It was in the winter of 2677AL (local dating) that I realised things were never to be the same. There was no crashing revelation; no fanfare of clarity. It’s amazing that we are still surprised when silence ends with no sound.
Since my inception, I’d always thought I could make a difference, that I could protect and serve the people of the Imperium. But on that cold autumn day in the back waters of Gelessendr Province I realised I was standing on the edge of an ocean, shouting for the waves to stop washing the shore.
I remember how I felt that day. Empty. Empty and small. I’d fought so hard for so long to keep them safe and finally I’d succeeded. K’Mathaba was dead; his rebellion crushed. The Fleet was virus-bombing what was left of the heretic worlds across the Sector. Exterminatus was in commission. The war was almost done and so I’d come back to this ranch in the verdant foothills of Gelessendr.
Long into the inky black night I sat on that rock and watched the buildings burn. By moon-zenith a bed of embers remained. Maria’s body danced in the heat as she swung from the roof-tree support, a blackened marionette. I cried of course.
It’s said that we are heartless; that we feel nothing for those we readily condemn and that an emotional callous blunts all feeling. It is true that the instructors instil in us that Inquisitors must be ruthless. That the pursuit of right and justice will have innocent victims and we must steel our hearts against the fog of compassion. I am not alone among my peers in the breach of this teaching.
Maria did not deserve this. She was a good young woman and would have made a fine mother. Those who lit the torches would of course suffer for their crimes, but I knew the order had come from K’Mathaba and he was already dead. From the Warp’s Abyss he stabbed at me and his blade struck Maria. I’ve never had a daughter, but I think that day I knew a little of how it felt to lose one.
How hollow I was then. A deep gouge that cannot be healed by vengeance. The Emperor’s Vengeance we are; so the teachings dictate. But there on that chilled hillside, the utter futility of it became clear to me. Nothing would be the same.
***
Hopa Glau, a vast manufactorium planet under the auspice of the Cult Mechanicus sat at the heart of a production web across the whole Faisil Sub-Sector. The Inquisiton had been monitoring its activities for some time. The Askari Crusade was faltering and Logisticians of the Adeptus Administratum were blaming erratic supply deliveries from Hopa Glau for the failures on the front line. The Dorphian Fifth Legion were wiped out when their ammunition and replacement vehicle deliveries were delayed by two months. The Emperor’s Gaze, a 650,000 tonne battle cruiser had exploded at anchor when newly-fitted plasma generators ruptured. The entire garrison at Lhtorr starved to death for want of provision ships.
Administratum Director Tor Vahle requested the Inquisition investigate the situation and initial reports were not favourable. Eight months ago, production quotas from Hopa Glau began to steadily drop. Across all sectors, manufacturing output was down an average 24%. Inquisitor-General Lassa, a cautious and steady manipulator with a talent for divining and distilling the truth from vast data-stores, had until now conducted the investigations. His report made chilling reading.
Apparently I’ve acquired a reputation as Lassa requested me by name. It was with some trepidation that I approached his chambers in the spike of Spire Tosa on the hiveworld Moth. Two mirror-plated protocol servitors accompanied me in the plush burgundy elevator. The soft whirr of the ascent magnets hummed beneath the lilting piped music. The elevator slowed as it reached floor 1889 and the environment seals hissed to equalise the pressure. Finally the doors parted like felt curtains and I stepped inside.
Lassa sat informally at a large desk, his back to the entranceway. Scrolls and dataslates teetered in towers about the plush chamber and grey-clad scriveners bustled about him. To my left the servitor announced my presence in a warm female tone. Lassa threw down his work, leapt to his feet and hobbled over to greet me. His thick-set body, twisted with age, rolled beneath his beige house-robe but his eyes were bright and eager as he clasped my hand firmly.
‘Welcome, my boy!’ He beamed. ‘I’m glad you could make it, Inquisitor John Fastolf. I’m so pleased to meet you at last. I’ve followed your career with interest. Come, there is much to discuss’. He barked orders at the servants about him and platters of meat, pitchers of wine and bowls of fruit appeared, displacing maps and schematics from marble surfaces.
Taking a bowl of hayberries and a glass of orange wine I sat at his table, relieved of my frockcoat before I could protest. The old man took a clean-boned leg of bird-meat on a brass plate and called for a pile of data-slates.
‘Master Lassa’, I began.
‘Please, call me Crombe’, he insisted.
‘Crombe’, I continued, ‘I was wondering…’
‘…why I’ve requested you?’ He finished. ‘I’d have no other involved in this matter my boy. You have the efficient, disaffected manner of one who is resigned to his fate. You pursue all avenues without ego or concern for personal goals. You are consumately skilled at infiltration and at diplomacy, but also carry the prowess of a warrior. And…you are someone I can trust’.
I sat back and considered his words. Much could be drawn from my files or records of my actions. But he emphasised that he could trust me. I’d never met him before.
‘What is ‘this matter’?’ I enquired, ‘and please, call me John’.
‘You’ve read the preliminary reports I sent you?’ I nodded agreement. ‘Hopa Glau is in serious trouble. The production levels across all industrial sectors have dropped considerably. Exports have dropped further still, particularly in the weaponry divisions. Over the same period, hidden amongst some level-fourteen book-keeping, the import of raw materials has actually increased. What does this say to you John?’ Crombe’s furrowed brow piled up to his balding pate inquisitively. I could feel the wieght of the question; feel his probing assessment of my response even before I’d given it.
‘Difficult to say’, I stated calmly. ‘Without further evidence from Hopa Glau, any conclusion would be speculative at best. But its obvious that unless the Mechanicus Tech-Priests are hoarding raw materials, the discrepancy is between stated and actual production levels’.
Lassa regarded me for a moment and then flicked a switch on a dataslate at his fingertips. A holo-projector lanced moving light onto the far wall and I watched intently. The grainy image seemed to be of servitors, clad in the livery of the Cult Mechanicus, loading weapons into transport crates. The image flicked to a different location and these crates were shown loaded onto ground trucks which steadily trundled off into the distance. The backdrop was a vast rust-brown industrial complex. The image stopped suddeny.
‘These holo-picts were taken one hundred and four days ago by one of my agents on Hopa Glau’, Lassa stated flatly. ‘I understand that these weapons are not appearing on inventories for off-world deliveries’.
‘So the Cult leaders on Hopa Glau are arming their own security forces? Or selling them outside of Imperial trade agreements?’ I enquired half to myself.
‘That’s the matter I was speaking of’’, Lassa continued. ‘I would like you to help me. Magos Ankila rules Hopa Glau. Go there and speak with him’.
I bit deeply into a hayberry and considered the situation. Lassa had been moving his pawns for weeks. I was to be his first knight into the breach.
‘Give me two days’, I stated softly, ‘and I’ll go to Hopa Glau for you’.
***
I’ve always enjoyed flying. The atmo-craft on Tanata Secundus in particular were a pleasure, silently powered by gas ejectors, with glass-bottomed, passenger domes. The Tanatan air was also rich with atmospheric micro-flora. The whole experience was one of floating above the rich, emerald grasslands on a breeze of sweet odour.
The glide of space flight was also a joy as the vast Fleet vessels wallowed about and the planets and stars gently slid across the viewing windows.
Crossing the threshold was something different. Descending from upper orbit into a planetary atmoshpere was unconfortable at the best of times. Here, descending through the thick, acrid storm belts of Hopa Glau, our landing boat was shaking to its core. The engines whined in protest and I could feel the pilots fighting the controls to keep us level. Gripping the arms of my seat I watched the horizon for context of the trials to come. A thick tan vista suddenly vaulted up away from us as the flyer broke through the bottom of the upper clouds layer. It appeared as a great brown lid were sharply opened above us. We were descending much faster than I’d like. As the last greasy wisps cleared, the sickly yellow sky, dull and lifeless resolved into view. Stabbing up from below, a forest of smoke stacks and venting towers spewed filth into the air. Gas pressure pylons burned across the city. As we descended lower, the bright showers of metal foundrys burst and bloomed. Pallid yellow and green neon lights blinked from vast factory windows. Elevated trafficways choked with grey people and black vehicles, and everywhere, the black and white icon of the Adeptus Mechanicus proclaimed mastery over the whole bio-mechanical industry.
Like some great beetle, our landing boat yawed and swung as the pilots groped for the landing platform below and with a solid bounce we touched down. The engines juddered lower as I unbuckled and gathered my possessions. A harrowed, sweating pilot descended from the cockpit into the passenger compartment.
‘Apologies my Lord’, he spluttered, ‘ the cross-winds were horrendous’.
I placed a hand on his shoulder and thanked him for the safe landing before departing. Outside, the heat was stifling. Grit and flecks of grime spattered the air like rusty rain and the whole place smelled of acid and burned iron.
Shaking through the haze, a small emissary padded up to the landing platform. A dozen servitors, twisted and fused to their equipment shuffled behind. All were coated with rust-grit and streaked with sweat. A furnace wind blew a cloud of embers across the platform as I instructed the pilots to seal the hatches. They were to reopen them only for me.
The emissary approached to within five paces before bowing with shallow curtness. His skull was exposed along the left side of his head, the flesh hooked and pinned back. Several wires and tubes drilled through his bone and drooped away to connecting boxes about his person. Across his chest a vox-grill sat amid the Mechanicus icon. With a metallic growl, he opened proceedings.
‘Welcome to Hopa Glau Inquisitor Fastolf. Magos Ankila apologises that he is not here to greet you in person; he has been unavoidably delayed. We are instucted to escort you to your suite and to acquiesce to your requirements. Please follow’.
With that, the small creature turned on his heel and padded away. The servitors hunched about me, shooing me on as a child would a gaggle of geese. I caught the eye of one servitor, evidently a young female. Her face peered up from beneath a tank that bowed her back. Both arms were apparently replaced with wide tube-like appendages. Her eye was glazed with suffering.
I followed the emissary.
***
I was given a dignitary suite of the highest specifications. My every physical want was attended and many more services offered, some of questionable morality. Entertainment systems were without bound, the food without fault. My office facilities were exceptional and all in climate controlled holographic chambers that could replicate for me the semblance of any environment.
It truly was a velvet prison.
For three days Ankila’s emmissaries had attended to inform me the Magos was unavailable. Each day my irritation grew more intense although I hid it well. The game was afoot and I sensed I was being tested. Certainly I was being observed. I spent the time reviewing files I had fetched from the landing boat, conducting pointless administration, viewing Hopa Glau’s central records and watching the media for truths amid the propaganda. I could find little direct evidence but the more I studied, the less comfortable I became. Something was seriously wrong.
On the third evening, I dined well as usual. A comfort servitor named Sirene accompanied me for the meal and we talked well into the evening. I found her surprisingly good company and she seemed to exhibit an independence not common among the Cult Mechanicus. For several hours I almost forgot the tasks ahead. Although she was willing to stay longer I dismissed her around midnight and prepared for the morning’s events. My patience was gone. The subtle assessments were over. Tomorrow would see my first move to call their bluff. I had, up until that point been delayed and tested with all manner of underlings. Magos Ankila was assessing my reactions.
Many Inquisitors would simply have arrived in force, taken what they required and enforced the Emperor’s will. In my younger days I would have too, revelling in the absolute power. Long and often bitter experience has taught me however, that a more subtle approach often leads to more complete success. I had been subtle too long with Ankila.
So the morning came as greasy yellow light oozed through my balcony window. Industrial freight flyers chugged across my vista. I washed and consumed a light breakfast of sharp fruit and creamed tannine, read the morning media releases and dressed formally. I slipped a platinum-plated needle pistol into its holster beneath my robes and a brassed razor-knife into my belt. Valet servitors brushed and preened about me. The vox-pod bleated softly and I dismissed the servitors as I answered the call. Ankila had sent envoy Mesarrha and his coterie again. I invited them in, polite as ever.
The tall figure of Mesarrha swayed into the chamber, his thin angular face expressing no emoition. His hands were tucked into his sleeves and two mechdendrite tendrils snaked about his neck, fluttering and tasting the air. Three figures followed him. The first, a grey-clad woman, small of stature with a thick jowed face carried a bulky vox-staff. The second, an evidently young man straining under the burden of implanted recording devices. The last, a burly, shaved fellow apparently free of machinery. The burly man was new and had not accompanied Mesarrha on previous mornings. As he entered, a wave of nausea flooded over me as my Imperial senses suddenly dulled. My normal psychic fields collapsed and dissipated in his presence. I could sense nothing and that was most unsettling. I did not show it.
In a dry staccato voice Mesarrha began, ‘good morning Inquisitor Fastolf. I trust you had a pleasant evening once more’?
Of course he knew I had, the chamber’s surveillance devices were well concealed to those unaccostomed to noticing such things.
‘Yes, thank you Mesarrha. I assume you have come to give me good news this morning’. My response was a statement to be implemented, not a question to be answered.
Messarha hesitated slightly, ‘his excellency, Magos Ankila, once again sends his regrets. Board matters are most pressing and he apologises that he will be unable to meet with you today. He invites you to take full advantage of our hospitality and…’
With a swift stroke I drew my blade and sliced deeply across Messarha’s throat. Blood and implant oils spurted and sprayed about the chamber as the tall figure staggered and stumbled to his knees. Desperately he clawed at his severed oesophagus, gasping for breath and finding only wet gore.
Horrified, the three companions recoiled as their master slowly writhed and drowned in his own fluids.
Addressing the grey woman I stated calmly, ‘’I will see Ankila now’. Paralysed with shock she trembled in silence, her wide eyes darting for the exit.
The others backed away as I rushed forward and snatched the vox-staff from her. Half-concealed in my palm I levelled my blade at the larger man and ordered him out of the chamber. Sweat beaded on his horrified face as he backed out quickly. Like a warm blanket, my psychic sense returned. Immediately I scanned the ether and found two probing consciousnesses. I threw up barriers and returned my attention to the room.
I flicked the speaker switch and spoke softly into the vox staff, ‘Ankila, I will see you now’.
There was no reponse. I ordered Messarha’s remaining associates to leave the chamber. They scurried away, closing the door behind them.
Once again I flicked the speaker switch and repeated softly, ‘Ankila, I will see you now’.
I pitched the vox staff onto the table and drew my own communicator. I opened the channel to the shuttle crew, waited for the encryption protocols to cycle though and spoke directly, ‘acknowledge’.
A curt response crackled through the grill, ‘acknowledge. Your instructions sir’?
‘Target two haywire missiles on the communications pylon cluster designated ‘Target Alpha’, I instructed calmly.
‘Done’, the crew replied.
‘Fire’, I ordered.
From my destroyer in orbit, two slender lances flared and screeched down onto the planet below. Time crawled as I felt them approach, their passage almost a tangible strain upon the silence. My vista overlooked the targeted pylon cluster and I flickered a smile of release as the missiles struck. A crackling bloom of blue electrical energy discharged and arced about the impact, frying the pylon and shrieking through the systems connections. An entire sub-node of the Mechanicus conciousness burned and ruptured.
I could feel the wave of horror flood the ether. Ankila would come.
***
Time passed; time for me to initiate the required preparations.
Suddenly the entranceway opened and six armoured figures stormed in. White tabards stood in relief over their dull black carapace suits. Blank masks stared from behind their levelled las-guns.
‘Drop the knife’! The lead figure barked, his metallic voice distorted with endorphines.
With a thought I shredded his brain and he collapsed instantly. The others, too weak-minded to resist, obeyed my mental command, threw down their arms and stood at attention.
I could feel Ankila beyond the doors but all detail was blurred. A blank scar in the ether accompanied him.
A low, fluttering hum of suspensors whispered into the chamber as Magos Ankila entered. A floating life-throne hovered in, gouting steam and trailing umilical tubes connected to attendant servitors. Encrusted on its bio-bed, the shrivelled body of the Magos lay immobile. Curled into a foetal ball, the dried flesh gave him the appearance of a dessicated mummy. Tubes and catheters pierced him in bundles. The only movement from the living corpse was his left eye, that glared from its lidless socket. Respitrator bellows pumped rythmically as he regarded me for a brief moment.
A vox-grille cut it wetly over the respiration, ‘why did you do that’? Ankila demanded. ‘You killed six hundred and seven servants of the Blessed Machine’! The life-throne elevated slightly, its functions flaring audibly.
‘No Ankila’, I replied calmly, ‘you killed them. I am the Emperor’s emmissary. Your delay in meeting with me is a direct affront to Him, an affront that demanded retribution’.
Ankila emitted a throaty rasp. ‘I am here now’, he stated flatly. ‘What function does an inquisitor require of me’?
At my thought, the armed guards filed out of the chamber, leaving me alone with the Magos.
tbc
