Colonel John Borglyn stood on the bridge of the Redemption, staring at the view screen in front of him. His home world, Gaea Prime, was coming into view now. Appropriate name for a ship, considering the mission. Three weeks ago, he had sent a message to Inquisitor Alexi Dovator, notifying him of the situation. No response was sent, but Borglyn didn't need one. He knew Dovator would come. And sure enough, a few hours ago, he had received a communique from the Inquisitor, notifying him that Dovator and his crew had entered the system and would meet with him shortly. The two men hadn't seen each other in over twenty years. And now, when they finally had an opportunity to catch up on old times, the circumstances took all the joy out of the occasion. Their world was in danger and it would take the skills of both men to flush out and exterminate the Heretics, one at a time if necessary. Gaea Prime will be cleansed of this cancer, the Colonel vowed.

"I'll be in my quarters, Captain," Borglyn said. "Hold position above the planet and notify me when Inquisitor Dovator arrives."

"Yes, sir," the captain replied, making the sign of the Aquila.

Borglyn returned the salute and, with one last look at the view screen, turned on his heel, leaving the bridge. Behind him, he could hear the captain repeating his order to hold position. Bureaucracy, the Colonel thought with a weak smile. The Imperial Guard and Imperial Navy were two separate organizations. In the aftermath of the Horus Heresy, it was decided that no fighting force should ever have the opportunity to wield unparalleled power. As a result, the same move that saw the legions of the Adeptus Astartes split into chapters also stripped the Imperial Army of the Great Crusades of its fleet, ensuring that no military commander had control over both a regiment of fighting men and an interstellar fleet of transports and warships. Now, these vessels were the property of the Imperial Navy. And unless the ship's captain agreed with a Guard commander's orders, they would be completely ignored.

The Colonel turned the corner and made his way down a long corridor. His mind drifted back to the last time he had seen Alexi Dovator. They had just completed basic training with Gaea Prime's PDF and the time had come for a tithe to be sent to join the Imperial Guard. Realizing that this was his chance for glory, Borglyn volunteered. During training, the two men had drifted apart. They spoke occasionally, but differences of opinion usually turned their discussions into arguments. When Borglyn informed Dovator of his decision, Dovator was outraged. He insisted that there was no glory to be had fighting on the front lines, that it was all propaganda spread by the Imperial Guard to keep people from panicking. His words only fueled Borglyn's determination and he boarded the transport without looking back. And now, twenty-four years later, Borglyn knew that Dovator was right. There was no glory, only death and destruction. But even so, Borglyn knew he had to continue fighting. Without the billions of men prepared to lay down their lives in the Emperor's name, the Imperium of Man would be consumed.

Unconsciously, he stretched his arm out, letting his hand trace a path along the metal bulkhead to his right. It was cold to the touch and wrenched his mind back to the task at hand. This was war. The Imperium could never rest as long as enemies threatened to destroy everything the Emperor had built. Borglyn knew that this ship would rain death upon his world if he failed to restore order. The death of one world to protect the countless others in the Imperium. As much as he hated the thought, Borglyn understood that it was the only way. Sometimes, sacrifices had to be made. Sometimes, whole worlds needed to die to safeguard the Imperium of Man. Why should this time be any different? Borglyn asked himself. The answer came immediately: Because this time it's home.

Sara stood behind Weiss, her mouth open in stunned silence. Ahead of them loomed the Redemption, holding position in low orbit over Gaea Prime. They had just been given permission to dock, and Weiss was guiding their transport toward the port docking bay. He approached the warship abeam, allowing Sara to take in its full length.

"It's huge!" she exclaimed. She had never seen an Imperial vessel from the outside before. It seemed unreal to her that something so large could be constructed, let alone sail through space. And yet, here it was, standing sentinel above a world. The design of the ship intrigued her. It looked cold and harsh with its tall spires and armoured prow. But at the same time, something about it seemed familiar, even welcoming. It was as if her understanding of the Imperium were given form. The vessel was a thing of beauty forced to adopt a hideous exterior to protect its vulnerable crew in much the same way the Imperium was forced to take drastic measures to ensure the safety of its citizens.

Weiss chuckled. "I've seen bigger." He pressed a series of runes on the console in front of him, instructing the machine spirit to begin the docking sequence. Pressing a few more runes, he activated the comm. "We're docking now."

Sara had seen Tech priests manipulate machinery before, but never like this. There was always ceremony involved: incantations were spoken before each rune was pressed, incense was burned to appease the machine spirit. But Weiss was doing neither and their transport seemed to be doing exactly what he wanted. He must have prayed earlier, she decided.

As Sara watched in awe, the gap between the two ships closed rapidly. She could make out details now, and they only served to reinforce her feelings about the vessel. It's hull was scarred from countless engagements over the millennia. Patchwork repairs were clearly visible; metal plates were welded to the hull, sealing breaches. Each blemish stood out against the subtle beauty of the warship like a medal pinned on the front of a soldier's jacket. To some, each battle honour served only as a reminder that the bearer was old, battle-worn, and outdated. But for Sara, they helped make the Redemption even more of an inspiring sight.

Ahead of them, a heavy metal door set in the side of the Redemption slid open, revealing the docking bay. Fighters and interceptors lined the bay walls, each bearing their own unique battle scars. Red warning lights bathed the whole bay in an eerie glow that made Sara's breath catch in her throat. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. The shadows cast by the fighters seemed to dance along the floor and the walls, competing for attention. Sara examined them in turn, finding each more impressive than the last. Inquisitor Braxxus had told her about the manifest destiny of man once. Seeing the Redemption and it's fleet of fighters, and knowing it was only one ship of many, was enough to convince her that man truly was destined to rule the stars. With ships such as these, how could the Imperium not?

The transport slid into the opening, retrorockets firing. It turned slowly, moving passed the nearby fighters, the machine spirit seeking an appropriate landing zone. Landing gear deployed with a metallic clang as the transport finally came to shuddering stop at the far end of the drop bay. It descended slowly, landing gear compressing slightly under its weight, and finally came to rest.

Dovator waited silently by the rear ramp of the transport, leaning against one of the bulkheads with his arms folded across his chest. Kraken and Lucia stood nearby, engaged in conversation. Ever since they had met, Dovator had never seen the two of them apart. Sometimes, the Inquisitor forgot that they were two people. The thought worried him. That kind of attachment, he knew, was a weakness that could be exploited by the Enemy. But at the same time, Dovator knew that he was just as guilty of attachment, especially now. And, he had to admit, Kraken and Lucia did work well together.

Dovator remembered the day he met Kraken. Eight years ago, he had gone to Cadia, a fortress world guarding the entrance to the Eye of Terror. The Inquisitor knew that the men and women of this world were raised from birth as soldiers. Disciplined and stalwart, they were the perfect candidates for an Inquisitorial retinue. But Dovator was looking for more than that. He was searching for individuals he could trust with his life, not because they felt obligated to protect him, but because they wanted to. The Inquisitor sought a retinue that would respect him as a man, a retinue that shared his ideals. As far as he was concerned, it was the only way to guarantee loyalty.

When the Inquisitor disembarked from his shuttle, Lieutenant Kraken was there waiting for him. The young officer saluted him crisply, proud to have been assigned as Dovator's guide. One look at Kraken, and the Inquisitor knew; this was the man he had come to Cadia to find. Dovator remained on the world for several weeks, meeting with officers and troopers alike, but he found no other men or women who stood out to him the way Kraken had. As he prepared to leave the planet, he had asked the Lieutenant to join him. The Inquisitor had spoken openly of his beliefs, certain that Kraken shared them. Kraken was visibly surprised to have been given a chance to speak to an Inquisitor as an equal, and had taken some time to consider his options. Dovator had hoped the Lieutenant would join him, knowing that he would be invaluable. By the time the shuttle lifted off, Kraken was on board, prepared to lay down his life for Dovator and his cause.

Lucia, Dovator preferred not to think about. She reminded him too much of himself, and the horrors he had endured on his path to become an Inquisitor. During his training on Gaea Prime, Dovator discovered what he now knew was a rare and dangerous talent: he was a psyker. He had done his best to keep his abilities hidden, believing that the others on his world would fear and hate him. Dovator's efforts appeared to have been successful. For years, he never shared his secret with anyone, not even his closest friends. There was never the slightest indication that his secret had been uncovered. And yet, they had come. One year after Borglyn left Gaea Prime for the Imperial Guard, the Black Ships arrived. Ten were taken, Dovator among them.

It was a chilling feeling, being held on a ship guarded by psychic nulls. Where he was a beacon in the Warp, they were voids; soulless. Dovator remembered being chained to the cold, steel wall of a small cell, a null collar around his neck, suppressing his abilities. And he remembered the screams. The never-ending wailing that kept him awake for days, fuelling his fear. He heard men and women begging, crying, being dragged away by the guards. Some never returned to their cells. Finally, they had come for him. They removed him from his cell, dragging him down a long corridor to another small, cold room. Now it was Dovator's turn to scream.

"Dovator!" Weiss called again, shaking the Inquisitor. "You alright?"

"What?" Dovator replied, confused. He looked around, seeing the concerned eyes of his crew on him. He flushed, embarrassed at having let his mind wander like that. How long have they been standing there like that? "Yeah," he muttered. "I was just. . . never mind. Let's get going."

The Inquisitor pressed a series of runes on a nearby panel. The mechanism screamed to life, gears grinding as the ramp lowered, meeting the docking bay floor with a resounding clang. Dovator adjusted his hat, running his fingers along the brim, and made his way down the ramp. He stopped midway, glancing back to his crew. "Oh, and Weiss?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't touch anything."

Borglyn walked toward the transport, anxious to see Dovator again for the first time in years. As he approached, his excitement began to wain. The Inquisitor disembarking from the transport was not the man Borglyn remembered. He seemed serious, old, hard; everything that the Dovator of Gaea Prime was not. Better to play it safe. The Colonel stopped a few feet in front of the ramp and saluted crisply, holding the salute until the Inquisitor acknowledged it.

Dovator smiled. "Learned some manners, huh?"

The Colonel relaxed. Despite the Inquisitor's outward appearance, he was very much the man Borglyn remembered. He returned the smile. "The Guard will do that to you." Borglyn stepped forward again and took Dovator's hand, shaking it firmly. "It's good to see you again, Alexi." And then, for old time's sake, he added: "You'd think with all your power and influence, you could have gotten your face fixed. You're still as ugly as I remember."

Dovator laughed and, much to Borglyn's surprise, so did his retinue. "So much for those new found manners." As his laughter faded, the Inquisitor noticed the strange look the Colonel was giving him. Dovator was so used to treating his retinue as equal, he often forgot how unorthodox it was. It was easy to understand why Borglyn would be puzzled by it. "Fear as a method of control can only ever work for so long," the Inquisitor explained. "It also has a negative impact on performance. You can't think straight with that kind of pressure. These people follow me because they want to, not because I've forced them to."

Borglyn nodded slowly, considering what the Inquisitor had said. Only Alexi would think of something this wild. He had only ever met a few Inquisitors, and all of them appeared to have a similar attitude when it came to their retinue: reliable and useful servants. Never equal, and almost always replaceable. And yet, somehow, what Dovator said made perfect sense. What better way to guarantee loyalty than to recruit like-minded individuals?

"We should discuss the battle plan," Dovator said, completely serious again.

Borglyn understood. This was their home world hanging in the balance. And both men had fought against the Great Enemy long enough to know that every second wasted allowed Chaos to tighten its death grip. If that happened, all chance of success would be lost. The world would be beyond saving and only one option would remain: Gaea Prime would have to die. Borglyn nodded silently and turned to leave the docking bay. "Follow me."