The Inquisition

[Lady_Canoness]

My newest project after dabbling in other topics, we'll see how this turns out.

 

*Prologue*

 

Forty feet below her the man did not look like a heretic. Spread-eagled in the snow, his eyes staring upwards into the sky and his mouth slightly agape, the man known as Rosilus Spect looked like any other man who had been shot through the chest and fallen to his death.

They’d found him after a four month pursuit here on Vosk attempting to sabotage the water pumping stations and cripple the off-world water export. It hadn’t been much of an attempt. Other than smuggling himself and his entourage of another half-dozen now stiffening corpses planetside – not a remarkable feat given that Vosk was a sparsely populate ice-world that’s only redeeming feature was fresh water – this man Spect had done nothing worthy of attention aside from being a homicidal fanatic with a bent for killing on a large scale, and even then he was below the curve: killing tens of millions through dehydration was not only slow, but also very avoidable. More of a headache than a catastrophe so far as the Administratum was concerned, though none the less it was essential that such a scheme were not allowed to see fruition, and which was why Inquisitor Strassen had killed the man.

Lowering his still smoking heavy pistol to his side, Inquisitor Strassen gave one last glance over the heretic’s still body before turning away from the railing and marching from sight, his heavy footsteps trailing after him.

Twenty feet below him, Interrogator Godwyn watched the Inquisitor go, before peering over the edge at the dead man. His skin was quickly whitening in the cold and was starting to collect snow, but from where she stood Spect could have been anyone. No diabolical eyes or glinting sigils of chaos or even any cult tattoos. For her first look at a supposed heretical mastermind, Cassandra Godwyn was disappointed.

She tucked her own pistol back inside its fibre holster on her belt.

Together with her mentor Strassen, she and twelve Inquisitorial storm troopers had arrived via monorail at the remote pumping station. The sentry that was supposed to have been on the look-out for their arrival had frozen to death before they got there and had turned blue after apparently slipping down an iced gang-way and smashing his ankle: one less heretic to deal with. After wisely avoiding the front door (the storm troopers later confirmed that it had been crudely booby-trapped with enough explosives to have vaporised the lot of them had it gone off) they had infiltrated the pump station’s lower levels by way of maintenance hatches and taken the heretics by surprise in the main filtering chamber. The result was a massacre as the elite and heavily armoured storm troopers easily overpowered the rag-tag heretics, though Spect himself managed to escape to gantries running along the exterior of the station. Leaving the storm troopers to mop-up, the Inquisitors had pursued the fleeing heretic and had all but cornered him when he chose to resist the inevitable. Naturally, he failed.

With a dull creak, the access hatch nearest to the young Interrogator swung slowly inwards.

“Spend too much time dwelling on the dead, and you might find yourself joining them,” Inquisitor Strassen said in a cautionary tone as he stepped through the hatch and onto the iced metal grill of the gantry. His hands held loosely behind his back, the elderly Inquisitor ambled over to the guard-rail and stood beside his student.

Isaac Strassen was not an imposing man in by any common standard. He was an old man built on a lean frame with deep, penetrating eyes and well groomed silver hair. In his prime he would have been handsome, though now, with most of his life behind him, wrinkles of weathered skin clung to his gaunt face and his breath rattled in his throat. Despite his age and faded vigour, however, Isaac Strassen commanded respect and maintained a well earned reputation for a calm severity and implacable resolve. During his long-serving career, Inquisitor Strassen had persecuted scores or heresies without fail and had personally overseen the execution of numerous purges. He was a man known for possessing the patience of a hunter and the surgical precision of a tactical mastermind. His wisdom and foresight were well-known, and numerous men of high stature deferred to his judgement. He was a modest man, however, and refrained from the political manoeuvring of the Inquisitorial Orders and the Imperial elite. He did not possess an extensive staff or personal army; neither did he hold numerous properties throughout the Imperium. Many young Inquisitor Adepts and Interrogators held him as the model for the Inquisitorial ideal – a servant of the Emperor who was selfless in his duty, cunning in his means, and to whose loyalty was attached no factional strings. He was an icon – revered for the man he was above the feats he performed.

Many young acolytes fresh from the academies had petitioned to study under him, though Cassandra had been the lucky one who was chosen. Unlike some of the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition, Inquisitor Strassen did not believe in swaying the younger minds of the Orders into duplicating his methodology. He only ever took one pupil at a time and would only agree to act as a guide until he believed the student prepared to take the mantle of a fully-fledge Inquisitor themselves. One day it would be Cassandra’s turn to be granted the title of Inquisitor, and one day Inquisitor Strassen would add his seal of approval as her mentor to the seals of the Inquisitorial Conclave in recognizing her as such, though not this day – not for many days to come.

“He doesn’t look like much,” Godwyn mused as she looked up from the dead heretic to her mentor.

Hidden behind insulated masks to protect them from the biting cold, neither could properly see the face of the other, yet even so she felt as if the venerable Inquisitor was quietly studying her as if measuring how she held herself now that the heretic was slain. She tried to relax, to loosen her nerves and open her mind: Strassen, like many Inquisitors, was a man from which nothing could be hidden, though with his guidance she felt as if she better understood the value of honesty and secrecy, and when to utilize both.

Seemingly satisfied, Strassen gave a slight nod of his masked head before peering over the edge as well.

“They never do,” he said softly.

The heathen fanatic, Spect, was likely frozen solid by now, and, given a half-hour, would be buried and forgotten beneath the snow.

“We look into the abyss,” he continued, looking sideways at his pupil, “and what do we see?”

Godwyn held his gaze momentarily, then looked back at the heretic, stripping away what she had read of this man and what she saw in her mind – instead looking at him with just her eyes.

“A person,” she said at length, “just a man.”

Strassen nodded and gently beckoned her to return with him inside. “We do battle with monsters of men, though even so we must recognize what ties us to those we despise.”

[Dosjetka]

Really enjoyed this :D The only thing that caught my eye were the brackets, but that can easily be changed.

 

Looking forward to the next update.

 

Ludovic

[Lady_Canoness]

Thanks Ludovic, the story will continue shortly without so much in the way of brackets.

 

I'm working to make this one both readable and enjoyable, so I s'pose time will tell how I do.

[Dosjetka]

Thanks Ludovic, the story will continue shortly without so much in the way of brackets.

 

I'm working to make this one both readable and enjoyable, so I s'pose time will tell how I do.

Ok, will be keeping my eyes peeled.

 

Ludovic

[Lady_Canoness]

*part 1*

 

(Ten years later)

 

Flying into Cornice before the setting sun is a sight few will ever forget. Her white towers of marble and glass sparkling like crystals outstretched to the sky in the radiant ochre light as the shuttle draws near, Cornice, the capital city of the planet Panacea, sits like a jewel above the gentle violet of the mid-summer clouds. A beautiful city for a beautiful planet, the climate of Panacea is temperate and warm, the skies a bright blue, and the oceans a deep green. Steeped in mineral wealth, the planetary governors expend great resources to preserve the natural wonders of Panacea and promote a culture of well-being and beauty, and, by their success, Panacea is known across the subsector for light-years in all directions as being a place of wonder, wealth, and restoration.

Many travel to Panacea year-round, and many more desire to do so, but as her shuttle slowed in its advance towards Cornice’s skyline of glittering marble, Cassandra Godwyn felt the beauty diminish beneath her duty.

“Welcome Inquisitor,” the automated female voice of the Cornice port authority sounded over the comm. before the transmission of landing vectors; “on behalf of Cornice and Panacea, we hope your stay is a pleasant one.”

 

Officially the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition had little business on Panacea: the threat of sedition was low, no alien influences had been detected within sector, Imperial tithes were consistent, and even the Ministorum reported the number of faithful as being in the ninetieth-percentile of total planetary population.

Unofficially, however, the Inquisition had much more business on Panacea than would normally be granted to a planet of its geo-political stature. Strategically, the planet was vital to Imperial influence in its portion of the galaxy. Relatively distant from Holy Terra and sequestered in the galactic North East, Panacea was an exemplar of how the Imperium could create and maintain an almost perfect world. The stability and wealth of Panacea reflected onto dozens of other worlds, and, so long as Panacea remained peaceful and productive, it was projected that numerous other worlds would mirror its success. Should catastrophe strike, however, and its balance be disrupted, then it was feared that instability would spread throughout the neighbouring systems like ripples through water.

It fell to the Inquisition, therefore, to maintain a silent vigilance upon Panacea and uproot the seeds of disaster before they were allowed to spread. An unknown number of Inquisitors guarded Panacea, though the supreme authority of the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition fell upon one man: Lord Inquisitor Praetor Vance Helmi Roth.

Inquisitor Roth, as he was commonly known, was a man of many subtleties in both manner and practice, and thus was a natural choice for overseeing the invisible hand that guarded Panacea. He held his thoughts close to his chest and his feelings closer still, though he was also personable and approachable, which – combined with his average build and stature – made him a very dangerous man indeed, for while many Inquisitors pursued their quarry with unremitting force and ruthlessness, Roth manipulated and undermined his quarry until they suffocated under the weight of their own actions. He’d overthrown cults from within, watched tyrants cut their own throats on the blades of their allies, and outmanoeuvred terrorists so their own strategies undid them. Never had so dangerous a man been so cleverly disguised.

Keeping with his persona and with his reputation, Inquisitor Roth occupied a small office and sat behind a modest wooden desk, and this was exactly how Inquisitor Godwyn found him when they first met.

“Come in,” he called, standing at his desk as soon as Godwyn knocked.

Swinging the wood-panelled door inwards and stepping into the Lord Inquisitor’s humbling decorated office, Cassandra was met warmly yet professionally by Roth himself, as well as by a tall astartes who stood respectfully as she entered but said nothing.

“Inquisitor Cassandra Godwyn, might I introduce you to Brother Librarian Orion Aquinas of the Deathwatch Chapter?” Roth said genially as he stepped around his desk to introduce the two.

Standing at least a full two feet taller than the young Inquisitor, the space marine’s features remained cold and almost motionless as if set in stone, though his bright blue eyes did flicker somewhat in her direction.

“An honour, Inquisitor,” he said in a disarmingly hushed yet serpentine voice for one as large as he.

“Likewise, Brother Librarian,” Godwyn replied, though her voice could neither convey the frigid tone or mysticism of the space marine psychic.

Returning around behind his desk, Inquisitor Roth bade them sit – Godwyn to the thin-framed yet elegant wooden chair across from his desk, and Aquinas to a thread-bare sofa that (surprisingly) did not sag beneath the weight of his fully armoured frame.

“Right,” the Lord Inquisitor began once both his guests were seated, “down to the business of why you were summoned here, Inquisitor, as I am aware that my missive requesting your presence was airing on the side of cryptic.”

“Yes, Lord Inquisitor,” Godwyn replied with a slight inclination of her head as she sat with her legs crossed and her hands resting loosely in her laps. “The missive was suitably urgent, yet somewhat vague on detail.”

“Indeed,” he replied with an emphatic raise of his eyebrows beneath his short-cropped brown hair, “one might wish we could dispense with procedure and protocol when dealing with purely internal matters.” His glibness affording him a slight smirk from his fellow Inquisitor.

“Regardless, you were a student of Inquisitor Strassen for a number of years. Four, is that correct?” he made a show of consulting one of the numerous data-slates on his desk, though Godwyn had no doubt that he had already memorized the contents of her files.

“Yes, that is correct,” she said.

“I had the privilege of meeting him on several occasions” he continued conversationally, still holding the data-slate in one hand while generally articulating with the other, “though I never did get the chance to work with him. I hear his methods were both masterful and very effective.”

“Has something happened to him?”

Roth placed the data-slate back on surface of his desk and gave Godwyn his full attention as he arched his fingers tips.

“A very astute deduction,” he said at length, “and yes something has happened, though we don’t know what. Your being here will hopefully help us in that regard.”

“What can you tell me?” Godwyn asked, uncrossing her legs and shifting her wait forward in her seat. Behind her, she sensed the space marine doing likewise.

Inquisitor Roth swivelled somewhat in his chair – the sun setting behind his shoulders – and leaned forward on his desk to meet Godwyn’s gaze.

“About two years regular contacts from Inquisitor Isaac Strassen ceased – ”

Godwyn raised a questioning eyebrow.

“ – not something unusual from an Inquisitor actively pursuing a case, so at first we ignored it. As time wore on without hearing from him, however, we began trying to reach him from our end. At first we tried our regular channels, but as those failed we moved further and further afield. Dead-drops, assets, anything we would normally do to contact an Inquisitor in the field. Given his stature, it should not have been difficult to get a message to him.”

“What if he’s dead? His staff was always kept to a minimum. It is possible they could have all been killed or captured.” Godwyn suggested as her mind began to turn the lessons and actions of her former mentor over and over in her head.

“A slim chance, but possible,” Roth admitted, “but, as I’m sure you know, our emergency contact and recovery fail-safes are substantial.”

He leaned back from his desk; “That, and we have reason to believe that he is still very much alive.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting that he’s cut off contact or is purposely making himself untraceable?”

Inquisitor Roth shrugged. “That we cannot confirm or deny,” he said with a bewildered wave of his hands; “however, there are reports of as-of-yet unclaimed instances pending investigation that bear similarities to his modus operandi.”

“What do you mean?” Godwyn quickly cut in.

“Well, it’s circumstantial at best – and the best explanation is not the right explanation – but certain occurrences throughout the sector bear resemblance to the past operations of Inquisitor Strassen.”

“Are these acts treasonous?”

Roth shook his head vigorously. “Dear Emperor, no,” he said, “though they often straddle the line of the law and reach onto both sides. However, you’ll agree with me that that is not a lot to go on, and that this information is hardly worth pulling you across the sector even if I wanted to inform you of your mentor’s disappearance myself.”

Cassandra Godwyn pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. “You’ve got something else?”

With a slow nod, Roth picked up one of the data-slates on his desk. “That we do,” he said, “and I think you will agree that it more than warrants your being here.” He held the slate across his desk for Godwyn to take into her hands.

“What is it?” she asked, giving the slate a once over before looking back at the Lord Inquisitor. “It’s blank.”

“That arrived not three months ago,” Roth said with a nod towards the slate as he turned his chair sideways and folded one leg over the other; “It came from Strassen through one of his old channels – one we presumed inactive – and though it was sent to us, it was addressed to you. It’s heavily encrypted with a tamper-proof code, as such we don’t know what message it contains, though it clearly states that your active DNA is the cipher.”

The slate in her hands suddenly seemed that much heavier, and, with a slow exhalation of breath, Inquisitor Godwyn looked down at the slate once again. The plain, common data-slate suddenly felt very, very cold to her – sending a shiver down her spine.

“What would he tell you that he would not entrust with to the rest of the Inquisition?” the soft voice of Librarian crept up from behind her, and she could feel his eyes prickling against the back of her skull.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, making a point of turning around and meeting the space marine’s gaze.

“There is only one way to find out.” Roth turned his chair back towards his desk and pulled it up abruptly. “Place your thumb on the identifier pad and let it scan you.”

She did what she was told, and with hum, buzz, and a pop followed by a tingling in her hand, a small green light was activated on the side of the slate.

“That seems to have done it,” the Librarian said from outside of her vision.

The slate, for its part, gave another little hum as the screen built into its surface lit up, but instead of text it produced a holographic image of an old, familiar face.

Hovering several feet in the air above the data-slate was the enlarged image of Inquisitor Strassen, her old mentor, and as she looked upon him Godwyn felt as if she could feel his reassuring presence once again. The image smiled, much like he used to, though this time his warm smile was mixed with a sense of weariness, as if it were the smile of a tired old man who longed for nothing more than rest after a long day, and when he spoke Cassandra felt as if she could hear the very same weariness in his voice – something that she had never heard from him before.

“My student,” he said with almost palpable warmth in his eyes, “I have no doubt that this message will have forced you to travel great lengths space and time to hear my voice. For this I apologize. Please forgive an old man. While what I say is for you, I understand that others will hear it as well, thus I make no concession in what I say. This is for your ears. This is my confession, from master to student. Don’t repeat the mistakes of an old man swallowed by his years.

“I have served to the best of my ability and with the best of my judgement. I have looked into the abyss long enough for the abyss to have looked into me. I see now that I am mistaken, and that what I tried to teach you is wrong – though to my salvation I could not engrain you with the flaws that are so inherent in me. I see now why I am weak. I am weak because I did not shut my eyes to the abyss – I did not hide the monster from my sight. I looked upon it – looked upon that which I sought to destroy. Fool that I am, I believed it strength to see and to wield the knowledge I gained from my sight, though in truth it has undone me. Monsters are not born – they are raised. Not raised in fires or dens of heathens, but in our cities, our streets, and our homes. We breed the creatures to hunt them for if we did not hunt them they would destroy us, though we are too blind to see that if we did not breed them we would not need to hunt them. I have seen, but I am old. Far too old to change what I am. I am a hunter, and thus I must hunt with all my life. Yet in my weakness I will not suffer others to my fate. I will change this. I must. If I must hunt, I will hunt that which breeds these monsters, for if I do not then you and I will forever be forced to hunt until our strength gives way and we too are consumed by the abyss.

“I know you will follow me, my student, for you will be compelled to do so by yourself or others. For that I am prepared. You must follow me – no one else – for it is only from the student that the master can learn…”

For a moment his face looked as if he was about to say more, then suddenly the screen went dark, and Strassen’s face disappeared into thin air leaving behind it a cold silence.

Inquisitor Roth, leaning heavily on the left arm of his chair, tapped his index finger thought fully against his lips – eyes passing back and forth between Godwyn, Aquinas, and the silent data-slate. Both guests were silent – dumbstruck as they digested the Inquisitor’s words.

“He’s gone mad!” Godwyn managed, looking across at Roth with a horrified gaze; “Clearly mad!”

The senior Inquisitor did not answer, but kept his lips tightly pursed as he kept his own counsel.

“Brother Librarian?” he finally posed, causing Godwyn to also turn towards the giant.

The Librarian furrowed his brow and shifted his armoured weight on the sofa – the furniture meant for a man of half his size visibly shifting under the strain.

“I have little doubt that his demeanour has changed,” Brother Aquinas said at length, his blue eyes seemingly twinkling to match his softly spoken words, “though with our current knowledge we cannot say for certain what has befallen him…”

Both Inquisitors continued to look at him, but it was Roth who spoke first.

“What do you believe has befallen him then, Brother?” he asked with a tinge of curiosity playing in his words; “You knew him throughout his career, did you not?”

Godwyn looked from one to the other but said nothing; she had never known of any friendship between her former mentor and a space marine… surely Isaac Strassen would have mentioned something?

“I did at that,” the space marine replied with a slow nod, before his eyes quickly shifted to Godwyn and held her tightly in their gaze, giving her the sudden impression that – like Strassen – he could perceive her thoughts, “though it seems that I did not know him well enough.”

Stifling her discomfort, Godwyn did not waver from looking at the space marine psychic, but also relaxed her mind, hoping to alleviate the psyker’s scrutiny by showing that she had nothing to hide. It seemed to work, as Brother Aquinas shifted his attention back to Inquisitor Roth and continued to speak.

“Isaac Strassen was an intelligent and resourceful man who never acted without thinking. Whether or not he has changed is impossible to tell, though it is prudent to assume that he has not changed, and if that is the case than we must also assume that we know only what he wants us to know: he is missing, likely somewhere in the sector, and wants his former pupil – ” both he and Roth looked momentarily at Godwyn, “ – to be the one that finds him. Other than that we are left with his words, which may or may not be fabricated to mislead us.”

“Are we to consider him a threat?” Gofwyn asked either of them, quickly discarding the data-slate back on the Lord Inquisitor’s desk as if it were some loathsome talisman.

“Threat is too definite a word, I think,” Aquinas replied with a considerate frown.

“Indeed,” the other man quickly agreed, standing up from his chair and beginning to pace back and forth behind his desk as the sun slowly disappeared from view through the window behind him. “Regardless, this matter must be investigated, and we have to find him before his intentions do become more definite.”

“It’s clear that he wants me to go after him,” Godwyn posited as she watched the senior Inquisitor, “but this could be a trap. If he wants me to go after him, it could be because he believes I’d be easily manipulated for whatever he has planned.”

“That *is* more than likely why he asked for you,” Aquinas’ snake-like voice replied from behind her, in no way helping the mounting angst the young Inquisitor could feel turning in her gut, “but a trap can be sprung both ways, and could be the opening needed to bring him in.”

Roth was already nodding in agreement, but Brother Aquinas had not finished. “It would be unwise to send you alone, however, and – as I knew him and counted him as a friend – this matter of retrieving Isaac Strassen is important to me. If you would allow it,” he motioned to both Inquisitors in the room, “I would accompany Inquisitor Godwyn as she looks for him.”

They looked at each other – Roth seemingly acquiescent while Godwyn found herself teetering apprehensively either way.

“I think that would be a good idea,” the senior Inquisitor replied; “two familiar faces instead of one could prove decisive in any negotiation.”

Inquisitor Godwyn, however, was not convinced. “You’ll pardon me, Brother Librarian, but isn’t it possible that your presence could drive him further from us?”

She thought she had a valid point – space marines were rarely known to handle matters delicately – but none-the-less Aquinas did not shy from making his offence at the question known.

“I know Isaac Strassen,” he said calmly, though his voice was frigid; “You will find that will counter-balance whatever other disadvantages my presence might entail.”

Godwyn made to apologize, but Inquisitor Roth motioned for their attention.

“It’s decided then,” he said clearing his voice and taking his seat behind his desk before looking at both his guests in turn.

“Inquisitor Godwyn, with the assistance of Librarian Orion Aquinas, you are to uncover both the location and motivation of Inquisitor Strassen, after which we will ascertain the necessary course of action in dealing with him. This matter is to be classified on a strictly need-to-know basis – meaning that no-one aside from the three of us and our immediate support staff need know that this is taking place. Isaac Strassen is resourceful, and as such he will likely have numerous eyes and ears throughout the sector. If anyone should find out about your objective they must be dealt with either by being sworn into your service,” he paused for emphasis, “or terminated.”

Neither Godwyn nor Aquinas protested, thus queuing Roth to continue:

“To aid you in completing your objective, I will make available all records pertaining to Strassen’s past actions, operations, and personal history in an effort for you to uncover some clue as to where he is located. Similarly, I will also make available the situation reports recently filed that we believe are linked in some way to Strassen’s activities. If you need any other resources, skip the due process and come directly to me.”

He paused to study both his guests once again before continuing.

“Now, is there anything I can help you with before we begin?”

“What is our method of transportation?” Aquinas asked in his usual mystical tone.

Roth looked questioningly at Inquisitor Godwyn.

“I have a system orbit and sub-orbit cargo shuttle refitted as my base of operations, though it lacks a warp-drive,” she replied quickly, looking at both Aquinas and the Lord Inquisitor.

“That’s good enough,” Roth cut in, just as it looked that the Brother Librarian was about to reply; “I can arrange for passage with a rogue trader. He is loyal to me and won’t ask too many questions.”

“Also,” he added as an after-thought, “I can assign you a personal body-guard – someone who will fit in with your team and provide you with invaluable support should your mission prove difficult.”

Cassandra Godwyn nodded appreciatively; “Thank you, Lord Inquisitor. My crew is quite small – only three of us in fact – so your aid is very welcome.”

At that Inquisitor Roth offered a weak shrug. “Finding Inquisitor Strassen will prove difficult, I think, thus the more you are prepared and the sooner you start the better.”

 

* * *

 

Returning to Inquisitor Godwyn’s shuttle Meridian docked inside a sealed hangar reserved for Inquisitorial use, the young Inquisitor and Brother Librarian found themselves swamped with files, letters, and data-slates almost instantly upon their arrival as all of the material unclassified for their use by the Lord Inquisitor Praetor was made available to them. The paper-trail covered the entirety of Isaac Strassen’s career with the Inquisition, including case-reports, conclave transcripts, personal records, as well as countless other documents of more questionable relevance.

Together with Sudulus, Godwyn’s savant and resident expert on all things textual, the three sat together around the long table in Meridian’s main hold between stacks of records for hours on end sifting through the veritable mountains of information looking for whatever connections they could make between documents both old and new. The process was long and often arduous with numerous records being re-sealed and returned to the secret Inquisitorial archives as being irrelevant, and every so often another Imperial courier would arrive with yet another case of encrypted documents to be added to their workload.

Through hours (and soon days) of research, however, the three were beginning to piece together a more complete picture of the man they were hunting, and soon they became confident that it would only be a matter of time until they found something to put them on his trail.

“Ah! See here, look at this!” Sudulus exclaimed excitedly at some point during their second day of research, grasping three separate pieces of parchment and one data-slate together and hurriedly comparing them before passing them into the middle of the table for both the Inquisitor and the Librarian to see.

Other than Meridian’s pilot, an ex-smuggler by the name of Lee Normandy, Sudulus was the only permanent member of the Inquisitor’s staff, and had been with her the longest. He was a short, cheerful fellow with a penchant for knowing more than he should, and as such proved quite valuable as an aide. Everything from planetary geography, to Imperial politics, to mechanical locking mechanisms were things he considered to be in his forte, and he took every opportunity he could to apply his vast knowledge to the happenings around him.

“Oh yes!” he said, rubbing his bionic hands together in anticipation as the extra skin hanging from his face wobbled as he looked from the Inquisitor to the space marine and back again, “I do believe we have found something!”

Brother Aquinas reached over into the middle of the table and retrieved the documents in his large hand; holding them out for both he and the Inquisitor seated at the head of the table to read. Sudulus was still looking excitedly from one to the other.

“I think there is a connection!” he blurted out before either one had finished reading. “Same world, same parties involved, even a similar method though the outcome was reversed!”

Godwyn eyed the separate reports carefully and compared the two. Sudulus was right: twenty-five years prior Inquisitor Strassen had planned and executed a series of very thorough raids on a number of inner-city slums on the planet Tenantable in coordination with local authorities. Supposedly the raids had exposed numerous dens of heretical activity, though in his reports Strassen did not seem entirely convinced and hinted that – while the raids had gutted numerous criminal elements within the cities – the benefit to the local authorities had far outweighed the nature of the exposed crimes. Then, just under a year ago, it was reported that a similar pattern of raids had been conducted on Tenantable though on a smaller scale. This time, however, the raids backfired, and not only were the forces involved routed, but the setbacks to the local authorities had been tremendous. Granted, Inquisitor Godwyn realized, the events on Tenantable could easily be a fluke and entirely unrelated to Inquisitor Strassen’s involvement. Sudulus had then found two supporting documents; one being a transcript of a meeting between Strassen two other Inquisitors – an Inquisitor Peirce and Inquisitor Andovich, neither of whom Godwyn was familiar with – dated three years after the events on Tenantable during which Strassen briefly expressed discontent with the operation after one of the Inquisitors, namely Peirce, brought it up; and the other being the transcript from Strassen’s address to a conclave during which he labelled his operation on Tenantable as ‘poorly conducted’.

“Hardly compelling,” Aquinas said grimly as he passed the documents back into Sudulus’ metal fingers, “however, further investigation could provide us with a lead – something we are otherwise without.” He looked purposefully at Godwyn;

“Your thoughts, Inquisitor?”

“I think it’s relevant,” she said after some reflection, placing bother her hands palms-down on the table and looking back and forth between the men on either side of her. “Even if Strassen himself didn’t orchestrate the events on Tenantable, I think it is safe to bet that it wouldn’t pass him by unnoticed. We should start looking for trace of his whereabouts there, and in the meantime research the other Inquisitors who mentioned this – Peirce especially: if that was on record, than it is more than likely that there is something between them off the record.”

Sudulus nodded encouragingly; “An excellent plan of action!” he said with genuine enthusiasm, though across from him Librarian Aquinas looked less than convinced, whatever his thoughts, however, he kept them to himself as he turned back to the documents he had been reviewing. For a moment Godwyn considered challenging him on it – asking if the space marine had some better idea he was withholding – though ultimately she ruled against such a confrontation: his goals were identical hers, after all, and there was no question as to who was in charge. More than likely space marines were simply unaccustomed to working with normal human beings, and were commonly of a severe disposition regardless of their company.

She would have wasted more time dwelling on it had, at that moment, Lee not poked his head through the access way leading up to the cockpit.

“Ai, boss, there’s some soldier boy waiting outside for ya,” he drawled in his thickly accented voice as he wagged his head over towards the aft end of the main hold. “Says ‘e was sent as some sorta guard.”

Lee Normandy, the Meridian’s pilot and Godwyn’s other long-serving companion, was a typical good-for-nothing smuggler who had sought to change his ways after business had started to go belly-up. He was Strassen’s man in that Godwyn’s mentor had given him his first chance at reformation and had effectively turned his life around, though when it came to taking sides Lee had always been very clear: he flew the ship and that was all – politics and right-versus-wrong could burn for all he cared. Dark-skinned and wiry with a knack for getting in-and-out of trouble, Lee knew the Imperium as only a smuggler could and was Godwyn’s go-to-guy whenever she needed to slip something by unnoticed. He was far from infallible, however, and as Godwyn exited Meridian through the shuttle’s lower storage deck, she could see why, by looking through Meridian’s security feeds, Lee would have thought the new arrival was a soldier ‘boy’. Short cropped red hair, a strong brow above green eyes and high cheekbones with a blade scar running from the tip of the ear down to the chin: she wasn’t exactly womanly.

Snapping her heels and flashing a sharp salute as soon as Godwyn stepped clear of her vessel, the soldier stood rigidly to attention with her eyes fixed directly ahead.

“Captain Victoria Striker, Inquisitorial Storm Troopers, Commonwealth Brigade, Panacean Regiment, reporting for duty – sir!” the soldier almost shouted – her voice reverberating around the quiet hangar and Meridian’s angular hull.

“At ease, Captain,” Godwyn replied, her own voice much quieter.

The soldier relaxed somewhat and dropped her arms behind her back though her eyes still remained locked on the portion of Meridian’s hull directly facing her. She was dressed in pressed ash-black combat fatigues and wore black combat boots that were polished to the point of being mirrors. With her was a large black plastic hard-case, which Inquisitor Godwyn assumed carried her weapons and armour, and a duffel back the same colour as her fatigues – likely personal affects. Both the soldier and the luggage were spotlessly clean.

“Orders?” Godwyn asked, trying to keep some measure of procedure before blowing it all out the window once they got on board. Wordlessly the Captain produced a folded paper from her left breast pocket for the Inquisitor to examine.

It was a brief letter from Inquisitor Roth written for the sake of record-keeping outlining the captain’s duties and little else as well as an attached personnel record of Captain Striker’s career. She didn’t need to read it to know that everything was in order: Inquisitor Roth had sent one of the best soldiers he could.

She folded the paper and handed it back to the captain.

“This isn’t a military operation, Captain, and I am not a military officer,” Godwyn began what she hoped would be a very short introduction, though she noted somewhat despairingly that the soldier was still acting as rigid as iron girder. “So you can drop all the military formalities and address me like you would any other human being.”

Striker looked at her, and Godwyn was doubly surprised to see the soldier airs slough off almost instantly.

“Okay,” Victoria said with a half-smile, visibly relaxing as she reached down to retrieve her bags; “Where can I put my things?”

[Lady_Canoness]

*part 2*

 

After three days groundside on Panacea the Meridian and her crew were ready to lift-off. The research had been done, relevant files had been duplicated, Inquisitor Roth had been informed, and contact had been made to high-orbit where the rogue trader Patroclus lay waiting upon their arrival; now all that remained was to see if their efforts would bear fruit.

“Everythin’ s’ green, boss. We’re flyin’ smooth,” Lee drawled with a self-satisfied grin as his hands moved over the cockpit controls with effortless ease before casting a sideways glance over his shoulder at the Inquisitor; “Travel time t’ the Patroclus should be a fine ten mins.”

Godwyn nodded agreeably as Meridian sailed smoothly between the bases of Cornice’s white towers before gracefully gaining altitude and rising higher into the sun-filled sky.

“Take the scenic route, Lee,” she said as an after-thought, giving the pilot a warm pat on the shoulder as he grinned back.

It would doubtlessly take the Patroclus an hour minimum to weigh anchor and get her engines primed for the voyage, so why not let Lee stretch his wings while they wait? Besides, Godwyn thought as she backed out of the cockpit, traders waited for Inquisitors, not the other way around. The craft dipped momentarily followed by a ‘woop!’ from the cockpit: Lee was taking full advantage of the scenic route and putting Meridian through her paces.

Originally designed as a system shuttle for orbital and sub-orbital flights between nearby planets or moons, Meridian had been recommissioned and repurposed by Inquisitor Strassen as his mobile base of operations several years before, though he had gladly passed the shuttle and its pilot onto Godwyn when she came into her own as an Inquisitor. At about thirty meters in length and with a wing-span of twenty-two meters, Meridian made up for her relatively small size by having a surprisingly spacious interior for her crew, and as Inquisitor Godwyn made her way to her cabin on the port side of the shuttle she noted that the crew were already preparing for the task at hand.

Just aft of the cockpit, Sudulus was already busying himself in the nest – Meridian’s central security and control room – where he’d assembled a powerful communications relay and security hub that allowed the operator to communicate, coordinated and oversee numerous agents while in flight over real-time with minimal delay. Surrounded by cogitator banks, monitoring devices and display screens in a cramped room no more that six-feet by eight-feet, Sudulus had once referred to it as the ‘logicians nest’ and the name had stuck.

Past the nest was the main hold, a large rectangular space within the fuselage that mirrored the cargo hold below and had been converted into the principal living space for the crew, where, at that moment, Brother Aquinas was still seated at the table with his back to the small galley at the end of the hold and shuffling through several loose sheets of parchment as he quietly jotted down notes on a data-slate. He did not look up as the Inquisitor passed through to the adjoining cabin module, but once again the Inquisitor had the feeling that he was well aware of her presence. It was not something he did purposely, just like one did not see or hear ‘on purpose’, but regardless his psychic presence left her uneasy and gave her the distinct impression that he was continuously aware of everything on the Meridian.

Stepping through the hatchway that connected the main hold to the port-side living quarters, Godwyn left her thoughts of the Librarian behind and opened the door to her cabin.

Like the three other cabins in the port-side module and the cabins in the starboard-side module, Godwyn’s cabin was as small and compact as one would expect to find on a shuttle-class vessel. Narrow enough to touch both walls with the tips of her fingers, the cabins contained a deep (and surprisingly comfortable) bunk built into the bulkhead with storage space both above and below, a tall locker fastened next to the pocket-door, and a built-in set of hangers from which one could suspend clothing or toiletries for using the sanitation facilities that were located at the end of each module.

Closing the door of her cabin behind her and illuminated by the cabin’s single yellow light, she looked into the mirror she’d installed onto the back of the sliding door. ‘First impressions are lasting impressions’ she remembered her mentor Strassen saying as she examined her appearance from one side and then the other in the mirror’s reflection before sweeping several loose strands of her long blond hair back behind her ear and making sure that the rest was up for added emphasis on her strong posture and high-collared neck. Professional, she thought to herself. The master of the Patroclus would probably be expecting someone both dignified and severe – not to mention older as well – but Cassandra wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to second-guess her purpose or authority. She had to look the part, she told herself, fastening the Inquisitorial rosette just below the embroidered collar of her fitted black over-coat and looking her reflection keenly in the eye: she was just a stripling by the standards of the Inquisition, but she was an Inquisitor none the less.

Satisfied, she opened the door just as Captain Striker was stepping out of the adjacent cabin. After their somewhat rigid first contact in the hangar bay on Cornice, Striker had surprised the Inquisitor by falling completely into stride aboard Meridian over the course of less than a day. Roth had been right in saying that she’d fit in with the team, and, while it was apparent that she was serious about her duties, she had managed to engage and befriend both Sudulus and Lee, though admittedly she hadn’t had much of an opening with the space marine.

“Captain Striker,” Godwyn greeted her in the awkwardly close confines between the cabins, “I hope you’re finding everything okay?”

“I am thank you, Inquisitor,” she replied warmly, though at the same time showing that she understood the discomfort of being in extremely close proximity to someone one did not yet know – the hall leading from the cabins to the main hold only being wide enough for one person at a time. She motioned for the Inquisitor to precede her down the hallway; “I’m also looking forward to seeing what this rogue trader vessel has in store for us. I hear they can be quite a sight.”

“How do you mean?” Godwyn asked, curious as to what a storm trooper Captain from a peaceful world would think about freelance merchants. She’d heard the rumours of wealth and luxury about their type, though in reality most were simple entrepreneurs undeserving the romanticism too often attached to them groundside by fawning star-gazers. Then again, Victoria Striker hardly seemed like the fawning or star-gazing type.

“It’s nothing really,” Victoria said with a dismissive tilt of her head as she stepped into the main hold after the Inquisitor, “but when I was just starting out as a young Lieutenant leading my first fire-team we boarded a rogue trader vessel anchored illegally off one of Panacea’s moons that wasn’t responding to hails. We got on board and the entire ship was empty, but all the airlocks were sealed from the inside and the ships logs showed that there had been people onboard just the day before,” she frowned thoughtfully and shook her head; “We never did find out what happened.”

 

Only a few short minutes later they caught their first glimpse of the Patroclus, and the closer they drew the more beautiful and enchanting it became. Suddenly the fawning star-gazers didn’t look completely baseless.

A giant slumbering between the stars, Patroclus listed gently at her anchor as light reflecting off the planet below coloured her hull with a soft silver while picking out her glittering galleries and highlighting the elegant ribbing that ran her length.

“Now she’s a beauty,” Lee admired as Meridian rounded her gently sloping prow, stealing glances towards the massive space-faring vessel between checking his instruments and course adjustments.

“I’ll never get tired of seeing these up close,” Victoria added in quiet awe, looking past the pilot and out the viewing ports as rows upon rows of glowing lights and flickering windows zipped by as they passed along Patroclus’ starboard side.

Indeed, the scope of the star-ship was beyond all reckoning as Meridian settled into one of three hangar bays along Patroclus’ starboard flank and rested her landing struts upon the deck as massive hangar doors ground shut behind her; sealing the shuttle and her crew within the larger ship with an audible groan that all aboard could hear. No sooner had the doors closed than warm, hissing air was vented into the massive chamber, and when the dials finally levelled out Lee gave the all clear to open the hatch.

A welcoming party of two well dressed men and a host of uniformed crewmembers waited upon them as Godwyn set foot onto the hangar deck.

“The Patroclus welcomes you, my Lady. We are most honoured by your presence,” an older man with a silver goatee and silver hair strode forward from the entourage with the other formally dressed man at his heels to welcome her.

“And again to you, sire,” he said as Aquinas emerged after her.

The man was dressed exclusively in black from his blouse and his waistcoat to his trousers and knee-boots, and presented himself with a low bow before proffering a well-manicured hand in greeting.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said as Godwyn accepted his surprisingly firm handshake, “I am Hercule Columbo, Master of the Patroclus, at your service.”

“Inquisitor Cassandra Godwyn,” Godwyn introduced herself in turn with an elegant curtsy. “We are honoured to be so welcomed aboard your ship.”

“I see now that your superior Inquisitor Roth did not speak idly of you, Lady Godwyn, for you are the image of the nobility and grace of your order,” Columbo said with a wide smile that revealed perfectly aligned and whitened teeth. “I would be greatly honoured if you would dine with me tonight at my table.”

Cassandra Godwyn returned his warm invitation with a slight smile; “I would be delighted to accept,” she said.

Beaming, Columbo introduced the man beside him as his First Officer Michael Brent. Dressed in a sharp yet heavily decorated military uniform that she did not recognize, Brent offered a thin smile in greeting but did not speak, leaving her to guess that he was a man of limited importance who wanted to present himself otherwise.

Taking the opportunity, Godwyn introduced each of her staff to the Ship Master, from Brother Aquinas in his ornate power armour to Lee who was still wearing his worn old flight jacket. To his credit, however, Columbo greeted each with as much respect and sincerity as he had the Inquisitor, and had made each feel most welcome.

“Aboard the Patroclus you are our honoured guests,” Columbo addressed them graciously as entreated them to follow him from the hangar and the attendants stepped up to carry their things, “and throughout our voyage together my crew and I shall ever endeavour to be your gracious hosts.”

“I must apologize for not being able to escort you to your quarters in person,” Columbo continued as the attendants carried out their duties in silence, “for I must see to the preparations for our departure. My stewards, however – ” he indicated towards the uniformed attendants, “ – have my full confidence in seeing to your every need.”

Even before the Ship Master had finished talking, Sudulus was finding it hard to contain his excitement as his eyes darted back and forth around the hangar and he nearly hopped from foot-to-foot as he ever-so politely told the ship’s attendants that no, he really didn’t have anything that he needed carried. A cleric all his life, Sudulus was hardly experienced in receiving the attention he considered worthy of the Imperial elite.

Brother Aquinas, on the other hand, did not seem pleased at all, and made little effort in masking his displeasure.

“He is purposely trying to mislead us,” she heard Aquinas whisper from beside her as they were escorted to their quarters while one of the lead stewards regaled them with facts about both the Patroclus and its Master that no-one other than Sudulus was particularly listening to.

Godwyn had been toying with a similar idea, though she had considered it to be mostly posturing on the Ship-Master’s behalf, however, a quick sideways glance at the Librarian told her that he thought differently. She considered this as they walked with the escort of ship’s stewards, yet outside of the Meridian there was no telling what could be overheard or by whom. Was the Librarian aware of something she had missed? Regardless, Godwyn resolved to let it be until they were alone in their quarters, and walked on as if listening to the lead steward’s rambling most intently.

 

When at last they reached the guest rooms, the stewards parted the wood panelled doors to reveal a room of stunning opulence.

“Oh this is most agreeable!” Sudulus exclaimed once the doors had closed behind them and there was no danger of being overheard by the stewards outside, “Most agreeable indeed!”

Much like the rest of the tenth deck (which, they had been told, was designated the ‘habitation deck’) the guest chambers had been beautifully finished to hide all traces of bare metal behind an altogether more pleasing exterior.

Rich wood of exotic origin and magnificent colour replaced metal stresses and beams, and provided elegant panelling along many angled surfaces to conceal otherwise intrusive piping or vents. Sheets of cream-coloured plaster had been fitted into place to cover the walls and deaden any echoes or vibrations from the metal beneath. Even the floors had been redone with patterned hardwood and inlaid carpets that quieted the sounds of their feet.

The chambers themselves, of course, were even more exquisite.

A large common room – easily four times the size of Meridian’s main hold – greeted them upon entering, and was decorated with luxurious furniture and priceless antiques. Directly opposite the main door was a wall-spanning viewport from which they could see the vast expanse of Panacea below them and the glittering heavens above. The walls flanking this magnificent chamber were richly decorated with paintings, tapestries, and shelves lined with books, and cut from each side were four separate doorways leading to the individual bedrooms and their adjoined lavatories.

To Lee, standing by the door with a wide-eyed expression on his face, ‘agreeable’ was the last word on his mind:

“Holy - !” – though the latter part of his outburst was thankfully muffled by the sound of Sudulus flopping himself down on one of several leather-finished sofas arranged in the middle of the common room.

Not allowing herself to be long waylaid now that they were rid of the Patroclus’ stewards, Inquisitor Godwyn quickly dumped the few things she had brought with her from Meridian in the room farthest from the door on the right-hand side and returned to address her team.

“Sudulus,” she said with sufficient snap in her voice to make the savant bounce back up off the couch and onto his feet, “make sure this room is clean. Until then, everyone is quiet.”

Bugs – as an Inquisitor she had learned to expect them everywhere, and doubly so when staying somewhere as a guest. Fortunately, in addition to his other duties, Sudulus was also a more-than proficient bug-hunter, and, with the aid of specialty implants in his bionic hands, the cheerful savant was Godwyn’s first line of defence against unwanted eaves-droppers.

The Patroclus was not heavily infested, however, and upon the conclusion of his sweep Sudulus only had three bugs to show for it – all located in the common-room and all supporting video-feed without audio: standard surveillance models, not espionage. An interesting choice in equipment, the Inquisitor figured, and one that was more telling than expected.

“I think we should talk,” Godwyn approached the Librarian as he stood silently at the view-port watching the planet below.

He looked at her sideways.

“In private,” she added.

“Yes,” he agreed, his serpentine voice sounding far off and distant, “I think that would be wisest.”

 

“Why would he be seeking to mislead us? Do you think it is more than mere posturing on his part?” Godwyn asked as Brother Aquinas closed the door behind him.

They were standing in the Inquisitor’s room – a large, spacious, and comfortable room by any standard with a four-post bed that was larger than any one of the Meridian’s cabins – she, standing with one arm behind her back and one at her side while giving the space marine her direct attention, and he, walking to the opposite corner of the room before turning to face her.

“He is hiding something,” he replied flatly, “and that is what we need to discuss.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Aquinas was momentarily silent, but when he spoke he did so in his same frigid, emotionless tone:

“I do not mean to instruct you,” he said, “but how you act now could have severe repercussions.”

She folded her arms and tilted her head sideways to give him a curious look; “How do you mean?”

“I sense much apprehension on board this ship, Inquisitor. The manner with which he approached you was to gauge your willingness to adapt and react to him – flexibility, you could say. He is attempting to discern – and I believe will continue attempting – whether or not you will be a threat to him.”

“How do you know this?” Godwyn asked.

Aquinas narrowed his blue eyes down to slits. “Do you believe me blind?” he asked coldly.

“No,” Godwyn replied apologetically, “but your certainty is… unusual, I would say.”

With an escape of breath that may have passed for a chuckle, Aquinas’ mood somewhat lightened.

“I *am* unusual, I would say. Regardless, you must be on your guard. He is interested in you, of that there can be no doubt, though I cannot yet tell as to why.”

“But you have some ideas?”

“Many…” Aquinas admitted, but then rounded on the Inquisitor with a cautionary tone; “though just because he is hiding something does not mean that it is up to you to find it,” Aquinas warned. “Our task of finding Inquisitor Strassen must take priority above investigating the Patroclus and its master. This ship is our best medium of travel, and we must endeavour to keep it as such… by whatever means possible.”

“You’re suggesting that I turn a blind eye to whatever is going on here?”

Aquinas slowly shook his head: “Not blind, but hidden: that is what I am suggesting.”

Her gut churned at the very thought of it, but at the same time she heard the wisdom in his words. Strassen must be her focus. If a reckoning lay in wait for the Patroclus and its master then it would come soon enough, but not by her hand.

“Fair enough,” she conceded with a sigh, “we’ll keep an eye out, but that is all.”

Aquinas seemed appeased and dismissed himself from her chamber; though Godwyn still wrestled with the thought of what other concessions she would have to make in order to find her old mentor.

 

 

“You will be with the Master shortly,” the steward said as they stepped off the lift into a tapestry-lined corridor and were ushered along towards a pair of closed wooden doors.

The servant had arrived several minutes earlier to collect her at the guest quarters. Obviously the Ship-Master was used to his own agenda and setting his own times, yet Godwyn was not averse to making Columbo wait or having him realize that he dealt with someone who could not be manipulated or marched around. Needless to say, the steward became more and more anxious as she drew out her time getting ready, and then became doubly so when the Inquisitor announced that her bodyguard would be accompanying her.

Even aboard his own ship, Columbo did not carry all the cards – she would not allow it.

Still dressed in her long overcoat with her hair up and the Inquisitorial rosette pinned at her collar, Godwyn had declined wearing one of the numerous dresses or other regal attire that had been delivered to her by the ship’s stewards in preference of keeping her appearance professional. Likewise, Captain Striker had opted out of the Patroclus’ lavish gifts to keep true to her duty, wearing a dark, undecorated dress uniform with a stiff cap typical of Imperial Special Forces.

She was armed, though no-one would have guessed by looking at her. Tucked in the small of her back, concealed by both the cut of the coat and her ram-rod-straight posture, was a snub-nosed pistol packing a six round mag. They weren’t expecting any trouble, and Victoria admitted that she taking precautions, but to be safe she’d stuffed an extra magazine in each boot; uncomfortable, but she refused to have it any other way.

“Do you think that will be necessary?” Godwyn asked, eyeing the pistol Striker was tucking away under her jacket while the Inquisitor stood in Victoria’s room with her back to the closed door and the steward that waited anxiously outside.

The Captain’s green eyes flashed her way from under the peak of her cap. “I hope not,” she said, folding the coat over the lump above her buttocks and standing up straight with her shoulders back – perfectly concealing the fire arm. “The First Officer didn’t look like the understanding type, and I don’t think shooting his boss would improve him any.”

Godwyn didn’t laugh.

Now, standing outside the double door alongside the steward, neither one did so much as smirk.

With a slight *click* the doors opened almost noiselessly, and they were invited into a room of incredible scope. Laid before them was a room of immense size that stretched out in a large circle and opened upwards to the starry heavens under a dome clear glass uplifted upon golden pillars. Numerous chandeliers floated midair above rich antique furniture of mahogany and velvet gathered in separate arrangements that orbited around a small table in the center of the room, from which the Master of the Patroclus rose to meet his guests.

“Inquisitor Godwyn! Captain Striker! Welcome! Welcome to the seigneurie!” Hercule Columbo, still dressed in black, welcomed them most warmly and offered each a drink from his private reserve before supper.

“I am sorry,” he said with a slight look of sadness on his face after they had exchange pleasantries over their first drink and he had shown them the more notable pieces of his collection, “but, my dear Captain, I must trespass upon your good will, and ask that the Inquisitor and I be left in private. I have no guards, and upon my word I swear to you that I shall by no means betray your trust.”

Columbo seemed earnest, but Striker hesitated, looking at Godwyn for instructions – the Inquisitor nodded.

“As you wish, sir,” the Captain gave the Ship-Master an apologetic nod, then looked to Godwyn; “I will be just outside should you have need of me,” she said, and smartly turned heel and marched from the room.

“And admirable soldier,” Columbo nodded after the Captain as the doors closed behind her, “you are blessed to have such a woman under your command.”

He indicated that they should sit, and no sooner had they done so than attendants bearing plates of delicacies appeared through the doors to serve them.

It became apparent that Master Columbo did this quite a lot and enjoyed entertaining, though the more they talked, and the more they ate and drank, the more it seemed to Godwyn that the Ship-Master didn’t have an agenda, but was simply an old man who enjoyed the company.

They talked for what could have been hours – long after the servants had stopped bringing food and they were left drinking from Columbo’s reserve as the chandeliers faded to an orange glow under the starlight.

“You know,” Columbo began, staring at the amber liquid in his glass as he swilled it about, “I briefly considered denying Roth’s request when he asked me to work with you.”

Sitting back in his chair with an un-stopped bottle of Brebrand’s Rum between them, Hercule Columbo took another generous sip from his glass. Together they had exhausted almost every topic they could think of from sector politics to why confessors wore those silly hats, yet even as the rum neared its end neither one had deigned address the other as to their business; though, sitting up in her seat, Godwyn felt that would soon change.

A wide smile crossed her face as she found her elbow resting against the table. “Really?” she said, raising her glass back to her lips, “Why would you have wanted that?”

Columbo shrugged, his eyes going fuzzy as he looked at the young woman across the table.

“You see…” he said, a hand reaching to the stars above as if he were about to start a grand speech.

Godwyn’s grin stayed buoyantly fixed to her face even as she rested her chin in her palm.

“You have the unfortunate co-condition of being an Inquisitor,” he said, part of him looking confused at what he was saying even as the worlds were dragged out of his mouth.

“Hmmm… tell me more about this condition I have,” she said, drinking again, but keeping her eyes fixed on Columbo.

He slumped back in his chair with a sigh and put his glass down with a bit too much force so that some of the rum slopped onto the table. “Oooooh… Inquisitors can be bad for business, you see. Not you though – no no, dear Lady, you are quite fine, quite fine indeed… but some Inquisitors can be bad for business.”

“Why?” Godwyn pouted mockingly, giving the Ship-Master a hard look before cracking another smile.

He grinned but shook his head as if to clear it. “Ooh I do think I am drunk, I’m afraid. My apologies, dear Lady, for being such a… miserable host, I’m sure. Now I’m talking too much.”

“Come now, Hercule,” she said, drawing out the ‘l’ in his name and sliding her hand across the table to pat his; “I’m quite enjoying this, and I think we’re becoming fast friends… we should do this more often.”

He blinked, then smiled broadly. “Two weeks until we reach Tenantable!” he exclaimed, standing up uncertainly in his chair and prompting the Inquisitor to do likewise. “In that time I am sure that we’ll be the best partners in the sector!”

 

The hour was obviously late as there were far fewer staff in the Patroclus’ upper halls, yet Captain Striker had waited regardless.

“How long was I?” Godwyn asked, gently shutting the doors of the seigneurie behind her.

“By my estimation,” Striker reported, “just shy of four hours.”

Cassandra nodded: her bodyguard had likely been standing stalk still – with a gun in her back and magazines in her boots – for nearly four hours.

“Thank you,” she said, though she felt she owed more than that.

Victoria made no mention of it, however – as always, her focus was her charge: “Can you walk?” she asked, approaching the Inquisitor as if she suspected the other woman to suddenly over-balance face-first into the wall.

“I’m actually okay,” Godwyn said truthfully, “not much more than buzz, though I’m lucky he was drinking too much to notice how bad I am at playing drunk.”

Impressed, Striker left it at that, and they made their way back to the guest chambers unescorted.

[Dosjetka]

Damn, I have a lot to catch up :) Will read ASAP then.

 

Ludovic

[Pulse]

Interesting reading your take on Rogue Traders - you seem to have a very... stylish view of them. It certinately adds character to Colombo. :)

 

As for the Librarian - he seems a bit.. well not Astartes enough, and comes across as almost too polite. As for his powers, he would i am sure be slowly easing himself into peoples minds, to read them - gaining an idea on hidding motives and such but so far he has done nothing of that. The other thing that i found slightly odd was that you wrote Godwyn and Aquinas as having a private convo in a room - why not just allow him to use his powers so they can have a chat through the powers of telepathy? It seems to be a common trait for Librarians to use in Astartes novels. :)

[Dosjetka]

why not just allow him to use his powers so they can have a chat through the powers of telepathy? It seems to be a common trait for Librarians to use in Astartes novels. :D

Because it would be a one-way conversation, as Godwyn is not a Telepath. I think.

 

Ludovic

[Lady_Canoness]

Because it would be a one-way conversation, as Godwyn is not a Telepath. I think.

 

That is correct, though early on I had toyed with the idea of giving Godwyn minor psychic abilities. For the sake of story, however, I did not, and Aquinas remains the sole psyker in the Inquisitor's little band.

 

Aquinas is a powerful character, however, and if he thinks it necessary he will do a lot of things...

[Lady_Canoness]

Part 3

 

 

Strassen was gone with a head-start of several years, that much was clear, and, no matter what Godwyn tried, there was no way that looking for him like any other missing person would reveal his whereabouts. He was cautious, cagey, and extremely methodical with forethought that traced years in advance to wheels that had not even begun to be set in motion. She would catch him only if he let himself be caught and no sooner.

Knowing him as he did, however, Aquinas believed that while they could not contact the rogue Inquisitor, they could send a message to him: show him they were following in the footsteps of his past and confronting the challenges he had faced, Aquinas believed, and they could draw him out. He wanted to be found, otherwise he would not have contacted them, but how much did the Imperium stand to lose if they found him later instead of sooner?

To that end, on Tenantable, they would speak to those he spoke to, walk where he walked, and try to assemble the pieces of Inquisitor Strassen’s past.

 

*

 

“Actually, I do know quite a bit about Tenantable!” Sudulus replied enthusiastically from where he stood in the galley mixing himself a cup of steaming caffeine.

After two weeks aboard the Patroclus enjoying the leisurely pace of interstellar travel spent in comfort, it felt invigorating to be back on Meridian descending to a new world in pursuit of their quarry. To Godwyn, time spent in idleness too often felt like time doubly wasted as both mind and body forgot their purpose while drifting through space. She’d kept busy the best she could, and had endeavoured to keep her team occupied as well.

To some extent her plan had worked.

Sudulus had spent long hours studying the records they had brought with them as well as studying Patroclus’ cogitator banks researching the news and events of the sector within the past century. Most of what he found he kept to himself, though at times he would consult with Aquinas or Godwyn concerning certain details.

Brother Aquinas had also remained busy despite suffering from the headaches of warp-travel, though his temperament had worsened over the past two weeks to make him brooding and irritable – a side-effect of the Warp’s predations, he’d told her – but back in real space he was starting to improve.

Lee and Victoria probably enjoyed the trip the most, however, since neither considered scholastics within their forte and spent most of their time enjoying the amenities that Columbo’s ship had to offer. Though it later became obvious the Captain was slipping when, back aboard the Meridian, she made the mistake of asking Sudulus a question to which he could factually answer.

“Yes, yes,” he said again, tapping a small teaspoon dry on the side of his cup and depositing it in the small galley’s sink before turning to face the Captain, “I do know quite a bit about this world we’re headed to, indeed. I wrote several treatises upon it, in fact, when I was a young man.”

Godwyn, sitting at the table in the main hold with the Brother Aquinas, looked up from her data-slate. Victoria was standing against the wall nearest to the port-side cabins, and obviously had no idea what she had just walked into. Sudulus could – and would, if he got the chance – go on for hours about a subject until he had relayed everything he knew about it. A small part of the Inquisitor thought that he even did it on purpose.

“The first thing to know is that Tenantable is, politically speaking, an old world – quite old – dating back to before the founding of the Imperium I believe, though it was always considered a backwater planet – never had much more than a few outposts on it until this sector became more populated after the success of Panacea a couple thousand years ago.” He took a drink from his caffeine. Looking perfectly relaxed, there wasn’t a hint that he intended to carry on talking for very long.

“Though, of course, that all changed with the discovery of vast quantities of natural fuels underneath Tenantable’s poles. The indigenous population – they had been quite tribal you see – were quickly recruited as a mass labour force to work the oil-fields around both poles and industrial cities were quickly established. In itself, this is the most contentious issue to date, you see, for it was Imperial colonialist masters who dominated the fuel trade at the expense of the pre-Imperial human population. This took place about a thousand years ago, mind you, so now the industry is quite well developed planet-side. The interest in tenantable, well, my interest, and dare I say ‘our interest’ – the other interest being the lucrative fuel trade as I mentioned – revolves around the societal issues surrounding Tenantable. Well, there are geological interests as well as geophysical interests concerning the irregularities with the magnetosphere which prevent ships from landing at the poles – which is why administrative cities, and our destination, the capital city of Sable, are all located around the equator for minimal magnetic interference – and why the planet itself is so flat and largely arid, but that is not our concern.”

Turning her eyes back to the data-slate she was holding, Godwyn would have been surprised if Captain Striker could even recall their concern with the planet after Sudulus’ enthusiastic tirade.

“… a culture of subjugation and racism, I’m afraid,” Sudulus was saying while Victoria bobbed her head up and down like a cork floating in water, “… what we are witnessing now are the results of generations of ethnic conflict…”

Godwyn had heard it all before and was familiar with the situation on Tenantable. Twenty-five years earlier, Inquisitor Strassen had made a profound impact on the planet when he orchestrated a series of raids against the indigenous labour populations of the industrial city slums. It had been said that the ancient indigenous religion was a heathen creed, and that its followers had started to crop up amongst the poor of the inner cities. Whether or not Strassen had believed this at the beginning was unclear in his reports, though after the raids he had expressed doubts as to the authenticity of the heretical threat, and had even hinted that the indigenous religion had been conjured as an excuse for local authorities to crush troublemakers and avoid lengthy due process.

Godwyn didn’t know what to believe so far as her mentor was concerned, though the most recent civil upheaval looked as if it could fit perfectly within mantra of Strassen’s repentance for past wrongs committed. It had used the same tools as before, though this time the guiding hand had delivered victory to the victims of the past. Could this have been Strassen’s doing? Again, she was unsure, though, even if it was not his doing, there was no way Godwyn was willing to believe that he did not watch it as it unfolded. Part of her mentor must be here, and – even if that part was a trail long gone cold – she would seek it out.

“Landing in five!” Lee’s voice called from the cockpit, giving Striker the excuse she needed to escape from Sudulus.

Deactivating the data-slate with a flick of her thumb, Godwyn handed it back to Aquinas – momentarily catching the space marine’s eye. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eye told her of an anticipation that he himself did not.

“They’re askin who we are!” Lee shouted from the cockpit – ending the moment as Aquinas stood and ducked into the starboard cabins – “Wha’ should I tell them we’re this time?”

Striker, at that moment, returned to the main hold with her black hard case and opened it, removing the matt-black carapace armour of a storm trooper and strapping it into place. Aquinas emerged from the opposite side of the hold carrying a long ornamented force staff in his armoured hands which he set down with due reverence and care before gently murmuring canticles of enkindling over the sceptre. Even Sudulus set down his caffeine to straighten his robe and approached the table to organize some records into his travelling bag.

Seeing the three of them ready and willing as they were drew forth a flame of pride Godwyn’s chest – a pride not of who they were, but what they were doing – what they were prepared to do.

“We are the Holy Inquisition,” she called back to Lee, “let them know we are here!”

The pilot’s laugh rang back through to the hold. “Look out folks!” he shouted riotously; “Here comes the Inquisition!”

 

To identify oneself as of the Holy Inquisition, Inquisitor Strassen had taught her, was a mixed blessing.

An Inquisitor brought fear, respect, and co-operation. An Inquisitor could go almost anywhere, do almost anything, to almost anyone, and do so with the complete authority of the Emperor. No one man, it was taught, could contest the right of an Inquisitor, and no body of men could over-rule the judgement of the Inquisition.

Yet to declare oneself an Inquisitor also brought attention, from allies and enemies, and both could be equally destructive.

Already as they touched down in Sable’s star-port complex a small delegation of local officials were hustling into Meridian’s landing bay with a put upon air like men who had been disturbed from a pleasant slumber. The leader of the paltry group, a short, balding man with a square jaw and a thick build dressed in a wrinkled duster, came forward the instant the Inquisitor set foot on solid ground. His brow was already sparkling with sweat.

“Inquisitor,” he said almost breathlessly, his square jaw wobbling out of synch with his words, “had we known of your arrival beforehand, we-we would have made the proper arrangements!”

Godwyn looked at the man: he was out of breath and the sweat on his forehead was starting to bead, and not because of the planet’s dry climate; more than likely this man had hastened to grab whoever was at hand as soon as he’d heard of her arrival to toss together this measly welcoming brigade. She smiled inwardly, but outwardly she regarded the man with a steely gaze.

“I’m not here for a ceremony,” she rebuked the man as her team exited the shuttle and gathered behind her; “I’m here on business, which,” she added for emphasis, “does not concern you.”

A momentary lapse in better judgement saw the sweaty man look at the Inquisitor incredulously, though he quickly recovered and pasted a menial smile on his face.

“Yes, yes of course,” he said quickly, bowing repeatedly as the Inquisitor brushed past him towards the exit of the landing bay; “Is there any way I can be of service?”

She stopped and looked at the man considerately.

“Yes,” Godwyn said with a nod, “can you arrange transport for us while we are planet-side?”

The man blinked; “T-transport?” he almost blurted, quickly dabbing his forehead with a stained kerchief.

“This is a city, isn’t it? It has transport that a city official, such as yourself, could arrange for us?” she spelled it out for the man.

“Oh right…” he said with an apologetic smile. “Right – right, yes of course! I’ll see too it straight away!” he managed before quickly bowing and bustling from the landing bay with his entourage following closely on his tail.

“Right,” Cassandra Godwyn turned to her team now that they were alone again under Tenantable’s dimming sun; “We have work to do.”

 

*

 

To his credit, Strassen had detailed little more than the most mundane of his dealings on Tenantable, and listed very few names. The first act in their investigation on Tenantable would therefore be a simple one: they would gather what information that could from the capital’s archives and use Tenantable’s records to make up the difference in their own.

Sudulus was already itching for the challenge.

 

*

 

 

Despite her first impressions of the planet and its populace, the sweaty man proved quite efficient, and had a rugged yet dependable-looking vehicle waiting for them as they exited the sizeable space port complex.

“My apologies, Inquisitor!” the sweaty man appeared from around the vehicle where he had been hissing something at the driver, and she quickly noted that his entourage was nowhere to be seen. “This is the best vehicle I could procure at this time,” he said between gulping down mouthfuls of air and wiping the kerchief around his collar.

From where she stood next to the Inquisitor, Captain Striker gave the vehicle cursory look-over and muttered her approval, while Sudulus, standing further back with Brother Aquinas, looked as if he was making mental notes of the vehicle to record later.

It wasn’t much to look at in terms of style or aesthetic appeal, but judging from what she had seen inside the space port, and what she could tell by just looking at her surroundings in the capital city, art and design were not amongst the things the people of Tenantable were particularly good at. The vehicle was block-like and low to the ground, though its unfinished gun-metal exterior spoke of a powerfully built frame and Spartan construction. From looks alone, Godwyn could imagine a vehicle like this lasting for decades with minimal need for repair even when used regularly.

“Not much to look at,” he said with a nervous glance towards the Inquisitor as if seeking her approval, “but it works very well! I like these vehicles because… because they never break down – very well made.”

“It’ll do,” she said with a nod of thanks in his direction as the man continued to smile weakly and shift awkwardly from foot to foot until he realized he was no longer needed and hastily bowed and withdrew.

“I supposed it will take me to the archives in one piece.” Sudulus approached the vehicle as soon as the sweaty man had re-entered the space port. He didn’t look nervous, but then again he wasn’t fond of surprises either.

“Are you certain you don’t want to come with me, Inquisitor?” he asked, seating himself one on of the sparsely cushioned seats in the passenger compartment of the car.

“Afraid of being alone with the Captain?” Godwyn asked with her eyebrows raised in mock surprise, though Sudulus only snorted in reply. She’d asked Striker to go with her savant both as company and for the man’s protection… that and she didn’t trust Lee not to jostle him, and Brother Aquinas would draw far too much attention.

Armed and armoured as she was, Victoria Striker was the best for the job.

 

*

 

The second act in their investigation on Tenantable relied on Sudulus and Striker being successful and finding correlations between Strassen’s records form twenty-five years earlier and Sable’s records of the recent civil conflicts. As he was Inquisition and beyond the scrutiny of local law-bringers, Strassen would not be referenced in any archives by name or title, thus Sudulus’ only hope was to match local records to the names of men who had worked with the Inquisitor during the raids twenty-five years prior in hopes that the same men who had worked with him before would have worked with him again. If that proved to be the case, and there was reason to believe that Strassen had operated through the same channels on each occasion, Godwyn and Aquinas would commandeer local authorities to take suspected conspirators into custody for further examination. The likelihood of planet-side conspirators to be directly linked to their quarry was slim-to-none, yet it would be the chance they desperately needed to get themselves noticed by the rogue Inquisitor.

All of this, however, depended on Sudulus, yet the wily savant was rightly optimistic about his chances…

 

*

 

“Inquisitor, I would speak with you.”

Sitting in her usual spot at the table in the main hold and half-between taking a sip from her caffeine while re-reading medical and psychological assessments of her former mentor, Cassandra stopped, and glanced over the rim of her cup towards the power-armour giant across from her. He’d wasn’t looking at her, and he hadn’t moved from the spot he had taken two and a half hours previously when he first sat down – neither had she other than to reheat her caffeine at the galley. Why he’d chosen now to break the silence was beyond her.

She lowered her cup. “Yes, what is it?”

He lifted his head – looking at her with his piercing blue eyes that seemed to burn within him. Carefully, he set the data-slate he had been reading down on the table and rested his hands one atop of the other before him.

Sensing this was no idle chatter (though then again it never was when Aquinas was involved) Godwyn set down the reports she had been reading and gave the Librarian her full attention.

“Despite what you may or may not believe, or come to believe for that matter, I do not question your authority in this task presented to us,” he began speaking in a way that was slow and measured, but very clear. “I know my place,” he said, “yet I also know my responsibilities to provide council whenever I deem it necessary.”

His eyes never wavered from the woman across from him. “I believe it necessary now.”

She nodded. Aquinas had served with the Deathwatch for longer than she had been alive, and though her pride often waned under his indisputable assessments, Godwyn had quickly learned over their short time together that the Librarian’s wisdom was not something to be lightly cast aside. His presence was, without a doubt, her greatest asset on her search for Strassen, and would prove even more so as their task progressed.

“At this time I would like to impress upon you the absolute need for clarity in our purpose: the apprehension of Inquisitor Strassen must come before all other matters – our own survival included.”

Pausing, Aquinas knew that the Inquisitor would question him on this, and he respectfully waited for her to do so.

“How do you mean?” Godwyn asked under a furrowed brow. “The mission must come first, but how can we accomplish anything if we’re dead?”

“I am not advocating suicidal recklessness,” Aquinas explained passively much as if he were instructing a student; “This task will not be a bloodless one, and I believe we will have to come to terms with confronting and overcoming conflict instead of evading it if we are to succeed in our goal. The application of force, and the risks such an application entails, will be necessary. It must be clear between us that you accept and understand this.”

“I do,” Godwyn assured him; “I never expected this to be easy.”

Somewhat satisfied, the Librarian nodded.

“I also must impress upon you that we are likely to be faced with difficult decisions and the necessity of performing what would otherwise be considered terrible acts in pursuit of our target.”

Godwyn frowned as she stood up and leaned against he back of her seat. “What kind of terrible acts are you referring to?” she asked. “Mass murder? Wanton destruction of Imperial property? I will not be party to committing the crimes I have been sworn to protect against!” she stated emphatically. “I won’t go so far as to let planets burn for the sake of one man!”

“And no one is suggesting that,” Aquinas said in a voice that was almost a whisper as the Inquisitor grew more animated. “I am implying that third parties – innocent parties – may likely be put in our path to deter us from achieving our goal. Falter in confronting them, and it will be our undoing.”

“There is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt,” Godwyn quoted gloomily – the Librarian’s faultless reasoning leaving her cold.

“I’m not asking for you to believe in that,” Aquinas spoke up, fixing the Inquisitor with a gaze that was both rebutting yet consoling, “but do not doubt that Inquisitor Strassen, if he has gone rogue as we justly believe, will inflict more harm uncaught that we will in catching him.”

A bitter consolation if she had ever heard one.

“Do we understand one another as to what must be done?” Aquinas asked sharply.

She glanced at him sideways – looking deep into ice blue eyes that had seen things she could only imagine. “We do,” she said. “I will do what must be done.”

At that moment, Lee, standing unnoticed in the hatchway leading forward to the nest, cleared his throat somewhat noisily.

“S’cues me, boss,” he said apologetically as both the Inquisitor and the Librarian turned to look at him, “but while you’se were talkin’ I got word from Sudulus n’ Vicky,” he gave his head a jerk back in the direction of the nest. “Says they’ve foun’ somethin’. Three names ou’ o’ seven match. Says we’re in luck.”

 

 

Twilight had descended upon Sable in the few yours since Sudulus and Striker had left for the city archives, and as daylight retreated into the shadows so to did the local populace. No city was this where people remained outdoors after dark. No city was this where life continued at night like it did during the day. No, as their vehicle sped through empty litter-strewn streets, neither Godwyn nor her companions saw a single person on the road-side.

Garbage and graffiti were everywhere, and, even in the half-light, the buildings they passed by were all covered in layers of dust and grime. Streets were in ill-repair, and along the road-sides many ramshackle store-fronts had sprung up at the feet of concrete buildings like fungus leaching off the roots of a tree. In his report, Strassen had mentioned unrest in the industrial city slums – though if the capital city on Tenantable looked like this, then what did the slums of an industrial city look like?

“Not particularly pretty, is it?” Sudulus mumbled, his nose close against the glass and his face dimly reflected in the moonlight from outside the vehicle. “It wasn’t much more of a sight in the daylight…” The world outside his window depressed him and left a hollowed look in the savant’s usually chipper face.

He and Striker had returned to Meridian not a half-hour after making contact with Lee Normandy to discuss his findings. Like Lee had said, Sudulus had uncovered three of seven names mentioned by Strassen to have been repeated in the most recent incident reports from the polar industrial cities.

The names were:

-Hazen: a Gas Baron from City 13.

-Obberstein: an industrialist with a monopoly on heavy machinery in City 8 and 9.

-Andov: a Gas Baron from City 4.

Alone, the names meant almost nothing as there was no evidence showing that any of them had even made contact with one another. The industrial cities in which they operated, as Sudulus had pointed out, were either on opposite poles (13 being at the northern pole while 4, 8 & 9 were at the southern pole) or miles apart with no direct lines of contact.

Taken together, however, each name represented extremely like-minded men with vast amounts of localized wealth and power who had been active in both Strassen’s raids twenty-five years earlier and the more recent events of civil unrest. If Strassen was involved in Tenantable’s recent troubles, these men might know about it.

Be that as it may, accessing three wealthy business men on an industrial planet with no special avenues and no allies was asking for the impossible unless the planetary governor could be persuaded to act on their behalf.

 

 

The Governor’s Palace on Tenantable hardly deserved the name. Built in the middle of the city behind massive, four-meter thick concrete walls, the palace looked much more akin to a giant bunker with dust-stained sloping concrete walls and a squat over-lapping design. It was big and blunt; no finesse or majesty, just an air of raw, unmoving authority. Imperial dominion over this world was as refined as a brick sitting on dirt, and, as night had fallen across the capital city, the governor’s palace was now a very well illuminated and heavily guarded brick.

Instructing the driver to park across from the main gate on the far side of a deserted thoroughfare, Godwyn, Aquinas, Striker, and Sudulus approached the well-fortified palace on foot.

“Halt! State your business!” an armed guard dressed in a distinctive blue great coat called out as soon as they had come within thirty yards of the gate-house and were well within the range of the floodlights atop the walls.

“Holy Inquisition!” Godwyn shouted back, squinting to keep herself from being blinded by the over-anxious guards many the lights.

The lights abruptly moved off and the gates were quickly opened; on either side of the gate the guards seemed to relax, and a man wearing an officer’s cap hastened out to meet them, flashing a quick salute as he did so.

“Good evening, Inquisitor,” he addressed Godwyn politely, though he promptly fumbled his words when attempting to greet the space marine, and ended up offering an awkward bow while mumbling something about ‘humble servant’.

Aquinas ignored him.

Recovering, the officer waved them though the gates.

“Governor Assada has been expecting you,” he said, falling into stride beside the Inquisitor as they passed into the palace courtyard and past yet more guards. “He has high hopes that you will be able to resolve the problems on Tenantable.”

 

 

Tenantable was a world of anguish: the bulk of its people were miserable and poor, its cities were decaying, its infrastructure was decrepit, and sector-wide it was known only for its reserves of fuel tucked under an otherwise uninteresting shell. Yet even here, where the land was hardly worth the dirt that covered it, the hubris of the Imperial elite was evident.

Standing in the governor’s sitting room and having dismissed the pale-skinned servants, Godwyn felt as if she could see the man she was dealing with imprinted upon the room around her. Off-world art, off-world plants, even trophy heads of off-world beasts and a large glass aquarium filled with off-world fish, combined with not a single piece of paraphernalia to suggest any connection to the fuel industry told her one thing about this man. She shook her head in the reflection of a polished brass urn: off-world governor.

Across the waxed marble floor, Sudulus was watching closely as Victoria tested the firmness of a plush sofa with her foot: the armoured boot sunk into the cushion up past her ankle - Sudulus was flabbergasted.

With staff in hand, Aquinas paced the circumference of the room, looking it over with an unreadable expression.

“This man is a leech upon the backside of the world,” he confided to the Inquisitor when he had finished his scrutiny of the governor’s trappings. “He is here to grovel for the table-scraps left by the industrialists and nothing more. Do not expect this man to help us willingly.”

Godwyn was about to agree with the Librarian’s dry assessment when he unexpectedly motioned for her to be silent and his eyes flashed towards the door. “He comes.”

“Aaah Inquisitor!” Governor Assada sauntered into the sitting room not a few seconds later with a quartet of stooped, pale-skinned servants following closely at his heels carrying all manners of delicacies and refreshments; “I trust Tenantable hasn’t been too inhospitable for your tastes, mm?” he quipped, obviously trying to impress the young Inquisitor as he seated himself into a deep armchair and sent his servants scurrying to attend to his guests. “And a space marine!” he noted, giving the Librarian an approving look; “You are most welcome, master space marine! I am very pleased that you have come.”

A man of moderate build being neither too heavy nor too thin, Governor Assada was well groomed with clear skin and his hair in tight circlets that fell around his ears. As might be expected of a governor, he was also well dressed in fine clothes of leisure that displayed his wealth as well as his carefully maintained physical form. Proud of his possessions, proud of his person, but – from the telling bulge of the codpiece between his legs – clearly compensating for his potency, Assada was just the type of slime Godwyn had expected him to be.

“I’m not here to take advantage of your hospitality,” the Inquisitor stated pointedly as she brushed away the servants and approached the governor from an angle with her hands held loosely behind her back.

“Aah yes – always business first with you Inquisition types, mm? Just as good!” he helped himself to several of his servants’ refreshments before shooing them from the room with a wave of his be-jewelled hand. “I assume it’s that damnable Montero that’s brought you here, mm?” he spat the name as if it were foul taste upon his tongue. “He’s been nothing but wretchedness and trouble for this planet, and has set profits back a decade with his rabble rousing!”

“Montero, you say?” Aquinas asked from half-way across the sitting room. “Who is this man and why is he not in your records?”

Baffled, the Governor looked from one to the other as if assuming they were already briefed on the matter in question. “He’s a filthy urban legend, that’s why!” he barked incredulously before a look of smug superiority crawled onto his face for knowing something they did not.

“No one’s ever seen the bastard or even knows if he is real, but when troops entered into the rot infested holes those things call home they were repelled ferociously by men shouting the name of Montero! Cities 2, 4, 8, 9, 13 & 18 have all been shut down by the bastard and his fanatical flunkies!”

He cleared his throat and took a long drink from the crystal glass clutched in his hand as his eyes wandered. Obviously Montero had caused him a great deal of stress.

“And no one has ever seen this man Montero?” Aquinas posed, looking sharply at the Governor from where he stood.

Assada snorted. “Of course not!” the he retorted in a scornful voice; “He’d be bloody dead if we had! That much should be obvious!”

With a thoughtful nod, Godwyn turned her back on the governor and made a show of strolling pensively in the direction of a mural displaying a stylized rendition of some battle scene, though she discreetly caught the Librarian’s eye. The presumptuous windbag that called himself the Governor was most definitely a leech feasting off the planet’s industry, but at least he was a well informed leech, and, whether or not he meant to, he was already proving useful. Without words the two agreed that, for the moment, the Governor should be indulged.

“Would Hazen, Obberstein, and Andov know anything about this Montero, since it seems he is active in their cities?” Godwyn asked in passing as she let her eyes roll over the mural as if inspecting it.

“They’re responsible businessmen!” the Governor’s pitched voice followed after her. “It’s more then likely that they’d keep an eye on how he’s ruining their profits!”

“I’d like to speak with them,” Godwyn spun on her heels to face the Governor with an earnest look painted onto her face, though a similar look was not to be found on Assada.

“Why speak to them instead of going after Montero!?” he erupted noisily; “That bastard is the reason Tenantable is in the mess it is in!”

Hardly, Godwyn thought, but for the Governor’s sake she nodded her head in agreement.

“Exactly,” she said, “yet your own attempts of using force to bring down Montero seem to have failed, haven’t they? I would have more luck by investigating this man and bringing him down through careful planning than rushing in with more of your men for him to kill.”

Begrudgingly, Assada seemed to agree, though it was clear he wished he had come up with the idea instead of his guest.

“Keep in mind that these men are powerful people on Tenantable,” the governor warned, crossing one leg over the other while jabbing a cautionary finger at the Inquisitor and space marine, “they do not suffer lightly the interference of outsiders – even outsiders as renowned as the Inquisition.”

“Lightly or not, they will suffer it,” remarked Aquinas matter-of-factly, “though if the Governor wishes to minimize any disturbance that our investigation might cause, I would advise the Governor to summon these men to the capital in order for our investigation to proceed quickly and painlessly.”

Grumbling resentfully, the Governor downed the last of his drink and glared at the space marine with a sour eye. “You know this will go badly for me!?” he protested. “I know it is well within your right to demand such things of me, but you don’t bear the consequences of this like I do! No one likes to be hoodwinked into an interrogation!”

Without looking, Godwyn could tell that Brother Aquinas’ patience with the man was starting to grow thin as the very air in the room seemed to tighten around her and press down on her skin.

“I grow weary of your griping,” he said in a terrible whisper as he bore down upon the Governor with heavy strides until he was towering over the seated aristocrat like a battle tank looming over a babe. “You will help us – willing or otherwise. Do you understand?”

 

They did not leave the Governor’s palace until they had obtained his promise that he would aid them. With Aquinas’ help, it had not taken long.

[Lady_Canoness]

Part 4.

 

“How long has it been?”

“About… forty minutes now. Long enough, do you reckon?”

“Let’s find out.”

With a grating clang of metal against metal the door of interrogation room four swung outwards with a waft of stuffy air. The man occupying the solitary chair in the center of the small room looked up with a start. A cold sweat clung to his face and neck, and the radiance of his rich clothing was diminished by the restraints that bound his wrists and ankles against the chair’s steel frame. A bruise on his left cheek and a split lip indicated that he had struggled against the guards as they’d arrested him, though the fear in his eyes betrayed the surrender of whatever fighting spirit remained.

His name was Hazen.

“Who-who are you?” he asked with a sputtering cough as Godwyn entered the room with Sudulus close behind. “My name is Hazen – Geoffrey Hazen from City 13 – this has to be a mistake! I am here at the invitation of the Governor!”

A flash of reflected light drew Hazen’s attention from the woman’s face to the collar of her coat where a badge in the shape of an embossed skull superimposed upon a capital I was neatly fastened above the subtle curves of her chest.

He swallowed hard, and his eyes found his way back up into those of the Inquisitor that was standing over him.

“Wh-why have you arrested me?” he asked shakily, his voice cracking; “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

Arresting Hazen and the other two men mentioned in Strassen’s report had not been part of the original plan, though after witnessing the stringent dichotomy between the rich and poor on Tenantable, Godwyn thought it to her advantage to remove them from their comfort-zones. She didn’t plan to detain any of them for very long, though she had ordered for each one to be left in a subterranean interrogation cell to persuade them to be more cooperative during their questioning.

“Say something!” he almost pleaded with her as she slowly walked around behind him to where he could not see her.

Sudulus, in the corner to the right behind Hazen in the tiny room, waited in silence: the sleeves on his robe rolled up over his metal arms, and his right hand hovering over the keyboard built into his left forearm in preparation to record a transcript of the interrogation.

Godwyn stepped back in front of the man strapped to the chair and leaned closer to him until they were eye to eye and she could count the drips of sweat running down his nose and feel his hot breath on her face. His eyes were moving rapidly, and his heart-rate was increasing. The veins in his neck and forehead were thick with blood.

“Tell me of your involvement in the inner-city raids twenty-five years ago,” she said, breaking eye-contact and slowly turning her back on the man.

“I-I was asked to lend my house-troops to the PDF-corps. W-why?”

“How many troops did you send?”

“A-all that I had – two hundred, I-I think.”

“Who asked you to do this?”

“The l-late governor – Governor Van Andhra.”

“Why did you agree?”

“H-he told me I would receive Imperial subsidies and profits would increase if we held our gas stocks in surplus and used rebellion as an excuse to drive up the prices.”

“No mention of heresy?”

“What? N-no! He said that I could use my house guards to quash unionist descent in the labour districts, and that I would benefit from it.”

“Who were your allies?”

“Other private security forces, PDF, and… and an Inquisitor was involved, I think!”

“Did you ever see this Inquisitor?”

“N-no, not really. Only during strategy briefings, though I didn’t pay much attention. I was younger! I didn’t care so long as it paid off!”

“And this past year? Why did you commit your troops to more raids?”

“I-I heard that City 2 and City 4 were planning to raid again – to repeat the process of driving up the price of fuel and using rebellion as an excuse. I-I thought I could do it too, and I could profit from it.”

“Who advised you to do this?”

“Some of my staff – my economists – they advised me to do this! My profit margins were decreasing! I had to do it!”

The man was leaning forward in the chair and looking imploringly at the Inquisitor with fear-stricken eyes. “P-please…” he blubbered, but Godwyn was done listening to him.

She nodded to Sudulus. “We’re done here,” she said, and opened the door for her savant before giving the man one last look and following Sudulus out. The door banged shut behind her, leaving Hazen to his grief.

“See that he’s prosecuted by someone not on this planet,” she ordered, as her savant continued to make additional notations; “I don’t think the corruption and greed on this world ends with him.”

“Oh I do agree indeed, Inquisitor,” Sudulus said with a disappointed sigh. “The selfishness of men shames us all.”

Godwyn opened her mouth to reply but instead doubled up with a series of dry hacking coughs. The basement level of the Sable Adeptus Arbites precinct which Godwyn had commandeered for her interrogations was inundated with dust and mould which combined to wreak havoc on the Inquisitor’s chest and give her the constant sensation that her mouth was drying out. She was beginning to regret not bringing one of the re-breather helms from Meridian when last she had the chance.

“There, there Inquisitor,” Sudulus took her arm and gently kept her walking down the sparsely lit hall even as she washed spit down her dust-coated throat. Sudulus, for some reason, seemed impervious to the dust in the basement, though he made a point of soothing the Inquisitor with kindly words whenever the dust assailed her.

“Are you okay, Inquisitor?” Captain Striker came striding up the hall from behind them in the direction of the precinct. Striker, dressed in full combat armour had been standing guard at the basement entrance for the past hour, and had wisely elected to wear her fully sealed helmet which included an internal re-breather.

“She’ll be alright, Victoria,” Sudulus assured her just as Godwyn gave a final, deep cough, “she just needs to take things slowly from time to time.”

Striker shook her head. “Dammit Sudulus, she shouldn’t be down here…” she said in a muffled voice.

“No, I’m fine,” Godwyn insisted, righting herself and wiping a hand over her face and eyes before giving her head a shake; “A little cough isn’t enough to stop me from doing my duty.”

Behind her helmet she probably looked sceptical, but Striker didn’t contest the Inquisitor’s decision and returned to her post back down the hall, leaving Sudulus and Godwyn to proceed to interrogation room five. Their next person of interest was waiting.

 

Brother Aquinas was off to the side in a small observation room with his attention focused on the man on the other side of the glass when Godwyn entered. Being a space marine, Aquinas, like Sudulus, was untroubled by the conditions in the basement, though, unlike Sudulus, he wasn’t at all supportive when Godwyn succumbed to a coughing fit.

“This one will be less than cooperative,” he nodded towards Obberstein – the man strapped into the steel chair was glaring furiously towards the glass – “his arrogance has blinded him to reality.”

Obberstein had not resisted arrest, though Godwyn had been informed afterwards that he had not cooperated with the arresting officers and had done his utmost to belittle them as he was taken into custody. Like Hazen, he had no idea why he was here.

“With your permission, I think it would be wise if I conducted this interrogation,” Aquinas suggested; “I do not think we will get anything from him willingly.”

“What do you intend to do?” Godwyn asked as she studied the man on the opposite side of the glass. He was powerfully built and well dressed, with a crop of receding dark hair that rested above a tall forehead and a cruelly set face. He looked like a bully – a man used to getting his way and had enough wealth to prevent people from teaching him otherwise – and though she had only just set her eyes upon him, Godwyn could feel her own resentment for the man rising within her chest the longer she looked at him.

“I will draw out whatever information I deem necessary for our investigation to proceed,” Aquinas stated matter-of-factly in a quiet voice.

“If he resists?”

“He cannot.”

It was the answer she had been expecting. She nodded, stifling another dry cough as it rose in her throat. “Do what you will, Brother Librarian,” she said knowing full well that Aquinas would likely break the man during his interrogation: the first casualty in their hunt for Strassen.

 

Predictably, Obberstein had known little and resisted much. Last Godwyn saw of him, he was slumped over and drooling down his front with all light gone from his eyes. He had known nothing of Inquisitor Strassen’s involvement on Tenantable other than volunteering his private security forces, and knew nothing of Montero aside from the name.

“He was scum,” Aquinas said remorselessly as he shut the door on the broken man, “and his fate was justice delivered.”

Justice or not, Godwyn found her hope quickly fading. Strassen may well have had close ties to Tenantable a quarter-century ago, but she was finding nothing other to suggest he had set foot on the planet since then. The civil upheaval of the past could be just as it seemed: a repeated attempt by the ambitious and greedy that backfired on a large scale. Hope now rested in interrogation room six, strapped into a steel chair with her last lead from Strassen’s own records.

 

The man who was called Andov looked up with tired old eyes as the door to his cell creaked open. Unlike the other two, Andov was noticeably wizened, and carried none of the swagger that the others had. When the Arbites had surround his car on the way to the Governor’s Palace, he had come with them willingly and made no protestations of innocence as they locked him into the basement cell, and, other than dry coughing, had made no sound.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted her in a feeble voice as she entered, and tried to better straighten himself in the steel chair.

“You are well informed,” Godwyn replied, stepping aside from the door to let Sudulus pass and take up his position behind and to the right.

Andov seemed to shrug, though it was difficult to tell as he was tightly fastened to the chair. “I’ve had my share of interviews over my life,” he said, coughing slightly between words, “and the locals lack subtlety. I could only deduce that this meant someone else of high enough standing had ordered my arrest. Though I admit I don’t know why. Is my profiteering so well known as to draw the attention of the Inquisition?”

Godwyn wasn’t about to answer the question, and she doubted that he really expected her to, though wealth and power were known to draw one’s attention inward.

“Tell me about the raids twenty-five years ago,” she asked, ignoring the man and moving to his left where he could not properly see her unless he looked all the way around.

He coughed. Sudulus glanced over at Godwyn: this was going nowhere fast.

“I saw the opportunity to profit,” the man croaked between bursts of coughing, “and I took it. Dare-say I benefitted, as did my family on Panacea. I do not regret my participation despite what you must think of me. My family is well off because of it.”

“You assisted in the slaughter of thousands just for profit?”

Andov shook his head. “I siphon fuel from the planet’s crust. It is not my place to moralize of the lives of labourers. Their deaths were assured regardless of whether I abstained or participated. Either way their blood would have been on my hands, so I took the chance to benefit my family. Everyone on this planet is here to make as much money as they can to send home, and then leave as fast as they can afterwards. Everyone is after fortune. No-one wants to be trapped here.”

Eyes narrowing, Godwyn folded her arms and leaned her back against the concrete wall.

Unlike Hazen and Obberstein, who had maintained themselves through charisma and ruthlessness, Andov was quite intelligent and had likely maintained his business on Tenantable through cunning. Anticipating an Inquisitor who expected a resistant subject – and knowing that resistance would prove useless to him – Andov had done the opposite and presented himself as open and cooperative. By volunteering more information than was asked, he hoped to overwhelm the young Inquisitor’s questioning with unrevealing answers, and hopefully be released as having answered all questions satisfactorily. Unfortunately for Andov, Inquisitors were much better prepared than Arbites interrogators, and Godwyn knew what he was trying to do.

She decided to play along.

“If that is the case,” Godwyn frowned at the old man, “why are you still here after twenty-five years?”

“I’ve been here for eighty-four years,” Andov replied wearily. “Why stop now when there is still money to be made? My heirs will live well because of my being here.”

“What do you know of Montero?” Godwyn quickly changed the subject, stifling a cough in her hand and changing the subject to keep the Gas Baron off balance.

“Nothing about the man,” Andov admitted after a reflective pause, “but I think I know *of* him.”

He left it hanging, waiting for the Inquisitor to retrieve it.

“Go on,” she said.

“The courage to fight for our humanity – it’s what we all aspire to, isn’t it?” he continued, gently coughing as the Inquisitor circled behind him.

“I would hardly call that knowing him, Andov.”

Coughing again, Andov sputtered several words in agreement. “I know, Inquisitor,” he managed, “though unlike my contemporaries,” he looked up at the Inquisitor as she came round to stand in front of him, “I pay attention to the local culture. Montero is the name given to a great leader in the indigenous creation myth.”

Hoping that he’d found some purchase in the Inquisitor’s interest, he stopped and looked up at her almost expectantly with his ancient face.

“A story and a revolutionary that so happen to share the same name is hardly compelling,” she chastised him, “I need more than that.”

For a minute Andov said nothing, and Godwyn fancied she could almost see him turning the thought of bartering with the Inquisitor over and over in his head – whether or not he should try to use his next words to secure his release – though ultimately, and wisely, he decided against it.

“The priesthood of City 4 started a program of using indigenous imagery to inspire the labour population,” Andov explained. “I don’t know the details of their teachings, though I do believe City 4 was the only city to attempt such a practice…”

From the corner, Sudulus caught the Inquisitor’s eye.

“… could be one of the Ecclesiarchy clerics in City 4 would know the man himself. So far as I know, the priests did not abandon their flock when the PDF cordoned off the labour districts.”

Moving closer to look the man dead in the eye, Godwyn asked her next question: “Did you know of anyone else who may have entered City 4 for reasons other than business?”

Andov’s eyes were steady. No fear. No emotion. No haste. “I do not pay attention to such things.”

 

* *

 

While Andov’s answers had not been particularly forthright or helpful to Godwyn’s investigation, less than a day after being in the dusty Arbites basement they found themselves out in the brilliant Tenantable sunshine with a strong wind blowing in their faces as they set out in a commandeered PDF chimera to cross the southern flat-lands on a five day journey to City 4.

The facts were unclear, but Andov suggested that City 4 could have been the site of initial problems on Tenantable and cause the escalation of violence a year ago. Sketchy at best, but they had already exhausted their scant resources on Tenantable and needed to pursue every lead possible unless they were willing to restart their search from scratch somewhere else. It was a desperate plan, but desperate was better than no plan at all.

Naturally, Governor Assada had been beside himself with rage when Godwyn had approached him with the request for transport and a liaison in City 4. Word of Godwyn’s arrest and extradition orders for two Gas Barons and the brain-death of a prominent industrialist had obviously filtered back to him.

“You said you were going to bloody talk to them!” Assada had bellowed, his face pink with rage as he smashed his balled fists into the various items arranged across his desk and sent them flying about his office. “But instead you bloody ruined them!”

“They were criminals under Imperial Law and deserving of their fate,” Godwyn had calmly informed him as the Governor continued to demolish his office possessions. What she didn’t tell him was that, as soon as she had no more use for him, she fully intended to have the Governor investigated and found guilty as well.

Despite the Governor’s protestations, however, he had acquiesced to her will and arranged the transport and provisions for her journey to City 4, as well as supposedly sending word to the PDF forces deployed in City 4 to arrange a liaison for her arrival. The chimera had not been the ideal choice of transports, but given the difficulties of flying to the poles and the fact that most of the infrastructure of the polar industrial cities was largely inoperable due to sedition, a direct rout across the flat-lands was the most reliable choice.

So it was that Lee, Striker, Godwyn and Aquinas spent five days forging across the endless plains and five nights sleeping under the stars until, on the dawn of the sixth day, they saw the low-lying silhouette of City 4 rising over the horizon.

“I bet Sudulus wishes he was here now,” Striker, sitting on the cabin-top of the chimera with her legs dangling over the side, half-shouted across to Godwyn who was leaning on the side of the vehicle’s turret. “He’d finally get to actually see what he studied.”

Taking her eyes off the first thing they’d seen on the horizon in days, Godwyn walked back to her bodyguard and sat down beside her on the roaring and shuddering tank.

“I think that’s why he didn’t come,” she shouted back, thinking of Sudulus’ request to stay in Sable with the Meridian instead of accompanying them to City 4. She had honoured his request as her savant shied away from the threat of danger, but also because she thought he didn’t want to see all the human tragedies he’d read about with his own eyes.

“What do you mean?” the Captain asked, squinting against the rushing wind and brilliant sun as the shirt of her grey fatigues flapped around her.

Godwyn looked towards the city. “I think he knows what we’ll find there.”

 

 

Their chimera ground to a halt at around noon local time in the base camp of the City 4 North Gate Garrison in what appeared to be a repurposed parking-lot surrounded by run-down residential blocks.

‘Welcome to C4NGG’ a makeshift sign proclaimed from where it sat at the foot of a hastily erected perimeter fence, though some scoundrel had crossed out the base’s designation with an ink pen and scrawled the word ‘s***-hole’ in its place. Unfortunately the artist’s assessment wasn’t too far off, and the designation ‘army camp’ didn’t make as much sense as ‘refugees-with-guns camp’.

After a year of running skirmishes with no support and no orders other than to sit and wait for Emperor-knows-what, the camp had turned into a staging ground for anyone who didn’t want to be in the slums with the rebels, and didn’t want to flee into the flat-lands and get shot as a deserter. Tanks, portable field guns, light recce units and a mishmash of everything else seemed to call C4NGG home, though there didn’t seem to be any uniform or organization to the camp; simply bedraggled looking men wearing whatever they wanted wandering around carrying autoguns, while vehicles that hadn’t moved in months were piled high with sand-bags, corrugated metal sheets, and other odds-and-ends to turn them into a cross between living-spaces and static defences against the foreboding greyness of the smouldering city beyond the wire. Morale was so low Godwyn figured she could dig it out of a puddle with a cup, and not a single word of greeting met them as they dismounted from the chimera onto the rubble-strewn ground.

“Bloody ‘ell,” Lee mumbled as he stepped out of the tank and straightened-out his trousers, he was looking around the camp in wide-eyed wonder. A maniacal smile spread onto his face; “jus’ add a lil’ mo’ cheer and this is my typ’a place! Fine upstandin’ gents all ‘round – my kinda people!”

Climbing out after him, Captain Striker, clad in her black storm-trooper armour and with her hellgun tucked under her arm, gave the camp the type of look one would typically reserve for a trash heap.

“I’d be careful with your ‘type’ of people, Lee,” she warned the pilot as he stood by the tank and admired the view, “these guys look like they’ve seen a lot of s*** in the past year.”

Unfazed, the pilot gave a little shrug. “So? I’ve seen m’ share of you squattin’ besi’ the tank,” he said, looking over his shoulder at her and cracking a defensive grin; “figure I’ve seen s’m s*** too,” he snickered.

The storm trooper Captain flicked the activation rune on her gun, making the high-powered tri-beam hellgun emit a menacing hum as it powered up. “Just remember who’s going to be watching your back, huh?” she hissed at him, flicking off the weapon and shoving him back against the tank before stalking away towards the towering form of Brother Aquinas.

“Oh I do, Vicky,” he murmured after her with a smile as he straightened his flight-jacket. “I do.”

 

The command post of C4NGG was as deserving of the title as the camp was of ‘garrison’. Built into a repurposed parlour-space with torn-shag carpets and stained, peeling wallpaper, it was obvious that officers of the camp had not suffered like their men, simply because there weren’t any. The command post was deserted. None of the equipment was turned on or perhaps even functional; papers were scattered about the floor – though it was apparent that someone had been trying to tidy them up into neater piles – and numerous chairs had been overturned and upended. Walking around, it felt as if the men outside were mere stand-ins, and that the real forces had retreated months ago.

“This planet is hopeless!” Aquinas spat, sounding genuinely annoyed as nearby Captain Striker dipped her gloved finger into a cup of caffeine and felt it against her cheek: stone cold. “This world would be done a favour if it were scoured clean and allowed to start anew!”

Aquinas’ disgust at what he was seeing was not lost on the Inquisitor. Suddenly Strassen’s motivations seemed that much clearer: he had resolved to set this world right in whatever way he could, though, pitiably, his madness prevented him from doing it effectively.

The Librarian promptly batted a chair across the room with end of his staff so that it crashed against the far wall.

“Can I help you?”

A man’s voice made the three of them turn to where a tall man in a sullied commissar’s coat and tall officer’s cap stood in the doorway with an autogun slung over his shoulder. Like the men outside, his face was dirty and his clothes hadn’t been properly washed in weeks, yet the man still held himself with dignity and pride which shone through to the surface regardless of how unkempt he appeared.

“Who are you?” Godwyn asked, slowly walking in his direction from across the room.

His eyes flickered away from the space marine and black-armoured storm trooper towards the Inquisitor.

“Commissar Markus Grant, attaché to the Commanding Officer of the City 4 North Gate Garrison,” the Commissar replied, removing his cap to reveal the head of slicked-back sand-coloured hair that sat atop his long, angular face, and placing it on a nearby table.

“I’ll assume that with a space marine in your ranks that you are friendly” he said, laying the autogun down beside his cap, “and that you’re new in town,” he briefly removed his blue eyes from the Inquisitor as he drew an ornamental and lovingly cared for sabre from its scabbard under his coat and placed it beside the autogun, “and that you’re looking for someone in charge of this pithy slice of paradise.”

Several paces away, Striker rested her heavy weapon against one of the tables scattered around the parlour with a loud thump and cocked her eyebrows in an impressed motion.

“And where is your commanding officer?” Godwyn asked as the Commissar folded his coat over the back of a chair and proceeded to wash his face and hands in a metal basin of water that sat against the wall.

“Might I ask who is inquiring?” he splashed more water on his face and rubbed his long-fingered hands over his cheeks.

“The Holy Inquisition. I am Inquisitor Godwyn.”

He stopped and let the water pass from his hands back into the basin. Still stooped over, he looked at her. “There is no commanding officer, Inquisitor – the last commander, Lieutenant Spiel, resigned his commission.”

 

Commissar Grant invited them into a small courtyard behind the command post where he said they could speak without risk of being overheard. Strewn with rubble and debris and overlooked by three levels of clearly looted residential suites, the courtyard looked as hopeless as the rest of the camp.

“When the raids first started everyone thought it would be a short operation over in a matter of days,” Grant began, finding an overturned refrigerator unit to sit on and motioning the others to do likewise, though Aquinas remained standing. “The rebel counter-attack caught us by surprise and rattled a few nerves, but at that point field commanders still had the stomach to fight.”

“So what went wrong?” asked Striker as she sat herself down on an overturned flower-pot and rested her hellgun across her knees.

“The enemy was a lot better equipped and prepared than expected,” Grant explained, “they were good at ambushing our armoured vehicles and disabling them, and the field commanders were cowed by the thought of more casualties. Orders told us to withdraw and hold a perimeter, which we did, though soon the senior officers started to be reassigned by their friends in high places to other cities, and soon after that the orders stopped all together.”

“And you did not seek reassignment?” Aquinas enquired in his usual hushed tone though it was the first time he had opened his mouth to the Commissar.

Striker looked put-off by the question – as if Aquinas was second-guessing Grant’s soldier’s honour and by extension questioning her own – yet Godwyn knew his question was genuine: it took a man of exceptional courage to spend a year in hell when safety was just words away.

“I was assigned to this world only weeks before the raids started and didn’t have time to make friends in high places,” the Commissar replied in a steady tone and meeting the Librarian’s eyes defiantly, “something of which I can assure you I am now thankful for. I associate myself with this planet by duty, sire, not by choice.”

“That is commendable,” Godwyn inclined her head towards the Commissar, stealing his gaze back from the Librarian, “though I’m afraid there will be no more orders. The situation is deteriorating planet-wide. You and the men with you are on your own with whoever else is in this city.”

If the news surprised him he hid it well. Tilting his cap back, the Commissar rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I suspected as much,” he said despairingly, looking briefly at the ground between his feet before pursing his lips and looking back at the Inquisitor; “the men here are mutinous at best, though if you’re here,” he looked at each one as if confirming that they were really who they appeared to be, “I will do whatever I can to be of assistance.”

Aquinas was clearly not convinced by the Commissar’s offer, though Striker glanced from the Commissar to the Inquisitor agreeably, and rose to her feet as if Godwyn had already accepted his invitation for air and was ready to move.

“Why do you want to help me?” Godwyn asked, ignoring her companions and giving the Commissar the focus of her attention.

Grant levelled with the Inquisitor. “It’s my duty,” he said, “and I would do myself dishonour by refusing aid to the Emperor’s servants in a place like this.”

 

The Commissar’s duty aside, Grant had operational knowledge of the city’s layout and knew exactly where they could go safely and where they could not. While the rest of the men of C4NGG sat around waiting for an attack, Grant routinely patrolled several outlying areas, alone and with no way to call for back-up, to watch for enemy movements.

Bringing out a well-worn map of the city and laying it flat across one of the tables in the command post, he then pointed out the Inquisitor and her companions how best they could infiltrate the slums of City 4.

“If you want to look for a priest, you’re best bet would be at the church, though taking your chimera into the city would be suicide,” the commented; “they’ve destroyed armoured vehicles here – here – and here,” he pointed to three separate southbound roads leading from C4NGG, “and the untested roads are all well within audible range of these locations.”

He turned the map ninety-degrees and drew their attention to a small ink-marked structure to the west. “This is a small sewer outlet not a kilometre west of here,” he tapped the map with his index finger. “I’ve been down here several times and never seen any evidence of enemy usage.” He traced his finger down the marked sewer line into the city; “And it can take us a lot deeper into the city that we could otherwise go undetected.”

Captain Striker was already shaking her head, however. “It’s too obvious,” the storm trooper said, looking around at the others; “they will have it staked out meter by meter and be expecting an attack.”

“I appreciate that you’re an elite operative, Captain, and that these tactics are second nature to you, but these people aren’t soldiers” the Commissar explained; “They know about it, true, but they never go down there if they can avoid it. If anything, they’ll be keeping an eye on some of the exits.”

Unappeased, Striker was still shaking her head. “Even I can’t fight my way out of a killing ground like that, soldiers or no,” she protested; “its way too exposed.”

“The Commissar’s plan is sound,” Aquinas interjected, running his own gauntleted hand along the map; “we face one potential killing ground, or scores.”

“We’re not space marines – ” the Captain began to protest earnestly, but the Librarian cut her off:

“No, but you can still trust a space marine,” he said with finality.

“Brother Aquinas is right,” Godwyn added, overruling the concern’s of her bodyguard. “If we exit the sewers here,” she pointed to the another marker on the map deeper into the city, “we can make the next three-hundred meters under the cover of these warehouse districts, and approach the church from the east,” she double tapped on a small icon four kilometres from their current position.

“Exit strategy?” the Commissar proposed.

“If all goes well, we won’t need one,” Godwyn replied.

[Lady_Canoness]

Hot off the press (meaning there may be typos that slipped the net) comes part 5 of the Inquisition!

 

A blanket of cloud had slipped over the sky and smothered out the sun by the time Godwyn, Striker, and Aquinas followed the Commissar out of camp and into the tangle of shattered homes, twisted ruins, and abandoned lots of suburban City 4. Six hundred thousand people used to call the city home, but now the only sound came from the wind gusting through broken windows and smashed walls of ruined lives. Four kilometres in the distance, far and away from the low-lying remains of the outlying habs, were the ominous shadows of the industrial slums, where the lowest of the low on Tenantable had lived and died for years before making it their strong-hold. Grant guessed their numbers to be in the tens of thousands for armed resistance, though he thought it likely that many more were simply trying to make a life for themselves free from the back-breaking labour they had been born into.

After fifteen minutes of setting out they found the sewer entrance: a large uncovered concrete basin set into the ground with a tunnel large enough for a stooped man leading away from it was what City 4 called a sewer system. No one seemed to care where the garbage went so long as it wasn’t in plain view.

Jumping down into the filth-stained basin amidst scattered piles of dried garbage, Striker flicked on the lamp-attachment of her hellgun and shone it down the tunnel. After a couple moments she signalled that it was clear.

Jumping in after Striker and drawing her heavy pistol from its holster, looking down the sewer tunnel gave Godwyn the distinct impression that she was looking into something’s intestines, which of course brought on another thought that she quickly dispelled as distasteful.

“Mind your footing and the smell,” Grant gave them a heads-up, “this is the last place you want to trip.”

“Yes,” Godwyn agreed, wrinkling her nose, “it certain does have a distinctive odour.” Distinctive was an understatement: she’s smelled field latrines better than this.

Captain Striker, wearing her heavy armour and full helmet that thankfully negated the majority of the sewers unpleasantness took point with her hellgun. The storm trooper’s commando training meant that she was adept at fighting in close-quarters environments, and her weapons and armour were ideally suited for taking foes head on in confined spaces.

Second came Commissar Grant with his autogun un-slung and held at the ready in a covering position. He followed Striker closely and, still wearing his brimmed cap as well as his storm coat, offered advice as was needed, though he was careful in not telling the storm trooper how to do her job.

Godwyn followed the Commissar by a few paces with her pistol drawn but otherwise was unarmoured and wore her long, black coat with her badge of office pinned to her chest. The pistol itself was formidable and boasted six magazine-fed large-calibre bullets and an eleven inch barrel for increased accuracy at longer ranges, and had proved its worth numerous times. Like most of her prized possessions, however, the pistol was a gift from her former mentor, and so far as she knew he still carried the weapon’s twin.

Behind the Inquisitor, Brother Aquinas, barely managing to fit through the sewers in his bulky power armour, brought up the rear. Since leaving the camp, the Librarian had said virtually nothing, though Godwyn saw this as a good sign as he was no doubt using his other-worldly senses to detect any danger they might face.

 

“Hold!” Striker hissed and held up a clenched fist.

“What is it?” the Commissar looked over her shoulder as the Captain knelt to inspect something in the light from her lamp.

The four of them had been walking through the sewers following Grant’s directions for about forty minutes, though the Commissar had initially estimated it would take them twice that amount of time to reach the exit near the church.

“Trip-wire,” Striker held the light down to a thread that stretched across the tunnel between two unremarkable lumps of garbage.

“Good catch, Captain,” the Commissar gave her a congratulatory pat on the shoulder-plate of her armour, then reached past her into the small heap of garbage and extracted a soda can with several pebbles inside. “I put that there to make sure no one came down this way – and to scare them into going no further if they did.”

“You’d find a mine a little more effective,” she replied, her helmet vox giving her voice a particularly blunt edge as she stood back up.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Lead on.”

“Wait.”

It was Aquinas who had spoken. Crouched behind them in the tunnel with his eyes closed, the Librarian held up the palm of his hand and motioned for them to stay where they were.

“Forty feet forward, turn to your left, sixty feet down, turn to your right. Someone is there.”

The rest of them looked back and forth between one another in silent alarm.

“I thought no-one was down here?” Godwyn murmured, looking through the darkness at the Commissar.

He shook his head, at a loss.

“He is armed,” Aquinas continued his voice perfectly calm as he consulted his second-sight. “I will keep him occupied for as long as I am able. Whatever you do, do quickly and quietly.”

“Striker!” Godwyn whispered, and jerked her head down the tunnel.

She nodded and gently clipped her hellgun into a fitting on her backpack before drawing a black-bladed combat knife in a silent motion and setting off down the narrow corridor at a quick pace.

Forty feet forward. She disappeared to the left. The tunnel was a blur in the green tint of her visor as her feet carried her forward one well-placed step at a time – the knife steady in her hand and her heart beating in her throat as every nerve sharpened to a keen edge. Pressing her back to the wall sixty feet down the left-hand corridor, she peered to her right.

A man sat huddled against the sewer wall, a weathered rifle held loosely in his hands, and his face turned up towards Striker. His eyes were blank and his stare was empty as his lips gently moved between shallow breaths.

She cut his throat without a thought.

Aquinas opened his eyes. “It is done. We can proceed.”

Striker reappeared up ahead, her hellgun once more in her hands.

Grant looked back at the Librarian. “I’ve never seen anything like that…” he said breathlessly with a look of wide-eyed amazement written all over his face.

“I am no common soldier, Markus Grant,” the Librarian shrugged off the attention, “let us move on.”

 

 

They made good time through the rest of the sewers, and it was not long until the Commissar consulted his map in the lamp-light and announced their exit was near. Carefully they drew closer until, around a bend, they saw a shaft of white light penetrating the darkness.

“Here we are,” Grant stated in a low voice, crouching to one side of the fork in the sewer-tunnel so he, Godwyn, and Striker could all clearly see the exit and the light coming from the city above.

Behind them, being unable to squeeze closer like his lightly armoured companions, Aquinas closed his eyes and stretched out his perceptions.

“There are people up above,” Aquinas murmured, “though I cannot tell if they can see the sewer exit from where they stand.”

“How many are there?” Striker asked, peering down the tunnel though all she could see was the trash-littered basin at the terminus.

“Twenty-three within my sight against the background of the city… their minds are moving quickly… I will not be able to control them all.”

“How many could you control?” Godwyn turned to consult the Librarian.

“A few… perhaps a dozen…” he opened his eyes, the otherworldly light fading in them as he did so, “though it is not worth the attempt.”

“Then we do this the old fashioned way,” Grant said biting his lip. “Good.”

“I’ll go first then,” Godwyn proposed, netting a questioning eyebrow from the Commissar, “I’m the least conspicuous of us.” She made to step past her three uniformed companions, but Striker caught her arm.

“Inquisitor, if you die this mission is over. I’ll go first.”

Creeping towards the opening, the storm trooper Captain checked her corners and stepped out into the garbage pit – her black armour suddenly visible in the daylight as she looked up and around before signalling the all clear.

Advancing, Godwyn saw that they had emerged onto a shaded dead-end street flanked by a broken-down warehouse on either side. Grant pulled out a pocket compass and consulted his map – turning it a few times to get his bearings.

“We’re about three hundred yards east of the church,” he looked up at the surrounding warehouses and stabbed his hand to the right. “That way!” he said in a hushed voice.

Stryker vaulted up onto the curb and scanned over the road with her hellgun. They were in the slums alright. Garbage and shattered debris was everywhere in such quantities that it would likely prove good cover in a fire-fight, and the stain of desperate living was obvious on the poorly maintained brick buildings around them. Godwyn climbed up after her and took partial-cover behind a bullet-chewed dumpster that looked as if it had survived numerous engagements.

“Where are these people, Brother Aquinas?” Striker asked, still sighting down her weapon to where their road opened into a larger street. “Didn’t you say there were more than twenty up here?”

As if to answer her question, they heard the low rumbling of a diesel engine growing nearer in the road ahead.

“To cover!” the Space Marine hissed and ducked behind the dumpster with Godwyn as Grant laid himself flat amidst the loose trash along the pavement.

“I don’t see any doors into this building!” Striker snarled about the warehouse beside her from where she hid behind the rusting hulk of a civilian automobile. They were about forty feet from the main road, but Striker was right; the westward building had no doors – windows on the third floor, but no ground-level access. Looking behind them, Godwyn spotted a large sturdy-looking double-door another sixty feet back, but would they have time to run to it?

The noise of the engine grew louder, and with it came the sound of voices shouting, and a very distinctive girl’s scream.

“Stay hidden,” Godwyn heard Aquinas say from beside her in a cautionary tone.

She thought not, and trusted the Space Marine’s confidence in remaining hidden.

The sound of shouting grew closer and the girl screamed again, suddenly appearing into view as a blur as the young woman dashed into the alleyway at full speed. Three armed men came running after her, shouting and menacing her with weapons. At her frantic pace she tripped and stumbled – one of the men grabbing her and pinning her to a wall as the others looked on with raucous shouts.

Grant cautiously lifted his head for a better view of the unfolding violence. “Oh Emperor no…” he mouthed.

Pleading, the woman tried in vain to defend herself as the man tore at her clothing and forced himself against her as the other two shouted and jeered.

Striker tensed behind her cover – her fingers gripping at her hellgun and almost shaking in anger as the woman screamed and screamed.

“Godwyn…” Aquinas was cautioning her, but it was too late. She’d seen enough.

Standing tall and stepping out from behind her cover, Godwyn’s pistol was drawn and sighted, and the two onlookers barely registering her as the pistol roared in her fist. The gun jerked back against her outstretched arm as the heavy bullet caught the beater sideways between the shoulder-blades and cannoned him off his feet.

Striker opened up fast – the distinctive wail of the her hellgun shattering the air as burst of energy beams tore open the chest of one of the onlookers and dropped him to the ground before she pulled her aim over the other and took his head off in an explosion of red.

Grant was on his feet, autogun raised and ready.

The girl, painted in the blood of her tormentors, screamed and made a mad dash for the street.

Aquinas was livid, but towards what he did not say.

The diesel truck suddenly appeared in the opening of the alley – armed men piling out as a crude pintle-mount swivelled in their direction.

“To the wall! Go!”

With the force of his mind, Aquinas punched a hole clean through the brick wall of the building beside them in a burst of psychic energy. Striker opened up down the street – a burst of fire tagging the gunner off the vehicle as he brought his weapon around.

“Inside! Inside!” Aquinas bellowed at them, forcing Grant, Godwyn and finally Striker through the breach as enemy fire began to rain and ricochet around them. “Leave these ones to me!”

Stumbling through the breach, the warehouse was a hollow expanse with three levels of bare-metal catwalks reaching up from a main-floor cluttered with scrapped machinery to the bare-rafters of a decaying ceiling.

“Up! Up!” Striker shouted as her armoured boots pounded up a caged stairwell with Godwyn close on her heels.

Outside, Aquinas blasted the truck end-over-end into the street and charged after his companions into the breach.

“Enemy contact at the door!” Grant’s cry of warning carried up over the machinery as he threw himself flat behind an overturned section of conveyor belt as the large front door of the warehouse was flung open and a flurry of shots screamed over his head and crashed into the debris around him.

From above, Striker returned fire – shredding the wooden door off its hinges and blowing chunks out of the brick as the firer disappeared back outside.

Grant was pumping fire from his autogun blindly over cover in the direction of the doors and sending chunks of brick cascading to the ground as another enemy snapped blind shots back at him with a pistol.

“I have them now!”

His eyes burning with power, Aquinas pulled both enemies in the doorway clear of their cover and floated them into the open – Striker ripping into both and sending them to the ground like torn marionettes.

In the street, the rebels had somehow recovered their truck, and with a tremendous *smash* rammed it through the doorway and sent bricks and dust flying as it cleared a path for the rebel fighters to pour onto the warehouse floor.

Striker was firing instantly and tore two rebel fighters to ribbons as they dashed through the open before ducking back behind the scant protection of an iron girder as bullets screamed back in response.

Reloading his autogun, Granted quickly popped back up and fired off a burst – catching a rebel in the arm and spinning him to the ground before the Commissar threw himself flat to avoid the retaliation.

From above him, Godwyn pinged a heavy bullet off a skewed metal table as an enemy fighter ducked behind it. The pistol roared again and cleaved his head in two as he tried to return fire.

At the door, the truck exploded back into the street and caught fire as Aquinas unleashed his psychic might once again and finally destroyed the ramshackle vehicle.

“Keep moving! Keep moving!” Godwyn heard herself shouting as she dashed across the overhanging catwalk to break line of sight with shooters below. Grant was firing off more bursts from his autogun as he fell back towards the Librarian who was sending the rebels ducking for cover with shots from a bolt pistol.

Striker stepped back out from cover and mercilessly gunned down a rebel cowering by the doorway before spraying fire over the heads of the last two rebels that sheltered behind the conveyor belt that Grant had previously abandoned. Losing their nerve, and likely their bowels, the remaining two rebels tried to bolt – only to be cut down by all four guns trained on their position.

After just over a minute of intense fighting the weapons-fire suddenly dropped off.

The silence was deafening.

Godwyn lowered her pistol, ejecting the spent mag with and pocketing it before loading another. It was only then that she noticed her hands were shaking and that her heart was still hammering in her chest. The flow of adrenaline was beginning to abate, leaving her head and body with a fluttering sensation as if she had just sprinted a mile. It never got any easier… at least not yet; part of her didn’t know if she ever wanted fighting to feel natural.

She didn’t see Captain Striker standing in front of her until the storm trooper’s hand was holding her tightly by the shoulder.

“Inquisitor, are you alright? Are you hit?”

“I’m okay,” Godwyn said as her body guard gave her a cursory look over before nodding and clapping her on the arm.

She wasn’t about to explain to the veteran how she quailed in a fire-fight, at least not yet.

“We’ve got to keep moving,” Striker said, leading the Inquisitor back down to the warehouse floor, “otherwise we’ll have the whole damn city coming down around us.”

 

Breaking open a boarded door, Aquinas led them from the corpse-strewn warehouse and further into adjacent buildings. The brief fire-fight had stirred up a whole nest of activity in the slums of City 4. Using his psychic awareness, however, the Librarian was able to guide them through the dilapidated slum buildings and down decaying side-streets to avoid the scattered rebel search parties.

Following close behind the Librarian, Grant was diligently checking his map and keeping them moving in the general direction of the church, though between weaving down long detours and sitting tight as the slum-dwellers searched high and low through the buildings around them, it was taking them far longer to reach it than anticipated.

 

“It should be just down this street and to the left at the corner,” Godwyn speculated as she checked the map before carefully peering through a smashed window at the now quiet alleyway outside.

They had been sheltering in a dusty old repair shop for several minutes now as everyone took a well earned breather and waited for the cover of nightfall before pressing onto the church. They hadn’t seen any armed rebels for a while now, and Aquinas had confirmed that the fever-pitch of activity was starting to die down as most of the slum dwellers assumed their unknown attackers had made good on their escape, yet it was still a couple hours from nightfall and the danger of being spotted was great. One yell, gunshot, or cry of alarm and the city-center would likely come alive all over again in a search that would not end for hours.

“What are the rules for engagement when we do reach the church, Inquisitor?” Grant asked from where he sat behind the service counter in an old wooden swivel chair as he folded up his map and tucked it back in the pocket of his storm coat.

Sitting on the stairway to an upper floor with her helmet removed as she cleaned her hellgun, Captain Striker also looked up; the same question had been on her mind for some time.

“We’re trying to avoid another fight,” Godwyn explained to them, though from where he stood against the back wall Aquinas appeared to be listening too. “We’re looking for a priest who might know about Montero, and with that in mind we should be avoiding conflict where possible.”

“What happens if they won’t cooperate?” Grant asked in a concerned tone.

“They will cooperate,” Aquinas whispered from behind them.

“Are you implying that – ?”

“Yes.”

The Commissar looked aghast. “Against a member of the Imperial Ecclesiarchy?”

“As is warranted by the Inquisition, yes,” the Space Marine fixed him with his penetrating eyes. “Remember that the foes of the Inquisition cannot be fought by regiments of men, and that all that is done in the name of the Emperor is justified.”

Grant shut his mouth, though he still looked highly perturbed. “I never thought of it that way,” he said, rubbing his forehead beneath the brim of his cap as he looked at the floor.

Godwyn wouldn’t have put it quite so bluntly, but at the same time she knew that Aquinas was right: the duty of the Inquisition must supersede all loyalty and morality in the pursuit of the Emperor’s will – it had to be done that way no matter how difficult it was to accept, or how difficult it was to enact.

 

The two hours to nightfall passed quietly with no disturbance from outside their hiding place, though the cover of darkness was not as welcoming as Cassandra Godwyn would have liked it to be. The two hours had seen her alone on the upper level, sitting on an old mattress and staring into the darkness as her companions remained below, whispering amongst themselves.

For the most part she thought of Strassen, her old mentor, and relived the memories of the time she had spent studying under him. He had been kind in his own way, and fair and just: she’d looked up to him the moment she’d heard of him. To think of such a man going mad was… unbearable. He had been wise, cunning, and brilliantly intelligent. Nothing escaped his notice, and no reasoning was beyond his comprehension.

She found herself asking how it could have happened: how could it be possible that her mentor had succumbed to a madness that made him turn his back on his duties and responsibilities? Turn his back on her.

Last time she had seen him they had met as equals – Inquisitors both; guardians of the Emperor’s realm. The look of pride she’d seen in his eyes had been so intense that she had felt as if she could almost feel it growing inside her.

Could that man really be gone?

What if she found him here?

No, she shook her head at the thought; he was not Montero, but if he wasn’t did she really want to keep looking for him? She had to. It was duty, nothing more.

She stood up, pulled on her coat, and fastened the Inquisitorial rosette.

Time to go.

 

Asking Captain Striker and Commissar Grant to remain behind and keep watch for them, Inquisitor Godwyn and Brother Aquinas crept into the darkness of City 4 only to find the streets empty, and that no-one answered at the door to the Imperial Shrine.

“It looks abandoned, and I sense no-one inside,” Aquinas mused as he inspected the church and looked both ways down the empty streets.

Godwyn backed up a few paces and craned her neck to look up at the church’s steeple. It was customary in Ecclesiarchal practice to proclaim the Faith so long as an edifice was sanctified for worship by the Emperor’s faithful so that all might know when they set foot upon holy ground. This was typically done by hanging the crest of the Imperial Eagle – the Aquila – from the church’s steeple, and removing it only when the ministorum priests no longer considered the ground sacred. She had heard of priests sacrificing themselves to leave the Aquila in place, and likewise refusing to abandon a shrine until the Aquila was removed. Indeed, the tenets of the Imperial Creed did proclaim that it was the holy duty of the faithful to see that the Aquila was never falsely represented, and never defiled.

Looking now up at the church’s steeple, Godwyn could just see the Aquila amidst the darkness – its golden winds catching the last of the light like a beacon of hope, and Godwyn found herself smiling as she saw it.

“No,” she said as much to the Librarian as to herself as she pushed on the door, “someone left the Aquila here.”

The heavy wooden doors of the church were unbarred and swung slowly inwards with a low whine, but the interior of the church was pitch-black and released a foul waft of stale air and rot.

The Space Marine wrinkled his nose distastefully, then stepped inside and motioned for the Inquisitor to wait behind. Making nary a sound as he walked over the threshold, the Deathwatch Librarian whispered a few words and tapped his force staff against the flagstone floor; calling a thin blue light to the eagle head of his staff that cast a faint glow into the darkness around him. In casting back the darkness, however, the Librarian’s light revealed the same extent of decay nesting in Imperial shrine as was found elsewhere in the slums. Dust-covered pews were scatter haphazardly around the nave as if a great deluge of bodies had forced its way through the holy edifice, and dirt and grime coated the floors to show the continues passage of feet down the now defunct aisle. Waste was everywhere and looked as if it had been deliberately cast about, and, walking towards the alter side-by-side with the Librarian, Godwyn could see that even the pulpits had been ransacked and the lectern was overturned. Human filth and excrement was everywhere.

Aquinas stopped before the alter, noticing that the Imperial Aquila placed upon it was now lopsided, and turned towards the young Inquisitor. “You still think men of faith tend this shrine to the Immortal Emperor?” he asked.

Godwyn had no answer for him.

Rebellion? That she had accepted to believe. Civil upheaval? Revolution? That too she could see at work on Tenantable. But heresy?

“This is no revolt against the Emperor’s Will,” Aquinas corrected her, as if reading her thoughts, “for as you can see they did not dare defile the Emperor’s Aquila.” He stepped up to the alter and gently set the icon upright, then stepping back and inclining his head towards it. “This is a heresy born of ignorance and anger. They do not understand the magnitude of their crime.”

“Come,” he led her to a small stair-well behind the chancel, “I believe we will find more answers further inside.”

Aquinas likely knew what he was looking for – records or remains of some kind – for he led the Inquisitor past numerous closed doors and dark corridors into the basement of the church until he came upon a door partially open and ducked inside. Godwyn followed only to find a long-dead priest lying in what had likely been his room.

“It is as I suspected,” Aquinas said as if confirming some earlier perception as Godwyn joined him in the tiny room. Apparently shot in the throat and left to rot, the priest had likely been dead for months and at the mercy of the flies and the maggots and the other critters of City 4.

“He died opening the door,” Godwyn commented, examining the position of the body on the floor as the Librarian moved around the desiccated corpse to inspect the rest of the room.

“Not what one would expect from a looter, is it?” he said, flipping through a small leather-bound book that he had picked up from the bedside table.

It wasn’t, and, taking her attention off the body, Godwyn noticed that the priest’s room didn’t look disturbed at all. She mentioned this to the Librarian.

“Very curious, isn’t it?” he nodded, flipping through the book in the light from his staff. “This is the late brother’s diary,” he commented; “it looks as if he kept a daily journal.”

“When was the last entry?” Godwyn asked, gently closing the door to the room behind her.

“Dated about seven months ago,” Aquinas replied, then looked at the Inquisitor, “and he makes no mention of the sacking of the church.”

“So he was killed before the church was sacked?”

“It would appear so.”

“And from the method of his killing, it doesn’t look like the work of a heretic,” Godwyn knelt by the body to look again at the single bullet hole torn in the parchment-like skin of the neck. “A targeted killing?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aquinas agreed, “very professional looking as well.”

“Do you think it could be linked to Montero, or Strassen?”

Aquinas shook his head. “The diary makes little mention of ‘Montero’ other than as a popular icon for revolution, and there is no mention of Strassen or an Inquisitor.”

“I sense a ‘but’, Librarian.”

Aquinas smiled – a genuine, toothy smile – the first such look she had ever seen on the Space Marine. He had definitely found something that excited his sense of intrigue; something that moved him like nothing else had. “We have in this book the name of a man who, so far as we know, has no reason for being in this book.” He flipped a few more pages and began to read aloud:

“The off-worlder, of whom some of my congregation had spoken, arrived today quite unexpectedly. He was not what I expected him to be, and I do not know what the others see in him, for I myself found him to be a blunt and secretive man who shared nothing with me aside from the most basic of details. He believed it necessary to arm (something I strictly disagree with and told him as much) as he thought an attack similar to the atrocities twenty-five years previously was imminent. I dismissed him without my blessing, and will keep my eye on this man ‘Pierce’ in the future. I think he is trouble for us.”

“Pierce?” Godwyn repeated once the Librarian had finished, “as in the Inquisitor who was on record speaking to Strassen?”

Aquinas nodded, closing the book and fitting it into one of the pouches he kept handing from the utility belt of his armour. “One and the same, I believe.”

“We know almost nothing about Pierce, but if he’s working with Strassen…”

“Before jumping to any conclusions,” Aquinas cautioned her, “remember that this priest was murdered, yet his diary was conveniently undiscovered.”

“So it could have been planted,” Godwyn mused, suddenly feeling her own heart start to race at the first new clue on the trail of her old mentor since Panacea.

“Very possible,” Aquinas agreed, “though either way, Inquisitor Pierce is now a person of interest to us – either he is connected to this world, and likely Strassen as well, and the diary was an unfortunate oversight on his part, or the diary is a plant, and Strassen intended for us to find it and Pierce’s name.”

Godwyn considered his words for several moments as she dissected the reasoning behind such actions.

“Why would it be a plant?” she asked. “The probability of us finding it would be very slim.”

“We discovered it through reasoning and careful planning,” Aquinas corrected her; “it is not impossible that our actions could have been predicted by someone familiar with how you think. Though you are right in that it was taking a chance – just like it was a chance coming to this world – we may never know the answer.”

“Well,” Godwyn stood up, “we now have somewhere to look. We have Pierce.”

“That we do,” he stepped around the corpse as she opened the door to leave, “and we have what we came for. I think it is time we left this planet.”

“Soon enough,” Godwyn assured him, “though there are some things I want to see to before we leave.”

 

* *

 

Seeing Inquisitor Godwyn again was likely the last thing Governor Assada wanted to do considering the last time they had spoken it had been because she had effectively terminated the careers of three of Tenantable’s more successful businessmen, yet not wanting to further sour his relationship with the Inquisitor he reluctantly granted her an audience.

“Inquisitor Godwyn!” he rose from behind his desk and welcomed her with a pasted on smile as she was admitted into his office. “I am very pleased hear that you have returned from City 4!”

The Inquisitor smiled in response and sat in the comfortable chair that was offered.

“Pray tell, Inquisitor,” the Governor began, retaking his seat behind his desk and delicately arching his fingers while maintaining his forcedly cheery disposition, “are the problems in City 4 resolved?”

“I did what I set out to do, yes” Godwyn replied, politely waving away the refreshments offered by Assada’s servants.

At this, the Governor seemed pleased.

“I must admit that I am duly impressed, Inquisitor,” he commented, accepting a drink from the servants’ tray. “I did not think it possible that anyone could kill Montero – especially in so short a period of time. You Inquisitor’s are most surely masters in your trade.”

Godwyn waved down his compliments, however.

“I deserve no recognition,” Godwyn interjected; “I didn’t kill Montero, if indeed he even exists as a person.”

The smile slid off the Governor’s face.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, forgetting to paste it back.

“Just to tell you that I am leaving,” Godwyn replied simply.

The false sincerity instantly returned and he opened his mouth to speak, but with a raised voice Godwyn made sure to cut him off before he got two words out:

“And that I am requesting a full investigation of your dealings and the dealings of your planet, Assada. Tenantable will be torn asunder and brought to heel.”

The colour drained from the Governors face and his mouth hung open in shock as Godwyn rose from her chair, and purposefully spun on her heel and strode from the room. He recovered by the time she was half-way to the door and started shouting in protestations of both innocence and defence.

Godwyn kept walking.

“The Imperium has no need to suffer the likes of you!” she yelled over her shoulder, opened the doors, and was gone – Assada still shouting in the background.

 

_____________

 

At this moment in time I would appreciate some feedback on how the characters are thusfar coming across. Your thoughts are welcome :)

[Lady_Canoness]

Here we are with part 6 of the Inquisition.I apologize in advance for whatever typos I may have missed as familiarity makes glazing over errors easier

 

 

*part 6*

 

 

Leaving Tenantable felt as if it was long overdue, and as Patroclus cast off from her mooring in high orbit Godwyn felt no remorse while watching the brown planet as it shrank behind them. A miserable ball of dust and dirt, Godwyn had done her part to ensure that it would get a new lease on life and be given a chance to start with a clean slate. She had recommended a full investigation into the administration on Tenantable and a tightening of its trade-laws to choke out the corrupt industrialist. If that were achieved, then the rebellions and revolts would eventually cease as a new peace and stability was allowed to take root and grow. Perhaps, one day, the scars of the past would heal, and the memories of years of oppression and despair would cease. Only time would tell.

She had sent off her report via one of Columbo’s astropaths shortly after boarding Patroclus, and soon thereafter had received a confirmation of reception as well as a personal note of gratitude from the sector consul on Panacea. A job well done, it had said, and it felt like one too. She had also sent word to Lord Inquisitor Roth requesting information on Inquisitor Pierce. He was evasive in his reply, however, and requested that she return to Panacea as soon as possible so they might discuss the matter face to face. The next step after Tenantable was now clear, and she had even managed to recruit another asset to her staff.

So far as Godwyn was concerned, Grant was a sound choice for an Inquisitorial attaché – or ‘henchmen’ as they were sometimes called. He was obviously intelligent and cool under fire as was any commissar in the Emperor’s service, but Godwyn also thought him to possess an eager willingness to fulfill the Emperor’s Will which caused him to volunteer his service on Tenantable without question, and again to join the Inquisitor’s company when she invited him. He was also quite personable and did his best to merge with the Inquisitor’s cohorts without causing any friction. Best intentions aside, however, the reaction of Godwyn’s crew was understandably mixed.

Striker was very supportive of Godwyn’s choice to bring the Commissar along, and seemed to enjoy having another trained soldier on-board. They also had quite a bit common as both were about the same age (give or take a few years), had been raised by the Schola Progenium, were commissioned officers in Imperial service, and now working in the service of the Holy Inquisition.

Lee and Sudulus, on the other hand, were less than thrilled by the Commissar’s inclusion, though Godwyn was fairly certain that their sentiment did not extend so far as actual dislike. Officers – and especially commissars – had a reputation for being pompous and holier-than-thou, after all, though hopefully time would dispel whatever notions they harboured.

Aquinas was, unsurprisingly, indifferent to the Commissar, for while he did acknowledge Grant as a skilled individual, he had expressed reservations about the Commissar’s ability to adapt to Inquisitorial operations, and whether or not the rigid indoctrination of commissariat training could be so easily supplanted when duty demanded it.

Regardless, the Patroclus was two weeks travel from Panacea and Godwyn fully intended to make the most of the time she was given.

 

* *

 

The Patroclus moved from moved from real-space into swirling nightmare of the Warp during the night-cycle of the first day of transit, jarring Godwyn from her sleep in a sweat. Only psykers could perceive the warp as a tangible thing, but even non-psykers could feel it like a lurch in the pit of their stomachs when a ship passed from the void of space into the Sea of Souls that was the Warp.

Sitting upright in her bed and feeling the momentary nausea subside, Godwyn looked out the porthole opposite the foot of her bed and saw the stars gently listing by. Obviously they weren’t really stars as the Warp was a mass of roiling insanity that could drive a man mad by just looking upon it, but Columbo had seen fit to have projectors installed underneath all the automatic warp-screens for the comfort of his passengers and crew. Her breathing became a little easier as the cool air in her room brushed against the flash-sweat that clung to her exposed skin – clever Columbo; it was working.

Sliding free of the covers, Godwyn put both feet on the floor and stood up. She was wide awake now – as good a time as any for a nightcap. Wiggling her toes on the comfortably cool floor, she pulled on a night-robe before opening the door to the common room, which was dark save for the light coming from the artificial space-scape on the large view port, and crossing to the small liquor cabinet poised at the end of a large sofa to poor herself a generous glass of cognac on the rocks.

The clink of the cold ice against the glass, the sweet smell of the fine brandy, the –

“Can’t sleep, Inquisitor?”

She nearly dropped the glass and had to catch herself against the cabinet as she choked on the cognac.

She should have known better than to think the room was empty!

“Dear Holy Emperor, Aquinas!” she hissed, careful not to wake the others in the adjacent rooms. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were doing that on purpose!”

The Librarian was sitting comfortably in a large armchair in the far corner of the common room near the door – the only chair in the room that would actually support his size and weight. How long he had been sitting there she had no idea, but he was still fully armoured and sitting with his fingers arched in a pensive repose. She made a mental note to always check that chair in future.

“I take no personal pleasure in it,” his serpentine voice replied from the shadows, “though I believe it preferable to announce myself than watching you in silence like some letch.”

Emperor forbid he ever become one of those. Godwyn sat herself neatly on one of the sofas facing the Librarian from across the room and crossed her legs while keeping her back perfectly straight. She looked into the darkness where she thought is face would be while under the prickling sensation that he was looking right back.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” she asked. The Space Marine seemed to make a habit of staying awake, and though it had never bothered her before, now Godwyn thought herself entitled to know.

“I am a space marine,” Aquinas answered her, “my physiology does not require rest like yours,” and, after a pause, he added; “and neither does it require stimulation of the flesh. Your concerns are unwarranted.”

Even the darkness she felt her cheeks redden: had her suspicions – as momentary and foolish as they were – been that obvious?

“We have also entered the Warp,” he continued, “and what ails you in this state ails me tenfold.”

“Is that why you were so silent at supper tonight?”

Earlier that night, Master Columbo had warmly invited all his guests as well as his senior staff to a banquet in the seigneurie. It had been a wonderful occasion of delectable food and drink which ended only when Sudulus had decided he’d climb onto the table and try to perform a dance he’d once seen in a questionable video.

“No,” Aquinas corrected her, “I simply do not take as much enjoyment from food and drink as others do.”

“Did you ever like it before you were a space marine?” She didn’t know where the question had come from or why she had asked it. His life before becoming one of the Astartes was really none of her business, and in retrospect she really hoped that she hadn’t offended him.

“I am two-hundred and sixty-eight years old,” he said, his tone flat. “For the first nineteen years of my life I was afraid of going to sleep lest I wake up screaming, or of touching those I loved lest I kill them with my hands. I enjoyed nothing before I became a space marine.”

“I… I’m sorry,” she managed, instantly regretting asking the personal question even more than she had before.

“Do not be sorry,” he replied coolly, “I am not.”

She hastily took long draw from her glass as if losing herself in the liquid would somehow smooth over her blunder. It was strange: the question was obviously a mistake – which she freely admitted – yet at the same time she couldn’t help but feel closer to the space marine as a person. He was human, after all – superhuman, yes, but human.

Maybe it was the drink, but she felt a pleasant warmth spreading through her all the same.

“I was afraid when I was a child too,” she murmured, finishing her drink and setting it on the small coffee table in front of the sofa. It was a funny feeling, sitting in the calm starlit darkness of the common room sharing childhood stories with a space marine. She found it hard to keep a smile off her face.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Aquinas asked nothing of Godwyn, and she said nothing in return as to not disturb the comfortable silence.

“You should get some sleep,” he said eventually. “There is much to do and to discuss come tomorrow.”

 

 

Aquinas wasted no time the following morning, and as soon as they had finished the breakfast served in the common room, the Space Marine suggested Godwyn walk with him in the upper galleries while the others split off either to the libraries, gun-ranges, or any other of the amenities provided aboard the Patroclus.

On the top-most level of the ship beneath the superstructure, the galleries ran the length of the ship on both starboard and port sides as a continuous promenade with majestic windows gazing out upon the void (or in this case, the projections of space on the inside of the protective screening) that reached fifty feet up to the ceiling. Traditionally noise was kept to a minimum on a ship’s galleries as they served as a place of leisure, much like a private park planet-side, where one could take hours strolling the carpeted length immersed in discussion while admiring the grand vista or stopping to rest at one of the numerous benches, sofas, or sitting areas that were placed around the five meter wide corridor. The Patroclus, of course, was no exception, and Hercule Columbo had spared no expense in making the upper galleries the most exquisite, luxurious, and of course comfortable, area of repose as could be.

Knowing Aquinas only ever said what was on his mind or nothing at all, Godwyn walked in silence side by side with the Librarian until they reached the upper promenade and began a leisurely stroll down the starboard side of the ship with not a soul, other than a solitary cleaning servitor, in sight.

“I believe now is the perfect time to discuss your role as an Inquisitor in the context of this and future missions,” Aquinas broke the silence with what was becoming his trademark candour.

Godwyn didn’t know how to respond to this. Was this an evaluation? She greatly respected the Librarian’s wisdom and insight, yet at the same time she often found herself bewildered by it.

“Go on,” she said after a pause.

“I mean no disrespect to your office or ability,” he apologized in advance, “but in all truth you are young and inexperienced, which I believe we should seek to remedy now that we have the time.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and with it her pride. “How would we do that, given that I have only been an Inquisitor a relatively short time?” she asked, genuinely wishing to improve herself based upon the Librarian’s suggestions.

“As a student, you have learned your lessons well,” the Librarian began, his eye looking ahead and his hands held loosely behind his back, “but as an Inquisitor you need to break the mindset of a student. The student does things by the book; the Inquisitor realizes there is no book.”

Side by side with the Librarian, Godwyn reflected on this: if being by the book was how she was trained, and her training made her an Inquisitor, how then could she realize there was no book?

She asked him this.

“The Inquisitor is not like a guardsman, a governor, or even a space marine,” Aquinas explained. “From my experience, an Inquisitor is a unique and enlightened individual whose awareness of themselves and their surroundings, coupled with the authority of the Immortal Emperor, makes them who they are.”

He looked sideways at her as if to gauge her understanding of his words.

“An Inquisitor learns from what surrounds him. To be a true Inquisitor, and not a student, you have to pursue your own understanding. Being an Inquisitor is not part of who you are; it *is* who you are.”

“I *am* and Inquisitor,” she repeated.

Aquinas nodded; “You cannot act the Inquisitor; you are the Inquisitor, and an Inquisitor is what you are.”

“You are saying that this is a question of… mindset?”

He nodded again; “In essence, yes. You cannot think of what an Inquisitor would do, but what you would do. Yet it is not enough to simply think yourself an Inquisitor, but gradually know yourself as one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Experience cannot be explained, but only experienced.”

 

Aquinas did not so much tell her the answer as show her where she could find it for herself.

“The Inquisitor’s allies are his or her greatest strength, and the reason why an Inquisitor may call upon any of the Emperor’s servants for aid. Use your allies not as weapons with which you defend yourself and attack your enemies, but instead use them as books from which you may learn and better yourself. Mind also that an Inquisitor who has learned from their allies knows best how to employ the knowledge of their allies in pursuit of their goals. Do not doubt that knowledge is power, and that mind will overcome what might cannot even begin to grasp.”

A strong mind with a willing – almost voracious – appetite for learning was what made an Inquisitor. A student learned from texts and tutors, yet an Inquisitor had to learn also from people and places. Places, Aquinas had confided in her, would come in time, but people were here now.

It wasn’t like any lesson she had ever been taught or any insight she had yet been given, but the more she spoke with Aquinas the more she understood it. Speaking with him, however, was just the beginning, and as wise as he was there were many things she would not be able to learn from him.

“Wise-men are the best teachers but the worst to learn from,” he told her, “for wisdom blinds those unprepared to wield it.”

With those words he took his leave and left her alone on the promenade gazing into the simulacra of the void, confident that she would seek him out if she had more questions. She didn’t keep track of how long she stayed there, walking up and down the seemingly endless galleries, but the more she turned his words over in her head the more certain she was that he was right, and when she returned to the common room for a late lunch she did so with a renewed sense of purpose.

 

For the rest of the second day, and most of the following two weeks, Godwyn turned her time and attention to her staff not as Inquisitorial servants, but as people. For hours at a time she would be with one or more of them doing everything from training and theory to playing regicide and musing about life.

Often times she’d be on the lower-deck gun-ranges with Victoria blasting off dozens of rounds while talking about weapons drills and combat tactics to the definition of a ‘good man’.

“Civilians can think whatever they want,” Victoria shrugged as she stripped down her hellgun to its bare components and examined their cleanliness, “some women like a man with big muscles or a big – ” the roar of Godwyn’s pistol drowned out the last word of the Captain’s sentence.

“To me,” Victoria continued as if uninterrupted as she closed one eye and sighted down the hellgun’s barrel, “a ‘good man’ has always going to watch your back no matter what kind of a mess you’re in. Dependable, reliable, and accurate.”

Other times she and Striker would go on mock commando raids through the cargo-holds and stage mock firing procedures as if of seek-and-destroy combat operations. It was serious for the storm trooper Captain, but her serious mentality also made it more valuable and fun.

“The one thing to remember,” Striker said, mopping her brow once they had finished a ‘search and rescue’ operation without being detected (the labour servitors and ratings had served as the ‘enemy’), “is that half the battle is always fought in the enemy’s head. For example, when most enemies see that they are fighting storm troopers, they expect us to come hard and fast, but we know that if they are expecting it they are also preparing for it. The trick is to do the opposite – to unbalance them,” she accepted Godwyn’s proffered canteen and passed it back to her after she had taken a long swig. “Anything you can do to mess with their minds will make them that much easier to take down.”

Sudulus would regularly give similar advice, and delighted in demonstrating his vast knowledge to the Inquisitor with the aid of whatever he could find around the ship.

“Most people consider locks and security devices to be very difficult to master and overcome,” the savant explained as he led Godwyn on an instructional tour of Patroclus’ lower decks. “Most people consider the primary purpose of security hacking or lock cracking to be gaining access to something they otherwise couldn’t gain access too, yet, in my experience, most people are wrong about just about everything.”

He stopped in front of a particularly worn-looking security door somewhere in Patroclus’ belly and beamed as if it were a work of art on display. “Truth be told, at least half of security work – if not more – revolves on making things so that other people cannot get through them. Take this door, for example,” he presented the door with a sweep of a bionic hand. “I cannot open this door as it requires a numeric code to be entered on this access panel,” he brought her attention to the panel with another sweep of his hand. “Suppose, therefore, that I do not have time to crack the numeric code, but, at the same time, I wish to make it so that the person who has the code can’t open the door either.

“Now then, I am aware that the default setting for eighty-percent of securable doors in the case of power failure is ‘lockdown’, which does not reset until the power source is restored. I am also aware that security doors – as an operational rule – rely on external power sources. Thus, if I wish to secure the door against someone who has the numeric code, I must remove the power source and force it into lockdown.”

He spun on his heel and proceeded to busy himself prying off several panels around the number pad with the implants in his fingers and snipping several wires. When he was done, he screwed the panels back in place, and once again turned to the Inquisitor. “As you can see, the door is now locked down permanently until the wiring is replaced. Very, very useful indeed!”

His mechanical and scholastic aptitudes were far more practical than mere ship-board vandalism, however, and it was with great enthusiasm that he explained – and later proved – how several Imperial construction standards could be craftily exploited.

“Everyone knows about air-ducts,” he explained one morning over breakfast in the common room while he scooped the pulp from a citrusy fruit with a tiny spoon, “but not many people know about drainage ducts. Common fact is that all interstellar ships are constructed with drainage ducts under the floors, as are – by convention – most orbital stations and groundside structures over a certain size. Now, these are by no means simple to access – as one typically has to go through a solid floor to do so – and are by no means safe – what with the chance of a flash flood in the ducts – yet if accessed, an infiltrator can,” he spun his spoon about idly in the air as he chewed and swallowed, “in theory, remain completely undetected.”

“S’ totally somthin’ you’d dream up, Sudulus,” Lee quipped from across the room where he had draped himself across one of the leather sofas. “ ‘alf the people ‘n this room couldn’ fi’ down ‘n there. Man needs t’ be a mouse!”

Lee Normandy, despite his typical nonchalant attitudes towards any kind of work-related activity that didn’t involve flying, driving, or either preparing to fly or drive, was surprisingly receptive to Godwyn spending time with him. She didn’t tell him, or any of her companions for that matter, about what Aquinas had suggested; there was no harm in them not knowing, and they wouldn’t feel as if she were putting them on the spot as a type of ‘appraisal’ of their skills.

For the most part, Lee liked playing cards with whoever was around. He, Godwyn, Sudulus, and any other person he could drag into the game, would sit around a table, in either the common room or somewhere else on the ship, and play Blind-man’s Bluff – a game for two or more where players tried to hoodwink the others into believing they were dropping pairs from their hand onto the deck without being called out as bluffing and having to pick up all the discarded cards, though if a player was falsely accused, then the accuser had to pick up all the cards in the deck, and the first player to have no cards in their hand was the winner.

“Th’ trick,” Lee explained, flushed with victory after winning yet another round, “is t’ be a good liar.”

He held up a hand to quiet Sudulus before the savant could start complaining again, and leaned back in his chair. He continued:

“Thing is tha’ mos’ people look t’ th’ face – ” he waved a hand in front of his grinning mug before locking his fingers and resting both hands behind his head, “ – t’ see if someone’s lyin’, bu’ tha’ ain’t th’ way t’ do it. Y’ gotta watch th’ body, ‘cause people act diff’rent’ly when they know they’s bein’ watched, eh? So when a bad liar ‘s lyin’ y’ll see ‘m act ‘ll funny-like, like ‘es tryin’ to act norm’l, righ’? Sudulus ‘ere tries t’ act ‘ll like a swindler – no Sudulus, ‘s true – so its real easy to spot ‘im.”

Once again the savant tried to protest, but Lee just frowned and shook his head in silence.

“What about me?” Godwyn asked, cutting over Sudulus’ arguments; “What gives me away?”

The pilot’s hazel eyes flickered over in here direction. “You boss,” he said, leaning forward with a weary grunt, “you’re too stiff. Y’ get ‘ll serious-like when y’re lyin’, see? Too tense – gives it righ’ away.”

The more she talked to the pilot, the more she felt an admiration for him growing on her. He wasn’t charming, in anyway regal, or physically attractive, but of all her companions Lee was the most worldly. He’d lived in the underbelly of Imperial society for most his life and was used to running with people who made their own rules – people with the skills of an Inquisitor but without the authority. He knew the talk, he knew the walk, and most importantly he knew the ins and outs of the system he had exploited and evaded for most of his years. She figured she would do well to learn from someone like Lee, as his type were often the type that could get things done regardless of conventional wisdom.

“Laws ‘re meant t’ keep idiots ‘n line,” Lee had once told her when she had asked him why he had so willingly broken Imperial laws when it was so easy to abide by most of them. “If y’re good, y’ don’t need laws, ‘cause y’re not abou’ t’ do anythin’ stupid. But now I’m wit’ you, I don’t need t’ break laws, ‘cause y’ break ‘em anyway n’ its called legal!”

Grant, the newest member of her squad, was, of course, the complete opposite of Lee and made for a very stark contrast of opinion.

An officer’s officer to the bone, Grant believed deeply in the values of duty and loyalty, and made it a personal mission to act as he believed others ought to act. Free from the dirt and dust of Tenantable, he dressed himself sharply and took the time to reintroduce himself to some of the finer things offered in civilised life. Sometimes Godwyn would find him reading Imperial history in his quarters while listening to some of the finer tunes of Columbo’s ship-board collection softly in the background, though at other times he would be training with Striker in the gymnasium where both officers could put their different skill-sets to the test.

“Most impressive, Captain Striker!” he boomed after the conclusion of their third consecutive duel.

Being Imperial officers, both Grant and Striker had been trained in swordsmanship while attending the Schola Progenium, though after three duels it had become apparent that Grant had kept up his skill with a sword while Striker had let it slide.

Winded, Striker let her practice blade fall to the floor with a clatter and sunk to a knee. It had been close, in Godwyn’s eyes, but, regardless of her speed and agility, Grant’s superior form had been the deciding factor in each bout.

“I think you’ve earned the right to call me Victoria,” Striker replied breathlessly, dabbing the sweat streaming off her face with her shirt.

The Commissar chuckled as he retreated to where he had deposited his towel and began mopping his own face and chest.

“How about you, Inquisitor?” he asked, glancing in her direction with a wide smile. “Would you be interested in a duel?”

Admittedly, Godwyn had never practiced swordsmanship in any form, and, after seeing the Commissar’s skill first-hand, realized there was a lot more to fighting with a sword than the hacking and slashing motions she had often witnessed.

“Lessons?” she compromised.

Grant looked considerate and jogged the suggestion back and forth across his mind, then flipping the sword mid-air and catching it by the blade, held it hilt forward for the Inquisitor to grasp.

“Lessons,” he agreed.

[antique_nova]

Not bad, not bad, but we need more chapters so see your true skill. :sweat:

[Lady_Canoness]

And more is coming Nova!

 

Hot off the press is part 7of the Inquisition!

 

*Part 7*

 

The two weeks of passage went by quickly, and, in what felt like no time at all, Meridian was loosed from the Patroclus’ hold and descending into the soft clouds that shrouded Panacea. Steeped in natural beauty and as perfect as it had been when they saw it last, they flew low over rolling viridian hills and forests in full bloom under the rich pink of the morning sky as the approached Cornice from the east with her white towers growing ever taller over the horizon.

Entering the Cornice proper, they were welcomed into the embrace of a city just waking to meet the day. The skyways intertwining between her towers were bustling with activity even as droplets of dew still clung to the city’s white sheen, and in the soft shadows of the morning sun numerous cafes and restaurants seated their first customers of the day and looked out upon the morning commute from overlying terraces stretching up along the towers’ flanks.

The virginal city of Panacea, Cornice had never known unrest or violence on her streets, and her citizens lived on in a sheltered innocence of the reality beyond her skyline. Cornice was a city of hope, security, and prosperity where the spectre of the sword that loomed over Man’s domain went pleasantly unnoticed amidst the concerns of daily life. Indeed, as Meridian slowly navigated the sloping curves of Cornice’s towers and touched down in her appointed berth, the Inquisitor and her team were fondly greeted as if they were relics of an off-world age of darkness that had no bearing on Cornice’s moment of light.

It would almost be nice to live here – if one was content with a pleasurable blindness.

Seeing through the tapestry of elegant lies that the populace had spun for themselves, one could hardly miss the truth that Panacea – like the Imperium itself – balanced upon a knife’s edge, and that it was upon the fortunes of planets countless light-years away that Panacea would continue to rise or plunge into the abyss. In the Emperor’s realm of millions of worlds populated by billions of souls, thousands of men and women died daily protecting planets they had never heard of and faces they would never see of people who they would never know existed.

In an empire that would take generations of men to cross from one side to the other, could it come as any surprise that its people would lose their perspective? Was it any surprise that they would forget the names of the heroes upon whose backs the Imperium was forged? Was it any surprise that a people would think themselves invincible until the fires of war fell upon their homes?

To Godwyn, the only surprise came in witnessing it.

To be an Inquisitor was to see the Dominion of Man differently, and to know that but for the actions of a few exceptional men the Imperium would descend into darkness. To be an Inquisitor was to maintain a constant vigilance and fight a war without hope of victory to delay the inevitable.

There was no hope in the darkness that surrounded them – only an eternity of war in the constant struggle for survival in a hostile galaxy.

 

* *

 

Lord Inquisitor Roth was waiting on an open balcony outside his office when Godwyn was admitted to see him by an adjutant.

“You summoned me, Lord Inquisitor?” she asked, waiting respectfully back from the banister where the senior Inquisitor stood looking out over downtown Cornice. She had hurried to the Inquisitor’s office soon after landing, but, fast as she was, the pink morning sky had turned a menacing grey as a western front of storm clouds gathered in the distance with the threat of heavy rains.

Leaning against the rail, Roth peered over his shoulder before straightening up and walking casually towards her with a gentle smile.

“That I did, Inquisitor Godwyn,” he said he said quietly, coming to a stop in front of her prior to making a show of glancing over her person and genially extending a hand; “It is good to see you again. Brother Librarian Aquinas is not with you?”

Meeting his eyes, she took his hand and couldn’t help but feel a smile creeping into the corners of her mouth. Thought it had been little more than a month since she had seen him last, in the flesh Lord Inquisitor Vance Roth was more alluring than her recollection of him. Well dressed in a fitted brown leather over-coat with high cuffs and collar, the Inquisitor’s well-kempt and distinguished feature betrayed no hint of the man’s age, though at a glance he looked almost youthful in appearance.

“He said he had matters to attend to,” Godwyn replied, “though I could contact him if you wish.”

“No – no, that is quite alright,” Roth bobbed his head in an anxious nod, and, rubbing his hands together distractedly, walked back to the banister.

“To business then, Godwyn,” he said, once again leaning against the rail as he watched the storm approaching from afar; “I would have hoped to have good news after what you accomplished on Tenantable. No-one here knew about the extent of greed and mismanagement taking place on that world, but you uncovered it and delivered a solution that can be acted upon – with minimal resources, I might add. This should be a satisfying accomplishment, Strassen or no.”

He sighed; “But Pierce’s involvement makes things worse than I had expected.”

“Why?” Godwyn asked as the Lord Inquisitor turned his back on the city to face her. “What do you know about Pierce and his involvement with Strassen?”

“It’s what I don’t know what troubles me,” he said dryly, “but I’ll spare the inconsequential details and tell you that Inquisitor Pierce has a reputation of extremism that is well earned. He is cold, uncaring, and heartless and his morality is questionable at best, though, so far as I can tell, he is loyal and has many supporters within the Ordo Hereticus. If he’s in league with Strassen however…”

“Can we bring him in?” Godwyn asked, stepping up beside Roth at the banister. “Question him?”

“Not a chance,” Roth shook his head. “Unpleasant as it is, Pierce is well protected and trying to bring him in would only invite reprisal in more ways that one.”

“But if he’s working with Strassen we need to find out what he knows!” Godwyn argued.

“*If* he’s working with Strassen – so far we only have reason to be suspicious of him.”

“He’s my only lead! I have to know if he is involved. It – ”

“I said no, Godwyn!” Roth snapped, giving the young Inquisitor a hard look and warning her to let it be. “Besides, he’s not our only lead.”

 

“And what does he mean by that?” Sudulus quipped. “Does that mean we went to Tenantable for nothing?”

Grant shot him a look from the opposite side of where they were sitting in the back of the motor carriage. “It might be a set-back, Sudulus,” Grant said curtly, “but given the circumstances I would hazard to say the mission on Tenantable was a success.”

Sudulus gave him a sour look as if to say ‘of course you would think that’, but Victoria Striker interceded before either of the men could attempt to escalate.

“Need-to-know basis,” she guessed, but turning to Godwyn then added; “though what would an Inquisitor be kept out of?”

In truth there were many things an Inquisitor would not be privy to within the Inquisition. It was a common misconception for outsiders to think that all Inquisitors were peers, and that all would work together to defend mankind from the horrors of the galaxy. Many thought that Inquisitors were somehow superior forms of life to other ‘common’ human beings, and that their physical, mental, and spiritual prowess far exceeded those of normal people.

All of it was rumour, all of it was hearsay, and almost all of it was false.

Godwyn knew from experience that spent as much time watching each other as they did watching for heresy, and that greed was as common a motivator amongst the Inquisition as duty. Inquisitors were also human – and painfully so at times. The only reason they could be thought of as otherwise was because only the greatest or most terrible of Inquisitors received any shred of recognition, and for the few Eisenhorns, Czevaks, and Coteazs in the Imperium, thousands of lesser Inquisitors died alone and forgotten because they were not exceptional or lucky enough to survive to see greatness. Perhaps Inquisitors did have tremendous potential compared to common people, though few Inquisitors ever survived to see it realized.

Outside the motor carriage the storm had broken and rain poured down so ferociously that it obscured the windows and made a sound like ten-thousand fingers drumming against the top of the vehicle and one-hundred thousand palms slapping the pavement on the other side of the glass.

“It means that our search for Strassen has taken a turn for the worst,” Godwyn filled them in. Only minutes earlier she had received the news herself. It wasn’t all bad, but none of it was good. “It means that Strassen could be just one of several Inquisitors we don’t know about who have gone rogue.”

Dismayed, Sudulus groaned and Grant shook his head.

“The tip of the landmine,” Striker added her own metaphor as she looked out the window onto the washed-out skyway.

Of that all four were in agreement.

“What details do we have?” Sudulus asked at length.

 

“None of it is good,” Roth confessed as if in defence while Godwyn paced back and forth along the balcony, “in fact, I would not be mentioning it at all if I thought there was a chance that it didn’t have anything to do with our current predicament.”

“But instead it has everything to do with it, am I wrong?!” she replied testily.

“I would remind you of whom you are speaking to, Inquisitor!”

“Am I wrong?!” Godwyn repeated. “I thought finding Inquisitor Strassen at any cost was my purpose in this mission, but now you tell me that you have withheld the most telling piece of evidence? Evidence that would have more than likely revealed Strassen’s motivations instead of sending me on a ghost hunt?”

Godwyn referred to a text-book case of an ancient Inquisitor who spent all his resources and lost all his team in the process of chasing a figment of his imagination.

“Godwyn, this goes far beyond that and you know it! This is no childhood tale where everything is simple and straight-forward!” he snapped back testily. “If this information slips into the wrong hands it could mean a catastrophe and put our operations in this sector in jeopardy as the Inquisition tears into its own! Keeping control of the situation is *far* more important that searching for one Inquisitor!”

He paused for a moment in an effort to calm himself. Still fuming, Godwyn folded her arms and glared at him.

“I am not so egotistical as to keep you running about in the dark, however,” he continued, his voice once again steady and level. “I want you to succeed in this, Godwyn, though I want you to be well aware of how delicate this situation is. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that,” she replied, still annoyed.

“Good,” he sounded relieved. “Now I should warn you that this will not be easy to hear nor easy to believe, but it is true, and if it became common knowledge, even within the Inquisition, the Warp could take us all because we would be finished.”

“Go on.”

“You have heard of Inquisitor Antivus Felix, have you not?” he asked somewhat warily.

 

 

“I have come across some of her published works, yes,” Sudulus replied with a nod to the Inquisitor’s question.

“Who is she?” Grant asked, looking back and forth between the savant and the Inquisitor as the motor carriage leaned into a long turn.

“I believe she is an expert on exodite eldar and their threat-level to the Imperium, yes? Or at least that is what I have read of her,” Sudulus explained with a small shrug as he tapped his chin with his index finger.

“Close enough,” Godwyn agreed. “She was an experienced Inquisitor known in the Ordo Xenos as a moderate with an interest in studying alien architecture.”

Sudulus raised his eyebrows with a look of interest which Godwyn understood as an indication that he wouldn’t mind meeting Inquisitor Felix and discussing the topic in detail with her. In this Godwyn had to disappoint him, however, which was a shame since Felix would likely have obliged him.

“But you said ‘was’,” Grant cut in. “Has something changed?”

“Officially Inquisitor Antivus Felix is missing,” she explained, “though in secret it is presumed that she is dead. Murdered.”

 

 

Godwyn approached this news carefully as Roth watched her from across the balcony for a reaction.

“How do we know this?” Godwyn asked slowly, “and how do we know that Strassen and Pierce were involved?”

“Again there is no official record,” Roth explained, “but I and two other Lord Inquisitors were given a report by one of the men who saw it done. Strassen and Pierce, as well as two other Inquisitors who I will not name, were implicated. I am certain that this report was genuine.”

“But you won’t reveal any of their identities?”

“As I said, this is a delicate matter.”

Roth was nervous, that much she could see, and if Vance Roth was nervous than there was a good chance that the information surrounding Inquisitor Felix’s demise was volatile indeed.

“Do we know why it happened?”

Inquisitor Roth let out a long sigh and his shoulders seemed to sag. “There were rumours that she was fraternizing with xenos. To what degree no-one knows, but there were some within the Ordo that suggested there was more to it than mere rumour. I don’t know what happened next, in fact I doubt anyone really does, but about four years ago Felix was somehow captured by the Inquisitors – two of which are confirmed to be Pierce and Strassen – and taken to a remote Inquisitorial oubliette where she was interrogated and eventually murdered.”

 

 

“The very thought of it leaves me cold,” Sudulus shuddered, squirming uncomfortably in his seat; “Inquisitors killing their own for Emperor knows what reasons… I can see why he’d want to keep it as a dirty little secret.”

Grant was perturbed. “Do we… know anything else?” he asked as he idly fiddled with his cap that was resting on his knees.

“We know the coordinates of the oubliette on feral world called Trajan’s Deep,” Godwyn replied, “and that our next objective is to search it to see what traces were left behind.”

“Did the Lord Inquisitor have any idea of what we might find?” Striker enquired.

“None. All he knows is that the oubliette has been decommissioned from use.”

“What about Pierce?”

 

 

“Inquisitor Pierce,” Roth repeated himself, “is only a *suspect*. We’ve got nothing on him, and even if we did I would not send you after him!”

“Lord Inquisitor,” Godwyn began again, beseeching Inquisitor Roth to acquiesce to her reasoning, “finding Inquisitor Pierce would prove much more valuable! He knows where we – ”

“Stop, Godwyn! Just stop!” he halted her mid-sentence with a warning gesture. “Without hard evidence to prove that Pierce is involved with Strassen we cannot make any moves against him! An accusation with no fitting evidence would see your career ruined, and possibly even see you killed – that is why I am asking you to *gather* evidence first!”

“But until I do you’ll let Pierce walk free?!”

“I will be watching Pierce,” Roth corrected her firmly. “Your suspicions and evidence of his activity on Tenantable is enough for me to do that.”

 

 

“And I suppose asking the Lord Inquisitor to run in Pierce for the murder of Inquisitor Felix is asking too much, isn’t it? Since that would invite the whole ceiling to cave in on him…”

Sudulus was thinking aloud long after the others had fallen silent, and was still going as the motor carriage pulled into the parking garage alongside the Imperial landing berths.

“…and we can’t have him assassinated as that would simply compound the problem. Oh dear – oh dear, what have we got?”

Godwyn opened the side door of the carriage and planted her feet firmly upon the pavement. “We have two hours until Aquinas said he would return,” she turned to address her savant as if answering his question, “so what do you say we get Lee and find somewhere to eat?”

“A most stunning induction!” Sudulus exclaimed with a wide smile – his mood flipping like a switch – “I do think that a most novel solution!”

Their load seemed just a little lighter once they started laughing again.

 

* *

 

More and more it felt as if they were passing life by as duty drove them from Panacea less than a day after they had arrived. In a few hours, the Patroclus was refuelled and resupplied. Shore-leave for the crew was cut-short, and all hands were ordered back to their stations to prepare to cast-off as Columbo’s vessel made good headway with Panacea to her stern into the open void.

“Trajan’s Deep, eh?” Columbo was muttering to himself with a sly grin as he studied the star-charts on the navigation deck on the Patroclus’ bridge. A mariner first and a merchant second, Hercule Columbo revelled in forging across space on improvised courses far off the beaten trade-routs.

His First Officer and Navigator were with him studying the star-charts, as were Godwyn and Brother Aquinas. Neither Godwyn nor Aquinas were experience space-farers in the same sense as Columbo’s bridge-crew, yet expressing an interest in how they would get to where she commanded was not only respectful to the experienced ship’s officers, but also a reminder that she was in charge – something crews could easily forget.

“I can’t say I’ve ever been out in that direction,” the Ship Master was tracing his finger across a section of the chart that lay to the galactic north of the sector.

“These two planetoids are airless rocks,” the Navigator, a thin reed-like man named Priestly, interrupted as he noted two marks on the chart. “Their gravity wells overlap as well,” he remarked, “and we can determine that their orbit is decaying. A likely cause of the asteroid debris located in this particular area of space.”

He rubbed his nose thoughtfully as all eyes rested upon him. “By my approximation there are two courses open to us,” he stated pointedly. “Either we drop warp here,” he stabbed his finger onto the chart before the pair of airless planetoids, “and navigate the debris fields for the duration of four or-so days, or,” he swept his finger in a long arc around the nearest star and looped it back to the marker that represented Trajan’s Deep, “we take the long rout and stay in continuous warp.”

“Estimated travel time?” Columbo asked, folding his arms and rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Three-and-a-half weeks through the asteroid field,” Priestly speculated with a casual shrug, “and maybe four-and-a-half to five weeks in continuous warp.”

Columbo considered the Navigator’s recommendations then said with a confident smile, “I would like to take on the asteroids myself. I think it would do the crew good to get back to some honest space-faring!”

The Navigator looked less than enthused by the Ship Master’s jibe, but didn’t make an issue out of it.

“Be advised that pirates and other scum often make their nests in such places,” First Officer Brent cautioned with a quick look to the Inquisitor as if seeking her agreement in the matter. Still dressed in his over-decorated military uniform, the First Officer continued to strike Godwyn as someone trying to distinguish himself amongst the background opulence of Columbo and his vessel. She didn’t think it did him any credit.

“One would be able to detect traces of activity in the area before walking into a trap, yes?” Aquinas asked as all eyes turned to look up at him. Even now, in their third voyage together, none of the crew seemed to be any more comfortable around the space marine than they had been on the first voyage, and ratings and officers alike would often do their utmost best to stay well clear of him. Even Columbo, a man who was warm and welcoming to the rest of Godwyn’s companions, appeared to lose the colour in his face when the Librarian spoke.

“In theory, yes,” the Navigator replied to the other psyker, though he found it difficult to look upon the Librarian’s face.

“It is possible,” Columbo spoke up. “Possible, but not always accurate.”

Aquinas seemed satisfied. “That will be enough,” he said.

“Yes,” Columbo said in summary; “quite,” he smiled. “However, the choice is yours, Inquisitor.”

They all looked at her expectantly.

“Asteroids are nothing you can’t handle?” she checked with the Ship Master.

“Nothing I am worried about, no,” he assured her.

“Then we’ll take the shorter rout.”

 

 

It had occurred to Godwyn partway through the first week of travel that antiques likely weren’t the only things Columbo collected, and apart from Captain Striker and Brother Aquinas, who were superbly equipped for combat, her squad was noticeably lacking in staying power.

“I must admit I am surprised you didn’t ask sooner!” Fisrt Officer Brent declared rather loudly as he led the Inquisitor and her team to Columbo’s private armoury. “We have a fairly sizable collection weapons and armour that I think you will find satisfactory.”

He punched in the code for the reinforced security door (with Sudulus discreetly watching him) and generously ushered them inside.

The First Officer had not been overstating himself.

Lee started to chuckle and clapped his hands together in anticipation, Grant’s eyes widened as he glutted himself on the collection just waiting to be appraised, and even Striker – who said she had come along only to offer advice – regarded the racks of assorted weapons with a gleam in her eyes and a smile on her lips.

Brent followed them in. “So you see,” he said with an introductory wave, “we have much to offer.” And indeed he did.

About the size of the common room, the armoury was filled with several rows of weapon racks and servicing tables. There were guns on display, unpacked crates of weapons and arms, stands covered with armour, and ammunition enough to last months. Rare weapons, antique weapons, illegal weapons – the Patroclus had them by the dozen. Some were big, some were small. Some had bi-pods, others tri-pods, and others still had belt feeds. Some had scopes, some only sights, and some with firing mechanisms so complicated it looked as if the firer might need special certification just to hold it.

Cassandra Godwyn was lost. She wanted a durable, combat-ready weapon supplement to her heavy pistol, as well as a light layer of body armour that she could wear under her coat without it being too obvious. Apparently, however, her vague ideas of picking and choosing something that fit her general requirements were completely lost under the arsenal laid out before her eyes, and she didn’t have the vaguest idea of where to start looking.

First Officer Brent was obviously an expert on firearms, and while Godwyn was staring at wonder down the rows of weapons, Michael Brent was already describing the specifications of different pistols to an over-enthusiastic Sudulus who was hanging on his every word. Currently the ship’s officer was introducing the savant to an exotic-looking needle pistol and describing its features with almost intimate detail.

“High capacity, high rate of fire, and a substantial projectile spread make this weapon extremely dangerous in close quarters,” Brent was saying as Sudulus hummed and hawed over the delicate looking weapon.

“As you can see, it is also very light-weight and highly concealable.”

“Oh yes… yes indeed…” Sudulus mumbled as if mesmerized as Brent held out the weapon for him to take.

“The barbed needles also make it extremely effective against unarmoured opponents, though at the trade off of significantly reduced accuracy at ranges of over forty feet and reductions in armour penetration that increase at range.”

“Well…” Godwyn’s savant murmured as he examined the pistol with a wide grin on his face, “you can’t have everything.”

“Actually,” First Officer Brent clapped him on the back, “in this line of work you usually can!”

Sudulus started giggling like a child with a toy.

A couple of rows over, Lee had found himself a powerfully built scoped revolver with a three-shot chamber. Big and chunky, the pistol looked as if it weighed ten pounds, but the pilot had clearly taken a liking to it as he smoothed his hand down the length of the barrel with a very affectionate touch.

“Ai Vicky!” he called over to where Striker was picking out weapons with Commissar Grant.

She looked over and he flashed the pistol with a boorish smile.

“‘ow d’ you like m’ cannon?”

Striker rolled her eyes.

“To be fair, Lee,” she said, cocking her head towards the Commissar, “I think Markus’ is bigger.”

Jaw hanging slightly open, Lee looked as if he’d just been slapped. The Commissar was watching him with a hard expression. Shutting his mouth, Lee twitched his eyebrows, snapped off a quick grin, and disappeared back into the gun racks as if preoccupied by something he had just remembered.

Victoria watched him disappear with a suppressed chuckle.

“Mine is bigger.”

“What?” she turned back to Grant – his face was the image of seriousness.

“My gun,” he added, lifting the rifle and spreading a wide smile across his face.

“Hellgun,” Striker noted approvingly, biting her lip as she examined the weapon in the Commissar’s hands. “duo-beam, cell-fed… not as powerful as mine, but a good choice. I like it.”

“I thought you might,” the Commissar agreed, quickly putting a hellgun back on the rack, “and that’s why I’m taking this one instead.”

She watched as he pulled a matt-black box-fed light machinegun off the rack and tested his balance in his hands.

“Very suitable,” she nodded favourably, taking the weapon as it was offered to her and testing the balance for herself before aiming down its sights and checking its action. Impressed, she gave a supportive grunt. “Retractable stock, balanced frame, good sights, smooth action; looks like you’ve found a winner.”

“I think that goes without saying…”

 

 

Several stacks over, Godwyn had been successful in finding several matching pieces of carapace ablative plate armour that covered from her chest down to her feet and had the added bonuses of being unrestrictive on her movement and partially concealable beneath her over-coat if she left it unbuttoned. Granted, the armour wasn’t exactly light and would take some getting used to – the front and back plates combining to weigh about twenty pounds – but added layers of protection would likely make a world of difference in a fire-fight.

To supplement the armour, she’d also selected a sturdy combat shotgun with the First Officer’s recommendation.

“The XG12 Castigator pattern shotgun,” Brent had announced as he carefully selected it from the rack and handed it to the Inquisitor as if it were a trophy; “a medium weight, pump-action combat shotgun with an effective range of fifty meters.”

The weapon in her hands was about eight pounds and three-and-a-half feet long with the stock folded out. Unfinished gunmetal grey with a rugged design and boasting both a fore-grip and pistol-grip, the XG12 certainly felt good to carry and highly manoeuvrable.

“You’ll notice the sights are very clearly defined,” he encouraged her to aim the weapon, “and you’ll see when firing that the dual grips act for great recoil compensation. I should also mention that the castigator is in essence a flechette shotgun as each shell fired carries upwards of two-dozen pronged projectiles that help to increase the weapon’s accuracy and armour piercing abilities at range. For close-quarter engagements, it really is top of the line.”

“That’s quite a pitch,” Godwyn thanked him, placing the weapon down on one of the servicing tables. “Did Columbo state what he wanted in return for his weapons?”

“Master Columbo he is pleased to help in whatever measure he can with your mission,” Brent assured her, though Godwyn was not convinced.

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would part with his collectables for nothing.”

“That is not how we see it, Inquisitor,” Brent said with certainty; “Aboard the Patroclus, you are our friends, and we would like to keep it like that.”

[Lady_Canoness]

Part 8 of the Inquisition is now up. In this part I tried my hand at a BFG style space-battle between the Patroclus and an enemy vessel. Did I pull it off? You tell me!

 

 

 

*part 8*

 

 

Dropping out of the Warp and into the asteroid field brought a remarkable cheer to the Patroclus and its master as if the return to the void heralded the return of what Columbo thought his roots. Every hour he would spend on the bridge, personally guiding his vessel with a deft hand through the countless miles of loose rock, and all the while seemingly enjoying himself immensely. Navigation through asteroid fields was considered dangerous and thankless work by the majority of mariners, and to most it was a needless hazard as any carelessness on behalf of the helmsmen or turret crews could result in catastrophic damage to a ship’s delicate sensory equipment or hull. Such was the risk that many captains would gladly accept taking the extra time required to circumnavigate the field rather than passing through it. Hercule Columbo, however, took asteroids on to be a personal challenge – one of the few challenges left to him after decades of plying the stars on what he described as intrinsically dull trade routs.

“What I would like is to draw a line across virgin space,” he had confided in her one time over dinner and drinks, “to sail out into the uncharted breadth of the void, and marvel at its beauty as I make my own way and write my own charts.”

He had sat back in his comfortable chair and sipped his wine as his eyes stared off into a future only he could see. “Some day I’ll do that,” he said, “when my time comes to shuffle off this mortal coil, I’ll take Patroclus and any hands that deign to follow, and set out into space to forge my own destiny.”

She had thought it romantic at the time, and, with the wine in her, had almost volunteered to go with him on his journey, though remembering that her calling in life was the Inquisition quickly snapped her back around. She wanted to uncover the mysteries of the galaxy, not necessarily get lost somewhere out in space.

Regardless, it was something to dream of as the hours slowly passed like the asteroids that floated beyond the viewing ports; something altogether less foreboding than the task at hand.

Much as she had expected, Aquinas agreed with Roth’s orders to investigate the oubliette on Trajan’s Deep:

“Remember that information is our weapon against Strassen and Pierce,” he had reminded her as they discussed it on another stroll along the galleries, “and that you must overcome both with your mind before might. This mission is secret, and the more subtle we are in our approach, the more likely we will be successful.”

“You don’t think we could be wrong about Pierce, do you?”

Aquinas shook his head. “I have no doubt about his guilt, but this is not a question of killing the guilty as it is understanding the crime.”

Understanding the crime was proving difficult to do, and the more she thought about it the more convoluted it became. Strassen had gone rogue; turned his back on his duty, and set out to pursue his own agenda. Yet what were his motives? Originally she had thought that the accumulated horrors he had witnessed over the years had driven him to radicalism and madness, but after her last discussion with Roth she wasn’t so sure. What did Roth think? He had known of Strassen’s involvement in the murder of Inquisitor Felix – did he not think that the murder of a fellow Inquisitor was enough to drive Strassen away from the Inquisition? It wasn’t possible that he thought it irrelevant, as he had been quick to furnish her with every other piece of information that even mentioned her former mentor in passing. So why had he hidden it? Was it only to be used as a last resort after other avenues failed?

Godwyn did not know, and neither was she willing to guess. There was too much at stake to be forming conclusions based solely on assumptions.

Maybe Pierce wasn’t involved after all; maybe he was just a wretched man in his own right. There was no way to tell.

She tried not to dwell on it, and instead spent her time honing her skills of body and mind, enjoying the company of her companions, or on the bridge at Columbo’s invitation, though over the long night cycles she couldn’t help but lie awake in bed and stare at the ceiling as images of Strassen floated freely inside her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She thought she knew him, but the truth that she knew next to nothing about the man haunted her thoughts every night until, eventually, sleep would take her.

 

 

The wail of warning claxons ripped into her dreams like a howling chainsword and tore Godwyn from her sleep in a start. Without hesitation she bounded from bed and pulled her overcoat over her naked body before storming barefoot into the common room.

Aquinas, fully armoured and carrying his force staff, was already there when she arrived, though her other companions had also been caught off guard and came dashing out of their rooms half-dressed but wide awake. The alarms were much louder out in the open and they had to shout to make themselves heard.

“Wha’s goin’ on!?” Lee shouted as everyone converged on the space marine.

“It’s an action-stations alarm,” Aquinas explained in a flat tone that was just loud enough to be heard over claxons. “Next comes battle-stations.”

They stepped aside as Aquinas walked to the window and peered into the asteroid field that listed gently by; at odds with the chaotic wailing inside.

“Somewhere out there an enemy has been spotted. We had best prepare ourselves, for our allies may have need of us.”

He was disarmingly calm in the unfolding chaos. Godwyn didn’t know if she should feel comforted or disturbed.

“Right!” Grant was shouting now, bringing their attention back from the space marine with his parade-ground bellow; “We arm and regroup here in two minutes! Go!”

In an instant, Godwyn was back in her room and throwing her coat onto her unmade bed as she forwent putting on any undergarments and scrambled to pull on the nearest shirt, pants, and shoes she could find before hastily donning her new armour. Her heart was hammering in her chest as her fingers fumbled with the tightening straps. A battle! Here on the Patroclus! She’d hardly been expecting it, but she found herself thrilled by the prospect. She threw on her holstered heavy pistol and dragged her new shotgun from its case under the bed. Adrenaline was already surging through her body and causing her mind to race as fast as the wailing alarms. The Commissar’s words were already at work within her, fanning the flames in her soul until she was itching for combat. She slung the shotgun over her shoulder and stood up – stuffing her Inquisitorial Rosette into her pocket as she did so. She was ready.

Back in the common room her team was starting to regroup.

Commissar Grant, standing tall with his commissar’s hat in pristine condition upon his head and his offices’ black storm coat hanging from his shoulders, was in the middle of the room with his new machine gun under one arm while his other rested against the pommel of his sabre. He stood as if on the field of battle leading the soldiers of the Imperium, and Godwyn couldn’t help but feel proud when she looked at him – proud to be fighting, proud to be serving the Emperor. Truly this man would walk into the maw of the Warp itself with sword drawn and gun blazing.

Dwarfed by the Commissar but standing proudly beside him nonetheless was Sudulus in his unassuming cloak and holding the needle pistol he had acquired tightly in both bionic hands. It was an inspiring sight, the little scribe standing bravely beside the hardened commissar, and, though out of his element, Sudulus’ determination was to be admired.

Banging the door to his room closed behind him, Lee quickly hustled up to join them. He was wringing his hands together in anticipation and had strapped the shoulder holster of his prized new revolver over his flight jacket. Like Sudulus, Lee didn’t have any armour, but he looked eager and willing all the same.

Victoria Striker was the last to join them – likely because she was the most armoured other than Aquinas – and was still adjusting the power-feed to her hellgun as she marched into the common room to stand between Godwyn and the Commissar. There was no doubting that she was ready: decked out from her neck down in black carapace armour and trained specifically in space-ship combat, Striker was likely the second most capable combatant on board after Brother Aquinas.

Godwyn hoped that whatever the alarms were wailing about didn’t come down to a fire-fight aboard the Patroclus, but even if it did she felt that her team was prepared. They were ready.

“Inquisitor!” Grant’s bellow could have carried itself through a hurricane and still be heard. “You’re team is prepared! What are your orders?”

Godwyn looked sideways at the Librarian. Still at the viewport, Aquinas turned, caught her eye, and nodded.

“We go to the bridge!” she shouted to make herself heard as all her team’s eyes were upon her. “From there, we see what can be done and where we are needed!”

They left the common room together, but had hardly made it off the habitation deck when the warning claxons suddenly changed from the fast high-pitched wail of ‘action stations’ to a deeper throbbing hum.

As if on cue, the First Officer’s voice boomed over the ship-board intercom:

+*bzzt* “Now hear this. Now hear this. All crew report to battle stations. I say again. All crew report to battle stations. This is not a drill. This is not a drill”+

One the decks below, rapid-action teams of the Patroclus’ staff would be moving out from designated rally points to carry out the First Officer’s orders. Aboard the Patroclus all crew from the cooks and chamberlains to the cargo ratings were trained in emergency procedures and warfare protocols should the merchant vessel come under threat. Every man and woman, of all trades and all ages, were prepared to fight. They were all on the same ship, and they all carried each other’s lives in their hands.

In the maintenance bays servitors were quickly repurposed for combat, the inhibitors emplaced upon their higher functions quickly rescinded, while in the medical wing the ship’s doctor and support staff hustled to and fro in preparation to take on casualties.

All hands were prepared. The Patroclus was in readiness. Now all they needed was an enemy.

On the bridge the action was ordered chaos as officers shouted every which way, all terminals were manned, and orders were doubly given and received. Standing before his command throne, his hands behind his back with an ornamental sword sheathed at his side, Hercule Columbo oversaw the defence of his ship.

“Inquisitor Godwyn,” he greeted her as she mounted the command platform beside him, “I apologize for this interruption, though it gladdens me to see that you are not caught unprepared.” The usual cheer was gone from his voice, and in its place was a stern man who took the threat to his vessel most seriously.

“What is the situation, Master?” she enquired, overlooking the bridge as the command crew carried out their duties in a swift and precise manner.

“Not twenty minutes ago we received and maintained an asdic contact on the long-range scanners that turned out to be a vessel. We tried hailing them, as is standard space-faring procedure, though we’ve got nothing in return. They have maintained course, however, and they know of our presence. It is likely that they are pirates and have been shadowing us for more than a day now, using the asteroids for cover.”

Godwyn nodded as she digested the information. She knew little about space-ship combat and deferred to Columbo’s higher knowledge.

“Range is one-hundred and fifty thousand,” Columbo continued, “at fifty thousand, we will be in range to fire.”

Being a merchant vessel, the batteries aboard the Patroclus were nowhere near the calibre of Imperial Navy vessels, though in a light skirmish her size and shielding could protect her from the worst of the damage.

“We’ve got a reading on the enemy vessel, sir,” the call came up from the operations deck, “she’s escort class bearing one-thirty aft on the starboard side. She’s increased speed to four-seventy though maintaining a steady parallel course.”

“Hold course and keep eyes on the asteroids,” Columbo commanded, “I don’t want to make their job any easier.”

The bridge crew hastened to comply. Fighting in an asteroid field could be lethal as paying too much attention to either the enemy or the environment could see a ship ruined.

“Starboard batteries are reporting armed and ready. Standing-by for further orders.”

“Sir, port-side batteries at seventy percent readiness.”

“Get them to pick up the pace!” Columbo barked in reply; “She could slip behind our wake at any moment. I need those guns operational!”

The officers sounded off at the affirmative and the orders were relayed down to the battery decks.

“Inquisitor,” Columbo dropped his voice back down to address her, “I have personally seen three pirate vessels crumble into the void, and today I intend to make it four. They are hated to me – more-so than any alien I can conceive.”

Godwyn did not question him. His livelihood as well as his life was at stake, and he would broker no threat to either without extreme prejudice.

“Do not ask me to concede the field or make good an escape,” he continued though he did not look at her. “In this I am knowingly disobeying my orders from the Inquisition to act as your transport, and I accept whatever consequences may come from that, though if she engages I will not let her escape.”

His fury was cold, and Godwyn knew better than to aggravate a man in such a state. “Do what you must, Columbo,” she replied, “you have my support.”

The Ship Master smiled in thanks.

“Enemy vessel is altering course!” the call came up from the First Officer. “Now on intercept course at five-seventy!”

“Alter course ten degrees to the starboard bow!” Columbo ordered; “Cut across her nose and force her to match us!”

By executing such a manoeuvre the Patroclus would be showing her broadside to the enemy bow and would force the other vessel to alter course to bring her own broadside guns into a firing arc.

“Port batteries are armed and ready. On stand-by.”

“Range to enemy contact one-ten and closing. She’ll be within range in four minutes if she maintains course.”

Columbo shook his head. “Pray that she doesn’t outrange our guns, dear Godwyn,” he whispered. The enemy vessel being astern of the Patroclus, it was possible that she could begin firing before Columbo’s guns were in position if the range increments of her guns vastly outstripped his own.

“Master Columbo,” Commissar Grant stepped up behind him from where he had been silently looking on with the rest of Godwyn’s team, “with your permission, I would speak to your crew. Prepare them for the eventuality of battle.”

The Ship Master turned considerately. “I would appreciate that, commissar,” he said with sincerity, “my crew are trained and willing, but they are not soldiers. Anything you could do to prepare them would be welcome.”

The Commissar saluted sharply, and dismounted from the command platform to the main vox hub.

“Vox is open, commissar,” the First Officer stepped aside for Grant, and the whole of the bridge seemed to fall silent in anticipation.

Unafraid, the Commissar stood at ease before the vox-caster, his unshakeable confidence in himself and his duty filling the bridge, and when he started to speak he did so as if the words came naturally from fire in his soul:

“What we do now is what defines us as people. Bravery and courage are not words reserved for soldiers and heroes on distant battlefields in the far-flung reaches. They are the words of humanity. They are the words that see us rise above and overcome. As Men, the sons and daughters of our forbearers who conquered the stars, we oftentimes forget the nobility of our birth and the justice of our cause, and that it is not to soldiers and heroes that bravery and courage belong, but to men and women like us, for it is the story of Men to triumph. Now is the hour to take up this courage! Now, in this hour, we will not fear and we will not falter, for in this hour we fight with the courage of Men!”

The bridge erupted with cheers and applause as Grant unceremoniously shut off the ship-wide vox and returned to where the Inquisitor and Ship Master stood.

“You speak well, commissar,” Columbo thanked him as he approached, “I am glad you are here. Your words will have made a difference for many of my crew.”

“It is my duty – no less,” Grant replied with a curt nod before withdrawing to the back of the bridge to wait with the Inquisitor’s team. There was a battle to be fought, and words alone would not be enough secure victory.

“Enemy contact altering course bearing two-seventy and speed of three-ten. Range to contact is one-thirty.”

“She’s dropping abaft of us,” Columbo hissed, watching the holographic display charts that monitored the relative movements of both ships, “her captain must know he can catch us if we try to run.”

“Come to new heading!” Columbo commanded, “Bring us hard to port and match her!”

Auxiliary thrusters flared into life as the Patroclus banked hard to her left amidst the asteroids to bring her parallel to the following ship, though at this distance within the asteroid field the ships had yet to catch sight of one another and were manoeuvring off sensor data alone. If they so desired, the captain of either ship could go dark by cutting all non-essential power and simply vanish into the asteroids, but neither Columbo nor his nemesis were prepared to let the other escape so easily.

“She’s increased speed to six-sixty and maintaining course. She’ll be in our range in three minutes at that speed.”

“Six-sixty?” Columbo murmured in disbelief, “she will be ground into dust by the asteroids if she keeps up that behaviour…”

“Drop speed to two-ten and bring us onto an intercept course!” he hollered, then murmured, “we’ll see how fast she drops speed once she sees she’s walking right into our broadside,” loud enough for only Godwyn to hear.

“Two minutes forty seconds until we are in range.”

“Good. Disable cargo-hold life support systems and re-rout power to aft void-shields.”

At his command the bottom deck went silent and dark as all power was cut in the lowest section of the ship. The action-stations command had drawn all crew to the middle and upper decks, and all hands were accounted for: only the vermin would suffer as life support went offline in the cavernous holds.

“Two minutes until we are in range. Enemy contact is holding steady both course and speed.”

The holographic image of a vessel suddenly popped into the air and rotated above the heads of the bridge-crew.

“Aaaah…” Columbo breathed a sigh of appreciation, “and here is our enemy.”

The readings were sketchy, but the icon depicted a craft a kilometre in length (about a third the size of the Patroclus) of unknown class or specification.

“Looks like a refitted merchantman,” Columbo mused, noticing the gun-batteries visible along the ship’s dorsal spine. “Decent firepower for her size too… looks like she even has a lance or two… this is will be a difficult fight.”

“Lances?” Godwyn asked for confirmation with a shocked expression. Even though naval history had never been her strong point she knew full well that lances were high-powered and precise energy weapons capable of cutting clean through an unprotected ship.

“Yes,” Columbo confirmed her suspicions with a grim nod. “She likely takes her prey with a swift and devastating attack, though she lacks the stomach for a fight. It will be a pleasure to remove this filth from the Emperor’s domain.”

“Minute-thirty until we’re in range. Sir, she’s reducing speed to five-sixty and we’re reading an energy spike!”

“Crude and predictable!” Columbo snorted contemptuously. “She’s preparing to attack at extreme range though didn’t wait to mask her energy signatures,” he rapidly explained to the Inquisitor. “Brace for impact!”

Red warning lights flashed throughout the Patroclus’ decks, and as Godwyn watched a beam of searing light tore across their vision and illuminated the whole of the Patroclus stretching out before the bridge in a burning white light.

“Incoming attack confirmed a miss! Four-eighty kilometres across our starboard bow!”

“Turn three-ten into her bow!” Columbo shouted as officers ducked this way and that across the length of the Patroclus’ bridge to carry out his orders.

The Patroclus rolled through the void into a left turn as she swung her massive body through the asteroid field – the auto-targeting turrets compensating with flawless grace as the gunnery servitors continued to blast apart the small pieces of rock with bursts of energy.

It took Godwyn several moments to notice that she was clenching the railing of the command platform so tightly that her knuckles on both hands were turning white. The lance attack had burned like a ray from a sun reaching out towards them from hundreds of thousands of kilometres away, only to miss by over four hundred kilometres… the beam had looked as if it was right in front of her face! The thought of it actually coming any closer was terrifying!

“Energy spike coming from the enemy vessel! Imminent attack!”

“How soon until we’re in range?” Columbo demanded.

“Minute-ten sir, but – ”

The bridge lit up like a sun as the second lance attack tore past them.

“Confirmed miss! Two-nine-five off the port bow!” someone shouted out as soon as the ferociously bright but eerily silent attack passed.

“ – she’s further reducing her speed. Time to being in range is gradually increasing!”

The enemy’s aim was improving, and she wouldn’t continue missing for much longer.

“Bring us about to one-ninety!” Columbo commanded the helmsman, “We’ll close the range ourselves.

“Enemy contact changing her heading, bearing three-ten off our port. Range… ninety thousand and closing.”

Columbo nodded approvingly; “Good, she’ll soon see what she’s dealing with.”

“Energy spike! Imminent attack!”

This time the lance scored a hit. Reaching out from the depths of space the beam of incandescent light erupted with a terrific storm of searing energy and dazzling ionic vapours as the Patroclus’ mid-ship void-shields absorbed the brunt of the blow that would otherwise have ripped the ship in half.

“We’ve been hit! We’ve been hit!”

“Damage report!”

His brow dripping with perspiration and his eyes wide, First Officer Brent spun on his heel and couldn’t keep the relief from his face as he replied breathlessly: “Mid-ship port shields holding at eighty-three percent. Crews report mild ionization in the hull, but no major damage.”

Everyone on the bridge seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief: Patroclus’ shields were holding strong and soon they would be ready to answer back with guns of their own.

“We’ll be in range with our port-side batteries one minute!” a deck officer announced.

“Find me a firing solution!” Columbo barked back.

It was going to be a long minute, but even longer if the gunnery crews didn’t have any orders on when and where to fire.

Given the limited firing arc on battery emplacements and that guns were launching colossal shells unimaginably vast distances at a moving target, ships engaged in battle had only small windows of opportunity in which to fire effectively. They could be in range in one minute only to be able to fire for a few seconds before having to wait several more minutes until the ship was positioned to allow another barrage.

The clock was ticking and every second counted with the ever looming threat of another attack coming out of the blackness.

Another lance strike pierced the darkness, though this time it missed by mere tens of kilometres. The timing of each attack was irregular, suggesting their adversary had sub-par targeting systems on her most potent weapon, though the scan readings also indicated a host of batteries bristling on her flanks and it was only a matter of time until she opened up with her main guns.

“Twenty seconds to range! We’ve got a ten second firing solution!”

Columbo’s cannons fired at a rate of one shell every two seconds, giving an initial opening salvo of five shots per cannon before their target passed.

“Have all port guns crews on immediate stand-by to attack! Divert energy from starboard shields to the port batteries!” the Ship-Master ordered, his face flustered and his eyes wild as he smelled the approaching kill.

Sensing the energy build up, the enemy vessel scaled down its power reserves on all systems and bolstered its shields in anticipation of the attack.

The seconds wound down.

“On my mark!” Columbo hollered as the entirety of the ship seemed to hold its breath.

The last few seconds dripped by. Their opportunity arose.

“FIRE!”

The order reverberated through the Patroclus, and in split seconds the twelve portside batteries erupted in fire and pounded shell-after-shell into the void. The ship shuddered and shook as vapour trails soared off into the darkness as automobile-sized shells were hurled towards the enemy.

Five shots each, and the firestorm ceased.

“A hit! A hit! A veritable hit!”

The sensory data warbled and shook as at least four shells impacted against the enemy’s shielding and threw up walls of explosive flames along her flanks.

A cheer went up throughout the bridge. Blood had yet to be drawn, but a blow had been struck upon the enemy!

“Enemy vessel altering course one-fifty, speed remaining constant!”

Slipping back out of range, the enemy contact was pulling hard to port in an effort to cut across the Patroclus’ stern.

“Bring us about to starboard and set an intercept course,” Columbo commanded, “she won’t be catching us blind. And bring the starboard shields back up to full force!”

“Shields will be back at full in ten seconds!”

Along the Patroclus’ pearlescent flanks her shields crackled and hummed as the protective cocoon of energy enveloping her powered back up to full.

“Sir, we’ll have a firing solution of twelve seconds in forty-eight seconds – sooner if she closes.”

Columbo nodded. “Have all starboard gun crews on immediate stand-by!”

“Energy spike! Attack imminent!”

“Hold her steady until we can fire!” the Ship-Master barked.

The enemy vessel lashed out with the fury of her port batteries and hurled a salvo of hyper-velocity shells across the void – white vapour trails drawing lines across the blackness the only marks of their passing. Plumes of fire bloomed across Patroclus’ flank as the massive slugs repeatedly dashed against her shields, illuminating the bridge with a fiery orange glow as the explosions unfolded into the void not more than a hundred meters from the ship’s hull.

“Hold her steady!”

Scores upon scores of white lines were flung across the blackness for every one that tested Columbo’s shielding as if a great arachnid were flinging strands of web into a cosmic wind. It was beautiful, but utterly deadly.

“Shields are faltering at half-power!”

“Hold her steady!”

Ten seconds remaining. The barrage of incoming fire abruptly ceased just as the starboard-shielding reached a critical point.

“Energy spike! Incoming attack!” the call went out mere seconds after the firestorm had ended.

“FIRE!”

The reverberating pounding of monstrous guns shook up through the deck and sent shell after shell into the void as the stung Patroclus visited her pain with vengeance upon the enemy. Three shots each – four shots each – five shots each –

The black horizon lit up like a sun as the enemy’s lance lashed out mid-salvo and rocked the Patroclus with a terrific wrenching explosion that staggered everyone off their feet as her starboard shields collapsed and the spear of energy stabbed between her ribs with murderous intent.

“We’ve been hit! We’ve been hit!”

“Fire retro-rockets!” Columbo hollered, his voice stifling the momentary panic as every got back to their feet. “Bring us around to hard to starboard! Present port batteries!”

The wounded ship was sluggish to reply, but, with the burning hole torn in her flank loosing flames into space, she defiantly swung her prow towards her enemy and bared her portside guns.

“Damage report!”

Brent was badly shaken, but he dutifully approached the Master’s throne and fought to keep his voice steady. “Compartments four-through-seven on decks five and six are lost, sir! Massive ion readings in the hull! Blast doors are holding and fires are contained, but gun-crews on deck four are reporting casualties!” He swallowed, knowing that the worst news was het to be delivered; “Sir, starboard shielding has failed. Repair teams are dispatched, but they don’t have an assessment on damage or repair times…”

Blood had been shed and the Patroclus was wounded, but Columbo would not give up his vessel until she fell out from under him.

“Find me another firing solution!” he barked.

Godwyn’s stomach was somewhere up near her throat, and she found it a chore to remind herself to breath, yet she could to naught but watch as the battle between the stars unfolded around her.

“Enemy contact altering course bearing one-ten at speed of four-forty. Range of forty-two thousand and closing!”

Sensing the Patroclus’ weakness, the enemy captain was attempting to outflank the injured vessel and fire again on her wounded side.

“Hard starboard! Hard starboard!” the Master ordered the helmsman. If Patroclus swung fast enough, she would once again be able to face down the enemy with her uninjured port batteries and maintain a parallel course without presenting too much of a target.

“Incoming attack!” The scanners leapt as power surged through the enemy vessel and she struck out again with her lance – the beam of searing energy rippling off the Patroclus’s bow shields as the devastating weapon missed by a mere handful of meters.

“How long until we’ve got that firing solution!?”

“Twenty seconds for five, sir!”

“To the Warp with that!” Columbo bellowed back. “Stand-by retro-rockets to burn! We ride her until the guns glow!”

The tactic was desperate, but Columbo was suggesting the Patroclus use her stabilizer thrusters to pivot the vessel in concert with the foe to extend to the length of time in which she could fire. Columbo’s ploy would increase their window of opportunity from five seconds to twenty, but would also make the Patroclus open to attack.

“Ten seconds! Range thirty thousand!”

On the edge of sight, Godwyn though she could just see a glint of a plasma wake twinkling between the dark asteroids – her first glimpse at the enemy.

“Reduce bow and stern shielding to sixty-percent power. I want everything we can spare on the port-side defences! Fire on my mark!”

The entirety of the Patroclus seemed to hold her breath in anticipation as the seconds trickled down. The glint in the distance moved slowly across the infinite scope of space. The window opened.

“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”

The deck thundered and shook as gun-crews worked like madmen and auto-loaders slammed shell after shell into the steaming breaches. Deck overseers shouted, sweat ran, the cannons roared and bucked like beasts untamed, while the white contrails of the Patroclus’ wrath tore across the darkness of space.

“Burn those retro-rockets! Burn them for all you’re worth!”

Shot after shot streamed from the Patroclus’ batteries as she followed through with her subjugation of the foe. Dozens of shells streamed harmlessly by, but many bit deeply into her shields and threw up gouts of flame into the ether. In retaliation the lance slashed at the Patroclus but was denied by her shields.

“Port shields at seventy-eight percent and holding!”

Unfazed, the fearless Columbo pressed on his attack as they rounded upon the eighteenth second of continuous fire. Every eye on the bridge was fixed on the readouts in hopes that thirty thousand kilometres away the unseen enemy was bleeding. The holographic image of the ship was shivering and waving as the explosions thrown up against its shields distorted their sensors, though just on the cusp of the twentieth second of continues fire – just as their window closed – angry red runes glared across the holograph’s surface.

A triumphant cheer arose from the bridge:

“We’ve got her! What a hit!”

Thirty thousand kilometres away the enemy’s port batteries were broken and aflame, and her company was dying.

“Keep on her!” Columbo drove the Patroclus onwards, “Get me another firing solution!”

The enemy was panicking now; she had not expected such a fight from a merchantman and now she was bleeding her hold into the void. What should her captain do?

“Enemy contact altering off intercept course! Master, it looks like she is trying to escape!”

Columbo’s face darkened. “Keep on her, I said! I do not intend to let her villainy go unpunished! I will see her burning and crumbling into the void before I give up pursuit!”

He glanced sideways to the Inquisitor, a vindictive smile playing across his face; “‘A moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy’ does it not?” he quoted to her.

Godwyn nodded, though she did not point out that the quote referred to duty instead of revenge.

“Sir! We’ve pick up four contacts coming from the enemy vessel – they look like attack craft!”

“Attack craft?” Columbo repeated with a scowl, “do we know the class?”

The deck officer double-checked his read-out, then shook his head. “Not yet, sir.”

“Likely boarding craft,” he mused thoughtfully as he considered this new threat. “If she can’t beat us into submission, then she’ll try to take us over from within, will she? How long until they get here?!”

“Five minutes at the least, sir!”

Pirate attack craft – also dubbed assault boats and sometimes void sharks – were the plight of merchantmen galaxy wide. Unlike Imperial Navy vessels that boasted interceptor craft, superiority fighters and more turrets than were countable, the Patroclus – like most merchantmen – had almost no defence against long-range attack craft. Shields were of no use and batteries were far too clumsy while the hulking merchant vessels themselves were ponderous and heavy in comparison to the nimble single-pilot flyers. Only a vessel’s hull could protect against boarding parties, though any space-faring ship had weak-points which could be exploited, and once inside the well-armed attackers could often overpower a ship’s ill-equipped crew. Boarding was not without risk, however, as an unscathed ship often had numerous internal defences that could be activated, though if a ship was damaged and her hull compromised, then the attackers could benefit from the confusion of battle to further damage the ship.

Boarding was often-times the final nail in a ship’s coffin.

“Godwyn, I’m afraid I must trespass upon your good will once again,” Columbo said as he motioned for her and her companions to follow him to the back of the bridge as he left Brent in command with orders to pursue the fleeing enemy.

“I have gotten us into this mess,” Columbo confessed in a hushed voice not to be overheard, “but I need all of your help if I am to get us out again.”

He looked imploringly at each of them in turn as if asking them to trust him just a little more, and Godwyn could see in his eyes that he was afraid. He put on a brave face for his crew and his ship, but in the company of the Inquisition he told no lies. He did not fear death or the risk to his vessel; it was failure that he feared – he was afraid that he would fail her, and that his fool pride would have consequences that reached beyond him.

Godwyn did not blame him for it, however – in fact, she respected him more-so because of it. He was a rogue of a man, yet he had the courage to look beyond his own self interest and seek atonement for his misdeeds. In a way it made him noble.

“We’re with you in this, Hercule,” Godwyn reassured him on behalf of her team, “just tell me what you need us to do.”

“Taking over a ship of this size is not easy,” he explained with a strained but steady voice, “but when they board Patroclus, they will try to gain control of three areas that will allow them to seize the vessel by the throat: the batteries, the engine rooms, and the bridge,” he counted them off on three fingers. “If they have the strength to overpower or disable any or all of these three things, I have no doubt that they will signal the mother vessel and destroy us with their combined might.

“Now, I can put the ship under a security lockdown and provide you with the means to manually override any security door you come across – that should buy us some time – but I need you to take the fight to the enemy alongside my own troops.”

“What kind of troops do you have, Ship Master?” Grant asked.

“I have twenty servitors outfitted for combat as well as four mobilised teams of ten that are armed and trained, though, once again, my people are not soldiers and have never seen combat.”

Lee made an involuntary hissing noise and Striker shot him a dirty look, but the Commissar looked unfazed.

“My assessment is that your troops would do better if they were to fight with us instead of on their own,” Grant proposed and Columbo nodded in agreement, but Aquinas was not convinced:

“I mean no disrespect, Ship Master,” the space marine addressed him, “but your people will likely be slaughtered if they fight beside us, and prove more hindrance than help.”

Not knowing where to turn, Columbo turned to Godwyn. “What do you suggest, Inquisitor?” he asked, painfully aware that the longer they took talking the closer the enemy boarding parties came.

“We’ll split into teams,” Godwyn decided. “The batteries are likely the easiest to attack and hardest to hold, so we should deploy your men-at-arms there.

“Grant,” she looked meaningfully at the Commissar, “you and Lee will be with them.”

The Commissar nodded but Lee looked confused. Grant was a natural leader and thus the obvious choice to fight with Columbo’s troops, Lee, however, she picked because he was a resourceful fighter and would likely prove to be a valuable contrasting force to the Commissar’s rigidity in defence.

“Aquinas and Sudulus,” she moved on to her most valuable asset, “you two can hold the engine rooms. If this is a standardized vessel in design,” she looked purposefully at Columbo; he nodded, “then there is only one accessible entrance to the engine room. Sudulus, you know where that is, am I right?” the little scribe nodded, “and you know your way around one too. Your abilities, Brother Aquinas, will mean that you can hold the engine room alone with little support while Sudulus watches any back entrances in case they try to get in another way.”

“A sound plan, Inquisitor,” the Librarian nodded in approval.

Godwyn continued; “Which leaves Striker and me to protect the approach to the bridge with a handful of servitors. Clear?”

Striker knew what she had to do and responded the affirmative, and the others were in agreement as well.

“Good,” Columbo rubbed his hands together in anticipation, “I’ll have one of my crew provide you with override wands and comm. units linked to the internal frequency. You should hurry, however – they will be here any minute now.”

[Wysten]

I've been reading so far, it's a breif of fresh air in a power armour dense forum. ^^

 

Great job so far.

[Lady_Canoness]

I'm very glad that you are enjoying it Wysten! I don't know about others, but reading and writing about Space Marines all the time can get tiring...

 

Anywho - part 9 is here!

 

*part 9*

 

Forging through the asteroid field in pursuit of her fleeing quarry, the was little the Patroclus could do prevent the four boarding craft from swooping down against her port side and attaching themselves to her hull like blood-sucking leaches. With blasts of melta-fire the pirates cut through her outer hull and set foot on her decks. The battle for the Patroclus was officially joined.

 

“Columbo, how are we doing for time?”

Godwyn and Striker had just parted ways with her party on rout to their separate destinations. Defence of the bridge access meant holding a single corridor at the base of the superstructure which at one end was connected to the rest of the decks by a single turbo-lift elevator. The corridor was long with a high arched ceiling and acted as a junction to the rest of the super-structure as well as a bottle-neck against any attackers with sparse cover. Indeed, ship-board fighting was a bloody and unforgiving affair.

+“I’ve got reports of four hull breaches and invasive life-signs on my security readouts, Inquisitor. Two towards the bow between decks three and four, and two more closer to the stern between decks six and seven. I would expect those two to be coming your way.”+

“Understood,” Godwyn replied into her mic as she and Striker hauled what little furniture decorated the corridor away from the turbo-lift to form a makeshift barricade.

“Ask how long we’ll have to wait on those combat servitors,” Captain Striker grunted as she strained to tip one sofa on top of the other to act as a bullet sponge. The extra fire-power of the combat servitors would likely make a marked difference as well as take the pressure off the two of them.

“When can we expect those combat servitors?” Godwyn asked, kneeling behind their barricade which consisted of two sofas, a couple of wooden coffee tables, and an urn. Fortunately, the corridor was only about twelve feet wide and their barricade took up most of the space, but if it failed they’d have to resort to ducking into the elevator archways that ran along the corridor’s sides and led to the rest of the superstructure and the bridge.

+“Inquisitor, I’m sorry to say that the servitors are too far away to be useful to you. I’ve instructed that they be placed in patrol-mode to keep the hallways clear. Once again, I am sorry.”+

“No matter,” Striker said optimistically, “with the turbo-lifts locked down, we can expect them to take a while getting to us, and when they do this place will be a killing field.” She checked that the power-feed to her hellgun was fastened tightly, then glance over at the Inquisitor who was crouched quietly by the barricade.

“Nervous?” the Captain asked.

Godwyn nodded. The waiting and anticipating of the bloodshed to come was starting to make her stomach churn. She hoped Sudulus and Lee would come out alright and that she hadn’t made a mistake asking them to partake in the defence.

“You can’t be nervous, Cassandra,” the Captain addressed her by her first name and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “You know this will work and that we can do this, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

Godwyn shook her head as if to clear it. The Captain was right – she was thinking too much and she’d have to stop before it got her killed. “Thanks Victoria,” and she meant it, “I needed that.”

 

First blood went to the pirates, though no-one was around to witness it. Two members of the repair crews had been trying to salvage power-rods from a backup circuit breaker and had thought they had enough time to make it there and back before they were found. They were wrong, and they paid with their lives – the pirate raiders taking the power-rods as a sweetener to what else they had waiting for them.

 

 

Override wand in hand, Grant walked through the security door to the portside mustering point. Lee, pistol drawn and covering the Commissar’s back, followed him in. There had been no word from either Godwyn or Columbo since they’d reached deck four so Grant assumed that there was still time before the boarding parties broke through, but regardless it never paid to be careless.

“Who are the unit commanders here?” he demanded with a shout that brokered no argument from the gathered ship’s armsmen as the doors closed automatically behind him. Columbo’s squads had been ordered to assemble and to expect the Commissar’s arrival, but even armed as they were Grant could tell that the armsmen were not soldiers. They were frightened down to the last, and in their eyes the Commissar could see the haunted look like they were raw guardsmen fresh out of training as they waited around the rally point in an uncomfortable silence.

The four armsmen troop leaders stepped forward, trying to rally their courage now that the experienced Guard officer was amongst them. Aside from the striped badges on their sleeves, they were indistinguishable from the troops they led. Dressed in crisp white fatigues with grey flak vests and wearing metal helmets, most of the armsmen carried autocarbines and pistols, though a few carried bulky boarding shotguns with grenade bandoliers slung over their shoulders. They were well equipped, but surplus equipment did not make up for fighting spirit.

“You four are the squad commanders?” he asked for confirmation.

They mumbled or nodded in reply. Grant was unimpressed.

“As of this moment, I am in command,” Grant said loud enough so that everyone in the room could hear him even over the sound of the ringing alarms. “As I speak this ship is being boarded,” he continued, looking the unit leaders in the eye but speaking to all of their troops as well, “and every soul on this ship will die unless you follow my orders. I want to hear you tell me that is clear and that you understand!”

They chorused back a mixed bunch of agreements and acknowledgements. In all likelihood they’d been kept in the dark as to what was actually happening and had been left to imagine the worst. It was not how he would have managed his troops, but he had to make do either way.

He got right up in face of one of the squad leaders – the biggest one he could find – and looked him square in the eye.

“Are you ready to die for the Emperor!?” Grant demanded.

The man was tall and fairly heavy, but didn’t have the hardness of a fighter to him. He looked gentle – like someone had volunteered for the job because he thought he was doing everyone else a favour.

“What is your name!?” the Commissar barked in his face when the big man couldn’t answer him.

“Hodgkin!” he replied in a startled yelp.

Grant backed off. “Well Hodgkin, I don’t have time to make you a soldier today, but you will have to fight as if you were one, otherwise you are going to die like one. And if you aren’t ready to die for the Emperor then you had better make sure you are ready to fight for Him!”

Grant unslung his light machine gun from his shoulder and handed it to Lee who was standing stalk still by the door as if he were trying to melt into it. Everyone in the room was looking desperately at the Commissar.

“The men who are boarding this ship will try to kill you, and they will succeed if you do not follow my orders and do exactly as I say. Do you understand? I want you to tell me that you understand!”

They replied back that they understood, and louder this time – their desperation feeding off the Commissar’s words and providing them with a growing glimmer of hope.

“Good. I need soldiers if I am going to win this fight, and that means you have to do what I tell you and do it to the best of your ability!”

He started to pace back and forth in front of them; exactly as he had seen numerous commanders do before.

“Our primary objective is to prevent the enemy from seizing control of the port batteries,” he pointed to the security door at the far end of the room as emphasis to where the batteries lay, “though our secondary objective is to kill the enemy and drive them from this ship. To accomplish that, your squad and your squad,” he thrust his finger at two of the unit leaders but not Hodgkin, “will follow my second in command – Mr. Normandy!”

Lee almost jumped at hearing his name and tried to stand a little taller. The Commissar hadn’t mentioned anything about having a plan on their way down from the bridge.

“His automatic weapon will provide the mainstay of the defensive squads, and will at all times cover the batteries from enemy attack. Hodgkin and the other squad will be with me and form the basis of the counterattack which will repel and destroy the enemy. To do that we will hold at the batteries until the enemy attacks us, after which we will counterattack. Is that clear? I want to hear you tell me that is clear!”

They almost shouted it back.

 

 

The engine rooms aboard the Patroclus were truly cavernous in size and demeanour. Vast halls of blackened iron holding gargantuan machines and mighty turbines that filled the air with an almost impenetrable din, the engine rooms were dark and dangerous, and serviced by an army of tech adepts who fluttered about their work on a labyrinth of dark catwalks and perilous gantries. Brother Aquinas and Sudulus were not invited into the engine rooms themselves, however, as the lead tech-engineer was waiting in the security check point just to the fore of the engine rooms to meet them.

“I do not know why the Master deems it necessary for you to be here, Lord Space Marine. We are well protected here,” the tech-engineer addressed the Librarian with a monotone, grating voice as he bowed deeply. He did not even acknowledge the presence of the savant. Like all tech adepts of Mars, the lead engineer was robed in a simple red garment with a heavy cowl that drooped around his shoulders even when drawn over his head, and around his waist was an unassuming belt of worn rope from which dangled numerous intricate tools. It was likely that he also sported numerous bionic enhancements, though none were visible beneath his hood.

Aquinas did not choose to dignify the tech-engineer with an answer.

“Is this the only way the engine room may be accessed?” he asked. The security checkpoint was surprisingly quiet considering the noise of the engines behind the aft door and the noise of the alarms to the fore-deck.

“It is the only way in or out. All other entry-points ventilate into the vacuum, Lord,” the tech-engineer nodded.

“Good,” Aquinas dismissed him, “return to your duties.”

The tech-mage retreaded rather brusquely without a backward glance, though Aquinas ignored his display and instead turned to his small companion.

“Sudulus,” he grabbed the savant’s attention as the little man craned his neck to catch a glimpse inside the engine rooms before the doors closed behind the tech-engineer’s back; “remember why you are hear.”

“Right right,” the little man burbled, “what can I do?”

Aquinas directed him to the consoles nestled behind the security checkpoint desk. “Follow your Inquisitor’s orders and see what you can do with those.”

Sudulus wasted no time and his mechanical hands flashed over the access terminals as he muttered to himself and became fully engrossed in his work.

“Anything in particular I should be looking for?” he asked as the Librarian reopened the doors leading into the rest of the ship. A long corridor faced him with doors branching out onto store rooms on either side of the wide hallway. He would wait for them here.

“See that the doorways out of this hallway are sealed,” Aquinas instructed him as he walked further along the corridor – the ceiling a mere hands-breadth from the top of his psychic hood – “they are to have no means of escape other than back the way they came.”

Sudulus set to work at once, his keen eyes eagerly flashing as his fingers raced to carry out the Librarian’s instructions, and in no time at all every door on the same deck as the engine room was sealed, allowing for one avenue of approach.

 

 

The pirates struck at the port batteries first, but Grant’s men were prepared.

“Righ’ wha’s the plan?” Lee had asked him four minutes earlier.

Grant had already positioned his squads on the station deck alongside the modular firing bays to prevent the enemy from engaging the gun crews directly. When in use, guns aboard the Patroclus were rolled forward on mechanical track mechanisms from the station deck into a separate firing bay sealed off from the rest of the ship by blast doors which prevented damage to the ship should the gun misfire. The firing bays were well armoured but small, and could not accessed by any means other than entering through the station deck entrances. The station deck, on the other hand, was a vast room with a high ceiling that stretched the entire length of the gun emplacements and was criss-crossed by a layer of catwalks and operations clusters beneath the arched ceiling. A total of five doors, large enough to fit a pair of leman russ battle tanks moving side by side, opened onto the station deck. Grant had ordered four of the doors sealed shut, but had left the bow facing door unsecured. The enemy would seek to exploit this weakness, and he would seek to exploit their exploitation in return by mounting his defence against that single portal.

The two squads he’d ordered to defend the batteries with Lee were spread out along the catwalks or hugging the ample cover of the large gun tracks on the deck, while he and the counter attack units were massed to either side of the unsecured door to press the attackers when they wavered.

“We’ve been over the plan,” Grant replied. “Is something unclear?”

The squads were ready, but Lee had pulled Grant aside to where they could converse in private just out of earshot in the noise-filled station deck.

The pilot looked uncomfortable, though whether or not it was the Commissar that bothered him, or the situation they were caught in, was unclear.

He gave the Commissar a prompting nudge on the shoulder; “Y’ know wha’ I mean,” he whined, his eyes darting all over Grant’s face and cap as he held the other man’s light machine gun heavily. “I’ve nev’r done anythin’ like th’s b’fore! ‘Ow do I lead these people?”

The only person Lee had ever been responsible for was the person he saw in the mirror, and it was obvious that looking out for others scared him.

“They will be looking to you to lead them by example,” Grant told him, “so do what you think they should do.” Given the opportunity, Grant would have gladly explained to the pilot everything he thought essential for being a leader of men, but with the threat of imminent attack he had to keep it short. “Just do what I have told you and do it well: start firing as soon as you see more than one enemy coming through the door, and stop firing when I wave you down. They will follow your example and shoot when you shoot.”

“‘Ow do y’ know tha’?”

“Because I told them to.”

Lee didn’t know what made the Commissar so sure of himself, and, Emperor forgive him, he didn’t care, but as soon as he had taken his position on the catwalks he did exactly what he was told – not because he liked Grant but because he didn’t know what else he should do.

The forward doors ground open. Hidden behind cover, the defenders collectively held their breath. Lee didn’t pay attention to who they were, what the looked like, or what they carried. Peering down the machine gun’s sights he waited until he could see one under the center prong and two more in his periphery before squeezing the trigger.

A hail of solid slugs blasted at everything standing in the doorway as Lee and the defenders opened up from cover with everything they had. The first man in and four entering behind him were brutally and hacked down by the sheer volume of chattering firearms arrayed against them before their comrades ducked back out the door and out of sight. The armsmen were yelling encouragement to themselves and their friends as they continued to suppress the entirety of the doorway and rake the corridor beyond with a ceaseless hail of bullets. To brave their gunfire would have been murder.

“I will lead the charge!” Grant bellowed over the cacophony of fire, priming a grenade in one hand while drawing his sword in the other and waving above his head. The cover fire stopped. Grant threw the grenade – tossing it low through the door. Someone screamed. The grenade exploded – rending fragments of metal tearing and ricocheting wildly off the deck and bulkheads.

“With me to victory!” he plunged through the door with sword held high and twenty roaring armsmen at his back.

The grenade had killed four and left the remaining three bloodied and dazed to meet the merciless charge of Grant’s men. The Commissar himself skewered a badly bleeding woman through the chest with his sabre as she tried to get back to her feet, while from beside him the big man Hodgkin kicked a dazed pirate off his feet with a point-blank blast from his shotgun. From the right of the door, the last pirate snapped off shots with an assault carbine and dropped one of the armsmen with two bullets to the thigh and groin before he too was gunned down and shredded by the return fire of two shotguns and an autocarbine.

“Press the advantage! Onwards to victory!” Grant cried out, rallying his men while the fury of battle and bloodshed still raced in their veins. He led them on as they surged to confront the enemy and drive them from the Patroclus’ halls.

 

 

Grant had hardly sounded the charge on the station deck when the storm broke at the base of the superstructure, and Godwyn and Striker found themselves assailed by a determined force fighting an uphill battle.

Enemy fire ripped over and around their barricade and tore chunks of foam and fabric from the stacked sofas as the Inquisitor and her bodyguard traded furious blows back and forth with the enemy as they tried to stagger free of the elevator. The bodies of four they’d already killed were strewn in the forty paces of no-man’s separating the lift doors and the piled barricade, but the attackers showed no sign of relenting as they ducked in and out meagre cover hugging the sides of the turbo lift to whip fire back at the defenders.

Striker, her head down and her breathing heavy as she pressed her shoulder into their cover, was counting seconds between bursts to keep her enemies guessing before spraying blindly over the barricade with lethal bursts of her howling hellgun. A little ways beside her, Godwyn was crouched down on all fours and periodically peeking around cover and blasting a fistful of flechettes down towards the lift before ducking back, pumping the shotgun, and loading another round into the second barrel to keep it at a full six. Their cover wouldn’t last forever and their backs were to a wall, but then again the Patroclus could be blasted apart or crushed into dust by the asteroids, so what did a little fire fight matter?

A shot ripped through the back of the sofa between them. They looked at each other with concerned expressions; the top sofa had been chewed away almost to the frame – their barricade was dissolving quickly. Striker returned fire in a long burst and sent their attackers ducking back out of sight.

Godwyn didn’t know how many were left, but from the returning fire she guessed at least three or four.

The storm trooper briefly ducked back down then resumed pummelling the elevator not more than a split second later – keeping the enemy in the elevator pinned. The return fire was sporadic and wild as Godwyn sent another blast down the corridor.

“Cover fire!” Godwyn shouted at the storm trooper, hoping she could be heard over the piercing wail of the hellgun.

“Covering fire!” Striker acknowledged, and stood up behind the barricade with her hellgun screaming.

Godwyn vaulted the barricade and sprinted to a small alcove hidden in the wall, barely managing to conceal herself as she braved a glance along the corridor to the lift doors. Striker was showering the lift with a suppressive stream of red energy beams that were warping and melting the metal wall panels but otherwise failing to blast through the enemy’s cover.

Whispering a small prayer to the Emperor and hoping she wasn’t about to get herself shot, Godwyn darted from cover slid her back along the wall with her shotgun levelled at the turbo-lift doors for any sign of the enemy. Adrenaline was pulsing through her limbs and her heart was thundering up around her throat. She sped past the mid-way point of the body-strewn no-man’s land in a fast moving crouch, all the while the back of her brain kept telling her that she was going to get shot. Her footsteps sounded like cannon-fire – there was no way they wouldn’t hear her coming.

About ten feet from the open lift doors a man stepped around cover into her sights. He was armed with a machine pistol and wearing scavenged looking flak armour. The look of anger on his face quickly dropped into one of shock when he noticed Godwyn on his flank. She squeezed the trigger and the shotgun roared as he dropped without a sound – a spray of blood decorating the interior of the lift behind him. Someone inside the lift was shouting. She briefly saw another man clatter to the floor inside the lift as she ran – cut down by the hellgun – and she slammed into the wall to the left of the open turbo-lift.

Blood racing, she pumped another round into the chamber and slowly straightened up into a standing position as she edged closer to the door. Striker abruptly ceased fire and ducked back behind the ruined furniture. The replying barrage was diminished in its fury, however, as what sounded like a single automatic weapon lashed out from beyond Godwyn’s sight to chastise the storm trooper. There was a break in the fire and she heard an empty magazine drop to the floor. Spinning on the balls of her feet Godwyn veered into the door way and fired – cutting the pirate in half with a point-blank shot to the midriff. The third man in the lift went down in blood, but from the corner of her eye she spied a fourth pirate immediately to her left, his own weapon raised against her.

She didn’t hear the shot until she was already knocked to her back and Striker was screaming her name.

 

Grant lost two in a hit-and-run fire fight, and lost another when they’d pinned the fleeing enemy down in a store room. They’d killed upwards of nine, however, and heedless of losses the Patroclus’ armsmen pressed on like heroes.

“Covering fire!” he bellowed as two armsmen hastened to open up from across the way and suppress the enemy sheltering down the hall and across the lobby as Hodgkin boldly leapt from cover to drag a wounded comrade from danger. The young man had been shot in the neck and would not survive long unless they managed to get him to the medical wing a deck up, but the other armsman – a bright young woman and the only female to have volunteered to join the Patroclus’ fighting force – had been killed outright as she tried to duck for cover but instead got two bullets to the gut and one to face.

“You and you – get him to the infirmary!” Grant ordered as Hodgkin delivered the wounded man with bloody hands. The two armsmen hurried off with the crewman between them, and Grant clapped Hodgkin on the shoulder:

“Press on to victory!” he encouraged him; “We will yet win the day!”

“We’re right with you!” Hodgkin spoke for all of the assembled armsmen as they huddled in cover and enemy fire spat down the adjoining hall towards them. “What is our next move?”

Sweeping off his cap, Grant cautiously peered around the bend at the bullet-mauled store room entrance about forty paces away. Between his squads and his enemies was a corridor about six paces wide followed by an open area with metal framed furniture bolted to the floor. Cover was minimal, and up ahead there were numerous blind-spots in the open area beyond the corridor; it could be an ambush, but even if it wasn’t their charge would be down a firing corridor and could turn into a rout for the armsmen if handled improperly.

“Grenades,” he said down the line of eagerly waiting faces and tightly gripped guns as the two armsmen opposite from him on the other side of the junction traded fire with the cornered enemy. “Cover fire and then four grenades into that open area,” he explained to his attentive teams, “after which Hodgkin and his squad will follow me as we advance into the sitting room as the second squad provides covering fire. Once there, and we have secured it against the enemy, grenades into the store room and the final charge!” He emphasised the final part of his plan with a fist clenched in victory and smiled inwardly as he saw the grim enthusiasm spread across their faces. They would likely take casualties, but with victory in grasp they were ready for any obstacle.

“Right,” he took the grenade that was handed to him and primed it. “Covering fire!”

Four armsmen leaned out into the hall and emptied their entire magazines in the direction of the enemy.

“Fire in hole!” Grant shouted, loosing the grenade handle and tossing it into the middle of the open area at the end of the corridor along with three others thrown by the men at his back.

The grenades went off – winging lethal shards of shrapnel across every surface and deafening them with their roar.

“Death before dishonour!” he shouted and stormed into the corridor in a running crouch with Hodgkin and his men at his back and the guns of the second squad overhead.

The room at the end of the corridor was clear, though the furniture was badly mangled by the grenade detonations. As more of Hodgkin’s armsmen spread out into the sitting room, however, bursts of fire erupted from within the store room and sent bullets ringing of walls and metal furniture frames. One armsman was hit clean in the chest and dropped backwards to the floor, though his flack vest had saved his life. Unbidden, Hodgkin’s men returned fire through the busted doors, but another armsman got hit in the face and was spun to the ground dead as his blood splattered onto his comrades.

“Grenades! Now!” Grant waved his sword overhead from where he was crouched behind a twisted metal chair.

The grenades sailed through the air and exploded with a satisfying crump deep inside the storage room.

“With me now! Charge for the glory of the Emperor!”

The Commissar was first over his cover and led them through the door into the smoke-filled storage room with his sword flashing. Determined to fight to the last, the enemy was ready, and no sooner had Grant set foot through the door when a large beast of a man in a torn, bloody uniform rushed him headlong with a roaring chainsword in his fist. Grant intercepted the weapon with his blade before it could strike and quickly backhanded his attacker in the face with the pommel of his sabre – feeling the man’s nose and teeth shatter beneath the burnished brass. The man staggered, but Grant wasted no time in kicking out at his knee and toppling the brute over before reversing the grip on his sword and running him through the chest with his steel. Hodgkin was second through the door behind the Commissar and got a shot off with his autogun at an enemy between the toppled stock shelves before a bullet from an unseen foe caught him high and brought him low, crashing to deck.

The fight proved earnest when two more armsmen were gunned down in the doorway before the rushing Grant’s men finally got the upper hand and furiously gunned down the remaining pirates with autogun and shotgun fire.

“Commissar, you’re bleeding!” one of the armsmen pointed out in astonishment as Grant regrouped the remainder of his forces. He looked down – his shirt had been torn and dark blood was running along his side where a bullet had grazed through an inch of flesh.

“So I am,” he confirmed, though the more he thought about it the more he felt the sting of pain reaching up from his wounded flank. Seven of his men had been killed, however, and another two wounded – what was his discomfort compared to that? A small price to pay for victory.

“Contact the bridge and tell them what we have done,” Grant commanded, “there may still be enemies left to fight.”

 

 

Godwyn was finding it hard to breath and her chest felt as if it were on fire. She’d been shot, but she didn’t know where. Her limbs felt sluggish and weak, and her head was pounding like a drum from being thrown against the deck so hard.

She blinked. A wash of colour and light seemed to swirl around the inside of her eyelids. She opened her eyes, and to her surprise saw someone who looked a lot like Striker looking down at her.

“Don’t move!” the Captain’s voice sounded faint and far away in her ringing ears. The storm trooper looked concerned, though Godwyn was having a hard time focusing so she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t think about it, however, as the she groaned with pain when Striker pressed the palm of her hand against her chest. The ship was starting to spin again. She closed her eyes.

“Can you hear me?” Striker asked.

Godwyn opened her eyes, and suddenly wished she hadn’t as she felt horribly nauseous.

“You’ve been shot,” the Captain informed her in a slow and steady tone, “but don’t worry,” she added when Godwyn’s face started to contort, “you’re armour took all the damage. You’re safe now, but you’re still hurt, so don’t move while I take a look, okay?”

She thought she nodded, but in truth she had no idea what she did.

Seemingly satisfied, Striker gently undid the straps to remove her armour and carefully lifted up her shirt. She grimaced.

“Does it hurt here?” she pressed lightly against the Inquisitor’s ribs – Godwyn’s eyes started to roll. The storm trooper bit her lip. “You’re in once piece,” she said, looking into the Inquisitor’s eyes to make sure she understood, “but you might have some broken ribs and bruised organs. You’re already turning purple down here.”

“My head hurts…” the words escape her lips.

Striker was chewing the inside of her cheek and did not look reassuring. “How many fingers?” she asked, holding up four fingers.

“Four.”

“What is your name?”

“Cassandra Pallas Godwyn.”

“The Emperor is our Father and Protector. Can you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. What did I ask you to remember?”

Godwyn sighed painfully; “The Emperor is our Father and Protector,” she recited.

Striker nodded and shifted her weight as to sit down by the Inquisitor’s head. “Well,” she said, “the good news is that you don’t seem concussed, and we’ve held them here. You remember who ‘they’ are, right?”

“The pirates,” Godwyn groaned, she wanted to sit up, but Striker held her back.

“I’m not a medicae, Cassandra, so for your own safety you should stay there until the lockdown ends and we can get someone up here to look at you.”

“What about Sudulus? He’s treated injuries before.”

Striker shrugged. “Even if he has, he and Aquinas likely have their own trouble to deal with…”

 

Broken and thrown back from the batteries and the superstructure, the pirate boarding parties fought to destroy the Patroclus piece by piece before they were overwhelmed. Destroying what they could, defiling what they could not, and killing whoever they found, eliminating the pirate stragglers was like extracting a barbed stinger from the flesh. Worse still, however, were the two teams of raiders still intact who were making for the engineering decks with all speed and blasting through whatever obstacles stood in their way.

Aquinas saw all this as he watched them approach, but he felt no fear or urgency. Everything was under control.

“Sudulus,” the Librarian said softly from where he waited by the open door of the security check-point with his back to the savant, “turn off the lights on this level, and then hide under the desk.”

Sudulus did as he was told, and when the pirates arrived they were greeted by total darkness. One-by-one the raiders flicked on lamp-packs or lanterns as they groped through the noise filled blackness. It never occurred to them that the opponent they faced needed neither light to see them with or sound to hear them by.

They fanned out in a wide spread through the long corridor and swept their lights before them as they found every side door secured but the way forward surprisingly bare. Some of them started to lose their nerve in the darkness and shone their lights at shadows cast across the ribs of the arched ceiling, though they were quickly rebuked by their fellows; there were over two-score of them, what could oppose them on a merchant ship that they wouldn’t see coming?

The first man to snap shot his comrade from the corner of his eye, and the fear quickly spread like a plague until they were nearly paralyzed in the darkness and had to will themselves forward with every step. Some were convinced that they were getting lost and had somehow gone the wrong way even though there was only one way open to them, though others were convinced that they were nearly there. Five minutes later and the rearguard was certain that they were being followed, but doubling back they found nothing, though upon their return five men had somehow vanished into the darkness without a trace.

Their will to fight had almost vanished without having so much as set eyes on their enemy. Some claimed it was witchery and that they should never have set foot on the lower decks, while others maintained it was a clever ruse and that they would make their enemies pay tenfold for it. It was at that point when a man gone mad with fear swore that he had seen blue eyes burning brightly in the darkness.

 

Sudulus had been hiding in the dark beneath the security desk for at least twenty minutes without so much as hearing a whisper from the space marine. What was he planning? Had he gone anywhere? Had he even moved from where he stood? Not being able to see the hand in front of his face, much less across the room, Sudulus hadn’t a clue where he had gone.

“Aquinas!” he hissed: “Aquinas! What is happening?”

He got no reply.

“Aquinas!?!”

He tried to squirm out from under the desk but quickly bonked his head. Cursing and rubbing his scalp, he managed to scramble free from the desk just as the lights turned back on.

The Librarian was standing not four feet away and was giving him an almost scolding look.

“What in bloody bother!?” Sudulus whined and quickly looked away to hide his embarrassment as his head still stung with pain.

“I told you to stay under the desk,” Aquinas said flatly as the savant dusted off his robes and muttered under his breath.

The savant scoffed. “What are you playing at not answering me?” he demanded. “I thought I was alone all that time!”

The Librarian regarded him impassively. “I do not play,” he said in his usual toneless voice. “The enemy is defeated, though we must hasten to secure the rest of the vessel.”

He strode off without a further word, and, begrudgingly, Sudulus trotted after him.

[Lady_Canoness]

*part 10* (hot off the press, so typos are possible!)

 

Of all the possible outcomes following the defence of the Patroclus, being confined to her bedchamber in a body-brace was the last thing Godwyn had expected. The shotgun blast she’d taken to the torso had proved much more substantial than Striker had originally guessed, and it was with a doting voice that Sudulus informed the young Inquisitor that four of her ribs were broken and that the bruising – which had turned her chest a frightful shade of black and purple – would be very painful for the next few days.

“Oh yes, dear Godwyn, I’m afraid you’ll be quite sorry if you try to move about, yes?” he said as he helped stack pillows behind her back so she could at least sit up, “though the injections I gave you earlier should expedite the healing process of your body, you see, so you won’t be out for a few weeks, making four or five days seem trivial by comparison! Don’t you agree?”

Sudulus was right, there was no denying it, and five days in a bed was nothing compared to what could have happened: Striker had shown her the armour and how the chest piece was barely holding itself together – it was a miracle that she hadn’t been killed at that range.

The worst part of being bed-ridden, however, wasn’t the pain or having to stay in the same position for hours on end, rather it was the feeling of helplessness and that she wasn’t being of any use to anyone as the Patroclus slowly recovered from the pirate attack. They had successfully repelled the boarding attempt with ‘acceptable’ casualties, though the enemy vessel had successfully slipped away in spite of Columbo’s best attempts to pursue it. To have his beloved Patroclus damaged, a fifth of his crew killed or wounded, and to be denied the satisfaction of destroying the perpetrator had greatly darkened his mood, and, compounded with the regrettable truth that she could not re-enter the Warp safely until her hull was repaired, made for a subdued tone on ship. The enemy vessel returning for another attack was also a possibility, and – though a slim chance – was an unwanted weight on the minds of an already burdened crew.

To Godwyn it also meant that her transit to Trajan’s Deep was delayed, though she was not as impatient as some of her colleagues within the Inquisition and did not feel as if she must press the matter with the already taxed Ship Master. Strassen had taught her that time wisely spent was time well spent, and, though the irony of using Strassen’s own teachings to find him did not escape her, she still respected him greatly.

 

“I don’t think Strassen murdered Inquisitor Felix,” she said to Brother Aquinas one evening when he came to visit her in her chamber.

“And why is that?” the Librarian enquired as he gently closed the door behind him and stood at the foot of the Inquisitor’s bed.

Being stuck in one place and threatened with boredom had been all Godwyn needed to once again focus her attention on the wealth of information she had been provided with about her mentor and redouble her efforts to make the connections between the man she had known as her teacher, the man whose reports she had read, and the man who had been implicated in the murder of Inquisitor Felix.

“Because it’s not like him,” she replied, and went on to explain herself: “Strassen as I know him, through both my years as his student and the documents we have, has always been a very calculating and controlled individual. Even when he was wrong he evaluated his wrong-doing and corrected himself. I have no reason to believe that he’d react to something with violence unless he was certain that he had no other options available to him. It’s just not like him to kill someone without reason!”

“You are assuming he had no reason to kill Inquisitor Felix,” Aquinas pointed out quietly. “If Inquisitor Felix had gone rogue, as was suspected, he would have killed her.”

“But if she had gone rogue he would have followed due process,” Godwyn countered. “The fact that what happened to her is not documented shows that she had not been branded a radical or a traitor. We would know if she had been.”

Aquinas did not answer, and instead walked over to Godwyn’s bed-side table and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher that Sudulus had brought in sometime earlier. She looked at him expectantly, yet he did not answer as he calmly walked back to the foot of her bed and sipped quietly on the glass of water he held gently between the fingers of his armoured fist.

“You are making assumptions that you should not be making,” he said in a soft voice barely above a whisper.

She asked him what he meant.

“You will remember that I told you to the Inquisitor there is no book,” he began as he drained his glass and placed it carefully on the sill of porthole behind him, “which means that the Inquisitor makes his own rules.”

“What do you mean?” Godwyn interrupted as she tried to pull herself up straighter against her back rest. “The Inquisition is governed by a mandate handed down from the High Lords of Terra.”

“In writing, many things are like that,” Aquinas nodded, “though in reality the men and women of your order are as secretive as they are inquisitive.”

“Is that what you think of me?” she asked cautiously.

Aquinas narrowed his eyes. “You speak as if I do your order a disservice. I do not. The Imperium would not survive if Inquisitors did not keep their secrets, and it is necessary that they continue to do so. Do I think of you as secretive? I do not, though given time you will become like your colleagues out of necessity.”

Godwyn made to speak but Aquinas silenced her with a frown: “The Imperium is not capable of hearing the truth that you so adamantly seek. Not now and not ever. As such it is necessary that Inquisitors keep secrets even from each other, and while you believe Inquisitor Felix would have been turned over had she strayed from her duties, you must realize that perhaps her secrets were so damning that Strassen and the Inquisitors with him may have had no choice but to destroy her secrets as they destroyed her.”

“What – what are you saying?” Godwyn posed after some reflection, as the depth and severity of the Librarian’s words left her chilled and perplexed; “Are you saying that killing her could have been necessary?”

“I am saying that you are making assumptions based in your own inexperience, and I am advising you to guard against such actions.”

“But how will I know?”

Aquinas’ face was expressionless when he answered her. “Your duty is to uncover and destroy threats to the Imperium, not to know them.”

 

The following days proved lengthy as the Patroclus drifted free of the asteroid field at last and the repairs to her battle-scarred body were completed. Like the ship, Godwyn was on the mend as well, and by the time Master Columbo was prepared to make the transition back into the Warp Godwyn had regained her feet and was almost fully healed. The days in bed in forced repose had given her time to recoup with her squad (though know she thought of them more as friends than colleagues) and see that the battles sat well with them and that no nerves were frayed or spirits dislodged.

Sudulus and Lee, the two she had been most concerned about, seemed to be either nonplused by the fighting or invigorated by it, as Sudulus found the ship to ship combat on the bridge to be most fascinating while Lee was as boastful and confident as ever when describing his heroics in the defence of the batteries.

Aquinas, of course, had survived the battle unscathed and made no mention of it once it was behind him. Similarly, Grant left his participation in the fighting unspoken, though the word aboard ship more than made up for his modesty and most of the crew regarded him as something of a hero. He didn’t seem to mind his new-found reputation, but when Godwyn had light-heartedly asked him about it he had excused his actions as duty, and something that he would have expected from anyone in his place. Striker greatly admired him, however, and made no claims to the contrary. She and the Commissar could often be found in each others company either engaged in intense discussions of military strategy and tactics or simply making the best of the quiet that had descended upon the Patroclus once she had cleared the field battle.

 

On the last day before the Patroclus made the transition from real space into the warp, Master Columbo had arranged for a party in the seigneurie to which every member of his crew was invited in celebration, and remembrance, of past battles fought and those who had given their lives in defence of his ship. It was meant as a merry occasion to help elevate crew morale before the always strenuous Warp-travel, and Hercule Columbo did his utmost to make it so. Everyone had heard how the Ship Master had been utterly incensed when the enemy vessel had slipped beyond his reach and how for the following few days he had dwelt in the depths of melancholy as a man who had given up much and gained nothing in return. Godwyn personally thought that he felt impotent and ashamed as it was on his word and thirst for battle that over seventy of his people had been hurt or killed, and he had not delivered a satisfying victory in return. In a speech before two-hundred people, Columbo seemed in high spirits, however, and before entreating them to a hearty buffet of food and drink he thanked them all for their service and trust, and swore an oath that his vessel, his enterprise, and his crew would not be long-suffering. With that, he raised his glass in a toast, and not a one of those in attendance found their appetite wanting for lack of food or drink.

The Ship Master’s good mood was infectious and soon the domed room under the star-lit sky was heaving with joyful voices as his guest mingled amongst friends both old and new.

Though dressed professionally, Godwyn downplayed the fact that she was an Inquisitor and listened intently to the stories and gags of Columbo’s crew. To her it was all light-hearted and fun – and of course utterly irrelevant – which likely explained why she never once caught sight of Brother Aquinas when she moved through the mingling company. The space marine had likely found somewhere quiet to center himself or browse through more excerpts from Columbo’s personal library, though when she thought about it he wasn’t the only one missing. Lee was naturally to be found making himself the center of attention as he spread tall-tales from his smuggling days to any audience he could capture, and she had last seen Sudulus pouring himself yet another drink and giggling madly, though Markus Grant and Captain Striker were mysteriously absent.

“My dear Godwyn!” Columbo came striding through the crowd with a wide grin on his face. “My dear, dear Godwyn, I am so glad you accepted my invitation!”

She returned his warm greeting in kind, and he beamed at her with what were almost tears of joy in his old eyes.

“If you please, follow me?” he beseeched her, indicating that he wished to speak with her in private.

She followed him, and he led her from the party out of the seigneurie to a small study down hall on the same deck. The interior was modestly furnished by Columbo’s standards with several glass cases of art, an antique desk, a loveseat, and two armchairs close together side-by-side. He invited her to sit, which she did in one of the arm chairs, though before joining her he took the opportunity to top up his drink from a bottle he kept in one of his desk drawers.

“Godwyn, I would like to thank you,” he said, sitting down in the chair beside her with a warm smile on his face, “truly, thank you.”

She towards him over the arm of her chair: “Whatever are you thanking me for, Hercule?” she asked. Though old and grey, Columbo did not suffer from the withering effects of time, and the traces of the handsome man he must have been remained visible behind the weight of his years. He wore his age well, she thought.

The Ship Master chuckled. “Oh to be young again,” he mused amiably, “if only I had met you before I was old enough to be your great grandfather.”

She raised her glass to her lips and watched him over the rim as she took another sip, her eyes flashing into his.

“Well…” the Ship Master’s cheeks started to redden and he quickly looked away though the smile never wavered from his face, “I suppose I should say what I intended to say before things get carried away and I forget it all!”

“And just what is *that* supposed to mean?” she asked almost playfully.

“Weeell!” he replied with a satirical expression of flamboyancy, “I *waaas* going to lavish you with most generous praise and thanks for being the image of the Inquisitor exemplar,” he swayed in his seat as if washed over by the magnificence of her presence, though rebounded just as quickly; “but if you keep making scandalous suggestions to men the likes of which were already grey by the day you were born… then I might have to retract and such statement.”

It was Godwyn’s turn to redden and snort with laughter as she rocked back in her chair.

“Quite right,” she agreed with a gasping smile as she wiped at her eyes and steadied her hand lest she slop her drink onto her lap. “Please go on, Hercule. I’ll try not to be so openly *shameless* in the future!”

He chuckled in response, and they both waited until they had calmed down and their glasses were empty before continuing.

“I must say, though – and truthfully! – that you are a pleasure to have on board and to work with, Godwyn,” he said with humbling honesty.

“Please,” she said as a smile crept back to her face, “between you and me, it’s Cassandra.”

He nodded and clapped his hands onto his lap.

“Right – Cassandra.”

A comfortable silence descended between them, though after several moments it was lifted as the Ship Master continued to speak.

“I must admit that I did not trust you for the first few weeks of our acquaintance,” he said, “as the Inquisitors I have met or dealt with before – including your friend Lord Roth – have always been guarded and distant. Not that I am daring to infer that you are irresponsible, but you seem different to me.”

“From what everyone tells me, it is because I am young,” she replied, then added with a grin; “and if you’re unlucky I’ll grow out of it.”

“Emperor forbid that ever happen!” he retorted with a comedic fluster in his voice.

She laughed. “So how did you come to know Roth anyway?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes as if recalling a particularly bothersome memory, though he did not spare any details when she raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I was receiving an exotic shipment on Panacea – illegal stuff, but nothing too outrageous – when my supplier was busted in a spectacular fashion by the Arbites,” he explained. “Naturally, I wanted to distance myself from that disaster as much as possible, so I took up with who I thought was another supplier.” He glanced over at Godwyn, “though I am sure you can guess who he really was.”

She could – rotten luck on his behalf.

“Roth saw fit to cut me a deal, though: I keep my trading more-or-less legal and do whatever favours he asks of me, and in return he keeps the port authorities off my back.”

“Sounds like he sees you as quite the asset to have.”

He sighed heavily. “Yes I suppose he does,” he admitted, “though being at the beck and call of a Lord Inquisitor who has you by the balls is not thrilling work. However, I will miss having you on board when this is over, Cassandra. Truly I will.”

“Well,” Godwyn shrugged thoughtfully, “who says it has to end? I’m sure I could find a way to retain you in the employ of the Inquisition to ferry me around.”

He smiled broadly and quickly leapt up from his seat. “Could I tempt into accompanying me for a stroll around this ship? You know, to stretch our legs and curl our tongues?”

She grinned, and also standing replied, “I could be tempted. After you.”

 

Together they ambled through the Patroclus’ quiet corridors for what could have been hours. The party still going on in the seigneurie, there was little risk of being overheard and the Inquisitor and Ship Master talked freely as friends about times past, deeds done, and the odd thing they wouldn’t mind doing if the chance arose. Columbo even let slip that he was one-hundred and forty-two years old, had been Master of the Patroclus for sixty-six years, and that some of his people were the second generation of crewmen aboard his ship after having been born and raised on the Patroclus between the stars.

“It’s almost romantic, a life amongst the stars,” he said dreamily as he escorted Godwyn back to the guest quarters and they said their goodnights outside the double doors.

“I don’t think it can go wrong,” she added with an affirming smile. She’d never thought herself a fawning star-gazer before, but the way he spoke so wistfully about journeying in the void made her feel as if there really was nothing more that one could ask for.

He gazed at her warmly, his eyes positively glowing with fondness. “I don’t suppose I could offer you a night-cap…?”

She patted his arm. “Maybe some other time.”

After saying a lengthy adieu they parted ways, and Godwyn quietly slid open the doors to the common room and closed them with a *click* behind her. It was dark inside with the only light coming from the faintly glowing stars beyond, but even so she could see the dark outlines of the furniture and the furthest door being the one to her bed.

She took her fist step, but instantly froze as movement from one of the sofas caught in her eye. Laying together with clothing draped haphazardly on the surrounding furniture, Striker and Grant were completely oblivious to her presence. They were clutched in each others arms and the white of Victoria’s bare legs were wrapped around Markus’ strong hips moving with the motions of –

Godwyn quickly dropped her eyes to the ground, though all the will she could muster wasn’t enough to blot out the animal moans of ecstasy from the two soldiers. Warriors in one hand, lovers in the other.

Not willing to disturb them in their moments of passion and hardly daring to breathe, she quietly backed out the door just as the Captain’s hand slid the length of Grant’s back and clutched encouragingly at his hair.

Doors closed, Godwyn let out an exhale of breath – that was close – though taking a careful step back she couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. The Commissar and the Captain? She could have seen it coming. He was a good man for her too.

She quickly backtracked down the hall at a swift pace. They couldn’t take that much longer to move to somewhere more private, could they?

“Hercule!” she caught up with him just as he stepped onto the lift.

Seeing her, he held the door and welcomed her to join him.

“Not too late for that nightcap, is it?” she asked, grinning as the lift doors slid shut.

 

* *

 

Boarding Meridian as the Patroclus approached high orbit above Trajan’s Deep, Sudulus plopped himself down in the nest’s swivel chair and spun about as his eyes scanned every readout and monitor.

“Fluxuations normal…”

His bionic fingers crawled over all three of the nest’s keyboards on their own accord as the savant compared four readouts at a glance as he muttered to himself.

“Syncs are engaged…”

He spun two-hundred and seventy degrees to his left and flipped three terminal switches one after the other as the cogitators hummed and crackled to life.

“Green on all boards…”

He entered a few choice command words on one of the keyboards and two screens flickered and rebooted in response.

“And today seems like a good day for Korvic’s March of the Angelic Host…”

Meridian’s speaker system grunted and crackled to life to the clearing of brass trumpets and delicate woodwinds.

“Bramp Brampapa-pa Bramp-Bramp Brampapa-paaaaa!” Lee goose-stepped through the nest on his way to the cockpit while trumpeting triumphantly at the top of his lungs.

“Stand-by hangar control for opening of hangar doors and docking clamp release,” Sudulus intoned into the short-range vox channel as he continued to ignore the pilot’s ignominious musical renditions of Korvic’s masterpiece from the cockpit.

+“Roger that, Meridian. We’re waiting on your word.”+

“Lee!” Sudulus leaned back and called through the hatchway into Meridian’s cockpit, “Would you stop that awful racket and get us moving!?”

“Brampapa-paaaaaaa!”

The ex-smuggler’s hands danced around the forest of switches, dials, and glowing lights as he waived an imaginary baton for the orchestra in his mouth.

“Lee!!”

He punched in a few important studs and flicked a few more dials and with stuttering whine the engines came to life. Leaping out his chair, he amble back the nest and clapped the savant on the shoulder, before goose-stepping back to his seat and drumming his fingers across the cockpit dash with wild exultations.

“Meridian to hanger control, we’re ready.”

+“Understood, clamps released and doors opening. Have a nice flight.”+

The shuttle lurched underneath them as the docking clamps receded with a thump.

Sudulus rolled his chair back to the hatch adjoining the main-hold. “We’re ready to take off when the doors open,” he called into the aft compartment.

Gathered around the table in the main hold and giving their weapons and armour a last check, Godwyn provided an impromptu briefing for her team.

“This world is mostly jungle and is purported to have a miniscule native population of tribal humans. No Imperial contact recorded, however, so we should expect to rough it on the surface until we find the oubliette.”

“Anything about native species? Predators?” Striker asked as she replaced the barrel of her hellgun and reassembled the weapon.

“It is safe to assume there will be many of each, yes,” Aquinas replied, arms crossed. Something about the planet made him uneasy, and when he read the initial scanner reports aboard the Patroclus he had mentioned that something was amiss. The planet had no history of Imperial contact for a reason.

Satisfied, the storm trooper captain snapped the last piece of her hellgun into place and thumped it against the table in readiness; “I’m good to go.”

“We have the objective’s coordinates fixed?” Grant asked, standing a small ways back from the table and wearing his usual black coat and hat as his light machinegun rested on the table an arms-length away.

Godwyn nodded. “We do,” she confirmed, “though atmospherics are making it hard to get an electronic fix. Apparently there is a lot of organic matter in the atmosphere, so we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way with a plotted map and compass. We’ll also likely need rebreathers if the organic matter is as thick as the scans indicated.”

Aquinas looked grim.

“Organic?” Striker asked with a curious inclination of her head. “Like pollen?”

Godwyn shrugged; “It’s possible, but I don’t want to take any chances risking infection. Oubliettes are self-contained environments with decontamination protocols, so once we get there we should be okay.”

“Exposure should be limited,” Aquinas agreed, picking up the menacing astartes battle helm he had placed on the table and adjusting its fittings before setting it back down but leaving a hand resting atop it for emphasis. “The Alien comes in many guises,” he said, looking at each of them in turn with a warning gaze, “and each can be as deadly as the last. Preparedness, in any case, is your best defence.”

They nodded.

“Alright Lee!” Godwyn called forward to the cockpit; “Let’s get down there!”

[Lady_Canoness]

*part 11*

 

Getting down there was about all they could hope to do. From a distance the planet looked like a hazy, greenish-yellow ball – definitely not what they had expected even when consulting what little information they had – though as Meridian entered the atmosphere of Trajan’s deep Lee found himself flying through a blinding sea of yellowish fog that dusted the view-ports and stuck to the shuttle’s hull.

“Th’ ‘nstruments ‘pear t’ be accurate,” Lee said, “bu’ I can’ see s*** in this, an’ s’ possible tha’ this Emp’ror damn dust r’ fog r’ wha’ever th’ s*** it is could bugger our sensors.”

He looked over his shoulder at the Inquisitor and she could see that her pilot was scared; “I dunno ‘f I c’n get us down ‘n this…”

“You’ll find a way,” Godwyn reassured him and herself at the same time, and pressed steadying hands onto the shoulders of his flight-jacket. “I trust your instincts when it comes flying.”

Lee was unconvinced, and the mood in the main hold was none the better.

Aquinas appeared to be calm and was sitting at the far end of the table and loading individual shells into his bolt pistol. She wished she knew how he could be so certain when even the most confident of pilots was leaving their survival up to chance. Maybe it was a space marine thing, but it would help if he could somehow instil his confidence into the rest of them. Sudulus especially could use the help as the savant was anxiously pacing up and down the hold trying to reason through his fears:

“Pollen? No, pollen doesn’t come up this high – not its purpose. Spores? No, spores aren’t like this either. Has to be clouds then! Clouds dissipate closer to the ground! Heh – no reason to be nervous!”

She would try to offer him some assurances, but she had known Sudulus for far too long to think that telling him everything would be alright would make a difference.

Striker had disappeared into her cabin with her gear, but Grant remained sitting at the table polishing the already gleaming crest on his commissariat cap. Godwyn sat in the chair next to him.

“How are you holding up?” she asked quietly as the savant continued to mutter up and down to himself.

“I’m ready,” Grant replied, leaving ‘for whatever happens’ unspoken. His face was drawn and colourless, and, though his body blanched at the thought of hurtling headlong through blinding fog, she knew that his will was strong, and the he meant his words.

“How’s Captain Striker?” she asked.

He paused for a second in his polishing. Neither he nor the Captain had any idea that Godwyn knew of their involvement together and neither one had publically expressed any feelings for the other. This was Godwyn’s way of letting him know that she was supportive, however.

“She’s… a strong woman,” he said after a moment of gazing into the distance and turning to meet the Inquisitor’s eyes. He wasn’t about to pry as to how she knew – such an action would be beneath him.

“Watch her back, won’t you? She needs that,” Godwyn smiled lightly and rose to leave the Commissar to his bright-work.

 

The descent was rough and at times touch-and-go as Lee strained his every sense to bring Meridian down in one piece. Reducing his speed as much as he dared while still keeping Meridian airborne, he steered them deftly through invisible obstacles in the choking clouds, though was still surprised when a jungle canopy suddenly loomed up at him through the yellow.

“Pull up! Pull up!” Godwyn had yelled, but Lee Normandy was solid under pressure and managed to skim them along the tops of the trees before finding a landing site in an open clearing several minutes later.

After eighteen hairy minutes of flying blind through nerve-wrackingly thick clouds they were on solid ground once again.

“I knew you could do it,” she clapped him on the shoulder as he sunk back into his seat and breathed a grateful sight of relief. That was another one for his stories no doubt.

Getting planetside wasn’t the end of their troubles, however, as the organic clouds that had blinded their descent had also lodged themselves in the engine intake-filters and would make the build-up of force needed to get off the ground almost impossible unless they were properly cleaned out.

“ ‘S a few ‘ours work a’ th’ least,” Lee explained as he re-emerged from Meridian’s engine room on the lower deck as her team suited up to head onto the planet’s surface. Lee would be staying behind to work on the ship and make sure that Meridian was able to take off when they returned, though the rest of her squad would go with her to find the Inquisitorial oubliette.

Relaying with the Patroclus in orbit, they had established their current position being at least a two day march from the purported position of their objective, though on a hostile jungle world two days could easily turn into a week or longer if they were unlucky. To make matters worse, her team’s personal communicators would not be able to make contact with Meridian while she was on the ground, meaning that as soon as they set into the jungle they would lose contact from orbit and any hope of a quick rescue.

“The air appears to be breathable, in theory,” Sudulus confirmed as they dressed in heavy gear with full rebreather helmets, “though as we can see from the state of Meridian, it is thusly safe to assume that, in practice, inhalation of… whatever this organic matter is – ” they still hadn’t figured that out, “ – would be unhealthy to say the least. Limited exposure would be advisable, as would be maintenance of all equipment while in the field, I think.”

Brother Aquinas and Captain Striker were already properly equipped, as the space marine’s power armour acted a vacuum suit and the storm trooper’s armour was not far behind, but for Grant, Sudulus, and Godwyn it was another story. Wearing light armour acquired from the Patroclus’ armouries as well as their standard clothing, each also donned full rebreather helmets with heavy goggles and hood attachments that draped over their shoulders to prevent anything from catching around their necks. Water canisters could also be attached in a fashion that did not expose them to the atmosphere.

“How’re we going to eat our rations?” Striker asked as she stood in the lower hold waiting for Sudulus to finish attaching her water canister to her back.

“Until we reach the oubliette,” Sudulus replied, already breathing heavily under his hood, “it is unlikely that we will have any opportunity to do so...”

Grant, his expression hidden behind his mask, shrugged his shoulders. The collar of his black coat was turned up around his neck and he looked decidedly sinister as he stood at ease with his light machinegun in his hands.

“I do, however, have a supply of stimulant needles that I keep for just such an occasion,” Sudulus continued, “and when injected into the bloodstream, the stimulant serum, theoretically, should provide us with enough energy to continue onwards with minimal nutrition.”

“We are here on a mission,” Aquinas reminded them, the menacing visage of his space marine helmet looking over everyone gathered in the room, “and we will proceed towards our objective without hesitation.”

The mission was clear; all that remained to be seen was whether or not the jungle was likewise.

 

The first few hours of marching set a disheartening precedent. The air was notably warm and made them sweat under their heavy clothing and packs. The hoods were stiflingly hot as well, and every so often they had to degum their rebreather units to prevent them from clogging up. The terrain was also unforgivingly rough, and though Aquinas forged ever onwards without signs of slowing, the rest of them – especially Sudulus who was not in the best physical condition to begin with – found the jungle to be a cruel mistress. In their first hour of wrestling through the undergrowth, braving mucky swamps and streams, and enjoying cleared pathways that never seemed to last long enough, Sudulus had caught his foot twice in hidden roots and needed to be freed; Grant had gotten his coat tangled in something with vicious looking thorns, though with Striker’s help he had escaped unharmed; and Striker herself had tripped face first into a stagnant, foul-smelling pool, which she struggled out of with a stream of curses and profanities. Regardless, Aquinas continued on at an astoundingly fast pace, and it was all Godwyn could do to keep up with him.

“Something is amiss on this planet,” he confided in her as they took a quick break in a dusty clearing after four hours of steady marching. “I can feel it.”

“What do you think it is?” she quietly asked as Grant, Sudulus and Striker talked amongst themselves and joked half-heartedly at the expense of the jungle.

“It is a low rumble at the back of my mind,” he said, his helmeted features peering off into the surprisingly quiet trees. “This organic fog is not native to this planet, and that the humans who were are no longer.”

Feeling a tingling along her spine, she peered over he shoulders at the silent trees; “Like it killed them?”

“I do not know,” Aquinas replied, “though remember it is not our purpose to find out.”

How could she forget?

 

Somewhere up above the sun was setting in the putrid sky, turning the yellow air into a hazy brown. They had been walking in silence for almost about six hours since leaving the Meridian, and the novelty of walking through a jungle (if it ever existed) had long since worn off. Aquinas was still leading on tirelessly with absolute certainty in his direction, though Sudulus was fading quickly and had already given himself a boost with a stimulant needle to keep going.

“Wait! Hold up a moment!” Grant called out from behind her. Up ahead, Aquinas stopped on the crest of a ridge and turned around. Sudulus took this opportunity to catch up with Striker’s assistance.

“What is it, Commissar?” Godwyn asked as he stepped off to the side and drew his sword.

“Come take a look.”

Moving down the line to where he stood, she peered into the bushes. Holding the underbrush aside with his sabre, the Commissar nodded towards something half-hidden by the jungle. How he had spotted it was anyone’s guess. It was metal, and seemed to have been exposed to the elements for some time judging by the levels of corrosion.

“What is that?” Striker asked as she came closer to take a look and see what had captured their attention.

It was a gun. A large, crudely built and badly weathered gun. With a gloved hand, Godwyn dragged it free from the jungle and hefted it up as Grant withdrew his sword and sheathed it.

“No feral humans built anything like that,” he said grimly with a shake of his head.

The handle was huge, large enough for two human hands, and the gun was ridiculously heavy.

“These runes,” Godwyn pointed out to the Commissar and the Captain, “do you recognize them?” She did, though she’d only ever seen them when studying tomes on the various xeno species that plagued the galaxy.

“Orks!” Sudulus wheezed with eyes wide in fascination; “Those are ork glyphs!”

Godwyn nodded, and tossed the gun back into the jungle. From the ridge, Aquinas looked on as the light faded around them.

“We are not here to hunt xenos,” he reminded them, “leave it be and continue onwards.”

Sudulus wasn’t prepared to let the discovery drop, however. “What about Lee and the ship?” he chirped, and, distorted as his voice was, Godwyn could tell what was on her savant’s mind. “Shouldn’t he be warned?”

“It’s a large planet,” Striker assured him, wiping a hand across the yellow muck that was accumulating on her helmet visor as she did so, “I think he’ll be alright.”

“But we found this gun!” Sudulus argued; “a veritable needle in a haystack! There could be thousands of orks on this world! If they find the Meridian we will be trapped here!”

Aquinas did not bother retracing his steps as the others tried to assuage the savant’s fears, and instead spoke in a clear voice that overruled them all.

“For a man who prides himself on reason, you are showing none,” he said, his tone perfectly level even when his words were scathing. “Now come along before you make yourself a coward as well as a fool.”

Turning on his heel, Aquinas trudged from the ridge onwards into the darkening jungle.

Sudulus, stunned as if slapped, merely blinked through his mask and made no attempts to defend himself.

Looking at the others as if to gauge their spirit, Godwyn nodded once in conclusion, then followed after the Librarian; Grant came behind her, and, taking one last look towards the ork weapon, Sudulus bustled after them with Striker bringing up the rear.

Night was falling quickly, and the discovery of the ork presence on Trajan’s Deep ensured that it would not be an easy one.

 

They made camp on the dry ground between the snaking roots of a knotted tree so massive that the base of its roots alone covered more area than two score or more of lesser trees. In the darkness they could hardly see the tree’s colossal trunk, though as they walked through the cavernous hollows between its exposed roots they could just begin to grasp its size in the miniscule beams of light produced by their lamp packs. An untold number of people could have sheltered beneath this tree, and to the five them it felt like a palace of wood after hours spent in the claustrophobic confines of the dense jungle.

“It’s unbelievable…” Sudulus managed, flopping himself down in the dirt and running a gloved hand over the tree’s bark as his curiosity momentarily took over from his fatigue. “Never – never, have I seen anything so magnificent in nature! Fascinating – truly wonderful!”

Godwyn said nothing but sat down against nook in a root that seemed fit her weary back just right. She was tired – they all were, save Aquinas – and as she finally got off her aching feet and sucked down more water into her dry throat, she could think of nothing more than tearing her rebreather off and letting the night’s air cool hear sweat-soaked face and neck. Cruelty of cruelties that she should be denied even that on this world, and sleeping with a mask on would doubtlessly be a treat.

Striker squatted down nearby and brushed the mysterious pollen off her armour before dropping onto her backside with a satisfied grunt. Long marches were long even for trained soldiers, it seemed.

“Will we need to organize a watch?” she asked, flashing her light around to see that everyone was close enough to hear her.

“I can watch the camp,” Aquinas replied softly before anyone else could speak up. “All of you should rest. I have strength enough to carry me onwards without it.”

Striker seemed satisfied, and Godwyn felt more at ease; having one of the Emperor’s finest watching over of them was a weight off her shoulders… and in her tired state seemed almost poetic.

Grant said something about needing to relieve himself and went deeper into the roots and Striker going went with him to watch his back. Godwyn figured she’d wait up until they returned… though maybe closing her eyes for just a minute wouldn’t be a bad idea either…

 

She woke from a particularly vivid dream of Columbo boasting about how he’d smuggled orks onto Tranjan’s Deep with the glaring red eyes of an astartes battle helm on the other side of her visor.

“What are you doing!?” she asked in a startled yelp, suddenly very much awake.

“I’m removing the organic residue from everyone’s masks,” he said matter-of-factly as if it was something he did all the time when people were sleeping. “Get some rest knowing you won’t suffocate in the night.”

 

If such a thing were possible, she woke up feeling more tired than she had the night before. Sleeping fully dressed on the ground had left her back aching, her neck painfully stiff, and a maddeningly uncomfortable sweat all over her body. To make things worse, her head was pounding and her throat felt as though it were coated with sand.

With a groan, she sat up.

It must have been approaching dawn as her surroundings were a dull, dusty grey and gave everything a diffused glow as the pollen scattered whatever light was coming through the canopy.

Grant was already awake and speaking quietly with Aquinas just a few paces away. Godwyn got up on sore feet to join them.

“How much farther?” she asked after they’d exchanged pleasantries about a morning that had nothing good about it.

“We’ve made good time so far,” Grant responded with a nod of his covered head, as he unfolded their scratch-made map and passed it to her, “if we keep a good pace we should be there by sundown.”

“Good,” Godwyn said, “let’s get to it.”

After a hasty breakfast from a syringe, they headed out into the jungle once again with Aquinas in the lead.

 

 

The jungle was not compliant, however, and no more than half an hour after they headed out, Striker tumbled into a crevasse hidden in the jungle floor and would have fallen to her death in the caverns below had she not wrapped her arm around the tangle of vines that draped down into the depths. Rushing to the edge of the chasm they found her screaming in agony as she hung forty feet down with one arm hooked at an unnatural angle into a mess of climbers as she desperately tried to secure her purchase with her free hand.

Grant instinctively lunged forward, but Godwyn intercepted the Commissar and struggled to hold him back.

“No!” Godwyn she yelled at him. He started to argue and pull himself free, but the Inquisitor held her own and grappled him to a stand still. “That ground is unstable!” she explained against his protests; “if you go we’ll lose her!”

Striker was biting back her screams and was trying to take the pressure off her caught arm though she was trembling with the effort.

“We can’t leave her there!” the Commissar argued, though he let himself be restrained by the Inquisitor. “I will not leave a soldier like that!”

“We’re not going to leave her!” she shouted back at him as she shook the bigger man as if trying to wrestle him back into his senses. “But I need you to take charge. Think: how do we get her out?”

The vines were straining under the storm trooper’s armoured weight, and her struggles to steady herself were only loosening them further.

“Captain!” Sudulus called out from where he was crouching at the edge as Aquinas marched past him to get as close to Striker as possible; “Try not to struggle, Victoria! You need to remain calm. Please, can you do that?”

She tried, but as her hellgun dangled perilously from its power feed they could see the storm trooper shaking with the effort to hold on for her life.

“I – I can’t keep doing this!” she shouted through gasping sobs of pain. “My arm, I – It’s broken!”

“Victoria, listen to me!” Grant called out, the commanding bellow back in his voice as he stopped struggling with the Inquisitor and regained his composure; “If you let go you are giving into fear! You will hold on because you are not afraid! Do you hear me!?”

She didn’t answer but stifled her gasps of pain and redoubled her efforts to hold herself steady.

Aquinas, meanwhile, had taken up position directly across the chasm from where Striker was dangling, and was cautiously lowering his massive armoured frame into a crouch on the very edge. The chasm was not that wide – no more than a dozen feet – but the Captain was a great ways down.

“I am going down there,” Aquinas announced coolly, and not waiting for permission he lowered himself over the edge with his eyes ablaze with ethereal might behind his helmet. Godwyn didn’t know what he was planning, but he scaled the rock with what seemed like effortless ease, and – with Godwyn, Grant, and Sudulus looking on – drew level with the storm trooper Captain. He said something, though no-one above heard what, and Striker nodded and seemed to forcibly relax. Then he jumped – or maybe floated – the gap between them and grabbed hold of the vines beside her. The vines strained above him. With slow and careful motions, he untangled the storm trooper’s arm from the vines and lifted her over his shoulder, and, with no visible display of duress, he began to climb back up the vines.

Godwyn and Grant were waiting when Aquinas reached the top of the crevasse and pulled Striker up the rest of the way, while Sudulus rushed to see to her badly deformed arm.

Victoria was in a bad way. Her right arm was broken in at least two locations and was dislocated at the shoulder. The pain was almost enough to completely incapacitate her.

“This is going to be hurt,” Sudulus warned as he fashioned a splint from a piece of dead wood and pulled some bandages from his pack. Sitting on the ground with Godwyn and Grant to either side, the Captain nodded, presented her mangled limb as best she could held her breath. Gasping at the slightest touch, she screamed as he straightened out her arm and started methodically binding the splint into place. Between them, Grant and Godwyn braced her upper body and spoke encouragingly as she flinched and struggled against the necessary pain involved in Sudulus’ work.

Aquinas, after retrieving his force staff from where he had left it, waited patiently nearby.

“There,” Sudulus breathed a sigh of relief and withdrew his hands from his bandage-work, “I think that should just about do it!”

Striker groaned, but managed to express her thanks.

“The oubliette will have a medical facility we can use,” Godwyn announced, standing back up and helping Grant get Striker to her feet. In truth, the facility would be more suitable for torture instead of healing, but the instruments were largely the same.

“Give her a shot for the journey,” Grant instructed the savant who hastened to comply. “I’ll walk with her the rest of the way.”

 

With Striker wounded, they moved much slower on their second day of marching, and as the sky began to darken it became obvious that they wouldn’t reach the oubliette until the third day.

Weary after two days of marching with little rest or sustenance, and unable to proceed through the approaching blackness, they made camp atop a cliff near a muddy waterfall. The sound of crashing water was soothing on the ears and made it easy to feel at rest, and, as she found a spot to sit with her back against a pollen stained rock, Godwyn could not help but think that Trajan’s Deep would be a world of unparalleled beauty were it not for the suffocating air. She could only imagine how it would have felt to have lived here amongst native humans and feel the sun on her face, the wind in her hair, and the soft earth beneath her feet. It was strange that such a world as this would be cordoned off by the Inquisition and left untouched by the realm of the Immortal Emperor. Why would they do such a thing, she wondered, and would anyone alive yet know? Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, and it was not as if she needed to know.

The others settled around her in the open: Sudulus almost dumping himself onto a patch of grass, and Grant helping Striker find somewhere she could rest in comfort without further agony to her arm. Aquinas, of course, showed no such signs of fatigue.

“Inquisitor,” he motioned to her through the spectral half-light and she slowly regained her feet, “a word?”

They walked closer to the waterfall in an effort to disguise their words from the others, and gazing over a black canopy they spoke:

“I have felt a growing presence in my mind since we landed on this world,” Aquinas explained, “and as we move closer to our objective it has grown in definition into something I recognize.”

He paused, but Godwyn waited for him to continue without interrupting. Despite the gravity of his words, his voice never wavered;

“There are orks on this world, and have been for some time. I believe we are drawing closer to their main holdings.”

“How close?” Godwyn asked. In their current state, she and her team were not prepared to become engaged in a fire-fight, and especially not with any significant number of orks.

“Their energies are primal like those of the world itself, and thus it is difficult to say, just as it is difficult to know whether or not the atmospheric anomalies can be attributed to them. However, if I were to judge by the strengthening of the presence I have sensed on this world, I would hazard to say that they are no more than a day or two’s travel from here.”

“Do you think they will be able to detect us?”

Godwyn felt her shoulders shiver as if being watched, but Aquinas shook his head in the dark.

“Only by the most rudimentary methods. Orks are brutish and single-minded creatures, and if we are careful our presence will go unnoticed.”

It was with the Librarian’s reassurances that she settled herself down on the earth for another uneasy sleep filled with disquieting dreams of beasts and noises in the dark that she could escape from.

 

The next morning was the first time saw a live ork in the flesh, and even from a hundred paces away it was terrifying.

She remembered seeing an ork in a dissection lab of alien species when she was still a noviciate at the Academy, and recalled watching in morbid fascination as the tutor removed the creature’s rib-cage and began to point out its various organs with a voice as sterile as the lab itself. What she had been taught did not do the real things justice.

They had set out before dawn with Aquinas leading the way, Godwyn following a dozen or so paces after him, Sudulus behind her, and Grant bringing up the rear with Striker. They had been forging through the jungle’s thick trees for three or so hours without incident until, as he came to a part in the canopy, Aquinas quickly waved them down. Everyone stopped where they were and sunk to the jungle floor; Grant helping Striker to hear knees.

Up ahead, the Deathwatch Librarian crept quietly forward before sinking back onto his haunches and waving Godwyn forward. She crept up to where he sat overlooking a wide open valley dotted with low-lying plants. At first she didn’t see anything, but remaining silent, he pointed, and, following his finger with her eyes, she saw them.

Orks.

Not one, not two, not even a dozen, but at least thirty hulking, green-skinned brutes.

Unlike the ones she’d seen in the laboratory, these aliens were big, muscular, and very much alive. Each one was built like some sort of hairless primate and had bowed little legs that supported a much larger upper body and a huge ugly head.

Even as she watched them, she felt herself sinking lower and lower to the ground until she could barely see them over the edge of the valley.

All of them were armed and armoured with thick, sturdy-looking hunks of metal that rustled and rattled as they walked. By looking at them, she couldn’t tell what they were doing, but they were milling about idly in the valley, and occasionally head-butting one-another or otherwise unleashing their violent instincts on the jungle around them by hacking at whatever foliage was nearby. She could hear the low rumbling of their voices in what she assumed must be some kind of speech, though occasionally one would shout or holler some alien gibberish before throwing something crude and metal at a bush, a tree, or even another ork. Surprisingly, none of them seemed to be affected by the polluted air.

Catching her attention, Aquinas then pointed out what looked like a cave dug into the rocky side of the valley, and as she watched she could see a flickering orange glow reflecting off the metal cave walls.

“That’s…?” she began, wiping a hand over the dirt-streaked lenses of her goggles to get a better view.

“Yes,” Aquinas nodded his helmet grimly, “and the orks have reached it first.”

Down the line, Grant couldn’t hear what the Librarian and Inquisitor were saying, but by judging their body language he could tell it wasn’t good.

“Wait here,” he whispered to Captain Striker, and began to creep forward.

Godwyn couldn’t believe that fortune had stuck this in their way:

“What do we do?” she asked Aquinas in a whisper; “We can’t fight them all, and we can’t wait her until they leave!”

The Librarian shook his head. “No, we cannot,” he agreed, and raised himself up as if preparing to move out.

Godwyn’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the forearm.

“What are you doing!?” she hissed; “They’ll see you!”

“That is entirely the point.”

“What!?”

The space marine turned and fixed her between the furiously glowing eyes of his helm.

“I have fought orks before,” he said softly, “and if I draw them away, you will have a chance to slip into the oubliette without them noticing. You know this is how it must be.”

“That’s madness! You’ll be killed!”

He gently removed her hand from his arm as if lifting away the hand of a child, and crept around the tree line in the opposite direction from Godwyn and her team.

“Aquinas, please!” she hissed after him. “We need you! I need you!”

The Librarian stopped, and looked back over his shoulder – red eyes that she would never forget.

“The mission cannot fail,” he replied calmly, then turned his back on her and continued to walk away. “Do not wait for me, Inquisitor.”

In a matter of seconds he had disappeared from view.

“Where is he going?” Commissar grant got down beside her in the spot that Aquinas had vacated. He had not yet spotted the orks.

Godwyn didn’t know how to answer him. Was Aquinas coming back? What did he intend for them to do?

“The orks are in our way,” she explained in a low voice, peering into the valley and watching as the brutes carried on kicking stones and otherwise passing the time. “Brother Aquinas has volunteered to draw them away so that we may reach the oubliette unimpeded.”

Realization dawned on the Commissar as he looked grimly to the orks and back. He carefully removed his light machinegun from across his shoulders and clicked the bipod into place.

“If he thinks he can kill them all…” Grant’s voice was grainy though his mask.

But Godwyn didn’t think that was what he had in mind.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head as she continued to spy on the greenskins, “I don’t think that is his plan.”

Grant was readying his weapon, but Godwyn gave him a warning look. “If he can’t kill them all, neither can you.”

“I know,” Grant agreed, “but if this goes to hell I want to be ready.”

Striker, refusing to wait behind after she had seen Grant draw his weapon, crept up behind them with Sudulus.

“Oh dear… oh dear oh dear – damn it all!” Sudulus hissed, and lay himself belly down to Godwyn’s right with his needle pistol drawn.

“Where is Aquinas?”

Grant and Godwyn explained everything to them.

“Do we have a signal to look for?” Striker asked, on her knees in the bushes beside the Commissar. With her trigger arm badly broken, she was hanging back from the edge.

“That would supposedly be when the orks leave,” Grant replied gruffly. He’d drawn his sword as well, and had laid it down next to him.

Godwyn readied her shotgun, but could do naught but watch. There were more orks in the valley than they could possibly hope to kill, and she would sooner have her team flee into the jungle than make a foolish last stand.

“Look!” Sudulus brought her attention back around, “something’s caught their interest!”

Sure enough, the orks in the valley were looking over towards the opposite tree line and talking loudly amongst themselves. Some were even pointing or swatting their fellows to get their attention. Several had even emerged from the cave to see what the others were staring at.

Grant sighted his weapon, though the others watched in rapt silence.

Suddenly, a loud *bang* shook the trees they had been watching, and with exclamations of what might have been excitement, the orks quickly started to jog off in the direction of the noise.

Orks, Godwyn remembered from her studies, were a curious and inquisitive species by nature, and though few could be considered intelligent, the ork species showed a keen interest in anomalies or other abnormalities. This, she had been taught, could be exploited.

“Wait for it,” she cautioned in anticipation of the last ork reaching the trees and disappearing from view. “Okay, let’s go!”

One by one they slipped from the cover and into the open as the last of the orks vanished from sight. Weapon raised, Godwyn took the lead at a running crouch with Sudulus close behind her and followed by the wounded Striker with Grant covering the rear.

The Librarian’s diversion had worked, and they slipped into the cave mouth unseen whilst putting the jungle behind them.

[Monstra Sumus]

I thoroughly enjoyed that. Oh, and in answer to your question, yes you pulled off the ship to ship rather well!

 

I look forward to reading more, if and when you write it. Although I have to differ with your opinion on writing Space Marines, I've been enjoying it for a while. :P

 

Brother T.

[Lady_Canoness]

Glad to hear you liked it Brother T! Ship to ship certainly does have a pull to it I think, and now that you mention it Space Marines aren't without merrit... though they aren't the easiest of chaps to write about!

 

This chapter proved re-donk-ulously hard to write as I had so many ideas just screaming to be put onto paper. Half of them didn't make it, but we'll see what you think of the ones that did.

 

*part 12*

 

You are never free from knowledge.

Her savant repeated the words he read in the torch-light.

The orks had been digging. Unable to resist the draw of metal on a jungle world, the aliens had cut away the wilderness reclaiming the cave and set to looting whatever scraps of sheet metal they could pry from the cave walls, though as the greenskins dug further through tangles of creepers sickly weeds they were met with these six words set into forged adamantine.

You are never free from knowledge.

So read the warning to all who sought to enter the vault of the Inquisition. To those who were prisoner; that they would be held accountable for the trespasses of their minds. To those who were wardens; that the burdens of the condemned were now theirs to bear.

No common bulwark guarded the secrets of the Inquisition, and, try as they might to force their way through the stalwart gates, the orks found no purchase against its face. It would only ever grant passage to those of the Inquisition, and suffer the attempts of all else without remittance for ages to come, for in the center of the door there was but a single opening, no larger than a human hand, which could not be forced by any instrument other than the mark of the Inquisition.

Unbuttoning the front of her over-coat, Inquisitor Godwyn removed the Inquisitorial rosette from her chest, and pushed it into the perfectly fitting socket.

The gates were silent, but after a second her identity was confirmed, and with a great rumbling groan that stirred up the dust inside the cavern, the doors parted like the opening of a giant maw, and she and her companions were granted passage as the warning was imparted upon them one last time.

You are never free from knowledge.

 

They were admitted into darkness.

The outer doors of the oubliette grinding shut behind them, the Inquisitor and her allies found themselves trapped in an impenetrable blackness. Hidden inside the walls on either side of the door, ancient logic engines rumbled into life, and dim glow globes embedded into the arched ceiling awoke at the arrival of visitors. First two, then four, six, and eight – until the small chamber beyond the outer door was bathed in an icy-blue light.

Amen Puritate.

Purity without end.

A white mist of vapour hissed into the chamber from vents concealed in the ceiling, walls, and floor beneath their feet, but Godwyn told her comrades not to panic – this was a standard decontamination protocol present in every oubliette. She had never been in one before, but she had learned of them in her studies.

After the vapour subsided, clouds of disinfectant powder wafted from the ceiling, after which jets of some sort of cleansing agent blasted at them from all angles, though it left their clothing unexpectedly dry.

“I think we can remove these helmets,” she said. The decontamination cycle was over, and they pulled off their stuffy masks to look at each other and their surroundings with sweat-streaked faces.

Sudulus’ tufts of thinning hair were standing up at all angles, Grant’s normally kempt appearance was instead bedraggled and dirty, Striker’s eyes were puffy and red while her hair was caked against her scalp, and Godwyn looked no better. All of them shared a sallow tinge in their cheeks and wore a lingering weariness in their eyes that spoke of the jungle behind them. Regardless, it was good to feel the air again.

A small chime sounded from somewhere overhead and the decontamination doors opened before them into yet another chamber barred at the end by a massive door adorned with testaments of the Inquisition and inlaid with numerous leering skulls.

“What is this place?” Grant asked apprehensively as he craned his neck to look up at the vaulted ceiling while turning on the spot to keep an eye on the uncomfortably dark recesses hidden between the ribbed walls.

Godwyn was practically holding her breath as her eyes flitted across the ornamented angular surfaces of the chamber. Behind them, the doors leading back into the blue-lit decontamination room closed with a swift snap.

“This is the inner door to the oubliette,” Godwyn replied, “and beyond here…” She took a step forward. A mighty golden =I= was emblazoned upon the vault door, and at its center was an Imperial skull motif with red, glowing eyes. As soon as Godwyn took a step, the eyes grew brighter, until the entirety of the chamber was bathed in red light so fierce it was blinding and they had to shield their eyes.

And then came the noise – a terrible, rumbling noise like the breathing of a massive furnace, or as if the earth was moving above them. It grew louder and louder to a near deafening pitch until – suddenly and inexplicably – it stopped. The glowing light in eyes of the skull faded and died, and with a quiet hiss the Imperial motif slid upwards on oiled tracks along the =I= to reveal a glowing green dataslate with an attached numerical keyboard. Small letters flickered across its interface:

 

+Greetings: Inquisitor.

+Life signs: confirmed.

+DNA samplings: confirmed.

+Number of subjects: 4.

+Identity: logged.

+. . . . . . . .

+Enter code.

 

“What code? Do we know of a code?” Sudulus wondered aloud, the green glow of the dataslate illuminating his face contorted in concentration under the dim light of the vault.

Godwyn reached for the number pad, but stopped short as her fingers hesitated inches from the keys.

The code to access the vault could be any sequence of numbers an Inquisitor pleased, as the inner door was not actually secured by a numeric lock. Once an Inquisitor opened the inner door and it closed behind them, however, the doors could not be reopened from the inside unless the same code was entered – a precaution against something being loosed into an un-expecting galaxy.

Godwyn input three numbers: 1 – 1 – 3.

Mechanisms within the door clicked and whirled, and the golden skull slid quietly back into place. With a squealing groan the doors parted before them to reveal the inside of one of the Inquisition’s best guarded secrets. With baited breath, knowing hardly what to expect, they waited as the doors receded, and, in the sole corridor that was visible beyond, they the dim flicker of a solitary glow-globe that pulsed with an audible hum and cast staggered shadows down the angular ribbed walls.

Cautious and wary lest she trip some automated response, Godwyn led them on with Sudulus following closely behind her while Grant entered last supporting the Captain. Without hesitation, the doors shut behind them as soon as they had passed – locking them inside.

“Well,” Sudulus unsettled the deathly silence of the oubliette after the inner door had sealed itself shut and they had stopped underneath the glow globe, “here we are.”

 

* *

 

If the Academies of the Inquisition are the shining lights of the Emperor’s most holy Ordos, then the Inquisitorial vaults are its shadows, and the oubliettes amongst the darkest of them. Forged in top-secret Inquisitorial foundries on Mars using dark technologies the likes of which can be found nowhere else in the Imperium save perhaps in the vaults of Terra, Inquisitorial oubliettes are shipped in complete secrecy to thousands of undisclosed worlds across the Imperium to serve as top-secret bunkers for the shadowy agents of the Inquisition to conduct their most dangerous tasks. It is standard practice for servitor construction crews to be liquidated upon completion even though they know not what they build, and to know the location of an active oubliette is punishable by death for anyone who has not been authorized for its use. These precautions are necessary, or so the noviciates are taught, as the function of an oubliette is nothing short of damning, and it is with good reason that records of what transpires behind an oubliette’s locked doors can only be officially disclosed if ordered to do so by unanimous consent of an Inquisitorial conclave. How many unofficial disclosures occur cannot be guessed at, though Godwyn had never heard of one… save for the one in which she now stood.

An empty silence greeted them once inside the oubliette, and branching out to the left and to the right hallways extended from the flickering light into blackness. It was like a tomb – dead and forgotten – and with a menacing air that seemed to extrude from the walls themselves, almost as if the oubliette hated their presence.

She shook the thoughts from her mind.

“Alright,” she said half to herself and half to the others as she drew her lamp-pack from her pocket and flicked it on, “let’s see if we can get some more lights on for starters…”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Aquinas?”

Sudulus hadn’t budged from where he was standing directly beneath the pulsing glow-globe, and his usual keen demeanour was rendered pale.

She would like to wait for Aquinas too, and having the space marine’s unshakeable confidence by her side would have done much for her own courage.

But he wasn’t here, and had told her specifically not to wait for him – something she had not shared with the others. Godwyn didn’t know if he was coming back.

“We can start without him,” she said in a half-truth, and swept her light back down the left-hand hall.

 

 

They quickly found that the rest of the oubliette was black and without power, and if she had hoped for familiarity to breed understanding she was to be sorely disappointed, for after two hours in the darkness with the only lights being those they held in their hands Godwyn found herself only growing more disturbed.

Being inside the oubliette was like standing in the body of a metal beast. Bare piping and metal trusses criss-crossed the ceiling overhead while the walls were curved at abnormal intervals and angled in such a way that they seemed to press down on her shoulders. When she walked, the sounds of her feet were distorted and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and with every step the shadows cast by the cold lighting snared the mind into seeing movement hidden in the ribbed metal walls. It was designed as a prison – as torture – and merely standing in it was enough to make Godwyn’s skin crawl.

It was also disparagingly small in size with only a half-dozen featureless rooms arranged in a square pattern around a central control cluster, and a sub-level that provided sparse living quarters with individual cells and a small kitchen and common area as well as a latrine. They quickly made Striker as comfortable as possible in the dark sub-level and Grant opted to stay by her side, but they had found no medicinal supplies they could use to tend to her arm or to her pain, and it was with a heavy heart that Godwyn confided in Grant that there would be nothing they could do for Striker until they returned to the Patroclus. Her arm was poorly set and remained swollen, and with every passing hour it became more and more likely that it would have to be surgically corrected or bionically replaced.

To make matters worse still, the central power station was offline. Sudulus was busily at work in the control cluster trying to get it functional again, but until he did there was no chance of finding what had happened here, as well as no lights, no logic engines or data-bank terminals, and the power locks on the main-level chambers were inoperable.

“I don’t know what I can do with this…” Sitting on the floor, the savant had pried a cover panel off the power distribution terminal and was setting about with his bionic fingers to examine the tangle of wires while Godwyn squatted down beside him so that he could see what he was doing in her lamp’s beam. “I don’t think this power source was ever meant to go offline…”

He knew that she didn’t follow the technical talk, but Godwyn had the feeling that he wanted to distract himself with words and didn’t want to be left alone. The rest of the control cluster was silent and so dark that she couldn’t see the open door over her shoulder. She would hated to have been left alone too.

“Why not?” she asked casually, hoping that her savant would launch into some theoretical supposition about power sources and their applications that could distract them from the menacing darkness.

“I don’t know,” he replied in a small voice. He continued to work in earnest. “But who ever designed this designed it not to be easily serviceable. Likely because they thought it would not break down.”

“Do you know – ” Godwyn started, but Sudulus sat up quickly and cut her off.

“No I don’t,” he replied with a nervous snap, drawing his knees up to his chest and running his metal fingers distractedly over his scalp. “It shouldn’t be happening!” he protested anxiously; “This system is too well built! Too strong a design – it’s not meant to fail!” He was panicked – rattled.

“Sudulus…” Godwyn reached out and put a comforting hand on his knee, but he looked at her with troubled eyes.

“This shouldn’t be happening!” he protested again with a high-pitched whine; “You don’t understand: this is not meant to fail! Everything about it is genius – utter genius! It’s – It’s… not like anything I have ever seen! It’s – it’s a work of art! Mechanical genius down to the last detail!” His pupils were dilating and his breathing was rapidly increasing.

Godwyn scooted over the floor beside him and gently put an arm around his shoulder to try and calm him down. She told him that he was nervous because of the dark and of where they were.

“Why don’t you come back with me to the lower level, and we’ll try again when you’ve had some food and cleaned up a bit?”

He nodded furiously, and tried to take some deep breaths as they stood up and slowly walked from the control cluster.

“This – this is too much to take. Yes – yes that would be good, I think…”

 

It would take Sudulus three more days of working feverishly in the dark before he managed to restore main power to the oubliette, but even at three days the oubliette was exacting a fearsome toll on those trapped inside.

Being in constant pain, Striker was afflicted worst of all, and every day in the dark saw her move less, speak less, and eat less. Grant had done his best to keep her company and hadn’t once left her side if he could avoid it. He would tell her stories, read passages from the Guard issue Uplifting Primer that he kept in his storm coat’s breast pocket, and at one time Godwyn even overheard him reciting poetry from memory. It was the Commissar’s trusted duty to inspire and motivate the spirits of others, after all, and doubly so in a place such as this. There was no telling if his efforts were effective, however, as the Captain often lay motionless with her eyes closed as she struggled through the pain with hollow, gasping breaths. They had done the best they could for the strong woman, but that was of little comfort.

Grant was been hard hit by Striker’s suffering but did not let it dampen his indomitable spirit for but a moment. He was resolved to accept nothing but success: he would carry them all out one at a time on his shoulders if he had to, but he would not see them succumb to failure. His courage was admirable, and Godwyn did not know how he managed when everything around them was deliberate for despair.

Even with her years of study and training in preparation for such things, Godwyn could feel her nerve eroding. As a premise, she knew the functions of an oubliette and the necessity of its use – she understood its uses and how it could be properly employed – she grasped the subtleties of its design and how it was meant to be effective – yet for all her so-called knowledge she found herself ill-equipped to put it into practice. Doubts about her mission, her allies, and herself clawed into her mind regardless of where she was or what she was doing until she became a sceptic of her own thoughts.

And always her mind wandered, turning out fears and suspicions to fill the space left by her empty surroundings. What if there was nothing here? What if Meridian had been discovered? What if Aquinas was dead? Maybe she was grasping at hope when really there was none. Could she do it, she wondered, could she track her mentor down?

The darkness yielded no answers, though at last the lights came on.

 

“It’s not much, but it is the best I can do, I am afraid.”

“It’s good. More than we need.”

Squatting on the floor of the control cluster with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, Sudulus blinked up at the glow-globes as if seeing the light of a sun for the first time. He was rocking back and forth, like some sort of youngling animal separated from the brood, and what little hair he had stuck out like tufts of grass clinging to a weathered stump.

“I think it was tampered with,” he muttered, his eyes now fixed on the pried away wall panel in which he had been working, “but I fixed it – even though I couldn’t understand it.” The savant had managed to squeeze himself up into the wiring that extended through the ceiling to the otherwise inaccessible generator, and had worked in those cramped confines for hours at a time before clawing himself back out.

“I don’t know how they did it,” he looked up at Godwyn, genuinely confused, “but I fixed it all the same.”

“You’ve done very well, Sudulus,” the Inquisitor congratulated him, causing him to grin half-heartedly and rock faster on his heels, “but you’ve also done enough. Take a shower, eat some rations, and get some rest. I know that the Captain will be happy to hear what you’ve done.”

That was a lie. Victoria hadn’t said a word for what seemed like an age, but maybe, just maybe, things would change now that the power was back on. Regardless, Sudulus was starting to crack under the weight of this place, and a chance to uncoil his tightly wound mind could prove beneficial.

“Where is Aquinas?” Sudulus stood up; “Why isn’t he here yet?”

“He’s coming,” she lied again. “I’m sure he’s just making certain that the orks are dealt with.”

Perplexed, the little man gave a small shrug but quickly walked off in the direction of the sub-level lift, leaving Godwyn alone in the now lit control cluster.

That was fine. She preferred it that way.

The control cluster, as well as housing the power distribution controls, also stored the oubliette’s records in heavily encrypted data-banks, and everything that occurred behind the inner doors was recorded into its machine mind. If there was an account of Inquisitor Felix’s murder to be found it would be stored in the records, though only if they could be successfully deciphered.

The first key was obviously her Inquisitorial rosette, and, leaning over the data-bank, she inserted her badge of office into the machine and watched intently as the back-lit readout hummed to life and began to display small lines of text across its surface:

 

+Identity Confirmed.

+Welcome Inquisitor.

+Clearance Level <Limited Access> granted.

+Decryption in process…

+Submit Query?

 

Godwyn chewed thoughtfully on her lip as her eyes rolled over the screen. With one hand on the embedded keypad she typed ‘full access’, and waited for the machine to respond. The logic-engine inside the data-bank whirred and chugged for several seconds as the machine processed her query, then more text appeared on its display:

 

+Clearance Level <Full Access> requested…

+Request denied.

+Clearance Level <Limited Access> granted.

+Submit Query?

 

The obstinate machine wasn’t about to tell her how to increase her clearance level, so Godwyn decided to pursue her interests directly and entered ‘Inquisitor Felix’ into the keypad. The logic engine replied almost instantly:

 

+Subject <Inquisitor Felix> archived.

+Compiling records… complete.

+58 records complied.

+43 records <restricted>.

+11 records corrupted.

+4 records <accessible>.

+View records?

+Submit Query?

 

The records were arranged in chronological order, though almost the entirety of the middle was listed as inaccessible, with the only records she could access being two near the beginning, one in the middle, and the very last entry. Each was an audio/video recording of the interrogation of who Godwyn guessed had to be Inquisitor Felix by Inquisitor Strassen and a short, stocky man with a bulldog face who was identified as the other man of interest, Inquisitor Pierce.

From the onset of the oubliette recordings, Godwyn could tell that Strassen and Pierce were desperate (though Strassen hid it very well) and that Inquisitor Felix was being firmly uncooperative with her interrogators. Pierce came across as irritable and easily flustered, though at the same time he was stubborn and aggressive and needed to be checked by her old mentor’s calm and methodical demeanour lest he be wrong-footed by the woman who was supposedly their captive. Antivus Felix, herself an experienced Inquisitor, came across as being unbroken and taking charge of her own interrogation, often dressing down her questioners in a matronly fashion that served to only further aggravate Pierce.

Godwyn had only just set eyes upon her, but already she admired the other woman’s severity and audacity, though in truth it had likely played a part in her undoing.

In the second and third recordings, however, Godwyn could tell that Felix’s boldness had been short-lived once the torture began, and, though the recordings never documented what had been done to her, the results were clear to see. She had lost the admonishing tone from her voice and the contempt from her eyes, and Godwyn could see that the Inquisitor knew her fate was sealed though she struggled on out of spite. Pierce was changing too, as if he could smell the blood of the kill to come and it drove him to be even more antagonistic in his accusations and judgements. Nonetheless, Strassen kept the other man at bay and remained composed during the drawn-out questionings, though whether or not this was a mercy or cruelty was hard to discern. Together, Strassen and Pierce were battering Inquisitor Felix with assertion that damned her in each of their own ways. If Antivus Felix was a traitor as they accused her of being, then their combined techniques verged on brilliance, though if she were blameless, then the two men were authors of the greatest of wrongs.

As she selected the fourth and final record made available to her, Godwyn could only hope that she would soon find out.

The screen flickered momentarily with an image of the Imperial Aquila and the document identification sequence before the picture faded into the by-now recognizable white walls of the interrogation chamber and the gaunt woman fastened to a solitary metal chair in the center of the room. Comparing the recorded dates, Godwyn knew that Felix had at this point been incarcerated for a standard month plus nine days, and every day was reflected in her person. Gone was her professional attire of the first few days, and gone were the prison rags of the middle weeks. Now she was naked; bearing the marks of her imprisonment and torture for the records to witness as she squirmed and writhed against the cold iron-framed chair between rattling breaths sucked through cracked lips.

Inquisitor Strassen, an elderly man with a grey head of hair and weary old eyes but upright in his posture and wearing a long black overcoat, walked into the picture from the direction of the off-screen cell door. The recording eye followed him as he moved. This time he was alone with his prisoner.

“So begins the fortieth day of questioning Inquisitor Antivus Emanuel Felix, suspected traitoris extremis for crimes against the Golden Throne and His Holy Inquisition,” Strassen began with the customary proclamation as he had done in all the previous recordings, standing before the prisoner and announcing her crimes to the room at large.

“Isaac… please…” Felix mumbled between laboured breaths, though Strassen ignored her and continued the proclamation.

“Isaac… have you no pity… remaining for me?”

Inquisitor Strassen turned on his heels, and Godwyn watched as her mentor slowly walked away from his prisoner to the edge of the screen with his hands held pensively behind his back. There he paused for a few moments, glanced up at the recording eye, then turned back to Felix and began to walk casually towards her.

“Tell me, Antivus, have you ever witnessed the pity of the eldar?”

“Isaac… I beg you… pity me…”

Strassen ignored her and continued to speak in a casual tone as if she had answered his question.

“I have,” he said. “They leave none alive, as I’m sure you know. They slaughter the men, the women, and the children where they stand. They have no mercy – no pity, as you might say.”

His gentle pace was taking him behind the prisoner as he continued to speak.

“You act for them, Antivus – not directly, no – but by failing to confront the aliens when they reveal themselves to you.”

“Isaac… please, with all that I am… I beg you…”

“Your actions have shown you pitiless, Antivus, as you have left many of His people to beg for the pity of the eldar, which I have just shown you rests upon the edge of a sword. I serve the Emperor, Antivus, I serve His people. By wronging His people, you have wronged me. You show me no pity…” He stepped back in front of her, and brought his face close to hers; “…so why should I pity you now?”

“You don’t understand… Isaac…”

Strassen turned away from his prisoner once again and continued to walk at a leisurely pace around the interrogation chamber.

“You are right,” he said, “I do not understand how you could turn your back on your people as you did. That is what makes me different from you.”

A scraping noise escaped from Felix’s lips and her withered body shook against the chair’s iron frame. Godwyn could not tell if she was coughing or laughing.

“I remember… when I too… enjoyed such affection… as you give to the… masses.”

Strassen shook his head, and rounded on her sternly. “That changed the day I stopped calling you ‘master’.”

Godwyn’s eyes widened as she looked at the figures on the screen intently: Inquisitor Felix had been Strassen’s teacher!? How did she not know this? Why was nothing of their relationship recorded? Glued to the screen with apt attention, Godwyn listened carefully as Felix continued to speak.

“Isaac…” she said again, her voice feeble and shaking, “I always… admired your devotion… your respect for human dignity… you are above this…”

“My duty compels me, Antivus,” he replied slowly, “you knew this to be true even before you met me. I will do whatever I must,” he paused, though the angle of the recording eye prevented Godwyn from reading his expression, “to protect my people.”

“…yet you won’t protect me… from the indignities I suffer…?”

“To earn my cooperation, you know what I must hear.”

Antivus Felix sank even lower in the prisoner’s chair. “You would use it… for good… Isaac? You don’t… know what good is…”

“The people of this sector deserve better, Antivus. We both know that is good enough.”

Felix shook her bruised head: “The men with you… are power-hungry… They will not… see things… as you do.”

“They can be controlled,” Strassen retorted coolly.

“Or…” Felix countered, “…are they controlling you?”

Both figures on the screen fell silent, though Godwyn willed them to continue.

“You can’t use them…” Felix said at last, “there are none who can…”

Strassen shook his head. “You know where they are,” he reminded her, “everything else is not your concern.”

“Men like Pierce… can never know!” she pleaded.

“It does not concern you.”

“Isaac… I am begging you… you know what he does to people… what he has done… to me…” Felix’s voice was growing moist, and though she could not see it through the grain of the picture, Godwyn imagined that she was crying. “Isaac… if you care… you will not let him know… You will not let him hurt me further!”

“He will do what he must, as will I.”

“…don’t you care about me… Isaac?” she implored him.

Strassen stood motionless and unaffected by his prisoner’s suffering. “I care insomuch as my duty requires me to care.”

His demeanour was chilling, but even now Godwyn recognized the man she admired as her mentor: he was not without compassion, but duty always dictates.

“One way or another, you will talk,” Strassen told her; “whether it is to me or to the others, however, is up to you.”

He waited for her to respond, but when she didn’t he turned to leave.

“Wait!” she called after him.

He stopped at the door.

“Promise me… promise me that you… won’t tell the others…”

“I make no promises.”

Felix had no choice, though eventually she nodded, and Strassen came closer. She said something at that point – something that Godwyn did not hear – but when Strassen heard it he gave a satisfied nod and took several paces back from the woman in the chair. He then drew his pistol – the mirror image of the heavy pistol he had bestowed upon his student – and loaded a single round into its chamber.

“I am not without pity,” he said, and shot her in the head – her brain-matter scattering to the tiled floor as the single spent shell-casing bounced with an ominous clink.

Lowering the pistol, Strassen stared at the body, and Godwyn felt her eyes growing wet. He’d killed her, yes, but in the end he had done it to save her from more pain.

‘A necessary evil is still evil,’ Strassen had once told her, ‘and regardless of what good comes from it, it cannot conceal the evil that is committed. Both the Inquisitor and his prisoner share the same fate.’

[Lady_Canoness]

This part was very enjoyable to write and flowed quite naturally when it got rolling. We'll see if it shows. It includes my second attempt at a chase scene (the first being in my other work 'The Saint Ascendant'). Also, in this chapter we discover the fate of Brother Aquinas.

The end is nearing with only 4 - 5 chapters left to go!

 

*part 13*

 

For a whole second day Godwyn poured over the oubliette’s records in a frantic search to turn up and sliver of evidence to confirm or deny her suspicions about Strassen, but after hours without rest she was forced to accept that her efforts were in vain. Everything that could possibly provide answers to her questions were either restricted, corrupted, or altogether missing; leaving her tantalizingly close to uncovering the truth behind Inquisitor Felix’s murder with an abundance of possibilities but very little proof with which to work.

Felix had known some secret involving the eldar, and this secret had been enough to drive Strassen, Pierce, and their unknown associates into capturing the Inquisitor under the guise of investigating her treachery. But what was the secret, why did Strassen and Pierce want it, and what did the ‘people’ Strassen mentioned have to do with it?

Godwyn had watched the four recordings over and over again, but each time served only to accent her own lack of information; something she could not remedy while she remained here. She needed to contact Lord Roth. Perhaps he could access the restricted files, or perhaps he could authorize the arrest of Inquisitor Pierce with what information she had recovered, though regardless of what he could or could not do there was only one way to proceed, and that required returning to the Patroclus.

 

Wherever Brother Aquinas had gone the orks must have followed him, and not a soul witnessed the four figures slip from the cave mouth under the cover of darkness and dash through the valley before disappearing into the tree line. Godwyn had her doubts about making a break for the jungle from the oubliette, but back amongst the trees under the pitch-black canopy she could breathe more easily. Her team was in poor condition and Victoria was in a very bad state, but, with no other options available, the young Inquisitor would take whatever graces she could get, and not sharing the jungle with a horde of orks was an excellent start.

Risking more light, Godwyn flicked on her lamp-pack and clipped it into place on the under-slung lug of Striker’s borrowed hellgun and tested the beam on nearby trees before gingerly stepping forwards after the streak of light. Sudulus, needle pistol drawn in one hand and a lamp-pack in the other, followed closely behind the Inquisitor while Commissar Grant, supporting the slow moving Captain Striker, brought up the rear.

Before they had departed from the oubliette, Godwyn had told them what Aquinas had said: the mission could not fail, and they were not to wait for him. It darkened all their spirits and broke her heart especially, but they were leaving the space marine behind. If they reached Meridian and Lee got her airborne there would be no coming back. If they reached Meridian – though there was no knowing if they would get that far.

Their route back to the shuttle would be the same they had followed going in the opposite direction, though if they deviated from the pathway they would almost certainly get lost in the jungle.

And then there were their rations. For fear of exposure to the mysterious airborne pollen they could not eat any solid food in the open air, and instead had to rely on Sudulus and his stimulant syringes – of which there were only seven left. They had lots of firepower and ammunition, but if they became lost in the jungle the orks would be the least of their concerns. Hunger was not an enemy they could fight.

Sudulus kept two syringes for himself as he was the least physically capable. Godwyn and Grant had each taken one, and Striker had been given three despite her willingness to go without in favour of her squad-mates. Even so, their time was short, and even the slightest delay could prove fatal.

 

It was almost dawn with the night-time darkness receding to a dull greyness around them when Captain Striker collapsed.

“On your feet, soldier!” Grant tugged on her shoulders, urging her back up as her legs gave way and she crumpled to the jungle floor. He tried dragging her back into stride, but when it became apparent that her feet weren’t moving the Commissar called for the others to stop.

They were still in the shadows of the deep jungle with at least another two hours ahead of them until they could make camp.

Her own legs aching, Godwyn trudged back towards the officers as Sudulus sat himself down on the roots of a nearby tree with a moan.

“You can’t rest here,” Grant crouched down beside the crumpled trooper and grabbed one of her gloved hands tightly in his own, “you *must* carry on until we make camp.”

Her helmeted head resting on the ground, Victoria Striker mumbled something between shallow breathes and feeble attempts to regain her feet.

Grant looked up as Godwyn approached and shook his head in silence. Captain Striker was beaten. Her badly broken arm had all but sapped her strength for the past six days, and to take one more step struggling through the dense jungle was a step too far.

“Victoria,” Godwyn got down on her sore hands and knees so that her head was next to the storm trooper’s, “as much as I’d like to let you rest, we can’t stop here. It’s too dangerous – we have to keep moving.”

“I’ll take responsibility for her,” Grant offered as Godwyn stood back up, but the Inquisitor shook her head.

“This is my team and we are in this together,” Godwyn stated, giving the Commissar a hand up with a groan; “we’ll all carry her back if we need to, but I’m not losing anyone else on this damned world.”

 

Determined to carry on, they toiled through the jungle until the pollen-filled skies turned golden and made camp at the cliff-top waterfall where they had rested almost a week before.

“We’ll stay here for a couple of hours,” Godwyn announced, feeling the sweat trickle along the ridge of her nose and gather on her upper lip, “and keep going when we’ve gathered our strength.”

Her own legs felt like jelly and quivered whenever she tried to hold them still, and through her boots she could feel the blisters on her feet throb painfully as they reopened. How could suffering get any worse? She sat herself down by a rotting log and tried to knead the knots of tension out of her hips while listening to the burbling of the water and gazing out over the stained horizon. What had it been like for Strassen when he was on this world? Had he faced the same hardships? She didn’t really want to think about him, but at the same time there was little else she could do to escape the moment.

A little ways away across the cliff-top, Sudulus was having little luck trying to re-bind Striker’s arm. They’d have to watch her, the savant had warned them discretely; her mental-state was eroding as quickly as her strength, and he worried that if left alone she could well attempt suicide.

Grant wasn’t about to let that happen, and stayed close to her at all times whether marching or at rest. He’d relieved her of her combat blade and her side arm before they’d left the oubliette, and fought off his own fatigue to watch over her as she slept. Godwyn would relieve him from time-to-time between her own fitful bouts of sleep, but the man was impossibly stubborn and would often stay awake anyway and would not touch his allotted nutrient injection.

No amount of rest, it seemed, would ever be enough.

 

* *

 

The air was darkening on their second day of marching when the snapping of tree-trunks alerted Godwyn to something big crashing through the undergrowth no more than a stone’s throw away through the trees.

Suddenly alert, Godwyn waved her team down and dropped to her knees, pulling the borrowed hellgun from her shoulders as she did so and activating it with a flick of her thumb. The gun hummed to full charge in a half-second and the refractive sight painted a red crosshair over the jungle as she took cover behind a tree-trunk and aimed the weapon through shadows in the direction of the noise.

Tree-trunks snapped and leafy branches crashed to the ground beneath heavy footfalls and a rumbling roar like thunder. Whatever it was, it was moving closer and quickly.

Up, move – she signalled behind her as a tree went down with a snap not more than twenty paces through the thick foliage. Not needing to be told twice, Sudulus was up and scampering through the jungle away from the falling trees, but Grant and Striker were much slower.

Darting from the cover of the tree trunk, Godwyn dashed back to where Grant was half-dragging the storm trooper away from the thrashing trees.

The Commissar snapped around when he heard Godwyn rush up beside them:

“We have to fight!” he yelled over the noise. “We won’t be able to escape with the Captain like this!”

“Bullsh**!” Godwyn barked back, and grabbed the soldier’s knife from Grant’s coat pocket.

“What are you doing!?” he shouted in alarm, but Godwyn had already slashed the blade along the storm trooper’s armour, cutting the straps from the carapace plating and roughly pulling it from her body – easily freeing up at least twenty pounds of weight.

“Get her over your shoulders and run!” she bellowed back; “That’s an order! This is no time for heroics!”

The Commissar didn’t argue, and together they heaved the semi-conscious Striker onto his shoulders just as the nearest trees splintered apart and the source of the noise came crashing into view.

Bi-pedal and standing at least twelve feet tall was a humongous orkish contraption that belched smoke and trampled the foliage beneath it. Four piston driven arms tipped with vicious looking shears and buzz-saws extended from a heavily armoured cylindrical body above a pair of wide-barrelled machineguns, at the center of which was a single vision-slit revealing a red-lit interior and a pair of savagely gleaming alien eyes looking directly at the Inquisitor.

The ork started to shout and jabber from inside its machine and after a split-second delay the alien’s amplified voice hollered out from crude-vox units attached to the machine’s hull – spewing vile-sounding gibberish at the three terror-struck humans.

“RUN!!” Godwyn screamed, and Grant was off like a shot – bolting through the trees with the storm trooper over his shoulders.

Without thinking, Godwyn levelled her weapon at the iron-clad beast and held down the trigger – the hellgun wailing and bucking in her hands as it scored the hull of the ork walker with dozens of energy bolts.

The ork walker lashed out with two of its arms, felling a couple of trees as Godwyn threw herself flat and out of the way. The ork continued to scream alien obscenities as the Inquisitor scrambled to her feet and dashed away after Grant without a backwards look, though as she launched herself through the jungle she heard the crack and snap of trees falling as the monstrous walker lurched after her in pursuit.

With fear for her life driving her forward, Godwyn tore through the jungle in a blind rush as branches and leaves lashed at her arms and mask. The ork was following her and she could hear the whine of its saws as it cleared the forest after her. With a rattling chatter the ork’s machineguns opened up and sent bullets whizzing through the air exploding into trees around her and showering her with sprays of sap and splintered wood.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she sprinted from cover to cover in great bounding strides, she was hoping upon hope that the alien inside the machine wouldn’t get a clear shot. The trees were growing thinner up ahead, however, and the ork contraption was gaining as it stamped through the undergrowth at a terrifying pace.

A bullet whizzed by her ear and thwacked into a tree – cutting it off at the middle and bringing crashing down in an explosion of wood just behind her back. Something stung across her scalp, but she ignored it, instead ducking and weaving through the bushes as she tried to find someway of slowing the metal beast down.

Vaulting a downed log, she was caught off-guard by a sudden four-foot drop and fell head-over-heels into the dirt – the rim of her mask biting painfully into her nose as she face-planted onto the jungle floor. Cursing, and her eyes watering with the pain, Godwyn stumbled back to her feet and continued to run – the ork screaming after her and blazing away with its guns as it had to look for an alternate way around the drop.

The mask was badly skewed over her face and she was having a hard time seeing, but Godwyn ran on regardless until she stumbled upon a rough outcrop of jagged rock and threw herself down behind it to catch her breath. She could still hear the ork screaming, though by the sounds of it the alien was a little ways behind her. She readjusted her mask and wiped the trickle of sweat from her brow, and as her breathing came back into control she noticed that her pants were warm and wet. No time for pride, she reminded herself, quickly checking that her hellgun was still functioning after her fall; worse things had happened to Inquisitors in the field than peeing themselves.

She gulped down a mouthful of air through her stuffy mask and blinked the sweat out of her stinging eyes. Her head hurt. There was still a lot of sweat gathering on her brow. She wiped it off. Her gloved hand came back red.

Her chest tightened involuntarily as panic gripped her mind at the sight of her own blood. She’d been shot – in the head. Quickly, she reached her hand to the top of her scalp and felt around with her fingers: a stab of stinging pain confirmed her fears.

Sh*t! SH*T! She was bleeding from the head and had no idea of how bad it was!

Panic was rising rapidly and waves of nausea started to wash over her mind. Where were the others? She was lost!

The ork’s screaming grew suddenly closer, and the panic inside her quickly died as she strained her senses to their limits and concentrated on the approaching enemy.

Run, hide, or shoot?

It wasn’t much of a choice.

Adrenaline pulsing back into her limbs, Godwyn ripped from cover in a headlong dash through the sparsely treed opening. She didn’t look back, but she heard the ork guns open up again as her legs pumped madly against the ground and carried her at blinding speed towards Emperor knows what.

The ork machine stomped after her on its piston driven legs with its arms snapping and flailing wildly in anticipation of the catch.

 

“Where’s Godwyn?!”

“What!?” Grant span around. The jungle was awkwardly quiet in every direction – no snapping, no crunching, no shouting.

“She’s… she’s not behind us!” Striker wheezed from over the Commissar’s shoulders.

He set her down gently on the jungle floor, and the Captain struggled to her knees to watch the trees. Grant swung his machinegun around into his hands and scanned every direction with his eyes: nothing – no movement even at the highest treetops.

“Oh dear Emperor no!” he managed.

“We can’t… leave… her!” Striker grunted through her pain.

The Commissar looked at her – his eyes wide through his visor.

“The whole mission depends on her… we can’t leave without her!” Striker said again, more forcefully this time.

Breathing heavily, the Commissar snapped his head every which way and took a few desperate steps in every direction. Impossible. Impossible! She had been right behind him! With a scream of frustration he pointed his gun skyward and blazed away at the treetops until the spent shell casings of an entire magazine were piled around his feet.

Striker bowed her head.

Releasing the trigger, Grant let his weapon fall back to his side. “Only the Emperor can help her now,” he said grimly.

 

Smashing through the gripping thorns of a creeper plant, Godwyn skidded to a halt on the sandy banks of a wide-flowing river – astonished by what fate had put in her way. The ork walker was still behind her, and after fleeing through the jungle she’d found herself here with nowhere else to run?

The river bank extended in either direction to her right and left with no cover, and if she tried crossing she’d be gunned down in no time. Should she double back? Maybe try to outflank the machine? At least there was a long tree-line on the opposite bank, and the river was wide – maybe, if she could cross it, the ork would not be able to follow?

With a crash, the alien walker started to push its way through the undergrowth behind her. Time to choose.

Not wasting a second, Godwyn dashed into the brown flowing water and splashed as quickly as she could in the direction of the opposite bank.

The alien machine tore through the trees, and, trailing vines and creepers from its limbs, stomped across the bank – its weapons spitting death as it came; ripping apart the smooth surface of the water with its bullets.

Already up to her waist in the water, Godwyn dove head first into the water and felt it sting along her scalp and rush past her limbs as the underwater currents fought against her strength to carry her down river. Bullets whistled by through the water, but she couldn’t see them as her mask filled with the dirty liquid. Her armour and clothing were heavy and she could feel them dragging her down as she fought to swim with aching arms and legs. Up above she could see the surface and she struggled to get there as her chest tightened and her lungs screamed for air, but always there was too much water and it crushed the air from her lungs like a rock.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

She wondered if Strassen had ever drowned.

As her eyes stung with dirt-filled water, she felt something solid beneath her foot, and, pushing upwards with all her might, launched her head and neck clear of the river – gasping down as much air as she could above the breaking surface – then she was under again.

Suddenly she felt more alive – she could do this – she wasn’t dead, and she fought on all the harder against the dragging weight of her clothes and the pain in her head. Again she launched clear of water and clawed her way forward, though again she was sucked back under before she could do so much as open her eyes. She had to make it, she could not fail. Eventually it took less and less to force herself to the surface, and her soaking clothes grew heavier and heavier as the water became shallow beneath her and gravity pulled the liquid back from around her body. Soon she even glimpsed sand through the water that filled her visor.

Crawling on all fours and feeling very much like a drowned rat, she pulled herself up onto the opposite bank and let herself collapse into the sand. Gasping for air, she tore of her mask and swallowed down as much of the warm air as she could into her screaming lungs. Let the pollen kill her, or the ork on the opposite bank – she was done with this world.

Feeling faint, she wiped the water from her eyes and rolled from her stomach onto her side. Her clothes clung to her and chafed against her skin, and she had to wipe her sand-filled hair from her face, but at least she was in one piece.

Glancing back across the water, she saw the smouldering remains of the ork walker standing knee deep in the river, and managed a dry smirk in amazement as she swept her blond hair back out of her face: how in the Emperor’s name had that happened? She didn’t even notice when it stopped shooting.

She flopped her head back into the sand and gazed up at the darkening crimson of the sky as the sun set behind the pollen clouds. Her heart was still thumping against her rib-cage, but it was starting to slow… giving her the time to reflect on how hopelessly lost and tired she really was. Amazingly, she still had her heavy pistol and Striker’s hellgun, though she’d managed to lose both her map and her half-empty nutrient syringe. She felt a hand around the neck of her soaked overcoat – at least she still had her rosette.

“Inquisitor, I thought I told you not to wait for me?”

She sat bolt upright in the sand at the sound of the familiar serpentine voice. Walking towards her across the river-bank in a dirt-stained and battle-scarred suit of black power armour with his force staff in hand, the sight of Brother Librarian Orion Aquinas was enough to make her weep with joy – though instead Godwyn simply stammered, “You’re back,” in a tiny voice.

Nodding his helmeted head, he came to a stop beside her, and held out a hand to help the Inquisitor back to her feet.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said, peering up into the helmet’s glaring red eyes with a relieved smile on her face.

“Indeed,” he murmured, and set off down the bank without delay, forcing Godwyn to run after him to catch up.

“I had been hunting the ork dreadnought for several days in the jungle,” he continued when she had drawn level to him, “and I would have been content to allow it to lose itself in the wilds, but when it happened upon you I had to intervene.”

“Were there a lot of orks on this world?” Godwyn asked, tearing off a piece her undershirt and tying it over her nose and mouth to protect her from the worst of the pollen before once again sweeping her damp hair out of her eyes.

“Several hundred,” Aquinas confirmed in an uninterested tone. “I believe that one of their space-faring vessels was wrecked upon this world and the orks were left stranded.” He glanced down at Godwyn to see her looking back up at him; “It is also likely that the crash of the ork vessel resulted in the otherwise unexplained atmospheric conditions after several years. Regardless, this world will warrant further investigation by the Ordo Xenos and the Deathwatch. I would request that you add that to your report.”

“Of course,” Godwyn agreed without hesitation, “though I have one more question.”

Aquinas nodded. He was listening.

“How did you kill the orks?”

“I only had to do battle with two orks,” Aquinas corrected her, but continued when it became obvious that she wanted to do more. “I killed their leader – what they call a ‘nob’ – and then manipulated the orks into doing what comes naturally to them. The second ork was the one you saw burning on the riverbank.”

Humbled and amazed that a single space marine had managed to overcome hundreds of orks, Godwyn walked in silence beside the space marine for a long while until he spoke again.

“You have another question,” he informed her.

She didn’t even bother to be surprised.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Back to your ship, Inquisitor. Was there somewhere else you wanted to go?”

[Papewaio]

THAT. WAS. EPIC.

 

You have to do more chase scenes, because my God they are good. Aquinas was a welcome half-surprise; he was the only way that I could think of to get Godwyn out of that. Still, having someone that awesome alive is always a plus.

 

More, please!