A deal with the Inquisition. A fucking deal with the Inquisition. If Theodora wasn't already dead, I'd have killed her again. They wanted me to pick up some shmuck of an Inquisitor and ferry him around. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to answer the call of House von Valancius? Had I stayed home, right now I might be drunk to my eyebrows, they would all be dead, and the Galaxy would be a happier place.
I won't deny that the battle we had two days ago was the first time I felt truly alive since I was kicked out of the Officio Prefectus. I also won't deny that Theodora's quarters, although lacking in fresh air and windows, was more comfortable and luxurious than any place I had ever slept in. I won't deny either that it was good to be able to give orders again. But still — the Inquisition. One could argue they are akin to the Commissariat, but I'll just say this: a Commissar may kill you, but we won't torture you beforehand and we certainly don't play mind games. We're — they're — honest. Mostly.
Once I sent the Seneschal away, I climbed back in that ridiculously high command chair beneath the Aquila, tried to shut off the noise from the bridge, and tried to think. Of Theodora's retinue, only three remained. Abelard Werserian, the Seneschal, was an old hand who would probably be reliable to the extreme, if only he could stop choking on his own indignation whenever I said something that fell short of the strictest dogmatism. Idira Tlass was an Unsanctioned Psyker — a diviner — and I couldn't tell if her attachment to Theodora stemmed from the simple gratefulness of having been saved from a planet at the ass-end of nowhere or a proper crush. She was a strange sight with her many augments, her carefree bravado, and the glazed look that sometimes went over her eyes when voices from beyond spoke to her. But my favourite of the three, in truth, had to be Sister Argenta. She had the unwavering faith of the Sisters of Battle, one that is born both out of true love for the God-Emperor and the knowledge that a boltgun is an excellent tool to prove said love. She could be called child-like in the wonder that permeated her voice when she recalled the miracles accomplished by the Emperor's grace, but she was no child. Argenta was a grown woman with a dry sense of humour and an earnestness to her bearing — the only one around here that I felt could become a friend.
In any case, I had to fulfil the mission for the Inquisition. Well, I didn't have to, as my Warrant of Trade was quite clear that I was sole mistress of my decisions and answered to none save the God-Emperor himself. However, only Idira, perhaps, would back me if I tried to weasel out of Theodora's deal, and I didn't fancy the thought of being marched to an airlock by a zealous Abelard and/or Argenta on a righteous high, so I did have to in the end. Not even considering the endless problems that could stem from not being chummy with the Inquisition: after all, I would still need to deal with them whenever I came back to the Imperium. Still, I didn't need to be swift about things; as the only freedom I had in the matter, I decided the Inquisition would wait and ordered the ship to the planetoid of Rykad Philia, from whence a distress signal came.
Rykad Philia took us more time than I had anticipated — to my great delight. Heretics to smite, traces of a Chaos cult to investigate, and another Rogue Trader (well, the son of one) to save all worked to change this dreary prison planet into a delightful place to be. But life isn't just about mindlessly killing the enemies of Humankind. Duty always calls in the end, and I had to set course towards Rykad Minoris.
I had only seldom set foot on a voidship before coming aboard the Emperor's Mercy (a funny name, by the way, as He has little to none), but I had extensively travelled in-system and let me tell you: the still-limping flagship of the von Valancius dynasty did little better, speed-wise, than more common transports. The trip to Rykad Minoris took the greater part of a week, during which I better acquainted myself with Theodora's desk and associated mountain of papers, prevented Abelard from shooting civilians on the lower decks, and had the absolute worst nightmare where some ghostly abomination tried to tempt me with Chaos powers. Bad luck for it though: this is not how I roll — so it stabbed me. I awoke with the worst headache ever, a bloodied hand, and a shard of something gleaming on the carpet. I couldn't leave it there for the housekeeper to find, so I picked it up, and my headache worsened. I would have to find a way to discreetly get rid of it at a later date.
As seen from orbit, Rykad Minoris appeared to be peaceful enough. It was ruled by House Winterscale, and to say that rule was less than a success was to be overly kind. A full-scale uprising was on the way, with the local government emphatically not on the winning side of things, if one was to trust Vox Master Vigdis's reports. Well, I had just ingratiated myself with the Winterscales by saving the worthless hide of their son, and anyway I had an Inquisitor to pick up down there: two excellent reasons to stick my nose into their mess. The Governor appeared more than happy to receive my help, and as soon as we scheduled a meeting I boarded a shuttle with my little retinue of three.
The starport brought back memories of old battles. We had to cut through a thick of foes in order to carve ourselves a way out. The smell of blood and burning promethium was thick in the air; had I closed my eyes, I could have believed myself leading my old regiment again, and nostalgia hit me like a bolt to the chest. After disgrace, could I find honour again? However, this was not the time to wax sentimental: our enemies may be outgunned and outskilled, but it was no reason to make tactical mistakes.
The streets outside the starport, where the Governor's convoy should have been waiting for us, were probably once wide and stately but now were full of rubble (in various stages of burning) and the odd sniper. Sister Argenta, her silver hair shining over her visor, took great joy in eliminating those. We progressed without hindrance until, a bit further on, we stepped in an ongoing battle or, rather, jumped to help a lone figure surrounded by rebels. Turned out our aid was quite unnecessary: beneath those scarlet robes was a tech-priest, and he purified the heretics by fire, as they say. Quite on his own, and with a one hundred percent fatality rate. He introduced himself by the name of Pasqal Haneumann, a Magos explorator on a personal quest — a full Magos! —, and welcomed my invitation to join us at least until the Governor's palace, where he was bound.
Now, I've always had a soft spot for tech-priests; they fascinate me, and at once I started plotting how I could get this one to serve as my prime enginseer. The soft song of binharic hymns that contrasts with the roughness of their Vox-box speech, the chanting diligence of their daily rites, and the strange tenderness they bestow on anything that houses a Machine spirit, all had conspired to seduce me ever since I was a pupil of the Schola Progenium. When I was a commissar cadet with a standard-issue lasgun, I remember being moved to tears by a tech-priest scolding one of my comrades for some misbehaviour against a cogitator (I think he had called it a 'bucket of bolts' before kicking it). The stern sermon the tech-priest delivered then to us all was the first seed planted in my mind that would challenge the Imperial Creed I had been taught, or at least some aspects of it: that displays of strength against those who cannot fight back are a weakness, and that kindness and respect bring out more in one's allies than barbarism and bloodshed, those being the mark of the Archenemy. And then we (tech-priest included) went back to dousing our enemies with fire. A painful death, I believe.
With Pasqal Haneumann in tow, we soon reached the inner city itself, where the remains of the Governor's convoy greeted us: bent plasteel, smoking wrecks of vehicles, as well as a shifty-looking fellow who purported to be the last man standing. Abelard and I exchanged a cautious glance: his uniform didn't fit, and his demeanour as a whole wasn't what could be expected from a regular soldier — although he did appear young enough to be that untrained in the niceties required with visiting superior officers. Before I could voice my suspicions, Idira grabbed my elbow; a fine sweat shone on her brown face as she whispered a single word into my ear: 'Ambush.'
I nodded. If one is to travel with a diviner, one ought to take her warnings into account. There appeared to be only one way through the broken buildings, where some large stairs lead through to what must have been a grandiose place. A torn recruitment poster for the Astra Militarum flopped in the breeze, the radiant figure on it taunting us. No obvious spots for snipers; although those could be placed further away, they could have just waited for us instead of drawing us into their trap. No, it would be close combat.
'Weapons at the ready,' I ordered.
'But there's no need,' protested the man. 'It's all safe, they're all dead!'
In the before times, I would have shot him there and then. The man was, at best, a spy, and at worst a turncoat. But he was young. In the unlikely event that I had misjudged the situation, if there was a single chance that he wasn't what he appeared to be… besides, I was quite confident about our capacity to overcome whatever waited for us.
'You go first, lad,' said Abelard, prodding him in the back with his chainsword point. By the Throne, was my blood-thirsty seneschal being reasonable? No, more likely discipline had taken over and he was just blindly following my lead.
Of course, that lad was the first to die when the trap closed around us. Abelard gutted him and a psyker from his own side dealt the final blow, catching him in a searing inferno created out of thin air from the energies of the Empyrean. Thankfully, the psyker had misjudged his aim, and we only suffered some singed hair while Idira blinded him and brought him writhing to the ground. Argenta and I combined our efforts to take down a nearby shooter. Oh, the pleasure to fight alongside a tech-priest! The blessing of the Machine Spirit he bestowed upon our weapons made our aim truer and deadlier. No one has suffered until one has gone into battle with an ill-disposed lasgun intent on being at its most contrarian.
From trap to skirmish, our progression through the inner city was terribly slow. Thanks to the insurrectionists, we had no Vox contact either from our ship or from the Governor and could only rely on the map sent us while we were still in orbit; the day was drawing on, and we were getting tired. Many of us had sustained wounds that, while perfectly treatable in the field, still needed judicious care so that we could go on fighting. It would soon be time to look for shelter, and we kept an eye open as we went along walkway and street.
In retrospect, that bunker door had been too tempting — in too much of a good state, considering the destruction all around us, and it was just too hard to open. But open it we did, and the one after that as we hoped to find a proper official refuge, and there it was : some gut-wrenching heretic ritual going on. Without being a faint of heart, I have to admit it was particularly repugnant, as some poor sod was about to get his eyes burnt out of his head. Also in retrospect, it seemed to explain the unusual band of blind beggars we had passed by not much earlier. But I digress. The darkened room could have been meant as a spacious warehouse by its builders, centuries ago: thick pillars supported a high ceiling, but the severe functionality of Imperium architecture was marred by a haphazard mess of lit candles and foul sigils painted on every surface. A small crowd was assembled, looking transfixed at the ritual unfolding at the centre of their circle; they were a mass of twisted bodies, of twisted minds. Amid their haunting, broken hymns, tainted with a corruption born from the Sea of Souls — amid the wide-eyed madness and the stench of heresy — amid the cruelty of Mankind unleashed unto itself — I knew that fate itself had brought us here. It is seldom now that I see the Emperor's hand in my life, and yet there it was — and it fell upon me to cleanse the waking world of corruption. A huge lens stood inside the cultists' circle; its light, the light of the evening sun that even right now was shining outside, staining the sky with red, was focused on the victim's sightless gaze. As the man screamed in pain and ecstasy, calling to his fallen god, I shot the lens, breaking it in a thousand shards, and the heretics at last noticed our presence.
Despite my career as a Commissar (or perhaps because of it), I had never been face to face with such fighters: people, normal people, gone insane with the taint of Chaos, armed with nothing but the most rudimentary weapons, and yet raging and seething, gone berserk. A whole complement of xenos armed to the teeth, I swear, wouldn't have unsettled me so. Still, every impression of committing murder evaporated as morning dew when I parred the first strike of a poison blade. No one tries to kill me and walks away — death was a mercy to these shells of human beings. They were but a fleeting flame before my tempest, and they died with a strange name upon their lips: Aurora.
After the fight, we huddled in the antechamber, unwilling to rest in such close proximity to the remnants of a devious cult; Abelard and Argenta then pulled out medi-kits and dressed our wounds. Blessed be the hand that heals, as the Sister of Battle said! The night was spent in relative security as we took turns standing guard, but no Chaos spawn or other troubled our rest, and morning found us rested and eager to push forward.
That second day was much like the first. The closer we got to the Governor's command centre, the more evidence of the sheer violence unleashed upon the city we found: abandoned cannons, collapsed bridges, and bodies, many bodies, lifeless and beginning to stink. I found myself hoping that, perhaps, that damned Inquisitor had perished in the uprising, freeing me of Theodora's obligations; certainly, a lone man would have been at great risk of being overwhelmed.
We also met with civilian survivors, emerging from the holes they had been hiding in in search of food and water. Not all the planet, thankfully, had fallen to heresy! Yet it had turned parent against child, brother against sister, lover against lover. A man, come to his senses after blinding himself, filled with horror at his actions, killed himself before our eyes. Bitterness flooded me.
'May the Emperor's light guide him', prayed Argenta. 'May his remorse earn him a place in His celestial army, that he may right the wrongs done in this life.'
'The Emperor protects,' replied Abelard. Idira remained silent, unsurprisingly for an Unsanctioned Psyker who flirted with heresy on the best of days, and so did our tech-priest. As for myself, I turned away from the dead man before agreeing that the Emperor protects, indeed.