40k RPG; Memoria, Part Secundus

[Cynical Cat]

Gard Vikal smiled brightly as Jolan Gix walked into his workroom. "Inquisitor, I'm glad to see."

Gix smiled and looked over the work benches and arcane machinery. A wizards lab, sure enough. "Since you asked for my presence doctor, the least I could do was show up."

Gard through open his arms. "Behold, the fruits of our labors. Inquisitor, if I had known this would be the result of being apprehended, I would have turned myself in years ago."

Gix smiled at the joke. "I take it you have made some break through that you wish to share?"

"Indeed. Come over here and allow me to present this archeotech miracle, reproduced through the application of science to the craft of technomancy."

He pointed at a table. "I regret to say that my favorite project, that of coming up with a viable method of mass producing copies of xenarch capacitors has still not met with satisfactory results. But I have met with other successes."

He lead Gix to a table with a bundle covered in cloth. "Behold!" he swept the cloth off.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes, an Inferno Pistol. Performance should be marginally superior to that of those you would be able to obtain from the Ordo. Range, energy delivered, and even ammunition capacity are roughly ten percent superior to the statistics in your arms manuals. I know you like heavy power in a compact package inquisitor and I would hate to lose you to a plasma pistol overload."

"Thank you doctor. Your efforts are appreciated."

"You're welcome inquisitor. Now I have a list of several items which may improve my facilities . . . "

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In the deep dark at the edge of a dead star system, a ship that did not exist hosted a meeting of some of the most powerful individuals in human space. Most of them were inquisitors, but the membership of the conspiracy had spread beyond it. Not all of the membership was presence, but all the players that were not present had a proxy at this meeting. Most of them knew some of the other participants. Recognition codes and private verification meetings allowed the members to be sure that they were free from infiltration and maintain their anonymity.

With their identities verified the conspirators met in a great hall around a great circular table. This whole section of the ship was abandoned, except for robots and maintenance servitors, to preserve the participants anonymity.

One of the robed and masked figures spoke. His or her voice was electronically modulated to be gender neutral. "This meeting was called at my instigation. A dangerous course of action is being promoted by certain members of our order. It must be addressed."

Kyra Neven spoke. Her voice was identical to that of the first speaker. "You speak of the tech dispersion effort."

"Yes," he replied. "It undermines the Imperium. Control over the distribution of high technology, especially starship and weaponry, is one of the tools the High Lords use to maintain their authority. By distrubiting high technology you increase the power of rebels and the temptation to rebel."

"My colleages words are correct," replied the altered voice of Jolan Gix. "However those will not be the only effects with regard to central authority. Technologicaly advanced worlds are wealthier and part of that wealth will end up in the hands of the Ecclesiarchy, the Inquisition, and the Officio Assassinorum. Increasing tech base will make such items as power armour and bolters cheaper by increasing supply allowing the outfitting of greater numbers of Orders Militants of Adeptus Sororitas. Troops under direct Inquisition control."

"Furthermore, it will increase population levels and tax base as well as increasing the the number and improving the equipment of various recruitment organs. More Inquisitional Storm Troopers, armsmen, assassins, psykers, and inquisitors. And I haven't mentioned the two new techniques for dealing with damaged gene seed. They aren't miracles, but they mean more Astartes. Arming them will be easier as well. And needless to say, I haven't even touched on how these benefits will increase the power of the the Adeptus Arbites, whose business it is to put down rebellions before they start."

"But these considerations, as important as they are, are ultimately distractions. The Imperium has been in decline for ten thousand years. The status quo is a disaster waiting to happen and everyone at this table is here because they understand this. While triggering a civil war with the Adeptus Mechanicus is a disaster, so is continuing a slide into technobarbarism. Our problems are getting worse. New daemon worlds, outside the Eye of Terror. The Hive Fleets. The resurrection of the Necrons. We cannot meet these threats will answers that were already failing."

The first speaker spoke again. "You would risk civil war on your ideas? You reek of hubris Jolan Gix!"

The meeting went quiet. A new voice spoke. Soft, whispery, male. "Names are forbidden here."

Gix spoke again. "You have no answers but to continue failed policies. It is no longer enough to attempt to repair the cracks in Imperial society. We must take bold steps to bolster Imperial Power. Emperor class battleships must again be build in the shipyards of Segmentum Capitals. The grand cruiser must reemerge to take its rightful place among the ships of the line. The Imperial Guard must be armed with weapons to place it on a more equal footing with technologicaly advanced xenos. The Adeptus Astartes and Sororitas must grow. We must claim more of our psykers before they become dangers and make them into assets. The Imperium of Man must rise again!"

The first speaker shouted back. "Listen to him! He would take the mantle of our Emperor. Heresy!"

A brutal, mechanical, and male voice spoke. Maladar. "You dare call Imperial rebirth heresy?"

"Your plan is bold my brother,," said the whisperer. "In all my time of service I have never contemplated anything so grand."

Gix replied. "The opportunity fell into my hands. I could not turn my back on it. And I hear no objections but fear. I will tell you my fears. An empire that is crumbling under the weight of its own corruption and decay, beseiged by terrible forces from without. I got out and confront my fear every day as do countless billions. We have an opportunity to do something other than slow down our deaths and pray for miracles. What commander will not take a risky gambit over inevitable defeat? And who better to make this decision."

The whisperer spoke again. "Does anyone have anything else to say?" No one spoke. Too many knew the whisperer and understood that his words were an instruction to dispense with debate unless they had something new and important to contribute. "All in favor?"

Three quarters of the table raised their hands. "Then it is agreed. Those that are in favor of this proposal will carry it forth without opposition from the others. This motion will be reviewed at our next meeting."

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

The primaries and proxies dispursed as their meeting broke up. Old comrades took this opportunity to speak with old friends or to pursue avenues of mutual interest. In a small chamber a particularily important piece of business was being conducted.

"Isran overstepped his bounds," said the whisperer. "He spoke Gix's name to expose him to violence. Two violations of our laws."

Maladar's reply was blunt. "You want me to kill him."

"Yes."

"You should have said so."

"I thought I did."

Maladar shrugged. He was going to kill the weasel bastard anyway, for pretty much the same reason. Gix might be risking a lot, but at least he was going full bore and had a chance of succeeding. Besides, Isran was moving against Maladar's allies and Maladar wasn't niave enough to believe rules would stop him. Maladar knew of only one satisfactory solution for people like that. He smiled, a truely terrible thing to behold. The whisperer flinched. Maladar laughed as visions of violent death filled his brain.

[Cynical Cat]

Jolan Gix joined the investigation on Conagwa. Nuclear attacks on inquisitors were uncommon enough to merit investigation of possible connections. They turned up nothing in the end.

Gix knew better, of course. Vikal's workshop had produced the design modifcations and crucial parts for Maladar. Maladar was supposed to be in another subsector, but the whereabouts of an anti-social inquisitor prone to wearing powered armour were easy to falsify. Even easier when Maladar's "face" was a disguise.

While Jolan Gix was caught up in his false investigation, his some of his agents were having a rougher time.

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The Pit Masters put Hethor through the paces. Heth held back, appearing merely proficient with most of the pits weapons and unfamiliar with the whips and chain blades. In the process, he got a good idea of how things worked.

Everybody was legally a condemned crimminal, courtesy of links to the magistrates office or the Administratium. The only way out was being bought by the wealthy clients or getting promotted to something less lethal than pit fighter. Everyone's life on the outside was over.

The big wheels in the pit were the best gladiators and the retirees who were made Pit Masters. The only ways in or out of the pits were the arena and the lifts and the lifts were always guarded and monitored by pict viewers to boot.

Hethor waited. The facilities sucked, but the food wasn't too bad and there was plenty of it. The reigning pit fighter got nicer cells, better food, women and boys, and the occassional ride up the lift.

His time came. Warm up match before the big event. Hethor walked into the arena armed with a sword with a 55cm blade, his boots, and his pants. Arena guards watched him. They were armed with autoguns for crowd control and shock sticks for close in work. Their helmets had mirrored visors to repell the sunligh and shield their faces. They wore fiber plast vambraces and cuirasses over flak armour.

Hethor had already sized them up. When the day came, he would be ready. His opponent was waiting in the center of the arena under the harsh glare. He wore a broad brimmed ceramite helmet with a smoked black face shield and a blood red crest. Ceramite gauntlets shielded his arms up to the elbow. He wore a leather loin guard and heavy boots. In each hand was a 35cm blade.

Hethor squinted and advanced. He was suppossed to lose. The bright sun only compounded the other warrior's superior equipment. He would close, parry and strike, parry and strike. He would whittle Hethor down until he fell or died. They had chosen Hethor because he was big enough and skilled enough to make this a long show. The odds were fairly good that they would vote to spare him once he collapsed from blood loss and exhaustian.

Hethor had a different plan. He feigned a stab and then side stepped, moving to circle his opponent. The sun glare was a disadvantage, but the narrow visor blocked his opponents peripheral vision. A seasoned fighter would be aware of that and move to compensate. As the pit fighter pivoted, Hethor struck at his face.

He parried and slashed at Hethor's wrist. Hethor pulled back, began to cirlce again, and feinted high. The knife came up. Hethor stabbed down, poking a hole in the fighter's thigh. Hethor danced back.

There was another way to play this. The pit fighter was wounded and lacked reached. Hethor was more mobile. The possibility of striking and retreating, of cutting his opponent down piece by piece emerged. Hethor moved quickly, trying to take advantage of the pit fighter's reduced mobility.

And then he lashed out. A series of cuts and stabs. The pit fighter arfully parried as counter attacked with his free hand, driving Hethor back. The Imperial Guard veteran gave ground, falling back purely on the defensive.

And then it happened. An opening. An over-exended attack. Hethor's blade speared his right biceps. Blood spurted. Hethor took a step back and smashed the knife out of the pit fighter's right hand.

The pit fighter struck with his left, but he was not the only man with a left hand. Hethor caught his wrist, stepped forward, and stabbed. The short sword punched through his breastboen and out his spine. Blood washed over the Guard veteran.

He tossed the dying man away and raised his hands in triumph, his eyes closed against the glare of the sun. The unseen crowd roared its approval, although they did not even know his name. Hethor roared back. "Victory! Always Victorious!" he shouted. His plan was in motion.

[Pcm979]

ca. 954.M41, Kabue IX, Igazeg Subsector, Upsilon Sector, Ultima Segmentum.

Kabue IX. There are thousands of planets just like it. Arid and sparsely-populated, its natural resources were long ago plundered. The only habitable planet in the system, the inhabitants eke out a living through their series of starship docks.

It is bitterly cold. The sun is a tiny speck in the distance, barely visible through the perpetual smog-clouds that perilously hang on to the thin atmosphere. Gigantic orbital mirrors reflect the scant light when they can, but millenia of half-hearted maintenance has rendered them all but useless.

The only reason it was settled in the first place, and the only reason it still functions today, is its' location; A perfect stop-off point for Rogue Traders, Imperial Navy and even Xenos.

Surprisingly, it was none of those things that brought Inquisitor Novum to Kabue IV, although all would factor into his reasons for staying.

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The Rogue Trader Bountiful Harvest slowly manouvered into one of the voluminous docking bays on Orbital II, ponderous thrusters aligning the ship properly. As soon as it settled, thousands of hooks, magnets, fuel lines and cargo lifters uncoiled themselves from the walls and locked into place.

Captain Yarr rubbed his shaved head, habitually fingering the sockets designed to connect to the ship's main systems. At last he could get rid of those passengers. Nobles were usually harmless, but he had a Feeling about these ones. He always trusted his Feelings.

He jabbed the intercom rune for bay 6. The ruined face of Lady Suernas' family retainer flickered on the screen. "What?" He said, with his usual rudeness.

"You may inform her Ladyship's representative that we have just docked and you may depart any time." Right now, please.

"We thought so. The rattling woke her up, and she is most displeased." The man sulked.

Yarr gritted his teeth. "Convey to her my sincerest apologies. I am most... Distressed to have awoken her." The man sniffed and cut the connection.

In the Stellar Concorde's main galley, Pater stood up from the holochair and turned to Gyllia, who chuckled and shook her head.
"You make me sound absolutely disgusting." She marvelled.
"I'm confident in your abilities to keep the act up. Shall we?"

[Pcm979]

A bureaucrat met them as they disembarked. He was at least seven feet tall, but so thin he looked like a rake. Typical of low-grav worlds. He would probably never gain a position of any worth, as thinnies (as they were known) were verging on Abhuman in some people's eyes. His hair was brown, going grey at the edges, and cut short. His skin was pale. He strode over to them, his long, lanky gait easily crossing the distance.

"Lady Suernas' representative and party?" He glanced down at a clipboard, and up again. The sight of Mork didn't faze him in the least; an abhuman bear was practically normal by station standards.

"That is I." Gyllia, resplendant in flowing white robes, extended a hand.

The functionary bent low... And lower... And kissed her rings. He straightened quickly, adroitly avoiding bashing his head on the dangling lamps.

"My name is Eyke Quambur and I have been assigned to be your guide to the station's facilities. May I show you to your quarters?"

"You may."

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

Hidden deep inside the station's labarynthine depths, where none but Techpriests tread and even they rarely, a makeshift command post had been constructed, hammocks strung between ancient stacks of equipment. A lone cogitator is visible, its sickly green light illuminating a trio of figures standing around it. The area has been plastered with religious iconography gouged into the machinery with no regard for the function of the devices. One of the figures straightens from an uncomfortable crouch in front of the cogitator. "Something new." His face is a mess of steel and brass plates, surrounded by pus. Two augmetic eyes stare from the depths.

A second figure turns. He is at least six feet tall and has been ritually tatooed with swathes of jagged purple lines from head to toe. He is covered with countless scars, some from battle, some self-administered. "Wealthy fops." He sneers. "You jump out of your skin every time a ship passes within a sector of this place, Haergli."

"No. This is real." The augmetic man points with brass fingers. "This is it."

The third figure slowly stands from a crouch, clawed fingers flexing at his side. He is wearing a horrific death-mask. "Do I get to eat their souls as well? I'm hungry again. Very hungry."

"Shut up, Vazgula. You're just warped in the head."

Haergli takes no notice of the pair. He mutters to himself. "They carry themselves wrong. All wrong. The one with the face is too young to have seen that much combat. The one on the right is an Assassian, I'm sure of it."

"Noble houses have assassains coming out of their arse. I'm not waking Lord Ronathal because you've got your shit in a twist over nothing again."

"No Gutug, I mean Assassain assassain. With a capital A."

"What in the name of the Gods are you babbling about?"

"I mean professional. Officio. Real."

"Ooooooooh. A worthy match at last? I want him. His soul is mine." Vazgula shivered in anticipation, reaching for an invisible neck.

"Just shut your rutting trap, Vazgula! We're not doing anything unless His Lordship gives the word, and-"

"I have been listening, Gutug." The voice came from an ancient suit of Power Armour, seemingly inactive, sitting in the corner of the room. Its eyes lit up and millenia-old hydraulic systems sprung into life, sending a jet of steam out of its smokestacks. The voice piped from a brass speaker set on the armour's left shoulder. "You shall investigate. Test them. If they are nothing, let them go. If they are dangerous, kill them!" A gigantic fist clenched in the darkness.

[Cynical Cat]

"Hey Heth," Nekuma said, "I heard about the upcoming fight." Nekuma wasn't a big man, but he was muscular and fast. He strode over to where Hethor was warming up.

Hethor shrugged and looked over at the smaller man. He had never seen anyone who naturally looked like Nekuma. His skin was as dark as coal and his hair was a crest of vibrant orange. "I guess Block Colonel Fell didn't like me killing his man." Block colonel was a rank in the Invisibile Army, the world's most powerful crime syndicate. A block colonel ran a mid sized city or acted as one of the chief officers of general.

The smaller man shook his head. "You got to take it slow and put on more of a show, not just hack 'em down. They ain't paying for an high seat at an abattoir."

"I do take it slow," Heth responded. Nekuma was a swift, a fighter who relied on speed and agility to win.

"Master Volokov didn't think so."

Hethor shrugged. He had endured worse than two dozen lashes from a Pit Master who merely wanted to inflict pain. "Unitl they put me up against an Astartes, they are waisting their time trying to kill me."

"Heth, have you seen the ork lover? Kerodan is more steel than flesh. He's more than two and a half meters tall and he's just as wide. What are you going to do, dent him?"

The big man said nothing. "I'll win. As always."

They came for him shortly. Volokov with the weapons and two guards waiting behind. Hethor watched them. They hung back about three meters, but they weren't attentive. He could spring that distance, kill one and then the other before they could react. But that would leave him trapped between the killing ground of the arena and the lift that was guarded at both ends. Then would come the inevitable security lockdown, gas, death. So he let them lead him towards the end of the arena.

He had ceramite vambraces for this fight and they fit well enough. Volokov handed him a boarding axe and a spiked mace. Hethor took the weapons. Volokov could push for a match with a disadvantage against his pet cybermonster all he wanted. He could even get it. But people weren't here for executions and Hethor was calmly confident.

Viewing his opponent changed his mind. Throne! His limbs were completely mechanical, shiny and heavy built augments. The bastard's arms were the same way. His torso was covered in armour plate with mail mesh around the belly and joints. All of his head save his face was armoured in steel. Augmentics replaced his eyes. A grillwork of bars protected his mouth an nose.

And his arnament wasn't much better either. His hand gripped a huge chain blade and his left held a ball-and-chain flail. Block Colonel Fell must have paid a fortune to arrange a fight this one sided against Hethor. Or maybe the Pit Lords had decided to make an example out of him to inspire the others to pay more attention to showmanship.

No matter. Hethor had faced traitor marines. This cyborged thing was no Astartes. The announcer was blathering on about something, but Hethor tuned it out. The mace went into his right hand, the axe to his left.

Kerodan moved ponderously towards him. The limbs had power, but weren't responsive. Hethor rushed to meet him. As they closed Kerodan began to slow. Hethor headed for his right side. Kerodan brought the chain blade down on a diagonal angle.

Hethor knocked the blow away with his mace and smashed the boarding axe into Kerodan's elbow joint. Sparks flew and the arm went limped. The ball-and-chain came around in a horizontal arc. Hethor parried with his mace. The chain wrapped around the shaft of the mace and Kerodan jerked it of Hethor's hands. Both fighters were down a weapon.

Hethor smashed his axe into Kerodan's right knee. The response times on his artificial limbs was simply too low for the cyborg to dodge Hethor. The limb seized up and Hethor ran around the giant, using Kerodan's own body as cover from it's weapon.

Kerodan clumisly pivoted on his dead leg. Hethor used both hands to bury his ax blade into Kerodan's waist, smashing through the mail mesh. Blood arced into the air. Kerodan staggered away and bellowed. Hethor kicked the giant's damaged leg hard, wrecking his balance. Kerodan's fall shook the sands.

Hethor backed up to retrieve Kerodan's chain blade. Even using both hands it felt clumsy. He raised it above his head as the cyborg got to his feet. The crowd was shouting. Hethor wanted to finish him, regardless of the will of the Pit Lords. But it would be better to obey. The moment he was waiting for was fast approaching.

[Pcm979]

Pater walked along the dusty floor, hands shoved deep into his greatcoat. He'd had to leave his weapons behind, which left him feeling oddly naked despite the heavy clothes he was wearing. Damn, but the locals liked it cold. Niner, dressed in a simple grey bodyglove, followed behind, augmetic senses straining for any signs of trouble.

He could hear a steady, pulsing beat ahead. Good. He'd parted with an absurd amount of gems to just get the name of this bar; He didn't want to be forced to reclaim them.

He turned the corner and saw it; Strobing lights, pounding music, dancing couples and a line of booths vanishing into the distance. Above an absurdly small pair of gates was a hanging sign which said simply, The Lecherous Philosopher in cursive brown script.

"Get yourself a drink and keep an eye out, Niner. Niner?" He looked at Niner, who winced slightly.

"Sorry Sir." He said and tapped his head. The music was overwhelming his finely-tuned ears. Pater sighed and leaned closer.

"GET YOURSELF A DRINK. KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR TROUBLE."

"Yessir."

Pater kicked the gates open and waled indoors, pausing momentarily for a pair of scanning obelisks to search him for hidden weapons. He walked along the outside of the dancing floor and stopped infront of the bar, taking a seat on an old stool. The barman, an 8 foot tall, impossibly thin local, glanced at him quickly.

"What'll it be?"

Pater pulled out a bronze coin and rubbed it against his metal fingers. "Something that burns on the way down."

The barman streched a long arm behind himself to a rack of grimy bottles. He picked one off the shelf and set it in front of Pater without breaking eye contact. Pater put the coin on the tabletop, but didn't take his hand off of it.

"Have any good stuff out back?"

The barmans' hand lingered below the counter.
"What do you mean?"

"You know. Off the books. Not passed through customs. Strictly speaking," Pater withdrew his hand, revealing an uncut diamond. "Illegal." He drew the bottle towards himself, appearently at ease with the world.

The barman's eyes flickered to the left and right. He swiped the tabletop with a dirty cloth and the diamond was gone.

"Have a seat. Booth 49."

Pater nodded easily and stood up, taking the bottle with him.

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Gutug crouched in an air shaft, a soft leather bag strapped to his back. He stared intently at a large map of the station's miriad maintenance passages, squinting in the poor light. That metal bastard was sure the ancient diagrams were accurate, but Gutug didn't trust Haergli as far as he could throw his prissy golden arse. Gutug traced a calloused finger along an almost-invisible line and snarled in exasperation. Rut this crap. His job was to kill! He swore and kicked the nearby grate, popping rivets and sending the mangled piece of metal down to the ground with a loud crash. He jumped out and landed in a crouch which he turned into a roll, coming to rest behind a tall packing crate.

Peering out from behind it and spotted his target, the guncutter Stellar Concorde. Well, if he was going to kill some worthless nobles, he was going to do it in style. He ripped the backpack open and yanked out his two Power Swords, thrusting them into the deck where they buried themselves up to their hilts, vibrating unnaturally.

"Soon, very soon." He reached into the backpack again and took out a hypodermic syringe, stabbing it into his arm. He felt the world come alive, every nerve tingling. He could smell the sweat from the dockhands labour, the promethuim from the forklifts' belching engines. He wanted blood.

"In fact," He rolled the worlds around his mouth, savouring them. "Right now."

[Josh]

Prius moved forward to accept the medallion signifying his status as a graduate of the schola and his acceptance as an Interrogator of the Inquisition. There had been a few low-key speeches, some words of encouragement and words of warning, but as with most things Inquisitorial, it had not been as much a pompous and overstated affair akin to those of the Guard or the Commissariat.

He moved along in line, accepting the scroll, then moved up to Headmaster Cardenas.

"You've done well, Interrogator Ristani," Cardenas said as they shook hands. He pinned the medallion to Prius' robe.

"Thank you," Prius replied sincerely, bowing. "Is there word...?"

"We have not heard from Inquisitor Varian yet. Patience, as always, is a virtue."

Prius continued down to the assembled group of interrogators. It was a solemn occasion, they'd been informed many times. At the same time, it was a triumph to have survived the rigorous testing, to have proven themselves against the trials and tests of the schola. The interrogators buzzed with repressed anticipation of what would come next.

[Lord Stormbringer]

Campaign HQ, Hive Primaris, Caustus IV - - - 47 Light Years Away, 3 days prior

Even kilometers behind the battle lines smoke still wreathed the area. Hive Primaris had been subjected to a brutal bombardment and further fighting had laid waste to the area. Massive fires raged in the promethium and chemical works nestled around it's base, thick black smoke billowed back. In the dug in were officers, Interrogators, and tactical functionaries of the Ordos.

"Inquisitor Varian?" said a female voice, husky from smoke. She was at the head of six armoured sisters, the rest at rigid attention.

"Yes, Sister?" replied an imposing figure in brazen power armour. "You need me for some matter."

Inquistor Xavier Justinian Varian was not feeling at his most patient then. The efforts to cleanse the canker at the heart of this infestation had been proceeding badly. The Sister of the Order Ignatio were failing miserably to gain ground and Varian brooked no failure or weakness.

"Inqusitor, Canoness Alexandras wishes to see you."

"I have business here." came Varian's icy reply

"And so does the Canoness. You do wish to coordinate the push with your stormtroopers, yes?"

Varian's reply came in fit of Monodominant pique. "I trust your Canoness can make it here, even if she's failed to get anywhere else."

The Sister in charge blinked, once. Then she and her Sisters moved to action. She leveled her bolter in unison with the rest.

"Very well Inquisitor" she said as bolter shells let fly.

Varian's unconcious danger sense had told him something was wrong as the bolters came down. Shells ripped apart the tactical displays as he dropped behind them for cover. But it hadn't saved him entirely; he could feel the warm sticky sensation of blood dribbling down his back.

The flat crack of hellguns being discharged was punctuated by the crash-woosh of bolters firing precision shots into the bodyguards. The Malleus troops fought in near absolute silence but Varian could hear feminine moans of agony.

At least one down. Followed immediately by another more chilling thought. The hellguns stopped.

Varian drew his plasma pistol, thumbed off the safety, and steeled himself. Taking a breath he lept up and moved left, drawing a bead on the nearest enemy. She turned and almost got a shot when the seering purple bolt caught her dead in the chest and vaporised flesh and armor.

Bolter rounds from four weapons chewed up the consoles and another slug hit Varian's armor and rent the should guard badly. He dived again, smashed his weight down on the corpse of Malleus stormtrooper. The body was turned to a smear but he felt two solid cylinders at the waist.

Grenades!

He pulled one, yanked the pin and lobbed it over the top. There was a crack that the armor's filters only half drowned. More screams and a hail of fire followed it. He couldn't stay there, they were going to chew the console to peices.

He flung the next grenade and moved...

Shrapnel spit across the room, tearing at friend and foe alike. In the glimpse he got he saw two Sisters still standing, their commander and another along with one wounded firing blindly. The door was a short sprint away, but it was open and he was vulnerable.

Got to make it.

He dashed for the door, spraying plasma at the rogue Sisters. Killed or not they didn't stop him, but he was more battered for his troubles.

The camp was a mess, things had clearly gone ill.

"Caustus Actual to Iron Will, drop on my beacon. I need immediate activation. Don't let any Esclessiarchial vessel approach. Be prepared to break orbit immediately."

"Verified Caustus Actual. Benedictio dropping on your position. We will........." The trasnmission cut off as the vox-dish was demolished.

* * *

Benedictio made a hot run down, but the intercine fighting had destroyed most of the air defenses. It ducked low, jet whining as it picked up the single man to embark. He dragged himself on screaming for them to lift.

* * *

"Iron Will, give the bitches as a parting shot as we break orbit but do not hesistate. Set a course of the Inquisitorial fortress."

[Cynical Cat]

"Slather more on," Hethor told Nekuma. "If that pig fucker gets a grip on me, I'm goin' down like Sanguinus under Horus's fists."

"Uh, sure Heth," said the smaller man. He rubbed more oil onto Hethor's upper body. "Do you have a plan?"

"Yeah. Win."

"Got any more details?"

"Don't let the pig fucker get a grip," grunted the veteran. "Block Colonel Fell is really taking this personally. I should have axed his cyborg freak."

"Yeah," said Nekuma. "It must have cost a fortune in bribes to arrange this match. Throwing-" he stopped.

"Don't worry. We both know I'm not suppossed to survive this. Won't be the first time I've lived through shit like this." Horns blew. Hethor walked into the arena.

The hell sun beat down. Hethor's torso glistened in the light. He was stipped to the waist, his muscles and scars visible to all. Most of the latter came from decades of service. A few from surgeries to put him back together or install augmentics after he had been chewed up and nearly shredded in that service.

The opposite gate opened. Four handlers with shock prods managed a ravening beast. A bull ork, two and a half meters tall and at least two hundred kilos of mean muscle and bone. It roared and foamed. It's lower tusk was broken and tore at its upper lip. Blood mixed into the foam, heightening its fury.

It had been drugged, of coarse. Enough frenzon, onslaught, or one of their chemical cousins poured into its veins to kill a bull or to drive an already violent ork way past the point of berserkergang. The handler's all jabbed it. The ork writhed. The collar sprang loose. The handlers bolted back as the gate slammed shut. The furious, frenzied ork got to its feet and roared. The only thing that it could reach and kill was Hethor D'eckor.

It charged sreaming, hunched low with knuckles almost scrapping the sand. It was fast, damn fast. There was no way Hethor could match the ork's strength and killing fury. He rushed forward to meet it.

The ork was blind to everything but murder lust. It stretched out its arms to seize and and rend. Hethor leapt and lashed out with his right leg. Orks were slower than men even before their minds are clouded with a chemical stew and Hethor's reflexes were battle honed and augmenticly sharpened.

Hethor's jump kick collided with the ork's neck. It's neck bones shattered with a snap and its head lowled as the two bodies collided. Hethor rolled from the deadly, spasiming corpse.

He backed away and thrust his fist into the sky. "Victory!" the crowd shouted. "Victory!" The shouting continued. He waited for it to die down and then headed back towards his gate and the dark underworld of the gladiator barracks.

Two guards were waiting for him. One spoke. "Lord Krull requires that you attend him."

Hethor inclined his head slightly. "As he wishes." Finally, it was happening. Now the real work would begin.

[Josh]

He waited, as the hours went by. Warp travel was notoriously vague and unreliable. To pass the time, he drilled himself relentlessly in sword and pistol. The more academic focus of the last year in the Schola had taken off a certain edge to his blade skills, at least to his mind.

He knew that when (if) Varian arrived, action would not be far behind.

[Lord Stormbringer]

Inquisitorial Fortress, six days later.

"Inquisitor, you mean to say the whole order has turned to these Star Gods? Surely the Sisters of the Ordo Ignatio wouldn't. Sisters of Battle!" Asked an incredulous Inquisitor Lord.

"I propose to find out. I mean to assemble as powerful a force as necessary to bring them down on their homeworld. On my own authority I have already requested aid from my own Ordo and that of the Astares." Varian replied. "As to their loyalty, I submit that the bolts dug out of my own armour should be sufficient. Or do you think that an Inquisitor fell on some loose shells? Along with six regiments of Malleus stormtroopers."

Varian glared at the men, his eye fixed on the man. He was Hereticus, a powerful man but soft to his mind. And too far from the field. The man broke.

"Very well. I will not with hold sanction for this."

"Excellent. I have been in touch with Librarian Gabriel and Chaplian Sammael of the Blood Angels Fourth Company. They have agreed to participate in this mission. And because of the extent of contamination already witnessed from the Mechanicus's artifcat, the Ordo Malleus will be sending in a kill team of Grey Knights."

That cowed the Inquisitor Lord nicely. Even to the Inquisition the Grey Knights were shrouded in mystery. Powerful, secretive, and above all iron hard. To have them involved was a mark of just how great the percieved threat was.

"And while you're at it, I'm told I am to be taking on Interogator Ristani?"

[Josh]

A silent servant of the Schola arrived, bearing a dataslate directing him to gather his belongings and report to one of the many conference rooms at the academy. Prius had only two meaningful possessions. One was his blessed chainsword, consecrated by the Sisters on Cyrus Gamma and baptized with the blood of the dozens (hundreds) of heretics he killed on the hive world.

The other was in safekeeping with Pater Novum, one of the four men that he trusted enough to keep such a sacred item, his last gift from Nathan Talstrem.

His current outfit did not have a belt-clip for the chainsword, but he had rigged a shoulder harness for it, sliding it on.

It was time to go, once more to do his duty for the Emperor. He paused for a brief prayer before following the servant.

[Lord Stormbringer]

The drone showed the interogator in, the lights were dark and the only light showing was from the small window. The drone announced himself and the interogator. The figure behind the desk simply nodded.

"Interogator Ristani, I had hoped to introduce you to field work differently. But needs are what they are. I want you to oversee the embarkation of the platoons of Malleus stormtroopers, we have a tight schedule and those the men are Dedicated foul ups happened. We have a tight time table. Brother-Captain Turin and Librarian Gabriel will be in command. We will not miss our schedule."

He shoved a data slate at the interogator.

"Familiarize yourself with that. I will have time for questions tomorrow at 0400."

Varian went back to studying all the files. The contimanation of the Mechanicus facility left little doubt what they were dealing with. Necrons and their infernal gods. Not Chaos but dread and dark all the same. The cogboys were easy to explain, any shiny bauble would lead them to damnation. But Sisters, now that was a puzzle indeed. They were a minor order to be sure but faithful all the same.

So why had they turned?

[Josh]

"At once, Inquisitor Varian."

No other words of greeting, no other recognition of their previous service, as Varian was all business, so was he, grabbing the dataslate and familiarizing himself with it as he moved. The first thing was to locate the Stormtroopers...

At least these weren't the sloppy Boreans he'd started with. Stormtroopers needed damned little in the way of commissarial-style prodding to get moving.

He was out the door and moving down the hallway at a brisk clip, mind already far away from the reunion with his old battle-comrade of Cyrus Gamma.

[Josh]

The stormtroopers moved with quiet efficiency. Prius had dealt with them in the past, as part of his training, and the differences between the ultra-conditioned stormtroopers and Guard regulars always struck him. There was no need of the usual haranguing from the NCOs, no continual exhortations of loyalty and piety from junior officers and commissars. Instead, they loaded their kits and themselves with smooth grace, the same deadly grace that they carried to the battlefield.

In short, there wasn't a lot for him to do with regards to the embarkation, as it was well in hand with the unit's own leadership.

He did requisition a field kit of his own as he observed the loading. The equipment was familiar, albeit much better quality than the oft-recycled hand-me-downs that were standard in the Guard. It wasn't on a par with the STC-generated equipment of Adraxis, but by the Emperor's will, that would come in time.

[Lord Stormbringer]

"Interogator." The stormtrooper office saluted and then he held himself to rigid attention. Even in the Inquisition they understood that the outward show of discipline reinforced the inner discipline. "I was told to expect you, sir."

[Josh]

He returned the salute instinctively. "Status?" he inquired.

[Lord Stormbringer]

"Nearly complete, sir, unfortunately some of the cargo handling equipment has broke meaning that several of the palletized Rhinos will be slow loading. That will delay our departure by approximately seven hours, they will be finished by 2100 tomorrow. Regiment Omega-Aegis Seven Nine will be embarked with full kit by 1200 today. On the delay will you inform the Inquisitor or I."

The man stayed at rigid attention, rattling off his report with little more emotion than a servitor. These men were Malleus, rebuilt from the ground up to be little more.

[Josh]

If this had been a Guard unit, he would've ordered the time slashed in half, but he knew that the Stormtroopers wouldn't inflate their time estimates in a similar fashion to a Guard unit. He could speed the process up, quite likely, and would if Varian required, but ordering such from a stormtrooper unit would mean pushing them past their limits and result in an increased rate of noncombat injuries and fatalities.

He nodded. "Very well. Proceed."

[Lord Stormbringer]

"Yes Sir. Shall I let you know when we have finished." He saluted once more. "If you will excuse me, it is time for morning devotionals. I must attend. Faith must not lapse."

[Josh]

"For the glory of the God-Emperor," he replied, before turning away.

He proceeded back to Varian's office, pressing the doorvox to request entry.

[Pcm979]

Zevran Voist, Station Security Agent Third Class, was happy in his own quiet, noncomittal fashion.
His career was on the rise! First being given the relatively easy station of Spacestation II, then the cushy job of watching some Noble's rusty old starship. With any luck, he might get off these damn flying deathtraps and back on good, solid Kabuian soil before the year was out. All he had to do was keep his head down, his boots clean and-

A power sword sliced through his neck, and his head flew away as his body toppled to the ground, twitching madly. He remained alive for precisely 11 seconds; Just long enough to dimly make out the sounds of his squadmates suffering similar fates. He died.

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

Pater stopped infront of the specified booth. It was recessed into the wall, with a privacy field emitter bolted to the table's single leg. There was a dim figure faintly visible, but it was wearing a hooded cloak and was sitting in the darkest portion of the booth. Pater slid in on the empty side and took a seat; The bench, made from weak local wood, creaked under his weight.

"A mutual aquaintance sent me." He placed the bottle of the table.

The figure nodded curtly and kicked the field generator; It whirred into life, cutting out the sounds and the sight of the dance floor, although the heavy thumping of the music could still be felt through the floorboards.

"We did backgrounds check. Knew you would coming." The accent was unfamiliar, and the figure didn't seem to have a full grasp of Gothic. Xenos, perhaps?

"Yes. My mistress heard from a little bird that some classified materials were passing through this station. She is something of an art collecter. We are willing to pay a very large sum of money for your choicest specimens."

"As knew we. Many have came, not all have left. You is lucky to gotten this far."

"Enough. I understand you recovered them from an old Imperium world, yes? Cut off from the galaxy by a warp storm?"

"How you know these details?" Tau, that was it. The Tau were behind it. But it wasn't like them to get involved with Chaos.

"Her Ladyship was informed by a former customer of yours, a Rogue Trader named Molte Ferlov." That was, strictly speaking, the truth. After four days on the excruciator Ferlov had been most helpful, down to the number of pubic hairs his last joygirl had.

"Ah. Mister Ferlov. Spreading the words again. We did asked him to stopped; We not wish undue attentions."

Like the type sitting across from you, you blue freak. "Show me the merchandise so we can get this over with. Lady Suernas is not a patient woman."

"To the points. I admire that in a human." The Xenos pulled a small, irregular prism made of a strange metal that seemed to glow from within. Pater took it; It was cool to the touch, and was clearly marked with the sigils of Chaos and the personal mark of a Daemon Prince.

"Is that what you are look for?"

Pater curled back his lips in a cross between a smile and a grimace. "Yes. It is exactly what I 'look for'."

The alien started to speak, but Pater quickly hammered him with a massive psychic blow, cracking the fragile wood of the booth and embedding the Tau into the wall. His hood fell back, revealing the Xeno's horrible features as black blood dribbled from his disgusting nose. It moaned.

"Now." Pater stood up, as the dancers outside continued on obliviously, "You will tell me everything you know. Then you will die."

[Cynical Cat]

Jolan sat in front of the furnace and put down the books he was carrying. One pile was made of the three red folios he had taken from Herican's library. The other pile was made of four small notebooks.

He had distilled all the knowledge in Herican's grimoires into these books, omitting the heretical propaganda and the philosophy. He had also left out some of the basic warp craft that had been part of his instruction at Schola. It was a depressing commentary on the state of the Imperium that distilled chaos grimoires yielded more useful information than a similar amount of distilled Mechanicus technical manuals.

Gix hesitated for a moment. He had exhaustively studied these works. He was confident of his mastery of their contents. He had transcribed every iota of useful information. But this next step was irreversable.

So be it. He picked up the first folio, stroked its blood red leather for a moment, and then tossed it in the furnace. It's brothers followed it into the flames. There is it was done. He picked up his notebooks.

He would have to be careful about who he distributed copies too. Many of his fellow inquisitors would consider the content to be unacceptably radical. Their were some that would be safe to approach. Xanthites would be receptive, those radicals that believed in using the powers of Chaos to fight Chaos. They were-

He stopped. Not they. We. Sometime on Adraxis or Cyrus Gamma he had ceased to be a moderate Amalathian and started down the road to radicalism. So be it. He would do whatever he had to do to preserve the Imperium.

"Inquisitor," said Gard from behind him. Gix picked up his notebooks and stood up.

"Yes?"

"We've recieved news from Garidia. Hethor was abducted by a crimminal ring."

"Is he alright?"

"He managed to get a message through to the Officio Inquisitorus. They dispatched three kill teams. He's fine."

Jolan closed his eyes. "Good. We'll continue on course to Garidia and join up with Hethor."

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

"Master, I have news."

Adarin turned away from the colossal view port and faced his interrogator. "Yes?"

"I know where Jolan Gix will be in the next few weeks." Gix was hard to track. He extensively employed false names and disguises, operating sub rosa most of the time. By the time one knew where he was, Gix was already leaving. It made assassinating him rather difficult.

"Where?" Isran Toneval had been reckless. He should have accepted the the decision of the majority and then worked to kill Gix behind the scenes instead of outing him. But what was done was done. Now Adarin would cripple this radical infection that was threatening to corrupt the Progressives and avenge Isran in one stroke.

"Who do we have there who can act? Zacharus?"

"Yes."

"Excellent."

[Cynical Cat]

Gix layed down the cards of the Emperor's Tarot. He had become more proficient at reading them over the years. More times than not the hints they provided were actually useful, as oppossed to becoming clear after the fact. The pattern disturbed him.

The Magus, inverted, with the Soldier laying over top. Danger. Violence. A threat. From Hethor? Unlikely. But the reading was strong.

"Gard, stay back and kick your auspexes up. Danell, find us an inconspicous route."

The assassin nodded. "Are we expecting trouble?" Gard asked.

Gix looked down at the cards. "Unfortunately."

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

Zacharus waited patiently in his roost. Feeds from his auspexes were fed into his cogitator stack. While there were multiple approaches one could make to the Officio Inquisitorus building, there was only one route to and from the spaceport. Gix could avoid that if he docked with another ship and then took a dropship directly down, but he hadn't chosen to do that.

So Gix would either travel by ground vehilce or flyer to the Officio. A concealed anti-air missle launcher was ready for a flyer. Another launcher was lying beside him for a ground vehicle. He continued to wait.

A blip. A hunter-skull had picked them up at the space port. He checked the image. They were heading a public transport tube. Too bad he had thought of that as well.

An unusual choice. He wondered why the inquisitor had made that decision. Perhaps he was aware that he might be targeted. No matter. Either Zacharus would get his shot or he would continue to wait for an opportunity. He slid into the next room.

This one had a nice corner window. Including a view of where the entrance from the underground tube system emerged at street level in front of the Officio Building. Zacharus consulted the cogitator. It was monitoring the progress of the tube system. He settled down to wait and dispatched a hunter-skull to monitor the exit.

It was nearly twenty minutes before it arrived. He settled down behind the the sights of the long las. It was nearly a click away. Easily doable. He had loaded a hot shot cell. He only needed one shot.

The skull sent data to his cogitators. This close to the Officio building it wasn't out of place. He doubted anyone would look twice. Data streamed back. A probable. The holo system displayed the image.

Ah Gix. All these precautions and you still wear a long coat. Habits can get you killed in this business. This one just did. The crowd began to emerge. He waited.

It was too thick to tell for sure and everyone was moving. Twenty meters up the street and it had thinned out enough for Zacharus to pick his target. He dropped the crosshairs on Gix's upper back. "Good night, Jolan Gix." He fired.

Light flared around Gix. An active conversion field. They drained power like no one's business, but it might have saved Gix's life. The crowd milled around in a panic, many of them temporarily blinded by the conversion field's flash. They were also doing an excellent job of providing cover for Gix. Zacharus slipped in another hot shot pack.

The auspex display was showing that Gix's vitals were flatlining. So it hadn't saved him after all. Skulls were headed this way. The Inquisition took a professional interest in assassinations in its turf. Soon the area would be full of darting hunter and gun skulls. He checked Gix again. According to his hunter-skull, he had been dragged into a doorway by someone. Out of his line of fire.

Time wasn't on his side. Zacharus dropped the long las and began moving. As soon as he left these rooms, the melta bombs would slag everything. If Gix lived, he would have another shot.

[Cynical Cat]

Pain. Scorching pain mixed with fuzzy numbness. There was some piece of machinery stuffed into his mouth. Tubes in his throat. Air being pumped in and out. It hurt. Jolan's eyes flickered open.

He was lying in a bed attached to have several metric tons of machinery. Some kind of hospital room. Gard was looking down at him. "Inquisitor. I see you have regained consciousness. Try to relax. You were shot in the back and suffered serious injuries. I know its extremely uncomfortable at the moment, but without these machines you would be dead.

"The first thing you should be aware of is that your injuries are repairable. You should eventually recover something close to full function. Tissue cloning and advanced augmentics are both available.

"Now, I am sure you have questions and orders. That thing you feel attached to the back of your skull is an MIU. It links you with this speech unit. You should be able to communicate through it. It will probably take a little practice for you to get used to it."

Jolan concentrated. There was a burst of static and then words. The voice was monotone and sexless. "I . . . understand. I hear. . . you. Status?"

"Keys dragged you into a doorway after you got shot. Everyone else was uninjured. Hethor is fine. The scene was secured and examined, but it had been sterilized by melta bomb. The method was, hmmm, excessive. The building was structurely compromised and collapsed an hour latter. Forensics will probably yield nothing."

"Keys. Get . . . . me Keys."

"Of course, inquisitor." Gard retreated. A moment latter Keys came in.

"Inquisitor."

"Analysis of the assassination attempt."

Keys nodded. "They knew you were coming and when. Contingencies had to be put into place, depending on what mode of transportation was you chose. They had to have spies or monitoring devices rigged at the space port and along your route. They needed to know your ship. No one outside this building knew you were coming."

Gix tried to nod and couldn't. "Actions?"

"Doctor Vikal has personally supervised all of your medical treatment. Hunter and gun skulls under our command are present at all times. One of us is always present. It's been draining. Lord Clara Iridican isn't happy about this. At all."

"Her reactions?"

"Her own investigation. We have a list of names and histories of all of those who could have known. It is a surprisingly long list. Unfortunately, we haven't found any likely suspects."

"Program a cogitator. Voice command. Holo display. Set it up here."

"As you command Inquisitor. Permission to pursue my own avenues."

"Granted."

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

"Hey boss, you rang?"

"Yes Hethor."

"Gard says he can fix you up."

"Yes. Tell Keys that it was Raynard Trevoli."

"You sure?"

"Served under Lord Inquisitor Adarin Vance on Styxia. Adarin Vance was . . . . . ally of Isran Toneval."

"Okay," replied Hethor. He didn't know the details, but he didn't have to. Ever since Cyrus Gamma he had been getting a better idea on how the Inquisition worked and as far as he could tell "factionalized" was an understatement. "So he tipped off the assassin. Fed him the info."

"Probably. Tell Keys."

"Stalk him. Put them both in the ground. Got it boss."

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

"How is he?" asked Keys. The room had been swept less than an hour ago.

"Better," said Hethor. "He gave us the name of the link."

"Definite."

"Close enough for me."

"He is unlikely to contact the assassin directly. The assassin will only have a limited amount of equipment after that demo job. Resources will be at a premium, so he will be even more dependent on information from the source and preperation."

"So?"

"Take out the informant and the assassin can be easily avoided."