Chaos takes that Governor! I probably should have told the members of my retinue about that past, but hindsight is perfect, and truly there had been no time for a conversation that would probably have ended with me lying in a pool of my own blood and Abelard regretfully messaging the von Valancius homeworld, requesting another dynastic heir to be produced. Besides, I thought they knew.

We boarded the Emperor's Mercy just long enough to clean up and plot an approach to the Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium, on the planet's other hemisphere. I still took time to make chitchat with Magos Pasqal Haneumann. He appeared unfazed by the scene at the Governor's — but his kind is always hard to read, and perhaps he despised me. From his precise and yet poetic speech, characteristic of tech-priests, it appeared he was looking for his mentor, the venerable Archmagos Amarnat, and hoped to find him at the Cenobium. As for the monastery itself, it was a holy site that housed an archeotech fusion reactor powering the entire planet. I could see why an Archmagos would think it an appropriate place for a spiritual retreat.

The shuttle was able to land on an esplanade just before the Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium doors. We arrived at night; it had rained earlier. I've seen some glorious sights in my life, from the white sky-high mountains of my own world to sunlight gleaming over endless seas, and while I have never been too partial to manmade views this I have to say: the Cenobium took my breath away. Great luminous pillars — coils — rose by the temple entrance. They gleamed a steady blue, bright and cool, that reflected on our awe-stricken faces. Overhead, a lofty dome crowned the main building, and resolved into smaller domes that dotted the perimeter — for the Cenobium spread far and wide around the plaza. Below a short colonnade, as the ground appeared to dip, we glimpsed many annexes, wings and towers that hummed with the busy sound of a holy place of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Cables and lines linked them in a spider web of mysteries. Not a soul was in sight, save for the permeating presence of the Machine God: a thickness in the air, that was full of intentions.

We walked up a flight of stairs that brought us between the greatest pillars. The air there had a certain smell, not fully unpleasant but quite disconcerting, perhaps like heated metal, or dried blood. The Cenobium doors — thick armoured panels of some dark material — were closed. No bell to ring, of course.

The magos knelt to the doors, the scarlet of his hood faded by the blue light, and made the sign of the Cog. A push of his hand was then enough to open the doors, that slowly parted over darkness. He then turned to us, admonishing us to the fullest respect as we penetrated a sanctum barred to the uninitiated, save in the direst of circumstances. We all bowed in agreement, humbled at the privilege we had been granted, and followed him through.

The interior wasn't as dark as it had appeared at first, but it was still very dim, being only lit by reflections of plasma purple and blue that scattered from the deeper parts of the Cenobium. Still no one, and that was abnormal: despite the hour, such a place should have been teeming with life.

As we prudently advanced through the empty immensity of a stone hall, Argenta stumbled on something and cursed. After regaining her balance, she knelt over a black shape and said: 'Body.' We gathered around; Idira produced a small lamp. In the small circle of dirty light it produced, we saw a rag-clad cadaver — not a tech-priest. Abelard turned him over. His face, by the Throne! Bulging eyes, bloodshot, wide open, as if ready to leave their sockets; a skin marked purple by ruptured vessels; and an expression of abject terror and pain, eternally carved in the dead man's flesh. There was no visible wound.

'Psyker work,' commented Abelard.

Of course. Fear the psyker, says the Creed. It is the duty of the faithful to purge the heretic; beware the psyker and mutant, and abhor the alien. I had long reached the conclusion that, of these, the simple heretic was the least dangerous. Idira laughed softly, an uncanny sound in such a place, at such a time.

'Friend or foe?'

It was hard to say. We went through the man's pockets in vain. He could have been an assailant of the Cenobium. He could have been a commoner seeking asylum in a place, unbeknownst to him, already fallen. In any case, we had to push on. A cavernous corridor followed the hall; now we heard a rhythmical, crackling sound coming as a echo from further away — and something else. Human cries of pain. I signalled the group to a stop.

The screams, blood-curling, heart-wrenching, guided us to a closed door nearby. I prudently tried the handle; it wasn't locked. After nodding at Argenta to cover me, I flung it open and we rushed inside as the sickening smell of burnt flesh caught my throat, stopping me in my tracks as I coughed. Through my tears, I saw a man — tall, strongly built — standing over a prostrate form. He was surrounded by violet waves of the vile power of the Warp; he bathed in them; he mastered them and channelled them into the man. The air was cold, so cold! He leaned towards his victim, hate oozing from every fibre of his being, his voice ringing with authority as he said: 'I'm not satisfied with that answer. I will repeat my question again: the last electro-priest you killed, where did you find him?'

He wore an Inquisitor's cloak.

The man on the ground convulsed in agony under the psyker's might; stuttering, he spat: 'Burn in the f… fires of Dawn, servant of the C…' Before the slur against the Emperor passed his lips, the Inquisitor tore the last threads of life that bound his soul, and sent him to face his judgment. The Inquisitor then calmly turned to us — he couldn't know we were allies, and his poise was a sight to behold.

'And another one meets the limits of his utility,' he said to no one in particular, pulling at his gloves. 'That was the last of them.'

Now that no more waves of Chaos disturbed the room, I could see him clearly: a man with black hair and a chiseled face, the insignia of the Holy Inquisition golden against his chest. I felt sick. My pulse pounded in my ears from the horror I had witnessed. I wanted nothing more than to crush this man, to dominate him, to send him a weeping ball in a corner — to purge the violence from my memory, to cleanse the sight of the heretic's broken body, to forget the heretic's wails. But I couldn't. Several corpses were spread across the room, which seemed to host a reliquary of sorts. Oh, for the peace of techno-hymns! Yet I had to speak.

'Interrogator Heinrix van Calox of the Ordo Xenos?'

'Yes.'

The room became warmer. Frost, that had formed delicate arcs on the rich carpets surrounding the Inquisitor, thawed slowly around the corpses as under one's breath.

'Since you know who I am and are in no hurry to kill me, I must infer that you serve the Emperor, not His enemies. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?' His voice carried the subtle undertones of reproach of those attached to higher etiquette; I must have made a social faux-pas not introducing myself right away, and I was happy it displeased him. Before I had a chance to say anything, however, Idira collapsed with a wail, recoiling from the Interrogator as if scalded. She buried her face in her hands — she was under torture too now, my poor diviner, but her tormentors came from her own mind and not from that man, van Calox. Argenta, always thoughtful, rushed to her, cradling her, shushing her, despite her distrust of psykers, as Idira's prophecy came out in broken words. She spoke of a shadow weaving chains, of an eclipse, and of dark threads reaching toward us all, toward him, shrouding us in poison. And then… that was it. Only her raspy breath betrayed her lingering distress. Argenta helped her rise and steady herself; Idira grasped the Sister's armoured gloves with such force that her nails became white.

Turning back to van Calox, I saw he was eyeing Idira with a keen professional gaze — quite worryingly, for an Interrogator of the Inquisition.

'A diviner,' he said. 'Are you sanctioned?'

'Don't you inquisition me!' spat Idira, still uncertain upon her feet. 'I'm under the Rogue Trader's protection!'

Now, I had known her for less than ten days but, against the Holy Inquisition, I would have taken the defence of about anyone save the most raging of heretics. I thus cooly confirmed Idira was a part of my retinue, and therefore under my protection. It was as good a time as any to check if, indeed, my new title truly made me a Peer of the Imperium — the equal of a Lord Inquisitor or a High Lord of Terra. Van Calox's attention switched again to me, and I obliged him by telling him my name.

'Von Valancius? To the best of my knowledge, that dynasty is headed by the esteemed lady Theodora. Has there been a change of circumstances?' His voice was ever calm and detached, as if he were inquiring about the weather, yet it gave me chills. To lie to such a man wouldn't be merely perjury — it would be foolish.

'Theodora is dead. She was slain in battle against the Enemies of humanity.' I didn't wait for his response before pointing to the dead men at his feet. 'What did you do to them?'

'What was needed in order to get answers. Boiling the blood in the interrogated's veins is a particularly effective way to do that. What are you doing here?'

He was a biomancer then.

'Fulfilling a request by Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar to ensure the safe travel of his acolyte to Footfall.'

'Then the timing of our meeting is fortuitous. I am requisitioning you and your retinue for my task.'

I was fairly sure he couldn't do that — requisitioning me. Abelard's sudden change from his usual wooden expression to one of pure scandal told me the rest. He had appeared less shocked when learning of my trial, and immediately told off the Inquisitor with a set of choice words pointing at the gravity of the insult. No one orders a Rogue Trader around. Except, maybe, mister torturer-in-chief van Calox, who quietly replied: 'Would taking a Rogue Trader into Inquisitorial custody be more acceptable?'

Abelard looked ready to have a stroke. So that was the limit of my power: a single well-timed suspicion of heresy would bring me down. Good to know. In the interest of both preserving my seneschal's sanity and playing nice with the Holy-Inquisition-that-couldn't-hurt-me-except-when-it-really-wanted-to, I plastered a fake smile upon my face and assured the Interrogator it would be my honour to aid him in his mission for the glory of the Imperium and etc. As if he was just someone I was willing to help out of the goodness of my heart, and not a man who tortured his foes before killing them. The killing part, I got. I was quite proficient in it. The rest? Not so much.

'Pray tell, master van Calox,' I asked, 'what can you divulge about your mission, that my assistance may be the best? Obviously, you need more than a lift to Footfall.'

It was a reasonable demand, and he was a logical man so he gave in to my curiosity, after thinking about it and choosing his words carefully. He had been sent to Rykad Minoris on an unspecified mission, which the uprising prevented him from fulfilling. He, too, found out the Governor treated this as nothing more than malcontent rabble and he, too, suspected something more sinister was going on.

'My visit to the monastery and a few unhurried conversations with some of the rebels,' he concluded by glancing at the dead bodies at his feet, 'confirmed my suspicions.'

It was more than Magos Pasqal could take. He had bitten his technodendrites long enough. I felt that Inquisitors, torture, propriety and the subtle dance of who gives the orders were of no interest to him — but the fate of the Cenobium pushed him to interrupt in the way tech-priests interrupt. That is, he began to speak, and people were forced to listen. I don't know how they do that, but it's fascinating. His Vox-box was full of contained emotion as he asked whether the Hallowed Electrodynamic Cenobium had fallen.

'Why yes, obviously, although I do think some of the priests are still alive,' replied the Interrogator. The anathemas that Magos Pascal used in answer, promising to rain vengeance, fire and brimstone upon the infidels were some of the most colourful I had heard recently. His faith was a strong one.

However, van Calox wasn't done: 'Data indicates that the head of the cultists is here right now, in the sanctum of the ancient reactor. I surmise their goal is to gain access to the holy power source's control circuit and trigger a process that, by detonating the reactor, would wipe out the planet, bringing out their much-touted Final Dawn.'

'Then the reactor hasn't been defiled yet by their blasphemous insanity!' cried Magos Pasqal, before breaking out in a short hymn of thanksgiving in binharic. 'Let us hurry, and save it from the impure presence that would seek the destruction of such a holy relic to corrupt it in the service of Chaos!'

'This was just what I was about to propose,' van Calox said.

We all wanted the same thing then, albeit for different purposes: me, to slap the Governor in the face, Magos Pascal, to protect his holy relic, and master van Calox, to smite the heretics. Argenta wouldn't say no to that last proposition either. Idira and Abelard, as for themselves, were just following my lead. Right now, I could have kissed them for it.

We carefully made our way through the Cenobium, slaying heretics as they came by, trying not to raise alarm and, in my case, trying not to gawk too much. The Adeptus Mechanicus being extremely protective of their secrets, it was a privilege to behold such a holy place of theirs. Walls were covered in intricate panelling carved with a multitude of symbols glorifying the Omnissiah, repeating ad infinitum the tenets of their creed. Gold shone in strange places, reminding me of circuit panels I had glimpsed sometimes in wounded machines, ere they were brought to the care of the priests. Surely, the Cenobium as a whole couldn't be a single great machine? Although those gleaming columns, that sometimes sparked lightning, surely served a purpose more than aesthetic — and who knew what marvels the priests were capable of when sustained by technology so arcane, so ancient, so sacred, it might have come from the Machine God himself?

Working our way to the heart of the temple, we came across a stash of the heretics' — one that included a good quantity of their hateful garb. I decided we would don it, to better fool them, as it would give us the advantage of surprise. Argenta wrinkled her nose at the thought, but complied: the Sister was pragmatic. The Inquisitor, however, tried to make a mess out of it, claiming we should vest ourselves only in faith instead of allowing corruption to touch us.

'Master van Calox,' Abelard said patiently, 'it is up to you to decide whether it is better to prevent a cult from blowing up a planet in honour of the Chaos gods, saving the worthy lives of many faithful in the process, or avoid wearing dirty robes over your own clothes.'

He was still reluctant to even touch the robes, so I suggested we respected his decision and passed him as our prisoner. We could tie him up, after all, and walk him as a great prize right in the cultists' midst. I'm afraid the smile I gave him wasn't all too innocent when I assured him I would be the one holding his leash. In the end, he grumbled a lot about it, but grabbed a robe and complied. I couldn't wait for him to discover what had lead to my trial, as I was sure he would.

The Cenobium was a maze of softly whirring machines, whose warmth diffused the bitter-sweet perfume of sacred oils, a maze of dead-ends and corridors. I could not tell what signs Magos Pasqal used in order to guide us, but guide us he did until we reached a doorway — immense, supported by elegant arches of steel — and caught our first sight of the sanctum.

Cathedrals have been built that, by a miracle of stone and light, echo the grand beauty of the God-Emperor's vision for mankind. Ships have been built that, by the union of archeotech and divine inspiration, are the perfect union of form and function. The sanctum was all that and more. In the wide circular room were many cogitators gilt in gold along the walls, each a shrine to the saintly Machine Spirit it housed. A raised dais, in the middle of the room, held the most grandiose of them along a command throne under a canopy encrusted with rubies and emeralds. Pillars of light shone ethereally, supporting a dome high as heavens. The perpetual hum of the nearby reactor resonated in my bones; remnants of cold incense called me to prayer.

Now, however, was a time for action and not contemplation: the sanctum teemed with at least two dozen cultists armed to the teeth, and a tech-priest was tied up to some horrible apparatus that spoke of pain endless. It would be a rough fight, being outnumbered so. I hoped we could save the priest… but hope is often deceived in the heat of battle. The others, from what I could see underneath their cowls, were similarly suspicious about our odds — except for Magos Pasqal who leaned by my ear, whispering as best as his Vox-box allowed that he believed he could use the holy machinery to cleanse the sanctum of all infidel filth. I'm all for easy victories whenever possible, so I asked him to please elaborate.

We made our way to the dais, nodding to those we saw, and were only stopped once. Understandably, someone — a woman — had failed to recognise us, and began asking questions. Mustering all the heightened contempt I could, I told her off, first asking if she was stupid, and then that I hadn't fought my way from the capital to be questioned by idiots anyway. She backed off, muttering something about not being raised in a pigsty and some people's gall in thinking themselves important.

Magos Pasqal corralled us under the dais, ordering us not to step outside the canopy, and got to work on the cogitator as we shielded him from view. A buzzing sound and an odour of ozone appeared to seep from every point in the sanctum. The Magos then hurriedly crossed the room to submit another prayer to a smaller cogitator — and Chaos broke loose. Or, rather, the wrath of the Omnissiah, made visible in the shape of flashes of pure energy, was unleashed from every single pillar in the sanctum and smote every single Chaos cultist. The canopy had shielded us, and of course both Magos Pasqal and the unknown priest came out unscathed, by the grace of the Omnissiah. For several minutes afterwards, my eyes saw bright phantoms of lightning that even blinking failed to dissipate.