You interrupt the playback. "That scene certainly brought home some of my earlier questions."

Haxtes waits for you to elaborate.

"Protasian screening of potential psykers leaves something to be desired," you continue. "Out of a family of five, three were unregistered psykers, unless your brother and father should be included as well?"

Haxtes smacks his lips. "Father was quite mundane, as far as I know, although I suppose nothing can be ruled out. He could - theoretically - have been a carrier of recessive psi-genes. Or he could have been a latent psyker, yet to bloom. Mayhap his cortex implants interfered with the development of his psychic abilities. I do not believe any of these scenarios to be the case, but I have no concrete evidence to back it up with."

You wait for him finish.

"My brother Jax was rigorously tested, with no trace of psychic potential found. As for Mother, her abilities were entirely passive, and weak enough to pass the screening tests. Eta grad I'll wager. Same with my sister. That time with Jax was the first time she actively manifested anything. I think she was as surprised as me and Jax combined. As for myself...I was too young to have been tested before the bombs fell."

"I'm not convinced," you say, "explain all you want, but it smells of sloppiness on part of the Imperial Commander. And the Arbitrators should have been there to pick up the slack."

Haxtes agrees to disagree. "You know as well as I do that these tests aren't completely accurate. Quite a few unlucky non-psykers are taken away just to be on the safe side, but some latent psykers still slip through. The Imperium doesn't mind, not as long as the quota is met, and none of the slip-ups end up as daemon-possessed rogues. Which we both know isn't all that likely to happen."

"At the rate you were going it's a miracle you didn't attract otherworldly attention," you counter sourly.

Haxtes laughs at that. "Or maybe I did? Maybe I had my very own ancestor spirit watching over me the whole time? My dead witch-whore of a mother perhaps? Or maybe it was the God-Emperor himself. Or one of the daemons of Chaos? It's notoriously difficult to tell such entities apart."

You know he's trying to annoy you, but still you cannot let this go unanswered. "Don't. Don't go there. Just don't."

Haxtes raises an eyebrow. "You mean don't disparage Him on Earth, don't take His name in vain, and all that?"

"Yes," you say flatly. "I know you seek to unsettle me, but this method doesn't work. It just makes me angry, makes me even less likely to listen to what you have to say. But I'm long past being a slave to my emotions, so whatever you're playing at simply won't work."

The eyebrow drops back to neutral position. "That's not it at all Marcus. I've nothing but the utmost respect and adoration for the God-Emperor of Mankind. I've served him with all my being, for more years than most men live. I've killed for him more times than I can count." He gives you a very solemn look. "So don't come here all young and cocky and tell me I 'disparage' the Master of Mankind."

Typical of Haxtes. Trying to worm his way out, by explaining away that which is painfully obvious. "Then what's with the attitude?"

Haxtes grins. "First of all, I don't like you, Marcus. I really don't. You're an annoying sort to begin with. Plus you shouldn't be here at all. There is no point trying to pretend otherwise. So I think that entitles me to fuck with your mind to my heart's content."

He raises his hand to stop you from interrupting him.

"Secondly this is who I am. In life I didn't talk much, not compared to a certain Vern anyway. And I definitely wasn't very good at small talk. I kept wanting to talk about the important stuff, which many people find unsettling. Nor was I particular polite, except when it was to my benefit. And as I said, you've done nothing to make me want to be polite."

You sense there is more here. "Go on," you urge, "you've already covered the fact that you don't like me."

Haxtes is still grinning. "I'm trying to show you who I am, what I am, but you're not listening. I'm opening my soul to you, and all you do is stand in judgement. But you're not the one who will judge me. Only the God-Emperor can do that. So what about you listen more and judge less? If you don't, there is very real chance you'll miss more of the really important stuff."

You shake your head. "A cute explanation, but no. I simply do not trust anything you say at this point. But for the sake of improved relations I shall reserve judgment for later. In return you will try to remain civil when it comes to Him."

Haxtes' grin widens. "Agreed!" he says, with unusual enthusiasm.

You cannot help feeling that you were somehow lured into this exchange. But to what purpose?

Haxtes returns to the topic. "Whether or not something or someone actually watched over me is a question that cannot ever be answered. I've pondered it many times, and have come to various conclusions. Ultimately it does not matter." He pulls back his sleeve to show the electoo-brand of a sanctioned Primaris psyker. "Eventually I was picked up by the Inquisition and thoroughly screened. You know how anal they are about Warp taint, moral deviance, bodily corruption, and whatnot. Whatever the reason for my good fortune, I passed all their tests." Dramatic pause. "How is that for a miracle Marcus?"

You don't answer, but will the playback to resume.

I was inside. Currently three levels below the surface, within the warren of corridors, rooms, and access ways that made up the invisible underworld of the hospital complex. I was pretty certain that sub-level three was the lowermost point, seeing as how it connected to the drainage system. The rest of the layout I was less sure of. Due to our fucked-up reliance on the grid and our locks, there was preciously little in the way of signs or floor plans to guide me.

Despite any navigational challenges I may have had, I felt rather confident. I was inside the inner security perimeter. That was the important part. During actual operations the inside of the place would have been swarming with staff and security troopers. But not now. The facility had been abandoned years ago. Interior security measures would be at a minimum. Locked doors? Certainly. Roving patrols of black-clad storm troopers? Not so much.

I started out very carefully, just to be on the safe side. I had no idea how paranoid the security staff had been. I mean, the inside of the buildings could be filled with additional countermeasures. Traps. Roving sentries. Gun servitors. I wasn't in a rush. I could take my sweet time. Besides, this was by far the most exciting thing to happen since, well, since ever. It even made me forget my soaked clothes, my hurts, and my bruises.

My concerns proved largely unfounded. There were no more active security measures now that I was inside. There were clear signs that a substantial amount of security equipment had been removed as part of the moving out process. That didn't mean I had a free reign of the place, however. There were a lot of locked doors barring my way. In other places corridors and doorways had been welded shut or otherwise permanently barred. I supposed it had been done to zone up the hospital building. To what end I couldn't tell.

I did not attempt to repeat my door-ripping feat. Instead I roamed the sub-levels for a while, getting a feel for the place. After ten or so minutes I located some bags of hospital uniforms. They seemed fresh, or close enough, so I peeled of my wools and dressed in a mixture of plain whites and sterile greens. Even the women's 'extra small' sizes were a bit on the big side. I rummaged a little more and managed to locate some disposable slippers. They felt impossibly warm and welcoming when I put them on. They would serve quite nicely inside the hospital. I must have looked like a complete douche, but I was dry and therefore content.

I was reluctant to let my wools and boots go. I ended up making an improvised sling bag from my oilskin jacket to carry them in - I needed my satchel free for all the loot I was hoping to find.

I resumed my search for loot. The more I moved around, the more at ease I felt. Only problem was the lack of valuable, easy to move stuff. As I feared, the place had been cleaned rather thoroughly before it was closed down. Many of the rooms had been stripped bare, leaving no trace as to their original function. Other rooms and corridors were crammed full of hospital gear - beds and other furniture, strange-looking machines, and other paraphernalia - none of which I could reasonably lug around.

Eventually I managed to reach an unlocked stairwell by way of the male nurses' locker rooms. The machine spirit of the stairwell's auto-locks was clearly unsettled, preventing them from engaging properly. It tried again and again; I could hear the locking bolts snapping into place, but immediately they would disengage, followed by the sad wail of the machine spirit trying to alert a tech-priest to its plight. No one responded. There hadn't been a simple enginseer around for years.

I pondered this new development for a spell. I made my decision and moved through the door and into the stairwell. As I went I uttered a short prayer to the Deus Mechanicus in thanks for this unexpected boon. Maybe Jons was right, maybe there was a piece of God in every machine. Even if not, there was no harm in paying my respects to the Machine God.

The stairwell enabled me to gain access to sub-levels one and two, but unfortunately it didn't connect to the surface or any kind of topside building. I had nothing better to do, so I kept going. With two new levels to explore I figured I would find something of value eventually.

After an hour or so prowling the complex I finally found an interesting site. In what must have been an improvised barracks on sub-level one, I found a lasgun leaned against the wall. The lasgun was a standard M36, with a scope attached. Nothing like the Eye, but decent enough for ordinary rifle work. The charge reader said sixty, so than meant a full mag, or close to it. I didn't recognize the mark of the charge pack, so I wasn't sure how many rounds it could hold. Some packs held sixty rounds, others as many as one hundred. It didn't matter, sixty shots was plenty. And there was bound to be a standard charge port somewhere I could use to refill the power pack.

Some poor schmuck must have left his gun behind when the vacated the premises. I wondered what kind of punishment he had received; according to the Uplifting Primer it was a shooting offence to abandon your weapon if deployed to a warzone. The punishment was less harsh if you lost it during training or transit for example. I slung my newfound rifle across my back, and didn't think more of it.

Not far from the rifle I hit my jackpot: A cellulose box brimming with Imperial ration packs. There were thirteen packs. All of them read 'Meal No. 131, Faux beef and mixed vegetable stew'. One of my favourites, as far as Imperial rations went. My spirits soared to unprecedented heights. I hadn't found this much in one place for years. And I was certain there was more here. Enough to make me rich. Relatively speaking.

I considered popping one of the ration packs right away, but I was still kind of full after my improvised crackers-and-icy-water lunch. A normal person would have taken the opportunity to feast a little, but I was a small, scrawny kid. I was used to having little to eat. And what little I had, I often needed to scrape out over too many meals. After a while of not eating it becomes a habit that is very hard to break. I packed as many rations as I could back inside the box, tied it closed with a piece of string, and put the rest of the packs in my satchel.

After the dual discovery, I tried to figure out how to get back into the hospital for more plunder at a later date. With a start I realized I didn't even know how to get out. The way I had come in was definitely out of the question. I was pretty sure that going out on the ground level - or above - would get me killed in the blink of an eye. I would have to find another exit point. But until I did, I was effectively trapped inside the subterranean complex.

I spent another couple of hours exploring the place, primarily looking for a way out. I found some odds and ends that I added to my satchel, but there were no more hauls like the lasgun or the rations. Eventually I ran out of space to explore: I found further progress barred by locked doors and other barriers.

As an experiment I tried to work my way around these obstacles by using the lasgun to take out a door. It worked well enough on my first attempt; I deftly shot out the lock with three lasrounds, and proceeded to pry the door open with my hands while the locking mechanism was still in a molten state.

That got me access to a trio of badly lit rooms on the second sub-level. At first glance the rooms contained nothing of interest or value. The first room reeked of chemicals and old smoke. Three large fan hoods dominated the room, each crowning a metal workstation of some sort. There was a heavy duty sink at each work station. All three sinks were filled with ash and scraps of burnt cellulose sheets.

Having nothing better to do, I leafed through the contents of the sinks, looking for something readable. Our old country house outside of Thira had two fireplaces. I had used cellulose scraps to get the fires going on many occasions. I knew that if you shoved in too many densely compacted cellulose sheets, they would not burn properly all the way through to the centre.

Lo and behold, by carefully brushing away the top layers I found a stack of sheets that hadn't been completely destroyed. It was a transcription of an old astropathic message. It appeared to pertain to the start of the war.

### Astropathic Message Transcription ###

# Header #

Date-Time-Stamp: 5.099.815.M41

Transmission Priority Level: Maximus

Transmitter: Astropath Elixis Suburis, Attending Astropath, His Divine Majesty's Colony Protasia/Durusus Marches Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus

Conduits: Ordo Xenos Monitoring Station {classified}, Imperial Navy Watch Station Epsilon-Foxtrot-Gamma-113

Receptor: Malfian Astropathic Chorus, His Divine Majesty's Colony Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus

From: General Bracchus Eiden, Commanding Officer, Protasian Delegation, Protasia/Drusus Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus

To: Malfian High Command, Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus

Security Clearance Level: Vermillion-1

Subject: Protasian Declaration of Independence

# Message begins #

All Praise the Immortal Emperor, for without his guidance we are nothing STOP The Senate of the People of Protasia denies our rightful demands STOP Senate despatched a courier for Terra to request intervention by the High Lords STOP When fired upon Protasian defence grid returned fire resulting in the destruction of {classified} with all hands STOP The {classified} Guard detachment accompanying the delegation is currently besieged by Protasian PDF STOP If they attack I aestimate we can hold out for no more than {classified} hours STOP Assume general rebellion to follow STOP Request orders and support from Sub-sector STOP Blessed are we who have known the Emperor's Light STOP General Bracchus Eiden {authority signature encrypted} END

# Message ends #

{authentication string encrypted}

### Transmission ends ###

I carefully pulled at the sheet. I managed to get it loose, but as soon as I turned it over it broke into a myriad fragments. The sheet underneath was badly stained and partially burned. I could barely make out the words in the glare of my torch. The top was too messed up to read, but the main body was - barely - readable.

Transmitter: Astropath Senioris Teushmann, Lord Astropath, His Divine Majesty's Colony Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus

Conduits: Imperial Navy Watch Station Epsilon-Foxtrot-Gamma-113, Ordo Xenos Monitoring Station {classified}

Receptor: Unknown (reception unconfirmed)

From: Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus, Chief of Staff, Malfian High Command, Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus

To: Commanding Officer, Protasian Delegation, Protasia/Durusus Marches Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus

Security Clearance Level: Vermillion-1

Subject: Protasian Declaration of Independence

# Message begins #

The sin of failure will damn even the most pious of men STOP Protasia has been declared heretical and is considered to be at war with the Imperium of Man STOP Inform them that they are to surrender unconditionally without further delay or face military sanction STOP Arrest all Senate members and associates STOP They are enemies of the Lord of Man and are to be taken into custody pending public execution STOP {Classified] elements of Battlefleet Calixis en-route STOP Ground assets approximating {classified} Guard Divisions embarked STOP Cursed are...

The bottom part of the sheet was as badly messed up as the top, but judging from the other message I wasn't missing out on anything important.

I tried to separate this second sheet as I had the first, but the fire had turned the cellulose into a brittle, near-ash state. It broke apart, as did the semi-intact sheet underneath. I was able to piece together part of the message though; it was a third astropathic transcript, dated a while later, screaming for more ships and men. Signed one Maxim Maximus.

This was all very good, but reading about war and politics wasn't very high on my list of interesting stuff to do before I died, so I decided to move on. The second room was barren, save for several rows of metal filing cabinets that had been pushed up against the far wall. It looked like whoever had cleaned out the place had moved the cabinets from their usual locations, over to the wall once they had been emptied.

I pondered the existence of physical files. It felt so primitive, yet also so simple and effective. Thinking about the current state of Protasia and the Grid made physical filing sound like a viable option. With a few dedicated savants to run the archive, it would be just as good as a cogitator-run system, with none of the drawbacks.

I rummaged through the cabinets, but found them utterly empty, save a single page made of very fine cellulose. It had gotten stuck between two interior separators, and thus escaped notice. Judging by the labelling it was the fifth and last page of a five-page docket. It was a list of sorts, with names, aliases, and filing references to about two dozen suspected Protasians insurgents. All but three of the names had a notation in the 'Status' column indicating they had been killed or captured.

Three things caught my attention. Firstly it was an Inquisition document, stamped and approved with great bureaucratic panache. Secondly the document bore the name of a real Inquisitor. Attending Inquisitor, Globus Vaarak, it said in High Gothic. I was no more - or less - familiar with the Holy Ordos than any other citizen. Meaning the name invoked the usual mix of mystery, awe, and irrational dread in me. But seeing the name of a real, living Inquisitor that had been here, on my planet, in my city - I was genuinely impressed.

Last, but not least, there was a familiar name on that list. In the second to last position it read: Preacher Maxentius. In the column to the right of the name two aliases were listed: Preacher Molevoch and Mr. Galatas. There was a question mark in parentheses behind that second name; a suspected, but unconfirmed alias. They had left out Killer of Whores, but I was sure this Maxentius was the same person who had ordered my mother killed. But why had the Inquisition kept a file on him? Torturing and killing women wasn't very nice, but it hardly constituted a grand heresy.

It then occurred to me that the Inquisition probably kept files not only on known heretics, but also on anyone that they thought might possibly become a heretic, however slim the chances.

Preacher Maxentius was one of the names listed as a 'Deceased'. They got that part right, at least. Someone with a very bad hand-writing had scribbled Heretic: Missionaria Galaxia Renegade in the 'Notes' column. The Galaxia reference had been struck out with a different kind of marker. That same marker had in turn been used to write Heretic: Possible Deacon of the Word in parenthesis. I knew what a heretic was, of course, in a general sense at least. I didn't know anything about any deacons or words though, except for that time I'd overheard Sarge and Jons talk about a Word of Light.

Judging by the many file references scribbled in the final 'References' column, there was a whole dossier on the man. Whoever this Inquisitor Vaarak was, he'd thought Maxentius important enough to gather information about him. Had the dossier been burned or removed? I had no way of telling. I shrugged and put it out of my mind. Any heresy was no concern of mine: Mother was dead and avenged, the Guardsmen had left, the Preacher long dead, and the Inquisition gone. I considered taking the docket page with me, but I knew nothing good would come of it, so I left it where I had found it.

In the innermost room there was another metal door, one that I was certain connected to an auxiliary stairwell. I lacked a decent floor plan, so I could not be sure, but I was hoping the stairs would lead up into one of the surface buildings. I used use the lasgun again, but this time I was out of luck. The lock melted all right, but I couldn't pry the door open. Either the door itself had warped, or it had been blocked in some fashion from the other side. I could have kept blasting away, but my instincts told me it was futile.