ONE
A Bastion of Civilization
The veil of night that had fallen over Vanquo's capital hive – named, in a show of the Administratum's typical lack of imagination, Vanquo Hive – some few hours earlier had blanketed the seedy reaches of its underhive in darkness even thicker than the soupy shadows as lingered there at daytime. It was a rare thing, for a ray of natural sunshine to stumble into those forgotten places; and now that the dimmed sun Thrakia had turned her face elsewhere on the planet, all that was left down below was the impenetrable black, and the flickering light of quietly failing luminators.
Lamps that had not felt a techpriest's touch for centuries on end stood little chance of dispelling the gloom shrouding the feet of the towering habspires. And in this gloom, foul deeds stirred all too often.
"Come on, come on, hurry up..."
Huddled in the shadows left by the expired luminators bolted to the rockcrete walls left and right, a mess of figures slinked along the alley carefully. Their walk was not the arrogantly assured gait of the underhive's cockerel ganger – they were not hunters, they were the hunted. Tense and frightened they crept along, jumping at every slightest noise; the bravest muttered amongst themselves in hushed tones, the maddest – to themselves, but the aura of despondence and desperation clung to both kinds equally.
A soft rustle and a clang reached their ears from somewhere up ahead. Doubtlessly, it was little more than one of the hive's numberless rats – rodent or human, the difference between the two negligible at best – picking through the trash, but the foremost shape, already wobbling unsteadily, collapsed to the ground all the same, burdened by the weight of the heavy hand of fear upon its back.
The hand that pulled that shadow of a person back to its feet was much gentler. "Come on. We're almost there."
Prematurely aged with worry, the harrowing mark of terror was plain upon the woman's face. This was not a face that knew happiness or courage any longer; at some point, something behind it had simply snapped, leaving behind little more than a hollow shell. Yet the sight of the flak cuirass worn by the man holding her upright – the sigil of the hive's own law enforcement that was emblazoned upon it, the chain-wreathed skull of the Vigil, barely visible in the dark even this close up - must have rekindled some measure of strength in her. Without a word or a gesture of thanks, she simply wobbled onwards in silence.
With a barely audible sigh of relief, the Vigil officer let go of his laspistol's handle.
It would have been almost too hard to explain to the others why leaving one of their own behind – and still living – was not an option.
When you challenged the might of the Imperium of Man in as daring a manner as snatching a shipment of unsanctioned psykers slated for the Black Ships of Terra right from under its nose, after all, you could hardly afford to simply leave witnesses lying about in every which alley you passed.
"S-s-sad lot, ar-aren't they."
He didn't even need to glance over his shoulder and see the gilded mark of the Administratum hanging from the man's belt, the gold catching whatever glimmers of light it could in the impenetrable night – the nervous stutter was enough to recognize his temporary companion and guide by. By all accounts simply one of the countless pencil-pushing functionaries of the Imperium's vast bureaucracy, skulking about the underhive at night appeared to make the scribe considerably uncomfortable; nevertheless, he had his uses.
"That they are. You're sure the warehouse will be enough to keep them safe for the meantime?"
The shadow shifted slightly as the scribe nodded. "I-i-it will," His eyes darted up and down the alley, in sharp contrast to his 'colleague's' – unswerving, drilling into the far end of the narrow passage. "N-nobody ever goes there. E-e-except me, of course." The chuckle that followed was so nervous and misplaced, it had no other choice but to trail off pathetically.
"That's what your buddy said." There was an unmistakeably derisive quality to the Vigil officer's grunt. "Then, not two weeks later, we have to rush out because the 'bites are sniffing at our door."
With a nervous cough, the Administratum flunky shook his head. "Oh n-no. N-n-no, that w-won't happen here."
"See that it doesn't." His disgruntled accomplice did not sound convinced. "One more slip-up like that, your boss could land in real hot water – and then we're all royally frakked. I don't need to remind you that we've the Hereticus on our tail, and it won't be me that they get to first."
Two weeks after...
As though it were being crumpled up by a giant's hand, the fabric of reality itself twisted and churned. At last, with a great flash, it was torn open; spewed forth from the Warp's gaping maw, the vast metal construct responsible for the entire mess slipped back into being - and then the gap closed shut again, the walls between the Materium and the Immaterium restored in the blink of an eye. All that was left behind was a slight ripple, like circles in a pond where a rock had just been thrown.
The ship that had just dropped into the Thrakia System thusly did not care for these minute disturbances, however. Graceful and majestic, it seemed not to fly – it was gliding, never once swerving from its course as it cut through the empty reaches of space and headed for the crowded planet ahead.
Used as they were to masses of lumbering freighters and the occasional heavily armed warship, to the hapless crewmen responsible for the Vanquese SDF's plentiful scanners, this elegant – almost spindly – vessel must have made for quite the sight.
Sized about the same as your average cruiser, that was, at first glance, where its similarities with the Imperial Navy's trusty workhorse ended. While it did indeed boast quite the armament – including a most impressive Voidsunder Lance battery, staring down the ship's nose at anyone foolish enough to get in its way, - its outline had about as much in common with your typical warship as an Eldar Banshee might share with an Ork 'Ardboy. There was a quality to its lean design that one could only describe as sophisticated.
What this vessel obviously was, then, was a star yacht; the mind-bogglingly expensive plaything of some or other capricious aristocrat who, faced with the issue of space travel, tackled it in the fashion favoured by most of the Imperium's affluent citizens – that is to say, by throwing money at the problem until it went away.
That was, at least, what the (relatively) innocent exterior would have had most onlookers believe. What it belied, however, was something infinitely more dangerous than any number of irritable nobles – even ones disgruntled by the necessity for long-distance Warp travel.
After over a decade spent ferrying an Inquisitor to and from trouble, dealing with problems that she would have never so much as dared to imagine back in those humble days of her Navy service, and witnessing Imperial worlds snatched from the jaws of nothing short of an all-out apocalypse more times than she cared to count, Captain Devene Omani of the Touch of Midas could readily attested to the truth in that. When her father – a captain in the Navy himself – pressed his Voidborn daughter to follow the family tradition, he must have expected her life to be dangerous; he had no idea, as she found herself reflecting all too often during those scarce and precious quiet moments that separated one inevitable plunge from another.
Take, for example, the past three months of her life. Aimless drifting through the empty void of space for weeks on end, broken abruptly by a breakneck chase that culminated in a battle so haphazard, it would have reduced any Navy instructor she knew to an apoplectic fit. And now, after only two weeks for both her and her ship to regain their composure, here she was again – standing on the bridge of the Midas, waiting for the inevitable hail from Vanquo's docking authorities.
Some days, Devene had to wonder how or why she hadn't gone insane yet. On other times, though, - as now, listening as she was to the kind of purposeful humdrum that one would expect to find on the bridge of a ship that was a cruiser in all but outline, - she came close to convincing herself that things were somehow almost... normal.
"Captain!" A voice called, by the sound of it coming from somewhere on the other end of the room. "Incoming transmission!"
It was a spacious affair, the Midas' command deck - a lengthy, if comparatively narrow space crammed full of equipment, dully glowing (and sometimes failing) screens and, connecting all of it, treacherously laid cables and wires that only the most experienced among them could step over without so much as a downwards glance. At all times, this chaotic setting, made all the more bizarre by the fact it had been designed to resemble the sort of room you might find in your average improbably rich noble's estate as closely as possible, was populated by no less than several dozen crewmembers and officers, their blue liveries - reeking suspiciously of Imperial Navy uniforms in their cut, save for the small coat of arms sewed onto the right shoulder of every man and woman in sight – broken up only by the occasional techpriest's robe, come, no doubt, to wail on some or other malfunctioning piece of equipment.
In this mess, trying to make out who said what without the speaker yelling straight in your ear tended to be an exercise in futility; what truly mattered was that every question directed at the Captain get a prompt and concise response. Otherwise, one slip might be enough for the entire ship to grind to a standstill – oftentimes literally so.
"Patch it into the hololith," It was with practiced assurance that Devene hollered at no one in particular, a Voidborn's gaunt frame concealing lungs strong enough to carry her voice to every which corner of the bridge.
To the inexperienced eye, it might have seemed that her command had changed precisely nothing about the orderly chaos that reigned in the room at all times. The Captain, however, had had a lifetime's experience in such things, and it was with the ease of practice that she could tell which way the cogs were turning – or, indeed, if they were turning at all (rather than just pretending to, as had happened more than once). A screen blipped a fraction of a second faster than usual; an officer yelled over his right shoulder rather than his left; a techpriest's mechadendrite flicked a switch instead of turning a knob. Tiny shifts to the typical ebb and flow of a ship's life that, all together, made for a change so glaring that an agriworlder would not have found his favourite grox suddenly turning yellow more obvious.
With the reassuring hiss of Imperial holotech springing to life (or some semblance thereof, at least), the senseless blob of static hovering on the level with the unsettlingly piercing gaze of Devene's bright violet eyes came to coalesce into something vaguely reminiscent of a head. Then, abruptly, it turned upside down; an angry bark, the nasal droning of an irritated enginseer's amplivox and, with the resounding thud of 'dendrite meeting the hololith's control panel, the view tidied itself up again, swinging into much sharper focus as the machine spirit responsible finally got a grip on itself.
Entirely unaware of the tricks it was performing on the bridge of the Midas, the head simply drilled into the Captain with its wide brown eyes. Undeniably a man's face, the features broad and heavy-set, it had the air of someone who does not appreciate surprises ruining the comfortable tedium of his daily routine; and if a star yacht springing forth from the Warp unannounced did not constitute a surprise, then the Emperor alone knows what might.
"Unidentified vessel," If it at all unsettled the Vanquese to have his stare met by the outlandish purple of Devene's eyes, drilling into him from beneath a mane of auburn hair, she had to commend him for keeping it to himself. "You aren't on the scheduled flight list. State your intent or face the Emperor's judgement."
A warm greeting, if ever there was one. Not that she had expected anything less, of course.
Adopting her best 'I survived service in the Navy; what have you done with your life?' manner, the Captain cocked an eyebrow. "There appears to be a mistake on your end. Ship signature in transmission; you might wish to check your logs for the Touch of Midas."
The hostility that seeped through the cracks in the man's patronizing smile was understandable. Here was an overdesigned piece of junk, dropping into his system, messing up his schedule and wasting his time; and, rather than grovelling for forgiveness, now its slip of a captain had the gall to claim he was the one who'd made a mistake!
He was damned if he wouldn't show her who, precisely, was running the show here.
"You'll find there is no mistake. Your-"
As the flight control officer's eyes became even wider, it was Devene's turn to smirk triumphantly. "Yes?"
"Hm," Suddenly, the Vanquese was finding it incredibly difficult to look straight at the Voidborn. "Looks like there has been a... mistake, after all. We've got a... Touch of Midas scheduled for... right about now, in fact..."
His awkward cough only served to widen the Captain's smile. "I'm glad we could clear that up."
"However," Apparently determined to carry on in the face of adversity, he finally found it in himself to lock gazes with her again. If the newfound glimmer to his deep brown was any indication, he was determined to make up for the initial embarrassment by making the Voidborn's life as difficult as he could. "There's still no other data available..." If the number of expletives she could make out from the muddled grumbling under his nose that followed was any indication, his opinion on the Administratum's efficiency seemed to be in rapid decline. "So, I still require your name and purpose on Vanquo."
Deciding she'd had her fun, Devene straightened her back, the tone of her voice the very image of businesslike demeanour – the contrast only serving to make the faintly mocking undertones that it had been laced with moments earlier even more obvious. "Captain Omani, enserfed to House Mattheus of Antharas, to which this ship belongs."
The docking control officer's nose crinkled slightly at the mention of serfdom. While a hive such as Vanquo was by no means the galactic capital of egalitarianism, outright owing one's personal freedom to a noble must have been uncommon enough for him to view it with what seemed to be considerable distaste. There was no denying that this was a practice much more common in the more backwards parts of the Imperium; the aristocratic houses of more advanced worlds preferred to get more creative when it came to formalizing the loyalties of their subjects, even if, in the end, it all came back to the same thing – virtual slavery.
Truth be told, Devene herself derived no pleasure from pretending to be another man's tool. Then again, there was no denying that was precisely what she was – though the Daemon was, as always, in the details, and those made her position a far more complicated affair than mere bondage to some or other two-bit nobleman.
After a moment spent punching the details into whatever data lectern or slate it was that he kept handy, the flight control officer looked back up at the Captain. "That leaves the purpose of your visit."
"I believe I can answer that."
With a silent hiss, the deceptively elegant armoured doors separating the bridge from the rest of the ship slid open; the sight of the person that stepped through them was enough to make Devene straighten her posture even more, if that was at all possible at this point.
Festooned though he was in enough gold-trimmed embroidery to outfit a squad of ceremonial guards, one had to admit that this man – who strolled onto the command deck with all the offhand assuredness of someone who has no doubts as to who owns the entire place – was nonetheless dressed a great deal more sensibly than the vast majority of his social equals. In fact, watching the folds of his coat flap behind him in tandem with his energetic steps, it would have been all too easy to mistake him for a well-off Rogue Trader rather than an Imperial aristocrat; there was an undeniable sense of roguishness to the way his short brown hair had been left deliberately messy, and the peculiar glint lurking in his eyes' hazel depths spoke of a man who was not averse to the occasional spot of excitement.
It was with a thoroughly baffled look plastered over his face that the Vanquese flight control officer watched this oddball noble nonchalantly brush the Captain aside. "And you are..?"
"Duke Sorven Mattheus." His introduction was accompanied by a sardonic nod of the head. "Paterfamilias of the Antharian House Mattheus, owner of the Touch of Midas and every last soul on board until such a time as the Emperor calls them."
The silence left in the wake of these rather bombastic words hovered indecisively somewhere between awkward and confused.
"I... see." The FCO finally squeezed out, obviously uncertain whether he should remain as derisive as earlier or switch to pretending to be respectful instead. "And the purpose of your visit..?"
"I'm here to cement trade agreements between my house and several of the eminent families of your hives." Sorven's baritone proclaimed firmly, sounding as though his business was of such grave importance that all fifty-three billion of Vanquo's recorded inhabitants could do nothing but await its conclusion with bated breaths. "While my word should be more than enough, you may check your records if you feel so inclined – you will find the Touch of Midas has visited your world on multiple occasions, always in connection to said negotiations."
That was, of course, a blatant lie; the inquisitorial vessel had never come any closer to the hive-world than somewhere half the subsector away. One of the greatest advantages of being an Inquisitor, however, was that - with a little effort - you could put enough proof behind even the most outrageous of falsehoods to make it seem nothing but true. If he had felt so inclined, Sorven could just as well have introduced himself as a travelling Lord-General come to inspect the planet's defences, or the distant cousin of the local Planetary Governor.
However, while he couldn't deny he enjoyed the spice that acting out the unlikeliest of roles tended to bring to his investigations, there was no need for anything nearly as far-fetched when his station as the noble of a backwater agriworld gave him all the cards he needed. Fortuitously close to a good few major Warp currents for most people to have heard of it, and yet far enough for no one but the dustiest of the Administratum's bureaucrats to know anything definitive about it, Antharas gave him an inconspicuous free access pass onto most worlds that nobody could deny simply because it was largely true.
The tiny detail that he had spent the last few decades rushing all over the Segmentum in the service of His Holy Inquisition did not need to detain people like the Vanquese flight control officer from welcoming him on their planets.
"Uh-huh..." Nodding with all the enthusiasm of a man who couldn't wait to get as far away from this conversation as possible, the head in the hololith glanced between Captain Omani and her master. "We'll uh, we'll check. In the meantime, your vessel appears to have a slated point of disembarkation in Vanquo's orbital spaceport; transmitting coordinates to your nav-auspexes."
"How fortuitous."
That Sorven's voice still dripped with sarcasm no doubt only served to reaffirm the FCO's desire to get the Warp out of there. "The Emperor protects," He blurted out hastily, the link between the Midas and Vanquo's flustered flight control being cut a mere blink of an eye later.
With abruptness characteristic of the device, the hiss of static went dead, the techpriest responsible finally managing to convince the machine spirit within to return to its slumber after a bit of wrestling with the hololith's panel. For a moment, the Inquisitor and his Captain stared silently at empty air where a churning mess of nothing in particular had just been.
"Well, that went well."
It was almost disconcerting - the haste with which every last sign of aristocratic prissiness was wiped clean of Sorven's tone and expression. What had crept into them in its place was the sort of beam that could only be described as spirit, a joie de vivre that should have had no place in a man who shouldered such a vast multitude of burdens as the Inquisition laid upon its agents as a matter of course.
"I do love it when these parts go by smoothly; leaves more time for the important bits."
Accustomed as she was to her master's antics after a decade spent side by side, however, Devene did not so much as cock an eyebrow. "And does sir have any idea how long the... important bits might take this time?"
Frowning thoughtfully, the Inquisitor ran a hand over the perpetual stubble clinging to his chin. The wonders of juvenat had left a clear mark on his face, a man already past sixty looking like he was in his early thirties at most. "I've no idea, truth be told. What do you reckon the time might be in the capital hive right now?"
"A little past five in the evening," The Captain rattled off with all the certainty in the world, nothing about her tone suggesting she'd just read this on a dataslate some or other low-ranking flunky - the likes of which seemed to always be hovering on the bridge, apparently having nothing better to do than add to the general chaos by getting underfoot – had helpfully stuck under her nose. "This time of the year, that's close to dusk, sir."
"Vanquo's cycles are very similar to the blessed Terran ones, are they not?"
"So they appear to be, sir."
"Hm." Sorven frowned again. Then, at last, he shrugged, and his brow cleared of its thoughtful furrows momentarily. "Then I'll hazard a guess and say I should wrap this up in around forty eight hours."
This time, even his long-standing companion couldn't help but look a little surprised (which seemed to amuse the Inquisitor himself to no end). "So soon, sir?"
Devene's surprise was well-founded. While your typical member of the Ordo Hereticus could be accused of many things, caution was rarely among them; her master, on the other hand, tended to take his sweet time whenever he could – which is to say, whenever there was no threat of the planet under his feet being blown up, incinerated, or drowned in the blood of loyal citizens of the Imperium anytime soon. Sometimes, the Midas would spend entire months idly docked over whatever world it was that happened to be having its turn under the unwelcome and terrifying scrutiny of the one organisation that could put the fear of the Emperor even into the Ecclesiarchy itself.
To hear him claim that forty eight hours – roughly two days, in other words – would be enough to track down and eradicate the human trafficking ring that Sorven was presently after for having the gall to snatch a shipment of unsanctioned psykers right from under the Black Ships' nose, then, was unusual to say the least.
"I'm feeling confident." The Hereticus Inquisitor smiled, his proclamation delivered with all the poise of a Pontifex about to declare news of a particularly resounding Imperial victory to a whole planet's worth of faithful.
History would never know if Captain Omani had anything to say to this grand claim of his; just as she opened her mouth to respond, one of the multitude of junior officers as dwelt permanently on the command deck rushed up the short flight of steps elevating the Captain's data lectern and seat above the general humdrum – stepping over a precariously laid bundle of cables in the process, – and pushed a dataslate into her hands, disappearing into the chaos below before anyone could so much as blink.
Already cocked after so abrupt a delivery, Devene's thin eyebrows had no way to go but up as her eyes slipped over the text staring up at her from the dimmed-green screen.
Generally a patient man, her quizzical expression must have piqued Sorven's interest; after a few moments, he could no longer resist smirking teasingly. "Well, don't keep us in suspense, Captain."
"I'll say this much, sir -" Handing him the dataslate, the Voidborn shrugged. "The Vanquese bureaucrats do work fast."
Raising an amused, if slightly curious eyebrow of his own at the comment, the unlikely Inquisitor's smile did not abate as he looked down, the typical blocky letters of official Imperial correspondence already anticipating his perusal.
-To the Esteemed Duke Sorven Mattheus of Antharas-
In light of our glorious Imperium's recent triumph against yet another infestation of foul xenos, it is our privilege to inform you of a celebration to mark the valour of our forces in the field, to be held this evening in the palace of Planetary Governor Edmal, twenty sixth of his name, of the Noble and Virtuous House Verhowen.
Your attendance would honour the Planetary Governor immensely.
For the glory of the Imperium,
The Chancellery of Planetary Governor Edmal Verhowen the Twenty-Sixth
-Thought for the Day-
An open mind is like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded
-MESSAGE END-
Eyebrows still raised, Sorven tore his eyes away from the dataslate. "Recent triumph against yet another infestation of foul xenos," He quoted to the Captain, voice not entirely void of sarcastic inflections. "Do you suppose they mean any actual events as might have occurred here in the Materium, or has this "Edmal Verhowen, twenty sixth of his name" stooped to making things up just so he can throw a party?"
"Apparently," After the momentary puzzlement, Devene's pale face was once again back to looking so indifferent, it may as well have been carved from stone. "A nearby system was recently purged of Tyranids, sir. Uzarus it was called, or Uskarus; I'm not sure. It's supposedly home to one of Vanquo's resource worlds, though, and Vanquese forces were involved in the liberation. I presume in the eyes of the civilians, this warrants celebration."
"Celebration, hm..." The Inquisitor scratched his cheek thoughtfully, a fleeting look of entertainment at the offhand disdain clearly audible in the way his accomplice had said the word 'civilians' grazing over his face. "Seems they just up and invited anyone in the system with a title of some sort."
Knowing better than to distract him when he was mulling things over, Devene simply waited in silence for him to stop muttering under his nose.
In the event, that happened to be quite soon indeed.
"You know what? Make that twenty four hours that I intend to waste on these psyker traffickers of ours."
The Voidborn straightened her back slightly. "Sir intends to attend the governor's party, then?"
That familiar, slightly mischievous glint that promised things were about to get far too exciting for most people in the general vicinity rekindled in the hazel of his eyes, Sorven nodded. "Indeed I do. After all this time out in space, I feel like I've earned a glass or two of quality amasec... Have the Aquila prepped; I'll go and tidy myself up a little for the occasion."
Well aware that it would have been little more than a waste of breath to give voice to her reservations about visiting something as thoroughly useless as a party seemed in her mind – moulded as it had been by the Navy, - Devene simply nodded. "As you say, sir."
Sparing a nod of farewell, the Inquisitor turned on his heel, the folds of his lavish coat flapping behind him as he disappeared back through the bridge's armoured door. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
The hunt was on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: So here I am again, bothering you with my drivel. Being as Kathel's adventures had ran away from me a little, I decided to put them on hold and see if I can sort things out in that department (as well as a few others); in her stead, I decided to bring back a face that will be familiar to some. The original The Threat Within was just screaming for a rewrite - and since it's something that needs to be done if there is to be any hope for a sequel of quality that might begin to approach readability, well, here you go.
On a side note that some might find interesting, Captain Devene is pretty much what you get if you roll a 91-00 on the Voidborn list of Dark Heresy's Colouration tab. Because I loves me some funky eyes, and odd sets of colour in general.