"So," you say, "the Forbidden Zone housed an Inquisition field station. I thought as much."
"Of course it did," Haxtes say in the flat voice you've become so accustomed to, "you saw the security setup when first I snuck through. Who else has the resources to do something like that?"
"Few, if any," you reply, putting emphasis on 'if any'.
"But as a kid I didn't have the necessary references to put together two and two. If I had, I would have stayed well clear of the place." Haxtes takes a sip of amasec, before playfully adding, "I think".
"The sedition of an entire world," you pick up the thread, "would automatically warrant an Inquisitorial investigation."
"But why Thira?" Haxtes asks rhetorically. "I've no good explanation, except it was a pretty important regional capital. And the Inquisition would have known it was not on the strategic targets list." He shrugs. "If it was a hotbed of heretical activity, I'd be surprised. But like before, I can't really rule out anything."
You have to agree with Haxtes assessment. "I think you've drawn the right conclusions. They had to set up shop somewhere, and Thira must have looked like a good place. I'm sure it wasn't the only such site either; there would have been more."
"I'm sure there were more," Haxtes concurs, "but we need to get back to mine."
"One more thing," you interject. "This Word of Light you mentioned; I think I may have heard of it."
"As long as you're not a follower," Haxtes says jokingly.
You give him a stern look in return. "The Word of Light is a vile perversion of the Imperial Creed, replacing faith in the glorious God-Emperor with the perverse powers of Chaos."
Haxtes shrugs. "Something like that. But I had no way of knowing that at the time."
You're about to say something, when Vern's voice suddenly appears to interrupt the conversation. "Actually the Word of Light is a charismatic Chaos cult found in many places throughout the Imperium. Each cult is led by a Deacon of Faith - what passes for their high priests - many of whom pass of their sorcerous talents as miracles of faith and the like."
"That I didn't know," you admit.
Vern provides you with more information, whether you want it or not. "Congregations of the faithful are, unlike many other Chaos cults, very secretive and therefore hard to spot. Congregations are forbidden from having contact each other, making it nigh impossible for the Inquisition to infiltrate or eliminate the organization as a whole."
He pauses to see if you have anything to add, but quickly resumes, preventing you from replying. He does get eager at times!
"On the surface," Vern continues, "it is as you say; the Word is a variant of the Imperial Creed. Converts are introduced to the 'True Gods' gradually, as not to scare them away. By the time the truth is revealed, their minds have already been turned - or sorcery is used to subdue those who prove reluctant to accept the 'truth'."
"If the Inquisitor in attendance knew any of this, he would have acted promptly," you reply.
"He did," Haxtes supplies. "Who do you think put pressure on the Imperial Guard to deal with the Kiones? Who do you think told them that heresy must not be allowed to spread again? The Inquisitor in attendance, Globus Vaarak."
"What most people do not realize is that the Word of Light is an apocalyptic cult," Vern resumes. "On the surface it looks rather benign, for a Chaos cult. There is a little sacrifice, but not too much to be a burden. There is obedience to the Deacon, but that's common fare for any Imperial citizen. If you look deeper, however, things change. The Word promises a Second Coming of the Prophet of Light, when all the Brethren shall rise up and set the galaxy on fire. But until that day the deacons are to keep their congregations safe and sound, and not do anything to attract attention."
"And this cult was active in Thira?" you ask. "This Maxentius was a Deacon of Light?"
Vern turns to look as Haxtes before replying "This is the first time I've ever heard mention of a Deacon in Thira. Haxtes, why have you never mentioned this to me before? If the Inquisition suspected the presence of the Word on Protasia - it could have been the real cause for the invasion!"
Haxtes mouth becomes a grim line. "I never mentioned it because I never felt like mentioning it." He half rises from his seat. "Now be gone Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos, I need answer to no man, least of all you!"
Vern bows deeply. "Your will, my master," he says, before retreating into the darkness beyond the circle of light
Knowing that I was trespassing on the Inquisition's holy ground made me realize it was time to pack up and get going. I wouldn't say I was afraid, but I definitely had the feeling that my time was up.
Having pretty much covered the sub-levels - at least those portions accessible to me - I knew I wouldn't find a viable exit down there. Going above ground presented its own challenges, more specifically the automated defences, but I was left with no real choices. I had only a vague idea of what awaited me, and determined to deal with problems as they presented themselves.
I retracted my steps a distance, until I came to a room where I had spotted some surgical supplies. During my last pass, in among scalpels and whatnot, I had spotted a large meat hook. What a thing like that was doing in a hospital I didn't know - brought there by the Inquisition most likely. It had been worse than worthless to me before, just a length of heavy metal, but now I figured I could use it like a crowbar.
With my makeshift crowbar in hand I went back again, to the barred door in the innermost room. I gave the lock another couple of lasrounds, and then shot out the triple hinges as well. I started working the crowbar around the edges of the door. It took a while, without psychic aid I wasn't the strongest kid in town, but eventually I got it cracked open. Not all the way open, just a gap along one edge.
Peering through the gap I could see the door was barred from the other side. A couple of metal rods had been welded across the face of the door, pinning it to the frame. I pushed the lasgun barrel through the crack I'd made and fired at the rods a few times, until they snapped. With the aid of the meat hook I was now able to pry the door sufficiently open to squeeze through. I was very careful not to touch any of the semi-molten metal my lasfire had created.
I was going up the stairwell to the ground level when it spotted me. A servo-skull, hovering deathly silent in mid-air. It was considerably bigger than the CAS drones Jons had deployed as scouts. It was also armed; the barrel of a compact, but very lethal, bolt weapon protruded from between its metal jaws. The stylized 'I' of the Inquisition was worked into its burnished, golden forehead.
Before I had a chance to react, it had painted me with a ruby red targeting beam, projected from its right eye. I was a sitting duck in its sights. The servoskull fired. I threw up my hands. The bolts blew up just a few centimetres from my skin. Spontaneous release of my psychic powers had once again saved my bacon.
I was off balance, and the force of the exploding munitions was sufficient to send me tumbling backwards down the stairs. I hurt like hell for days, but my fall was a godsend. Had I not fallen I would have died in that stairwell: Immediately following that first burst of bolter fire, the servoskull self-destructed by blowing up its ammo storage. It must have had a final subroutine in case it encountered a telekine it couldn't handle.
When the ringing in my head finally subsided I slowly got back up on my feet. Just in time to hear powerful claxons going off; the loud noise provoked another dizzy spell and some dry heaving. I had trouble standing up straight.
The claxons were interrupted by a mechanical voice blearing: "Facility has been breached. Rogue psykers within the perimeter. Terminate with extreme prejudice."
Rogue psykers and terminate with extreme prejudice; that would be me, I realized.
"Initiating final containment protocol," the voice continued, before the claxons resumed. I didn't like the sound of finality contained within that warning.
I knew I had to get the fuck away, and quickly. Unfortunately I had no idea how I might accomplish that. So I started running. Up the stairs, as fast as my wobbly feet allowed. I always run when things get too thick. Like I always say; it's better to run away and try again, that stand and die.
In between remaining Inquisition security measures, and plain locked doors and barred windows, my options were limited. I was forced up and up, all the way past the twentieth floor of the main hospital building. I eventually found myself at the very top of the stairs, staring into a door I knew must lead onto the roof. Not exactly an ideal escape route, but I had nothing else.
I dealt with the door the same way I had the others; some lasgun rounds, followed by the meat hook for leverage. I got the door pried open. I stuck my head through and looked out at the wide open expanse of the hospital roof. The landing platform immediately caught my eye. I could see something parked on it, partially hidden underneath a canopy of polymer-canvas.
I ran, low and fast, hoping against hope that there were no gun servitors covering the roof. Ducking under the canvas I found my prize: A sleek-looking hopper. It was a local Protasian model, but some Imperial enginseer had ripped out the original locking mechanisms and authentication systems, and replaced them with crude Imperial designs.
That tinkering proved to be a godsend - without the Grid and a functioning lock, I wouldn't have been able to get to hopper to run in its original configuration. With only this simple, mechanical fix to contend with, I definitely had a shot. I jumped inside and shut the door after me. The key was dangling from the overhead console. I grabbed it, rammed it home, and twisted it to the 'Initiate' position. Maybe there was a little praying involved. You know, to the usual suspects; the Machine God, the God-Emperor, the Saints and the Ancestor-Spirits, and whomever else might be listening.
The hopper came to life, powered by an external connection. Looking over the status board I saw that it was fully charged and fuelled. It must have sat there, waiting for me for two years, alone and unwanted. The last time I had ridden in a hopper I was eight. Father had shown me the controls and such, and let me play around a bit, but I wasn't exactly a qualified operator. With determination born of desperation I managed to get both the grav coils and the rotors online and running.
Then I waited.
"You waited?" you ask. "What for?"
"For an opportune moment," Haxtes replies. "You remember those two perimeters, with the gun servitors and all that? If I tried to run I wouldn't get fifty meters before I was shot down. It had nothing to do with my lack of flying skills. An ace Lightning pilot would have gotten no further. No, I had to wait. Wait for something to happen. Wait for the final containment protocol to fire."
"How could you know?" you press him.
"I think we'll just call it precognition. Or divine inspiration. Or the overconfidence of youth. You pick one."
Fifteen minutes after the warning had been issued the implosion bomb went off below the compound. Fifteen minutes. Long enough for any key personnel, such as an Inquisitor and his closest aides, to evacuate. Perhaps using the very hopper I was now sitting in.
As the implosion effect started to suck everything inwards, I punched the throttle wide open and whispered a prayer to my ancestors and the God-Emperor and whatever saints presided over mad hopper flights. I shot out like a bullet, a fraction too fast for the bomb to suck me back in. The servitor-turrets fired at me, but with reality being compressed into a microscopic point they had trouble tracking me properly. They winged the hopper, but didn't terminate it. I tried as best I could to keep flying, but the hopper was a lost cause. The machine came down a few blocks away.
I crawled out of the rubble, battered but alive. I stood there lamely and looked at where the Forbidden Zone had been; nothing remained. There was a big hole in the ground, like someone had scooped away all the earth and hidden it somewhere else. I slung my stuff across one shoulder and hurried away before my shenanigans attracted other watchers.
"And this Inquisition facility, what was it used for? With the benefit of hindsight guiding your answer?" you ask.
Haxtes answers. "One would guess that it was used for processing heretics, for searching for answers, for looking at the cause behind Protasia's heresies."
"And this would warrant the installation of a massive implosion device? Sounds a bit excessive to me. And the self-destructing servo-skull - at the first sight of a small boy?" you make sure you tone reflects your doubts.
Haxtes speaks in a dead, weary tone. "The base was mothballed, but not dismantled. It's standard operating procedure to leave a final protocol option for such installations. And I may have been small, but I was a rogue psyker rummaging around inside three layers of automated defences. You know how paranoid the Inquisition is when it comes to rogue psykers."
"Verrigan," you say, "he didn't make his move until the base had been decommissioned. That is interesting."
Haxtes gives you an approving look. Or at least you think its approval. With him it's hard to tell.
"Never mind," you say, "just continue."
