High School Never Ends: A Ciaphas Cain School Reunion
Omakes for the Omake God!
Ink for the ink throne!
Drill Abbot Nimrod was a mighty warrior before the emperor. His will was a hammer, and his discipline, the tempering hammerblows that shaped the progeny of the Damocles Schola into weapons in the hands of the Emperor.
The work was tedious, repetitive, relentless, meditative, and occasionally bloody.
He knew he was a hammer, and embraced that as the core of his character.
"It does not reflect very well on you." The inquisitor before him grated, "to foster such treason as the Black Commissar in your halls."
"Loyalty to the imperium is what we foster here. Sir." Drill Abbot Nimrod spoke firmly, solidly, in the uninflected tone of a military man making a formal report.
"Then I am certain you will pass this audit with banners flying high." The inquisitor narrowed his eyes, and began glowing.
The inquisitor was looking to nail him for treason. Drill Abbot Nimrod stiffened, as the witch-hunter's probing gaze abruptly turned into a psychic invasion. The barrage of questioning thoughts the sneering, spindly, flatheaded psyker of an inquisitor aimed at him
all felt very much like nails, ready to pound holes in any weakness. His hand clenched around his hammer of office as spikes of pain shot through his skull.
The Inquisitor's questioning invasion was designed to get inside his decision loop, get past any justifications or lies, to disassemble any dissembling. It was meant to compel, to trigger instant, ingrained, reflexive response.
Drill Abbot Nimrod was a teacher. His reflex was to teach.
So he taught.
The inquisitor was a thicker student than most, and Drill Abbot Nimrod was in charge of mindscaping students, of psychically embedding the Litanies of Command and Mantras of Courage into the minds of scared little students, replacing their fears and frailties with tools the tools of bravery, leadership, and clever command.
The inquisitor nailed his mind with questions. So Drill Abbot Nimrod reflexively hammered home answers.
He watched the results with interest. It wasn't every day you got to mindscape an inquisitor under the orders of that inquisitor.
"Does that answer all of your questions, My Lord Inquisitor?" He asked with cold courtesy.
You…." The inquisitor was gasping, hand wavering up to massaged his temples. "You…YES." He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears of blood leaked around the edges, Drill Abbot Nimrod noted with even more dispassionate interest. Psychic energy crackled and bled off into the air as the inquisitor's own reflexes threw up an impressive level of shielding, too late to reject the mindscaping but enough to prevent further attack. It was approximately double what Nimrod had privately guessed him capable of.
"It will help the headache to verbalize your insights immediately after mindscaping, My lord Inquisitor." He said, compelled by the inquisitor's own spell to continue the process.
"I frakking well know that." The inquisitor swore, grimacing.
"All cadets are required to thank their instructors for the wisdom shared, no matter how painful." Nimrod said involuntarily, fingers stroking the hilt of his mallot. "Discourteous cadets receive punishment and immediate correction."
The inquisitor just had gotten everything he had demanded to know in one overwhelming psychic burst of information, including the fact that his own arrogant assumptions had left him wide open to somebody who despised his methods and who could have, with the judicious application of a slightly heavier hand on the psychic hammer, exploded his head like a rotted ploin. Nimrod was certain the inquisitor would not leave himself so open again.
The inquisitor visibly gathered himself, then a look of utter, dangerous calm flicked across his features as abruptly as the flick of a luminator. His mind worked quickly, Nimrod noted, and had obviously played through the result of any further provocation. Another word, and the reflexes the inquisitor's psychic assault had primed Nimrod to use would kick in, and Nimrod would smash him with his hammer like any other discourteous student. The inquisitor, however, was not a student, and would be forced to make an example of Nimrod's insubordination. He might even be forced by his position to kill Nimrod, a process which, given that Nimrod had no reflexive, trained duty to stand there and die for a superior's stupidity in doing exactly what he had been ordered to do, would take at least an hour to fight out to it's nearly inevitable conclusion, and more likely two.
Besides. Nimrod thought, not bothering to care if the Inquisitor was still reading his mind or not. 'He's still not quite sure he could take me.'
The inquisitor knew all of that with all the authority of the lessons Nimrod himself had just hammered home into his mind.
Perhaps the inquisitor had learned an even more valuable lesson: a little humility. Nimrod thought the odds were against it. The wood of the inquisitor's soul, as Nimrod had hammered the lessons into it, had felt…pulpy. As if beginning to weaken with incipient rot.
"No. Thank you, my lord Drill Abbot, for the comprehensive list of answers you have provided." The response was every bit as polite and programmed as those of any freshly mindscaped cadet, and Nimrod nodded in teacherly approval as the inquisitor clearly chose to make use of one of the lessons so recently gifted him. The inquisitor's crackling aura died back to a simple buzz of static, mind turning inward as he examined the prizes he had collected from Nimrod's mind.
"Explain this bit about Dirus. Why does your Schola use sanctioned psykers for mindscaping instead of Dirus or any of its pharmacological equivalents?"
"Our Munitorium request for Dirus, or for any other potent mindscaping chemical, has been delayed by the munitorium." Nimrod reiterated. "The use of sanctioned psykers is a sanctioned temporary stopgap for the duration of the present shortage, to be discontinued immediately upon resupply with the proper minscaping chemicals."
"How long has this shortage been going on?" The Inquisitor continued pleasantly.
"To the best of our knowledge, 1.36 millennia, plus or minus approximately 5 years." Nimrod reported factually. "The schola has, as a result, become proficient with psychic and post-hypnotic-based mindscaping techniques."
"Which appears to have resulted in the creation of the Black Commessar." The inquisitor commented. The blood was drying around the inquisitor's eyes, Nimrod noted even as he shook his head in polite disagreement.
"With the exception of Commessar Cain, there has not been any recorded instance of rebellion, heresy, or simple cowardice among our cadets in the past 1.36 millennia, plus or minus 5 years." Nimrod brought up a data slate with the relevant information. "A fact which is the written justification for discontinuing our shipments of Dirus or any like chemical, due to it's 'clear and pressing need for use elsewhere.'" Nimrod quoted from memory, as he also had the duty of handling the bi-weekly munitorium correspondence on the matter. "Each time the request is refused, the Munitorum adds an addendum citing the specific incidents triggering that need. Other scholas average approximately one execution-worthy incident of insubordination per solar week, and approximately one massed rebellion every ten solar years. They have priority for Dirus."
"Your mindscape also says your lack of Dirus is also why you are not authorized to conduct any training of progeny for inquisitorial duties."
"That is correct." Nimrod nodded. "The facility was judged unfit for the creation of inquisitors during the initial Dirus shortage."
"And yet still fit to train other progena. Explain why."
"Two years after our initial requisition for more Dirus was denied, the Schola was put under imperial order to by Inquisitor Brockman to graduate sufficient progena to make up the shortfall of command-level personal in the Damoclese gulf. The only exception granted was to discontinue the Inquisitorial Acolyte program. That order is not discretionary and has never been rescinded."
The Inquisitor reached up with a handkerchief and wiped away the dried blood under his eyes. Nimrod judged it a time-buying maneuver, but a diplomatic one nonetheless.
"How *much* of the shortfall to command-level personelle do you make up each year?" The inquisitor asked. Nimrod was impressed at the complete lack of dread in the tone of the question. When he wasn't being careless, the inquisitor was thoroughly professional.
"We supply 98% of the leadership cadre of every branch of the Imperium in the Damocles gulf and adjacent subsectors, barring the Inquisition."
The pause this time was almost palpable. "Why?" The inquisitor asked, finally.
"Lack of mutinous, insubordinate, or otherwise execution-worthy behavior among our cadets means we graduate 99.9% of our initial progena, losing only a few to accidents and incurable sickness. The graduation rate at other schola hovers around 3%. Graduates of the Damocles Schola also have careers and life expectancies approximately 375% longer than its closest comparable schola." Drill Abbot Nimrod calmly explained.
The inquisitor closed his eyes in a pained expression that Drill Abbot Nimrod would bet his hammer had nothing to do with his recent, psychically-induced mindscaping headache.
The inquisitor changed tack again.
"Your mental testimony states that you were responsible for mindscaping Cadet Cain. Is that correct?"
"It is."
"And you noticed nothing unusual about his mind?"
"Nothing unusual, no."
"What did you notice about his mind?"
"He was scared, as all such children are. He was angry, as all such children are. He was clever, and charming, and a liar, as are all children, schola-bound or not. He feared failure, and death, as do all children who become aware that failure and death are possibilities. He loved and feared the Emperor, without knowing much of who and what the Emperor really was. He responded in predictable ways to the initial mindscaping, well enough to quickly fall in line with imperial doctrine and training. He adapted well to his Schola-given name, and did moderately well, but not outstandingly, at every role demanded of him. He was an ordinary child and I had every expectation that he would turn into a workmanlike example of a Commessar. I did a usual amount of pruning on his persona during the second mindscaping, to encourage growth in a few areas in line with his obvious talents, as I do with every student. He was good at persuasion, at public speaking, and at responding instantly to a crisis, and although his responses were not always ideal, we specifically train our cadets that in combat any decision is better than none, and Cain was decisive."
The inquisitor's eyes narrowed. "Talents he is using to corrupt two planets and counting."
"Cain, like all children, was a sheep." Drill Abbot Nimrod said. "I am a shepherd. I choose the mindscape on which that sheep grazes. I do not presume to reengineer the sheep. Nor do I presume to inform the Emperor how to design sheep. The Emperor gifted Cain those talents, and he gifted me with the training and care of them. It would have been impiety to presume to know his future and rip out the tongue the Emperor gave him before he ever used it to spread heresy, or to break his fighting spirit before he turned it against the Emperor."
The inquisitor cocked his head.
"By your own mental and verbal testimony, your school has been out of compliance with imperial doctrine for millennia, Drill Abbot Nimrod." He said, his voice a study of neutrality.
"We are in compliance with our last, non-discretionary directives from Inquisitor Brockman and in compliance with bi-weekly written munitorium policy. The penalty for defying either of those directives is, in the Inquisitor Brockman's case, excommunication, followed by intensive interrogation, followed by death, or, in the Munitorium's case, simple death."
The inquisitor digested this. Then changed tack again. "In your professional opinion as a Cadet Cain's teacher- was there any indication at all that he would rebel so comprehensively against the imperium?"
"None." Drill Abbot Nimrod said firmly.
The Inquusitor nodded.
"Thank you for your testimony, Drill Abbot Nimrod. Please send in Sister Yael."
Drill Abbot Nimrod nodded. He rose, picked up his hammer, saluted, and left.
The inquisitor watched him go, and made a mental note to purge him as soon as he could restart the supply of Dirus this schola so obviously, desperately needed.
"Cain?" Sister Yael frowned. "Nothing notable about Cain. He had a pleasing enough singing tenor in chior, but not enough focused interest in developing it to be a candidate for the ecclesiarchy. He wasn't the boldest student, but not a coward." She frowned further. "He had a tendency to keep his head down at first in theological studies, but he grew out of it."
The inquisitor nodded. Then drew himself up with serious formality.
"Sister Yael." The inquisitor said, formally. "In the emperor's name, I must check your mind for heresy. Will you do me the courtesy of opening it?"
The Sister nodded even more formally.
"A caution in so doing, if you will, my lord Inquisitor."
"Please advise me, Sister."
"My Order is trained against mental intrusion. I can open, but there are defenses I have no control over, which in the normal course of events results in death.""
The inquisitor nodded. "I am advised. Let us proceed."
They did. She left.
The inquisitor slumped, rubbing his temples, then muttered to himself "Is *everyone* here mentally primed to drive a tent stake through my skull?"
—-
"Cain?" Scrivener Malleus shook his head. "Terrible handwriting. He got better, but it was an effort he put in when it started cutting in to scrum ball practice. Couldn't be bothered to read half the assignments unless you stood over him with a stick, though he was glib enough you would have to check to catch on that he hadn't done more than skim."
—-
"Cain?" Tutor Malloy shook his head. "Hardly an outstanding student. In mock trials, he might have argued a bit too energetically against applying capital punishment, but he was diligent about knowing and applying the rules otherwise, so I chalked it up to youth. That was easier to rein in in than it was to explain to his more bloodthirsty cohort why decimating a regiment is a last resort, not a first one."
"Cain?" Tutor Tiber said thoughtfully. "He did like to be the center of attention. I had my eye on him for the lead role in the mummer's play, but that's was when he broke his leg and I went with Cadet Romeo instead."
—-
"Cain?" Asked the cook. "After his class graduated a lot fewer of my cottleston pies went missing overnight, but I can't honestly say I ever caught him taking one, and Cadets Thelma and Louise were far likelier suspects."
—-
"Cain? Oh, a delight to have him on the scrumball team, to be sure. Those long legs of his- he could even run rings around the sororitas. And they're bloody-minded enough to use battlefield tactics on the scrumball pitch. He was bright, all of them are, but nothing spectacular. I wouldn't have pegged him for anything like this." Drill Abott Agnes sighed. "Mostly, though, I could count on him to pull a team back into focus after the sororitas had pasted one of the members badly enough to send him to the medicae and the rest were out for blood. It's why they steered him towards commissarial service- he could reliably boost morale."
—-
So it went, on and on. "Nothing outstanding." "Ordinary." "Workmanlike." "Good enough."
Assessment after assessment, teacher after teacher, none of which had any insight into how they had fostered such a festering boil on the face of the imperium.
The inquisitor sighed. At least he'd been able to straighten out the unholy mess with the Administratum. The Dirus shipments would resume within the week, and they'd be able to reseat the Damocles Schola firmly back into compliance with imperial doctrine.
—-
"My Lord Liberator?"
I looked up from my desk, warned by Jurgen's sober tone that something had gone spectacularly ploin-shaped and the Emperor and every Chaos Power were about to dump it into my lap to deal with.
"Yes?"
"More information about that shipload of refugees from the Imperium. They have also sent a delegation." He handed me the data slate.
Despite myself, my eyebrows flew to my hairline.
"The *entire* Damocles Schola?" I said incredulously. "Defecting en masse?"
"Lead by a Drill Abbot Nimrod and a cadre of Schola teachers." Jurgen confirmed. "They claim to know you, and request asylum in the name of Liberation."
Drill Abbot Nimrod…defecting from the imperium. And coming to me.
I refrained from beating my head against my desk.
I wondered how many gods were laughing at me this time, and which ones.
I wondered if the Emperor was raging.
I firmed my face, put on my most insouciant smile, and said, formally, "Then in the name of Liberation, send them on in."