The Inquisitor

[Lady_Canoness]

So after many months away from the keyboard, I've come up with something new. I apologize for my lack of work on the Inquisition lately, but after 3 books and working on 4... I was starting to feel like I had run into a substantial wall...

 

With that in mind:

 

 

 

 

I am Inquisitor Solomon Wright, and this is my life.

 

---

 

This is my Law

 

 

 The man in front of me’s name was Kurt Spieler, and he smoked too much. I knew this because there was ash from his two previous lho-sticks smeared across the tile floor, the gaps between his teeth were browned, and because the expression he wore on his face told me that the mild narcotic was the only thing that kept him going for most of the day.
I knew his name because the woman with me in the elevator told me that he’d be waiting for me when I arrived. She also told me he was younger than he looked, liked flattering himself in front of others, and that he smoked too much. Judging by the accuracy of this last statement, upon meeting the man I was prepared to believe that her other two statements were also accurate. Laying eyes on him, he looked to be about forty at first glance. Taking the woman’s advice, I reassessed his age to be somewhere in-and-around thirty. Too young to be smoking that much.
“Inquisitor Wright?” he blew out a lung-full of smoke. It was a question.
“Yes,” I nodded once.
It was seemingly enough to appease him, and he briefly lost eye contact to inhale more of his intoxicant. He thought enough of himself to feel sure in his certainty that I wasn’t lying, that I was who he said I was, and that I wouldn’t stab him in three places with the knife I had concealed behind my back and drag his unresponsive corpse into a nice dark corner.
Oblivious to my thoughts, he exhaled.
“The lords are expecting you,” he said, trying to tell me the one thing he thought I already knew. He was wrong. No ‘lords’, plural, were waiting for me; I was here at the behest of one ‘lord’, singular, and there was no way he could know which one. It wasn’t even up for debate. “I have to warn you though,” he continued, thinking he was doing me some sort of favour and that I might even be thankful for him, “this isn’t like any of the other strongholds in the sector. This is a whole different arena…”
I stayed silent to let him keep talking. He was taller than me, and possessed a sort of swagger in his manner that suggested he had been here at least a couple years and had misinterpreted one of his superiors as showing him favour, which, in turn, led him to believe that he knew the lay of the land. Granted, I would defer to his judgement if I ever needed to find the lavatories, but in matters concerning the lords of the Inquisition, I would keep my own counsel.
“Forget the niceties that you are used to – the people here are out for keeps. The power-play here is for planets, fleets, and changing the direction of events for decades to come. Don’t expect to find any sympathies for lesser things than that!”
The part of me that had already decided that it didn’t like him was surprised that he could have said as much without multiple drags on his stick in between – so far he had demonstrated it to be an adequate replacement for air – but the true Inquisitor within me noted that he was probably right: his was a perspective akin to peering through a keyhole, but for all it was worth it was accurate.
“I am ready to go,” I told him.
He nodded, and between puffs of his lho-stick led on for me to follow. I kept close, but in all honesty the smoke trail was strong enough for me to follow by smell alone as we went deeper into the Inquisitorial fortress. 
The man I was here to meet went by the name of Artemis – Lord Inquisitor Artemis – and I knew less about him than I would have liked. What I did know was hearsay, and hearsay is dangerous. A friend of mine, who will remain conveniently nameless, had worked under him some years earlier and described him as single-minded to a fault, ignorant to the needs of his subordinates, and yet driven in such a manner that some found it inspiring. An Inquisitor with celebrity status. And elevating him to Lord had likely pushed his self-certainty even further.
Today I was to enter his employ. It was not something of my choosing, but my friend and mentor Inquisitor Frode had made it so, and as such I was inclined to obey. At one point I had argued – after all, I had my own pursuits – but Frode, curse the clever old man, has a way of using my own interests for my undoing; Artemis, he’d said, was on my side and helping him was helping myself. We’d see about that.
Kurt’s tour ended at the doors to the council chamber, at which point he had to stop, though I continued on with my rosette clearly displayed. Security was well hidden – I admit I did not once detect it as I stepped through the portal to council chamber’s galleries – but I do not doubt that it was present and that it was lethal. Kurt was well advised to stay away.
Inside, the council was in session, and I settled into one of many vacant seats to listen.
“…and that is why, Mr. Speaker, this council should reconsider the abolition of the Nostram Convention. We can ill afford another witch-hunt on our hands. The honourable members of this council must recall that there are matters of much more pressing nature than an idealistic crusade into territories that have proven stable for centuries.”
Looking to my left and my right, only a mere handful of the gallery seats that surrounded the council were occupied, and it looked as if the attendance in the council chamber itself was only marginally better. The matter at hand was clearly of little interest to the Inquisition, and the presenter’s words fell mostly on deaf ears.
Come, I beckoned a cherub from rafters and it fluttered over; “Summarize this session.”
The cherub, one of dozens of arcane clockwork contraptions that watched over the proceedings of the council, regurgitated a strip of parchment from between its pallid lips while the keys in place of its teeth typed out the information with a tiny clicking noise.
“Day five of council ruling over the Nostram Convention,” a tiny voice announced once I had torn the parchment from the cherub’s lips; “Inquisitor General the honourable Lord vanHesslebrun presiding. Currently presenting: the honourable Lord Artemis. Past presenters: …” the list went on.
Reading the cherub’s synopsis, it looked as if Artemis was finding himself on the losing side of the debate: the Nostram Convention would be overturned by vote once debate had been exhausted, and, given the attention span of the council, the time for debate was running out.
Dismissing the cherub back to the rafters, I retrieved my personal note-slate from the inside breast pocket of my overcoat:
What is the Nostram Convention??
I jotted down before saving the question to the slate’s memory core and tucking it away once again. I had never heard of the convention, though that did not entirely surprise me – Inquisitorial councils are renowned for arguing over gibberish or the tiniest of details that the Imperium has long since forgotten about – yet if Artemis was defending it then I had no doubt that I would be hearing of it soon.
Again I looked to my left and my right: the other occupants of the gallery didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me – one even appeared to have slumped over, asleep in his seat. Such were the great minds of the Emperor’s Inquisition.
“…thereby, I come to my final point, Mr. Speaker,” Lord Inquisitor Artemis continued from below, “As it stands at present, the Nostram Convention represents a stroke of genius in its simplicity and effectiveness. The abolition of the Convention presents us with nothing to gain, and I firmly believe, Mr. Speaker, is questioned today by those who seek to justify their positions and otherwise lack of productivity.”
Lord Inquisitor Artemis concluded with a curt bow, and without further ado dismissed himself from the council chambers. Rising from my seat to follow him, I discreetly made my way to the exit. Behind me, the Speaker introduced the next presenter with marginal enthusiasm.
I caught up with Artemis outside the council chambers where he had already gathered quite an entourage. I was spotted almost instantly and intercepted by a tall, thin man and a pair of pale-faced women.
“You wish to speak with Lord Artemis?” the man asked without introduction. His eyes were unsettling, and his face had tightness to it that I found repulsive.
“Yes,” I replied,
He nodded, then motioned for the pale-faced women flanking him to step forward. “You will see him presently, but for appearances sake you cannot be seen to follow him. I’m sure you understand.”
I did, and let myself be escorted away for the Lord Inquisitor and his entourage by the two women. Both had short-cropped military style haircuts, wore long overcoats similar to my own, and moved with a drilled precision that spoke of recent combat indoctrination that had not yet become natural for them. From this detail I guessed that my escorts were mere guards, nothing more, and one walked in front of me while the other behind me. They took me to an elevator. We stepped inside and waited in silence for the doors to close.
It was at that point that they attacked.
The first – the one in front of me – swung round with her right first, and my eyes caught glimpse of what looked like a studded fighting glove coming for my face.
I blocked instinctively with my left forearm, lowered myself into an appropriate fighting stance, and then blocked her left arm with my right before stepping inside her defences and driving my knee up into her solar plexus.
She dropped with nary a sound.
My second attacker lunged with a heavy kick aimed at my back, but I was ready for her and turned in time catch her foot firmly in my arms, after which I counter-attacked with a heel kick to her femoral nerve – causing her to cry out in pain before I twisted her foot and sent her crashing to the floor.  She’d barely hit the ground before the doors to the elevator opened and I was suddenly face to face with Lord Inquisitor Artemis.
He seemed to ignore the carnage. “Inquisitor Wright, I presume?”
“Correct.”
“Good,” he turned on his heel, “come with me.”
His entourage was with him – including the tight-faced man – but they allowed me close to the Lord Inquisitor before following at a respectful distance.
“Expecting someone else?” I asked. It was clear to me now that the incident in the elevator was some form of test, and I suspected I knew which one.
“Indeed. I don’t take things for granted,” he replied. Naturally, he had seen my file and would have noticed that in the fine print in the back pages that I was an accomplished hand-to-hand combatant and that I disdained killing unless it was absolutely necessary.
“An assassin would have killed those women,” I noted.
“And would have then been killed in turn,” the Lord Inquisitor replied. “Their skill rests in being expendable. They have bodies to distract, and trigger fingers that can be useful for putting rounds downrange. That is all.”
I must confess that I found this revelation to be somewhat alarming. Every Inquisitor knows that, ultimately, both he and his staff are expendable. That is fact. It is taught at an early level. Yet I had not considered ever contracting personnel to be expendable. That being expendable could be an agent’s one redeeming quality. All of my people, past and present, have a purpose when in my employ – above and beyond being expendable. I am proud to say that.
I followed Lord Inquisitor Artemis into what I assume were his private offices, and there we spoke in private away from his entourage. The space was kept relatively bare and functional. Clearly he did not spend much time in the place – his base of operations being elsewhere – and had not bothered to personalize it in any way. In reflection, it could be that he thought it too easy to compromise. It was, after all, located in a den of spies.
Offering me a seat in front of his desk as he himself sat behind it, Artemis skipped the pleasantries and got right to the business at hand. I could appreciate that, for I felt that I did not want to spend overlong in the man’s company.
“You’re working for me now,” he said – not a question – “show me the personnel files for your team.”
He held out his hand and I surrendered them without question, at which point he began to go through them one-by-one as if he were a hound on the trail of a scent.
The first one across his desk was of my acolyte, a fiery woman by the name of Odyssey. She was smart, quick-witted, and unquestionably loyal. A former street-fighter from a hive world, she had lived by the gun and knew how to survive and thrive where others would fail. Unconventional to the core, I considered her a huge asset to my work as an Inquisitor and credited her with saving my skin more than once.
“Get rid of her.” They were the first four words from the Lord Inquisitor’s mouth, and he slid Odyssey’s file to a far, barren side of his desk. Without second thought he was on to the next one.
“Excuse me, Lord,” I dared to interrupt him in a hushed tone that I thought masked the sudden flash of anger I felt at the most trusted member of my retinue being cast aside, “but I believe the choice of personnel in my employ remains my own.”
Artemis looked up from the next of my files with an unreadable expression. I felt no emotion therein, no humanity, just a calculating mind driven towards one unknowable end.  “You are now in my employ,” he corrected me. “Your staff is now in my employ. I decide who goes and who stays. She goes. This is my law.”
He looked back at the next file without knowing that my stomach was steadily sinking. The sooner I left his presence the better. Frode would get an earful next time I saw him.
“This one,” Artemis pushed the file he was looking at back in front of his face. “Useful?”
“Yes.” I said almost without thinking to look who it was. The name on the page read ‘James E. Joyce’ – a former Guard junior officer. I had recruited him right off the battlefield, and other than being a good fighter I found him quite useful for liaising with any Guard units I encountered.
The Lord Inquisitor seemed satisfied, and placed the file off to the other side far away from Odyssey’s. He flipped to the next one, my assassin’s, and instantly his brow furrowed.
“Interesting.”
“She’s very good,” I said defensively. She did, I admit, have an interesting name.
“Her file seems scarce.”
Yes, that was another point of interest. Her history, admittedly, was a mystery even to me, yet I was very confident in both her abilities as an infiltrator and a killer, and a good friend of mine had vouched for both her loyalty and background.
“I prefer poisoners,” he said flatly, but placed the file on top of Joyce’s in what I came to assume was the ‘accepted’ pile.
The next three files he flipped through rather quickly. “These are clerical staff?” he asked, holding up all three.
I nodded.
“Get rid of two of them.”
“Ecart and Berger,” I replied flatly – the two files I named flew towards Odyssey; the one that remained, Sykes, joined the soldier and assassin.
“Machinist?” the next one came up.
“Yes.”
It promptly moved the accepted pile.
“Astropath?”
“Yes.”
He tossed it to the discards; “I will assign you one. 
“And this…?” he got the last file I had given him, “this is your partner?”
I nodded. It was, and I could tell right away, with some satisfaction I might add, that the Lord Inquisitor was not pleased. But there was nothing he could do about it: she was an Inquisitor.
“Why didn’t she come here with you today?” Lord Artemis asked, putting the file back down on the desk and passing it to me without need to look at it any further.
“She had some arrangements to make,” I said. “We agreed that I could act as her representative.”
“I don’t like her…”
All the more reason I do.
“… you know what she is?”
I nodded, keeping the smile from my face as I spoke; “Inquisitor Arachne is a psyker, yes. Quite talented, I might add.”
“Your relationship will complicate things.”
“My relationship with my fellow Inquisitor is professional.”
“Keep it that way.”
Little more was said before Lord Inquisitor Artemis was through with me. At his invitation, I rose from my seat and escorted myself to the door.
“Expect to hear from me shortly,” he said. “Make the necessary changes to your personnel.”
Leaving his office, I made my own way back and eventually out of the Inquisitorial fortress altogether. I was not pleased with the day’s events, and did not know what I had to look forward to. Frode would get an earful indeed.

 

[Dosjetka]

Bookmarked for later reading. Good to see you back among us, Lady_C.

[Aqui]

Always good to see you here Lady C

The story is certainly different in tone than the others (I take that to be deliberate ). I look forward to seeing more

[Lady_Canoness]

Thanks gents :)

 

I really don't spend much time on 40k anymore, but if the rumours are true about an Inquisition game...

 

Anyway, I am going for something different from my other work - first person is an obvious change - and I'm also trying to focus on making this more than an adventure story set in space.

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Will read this when I have a bit of time, but nice to see you still around :)

 

Hopefully you finish the Inquisition IV at some point :P

[Dosjetka]

Not sure if you're looking for critique about the writing itself or not (found a couple of clunky parts, nothing more), so I'll keep it brief: I really enjoyed it. A nice change from the other four Inquisition stories that you've written and I find myself enjoying the character quite a bit. I've got a lot of questions buzzing in my head, so I hope that there'll be more of this story soon.

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Having a read through now I like it. I like Artemis, interested in seeing his backstory, where he has come from if it ever gets revealed. He seems to be the ruthless type, the kind who would bring a whole regiment to get one guy.

[Lady_Canoness]

I'm trying something very different this time around. The content will be more 'episodic' (if that's even a word) in how it reads. Each chapter will focus on 'This is my _______' and be a short story unto itself. Granted, Inquisitor Solomon Wright and most of the cast will be constant (so much as I can keep it), though I intend to float each chapter around chronologically.

For example, the next chapter is 'This is my creed' and occurs chronologically prior to 'This is my Law'.

Essentially, the Inquisitor is telling the reader about his life as an Inquisitor topic by topic, though as the project carries on a continuous narrative will emerge.

 

Will this work? Who knows.

Will you like it? I sure hope so.

Will you see some of my old characters re-emerge in this new stories? Maybe, though Nerf is dead and gone.

Has L_C been drinking tonight? What on earth gave you that idea... I mean, well, yes.

 

:D

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

sounds interesting. Will be reading intently ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

This is my Creed    

 

 

 

I stood at the window and watched the rain fall in the river with an odd sense of emptiness in my gut. Like something was slowly sucking my insides out through the soles of my feet, leaving me hollow and light. It is my feeling of anticipation – the feeling I get whenever I’m standing in the calm before the storm – and odd though it feels, it is not nearly alien to me. 
It is the feeling of danger, but not my own.
Personally, I am rarely threatened with bodily harm or death, and, if I am, I am either prepared for it and therefore not in danger, or caught by unawares and unable to process the true danger I face until it has passed and I am no longer threatened by it. I am something I can control. I know my limits, and I know my abilities. I do not fear for myself.
The danger I feel is for others whom I cannot control. I cannot know their limits or abilities with absolute certainty, and I fear for the danger they face. Does that make me weak? Some of my colleagues might say as much, though I tend to disagree. Weakness is not knowing what you’ve got until it’s gone and then lamenting the cruelty of its loss.  I am not weak. I fear for others because I know what I’ve got and I want to keep it for as long as I can. That is not weakness, but I digress…
As the rain fell a group of cultists were meeting in the old wood mill across the river. My surveillance had reported their number at twenty-three – twenty-three of the planet’s old aristocracy; powerful, wealthy beyond reckoning, and utterly corrupt. Most were pretenders, bored with themselves and delving into matters that no faithful mind – no sane mind – should delve into, yet their petty evils were indications of an even greater wrong. Discovering their crimes had taken time, for they were never my primary concern, but as an accessory to heresy they would share the fate of their diabolical masters.  Death was the reward for treason, and for twenty-three souls I sent one executioner.
As I said, they were not my primary concern.
I am no fool, however, nor am I prone to hubris, and I knew well the risk I was taking as I stood alone watching the lights twinkling in the wood mill no more than two-hundred meters away across the water. They would be armed, but otherwise unguarded, and their sense of security would be strengthened by the façade of secrecy I allowed their group to maintain. I was confident that that alone would swing the balance in favour of my one executioner.
Yet there was always a risk.
The cultists’ meeting took place at night when the weather was cold and made worse by rain and high winds. The river ran rapidly – far too fast to approach silently by boat – and the shoreline was outcropped and rendered inaccessible by hidden rocks that could sink any craft that strayed too close to shore. Landing at the wood mill itself was likewise out of the question – the waters were too rapid and the jetty too exposed. The only way across was by a single cable that stretched from shore to shore and swayed in the night wind. Once used with a system of pulleys to ferry freight across the water, it now delivered my assassin to her marks.
Doom on you who would turn against the Emperor.

 

 

“Any sign of her?”
I was not alone that night as I watched the lights from the wood mill. Wherever I may go, Odyssey was always close to my side. I spared her a glance as she came and stood with me by the window;
“I am not expecting her yet.” I said in a hushed tone.
Odyssey was watching me. I gave her a look to dispel her curiosity. She shook her head with a sigh. She was like that. If she’d had her way, we would have stormed the wood-mill with an entire contingent of the local arbites and it would have been over by now. In her opinion, my choice of action was an unnecessary risk with a high probability of failure… in her opinion. I knew this because she had told me as much before we’d set out. I had told her where she could put her opinions – my decision was final. She had not appreciated that.
“You think I’ve sent her to her death,” I put words to the thoughts I knew she was running through her head. “You think I’ve been careless.”
She shook her head more forcefully and would not meet my eyes. I was not accusing her, but alone in the dark she went on the defensive.
“There were other options,” she stated. “Other things you could have done.”
“Be still,” I replied, “I’m watching this.”
She did what she was told and stewed away in silence. This was not uncommon. Odyssey and I, even though she was my most trusted companion, had an interesting relationship. Personally we were the best of friends, but professionally she was very protective of me – and consequently very critical. This will seem very awkward to most, though I guarantee that our relationship was very healthy.
“I don’t know why you put so much faith in her…” she muttered; my acolyte apparently intent on voicing her displeasure in any way she could.
I ignored her.
She spoke of Mercy, my assassin and executioner of choice. Two-hundred meters away, on the opposite shore, the assassin would be completing her objective one blood-soaked body at a time – it was something of which I was very confident.
My confidence at that time stemmed from the fact that Mercy was a killer unlike any other I had met. Physically, she was very tall and possessed a near-impossible level of dexterity and grace. She was also unnaturally fast and resilient – so much so that I assumed she had been subject to a great deal of genetic and biological alterations. That was just the thing, however: I didn’t know for sure. Most everything I knew about her was based off assumption and could not be validated with any known fact.
She was an unknown, she was a risk, and the trust I afforded her on the basis of my speculations drove Odyssey insane.
“If she’s failed, we’re done for,” my acolyte continued, this time in a louder tone; “all of your hard work will be for nothing and we’ll be back at square one...”
“Are you jealous?”
“What!?”
“Are you jealous of her?”
“Don’t be stupid!”
I’d struck a nerve, and in the darkness I was smiling to myself even while Odyssey was cursing me under her breath.
“Does her presence threaten you?”
“No. Why would it!?”
“Well, you’ve seen her. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”
“We’re done talking about this.”
I was softly laughing as I kept up my watch on the opposite shore. Odyssey’s protectiveness towards me was endearing, and I thought it sweet that she guarded me against the other agents in my employ. Of course she had a legitimate (but not entirely founded) concern in the confidence I placed on some of my agents, but as a hetero-sexual woman she also had other interests in keeping potential competition at bay.
A light blinked three times from across the water.
“That’s the signal,” I turned to Odyssey. “Bring her over.”

 

 

Mercy was wet, but otherwise looked exactly as she had two hours ago when she’d departed. There was a large, satisfied smile on her face as she ducked through the door into the room where I was waiting. Odyssey followed her, looking a lot less pleased.
“Report,” I asked once the assassin had stopped in the middle of the room. She was still smiling and watched me with a hauntingly hungry look in her eyes.
“They are dead,” she said, then looked over her shoulder at Odyssey who stood further away near the door, “all of them.” I don’t know why she did this but in the dark room her voice seemed chilling. Odyssey had had enough and left. I had to call her back. When I called she came, though she did not appear entirely willing.
I dismissed the assassin once she had given her report, and when she left I turned to Odyssey. “What is it between you?” I asked.
Odyssey crossed her arms and glared at me. “I don’t trust her and neither should you. We don’t know enough about her!”
“Remember your place,” I warned her. “Your place is beside me. Trust me, and let me worry about trusting her.”
Shaking shook her head. Odyssey was always hard to convince. “That’s such bull****. It’s going to bite you in the ass, and when it does I won’t be able to save you.” She looked at me imploringly; “Why do you do this, Solomon?”
At that point I may have sighed. Odyssey was a good friend and I cared about her, and I know she cared about me. She only ever looked out for my best interests, but what she didn’t understand was that my best interests often excluded what needed to be done. I cannot control the actions of other people with absolute certainty, nor can I control their beliefs, yet my duty compels me to try and as such I have to put my trust in other people to do what I need them to do. This is my creed – my guiding principle – and it doesn’t matter if no-one else understands it.
“Because I must,” I told her.
She thought it was a cheap answer and told me so.

[Aqui]

Interesting Especially when Mercy is in it Pity Nerf is long gone though although there is always writing further into the past and exploring his story (which would be bitter sweet in the end as everyone knows what's going to and HAS to happen)

A good read as usual in any case

[Lady_Canoness]

Nerf and Mercy actually had their beginnings in 'The Saint Ascendant' - a story I started in 2008 back in the Ordos Inquisition section of the B&C (and has now been lost in the warp along with all the other topics in that no-longer-existing forum).

 

Does this story happen prior to Godwyn's? Hard to tell. We'll see if there are any other telling factors.

 

Glad you're liking it!

[Aqui]

Nerf and Mercy actually had their beginnings in 'The Saint Ascendant' - a story I started in 2008 back in the Ordos Inquisition section of the B&C (and has now been lost in the warp along with all the other topics in that no-longer-existing forum).

Does this story happen prior to Godwyn's? Hard to tell. We'll see if there are any other telling factors.

Glad you're liking it!

Hell's yeah! Always good to read your stuff

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Mercy back, awesome. 

[Taranis]

Mercy is back! Awesome.:tu:

L_C is back! Awesome.:yes:

she's writing! Awesome. :)

[Lady_Canoness]

Thanks lads :)

 

Work on the 3rd chapter is almost done. It is called 'This is my War', and is a recollection of Inquisitor Wright's dealings with the Alien.

 

Hopefully it will be done soon!

[Lady_Canoness]

This is my War

 

 

 

I have fought the Alien face to face and survived. It is something I will never forget. 
Fighting aliens is not like fighting people. They are wholly different than we are, and though some of these creatures may possess features not unlike our own that is where the similarities end. For good or ill they do not possess our humanity, and are capable of acts both bewildering and inconceivable. They are maddening, and to know them is to forget oneself.
Listen not to the voice of the Alien; speak not to the ear of the Alien; look not upon the works of the Alien.

 

I had come to the Hive World Perciphal III at the request of my friend and mentor Inquisitor Frode. He suspected that an alien cult had subverted the local Mechanicus Fraternity and was searching for evidence to back up his suspicions. The Adeptus Mechanicus was a formidable adversary, however, and the tech-priesthood had been stonewalling his every attempt at gaining information for the past six months. They blockaded him bureaucratically, were individually uncooperative, and were even, he claimed, responsible for the disappearance of informants and agents he had investigating them (both legal and otherwise). And, making matters worse, the political power projected by the Mechanicus Fraternity was enough to prevent many of the planetary authorities from acting against them.
It was under these circumstances that Frode requested my assistance to run a covert operation against the Fraternity while he bashed on through ‘official’ channels. At first I had had my reservations, but by the end of my first week planetside I knew I was onto something, and by the end of my first month I was ready to conduct a raid. Inquisitor Frode was ecstatic, and agreed to run interference for as long as I needed. I thanked him, but said I didn’t anticipate that I would be very long. How wrong I was.

 

James Joyce joined stepped down into my car and closed the door with a look of satisfaction on his face. Bright and clean-shaven, he still looked like the officer I had recruited two years ago even without the uniform.
“It’s all worked out,” he said. “The company commander has agreed to give us the men we need.”
“Good.” I tapped on the glass divider between the front and back seats and waved for the driver to go on. We pulled out slowly and were pushed through the checkpoint at the barracks before joining the morning traffic that corresponded to the civilian shift-change. Odyssey engaged the young former-officer in a light back-and-forth banter as the car started to pick up speed. Always by my side, she would tease him playfully, and he’d pretend to be flustered by her flippant advances and insistently respond as the perfect officer and gentleman.  It was all for fun and both parties knew it, though I was of the opinion that they should cement their words with something physical. They were of a closer age than Odyssey and I, and would be a good match for each other. He was a good enough man to treat her with respect, and she was independent enough ensure that relationship wouldn’t be a distraction from their duties.

We drove an hour-and-forty minutes until we reached our destination in the lower hive. This was my staging-point, the rendezvous I had arranged with the rest of my team, and where we would be met in an hour’s time by the off-world troops Joyce had managed to secure. It was located at a deserted cross-road near a cooling tower for the hive’s secondary power core. Normally this area was restricted, but neglect and knowledgeable personnel saw to it that I had free access. It was here I had my mobile command post – a large tracked behemoth that looked like an adaptation of the chimera chassis refitted with command-and-control equipment – as well as a pair of decommissioned rhinos that I had obtained from the local adeptus arbites. The troops I had secured would ride in these, while I and my team would lead in the command post.
I admit that to the casual observer my requisition of remodelled and defunct APCs may seem odd, but my reasoning behind going to such measures is twofold: First, my objective was located deep within the underhive in the bowels of an ancient Mechanicus factorum, and I estimated it would take at least three hours to reach at optimal speed and if the maps of the underhive I had were correct. I needed transport that was rugged and capable of travelling in the adverse conditions we were bound to encounter. Second, since the transports were decommissioned and had no markings, the identity and aim of the occupants would be difficult for anyone witnesses ascertain. Not to mention that having armour plating would help should anyone take exception to our presence – an occurrence that is not at all uncommon in the lawless regions of the underhive.
I had assessed the risk and acted accordingly. It is a common mistake for many inexperienced Inquisitors to plan primarily for the battle – anticipating the moment when the first shot is fired and planning their following actions in detail – but fail to realize that the actual battle begins the moment the first move is made. Many missions have been blown by things as simple as a blocked path, missed train, or engine malfunction miles from the objective. These were lessons every Inquisitor learned the hard way – myself included. That is why I had my machinist double check the vehicles I’d be relying on the moment I set foot outside my car.
“We’re looking at about another hour’s delay until the storm troopers arrive,” Joyce updated me needlessly as the three of us proceeded to the command post to prepare ourselves for the task ahead. He had briefed me fully in the car, and I had no questions left for him to answer.
I was quiet; the feeling of emptiness had returned.
Inside the command post I discarded my storm coat in favour of a leather combat jacket I had acquired several years earlier. It was faded and scuffed, and dark lines existed where my carapace armour sat overtop of it, but it was perfect the smaller items I often found I could not do without in a tight spot: a multi-tool, lamp-pack, a sling for a rifle, a canteen, heavy-duty tape, a lighter – items easily overlooked until they were needed.
Next to me, Joyce was practically fully kitted by the time I had merely put on my jacket. Odyssey, however, was taking her time and I could feel her eyes resting upon my back. By the time the soldier had finished, she asked him if she might have a minute alone with me.
“Here we are again, huh?” she said once Joyce had closed the door behind him. She leaned against a powered down computer console and crossed one leg over the other while she tapped her fingers on the metal frame.
I nodded; “Here we are.” 
“Ever think this could be the last one? The last time we’re together, like this?”
I smiled weakly; “Every time.”
She came over to me so we were standing face to face, and hooked her fingers along the inside of my belt. I gave her an encouraging look. “It might be our last time alone.”
The look on her face was inviting, and I slipped my hand inside her jacket felt her breast. I squeezed it, and she smiled before kissing me.

 

The sex lasted about nine minutes, then the clothes went back on and we finished arming ourselves for the task ahead.
I prefer to fight light. Bulky armours and cumbersome weapons are not for me. I wear a segmented carapace plate covering my upper body, my leather combat jacket, and a pair of tear-resistant combat pants above light-weight fighting boots – that is it. Weapon-wise, I carry two pistols. One is a flame-pistol with limited range, while the other is a modified heavy-pistol which I can fire accurately up to seventy-five metres. I also carry a powered sabre and a shield. Keeping in line to ‘fight light’, the shield is not some bulky thing that limits and encumbers the wielder; rather it is a wrist-mounted energy shield. Artificer-made at my specific request, the weapon is uniquely designed for my use and can be both deployed and retracted in an instant, and is proof against slug, energy, and physical weapons. It can also deliver a savage shock to anyone who gets hit by it. 
Odyssey is similarly lightly armed. She typically sports flack armour underneath her trench coat, and carries a pair of high calibre revolver pistols that she loads with an assortment of exotic and lethal ammunition. She is unerringly accurate with her chosen weapons, and has proven a fearsome fighter in my on numerous occasions. Thus armed, she went to find Joyce while I oversaw the final details of the planned raid.

 

In under an hour’s time the storm troopers arrived in several regimental marked four-by-four wheeled vehicles. They were at platoon strength and prepared for battle, and Joyce located the officer in charge and brought him to me.
“Captain Hoole, three-company storm troopers, five-twelve regiment, Triton,” the captain saluted. He was tall and wore coal-black armour. The slogan ‘devil’s teeth’ was crudely emblazoned on the chest plate in red-paint just above the stenciled rank insignia.
I nodded in response. “Gather your troop commanders, captain. I will brief you immediately.”
The captain saluted again and stepped off. He returned less than a minute later with five more of the devil’s teeth. From their ranks I counted two lieutenants, two sergeants, and a sergeant-major. Recognizing military hierarchy was one of the first things James Joyce had taught me when he entered my employ.
The mission, I explained to the assembled soldiers, was search and destroy and was classified as secret level vermillion (as is everything carried out by the Inquisition). Our objective was an abscess located beneath the bowels of a Mechanicus factorum. Hostile activity was unknown, but scans had indicated that it was not a natural occurrence, and was not man-made. I had mapped an avenue of approach and had dispatched an agent for route and enemy force reconnaissance, though I was not expecting to hear from her until we were closer to our objective. I had allotted four hours for travel time to the objective, one-hour for objective complete, and three hours for returning to my staging point. Communications would be maintained throughout the entirety of the operation.
There were no questions, and I gave the order to mount.

 

Vertical travel through an Imperial Hive was more or less restricted to turbo-lifts – large open-top elevators that moved slowly between levels by turning massive gears. Each hive would have tens of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands, of turbo-lifts. They were temperamental machines often experiencing mechanical difficulties, made all the worse by the fact that they were poorly guarded and maintained, and that the lifts proved a favourite target for vandals and enterprising criminals who would sell the parts to private repair contractors or use them for other nefarious purposes. These minor crimes were beneath my notice, though I made a bargain with a local crime boss to ensure that my travel went smoothly: he kept the lifts clear and working for a small fee, or he’d spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder for the assassin I would one-day send to kill him and his family. My terms were very reasonable, and he was in fact quite happy to agree.
Travel in the underhive, however, is a different matter entirely.
The underhive is the oldest part of the hive – the city that existed as the foundation and was built upon for millennia until it was all but forgotten. Abandoned by the citizenry and the hive administration alike, the underhive was a dark, cavernous place of crumbling buildings and causeways pancaked atop one another as a testament to the shoddy architecture of generations long dead. No structures were stable, no roads were secure, and cave-ins from levels above were common. Electricity existed in rare places where ancient power systems miraculously still functioned, and water existed in massive underground lakes or flooded ruins. Drinking it was to gamble with one’s life.
No-one inhabited the underhive by choice. Refugees, criminals, mutants and outcasts were the only ones to live in the darkness. People in the upper areas of the hive wouldn’t follow them down there. It was considered as good as a prison. There was no escaping the underhive. Once in, there was no way out, and all known accesses (there were surely numerous unknown access points) were heavily guarded by ruthless men and machines that would shoot any underhiver on sight. Death was the only law in the dark, and it was a law that all too many of the poor and desperate were willing to mete out upon one another.

 

We arrived in the underhive thirty-eight minutes after I had given the order to mount, and the darkness rose up to meet us as we left the well-light strongpoint that surrounded the turbo-lift to the upper levels.
“Good luck out there,” a grizzled and heavily armed guard shouted to my driver as our convoy of three armoured vehicles passed through the razor-wire perimeter, “every rat you squish is one less we have to put down on our end!” The guards had hung ‘rats’ outside their line as an example to others – all of them showed signs of having been torn apart by massed gunfire, and some were only children. Tribal markings adorned every one of them, however, and there was no doubting that they showed as little mercy as they received.
“Charming place,” Joyce commented dryly as we drove by the last of them.
“Most places are,” Odyssey replied with a smirk.
I remained silent.
There were five of us in the mobile command post including the driver; James Joyce, Odyssey, my machinist – a thickset man who liked to be called ‘Crank’ – and myself. My remaining staff had been left at the staging point.
Our vehicle was point, the two rhinos with the storm troopers behind, and we picked our way through the darkness following the map as closely as we could. Our searchlights and dozer blades quickly proved invaluable, as did the armoured vehicles’ ability to ford through waist-deep water, but even so we had to turn back and retrace our steps several times, and more than once had to take a delay so that men could be dispatched on foot to scout the way forward.
And of course there were ambushes.
The underhivers did not prove to be all that intelligent, and we gunned down a half-dozen or more as they tried to storm our convoy. Some ended up being crushed beneath our treads. The next time was stopped, I overheard Crank furiously muttering to himself as he scraped human remains from between our vehicle’s drive gears.

 

Two hours into the darkness, we received radio contact from the agent I had sent to scout the field.
“Halt the convoy,” I commanded the driver, and hastily dismounted from the command vehicle. I drew my pistol, but held it by my side as I stepped out from the idling convoy.
All around me were what looked like the crumbled remains of an ancient manufactorum. The machinery had been stripped bare so that only stumps of metal were left to mark where they had once stood on the uneven floor. Nothing of value remained – right-down to the glow globes that had hung from the now buckled ceiling. Centuries’ worth of scavengers had picked it clean.
Some of the storm troopers were now dismounting behind me; setting up a defensive perimeter for the duration of our stay. Vehicle-mounted flood-lights flashed on and pointed in every direction. The shadows would no longer protect anyone.
“Mercy?” I called to the assassin, and moments later she appeared as if materializing out of the dust-covered rubble. She smiled upon seeing me, and gazed around the dispersed storm troopers with an amused look on her face.
 I took her back to the command post and ushered her to duck inside. Joyce courteously offered her his seat, but she politely refused, stating sweetly that she fit better sitting on the floor. The vibrations from the metal decking running up her spine, the giant assassin looked quite pleased with herself.
Seating myself in the point-pivoting chair I had previously abandoned, I informed the driver that we were prepared to move on as the remainder of my team made small talk with the assassin where she sat.
“Enough,” I silenced them as our vehicle lurched into motion – Mercy’s large, violet eyes turned and fixed on my own – “make your report, Mercy.”
“I have seen the way ahead,” she said in her airy voice. “There is a circular blast door not far from here. It will not open. Behind it is your objective.”
“How do you know?” Odyssey asked.
Mercy turned her head nonchalantly in the other woman’s direction. “Shadows move freely in the dark,” she said.
“What?”
“It will not open,” the assassin closed her eyes too seductively for Odyssey’s taste, “I did not say I could not get passed it…”
“Can *we* get by it?” I asked my assassin, while glancing at Odyssey as a warning to be patient.
“Those you brought with you may destroy it, though it will not fall easily.”
“And it’ll ruin any chance of maintaining surprise,” Joyce added glumly. “This could be bad.”
“Is there no other way in?” I asked Mercy.
“Not for you.”
Odyssey rolled her eyes and planted her forehead into the palm of her hand.
“I could look at it, sire,” Crank spoke up from where he sat at the back of the command post.
I nodded my thanks. Crank had a way with all things mechanical, and demonstrated a familiarity with metal that I had not witnessed in anyone else. It almost seemed natural – like an innate knowledge. He didn’t follow procedures and protocols, and had never received any formal training, but he could pick apart and reassemble just about anything that had metal components. Vehicles, locks, firearms – give him a moment with it and he would have it figured out and usually in better working order than he had found it. His skills made him unpopular with the Adeptus Mechanicus, and that was in fact how I had found him several years prior. They had arrested him with the intent to try him for blasphemy against the Machine God when I intervened. Needless to say, I have not been particularly popular with the techpriests ever since.
“Now,” I turned to Mercy again, “what is behind the door?”
She looked at me with a curious look. “Aliens.”

 

Crank got the door open after about twenty of minutes of work. The power source was missing (likely scavenged eons before) and the door needed to be opened manually by attaching tow cables to each of the Rhinos and having them pull apart in opposite directions. Storm troopers covered every inch of the widening gap, and, once it was wide enough to pass through, fire teams of devil’s teeth started to move tactically through the door. They would go first and clear the way. It was understood without having to be said. In terms of importance, my life alone outweighed all of theirs in the eyes of the Imperium.
“There beyond is a maze with many dangers,” Mercy mentioned from beside me, watching the storm troopers gather on the other side of the blast door under the direction of their captain and his officers, “they will not survive…”
She sounded utterly unfazed by the ill omen she called upon the devil’s teeth.
“Understood,” I replied. “Guide them, Mercy. Make sure they take the correct path.”
“As you wish,” she acquiesced to my will, and sauntered off after them with long strides.
Mercy had been correct, and as we stepped through the doors we entered a labyrinthine network of criss-crossed ventilation ducts riddled with cave-ins, pitfalls, and side-passages burrowed through the corroded metal by the dwellers of the underhive.
There were traps too.
Someone had left behind an assortment of lethal contraptions designed to maim the unwary or cave in weakened sections of the tunnels. Mercy had spotted each of these and either disabled them or guided my raiding party safely past one at a time.
“Look,” I pointed out to Odyssey with a whisper, guiding her attention towards the curved ceiling above our heads, “someone has put these traps here deliberately.” In the shadows above us, I had been watching a singular pipe that ran the same rout we did since we entered the ducts. I could tell by the look of it that it was newer than the surrounding metal, and in parts the pre-existing material had been set aside to make way for it. It was also cleverly reinforced whenever we neared a trap. “Our foe is sophisticated.”
She looked at me, impressed that I could still surprise her after years together; “You noticed that in here?”
I nodded. I did not see anything that hinted at the identity of our foe until several minutes later, however, when Captain Hoole asked me to come forward and take a look at something.
Mercy had found it and pointed it out to the devil’s teeth. They thought it wise to stop and contact me. She thought it was wise to keep her distance, and she would be proved the wiser.
Two storm troopers were crouched near the object when I arrived and Captain Hoole bade them step aside as I approached. It was a crystal of some sort that pulsed with a faint pink glow and was surrounded by what looked like a glittering spider web of flexible metal that made a soft whirring noise that was only audible at close range. 
“It seemed to light up as we approached, sir,” the captain said. The crystal pulsed brighter in time with his every word. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mercy slip further away from the strange device. “Our auspex picks up no electrical readings, however.”
The crystal grew brighter still. A sudden, terrible realization entered my mind – I looked at the captain with wide eyes.
“Do you think we can – ”
I wanted him to shut up, but it was too late. The crystal shattered, and the spider-web shot off towards the captain like a coiled spring – expanding and contracting as it flew. It appeared to strike him in the chest, expanded, then contracted, and sliced through the captain’s body with horrific ease. He fell apart in bloody chunks and showered those of nearby with blood and gore. The storm troopers who were standing with him yelled and staggered backwards in fright: I merely closed my eyes and brushed the bloody chunks of meat from my face.
“Sergeant major,” I called down the line, “inform the second in command that he is now in charge.” It was at that moment I noticed the faint pink light hanging in the air above where the lethal contrivance had been. It appeared to take the form of a small figure then simply flitted away down the tunnel ahead of us. Mercy and I watched it until it was gone from our sight. I knew then that whatever surprise we may have had was blown, and that our enemy would soon be aware of our exact location. 
To their credit, the storm troopers shook off the sudden death of their captain quite quickly and respectfully gathered what they could identify in his remains. There wasn’t much left of him. Odyssey joined me once the storm troopers had moved on.
“What was it?” she asked.
“I believe it is called a ‘soul snare’,” I replied; “a device of pure evil that uses the victim’s own life essence to trigger its effect. In this case, I believe it ensnared the good captain’s soul through his voice, and then,” I looked at the bloody pile, “stole it from his body…”
Odyssey looked horrified. The fact that I did not is telling.

 

We encountered three more soul snares as we picked through the darkness, but not a one was triggered as we navigated them with extreme caution. I guessed that in total we had passed eighteen traps since we had entered the ducts. Our foe was adamant in keeping us out, just as I was adamant in getting us in, though, as I predicted, tripping the soul snare had been like an invitation for the enemy to fight us on his own terms.
The first hint of danger was when the forward troopers heard a gurgling, grunting sound coming from further ahead in the ducts. Survivors would later say that it sounded like a drowning pig – it’s muffled screams coming through something metallic and distorting. They pressed on – weapons raised for when they found the source of the noise.
Unfortunately, it found them.

 

I knew we were under attack the moment I heard the gunfire and screams, but I did not know what sort of enemy we had engaged or what the situation was. Communications had crumbled, and the storm trooper leadership sounded panicked and confused.
This is the problem with fighting aliens. Men spend their careers training for battle with and against humans and human tactics. They prepare for foes that die like humans, fight like humans, and think like humans because, ultimately, that is all they can train with. How can soldiers be trained to kill a tyranid that keeps fighting after half its body has been blown apart by gunfire? Or to stand against an ork charge that defies all reason or rational? Or face down creatures spawned from nightmares that can destroy a man’s mind with a single glance? They cannot. Experience is all that counts when waging war against the Alien and experience is costly.
Drawing my sword, I rushed forward as the storm troopers around me fell back in confusion. The flash and howl of hellguns firing filled my senses, but it was chaotic and undisciplined – the enemy too close for disciplined fire to be effective.
Rounding a bend I laid eyes on the enemy, and came face to face with a towering hulk of muscle, sinew, and wrought metal as it pulverised any man within reach with bizarre blades protruding from its fists and hands. Grunting and howling noises came from tortured vocal chords hidden behind a smooth, dark mask, and hooked chains dangled and danced from a thick iron collar clamped around its neck.
Men were shooting at it and hitting it – chunks of flesh being blasted from its body with every shot – but the brute simply would not die.
I identified it almost immediately, though admittedly it was my first and, to this day, only encounter with an alien of its kind. Sabre in hand, I powered up my shield and charged without uttering a sound.
I caught the beast by surprise, and my sabre cut into one of its tree-trunk arms with ease – my reward being a spurt of black blood and a howl of anger from the grotesque fiend. It swung at me with its wounded limb, but my shield deflected the blow backwards with a loud snap and a flash of energy.
The beast stumbled.
I slashed again, but missed as it was too large and its reach too long for me to effectively close the distance. Howling, it charged, but I threw myself to the side and deflected the blow of a trailing chain with my shield as it ran past into the ranks of the storm troopers – killing two more and brushing aside many others as if they were mere toys.
In an instant, Odyssey was by my side, and her revolvers were up and shooting – white explosions of fire searing into the brute’s hide, but otherwise not stopping it. It turned and she shot it in the face with both barrels – the resulting impact tearing off its mask – then she shot it again, and blew the contents of its head out the back of its skull.
The thing started to go berserk.
Thrashing and flailing, the brute turned into a whirlwind of death as it screamed and screamed and screamed. The storm troopers and my acolyte didn’t stop shooting it – its body was almost unrecognizable under the horrific wounds we had ripped into its flesh.
Then it burst. It exploded from within, and its legs swayed and fell in opposite directions as the rest of its flesh, bone, and metal protrusions showered over us. I heard screaming as acidic blood burned into those closest to it. Odyssey was screaming.
I brushed the blood off her as quickly as I could and was thankful to see that she was mostly okay. Rattled, but okay. The acid blood had burned holes through her coat and seared the flesh underneath, but it was nothing debilitating. I thanked the Emperor that she was unharmed.

 

The grotesque had killed five men and severely wounded four more. One of the lieutenants was amongst the dead and a sergeant was badly wounded. The sole surviving officer then ordered the sergeant major to take three men and move the wounded back to the vehicles. I did not protest, but our fighting strength was nearly halved. We consolidated weapons, quickly improvised new combat tactics, and pressed on into the once again quiet darkness.   
  Five nerve-wracking minutes passed before the ducts came to an abrupt end and we set eyes on our objective. The storm troopers called for a halt, and I moved to the front to assess how we should proceed.
In front of me opened a massive, cocoon-shaped laboratory extending high above us and far below us. Instantly I knew what I looked upon was alien.
Ringed around the conical ceiling were hundreds of individual glass pods filled with murky, dark liquids which were fed by an innumerable amount of snaking tubes – each of which pulsed and writhed as if to a heartbeat. The combined movement made it appear as if the chamber itself was alive. Around the edges of the chamber, interspersed at irregular angles were railing-less catwalks, each attend by a hunched, misshapen figure that was apparently oblivious to our presence.
“Inquisitor, look!” Odyssey pointed out something from where she stood by my shoulder.
I squinted through the gloom at what she saw. Feet. There were feet dangling out of the bottom of every glass pod. Some wore shoes, some were bare; some were large, some were small. All of them were human.
“Foul aliens…”
The laboratory had been harvesting the underhivers for reasons unknown. Probably, I assumed, to turn into the likes of the beast we had already encountered.  
The storm troopers closest to me waited for my orders. I was almost certain that I had seen enough – destroy the laboratory and all its occupants – but duty compelled me to investigate further.
“Mercy,” the assassin was standing closest to the entrance the laboratory and looking down into its depths with an impassive expression. She looked my way when I spoke. “Dispatch these creatures quickly and quietly. Let me know when the room is secured.”
She didn’t acknowledge. “You are spotted,” she said, and pointed downwards into the bowels of the laboratory with her blade.
I peered into the darkness. An alien face was looking back at me. It was grinning with needle-thin, pointed teeth.
“Burn in hell you son of a bitch!” I cursed. I turned to the storm troopers; “Kill everything that moves!”
The devil’s teeth responded instantaneously, and dropped into the laboratory under the cover of a punishing fusillade of fire from their comrades. The hunched attendants dropped like flies. Some of them turned and shot back ineffectually with alien weapons, but were gunned down by the storm troopers in response. I followed them in, my eyes fixed on the grinning alien, and navigated my way down through the laboratory by way of the catwalks. Mercy went ahead of me by an alternate route – her altered physiology allowing her to move with speed across surfaces that ordinary humans would find impossible to navigate – while Odyssey and Joyce followed quickly at my heels.
The alien was waiting for us on a circular platform suspended by a web of chains above where the mass of feeder tubes stretching throughout the chamber disappeared down a black hole. The fiend was tall – nine feet if I had to guess, and appeared to float before our eyes. Six arms protruded from its sides. Two appeared to be of normal size and gripped a shawl that hung around its emaciated shoulders with skeletal hands, while the other four appendages were unnaturally long, and waved around it to some unknown and unheard rhythm.
Odyssey shot it with both barrels as soon as she saw an opportunity, but the rounds seemed to burst mid-air and vanish, leaving the alien unperturbed. In response it held up a mirror, and my acolyte wailed in fright at what she saw. Dropping her guns, she collapsed on the catwalk and started to tumble towards the edge. I was too far ahead to stop her fall, but Joyce was on her at once and caught her just as her upper body went over the edge. He was shouting her name, but she was paralyzed with fright and could not respond.
I would fight this alien alone.
My boots connected with the metal platform above which it waited and I activated my shield. The alien showed me the mirror and I glimpsed its contents before I managed to force my eyes shut.

 

I cannot say with any certainty what it was that I saw that day, but know that it was enough to steal the mind from a man and to drive the very will to exist from his being. Odyssey suffered the worst for it, and it was days before she could speak again, and weeks before I would truly say she had regained herself. As for what became of me, I cannot truly say. I fought on and attacked the alien – though my memories are uncertain at this point – and it proved formidable. With Mercy’s aid, I struck it down and saw it collapse at my feet, yet the alien made sure that it was no victory. It grabbed my arm with a surprising strength in its icy grasp and pulled me close to its gnarled visage. It then spoke words I will never forget:
With a smile on its withered lips, it looked into my eyes and said; “I see you, Solomon Wright.”
I cut off its head to make sure it was dead.

 

The consequences of that day were felt throughout the hive and throughout my career.
Following further investigation, the Mechanicus Fraternity was implicated in collaborating with the enemy. They had provided sanctuary and assistance to the alien in return for technology. Inquisitor Frode led a just prosecution against them, and the resulting purge eliminated every stain of the alien conspiracy. Hundreds of tech-priests were tried and executed, and countless pieces of suspect technology were confiscated. A year later, once Inquisitor Frode was satisfied that all remnants of the Alien were destroyed, the Adeptus Mechanicus was invited to install a new fraternity in the hive and start a-new with increased Inquisitorial oversight. It was considered a great achievement for the planet, yet barely registered as a footnote in the halls of the Inquisition.
As for me, I spent the next three months convalescing at one of my private estates several systems away. Officially, I was not to be bothered, but unofficially I was constantly aware of my colleague’s findings, and what he found troubled me. Off the record, numerous alien artifacts went ‘missing’, and while I do not suspect my friend, I know that someone of influence was working against us. Numerous high-ranking tech-magi also escaped prosecution – protected and safeguarded by some unknown authority that superseded even our security clearances. These magi were removed from the world at least, but I had little doubt that they would surface again to further spread their heretical teachings. Relaxing in my estate, I knew this for what it was. This was my war, and my allies and I would spend a long time fighting it.  

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

This non-linear storyline style is...interesting. It feels like a load of short stories from his life, although I keep wanting more context on him and his team.

I have to say, I don't think I like him very much as a person. I liked the ruthless Inquisitor Lord from the first one, but this guy is just.......a character I dislike for some reason not really sure why, though.

[Lady_Canoness]

Thank you for the input, BSB. You've said a lot with a little and given some very important insight about what things are like from the reader's perspective.

 

The non-linear style isn't purely a series of unrelated short-stories. My aim is to tell one story through telling several short stories simultaneously. The main story is the Inquisitor's life - he is telling it to the reader through his perspective - the short stories follow investigations, incidents, and other occasions that the Inquisitor thinks important to telling his life story. Short stories will be told over several chapters, so we will see Artemis again. Chronologically, these stories go back and forth. Like we are told that Odyssey get's axed by Artemis in the first chapter, but then go backwards and see more of who she is in the following chapters.  

 

Ultimately, I like that non-linear is a change from the linear stories of Godwyn, and allows me to focus on moments I think are important instead of stringing everything together in a line.

 

As for the character being unliked... well that IS interesting. Could be that an Inquisitor is just not a likeable guy.

[Aqui]

Thank you for the input, BSB. You've said a lot with a little and given some very important insight about what things are like from the reader's perspective.

The non-linear style isn't purely a series of unrelated short-stories. My aim is to tell one story through telling several short stories simultaneously. The main story is the Inquisitor's life - he is telling it to the reader through his perspective - the short stories follow investigations, incidents, and other occasions that the Inquisitor thinks important to telling his life story. Short stories will be told over several chapters, so we will see Artemis again. Chronologically, these stories go back and forth. Like we are told that Odyssey get's axed by Artemis in the first chapter, but then go backwards and see more of who she is in the following chapters.

Ultimately, I like that non-linear is a change from the linear stories of Godwyn, and allows me to focus on moments I think are important instead of stringing everything together in a line.

As for the character being unliked... well that IS interesting. Could be that an Inquisitor is just not a likeable guy.

I quite like the non-linear format It's something I've considered myself (and tried briefly with a short about the Bahltimyr Reavers Warlord, but haven't since done anything with ), but I could do with really working out what I want to put in the various shorts.

As for the main character himself, I don't dislike him, but in my own mind I haven't enough to go on (yet) to make a decision. However, I quite like(d) Godwynn, especially as her personality has changed much from Inquisitor I to III.

What is a little disconcerting (but not bad) is Mercy speaking. I know later on in Inquisitor III we find out that she isn't mute, but after being so used to her actions speaking louder than her voice, it's taken a little getting used to

Bottom line is: I've enjoyed reading this so far

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

I liked Godwyn, and I like Eisenhorn/Ravenor. Most Inquisitors are liked...but I just dislike this guy, idk why, its just something in his manner annoys me. I get it from time to time with characters, just an instant dislike. 

 

I think its because he reminds me of Roger Moore's James Bond. One of the two actors I particularly hated in that role...for totally separate reasons. 

[Lady_Canoness]

Haha - well let's not focus on the hate! And I guarantee there won't be any Bond-ish one-liners ("Shocking. Positively shocking.")

 

This story is based after Godwyn's timeline and you will see one more character make a return, though once again with a different slant to them.

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

I'll just enjoy the rest of the characters

[Lady_Canoness]

Since the B&C has decided to lose its memories, I guess I had better put this back here where it belongs...

 

 

This is my Nightmare

 

I saw Lord Inquisitor Artemis again on the morning of the following day. He had arranged a meeting by missive the evening before, and had stressed the importance of my timeliness in the matter. I assumed his day was heavily booked and arrived ten minutes early with my partner, Inquisitor Arachne, in tow.
We were greeted courteously by his staff when we arrived and were shown to the Lord Inquisitor’s office where we were treated to creamed caffeine and refreshments suitable for the early hour. Lord Inquisitor Artemis, however, was noticeably absent.
His absence continued for twenty-two minutes – twelve minutes after he had asked for me to arrive.
Enjoying my caffeine and resisting the urge to check my pocket chronometer, I shared a look with my partner. She looked annoyed, but was being sure to take advantage of every hospitality the Lord Inquisitor’s people provided.
“You knew we’d end up waiting?” I murmured as I carefully shifted my weight in my chair and gave the appearance of relaxing for whatever eavesdropping devices the Lord Artemis would have deployed in his office.
Arachne nodded into her hot beverage as she pinched another sweet pastry from an attendant’s tray. The Lord Inquisitor’s tardiness hadn’t been a question for Arachne; it was a fact. She had known all along. And I was beginning to wish that she’d shared.
Remember that my partner is a psyker, though she is not the sort that hurls bolts of lightning from her hands or can crush a man with her mind. Her powers are less pronounced, and she trains to hide them from the observant eye. It even took me a while to notice what she was.
Inquisitor Arachne is gifted with an affinity for premonition, which allows her to literally see the future before it unfolds. The gift is fickle, however, and she has told me it rarely manifests as something easily recognizable or understood. When she was younger, she had difficulty establishing the present, past and future –something she claims to have now overcome. The greatest challenge is controlling exactly what she sees. She may have known, for example, that Artemis’ people would offer and abundance of refreshments, and therefore hurrying to eat an adequate breakfast was not necessary. Or she may have known that my determination to arrive early was unwarranted. I don’t know.
She definitely knew when Artemis would arrive however, and was courteous enough to warm me mere moments before he opened the door.

“Pardon my abruptness, but, as I am sure we are all busy people, I will keep this brief,” Lord Artemis barged into his office without pause for pleasantry and marched around to behind his desk without so much as a glance in the direction of my partner or me as we stood to greet him.
“Sit,” were his first words uttered in our direction. We sat, as did the Lord Inquisitor, and he left his overcoat on as he slid forward in his chair to address us. “As you are aware, the Nostram Convention is soon to be repealed. It is inevitable, and I accept that. However, there are certain things I need done prior that I cannot do myself due to the obvious fact that I am but one man who can only be at one place at one time. Agents lack the proper skills and finesse for what I ask, and thusly I have been forced to retain several Inquisitors into my service of which you are two. I am sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”
He did not sound sorry in the slightest, though I let him continue.   
“I gather you are partners and will be working together. Not ideal, but I will accept it as a necessary inconvenience.”
Arachne glanced over and caught my eye. How kind of the Lord Inquisitor to be so thoughtful.
“It is important for the two of you to understand that the Nostram Convention, once repealed, will allow individual Inquisitors unprecedented access to private sector funds, and to do so without the knowledge of the Inquisition. It is just one of the many occurrences against which the Nostram Convention is designed to protect, and to you it may not sound all that important, though I assure you that it is. Factionalism within the Inquisition is rife, and you should know that once this Convention is repealed certain factions and individuals will be in instant positions of power. For obvious reasons, I see this as intolerable.”
“What reasons might those be?” Arachne asked.
Annoyed that he was being asked to explain himself, Artemis made his displeasure plain to see. “I will humour you, Inquisitor,” he spat the title to remind her of her place, though in truth Arachne had always possessed a healthy disrespect for authority. “You – being that your short record states you to have very little to do with your colleagues other than one Solomon Wright – ” I flinched at the familiarity with which he used my name – as if he was used to saying it, “would not appreciate the importance of having allies. Once your career is longer and you have diversified your dealings, you will realise the importance of having allies who are not preoccupied with internal factionalism. Who can do their duties without having to watch their backs. Who can trust that they will not be killed by someone they thought a friend. That is why I find this intolerable.” 
“It would upset an internal balance,” I mentioned in an effort to get the Lord Inquisitor back on track. “Problematic in the least.”
“In the least,” Artemis echoed. Arachne motioned that her question had been answered, but made no apologies. “Trust that any such occurrence would be disastrous. Several like-minded Inquisitors have had the sense to perceive this, and to act accordingly.”
He reached into his desk and extracted a stack of papers, placing them in front of me with an air of finality. I set a hand over top them, but other than that made no attempt to see what the papers contained.
“These dossiers contain intelligence regarding four Imperial conglomerates that will prove exceedingly divisive once the Nostram Convention is rescinded. The dossiers will explain why and how, but in short each one will wield undue influence and provide certain Inquisitors with unacceptable benefits.”
“Lord, you intend us to…?” I left the question hanging mid-air to lead him where I already foresaw it going.
His expression turned grave, and his face darkened. “I can forestall the destruction of the convention for only so long. In that time, I need the threats represented by the entities to be removed, permanently, and by whatever means necessary.”
Arachne and I sat in silence. Surprisingly, Artemis allowed us a few moments to dwell on the words he had said.
“You needn’t use violence,” he resumed at length. “The dossiers will present other options, but, one way or another, these four entities must be rendered harmless.” He paused again. “Outright murder would prove fastest, and very decisive, but I would urge you to explore your options.”
I shared a glance with my partner. “How many of these ‘entities’ are being neutralized in total?” she asked.
Artemis shook his head. “That is known to me alone, as are the identities of the Inquisitors involved. I can tell you, however, that the number is significant.”
I nodded; I had suspected as much. I must confess that his frankness surprised me. So far as I knew he had no reason to trust my partner or myself, yet he was imparting sensitive information upon us that could prove damaging if it fell into the wrong hands. I was suspicious. Arachne – if I knew her at all like I thought I did – would be as well.
All of a sudden the Lord Inquisitor’s expression changed. The haste and impatience was back.
“There is nothing more I wish to discuss at this time,” he said, standing up from behind his desk and straightening out his coat. “Please see yourselves out when you are ready.”
Arachne and I stood as he left the room, and for a while we simply waited in silence.
Eventually I got things moving: “Shall we?” We left the office together.

 

 

“What do you think?”
“I think he’s full of s***.”
Sitting in the window of a small eatery three stories above street-level, I nodded thoughtfully as I watched the mid-morning crowds surge by bellow. Arachne sat opposite me in the booth. Aside from the proprietor behind the counter, there were only three other people spread throughout the crescent-shaped restaurant. Evidently it was not a busy time of day, and the music played softly from ceiling mounted speakers only served to punctuate the dreamy tranquillity and stillness of the diner. The only reason we were here was to satisfy my partner’s fiendish lust for more caffeine.
“It would seem that way…” I snuck a peek at some of the documents Lord Artemis had turned over to my possession as the woman across from me sucked down more of the black, steaming liquid. They looked ordinary and unremarkable, yet Lord Artemis considered them threats? Something about what the Lord Inquisitor had asked of us disturbed me. It was all too quick – too easy – and I could not shake the feeling that that was precisely how he had intended it.
When I looked up, Arachne was looking at me.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We both think he’s dirty,” she said, “so what are we going to do about it?”
“Define dirty,” I said, keeping my voice to a low volume.
“He’s not telling us everything on purpose. He’s hiding something. It stinks of a set-up. That’s dirty.”
I nodded. Inquisitor Arachne and I had been partners on-and off for quite some time; an occurrence between Inquisitors that is not all that unordinary. Inquisitors will often join forces and work together to accomplish a certain goal, but ultimately most of us prefer to work independently. It allows for freedom in decision making, and ultimate control over how an operation is conducted. We possess supreme authority, and very few of us are willing to share it. I suppose, in that regard, that’s what makes Arachne’s and mine unusual.
It is unusual because Arachne herself is unusual.
She holds all authority in contempt – including her own – and operates as if the system were completely anarchic. She obeys no-one, and no-one obeys her. Her relationships are based on professional respect. That is all she asks for, and that is all she gets. The reason we get along so well together is that I understand this: I respect her, and she respects me. It is that simple.
She has no permanent staff – something that most Inquisitors finding limiting in the extreme – and relies almost exclusively on native assets while in an operational theatre. I have asked her about it in the past while we were still learning how one another functioned, and she told me it was because she didn’t trust others to get the job done. If you find that odd, then you and I are in agreement.
“Even so, our options are limited, I’m afraid,” I concluded. “Any contact we make within the Inquisition itself will likely be traceable – even if we contacted Frode – and I doubt any outside source would be of use.”
She drained her caffeine and slapped the mug against the table, and then jerked her head towards the door suggesting that we leave.
I stood up and slid out of the booth. She followed me out, nodding in the proprietor’s direction as we left. “We could use Mercy,” she said as we made our way down the stairs to the street level. “Go look for hard evidence in the archives.”
I shook my head. I had no doubt that the assassin could do it – she was, after all, an exceptional infiltrator – but it wasn’t worth the risk of discovery. It would be best if Lord Artemis didn’t know we doubted him. We needed to do something ourselves, and it needed to be something that no-one would know about.
“Trance,” I said, using the one word I knew Arachne would not be overjoyed to hear. “It is our best option.”

 

 

Trancing is an action in which an individual with a Warp affinity enters a purposeful alignment with the Warp and thereby enables further communion between the individual ant the empyrean. That is the textbook definition. In reality, entering a psychically induced trance is a risky endeavour that is extremely taxing on the psyker and allows them to enter the Warp with the entirety of their consciousness. The effects thereof vary. 
Best case scenario, a psyker enables their abilities to be enhanced dramatically and acts as a temporary conduit through which the Warp might manifest in real space. Some psykers can conjure raging infernos of hellfire, terrible storms, or blast enemies into the Warp itself. In others, the psyker can alter reality, travel terrific distances in a heartbeat, or manipulate dimensional shifts along the skeins of probability. I do not pretend to understand it.
Worst case scenario, the psyker may be overwhelmed by the forces of the Warp, resulting in a breach through which daemons can enter or possess the psyker him or herself. Done incorrectly, entering a tance can be a death sentence, or worse.
I did not suggest that Arachne trance on a whim. I have my reasons, and I am confident in my fellow Inquisitor. She did not protest, and after a brief discussion we both concluded it was our best chance at uncovering what Lord Artemis was hiding without alerting him to our suspicion.
In retrospect, we should have pursued other means.

 

 

We arrived at Arachne’s hotel room and immediately made preparations for the trance ritual. She was far more experienced than I, and I followed her lead.
The ritual would be conducted in the sitting room and we cleared away the furniture to the room’s periphery. Arachne then drew focusing runes and protective warding symbols in a circular formation along the floor with a crystalline powder that I did not recognize. This part of the ritual was beyond me, and I relegated myself to watching as my partner drew the complex figures onto the floor with delicate precision. We did not speak. She would not require my participation in the ritual itself, but it was decided before that I would stay just in case some error should occur and the worst came to pass. I had a magazine of truesilver psybolt rounds for my pistol which I was to use in her defence if needs be. I do not dwell on what that entailed. 
I sat in a comfortable armchair and placed my loaded pistol on my lap as she finished drawing the last of the runes and tip-toed out of the circle. She surrendered her weapons to me in silence – a short barrelled last pistol and long-bladed combat knife being all she had on her at present – and then started to undress.
It is not as if I have not seen Arachne naked before, or that she is uncomfortable disrobing in my presence, but out of respect I made a point not to stare. She is an attractive and athletically built woman, and it would be wholly unnatural if I didn’t find her arousing. Most intriguing, however, are the tattoos that cover her skin from the neck down. Most are depictions of life and death in some way, with images of saintly figures and nightmare creatures doing battle around her biceps and shoulders while oceans swirl wildly through strange patterns and visages. Skeletal hands are placed at her throat while a cherub sits beside her left breast and a cosmic serpent her right.  A sunburst crowns her genitals in an almost vulgar fashion. All of her tattoos are intertwined save one, as if it alone was done by a separate artist. It is a depiction of a large, black spider that occupies the left side of her face. I have wondered what came first – her name, or the tattoo.
At first I thought these tattoos were merely artistic – not entirely out of place given that it is Arachne and she is an unusual person – but I soon found out that patterns on her flesh serve a function as well. She has not discussed their origins with me, but her tattoos appear to have a way of channelling Warp energy during her trance. How I do not know, nor do I know if that is the extent of their utility, but it is clear they are more than works of art.
“Ready?”  now completely nude, my partner stepped carefully into the centre of the circle and placed three glasses of liquid and a silver bladed knife at her feet.   
I cocked my pistol and chambered a round before engaging the safety catch. “Ready,” I replied.
Stooping, she downed the glasses one after the other in rapid succession before snatching up the knife and rising to her feet with the blade held against her wrist. With a last look in my direction, she drew the knife across her flesh in a downwards motion and plunged the room into darkness.

 

Bright red blood spurted from the wound like a geyser and showered the room. Grabbing the pistol from my lap, I covered my face. The blood burned. I could smell the iron stench of it filling my mouth and nostrils – the searing pain as it rained onto my hair and scalp. I screamed for Arachne to stop.
And she did.
When I lowered my hand from my face, she was nowhere to be seen. I was no longer sitting in her hotel room. I had entered another world.

 

“Well done, Inquisitor Frode, you have done your part in sparing the Inquisition a great deal of grief.”
I spun around at the sound of a familiar voice. Lord Inquisitor Artemis was sitting behind his desk with a self-satisfied look on his face. It was the same office I had been in this morning, but something had changed. The office was no longer spartan like when I had last seen it. It now looked inhabited, personalized, and well used – as if the Lord Inquisitor had been using it for a long time. He was different also. He looked relaxed, and wore different clothing from this very morning. He was looking right at me.
“Don’t be so modest, my friend,” he spoke as if to me. “You have done me a great service, and I will not forget it.”
I looked around. I was the only person now standing in the office.
I wanted to ask him what was going on, but the words came out wrong; “Thank you, my Lord,” Inquisitor Frode’s voice came from my mouth.
Artemis beamed.
I started to back away.
“We ought to discuss the next course of action, yes? How best to capitalize from your success,” The Lord Inquisitor continued, not noticing that I was retreating from his office.
“I agree, of course,” Frode said again. “There is much to be discussed.”
“Excellent,” the Lord Inquisitor gestured towards one of the chairs in front of his desk, “please.”
I had reached the door, and without looking opened it. Artemis was still beaming at me as I left his office and closed the door behind me. I heard him talking to Frode on the other side as the door clicked shut.

 

“Inquisitor!” James Joyce burst through the door I had just closed. He looked harried, his weapon was drawn, and there was a dark smear of blood on his sleeve. I could hear shouting behind him. “Thank the Emperor!” He closed the door and did his best to brace it shut. No sooner than he’d done that, then someone – or something – started to slam against the other side. It was all he could do to keep the door from opening.
“What is this?!” I demanded, shouting at myself as much as I was at this image of my agent that was appearing in front of my eyes. “What am I seeing?!”
Joyce looked at me – his eyes wild; “Run! F***ing RUN!!”
The force on the other side of the door started shooting. A bullet zipped past my ear, and I watched as another tore through Joyce’s leg, dropping off his feet with a spray of blood. Still he managed to desperately hold the door shut, though each new slam against it rattled him like a toy.   
I drew my weapon, aimed above his head, and fired. My gun jammed. I tried to clear it, but the bullet was stuck fast.
“Please!” there were tears in James’ eyes as he begged me, “please run!”
What choice did I have? I turned tail and fled into the darkness as Joyce was left to his almost certain doom.

 

I ran until I came upon another door standing out from the darkness. Without thinking I opened it, and stepped into a small cell of bare concrete with a single, metal frame chair bolted to the floor. A single light-source glowed dimly overhead. The tiny room felt cold and damp, and a single drain underneath the chair was stained and crusted with brown. Looking behind me, the door was closed – there were no visible means of opening it. What was I doing in this place?
As I looked at it, the door creaked open, and two masked men dragged a third into the cell and sat him forcibly down on the chair. A black bag was draped over the prisoner’s head, and I could hear him breathing heavily from behind it – the bag being sucked against his mouth and blown away with every exhalation – as the masked men bound him with raw steel cabling, pulling tight so that it bit into his flesh. When they were done, they tore the hood from his head and exited the cell, closing the door behind them, and leaving me alone with the prisoner.
He looked up at me, and I noticed that he was a she. She was Odyssey. And there was a desperate hatred in her eyes.
I wanted to ask her why she was here, but instead I said; “You know why you are here,” in a voice that did not belong to me. It belonged once again to my friend and mentor, Inquisitor Frode.
“F*** you,” Odyssey spat at me, a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of her mouth. Her face was badly beaten and purple lumps were forming around her cheeks and eyes so that she was barely recognizable. She had fought and lost.
“F*** you to hell and back,” the said again, wincing in pain as she spoke.
“You will tell me what you know,” intoned Inquisitor Frode’s dispassionate voice.
Behind me, the masked men returned. I did not need to look to know it. They brought with them a mechanical contraption that consisted of a large rust-coloured box that rolled and skipped on rattling metal wheels, and from which extended a number of tubes, pumps, and vicious looking needles. They set it next to Odyssey and then stepped aside. One of them handed me a large revolver pistol. I looked at it, and flipped open the cylinder – one shot; hammerhead round. I flicked it shut again.
“These men are chirurgeons,” Frode said in his strong, clear voice as my eyes bored into Odyssey. She was terrified of the machine, but even so she looked only at me. She would not give Frode the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
“They are here to preserve life. And they will do so as long as I ask.”
At my signal, the masked men moved towards the machine and initiated the sequence needed to bring it to life. Tubes were uncoiled, needles were set in place, and a multitude of small pumps started to huff and wheeze like rotten lungs in a dying body. Only now did Odyssey watch them, and she recoiled in her chair as they brandished the instruments of their macabre art.
“Get your hands off me!” she screamed when one of the men cut open her sleeve and the other prepared a long, silver needle. “No!” She looked at me – her chest rising and falling as her breath came in rapidly increasing gasps – “you piece of s***! You won’t – you won’t – AAAAAAH!”
She screamed as the needle pierced her flesh and tucked into the veins of her arm. She tried thrashing, flailing, but she was too well secured and the steel cabling bit into her limbs. It was no use.
“This will only go on as long as necessary,” I reminded her with Frode’s voice. “I won’t keep you here any longer than I have to.”
Odyssey tried to laugh defiantly, but failed.
“This will hurt less if you don’t struggle…” one of the masked chirurgeons hissed as he prepared a second needle for her arm. Spitting, Odyssey told him where else he could stick his damned needle. The man ignored her, and she wailed in pain as the second, and larger needle was slowly pushed into her flesh.
The machine was a blood-purifier. Ancient and cantankerous, it worked to filter a person’s blood of poisons. It is not an instrument of torture, but it is painful as it draws, processes, and re-injects the patient’s life-force through its mechanical innards. Prolonged use can lead to numbness, loss of consciousness, and eventually permanent nerve damage. In all likelihood, Odyssey would lose the use of her arm.
“Is that it?” she taunted me, and then added what she had expected from someone as debase, incestuous, and all-round fiendish as myself. She was quite imaginative.
As Frode I remained unflappable, and waited until her tirade had run its course. “I take no satisfaction in suffering,” I told her, my voice unwavering and cold, “but you will tell me what you know willing or otherwise. “
Odyssey was not going to start cooperating just because I asked nicely.
I raised the revolver in Frode’s hand and pointed at her gut. At this range the sledgehammer round be devastating, but not immediately fatal, and more importantly would leave her conscious and in a great deal of discomfort.
“This is your last chance,” I said. “Tell me what I want, and you can walk away. You will be free to live your life. Resist and I will shoot you in stomach. My chirurgeons will keep you alive, and, if you are lucky, you might leave here being able to eat solid food; if you are unlucky, your death with come in several days’ time from an infection the machine cannot cure. The choice is yours.”
The look on her face told me that Odyssey was prepared to be reasonable. She was being asked to weigh her life against her loyalty, and her resolve was starting to waver.
“In time blood-loss, starvation and pain will drive you mad,” Frode continued, “and you will answer my questions truthfully. I will get what I want. It is inevitable. All that remains is to see what state you are in after you give it.”
“I…” she could not meet the Inquisitor’s eyes, “but I don’t know where he is…”
“We’ll see about that.” I pulled the trigger.

 

I awoke with a start at the sound of a shot and found myself on the floor of Arachne’s hotel room covered in a cold sweat. My vision swirled, and I fought the sudden urge to vomit. I failed, and the morning’s caffeine and pastries reappeared in a pool of bile as I retched onto the carpet. My trousers felt warm and damp. I had obviously wet myself when I had lost consciousness.
What had happened? I had never blacked out before during one of Inquisitor Arachne’s trances. What had she done, and why?
To answer my questions, I struggled to push myself onto my knees and retched again for my efforts – more colourless spew – but eventually I became upright.
What I saw alarmed me.
Arachne had fallen, and lay motionless in a pool of her own blood.
On my knees again, I staggered over to where she lay, and pressed a hand against her neck. Her tattooed skin was cold and dead. Her eyes were open and unblinking. No breath came from her mouth. I counted no fewer than six bullet holes torn in her naked body. Any one of them could have been fatal.
Quickly, I surveyed the room for a sign of what happened. There was a sinking feeling in my gut, but I ignored it. I had to know the truth.
Truth, you might wonder? Why now was I looking for truth after all I had just seen? I know, but in a time of discord one will often turn to the only thing one has left. The truth. It is a foolish notion for one such as I to keep.
The door was closed and there were no signs of a struggle, but some of the furniture seemed out of place as if it had been moved on purpose. No matter – I kept looking for an answer to the one question that was most pressing.
And then I saw it: my own pistol lying not far from where I had awoken. The slide was locked back, all ammunition expended, and spent casings littered the floor near the chair where I had sat.
I had killed my partner.
My nightmare had only just begun.

[Taranis]

Poor poor Spider. I always had a soft spot for her. I like how she ended before she died. She got some years in control of herself and her life. I'd love to hear more about her. Perhaps in another of these stories.

I can understand this ending fitting the title completely but otherwise I feel like much was about to happen, and just didn't. I can't help getting caught up in the story even though I should know better than to expect a novel.

 

Good and descriptive work as always. :tu: