Scribe Polik hunched over his tiny desk, surrounded by piles of parchment and stack upon stack of bound volumes and empty ink phials. He was reading a crumpled, torn and faded battle report from a conflict waged two centuries ago on Typhos Prime that was still waiting to be entered into the Imperial Annals. A military man would no doubt blame the all-pervading Fog of War. Polik knew better. It was much more likely to be aristocratic bureaucracy and poor record keeping on the part of inattentive scribes.
He smiled thinly to himself. He was no inattentive scribe. He had personally filled all the volumes in his closet of a study, a number far in excess of all his peers in the Adeptus Administratum offices here in an Olympan uphive.
As he struggled to make out the words, his autoscribe servo-skull bobbed and whirred, flicking back and forth across a sheaf of parchment laid out on the blotter, copying the words in High Gothic. He knew one of the tech-priests by name, now, he'd had to take his servo-skull to be fitted with a new cogitator, or gyro-motor, or anti-grav unit so many times.
The tech-priest said Polik's servo-skull was probably the most used in the Scriptorium.
"Estimated traitor casualties during the fall of Coritanorum Citadel: three million," he droned quietly. The servo-skull bobbed and whirred. It flicked back to the left of the sheaf, waiting.
"Imperial casualties during the fall of Coritanorum Citadel: two million, eight hundred thousand, five hundred and forty nine."
Bob, whirr.
"Action against Coritanorum deemed a victory, signed..." Polik brought the parchment up to his face, squinting to read the faded words. He could just make out the Inquisitorial 'I' design, along with the letters 'H,' 'r,' 'e,' 't,' 'c,' and 's.' "... an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. Record ends."
Another entry for the Imperial Annals, completed quickly and efficiently.
No, he was no inattentive scribe.
His servo-skull dropped and struck the desk with a clunk. It whirred stubbornly for a moment, then ceased. "Hm. Your anti-grav again? Loriem won't be happy. That's the third one this year. Come along, then."
Polik hefted the servo-skull, then slowly rose from his seat, his ancient hunched frame protesting at the sudden movement. He left his alcove, and walked slowly in the direction of the tech-priest's quarters.
He couldn't be accused of being inattentive this time, could he?
