Chapter 21: The second six hours – Part 4: Odds and Oaths (Valeria's Perspective)
The Chimera's rumble is a muted growl beneath my feet, steady but ominous, like a beast awaiting release. The tunnel stretches out ahead of us, a gaping maw of blackness punctuated by the faint flicker of failing lumin strips. The air feels heavy, even here inside the mechanized confines of the command chimera, as though the centuries of abandonment press down with every meter we traverse. Dust filters in through unseen cracks, settling on the armor of the shock troopers seated around me, their blackened plate reflecting no light, their visors gleaming like predatory eyes.
I sit opposite Faust, his gaunt frame hunched slightly as he reviews a dataslate. The green glow of its screen throws sharp shadows across his angular face, giving him the appearance of a bird of prey, skeletal and sharp. His eyes flicker briefly up to meet mine, calculating, unreadable, before returning to his work.
"We're close," the driver announces over the internal vox, his voice tinny and dispassionate. "Barricade ahead."
Faust doesn't react immediately, continuing to scroll through the dataslate with a deliberate precision that grates on my nerves. There's no time for delay, even from here I can feel Aurora and the feeling is like lying beneath a spiritual anvil, slowly being crushed.
Finally, he looks up, closing the device with a snap and slipping it into the folds of his coat. He reaches for the vox grille beside him.
"Stop here," he says, his voice as smooth and cold as the polished grip of a bolt pistol. "This is the barrier you spoke of?"
I nod quickly, "yes, beyond the tunnel lies—"
"Sappers front! Set for subterranean breach and try not to bring the whole tunnel down on us." he doesn't cut me off so much as he goes back to ignoring me and I grit my teeth to help hold my tongue.
The Chimera jolts to a halt, and the compartment fills with the hiss of hydraulics as the rear ramp descends. I follow him out, the hum of the Chimera's idling engine fading beneath the clatter of boots on ferocrete.
The tunnel ahead is blocked by a sprawling mass of debris—a makeshift barricade of twisted metal, shattered rockcrete, ferocrete, and abandoned machinery, cobbled together like the bones of some long-dead beast. It spans the width of the tunnel, a towering wall of resistance between us and Quadrant D, where the Basilica of Saint Jessamine awaits—if it hasn't already fallen.
Faust surveys the obstruction with the detached scrutiny of a man inspecting an equation for flaws. Behind him, sappers in reinforced exo-rigs move with practiced efficiency, unloading charges from the rear compartments of the convoy. Their servo-arms whine softly as they begin to plant explosives at key stress points along the barricade, climbing it with grapple-lines and tearing handholds with reinforced steel fingers.
I step closer to Faust, the weight of my ancient armor grounding me in a way that feels almost sacred. Its luminance—faint but undeniable—casts a subtle glow in the dimness of the tunnel, a stark contrast to the matte black of Faust's cloak. My helmet hangs at my side, mag-locked to my belt.
Faust's attention shifts to me briefly, his pale eyes glinting in the dim light. "Your saint claims this Basilica is the key to stopping a catastrophe that will engulf not only this hive, but the entire Gothic Sector." His tone is clinical, almost dismissive. "Statistically, that's nonsense. Statistically the Imperium doesn't misplace a saint's basilica, or… a saint."
I narrow my eyes, gripping the strap of my helmet. "Statistics don't account for faith, Interrogator."
His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, though there's no warmth in it. "Faith is random chance by another name, Novitiate. Numbers, however, do not lie."
"Then why are you here?" I snap, my voice sharper than I intended. The words hang in the air for a moment before I continue, quieter. "If the numbers are so clear to you, why bring all of this?" I gesture to the Chimeras, the shock troopers, the sappers working methodically to breach the barricade.
The tension between us is as taut as a lasrifle's trigger, the air heavy with the grinding echoes of mechanized engines idling in the dark. Faust tilts his head, his hawkish features catching the flickering lumin strips above us, making his pale face seem almost skeletal.
"My task," he begins, his tone unyielding, "isn't merely to validate probabilities. It's to shine light into the dark places where Chaos hides—where the numbers fall silent and unaccounted for. The Saint's claims may be nonsense, but nonsense often harbors truth in this galaxy. A lesson you'd do well to learn, should you survive long enough. My job is to hold the light, and decide which nonsense is just the clever guise of the enemy."
I feel my hands tighten into fists at my sides, the weight of his words sparking irritation. His calm certainty feels like an insult, a dismissal of the faith that burns within me. "And your light," I say, gesturing broadly at the gathered vehicles and troopers around us, "is this?"
His gaze hardens, and for a moment, I think he might strike me with his cutting glare alone. Instead, he steps closer, his tone dropping into a low growl laced with disdain. "You think I am thoughtless, don't you? Blind. Bereft of that sight which you call, faith."
I hold his gaze, unflinching, as he gestures toward the command Chimera stationed behind him. Its silhouette is angular and black as the void, its plates scored with faintly glowing runes.
"This," he says, his voice laden with quiet authority, "is my sight. The augurs on this Chimera pierce through interference and shadow, reaching farther than any sermon your Ecclesiarch might spout. It silences enemy signals, scrambles targeting systems, and blinds their eyes while ours see clearly."
He steps closer, and I can feel his cold eyes boring into mine. "Thoughtless, Novitiate? Hardly. This machine is the Emperor's wrath made manifest. Every whisper of its jammers and every bolt it fires is calculated with a precision your chants and psalms can't hope to rival."
My jaw tightens, but I say nothing. He turns, gesturing toward the three anti-tank Chimeras, their sleek frames bristling with lascannons and autocannons.
"And these? These are the Emperor's judgment. They will slice through armor with surgical precision, leaving nothing but molten slag in their wake."
Faust takes another step, pointing toward the missile carrier Chimeras, their payloads ominously visible even in the dim light.
"When precision is irrelevant and volume is the only truth that matters, these answer with the Emperor's own divine fury. Krak, frag, incendiary—they do not discriminate, only obliterate."
His gaze sweeps across the gathered armored personnel Chimeras, each one housing a squad of troopers that move with a predatory grace.
"Do you know what makes these men and women different, Novitiate?" he asks, his voice cutting through the low murmur of activity. "They don't pray for the Emperor's salvation. They don't look for miracles. They are the miracle. They are the salvation."
The words strike like a lash, cold and unforgiving. My eyes flick to the troopers, their movements fluid and precise, their weapons gleaming under the lumin strips. They don't walk; they stalk, like predators unleashed. I catch a glimpse of a woman's face through her visor, her expression blank, hard, almost mechanical. Apex predators, forged in the Emperor's fire.
"Each of the five APC Chimeras," Faust continues, his voice steady and unrelenting, "holds nine of them. Nine weapons honed to perfection, trained to rip the heart from Chaos wherever it festers. They do not falter. They do not fear. They may not be your vaunted and holy Astartes, but they execute without hesitation, without doubt."
"And their faith?" I counter, my voice sharp with indignation.
He stops, turning to face me fully. His pale eyes seem to pierce through my armor, his disdain palpable. "Their faith," he says slowly, each word deliberate, "is in the Emperor's will. In the blade and bolt, the machine and muscle, that serve it. Faith without action is empty words, Novitiate. Faith without direction and precision is as dangerous as heresy, perhaps more so. That, is why I hope you, and all you've said, turns out to be nothing but the smoke and shadows of the arch enemy."
I take a step back, my hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of my power sword. The weight of his presence is suffocating, his words a calculated assault. "You doubt the saint! Not only her existence but her sanctity, her faith, her desire to save us all from the calamity that is even now massed and active under your very nose!" I say, my voice quieter now, angrier. "You doubt the one who fights for us, who leads us, when you people and your faith is blind to the very enemy you're supposed to root out!?"
Faust's lips curl into a faint, humorless smile and his voice is maddeningly calm. "Doubt? No. I calculate. Statistically, your Saint should not exist. Statistically, her miracles are fabrications. But where Chaos hides, so too do the numbers that make such statistical impossibilities into certainties. My task is not to believe or disbelieve. My task is to expose the unseen."
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You think your prayers are faith, Valeria? You think your belief, your hope, your trust, that these are the weapons that will deliver us? They will not. What will save you are these numbers you deride, my faith. These men. These machines. This fire. We all carry our faith with us, Novitiate, but my faith is tangible, very heavily armed, and I have yet to see the spawn of chaos that posed a theological question my faith couldn't answer."
For a moment, the hum of the command Chimera fills the air, a steady vibration that resonates through the armored plates beneath my boots. Around us, the troopers move in a precise, rehearsed dance, their silent efficiency a stark contrast to the chaos I know rages on the other side of the barricade. Every movement speaks of discipline, purpose. Lethal purpose.
And then I notice it.
Faust is smiling.
It's not a smirk, not the cold, predatory expression I'd expect from a man like him. It's small, almost imperceptible, but it's there—a genuine smile curling at the edges of his thin lips, softening the hard lines of his hawkish face. It's so unexpected, so out of place, that I find myself frozen for a beat too long, my mind struggling to reconcile it with the calculating man before me.
"What?" I ask sharply, the word escaping before I can stop it. "What about this could you find humorous!"
His smile broadens, if only slightly, and he tilts his head, his pale gaze glinting with something that might, impossibly, be amusement. "You're bristling like an Ecclesiarch caught in the act of misplacing his rosarius, if you know what I mean," he says dryly, his voice lighter than before, though it still carries that ever-present edge of razor-sharp wit.
I blink, the heat rising to my face beneath the cool ceramite of my collar. It takes me a moment to process what he's just said. When I do, I bristle further, my back straightening as I feel my cheeks flush.
"It's not—" I start, my voice clipped, before cutting myself off.
It's a joke…
Of course, it's a joke. Not a particularly good one, not the sort of joke that invites laughter or even a smile, but it is a joke nonetheless. An olive branch, in its own strange, awkward way. He's trying to smooth things over, to make it clear that, despite everything, we are on the same side.
I glance away, suddenly very interested in the methodical placement of the sappers' charges. The heat in my cheeks persists, and I curse myself silently. How does he manage to unsettle me so effortlessly?
"Don't blush, Novitiate," Faust continues, his tone maddeningly calm, though I catch the faintest hint of amusement beneath it. "It's unbecoming of someone clad in the heraldry of a saint."
My fists tighten at my sides, and I force myself to meet his gaze again. "I'm not blushing," I lie, my voice steady, though my traitorous cheeks burn hotter still.
He raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again. "Of course not," he says, his tone placating, as if indulging a child.
I want to retort, to remind him that my duty is to the Saint, not to his smug superiority, but the words catch in my throat. Instead, I settle for glaring at him, my jaw set tight.
His smile fades slowly, replaced by the familiar, calculating expression I've come to associate with him. But something about the exchange lingers in the air between us, a strange and tenuous bridge that wasn't there before. He doesn't apologize, and I don't thank him, but the tension eases, just enough to remind me that, for all his cynicism and my faith, we are both fighting for the same cause.
Even if we don't see it the same way.
I fall silent, my mind flickering back to Aurora, to her quiet strength and the weight of her gaze as she sent me on this mission. I feel her presence, faint but steady, a thread of connection that reassures me even now.
"Aurora told me to tell you something," I say at last, my voice subdued. "She used your name, Interrogator Faust. A message, if you could be trusted as an ally."
Faust raises an eyebrow, the motion almost imperceptible. "Did she? And what message does the Saint have for me?"
I meet his gaze, my grip tightening on my helmet. "Empty Night."
For the first time, Faust's composure slips. His eyes widen fractionally, and a shadow passes over his face—a crack in the mask. He recovers quickly, but the moment lingers in the air between us like a held breath.
"Empty Night," he repeats, his voice barely audible. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he processes the words.
"I don't know what it means," I admit, watching him carefully. "But she was certain you would. She said, that if you believed in her, those words could save a lot of lives."
Faust turns abruptly, signaling one of the sergeants. "You," he snaps, his tone sharper than before. "Take a squad and retrace our steps. Return to the abandoned Arbites precinct and send this message to Lord Angstrom: 'Living Saint suggests Empty Night.' Use Magenta encryption. Then destroy the equipment and report to the Lord Inquisitor in person with the same message."
The sergeant salutes crisply and moves to carry out the order. Faust removes a ring from his finger and hands it to him—a signet of authority that glints faintly in the dim light.
I hesitate for a moment, his words hanging in the air like the tension before a storm. "So you believe it now?" I ask cautiously, the question escaping before I can temper it.
Faust doesn't answer immediately. His pale eyes scan the assembled forces again, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhales through his nose, the sound clipped and measured. "Belief…" He repeats, tasting the word like something foreign. "The odds favor it."
"The odds?" I can't help the faint skepticism in my voice.
"The odds," Faust says firmly. "The likelihood of her being a prescient psyker powerful enough to hide her abilities from the Inquisition's most stringent tests—zero. The likelihood that she is something else, something touched by the Emperor's light, is marginally higher. And when the odds shift like this, you act. That is how you survive in the Ordo Malleus."
I open my mouth to respond, but Faust cuts me off with a raised hand. "This is not faith, Novitiate. This is pragmatism. And in pragmatism, you prepare for the worst. Which means now, at this juncture, odds or no odds, I don't expect either of us to survive long enough to deliver that message ourselves."
The chill in his words settles over me like frost. But before I can respond, Faust gestures toward the command Chimera. A small servo-skull buzzes out from an armored compartment, its tiny red optic glaring like a baleful eye.
"Present your helmet," he orders brusquely.
I hesitate, my fingers brushing the mag-locked plate at my waist. "Why?"
"Because," Faust says, his tone sharpening, "if you survive and I do not, you'll need to be more than a mouthpiece for a supposed saint. You'll need real authority to match the political chaos we're diving into if we survive the day."
Reluctantly, I unclip the helmet and hold it out. The servo-skull drifts closer, its mechanized limbs extending, gripping the ceramite plate as a faint beam of green light flickers to life. It begins etching intricate runes along the crest, the hiss of the laser quiet against the background hum of the Chimera's systems. I watch in stunned silence as it works, each stroke precise and deliberate.
"What are you doing?" I finally manage, my voice uneasy.
"Raising your security clearance," Faust says. "You are now, for the duration of this engagement or until countermanded by Lord Inquisitor Angstrom or myself, a Special Interrogator of the Ordo Malleus. Your rank, such as it is, exists only to serve this crisis. Congratulations. Or condolences."
I stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in like a leaden anchor. "You're conscripting me."
"Correct," he says without a hint of apology. "Consider it my version of faith in your saint. Someone needs to carry the authority of the Inquisition should I fall. And as I said, the odds of my survival are not in my favor."
The servo-skull finishes its task, retreating with a faint hiss of servos. It deposits the helmet back into my hands before flitting away into the shadows.
I hold my helmet close to my chest, the ceramite still warm from the servo-skull's etching. A single chain coils around the top like a crown, the red sigil of the Ordo Malleus set at its center—a lock holding those chain links tight. The significance of it prickles at my skin, an alien weight on a relic I've worn for only a few days. First the saint's herald, now conscripted into the Inquisition… The weight of it, the speed at which my life seems to have run away from me… I feel it now like a sudden weight in my chest.
Faust stands before me on the cracked ferocrete of the station, his stance unyielding. The hum of the augur arrays and the rattle of chimera engines around us underscore the tension that binds us. He doesn't look away, doesn't blink, his gaze pinned on me with a razor's edge of expectation.
"Valeria," he says, soft yet firm, "do you understand what it means to bear the chain and lock of the Ordo Malleus? Do you truly grasp the burden you take upon yourself?"
My heart pounds. Around us, black-armored troopers shift in the flickering glow of the overhead lumin, giving us a wide berth. They don't speak. They don't need to. They can sense the gravity of the moment, as though a new star might be ignited or snuffed out in this single act.
"I—" I falter, the words burning on my tongue. I was raised to recite the liturgies of healing, the saintly vows. Not this. Not a vow that demands something so… dark. So binding. "No," I admit truthfully, staring from the helmet back to his face.
Faust tilts his head, an unspoken prompt. "Kneel," he orders.
The request sets my nerves aflame, but I find myself lowering onto one knee, the ancient servo-joints of my power armor whining in protest. I set the helmet on the floor before me, the chain-wreathed crest glinting in the dim light. I don't need the cold feeling of dread for what lies beyond the barrier to help me realize I'm standing on the edge of a threshold I might never step back from.
Faust steps closer, looming like a shadow. I keep my chin raised, meeting his intense, almost predatory stare. His voice comes low, full of a brutal sincerity:
"Repeat after me. Let these words bind your soul."
I swallow, tasting dust and fear. "I'm ready."
He lifts a small data-slate from inside his coat, the ancient oath glowing in cracked letters upon its surface. He reads from it slowly, each phrase measured:
"I am the Emperor's vessel," he recites, and I echo him, my tone catching in my throat.
"I am the Emperor's vessel," I say, my voice quiet, uncertain.
Faust's eyes do not soften; they burn with the terrible knowledge of the inquisitor's path. "My body is the Imperium's clay," he continues, voice rolling against the tunnel around us. "To be shaped, broken, or remade as the Ordo Malleus requires."
My pulse thunders. "My body is the Imperium's clay… shaped, broken, or remade… as the Ordo Malleus requires."
A flicker of satisfaction crosses Faust's face. He inclines his head. "My will surrenders to the chain that binds my purpose."
I swallow down the knot in my throat. "My will surrenders… to the chain that binds my purpose." The chain etched on my helmet gleams, reminding me of what I am promising.
Faust's voice lowers, a rumbling hush like the tread of war machines. "My soul is the Emperor's currency. I spend it gladly, unto my final breath, for the victory of man."
I murmur the words: "My soul is the Emperor's currency… I spend it gladly, unto my final breath… for the victory of man."
His next words come in a clipped staccato, each one a brand of iron on my heart. "I break my chains to all I knew before—my ambition, my future, my name—save those the Ordo Malleus returns to me in the Emperor's grace."
My lips press tight, warring with the vow's gravity. "I break my chains… to all I knew before—my ambition, my future, my name—save those the Ordo Malleus returns to me in the Emperor's grace."
The oath demands a toll of my identity, and I feel the weight of tears burning behind my eyes. Aurora, I think. Aurora, forgive me if this drags me into darkness. I exhale, forging the words with the last shred of composure I possess.
"I renounce ambition, for it blinds. I renounce fear, for it weakens. I renounce doubt, for it festers."
"I renounce ambition, for it blinds. I renounce fear, for it weakens. I renounce doubt, for it festers." Each word feels like a lash, stripping away layers of myself that I didn't realize were there.
"I bind my will to the Emperor's Inquisition," Faust intones, his voice rising slightly. "And I submit to this chain that is both my burden and my strength."
"I bind my will to the Emperor's Inquisition," I repeat, my voice shaking slightly. "And I submit to this chain that is both my burden and my strength."
Faust steps closer, picking up the helmet, then lowering it until the helmet and its glinting chain-crown rests just above my bowed head. His voice softens, but loses none of its gravity. "You are no longer your own, Valeria of the Ecclesiarchy. You are a link in the chain, unbroken and eternal, forged to hold the weight of humanity's survival."
I close my eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on me as tangibly as the armor I wear. "I am a link in the chain," I murmur, the phrase both a promise and a resignation.
Faust reads on, harsh, implacable: "And should I fail in my duty, let the Emperor's wrath take my soul. Let Chaos feast on naught but ashes. Let me be unmade, so that none may question the Ordo's resolve."
Breath hitching, I speak the final vow, voice trembling. "And should I fail in my duty, let the Emperor's wrath take my soul. Let Chaos feast on naught but ashes. Let me be unmade, so that none may question… the Ordo's resolve."
Silence falls, a hammer's echo after the blow. The troopers watch me as though expecting my flesh to warp or shatter under the vow's crushing power. My heart thrums, and I keep my eyes on Faust's, searching for a hint of mercy.
He lowers the data-slate, gaze reflecting a cold, savage respect. "With these words, you are bound," he says softly, and I feel him set the helmet over my head, "a chain upon your head, a lock bearing the seal of the Ordo Malleus. You are ours now, Special Interrogator Valeria. The Emperor's chain is your crown. Serve well, or die forgotten."
I rise slowly, armor protesting the motion. The chain-etched helmet gleams around my forehead, marking me as a newly forged link in the Inquisition's vast machinery of secrets. My chest tightens at the thought of all I've surrendered in that vow, of the lines I've just crossed. But a flicker of warmth courses through my veins—a fierce, desperate conviction that if it saves Aurora, if it spares the faithful, I would recite it a thousand times more.
Faust doesn't offer a hand to help me up. He simply nods, a faint acknowledgment of the oath that now chains me to him. Or to the Ordo Malleus. Or maybe both. I remove the helmet, running a thumb over the newly engraved chain, each link etched in swirls of gothic script. I feel as though the metal hums with latent power, and the lock of the Inquisitorial seal stands out like a brand.
"Your vow is sealed, Special Interrogator," Faust says. There's no mockery in his tone now, only the smooth steel of acceptance. "See that you remember it. For if you fail, there's no absolution, only the Emperor's judgment."
I exhale, weight on my shoulders heavier than ever before. The vow resonates in the quiet roar of the chamber, an oath older than I can imagine, sworn by countless men and women who marched into the jaws of hell before me. My heart clenches with simultaneous dread and defiance.
His eyes flick away, and I see him assume that clinical calm once again. "Welcome to the war behind the war, Valeria," he murmurs, half to himself. Then he glances at me, a single corner of his mouth quirking up. "Try not to die. The Emperor's coin is too precious to be spent cheaply."
I slip the helmet onto my head, feeling the new weight of the chain-crown pressing into the ceramite. Beneath the tinted visor, the gloom seems less oppressive, more… measured. My breath rasps in the vox-grill, a final acceptance of what I am now.
The oath's words echo one last time in my mind, and I hope—no, I pray—that Aurora can forgive me for what I've bound myself to. Because I would do anything to reach her, to protect her, and to ensure the flickering light of her cause endures. Even if it means forging these new, unbreakable chains around my very soul.
"What now?" I ask, momentarily lost in what I've done as my eyes track the servo skull which seems to float off back down the tunnel the way we came.
"Now, the skull hides itself. If I die, it will upload a record of this action to Ordo Malleus archives. If I survive, it's just another layer of insurance." He glances at me, his voice softening just slightly. "Don't let it go to your head."
"This doesn't change my duty," I say quietly, more to myself than to him. "I am the Saint's herald."
"Your loyalty is to the Emperor and the Ordo Malleus," he cuts in sharply. "If the saint is real, then your service to her is both those things. If not, we purge the taint."
I nod, swallowing the tightness in my throat. "I'm coming Aurora," I say softly, but the words ring with an undercurrent of pride.
The sappers step away from the barricade, giving him the thumbs-up. "Explosives are set, Interrogator."
"We'd best take cover in the Chimeras before they blow," Faust suggests.
I look at the battered wall of debris, marveling at the hush that descends. Everything feels fragile, like the entire hive is holding its breath. I can't shake the sense that we stand on the brink of something monumental—something that might devour us all.
"Interrogator," I say, just above a whisper. "What is 'Empty Night'?"
His thin lips quirk, and he shakes his head, the motion slow and grave. "A possibility we must pray never comes to pass, Sister. Now get in the transport."
His words lodge in my chest like a shard of ice, but I push them aside. I can't falter now. Aurora waits for me—my saint, my friend, my anchor in this darkness. My feelings for her, more binding than any chain, than any oath… and once again I feel the shame in knowing that should not be the case, yet it is, and I know there is nothing I can do to change it.
I mount the ramp into one of the black Chimeras, my new authority blazing in etched runes on my helmet. The ramp hisses shut. Faust follows, settling into the command seat with a fluid grace that belies his tension.
The engine revs, and I brace myself against the metal interior as the hull vibrates with potential violence. The shock troopers pack in around us, the lines of their grim visors reflecting pale in the half-light. They check weapons, final prayers lost behind their mask filters. A final hush coats us all.
Outside, a siren wails twice. Then the world shakes as the demolition charges ignite and bathe the tunnel in a storm of shattered ferocrete and molten scrap. The barricade tears apart in a roar of dust and thunder, smoke billowing like a living thing. Through the blast shields of the Chimera's viewports, I catch glimpses of twisted metal flung into the gloom.
The path to Quadrant D is open.
Faust's eyes flick to mine, and for a fleeting moment, I see a spark of uncertainty, tempered by a cold resolve. He taps a vox control. "All vehicles, follow us in, stagger and spread as opportunity presents."
The Chimera lurches as we break through the rubble, the thick treads clawing up onto what once must have been a grand avenue. The engine's growl resonates through the hull and into my bones, and the stale gloom of the tunnel surrenders to a landscape bathed in flickering firelight and acrid smoke. I lean forward, my hands gripping the edges of the auspex station while Faust sits to my right, scanning the readouts with predatory stillness.
My heartbeat thuds in my ears. Every breath tastes of burnt ozone and dust, amplified by the stale air swirling through the open top hatch. The command Chimera's interior lighting flickers across the sanctified plating of my power armor, illuminating the newly etched runes Faust had carved into it. Outside, the black-armored chimeras follow our lead, engines rumbling in synchronized aggression.
We've emerged into a vast thoroughfare—if you can even call it that now—nearly a kilometer wide and stretching off for another ten kilometers. It might once have been a grand procession route. Now it is a killing field. Now it looks nothing like the bare solemn approach I remember from days ago when I was accompanied merely by Sergeant Tully and his Arbites.
God Emperor… it feels like a lifetime ago.
"Active ECM!" Faust orders, his voice a sharp cut through the static-filled comms. "Initiate area augur sweep. I want eyes on every corner of this damned place."
His driver snaps an acknowledgment, and the Chimera's systems hum with renewed intensity. Lights on the console flicker, and the image on the central holo-display sharpens into a three-dimensional overlay of the battlefield. I glimpse shifting shapes, heat blooms, the ghostly outlines of structures, and beyond them, a monstrous horde.
The Basilica of Saint Jessamine stands out in the distance like a wounded titan, rising from a smoky haze. Flames lick at its high walls, and the crackle of distant explosions rattles the sensors. My breath catches. The void shields—shimmering barriers of holy light—are gone. In their place, blackened stone and twisted metal bristle with the surge of relentless attackers.
"Emperor's blood…" I exhale, voice low. Has Jessamine perished already? But no… light still flickers from the spires of the chapel, the tallest building riding like a behemoth above even the mighty wall.
The holo-display magnifies on the Basilica's façade. Even from here, I can see the battered walls swarming with traitors. "Aurora," I whisper, heart constricting at the thought of her there—amid that horror, calling to me.
A massive shape moves across the display, towering over the churn of bodies at the basilica's foot. My lungs tighten at the sight. A daemon, easily fifteen meters of horned wrath, its single blazing eye sweeping across the carnage like a baleful sun. An axe of impossible darkness clutched in its claws. Nullmaw. The name flickers in the comm-chatter, half-screamed by distant defenders on the Basilica's walls.
"That," Faust says softly, "is a scale of corruption no mortal mind should ever witness."
He's right. My throat is dry. On the holo-display, the ramp of corpses has reached the top of the one-hundred-meter-high wall, an impossible mound of twisted limbs and broken bodies, crawling with fanatics that pour up and over in a living tide.
The defenders—flickers of armor, muzzle flare, and riot shields—struggle to hold them back. Even from here, the pattern of the assault is painfully clear. They're being swarmed, hammered by mortar shells from several clumps of traitor PDF far in the rear. A battered Leman Russ sits among them, its turret blazing. Three hulking forms—huge twisted metal abominations—unleash warped plasma across the ramparts, five more stand as smoking effigies, dead but no less horrible.
"God-Emperor…" I murmur, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. The Basilica's parapets burn, smoldering in a rolling black haze. The weight of it crushes me, the scale of the battle laid bare in the flickering lines of the holo-display.
Beside me, Faust's jaw tenses. He flicks one gloved hand across a series of runic keys, zooming further in on the battered walls. "I see two distinct shield walls—Arbites, presumably—attempting to hold two flanks. The ramp is wide enough that they can't cover everything. It's only a matter of time." He straightens, glancing at me. "Your living saint is here somewhere?"
"Yes," I say, voice trembling with urgency. I close my eyes for half a heartbeat, and I feel her, a faint pulse in my mind. Aurora's calling, though she's distant, pained, and exhausted. There's a desperation in her mental touch, a plea. "She needs me. They're losing. I have to get inside those walls… I can feel her voice, Interrogator. We must break through."
Faust narrows his eyes, looking back at the monstrous shape of the daemon. "If something draws a warp entity of that magnitude to the field, it's worth keeping alive." He allows himself a small, humorless smile. "At least long enough for interrogation."
I catch the wry twist of his lips, a sardonic attempt at humor. In another context, it might make me laugh. But here, with that colossal abomination raging in the distance, the glint of jest feels hollow. Still, it steadies me somehow. We're both terrified, just in different ways.
Faust flips a switch on the console, opening an encrypted channel. "All units," he says, voice calm despite the tension thrumming through every syllable. "Advance to vantage positions and prepare to engage. We have a daemon to distract and a basilica to bolster."
Static crackles, followed by curt affirmatives.
He turns to me. "We'll split the battalion. The anti-tank and missile chimeras will draw that daemon away from the Basilica. My men will keep it entertained. If we can't kill it, we can at least keep it busy."
His fingers glide over the auspex, highlighting the traitor PDF mortar emplacements in flickering red on the holo-overlay. "Five troop carriers will hit these mortar teams from the flank. They'll deploy squads into the hab blocks that flank the avenue and push on foot to disrupt the enemy rear. That'll ease the pressure on the defenders."
My heart beats a little faster at the idea that some relief might come to the Basilica. "And us?" I ask.
"I'm taking the command Chimera straight up that avenue," Faust says, mouth set in a thin line. "We'll see about punching through whatever remains between us and your saint. Once the beast's attention is drawn off to chase our fire support, we can attempt a breach in the lines."
I swallow, pushing down the fear. "Yes, Interrogator." I can't hide the relief I feel at the notion of heading into that throng—of somehow reaching Aurora. The compulsion hums in my chest, intangible but overwhelming.
She needs me.
I need her.
A high-pitched beep signals that the rest of the battalion is in position. Faust grips the vox. "Activate plan: three anti-tank squads, three missile carriers, converge on that warp entity's flank. Maintain distance—do not close unless absolutely necessary. Strike from optimal range and move, keep it turning, keep it raging. You see a chance to cripple it, take it. If not, you keep it occupied. Understood?"
A dozen voices of affirmation echo through the channel. Overlapping that are confirmations from the five troop carriers, each detailing their squads moving out. My breath hitches when I see them on the holo, an elegant line of black Chimeras peeling off in two directions, heading for the wide habitation blocks on either side of the avenue.
By the God-Emperor's grace, we might actually stand a chance. Or we might all die. The odds… I glance at Faust. He's lips-pressed, his eyes scanning the flickering data. We're all thinking the same thing.
I lean in, resting my gauntleted palms on the console. The hum of the engines grows deeper as the command Chimera accelerates, its treads grinding on buckled ferocrete. My throat feels tight. The Basilica is ten kilometers away, but might as well be ten systems if Nullmaw decides to bar our path.
Still, I feel Aurora tugging on my soul, a bright thread that refuses to yield. "Hold on, my friend," I whisper, gripping the console edges so hard my knuckles ache. "We're coming."
Faust doesn't acknowledge my words. He barks orders into the vox, carefully orchestrating the approach. The rest of the shock troopers, the apex predators of the Ordo Malleus, slip into the gloom, each a vicious instrument of war unleashed in the Emperor's name. The entire scene is half-lost in swirling dust and acrid smoke, lit sporadically by muzzle flashes and the unholy glow of warp-tainted ordnance.
Faust glances at me once, and I see the reflection of my own fear in his pale eyes—tempered by logic and a savage will to see the job done. "You'd better grab on and lock armor, Novitiate. This is going to be a nasty ride."
I hastily comply.
"Faust to missile carrier three. Once the avatar has shifted attention from the basilica, I want a path paved in promethium from the edge of their horde to the lip of that ramp. I will feed you targeting vectors and approach azimuth as we make our run. Set warheads for zero safety and danger-close fire protocol."
There's a series of acknowledgements as our chimera pulls alongside one of the APCs near the outskirts of a hab block and the ramp drops, disgorging the four troopers that were in the rear with us.
I watch as Faust calmly straps himself into one of the crash chairs and his hands move deftly over the display, "all units are free to engage, by the Emperor give them no quarter!"