A/N: Chap 3 review responses are in my forums as normal. Many people noted the slip on the Custodians, with my accidently noting a second heart. This was an honest mistake, and they were probably be others. My whole knowledge of 40K comes from novels. I've read many of the Heresy and Siege books, and others set in 40k times. But I have never played the games, and my knowledge of the broader lore comes from wikis. Plus, this is very much an AU story incorporating the events of the previous novels into 40K itself. The events of Theogony absolutely due impact this fic.
There will be gaps, and there will be AU elements, so just bear that in mind.
Mostly, though, I want to thank you for reading and reviewing. And now I give you the central protagonist of Book 1.
Chapter Four: Lucan at Tenebras
A bell was ringing. Clang, clang, clang, clang… A bell was ringing, and voices were crying out in fear…
Lyta woke with a small jerk against the port of the transport. She squashed the need to stretch and instead concentrated on isometric flexing, since the crowded cabin around her did not provide much room to move.
Beyond the small port window, she saw a shadow rising in the smog beyond.
The Ordos pilot did not come within twenty kilometers of the Palace Walls, and yet Lyta felt like an insect flying beside some unimaginably giant beast. In the dull, diffused gray light of the early afternoon, she could see the pits and scars gouged into walls that marked battles fought ten thousand years before she was born. They rose like mountains, so high they imperiously dictated the weather patterns for the entirety of Holy Terra.
Deep within the continent-sized palace, burning in her mind's eye, she saw the eternal fire of the Astronomicon. She was not so sensitive that she could hear the screams of the thousand of her kind fed to it almost daily, but even twenty kilometers from the outer walls of the vast palace, the horrifying and yet reassuring power of the Golden Throne and the Most Holy God Emperor pounded against her mind. He endured for the sake of all humanity; and a thousand screaming psykers died in agony every day so that he could continue to do so.
The pilot adjusted course, sharply enough to push her against the viewport. She looked and saw a flash of movement; the scale icon on the sides clear for a brief moment.
Adeptus Arbites attack craft diving for suspects. Her ocular implant flashed report runes and automatically traced the trajectory of the lander craft as it swooped down onto one of thousands of overlapping causeways, and the unbroken, solid line of chanting, swaying humanity that swelled across it in their never-ending pilgrimage to the palace walls.
The pilgrims came by the billions, desperately eager to celebrate the Sanguinala within sight of the most Holy Palace. Pushed by Ecclesiarch priests and motivation engines, drugged by Ecclesiarch barges and their leaders to a fever pitch of faith and devotion, most would not survive the holy day. The line on the causeway closest to her flailed and called out devotions and prayers, while Ecclesiarch devotional drones spayed incense and narcotics over the whole to help whip their ecstasy into a mindless state of worship and obedience.
Terra consumed more souls than even the Golden Throne. Worse, it tried to make the souls it consumed grateful to be eaten.
How she hated it.
"Final approach," the pilot announced over her vox bead. The warning was not just for her, but for the other fifty throne agents in the transport; she was a junior acolyte of a deceased Inquisitor. A low-rated sanctioned psyker fresh out of Schola. And her first action… She had no illusions of a bright future.
She caught sight of their destination–the tower rose a kilometer up from the dense, solid strata of structures that covered every centimeter of Terra's surface. It was just one of thousands that she could see. This close to the Palace, each was an ornate, beautifully crafted and elegant structure that would have been the jewel of any other world. Here, within sight of the walls of the Holy Palace of the Emperor of Mankind, jewels were made commonplace by their sheer number.
What marked this spire apart from the tens of thousands of others was the icon hanging from the dark, gothic lines of its walls: the Inquisitorial skullform.
The pilot brought the transport into a dedicated docking ring set a dozen levels below the jeweled crown of the spire and landed so smoothly she barely felt the transition from movement to stillness. Around her, experienced, grizzled warriors of the various Ordos of the Inquisition gathered their tac packs and whatever personal belongings they had. The tower was an administrative hub of the Inquisition–one of a dozen on Terra that supported the Fortress at the pole.
She grabbed her own pack, which held every item she claimed to own, and swung it over her shoulder. She kept a firm grip on the support bar above her head; her hip was mostly healed, but with her ocular and hip replacement, her balance still gave her problems.
Hot, feral air blew in through the open bay doors. The stench of unwashed humanity clung to her like a miasma after the cold purity of Luna. She could feel sweat beading up on her neck along the collar of her dark gray Ordos uniform; her nostrils flared at the rank smell of Holy Terra's putrid atmosphere.
The other passengers of the transport–Tempestus Scions, ranking Interrogators or other esteemed agents of the Ordos, made their way to a receiving station. She followed after, and as she did so she allowed her psyker power out of her normal bounds.
Workers show signs of extended exhaustion. Equipment in need of servicing. Stress indicators.
As her new ocular implant categorized names and used false-color imaging to identify agent serial numbers encoded on the necks of those around her, her remaining eye and her low-rated psyker power picked up various bits and pieces of stimuli to form intuitive pieces of information that she could have discovered with a bit of research, but which came instinctively if she let it.
The Inquisitorial hub was under heavy stress; it didn't take a genius to know why. It wasn't just the approaching holy day of Sanguinius' glorious sacrifice ten thousand years ago. It felt like the whole galaxy was on the verge of burning in the clutches of Chaos. Though the masses were kept in the dark, Lyta knew that Cadia–the guardian world that served as a gate fortress against the Eye of Terror where most of the Traitor Legions fled after the Great Heresy–was under a prolonged, brutal assault the likes of which had not been seen in many centuries.
Everyone who knew what was happening was afraid; and those who did not know still somehow felt that fear as well. They were like animals, Lyta thought, sensing that a terrible storm was coming.
"Rothid, Amelyta," she said by rote as she reported in at the receiving desk.
The servitor accepted her credentials with the emotionless expression of the dead. Behind the lost soul, however, a throne agent glanced up at the name and frowned. Lyta throttled her power–she had no interest in what her peers thought of her.
"You are to report directly to Lord Inquisitor Rassilo," the servitor droned.
Her power slipped. "The Emperor protects," the mother says as she holds her two young children under the water of their bath, while the father cries her name from behind the locked door. She weeps with joy that her beautiful little angels will see the Emperor soon. "The Emperor protects."
Lyta prayed and employed every mental cantrip she'd learned at the psykana to force her power back; to not see. She did not need to know why this shell of a human was partially lobotomized and converted into a servitor.
Instead, she passed through the security checkpoint, past a pair of stormtroopers who pointedly did not look at her, and toward the secured lifts that would take her to the very top of the tower.
The lift opened into a reception area. The floor was made of real marble. Her power whispered to her of vast age–the floor was repurposed from a much older structure, and was made even more valuable as a result. The walls were of polished wood paneling of a type she did not recognize, a warm, brown color that provided a soothing contrast to the bright floor. There were antique pieces of furniture, reconditioned from thousands of years ago, but she did not sit.
She was worried about losing her balance.
The doors into the Lord Inquisitor's inner chambers remained closed. They were also covered in wood panels, but underneath the wood her power assured her the doors had an adamantine and steel frame. Able to withstand heavy bombardment.
The walls were undoubtedly also armored, and it would not surprise Lyta if the entire crown of the tower had independent suspensors and drive systems.
The doors remained closed.
She didn't need her power to know that she did not stand in anyone's high regard. She considered the likelihood that she would be assigned to a fortress or a hub like this and never be allowed into the field again. She would end her days as a failure, pushing parchment in support of her betters until death finally took her. And even that might not be the end of her service in shame.
The doors opened with silent, imposing mass and inexorable momentum. Lyta walked forward at the silent invitation.
Lord Inquisitor Adamara Rossilo sat behind a desk that looked almost as old as the Imperium of Man. She had three picter screens on one side of the desk, a pile of dataslates and parchment on the other, and was quickly, efficiently making notes on parchment while simultaneously dictating to a servitor skull that hovered near her desk.
Lyta stopped at ten paces, and bowed. "Reporting as ordered, Lord."
No response. Despite her sitting at a desk, the Lord Inquisitor wore armor–an exquisitely crafted power armor of deep crimson. The breastplate bore the fleur-de-lys of a Sororitas, likely an allied chamber. It was common, Lyta knew, for Inquisitors and the battle-sisters of a specific Sororitas chamber to work together often in their pursuit of the Emperor's uncountable enemies.
The Lord's hair was cut short, with a natural olive-green color common to certain worlds of the Segmentum Pacificus. Though she could not have been a young woman to hold her position, Rassilo had smooth, ageless skin with the benefits of rejuvenate treatments.
Lyta's implant focused on the woman's rosette. The seal of the Lord Inquisitor's station and authority looked extravagant–ringed in real pearl from an ocean world, likely her native planet. Transparent, with the Inquisitorial skull-form set within.
There were several chairs, all as ancient as the marble floor. No invitation to sit came.
"You got your inquisitor killed," Rassilo finally said. She finished her notes, put down her stylus, and regarded Lyta with a blank expression. "You missed vital clues that could have identified the presence of Traitor Marines in the Lunar witch cult, and got your Master and his retinue killed. Your master. A former interrogator of mine."
Lyta mentally recited her prayers. May He guide my arm, may he guide my strength… "Yes, Lord."
"Inquisitor Norquis extended you a level of trust few your age ever experience. He spoke very highly of your potential. You failed him, and you should have died with him."
"Yes, Lord."
"I was going to assign you to supervising servitors in the holding cells of the Fortress. It would have been a just punishment, wouldn't you agree?"
This was not a discussion. "Yes, Lord."
"So, imagine my surprise when I received an acquisition request from Lord Inquisitor Moro. He asked for you by name. Do you know Lord Inquisitor Moro?"
It took a moment for the information to sink in. "Distantly, Lord."
"Distantly…?"
"He knew my family, Lord."
Rassilo frowned, so much so her face bordered on an actual sneer. She picked up one of the data slates. "Ah, I see. A Rothid of the Botan Hive Rothids. You ran away from your duty to your family. Why?"
"The Emperor called me to a different duty, Lord."
"One you failed at."
"The duty remains, Lord."
The older woman was not expecting the answer. For the first time, the frown eased. "Yes, it does. Tell me what happened on Luna. Your own words, please."
"The witch cult Lord Norquis identified used its import business to smuggle a single chaos sorcerer onto Luna itself, Lord. Within reach of Holy Terra. The sorcerer was…far more powerful than I was, and obscured himself from my own power. I had grown too dependent upon my psyker-intuition, and failed to use mundane senses to notice His presence. When I called in my master and his strike team, the Chaos Sorcerer was waiting for him."
"Where he killed an Inquisitor and his entire retinue of 50 Ordos troopers. Yet, somehow, you killed him."
Sneering face, scaled like a fish with sharp, metallic teeth. Breath like the rot of hell itself. "What a pretty face. It shall adorn my armor."
"He wished to play with his food, Lord. It was less that I killed him than he grew overconfident and allowed himself to be killed."
Lyta's words caused the faintest hint of a wince on Rassilo's face. "You made a terrible mistake. People died. That's what happens in this business of ours. You're not the first, you won't be the last. Nor will Inquisitor Norquis be the last of us to perish defending the Imperium. Sit."
Lyta sat down, placing her tac pack on the marbled floor beside the ancient, upholstered seat. "Thank you, Lord."
"The Inquisition on Terra is being stretched beyond capacity," the Lord Inquisitor said. "We have discovered demon spore within sight of the palace walls as the Sanguinala approaches. No asset is being turned away. Lord Moro asked for an acolyte, but he is just one of fifty senior inquisitors who have requested additional resources. With your recent injuries, and the…unfortunate mark on your record, he is the only one who would take you regardless. So you are returning to your old home."
Lyta struggled to keep her face blank. "Yes, Lord. I wish only to serve. In the Emperor's name."
"And serve, you shall."
A servitor entered the room. Lyta turned and watched as the lobotomized squat shuffled awkwardly across the marble tiles with a folder sealed with wax and snap wires. It thrust the file toward her.
Lyta took the file hesitantly. Moro, A. O.H. 3982-551. "Lord?"
"We all serve the Emperor," Rassilo said. "But you should know by now that some choose a path of service that brings them dangerously close to the very thing they are sworn to fight against. Lord Inquisitor Moro is a radical. He has suffered censure in the past. A Gallentist in his views. The timing of his request is fortuitous, because with the influx of pilgrims during Sanguinala in two days and the uncertainty the Imperium is facing in Cadia, we cannot afford any lapses in our judgment. But it begs the question. He has not requested an acolyte in over a century, but he asked for you by name. Why?"
"I do not know, Lord."
"Speculate."
"As I noted, Lord. He knew my family."
"Your father, in particular. The late Archduke of Botan Hive."
"Yes, Lord."
"And after the death of he and your brother, you would have been the Archduchess, yes?"
"I was identified as a psyker shortly after, Lord. It was…unlikely."
The Inquisitor glanced down again at the dataslate which undoubtedly held Lyta's data. "I knew Norquis well, he was my first interrogator for nearly ten years. If he saw potential in you, then there was potential to see. You will serve Moro. You will determine if he has fallen into blasphemy, or if he is still loyal to the Throne, and you will report weekly to me directly. Do this, and you may find the episode on Luna forgotten. Perhaps, in time, you may obtain a rosette of your own."
Nothing came for free in the Imperium of Man. Lyta committed the unspeakable sin of failure; any penance would come at a price. "I will serve, Lord. By His will."
"Yes. Dismissed."
~~Revelation~~
~~Revelation~~
"You look like a kid."
Rassilo chose not to provide Lyta dedicated transportation due to how thin the Ordos resources were being stretched. Instead of dedicated transport, Lyta was assigned to a contingent of Adeptus Arbites reinforcements for a seat on their transport vessel heading west from the palace district. She tried repeatedly to snatch a few minutes of sleep during the flight, but the crowded transport and her swirling thoughts made it difficult.
Within the myriad, overlapping levels of authority of the various adepta of the Imperium, the Adeptus Arbites were the front-line defenders of the Lex. They served as the enforcers of the law, officers, prosecutors, judges and, often, executioners all wrapped up in a single individual graced with the Emperor's authority to aggressively defend the Emperor's laws.
The arbiter who spoke to her wore his dark-visored helm despite being inside the transport. He was the only one of the twenty other members of the Adeptus Arbites within the transport to do so. He sat with his shock maul over his lap, as if so eager to use it that even his fellows were at risk, and looked at where the single Ordos member was squeezed between two much larger troopers.
Highly ranked. Judge? Her power assured her the speaker had absolute control over everyone else in the vessel. He was testing her. "I look older than most of your troopers."
"Damn sight better, too," one of the men beside her muttered. The trooper beside him elbowed him roughly for the comment.
The senior arbiter just chuckled. "True enough," he said, easily. He didn't specify which comment he was responding to. "Wicked piece of tech in your head, there. How'd you get it?"
"Turned left when I should have turned right."
The man knew she was Ordos. But he also knew if she were very highly ranked, she wouldn't be catching a ride with him and his cadre of new troopers. "We've all done it. If we're lucky enough and the Emperor's with us, we walk away. You're bound for Botan Hive?"
"I am."
"Rough place, Botan. It's one of the oldest hives on Terra. We have places there that haven't seen the Emperor's light in ten thousand years."
"So I've been told."
The transport shook with atmospheric turbulence. The arbiter swayed with it, but barely seemed to notice as he studied her. "Name's Kurzmann," he finally said.
"Lyta."
"No last name?"
Suspects who she is. "Have you ever worked with Inquisitor Moro?"
Under the dark line of his visor, the only exposed part of Kurzmann's entire body formed a wry smile. "We've met. When you get settled, you'll find me at the fortress in the Dalet Spire. Moro works out of the Gimel spire."
Lyta's power told her the man's interest had nothing to do with her face or body, and everything to do with her unspoken name and role. But more importantly from her perspective, she was a low ranked ordos for a disgraced Inquisitor in one of the more remote and despised areas of Holy Terra. She could use all the allies she could find.
"I may do that, Kurzmann."
~~Revelation~~
~~Revelation~~
An Ordos trooper met her at the Arbites Fortress. Violet-eyed, with rust-colored skin and short, tightly curled black hair that clung to a balding head, her appointed contact bore vicious burn scars along the left side of his neck and jaw. The man wore stormtrooper armor, with the gray skull-form over the Inquisitorial I-shape on each of his pauldrons to indicate his Ordos standing.
Tall and muscular without being bulky, he looked bored until he saw her. He visibly stiffened to attention when she stepped out of the transport flier.
Lyta knew she was physically attractive. The Progenum actually had a course on how certain individuals could use physical appearance to distract or seduce targets. It had been geared toward potential Ordos and Arbites candidates. She was accustomed to a certain reaction to those around her, like the troopers she sat next to on the flight over.
This man did not come to attention because she was pretty. Like Kurzmann, she saw a flash of recognition in his violet eyes. Perhaps not Cadian, but he was from that general area. More, her power told her he was assessing her as an Ordos trooper; focusing on her implant, and the slight limp she still hadn't fully overcome.
"Welcome, Lord," he said. Though he used an honorific she was not eligible for, he spoke to her as a fellow, rather than a superior. He made the sign of the aquila–the crossed hands of the Imperial sign. She returned the gesture by rote. "Names Artigan, I command Lord Moro's reaction teams."
"Does Lord Moro have a large force?"
"We make do," Artigan said. "This way, please."
They had to make their way through the Arbites Fortress, using a side passage. Kurzmann and his troopers were already ahead of them, making their way to their new posts. The walls were filled with prayers and imprecations to obey the lex; to pray. To report the heretic, the xenos and the mutants.
"Let not the crime of mercy stay your hand; let not the weakness of compassion sway your hearts."
"The scarring around the implant is still red," Artigan noted casually as he glanced at her face. "Good work, though. Took a second to see it was an implant at all. From a distance, still looks human norm. Luna apothecary primus labs?"
No question about the injury, or how she obtained it. "Yes."
"They grew me a new leg twenty years ago or so," Artigan continued. Though his voice was rough, like burlap, his tone sounded friendly enough. "The only part of me that doesn't ache in the morning."
They reached the first security cordon and were waved through by Arbites troopers. Artigan called both by name. "How're the kids?" he asked the Arbiter he called Bofts.
"Growing like crazy," came the response. "I've had to cut my rations to keep 'em fed!"
Norquis did not maintain a relationship with any Arbites. She found it interesting that Moro's people would know Arbiters by name.
Two more security cordons released them into the general intake area of the fortress. The area was huge compared to the tight confines of the passages they just left, with thousands huddled in miserable queues to either make statements, pay fines or receive harsh judgment.
After so long away, the sheer hopelessness of the rabble struck her with visceral power. She and Artigan towered over the menials. They were thin, with ashy complexions and thinning to no hair regardless of gender. They stood with blank expressions in long queues, waiting for harsh judgment or fines they could not pay. Starved, worked unto death. Ten thousand years of crushing weight had reduced humanity on Holy Terra to a mere shadow of its former self.
Occasionally, she spotted a taller, healthier individual among the oceans of menials. A Ministorum worker or other member of the Adepta with access to more food and healthcare. They were the exception rather than the rule.
Over the heads of the waiting crowds, she saw floating servitor heads constantly monitoring for any sign of lawbreaking, or bad behavior. Finally, they emerged into the front of the fortress.
The Arbiter precinct fortress of the Dalet Spire of Botan Hive was located on the 183rd level, Black Sector 5. The signs were clearly printed around them. From the outside, she saw now that the fortress hung partially suspended off the edge of the level plaza by grav plates and bristled with autocannons and anti-aircraft and anti-personnel automated defenses. All around, the vast, dark walls of the spire rose up around them.
Most of the residents were born in this spire, and would die in it, having never left its walls. Most, in fact, would never even leave their birth sectors within the spire.
Artigan led her to a waiting groundcar. The vehicle was heavily armored, with a lascannon turret mounted on the roof. It could easily transport a dozen troopers; one sat inside waiting for them. The back ramp hung open, and she followed the trooper into the vehicle without a word.
The vehicle was in motion before the ramp even closed.
The interior boasted a line of transparent plasteel as windows, giving her a view into the vast interior of the hive. As the vehicle drove away from the fortress, she stared out across a home she'd hoped never to see again. The transit artery they followed curved in a spiral that hugged the outer edge of the spire interior. Great verti-trains rushed up or down, carrying menials or food to their various levels.
All around, other ground vehicles crowded the artery, while the air bristled with servitors, aircraft and various zeppelins maintaining an ever-watchful auspex on the masses. "Does the Lord Inquisitor cover the whole hive, or just his spire?"
"The Hive," Artigan replied easily enough. "He elevated his senior interrogator to full Inquisitor last week. Chaotian works out of the Arlin Hive now."
"I was told Lord Moro didn't recruit many candidates."
"Not from the Ordos, no."
She continued to study him. "Holn? No, Partex."
Artigan graced her with a raised brow. "Very good, Lord."
"You have Cadian eyes, but not a Cadian accent. A Cadian sector world, at least. I've never been to the Fortress world of Partex, but it is still Cadian, I've read. Guard?"
"Until Lord Moro recruited me and what was left of my unit. We've only been on Terra for thirty years or so."
Almost a third longer than Lyta had even lived. "What brought him here?"
A wry smile. "Your father, Lord. It's not for me to say more. He'll explain if he sees fit. Until then, welcome home, Amelyta Rothid."