into her! Too much, it was surely too much! And yet, to Jae’s shock, she found her body responding, receiving, trembling with each new cascade of sensation.

Shit - this was happening fast. Baroness Heydari was used to finding pleasure via a laborious route. Lho and liquor and a dozen little tricks of the mind helped her to get closer; without them, it took hours. It was unlike her to be this flustered so soon, so unprompted, to find the crest of ecstasy unbidden. Jae bit down on her bottom lip, gasped, gnashed her teeth. Oh sweet Emperor, those lips, that hand! Jae grabbed at the chaise’s padding with the wrong arm and damaged the upholstery with her metal hand. Too soon! Fuck. Fuck!

“Ah Exalted One ah - ah - ah, fuck, Argenta!”

One last undignified cry sent her over the edge into clenching, juddering, moaning oblivion.

Chapter 80: Chapter Eighty

Summary:

Poolside chats.

Buoyancy was just another kind of falling. A Voidship in orbit around a world did not float but instead fell gracefully around the pull of its planet: Master Ravor had once tried to explain the mathematics behind his work, but Sister Argenta had missed most of the technical details. She calculated the trajectory of her shots on instinct for the most part… yet it did not take an expert to understand that objects and people and ideas had a tendency to congregate.

The amber grain liquor stayed in the weighted bottom of Argenta’s glass, the glass stayed in her hand, she stayed floating in Jae’s swimming pool, both pool and water clung steadfastly to the surface of Efreet secundus. Each action and interaction within the Materium played out according to Nature’s design - one that was surprisingly orderly if you considered its complexity.

Tipsy thoughts meandered across Argenta’s mind like wind-blown grains of sand over the nearby dunes. Of course the adherents of Chaos were terrible un-persons, but weren’t they also terrible fools? They would be funny if they weren’t so pitiable. They defied natural order, but that defiance made denial impossible. All their desperate efforts, all their pointless sacrifices to upset the universe’s careful rhythm only made them the exceptions that proved the rule. Without the constant strain of their delusion, the grand song of creation would return to its eternal rhythm. The suspended rock would fall to earth, the worlds would turn. Things would be as they would be.

The Prioress’s world centred around the God-Emperor. He was her light and her centre of gravity, just as Holy Terra’s sun was the giver of Human life and the fulcrum about which Human civilisation turned. She would always fall back to Him. Both Jae and Argenta would always have to live around His presence. But that was fine. It was no different from living as neighbours on the surface of the same planetoid, breathing the same air, sharing the same rain. Faith was just another thing they had in common. The Emperor, Jae’s Exalted One, had brought His believers together, close enough to feel the pull of mutual attraction.

It had taken multiple well-meaning attempts for Argenta to finally get that swim she craved. The first time, she’d tried marching directly to the courtyard in the nude, only to be tackled to the ground by an indignant Jae. A bout of vigorous erotic wrestling had ensued, and the Prioress had sustained a few carpet burns across her shoulderblades. Since Baroness Heydari was insistent on seeing Argenta in a bathing-suit, they’d gone through her collection. The process of trying on swimwear came with its own predictable set of distractions. Argenta had learned an important lesson the hard way: that while it was possible to perform gymnastics while being eaten out, the coat-rail of a walk-in wardrobe was not a suitable pull-up bar.

At length, both women felt well-exercised enough to really need that dip. The noonday sun had long since passed into the afternoon’s angled half-shade, still baking hot but easier to evade. The Prioress had ended up in a slick white one-piece, while Jae opted for something in deep purple with a halter-neck that tied in the back and did splendid things for her cleavage.

That first pike dive into the cool water felt magnificent. Argenta hadn’t gone for a proper swim in such a long time. Some of her happiest childhood memories involved learning to swim at the Astra Militarum compound with her parents - that feeling of safe, strong hands holding her up before the water’s buoyancy caught her.

So she swam lengths, rolling onto her back at the end of every other turn so she could see the sun and the open, purple-blue sky. Jae couldn’t perform a proper freestyle stroke with her augmetic arm, but she joined the Prioress for a more leisurely jaunt around the pool. The Baroness, usually so luxurious and carefully presented, was delightful with her hair down and her makeup rinsed off. She looked less refined but so much happier.

And now - at Heydari’s insistence - it was time for a drink before dinner and sunset. Argenta lingered in the shallow end while Jae lounged at the lip of the pool. The Prioress was a bit suspicious about the sticky Necron-green liquor in Jae’s cocktail glass. She was grateful that the Cold Trader had chosen something more suitable for her own beverage. Argenta wasn’t much of a drinker - combat drills were taxing enough without a hangover - but this amber liquid was quite lovely. It smelled like one of Foulstone’s holy festivals, with notes of incense, hot coals, petrichor and the faintest tang of ozone. The liquor tasted like cleansing fire and lingered sweet and syrupy on her tongue when she swallowed it down.

“Whatever are we to do next, hamsar am?”

Argenta cocked her head in Jae’s direction; the Shadow Baroness was busy savouring her sinister drink. Drukhari stim-ampoules, that’s what the green liquid reminded her of. The stuff had a fruity whiff, which seemed out of place for Commorragh - but one never knew.

“Well… I’ll need to leave by Matins to run bolter drills with the Novices, but I can stay the night if you’d like.”

“No, silly!” Jae giggled into her metal hand. “I was considering, you know, what comes after. I can’t keep stealing you away like this, joon am. People might ask inconvenient questions.”

Argenta took another mouthful of golden liquor, set her tumbler up on the lip of the pool and hauled herself out of the water. She might as well dry off and enjoy the sun before it went away.

“I imagine your Kasballican acquaintances would be shocked to find out you were associating so closely with prim, devout sorts.” She couldn’t resist a cheeky grin at the Cold Trader. “Think of your reputation.”

“My hard-earned infamy, ruined overnight!” Heydari sat up a little to hand Argenta a towel. It was fluffy, purple and about twice as large as it needed to be. “Eh, those chegnars wouldn’t believe we were an item. I was more worried about you.”

Argenta had assumed Jae would take this discussion more seriously. She considered whether there was any risk of bleaching the enormous towel if she used it to dry her hair. In the end the Prioress elected to just throw the towel over a deckchair and dry off the old-fashioned way.

“The closest thing I have to professional oversight would be the Drusians, and Reverend Doloroso is in no place to criticise my personal life.”

The man was still doing penance for his mistreatment of Lady Incendia Bastaal-Chorda: and it would be deeply hypocritical for the old Void-dog to disapprove of her choice of companion, given his complicated entanglement with Liege Tocara.

Jae had followed suit and claimed the adjacent deckchair. Her warm brown skin looked so lovely in the afternoon sun. And those legs! Truly the God-Emperor’s best work.

“What about the other Sisters - would they disapprove of your choice? Are the members of your Order not supposed to be celibate?”

Ah, this old chestnut! Argenta didn’t want to make fun of Jae for not possessing inside knowledge. That would hardly be fair.

“It saves us a great deal of trouble if the faithful believe we are untouchable - and to an extent, it is true. Before we were the Order of Our Martyred Lady, we were named the Fiery Heart, after the temperament of our founder. Saint Katherine was brave and impetuous on many fronts, not just the battlefront. The specific details are kept confidential by our Order, but there is… evidence to suggest that Saint Katherine’s connection with Saint Augusta Domenica was more than sisterly.”

Jae took a heavy swallow of green liquor, coughed and blinked.

“But - but her devotion - was she not called the Bride of the Emperor?”

“The only man she would ever love.” Argenta smiled to think of the God-Emperor’s radiance. Next to Him, surely no husband would ever be enough.

“As I said - it is better if we are thought to be untouchable. For one thing, it protects our inviolable status as warriors of the Ecclesiarchy. Can’t have a man interfering where the Imperial creed says he cannot go.”

“Well, shereen! That certainly explains… some things.” Jae made a lewd gesture with her human hand, no doubt referring to Argenta’s zest in the bedroom.

“I wasn’t always a Sister of Battle, Jae dear. I also dated around a little at the Schola Progenium, although it was hard to find time for love while we were all being worked to the bone. I hope I’ve not hurried things along too quickly for your taste. I’ve been told that my approach can be a little reckless.”

“Hamsar am, I have always admired your recklessness.”

“Good.” Argenta nodded firmly. She felt resolute. “You’re not a mistake, Jae. We - this - is not a mistake. I’m as certain of that as I’m certain of the Emperor’s light.”

“Argenta shereen, I haven’t shared a bed while sleeping in a long time. Would you honour me with your embrace this evening? I warn you that you may need to roll me over in the night if my throat implant makes me start to snore.”

The Prioress laughed around a sip of liquor.

“I thought princesses didn’t snore! Oh Throne - come to think of it, I’ve never considered whether I am a noisy sleeper. My poor Novices… they’d be far too polite to tell me! You will tell me if I snore in the night, won’t you?”

Jae grinned mercilessly. “If you do, I shall take that secret to the grave, hamsar am.”

Chapter 81: Chapter Eighty One

Summary:

Meanwhile, in the Warp...

There was a charming proverb among Voidfarers: ‘Give the Nob his little job.’ Its evergreen popularity stemmed from the fact that it was applicable to most shipboard situations; in the tense moments before a Warp translation, the advice became an unspoken law among the crew. The last thing any good Voidsman needed was for their prayers and protocols to be thrown off by the whim of some fop blessed with more Thrones than sense.

Amos ‘Winterscale’ had played the role of well-intentioned dunce to the hilt in the lead-up to their first proper foray through the Maw. Everyone aboard The Wings of Victory, the Chartist vessel taking them to Footfall, probably considered him to be a waste of space. Therefore, when Amos volunteered to sit a prayer vigil in the Navigator’s sanctum, nobody really objected.

There was always a chance that even a well-trained Navigator might pop their third eye open at an awkward time and fry everyone in the vicinity with the power of the raw Immaterium. If Winterscale’s unwanted brat wanted to endanger himself by offering moral support, that meant someone else didn’t have to risk their own neck. More importantly, it meant that the illegitimate Noble would be safely out of the way.

The Navigator herself seemed grateful for Amos’s company. She appeared to be at least a century old, although it was always difficult to judge a Navigator’s age. The irises and sclera of her eyes were both pale pink, their pupils dark and slitted. Her long robes were a pleasant forest green rather than the customary purple, a detail that complimented the pinkish-green pattern of tiny scales that shimmered up her exposed forearms. Her clawed hands were heavily webbed between all the fingers, except for the thumb-joint which appeared to have been amended with surgery so that she could still use an opposable grasp.

Her body seemed confused about the difference between facial and body hair: the lady’s pale oval face was carefully shaved, but long strands of white fluff sprouted randomly from the woman’s neck and elbows. The rest of her form was covered. Brother Amos counted himself fortunate indeed to have been implanted with his Chapter’s geneseed rather than relying on the whims of mutagenic experimentation for his own distinct abilities.

“Emperor’s blessings be upon you, good ser. Navigator-Errant Hippolita Webb, at your service.”

Ussher waved for Lady Webb to sit before she could get up to make a reverence. She decided to stand for a moment anyway, stretching her spindly limbs before she consigned herself to several days of chair-bound labour. Saints, the woman was taller than Brother Ulfar! Amos offered the lady a courteous bow: Lady Hippolita extended her webbed hand and he kissed it politely. This wasn’t the time for ‘Winterscale’ to embarrass himself with overabundant gallantry. Brother Amos suspected that she could perceive what he truly was - at any rate, it was never wise to underestimate a Navigator.

“May He bless you and keep you as well. The honour is all mine, Lady Webb.”

Amos released the Navigator-Errant’s hand and went to stand in a spot just below the carpeted plinth that held Lady Webb’s throne. Whatever rituals or mental practice she used to detect the Astronomican were better performed with a modicum of personal space.

“I confess I am unacquainted with your esteemed Navigator House.”

“We are not a House unto ourselves. My family line was subsumed into Navigator House Visscher many decades ago.” Lady Hippolita offered Amos a wry, narrow smile. “I daresay I could have indentured myself to the Ma’Kao Dynasty and found a steady line of work, but one has one’s pride. Consider your own, Lord Amos, before you shackle yourself to Calligos Winterscale’s foundering fortune.”

“Wise advice, Lady Hippolita. I shan’t forget it.”

Indeed Amos would not, but for other reasons entirely. He would be looking into Winterscale’s Domain. If the rumours of Lord Calligos’s difficulties had spread beyond the Koronus Expanse and into the realm of common gossip, that was troubling.

“So, my Lord, you’re to keep me company on this hazardous leg of our mission! I’m ever so glad. The journey through to what the locals charmingly call the ‘Witch-Cursed World’ has never been pleasant, and of late…” Lady Hippolita flexed her fingers and fixed Brother Amos with her unnatural pink eyes. “I shall not invite ill-luck by speaking of it. One can only hope your friend Lord Ulfar’s presence - and your own - offers us respite.”

Damn! So she did know what he was. That left Amos free to play a few more of his cards.

“If the passage via the Hermitage is so fraught, might I ask why my Lady has chosen it? There are other routes through the Maw… that which adjoins the Jericho Reach, for instance.”

Lady Webb’s laughter was a little too throaty and wet to sound entirely human.

“You know some things, Lord Amos, but you do not know all. The way from Port Wander to the Dimensional Gate is not yet shut, but after that…” The Navigator slouched back into her seat. Amos noticed that the chair’s arm-rests bore deep gouges.

“My brethren share sad tales. Great fleets of war have braved the final stretch to Footfall. Ships better-prepared than ours, backed by grandees from Holy Terra. All were forced to turn back, or their paths were diverted… or else they have vanished entirely. This way is narrow, fit for smugglers but not fleets - and I stake our hopes on that choice of route. Whatever haunts the Warp, we must take the quieter path and pray that we avoid its gaze.”

Lady Hippolita’s eyes fluttered closed. She put a clawed hand up to cover her face.

“I have shared this much out of courtesy. Speak not of it to the lower orders. It will only frighten them.”

“I shall do as you have bidden, my Lady.”

 

___

 

The roses were quite lovely, provided one ignored the pervasive meaty smell. Their petals were a deep velveteen red, almost black. They twined on curling stalks as dark as pitch, blooming among thorns that evoked barbed wire. Such beautiful carrion blooms.

Brother Amos knew these flowers, although he hadn’t seen them in decades. Once upon a time there’d been a planetoid called Jeroboam: a giant geode of a rock, carved out into a hollow bowl. Its innards had been stripped to supply the Imperial Navy base on Bakka and in the crevices that remained, Amos had been born. The lingering despair from a fatal mining accident had opened the way for corruption to sprout in one of the old shafts. Those dark roses - red for blood, barbed for pain - were a sign of the Arch-enemy’s influence.

If only that had been the worst of his family’s problems.

Oh, how the dark flowers bloomed! Roses, roses everywhere, twining up the columns of the Navigator’s Sanctum, scattering petals that smelled faintly of flesh around the base of her chair. In any other circumstances Amos Ussher would have devastated the deathly bower with a cleansing flame. Setting fire to this particular room seemed like a terrible plan. He therefore resolved to keep the growths back with never-ending Imperial litanies.

This went on for a week - so Amos’s count of the ship’s bells told him, although one could not rely on such things in the middle of the Warp. He did not stop intoning chants. A mortal man would have slipped into narcolepsy, or stammered over his lines, or simply passed out from hunger and thirst. Fortunately Amos was no mortal man.

His only respite from the kneeling vigil in front of Lady Webb took the form of quick diagnostic checks: making sure that the cannulae of her intravenous nutrient feeds were still secure, massaging the strained tendons of her clenched hands. Lady Hippolita had by far the hardest task on the Voidship. If Amos’s words and company eased her exhaustion, then this was the best way for him to serve.

The unholy rose-bushes grew, withered at the sound of Amos’s litanies, then grew again. Just when he worried that their thorny advance would pierce the Lady Navigator’s energy shield and overwhelm the Sanctum, Lady Webb intoned a few strange, gurgling syllables and something lurched deep within the Voidship’s engines. It took Amos a few moments to register what had happened. They’d translated back into realspace.

The Astartes immediately lay prone on the carpeted dais with his borrowed overcoat spread out under him, watching as the deadly vines crumbled into ash. The ordeal had been tougher on him than he’d anticipated. A few heaving breaths, several double-thumps of his twin hearts, and Amos was unable to remain in place. Concern for Lady Webb’s welfare ate at him. He sat up, then knelt at the foot of her chair. The Navigator-Errant placed a trembling hand on Amos’s curly head. She was too tired to form proper words: instead she let out a faint croak of acknowledgement. Amos noticed that the webbed skin between her thumb and index finger had regrown during the Warp voyage. He kissed her hand regardless.

“Bravely and masterfully done, my Lady.”

“Well,” Lady Hippolita gurgled, “I couldn’t have asked for better help.”

 

___

 

Brother Ussher had scuttled back to his guest quarters and found Brother Ulfar Redmane - or Everlost or whatever moniker he was using today - sitting in his underpants. Amos had never speculated about the extent of Ulfar’s body hair, and he regretted his new-found knowledge. The Astartes would have made an excellent floor rug. He was squatting on a metal footlocker, busy writing with a large blue quill in what appeared to be a personal journal; its xenohide binding looked as well-worn as the old Wolf himself.

As for Runa, she appeared to have acquired a shiny new toy. Amos approached her and investigated the prize: someone’s old eye augmetic, its transmission cable still slick with crusty-looking blood. The Psyber-raven was reluctant to surrender it, so Amos let her be for now. At least she was in one piece.

“An Enginseer had Warp visions and decided that his implant was at fault rather than his mind. Foolish Cog.” Brother Ulfar grumbled as he continued to scribble. “So, the pup returns from sharing tanna and gossip with the Lady Navigator! At least he now sports the beginnings of a proper beard.”

Brother Amos hastily put a hand up to touch his chin, and felt a heavy layer of stubble; too heavy to be a mere week’s worth of growth. By the Emperor, how long had he spent in the Navigator’s Sanctum? It must have been a rough trip to take so long.

Brother Ulfar made no further acknowledgement of his Shield-sibling’s presence; he certainly didn’t seem keen to put some blasted clothes on. Amos took inventory of the Wolf’s armour. It had sustained a few interesting scratches, but nothing too concerning. Brother Ulfar himself seemed fine, if a little sweaty and extremely put out. Ussher put his hands on his hips and puffed out his own, less furry cleavage with all the swagger of a Rogue Trader’s dubious progeny.

“Was my Lord hoping for a more robust encounter during our little sojourn? I can ask Lady Webb to take a few more twists and turns in the Immaterium next time.”

Brother Ulfar’s grumble was very close to a growl.

“I am recording the names and deeds of those who died facing danger. For us, such trials are nothing. That does not mean I shall make light of the mortals, or their courage.”

“But you were hoping for a smidge more glory.”

“Trollin takka thig… you are not wrong!” Brother Ulfar twiddled his strange pen. What was that Astartes-sized quill made of? A Roc’s feather? It looked oddly familiar.

“Eight years I have wasted, growing back my wounded heart. May Morkai eviscerate that sly old hound Calcazar for pricking me with his little needle! A trophy such as this -” he waved the quill again, “would give me a new tale for my saga. But I suspect it will not be long, for the Warp has taken note of us.”

Brother Amos took a few quiet mental notes of his own. Had Brother Ufar been… poisoned to the point of organ failure? That seemed unlikely, considering his physiology. And he’d been stabbed by the former Lord Inquisitor of the Expanse. But then why in Corax’s name was he working for the Inquisition now? The old Wolf noticed Amos’s questioning look - he had better invent a deflection.

“That quill… one presumes you plucked it from some great beast, Bro- I mean my Lord Ulfar.” Don’t drop the facade yet, fool! Who knows if the crew are listening?

“Oh-ho-ho, it is not I who earned the Deed-name of Daemon-plucker!”

A daemon feather? Brother Ulfar was just carrying around a piece of daemon? For the Emperor’s sake, this was beyond ridiculous! Amos squinted at the vile blue feather. It seemed inert, but one could never be too sure…

“That Rogue Trader, the psychic Blank. I’ve heard they can render Warp creatures vulnerable…”

“Wrong again, vlak!” Brother Ulfar bared his teeth in ferocious triumph - a gesture Brother Amos felt was rather unsporting of the chap.

“This was a gift from that rarest of things: a nemesis. Should we meet again, I feel certain that we will both try to stab each other from the front. He is eccentric, but straightforward by the standards of his treacherous kind.”

Amos tried to shove his hands in his pockets and nearly burst the seams before he realised that regular human tailoring was a mite delicate for his dramatics.

“By Deliverance’s shadow… it’s an Aeldari, isn’t it.”

It was always an Aeldari with this bloody-minded Battle-brother! How or why a big smelly Wolf had managed to make so many acquaintances among the ghastly xenos, Amos had no idea. Hah, a ‘nemesis’ - what hogwash! No Aeldari who made the effort to fashion a precious war trophy into an Astartes-sized pen would consider the recipient to be an enemy.

“I’m going on patrol. Enjoy your naked poetry, my Lord.”

And they called the Raven Guard pretentious… Brother Amos stumped back out into the Voidship’s corridor and slammed the door behind him as he left. Fucking Wolves.

Chapter 82: Chapter Eighty Two

Summary:

More Maw.

CW: body horror, eldritch things

Boosting morale was a delicate operation this early in a mission. It wasn’t yet time for rousing speeches - those were best saved for the final stretch, when the crew would need them the most. Brother Amos decided that his alter ego would make an entertaining distraction for the crew. He therefore meandered around The Wings of Victory, visiting the different decks and singing jaunty hymns as he went. Soon the crew began to treat ‘big baby Winterscale’ as a running joke. Look at the beefy lad who thought he was the Captain, doing his tour of inspection!

They’d never know that Amos was subtly rounding up and purging the traces of leftover daemonic taint from their last Warp trip. The clever traders had brought several crates of holy gifts with them, intending to sell them to the Drusian mission or the smaller Imperial cults that proliferated in the Expanse. Brother Ussher quietly made use of them now. He took special care to have several relics delivered to the Navigator’s Sanctum. Lady Webb seemed insistent that she could manage the next stretches without a prayer vigil, but that didn’t mean Amos could not offer assistance in other ways.

The Wings of Victory had taken damage along her port side; some of the outer compartments along that flank of the ship were now inaccessible without a Void-suit. Brother Amos decided that there was time for him to step outside and assess the damage. His inimitable stealth came in handy. All he had to do was send ‘Winterscale’ off for a nap, liberate his armour from its storage crate, slip it on and go for a solo reconnaissance. The tingle of adrenaline as Brother Amos’s Black Carapace synched up with his adamantine shell relieved a melancholy that the Astartes hadn’t realised he was carrying. This felt right.

Amos Ussher was beloved by shadows. The bulkheads and ducts of the Voidship’s abandoned passages sheltered him and kept him safe from discovery. He moved like a wraith despite his bulk - his power armour ran cool and quiet. If Amos flexed his mental abilities, he could stand in plain sight and go unremembered by a passing crew member, but there wasn’t any need for such trickery here: and Brother Amos was in no mood to court the Immaterium’s attention further than necessary. He was soon able to slip through an airlock and into the airless outer compartment beyond it.

Amos espied a nasty looking gash in one of the bulkheads and stepped through it. He took care to activate the grav-fields in his boots: there was no guarantee that the Materium would work as advertised, but he might as well tip the odds in his favour. The Astartes went clomping along the ragged canyon that some great Void-beast had no doubt cleaved in passing, all the way to the outer hull. Such a large hole would leave The Wings of Victory vulnerable on this flank. At least he knew where to focus his attention.

The gap in the hull afforded Brother Amos with a clear view of the nearest planet. So this was the ‘Witch-Cursed World’ that Lady Hippolita had mentioned. By the Emperor, it certainly looked cursed! Brother Amos almost regretted shooting that auspex technician. Mad as she was, her gibbering about faces on the planet’s surface wasn’t entirely unfounded. Those big craters were somewhat reminiscent of eye sockets, and that large lava canyon below them did give the planet a malevolent scowl. Haunted or not, that world was inhospitable to human life. They’d found nothing that would help with ship repairs.

Brother Amos couldn’t close the gap in the hull, but he could set up motion detectors and line the passage with a few choice little grenade traps. He also liberated a very nice power saw with a heavy grip - designed to be used with thick protective gloves. His ‘Winterscale’ persona could use that in a fight. Amos recited prayers as he went - a purity seal here and there couldn’t hurt either. Anything that bothered the Warp-spawn might slow them down enough to save more lives.

Was it enough?

Amos took a second to lean against the scoured edge of one of the torn-up bulkheads. The vox-bead inside his helmet crackled when he sighed. A Raven’s life was either solitary or burdensome; sometimes both. What would Brother Omen have thought of his apprentice’s deportment? Was Brother Amos worthy of the veteran’s geneseed yet?

Another, quieter exhalation was enough to dispel Ussher’s doubts. Mortals were tough little things. He just had to have faith that the crew would prevail. As for his fellow Astartes… well. Ulfar was good at disguising his intelligence. Amos would figure the old Wolf out eventually. In the meantime, he could endure a little more teasing.

 

___

 

The deck was covered in raw sewage. Some hallucinating Able Voidsman had tried to put out what he’d believed to be a shipboard fire, but the poor chap had gotten the pipes mixed up in his delirium. The stench was dizzying. Amos ‘Winterscale’ directed everyone to evacuate and brought up the rear, lingering near the door. He’d jury-rigged a few firebombs using old melta cartridges; Brother Amos tossed one of these through the doorway just before sealing it.

The methane fumes went up with a satisfying woof that could be heard from the adjoining corridor. Amos then triggered the emergency protocols that vented the entire compartment before the fire could spread to other compartments. Crop-dusting the raw Warp was far better than courting Nurgle’s presence. Let the captain complain all he wanted about the loss of cargo - he’d doubtless have struggled to find a buyer for goods covered in shit.

Scant moments after he had finished his act of impromptu sanitation, Brother Ussher half-felt and half-heard the discordant roars of Warp entities manifesting deeper inside the Voidship. He heard human screams, too; they echoed strangely. Amos wondered if those poor screaming souls were still alive, or if he was hearing them call out from beyond the bourn of mortality. His hackles bristled. Brother Ussher muttered a prayer under his breath like a Voidsman’s curse, and brought his new power saw out of its duffel bag. He was too young to fret about the vagaries of geneseed. It was best if Amos ‘Winterscale’ hastened to provide backup.

They’d mostly dealt with Khornate apparitions on this leg of the trip. Amos considered it a testament to the crew’s mental fortitude. The Ruinous Powers used human emotions as a foothold to claw their way into reality. If the Voidfarers had been paranoid, they would have encountered Tzeentch’s minions: if they were too decadent or opportunistic, they might have been visited by Daemonettes of Slaanesh. And if the crew had become apathetic, then sewage leaks would be the very least of their hygiene problems. Red bleeding monsters left a bit of a mess, but they were manageable. Brother Ulfar had perked up since encountering them - the big Astartes enjoyed laying into the horned things with his gigantic power axe.

A surprise Flesh Hound attack presented a problem for a clutch of mortal crew members whose resolve had wavered. The Flesh Hound would soon outrun the cowards if they turned to flee. Amos stepped up to intervene, but he wasn’t alone. Brother Ulfar hurtled across the compartment on all fours to interrupt the Flesh Hound’s trajectory, aiming to match the daemonic beast’s animal fury.

The Astartes didn’t even bother with his axe. Instead he grabbed the Flesh Hound by its skinless head and shook it vigorously, like a dragon shaking a freshly-caught young grox in its maw. The daemon beast yelped; its vertebrae crunched. Brother Ulfar twisted the unholy dog-head off its neck and flung its broken body across the deck, where it burst apart and dissipated into a sad meaty puddle.

Amos did his bit too, of course. The Raven Guard was more used to stabbing and clawing on the occasions where he waded into melee. The power saw’s clumsy trajectory took a little getting used to. Once he found a rhythm, though, Ussher had to admit that Khorne’s lesser Slaughter-kin fell apart nicely under the relentless assault of his new weapon. Going un-armoured for the sake of preserving his cover story left Brother Amos vulnerable to the odd wound, but he could handle that. Fortunately the slick, unnaturally fresh bloodstains that coated everything helped to conceal his genetically-enhanced fast healing from the rest of the crew.

It was frightfully entertaining to hear the Voidsmen cheer for Amos after mocking him for the better part of a month! The ‘feckless Winterscale crotch-fruit’ had become ‘truly the old man’s son’ now that they’d seen what he could do in an open brawl. Brother Ussher played down his part in dealing with the daemonic incursion, lavishly praising the accomplishments of his ‘marvellous associate’ the Angel of the Emperor. Brother Ulfar gave him sidelong glances the entire time.

The flapping of biomechanical wings heralded Runa’s tardy arrival on the scene. She seemed unenthused about fossicking through Warp-summoned carrion, and alighted on Amos’s shoulder instead.

“How good of you to join us, Madame.”

Brother Ussher gave the big Psyber-raven a friendly scratch just under the beak, more or less where a human would have a chin. Runa closed her eyes and fluffed up her downy chest feathers while letting out a happy croak. Despite her contentment, there was something alert about her overall posture. Amos established a basic mental link with the Fenrisian raven using his psykana. She’d definitely spotted something unusual on her patrol through the Voidship.

“Just when I thought we might find the time to rinse this gore off our clothes. A Winterscale’s duty never ends! Lord Ulfar, do you awfully mind supporting these gentlemen while we investigate?”

The old Wolf just growled at him. Brother Amos smiled seraphically at his Battle-Brother and set off to inspect Runa’s discovery. The ill-omened bird’s flint-coloured beak would point the way like a compass.

The Astartes slouched glumly when he realised where the Psyber-raven was leading him. The Wings of Victory was too small for the Voidship to have a dedicated Astropathic Chapel. Instead he had found his way to a small secure room adjoining the bridge, flanked on one side by a battery of readout screens linked to the ship’s auspex arrays, and by the ship-wide comms relay station on the other.

The Vox Master was still alive and more or less sane. He’d taken shelter behind his station and was currently squatting in the foetal position. He silently gestured toward the Astropath’s booth with one long, mutated index finger. Brother Amos nodded, brought a rosary out of his coat and kept his hand on the purity seal he’d stashed in his pocket. Ussher silently moved up to investigate the entrance. Runa, Emperor bless her cheeky bird-brain, made a throaty clunking sound that resembled a polite knock on the door. So much for the element of surprise.

A feathery apparition greeted him. All five of the Voidship’s Astropaths knelt in supplication before it. Whatever hand had shaped this entity, it had a flair for theatrics. Multiple pairs of long, pale wings wrapped closely around its hovering body, obscuring its form. The thing had eyes dotted all over the wing joints: human-sized ones for the most part, though no two eyes were identical. Faint variations in the golden membrane of each iris distorted the outline of the pupil it enclosed. Brother Amos determined that it was better not to stare too long at the creature. The five Astropaths turned their faces to him as one, bending their necks to unnatural extremes, and intoned in apathetic unison:

“Behold. The Emperor’s Angel. It commands us to record our journey.”

Brother Amos paused. Surely the Astropaths hadn’t recognised him in his disguise? It wasn’t out of the question, but the Astartes reckoned it more likely that his fellow psykers had mistaken the apparition for a holy sign. How like Tzeentch it would be to dress up an unclean abomination in the Emperor’s livery. He had a sure way to determine whether this thing was a monster. Ussher gestured for Runa to keep watch, then approached bearing his rosary in his left hand. The winged creature blinked at him, but did not react. He quickly took his right hand out of his pocket and affixed a purity seal to one of its wings.

The masquerade dropped immediately. Emitting a resonant shriek, the apparition’s wings flapped open en masse, sending pale spectral feathers scattering all around it. The knot at the centre was purple, almost reptilian, a dry child-sized mass of pure brawn. It sprouted outward like a seed, growing eyes and mouths and tiny vestigial limbs. The thing went for Brother Ussher’s mind as well as his body, trying to envelop him in its winged embrace. He was a good grandson of the Master of Mankind. No witch-hunting parasite would get the better of him.

Runa’s sheltering wings cast a momentary shadow over the apparition’s core. That was all the opportunity Brother Amos needed. He summoned the strength of his mind and his gene-father’s gifts, reaching out through the shadow’s conduit. Let this thing know what it felt like to be assailed by fear.

And oh, how it did fear! Ussher felt the daemon taste the contours of his soul, felt it recognise the dark fire that blazed in him. He felt it shrink back into itself even as it struggled and screamed. He needed no powered armour or lightning claws to demolish the creature. Brother Amos simply took hold of its wings and ripped them off, one by one. The entity howled, trying to emulate the pleading tones of a human child. Lies: Tzeentch was always so good at emotional manipulation.

Ussher refused to pity a daemon. He plucked the ghastly thing until it was stripped of all its ivory feathers, blinded each one of its golden eyes with a savage press of his thumb, and looped his rosary over the pulped, bruise-coloured hunk that remained. He held it in his forearm like an unwanted infant and displayed it to the Astropaths. They quailed and scuttled backwards on their haunches, weeping until their eye-masks and cheeks were soaked.

“Repent, mortals, for you have been deceived. There was no Angel.”

“But there is…” The scrawniest of the Astropaths raised her trembling hands to make a fluttering sign of the Aquila. “There is, my Lord. We see you. We see you.”

Amos lowered his voice to a murmur.

“I pray you do not mention what you have seen to your fellow Voidfarers, friends.”

Brother Ussher hoisted his sodden bundle of daemon-flesh under one arm and carried it away for disposal, leaving the Astropaths to their penance.

… Drat. He ought to have kept a feather, to show Brother Ulfar.

Chapter 83: Chapter Eighty Three

Summary:

A Wolf meets a Frog.

The Hermitage appeared to be hatching out of itself. Ulfar Redmane recalled the last time his Wolf-Pack had tarried here on their way through to the Koronus Expanse. The Void station had resembled a dying campfire or the accretion disc of a failed star: a tenacious cluster of lumens surrounded by a tangle of Void-exposed, rotten metal.

The great scar in the Warp had clearly hit the station hard; yet it had not succumbed to the wyrd that awaited all of Humankind’s creations. Much of the tangled debris was, if not gone, then corralled into drifting piles. The hermits must have resorted to scavenging the outer rooms to sustain the chambers that were still airtight. It was a miracle that any mortals still clung on through the Maw’s stormy troubles: yet here they were, fighting to evade Morkai’s clutches. Bold little monks.

Centuries of intermittent Warp storms had caused the entire station to tilt slightly; not that anyone save Ulfar was old enough to notice the difference. The station itself appeared to be stable despite its rakish angle relative to the ecliptic of the nearest star. The inner chambers in the middle of the Hermitage’s spinning disc had been recently repaired with sheets of fresh metal. Some clever mortal must be keeping the place well-tended.

That pretty bauble of an observatory dome still sat at the top of the Hermitage’s disc-like shape. Ulfar remembered it from previous visits - he was certain that the dome had never glowed like that before. The hermits must have converted the room from a viewing-port to a lighthouse. The lamps under the dome glowed sometimes yellow, sometimes a pale green. Ulfar suspected some trick of the Wyrd. He pointed out the unusual glow to Brother Amos, who still insisted on posing as a ‘Winterscale’ complete with his ridiculous disguise.

“What are the meanings of these lights, pup? Is it sorcery?”

Amos shook his head glumly and scratched his stubbled cheeks.

“There is an air of the Immaterium about the display, but my modest abilities alert me to no fell omens. At least I do not judge it to be malign... Why would the hermits waste power on so much light? This warrants a closer look, Lord Ulfar.”

The captain of their drekkar was a timid and unworthy soul compared with Aett-vater Como, but he had enough good sense to let his guests stretch their legs aboard the Hermitage. The Void station now had a proper extending gantry for its dock. The curious mix of archaeotech and new machinery included a working airlock that could fit over the entrance to a small shuttle bay - most useful for bringing large shipments in and out. Brother Ulfar spotted the familiar von Valancius coat of arms and sextant motif stamped into some of the parts. Jaerl Como must be involved with the station’s refurbishment. Ulfar was not surprised to learn this. The little Rogue Trader had always been cunning.

Brother Amos seemed surprised to meet Lady Navigator Webb at the airlock. Ulfar, for his own part, was used to rambling over all kinds of difficult terrain with the Lady Cassia - he knew better than to underestimate a Navigator’s capacity to defend themselves. It was a nice change accompanying a mortal who was tall enough to look the Wolf in the eyes. Lady Hippolyta enjoyed exploiting Amos’s ignorant gallantry to the fullest. Runa disdained the Lady Navigator’s company; the cheeky jaevel decided that Ulfar’s head was going to be her new perch. She shifted to the old Wolf’s pauldron only after he roared and snapped at her with his teeth. May ice-storms take that beast!

The Wings of Victory had brought trade goods and offerings for the hermits. The crew unloaded several crates of canned and preserved food, spare filtration cartridges for scrubbing the toxins from air and water, boxes of power-packs and fuel cells. This, along with a dozen drums of promethium, made sense: any Void station would be in need of such provisions. The monks did not drink alcohol, but the Void-dock workers were happy to receive a few bottles of rotgut. Sadly there was little they could do about the ship’s damaged port side.

Other gifts were more mysterious. Brother Ulfar noticed the hermits’ excessive gratitude when they received a box of pin-lumens. If air and water were scarce, why would they make such a fuss over a few diodes? The answer only became clear when they penetrated further into the Void station. The hermits had always enjoyed their shrines, but they had intensified their worship still further in response to the Warp’s machinations. Ulfar would be hard pressed to find such a show of faith outside a Shrine World.

The monks did not burn candles: the quantities of human tallow they would have needed, not to mention the oxygen consumption, would have been too great for their little station to sustain. Instead they used these pin-lumens, connecting hundreds of them to a single power-cell. Their shrines shone with myriad points of light, decorating the images of their Saints with flickering electric halos. Cut off from a proper view of the stars by the Maw’s foul temper, the anchorites sought to create their own galaxy.

Not even Ulfar knew who had originally built this Void station before it was towed halfway through the Maw. The central meeting area was small but opulent, its layout focused around a dais bearing a blue stone altar that had been dedicated to Saint Drusus. When the Maw had been less deadly, Rogue Traders had come here to pray, meet and ratify trade deals. The altar had been freshly anointed with fragrant oil - the monks still took good care of the place, even though it saw few honoured guests.

A spiral metal staircase linked the altar room with the observatorium above it. Ulfar noticed Brother Amos surreptitiously testing the structure’s physical integrity. There was no need to worry: the stairs had been there for nine hundred years. Their wrought-iron decorations might look worn, but the frame was adamantium. It would take the weight of an Astartes.

The glass-domed chamber was dazzling enough to make mortals squint and shield their eyes as they climbed. Ulfar and Amos could rely on their Emperor-given gifts, and had no trouble adjusting to the brightness: Lady Hippolyta closed her lower two eyes and continued to climb unaided, presumably relying on her Wyrd-sight. She smelled intensely of stress, as if she were preparing for battle.

Another Navigator occupied the brightened room, keeping vigil over the Warp-stained skies from a large rocking-chair. He was venerable and incredibly mutated; his body emitted intermingled scents, something medicinal combined with the reek of ancient swamp-soaked wood. Brother Ulfar could barely smell his Humanity. No wonder most older Navigators kept themselves hidden away. The elder’s earlobes and nose had atrophied to vestigial stubs. His webbed feet dangled limply below his withered ankles. Perhaps his body had become too frail for him to keep shepherding voidships across Wyrd-space. Despite his amphibious appearance, he still dominated the room with a mental presence that threatened to outshine the blazing lumens.

An ignorant pilgrim might suppose that the old Navigator had lived here for centuries, but Brother Ulfar knew that to be false. Lady Webb greeted the twisted man with the respect of a young pup greeting their elders, going so far as to take a knee in front of her senior’s chair. Now that Ulfar looked at Lady Hippolyta, he could see the incipient traces of a family resemblance. Some day, if she lived long enough, she too might turn into a three-eyed toad.

“Emperor’s blessings be with you, uncle.”

Lady Webb’s voice was a hoarse murmur. Brother Ulfar could smell the sea-change in her emotions as tension subsided and gave way to deep bittersweet nostalgia.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Lady Hippolyta whispered.

Ulfar glanced at Brother Amos: the pup was quietly observing this interaction, keeping his wits sharp. The old Navigator put out an ungainly limb that might once have been a hand and patted his relative on the shoulder.

“The pull of His great tide is fainter here amid the Warp’s eddies, but I still feel it. The Emperor protects this place, child; His Chosen, the Rogue Trader Como, has called me here to watch over His faithful. I am glad that His providence has allowed me to meet with one of our scattered brood.” The old man motioned for Lady Webb to rise and make herself comfortable.

“Welcome to our honoured Astartes guests.” Brother Ulfar heard Brother Amos click his tongue. The little Raven must be upset that the Navigator had seen through his act. “I no longer have any titles: these things happen when one backs the wrong candidate for Paternova. Call me Veniamin if you like. It has been years since I have met with one of the Emperor’s Angels in person, and now He graces me with two! Such fortune! I hope it is good fortune.” The Navigator chuckled wetly.

Brother Amos made the sign of the Aquila and inclined his head towards the old man. Ulfar was uninterested in all that formal nonsense and skipped ahead to the conversation.

“You know the Aett-vater, Jaerl Como - as do I. Tell me, Wyrd-walker Veniamin, do they fare well?”

The old Navigator flapped his mutated hand non-committally. “As well as one can tell from the midst of this turmoil. Did you embark on this folly of a trip to meet them? Eh… it is not my affair. I am a hermit too, Grey Hunter. All I care about is protecting the anchorites aboard this station, and maintaining a beacon for my fellow Navigators.”

“Ah! A beacon!” Brother Amos interjected. “This lighthouse in the Warp makes perfect sense to me now.”

The elder Veniamin regarded Ussher with wry amusement.

“You Ravens do tend towards the sensitive. There is no need to be suspicious of an old man, Scout! I am harmless to all true friends of the Imperium.”

Amos’s mouth twitched. “Even so, Ser Veniamin, I can sense-”

“Oh, that is not my doing. You have detected the blessing of Saint Nomos.”

Brother Ulfar’s hackles lifted.

“What. What did you just say?”

Veniamin shivered. “Er… Nomos? Merely a local Saint, my Lord.”

“Nomos!” Ulfar surged forward: Lady Hippolyta wailed and threw herself between the excitable Wolf and Veniamin’s rocking-chair.

“Calm yourself, Brother,” grumbled Amos. Chastened, Ulfar stood down.

“By the Fang! I do not mean to attack anyone. But that name! Russ’s teeth, that name!”

Ulfar hastily wiped his beard. Void damn it, he would terrify the mortals if he kept getting worked up like this. He advanced on Veniamin again, more deliberately this time.

“Tell me where you first heard that name, and how it is that you know of Nomos.”

The old Navigator sank a little further into his seat; the action of drawing his head down between his shoulder blades made his chin bunch into multiple gleaming skin-rolls.

“They safeguard true believers through the Maw - at least, so say the Voidfarers who make it to the Hermitage. Saint Nomos’s presence comes and goes, bringing an after-image of the God-Emperor’s light with it. The station’s occupants have come to venerate them with the lighting of pin-lumens… If it were heresy, my Navigator’s eye would have burned it away by now! Lord Wolf, I swear that is the extent of my knowledge, I beg you to put your teeth away!”

Brother Ulfar stepped back, and Veniamin’s mutated body practically melted with relief. The old Wolf could feel Amos Ussher’s eyes on him.

“I am not a Grey Hunter, blast you.” Ulfar growled to himself. By Fenris… his hair was still as fiery as his heart, wasn’t it? How dare this ugly frog-man call him old to his face!

The Wolf decided he had outstayed his welcome in the observatorium. He went stumping back down the spiral staircase; Brother Amos followed not far behind, leaving Lady Webb to finish her family reunion in peace. Ulfar Redmane sulked quietly; he knew he would need to provide his Shield-sibling with answers eventually, but he was in no mood to share his secrets. Instead he turned his head, went to spit on the floor, realised that he was standing in a holy place and swallowed his spit with a frustrated grumble.

Grey Hunter - pah! By the Fang, he wasn’t that old yet!

Was he?

Chapter 84: Chapter Eighty Four

Summary:

ERE WE GO

CW: Ork grammer an spellin

Da Boyz were goin ta eat real good.

Dis woz important fer Kaptin Two-Hookz Squigfist, on account ov he had ta fink ov da logistiks. A big krew woz a hungry kew, and it woz just like da big old Gaz Himself sed: a krew ain’t gonna WAAAGH on a empty stomik. Or woz dat, a krew went marchn’ ta WAAAGH on its stomik? Nah, that din make no sense. Good grub, shinies and teef - if da Kaptin kept all da essenshuls comin’ in for hiz krew, he waz shure ta grow into da biggest meanest toofiest Freeboota on dis side of Bad Moonz.

Grub woz nice an easy if an Ork weren’t scared ov a lil fishin’. Squigfist knew a fing or free about goin’ afta a good squig: dat’s ow ‘e got two hooky fings fer handz - da most amount a Freeboota could ‘ave. Only way ‘e could get more waz if Mad-Doc Pinkeye gave ‘im another arm, but dat would mean ‘e wouldn’t fit his fancy Freeboota coat an’ everywun knowz a Freeboota Kaptin ain’t drokk an’ all wivout a big fancy coat, dat’s ow dey knowz you’s da Kaptin! Two-Hookz weren’t afraid ov no squig any more. They alreddy ate bofe a hiz fists and weren’t no more fists they could eat, so he figgered he waz garun-teed ta krump em good! Dey sed da big squigz up in Gork’s Grin waz not jus da biggest wunz but da tastiest wunz too. An dat humie from Hairy-okz Rim sed dat Void-squigz made da kala-maree if ya put em in da Burna jus right.

Everywun nose ya got ta have a Krooza wiv a big burna on da back if ya want ta go in da Maw, so dats wot Squigfist just dun. He wuz still workshoppin’ a name fer her, cos names was hard ta come up wiv. Maybee da Bloody Choppa wuz a good name an’ maybe not: it ‘ad ta be brootal. Point waz, it did da Jump just like da humiez did it. Gorks Grin neva dint have no good fite in dere, ya jus had ta baleeeeve.

An’ lookie here! Da godz shure had good fings waitin’ fer da Boyz! Big ole Gork jus gave da krew a good opper-chunity fer a krumpin, an’ kunnin ole Mork dun set it up real nice like. Dey got da best ov bofe worldz, a humie Krooza all dinged up an’ probly fulla shinies, wiv a great stinkin’ squig goin’ at it from da outside. Dats wot ya call dinner an’ a show, dat woz! All Kaptin Squigfist had ta do wuz get da Krooza nice an close, put da dakka an do sum zzaps wiv da zzap prod an dey’d ave demselfs enuf squig ta grow big az a moon.

Den agen, Kaptin Two-Hookz had bin wantin ta try da Pinchaz. Dis waz sum Mekboy groxshite dat da Boyz dun cooked up wen dey ‘eard about da big squig-krumpin’ hunt. Dey sed you ‘ad ta grab onta da squig wiv sumthin, an dat made sense ta Kaptin Squigfist. So now da Krooza got dese two klippy-klippy bits all paintid blue ov course, cuz blue waz da best kolour - stickin out da front next to da rammin’ bit. Da Kaptin found da shoutin tube an did a big ROAR down it so’s da boyz in da Pinchaz dekk new dat it waz pinchin’ time. An afta dat, Squigfist figgered ‘e probably shoulda got da Krooza in more closer like, so ‘e got anutha shoutin tube an did anotha ROAR wiv dat gen’ral effekt.

It wuz ‘ard bein’ da Kaptin sometimez. Too much ta fink about an’ not enuff krumpin’. Da burdinz ov kommand… well, sumwun had ta do da roars.

Sum ov da Boyz shure waz hungry, cos dey dint even wait fer da zzap prod ta finish doin its fing wiv da big squig. Dey woz flingin’ demsefs out da air lokk an’ goin’ fer a feed without even cookin da kala-maree. It woz fun ta see dem go at it. Two-Hookz grabbed a shoutin tube an did hiz fayvrit ROAR.

“ERE WE GO BOYZ!”

Dat shore waz a good ROAR coz it went right out into da Void an made da Freeboota Boyz even more eksited fer a krump. Dey ‘ad choppas and ‘arpoonz an big spikey bootz fer klimbin’ all ova da back ov da big squig. Ole squiggy woz harf in harf outa da humie Krooza an it took sum choppin’ fer it ta reckinize da brootal fret ov da Boyz. It startid turnin around an gettin sum ov its tentickles outta da hole in da humie Krooza. Kaptin Two-Hookz cud see itz big ole beaky mouf and ‘e waz burnin ta give dat big squig wot for. So ‘e made sure da Pinchaz wuz gettin’ it gud. Dint want dat slimy ole squig gettin’ away!

Dere woz sum funny biznis goin on in da humie Krooza an Kaptin Squigfist dint like dat. Two-Hookz looked in da lookin tube an’ wot e saw near made ‘im bite da end of da tube clean off. Dere waz Kan-Humiez down dere! An ‘e waz gunna miss out on da krumpin’! Sod bein’ da Kaptin, bein’ da Kaptin waz da wurst.

Wun ov da Kan-Humiez wuz really goin for it. Squigfist dun anuver look jus’ ta see da teef on ‘im. Big Boy fer a humie, sorta blue witch woz a good choice ov kolour too, an’ dat axe was lookin’ real shiny. It woz a real shame dat wun wuzn’t a propah Ork Boy. Da uvva Kan-Humie wuz wun ov dese Beakie humiez dat snuck round jus like Mork, moar kunnin an’ less brootal. Da trikksta kept disappearin, and ‘e wuzn’t even paintid purple or nuffing! Dat woz jus rude in Kaptin Squigfist’s upinyun.

“GET DA BEAKIE WUN!”

Da Kaptin dint hav da shoutin tube so dat wuz a waste ov a gud ROAR. But dis wuz not too bad ov a problim, cuz da Kan-Humiez wuz sorta helpin wiv da big squig. Lettin dem kleen up da squig so da Boyz wuz still strong fer da krumpin on da humie Krooza soundid not so bad. Yeh, dere woz sum kunnin ta dat plan. Kaptin Squigfist waz a bit proud of dat stratter-gem. ‘E wuz jus gunna see how dis all turned owt. Sumtimez da booty waz wurf it if yew waitid a lil bit on da krumpin part. Das roight, Two-Fist Squigfist, youse a jean-yis. Dats why yew are da Kaptin.

Drokk it, sum Gretchin wuz makin a big stink ova on da shoutin tubez. Stow it ya karkin’ Gretchin, wot yew want? Kaptin Squigfist grabbd da shoutin tube an gayv da runt wot for wiv a big ROAR but ‘e still weren’t shuttin up.

Woss dat shitstain goin on abowt? Deres a Krooza on da uvver side?

Da Kaptin startid grinnin an showin hiz gold shiny teef. Aw drokk yeh, now it wuz a propah fite! Dey were all gunna be krumpin any sekkind.

“LESS GO LESS GO ERE WE GO AWRAWRARARRRRGH!”

Dere wuz no holdin back any longa. Kaptin Squigfist startid waving bofe hiz hook handz an dun a big charge right out da window of da Krooza.

Chapter 85: Chapter Eighty Five

Summary:

A big, big, BIG fight.

Lady Hippolyta’s advice had proved rather prescient. The Navigator might have learned about this leg of the journey from her elder relative; she may have discerned something with her third eye when The Wings of Victory was preparing to set out. Brother Amos was not going to question the lady’s better judgement. When she’d urged him to don his armour and be ready for beasts, he’d complied right away.

Of course, that did not mean he needed to disport himself among his shipmates in full power armour, beaked helm and all. A Raven Guard worked best when he was allowed to enter the fray on his own terms. Ussher therefore loitered in the shadows, his presence known only to Brother Ulfar and Runa. If the rest of the crew wondered where Amos Winterscale had gone, they probably assumed the Rogue Trader’s offspring was as inconstant as any other Noble.

Ah, how many shadows there were to lurk in… the crenellations of a half-mangled Voidship offered Amos many opportunities for stealth, particularly when they were lit only by the twisting purplish contours of the Warp. The ship’s Geller Field kept the worst of the horrors at bay: Brother Ussher’s grav-boots helped him cleave to the metallic contours of the hull.

Of course the damnable Void-kraken saw the gash in The Wings of Victory’s port side as a tasty opportunity. The beast lurched out of the deep Warp with a great pulse of its jets, punching a pinkish hole in the Warp’s currents as it impinged upon the Geller Field’s stabilising bubble. An intact Voidship was relatively uninteresting to these beasts, but without several feet of solid metal plating in the way, the crew’s life signs would be sending the Void-kraken an appetising little signal. The creatures had no appetite for ephemeral daemon-flesh, but human bodies were tasty treats.

The Wings of Victory lurched to starboard in a last-ditch evasive manoeuvre. The Voidship was not large by Imperium standards, but the effect was still seismic and relatively slow. Brother Amos dropped onto all fours and clung to the shredded hull: the crew inside the bulkheads were probably staggering around despite the work of the internal grav-stabilisers. Throne, if those failed they’d all turn into bloodied splatters the next time the Voidship decelerated or changed course… best not to think too hard about the brutal laws of the Materium. Lady Hippolyta would be doing her best to shake this beast off.

By the Emperor, a Void-kraken in flight was a marvel of a monster! Brother Amos estimated that it would take him at least a full minute to run the length of its mantle: while it was lean enough to be overshadowed by the Voidship’s tattered flank, its tentacles were long and strong enough to rip a Hive City’s uppermost spire apart. Next to a mortal human, it was an impossible challenge.

A great rubbery tentacle slid into the great canyon gouged into port side. The Void-kraken used the extended limb as a pivot, flipping its body around so that its jets, sensory organs and above all its beaked mouth faced towards the Voidship. The challenge did not go unanswered; deck-mounted lascannons immediately started sizzling holes in the creature’s mantle. It lowered its body to avoid the brunt of the defensive fire, but this meant it could no longer simply rip its way into the Voidship.

One of Brother Amos’s traps went off inside the canyon - the intruding tentacle must have triggered it. He could hear Brother Ulfar roaring over the vox, issuing commands to the ship’s crew. The tentacle convulsed. The deckhands were passing a current of the Motive Force through the offending limb, trying to make it detach its suckers.

Runa would keep watch from the inside: Brother Ussher had no choice but to focus on other matters. His meagre psychic abilities were more of a liability than advantage with the raw Warp so close by, but they did give him a sense of what was following. The young Raven glanced ‘up’ relative to his position, over the back of the Void-kraken, and saw another ghastly shape furrow its way through the Immaterium.

It would be almost laughable to call the atrocity of metal a ship. It looked like several hab-blocks, a slag-heap and the chimneys of several manufactoriums had been slung together at random and knocked into the vague shape of a…. lobster? The Voidship had claws, like the manipulator arrays at the end of industrial mechadendrites but scaled up to comical proportions. Amos was unsure how it managed to propel itself through the Warp, considering the chimney-like pipes protruding from its aft end were arranged at odd angles. The whole abomination looked as though it had been constructed according to the crayon ‘schematics’ of a small child’s drawing. Yet it did fly - and it did close in on the Void-kraken at startling speed, shearing off a few decorative chunks of metal as it drew alongside The Wings of Victory.

Ah, yes. Because the voyage had clearly not been eventful enough so far. No matter: Brother Ussher had a plan for dealing with these blackguards, and he was in an excellent position to execute it. He activated his vox-bead out of courtesy for his big Battle-Brother.

“Ork Freeboota vessel has closed and is engaging with the Void-kraken. Do what you do best, Brother: I’ll track down the Kaptin.”

There might not be honour among these large green-skinned thieves, but the Orks did enjoy a certain zest for hierarchy - and their leaders were terribly predictable chaps. Brother Ulfar could be trusted to put on a bloody spectacle with his power axe. Would it be enough to lure the largest Ork out of hiding? As long as that Kaptin lived, he would motivate his crew to fight like furies. If Brother Amos could pick him off at range, the other Freebootas would lose their momentum and from there, it was a matter of being thorough with the flame-throwers. Ussher muttered a prayer, aware that he was about to stake the Voidship’s safety on a risky play.

Against all the laws of Physics, a crude shout reverberated across the Void - it echoed in the small, deep-seated, animal part of Amos’s brain. Had he just heard the Ork Kaptin cry out to his crew in a mangled facsimile of Low Gothic? Stars, how unsettling.

A gaggle of Orks sprang forth in due course, tumbling headlong through the hard Void in their ragged piratical finery. Amos had to admire their resilience. This was a fantastic opportunity for him to deploy his Stalker rifle. He’d packed Kraken bolts for the ammunition today - how apposite, considering the tentacle-rich terrain! The Orks were large and clumsy targets, rendered clumsier still by navigating the turbulent gravity of tangled-up Voidships: they were damn fast, though. Several Freeboota boarders soon said goodbye to their brain-pans as Amos calmly picked them off. He hadn’t seen a large one yet. Damn - he must be more sly than the rest of his fungus-brained kin!

At least Brother Ulfar seemed to be in his element. Ussher could hear him chanting over the vox. There was something simple yet stirring about the cadence of the old Wolf’s half-sung, half-growled verses. Amos could feel his own psykana responding to the call. How fascinating… he’d never experienced anything like it. His next sniper shot managed to cleave through three Orks in one go. Mm, satisfying.

The bolter-fodder had still not detected Ussher’s position: every time one of them grunted and turned to close in on the Scout’s position he vanished into the shadows, using his psykana with care as he shifted to a new hiding spot. The Kaptin knew about Amos: the Raven could sense the sly Ork’s latent psykana reaching out, trying to pinpoint his location. The Orks' plentiful numbers gave them the advantage in what was becoming a fight of attrition. Amos was all too aware that he only had a finite supply of bolter rounds.

Fine. He would just have to get his claws dirty. Bloody Ulfar… Amos was going to blame the old Wolf for his present insanity, but Void-dammit, the Raven would need to taunt that Kaptin out into the open. Ussher holstered his Stalker, flexed both his arms and felt the long metal talons slide out of his gauntlets with a swift electric fizz.

The easiest way to navigate the back of a Void-kraken was - regrettably - animal style, using both hands and feet; Amos’s claws carved footholds in the beast’s mantle and he scampered along its back in a manner most undignified. This bestial promenade naturally drew the interest of several Orks: fortunately the Void was nice and dark here, shaded by the looming bows of both the human and the Ork vessel. Amos eluded several swipes from the big green chaps’ choppers, although he did envy them for their spiked boot-soles. The Raven Guard resorted to sliding around on the slimy terrain. Surely he must be garnering some attention from the largest Ork by now! Come forth and get me, you big green motherfucker. Void curse him, the Kaptin was being too stubborn! Brother Amos prayed a little louder - take the bait, come on…

And lo, there was bait. The worst possible bait that Amos Ussher could have asked for…. Another bloody Voidship, trapping the Ork vessel and the Void-kraken in an awkward sandwich against The Wings of Victory. It did not cram its way out of the Warp: instead it simply appeared in an iridescent holographic shimmer.

Aeldari. He hadn’t expected Aeldari here in the middle of the Maw, they’d have to be mad to venture this far into the Warp. What… what a strange configuration that Hellebore had, and the colours of its livery were... definitely not the choice a sane Man would make.

Brother Amos tilted his beaked helmet to activate the inbuilt vox, but Brother Ulfar was already on the channel. His signal bore a strange hum of interference - was the Aeldari vessel’s holo-field causing problems? That boded ill.

“...enos Skald… not a thre… focus… Orks… trust me…ield-sibling.”

The Void-kraken’s body lurched sideways and Ulfar’s signal broke up in a hiss of static. Brother Ussher had a horrible feeling that the Space Wolf was broadcasting from inside the Void-kraken’s clutches. He only had time for the briefest glance towards the beast’s head. Runa was in view, clinging to the overhanging flesh of one cyclopean eyeball, trying to peck at it. The oversized Fenrisian raven looked like a mere speck of dirt in that thing’s eye. Only Amos’s psychic senses had allowed him to pick her out against the landscape… skinscape… ugh.

Ulfar had to be nearby, even if he wasn’t visible… but they had bigger problems. The damnable Void-kraken had decided that it did not enjoy fossicking inside The Wings of Victory, and was starting to let go of the Voidship. If it drifted all the way out of the encircling Geller Field, both Amos and Ulfar were royally fucked. The double thud of Ussher’s heartbeat when he realised their predicament was echoed by two more heavy, wet impacts.

The Ork Kaptin had finally decided to jump down and face him in battle.

Oh Stars, he was a big fellow. Dexterity might not be his strong suit, given he appeared to be missing both of his hands. The left limb had been fitted with a scavenged Imperium cargo-lifting pincer, and the right arm had an odd sort of serrated sickle lashed to it. Amos rather wondered how the Kaptin dressed himself in the mornings: it must be a pain to get his arms through the sleeves of his large ornate frock coat. The bicorne hat bolted onto his head was a theatrically rakish touch. One of his legs was booted and garbed in stripy red pantaloons: the other appeared to be a crude prosthesis fashioned out of industrial pipe, which had been lovingly painted with black and yellow stripes. The Kaptin seemed rather gentlemanly by the standards of his species. Ussher had better be wary of him.

“Top of the chron to you, old chap.”

Some small, whimsy-loving part of Amos’s mind was encouraging him to simply enjoy the absurdity of this situation; and so he swept out one clawed gauntlet, inclined his helmet in the Ork Kaptin’s direction and got into position for a formal duel as if they were a couple of Calixian swells tiffing over a dropped handkerchief.

“ELLO, BEAKIE. I FOUND YA.”

The creature moved its massive square jaw, its gilded fangs bobbed, and a greenish tongue moved in the gaps between those enormous teeth. They were in the hard Void: there was no air, there was no sign of a vox on the Kaptin either. Yet the Ork was communicating directly with Amos’s mind. Ussher’s mental acuity and this Kaptin’s blunt force of will had somehow conspired to meet at opposing ends of the horseshoe.

“WE’S GONNA KRUMP NOW.”

Amos activated the potentia currents in his claws.

“Yes, we shall. En garde!”

The Immaterium’s currents were beginning to pool around the Kaptin’s ankle and peg-leg like candy-coloured silt. The Raven had already begun to experience auditory hallucinations along with the visual interference. The strains of a stirring Void shanty resonated in his hindbrain, a choir of sinister accompanists urging him to duel. Ussher brandished his claws like a hero from a pict-drama before he realised what he was doing.

Shit - this was dangerous. He mustn’t let his opponent’s will take control over this fight. An Ork was a menace in the Warp: if the Kaptin believed he had the advantage, that belief might very well give him the upper hand. Or the upper claw, in any case.

Said claw sprang out of the Kaptin’s sleeve - his grabber must double as a grappling-hook, although Amos couldn’t see any lump under the Ork’s sleeve that indicated the presence of a winch. The claw went straight for the beaked visor of Ussher’s helmet; it wouldn’t find much of a purchase there. The Kaptin was baiting him, trying to make Amos dive out of the way. Instead the Astartes rolled his left shoulder just enough to evade the claw. He brought his right hand up with a burst of servo-induced speed and seized hold of the cable behind it. No more playing range games, you big green bastard, I’ve got you!

How close were they to the outer fringes of The Wings of Victory’s Geller Field? Amos’s first priority was to shift the fight towards the Void-kraken’s head. That way, he could also get closer to Brother Ulfar. He therefore slung the Kaptin’s cable up and over, making the big Ork sail in a long arc before slamming him hard against the Void-kraken’s mantle.

Ussher hadn’t counted on the spongy resilience of the Void-kraken’s body. Instead of landing with a satisfying crunch, the Kaptin merely bounced away with what Amos could swear was a faint ‘sproing’... the Warp-induced transmission of sound through the Void continued to bother him. The big Ork flew off towards the open Void, scattering a trail of pinkish Warp-stuff and a cloud of green spores in his wake. By the Throne, he really was a big ugly puffball… The Kaptin took advantage of Amos’s bewilderment and quickly retracted his cable. The claw-hand slipped out of the Raven’s grasp a little too sinuously for the action to be realistic - curse that green bastard’s mental strength! - and snapped back onto the stump of the Kaptin’s arm.

Gravity’s workings had become deeply confused here in the tight interstice between three large objects. The Wings of Victory and the Ork vessel more or less balanced each other out in terms of pull: the Void-kraken’s body, while large, was an ineffective attractant. Without grav-boots or an anchor, one could easily go tumbling away into the deep Void. The Kaptin was unenthused about this possibility and still eager for the fray: he sent out his cable to make another grab with his retractable claw-hand, trying to get a purchase on the Void-kraken’s skin. Amos slapped the prosthetic hooks away with a swipe of his own lightning claws, and the big Ork let out a frustrated bellow that gave the Raven a sudden headache.

Brother Ussher had earned himself a moment’s pause, which he used to assess the overall situation. Things looked messy. The Wings of Victory continued to lazily pull away from the other two vessels; the Ork ship’s large pincer devices clung fast to the Void-kraken’s back end and stretched the creature’s body out like an unstable bridge. It was difficult to see precisely what the Aeldari craft was doing from this angle. When it wasn’t deploying its holo-field to camouflage its manoeuvres, the Hellebore appeared to be turning swift arabesques on the far side of the Ork craft. The Aeldari gunners pierced the Freeboota’s makeshift vessel with energy beams each time they strafed past. Amos could pick out tiny, tumbling specks in the Void: when he squinted to focus, he became far more concerned by the Aeldari than the Orks.

They’d decided to come out and play in minimal-gravity melee with the green bastards. The xenos boarding parties travelled not in fighter craft, but on top of what appeared to be refitted gondolas surrounded by a little shield-bubble. From time to time, the lithe helmeted figure of an Aeldari would pop out of the bubble, launch itself at a Freeboota, shred the green fungus-creature into a smattering of spores and shredded flesh, then perform a gymnastic leap back into the safety of the modified gondola. The entire cycle of butchery took mere moments, and the boarders repeated it over and over again with no signs of tiring.

The sight of such carnage was impressive enough, but that wasn’t what made Amos shiver in his power armour.

It was the laughter. Not the deep-throated roaring chuckle of the Orks - it would have been so much better if Ussher had merely been sensing more of the Freebootas’ Warp-related shenanigans. This laughter was a silvery sheen on the surface of the Immaterium, a hair-raising titter whose pitch grew ever higher until it became overlaid with sinister harmonics that Amos’s ears shouldn’t have been able to register. Even the level head and strong will of an Astartes couldn’t entirely surmount the feeling of deep, nauseous unease that crept over Ussher’s senses and resonated in the depths of his mind.

The Raven called out to his mighty genefather for protection and made a scrambling beeline for the Void-kraken’s head. Let these two equal and opposite vectors of insanity deal with each other. He had to prioritise Ulfar’s safety. The big Wolf was still chanting his war-saga over the vox, but he couldn’t keep wrestling those gigantic tentacles all by himself. A quick diversion to grab Runa was the only delay Amos allowed himself: the poor Psyber-raven’s cybernetic body had finally succumbed to the chill of the Void, and she needed rescuing. The beast’s stiffened claws still clung to the Void-kraken’s eyelid. Brother Amos swept his left arm out mid-sprint, scooped her up and ran like a Blood-Bowl player with the paralysed Runa tucked in the crook of his armpit.

The Ork Kaptin wasn’t far behind Ussher. Amos could pinpoint the mental echoes of his roaring; he’d managed to twist his body in the Void so that he was pointing more or less face-first at the Void-kraken. The green bastard had come up with a way to close the distance, and the Kaptin was beginning to gain on Amos with concerning speed. That wasn’t a problem: for Ussher had been keeping an ace in the hole.

It would take finesse and careful timing to avoid crashing into The Wings of Victory, but Brother Amos was more or less accustomed to the gravitational vagaries of his battlefield by now. He channelled just a flicker of the potentia in his lightning claws down through his gauntlets, into the subcutaneous circuitry of his Black Carapace. Ussher’s body was the conduit for control, its twitch-reflexes faster than any baseline human’s interplay of hand and eye. He felt the oneness flare to life: Brother Amos was not merely his limbs. His armour, his will, his weapons, all were now united in one collective conscious drive.

Thus, he took flight.

There was just enough room to pivot and reverse the blazing trajectory of Ussher’s Jump Pack before he smacked into the side of The Wings of Victory. He stared the great Void-kraken in the face, hovering just above the base of the great tentacle that still held it half-tethered to the Imperium Voidship. The Ork Kaptin lagged in pursuit; Amos could see his trick now. The big Freeboota kept some sort of armament inside the metal pipe of his peg-leg, and he was firing it behind him to propel himself forward through the Void. The Physics of the scenario ought not to have worked, but that was to be expected from Ork ‘technology’.

Brother Amos pulled out his sidearm to blast a bolter round at the Kaptin - he wouldn’t have had time to unholster the Stalker rifle even if he weren’t busy carrying a Fenrisian raven. The green bastard received a direct hit to his chest, but the explosion did suspiciously little damage. The Kaptin’s jaw was charred, he’d lost a tooth and he was bleeding green spore-filled sap from his piggy nose, but the frogged fabric of his coat-front barely seemed to have taken a scratch. Did the blighter believe that his coat was impenetrable? What a Void-damned nuisance! The Warp continued to threaten everything… it pressed so close, held back only by the Geller Field’s tenuous influence.

If the Kaptin could harness the Immaterium and bend it to his will, then Amos saw no reason not to try a few of his own Chapter’s more advanced tricks. In any other circumstances he’d be mad to even attempt this, but everything about this blasted combat was mad. The Wings of Victory cast a deep shadow over the Raven as he jetted back into the lee of its mighty metal hull. All he had to do was reach inward and back, questing for the hidden potential of his genetic enhancement and urging his own cells to recall the talents of his mighty precursor - the true Raven, the lost father of their scattered flock, whose very home was the darkness.

Brother Ussher knew exactly where he intended to go. Let the Kaptin curse Amos for evading their duel; and let him hack his way through the Void-kraken’s flesh if he wanted to continue their absurd melee. The Raven could feel Ulfar’s raging strength and see the hot ember of the Space Wolf’s soul, waiting at the end of a shadowed path. His Shield-sibling’s inner flame was as red as the old Wolf’s mane… how apposite. All Brother Amos needed to do was step bravely into darkness, and-

Pressure. A cave that was not a cave - something moist underfoot, and something hard and sharp besides. A wall. No, not a wall. An enormous coarse sheet of organic matter - like keratin, like seashells but somehow neither of those things matched the texture. A horizontal gap in that massive barrier, a portal, a yawning crack. Wedged in that dread cleft, Amos could make out the tiny figure of Ulfar Redmane.

He’d managed to teleport himself - and Runa, thank Throne she was still in his grasp - right inside the Void-Kraken’s mouth. A maw within a Maw. Brother Ulfar was propping the monster’s beak open all by himself. By the Emperor, he must be enduring great pain… There wasn’t time for Brother Ussher to marvel at the feat he’d just pulled off. He fired up his Jump Pack, knowing that he’d just scorched the surface of the dreadful beast’s tongue. Amos had to come assist Ulfar, or else they’d both be eaten alive.

The Void-kraken’s mind worked too slowly for the Raven to do more than pick up the faint seismic tremor of its irritation. Brother Amos alighted as close to Ulfar as he could manage. At a loss for what to do with Runa, he took out his Bolt-Pistol and stuffed her into its empty holster. He hadn’t considered that he might be a little too short to take the load off his companion, damn it… but he could at least shoot a few rounds into the Void-kraken’s gullet in the hopes that it would spit them out. The explosive rounds blazed away into the darkness. Something reverberated when they made contact, blooming in a brief explosion before the flames were snuffed out against the thing’s wet flesh.

Brother Amos swore under his breath, jammed the ineffective Bolt-Pistol under the belt of his hip-holster and pushed up with both arms against the Void-kraken’s descending beak. The monster still would not let go of them; Amos could see tentacles moving outside. The thing had finally disengaged from The Wings of Victory’s hull. For a horrified moment, Ussher wondered if it intended to carry both Astartes off into the deep Void as crunchy trophies. Without the Geller Field’s protection, mortals would go insane in moments… and even one of the Emperor’s Angels would suffer terribly under the influence of the raw Warp. Brother Amos tilted his helmeted head to one side, reopening the vox link with his Shield-sibling.

“I see my… esteemed colleague has found… another trophy that is too large for him to carry.”

The Void-kraken’s beak was terribly heavy. Throne, how long had the old Wolf been stuck holding it open? Ulfar’s deep-throated laugh rumbled over the vox. Amos didn’t mind its loudness. At least they weren’t about to die alone.

“Sometimes you carry the trophy, little Brother, and sometimes the trophy carries you! The jaevel… has bitten off more than it can chew. It will not… digest me easily.”

Brother Ulfar sounded a tad breathless. Ussher acknowledged his comrade’s bravery with a little tilt of his helm’s white beak. The old Wolf turned his own visor to face Amos - there were great scratches in its blue-grey paintwork. His gravelly voice became serious.

“You should not… have hurried to join me, Shield-sibling. It is my wyrd to survive such battles at the cost… of others’ lives. My path is a lonely one. You may go. You can fly home to the ship while I hold-”

“I’ll have none of that, thank you, old chap.” Amos cut him off as sternly as his exhaustion would allow.

The Warp… ugh, its colours were too bright! Ugly currents were beginning to tug at the Raven’s sanity, looking for a frayed end. He couldn’t possibly leave Ulfar to face it all alone. The distant, double-headed laughter of Orks and… whatever was accompanying the Aeldari continued to ring in the deepest recesses of Ussher’s consciousness. It felt as though the Freebootas were losing ground in the fight outside. Brother Amos hoped that by cheating their Kaptin of an exciting duel, he’d gone some way towards halting their murderous advance. A bored and disappointed Ork was a weak Ork. The thought gave him a little comfort.

“I could… try to use the shadows again. Pull us out.”

Brother Amos doubted such a miracle was going to work a second time. His will was shaky: if Ussher lost focus during the shadow-step he would lose himself to the darkness. Besides, there was no guarantee that a Space Wolf could accompany him down such a path. Amos felt his adrenaline waning. Many sleepless days of combat were finally starting to weary him. Even with the help of his powered servos, he could feel his knees starting to quiver as that enormous beak pressed down against his straining limbs.

“Pup. There is no need for escape.”

Ulfar somehow kept a measure of energy in his voice, although Ussher struggled to identify the old Wolf’s emotions. Was he amused, excited - frustrated? His comrade looked straight ahead, expectantly… Yes, that was his mood. Expectant.

“Whatever happens next, Brother, you must stay calm and trust me.”

They both looked out upon a view of writhing tentacles and slimy cephalopod flesh.

And then -

Brother Amos would struggle to capture the speed of the carnage in subsequent retellings of their rescue. He’d seen destruction on a comparable scale before. Sudden violence could be found everywhere: in artillery barrages, in the thundering volleys of Voidship macro-cannons, in the wake of a charging Astartes squad or in the last-ditch frenzy of a Skitarii corps laying nuclear waste to a battlefield. For it to be delivered in thousands upon thousands of precise, hair-thin cuts was… not only new, but uniquely gruesome.

Each of the Void-kraken’s tentacles was as wide as a passageway, and thickened to the dimensions of a small building as it reached the creature’s head. The surface of the monster’s flesh appeared to dissipate into a kind of fuzz at first, as though Brother Amos were viewing it through a malfunctioning pict-screen whose display had become corrupted. Only when he focused his vision on one of the nearer tentacles and began to see the textures come apart did Ussher realise what he was seeing.

Tiny, drifting chunks. Every one of the Void-kraken’s limbs had been diced into neat little cubes that Runa could have comfortably swallowed whole. All that Amos had seen was a flicker of multicoloured light and a shimmer of motion: no flash of a blade, no sign of moving limbs or machinery being deployed. One instant the Void-kraken had a face and the next - it did not.

Amos Ussher stayed pressed between the halves of the monster’s beak, staring out at the departing form of The Wings of Victory. She was distant enough for him to make out the glowing blue discs of her aft engines and the ripple of her contours against the Warp. It was good if the Voidship could make a safe exit from the bloody tangle of xenos and attendant horrors. And yet… the ship was all the way over there and Amos - oh sweet Throne! - he was stuck here but how… in the Emperor’s name, how had the Warp not swallowed them up already?

Dread gripped him. It felt cold, deep, grey, constricting, enervating. Brother Amos hadn’t felt like this since before his Change. He tried to remember what that mortal fear had felt like - what it had been like before Brother Omen had rescued him. A while ago, but not so long that he’d lost the memories. Not like this - it hadn’t felt this… passive. Ussher summoned his willpower long enough to risk a glance over at Brother Ulfar. Of course the tough old bastard was completely fine! Not just fine, he… he was chanting again. Brother Amos couldn’t make out the words. Was he reciting in Fenrisian? The Raven hadn’t expected the Space Wolves’ native dialect to be so pretty.

He’d told Amos to trust him. The young Raven tried his best to neither panic nor surrender to the clammy pressure that enveloped him. This presence felt like both a comfort and a curse; swaddling for his mind. Ussher’s blessed organs prevented him from retching inside his beaked visor, but he could still feel the sideways pull of psychic vertigo - a sensation that could easily be mistaken for nausea. Brother Ulfar was staring in the direction of that same pull. The Old Wolf had expected this. Trembling, still straining against the weight of that huge beak, Brother Amos dared to follow his gaze.

One of those peculiar Aeldari gondolas hovered in front of the Void-kraken’s ruined maw. Its bubble-like energy shield punted little floating chunks of squid-flesh aside as it proceeded towards the trapped Astartes. Brother Ussher concluded that they were being taken captive. Such a fate would be preferable to gradually losing his mind in the raw Warp; he decided that a Raven’s valour could take a back seat in such straits. Let the Aeldari torture him if they desired: Amos had precious little information to offer the xenos, and he was prepared to endure imprisonment.

The Raven Guard had expected a more numerous escort. Would one xenos be enough to keep two of the Emperor’s Angels subdued? Others might be camouflaged behind holo-fields, of course - and this hooded Aeldari had an entire Voidship to back them up. Not to mention that… presence. Brother Amos could feel the Warp recoiling as if it feared the xenos. His own meagre stores of psykana were being rapidly depleted; he couldn’t have hidden from the stranger if he’d tried. His mouth felt dry when he muttered over the vox-link to his Battle-Brother.

“Ulfar, what - who - is that?”

“They are the skald I told you about.” That garbled vox-message from Ulfar - by the Throne, the cunning old Wolf must have known about this terrifying presence the moment the Aeldari entered the fray!

“A skald, a - an Aeldari poet?” By Deliverance, were all Aeldari poets this fearsome? “They did not deign to attack our Voidship.”

Brother Ulfar’s chuckle was a low rumble.

“The Arebennian will not attack a friend of Nomos.”

That odd Saint’s name again! And what was that xenos title… Arebennian, Arebennian, damn, the word was familiar if Amos could just focus through the haze that kept enveloping his thoughts!

The young Raven stared at the hooded figure through the holographic shield that separated them. The stranger - this deadly poet - now hovered close enough for Brother Amos to pick out more of their features. The symmetry of the hooded silhouette was imperfect: one of its two horns was missing a pointed tip. Metallic shimmers pierced through the shield’s iridescence. Amos glimpsed the folds of brightly-patterned fabric, a checkerboard - no, not a checkerboard but a diamond pattern. In the shadow of that expansive hood, a pale smile, unmoving, masked.

Armour be damned, Brother Ussher’s knees were about to buckle under him. He knew the source of his nausea. That selfsame presence was also the source of Amos’s twisted salvation, his bulwark against the horrors of the Immaterium.

One often heard odd things about the Aeldari Harlequins; Amos had heard even wilder tales about their leaders, accounts that bordered on mythology. By the Emperor, here was an actual Solitaire, in the flesh! These incredibly potent beings were supposedly capable of demolishing entire armies and could banish daemons at will. Having seen this one gibbet a massive Void-kraken in an instant, Ussher was inclined to believe the tall tales. He barely suppressed the urge to giggle at the strange circumstances that had led to such a meeting.

The metal lip of the gondola nudged up against the rounded tip of Ussher’s boot - he glanced down and felt another giddy ripple of mirth wash over him. How silly it all was! The Aeldari vaulted up onto the bottom lip of the Void-kraken’s beak and reached up casually with one arm - one fucking arm! - to pry the monster’s enormous maw open. They gestured towards the gondola with a sweep of their gloved left hand; a sinister tube was strapped to the Solitaire’s gauntleted forearm.

Brother Amos decided he did not fancy being on the receiving end of that oversized blow-dart. Instead he hastened to accept the strange Aeldari’s invitation: Amos staggered over the gondola’s railing, passed through the shield bubble and collapsed gratefully onto its deck. Poor Runa was stiff as a board, but remained secure inside his holster. Hopefully the stricken Psyber-raven would regain her strength and reboot herself later. Ussher frowned down at her protruding rear end and half-clenched feet. He suspected he now knew the reason why the feisty bird kept yelling about ‘Cegorach’ at odd intervals.

How long had Brother Ulfar been associated with this intimidating xenos? What a curious coincidence it was that the Harlequins had prepared a craft that would accommodate the bulk of an armoured Astartes… almost as if they’d been expecting such a rescue.

Ulfar loitered for a long moment in the shadow of the Void-kraken’s beak. Ussher sat watching the silent exchange between the old Wolf and the Arebennian. Brother Ulfar lowered his gauntleted hands - their metal palms had been scoured and gouged by the monster’s beak. The Space Wolf flexed his fingers, then brought them in front of his armoured breastplate and began to contort them into the gestures of an unfamiliar sign language. The Solitaire continued to prop the Void-kraken’s enormous beak open with infuriating ease: they could not respond in kind. Instead, Brother Amos watched as the stranger pressed the pale disc of their mask against the battle-scarred face-plate of Ulfar’s helmet.

It was the strangest kiss he’d ever witnessed.

Chapter 86: Chapter Eighty Six

Summary:

Amos awakens.

Deep in a nest of blankets on the floor, the young Astartes woke from eerie dreams
In which the shadows crowded round his mind, tinged with the garish Immaterium.
If he felt queasy, this was no surprise; exposure to the Warp would leave a mark
Upon his mind and body for a time.

Faint recollections surfaced: Brother Ulfar, his face concerned as Amos retched and twitched.
It was the Wolf, then, who had seen to him, removed his armour, laid him down to rest.
At least he had an ally in this den of mask-clad xenos... where the Void was he?
Upon a ship, if he was not mistaken. He could not feel the pressure of the Warp.
They must be in the Webway, at a guess.

The room was small, its ceilings high and vaulted, each wall adorned with bright ceramic discs
That formed motley mosaics on all sides. There was no window out into the Void.
The furniture was unfamiliar, a tangle of devices shoved aside
To make room for his armour, which was stacked alongside Ulfar's in two large neat piles.

He felt a soothing pressure on his face: a soft thing, whisper-light across his brow.
Young Amos felt it with his fingertips. A simple fabric strip, with holes for eyes,
Now masked the contours of his upper face. Someone had tied it round him while he slept.
Was it a bandage? He could feel no pain. The strip of silk was knotted in the back;
With careful fingers, Amos coaxed it loose.

Immediately he felt the difference in mental pressure: his thoughts fell out of step with the careful rhythm imposed by the half-mask’s presence, settling back into the usual unfiltered chatter of human consciousness. Amos’s eye sockets ached, and his ears protested with a brief surge of tinnitus before everything eased back to normal. Psyker’s backlash - Ussher had experienced similar symptoms before. He’d been pushing his mind to the limit, not to mention that shadow-walking stunt he’d pulled.

Amos carefully tucked the little strip of black silk-like fabric into the waistband of his leggings just in case he needed to resort to its aid again. Whatever the mask was made of, it clearly had useful properties for a psyker. Just one of the many secrets of the Aeldari that kept them from losing their minds… then again, these were Harlequins, so the accuracy of that statement was debatable. Why exactly did thinking in blank verse offer them protection against the Ruinous Powers? That sort of magical thinking was a shade too Orky for Ussher’s liking.

He spotted Runa the Psyber-raven, her feet gripping stiffly to a brass-coloured perch that was presumably capable of charging her cybernetic parts. The bird appeared to be asleep; a tiny pin-lumen in the back of her augmetic eye glowed blue, like a distant star. Amos let her rest for now.

It appeared that the xenos did not care for privacy. Brother Amos could see a tiled nook from his resting-place, whose lack of carpeting and presence of a basin indicated that it was meant for ablutions. The reflective metal disc above the basin (at least he assumed it was a basin and not a bidet) was of greater immediate interest. Ussher stood, his legs wobbling like a young colt as he found his Void-legs. His body had been through the wringer. Brother Amos ventured over to the basin and inspected himself in the mirror. Everything was Aeldari height: it was nice not to have to bend down in order to see his own face for a change.

He must have looked quite roguish with that mask on… Amos’s dark facial hair, ever quick to grow, had made the transition from stubble to genuine beard, and one long curling forelock clung to his clammy face. Ussher tucked it back behind his ear.

It was as he’d suspected. Something was definitely amiss with his eyes. His sclerae felt bloodshot, but rather than the usual faint red spiderweb of strained capillaries, Amos saw traces of grey in the corners. He grimaced and blinked: the grey refused to dissipate. How inconvenient… this cosmetic setback would make his ‘Winterscale’ act a tad less convincing. Hopefully the symptoms of Warp strain would fade, or at least be subtle enough for him to conceal them.

Brother Ussher could guess where Ulfar was at the moment. It revolted him to consider the specifics of his Shield-sibling’s… entanglement with that sinister creature. A xenos, especially a powerful one, was not to be trusted: so Amos’s trainers had told him over and over. How could Ulfar be foolish enough to get mixed up with the Harlequins?

It made little sense. Space Wolves were hot-headed as a rule. Ussher had never heard of a successful diplomatic exchange between a Space Wolf and an Aeldari - their contrasting temperaments inevitably drew them into violent clashes. No wonder Brother Ulfar’s former Chapter-mates all seemed to have ostracised him! What in the Void was so appealing about this Solitaire that the old Wolf would shun the company of his own Shield-siblings to be with them?

Amos glanced at his mirrored counterpart. Maybe he was looking at the situation backwards. There was little point in speculation; he’d need to question his comrade. What a shame that Ussher could not present himself more neatly for his unwanted hosts! He longed to show them the dignity of an Astartes. Alas, there did not seem to be any razors in this ablution-place; either the Aeldari did not grow beards, or they were reluctant to leave anything in this room that could be used as a weapon.

Amos did find a long-toothed comb in one of the wall niches. It was well-made: he could feel a hint of psychic residue in its pale material. Wraithbone. Hopefully he was not about to offend some xenos ghost by brushing his hair. He sorted his long curls into something more orderly than the scruffy style that Amos ‘Winterscale’ had favoured, looping it into a little top-knot at the back. That would do. Annoyed that he’d left his nice coat back on The Wings of Victory and a little self-conscious about walking around with a bare chest, Ussher strode over to what he assumed was the door to the nearest corridor and tested whether it was locked.

It took a couple of tries to figure out the latch, but it did slide open. Brother Amos blinked away the glare - this passageway was even more vibrant than the cabin he’d just left. There were Harlequins everywhere. Ussher flinched out of the way as a couple of masked xenos in yellow-and-purple tights cartwheeled past his right shoulder. He’d always assumed that their antics were a bit of battlefield flair, but no… even in their leisure time, the Harlequins appeared to be hyperactive sorts. Amos seriously considered retreating back to his room.

Brother Ulfar’s distinctive voice made him change his mind. The corridor was full of clamour and chatter in the sing-song Aeldari Tongue, all of it incomprehensible to Brother Amos - but none of them would ever speak at quite such a resonant bass pitch. The old Wolf’s Aeldari accent was probably unique in the galaxy. The cadence of Ulfar’s syllables was deep, slow and rolling; it was as if he had incorporated elements of his native-born Fenrisian eddas into the xenos manner of speaking. The results were oddly soothing. A strangely modulated tenor voice responded in between Ulfar’s loud comments and the intermittent roar of the big Astartes’ laughter. The Solitaire was accompanying him, no doubt. They sounded happy enough, not that it was ever easy to read the true emotions of Aeldari.

Both figures appeared anon, trailed by a mismatched gaggle of Harlequin onlookers. The Aeldari wearing half-masks wore expressions of amusement or curiosity; those that went fully covered capered like excited birds, tilting their heads in a manner that reminded Brother Amos of Runa when she had just found a shiny new trinket.

There were limits to the Harlequins’ insubordination: Ussher noticed that none of the thronging jesters went so far as to touch either Ulfar or his Solitaire companion. If only that were true of his own person - a xenos jester had just tried to caress Amos’s beard. The Astartes scowled and swatted their gloved hand away.

The Arebennian’s anti-psychic aura was palpable, if well-restrained; Brother Amos no longer felt smothered by it as he had during their first meeting. The Raven Guard admitted he was impressed by Ulfar’s resilience, even as he disapproved of the… touching going on. The old Wolf had gallantly linked arms with his counterpart. Ussher tried not to look utterly crestfallen. Oh, Brother, why must you disappoint your gene-father like this?

Naturally the Solitaire’s mask remained firmly affixed - these Harlequins seemed to attach special significance to their headwear. That pale face with its distinctive broken horn appeared a touch more sombre than its fellows: its carved smile was subtle enough to be expressive in different lights. The Arebennian’s posture was graceful rather than frantic. They did not need their full regalia to exude the gravitas of a leader. Their particoloured body stocking would have looked silly on anyone else, as would the vibrant fuzz of cropped red hair that protruded at the nape of their unhooded garment.

Brother Ulfar wore a patchwork shirt with wide, Calixian-style box sleeves that appeared to have been improvised out of several Aeldari garments and stitched together at short notice - there was no way the Space Wolf’s broad back could have fit anything in a standard xenos wardrobe. The clash of colours was riotous even by Harlequin standards; reds, yellows, caustic greens and that familiar purple diamond pattern all competed for Amos’s attention and left him with an incipient headache. Ulfar left it hanging open at the front - thankfully he had his Astartes undergarments on, otherwise he might have caused a major diplomatic incident. The Solitaire casually reached over to pet the old Wolf’s abundant chest hair. Amos longed to disappear through the floor, out into the Void beyond and quietly expire - thereby erasing the mental image from his harried brain.

Why, Brother, why?

The big Wolf spotted Amos and waved him over with a hearty ‘Fenrys hjolda, vlak!’ that seemed wildly at odds with the situation. Brother Amos managed to approach without knocking into any stray Harlequins, although several of them pawed at his bare chest and made him flinch in instinctive repulsion. Throne, it was bad enough when humans touched him! Ussher longed for a mask of his own, that he might better assume the appearance of politeness.

Amos’s first instinct was to make the sign of the Aquila, but that seemed impolite in present company. Instead he laid his right hand over his hearts and acknowledged the Solitaire with a brief nod.

“Honoured Arebennian. I believe I owe you my life.”

It was difficult to tell whether the Solitaire was well-disposed towards him. Ulfar seemed to approve of the Raven’s politeness - he clapped Brother Amos on the shoulder with his Chapter’s customary boisterousness and bared his teeth in a smile that would have looked friendly had it not been so remarkably toothy.

“Little Brother! You are hale and awake… See, skald, this little bird is not as fragile as he seems! Let me look at you, Brother Amos.”

Ulfar was intruding upon Ussher’s personal space: the Raven Guard instinctively drew his head back to avoid being scrutinised. The old Wolf was intent upon examining him, and would not be rebuffed. Amos forced himself to calm down and meet Ulfar’s stare.

“You seem unduly interested in the state of my eyes, Brother.”

“Why not? They were as black as coals when I first pulled your helmet off. I thought you were afflicted by some Wyrd-sickness.”

Brother Ulfar’s guess was a little wide of the mark, but Amos was not about to correct him in front of the xenos.

“I overtaxed my modest abilities in that last battle.” He fished the little cloth half-mask out of his waistband. “I am not certain, but I believe this may have ameliorated the side effects. If that’s the case, I return it with my thanks.”

The Solitaire seemed to understand Amos’s intent; they accepted the folded fabric with a polite inclination of their own mask and a quick, fluid gesture whose meaning was unknown to Ussher.

“A humble weft that countermands the Warp
And lets the warrior escape the Maw;
You have done well, while lesser souls took flight,
To brace yourself against its hungry jaw.”

The Solitaire’s voice, while somewhat distorted by their mask, was not unpleasant. Their Low Gothic came with an incongruously Fenrisian accent, complete with distinctive rolled ‘r’ sounds and Ulfar’s slightly ponderous cadence. The fact that a xenos was able to pull off a rhyming couplet with finesse in a foreign language was… annoyingly impressive. Amos smiled to hide his discomfort.

“Are we referring to a xenobeast’s beak, or the clutches of the Immaterium?”

The Solitaire let out a little hum of amusement - at least, Brother Amos hoped that they were amused. They each made their introductions; the Arebennian appeared to be afflicted with the same iambic tendencies that Ussher had experienced while he’d worn the half-mask. It must be tiring to keep up such a performance full-time.

They referred to themselves as the Nocturne of Oblivion - a title fit for a Raven Guard in terms of its poetic pretension. Amos wondered if his own Chapter’s morbid habits appeared just as silly from the outside. Corax’s traditions existed for a reason, even if their benefits weren’t evident to outsiders. The Asuryani pantheon’s trickster deity probably hid some method behind the mask of his madness; Brother Ussher wasn’t fool enough to underestimate those who acted the fool, not after his own interlude of pretending to be a witless Winterscale.

Amos extricated Brother Ulfar from the xenos’s tender clutches as swiftly as was polite. It would not do to trade barbs with a Solitaire on board an Aeldari vessel; Ussher was not enjoying the proximity of this Nocturne’s sinister aura, he was tired and his tolerance for Harlequin antics was at its limit. If one more leotard-wearing Aeldari tried to touch him, he’d break their blasted fingers! It was an inexpressible relief to get back inside their temporary cabin, close the door and be alone with Brother Ulfar again.

“You look weary, Brother.” Ulfar wore an expression of deep concern. “Sit on your bed.”

Amos wanted to protest - actually, he wanted to lecture his Battle-Brother about his terrible relationship choices - but the old Wolf was right. The Raven shuffled the pile of bright blankets into a makeshift nest, parked his arse and leaned against the cabin’s mosaic wall.

“Throne, what a garish crowd…”

Ulfar raised his bushy eyebrows. “You fared well enough on the other drekkar.”

“Yes, but they only saw a Winterscale.” Amos glowered. “I hate being perceived.” He spat the final word out with a vehemence that surprised him.

“But little Brother, yours will be a short saga if -” the Wolf halted mid-sentence, then shrugged.

“All the more glory for me.”

Brother Ulfar took off his enormous motley shirt; Ussher instinctively quailed and withdrew into the corner. To his surprise, the Space Wolf draped the garment over his younger Shield-sibling’s shoulders, then put a little distance between them. The fabric was warm; its patchwork weave felt softer than he’d anticipated. Amos relaxed and returned to sitting in his nest. He glanced at Runa rather than acknowledging his embarrassing display. The Fenrisian raven had recovered enough for her organic eye to be slowly blinking its nictitating inner eyelid: black, blue-grey, then black again.

Ulfar had sat on the bare floor out of respect for Amos’s personal boundaries. Such sensitivity was unexpected for one of Russ’s boisterous brood. Brother Ussher felt too awkward to address the Wolf head-on, so he motioned for the big Astartes to sit next to him. That way they could both speak without trading stares.

“You can punch me if you want.”

Brother Ulfar turned his cheek to underscore his offer. Amos scoffed: he wouldn’t lower himself to resolving disputes like some ice-brained Fenrisian. The big Wolf’s bushy brows shot up.

“Not even a single punch, little Brother? I thought you would be angry with me.”

Ussher shot him a dirty look.

“Why, I’m positively ecstatic, old chap!”

Amos immediately regretted his sarcastic tone: he held his index finger and thumb in a loose pinch. The gesture had always helped him to focus. He was anxious not to lose his composure again and drive his comrade away.

“If you…” His mouth felt dry. “If you needed company, could you not have chosen another Brother?”

Ulfar exhaled slowly. It took a long time for his mighty lungs to fully empty.

“There were no other Brothers.”

That wasn’t like the Space Wolves: they tended to run in packs. Amos drew a grim conclusion.

“You said something when we were in the beak of the Void-kraken, something that I don’t entirely understand. Do you believe yourself to be unlucky?”

“Only when I forget the promise that I made to myself, and to the Arebennian.”

Ulfar smoothed his beard with one enormous hand.

“I was once cursed with life, little Brother. Do you know what that means for a Wolf?”

Amos fiddled with his hands again. “Brother Omen once told me that young Wolves and old Ravens are both in love with death. I’m not sure what he meant to imply about the Wolves.”

Ulfar tilted his head back and gave a great throaty chuckle.

“By the Fang, is that how we look to the other Chapters! Truly, it is glory that the young pups chase - not simply death, but a valorous death earned in combat, one that is worthy of a great saga.”

Just as Amos felt sure that the Wolf was about to launch into a recital, Ulfar quietened down.

“My long-fanged, grey-haired Brothers know the truth: that there is little point in earning fame when nobody lives to sing about one’s deeds in the mead-halls of Fenris. I have lived through many terrible battles, Amos. I have watched my Shield-siblings die. I have lost my Wolf-Pack.”

Ulfar hung his shaggy head.

“What do you know of Commorragh, little Brother?”

The infamous Dark City of the Drukhari: Ulfar growled its name through bared teeth.

“By Deliverance…” Ussher shivered despite the warmth of his borrowed shirt. “You’ve been there, haven’t you? You survived that place.”

“Hrrn.” Ulfar’s body language had grown hunched and defensive. He must have experienced dreadful trials among the xenos. Amos gave him time to collect his thoughts.

“I met the Nocturne in those darkened halls, where bravery and virtue go to die.”

The old Wolf’s beard twitched: he was smiling faintly under all that hair. A little iambic patter to steady him through the tale - Ussher didn’t blame him for resorting to that crutch.

“The Aett-vater, Jaerl Como, sprang me from my cage. The Arebennian found us a way out of that Drukhari den. I found myself among allies - strong Shield-siblings who stubbornly refused to die. As I travelled with them, my wyrd no longer seemed so inevitable.”

Saved from his own fear by a xenos and a wandering Rogue Trader - it was quite the tale. Ulfar turned to face his comrade.

“Do not think that because I trust one xenos, I therefore treat them all as I would treat my Astartes Brothers. Every Aeldari lives according to their own set of rules, including the Arebennian. The Nocturne could have chosen to save me and leave you behind. They spared you only because they wished to spare me the grief of losing another Shield-sibling.”

That made a grim kind of sense. Brother Amos had been quite right to fear the fickle Solitaire.

“What made them care in the first place?”

“You mean, besides my ice-hewn good looks and fearsome muscles?”

Brother Ulfar’s amber eyes twinkled with sudden mischief.

“If one redhead is a flame, then two redheads make a passionate inferno!”

The old Wolf was enjoying himself far too much. Amos pouted back at him.

“For the Throne’s sake… one trickster’s enough. Be serious, Brother.”

“It is you who are silly, little pup! How can one draw a crude rune, point at it and say: this is what love is like?”

“That’s…” a surprisingly good point. Amos fidgeted in his nest of blankets.

“Still. I harbour deep concerns about you and the Arebennian, Brother. Grief hangs about that Solitaire’s neck like a stone. Their soul is full of shadows. I fear that you might be enamoured with death, or with one of its incarnations.”

“That is a reasonable fear. Hrrn, the Nocturne would explain this better than I can..” Ulfar scratched his beard.

“All of the Rillietan are skalds. They act out parts in a grand xenos saga, just like you played the part of a naughty Winterscale while we were in Port Wander. An Arebennian takes on the role of the Thirsting God - a thing the Aeldari fear more than death.”

Amos nodded. “None of the other Harlequins seem willing to touch the Solitaire.”

“Indeed; their fear has spread even to me, the Arebennian’s companion.”

It sounded like Solitaires had lonely lives despite their vibrant company: Amos ruminated quietly on that thought as he waited for Ulfar to continue.

“I have seen the Nocturne perform the part of She Who Thirsts, and I understand why the xenos are so afraid. But there is a trick: a way for the Arebennians to cheat the fate that haunts them. To defy one’s wyrd is to be constantly in battle. I see how the Nocturne fights to live, and I see that there is no shame in survival.”

Brother Amos felt his stomach unclench as he let go of the tension that he’d been carrying ever since he looked at himself in the mirror. No more needless tragedy: he’d seen his fill of that. Ussher carefully stretched his legs, trying his best to appear nonchalant.

“Good. I’d be upset with you if you ran headlong towards your death, Brother Ulfar.”

The big Astartes clapped Amos on the shoulder with renewed vigour.

“Well said, myn ven! This Wolf promises not to be too much of an insufferable glory-hound, provided his little Shield-sibling strives to do the same, hmm? It was very bold of you to stand with me in the mouth of the Void-beast… bold, but foolish for such a little Raven.”

Brother Ussher finally felt like making good on that offer of a free punch.

“Void-forsaken Wolf... I didn’t want to leave you all by yourself, damn it!”

Ulfar ruffled Amos’s long hair with avuncular gentleness while the young Raven fumed.

“I knew where you were the whole time, little Brother. You do not need to act the part of a Wolf to earn my respect - and I do not need to see you on the front lines to know that you are my ally. You are a Raven: fight like a Raven and use your wits next time.”

Chapter 87: Chapter Eighty Seven

Summary:

Party planning.

Preparation, innovation, dedication: one could achieve elegance on a budget if one followed these three golden maxims. Lady Astartia Werserian was determined not to dip into donations or ticket sales for her charity ball - the entirety of the profits had to go to the Scholae Progenium and orphanages on her carefully-vetted list of recipients. Nor could she overtax House Werserian’s coffers: the ongoing uncertainty on Dargonus meant that Opa needed to guard the family’s finances.

Even so, their House had been elevated to the Nobility less than a decade ago. Lady Astartia was a relative parvenu by the slow-moving standards of the Dargonian Great Houses. This was her first time officially spearheading the organisation of a large public event - one could hardly expect Lady Clementia to handle the logistics while pregnant and acting as the Rogue Trader’s Chancellor - and Astartia knew that every detail of the ball would be scrutinised.

“Flower delivery has just arrived, Your Ladyship!”

Marco, the head valet, approached Lady Astartia at a rapid trot that never quite devolved into a run. Opa must not need his services at the moment, which was felicitous: the housekeeper was engaged in other matters, and ‘all hands on deck’ were not only appreciated, but sorely needed.

“Splendid work, Marco. There’s space in the second withdrawing-room to organise the arrangements, I’ll come by to inspect them later.”

“As you wish, my Lady.”

The flowers were clever little creations of silk and wire, the kind used for millinery; they would be spritzed with diluted perfume and arranged near the dancefloor. That ought to stave off any sweaty smells induced by the revelers’ exertions. The cost of purchasing, shipping and storing actual fresh-cut blooms would have bankrupted House Werserian. Astartia considered keeping a few of the silk posies for later use. The mansion could do with a little more colour.

Saints’ teeth… the stocktake had been depressing. The family stores held enough tapestries and large furnishings to support a grand affair, but disposable items like candles or - Emperor help them - food were horrendously overpriced in the local markets. Lady Astartia’s one advantage lay in ambiguity. The charity event was open to any well-heeled Citizen who could afford the entry fee, write a courteous RSVP and dress accordingly. The ball itself had a limited guest list - Astartia could use the excuse of space constraints to restrict invitations to that part of the event, and she could use the excuse of the fundraiser’s public nature to reject tradition and save on the decorating budget.

Lady Astartia approached what was soon to become the congregating-space for the public part of the fundraiser. She’d taken all the rugs from the entryways and main parlour area, removing the enfilades and relocating Opa’s desk and book collection to a much smaller study. She’d engaged the services of some brilliant experts who’d done wonders with coloured rockcrete flooring in the Balneae Dargonis: they poured a wonderful shade of deep blue across the newly-expanded room and, once the colour was set, polished it to a high sheen. Tiny flecks of mica in the mix gave the impression of the starlit Void. The final touch was a clear spray of non-stick film: it wouldn’t do for House Werserian’s guests to slip and fall.

Lady Astartia’s recent work on her Warp beacon project served as a wonderful inspiration for the parlour’s lighting. She’d hung dark navy blue curtains across the barren ceiling and opted for endless strings of pin-lumens, along with judiciously positioned electro-chandeliers. This solved two problems: that of fire hazards, and that of the cost of candles. Her only affordable options on the latter front were made of unscented tallow, which might have been fine for the Adeptus Mechanicus but the Nobles would not tolerate its slightly fatty natural odour. The six-hour candles would go in the corridors, in high niches where there was no drapery to ignite and where the walls’ reflective surfaces would help make the most of their light.

The pre-existing ballroom, also used for fencing practice by the ladies of the House, was one storey above the converted parlour: The double corridor in the adjoining corridor would serve as their connector, and the mezzanine landing where the stairs connected had enough space for a rostrum and announcer’s booth. By partially deploying enfilades on either side of the stairs, Astartia could funnel guests upstairs and not risk having them stumble into more private spaces of the manse. It wasn’t ideal to situate the dressing-rooms and retiring rooms on the far end of the ballroom - catering would be a fiddle, for one thing - but the sense of privacy would keep her most distinguished guests at ease. Astartia headed up one of the staircases now: this would not be her last lap of the premises, she expected to be circulating all afternoon checking every detail.

The ballroom came with its own sprung laminate floor. Some of Lady Astartia’s guests had heavy prosthetic limbs that would compromise the dancing area’s structural integrity, so she took care to mark the sections of the room that were safe for them to tread. As with the parlour, floor rugs could be removed and repurposed as hanging tapestries to improve the mansion’s echoing acoustics. The modern construction of Spire Indomitus was brilliant in terms of providing ample potentia supply to all the backrooms - vital in the event that personal augmetics needed to be charged or vox-speakers needed to be hooked up.

Lady Astartia lacked access to dedicated musical servitors, unlike House Gaprak which owned a whole chamber orchestra. She’d decided to hire baseline human musicians with a preference for Dargonian locals, especially performers who had come through the orphanage system. The same was true of the caterers and attendants. Opa had grumbled about it, but they simply did not have enough servitors or in-house staff to manage everything. The help would be stretched thin enough organising and protecting the charity donations - that was paramount. At the first sign of trouble, the room that held on-premise coffers and gifts would activate an automatic lockdown protocol.

“My Lady!”

Annelena, the housekeeper, scuttled up one side of the ballroom so she would not disturb the freshly-polished dancefloor as she approached. Lena looked flustered; Lady Astartia tried not to let the older woman’s panic brush off on her. Clementia wasn’t here but if she were, she would instruct her young protegee to straighten her carriage, count to ten and stay resolute. Lady Astartia took as deep of a breath as her stays would allow, and forced a small neat smile.

“Emperor protects, Lena dear.” The housekeeper was forced to stop and acknowledge Him on Terra with a polite bob of her head. That seemed to forestall Annelena’s panic. “Tell me what has happened.”

“I’m afraid the desiccated apples will not work for the folding tart, ma’am.”

That was more of a pain than it seemed. Dargonian dinners customarily ended with at least one sweet dish that evoked the flavour of the planet’s ancient cooking apples. Lady Astartia had taken pains to secure the dried fruit - she was determined not to waste them. What was that stuff Baroness Heydari liked to drink…

“Drat. Lena, why don’t we finely chop the apple segments and mix them with sweetener? I can serve the guests apple tanna. It’s a stretch, but it counts as a dessert offering if we pair it with the minted jellies. We've got a spare samovar, I think.”

Annelena bobbed a quick curtsy.

“I’ll see to it, my Lady.”

Food remained a serious issue. A proper ball needed not just food, but chilled food and drinks. Lady Astartia could dip into her family’s liquor supplies for the punch: she’d set up an experimental device that converted kinetic energy from the sprung dancefloor into the Motive Force and diverted it to the coolant fans in their walk-in refrigeratorium. She suspected that she’d make a few secret trips there to cool off once the ballroom got too hot. As for the sixty different side dishes expected of a proper host… she’d have to make do with as many pickled, pre-cooked and vegetarian options as possible. Good cuts of grox were nowhere to be found, and the local butchers had begun passing off cuts of what Astartia suspected to be lizard meat as ‘pullet’. Perhaps if she told her guests that Lord Werserian was picky about his food, they might believe her. Ah well. As long as the drinks kept flowing and stayed cold, people would forgive her for any shortcomings in the meat department.

She’d saved a decent chunk of her own clothing budget and put that into remedying the food situation. Lady Astartia adored her bright aniline dyes not only because they were vibrant but because they were cheap! And by the Emperor’s grace, they never seemed to fade or lose their vibrancy: they were even a little easier to launder than the average Noble gown. She was not about to let a lot of frumpy old gossips tell her what not to wear. Aniline was the future, and Lady Astartia would blaze the way for its ascendancy one eye-watering outfit at a time. Not to mention, she had invested heavily in certain Mid-Hiver clans in the Garment District… she couldn’t possibly put on a soiree without supporting their cause and her own financial interests, could she?

Opa had objected to the first, brightest shade of purple that she’d shown him - “too much like that damned Immaterium!” - but he didn’t seem to mind a darker mauve or a delicate lilac. Of course he adored all the golden yellow fabric, which went so nicely with House Werserian’s off-blue livery. Lady Astartia didn’t have the heart to tell him that in the eyes of the Noble Houses, wearing too much yellow was a sign of ambition and possible loose morality. The fact was that she liked yellow and she liked purple, and by Saint Celestine she was going to make her beloved bright colours fashionable!

The final innovation of the event was in the application of its courtly etiquette. Lady Astartia was adamant that the grand ball and its adjacent fundraiser should be welcoming for everyone. Everyone. Balls were usually overblown match-making schemes intended to partner women up with well-heeled men and thus, to keep various tottering dynasties going. Lady Astartia was new money and frankly, she did not give three straws about such practices, nor was she there to parade endless shy debutantes through a gauntlet of introductions to leering cavaliers.

The women could dance with the women, the men could dance with the men - who cared about the arrangements so long as there were enough pairs to make up a set, and everyone got a turn? Most importantly, her darling Opa would be free to dance with his beau if he wanted. It really was the least she could do for her beloved great-grandfather. If anyone gave Astartia grief about it, she could always point to the great Rogue Trader’s example and remind the stuffy old matrons that Como von Valancius technically didn’t fit anywhere on a conventional dance card!

All right… one more circuit around the premises, and she would take a recaf break. Emperor, please let this ball go off without a hitch!

Chapter 88: Chapter Eighty Eight

Summary:

Acolyte Aster makes his debut in high society.

Acolyte Clif Aster looked out upon a sea of stars - or at least the surface-bound approximation of one. He’d been a security guard for several Kasballican parties, relegated to door duty for the most part; if he was lucky, he’d get to sneak inside and inspect the Cold Traders’ opulent backrooms before the gig started. This was different: the first time he’d been to an upscale event as a guest, and his first time rubbing shoulders with actual Nobility.

Sure, the Werserians hadn’t been officially elevated to the House of Houses that long ago, but Clif could already tell that they moved in different circles from the Kasballica’s robber Barons. There was less glitz than he’d expected, and a lot less gilded clutter. He really liked the donation room with its floor and ceiling of false starlight. It gave him a much-needed feeling of calm. Aster reminded himself to come to the landing of the main stairs whenever he needed a break from the Nobs. It was the perfect vantage point for an Inquisition agent.

Lord van Calox seemed to agree: he’d just sidled up to Aster and was now leaning over the mezzanine’s balustrade. The Lord Inquisitor’s white-gloved hands dangled freely, fingertips pointing downward with foppish looseness. There was a thick square of card tucked between them: Heinrix gestured for Aster to take it, and the Acolyte complied. When he unfolded the card he found not instructions but a list of names, times and dances inscribed in the Lord Inquisitor’s cryptic handwriting.

“So you’ve just signed us up for the - what-” Clif squinted at his card. “Pavane and the.. Garotte?”

“That’s the Gavotte, not the garotte, Aster.”

Heinrix gave the Acolyte a sidelong smirk. The Lord Inquisitor’s penmanship was thin and slanted, with strong up-and-down movements. Clif tilted the dance card a bit: the squiggle looked vaguely like the needle-track of a seismograph. Or a polygraph readout.

“Ah yes, the ‘gavotte’. As opposed to this scrunched bandage you’ve swaddled around my neck.”

“It’s called a stock and neckcloth. I apologise for the discomfort; it does suit you rather well.”

Clif chafed at his constriction. He restrained himself from hooking his gloved hand into the top of his weird scarf - he didn’t want to disturb the carefully arranged folds that Heinrix had made while dressing him for the party. The starched collar was the real villain here. Aster tried shifting his head a bit, which relieved the incipient itch that had built up just below his jawline.

“I’ll bear with it.”

“Still, we’ll think of something else in future.”

Lord van Calox was not constrained in the same way: he had received an invitation as ‘M. Henri Corbin’ and was thus attending under that alias. The Lord Inquisitor-turned-couturier was modelling one of his own designs tonight: he wore a Calixian style hanfu instead of his usual white dress uniform. Clif pretended to murmur something cute in the man’s ear.

“I’m more worried about your look, boss.”

Aster had expected a more drastic disguise - something involving biomancy, perhaps. Heinrix had covered up his unnaturally blue right eye with a contact lens, but the Inquisitor couldn’t entirely disguise his heterochromia or that ever-present crease between his brows. He’d traded in his usual single braid for a loose hairstyle, but that was hardly going to fool anyone who was already familiar with Heinrix van Calox.

“Lord Werserian likely knows about my double identity and sent me an invitation for Hal’s sake, so that Froscher would have some friends in attendance. If anyone else makes the connection, they would hardly dare to mention it in polite company.”

“Are you here to support Lady Astartia as Henri Corbin, or as the Lord Inquisitor?”

Heinrix gave Clif another thin smile. “That’s an excellent question, one that will keep our guests pondering all evening.”

That explained why van Calox had immediately signed them up to participate in the first set of dances. Honestly, it wasn’t the worst call. The early part of the evening was the most formal part: Clif would spend his set sedately walking, bowing and observing the other dancers. He could follow the flow of each dance without disgracing himself. He was relieved not to be the only commoner in attendance at the private party. He’d already spotted Citizen Tribunes Dargon and Ravor, known for their former camaraderie under the Rogue Trader and their current rivalry in opposing political factions. There were a good few well-heeled industrialists hovering around too, probably looking to buy their way into a higher social class.

“All right, Master Corbin. What's my angle, aside from the whole war hero act?”

Heinrix raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not an act: you’re a decorated hero of Dargonus.”

The Inquisitor slid a gloved fingertip under the dangling metal boss of the medal that was currently pinned to Aster’s frock coat. Clif gave it a dubious glance: It depicted a large insectile claw being split in half.

“I can’t believe you even invented a bit of tin for me to wear.”

“The decoration is genuine. I asked the Rogue Trader to come up with a design, and they were happy to oblige. I think they even found it entertaining.”

Heinrix had asked his ex for a favour, for Clif’s sake? Cute.

“That was thoughtful of you.”

Aster gave the embossed claw a little pat, making sure to brush his fingers against Heinrix’s hand in passing. The fleeting contact was surprisingly thrilling - they both needed to keep things restrained in public, but that just made him look forward to unwrapping the Lord Inquisitor later. Clif couldn’t linger for too long at Heinrix’s ear, or it’d be considered impolite: but he also couldn’t resist getting one last teasing remark in.

“If anyone asks what I do for a living, I’ll tell them I’m your Muse.”

That got a genuine smile out of ‘Corbin’.

When he straightened and turned to head up the second flight of steps to the ballroom, Aster realised that their height disparity was more noticeable than usual. Heinrix must be wearing flat shoes. Clif instinctively hovered at his boss’s left side and offered the crook of his right elbow to the Inquisitor. A small, private part of his mind couldn’t help picturing his boss in a proper ballgown. Perhaps something cut low in the back, so that Clif could sneakily caress a furtive inch of bare skin with the tip of his thumb while he held the Lord Inquisitor close for a waltz. Note to self, Aster: take dance lessons.

They had a small audience of curious onlookers, most of whom hid their mouths behind fans or gloved hands. A sign of people with things to hide - unsurprising maybe, Nobles usually had fat dossiers full of dirty secrets. Either they were too timid about approaching the famously solitary and fussy couturier, or they had just recognised the Inquisitor and were busy shitting their silk drawers over his appearance. Respect or fear - Clif didn’t care, he was enjoying the attention.

“It’s lively here! I feel as out of place as a grox in a mine shaft, mind you. I wonder if any of the other guests have seen the inside of a prison cell.”

“None of the Sauerback clan are in attendance, otherwise my answer would be a definite yes: they were all remanded in custody ten years ago, pending the outcome of a murder investigation. As for the industrialists, I recognise one or two faces: they were apprehended by our people and subsequently recruited as informers - although naturally, it would be bad form for me to introduce you directly.”

“I see Lord Werserian. And… damn, is that Hal?”

Acolyte Froscher wasn’t wearing all grey for once, a fact that paradoxically made it far harder for Aster to recognise him in the throng. The agent still seemed to possess his customary elusiveness: in the brief time Clif observed him, Hal was nearly run over by two flamboyant courtiers and one startled-looking servant. Lord Werserian seemed accustomed to the problem by now. Each time, the retired Seneschal put an arm out - casually shifting in mid-conversation as if he were simply stretching his old limbs - and steered the offending party out of Froscher’s personal space.

The shape of Hal’s formal garments was very neat and slim - his dark brown tailcoat was cut very short in the front, just a sharp wedge echoing the lean contours of his ribcage. A mottled waistcoat peeked out from underneath, then a little cream-coloured band of fabric connected that to his russet-coloured breeches. Cream gloves, long riding boots in very shiny brown leather - everything emphasised the former assassin’s vitality and grace. Froscher himself seemed more lively than usual, shifting his head rapidly from one conversational partner to another but always returning his attention to Lord Werserian.

“Emperor be praised, someone taught the bloke what colours are!” Clif snickered and shot a glance at Heinrix.

“Don’t look at me, ‘Henri Corbin’ had no part in it. Hmm, I had half expected Lord Abelard to wear his old officer’s uniform. It appears he has changed tack, sartorially speaking. The political implications intrigue me.”

There weren't any epaulettes on the elder Werserian’s frock coat; Clif noted that he’d kept his hem long and boxy to conceal his paunch. The old man wore a long blue half-cape over one shoulder, evoking the shape of a Navis officer’s greatcoat, but that was the extent of his military styling. He’d disguised his belly with a three-piece brown suit; instead of breeches and boots, the man wore wide-legged trousers with low-heeled dancing shoes and spats. He used a cravat and a spread collar instead of a constricting neckcloth, something that made Aster terribly envious. Lord Werserian might have been mistaken for a well-heeled commoner were it not for a few distinguishing accessories: the archaeotech chronometer in his pocket affixed to a gold watch-chain, the subtle heraldic emblem pinned to his lapel.

Just when Clif had started to worry if his red jacket made him stand out in this crowd, Lady Astartia appeared to upstage him. Her layered skirts were shaped like the petals of an overblown flower, but their colours made Aster think about the poisonous jungle frogs and long-tailed birds of Janus. If he wasn’t mistaken, the hostess was wearing a taxidermied bird’s arse and wings as a hat - or a hair decoration, he wasn’t too sure of the distinction. The delicate tail feathers had a distinctive curled shape that must have been a bitch to keep intact during transportation. Nobles signalled their wealth and privilege in the weirdest ways. Aster was suddenly glad that Heinrix had dressed down for the occasion - otherwise, Clif wouldn’t have dared to touch the man for fear of crinkling or scuffing some priceless bit of haberdashery.

Only one person dared to actively approach ‘Corbin’, making a slow beeline in his direction through a bustling gaggle of attendees. The bloke was not built for dancing, so Clif assumed he was there to make connections rather than party. The Acolyte noticed how the gentleman acknowledged every guest with a polite nod as he deftly steered them out of his flight path; he was remarkably patient and comfortable in a crowd despite his impressive girth. Aster discreetly got his boss’s attention as the big fellow came fully into view. He was wearing a hanfu of almost identical design to the one ‘Henri’ had on, which only highlighted the contrast in their underlying physiologies.

“Emperor’s blessings, M’sieu Corbin.”

The gentleman offered Heinrix a short bow, the kind that commoners would make to one another. He was pretty good at reading the room. The Lord Inquisitor stayed in character as Henri Corbin and returned the reverence in kind.

“May He watch over your political undertakings, Citizen Tribune Dargon.”

What a way to imply that the politician had something to hide! Throne, was van Calox going to vaguely threaten everyone who cornered him for a chat? Clif considered discreetly nudging his boss and encouraging him to rein it in, but he decided to hold off for the moment. He still didn’t know enough about the relationship between these two men. Tribune Dargon seemed a little flushed, but that could simply have been due to the warmth of the room.

“My only agenda tonight is a charitable one. Lady Astartia wouldn’t want me to talk about the crude business of legislation at one of her affairs.”

The bloke’s tone sounded far too languid and his mannerisms were too loose and flowing for him to seem like a commoner. Aster took careful note of the way the big man’s hands moved, memorising the gestures. Clif now understood why Heinrix had passed him off as a military man for this event: he’d never have been able to imitate a courtier’s airs. Dargon didn’t wear gloves - an odd informality. Then again, he did have plump, youthful fingers and a really nice manicure. Gloves concealed scars; in Clif’s case, they covered up his prison tattoos. Dargon was telling people he had nothing to hide. The big bloke wore only one signet ring with a big blue cameo. He was showing off his affiliation with Team Blue.

“I wanted to offer you my personal gratitude on behalf of a certain… non-relative. It is heartening when talented young people receive a second chance, particularly when it allows them to serve the Protectorate - or the dynasty.”

The Citizen Tribune placed his right hand over his heart - for a moment Aster thought he was going to make the sign of the Aquila at the Lord Inquisitor, but Dargon swiftly turned the gesture into another small reverence made in the civilian manner. Heinrix seemed amused by the last minute course-correction.

“I’ll gladly accept your thanks, Master Dargon, although I am surprised by it - particularly since, as you pointed out yourself, there is legally no family connection involved.”

“Call it sympathy for a fellow outcast, M’sieu. With no family of his own, someone ought to spare a thought for the lad. That is why we are here tonight - to show kindness to those who have, by unfortunate chance, found themselves uprooted.”

The Citizen Tribune swiftly made his excuses and disappeared into the throng. Hal discreetly nestled Henrix’s left hand under the crook of his arm: the Lord Inquisitor’s fingers were cold through the fabric of his gloves.

“Don’t let him rattle you, boss.”

The Inquisitor responded with a gentle acknowledging squeeze.

“That was Olivar’s uncle, Janris - formerly of House Danrok.”

Clif nodded back, remembering his briefing. There was a vague family resemblance, they had the same distinctive mole on the left cheek. Heinrix’s mouth worked its way out of a scowl as the Lord Inquisitor exhaled a refreshingly chilly breath.

“He must have found out about the transfer already. Hopefully the leak’s come from within the dynasty.”

“That was brave of him to approach you.” Not to mention the little tussle of wits that had just taken place. It took adamantine balls to stand up to an Inquisitor.

“I’m surprised that he’d go in to bat for a psyker. He won’t get any prestige out of it.”

“Have you considered that maybe he sympathises with you?”

Heinrix looked up sharply at Clif. “What?”

“Never mind, boss.”

A jolly feminine voice carried over the chatter and incidental music, calling the dancers to make ready for the Pavane. Clif glanced around, looking not for the vox-hailers but for the speaker herself. Lady Astartia was at the small rostrum on the landing of the double staircase - she appeared to be making the announcements. Fortunately she wouldn’t need to dash back and lead the first dance. Lord Werserian, the House’s paterfamilias, would take up that role. And Froscher would be his partner - a remarkably prominent role for the usually self-effacing Acolyte. Clif was curious to see how Hal would manage.

Aster offered van Calox his hand and they went to take their place in the set. They were near the back of the line for the Pavane, behind various Nobles and more important personages whose rank took precedence. Clif was happy about that, as it meant he could snoop on more of the queue. Imagine how uncomfortable the two courtiers just in front must be, to have two agents of the Golden Throne watching their every move!

The Lord Inquisitor’s left hand had warmed up again: Aster desperately wanted to take Heinrix’s glove off and do obscene things to the psyker’s fingers with his lips and tongue. That behaviour might have suited the dim lighting and sweaty crowds of a Hex-4 nightclub, but it definitely wasn’t appropriate for a formal dance. They’d both just have to enjoy the suspense of their tantalising half-proximity.

Clif felt a faint anticipatory shiver run along his arm and down his spine; he knew Heinrix could sense it, and the thought made him shiver again.

Noble courtship rituals were a lot more interesting than he had anticipated.

Chapter 89: Chater Eighty Nine

Summary:

Jelly, speeches and a sudden turn of events.

Timun Ravor had heard of ‘phantom limb syndrome’ - the feeling of missing a body part that you’d parted ways with. He’d seen Magos Haneumann try to grab random objects with mechanical pincers that weren’t attached, and he’d observed Vigdis cover her mouth reflexively when she coughed even though there was a mask permanently attached to her face. Bodies were finicky things. So maybe it was possible he’d developed a case of ‘phantom headache’, imagining his old implant-induced twinges at the sight of Uncle Abbie and that bloody Interrogator. Being round members of the old Venatrix crew (and unwanted tag-alongs) might be stirring up nostalgia, or something else.

Whatever the case, Meister Ravor had the fun kind of migraine, the sort where his vision got patchy and lumens hurt to look at. The rum punch was plentiful and strong, as you’d expect of a Navis Imperialis family. He couldn’t say that it was helping his headache, though. Timun requisitioned himself a cake-plate, manoeuvred a wobbling green cube of mint-scented mystery dessert onto it and found a nice wall tapestry to lean against.

He felt terribly out of his element in the ballroom. The downstairs area was nice - he liked the Void-and-stars motif. Maybe he’d head back to the stairway once he’d worked out whether to drink or eat his wiggly food… if he got drunk enough, perhaps he could pretend he was at the helm of a Voidship once more, and not suffering in leg-braces at a party full of Nobs.

A familiar portly shape sidled up to Ravor and quietly leaned up against the wall to his right. Janris was wearing one of those dark blue dressing-gown-looking robes he seemed to favour these days. The ex-High-Factotum handed his fellow Tribune a little silver object that looked more like a spade than a spoon.

“Oh, for the - the sweet?”

“It’s called jelly. Dig in, old chum.”

Ravor accepted the strange implement and began excavating. This jelly stuff was intensely sweet and fragrant. He gave his green cube an experimental prod with the flat of the spoon and snickered as it wobbled.

“Flamin’ martyrs, that’s a bit indecent ain’t it?”

Timun poked the jelly again. Janris put his hand over his mouth to disguise a fit of the giggles, but Ravor was too preoccupied to care. The wiggling dessert was distracting him from his headache.

“Reminds me of canned luncheon, only sweet. What holds it together?”

“Rendered grox-hoof extract, I believe. You can mix it out of a powder; all you need is water, a heat-proof bowl and a cold room to let it set.”

Ravor devoured another spoonful of sweet captivating slime. He wondered if he could get Daniil from the vertical farms to whip up something like this for Platon. The retired boxer wore dentures. He’d probably go wild for a plate of jelly.

“Trying all the new food is a vital aspect of attending these high-society functions… my favourite part, I have to say. Now all we need to do is have a dance, and we’ll have fulfilled our social duties for the evening and can retire to play a few rounds of cards and billiards!”

Tribune Dargon rubbed his hands together in anticipation of amasec and parlour games. Ravor gave him what he hoped was a dirty look - although with his head feeling tender, it probably just looked like he was squinting.

“Emperor’s sake, mate. Are you trying to set me up to humiliate myself? Me, dance - in these blasted leg-irons and a girdle? I’ll look like a Drukhari that’s got the shits.”

Janris coughed. Timun doubled down, keeping his expression as dead-pan as possible.

“You know what they call it when you drink too much recaf on an empty stomach? The Reaving Tempest.”

Tribune Dargon’s face had gone pink. His mouth twitched: he was making a heroic effort not to burst out laughing.

“W-well! I have missed your colourful similes, Meister Ravor. Need I remind you that I’m hardly built for dancing myself, but… one manages, and it is the done thing to keep the ballroom lively by participating regardless of skill and grace. I’d even take a turn with you about the boards if it bolsters the old morale.”

“I don’t know the moves for any of these Noble dances. I’ve been watching these fancy-pants getting their moves on; I saw a lot of bowing and scraping and leaping, but nothing I’d recognise as proper dancing.”

Janris’s fingers tapped slyly against his jawline. It was a bit novel for the bloke to have a jawline at all. Either the recent food shortages were getting to the Tribune or he’d actually done some walking on the campaign trail. Ravor was sincerely relieved. He wanted to beat his political rival at the polls, not have the man keel over from a heart attack.

“Did you know, Timun, that whoever signs up to lead a set can call the dances?”

Now Dargon really had Timun’s attention.

“What, like - I can tell the Nobs what to do, including making them perform a Voidsman’s reel?” Ravor moved his cake-plate in a circle, making the remains of his jelly wobble for emphasis. “Shit, why didn’t you mention it earlier? That’s a damn tempting proposition.”

“I think we ought to try it. These proceedings need a little livening up.”

Janris gave Ravor a conspiratorial look. He was standing close enough for the Meister to detect a faint but distinct whiff of brandy emanating from his counterpart. Was Dargon trying to bait him into doing something daft?

“Do you reckon that’s the best idea in front of the Lord Inquisi-”

A dreadful shrill noise cut Ravor off. He winced for a moment, thinking his aching head was just playing tricks on him. Janris appeared shocked, too - it wasn’t just him. The initial din of offended machine spirits gave way to a more human din. Banging and clamouring echoed down in the public gallery: guests in the ballroom let out startled cries, feet began trampling towards the cloakroom and withdrawing rooms.

“Trouble downstairs.” Ravor ditched his cake plate and tugged on Janris’s sleeve. He’d need the big man’s bulk if he was going to shoulder his way through all the panicking dancers.

“Get a wriggle on. Don’t want to miss the fun.”

 

___

 

Three agents of the Golden Throne discreetly inserted vox-beads into their ears and activated them near-simultaneously. It was a trick made all the more remarkable by the fact that Froscher was back in the ballroom with Lord Werserian.

“Falcon standing by.”

The old assassin kept a businesslike tone as his voice crackled in Clif’s left ear. Heinrix was near Aster: when he responded, the Acolyte caught the faint echo of lag between the Lord Inquisitor’s real voice and the one on the vox-bead.

“Raven here. Copy that - stay with Werserian. We’ll handle the intrusion.”

The sudden incursion into the lower gallery had quickly filled the available space: Clif guessed there couldn’t be more than three hundred people in the group, even packed shoulder to shoulder, though there were likely to be more unwanted guests out in the corridors. He’d hardly call it a mob. If the guests and the servants of the House worked together, they could outnumber the interlopers… then again, none of the fancy dignitaries would be keen on that idea.

Lady Astartia’s orphanage donations were safe enough: a heavy-looking wall panel had descended at the first sign of trouble, cutting off access to the coffers full of Throne gelt and other gifts. The intruders turned their attention towards the upper floor and the ballroom guests. The Werserians’ people had already secured choke points on the lower staircases. Trust an old Navis family to keep it together.

Aster examined the crowd downstairs. The overall look was distinctly working-class, more Middle Hive than the true dregs of the city. Clif spotted a few pale hairnets and short-sleeved shirts under the speckled light of the hanging lumens: the uniforms of hired caterers and cleaners. The front door had been well-guarded; it made sense for these people to have targeted a service entrance, either in disguise or by getting jobs and letting their mates inside. For now, the little crowd seemed more interested in shouting than rioting. The din made it impossible for Clif to get more than the general gist of their complaints, which seemed to be the usual civilian problems - lack of food and resources, mostly.

“What a shit-show…” Aster belatedly realised that Heinrix could hear his muttering. “Do we disperse these idiots?”

“Not yet.” Clif heard the Inquisitor clicking his tongue as he assessed the situation.

“This protest has been staged. I can see a pict-recorder.” Heinrix gestured towards the audience: one of the uninvited guests was indeed holding up a small device on a stick.

“I wonder who would benefit from organising something like this… Aster, I’m going after Tribune Dargon. Get me eyes on Meister Ravor.”

Lord van Calox promptly disappeared back up the stairs. Aster vaguely knew who to look out for: Ravor was a Voidborn with distinctive head implants, he ought to stand out at a gathering like this. As he scanned the crowd and tolerated the jostling contact of panicked Nobles and servants retreating towards the parlour rooms, Clif realised why House Wereserian wasn’t just cracking down on the protest. If blood was spilled in the middle of a charity gig, it’d wreck Lady Astartia’s reputation. She was in a bind: the best outcome would be to make the crowd disperse.

Damn, the Tribune wasn’t upstairs! Clif nearly slapped his own forehead when he realised his mistake: the guy was a former deck officer, he’d have headed towards the conflict not away from it. Sure enough, Aster spotted movement on the opposite staircase. The Acolyte was pressed up against one of the polished wood bannisters, trapped by panicked dancers. He decided to sit and slide down it, a move that he executed less elegantly than he’d planned in his head - but it did get him closer to the mezzanine alcove with its rostrum.

Even more interlopers had crammed their way into the downstairs gallery, and they were forcing the front row of protesters to press up against the cordon of the Werserians’ security detail. A few servitors had arrived to back up the staff, but even their metallic bulk wouldn’t withstand a really good shove for long.

Now the crowd’s shouting was interspersed with the occasional cry of discomfort or swearing complaint as bodies crushed against each other. Throne, what an unprofessional mess! The clamour of hoarse voices and stamping feet, the occasional wail of a Noble lady in the ballroom or the whine of a servitor’s limb, dozens of unrelated noises mingled and built to a painful cacophony-

“WHAT THE BLOODY THRONE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

A rough, distinctly lower-class voice roared over the vox-hailers. The bare walls of the downstairs gallery reverberated with the speaker’s scolding anger. The crowd’s shouting became a discontented grumble; people no longer jostled, but turned their faces towards the landing of the great double stairway.

Clif had half expected to see Lord Werserian, but this wasn’t him. A severe-looking man with silver hair and extensive cranial implants stood in the speaker’s place. The glare of multiple spotlights intensified his acutely angular features and pale skin. He wore a well-travelled military coatee whose epaulettes emphasised his wide, bony shoulders; the Voidborn man was tall enough to loom over the low rostrum. He’d perched both his hands against its ancient countertop, bringing his centre of gravity forward to let his splayed fingertips take his body weight. No gloves: Aster doubted the man had owned a pair of gloves in his life. Those were the strong, lean hands of an artisan or engineer.

This must be Tribune Ravor. He looked like a great bird of prey surveying his next meal.

A long potentia cable snaked down the Citizen Tribune’s back and trailed along the floor behind him. Had that madman plugged his brain directly into the vox-speakers? Aster spotted a flash of colour in the shadows: Lady Astartia’s frock. Her body was bent over something. Clif realised that the lady wasn’t cowering, she was operating the lights. Clever woman!

“Shipmates! Citizens.” The Tribune’s vocal amplification had settled into something less thunderous. “You are all citizens, aren’t you?”

A scattering of protesters responded, crying out “Yeah!” or “We’ve got rights!” over the general murmuration.

“Then damn well act like it!”

The crowd’s mood immediately threatened to turn stormy. Ravor cut off the protesters’ incipient grumbles by slamming his hand down on the lectern.

“We. Are. Better. Than. This.”

He underscored his words with more slaps against the countertop. The Citizen Tribune’s eyes flashed with anger, and his already strict expression transformed to one of blazing judgement. In another life, he’d have made a great Ecclesiarch. Suddenly the man’s tone softened again.

“Do you remember the Defence of Dargonus?” Several murmurs assented. “Do you remember the uproar in the streets? The carnage in the Hives? The fear in the dark?”

The crowd was getting used to the pattern of call and response by now. Clif could see several clenched fists being held over people’s hearts as the people remembered the terrible mutant uprising - the same campaign where he’d earned his medal of valour. A lot of convict warriors had died in those Hives. Aster’s presence at the fringes of the landing seemed suddenly portentous. The Acolyte hoped Lady Astartia wouldn’t decide to put a spotlight on him. Ravor continued to ply his audience.

“You were there, weren’t you, I can tell you were. Me? I wasn’t. I was flying a Voidship at the time, in orbit.”

The Tribune leaned back a little and allowed himself a self-deprecating shrug. Ravor was being weirdly humble about his old job - piloting the von Valancius flagship surely took an iron will - but the brief dissipation of tension worked. The audience let out a warm hum of amusement.

“I saw you, though. I saw you stand. I saw you fight for your homes and for your families. Emperor be praised, I saw you win.” Ravor folded one hand across his chest and stood tall.

“The blessed Rogue Trader, Him-on-Terra’s Chosen, saw you too. Your bravery, your love of Dargonus, made the Lord Cap’n give you a precious chance. They granted you a fraction of their Emperor-given blessing, together with the sacred responsibility of holding the inner line. They gave you an Assembly of Convocation - a hallowed place where each sovereign citizen, through Tribunician representation, gets a say in how this planet governs itself. You are the Lex Dargonus, shipmates. You are this planet’s life-blood.”

Ravor’s lean hand trembled as he lifted it from his breast and set it back down on the rostrum. There was no doubt in Aster’s mind that the Citizen Tribune believed in the Charter of Minimal Rights and its promise for better times. Then like a flare in a Warp storm, Meister Ravor’s mood changed back to fire and brimstone.

“All this the Rogue Trader has given you, treating you like the adults you are - and like sulking children you would throw it all away! All these troubles, all these complaints; not a single one of you thinks to raise them with your Tribunes, so that we might fix them in your Emperor-given Assembly. Instead you barge into the house of a woman who wants to feed our hungry orphans, and you kick up a stink - because it’s easier, isn’t it?” Ravor stabbed at the crowd with his finger.

“Easier to pretend you’re still a disenfranchised rabble. Easier to pack a tantrum and call it civil action. By the Throne, look at yourselves and be ashamed!”

The Citizen Tribune collected himself in the shocked quiet that followed. He ran a hand over his slicked-back silver hair and neatly tied implant cables.

“Calm down, disperse and go home, shipmates, and your safety will be guaranteed. I’ve got the honourable Lord Werserian’s word; as well as the promise of an agent of the Inquisition.”

Clif hastily glanced behind him: Lord Abelard and Froscher were hovering just out of the spotlight. The protesters mumbled and muttered to themselves. They could have been in serious trouble if the hosts had resorted to a violent reprisal, not to mention their potential disappearance in Inquisitorial custody. Aster thought about the thousand empty, waiting cells back on Foulstone; enough room to incarcerate not just this group, but their families as well. Those potential consequences now weighed heavily on the minds of the interlopers. With the initial thrill of breaking and entering now dissipated, they were easy prey.

“We all have troubles, citizens.” Ravor’s voice was low and steady. “Go home to your families and your beds. And if you still have troubles in the morning, make time to speak with a Tribune. Remember, shipmates: if you have a problem - bring it to me!”

Citizen Tribune Ravor finished his speech not with a smile, but with an expansive gesture of his outflung arm and a stern look towards a distant, elusive future. The man’s body language was so focused that Clif half expected Werserian Manor to rotate on its foundations and launch itself in the direction of Timun Ravor’s peculiar salute. Aster made a note of the angle. He had a funny feeling that the Tribune had just instinctively pointed in the cardinal direction of Holy Terra. It seemed like something a former Helmsman would know by rote.

Lady Astartia chose that moment to subtly bring up the house lights in the downstairs gallery and give Ravor a slight reprieve from the glare of the spotlights. A few ragged voices called out from the murmuring crowd as the protesters began turning this way and that, already thinking about making an exit.

“Three cheers for the Rogue Trader!”

The random worker's reedy cry was swiftly followed up by a louder, deeper voice.

“Three cheers for Ole Rockcrete!”

A ripple of laughter spread through the room, dissipating the apprehension among the protesters. The first cheer was scattered, but others soon picked up the timing.

“Emp - e - Rah!”

“Emp - e - RAH!”

“EMP - E - ROOOAR!”

The cheering devolved into a chorus of whoops and jubilant hollering. People stamped their feet against the polished rockcrete floor. Some made the sign of the Aquila, while many others raised their fists in a simple worker’s salute. Meister Ravor remained at his podium, looking mildly stunned: Clif noticed his fellow Tribune Janris Dargon come shuffling up to the Voidborn and eagerly clasp his hand. Aster strained to catch the words of their conversation without much success, but it seemed collegial enough.

Clif glanced back down at the gallery. In the midst of the crowd, the Acolyte couldn’t help noticing a few faint red lumens: the pilot lights for pict-recording devices that had been carefully preserving every moment of this interlude.

Who was watching?

Chapter 90: Chapter Ninety

Summary:

Back to the revels!

The interlopers were in a blessed hurry to get out before either House Werserian or the dreaded Inquisition withdrew its clemency. Tribune Dargon kept watch from the mezzanine as they filed out. Odd workers, those: they seemed too well put together to be truly desperate. Janris could have sworn he’d seen a camera operator in the crowd.

Had one of Dargon’s cronies in Team Blue attempted a little unprompted sabotage? If so, he’d have choice words for them later. Was one of the other Noble Houses attempting to stir the pot and annoy the Werserians? Surely they wouldn’t endanger their own clients and lesser relatives! There were no members of House Sauerback present tonight, but old Macharius wasn’t the sort to engage in underhanded dealings. He had enough of a blot on his escutcheon thanks to his former wife’s treachery and subsequent execution.

The only person to have gained anything from this evening’s incident was Citizen Tribune Ravor. Janris scratched at his sideburns as he struggled to process that thought. He spared his political opponent a sidelong glance. The former Master Helmsman’s angular face was inscrutable and stern as he contemplated the empty lower gallery. Timun Ravor knew how to influence a crowd, but he didn’t strike Janris as a manipulator. Their years of friendly rivalry had revealed nothing sinister about the man’s character. There was a natural order to things: Janris was courteous and sly, Ravor was aggressive and steadfast. Any inversion of their customary dynamic seemed so utterly wrong that Tribune Dargon rejected it on principle.

Things soon calmed down in the ballroom. Lady Astartia’s hired cleaners had mustered to sweep away the worst of the mess the crowd had made downstairs. The cleaning team’s coordinated efforts and neat short-sleeved uniforms put Janris in mind of Voidsmen tidying up after a Warp breach. Helpful people were everywhere, yet he’d never have paid them a moment’s thought when he was still a Noble.

The party was technically ready to start up again. The overall mood, however, was far from normal. Janris could tell from the tone of the background chatter: people were trading departure plans rather than gossip. If the Werserians didn’t intervene soon, the disruption would be the death-knell for their fundraising efforts.

Lady Astartia trotted over to the Tribunes, vibrant skirts clutched in her left fist and hitched up just enough to offer a glimpse of her pointy-toed yellow boots. Lord Werserian instinctively drew closer to his great-granddaughter, offering his quiet moral support without undermining Astartia’s role as hostess. The retired Seneschal seemed more amused than bothered by the disruption. Janris tried and failed to work out where he’d seen Lord Abelard’s companion before. The slender moustached man hung back: the rest of them clustered together on the landing.

Lady Astartia offered Meister Ravor a low curtsey. Her reverent greeting seemed to startle the Tribune, and he made the sign of the Aquila in return. The hostess took this minor breach of etiquette in stride. She extended her hand so that Ravor knew what to do next time.

“May the Emperor bless you for your quick thinking, dear Meister Ravor! That could have gone far worse… Saints, I dread to think about it.”

Lady Astartia wasn’t frail enough for a fainting spell, but she accepted an encouraging pat on the hand from the Tribune.

“Is there any way I can assist you in return for your service, honourable Citizen Tribune?”

Janris noticed a little colour creep up Ravor’s pale cheeks as he cradled Lady Astartia’s gloved fingers in his broad palm. The Tribune released his hostess’s hand and glanced down at her vibrant skirts.

“Actually I think you could, my Lady. Does that cloth come in green?”

Lady Astartia’s laugh was as jolly as her great-grandfather’s.

“I adore your practical mind! For the moment, I fear I must leave you and dismiss my guests. I rather think this evening’s frivolity has ended.”

Janris decided this was a fine time to intervene. Was no-one going to think of the orphans?

“What, surely not, Lady Astartia!” He clasped his hands in front of his chest. “I implore you, do not let those boors dissuade you from your mission of charity.”

Ravor and Lord Werserian both nodded along. Lord Werserian’s dance-partner took a discreet half-step forward and murmured in Lady Astartia’s ear.

“It would be better for civic order if we could keep the party going, my Lady.”

Astartia unclipped a small purple fan from a loop at her belt, tapped its folded end against her chin and tilted her head in brief contemplation.

“Drat it all, you’re both right. One mustn’t be deterred by setbacks!” She tossed her ringleted head and tapped the toe of her boot against the floor. “A lively dance would lift everyone’s spirits. What a pity that we’ve lost the younger Gapraks: they were supposed to lead the next set.”

“That’s easy!” Timun Ravor brought his hands together with a decisive clap. “Whoever signs up gets to call the tune, right?”

Dargon turned his head sharply in Meister Ravor’s direction - perhaps a little too sharply, since the action made the collar of his hanfu dig into the jowl behind his right jaw. Janris took a cautious half-step to face his counterpart. Ravor’s expression was both gleeful and determined: the Tribune’s lean countenance made his grin look slightly feral.

“My colleague and I will do the honours.”

Janris raised a skeptical eyebrow. Oh we will, will we?

“You were offering to dance just before this lot barged in - unless you’re backing out now?”

Dargon exhaled through his nose and put on a careful smile.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Meister Ravor.”

This wasn’t at all what Janris Dargon had imagined. He was supposed to shepherd Ravor through the halls of Nobility, not be dragged into whatever crude entertainment the man was scheming! The Voidborn linked arms and hauled Dargon towards the majordomo’s table: the ensuing hurried negotiations with musicians and attendants passed by in a blur of confusion.

“What’ll we make these fops dance, shipmate? The Wiggly Weevil? The Footfall Stomp?”

“For the love of the Throne, please not the Footfall Stomp. You’ll break the sprung floor.”

“Ah! I’ve got an idea. All right everyone - who’s dancing? Form up!”

Ravor clapped his ungloved hands above his head. To Danrok’s surprise, a flock of well-heeled guests clustered around the Tribune. Most of them wore lively costumes and were in the tipsy stage of drunkenness; bright young things, driven by curiosity and novelty.

“Ladies, gents and cogs, the dance we are about to perform is called… the Warp Storm.”

Janris had never heard of such a thing in his entire tenure aboard the Venatrix! Ravor’s dance was - to put it bluntly - a load of groxshit. He sighed, but the mood of the group was against him. Timun instructed everyone to form up in one long, messy queue, with both Tribunes standing together at one end. The dancers soon formed a winding trail that veered off into the fringes of the dancefloor. Their antics had attracted a bevy of onlookers.

Ravor signalled for the musicians to start. They began playing a lively approximation of a shipboard reel.

“Everyone hold hands with the person on either side of you. Keep those arms nice and high, shipmates!”

Ravor demonstrated by taking hold of Janris’s right hand and lifting it to about shoulder height. Dargon followed suit and clasped the hand of the confused-looking gentleman to his left. Soon everyone was joined up like the links of a great anchor-chain.

“Now we’re going to form the eye of the eye of the storm. I’ll start to wind us in on this end of the line: you lot on the far end, start wrapping yourselves in from the outside.”

Ravor took a wheeling step to the left, bringing himself face to face with Janris. He continued the momentum and steered them both around in an anti-clockwise direction. Tribune Dargon panicked as he realised they were about to be surrounded on all sides.

“Slowly, for the Throne’s sake!” Janris frantically cautioned the other dancers, who were already winding their arms and bodies around the Tribunes in a spiralling knot that seemed destined to only grow tighter the more people added themselves to the fray. Dargon fumed up at Timun Ravor, who seemed delighted by his exasperation.

“Live a little, shipmate.”

It was terribly disconcerting to see the usually stone-faced man crack a wide smile. Janris was reminded of their friendly contests on board the flagship. Timun hadn’t lost that dreadful competitive streak. Void take the man! Janris Dargon was determined not to lose his composure.

The centre of the ‘storm’ soon got too crowded for the pair to keep turning more than one small increment at a time. Ravor hollered for the outside edge of the line to take up the slack. Young nobles and last-minute additions to the queue dashed clockwise - the giant human spiral was now wide enough that the outside edge had a lot of ground to cover. Janris heard the peals of dancers’ laughter as they took the opportunity to embrace and break the usual rules of etiquette.

The more warm bodies added to the dance, the more firmly the crowd pressed into Janris from all sides. Dargon felt the warm textures of crushed silk and embroidered damask. He now understood why the other Tribune had instructed everyone to keep their arms up: had they been holding hands any lower, Janris would have ended up with his limbs pressed against some inappropriate body part or other. The former High Factotum really wasn’t built for this kind of intense contact; he’d become overheated and short of breath the moment the other dancers had begun to crowd around him. His torso was now inescapably wedged against Ravor, a fact that made him self-conscious about his girth. Only the disparity between the Tribunes’ heights alleviated the dreadful crush.

A jostling nudge from somewhere in front of Tribune Dargon sent Timun pitching forward onto his dance partner - the man’s whole body tottered instead of bending forward. Janris belatedly recalled that the Voidborn relied on leg braces and a back support. He was dealing with gravity’s downward pressure as well as the strain of the crowd. Danrok already had a faceful of Timun’s epaulette; he tilted his face up and muttered in Ravor’s ear.

“Rest your free arm over my shoulder, old chap.”

Timun complied and let Janris take some of the former Helmsman’s weight. They surreptitiously shifted the position of their handhold so that it no longer wrenched their fingers at an awkward angle. The Tribunes had ended up more or less in the pose of two slow-dancing youngsters, too constricted by Ravor’s improvised tableau to take even the smallest step out of their forced embrace.

Janris instinctively put a protective arm around Timun’s waist. It slipped under the open flap of his old officer’s coatee, and Dargon felt the familiar ridged contours of the Tribune’s girdle through the fabric of his shirt. Janris had tried wearing similar foundation garments to flatter his own vanity, and he knew just how stifling they could be. At least they were both suffering equally in this awkward pose.

“Hard up in a clinch and no knife to cut the seizing…” Ravor’s rueful laughter drew a deep chuckle out of Janris in response.

Social forces were bound to pull them apart again the moment this ridiculous party was over. Timun and Janris might share the same civilian title, but they were fundamentally from different worlds. Ravor’s bullheaded impulses defied practical constraints. It would be better for everyone if they both pulled away and returned to their respective caucuses, their own spheres of mastery, their roles as rivals. Some things could not be changed.

Why did that thought make Janris Dargon’s chest hurt?

Ravor called out for the great spiral to start unwinding; the news was greeted with great shouts of relief from the dancers on the inside of the ‘Warp Storm’. It took a long time for everyone’s sweaty bodies to disengage from the tangle. Janris looked wryly around at the other revellers while he waited. People laughed and commiserated with each other as they helped ladies to straighten out their crushed crinoline cages and gentlemen to adjust their skewed neckties. Even the musicians wore big smiles as they closed out the bizarre set with a quick fanfare.

Janris had a feeling that Dargonus’s social scene would be chattering about Ravor’s made-up dance craze for months to come. He finally unhooked himself from his fellow Tribune’s embrace and was free to retreat to the obscurity of the billiard room - but something made him pause.

“Thrilling as this interlude has been, Meister Ravor - whatever were you thinking?”

The Voidborn paused halfway through adjusting his leg braces and glanced up at Janris.

“Me, think?” He smirked mirthlessly.

Dargon gently inclined his head. “It’s been known to happen.”

The Tribune gave him an odd look.

“I reckoned my old shipmate could use a hug.”