40k RPG; Memoria, Part Secundus

[Pcm979]

To their credit, the Inquisitors moved quickly and efficiently once they discovered their error. The alarms were deactivated, Station Security placated and sent away.

Outside his Power Armour, Tyran Ronathal was a tall, slim man in his early fourties, with dirty blonde hair and sharp green eyes, flecked with brown towards the pupils. He stared at the younger Inquisitor across the ship's main conference table, mahogany wood gleaming in the angled lights.

"There appears to have been a massive misunderstanding." He allowed, taking a glass of amasaec from a servitor.

"Indeed." Said Pater, staring at Ronathal's Rosette. "Ordo Xenos. I presume you are investigating possible alien corruption of this facility?"

"There are strong indications that the Tau Empire is planning expansion in this region." Ronathal occasionally raised the glass to his lips, but never actually got around to drinking from it. "The indications came from a source on this station. That source was dead when I arrived. And what, may I ask, brings the Order of the Hammer to the backwaters of Imperium space?"

Pater steepled his fingers. "For some years, I have been tracing the identity of a Daemon Prince." The one they had battled at Adraxis. "These investigations led me to a Chaotic smuggling ring, and the smuggling ring led me... Here." The Inquisitors were interrogating one another, each word weighed and balanced before being used. "Interestingly, I have identified the source of the artifacts." He paused for maximum effect. "The Tau."

Ronathal put his drink down. "It seems, Inquisitor Novum, that we are tracking the same prey." He paced the table, coming to a halt in front of Pater. "I suggest we pool our resources."

"Agreed."

[Cynical Cat]

Jolan Gix reclined on the couch in his quarters and carefully read through the reports on the Segad Worlds. He and his retinue had secured berths on the Navy transport Diligence which was en route to to Walduv IV with three regiments of Imperial Guard troops in its holds. The quarters were in officer country, suites reserved for important passengers. They were spacious and comfortable without being luxurious, although Gix paid such details little attention.

The Segad Worlds had been a peripheral subsector with few worlds of any importance. The subsector had been named for the rogue trader who had charted them nearly five millenia ago and who had planted the first colonies of men upon them. The occassional navy patrol and tithe ship was their only real contact with the rest of the Imperium, with the exception of the once-a-decade tour of a Black Ship. The worlds were mostly agricultural and possessed no great wealth or population and so even the Ecclesiarchy had little interest in what happened there.

When communication and travel to the Segad Worlds had become hazardous because of a warp storm, the worlds and the Imperial Commanders had not been seriously discommedated. They were mostly self-reliant and developed industries to provide substitutes for the few products that used to travel their way by trade. On several worlds, minor deviations from the Imperial cult became stronger.

Over the space of three decades several Imperial Commanders, who's only real knowledge of the Imperium had been the demands of the tithe ships, arrogant traders demanding exorbidant prices in haughty voices, and smug arbites; felt the last brakes on their powers erode and vanish. The priests were weaker. The arbites aged and died and their numbers were not replenished. When the storm abatted after twenty-nine years, they no longer felt like part of the Imperium.

It took two years for an expidition to resurvey the Segad Worlds began. The Dauntless class cruiser Sebastian Victorious was assigned the task. The ship vanished sometime in the early part of its survey. The increasing activity of ork raiders put the Segad Worlds on the backburner for another decade.

When the Navy finally got around to sending another expedition they sent the Gothic class cruiser Starhammer and the Dictator class cruiser Lord Juro. What they found were the system ships of the Star Guard that were enforcing the edicts of Protector Deraiden of Free Stars Confederation. After a hostile exchange of vox signals a viscious battle erupted and the Imperial cruisers crawled back towards Imperial Space.

Five years later a crusade was pronounced and two years after that it finally launched. It had been raging for two decades now, with the Imperium finally establishing a foothold on the industrialized world of Walduv IV. The enemy still held most of the planet and the Free Stars Confederation still possessed a formidable navy, but actual progress was being made.

He called up his orders on his data slate.

2.132.975. M41
To: Inquisitor Jolan Gix, Ordo Hereticus
From: Lord Inquisitor Ignasius Carrel, Master of Ordo Hereticus in Candalus Subsector.

You are hearby ordered to the world of Walduv IV where you will offer assistance to forces of the Imperium fighting to bring this heretic held world back into the embrace of the God Emperor of Mankind. While elimating enemy psi-assets and heretic resisters in conquered territory will comprise a large part of your mission, it is essential that you also search for any sign of chaotic or xenos influence.

May the Emperor protect and watch over you.

Lord Ignasius Carell

In his own hand.

P. S. Don't overdo it. If you discover anything big, call in reinforcements. I don't have enough inquisitors that I can afford to lose any of them in foolish blazes of glory.

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It took seven weeks for the Diligence to cross the immaterium and emerge at the fringes of the Walduv system. The warp currents were still unsettled in this region and the convoy was twice blown off course. It was a great relief to all aboard when they finally emerged into real space and were able to gaze upon the stark beauty of the empty void and distant stars.

Gix had used the time well. Every scrap of data on Walduv had been hunted down and every flimsy rumour had been extracted from the Diligence's crew. Strategies and tactics had been discussed and those who's command of Cryptia was uncertain had their proficiency advanced. D'eckor and Keys trained the others in what to do in a firefight, in case of ambush or misfortune. The assassin and the veteran did not relent until they were sure that even the meek and mild Iriza was an asset in a gunbattle and that all of their charges could take care of themselves.

Jolan Gix spent much of the time in an unused cargo hold. He had salvaged his grimoires as well as Gard's technical manuals from his poor dead ship. He practiced demanding mental exercises designed to enhance his skill, concentration, and strength. On Walduv IV the lines were clear cut and already drawn. Many of his most familiar strategies would be useless. So be it. He was more than able of digging the enemy from the holes where he hid and putting him to the torch.

Not that Gix was worried about the heretics. They were the easy part. The odds were excellent the assassin would also know of Gix's assignment and if he wasn't already waiting for him on Walduv IV, would be there soon. An assassin with the backing of an Inquisitor, undoubtedly equipped with several different identities that would allow him to move easily through Imperial lines and have access to all sorts of information and locations. An assassin that had already almost killed him who would make the most of his next opportunity.

[Cynical Cat]

The cargo ship shuddered as its landing struts touched ferrocrete. Steam hissed from vents as hyrdolics went to work and cargo bay doors groaned open and ramps were extended. All along the five kilometer long landing field Imperial ships were touching down and billowing clouds of steam rose into the air. Reinforcements had arrived.

Munitorium personel confered with staff officer's attaches and space port foremen regarding the off loading of supplies and munitions. Commissar cadets marched among the ships as the Imperial Guard began to disembark by platoon. There were almost two score transports present and the cadets clutched data slates with orders from above concerning the disposition of the arriving units. Soon they were shouting with captains and lieutenants, trying to make themselves heard over the din, who were in turn left puzzled and trying to figure out how in the Emperor's name they were going to get all their men and equipment to the proper place.

Commissar Shala Nofield stood rigidly at attention, doing her best to appear as nothing more than a marble statue adorned with a commissar's elaborate great coat. Her skin was only a few tones pinker than start white and her frost-white hair was cut short enough that it was barely noticable even without her cap. "Which transport was he suppossed to be on?" she growled.

Lieutenant Mikal Camron consulted the dataslate for a fourth, useless time. "Seven B commissar." Which they had checked. Twice. She was in a bad mood and Camron knew that doing anything to exaserbate her temper would be not help him make captain. He was a cheerful man who was as dark as the commissar was pale. Taking part in a victorious campaign was a great way to get on the promotions list and even better if one could be useful to one's superiors without a prolonged presence on the front line.

He scanned the crowds surging down ramps and marching to and fro for any sign of the inquisitor. He watched a company of infantry slowly give way to a column of Leman Russes. Damn, if someone didn't start doing a better job of traffic control some poor bastards where going to get squished. He scanned the crowd. "Commissar!" he said pointing.

Nofield followed Camron's hand. The unmistakeble profile of a figure wearing power armour was moving their way. A small crowd was travelling along with it as it moved behind a platoon and then under a ramp. When they emerged Nofield had a better look at them.

The armour was night black and embellished with gold inquisitional rosettes. A lanky, darkskinned, tech adept with mechadendrites and some kind of exotic weapon slung over his shoulder accompanied him. A huge soldier wearing carapace armour was by his side, an aquilla tattoo prominently displayed on his forhead. A small robed woman and tall, handsome goldenskinned woman wearing utility coveralls completed the group.

Nofield couldn't help but keep staring at the woman. He dress was plain but there was something about her. Those matchless eyes and that perfect skin. Something . . . . . the commissar blinked for a moment and approached the inquisitior. Now was not the time for such thoughts. She saluted. "I am Commissar Shala Nofield. I have been assigned to assist you by order of General Garst Hivkel."

"Very good commissar," came the reply from the helmet vox. "These others?"

"A squad from the 127th Strellan Dragoons. Lieutenant Mikal Camron, Intelligence."

"You have done a good job of anticipating my needs," replied Jolan. He turned to Mikal. The officer was about the same size and build of the commissar, which was to say athletic looking and about average male height on most worlds. "Where is the commissar's file."

Mikal blinked and then tapped his data slate. "Here," he said handing it over.

"Inquisitor," she began. "Is there something . . . ." Her voice trailed off. Hethor D'eckor's hand was on his gun but, which she now recognized as a bolt pistol.

"I have reason to examine who and what you claim to be commissar. Such paranoia is unfortunate, but necessary in this case. If you intend to last in my service, you will need to practice it constantly."

"Your will inquisitor."

Gix turned. "Gard?"

"Confirmed with my data inquisitor, all but the most recent entries which aren't present on my data base."

"As to be expected," replied Gix. "Alright commissar, present your men to me. Your vigilance will be essential to our survival. There is an assassin who will be on world shortly if he hasn't arrived already. He has access to considerable material and intelligence resources. His mission is to kill me. You are too preceed from the assumption that everything is compromised until proven otherwise. Am I understood?"

"Yes," she said. "Sir, if I may ask, how do you intend to function in such an enviroment."

"Watch and learn commissar. The assassin isn't the only one with resources and I will deploy mine to the fullest."

[Pcm979]

Time was of the essence. The Inquisitor's respective covers had been blown, but the enemy- the Tau and whatever Imperium forces they had managed to corrupt- Were still reeling from the sudden destruction of one of their facilites. If Novum and Ronathal went on the offensive, the advantage would still lie with them.

Ronathal's heavy power armour, highly-polished red with silver highlights, tramped down the corridor towards Station Control, holographic rosette shimmering in front of him, an entourage of Pater's combat servitors bringing up the rear. Security personel fell back astonished as the grim procession of Imperial power and justice thundered past them, servos hissing and metal plates rythmically scraping.

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Pater, with Lillith and Vasgula by his side, burst into the main cogitator bank, weapons raised.

"Imperial Inquisition. You are under my command now."

Most of the personell simply looked stunned. A few passed out. Five, however, had known they were coming, and indiscriminately opened fire on them. The lasbolts hissed off Pater's mental shield as the assassain and the sororita rolled under cover and returned fire.

It was almost pathetically easy. Two fell instantly as Pater snapped their necks with a thought, two more dropped to precises headshots from Lillith and Vasgula. Pater blasted the last man against the wall with a gesture and pinned him in place, lasgun dropping from nerveless fingers. Lillith cuffed the man and shoved him against a desk face-down.

"Sage!" Pater yelled into his vox link. "We have control of the cogitators."

"Yes, yes, I can see," Muttered Haergli nervously as he hacked into the station systems from Ronathal's hideout. "The last firewall is supported in the databank directly to your left; If you could bypass the main-"

Pater raised his boltgun and blew it apart.

"Yes, that works too." Managed the Sage. "We have control, Sir. Locking down the station immediately."

The man Lillith had apprehended suddenly woke up and began screaming, foam flecking from his lips and eyes bulging.

"No! No! Get her away! I can't hear, I CAN'T HEAR!" He yelled hysterically.

Pater strode over and grabbed the man by his neck, metal finger squeezing painfully. "Give me some room, Lillith." He said, and the girl took herself and her psy-dampening aura away.

Pater ripped into the man's mind, peeling his psyche back like one would an onion. There was a faint thread, a trail, a-

It was the psychic equivelant of opening a door and discovering an active volcano at your feet.

Pater snapped the man's neck and wheeled around, bellowing into his vox unit.

"Ronathal! We have Tyranids!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door hissed open in front of Ronathal, and the Genestealer Patriarch bellowed in rage.

[Cynical Cat]

The troop transport rolled to a halt. Gix's retinue began to unbuckle themselves. A ranker from the Dragoons popped the hatch and the rest of the squad filed out. Nofield followed her men, her eyes unreadable behind flash goggles. Camron and D'eckor trailed her out. "Clear as far as I can tell," said Gard.

"Good enough," said Gix as he lumbered out of the transport. They were just west of the city core, in what used to the district inhabited by high officials, minor nobles, and senior officers in the so-called Free Stars Confederation. The building was less ugly than most, a slate grey box that was decorated with scrollwork and the herarldry of some of the greater families. A wrought iron fence, concrete barrier pylons, and road blacks all acted to restrict access.

The men guarding the road blocks were armoured in mottled grey carapace armour marked with the aquila and a insignia of crossed sword and rifle over an orange sun. Laspistols were holstered at their belts, several of them were manning heavy bolter or missle launcher batteries, and all the infantry were armed with bolters. Extravegent arnament for Imperial Guardsmen. "Who are they?" Gix asked.

"Jivannians," Camron replied. "They're hell on the line, but a lot of them have been pulled off the line to act as security. Their auspexes pick up most bombs before they get close and with their weapons and armour they chew guerrillas to peaces."

"I've heard of them," replied Jolan. Jivanne was a backwater system with pour warp access. Coms were often lost and warp travel time was often twice as long as even ordinary routes. Jivanne could have gone the same way as Segald, but about two millenia, under somewhat murky circumstances that indicated either Arbites or Inquisition approval, the Levian dynasty took over. Not content to rule an outback planet, they began an aggressive campaign of development and industrialization. Although Jivanne would never be a sector or subsector capital or match the production of a hive world, the Levians would not let that stop them. Its members could now be found in positions of authority among the adeptus and the military. The leading edge of this political campaign were the crack regiments of the Imperial Guard that the Jivanne provided.

The Jivannians checked his rosette and then let him pass. They entered through the ceramite double doors and into the lobby. The interior was a stark contrast to the outside. Polished brass fixtures, warm yellow lighting, thick carpets, and bright white walls surrounded them. Lifts operated by chrome bodied servitors wearing satin gowns carried them to the penthouse.

Four servitors and half a dozen junior officers were operating cogitator and vox systems under the supervision of a tech priest. Two more Jevannians guarded the door. Several officers in uniforms bedecked with medals stood at the edge of the room, junior officers attending them like courtiers to a king.

General Garst Hivkel was shorter than Melina and plump. His navy blue uniform was embelleshed with scarlett piping and his chest with covered with medals. His face was smooth, untouched by wounds or age. He looked soft, until you saw his eyes. "Inquisitor Gix, I was not expecting you. Your request for troops to be sent to Golesh immediately lead us to believe you would be heading there."

"Which was my intention," Gix replied. There was a pause as he took off his helmet. "I have reason to believe an assassin has been sent hear to dispatch me. He has in the past had access to the Imperial data net and various access codes and identities, courtesy of his heretic co-conspirators. Misdirection will have to be a tool of mine until he is hunted down and dispatched."

"Unfortunate," said Hivkel blandly. "It sounds as if that will interfere with your duties."

"Not if I succeed. I will need a certain amount of cooperation from your people to put my plan into action."

"Of course, inquisitor. We are loyal servants of the Emperor and can use all the help we can get."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Zacharus smiled blandly at the Jivannian at the check point. The soldier took his card and stuck it into his reader. It hummed for a moment, beeped, and spat out his card. Perfect. Smooth as glass. "Go on through," said the soldier. Zacharus nodded and drove past.

Gix had decided to play hard to get and hide his movements. There was only so much Gix could do in that regard. There were problems an inquisitor had to address eventually. Zacharus had two options. Either he could jump around trying to find Gix or he could set up near a place that Gix was going to go eventually.

Setting up ahead of time risked getting found by whatever sweeper team Gix set up or being noticed by the local troopers as being unusual. That was a problem, which was why Zacharus was bringing in his gear in first, desguised as a simple delivery. Gix would pop around from one guerrilla hotspot to psykers on the front line as he chose and Zacharus would probably miss him every time or not have enough time to set up. So instead he would wait, not on top of a site, but close to it. Far enough to be outside the radius of a sweep team, but close enough to notice when it came by. And then he would slide in, set up, pop the inquisitor on his way out, trigger the distraction, and slip out. Perfect. Easy.

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"This is your idea of counter terrorism, captain?" Gix asked.

"Yes, sir," the captain said puzzled. He was young, blonde an pale wearing a iridium glazed cuirass under his greatcoat. "It works. These peopel won't be hiding terrorists anymore."

Gix looked down into the pits. There were four of them and they were all filled with bodies, from babies to the elderly. Perhaps one hundred people per pit. "They won't be doing anything anymore. Including telling me about these terrorists or providing useful labour for the Imperium."

"Uhh, yes sir." The captain was clearly having trouble with the point.

"These people don't have any reason to love the so-called Free Stars Confederacy," Gix continued, "in fact it has gone out of its way to beat them down. It takes their sons for the army and their daughters to serve their high officials. It steals most of the fruits of their labour and leaves them the dregs. It houses them in buildings slightly better than shacks. If they are in contact with guerrillas, their secrets can be coaxed or torn out of them. If they are alive to tell them. Do you understand captain?"

"Uh, yes sir. Save some alive for interrogation. I understand inquisitor. My apologies. Uh, what now?"

"Burn the bodies and gather your things."

"Are we going somewhere?"

"You're going to the front line. I don't need clods like you making my job harder and you could use some seasoning under fire."

The man went paler. His jaw dropped and then he shut it, saluted, and turned around stiffly.

"Boss," said Hethor, "they way the Free Stars runs their people into the ground, they shouldn't have this kind of guerrilla support."

"I agree," replied Jolan. "They don't. They've left supply caches behind and sent in special units, whatever their designation happens to be."

"Why? They won't slow us or hurt us that bad. Got to be somethin' else," said Hethor.

"Yes, there's a missing piece to this puzzle, but I need more information. We need to start catching live heretics."

[Cynical Cat]

"Everything you asked for," said Gard Vikal. The table in front of him was covered in neat lines of devices ranging from the size of a fly to a human head. "The Mechanicus were not overly cooperative and not all of them were in our inventory. I had to have some of these manufactured from the plans in the data base."

Keys nodded. "But everything is here?"

"Yes," said the scholar. Several of his mechadendrites twitched. "I don't see what the use of all this gear is. My surveyors have superior performance."

"You don't see the need because you are a scholar and I am an assassin. These aren't going to be used with your surveyors. You're going to be with Gix, sending your toys ahead to sniff out bombs and ambushes. And I have full confidence in that you'll do your job well. I won't be there."

"I would think given your expertise in assassination that your presence would be invaluable," replied Gard.

"It is," said the assassin. "I know they problem he will have hunting. Gix is constantly on the move. There are a number of possible sites of interests he can set up at, but he doesn't know Gix will be there. Your auspexes make an on site ambush or booby trap likely to fail. So his best bet is to covertly monitor a probable location from affar and then move in and set up after Gix moves in."

"He has additional problems. He may have security clearances, but no one local to vauch for him that he is actually attached to a field police company or whatever ident papers he will be travelling under. That will get him detained and then dead. That further narrows down his options."

"I see. You will be hunting him. That's what these are for." He gestured to one half of the table. "You'll be looking for his monitoring equipment. "

"Exactly," replied the assassin. "Killing with a gun, poison, or a blade is the last part of the assassin's skill set. It comes in at the end. The game and the hunt are where the real skill lies."

"I think the Eversor shrine disagrees with you."

"Callidus and Vindicare would agree with me," he said as he began to pack the instruments. "The first rule is that an assassin is measured by success or failure. Brute strength and shock attack are valid tactics and all rules have their exceptions."

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Mud fountained into the air, accompanied by a thundering roar. "Get me some counter battery fire!" Nathan Comstock screamed into the vox. "The vulking heretics are hammering the hell out us!" It was the third time he had called and each time he had eaten static.

"Captain!" Yelled a voice behind him. He turned to see the doughy face of Commissar Petrason. He seemed almost lost in his great coat. "Enemy armour is advancing!"

Vulk. He turned and looked. Something was coming out of the woods about two klicks away. He pulled up his field glasses and peered through them. Wolfhounds. At least a dozen and more coming out. A medium tank produced in endless numbers by the Free Stars Confederation. Protector Deraiden hadn't kept the design to himself. It was cropping up in other subsectors.

It was a relatively fast promethium fueled tank. They were armed with a turret mounted autocannon, coaxial heavy stubber, and a hull mounted stubber. Four man crew, autoloaders, moderately thick slopped composite armour, basic surveyors, and com equipment completed the package. Variants included grenade launchers and an all too common destroyer variant with a dual lascannons in the turret.

The armour boys worried about those destroyers, as the autocannon, despite the fact that the Wolfhound packed a hard hitting version, was capable of penetrating the front armour of a Leman Russ only at close range under optimal conditions. Too bad they weren't here to do something about it, because the standard model's autocannon and heavy stubber combination was a much better choice for chewing up his infantry.

The shallow trenches would give them some protection from enemy fire, but once those tanks punched through they were dead meat. More dirt fountained into the sky and he felt his bones vibrate. Manning the heavy weapons ment being more exposed to the enemy shells.

"Get on the guns!" he yelled. "Commissar!"

"Your will!" Petrason shouted back. Petrason began to rally the men. "For the love of the Emperor stand fast!" He brandished his laspistol. "I stand ready to absolve all weaklings of their sins!"

Then his vox operator was slapping him on the back. "Fire Central says volley en route!" Where in the Emperor's name had that come from and why had the static vanished? Never mind. Right now he wasn't too inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The lead tanks were closing fast, despite the somewhat uneven ground. A little more than a kilometer and a half away. Given the terrain, they would be here in two minutes, give or take. The heavy bark of an autocannon opened up on his left. Two missle contrails streaked from his right. One hit dirt. The other scored a a direct hit on the glacis plate. Fire blew from the hatches. The brilliant beam of a lascannon scored the mud.

Las beams flashed overhead, far too many to be his men. Missle contrails joined them. Three more enemy tanks were burning. He turned to Ventathian heavy weapons teams setting up in the woods behind him. They had a little cover at least, although the woods had taken a beating in the shelling. The Ventathian heavy armour was at least good protection from shrapnel.

The shelling was slacking off. A lot. Either the counter battery fire was working or the enemy was trying to avoid shelling their own men or a combination of the two. More vehicles were still coming forward. Emperor take him, this was looking more and more like a big push.

He turned to his vox operator. "Can we still get through?"

"Yes!' he shouted back.

"Tell regiment it looks like a major push!" Richardson began working on it
A big bastard in carapace armour came toward him up the side of the trench. He was wrapped in a heat shimmer. It took Comstock a moment to recognize it. Force field. The man wasn't wearing any insignia. High up. Had to be.

"Tell your men to hold the line," he big man shouted. He wore a bolt pistol on his waste and had a hellgun at the ready. "Reinforcements are on their way. And be ready for witch work."

"Vulks?" he said using the local idiom of Cerosa. "They're bringing psykers?" he asked, switching out of slang.

"That's why coms have been raped," the man replied. "Steady your boys. We're on the job. He gestured out of the trenched as mud splattered him from an autocannons near miss. "They're about to get a taste of hell. The Inquisition is here and is taking charge."

[Cynical Cat]

"Gard, Iriza, stay back. Keep a line open. I'll need your auspexes and witchsight to get an over view of the battle. Feed me." Jolan didn't wait for a response and began heading through the last fringe of the trees. Two of Gard's orb drones trailed behind him. He surveyed the field of battle and consulted the data being dumped into his autsenses.

The Imperial lines was a quick and dirty trench system with some weapon emplacements at the edge of what had been a forest before it started getting shelled. The Free Stars had decided to make this, the trailing northern edge of the Imperial lines, the place to attack. A horde of armour was crossing no man's land and pouring fire into the trench lines. Some of the Imperials were shooting back.

The Ventathians he had snagged from the rear were setting up their heavy weapons teams. He hadn't had much time. His readings of the Emperor's Tarot had indicated something big was up, but it wasn't until the psychic jamming that he had known where. He had been able to trace it here and headed to reinforce with the only scratch force he could muster. More reinforcements were en route, but whether or not there would be anything left to reinforce when they arrived was an open question.

The Ventathians began to fire. Tanks were burning now, but only a few. The closest were half a klick from the trench lines where Hethor had gone to stiffen the defender's spine. Jolan wasn't sure that had been a good idea, but it was done. Now it was time to draw out the sorcerers.

He focused his will on one of the lead tanks. The warp responded to him, eagerly. In his mind eye he could see dull red fire blossom inside the hull, searing the flesh of the crew where they sat. Hatches poped open and flame jetted out as the tank lost speed. Blackened arms tried to pull seared torsos out of the warp made hell before the ammunition or the fuel went. Jolan was no longer paying attention. He was focusing his mind on the next tank.

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The lead tank took a direct hit from a lascannon. Motlen metal and hot gas sprayed in both directions in an incandescent flash. "Keep it up!" Hethor roared. It was going to get really nasty soon. Why in the holy name of Him on Earth had he volunteered to go and do this rapin' job?

He slung his hellgun over his back. He liked it. A high powered, rapid firing archeotech model that hit like a max powered Tripex and fired faster the Necromundia carbine; but it wasn't an anti-tank weapon. He unslung the other weapon, another piece of archeotech. He didn't buy the triple the range bilge that Vonrilyental spouted off. He had tested it. Double the range was about right. He raised the melta to his shoulder.

The tank spearhead was getting fucking close now and behind them were the infantry carriers. The armour was beginning to take it in the teeth. A bunch of them were burning without being hit. Jolan. Nice having an Inquisitor provide fire support. Shells were beginning to fall around their rear elements. Even the arty boys played nice when an inquisitor was doin' the askin'.

Lead tank was close now. There was a buzz in Hethor's ear. He ignored it. It got louder. Some of the men were shaking there heads. Sorcery. He held steady. "Snap the fuck out of it!" he yelled. They didn't pay attention. An autocannon shells blew one of them to pieces the two guys next to him were knocked to the trench floor.

"Get up and fight!" roared the commissar. There was the crack of a pistol shot and one of the shock cases dropped in the muck. "Fight for the Emperor!" the commissar roared. They staggered back to their positions like men in a dream.

What had been the lead tank was now coasting to a stop in the mud. A moment later there was a dull thud and then a whump as ammo cooked off. It's turret shot in the air. Hethor brought his melta to bear on the nearest tank. It was too damn close. Where in the Emperor's Name is our fuckin' armour? he though as he squeezed the trigger.

There was the briefest of pauses before an eye searing beam of intense heat struck the tank dead on. Superheated gas blasted away from the impact point, leaving a meter diameter hole and a raging inferno inside. Hethor aimed at another tanks when an explosion spilled him on to the trench floor.

He was dazed for a moment. The world was shaking and thunder was all around him. His limbs felt like jelly. Autocannon round must have hit right next to him. Refractor field must have deflected enough energy that he was merely stunned instead of killed. He shakily got to his feet. The buzzing was louder now. Half the men in the trench were trembling like leaves. The rest were fighting. The short, doughy commissar was gouging out his eyes with his bare hands. Rape me with a chainsword, Hethor though. He had recieved special conditioning and had blocks implanted to give him some resistance to witch work and he still felt it. It was whispering to him, despite the psi-blocker Gard had worked onto the back of his gorget. All that added up to is that the witch couldn't take him out with a blanket effect.

A tank was bearing down on him, maybe ten meters away. In his peripheral vision he could see infantry pouring from carriers, ready to storm the trenches. There was a lot of trashed armour on the fields, but a lot had made it through. The tank's hull mounted stubber fired on him. A round creased his jaw, one smacked into his visor, and another two struck his helmet full on. Hethor fell back into the mud as the tanks rolled forward and the Confed infantry stormed the trenches.

[Pcm979]

"Ronathal! Ronathal?" Pater cursed. "Sage! Where is your lord?"

"He had just reached the command deck, Lord."

"Retreat to my vessel, Sage. I'm going to destroy this station and all on board." Pater's fingers danced over the cogitator console.

"Sir?" Haergli's voice betrayed his alarm.

"Genestealers, Sage. Genestealers, Tau, and Chaos. This place must be purged." Pater said, and finished overriding the safeties. He flicked a switch, and the station's defense turrets turned inwards, great gouts of plasma boiling the station's superstructure into space.

"I suggest you move, Sage." Pater concluded. “Move quickly.” He added as the entire station trembled.

---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ----------

Ronathal blasted the Brood Lord back with a crackle of telekinesis, hydraulic fluid spurting from his rent Power Armour. Throne, it was strong! He grabbed the edges of the door and wrenched them shut, whirling around and stomping back down the corridor. Retreating wasn’t very Inquisitorly, but neither was dying horribly.

“Novum!” He barked into his vox. “What in the Emperor’s name is happening?” The room really shouldn’t be shaking like that.

“I’m destroying the station.” Replied the younger man calmly. “Can your armour withstand hard vacuum?” There was a rattle of gunfire just audible in the background.

“You’re-” Ronathal gasped. Then he snapped back into action. “Where’s the nearest airlock?”

“Wait.” There was a crackle on the other end of the line, followed by a loud explosion. “Please repeat.”

“I need an exfil location.” His section of the station abruptly lost power, and he activated his suit’s lamps.

“I suggest you make your own.” Replied Pater over the sound of bones breaking. “Time is of the essence.”

[Cynical Cat]

Hethor shook his head. It hurt. Their was buzzing in his ear and his cheek was wet, probably with his own blood. Didn't know how long he had been out. Fuck it. Got to get back on his feet. Limbs like lead. Get up and fight or die like a dog in the mud. He heaved up.

There was fighting all around him. Heretic armour was all over the trench and APCs were disgorging a fucking horde of troopers. Heavy weapons fire was still smashing into them from behind the trenches and there were still boys in the trenches fighting. About ten meters south of him was a promethium fueled blaze filling the trench. And there was a mother rapin' heretic Wolfhound about four fuckin' meters from him.

It was firing its turret guns into the trees at the Ventathians. The hull mounted stubber wasn't doing shit, probably jammed or damaged. Hethor raised his melta and fired. The blast of intense heat struck the bottom of the tank, in the vicinity of the driver's chair. Glowing gas blasted back as the fighting compartment filled with the breath of hell. Hethor ducked down. The tank exploded.

This was serious fucked up. He must be getting cocky otherwise he would have never have volunteered for this shit. Free Stars boys were moving through into the trenches and towards his own tender ass while the only really close pieces of heretic armour were burning. Hethor slung the melta and whipped out the assault las.

He unleashed a stream of bolts against three advancing troopers wearing light grey flak jackets. The high energy beams burned through armour and flash-boiled flesh. Goblets of flesh and bloody mist exploded from their chests. They dropped. Hethor shifted aim and gunned down two men exiting from an APC. Hethor was grinning like a maniac. This sweet thing hit almost as hard as a bolter. He picked off another pair of troopers near a burning tank.

No targets for a moment. Hethor ducked down and dropped the powerpacks out, switching two more high capacity models in. The bitch was dependable, but high maintenance. Standard Guard issue powerpacks wouldn't last long the way she drank down energy and only the best internal components would do. She was a long way away from being manufactured for anybody but Stormtroopers, but she was a sweet killing machine.

Fighting in the trench north of him. Hethor raised the las. It was connected to the targetting eyepieces in his helment, but the bullets had knocked those off line until a tech adept or Gard placated the spirit. Not a problem. He would just have to do it the old fashion way.

It looked like a couple dozen Free Stars boys were swarming a half dozen or so loyalists. The Guardsmen were fighting hard, but numbers were against them. He gazed down the site and fired single shots. Two grey boys toppled back.

The Guard wasn't going to last much longer. Hethor tossed two frag grenades towards the far end of the the melee, dropped the las, and pulled out the melta. Sorry boys, but you're already dead. The grenades went off with louds cracks. Men fell, screaming and bleeding. Bullets and las beams flew back. A few hit. The refractor field leeched away their power and they failed to do more than mar his armour.

Hethor fired, filling the trench with the wind of the inferno. And then he fired again and then again. The sides of the trench burst as mud became steam and scorched earth. Flesh became ash, plastic withered and metal ran like water. Only half visible through the shroud of steam, a twisted pile of blackened, twisted refuse remained where men had once fought. Dark shapes moved towards him. Las beams sliced trough the air and he could hear the chatter of autoguns. He dropped the empty melta and picked up the las.

He fired two long bursts into the fog. He tagged at least one Free Stars boy. Bullets zinged around him. Two las beams burned small holes in his breastplate. Time to bug the fuck out. Going over the mother-rapin' top was a shitty idea, but at least he wasn't likely to get taken out by a stray stubber round.

He heard a loud roar above him and behind him. He had heard it once and it wasn't a sound one forgot. Big ass shotguns going full auto. Ripper guns. A woman's voice, strong and pitched to carry. "Ogryns! The Emperor wants you kill those heretics and protect that soldier!"

Eight Ogryns trampled past Hethor's trench, their ripper guns making a hellacious noise as they open poured fire into the northern part of the trench. Shala Nofield dropped down beside him. She was wearing a ceramite breastplate and her leather stormcoat over her flak armour, with a Necromundia pattern carbine in her hand, her pistol holstered by her side, and a chainsword scabbarded on her belt. A flash visor hid her eyes and her hair was tucked under her peaked death's head cap. "Get moving soldier. Reinforcements have arrived. Where's the enemy psykers?"

"Don't know," replied Hethor. "Didn't see the fuckers," he continued as he changed fuel cannisters on the melta. "They hit the trench fuckin' hard. Lot of the boys lost it all of a sudden. How the fuck didn't you get cut down going over the top like that."

"Chimeras just a bit back. Only a short dash and the Orgryn's attracted the fire. Nice kit they've got. Ceramite plates over flak, armour piercing flechette's in the ripper guns. They didn't notice the enemy shooting them much. And Leman Russes have joined the party."

"Nice friends you brought. I take back half the things I've said about commissars. Where's the boss?"

"Gix? I don't know."

"Well, there's one way to help him."

"How?" she asked.

"Drop the hammer on the bad guys so hard we draw the psykers' attention."

The pale woman went even paler. "Emperor above."

"What's a matter commissar? Afraid of a little witch work?" Hethor laughed. "The stories I could tell you. Let's go kill some more heretics."

[Pcm979]

Pater swept his staff in a wide arc, mental energy streaming from its tip and eviscerating those who stood in his way. A small flicker at the corner of his conciousness; Hybrids, their tenuous connection to the Hive Mind affording them limited protection from his power.

"Lillith! Vasgula! Four o'clock." He snapped, watching with satisfaction as the Pariahs unleashed their psychic blankness on the group, breaking their connection to the Mind and shattering their resolve. With a few swift blows, they were down.

"One each." He instructed, hefting their squad leader over his shoulder. "Kill the rest." He added, bringing his foot down on one of their foe's skulls with a sickening CRACK.

"Gyllia?" He barked into his vox as they skidded into the hangar bay.

"Almost free." Grunted the recently-bisected Techpriest, awkwardly jacked in to the ship's control system from the sickbay. "Five minutes. Less, if we sacrifice the Servitors to cut our moorings."

"Do it." They didn't have five minutes, as became only too appearent when the station's gravity failed.

---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ----------

With a triumphant roar, the Brood Lord burst from its chamber, sheets of inch-thick metal curling underneath its talons. Ronathal turned slowly, one of his power-armoured legs unresponsive from lack of hydraulic fluid.

,Can not win/Human(Warp-touched) The thought drifted across Ronathal's head of its own volition.

"Xenos scum." Snarled the Inquisitor. "I shall have your head as a trophy." His sharp, gauntleted fingers snicked together menacingly.

?I(Lord of the Brood)? matter Not/We(the Whole) are all The thing hissed directly into his brain, four arms spread wide as if to engulf him.

"You are nothing!" Screamed Tyran Ronathal, his hatred and rage channelled into a ball of pure energy that danced between his fingertips. With a gesture, he flung the psychic blast into the ceiling, tearing a hole in the bulkhead.

Pressurised air flung itself madly out into space, dragging the massive creature off its feet, even as Ronathal's powered suit magnetically grappled him to the floor. The beast slammed into the ceiling, flailing madly. Ronathal concentrated now the creature was distracted, and with a snap, its exoskeleton shattered, blue blood trailing from its' fanged maw. The Patriarch's chest caved in as it's organs were sucked out of it's back, the mad writhing only ceasing as another brutal crack heralded the destruction of its spine. Ronathal stomped underneath the dying beast and looked up with satisfaction.

"If you'll excuse me, you're in my way." He cackled, and hovering on a cone of psychic energy, blasted straight through the creature and into space.

[Cynical Cat]

Two figures in heavy robes approached. "Inquisitor?" the tallest one said tentatively. Jolan turned slightly. He could sense the psychic pall the heretic psykers were throwing over the trenches. Somewhere in that psychic static where the originators of it. Right in the middle of battlefield hell.

The two sanctioned psykers fidgetted. "Can you shield yourselves from enemy fire?" he asked.

The taller one replied. "I can. Rigel can't."

"Shield both of you. Advance. Attack the miasma. Defend yourself against psychic counter attack. Take cover in the trenches."

The shorter man grew paler. They were much alike. Heavy robes with Imperial Guard and Scholastica Psychia symbols on them over standard issue flak armour. Shaven heads, pale, watery eye. "Y-yes lord," said the taller.

"Wait ten seconds and then advance," said Jolan. He turned to the Ventathian squads around him. "Guard my flanks and cover me. Don't worry about the psykers. Kill every heretic in front of you." The soldiers nodded in acknowledgement. They had been through the meatgrinder more than once and knew that they were going to lose friends and comrades. They were resigned to the coming fight and knew that their best hope lay in victory. "Let's go."

He started past the tree line. The Ventathians were pouring supporting fire into the line and the armour had finally arrived from the reserves. A half dozen Leman Russes were firing on the heretic armour. Imperials were still fighting back in the trenches. He shouldn't have let Hethor go into that muck.

Autocannon rounds burst around him as a Wolfhound raked his path of advance. Mud fountained around him and two rounds struck him in a brilliant flash of light. The Ventathians went to ground as autocannon and stubber rounds raked the area. The impacts merely caused Jolan to stagger backward, but his armour was merely scarred and not breached.

Fire came to his call, filling the the interior with of Wolfhound with crimson flames. Hatches popped open and flames jetted out as the crewmen struggled to leave the blazing steel coffin. Gix ignored the screams of the dying. His real prey was ahead. He signalled his picked squads to continue advancing.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Hethor placed a long burst into the chest of the charging shock trooper. The carapace plate failed under the hullgun's barrage and he toppled. Nofield put a burst into another one and did nothing but chew up the armour. "Throne!" she screamed in frustration. Hethor blew out his legs with a burst and the trooper fell into the muck.

"Don't shoot them in the Emperor-damned breatplate! It'll take too damn long to chew through the ceramite!" In a lower tone of voice. "Dumb ass commissars. Figures that they wouldn't no shit about shooting the enemy." He mowed down another heretic trooper. "Jolan, get your ass over here now."

The ogryns were taking fire, but the big abhumans were shrugging it off. Their most vulnerable points were protected by armour plates and flak covered the rest. They just shrugged off minor injuries. The flechette bursts from their ripper guns tore apart heretic troopers.

One of the Wolfhounds swivvled its turret towards the ogryns and blew off his right arm and tore apart the right side of his chest with an autocannon volley. The abhuman collapsed. The turret moved another four degrees. An ogryn was decapitated.

"Rape this," Hethor muttered. "Here," he said tossing the assault gun to Nofield. "This has some real killing power." He unslung the melta and drew down on the tank.

The battlelfield was full of smoke and wrecked vehicles. It took a moment to zero in on the one targetting the ogryns. There. Twenty-odd meters away. Hethor pointed and fired.

A beam of white hot heat struck the tank. A cataclysmic explosion shot the turret into the air. "Burn and die." He drew his bolt pistol, blew apart the thigh of Free Stars trooper, and spun back towards the trench and the amputee fell screaming to the muck.

The ogryns were on their knees. Two were screaming and one was clawing out his eyes. Nofield was in a daze, as if she was trapped in a dream and was trying to fight her way out. "Well, they've got to be right on fuckin' top of us," Hethor said to no one in particular.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jolan walked into the miasma. He felt the pressure on his mind, trying to make him shut down. Capitulate. Sleep. Give up. He answered with a psychic blast that shifted the warp currents around him and tore apart the web of heretic sorcery.

He could see the sorcerer now. How badly the Free Stars were corrupted by chaos was an open question, but the denigration of the Imperial Cult, the naked ambition, powerlust, and desperation that must be rampent in their society assuredly made them more vulnerable. The sorcerer had certainly succomed.

The sorcerer and his retinue were walking past the burning remnant of a heretic tank. He was wrapped in rune-marked black robes. A conical helmen and battle-mask obscured his features. A gilded breastplate covered his chest. He was haloed by dancing runes of pink and cyan fire. Five acolytes in similar robes surrounded their master. They were armed with lasguns were firing into the trenches, but the power they yielded to their master was of far greater import.

Jolan brought forth another firestorm. Tongues of scarlett flame swirled around the coven and were then snuffed out by a cold wind. The sorcerer's head turned towards him. Bolts of black fire shot out towards him.

Jolan countered with a warding gesture and the doom bolts shattered like glass on impact. *Tear down his wards and strike at his mind* Gix ordered the sanctioned psykers. It was probably a death sentence for them, but it wasn't like a lot of men weren't dying here.

He focused the power of the warp. One of the coven was consumed in a flare of green fire. A telekinetic blast pulped the rib cage of another acolyte and he fell. Las bolts came his way. The Ventathian's weapons seemed to bounce off an invisible wall.

The sorcerer retaliated with darts of golden flame. There was a crash of thunder as Gix swept them away. Sweat was beading on his brow. He was pushing his attacks through and parrying the other's strikes, but it was costing him dearly. He twisted his fist and extended his will. Another acolyte fell, his heart exploded within his chest.

The brilliant white flare of a melta beam blew another acolyte to ash. "Finish the job boss," came Hethor's voice in his ear. A withering blast of warp lightning arced toward him. He tried to deflect it. His conversion field emitted a blinding flash. He was still on his feet.

A brilliant beam of blue-white flame shot from his hand and struck the sorcerer. It burned through his weakened wards and out through the back of his chest. The chaos sorcerer stood for a moment. Then his left hand dropped. Then his head. Then his whole body came apart as if it was made of child's blocks.

A soundless blast of pink and blue flame errupted. Nearby tanks were flipped and the blackened bones of heretic troops were tossed to the winds. For a moment shocked peace reigned on the ghastly scene. Then Imperial troops were freed from their stupor and heretics began to recover from the shock.

"Reinforce and hold," ordered Gix over the command frequency. He was already targetting another tank. The heretics had shot their bolt. Time to finish them off.

[Cynical Cat]

Smoke rose from burning tanks. The enemy had abandoned the field, leaving much material behind. Ventathians were swarming over the vehicles, finishing the wounded and attaching recovery hooks to others. Those that could be resanctified into Imperial service by the Tech Priests would find their way into the arsenal of the Imperial Guard.

Jolan unlocked his helmet and immediately regretted it. The smell of burning promethium and scorched flesh assaulted his nostrils. He shook his head and looked around. The taller sanctioned psyker was still standing, his eyes glazed over. The other was sprawled limp on the ground. His witchsight told him that he was dead with a single glance. His soul was gone. Gix waved his hand in front of the living psyker's face. He blinked and turned toward him. "You with me?'

"Yes lord," the psyker responded.

"Good. Your name?'

"Batista Vonnil."

"You're with me now Batista. You understand?"

"Yes lord. I'm part of the Inquisition now."

"Correct." Motion at the corner of his eye attracted Jolan's attention. Hethor was helping Nofield up wrecked ladder out of the trench. A smile touched Jolan's lips. Hethor's usual impulse in these situations was a boot to the chest when the commissar reached the lip followed by half a power packs worth of las bolts to the torso while the commissar lay sprawled. Not that he had actually done that. At least not more than once.

Hethor hauled Shala up and nodded to him. "I guess we won."

"That we did. Thanks for the assist."

"Well, if you're dead then who's goin' to set the tankers on fire?"

"Good point," replied Jolan smiling slightly more broadly. "How the melta work?"

"She's a sweet hurtin' machine," said Hethor with a smile. "Not quite as flash as she's claimed to be, but close enough. She can lay a hurtin' and has a range better than a spitball."

"Good. Commissar."

Nofield drew herself erect. "Sir."

"See to it that Batista here is transfered to the Inquisition. He'll be joining us. We're leaving, at least for a while."

"What about the prisoners?"

"We killed the interesting ones. The Guard can have the rest. If they encounter something unusual, I'm sure they'll let us know."

"Yes lord," Nofield responded. She began to talk on her vox. Jolan's attention shifted as he moved away from the trench. He had recieved a communique from Keys. It simply said "ready."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The process of elimination had whittled down the target list. There were a few places that Jolan had to check out that were suitable for the assassin. Only a few avenues of approach, more than a few spots to hide. He had set up his monitoring equipment, as he had done the previous two times. Then he had sent in the bait.

It had worked beautifully. The astropaths had tripped the psi-detectors, which had then sent their little signals and that had shown up on his instruments. Several more auxpexes had activated, but the assassin had not moved from his lair. Perfect. Now the hunt began in ernest.

[Cynical Cat]

Zacharus's eyes shot open. The loud beeping in his earphones indicated his psi detector had been tripped. He activated the pic screens. A psyker and a strong one at that. He activated the other auspexes. Three Chimeras were rolling through the deserted town. A wave of cyber skulls preceeded them. He smiled.

It was as he predicted. Gix had shown up and his minions were checking the ground in front of him. The desecrated church demanded inquisition attention and he would eventually have to show up and cleanse it. Imperial Guardsmen were disembarking and forming a rough perimeter. Anyone hiding in the ruins would have been spotted by the cyber skulls. But Zacharus wasn't there.

He raised the roof of his hiding spot and crawled up onto the ground. The underground bolt hole he had fashioned had allowed him to be nearby and yet invisible. He glidded forward, his camouline sneak suit blending in to match the enviroment. The technosorcery talismans that were part of the suit would mean that a bioscanner could only detect him at close range.

Gix hadn't brought enough soldiers to form an effective perimeter out to a distance that would include Zacharus's destination. He had planned for that too. A large retinue would be slower and easier to find and that would give Zacharus other hunting options. Like tracking him down and killing him.

So he slipped into a gutted building at the edge of town. His auspexes were located elsewhere, in case they were found they wouldn't lead his enemies to his shooting location. He climbed the battered a filfth smeared steps up to the fourth floor and headed to the north east corner.

The two windows provided a perfect view of the church and its approaches. Now came the next problem. How to kill an psyker-inquisitor travelling in an armoured vehicle who was protected by power armour and a conversion field while maintaining his distance Zacharus had considered and discarded a number of exotic weapons before settling on his chosen instrument.

He turned back to the adjacent room. The weapon had been too bulky to sneak around with, so he had hid it. He drew a power knife and begun slicing through the wall. He had hidden it here two months ago, cutting open the wall and painstakingly repairing it and concealing the alterations.

The chunk of wall fell away to reveal two black bags. Zacharus took the smaller, moved it to the corner room, and opened it. With the swift and smooth motions of long familiarity he assembled the tripod. He then went back for the other bag and pulled out a Javinne pattern infantry lascannon. He walked over to the tripod and set the cannon on its base and began to adjust the attachments.

A sound no louder than the paw fall of a feline caught his attention. He spun, his hand falling to the las pistol at his belt Too slow. There was a flash of violet-white light and Zacharus was a charred ruin from the waist up. His corpse toppled to the floor.

Danell Keys stepped around the room gingerly. Once he knew that this place was the spot, it had been all prep work. Gard's toys had allowed him to alter Zacharus's auspexes so they didn't record his presence. Then it was just sending in the sanctioned psyker in Gix's armour to trigger the trap and using his own bioscanners to track the assassin when he showed his head. There were only a few places he could go and they were all covered. Then it had simply been a matter of quietely walking up and shooting him.

He took down the lascannon. He activated his vox and spoke in Cryptia. "Knife seeking Infernas. The Archer the way of all flesh."

"Infernas, the heart soaring. Knife covered in glory."

"Knife sheathed, its purpose fulfilled."

[Cynical Cat]

Mikal Camron stuck his head through door and into the planning room. "I have the latest reports."

Jolan Gix looked up from the table. The inquisitor was no longer wearing powered armour everywhere he went. The harness for his conversion field that he wore over his armoured bodyglove was concealed under his storm coat. He, Hethor D'eckor, and Danell Keys were standing over a cluster of maps and photographs marked with circles and cryptic runic notation. "Come in Lieutenant."

The young man stepped in. He held a rather large folder under his arm. He extended it to Gix. "The latest reports," he said slightly sheepishly.

"Thank you," said Gix as he accepted them. "Your opinions lieutenant?"

"It's nice to sleep in the same bed twice in a row. Really nice that its a bed, not a cot."

"That it is," said Jolan amiably, "but that wasn't what I was asking."

"Sorry sir. I think they're going to ground. They know they are being hunted, they know their people are being caught and broken, and they know our offensive is driving them back. Fewer reinforcements and fewer supplies are getting through. They're boned sir, and being cowardly heretics, they're keeping their heads down and trying to survive."

"Hethor?" Gix asked calmly.

"Grox shit. These men aren't cowards. I killed enough of them to know. The enemy isn't as tough as us, but they have balls and their specials are their best. No, they're bein' practical. Bad odds. They're waitin' 'til it gets better."

"So, essentially you concur with our young lieutenant, except with regards to the quality of the opposition."

"Yeah, I guess so," the big veteran rumbled.

"Lieutenant, you're familiar with all the relevant material. Imagine you had all the authority of an inquisitor at your disposal. Come up with a plan to flush out or track down the last of these 'special' units. Deliver it to me when you are done. Sooner is better than later."

"Yes sir!" Mikal saluted and left.

Hethor snorted. "That boy needs some seasoning."

"I know. Guess who gets to lead his men into battle."

Hethor smiled. "Slick."

"Everyone who decides when to send a soldier into a meatgrinder should have some idea of what its like. And we should make an effort to trim the terminally stupid out of the staff ranks before they get too many good Guardsmen killed."

Nofield entered the room. "Sir. Another inquisitor has arrived."

Jolan's gaze shot up. "Who?"

"Inquisitor Maladar."

"Huge bastard, powered armour, scar collection, no manners?"

"Uh, yes sir. He's got a platoon worth of Inquisitorial troops with him and a bunch of combat servitors. He wants this area cleared. Private Inquisition business."

"Obey," was Gix's reply. "And send him in. Then leave."

"Yes sir." She saluted and left.

"Boss?"

"You better go Hethor."

"Alright." The big man left. It was not long before Jolan heard the heavy steps of a man in powered armour. Maladar walked through the door. The huge inquisitor hadn't changed much. Gold stiches held his nightmarishly scarred flesh to his skull. Digital weapons studded the fingers of his ebony armour and a bolt pistol was strapped at his side. No melee weapon was visible, but Jolan noted grooves in his gauntlets. Retractable lightning claws.

"Maladar," he said as he inclined his head. "I wasn't expecting you. I'm afraid you've arrived a little late. I'm mostly rapping things up here."

"The assassin?" the big man asked..

"Dead."

"I shouldn't be surprised. There have been developments." There was something in his voice Jolan couldn't place. Maybe if he spent more time with Maladar, he would have been able to place it."

"The situation has changed."

Gix's eyes narrowed as he processed the tone of his voice and his choice of words. This was bad. Very bad. "How?" he asked. He could sense a cloud of violence hovering over them like a storm. Nothing short of an Astartes with similar arnament had much of a chance against Maladar hand to hand. Certainly not Jolan Gix. Maladar's reaction speed was damn fast, his weapons and armour superior. And psychicly, well the gap had narrowed if Jolan's guess was correct, but that still left Maladar with the edge.

"Nevan has been sent to the outer reaches. Corell is dead. As is Gaskar. Trakus has been promoted. And Venderyl has a whole pack of tough young proteges. And then there is you."

"The balance has shifted," said Gix. "Drastically or you wouldn't be here. Trakus must be really shafting our side."

"Venderyl's lot is worse. Medricore is proving to be practically inkillable. Nothing seems to do more than slow him down."

Realization dawned on Gix. "You're here to cut your loses."

"Yes. A number of our suporters were reluctant to make the big step. And now we are losing. They're eager to jump ship. So we've lost."

"And now the breach has to be healed. They win. But it needs to be settled."

"I knew you would understand."

"To bury the conflict, the instigator has to go. Which means me. And it has to be my side that does it, as a peace offering to bind the broken fabric back together and as a gesture of sincerity. So they sent you, for reasons that are obvious."

"Yes. I want you to know Jolan, that even though I underestimated you at first, you have my respect. You would have made a worthy Lord Inquisitor and Master of Our Order." Maladar's hand drifted down to the butt of his bolt pistol. Probably loaded with psykout rounds. Maladar had done an excellent job of stacking the deck in his favor, arriving with surprise, and controlling the scene. Well, Gix had helped teach him that particular trick.

He was trapped in a room with the deadliest man he had ever met. One who had decided to kill him and could outfight him in any mode of combat he tried to employ. "Do you have a message for Kyra or anyone else before I kill you?" Maladar asked.

[Cynical Cat]

An icy calm descended on Jolan. He looked up. "Why this way?"

"What?" responded Maladar.

"Why did you choose to come here and kill me face to face?"

The inquisitor drew his bolt pistol. "Because as unlikable as I am, I like you Gix. You deserved better."

"You said you respect me. You know how tricky I can be, how capable my agents are. Even with things arranged the way you have done, your still taking a risk. You can kill me and still not walk out of here. Coming here is a bad risk. Unnecessary. You may have orders to kill me, but you don't want me dead."

"That's true," said Maladar as he raised the pistol.

"You want me to tell you the others are wrong. That I have secret plans in the works that will turn things around, a winning card up my sleeve, loaded dice in play. You came here to confront me, not kill me. You want me to talk you out of it."

"Yes."

"I do have a compelling reason for you not to shoot me, but I don't have a plan," replied Jolan, "yet. But I can come up with one."

"I don't doubt it. Something involving an inferno pistol or plasma gun."

"You still haven't pulled the trigger."

"You said you have a reason that I shouldn't."

"We aren't boys being herded onto the Black Ships like cattle any more. We aren't students labouring undering the watchful eyes of our teachers. We aren't interrogators trying to prove ourselves to our masters. We are inquisitors Maladar. Our destiny maybe influenced by our past and by the actions of others, but we have the knowledge and power to choose our fate. If we have the will."

"Are you calling me weak Gix?" Maladar snarled.

"Why are you doing what you don't want to do? You are Maladar. I have struck down a daemon prince and sent him shrieking into the warp. I have burned the bodies and souls of witches and daemons and my power is less than yours. Who can stand against you Maladar? Not even Jolan Gix. You crush your enemies and trample their bones into the dust. And yet your are meekly coming to the peace table and being compelled to do what you do not wish? Are they really that powerful?"

The gun wavered. "Are they powerful enough to stand against Jolan Gix and Maladar together when they have the advantage of surprise? What do you want Maladar?"

"I . . . . I want . . ."

"Prince. Slave. Imperial servant. You don't even know what you need, although every bone in your body yearns for it. You want power, but that hasn't given you what you want. You destroy those who stand against you and it merely slakes your thirst. You want to serve on your own terms. You want the choice. No longer to be the agent of the Inquisition, sent to kill here or investigate there, but a full Inquisitor in fact as well as title. To be like me. To shape the future as you see fit. To be not the servant of the Imperium, but to escape the cage and be your own man. To make your own choices and shape your own destiny."

Maladar's eyes blazed. He lowered the gun. "I said that one day you would make a great Master of the Ordo, if you lived. Everyone else, maybe not Kyra, said you were too soft."

Jolan smiled. "Everyone but Kyra saw you as her, or the Ordo's, attack dog. I always new that the chain of duty would one day snap and you would do as you see fit as oppossed to what you were ordered. On Scyrax I may have held violence in reserve, but I appealled first to your reason." He picked up a bottle of brandy. "I'm glad it was today as oppossed to tomorrow. Shall we drink to being underestimated and to the victory of Kyran Nevan's favored students?"

Maladar nodded. Gix poured to glasses. "A beast and a weaking is what we have been called behind our backs. The think poorly of us and of our mentor. We shall illuminate the truth for them a moment before their deaths."

"That's worth drinking to," replied Maladar and downed the glass in a single gulp. "Pour me another. I'll go cool out our boys. Would hate for someone to get shot now." He smiled at Jolan. It was a terrible thing to behold. Jolan smiled back. His smile wasn't much nicer.

[Pcm979]

The station died behind them, tearing itself to shreds slowly yet surely. Pater wouldn't bet on all the Genestealers being killed, however, until a proper Naval sweep was done on the area. He guided the Concorde with a sure hand, point defense cannons flaring as they moved deeper into the wreckage. Suddenly, a voice crackled over the vox.

"There you are." Ronathal said with satisfaction, floating weightlessly in front of them, the Patriarch's severed head clutched in a giganic paw.

---------- ---------- ---------- ----------- ---------- ---------- ----------

The cargo bay doors shut silently, oxygen seeping into the large room through oversized air vents. Tyran Ronathal popped his helmet off, his startling green eyes staring at Pater as he entered the room. Haergli and Vasgula rushed up and helped Ronathal out of his armour.

"Unorthodox." He grunted, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

"I didn't know there was an orthodox response to discovering simultaneous Genestealer, Tau and Chaotic influences on an Imperial facility." Pater remarked, offering Tyran his hand. Pater knew that the fourty-something Inquisitor was a formidible Psyker indeed, but it seemed his tradeoff was physical weakness. That explained his Power Armour.

Tyran chuckled slightly, accepting Pater's assistance. "Indeed. Nonetheless, I doubt the local authorities will take well to the news."

"I took the liberty of signalling to the Saint Sophia, a Naval vessel docked at Station 1. They are prepared to back us all the way."

"Excellent." Tyran rubbed his hands together. "Now we can get down to business."

---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ----------

A subsector away...

The slaves toiled endlessly, chipping rock and mortar away with axes, shovels, their bare hands. Their overseers did not care if they died; In fact, each death was a sacrifice to their foul Gods, a disgusting consecration of their search for what they would only refer to as 'The Keystone'.

Sain Matteus dug hurriedly, hands red-raw and bleeding into the close-packed earth. He could hear -No, feel- The monstrous foreman approaching, soft snorts coming from his cracked helmet. All along the line, slaves sped up, none wishing to appear weak. Weakness was death, and with Chaos, death was only the beginning of your suffering.

Suddenly, the footsteps were there, behind Sain. A gigantic, gloved hand wrenched his head back, sending spikes of pain flying in front of his eyes. The monster gurgled, a gigantic tongue twisting in the air grotesquely. Sain heard it unsheath a blade and closed his eyes. Dear God-Emperor, I don't want to die!

A bugle sounded, and the monster abruptly dropped Sain's head and scrambled to its feet. Sain breathed quickly, prostrating himself on the ground. Thank you, Emperor. I am unworthy of your deliverance.

The tingling started in the back of his head again. The Sorceror. He thought, shivering in fear.

"My lord." Hissed the foreman-monster through copious amounts of spittle.

"Gortraal." Replied the Witch-Thing, gigantic boots just visible at the edge of Sain's vision. "Progress." Its voice was deep, too deep. As though it did not come from this world at all.

"Slow, my lord. But steady." Added the slobbering foreman hastily. "We shall be finished by the end of the week."

"Too slow." Rumbled the Witch, sending spasms of pain through Saul's brain. "The Prince has certain expectations. If you do not meet them, I am not responsible for the consequences."

"It shall be done, my Lord!" Stuttered the giant foreman almost comically. "As the Gods will!"

"As the Prince wills, Gortraal. Remember that, or we shall deliver you to Lord Bile when he next calls. He always needs new volunteers for his... Experiments."

"Yes, my Lord! At once, my Lord!" The foreman bleated, kneeling low to the ground. "As you say, my Lord."

"Excellent, Gortraal. Continue pleasing me thus, and you may become Chosen."

"Th-thank you, my Lord." Whimpered the beast, tongue dragging on the ground centemetres from Sain's face. The stench was tremendous.

"Continue with your duties." Commanded the sorceror in a bored voice.

"M-my du-? Oh. Yes, my Lord." The monster turned his back to Sain, unsheathing his sword once more...

[Cynical Cat]

The cutter coasted over to the Inquisition ship, Blinding Light. A huge door on the great ship's flank slid open, a power field acting to confine the atmosphere. The cutter coasted in, thrusters firing to make minute course corrections as the ship drifted into the cavernous landing bay.

The doors ground close as the slim and angular cutter set down on stubby legs. Steam hissed as the ship settled and its ramp was extended. An honour guard of faceless troopers wearing Inquisition black waited silently. Eventually, the door opened and men descended from the cutter.

Two men lead the delegation. They wore black cloaks over masked helmets and mesh armour. Hellguns were slung over their backs and carapace armour protected their chests. Behind them came Maladar, clad in power armour but without his helmet. The Inquisition troopers did not so much as flinch upon seeing his gruesome visage. Behind him came his trophy.

Four more cloaked soldiers walked alongside a three meter long casket. Humming suspensor modules kept the container hovering at waist level to the soldiers who were pushing it forward. A man in a white robe with the insignia of the Inquisition emblazoned in gold upon it stood at the front of the soldiers. "Inquisitor Maladar, I bring you the greetings of my master, Inquisitor Venderyl."

"I care nothing for his greetings. Where is he? Let's get this business over with."

"Is that . . . the remains-"

"Yes. Venderyl. Now. Or he'll be down one interrogator."

"Yes, my lord. Please follow me." The robed man turned and walked down a gap beteen the blocks of soldiers that lead to an corridor. "My master assumed that you might want to rest after your journey."

"If you master assumed that I would kill Jolan Gix, he is correct. If he assumed I would desire to spend one unnecessary moment in his presence, he's a fool." The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

The interrogator finally stopped at a door. "Your soldiers will have to relinquish their arms here."

"No. I'm on Fisk's bloody ship. He's got an army. My insurance is if things go wrong is that I have the chance to take him with me."

"Let me consult with my master."

"Go. Worm."

The interrogator stepped through the door. A minute passed. Then another. Then the door slid open again. "My master bids you and your servants welcome."

The interrogator lead Maladar into a gallery, one wall of which was lined with massive transplast windows. Armoured men shrouded in heavy robes were at each corner of the room. Each of the three doors had a pair of Inquisitional troopers armed with shotcannons standing guard. Maladar walked towards the table.

Inquisitor Venderyl sat at one side. He was a lanky, blonde man armoured in gilded ceramite plate. His disciples attended him. One was a tall, pale woman with short, dark hair. Another was a dark skinned, red bearded giant, slightly smaller than Maladar. The third man of ordinary height and build reclining with his feet on the table. On the opposite side a silvery haired man whose face was crisscrossed with faint scars sat next to a heavily built woman. Both wore black mesh armour.

Sitting at the head of the table was Randor Fisk. His brown skin was leather and scarred, his hair and beard iron-gry. His left eye was augmentic. A burgundy robe shrouded his body. "Maladar."

Maladar shook his head. "Four untouchables? Four untouchables in one room?" He spat on the floor.

Fisk made no move. "You psychic abilities are formidable. You might be able to burn down an untouchable or even two of them in a lightning attack. Four? No. And relieving you of your weapons wasn't going to happen. This way we can be assured that you will be . . . . . managable."

"Gix thought I was managable and he is dead."

"Is he?"

"Skeptical?"

"Jolan Gix had survived situations that should have killed him before. I will believe it when I see him dead with my own eyes."

"That's why I brought the body." He gestured the casket forward.

The red bearded man got up and approached the casket. "Stasis field."

"Yes." The man touched a rune on the side, deactivating the stasis field and then another. The face of the casket slid open. "There's no face."

"That's because I blew the front part of his head apart with a psykout rounds. Do you think he was easy to kill?"

"No," said Fisk. "Ydranko, take a gene sample." The bearded interrogator removed a device from his belt and pressed it to the flesh of the corpse.

"Done." He walked back to the table and pressed the metal cylander against it. "Ironic. The archeotech Gix supplied us with now confirms his death. Match."

Venderyl smiled. "So much for the late, formerly great, Jolan Gix."

"He was worth two of you," Maladar sneered. "Even dead he's worth two of you."

"A soft spot," Venderyl said smiling. "Your reputation doesn't suggest that you have those."

"My reputation is that I respect drive and intelligence. Gix had those in abundance."

"Yes," said Fisk, "he did. Too much. He accomplished great things but he wanted to go too far, too fast and so he had to be put down for the good of the Imperium. And now let us close this sad chapter in the history of our secret fellowship. Our war is over, our path is set. Let us rejoice in that it is over and mourn the dead who all sought to serve the Emperor in the best way they knew how."

"You'll forgive me if I don't stay around and socialize," Maladar said.

"Of course," replied Fisk. The inquisitor turned away from his former comrades and toward the door through which he had entered.

[Cynical Cat]

Maladar stopped just before the door and turned. "Yes?" said Fisk in a bored voice. Then he caught it. The fluttering capes on two of Maladar's armsmen as they drew pistols, several of the others closing on the door guards. Fisk began to lunge out of his chair, hand snaking toward the activation control on his refractor field.

The first gunman raised an inferno pistol and fired at the untouchable closest to him. The blast from the gun was almost blinding as the pariah was reduced to char. On the other side of Maladar another gunman had raised a plasma pistol and fired. An eye-searing violet beam incinerated the untouchable's chest. Maladar's side of the room was no longer under the blanket of psi suppression.

The digital weapons on Maladar's gloves fired. The white robed interrogator took las beams in the face and chest. He toppled. Four of Maladar's armsmen had rushed the two door guards with mono edged blades. Blood spurted over the deck as they drove their blades through armour and killed. The two remaining armsme were drawing their hellguns.

Grenades flew from the cloak of the inferno pistolier, bouncing on the table and near the feet of the guards by the side door as they were unlimbering their shotcannons. He brought the pistol in his other hand to bear on the untouchable across the room from him. The plasma weapon emitted a violet beam and blasted through the pariah's armour, incinerating flesh and bone.

The other pistolier fired the las in his other hand at the heavily built woman. He hit her in the shoulder and burned a hole in the chair as she dived under the table for cover. The other inquisitors and interrogators were also scrambling for cover as Maladar raked the table with digital lasers. They were short ranged and only had a few shots, but they were more than adequate to this task. Their armour had saved them from the worst effects of Maladar's weapons. Then the grenades went off.

Clouds of flesh searing plasma cut the room in two. The two guards barely had time to scream and the plasma seared their flesh. The blade work had finished. Maladar's armsmen had their hellguns out and raked the room with las busts as the fiery clouds dissapated.

------------------------------------------------------------------

In the docking bay of the Blinding Light, a soft shimmer enshrouded Maladar's cutter. Panels slid open as a pop up turret slid out the top another sprouted on either side. An internal security turret mounted on the ceiling opened up with dual autocannons. Explosions errupted along the edge of the power field.

The top turret was armed with a missle rack. The hanger gun exploded in blossom of fire. The other two turrets were armed with triple barrelled autocannon clusters. They began to rake the assembled soldiers. Blood and body parts were strewn about as they filled the hanger bay with thunderous detonations.

"Keep at it," Hethor ordered the pilot. "Kill them all." He didn't wait for an acknowledgement and exited the cockpit.

"Ready sir," Nofield saluted. She and Camron stood at the head of a sixteen man strike team that had assembled near the ramp. Six combat servitors stood with them. They were wearing the same gear as their comrades on Maladar's detail, minus the cloaks. Nofield had retained her commissar's coat.

"Take the enginarium and the genatorium," Hethor repeated as if they hadn't discussed this a dozen times. "No mercy."

"Yes sir."

He touched his vox. "Status of the bay?"

"Just the dead and the dying," the pilot responded.

"Right. Move out."

Nofield lead her troops out into the bay. The nightmarish servitors clanked alongside them, armoured goliaths bearing heavy weapons and devoid of fear or restraint. The Blinding Light wasn't an Imperial Cruiser, but its crew was too damn big for even Nofield's team to kill them all, even with Gix's help.

"Okay Gard, crack open the case."

The scientist grimaced in distaste.

"Do it."

Gard sent a signal from his mechadendrites to the stasis box. The stasis field died and the lid slid open. The roof of Hethor's mouth went dry. He really didn't like this.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The plasma storm dissipated leaving half of the table glowing red hot and the chairs a ruin. The heavily built woman hadn't escape the plasma blast and the mesh hadn't saved her. She was a scorched ruin. The others had managed to survive. Fisk was no where to be seen.

One of the guards was dead, riddled by hellgun blasts. The other was crouched down by the table and firing. Unfortunately, shotcannons were not excellent weapons against well armoured targets on the other side of a gallery. One of Maladar's men staggered under the force of the impacts. Two others gunned him down.

Keys raised his plasma pistol and fired at the pariah crouched in the corner. The beam reduced him to ash and blacked bone fragments mixed liberally with slag that used to be his armour. Maladar laughed, loud and mocking. With a gesture, the table lifted and was thrust aside. A potent psychic shield surrounded the psyker.

Hellguns blazed. Gix added a blast of his inferno pistol at the bearded giant and a blast of green warp fire that swept over the survivors. When it cleared only Venderyl and the silver haired man in mesh remained. They rose, a nimbus of power surrounding them.

Maladar laughed and struck. Lightning flashed from his hands, lashing at them. They exerted their wills and dissipated his attack. Hellgun bolts struck them and did nothing. The inquisitors unleashed their own strikes.

A terrible psychic weight seemed to fill the room, clouding the mind, sapping the will. Maladar's armsmen dropped their weapons and clutched their head moaning. At the same time, a terrible spike of mental energy was aimed at Jolan Gix.

Gix deflected the attack. He was far more puissant in psychic combat than they realized. Tendrils of energy appeared in the warp and lashed out at both psykers, drawing their power away from them and into Jolan Gix.

Maladar retaliated with a blast wave of telekinetic force. Both psykers kept their feet as they stuggled against his powers. Inquisitor Vetch, the silver haired man, sliced apart Gix's syphons with razor edged warp fragments. Venderyl hit Maladar with a telekinetic hammer blow. Enough force got through to stagger to bigger man.

Gix raised his hand and unleashed his stolen energy and then some. A bolt of absolutes darkness struck Vetch and consumed him in a blast of tainted warp energy. Smoke and ash were all that remained. Venderyl's eyes went wide. His concentration slipped. Maladar punched through his defences.

The inquisitor spasmed and blood poured out his gaping mouth as Maladar crushed his heart. He fell to the deck and his flesh began to burn instantly from contact with the hot metal. Maladar smiled. "So much for their precautions." He looked around. "Where's Fisk?"

"Probably through that door," Gix replied.

"Our people are on the move. How confident are you in your surprise?"

"You saw them yourself."

"I don't like it."

"You? Squeemish?"

"I agreed to it. Let's finish the job."

[Cynical Cat]

Jolan Gix tossed away his cloak and holstered his pistols. He drew the hellgun. "Keys?"

"On it," said the assassin. The armsman disguise had necessitated wearing heavier armour than he was comfortable with, but he would manage.

"The rest of you with Maladar and I." The inquisitor headed for the far door, where Randor Fisk had fled. Maladar and the rest of his armsmen followed in his wake. Keys watched them leave and then checked the the side door with his psi detector. Four souls, maybe ten meters distant.

The assassin stood at the side of door and his the control. He bounced a pair of plasma grenades down the corridor. The door slid shut. The dull roar of detonation He checked the psi detector again. Two signals. He opened the door, popped a blind grenade through, went low, and blazed away with the hellgun. He rolled back. Checked the detector. No survivors.

Good. Now he could get on with the important business. Moving to the bridge and the astropath dome and killing everyone there.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"We should have used vat grown bodies for this," Gard said with distaste.

"Like that clone you grew of Gix?" Hethor said. "Slick work."

"Yes," the scientist replied. "Like that."

"Costs resources," Hethor replied. "Heretic prisoners are cheaper. Besides, Jolan burned through half a dozen of them making sure he had the hang of it. Not that he needed to."

"To extinguish a man like that," said Gard shaking his head.

"Hey, they chose to reject the Emperor." The contents of the case stirred. They had once been Free Stars soldiers. Now their bodies were branded with runes of binding and armoured in ceramite plate. Their eyes opened. Cold white light spilled out. Gix had riven their souls from their bodies. The daemon princes he had bound to their flesh had been weak and weakened further by the strength of his binding, but they were still utterly deadly.

"Get up," Hethor commanded. The unfolded themselves and stood. "Go to the prow of the ship. Kill its crew and armsmen. Under no circumstances harm those on our side. When you reach the prow, come back and sweep the ship."

The daemonhosts glared back at him with cold hate in their eyes, but moved toward the ramp. Hethor watched them go. "Throne, I hate those things."

He picked up his bolter and checked the clip out of ancient reflex. He would have prefered the assault las, but the armsmen here were wearing heavy armour. A boltgun with Kraken pattern armour piercers was a better choice. He headed down the ramp. He had Jolan Gix's back, like always. Whether he asked for it or not.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Randor Fisk touched a control on his wrist as he ran. "All units, boarding alert! Destroy the enemy in landing bay two and enemy forces in confrence room one."

"I hear and obey lord," came the mellow voice of Iskander Riel. "The enemy has taken landing bay two. Internal defences and our troops there are down."

"Arm the crew," Fisk growled. "Tell them to ignore uniforms of claims authority. Kill all the intruders."

"All armsmen are armed and ready as per your instructions. I'm getting reports of fighting in section B3. They're wiping the floor with my men."

"Get reinforcements there and have units come to me."

"Yes sir." What the hell were they thinking? They could possibly squeeze enough troops into the cutter to take this ship. All they were going to do was take a lot of people with them when they died. That couldn't be Gix's plan. What was he missing?

[Cynical Cat]

The guard staggered back as Nofield put two hellgun beams into his chest plate. He ducked back into cover. The other sprayed the corridor with his shotcannon. Several pellets knicked the commissar, but her flak armour ate most of the blast. She ducked back. "To the Throne with this mess!"

"Go low. I'll go high," said Vektar. She nodded to the armsmen and got down on her belly. They had burned through half a dozen troopers and a score of unfortunate crewmen without taking a loss, but this corridor was too fucking long to just charge through and let their armour take the hits. And this was the quickest route to the generatorium and the enginarium beyond. She rolled out.

Vektar shot high and missed. She sliced a burst across the soldier's legs. The hellgun bolts burned right through the flak armour like it was cheesecloth. Blood and chunks of charred flesh blasted away from the impact points. The beams nearly blew his legs off. He toppled. "Go!" she shouted.

Vektar tossed a frag grenade down the corridor and charged. Hecule went with him. She heard the dull crump of the grenade detonation as he sprung back to her feet. Damn, she wasn't eighteen anymore. She hustled after her men.

The other soldier popped up. Vektar fired a short burst into his breastplate. Tight grouping. Even if the carapace had been undamaged that might have been too much. The soldier fell back as red mist exploded out the hole in his armour. Hecule slowed down long enough to give the downed trooper a double tap to the face. The generatorium was ahead.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Warp imprisoned in flesh moved down the halls. By the standards of daemon princes they were small fry, barely worthy of that exalted title. Their powers were further reduced by the strong binding they were under. To the men they encountered they were terror and death.

Their flesh was not invulnerable, but it resisted the bite of weapons that managed to pierce their armour. It healed quickly. They moved swiftly and killed with steel hard claws and inhuman strength. They rend and tore and crippled and maimed. Few of their victims died immediately. They tore out intestines, gauged out eyes, and rent limbs. Shotcannon blasts hurt them, but did not stop them. Men with heavy wrenches, pry bars, and chain cutters, were too slow and too weak. They left the mutilated and dying in their wake.

A security bulkhead had come sliding down. A two meter thick slab of steel that blocked their path. They looked at each other with eyes that glowed with the power of the warp. They did not speak. Speech was a clumsy thing, suitable for creature of this drab universe. They sent their thoughts to one another. They concured. They focused their gaze on one point at the center of the door. The steel began to glow cherry red.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lighting arced around the corner and cooked two soldier's sheltering there. Their still twitching bodies slumped to the floor. Jolan Gix lowered his hand. "A new power," said Maladar. "Biomancy was not one of your disciplines."

"Yes," said Jolan. "The lightning trick isn't too different from fire and telekinesis. Close enough for me to learn. And less strain than merely blasting the whole area with fire."

Maladar nodded. "I don't sense any more of the living close by. He's gaining on us." The inquisitor broke into a jog.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Randor Fisk noted the life sign indicators of his rear guard flatline. They had bought him time, which was all he really expected from them. "Rig intersection 33 C," he ordered. Explosives didn't show up on psi trackers. "Retreat one section. How is the rearming?"

"Shotcannons loading AP rounds from the armoury as ordered inquisitor."

"Good. Standby to finish them off."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hethor fired a short burst at the inquisition armsmen. One bolt tore through his upper arm and the other struck him in the chest just below the shoulder. Blood spurted from the wounds but he didn't go down. The corridor filled with thunder as he returned fire with his shotcannon. Pellets carrying little more force than spitballs bounced off his carapace armour, most of their energy having been bled off by the refractor field.

Hethor swore and fired again. Kraken pattern rounds made nice holes in armour, but they didn't have the fire rate of an assault las and they did blast those big gaping holes like ordinary rounds did. Of course, regular rounds might not have penetrated the carapace armour, but that was besides the point. Hethor punched two rounds through either side of the armsman's chest, just above the sternum. The seventy-five calibre rounds made big holes going in. The man staggered back, trying to keep his footing. Hethor raised the bolt gun and shot him in the face. The slug and grey matter blew out the back.

The clip was almost empty. He tossed it and reloaded. He stepped over the bodies scorched by his plasma grenades and moved up. He triggered his vox. "Miles to Infernas. The paths converging. The ties that bind."

[Pcm979]

It was several months before the situation on Kabue IX was entirely resolved, but it when it was, it could only be said to have been resolved in style. Nearly an entire flotilla hovered above the dusty planet, waiting, preparing. The Genestealer infestation had been discovered, yes, but too late. The telepathic signal had been sent, and a Hive Fleet was sending tendrils its way.

In a decade, Kabue IX would be under siege. And Inquisitor Novum left, with a promising lead dead.

"The trail's only getting colder, Tyran." Pater said when the older man protested about his departure. A friendship had formed between them over the months, and Ronathal was loath to see him leave so soon.

"Pater, we're only beginning to scratch the surface here. We still don't know-"

"When you discover anything, you can send it to Malleus Sector Headquarters by Astropath." Pater interrupted, putting a hand on the man's delicate shoulders.

"You don't need me here anymore, Tyran. Other of your Ordo are coming, with more experience. And I am wanted at Sector Head. I understand they want to inspect me. Being field-promoted to Inquisitor at twenty five is somewhat unusual, or so I'm told." His lips quirked in a slight smile.

Ronathal nodded. "Go then, my friend. You'll go far." He could sense it; The younger man had just the right mix of ambition, piety and power. The problem would be lasting. The brightest lights went out soonest, after all.

----------

The sorceror bowed, the long, sharp-edged blades rising from his helmet nearly brushing the ground. Molten metal weeped from one bisected crest like fresh blood. It had for nearly 5,000 years, since he lost it to Khornate Prince Foralfarear the Many-Handed.

"My lord Bile." He hissed as the infamous Traitor Marine materialised in front of him.

"Rise." Croaked Fabius Bile, waving a hand imperiously as the medical equipment strapped to his back hissed and gurgled, viscous liquids slopping against their vials dangerously.

"We have one million test subjects for you, my Lord." The Thousand Sons witch continued, straightening to his impressive height. "They were all that survived our dig."

"Minus the top one hundred you took for yourselves, of course." Noted the self-styled Primogenitor of the Traitor Marines, reaching a gauntleted hand out to lightly stroke the massive golden scarab that served as the Sorceror's familiar.

"Of course." Replied the blue-armoured figure neutrally. Fabius Bile sometimes wondered whether Ahriman's Rubric hadn't affected the whole gods-damned legion, from the way they acted. Or failed to, rather.

"Regrettably, I cannot continue our little relationship." Said Bile with a mock-sigh. "There have been too many attempts on my life when I exit the Eye, and you are so, so far out here." He gestured to the night sky, where the constellations were noticably thinner this far from the galactic centre. "However, as a token of our... Friendship," the purple armoured marine smiled unsettlingly, "I bestow upon you my most promising student. He is... Eager to get out more." In other words, he had become too powerful to eliminate, and too much of a threat to retain.

The air shimmered once more as Bile's battle barge, far in orbit, transmitted another being to the barren planet's surface. A hunched figure, garbed in rotting green robes, materialised. Oozing, one-eyed daemons capered at his feet, giggling praise to Grandfather Nurgle.

"I'm sure you'll get along famously." Cackled Bile, shimmering as he was transported back to his vessel.

The sorceror glared after him, furious. A parting gift from a friend? An emmisary of The Changer of Way's archenemy, Nurgle, the Lord of Decay?

The hunched figure strode towards the Sorceror on long legs, supporting itself on a long, grime-encrusted scythe. It leaned towards him and snuffled. The sorceror looked back with distaste.

[Cynical Cat]

The advanced team slipped out of the woods and through the security perimeter. The recon teams had already scouted the approach and they knew exactly where to proceed. The four men wore advanced stealth suits that hid their body heat and which changed colour to match the terrain.

Their mission didn't take long. They waited for one minute thirty-seven seconds and crashed an auger array. Then they waited as their comrades, already on the move, raced into their positions. A member of the security staff came out the side door to check on matters and one of the stealth troopers exploded his heart with a single shot from a Mars pattern lasgun.

The three heavy weapon teams set up at the edge of the woods while the assault teams stormed forward. With quick and practiced motions the heavy weapons team laid down they Scrix pattern lascannons, set up their bipods, attached the power cell, and activated them.

They were ready in less than half a minute. Eye searing cyan beams cut through the night. Two concrete planters, concealing anti-air batteries, exploded. A moment latter two more beams lashed out against another pair of hidden defence turrets. The scream of turbines came from overhead. The rest of the raiders were arriving.

More beams flashed out. Jammed communication's masts were severed, an auger cluster destroyed. Two doors were blowin to fragments. The flyers swooped, assault cannons deployed under each wing. They strafed the windows and door, high calibre rounds tearing through armour plas, turf, concrete, and flesh. As the gunners hammered out murderous supressive fire, more troopers slid down guide ropes.

The raiders were swift, silent, and utterly deadly. They were clad in armoured black body gloves and most of them were armed with compact, rapid firing Necromundia pattern lasguns. The lead team leapt through the shattered bay windows and into the mansion.

As they stormed into the next set of room, a member of household security appeared from behind a corner with a rapid fire stub pistol in his hand. The lead raider put two shots into his chest and he toppled. The raider moved up and put another two shots into his head.

There was a flicker of motion ahead as a maid fled from hiding. A quick burst struck her in the upper back and she fell. The raider finished her with another burst to the back of the head. He moved towards the next room.

There was a boom and the raider fell bonelessly, a gaping hole in his chest. Las beams flashed as the raiders fired at his killer. Mervan Nickos had already gone back around the corner. The stocky killer was wearing the black body glove from his days as an Arbites enforcer.

He knew this was bad. Outer defences broken, raiders in the house, murdering the staff. The odds of him surviving were low, but maybe a few people could get away. His master might survive and he could take down a few more of them before his audience with the Throne.

He heard the thunder of a cannon and then hammer blows struck him in the back. He groaned and hit the floor. The raider with the heavy stubber raked the entire wall with bullets as his comrades moved into position.

Nickos rolled and greeted the oncoming raider with his bolt pistol. The first shot took the raider in the hip, the second just above his sternum. Blood sprayed and the raider fell. Then his comrade put a burst into the former Arbites' chest and then another into his head.

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As the secondary team slaughtered their way through Inquisitor Trakus's house, the primary team dropped on lines through the shattered window to his bed room. The windows had failed under assault cannon fire and the ruins of the bed contained the bloody meat that had once been human beings The kill team stalked forward.

Trakus came out of the adjoining room, a bolt pistol in his fist. The inquisitor was a lean, muscular man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. A long coat with armoured inserts was wrapped around his naked body. He struck first.

The psi blast rocked all five members of the kill team, despite their psi-blockers. One collapsed, blood pouring from every orfice. Trakus put two rounds in the chest of another stunned raider.

One of the raider's fired from his knees. A las beam burned into the inquisitor's side. He staggered back and a short burst was stitched across his chest. One of the raiders rose shakily. He stood over the inquisitor and poured a dozen bolts into his hest and then a half dozen more into his head. There wasn't much left besides smoking meat above the waist.

The lead raider touched his vox. "Echo this is two. The crown is severed."

"Echo here. Burn it and return." As the raiders finished the staff and placed incinderary charges, the Elder of Clan Sadeen changed channels. "Scorpion this is sword."

In the nearby city of Mesker, Melina Sevall touched a control. "Scorpion here."

"It is done."

"The balance will be in your account by morning," she replied the Vessorine Janissary. She leaned back in the contoured chair. The first part of Gix's assignment were done. Now she had a network to build.

[SirNitram]

The Frying Pan Explodes
(And thus you fall into the fire covered in grease which is, itself, on fire)

The Accounting Irregularities was now a faint, bright flash of light in the sky, as it's main engines went up, igniting it's weapon stores, and flashing out of existance in orbit of the so-called 'Knight World'. A storm was beneath it: Roks and other Ork craft descending en-masse onto the fertile planet, preparing to unleash hell in the one form Orkz knew: Total warfare.

A single Imperium-made escape pod preceeded the Horde, streaking from the sky like a comet, an omen of the war descending on this world. It slammed into the turf and skidded, but the door blew before it came to a halt. Even as it sizzled from the heat of re-entry, an armoured nightmare stepped out. The Artificer armour scanned the atmospere automatically, but the one inside was scouting for Orkz.

Fifteen minutes later, and a trio of Wartraks, escorting a Trukk, closed in on the pod.

"Da humie wuz ere! Find 'im, or I'll stomp you flatter'n a squigrunt!" Slurred the Nob of the group, still high off the euphoria induced by the high speed of his red-painted Trak. The Orkz spread out, conducting a rather pathetic investigation as they clattered, swore, yelled at each other, and generally made enough nosie to scare any intruder away.

"D'is ain't how we do dis. Da Kult O' Speed..."

"Da Kult doez what I sez it doez!" The Nob yelled, smacking the oversized Mek who had emerged with the blunt side of his Choppa. "Now get in dat Humie ball and find out where da Humie went! I'm da biggest here, so listen ta me!"

The abused Mek trudged into the escape pod, flipping buttons and twiddling switches in his usual pattern of learning how something worked. Things started to come on quickly, which was better than average. Mork(Or possibly Gork) was smiling on him. "'Ey! Boss! It's turned on!" He called.

"Whut's it say?" The Nob and his most trusted Orkz immediately clustered in, ready to see the information on their prey. Then they would be free to get back on their fast vehicles and stop mucking about.

"It sez... Danger, overhe-" To the complete surprise of the Orkz but probably not to anyone else, the escape pod proceeded to detonate like a very large improvised explosive with large Meltabombs attached.

Orkz, in their inevitable way, stopped searching slowly and ran at full speed back towards the sound of a pretty and loud explosion. This, in turn, triggered several improvised traps created from frag grenades, and what remained of the Ork search party ended it's pitiful lives one at a time, as Servo-Arms smashed skulls in.

Tech-Captain Malkamar examined the three vehicles he had found himself suddenly owning. Not very good. Probably wouldn't all work for him. But maybe enough parts remained. He got to work, stripping three vehicles to make one that worked.

"It's amazing how it comes back to you." He reflected, as his retirement was placed on hold due to a sudden case of Orkz.

[Cynical Cat]

The bleeding engineer raised his bloody right hand. It was missing the ring finger. "Please. In the Emperor's name." Nofield shot him in the face with her hellgun. She looked around. No more wounded, only the dead.

"Status?" she yelled.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Team One with me," Nofield ordered. "Team Two with Camron. Sweep and hold the upper gantries." The generatium was theirs. Now they only had to hold it until reinforcements came.

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Two quick bursts and the guards fell. Now only a pair of armoured doors stood between Danell Keys and the bridge. He placed a melta charge on the door, set it for remote and anti-tamper detonation, and went left. It didn't take him long to find it. The psi tracker lead him right to the door to the cloister.

Another melta charge went on the door. He retreated and set it off. Their was a flash of intolerable brightness and a wave of heat as the melta bomb put a two meter diamters hole in the door. He tossed a pair of frag grenades inside and followed up.

He heat hit him like a hammer, even through the temperature control of the armour. He ducked slightly to pass through the door and kept on going. The choir room was essentially a circular vaulted chamber with floor to ceiling cogitator pillar in the center. The pillar was surrounded by contoured couches, now torn by shrapnel. Two robed bodies, their clothes torn and bloody, lay sprawled near the couches. Three more eyeless astropaths stood cowering in a corner.

They lashed out with their minds. An ordinary man would have died on the spot, blood pouring from his ears and nose. Keys had a psi shield hanging around his neck and a mind disciplined and trained to resist mental attack and domination. He merely rocked back on his heels. He fired a long burst from his hellgun. The lasbeams blew apart flesh in a spray of gore and blasted apalling holes in the astropath's flesh. They fell to the deck.

Keys ejected the nearly empy power cell and reloaded. The first part of his mission was a success, now it was time for the second part. The common prejudice against psykers meant that the astropaths were segregated from the crew, but needed bridge accesss because it was necessary to fulfill their duties. Which meant their should be an access door from the choir area to the bridge right about . . . . there.

Keys triggered the melta bomb. The doors opened at a touch and the assassin crouched at the side.. A half dozen men mananged the bridge controls with the assistance of another dozen servitors. Two armsmen were firing through the breach. A short burst put each one down.

Gun fire from slug throwing and las pistols and came his way. One slug even hit him, bruising his arm through his mesh armour. He methodically and rapidly gunned the humans down. The servitors continued working away, oblivious to the violence. "Knife to Infernas. The victory assured."

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"Infernas the jaws closing," said Jolan.

Maladar shot him a savage grin. "Your people do good work."

"You might try building a staff of your own," Gix replied as they jogged up a poorly lit corridor.

"That's you, not me," Maladar replied. A flash of dread shot through Jolan.

"Down!" he yelled as launched himself at Maladar and conjured a force wall. His telekinetically augmented leap had enough force to knock the armoured Inquisitor down a moment before the blast wave smashed through Jolan's force wall and into them. Gix's conversion field flashed white as explosion lifted his body of Maladar and bounced him down the deck.

Five armsmen advanced towards the bodys of the Inquisitors. Their shotcannons were loaded with armour piercing rounds. Randor Fisk followed his men at a distance. Time to finish this mess.

[Pcm979]

Pater sighed as he reentered the Concorde, removing his formal Inquistion robes and tossing them at a Servitor. A new one, supplied by the Inquistorial outpost; They'd lost their entire contingent on the space station.

Gyllia looked up from her work when he walked into the main chamber. "How did it go?" She asked, Mechadendrites fussing over a control panel.

"As well as could be expected." Pater said, loosening his collar. "No results after 18 months... I've been assigned to a Heretic cleansing operation in the Dermias subsector. They want to watch me."

Gyllia nodded thoughtfully. "We'll have to be very careful with the Archaeotech."

"We will." He agreed.

----------

The Nurglite went simply by the name Scourge, and it seemed apt enough. He had been a Chaos Raptor until the call of Grandfather Nurgle had seduced him; He had sacrificed his flight in exchange for the dubious rewards of the Lord of Decay, and under Bile's tutelage had engineered many of the worst plagues in the galaxy's history. Entire planets were broken down into primordial ooze, the pestilence breeding vast armies of Nurglings that ravaged nearby systems.

Scourge was a victim of his own success, exiled from the Eye before he could challenge Bile's dominance. But he didn't care. The Sorceror's master was powerful, and would give him much to do. Much to advance Grandfather Nurgle's cause.