Author's Notes: SURPRISE! After taking a long break from Louk Shannegh's original story, the next installment has finally begun. I will be upfront and honest about one thing: I am not entirely sure I will be able to consistently maintain this one. Will try my hardest, but between life and work and hobbies and my... other writing... it will unfortunately be fairly spotty in updates. However, this story will be more action-focused than the previous, and will be told in a very different manner than That Which Is Forbidden. Specifically, the primary viewpoint of this story is our lovely and intense Eulogy Jones, with numerous secondary POVs this time around. No longer are you shackled to the POV of a single man who is frustratingly unaware of metaknowledge and does not act like a 21st century tabletop gamer's Mary Sue with omniscient knowledge and just-as-planned successes.

Anyhow, hope y'all enjoy this one.

The Child

Father always told her that a lady should not make herself the center of attention.

Those words stung her cheeks, flushed hot with shame as the coach hummed down the country road. The viewport between the passenger compartment and the driver's compartment remained open, though the man dutifully kept his eyes averted from the mirror. She was glad of that. Father's servants were kind to her. They did not remind her. To the servants, she was not the dishonor of her family. To them, she was merely "the little mistress."

The daughter.

It was not only her father, but all of them. The other noble family's scions taunted her mercilessly. Children were cruel, she had decided. They were heartless, as raw as a freshly scraped knee, and had nothing to lose. A scolding was the most they feared, and not from mocking a wretched thing like her. Royal proctors, men and women chosen and honored for their vast knowledge and servitude to the Houses, turned up their noses at her curiosity, her questions, and her attempts to be just another scion.

Days like today made her glad for the long road back to the family manse. It gave her time to dry her eyes, to wipe her cheeks, to reform the brittle facade of grace that her father demanded of her. Ladies do not cry, he ordered. It was unbecoming of a lady to draw attention to herself.

By the time the coach reached her father's home, she would be presentable, and enter her home with the dignity of a young lady, and not the weeping girl that had been shoved to the ground by Marius and his friends. The bloody stain on her dress had ruined it; father would be furious. This dress had been her favorite. Her mother had worn it when she had been a young lady.

A commotion from outside the coach drew her thoughts away from the tattered knee of the dress and to a sudden noise. It came slowly, the distant whine of an aircraft. She listened, curious to hear it. The sound itself was not uncommon, in the great cities or near the spaceports. For a craft to be flying so close to the ground in the countryside, however, was rare. Curious, she went to the window and looked up at the sky. The enclosed coach afforded her little of the view outside. Father forbade it. He said that a lady should not distract herself with the greater world until her future was secured. She knew that it was forbidden to lift the tinted covering that hid the world outside.

She saw the smoke trail first. A dark, grainy plume stretching across the sky like the bloody scratch on her knee. In the center of that gash, a growing blot of black emerged. The smoke poured out of its engines, belching guttural flames. Awed by the sight, she stared. Her driver ordered her to close the curtain, and she did with some reluctance. A tinted screen slid down from the roof, covering the windows in a protective glaze she had been told would keep her safe. Without the ability to track the oddity, she sat back down and listened. The sound grew louder, the engine whine becoming clearer. Its sound grew painfully loud, and even the coach began to rattle and shake from the power of its engines. She clapped her hands over her ears.

The shrieking grew agonizing for a mere moment. She thought her teeth might shake out of her mouth from the intensity of it. Her driver's voice was a dull murmur against the horrific sound. The aircraft must have skimmed just over their coach, for the whole vehicle seemed to swerve to the side at once, as if pushed by an unseen hand.

A horrendous burst of noise ripped through the coach, like a great metal sheet being torn into pieces. The coach swerved again, this time spinning to the right with enough force she was thrown to the side of the compartment. Her cheek struck the door handle, and the familiar tang of blood seeped into her mouth. Her pitiful shriek was mercifully hidden by the great rending explosion.

Gerald, her father's driver and her own favorite servant, turned back suddenly, his eyes wide and filled with terror. Blood leaked from his ears, and he had a bruise on his forehead.

"Lock the doors, miss!"

The servant opened his driver door and disappeared. Startled, she gaped at the open viewport. Confusion paralyzed her. Lock the doors? But why had he gone out? Had the aircraft crashed? She was uncertain what it would have sounded like.

A distressing sharp bang pierced the doors of the coach. She leapt to her feet and hurriedly pushed the locking rune on the door.

Were they bandits? She had heard the children's stories of them, been told about them by the other children. Bad men that lived in the woods, preying upon innocent and good people. Those stories had been tall tales, she thought. Tales designed to scare her and bully her. Father had always scoffed at the notion of bandits. But as she peered out through the driver's compartment, the thought that bandits might be real struck her as distressingly possible.

The door to the driver compartment slid open on both sides. A man climbed into the driver's seat, not Gerard. He wore a dark tailcoat that was dirty with burn marks. It was plain, heavy, not the kind of thing a noble or the servant of a noble could wear. When he swept his arm up to pull the coat from under his legs, she spotted a dark green plated vest. Soldiers wore armored vests. Was this man a soldier? He had a weapon on his hip but a hearty grin on his face rather than the scowl she would have expected on a soldier.

Their soldiers wore red, though. She had always seen them wearing their clean red uniforms with white crossbelts and blue dress pants. Picture books of other soldiers from other worlds showed green armor, but they never wore coats in the pictures. Why would he be wearing a coat? And where was his rifle? Every soldier carried a rifle, she had thought.

The other person who climbed into the coach was a woman. She recognized the woman's uniform immediately. The soft black robes of a Sister Hospitaller, emblazoned with the white fleur-de-lis of her order. She had seen plenty of Sisters before. They worked alongside the proctors at times, assisting with teaching the scions of her world, and instilling in them the correct worship of the venerable God-Emperor.

But this one too was wrong. Her headgear was nowhere to be found, and unkempt locks of bleached-white hair clung to her sweat-drenched face. Blood trickled down from cuts and scrapes on her face, and she cradled one arm as if it had been injured. That hand clutched a pistol. The Sisters of the Hospitaller order were not supposed to carry weapons. They were healers, or so she had been told. Not warriors.

Who were these two? A not-soldier and a not-Sister. And what had they done to Gerald?

"Buckle up" the man grunted, addressing the Sister.

"I… what did we do," she asked, her voice breathless as if having just run the obstacle course the older children were allowed to practice on. "Throne, we killed him? We killed th-"

"He was a traitor and a villain," the man interrupted. His hands worked across the console of the coach, and its engine sputtered back to life. "Trust me, he's one Ecclesiarch this world won't miss."

"He was the High Apostle!" The woman took a shaky breath and lifted the pistol.

A horrible stench filled the compartment, and she wrinkled her nose at it. It was something she had never experienced, but instinct told her it came from the pistol. A tangy odor of sour air and flash-burnt metal.

She inspected the weapon in the Sister's hand curiously. Father had never let her hold a weapon before. Weapons were not for ladies. This Sister had one, and it looked so wonderfully designed. The sacred symbol of the aquila stretched along its length, and the blessed fleur-de-lis lifted proudly off the silver box jutting from its underside. It was called a bolt pistol, if she remembered correctly. The warrior Sisters that were not Hospitallers used those. They were said to be one of the most mighty weapons mankind had ever produced.

"Come on, Cariad, don't tell me you aren't glad to see that bastard dead."

The coach lurched into motion, and she clutched frantically for purchase to avoid losing her footing. A muted squeak erupted from her lungs, and she shrank back as the quiet sound echoed in the coach.

As one, the two persons in the front seat turned back to stare through the open viewport.

The sister was beautiful. Her face was thin and pretty, with a slender nose and piercing noble eyes, lips pursed in a half-formed gasp. So very much like Sister Venira, the Hospitaller who tended to her when she scraped her knee or hands. They might have been the same age, young women newly inducted into the famous Adeptas Sororitas. A stenciled aquila tattoo marked her forehead, an odd choice for a sister, but appropriate in her devotion to His Majesty.

While the woman was lovely and young, the other man filled her with dread. A dark scowl had come over his face, a scowl that struck her as terribly sad and angry at the same time. Clean-shaven, as was proper, yet he had hard features and a hawkish expression. It reminded her of the house cats when they had cornered mice. The man stared at her for a long moment before letting out a long, heavy sigh.

"Goddamn it," he said. His blasphemy made her wince. "Who are you?"

His tone was harsh, intimidating, and rude. He spoke like a commoner. As scary as he was, she had been taught many times that the common folk had no business speaking to nobles, no matter age. Indignation formed in her small little body, and she straightened to address the man.

"Who are you," she shot back, her thin voice nearly squeaking. "This is my father's coach. You do not work for him."

The man did not give her an answer. Rather, he threw back his head and let loose a sharp bark of laughter. The Sister continued to stare, her expression unreadable.

"This kid. What a laugh." His arm came up and rested on the edge of the viewport. "Listen kid, you're a noble, right? A little young lady?"

She nodded. It was good for him to know her status. Father had always told her that. Perhaps the man would have some respect for her once that obvious fact had been confirmed. How had he not noticed already? He did not strike her as particularly unintelligent. Rude, then. Just rude, and not caring for the proper order of things.

"You're pretty fearless for a kid. Why's that? Most of the arrogant snotlings your age would be pissi-"

"Victor," the woman interjected, a scandalized horror on her face. He stopped, shot the Sister a fond smile, and shrugged.

"...be quivering in fear. Why are you different?"

She pointed at the beautiful woman. "She is a Sister. Sisters are servants of His Majesty."

"I'm not a sister," he pointed out.

"But you are with her. A Sister wouldn't be with a bad man."

The Hospitaller blanched, her eyes lowering for a moment. The man laughed again, this time a quiet chuckle that did not reach his eyes. A silent word passed under his breath, and he shifted in his seat. The sister let out a cry.

"No, Victor!"

"She's a witness," the man said, facing away from her. He spoke to the Sister as if she was not even there.

"She's a child! You can't."

"She is a witness," the man repeated, his tone growing firm. "No loose ends, Cariad. I told you that."

The Sister leaned in to the man. Fear spread across the woman's face. "Please, I am begging you. I did everything you asked of me. Please do not do this."

The man remained silent for a long while. After a slow, painful silence, he slowed the coach to a halt, and put it in park. Easing around to stare back at her through the viewport, the man regarded her with an appraising eye.

"How old are you, girl?"

"A lady never tells her age," she answered defiantly.

Her indignation at the rude question brought another low chuckle from the man. He rubbed his face, and the sadness came back over him, flitting by like dartfowl skipping over the lake.

"I like this kid," he muttered, speaking to the Sister. "So then, here's my offer: your life for hers. If she gets out of this coach, you are bound to follow me until I release you. You have potential, Cariad. I believe I could utilize your talents far better than the Order ever could. But if you accept, this will be the last time you are ever given a choice. Your life, for hers."

"I accept," the woman stated, nearly cutting him off in her urgency to agree.

She watched in silent confusion, not understanding what was transpiring. Tears spilled down the Sister's cheeks, marring her beautiful ivory skin. Closing those pretty tear-stricken eyes, the Sister sagged against the viewport. It looked for all the world like she had dropped suddenly to sleep. But she scrunched up her brows, and the tears continued to flow.

"That wasn't so hard then, was it?" The man tipped the Sister's chin up with a finger. "Going to have to find you a better name, though. Your Order won't exactly like me taking you away, even if it is for the greater good. What do you think, Cariad? Your actions today were pretty horrific. You broke so many of your vows. Your Sister Superior would say you have quite a bit of penance to… Penance." The man's mouth split in another grin. This one seemed different though, and she shuddered as his lips parted like a cut opening on his face.

"Penance will do." Turning back to her, he let that unnerving smile linger. His attention drew over her and she felt a sudden lightheadedness, an uncomfortable scratching inside her head as if a small rodent was trying to claw its way out. "And you, what is your name, young lady?"

"My house name is Jones," she said. "You may call me Miss Eulogy."

"Eulogy Jones?" he nodded slowly. "That's an unfortunate name."

She did not reply, but the heat stung her cheeks just as it had every time she introduced herself. It was her brand, her sin worn openly for all to see. Father had made sure that she would never forget. That her newborn cries had been the last thing her mother had heard before she passed away. That she would live until the end of her days in constant reminder that her mother had died bringing her into the world, and left her family without a male heir. It did not make her cry, not anymore. The pity in the man's expression hurt more than she would care to admit.

"Eulogy…" the man eased a hand through the viewport. The small window barely allowed him access, but his grubby and filth-stained hand stretched out as if to beckon her closer.

"My name is Victor Helsing. You are a lucky girl, Eulogy Jones. I have a great plan for you."

-v-

Present Day

Eulogy Jones stared out into the vastness of space. Thousands of distant pinpricks of light danced in the expressionless void. Though separated by unimaginable distance, and sealed off by the combat-grade windows of the observation deck, she felt each and every one of them, imagined their heat and wondered what life basked in the delicate livable zones of those solar systems.

It was simple moments like this that made her ponder her mortality. Not the raucous battlefields where bullets and explosions filled the air, but the solitude of herself and her thoughts, and the undeniable proof that the galaxy was far larger than she could ever hope to comprehend.

A flicker of pain started up behind her eyes. Shutting them quickly, she bowed her head and braced for the pain.

Pain was not the right word for it. Agony, that was appropriate. The rapid throbbing that danced behind her skull, the lancing jolts that bounced from eye to eye, setting her nerves alight with excessive sensations. She felt her legs stiffen, her body subconsciously locking into place to prevent a fall, but her awareness crumbled away until all she could feel was the pain.

Her teeth ground together, jaw clenched tight to prevent a cry from escaping her lungs. Nails dug into her palms. Sweat dripped down her forehead as she fought the urge to whimper. She endured the sweeping attack, resisted its violent arrival and waited impatiently for it to end.

As always, it lasted only seconds. Rising up like a wraith, it would come upon her without warning, and vanish just as quickly. Her recovery was not nearly so swift. A gasp tore itself from her lips and she sagged into the railing, barely catching herself as the tightness in her skull drained away. A single tear leaked from her left eye.

Hastily wiping away that treacherous mark, she straightened her uniform and wiped away any trace of her discomfort with a handkerchief. No one was present to witness her shameful display, and for that she was grateful.

A lady must not draw attention to herself.

The long-forgotten command surfaced in her thoughts, and she sneered bitterly at the memory. Her days as a simpering, weak child were long behind her. Never again would she hear the scolding tone of her father, or cry under the mocking voices of her peers. That child was gone.

Eulogy Jones was a woman now. More importantly, she was an officer in the God-Emperor's mighty war machine.

Had been an officer in the God-Emperor's mighty war machine.

On the official rolls of her former unit, Lieutenant Eulogy Jones and her command of the 95th Praetorian Rifles were all dead, slain in action while taking the hive city Intrepida on Espanglia. Unofficially, her command was seconded to the Ordo Xenos, taken in by Inquisitor Victor Helsing for 'duties wide-ranging and consequences unimaginable.' In truth, the false record was hardly inaccurate. Over five years of service to the Inquisitor her company was whittled down little by little until only she remained. Her rank was theoretical, but her faith had not wavered, nor had her sense of duty.

Determination squared her shoulders as she considered the events that had led to this day.

The journey to Tenea. Battling traitorous soldiers and cruel xenos warriors. The long travel aboard a ship riddled with spies and foes. That bastard Louk Shannegh and his...

The throbbing began again, and her train of thought ground to a halt.

She did not quite remember what happened after that. Her last solid memory consisted of sitting for dinner with the suspicious Oswald. The rest was a blur, a gap of years in her memory that ended suddenly with her waking up aboard this vessel.

The cold of the void seeped through the thick transparent panels. A bitter chill nipped at her cheeks, tickled her bare fingers as they clutched the railing. Her standard issue Praetorian dress uniform had been lost in the catastrophic destruction of their transport. All that remained of her military regalia was her dark green Rifles' blouse and matching trousers. The faded, battered uniform had been patched and resewn so many times it could not be regarded as appropriate dress in the most vivid of fantasies. Even her medals and honors had been lost, and she forevermore would be reduced to a faceless officer with no particular rank or commendations to her name.

Still, she wore it with pride. It was the last reminder she carried of her military career, those hellish years battling insurrectionists on Espanglia. No one else needed to recognize who she was or what feats she had accomplished in the God-Emperor's name. The only one who must know was her master, and he had known her since she was just a sniffling child.

Victor Helsing.

An Inquisitor of many names, uncountable talents, and indescribable resources.

The second time she met that man, he presented himself under an altogether unrecognizable alias: Mikkel Hogan, a cartographer-cum-engineer who worked alongside the Praetorian High Command. It was ages before she finally connected his person to the strange man in her father's carriage. And he had been there for her, time and time again in that awful campaign. Rescuing her command without seeming to do anything at all, or directing her to the correct choice with seemingly innocent questions. There was a mastery to everything he did, a calculated effort seeming effortless for the smoothness with which he operated.

His skill left her speechless.

His passion roused her spirit.

And his promise set a fire in her heart that could never be quenched. I have a great plan for you.

A chiming bell alerted her a second before the heavy door slid into the bulkhead, revealing the brightly lit passage beyond. Eulogy noted the silhouette that reflected off of the viewing glass. Tall, athletic, roguishly handsome. Inquisitor Helsing was a beautiful man. His eyes stripped a person's soul bare, and the confidence of his posture was intoxicating. The heavy flak-layered coat he wore only added to his muscular frame, and she had some difficulty keeping her attention focused as he strode up to join her at the railing.

His thick, steel-lined boots barely ticked on the metal grates.

"Miss Jones," he greeted. His voice was slick, smooth as chilled brandy poured out on her aching ears. A somber look creased his normally stern visage. Her Inquisitor appeared… tired. She could not recall him ever allowing himself to show this much weakness. This much frailty.

"My lord."

A guttural sound emerged from his chest. It floundered halfway between a laugh and a grunt.

"As you have surmised, we have reentered realspace."

"It appears we landed in the middle of nowhere, my lord."

Again, that noise, though closer to a laugh.

"Nowhere. You say? Repeat that to the wrong ears and you may find yourself in hot water. Our reentry point for this destination is at the edge of the system, barely in its quantifiable boundary."

She pondered the revelation. In her experience, solar systems that prohibited core-centric reentry were few and far between. Only the most heavily guarded of locations could enact such restrictive travel guidelines. Depending on the size of the system, transit to its central planets could take days, or weeks even, in real time. It was painfully obtuse, and structured to ease traffic flow around areas of vital importance. Areas such as capital-class shipyards or forgeworlds. Even Inquisitor Helsing's status as an Inquisitor held him back this far.

Her curiosity roused its head. He had done that on purpose, she knew that. That was how he educated her. Bring questions to her mind, guide her along the path to the proper answer. Infuriating sometimes, but she understood the value of such tuition. Currently, with her abject boredom at months of uneventful silence, she indulged the Inquisitor in his little game.

"The ship is running in battle-ready condition," she noted. "Yet communications are silent. The engines are cold as well. Are we waiting for something?"

"The ship is," he agreed. "We are not."

His intentionally vague answer left her silent and pondering. The current state of the vessel indicated they were either hiding, a feat largely impossibly thanks to the unmistakable signature of their Warp exit, or they were waiting for permission to proceed. The latter struck her as much more reasonable, and she repeated as such to her Inquisitor.

"What I fail to see is where we are that requires such measures." Her words were spoken without complaint, but there was no denying her impatience. At heart, Eulogy would always be a ground-pounder, one of the Throne-blessed infantry that served the God-Emperor with boots on the ground. Extended space travel grated at her nerves. She had no usability in a space battle, nor in the operation of a vessel of this size. Being relegated to the sideline left her restless. "Those sharing our portion of quarters are silent on the matter."

She held no illusion that her master lacked awareness of their situation. It was entirely unlike him to be caught unawares. Just as they surely knew this system's name, so too would her Inquisitor.

"Why are we here," she asked. It was an unforgivably blunt question. Sometimes, that was what he wanted of her, though. Not that she ever knew for certain.

"To pick up something," he answered.

"And what is it we are picking up?"

She turned her head to regard him, studying the tight frown on his lips, the furious glaring of his eyes as they bored out into space.

"Something I dropped off some years ago."

"Before Tenea, my lord?"

That was the last time she remembered him disappearing. He did that sometimes, dropped off the grid without explanation, only to reappear months later as if he had merely stepped out to find a recaf cart.

"Just after," he answered. The man's shoulders stiffened faintly, and he muttered something under his breath that she did not quite catch. The words sounded unlike any Gothic-derivative she had ever heard.

"Will we be visiting the main planet, then?"

According to the system scan she had… acquired… there were nine planetoid bodies in the system. Their sizes ranged from dwarf planet to gas giant, and only one excised in the habitable zone. The brief snippet of info packet she skimmed informed her that an unrecognizable number of vessels occupied the system. Tens of thousands, even. So many that the vessel's augur array overloaded and had to cycle off.

Tens of thousands of vessels. The number staggered her. She had seen tens of thousands of soldiers in line before. Each ship could hold ten thousand though, if no hundreds times' more. Just how important a system was this? She could not recall any system of importance anywhere near the sector of space they operated out of. This trip had taken them several months, though, so her initial impressions would have to be expanded. Warp travel was never predictable, so they could be as far as half the galaxy away without her realizing it.

"The main planet?" Inquisitor Helsing laughed aloud now. His venomous laughter carried the acid of pure rancor as it echoed across the observation deck. "That cesspool of shit and corruption? No, I would rather die a thousand deaths than set foot on there again."

"Again?"

Her incredulous question cut his bitter amusement short. Rather than offering an answer, he lifted one hand and pointed out into space.

"Do you see that, out there? That speck unlike the others?"

She followed his accusing finger and concentrated. Filtering out the white light of the stars, she searched the expanse of black until she found his target.

A pale blue dot floating in a sea of emptiness.

"I see it," she confirmed.

"That… is home. That is us, humanity. Everyone you loved, everyone you know, every human being who ever was… came from there. That is my home, and the origin of us all."

She felt her knees give out even as her stomach plunged towards her throat. Stumbling to her knees, she stared out into the darkness, eyes locked on the unassuming, innocent dot.

"Th- that is- Holy Terra?"

Tears formed in her eyes, spilling shamelessly down her cheeks. Eulogy made no move to hide her weakness, to cover herself as an indescribable emotion welled inside her. Her hands clasped together in the sign of the aquila and she sagged forwards, pressing her forehead to the frigid metal grating in supplication.

Holy Terra. She had never imagined to see the magnificent capital of the Imperium, even from this distance. To brush this close to the Golden Throne, to bask in the God-Emperor's glory, it was as if a dream had made itself real before her. She could not hold in her tears, or steady her shoulders as she sobbed for her lack of worthiness.

"Oh, get up already." Her Inquisitor's voice snapped in irritation. It took Eulogy a moment to collect herself, and she could not fully subdue her happiness as she gazed up at him.

"Thank you, my lord. I am unworthy of this hon-"

"Don't thank me just yet," he grumbled. His irritable mood had soured further, and his eyes seemed a shade darker, colder than before. "We aren't getting any closer than this, Throne-willing."

"We aren't going to Holy Terra?"

"The day I return to that shithole is a long way off. No, I would rather be cast into the void than suffer the misery of that place."

His blasphemous words struck her like a slap in the face. Eulogy gasped, her breath caught in her throat as she tried to process what he had said.

"Mars, then? Is that our destination?"

She could scarcely imagine her Inquisitor setting foot on the homeworld of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The tech adepts of the Mechanicus were infamously secretive; how much clout must he carry to even be allowed to set foot on such a planet?

"We aren't here to talk to those bastards either," he informed her. The severity of his tone warned her to not ask further questions. "We are leaving this vessel in two hours. Pack your belongings and meet me in the starboard launch bay, level one-three-b."

"Yes, my lord!"

His order cracked into her, snapping her from her daze. Throwing a stiff salute, Eulogy bid farewell as the Inquisitor stormed out of the observation deck. She stared after his departing back for a little while, then sighed and turned back to the soothing panoramic view.

Her fingers gripped the railing tightly. Etching the sight into her memory, she vowed to never forget the day she caught a glimpse of something the whole galaxy would kill to see. How many trillions of lives were spent every day to hold the enemies of mankind at bay? How many uncountable lives toiled without rest to preserve this birthplace of humanity? How much blood was shed…

For the pale blue dot.

-v-

Her freshly polished boots tapped their way over the flight deck, unheard in the relentless clamor of moving parts. Scores of men and women rushed this way and that, securing their charges and delivering their packages. Hundreds of servitors pored over the dozen small craft lining the launch bay, affecting repairs and performing last minute flight checks. It was as noisy as a military encampment before battle.

This felt familiar to her, filled her with some small comfort as she crossed the deck with a single duffle bag slung over her shoulder. Her physical possessions could be contained in that, which left her both satisfied and mortified. Though, she was sure that her personal effects in the various bases Helsing owned were intact. Currently, all she had to her name was three changes of clothes, a Ceres-pattern bolt pistol, and a dueling saber, as well as a small bag of necessary feminine items. She wore her weapons openly, of course. As a regular soldier of the Praetorian Guard such a thing could never be allowed, but the menacing aura she exuded sent the private guards of the vessel's owner scurrying for cover, and if one threatened to pursue the issue she had a palm-sized rosette that instilled immediate obedience into any who saw it.

No one obstructed her progress, and she reached the craft without issue.

A pair of jumpsuit-clad pilots lounged at the foot of the ramp, lho sticks jammed in their mouths as they eyed her approach. There was no mistaking her for anything but one of the passengers they were meant to ferry. Just as there was no mistaking their slovenly appearances for the proud and overbearing Imperial Navy pilots that she was used to.

Civilians always were slobs, she decided. Even with the Rogue Traders, unless they existed in the close circle of the Trader's retinue, their appearances were varied and unsavory.

At least these ones did not whistle or express lewd commentary as she brushed past them and stepped inside to examine the craft. It was a personal shuttle, with a small cargo bay refitted with cushioned seats and security straps, four sealed compartments for sleeping, eating, and ablutions. The cockpit had a single reinforced door separating it from the rest of the craft, but the whole thing was hardly larger than a Valkyrie. Insignificant was the proper word for a vessel of this size. A four-person crew would be pushing it to its limit.

Setting her duffle bag into a secured container, she took a look through the craft and identified where the listening devices and security cameras had been installed. A dozen in total, not counting in the cockpit which she did not have access to. She did nothing to remove them yet. Inquisitor Helsing would take care of them when he decided. In the meantime she made careful note of their placement.

As she finished her inspection one of the pilots came aboard and headed into the cockpit. He was a thin fellow, with deathly pale skin and large, rounded eyes. Voidborn, possibly from generations of voidborn. The presence of true voidborns unnerved her. She could not help but wonder at what sort of life it would be, to never set foot on ground, to always be an accident away from the merciless void.

"Miss Jones?"

Her Inquisitor called up to her from the outside. Hurrying to his side, she exited the craft and found him in a standoff against the second pilot. The first thing she noted was the pilot's tense posture and the scowl on his face. Then she saw Inquisitor Helsing's patient expression, and her stomach tightened in a sudden cramp.

"We ain't handing off our beau to no passenger," the pilot growled. "Our live's is only good as she, and she ain't leaving our sight."

"I requested a vessel, not a crew," Helsing explained to the obstinate man. "Your services are no longer required."

He went to step around the pilot, but the lanky voidborn sidestepped, blocking his path. The move put Eulogy just behind him, but he paid her no notice. "An' I says our services are required. Can't 'xpect me to believe you'n a qualified pilot. You cannae get'er out the bay wivvout crashing."

"I have more experience behind the stick than you and our comrade put together," Helsing insisted. "Now, step aside while I am still in the mood for ignoring our behavior."

The pilot refused to budge. Eulogy heard the clomp of boots behind her, and turned to see the first pilot standing triumphantly at the top of the ramp. The two pilots exchanged a short glance.

"See, now you really cannae take her. Ship's genelocked now. Hafta get our palms 'ta fire'er up."

"I see." Helsing sighed quietly. Looking past the men, he met Eulogy's gaze and flicked his eyes to the side. She understood, and obediently moved to the edge of the ramp. "So I need your palm."

His hand snapped up, faster than even Eulogy who was expecting the movement could follow. Two ear-splitting cracks exploded through the launch bay, magnified by all the metal surfaces and caged by the rippling void shield covering the exit. The first pilot's body remained motionless, arms still crossed defiantly even as the bloody stump of his neck sprayed blood like a fountain across the armored deck. The second pitched backwards, launched by the explosive bolt that punched through his chest and blew out his heart.

Those close by stopped and stared in horrid fascination at the scene. Further away, the noise was lost in the roar of so many moving pieces. For an uncomfortable pause, nobody moved. Then the standing corpse crumpled to the deck, and the witnesses hurried on with their duties. It was not their problem. That could be sorted out by the ship's security later. The menials on the launch bay knew their own duties were far more valuable than reporting a murder or two.

Eulogy moved to draw her sword, but her master motioned for her to not bother. He had a sword on his hip as well. His sword was a masterful, if unsettling, straight-edged blade. It appeared to have a power field generator on it, but she had never seen him use it. The sword's blade glimmered darkly, even in the brightly lit bay, and skin melted away from it as Inquisitor Helsing carefully sliced off the pilots' hands at the wrists. The sizzling of fat and crackling of bone accompanied perfectly cauterized wounds. She struggled to contain her disgust.

"This will do," Helsing muttered. "Come on then, Miss Jones. We have a fair distance yet to go."

He led her into the craft. They ran through a preflight check; he had her disable the devices she identified, then he disappeared into the cockpit without a word. Several minutes later the ramp closed up and a red glow filled the cargo bay. The launch lights gave off the equivalent of half-light. She strapped in, took calming breaths, and waited for the shuttle to launch. Ignoring the bloodstains trailing down the closed ramp, she closed her eyes and tried to drain the tension from her shoulders.

Just another day in service to the Inquisition.