It is a testament to the human body's versatility that Mistress Heydari's voice was able to change from velvet richness to castigating animosity without any semblance of difficulty.
'Falco!' she shouted, walking in the warehouse like vengeance incarnate. 'Give me back my cargo, and no one gets hurt!'
'Falco ain't here, bitch,' yelled back a male voice, punctuating his statement by shooting a lasgun — but Mistress Heydari had already ducked behind a crate, quick as lightning, and the lasbolt lost itself in a distant wall.
Her Ladyship, who had taken cover by my side, raised her voice, asking once again for the detained cargo to be handed back, this time in the name of House von Valancius. Whispers of a short polemic carried to us, that was concluded by a laconic: 'Nah.'
The warehouse was a maze of barrels and containers, bathed in livid electric light sparsely dispensed by ceiling luminator tubes. With Her Ladyship and Sister Argenta alternatively providing us cover, we worked our way towards the voices. At last, I was able to charge forward, with the express intention of crushing our closest foe with my hammer — as he collapsed, an enemy round hit the neighbouring barrel. Green, noxious fumes, seeped from it, and I cried 'Gas! Gas!' in warning before collapsing in a cough. My lungs burned. Oh, why hadn't I equipped myself with a rebreather! It was high time for a strategic retreat, but as I moved my foe collected his strength and tried to shank me with a knife. I would have been maimed, for sure, if a strong hand hadn't grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. A soothing coolness appeased my cough — biomancer healing — instants before van Calox's power sword cleaved my assailant's head clear of his unworthy shoulders. As the roar of Sister Argenta's boltgun shook the air, I returned the favour by a single well-placed shot that ended the life of a ruffian who was running to us screaming and brandishing a rusty sword. His throat exploded in a red mist. A satisfying outcome.
They were small fry with bad equipment and worse training. The buzz of their lasguns faded as we took them out, the one after the other. Soon enough, the warehouse was freed of Mistress Heydari's rivals — but, true to her avowed goal, she only cared about a very specific pile of containers. There must have been countless contraband riches for her to take, yet she directed her strong companions only to her lost property. The most honest merchant in Footfall indeed!
While they were busy loading crates on an antigrav plate (master van Calox eyeing our prize with the wistful curiosity usually reserved to thwarted lovers), a gaggle of provosts entered the warehouse, challenging us. Not Arbites — the station, although under Imperial control, was too far and too isolated for those servants of law and order to be deployed — but people armed and wearing the Kasballica crest, and quite polite when they saw Her Ladyship. I thought I recognised a lad from the Residence in the secretary-type who, holding a dataslate, half-hid behind a pair of provosts. He cleared his throat.
'It has come to the attention of the esteemed Liege Tocara that a shipment of purported contraband, suspect of contravening to the regulations of the Imperium of Man as applicable to the Outer Territories of the Segmentus Obscursus, more notably the dealing of xeno-artefacts and other assorted heretical items, is stored in this warehouse, alley F and cells 3 to 5.' The lad tried to appear more imposing than he was, the result reminding me of a wet Kroot with a belly-ache: not a full success, but about halfway there. 'I have therefore been commissioned to confiscate said shipment and, pending further investigation, detain any and all personnel loitering in the immediate vicinity, in adherence to the Catechism of Customs as upheld by the Adeptus Administratum in the three-hundred-and-twenty-seventh edition of its Codex, which Liege Tocara has ratified on the day of his accession and upholds for the glory of the God-Emperor.'
Mistress Heydari's pursed lips had become so thin their once-generous shape was but a memory. Provosts began fanning out, readying themselves to use force, perhaps tipped off our martial valour by the dead and agonising scum lying in pools of their own blood. We could, I think, have defeated them despite their numbers, although at a great diplomatic cost, and I waited for a sign from the lord-captain. A faint chemical smell still hung in the air, bitter and metallic, but Her Ladyship appeared not to notice as she slowly walked to Mistress Heydari. Hands clasped behind her back in that formal attitude I was beginning not only to know but to appreciate as it reminded me of my days in the Navy, the lord-captain turned to the scribe.
'Jae Heydari, the owner of this cargo, is currently under my protection. In accordance to the Sacred Warrant of Trade conferred to House von Valancius by His Divine Majesty, this cargo is therefore shielded from further Administratum attention.'
Crestfallen does not even begin to cover the lad's wretched attitude. He tried to argue. Her Ladyship glared at him. He tried to take Mistress Heydari's goons into custody. Her Ladyship promoted them to dockers attached to the Emperor's Mercy. He tried to invoke obscure regulations. Her Ladyship jovially refreshed his memory as to her status. The more discomfited the scribe became, the more joyful she was until, at last, defeated, he cleared the floor. I suspect Her Ladyship, as a former Commissar, found a perverse jocularity in telling the very regulations she had so long defended to go frak themselves — her sense of humour, dry and sometimes not to my taste, nonetheless exists despite being well hidden. But then, Commissars who don't fall to friendly fire in the first year of their career often have a peculiar way to look at rules, favouring their spirit over their letter, and I suppose this is what happens when you hand one of them a Warrant that says they can, in essence, do as they want as long as it is for the general good of the Imperium. The late Lady Theodora, I think, would probably have bribed, if not the scribe, then Tocara himself, giving at least appearances to comply. Lady Katov's way was more blunt. The change is, if I dare say despite my immense respect for the late Lady Theodora, refreshing, and definitely makes business faster.
Lost in my thoughts as I was, it was Her Ladyship's voice that brought me back to the waking world.
'Master van Calox,' she said, 'no peeking in the boxes.'
The Interrogator's hand hovered a while, aimless, in the air until, to give himself a countenance, he smoothed back his hair.
'These are not ours to open,' she reminded him, turning again to Mistress Heydari. 'I could use someone of your talents, Jae, if you'd be willing to leave your mooring in Footfall for a while.'
'Shereen!' Mistress Heydari, for lack of a better word, purred. 'That a great lady such as you — the cream of Rogue Traders, a pearl in a world of worthless trash — would think so highly of my small person is enough honour to make me faint! Unworthy as I may be, I cannot believe you to be wrong about anything so yes, I will gladly answer your call and, for a time, tie my fortunes to yours. May the Exalted One cover you in His blessings! Whatever help I can bring you in whatever matter you hinted at earlier is yours.'
Dismay washed over me, barely tempered by the thought that Mistress Heydari probably knew her way round a tarot game. Temporary commercial alliances with the underworld are one thing, but bringing a down-on-her-luck xeno-artefacts dealer on our permanent roster would raise unwanted attention from the Navy — and if it were only the Navy, Her Ladyship would be lucky. Master van Calox wouldn't fail to report such development to his masters, and the Lord Inquisitor Calcazar certainly is one I feel it is best to placate. I shall have to speak to the Vox master and ensure van Calox sends no astropathic communication without my knowledge; a decompression accident can happen so quickly and does prevent transmissions, although it is always a bore to replace astropaths.
Her Ladyship looked vaguely amused at Mistress Heydari's overly thick flattery; refraining one of her rare smiles, she replied the honour was all hers, and that launched the pair of them in a dead-pan escalation of gaudy compliments that became less true by the minute. By the time Mistress Heydari's cargo had been loaded in full and ready to go, they had began comparing each other's qualities to the great Primarchs of old and I think Her Ladyship had fallen back to some ancient heroic poetry — Master van Calox and I exchanged a somewhat puzzled look. Mistress Heydari then compared Her Ladyship to a summer's day, and the lord-captain raised her hands in helplessness. Mistress Tlass muttered to herself, oblivious to them and to the entrails upon which she was stepping. I worry about her, I can confess it in these lines; when I first knew her, she was as perfectly level-headed as a psyker can be until, some years ago, it was as if a switch had flicked and she became a loony of the worst kind. Lady Theodora's death has been heavy on her, too; ever since, her predictions — the whispers seeping through the door, as she says — have taken a darker turn.
'I concede defeat for this once,' the lord-captain said. 'You remind me of Abbot Malastrias, who had us spar while spouting rousing battle-cries, and woe to the half-wit who repeated themselves!'
'And you remind me of…'
'Enough, have mercy!' cried Her Ladyship, laughing. 'Let's go back to the ship. I'll brief you there, as soon as we both have time.'
To my great shame I have, these last few days, been remiss in filling out this journal. Ship affairs are not, to be true, concerning, but as the Emperor's Mercy's health responds favourably to the enginseers' ministrations a great deal of work is to be done, if we are to prepare to go to Warp once again. A great deal of it is tedious, and yet it is my duty as Her Ladyship's seneschal to ensure it is conducted to satisfaction. The safety and security of all aboard is my dominion, and I oversaw several drills for our new recruits. Many have never travelled aboard a voidship before, never mind belonged to any sort of armed forces; it wouldn't do for them to fall prey to the dangers that can tempt the mind despite the Gellar fields. Her Ladyship's former sergeant, Traigg, has proven an unexpected asset in that. He obviously basks in the glory of being the only non-commissioned officer to be on relatively close terms with the lord-captain, and has taken upon himself to bully our provosts to Imperial Guard-levels of readiness. A task I have myself found hard at the best of times (although my own model is, of course, the Navy), but it appears alternating strategically between stories from the lord-captain's past and relentless shaming recruits works. Her Ladyship herself, once her attention was called to the matter, remembered her roots and did a lot for the provosts' morale — assigning me to go over personnel files and compose squads, and getting them to train together. A trifling matter, undeserving of her attention (and certainly Lady Theodora wouldn't have cared), but after all discipline can hardly get worse, and her experience in the field cannot be denied. Until we are able to reach Dargonus, we shan't get another crew — and by the time we do, if the Emperor wills it, the one we already have will be satisfyingly broken in.
In the afternoon, Her Ladyship convened a meeting of key ship personnel, the order of the day concerning our ability to once again defy the Warp for weeks and months at a time. We all stood before her throne, as was customary; above, the great Aquila reminded us from whom her power derives. The discoloured light of the Furibundus sun washed through the great viewports, the remaining scaffolding barely diminishing its blueish intensity. As befits my station, I was on the lower step of the throne and overlooked the others with usual severity.
Dear Lady Cassia (who, I must say, has been extremely mindful of others lately, although she keeps mostly to her chambers) had taken the centre place, be it from the naive trust she was her guild's Sacred Child, or from the certainty the Emperor's mercy would go nowhere without her. She struggled to put her ideas in lay words: her dreamlike way of speech is poorly fitted to the secular person's understanding.
'What you are saying is,' asked the lord-captain, 'that the Koronus expanse is uncharted again?'
'It never was chartered, Katov. The beacon of the Astronomican guides us, golden and precious, but it is quite unlike a fixed star, silver and dead. It is a living reflection of hope through swirling smoke — from gleam to shimmer, we follow its light, but it merely echoes against the ebb and flow of the Sea of Souls. The Immaterium is not some reassuring thing one can grasp and draw once and for all. All charts are lies.' The lord-captain's brow was furrowed, and Lady Cassia spoke on, eager and frustrated. 'The bile grey of incomprehension surrounds you. What troubles you?'
'I can point instruments to any star in the sky and know which one it is. Why cannot the same thing be done in the Warp? Even with changed currents, there should be some indication as to where systems lay.'
The sleeve of Lady Cassia's robe caught sunlight when she raised her arm, her unnaturally long fingers grasping at nothing, dark shadows dancing in their crease. 'You misunderstand the nature of the Sea of Souls. A Navigator's skill is to reconcile the Materium and the Immaterium — oil and water, soil and mist. I brought us to Footfall by grasping at straws: Warp currents had changed little, on the outskirts of the storms. But the deeper we get in the Expanse and the stranger their picture will get. Following the whims of the Warp, I shall be able to find those places where the Veil is thinner and marks the halo of a system, where the solar wind dies over reefs of bygone eons of emotions and chaos. But I shan't know which system, and whether our road has brought us a handful of light-years forward, or many parsecs.'
This was, I think, as clear as she could get, and the lord-captain presumably reached the same conclusion, thanking Lady Cassia for her insight. With a sigh, the lord-captain commented sotto voce for my benefit that finding Janus — never mind Dargonus and Kiava Gamma — was going to be a lengthy ordeal.
'In any case,' she added louder, 'we should ready ourselves for prolonged sojourns in the Warp. Magos Pasqal, will our Gellar fields hold? I do not wish a repeat of the incursion that brought an end to Lady Theodora's life, may the Emperor keep her soul in His holy guard. House von Valancius, after all, has no other heir to spare.'
The tech-priest came forward, his red surplice balancing with his regular, mechanical step; his back, as usual, was bowed under his power pack, bestowing him an old man's bearing — although his remaining flesh didn't carry the stigmata of age and his many cybernetic augmentations shone of course just as new. He made the sign of the Cog before speaking, the tone from his vox-box harsh and neat.
'This unit has overseen a complete overhaul of the Emperor's Mercy systems. It is its conclusion that the Machine spirit inhabiting the ship, extremely old and venerable, will be willing and able to follow the lord-captain's requests. This unit has also completed a study of the Warp incursion that caused widespread damage throughout the Emperor's Mercy. The results are unclear and require further study.'
'Can you elaborate on that?'
'The Gellar fields failed, through no fault of the Emperor's Mercy spirit but by failure of organic components, when the Navigator perished. The Emperor's Mercy should have been incapable of leaving the Warp without external intervention, which it nevertheless did hours later. This indicates either a category 3 techno-miracle of the Omnissiah, or tech-heresy.'
I must say I had given very little thought, so far, as to our recent tragedy's denouement. Lady Theodora's death, still fresh on my mind, had eclipsed all other notions — but as a seasoned Navy officer I should have realised sooner what the Magos now brought forward. No ship has ever left the Warp without a Navigator steering, except ours.
'Intriguing,' said Her Ladyship. Then, after a slight hesitation, she asked what sort of tech-heresy could have been at play. 'Would a Chaos artefact, for example, have…' Her voice trailed.
'No, not unless it had been connected to the Emperor's mercy systems in ways forbidden by the Credo Omnissiah. This unit has found no trace of such heresy. This unit must insist that not every tech-heresy stems from Chaos, although they all lead to it. This unit wishes to pursue knowledge of the incident, as in the event of a techno-miracle the Omnissiah should be celebrated in thanksgiving. This unit wishes to assign a complement of rune-priests to the command deck central cogitator, that is currently disabled, so that the proper rituals of awakening and data-retrieval can be conducted and understanding imparted to the faithful.'
'Permission granted.'
'This unit thanks the lord-captain.'
Well, I am very sure that a whole regiment of cogboys would never find a trace of heresy aboard the Emperor's Mercy, tech or otherwise! But I am still curious as to what they shall uncover — ships that ancient hold many secrets although, in all probability, a faulty relay somewhere is to be thanked for saving us.
No other interesting matter was brought forward. We have enough provisions for several years (provided one doesn't object to soylens viridians — but the serfs certainly don't) and, while our battered armament could still be improved, we are at no risk to find ourselves defenceless. Certainly, our weeks in Footfall have been productive, and we can be expected to safely set sail three days from now.
Her Ladyship also announced our departure shall be celebrated by a mass lead by herself in the Warrant Chamber, and relayed by pict-cast over the ship. Sister Argenta will certainly be enthused, and this will help cement Her Ladyship's station in the eyes of the crew. I must confess myself glad to see that, after the haphazard beginnings of her rule, she appears to grow into the august role that is hers: ruler of one of the oldest Rogue Trader houses — and of the richest ones, too. Yet, before we left, I heard her mutter through her teeth: 'What a fucking bitch it'll be.'
'Your Ladyship?' I asked. 'Is this about the mass?'
She was taken aback, I think, by my forwardness, her reserved facade slipping for an instant. 'No,' she immediately denied, for all the world like an experienced swordswoman parrying an unexpected blow. And then she added: 'Master van Calox will need to be trained to fight within a squad. Could you do it, Abelard?'
What a frakking bitch it'll be.
