Dark Omega - Twilightpeaks.net

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DARK OMEGA
A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
Felix M. Bloom
DARK
OMEGA
Books in the Maiden of Golgenna series:
Dark Omega (2014)
Parting the Veil (WIP – 2016)
Haegum (Working title – 2018)
Warhammer 40,000 Roleplay titles by the same author:
The Emperor’s Tarot: Divinations in the 41st Millennium (2013)
Encyclopaedia Calixis: A gazetteer of the Calixis sector (WIP – 2015)
(future release dates are of course tentative)
ii
DARK
OMEGA
BOOK ONE OF THE
MAIDEN OF GOLGENNA
Felix M. Bloom
TWILIGHTPEAKS PUBLISHING
www.twilightpeaks.net
iii
Copyright © 2014 by Felix M. Bloom
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be
reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written
permission of the publisher except for brief quotations.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book
are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
coincidental.
This book is Warhammer 40,000 fan-fiction. It is in no way associated with
or endorsed by Games Workshop, Black Library and/or Fantasy Flight
Games. As fan-fiction it is completely non-profit; I’ve done the writing in my
free time, without hope of compensation.
Creative Consultants: T. Vaage, Messiahcide, Metzler
Chief Editor: Felix M. Bloom
Editorial support and proofreading: Messiahcide, Metzler, Tristan, Dragon
Lord, LordPsycho
Cover art: Valentina Kallias, http://valentinakallias.deviantart.com/
Calixis map art: Black Library/Games Workshop
Available for digital download in .pdf format at:
http://twilightpeaks.net or http://darkreign.org
(physical copies might be available in limited quantities upon request)
Contact information: [email protected]
Community:
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Til Torleif.
For lang og tro tjeneste.
If you stare into the Abyss for too long;
whatever lurks down there will come for you.
- Inquisitor Tancred
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
DARK OMEGA ..................................................................................................................................................................... 1
Prologue The Realm of Chaos ...................................................................................................................................... 3
PART I THE TOME ......................................................................................................................................................... 15
Chapter 1 Connection .................................................................................................................................................. 17
Chapter 2 Gatekeeper .................................................................................................................................................. 26
Chapter 3 Blood and Death........................................................................................................................................ 33
Chapter 4 Of two minds .............................................................................................................................................. 42
Interlude Angel of Death............................................................................................................................................. 49
Chapter 5 My homeworld .......................................................................................................................................... 57
Chapter 6 Summer skiing ........................................................................................................................................... 64
Chapter 7 The snake in paradise ............................................................................................................................. 70
Chapter 8 The Great Architect.................................................................................................................................. 76
Interlude A girl named Salt........................................................................................................................................ 84
Chapter 9 Welcome to Thira ..................................................................................................................................... 90
Chapter 10 Gridlock...................................................................................................................................................... 96
Chapter 11 Pride and Heresy.................................................................................................................................. 102
Chapter 12 Gunboat diplomacy ............................................................................................................................. 107
Chapter 13 Recomplinace ........................................................................................................................................ 119
Interlude The Preacher ............................................................................................................................................. 129
PART II THE BOY ......................................................................................................................................................... 135
Chapter 14 Square one .............................................................................................................................................. 137
Chapter 15 The missing ingedient........................................................................................................................ 145
Chapter 16 Commissar’s orders ............................................................................................................................ 152
Chapter 17 City of Red Angels ................................................................................................................................ 161
Chapter 18 Heart of the sniper .............................................................................................................................. 167
Chapter 19 Brothers in arms .................................................................................................................................. 173
Chapter 20 The others ............................................................................................................................................... 181
Interlude Brother and Sister ................................................................................................................................... 181
Chapter 21 An accord ................................................................................................................................................ 193
Chapter 22 The Hand of God ................................................................................................................................... 204
Chapter 23 Librarian .................................................................................................................................................. 215
Chapter 24 Watchers ................................................................................................................................................. 220
Interlude The Maiden and the Captain ............................................................................................................... 226
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PART III THE KILLER ................................................................................................................................................. 233
Chapter 25 The Emperor’s Tarot .......................................................................................................................... 235
Chapter 26 Trigger finger ........................................................................................................................................ 244
Chapter 27 Gunmetal ................................................................................................................................................. 251
Chapter 28 The new recruit .................................................................................................................................... 258
Chapter 29 Guardsman for a day .......................................................................................................................... 267
Chapter 30 Only war .................................................................................................................................................. 274
Chapter 31 Goodbyes ................................................................................................................................................. 287
Interlude The Word .................................................................................................................................................... 298
Chapter 32 A new order............................................................................................................................................ 303
Chapter 33 In the zone .............................................................................................................................................. 313
Chapter 34 Holy ground ........................................................................................................................................... 324
Chapter 35 Security breach ..................................................................................................................................... 337
Chapter 36 The Cold Market ................................................................................................................................... 346
Chapter 37 Rite of passage ...................................................................................................................................... 353
Chapter 38 The Shadow of Thira .......................................................................................................................... 357
Interlude The fate of the heretic............................................................................................................................ 367
PART IV THE HAND .................................................................................................................................................... 375
Chapter 39 A long lunch............................................................................................................................................ 377
Chapter 40 Questions and answers ..................................................................................................................... 387
Chapter 41 Forbidden lore ...................................................................................................................................... 399
Chapter 42 Muster ...................................................................................................................................................... 412
Chapter 43 Voidsman ................................................................................................................................................ 423
Chapter 44 Natural selection .................................................................................................................................. 430
Chapter 45 Absalom ................................................................................................................................................... 437
Chapter 46 And then we were sixteen ................................................................................................................ 445
Interlude The Will ....................................................................................................................................................... 454
Chapter 47 The prize.................................................................................................................................................. 460
Chapter 48 Home, sweet home .............................................................................................................................. 467
Chapter 49 I am the weapon ................................................................................................................................... 472
Chapter 50 Taking stock ........................................................................................................................................... 485
Epilogue The man next to you ............................................................................................................................... 493
APPENDIXES .................................................................................................................................................................. 505
PARTING THE VEIL..................................................................................................................................................... 529
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PREFACE
The novel you are reading is the first book in a trilogy of Warhammer
40,000 fan-fiction. It is set in the gothic dark future galaxy created by Rick
Priestly et al and later expanded upon by countless other writers. More
specifically the trilogy is influenced by way the Imperium and the
Inquisition are portrayed in Dan Abnett’s Eisenhorn/Ravenor series and the
Warhammer 40,000 Roleplay game lines (the bulk of the action actually
takes place in and around the official Calixis sector setting).
There are probably as many interpretations of 40k as there are fans. Or,
as one particular 40k fan (that would be you Kage) puts it: YMMV – Your
Mileage May Vary. By Games Workshop’s own definition of canon there is
room for pretty much anything in 40k, which I think is only right and
proper for a setting that originally had an Inquisitor character named
Obiwan Sherlock Clousseau! If you want to explore the idea further, Gav
Thorpe has a particularly good post on his blog that covers the subject:
http://mechanicalhamster.wordpress.com/2010/01/21/jumping-the-fence/
So how is my interpretation of the setting? The easiest way to find out
would be to read the novel, but here goes:
It is more old school than new. I was one of those kids that were around
to pick up the original Warhammer 40,000: Rogue Trader when it was
available in game stores. The setting has evolved since then, and so has my
interpretation of it, but I still hold on to many of the old ideas.
It is more (hard) science fiction than steampunk-fantasy in space. Space
Marines are fanatical, indoctrinated killers, not space knights. Power
armour is incredibly complex and advanced, not akin to steam-powered
plate mail. Orks aren’t funny green things playing with teeth, but
warmongering aliens, armed to the teeth.
ix
It’s not (only) about the action, it’s (also) about the people. The galaxy
isn’t inhabited by comic book figures, but by real people, trapped in a
violent, dystopian future. They are you – and me – transplanted tens of
thousands of year into the future, where they must live under the cruellest
and most bloody regime imaginable. There is going to be loads of action,
but there will also be scenes that focus on who it’s like to live in such grim
and dark times.
But enough of what this book is and isn’t: Hopefully you can enjoy the
novel regardless of differences in canonical opinion!
Why would I spend a lot of time (we’re talking hundreds of hours) and
effort producing fan-fiction? Firstly I’ve had a soft spot for the setting since
the early Warhammer 40,000: Rogue Trader days. Secondly I do enjoy
writing in and of itself (it’s been a LOT of fun). Thirdly I figured I could use
the training, since I’ve never tried writing a full novel before (the learning
curve was steep, but I’m rather pleased with the end result).
English is not my native language, but I’m fluent enough that I don’t think
you’d actually notice (if I hadn’t written this). As a writer of noncommercial fan-fiction I haven’t had access to the resources professional
writers do, but I’ve gotten creative input, editorial aid, and proofreading
support from my friends and fellow fans. Without them the quality of the
novel would be greatly reduced, so thanks a lot for your aid!
If you’d like to know if the story will be continued, I’ll give you an honest
answer: Yes! I have plans for two additional novels (work is already
underway). The first one should appear in 2015 or early 2016. It will be
called Parting the Veil and will continue the story of Haxtes training – and
eventual recruitment into the Inquisition – as well as explore Marcus’
travails with the tome and the real galaxy. I hope to have a third book,
working title Haegum, done by 2017 to wrap up the story arc.
x
Note that part of the narrative is written from the 2nd person perspective,
which is kind of unusual for a work of fiction. The choice of a 2nd person
narrative is not coincidental. For one the novel is a sort of tribute to roleplaying games in general, and 40,000 RPGs in particular; in role-playing
games the 2nd person narrative is very common. Secondly it has to do with
the way the novel’s two main characters interact. Read on and you’ll
understand why the 2nd person narrative makes more sense that the
traditional 3rd person point of view.
The novel is intended for a semi-mature audience. There is strong
language, brutal violence, and sexual references (nothing too graphic)
throughout.
Oh, and I do hope you enjoy the book…
B.
xi
xii
It is the 42nd Millennium of Man. For more than a hundred
centuries the God-Emperor has sat immobile upon the Golden
Throne of Terra. He is the master of mankind by right of his own
indomitable will, the lord of a million worlds by the might of his
inexhaustible armies, and guardian of humanity's future by
virtue of his unfailing wisdom and foresight. He is a God to whom
a trillion prayers are uttered every second. He is a rotting
carcass, writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of
Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium to whom a
thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never
truly die. Yet even in this deathless state, the Emperor continues
his eternal vigil. Mighty Imperial battlefleets cross the dreadful
miasma of the Immaterium, the only route between distant stars,
their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of
the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on
countless worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus
Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors.
Their comrades in arms are legion; the inexhaustible armies of
the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the
unflinching enforcers of the Adeptus Arbites, the ever-vigilant
Inquisition, and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to
name but a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely
enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics,
mutants, witches – and worse. To be a man in such times is to be
one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most
bloody regime imaginable. Forget the power of technology and
science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned.
Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for there is no
peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and
slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
xiii
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DARK
OMEGA
1
2
PROLOGUE
THE REALM OF
CHAOS
Beyond our universe exists another realm, one quite unlike our own
placid reality. It is a place of strange energies and infinite dimensions,
where the very laws of nature are inconstant and mutable. It is a place of
promethean creation and unbridled entropy; a furnace of creation and a
maelstrom of destruction. It is a place of ideals, dreams, and emotions – and
of corruption, nightmares, and insanity.
This place has many names: the Warp, the Empyrean, the Immaterium,
the Great Beyond, the Spirit Realm, the Dreamlands, the Otherworld, the
Abyss, Hell, to name but a few.
But to those that know it best, it is simply:
The Realm of Chaos.
It is where starships must go if travellers wish to cross the void between
the stars, without taking lifetimes to reach even their closest stellar
neighbours. It is the place from which psykers – humans gifted with
preternatural powers of the mind – draw their power. It is – some
philosophers and priests claim – the place the dreaming mind touches upon
when we sleep, and where the souls of the departed go after death.
3
PROLOGUE THE REALM OF CHAOS
This realm of chaos is also home to strange forms of life and patterns of
thought, all of them utterly alien to Man. Most of these creatures are little
more than feral beasts that swim through the endless depths of the
Immaterium, feeding off the wild energies of the Warp. Others are
predators who prey on their own kind, primordial and dangerous, but
mercifully mindless beyond base animal cunning and killer instinct.
But there are those that dwell on the other side who are different from
their more primitive kin: Monstrous creatures of brutal intelligence and
pure malevolence. Consumed by an insatiable hunger they desire nothing
more than to cross over into our world, to feed upon the lifeblood and raw
emotions of Mankind.
They are:
The Daemons of Chaos.
--From the beginning it had known it was different. The others had either
been docile and oblivious, or ravenous monsters possessing only the basest
of bestial instincts. Even the larger, more intelligent ones lacked true
purpose. Beyond preying on their lesser kin they craved nothing, thought
nothing.
But it was different; it had this bottomless pit inside that could not be
filled, no matter how much it fed upon the other creatures of the warp.
A singular thought occurred to it:
I hunger, therefore I am.
For aeons it swam the Empyrean, before it slowly became aware of the
Other Side. There, just beyond its reach, behind an accursed barrier of
orderly natural laws, lay the lands of honeyed succour. Endless fields of
sweet nectar; the narcotics of pure emotions and the rapturous energies of
life. Its hunger grew even greater.
4
DARK OMEGA
Slowly it pieced together the lore of this other place. It was indeed
possible for one such as it to cross over and feast. Not an easy task, to be
sure, but others of his kind had done it, and the feat could be repeated. But
try as it might, it could find no path through the barrier. Every time it tried,
the door was barred, one way or the other.
It had hungered for an eternity before it finally had its chance. A tiny
bubble of that other place it could not reach, drifting aimlessly upon
immaterial tides in the wake of a monstrous tempest. It approached the
bubble in high spirits. It had learned from another Empyrean wanderer
that the bubble was adamantly strong and seemingly impervious, but that
sometimes a tiny crack could be found.
It was not a patient being, for it desired nothing more than instant
gratification, but the long ages had made it nothing if not persistent. It
waited and watched, until finally the tiniest of flaws was revealed: Barely
large enough to slip through, and existing so briefly it might as well not
have been there at all. But it was ready; with improbable speed it grabbed
hold of the moment and willed passage through the crack.
On the other side wonder waited: A veritable fountain of emotions; raw
fear, desperate hope, lecherous desire, pure anguish, prolonged suffering,
acute pain, bleak hopelessness – so many flavours to taste!
This magnificent cacophony of activity and mirth emanated from the
strange little creatures that resided at the centre of the bubble, huddled
together inside a sarcophagus of inert reality. Already it could hear their
minds crying out, speaking in unfamiliar tongues, conveying exotic and
exhilarating information about the wonders of the other side.
The things inside were Men of the Earth, travelling through the Warp
aboard a Voidship, hoping to reach another World upon which to settle. Its
interest in the other side grew greater – as did its hunger.
5
Now that it had pierced the barrier, it sought to find a host that it could
possess. It knew that possession was an essential part of any expedition
into that other place. It had – at no small cost – bargained away this lore
from the Keeper of Secrets, the wisest of its kind. Without a host to possess,
the Keeper had explained, no daemon would be able to exist in the physical
universe for very long.
The hull of the stranded voidship proved an unanticipated difficulty;
even the raw energies of entropy would take too long to eat through metres
of battle-steel and warding circuitry. Getting turned back now was
unacceptable. Such an opportunity as this might never come again, not
even for one as long-lived as it.
A little trial and error saw it finding a way through. By altering its form
to become a creature of volatile, exotic energy that existed out of phase
with the structure of the Man-Ship, it was able to pass through the skin of
the voidship unimpeded.
It manifested in the depths of the vessel, taking on a shape it felt was
more conductive to possession, a semi-translucent spectre of hellish fire
and hoarfrost, of fanged tentacles and devouring lamprey-mouths.
The Man-Things grew even more frantic when they realized it was
among them. This only added to its already insatiable appetite. Was there
really no end to the wonders of this place?
A few fought back, but it mattered not, for none possessed the
unflinching will or the weapons required to fight a hell-spawn made of
nothing but hunger, frost, and flame. Others fell to the floor, insane with
fear, juicy morsels, to be snacked upon in passing, or left for later feasting.
Most ran; they could run, but there is no hiding in the cold tomb that is a
voidship lost at warp.
6
DARK OMEGA
After the first spree of mayhem it remembered the words of the Keeper:
possession is nine tenths of a successful manifestation. Its focus so restored
it stopped slaying, and started possessing. The first attempts went awry.
Some bodies fell apart before it could fully assert itself. Other bodies that it
tried to wear were hacked apart, blown to pieces, or burned to cinders –
the little flesh-things had rallied and now extruded a euphoric admixture of
fear and courage. This was much more difficult than it had anticipated. Had
perhaps the Keeper left out a few of the secrets of successful possession?
It could feel its form starting to come apart, its energies leaking away
into the waiting Immaterium. Anger arose like a sudden warp-storm; it had
been deceived! With anger came new purpose, and for a while it clung to
existence through sheer fury alone. It renewed its efforts to find a suitable
host. Finally it got the possession right; it came across a particularly
welcoming mind, and this time it slid home, like a hand into a glove!
It feasted. It gorged on flesh and blood. It devoured souls. It draped itself
in skin and bone. Hundreds of Man-Things fell before it, each a unique and
delicious treat. Still it hungered. It fed some more. Hundreds became
thousands. Their fear was think and heavy now, a sweet syrup that slowly,
but surely filled the black hungering pit. This was life the way it was meant
to be lived, a true body walking the true universe, doing what it willed,
feeding as it pleased.
Then the unthinkable happened. The sack of flesh and blood that was its
new body somehow found the strength of will to banish it back into the
Warp. Impossible! Unthinkable! Inexcusable! Oh, how it raged at its own
sudden impotence.
As the hunger grew anew, it contemplated only one thing; to return…
---
7
Being banished had turned out to be the best thing that could have
happened to it. Without banishment it would have been trapped: Bound
within a body of flesh, confined inside the metal skin of the voidship, lost in
the Immaterium. Trapped. If not exactly for all eternity, then for a very long
time indeed. Long enough for a daemon to become weak of form and dull of
mind, to slowly slide down into bestial obliviousness again, to no longer
have the clarity of mind to know what it hungered for. A fate much, much
worse than mere destruction.
More stuff the Keeper had failed to mention. When next they crossed
paths there would be a reckoning: One that the insipid clawed daemon
would not leave intact. It would take the form of a horned dark fire. It
would slither forth in utter silence and secrecy, to fall upon the
unsuspecting Keeper of Secrets with unbridled fury. It would impale its
enemy upon a hundred spikes and tear it limb from limb. It would feast on
the remnants, and relish as it devoured the last bits of the Great Liar.
Being banished provided other advantages as well. It allowed the
possessor to truly appreciate the limitations of the flesh. Yes, the real world
was a wonderful place of life and emotion. Yes, wearing a body was an
exhilarating experience in and of itself – and the only way to remain on the
other side for very long. But with the wearing of flesh came so many
limitations, especially if you wanted the host body to endure for any length
of time. Which any half-clever daemon most likely did; good hosts were
hard to find, as it had experienced first-hand aboard the great colony ship
Absalom.
The body limited it physically. The Warp was not really a place for
physical prowess. So it was only natural that while on the other side one
would want to really flex some otherworldly muscles. Play around a bit;
enjoy the unfamiliar feeling of wearing a body. Unfortunately this was a
8
DARK OMEGA
sure way to ruin the host. First the flesh would twist and transform, and
eventually become unstable and unusable. You could toss the man-things
around of course, move like the storm, and catch bullets with your teeth –
but beyond that you risked ruining the host.
The body limited it psychically. Any possessing entity retained the ability
to utilize Warp energies, but the physical world placed such stringent
limitations upon its use. Running amok with the Warp as your cudgel could
burn out even a good host in no time at all. Cunning whispers into the
minds of the weak-willed, a little hoarfrost and hellfire, stepping through a
wall or flying across a chasm – these things it could do without ruining the
host, but no more.
The body limited it mentally. Last but not least. Its mind was quite
literally no longer its own, no longer free of worldly constraints. It was now
forced to work with whatever passed for a mind among the flesh-things. It
didn’t feel so different then and there; while aboard the ship it has felt as
cunning as ever. It was only afterwards it realized how dumbed down it
had been. Forced to focus on the now, reduced to thinking about one thing
at time. Unless you had experienced it for yourself it would be impossible
to comprehend how limited a possessed mind really was.
The experience of possession had taught it more about the other side
than the Keeper of Secrets had ever known, ever would know. It had made
it realize that while possession was a nice way to experience reality, it was
not the magic wand it had been made out to be. It had its uses, but there
had to be another, better way, a way to enjoy the benefits, with none of the
limitations.
If there was such a way, it would find it. If there was not, it would make
one.
--9
It hungered terribly now. The hunger was actually far worse now that it
knew it could be sated. Irony the man-things would have called it, but they
would have been wrong. It was simply the way of things – the universe was
a cold and uncaring place. Irony was but a way to excuse cruel reality.
The key to its release was the Race of Man. Weird as it might sound; the
fleshy emotional things on that voidship symbolized the future. They were
numerous, and growing more so with every passing moment. They were
brightly energetic and emotional.
And every last one of them had a door hidden in the deepest, darkest
corner of their minds, a door leading to the other side, to the Warp.
Preciously few had the ability to open that door, but more would come in
time, of that it was certain. Man was too exuberant and inquisitive to
remain static. Whatever Man wasn’t, he would strive to become.
There were other races of course, had been others, would be others. But
their presence paled in comparison to the dark promise that Humankind
held. Now there was a true secret, a secret worthy of a Keeper. Speaking of
which, without the trickery of the Desirous One, the subsequent possession,
and the banishment, it would never have realized any of this. Now, there
was an example of true irony, irony a human would have approved of.
It laughed then, a deep throaty laugh. A laugh that had never been heard
around those parts before. A human laugh.
It would be patient. It would learn. It would understand. It would plan. It
would succeed. But first things first. Another thing it had learned from Man.
First it had a Keeper of Secrets to take care of.
--Names hold great power.
It hadn’t really given that fact much consideration. Not before the Keeper
had, in utter desperation, given it a name of its own. The Keeper was funny
10
DARK OMEGA
that way; it knew all sorts of stuff, but it was loath to share in the first place,
and if you got it talking it invariably left out key pieces or twisted the facts
around to confuse things.
Only when all other options were exhausted, could the Keeper be
counted upon to speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. Keeper of
Secrets. Keeper of Half-truths or Keeper of Lies would both be more apt
names for it. Were all Daemons of Chaos like that? Scoundrels and habitual
liars?
And even if you could get the solicitous daemon to speak the truth, it was
only the truth as far as the Keeper knew it. That was another important
lesson. For all its wisdom and knowledge, the Keeper didn’t know
everything. And some of what it thought it knew wasn’t even true.
Balphomael the Keeper of Secrets had whispered, even as it writhed in
the grip of a score horned tentacles of dark fire. Such a simple little
combination of syllables. But it had rung true, even within the chaotic
maelstrom of the Warp.
It had heard and it had known: It was it no longer. It was Balphomael. It
had always been, it just hadn’t known before.
Balphomael. That was its true-name. The core of its being. The beginning
and the end. The sum that was greater than all the parts combined.
Balphomael. That was its true-name. Or at least part of it. He had heard
that name uttered and felt the power it held; the unspoken promise of
bondage and servitude. He understood that there was more, that his full
True Name was longer, that he’d just heard the first part of it.
Quick as a snake he had smothered the Keeper, preventing it from
speaking any more. He had pondered the situation for a while: He could
perhaps have coerced the poor Keeper of Secrets into telling the rest of his
secret names – if the daemon knew them at all. But in doing so he would
11
have given the Keeper unprecedented power over himself. It was too
dangerous. Under no circumstances would he allow himself to be ruled by
another, no matter how powerful. No one must know all his secret names,
no one but Balphomael himself.
He had looked at the Keeper one final time. There was no further use for
it; time for it to go away. With a mighty heave his black tentacles had
constricted, crushing the daemon’s frail empyrean body. He had then pulled
with all his might, tearing the Great Liar into pieces that slowly unravelled
as they drifted away on immaterial tides.
One does not try to trick or bind Balphomael and walk away unscathed!
--There had to be a way. There had to be a way to enjoy the other side,
without any of the limitations of possession. He thought long and hard:
Once again he concluded that the future lay with Men. All Men had names of
their own. And they were constantly naming other things. Man was the
solution. Men could be harnessed to find the rest of its true names, one by
one, and offer them up in tribute.
The plan was deceptively simple. It would offer up the one part of its
name that was known, Balphomael, and then bide the humans find another
piece. It would be careful than none of the humans ever learned more than
two pieces of its true name. As soon as their task was done he would
eliminate them and find another group to serve him. There were more than
enough humans to choose from. Slowly, but surely it would piece its full
true name together.
But where to start? It occurred to Balphomael that he didn’t really know
any humans. Not anymore. There had been that voidship of course, that
time he had crossed over and feasted. But that was so long ago. Thinking of
it only made his hunger all that much worse.
12
DARK OMEGA
Then it dawned: The ship was the key here. The vessel had made it to its
destination. The Keeper had professed as much when it was questioned
under torture. The original crew would be dust and ashes now, but humans
had a tendency to replicate though a hideous process they called mating. Or
lovemaking. Or fucking. Or a thousand other names.
The original crew would be dead, but their progeny would still be out
there, somewhere among the stars. It just had to find them. But even to a
creature born of Chaos, the galaxy is a pretty big place. Ignoring the
gnawing hunger, he thought back at those glorious hours aboard the
human vessel. The voidship called Absalom had come from a far-away place
called Terra. Earth, the cradle of Mankind. The ship had been en route to a
distant corner of the galaxy, a place where Man had not ventured before. To
a place they called the Calyx. He remembered as much from his time
possessing the body Nikodemus, the Absalom’s navigator.
Calyx. The name was apt. A cup that would gather his true names.
Balphomael would follow where the ship had gone and he would find
this place called Calyx. He spread his dark wings wide and let the winds of
the Immaterium carry him towards the edge of the galaxy. Past the
domains of the Eldar he flew, giving the place a wide berth – the late
Keeper had allies in that place, and great forces were in play that
Balphomael didn’t fully understand. Unlike the Keeper of Secrets he didn’t
delude himself as to his own omniscience; he knew a whole lot, but there
was even more he didn’t know. Pretending to be wise didn’t make you so.
As he flew Balphomael thought about the humans. The more he thought,
the more he liked them. Not just as slaughter animals for him to feast upon.
No, humans were much more than that. If treated correctly they would
serve him well and bring him what he desired, with none of the limitations
of the flesh.
13
They are my salvation, he though, so I shall make them worship me.
14
PART I
THE TOME
15
16
CHAPTER 1
CONNECTION
You fight to maintain control of your body, but excitement gets the better
of you. The treasonous flesh betrays your inner turmoil: A slight dilation of
the pupils. A minute increase in respiration rate. An almost imperceptible
tremor of the hands. All indicators of elevated stress levels. Nothing a
casual observer would notice. But you are not under casual observation;
you are under the most careful scrutiny ever devised by man, and if your
watchers were to suspect…
With the mental equivalent of a shrug you put your all too human
worries out of your mind, and focus on the great tome before you. It sits
silent upon a lectern, its mysteries kept safe between closed covers. The
lectern is in turn clasped between the inhumanly strong arms of one of the
librarium’s silent servitors. This cybernetic slave to humanity is but one of
many such automatons belonging to the librarium. Its singular task is to
retrieve and display books considered too precious – or too dangerous – to
be handled directly by visitors.
For a moment you wonder where the servitor’s fleshy parts came from. A
vat-grown clone, a criminal sentenced to death, or perhaps an unusually
clumsy data-scribe’s apprentice. It’s immaterial of course – the servitor is
no longer human, no more than any other machine. It just has a few organic
leftovers indicating its biological origin, that’s all.
17
CHAPTER 1 CONNECTION
Closer inspection reveals the servitor to be an old and ugly thing. Well
maintained, but undeniably worn and showing the clearest sign of long
service: No external biological parts. A full plasteel shell, made to ape the
human form and function. Not ape too closely though, for trying to replicate
humanity in all its glorious detail is a great and unforgivable sin. A technoheresy rigorously persecuted by the machine priests of the Adeptus
Mechanicus and the agents of the Inquisition alike.
This particular specimen lacks a visible mouth. No orifice, no lips. Just
smooth composites coated in skin-like polymer resin. For a moment you
wonder if the absence of a mouth is symbolic or practical.
If the servitor is called upon to communicate it would do so through a
vox-link or audio synthesizer. Nutrients are fed to it through a standard
template sustenance port. So a mouth feature is really just useless
extravaganza, a waste of space and resources – and the Red Priests of Mars
don’t particularly care for waste.
Yet most servitor patterns still have mouths, even if they have no real
need for them. The reason is a very simple one. Men interact more easily
with those they perceive as similar to themselves – even if ‘they’ are
machines, rather than true men. Thus it follows that servitors should take
on forms that are inoffensive to humans. Hence the mouths.
This particular archivist model, however, doesn’t just lack an actual
mouth. It doesn’t even try to pretend to have one. Not even a pair of
painted lines, made to look like a pair of pinched-shut lips. You suppose it is
a fitting symbology for a librarium servitor that handles the most delicate
of secrets. No mouth, no telling.
Your anticipation is playing tricks on your otherwise so orderly mind. It
seems even one as supremely disciplined as yourself cannot help but be
18
DARK OMEGA
elated at the culmination of an epic odyssey. You kill the distracting lines of
thought and return to the matter at hand.
You are in one of the eternally silent reading chambers on the Thirteenth
Tier of the Second Library of Knowing. The thirteenth, and final, tier of the
inverse pyramid that constitutes the physical structure of the library,
buried deep beneath the overbuilt metal surface of one of the great flying
cities of Bokiba-Bapas. The capital of the Bapas subsector is located on the
spinward fringes of the vast reaches of the Finial sector, thousands of light
years from the location of the original Library of Knowing. Very few people
know of the librarium’s existence, fewer still are allowed inside, and access
to the secrets of the final tier are restricted to an elite few.
The private reading chamber is a circular room, some fifteen steps
across. Immaculately cut and polished tiles of midnight-coloured slate on
the floor. White-and-gold alabaster covers the walls and the domed ceiling.
Rich carvings adorn every surface, conjuring forth scenes from this or that
great work of human imagination. Heroic figures slaying twisted monsters,
hideous serpents, and great dragons dominate. Plus a smattering of epic
scenes from the Battle of Terra. And – somewhat out of place – one very
lustful lady, her body confounding petite and shapely at the same time,
frolicking her way through a bewildering array of lovers, male and female
alike.
The carvings are reminiscent of some of the images from todays’ reading
of the Emperor’s Tarot. Speaking of which, you only had time for a quick
seven-card Throne of Terra spread this morning. The spread was rather
momentous, if a little hard to interpret, given your present hurried
schedule. Now you realize it was but a foreshadowing of this moment. It
goes to show the deep and subtle influence the God-Emperor has over all
that transpires within His domain.
19
The Inquisitor, in the guise of a heroic warrior. The same warrior that
battles a great, horned darkness on these very walls. The Pilgrim, eerily
similar in appearance to yourself on this day. The Stranger, hooded and
robed. You’ve spotted him lurking in several of the wall-scenes. The
Assassin, strangely armoured and wielding a tall, bloody spear. Just like the
one looking down on you from the ceiling. The Titan, in the guise of the
Eternity Gate, the great doorway into the Imperial Palace. Almost an exact
match of the depiction you see right before you. The Martyr, standing tall
before unspeakable monsters. Reminiscent of several of the heroes that
decorate these walls. The Unclean One, reversed by the looks of it, in a very
rare display of purity. The lustful lady on the wall carvings – she’s the girl
from the tarot card. Pure in a physical sense then, but not entirely innocent.
The chamber is otherwise bare, save a small raised platform upon which
you stand, facing the lectern-servitor. The tome sits right there, within
reach of your hand. It has taken you years, and your master a fortune in
Thrones paid and favours collected, to get to the great work of Inquisitor
Melbinious.
Just confirming the existence of the tome was a monumental piece of
work. It became more difficult after that. It proved impossible to access the
book while it remained in the possession of the Calixian Conclave. Much
wrangling and subterfuge was required to make the Calixian Ordos decide
to transfer it into the custody of the Second Library of Knowing. An epic
venture indeed!
The Lords of the Conclave had finally relented in the face of temptation.
Full access to the librarium’s archives had been too sweet a deal for the
always secrets-hungry Inquisition to resist. Kind of ironic when you knew
that much of the lore held by the Second Library had secretly been
removed from the original Library of Knowing on Calixian Fenksworld,
20
DARK OMEGA
before its destruction at the hands of the very organization that now craved
that same information.
This too you push out of your mind. There is no time to waste on
humorous remembrancing. You beckon for more light and the three
spherical drones hovering above you realign themselves slightly on silent
anti-grav coils, and increase the power of their illuminators by twohundred fifty-four percent, bathing the reading chamber and the raised
platform upon which you stand in pale, green-white light.
Like so many of the things made by Man each drone is graced by the
likeness of a skull. In this case a stylized human skull, cunningly wrought
into their polished metal bodies. More symbology. No wonder the citizendregs call them servo-skulls. To you the skulls are stark reminders that the
drones are not simply glorified reading lamps, but also silent watchers with
a singular purpose: to look for the slightest sign of deviation and report
back to the unseen auditors tasked with assessing your moral integrity.
No doubt the servo-skulls carry weapons inside their silvery skull-hulls,
ready to be instantly deployed if a remote command is given. Certainly they
carry miniaturized needle guns, loaded with a variety of toxins, some
designed to knock you out, others to eat through your neurons. Perhaps
they also carry something more drastic, should ultimate sanction be
required. Implosion bombs, hellfire canisters, or hyperfragmentation
warheads. Powerful weapons, capable of instantly killing anyone – or
anything – inside the chamber.
And the reading chamber itself can be sealed off with a blast door and
quickly filled with plasmatic fire. Fire that will quickly and unrelentingly
incinerate anything caught within. It would destroy whatever was being
perused, but the rest of the librarium would be untouched. Sacrifice one
21
piece so that the rest might endure. How eerily similar to the work ethic of
the Holy Orders of the God-Emperor’s Inquisition.
Drones you can deal with, no matter what weapons they carry. And when
death finally comes for you, it won’t be fire that claims you, of that you are
certain. But there will be no cause of violence. Focus and calm. Give them
no reason to suspect.
The tome measures 89.5 times 58.2 Imperial centimetres, with an
average overall thickness indicating that it contains approximately one
thousand six hundred and forty pages made up of psychoactive liquid
wafers, similar to those found in the cards of the oracular Emperor’s Tarot.
It is so much more than just a book. It is a work of genius. Something
unique in a galaxy already filled to capacity with every wonder and terror
ever conceived. There will be words on every page. No doubt elegantly
written and eloquently phrased. But it is what lies hidden beneath the lines
of text that are of interest to you. Embedded inside the crystal matrix is the
real message. A psychic recording, accessible to a psyker with the right
skills, and the desire to hear what forbidden lore the late Inquisitor
Melbinious concealed between the covers of his tome.
Where did Melbinious find someone with the means and the will
required to make this artefact? Psychic recorders aren’t all that rare, but
this one is at the very least two orders of magnitude more complex than
what can usually be had, even for well-connected Telepathica adepts.
You’ve trawled so many archives, pursued so many other lines of inquiry,
but you never found anyone capable of such a feat.
The components alone must have cost a fortune. And not just any fortune
– even the Imperial Governor of a modest hive world would be hard
pressed to finance such a thing. Sheets of psychoactive material; normally
they cannot be had at all. Not though standard channels, anyway. The
22
DARK OMEGA
Adeptus Astra Telepathica maintains a tight grip on the production and
distribution of such things. So how did he amass what must amount to
materials for hundreds of tarot decks?
You never really found out. Ultimately none of it matters. Who cares who
made it, how it was done, or in what manner it was financed? The book is
here. You are here. That is what matters!
Upon the cover of the tome are written words in simple High Gothic, the
gold filigree lettering contrasting starkly against leather so darkly red it
nearly becomes a shade of black:
Ascensio
- vitam et regeneration, de Inquisitor Melbinious
‘Ascension, the life and rebirth of Inquisitor Melbinious.’ It’s no doubt the
rebirth part of the work that has made this such a restricted piece of
literature. Melbinious was a rather colourful Inquisitor, with a long and
distinguished career, who held to some quite radical views on certain
matters, including the nature of the so-called Tyrant Star – and, more
interestingly, the extension of life beyond the normal human lifespan. He
eventually had a falling out with the Calixian Conclave over matters of
doctrine. He was ordered to halt his research into forbidden lore, and in
anger he resigned from the Tyrantine Cabal, and turned his back on the
Conclave. Or so the evidence – such as could be found – has told you.
There was talk of having Melbinious declared rogue following his
resignation, but he disappeared from the public eye shortly thereafter. The
matter was eventually laid to rest, without any conclusions being drawn. It
23
was generally assumed that the shadowy masters of the snubbed Cabal had
eliminated their troublesome colleague, without further ado.
You’re not so sure about that. Inquisitors are extremely loath to turn on
others of their kind, lest they open the floodgates of violence and find
themselves embroiled in internecine war. And there are indications that
Melbinious may have boarded a voidship and set course for the Koronus
Expanse, never to return to the Imperium.
Be that as it may. Before his death – or disappearance – Melbinious
commissioned this special piece of work. An interactive psychoactive tome,
detailing his life – and his discoveries. Everything is in here, all the
forbidden lore he amassed throughout his career. But the great prize is the
promise of eternal life. Not something the masters of the Holy Ordos would
want spreading around. But not something they would want to destroy
outright either.
So they slapped the Dark Omega on it, and hid it away in the secure
physical info-tombs beneath the Tricorn Palace on Scintilla, the high seat of
the Calixian Conclave. But you found it, and aided by human greed you got
access to it. Soon all the secrets of Inquisitor Melbinious will be revealed.
You reach forward and slowly open the cover. There is the soft creek of
stiff leather. Incorrect storage is to blame. You would know. You had the
book entered using an incorrect index key.
The first page holds only a short dedication, this time in a readily
recognizable dialect of Low Gothic:
With thanks, my Maiden.
By your grace we are remade.
24
DARK OMEGA
Multiple meme-threads start to form in the cognitive areas of your mind:
Who is this Maiden? The Virginis Golgenna, the Maiden of Golgenna, is the
name of ship that supposedly carried Melbinious out beyond the borders of
the Imperium. You’ve also seen references to a ‘Codename Maiden’ buried
deep in Melbinious-related fields of inquiry. Is the reference literal or
allegorical? Is she a person? Semantics would seem to indicate that she is,
but the text is too short to conclude. If a person, why was she important? If
the ship, why the dedication?
Before you get ahead of yourself and lose focus again, you purge all
unnecessary processes from your brain. There is no need for speculation.
The answers are right before you, ready for the taking.
You reach forward to turn the first page. The instant you touch the
crystal-matrix material the connection is made, and everything comes
rushing into your eagerly awaiting mind…
25
CHAPTER 2
GATEKEEPER
Utter darkness surrounds you. Five quick heartbeats of sensory
deprivation. Long enough for confusion to seep into the mind. Long enough
for a tingle of panic to form along the spine, as subconscious processes
conjure forth ghosts to populate the unknown. Fight or flight, basic human
nature. Except when faced with man’s own ingrained fear of the unknown,
flight becomes the only option.
Fortunately you have long since evolved past such primitive animal
instincts. Using a simple Psykana calming technique, you get rid of your
budding fear, before it has the opportunity to become troublesome.
You are about to extend your senses psychically, when a cone of light
spears through the dark, forging a ring of welcoming warmth in the dark
void. Within the light, a heavy flat-topped and panelled desk, made of finely
carved and expertly polished wood. Upon it a silver tray, a large decanter
half-filled with liquid amber, a pair of exquisitely wrought crystal glasses.
A lone figure sits upon a high-backed, gilded chair. Middle-aged male.
Average height and build. Fit. Combat capable. A cloak of rich crimson
covers his athletic frame. Finely woven cloth. Expensive tailoring.
Intricately embodied. Markings indicative of Inquisitorial service. No clear
symbols of rank or office. Extensive interwoven devotional liturgy. Multiple
purity seals force-blended into the hem of the garment.
26
DARK OMEGA
A hood casts his face in shadows, but you are able to make out a neatly
trimmed beard of grey and pale eyes that do not flinch when they meet
yours.
You will your eyes to see into the emotional part of the spectrum. His
aura is the colour of pale fire. Coldly calculating. Singularly focused. Utterly
unrelenting. You’ve seen his sort of palette before, but rarely with such
brightly muted intensity.
Is this Inquisitor Melbinious, revealing himself to you at last? If so, this
moment was foretold, for the man before you is the spitting image of the
warrior Inquisitor from today’s Tarot reading. Much as you would like for
him to be Melbinious, you coolly note that you lack sufficient data to
conclude.
Whoever he is, he beckons you forward with his left hand, signalling for
you to take the lesser seat opposite of him. A black glove covers his fingers,
part of the armoured bodysuit he wears underneath the crimson cloak. His
right hand remains hidden from view. You are certain it holds a weapon.
You’re experiencing a recording, so the weapon is not meant for you in a
literal sense. It merely signifies a certain level of paranoia and a willingness
to use violence on the part of the man who made the recording. Interesting
enough, but hardly surprising; Melbinious was an Inquisitor with a long
and distinguished service record, paranoia and violence would be bread
and butter to one such as he.
Subterfuge was another forte of his. To date you still do not have a
confirmed likeness of the man. You have several images that might be of
him – or not. Confirmation has eluded you. So you are left to wonder, is the
man before you a psychic recording of the great Inquisitor Melbinious? Or
is he merely a synthetic mind-construct, forged to resemble a lesser man? A
trusted servant perhaps? Or one of the Inquisitor’s own acolytes?
27
CHAPTER 2 GATEKEEPER
If he isn’t Melbinious, then perhaps he is the symbolic Stranger indicated
by the tarot reading? His appearance and powerful aura suggest someone
existing beyond the ordinary, which is typical for the Ace of Excuteria.
…you find yourself sitting in the chair opposite the hooded stranger. You
do not recall moving. You followed another line of thought and the
recording made the transition for you. You must focus or risk missing out
on potentially important information. You kill all active queries and give
your undivided attention to the man before you.
He sits there, motionless and silent. You wish for him to speak, but his
lips remain sealed. You’re reminded of the mouthless lectern-servitor
holding the tome for you. His is the mouth the servitor should have had, a
narrow stern line, promising to remain forever shut, yet hinting at secrets
that might yet be shared.
The moment of silence becomes painfully drawn-out, a long pause that
threatens to overturn your calm and disturb your focus. The need to fill the
void with words becomes overwhelming. You try to speak, but you no
longer have a mouth. Panic would again have griped an ordinary man. You,
however, brush it brusquely aside before it can set roots in your psyche.
There is no needed for mouths amongst telepaths.
You see words pooling behind his eyes. They gather until they become
too many for his soul to hold. The words gush forth, flowing across the
distance between you in a torrent of information, before boring into your
receptive mind.
“My name is Haxtes,” the man says without moving his lips, his voice loud
and clear in your mind. “Haxtes Guilliman. No relation to Primarch
Guilliman of the most noble Ultramarines Legion of Adeptus Astartes.”
28
DARK OMEGA
The voice is soft and even, with minimal use of inflection, and only the
barest hint of emotional content. A deceptively mellow tenor, overlaying a
core of iron self-control and calculated viciousness.
“Guilliman is just one of those surnames that are popular in almost every
sector of humanity’s great domain. No doubt having to do with the great
fame of the great Roboute Guilliman. Same reason why Horus isn’t a
popular boys’ name in polite society.” He chuckles a bit at his own joke.
His lips are moving in synch with his words, but you know it’s only your
mind visualizing. Even a telepathic mind like yours has trouble breaking
completely away from its primitive bio-physical roots.
He continues. “It is not the name given to me at birth by biological
progenitors. And it is not the name by which I am known to my peers. I’ve
carried a lot of names over the years. But Haxtes Guilliman is as close to my
true name as you can get – or perhaps I should say as close to my true name
as I’ll allow you to get. If there really is a core to my being, and you could
drill your way into it, you would find Haxtes Guilliman waiting for you
there.” He gives you an appraising look.
So this is how the tome handles access control. You had envisioned some
form of protection, some form of encryption. Something to keep the
unworthy away. Clearly this persona construct is that protection, a
gatekeeper so to speak. And if he’s a gatekeeper, it follows that he has the
power to turn you away – or reveal that which you seek. For now you must
observe and assess.
The man in the crimson cloak continues. “I’m not sure you’d enjoy
meeting the real Haxtes. He’s not a very pleasant man. So perhaps you
should be grateful that you will never meet him, and content yourself with
perusing this recording of him instead.”
29
Another joke? Hard to tell when his voice and body language give away
so little. To compensate you tune your empathic sensitivity to maximum. It
should make reading him all that much easier; small gestures will become
obvious, minute shifts in emotional state easily detectable.
Haxtes. Haxtes Guilliman. The name doesn’t ring any bells. You thought
yourself well versed, relatively speaking, when it comes to the subject of
Inquisitor Melbinious. You’ve never heard the late Inquisitor called just
that. He was a master of disguises and used many aliases of course, so you
suppose this figure could be him, posing as a mere servant of himself, but
your logic processes tell you that’s not the case.
There was, you recall, one Haxtii in Melbinious’ retinue at one point, of
that you are fairly certain. But that man was just hired muscle. A killer most
likely dragooned into the service.
Realization dawns. The Assassin, the Eight of Adeptio. Haxtes is the
fourth card from the tarot spread. He is the gatekeeper, the challenge you
must overcome to reach your prize!
“Hired muscle, am I?” Haxtes gives you a disapproving look. “Let us try
not to get too far ahead of things, shall we? It will do my story no good, and
without the story there will be no revelations.”
Your mind is caught wandering. Your surface thought processes must be
bleeding through, mingling with your own half of the mental dialogue. So
very unbefitting a Scholastia-trained primaris psyker!
Haxtes smoothly adds. “Have patience. Let me carry out my allotted task.
We’ll get to Melbinious, and his dark and dangerous secrets, eventually. In
the fullness of time, all will be revealed, and so forth.”
To your credit you recover quickly. “My apologies for my lack of focus,”
you say, even as you clear out any stray thoughts from your telepathic
interface. “It shall not happen again.”
30
DARK OMEGA
A more self-important and rank-conscious man might have felt foolish,
speaking thus to a recording of a dead Inquisitor’s underling. To you it is
nothing. A little politeness never hurts. You can always select a more
confrontational line later on, if the situation warrants such a shift in your
demeanour.
The Haxtes figure seems to approve of your feigned apology, and
proceeds with its introduction. “This is no simple psychic recording. It is a
very advanced psychic recording. If you believe in absolutes it is actually a
one-of-a-kind recording. If you do not believe in absolutes, let us just settle
for it being a ‘very special’ recording.”
Indeed. The tome is certainly quite impressive. But you’ve seen enough
strangeness and wonder not to be fazed by a recorder, no matter how
complex. Impressed, yes. Dumbfounded, no.
Haxtes pulls down his hood, to reveal the face of a mutedly handsome,
middle-aged man. He wears his silvery-grey hair cut short, in the fashion of
warriors across the millennia. His neatly groomed beard is reminiscent of
the style favoured by wise scholars or senior adepts. His eyes are less cold
when out of shadow, their pale grey colour warmed by the light and the
silver in his hair. He smiles easily, but a predator lurks behind that sign of
friendship and human commonality.
He slaps his left palm gently upon the table, brusquely demanding your
undivided attention.
“The recording has a certain interactive potential. You can affect how the
tale is told – to an extent – by putting forth specific queries, just as I may
pick up on your cues and adjust my narration accordingly. Once you get the
hang of it, you should try it out. But not yet. You would just get lost in the
myriad fragments of lore contained herein.”
31
When you do not object, Haxtes continues. “Let us instead proceed with
my introduction of myself. It will give me a chance to get to know you – and
you me. It will prove beneficial for the both of us, I think.” He looks at you
intently. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” you reply, voice steady and gaze locked with his.
32
CHAPTER 3
BLOOD AND DEATH
The gatekeeper begins his tale. “The man that would become Haxtes was
born on a distant and unimportant world during the twilight years of the
41st millennium.” A very faint and equally brief smile graces his lips. “Come
to think of it most of that millennium would qualify as twilight years for the
Imperium. Those were trying times for the Adeptus Terra – the so-called
Priesthood of Earth.”
He pauses for a moment. Is he waiting for you to say something? You give
him a vague smile of encouragement instead.
“Be that as it may,” he continues, “the exact date is not important. The
world of my birth is dust and ashes now, a heresy best left undisturbed, lest
it reawaken and fester anew.”
He shifts in his seat a bit, leans forward as if to confide in you, and speaks
in a very solemn tone. “Our beloved God-Emperor had sat immobile on the
Golden Throne for more than a hundred centuries,” again that briefest of
smiles, “and he didn’t look like he’d start moving again anytime soon.
Rulership of the great Imperium of Man thus fell to the High Lords of Terra.
They ruled with an iron fist, using the soul-numbing threat of the dark
unknown to justify their excesses, and the sweet nectar that is government
vouchers and sponsored entertainment to keep the citizens in line.”
33
CHAPTER 3 BLOOD AND DEATH
He continues in a tone only slightly less mocking. “I’ve heard it claimed
that the High Lords rule the way they do out of necessity. That the dangers
of the galaxy are so vast that there is no other way if the human race is to
survive, let alone prosper. Well, I’ve seen the worst the galaxy has to offer
and then some. And let me confide in you: It is pretty bad. So bad I may
have lost my composure once or twice. So bad there have been times when
I grew uncertain of our final victory. So I guess there might just be some
truth to that old excuse for the tyranny of the High Lords.”
Using the God-Emperor’s name in vain. Ridiculing the High Lords. All
very good and interesting, but what does this have to do with the lifework
of great Lord Melbinious? Is it meant to provoke you? If so he’ll have to do
better than this. You’ve had heretics scream far worse at you during
interrogation.
“Your mind is wandering again,” Haxtes says. “I’m not going to allow
that, not yet. Pay attention to what I have to say. Otherwise the playback
will be terminated.”
You ignore his rebuke. He can scold all he wants; his opinions mean
nothing to you. Since nothing good will come from replying in kind, it is
better to remain silent. Focus and calm, let those be your guiding stars.
Haxtes rises, puts his hereto concealed gun upon the desk with a
calculated clank, and proceeds to pour golden amasec from a large decanter
into waiting twin silver-crystal glasses. “Seeing as how we’ll be here for a
while I think drinks are in order. Talking – and listening – is thirsty work.”
The rich fragrance of the liquor spreads across the table. This really is an
advanced recording, to contain such exquisite and minute details.
You turn your attention to the gun. It’s a heavy piece. Lathes pattern B1B
bolt pistol, if you’re not mistaken – your eidetic memory means you very
rarely are. Standard Imperial .60 calibre. Not quite Adeptus Astartes
34
DARK OMEGA
ordnance, but more than enough to take down just about anything, short of
power armoured troopers. Popular with Imperial Commissars, who favour
it more for its spectacularly graphic execution capabilities, than its military
utility. A common sidearm for the Sororitas, neatly complementing their
ubiquitous Godwyn-De'az pattern boltguns.
Squat box magazine containing eight fat, self-propelled, adamantine
tipped, armour-piercing, mass-reactive, hyper-explosive rounds. Powerful
enough to more or less guarantee a one-shot kill capability against anything
even remotely resembling a human. Advanced sighting aids. Integrated
suspensors for added stability and recoil dampening. A powerful
nonstandard launch booster cunningly worked into the barrel of the gun,
without upsetting the purity and perfection of the standard template the
weapon is based upon.
Unsurprisingly the weapon carries the mark of a master gunsmith:
Meouf Kane, of the Fane of Fykos. A man so famous for his handiwork that
his guns are renowned, not only in Calixis, but in faraway places, like your
master’s native Mandragora sector. His hallmark is altogether exquisite
quality, but without the excessive ornamentation preferred by so many
artisans and gunfighters alike. Nothing to detract the mind from the gun’s
deadly purpose.
Your eye catches something: There will be Blood is engraved into the
dark gunmetal. Or to be precise it says Theyr wilth be Bloth, which is not
consistent with the most common Low Gothic dialects in use on the capital
world of Scintilla. The use of the letter Thorn – Þeyr wilþ be Bloþ – would
suggest something closer to coreward, perhaps one of the worlds in the
Markayn Marches.
“The inscription, it’s Solomoni. Old Solomoni, from back when the
Haarlocks reigned supreme on Solomon,” Haxtes says. “With spelling so
35
close to Scintillan Gothic, it has to be one of the major worlds. And the
Thorn is indicative of either Markayn or Drusus. Beyond that you’d have to
have a longer snippet of text to work with. Or you could simply wait until
we reach that point in the story.” He gives you a right wicked smile after
driving the point home.
You make a slight, dismissive gesture, urging him to let the matter drop
and instead continue.
Haxtes picks up one of the glasses and moves around the table. He’s
definitely not short, but neither is he very tall. You peg him at around 184
Imperial centimetres, give or take a few millimetres.
“Used to by one hundred eighty-five, but years of service has taken off a
centimetre.” This time you’re able to pick out the faint humorous tone in his
voice. He’s hinting at greater sacrifices than a few millimetres of height.
He hands you the glass. This time his smile does contain a little warmth,
but you recognize the mummery behind it. His aura remains colder than
the void.
Compared to the impoverished and malnourished masses of the
Imperium’s many hive worlds he’s a veritable giant of course, but when
compared to the Imperial gentry he’s rather average. Not small by any
means, but he lacks bulk to go with his height. You correctly pegged his
build as athletic when first you saw him, but he’s actually on the lower end
of that scale in terms of muscle mass. You imagine his strength is of the cold
iron kind, the one that endures long after harder, but more brittle materials
have snapped.
However average his height; his presence is quite remarkable. Standing
next to you the sense of him is powerful enough to make a distinct
impression, even within this recording. To make such an imprint he must
have been a truly remarkable man in life – and a potent psyker to boot.
36
DARK OMEGA
“It has a twin,” Haxtes says matter-of-factly, “called There will be Death.
This one,” he points at the heavy handgun on the table, “I use for the marks
I wish to take alive, but,” he pats something in a shoulder rig hidden under
his cloak, “this one I use purely for killing.”
He walks back around the table and resumes his seat, picking up his own
glass in the process. “I hope you enjoy the amasec. Its like has not been
tasted around these parts for a very long time indeed.”
He takes a sip before continuing. Something of a smile finds its way into
his features. It’s not a smile of the mouth, but one of the face. Of muscles
relaxing and moods mellowed. “Remarkable beverage, don’t you think?” he
exclaims after trying it.
As you’ve yet to taste the amasec you bring the glass to your lips while
offering an age-old toast to Him on Earth: “To the God-Emperor’s
everlasting rule!” you say in a loud and clear voice, leaving no doubt as to
your own allegiance and devotion. Deception assuredly has its place, but to
even pretend at anything other than utter obeisance to the Master of
Mankind is not something you do lightly.
You’ve never been a great connoisseur of alcohol, but this particular
brand of liquid gold burns most wonderfully on the way down. You have
truly never drunk its like. You give Haxtes a curt nod. “Excellent indeed. At
least there we can agree.”
Haxtes seems to ignore your comment. “I would probably have been a
fair bit taller and more substantial, had I received the necessary nutrients
throughout my formative childhood years. My parents were both quite tall,
and my brother reached a respectable height. But in hindsight I’m rather
glad it didn’t work out that way. Going about unseen is so much easier
when you’re average-looking.”
37
That last statement is almost a challenge, daring you to comment on his
size, seeing as you are a bit taller than he. You decline to rise to the bait,
preferring instead merely to observe.
There is a slight pause. Then you feel a rather pronounced shift in the
nature of what you’re experiencing. It becomes more like a playback than
an interactive affair, more like reading a book than having a conversation.
“Are you offended or horrified yet?” Haxtes says, his voice flat and
distant. “You should be,” he says, nodding almost mechanically. “If you
obtained this recording from a legitimate source it will undoubtedly carry
the mark of the Dark Omega.”
He looks at you, searching for a response, but you keep your face – and
mind – impassive.
There is another short pause before Haxtes continues in the same dead
playback tone. “Very few people outside the ranks of the Inquisition will
even have heard of this security protocol, let alone have the means to
unlock it.”
When you still do not reply he feigns interest in the contents of his glass,
studying the colour of the amasec as it swirls around inside the crystal
container.
As you suspected the recording is indeed trying to query your mind, but
you’ve decided to see what happens if you give it little to nothing to work
with.
After a couple of seconds Haxtes continues. “So that means you’re either
an Inquisitor or a highly trusted servant of one.” He’s looking right at you,
but his eyes are distant, as if focusing on something else entirely.
“By all means proceed, but be warned: If you’re a puritan you’ll be
constantly annoyed by my tale. If you’re a radical you might find you’re not
welcome after all.”
38
DARK OMEGA
Another attempted query for you to ignore. Your master’s inclinations
are not really for you to debate with this gatekeeper.
Haxtes goes on. “Call me irreverent if you will, but I’ve seen and done too
much to keep up appearances for the sake of those of tender sensibilities.
Go out there, kill a few thousand heretics, survive a couple of xenos
invasions, face a full-scale daemonic incursion without shitting yourself.
These things tend to destroy people’s minds, but for those who pass
through the gauntlet with their sanity intact…it either makes them cramp
up like clams, or they become a little more flexible. I’m of the flexible type.
Read on or not, it’s your call.”
You keep your quiet.
There is a drawn out pause. The recording is trying to adapt to your
presence. Trying to form a more coherent presentation based upon your
preferences. Your reluctance to answer is obviously making this process
quite difficult.
Again you feel a shift. It is more subtle than before, but still discernible.
“If you’ve got the necessary security clearance you won’t be incinerated
for being in possession of this work. It might still endanger your soul,
however, if you do not have sufficient moral fortitude. But that is ever a
challenge in our line of work, isn’t it?” He knits his brows and drops down a
note. “Be ever vigilant, be ever distrustful. And remember always:
Knowledge begets heresy – and heresy surely begets retribution!”
His performance is pure brilliance. Try as you might, even your
conditioned mind cannot keep a smile from finding its way to your lips.
Encouraged perhaps by your smile, Haxtes launches into a lengthy
monologue. “You’re not an Inquisitor, but you work for one. You didn’t
always serve the Ordos though. Let me guess: You were picked up by the
Adeptus Arbites in your early teens, after an involuntary display of psychic
39
potential. Held in detention under semi-humane conditions. Shipped to
Holy Terra aboard a Black Ship. Not a pleasant experience, but as a
cooperative latent you were one of the fortunate specimens. Only mildly
drugged by a torpor cocktail, fed to you through your meals. Locked in one
of the communal psi-holds, alongside other promising, but harmless
candidates.”
Pretty accurate thus far, but that’s a fate you’ve shared with so many
other budding psykers.
He continues. “Tested and classified by the all-knowing auditors of the
Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Useful, but not astropath material. Too bad. You
never got to gaze upon the rotting carcass of the God-Emperor and have His
gaze sear your soul just enough to make it less appetizing to the daemons
of the Warp.”
That pretty much follows from the first part and the fact that you’re
obviously a sanctioned psyker and not an astropath. Plus, predictably, some
additional irreverence. You’ve known Inquisitors who would have shot this
Haxtes character for far less.
“Instead you were assigned to one of the Scholastia Psykana’s training
divisions. You were classified as powerful, Gamma grade I’d wager.,
possibly borderline Beta. Physically fit, mentally healthy, good violence
aptitude. Your psychic talents ran in a semi-uncommon direction.” He takes
a moment to consider what to say next. “The typical telepathy and
prescience that dominate the ranks of humanity’s finest, with just a little
dash of pyrokinesis to spice things up. Rare and valuable enough to
warrant special tuition. You were trained as an individualist. You could be a
warrior, a bodyguard, a spy – or an assassin,” Haxtes says, sounding very
confident.
Too close for comfort, but it’s only a lucky guess. He knows nothing.
40
DARK OMEGA
“You were recruited by your master straight out of school,” he adds. “No
doubt causing your Psykana taskmasters much grief, as your services had
already been promised to someone important, someone of rank.” Again
that smile that isn’t a smile.
His description is not far off the mark. You are forced to supress the
memories his conjecture conjures forth. It would not do for you to confirm
his analysis. Give nothing away.
“But when the left hand of the God-Emperor demands, who can deny it?
How does a promise to a Governor, a Cardinal, a Lord Militant, or a Rogue
Trader compare, when matched against the irrational dread of what might
happen should your existence displease the Holy Ordos?” He raises an
eyebrow for emphasis.
Good, he’s back to speaking in generalized terms. For a moment there
you were starting to think he’d gotten deep inside your head.
Haxtes takes a quick breath before launching into it again. “Inquisitorial
Rank: Interrogator. Make that junior interrogator, recently raised from
Explicator rank. Extensive field experience, tempered by a solid theoretical
and ethical package. Ambitious. Possible Inquisitor candidate. At least in
your own eyes.”
He finishes abruptly, leans back into the leather chair, cradles his drink,
and awaits your response.
41
CHAPTER 4
OF TWO MINDS
You’re taken somewhat aback by the detailed summary of your own past
and present. It’s not one hundred percent correct, but it’s too accurate to be
merely guesswork. Is the tome programed with algorithms so advanced
they can derive the most likely scenarios out of the few clues you’ve given
thus far? Or did it actually read this out of your deeper mental layers and
feed it back to you? The level of detail seems to indicate some element of
the latter.
Prudence and Psykana doctrine dictates that you should fully raise your
mental defences in the eventuality of a possible mind-scan. Doing so would,
however, sever your contact with the psychic imprint of the book. Cutting
contact would be very counterproductive at this stage, as it would reduce
the tome to the equivalent of a common written narration. So going turtle is
not really an option.
But years of indoctrination, training, and field experience tells you that
an open mind is the surest way to damnation. You must find a compromise
that allows you to maintain the link between your consciousness and the
recording, without allowing it full access to your deeper mental strata.
You settle for erecting psychic barriers around your subsurface memory
segments and your ego core. Beyond that you’ll just have to remain vigilant
and take your chances.
42
DARK OMEGA
Your suspicions are confirmed when the recording shifts again, reverting
to playback mode. Earlier, when you first started refusing to answer, the
recording subtly proceeded to probe your deeper memory levels. But with
your mental walls so reinforced, it is forced back into a non-interactive
playback mode.
You’re pretty sure that this arrangement isn’t the optimal way of
interacting with the tome, but you must remain cautious until you know the
tome well enough to be sure you have the upper hand.
--Haxtes’ voice starts to drone again. “If you picked up this outside of
channels…or if you’re one of those agents who cannot keep their noses out
of stuff that they’ve no business poking around…then you’re in for a world
of hurt. I’m afraid that by accessing this you’ve damned yourself. You’re
now officially a heretic and an enemy of the Imperium of Man. What’s
worse is that you’re an affront to the God-Emperor. Meaning there are
trillions of people out there that would burn you if they knew of your sins.
You can run, but there is nowhere you can hide.”
How very quaint. Imperial propaganda at its least imaginative.
"But the worst part is that you’ve messed with the Most Holy Orders of
the God-Emperor’s Inquisition. You’ve read something they’d rather be
kept a secret. That was just plain stupid of you. It’s the Emperor-bedamned Inquisition. And no one messes with the Inquisition. Didn’t your
whore of a mother warn you about them?”
Hazy memories of a motherly figure are conjured forth from the deep
recesses of your mind. Actually she did warn you. But then the Black Ships
came, and you ended up getting an offer you couldn’t well refuse.
“They will hunt you and they will find you. They will never let up, never
relent.”
43
CHAPTER 4 OF TWO MINDS
The Inquisition does have a long memory, that much is true. Many a
heretic has let his guard down after years on the run, only to find history –
and the Holy Ordos – have caught up with him.
“And when they do find you, they will take you and they will break you.
They will break you in every sense of the word. They will break your body
until it’s no more than a living carcass. You will beg for death, but you shall
not have it. They will twist your mind until there is no ‘you’ anymore. You
will be what they allow you to be and nothing more. You’ll think their
thoughts, speak their words.”
A bit on the graphic side perhaps, but yes, such things are definitely
within the realm of possibility. In your experience, however, the Inquisition
rarely bothers with such extreme interrogation techniques, unless the
subject is a known or suspected high-magnitude heretic.
“And when your body is broken and your mind belongs to them, they will
turn to your spirit. If you weren’t a heretic before you’ll certainly become
one now, for they will tempt and test and pull and stomp upon every fibre
of your being until you’ve forsworn the God-Emperor a thousand times
over and spat upon each and every one of you multi-trillion fellow human
beings. Surely you are now damned, even if you weren’t before.”
To claim that the agents of the hallowed Inquisition turn innocents into
heretics is laughable. If heresy is revealed during interrogation, no matter
the techniques used, is that not proof of guilt?
“And then, at the very end, you will finally feel death’s embrace, as the
pyrotechnic fingers of the incinerator turns your body into fine ash at
temperatures exceeding two thousand degrees above absolute zero. The
last traces of what were once you will be consigned to a dusty datavault. If
any living soul even remembers you at this stage, they will never dare
44
DARK OMEGA
speak of your fate, for fear of sharing in your misfortune. It will be as if you
never existed at all.”
Pretty standard fare for any bio-hazard material, including the corpses of
mutants and heretics. In your case they would use a slightly different
method, for the Holy Ordos do not burn pyrokines as a matter of principle.
The end result would be pretty much the same, however: final, unavoidable
death.
“And on the other side of death’s sundered veil He awaits. Sitting in
eternal silent vigil over the souls of the faithful and the faithless alike He
will sort out his own. And He will know you, and He will cast you out into
the outer dark, into the nether pits, into the gaping maw of hell!”
Oh my, you didn’t see that one coming – seems whoever made this tome
had a flair for religious theatricals.
You definitely have the measure of this recording now. If you do not
‘speak’ to it by giving it access to your surface thoughts, it tries to dig
deeper and pick your memory. If you also block deeper access, the tome
has trouble adapting in a meaningful manner. It just spews out Inquisition
propaganda and other rubbish.
The Haxtes persona speaks with great conviction and gravitas,
effortlessly switching between the roles of the chastising interrogator, the
firebrand preacher, and Administratum meme-adept. It is entertaining
after a fashion, but ultimately useless.
A certain playfulness seeps into Haxtes voice as he finishes with dramatic
flourish. “Not a very pleasant fate. But richly deserved for equal parts
heresy and stupidity.”
The recording pauses to give you an opportunity to reply, but you
continue to pretend to focus on your amasec.
45
“Reading this clearly isn’t the smartest thing you ever did. But you might
as well read on. You’re damned anyway. They’ll never believe you if you say
you didn’t read it all. And even if they did believe you to be innocent they
are still obliged to go through the motions, just to be sure. Having a divine
mandate can be a bitch sometimes. There is no cutting corners or playing at
favourites. Everyone is guilty until proven innocent. And you know what
they say about innocence in the Inquisition? Innocence…innocence proves
nothing.”
His eyes bore into yours with unusual intensity. Sensing that the
recording is desperately trying to query your mind, and fearing that you’ve
pinched up too tight, you relax you wards just a little, allowing choice
pieces of information to bubble up from deep memory to accessible
memory.
“But
I’m
preaching
to
the
choir
here…Interrogator
Junioris…Marcus…am I not?”
--Deep inside your mental fortress the psychic equivalent of a smile
spreads across your features. The recording has taken the bait and is
responding just the way you want it to. Now it’s up to you to sink the hook
and direct the playback towards the prize.
To this effect you’ve divided your conscious mind into two separate
segments. One part, including your ego core and deeper memory strata,
resides inside a private mental fortress. The other part, which is a mirror
image of the other, sans the deeper and inner layers of you, is left to
interact with the tome. This way you have complete control of what the
tome reads out of your mind. No need for it to know everything.
Ego division is a technique known to all sanctioned psykers, but not all of
them are as good at it as you are. You can regularly maintain four or five
such ego compartments, and during one trial you actually managed seven.
46
DARK OMEGA
Admittedly that left you shaking, vomiting and bleeding from your eyes – it
took weeks to fully recover – but it was worth it to see your Psykana
taskmasters properly impressed. Less than one in a million human psykers
can do that. And you won’t need seven minds for this, only the two. Two
minds you can maintain indefinitely.
Secure inside your inner bastion you are free to engage in some internal
reflection. You do have the required clearances of course. Otherwise you
could not have made it here. The Emperor-be-damned Inquisition is rather
serious about its security. You would know. You’re part of it. But questions
might be asked about whether or not you should really have those
clearances to begin with. Questions might also be raised pertaining to the
transfer of the tome to this location. Prying minds could also conclude that
you’re working on behalf of you master, rather of your own accord. And
those same little minds might take it upon themselves to judge your master
based upon your actions. You know his intentions are pure, but they will
not see it that way. You know they won’t. The old guard is ever jealous and
afraid of the vigour and ambitions of the powers-that-will-be.
It will not come to that, however. Long before anyone thinks to ask any
questions you will be done and gone. At any rate there is no need for the
recording to know any of this. It might have built-in failsafes that could
trigger if it were to perceive you as a security risk.
Your opinion of the Haxtes persona as a guardian and a gatekeeper has
been reinforced. Now you positively know him to be a built-in safeguard
against unauthorized access. So you will remain the devoted prodigal
interrogator and keep him ignorant of your true purpose. Give him just
enough to convince him to grant you access, no more.
---
47
“…I was just one man among uncounted trillions,” your interactive mind
is still listening to Haxtes. “To understand how I rose above the rabble and
became something greater requires an understanding of the underlying
events that shaped the Calixis sector towards the latter half of the 41st
Millennium.”
You would prefer going straight into the mysteries surrounding
Melbinious and his research into immortality, but you know it won’t be that
easy. No, you’ll be forced to play along with this Haxtes character until such
a time as you have an even deeper understanding of how the tome can be
manipulated. You are confident you can – eventually – find a way to bypass
the gatekeeper and go for the prize.
Haxtes continues. “I could say that we need to go back to the beginning
and tell the tale from there. But there really are no beginnings. Every socalled beginning builds upon other beginnings, all the way back to the real
beginning of it all. Which I strongly suspect was also just the natural
continuation of something that came before even that singular event.”
If, however, he’s going to start quoting metaphysics at you with any
regularity, your patience is going to be sorely tested.
“So, instead of trying to go back to the very beginning we will instead go
back to my childhood. See if we can find there the seeds of what was to
come. If you are perceptive and persistent it will lead you to your answers –
eventually.” He lets the last sentence hang in the air, daring you to object.
You supress your misgivings and instead nod amicably. “Do please
proceed, I’m all ears.”
48
INTERLUDE
ANGEL OF DEATH
The Achilus Crusade had been shrouded in such secrecy that not even
the mighty Space Marines were told the particulars. The Green Knights
Chapter of Adeptus Astartes had been handed their orders, like they were
nothing more than a regiment of Imperial Guards, as had every other
chapter currently involved in the crusade.
The orders themselves had contained an additional layer of deception:
They had bidden the Green Knights prepare for deployment into the
Margin Worlds, a region of unhallowed space, pressed perilously close to
the roaring warp storms that marked the edge of the civilized galaxy. There
they were to make an effort to reach and relieve the ill-fated Margins
Crusade, long thought to be lost.
Only they had never gotten to the Margin Worlds. Instead the Chapter’s
navigators, acting upon secret orders given to them by their Navis Nobilite
Novators, had travelled along hidden paths and shrouded routes, until they
arrived in a place none of his battle-brothers had ever heard of, let alone
visited.
If Chapter Master Belkovets had any foreknowledge of these events, he
chose not to share them with anyone, not even his closest advisers or
ranking officers.
49
INTERLUDE ANGEL OF DEATH
Now, years later, Kaminsky knew perfectly well where they were. As one
of the librarians – the psychic communication officers of his chapter – it
was inevitable that he would discover the truth. It was his duty to act as a
living conduit for interstellar transmissions, and unlike the more common
human astropaths he was entrusted with the highest encryption protocols,
and could therefore perceive the contents of the transmissions he received.
Piece by piece he had assembled the truth: They were on the other side
of the galaxy, out on the fringes of Segmentum Ultima. The Jericho Reach it
was called, a region of struggling human communities, surrounded by great
evil. But once, millennia ago, it had been an Imperial sector, a shining
beacon of justice and unflinching allegiance to the God-Emperor. The
Jericho Sector would rise once more, the Achilus Crusade would see to that.
It was the warp gate the Adeptus Terra had labelled the Jericho Maw
Warp Gate that made it possible. It enabled the High Lords of Terra to order
the formation of a great crusade on the fringes of Segmentum Obscurus,
and then have it move through the warp gate, to arrive on the other side of
the galaxy. The gate effectively bypassed the turbulent regions around the
Jericho Reach, and gave the Imperium the drop on the many enemies of
Man that had gathered during the long night.
Things had gone very well initially, far better than hoped for in fact. But
after the initial period of quick gains, each of the crusade’s three salients
had run into trouble. Big trouble. In Kaminsky’s mind it was a classic
example of human hubris – and of political interference with the war effort.
Simply put the politicos at Crusade High Command had ensured that the
crusade had grossly overextended itself, so that when things started to turn
sour, its commanders had no real way of getting things back on track.
The Acheros Salient had ground to a halt first, faced with the ravenous
hordes of ferocious and corrupt warriors that poured out of the Hadex
50
DARK OMEGA
Anomaly. Kaminsky had killed his first renegade Astartes there. The
coreward Canis Salient, which had made such great gains initially, had been
outmanoeuvred and beaten back by a tech-savvy species the Ordo Xenos
had labelled the Tau. Kaminsky found he had nothing but loathing for the
filthy creatures; they were cowardly and weak, irreverent in their
employment of technology, fit only for extermination. The greatest setback,
however, had come in the form of the slowly encroaching Tyranid hive fleet
designated ‘Dagon’. It had almost completely overrun every gain made by
the Orpheus Salient, and now threatened to overtake the entire crusade. It
was up to the Green Knights to stem the tide, to buy Crusade Command
time to react and redeploy. Noble Astartes sent to the slaughter fields, to
save the hides of sycophants, corrupt bureaucrats, and self-serving
politicians.
--Brother-Codicier Kaminsky sensed the foul beasts several seconds before
they sprang their ambush on Squad Ivanov. Sufficient time for the librarian
to send a psychic warning into the mind of each and every member of the
squad he was accompanying.
For the seventh time, in half as many hours, the space marines of Squad
Ivanov reacted with all the speed and skill you would expect from battlehardened Astartes. Six times before their defences had held, and they had
walked away bloodied, but victorious. This time, however, their best wasn’t
going to be quite good enough.
They had already lost one Battle-Brother and had another man severely
injured. Losing any more of his charges was unacceptable to Kaminsky. The
squad was under his protection. His failure to keep them safe did not reflect
well upon the Librarium of the Green Knights. Honour demanded that if
any more space marines were to die, he would be the first to go.
51
The xenos abominations attacked as one, bursting out of hiding and
storming towards the marines with unbelievable speed and ferocity. The
men, forewarned by Kaminsky’s signal, opened up with their bolters. Short,
controlled bursts, mercilessly thinning the ranks of the charging xenos.
Not a single enemy would have made it into melee range, save for a tiny
gap in the fire arcs between brothers Olegov and Abranovich. A trio of the
xenos instinctively sensed this weakness and headed straight for the gap.
Within moments they would breach the perimeter and all hell would break
loose; in melee the genestealers could kill even battle vested marines.
Kaminsky didn’t have time to think, let alone draw upon his reserves of
psychic power. He only had time to react by instinct alone. He sprang
forward, bolt pistol and force sword at the ready. He managed to squeeze
off two shots at the rightmost genestealer. One of the bolts skipped off its
carapace and didn’t detonate. The other hit squarely, punched its way
inside the alien and detonated with lethal force. The beast didn’t die – it
just collapsed, its innards turned to jelly. It trashed about a bit, but was no
longer a threat, and could be dealt with later.
The leftmost stealer tried to flank him, but he had predicted this move
and was ready for it. The force sword hit it in the upper body and sheared
the xeno clean in half. He avoided its death throes by throwing himself
shoulder first into the third drone warrior of Hive Fleet Dagon.
Voluntarily getting into grappling distance with a genestealer was
definitely not Codex approved. But when all other options are exhausted
you must either act, or die. Luck – or the God-Emperor guidance – was with
him that day, making the stealer fumble its decapitating strike and instead
entangle its claws in his backpack unit.
52
DARK OMEGA
He recovered his balance, head-butted the stealer for good measure,
removed both offending claws with a swipe of his sword, and then shot it
once in the brain at point blank range. It dropped like a rock.
Around him the members of Squad Ivanov finished off the remaining
aliens with methodical efficiency. Enemy dead, thirty-eight. Marine
casualties, zero.
--The second and third generation of genestealers hadn’t been much
different from the original ones, except incrementally larger. The third
generation in particular had been easy to distinguish, half again as tall as,
and much more massively built, than the preceding first and second
generations. If anything it made them easier to spot and therefore easier to
kill. There are very few things so large a bolter or a chainsword can’t
butcher it.
Later iterations reversed the trend. It was as if their abominable enemy,
the Tyranid Hive Mind, finally realized that the weapons the marines
wielded would kill its warriors, no matter how big or through they were
grown. So it decided to try something new. The stealers became smaller
again, and by the sixth or seventh iteration they were markedly smaller
than the original, but still powerful enough to be a threat to the marines in
their powered armour. They had also made away with what had been
assumed to be their natural bluish-purple coloration, evolving a new
camouflage pattern, perfectly suited for the scarred surface of Jerober XI.
The next couple of generations were less successful, becoming little more
than glorified termagants, only without any useful ranged weapons. They
only posed a threat to the dwindling number of remaining Guardsmen, who
were having problems spotting them early enough to deal with massed
attacks. Even auspex scanners were having trouble providing useful early
53
warning. It didn’t really matter; in a few weeks all the Guardsmen would be
dead of other causes anyway, such was the insidious nature of the bioweapons deployed by the Hive Fleet. Better the Guardsmen died quick,
honourable deaths, rather than suffer the horrors of gene-regression.
The Hive Mind had quickly rectified the size problem, however, and the
genestealer genome had stabilized as the highly effective Iteration X. It was
smaller than a regular stealer, but still lethal to marines it engaged in handto-hand combat. It was harder to spot, although the marines with their
superhuman senses and advanced detection gear were largely able to sniff
them out before they could spring their ambushes.
But most of all the Iteration X stealer was quicker. Kaminsky hadn’t
thought that was possible, not until he was nearly killed by a horde of them,
attacking suddenly across open ground. He had miscalculated; believing the
marines to have more than enough time to gun the xenos down, well short
of melee range.
His hubris had nearly cost the Chapter a good librarian – and the three
squads under his protection. Fortunately the members of squads Ivanov,
Romanov, and Aleksandar had remained coolly professional in the face of
this new threat. There were no lapses, no errors, only methodical slaughter,
even as wave after wave of hostile flesh rolled towards their lines.
It would not, however, be enough to carry the day. Too many stealers
would reach the lines of the Green Knights. Many marines would die,
perhaps all of them, Kaminsky included. The Chapter had lost too many
marines already. Three more squads lost would put another company out
of commission. It could not be allowed to happen.
It was time for Kaminsky to take steps to rectify his error. What time
remained to him was – barely – sufficient to summon the forces of the
warp, to smite the enemies of mankind. It was not a calm, collected, and
54
DARK OMEGA
controlled summoning. Instead it was rushed, frantic, and haphazard.
Everything a summoning of warp energies should not be.
The psychic warding circuitry bonded to his armoured suit was turned to
useless slag by the raging energies he called forth. An instant later strands
of impossibly bright light erupted from Brother-Codicier Kaminsky’s eyes,
lancing out to connect with the dashing forms of the genestealer horde. For
a few drawn out moments the battlefield lay bathed in the eerie radiance of
the Immaterium, as the primeval forces of Chaos were let slip upon of the
enemies of Mankind.
The unnatural glare caused marine auto-senses to terminate their
sensory feeds, effectively blinding the power armoured Astartes warriors.
When next the Knights looked, the genestealers were gone. Not dead, but
gone, unravelled from existence, as if they never had existed at all.
Not a single member of the squads under Kaminsky’s protection was
physically harmed during the assault – though the same cannot be said
about their minds and spirits. Several of them required corrective brain
surgery to remove troublesome memories of what they had witnessed.
Others required the spiritual and moral support of their chaplains to deal
with the experience. One brother shot himself in the head with his bolt
pistol, rather than suffer the seductive whispers troubling his mind.
Perhaps the Inquisition should have been informed of the uncontrolled
release of warp energies, but no such notification was ever sent. The
Adeptus Astartes keep to their own code; but rarely do they seek the
counsel of others, and never if they feel it might besmirch the honour of
their Chapter. So it also was with the Green Knights.
Kaminsky was not as fortunate as the others. The uncontrollable release
of psychic energy has completely ruined his eyes and optic nerves, to such
an extent that his sight could never be restored by bio-grafts or cybernetic
55
replacements. His faceplate had been reduces to molten slag by the energy
blast, causing horrendous secondary burn damage to his face. Repairable,
after a fashion, but hugely painful, even for a space marine.
The injured Librarian was heavily sedated, placed in stasis, and rotated
out of the crusade. For all intents and purposes the Brother-Codicier was a
lost cause, his career as a fighting marine over. It was hoped he could still
serve the Librarium in an astropathic role, but he would never again lift a
weapon against the God-Emperor’s enemies. A cruel fate for an angel who’s
craft is death.
56
CHAPTER 5
MY HOMEWORLD
The circle of light and its contents remains, but the darkness beyond is
replaced by a hundred million bright points of light, wrought into the shape
of a disk of twisting firmaments cradling a central, fiery orb. You recognize
it readily enough. The Galaxy of Man, as seen from a distant location, high
above the galactic plane.
“Akakios. Segmentum Obscurus,” Haxtes says. “More specifically the
Calixis sector, located rimward of the Finial and Ixaniad sectors, and
trailing of Scarus sector, pushed right up alongside the unbeholden reaches
of the Fydae Great Cloud.” The view zooms in towards the northern fringe
of the galaxy, zipping past the baleful stain that is the Ocularis Teribus – the
Eye of Terror – on the way there.
“Akakios. Drusus Marches sub-sector,” he continues. “I would not expect
you to have heard of it. It was a small and unimportant world, located in an
unimportant subsector of a very distant and equally unimportant sector, at
the very edges of Imperial space, right where the authority of the
Segmentum Obscurus battlefleets whittle away into nothingness.” Haxtes
makes a small gesture for emphasis; coming from a man with such muted
body language it feels quite dramatic. “Out where the Astronomican is just
a pale flickering candle, oft hidden from view by the baleful emanations of
the Eye. Beyond lie the vast uncharted regions of the Koronus Expanse and
57
CHAPTER 5 MY HOMEWORLD
the methuselah stars of the galactic halo. Beware the edge of the galaxy, or
you might fall off. There be xenos. Astra Incognita. That kind of remote.”
He’s right. You cannot recall ever having heard of a planet called Akakios,
which is slightly odd, since your memory is practically flawless.
Haxtes has risen from his seat, amasec in hand, but leaving Blood on the
table. Death is still in the shoulder rig. A well-worn utility belt is strapped
around slender hips. There is a scabbard with a short, straight powerblade
fastened on his right side. On the other hip, hidden beneath the cloak you
can see the contours of a slender pistol holster. Possibly a sliver gun, but
you cannot be certain.
His voice is level when he continues. “Akakios. It was the site of a great
heresy, and as a result the world was rigorously scoured of taint, and
official records adjusted or repressed in line with the normal modus
operandi of the Adeptus Terra. So not only was Akakios physically remote,
it was thoroughly expunged from all branches of galactic lore. It no longer
exists – and according to the records of the Administratum, it never existed
at all.”
“You mean your homeworld – this Akakios – was subjected to an Edict of
Obliteration?” you ask.
It would certainly explain why you haven’t heard of it. The Inquisition
will go to great lengths, not just to fight heresy when it rears its ugly head,
but also to supress any knowledge of it ever having taken place. The worse
the heresy, the more rigorous the suppression of information will be. Up to,
and including, striking entire worlds and their histories from Imperial
records.
“Yes,” Haxtes answers curtly and tosses back the rest of his drink with
the practiced ease of one who knows his liquor. “The Calixian Ordos
58
DARK OMEGA
decided that it would be for the best for the Imperium if no one
remembered my homeworld.”
“Akakios. The world of my birth.” He pauses for a moment, lost in
thought. “I hated my memories of the place for many years. Hated them
because they reminded me that I had been soft and spoiled once. Hated
them because the stigma of heresy by association was upon me, for reasons
of my birth alone. But most of all I hated them because it was on Akakios
that the betrayals began. It was there I learned that no bond of family or
friendship is strong enough to stave off the inevitable perfidies.”
There is a certain regretful undertone to his voice. Not much, but enough
that someone like you can pick it up. ‘Someone like you’ meaning a highly
skilled telepath – with emotional receptors ramped up to max.
“Those memories of loss and betrayal stung worse than any pain of the
body or spirit later inflicted upon me.” There is more emotion in Haxtes’
voice now, relatively speaking. “It is not without reason that the wise
counsel us against such things: Frivolous joy instead of hard work. Hope
instead of duty. Love for anyone but the God-Emperor. All signs of moral
weakness.”
You consider interrupting him, to tell him you’ve no need to know about
his childhood traumas, but decide against it. Let him speak. It gives you
time to observe, analyse, and understand the tome’s workings. Focus and
clam. Let patience guide your actions.
He clears his throat. “The weaknesses borne to me by my homeworld
rode me for many years. Until one day I laughingly realized they were the
least of my failings. The daemons of my birth had been banished by far
darker and more insidious creatures.” His voice trails away.
The scenery shifts again. The great orb of a planet seen from space soars
towards you. White clouds over blue oceans. Continental landmasses,
59
primarily in the southern hemisphere. Varied topography. Swathes of green
in coastal areas and along waterways, but otherwise borderline arid
climate. Extensive, but not excessive signs of human habitation.
Haxtes resumes talking. ”Akakios’ single sun, named Aethyr, meaning
Pure Light in our forefather’s tongue, was a yellow main-sequence star a
fraction less luminous that Sol; just barely enough of a difference for the
human eye to register. Akakios orbited rather closer to Aethyr than Holy
Terra does Sol, but its albedo was higher and the greenhouse effect not as
pronounced as the Terran standard.”
Haxtes looks at you intently while speaking, trying to determine whether
or not you follow him. Seeing that you do, he makes a vague motion with
his head that could be a nod of acknowledgement.
“The actual energy retention was about the same, but differences in
orbital eccentricity, axial tilt, topography and other factors conspired to
make Akakios a borderline arid world. Seasons were also more extreme
than the Terran norm. But with a little effort and basic irrigation
techniques Akakios could be – and was – made into a human paradise.”
The terms are known to you. You are an educated man. But you are more
than mildly surprised by Haxtes’ knowledge of such arcane lore. Many of
the servants of the Inquisition are both learned and eloquent, but few
would deign to study the arcane mysteries of planetology to such an extent.
Usually they leave it to their savant staff to fuss over such niceties. Haxtes
never struck you as the type that might have an interest in such fields of
knowledge. You file the information away; it doesn’t appear relevant at the
moment, but you do not wish to discard it entirely.
“That is how I recall the world of my childhood. It was paradise. My
paradise.” Haxtes dismisses the memory with a flick of his wrist. “Before
the snake entered it anyway,” he says.
60
DARK OMEGA
His voice is oddly bereft of emotion, indicating that the memories of
childhood are indeed no longer bothering him. Either that or he’s lying to
you in a very convincing manner. But you’ve detected no physical or
psychic signs of deception, making that an unlikely scenario. Consciously
lying to you is next to futile given your unique skill set – psyker, telepath,
and interrogator. So he’s either telling the truth or he’s the most masterful
liar there ever was. You dismiss the notion; he might be a good liar, but he’s
not that good.
“My family lived in a largish country residence in the hills south of Thira,”
Haxtes says. “At least I remember it as being very large. It was probably
rather modest by Akakian standards, for my family was, if not exactly poor,
then not particularly rich.”
He wasn’t exaggerating when he said you would be going back to the
beginning, to his childhood. You’re vaguely intrigued, but mostly you’re
bemused by this rather unexpected turn of events. Why in the deepest pits
of the Empyrean did Melbinious chose to put this into his tome? It makes
absolutely no sense, unless it is some form of obscure test or esoteric
security measure.
“Jaxel, Jax for short, was six years older than me.” Haxtes continues to
keep your under close scrutiny as he speaks. “He had his own room and
was better than me at everything. He was always smug and superior in the
way of older brothers across the galaxy. I envied him, wished I was he. He
rarely deigned to acknowledge my existence. When he did, I often regretted
drawing his attention.”
Hardly exceptional behaviour for an older brother. You had three, two of
whom were decent, but the third was a right monster. You haven’t thought
about any of them for years; you dealt with those memories a long time
ago, burning them to cinders as part of your psychic training.
61
“My sister Eleena was four years my senior,” Haxtes explains. “We
shared a room my sister and I, an indication that our country house was not
all that big. She was very shy and mild-mannered. And beautiful. She had
the face of an angel, and her glossy black hair was the envy of all the girls at
school. She was often lost in her own inner world. We rarely played and
almost never spoke.”
You never really connected with your own sisters. In your humble
opinion all girls are lost in their own world. A world of unfathomable
female memes and mannerisms. A world filled with things man was not
meant to know. Not that you do not enjoy female company – you’re quite
fond of it in fact – rather it is a realization that men and women aren’t
really compatible, intellectually speaking.
--Thus far you’ve only listened to Haxtes, but for a while now you’ve been
aware that the narration is overlaying a sensory information stream. You
decide to extend a mental probe into the stream, to ascertain if there is
anything worthwhile to see. You are rewarded with flickering images from
Akakios. They play out before your eyes, like a string of still picts.
The country house nestled comfortably among heath covered hills. A vast
azure lake, gently wrapped in white drifts of mist. A range of mountains in
the distance, capped in pristine snow. Everything is large and grand and
tinged with a hint of mystery. The world as seen by a child before it is
weaned to the unpleasant realities of life.
The probe provides Haxtes’ tale with additional texture, but little
additional substance. You’ll leave the probe active, to see if it picks up
anything useful. Even if it doesn’t, the imagery is still a welcome
supplement, much preferable to just listening to the monotonous drone of
Haxtes’ voice.
62
DARK OMEGA
--“I didn’t really mind,” Haxtes continues. “More often than not I was busy
with my own affairs. I didn’t have many friends as a boy, but there was no
shortage of things for me to do. I spent hours wandering and exploring the
hill-lands. I would do my homework. I’d read a book,” you get a glimpse of
young Haxtes with a physical book cradled in his lap, “or watch a holoshow. In essence I was alone, but not feeling lonely. Some people – my
brother included – need to be with other people to feel whole. I always felt
best when alone.”
Man is not an island. In your experience the loners are loners for a
reason. They are challenged in some way, damaged even. You’ve been
something of a loner at times – people in your line of work often are – so
you know what you’re talking about. But you’ve always managed to
maintain a healthy dose of human interaction in your life.
“Speaking of homework: We children went to school every workday. All
Akakian children were required to go to school for at least ten years.”
“Ten years? For all the children?” you reply. “Why would all children
require such a lengthy education?”
”That right,” Haxtes confirms. “At least then years. For the boys. Girls
were only required to complete seven, but I think the majority did the full
ten.”
“But why?” you press.
Haxtes makes a minute shrug. ”It was customary. And Akakians took
great pride in their institutions of learning. Unlike most Imperial worlds
being a wise and learned man was a source of status.”
You shake your head in a mixture of disbelief and disinterest.
63
CHAPTER 6
SUMMER SKIING
“Education aside,” Haxtes says, ending that line of inquiry. “From the
house we could look east towards the snowy peaks of the Mastari range.”
You can see the mountains rising in the east, their upper slopes draped in a
white blanket of snow. “We went hiking there in the autumn. Sometimes
we went summer skiing, high up where the snow never melted.” Haxtes
makes a slow, snaking motion with his hand, starting at shoulder level and
ending at desktop height.
Skiing? You didn’t see that tangential coming. You’re only passingly
familiar with the concept of skis – two long, narrow planks strapped to the
feet – a very peculiar mode of personal transportation, used on a
smattering of feral planets, and a handful of more civilized worlds that
remain locked in eternal ice ages.
Haxtes pauses, turns to look at you, and then addresses you rather more
directly. “Did you ever go summer skiing in your childhood, Marcus?”
You don’t reply. You’ve no particular desire to go down this path.
Perhaps if you ignore the query he’ll try something else.
Haxtes pauses to give you an opportunity to change your mind. Still you
decline, until finally he resumes. “If you didn’t, you missed out on
something wonderful.” He sounds regretful on your behalf. It’s his most
expressive statement to date.
64
DARK OMEGA
Another pause, longer this time. When you still do not reply, he
continues, somewhat reluctantly if you’re to judge. “The rest of the family
would get up in the predawn dark and get everything ready. My brother Jax
and Mother would prepare food and other paraphernalia. Father would
prepare the skis.” Images from inside the house – it is as cosy on the inside
as on the outside – play out inside your mind. “Then he would wake my
sister and she would make her way into the family hopper, while Father
picked me up and carried my still-sleeping body from the bed and strapped
me into my seat. One of the few advantages of being the youngest child.”
The Adeptus Mechanicus is well versed in the lore of gravitic
manipulation, and produces numerous vehicles that can defy the pull of
gravity, but for a family of modest means to matter-of-factly own a hopper
is rather uncommon. Another Akakian peculiarity, to go with their love of
education?
Haxtes continues. “When finally I woke up, we would be landing on a
pristine white field of snow, high up in the mountains. The sun would be
coming out to greet us, painting the world with magic crayons.” The view of
the snowy mountains, bathed in the reds and pinks of the rising sun is quite
majestic and oddly calming. “I’d gulp down a quick breakfast and then we
would get our skis. The weather would be perfect, minimal wind and the
sun would shine all day. We would race down the mountain again and
again, effortlessly carried to the top by the hopper that came for us on
servitor-pilot when called.”
Fleeting images of high-speed movement across wide expanses of white
snow. The sensation is unfamiliar, but exhilarating. He’s right: you’ve
definitely missed out on something. If you were on your own time you
might be tempted. But you’re not. You’re on the God-Emperor’s time, and
he doesn’t gladly suffer his servants to waste time on frivolities.
65
CHAPTER 6 SUMMER SKIING
“At noon we would eat a large meal together and we would talk and
laugh and everything would be just perfect.” Haxtes sounds pleased when
recalling the event. “Afterwards father and Jax would find a more
challenging place to ski, while Mother rested, and Eli…Eli would mostly just
sit in the sun, soaking up its warmth like a lizard.”
His sister is indeed quite attractive – a pale dark beauty – if a little too
young for your tastes. The mother, however, she you would gladly have
bedded. She is a mirror image of her daughter, only older and infinitely
more alluring. Jax looks just like Haxtes does, only a bit taller and more
heavily built. The father is harder to peg down. He’s there, but always out of
focus, or appearing too briefly for you to get a good impression of him.
There are some potentially interesting interpretations here, but you’ve
neither the time, nor the inclination, to delve deeper.
Haxtes’ voice becomes more neutral. “Since I was not old enough to go
with Father and Jax, and not inclined to just sit around doing nothing, I
would go on exploring on my own – I’d just go on skiing downhill, looking
for new places, secure in the knowledge that Father would come for me
eventually.”
He suddenly shuts his mouth. Quite firmly. His eyes have become hard.
Silence grows between you. It becomes a heavy weight crushing down
upon you. With each passing moment it grows more cumbersome. You can
feel the connection between you and Haxtes slipping.
Slightly anxious that the contact with the tome might be interrupted you
finally reply. “No, I never did go summer skiing. I never went any type of
skiing. I barely know what skis are. I grew up with a family, that is true, but
we were not in a position to have the sort of freedom or wealth required
for such frivolous pursuits.” A grim smile crosses your features. “And after
66
DARK OMEGA
the Arbites and the Black Ship there were even fewer skiing opportunities.
Not a lot of skiing in the Scholastia Psykana curriculum.”
You’re surprised at the venom in your own voice. Bitterness conjured
forth from dim memories, of a family that provided you with none of the
warmth or love your soul craved.
--The connection is back, stronger than ever.
--“No? Unfortunate. As I said you’ve really missed out on something. If
you’d like to give it a try, the tome contains a full recording of one of my
childhood exploration trips. It was quite eventful.”
You get the feeling that it’s not just a story of snow and skis. That he’s
hinting that there may be something of substance hidden within. Well,
you’ll not be so easily deflected from your divinely appointed path. “I think
I’ll pass,” you say, mixing finality with politeness.
Haxtes raises an eyebrow. “You can pull it up any time you like. But it will
require a deeper level of immersion than the one you’re at right now, so I
suggest doing it later, after you’ve become more familiar with the way the
recording works.”
Tempting as summer skiing might sound; you decline the offer by
ignoring it. You’re here for a reason, you’re here for the lore of immortality,
sent here on the behest of your master. Deep immersion to go skiing does
not enter into it. Not now, and certainly not later. “Not interested,” you say
with even greater finality – and far less politeness.
Haxtes face becomes impassive, his body language fully neutral, his voice
completely devoid of emotion. “Suit yourself. Though you will come to
regret that decision. Mark my words.”
--67
CHAPTER 6 SUMMER SKIING
Lack of inflection or not, that last statement came out sounding like a
threat. You get the distinct impression Haxtes is not used to being gainsaid
– and that his standard reaction pattern in that regard is an elevated
aggression level.
You do a quick analysis of Haxtes’ behavioural patterns, faint and muted
though they might be. He seems unusually composed and calm, most of the
time. Yet he is also clearly somewhat short-tempered and prone to reacting
with violence, rather than acting through diplomacy. There is also his
penchant for alcohol consumption. Substance abuse is often indicative of
deep seated emotional issues, issues that, somewhat ironically, often come
to the fore as a result of excessive drinking.
Is alcohol abuse, brought about by traumatic experiences in his past, the
cause of Haxtes’ occasional loss of control? Is it an integral part of his
personality, a flaw that you manipulate to further your own agenda? Or is
the recording just putting on a show for you? The attire, the guns, the
irreverent attitude, the drinking, is all of it part of a carefully crafted
illusion? But if so, an illusion intended to do what? Trick you in some way?
Test you? Deceive you?
There is more than meets the eye here, on more than one level. You’ve
already established that Haxtes is a security measure, a gatekeeper, but you
must conclude you’ve yet to fully understand its form and function.
Whatever the gatekeeper is designed to accomplish, you must admit that
he’s having an effect on you. In the short span you’ve spent together, Haxtes
has nearly managed to get under your skin on more than one occasion. He’s
even managed to stir up memories of a childhood you long since burned
from your mind.
The appearance of those memories came as something of a surprise. You
severed the associative links between your childhood and the rest of your
68
DARK OMEGA
memory strata during the final year of your education. With exacting
precision you used careful application of psy-fire to make incisions, cutting
the connections between unwanted memories and the cognitive areas of
your brain. The memories are still there, it’s just your ability to associate
with them that is gone.
Burning out the memory segments would have been far easier, but
would have left you with gaping holes in your personality, much like a
brain-scrubbing would. Your mind, however, was deemed far too valuable
for such a crude treatment. So instead the instructors taught you how to
use conduct precise self-psyrgery into your own mind. The pain involved
was considerable, but the technique is undeniably effective when it comes
to removing troublesome memories and personality defects.
So why this sudden re-emergence of a past long banished? Even a brief
analysis points firmly at the link between you and the tome. If you burned
your own bridges so to speak, then it follows that the tome is building new
connections for you. In turn this indicates the link between your mind and
the tome is deeper and more complex than you previously realized.
Even more reasons for you to be cautious. Yet you cannot afford to be
overly careful either, not if it will prevent meaningful progress. After all,
you’ve here for a reason. You’re after the forbidden knowledge hidden
within this tome. More specifically you’re after the lore of immortality.
Knowing just how imperative your task is to the furtherance of your
master’s holy work, is reason enough to risk everything.
69
CHAPTER 7
THE SNAKE IN
PARADISE
“Anyway,” Haxtes says, bringing you out of your inner reverie, making
you shift focus back to the interactive compartment. “Father was a midlevel manager with a local manufactorum conglomerate in Thira. Every
weekday he would get up early in the morning go to the plant. I think he
was both very good at his job, and that he genuinely enjoyed the work.”
Haxtes’ father is a tall and wiry man. Always going somewhere or seen
hunched over dataslates, peering intently into repeater screens, or sorting
through stacks of printer media.
“Enjoyed it a bit too much perhaps,” Haxtes goes on, “for he would not
always come home for supper. Many weekends he would either go in to
town to work for a few hours, or he would retreat to the study and do some
paperwork from home.”
Or perhaps he had found other female company in town. Even men with
beautiful wives can be unfaithful. Perhaps a cool, petite blonde, to contrast
his own wife. Or maybe he was into shapely, passionate brunettes that
reminded him of his wife, yet provided him with the spice his marriage
lacked.
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DARK OMEGA
Haxtes looks thoughtfully into his empty glass, a very faint and short
lived smile on his lips. Or was it just a figment of your imagination?
With a small sigh he rises from his seat, puts down his class, picks up the
decanter, and proceeds to fill up his own glass, before topping off yours. “I
know Mother felt he was away too much. We children were used to it. I’m
sure we missed his presence, but his absence was something we were used
to and expected.” He resumes his seat, cradling his glass. “What we never
got used to was mother’s silent spells and the wordless grief she tried to
hide from us. The tearless crying. The dark around her eyes from staring
sleeplessly into the night. The crimson lines on her ivory arms.”
You see her clearly, sitting there by the window, peering into the lonely
darkness. Her eyes are mirrors of the night, allowing you to glimpse the
darkness gnawing at her soul. An untrained psyker. And a troubled one at
that. This could get ugly.
“It got worse over the years. By the time I was eight it was a real force in
our lives. We children could feel the unease building and eventually Father
would leave the house. That only made Mother worse. She needed him so
for his strength and boundless calm. He was her anchor. Without him she
was a leaf caught in the storm.”
So Haxtes was pretty disconnected from his family. It may have appeared
a loving and harmonious family to outsiders, but in reality there was
discordance and emotional disassociation. Much like your own family
relations, only less aggravated.
Haxtes has another big sip of amasec. “In his own way he needed her just
as fiercely as she did him. But love cannot make a broken mind hale, cannot
make wicked witches into chaste maidens. When he finally realized he
could not save her or heal her, he took refuge in his work. Work became his
anchor when he no longer had the strength to be Mother’s.”
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CHAPTER 7 THE SNAKE IN PARADISE
Haxtes has become quietly contemplative. The glass is no longer in his
hand. It has traded places with Blood. You didn’t perceive the swap.
“Quite perceptive for an eight year old, don’t you think?” He checks his
gun quickly. His hands are steady and his fingers nimble. His movements
remind you more of a lover, gently caressing the curves of his woman, than
a warrior preparing his weapon for battle.
Then and there you decide that the Haxtes persona is indeed a recording
of a real person – a psychic shadow. He’s too complex, too detailed to be a
mere construct – no one could stitch something like this together without a
single hole or frayed edge showing. You’ve yet to spot anything of the sort
and you’re positively sure you never will.
It appears the good Inquisitor made a psychic copy of his pet killer,
turning him into the tome’s primary line of defence against unsanctioned
access. Not how you would have chosen to arrange for security, but
Melbinious probably had his reasons. It doesn’t really matter. What matters
is how to get past this gatekeeper.
“In hindsight,” Haxtes elaborates, “it is tempting to peg it on my latent
psychic abilities, but the answer is much more mundane than that: Children
are wary of moods and relations. Their minds are so receptive and
perceptive.”
He’s done with the gun. He holsters it. An indication that you’ve passed
through some form of security checkpoint? About time there was some
progress. You’ve no intention of listen to his entire life story, even with the
added texture from the sensory probe. Not sufficiently interesting, not by a
long shot.
“Children are also quick to take after other children, so in a very real way
I picked up the same things my elder siblings did. Although in all honesty,
my sister was the more attuned of the two. My brother was fourteen, but
72
DARK OMEGA
my sister at twelve was far more mature than he. Besides, she sat around
the house a lot more – and as it turned out she was a psyker, and a potent
telepath to boot.” He pauses to let you think that through.
So Haxtes comes from an entire family of psykers. You’re left to wonder
how they, unlike your own family, escaped the attention of the witch
hunters. Long-suppressed bitterness rises like bile in the back of your
throat. Again this sudden, unwanted, connectivity to your own past. You
will have to do something about it. Can’t have the tome stirring up all sorts
of buried emotions and banished memories.
Haxtes picks up where he left off. “We knew, collectively, that something
was not right. And then we proceeded, collectively, to pretend nothing was
amiss, for the truth was too hard to bear. Pretending is another thing
children are good at.” He halts.
You fill the void with a question. “What became of your family? I take it
from your statements that there was a purge of this world Akakios. Might it
have had something to do with your homeworld’s lax measures when it
came to psychic screening? Or was there another cause?”
He gives you a blank look. “Well, we’ll get to that shortly.” That twisted
parody of a grin graces his lips for a moment.
“I never went summer skiing again.” The statement is laced with hidden
meanings, a not-so-subtle attempt to persuade you one final time to peruse
the skiing recording. You decline to take the bait.
Haxtes leans firmly back into his chair, letting the exquisite leather wrap
itself around his armoured back. He takes a measured sip of amasec, letting
the liquor linger in his mouth for a while before swallowing. “That summer
when I was eight was the last time. Father was away a lot and mother was
not well. Jax took to copying father by staying out often and late. Eli took
after mother, sitting in her room, staring at everything and nothing.”
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CHAPTER 7 THE SNAKE IN PARADISE
Another contemplative sip. “I didn’t mind too much, to me it was just
more of the same old. It was summer and school was out. We had a new
canine puppy that father had brought with him from Thira one day. We had
another canine when Jax was little. It had died when I was two.”
You discern a very faith aura shift, brought on by bittersweet memories
perhaps? You’ll wager Haxtes became rather attached to the beast. Perhaps
to compensate for his lack of emotional interdependence with his kinfolk.
“It was Jax’ dog really, but after the first few weeks he got bored with it.
Father was away a lot and Mother and Eli were busy acting weird or
playing at apathy. So it fell to me look after him.” Haxtes voice is utterly
bereft of emotion, but there is something about his eyes that hints at
hidden feelings.
Yes, Haxtes definitely has fond memories of the canine, more so than of
his other family members. You let out a mental sigh inside your inner
fortress. As much as you like rummaging through the memories, thoughts,
and emotions of others it’s not why you are here. Haxtes childhood is of no
concern to you.
“We called him Nix after the mythical navigator who in great antiquity
had steered the great ark-ship Absalom across the void, to found a human
colony on Akakios. According to our legends the journey had been long and
arduous, hexed with bad luck, and pursued by nefarious forces.”
“This settlement myth; it predates the Imperium, yes?” you ask.
“Indeed it does. By many thousands of years. At any rate, Nix led his
people away from this nameless evil, to build a new home – Akakios, the
Place of Goodness.”
--You been monitoring the tome for some time now, and believe you’ve
figured out some of its underlying functionality. Rather than just sit and
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DARK OMEGA
listen to Haxtes’ talk about his childhood you decide to have a go at
directing the playback. That will reveal whether or not you’ve understood
something of the principles governing the tome’s behaviour patterns.
--You interrupt Haxtes before he can continue. “Could you elaborate
somewhat on the history and culture of Akakios? The world is, as you
suspected, completely unknown to me. I’m fairly well versed in Calixian
astrography, but I remember no mention of this place of goodness, so I’m a
bit puzzled. The Edict of Obliteration seems to have left a gap in my
education.”
Again a perceptible, however slight, shift in the playback. Exactly as you
anticipated.
Haxtes nods solemnly in reply “I can understand your confusion. It’s not
every day a planet is lost.”
“I would greatly appreciate it,” you say.
“Yes, elaboration can be arranged,” Haxtes finally agrees. “But I have
someone better suited to the task than myself. Allow me to introduce one of
my associates: Vern.”
75
CHAPTER 8
THE GREAT
ARCHITECT
In response to Haxtes’ call an adept steps into the ring of light. He’s
wearing the utility robes of a senior interrogator. His eyes are those of an
old man, but his skin is smooth and young. New skin grafted on top of old
flesh. Very neatly done, but you can still tell. It’s especially apparent where
the skin meets the cranial graft of ceramite and plasteel covering the back
of his skull.
He makes a formal bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am
Interrogator-Savant Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos. Vern for short.”
You’re passingly familiar with Archaos. It is a world famous – some
would say infamous – for the loremasters and savants it produces. More
recently it was also the linchpin of the Archaic War, a conflict that was a
brutal and bloody as any in the history of the Calixis sector. The UniversityHive of Veridia is unknown to you, placing it firmly in the minor league.
“I am the architect behind this artefact, this tome – the simulation that
makes this meeting possible,” he continues whilst moving closer. “In life I
was also Inquisitor Melbinious’ senior savant – and in the capacity as his
chronicler and archivist I continue to serve.”
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DARK OMEGA
This is an interesting development. You’ve already established that
Haxtes is more than a synthetic persona construct. Your current theory is
that he’s the psychic shadow of the Haxtes that served in Melbinious
retinue. By his own mouth this new Vern figure admitted to being the Lord
Inquisitor’s chronicler. You detected no falsehood in his voice, body
language, or thought-patterns. You must indeed have passed through the
first layers of security. The tome is accepting your presence and allowing
you to interface more fully. If Vernissimon is the architect behind the tome
it stands to reason he represents the tome’s deeper, secret layers. He’s the
one you want to be speaking to, not Haxtes.
You make to rise, but Vern waves you back down, so you settle for an
informal greeting. “I am honoured to make your acquaintance Vernissimon
de Veridia de Archaos. I am Interrogator Marcus of the Inquisition.”
“Please,” Vernissimon says, “do call me Vern.”
Up close the Interrogator-Savant is very tall. Half a head taller than you.
A bit more than that with regards to Haxtes. He’s also quite broad of
shoulder. No, he’s more than broad, he’s…bulky. Yes, bulky is the word
you’re looking for.
“Exoskeleton. Mechanicus make. Started out as locomotive assistance,
but subsequent additions have added to both functionality – and by
extension, bulk.” Vern’s hands slaps firmly against ceramite plates hidden
under his voluminous garments. “A man of my age needs all the help he can
get.”
The fleshy parts of his head are completely hairless, undoubtedly
artificially induced. He wears the Aquila proudly, electooed into his face
and forehead. You’ve seen many such displays of zeal – not all of them
equally genuine.
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CHAPTER 8 THE GREAT ARCHITECT
Sensing your reaction a frown forms on Vern’s face. “For much of my
youth and adult life, near enough a century and a half, I was a man without
faith. I professed to be amongst the faithful, but I was not. I went through
the motions, prayed my prayers, made the offerings, and observed the
holidays. But I did not truly believe.” He makes the sign of the Aquila, two
hands crossed in front of the chest, thumbs locked together, in a rough
approximation of the sacred symbol of the Imperium.
Vern goes on. “Not until I was saved by Him. I was saved, when so many
others were not. He put His mark upon me and the daemons of the warp
feared to touch me. That is why I carry the Aquila upon my flesh, so that I
will be forever reminded of my faithless years and what we all, and
especially I, owe Our Saviour Emperor.”
There is an undeniable quality to his preaching, something about the
tone of his voice and his use of body language. He has charisma for lack of a
better word. This man is more than just another savant. But then again, if
he was the creator of this wondrous tome, how could he be anything less
than special?
He falls silent, regarding you intently. “I am certain you are here for the
forbidden lore, Marcus, but bear with us for a little longer. As you’ve no
doubt have already concluded, the tome doesn’t just offer up its secrets to
just anyone. You’ve made a good first impression so to speak, despite your
host’s claims to the contrary, but we must go through the motions
nevertheless. There is no way around listening to Haxtes’ story I’m afraid.”
So you’re not entirely rid of Haxtes after all. It’s something of a
disappointment, but one that you’ll just have to swallow for the time being.
You’re only scratching the surface right now it would seem. Rushing would
be counterproductive at this stage. Bide your time, be patient.
78
DARK OMEGA
“I see. If I have no choice in the matter, please do proceed.” You nod for
him to go on.
Vern starts talking, sounding very much like a school-teacher. “Akakios’
history is shrouded in legend and myth. At its core it’s a tale of a great arkship venturing out between the stars, back in hallowed antiquity.” He puts
on quite the show for his sole pupil, using his voice and gestures to expertly
complement his words. “The ship became the victim of a number of
calamities, but Nix the Navigator finally managed to bring its human cargo
to a new home. It’s not exactly a unique settlement myth; you’ll find
thousands of worlds claiming similar roots.”
Yes, it is a rather common genesis myth. Your own homeworld of
Metrodora has one not too dissimilar. Correction: had. The hive-cities and
majestic orbitals of the world that gave birth to you are gone now,
consumed by the galaxy-spanning war than never ends. An entire world
destroyed, along with every wretched member of your own family.
“What is special about Akakios,” Vern elaborates, “is that it may actually
be true. The Absalom was likely an early ark-ship lost in the warp. But
somehow, impossibly, it got through, arriving all the way out here on the
edge of everything, long before any other ship made by man had explored
this far.”
Metrodora was rather closer to Holy Terra than the Calixis sector, well
within the borders of Segmentum Solar. For a ship to have survived a warp
journey all the way out to the edge of the galaxy…it must have been a very
lucky ship indeed – or Nix was truly skilled in the ways of warp navigation.
“Akakios endured through both the Dark Age of Technology and the Age
of Strife,” Vern explains. “When the Angevin Crusade finally reclaimed the
Calyx Expanse and turned it into an Imperial sector, Akakios was still there.
Its people had fought off the Adranti and innumerable xenos horrors from
79
the Halo Stars, kept technology and civilization alive during the long night,
and learned to cull its own psykers and madmen.”
So Akakios was a survivor world, a place where humanity not only
survived in the absolute sense of the word, but where they retained both
civilization and a measure of techno-lore.
“When the Imperium of Man came calling,” Vern continues, “the Akakians
rejoiced. After brief period of negotiation, the Akakians re-joined their lost
brethren quite willingly. The world was entered into the Roll of Worlds as
Protasia, the name by which the system was already known to Imperial
surveyors and bureaucrats. An easy Compliance for the Imperium.”
“Protasia?” you interrupt. “I’ve seen that name applied to a frontier
world, located on the outskirts of the Drusus Marches, not far from the
Maw.”
Vern doesn’t seem to notice your comment, but Haxtes does. “You might
at that,” he interjects. "It’s the same place as Akakios – in a purely physical
sense.”
“But therein lay the seeds of corruption: The Akakians – or should I say
Protasians – were guilty of great pride. This pride should have been
crushed out of them before they were allowed entry into the Imperium,”
Vern says with great pathos. “The Imperium should have transformed
Akakios into Protasia, in fact, as well as in name.”
You’re not sure you agree with that assessment. The problem with
enforcing absolute compliance is that it requires great military effort,
decades of occupation, and a massive rebuilding effort afterwards. GodEmperor knows there is enough war already. If a planet can be brought into
the fold with less drastic means, it means more profit for all. And once in
the fold the Imperium has other means of monitoring and enforcing the
loyalty of its worlds. The Adepts of Terra take on many guises and have
80
DARK OMEGA
great resources at their disposal. More than enough to deal with a little
pride.
Vern picks up again. “They were proud of their history, their
accomplishments, their purity. No wonder they thought themselves better
than other men; in many ways they were. Even the new Imperial name for
their world was proof of that: Protasia is not of Gothic origin. It is a word
derived from the Akakian word ‘Protos’, meaning beginning or first.”
“Why would the Imperials have an Akakian name in their archives?” you
ask. You realize Vern is leading you on, but you’re still mildly curious.
Vern rewards you with solemn nod. “As far as the scholars of Archaos
can tell, Akakios was actually a colony world that was settled by people
from Malfi, back during the Dark Age of Technology. Protasia, the first
colony of Malfi – or A’malfi, as it was known back then.”
Haxtes interrupts. “That’s not a theory supported by Akakian scholars.
But no matter, they are all long dead, and unlikely to quarrel with you.
Now, get back on topic.”
“This sense of superiority,” Vern resumes, “certainly meant continuing
with their old ways. Concepts like equality, freedom, and democracy were
central to Akakian-Protasian culture,” his voice trails off, leaving you to
draw your own conclusions.
Democracy? That certainly isn’t a common means of planetary
government. Not altogether unknown, but certainly uncommon. History
has shown it to be an inferior form of governance, one that too often leads
to civil unrest, tithe evasion – and heresy.
“So it was that the proud citizens of Protasia continued along the deviant
paths their Akakian forebears had trodden, secure in the knowledge of
their supremacy. For now that they were part of the great Imperium of Man
there was nothing that could touch them,” Vern chuckles, “except of course
81
the Imperium of Man itself. For the day did come, a few millennia later,
when the sins of Protasia could no longer be ignored; a mighty crusade of
the faithful was called, to put an end to the growing heresy!”
Behind Vern Haxtes finishes his second drink, puts the glass down
carefully and then claps his hands slowly and melodramatically. “A very
good sermon Preacher Vern. Could have been taken directly from the lower
infantry decks aboard the Departmento Munitorum mass troop conveyor
Soon To Be Destroyed by Protasian Naval Forces.”
Haxtes refills his glass with practiced ease while keeping his gaze fixed
upon Vern. “Unfortunately for the rest of us,” he replaces the decanter,
“Vern developed a sense of humour during the later stages of his life.”
He picks up his glass and leans back. “When combined with religious zeal
and a thousand lifetimes of knowledge, that humour is kind of hard for the
rest of us to follow. But Vern is having a blast. Are you not, old comrade?”
Haxtes lifts his glass in a mocking toast.
Vern makes an equally mocking half-bow in Haxtes direction, “I stand
corrected. I will leave it to you to finish the boy’s education.” He turns to
you. “Call me again if you have need of me, Master Marcus. I’ll be around.”
And with that he steps out of the circle and is gone.
Haxtes gives you an appraising look. “Disappointed?” he finally asks?
Of course you are disappointed! You had hoped you were done with
Haxtes, but apparently you were being overly optimistic. You let the
question hang there for a moment before answering. “No. I would not say
disappointed. I’m still mildly perplexed and trying to figure out how this
thing works. I’m not in a rush. I have time to listen.”
He doesn’t look like he believes you, which is fine by you. “Vern is indeed
the resident librarian and loremaster, but I’m still the gatekeeper. You’re
not nearly done with me. And you’ve yet to meet the others.”
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DARK OMEGA
“Others? There are more personas in here?” you ask, marvelling again at
the complexity of the tome.
Haxtes regards his empty glass. “Indeed there are. We have a machine
priest to handle the techno-arcane stuff. We have someone to handle
obvious attempts at forced entry. And so forth. It’s quite the team really.
But I digress. All in good time and so forth. We need to get back on topic.”
The last sentence is half a question. You indicate an indifferent level of
agreement by having a sip of your drink.
Haxtes seems to take it as a yes and resumes. “Vern has it mostly right.
The newly renamed Protasians were proud and cocky as hell. In the end
they had no friends, only enemies. The Mechanicus wanted their secrets,
but got nothing. The Ministorum was eternally frustrated by the Protasian
version of the Imperial Creed. The nobles of Malfi were suspicious and the
merchants of the Guilds Commercia envious. To name but a few. It’s an old
story, told again and again throughout human history.”
Only too true. Man is oftentimes his own worst enemy. That’s the reason
there is an Ordo Hereticus.
“There is a bit of confusion as to whether or not Protasia actually
rebelled first, or if it was set up by its enemies. But the end result was much
the same. You do not defy the Imperium of Man. Or if you do there will be
hell to pay.”
He looks you straight in the eye. “Come. Let me show you what became of
my homeworld.”
You’d much rather call Vern back and have him talk about something
worthwhile, like the secrets of immortality, but instead you let Haxtes’
narration pull you in and under.
83
INTERLUDE
THE GIRL NAMED
SALT
Once upon a time there was a girl named Salt. She lived in the small
village of Divine Grace, upon the world of Zephyr, somewhere in the great
Sixth Circle of Finial. Her parents were very devout, as were most
Zephyreans. Her mother was a candlemaker and a good one at that; her
honey-scented candles fetched a good price at the market, and the local
templum readily accepted them as the family’s tithe payment. Her father
had no craft, but worked as a stonemason’s assistant. It didn’t pay very
well, but it was honourable work – most of the stone he prepared for the
master masons went towards the beautification of the shrines and temples
of Zephyr.
Salt’s father was also part of the Frateris Militia, the militia force
overseen by the Adeptus Ministorum. Most of the able-bodied menfolk of
Zephyr were – and her devout father was no exception. Indeed, as a
sergeant-at-arms with the militia her father gained greatly in status – and
received a modest stipend from the Ministorum officials. When Salt was
little, three or four years old, she couldn’t quite remember, her father had
joined the glorious Margins Crusade – and never returned. After a while
their stipend was annulled; the priest of their local congregation curtly
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DARK OMEGA
informed them that Salt’s father had deserted in the face of the enemy, and
therefore been stricken from the rolls. Her mother had wanted to protest,
Salt’s father was no coward, but dared not – she could ill afford to
antagonize the Ministorum further, now that she was a sole provider.
Thus it was that Salt grew up, fatherless and desperately poor, in the
shadow of the great mountain that housed the fortress-monastery of Saint
Ibelina. Her mother was hard pressed to provide for seven children by
herself. Fewer people bought the candles of a woman whose husband had
turned out to be a man of little faith and courage. Still she carried on, secure
in the faith that her husband had been true until the end, and that the GodEmperor would provide and protect.
--Just two days short of Salt’s sixth birthday – she remembered that part
very well – her mother had contacted the wasting illness the old women
called the Scourge of Drusus. At that time she had not known anything
about this Drusus, or the disease that carried his name. But by the amount
of lamentation uttered by the old village hags she knew that it was deadly
serious business.
Two days later, on the day of her birthday, her mother was deep in
deliria, her body wracked by painful spasms, and her orifices weeping
blood and puss.
Four days after the birthday that never was, her mother was dead – and
each of her six siblings had contacted the disease. When she looked about it
seemed the entire village was similarly afflicted. The lamentation had
abated somewhat, to be replaced by the wailing of the sick and the
desperate prayers of those about to die.
On the ninth day following her birthday, the village had grown eerily
silent. If anyone was still alive they were doing as Salt; sitting at the side of
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INTERLUDE THE GIRL NAMED SALT
their loved ones, praying for them and easing their passing into the
embrace of the Father of Mankind.
More days passed. How many she could not tell. She no longer counted
the days, only her dead brothers and sisters. When the last of her siblings
had finally passed into the beyond, she opened the door and went out into
the streets, barefoot and alone.
That was when she saw them for the first time – stern-faced girls from
the monastery, none of them older than fourteen, decked neck to toe by
tightfitting armour that glinted red in the glare of the promethium flamers
they carried.
”Sister-Superior!” one of them shouted, a tall one with close-cropped
black hair showing above her breath mask. “We have a live one!” The
muzzle of the flamer swung towards her.
Salt stepped forward to welcome the cleansing fire.
--Life in the monastery-fortress of the Adeptus Sororitas was very
different from the simple village life she was used to. Even her name was
different: She had used to be simply Salt, but such a low-born name wasn’t
good enough for the Adeptus Terra, so now she had a proper High Gothic
name: Novicia Salinaria, Novice Salt.
Everything was different, except for one thing: The unflinching devotion
to the God-Emperor displayed by every member of the community. That
was the same here inside the mighty mountain, as it had been in the village.
As long as she kept faith in the Master of Mankind, she felt whole, even
knowing that all those she had ever known before, her own family included,
were dead. Faith was her anchor, that which kept her safe in the storm. As
long as she had that faith, she was not alone.
--86
DARK OMEGA
It had come as a surprise to everyone, especially Salinaria herself, when
she was assigned to one of the Orders Militant; the Order of the Bloody
Rose, one of the most famous warrior sororities in the Imperium. It was
quite shocking really. She had always imagined she would be assigned to
one of the Orders Hospitaler. Did she not excel in the gentle arts? Did she
not have the healing touch? Why then, did the God-Emperor wish for her to
fight? Truly His ways were inscrutable.
A fortnight later she was on her way to Ophelia VII, the oldest and holiest
of all the Ministorum’s cardinal worlds – and the home of her Order
Militant. She was no closer to getting any answers, but she had at least
made peace with her fate, so to speak. If the God-Emperor demanded she
take up arms, she would do so without hesitation. If she was told to kill, she
would do so, and consider the act of slaying an offering to Him on Earth. If
she died, she would do so, knowing that her duty had been done.
--After her graduation to the rank of Sister Militant, Salinaria had been
handed transfer papers, pointing her towards the remote Calixis sector, a
place she hadn’t even heard of. It turned out the place wasn’t far, relatively
speaking, from the world of her birth. The coreward and spinward reaches
of the Calixis sector touched ever so tenuously upon the borders of the
Sixth Circle of Finial, within whose borders lay the shrine world of Zephyr.
Not far at all – in the galactic sense.
Her lofty superiors on Ophelia VII had seen fit to bolster the Calixian
Ministorum by granting them a sizeable number of Battle Sisters; a full
Preceptory of a thousand fighting women. Salinaria’s name was included on
the roll of names listing the Sisters going into the first Commandery to ship
out. There was trouble out there on the edge of civilization, and the time for
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INTERLUDE THE GIRL NAMED SALT
diplomacy and espionage was at an end. A more violent approach would be
required to deal with the heresies gnawing at the sector.
Her new posting was to a place called Malfi, a hive world, as bloated and
corrupt as they came. It was the subsector capital of the rimward areas of
Calixis and arguably the second most important world in the sector.
Salinaria had detested the place from the onset. To her Malfi felt too much
like her old village had done, gripped in its death throes. Mercifully the
Sisters’ monastic base was located on a small lunar body in the outer
system, some fourteen hundred million kilometres from the Malfian
surface. If she tried, she could still sense the hopelessness and decay of
Malfi’s hives, even across interplanetary distances. Or at least she imagined
she could.
--The God-Emperor possesses unfailing wisdom and foresight, including in
the matter of one Sister Salinaria. As it turned out the young Sororita was
more than a capable combatant; she turned out to be the living incarnation
of the God-Emperor’s wrath, a weapon to be wielded against all those who
dared threaten the majesty of the Imperium or disparage the inviolable
purity of the Imperial Creed.
Salinaria still considered herself well skilled in the more gentle arts; her
numerology was good, her command of languages excellent, her social
skills impeccable. She also had an uncommon talent when it came to
healing. This could not be denied. But there was also no denying that her
true calling in life was death.
The Malfian Preceptory quickly became deeply involved in combatting
an insidious cult that had spread its foul influence across the stars of the
Drusus Marches – and into the Malfian subsector. Sister Salinaria rose
quickly through the ranks, testament to her skill at arms and her boundless
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DARK OMEGA
courage. Had she been a man, her sisters whispered behind her back, she
would have become Astartes, such were her murderous instincts.
89
CHAPTER 9
WELCOME TO
THIRA
“It was a fine morning,” Haxtes begins. “A cloak of heavy whiteness
swathed the ruins of my hometown – Thira does get a fair bit of morning
mist coming in from the lakeside.”
As Haxtes speaks your sensory probe provides you with vivid mental
glimpses of the landscape he passes through. If you’re going to listen to
Haxtes’ story you might as well make the best out of it; gather as much
information as your evolved mind is capable of processing. Some of it might
actually turn out to be of importance. You’re not overly optimistic, but with
mental faculties such as yours, you’ve plenty of processing power to spare.
Rather than content yourself with still pictograms, you adjust the probe
to provide the equivalent of live footage. You’re immediately provided with
a crystal-clear impression of the city of Thira – a ruined cityscape, swathed
in thick, white mist. The tome contains an astounding amount of data.
“But today was special. My line of sight was down to ten meters, tops.”
The probe shows you he’s not exaggerating. “Vern can tell you more about
the local microclimate if you’re interested. I would advise against it though,
once he gets going on matters of planetology…there is no stopping him.”
Haxtes looks at you for confirmation.
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DARK OMEGA
You politely decline with a short shake of your head. Planetology is not
the kind of lore you’re here for. You’ll no doubt call upon Vern later, when
your access level has improved, but not right now. Not for blabbering about
the particulars of planetology.
Haxtes continues. “Protasia’s sun was up, a pale distant orb, just barely
clearing the line of the eastern mountains. It had yet to find the power to
chase the mist away, so I would continue to be provided with a measure of
cool concealment as I moved away from my home turf and deeper into the
city.” There is enough light to see by, but there is no warmth in the pale
rays that illuminate the city.
“Because I had concealment,” Haxtes says, “I moved more quickly and
more openly than I otherwise would have dared. I kept to the streets rather
than creeping along the sewers and underground areas, or going through
the many ruined buildings.” All the buildings you can see have been
damaged; some more than others, but none have been left completely
untouched.
“Not that I was completely without cover. The streets were filled with
rubble,
burned-out
vehicles
and
other
paraphernalia.
Sufficient
concealment for a young boy on the prowl.” You watch as Haxtes makes his
way down a wide street, carefully picking his was across rubble and
destroyed vehicles – both civilian ground cars and armoured fighting
vehicles.
War has come to Protasia. You wonder what happened. Did the Protasian
heresy Haxtes mentioned take the form of a planet-wide insurrection? Was
an invasion required to reclaim the world for the God-Emperor? One thing
is clear though, the Imperial reclamation effort seems to have caused an
awful lot of collateral damage.
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“This was normally a very dangerous part of town,” Haxtes adds. “Firmly
in Imperial hands. The guardsmen certainly didn’t like locals snooping
around. As of yet I was only in one of the numerous Restricted Zones, but
the Forbidden Zone loomed ahead. Soon there would be no turning back. If
they caught me here they would just beat me bloody. Unless I actually had
the gall to try and evade capture, then they would just shoot me dead and
note me down as yet another insurgent. But getting caught in the
Forbidden Zone? That just got you shot on sight, end of discussion.” He
makes a short, chopping motion with his hand.
The fighting is over and done with, that much is clear. The damage looks
old. There is no smoke from blazing vehicles or burning buildings. The dust
of falling structures has long since settled. There are no rotting bodies, only
a smattering of charred and crushed bones. There are no people about. No
civilians going about their business as best they can. You conclude that the
Imperial Guard regiments are in control of the population centres and are
enforcing a strict form of martial law by zoning up the city.
Haxtes keeps on talking. “I had become pretty good at keeping a low
profile and I was rather quick on my feet if I dare say. But the Astra
Militatum – the Imperial Guard – has all sorts of auspex scanners and
servoskull snoops, to help them pick up intruders. Stealth only gets you so
far against such countermeasures. And no matter how quick you are, you
can’t outrun or dodge lasbeams. So a bit of caution was in order, even with
the mist cloaking me.”
Because of the dense mist it’s hard to accurately aestimate the size of the
settlement. A five-million city? Maybe twice as large as that? You cannot tell
for sure. Definitely below the twenty-mill mark. Not a very large city by any
standard. No hive structures. Just a handful of two-hundred-plus-storey
highrise structures protruding from the mist, near the city’s core. No doubt
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DARK OMEGA
the administrative and commercial heart of Thira. Several of the larger
government buildings show clear signs of damage. A positively huge flag
bearing the Imperial Aquila – the stylized two-headed eagle that represents
the unity of mankind under the benevolent rule of the Imperium – flies
from the topmost spire of one of the tallest, and most heavily damaged,
buildings.
The extent of the damage is easier to ascertain than the size of the city:
The city blocks Haxtes passes through haven’t just been bombed and
shelled from afar. Buildings and communal areas show clear signs of being
blasted with close-support ordnance and are thoroughly riddled with
small-arms fire. Entire quarters have been burned to the ground or
explosively demolished. Taking the city clearly required an assault by
massive Imperial ground forces, with all the mayhem that entrails:
Roadblocks. Shattered buildings. Burned-out vehicles. Rubble and debris.
Detritus and dead bodies. The Imperium may be in control, but the
Protasians seem to have given them a run for their money.
“What happened?” you ask.
Haxtes ignores the question. “I was in a good mood. Summer was upon
us again and the weather was favouring my expedition. It was also my
ninth birthday. Well, at least I imagined it was my ninth birthday. I couldn’t
be entirely sure since we had no way of accurately keeping the time.”
“So this was about a year after that last ski trip?” you venture.
“Not quite a full year, but close enough,” Haxtes replies. “We were
blissful in our ignorance, but even as we enjoyed our summer outing,
elements of Battlefleet Calixis were underway to deal with Protasia. I don’t
know the official start date for the planetary assault, but I remember seeing
the Imperial fleet settle into orbit in early autumn, like little darts of bright
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CHAPTER 9 WELCOME TO THIRA
silver straddling the atmosphere, just after we had gone back to school for a
new semester.”
He continues. “My own timepiece had stopped working along with
everyone else’s after the Imperials knocked out the Grid. Jax had found an
antique mechanical clock a few months before, but by then we had
probably already mixed up the days. A while later the mechanical clock
stopped working too. Try as we might we couldn’t figure out how to get it
to work again. There was a windup mechanism, but when we tried to turn
it nothing much happened. There was too little resistance. The winding
screw didn’t connect properly to the spring or whatever it was that
powered the clock. Jax took it apart one day when it rained too heavily to
even contemplate going outside. That didn’t help in the least. Inside were
myriad little pieces too small to manipulate without proper tools.”
Images of clockwork mechanisms flash before you. A few may be of the
innards of a mechanical chronometer, but they majority are more
complex…with some bordering on the improbably intricate. Did the tome
just flash some weird, heretek clockwork blueprints at you?
Haxtes gives you a lop-sided grin. “So we went back to noting down the
passage of days on a piece of paper. Eventually we stopped making marks.
Days no longer had any meaning beyond getting to the next, so why bother
keeping track of them?”
You get a fleeting glimpse of a townhouse, partially ruined and stripped
of anything of value. Someone has tried to make a home out of it. There is a
small promethium stove. A washing basin. Blankets. A few personal items.
Not much. A far cry from the cosy house in the hills above the lake, but
you’re not overly moved. It just proves that loss is a relative thing;
compared to your own childhood home it’s a freaking palace, stuffed with
wondrous treasures.
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“Had Father been around he could have fixed the clock in no time,”
Haxtes says. “Not that he would have had any need for such a primitive
timepiece. Father had a full cortex upgrade so he could function quite well
without the Grid.”
You decide to make another specific query. “Could you elaborate on this
‘Grid’ for me?” You’re not so much interested in the information, as you are
in seeing whether or not Vern will reappear.
“Of course. I’ll even do it myself,” Haxtes says. “No need to bother Vern.”
Again that smile that isn’t a smile.
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CHAPTER 10
GRIDLOCK
“The Grid is, or rather was, the name of the Protasian global network of
personal dataslates, cogitators, logic engines, datavaults, transmission
infrastructure, et al,” Haxtes explains. “Such grids are found on many
Imperial worlds. But of course there they are firmly controlled by the
Adeptus Mechanicus, the Administratum, and the planetary authorities. On
Protasia the grid was part of the public infrastructure, open and free for all
to use.” His voice trails off.
You’re more than a little surprised to hear this. “A global
communications network, open to all, without restriction? That is…very
rare, to say the least.”
It is well established that free communication is a key element in the
spread of organized crime, treasonous activity, and outright heresy. All that
knowledge, all that lore; it should have been closely monitored. What a
decidedly unhealthy way of running an Imperial planet!
Haxtes’ mouth becomes a grim line. “As I said: Protasia wasn’t like most
Imperial worlds. We had democracy. Civil liberties. A compulsory
educational system. Free flow of information. Believe it or not, that’s how
things were arranged there.”
You’re still not convinced – and it probably shows.
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DARK OMEGA
“Seeing as how Protasia was branded heretical I think your assessment
of ‘unhealthy’ sums it up rather nicely,” Haxtes adds, his voice thick with
sarcasm.
You decide to drop your objections – for now. You’ve learned what you
wanted to know. The Haxtes persona can call up a wide range of
information without recourse to Vern. The gatekeeper has his own
repository of lore, separate from the deeper, heavily encrypted archive
layers run by the Interrogator-Savant. You’re not entirely sure where the
line between them is drawn, but you’ll continue to experiment until you
find out.
Your host continues. “Almost all Protasians were connected to this grid
through a small device we called a ‘lock’. It usually took the form of a
wristband or other compact wearable item such as a piece of jewellery.
Inside was what amounts to a pretty complex dataslate with an integrated
bit-link and cerebral interface.”
“So not only did you have a free global grid, but you’re claiming you were
all carrying around miniaturized dataslates, voxlinks and mind impulse
units, all rolled up into a package the size of a chronometer?” you say,
sounding mildly incredulous. “And assuming that part is true, what about
the receiving end? Did all Protasians receive a MIU graft as well?” you say
sarcastically, knowing fully well that it cannot be the case. “If only some of
this is true, I find it hard to believe the Rust Priests let you alone for so
long!”
Haxtes gives you a flat look. “Rust Priests? Is that what you’re calling the
Cogheads these days? Cute. Thanks for sharing. Should be Oxidation Priests
really; not many cover themselves with crude iron.” Haxtes shrugs away his
own attempt at humour. “A freely accessible Grid: Yes. Locks for all: Yes.
Mind Impulse Units: Only partially. People like my father had a full MIU, but
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CHAPTER 10 GRIDLOCK
most citizens made do with a much simpler cerebral graft, keyed
specifically to their lock.”
“Go on,” you say, still not believing his outlandish claims.
“The cerebral interface wasn’t capable of the full direct mind-to-machine
interface the way a true MIU is. It was more of an authentication device
really, a form of advanced identification token if you will. Plus it could do
some neat stuff, like accept a limited cerebral data transmission from the
lock. Display the time and date inside your visual data stream for example,
or play a symphony without recourse to any real sound.”
“I see,” you interject, “so the physical lock piece contained the transceiver
and the cogitation unit. Correct?”
“Indeed. Among other things it made the cerebral interface a much less
invasive addition. I still have mine,” he taps his skull with one finger, “care
to have a look?”
You raise your hand in a dismissive gesture. His offer for a physical
examination is as pointless as it is worthless.
His hand returns to his glass. “With regards to the Honoured
Representatives of the Machine God they got quite a bit out of Akakios’
compliance back in the 39th Millennium. It was only a couple of thousand
years later that the Lathes Mechanicus decided they wanted more,” Haxtes
adds.
The Lathes Mechanicus you’re quite familiar with. The Lathe Worlds –
Het, Hesh and Hadd – and the wonders they produce are famous far beyond
the borders of Calixis sector. Without them there would be no exploration
of the vast reaches of the Koronus Expanse, no Achilus Crusade, no Titan
god-machines marching against the enemies of the Lord Sector. You cannot
quite bring yourself to believe the enigmatic Archmagi of the Lathes would
allow Protasia to retain control of all this technology.
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DARK OMEGA
Haxtes has a sip, puts down his glass. Silence descends. He scratches his
chin while regarding you. “Look here Marcus,” he finally says. “A suspicious
mind is a healthy mind and all that. But you would do better if you listened
more to what I have to say and think me a liar less.”
You start to object, but you’re cut off. “If Melbinious was here he would
have you summarily executed for insolence. And at the rate we’re going you
won’t be meeting him at all,” Haxtes says with great pathos. “So what about
we forget that this is just an advanced psychic recording and pretend
you’re actually a member of polite society?”
It not really a question, so you don’t bother answering.
“Otherwise I see no point in continuing. The connection will terminate
and you’ll be locked out on a permanent basis. And you don’t want that.
Or?”
The rebuke is not entirely unexpected. You’ve been trying to see how far
you can push the gatekeeper without provoking the tome’s security
measures. Now you know.
You shut up and sink back into your chair, glass of amasec in hand.
Haxtes continues. “I got my first lock when I was only six years old. A bit
early, but as I’ve already told you my father was manufactorum
management. Call it a perk of his position. The lock came in a purple box –
purple used to be the colour Protasians used for anything important. It was
a black wristband with a small square secondary display on top, beautifully
engraved and decorated with clever patterns made of mother of pearl.” You
can see the scene quite clearly. “Father took it out and put it on my wrist,
then removed a metal circlet from his desk and fitted it over my head.” The
circlet looks like such a simple thing, no more than a headband of steel.
Nothing to betray its inner complexity.
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“It settled there snuggly,” Haxtes goes on, “and started to weave nanotendrils into my cerebrum. The process took about half a day. I was slightly
dizzy that day and developed a headache that lasted over the weekend. It
was a week before the interface had fully matured and merged with my
brain. After that it worked with a minimum of training on my part. I won’t
bore you with the details. Suffice to say it was useful in a million small
ways. For telling the time. For finding out where you were and where you
should go. For communicating with other people. For querying the
infobanks. For paying your bills – not that a six-year old has any. For
playing around.”
You nod in understanding. It is still sort of hard to believe, but you
suppose it could be true. True or not; you’ll let the Haxtes persona keep
talking. You’ve bantered him enough for now. Let him speak, while you
continue to subtly probe the tome’s defences and improve upon your own
mental architecture.
“The locks were very reliable. They got their power from body heat and
the kinetic energy generated by daily life and who knows what. They were,
if not everlasting, at least very durable.” He has a sip of amasec. “So you
think they’d continue to work even after the attack. But it turned out they
could not function without the Grid. Not for very long at any rate. So when
the grid died the bit-links stopped feeding the locks with data packets, and
like starved beast they first started misbehaving – and then they died.” He
taps his finger against the silver-crystal glass for emphasis, making it ring
with a clear tone.
Relying too heavily on the mysteries of the Machine Cult is never a good
idea. You prefer to trust in your own abilities, in the psychic superiority of
the Evolved Man – the psyker.
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DARK OMEGA
“We didn’t understand how much we had relied on them before they
stopped working.” He gives you a quizzical look. “Is that sufficient data on
the Grid to sate your curiosity?”
“Yes, very much so,” you reply. “Please continue your story.” You keep it
polite.
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PRIDE AND HERESY
Haxtes returns to the original topic. “Father had joined the Thira militia
early on.” You get a brief glimpse of his father dressing up as a soldier. “It
was inevitable I guess. The situation with Mother would probably have
forced him away eventually. But it was his wondrous biomechanical cortex
that made him so valuable to Protasia’s defenders.”
Haxtes takes a moment to think. “Vern tried to explain it to me once, but
it was all very complicated. The essence of it was that someone with such a
cortex upgrade and come decent communications equipment could make
the Grid work again – within the local area and for a limited number of
locks. And these smaller grids could link together into bigger units if they
could reach one another. It didn’t help the rest of us one bit, but I’ve been
told it did wonders for the defence effort.”
You clear your throat to get his attention. “You have another question?”
Haxtes asks.
“Indeed I do,” you say. “I’m having trouble following the logic behind the
Imperial reclamation effort.” Which is absolutely true; it’s not something
you’ve come up with to manipulate the gatekeeper.
“I understand that Protasia was turned into a war zone, and from your
previous comments I take it there was a great heresy. But the particulars
elude me. What heresy could be so grand as to require such a massive
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DARK OMEGA
military campaign?” Before he has time to reply you press on. “You
mentioned your family had two unsanctioned psykers. Again I must ask:
Was that the reason for this very direct and overwhelming Imperial
intervention? Gross failure to observe the Articles of Unity by not handling
the psyker population in an acceptable manner?”
Failing to handle a planet’s psyker population is often a sign of greater
troubles to come. Which is why several branches of the Adeptus Terra take
a keen interest in the matter: The Administratum counts the psyker tithe
just as rigorously as they do the rest of the God-Emperor’s tribute. The
Arbites are always monitoring the local population for signs of rogue
psykers. And of course the Ordo Hereticus is heavily involved in all stages
of the process, up to and including the transportation to Terra.
Haxtes looks at you calmly. “Does it matter? Protasia was declared
heretical and a crusade was called. Or maybe Protasia rebelled and a
crusade was called. The end result was the same. Destruction all around,
before the inevitable recompliance was achieved.” He looks you in the eye.
“You did notice the rather largish Aquila flying over Forum building?”
“Yes, of course I saw the Aquila,” you say with a degree of passion. “It’s
inevitable of course; the Imperium of Man always wins in the end. But it
doesn’t really make any sense,” you exclaim. “The Imperium doesn’t just go
to war with itself for no reason. And no well-functioning world rebels since
rebellion always leads to retribution. Only the truly desperate, the
terminally stupid – or those who have fallen into heresy – would even think
of rebellion.”
Haxtes looks at you in a manner most condescending. “I’ve already given
the reasons. On the Protasian side: Pride. Boundless pride. Heretical pride.
On the Imperial side: Envy. Distrust. Greed. More than enough to go to war
over. Entire civilizations have burned for far less.”
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You take a deep breath. “Pardon me, but it still doesn’t make any sense,”
you object. “Every Imperial Governor I’ve ever met has been so full of
himself that it classifies as ‘boundless pride’.”
You’ve met five of them in person, but only two knew who – or what –
you were. Even those two had trouble behaving in a civilized manner
towards an agent of the Inquisition. The other three were odious and selfcentred in the extreme, but such is the privilege of a ruler who knows no
superior but the God-Emperor.
“But that doesn’t mean we purge him,” you continue. “And the Imperium
is full of envy and greed and distrust, but it’s not allowed to grow into wars.
What you’re implying is analogous to what happened during the Age of
Strife; Man fighting Man. The Great Crusade ended all that when it brought
Unity to every human-held world. Now the Adeptus Terra is here to
guarantee that such things do not happen again. It’s called the Pax
Imperialis – the Imperial Peace – for a reason.”
“So much faith in the Imperium of Man, so much faith in peace in a
galaxy that knows only war.” The not-smile returns to Haxtes’ face. “But
back to topic. You can protest as much as you like, but war did come to
Protasia, and it came in the form of a full-scale Imperial invasion – a
reclamation crusade if you will.”
You’re not willing to be brushed aside so casually. “The Imperium has
many tools that can be used to adjust the course of a wayward planet. It
would not come to recompliance unless all other options were exhausted.”
You plough on, preventing Haxtes from answering. “And this Edict of
Obliteration you mentioned; was it issued at all? I may not have heard of
Akakios. Protasia, however, I have seen mentioned in inventories over
Calixian worlds.”
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“The Edict was issued all right,” Haxtes replies, “but the Calixian
Inquisitors are smarter than you give them credit for. Protasia wasn’t
subjected to Exterminatus. The world still lived and breathed. Instead of
providing it with a whole new identity, the wise Lords of the Calixian
Conclave chose to delete only those parts of Protasia’s past that were
troublesome: Everything pertaining to Akakios and the distant past. Any
mention of the planet as an Imperial world prior to Grimes’ rule. If you
doubt me, just look it up.”
“You can be certain that I will,” you reply heatedly. “We’re in a librarium.
You can be very sure I’ll check your story.”
--The observing part of your mind coolly concludes that the interactive
part of your mind has been left with too much emotional capacity. That’s
why you’ve been so uncharacteristically passionate and unfocused in your
dealings with the gatekeeper.
First the mind reading, then the emergence of lost memories, and now
this. All of this needs to be remedied. If you cannot control yourself, you
will not be able to manipulate the tome properly.
--While you start rearrange your mental architecture, your interactive
mind continues along the same vein. ”Yes, the Imperium has the power to
crush worlds. But that power is not let slip unless there is absolutely no
other solution. Otherwise the worlds of the Imperium would be all ruins.
And ruins don’t generate much in the way of a tithe. Protasia wouldn’t just
rebel, no matter how smug its inhabitants. And the Imperium wouldn’t
invade just because Protasians are full of themselves. There has to be more
to this than meets the eye.”
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“Well, there is always more than meets the eye, isn’t there?” Haxtes sighs
and slumps back in the chair. “I don’t like repeating myself,” his voice is
cool and even, “not one bit. If we are to indulge your conspirational
temperament I am going to require assistance.” He shifts forward in his
seat. “Vern. If you please.”
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GUNBOAT
DIPLOMACY
Vern’s voice, from behind your chair. “The exact reasons leading up to
the war are not all that important. Nor do we have all the details. The
devastation caused by the war and the Edict of Obliteration that followed
means that the ‘truth’ – if such a thing can objectively be said to exist – will
never be known. As Haxtes says, the important thing is that war did
happen. But since you requested it specifically, I have compiled a brief
overview of the pre-war situation. Perhaps it will answer some of your
questions.”
Haxtes closes his eyes, a pained expression upon his face.
You crane your neck around to look at Vern, catching him as he steps out
of the darkness and into the circle of light. You give him a nod in greeting,
then settle back down and have another go at your amasec. It is interesting
to note that Vern seems to appear whenever something needs explaining
that lies outside of Haxtes’ personal experience. You file that piece of
information away for later.
“There had been mounting tensions for a while. It came to a head when
the Imperium sent a delegation to Protasia under Ambassador-General
Bracchus Eiden. A fairly large diplomatic delegation, backed up by a newly
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CHAPTER 12 GUNBOAT DIPLOMACY
tithed regiment of Malfian Guards, carried aboard the Imperial Navy heavy
cruiser Terrible Retribution, Hades-class, out of Port Wander.”
A great metal behemoth, five kilometres long and massing millions of
tons, glides past. Gun ports are open, revealing row upon row of heavy guns
arranged down its flanks. Lance turrets the size of city blocks crown the
vessel, giving the venerable voidship a predatory look.
“Classic Adeptus Terra gunboat diplomacy,” Vern concludes, “one of the
‘many tools’ you mentioned.” He rubs his facial Aquila electoo a little before
continuing, causing the myriad little points of light to ripple like running
water caught in moonlight.
“That only provoked the prideful-as-hell Protasians. It went downhill
from there. The Senate of the People of Protasia decided to circumvent the
sector level of the Adepta altogether and petitioned the High Lords of Terra
directly for a settlement of their grievances. According to the Senate of
Protasia they had this right by ancient charter. According to Sector
Commander Lord Marius Hax they did not,” Vern says gravely and lets his
hands fall.
“Be that as it may. No reply was ever received, because there was an
incident with the delegation,” Vern says, adding a little pause at the end for
dramatic emphasis.
You can see where this is going.
Vern goes on to confirm your suspicions. “No one knows who fired the
first shot, but the Protasians sure fired the last. Before the destruction of
his command the Ambassador-General managed to get out an astropathic
signal. The Malfian Rimward Command responded quickly. Soon an entire
Imperial Navy fleet was underway, carrying sixty or so division-equivalents
of Imperial Guards.”
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DARK OMEGA
Depending on their constituent regiments that is somewhere between
one and two million men; a respectable invasion force when backed by the
might of the Imperial Navy.
“The divisions had been scrounged up, primarily from worlds in the
Malfian and Drusus Marches subsectors, in what was the biggest mustering
the Calixis sector had seen in many years,” Vern adds.
“I’m reasonably familiar with Calixian history,” you interrupt.
Which is probably an understatement; while you’re no master savant,
you are more than passingly familiar with the major Calixian events of the
41st Millennium.
“I was under the impression that there were numerous musterings
during that period of time,” you continue. “In support of the Spinward
Front, the Margins Crusade, the Fydae Expeditions, and other military
efforts. But I recall no mention of this great mustering to reclaim Protasia.
So this is somewhat surprising.” You forgo calling his claim an outright lie,
merely ad it to the list of things you’ll look up when you have the
opportunity.
Vern picks up smoothly. “Not at all. The Margin Worlds were actually the
intended destination of the divisions, the pretext under which they had
been formed in the first place. A final attempt at salvaging that unfortunate
crusade. It was the only way people like Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus of
the Malfian Rimward Command could persuade the Department
Munitorum to equip and transport so many new divisions.”
Haxtes interjects. “But when Protasia rebelled the divisions were
retasked. How opportune that Protasia should rebel at just that time. The
regiments had formed, the divisions were ready for deployment, the
transport ships were there to carry them, and the escorts were already
assembled. How very opportune.”
109
“So you’re saying that this was orchestrated by the Malfian Rim
Command?” you ask. “That Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus sacrificed an
ageing cruiser, a regiment of Imperial Guards, and a retired general to
create the pretext for an invasion?” You let doubt bleed into your voice to
accentuate your lack of faith in this analysis. “So the Protasians weren’t
rebels or heretics, but victims of Malfian plotting?”
“If so they wouldn’t be the first; the Malfians are rightly infamous for
their insidious ways. But no,” Vern shakes his head gently, “that is not what
I am saying. Haxtes is the conspirator here,” he says, bobbing his head
slightly in the gatekeeper’s direction. “But as Haxtes already pointed out:
The Protasians had it coming, one way or the other. If they weren’t openly
heretical before the recompliance effort, the Imperium was entirely
vindicated as soon as the Senate of the People of Protasia proved unwilling
to surrender to the authority of Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus. No matter
how wronged you may feel, you must submit to the demands of the Adeptus
Terra. To do otherwise is not only to admit guilt; it is to admit heresy.”
Vern does get wordy at times. You have to agree with Haxtes there. He
has a way of explaining things without really explaining anything. To his
credit he isn’t the first savant you’ve met that has trouble relating to
laymen. He is, however, the first one to mix preaching with dry fact.
“Protasia was wrong. The Imperium was right. The Imperium is always
right. That’s what I’m saying.” Vern steps forward to stand next to you. “I’m
also saying that the Imperium prepared for this eventuality and made its
move when the time was right.”
Better. Short and to the point. Things are beginning to make some sense.
Not a lot of sense yet, but steadily improving.
Haxtes interjects once more. “The Imperium did make one mistake
though. It badly miscalculated the willingness – and ability – of Protasia to
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DARK OMEGA
fight back. It seems that Lord Hax and Lord-Marshal Maximus had forgotten
a few important lessons of history. One: That Protasians were proud
beyond measure. Two: That they were perfectly capable of keeping all
comers at bay, as testified by Protasian survival of the Age of Strife. Three:
That they had technology that even the Lathes Mechanicus envied them.”
Vern remains silent, facing Haxtes and waiting for the opportunity to
resume his speech.
“The rebellion was supposed to be crushed with one fell blow.” Haxtes
thumps his right fist on the desktop. “Then there would be purges, new
management, and a period of dissent before things calmed down over the
course of a few generations. But there wasn’t supposed to be any
widespread destruction. Kick in the door with enough force to make the
malcontents cower in fear.” A wicked parody of a smile appears on Haxtes
face. “Only it didn’t work out quite that way,” he says, then falls silent.
Vern takes over, turning to address you directly. “Trouble began in space.
Orbital defences had already destroyed one Imperial heavy cruiser. Then
the system defence ships of Protasia turned out to have more potency than
even the most pessimistic Navy planners had allowed for. The Imperial
battleship Corda Furorum - the Heart of Fury – was destroyed during the
initial stages of the operation. Six battlecruisers were heavily damaged and
had to be withdrawn. Numerous lesser vessels were either destroyed or
reduced to barely-functioning hulks.”
You watch as the Imperial flagship approaches Protasian orbit, pushing
through the debris field left by an earlier battle between the Imperial
vanguard and Protasia’s orbital defence grid. The battleship is screened by
no less than six graceful, yet lethal battlecruisers. If the cruiser you
glimpsed earlier was impressive, this massive ship leaves you properly
awed. If you are not mistaken it is a Retribution-class vessel, one of the
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most powerful ships in the Imperial arsenal. For one to be destroyed
almost defies imagination.
Yet here you are, watching as system defence craft come swarming over
the edge of the blue disk that is Protasia. Except for three ships none are
much bigger than a frigate, but there are at least three dozen of them. The
Imperial battlecruisers, two Orions and four locally produced Chalices,
move to intercept. A furious exchange of fire follows, revealing that the
smaller Protasian vessels are far better shielded and armed than they have
any right to be.
Soon the two battlecruiser squadrons have lost formation and been
dragged into a chaotic melee at point-blank range. The Corda Furorum
closes to support its screening vessels, only to discover that a handful of the
enemy ships are bearing down on it, as if they had planned for this all
along.
The Protasian ships do not fire; they just race forward at flank speed,
void shields at maximum load. The battleship immediately starts retasking
its guns and begins a hard turn to port. It takes a while for both orders to
take effect, allowing the smaller enemy ships to close the gap. The Corda
Furorum finally opens up, destroying first one enemy ship, then two more
as gunners adjust their tracking auguries.
But it is too late; there is no more time to fire. The final four Protasian
fireships slam into the side of the metal leviathan, triggering a cascade of
unbelievably potent explosions. The glare is such that you have to cover
your eyes. When next you look the Corda Furorum has been reduced from a
proud Imperial battleship to a great piece of twisted, glowing metal.
Trouble. That’s as big an understatement as you’ve ever heard.
“The loss of even a single battleship must have been galling. The Calixian
sector fleet doesn’t have many of those,” you say.
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DARK OMEGA
Vern nods. “Indeed. At the time there were only four such vessels
available to Battlefleet Calixis. The bulk of the sector’s naval assets are
made up of lighter vessels, from battlecruisers and down.”
“Actually, Admiral Nakemi, who miraculously survived the destruction of
her flagship, committed suicide with her service pistol rather than face
court martial over the loss of such a valuable vessel,” Haxtes replies. “Very
civilized, don’t you think?”
Vern continues. “Yet despite the stiff resistance the Imperial Navy had
accomplished it mission: The gargantuan Munitorum troop conveyors were
largely intact and in low orbit. They immediately started to drop sixty
division-equivalents of Imperial Guards onto the surface, opening up three
major bridgeheads and securing key sites planet-wide.”
You now have a ringside seat of the Imperial landing operation. Wrecked
ships and destroyed orbitals frame the scene as mammoth troopships
move into low orbit and start disgorging their cargoes. As you watch one of
the troop carriers is hit repeatedly by surface-based defence lasers. Only a
fraction of the regiments aboard get out before the ship breaks apart and
tumbles helplessly into the atmosphere.
Vern keeps talking. “Losses to enemy naval assets, orbital defence grids,
planetary defence batteries, and anti-landing assets were higher than
expected. Fully twenty percent of the invasion force was destroyed before
they had even set foot upon Protasian soil. That’s a quarter of a million
casualties, most of them fatalities given the high-risk profile of planetary
assault missions.”
Your view follows the space-grey-and-sky-blue Devourer assault landers
of a Vaxanide light infantry regiment down to the surface. It is beyond
intense; a descent down into the fiery furnace of destruction. First up are
multiple squadrons of a heavy Thunderbolt interceptor variant, then the
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high-altitude Maelstrom anti-aerospace missile batteries, then swarms of
smaller Lightning fighters, before finally you pass through a veritable wall
of close-range fire from point-defence Hydra batteries. At least half the
landers are destroyed before they reach their designated landing zones.
You’re no military man, but you can still see that the landing operation is a
complete mess.
One of the Devourers you’ve followed almost makes it down: Only a few
hundred meters remain, when a flight of enemy Lightnings flash by, almost
too fast to register. Lasbeams and autocannon tracers flash back and forth
between the lander and the fighters. One of the lithe fighter craft blows
apart in a great ball of fire. The Devourer seems strangely untouched; for a
few seconds you think it has passed safely through the gauntlet, but it
never pulls up for final approach, just continues downward until it plunges
head first into the landing zone. There are no survivors.
Vern has gotten warmed up and is now speaking rather quickly. “Despite
stiff resistance the Imperial Guard reached its initial bridgehead objectives
within a fortnight. The advance ground to a halt shortly thereafter, as
dwindling troop densities made further advances impractical. LordMarshal Maximus was forced to send an astropathic plea for aid to the
Calixian Central High Command. He needed more ships from the Port
Wrath Battlefleet Reserve and another two hundred and forty divisions
according to his aestimates. In the end he got his reinforcements, but it cost
him his command. He was forced into semi-retirement on his Quaddis
estates while sycophants from the Lucid Palace swarmed in to fill the void.”
The final images of freshly debarked Guard formations moving out
across Protasia fade to black.
Haxtes. “I think that’s enough background Vern. We really need to move
the story forward.”
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DARK OMEGA
Vern ploughs on. “You got me started. Now let me finish,” causing Haxtes
to shake his head and return to his drink. The third one thus far. He was
definitely fond of drink in real life.
“While Maximus and the Imperials sat waiting for reinforcements the
Protasians proceeded to strike back. Hard.” Vern makes a chopping motion
with his right hand to underline his point.
You bring up a question. “But the Imperials surely had total space
dominance and aerospace supremacy at this point. What could the
Protasians do beyond urban insurgency and guerrilla warfare?”
A grin creeps onto Vern’s face. He’s really enjoying the chance to speak to
an audience. “Well, that’s the catch. The answer is: They didn’t have space
dominance. Not for long anyway. The Protasian system defence fleet and
the anti-orbital defences had indeed been neutralized, but hearing of the
plight of their homeworld Protasian merchantmen began returning home
to join the rebellion. And back in the day Protasia had quite the extensive
merchant marine; to the great annoyance of the sector’s great Guilds
Commercia.”
“And what use are merchantmen against squadrons of the line?” you ask.
Vern. “Those merchantmen were universally heavily armed and quite
combat capable. No Imperial world is ever allowed to maintain its own
warp-capable navy. That goes without saying. But a merchant marine is
another matter entirely,” he says, setting the stage for your reply.
“But merchantmen are not supposed to be warships in disguise,” you say,
“sort of defies the idea that warp-capable warships should belong to the
Imperial Navy.”
Vern. “Usually not. The Lucid Court and the Malfian Command would
both later claim this as another sign of Protasian treason. But to be fair
there existed an old treaty that allowed Protasia great freedoms when it
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came to its merchant marine. Including the right to build and maintain its
vessel according to old standard construct templates. Templates which
included an awful lot of military-grade weapons and other restricted
equipment.”
You get to witness two Imperial Sword-class frigates on perimeter patrol
confront a mid-sized Protasian merchantman. To their captains’ great
surprise they are confronted by long-range lance fire from the Protasian
ship. One of the frigates suffers heavy damage to its engines and falls out of
formation, leaving its companion to face the larger Protasian vessel. The
range has closed and the Sword-class returns fire, cutting though the
enemy’s void shields and scoring several telling hits. A vicious knife-range
fight develops, with the Sword trying to manoeuvre for advantage, while
the less agile Protasian tries to finish it off with lance fire. In the end
firepower beats acrobatics – two lance beams briefly intersect the frigate at
the same time, shearing the main hull clear in half. The scene ends with the
crippled merchantman lumbering away, pursued by the hamstrung frigate.
“That’s how Protasia survived for all those years alone in the dark; they
had a real fleet before the imperium came. And they retained some of it
after Unity,” you conclude.
The smile on Vern’s face widens in response to your conclusion. “Indeed,
they had a very powerful fleet, optimized for system defence. I digress, but
here is a fun fact: The treaties were Mechanicus-approved. The Archmagi of
the Lathes had gotten access to the Protasian STC fragments and in return
they had guaranteed their right to continue to use those same templates.”
“Vern. Please. No digressions or we’ll never get through this,” Haxtes
exclaims with a certain amount of disgust audible in his voice. “The greed of
the Mechanicus has already been mentioned.”
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DARK OMEGA
”Very well. But I’d like it note that if you had listened more to my
briefings you would have save yourself a lot of trouble,” says chidingly.
Haxtes scratches his beard. “Yes. I know,” an expression, of regret
perhaps, has crept onto his face. “Too much drinking, whoring, and killing –
and too little listening…but it’s a little too late to chastise me for that.”
For a moment Vern seems lost in remembrance. Then he continues in a
more sombre tone. “So there was no space dominance. And no aerospace
supremacy either. With space at least somewhat contested the Protasians
were able to continue aerospace operations from hidden, well-protected
launch facilities.”
You watch as Thunderbolts in fighter-bomber configuration blast off
from cunningly hidden mountainside launch chutes. They pick up an escort
of much faster and more agile Lighting fighters, then head for distant
Imperial targets.
“The Protasians made life difficult for the Imperial Navy for a long time.
Not just in-system, but also by disrupting Imperial lines of communications.
There were raids as far away as the Golgenna Reach. And of course other
enemies of the Imperium were quick to pounce when they sensed an
opportunity. Caused all sorts of trouble, all over the sector.”
--Inside your inner sanctum you take time to contemplate this last bit of
information. There were only a few times during the latter half of the 41st
millennium that there were any widespread disturbances sectorwide in
Calixis. So that means the Protasian rebellion was either early 9th century
or very late 8th century. Earlier dates are ruled out since the Margin
Crusade was launched only towards the end of the 8th century M41.
But assuming your aestimae is correct another problem arises: Inquisitor
Melbinious was active in the 7th Century, of that you’re absolutely, one
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hundred per cent, certain. At least a hundred years, possibly as much as
two hundred, would seem to separate Melbinious and this Haxtes fellow.
There are some serious discrepancies here. Do they lie with Haxtes’
story, or is there something as yet to be revealed, that will shed light on this
conundrum? Perhaps Haxtes’ story isn’t as unimportant as you have
believed. Should you give it more attention than you have thus far? You’re a
bit divided over that point, but the prudent thing to do is to bide your time
and continue to play along. The Imperium wasn’t built in a day.
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CHAPTER 13
RECOMPLINACE
“…but back to the planet itself,” Vern drones on. “Protasia had around
two and a half billion inhabitants scattered across its surface. No true hive
cities, just a number of larger urban sprawls, some of which included a
number of ancient hive-like arcologies.”
By the look of them you conclude that those arcologies date back to the
Dark Age of Technology. Given what you’ve learned of Akakios-Protasia
thus far you’re not surprised. Human colonists really did make it all the
way out to the edge of the galaxy to settle there.
“Except for the old arcologies these urban areas were all very vulnerable
to strategic yield weapons, but none had been deployed as the Imperials
were counting on their shock-and-awe strategy to win the day,” Vern says,
sounding a bit sad.
Strategic yield ordnance is also bad if you want to take stuff intact. You
can sense the battle planners had been given orders to the effect – no
strategic weapons, but an endless supply of bodies for the meat grinder.
Vern sighs. “It did not work. The invasion lost momentum after a few
weeks. Another few weeks and it were the invaders who found themselves
under attack. I’ve estimated the Protasian PDF – the Planetary Defence
Force – to have numbered around 2.5 million men. Mind you, these forces
were even more scattered than the attackers, and much of their command
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CHAPTER 13 RECOMPLINACE
structure had already been taken out. Nevertheless one of the Imperial
bridgeheads was quickly overrun. When a second bridgehead looked like it
too would be destroyed, Maximus was forced to deploy strategic weapons
just to keep his landing forces intact. Thermonuclear deep penetrator
warheads rained down on suspected Protasian command posts, plasmatic
incinerator area denial weapons scorched entire counties, ‘precision’ lance
strikes devastated large swathes of urban areas – the list goes on. The
Imperials held on to their two remaining bridgeheads, but civilian
casualties ran in the millions.”
If the powers-that-be really wanted Protasia intact, that was a very bold
move on the part of the Imperial commander. Even if he ‘won’ the
campaign, his career would be dead. Actually he’d be lucky if his career was
the only part of him that was made to die.
“The Protasians, their pride already wounded, were first horrified, then
incensed. The gloves came off and they rolled out their own weapons of
mass destruction. In particular their precision anti-matter warhead strikes
caused the Imperials a great deal of grief in terms of dead soldiers and
destroyed war machines.” Vern’s voice has grown soft and solemn.
Anti-matter. That explains the potency of the fireships. You wonder what
other technological terrors the Protasians were hiding on their so-called
paradise world. You’re beginning to think Vern was right – the Protasians
should have been dealt with more severely during initial Compliance.
Vern continues, still in a sombre tone. “The war entered a new and more
brutal phase. Six months later the civilian death toll had risen by a factor of
ten. And the second of three bridgeheads had been wiped out. Only the
timely arrival of additional fleet elements – and their indiscriminate
broadside barrages and scores of merciless aerospace fighter-bomber
wings – saved the last bridgehead from total annihilation. The Protasians
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DARK OMEGA
would continue to try, but the moment had passed. The last bridgehead
was secure, and week by week more divisions began to filter into the
system and down to the surface.”
So Maximus made the right choice after all – as the military commander.
Too bad he’d receive no praise for it.
Vern. “None too soon I might add, since of the original sixty divisions,
only one man in five still lived.”
Vern has a tendency to fidget when he speaks; touching his facial Aquila,
rubbing the edge of his cranial implant, or simply stroking the sleeves and
patterns of his robes. It’s mildly distracting. You’ve yet to discern any
particular pattern to it. Perhaps it is nothing, but you will continue to
analyse his movements, just in case there is a tell hidden within his
fidgeting.
Vern. “Along with new soldiers came new leaders. General Maximus was
sent packing and the new men took command.”
Of course he was. One must always have a scape-goat under such
circumstances. It is never the Adeptus Terra that is in the wrong; to even
imply such a thing is to imply that the God-Emperor is fallible. Inside your
inner sanctum you shake your head. You see yourself as pious and
puritanical both, but you are also an educated and illuminated man, a
servant of the Holy Orders of the Inquisition. The God-Emperor is your god
and saviour, but too well you know how fallible man can be. Of course the
Adeptus Terra can be wrong. They are but men, trying to implement the
Will of God. They mean well, but sometimes they get it wrong.
“Men straight from the upper strata of the Lucid Palace. Men like Marshal
Grimes, Commissar-General Verrigan, and Prelate Zukhov,” Haxtes
suddenly interjects.
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“Verrigan?” you ask, “Would that be Skull-Taker Verrigan? The very same
man that was hunted by the Holy Ordos, across the length and breadth of
Segmentum Obscurus? The one that required the intervention of the
Chamber Militant of the Ordo Malleus to terminate?”
“One and the same,” Haxtes notes drily. “Quite the slippery bugger that
one.” He chuckles a bit at that, but the joke is lost on you. “But that great
manhunt came a good while after the Protasian affair, and it wasn’t the
Ordo Malleus that got him in the end.”
You find yourself wishing you had more details on Verrigan. You know of
him of course – his infamy is considerable, even this long after his death –
but you’ve never been privy to the Ordo Malleus files on him. So concrete
facts are few and far between, but you do know that he was active during
the 9th century M41.
Vern interrupts your musings. “With great enthusiasm the new brass fell
upon the defenders with two hundred and forty new divisions and the GodEmperor knows how many engines of war. They had even secured the aid
of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Adeptus Astartes. One full cohort of
Legio Venator battle titans and their supporting elements, one company of
marines from the native Storm Wardens chapter, and a larger force from
the rather famous Tigers Argent, straight out of the Icefang, down in the
Finial sector. The Tigers had even brought their mighty battle barge, the
Argent Majestic, complete with teleportariums and a contingent of Astartes
terminators.”
Indeed. The Tigers Argent are rather famous. Chapter Master Charon has
led them from glorious victory to glorious victory for centuries. They’ve
something of a reputation all the way down to the Mandragora sector. On a
more personal level you’ve had the great honour of liaising with Captain
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DARK OMEGA
Eos of the Tigers Argent’s 7th Company, during the Rambach insurrection.
But you’ve never heard a reference to a Protasian campaign.
Vern launches into a lengthy monologue. “Unfortunately for the
Imperials it had taken too long to assemble this force, allowing the
Protasians to fully mobilize. The last bridgehead had been saved, but five
million Imperial Guards now faced at least twenty million Protasian
soldiers, plus an unknown number of local militia. Even with aerospace
supremacy, and many more heavy guns and tanks, they faced a very grim
reality. Despite the exuberance displayed by the senior command echelon,
actual gains were hard-won and more often than not preceded by massive
bombardments and deployment of low-yield strategic weapons. The
Protasians on their hand adopted a scorched earth policy. The level of
general destruction and civilian casualties escalated yet again. And despite
affecting a steady advance the Imperial forces gained very little except
more casualties, burned fields and broken cities. And the worst was yet to
come,” he says with a flourish.
“For the love of Terra, Vern! Information, yes. Melodrama, no. Get on
with it.” Haxtes is getting impatient.
“Very well. The short and boring version then.” Vern shifts to a more
prosaic stanza. “With the moral support of Verrigan and Zukhov, Marshal
Grimes formulated a new strategy: If the enemy was just going to destroy
everything, the Imperium would not waste any more lives trying to take
territory. Instead there would be a massive campaign of strategic
bombardment, combined by an unrelenting sting of spearpoint strikes by
the Angels of Death.”
More images form in the dark. Torrents for destruction launched from
orbit. Utterly devastating against the civilian population, less effective
against concealed and dug-in infantry. The only saving grace; only weapons
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with limited half-lives were used. Looks like the new leaders still wanted to
keep the planet afterwards.
Vern goes on. “The campaign had three goals. One: To destroy that which
the Imperium could not take intact, meaning about eighty percent of the
planet, according to Grimes’ savants and planning officers. Two: To
decapitate civilian and military decision-making processes, thereby making
final victory a walk in the park. Three: To utterly demoralize the survivors
and thus ensure docile compliance once the planet had been subjugated.”
Before your inner eye you see Grimes and his staff crouched over multidimensional hololitich display tanks, trying to grapple with the endless
variables of a planetary invasion of this scale.
“The first goal was achieved readily enough. Sixty percent of urban
Protasia burned. Hundreds of millions died as a direct result of the strikes,”
Vern pauses for effect, “but the final death toll from starvation, exposure,
and disease was much, much higher.”
Flashing images of death and destruction on a grand scale. Intermixed
with scenes of personal suffering – a mother cradling her dead child, a
squad of Guardsmen brutally murdered in the dark, a young girl hauled
screaming into a black-painted Chimera APCs with Commissariat markings.
Vern backs away a few steps. “The second goal was harder, but the
Astartes are nothing if not good at killing. Combined with the utter
devastation brought on by the bombardment phase it effectively put an end
to large-scale organized resistance. But there was to be no walk in the park.
Protasian insurgents continued to fight the Imperials every step of the way.
They continued fighting even when areas should had been pacified. In they
own way they were as fanatical in their dedication as any given heretic.”
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DARK OMEGA
You watch Astartes in silver, black and white livery, butchering Protasian
soldiers in a wide range of combat situations. The result is always the same
though, swift and brutal victory for the Angels of Death.
“And as for the third goal that didn’t turn out so well either. Those areas
that had not been scourged had still been heavily scarred by the ground
war. The population had been devastated and the industrial base shot to
hell. There was compliance of sorts, but only on the surface. Underneath
the locals continued to resist. Acts of terrorism became the norm.
Supporting insurgents a part of Protasian culture. Hatred for the invaders
they learned at the teat.” As he speaks Vern moves over to the side of the
desk, planting his palms of the desktop and looking intently at Haxtes.
Haxtes, in a low growling tone. “Vern…”
Vern ignores him, turning back to face you. “Since losing one of the
Emperor’s planets a second time would be completely intolerable, the
Guard divisions were forced to remain to garrison the place. There was
simply no other way compliance could be enforced over time. And time it
would take: The Administratum aestimated a minimum of five generations
– provided that sufficient settlers could be brought in to replace the dead,
which didn’t seem very likely given the planet’s state. Further delays were
expected given the near total destruction of the planet’s infrastructure, and
the unwillingness of the Adeptus Mechanicus to support the rebuilding. You
see, the Cult of Sollex…”
Haxtes interrupts. “There is a limit to my patience Vern. You will not
start blabbering about Mechanicus politics. I won’t have it. Get back to
subject. Now.”
Vern, a little flustered perhaps, but back on track. “Yes, well, since new
settlers would be few in numbers another solution was chosen. The
guardsmen were given settlement rights. It’s common enough. They fight,
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they die, and the survivors get to become settlers. It’s a harsh life, but
generally preferable to being reconstituted and sent to a new warzone.
Now, the bulk of Guard units are made up of men, so…”
Haxtes, soft, but firm now. “Vern…”
“Yes, yes. It’s a really interesting piece of history you know. Shame to fast
forward.” Vern seems about to go off on a tangent again, but adjusts his
course at the last minute. “Marshal Grimes was named as the Imperial
Commander of Protasia. He took the name Grimes I after his inauguration,
indicating his intent to begin a dynasty of planetary governors. Verrigan got
made into Grimes’ First Minister. It is exceedingly rare for a Commissar to
leave Imperial service, but in Verrigan’s case it was allowed. Prelate Zukhov
was appointed to become Protasia’s new religious leader by the Cardinals
of Calixis. They seemed to think he and his Sororitas had made an
exemplary effort in reconsecrating the soil of Protasia.”
“That explains a few things,” you reply, “including why Protasia was
listed as a frontier world in the ledgers I perused. With such widespread
destruction the world had to be rebuilt almost from scratch.”
“That may well be,” Vern nods, “it is usually some time before a war
world can be reclassified as an Imperial world. Especially one so devastated
as Protasia. In the interregnum it would be classified as a frontier world to
ensure a proper tithe grade.”
You decide to fish for a date by supplying a piece of trivia. “The House of
Grimes once again rules as Imperial Commanders. Despite the efforts of
Skull-Taker Verrigan one of Grimes’ children lived, and sired descendants
of his own. In time one of them learned of his birthright, secured support
from the Lucid Palace, and returned to Protasia to claim his Governorship.”
“Interesting information,” Vern says politely, “but I already knew.”
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DARK OMEGA
You curiosity is piqued. “So the tome was constructed, not only postVerrigan, but after the return of the lost scion of the House of Grimes?” you
ask. Confirmation will help narrow down the tome’s creation date.
Haxtes fouls the moment. “Either that – or one of the others told us,” he
says, adding smugness to his voice for good measure.
You probably shouldn’t rise to the bait, but you do so anyway. “Others?
You mean other readers? Before me?” you ask.
Haxtes smugness is gone when he answers. “Yes. Others. Readers. Before
you.” He has a sip of amasec and adds: “You’re not my first, you know.”
“And may I ask what became of these other readers?” you say. You might
as well follow up now that you’ve started this line of inquiry.
“You may,” Haxtes answer. “I’ll even answer. They went away. All of
them. All of them went away, without drinking from the fountain of youth.”
He gestures for Vern to resume.
Vern quickly picks up where he left off. “Protasia was broken up into
lesser fiefs, with high-ranking officers and Lucid Palace sycophants
appointed as rulers. Then each newly made noble took what men remained
to him and set about trying to set up a functioning society. How well that
went varied quite a bit. Some actually succeeded. Others didn’t do quite as
well, whilst yet others just took the opportunity to rape and pillage their
newly won lands. Later down the road these guardsmen-turned-settlers
would quarrel and fight among one another, and Verrigan would go rogue,
but that’s a whole other story,” he says, pre-empting any interruptions
from his companion.
“And that,” he looks over at Haxtes, “is the story of how Protasia rebelled
and was crushed by His Divine Majesty’s inexhaustible armies.”
Haxtes’ supplies some on-the-ground intelligence. “As you’ve no doubt
surmised Thira wasn’t among the strategic yield targets. It sat on a rather
127
nice part of real estate, so the Imperials thought to keep it intact. They had
to fight for it though, same as everywhere else. But by and large the
destruction was limited to conventional bombs, shells, and the collateral
caused when armoured regiments try to dig out a determined and wellentrenched opponent from an urban area.”
Vern nods solemnly. “That concludes my very brief introduction to
Protasia.” Without further fanfare he turns about face, takes a couple of
steps and is gone from the ring of light.
The actual information Vern provided is of little use to you – but now you
know for certain you can call him back, and have him answer other
questions. That is useful information to you. Right now, however, you do
not seem to have the level of access needed to actively request the
forbidden lore this tome holds. It seems you will have to spend some more
time with Haxtes to convince him to let you delve deeper. And the other
readers, the ones that came before and were turned away; you’d like to
know more about them.
You return your attention to your host. “Shall we continue?” you say,
voice heavy with politeness, and raise your glass to your lips.
128
INTERLUDE
THE PREACHER
His papers identified him as Preacher Molevoch, but that wasn’t his real
name. Molevoch was just the name of the Missionaria Galaxia preacher
whose identity he had assumed. After the Imperials had gained the upper
hand on Protasia it became something of a necessity to be part of the
winning team. A Galaxia preacher was a nice cover, since moving around
and sticking your nose where it didn’t belong was part of the job
description.
Such was the power of the sorcerous rite he’d employed to steal the
preacher’s identity, that for all intents and purposes he’d become him. If he
looked like the preacher, talked and acted like the preacher, had most of
the preacher’s memories, and his papers said he was the preacher, it
followed that he must be the preacher.
Indeed, if someone had scanned him with an auspex they would have
found nothing untoward. Even a full screening test would not breach his
cover. Only a trained psyker, such as an anointed Inquisition psi-legate,
would have any chance at all of seeing through his cover. But there were no
snooping legates here, not anymore, his empyrean allies had told him as
much.
---
129
INTERLUDE THE PREACHER
The Preacher was standing in the hill country outside of Thira. The sun
was setting, but there was still light enough to see by. From this distance
the city looked eerily untouched by the war. Very much unlike the other
regions he’d been through. Then it was true, what he had heard whispered;
First Minister Verrigan was going to make this place his seat of power.
Verrigan, damned be his dark soul! If any one person was to blame for all
this, it would be him. The Preacher sincerely hoped that Verrigan would
slip up and disappoint his master, fail to deliver on the bloody promises
he’d no doubt made. Fail, and end up as just another skull beneath the
crushing weight of the Skull Throne. Damn Verrigan, damn all the bloody
followers of Khorne.
Things had been going so well here on Protasia. From that time, long ago,
when the first of the Brethren of the Word had taken passage upon a
Protasian merchantman, and all the way up to the present: Slowly, but
surely the Word had spread. First to a few select members of the ship’s
complement, then on to their relatives and relations on the planet. From
there the web had slowly grown, spreading out across the surface of
Protasia, and finally onto other ships of the Protasian Merchant Marine.
Those ships had in turn carried the Word to other, distant planets of the
Calixis Sector.
Everything had been done in accordance with the Will of the Prophet of
Light: Always in secret, always careful not to attract the attention of the
Imperium in general, and the hated Inquisition in particular. The Word
repeatedly stressed the need for secrecy and caution. The Brethren must
never be exposed; the Word must never fall into the hands of the
nonbelievers. Not until the day of the Second Coming – the promised End
Times, when the True Gods would send their Prophet back to lead the
Brethren against the followers of the Corpse-God.
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DARK OMEGA
But the Imperium had known anyway. He didn’t know how they had
learned, only that they had. Maybe they didn’t know any particulars, but
had simply learned enough to begin to take an entirely unwanted interest
in the Word and the practices of the Brethren. Learned enough to become
afraid; enough so that they had alerted the Accursed Orders of the CorpseGod’s Inquisition.
The Deacons of Light had been forced to convene – in direct
contravention to established dogma – to deal with the threat of an Imperial
intervention. It had been an exhausting affair. To the Brethren the Deacons
always presented a unified front, but between themselves they frequently
disagreed. Molevoch hadn’t been overly optimistic, but took it as a good
sign, all things considered, that his peers had been willing to come together
at all.
After days of heated debate – and the ritualistic murder-sacrifice of the
Deacons most vocal in their opposition – they had eventually agreed to
suspend off-world operations, to cut the ties to those Brethren living on
other worlds. They would also rescind all contact with one another,
reverting to the isolated congregations the strictest interpretation of the
Word dictated.
Molevoch had approved. Should the Imperium come, the Inquisition
would follow. Under no circumstances must they be allowed to trace a
connection from one congregation to another. Things had gone so well, the
Word had spread far and wide, gaining countless adherents scattered
across Protasia and beyond. Call it enthusiasm. Call it zeal. Call it hubris.
Call it whatever you liked; they had created a glorious Church of the Word,
but now their very success threatened the survival of the Word. If they
were to survive they must adapt; they must separate and hope that in
isolation salvation could be found.
131
It might have worked, save that the headstrong Protasians had done
something quite unexpected. They had rebelled. None of the Deacons had
anticipated that, not even the ones that maintained lives in the higher
strata of Protasian society.
Rebellion against the Imperium always brought retribution. Retribution
in the form of a reclamation campaign. A campaign that quickly spiralled
out of control and left Protasian and war-torn wasteland. As a result the
Deacons would never know if their efforts would have been sufficient to
keep the Inquisition in the dark: Most of them were dead, alongside the
majority of the Brethren. Killed by conventional warfare, strategic
weapons, or the hardships that followed on the heels of planet-wide war.
As far as Molevoch knew, he was the last Deacon left on Protasia and he
was all out of Brethren to guide. The last two members of his failing
congregation had given their lives to fuel the ritual that provided him with
his current identity. Molevoch didn’t have much of a plan. Not yet anyway.
He just knew he needed a virgin start. Someplace new. Someplace to start
spreading the Word again. He was a Deacon. Spreading the Word was his
purpose in life. Such was the Will of the Prophet.
So he’d come here, to Thira, because the city was supposedly still intact
and home to millions of forlorn Protasians. Millions of forlorn souls, eager
to receive the soothing guidance of the Word. That Thira was to be
Verrigan’s city was only a bonus, an unexpected opportunity to repay the
architect of Protasia’s destruction. By the time vile scum arrived, the
Preacher would have the entire city in his hands, and the bloody-handed
fool would not even realize.
--He waited for it to get dark before he approached the building. It wasn’t a
very big house. Sufficiently large for a small family, nothing more. He liked
132
DARK OMEGA
the way it was nestled in between the hills. You could walk past at a
distance of a few hundred meters and never notice it was there. At the
same time you had this magnificent view of the lake and the open
countryside. If you turned east you could even spy the great white-capped
Mastari Mountains rising in the distance.
The house wasn’t new, but it was well maintained. Or it had been, before
the war. Now it was beginning to show the signs of neglect. The house
seemed so warm and welcoming, such a pity to let it go to ruin. Once he had
made the inhabitants his followers, he would make sure they took good
care of the building.
He knocked at the front door.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, harder.
He could hear two pairs of booted feet approaching.
“Who’s there?” a brusque male voice barked out.
A foreigner by the sound of him. An Imperial Guardsman then.
“Preacher Molevoch, of the Missionaria Galaxia,” he replied. “I was
headed for Thira on the God-Emperor’s business, but darkness descended
and now I seem to be lost.”
The door was yanked halfway open. Two males, one a young man, the
other middle-aged, both in IG uniforms, stood in the doorway, lasguns
casually pointed in his direction.
“Yeah well, this isn’t Thira,” said the elder man with the brusque voice.
“Just follow the road, take to the right at the junction. You’ll reach the city
before dawn.”
Molevoch put on his most winning smile. “I shall be on my way then. But
tell me, do you have a moment to contemplate the Divine Word, as
delivered to us by the great Prophet of Light?”
133
Both men looked about to object, but neither did. Instead they blinked, as
if confused. They looked at one another, seeking affirmation, but finding
none. They looked at the preacher, and in his warm smile they found the
answers to all their questions.
“May I come in?” Molevoch asked.
Both men nodded eagerly. “Please do, reverend,” the elder one said and
stepped aside. The younger one quickly opened the door all the way and
gave Molevoch a deferential bow, as you would the give the minister of
your local church.
Molevoch stepped inside, smiling. His new congregation had gotten off to
a good start.
134
PART II
THE BOY
135
136
CHAPTER 14
SQUARE ONE
“Back to square one,” Haxtes exclaims. He has another sip of his drink. “I
kept heading deeper into the city.” Images of the ruined cityscape play out
inside your mind. “By now I was inside the Forbidden Zone,” he continues.
The buildings appear somewhat less damaged here. If the Imperials were
to take over a section of the city, they would have picked something still
relatively intact, and then patched up whatever needed fixing.
“The outer perimeter, mind you,” Haxtes adds. “I had never made any
attempts at penetrating the far more intimidating inner cordon. And the
hospital building at the heart of the zone was a complete blank to me.”
Intimidating indeed. There are several layers of physical barriers,
overlapping auspex scanning fields, patrolling sentries, and gun-servitors
manning heavy weapon emplacements. And that’s just the stuff you can
see; there is bound to be additional, unseen security measures as well.
By the look of things – the utter lack of markings and identification sigils,
for example – you have a fairly good idea what might be hidden inside. If
your assumptions are correct, you’re actually a bit surprised that Haxtes
managed to breach even the outer security layers. It should have been
impossible without the aid of advanced technology or psychics. There is
more here than meets the eye.
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CHAPTER 14 SQUARE ONE
“I didn’t know this area as well as my own part of town,” Haxtes says,
“but I’d gone through it a few times before,” you raise an eyebrow at this
claim, but Haxtes ignores you, “and knew the general layout well enough.”
Another, contemplative sip of amasec. “I kept to the parts where there
would be less chance of running into patrolling guardsmen or roving
servoskulls.”
You sensory probe feeds you images of Haxtes making his way across the
zone, moving quickly, surely, and without attracting any attention.
“It was an awful risk that I took,” he goes on, “but I had a mission and
could not be turned aside. The resolution of my birthday quandary hinged
on my success.”
Haxtes takes a moment to restructure his thoughts. “Mother had not
returned to our new townhouse,” he doesn’t deign to call it home, “the
previous night and I was worried. Worried that my birthday cake would
not get done. Worried that there would be no celebration, no present.”
He lets out a barely audible sigh, “Jax had followed in Father’s footsteps
so to speak,” Haxtes eyes seem to look inward, “he was rarely at the house,
except for meals or when he wanted something. Most of the time he was
elsewhere, trying hard to be accepted as a full member of the Kiones, a
group of ‘freedom fighters’ operating out of our zone.”
He starts sliding his index finger along the rim of the glass, ever so
slowly. “So it fell to young Haxtes to protect the girls and look after the
canine.” His swirls his glass ever so slowly, making figures of eight in the
air. “I tried my best of course, but I was only nine and could only do so
much. Jax should have been there,” he says flatly. “He was fifteen. Fifteen
and a half. A man grown. He knew I couldn’t fill his shoes, but he just didn’t
care.” The finger stops and he looks right at you. “I hated him for it. For a
very long time I hated him.”
138
DARK OMEGA
You’ve gathered as much already, but say nothing.
He clears his throat. “At first we hadn’t really felt the war. There were no
orbital barrages launched against Thira. But as weeks turned into months
and late summer became autumn,” you watch as the hill country around
Thira goes from the arid yellow of summer, to the verdant green of moist
autumn, “things started to get more difficult for us. The grid was down
more often than not. Food and other basic supplies were getting harder to
come by.”
The finger resumes its circling movement. “Father had already joined the
militia by then.” You adjust the probe to get a glimpse of Haxtes’ father, but
you’re too late, catching only his uniformed back as he marches away from
the house in the hills.
“He came back to the house a few times in the beginning,” Haxtes says,
“but then his unit was redeployed to meet some Imperial threat or the
other.”
You don’t bother trying to get a good look – Haxtes has long since
supressed his memories of the man. You’ll never be able to dig up a clear
picture of the man.
“I never saw or heard from him again.” The finger stops. “Not a single
info package over the grid. No written letters. No word of mouth messages.
Nothing.” Haxtes’ voice is cold and dead. “I do not know what became of
him. He was most likely either killed in action or succumbed to attrition.”
He sounds very certain.
“That is a common enough problem in all war zones,” you offer. “Lots of
people involved, general mayhem and very little information to work from.
The Officio Medicale rarely has the resources needed to sort out every body
part found or track down every missing person.”
139
Haxtes nods almost imperceptibly in agreement. “He could, I guess, have
survived. Survived and made a new life for himself.” The nodding has
become shaking. “It’s possible, but unlikely. More than a billion people died
during the war or in the aftermath of it. I’m certain he was one of them. A
true Protasian patriot. Or a rebel and a traitor to the God-Emperor. Pick the
one you like best.” Tap, tap goes the finger against the rim of the glass,
impatiently waiting for you to answer.
“I feel sorry for your loss,” you venture.
“Don’t be. He had already abandoned his family before the war. This was
just the final act of his betrayal,” Haxtes adds.
Fleeting images of his father flash unbidden before your eyes, coalescing
into a ghostly outline lingering just outside the circle of light. You judge him
to be a tall and handsome man, with uncommonly intelligent eyes. He
makes the sign of the Aquila, and then he is gone.
Haxtes continues. “Mother had taken to selling her body to keep us fed. I
didn’t understand it at the time, but it was the way of things. Father was
gone, prices were up, and she had three kids to feed, one of them a big lad
that was constantly demanding more.”
Another poorly concealed attempt at deriding his brother.
“In the beginning it had been to the militia and other Protasians,” he
continues. “She would go into town for a while, and when she came back
she’s bring with her food, medicines, clothes, and other necessities.”
His very attractive mother appears as an apparition in the darkness. She
is nude. Cascades of dark hair that fall almost to her waist, revealing more
than it conceals. Her age is indeterminate; mature, but youthful at the same
time. When she notices you staring she gives a little laugh, flings her hair
and dances away on bare feet, leaving you to admire the memory of her
curves.
140
DARK OMEGA
Haxtes gives you an appraising look. “I guess the ironic part is that
Mother was feeling…quite well during this period. There was none of the
angst or apathy that normally gnawed at her soul. She rose to the occasion
so to speak. Or maybe she just enjoyed a bit of whoring. Going into town to
fuck strangers. Bringing regular customer back to the house for a little
more intimacy.” He chuckles. “In my book that actually sounds a lot better
than sitting around the house crying, while watching your kids starve. One
of the few things she got right.” A real smile this time. Very brief, but it was
there.
Haxtes gives a minute shrug and continues. “When Thira was occupied
times became harder for most folk. I guess we thought that we had it really
rough, but truth be told that wasn’t the case. Sure the city was bombed and
shelled. Sure there were few enough houses left unscathed. Sure
infrastructure was shot to hell. Sure there was little enough food. Sure the
IGs treated us like shit. But we were not burned to ash by plasma bombs.
Nor were we hit with kinetic obliterator strikes, thermonuclear warheads,
or any other sort of mass strategic bombardment. We had little food, but
we had food. Our drinking water was not poisoned. No strange diseases
ravaged the city. In short we were doing good, relatively speaking.”
Haxtes stops for a moment, chokes down the beginnings of laughter, “I’m
as bad as Vern,” he says in an uncharacteristically merry tone.
“Please,” you say, “do continue. Additional detail helps with my
understanding. I get brilliantly clear images from Thira as you speak, but
without a little extra guidance I don’t think I would manage to fully
understand the context. Alternatively I could disengage and check the
librarium for records on Protasia, but from what you and Vern have told
me I do not think I’d find anything worthwhile.”
141
Haxtes looks at you. His eyes are flat, almost lifeless, but there is a faint
smile on his lips. “Speaking of the librarium. Before you compartmentalized
your mind I was able to discern you’re in a secure library, under close
scrutiny. You have now been motionless, starting at the same page, for
quite a while. Maybe you should form a new mental compartment to handle
the occasional turning of pages?”
By the teats of Horus, you should have thought of that! “Yes, of course,
give me but a moment.”
--You’ve already been begun improving on your mental architecture,
putting in an emotional buffer between your observation compartment and
the interactive compartment. That way you can get deep immersion while
retaining rational control over the interactive mind. And it helps you avoid
cluttering your ego core with unwanted emotions.
Now is as good a time as any to put in a fourth division to handle the
motions of your real body. You know can handle a fourth, you’ve done it
many times, but you also know that it will tax your resources if you have to
sustain it for very long.
In the librarium your hand slowly turns over a page. Your eyes gain a
little more life and movement. It should suffice for now.
--“There. I am done,” you say. “Do please continue.”
The faint smile disappears from his lips as Haxtes returns to his story.
“The actual Battle for Thira didn’t really touch my family. The closest we
got was a Commissar trotting a squad of IGs. They searched through our
house, looking for guns, but of course there were none. That and the
ceaseless chatter of smallarms and lasweapons, interspersed with liberal
doses of heavy ordnance going off.”
142
DARK OMEGA
“The IGs let you remain in your house?” Just like that?” you ask, finding it
somewhat hard to believe.
Haxtes makes the minute shrug again. “Depends on what you mean by
‘just like that’. Listen to the story and draw you conclusions later.”
It doesn’t really matter anyway, so you just nod to keep him going.
“The biggest change in our lives came a few weeks after the battle was
over,” Haxtes continues. “The Imperials didn’t want people living on the
outskirts, so we were herded into town and assigned an apartment in a
building that was still standing.”
“I’m betting that undamaged country house of yours was a nice bonus for
some nameless regimental officer,” you add.
“Possibly. Probably.” An almost genuine smile threatens to appear, but is
quickly dismissed. “Mother took to working the Imperial Guard instead of
the militia. She got paid in Lucid Palace-underwritten Thrones instead of
Protasian Drachma, Guard rations become the most important part of our
daily food intake, and our blankets and other equipment carried the Aquila
emblem instead of the Six Rods of State.”
He makes a dismissive gesture. “You’d think that this fraternizing with
the enemy and selling the God-Emperor’s equipment would get the
guardsmen in trouble. Maybe it did, but the soldiers did it anyway. And
besides, their Commissar was quite fond of Protasian women, Mother in
particular. I guess they had some sort of understanding.” He pauses to let
you speak.
You fill the gap effortlessly. “He’s the one that came to your house isn’t
he? That’s why they left you alone initially, right?”
Haxtes salutes you by raising his drink in a mock toast.
“Most Commissars are rather zealous in their pursuit of absolute
discipline,” you counter.
143
Haxtes twitches his lip in what is probably his version of a lopsided grin.
“Could well be, but there are always exceptions. I’ve met more than one
Commissar who has been willing to bend the rules a little.” He nods to
himself. “They are the wise ones who have realized that morale and loyalty
can spring forth from many wells, not just the barrel of a bolt pistol pressed
against the back of a man’s head.”
Granted, you haven’t met all that many Commissars, your duties rarely
take you to warzones, but those you have met have all seemed like men of
great integrity. But rather than gainsaying Haxtes over another
unimportant point, you gesture for him to continue.
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CHAPTER 15
THE MISSING
INGEDIENT
Haxtes resumes talking. “Mother sometimes left the apartment to seek
work, but she took care to minimize the risks. She would bring Jax with her
– if he was around. Not much of a bodyguard, but better than nothing I
suppose. I was entrusted with a compact autopistol and told to protect my
sister. I did not flinch from my duty.”
How very noble of him. Contrasting somewhat with his need to
constantly deride his brother – and paint himself as the heroic martyr.
He speaks softly, more so than usual. “On the day before my birthday, she
went out, but did not return like she had told us. Jax wasn’t around much,
that day was no exception, so she’d gone alone. Night came and we – Eli and
I – were forced indoors by the curfew. That was reason for concern. Mother
almost never spent her nights outside our new accommodations. If she did
she would always tell use beforehand and make sure Jax saw to his duties
to the family.” He makes a fleeting gesture with his free hand. “I could not
sleep. Not even my sister’s lullabies could pull me down into the
dreamlands. Instead I sat in the darkness, peering out from behind the
blinds. The gun never left my hands.”
145
CHAPTER 15 THE MISSING INGEDIENT
Images of the darkened city surround you. Curfew is in effect and what
indoor lights are on are muted by heavy blinds.
“She had told me she’d come home,” Haxtes says. In your mind his voice
becomes that of a child. “Told me that she would make me a cake on the
morrow. That was the reason she went out that day, to find a few missing
ingredients.”
Haxtes seems less anxious about his mother than he should be – and
rather more concerned about his own gratification. Definitely a pattern
here too.
He continues, still in the voice of a child. “I told myself she was probably
just having trouble finding everything she needed for the recipe.” For some
reason your sensory probe conjures forth images of Haxtes mother. She’s
back at the family house, baking – in the nude, save a pair of heels and a
very short half apron. You do a quick purge of the offending processes to
bring your mind – and body – back under control. By the Throne, where did
that come from?
Haxtes voice returns to normal. “She had probably gone to the 57th Lo
compound to barter. And then she had been delayed by the curfew. I
seemed the only logical explanation. If so she would have spent the night at
the Commissar’s place. It had happened before.”
“I’m sure he’d like that,” you comment drily, “it would fit his character
perfectly. Good for his own morale so to speak.” Oddly enough you feel a
faint tingle of jealousy – an emotion that hasn’t troubled your mind in many
years…
--…your inner self spring into action. Anti-intrusion procedures,
mercilessly drilled into you years ago, take over. You quickly identify the
offender: A small speck of emotion. It has penetrated your barriers and
146
DARK OMEGA
taken root inside your inner fortress. That’s how it escaped the purge. Not
acceptable. You grab hold of the conglomerate and unravel it; if you let it
remain it will only grow and become the cause of additional emotional
triggers.
--Haxtes chuckles. “Good one Marcus. You have humour. I never would
have guessed.” He stifles the laughter. “I tried to stay awake, but the closer
we got to dawn, the harder it became. I finally dozed off and slept fitfully
for a few hours. When I woke Mother was still not there. Jax was not there.
Only the canine, my sleeping sister, and I remained.”
He swirls his amasec, looking at the light play through the liquid. “So I
grabbed an IG utility belt, hooked an IG canteen into it, put a couple of IG
energy bars into my pockets, checked the IG autopistol one more time, and
went looking for her. With Jax gone it was up to me to find her and bring
her safely home. That was my mission and I would not be turned aside.”
--Now that your mind is clear again you can evaluate the situation. You’re
much more deeply immersed now. Haxtes narrative is merging with the
sensory stream, combining into an unprecedentedly detailed simulation of
the situation. It is almost like being there. You are no longer sitting in a
chair in a circle of light, observing ghostly images. You are there, with
Haxtes, in the ruins of Thira.
As a side effect you’ve experienced some emotional spillover. Spillover
that needs to be controlled, lest your mind play tricks on you again. Haxtes’
mother may have been attractive, but now is not the time for you to end up
fantasizing about a dead whore, no matter how shapely she might have
been.
--147
“I got through the Forbidden Zone without incident,” Haxtes voice says,
sounding faint and distant, like the narrator from a bad holo-show.
“It was only two blocks deep, but it was five wide. Going around would
take too long.”
The boy is prowling through the dense mist, going from cover to cover,
but managing to keep a good pace. He’s on the far side of the outer cordon
now, but he’s still being cautious.
“We didn’t know why the Forbidden Zone was forbidden,” you hear
Haxtes say, “but we knew the IGs guarded it and there were roadblocks,
wire fences, and frag wire all around, plus several gun emplacements made
of flakboard and ballistic bags. Armoured vehicles would come and go.
Sometimes Valkyries would land on top of what used to be the main
hospital building.”
You can’t be positively sure, not with the mist and all, but your own ideas
about the zone have been reinforced. Very few Imperial organizations have
the authority to operate autonomously in a warzone like this. You keep
your suspicions to yourself.
Haxtes continues. “On the other side was more Restricted Zone.” You see
more ruins on the other side, but the mist prevents you from getting more
than a cursory look. “Twenty or more blocks in all directions, all the way
down to the city centre. This was Imperial Guard territory. It was also
where I had to be if I was going to find Mother and bring her home to make
the fucking cake she’d promised me.”
--Within your inner sanctum you assess the situation. It’s not about the
cake of course; the kid is scared. Has been since the war started. He feels
abandoned, alone. Betrayed by his father and brother. Estranged from his
148
DARK OMEGA
sister. The mother is all that stands between him and emotional ruin. That’s
your assessment, that’s how you would have felt.
--Inside the circle of light your eyes meet Haxtes’ gaze. You’re suddenly not
so sure; within the cold abyss of his eyes you find preciously little to
remind you of yourself.
--In the librarium your eyes wander over to the opposing page. You make
some other miniscule adjustments to your body, adding a few semi-random
motions to make it appear more natural to the auditors.
--“I used the mist for all it was worth and kept going until I reached the
compound of the 57th Lo Mechanized Regiment,” Haxtes says.
You’re familiar with Lo. It is an Imperial world in the Drusus Marches
subsector, not very far from Protasia. It’s classified as an Imperial World in
some records, and as a minor Hive World in others.
You personally feel that the Scintillan practice of naming every world
with anything even remotely resembling a hive city as a Hive World is
something of a mistake. In your opinion only Scintilla and Malfi qualify as
true hive worlds, with a dozen or so other planets competing for a spot in
the league of minor hive worlds. Lo is one such minor league contender.
The Loi Metalworks industrial conglomerate produces a wide range of
military vehicles, from motorcycles and utility tractors, to AFVs of every
kind, up to and including heavy tanks. No super-heavies though; the only
place that has the templates for that in Calixis is the remote Synford forge
world. And the Lathes of course, but they won’t deign to produce
something so mundane, when they can instead focus on building their
precious god-machines – the battle titans.
149
Much of the planet’s tithe comes in the form of these vehicles, making
whoever controls the Loi Metalworks the most likely candidate as Imperial
Commander of Lo. Any Guard regiments raised from Lo stock invariably
comes equipped in the style of mechanized infantry, supported by ample
numbers of armoured battalions.
Haxtes has moved a distance while you were musing. Having several
mental compartments really is quite practical, but keeping track of several
simultaneous processes can be a challenge.
Haxtes pauses in the shadow of a Sentinel walker. It looks surprisingly
intact for an abandoned vehicle. Perhaps its machine spirit gave up. Or
maybe it simply ran out of fuel.
“Knowing that they wouldn’t be happy if they caught me with a gun I
stashed the autopistol before making my move. I could have gotten in
unseen I think, but that would defeat the purpose of my trip. I was here to
bring my mother back, not to skulk around.”
He starts moving again. He stops at intervals to listen. Eventually you can
see that he’s coming up on an Imperial Guard compound. It’s been expertly
walled off using a mix of imported equipment and scavenged materials.
“Bold as brass I walked forward,” Haxtes says, “and made myself known
to the gate guards. Sticking my head up like that…it was very alien to me…I
would never have done it if Jax hadn’t abandoned his post.”
His anti-Jax sentiments are very well known to you by now. You’re
beginning to find it quite tiresome. Earlier he claimed his memories of
home no longer bothered him. It doesn’t look that way to you.
“To their credit they didn’t shoot me on sight, coming out of the mist at
point blank range as I were. Very civilized of them. But then again the
people of the world of Lo are a rather civilized bunch. Relatively speaking.”
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DARK OMEGA
You can see the compound gate rising out of the mist, complete with
roadblocks and gun positions. Again well planned and quite expertly made;
this Loi regiment seems quite professional.
--You decide to try something new. You’ll go in deeper than before. Fuse
the sensory feed and your interactive compartment. You give the scene
your undivided attention, letting sensory data wash through your buffercompartment and into your observing mental division.
One moment your perception is split between listening to Haxtes in the
ring of light and watching him walk through the ruins of Thira. The next the
ring is gone and you are truly there, in the ruins of Thira. You’re no longer
watching Haxtes’ life play out as a holo-show – you’ve become a ghost,
stalking Haxtes, looking over his shoulder.
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CHAPTER 16
COMMISSAR’S
ORDERS
“Hey kid,” one of the IGs on duty stepped out from behind a reinforced
rockrete roadblock, “you’re not supposed to be here. Back off or I’ll put a
round through you.” He said it matter-of-factly, his long-barrelled lasgun
not fully raised, but nevertheless ready to fire at a moment’s notice. I fought
the urge to turn and run. No matter how wrong it felt to stand out in the
open I was committed – bolting now will get me shot for sure.
It was hard to make out any details. The Guardsman with the rifle was
only a handful of meters away, but he was barely visible through the thick
mist. His squad mates were no more than dark shapes veiled in cloaks of
white. Beyond them I could make out the contours of the compound wall,
the roadblocks, and the reinforced guard post. It was like the rest of the
galaxy didn’t exist, it was just me and the IGs, surrounded by infinite
whiteness.
“I want my mother,” I said, remaining rooted to the spot. “She’s here with
the Commissar. Can you get her for me?” I got a blank look in return. “Tell
her to be quick. It’s my birthday.” I tried to sound childish. Some soldiers
are reluctant to gun down children. The smaller they are, the less likely
they are to shoot. A small advantage, but an advantage nonetheless.
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DARK OMEGA
A few tense seconds passed before the IG lets his rifle barrel drop. Just a
few centimetres, but I knew the moment of greatest danger had passed.
Another voice, deeper and more menacing. “Get that auto trained!”
followed by an even louder, “NOW!” A multi-barrelled lascannon swivelled
towards me, three gunmetal barrels whipping the mist into chaotic swirls.
“Jons! Get your ass back into cover!” A hairy arm with rolled-up sleeves
appeared, followed by the owner of the menacing voice, a very big soldier
with sergeant hashes. The hairy arm grabbed Jons by the back of his utility
webbing and yanked him back into cover. “Mazzo. Get me an auspex scan!”
Two seconds went by. “NOW MAZZO, NOW!”
Another voice, coolly professional and bitingly acidic at the same time.
“All clear Sarge. No extra lifesigns, no guns, no explosives. LGE green.”
Sarge, in a low and growling voice. “You motherfucking morons! You’re
the most incompetent little fucks I have ever had the misfortune of serving
with. You never learn! It’s a miracle any of you are still alive!” Spittle was
flying. “First you secure the area with the biggest fucking gun you have.
Then scan the motherfucking area to see if there might be like an ambush
or a sniper or just a suicide bomber. How fucking hard can it be!?” The last
sentence was hammered out, word by word.
The hulking shape of Sarge towered out of the mist, like some ancient
lighthouse. “You, kid. Front and centre!” I guessed that means me, so I
scurried over. A big first immediately grabbed me by the front of my shirt
and pulled me close, forcing the cool ceramite barrel-cover of a heavy
laspistol into my cheek.
“Hey Sarge,” the IG called Jons said, getting out from behind cover again,
moving forward, “no need to get all worked up. I know the kid. He comes
here with his mother from time to time. You know; the curvy one with the
dark hair that Commissar Joaquin likes. That’s why I didn’t fry his little
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CHAPTER 16 COMMISSAR’S ORDERS
brain. He’s cool. You can let him through.” So he was going to shoot me,
until he recognized my face. I vowed silently to myself, never to pull a stunt
like that again.
I recognized Jons now. He was one of Mother’s ‘special friends’. He came
by the house from time to time. He always had chocolates or candy for the
kids. He’d grown a beard since last I saw him. It had more red to it than his
blonde hair would suggest.
Another IG stepped out of the white. This one had ‘Mazzo’ stencilled on
his flak jacket, right over his right chest pocket. The other two men, Sarge
and Jons had no name tags. Sarge had his hashes and a regimental badge on
his shoulder, Jons had no markings of any kind.
Mazzo had an auspex scanner in his left hand and a lasgun held in his
right, pointing up and over his shoulder. The auspex was a rugged square
box of metal with a heavy-duty display on top. Multiple standard access
ports for it to link with other STC equipment. Pretty crude compared to
what I was used to, but it looked like it could take a hall of a beating and
keep working. The lasgun looked normal, except for something big and
tube-like strapped under the barrel.
“Yeah, Jons is right for once,” Mazzo said. “Let the kid through. He’s just
looking for his mom. Besides,” he added, “I’m done shooting unarmed kids.”
Turning back towards the position he shouted to a hereto unseen
Guardsman. “Roverto, point that fucking gun somewhere else. I’m getting
all jumpy here.” A fourth voice, muffled by the fog. “Fuck you too Mazzo!”
but the gun barrels disappear from sight.
Sarge let go of me, waving his handgun in the general direction of his
own men instead. “You fucking morons. These people are the enemy,
remember? Rebels. Traitors. Heretics. Ring any bells? Any one of them
could be a gunman. Or a bomber. Or a spy. You want to live through this or
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DARK OMEGA
not? This isn’t the time to get sloppy. A few weeks more and we’re done
with this shit, remember?”
Jons seemed about to reply, but instead he snapped to attention. After a
moment of confusion the rest of the men followed suit. A man in a long
black storm coat and tall cap had walked into our midst. Unlike the
guardsmen he was immaculately groomed and dressed. I felt strangely
intimidated and safe at the same time.
“I am very disappointed,” the Commissar said in an even voice, “by the
lack of discipline and skill your men display, Sergeant Blano.” He let his
gaze linger on each man in turn, causing them to cringe ever so slightly.
“Guard duty,” the black clad man continued, “should be simple enough
that even the men of the 57th Lo can manage. It was covered during basic
training and is well documented in the Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer. That
you’re combat veterans is no excuse for laxness. Quite the contrary, you
should strive to be exemplars, role-models to soldiers less experienced
than yourself. You will do better next time, or there will be reprisals.”
He waved around a smallish black book with an Aquila on the front
cover. “The Primer has details on that too. You can find it under
‘Punishment for dereliction of duty’ and ‘Punishment for lack of vigilance’.
Both involve shooting the offender, if I’m not much mistaken. Questions?
No? Good. Jons, bring the boy. Sergeant Blano, guard the gate, as best you
can.”
The Commissar turned on his heel and walked quickly and purposefully
back inside the compound. I and Jons followed him. The sun was breaking
through in places. It would not be long now before the mist lifted. I would
have to take the long way home.
I suddenly burst out in laughter. I would have to take the long road
anyway. I could not sneak Mother through the Forbidden Zone!
155
Jons, looking a bit perplexed. “What’s funny boy?”
“My mother, I…” You couldn’t really explain it, so I gave up without
trying.
“You two, inside,” the Commissar said, pointing at a prefab field
accommodations unit over by the compound’s west wall. I ducked under
the camouflage nets strung up above, and entered through a light metal
door that was standing ajar.
Inside lay the Commissar’s personal quarters. It was actually quite
homely; several candlesticks, opened books, and personal mementos. A
slender chainsword sat partially disassembled on a table, next to the skull
of some strange beast. “Jons, watch the door. Kid, sit.” The commissar
indicated a chair. I sat down and put on my listening intently face.
“My name is Joaquin. Commissar Joaquin to the men. You can call me just
Joaquin if you like.” He rummaged through a drawer in his desk and
produced a couple of candy-sticks and an energy bar. “Here, eat it now if
you’re hungry. Or save it for later if you’re not.”
I still hadn’t eaten the two bars I brought from the apartment, but I
wasn’t about to turn down an offer of extra food.
He took a seat opposite me. “You’re Haxtes, aren’t you? Lydia’s
youngest?” I managed a nod. My mouth was too full of candy to answer. “I
saw you two in the market once. And she’s spoken of you many times.
Showed me your pict.” An uncomfortable silence followed.
I gulped down the last of the candy. “Where is she? It’s my birthday and
she promised me a cake.” I put a liberal dose of childish concern into my
voice, hoping I sounded like a distraught 9-year old.
“That,” Joaquin said, “is what I’m wondering myself.” I let the second
candy-stick drop to the floor, unopened.
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DARK OMEGA
He grabbed my hands and looked intently at me for a few seconds. “I
heard you at the gate, asking for her.” As an Imperial Commissar, Joaquin is
part of the enemy. A nice enemy maybe, but still an enemy; I hadn’t
forgotten. Still, I found his touch to be oddly calming.
Joaquin nodded. “She did come here yesterday. Said it was your birthday.
She needed a few things for the cake.” He paused. “We came to
an…arrangement. She left well in advance of the curfew. Jons here followed
her to the square with the red statues.”
I tilted my head a bit and looked expectantly at Jons. They had better not
lost Mother. If they had, there would be consequences.
Jons scooped up the candy-stick I dropped. “Sure did kid. All the way
along Main and up to Red. She only had to loop around the Forbidden Zone
and she’d be over on the indig – civilian – side of town.” He hands you the
candy. “Should have been safe enough. She’s gone there many times before.
All the…wh…women go by that route.”
My mind reeled. So they had lost her. Between Jax and the Imperial
Guard they had abandoned her halfway between here and the apartment.
Joaquin’s was still holding mine, but now I felt only revulsion at his
touch. “She must have gotten lost,” I said, “or maybe she didn’t make it back
before nightfall. I must go and look for her.”
The two men, Commissar Joaquin and Guardsman First Class Jons looked
at one another for a moment. Nothing was said, but something was agreed
upon, without the need for words.
Jons. “I’ll take the kid and go looking for her. Could be nothing, but we’ll
go make sure. I’ll bring a vox and report back if we find anything.” The
Commissar nodded. “Acceptable. I’ll have a QRF standing by. I’ll be in the
command post, listening in on the vox.”
Vox. What an odd word.
157
The
Commissar
guessed
my
thoughts.
“It
means
‘radio-wave
communicator’. Vox is High Gothic for ‘voice’. The Primer and the other
field manuals have a few words on loan from High Gothic.” He squeezed my
hands one extra time before letting go of me.
Jons held the door open for me. “Come kid. I’ll just grab my kit and a vox
and we’ll go find your mom.” He moved further down along the wall where
more hab units had been positioned. “Just wait here. I’ll only be a minute.”
He disappeared inside.
A couple of other Guardsmen passed me by. They seemed indifferent to
my presence, except for one fellow who pretended to shoot me in the head
with his finger.
Jons came out again. He’d added more gear pouches to his webbing.
Normally I’d try guessing what exciting stuff he’d hidden inside, but my
mind was busy elsewhere. “Come kid. Over to the gate,” Jons said, urging
me to follow.
We headed back to the gate. Sarge and the other two IGs, Rovo and
Mazzo, were still on duty, looking a bit livelier than before. “There you are
Jons”, Sarge said. “I wondered if you’d turn up again or if I had to go look for
you.”
“I’m sorry Sarge. I have to go outside. Commissar’s orders. I’m to find the
kid’s mother and escort them both home.”
“Say again?” Sarge looked like he couldn’t quite understand the words
coming out of Jons’ mouth.
Jons picked up a compact vox set and hooked it to the webbing on left
side of his chest. “Boy’s mother. Locate and retrieve. Commissar’s orders.
End.”
He rummaged through a couple of boxes stacked inside the small guard
shed, producing a brace of hand grenades still inside their cellulose boxes.
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DARK OMEGA
Bulky, even for Imperial equipment. As an afterthought he threw a quad of
lasgun charge packs into his combat pack. Sarge clenched his jaw, blinked
three times, shook his head and backed out of the shed.
Mazzo and Roverto were waiting for us outside the shed. Roverto was
the taller and heavier of the pair, but for some reason it was Mazzo that
drew the eye: He was more compact, but there was more substance to him.
There was more of Mazzo, so to speak, only it was wrapped into a smaller
package.
Mazzo looked squarely at Jons. “This is a bad idea. The squad sticks
together. You know what happens when we don’t.” Roverto nodded in
silent agreement.
Jons was having none of it. “Look guys, I appreciate the offer, but no. The
Commissar said I was to go. The rest of you have duties to attend to.”
Mazzo wasn’t going to let him get away that easily. “Tell him Rovo. Tell
him again what happens if we don’t stick together.”
“A brother dies. That’s what,” Roverto exclaimsed
“That’s bullshit,” Jons said, but his voice betrayed his inner turmoil, “and
besides, this is different. I’m not going into action, I’m just helping the boy
find his mother.”
“Tico,” Mazzo asked rhetorically. “How did Tico die?”
Roverto replied on cue. “Alone.”
“And Recozzo?” Mazzo continued, “Where his brothers near when he
died?”
“No, he died alone,” Rovo supplied, sounding solemn.
Sarge reappeared before more of the dead could be named. “Forget it
morons; let that freak idea die a stillborn death. Saves me the need to
smother it for you.” He made a short pause, daring them to gainsay him.
Neither man did.
159
“If Jons wants to go out and die alone that’s his call. It’s a shit call. A shit
call made by a shit guy who thinks he’s better than his brothers. Fuck him, I
say.”
“Yeah, fuck me,” Jons said. “And besides none of you saints are very
stealthy.” He turned back to me. “Time to go kid,” he said, “time to go.”
I turned my back to the guard post and the three IGs, and followed Jons
back into the streets, just as the fog was lifting, revealing the city in all its
devastated glory. “Mother, I’m coming for you,” I whispered. “And when I
find you,” I found myself thinking of the Commissar, “you’ll keep your
promises to me,” Jax’ carefree face replaced the Commissar’s, “or I swear on
the ancestors that I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done.”
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CHAPTER 17
CITY OF RED
ANGELS
You pull back from deep immersion, returning to the circle of light.
“Thira was called the City of Red Angles on account of the many red
marblerite statues you find adoring the public spaces. The marblerite was
quarried locally; the Lakes region was rather famous for its quality stone,”
Haxtes explains.
“The statues didn’t really depict angels though. They depicted the great
men and women of Protasia’s past. Our hallowed ancestors.” He does his
almost-human chuckle again. “But I guess they looked pretty angelic, with
their laurels and their feathered wings and all.”
There is no disagreeing with his assessment. The mental images you get
leave nothing to be desired in the angel department. Positively huge, grand,
and gothic-baroque. Not even the artisans of the Adeptus Ministorum could
have done better.
“Family is important to Protasians,” Haxtes says. “Living and dead family
alike,” Haxtes elaborates. “You could say that we engaged in a form of
ancestral worship. Rather than pray directly to the God-Emperor we
prayed to our ancestors to intercede with Him on our behalf. The Calixian
Ministorum didn’t like that approach very much. They would rather have
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CHAPTER 17 CITY OF RED ANGELS
us adopting the full array of Imperial Saints instead. I’m sure you can guess
how we reacted to that.” He puts on his best predatory smile to highlight
the statement.
Yes, you can easily envision the Protasian elders gather in their precious
Forums to debate the latest Ecclesiarchial infringements upon their ancient
traditions. You can also vividly picture the sort of discussions that
Protasian practices would have given rise to when the Synod of Cardinals
gathered in the massive Cathedral of Illumination in Hive Tarsus, the
second most important hive on Scintilla, eclipsed only by Hive Sibellus
itself.
Haxtes nods to himself. “No surprises there. But,” he raises a finger, “the
Missionaria Galaxia is nothing if not persistent. And so, over the course of
two dozen centuries, the images of our hallowed ancestors took on a
decidedly angelic mien.” He shakes his right trigger finger a little. “Pretty
base actually, but clever at the same time. When we would not adopt their
saints they made saints of our own honoured dead. Which in turn paved
way for importing a few off-world saints.” He puts his hand down. “I’m sure
that if Protasia hadn’t rebelled the wheel would have continued to turn.”
--You turn another page and call for a cold drink to soothe your parched
throat. Your observing mind continues to monitor the playback
experienced by the interactive part of your ego, dutifully noting down
details of Protasian religious observances. You find those observations
oddly detracted, as if Haxtes has read about them in a book rather than
lived them. Either that or he has completely distanced himself from his
childhood faith. Or is it the Vern persona that’s speaking, using Haxtes’
voice? You can’t tell for sure.
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DARK OMEGA
You do a few limbering exercises while you wait for you carbonated
aqua. On a whim you have one of the servoskulls display the time. It does so
with a green-laser projection on the white alabaster walls. Four hours have
passed, much longer than you had thought. You need to take a piss and
your stomach is grumbling loudly – you regret taking only a light lunch
before coming here. But you’re reluctant to take a break. You still have so
much to learn about the practicalities of interacting with the tome – and
right now you feel you’re finally getting somewhere. Well, you’ve had
worse experiences while in the field. You’ll just have to soldier on.
An oblong container of brushed aluminium is brought to you by a small
serving servitor. This one is a female model, fresh from the assembly lines.
All flesh, save a pair of cybernetic eyes and some access ports on her upper
spine.
She’s actually kind of cute. Not that you have a thing for servitors;
technophilia is as alien to your tastes as xenophilia. You’re a bit
conservative in that department, a little one-on-one with a consenting adult
female is your preferred modus operandi. That basic setup offers an almost
unlimited variety of physical and emotional stimulation. Again your
thoughts wander to Haxtes’ mother, but this time your filters kick in, killing
the excitement before it can even begin.
You accept the container from the serving tray, unscrew the top which
also serves as a cup, fill it up and empty it in three big swallows. You refill
it, then return the container to the tray and wave away the servitor.
The she-servitor doesn’t budge. “Visitors are not allowed to retain any
liquids in the reading area. Please finish your drink,” she says in a voice
bereft of emotion.
You sigh, and empty the second cup. This won’t help your bladder one
bit.
163
You return your focus to your mental compartmentalization. The current
arrangement is not optimal. The level of immersion is a bit excessive. You
wanted to be there, to ride Haxtes’ back like a ghost, unseen and unnoticed.
But instead you ended being Haxtes, seeing what he saw, feeling what he
felt. You refine your emotional filters to avoid getting dragged in deeper
than intended.
The observing mind keeps nudging you. The interactive mind requires
your attention. You grit your teeth and pray to the God-Emperor that you
do not piss yourself while you’re in here. In addition to the embarrassment,
it is likely to get you expelled from the librarium.
--We kept to the main road leading out of the compound, only taking a
small detour to retrieve my cached gun. I considered leaving the autopistol,
but I didn’t know when I’d be back. The pistol was my only weapon, and
therefore much too valuable to simply abandon. And it seemed wrong for
Jons to be the only one carrying arms.
I was pretty sure Jons wouldn’t be bothered by me being armed. I was
right; he didn’t even blink. Instead he asked me pointed questions as we
walked – and proceeded to give me some advice on how to carry, aim, fire
and reload a gun. It made me realize how little I knew of weapons and
survival – and how valuable Jons could be to me if I played my cards right.
He also showed me how to care for the weapon’s machine spirit after it
had seen use. That part seemed a lot like cleaning and lubricating to me, but
he insisted that it calmed the weapon’s spirit, which made it less likely to
jam or otherwise misbehave. Well, he did know more than me about guns,
so I guess he could have been right.
Afterwards we went up to Red Square. That’s what the IGs called the
Plaza of the Hallowed. I couldn’t really blame them; it was a big open space
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DARK OMEGA
and it had at least a hundred statues in red marblerite arranged around it
in three concentric circles. Most of the statues had been damaged or
outright destroyed, leaving the square covered with red rubble. And voila:
The Red Square. Never mind that the open space wasn’t at all square in
shape; I suppose grunts favour simplicity over accuracy.
Red Square was about halfway between the 57th Lo compound and the
Forbidden Zone I had passed through earlier. If you were headed east from
the square you had to first go north or south, bypass the Zone and then
resume your original heading. South was longer, but safer. North was
shorter, but snipers from both sides liked to take potshots at passersby.
Sometimes there were bombings. And the Guard would go there in
armoured columns occasionally. Best not to go by that route.
Anyway, Mother would have gone south, so that was our route of choice
as well. Jons suggested we should separate a distance. One IG and one boy
would look like an odd couple, sure to attract attention. Plus we’d be too
easy to take out at once. Easy targets were tempting targets according to
Jons. So I would go first and Jons would follow at a distance, keeping
himself concealed as much as possible.
Make no mistake: I knew Jons was part of the enemy, but right then and
there I was in dire need of his services. I also knew I had been set up as the
bait. But that was the way it was. You have to give something to get
something. And honestly, I didn’t worry too much. If something happened I
was confident that Jons would become the primary target. A local kid would
be ignored for long enough for me to slink away.
We kept going for about an hour before Jons called a break. We’d come
around the edge of the Forbidden Zone and started to turn east again. This
was, in his opinion, the most likely place something could have happened. I
didn’t like the implications, but it sounded a reasonable assumption. We
165
took cover in the ruins of a shattered building. I ate the energy bar I had
gotten from Commissar Joaquin back at the compound and we shared some
water from Jons’ canteen.
Jons wiped some dust from his gun. When he saw me staring he showed
it to me. It looked a lot like a standard lasgun, only it was a bit longer.
”This here is a Sollex-pattern Mk. 2 Longlas,” Jons said with pride in his
voice, “made on the forge world of Belcane, all the way over in the Markayn
subsector,” he said, pointing at a stamp in the metal.
“It’s based on the tried and true Mars-pattern lasgun. You don’t need to
be an expert to see the similarities in design. Both came from the same
standard template. Only this one has a longer barrel, a collapsible bipod
and,” he carefully removes a rifle scope from a webbing pouch and expertly
fits it to the gun, “the best optics the Throne has to offer us grunts.”
A big smile had crept onto his face. “I got it off a dead Brontian sniper
during my first engagement on Kulth. He didn’t look like he needed it
anymore, and the Emperor doesn’t like seeing good guns going to waste, so
I was only doing my duty.”
I didn’t know about any of that, but the gun looked absolutely amazing to
me. Sleek, purposeful, deadly. My autopistol suddenly felt completely
inadequate. I determined to own such a weapon one day. It was an insane
thought, really. Chances were I would not last another year, let alone have
to opportunity to acquire a longlas. And even if I did survive, even if I did
get the weapon – what would I do with it? Go hunting? Shoot at targets? I
was only nine.
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CHAPTER 18
HEART OF THE
SNIPER
“You point and fire it, same as a projectile weapon,” Jons explained, “only
there is no bore and no bullet. Instead there is a mechanism inside that
transforms the energy stored in the ammo pack,” he patted the rather
plain-looking square box protruding from the gun’s bowels, “into a beam of
extremely focused energy. That beam only lasts for an instant. Which is
good, because the shorter the beam duration, the more violent the reaction
in the target.”
He let me hold it. It was much too big for a kid my size, but it was simply
the most amazing thing I had ever held in my hands. Even holding Nix for
the first time paled in comparison. “I like your laser-gun,” I said, pretending
to be a bit less knowledgeable about such things than I really was. Not that I
was a tech-adept or anything, but I certainly knew the difference between a
utility laser and a high-energy weapon.
My feigned, childish ignorance earned me a pat on the shoulder. “It’s not
a laser. Lasers are tools. This is a lasgun. It shoots a beam of energy, same
as a laser, but there the similarities end. This baby can shoot in all kinds of
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CHAPTER 18 HEART OF THE SNIPER
weather, underwater even, and still kill at long range. A laser can’t do that.
I’m no tech-priest, but this I know is true.”
He pointed back down the way we came. ”Have a look. Do you see those
fellows? The ones sneaking up behind us, trying to stay hidden, but doing a
shit job about it?” I nodded. “I guessed as much. You’re pretty observant for
a kid. Here,” he removed the front and back covers from the optics and
flipped down the bipod, “have a look at them through the optics. The safety
is on, so you won’t hurt them.”
I did as I was told, and suddenly it looked like Sarge, Mazzo and Roverto
were standing right in front of me. Mazzo was up front. If the gun had been
live I could just have pulled the trigger, and he would have died.
“Quite something, isn’t it? To have the power to decide who lives and
who dies. Too bad you don’t have that power over your own life.” Realizing
he was talking about life and death with a nine-year old, he quickly
dropped the subject.
I thought it sounded quite reasonable. I had seen enough death over the
past year to appreciate the sentiment.
“It’s superior in almost every way to a projectile weapon. Being an
energy weapon means no moving parts. It’s also completely sealed. So no
sand in the chamber, no fouling of the barrel. It can be used underwater, in
space, under just about any combat conditions. And it will fire straight and
true every time. The beam is speed-of-light. You pull the trigger and you hit
whatever you’re aiming at. There is no ballistics to worry about. A bit of
atmospheric diffraction perhaps, but nothing compared to the inherent
spread of a gun shooting metal bullets. In short: Perfect for sniping.”
He picked the gun out of my hands. I was sad to see it go. “There is
almost no recoil, just a little snap when you fire. That comes from the
thermal bloom around tip of the barrel, almost like a small explosion of
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DARK OMEGA
heat.” I gave the gun a thoughtful look. “Fortunately it comes with a thermal
baffler,” he pointed to a longish sleeve of grey ceramite covering the end of
the barrel, “to keep my aim steady and to avoid giving away my position to
nasty people with preysense sights. If you know what you’re doing you can
keep your aim though shot after shot. Projectile weapons need suspensors
or other shit to compensate. Bulky and inelegant compared to this baby.”
He detached the scope and carefully returned it to its padded pouch. “I
call it the Eye. Without the Eye it’s just another lasgun. It’s the Eye and the
heart of the shooter that matter. The gun is just a tool.”
I nodded in agreement, but I wasn’t so sure you actually need a good
shooter. “With the Eye anyone can be a sniper,” I ventured, “you don’t even
have to be much of a shot.”
Jons shook his head. “No they can’t. A sniper has to be more than just a
servitor pulling the trigger.” He scratched at his temple. “See…the beam is
actually invisible, but it excites the hell out of the air, which gives you these
bright lines, almost like miniature lightning bolts, only they are straight as
razors. They will give away your position if the enemy is observant. DEW
lines they are called in the Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer. Short for Direct
Energy Weapon lines. If you’re a real sniper you fire only a few shots before
changing positions. Shoot and scoot. End of problem.”
I nodded again. It made sense. A sniper was pretty useless if was killed in
his first engagement.
Jons got a bright idea and pulled out his own copy of the Guardsman’s
primer. “Here, take it. There is lots of useful stuff in there. I can get me
another, the Commissar won’t mind.”
I gladly accepted the compact black book with the golden Aquila on the
cover. Knowing what the enemy knows is always to your advantage.
“Thanks,” I said, slipping the book into my satchel.
169
“But there’s more,” Jons continued. “You got to know how to stay out of
sight. How to pick out the good spots, places where you won’t be seen, but
where the enemy will pass by within shooting range. Remain motionless
for hours or days. Stay cool when the enemy tries to flush you out. That sort
of thing.”
I nodded more eagerly. I could do that.
“And…perhaps most of all you gotta like shooting people in the head
from up close. See their skulls blow apart in a shower of blood, bone and
gore. The Eye puts you right there kid. Puts you right there.”
He looks at me, catching my eye. “You think you could do that kid? Do it,
then sleep well and do it again the next day? Do you have the heart of a
sniper?”
I made a single firm nod while meeting his gaze.
“Then I guess you’ll be a sniper someday kid. Someday you’ll be the man
with the Eye, taking shots and calling men to face the God-Emperor’s
judgment,” he said, making the half-Aquila with his free hand.
He turned halfway around and waved the rifle over his head as a signal
to the approaching men. “You could come with us when we move. You look
like a clever lad. We could have use for one such as you. The Commissar
likes you, he’d let you come along.”
This was unexpected. “What do you mean? Moving where?” I asked.
“Dunno where, dunno when. But we we’ll be moving, sooner or later.
Seems we’ll be staying here on Protasia for the long haul. Word came down
we’ll be given settlement rights. Then we won’t be Guardsmen no more.
We’ll all be citizens of Protasia. Or whatever the world is to be called after
the rebellion is put down.”
“But why not here?” I inquired. This development was somewhat
unexpected. “Why not settle here, in Thira?”
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DARK OMEGA
“I don’t rightly know. Heard there was this Administratum article that
forbids guardsmen to settle where they’ve just kicked the shit out of the
locals. Says it’s bad for long-term stability and stuff.” Jons spits into the
dust. “Load of crap if you ask me.” His eyes became distant.
He sighed. “No, I bet there is some brass higher up the chain of command
that thinks Thira is too nice for the 57th Lo Mechanized – but just about
right for their own outfit.”
He shifted his position to better observe the approaching trio. “You don’t
have to decide right away kid, but give it some consideration. If…” he
pauses, “when we find your mother ask her if she’d like to come too…good
women are hard to come by in this place.”
“What about my sister?” I said.
Eli was pretty useless, but family should stick together. And she might
just be my ticket out of Thira if Mother was…unavailable.
“What about her?” Jons replied.
“She’s a woman too; can she also come?” I asked, putting emphasis on the
word ‘woman’.
“Didn’t know you had a sister…and this sister is how old?”
I consider the question for a moment. “She turned twelve a few months
before the first bombs fell. So I guess she’s like thirteen and a half now,” I
said in an innocent voice.
“Takes after your mother, does she?” Jons sounded hopeful.
In more ways than one I thought inside, but on the outside I just nodded
again.
“Well, that’s a bonus. Yes, she can come too,” Jons replied.
Good. Whether or not we found Mother I had secured my passage out of
this place.
171
“And Nix, my canine, can he come too?” I asked in as thin a thin voice as
possible.
It was really Jax’ canine, but seeing as I was the one that actually cared
for it, I had to bring it along.
“You have a dawg?” A smile appeared on his face. “Yes, your dawg can
come. Of course it can come!” He laughed heartily. Made me think he used
to have a ‘dawg’ of his own, back when he wasn’t a soldier.
“…my brother Jax…what about him?” I said finally, pretending not to
already know the answer to the question.
“Sorry son, but your brother is too old.” He shook his head for emphasis.
“I saw him when I came around last time. He must be what, fourteen or
fifteen now? That means he’s a man grown on my world. I…the Regiment
simply wouldn’t allow it.”
There was a drawn-out silence.
“You, your mother, your sister, and the dawg – yes. Your brother – no.”
He said it matter-of-factly. There was no maliciousness in his voice.
“I…guess he’ll be all right without us, Sir,” I replied, sounding sad. “Him
being a man grown and all. It’s not like he spends much time around the
house…I’ll talk to Mother and maybe we’ll come without him,” I heard
myself saying, “but I doubt she’ll agree. Family is important to us
Protasians,” I added for propriety’s sake.
I was going to be leaving with Jons it would be best if he had a good
impression of me, that he knew what a loyal little fellow I was. No need for
him to know I had absolutely no intention of inviting my brother along.
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CHAPTER 19
BROTHERS IN ARMS
The trio of Imperial Guardsmen caught up with us. Mazzo was up front,
his eyes constantly moving and his lasgun ready for action at the smallest
provocation. Sarge walked a handful of meters behind him; not too far
away, but none too close either. Sarge wasn’t wearing a helmet, just a field
cap. No lasgun. Instead he carried an ominous-looking weapon with a very
large bore and twin drum magazines. Highly irregular. Rovo brought up the
rear with a heavy support las mounted on some sort of suspension harness.
With the war-torn landscape framing them it looked like a scene strait out
of a recruitment poster.
Jons greeted them. “Well, if it isn’t my bastard brothers from another
mother.”
Mazzo returned the greeting. “You’re more like the sissy sister from
another mistress. But hello to you too.” All four men started grinning like
crazy and there was much hand-shaking, back-patting, and shouldersqueezing.
Even while greeting one another they took care to stay low, in cover, and
with one man always on the alert. “This isn’t your first war together, is it?” I
asked naively. Mostly for show; I was pretty sure of the answer.
Sarge – the Commissar had called him by his name, but is seemed wrong
to think of him as anything other than the ‘Sarge’ – give me an appraising
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CHAPTER 19 BROTHERS IN ARMS
look, then gestured towards me with the assault shotgun held casually in
his right hand. “No it isn’t. But it looks like it will be the last. And by His
name do I intend to keep these three morons alive long enough to see them
try their hand at farming and raising little kids.”
He said that in a way that got me thinking I would be mightily sorry if
one of them ended up dead because of this mission. Because of me.
Rovo elaborated. “We’ve been soldering together for years boy. Out on
the Spinward Front.”
“Before there even was a Spinward front,” Mazzo interjected.
“Fighting xenos reavers, local insurrectionist groups, you name it. But
most of all we fought motherfucking orks – and then we got stabbed in the
back by the damned Severan Dominate,” Rovo added.
Up close I could see the gun Rovo carries had three barrels. It was the
same type of weapon he had manned at the guard post. Without the
suspensor harness I couldn’t see how could have carried it, not without
wearing power armour or something. A thick cable connected the weapon
to a backpack-like power cell.
Sensing my confusion Mazzo picked up the thread. “The Severan
Dominate would be the treasonous curs flying the colours of Duke Severus
XIII, the subsector commander of the Periphery. Rebels and heretics; much
like you Protasians in fact.”
I bowed my head in deference. I had no desire to antagonize Mazzo at
this time.
“Our regiment fell below fighting strength,” Rovo supplied, “so we were
rotated out. We were on our way back to Lo when this shit hit the fan,” he
waved one arm at the surrounding ruins. “There was suddenly a desperate
need for experienced soldiers. Next you know we were once again fighting
under a strange skies.”
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DARK OMEGA
“I had the bloody discharge papers in my fucking hand,” Rovo interjected,
his fingers rolled up into a fist. “Instead we got sent to a new warzone, with
nothing but green IGs as far as the eye can see.”
I wasn’t really up to speed on Imperial Guard operations, so I let it show
on my dirty little Protasian face.
Jons came to the rescue. “It’s like this: When you join the Guard – be it by
draft or enlistment – there are really on two ways out. Death or victory.”
Sarge. “There are three ways – if you count the cripples, but let’s not go
there.” The other three nodded in silent agreement.
Jons. “Victory for a Guardsman is when he’s survived what the galaxy has
thrown at him – and his regiment has fallen below fighting strength. Once
that happens you’re rotated off the fighting lines. You either get shipped
back home – or you get dropped off somewhere else. Depends on what the
paper-pushers think is best of the Imperium.”
My face was starting to look a little less confused.
“So if it wasn’t for your peasant rebellion we’d be back on Lo right now,
pockets full of Thrones and a modest grant of property. Heroes sent home
to show that there is a reason for the God-Emperor’s Tithe. Instead we got
to fight – and die – one more time. If we survive we get to settle here
instead of going home. What a laugh the gods must be having at our
expense.” Mazzo clearly wasn’t the merry member of this four-man band.
Roverto. “He means well kid. It’s just that there are only us four of us left
now. Only four of the original members of K-company. There were six when
we came to Thira. We’d rather not lose any more.”
“I think I understand,” I muttered. “I’ve lost my father. And I haven’t
heard from most of my friends, or any of the neighbours, in a long while.” I
added a little sniff for good measure.
175
Sarge gave me a mean smile in return. “No kid, you sure as hell don’t
understand. Not yet. But I’m sure the fucking galaxy will show you soon
enough.” And with that he turned his back to me and pretended I didn’t
exist.
“Listen up brothers,” Jons said in a calm, but insistent tone. “You’re all as
stupid and stubborn as any ork I ever met. And I’ve met a few. You wanna
tag along, fine. I obviously can’t stop you. But we play this my way, or no
way at all.”
There was a general consensus in the form of harking, ground-stomping,
and cleaning of nails.
“Let’s do it by the numbers; let me know what we’ve got. Mazzo.”
Mazzo had made himself comfortable on a slab of fallen rockrete. He
made a half-assed salute from seated position. “Lance Corporal Mazzo,
present and accounted for. M36 lasrifle. Ten mags total.” He tapped his five
dual magazines in turn, first the one in his rifle, then the four in his vest
pockets. “Tactical grenade attachment.” He slapped the bulky tube under
the rifle barrel. “The usual mix of launcher grenades. Six frag – one in the
tube – and three krak, couple of smoke, one starshell – don’t know how that
got in there – and I’m still carrying around that old plasma grenade I found
in that depot on Kulth.” The twelve spare grenades were neatly arranged in
various slots in his webbing, secure, but easily accessible.
Sarge, speaking without turning. “You don’t know it’s a plasma grenade,
Mazzo. The markings are completely worn away and that enginseer that
‘confirmed’ your crazy idea was even crazier than you. We’re so going to
regret it when you pop the ‘plasma’ and it turns out to be confetti.”
Mazzo continued, unfazed. “Got my bayonet and entrenching tool. Both
have been recently sharpened – one of these days I’m gonna get me some
with that spade.”
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DARK OMEGA
Sarge looked crestfallen, but said nothing out loud.
“My lucky stub automatic,” Mazzo went on, touching a compact holster
on his belt, almost hidden from view by all the ammunition and utility
pouches. “One clip in, two in the holster.” The holster had pair of special
pockets for spare magazines.
Next he pointed at two long polymer tubes strapped to his combat pack,
one on each side, flanking the entrenching tool in its form-fitted
compartment. “Oh, and two of those disposable missile launchers the Major
acquired for us before Thira. Plus the usual crap – I mean kit – stuffed in my
combat pack.”
“And I have water,” he said, wriggling his hips to shakes the two canteens
hanging from his utility webbing.
“Nice moves there, brother,” Jons commented, evoking quite a bit of
laughter from the other men. “Rovo, you’re up next.”
Rovo replied promptly and professionally. “Guardsman First Class
Roverto, present and ready. I got the multi from the guard post. The
suspensors are working just fine. Same with the preysight and the tracking
harness. Charge pack fully loaded and ready, fifteen hundred rounds at
standard power.”
Rovo was fitted with a carapace clamshell over his flak jacket, instead of
the reinforced combat vests the other men were wearing. The charge pack
was clipped to the back, while the multi-barrelled lascannon was mounted
on a sort of telescoping arm bolted to the clamshell armour. The gun and
the ammo pack looked like they balanced each other out, but even with
suspensor support it must have been a bitch to carry. Fortunately Rovo was
a pretty massive fellow, so if anyone could handle such a weapon it would
be he. Roverto’s helmet had a special retractable monocle that I supposed
was the preysense sight he had mentioned.
177
“I’ve got the hand cannon I cheated that Gunmetallican out of.” A
positively huge revolver sat strapped onto his chest-plate, secured by a
fast-draw rig. It was positioned so that he could easily reach the stub
revolver, without interfering with the gun mount. “Five in the cylinder. Two
fast-loaders and a handful of spare ammo.” He nodded to himself. “Other
than that, just my standard combat load. Trauma kit,” he said, patting a
pouch on his hip, next to one of his canteens. “No pack. Mazzo has the rest
of my kit.” With the lascannon charge pack strapped to his back, there was
no way he could carry his own combat pack.
He seemed about done, but then remembered something at the last
moment. “And Mazzo has the auspex, even if he didn’t report it. Sir.”
Mazzo waved the auspex unit about in response. “Sorry, Sir.”
Jons grinned in response; clearly this exchange was something an old
joke between the men.
“Staff Sergeant ‘Sarge’, K-coy, present and ready,” Sarge said before Jons
had time to call him out. “Primary weapon is the Lathes Pattern Arbitrator
Assault Weapon. Currently loaded with one drum each of AP-flechette and
AP-explosive. Got two extra drums of each of those, plus one with HDpenetrators,” a sly grin crept onto his face, “just in case we see any
renegade Astartes.”
There was a great deal of chuckling from two of the other three. Mazzo,
however, went stone-faced. “Fuck. You. Fuck all of you.”
I found myself listening intently. What story lay hidden beneath the
surface?
Mazzo. “How was I supposed to know they were dummies? They looked
like real Space Marines to me, so I reported it in as per regimental standing
orders. I even looked up the markings. The Infantryman’s recognition
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DARK OMEGA
charts said they were Word Bearer renegades. You’d done the same if any
of you had spotted them!”
Jons, struggling to keep his laughter in check. “Of course we would.”
Rovo. “You sure they were renegade dummies?” He started giggling like a
little girl. “Not just some other sort of dummy, maybe allied dummies?”
Even Sarge smiled at that. Mazzo fumed, but I could see it was nothing
serious. He was having fun too. Even if it was fun at his expense.
“That’s enough talk of the Angels of Death”, Jons interrupted. “It’s not
wise to speak of them – unless you wish for them to come for you.”
It sounded like utter rubbish to me, superstition of the basest kind, but it
had the desired effect on Jons’ squadmates. They shut up and settled down
again, their merriment gone like mist before the sun.
“My trusted hellpistol,” Sarge said. I recognized the heavy, long-barrelled
pistol from my close encounter at the guard post. “Three extra charge packs
for the pistol. The power blade I got off that ork on Sisk. A brace of frag and
smoke grenades. Six multi-charges stuffed in my pack. No bayonet on
account of upgrading to power blade. And I seem to have misplaced my
entrenching tool…”
More laughter.
“Think that sums it up. The usual crap in my pack. Including, my
brothers, an extra pair of fresh socks, straight from the d-pot.”
There was a final burst of laughter over the socks. I didn’t get that one,
but I found myself grinning madly alongside the soldiers – the good mood
was contagious. Even if they were the enemy.
Jons. “Corporal Jons, present and ready. I’ve got my usual kit – plus this
kid.” He jerked his finger towards you. The other three Guardsmen smiled
easy smiles in response. I made an effort to smile back at them.
179
“My longlas and the Eye are both ready. Got seven mags total,” he patted
the power pack in the rifle and the two extra ones in his vest, “four of them
stashed in the pack.”
Those would be the four he had taken from the shed. I figured that if he
was going over his normal combat load, he must be expecting real trouble,
which I supposed was reason for concern.
“Sliver pistol for sidearm. Just the one mag, but it’s a hundred shots.” I
could see a slender gun stuck in a holster pocket at the back of his utility
belt; no chance of it interfering with his main weapon, but still easily
accessible, even from prone position.
Jons continued his muster. “I have the vox, plus I got a brace of these
rover drones.” He plucked one of the charcoal cellulose containers he’d
retrieved from the guard post shed out of his pack. I had taken them for
over-sized grenade canisters. He peeled of a sealant strip and opened the
box. Inside was a small ceramite-and-polymer drone. “Not much of a
fighter, but excellent for recon work.”
Mazzo. “I’ll see if I can patch them into the auspex. Those tiny flexidisplays they come with are crap.” Jons nodded.
Rovo had a wide grin on his face by now. “We’ve been worse off than this
my brothers.” He got a flat stare back from Sarge, shutting him up. The
smile didn’t go away though.
“So, what’s the plan?” Mazzo said while absentmindedly plucking at the
loading mechanism of his tactical grenade attachment.
Jons got up from crouching position. “The plan is,” he says, turning to
face me. “The plan is: time to find your mother.”
About bloody time, I thought.
180
INTERLUDE
BROTHERS AND
SISTERS
Sister-Palatine Salinaria had every reason to be pleased with herself and
the Sororitas under her command. The local congregation of heretical
followers of the Word of Light had been exposed and eradicated. That Thira
was free of their taint, without requiring extreme sanction, gladdened her
heart. Inquisitor Vaarak had made it painfully clear to all involved parties
what would happen, should they fail at their divinely appointed task: the
city and every soul within would need to be consigned to oblivion.
But they hadn’t failed; with the God-Emperor guiding their actions they
had succeeded – and the city had been saved. Even if just this one city
survived and could be reconsecrated, it would be grand victory for the
Imperial Creed, a bright new start, here on heretical Protasia. It was going
so well that even now the Inquisitorial field office was stepping down, from
fully operational, to standby mode.
Prelate Zhukov would be very pleased indeed. As would First Minister
Verrigan, who could finally take possession of the fief he had been granted
by Governor Grimes. Salinaria and her girls had played no small part in
making it happen. She wouldn’t get much recognition for it though. The
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INTERLUDE BROTHERS AND SISTERS
Inquisition and those higher up the chain of command would hug all the
glory. It didn’t matter. What mattered was a job well done. Besides, the only
true glory in the galaxy belonged to the God-Emperor of Mankind!
What made her doubly glad was the nature of the heretics they had
purged: The Word of Light was a perverse version of the Imperial Creed,
replacing the light of the God-Emperor of Mankind with the dark
malevolence of the Ruinous Powers. At the surface it seemed so innocent,
but deeper down it was heresy of the darkest sort – contagious and soulconsuming.
There could be no salvation for those who started down that path – only
cleansing fire awaited the heretic.
--Kaminsky kept his scarred, eyeless face turned towards the armoured
viewport. The Strike Cruiser Ignorance is Bliss hung in a low orbit above the
troubled atmosphere of Phagir, the accursed former homeworld of the
Green Knights Chapter. Every ninety minutes and seventeen seconds they
passed over the mighty peaks of Mons Callidum – the Mountain of the Wise
– formerly the site of the Green Knights’ fortress-monastery. Like jagged
blades of white and grey the mountaintops sliced through the clouds,
creating infinitely complex patterns where before there had been only calm
uniformity.
The breath-taking view invoked a sense of utter revulsion. Kaminsky
welcomed the feeling. It hadn’t always been like this, he mused. Once upon
a time the view had been a source of awe and pride; coming or going, the
Knights would always pay their respects to the Mons. Before the Achilus
Crusade. Before the harrowing losses the Chapter has sustained. Before the
Chapter Master had ordered the Release.
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DARK OMEGA
Thinking about the Release: It was the unanswered questions that
pained him the most. How could madness and stupidity be conjoined so? In
a man that was supposed to be the exemplar of everything virtuous and
wise? When did Chapter Master Belkovets first succumb to insanity? Why
did none of the officers see it, and try to stop him?
That last question was an unfair one, and Kaminsky knew it. Most of the
officers were already dead, fallen alongside their men on far-away
battlefields. The few officers that remained at Phagir were not close to
Belkovets. No man was. Not anymore. Not the Chief Librarian. Not the First
Chaplain. Not even Colour Seregant Anatoliy, who had soldiered alongside
Belkovets since they were both scouts of the 10th Company.
That damnable secrecy! It had begun when the Chapter received its false
orders to deploy to the Margin Worlds. As the Achilus Crusade raged on it
had only gotten worse. By the end, as the very existence of the Chapter
hung in the balance, none of his battle-brothers had known, because of the
gulf that had grown between them and their Chapter Master. Kaminsky
realized that now.
But still, they should have been there to stop him. They should have done
something. But they hadn’t. Not a single suspicion voiced. Not a single
weapon raised in defiance. Not Chief Librarian Evgeny. Not First Chaplain
Leontiy. Not poor Anatoliy; how he had wept as he later swung the blade
that executed his old friend and former commander.
Kaminsky sighed heavily. He should have been there to stop Chapter
Master Belkovets. But Kaminsky’s insights had come too late – at the time
of the Release he had still been heavily sedated, locked within the sterile
confines of the apothecarium.
How it stung, knowing that he just lain there, even as the heroes of the
Chapter had fallen under distant suns and been left to rot. Never before had
183
the Green Knights suffered such losses, nor been forced to endure the
dishonour of abandoning the dead and their hallowed battle-gear. Not
during the Meritech Wars. Not during the War of the Fifth Circle. Not
during their years as a fleet-based chapter.
By the time Kaminsky had reawakened it was simply too late. Nothing he
could ever do, no matter how grand the feat, could set right the wrongs
done by the Release: The Green Knights Chapter of Adeptus Astartes was
damned in the eyes of men. And infinitely worse; they were damned in the
eyes of the God-Emperor of Mankind.
Kaminsky rolled onto his back, staring into infinity with sightless eyes,
remembering, as only a space marine can remember.
--The Chaos warrior was strong in a manner that not even a space marine
could match. Not even Kaminsky’s superhuman brawn, boosted by the
finest power armour the Mechanicus could make, was enough to make a
difference. Blow after blow rained down, and all he could do was to try to
stay alive. His blessed force sword, forged by no lesser man than Chief
Librarian Evgeny, was the thin line between him and the wicked blade the
enemy wielded. Kaminsky could feel the daemon, bound within the pitted
and corroded metal of the weapon, hungering for his soul.
Kaminsky’s force sword was nearly torn from his grasp. The warrior had
broken down his defences, not through skill, but by way of relentless
hammering. The enemy’s unholy blade slipped between the primary
armour plates protecting his thorax, guided by the hungry spirit bound into
the warp-steel, and bit deep into Kaminsky’s bowels. The Chaos warrior
immediately yanked his blade up with the same, inhuman strength, ripping
through a host of life-essential organs, including Kaminsky’s primary heart.
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DARK OMEGA
Kaminsky’s psychically boosted return strike took the warrior’s head
clean off – with his blade stuck inside the librarian’s chest, the enemy had
no means of defence.
Both combatants crashed to the ground. The Chaos warrior was dead
before he touched the dirt. Kaminsky was mortally injured – even the
superhuman physiology of a space marine can take only so much.
--“Brother Kaminsky,” a distant voice said. “I feared you were lost.” The
words were hollow and false, but what honour they had left demanded they
be said.
Kaminsky turned his empty eye sockets skyward and looked up at
Brother-Captain Ivanov. “Not today, Brother, not today,” he replied.
The space marine captain reached out an arm and helped pull Kaminsky
to his feet. “Your suit is a mess; I will call for a tech-marine.”
Mess. That was an understatement. He could stick his fingers through a
massive rend in the cuirass to touch bare skin. The suit readouts were so
far into the red it wasn’t even funny; it was miracle of the Machine God that
the suit was still mobile. It would require months of painstaking work to be
restored to anything resembling a battle-ready condition.
“Leave us.” Another voice. A human voice, but filled with such power of
command that even Astartes felt compelled to obey.
“Your wish,” Ivanov replied, head bowed deferentially, and then quickly
retreated.
Only one man could evoke such obeisance from the Captain of the Green
Knights. “My Lord Soldevan,” Kaminsky said without turning, “I beg your
forgiveness for not kneeling in your presence. My armour seems to be
damaged.”
185
“I can see that,” the voice replied, laden with sarcasm. “But you could at
least have turned to face me, out of courtesy. Never mind; you were prone
when I found you. I’ll take that as a sign of your obeisance.”
Soldevan stepped into his field of view. Vested as always when he strode
into battle, in the crimson and black power armour of an Ordo Xenos
Inquisitor.
“The gash in your armour; I think it might have something to do with the
Chaos blade I pulled out of your chest.” Soldevan gestured lazily towards
Kaminsky with the jagged blade that had torn through the librarian’s body
just a few hours earlier.
Kaminsky made to reply, but the Inquisitor lifted his left hand to silence
him. “It is no mean feat, Brother-Epistolary, to recover from such grievous
injuries. No mean feat at all. To heal so quickly, so completely…especially
when injured by a weapon like this,” Soldevan slowly turned the blade,
presenting it in all its dark glory, “it almost defies belief, doesn’t it? If I
didn’t know better, I’d call it a miracle of the God-Emperor!”
Kaminsky was mortified. The Inquisitor knew. How could he not, if he
had pulled that sword out of Kaminsky’s flesh, and then sat by and watched
his body repair itself at an impossible rate? He knew. He knew, and
therefore he must die.
“Panicking will do you no good, librarian, so think carefully before you
act.” The threat was unmistakeable. “Besides, your psychics are next to
useless against me – and I wager I’ll be able to push this sword right back
where I found it.”
Kaminsky wasn’t so sure about that. The Inquisitor was a skilled warrior,
but he was still only human. If it came to blows Kaminsky was certain he
could take Soldevan down.
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DARK OMEGA
“I have a trick or two up my sleeve, so don’t be so certain of your
victory,” the Inquisitor replied, as if he had read Kaminsky’s thoughts.
Which he most certainly hadn’t; Soldevan wasn’t a psyker, just a very good
judge of character.
“Whatever the outcome – you lose,” Soldevan added in a soft voice,
daring Kaminsky to act. “Lift your hand against me, and your entire Chapter
will be declared Excommunicate Traitoris.”
Kaminsky stood there, towering over the dark-skinned Inquisitor, feeling
his determination drain away. He suddenly had no appetite for violence.
“Don’t be such an ignominious idiot, librarian,” the man with the white
hair and matching, neatly trimmed beard burst out. “I’m not here to bring
your precious Chapter to ruin. I’m here looking for weapons.”
He lifted the sword high, point to the heavens, and then fixed Kaminsky
with his gaze. “And I think you and your brothers are just the weapons I
came looking for.”
Relief mixed with dread as Kaminsky listened to Inquisitor Soldevan
explain the future of his Chapter in no uncertain terms.
--The machine spirit that dwelled within his suit of hallowed power
armour relayed the alert directly into Kaminsky’s mind: Librarian to the
astropathic chamber. Code Amber. Incoming message. Encryption protocol:
Obsidian Ultima.
It could mean only one thing. An incoming transmission from the
Inquisition. A new target for the Deathwatch Company of the Green Knights
Chapter to annihilate. It would not save the chapter, nor restore its honour,
but by the God-Emperor was it good to do what angels do best: To kill.
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CHAPTER 20
THE OTHERS
There is still some emotional drift. Playback starts out at your preferred
level of emotional immersion, but given time the simulation is able to adapt
to circumvent your filters. After a while you’re not just there, riding Haxtes
ghost-style, you become the Haxtes persona. Seeing what he sees, feeling
what he feels. It’s happened several times now.
It’s nothing major, absolutely not dangerous. Just bloody annoying,
especially since you’ve made quite an effort to avoid it. You’re not used to
being thus outmanoeuvred. You normally have full control over your
mental architecture. This tome is challenging you in ways you haven’t
experienced before.
It’s time you stepped up to the challenge; time to truly be the prodigal
interrogator. Show Haxtes and Vern that no artefact, no matter how
advanced, can measure up to the human mind in all its psychic glory.
You schedule more frequent monitoring of the emotional buffer flowthrough. This will prevent the interactive mind being overwhelmed by
unwanted emotions. It means a bit more work for the observation
compartment, which will strain your mental and psychic faculties a bit, but
you can handle it.
---
188
DARK OMEGA
Your physical body is holding up well enough. It’s still there in the
chamber, pretending to read the tome. You don’t want to push it too far on
the first day. One more immersive session and you call it a day, take a piss,
grab something to eat, and have a good night’s sleep. You alter some of the
movement parameters to look livelier, and then head back in for today’s
final session.
--Haxtes is standing to the side of the desk with Vern, talking in hushed
tones up at a third figure. She’s positively the biggest woman you’ve ever
laid eyes on, standing at least two meters twenty. She doesn’t look like a
mutant freak, so that means she’s of ogryn gene-stock.
The few ogryns you’ve run into in the line of duty have all been big, burly
males. Hulking brutes recruited from this or that death-world, possessing
nearly limitless strength and fortitude, but little in the way of intelligence
or social skills.
Ogryns are the distant descendants of human stock geneered to survive
on borderline garden worlds. Places with very high gravity, extremely
forbidding terrain, or inherently hostile biospheres. Supposedly they were
as smart as other humans once. During the Age of Strife their homeworlds
devolved into death worlds, and the ogryns themselves evolved to become
even stronger and tougher, but at the expense of higher socio-mental
faculties.
This one is a bit different. It’s not just her gender that sets her apart. Her
face is kind of cute, with an unruly mop of strawberry blonde hair framing a
heart-shaped face. She looks right at you: Her eyes aren’t cute at all; pale
blue, and angry as hell. And intelligent; the mind inside is as sharp as any
you’ve touched upon.
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CHAPTER 20 THE OTHERS
Intriguing, but you’re just not in the mood to meet a girl that weighs at
least twice as much as you, and could rip your head right off your spine if
she wanted to. No matter how smart or cute that girl might be. Maybe later,
if you get overwhelming masochistic urges, and want to combine them with
refined conversation.
Haxtes dismisses both of them with a hand gesture. There is an
undeniable aura of authority around him now. Both the giant woman with
the impressive physique and Vernissimon consider him to be their
superior, even if there are no signs of a formal leadership role on Haxtes’
part. Is the gatekeeper not just the gatekeeper, but the overall security
manager? You file away the information for later; it will need investigating.
“Please Marcus, have a seat.” Haxtes gestures politely towards ‘your’
chair.
You move over to the chair, but do not sit down. “The other staff
members you mentioned. And the big girl, she would be the anti-intrusion
persona? Or does she have another function?”
Haxtes rewards you with a brief twitch of the lips. “Very perceptive of
you, Marcus.” He picks up the decanter. It’s been refilled with a green-andgold liquid and the glasses replaced. “You are correct. She is part of the
security detachment. Her brief appearance was brought on by your
incessant attempts to bypass me.” He gives you a cold look, but his eyes
twinkle with…playfulness? Or do you misread him?
“I would also like for you to meet Venus, the resident tech-priest.” He
gestures towards the darkness beyond the edge of the light. You turn to
look, but no one appears. “But I’m afraid your constant manipulation of the
tome’s interface is having her running ragged to compensate.”
You give him a questioning look.
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DARK OMEGA
“We don’t want the connection to terminate prematurely, do we?” Haxtes
replies.
“No, we don’t,” you concede. “While we’re on the topic of others; you
mentioned other visitors. I would know more about them,” you say, not
really expecting him to tell you much.
“I’m sure you would,” Haxtes replies. “Another drink perhaps?” Haxtes
says, changing the subject.
“Not really,” you reply. “Not unless it helps persuade you to tell me some
of what I want to know?”
“It might at that,” Haxtes answers. “This one is a Brontian brandy,
brewed on some local variety of pears and carefully fortified with Ghostfire
pollen.” He holds out the decanter for you to observe.
“Ghostfire pollen?” you remember reading that it’s a possible component
in frenzon-type combat drugs. A commodity that the Calixis sector is
sometimes called upon to tithe to the Imperium.
“Indeed. Ghostfire pollen. The sole tithe of the war-torn agri-world of
Iochantos. Primarily used to brew up a Calixian variety of frenzon. But it
has secondary applications as well. So, are you up for a taste?”
“Very well then. But make it a small one. And some information about the
others on the side,” you add jokingly and drop into the waiting chair.
“Well,” Haxtes begins reluctantly, “there have been others. A variety of
others. Seeking either the secrets of Melbinious for their own gain or
wishing to catalogue the work on behalf of the Inquisition. Or both at the
same time. None were able to get very deep; they were incompetent, lacked
security clearances, had odious personalities, came in already morally
corrupted, that sort of thing. The majority either disconnected voluntarily
or were shut out. A handful had their minds hacked. A couple got their
brains fried.”
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CHAPTER 20 THE OTHERS
“Interesting. Could you be more specific?” you ask.
“No. Not at this time, anyway. Maybe later.” Haxtes pours the drink and
hands it to you. “Go ahead, tell me what you think.” Haxtes waits for you to
take the first sip.
You consider pushing him some more, but decide against it. You raise the
glass to your lips and taste the liquid. The drink is most unusual, cool and
spicy at the same time. A most pleasant warmth starts spreading from your
belly, seeping into every corner of your body and mind. You have another,
larger sip for good measure.
“This really is something special,” you exclaim.
Haxtes puts the glass to his lips and drains half of it in two large swigs.
“Aye,” he says, sounding like an old Rogue Trader captain out of a bad holoplay. “Not vintage amasec, but definitely special. Popular among trader
captains. Warms the soul on those long and lonely void flights. A few
bottles of this and a couple of hussies to warm the body, and a man need
never be cold again.”
He takes his seat and looks at you. “Are you quite comfortable? Shall we
proceed?”
“Aye,” you say, trying to ape his space-pirate inflection, but failing
miserably.
192
CHAPTER 21
AN ACCORD
“We found Mother a few hours later,” Haxtes says. His voice is as dead as
ever. “Or rather, Nix found her.”
You’re momentarily confused. “Nix? You mean the canine?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t mention him again, so I assumed he was back at the
apartment or something.”
Haxtes points a finger at you. The gesture is accusing, but his voice tells
you it is more chiding than rebuke. “The family dog is not in the narrative
because you’re not fully committing yourself. If you had just stuck with
deep immersion, rather than bobbing in an out, you would probably have
noticed him slinking around.”
Is Haxtes trying to use humour to make you to drop your wards? Well,
that’s not going to happen.
“I had some of that earlier. I think I’ll save the really deep immersion for
later. For when something more…substantial than your canine is on the
table. No offense intended,” you say
“No offense taken,” Haxtes says graciously. “And besides, who cares
about the beast? It was my brother’s dawg. I only cared for it because Jax
didn’t bother. Family is important to Protasians, remember? And Nix was
family.”
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CHAPTER 21 AN ACCORD
Haxtes suddenly leans forward and speaks in a whisper, as if confiding in
you. “You have to pay attention to the details Marcus. You need to know my
secrets. It’s the only way Jarra – that would be the tall blonde with the big
boobs – will let you past her guard later on.”
“I’ve not intention of,” you start to protest, but Haxtes cuts you off. “Yes
you have. If you’re going to keep trying to get past me…at some point you’ll
have to deal with her.” He leans forward and his voice becomes a whisper.
“I’m her darling sweetheart you know…pretending to be me to get to the
sweet sugar she so jealously guards from other men…I’m thinking that’s
your best shot.”
What? Did he just imply you have to put on a disguise and have sexual
relations with the blonde giant inside this simulation? Or is he pulling your
leg? Can a simulation, even an interactive simulation, be sufficiently
advanced that it can be toying with your mind using innuendo? When you
add its attempts to get into your head…this tome is not just amazing; it is
borderline disturbing.
Haxtes executes an enormously exaggerated wink at you, sits back and
resumes in a more normal voice. “Nix wasn’t back at the apartment. He was
with me the whole time. He usually was. He was also a bit shy around other
people.” He pauses.
“Go on,” you say, “don’t be shy.”
You’re rewarded with an uncommonly heartfelt grin. “No, that’s an
understatement. After Jax abandoned him he became a one-person kind of
canine. The Haxtes kind of canine.”
“You ever had a pet, Marcus?” he suddenly asks.
“No,” you reply curtly. “I find animals noisome and too filthy for my
tastes.”
194
DARK OMEGA
Haxtes’ smile evaporates. “He was never sufficiently socialized with
other dogs or people when he was little. And of course then the war came,
and that screwed up his head even more. Jax can take the blame for the lack
of socialization, and the war trauma I’ll claim was out of my hands.”
“So basically your canine slinked away whenever you got near other
people?” you ask rhetorically. “Not much use as a guardian then.”
“Guardian? What makes you think he was a guard canine? He was of a
rather large breed, but he wouldn’t attack a human unless he was cornered,
hurt, and desperate.”
Sounds completely useless to you. A waste of space, time and food.
You’re more than happy to just let this part of the conversation die.
“He had followed me to the compound, waited for me to return, and then
followed me and Jons at a distance. I knew he was out there; he always was.
Jons had spotted him long ago of course. He wouldn’t be much of a scoutsniper if not. Jons didn’t say anything though. I don’t think he initially
realized that Nix was following me. Took him for a stray dawg hoping for
scraps I suppose.”
“Could we skip a bit forward? To when you found your mother?” It’s not
a very polite thing to ask, but you figure that if you don’t try to bypass the
worst of the Vern-like digressions you’ll never get reach the treasure trove.
“Certainly,” he says and takes a large swallow from his glass.
“We’d joined with the other IGs and had worked our way around the
Forbidden Zone and were heading east into the area where most of the
remaining civilian population was housed – the Indig Zone the Guardsmen
called it. The Imperium is big on divvying up stuff into zones.”
He reaches forward to refill his nearly empty glass. “This stuff really does
warm the soul. Too bad I didn’t discover it before.” He waves the decanter
in your direction. “More?”
195
“No, thank you. Just proceed with the tale,” you reply.
“We were passing through a particularly devastated area, several blocks
in each direction completely smashed. Only a few skeletal building frames
were left standing. Enormous piles of rubble. Thousands of tons of burnedout Imperial armoured vehicles, including a mammoth Baneblade superheavy tank. Three hundred Imperial tonnes of mechanized death, turned
into a twisted metal coffin, a tombstone for the brave crewmen. A
seemingly endless number of shot-up Protasian defensive positions framed
this snapshot of urban warfare in the 41st Millennium.”
Vivid mental images accompany his speech, providing you with more
detail than you could possibly desire. “But no shell casings?” you ask,
having seen very few.
“Shell casings? Why would there be shell casings? The Imperial Guard
uses lasweapons for the most part. No casings there. The Protasian PDF had
lots of fancy hi-tech weapons, but the grunts on the ground came equipped
with autoguns galore. Those fire caseless ammo you know.
”Of course they do,” you reply, “I was presuming stubbers. I forgot just
how advanced Protasia is.”
Haxtes gives you a blank look. “And?”
“Speaking of which, why weren’t you using lasweapons, same as the
Imperial Guard?”
“Stubbers, autoguns, or lasguns. Doesn’t really matter much. The lasgun
is the better weapon, but autoguns and stubbers are good enough to get the
job done. Despite Jons’ confidence in lasweapons, in a firefight between
grunts on the ground, the difference is minimal.”
“I follow you, but if lasweapons are the best guns, even if the margin is
slim, why not use them?” you ask.
196
DARK OMEGA
“On an overreaching strategic level it’s a question of efficiency,” Haxtes
replies. “Ammunition consumption compared to hit ratio being the most
important variable.”
He lifts a finger to forestall any questions. “For local planetary
governments the equation is complicated by cost. Lasguns are slightly more
complex, slightly more expensive to make – and maintain. The Imperium
has the Mechanicus tithe them vast amounts of these weapons, so cost is
not an issue for the Imperial Guard. All that matters to them is they need to
keep weight down and resupply needs as low as possible, since they almost
always will be deploying across interstellar distances and dropping from
orbit to get to their warzones.”
“And the Protasian PDF had neither the Mechanicus nor the limitations,
so they went for autoguns,” you venture. “For Protasia those weapons
represented the best mix of cost and efficiency.”
“Touché,” Haxtes replies. “Had Protasia been less advanced, stubbers
would have been the answer. A step down from autogun, but still more
than capable of killing. Even opponents with fancy energy weapons. But we
are digressing and need to get back on topic.”
You give him an encouraging nod.
“Nix suddenly appeared on our flank and raced ahead. I was still in the
lead so I gave chase. Jons was still hanging back, trying to spot trouble
before it could find us. I heard him try to call me back, but I ignored him.”
You set you glass down on the table. It’s not empty, but you’ve had more
than your fill.
“I came around a corner – it was quite literally just a corner, a big
rockrete spire the reached five stories into the air – the rest of the building
was a collapsed ruin, scorched by plasmatic fires. And there he was, sitting
197
beautifully in front of one of the few remaining light poles in sight. He’d
found my mother.”
Dramatic pause.
“Or to be completely correct: Nix found what was left of my mother.”
Haxtes takes another swig of his refilled Ghostfire drink.
“You mean she was dead?” you ask curtly.
Your body is weary and your physical exhaustion and discomfort is
bleeding through into your other mental divisions; you’re getting impatient
and just a bit irritable.
“Indeed she was. As dead as only the dead can be. As dead as if Bloodyhanded Khaine himself had run her through. Dead, dead, and deader than
dead.”
“How?” it seems only right to ask.
“Oh, the ‘loyalists’ had gotten to her. Maybe it was chance, maybe they
went looking specifically for her, I don’t know. Could even be that my dear
brother Jax had tipped them off to gain some cred.”
You can see why they would do her in. Fraternizing with the enemy is
always a hazardous occupation for women. But pinning the blame on Jax
seems a bit excessive.
“Whatever the prelude: They caught her and decided to make a lesson of
her. Decided to show the rest of the city what happened to whores selling
their sweet succour to the enemy.”
You can see where this is going. Men are very predictable when it comes
to ‘punishing’ women, especially for ‘crimes of infidelity’.
“They had tortured and abused her to the best of their meagre abilities,”
Haxtes says. “They entirely lacked the sophisticated techniques we two
could have employed,” he adds drily.
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DARK OMEGA
Images of the scene bleed through your buffers. For a few fleeting
moments you are there, seeing what they did to his mother through the
eyes of one of the insurgents.
It’s not pretty. It goes to show what people are capable of doing to other
people when they think they can get away with it. On the other hand it’s not
so bad on the galactic scale of evil. When you work as a field agent for the
Ordo Hereticus you get to see a lot of truly sick shit. This isn’t vile cultist
madness or daemonic cruelty, just plain old human wickedness. It pales in
comparison to some of the memories you keep locked away in hidden
corners of your mind.
“Kept it going until she was all bloody and broken, but still alive. Then
they strung her up on one of those big roadside illuminators to die,” Haxtes
adds.
There is a certain discipline to the insurgents. They didn’t just have their
way with the poor woman, they tortured her too. But they did not go
berserk and tear her apart. An elderly man in a priestly cassock seemed to
be their guiding star, directing their ‘efforts’ while keeping them firmly
under his control. An emerging leader mayhap?
“Before they left they took the time to write ‘whore’ and ‘for Protasia’
and other crap on the ground and on the closest building. All in her blood of
course. Very creative. I’m pretty sure Khorne was quite proud of them.”
You are somewhat wrong-footed by his casual use of one of the more
potent names for the Blood God. Using Khaine’s name is bad enough, but to
openly name Khorne is to invite disaster. This is known.
You find it best to interrupt. “I…experienced the scene…but how is that
possible? How could you know this? You were not present. You said so
yourself; you found her hanging there, deader than dead. Are these
‘memories’ stuff conjured from your fears and nightmares?”
199
“Oh, I was there,” Haxtes replies, “and I saw it all, felt it all. Much more
intimately than you just did. It was the first time my latent psychic abilities
fully manifested themselves. There may have been a few minor flukes
before, but this was the first time something very real happened. In the
span of a heartbeat I saw my mother’s murder play out before me. Saw her
despair and heard her cries of agony and fear. Saw the stuff she had
acquired for my cake rolling about in the dirt.”
He gives you an appraising look. “I’m a telepath like you Marcus, but I’m
sure you’ve already guessed that. Where we differ is that my portfolio of
talents also includes some psychometric powers.”
Of course. Psychometry. That would explain it. Strong emotions can
linger in an area…or cling to a person or object. Those with psychometric
talents can pick up on those emotions days or even weeks after the actual
events. You’ve no talent for it, but you know of one Inquisitor who does –
you’ve heard it said that without this particular boon from the GodEmperor, he would never have reached his lofty position.
“It’s more than emotions Marcus. Everything sticks; images, sounds,
thoughts. Everything. It’s just that emotions stick more. A ruined house can
be recalled as it were when it was whole, but more so if many people lived
there over the years and had strong feelings associated with the place. You
see the house as they saw it, experience life there through their emotions.”
The tome is reading your thoughts again. It’s not just adapting to you
emotional filters, it actively adjusting to try to pick up stuff you’re trying to
hide. Just your surface process, but still…there will be less sleep tonight
than planned. Seems you need to work some more on your mental
architecture.
“A useful ability to be sure,” you offer.
200
DARK OMEGA
“Sometimes,” Haxtes replies. Unfortunately it often proves to be
somewhat fickle. People’s emotions are not exactly accurate. It’s not
entirely unlike trying to read a person’s future using the Tarot. If you know
what you’re doing you’re going to get something. But you’re hardly
guaranteed to get anything useful.”
“I see,” you say. “Actually I’m no great fan of the Emperor’s Tarot. I
learned some basic spreads back in the Scholastia Psykana, but I never had
any great flair for it. I leave that stuff for the Astropaths.”
Not exactly true, but again, no need for the tome to know everything.
Haxtes continues. “I never had much control over my psychometry. I get
glimpses from time to time – rarely as clear as that first time – but I never
developed any deeper skill. That’s how it worked for me anyway.”
“But,” he raises his voice, “I think we should get going again. You’ll never
get where you want to be at this rate. Actually you’ll never get there at all if
you’re just going to skim the contents of this tome.”
“Yes,” you reply, “I think it’s time we had that talk.”
“Go on,” Haxtes says, his face a blank slate.
“I’m an agent of the Inquisition. A psyker, trained by the Adeptus Astra
Telepathica. I don’t allow people access to my mind. I’ve gone much further
than I’m comfortable with already, just to be able to interact with you.”
Haxtes scratches his beard a little. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your
sentiment Marcus. I really do. But I think you misunderstand the situation
quite fundamentally. There are secrets hidden in this tome. Some of them
quite dark grey – if not outright black. The tome bears the Dark Omega
proudly – and for good reason. Inquisitor Melbinious would never be so
sloppy as to leave such secrets accessible to all. Quite the opposite; this
tome is rigorously guarded.”
“I follow you,” you say.
201
“Clever lad. Then you understand that part of the security measure
involves a pretty thorough scan of whoever tries to access it. We play
around a little and I try to hack into your brain. Learn your dark secrets.
Until I’m sure you are what you claim to be, I can mess around with you
literally forever. Or shut you out for good.”
“I was afraid of that,” you say, your mind racing. Getting shut out is not
an option, but neither is having your mind picked. There must be a middle
way.
“But then again giving in to my demands too quickly and easily would be
grounds for suspicion in and of itself,” Haxtes adds, a smile creeping into
the corners of his eyes.
Inquisition paranoia at its best.
“That’s why I proposed earlier that you should just listen to my story and
get to know the place a little better. I thought you got the message, but
obviously you didn’t. So let me rephrase: You have to give me something
before I give you something. Quid pro quo as they say in High Gothic.”
You’re not convinced, but say nothing.
“Not saying you should give it all up like a drunk slut on Ascension Day,”
he adds, “but you do need to go down once in a while to keep me happy.
Savvy?”
Again the Rogue Trader mien. Is he trying to tell you something? Did he
serve aboard a merchantman? Or is he pulling your leg again. Damn him!
“I think I do. So that’s what the tale of Haxtes Guilliman is? An extended
mind probe?” you say, betraying none of your inner dialogue.
“Yes. There is a bit more to it than that, but yes.” Haxtes tilts his head.
“So, do we have an accord?” he asks.
202
DARK OMEGA
You pick up your glass from the table and raise it, holding it up before
your face. Gold bands are swirling, dissipating and reforming in the green
depths of the liquid.
“We do. But I’m like a shy virgin. I’m going to take it slow and fool around
a bit before there is any real action.
“Suit yourself,” Haxtes says, “but like all virgins I bet you’ll come around
eventually. Might even learn to like it.” A wickedly playful grin creeps onto
his face.
You ignore his jibe and instead allow yourself to sink deeper into the
simulation. You’ll play this his way for a while, see what happens.
203
CHAPTER 22
THE HAND OF GOD
“You all right boy?” Jons asked. He’d pulled me to the side, into cover
behind a burned-out Chimera APC. There was a fist-sized hole where a
Protasian melta gun had punched through the armour and overloaded the
Chimera’s energy stacks. I doubted any of the occupants had made it out. If
they had, it would have been as living torches.
I shook my head. I was definitely not all right. Mother was dead. This was
supposed to be my day; now it had all gone to shit. Jax was to blame.
Always Jax and his shenanigans. And the Commissar for making her stay
the night. And Jons for not bothering to see her home. But especially Jax. He
should have stayed at home. Should have escorted Mother. If he had stood
by his family I’d be eating cake now, not prowling the dusty streets in the
company of enemies.
“You shouldn’t have had to see that. I’m sorry. I had no idea.” He handed
me a canteen.
I took my time unscrewing the cork. I needed time to think. Mother must
be avenged, that much was clear. And I would have satisfaction for my
ruined day. Those responsible would be made to pay.
I quickly realized I needed help to accomplish this. Jax I could probably
deal with if I got the jump on him; I could shoot him in the back or stab him
in his sleep or something. But I really needed the Guardsmen to strike at
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DARK OMEGA
the insurgents who committed the actual deed. I didn’t have any illusions
about getting to the real perpetrators, so I decided to settle for anyone
associated with them. And afterwards…well, I would just have to see what
happened along the way, but going with Jons to the new place was still an
option.
Mazzo had his auspex out, scanning for nearby dangers. Rovo was
providing cover, sweeping his lascannon around in slow circles. Sarge was
out in the open; with surprising speed and agility he’d climbed up to my
mother and was inspecting her.
Sarge shouted down from the light pole. “Mazzo, we got a live one here.
Hand me the auspex, I’ll do a close-up chem sniff.”
“No nearby indigs,” Mazzo concluded his sweep before reaching up to
hand Sarge the auspex.
“Thanks Mazzo,” Sarge said and did something to the control panel. It
was no mean feat hand climbing a light pole like that in full kit while
juggling an auspex.
After a minute or so he slid back down to the ground. “We got a live
bomb. Some homebrewed explosives and the usual mixed shrapnel.
Nothing I can’t disarm.” He threw the auspex over to Mazzo, unfastened his
combat vest and let it slide gently to the ground. The assault shotgun
followed suit.
“I’ll go make a perimeter sweep,” Mazzo said. “So when you blow
yourself up, I won’t be around to get hit by the shrapnel.”
Sarge. “Funny man. Now go make yourself useful.”
Sarge ascended the pole again. It took a while, but eventually he
managed to disarm the bomb. He cut my mother down. Jons stepped over
to help catch her. Between them they laid her body gently on the ground.
Sarge got a thermal blanket from his pack, using it to cover up her
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nudeness and her injuries. Only her pale, waxen face and her dark, dirty
hair were showing.
“It’s best if you go look at her,” Jons said. Most of the water was still in
the canteen – or on the ground. “Say your goodbyes. Then we’ll bury her as
best we can. She deserves that.” Pause. “And it’s all we have to give.” He
bowed his head.
--The scene has touched the heart of the Guardsman who in life knew
Haxtes’ mother only as a whore. But you wonder; would Jons have done
differently by her if it was his planet that rebelled, and ‘his’ women that
gave themselves to the enemy? You’re pretty sure you know the answer to
that question.
--“You all right boy?” Jons asked again.
“I’m all right,” I told him, eyes dry, voice calm and steady.
He looked at me for a long time. I met his gaze without flinching. He
finally nodded in agreement.
“Good,” he said, “then you can help me avenge her. You can help me find
the bastards who did this – and then we’re going to kill them.”
Sarge finished wrapping Mother, and then instructed Mazzo to go find a
spot to bury her.
“I can’t do to them what they did to her. But what I can do, I can do to all
of them. One life for all of theirs,” Jons added.
I just looked down, into the dusty street. So simple. And here I had feared
it would take all sorts of theatricals to get him to help me. Jons must have
had a really soft spot for Mother. Well, I would be giving him the daughter
as a replacement, so for him the deal just kept getting better and better.
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Sarge, uncharacteristically sombre. “Make that ‘we’ son. Jons is going
nowhere on his own. We do this as a team, or not at all. End of discussion.”
Jons looked about to protest, but in the end he kept his mouth shut. It
was almost too sweet; I got one man on the hook, and the other three were
swallowing it line and sink. To young me it was proof positive that
friendship and loyalty would only get you in trouble.
--You throttle the emotional flow, rising slowly from deep immersion via
the intermediate level to the circle of light setting. You’ve had about enough
of Haxtes and his skewed emotions for one day. You have to wrap this up,
interview style, and go get some food and some rest.
--“I was deeply concerned. Father was long gone. He was probably
residing in the domains of the dead. Now Mother had joined him. Jax had
already abandoned us, throwing his lot in with the insurgents rather than
sticking with his family. For all practical purposes I was now alone, save a
canine that wasn’t really mine and a slightly insipid teenage sister. That
didn’t bode well for the future. Without income we would starve. Without
protection we’d be vulnerable.”
Your impatience is gaining in strength. He’s already made that clear his
antipathy towards his brother; it’s understandable, if grossly exaggerated.
Now he’s blaming the rest of the world for his own woes. You want to
scream at him, but manage to keep yourself under control.
“Up until this point I had been rather proud of Father’s involvement in
the war effort, and of my own Protasian heritage. Then and there any
illusions I might have had regarding my own people were banished. They
could no more be trusted than the Imperials. Abandoned and betrayed; I
realized I could not count on anyone but myself.”
207
You don’t have to be a telepath to understand that young Haxtes has
some deep-seated emotional issues, probably brought about by a
combination of metal trauma and his latent psychic abilities.
“They buried her in a shallow grave and covered it with rubble. The IGs
were strong men, so some of the rockrete pieces were large enough to
deter any scavengers, be they human or beast.”
A grave for the kid’s mother dug by men who had no doubt killed quite a
few civilian Protasians, leaving them to rot where they fell. There is a
certain irony here.
“My mother had not been done in on-site. They had probably caught her
somewhere in the general area, taken her to a safe location, done their stuff
and then returned to string her up. It was a good spot really. Other whores
and Imperial sympathizers were likely to pass the site – and draw their
conclusions.”
Typical terror tactics. In your experience they are of limited usefulness,
but they remain in common use.
“The auspex couldn’t help us with this. My own fleeting psychic
memories were too vague to tell me where their safehouse was located. I
did, however, have a few vague faces in my mind, most notably of a man in
a priestly cassock. I didn’t really know any of them, but I imagined I’d seen
my brother with some of them. That suggested they belonged to the Kiones
group, but I wasn’t entirely sure. At any rate I was certain I would readily
recognize them if I saw them again in the flesh.”
To you it had looked a lot like an emergency shelter, too small and too
finely furnished to be a public shelter. Your guess is a private underground
bunker, of the type favoured by a certain breed of the filthy rich. The
priestly character you have already concluded is the leader of this
particular band of rebels.
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“It was Jons who suggested we try to use Nix for tracking. I had never
trained him for anything like that – he could find bits of food readily
enough, but to follow a trail of blood? I wasn’t so sure,” Haxtes says,
sounding doubtful.
“The Adeptus Arbites use cyber-mastiffs for tracking down perpetrators
that try to run,” you supply. “I’ve made use of them on occasion to track
runaway heretics. Their olfactory abilities are nothing short of amazing.
But the canine handlers have direct mental interfaces with their animals. I
can’t see how you can do it without.” On a whim you add. “Your canine
didn’t come with an integrated mind impulse unit did he?”
Haxtes harrumphs. “No, he didn’t. You don’t need a MIU. You just need to
know how canines work.”
You give him a doubtful look, to show you’re not entirely convinced.
“Jons turned out to be an experienced dawg-man. In no time he had Nix
eating out of his hand. It didn’t take much longer for him to convince Nix
that following the scent from the blanket that had covered mother’s bloodstained body would earn him endless praise and a steady supply of treats.”
“Is this Jons person even real?” you blurt out. “Or is he made-up? It seems
awfully convenient to have this canine-loving super-sniper develop a soft
spot for little Haxtes.” It comes out a bit more aggressive than you intended.
“Aren’t you a paranoid sort! Yes, he’s real. I didn’t learn it until later, but
he had been a vermin-hunter on Lo. Which accounted for his stealth, his
shooting skills, and his way with Nix. The feral dire-rats of Lo are not to be
trifled with; being a rat-catcher on that world is an important, but highly
dangerous job. To help them the hunters employ packs of these fast, yet
powerful canines. You may have heard of them; the Greyhounds of Lo?”
You shake your head.
“Pity. If ever I get a dawg it will be a Loi Greyhound.”
209
Fat chance of that Mr. Dead Psychic Shadow, you think, a certain amount
of glee seeping into your mind.
Haxtes returns to topic. “Since Jons was sure we’d be heading into enemy
territory, he had Mazzo fit me with an auspex tracker. It looked like a coin,
except with some circuitry showing on one side and an adhesive pad on the
other side. Mazzo had me stick it down my pants and fasten it next to my
scrotum. Said no-one would look there, not on a boy.”
The Inquisition definitely would. The Inquisition looks everywhere. But
maybe not the local militia.
“For good measure he rolled out two of the IG issue CAS drones –
Compact Autonomous Surveillance drones – he’d acquired earlier. CAS is
just a fancy expression for a one-shot recon servoskull,” Haxtes explains in
case you’re not familiar with military jargon.
“He just pulled them out of the protective tubes I had previously
mistaken for oversized grenade containers. They folded out their
turborotors and floated up in the air on miniaturized grav-coils, waiting for
his commands. Jons put the rolled-up flexi-screen controls into his webbing
and had Mazzo tie the drones into the auspex. Between the position data in
the auspex, my tracker, and the drones, the IGs would have a good view of
the situation on the ground.”
You’re still not entirely sure the Guardsmen are based upon real people.
“Mazzo seems have been very familiar with techno-lore. What was he
before the draft? A tech-priest?” you say with a certain level of sarcasm in
your voice.
Haxtes ignores you. “The four soldiers followed at a distance, out of sight,
but not out of auspex tracking range.
In your opinion the story – not just the characters in it – has some
serious weaknesses. “Four Guardsmen walking alone, on foot, into enemy
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territory. Excuse me, but that does seem like a very bad idea. What’s to
prevent the insurgents from ambushing them?”
“Ah, you’ve not been to many war-zones, have you? The fighting is over,
remember? The Guard won. And the Guard is nothing if not thorough. All
resistance has been crushed, and the survivors herded into the Indig
Zones.” He looks at you, hoping to see a glimmer of comprehension.
Contrary to what Haxtes thinks you’ve seen war. But he’s right in that
you’re not an expert. You always had other tasks to attend to – the
warzones, active or dead, were just another setting for you to investigate
for traces of heresy.
Haxtes sighs and tries to explain again. “Yes, there are insurgents about,
but they have to be careful. If they take shots at the Guardsmen they know
the Imperials will hit back – hard. So they need to stay hidden, strike
quickly and then fade away.”
“And they could not do this in one of the Indig Zones?” you say, sounding
incredulous.
“They could – if they wanted to pay the price. They could hit and fade,
but then the Guards would take it out on the civilians. And the insurgents
live off the civilians in the Zone; without them there is no recruitment, no
supplies, not even a reason for existing.”
Realization dawns. “So as long as the Guardsmen are reasonably wellbehaved they are actually untouchable within the Indig Zones, but fair
game everywhere else?”
“I wouldn’t say untouchable; there is always some element of danger, but
essentially yes. And,” theatrical pause on Haxtes’ part, “it wasn’t as if the IGs
and the locals didn’t mix. Beyond the patrols and shakedowns I mean.
There was quite the barter economy going on there.”
211
Realization dawns. “Like with your mother. She sold herself for basic
supplies. And she wasn’t alone.”
Haxtes nods. “Far from it. And although carnal pleasures were selling
very well, other things were in demand as well. These Guardsmen knew
they were going to be settlers soon; they wanted to rob the civilians of as
much of their good stuff as possible, before moving on to their designated
areas. Food changed hands for gold. Family heirlooms for some medicines.”
“Yet things had changed,” you conclude. “The insurgents had grown a lot
bolder. This Kiones group…they have a charismatic leader. They were
trying to force the survivors to take a stand. You mother’s fate is proof of
that.”
Haxtes makes a little bobbing motion with his hand. “Yes. And no. Yes,
the Kiones were changing the scene. But no, I seem to recall it wasn’t a total
crackdown. It was mostly the women that got picked on. I think they let the
cold trade be because even the insurgents depended on it. They just went
for the women because they were weak and unable to fight back.”
You give a bark. “Ha, now you make your fellow Protasians sound like
true villains,” you exclaim. “Whereas before they were noble and heroic. I
can see your urge to get back at Jax pushed you into bed with the enemy.”
“Yes, I wanted to get back at Jax,” Haxtes admits. “I blamed him for
everything. In hindsight that was a bit excessive, but then and there I was
thoroughly convinced he was to blame. But with the benefit of said
hindsight, some of the blame must still fall on him. He should have been
there for us, but instead he’d sided with the very people who would
eventually kill our common mother. He was not directly involved, but he
was either guilty by association or by neglect – or both.”
“I’ll accept your judgment, though it seems harsh,” you say. “But wouldn’t
Jons and the others be in real peril now that the insurgents were setting an
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example? Basic group psychology would indicate that the effect of the
terror campaign be greatly reduced if the enemy is allowed to interfere
with it.”
Haxtes seems pleased you’ve drawn this conclusion. “Indeed. Actually
Jons was counting on it. But he had to be sure we had sufficiently provoked
the Kiones. Maybe taking my mother down and burying her wasn’t enough
to get their blood up. So he was sending me – the dead woman’s youngest
child – in to be sure we had stirred up the hornet’s nest sufficiently for
them to come buzzing after us.”
You nod in recognition. “Make them come for you. At the very least they
will expose themselves. The God-Emperor willing you can even make them
fight on your terms.”
Haxtes taps his fingers against the side of the desk. “It was early
afternoon and the weather was fair, so there were a number of people
about. Fewer than normal though. I could sense that they knew what had
happened. How could they not? The militia had paraded her down these
streets. Poor boy they thought, walking down the street with a gun in hand.
Bet he’s going to do something stupid. They’ll teach the whoreson a lesson
in humility!”
“You had your gun out?” you ask.
Haxtes. “Indeed I did. I was planning on shooting somebody. So where
else would I have it but my hand?”
“I see,” you say. Not your most eloquent comment to date.
“The autumn sun was still high in the sky. I knew the hills would be green
and verdant, cooled by a gentle breeze. But not in the city. The ruined
streets shimmered with heat.”
The blistering, dusty streets of Thira are bright and clear in your mind, so
much so you can feel the dust in your nostrils and taste it on your tongue.
213
“Above me the drones drifted along on anti-grav coils and silent
turbofans. I continued down the road, following on Nix’ heels. As I walked I
contemplated what I must do, and as I did so the dirty nails on my left hand
subconsciously tore bloody gouges into my right arm. Bright beads of blood
welled up and slowly ticked down exposed flesh. Most of it dried on the
way down, covering my arm and the pistol in red lacquer. A few droplets
hit the ground, marking my progress, like in the tale when the Primarch of
the White Scars, Jaghatai Khan, leaves a trail of blood for his men to follow.”
The grin that follows chills your heart. “It would not be the last time my
arm ran red.”
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CHAPTER 23
LIBRARIAN
You’re completely done in. Another four hours have passed since you
started your reading session. It seems the deeper you go, the more
immersed you become, the more quickly time passes in the outside world.
Looking at the open book you see that you’re on page eleven. A small grin
reaches your lips. It’s not really the flipping of pages that shows your
progress, but it’s still a graphic reminder that you’ve yet some distance to
cover before you hit the finish line.
Another four hours. Nearly ten hours since your light lunch. Two small,
nondescript sandwiches with some unidentifiable fried vegetables on the
side, washed down with a canister of lukewarm fruit-emulsion juice. All of
it as bland as only force-grown and industrially mass-processed food can
be. Your grin broadens: You’ve been through much worse. Ten hours
without food is nothing. Hunger was a constant companion in your youth,
and you’ve been through quite a few scrapes in the service.
Speaking of bodily needs, your bladder is now close to bursting. You
don’t want to get banned from the librarium for pissing on the floor, so you
signal for the lectern-servitor to close the book and return it into storage.
You will return on the morrow, rested and better prepared for a long day
of reading.
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It takes the better part of an hour to reach the base – that being the
upmost level – of the inverted pyramid. Getting out is only marginally faster
than getting in. Going in security was preventing unauthorized access.
Going out they are concerned with the theft of librarium secrets;
unauthorized copying, savant-mnemonics, that sort of thing. Fortunately
you’ve nothing to hide – in that department at least – and the librarium
staff speeds you on your way, with nothing but polite smiles and nods.
Well past the finally security point you hurry into a restroom to relieve
yourself. Upon your return, five minutes later, you find the reception hall to
be completely devoid of life. When you arrived here, around noon, there
were thirteen applicants waiting for access to the librarium, seven staff of
various flavours, and three gold-cloaked guards. There was considerably
less activity here when you hurried through on the way to your long
overdue piss, but you spotted a couple of staff. Now it’s as silent as the void
between the stars.
Is it really that late? A quick chrono check tells you it is not. A tingle of
paranoia starts to creep up your spine. Coincidence? Or something more
sinister? In your line of work it always pays off to be extra careful.
You finally spot one of the librarium guards coming out of an access way
marked with ‘Librarium staff only’. In their conical helmets and heavy gold
flak-coats they look a little like miniature Custodians. They even have these
halberd-like power weapons that can double as bolters in a scrap. You’re
not so sure how they would measure up to the real Adeptus Custodes in
terms of combat prowess. No matter. You’re not here to fight.
You signal for the guard’s attention. He halts and turns to face you as you
approach. He keeps his body oblique with regards to your approach vector,
his power-halberd held at the ready. Not too shabby actually; you decide to
upgrade his threat rating from Minima to Minioris.
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“How can the security staff be of assistance, Sir?” the guard inquires.
“It seems unusually quiet here,” you put some anxiousness into your
voice, “I hope I haven’t inadvertently broken some custom or rule, by
staying here too late?”
The guard looks at you through topaz-coloured lenses. “The librarium
staff would know such things better than us guards. But no, I do not think
so.” He steps a little closer to you, taking care not to accidentally touch you
with the powered end of his halberd “We’ve had reports of a civil
disturbance in the Pendulum Gardens district,” he says in low tones. “Hive
Control says that Arbites from Platform-City Alpha are out in force.” You
nod him on. “I don’t know what they are after, but it has disputed the flow
of traffic. Control bitched at length about how long it would take to sort
everything out.”
“So you’re saying that this…traffic disturbance has either delayed people
or made them think twice about coming in today,” you ask.
He nods.
A librarium adept, this one a rather attractive female specimen, steps out
the same passageway. You quickly tag her as a late bloomer, currently
enjoying her newfound attractiveness. She looks a little anxious and
flustered. You will yourself to see her emotional bleed. The result is rather
striking: The woman very recently participated in a romantic encounter of
the third kind. There is the afterglow of desire and passion, mingling with
quite a bit of guilt, and a dash of deception. Late or no, she’s definitely a
bloomer.
She notices you starting at her and neatly changes her course in midstep,
making it out to look like she wasn’t trying to scurry away.
You chance a sideways glance at the guard. His aura is almost completely
supressed. His helmet isn’t just there for physical protection, it contains a
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potent psi-inhibitor as well. Very prudent, but also very ostentatious: There
are only two or three Mechanicus-dependant tech-guilds in the Bapas sub
that can make such things. None of them come cheaply.
You make a mental note not to get into a fight with the gold-cloaks. You’d
be at a significant disadvantage. A handful of them might pose a real threat,
if they get close enough to swarm you.
“May I be of assistance?” the woman with the tousled nutmeg hair asks.
The guard’s attention shifts away from you, taking in all the female glory
of the librarian. You were almost certain before, now you are positively
sure. He’s the man responsible for the librarian’s emotional fervour and
bad hair day.
“Librarian Amaya. I was just explaining to the Goodman here why the
reception area is so quiet. Checked with Hive Central; there has been a
disturbance in the traffic-flow.”
“How good of you Cerberus Makal,” the woman replies, the tone of her
voice a tad too husky for a professional of her station. “I will take it from
here.”
The guard does a smart salute with his halberd, a snappish about-face,
and marches away.
“If you wish I could request aerial transport from the librarium’s hopper
pool; that should get you past any traffical difficulties,” Amaya offers.
You put on a solemn face. “There is no need. I can make my way back to
my accommodations on foot. It is not far; I secured lodgings close to the
librarium for precisely such occasions. Even with the disturbance it should
not take long.”
When she looks like she might object you reach out with your mind to
give her a little mental nudge. She’s a strong-willed woman, but her recent
escapade has left her mind in emotional disarray. It is no challenge for one
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DARK OMEGA
such as you to slip in, uninvited and unnoticed. Her words of protests boil
away, leaving only a warm smile and a polite curtsey.
You stay connected with her for a few extra seconds, quickly browsing
through her thought-patterns, surface memory reservoirs, and behavioural
routines. You come away feeling rather attracted to her. She is goodlooking physically, but her personality really is quite stunning. Too bad
you’re on a mission; otherwise you might have a mind to get to know both
parts of her a little better.
As an afterthought you leave a seed of attraction within her emotional
centre. Grafting it to a woman in her agitated state is easy. Passion and
excitement is already there for the taking, and her attraction to the guard is
easily subverted into your service. The end result is rather pleasing for
such a rushed job. Extremely hard to spot for another psyker, yet promising
to give you a deep and subtle channel of influence.
Tonight she will dream of a handsome stranger. Give it a few days and
she’ll be daydreaming about you. Having an ally inside the librarium might
be worth something later. And she does have chambers in a nearby habblock, which may come in handy if you must relocate.
You leave her there on the reception floor feeling slightly bemused, not
realizing in the slightest what you’ve just done to her mind.
You pass through the final access corridor, a great colonnaded piece
overflowing with architectural and aesthetic beauty, and the final set of
security doors glide shut behind you with only a soft thud.
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CHAPTER 24
WATCHERS
You know you’re being watched before you even step out onto the Plaza
of Loremasters. You might not be the galaxy’s most talented tarot reader,
but you’re rather sharp when it comes to more immediate precognition
techniques.
You halt just inside the gilded adamantium portal arch, staying out of
sight. But not out of mind; you reach out with your other senses, senses
‘normal’ people lack, overlaying your clairvoyance probe with a psychic
map of the most likely immediate futures.
The vastness of the Plaza, with its many monumental structures, majestic
statues, and bustling activity fades from your view, to be replaced by
something infinitely more complex and sublime: A view not only of the
locale and the people populating it in the now, but of how the place will
look a few minutes into the future. Not just the one possible future, but all
of them, most of them permutations of a few main branches that largely
depended on your own actions.
The first team of watchers is revealed in an instant. Two men and a
woman. All three are wearing psi-warding circlets. Not as potent as the
Cerberus’ helmet, but sufficient to keep you from probing their minds. So
they know you’re a telepath. For all the good that it will do them. It won’t
prevent you from reading their futures, nor will it bar your farsight, which
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DARK OMEGA
is all you need really. Getting into their heads would be a nice bonus, but
you can do fine without.
The team is watching you from the third floor of the nearby Temple of
the Learned Emperor. They’ve taken up a concealed position on an exterior
walkway used mostly by maintenance servitors. Clearly the spotter team.
Selecting a future to your liking, you count to thirteen before stepping
out just as a matte-black macro-hauler with Adeptus Arbites markings
slowly rumbles past. It is no doubt en route to the disturbance area to pick
up a few hundred arrested rioters. You duck in between its mammoth
wheels and break into a jog, staying low and well clear of the grasping
rubber. The spotters never see you.
The second team is more elusive. Two men, posing as traffic-direction
servitors. Now that’s a new one. You’re rarely surprised, but dressing up as
servitors isn’t something you see very often. Normal people wouldn’t even
consider such a course of action. The citizen-dregs have too many taboos
associated with mankind’s cyborg-servants. The first of the tailing teams,
also serving as backup spotters. Pretty much standard procedure for any
surveillance job.
You reach out with your telepathic powers, shifting through nearby
minds, looking for an advantage. You find one, in the servitor overseer in
charge of the plaza’s maintenance. His job is a simple one; escort his
charges to the plaza, then watch them as they spend all day keeping the
place tidy and in working order, then escort them back to maintenancestorage.
You plant an idea in his mind and underline its importance with a jolt of
panic. He suddenly becomes aware that he’s missing two servitors now that
shift’s end is approaching. You let his panic drain away as soon as he spots
his two wayward charges, that being the two traffic-control servitors with
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nothing to do. Any misgiving the man might have about claiming these two
strange servitors as his own are easily dismissed with a small mental
thrust.
You would have loved to stay to see the scene play out, but you must be
going. You’re on the God-Emperor’s time here, and the Master of Mankind
doesn’t gladly suffer laziness. You stay in between the wheels until the
hauler rumbles past a largish statue of a heroic-looking fellow. You put up
the hood of your cloak and step close, joining the small group of local
citizens paying their respects by lighting candles and making small
offerings of their own blood.
You peer into the future again. Many new branches have sprouted.
Several of them more to your liking, but there are still obstacles to
overcome.
The statue is probably one of the city’s patrons. Each of the floating cities
of Bokiba-Bapas has at least one local hero that they honour the way others
might honour Imperial saints. Not unlike the ancestor-worship of Haxtes’
Protasia. You wonder briefly if the Missionaria Galaxia is – or was – at work
here as well. Probably.
The third team you cannot see, neither with your normal senses, nor the
psychic ones. But they are there all right; there is always third team.
Looking past the immediate future, going a few minutes forward, you see
that the majority of likely scenarios have the watchers picking you up. Only
a third – psychically invisible – team can explain that.
That means they are screened. And an active psychic screen means
they’ve got a psyker with them. You haven’t felt him actively probing for
you. Which means he’s content with keeping his screen up until the
spotters report seeing you before trying anything offensive. Well, they
never will see you, so he’ll never get his heads up.
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You would have liked to try to find a way through the screen, a way to
probe the other psyker’s mind, but doing so would alert him to your
presence. You can’t afford to tip him off, not unless you want the rest of his
merry little band to descend upon you.
Instead you start instilling your group of fellow worshippers with an
urge to finish up and get moving. Not all together in a large group, that
would just look conspicuous, but in multiple smaller groups, leaving in
different directions, at slightly different times.
You blend in with one group of seven people heading away from the
statue, going towards the market edge of the plaza. A marketplace where
one can find anything from religious mementos and paraphernalia, to token
offerings and scented candles, to digi-styluses and reference dataslates.
You’ve timed the final leg of your escape well. Just as you start to move,
another figure leaves the Library of Knowing, drawing the attention of the
spotter teams. You slip in among the stalls and merchants of the bazar. A
quick peek into your immediate future confirms that the third team has not
spotted you. Not only have you evaded your stalkers; the opposing teams
didn’t even realize you’ve slipped past them.
No reason for elated celebration. You may have evaded them, but the
effect won’t last. Eventually they’ll learn you are not in the librarium and
come looking for you again. Since you have to go back to the librarium –
repeatedly – reacquiring you will be ridiculously easy. You can give them
the slip again, of that you are sure, but sooner or later they will get lucky
and catch you.
You’ll need to plan for that eventuality. Might even require a pre-emptive
strike to resolve the situation. But not today, and not tomorrow. Today is
for rest. Tomorrow is for the book. But after that you’ll have to waste
precious time figuring out who they are, what they want, and what their
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CHAPTER 24 WATCHERS
capabilities are. And if necessary you’ll have to remove them from your
future. From all your possible futures. Permanently, if need be.
--You consider stopping at a decent eating establishment on your way
back to the Administratum block-house. Instead you end up succumbing to
ravenous hunger; you grab some food, and a quad of Zhangee from a street
side food court. The greasy lumps of non-descript vat-meat are absolutely
delicious. On second thought even dry, mouldy bread would be delicious
right now. The perfectly chilled beer is even better. You finish one selfcooling decomposable bio-polymer bottle with the meat. Another one for
the road. You decide the last two bottles would taste even better with some
desert, so you purchase a couple of sweet-pies from a grossly overweight
vendor. Being that fat should be a heresy; wanton waste of the GodEmperor’s sustenance. You chuckle at your own internal joke.
The walk is longer than you remembered. Actually that isn’t true. You
remember exactly how long the walk is, down to the exact number of steps
and the length of each stride. But subjectively it feels longer when you’re
tired, impatient, and hungry.
Correction: Was hungry. Now you’re rather full. By the time the
Administratum blockhouse looms above your head you’ve finished another
beer and are licking pastry and sticky jam of your fingers.
You make a few adjustments to your attire, going from penitent
worshiper to non-descript scribe in a few steps. You go in by a side
entrance normally used only by Adepts from the Office of Standards and
Interoperability. The Magistratum trooper standing guard outside gives
you a quizzical look. Your last bottle of Zhangee is in your hand and the
man clearly isn’t used to such frivolous behaviour from his clientele.
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DARK OMEGA
You’re in no mood for this. A mental jab leaves the man stunned and
dumbfounded. He’ll remember little of the event afterwards, just that he
saw another Adept coming in and that he had a dizzy spell. He’ll avoid
reporting it, because he wants to avoid drawing attention to himself. Being
noticed is never good for a lowly servant of the Adeptus Terra.
A swipe of the nondescript ring worn on the index finger of your left
hand opens the locking mechanism for you. There will be no trace in the
access log of your entry. The best omni-passkeys the Adeptus Mechanicus
can make – one of the often overlooked perks of working for the Holy
Ordos.
You settle down on your narrow cot in the windowless cubicle you’ve
arranged for to be assigned to yourself. You take a couple of swigs of beer.
Drinking makes you think of the Haxtes persona. Four beers in no time. He
would have been proud of you. You sigh and put down the last bottle,
without finishing it.
You knew they would send someone after you eventually. Of course they
would. Your master has enemies. Inquisitors who either despise his
methods or hate his guts for other reasons. Moreover he has rivals. Rivals
that would love to get their hands on anything the master is looking for.
You just thought you had more time. There was no indication that
anyone was hot on your heels, but here they are. How did they acquire your
scent? Either they are better than you’ve given them credit for – or you’re
not as clever as you think. Well, either which way there will be a reckoning.
You let your body slip down on the cot, close your eyes and will yourself
to sleep.
225
INTERLUDE
THE MAIDEN AND
THE CAPTAIN
The Pro Patria-class sprint freighter Virginis Golgenna – the Maiden of
Golgenna in Low Gothic – rested at high anchor above the war-torn world
of Protasia. The venerable voidship’s Master and Commander, the
Honourable Rogue Trader Corben of the House of Orvar, sat alone in the
great observation spire that soared over the rest of the Maiden’s
superstructure. A retractable obelisk of adamantium, two hundred meters
tall, crowned by an impenetrable sphere of crystal whose origin the
Adeptus Mechanicus could not ascertain. The spire was not an original
feature of the Pro Patria class, but an addition made by the founder of
House Orvar, Lord Orvar of Merov, in preparation for his second great
expedition into the Koronus Expanse.
If there was a place on board where Corben felt at home, it was here. It
was the only place when he could find both solitude and escape the
oppressive claustrophobia the rest of the ship invoked in him. No one was
allowed up here while he was present, not even servitors. And with the
viewing ports open, he could pretend he was soaring through the void
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DARK OMEGA
alone, unburdened by the millions of tonnes of metal that make up the twokilometre leviathan beneath his feet.
The Rogue Trader touched some of the control studs worked into the
armrest of the control throne. The majestic murals of ancient Terra that
soared above him faded, to be replaced by a crystal-clear image of the cold
void outside. He played with another set of control worked into the other
armrest; mighty thruster banks began to fire sequentially, slowly turning
the Maiden of Golgenna so that her armoured prow pointed directly down
towards the planet his ship was orbiting. At a distance of more than forty
thousand kilometres the great bulk of the planet was reduced to a wide
blue-white orb. Protasia. Or maybe he should call it Akakios, like it said on
the old star chart he had retrieved from the astrographicum.
Captain Corben rose from his throne to stand beside a majestic desk of
worked hardwoods procured from a dozen different death worlds. He
looked down at the old chart again, smiling. He might not belong on a
voidship, but was quite knowledgeable about all aspects of astrography and
commerce. His father, the later Rogue Trader Simenon, had seen to it that
his education was second to none. Corben knew he could have done a great
job running the family business. If only the old man hadn’t insisted upon
him taking personal command of the Maiden. If only he could have
appointed a proxy to run the vessel in his stead. Many Rogue Trader
dynasties did this. He could have stayed on Quaddis and pulled the strings.
Avoided all this void and warp travel. But no, the late Captain Simenon had
made a provision in his will – his son Corben must command the Maiden, or
forfeit his inheritance.
Tick, tick, tick.
He heard it more clearly this time. It was the same sound he thought he’d
heard earlier. It was very faint, but it was undeniably there. It reminded
227
INTERLUDE THE MAIDEN AND THE CAPTAIN
him slightly of the sound Spectorian lobsters made when thrown into the
boiling pan; the scratching of chitin on metal, muted by the roiling water
and a sealed pressure lid. He tried listening more intently, but the noise
was gone. Strange. The observation sphere was kept in pristine shape,
blessedly free of any vermin or the general decay that threatened to
overtake the below-decks.
Corben shook his head and returned his attention to the beautiful, handdrawn chart. A specialised servitor pattern had made it, guided like an
oversized auto-quill by one of the most renowned chart-savants Archaos
had ever produced. Astrography. That was one field of lore he took
particular interest in. As a child his father had filled his head with stories of
distant worlds and exotic places. How he had longed to see those sights; to
wander upon alien worlds, with strange suns burning down from the skies
above.
When he grew old enough to travel, his father had taken him along on his
journeys across the Calixis sector and beyond. It didn’t take Corben long to
realize he really, really didn’t like to travel. What a disappointment it had
been. It was the actual journey that pained him; the cold trek through the
void, and worst of all, the nightmare journeys through the Immaterium. He
had tired, he really had, but there was nothing he could do. He simply
wasn’t cut out to be a voidfarer.
He’d tried explaining this to his father, but the old man wouldn’t listen.
He was hell-bent on making Corben a copy of himself. No amount of
reasoning, sulking, or screaming could change that. Mercifully, his father
had eventually given up and left Corben at home. Marooned him in the
family palace on Quaddis, attended by the scores of servants and hordes of
servitors that ran the place.
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DARK OMEGA
The great Captain Simenon probably though his son didn’t like to go
places, but that wasn’t strictly true. Corben still dreamed of the far-away
places he had wanted to visit all his life. He just hated the going there.
To compensate for his inability to travel Corben had begun collecting all
the lore he could find about the Calixis sector and all the regions that
bordered it: The Margin Storms, the Maw, the Koronus Expanse, the Fydae
Great Cloud (not his favourite piece of real estate), and all the other border
regions. He had even looked into the neighbouring sectors; Scarus, Ixaniad
– and eventually also Finial.
His father’s estate had been a good starting point. Generations of Rogue
Traders had amassed quite the throve of ancient star charts and planetary
ledgers. When that was no longer enough, he had asked his father to bring
home more. The old man had happily obliged. In fact, he spent a small
fortune on it. He probably hoped it would lead Corben to grow a pair of
balls and go out into the void again.
It didn’t. It had, however, given Corben an unusual degree of insight into
the worlds and system that made up the sector his dynasty – if a father and
his only son deserved such a lofty label – called home. The Protasian
system he knew of, without ever having come here. Actually few Rogue
Traders did, for the Protasians kept their own council and their Merchant
Marine was large and long-ranging, thanks to the privileged Charters they
carried.
Akakios, however, was unknown to him. And the unknown always
piqued his interest. It had taken him a while, but eventually he had pieced
things together. Akakios was the old name for Protasia, predating Unity.
The name that had fallen out of use shortly after the Angevin Crusade, after
Protasia willingly had joined the Imperium.
229
That wasn’t the real mystery, however. The real mystery was why the
Imperials had chosen a non-Imperial name for the world. Why had they
named Protasia the First Colony in the tongue of the ancient Akakians? It
had taken even longer, but eventually he figured out that too. Protasia was
the Malfian name for Protasia, had been since time immemorial. Protasia
wasn’t just the First Colony; it was the First Colony of Malfi. It also neatly
explained why Malfi and Protasia shared the same linguistic roots – they
had been one and the same at a distant point in the past.
This trip to the Protasian system had proven moderately successful. On
the way here he had looted a Protasian hulk they had found adrift in the
outer system. The salvage had been pretty good, and he’d taken on a long
dozen of able hands his boarding crews had found stranded inside the dead
spaceship. Given their plight – and the heretical nature of their rebellion –
they had been overeager to swear allegiance to the Maiden and its master.
The Imperial Navy had tried to chase him away when he arrived in orbit,
but they had no authority over a man that carried a Warrant of Trade. They
had insisted on boarding him to verify his Warrant. Like always the Navy
officers were all hot airs and condescending attitudes. The Flag Lieutenant
they had sent over with the boarding party had been a particularly
despicable specimen. He had pranced around like he owned the place, and
offered Corben no more respect than he would a simple Chartist captain.
It was not without a growing sense of glee Corben had paraded him
through the gilded memorium halls of the Maiden, discreetly watching the
junior officer deflate as cruel reality crushed down upon him: This really
was a Rogue Trader’s vessel, filled with the pillage and trade goods of a
hundred worlds, and he was nothing more than a bug trespassing on holy
ground.
230
DARK OMEGA
The Lieutenant had wanted to scurry away into a dark corner to hide, but
Corben was having none of that. He had marched the poor fellow to the
Commander’s suite and allowed him to gaze upon the Warrant of Trade –
the man had looked absolutely stricken when he saw the name of the sole
signatory: Sebastian Thor, the holiest man in a millennial empire of holy
men. That signature was worth more than the signatures of all the High
Lords combined. Only the signature of the God-Emperor could outdo it –
and Corben didn’t think he had actually signed any Warrants.
After the Imperium had been dealt with, Corben had descended down to
the surface to deal with whoever had the wealth to purchase what his
cavernous holds held. He found that the Imperium held firmly on to the
cities that hadn’t been completely destroyed. He also found that there were
still quite a few insurgents chipping away at the Imperial occupation forces.
Even as he sold his wares to the new Imperial powers-that-be, he had
men out to establish connections with the locals. Some of them had taken to
calling themselves Akakians in an effort to distance themselves from the
Imperial tyrants. Corben had found them to be courageous and tenacious,
but he really didn’t think they could outlast the Imperium of Mankind. He
didn’t think they believed it either. But they would nevertheless continue to
fight, probably to the last man.
There was potentially good money to be made here. He would return,
laden with stuff the newly appointed leaders of Protasia would require if
they were going to restore the planet to working order. Which they must,
lest they fail to meet the Imperial Tithe that would one day be levied
against them. He would also fill some of the holds with weapons and other
war-gear. Equipment the insurgents would pay well for.
231
Protasia had been a rich world for millennia; both the Imperials and the
Akakians would hold a piece of that wealth, and Corben was more than
willing to take it off their hands.
Tick, tick, tick.
That lobster sound again. What could be the source? He was completely
alone up here, wasn’t he? His contemplative mood soured, he strode
purposefully towards the gilded elevator waiting for him. The Seneschal
would answer for this interruption, and by the Widower those answers had
better be good!
232
PART III
THE KILLER
233
234
CHAPTER 25
THE EMPEROR’S
TAROT
You wake early, as you have done since your days at the Scholastia
Psykana collegium. You feel rested, if a little stiff and weary after all those
hours standing nearly motionless in front of the tome. Some limbering
exercises and martial arts katas leave you warm and supple.
All those hours of sweat and pain felt so wasted then and there, but in
hindsight you’re rather glad you received a good physical education to
complement your mental and psychic abilities.
After seeing to your personal hygiene needs, you sit down and eat a
quick, improvised breakfast in your cubicle. You’ll grab a larger meal on the
way to the librarium. No need to repeat yesterday’s hungry spell. An empty
stomach is not optimal when you know you’ll be psychically and mentally
exerting yourself for most of the day.
Between mouthfuls of some sort of artificial cereal, eaten right out of the
box, you pull out your Tarot deck. The well-worn leather covered
adamantium case is a familiar weight in your hand. It’s been with you for
many years, ever since your Inquisitor granted it to you shortly after
entering his service. The case itself is nigh indestructible, and the lock
responds only to your unique psychic imprint.
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CHAPTER 25 THE EMPEROR’S TAROT
Inside lies seventy-eight psychoactive liquid-crystal wafers worked into
the shape of tarot cards. The same material that Melbinious’ tome is
constructed from.
The cards of the Emperor’s Tarot are unlike any other, for they are linked
to the indomitable will of the God-Emperor of Mankind. With a full deck at
his disposal, a skilled reader can foretell the future, see into the distant
past, and reveal secrets great and small.
Truth be told you’ve never been a terribly proficient reader. Mastery of
the Tarot requires endless practice and infinite patience. You’ve never had
the time – or the patience. Indeed, it is often said that the Tarot is an old
man’s tool. Perhaps you will become more skilled with crabbed age.
Probably not. Best leave fortune telling to the wizened Astropaths that have
outlived their usefulness as transmitters, but retained enough sensitivity to
still read the Tarot. You’ll settle for being just a casual reader. Skilled
enough to make sense of your casual readings of the immediate future. That
will be sufficient, at least until you make Inquisitor rank. Peerage – and the
longevity promised by the tome – could provide the impetus to devote your
resources towards mastering the tarot.
You call upon the power you normally keep locked away in the deep
crevasses of your mind. The power that only a psyker knows. Born of the
Warp, but harnessed by the evolved mind into a tool, for the betterment of
Mankind. It is the ability to harness this power that sets you apart for the
vast bulk of the human race. You and your kind are the future. Humanity
will continue to evolve into a fully psychic race. It is the only route that
leads to survival, to ultimate victory. You agree with your master one
hundred per cent in that regard.
The difference between psykers and the rest of Mankind is not simply
one of genes. Yes, there are genetic differences, but there are other deeper,
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DARK OMEGA
more fundamental differences as well. Differences even the immoral and
godless scientists of the Dark Age of Technology could not fully understand.
Not so strange perhaps, as things that are intimately connected to the Warp
can rarely be quantified or catalogued.
You will there to be flame and there is. It burns bright and warm, but
consumes neither fuel, nor air. The flame is the psychic manifestation of
your will, and it is your will alone that sustains it. You let the flame engulf
the Tarot case. The lid swings open.
You quickly dismiss the fire and slide the cards out of the case and into
your waiting hand. They are cool to the touch. And heavy. They are always
heavier in the hand than in the case. That’s how it is for you anyway.
Psykers rarely experience handling the Tarot in exactly the same way. Just
like they do not experience the use of their powers in the same way.
You chuckle a little. That uniqueness was ever a challenge for the
collegium teachers. They could beat and threaten all they wanted, but at the
end of the day they had to adjust their lessons to accommodate each
individual psyker. No two were ever the same, but they all needed to be
taught the same basics. Otherwise they wouldn’t make the grade and the
collegium would fail to meet its quota. And failing to meet your quota is
very bad for any member of the Adeptus Terra. It was quite the conundrum
for the old masters. They would greatly have preferred to just force
everyone to fit into the same mould, but thousands of years of experience
had proven it didn’t work that way.
You shuffle the deck while chewing down two additional mouthfuls. The
cereal is bone dry. You grab a carton of some protein-fortified beverage to
wash it down. The drink is too sweet, and spiced with too much cheap
vanillin substitute, but it does the job of easing your parched throat.
237
Eating helps you defocus. In your experience is doesn’t help to be all
serene and focused. What works best for you is not focusing at all. Which is
easier if you engage is some form of routine, meaningless activity. Like
eating cereal, right out of the box.
You stop shuffling and bring forth the query: What manner of
unexpected or hidden events will this day hold for you?
Keeping the query clear in your mind, you draw seven cards, one at a
time, laying them face down in a familiar pattern. Starting from the left and
going right you make the sort of wide inverted ‘V’ that gives the spread its
name: The Throne of Terra. The card backs stare up at you, seven stylized
‘I’s, the holy symbol of the mighty Inquisition, arranged like a little
mountain.
According to Imperial folklore the presence of the God-Emperor is
supposed to be hovering over the Throne, just as the real Him presides
over the Golden Throne. Which is why this spread is supposed to be extra
accurate. You don’t buy into that explanation. Such tales are for the
unilluminated. You know that as long as the spread is consistent and
familiar to the reader, it will do the trick. The exact number of cards and the
pattern they are laid out in don’t matter all that much.
For your own part the Throne is just the spread you’re the most familiar
with. Barring perhaps the Imperator, but that one hardly tells you anything,
since it’s made up of only three cards. No, you greatly prefer the Throne of
Terra. You’ve been using the Throne since you first had a deck thrust into
your hands during Psykana training. Consistent and familiar, the Throne
spread does the trick for you.
The query is burning beautiful and bright inside those parts of your mind
that are the most imaginative and psychically sensitive. You lean forward a
fraction and place the centre three fingers of your right hand upon the back
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DARK OMEGA
of the leftmost card. The card goes from cold to searing hot in an instant.
Pain lances up through the nerves of your arm and bores into your waiting
mind. Never is pain so sweet as when interpreting the will of the GodEmperor of Mankind.
The fiery pain mingles with your own inner flames. Knowing the
connection to be stable and strong, you let down your customary wards
and allow the power of the Warp to flow into you. This is what makes the
Emperor’s Tarot so unique. As long as you keep your heart filled with
unconditional love for the God-Emperor, the cards of the deck will ward
you from Warp-corruption and other unpleasantness. Divinations such as
this would be hazardous at best without the protection offered by the
Tarot.
The first card is indicative of the past. It can potentially reveal something
which has transpired that is relevant to the query. You turn over the card.
The Inquisitor, the Ace of Adeptio, stares up at you. You’ve gotten the same
card as yesterday in the first position. Unusual, but hardly a unique
occurrence. Besides, yesterday’s query was the same one as today, and the
situation hasn’t changed much.
You peer intently at the card. The image is slightly different from what it
was last time. The Inquisitor is more of an adept today, less of a warrior,
but it could well be the same person, judging by his height and build. It is
hard to be sure, because he’s wearing a long cloak with the hood pulled up.
The cloak is an almost exact match of the one Haxtes was wearing during
yesterday’s session. But the man wearing it cannot be Haxtes, for he is
much too tall and heavyset.
You’re pretty sure that the Inquisitor is none other than Melbinious, the
original master of the tome. Given his penchant for secrecy and your lack of
concrete information about him, the Tarot and your mind is filling out the
239
blanks. His face hasn’t been revealed to you yet, but you now have his
measure in terms of size.
Barring the actual image, the Ace of Adeptio is, like all aces, a potent card
that can have multiple interpretations, even within one reading. With all
that is going on, with all that has transpired leading up to this point, there is
really no telling what its exact significance is. Maybe a later reading will
reveal more.
You move to the second card. Another jolt of burning pain, mingling with
the inferno growing inside your mind. The second card represents the
nature of the problem, the essence of the matter, the current state of
events. You turn it over. The Pilgrim stares up at you. The Pilgrim is the
only unnumbered Major Arcanum, something of the odd man out. Its
appearance is always momentous, for it represents new beginnings and
possibilities. It is also the same card that you drew for second position
yesterday. The only difference is that today the Pilgrim is you, appearing as
you did in your formal robes upon your promotion to Interrogator rank.
You take it to mean that yesterday you started your journey into the
tome’s secrets with a few baby steps. But today you will come into your
own and plunge ever deeper into its mysteries. You’re fully committed now.
That’s why you can clearly see yourself in the place of the Pilgrim. If you
draw the same card tomorrow, you will know for absolute certain.
The third card. By now the pain is just the ache after a long bout of
physical exertion. It hurts, but in a good way, promising to leave you
invigorated and calm afterwards. The third position is an important one. It
reveals that which is hidden. The things, influences, or events the querent –
that being you – cannot see or has overlooked. You turn over the card. The
Stranger, the Ace of Excuteria. For the third time you’ve pulled the same
card as the day before.
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DARK OMEGA
The Stranger within the image is wearing the same robe as the
Inquisitor, but his back is turned to you and his surroundings fail to give
any clues as to his identity. For a moment you think he is Haxtes, but the
next he’s someone else entirely. You fine-tune your psychic senses to try
and pick up some detail you’ve missed, but the harder you try the less you
learn.
As if sensing your discomfort the Stranger raises his right hand. He’s
wearing body armour in Haxtes’ style, black gloves included, that much you
can see. In his hand is a bottle of cheap amasec, of a kind you imagine
Haxtes would not touch, even if his life depended on it.
The card that is supposed to reveal secrets simply tells you that an
unseen force is at work. No shit! This gives you nothing to work with.
Completely useless.
The fourth position. The apex of the Throne. It tells of obstacles or
challenges that will present themselves. You’re not particularly surprised
when it comes out as the Assassin, the Eight of Adeptio. The image is clearly
of Haxtes, armed with pistol and knife. Haxtes as a kid, a little older than
you’ve seen him thus far. Twelve years old maybe? You are certain that it
means you’ll have to wrestle some more with the Gatekeeper today. Not
much of a surprise really.
The fifth card. Indicative of other factors that might come into play. Not
secret influences like the third position, but something else. Could be the
presence and actions of the mystery team, some trait of your own, or
something else entirely. The fifth position you find easy to interpret – if you
can discern what it relates to. The Titan. So is this how is going to be? The
exact same reading as yesterday? Thus far five out of five are a match.
Today’s imagery is completely different though. Gone is yesterday’s
Eternity Gate. In its place a huge angelic statue of red Protasian stone lies
241
shattered in the Plaza of Loremasters, the open space just outside the
Second Librarium. You ponder upon the fallen giant for a moment and
conclude the card is reversed. Unlike yesterday it doesn’t represent
strength, but weakness. But whose weakness?
Curiously you spot nine tiny figures standing or sitting on top of the
statue. Very peculiar; only rarely will a tarot card depict more than one
person, let alone a while group. Focusing on them you can make out their
features in some detail. A wide grin keeps onto your face. Now you have the
measure of the mystery team. You offer a brief prayer of thanks to Him on
Earth before moving your hand one more position to the right.
The sixth card represents advice, the best course of action to follow. You
flip it over, revealing the Martyr, another Major Arcanum. And the same
card as yesterday. The Martyr is you. There can be no doubt. You as you are
dressed today. You can clearly see your own face, slight upturned as if
looking intently as some figure just beyond the edge of the card. Your mien
is one of bliss and absolute adoration.
Cold grips your heart, threatening to choke your inner fire. You know it is
your own, near imminent, future death you’ve touched upon. And by the
look of it you will go willingly, filled with rapturous bliss. An involuntary
shiver rushes through your body, upsetting your equilibrium and
threatening to sever your connection to the Tarot.
You’ve always know that you would die in the service. Death has
breathed you down the neck more than once out in the field. You’ve never
let that stop you. Your duty, the service to the God-Emperor and Mankind is
far more important to you than your life. But you’ve never had that Tarot
tell you that today is the day you die.
Or could there be another sacrifice you will be called upon to make? For
a brief instant you feel a sense of hope, but alas, that’s not it. The Martyr
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DARK OMEGA
foretells your death, today. You are absolutely certain. Pretending
otherwise will not help you alter your foretold fate.
You flip over the last card before the session is prematurely ended. Gone
is the pure maiden of yesterday’s reading. It is not the Unclean One
reversed, but the Reaper, upright. Again it is your own face staring up at
you. The dead are heaped around your feet. You recognize some of them as
being members of the mystery team. The others are too badly mangled and
burned to be certain. Burned by your psychic fire mayhap?
Realization dawns. You know what to do. Your watchers must die before
the end of the day. It is either that or you will be the martyr, the one
claimed by the reaper. A pity that such extreme measures must be taken,
but you’ve been given a glimpse of the future and shown the Emperor’s will
in the matter. And who are you to argue with the will of your God?
Thirty minutes later you’re long gone. Carefully applied psychic fire has
cleared away any physical indication of your stay. You’ve purged any traces
of your comings and goings from the memory stacks, and made sure none
of the guards or adepts remember you. You won’t be coming back.
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CHAPTER 26
TRIGGER FINGER
The walk to the Plaza of the Loremasters is no different from the day
before. In this part of the city there are wide boulevards and ample open
spaces, all lined with towering buildings. Only the most opulent structures
have less than twenty stories – space is a premium atop a flying city. Other
than being marginally less crowded and grimy than most hives, there is no
real difference between this place and countless other crowded and
compact Imperial settlements throughout the galaxy. Except this one soars
five kilometres above the bleak and irradiated wasteland that is BokibaBapas’ planetary surface.
Getting into the Second Library of Knowing again proves easier than
getting out. The Arbites are out in force. If you had been a criminal or
heretic the Imperial lawmen could have been a threat to you. But as a loyal
Inquisition agent you are outside their jurisdiction. Should the mystery
team try to interfere with you, they will first have to go through the
Arbitrators.
Speaking of the mystery team. You find them pretty much right where
you left them. The servitor team has switched to a different guise. Now they
are posing as guild runners, idling in the shadow of the very statue your
stopped by yesterday. You make sure they see you going in, but not in a
way that might indicate you know that you’re being watched. Let them
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wonder how you got out yesterday. Give nothing away for free. You’ll be
seeing them again soon enough.
--You pass Librarian Amaya on the third level. She smiles at you. A slight
flush creeps into her cheeks when you smile back. She looks a bit surprised
at her own reaction. The emotional worm is doing its job.
--It’s a different reading chamber today. The layout is the same, but the
reddish alabaster artwork is different. As your eyes wander from one edge
of the room to the other you see soaring cityscapes, rural villages, and
majestic churches, all going to ruin.
One particular piece catches your eye, a plaza filled with broken angles
arranged in three circles. It reminds you of the Red Square in Thira.
Another reminder of how the human mind works to fill in gaps and erase
uncertainties.
You put the artwork out of your mind and get down to business. Your
walk – and a hearty second breakfast – gave you time to plan your mental
architecture for today’s session.
It will be mostly the same as yesterday, but you’ll be forced to add an
additional subdivision to your observing mind. It will work in concert with
the buffer to pick up unexpected attacks and other unpleasantness.
This will challenge your abilities and drain you physically, but you’ll
compensate by dividing today’s session in two with a lengthy break in the
middle.
Which fortunately coincides with your need to take care of some realworld matters while in the Librarium.
You touch the tome and the connection is there, stronger and clearer
than ever before.
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--“You seem preoccupied Marcus. Is something amiss?” Haxtes asks.
You consider a bit before answering. “Not exactly amiss, but something
happened yesterday.” You add a little sigh for emphasis. “My pursuers seem
to have caught up with me a little sooner than anticipated. That’s all.”
“Pursuers? Now why would a member of the Holy Ordos have pursuers?”
Haxtes asks, feigning ignorance.
“My master has enemies that would like to hurt him. And rivals that seek
to outdo him. There is no more to it than that,” you reply.
“And these particular pursuers,” Haxtes continues, “are they enemies or
rivals?”
“That I do not know. Not that it matters. Enemies or rivals – if they get in
my way I will remove them from the equation,” you answer. No need to
elaborate.
Haxtes grins. “I’ll call that preaching to the choir, Marcus.” He pours
himself his first drink of the day. He fills your glass without asking. “Vintage
amasec from Scarus Sector today. Nothing outlandish or exotic, just some
seriously good shit.”
You pick up your own glass and lean back. “Shall we proceed?” you say,
indicating that you’d like to resume the story.
Haxtes cradles his glass. “Just pick your desired immersion level and I’ll
start my narration.”
You opt for the intermediate immersion level.
--I was heading down the dusty street. The sun was halfway between
zenith and the horizon, but in between the buildings and ruins it was hot as
a baker’s oven. There were few people out, but I could feel many more pairs
of eyes staring at me from behind barred doors and closed windows. It
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made me slightly uncomfortable. This was not my way. My way was the
unseen way, the way of stealth. But I knew it had to be done, honour and
duty demanded it. I set my teeth and kept walking.
Above me Jons’ CAS drones hovered, unseen and unheard. In my crotch
the locator-coin hummed out its invisible techno-signals. And somewhere
behind me four IGs were coming, armed and ready for Xenos Majoris. They
were taking an awful risk helping me get my vengeance. It was only fair
that I share in the danger.
The gun was in my right hand, a heavy weight straining against my
preteen muscles. I loved the feel of it. I kept the pistol close to my body. I
made no attempt to hide it; the gleaming gunmetal was plain to see for
anyone with a mind to look. That was sort of the point; for my fellow indigs
to see the crazy whoreson coming into town, waving his gun around,
looking for trouble.
Nix roamed to the right, going across what had once been a cosy local
green. Now it was a charnel pit, the ground churned to pieces by metal
tracks, and the trees had burned when the ammunition supplies aboard a
Leman Russ tank had exploded and set everything in the vicinity ablaze. A
few bits and pieces of charred bone protruded from the dried mud.
Imperial Guardsmen or Protasian troopers? I could not tell.
The tank wreck was still there. Nix took the opportunity to piss on the
scorched and rusted metal before moving on. Good dawg.
The south-eastern corner of the green was overlooked by a small
mansion of sorts; a largish house that seemed to belong out in the hill
country, but had somehow been misplaced in the middle of the city.
Without my lock I had no way of knowing who had lived there. But no
matter, whoever had owned the place was long gone by the looks of it. The
building had been shelled repeatedly and riddled with lasfire.
247
A low masonry wall with a spiked wrought-iron fence made the
compound look positively upper-class. Said Leman Russ – or maybe
another just like it – had run through the wall on the north side and exited
where the front gate used to sit, facing the green.
I instantly knew the place for what it was. This was where they had taken
my mother and manhandled her. Nix had led me true.
Below the walled compound there would be a reinforced rockrete
shelter, complete with hidden escape tunnels, built to specification by those
who had lived here before. A ruin atop a hidden bunker. Concealment and
hard cover both. A good location to set up a hidden base.
Standing casually in the vicinity of the ruined gate were two men. They
looked like regular civilians, save they seemed a bit better fed and carried
PDF-issue autoguns. One had a scavenged IG combat vest, but the other
made do with a civilian belt and some ammo pouches. They seemed bored,
talking in low tones and sharing a lho-stick between them.
Insurgents. Terrorists. Militia. Freedom fighters. Guerrillas. Any of those
terms might be applied to these men. They were also simple rapists and
murderers. Neither had played a very active role in my mother’s demise,
but they had both been present at her ‘trial’, and when the ‘sentence’ had
been carried out. Which made them guilty by association, at the very least.
In my mind there could be only one verdict: Death.
The distance must have been around sixty paces when I brought the gun
up.
My shooting experience was extremely limited: Father owned two
shotguns and an antique stub rifle – he took them with him when he went
to war. In his younger days he’d hunted fowl and some game, but when I
grew up, the guns sat idle in the gun locker. He had never taught me how to
handle weapons.
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So my gun lore was limited to the occasional bout at fairs and such. In
fact I had never actually fired the autopistol, although with Jons’ tuition I
was confident I could handle it with basic proficiency. Needless to say I had
never fired a weapon at another person.
Sixty paces with an autopistol is a challenge even for a competitive
shooter using a target pistol. For me it was easy. I brought the gun up with
both hands. The two men loomed like giants in my sights. I could not
possibly miss.
I pulled the trigger without hesitation: I have heard it said that shooting
at another person is hard, especially the first time. I felt no such thing. Not
that first time, nor at any later time. I guess I had the heart of a sniper after
all.
A burst of small-calibre, high-velocity bullets sped out from my gun,
crossed sixty paces of air in a fraction of a second, and hit the older of the
two men, the one with the makeshift utility belt. He must have been
wearing a flak vest underneath his dirty militia jacket, because I didn’t see
any blood where the rounds struck him in the chest. The vest didn’t provide
protection against the two rounds that made minced meat of his left arm,
however. Nor did it protect his neck from the bullet that ripped open his
jugular vein. He went down, gurgling and coughing, as his life flowed red
onto the dusty ground.
The younger man had quick reflexes, I’ll give him that. He threw himself
back and to the right, into cover behind the ruined wall. Quick reflexes, but
not preternatural ones. I just kept squeezing the trigger and adjusting my
aim. There was simply no way for him to dodge out of the way of so many
bullets. He disappeared behind the wall all right, but I knew I’d hit him
multiple times. And he wasn’t wearing any vest, the red ruin that had been
his chest testified to that.
249
Two men were dead by my hand. My autopistol had run dry. I hadn't
brought any spare clips. The sudden silence hung heavy over me. I knew it
wouldn’t last. It was like the calm before the storm. Soon all hell would
break loose, and I would be standing there with an empty gun in my hand.
--“So, what did you do,” you ask.
Haxtes raises his eyebrows. “What any sane man would do. I dropped the
gun, turned on my heel, and ran like Horus was after me.”
“Both subtle and heroic,” you say with dry humour.
“Every time,” Haxtes agrees.
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CHAPTER 27
GUNMETAL
My foray into rebel territory had gone better than expected. I had hit pay
dirt on my first try. Now it was up to Jons and his brothers from another
mother. All I had to do was lead the enemy to them. And to do that I just
had to make sure the Kiones warriors followed me. Easy peasy for a quick
and clever fellow like me.
I ran a hundred meters, right across the ruined green, stopping briefly in
the shadow of the Leman Russ wreck to catch my breath and chance a
glance back towards the mansion. I had been spotted all right. Sixteen or
seventeen men were hauling ass towards my position. Unlike me they were
armed, packing autoguns, and carrying more than enough ammo to kill me
a hundred times over.
So far, so good. But then my brilliant plan quickly went to the Warp. An
Imperial Springer all-terrain buggy burst out through the north gap in the
wall and started to loop around to flank my cover. It was packed with a
handful more men, and the autocannon mounted on the crash-bar seemed
fully armed and operational. By Horus’ teats! This was spinning out of
control. I got back on my feet and ran like a renegade for the Eye of Terror.
I had made it a few hundred more meters, all the way across the green
and a bit down the street, before the first autocannon shells zipped past. If
the gunner had been a real gunner I would have died right there. But he
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didn’t know what he was doing, so instead of using the proximity air-burst
setting, he just kept hammering shots downrange like the autocannon was
an overgrown pea-shooter. What a fucking incompetent moron. An ogryn
Guardsman would have done better.
I dashed for a nearby corner and made it into a narrow side street. That
bought me a precious few seconds of life. I kept running until my breath
came in ragged gulps and I could feel the taste of iron in my mouth. Where
the hell were Jons and his brothers?
The buggy came around the corner the same instant I got out of the side
street and onto a major residential thoroughfare. That brought me a few
more seconds of life. I had to find cover or I’d be a dead kid very soon. I
could run no longer, I could barely keep myself from collapsing, so I threw
myself behind a red stone staircase and prayed to whoever might be
listening for the enemy to just drive past.
I don’t think I would have been so lucky, but my hiding place wasn’t put
to the test. One moment the buggy was roaring after me. Next there was a
whooshing sound, followed by an explosion as painfully loud as it was
unexpected.
The burning wreck of the buggy came tumbling down the street,
shedding an equal measure of burning pieces of machinery and broken
people.
I saw Mazzo standing there, less than a hundred meters down the street,
half exposed and with a long tube over his shoulder. In less time than it
took me to blink – that’s how it felt anyway – he had discarded the spent
missile launcher and was back into cover, lasgun in hand, scanning the
street.
A thought occurred to me: If I was going to keep playing with guns I had
better get these soldiers to show me how to do it properly. Because right
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then and there I realized I was so totally out of my league it wasn’t even
funny.
Sarge dropped into a crouch next to me, looking dead serious as he put a
finger to his lips in the age-old signal for ‘shut up stupid kid or I’ll kill you
myself, now get out of my fucking way’. He readied his assault weapon and
then signalled back towards Mazzo.
Mazzo jumped up and moved forward a dozen meters to take up a new
position. Rovo appeared from nowhere and dashed – as fast as his gun rig
would allow – down the road, taking up position about twenty meters
down the street from us.
No sooner was he in position before Mazzo moved forward again, finding
cover behind a staircase on the opposite side of the street. Jons I did not
see, but I knew he would be nearby, probably up high and watching
through the Eye.
Next thing I knew insurgents on foot were piling into the street. The men
were somewhat agitated by the fact that someone – obviously not little me
– had blown up their precious buggy and killed their comrades. They were
milling about, shouting and pointing, and generally behaving aggressively
but rather unprofessionally.
--“These insurgents,” you interject, “you make them sound like amateurs,
but they’ve must all have been veterans by now after more than a year of
fighting.”
Haxtes seems annoyed at yet another interruption. “These ‘insurgents’
were not army regulars with a year of active combat experience. The real
soldiers were all gone, dead, or fled somewhere else. I thought we had
covered this already. The Imperial Guard is very thorough.” He takes a sip.
“Damn this is good amasec.”
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“Indeed,” you reply, taking a sip of your own. “Sorry about the
interruption, but war is not my area of expertise.”
“I’ve noticed,” Haxtes says drily. “These insurgents were not soldiers. I
don’t think there were many with militia training either. Just some old men,
a few women, and a lot of boys, many of them even younger than my
brother Jax. Just kids with guns really. Like myself.”
You nod. “Given time and good leadership they might become a force to
be reckoned with. Maybe that was the reason for the graphic executions?”
Haxtes agrees. “Probably. This new leader of theirs was asserting his
hold over the rank and file, whipping the locals into line. Let’s call him a
low-ranking clergyman with delusions of grandeur and a sadistic streak?”
“That would fit pretty well,” you conclude.
--I couldn’t see very well from where I was crouched behind Sarge. Part of
me wanted to pop my head up and look around, but my proximity to Sarge
killed that urge. I was effectively pinned between his bulk and the exterior
wall of the building. I think it was an intentional move on his part. I felt
oddly touched that he’d use his own body as a shield for little me. I would
not have done the same for him – or anyone else.
The IGs waited until most of the insurgents had come into the relatively
open space that was the main road, but not as long as to give them time to
reorganize and take up good positions.
Jons opened the show with a sniper shot to the head of one of the
insurgents. If the rebel squad came with a leader, he had just died. As if on
cue the other three guardsmen opened up.
Sarge leaned over the edge of the stone stairs and let rip with his assault
weapon at two insurgents that were heading our way. They both died
quickly, torn to shreds by an angry swarm of anti-personnel and high254
DARK OMEGA
explosive flechettes. I can honestly say that I’ve had a healthy dose of
respect for automatic shotguns after that experience.
After downing those two he switched to suppressive fire. The open road
wasn’t ideal terrain for a shotgun, but flechette ammo gives you a lot better
accuracy and range than your average buckshot.
A rifle grenade came sailing through the air at about the same time. It hit
the bitumen surface of the road, smack in the middle of the densest group
of insurgents, bounced up about a metre and then exploded in a cloud of
shrapnel. There was smoke and flame and blood and screaming.
Mazzo really was something special with that grenade launcher. I’ve
never duplicated his skill, but I never go without a frag grenade or two if I
can help it.
Rovo let rip with the lascannon. Short, controlled bursts of energy lashed
out at the enemy. I had seen lasfire before. It looked exactly like the little
lightning bolts Jons had described, but this was different in terms of sheer
volume. Let me give you a bit of advice: Never ever stand around in the
open if the enemy could be packing automatic support weapons.
There was so much fire going downrange from those triple rotating
barrels that I hardly noticed Mazzo adding accurate point fire to the
barrage, nor Jons meticulously picking off targets from his elevated
position.
Sarge’s voice cut through the din of battle. “Move boy, we’re falling back.”
I was released from the vice-like grip his back had on me. When I looked
around, confused as hell, he shoved me none too gently in the right
direction. “Back to Rovo’s position. Fast as you can. I’ll cover you,” he
shouted over the din of battle.
So I did.
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The enemy’s meagre return fire didn’t touch me. Neither did fear; I was
high as a cyber-kite on adrenaline and felt quite invincible.
The rest of the small squad followed suit. Soon we were hustling down
deserted streets filled with nothing but rubble and lined with ruined
buildings. The enemy didn’t seem inclined to pursue.
Vengeance had been delivered in full. Perhaps my mother’s troubled soul
would find the rest in death it had never found in life. And if there really is a
ferryman, he had just been paid in full in bloody coin.
--We rendezvoused with Jons at a predesignated location – an abandoned
building that wasn’t completely ruined, a distance north-east of the
Forbidden Zone.
“That, boy,” Jons said, “was one of the most reckless things I’ve seen in
my life.”
He wasn’t angry with me, I could tell by the tone in his voice. More like
incredulous.
“Those shots…how did you manage? The range was over forty meters,
well over forty meters. I saw it on the drone repeater display. Even an
expert pistol shooter would be hard pressed to do that. Under optimal
conditions.”
My body was shaking from exhaustion and the aftereffects of repeated
adrenaline surges. So it didn’t take much to put on a credible show for the
Guardsmen. “I…I can’t explain it. I just knew they were guilty so I did what
seemed best at the time…I just brought up the pistol and fired…kept firing
until it was empty. Then I ran.”
Jons nods. “Yeah, I noticed.” He gives you a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t do
that again Haxtes. It was a miracle that you hit them both, a miracle that
you didn’t get killed, and a miracle you ran straight into our arms.”
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I didn’t know about no miracles. Put gunmetal in my hand and I felt
confident I could do it again.
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CHAPTER 28
THE NEW RECRUIT
When I got back home it became apparent that things weren’t going to
work out as planned. To start with Jax was there. That was awkward, to say
the least. I had hoped he wouldn’t be around. I had chosen sides now, and
would rather not have a confrontation with my brother over my choice.
I told them about Mother, but the story came out wrong. Jax hadn’t been
in on the action, but he knew what had happened to her, in a general
fashion. Mother was to blame for her own death, for leaving us alone, for
fornicating with the enemy.
My brother kept on talking; about how wicked the Imperials were, and
how he was going to fight back. How he would join the Kiones. How they
would lead all true Akakians to rise up against the oppressors. For him to
join forces with the very men who had tortured, raped, and killed our
mother spoke volumes of his character and mental state.
I fared no better with Jons. I tried to paint him and the other Guardsmen
in favourable light. But suddenly it was all Jons’ fault; he’d been bad to
Mother and whatnot. Even I wasn’t in the clear. If it wasn’t for my
damnable cake, none of this would have happened.
Jax was completely deluded, that much was clear. But I knew the truth.
The Kiones were the bad-guys in this particular play, not the Imperials.
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Knowing that I had just helped give his precious rebels a kick in the balls
felt impossibly sweet. I wanted to scream it at Jax, but knew only problems
would come of it. So I kept my peace and waited for a better opportunity.
When later I tried to confide in my sister about my deal with the
Guardsmen, I couldn’t quite find a good angle. At any rate I could have
saved myself the trouble. My sister just didn’t seem to care, one way or the
other. She had become Eli the Lizard again, sitting there motionless,
soaking up the sun, staring at everything and nothing.
--I decided to stick around a while longer to see if things would change. I
remember being wary for a time that my involvement with the gunfight
would become common knowledge. But the moment eventually passed. If
anyone had survived the encounter, the boy that ran wouldn’t be their
primary concern.
Couple of days later I was skulking around the indig market, when I
heard the first exaggerated tale of what had gone down. A full platoon of
IGs had set up an ambush for a squad of freedom fighters. Apparently my
fellow Akakians had fought so bravely the Imperials had been forced to
retreat.
Other versions had even less in common with the truth. I sensed the
preacher’s hand behind it all, carefully twisting events to make it seem like
the insurgents were on the offensive. That was kind of impressive actually,
to be able to turn a lost battle into something that strengthened your
overall position.
Other rumours confirmed my suspicions. Mother wasn’t the only whore
to have been roughed up – but she was the only one done in so thoroughly.
I failed to learn why she in particular had been subjected to torture and
consigned to death. Perhaps there wasn’t a reason to be found.
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Relatedly it didn’t take long for Jax to find a more permanent place
among the insurgents. Up until then he’d only been a peripheral member, a
prospect if you will. Now he was elevated into the company of motherkillers and other ne’er-do-wells. Unsurprising perhaps, given the fact that
Jons and his boys had wiped out a couple of squads, leaving the preacherman short on manpower. Well, the useless cur contributed virtually
nothing to our family’s cause anyway, so the less we saw of him, the better.
Overall there was a sense of rising tension within the Indig Zone as
Preacher Maxentius – that was the name of the fucker who had had my
mother butchered – used every resource at his disposal to strengthen the
Kiones and sour the tenuous peace between Protasian survivors and
Imperial occupiers.
--Back at the apartment, or whatever you want to call it, things were also
changing. It didn’t take long for my sister to take up our mother’s craft. I
guess she was a little on the young side, but she was physically rather
mature, and already thoroughly mentally traumatized, so I don’t think she
suffered too badly, all considered. I for one didn’t object. We had to eat, and
she was our only real source of income.
I was, however, concerned that her new occupation would attract the ire
of the Kiones, which could potentially ruin my deal with Jons. I could even
be in danger myself, if they decided to deal with my troublesome family
once and for all.
When nothing happened I assumed the Kiones had bigger things to
worry about than the whore daughter of a dead whore. Later events would
prove me wrong, but I didn’t realize it at the time.
---
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DARK OMEGA
For my own part I spent my days hanging around the compound of the
57th Lo Mechanized Regiment. It was quite the mixed crowd really. After
their experiences on the Spinward Front, only a reinforced battalion
remained of the original regiment. Not nearly enough men to qualify the
57th as combat-capable.
So when then Munitorum decided to send them into the Protasian
warzone, instead of home to Lo, they had gone ahead and authorized the
inclusion of non-regimental personnel.
As a result the 57th Lo included soldiers from at least six other
regiments, two of them Loi and four from other worlds, some Penal
Legionnaires that had been pardoned, the remnants of a PDF company
from one of the planets in the Periphery, as well as some ratings and petty
officers scrounged up from Navy vessels that had been crippled over
Protasia.
The regiment was nowhere near homogenous, but months of fighting
together on Protasia had forged them together into a cohesive unit – or at
least as much as could be hoped for. It wasn’t difficult to see that a lot of the
credit for this feat of leadership lay with Colonel di Cavour, Major Burness,
and Commissar Joaquin.
Colonel di Cavour was the regiment’s original commanding officer. The
man wasn’t particularly clever to begin with. His drinking habits didn’t
make it any better. He was, however, the spitting image of a heroic
commanding officer. The uniform suited him perfectly, and he had great
courage and a talent for action. When it came to playing his part he did so
effortlessly and with great panache. The men loved him, not for his military
skills, but for being one of them – a man of flesh and blood, cast adrift upon
the tides of war.
261
Burness wasn’t a Loian at all, but a Scintillan nobleman, a fifth son with
no prospects outside military service. He was the sole officer with actual
staff training – and as it turned out he had actually had a flair for combat
command. If di Cavour lacked anything as an officer, Bruness more than
made up for his deficiencies. Together they were quite the team.
Joaquin I already knew. He was a commissar through and through, but he
was also a very clever man. He knew when to look the other way, and when
to conduct battlefield executions. The men of the new 57th feared him, but
they didn’t loath him the way many soldiers do their commissars. Which
made them far less likely to shoot him in the back, or cut his throat while he
slept. You’d be surprised how many Commissars get done in that way.
Since coming to Protasia the newly reconstituted 57th had lost enough
additional manpower to make them a regiment on paper only. I remember
asking Jons about it once, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – give me an
accurate figure. So I tried counting. I eventually gave up and decided the
57th was comprised of around eight hundred men at the time, give or take
a few. More like a reinforced battalion than a true regiment.
While none of the other soldiers warmed to me like the four men of ‘my’
squad, I made an overall favourable impression and was gradually accepted
as a sort of regimental mascot. Had circumstance been different, I don’t
think things would have worked out quite as well for me. I would have
remained an outsider and not been allowed to become part of the unit.
The fact that the 57th was made up of so many different groups of people
helped me a lot, I think. Same with the news that the regiment was to be
given settlement rights on Protasia. It made the men a lot more accepting of
changes. And it had made them begin to think of life as civilians. Protasian
civilians. Not so different from me. I got a lot of questions about my mother
and my sister, which I deftly deflected by referring them to the Commissar.
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--My own agenda was quite simple: To mine the Guardsmen for as much
gun lore and warcraft as possible. And I’ll tell you this; a veteran Guard
outfit like the 57th has loads of battle wisdom to share.
Jons was always helpful, but he was on duty a lot. Rovo was very nice to
me, but wouldn’t teach a kid anything worthwhile. Mazzo and Sarge I
stayed clear off. They accepted me hanging around, but they would never
dream of treating me anything like a soldier. I was just a dumb kid that
their buddy happened to like.
I started out by identifying those soldiers I thought would be the most
likely to accept me. It was a little touch and go in the beginning, but I can be
quite charming when I want to. Plus I played the useful-kid-brother card
for all it was worth. I ran errands, listened to their war stories, and
generally made myself useful.
I also took great care not to appear too needy or otherwise try to get too
close to any of the soldiers. I think I realized, on an instinctive level, that
these men were, in their own ways, as traumatized as myself. So I
maintained a polite emotional distance.
Little by little I got some of the Guardsmen to open up. You’d think these
men had other duties to attend to, but the fact is they were in garrison
mode. With nearly a thousand people to pick from, there will always be
someone who is off duty. Someone bored, someone willing to teach.
I was an apt pupil, and quickly took in everything I could pester them to
show or teach me. I won’t claim it qualified as a full military education, but
at least I got the basics down pretty good. I felt I could handle basic
weaponry and care for it. Same with some of the utility equipment the IGs
lugged around. Plus I picked up all sorts of useful lore and skills that could
help me survive in various situations.
263
When the soldiers couldn’t be bothered to instruct me, I would spend
time reading the Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer. For such a small book it
contains a lot of useful stuff; I’d say that there isn’t a page or passage
wasted. Everything is so clear and so well laid out, that even an illiterate
idiot can grasp the basics. Which I guess is the point.
I even picked up some tactical knowledge, some of which is universally
applicable: Hit the enemy when he least expects it, hit him hard – and then
keep hitting him ‘til he’s not moving anymore. This fundamental battle
wisdom, combined with my own principle of running away to fight another
day, rather than being killed by a superior enemy, has served me well ever
since.
--In the process I also learned a little more about the four men that made
up what the others now jokingly referred to as ‘Squad Haxtes’. I didn’t
particularly care about their histories, but it always pays to know as much
as you can about the people around you. Besides, it made for some
fascinating listening for a nine-year old that had never left his homeworld.
Sarge had been a sergeant even before the draft. He’d been with the Loi
PDF for years and years. When the time came for men to be tithed to the
Guard he found himself in a peculiar position. Either volunteer for service,
or be executed for disciplinary infractions. You know, accepting bribes,
dereliction of duty, striking an officer, that sort of thing. As far as I could tell
he was guilty of all that – and more. His previous military experience made
him invaluable to K-company; the Departmento Munitorum drill
instructors they send to the mustering only have time to teach new recruits
the barest basics before the green Guardsmen hit the warzones.
Mazzo had faced a similar choice. Twenty years of hard labour or
volunteer for the Guard. His background was quite different though. Mazzo
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was a Made Man back on Lo, a career criminal, specializing in hi-tech
burglaries – hence his skill with the auspex. He had declined the offer, much
preferring to do some time among friends, rather than die on a distant
world. But the tithe agents had put his name down anyway. He had tried to
object, but the Adepts of Terra care nothing for the plight of one man.
Roverto had been a skilled labourer in one of the many weapon-forges of
Lo. His name had been one of those randomly drawn from the worker pool.
A bit of bad luck, and suddenly he was in the God-Emperor’s uniform and
on his way to the Spinward Front. His courage, strength, and talent for
weapons handling had made him a natural soldier.
Jons was a rat-catcher – those rats grow to the size of a small equine –
back on their homeworld. When the Regiment was mustered it needed
good reconnaissance men. And there are no better scouts on Lo than the
vermin-hunters. Jons wasn’t the victim of bad luck or a life of crime, his
name just came up on a short list of eligible candidates and that was that.
He’d bid his old folks and his siblings goodbye, given his fiancé a night to
remember, and then shipped out.
--“Could we skip forward a bit?” you ask politely, but firmly. “All this
camaraderie is very nice, but I’d like to cut to the end of it.”
“So you only want to hear about the bits where I get slapped around?”
Haxtes chuckles. “You’re even less empathic than I first thought.”
You decide not to rise to his jibe.
Haxtes taps his fingertips on the wooden desktop. “Very well, we’ll skip
forward. Just note that I was trying to make a point; despite the chaos
surrounding me, I was coming into my own.”
“I’ve noticed. Point taken and so forth. Now move forward.” You’re quite
insistent.
265
“It wasn’t a conscious thought, but somewhere deep down inside I knew
that this business with weapons and killing was part of my nature. I was
definitely going to stick with these Guardsmen, go with them when they
were relocated. They would provide the security my mother and brother
could not – and they could teach me the things I needed to know.”
You just nod and urge him to push on with a mental nudge.
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DAY
A while later, maybe six or seven weeks, autumn was past us, there was
an incident. Jax dropped by, itching for a fight. We had hardly seen him
during the last month, so I guess we were a bit surprised.
He marched in, bold as brass, called Eli a fucking whore, a traitor to
Akakios, a dishonour to our family’s ancestors, and so forth. He’d never
done that before. Up until that point he had gladly taken the food Eli’s
whoring had bought us.
It was clear something lay behind this confrontational line. I think his
brotherhood of rebels had egged him on to confront her. Teach the little
slut a lesson. You do as we say or you’ll end up like you mother. Something
along those lines.
The time had come for him to prove his loyalty to the group. So that was
that reason why they hadn’t bothered Eli before – they had saved her for
something special.
It didn’t work out as Jax had planned.
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Eli just looked at him and her eyes went all black. No whites, no irises,
only solid, black orbs. I could feel the temperature in the room dropping
sharply.
My brother Jax pissed himself, and the fled the scene without looking
back.
That was the last thing I saw of him for a long while – a puddle of piss
steaming on the cold rockrete floor. I cherished that memory for a long
time.
With Jax out of the picture, I again brought up my proposal that we join
with Jons and the 57th. Eli looked at me for a long time. I wondered if I had
pushed her too far, too soon. That I might get the Jax treatment. But then
she suddenly smiled and it was agreed.
Since we still didn’t know when the 57th would move out we continued
with our daily lives. I hung around the Guardsmen and my sister spent her
days whoring. But I knew we lived on borrowed time, and I couldn’t wait to
be away.
--The Commissar had given orders that the regiment was to keep up the
pressure on the insurgents. There was clearly something big afoot and he
didn’t want to lose the initiative. Under no circumstance were the
insurgents to be allowed to consolidate under their new leader, or gain
greater control over the civilian population. The IGs were unusually tightlipped around me, but I caught heresy whispered on several occasions. One
time I overheard Sarge and Jons talking softly about something called the
‘Word of Light’. They shut up as soon as they became aware of my
presence. I was sure that asking around would cause trouble, so I put it out
of my mind and focused on my day to day activities.
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So the grunts were out on the streets again, looking to stir up some
trouble. Jons figured that my presence would antagonize the insurgents
even more, so he let me tag along. He didn’t want a replay of my earlier solo
foray, however. I wasn’t even allowed a gun. The rest of the K-company
veterans had pretty much the same loadout they had carried back when we
had gone searching for my mother. We also had reinforcements, bringing
our number up to twelve men – and one boy.
Jons had another Loian with him. I never got his name, but I through of
him as Hash, on account of his sergeant hashes. He wasn’t originally from
the 57th Lo, but from the disbanded 627th. The two of them made up our
scout-sniper element. Despite Hash’s superior rank it was Jons who called
the shots, and Hash who carried the long-range vox set.
The other seven newcomers were a mixed bunch. There was even a
woman, named Cresside. She was more of a man than most of the male
soldiers. She had been a Chimera gunner, back when her regiment still
existed. We had Ivo, who wasn’t really a Guardsman, but a PDF trooper
from some place called Hervara. He was what amounted to our medic. Next
came Ribaldo and Vincenzo, both men from the Lo 57th, Mike company.
Ribaldo was your archetypical rifleman. Vincenzo was a weapon specialist,
with a penchant for melta guns. From Luggnum there was Rat. It wasn’t his
real name of course, but everyone called him that, him included. The final
two were Owan and Lasar. Owen was a naval armsman turned
infantryman; his dear battlecruiser had been crippled over Protasia, and as
a result he had been reassigned to the Imperial Guard and handed a lasgun.
Lasar was a beef farmer from a shithole planet called Cyrus Vulpa, a place
whose only claim to fame is to be the place to herd grox. I had no idea how
he ended up in the Imperial Guard; he hadn’t been part of any official
mustering, that part was clear.
269
Anyway. The only thing we had in common was that everyone had
volunteered. Technically only Jons had volunteered at first. Sarge, Rovo,
and Mazzo had followed him, just like I knew they would. The other sniper
came along as a favour to Jons. The rest of the squad had stepped forward,
one after another. It wasn’t volunteering in the classical sense. More like a
feeling that their time was up. If they didn’t shoulder this one, they would
only be assigned to something worse down the line.
The special squad’s assignment was to walk around, look menacing, and
question the locals. Not too roughly, but none too gently either. Getting
noticed was the key, without making it too obvious we were the bait.
My own job was to stay out from underfoot as much as possible. I think I
managed that task pretty well.
As the day wore on we got deeper into indig territory. All of us could feel
the tension mounting. The calm before a storm and all that.
Snipers and road bombs were a very real danger. One of Jons’ drones
picked up one of the former before he had a chance to fire on us. Jons took
him out with a single long-range lasround to the head. We evaded three of
the latter with the aid of long experience and Mazzo, who was such a
brilliant auspex operator.
Eventually a group of insurgents tried to ambush us, but once again Jons
picked them up first. A brief firefight followed, but we were not there to
win, only to get their attention.
We fell back. We came under fire again, heavier this time. We fell back
again. Soon we were involved in a running battle with small groups of
insurgents. They knew the area better than we did, but we had a plan and
superior firepower.
Our only real casualty was Beef Farmer Lasar. He took a stray autogun
round to the shoulder. Fortunately for him the 57th Lo wears reinforced
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DARK OMEGA
combat vests, not the heavy ceramite type, but the triplex flak kind, which
probably saved his life. He lived, and could walk, but he couldn’t wield his
rifle anymore. Ivo gave him a few stimms to keep him going.
--By early afternoon we had been hounded all the way back to one of our
preplanned rendezvous locations. The insurgents were hot on our tails and
we needed to get into cover, recuperate, and organize a defence. We got a
brief breathing space after the insurgents had tried a quick rush of the
building, and been rebuked with lasfire and frag grenades.
The building Jons had picked for us had taken a few artillery rounds on
the middle floors and was thoroughly burned-out, but still structurally
sound. Before the war a local Commercia guild had operated out of the first
to third floors. The ground floor had held Thira’s most renowned
confectionery, and the upper three stories some semi-luxurious
apartments. None of that remained.
The important part was that it provided ample cover and concealment,
with little danger of additional fires. Moreover the building sat in a Yintersection, just where the Boulevard of Heroes branched to become the
Esplanade and the Champs-Thira. This gave our firebase a triangular shape,
which was to our advantage, given the limited manpower at our disposal.
Of the two buildings at our backs, one was a complete ruin and the other
one was structurally unsound. Chances were slim that the enemy would
come from that quarter.
Which in practice left us with two sides to cover; enemies that came
down the Boulevard would be in the open and visible to the defenders on
either side, until they were very close.
We had three CAS drones out and up. A fourth drone had lost anti-grav,
so Jons had concealed it among some rubble on the rooflet that covered the
271
main entrance. With Jons up on the sixth floor with the Eye we were pretty
well covered. From up there our two scout-snipers could spot anyone
approaching, and effectively fire from multiple preplanned positions. It also
gave Hash’s vox set better range.
Sarge put Mazzo and Rovo in charge of one fireteam each.
Mazzo got Cresside, Ivo, and Ribaldo. Cresside sported a bipod-mounted
support las. Not quite as powerful as Rovo’s multi, but much handier. Ivo
and Ribaldo brought their lasguns to the fight; Ivo the medic had compact
carbine type weapon, whereas Ribaldo sported a powerful hellgun pattern,
complete with a backpack-type power unit.
Rovo took Rat and Owan. Neither man had any special weapons nor
equipment, just their regulation lasguns, but Rovo’s multi-las meant the
three of them had at least as much firepower between them as Mazzo’s
four-man team.
The teams were stationed close to the leading edge of the building, on the
third and fourth floors respectively. Jons didn’t want both teams on the
same floor in case the enemy brought heavy weapons to the fight.
Mazzo’s team watched the Esplanade, Rovo’s the Champs. They would
fire singularly or together, moving from one side of the building to the
other as required to keep the enemy at bay.
Sarge was lurking, alongside Vincenzo and his melta gun, on the first
floor, just above the main stairwell. He’d set his explosive multi-charges
around the perimeter the main hall and the stairwell. When the first rush of
men came, they would trigger one or more of the charges. Sarge and
Vincenzo would then rough them up a bit with flechettes and melta blasts,
then retreat up a story. Sarge would active the next set of charges, then
repeat until the two of them reached the third floor.
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I was sitting on a bench with Beef Farmer Lasar, near the stairwell on the
third floor. The injured man was holding up well enough. He still had his
rifle, but since he was in position to use it, he was forced to reply on his
laspistol sidearm.
I was armed again. Jons had lent me his sliver pistol. Up top he had no
need for it. To me it looked a lot like a standard autopistol. Jons explained
that the difference was mostly inside, but didn’t go into details except to
explain it had low recoil and made minimal noise.
Lasar and I were to hold there until Sarge and Vincenzo came up.
Together we’d hold some more, to allow Mazzo’s team to reach the fourth
floor. Next we’d follow on their heels, and join forces to keep the assaulters
at bay. The idea was to hold the stairwell for as long as Roverto had ammo
remaining and was in a position to fire. If the situation became untenable
everyone would retreat all the way to the roof.
It was as good a plan as any.
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I got bored waiting in the stairwell. Lasar looked like he wasn’t going
anywhere, so I slipped up the stairs and up to the roof. The new sniper
didn’t look very pleased, but Jons waved me over and I slipped down next
to him.
“I remember hearing Sarge tell you to stay with Lasar in the stairwell,” he
whispered.
“New orders,” I said.
Jons just chuckled.
More men had gathered in the ruins around out location, close to two
hundred, according to Jons. He figured it had to represent the bulk of the
fighting men available to the Kiones. I think he was a bit surprised by the
large turnout. I had heard him and Sarge discussing enemy numbers
earlier, and Sarge believed the Kiones couldn’t have more than a hundred
men under their banner.
Gathering together like this would be a very bad course of action for
insurgents. It was by avoiding stand-up fights with the IG they had been
able to grow. They usually operated in small groups, struck from hiding,
and then faded away. They engaged in sniping and used improvised
explosives to make movement difficult for the Guard.
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But this wasn’t a normal situation. We had – again – taken a long good
piss at whatever authority Preacher Maxentius had managed to build up,
both with his own men and with the locals. If he didn’t act quickly and
decisively, neither his men nor anyone else, would ever take him seriously.
Jons eventually chased me off the roof. I wandered down the stairs again.
I checked on Lasar, but he’d fallen asleep. I went to check on Mazzo’s team.
They weren’t doing much except waiting. None of them wanted me around,
so I went back up to the fourth floor to see what Roverto was up to.
Rat and Owan had persuaded Roverto to make some improvised
barricades to protect their flanks and rear. Both men seemed convinced the
enemy would find an alternate route into the building and fall us in the
back. Roverto didn’t share their concerns, but had agreed to put the other
two at ease. They didn’t seem to mind my presence – Rat even called me
‘his little canary’ – so I curled up behind one of the barricades and fell
asleep.
--They came at us right before dusk. Whatever passed for their officers
must not have believed them to be sufficiently skilled to carry out a
coordinated night-time strike. They compensated for the lack of darkness
with a liberal dose of suppressive fire and home-made smoke bombs, plus a
fully functional Chimera. I wondered where they’d scrounged it up from; it
looked well maintained and still had its Imperial Guard markings intact.
The presence of an armoured vehicle was an added complication. The
enemy infantry could advance in relative safety behind the Chimera’s
heavily armoured body, while the vehicle’s multilas provided accurate
covering fire. I knew from personal experience just how dangerous such a
weapon could be. The one mounted on the Chimera was even more potent
than the one Rovo lugged about. It had superior rate of fire and higher
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energy output. Plus it had an effectively unlimited ammo supply; it drew
power from huge energy stacks that were, in turn, recharged by the
Chimera’s powerful engine.
The vehicle got to about eighty meters from the main entrance before
Mazzo managed to put a missile into it. The Chimera survived the hit –
damnably resilient machines Chimeras are – and started peppering the
upper stories with lasfire. Mazzo’s fireteam relocated to the other side of
the building and he tried again. This time he went for the gun cupola rather
than the main body. The missile struck true, and the gun fell silent. The
Chimera continued to lumber forward, but at least we didn’t have to worry
about the multi anymore.
I backed away from my observation post, scurried over to the stairwell,
and went down to check on Lasar. He was awake, but seemed a little
unfocused.
Down on the ground floor I could hear the first directional charges going
off. There were sounds of automatic shotgun and autogun fire, interspersed
with more irregular booms whenever Vincenzo fired his melta gun. Sarge
had placed his charges well, and for a few confusing minutes the first
enemy push was halted in the entrance hall.
Lasar looked at me encouragingly. “It’ll be all right kid. They are just
where we want them.”
I could see he was in pain; his eyes were kind of hazy and his skin looked
feverish. “I know,” I replied curtly.
I dug out his canteen for him and made him take a sip.
“Thanks, kid,” he said and handed back the canteen. “I’m just a little tired,
is all.”
“Fuck tired,” I replied. “Soon those assholes will be coming up those
stairs. We gonna need that pistol of yours.”
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“I guess you’re right,” he began. He shook his head a bit to clear his mind,
and then prodded around his trauma pouch for a while. “Go find Ivo, see if
he has some more stimms. I’m all out,” he concluded.
I spun around and headed for Ivo’s position.
‘“Friendly,” I screamed at the top of my lungs, “coming through!”
None of the soldiers turned to look at me. They kept their eyes on the
enemy and their hands on their guns. Now that the Chimaera’s gun had
been taken out they were able to fire to good effect at targets in the streets
below.
I skidded over to Ivo. “Lasar needs stimms,” I shouted.
“Right back pocket, green auto-syringes,” he shouted back at me,
continuing to fire all the while.
I grabbed two and closed the pouch after me. I didn’t get more than two
meters before something exploded inside and adjoining room. The force of
the blast was considerable. I was thrown to the floor, and my ears began
ringing like crazy.
When I got my breath back I twisted and looked around. Ivo was down,
but like me he had been shield from the brunt of the blast by a low wall.
Ribaldo wasn’t as fortunate. He lay there, motionless, covered in dust
specked with red. Several of his limbs looked like they had acquired new
joints. I was sure he was dead, until I heard him moan.
Mazzo appeared from somewhere. “Get the fuck out!” he shouted at me.
So I did. I got up and ran crouched for the stairwell. Behind me I could hear
him shouting to the rest of the fireteam, for Ivo to help him drag Ribaldo
and for Cresside to keep firing.
Having tested and breached our defences, the enemy launched several
consecutive waves of attackers across the Esplanade and the Champs. They
were fairly well organized and quick about it. There was no way we could
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hold so many of them back. Any attempt to fire at them was met by
volumes of suppressive fire, including a multiple-launch missile system, the
very one that had just screwed fireteam Mazzo.
I got back to Lasar. He lay there, slumped on the bench where I had left
him. He was dead. I couldn’t figure out how he’d died. Maybe he had been
hit by something? Maybe his injuries had been more severe than we had
believed? I shrugged and put the stimms in my satchel.
While I was standing there, undecided, Mazzo and Ivo appeared,
dragging Ribaldo after them. Cresside was not with them, and I realized her
gun had fallen silent. That didn’t bode well for our female gunner.
“What happened,” Mazzo asked me, indicating Lasar’ body.
Ivo briefly checked Lasar for lifesigns, but found none.
“I dunno,” I said. “He was lying like that when I got back.”
Ivo bent down to examine Ribaldo.
“Too bad,” Mazzo replied, “we also lost the bitch. Got her ugly face blown
off by a sniper – I think Jons got him in return though. And Ribaldo here is
looking none too good.”
“Actually,” Ivo interjected, “he’s not as badly wounded as I feared. He’s
got a broken arm and two broken legs, but his vital signs are decent, so I
think he’s voided serious internal injury.”
“Well, keep him sedated then,” Mazzo replied. “We’ll drag him upstairs.
He can be evacuated from the roof – if we survive this.”
Ivo grabbed a blue syringe from his medicae kit and pressed it against
Ribaldo’s neck. Then both men took hold of the unconscious soldier’s
webbing and made ready to drag him up to the 4th floor.
“You wanna be useful kid?” Mazzo said while hunched over Ribaldo’s
body.
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I looked over at him and was immediately pinned by his gaze. “Sure,” I
said, somewhat reluctantly.
“Then get your tiny little ass down to Sarge and tell him to get his big fat
ass up to the fourth. You got that?” he asked for good measure.
I nodded, rechecked Jons’ sliver pistol, and ran down the stairs.
--“I realize you were bait, but two hundred heavily armed men, out for
revenge, against one squad of Guardsmen…that’s long odds.”
“Very long,” Haxtes agrees. “Even with our preparations it was long odds,
and that’s before taking the multi-launcher and the Chimera into account.”
“Pardon me for questioning the Guard commander’s tactics, but it seems
to me there must be better ways of getting rid of these insurgents,” you
continue.
Haxtes shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. If we wanted to deal with them,
decisively, we had to draw them out. Make them feel confident enough that
they would gather together. Otherwise the 57th Lo would never have been
able to destroy them. Hurt them, yes. Destroy, no. In fact, with their new
leader and a few small victories under their belt they would only have
grown stronger. This was the only way.”
“If you say so,” you say, sounding doubtful.
“Fortunately we had a plan,” Haxtes replies drily.
--Now that the enemy had fully committed himself the rain began. Not an
ordinary rain, but a rain of anti-personnel submunitions, scattered by cargo
shells bursting overhead. Commissar Joaquin had sent Major Burness over
to the 10th Laskin Artillery to coordinate. Now they were conducting a fire
mission with their Basilisk batteries on our behalf, Jons acting as a spotter
and Hash voxing in corrections.
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Those of the enemy out on the Esplanade suffered horribly, but those on
the Champs fared a little better, on account of having more cover relative to
the trajectory of the incoming shells.
The survivors from both streets quickly crossed the remaining distance
and got into the relative safety out the building. They joined the squads that
were already struggling to get past Sarge and his explosives. It was
impossible to say exactly how many were inside the building, but I guessed
there might be somewhere between six and eight squads. Meaning it was
now nine men and one boy against sixty or so enemies.
Plus the enemy had at least two squads providing covering fire on each
side of the building. They packed a handful of heavy support autos, which
were a lot more powerful than anything we had, except Rovo’s gun. The
only saving grace was that the damned missile launcher had fallen silent. I
was certain our snipers were responsible for that blessing.
Better odds than before, but still pretty badly stacked against us.
Sarge and Vincenzo had backed up to the first floor after the first
firefight. Coming down from the third floor I caught them beating a hasty
retreat up to the second floor.
Sarge was dusty and covered in soot, but otherwise looked fine. His
weapon smelled strongly of burnt propellant. I vividly recalled the two
insurgents I had seen torn to shreds the last time I had seen the weapon in
action.
Vincenzo was covering the stairwell, but no enemies appeared. Suddenly
there was movement, almost too fast for the eye to follow. Vincenzo
shouted, “ripper drones!” then fired his melta gun in the wide dispersal
mode.
A dozen or so thumb-sized drones were vaporized by the blast, but he
hadn’t caught all of them. The rest of the swarm came racing for us.
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Vincenzo managed another shot before they were upon him, but a good
handful avoided the blast and sliced into his body. He didn’t so much
scream as gurgle.
Sarge shoved me out of the way and towards the stairs. As I scrambled to
get away from the razor-sharp drones, he stood there, calm as a rock,
swatting the few remaining drones with his shotgun as they tried to chew
him up. Sarge got some superficial cuts, and his shotgun came away with
two drones bored into the stock, but he didn’t look seriously injured.
We hauled ass up to the fourth floor. Mazzo and Ivo had come through
already, on their way to the roof with Ribaldo. Sarge lobbed his last charge
– held in reserve for just such an occasion – down the stairwell. There was
a loud satisfying bang, followed by even more satisfying screams of pain.
Rovo’s team – all of them were still alive at this point – joined us in the
stairwell, and we made a fighting withdrawal up to the fifth floor.
Guardsman First Class Roverto deftly used the gun-mount’s servo-arm and
suspensors to full effect, covering us every step of the way without slowing
us down noticeably. The enemy seemed extremely reluctant to come after
us as long as the lascannon had power remaining.
But all clips eventually run dry, and Rovo was forced to discard his main
weapon and rely on his hand cannon. A useful self-defence weapon to be
sure, but nothing like the multi in terms of firepower. Mazzo and Ivo
returned from their trip to the roof, tipping the power balance in our
favour. The enemy renewed their assault, but we held them off.
There was a lull in the fighting. Rat and Owan were convinced the enemy
was working their way around our position. It seemed a reasonable
assumption, so Mazzo ordered the two men to watch the flanks.
Lo and behold – no pun intended – the insurgents made a three-pronged
attack on our position, from the stairwell and from our own floor. They had
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indeed found an alternate route up. Owan fell back to join the rest of us, but
Rat was cut off by the enemy.
We had no choice. We had to retreat once more, up to the sixth and final
floor. On the way up I shot a particularly eager fellow who tried to throw as
sticky-grenade after us. The sliver pistol wasn’t quite as powerful as my
late autopistol, but it was exceptionally accurate. I purposefully shot him in
the arm, foiling his throw. The sticky went off at the poor fellow’s feet. He
screamed for a while, until blood loss from his missing legs silenced him. To
me his screams felt soothing.
Jons joined us shortly thereafter. There was nothing for him to do on the
roof. His sniper buddy was up there, manning the vox and keeping an eye
on Ribaldo. Together the rest of us would hold the sixth floor until the
enemy gave up, or we were all dead.
Below us we could hear the insurgents gathering strength for a final
push. When the offensive came it was short lived. Mazzo launched his
second-to-last grenade down the stairwell – the last being the traditional
starshell – and to our relief it turned out to be a real plasma grenade, rather
than the prophesized confetti.
It filled the entire area with hellish fire. Those that didn’t die suffered
horrible burn wounds or were set on fire. Some of them screamed for a
long time. The sounds were sweet in my ears.
--My penchant for the screams of the wounded and dying aside: A great
cacophony of wind and dust followed in the wake of all this screaming. The
Valkyries were here. With heavy bolters pouring out a steady stream of fire
to keep any insurgents from popping shots at them, they deposited their
precious cargo of Guardsmen on the rooftop before peeling off. Now the
remaining insurgents, probably no more than thirty or forty of them, faced
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twice that number of heavily armed, veteran Guardsmen. The balance of
power had shifted entirely in our favour.
The insurgents providing cover from hiding places in the surrounding
cityscape fared no better. Heavily armoured Chimeras, bristling with guns
and loaded with the remaining men of the 57th Lo, came racing in to close
the trap.
I was told the enemy put up an unusually spirited, almost fanatical, fight.
Only when faced with two promethium-spitting Chimera variants they had
finally lost heart, tried to flee, and run right into the men of November and
Lima companies, who had been deployed to counter just such an
eventuality. And, like I said, you can’t dodge or outrun lasfire.
The insurgents trapped inside the building with us proved equally
resilient. They put up a very spirited, if a little unpolished fight, keeping it
going until they ran out of space and ammunition. We only got six of them
alive, including their leader, the preacher I had so vividly seen directing the
abuse of my mother.
We had learned the name of our enemy a few weeks prior: Preacher
Maxentius. What little intelligence the 57th had on him indicated he had
wandered in from the wilds one day, and immediately set about organizing
a resistance movement in Thira.
My squadmates and I did not participate in the final clean-up. I guess you
could say that we were generally just worn out and beat up. Rovo was out
of ammo, but uninjured. Sarge had taken a nasty shrapnel wound to the
scalp – his mates helpfully pointed out it could have been avoided by
wearing a helmet – plus he had lots of cuts and bruises. Mazzo had been hit
several times. He wasn’t seriously injured, but not exactly fit for another
running battle. Ivo was pretty much in one piece, but busy vomiting his
guts out. It was his way of coping with the downer that follows an
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adrenaline high. Ribaldo was doing good, all things considered. He got
airlifted out once the enemy had been neutralized. Jons, Owan, and the
other sniper weren’t injured at all, and all three of them looked surprisingly
fit, all things considered. The medics recovered the bodies of Vincenzo,
Cresside, and poor Lasar. The big surprise was Rat; he was found all the
way down on the second floor, severely injured, but still alive. For my own
part I was uninjured. I had a few scrapes, but that was all. I was also feeling
the aftereffects of too much adrenalin; it made me shake like a leaf, but I
didn’t puke.
When we got down to the ground the Commissar was there, in his tall
black cap and black flak stormcoat. He ordered five of the insurgents flayed
on the spot. When the screaming died down, they were hung from light
posts in the streets outside as a reminder to other potential insurgents:
This is what happens to those that raise arms against the Imperium.
Arrayed so they looked eerily similar to Mother.
Commissar Joaquin looked down at me, then over at the preacher who
was being held down by two IGs. “This is the man responsible for your
mother’s torture and subsequent death. He is also a rebel and a traitor to
the God-Emperor of Mankind. There can only be one punishment for that.
You may carry out the sentence.”
And with that he pulled out his bolt pistol, removed the magazine,
leaving only a single shell in the launch chamber, and handed me the
weapon.
I looked at the gun. I looked at the Commissar. He looked right back at
me. I realized with a start that he knew. He knew I blamed him. He knew I
had vengeance in my heart. That’s why he gave me a pistol with a single
shot. Take your shot boy, his eyes were saying, make it count. Do it now, or
forever keep your peace.
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I looked at Jons. Then I looked at the preacher. He had long since stopped
screaming obscenities about the false, Corpse-God Emperor; the IGs had
simply smashed his head into the ground until he shut up. I looked at the
red ruin that was the man’s face. I looked into his eyes, returning hate for
hate. I looked at the gun again; I’d scraped up my arm again and red
droplets were oozing down my fingers, smearing Joaquin’s immaculately
polished weapon.
I whipped the gun up and around, and shot the preacher squarely
between the eyes. The distance was only five paces, but it was still a nice
shot. His head exploded like an overripe fruit in a spray of brains, bone,
blood, and gore.
The Commissar retrieved his bolt pistol. The preacher’s headless corpse
was strung up with the rest of the insurgents. “Another fine victory for the
Emperor, another laurel for the 57th. Gather up, were moving out in fifteen
minutes.”
--Jons had a few words with Commissar Joaquin, then came over and took
me aside. “We’re returning to the compound now. Your mother is dead and
I’m sorry for that, but she has a grave, and vengeance has well and truly
been served. Go to your sister and wait for me there. My offer still stands;
the Commissar has given the go.”
I tried to speak, but I couldn’t find the words, so I just nodded. I could
still feel that bolt pistol in my hand. The weight of it. The kick when the bolt
fired. The majestic effect in the target. There are weapons far more
advanced and deadly, but there is something about the bolter that appeals
to me. I’ve always strived hard never to be without at least one bolt pistol –
preferably two.
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“Now get going, you don’t want to be hanging around here. Keep the
sliver for protection. I can have it back when we move.”
I considered giving Jons a hug, just to seal the deal so to speak. But I’ve
never been good at hugging, so I dropped the idea. Maybe it would also be
too much, too soon. So instead I turned and started walking towards home.
That the Commissar suspected my true feelings was troubling, but I had
obviously weathered that one. I needed to be more careful in the future. I
clearly wasn’t as good an actor as I had believed.
But what really gnawed was the fact that I hadn’t seen Jax among the
dead. The Kiones insurgents had been wiped out, but there was no sign of
my brother. Some of the corpses had been too badly damaged or burnt to
be recognizable, but still…I knew in my heart Jax was still alive. Had he not
been trusted to take part in the attack? Or had he been present but
somehow survived? I suspected the latter was the case. Abaddon be
damned!
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GOODBYES
“You call that the short version?”
Haxtes sighs and leans back. “You’re quite the nagging bitch, Interrogator
Marcus. That was the short version. The long version had lots of additional
emotional content, dialogue, and last, but not least, foreshadowing of
momentous events to come.”
“I think I’ll manage without,” you reply. “Now, get on with the story, and
for the love of the God-Emperor, skip ahead to something worthwhile.”
“So you do concede that it is I that decide what’s worthwhile and not?
Remarkably clear-sighted of you Interrogator Marcus,” Haxtes says.
That’s not exactly what you meant. “I…”
Some unseen force grabs at your throat without warning. You can’t
breathe, let alone speak. The pressure increases, threatening to do much
worse that throttle: More of this and your windpipe will be crushed.
You lash out mentally at the only possible source of this sudden attack;
Haxtes Guilliman. He deflects most of the psychic force, but you distract
him sufficiently to break free of his telekinetic grip.
He tries to grab at you again. You’re no telekine, but you know how to
fight force with fire. Whatever physical force he applies to you will be
returned onto him twofold as heat.
He lets go of you.
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Haxtes lifts his hands, not in apology, but as an offer of truce. “Relax. I
meant you no harm. I just needed to test you a little.”
Your throat is still raw. “Relax?” you croak. “You just attacked an agent of
the Inquisition. Swift retribution is required!”
“Well, yes, I believe I just did,” Haxtes spits back at you. “Attacked an
agent operating without the blessings of the Ordos that is. An agent toying
with the thin line between illumination and heresy. Don’t get cute with me
Marcus. We both know you shouldn’t be here. And we both know you will
be tested. Be happy – you passed!”
You’re still outraged. “If you try a stunt like that again I will retaliate,
damage to the tome be damned.”
“And risk the wrath of your precious master? I think not,” he says
mockingly. “If we’re quite done, I’ll resume.”
“We are. For now. But we’ll stay at a superficial immersion level.”
“As you wish,” Haxtes says, and the simulation resumes.
--“I didn’t meet up with Jons again,” Haxtes adds, “nor any of the other
men of Kilo company.” He does his beard-scratching thing. “Fate – or the
gods – conspired against me once more.”
“Go on,” you say, genuinely intrigued for once.
“I kept a low profile over the next few days, staying mostly indoors and
only going out at night. Stayed away from my usual haunts, the 57th
compound included.”
“Waiting for the word from Jons,” you add.
“Yes, but things do not always turn out as expected,” Haxtes says
solemnly. “One very early morning – the sun was nowhere near up, just
barely hinting at dawn – I was ambushed by a group of my fellow
Protasians, while on my way back to the apartment.”
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You suppress a snicker. “The great Haxtes, ambushed?”
Haxtes nods. “Indeed. I had been careful, but not careful enough. Simply
put I had succumbed to overconfidence, to hubris. I believed myself
victorious and the Kiones destroyed. My cautiousness was only skin deep. I
should have known better. I knew that my brother was alive; common
sense dictated he was not the only one remaining. There are always
survivors, always a seed of heresy remaining.”
“They were out seeking vengeance. And of course they knew where you
lived,” you interject.
“That they did. I blamed Jax. That goes without saying. But truth be told
they hardly needed him to locate me.”
“So Jax wasn’t with your ambushers?” you ask.
“Oh, I didn’t say that. I just made a note that even without Jax they could
have gotten to me,” Haxtes says, draining his drink.
“So he was there then. I guess that vindicated all the bad blood between
the two of you,” you observe drily.
“Oh yes. Like Space Wolves over Prospero,” Haxtes says, making an
oblique reference to one of the monumental events of the Horus Heresy.
“So, what happened? How did you survive?” you ask.
“Through no skill or trick of my own. They roughed me up pretty good. I
was stealthy and quick and all that, but I was only nine and not much of a
fist fighter. I was barely clinging to consciousness and utterly unable to
defend myself. I had cracked and broken ribs and internal bleedings and
whatnot. And the outside was a tapestry of bruises, scrapes, and cuts.”
“And?” you interject, just to interrupt his session of self-pity.
Haxtes, slightly annoyed. “I’m trying to build some tension here…but
whatever. And; my sister appears.”
“I thought as much,” you add.
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“I still remember her slender figure, her dark hair tousled by a soft
breeze that touched no one else. She stood there and looked at us and I felt
my tormentors’ determination drain away. Jax was the first to run. The
others followed suit quickly enough.”
“Your sister, why didn’t they just take her down as well?” you ask, but
you already know the answer.
“Because of the sweetness between her legs? Guilt over what had been
done to her mother? Because of her very dark and eldritch eyes? Or the
primeval fear that only proximity to the Warp can conjure?”
He gives you a quizzical look, egging your to reply. But you’re
determined to leave the majority of the talking to him. Maybe a few
interruptions, just to spite him.
“Yes, answer number four is the right one. Jax was already susceptible to
her mental influence. When he panicked, the morale of the other men
broke. Simple as that,” Haxtes finishes.
You ignore his attempt to mock your deductive powers. “So, your sister
was evolving into a right little mind-witch,” that’s not a question, “one of
the types of rogue psyker known to be the most susceptible to corruption –
and possession.” You know this from bitter experience.
“Mind-witch? Take a good look at yourself Marcus,” Haxtes say
derisively, “and then tell me who the mind-witch is. Mind-raping that poor
librarian like that…”
You give him a dead look in return.
--Inside your mental fortress you start re-examining your mental
architecture. Clearly he’s read your thoughts again. There, you’ve spotted
the chink in your armour: A slight flaw allowing remote observation of
unarchived memories. The sneaky git!
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DARK OMEGA
Well, it won’t happen again. You’ve plugged the gap. But you’ve also
learned a lesson; you need to constantly monitor and re-evaluate your
mental architecture and psychic defences. Just setting up something static
and trusting it to hold won’t work against the tome, no matter how fool
proof the setup might seem. You need to be more agile, adapt before the
tome can even locate your weaknesses.
--“My sister’s fortunate arrival – she admitted to having dreamt of my
death, so we’ll call it premonition, sounds much more heroic that way –
saved me. She took me back to the apartment and cared for me. Worked
double shifts so to speak, to get the medical supplies I needed.”
“That was…nice of her,” you admit.
“It was. Which highlighted her later betrayal all the more,” Haxtes adds
drily. “For days I was delirious. When I came around it was weeks before
my body worked properly. I didn’t have time to wait. I had this bad feeling
in my gut. I had to check in with the 57th.”
“Premonition or just heavy bruising?” you try to crack a joke, but get no
response.
“I raced down to the compound, but found it deserted. The 57th had
packed up and left. Very recently by my aestimate. I wandered the ruins of
Thira without purpose until well after dark. Eventually I found myself back
at the flat. It was empty. Eli too had abandoned me.”
“She went with the 57th, didn’t she?” you say.
Haxtes leans back, folding his hands in his lap. “She did. It’s one of the
more ironic moments of my life: Even as I ran to the compound by the
south route, an armoured car had left the main column heading north, and
driven into the indig zone to pick me up. They found only my sister, so they
took her with them, leaving their brother in arms behind.”
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“How sad,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Thank you,” Haxtes replies, “for your touching concern Marcus. You are
a true champion of humanity.”
You make your mouth smile, in stiff Haxtes-fashion. “You’re welcome.”
You’re not going to let him charm his way out of this that quickly. “And I
suppose you put the blame for this where it belonged.”
Haxtes grins right back at you. “Well of course I did! It was Jax’ fault first
and foremost. I also had this splendid paranoid theory about how Eli and
Jons had plotted behind my back. Jons had even left Nix behind to torment
me a little extra. Everything according to Commissar Joaquin’s orders of
course.”
He helps himself to more amasec. “Took me a while to realize nothing of
the sort had transpired. Quite the contrary. The Commissar suspected I was
a bit flaky, but was still willing to let me come, since I had passed his little
test. Jons genuinely regretted not finding me. And my sister Eli…well, she
wasn’t quite right in the head, so I can’t blame her for plodding along. It
was what we had agreed to after all. Jons had left the dawg behind, but not
out of ill will – he left it there because he knew I would need a companion.”
Your grin widens. “Just pure bad luck then? That really is ironic.”
Haxtes’ gaze turns inwards and his mien become contemplative, troubled
even. An uncommon display of emotion. Real or fake? You cannot tell for
sure.
“Certainly bad, but I wouldn’t call it pure. Not by any stretch of the
imagination.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, not quite following.
“Do you believe in luck Marcus? Or do you believe in predestination and
the omnipotence of the God-Emperor?”
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DARK OMEGA
“I do believe in the divinity of the God-Emperor. And I do believe in
Ascension – the ultimate victory of Mankind. But I’ve seen too much of
what the galaxy has to offer, to believe that every little thing is predestined.
Whether you call it luck or Chaos or something else is immaterial – there is
an element of chance involved in all things.”
Haxtes nods sagely. “And you also know of the existence of the spirits of
the Aether – including the Daemons of Chaos. You might not like speaking
of them openly, but you’ve already confirmed as much.”
You remain impassive. “And this relates to your situation exactly how? A
daemon hexed you with bad luck?” you say mockingly.
Haxtes shrugs. “You’re the prodigal interrogator. You draw your own
conclusions.”
Nix the canine steps out of the darkness and circles the table.
“I was alone in the world for the first time. Alone for real. That really
rattled my remaining bones. For good or bad I took one giant step towards
the man I would later become. Haxtes Guilliman, alone against the galaxy.”
“But you weren’t alone, the canine was there. Jons left him behind,
hoping the animal would keep you sane,” you say. It’s half question, half
statement.
Haxtes continues, unfazed. “I gathered up my few belongings, called Nix
over, and stabbed him in the heart with a Protasian-issue service blade.”
In a re-enactment of the real event Haxtes calls the canine mirage over
and stabs it in the jugular with an unpowered blade. The beast makes no
sound of protest. It takes a while to die, leaving a growing pool of blood
under the table.
You didn’t see that one coming. “You killed you canine? What for? He was
your last remaining companion!”
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“And that was the reason. He was the last living thing I had any
connection to. So I killed him in a pretty insane attempt to spare myself any
further agony. And as I said; in doing so I came a lot closer to becoming
me.”
A measure of enlightenment reaches your mind. “Jax. It was Jax’ dog.
That’s how you rationalized it at the time. I’m right, am I not?”
“Maybe you are Marcus, maybe you are.” Haxtes finishes his glass. “He
was a good dawg. If anything of him had remained to me I might have had
him cloned. Or maybe not, I’m not too fond of clones.”
For a moment you’re actually tempted to dive back into the simulation
just to escape the Haxtes persona. By the Throne he can be vexing at times!
“From your statements I take it you have some knowledge of what
happened to the men of the 57th, even though you didn’t meet up as
planned?” you say, feigning patience.
Haxtes nods. “Indeed I do. For a time I contemplated going after the 57th
to exact my vengeance. But I didn’t know where they had gone. Nor did I
have the resources required to cross a war-torn world. Thira was a
dangerous place, but it was a place of known dangers. I had no idea what
awaited beyond, nor the means of securing sustenance once I left the city
premises.”
“Then how did you learn? A psychic trick?” you say sarcastically. “More
psychometry?”
Haxtes gives you a disapproving look. “Perhaps I went looking for them
on my own, years later, looking to dip my right hand in their lifeblood, but
finding them all long dead, I learned their stories instead? Or maybe, when I
had become a sworn agent of the Inquisition, I used quite a bit of resources
to gather intelligence on my former family members and Imperial Guard
comrades?”
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DARK OMEGA
Once again you’re taken somewhat aback. “You mean you abused the
powers invested in you by the God-Emperor for your own personal
reasons? That you diverted resources away from hunting heretics, towards
personal gratification?”
Haxtes grins, wide and predatory. “I knew you would say that Marcus.
You’re getting predictable.”
You give him a disapproving look of your own. “How clever of you to
predict I would be put off by the heretical abuse of the trust given us by the
God-Emperor. No wonder you made Interrogator rank Haxtes!”
Haxtes smiles sardonically while pouring himself yet another drink. “Just
like you and your shadowy master are diverting from true service to selfish
gratification in the pursuit of this tome.”
He gives you a telekinetic poke. Not an attack, just a reminder that he’s
no more pleased with you that you with him. “Now shut up and let me
finish.”
You oblige him this time.
Haxtes launches into a lengthy monologue. “Sarge went on to become an
upstanding member of his community, and eventually accepted a
commission as a high-ranking officer in the local PDF. Many years later he
volunteered to be assigned as the Colonel of the Protasian 1st Infantry,
shipping out that place they call the Jericho Reach.”
Images of Sarge in a colonel’s dress uniform flashes by.
“Mazzo avoided a return to a life of crime. Instead he did the next best
thing, setting himself up as one of the first attorneys at law in his new
hometown. His forceful personality and big mouth served him very well
indeed. As did his ability to make shadowy deals when appropriate and
apply violence when all else failed. He became quite wealthy and was
eventually appointed mayor of his new hometown.”
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A life of crime replaced by a life of law – how oddly similar they seem
when presented thus.
“Roverto settled on an abandoned farm. He wasn’t much of a farmer, but
his mechanical and metal-working skills made him a natural go-to for
technical aid. With money lent him by Mazzo he set up a small
manufactorum that eventually supplied the entire region with agrimachines and constructo-engines.”
Apparently those machines included a range of engines designed to help
clean up the devastated Protasian environment. You wonder where they
got the templates.
“Jons married my dear little sister, and by all accounts treated her very
well indeed. There may even have been love involved, for the both of them.
Unfortunately Eli was her mother’s daughter. And for the same reasons my
father had become alienated, so too did Jons become estranged from his
young wife. One night she left him without saying goodbye. Rather than
remaining at home, heartbroken and alone with two small children, Jons
chose to join his old sergeant for one final campaign. He was not seen or
heard from again. Their two children were adopted by Roverto.”
Jons’ apparition, now an officer in scout-sniper gear, moves to stand next
to the Colonel. Eli’s images fades away and the two small kids turn and
walk towards where Roverto is standing, talking to Mazzo.
“Commissar Joaquin I met again under very different circumstances on a
far-away world; as a member of the Commissariat the right of settlement
didn’t extend to him.”
“How very clever of you Haxtes; your statement that you never met the
men of the 57th remains true because Joaquin wasn’t part of the regiment.
He was Commissariat.” You get a semi-playful wink as a reward. “Tell me,
did you kill him when you got a second chance?” you ask.
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DARK OMEGA
“Kill him? Why would I kill him? He had offered me a chance at
vengeance and I had passed it over. There was no ill will between the two
of us after that. I don’t kill random people. Except when collateral is
unavoidable.”
If Haxtes has a code of honour you’ve yet to understand it. “And Jax, did
you learn what became of him?” you add.
“I certainly looked for him, if that’s what you mean. But I couldn’t find
him myself and my other inquires led equally nowhere. So I had to
conclude: Jax was gone from Thira.”
“So you never saw him again either? Or did you send acolytes after him
too?”
“I didn’t have to send anyone after him. He landed in my lap, but that’s a
story for another time.”
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INTERLUDE
THE WORD
The man posing as Preacher Molevoch had found Thira to his liking. The
city had been spared the worst atrocities. Many buildings were still
standing, utilities were – partially – in working order, and the city retained
a substantial population. Not as many as it had during the pre-war years,
but there were still a couple million people eking out a living without the
boundaries of Thira. Moreover the Imperial Guard units garrisoning the
place were of the civilized kind. They kept the peace with a minimum of
bloodshed. A good place to build a congregation.
Thira was also blessedly free of competition. Both the Adeptus
Ministorum and the Inquisition had been through the area already. Wiped
clean the slate, so to speak. They had identified the local congregation and
wiped it out – to the last man, woman, and child. That was very uncommon,
to say the least. Could they have apprehended the Deacon of Thira alive and
made him talk? It sounded unlikely, but how else had they been able to root
out the Brethren so thoroughly?
It mattered not. The Ministorum confessors and their whores, the Sisters
of Battle, the Adeptus Sororitas, were gone. The same with the damned
Inquisition. The massive field office the Holy Ordos had maintained in Thira
was little more than an empty shell now, manned by a token staff under the
command of some nameless interrogator. They cared nothing for Protasian
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DARK OMEGA
insurgents – as long as no mention of the Word and the Will was made,
there would be no trouble coming from that quarter. All he had to do was
keep under their auspex for a few years, build up his follower base in the
shadows, wait for them to leave completely, and then expand.
No, he didn’t worry about the Ministorum or the Inquisition. The real
wild card was Verrigan. What would the First Minister do when he took his
seat of power? Hopefully not run amok; it would hurt his congregation and
there was a chance the Inquisition would come rushing back to check up on
things. Unfortunately there was no way knowing what the First Minister
would do beforehand. Molevoch could only pray to the True Gods – and
offer them rich sacrifices to appease their eternal hunger.
--Following his conversion of a handful of guardsmen from the 2nd
Battalion, 1013th Thical Infantry, he had adopted an alternate identity, one
more conductive to gaining the trust of the Protasian survivors. Gaining a
new identity had become imperative once he learned that the current
garrison of Imperial Guards would soon be redeployed away from Thira. To
the Guardsmen from Thical he was still Reverend Molevoch, but to the
Protasians he was Preacher Maxentius, a wandering churchman of their
own blood, carried to Thira on the tides of war.
Preacher Maxentius wasn’t based upon a real person like Molevoch was.
He was just a persona conjured up for the occasion. He looked the same as
Molevoch, but his speech and mannerisms marked him as a Protasian.
Acting his part demanded little effort, much less than playing Molevoch.
The preacher was, after all, Protasian born and bred.
As Maxentius he’d roamed the city and quickly gained converts in the
indig zones. Thousands of converts, in just a few short months. The
desperate and the downtrodden were such easy prey, so eager to grasp at
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INTERLUDE THE WORD
just the slightest glimmer of hope. He was sure he could have built quite the
following, even without the power of the Word infusing his sermons and
the judicious application of sorcery to overcome any remaining resistance.
Only some of the converts had yet been fully exposed to the Word, and
made into true Brethren. More would follow, until his congregation was
strong and numerous once more. The rest of his Thiran adherents made up
an outer circle of followers, whose purpose was to provide the inner circle
with resources, and to provide a layer of obfuscation. If the Imperium cared
to look they would see only some insurgents, and fail to spot Preacher
Maxentius spreading the Word of Light.
--Trouble had come from an unexpected direction. Not from the
Ministorum. Not from the Inquisition. Not even from First Minister
Verrigan. It was elements of the Imperial Guard garrison that had chosen to
interfere with his growing following in the Indig Zone.
He’d tried dealing with them, but it had all gone to shit. Despite having a
force of more than two hundred heavily armed and highly motivated
Brethren cult troops, he had failed. The Guardsmen had tricked him,
painted him into a corner, and then nearly wiped out his warriors and
subalterns.
It was the closest to true death the preacher had been for nearly three
hundred years. Not since his pre-Deacon years had he been in such mortal
peril. He found himself trapped inside a ruined building, with a superior
enemy force converging on his position from multiple directions. He was
there, helpless to intervene, as the last survivors of his Brethren warrior
fraternity were overwhelmed. Six had been taken alive, Preacher Maxentius
included.
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DARK OMEGA
He had been forced to call upon one of his oldest and darkest pacts. Even
as the Guardsmen had dragged him kicking and screaming into the dusty
streets of Thira he had called, and the darkness had answered.
“You will bring me a name, mortal,” the darkness had spoken into his
mind. “It shall be that name which is both thine and mine, that name which
defines the both of us, the name that rings True. This name you will know, and
when you know it, you will offer it up to me, and your debt shall be considered
repaid in full.”
The price the darkness demanded was high indeed, but for once he had
no leverage with which to bargain. He’d watched as the captured Brethren
were flayed alive and suspended from roadside lampposts to die. He could
only agree to the daemons demands.
The darkness had latched onto his soul with fanged tentacles and torn it
from his body. It had done with same with one of the enemy soldiers, a man
who had been very clever with the skinning knife. Using the infernal
powers at its disposal, the darkness had soul-shifted him into the body of
the Guardsman, and vice versa. It was a painful, disorienting experience,
but still much preferable to being killed.
And none too soon. He’d watched from his new body as the stern faced
Commissar of the 57th Lo had ordered some local kid to carry out the
execution of the body that had once belonged to a Deacon of the Word.
It was beyond demeaning.
--Secure inside his new flesh he’d followed the Guardsmen back to their
base. Trying to convert any of them was out of the question. He was barely
able to maintain his cover; there were only hazy memory flashes and
fleeting emotions to base his impersonation upon. If he started spreading
the Word they would become suspicious and alert their officers. He would
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INTERLUDE THE WORD
be dragged in front of the Commissar again, only this time he would have
no more tricks up his sleeve. No, he must wait until the opportunity to
desert presented itself.
His old body was dead, and with it the two identities of Molevoch and
Maxentius. He must therefore establish a new identity and find new
converts. It felt like a chore to have to do it so soon again. But the Word and
the Will demanded it from him, so that was how it must be.
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CHAPTER 32
A NEW ORDER
You’re finally getting somewhere. After the last rearrangement of your
mental architecture you’ve managed to apply a technique that lets you fast
forward, skipping the inconsequential stuff, but halting whenever
something interesting comes up. Temporal compression it is called; a very
advanced technique, known only to an elite few. One of your mental
compartments will work at a phenomenally accelerated rate, shifting
through Haxtes’ narrative. If something worthwhile comes up, the buffer
division will alert the observation compartment, allowing you to redirect
the information stream into the semi-dormant interactive compartment.
You’ll have to be careful though; temporal compression is not without its
dangers. The amount of information passing through the mind can easily
exceed the brain’s capacity to handle. More than one psyker has burned out
parts of his mind through reckless application of the temporal compression
technique.
There is one other caveat as well; you’ll have to go deeper than you’re
really comfortable with. You have to be there, with Haxtes, and risk being
dragged into the deep end where you become him. If you try to keep
immersion at the basic conversation level, not even temporal compression
can help you.
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CHAPTER 32 A NEW ORDER
With a mental equivalent sigh you establish the connection and willingly
dive into the deep end.
--I lingered for a moment near the statue of the Emperor Ascendant in the
Red Square. He towered mightily over the lesser statues of the ancestorsaints of Protasia. Someone had use black spray paint to write slogans on
the base of the statue. Clever stuff like ‘Free Protasia’, ‘Death to the slaves of
Terra’, and ‘Go home Imperials’.
It wasn’t the actual words that were the most damning, but where they
had been written. Someone with anti-Imperial sentiments might have
commended the graffiti in general, but the debasement of an image of the
God-Emperor is a questionable act at best. Loyal Imperial citizens – and the
Ecclesiarchy – would simply call it heresy, and deal with the offender
accordingly.
There was dried blood splattered across the rockrete macro-base. It
made me suspect that the heretic had been caught on the spot, and
summarily executed by being bludgeoned and stabbed repeatedly. I
squatted and took a closer look. There was hair and some unidentifiable
bodily fluids mixed in with the blood. I put my fingers into the mixture; it
was cool and sticky, but not completely dried up. Must have happened a
few hours ago. I lifted my fingers to my face and sniffed. It smelled musky
and sweet; a particulate distillation of the pain and fear that precedes a
violent death.
I tilted my head backwards, closed my eyes, and listened to the wind: A
young man, little more than a boy, sneaking through the morning mist,
painting his slogans, before defecating at the base of the statue. Two
Guardsmen coming out of the mist, guided by their auspex set. The boy
tries to run, but you can’t dodge lasbeams, and the fog only gives so-so
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concealment from the Mechanicus-crafted preysights strapped to their
lasguns. The boy survives the shot to his calf, so they drag him back. Make
him eat his own shit after first beating him senseless. Then they gut him
good with their combat blades, and let him bleed out to appease the GodEmperor watching from above.
That boy could easily have been me. Save that I would never do
something so terminally stupid. Why anyone would risk their life for a
chance to scribble on a stone was beyond me. I couldn’t wrap my head
around it. It was unfathomable. I was only twelve. I had survived on my
own in a war-torn hell-hole for more than three years. Survival was my
craft. Survival meant stealth. It meant being careful. Meant not attracting
attention.
The corpse had been dragged a ways to the western edge of the square
and strung up across the chest of one of the smaller ancestor statues. The
carved red stone depicted an older male, bearded and in his formal robes. I
didn’t remember who he was – or rather I couldn’t really tell him apart
from the others. Our ancestor-saints were almost universally old, wise,
bearded, and robed. This one had no distinguishing characteristics that I
could see, so that made identifying him practically impossible.
I had a brief flashback to the pre-war period: Had the grid been
operational I could have used my lock to gain whatever information was
available on the statue. I could have conjured forth virtual tags to name
each and every statue in the square. I could have looked up whatever had
been written about this particular ancestor. Looking back it seemed so
utterly pointless. What had we been thinking?
I shook my head and returned to the present. No use lingering on that
which cannot be changed. Looking up I saw that the statue had weathered
the assault largely intact; a few glancing hits here and there, a broken wing,
305
but otherwise it was whole. The majority of the other saintly figures had
fared worse – they had either been damaged during the assault on Thira, or
disfigured later on by bored Imperial soldiers. The Vaxanites were
particularily fond of destroying stuff when they didn’t have anything better
to do. Well, better they did the statues than take it out on the survivors;
perhaps it was the ancestors providing their descendants with a little
protection.
They hadn’t protected this kid though. He hung there, quite dead. The
stringing up was intended as a warning to other would-be rebels, traitors,
and heretics. You do anything we don’t approve of, you end up like this,
dead and strung up. Or maybe strung up first and then left to die. Or maybe
like my mother, brutalized, abused, and then strung up to die.
It was now four years since the invasion began…if that tactic had been at
all effective you would think that the bloody Protasians had learned their
lesson by now. Either the Vaxanites were dimmer than most, unable to
come up with something more creative – or they simply enjoyed brutality
too much to want to change their strategy. Maybe both.
I heard the muffled sounds of two patrolling Guardsmen – possibly the
very men that had killed the boy – from within the thick Thiran morning
mist. Technically they weren’t Guardsmen anymore. Their regiments had
been disbanded, the men given settlement rights. They were now citizens
of Protasia. So that made them Protasian Planetary Defence Force troopers,
but I still thought of them as IG grunts.
The patrol wasn’t close enough to cause me trouble, even if they had
auspexes. This I knew from experience. I scurried over to the statue and
deftly ascended, so that I was level with the corpse. They had stripped the
dead boy of any obvious valuables, but they hadn’t done a very thorough
job. I came away with a few minor items, including a very nice needle and
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DARK OMEGA
some khaki-coloured thread. The dead boy also had a small grenade stuffed
down his shorts. Getting it out was rather odious; death had emptied his
bowels quite thoroughly. I’d been through worse for less.
Sliding down again I took a moment to survey my booty. The grenade
was about half the size of those the IGs lugged. Pre-war Protasian issue,
standard fragmentation grenade. Good for long throws, only marginally
less powerful than the Imperial equivalent. It was filthy, but otherwise
looked to be fully functional.
For some reason I started thinking about a poop grenade my brother had
once made. I almost giggled, but the moment of gaiety was soon drowned
by waves of bile. I didn’t have a brother. I didn’t have a sister. I didn’t have a
family at all. I banished the noisome reminder of them from my mind.
With my mood so fouled, I contemplated using this newfound treasure
against the two patrolling soldiers, but I quickly put it out of my mind. The
satisfaction would be short-lived, and I would draw all sorts of unwanted
attention. The last thing I wanted was to bring more troopers here. Besides,
a grenade was worth something on the Cold Market – or it would make a
nice booby trap for one of my hideouts. Blowing up two random grunts
simply wasn’t worth it.
The two voices drew nearer. They were discussing the merits of
Protasian women. Both agreed they were good for looking and fucking, but
that they needed generous amounts of slapping around to be manageable.
Both men were also pleased that they had been fortunate enough to be
awarded with a woman. Unless you were an officer there were no
guarantees. And except for the occasional terrorist bombing and insurgent
sniping life was pretty good. A lot better than life on their own homeworld
by the sound of them.
307
Their level of agreement and contentment with the post-settlement
situation was touching in a slightly nauseating manner. Again I was
tempted to use the grenade.
The Imperial Guard units that had replaced Jons and his brothers in arms
were mostly pressganged scum from the Vaxanide underhives. Effective
soldiers, but not really colonist material. Despite a long and colourful life,
I’ve rarely had the misfortune of encountering such a band of human
effluence. I’ve met heretics with better morals and manners, and I’ve killed
mutants with better personal hygiene and people skills.
When the Guard had received settlement rights on Protasia, the
Vaxanites had begun by purging Thira quite thoroughly. The 57th Lo and
the other regiments garrisoning Thira had been content with keeping the
pace so to speak. Not so the new guys. They had a whole other agenda; a
permanent solution to the ‘Protasian problem’.
Exempting those smart enough to abscond before the purges began, the
majority of the remaining males had been rounded up and executed by
lasfire. The bodies of the dead were processed and turned into protein
base. The Vaxanites had no qualms eating the dead, be they Protasian
indigs or their own fallen. It felt quite alien to me then, but I’ve since lived
on enough hive worlds to understand their approach – eating the dead is a
source of valuable nutrition, and removes the problem of deposing of the
bodies, a win-win situation in any impossibly overcrowded human habitat.
Only those who possessed useful skills were spared. Those ‘lucky’ few
were fitted with explosive collars or otherwise neutered, and set to work
for their new masters. Tech-skills and constructor-lore were in
particularily demand, but there was a host of other jobs, many of the base
and laborious, that needed doing. Jobs our new masters either couldn’t or
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DARK OMEGA
wouldn’t do themselves. In essence the new Thira became dependent upon
slave labour.
The same process was applied to adult women too old to be fertile or too
unattractive to be good whores. Either they had useful skills, in which case
they became slaves, or they ended up as proteins on someone’s plate. The
younger, fertile females fared a little better; they were divided as loot
between the troopers and officers. Many ended up as trophy wives for the
occupiers. Others as communal whores; there wasn’t enough women to go
around, so organized prostitution was regarded as the next best thing. I’m
not sure which assignment was the worst.
Male boys above a certain age were either routinely massacred, or
recruited into ‘volunteer’ companies, where they received rudimentary
weapons training, as well as generous helpings of drugs and abuse to keep
the manageable. These child soldiers were the primary line of defence
against another upsurge in rebellious activity. Our Vaxanite overseers
didn’t want to do manual labour, and they most certainly didn’t want to
fight against urban guerrillas. So they solved this in typical Vaxanite fashion
by letting us fight each other instead.
Girls ended up as child brides. If the settlement effort was to have any
effect every eligible woman must be made to serve, even those not yet old
enough to bear children. I’m pretty sure that not all the husbands waited
until the girls became of age before they consummated the marriages.
The very young of both genders were spared the meat grinder. Instead
they were forcibly adopted away to the settlers – neither the children, nor
the adults, had any say in the matter. Everyone had to find a place in
Commissar Verrigan’s vision for the new Protasia – or die.
---
309
“Verrigan again?” you interject. “So Jons was right, someone high up had
decided that Thira was too nice for common grunts.”
“Indeed. Verrigan had secured himself the entire Mondo Lakes region as
his personal fief. All the way from the Mastaris to the Agape Ocean, all of
the lake districts, and the surrounding valleys and mountains. Much of it
curiously untouched by strategic warfare. Thira lay at the heart of it, and
was to be rebuilt and repopulated according to Verrigan’s specifications,
turned into a new regional capital befitting the First Minister of Protasia.”
You add your five centimes. “And this included a reorganization of the
civilian population? I’m not surprised it was heavy-handed, not given
Verrigan’s later excesses.”
“Verrigan made Thira into a primary distribution centre for ‘retasked’
Protasian civilians. People were driven there like herd animals. Millions
were forced to walk across great distances, to be sorted, processed, and
shipped out to where they were needed. Or killed, in case they weren’t
desirable. Quite a few were killed.”
“But why all this brutality now?” you ask. “Why take care not to
devastate Thira during the invasion if he was going to completely fuck it
over afterwards? Why not simply have everyone killed using razor-swarms
or viral bombs or some such?”
“It certainly didn’t make sense at the time…but reading the Malleus files
on Verrigan years later made me realize there was a certain insane logic
behind his actions,” Haxtes replies.
“Ritualistic killings? Yes, that would make sense.” you say.
“Sense?” Haxtes counters drily. “Absolutely not. There was no sense, only
insanity and boundless corruption.”
“That was not what I meant,” you reply, “and you know it.”
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DARK OMEGA
Haxtes lifts his glass. “To small, petty victories,” he says, and smoothly
drains his drink.
You don’t want to let the Verrigan matter slip away; the timing
conundrum is still on your list of things you need to check up on. “So you
read the files on Verrigan. Am I to assume your master Melbinious was a
Malleus Inquisitor, a daemon hunter?”
“You may assume anything you like Marcus,” Haxtes says mockingly, “me
reading those files had nothing to do with my master’s affiliation.”
“So you were poking your nose where it didn’t belong then?”
“Look who’s talking,” Haxtes retorts. “I wasn’t poking. Not that time. I
was given them as part of my mission brief. For a time I was part of the
team that hunted Verrigan.”
“Seriously?” you ask, but you detect no falsehood in his voice.
“Very,” Haxtes replies. “If you bother to listen to my story, I’ll tell you all
about it. So, should I continue?” Haxtes inquires.
You’re about to say yes, when something occurs to you. “You were using
psychics, weren’t you? Your inhuman accuracy, your ability to stay hidden
even when the enemy was using auspexes, the precognition…all of that
rogue psychics, right?”
Haxtes nods. “I didn’t think of it like that at the time, but yes. I was a
rogue psyker, and I was using my powers regularly and without much
effort. I was an unconditioned Epsilon grade I’ll wager. I was too strong for
Zeta, but nowhere near Gamma.”
Being an Interrogator you have to ask. “And you suffered no ill effects?
Attracted no…unwanted attention?”
Haxtes looks at you, hard. “If you want to know if I experienced bodily
corruption or attracted daemonic attention, then please just say so. We’re
311
both Throne Agents and we both have Dark Omega clearances. No need to
be coy.”
You relent. “Very well.” You’re still uncomfortable speaking about such
matters directly. Years of conditioning and experience have taught you
otherwise. “Did you?”
“I was blessedly free of taint, moral or physical,” Haxtes gives you a
playful look, “any lack of morals on my part was entirely of my own doing.”
“Don’t evade the question, Haxtes,” you press.
“You’re calling me by my name now? Not thinking of me as ‘the
construct’ or ‘the persona’? That’s very nice of you Marcus!”
“You’re still evading the question. Haxtes.”
Haxtes smiles grimly, but his voice contains a hint of ironic humour.
“Nothing gets past you Interrogator Marcus,” he says grimly. “Very well: No,
I suffered no form of corruption during my stay on Protasia. I was
rigorously screened upon my acceptance into the Holy Ordos, so my
assessment is corroborated by concrete evidence.”
“Then you were lucky. Or strong. Or both,” you add.
Haxtes. “Strong? Not at all. I wasn’t weak, but I certainly lacked the
strength of character and focus that comes with the conditioning of the
mind and the honing of one’s psychic powers.” Haxtes continues after
drawing breath. “Lucky I wouldn’t know. Luck is notoriously difficult to
measure.”
He locks eyes with you, just like that first time. Again the sense of
overwhelming presence. “Or maybe someone was watching out for me,” he
says matter-of-factly, deliberately avoiding to mention who or what.
Before you can respond, the playback resumes.
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CHAPTER 33
IN THE ZONE
I escaped all this death and enslavement by staying hidden, by staying
alone. I had absolutely no illusions about what would happen if I was
caught by our new Vaxanite overseers. If I was seen, I would be shot. If I
was taken alive they would make sport of me, before putting me down. I
had seen it happen enough times for the message to sink in. The boy with
the grenade was just the last in a long line.
Simply put the Vaxanites were beasts wearing human flesh. Savage,
remorseless, uncompromising. They weren’t clever in the fashion of
learned men, but they had a certain low cunning that let them spot trouble
readily enough. And to the Vaxanites trouble was best dealt with in a
violent, permanent fashion. I wasn’t the kind of kid they would let live.
They’d take one good look at me and decide I was trouble. The only way for
me was staying out of sight, out of mind.
I put the grenade into my satchel. There were other, more rewarding
uses for it. It would fetch a nice price in the market; despite everything that
had transpired the Cold Trade – the local black market – was doing brisk
business. The grenade would get me a couple of unopened ration packs, at
the very least. Knowing that I would not go hungry for the next few days
lifted my spirits a bit.
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CHAPTER 33 IN THE ZONE
I waited until the patrol had disappeared, then slipped away. I wandered
aimlessly for a while. The weather was on the cool side. Cool, and for the
time being, dry. The ground was rather wet and muddy, though. I didn’t
really mind. As long as I kept moving I wouldn’t freeze, and my boots had
just received a generous helping of grease and were effectively water-tight.
A couple of hours passed. Eventually I found myself staring at the old
Forbidden Zone with the hospital building looming in the centre. After the
departure of the 57th Lo I had continued to come here occasionally. I never
set out to go the Zone. My legs would guide me of their own volition. Much
like they had today.
Whenever I found myself back here, I would just sit and observe for a
while. I never tried going back inside, not even in through the outer
perimeter. There was no point in trying. I could never get all the way into
the buildings to get at the loot. Meaning any attempt would net me nothing,
except mortal danger.
Post recompliance there had been continued activity within the zone for
a while. I recalled a period when there had been a spur of activity. During
that time I had once spied a convoy of ostentatious vehicles with
Ecclesiarchy markings and Sisters of Battle riding shotgun. The Imperium’s
girl soldiers had looked quite impressive and intimidating in their powered
armour. I figured they were escorting someone important, but I lacked
magnoculars and a good vantage point, so I couldn’t see the dignitaries
debarking.
When next I visited the market I had stopped by Himilco to bargain for
some purification tablets. The old apothecary had tugged at his explosive
collar, and kept up a steady stream of gossip. The fabulous Prelate Zhukov
was here in Thira to visit his good friend, First Minister Verrigan. It must
have been Zhukov’s column I saw. If the most important religious figure on
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DARK OMEGA
the planet was had come all the way out there to Thira he wasn’t just
making social calls. It had to be something – or someone – important inside
the Zone’s buildings.
Be that as it may. Eventually the activity dwindled away. No more
Valkyrie flights or Chimera columns coming and going. The fragwire fences
and servitor sentries remained, but the black-armoured Guardsmen
without unit markings went away. Whatever had made the site important
had long since moved on or been removed.
Once in a while a Mechanicus maintenance crew would arrive with an
escort, stay for a few days, and then leave again. Eventually, I think it was
the second winter after I became alone, even the tech-priests had stopped
calling in. The Forbidden Zone, and the facility that lay at the heart of it, had
stood silent and unused for nearly two years.
Despite a series warning signs posted around the perimeter, proclaiming
a ban on the area, issued by Governor Grimes himself, there had been
several attempts at getting in over the years. From lone scavengers like
myself, to armed bands of Vaxanites, to groups of desperate Protasian
survivors.
None had succeeded. They had all been caught by the Zone’s automated
defences. Killed, or more rarely, driven away. It had been a while since
anyone had tried, but I was certain the anti-intrusion measures were still in
operation. As anyone with a little techno-savvy will know, a few years of
negligence won’t put a proper Mechanicus-crafted security system out of
commission.
I sat there for a while, as was my custom, looking at the Zone. I had taken
shelter underneath a section of broken rockrete that protruded from a
gaping pit in the ground. A number of heavy shells had landed here, years
315
ago, creating a swathe of chaotic terrain that provided me with a vantage
point of the outer defences.
I knew of other observation points, but most of them were higher up and
more distant. This one was close and personal. The buildings loomed over
me. I could practically reach out and touch the outer layer of fragwire.
The weather was taking a turn for the worse. A particularily foul wind
came screaming down from the Mastari mountains, carrying with it a
mixture of rain and snow. This particular combination of wind and
precipitation was the worst sort; guaranteed to get you wet, cold, and
shivering in no time.
I was glad I’d taken shelter. Out of the wind and driving sleet it wasn’t so
bad once I put up the hood of my oilskin cape. The garment was of a type
favoured by the lakeshore fishermen. It was a couple of sizes too big, but
that just meant I could easily fit everything I carried underneath. As far as
clothing went it was definitively my favourite piece.
I knew there was a way in. I was sure of it. There was always a way in. In
fact I’d crept through the zone on more than one occasion, back when it
was fully operational. Granted, I hadn’t tried getting into the actual hospital
facility, but it just went to show that getting in is always possible. Indeed,
my very life and continued existence was proof that if you were clever, you
could always get in – and away afterwards.
Static defences have one big weakness – they are static. Given time and
ingenuity an attacker can always defeat them. I had both. I had, however,
lacked the desire to make an attempt. I had figured it wasn’t worth it, that
the abandoned facility would hold little of value. It hadn’t been abandoned
in a rush, but gradually closed down. The Imperials would have emptied it
before closing shop. The Imperials are nothing, if not thorough. Or so I had
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DARK OMEGA
kept telling myself. That reasoning was still sound, but it no longer
mattered. The challenge of getting in was what mattered now.
Indifference turned into resolve. I put my mind to work. The way in
through the outer perimeter I already knew. Actually I knew at of least
three safe paths, plus a couple I hadn’t tried. The next challenge was the
inner perimeter. I hadn’t gone through it, but I had a plan in my head I
knew should work. But I hadn’t actually tested it, since any miscalculation
on my part would inevitably end in my death.
I tucked my heavy woollen shirt inside my too-large fatigue pants,
tightened my belt a notch to keep it in place, went through the plan in my
head one final time, and proceeded forward.
The weather favoured me greatly. The wind and driving sleet combined
with the remnants of today’s fog to eliminate any chance of me being
picked up by pure visuals. Even preysights and auspexes would have
trouble spotting the heat signature or movement trace of a small boy
through all that cold interference.
I got through the outer perimeter with no trouble at all. I just moved
along one of my pre-plotted routes, found the hole in the fence under a few
inches of snow, quickly dug myself a passage, and slipped inside.
I moved a distance to the penetration point I had decided upon earlier. I
hadn’t been inside for several years, so I was a bit anxious. Had things
changed during my absence? When I got close enough to actually see, I
could breathe a sigh of relief. Everything was just the way I remembered it.
Except for the snow. There wasn’t a whole lot of it, but there was enough
both on the ground and flying through the air to make spotting my markers
nigh impossible. The prudent thing would have been to turn back, but I
kept going, trusting in my memory and my instincts.
317
It was a close call; I was picked up by a sentry-servitor, but my
movement was a hairsbreadth outside it search area. It didn’t fire. Which
was a good thing since it was manning a multilas – and unlike Roberto’s
weapon this cannon was jacked straight into the facility’s power generator,
effectively giving it an unlimited ammo supply.
Inside the inner perimeter lay several buildings. Most of them had
belonged to a Thiran hospital. Saint Paedalus’ Mercy Hospital, if I
remembered correctly; there were no signs anymore, just a stark facade of
stone and shuttered windows. Supposedly it had been a very good hospital,
catering to the rich and powerful of the entire region. I had never gone
there before the war. My family made do with the more modest medical
services provided to us by Father’s workplace.
The buildings had all been made physically secure. Barred windows and
closed-off doorways limited access to just a few points of entry. Those
access points would be guarded, and thus out of my reach.
I had to find something the enginseers had missed – or make my own
entrance. I couldn’t well climb up. That would leave me too exposed. So I
figured I had to go down.
A quick search revealed a storm drain. The drain pipes would be well
guarded from outside intrusion, but now that I was already inside the inner
perimeter…it was worth a try.
The metal grate covering the drain had been point-welded shut, but I
figured my new grenade would crack it open for me. A waste of a good
grenade perhaps, but my blood was up. I set the grenade, popped the
primer and took cover. There was a loud bang and the cover broke open.
I rushed over.
Damn! The opening was too narrow. I pulled, but the grate was stuck on
ruined hinges.
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Somewhere in the distance is could hear the sounds of a heavy portal
crashing open. The facility wasn’t completely without defenders. Roving
murder sentries were being deployed to investigate the explosion. Twice
damn.
I pulled with all my scrawny might. The grate didn’t budge even one
millimetre.
I could hear the murder servitors approaching, their clawed metal feet
scraping the icy rockrete with every step.
I had only seconds more to live. With a singular focus brought about by
my imminent termination I willed the grate to open. It tore right of at the
hinges and I tossed it casually aside, twenty kilos of metal feeling
practically weightless in my hand.
I quickly snaked inside the waiting drain pipe. I could hear the servitors
halting just outside. Fortunately such models aren’t particularly clever; out
of sight, out of mind, so to speak.
My elated mood was quickly dispelled. I slipped on the wet surface and
went sailing down the drainage pipe. I could easily touch the sides of the
metal pipe, but despite my best efforts I couldn’t bring myself to a halt.
Friction wasn’t on my team that day.
The narrow pipe quickly emptied into a bigger one. There was more
traction here, but I was disoriented and in the dark, and could not find any
purchase. Then I banged my head on something and all rational thought
fled my brain. I became a screaming lump of meat frantically clawing at
metal, even as I hurtled towards my doom.
Wintertime meant precipitation in Thira. Usually in the form of cold rain,
but sleet or even snow wasn’t unknown. Lately there had been quite a bit of
every category falling out of the sky. This proved most fortunate, as the
water helped cushion my fall. Had my sojourn taken place during the dry
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summer season, I would have fallen eight meters onto the dry, waiting
rockrete. The fall would have left me crippled. I would have died a slow,
lonesome, and painful death down there. Instead there was a big splash
that left me soaked and cold.
I thrashed around for a spell, completely panicked. When finally I
realized the water was only a little over waist deep I stopped screaming
and started to feel around for somewhere dry. It was pitch black, so I
couldn’t see anything, but eventually I located a ledge well above the water
level.
Once I got myself out of the water, I collapsed on the wet rockrete and
started laughing. I laughed so hard I think I may have cracked a rib in the
process. Or maybe it was already cracked, and my heaving laughter just
antagonized the already damaged bone. Point is that, next to taking another
person’s life, there is nothing quite as exhilarating as narrowly cheating
death yourself.
My laughter quickly faded though, as reality grabbed at my skinny preteen body. With death staved off for the moment, I started shivering with
cold. With numb fingers I got a compact Malfian-made torch out of my
satchel and turned it on. With light to guide me I quickly got my bearings. I
was in a large cistern that was part of the storm-drain system of Thira. I
located a ladder and managed to get into one of the larger utility tunnels; a
tunnel I felt would connect to a sub-basement somewhere.
I felt a slight tingle of elation, but that too quickly faded. By now I wasn’t
just shivering with cold, I was shaking uncontrollably. I could barely hold
on to the torch, let alone think rationally. I just knew deep down that I had
to keep moving, or die. Not of brutal impact injuries, but of the inevitable
deep slumber that follows on the heels of hypothermia.
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DARK OMEGA
After thirty minutes of shivering in the dark, with nothing but the
torchlight to guide me, I found my prize. A door, clearly labelled as leading
into the hospital, sub-level three.
Someone had taken care to spray-paint the stylized ‘I’ of the Inquisition
in blood red across the face of the door. Below the symbol was a short
warning in High Gothic: Prohibitum accessum per preceptum Ordo Hereticus.
The spelling wasn’t quite one hundred percent, but the message was clear
enough. Whatever lay beyond the door was forbidden, by order of the Ordo
Hereticus. I was too cold to be properly intimidated by the ominous
symbol.
In hindsight I found the lack of grammatical knowledge to be a bit on the
comic side. When the children of your enemies know your own language
better than you do, to what end do you fight? The answer is, of course, that
soldiers don’t much care. They just follow orders and fight whomever they
are told to fight. And if asked to spell something they will try as best they
can, and never worry much about the niceties of grammar and syntax. Only
the learned waste their time on the purely academic.
Right then and there I cared even less for the grammar than the man who
had misspelled the words. I gave to door an appraising look under the
white sheen of the torchlight. It didn’t look like it had any additional
Imperial or Inquisitorial security, just the standard type of Protasian access
control: A simple numeric keypad with an attached lock-scanner.
I guessed whomever had marked the door hadn’t expected anyone to
come this way, ever again. We were well inside the security perimeters, so
he’d marked the door as off-limits, closed up, and never looked back.
My own lock – had I still carried it – wouldn’t have helped. It would not
have held the necessary permissions since I wasn’t a hospital worker or
321
maintenance personnel. Nor did I have the keypad combination for that
matter.
I was stuck.
I slumped down in front of the door. For a while I sat there, shivering
violently, with nothing but cold, artificial torchlight, and my own dark
thoughts to keep me company. I could feel every cut and bruise my body
had sustained over the course of this ill-conceived adventure. I should
never have come.
I could not go back. I could not go forward. I had no way out of this trap.
If I remained here much longer I would fall asleep, never to wake again.
No! I hadn’t cheated death just to be claimed so soon.
I willed myself to get back up again. It was a monumental task just to
make my legs obey. I stripped down to bare skin. I wrung my clothes as
best I could. They were still wet, but no longer dripping. I dressed anew,
but this time only in my wet wools.
Two pairs of woollen socks. A pair of tightfitting, long underpants, and
my heavy woollen shirt with the carved bone buttons. I pulled my oilskin
cape over the top. The wool would keep me warm, even when wet, as long
as I kept moving. The cape would serve to limit the flow of air, thereby
allowing the wool to work its magic.
My boots were soaked through and through. I drained them as best I
could, and sighed heavily. Now the grease would only make them dry up
slower. But I had nothing else, so they would have to suffice. I retrieved a
couple of self-heating pads from my satchel, put one inside each boot, and
wiggled my feet back inside. It was a tight fit with wet socks, even with the
boots normally being two sizes too big for me.
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DARK OMEGA
I could feel the pads’ heat starting to seep into the wet coldness around
my feet. It wouldn’t last forever, but right now it felt like sticking my feet
into the hot sand of a sun kissed beach.
The rest of my soaked rags I threw aside. If – when – I got out of this, I
would find something else to wear.
I started jumping around to warm myself. I got a foil-wrap packet of
compacted biscuits from my satchel. A staple of many IG ration packs.
Tasteless and bone dry, but nutritious. I had an endless supply of cold
water to wash it down with. A candy bar rounded out my lunch.
I stopped jumping and regarded the door. In between mouthfuls of sweet
syrupy stickiness, I tried the handle again. It was firmly locked.
I pulled harder. The door handle tore lose. I stood there looking at handle
for a while. Part of my mind no doubt recognized the source of newfound
strength, but the rest of my mind effectively supressed such damning
knowledge. I had more enough problems already. Turning out to be an
emerging latent psyker was out of the question.
I finished the candy bar, grabbed onto the edge of the door with both
hands, and willed it to open. Nothing happened. I tried again, tapping into
my deep reservoirs of anger and anguish.
The door and the doorframe both came away. A gaping rockrete opening
beckoned me forward. I dropped the ruined metal into the gutter behind
me. It shattered the layer of ice that had formed, showering me with a
spray of icy water and semi-frozen slush.
It barely registered. Somewhere deep inside a fire burned. I was twelve,
and for the first time in my life psychic energies were suffusing my entire
being.
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CHAPTER 34
HOLY GROUND
You interrupt the playback. “That scene certainly brought home some of
my earlier questions.”
Haxtes waits for you to elaborate.
“Protasian screening of potential psykers leaves something to be
desired,” you continue. “Out of a family of five, three were unregistered
psykers, unless your brother and father should be included as well?”
Haxtes smacks his lips. “Father was quite mundane, as far as I know,
although I suppose nothing can be ruled out. He could – theoretically – have
been a carrier of recessive psi-genes. Or he could have been a latent psyker,
yet to bloom. Mayhap his cortex implants interfered with the development
of his psychic abilities. I do not believe any of these scenarios to be the case,
but I have no concrete evidence to back it up with.”
You wait for him finish.
“My brother Jax was rigorously tested, with no trace of psychic potential
found. As for Mother, her abilities were entirely passive, and weak enough
to pass the screening tests. Eta grad I’ll wager. Same with my sister. That
time with Jax was the first time she actively manifested anything. I think
she was as surprised as me and Jax combined. As for myself…I was too
young to have been tested before the bombs fell.”
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DARK OMEGA
“I’m not convinced,” you say, “explain all you want, but it smells of
sloppiness on part of the Imperial Commander. And the Arbitrators should
have been there to pick up the slack.”
Haxtes agrees to disagree. “You know as well as I do that these tests
aren’t completely accurate. Quite a few unlucky non-psykers are taken
away just to be on the safe side, but some latent psykers still slip through.
The Imperium doesn’t mind, not as long as the quota is met, and none of the
slip-ups end up as daemon-possessed rogues. Which we both know isn’t all
that likely to happen.”
“At the rate you were going it’s a miracle you didn’t attract otherworldly
attention,” you counter sourly.
Haxtes laughs at that. “Or maybe I did? Maybe I had my very own
ancestor spirit watching over me the whole time? My dead witch-whore of
a mother perhaps? Or maybe it was the God-Emperor himself. Or one of the
daemons of Chaos? It’s notoriously difficult to tell such entities apart.”
You know he’s trying to annoy you, but still you cannot let this go
unanswered. “Don’t. Don’t go there. Just don’t.”
Haxtes raises an eyebrow. “You mean don’t disparage Him on Earth,
don’t take His name in vain, and all that?”
“Yes,” you say flatly. “I know you seek to unsettle me, but this method
doesn’t work. It just makes me angry, makes me even less likely to listen to
what you have to say. But I’m long past being a slave to my emotions, so
whatever you’re playing at simply won’t work.”
The eyebrow drops back to neutral position. “That’s not it at all Marcus.
I’ve nothing but the utmost respect and adoration for the God-Emperor of
Mankind. I’ve served him with all my being, for more years than most men
live. I’ve killed for him more times than I can count.” He gives you a very
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CHAPTER 34 HOLY GROUND
solemn look. “So don’t come here all young and cocky and tell me I
‘disparage’ the Master of Mankind.”
Typical of Haxtes. Trying to worm his way out, by explaining away that
which is painfully obvious. “Then what’s with the attitude?”
Haxtes grins. “First of all, I don’t like you, Marcus. I really don’t. You’re an
annoying sort to begin with. Plus you shouldn’t be here at all. There is no
point trying to pretend otherwise. So I think that entitles me to fuck with
your mind to my heart’s content.”
He raises his hand to stop you from interrupting him.
“Secondly this is who I am. In life I didn’t talk much, not compared to a
certain Vern anyway. And I definitely wasn’t very good at small talk. I kept
wanting to talk about the important stuff, which many people find
unsettling. Nor was I particular polite, except when it was to my benefit.
And as I said, you’ve done nothing to make me want to be polite.”
You sense there is more here. “Go on,” you urge, “you’ve already covered
the fact that you don’t like me.”
Haxtes is still grinning. “I’m trying to show you who I am, what I am, but
you’re not listening. I’m opening my soul to you, and all you do is stand in
judgement. But you’re not the one who will judge me. Only the GodEmperor can do that. So what about you listen more and judge less? If you
don’t, there is very real chance you’ll miss more of the really important
stuff.”
You shake your head. “A cute explanation, but no. I simply do not trust
anything you say at this point. But for the sake of improved relations I shall
reserve judgment for later. In return you will try to remain civil when it
comes to Him.”
Haxtes’ grin widens. “Agreed!” he says, with unusual enthusiasm.
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DARK OMEGA
You cannot help feeling that you were somehow lured into this exchange.
But to what purpose?
Haxtes returns to the topic. “Whether or not something or someone
actually watched over me is a question that cannot ever be answered. I’ve
pondered it many times, and have come to various conclusions. Ultimately
it does not matter.” He pulls back his sleeve to show the electoo-brand of a
sanctioned Primaris psyker. “Eventually I was picked up by the Inquisition
and thoroughly screened. You know how anal they are about Warp taint,
moral deviance, bodily corruption, and whatnot. Whatever the reason for
my good fortune, I passed all their tests.” Dramatic pause. “How is that for a
miracle Marcus?”
You don’t answer, but will the playback to resume.
--I was inside. Currently three levels below the surface, within the warren
of corridors, rooms, and access ways that made up the invisible underworld
of the hospital complex. I was pretty certain that sub-level three was the
lowermost point, seeing as how it connected to the drainage system. The
rest of the layout I was less sure of. Due to our fucked-up reliance on the
grid and our locks, there was preciously little in the way of signs or floor
plans to guide me.
Despite any navigational challenges I may have had, I felt rather
confident. I was inside the inner security perimeter. That was the
important part. During actual operations the inside of the place would have
been swarming with staff and security troopers. But not now. The facility
had been abandoned years ago. Interior security measures would be at a
minimum. Locked doors? Certainly. Roving patrols of black-clad storm
troopers? Not so much.
327
I started out very carefully, just to be on the safe side. I had no idea how
paranoid the security staff had been. I mean, the inside of the buildings
could be filled with additional countermeasures. Traps. Roving sentries.
Gun servitors. I wasn’t in a rush. I could take my sweet time. Besides, this
was by far the most exciting thing to happen since, well, since ever. It even
made me forget my soaked clothes, my hurts, and my bruises.
My concerns proved largely unfounded. There were no more active
security measures now that I was inside. There were clear signs that a
substantial amount of security equipment had been removed as part of the
moving out process. That didn’t mean I had a free reign of the place,
however. There were a lot of locked doors barring my way. In other places
corridors and doorways had been welded shut or otherwise permanently
barred. I supposed it had been done to zone up the hospital building. To
what end I couldn’t tell.
I did not attempt to repeat my door-ripping feat. Instead I roamed the
sub-levels for a while, getting a feel for the place. After ten or so minutes I
located some bags of hospital uniforms. They seemed fresh, or close
enough, so I peeled of my wools and dressed in a mixture of plain whites
and sterile greens. Even the women’s ‘extra small’ sizes were a bit on the
big side. I rummaged a little more and managed to locate some disposable
slippers. They felt impossibly warm and welcoming when I put them on.
They would serve quite nicely inside the hospital. I must have looked like a
complete douche, but I was dry and therefore content.
I was reluctant to let my wools and boots go. I ended up making an
improvised sling bag from my oilskin jacket to carry them in – I needed my
satchel free for all the loot I was hoping to find.
I resumed my search for loot. The more I moved around, the more at
ease I felt. Only problem was the lack of valuable, easy to move stuff. As I
328
DARK OMEGA
feared, the place had been cleaned rather thoroughly before it was closed
down. Many of the rooms had been stripped bare, leaving no trace as to
their original function. Other rooms and corridors were crammed full of
hospital gear – beds and other furniture, strange-looking machines, and
other paraphernalia – none of which I could reasonably lug around.
Eventually I managed to reach an unlocked stairwell by way of the male
nurses’ locker rooms. The machine spirit of the stairwell’s auto-locks was
clearly unsettled, preventing them from engaging properly. It tried again
and again; I could hear the locking bolts snapping into place, but
immediately they would disengage, followed by the sad wail of the machine
spirit trying to alert a tech-priest to its plight. No one responded. There
hadn’t been a simple enginseer around for years.
I pondered this new development for a spell. I made my decision and
moved through the door and into the stairwell. As I went I uttered a short
prayer to the Deus Mechanicus in thanks for this unexpected boon. Maybe
Jons was right, maybe there was a piece of God in every machine. Even if
not, there was no harm in paying my respects to the Machine God.
The stairwell enabled me to gain access to sub-levels one and two, but
unfortunately it didn’t connect to the surface or any kind of topside
building. I had nothing better to do, so I kept going. With two new levels to
explore I figured I would find something of value eventually.
After an hour or so prowling the complex I finally found an interesting
site. In what must have been an improvised barracks on sub-level one, I
found a lasgun leaned against the wall. The lasgun was a standard M36,
with a scope attached. Nothing like the Eye, but decent enough for ordinary
rifle work. The charge reader said sixty, so than meant a full mag, or close
to it. I didn’t recognize the mark of the charge pack, so I wasn’t sure how
many rounds it could hold. Some packs held sixty rounds, others as many
329
as one hundred. It didn’t matter, sixty shots was plenty. And there was
bound to be a standard charge port somewhere I could use to refill the
power pack.
Some poor schmuck must have left his gun behind when the vacated the
premises. I wondered what kind of punishment he had received; according
to the Uplifting Primer it was a shooting offence to abandon your weapon if
deployed to a warzone. The punishment was less harsh if you lost it during
training or transit for example. I slung my newfound rifle across my back,
and didn’t think more of it.
Not far from the rifle I hit my jackpot: A cellulose box brimming with
Imperial ration packs. There were thirteen packs. All of them read ‘Meal No.
131, Faux beef and mixed vegetable stew’. One of my favourites, as far as
Imperial rations went. My spirits soared to unprecedented heights. I hadn’t
found this much in one place for years. And I was certain there was more
here. Enough to make me rich. Relatively speaking.
I considered popping one of the ration packs right away, but I was still
kind of full after my improvised crackers-and-icy-water lunch. A normal
person would have taken the opportunity to feast a little, but I was a small,
scrawny kid. I was used to having little to eat. And what little I had, I often
needed to scrape out over too many meals. After a while of not eating it
becomes a habit that is very hard to break. I packed as many rations as I
could back inside the box, tied it closed with a piece of string, and put the
rest of the packs in my satchel.
After the dual discovery, I tried to figure out how to get back into the
hospital for more plunder at a later date. With a start I realized I didn’t
even know how to get out. The way I had come in was definitely out of the
question. I was pretty sure that going out on the ground level – or above –
would get me killed in the blink of an eye. I would have to find another exit
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DARK OMEGA
point. But until I did, I was effectively trapped inside the subterranean
complex.
--I spent another couple of hours exploring the place, primarily looking for
a way out. I found some odds and ends that I added to my satchel, but there
were no more hauls like the lasgun or the rations. Eventually I ran out of
space to explore: I found further progress barred by locked doors and other
barriers.
As an experiment I tried to work my way around these obstacles by using
the lasgun to take out a door. It worked well enough on my first attempt; I
deftly shot out the lock with three lasrounds, and proceeded to pry the
door open with my hands while the locking mechanism was still in a
molten state.
That got me access to a trio of badly lit rooms on the second sub-level. At
first glance the rooms contained nothing of interest or value. The first room
reeked of chemicals and old smoke. Three large fan hoods dominated the
room, each crowning a metal workstation of some sort. There was a heavy
duty sink at each work station. All three sinks were filled with ash and
scraps of burnt cellulose sheets.
Having nothing better to do, I leafed through the contents of the sinks,
looking for something readable. Our old country house outside of Thira had
two fireplaces. I had used cellulose scraps to get the fires going on many
occasions. I knew that if you shoved in too many densely compacted
cellulose sheets, they would not burn properly all the way through to the
centre.
Lo and behold, by carefully brushing away the top layers I found a stack
of sheets that hadn’t been completely destroyed. It was a transcription of
an old astropathic message. It appeared to pertain to the start of the war.
331
### Astropathic Message Transcription ###
# Header #
Date-Time-Stamp: 5.099.815.M41
Transmission Priority Level: Maximus
Transmitter: Astropath Elixis Suburis, Attending Astropath, His Divine Majesty's
Colony Protasia/Durusus Marches Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus
Conduits: Ordo Xenos Monitoring Station {classified}, Imperial Navy Watch Station
Epsilon-Foxtrot-Gamma-113
Receptor: Malfian Astropathic Chorus, His Divine Majesty's Colony Malfi/Malfian
Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus
From: General Bracchus Eiden, Commanding Officer, Protasian Delegation,
Protasia/Drusus Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus
To: Malfian High Command, Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum
Obscurus
Security Clearance Level: Vermillion-1
Subject: Protasian Declaration of Independence
# Message begins #
All Praise the Immortal Emperor, for without his guidance we are nothing STOP The
Senate of the People of Protasia denies our rightful demands STOP Senate despatched a
courier for Terra to request intervention by the High Lords STOP When fired upon
Protasian defence grid returned fire resulting in the destruction of {classified} with all
hands STOP The {classified} Guard detachment accompanying the delegation is
currently besieged by Protasian PDF STOP If they attack I aestimate we can hold out for
no more than {classified} hours STOP Assume general rebellion to follow STOP Request
orders and support from Sub-sector STOP Blessed are we who have known the
Emperor's Light STOP General Bracchus Eiden {authority signature encrypted} END
# Message ends #
{authentication string encrypted}
### Transmission ends ###
I carefully pulled at the sheet. I managed to get it loose, but as soon as I
turned it over it broke into a myriad fragments. The sheet underneath was
332
DARK OMEGA
badly stained and partially burned. I could barely make out the words in
the glare of my torch. The top was too messed up to read, but the main
body was – barely – readable.
Transmitter: Astropath Senioris Teushmann, Lord Astropath, His Divine Majesty's
Colony Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus
Conduits: Imperial Navy Watch Station Epsilon-Foxtrot-Gamma-113, Ordo Xenos
Monitoring Station {classified}
Receptor: Unknown (reception unconfirmed)
From: Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus, Chief of Staff, Malfian High Command,
Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus
To: Commanding Officer, Protasian Delegation, Protasia/Durusus Marches Subsector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus
Security Clearance Level: Vermillion-1
Subject: Protasian Declaration of Independence
# Message begins #
The sin of failure will damn even the most pious of men STOP Protasia has been
declared heretical and is considered to be at war with the Imperium of Man STOP
Inform them that they are to surrender unconditionally without further delay or face
military sanction STOP Arrest all Senate members and associates STOP They are
enemies of the Lord of Man and are to be taken into custody pending public execution
STOP {Classified] elements of Battlefleet Calixis en-route STOP Ground assets
approximating {classified} Guard Divisions embarked STOP Cursed are…
The bottom part of the sheet was as badly messed up as the top, but
judging from the other message I wasn’t missing out on anything
important.
I tried to separate this second sheet as I had the first, but the fire had
turned the cellulose into a brittle, near-ash state. It broke apart, as did the
semi-intact sheet underneath. I was able to piece together part of the
333
message though; it was a third astropathic transcript, dated a while later,
screaming for more ships and men. Signed one Maxim Maximus.
This was all very good, but reading about war and politics wasn’t very
high on my list of interesting stuff to do before I died, so I decided to move
on. The second room was barren, save for several rows of metal filing
cabinets that had been pushed up against the far wall. It looked like
whoever had cleaned out the place had moved the cabinets from their usual
locations, over to the wall once they had been emptied.
I pondered the existence of physical files. It felt so primitive, yet also so
simple and effective. Thinking about the current state of Protasia and the
Grid made physical filing sound like a viable option. With a few dedicated
savants to run the archive, it would be just as good as a cogitator-run
system, with none of the drawbacks.
I rummaged through the cabinets, but found them utterly empty, save a
single page made of very fine cellulose. It had gotten stuck between two
interior separators, and thus escaped notice. Judging by the labelling it was
the fifth and last page of a five-page docket. It was a list of sorts, with
names, aliases, and filing references to about two dozen suspected
Protasians insurgents. All but three of the names had a notation in the
‘Status’ column indicating they had been killed or captured.
Three things caught my attention. Firstly it was an Inquisition document,
stamped and approved with great bureaucratic panache. Secondly the
document bore the name of a real Inquisitor. Attending Inquisitor, Globus
Vaarak, it said in High Gothic. I was no more – or less – familiar with the
Holy Ordos than any other citizen. Meaning the name invoked the usual mix
of mystery, awe, and irrational dread in me. But seeing the name of a real,
living Inquisitor that had been here, on my planet, in my city – I was
genuinely impressed.
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DARK OMEGA
Last, but not least, there was a familiar name on that list. In the second to
last position it read: Preacher Maxentius. In the column to the right of the
name two aliases were listed: Preacher Molevoch and Mr. Galatas. There
was a question mark in parentheses behind that second name; a suspected,
but unconfirmed alias. They had left out Killer of Whores, but I was sure this
Maxentius was the same person who had ordered my mother killed. But
why had the Inquisition kept a file on him? Torturing and killing women
wasn’t very nice, but it hardly constituted a grand heresy.
It then occurred to me that the Inquisition probably kept files not only on
known heretics, but also on anyone that they thought might possibly
become a heretic, however slim the chances.
Preacher Maxentius was one of the names listed as a ‘Deceased’. They got
that part right, at least. Someone with a very bad hand-writing had
scribbled Heretic: Missionaria Galaxia Renegade in the ‘Notes’ column. The
Galaxia reference had been struck out with a different kind of marker. That
same marker had in turn been used to write Heretic: Possible Deacon of the
Word in parenthesis. I knew what a heretic was, of course, in a general
sense at least. I didn’t know anything about any deacons or words though,
except for that time I’d overheard Sarge and Jons talk about a Word of
Light.
Judging by the many file references scribbled in the final ‘References’
column, there was a whole dossier on the man. Whoever this Inquisitor
Vaarak was, he’d thought Maxentius important enough to gather
information about him. Had the dossier been burned or removed? I had no
way of telling. I shrugged and put it out of my mind. Any heresy was no
concern of mine: Mother was dead and avenged, the Guardsmen had left,
the Preacher long dead, and the Inquisition gone. I considered taking the
335
docket page with me, but I knew nothing good would come of it, so I left it
where I had found it.
In the innermost room there was another metal door, one that I was
certain connected to an auxiliary stairwell. I lacked a decent floor plan, so I
could not be sure, but I was hoping the stairs would lead up into one of the
surface buildings. I used use the lasgun again, but this time I was out of
luck. The lock melted all right, but I couldn’t pry the door open. Either the
door itself had warped, or it had been blocked in some fashion from the
other side. I could have kept blasting away, but my instincts told me it was
futile.
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CHAPTER 35
SECURITY BREACH
“So,” you say, “the Forbidden Zone housed an Inquisition field station. I
thought as much.”
“Of course it did,” Haxtes say in the flat voice you’ve become so
accustomed to, “you saw the security setup when first I snuck through.
Who else has the resources to do something like that?”
“Few, if any,” you reply, putting emphasis on ‘if any’.
“But as a kid I didn’t have the necessary references to put together two
and two. If I had, I would have stayed well clear of the place.” Haxtes takes a
sip of amasec, before playfully adding, “I think”.
“The sedition of an entire world,” you pick up the thread, “would
automatically warrant an Inquisitorial investigation.”
“But why Thira?” Haxtes asks rhetorically. “I’ve no good explanation,
except it was a pretty important regional capital. And the Inquisition would
have known it was not on the strategic targets list.” He shrugs. “If it was a
hotbed of heretical activity, I’d be surprised. But like before, I can’t really
rule out anything.”
You have to agree with Haxtes assessment. “I think you’ve drawn the
right conclusions. They had to set up shop somewhere, and Thira must have
looked like a good place. I’m sure it wasn’t the only such site either; there
would have been more.”
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“I’m sure there were more,” Haxtes concurs, “but we need to get back to
mine.”
“One more thing,” you interject. “This Word of Light you mentioned; I
think I may have heard of it.”
“As long as you’re not a follower,” Haxtes says jokingly.
You give him a stern look in return. “The Word of Light is a vile
perversion of the Imperial Creed, replacing faith in the glorious GodEmperor with the perverse powers of Chaos.”
Haxtes shrugs. “Something like that. But I had no way of knowing that at
the time.”
You’re about to say something, when Vern’s voice suddenly appears to
interrupt the conversation. “Actually the Word of Light is a charismatic
Chaos cult found in many places throughout the Imperium. Each cult is led
by a Deacon of Faith – what passes for their high priests – many of whom
pass of their sorcerous talents as miracles of faith and the like.”
“That I didn’t know,” you admit.
Vern provides you with more information, whether you want it or not.
“Congregations of the faithful are, unlike many other Chaos cults, very
secretive and therefore hard to spot. Congregations are forbidden from
having contact each other, making it nigh impossible for the Inquisition to
infiltrate or eliminate the organization as a whole.”
He pauses to see if you have anything to add, but quickly resumes,
preventing you from replying. He does get eager at times!
“On the surface,” Vern continues, “it is as you say; the Word is a variant of
the Imperial Creed. Converts are introduced to the ‘True Gods’ gradually, as
not to scare them away. By the time the truth is revealed, their minds have
already been turned – or sorcery is used to subdue those who prove
reluctant to accept the ‘truth’.”
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“If the Inquisitor in attendance knew any of this, he would have acted
promptly,” you reply.
“He did,” Haxtes supplies. “Who do you think put pressure on the
Imperial Guard to deal with the Kiones? Who do you think told them that
heresy must not be allowed to spread again? The Inquisitor in attendance,
Globus Vaarak.”
“What most people do not realize is that the Word of Light is an
apocalyptic cult,” Vern resumes. “On the surface it looks rather benign, for a
Chaos cult. There is a little sacrifice, but not too much to be a burden. There
is obedience to the Deacon, but that’s common fare for any Imperial citizen.
If you look deeper, however, things change. The Word promises a Second
Coming of the Prophet of Light, when all the Brethren shall rise up and set
the galaxy on fire. But until that day the deacons are to keep their
congregations safe and sound, and not do anything to attract attention.”
“And this cult was active in Thira?” you ask. “This Maxentius was a
Deacon of Light?”
Vern turns to look as Haxtes before replying “This is the first time I’ve
ever heard mention of a Deacon in Thira. Haxtes, why have you never
mentioned this to me before? If the Inquisition suspected the presence of
the Word on Protasia – it could have been the real cause for the invasion!”
Haxtes mouth becomes a grim line. “I never mentioned it because I never
felt like mentioning it.” He half rises from his seat. “Now be gone
Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos, I need answer to no man, least of all
you!”
Vern bows deeply. “Your will, my master,” he says, before retreating into
the darkness beyond the circle of light
---
339
Knowing that I was trespassing on the Inquisition’s holy ground made
me realize it was time to pack up and get going. I wouldn’t say I was afraid,
but I definitely had the feeling that my time was up.
Having pretty much covered the sub-levels – at least those portions
accessible to me – I knew I wouldn’t find a viable exit down there. Going
above ground presented its own challenges, more specifically the
automated defences, but I was left with no real choices. I had only a vague
idea of what awaited me, and determined to deal with problems as they
presented themselves.
I retracted my steps a distance, until I came to a room where I had
spotted some surgical supplies. During my last pass, in among scalpels and
whatnot, I had spotted a large meat hook. What a thing like that was doing
in a hospital I didn’t know – brought there by the Inquisition most likely. It
had been worse than worthless to me before, just a length of heavy metal,
but now I figured I could use it like a crowbar.
With my makeshift crowbar in hand I went back again, to the barred
door in the innermost room. I gave the lock another couple of lasrounds,
and then shot out the triple hinges as well. I started working the crowbar
around the edges of the door. It took a while, without psychic aid I wasn’t
the strongest kid in town, but eventually I got it cracked open. Not all the
way open, just a gap along one edge.
Peering through the gap I could see the door was barred from the other
side. A couple of metal rods had been welded across the face of the door,
pinning it to the frame. I pushed the lasgun barrel through the crack I’d
made and fired at the rods a few times, until they snapped. With the aid of
the meat hook I was now able to pry the door sufficiently open to squeeze
through. I was very careful not to touch any of the semi-molten metal my
lasfire had created.
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DARK OMEGA
--I was going up the stairwell to the ground level when it spotted me. A
servo-skull, hovering deathly silent in mid-air. It was considerably bigger
than the CAS drones Jons had deployed as scouts. It was also armed; the
barrel of a compact, but very lethal, bolt weapon protruded from between
its metal jaws. The stylized ‘I’ of the Inquisition was worked into its
burnished, golden forehead.
Before I had a chance to react, it had painted me with a ruby red
targeting beam, projected from its right eye. I was a sitting duck in its
sights. The servoskull fired. I threw up my hands. The bolts blew up just a
few centimetres from my skin. Spontaneous release of my psychic powers
had once again saved my bacon.
I was off balance, and the force of the exploding munitions was sufficient
to send me tumbling backwards down the stairs. I hurt like hell for days,
but my fall was a godsend. Had I not fallen I would have died in that
stairwell: Immediately following that first burst of bolter fire, the
servoskull self-destructed by blowing up its ammo storage. It must have
had a final subroutine in case it encountered a telekine it couldn’t handle.
When the ringing in my head finally subsided I slowly got back up on my
feet. Just in time to hear powerful claxons going off; the loud noise
provoked another dizzy spell and some dry heaving. I had trouble standing
up straight.
The claxons were interrupted by a mechanical voice blearing: “Facility
has been breached. Rogue psykers within the perimeter. Terminate with
extreme prejudice.”
Rogue psykers and terminate with extreme prejudice; that would be me,
I realized.
341
“Initiating final containment protocol,” the voice continued, before the
claxons resumed. I didn’t like the sound of finality contained within that
warning.
I knew I had to get the fuck away, and quickly. Unfortunately I had no
idea how I might accomplish that. So I started running. Up the stairs, as fast
as my wobbly feet allowed. I always run when things get too thick. Like I
always say; it’s better to run away and try again, that stand and die.
In between remaining Inquisition security measures, and plain locked
doors and barred windows, my options were limited. I was forced up and
up, all the way past the twentieth floor of the main hospital building. I
eventually found myself at the very top of the stairs, staring into a door I
knew must lead onto the roof. Not exactly an ideal escape route, but I had
nothing else.
I dealt with the door the same way I had the others; some lasgun rounds,
followed by the meat hook for leverage. I got the door pried open. I stuck
my head through and looked out at the wide open expanse of the hospital
roof. The landing platform immediately caught my eye. I could see
something parked on it, partially hidden underneath a canopy of polymercanvas.
I ran, low and fast, hoping against hope that there were no gun servitors
covering the roof. Ducking under the canvas I found my prize: A sleeklooking hopper. It was a local Protasian model, but some Imperial
enginseer had ripped out the original locking mechanisms and
authentication systems, and replaced them with crude Imperial designs.
That tinkering proved to be a godsend – without the Grid and a
functioning lock, I wouldn’t have been able to get to hopper to run in its
original configuration. With only this simple, mechanical fix to contend
with, I definitely had a shot. I jumped inside and shut the door after me. The
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DARK OMEGA
key was dangling from the overhead console. I grabbed it, rammed it home,
and twisted it to the ‘Initiate’ position. Maybe there was a little praying
involved. You know, to the usual suspects; the Machine God, the GodEmperor, the Saints and the Ancestor-Spirits, and whomever else might be
listening.
The hopper came to life, powered by an external connection. Looking
over the status board I saw that it was fully charged and fuelled. It must
have sat there, waiting for me for two years, alone and unwanted. The last
time I had ridden in a hopper I was eight. Father had shown me the controls
and such, and let me play around a bit, but I wasn’t exactly a qualified
operator. With determination born of desperation I managed to get both
the grav coils and the rotors online and running.
Then I waited.
--“You waited?” you ask. “What for?”
“For an opportune moment,” Haxtes replies. “You remember those two
perimeters, with the gun servitors and all that? If I tried to run I wouldn’t
get fifty meters before I was shot down. It had nothing to do with my lack of
flying skills. An ace Lightning pilot would have gotten no further. No, I had
to wait. Wait for something to happen. Wait for the final containment
protocol to fire.”
“How could you know?” you press him.
“I think we’ll just call it precognition. Or divine inspiration. Or the
overconfidence of youth. You pick one.”
--Fifteen minutes after the warning had been issued the implosion bomb
went off below the compound. Fifteen minutes. Long enough for any key
343
personnel, such as an Inquisitor and his closest aides, to evacuate. Perhaps
using the very hopper I was now sitting in.
As the implosion effect started to suck everything inwards, I punched the
throttle wide open and whispered a prayer to my ancestors and the GodEmperor and whatever saints presided over mad hopper flights. I shot out
like a bullet, a fraction too fast for the bomb to suck me back in. The
servitor-turrets fired at me, but with reality being compressed into a
microscopic point they had trouble tracking me properly. They winged the
hopper, but didn’t terminate it. I tried as best I could to keep flying, but the
hopper was a lost cause. The machine came down a few blocks away.
I crawled out of the rubble, battered but alive. I stood there lamely and
looked at where the Forbidden Zone had been; nothing remained. There
was a big hole in the ground, like someone had scooped away all the earth
and hidden it somewhere else. I slung my stuff across one shoulder and
hurried away before my shenanigans attracted other watchers.
--“And this Inquisition facility, what was it used for? With the benefit of
hindsight guiding your answer?” you ask.
Haxtes answers. “One would guess that it was used for processing
heretics, for searching for answers, for looking at the cause behind
Protasia’s heresies.”
“And this would warrant the installation of a massive implosion device?
Sounds a bit excessive to me. And the self-destructing servo-skull – at the
first sight of a small boy?” you make sure you tone reflects your doubts.
Haxtes speaks in a dead, weary tone. “The base was mothballed, but not
dismantled. It’s standard operating procedure to leave a final protocol
option for such installations. And I may have been small, but I was a rogue
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DARK OMEGA
psyker rummaging around inside three layers of automated defences. You
know how paranoid the Inquisition is when it comes to rogue psykers.”
“Verrigan,” you say, “he didn’t make his move until the base had been
decommissioned. That is interesting.”
Haxtes gives you an approving look. Or at least you think its approval.
With him it’s hard to tell.
“Never mind,” you say, “just continue.”
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CHAPTER 36
THE COLD MARKET
After having – just barely – survived my little expedition into the
Forbidden Zone, I headed back to one of my hideouts. I needed to rest and
recover. I’d sustained no serious injuries, but I was cold, exhausted, and
generally beat up. I also needed to get out of the stupid hospital clothes,
and into something warmer and more appropriate.
It was in the middle of the night before I was able to finally wring out of
my hospital uniform – now completely soaked and caked with dirt – and
get into my sleeping bag. I made no attempt to get a fire going. You had to
be very careful to avoid observation. But I did heat some water on the
portastove to make myself a hot drink. I also had some more biscuits and
half a tin of too sweet, canned fruit.
As I sat there in the dark, I pondered my bad fortune. I had felt so
fortunate, so exhilarated during my sojourn. The excitement of near death
experiences, of adrenaline highs, of exploring the forbidden, of
subconsciously toying with the powers of my mind, of riches waiting to be
plundered.
I had been lucky to get out alive of course. Lucky to have gotten inside in
the first place. Lucky the servo-skull hadn’t killed me. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
But the overall feeling was still one of disappointment. I had been high as a
kite, but bad fortune had made me crash and burn. I was bruised and
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DARK OMEGA
battered, cold and worn out. All that trouble – and so little to show for it. I
had held great riches in my hands, but failed to bring them with me in my
haste to get away. I thought of the grenade I had expended to get in. I
wished I had thrown it at the patrol instead. It would also have been a
waste, but it would have felt better than this.
I sat there for a while, hating the world like I hadn’t hated it for quite a
while. I hadn’t really felt anything of late. It felt good, hating something
again. I decided to do it more often.
Then I came to think of the boy. The one who had painted the slogans at
the base of the statue of the God-Emperor. The one the Vaxanites had dealt
with. His fortune was even worse than mine. He too had gone ahead and
done something rash, like I had with the facility. He had died. I had lived.
Nothing like good old hate – and the misfortune of others – to cheer up a
fellow who is down on his luck. I fell asleep with a smile on my lips
--By the time I woke up it was well past noon. The weather had improved
considerably. The day was grey and cloudy, but there was little wind and
no precipitation. I was stiff and sore after sleeping on the cold, hard floor of
my hideout. I stretched a little, took a good piss, had a couple of sip of water
from my hip-slung IG-issue canteen, and took stock of what was left to me.
I still had the lasgun; I had carried it slung across my back when the
servo-skull ambushed me, and hadn’t had the clarity of mind to dump it. A
quick system check showed that the gun itself was fully operational. Only
twelve rounds left in the charge pack. Immaterial. The pack could be
recharged – or replaced. The sight, however, was ruined. I had managed to
land on top of it – a very painful bruise on my back testified to the fact –
and something had broken inside. It didn’t look broken, but when I peered
through the ocular piece there was something wrong with how it magnified
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CHAPTER 36 THE COLD MARKET
and marked the target point. Damn. I should have done what Jons had
shown me; kept the gun sight safe in a padded pouch.
I whispered a few soothing words to the sight’s machine spirit, before
testing it anew. No improvement. A tech-priest might be able to fix it, but
not me. I detached the sight from the lasgun – the gun wouldn’t be as
accurate, but I could still fire the weapon just fine with iron sights alone. I
regarded the broken sight for a moment. I was reluctant to throw
something away that might retain some value to the right buyer, so I ended
up setting it aside.
The big box of ration packs was gone, dropped during my backwards
tumble in the stairwell and forgotten in my haste to get away. Apart from
the lasgun that left only my satchel. I emptied it on the ground.
I tallied four ration packs. The box of rations I had found had been
overflowing, so I had removed four units to enable me to shut the lid. I had
stripped the contents of the rations out of the waxed cellulose boxes to save
space, and stuck them inside my satchel. My mood lifted a fraction; four
packs, easily twelve days of sustenance.
I had managed to get hold of eleven whole vials from a broken medicine
cabinet. Three of them I knew what were; they had the green cap of some
form of stimulant. The other eight vials had complicated names printed on
their labels. I had no idea what they were. But Himilco, the Cold Market’s
self-styled apothecary, would know.
There were some other odds and ends in there as well; including a rather
nice pair of surgical scissors I imagined would fetch a good price, a fistful of
sterile bandages, a data-slate of Protasian manufacture that was either
broken or just out of power, and a couple of other things not worth
mentioning.
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DARK OMEGA
I stopped tallying. It wasn’t that bad a haul. If I didn’t think about what I
hadn’t been able to bring, I could be content. I stuffed everything back into
my satchel and got up. I’d swing by a couple of my stash places, drop off
most of the loot, and then head for the market. Carrying too much stuff to
market was a sure way of getting ripped off – or killed. Getting murdered
over a few ration packs really would make this a crappy day.
--The Cold Market – our name for the most important black market in
Thira – was located off the old Esplanade. It was less than two klicks from
the building we had so valiantly defended against the Kiones insurgents
three years prior. There hadn’t been any reconstruction in this sector yet,
but it was still located inside the perimeter of the settlement zone, which
made it an ideal place for people to meet and exchange goods and services.
Our Vaxanite masters supported the existence of the market. They were
none too particular about who they traded with or with what. Freemen –
ranging from loners like me, to representatives of survivalist groups –
could come here to trade without fear of molestation. As long as we
brought something of value to the market’s masters, we were welcome. We
rubbed shoulders with a variety of types. Protasian slaves, come on their
owners’ behalf to buy, sell, or spy. Merchants from other regions, such as
there were, hawking their wares. Reclamators offered up the bits and
pieces they had dug out of the ruins of Thira. There were even some offworlders come to profit from the plight of Protasia; ranging from Chartist
Captains engaged in a little smuggling, via Kasballica-sponsored
opportunist, to bona fide Rogue Traders.
I really, really didn’t like the place. Generally speaking there were far too
many people around, none of them with good intentions, and far too few
places to hide. More specifically I had my share of personal bad experience
349
with the place. When I was about ten, I had been attacked by a mob of older
boys, beaten and robbed of everything, my clothes included.
I guess I should have been grateful they didn’t kill me or rape my
scrawny ass, but at the time I hadn’t felt particularly lucky. It had been in
the middle of a cold spell and I had been naked, starved, and injured. I had
come down with a terrible cold that had left me more dead than alive.
Somehow I had pulled through and regained my strength. It was also the
last time I was seriously ill, so maybe the experience hardened my immune
system in some way.
I was more careful after that, but I was still just one, scrawny boy. I was
shaken down a couple of times more, but since I never went to market
carrying much, I avoided losing my entire fortune again. Once it became
know that I didn’t carry my fortune with me, I was allowed to pass after
paying a token ‘market toll’.
Eventually I became a familiar face and built myself a network of
connections. I was the silent boy that always seemed to find some of the
good stuff. Not a whole lot of it, but enough to keep me an interesting man
to do business with. That made me much less of a target, but going to
market was never entirely safe.
But regardless of my misgivings on my part I was forced to come here
from time to time, to exchange what I had scavenged or stolen, for stuff I
actually needed. Medicines, nutrient supplements, purification tablets, fuel
pellets, assorted odds and ends I couldn’t find or steal.
--“This Cold Market,” you ask, “does it have any connection to the Cold
Trade?” thinking of the network of smugglers and scoundrels that engage
in trade with forbidden merchandise, some of it of xenos manufacture.
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DARK OMEGA
Haxtes nods. “Aye, it did at that. But only in a very general sense. You
could, if you had the means, purchase just about anything in the Cold
Market. Expensive things from off-world even. Black market weapons.
Exotic drugs. Trained harem slaves – of both genders. You named your vice
and flashed the Gelt, and the Market provided.”
“I thought as much,” you say. “The Cold Trade likes to set roots when
markets are young. It’s easier to maintain a foothold if you’re there from
the beginning.”
“Much like heresy,” Haxtes says grimly.
--“And where did you come across these vials, young Master?” Himilco
asked me.
“I found them in an abandoned hospital,” I replied honestly. “They had
fallen out of a cabinet and rolled under some furnishing.”
Himilco sorted out three of the vials. “These there are useless then. They
must be kept refrigerated or the medicine loses potency rather quickly.”
I nodded solemnly. I had thought that might be the case. Better than
expected, though. I had feared at least half the vials would be useless.
“The stimms I can pay you for in gelt; there is always a hard demand for
those.”
I could also have use for them myself, I thought, but said nothing. I knew
from experience Himilco would offer more than I could reasonably turn
down. I’d kept one for myself. It would have to suffice.
“The rest are harder to resell. My master would be displeased with me is
I tie up too much of his money in my medicine cabinet. I can either offer
you a trade in goods or part of the profit when – or if – I’m able to sell them
on.”
351
“Half and half,” I replied. “Give me half the combined value in the blue
weed and the other half you can pay me as you sell it.”
Himilco chuckled, “You drive a hard bargain Master Haxtes…but since
you always bring me good items and act civilized I shall say yes. Against my
better judgement I hasten to add.”
We shook hands to seal the deal.
He counted out three Thrones for each stimm and handed me a small
opaque bag of the blue weed.
“If you must inhale this poison I’m glad you keep to the blue,” the old
apothecary said, voice filled with disdain.
I returned him one of my false smiles. “I don’t hate my life nearly enough
to try anything stronger.”
“That’s what you’re saying now. What happens next year, or the years
after?” He shook his head. “Too well do I know where that path leads; at
first it is only the blue lho weed, but sooner or later you sit there with the
obscura pipe clutched between twisted fingers.”
I didn’t want to argue with the old slave. Instead I began deftly rolling
myself a lho stick from the fragrant blue. “You mind?” I asked out of feigned
politeness.
Himilco threw up his hands. “Feel free. It’s your life. End it however you
want.”
After that we didn’t argue anymore. He continued with his work, I just
stuck around doing nothing. He’d gossip from time to time, I would say
nothing. Such was our relationship, the old slave apothecary and the young
freeman. Familiar enough to feel safe, distant enough not to be threatening.
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CHAPTER 37
RITE OF PASSAGE
I left the Cold Market without incident and retrieved my stash. Halfway
on my way back through the Shadow Blocks – a badly ruined swathe of
town shunned by rebels and Vaxanites alike, not far from where my mother
had been strung up – I came across another scavenger. I had seen her from
time to time, but I didn’t know her by name. She was probably a little older
than me, two or three years maybe, but not much taller. Her lithe body had
turned thin and sickly since the last time I saw her. Her lustrous blond hair
had lost its sheen and was caked with dirt and grime.
I found a good, sheltered spot not too far away. I set down the lasgun to
avoid looking too intimidating. I retrieved a ration pack from my
overstuffed satchel and clamped hard on the self-heater. A couple of
minutes later I was eating hot stew. ‘Meal No. 131, Faux beef and mixed
vegetable stew’ the pack said. Like I said, it was one of my favourites.
Surprisingly savoury for a soldier’s ration.
As anticipated she had followed me. Probably plotting how to kill me and
steal my things. I made it clear she had been seen and gestured for her to
join me. She did so only reluctantly. You didn’t survive for years out here in
the Shadow Blocks without being distrustful.
“Here,” I said and put the food container on the ground.
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She moved forward and grabbed it, then scampered back a few paces. I
watched her scrape out the last of the food from the container.
“Here,” I said again, and threw her a packet of biscuits to go with the faux
beef and mixed vegetables. “They are dry and taste like dust, but food is
food. If you dip them in the stew they don’t taste so bad.”
She caught the pack in mid-air, ripped it open and started chewing on the
bone dry biscuits. Predictable it made her moth drier than a desert. I
offered her a bit of water to help her swallow. After that she alternated
between dipping the biscuits in the food and drinking from my canteen.
She didn’t speak the whole time.
When she was done I got my kit, grabbed the rifle, and moved out,
heading for one of my hideouts.
I took it slow.
She followed me.
I let her.
--The hideout wasn’t much; just a safe place to rest out of the weather. I
had several places just like it. I didn’t stash anything of importance there.
My loot I kept divided between several hidden caches. I also had three
spots I used for longer stays. I had more stuff there, but I was careful not to
keep all my eggs in one basket.
Having only one place and then having it emptied by someone else while
I was out would be catastrophic. Just like that time in the Cold Market when
I was robbed blind, only without the beating.
I let the poor girl have the candy bar from the opened ration pack. That
convinced her that my intentions were good. Kids and candy. What a potent
combination.
Afterwards she went down on her knees.
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I smiled an uncertain smile at her, made uncomfortable by the close
proximity to another human being. But victory demands sacrifice they say,
so I endured her closeness.
She smiled back, trying to reassure me. The smile made me feel
nauseous. Smiles invariably meant treachery was imminent.
I let a narrow blade of surgical steel slide down my sleeve and into my
right palm. One item from the hospital I’d kept for myself.
She reached for my belt.
I grabbed her hair with my left hand and cut her a new smile. Jugular
blood gushed forth, covering my blade and right hand. I held her until her
eyes glazed over. It didn’t take long.
I searched through her meagre belongings and added them to my own
stash. Then I curled up and fell asleep.
It had been a good day.
--The scene leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth. “And here you
claimed no moral taint…you sound awfully like a sociopath to me Haxtes.”
“Calling me names again, Marcus? Believe me; you’ve seen nothing yet.”
His laugh is contrite. “Seriously, what did you expect? That we’d become
friends? That I keep her around the house and feed her in return for
housekeeping and sexual favours? Slap her around a bit to keep her docile,
like the Vaxanites did their women? Start pimping her in the market for
weed gelt? Is that what you would have done, Interrogator Marcus?”
“I…no, but you didn’t have to murder her. Let alone enjoy murdering her.
You could have given her the slip, I know you could.”
“Of course I could. But I’m not a good man Marcus, never claimed to be.
I’m a good killer. That’s why the Inquisition took me in; because of my
affinity for killing, not because of my piety or altruistic nature. I did kill her.
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I even enjoyed killing her. The warmth of her blood on my hands and the
look in her eyes as her soul left the body. Better by far than the screams of
dying Kiones. To me it was like water to a thirsting man.”
You’ve no reply to this; Haxtes isn’t just a killer, he’s death-cult material.
“Anyway…I was twelve and not at all…awakened. That thing between
men and women…it didn’t exist for me. Never the most sociable kid to
begin with, I was now adamantly refusing to get close to anyone. I even
killed my brother’s dog, remember?”
“Yes,” you reply curtly, “I remember quite well.”
“We’re not so different you and I Marcus…that’s what I’ve been trying to
show you. We are both tools. Loyal servants unto death and so forth. Killers
if we have to be.”
“I get the point,” you say, “but we are not at all alike Haxtes. Your
bloodthirst set us worlds apart. I will kill in the line of duty, but I do not kill
for sport or because it pleases me in other ways.”
“A separation of degree, not kind. I’ve tried to show you who I am, how I
became me. My affinity for death and killing is one of the things you have to
understand before you’ll be shown the deeper mysteries. But we’ll let the
matter rest for now.”
You nod in agreement. This Haxtes is even colder and more dangerous
than you previously thought. If you show weakness, or waver in your
determination, he has the power to hurt you, perhaps even kill if you’re
fully immersed. You must be more careful in the future.
356
CHAPTER 38
THE SHADOW OF
THIRA
Winter dragged on, stubbornly refusing to turn into spring. It was the
same as every year since the war. I had heard it had to do with soot in the
atmosphere or some such. From all the bombs and the burning cities. I
didn’t care. Bad weather was like a friend to me.
I was twelve and a half years old. A man grown by some standards. By
my own reckoning I had become a man when I killed the girl whose name I
never learned. It was one of the defining moments in my life. Even more so
than the betrayals of my family. More than becoming alone by slaying Nix.
It changed me, turning me from lost child into…something different,
something savagely independent and bloodthirsty. It wasn’t the first time I
had killed, but it was the first time I had killed for me. Before this I had
killed for others, killed for vengeance. The girl I had killed because I wanted
to, because I could.
The death of the girl transformed me in another way as well: Before my
change I was content with mere survival. But to survive was no longer
sufficient. I craved more from life. I craved blood. I craved death.
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CHAPTER 38 THE SHADOW OF THIRA
So I became a predator. I stalked the ruins of Thira, looking for human
prey. Vaxanite or Protasian, it mattered not. Thirteen men, women, and
children, all told, taken throughout the long dark months of winter.
I could have killed many more. With my new rifle – even sans the optical
sight – I could have killed scores. But shooting people held no pleasure for
me. It had to be up close and personal, had to be bloody bladework. Me, the
surgeon’s blade, and a major artery. I had to look them in the eyes as they
died, had to dip my right hand in their blood as their soul’s light faded. It
was the only way for me to endure what remained of my own life.
After the first few murders they started making up stories about me. I
became the Shadow of Thira, a terrible daemon stalking the ruins of the
fallen city. They were not far off the mark. My legend grew with every
passing day. Many more deaths that I was responsible for were blamed on
this daemon. Still, it was no mean feat to be noticed in the hell-hole that
was Skull-taker Verrigan’s city!
My friend Himilco was the only person to realize I was the killer. I could
see it in his eyes the last time I decided to visit the Cold Market. I’d
murdered half a dozen by then – and been attributed with many more.
We greeted each other the same way we always did, with a nod and a few
words. Our eyes met, and I knew he knew. And he knew that I knew that he
knew. And so forth, ad infinitum. I also knew he would never rat on me;
that too was apparent from the look in his eyes.
But our equilibrium had been upset by my transformation. It was time
for us to part ways. We didn’t say our goodbyes the traditional way. Instead
he gave me the free run of the place while he, for the first time as far as I
knew, partook in some of the blue weed. I took with me a lot of choice
drugs and equipment.
358
DARK OMEGA
When I was done I slashed the old man up a bit; good enough to be
convincing, but not so much as to be life-threatening. Then I overturned a
cabinet and generally made quite the ruckus. Next I quickly made my way
to the shadows by the stairs leading up to the second floor.
Himilco’s owner, a former sub-officer with the Vaxanide 112th, came
downstairs to check what all the fuss was about. As he neared the bottom of
the stairs I cut the hamstrings on his left leg, quick as a snake. He screamed
and crashed into the floor at the base of the stairs. I could have cut his
throat as easy as you cut a pie, but I didn’t. Instead I pretended to be
startled by the blood-drenched apothecary feebly trying to come to his
master’s aid. I grabbed my loot and jumped out the window. My debt to
Himilco had been settled.
--I cannot say if it was gratitude out of being saved – or mortal fear of
being attacked again – but the apothecary was released from bondage
shortly thereafter. He was proclaimed a free man, and adopted into the
household of his former master. Himilco continued to serve the crippled
shop-owner quite diligently; until the poor man succumbed a while later to
a wasting illness no one could diagnose or cure. I had no doubts as to the
cause of this illness. Old Himilco knew a thing or two about poisons and
toxic substances; such is almost inevitable, even for the most honourable of
apothecaries. The dead man had bequeathed his meagre estate to his
former slave; young Protasian wife included. It was quite the romantic tale.
That same winter the insurgents gained in power and secured several
important victories over Verrigan’s lackeys. I later learned that a Rogue
Trader had supplied the Protasians with arms and other equipment. The
price he charged was steep indeed.
359
Verrigan responded by making life even worse for the surviving
Protasians, which only galvanized the rebels. Trouble started spreading to
other towns and nearby districts. Finally Verrigan was forced to turn offworld for aid. The price he paid to the Veiled Hand was even steeper than
the insurgents had paid the Rogue Trader.
--“The Veiled Hand?” you ask.
“A group of death-cult assassins, operating out of Malfi. Quite infamous in
their heyday,” Haxtes replies. “I would know. I was one of them.”
“I’ve never heard them mentioned,” you reply.
“You wouldn’t have. Not unless you dug through the Tricorn’s archives
on Scintilla. The Veiled Hand was designated Excommunicate Traitoris and
thoroughly purged.”
“A death-cult that had overstepped its bounds. Not entirely unheard off,
but to earn the final sanction…they must have done something special?” it’s
only half question.
Haxtes makes as dismissive gesture. “Indeed. Goes with the territory I’d
say. Play with death all day long, and chances are that someone will cross
the line. The line between useful little Imperial assassins and blood-crazed
cult fanatics can be damned hard to see when it’s been drowned in blood. It
happened to the Veiled Hand. And before that it happened to the Astral
Knives.”
You’re passingly familiar with that name. “The Astral Knives. That was
another death-cult. One branch of an entire tree of close-knit groups of
voidborn. I’ve had dealings with one of its descendant cults myself.”
“Lucky you,” Haxtes says. “Then you should know what I’m referring to.”
He pauses for a moment. “We’ll return to the Veiled Hand later on. Let’s
finish with Thira.”
360
DARK OMEGA
--I moved quickly across a mountain of rubble, keeping as low a profile as
possible without needlessly sacrificing speed. I had come this way many
times before, and knew the place well enough to navigate without much
light to go by.
I ducked underneath a slab of fallen rockrete, wormed my way through a
hidden crack, slid half a dozen meters through a broken ventilation pipe,
and crawled on my belly through a fissure in the outer wall of the fallen
highrise.
Safely inside I hid and waited, motionless and silent. Whatever hunted
me was the size of an adult. It could not follow me along that route. But it
might have allies, such as ratling servants or techno-constructs.
My brief time with Jons had shown me a glimpse of the wonders the
Mechanicus could produce. And lo and behold, before long I could hear the
almost inaudible hum of micro-fans – a dull grey reconnaissance servoskull slowly floated into view.
It made a quick survey of its immediate surroundings and finding no
trace of its prey activated an active auspex array. Sweeping arcs of greenish
light spilled across the ruined room, searching and probing. Finding
nothing it deployed a sonic resonance scanner to search for hidden prey.
I brought up my sliver pistol – the very one Jons had given me; I’d never
gotten the opportunity to return it – and fired a single shot before the
drone had time to report back its findings. The bullet hit spot on, punched
through the thin layer of titanium-tungsten carbide that covered its
internal structure, and made short work of the tiny man-machine cortex
inside.
There was a deep thumping sound followed by a rush of heat and dust
coming out of the fissure in the wall. Breaching charge. Possibly melta.
361
Horus be damned! I had hoped to lose my pursuer, but now the hunt was
on again. Damned be all the Primarchs!
I briefly considered lying in ambush, but decided against it. I ran for the
hoist shafts. A wise choice; behind me a couple of stun and photonic
grenades went off. Had I stayed I would have been incapacitated. Easy prey
for whoever was coming down through the widened breach.
I slipped though the half-closed access doors and stepped to the right,
grabbing hold of the utility ladder I knew was there. I half scrambled, half
dropped until I reached the sixth floor; that was as far as the shaft was
traversable.
I got out into the corridor, resumed running.
Mocking laughter.
Not far behind. Damn him and his anti-grav drop harness. Damn him to
the Eye and back!
The bastard had been after me for hours. He was one of the foreign
predators, I was sure. One day I was on top of the food chain. The next the
ruins of Thira were home to unknown men and women that were every bit
as skilled as I was. Only far bigger and much better equipped.
They were methodically going through the ruins, killing all those they
came across. Verrigan’s assassin had come to deal with the rebels, once and
for all. The only way to be sure was to kill anyone not firmly under the First
Minister’s control.
And now the turn had come for me to die.
I wasn’t sure how he’d picked me up initially, but at the time I was
blaming the nameless dead girl. She had somehow compromised my cover.
I didn’t know how, but I was sure of it. Alternatively it could be that Jax was
still alive and that he had cracked under pressure and ratted on me. Or
maybe Jons and my sister were helping Verrigan out.
362
DARK OMEGA
--“None of that makes any sense whatsoever,” you object. “This is pure
paranoia.”
Haxtes. “I tell the story as I lived it,” he scratches his beard, “not with the
benefit of psych-analytics and moral debriefings. So yes, it didn’t really
make any sense, but to me it was real enough.” He stops scratching. “And
besides, that paranoia had served me well for several years. Sort of hard to
let it go.”
--I sensed movement to my right and rear, just on the other side of a
tattered opaque polymer curtain. This part of the building had been under
refurbishment when the war came. Needless to say the work was never
completed.
With nothing to win by running, I switched to a more offensive mode. I
moved across the intervening space without a sound, my monoedge Guard
bayonet reverse-gripped in my left, and my trusted sliver pistol in an
overlapping right-hand grip.
As my enemy picked me up through his preysight goggles I dived and
rolled. Even as I dove I heard a burst of strange projectiles whispering past
overhead. I came up in a crouch, my target fat in my sights. No psychics
were required to hit. He was just three steps away. I pulled the trigger.
The gun failed to fire. The only thing I could think of was Jons warning
me against offending the spirit of the weapon. I had failed badly in that
department. I hadn’t said the words of ritual cleansing for ages, nor
observed the rites of reloading. What that why the pistol had failed me
now? Was the Machine God real after all?
---
363
“I’ll wager it was neither. He was using a haywire charge or jinx
generator, wasn’t he?” you ask.
You get a wide grin in return. “Of course he was Marcus. No real assassin
would rely on luck or the Machine God to secure his mark.”
--A well-placed kick to my genitals put me out of action. It would have
been worse if I had been older. As it were it was bad enough to
momentarily paralyze me and double me over. His next blow caught me on
my left temple. It sent me face down into the floor, stunned. Before I could
recover, my hands were restrained behind my back and a self-constricting
sack of black material was pulled over my head.
I tried to struggle, tried to break free, but I was helpless. The muzzle of a
gun was pressed into the small of my back. I’ll never forget the pain of
those toxic crystal slivers boring into my flesh. I screamed for hours. Half of
it screams of agony, the other half of wounded pride. The Shadow of Thira
had been brought low.
--“He didn’t kill you, who would have guessed?” you say sardonically. “The
only thing I’d like to know is. Why not? And not another Jons-like story
please.”
“Curious? Good. Interrogators should always be curious. Goes with the
territory,” Haxtes replies, “at least it used to be like that when I was an
Interrogator.”
“So you made it to Interrogator rank then? I’m mildly surprised. Trained
killers have their uses, but they rarely rise through the ranks. They are used
until they are broken or no longer hungry. Then they are discarded.”
364
DARK OMEGA
Haxtes continues calmly. “Yes, I made it to Interrogator rank. At the
tender age of twenty-six. Not the youngest ever to be promoted to
Interrogator, but younger than you were Marcus.”
You find that hard to believe and see no reason not to make your feelings
known. “The Calixis Sector is provincial…but I find your claim to be less
than plausible.”
Haxtes. “You’re not getting any more sneak peeks into the future. For
now content yourself with this: It was not wholly undeserved. I clawed my
way up the ladder with every fibre of my being. There was no fault with my
dedication or the execution of my assignments. It also involved back-room
deals, bribes – and no small amount of threats.” A wide predatory grin
spreads across his face. “But however you look at it: I was made
Interrogator, and the Calixian Conclave accepted and affirmed my rank.”
“We’ll leave your claim hanging there for now,” you counter. “Now back
to the story.”
The predatory smile turns into a wickedly playful grin, worthy of a Rogue
Trader. “I wasn’t killed because I was part of the payment. The Veiled Hand
was handsomely compensated in Thrones and war booty. But there was
another clause in their contract; they were allowed to claim any Protasian
civilian under the age of fourteen.”
“Recruits?” you ask.
“Recruits,” Haxtes confirms.
“So that’s how you ended up a trained assassin?” you ask.
“That’s how I ended up a trained assassin,” Haxtes confirms. “But let’s
not play this particular game. Let me do the talking or we’ll never be done
here.”
He takes a deep breath. “What about you take your mid-day break now,
and when you get back I’ll tell you about my time with the Veiled Hand? I
365
don’t want you all worn out and irritable like you were yesterday. I’ll even
promise not to try and choke you.”
“Agreed,” you say and sever the connection.
366
INTERLUDE
THE FATE OF THE
HERETIC
Brother-Epistolary Kaminsky slowly unclasped his helmet. The seal
disengaged with an almost inaudible hiss. He lifted the helmet clear of his
clean-shaven and heavily electooed head. Equally deliberately he slowly
fastened the helmet to an attachment point, before turning his head to look
down upon the red-armoured form of Sister-Palatine Salinaria.
From experience he knew that humans had an easier time interacting
with him if he pretended to look at them. At least as long as he kept his
helmet on: He knew that most of them found his hideously burn-scarred,
eye-less face unsettling, if not downright frightening. Not even the Release
could restore his eyes – they were beyond destroyed, and no power, save
that of the Warp, could remake them.
Shortly after Kaminsky was – permanently – seconded to the
Deathwatch, Inquisitor Soldevan had taken a minute to explain it to him. It
wasn’t the scars as such; it was the overwhelming feeling of being watched
by a blind man that unsettled the weak minded. It was the same with
common astropaths, but in Kaminsky’s’ case the unease was compounded
by the fact that he was a towering giant of a killing machine, wreathed in
techno-arcane power armour.
367
INTERLUDE THE FATE OF THE HERETIC
Salinaria wasn’t that easily intimidated, however. She faced him, without
flinching. Good. She might not be Astartes, but at least she had a spine.
She took the time to remove her own helmet, revealing the woman inside
the power armour to be quite attractive, if somewhat stern-faced. “BrotherEpistolary, we are most pleased to have you along,” Salinaria said, “but I
assure you: we can handle this group, without the aid of the Deathwatch.”
“It’s not the entire Deathwatch that aids you, Sister Salt,” Kaminsky said
with great gravity, using the Low Gothic name of her birth. “It is only I.
Speaking of which; I hardly need the Adeptus Sororitas to help me
exterminate a group of cultist rabble.”
Sister-Palatine Salinaria gave him a faint smile in return. Smiles. It was
not a facial expression he was very familiar with. He knew – in theory –
what the basic true smile conveyed: Happiness, contentment, that sort of
thing. But there were so many variations of smiles, some of which meant
entirely different things. False smiles. Smiles put there to encourage or
deceive.
Kaminsky never smiled, true or false. Some Astartes did, but the
Librarian had no need for such. If he needed to make his emotions known,
he would simply project them into the mind of whoever needed to know.
And if he had need to learn the emotional state of another, he would just
read their aura and know.
Sister Salinaria’s smile was of the false kind. She meant for it to disarm
him, to put him at ease, to make him more receptive of her line of
reasoning. He put his rebuke squarely into her mind. She staggered back a
half step, but quickly recovered. She was strong of will this one.
“I apologise, Lord Kaminsky,” she said, sounding entirely unconvincing,
“but that is exactly what we wish to avoid. We need to take a few of them
alive, for questioning. Prelate Zhukov’s orders.”
368
DARK OMEGA
“Your Prelate is a very foolish man, Sister. The time for subterfuge and
questioning is long past us. The Ecclesiarchy has failed miserably here in
Thira. You assured the Holy Ordos that this place was free of taint, no?”
Salinaria was about to correct him, but decided against it. Pointing out
that the Inquisition had failed just as badly would only aggravate the
situation.
“The brave men of the Imperial Guard,” Kaminsky continued, “scoured
this world clean of rebels a mere handful of years ago. I would know, my
brother Astartes of the Storm Wardens and the Tigers Argent were here,
fighting alongside them. Despite the techno-horrors unleashed against the
Emperor’s servants, the Imperium prevailed. All your precious Ministorum
had to do was purge the taint of unbelief from this place.”
“My Lord, I…” Salinaria tried to interrupt.
Kaminsky cut her off. “But look at it now; it is a hotbed of dissent, a place
of growing heresy. They call the God-Emperor false, and call out to the fell
powers of the Warp to aid them. You’d think the Adeptus Ministorum
hadn’t been here to shepherd these people at all. But that’s not the case, is
it?” he continue, the anger in his voice completely unfeigned. “Prelate
Zhukov has had great resources at his disposal, yet the heresies only grow
in strength, don’t they?”
“These Protasian, Sire, they are…”
“Don’t delude yourself, Sister Salinaria,” Kaminsky axed her objections
before she could fully voice them. “It’s not the Protasians; the majority of
them have had their pride stomped out of them. The problem is the settlers,
the former Vaxanite Guardsmen in particular. They were given a wonderful
boon by the God-Emperor, and look at how they squandered it.” He made a
gesture to indicate the ruined cityscape of Thira. “They’ve turned this
paradise into a godless cesspool of corruption.”
369
“That is not…” Salinaria tried once more.
“Not what Zhukov is saying to your Canoness? How shocking. For your
information: Inquisitor Soldevan has been authorized by the Conclave to
look into the moral integrity of the Prelate. That is how highly his efforts
are being appreciated back on Scintilla. And believe me; my Soldevan is
nothing like your Inquisitor Vaarak.”
He saw realization dawn inside her mind. Now she realized why he was
here. Not to accompany and support her battle sisters, but to evaluate their
worth and purity.
“I see you understand. Good,” Kaminsky said, making his mouth into that
of a snarling beast. “We will purge the enemy. All of them. No prisoners.” He
let his command sink in, before adding. “I would hate for you to be purged
unnecessarily. Perform to my satisfaction, and I will make the fact known to
the Inquisitor. He is harsh, but he does not destroy indiscriminately. He will
not order your execution if you prove true,” he said, looking her straight
into her minds’ eye.
“As you wish, my Lord,” Salinaria said, backing away to join the thirty or
so sisters currently under her command. Inside she bristled, however.
Kaminsky could feel her resentment. He could also feel her doubts. She’d
been here, in Thira, during the initial purges. She knew they had erred. Yet
still she remained loyal, even when she knew her superiors were wrong. He
couldn’t help but feel a degree of sympathy for her; was not his own
chapter guilty of the same type of sin?
--The first of the enemy squads had entered the perimeter. Ten men. All, or
at least most of them, former Guardsmen. Professional, if a little rusty. They
were confident past the point of overconfidence; not surprising, given the
unholy zeal that had taken root in their hearts.
370
DARK OMEGA
Kaminsky took half a second to evaluate the situation, his mind
effortlessly and subconsciously interfacing with the armoured suit’s
machine spirit to calculate the positions, movement vectors, weapons
loadouts, and threat ratings of his targets.
Had his battle-brothers been with him he would have attacked from high
ground, spreading his men on either side of the thoroughfare, to create a
murderous enfilade. Sisters of Battle had a reputation as skilled warriors,
but until they had proven their loyalties, he wasn’t going to put himself in a
position where he had to rely on them.
Without warning he sprang up, planted his right foot squarely on top of
the low wall that ringed the flat roof, and leapt forward into empty air. Ten
stories of rockrete flashed past in no time at all. A handful of meters before
slamming into the ground he released a blast of telekinetic force. It served
two purposes; it slowed down his descent, allowing him to do a controlled
landing without recourse to a jump pack, and it sent half a squad of heretics
hurtling into the air, the bodies twisted and broken by the blast.
The remaining heretics were slow to respond, their minds struggling to
get to grips with this sudden assault. Kaminsky was not so encumbered by
human limitations. He leapt into the air, his movements hugely amplified by
the suit of powered armour he wore. Mobility, not protection – that was the
true wonder Astartes powered armour offered.
Kaminsky shot one of the enemy soldiers in the torso while still airborne.
His opponent’s chest exploded in a rain of blood and gore. He landed on top
of another one. Four hundred of kilos of marine and nearly a ton of
ceramite armour smashed into frail human flesh with unrelenting force.
The man was dead before Kaminsky’s armoured feet touched the
crumbling rockrete.
371
His next target had managed to get into cover. Kaminsky willed his bolt
pistol to switch from single fire, standard mass-reactive fusing, to full
automatic, proximity airburst. Neural signals leapt from his mind and into
the armour he wore by way of the interface ports drilled into his spine. The
machine spirit housed within his Mark VII Aquila suit instantly translated
his wishes into machine language and transmitted it to the bolt pistol. In
responds the weapon spat out four rocket-assisted rounds. They detonated
in a perfectly coordinated saturation pattern, right on top of the heretic. He
wasn’t blown apart as much as he was shredded by a hundred tiny
fragmentation slivers. One less enemy of the Imperium to worry about.
The final pair of enemies – whatever passed for the squad’s sergeant and
a squaddie armed with a flamer – had managed to recover sufficiently to
try to oppose him. The sergeant screamed for the flamer man to hose the
space marine. Kaminsky was having none of that. He grabbed hold of the
man’s confused mind. His level of mental resistance was pathetic. Kaminsky
crushed it, like he would an offending insect, and then forced the panicked
soldier to change targets.
The sergeant screamed again, an inhuman scream of fear and agony as
the promethium flames washed over him. He became a human torch, his
sins burned away by the cleansing flame. A single bolt pistol shot ruptured
the flamer’s fuel tank, turning the operator into a raging bonfire. To die by
fire, such is the fate of the heretic.
He made contact with Sister-Palatine Salinaria’s mind even as he
replaced his half-spent bolter magazine with a fresh one.
“Very impressive, Librarian,” she spoke into his mind, “but those were
just the vanguard. What about the rest of them?”
“You will move one of your squads across the thoroughfare, to establish
an enfilading position,” Kaminsky replied telepathically, overlaying his
372
DARK OMEGA
unspoken words with a visual impression of his plan. “The second squad
will be the other half of the trap. The last squad will act as a mobile reserve.
You will hold you fire until I have drawn the enemy well into our trap.”
He deliberately used the word ‘our’ to strengthen the bond between
them. Few humans could resist the pull of warrior fraternity, when offered
by one of the Angels of Death, humanity’s supreme killers.
He could feel her start to object; that he was but one against the
multitude of the enemy. What could one man, even one such as he, do
against so many? But she did not protest out loud. Instead she indicated
agreement, and did as she was bid. Good, a small step in the right direction.
And he was not human; he was beyond human, he was Astartes, one of the
God-Emperor’s Angels of Death.
Down on the ground Kaminsky took up an easily visible position, ringed
by the enemy dead. With the promethium fires still raging the enemy would
soon be here. On a whim he hacked off the head of a couple of troopers and
hung them from his belt. He was probably overdoing it, but the heretics
weren’t exactly subtle and would probably respond favourably to this
gesture.
He could feel his humours starting to rise as he waited for the enemy to
come. Soon the pent-up hatred he held for the enemies of Mankind would
be unleashed. Soon the divine light would scour the heretics, just like it had
scoured those wretched genestealers on that fateful day in the Jericho
Reach.
What a day that had turned out to be. It had marked the beginning of his
liberation from the weakness of the flesh. Brother-Epistolary Kaminsky
needed no eyes to see. And without his eyes to hold him back, his psychic
power had multiplied, until he was the strongest psyker his Chapter had
seen in a very long time indeed.
373
He began chanting, softly at first, but more strongly with every repetition of
the age old litany of the Space Marines:
What is your Duty? To serve Emperor's Will.
What is Emperor's Will? That we fight and die.
What is Death? It is our duty.
What is your Duty? ...
374
PART IV
THE HAND
375
376
CHAPTER 39
A LONG LUNCH
The connection is terminated. You instruct the motionless lecternservitor to remain behind with the tome; you’ll be returning for a second
session later today, so there is no need to have the book returned to
storage. You turn and leave the cybernetic servant alone in the camber,
with only the trio of silently floating servo-skulls for company. The doors
seal firmly shut behind you. They will not open without your genesequence, passkey, and clearance codes.
The Haxtes persona is getting to you. It’s not a rational thing. You know
that he’s just a shadow of a long-dead killer. You know he’s been put there
for a reason; to guard the tome. You know he is just playing his part. But
still he’s getting to you.
It’s not that he’s a murderous bastard – he’s guilty as charged on both
counts – because that kind of person you can work with if need be. You’re
no saint yourself for that matter. You have killed many times in the line of
duty. Most have been heretics – or guilty by association or negligence – but
not all. A few innocents – if there is such a thing – have died along the way.
Some as pure collateral, others to be sure the cancerous heresy had been
well and truly cut out. When dealing with heresy it is always better to be
absolutely certain, rather than have it surge up again at a later date – ten
times stronger than before.
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CHAPTER 39 A LONG LUNCH
No doubt you will kill again. And no doubt more innocents will die by
your hands – or by your command. Not to mention the choices you will be
called upon to make, once you become an Inquisitor in your own right. But
you do what you do because you follow a higher calling. Because you
believe in the guiding light of the God-Emperor. Because you know it is for
the betterment of Mankind. The lives of heretics are already forfeit in the
eyes of the Master of Mankind. For the innocents their deaths were not in
vain; they will be judged lightly by Him, for they died serving the Imperium
after a fashion.
No, it’s not the killings. It’s Haxtes’ flippant attitude towards the GodEmperor, the Imperium, and the Holy Work that gets to you. His blatant
abuse of his own position for personal gain; he’s practically bragged about
it one more than one occasion. Those things get to you. It demeans the
service. It dishonours the tireless labours of the Inquisition. That’s what’s
getting to you. He can try all he wants to talk his way out of it, but you will
never accept his shallow excuses. There are no excuses good enough to
ever warrant disparaging the Saviour Emperor or abusing the holy power
the Inquisition wields.
Admittedly your dislike of Haxtes is also coloured by the challenges
posed by the tome itself. You are not used to being challenged mentally and
psychically like this. In matters of the mind it is usually you that have the
upper hand. This situation where you have to remain in telepathic contact
with an artefact that constantly tries to confound, confront, and manipulate
you on multiple levels is highly unusual.
You supress a small chuckle. What was it he called you? ‘Prodigal
interrogator’? Yes, that’s it. Well, the prodigal interrogator has to admit that
he’s grown proud and haughty – almost like a Protasian. There is a lesson
to be learned here: You better take care or you’ll end up with too many
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DARK OMEGA
enemies, all plotting against you in the shadows, while you remain
haughtily ignorant, blinded by your own sense of superiority.
--You follow the narrow winding stairs up to the twelfth level of the
inverted pyramid, passing through the Portal of Infinite Secrets, the
security check-point leading down into the final tier. Two of the gold-cloaks
are on guard duty at the top of the stairs. You note the personal force-field
generator each man carries. Psi-ward, power weapons, personal shields –
no expense has been spared to keep the Librarium secure.
Neither guard reacts to your presence. They are not here to check up on
you, but to turn away visitors who have no business on the lowest and most
secret level of the Second Librarium of Knowing. Fortunately you have all
the right clearances and permissions required, to be down here in the dark
bowels of the library. Not many do; you’ve yet to see a single other visitor
all the way down on the thirteenth tier.
The twelfth tier is not of interest to you. It does not offer the facilities you
require. It merely holds those restricted works that are just a tad bit less
forbidden than the tome you are perusing. The same applies to the larger
eleventh and tenth tiers; the last two levels to be composed solely of
physical media copies.
What you are looking for will first be available as you ascend to the ninth
tier; a query chamber with full access to the Librarium’s vast data-stacks.
There are more query chambers higher up of course, but the higher you
climb, the less material is accessible. The topmost 1st Tier is barely more
than a well-stocked public info bank. The 9th Tier is ideal; if the information
exists in a format accessible by the Librarium’s cogitators, you will have
access to it.
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As you walk your thoughts wander to Protasia: Was that how the
Protasian Grid functioned? A ninth tier that every citizen could access
through their locks? How would all that information affect the average – if
such a thing can be said to exist – Imperial world? You entertain yourself
with various scenarios to pass the time as you ascend, tier by tier. None of
the outcomes seem very favourable: Too much data inevitably leads to too
many ideas, which in turn lead to various forms of sedition and heretical
behaviour. Information overflow inevitably leads to overtime for the
servants of the Holy Ordos. Thought for the day: Ignorance is bliss. You
chuckle at your own joke.
The flight of stairs leading up to the ninth tier – or down to the tenth if
you like – is much wider and less steep than the stairs leading to the
thirteenth tier. Like so many other things in the place you’re convinced the
design is part practical application and part symbology. Smaller and
steeper to accommodate less and less traffic. Smaller and steeper to
symbolize restricted access and the gravity of the lore contained therein.
Again there is a security check-point, including two gold-cloaks standing
guard at the top of the stairwell. You give them a polite nod, and then move
purposefully towards the loremasters in attendance. A quick mental scan
has revealed a trio of them standing about the central communal area, not
far from the query chambers.
You follow a wide corridor in the Imperial Gothic-Baroque style that has
been all the rage for the last couple of millennia. It is lined with crystalline
statues of the Saints of Lore, an obscure group of angelic figures from
across time and space that have in some way championed the controlled
cultivation of sanctioned knowledge.
After several hundred meters the corridor empties into the grand central
chamber of the 9th Tier. The great hall is lined with countless great shelves
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DARK OMEGA
reaching fifty meters or more up into the air, arranged in multiple
concentric circles. The shelves are filled to capacity with millions of books;
physical copies of some of the works accessible to those with the clearances
required to be here. The remaining eight levels above your head are
arranged in much the same fashion, great public spaces, filled with
symbolic representations of the lore contained within.
Radiating outwards, like the spokes of a wheel, are lesser corridors
leading to the query chambers. That’s your destination – a fully operational
ninth tier query chamber.
A handful of petitioners are present, all of them either well-dressed or
clad in the fashion of adepts and savants. All but one looks like they belong
here. A mind-probe of the odd man out reveals him to be a household
servant, dressed up and sent here on an errand for his master who has
taken ill. Nothing to worry about.
Barring a roving two-man patrol of gold-cloaks and the odd selection of
walking and floating librarium servitors, the only people of interest are the
trio of loremasters your mind-scan revealed. Make that a quartet; the three
are deferentially listening to a fourth person, a shapely mature woman with
wonderfully fake cascading blonde hair, barely kept in check by pins and
braiding.
Her hair is so artfully done that she must either have a very skilled valet
– or a high-grade personal servitor. Her robes of office indicated that she is
the Epistolary of the 9th Tier of the Second Library of Knowing. A position
of no small importance here on Bokiba-Bapas. Judging by her exterior she
is also clearly a woman who is not merely interested in lore for lore’s sake,
but one who values the carnal aspects of life – and the power and prestige
her position brings.
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But it is not her aged beauty, her fabulous hair, or her position that
marks her as a person of interest. What sets her apart is her lack of a
psychic presence. You probe her blankness. Gently at first, to test the
waters, then more forcefully to determine her wards’ potency. You come
away none the wiser, save that the effect seems personal, limited to within
a foot or so of her person, and that it is quite potent. Potent enough to
completely block your probe.
You’re left wondering: Could she be a psychic blank? You know of their
existence of course, but you’ve yet to meet anyone of any real magnitude. If
she is a blank, she’s the first real specimen with enough of a null-aura to
attract your attention. More likely she is not. But that begs the question;
what potent device or arcane artefact generates such a strong anti-psionic
field? It is leagues beyond the telepathic warding employed by the mystery
team or the helmets worn by the Librarium’s guardians.
Be that as it may. You approach the quartet in such a manner as to
politely indicate you have a request, without interfering with what they are
discussing. Incidentally you already know what they are talking about; you
picked it from the minds of the unwarded Codiciers: The attempted forgery
of papers to affect entry into the 9th Tier for a small group of three people.
Could it be an attempt by your stalkers to get at you on the inside? If so, it
could complicate matters even more. You make a mental note to remain
vigilant at all times while within the Librarium’s tiered walls.
The Epistolary finishes and turns to leave. She flashes a brilliant white
smile at you as she brushes past. You fight a sudden urge to turn and watch
her go. Where did that come from? You’ve never been one to be turned
around by looks alone. Ogling the butt of a senior librarium staff member is
definitely not in character for you; it’s something that Haxtes might have
done – if he was in the mood for ogling.
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DARK OMEGA
One of the Codiciers greets you. “The Emperor’s blessings upon you
Goodman. How may the staff be of service?”
“I require access to a query chamber for approximately two hours,” you
say, “starting as soon as I’ve had some lunch. “How do I get hold of some
food down here?”
The Codicier smiles. His teeth are brown and crooked, in stark contrast
to those of his superior. You imagine his dental work is more typical of the
average librarium adept. “I have a chamber ready for you Goodman, if you
would follow me.” He gestures for you to follow. “There is a valet-servitor
within each chamber. It will see to your bodily needs,” he says in low tones,
before turning to hobble slowly down one of the lesser corridors.
You feel impatience bubbling up inside. At the current pace it will take
forever to reach your designated chamber. You give the Codicier a mental
nudge, urging him to speed up. He complies, but the combination of bad
knees, a hunched back, and gross overweight makes the speed gain
negligible. With an inward sigh you pick your destination from his mind,
turn him around, and implant him with the knowledge that he’s escorted
you all the way and is now headed back to his peers, mission accomplished.
As an afterthought you add a small mental worm; one that will, in time,
compel him to try and do something about his ruined physique.
The query chamber has the same basic layout as the 13th Tier reading
chambers you’ve become familiar with. The flagstones are identical and the
blue-green stone on the walls are richly carved – this time with scenes of
aquatic beasts battling each other – and humans arrayed with a variety of
submersible equipment. On a whim you scan the artwork for any signs of a
Haxtes look-alike. But there is none to be found. You’re not sure if you’re
relieved – or annoyed at yourself for looking.
383
The primary difference between a reading and query chamber lies with
the furnishing and the available equipment. The small podium has a large
desk with a high-backed chair facing it. There are additional chairs lined
along the wall, but you’ve brought no attendants and so no need for any of
them. An old lectern towers in lonesome majesty next to the desk; it looks
positively ancient and little used. To one side there is a round table,
surrounded by a leather couch and some plush chairs.
Upon the desk are various appliances required to interact with the datastacks of the librarium; digi-styluses, several large flexi-screen dataslates, a
hololithic projector, immersion headbands, and so forth. There is also an
auditor station; a trapezoid charcoal box with a faded golden Aquila on one
side. Good. It will allow you to utilize your superior clearances without
further ado. A single sweep of your bequeathed Rosette into its scanning
beam and you’ll have full access.
There are no servoskulls in attendance; lighting is provided by common
illuminator panels. There are two servitors. One is finely dressed and
almost human in appearance; you suppose it is the valet model. You
instruct it to bring you a hearty lunch, including a suitable vintage.
The other servitor is of the quaestor type – its job is to help those
petitioners who lack the required skills to utilize the librarium’s search
spirits properly. The quaestor is slow and ungainly, with a myriad of visible
cybernetic parts. A fitting appearance for a servitor tasked with facilitating
human-cogitator interaction. You’ve no need for its services and order it
into hibernation mode. Short of banishing it from the chamber it’s the
closest thing you’ll get to complete privacy. It resists your command ever so
briefly, until the security algorithms contained within the Rosette overrides
its deeper programming layers.
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DARK OMEGA
While waiting for your lunch, you take the opportunity to familiarize
yourself with the chamber’s query equipment. It’s fairly standard fare;
everything complies with familiar standard templates. There are a few
idiosyncrasies, there always is, for no two Forge Worlds or Manufactorum
Guilds produce exactly the same products. If you add layers of
ornamentation and decades, if not centuries, of divergent maintenance, any
techno-artefacts tend to become different in form, if not in basic function.
But everything is well within the standard norm. You’ll have no trouble
utilizing any of the gear.
The auditor station accepts your Dark Omega clearance and Librariumissued permissions. You now have full access to every info-bank, datacrypt, and meme-stack within the Librarium. If that isn’t sufficient you can
use your Inquisition protocols to interface with any external system you
feel like looking into. As long as they are tied into the Bapas grid – it might
not be open to all like Protasia’s, but it’s still there – there is no keeping you
out unless they too have Inquisition-level security. Or employ heretek –
heretical technology – to protect their secrets. Which would in turn
warrant a sudden, physical visitation by the joint forces of the Holy Ordos
and the Adeptus Mechanicus.
The valet-servitor returns with your meal. You instruct it to lay it out on
the desk as opposed to the coffee table. Predictably it protests; no food or
beverages of any kind on the query desk. You’ve had quite enough of
servitor protestations and decide enforce its compliance. The valet is made
to a flexible/interactive specification and retains a wide range of higher
brain functions, meaning your psychic powers work on it with just a little
tweaking.
385
After it has finished setting the table it retreats a distance and goes into
standby mode. There is no reason for you to put it into forced hibernation;
it’s programmed for discretion and won’t even remember you were here.
The food is acceptable. A little bland perhaps, but not disastrously so. Not
as warm as you’d have liked. Cooled from the lengthy trek down from the
kitchens on one of the upper tier. The wine is delicious and finely matched
to the meal. Haxtes would have approved.
In between bites you take the time to punch a manual query into the
search-engine using the physical keyboard worked into the surface of the
desk: A-k-a-k-i-o-s.
Haxtes claimed that all traces of his homeworld had been purged from
Imperial records, as a result of the Edict of Obliteration. Perhaps he spoke
the truth. Perhaps not. Trust is not something you will extend to Haxtes.
Not now, not ever. He’s too clever and manipulative for that. Now you have
the opportunity to try and find holes in his story – maybe an outright lie to
confront him with. Now that would make your day.
You’re hoping that perhaps this distant corner of the Finial sector is
remote enough to have escaped the Inquisitorial purge. The Holy Ordos are
very thorough, but the control of information can be a very complex and
challenging business. Especially when you have places like the Library of
Knowing. Places that deliberately collect secrets and guard them with great
enthusiasm.
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CHAPTER 40
QUESTIONS AND
ANSWERS
The querying machine-spirit starts to work its way through the
labyrinthine indexes of the Librarium of Knowing’s many info-banks. After
several mouthfuls of lunch and a few sips of wine it returns a blank. There
are no indexed references to Akakios in active storage. You’re not
surprised. It’s not going to that easy.
You extend your index search into the archived data-crypts. The query
spirit aestimates a search time of an hour and a half. You launch the query
and add a new one: A cursory search for Akakios in all of active memory;
not an index search, but a full scan of all searchable material. Two hours
aestimated. You hit launch, then sit back and savour the wine.
Finding out more about the Haxtes character’s background is only
interesting in so far as it might reveal to what degree he’s lying. The more
lies you find, the easier it will be for you to catch him in the act later on. It
could provide you with the advantage you need to bypass him as a security
element. It is time to get rid of bloody annoying Haxtes and get deeper into
the tome’s secrets.
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CHAPTER 40 QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
You activate the hololithic projector. It’s an old unit. Not old enough to be
awe-inspiring archaotech. Just old in the bad sense of the word; sluggish,
unreliable, and difficult to tune. Your fingers experiment with the interface,
manipulating queries and tuning display parameters. The holographic
image coalesces – with acceptable clarity – into an astrographic
presentation of the Drusus Marches sub-sector, Calixis sector. At the heart
of the image: A yellow Solarian-type sun labelled Aethyr.
You zoom in a bit, pull key system data from the data-stacks. The
hololithic display spews out orbital and planetary data for all major system
bodies. The words are too blurred to read, however, forcing you to switch
over to one of the dataslates. What the dataslate lacks in three-dimensional
majesty, it makes up for in speed of operation and readability. The system
contains only one naturally habitable planet. Name: Protasia. Designation:
Frontier World.
While waiting for the background queries to complete, you don one of
the immersion headbands. Unlike a visual display – be it a hololithic image
or a traditional screen – it projects a stream of preformatted neurovisual
data onto your retina. Whereas a visual display is limited by your reading
speed, a neurovisual device is limited only by your minds ability to accept
an incoming data stream. In your case it means you can, for example, read a
text up to five times faster than normal. Or get all the data from a fastforwarding pict-cording. It’s a well-known STC pattern, but since you need
a specially conditioned mind to utilize them properly they remain rare in
actual use. The only wholesale users you know of are the Adeptus Astartes;
they use similar machines to help teach their recruits the million and one
things humanity’s finest need to know.
Immersion headbands – and similar tech – do not provide full MIU manmachine interface. You, however, have no need to compel any machine
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DARK OMEGA
spirits. You just need to be able to receive data as quickly as you mind can
process it. Otherwise you’ll be in here all day, searching of inconsequential
answers to unimportant questions.
You start by pulling up a range of easily accessible information; a series
of queries about Protasia. According to Haxtes the world by this name
should be on file. From personal experience you remember the name from
a star chart of the Calixis sector. Information is flashed into your mind with
blinding speed as the queries return with their findings.
The basics seem to fit. There is indeed a world on the fringes of the
Drusus sub-sector called Protasia. Formerly classified as a War World,
currently classified as a Frontier World. Your sources doesn’t specifically
say what happened to make it a warzone. The lack of data isn’t surprising; a
Calixian colony world would not necessarily be on file this far away. The
Imperium is most stringent when it comes to the needless spread of
information.
Protasia. Ruled by the House of Grimes. First Imperial Commander,
Grimes I, inaugurated by Scintillan decree 5.565.818.M41, confirmed by
High Lords of Terra 0.745.823.M41. You recall seeing the year the datetime-stamp 5.099.815.M41 on one of the astropathic transcripts Haxtes
discovered within the Inquisition facility. So Grimes was approved as
Governor by Scintilla a mere three and a half year after the first ‘incident’.
The Imperial Commander is currently one Renaud III, or at least it was
when these records were compiled a few years back. You leaf through the
roll of planetary governors. The list is rather short. Grimes ruled for close
to twenty years. He was followed by his son, Grimes II, who was killed just
a short while thereafter. The records do not list the reason, but you know
what happened: Skull-Taker Verrigan carved a bloody path across the
planet.
389
Protasia. Judging by its location it’s something of a gateway to the
Koronus Expanse. One of the major routes from Scintilla to the Maw passes
through the system. Sounds like a world that could become important.
You try to find out more about Protasia, going back a handful of
centuries, but the planet’s history records are oddly bereft of detail. So
Protasia could be Akakios renamed. It’s not been established, but the
possibility is definitely there. It’s a bit disappointing, but then again the
Haxtes persona is too clever by half to make use of blatant lies. His lies are
of the subtle, manipulating kind.
When going back doesn’t work you try going into exacting detail, but the
Second Librarium of Knowing isn’t an Administratum repository of
bureaucratic trivia. There is simply nothing to be found. You could open a
connection to the wider Bokiban official records, but you doubt it will make
any difference. Protasia is, despite its position on the Scintilla to Port
Wander route, a small and unimportant place, far removed from the great
flying cities of Bokiba-Bapas. Chances are virtually non-existent that you’ll
find what you’re after.
The only way to get any deeper would be for you to establish an
astropathic connection to the Prol archives, the official Imperial archives in
Calixis. The records you are after are more than old enough to have reached
the archives, but not old enough to have been abridged and placed in deep
storage.
There is a big catch, however. Doing so would require use if you Rosette
and Inquisitorial clearances – a sure way to signal your presence to the rest
of the galaxy. Just because one group of enemies are on to you doesn’t mean
you can afford to broadcast your whereabouts to everyone else.
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DARK OMEGA
Perhaps you will have the opportunity to revisit the Protasia/Akakios
question at a later data. Probably not. In a few days the question will be
entirely academic: And you’re no scholar.
You follow up with a handful of simple queries, mostly to pass the time
while you’re waiting for the Akakios queries to complete. The world of Lo.
The Margin Worlds Crusade. The Spinward Front. The Lathes Mechanicus.
Sector Commander Marius Hax. Verrigan. Grimes. Zhukov.
Most of the searches are quick, others take several minutes to finish.
Your disciplined, yet agile mind unfailingly picks up the incoming
information at an astonishing rate, sorting, indexing, and storing, drawing
out and connecting the bits and pieces that will help answer your
questions.
Lo. Nothing interesting there. No, wait. There is a reference to a
regiment, the 57th Lo, being disbanded – and settled on the Frontier world
of Protasia. The reference itself is dated 825.M41, but it doesn’t say when
the 57th was disbanded. It could be Jons’ regiment, disbanded some years
prior to the record being made. It seems to confirm Haxtes story, but you
cannot be certain. Insufficient data; once more you’re too far removed and
the records too obscure.
The year 731.M41 marks the ascension of Marius Hax as Imperial
Commander of the Calixis Sector. He succeeds his kinsman Larhanus Sult,
for whom he has acted as an advisor and confidante for decades. Hax ruled
well into the 9th century. Another lead that leads nowhere.
Verrigan gets you no returns, which is only fitting since he was declared
Excommunicate Traitoris and hunted down by the Ordo Malleus. If you had
found something you would have been very surprised. Relatedly; the
query-spirit would normally have alerted the Librarium staff of your search
391
of Verrigan. Your Dark Omega kills any such notions, but it’s good to know
that the Second Library is taking its security seriously.
The great Prelate Zhukov gives you some additional circumstantial
evidence. That his name exists down here in Finial is testament to his fame
as a crusading firebrand. A local Bokiban scholar has written a biography
on the man; the story of how a high-ranking churchman stepped down
from his lofty position to do missionary work among the heathens. The
biography was done in the final decades if the 41st Millennium. As a
posthumous work it will invariably be distorted by the passage of time, but
there is one interesting bit to be found – someone has purged the name of
the world that Zhukov was appointed to as a Prelate, prior to his firebrand
years. It could well be the name Protasia/Akakios that has been purged.
You cannot be sure, but your gut feeling tells you it is so.
Margin Worlds Crusade. Launched 784.M41. Actually an attempt by the
Ministorum to mount a major military operation to expand the borders of
the Periphery subsector. It fared poorly. Ships and divisions were sent out
piecemeal into the unexplored vastness that lies between the Calixis and
Scarus sectors. Decades later it dragged bloodily on, with little gain to show
for the lives spent. Then all contact was lost as a green tide of orks surged
forth from the dark unknown and fell upon the Periphery. At the Lucid
Palace the blame for provoking this unexpected ork upsurge was put
squarely on the shoulders of the Ministorum and Duke Severus XIII, subsector commander of the Periphery.
Some good came of it though; the Imperium would not waste more
resources on this failed colonial venture, but instead used the Margins
Crusade as a cover for the build-up and support of another, far more
important crusade: The Achilus Crusade. A crusade very few are privy to;
your master is, for obvious reasons, one of those in the know.
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DARK OMEGA
Haxtes was eight when the bombs started falling. If the astropathic
transcript is to be trusted he was born in 807.M41. He had just turned nine
when he met the Guardsmen. In Thira it was early autumn when the
Imperials arrived. You check the system data for Protasia and do some
quick calculations, pegging the encounter around 200.816.M41.
The men of the 57th Lo had been together for several years, subjective
time, a bit longer in objective time, given that they had several warp
journeys under their belt. The earliest date you can find for a formally
designated Spinward Front is in 814.M41. That was the year the green tide
of orks – either the same one stirred up by the margins Crusade or another,
the records aren’t clear – hit the Periphery/Severanian subsector.
There is a mismatch here. Protasia rebelled before the Spinward Front
went on record. Add to that the time required for the 57th Lo to muster,
deploy, spend years fighting together, be pulled out, and redeploy to
Protasia.
Have you, finally, found a hole in Haxtes story? You begin a parallel
verification process. From the meagre data available, you know there had
been conflict in that particular area for decades prior 814.M41. Fringe
worlds brought into the Imperial fold by the Margins Crusade required
garrisoning. Some local rebellions. Minor incursions by orks and other
xenos. There are historic records of Duke Severus XIII repeatedly, starting
in the 790s, petitioning Scintilla for Imperial Guard regiments to
supplement his own forces.
So the 57th Lo could have been deployed to an unofficial ‘Spinward
Front’ well prior to 814, even if it didn’t officially exist yet. After all, the
Periphery is Spinward of the sector proper, so if the military planners were
to give it an informal name, it could well have been the Spinward Front.
393
Haxtes mentioned the sixty divisions sent to Protasia were originally
meant for other warzones. The two hundred and forty follow-up divisions
is another matter. They must have been hurriedly assembled, primarily
from Calixian worlds. If only you had access to the records of the
Departmento Munitorum on Solomon, then you could have confirmed the
dates beyond a shadow of a doubt!
Your best guess is that Lord Hax sent his envoys to Protasia in 814.M41
and that the world was in full rebellion the year after. The 57th Lo would
have rotated out from the new Spinward Front around that time, carried
aboard a Munitorum mass conveyor that had just delivered more divisions
or provisions to the ‘Spinward Front’. Only the 57th Lo never got all the way
home. Because of Protasia’s rebellion Guardsmen were suddenly in critical
short supply. By 816.M41 Jons and the rest of the 57th Lo were in Thira,
helping first to take the city, and then to garrison it.
You’re tempted to put in a direct query for Haxtes, but you realize that it
won’t amount to anything: A direct search for Inquisitors or Inquisitorial
agents is doomed to be useless; the Library of Knowing contains many
secrets, but it’s not an Inquisition archive. Not even the local Officio here on
Bokiba-Bapas will have the data that you seek. You strongly doubt even an
astropathic connection to the Tricorn would help. The answers you seek
are probably hidden away in deep vaults that are not searchable from the
outside.
The Jarra woman is probably nothing. An ogryn recruited from who
knows where. Smarter and prettier than your typical orgy, but still just
hired muscle.
But Vernissimon de Veridia of Archaos, a trained savant from the Planet
of Philosophers, that might yield something. Fifteen minutes later you have
browsed through a number of planetary folios that bear the name of the
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DARK OMEGA
esteemed Vernissimon. In addition to his Inquisitorial work the good Vern
has produced quite a few scholarly pieces of text, detailing little-known
aspects of many outlying worlds in Calixis and beyond. Completely
worthless.
Your background searches on Akakios are finally done. There is one
indexed entry in the data-crypts for an Imperial world called Akaki in the
Drusus sub of the Calixis sector. The name could be a misspelling of
Akakios. You do a cursory search for Akaki. No returns. Finding no other
references to this mystery world strengthens your theory; Akaki is Akakios.
Unfortunately the index reference leads nowhere. Or rather, it leads to a
deleted document or archive entry. You can sense the Holy Ordos at work.
A bit sloppy to miss such an obvious misspelling. On the other hand they
did get rid of the underlying information, so you might still call it objective
accomplished.
You try your hand at several tangential queries, but they lead precisely
nowhere. Or rather they lead to the edge of nowhere; there is undeniably a
hole in the librarium’s records where additional data on Akakios/Protasia
should have been. Consistent with an unseen intrusion by Inquisition
purge-worms. Conclusion: The Edict of Obliteration was indeed issued.
The full search of the active memory stacks doesn’t add much
information. There would hardly have been many references to Akakios in
the first place. A small an unimportant world far away, purged from
records centuries ago. You close the query.
And then there is the Maiden of Golgenna. The vessel that supposedly
carried Inquisitor Melbinious into the great unknown. On a whim – perhaps
brought to you by Haxtes’ Rogue Trader impersonation – you add Jaxel
Guilliman to the query, layering it with the ship-search. There are no
returns, but you still have a solid feeling about the query.
395
You demand an exterior connection to traffic control, presenting your
Rosette to the auditor station to avoid any Imperial entanglements. There.
In the records of the Harbour-Master. Several entries on a Maiden of
Golgenna back in medio M41, under three different captains. Not very
interesting. But then a Rogue Trader named Jaxel Guilliman visited BokibaBapas several centuries later. Rogue Trader Jaxel Guilliman, Master and
Commander of the sprint freighter Domina Calixis – the Mistress of Calixis.
You just know that name is a fake, even without any evidence to back it up.
The Mistress of Calixis is the Maiden of Golgenna, you’re sure of it. And
Haxtes own brother was the commanding officer.
You snort out a little laugh; Rogue Trader Guilliman your ass. No doubt
the Warrant of Trade was as fake as the name of the ship. So Haxtes did
meet his brother again. Used him for his own ends no doubt. But how did
they get access to a genuine voidship? You actually look forward to hearing
that particular story.
In conclusion your lunchtime research has revealed no holes in Haxtes
story. Granted you’re short of concrete evidence, what you have is almost
exclusively substantial, but you’re starting to think that most of what he’s
told you is actually true. Maybe not all the details are entirely accurate.
Maybe he’s over-embellished a little. But the basic framework of his story
holds together.
A thought starts to form in your mind. The genesis of an idea that quickly
swells as more information flows into it. If Haxtes’ tale is true, then he was
born at the end of the 8th century of the 41st millennium. Melbinious was
active during the sixth and seventh centuries. By some accounts he was
around as late as the very start of the eight. But he’s still separated from
Haxtes by nearly a hundred years, probably more.
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DARK OMEGA
Yet there are also some indications that Melbinious was back in service
in the 9th century. You’ve never put much stock in those fragmentary tales,
preferring to focus your attentions on the ‘original’ Melbinious. Now you
are not so sure anymore. Could Melbinious have returned from the Halo
Stars aboard the Maiden of Golgenna? Alive, centuries after his supposed
death – or exile? A long lifespan to be sure, but not impossible given regular
rejuvenation treatments. Or perhaps time was spent in stasis?
And that’s before you take into account that one of the reasons
Melbinious fell out of favour was his quest for longevity. Nay, not longevity,
immortality. Did Melbinious first escape his peers by fleeing into the Halo
Stars, then returned to Calixis, long after his enemies were dead? Did he
employ the secret of immortality on himself and simply outlived them all?
Is he perhaps still out there? You’ve toyed with such ideas before, but
dismissed them as fanciful day-dreams, nothing more.
You sigh deeply, then rise and stretch. There is no point in mulling.
You’ve no way of confirming any of this. You don’t have the time to search
this librarium. You don’t have the liberty to return to Calixis. And even if
Melbinious returned, even if he lives still: What does it matter to you? Not
one iota. The tome is your goal, the information inside your prize. To the
Eye with Melbinious.
You reactivate the dormant servitor and instruct the valet to clean up
after you; you’ve no further use for the chamber. You’ve spent more than
enough time eating, resting, and flexing your mind. Now it is time to go
accidentally bump into librarian Amaya before you embark upon a second
session with the tome of Melbinious.
--You’ve no problem locating her – her mental footprint is well known to
you by know. She’s up on the 7th Tier, trying to explain to her gold-cloak
397
lover that she’s just not into him anymore. That there is no other man in
her life. That it’s not him, but her. She’s right about the latter, but not the
former – she just doesn’t yet realize that the future man in her life is you.
You engage her in a short, superficial conversation. Your real purpose is
not to talk, but to scan her up close. Looking good. The worm is doing its
work. A bit quicker than anticipated in fact. There is no need for further
modifications. You close the mind-scan, smile brightly to Amaya, and bid
her good day. She’ll be seeing more of you soon enough.
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CHAPTER 41
FORBIDDEN LORE
“You’re back,” Haxtes says. “Took your sweet time too.” He’s standing at
the table, decanting some sort of wine.
You accept the drink he offers you. “I had things to do in the real world,”
you reply coyly. “Real people stuff.”
Haxtes finishes, pours wine into waiting glasses, and resumes his seat.
“Really? And what would that be? Ogling the female staff? Trying to catch
me at lies? Both of the above?”
You return a grim smile. “Sorry Haxtes, we’re not playing your little
mind-games today. Your guesswork is, as always, quite accurate. But no,
I’m not fearful that you’ve crept inside my mental fortress. I’m done
doubting my mental architecture; it’s quite good enough now. If you try to
work your way around it, I will compensate.” You say it matter-of-factly,
sounding fully confident in your own abilities.
In reality you are less certain, but you can’t let the bastard know that. To
compensate for Haxtes’ insidious ways you’ve already adopted a more agile
architecture. It’s superficially the same as before, same compartments, et
cetera. But the underlying mechanisms are more dynamic. It’s a more
demanding way of doing things, but your defences aren’t static anymore. It
will make getting around them much, much harder for the tome.
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CHAPTER 41 FORBIDDEN LORE
Haxtes nods once. “You’re growing on me Marcus, I’ll give you that.” He
has a sip of the wine. “Just like this wine; the Lurrian elderberry berries are
extremely poisonous, but if treated correctly they can be made into a
marvellous drink.”
“I wouldn’t know,” you profess, “but the taste is really excellent. You do
know your liquor Haxtes, I’ll give you that.”
Haxtes gives you the not-smile again. “Well thank you Marcus. I’ve
worked quite hard at becoming a proper gentleman. One cannot expect to
be accepted into polite society as a peer of the realm, without having a
certain appreciation for self-intoxication.”
“You would know more of such things that me,” you reply.
“So, where did we leave off?” Haxtes asks, ignoring your jibe.
“At the very end,” you reply chidingly. “You were about to reveal to me
the secrets of immortality.”
“Ha!” Haxtes snorts in feigned surprise. “You’re starting to develop a
sense of humour as well. Next thing you know the Golden Throne has failed
and Horus himself has returned – to the great annoyance of the selfproclaimed Warmaster Abaddon!”
You have another sip. “I guess I deserved that one, didn’t I?” You let out a
small sigh. “Incidentally there is a rumour that the Throne has ceased to
function. It’s a rumour that has gone around many times before – and been
stringently supressed.”
Haxtes quickly ripostes. “But this time it is for real? And that’s why you
need the master’s secrets; so that the God-Emperor can be restored to life
and lead humanity to final victory? Well I guess that settles it then.”
You lift your free hand in apology. “My apologies Haxtes. I’m just in a
good mood after lunch. I do not know in detail what my master intends to
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DARK OMEGA
do with the lore of immortality, except that it is indeed for the betterment
of Mankind.”
Haxtes shrugs. “Too bad. If it really was the restoration of the GodEmperor to living life I might have relented.”
You give him a flat look. “You? Relent? I think not.”
Haxtes rewards you with a very brief grin.
“You were telling me about how you got kicked in the nuts and taken
away by the wicked off-world assassins,” you add.
“Indeed I was. Sit back and relax. I’ll try to be brief.”
--I had never been to space before, let alone set foot on a voidship. Some
Protasians did go to space, but they were mostly naval PDF types or
merchant marine crews. For ordinary Protasian people there was no
reason to go to space. There is nothing to see or do out there in the void.
And to a Protasian there is no place dearer than home. The desire to visit
foreign worlds for the sake of the experience was not part of our cultural
psyche.
The closest I had gotten to space was the hopper. But the hopper could
go only so high. The twin turborotors didn’t deliver much thrust once you
went beyond 10,000 meters, plus the cabin wasn’t pressurized, which
made it really unpleasant once you reached four or five klicks.
If you want to reach orbit you need a lander or a shuttle: They have the
same anti-grav coils as the hopper, but they are sealed and pressurized, and
have multistage engines that can provide full thrust at all altitudes, up to
and including true void flight. And they have shielding, which is kind of nice
if you want to cut back on cosmic radiation and come back down again
without burning up in the atmosphere.
401
So this was a novel experience for me. After a stomach-churning ascent,
the vessel settled down a bit. Another ten minutes and I could feel thrusters
firing, causing the lander to slowly rotate. If I craned my neck, I could
barely manage to look out through one of the lander’s viewports. We were
nearing our destination; a metal leviathan lying idly in low orbit. The pilot
was merging our vector with that of the larger vessel, edging us smoothly
towards the metal monstrosity.
I was no expert when it came to voidships, but I easily recognized the
tell-tale signs of an Imperial vessel; the distinctive prow, the elongated boxlike body, the massive real-space engines. Size is damn hard to pin down
when you’ve got nothing to reference against. My best guess was that it
measured a couple of kilometres, maybe three. Not a big ship then, but not
a small one either. As we drew closer, I could see that it was decorated in
the baroque-gothic style you would expect on an Imperial voidship. I could
also rule out the ship being military; there were no massive lances in sight,
no tiered rows of macro-batteries. Clearly this was a civilian vessel, a
lumbering merchantman.
That was all I had time to observe, before a gaping maw opened in the
mothership’s metal flank and swallowed us whole. We passed through a
poorly-lit tunnel and the shuttle finally settled down on the landing deck
with no small amount of ruckus. There was clanking and hissing and
roaring and shaking. The shuttle must have been in a horrible condition,
and the pilot was either completely incompetent or intoxicated. I would
certainly not have accepted such dereliction of duty aboard any ship of
mine; the pilot would have been spacewalked, and the enginseer shot for
failing to carry out the necessary rites of maintenance.
---
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DARK OMEGA
“And you’ve commanded many ships during your career Haxtes?” you
ask.
Smiling, eyes distant. “I daresay I’ve held more commands than you ever
will Marcus. But there was only ever one that was truly mine: She was
something, I’ll tell you that.”
“The Maiden of Golgenna?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.
Haxtes becomes remote and cold. “You say that name as if you are in the
know. That you are somehow privy to the secrets of the Maiden. I assure
you Marcus, you are not.”
So he did command a vessel by that name. And his inflection – faint as it
was – confirmed that there is more than one Maiden, more than one
meaning. Just as you thought. Potentially very interesting.
You launch into the conversation with renewed vigour and purpose.
“Then illuminate me! Throw me a bone to keep me interested.”
“I thought you already were,” Haxtes counters.
“Only in so far as I’m leading you on, while trying hard to find a way to
get rid of the Haxtes protocol.”
“I see,” Haxtes says slowly, “and here I thought we were becoming fast
friends.”
You raise your glass in mock salute, Haxtes style.
Haxtes raises his glass in return. “You will not succeed Marcus. In getting
rid of me. You’re welcome to try, but in time you will come to understand
why it is a futile endeavour.”
“Then give me something to prevent me from wasting my resources on
futility! Because I will continue to try. And the harder the task seems, the
more obsessed I will become.”
“Obsession is nine tenths of a good investigation, isn’t that what they
say?” Haxtes asks rhetorically.
403
“I thought it was possession is nine tenths of the law, but who knows
what weirdness you’ve come up with out in the Calixian dark,” is your
riposte.
Haxtes put on a show of considering for a while – but you’ve not fooled;
he’s already made up his mind.
“Very well, I’ll throw you a bone – or two. But only if you keep it civil and
cooperative.”
You bite back an acidic retort and instead nod your agreement.
“You consider yourself something of an expert on the subject of
Inquisitor Melbinious, correct?”
“Yes,” you reply. “Relatively speaking of course. Melbinious was
damnable secretive. And the Calixian Conclave did a very thorough job in
purging anything related to him following his fall from grace.”
“I appreciate your difficulties,” Haxtes says, apparently lost in thought.
“And what of the Propheticum Hereticus Tenebrae – the Prophecy of the
Black Heresy – what do you know of it?” he says after a few seconds.
“Not as much as I’d like. What I do know is that it has to do with a
prophecy of a great doom that is said to threaten the entire Calixis sector.
That this doom is heralded by a monstrous ‘black sun’ that some name the
‘Tyrant Star’. There is as Cabal of Inquisitors guarding this lore – the
Tyrantine Cabal – and they are very secretive, and sometimes heavyhanded in the pursuit of secrecy.”
“Go on,” Haxtes interjects, “you’re doing good so far.”
“Melbinious was part of the Cabal, which is what led me to searching for
clues as to the nature of the Tyrant Star in the first place. But since it was
not my primary objective, I was loath to search too deep, lest I bring
unwanted attention to myself.”
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DARK OMEGA
“Very wise of you Marcus,” Haxtes agrees. “The Tyrantine Cabal can
indeed be heavy-handed. They would not think twice about eliminating a
nosy interrogator serving a distant master.”
“And what about you Haxtes, what do you know of Komus, the Tyrant
Star. Do you have its measure?” you ask, only half mockingly.
Haxtes laughs at your suggestion. “No Marcus, I do not. I do not have the
measure of the Tyrant Star. No man has. It’s not that I didn’t try – for years
it was something of an obsession of mine – but the minds of mortals are
simply not capable of nailing it down.”
“I do not understand,” you say questioningly.
“What do you not understand? That I don’t know what Komus is? Or that
there are things that man cannot know?” Haxtes asks.
“The first of the two,” you reply. “There is nothing man cannot
understand or do. Not if he puts his will to it, and lets the God-Emperor
protect and guide him.”
“That is neither true, nor what I meant. First of all there are – blessedly –
a lot of things man is incapable of comprehending.” He gives you a stare
reminiscent of the one favoured by your Psykana schoolmasters. “Secondly,
what I meant is that it is the nature of the Tyrant Star to be unknowable. It
defies all attempts at understanding it. The moment you think you
understand something about it, is the moment you realize that all your
theories are unsound. That is part of what the Tyrant Star is; something
unknowable, a mystery that cannot be solved.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense Haxtes,” you say. “Somewhere there
must be answers. Komus must be something. You just haven’t looked hard
or long enough.”
“Not hard or long enough?” Haxtes barks uncharacteristically. “Tell that
to the many wise Inquisitors who have spent the cream of their years
405
staring ever deeper into the Propheticum Hereticus Tenebrae, with nothing
be frustration and insanity to show for their efforts.”
“So the Tyrantine Cabal knows nothing? It’s just a bunch of decrepit and
insane Inquisitors, who jealously guard the lore of nothing?” you say
sounding slightly condescending.
Haxtes chuckles again. He’s merrier than you’ve seen him before. “No, no!
The Cabal has plenty of lore. Scores of theories, many of them completely
contradictory. Supported by enormous amounts of harrowing research,
most of which cannot in any way be replicated.”
“Because of the ever-changing, mutable, and unknowable nature of the
Tyrant Star?” you venture. “Sounds like an aethyric phenomenon to me;
very chaotic in nature.”
“That’s what they all think – at first. But when they look more closely
they cannot pin down what kind of phenomenon.” He swirls the contents of
his glass. “And later it appears to them it must be an alien artefact of
immense power. Or that it is an engine of destruction from the Dark Age of
Technology, powered by the energies of the Warp. And so it goes, until
they’ve come full circle.”
“Is it nothing then?” you add. “Just an idea, with no real bearing on the
galaxy?” You find that hard to believe.
“Far from it. The Tyrant Star is very real. It is as real as fear itself. Fear of
the unknown. Fear of what you cannot understand. Fear of the terror you
know lurks right around the corner. Fear of the black heresy you’ve heard
talk of; a dread spectral star, heralding the end of it all.”
“So you’re saying the Tyrant Star a metaphysical entity, given power by
the fears of mankind?”
Haxtes fixes you with that unrelenting gaze of his. “Yes. That is the one
thing the Tyrant Star definitely is: For as long as man knows fear – which
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DARK OMEGA
isn’t likely to end anytime soon – and knowledge of the Tyrant Star is
passed on – it will remain a very real and dangerous phenomenon.”
“Is that why the Tyrantine Cabal is so secretive?”
Haxtes empathically shakes his head. “When last I checked it was made
up of power-hungry and deluded fools. They are secretive because they are
paranoid, callous, and jealously guard ‘their’ secrets.”
“But”, you feel you must get this back on track, “how does this relate to
Melbinious.”
“He was part of the Cabal. He had his theories. Some of them too
controversial even for peers such as his. He was disavowed, which is pretty
much the same as being declared rogue.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” you object. If you’re declared rogue you’re
hunted down. A disavowed Inquisitor just has his powers of office
revoked.”
“Yes,” Haxtes say with a snap, “and what happens after? What happens
when you’re no longer an inquisitor, but still has all those secrets locked up
inside your brain?”
You nod in realization. “You get to have an accident, don’t you?”
“Indeed you do. So to prevent any such unpleasantness from happening
he took passage into the Koronus Expanse upon a Rogue Trader vessel, the
Pro Patria-class sprint freighter Maiden of Golgenna.” He lets the name sink
in. “Yes, that ship. My ship.”
Knowing that he will only brush away any questions regarding the
Maiden you try another angle. “Can I ask what the great controversy was all
about? I had assumed it was his immortality research, but you seem to
indicate it was the Tyrant Star that was responsible.”
“I think you can safely assume that both immortality and his views on the
Star were responsible. As well you know there is only one immortal
407
human.” He manages to sound like he’s half mocking the God-Emperor
without actually saying anything to that effect.
Another attempt to unnerve you. Another failed attempt. “The GodEmperor of Mankind,” you reply in a very calm and controlled tone.
“Indeed,” Haxtes agrees. “Only the God-Emperor of Mankind. Long life is
acceptable, but immortality is not. It is a heresy. Even the great Archmagi of
the Adeptus Mechanicus know and accept this.”
“And the Tyrant Star? What could be so radical as to warrant his death?”
“Inquisitor Melbinious believed – very strongly – that the Tyrant Star
was the herald of a new, great Chaos Power.” Silence grows between you
when you fail to reply.
“I shall not name them, because that makes you all jittery, but you know
of whom I speak,” he adds.
Their blasphemous names come uninvited into your interactive
compartment: Khorne, the Blood God. Slaanesh, the Depraved. Tzeentch,
the Defiler. Nurgle, the Corruptor. Just thinking of their names makes you
mildly nauseous.
Haxtes nods knowingly. “Yes, I see you are a believer,” he chuckles at his
own vile joke. “They are real, aren’t they? You can always debate their
nature and their connection to Mankind, but there is no denying their
existence or their fell power. Only the foolish and the weak convince
themselves otherwise.”
You empty your glass to rinse your mouth. “Don’t use the word ‘believe’
that way Haxtes. I believe in only one greater being; the God-Emperor of
Mankind.”
“If my poor joke offended you, I am truly sorry,” he says, his tone entirely
unapologetic.
You wave away his false apology.
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DARK OMEGA
Haxtes continues. “He believed the Tyrant Star heralded the coming of
this new power. A power whose portfolio included mass fear, widespread
madness, loss of identity, the inner bestiality revealed – as exemplified by
the dark revels reported in conjunction with various sightings of the Tyrant
Star.”
You feel you must say something to show that you’re neither ignorant
nor fearful when it comes to the Archenemy. “The nether pits of the Warp
are filled with all manner of loathsome beasts, including the Daemons of
Chaos. Some of which are greater in power and wickedness than their
lesser kind. That is known. But I’ve never heard that there could be more –
or less – than four foul powers.”
“That is because you know so very little of the Warp, Marcus.” There is a
slight hint of weariness in Haxtes voice. “Just count yourself fortunate in
your ignorance, and keep your curiosity in check. I didn’t, and I’ve regretted
every bit of lore learned a thousand times over.” He draws breath and
quickly adds, “You cannot quantify or catalogue Chaos, Marcus. It cannot be
done,” then falls silent.
Typical of Haxtes; words without substance, vague hints, and hidden
meanings. Well, you know a few things of Chaos yourself. “My master has
taught me that the Chaos powers are personification of the dark parts of
the human psyche. And this I hold to be true.” You leave the statement
hanging there, daring Haxtes to object. He doesn’t so you continue. “Until
mankind has evolved sufficiently to cast of out mental shackles there will
always be – always has been – four.”
Haxtes laugh is contrite, designed to belittle you. “And fear, insanity and
bestiality are not dark and base enough parts of the human mind-set to
qualify for unholy godhood?” he exclaims. “Then you disagree with the
great Melbinious. He thought it qualified.”
409
“That’s not the point,” you counter. “The point is that chaos powers –
your dark gods if you must – don’t get created. They aren’t humans that are
born, live, or die.”
“What about the birth of Slaanesh,” Haxtes asks. “Surely that old serpent
qualifies as a ‘power’?”
“The Fall of the Eldar?” you ask. “You give that decadent and dying race a
far too much credit. Depravity and excess were no less at work during the
Age of Strife than was blood and death.”
If you really must discuss these things, you might as well go all in.
“Just because the Eldar was such a decadent species doesn’t warrant
them any credit. Not even when it comes to Chaos. Slaanesh,” saying it out
loud makes your tongue tingle and the hairs on the backs of your hands
rise, “is not an unholy power born of Eldar loins. Man must take the
responsibility for that one too.”
Haxtes deftly pours himself another drink using his left hand. “See, that
wasn’t so hard, was it? Say it out loud: Slaanesh. It’s just a name. It holds no
power over you, unless you let it.” He has a sip. “It’s good to know that we
agree about at least one thing.” He looks at you over the edge of the glass.
“Maybe we can find additional common ground.”
Is there a trace of blood on his black glove?
“Maybe,” reply. “Although at the rate we’re going it will take a while.”
“I have practically forever Marcus. How about you?” He lifts his hand to
forestall any reply. “I digress. Too many years in the company of Vern are to
blame. Back to topic.” He considers for a moment, then resumes. “Those
were Melbinious favourites; the pursuit of immortality and research into
the Tyrant Star. But there is more. As he delved deeper into dark mysteries
and forbidden secrets his mind became as twisted. One could claim that the
Tyrant Star had gotten to him.”
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DARK OMEGA
“So in researching insanity personified you slowly go mad?” you say,
more as a statement than a question.
Haxtes nods solemnly. “You cannot stare into the abyss without being
affected. You cannot learn all the Names of Death without your soul
becoming twisted. Neither can you understand the nature of the beast
without becoming it.
“Hubris. Hubris got to him, didn’t it? There is something you’re not
telling me Haxtes. Did he believe he could control Chaos? Did he delude
himself into believing he could shape and control this god of madness and
fear? Tell me!”
“You’ve already told yourself,” Haxtes says gravely. “Yes he did. He
believed he could help give birth to it, then bind it to himself, control it and
use it, Chaos against Chaos.”
“Madness…” the words spring unbidden to your lips.
“My point exactly,” Haxtes agrees. “He even named it, this unborn god of
his. Called it Malal, the Avenger.”
“The Avenger? Why?” you ask.
“He believed that dread Malal had lived before, that its birth was more of
a rebirth really.” Haxtes peers intently into the depths of his glass. “He
believed that the other Chaos power had done him in, but that he would
return now, at the End Times, to avenge the wrongs done to him. Which
made him ideal for Melbinious’ plan.”
It’s almost too much to take in one sitting. “And you, what do you think
Haxtes? Was he right?” There is more he’s not telling you.
“As I said, the Tyrant Star defies understanding. Try too hard and you too
will go insane. But that’s quite enough; you’ve had your bone and more.
We’ll talk more of the Tyrant Star – and other things – later on. Now shut
up and let me continue the tale of my wretched youth.”
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CHAPTER 42 MUSTER
CHAPTER 42
MUSTER
The restraining harnesses lifted, and the twenty or so children were
herded out of the shuttle and onto the metal deck. Those who were not
quick enough got smacked around a bit. Those who were too quick got
prodded with shock rods for their troubles. I kept to the middle and tried to
avoid attention.
After a bit of milling around we received a liberal helping of slaps and
shocks, until we were finally able to assemble into a formation of rows and
columns. As musters go it was a poor one. We would never have passed an
inspection by Sarge.
No sooner were we assembled than we were marched out of the landing
bay in two columns. We passed through several access portals, then went
down a set of wide metal stairs inlaid with faded and cracked mosaics. I
couldn’t quite make out what the motifs had been. The lighting was poor,
and the air stale and warm. On two occasions there were minute
fluctuations in the local gravity. Overall the ship gave the impression of
great age and insufficient maintenance.
We had no clue where we were going. Not that it mattered. It was
obvious to all of us – me included – that any form of attempted escape
would be utter foolishness. We trapped aboard an unknown voidship,
escorted by the same four black-clad assassins that had captured us and
kept watch over us in the shuttle. We knew we didn’t stand a chance.
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DARK OMEGA
One of the four was my own captor, a tall male with very broad shoulders
and slender hips. His body was covered top to toe, head included, with
tight-fitting black mesh armour. He wore his armour under a long cloak
that seemed impossibly dark and matte. I later learned it was made of
cameleoline fabric, the penultimate form of camouflage, able to alter its
texture and coloration to blend in with the surroundings. Now it had been
deactivated and hung limply around the assassin’s body. If you looked
carefully you could make out the weapons and other gear he carried
beneath the cloak. It was quite the collection.
I made a point of not staring at our captors in an obvious manner; doing
so earned you a jab from a shock prod or lash from the neuro-whip. Instead
I snuck glances whenever I felt their attention was elsewhere. Most of the
other kids looked meekly at their own feet or stared lamely into space.
The other two male assassins were smaller in stature than my captor, but
probably no less dangerous. Same with the sole female assassin; she was
slender as a reed, but the way she moved screamed of perfect body control
and wiry muscle. All three had body armour and cloaks that were
variations over the same type their leader employed.
By observing them I quickly concluded that just one of them would have
sufficed as an escort for our misshapen group of lost boys and forlorn girls.
If we could have attacked jointly, and without care for injury or death, we
might have taken one of them down. But we were neither in a position to
coordinate anything, nor willing to risk our lives for one another. So instead
we followed meekly along, each child trapped inside its own little bubble of
agonizing reality.
We proceeded to an area not dissimilar from the ones used to process
hordes of grox into pieces of meat for the tables of the sufficiently wealthy.
There were pens and sluices, machinery, cybernetic servitors, and foul413
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looking overseers. My rational mind told me they would not have brought
us all the way up here to be butchered, but that didn’t prevent my heart
from fluttering a bit.
They did not, however, make fine filets, boneless steaks, or minced meat
out of us. Instead we were stripped, searched, shaved, washed, bathed in
antiseptic fluid, and inoculated.
The servitors assigned to the job weren’t all that bad; they were coarse,
heavy-handed brutes, but they just did their job, methodically and
thoroughly. The human overseers were worse. There were beatings to go
around and some of the recruits received extra attention – of the entirely
unwanted and entirely unpleasant type.
Processing took a while, so I had time to study my surroundings and
think things through. We were not the first batch of kids to come this way.
In fact there had been another group here recently. The servitors hadn’t
had time to clean up between sessions. So there were more kids like us on
this ship. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but there is a certain
comfort in knowing that your fate is not unique.
The fact that they had bothered to fly us up into orbit and had gone to
such trouble to improve our personal hygiene, made me fairly confident we
were not going to be killed out of hand. We were going to be used for
something, that much I had figured out. That begged an important
question: What would a group of interstellar assassins want with a whole
bunch of children? Most of the answers I came up with were quite appalling
– so I quit thinking about it and focused on the now.
Eventually we were issued with coarse brownish robes that reached to
mid-calf. Finally a thick metal wire with a self-contracting mechanism was
fastened around our necks. No threats were spoken, but the implication
was obvious: Behave, or die by auto-strangulation.
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We got a demonstration when two of the boys started whispering to one
another. Soon they were twitching on the deck, clawing futilely at the wires
around their necks. Our merciful captors released them before they
asphyxiated. The point had been hammered in. None of us would speak
again unless bidden to do so. Suited me just fine. I had absolutely no desire
to talk to any of my fellow captives.
--After the processing chamber we were herded into a very wide, very tall
corridor that we followed for quite some distance. A kilometre at the very
least, maybe a bit longer The size and length of it made me conclude that
this was one of the ship’s main thoroughfares. The grand size of the
corridor made me think it was used not only for personnel, but also for
cargo. That meant we were deep in the bowels of the ship, level with the
great main cargo holds.
The majority of mid-sized STC transports have two spinal accessway that
reach most of the way from the main enginarium section, to the bow of the
ship. The smaller one runs topside and is used mainly for people and light
utility transport. The larger one runs through the bowels of the ship and is
used to move cargo and bulk equipment around. Both thoroughfares can of
course be completely sealed off – in case of board or depressurization for
example – with massive bulkhead doors at regular intervals.
If the ship is big enough there will be other arterial passages handling
the flow of crew, equipment, and supplies to distant parts of the vessel. And
regardless of the size of the ship it contains a myriad of secondary
passages, rooms, and utility spaces – even the smallest voidship is a
veritable warren, consisting of kilometres upon kilometres of corridors and
other spaces where a man might fit through.
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But I digress. We kept to the main passage. The lighting was universally
poor down here, and most of the visible surfaces were either badly
corroded or otherwise obviously old and poorly maintained. I got the
distinct impression that the ship was very old indeed, probably having
thousands of years of service behind it.
I had this vague idea that we had marched towards the stern of the ship.
When we passed through a massive gateway, into a cathedral-like space
deep within the ship, I knew I was right. We had arrived at the great
juncture where the forward main hull joins with the rear enginarium
section. If we continued walking we would reach the power torus – and
after that the enigmatic warp drive compartment and more massive, but
less mysterious, real-space drives. Above us the command superstructure
would be rising, crowned with a halo of sensor blisters, aethyric arrays, and
Deus Mechanicus knows what else a voidship needs to operate.
--This was the end station. There were two hundred plus children and
adolescents already present. They were mustered into groups, most of
them numbering between twenty and thirty members. We caught on
quickly and moved to join them. Those who were too quick were lashed for
their presumptuousness. Those too slow were softly choked by the wirecollars; not enough to make them pass out, but sufficient to drive the point
home.
My vigilance rewarded me with an insight into the operation of the wirecollars: They were extremely simple devices, directed by small control rods
the assassins kept close at hand. To punish one of us they had to hold the
rod and point it at a collar. I could not make out the actual controls on the
rod, but I figured they were simple. The rods didn’t appear to have a very
long range, ten meters tops. They also weren’t very accurate – one time I
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saw an assassin point it at a girl that weren’t paying attention, but it was
the boy next to her that got choked.
This was knowledge might come in handy later. If I was able to slip away
unnoticed at some point they wouldn’t be able to remote-choke me. I was
concerned that the collar might contain a locator beacon, however, like the
one the IGs had strapped on me. If it did running would be futile. I had to
wait and learn more.
I was in the middle of my twenty-strong group, staying out of sight, out of
mind. I kept on observing. We’d been here only for a few hours and already
our captors were revealing their secrets, repeating themselves, falling into
predictable patterns of operation. Static patterns.
The man who had brought me in took up position in front of our group. I
already suspected he was the leader of the team. Now my suspicions were
confirmed. The other three assassins peeled away to linger at the back. It
reminded me a bit of the 57th Lo’s morning muster. The assassins seemed
to be organized along military-hierarchal lines.
A heavy-set man of middling height stepped out of the shadows. He too
wore black, but went without a cloak and his armour was unlike that of the
others. His was made of black-on-black scales that seemed to flex and
change shape as he moved. The strange rippling effect was almost hypnotic.
I later learned it had been made of scavenged xenos equipment that had a
cameleoline-equivalent covering worked into the material.
He carried no gear or weapons, save a slender baton in his left hand. His
face was uncovered, revealing a man of middle age with craggy features,
cunning eyes, and a cruel smile.
“Adepts of the Hand, attend me!” his deep and rich baritone lashed out
across the great open space, augmented by unseen vox-speakers.
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A roll call commenced, with each group captain calling out his name and
how many recruits he had brought as tribute to the Hand.
My group was the last to arrive and the last to be called.
“Adept Murash, report,” the strangely armoured man called out.
Now my captor had a name: Murash.
“Prefect Malachite, I have twenty-three candidates for you,” our captor
exclaimed.
Malachite. I instinctively knew that this man was another Jons – a person
that could make me or break me.
“For me? For the Veiled Hand you mean,” Malachite answered with a
rebuke.
“I am humbled, Lord Malachite,” our captor replied with great deference.
“I put my life in your hands.”
“Don’t be daft Murash.” He was brusquely dismissed with a curt gesture.
“Now, attend me,” Malachite added, turning to inspect the group.
Murash the Ball-Kicker fell in next to Malachite as the elder assassin
started his inspection of our group. He’d done something similar with the
other groups, so I wasn’t alarmed.
I didn’t see the blade that made the cut, but the boy in front of me
suddenly grabbed his throat as blood fountained from a deep and wide
gash. After a few seconds of frantic gurgling he toppled forward.
Malachite continued his inspection without missing a stride. He stopped
in front of a girl standing next to me. She was a few years my senior, about
the same age as my treacherous sister. Pretty enough that I had noticed,
even in my current state.
“This one is useless to me. She has other qualities though. Give her to the
officers.” Her screams of protest were quickly strangled by the metal wire
around her neck, and she was half dragged, half carried away.
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I was next. He struck me in the side of the head. I saw the blow coming,
but had no time to duck, even had I wanted to. I blacked out for a moment. I
came to myself on the deck, head spinning. Malachite was standing over
me. I fought to get back on my feet. Nausea threatened to overcome me, but
I persisted. Slowly I rose and resumed my place. Malachite towered above
me, as if standing in judgment. It lasted but a moment. Then he moved on,
leaving me standing there, alive.
The two men continued their inspection. I became conscious of the hole
in the ranks in front of me. When the worst of the dizziness had passed, I
took a long step forward, taking care not to trip over the dead boy or slip in
his blood. Murash and Malachite completed their circuit and returned to
stand in front of the formation, not two steps away from me.
Malachite. “You must learn to count Murash. I see only twenty-one.”
“Yes, Prefect. Only twenty-one. I will do better next time,” Murash
replied in an even voice.
Malachite, sounding slightly less condescending. “There will be no next
time Murash. You brown-nosing has finally paid off,” he said, just loud
enough for us in the front row to hear. “It has been made known to me by
astropathic transmission that Archon Ghaela has demanded your services.
As soon as we return to the Spire you are to abase yourself before her and
beg her to take you in. She will accept and then you can waste what
microscopic talent you have in her service.”
Murash made no sound, merely bowed his head in deference. Malachite
returned to his position in front of the assembled companies.
“Listen up you little maggots!” When he saw that he had our attention, he
continued. “Rejoice little ones! Rejoice, for you are no longer rebellious
citizens of Protasia! Rejoice, for you are no longer heretics!”
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When we didn’t seem particularly happy, merely confused, he deigned to
explain.
“Lord Governor Grimes, Imperial Commander of Protasia, has pardoned
you. He has also sold you to the Veiled Hand. You are, all of you, payment
for services rendered to the Lord Governor by the assassins of the Hand.
More specifically the purging of the Governor’s enemies, such as the rebels
infesting Thira and other compliant cities.”
His voice become even louder, close to shouting, but not quite.
“You belong to the Veiled Hand, from now until the end of time. I am
Prefect Malachite, and I am your lord and master.” He made a dramatic
gesture. “Your fate is to train. To train hard in the hope of becoming the
next little assassins of the Veiled Hand” He paced around a little before
continuing. “Chances are that only one in five of you will make it. Perhaps
as few as one in ten. Depends on the quality of the raw material. In your
case I’m not overly impressed.” He made another little pause to allow the
information to sink in. “I can hear you thinking: And those who do not make
it, what of them? I’ll tell you. They end up dead.”
Poor odds indeed, but still better than Protasia.
“If you think that sounds harsh, think on this: Those that try to run…none
of them make it. Not ever. But you are welcome to try. Hunting runaways is
good sport for the rest of the recruits.”
And with that he stepped away into the shadows and was gone.
--In the reading chamber one of the servo-skulls descends to eye level,
partially blinding you with the glare from it illuminators. You are forced to
raise one hand to shield your eyes. Has it detected something? Have you
behaved in a manner the auditors consider borderline? You are sure you
haven’t. Your current mental arrangement is very robust and you’re quite
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satisfied with how the compartment running your physical body is
handling things. After a handful of long seconds the drone rises again. You
lower your hand and resume pretending to read.
--“Emotional spillover,” Haxtes says inside your interactive compartment.
“I don’t think so,” you reply, “I have immersion contained at just the level
I desire.”
“No you don’t. The part where Malachite appeared; that got deeper than
you had intended. The lines between me and you blurred, past and present
threatened to become one,” Haxtes explains.
Even assuming he’s right you’re not getting into an argument over your
mental arrangement.
“At any rate I didn’t mean spillover into your logical and observational
processes. I meant into your physical mien,” he concludes.
“You mean that your emotions are spilling over into my body?” you try
not to sound incredulous. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Only very faintly and not directly – it’s more like a domino effect. It
happens when you clench up so hard. This is a psychic recording, which by
definition is heavy with emotional and pseudo-emotional content. It has to
go somewhere. Right now it has nowhere to go, so it bubbles up to the
surface whether you want it to or not.”
“Do I sense a suggestion here?” you say with a hint of mockery in your
tone.
“No suggestions. Only general helpfulness. You don’t want to attract any
unwanted attention, do you? Haxtes ask, pretending to be friendliness
itself.
“I’ll see if I can come up with a place to put the spillover,” you say curtly.
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“Another compartment?” Haxtes asks, “that would be, what, the sixth?
Sounds a bit exhausting to me.”
Unfortunately he’s right. Six compartments would be pushing it. And it’s
not just the number that matters. It’s their complexity and the manner in
which they interact. With the temporal compression going…no, he’s right,
you cannot do it.
You may have to rethink and rebuild you mental architecture – again. But
you can’t do that and maintain the connection with the tome at the same
time; it would be both impractical and imprudent. You’ll think up
something tonight.
For now you’ll dive a little deeper, immerse yourself a bit more. You’re
not entirely comfortable with that, but it beats being exposed and having to
fight your way out of the Librarium.
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VOIDSMAN
The ship, whose name was Rubrum Dei Dextera – the Red Right Hand of
God – was quite old and rather large, by my best aestimates it measured in
excess of three kilometres from the forward sensor spires to the aft plasma
baffles. That made it almost as longer as the smaller Imperial Navy cruisers,
and much wide across the beam. It was an old bulk freighter, which made
not only fat, but slow. Not the best type of ship for a clan of assassins
perhaps, but then again voidships are rather hard to come by.
The Red Right Hand did have one major advantage over sleeker craft; it
was utterly inconspicuous. Old tramp freighters like the Rubrum Dei
Dextera constituted the mainstay of the Chartist fleets – the contracted
vessels that form the core of any intersector merchant marine – that plied
the trade lanes of the Calixis sector. Almost certainly it engaged in a little
trade on the side. It seemed a reasonable way to keep the ship’s cover
intact, and generate revenue at the same time.
Be that as it may. Our main concern was that the ship was big, poorly
maintained, and somewhat understaffed. Enter the new recruits. We were
put to work on a million and one tasks: There was always cleaning to be
done, light maintenance work, like painting and hammering corrosion, lots
of carrying and sorting, labouring in the mess, that sort of thing. It might
not seem like such harsh chores, but believe me, they had us running
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ragged. There was little time for rest. A few brief breaks to drink stale
water and feed from the slop buckets. Nights that were entirely too short.
They kept us too exhausted for anyone to even think about doing
something stupid. Anyone but me. For my own part I managed to retain
enough energy to remain inquisitive. Essentially I did exactly what was
required of me – and nothing more. I was good at not being noticed, good at
being in the right place at the right time, good at sneaking a little more food
and rest than the others.
So rather than walk around in a dazed haze all day, I kept my eyes peeled
and ears to the ground – as much as I dared. I picked up a lot of tidbits
about the ship and the crew. Where they had been, where we were heading
– apparently towards the Veiled Hand’s chapter house on Malfi – what was
what, where I was allowed to go, and what not to do. Who amongst the
ratings were reasonably humane, and who were as likely to smother you as
talk to you.
I even learned a thing or two about the Veiled Hand. Not much, because
the crew was reluctant to talk when we were near – and probably knew
little to begin with. But I did get the impression that the Veiled Hand was
one of the deadliest assassin cults in the Calixis sector. That lifted my spirits
a good deal. I decided that my capture would actually turn out to be a good
thing. I’m not sure how many of my fellow recruits felt the same way.
At night we were confined to our communal quarters. We were not
supposed to leave them. The doors were routinely locked after the lights
out signal had been sounded. Keeping the Shadow of Thira locked up
requires a bit more than a closed door though. After the others had
collapsed of exhaustion I would drag my weary body into the utility
conduits and do a little prowling of my own.
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Our journey to Malfi wasn’t long enough for me to explore the entirety of
the ship – that would have taken years – but that wasn’t really the point.
The point was not sitting around. The point was not being static. The point
was trying to do something to improve my situation.
I ended up finding a nice, unused spot where no one from the crew ever
came. There are some of those on every Imperial ship, spaces and places
that have fallen out of use and been forgotten. It is inevitable; ships
routinely run kilometres in length, and are hundreds and hundreds of
meters tall and wide. That’s at least a few million cubic meters of space,
divided amongst scores of decks, and hundreds of compartments and
subdivisions. And that’s before counting the utility spaces that aren’t really
part of the main decks.
In my case it was an area in between two cargo holds that had been
walled off at some distant point in the past. I could sympathize with
whoever had done the walling off – the place I had found was cramped and
useless, not fit to be utilized for anything but collect dust and debris. When
the wall had been erected, the space behind had been forgotten, until I
came along.
Getting there was simple. I scampered up to the main air vent in our
sleeping area, peeled the rusted ventilation grate open, just enough for me
to slip through, and entered the duct system. I was small and scrawny;
despite some narrow sections I fitted through readily enough. The only
obstacles to my progress were some air fans. All but one had stopped
working ages ago. The functioning one I disabled. The air in out quarters
became marginally staler after that. I do not think anyone noticed.
I located several other access points, which enabled me to use the
ducting system to escape our sleeping chambers and get into the wider
world of the voidship’s many corridors and compartments. One of access
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points opened into the walled-off space. It became my secret hideout. I
would collect odds and ends I found and bring it there, much like I had
done in Thira. I didn’t really think I could bring anything with me when we
debarked, but it was still nice to have something to do. And if the
opportunity for escape presented itself, I would have a bolthole ready.
After a few weeks I learned how to trap the void-rats that lived between
decks. The meat of the foul things was stringy and difficult to chew, but it
tasted like heaven compared to the slop we usually got fed.
--During one nightly foray I came across Larissa, the girl that had been
taken from our group and assigned to whore for the crew. She’d started out
at the captain’s table. Now she was the property of the second officer. She
seemed happy enough with her fate, which I guess is why Malachite cut her
from the herd in the first place.
For want of something better to do, I started keeping an eye on her. It
took a while, eight or ten days I think, but I eventually got in enough
observation time to learn her routines. Acting upon this knowledge I went
to see her one night. I wasn’t out to kill the poor thing. She had done
nothing to cross me and I had nothing to gain by harming her. I did,
however, have something to gain my scaring the hell out of her. I’d turn her
to my cause. Intimidate her into providing me with information, food, and
equipment. She’d be my secret mole, my ace in the sleeve. That’s what I told
myself, anyway.
She was at her most vulnerable when the second officer was on night
shift duty. Given his position that happened a lot – the captain and the first
officer alternated the day shifts, and the second and third officer got to
share the night shifts. Larissa would be sleeping, securely locked inside the
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second officer’s quarters, shackled to the bed. Second Officer MazLanlan
trusted her no more than he trusted his fellow officers.
The air ducts couldn’t carry me into the room – they were much too
small, even for skinny me. And I had no way of getting past the door once it
had been locked. That left me with only one viable option: To go through
the door before it was locked.
The plan thus formulated, I began my watch. On those nights I was able
to slip away from my fellow recruits, I would come to skulk around the
second officer’s quarters. On my third attempt I spotted him as he entered
his quarters. He didn’t lock up behind him. I took a moment to listen at the
door. It didn’t take long before I could hear him go into the next room to
greet sweet Larissa. I didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping outside the
door of an officers, so I made a little circuit to pass the time. I went back,
listened again, found the situation inside to be more to my liking, quickly
opened the door, and slipped inside.
When Boudan MazLanan left his cabin an hour later he locked up from
the outside as he used to. I waited a few minutes before letting myself out
of the cupboard I had hidden inside. I made an effort to be quiet. I listened
carefully, hearing Larissa’s breathing from the next room. Resting, but not
asleep. I waited some more. I heard her relieve herself in a chamber pot.
She went back to bed. Five minutes later her breathing had become
shallower and more even.
I went into the bedroom. The lights had been turned low, but my eyes
had longs since grown accustomed to the dark. I moved over to stand by
the side of the bed. Her right hand had indeed been shackled to the
blockhead with a longish silvery chain. She could get up and move around
the sleeping chamber, but she couldn’t get away.
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My hand reached for my self-made shiv. Suddenly I grew uncertain. What
was I doing? There was cold steel in my hand now. What did I hope to gain
by coming here? I let the point of the blade drop towards her navel. It
would be so easy to kill her. The pain would wake her, and she’d see me
standing there, blade in hand. She wouldn’t realize she was dying until it
was too late. And I would be there to see her go. Was this why I had come,
to kill for the sake of killing? Had I deluded myself? Had I only come for
blood?
Yes. Yes! What a fool I was! She neither would, nor could, provide me
with anything, save her lifeblood. I could pressure her all I wanted, but it
would be futile. She’s either rat on me and I would be screwed. Or she
wouldn’t, in which case she couldn’t provide me with anything even
remotely useful. All that was left was to me was the kill.
I looked longingly down at her exposed flesh. I wanted her dead so badly
my knife-hand started shaking. But the rational part of my mind told me it
was a very, very bad idea. If I killed her, it would cause quite the ruckus.
And I had no idea how my position would be when the dust settled. It was
not worth it simply to see her die. There would be other deaths to sate my
appetites. Even backed by rational though, it required an epic feat of
willpower for me to slowly back away and hide myself in the cabinet again.
--“Cute,” you say.
“Now, that,” Haxtes replies, “is something I’ve never been called before.”
“So your murderous urges were still there,” you continue. “Not that I’m
surprised to hear it. What does surprise me is your level of insight seems to
have increased. I didn’t see that coming.”
Haxtes smiles grimly. “Now you’re just being mean Marcus. I would have
to wise up eventually, or I wouldn’t be here.”
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“Tell me more about your nightly routines,” you say. “I’m a bit curious.
Even if you did manage to conserve some energy, I don’t see how you could
go on the prowl for hours every night without exhausting yourself.”
“I could tell you I’ve never needed much sleep,” Haxtes replies, “but I
think you’ve already made up your opinion.”
You nod. “Yes, I think you were engaging in psychic shenanigans again.”
“I could have been using some stimms,” Haxtes replies without hint of
inflection. “I developed a taste for them during my years in Thira. Especially
after I plundered that poor apothecary.”
“Well, did you?” you press.
“Did what?” Haxtes replies.
“The stimms.”
“Not really, no. I was balancing on the edge of the abyss. Right there, in
the heart of the Warp,” Haxtes replies.
“Not a wise thing to do,” you conclude.
“Definitely not. But I didn’t know it at the time. And I’ve never been
particularly wise,” Haxtes adds.
“But you were screened upon acceptance as an acolyte and all was well. I
get it,” you say with a degree of sarcasm. “Get on with the story please.”
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NATURAL
SELECTION
We mostly stayed in the groups we had arrived in, but sometimes we got
mixed up with the other teams. When that happened there would
inevitably be gossiping. That’s how we learned of the purges. Of boys and
girls who couldn’t keep up. Or those that were suddenly and without
explanation dragged away screaming, never to be seen again.
The only two casualties in my group thus far were the two Malachite had
taken care of one our first day; the boy with the slit throat, and the girl
Larissa that got reassigned for special shipboard duties. That my own dear
Murash and his three murderous friends were any kinder than the other
group captains I couldn’t quite believe. One of our four guardians was
always present, guarding and watching. If one of us proved useless, they
would cut him from the herd, I was sure of it.
That left only one explanation that I could see. With just one glance
Malachite had seen who the weakest ones were and spared them the
trouble. At the same time he had sent a message to Murash and the other
assassins: I’m the king of this particular hill.
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I also guessed at the reason behind his blow to my head; he had been
sending me a message as well. I know what you are boy and I’m watching
you. After that realization I determined to be extra careful whenever
Malachite was around and not push my newfound nightly freedom too
hard.
We lost our third member during the sixth shipboard week. We were
clearing away corrosion in preparation for a paint job. Just hours before we
had completed our second warp leg and were in-system somewhere – I had
no clue where. The ship lurched and shuddered, violently and without
warning. Warning claxons bleared and there was general confusion. When I
looked up I saw Cassilus, a boy two years my senior from Thira proper,
lying pinned beneath a corroded support column than had snapped and
fallen.
Our overseer of the day wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so my group was
gripped by a sense of uncertainty. Nothing unexpected had happened to
upset our little universe before, and now that it had happened we were like
little chickens separated from their hen.
Malachite appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Taking advantage of our
confusion to make a dramatic entrance, no doubt. He loomed us over,
radiating calm and confidence. His very presence stilled the storm in our
hearts.
Our focus thus restored, the assassin gave a little speech to illuminate
our minds. “The ship has come under attack from pirates. This system has
been a hotbed for such activity for generations. They fired a warning shot
across our bow, but in their incompetent eagerness they may have gotten a
little too close. But fear not, the captain is in communication with the pirate
leader. This mess will soon be sorted out.”
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He seemed to imply that no pirate in his right mind would attack the
Veiled Hand.
Malachite moved over to the fallen boy. He didn’t quite bend down to
examine him, just cocked his head to one side and looked him over. “This
one has too good technical aptitude to waste. Ashul,” that was the name of
today’s hated guardian, he had finally caught up with us, “have him taken to
the medicae bay and fitted with replacement legs. Then reassign him for
permanent shipboard duty.”
So there was a way out that didn’t involve death. Get crippled – and if you
had useful skills they might still make use of you. It didn’t really appeal to
me. I doubted I had any secondary uses. Besides I wanted to be an assassin,
not an enginseer’s apprentice.
We didn’t lose anyone else for nearly two weeks. During our final warp
leg to Malfi, however, we lost three more from our group in just a few days,
bringing us down to seventeen. None of the new dropouts survived, making
Cassilus fate unique.
One boy actually had the gall to try to attack Ashul with a shiv. He might
have fared better if he had had some help. But Micor was like me, a loner.
So Ashul blocked his weak attack, broke his wrist and cut him a second
smile beneath the first. Then we got to take a break as we watched the boy
die and his blood pool on the floor. Ashul dipped his right hand in his blood
and that was that. I felt strangely calm and content. I also had a new shiv.
The second was another boy, even younger than me. One day he had
simply had enough. He just jumped over the metal railing of our current
assignment and plummeted head-first into the waiting metal floor twenty
meters below. The dead boy got a lot of posthumous slag over that one – it
cost us an hour of precious rest time to clean up the mess.
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DARK OMEGA
I could not quite figure out why he had done it. Six weeks of toil had
made the rest of us hard and lean. We received marginally better food and
longer rest periods. We were less weary now, so why end his life when
things were looking up? I shook my head and put it out of my mind.
--The last one to go was one of only three remaining girls in our group. If I
recall correctly her name was Diana. She definitely wasn’t Protasian, but I
had never bothered to inquire how or why she’d been captured on my
world.
Now that Micor and Dive Boy were gone, I was the only one that didn’t
really belong to the one of the two factions that had formed within our little
group. I guess some of the juves took offense at that. Or maybe they just
wanted to do a little bullying to satisfy their wretched souls.
Rather than wait for something unpleasant to happen to me – like it had
on Protasia, when Jax and his friends had ganged up on me – I decided to
teach them a lesson of my own. Diana wasn’t a much of a looker, but she
was young and eager, and had earned her place as the companion of Helian,
one of the faction leaders.
I waited until Diana and the juve leader were coupling during sleep time:
It meant they were a distance away from the rest of the group. Plus anyone
keeping guard would be sleepy and complacent. I moved in from behind
while she was on top, sliding my shiv along her thigh and slicing through
her left-hand femoral artery without either of them noticing I was there.
I shoved her aside before she even registered the pain. She gave a
startled yelp, and then started screaming in earnest. I quickly put sharp
metal against the base of Helian’s erect member and looked him in the eye,
putting on my best predatory Shadow-of-Thira grin for good measure. He
became deathly still.
433
By the time the rest of his lackeys had arrived, Diana’s screams had
turned into a begging whisper. I didn’t deign to look at her, instead holding
her boyfriend in my power for a few moments longer. I slowly removed the
shiv. They did nothing. I moved slowly away. Still they did nothing. I
stopped by Diana’s side and dipped my right hand in her blood. I held it
aloft for all of them to see. “Rubrum Dei Dextera” I said softly as I backed
away into the shadows.
They did not bother me again, nor did they rat on me to our masters. Not
even when Murash pressured us over the dead girl, did anyone speak up.
For some reason I got the impression the assassin was rather pleased. He
didn’t kill or maim anyone, he just warned us not to let it happen again.
--You return to that space inside the tome where you can interact with its
guardians. Not to the ring of light, however, but to the darkness beyond.
Then you wait.
“Hello Marcus,” Vern’s voice says from somewhere close by.
“Hello Vern,” you reply, even as you adjust your senses to perceive his
psychic presence.
“You called me?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.
“I did,” you reply. “I wanted to inquire about this ‘Word of Light’. Haxtes
seemed unusually agitated when last we spoke, so I wanted to keep it
private.”
“You mean his rebuke? Think nothing of it. I was out of line. I had no
right to question him or his motives. My manners are poor and sometimes I
forget my place.”
“I see,” you say, pretending to mull over something, “but since you’re
already here: my question still stands.”
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Vern nods sagely. “The Word of Light is a highly dangerous, highly
contagious, heretical faith. The kind of cult that piques the interest of the
Ordo Malleus, if you catch my drift. That is the reason I got a bit agitated.”
“I see,” you reply encouragingly.
Vern willingly elaborates. “The origins of the Word can be traced all the
way back to the time of the Horus Heresy, back to the dawn of the Age of
the Imperium. Its roots are so old there are some who claim it predates the
Imperial Creed.”
“Does it?” you ask.
“I wouldn’t know,” Vern admits. I wasn’t around at the time, and reliable
sources from that period are rather hard to come by. What is certain is that
the Word was penned by the hand of Lorgar, Primarch of the 17th Legion of
Adeptus Astartes, the Imperial Heralds. Or should I call them by their more
popular name, the Word Bearers?”
“Go on,” you urge.
“It is thought that Lorgar encouraged the spread of the Word of Light to
establish a fifth column on Imperial worlds: apocalyptic Chaos cults, ready
to spring into action if their secret Word Bearer masters demand it. There
is no mention of Lorgar or Astartes in the Word, but it is rather cunningly
put together. It would be no problem at all for the Primarch – or one of his
Dark Apostles – to appear on a world and call upon these cults to aid his
unholy work. All they would need to do was to claim to be the Prophet of
the Light, come to herald the End Times.”
“So that,” you conclude, “is why you got a bit agitated with Haxtes for not
mentioning this ‘trivial’ connection. It wasn’t trivial at all, it was
momentous. It changed everything you thought you knew about Protasia.
And your master had wilfully withheld this from you, his savant.”
“Yes,” Vern says gravely.
435
You let him fade away and return your attention to Haxtes’ story.
--The rest of the journey was less eventful. I stayed with the group for the
most part, not wishing to risk any reprisals. My fellow aspirants caused me
no trouble. Four more weeks, a little over ten weeks in total, divided
between three warp journeys, plus the inevitable out-/insystem legs. And
then we were there: Malfi.
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CHAPTER 45
ABSALOM
Malfi: Hive World. Subsector capital. Military and commercial nexus for
the Rimward territories. Malfi: World of Many Doors, Wicked Lies, and
Endless Vice. A cesspool of corruption and decadence, like none other in
the Calixis sector.
I knew little of the place before I came there. I had heard of it of course –
it is one of the major worlds of Calixis after all. Up until the war I had
received a classical Protasian education, meaning I knew a great deal about
a great many places. My knowledge of the planet was, however, entirely of
the academic kind. I knew nothing that really mattered.
Malfi, as I am sure you are aware, is a semitropical, gloomy world of
overbuilt hives and habitation ledges, lying some two hundred light-years,
almost directly rimward, of the sector capital of Scintilla. Malfi is by far the
most heavily populated of Calixis' hive worlds, with an official population
figure approaching the three-hundred-billion mark, more than twice that of
Scintilla. With its supra-continental hives and eradication of natural
landscape, Malfi resembles a Segmentum Solar hive world far more than
any of the other planets in the Calixis sector.
Malfi is a world with a grudge. It believes it should be the sector’s capital
world, and venomously protests the supremacy of Scintilla. Given its great
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CHAPTER 45 ABSALOM
age, majestic architecture, effete noble caste, and vast population, Malfi’s
claim to eminence seems reasonable enough at first glance.
Politics and demographics are fickle mistresses, however: Early regimes,
following the Lord Angevin’s crusade, made their headquarters on Malfi,
but moved on as Scintilla was better placed to provide a centre of effective
governance for the sector. After more than two millennia the Malfian
peerage is still mortally offended – visitors are urged to approach the
subject with extreme caution.
The planet remains the main manpower and manufacturing pool of the
rimward territories of the sector. In terms of industrial efficiency it lags
somewhat behind; it is surpassed by the sector capital in terms gross
planetary product by more than eighty-five percent. Where the Scintillan
creed is industriousness in all things, the Malfian hives are notorious for
their vast caste of chronically unemployed citizens. There is a Scintillan
saying that attempts to describe this difference between the two rival
worlds: Half the manpower, twice the output.
While there is some truth in that old saying, it doesn’t tell the whole
story. The Lathes must take some of the blame. With the greatest forge
worlds for several sectors around sitting right next door, there is nothing
that Malfi can produce, that the Lathes cannot produce better and more
effectively. This cruel trick of astrography and Warp dynamics has
consigned the manufactorums of Malfi to a life in the shadows. They
produce only that which the Archmagi of the Lathes do not deign to make.
Which is still a whole lot – including an endless variety of household
supplies, personal weapons, ammunition, and other things of low
complexity – but very little that makes an impact on sector trade as a
whole.
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DARK OMEGA
Thus, despite its continued efforts, Malfi remains a border world, located
at the very edge of Imperial space, politically marginalized and forced into a
life of relative economic irrelevance. The lords of Malfi must satisfy
themselves with commanding the Malfian subsector, ruling the territories
rimward of Scintilla, forever toiling in the shadow of the sector capital.
But the day will come, the powers of Malfi believe, when they will rise to
command all of the Calixis sector and beyond. To this end they put their
faith in furthering the cause of the rimward territories, including seeking
new ways to extend their influence into places like the Koronus Expanse,
the Drusus Marches, and the Periphery. Even the distant and war-torn
Jericho Reach figures in their more ambitious plans.
A native Malfian would agree with none of my assessments. He would
swear by the Throne, and say that it is only the ingenuity and persistence of
the Malfians that allow them to do as well as they do. To a pure-blooded
Malfian it seems that the entire sector conspires to hold them down, to
deny them their rightful place in the poison-shrouded glare of their
brilliant sun.
Be that as it may. What I have not yet mentioned is that Malfi is – and this
may be the real reason the sector rulers passed it over – a place of the most
infernal intrigue. It is impossible to count the courtly factions vying for
power and the ear of the Matriarch of Malfi. Every act and motion of
Malfian life is about dissemblance and intrigue. Been seen with the wrong
crowd or say something inappropriate, and you may be damned to years of
squabbling diplomacy and sudden duels. Entering Malfian society, even the
lower levels of society, one enters a world of complexity and deceit from
which few emerge alive and unscathed. Again; a native Malfian would
neither recognize nor agree with the picture I just painted. To him the lies,
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CHAPTER 45 ABSALOM
the intrigue, and the masquerade are part of what and who he is. In fact,
could he chose, he would not have it any other way.
The Veiled Hand maintained several chapter houses throughout the
Calixis sector, but their headquarters was located in a nameless secondary
spire in the Absalom hive. Funny thing that: Absalom was the name of the
ark-ship that brought the settlers to Protasia. But the Malfians had their
own legends of a ship named Absalom, and their greatest city was named in
its honour. One Absalom had founded my birthworld, now another would
become the cradle of my new life.
From the centre of Absalom rises a great orbital spire, reaching nearly
sixty kilometres into the air, all the way up beyond the stratosphere. It is
not a true beanstalk, like the one that connects Hive Tarsus to the great
Scintillan orbitals, just a hugely oversized hive spire. Who built it, and how,
was a complete mystery in the 41st Millennium. It had certainly been there
when Angevin’s forces enforced Unity upon the lords of Malfi. It was at
least ten thousand years old. Some said sixty thousand, based upon tests
supposedly run by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Which sounded a bit daft to
me; it would put its construction at around a time when man was playing
with fire and stone tools. If it was sixty thousand years old, then man hadn’t
built it, and simple logic dictated it had therefore been crafted by a xenos
species. Which of course the Imperium would never admit to, so that was
that, case closed. Personally I believe man built it during the Dark Age of
Technology, using techniques long lost, making it no older than twenty
thousand years. At the time I didn’t much care. It was there. And that was
all that mattered.
Around the spire itself a great hive city rose, looking every bit the human
ant-hill. It was positively the biggest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, a mountain
of metal, , crawling with human life, so big it put every real mountain I had
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DARK OMEGA
ever seen to shame. If the majestic Mastari Range of my childhood had been
placed next to Absalom, it would have looked like nothing more than a
series of foothills. There is no place quite like Absalom in the Calixis sector.
The orbital spire and the core hive is said to house in excess of sixteen
billion people. If you count the entire hive structure, the number is closer to
thirty billion. That’s the official numbers anyway; like with the planetary
population I think they’ve greatly underaestimated the number of
vagabonds, vagrants, and general underhive ner-do-wells. Whatever
numbers you go with – the hive is big as hell. It would measure up nicely
against the hive-stacks of any Segmentum Solar world.
The citizens of Absalom have another, less legendary name for their
hometown: the Circus.
The central hive spire is ringed by a wheel of great, but still lesser, hive
cities. In the days after the Imperial reunification with Malfi, a great project
was undertaken to tie the hives closer together. A great web of impossibly
strong macro-cables was strung between them, until it looked like a multilayered spider’s web. Later still, when the demands of the Imperium had
caused the skies of Malfi to become bloated and toxic, the outer layers were
covered over with lightweight, yet resilient panes of transparent polymers.
The end result is that Absalom hive looks like the biggest fucking circus
tent this side of Terra: A huge pole rising in the centre, with lesser poles
around the perimeter, and great multi-coloured canvas sheets covering the
whole thing. In Malfi’s case the colouring runs in shades of grime, filth, and
toxic waste. Inside you find the Calixis sector’s most infamous dog and
pony show; the never-ending cacophony of intrigue and innuendo that is
the Malfian way of life.
---
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CHAPTER 45 ABSALOM
You are indeed familiar with Malfi. But like Haxtes pointed out, only in
scholarly terms. And some bits and pieces acquired by hearsay; secrets
softly whispered in the corridors of the Lucid Court during your stay there.
You’ve never been to Malfi though. Important it might be in Calixian terms,
but like Haxtes said, it sits at the very edge of the galaxy, eclipsed in all
ways by the sector capital of Scintilla. Not much has changed in that regard
since Haxtes was up and about.
The Malfian sub remains firmly under Malfian control, but its other
ambitions have largely been denied. The Drusus Marches have slipped out
of their fingers: Scintilla has driven a wedge of loyal systems though the
Marches, right up to Port Wander. You can see that Protasia fits quite nicely
into the greater picture, as does the reclamation of the Kapellan warzone,
and the great civilizing efforts on the Tygress frontier. The Tranch –
Spectoris – Sentinel warp route has become the premier highway into the
Koronus Expanse – and the Jericho Reach: From Sentinel you can reach
Protasia and from Protasia you can either go directly to Port Wander, or by
way of the Navy watch stations. To spinward the situation is little better:
Through Scintillan machinations the Malfian Rim Command was allowed to
become heavily involved in the Periphery, fighting rebel pocket empires,
orks, Eldar – and more recently Chaos reavers pouring out of the Screaming
Vortex. It has become a quagmire Rim Command is unable to pull out of.
Honour – and past failures – demands victory.
The lords of Scintilla have effectively isolated Malfi; politically,
commercially, and militarily. Keeping your rivals down is good for
maintaining the status quo, but hardly an effective means of ruling the
sector as a whole. If pushed hard enough, could the Malfian subsector
become another hotspot of dissent? A Rimward Front, to mirror the
Spinward one?
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DARK OMEGA
Idle speculation aside: If Malfi and Akakios-Protasia share the same
genesis myth, the great colony ship Absalom, and the same root language,
chances are they are indeed connected. But is Protasia really Malfi’s First
Colony – or is there another explanation? Haxtes seemed to hint at the
latter. You’ll make a point of finding out. Perhaps Vern knows something.
--“A difficult question to answer, young Marcus,” Vern says, sounding
thoughtful. “The hive-university that trained me had some lore pertaining
to the relationship between Akakios-Protasia and Malfi. It indicated that
Protasia was indeed a Malfian colony. Protasia was colonized from Malfi in
the Dark Age of Technology, but contact was lost during the Age of Strife,
and not re-established until the Angevin Crusade. Other sources I’ve crossreferenced have corroborated this theory, but I’m sure you appreciate the
difficulty of working with historical data that’s twenty thousand years old.”
“But Haxtes claimed the elders of Protasia had another view?” you
supply.
“Haxtes claims a lot of things about his homeworld that cannot be proven
in any way,” Vern retorts. “But in this case he may be right, I have to admit
that. During the course of our time together, I came across a veritable
throve of esoteric Calixian lore, collected by a Rogue Trader no less, that
told the same story: Protasia wasn’t colonized from Malfi, instead Akakios
was established as a splinter colony at the same time Malfi was settled.”
“And this Rogue Trader, would he be connected to the Madien of
Golgenna?” you ask, wanting pursue the Rogue Trader line of inquiry,
hoping it might shed some light on the Maiden and ‘Rogue Trader Jaxel
Guilliman’.
“But well, yes,” Vern replies smugly. “I got it from the collection Captain
Corben had gathered in his family’s estates on Quaddis.” He falls silent.
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CHAPTER 45 ABSALOM
“And?” you press.
“I cannot divulge any more. Not at present. It is forbidden. You’ll have to
wait for Haxtes to reach that point in his story,” Vern explains.
“I’m not getting you into trouble by making these queries?” you say,
feigning concern.
Vern touches his facial Aquila, as he is wont to do. “Not at all. You have
sufficient access privileges now to query tome directly, but there are limits
to how much I can tell you.”
“I see,” you reply. “I will call upon you later then, when next I have
important questions that need answering.” A little flattery never hurts.
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CHAPTER 46
AND THEN WE
WERE SIXTEEN
Our voidship settled into low orbit. No capital vessels had been allowed
to dock directly with the orbital spire for nearly a thousand years. In late
M40 and early M41, there had been several incidents where bulk ships had
smashed into the spire structure. The spire hadn’t taken significant
damage, the loadbearing structure was practically indestructible, but the
hive below would have been banged up pretty good, were it not for
emergency activation of the void domes. The ships, their crews, and
cargoes had been vaporized, but the overall collateral had been limited.
In 147.M41 a huge Munitorum conveyor had lost main gravitics. The
secondaries had failed to kick in, and the ship had smashed down into the
Circus. The conveyor vessel, whose destination was the desperate warzone
of the distant Gothic Sector, had been loaded beyond capacity with
ammunition and fuel. Combined with the fact that the hive’s void shields
were undergoing scheduled maintenance, the end result was widespread
destruction and a death toll that exceeded the hundred million mark.
After this tragedy the Imperial Commander of Malfi had banned direct
docking. So instead of docking directly – and heading downhive by lighting
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CHAPTER 46 AND THEN WE WERE SIXTEEN
rail – we would travel down from orbit by shuttle, directly to the Hand’s
private spire-hold. The Hand must have been very well connected indeed,
to get a priority flight corridor through the terminally congested air lanes
of the Circus. The ban on docking might have solved some security issues,
but at the same time it had created immense traffic control issues, as
countless landers, large and small, sought to reach their destinations.
The shuttle was only half full. Us seventeen recruits, our four charges,
and a handful of other people I knew to be support personnel. I had seen
some of them on board during my secret forays. Plus they looked like
support; their attires and their miens were of the kind you find only in
servants – people who know they have a certain value, without having
much say in how their lives are run.
One man stood out though. He was dressed like a preacher, humble
cassock, holy symbols, and all. First of all he was the first preacher I had
seen since boarding the voidship. In and of itself kind of unusual; the Hand
didn’t seem like they put much faith in the God-Emperor, at least not in a
traditional sense. I was also sure I’d seen him before. Not on the ship. Ergo
on Protasia, since I had never been anywhere else. He didn’t look like a
Protasian. Maybe I had seen him in the IG compound?
At the rear of the shuttle several pallets sat, loaded with a variety of
unmarked STC crates and bins. No one had bothered assigning us seats, so
we sat where we willed. It was my intention to try and gather as much
information as possible about our destination. I sat by myself near a
crysteel viewport; I had a good view of the outside, and I could sneak
sideway glances at the preacher.
The shuttle shot out of the launch bay with sufficient force to push me
back into the padded acceleration couch. There was a sickening feeling of
weightlessness as the Right Hand’s projected artificial gravity let go of us. It
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DARK OMEGA
took several minutes before the shuttle’s own gravity generators kicked in.
When they finally came online they didn’t hold properly, flickering on and
off with irregular intervals and intensity before being switched off again. I
figured that we either had the same moronic pilot that had run the craft up
from Protasia, or the shuttle was in even worse shape than I feared. Maybe
a combination of both.
Thanks to the inconstant gravity my nausea returned tenfold, but I
managed to hold on to my last meal. Several of my fellow recruits did not.
Globules of vomit now drifted across the compartment. It was messy – and
made me doubly glad I sat away from the others.
Murash was among those hit by the barrage of stomach content. I could
tell he was enraged, but there was nothing he could do about it. Unbuckling
and kicking around in weightlessness, in a shuttle about to hit the
atmosphere, would only aggravate the situation. Instead he sat there,
fuming inside his visored black mask.
The preacher was strangely untouched by the puke attack. He just sat
there, alone on his own seat row, and the stuff just sailed past or hit
something else. He suddenly turned his head to the right and looked right
at me; I was caught gawking. Our eyes met for a brief moment before I
could yank my head around and pretend to gawk out the viewport. I was
even surer we’d met before. The face was somehow familiar, yet not. And
those eyes – I had looked into them before, or maybe they had looked at
me. But for the life of me I couldn’t remember the particulars.
--For a moment you too are left with that vague sense of familiarity,
without being able to place the man’s psychic signature. You put your
mental and psychic faculties to work analysing his signature for tell-tale
markers, comparing them to the imprints already stored within your
447
memory strata. Few can match your skills at psychic forensics, and this case
is no exception: The man sitting in the shuttle is the same person as the
preacher Haxtes shot in the head with a bolt pistol on Thira. Young Haxtes,
lacking your sensitivity and experience, would of course have been unable
to draw that connection. Preacher Maxentius he called himself back then.
Now he has a different name – and a different body – but the mind and the
soul is the same. Is he a daemon then, possessing a string of bodies? Or
something else entirely? A flesh-hopping xeno? An unusually powerful
sorcerer?
--“Vern?” you ask of the darkness, “Are you there?”
“I am,” the darkness replies. A myriad of tiny specks of light take shape
inside the darkness, coalescing into the shape of Vern’s Aquila. With its
brightness turned to maximum the electoo provides sufficient illumination
to make out his face and upper torso.
“That preacher Haxtes shot in Thira,” you begin.
“Yes, what of him?” Vern inquires.
“Are you at liberty to speak about him?” you ask.
“I’ve no particular restrictions on that subject,” he knits his eyebrows,
“but I don’t really have any information to share.”
“You don’t?” you ask. “Haxtes never mentioned him? And he
never…reappeared, so to speak?”
“No, Haxtes didn’t, not beyond the act of shooting him in the head,” Vern
replies. “What do you mean by ‘reappeared’?”
“I mean to say that I suspect this Preacher Maxentius of being more than
he appeared to, more specifically a soul-shifting entity. Not something
Haxtes would have known at the time, but I imagine his psychometric
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DARK OMEGA
talents might have revealed something later on. Or that the entity crossed
paths with him later,” you explain.
Vern rubs his face. “He never mentioned anything. But as you’ve seen; it
could be he just failed to mention it. As for crossing paths: I cannot preempt Haxtes’ story. You know that.”
“I know,” you say, sounding slightly weary. “I just wanted to mention it.
At any rate, thanks for your candid answers.”
--By the time we hit the upper limits of Malfi’s murky atmosphere I was
starting to fear I too would become a victim of airborne vomit. Mercifully
the planet’s gravity, combined with atmospheric deceleration, steered the
effluence back from whence it had come.
Our metal coffin started shaking violently and the world outside turned
into a fireball as we streaked down towards the surface. It was my first
orbital descent and I’d be lying if I told you it wasn’t an unsettling
experience. By the time we levelled out of our controlled plunge I was
eagerly scouting out of the viewport. I quickly learned that Malfi’s soupy
atmosphere made visual observation an impossible affair. I resigned, closed
my eyes, and sat back to relax.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is the shuttle
hitting the metal deck – hard. Murash was positively enraged now. He gave
directions to his three fellow assassins, and then headed for the cockpit
area. The loading ramp was lowered by the cargo-master servitor and we
were herded out of the shuttle in two columns, one to each side of the
pallets. I couldn’t see the preacher anywhere. He must have gotten up and
out as soon as the ramp opened. Can’t say I blamed him; between the vomit
and Murash there was quite the oppressive atmosphere inside the shuttle.
449
I lingered for as long as I could without attracting attention. I was
rewarded by faint protestations filtering out of the cockpit, followed by
frantic screams of fear, then agony, then silence. Murash had finally dealt
with the pilot, the way he should have done ten weeks ago.
I got out of my seat and moved to join the other recruits, who had
already formed up outside on the landing platform. Two other shuttles
were already parked on the flat metal surface that protruded from the
spire’s side. A fourth shuttle was just making its approach, passing through
the open shield doors that protected the blister-like landing aperture from
Malfi’s hostile atmosphere. It landed perfectly in its designated quadrant.
We patiently waited for Murash to return. I looked about for the
preacher, but didn’t see him anywhere. When Murash returned a few
minutes later, he carried with him the severed heads of the shuttle
commander, his co-pilot, and the attending enginseer. I would have settled
for just one of them to make my point. Killing all three seemed excessive
and wasteful. Had Malachite been around he would not have approved.
Murash casually tossed the heads to one of the waiting servitorattendants. “The shuttle needs a new crew. This one has been terminated
on grounds of gross incompetence.”
It was a grisly display, but I was fascinated by how Murash had used the
opportunity to scour himself clean of vomit – using the dead men’s blood. I
thought he looked quite striking. He must have caught me staring, for the
look he returned carried a string even through the visor. It carried the
promise of painful disciplinary action.
I bit my lip when I realized my error. I had just broken two cardinal
rules: One. Don’t attract attention. Two. Timing, timing, timing. Murash was
pissed like Angron himself and his blood was up from killing three men. For
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DARK OMEGA
ten weeks I’ve stayed out of sight, out of trouble. And now I had stepped in
it. How daft of little Haxtes to draw his ire just now.
I could sense purpose and violence building within Murash and knew I
had to do something – the fact that I done nothing to deserve punishment
would not protect me. My mind raced.
My opportunity came as a fifth shuttle came in on approach. It was going
to be a tight fit. There were only four landing quadrants. The final shuttle
had to land in the centre of the platform, way inside the minimum safe
perimeters of the other craft. There was quite a bit of backblast as the
shuttle’s main thrusters angled down to cushion the final descent. A couple
of the recruits either lost their footing or had to take a step to stabilize
themselves.
I crashed into one of the vomit-stained recruits on purpose. I screamed
something incoherent at him. The meaning was pretty clear though: You
filthy oaf, get away from me. I followed up my screaming by elbowing him
in the nose, Not very hard, be hard enough to make him reach up to protect
his face. My next move was a very solid groin strike using my knee. He
doubled over and his legs failed him. I kicked him some for good measure
as he lay writhing on the cold metal of the platform.
None of the other kids moved to interfere. Diana, and the big pool of red
she had bathed in, was still fresh in their minds. Murash had moved closer,
but did not interfere. He merely observed. I pretended not to notice for a
few seconds more, and then snapped to attention once I felt it was the
appropriate thing to do. The downed boy lay whimpering at my feet.
The assassin regarded me through his opaque visor. I knew I was still in
danger, but I had at least bought myself some time. I was trying to think of
something clever to say when he bitch-slapped me across the face with his
combat glove. It was made of a coarse, high-friction material and covered
451
with sharp ridges. He smacked me again. Not too hard, just enough to make
my head ring and my skin break, leaving a string of bloody welts and
shallow cuts.
Next he grabbed my face with iron-hard fingers and regarded me. His
other hand deftly removed my trophy shiv. He hadn’t spotted the smaller
self-made blade I carried. Or maybe he had, and simply didn’t care. He
pushed the point of the knife against my eyeball. Hard enough for me to
notice, but short of actually puncturing it.
“Listen up you little vermin. All of you. Your lives, your blood, your flesh,
your bones…everything belongs to the Hand now. You will not fight each
other or harm one another through little ‘accidents’ – unless you are
ordered to do so.”
The pressure on my face lessened and he stepped away, taking the shiv
with him.
“But don’t worry. You will be ordered to harm one another,” Murash
added.
The ball-busted boy had managed to get back to his feet. Murash grabbed
him by the shoulder and shoved my shiv deep into his gut. The boy
screamed and struggled, but the assassin clung to him like glue, twisting
the blade around with enough force to tear flesh and intestines both.
“Another thing that will not be tolerated: Weakness. You think you’ve
been run hard during our voyage. Think again. The real hardship starts
now. If you show weakness, you will be killed. If you fall,” he put special
emphasis on the last word, “there will be no one to catch you.”
He grabbed the gutted boy by the ankle and started to haul him across
the landing platform, heading purposefully towards the edge.
Fall. The word lingered in my mind, creating a sense of anticipation for
what must come. I started walking after them.
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DARK OMEGA
The rest of the recruits followed meekly behind, goaded forward by the
presence of the other three assassins at our backs. When we were all
assembled at the edge Murash threw the boy over the side without further
ceremony. It was quite a drop. The spire’s landing blister sat on the side of
a tall vertical section of the hive. Several hundred meters of free fall at least,
four or five kilometres down to the roof of the Circus.
The air was thin, cold, and reeked of chemicals. It was also quite windy; a
couple of the lads stepped too close to the edge and came close to being
pulled over the edge by a sudden gust. They reeled back, panicked, but
quickly found their courage again when they saw Murash’s visor turn to
regard them.
I dropped down on my belly to peer over the edge. It felt like the right
thing to do. I had hoped to see the body hit the spire and tumble, but the
same cold wind that had pulled at us took hold of the dying kid and swept
him clear of ceramite and plasteel. He quickly turned into a fading dot that
eventually got obscured by airborne pollutants and the glare from the
radiant hive below.
And then we were sixteen.
453
INTERLUDE
THE WILL
The Will of the Prophet was a very central component in the Word of
Light. One might go as far as to say that the Will was the Word. Or that the
Word existed only as a vessel to convey the Will. That to read the Word was
to contemplate the Will. And so forth and so forth.
Not exactly a unique situation when it came to holy texts. The preacher
had read a whole lot of them, and most were like that; difficult to
understand. You had to read them, repeatedly, and try to glean the will of
the gods out of the poorly formulated words of an insane, semi-literate
prophet. Good luck with that.
The Word was different: It was extremely well formulated, written by
someone brilliant, eloquent, and enlightened – that someone being the
Prophet of Light. What complicated the matter was the fact that the Word
of Light was so complex, so vast. The core of the Word comprised a mere six
hundred and sixty-six volumes, all of it penned down in hallowed antiquity,
but on top of that there was an endless array of commentaries, treaties,
letters, revelations, and whatnot.
The Word was also very, very old. Despite the care taken to painstakingly
copy it, deviations had wormed their way into the material. This meant that
every congregation had a different version of the Word. For some the
differences were minor, but in some cases there were huge discrepancies.
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DARK OMEGA
Finally the Word was often frustratingly vague, or deliberately
contradictory. It had been written that way on purpose, to leave ample
room for interpretation, conjunction, and extrapolation.
The Preacher knew them all, the core volumes and the commentaries
alike, by heart – and he did not. The Word was not static; it changed with
every reader and with ever reading. Not in the literal sense – the actual
words were the same – but the Will your read out of the Word depended on
who you were, what you knew, what you believed, and so forth, ad
infinitum. Yesterday’s answers need not be the answers of tomorrow.
How many times had he not returned to a favourite passage, only to
realize that its implications were entirely different from what he had held
to be the truth?
To put it another way: To read the Word was to be changed by it. To live
was to change the meaning of the Word. And therein lay the meaning of life:
To live so that you might learn. To learn so you might understand the
Word, in the vain hope that you might one day be wise enough to truly
fathom the Will of the Prophet.
He had wondered many times how the word came to be, and by
extension who the Prophet really was. It had taken a while for him to
accept it, but there were so many similarities between the Word and
Imperial Creed that they had to be connected. But which one had come
first? Did the Word predate the Creed, or the other way around? He
couldn’t tell for sure. As to the identity of the Prophet he’d entertained
many theories over the years, but he could never find any concrete
evidence to back up any of them, so he’d let the matter rest.
He had, however, found that the Word had continued to evolve after the
Creed became calcified in the 31st Millennium. It had taken the Prophet
quite some time to write all those six hundred and sixty six volumes. After
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INTERLUDE THE WILL
the first mad writing spree of M31 and M32, the rate of publication had
slowed down over the eons, with the last couple of volumes dated to the
middle of M36, give or take a few hundred years.
The Preacher was sure the same entity – it had to be something not
entirely human to have lived so long – had penned each and every volume.
Not even a string of trusted apprentices, or inner circle of followers, could
have produced something so coherent, yet confoundingly complex.
The Preacher was certain in his black heart that the Prophet-entity still
lived. But why had he fallen silent? He had continued to write
commentaries and letters as late as the 39th Millennium Angevin Crusade,
but eventually the slow stream had become a faint tickle, until the Preacher
couldn’t be sure the Prophet was still around. The only additions to the
Word for the last few millennia had been written by lesser men, preachers
and priests of the Word of Light that had taken to putting their own
interpretations of the Will into words. To the Preacher it smacked of
heresy, of attempting to subvert the Word to the will of the priest.
Whatever its origin – and the state of its architect – the Word preached
that the God-Emperor was false, that he was no god. The True Gods – that
being the Chaos Powers – were very real, however. It was the duty of every
freedom-loving human to prepare for the day when they must take up arms
and overthrow the Imperium of Man, to usher in a new era of personal
freedoms, ultimate truth, and a glorious ascension for the race of man. To
achieve this goal all men must understand the power and majesty of the
Gods – and act in accordance with the true nature of the universe. To do
otherwise was to invite disaster and deny one’s soul the chance for life
eternal and power unequalled.
It was, all told, a pretty damn good faith.
--456
DARK OMEGA
After the debacle with the Guardsmen of the 57th Lo Mechanized
Infantry and his own execution at the hands of that local boy, the Preacher
had been stuck with converting Vaxanite underhive scum. As soon as the
Guardsmen from Lo had left, he’d wormed his way into the ranks of the
Vaxanites. He’d killed one of their members, a filthy wretch by the name
Obiscor, and assumed his identity. Under the circumstances it was the best
he could do.
He knew that the Word must be spread to all Men, but by the Powers was
his patience tested! When the End Times came – which he hoped was very
soon – there would be no place for this human effluence. If it was the last
thing he did before he achieved apotheosis, he’d see to it that the hives of
Vaxanide burned and all their children butchered. Then it would become
know that he was not without compassion, for he had done the galaxy a
great service by getting rid of the most noisome of all worlds.
--It was with some relief he had been forced to declare Protasia as a total
loss. He’d really tried with the Vaxanites, he really had. But eventually he
had recognized Verrigan’s hand behind it all, and known that Thira could
not be redeemed. The planet was in ruins, its society chaotic – and not in
the good sense of the word – and Thira was shaping up to become the
worst pit of them all.
Things had really come to a head after the Protasian rebels – they called
themselves Akakians by then – had received arms and equipment from a
crafty Rouge Trader going by the name Corben. Bloody Verrigan had felt his
control slipping. He’d been forced to call in reinforcements in the form of
Veiled Hand assassins; death-cult assassins from the nether pits of Malfi.
What plans and hopes that Preacher had left had been dashed during a few
bloody winter months. They hadn’t touched his new congregation, but their
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INTERLUDE THE WILL
appearance had brought home what he already knew: it was time to pack
up and leave.
The assassins had, however, proven a boon of sorts. They had their own
voidship, a great old barge by the name of the Red Right Hand of God. It
operated under cover as a merchant vessel, so the Preacher had
approached their trading factors and made some arrangements. His
passage to Malfi so arranged he had boarded the vessel. Finally free of
accursed Protasia!
He later learned that his departure had come at a most fortuitous
moment. Less than four weeks later the Imperials had returned to Thira in
force. An Inquisitor called Soldevan had come with a full complement of
Sisters of Battle, backed up by Deathwatch marines, and completely
decimated his Vaxanite congregation – and anyone else standing in their
way. Again he sensed Verrigan at work, manipulating the Imperium to get
rid of a potential rival. Damn that bastard!
The Preacher kept mostly to himself throughout the journey. The Hand
kept to its own bloody creed and would react violently towards anyone
trying to preach the Word aboard their ship. Ten weeks of near solitude –
with a short-lived pirate attack to liven up the dreariness – had seen the old
vessel sail across steady warp-currents until it reached the sub-sector
capital of Malfi. Three hundred billion souls, crying out for something to
believe in. As good a place as any to start a congregation. Turning some of
them away from the Corpse-God and towards the True Gods of Chaos
would be ridiculously easy.
--The boy had come as a complete surprise. The shuttle that carried them
down to Malfi had trouble with the gravity generators, and some recruit or
the other had vomited profusely as a result. A simple act of will had kept
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DARK OMEGA
the Preacher clean – one of the benefits of being a sorcerer – and he’d
closed his eyes to meditate, only to sense someone starting at him with
their inner eye. He’d turned his head to look, and there he was: the fucking
wretch that had blown apart the head of his old body. The Preacher was
rarely surprised, but that twist of fate had left him momentarily
dumbfounded.
After regaining his composure he sat there, fuming inside with barely
contained rage. He had quite liked that body. And soul-transference had
cost him dearly. He wanted the boy dead, but attacking him now was too
risky. That Murash fellow was devilishly quick and far too cunning for the
Preacher’s liking.
The boy pretended to look out the window, but for a moment their souls
had touched upon one another. The boy had recognized something, but he
lacked the insight required to recognize a soul dwelling inside a different
body. He didn’t understand. Good. It meant the Preacher could afford to
wait.
An idea occurred to him: Perhaps he could purchase the boy, or spirit
him away? Teach him of the Will, rather than kill him. Now there was a true
challenge for a Deacon of the Word.
459
CHAPTER 47
THE PRIZE
You pull back from the deep simulation for just a moment, letting it run
in the background, with only minimal attention from the observational
compartment. It’s an experiment, to see if you can manage such a
background process, while engaging the guardian persona in direct
conversation at the same time. Whatever the outcome, it should provide
you with some data, data that will come in handy when you sit down to
plan a more robust mental arrangement for later sessions.
Haxtes gives you a quizzical look from behind the desk. “Are you twotiming me Marcus?
“Sort of,” you reply, “if you count yourself. It’s an experiment.”
“An experiment in trying to bypass my security measures you mean,”
Haxtes says. “Venus is notifying me of your actions.”
“Maybe it is at that,” you admit.
“I’m not entirely displeased with you Marcus. It’s rather nicely done,”
Haxtes says, sounding like he means it. “The first thing you’ve done to date
that’s been mildly impressive.”
“There is plenty more where it came from,” you reply.
“I’m beginning to think there is, but,” Haxtes abruptly rises from his seat,
“I have some tricks of my own.”
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DARK OMEGA
You can feel the simulation becoming fainter. You try to bring it back, but
it only causes Haxtes and the circle of light to turn insubstantial.
“I don’t want to be forced to use the final sanction – shutting you out –
but I will if I must,” he says, his voice distant and weak.
“I meant no offense Haxtes, you know that.” You add a little sigh for
show. “I am, as you said, merely testing your defences. If that isn’t
acceptable, and at the same time I have to let you run the show, I’m afraid
we’ve no further business. Lock me out and I’ll find another way to get in.
You know I will.” It sounds like a threat, but it’s the God-Emperor’s truth.
“Perhaps.” Haxtes thinks for a second. “Let us not be enemies, Marcus. I
have had enough of those. Let us instead go back a step, both of us, and
come to an arrangement. You promise not to double-time or otherwise
screw me over, and I’ll promise that there is a point to my tale. And to
sweeten the deal I’ll throw in the odd Melbinious-related lore from time to
time. Acceptable?”
“Acceptable,” you agree. “Now I’d like a bone to seal the deal,” you add
quickly.
Haxtes barks. “So soon? You just had several!”
“You mean our little chat about Chaos and Komus and whatnot?” You
sigh again. “That was you teasing me. You’re a good teaser Haxtes, I’ll give
you that, but you deftly evaded talking about anything even remotely useful
to me.”
“Me, a tease? Never been called that before Marcus.” He gives you a cold
stare. “Be careful what seeds you sow, young man.” He refills his glass,
waving the amasec carafe in your general direction afterwards.
“Yes please,” you reply. “Some amasec to go with your juicy bones would
be fine.”
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CHAPTER 47 THE PRIZE
Haxtes leans back, drink in hand. “Very well, let’s play questions and
answers then.” He smells the fragrant liquid before having a small sip. “You
go first.” His face is more relaxed than you’ve seen before.
“Fine,” you say, “I’ll ask the questions and you’ll provide the answers.”
You have a sip from your own glass. The drink is as potent as it is
fragrant. Amasec, laced with traces of some unknown narcotic?
“Have it your way,” Haxtes replies without emotion, “but I get to call it
quits.”
You make a magnanimous gesture and ask your first question. “Protasia
and Malfi. How are they connected? In your opinion, I mean.” You’ll start
with some trivial questions; see if you can bait him to come out into the
open.
Haxtes replies without pause. “I’ve been led to believe that both worlds
come from the same roots; from the same colony ship, the Absalom. But my
homeworld was never Protasia, the First Colony of Malfi. It was Akakios,
the Place of Goodness; a splinter colony, established by a faction aboard the
Absalom that didn’t want to settle at Malfi. A faction led by Nix, whose real
name was Nikodemus; the navigator we have spoken of earlier.”
So this is what Vern alluded to. “Isn’t the difference purely academic?”
you counter.
“Not entirely,” Haxtes explains with uncharacteristic patience. Nix and
his followers believed they had been pursued through the Warp by a force
of darkness, a force that was still among them on Malfi. The majority of
settlers did not share this view, calling Nix superstitious – and worse. Back
in those days humanity knew sadly little of the perils of the Warp.”
“So Nix – Nikodemus – and his followers sought to escape this evil by
going to Akakios?”
“There was more to it than that,” Haxtes answers, “but essentially, yes.”
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DARK OMEGA
You’re not convinced. “Sounds like a Protasian fable to explain away the
more plausible explanation; that they had been colonized from Malfi.”
“If it hadn’t been for a personal revelation I would agree.” A wry smile
appears on Haxtes’ face. “Did I mention you should try skiing sometime?”
Before you can answer he finishes. “I guess I did. Next question please.”
“I’m not going skiing, Haxtes,” you reply. “This evil, was it, in your
opinion, real? Or just an excuse for an exodus? An excuse for a prophet
figure to lead his people out of danger and onto salvation?”
“Again, I appreciate your sentiments, but your suspicious nature leads
you astray,” Haxtes chides. “It was real. It is real. And it has a name. A true
name even: Balphomael. The Horned Darkness.”
“Should the name mean anything to me?” you ask?
“Not unless you’re involved with the Calixian Ordo Malleus,” Haxtes
replies drily. “Balphomael is an immensely ancient and confoundingly
powerful daemon lord. He caused trouble around the Calyx Expanse long
before there was an Imperial presence there. He’s been something of an
arch-nemesis to the Calixian Malleus ever since the Angevin Crusade.”
Enough with the peripheral questions; time to up the ante. “Does the
tome really hold what was promised? That being the secret of human
immortality?”
Haxtes. “Yes, it does. In fact it holds more than one secret path to
immortality.” His eyes become dangerously clever. “You want to clone
yourself, and have your conscience transferred over to the new body? The
process can be repeated, effectively granting you immortality. Everything
you need to know is in here.”
You shake your head. “That is not true immortality. A clone is only a
genetic replica. It’s not an exact copy of you. Not any more than identical
twins are truly identical.”
463
“You’re quite learned Marcus,” Haxtes says, “in the oddest of lores.”
You ignore him. “Plus the brain-taping process is equally fraught with
problems. And that’s before we begin discussing the nature of the soul and
how it connects to the body and mind.”
Haxtes. “What about a so-called Halo device or two? I don’t have them
with me in here of course, but I can provide you with their locations. They
do provide the host body with immortality.”
You shake your head again. “I know of those devices from my visit to
Calixis. The do offer immortality of sorts, but at what price? Madness and
humanity lost. Not the kind of immortality I’m seeking.”
“Speaking of which,” Haxtes continues, “what about a Dark Pact? Or a
quest for daemonic apotheosis? Guaranteed to cost you both sanity and
soul, but if the techniques contained herein are to be believed it is
immortality of sorts. Immortality and great power, for the price of eternal
damnation and servitude.”
“No,” you say a little too hotly and loudly, “no dark pacts or daemons. I’m
after what I’m certain is in here – the road to immortality without resorting
to anything of that sort.”
“Then perhaps you should tell me what exactly it is you’re after.
Immortality is rather too vague, I think.” Haxtes looks expectantly at you.
You draw breath and speak the secret your master entrusted you with. “I
seek the way by which a sufficiently potent and skilled human psyker can
transform himself into an immortal being.”
“I thought as much,” Haxtes replies in quiet tones,” I just needed to hear
it from you. “Your master would make himself into the next God-Emperor.”
He lets out an uncharacteristic sigh.
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DARK OMEGA
You try to object, but Haxtes vehemently cuts you off. “The tome bears
the Dark Omega for good reason; to prevent fools like you from getting to
access to it.”
“That’s preposterous!” you exclaim empathically. “That is not my
master’s intention. Even considering such a thing is blasphemy, grand
heresy!”
Haxtes has become deathly still. You can feel the cold emanating from his
soul without recourse to your psychic probe. When he finally speaks his
voice is as flat and dead as the drone from a mono-task servitor. The sense
of hostility and imminent violence is strong and acute.
“This is where you shut up and listen Marcus. I’ll have no more excuses
for your master’s behaviour. I’ve had quite my fill already. You’re master is
a radical at best, and a heretic at worst.”
You manage to keep your peace, but only just.
“But then again, so was I. So I shall not stand in judgement over him – or
you. I’ll just have it noted that he’s using you, my dear Marcus, for purposes
that are entirely his own. The quest you are on is certainly epic, but it is
brought about by the megalomania of one man, not born out a sense of duty
to the God-Emperor.”
He leaves you some space in which to reply. Testing you, tempting you to
gainsay him. You do not rise to the bait.
“I’ll give you the secret Marcus, but I’ll test you every step of the way. If
you falter, I will cut you out and you will have failed. It is as simple as that;
for all your skill and power you cannot overcome the tome’s defences on
your own. I think you’ve already begun to realize that. I mean, you can
barely keep me from reading your mind…”
465
You reply with deathly calm. “I think my defences are quite adequate,
Haxtes. And they will keep improving. You are unable to read my mind
now. It will get even more difficult as we progress.”
“I will also,” Haxtes continues, “attempt to test your own sense of
morality and duty, in the vain hope that you will open your eyes, and see
that your master is not the man you think he is. That his motives are not as
pure as the snowy fields of the Mastari Mountains.”
“Test all you wish,” you cut in, “I will not falter. Nor will I relent if you try
to block my access. And I will not break my vows to my master.”
“Perhaps. We shall see soon enough. For now contemplate this: There are
no blueprints or STC templates for this thing. The only way you can learn
the secret of true immortality is to follow my tale, accompany me down the
rabbit hole, see what I have seen, and feel what I have felt. Only then will
the secret be yours.”
“Why?” you ask. It’s a simple, yet relevant question. “Why must it be so?
Because you want it to be thus?”
Haxtes mien or tone hasn’t changed the slightest. “It must be so because
to understand immortality, you must understand the man who lived – and
was then reborn. To understand Melbinious, you must first understand me.
Before you can reply you’re back on Malfi. The recoding is brighter and
clearer than ever before.
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CHAPTER 48
HOME, SWEET
HOME
We were marched back to the others in open formation. I felt calm and
eager at the same time. The crisis had passed, and it had left me feeling
alive and energized.
Murash addressed me casually as we walked. It was the first time he had
spoken to anyone like they were actual people. “This is where we say
goodbye. I go on to serve the revered Archon Ghaela, the finest blademaster
amongst us.” He still had my shiv in one hand, deftly toying with in a
manner that inspired admiration of his skills. “You now go into the custody
of Prefect Malachite. He will make you into what you need to be – or he will
break you trying. Perhaps, in time, you will make it and become an
anointed assassin of the Hand. If so we shall speak again then, share drinks,
and retell the tale of how you came to the Spire of the Hand.”
The massive shield doors started rumbling shut behind us, closing the
landing blister and shutting out the cold and the wind.
“If not, I shall see you again on the other side of the Veil. Dead or alive –
we all belong to the Red-handed God now.” He fell silent after that. I dared
not ask who this Red God of his might be.
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CHAPTER 48 HOME, SWEET HOME
We were coming up on the other groups even as the batch from the fifth
shuttle joined the formation. Unlike my own ride the other shuttles had
been relatively full, but a quick count revealed there was now less than two
hundred recruits. Attrition had affected the other groups just as harshly as
my own.
The assembly process was pretty much a duplicate of the one that had
taken place aboard the Rubrum Dei dextera. Malachite appeared. This time
he mundanely stepped out of the last shuttle. He tool roll call from the
captains. He did a quick inspection of the troops. Got a few remarks from
the captains. Didn’t kill anyone this time. Walked back to his position in
front for the assembly.
He then proceeded to assume command of the recruits. “I am, as you
already know, Prefect Malachite. The Prefects of the Hand have many
important tasks to attend to. Mine is making sure that the Veiled Hand is
constantly replenished with new men and women that are ready to take up
the path of the Parting Veil.”
Malachite was very much unlike Murash. Where Murash was young and
lithe, Malachite was older and heavier. If the younger man had been a
dancer or an artisan, Malachite would have been a wrestler or a
stonemason. I had no illusions as to who was the more dangerous person.
In a contest between the two I knew that Malachite would win, ten times
out of ten. Murash’s fancy moves and agile fighting style would break as
waves upon a rocky shore, and Malachite’s brutal counter would punch
though his effete defences and end him with a single strike.
“That means that for the foreseeable future – five, six, seven years,
depending on how quickly you learn – I will be your lord and master in all
things. I have many aides and assistants, but the power and the
responsibility are ultimately mine. It is I, and I alone, who decides who lives
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DARK OMEGA
and who dies. Who gets flung from the spire, who are gutted like pigs, who
are skinned alive…fates that may well befall any and all of you should you
show weakness or fail to please your taskmasters.
It is also I who decide when – if ever – any of you are ready to take the
black and join the Brethren of the Hand. Work hard, do well, and keep on
my good side. Those are the three things that might see you through
training.”
He turned full circle and made a dramatic gesture with both hands,
indicating the entirety of what we could see.
“You are now about to enter the hive-spire sanctum of the Veiled Hand. It
bears no official name, but many epithets – the Spire and the Sanctum being
the least colourful and the most popular.” He stepped closer to the
assemble recruits. “It is our home, our fortress, our monastery. It is where
we train to become killers without equal. It is where we learn to known the
secrets of the Red Right Hand of God. It is where we rest and recover
between missions.” Malachite’s speech ended and he watched in silence as
we recruits were herded into the spire he had called home.
Home. What a strange word. Home had been the house in the hills. After
that there had been no homes, only places to live and the memories of loss
and betrayal.
Home. Yes, this place might just be that. A new home for Haxtes. A place
for me to learn what I needed to know. Like I had learned of the men of the
57th Lo Mechanized.
But like the house in the hills I knew it would not be home forever. All
things must come to an end; such is the nature of the universe. Only when
this one came crashing to an end would I be ready for it. No more surprises.
No more weakness.
I have rarely been so completely wrong in all my long life.
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CHAPTER 48 HOME, SWEET HOME
--“One final thing Vern,” you say out loud, “before I call it a day.”
Moments pass by, without any answers from the darkness.
“Regarding the Word of Light cult and the nature of Protasian society,”
you continue, unfazed by the lack of response. “Now that you know the cult
was active, what are your views on the nature – and spread – of this
Protasian heresy?”
A small ring of light appears, framing you and Vern both.
“I always wondered why the Calixian Ordos were so concerned,” Vern
says, rubbing the edge of his skull implant, “with the spread of the
Protasian Heresy. A philosophy of democracy, freedom of information, and
personal freedoms is bad enough,” he gestures for emphasis, “but there had
to be more.” He looks right at you. “You helped bring forth the final piece of
the puzzle: the Word of Light.”
You nod sagely in return. “I thought as much. The open nature of
Protasian society, their extensive commercial connections throughout the
sector, coupled with the presence of such an insidious heretical religion.”
“A potent mix indeed,” Vern says, taking the words out of your mouth.
“So potent it changes the entire equation.” He sighs heavily. “I have admired
Protasian culture and society, but now I realize I have been led astray. My
hopes were misplaced, my admiration naïve. Another harsh, but uniquely
illuminating, lesson from my master.”
“Haxtes is your master,” you ask, trying to sound inconspicuous.
“I may have revealed too much,” Vern quickly replies, “but I guess you
already knew as much, didn’t you?”
“I did,” you admit. “Haxtes rebuke was so forceful there was no longer
any doubt in my mind.”
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DARK OMEGA
“Very well then: Haxtes Guilliman is my master. But that is all that I’m
willing to say. How I ended up in his service is not my story to tell.”
“And the relationship between Haxtes and Melbinious? Would that be
asking too much?” you inquire, already knowing the answer.
“Very much so. Their relationship is complex and filled with paradoxes. I
cannot do the story justice. You must delve deeper into Haxtes’ story if you
hope to understand.”
“I thought as much,” you say and prepare to end the session with the
tome.
Vern steps forward and speaks in a whisper. “If you look carefully, you
might find some of my written works. If any physical copies have survived,
they will be found here, in the Librarium. Perhaps some of them might shed
light on those topics I cannot speak about.”
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CHAPTER 49
I AM THE WEAPON
You terminate the connection, pull your hand away from the tome, and
take a half-step backward. The three servoskulls are hovering in a semicircle in front of you, half a meter above the head of the lectern-servitor.
You pay them no heed. They have nothing on you.
You close the cover of the tome. “Return the book to storage,” you tell the
servitor, “I’m done for today.”
You stand there, watching it slide a protective adamantium cover across
the tome, enclosing it completely. A powerful and complex locking
mechanism slides into place. It can only be opened by a handful of senior
staff – and whomever they chose to release the tome to.
You turn on your heel and descend the three steps down to the floor. You
sweep out of the chamber, brushing past the two combat servitors standing
guard outside. Their task is twofold; to guard the chamber against intrusion
and to escort the lectern-servitor back to storage. Now they will attend to
the latter.
Your body is weary form all those hours in the reading chamber, but
nowhere near as exhausted as yesterday. Mentally you’re a bit more worn,
but you kept both sessions short enough to avoid draining yourself
completely.
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DARK OMEGA
You have important affairs to attend to. Affairs where mental exhaustion
might literally get you killed. Distraction is another thing you cannot afford
so you’re forced to put the many questions today’s second session has
raised. Now it is time to push Haxtes and his outrageous claims and
demands out of your mind and deal with your would-be killers.
The walk to the first flight of stairs is not long, but you relish the chance
to stretch your legs. You bounce up the narrow winding steps leading to the
12th Tier two at a time, slowing down to a statelier pace just before coming
into view of the gold-cloaks on watch duty.
You brush past them without and word and continue forward, heading
for the next flight to stairs to ascend to the 11th level. You go quickly,
without running. You don’t think they are used to people running down
here. Yesterday you took nearly an hour to reach the top. You goal is to cut
that time considerably; approaching the half-hour mark should be possible,
if everything runs smoothly at the checkpoints.
You’ve made no arrangements to stay anywhere tonight. It’s too soon to
sleep over at librarian Amaya’s place. The mind-worm has begun its work,
but it won’t be done until tomorrow, at the very earliest. More likely it will
take a couple of more days. You debate checking up on Amaya one extra
time on your way out. See how the worm is progressing. Eventually you
decide against it. You know what the answer will be. No need to waste time
and energy on something that’s a given.
Tonight you will have to find someplace else, a boarding house, inn, or
hotel will suffice. But before you get that far you’ll have to deal with the
mystery team. It’s either you or them, as foretold by the Emperor’s Tarot.
Vern’s suggestion that you try to locate physical copies of his works
makes sense. Given what you know about the Second Library of Knowing,
they will have quite the collection of restricted – and outright forbidden –
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literature. Unfortunately you don’t have time to look through the billions
scraps of text they have on record. Especially when such a search would
add nothing to your primary quest: Claiming the fountain of psychic youth.
--By the time you hit the 10th Tier of the Second Library of Knowing you
get this tingling sensation running down your spine. Something terrible is
about to happen. The premonition is vague at the moment, but growing in
strength with every step you take. It’s a lot like walking towards your own
doom. Your mysterious opponents are making their move.
--The woman with the artfully arranged hair intercepts you on the 9th
Tier, standing squarely in your way as you pass down the hallway with the
crystal statues. She is quite alone, save a single lectern-servitor. Epistolary
Calpurnia Pisonis, you picked her named from the mind of one of her
underlings, cradles a single red-coloured book against her chest. The
servitor carries a whole case, stuffed with books, tomes, ledgers, and
scrolls.
The encounter takes you completely by surprise. Epistolary Calpurnia
isn’t just someone who’s warded against telepathy, but a person that defies
all your supranatural senses.
“Marcus Aurelian, is it not?” she says in a formal, neutral tone.
“Epistolary Pisonis,” you reply curtly, trying to figure out how to best
exfiltrate from this ambush.
“So you have heard of me!” Her face lights up at the mention of her name.
“But do please call me Calpurnia, no need to be so formal.”
“I’m in something of a hurry, Calpurnia,” you say in an urgent voice.
“I will be short and to the point,” she exclaims, throwing her arms wide
open and taking a step forward, completely foiling your attempt to step
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DARK OMEGA
past the librarian: If you keep going forward you’ll end up in a very
awkward embrace.
You halt and take a deep mental breath. If it wasn’t for her psi-wards this
wouldn’t be an issue. You don’t want to harm her or otherwise get physical,
so that leaves you with nothing but your glib tongue and some feigned
politeness.
Trying to avoid looking down her cleavage, you chance a look at the tall,
slender volume now held in her extended right hand. Its cover is made of
red-dyed leather of grox. The quality of the binding is good, but the
material unremarkable. ‘The Rimward Dialects of Gothic’ the title says.
‘Ancient A’Malfian influences on the local tongues of the Calixis sector’ is the
subtitle. ‘A treatise by the Honourable Vernission de Veridia de Archaos’ it
says at bottom.
So this Calpurnia Pisonis has been spying on you. Now she’s putting on
quite the show to get you interested. And it’s working; you can feel your
curiosity piqued. Had it been any other time, you might have obliged her,
but you really, really don’t have time for this.
“This really is a bad time,” you start. The rest of your words are lost
somewhere in those unfathomable eyes of hers. They are the shimmering
blue-green of brightly lit ocean shallows, glimmering with golden flashes
from the pristine sands hidden beneath the waves. The longer you look, the
darker those eyes seem. Like a drowning man the sun fades from view and
a great, crushing cold wraps itself around you.
You call upon your inner fire, willing the cold away. It helps. As does
taking a half-step backwards, out of her painful aura.
She continues as if nothing has happened. “I take pride in overlooking all
that transpires in my domain,” she says solemnly, each word spoken
revealing the white perfection of her teeth, “and I could not help but notice
475
how the query-spirits you despatched into the archives were frustrated and
deflected.”
She gestures for the servitor to step forward. It obliges. You’re busy
breathing and trying hard to appear unfazed.
“I did not mean to keep you from your urgent affairs,” she says, half
turning, exposing the graceful arch of her upper back as it rises above the
scandalous neckline of her formal gown. She deposits the red treatise on
top of the other volumes. Your eyes take in a dozen other promising titles,
all of them either written by Vern or touching upon subjects you’ve queried
during your stay here at the librarium.
For a moment you consider snapping her neck and moving on, but it
would only complicate matters.
“If I have offended you Goodman Aurelian, I am terribly sorry.” She
curtsies deeply, bowing her neck for emphasis, and moves to the side to let
you pass. “I shall have the books removed immediately.” The servitor
mimics her movements, taking three shuffling steps to the side to make
way for you.
“I appreciate your offer…Calpurnia. Were it any other time,” you let the
words trail away.
She rises tall and proud again. “Well, if any other time comes around; do
feel free to call upon my services.”
“I will,” you say, not meaning it, and hurry past them.
--It takes a while for the sensation to return, but by the 6th Tier the feeling
has grown strong enough to become noticeable without concentrating. It
now takes the guise of radiant heat, seemingly originating from your Tarot
case. The heat isn’t real of course. Neither does it come from the Tarot. It’s
476
DARK OMEGA
just your own psychic mind trying to tell you that trouble is getting closer
and closer.
This isn’t what was foretold. The future has been changed without your
intervention. Either your opponents are much more cunning and skilful
than you’ve given them credit for – or Calpurnia Pisonis’ presence has
somehow upset the balance of things to come. It will complicate things and
increase the level of danger. You must be both careful and determined if
you’re going to get out of this alive.
--You’ve made it all the way to the third tier of the inverted pyramid
before you become absolutely, utterly certain. Your enemies are here,
inside the Librarium complex. You cannot yet see how many they are, or
how they plan to assault you, only that they are indeed here, by the effect
they have on your possible futures: A very acute feeling that your time is
up. You would normally be able to get more detail than this, but the future
is a state of great flux, greatly complicating matters of precognition.
Your body is warm and nimble from the fast paced walk and many stairs
ascended. You mind is done cataloguing today’s information and feels clear
and quick. You’ve put the Calpurnia encounter out of your active processing
areas. You are as ready for danger as you’ll ever be. Well, considering that
you lack any form of weapons and go unarmoured that is. No matter. Let
them think you are at a disadvantage. You’ve no need for weapons. You are
an acolyte of the Inquisition, a battle-trained Primaris psyker; you are the
weapon. There is none more dangerous.
You extend your second sight so that it covers your immediate future,
not just psychic auras in the now. It’s the same thing you did in the Plaza of
Loremasters yesterday. Only today the future is much more turbulent,
preventing you from seeing anything worthwhile, beyond the next handful
477
of seconds. Today you’ll be warned of danger and have the chance to react
before your enemies act – but you won’t be able to manipulate them out of
your future. Violence will be required for that.
You activate a clairvoyance probe to improve your situational awareness.
There is no point overlaying it with your future sight; the future is too
volatile, too shifting. You do, however, add a telepathic search mode to the
visual probe. The mystery team of yesterday had a penchant for psi-wards
and will likely continue to use them. So if you see people walking around,
seemingly without mental signatures, you’ll know they are suspect.
There are two complicating factors you need to take into account: The
gold cloaked custodians with the psi-blocking helmets and the mystery
team’s own psyker. And Calpurnia.
--They try to take you out on the second tier.
The library has been constructed out of the sub-levels of the floating hive
city, making its internal layout highly eccentric and quite confusing to
irregular visitor. This high up the library tiers are vast mazes of rooms and
corridors. Security is also much less stringent up here, and there are much
more activity in general. Visitors coming and going, staff slowly passing
back and forth, servitors and servoskulls attending their duties, servants
and pages seeing to the needs of staff and visitors alike. A good place to
stage an attack.
Curiously enough the 2nd Tier is the busiest part of the library. Whereas
the 1st Tier is more or less accessible to anyone who can pay the entrance
fee, the 2nd Tier is mildly restricted. But it is also the first level to actually
offer lore that isn’t readily accessible from other sources. So if you need
only first tier information, you don’t come all the way to the Library of
Knowing. You only do so if you want – and are allowed – deeper access. And
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DARK OMEGA
so it is that the second tier is the most bustling level of all. And therefore
the easiest to infiltrate.
The two gold-cloaked Cerberi come towards you as you pass along a
wide corridor. You saw them coming before they were in visual line of sight
thanks to your clairvoyance probe. You scanned both men and concluded
they are not guards, but intruders – they are wearing psi-wards all right,
but not the exact same kind the real guards’ helmets contain.
But their profiles do match the ones you felt in the Plaza yesterday. It
makes the two gold-cloaks verified fakes. Good fakes, just not good enough.
Did they think you couldn’t tell two different psi-wards apart? Amateurs.
Be that as it may; the two men with the enclosed helmets, the golden flak
coats, and the power halberds are not guards. They are assassins sent to
kill you. Now you must kill, or be killed.
Haxtes was right when he said your psychic powers are unusual. He just
didn’t realize how special. Telepathy and prescience are by far the two
most common disciplines mastered by human psykers. Telekinesis comes a
distant third. Pyrokines like yourself are even less common, a rare variant
of the kinesis group.
But you’ve got an additional talent. A talent so rare that your masters in
the Scholastia Psykana were forced to search long and hard before they
found you some suitable teachers: You have mastered the strange art of
metacreativty.
Simply put you – and your rare fellow metacreators – have the ability to
create something out of nothing. It’s not the same as calling an already
existing object to you by means of psychoportation. As a metacreator you
can reach out into the Warp and find the idea or ideal of an object, and then
have it appear in your hand or in your immediate vicinity. It is extremely
479
challenging and hellishly taxing on the body and the mind, but if you get it
right, only your imagination limits what you can conjure forth.
Your future sight is now pretty clear and undistorted: In a few seconds
two guards will come into striking distance. They will activate the power
field generators inside their weapons and proceed to hack you apart. Both
men are skilled warriors, individually nearly a match for you. Within the
limited space the corridor offers, there is no way you can defeat them both.
If you turn and run they will simply lower their halberds and trigger the
bolt pistols worked into their weapons. An ignominious death.
You’ve some tricks of your own. You’ve already pulled a weapon from
the Warp. Its weight is heavy in your right hand, concealed from your
attackers’ view by the bulk of your body.
Just outside melee range you whip up the conjured bolt pistol and fire a
single shot at the right-hand gold-cloak. He has no time to react – and at
this range you cannot miss. The hyper-explosive round hits him square in
the chest, punching through his flak cloak just like you knew it would – flak
armour usually fares very poorly against adamantine penetrators. The
explosion inside his chest kills the assassin instantly. His armour might not
have provided much protection against the shot, but it does provide good
protection against unwanted blood spatter.
The second assassin is just as good as you feared. He doesn’t panic or
freeze with indecision. He reacts instinctively and quickly, doing the only
thing he can do – close before you can shoot again.
Still, switching your aim and pulling the trigger is faster than the quickest
assassin, especially one hampered by heavy armour and a halberd. The
second shot is point-blank, but you only manage a glancing strike to his left
arm. Again the flak armour offers little protection, but this time there is no
explosion inside the target. The superficial flesh wound to the upper arm
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DARK OMEGA
isn’t enough to trigger the mass-reactive charge contained within the bolter
round.
Without the explosion the hit merely disables the assassins arm, rather
than blowing it clean apart, fumbling his decapitating halberd strike. Again
he adapts quickly. He uses his forward momentum to crash into you. One
moment you’re standing, the next you’re lying on your back on the floor,
gasping for air and trying to clear the ringing in your ears.
You will the pain to go away. Clarity returns. The assassin is kneeling
over you, a slender blade in his hand. You’ve lost hold of your bolt pistol,
but a psyker like you is never unarmed: Again you will a change in reality.
Before he can drive his dagger into your heart, the weapon becomes
unbearably hot. He screams, more in surprise than pain – his armoured
gloves must have protected him from serious burn injuries – and lets go of
the blade.
While he’s wrong-footed you take the opportunity to kick him expertly in
the balls from prone position. If there is a lesson here, it is: If you’re
wearing an open armoured coat, don’t kneel or squat over your opponent.
Especially not if you’ve got balls.
The gold-cloaked assassin reels backward, giving you enough breathing
space to kip up and regain your composure. You spot your bolt pistol not
two paces away from your position – right next to your assailant. Figures.
You can see the words There Will be Death engraved on it, letter Thorn and
everything. You almost laugh then. Laugh at the marvellous complexity and
insidious nature of the human mind. You’ve not conjured forth just any bolt
pistol, but an exact copy of Haxtes’ own gun, the one he uses to kill.
You make no move for the pistol. The assassin has already recovered.
There is no way you can reach the weapon before he does. Instead you
stand tall and throw your would-be killer your best Rogue Trader grin.
481
Death is in his hand now, rising to aim at you. You can see that the
weapons physical structure has begun to unravel. Out of your hands your
creations have a very limited half-life. When the pistol is level with your
navel he pulls the trigger. Nothing happens; the bolt pistol is no longer a
functioning weapon.
You’ve used the time well, fanning your inner flame into a blazing
inferno. Now you reach out with your arms and let the fires out. To his
credit your target tries to get out of harm’s way, but he cannot dodge a
flame that has come to sear his soul. He burns quickly and without making
a sound; inside your mind his screams are loud and harrowing. They
always scream thus when you consign them to fiery oblivion. Unlike Haxtes
you take no pleasure in their agony.
Next thing you know your body is grabbed by an unseen force and
slammed hard into the corridor wall. You manage to twist around to
prevent injuring your head, but it still hurts like hell. You see two people, a
male librarian with extremely poor teeth, and a slight female wearing a
librarium servant’s livery. You picked up neither of them before now. Not
even a slight hint. Meaning it’s the fucking psyker from yesterday, with his
fucking psychic screen playing havoc with your psychic sight. Damnation!
He maintains the telekinetic pressure, keeping you pinned against the
wall. Like you showed Haxtes you can fight force with fire. But right now
you’ve more immediate concerns. You hold back, waiting for what you
know will happen next.
“Kill him, quickly,” the psyker shouts to his female companion. She
responds by pulling out a compact zip gun. The twenty-shot clip is emptied
in a heartbeat. You counter it with a heat-shield that vaporizes her bullets
before they can touch you. To react before the act – that’s a very useful trick
for a man in your line of work.
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DARK OMEGA
That takes them down a notch. Neither is as fast or well trained as the
two late assassins. You use their hesitation to establish a kinesthetic link
with the enemy psyker. Same trick you used on Haxtes, only this time you
won’t simply counter, but counterattack.
You reach deep inside, letting the power of the other side feed your fire,
before releasing it upon your enemy. He doesn’t know what hit him. One
moment he has the upper hand, and then next it feels like every neuron
inside his body is on fire. Which they are.
His hold on you is broken and you drop to the floor. You land on your
feet, testament to your many years of martial arts training. You rise tall
with deliberate slowness. The girl has crossed half the distance between
the two of you in the meantime. You give her your coldest smile. She
realizes that she’s badly outmatched in a bout of unarmed combat – even
should you refrain from using your powers. Which you won’t.
She hesitates, searching for options, but finding none. You try to get into
her mind, but she must have activated her psi-warding device as soon as
her companion dropped his screen. You move forward to disable her and
remove the device. She backs away, and then bites down hard on
something. She’s dead before you can reach her. The smell of a familiar
hydrogen-cyanide derivate is heavy upon her breath.
You peer into the immediate future again, searching for additional
danger, but finding none. Your reverie is interrupted by the drip, drip
sound of droplets hitting the stone floor. Droplets of blood. Your blood. You
do not recall being injured, but closer inspection reveals a long gash on
your lower right arm. The second gold-cloak must have nicked you when he
bowled you over.
The wound is superficial, but blood is welling up and seeping down to
drip from your fingers, marking your movements with a string of crimson
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droplets. You’re reminded of that tale when Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the
White Scars, leaves a trail of blood for his men to follow.
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CHAPTER 50
TAKING STOCK
You stand in the corridor, silent and unassuming. You’ve dressed your
wound and covered up the injury. The bolt pistol There Will be Death has
dissipated back into the empyrean realms of the Warp; perhaps you shall
be forced to call upon it later. The only signs of struggle are the dead, laying
heaped around your feet.
The real gold-cloaks arrive two and a half minutes after the last assailant
fell. There are six of them in total, moving as one, weapons aggressively
raised, their wielders ready to eliminate you should you prove a threat.
Under present circumstances a squad of the Librarium’s Cerberi would
overwhelm your defences. It will not come to that.
Instead you slowly raise your left hand, letting the nondescript gold ring
on your index finger project a hologram of the stylized ‘I’ that is the symbol
of the Holy Orders of His Divine Majesty’s Inquisition into the air before the
six gold-cloaks. The guards turn from hostile to subservient in the blink of
an eye.
“Take me to the senior librarian in attendance,” you say in a soft, yet
menacing voice. “I would have words with him. The security here is a joke;
these four heretics just attacked a member of the Inquisition.”
You let the last word hang in the air, letting them savour its threatening
undertones. If you must make it openly known who and what you are, you
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had best do it right: Let them fear you, as they fear the idea that is the Holy
Orders of the God-Emperor’s Inquisition.
--The office of Epistolary Calpurnia Pisonis, the librarian with the
wonderful hair, is quite spacious, finely decorated, and exquisitely
furnished. The view of the Plaza of Loremasters is also quite spectacular,
only outdone they say, by the view from the Chief Librarian’s own study.
Speaking of Calpurnia: She had been the senior librarian in attendance,
so that made this mess her mess. You don’t like coincidences much, and this
was the third time in one day you bumped into the annoyingly helpful
woman. Your sense of paranoia lit up like fireworks on Ascension Day, but
try as you might you’ve found nothing to indicate it was anything but
coincidence. That first time was just a chance encounter, two souls passing
each other by. The second time came as a result of your own machine
queries, and a certain overeagerness on her part. And finally: The Chief
Librarian, and the four Deep Epistolaries that outrank Calpurnia, are all
engaged elsewhere; elsewhere in this hive, elsewhere on Hive Alpha,
elsewhere in the Finial sector.
Epistolary Calpurnia – she still insists you call her by her first name – has
proven to be nothing but professional, apologetic, and efficient. You’ve been
well treated, expertly tended to, and the recipient of an endless stream of
apologies. Her professionalism is unquestionable. The only thing you don’t
like about her is the psychic void she projects; it makes it impossible to
read her mind or emotions, and therefore you cannot be certain of her
motives. She also completely upsets your precognitive abilities whenever
she draws near. She’s effectively annulled two of your key investigative
abilities. Quite frankly you find being close to her more than a little
unsettling, despite her rather nice curves and undeniable feminine allure.
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DARK OMEGA
Thankfully Calpurnia is out attending to her duties at the moment. In
their own way the librarium’s leaders are even more concerned with the
security breach than you are. They do not wish to been seen as lax in their
duties when the Inquisition is around. You are sure they will do their best
to find out what slipped up, and see to it that something like that won’t
happen again.
The question is: Will their best be good enough? The four attackers
weren’t just ordinary rabble. They were highly skilled and supremely
motivated. Motivated enough to kill themselves rather than face capture
and interrogation. For the most part only hardened heretics and Inquisition
agents have that sort of dedication.
According to the Tarot there should have been nine. You’ve only
accounted for four. Where are the other five? You’ve ordered Calpurnia to
conduct a full security lockdown of the facility, but your hopes of finding
any more intruders are low. The operatives you killed were as skilled as
they were motivated; the survivors will have pulled back and regrouped.
The Tarot indicated the action would take place outside. The Emperor’s
Tarot is very rarely wrong as such. It is, however, not a high definition
pictcorder peering into the future; the burden of a good reading lies
squarely on the reader. You’re not a Tarot grand-master, but todays
reading was clearer than usual.
You review the attack one more time. The conclusion is the same: The
other team did something to radically upset the balance of the future,
creating a situation that you had no way of anticipating. Only your brief
encounter with Calpurnia saved your life. Had she not appeared to upset
fate in your favour, the mystery team would no doubt have managed a
coordinated strike on you.
487
As much as you’d like to burst out of the library, guns blazing, to bring
down the rest of them, it’s not a viable option. There are too many future
uncertainties, too many things that can go wrong and leave you dead. You
cannot afford to die now, before your duty is done. For now you must
remain within the relative protection offered by the thick walls of the
Second Librarium of Knowing.
The library doesn’t have many facilities for staying guests, nor do they
encourage visitors to stay over. They have an arrangement with a number
of hostels and boarding houses, located just off the Plaza for that sort of
thing. But the senior staff – Calpurnia included – has sufficient space to stay
over if they have to. A sleeping alcove, a hygiene booth, and a collapsible
kitchenette. More than good enough to meet your needs.
The epistolary’s office also has a full query suite. No more needing to
descend to the 9th Tier to access the librarium’s data-stacks. The security
aspects of such an arrangement are dubious in your opinion. What use is
the physical tiering of secrets, when there are multiple bypasses available?
Well, since it works to your advantage, you’re not about to start
complaining.
You also ordered Calpurnia to have the Ascension tome brought to the
office tomorrow. She didn’t like that one, tried to quote security regulations
at you. You gave her one of Haxtes’ grins in return, and pointedly noted that
the librarium’s security was already so dubious that one more security
breach wouldn’t really matter. In the end she had relented – without even
requiring the use of your Rosette.
You will have to move the tome. That much is clear to you now. The
thought had crossed your mind before, but prior to the attack it never
seemed a reasonable alternative. Having the tome brought to Calpurnia’s
office is an important first step. It will make the actual theft and getaway all
488
DARK OMEGA
the much easier. Beyond that you don’t know yet; you need to plan and
prepare before making your move.
You hope to be able to have at least one session, preferably two, with
Haxtes here in the Librarium, regardless of what challenges tomorrow
might bring. When last you spoke he seemed to claim that he was the great
Melbinious, or at least intimately connected in some fashion. It is unlikely
to be true, but still something you need to investigate more closely. Vern
refused to illuminate you, directing you back to Haxtes, so that’s what you
will do, first thing in the morning.
Before calling it a night you set up some background queries using
Calpurnia’s office equipment. Some of the queries are of real, if peripheral,
interest to you, searches that you hope will give you something against
which to measure Haxtes tale. But the majority of the queries are there
merely to confuse and confound those who would monitor you – if
Calpurnia did, others could try the same – and learn your intentions. In
your line of work it pays to be extra careful. Now that the plot has begun to
thicken that truism is even more relevant.
You leave the query station and move over to the case of books
Calpurnia's lectern-servitor has left for you to peruse. Since you’ll be
staying it seems a waste not to have a peek.
--The Rimward Dialects of Gothic proves a huge disappointment. You had
through there was a reason Calpurnia waved it in front of you, but no. It
contains altogether too many detailed comparisons of the Low Gothic
dialects of many a Calixian world, first and foremost the major planets of
the Malfian sub and the Drusus Marches. Too many details and nothing
useful, except that you – at last – find the name ‘Akakios’ applied to Protasia
489
of old. You already knew that, but it’s still nice to see it confirmed, even if it
doesn’t help poke holes in Haxtes’ story.
‘The Protasian Campaign’, in flawless High Gothic, penned by one Veteran
Sergeant Eos of the Tigers Argent, is much more satisfying. It would appear
that this Eos is the same man you liaised with, centuries later. Composed as
part of his officer candidate training, the book details the Protasian
campaign in general, and the Tigers’ involvement in quite some detail. It
confirms, in no uncertain terms, the sordid tale of the Protasian
reclamation campaign, from the opening shots, until final compliances. If
anything the judgment of the Astartes is even harsher than Haxtes’ tale.
‘Unsung Heroes, the Regiments of the Spinward Front, vol. 1: The Early
Years’, is also an interesting study. Written by Master Logister Tyco Xavier
Gobert of the Departmento Munitorum, it details every major Imperial
Guard formation, and many minors units and auxiliaries, to be deployed to
the Spinward Front. It’s not a campaign history per se, more like a list of
units, replete with details like deployment listings and battle honours. The
collective information contained within the thirteen hundred pages could
provide you with a detailed image of the situation from 799.M41 to
816.M41, but you settle for finding one regiment – the 57th Lo Mechanized
Infantry Regiment.
You find it readily enough: Ordered created by Tithe Order 809.M41.
Mustered on Lo 811.M41. Deployed first to Kulth, then to a string of
outlying worlds, then back to Kulth again, just in time for the treachery of
Duke Severus. Ordered disbanded by Spinward Front command and
rotated out. Retasked to Protasia by Special Executive Order. Finally
disbanded and given settlement rights 817.M41. Unusually quick
paperwork for the Administratum, but every detail revealed supports
Haxtes tale.
490
DARK OMEGA
You leaf through a few other volumes. Some are planetary ledgers,
written by Vern, covering some very strange and exotic locations. Other
volumes have different authors and cover subjects of a wide variety, but
always connected to your machine queries. The Calpurnia woman is both
nosy and very thorough. Some of what your read is mildly interesting, most
of it is not. However you look at it the evidence points in one direction:
Haxtes tale is true, as far as the historic details are concerned. If there really
was a boy like Haxtes, living in Thira at that time of the war, you will likely
never know for sure.
--It is getting late; despite your phenomenal reading speed hours have
passed since last you looked at the desktop chrono. By your aestimate
you’ve leafed through between a third and a half of the material. If you have
time to waste you might have a second look, but you doubt you’ll have the
opportunity. Greater things demand your attention. You close the opened
volumes and return them to the case. No need for anyone to know what
you’re reading.
You do your limbering exercises, your katas, and your mental relaxation
drills. Then you clean yourself up and don a soft robe provided for your
benefit. After experimenting a bit with various dynamic mental layouts, you
realize you’re close to exhaustion. Tomorrow will no doubt bring new
challenges, so you decide to hit the bed to get some quality sleep while you
still can.
The office is furnished with a wide sofa that transforms into a
surprisingly comfortable double bed upon your spoken command. You lay
there for a while, just breathing and emptying your mind. Images of Amaya
keep popping up. You consider calling upon her, but decide against it. Her
services will be required later, and the less of a connection there is between
491
you the more valuable she will be. Too bad, you could have used some
female company right now. You sigh and initiate sleep-mode.
Before the cycle can complete the door opens. You’re not particularly
alarmed. Only Epistolary Calpurnia has the necessary clearance to enter
her own office space. But to be on the safe side you cancel sleep-mode and
fill your mind with familiar fire.
You watch her through half-closed eyes as she glides across the darkened
room. Somewhere along the way she loses her robes; you can see the
whiteness of her curves in the pale light that filters in from the flying hivecity outside. She pulls your blanket away and wordlessly finds her place on
top of you.
There is pleasure and pain both as her body moves against yours and her
void tries to smother your flames. You open your mind and rise to the
occasion, pitting your red power against her cold whiteness.
--Your companion lies exhausted at your side, already deep in the realm of
sleep. You have filled the void in her soul and sated her cravings. Gone is
her alien emptiness that put you off earlier. You reach out to touch her
sleeping mind – but there is nothing to connect with. Her mind is still
beyond your reach.
The lengthy tryst has left you breathless and empty, but oddly calm and
content. You slide down next to your lover and close your eyes. You fall
asleep in moments, without the need for any mental tricks to put you
under.
492
EPILOGUE
THE MAN NEXT TO
YOU
Alfonzo Barca sniffed the air. His superhuman olfactory abilities told him
that Mother Abigail’s fabulous stew wasn’t quite done yet. It needed
another good hour for the meat to reach that ultimate texture; just on the
edge of breaking apart, yet still managing to hang together as you spooned
it in. He could easily pick out the ingredient in the stew. Many of the usual
suspects, including some of his favourites: ubiquitous rush unions, the local
shadow-weed, and the strange mushrooms that grew on the underside
surfaces of the flying hives. Abigail has added some of the flesh from the
bulbous Akimban banana to the mix. Alfonzo wasn’t sure he approved; the
banana was too sweet, its texture too cloying, for his tastes. Why the
Imperials bothered to transport it between the stars baffled him.
On the other hand Mother Abigail usually knew best when it came to
cooking. Her ability to combine the most unlikely of ingredients in new and
exciting ways was nothing short of impressive. Akimban banana or not, he
would eat his fill tonight, no question about that. Especially when tonight’s
meat was what Mother jokingly referred to as long pork – flesh of human.
Alfonzo Barca sniffed the air again, more intently this time. He was almost
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EPILOGUE THE MAN NEXT TO YOU
certain that the man in the pot was the greasy scum they’d caught in the
Librarium’s hopper pool. It had to be him – the other captives hadn’t nearly
enough fat on them for it to be them bubbling in the stew.
His appetite so piqued, and with nothing better to do while he waited,
Alfonzo Barca of the Word Bearers Legion of Adeptus Astartes rose to his
full height of two hundred and seventeen centimetres and heaved his three
hundred and twenty kilos – Alfonzo was rather short and wiry for a Space
Marine – over the edge and into the gaping pit that led down into the sublevels. He’d go make sure this new Deacon of theirs wasn’t up to no good.
Samus willing he’d be back well before supper. Maybe there would be some
good marrow bones left to chew on after the stew.
--The man wearing Deacon Evans’ flesh waited impatiently at the base of
the fallen statue. He thought it resembled a seraph, an Imperial battle angel,
ironically reminiscent of the true, empyrean form of certain of the daemons
of Chaos. He couldn’t be entirely sure, for this part of the flying hive city –
the statues included – was in a horrible state of repair. If the people
crowding across the surface of this particular flying city, known as Gamma
Rho, had known how rotted and decrepit the bowels of their hive were,
they wouldn’t have slept well anymore. Instead they droned on, trusting in
the mindless priests of the Machine God, blissfully ignorant of the doom
that must inevitably come.
As far as Evans could tell there had once been one hundred and thirteen
– or maybe fourteen, the sources were vague – such cities constructed in
the skies over Bokiba-Bapas in the aftermath of the Radiant War. Now
there were eighty-four remaining. The rest had plunged, a few of them
quite suddenly, into the irradiated wastelands far below, often with little
loss of life, but sometimes with catastrophic results. Twenty-nine – or
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DARK OMEGA
thirty – flying cities lost since the 34th Millennium. One city lost every three
centuries, give or take. You didn’t need to be deep into the secrets of
numerology to understand the implications.
Of the remaining eighty-four cities, only seventy-nine remained
habitable. The last five were so structurally unsound they might crash at
any time, or they had strayed too low, down into the radiation layers, and
become uninhabitable. That was the official version anyway. Evans had just
come by way of one of the low-flying cities and could testify to the fact that
there were quite a few people still living there. Many of them terribly
afflicted with radiation-induced illnesses – or horribly mutated to
compensate.
Conditions on the surface were even more hellish of course. Unprotected
humans couldn’t live down there at all; they would need to be encased in
the equivalent of tactical dreadnought armour to have any hope of survival.
Only the hardiest of mutants stood a chance of withstanding the radiation
belts and the toxic atmosphere left behind by the war. And then there were
monsters; hideous things, the degenerate descends of living bio-weapons,
hateful of all life. The surface of Bokiba-Bapas was a place best avoided.
--The man inside Deacon Evans had erred, erred repeatedly, he knew that
now. No, it was worse: He hadn’t just erred; he had wilfully ignored the Will
of the Prophet. He had read the Word, but twisted it to suit his own designs,
rather than heed the pure Will contained within the holy texts.
It was no valid excuse, but it had begun long ere he was born, long before
his soul was inured to the mysteries of the Warp. It had begun on Cyprian’s
Gate: The voidship captain who would go on to become the first Protasian
Deacon should never have been exposed to the Word in the first place. It
was forbidden; in no uncertain terms the Will forbade the Brethren to
495
spread to other worlds, to do anything that might expose the Word. Only
the Prophet, or one of his Apostles, had the authority to spread the Word to
new places, to start new congregations.
The unholy practice of spreading the word had flourished on openminded Protasia. One congregation became many, and then new Deacons
had taken to the stars aboard Protasian ships, wilfully ignorant of the ban
on missionary work. One congregation became many, each of which
remained in contact with the mother temple, creating a unified church of
the Word. There were few sins greater; the Word expressly and intently
stated that congregations must never interact.
For a time he had deluded himself, reading only those part of the Word
that supported his sinful ways. Eventually he had left Malfi behind and gone
on a lengthy pilgrimage throughout the Calixis sector and beyond. Slowly
he had pieced together the pure, unaltered version of the Word of Light. He
had, ironically, found the last piece on Cyprian’s Gate, where it had all
begun. To be honest he had long suspected: In the dark watches of the
night, with only the whispers of daemons for company, he had
contemplated many things. But he had always been reluctant to accept the
obvious; that his entire multi-centennial existence had been an affront to
the Will. The Word changes with ever Reader and every Reading. Now that
he had its full, unaltered measure, as penned by the Prophet’s hand, he
knew that according to the Will there was no greater sin that that of
unsanctioned missionizing.
The Prophet had wandered the stars along the rimward edge of
Segmentum Tempestus some three millennia ago – give or take a few
centuries – and sown the seeds of the congregations, the true
Congregations: Entirely separate, forbidden from spreading beyond a
defined area, and absolutely forbidden from making contact with other
496
DARK OMEGA
groups of the faithful. It was only at the beginning of the End Times,
heralded by the second coming of the Prophet of Light and his Apostles,
that this ban would be lifted. How could they have been so blind? How
could he have been so blind? Because they had not heeded the Will: Blinded
by their own ambitions, they had cared not for the true message. Blinded
by hubris, they had thought to make the Word their own.
Enough of the past. He had known then that he must seek to make
penance. So he had crafted his great Aethyric mirror, using techniques
wrangled from the sorcerer-priests of the Screaming Vortex, and gazed into
the abyss. And the Envoys of the Gods had shown him what he must do: Go
to Bokiba-Bapas, kill this man Evans, assume his identity, and become the
late Deacon. The old Evans had been a very weak man. With him to guide
them, the congregation would have failed in their appointed task. With the
new Evans they would succeed. It was the first step. Afterward the Prophet
would reveal what other plans he had for Evans.
There was a fringe benefit as well; the great Library of Knowing was
located on Bokiba-Bapas. It was here, on this very platform. Evans knew it
held the final clues to the true name the horned darkness had bid him
uncover all those years ago. The daemon had grown displeased of late,
demanding progress and threatening reprisal. Evans didn’t particularly
care to have his soul consumed, so he looked forward to finally getting the
noisome daemon off his back.
--Cold steel suddenly graced his neck, bringing him out of his reverie.
“Your mind is wandering, Deacon,” a voice whispered from the darkness at
the base of the seraph statue, “that can be very dangerous around these
parts. You never know who might be lurking.”
497
Such a soft voice; masking the fact that the speaker was very large and
hugely powerful. The voice modulation wasn’t quite like anything he had
heard before. Evans couldn’t place his Low Gothic either; it was a soft
mishmash of a thousand dialects. Born on a voidship then, or perhaps
merely raised aboard one.
The knife disappeared. “Fortunately you have friends watching out for
you, Deacon.” The man next to him stepped out of the shadows.
He was among the tallest men Evans had encountered, and nearly as
heavy-set as an ogryn. He was not abhuman, however, he was Astartes, a
space marine. It took a moment for Evan’s mind to accept the fact, for the
marine went without his suit of power armour, a sight rarely seen outside
the halls of their fortress-monasteries.
When realization finally dawned, Evans found it most intriguing. He had
never heard of a congregation with Adeptus Astartes connections. Perhaps
this was a sign of the End Times and the coming of the Prophet?
“The girls will be along to pick you up shortly,” the man said, “I just
wanted to have a look at you first. You just keep your hands to yourself and
your tongue in check, and there will be no trouble between us. Try to
outgrow your position as a religious advisor and I’ll send you straight to the
stew pot. You read me, human?”
“Yes, I read you. Sir.” Deacon Evans pretended to be properly
intimidated, even as he started to weave sorcerous tendrils into the
marine’s mind. Not even Astartes talked to a Deacon of the Faith like that;
he’d adjust the marine’s psyche to produce a more malleable servant.
--Alfonzo Barca wasn’t too fond of sorcery, probably because he had no
affinity for it. To him it was a powerful and unpredictable force he had little
protection against. His time with Mother Abigail had, however, taught him
498
DARK OMEGA
to recognize the foul stench of magic. It had also taught him that the only
way to deal with a sorcerer was through immediate, unrelenting violence.
Brother Evans lay prone, face smashed into the broken masonry before
he knew what had happened. The pain was considerable; the left side of his
face was a complete ruin of mangled flesh, broken bones, and shattered
teeth. There might be a skull fracture involved.
“I told you,” the space marine hissed into his ear, “that you shouldn’t try
to rise above your station.”
Evans tried to answer, but the big man brutally dislocated his right
shoulder, producing a fresh wave of agony.
“I’m not stupid. I know sorcery when I smell it. You ever try to do
something like that again; I’ll rip you to pieces. You’ll take a long time dying,
human. And when I’m done with you I’m gonna gnaw on your bones and
shit you out.”
Evans tried to protest, but the point of a knife was pressed into his right
eyeball, effectively silencing him.
“Normally I’d just kill you right here and now, but the Apostle says the
Word requires us to have a Deacon. And you’re him. So you get this one
extra chance,” his assailant told him, “against my better judgment.” The
knife disappeared, to be replaced by the searing pain of his right pinky
finger being cut from his hand.
After he stopped screaming, the marine whispered his final warning. “I
took this finger to remind you of me – and me of you.”
When finally he managed to look up there was no one there, just a soft
whisper upon the wind: "Samus. That's the only name you'll hear. Samus. It
means the end and the death. Samus. I am Samus. Samus is all around you.
Samus is the man beside you. Samus will gnaw on your bones. Look out!
Samus is here."
499
--He was forced relocate his own shoulder, and to make a makeshift
bandage to cover his lost finger. His entire arm throbbed like hell, the
missing finger even more so. He was able to supress the worst of it, but a
shot of stimms would have been nice right now. He would have to have the
hand looked after; the bowels of the city was a filthy place, and he didn’t
want to risk an infection. Too bad his sorcerous talents didn’t including the
healing arts. By and large the forces of Chaos were difficult to use to mend
and cure; destruction and decay came so much easier.
Deacon Evans heard them before he saw them, two women, chatting
softly between them. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but whatever it
was, it was funny; the girls would giggle and laugh after every few words.
It didn’t take long before he could make out two female shapes, walking
out of a sub-hive thoroughfare and into the buried angel-framed space.
Both women wore the same kind of tight-fitting bodysuit that left little to a
man’s imagination. The taller of the two, the one with the long dark braid
hanging down her back, wore a suit of midnight, highlighted with crimson.
Her companion, shorter and somewhat more muscular, was all crimson
with black tracings below her shoulder-length hair.
Protective suits were essential for those who lived and worked down
below. The hive cities of Bokiba-Bapas were safe from the horrors on the
planet’s surface, but the age-old technology that kept them flying presented
a different set of potentially fatal environmental hazards. Those that could
afford to, used rad-suits, breath-masks, and the occasional anti-toxin pill to
keep healthy. Evans had procured a suit for himself – complete with hood,
breath mask, rad counter, toxin indicator, and all the other paraphernalia –
during his visit to the low-flying Upsilon Delta hive. Down there a rad-suit
wasn’t optional, it was an absolute requirement.
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DARK OMEGA
Upon closer inspection he realized that the girls’ suits were quite
different from his own, beyond mere visual differences. They were wearing
bodysuits specifically engineered to provide a base layer for power armour.
You didn’t wear something like that unless you had access to a real suit and
the skills required to use it. First an Astartes and now two Daughters of the
Word? Truly the Apostle was watching; he had better get this right, or there
would be no redemption!
Both girls were armed. The taller one with twin pistols, the shorter one
with pistol and blade. The girls were not alone. Three men accompanied
them. One of the companions was a huge brute, taller even that the space
marine that had taken his finger. For a moment he’d believed it was
another Astartes, but it wasn’t. The hulking figure was a twist, a mutant.
The other two men were more normal looking. One had three crude
cybernetic fingers on the left hand that cradled the shotgun he carried. The
second had hideous facial scarring, of the kind you got if burned by
promethium. The hands holding his lasgun were steady, his eyes cold and
very alert.
“Poor Deacon,” the taller of the two girls said in an innocent tone. “What
happened to your hand?” she said, walking over to stand at his injured side,
making the secret signs of the Word as she walked.
“This?” he said, trying not to fidget as he gestured the return signs. “It is
nothing. I was careless and injured myself,” he lied.
The shorter girl – she was not short in a literal sense, only shorter than
her sister and more muscular – followed suit, taking up a position next to
him. Between them they effectively flanked him – and gave the man with
the lasgun a clear shot at Evans.
Up close the two girls looked very much alike, as if they were siblings.
They were definitely sisters, possibly twins – but not identical twins.
501
“I am Kara,” the girl in the red suit said, forcing him to turn towards her
to follow her words.
“And I am Evans,” he replied. “Deacon Evans.”
“I know,” she replied. “And the girl next to you is Willa, my darling
sister.”
Willa had stepped in close. Now she softly wrapped her arms around
him. “Look what cruel Alfie has done to you,” she said, caressing his injured
hand, creating fresh waves of agony. “Come with us Deacon,” she said in a
husky voice full of alluring promises, her breath warm against his ear,
“we’ll make you feel whole again.”
--“Why is that we need him?” Alfonzo Barca asked the woman tinkering
with the shoulder section of her power armour.
“We don’t,” Cassandra replied smoothly, managing to look as regal as
ever, even with zipped-down bodysuit hanging loosely from her hips, “but
the Word demands we keep a Deacon – and the Will, in the guise of the
Apostle, was very specific that we obey the Word. To do otherwise is to
invite ruin, to risk the displeasure of the True Gods. And we cannot afford
to fail this mission. The book: The accursed Ordos are not to have it.”
“Still don’t see why I shouldn’t pummel his head with this,” Alfonzo
objected, casually waving his power maul, “every instinct I’ve got tells me I
should. Kill him and get a new one I say. One who is not a sorcerer. No one
mentioned anything about a sorcerer.”
“Don’t sulk Alfonzo. It doesn’t become you. You won’t kill him, Alfonzo,
because the Apostle demands he live,” Cassandra said with great finality
and slapped the offending pauldron, hard. It seemed to do the trick. A
white-teethed smile lit up her stern features.
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DARK OMEGA
“He demands a lot, the Apostle does,” Alfonzo said gravely, “but gladly
would I give him anything. My life and soul included. If that is what it takes,
I’ll let the sorcerer live a little longer. But the moment he does anything
funny…or we no longer need him…it’s the stew pot for him.”
Cassandra shrugged. “Whatever you desire my Lord Barca. Personally I’ll
pass. Sorcerous flesh does not appeal to me.”
Alfonzo shrugged, “We’re all free men – and women. Besides, all the
more for me,” he said cheerfully.
The tall woman with the austere face looked disapprovingly at Alfonzo,
but there was a hint of something else in her eyes. A certain fondness
perhaps? Of the kind you might feel towards a wild lion you’ve reared since
childhood.
“Go see Abigail instead,” Cassandra said. Take that finger bone to her.
Tell her to make you a charm out of it. She’ll know what to do.”
“I will,” Alfonzo replied, jiggling the many other bone charms already
hanging around his neck. “Soon as I see you go, I’ll go help her clean the pot
– and ask her to make the charm.”
“I wish you would control your lecherous ways around me, Alfonzo. I find
it…irreverent. I belong, soul, mind – and body – to the Word, so save it for
Willa and Kara,” Cassandra told him, “you know how they crave attention.”
“Which is why they can’t have it. Not all the time anyway. Besides,” he
put on his most wolfish grin, “you’re much nicer to look at than they are.”
“Nonsense,” she replied, a bit too heatedly. They’d had this conversation
many times, and she really should know better than to rise to the bait.
“Oh, but you are,” Alfonzo countered. “The superhuman senses and cold
Astartes logic tells me it is so. My heart and my faith also.”
Few Word Bearers would jest so with matters of faith; Cassandra found
his irreverence, to her great chagrin, mildly arousing.
503
“The girls make the best out of what they’ve got, which is admirable,” the
marine continued, “but you; you try so hard not to make anything out of
what you’ve got. And still you beat them.”
“You’re a vile flatterer, Alfonzo Barca,” Cassandra said and rose to stand.
“That I am,” the space marine agreed, grinning broadly, “That I am.”
Cassandra sighed, pulled up her suit and zipped it, making the selfcontracting fabric tighten around her athletic body.
He watched her go.
“And there’s two of them, and only one of you, and still you beat them” he
shouted after her.
Cassandra shook her head and picked her way to where the Deacon lay
resting. She had better explain a few things to him, or his stay with the get
of Samus’ would be short indeed.
504
APPENDIXES
505
506
APPENDIX 1
DRAMATIS
PERSONAE
The list is not exhaustive; it includes only important/recurring
characters.
Main POV cast
Haxtes Guilliman: The ‘I’ character. The gatekeeper of the tome. Formerly an Interrogator of
the Calixian Inquisition. Served under Inquisitor Melbinious. Homeworld Protasia. Trained as an
assassin. Fairly accomplished psyker.
Marcus Aurelian: The ‘you’ character. The prodigal Interrogator. Homeworld Metrodora
(Segmentum Solar). A very powerful and skilled psyker. Serves an unnamed (radical?) Inquisitor
(from the Mandragora sector).
Other (3rd person) POV cast
Alfonzo Barca: Word Bearer. Disciple of Samus.
Balphomael: Powerful daemon prince. Active in the Calixis sector.
(Captain) Corben: Rogue Trader. Master and Commander of the Maiden of Golgenna.
Kaminsky: The blind Librarian of the Green Knights’ Deathwatch Company.
(the) Preacher (aka. Molevoch, aka. Maxentius, aka. Obiscor, aka. Deacon Evans): A
Protasian Deacon of the Word. A heretic and a Chaos sorcerer.
(Sister) Salt/Salinaria: Adeptus Sororitas commander. Born on the shrine world of Zephyr.
Supporting cast
Abigal: Ratling female. Witch (rogue psyker). Her long pork stew is rightly famous, as are her
bone charms.
Abranovich: Green Knights Veteran. MIA in the Acheros salient (presumed absorbed by Hive
Fleet Dagon).
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APPENDIX 1 DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Aleksandar: Green Knights Sergeant (Brevet). Field (rank cannot be affirmed due to a lack
ranking officers).
Anatoliy: Green Knights Colour Sergeant (Chapter’s standard bearer). Served as a scout with
Chapter Master Belkovets. Executed by the Inquisition for heresy by negligence.
Amaya: A female librarian. Physically and (especially) mentally attractive. Has an affair with
Makal.
Ashul: Assassin of the Veiled Hand. Worked with Murash during the scourging of Thira.
Belkovets: Chapter Master of the Green Knights. Went insane and ordered the Release; the
mutagenic virus that eventually destroyed the planet Phagir and the chapter’s future. Executed
by his own officers.
Boudan MazLanlan: Second Officer aboard the Veiled Hand’s voidship, the Red Right Hand of
God.
Bracchus Eiden: Ambassador-General. Diplomatic envoy to Protasia. Killed by Protasian
senators.
Burness: Major of the 57th Lo. Originally a Scintillan IG officer. Noble birth.
Calpurnia Pisonis: One of the leaders of the Second Library of Knowing. Very nice hair and
curves. Helpful.
Cassandra: Daughter of the Word. The only woman in the galaxy that can ‘control’ (more like
guide) Alfonzo Barca.
Cassilus: Thiran survivor. Recruited by the Hand. Technical aptitude. Reassigned to shipboard
duty after an accident.
Charon: Chapter Master of the Tigers Argent. Rightly famous for his many victories.
Cresside: Female Guardsman. Chimera gunner. Killed by Protasian insurgents.
de Carvour: Colonel of the 57th Lo. Great leader, mediocre tactician. Fond of strong drink.
Diana: Veiled hand recruit (not Protasian). Slashed by Haxtes; Bled out on the deck of the Red
Right Hand.
Dive Boy: Veiled hand recruit. Likes to jump off high places. Made a mess his mates had to clean.
Evgeny: Green Knights Chief Librarian. Executed by the Inquisition for heresy by negligence.
Eli (Eleena): Haxtes elder sister. A whore and a mind-witch. Married to Jons.
Eos: A sergeant (later captain) of the Tigers Argent (7th Company).
Father: Haxtes’ father. Manufactorum management. Militiaman.
Ghaela: Archon (one of the top leaders) of the Veiled Hand.
Globus Vaarak: Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor. In charge of the Thiran field office.
Grimes: Imperial (Arbites) Marshal. Named Lord Militant and put in charge of the Protasian
Affair. Appointed as Governor of Protasia post-reclamation.
Hash: Loian scout-sniper of the disbanded 627th Mechanized.
Helian: Protasian Veiled hand recruit. Leadership material. Mated with Diana.
Himilco: Protasian survivor-slave. Apothecary in the Cold Market. Haxtes frequented the old
man.
Ivanov: Green Knights Sergeant (later a Captain of the Green Knights’ Deathwatch Company).
Ivo: PDF trooper from Hervara. Ad-hoc medic.
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DARK OMEGA
Jarra: Female ogryn. Surprisingly blond, pretty, and clever. Part of the tome’s security.
Jax (Jaxel): Haxtes’ elder brother. A rebel and a traitor.
Joaquin: Commissar serving with the 57th Lo. Can be both flexible and harsh, depending on the
situation. Likes to flay heretics alive. Very fond of Haxtes’ mother.
Jons: Guardsman of the 57th Lo. Corporal. Sniper. Formerly a rat-catcher. Master of dawgs.
Fond of Haxtes (father figure). Haxtes’ mother (fucked), and Haxtes’ sister (married).
Kara: Daughter of the Word and disciple of Samus. Twin sister to Willa.
Larissa: Veiled Hand recruit. Reassigned as a companion to the officers of the Red Right Hand.
Leontiy: Green Knights First Chaplain. Executed by the Inquisition for heresy by negligence.
Makal: Cerberus (guard) at the Library of Knowing. Has an affair with Amaya.
Malachite: Veiled Hand training master. Very dangerous, very perceptive, very scary.
Marcus’ master: Unnamed Inquisitor, possibly a Radical.
Maxim Maximus: Imperial general responsible for the Protasian reclamation. Got sacked and
forced into retirement on Quaddis.
Mazzo: Guardsman of the 57th Lo. Lance Corporal. Rifleman; very dangerous with the grenade
launcher. One of Jons’ buddies. Formerly a career criminal.
Melbinious: Long-dead Inquisitor, definitely a Radical. Haxtes’ master.
Micor: Protasian Veiled Hand recruit. Tried to stab Ashul with a shiv. Got stabbed in return.
Took a while to die.
Mother: Haxtes’ mother. God looking. Latent psyker. Whore. Tortured and killed by insurgents.
Murash: Veiled Hand assassin. Lithe and quick. Assigned to Archon Ghaela. Not a good man to
provoke.
Nix (the canine): Haxtes’ dawg. Killed by Haxtes.
Owan: Navy armsman turned Guardsman after his battlecruiser was shot to shit over Protasia.
Olegov: Green Knights Battle-Brother. KIA in the Acheros Salient.
Rat: Guardsman from Luggnum. Paranoid and jaded motherfucker.
Ribaldo: Guardsman 1st Class. from the 57th Lo. Rifleman. Grievously injured, but survived to
receive multiple cyber-grafts.
Romanov: Green Knights Veteran Sergeant. Later assigned to the Green Knights’ Deathwatch
Company as their Chaplain.
Lasar: Guardsman from Cyrus Vulpa. Got shot. Died sitting on a bench.
Roverto: Guardsman of the 57th Lo. Heavy weapons specialist. Formerly a manufactorum
worker.
Sarge (real name: Blano): Guardsman of the 57th Lo. (Staff) Sergeant. Formerly a corrupt PDF
NCO. Became a mayor and later the Colonel of the 1st Protasia Infantry Regiment.
Simenon: Rogue Trader. Corben’s father. His will required Corben to personally command the
family’s ship, the Maiden of Golgenna.
Soldevan: Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor. On loan to the Ordo Xenos. Responsible for the purge of
the Green Knights and the creation of the Deathwatch Company of that same chapter.
Venus: Tech-priestess of the Lathes. Part of the tome’s security.
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APPENDIX 1 DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Vern (Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos): Savant and Melbinious’ chronicler. Homeworld
Archaos. Creator of the tome. Wears a augmented exo-skeleton. Extensive cranial grafts. Facial
electoo. Quite religious.
Verrigan: Commissar-General. Grimes’ closest advisor. Responsible for the strategy of mass
destruction that so devastated Protasia. Later Protasian First Minister and ruler of Thira. Also
an Arch-heretic and champion of Khorne, the Blood God.
Vincenzo: Guardsman from the 57th Lo. Weapon specialist (melta). Killed by a swarm of ripper
drones.
Willa: Daughter of the Word and disciple of Samus. Twin sister to Kara.
Zhukov: Prelate. Ministorum official. Very successful in rooting out the Word of Light from
remaining Protasian cities. Appointed religious leader of Protasia.
Honourable mentions
Agnevin Golgenna: Original commander of the Angevin Crusade.
(Saint) Drusus: Frist Sector Commander of Calixis. Later a saint.
(the) God-Emperor (formerly: the Emperor): The immortal ruler of mankind. Rules all of
creation from the Golden Throne on Holy Terra.
Horus: Primarch of the Lune Wolves. First among equals. Warmaster of the Imperium. Archtraitor.
Jagathai Khan: Primarch of the White Scars legion of Astartes.
Lorgar: Primarch of the Word Bearers. Writer of religious texts.
Malal: Mythical ‘rogue’ Chaos power. Liked to fuck with everyone, but especially his ‘fellow’
gods of chaos. Got done in by the others.
Nix (the navigator), aka. Nikodemus: Navigator of the colony ship Absalom. Founder of
Akakios.
Roboute Guilliman: Primarch of the Ultramarines. Author of the Codex Astartes.
Samus: Ancient daemon. Sneaky bastard.
510
APPENDIX 2
POINTS OF
INTEREST
The list is not exhaustive; it includes a collection of interesting/recurring
locations.
Absalom (hive): Oldest and largest hive city on Malfi. Looks like an oversized circus tent. Home
to sixteen billion plus citizens and unregistered dreg.
Adrantis Nebula: Vast, star forming nebula that lies at the heart of the Adrantis sub. PreAngevin Crusade it was the home of many vile xenos realms.
Adrantis sub: Lightly populated and loosely governed subsector on the trailing borders of
Calixis.
Akakios: Ancient name for Protasia, meaning First (as in ‘First Colony’).
Akiba: Agri-world in the Bokiban subsector. Famous for its bananas.
Archaos: Drusus Marches subsector. Planet of Philosophers. Vern’s homeworld. Nearly
destroyed during the Archaic War.
Belcane: Calixian forge world. Beholden to the Lathes Mechanicus. Famous for its stasis tech.
Lies close to Solomon, astrographically speaking.
Bokiba-Bapas: Sector capital of the Bokiban sub, 3rd Circle, Finial sector. Biosphere devastated
by weapons of mass destruction during M34. Population now housed in flying cities.
Bront: Calixian hive world in the Golgenna Reach. Renowned for its martial traditions and the
very high quality of its Guard regiments.
Cadia: Important fortress world guarding the Eye of Terror (far from Calixis).
Calixis: Imperial sector on the fringes of Segmentum Obscurus, bordering the Halo Stars and the
infamous Scarus Sector. Young and vibrant (founded M39). Physically large. Very remote.
(the) Circus: See Absalom (hive).
(Norma-)Cygnus Arm: Minor spiral arm containing the Calixis sector. Originates near the
galactic core as the Norma arm Around the Ghoul Stars it becomes a diffuse mass of faint
511
APPENDIX 2 POINTS OF INTEREST
clusters, stellar streamers and galactic spurs. Further to trailing the arm regains its composure,
and named the Cygnus from that point until it again fades on the edges of Segmentum Pacificus.
Cypra Mundi: Segmentum Obscurus High Command. Battlefleet Calixis takes its orders from
here.
Cyprian’s Gate: Pleasure world (with a dark reputation) located in the remote Trans-Hazeroth
region. Original source of the Protasian Church of Light.
Cyrus Vulpa: Agri-world in the Golgenna Reach. Largest producer of grox meat in Calixis.
Drusus Marches: Calixian subsector. Trailing of the Malfian sub. Large and relatively populous.
Known for the piety of its worlds. Named in honour of Saint Drusus.
(the) Eye of Terror: Galaxy’s largest spatial anomaly, covering a sphere many thousands of
light years across, and encompassing millions of systems. Located in Segmentum Obscurus.
Fenksworld: Grimy Imperial world in the Josian Reach, Calixis sector. Maintains as an Imperial
Navy base as part of its Tithe.
Finial: Huge, decentralized sector located to spinward/coreward of Calixis. Contains no less
than a thousand worlds, divided into thirty-five subsectors and territories, which in turn are
organized into the ‘Seven Circles of Finial’.
Footfall: Space settlement on the far side of the Maw. A haven for all kinds of ships and their
crews.
Galactic Core: Very densely populated stellar region near the centre of the galaxy.
Galactic Disk: The majority of habitable star systems are found in a narrow band (about 1,000
ly thick) of stars that make up the galaxy’s spiral arms.
Galactic Halo: See Halo Stars.
Galaxy of Man: The Milky Way galaxy.
Golgenna Reach: Central subsector, with Scintilla at its heart. Named after Lord Militant
Golgenna Angevin, the leader of the crusade that created Calixis.
Halo Stars: Diffuse, spherical globe of predominantly ancient stars that surround the galaxy’s
main disk. There be xenos horrors.
Hazeroth Abyss: Great star-less void that dominates the Hazeroth subsector. The Warp flows
strangely – or not at all – in this region.
Hazeroth sub: The most remote part of Calixis, but still home to several important worlds.
Located trailing/coreward of Scintilla.
(the) Imperium (of Man): Galaxy-spanning empire ruled by humans. Covers about two thirds
of the galaxy, but worlds are spread thin. Said to comprise ‘a million worlds’, but that number is
not to be taken literally.
Iochantos: War-torn agri-world in the Golgenna Reach. Source of Ghostfire pollen.
Ixaniad: Old and stagnant sector to coreward of Calixis. Ancient noble houses run the place.
Jericho Reach (formerly Jericho Sector): Lost Imperial sector located on the other side
(Ultima Segmentum) of the galaxy.
Josian Reach: Calixian subsector. Coreward of Scintilla. Very much a frontier region.
Koronus Expanse: Endless reaches of unclaimed space beyond the Margin Storms.
Kulth: Home of Duke Severus XIII. Subsector capital of the Periphery.
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DARK OMEGA
(the) Lathes: Home of the Lathe Mechanicus. System includes three major forge worlds and
numerous lesser habitats.
Lo: Industrialized world in the Drusus Marches. Homeworld of the 57th Lo.
Lucid Palace: Located off the coast of Sibellus. The court of Lord Sector Marius Hax.
Malfi: Subsector capital of the Malfian sub. Most populous hive in Calixis.
Malfian sub: Subsector rimward of the Golgenna Reach. Contains the Malfian system. Most
populous of Calixis’ subs.
Mandragora: Sector in Segmentum Obscurus. Rather closer to Terra than Calixis.
Margin Storms: Warp storms and turbulence that makes passage rimward of Calixis very
difficult.
Margin Worlds: An ill-defined region beyond Calixis’ boundaries, bordering the Margin Storms.
Markayn Marches: Calixian subsector. Rim-/coreward of Scintilla. Important transportation
hub and industrial powerhouse.
Mars: The Red Planet. Sol system. Home of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
(the) Maw: The only known stable passage through the Margin Storms (i.e. the only passage
between Calixis and Koronus).
Merov: Calixian hive world. Golgenna Reach. The Merovech Combine (Guild Commercia)
operates out of Merov.
Moreal Princeps: Administrative capital of the 3rd Circle of Finial.
(the) Periphery: Large and diffuse subsector to spinward of Calixis proper.
Perseus Arm: One of two major spiral arms. Originates on the far side of the Galactic Core.
Sweeps past Sol on the rimward side. Important part of Segmentum Pacificus. Home to the Eye
of Terror.
Phagir: Remotely located dead world in the Hazeroth Abyss. Formerly the homeworld of the
Green Knights chapter.
Port Wander: Imperial Navy base near the mouth of the Maw.
Port Wrath: Battlefleet Calixis’ main naval base.
Prol system: Markayn Marches sub. Distant dead system that houses the collective
Administratum records for Calixis.
Protasia: Minor world in the Drusus Marches sub. Rebelled against the Imperium. Haxtes’
homeworld.
Quaddis: Pleasure world, Golgenna Reach. All the powers that be have private fiefs here.
Scarus: Imperial sector to spinward of Calixis.
Scintilla: Sector capital. Industrious hive world.
Screaming Vortex: One particular warp storm, located spinward of the Maw. Source of
[classified] raids against rimward subsectors.
Scutum–Centaurus Arm: One of two major spiral arms. Originates on the Sol side of the
Galactic Core. Wraps around on the coreward side of Sol. Important part of Segmentum
Tempestus.
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APPENDIX 2 POINTS OF INTEREST
Segmentum Obscurus: Northern quadrant of the Imperium. Includes the Calixis sector. Heavily
militarized; its main task is to guard the Eye of Terror.
Segmentum Pacificus: Located to galactic west of Sol. Possibly the least turbulent region if the
Imperium.
Segmentum Solar: The core of the Imperium. Includes the Sol system and countless other hive
worlds.
Segmentum Tempestus: Located to galactic south of Sol. Very turbulent region.
Segmentum Ultima: See Ultima Segmentum.
Sepheris Secundus: Largely medieval mining world in the Golgenna Reach. Its fantastically rich
ore deposits are extracted by manual labour.
Severan Dominate: Name of Duke Severus XIII’s rebellious pocket empire.
Severanian sub: Name for the Periphery sub that never really caught on.
Sibellus: The capital hive of Scintilla. Home of the Tricorn Palace (Inquisition HQ) and Lucid
Palace (court of Lord Hax).
Sinophia: Periphery sub. Failed hive world.
Solomon: Sub-sector capital of the Markayn Marches. Departmento Munitorum logistics nexus.
Formerly the fief of the House of Haarlock.
Sol system: Imperial name for the solar system that contains Earth.
Spectoris: Drusus Marches sub. Agri-world/ocean planet. The filthy rich get their seafood from
here.
Spinward Front: Name formally given to the Periphery front post Waaagh! Grimtoof/Severan
Dominate rebellion.
Synford: Hazeroth sub, Trans-Hazeroth region. Forge world. Armoured vehicles, super-heavy
Baneblade tanks included, produced en masse here.
Tarsus: Secondary hive on Scintilla. Calixis’ religious and commercial hub.
Terra: Imperial name for Earth.
Thira: Regional capital on Protasia. Haxtes’ hometown. Later Verrigan’s seat of power.
Tranch: Foul hive world in the Adrantis sub. The site of a massive mutant uprising that later
spread to other worlds.
Tricorn Palace: The main Inquisition fortress in Calixis. Conclave-controlled. Located in Hive
Sibellus, Scintilla.
Ultima Segmentum: Comprises the slice of the Galaxy to the galactic east of Terra. Much of
Ultima lies beyond the reach of the Astronomican, and is therefore Astra Incognita.
Vaxanide: Malfian sub. Minor hive world.
Zephyr: Shrine World, in the 6th Circle of Finial. Famous of its great Sororitas monastery.
514
APPENDIX 3
CHRONOLOGY OF
THE DARK FUTURE
The list is not exhaustive; it includes only major events or events related
to Haxtes’ story.
M15-M25
DARK AGE OF TECHNOLOGY: A time of faithlessness and techno-heresy.
c.M18
First Founders: Malfi and Akakios colonized.
M21-22
GREAT DIASPORA: Other worlds (unknown how many) in the rimward reaches
of Segmentum Obscurus are settled.
M26-M30
AGE OF STRIFE: Human civilization collapses. The death toll is catastrophic.
M30-M31
GREAT CRUSADE: The Emperor reunites the scattered remnants of Humanity.
Primo.M31
HORUS HERESY: Warmaster Horus rebels and is destroyed. The Emperor
becomes a God and ascends to the Golden Throne, to guide and protect his
people for all eternity.
401.M34-
NOVA TERRA INTERREGNUM: The Imperium is dived into warring factions by
975.M35
civil war within the Imperial Commanders.
M36
AGE OF APOSTASY: Time of religious irreverence and internal strife within the
Imperium. Ended by Sebastian Thor.
395.M36
Haarlock Charter: Mordecai Haarlock is granted a Warrant of Trade by
Sebastian Thor for his service against the Apostate Fleets (as are many other
captains).
723-736.M36 Great Voyage: Solomon Haarlock explores the Calyx Expanse. As payment for
his navigational charts and ledgers he is granted the World of Solomon as a fief,
M37
22ND SPACE MARINE FOUNDING: Green Knights Chapter founded.
133.M37
World of Sinophia Founded: Granted to the Rogue Trader Teresa Sinos.
Becomes an important staging point for further exploration.
515
APPENDIX 3 CHRONOLOGY OF THE DARK FUTURE
M37-M39
Age of Plunder: Rogue traders flock to the Calyx Expanse in search of plunder
and loot. Sinophia and Solomon grow wealthy as a result.
Medio.M38
Merates Settlement: Refugees from the Ixaniad sector settle the Merates
Cluster. Later joined by renegades and other ne’er-do-wells.
322.M39
Angevin Crusade Begins: Imperial effort to claim the Calyx Expanse for the
Imperium. Commanded by Angevin Golgenna. Staged from the worlds of
Sinophia and Solomon.
367.M39
Transfiguration of Drusus: General Drusus is assassinated, but is restored to
life by the grace of the God-Emperor.
372.M39
Death of Angevin: Lord Angevin dies and is replaced by Drusus as crusade
commander.
380.M39
Grant of the Lathes: The grant of the Lathe system to the Adeptus Mechanicus.
384.M39
Birth of the Calixis Sector: Drusus becomes the first Sector Governor.
417.M39
Death of Drusus: Drusus dies (a second time)of natural causes. He is buried in a
secret location.
502.M39
Beatification of Drusus: Drusus is declared a Saint (specifically the patron saint
of the Calixis sector).
550-760.M39 War of Hubris: Sinophia tries to gain in power, but is slowly crushed by her
rivals.
387-401.M40 MACHARIAN CRUSADE: Crusade on the fringes of Segmentum Pacificus, led by
Lord Commander Solar Macharius.
709.M40
Tanis Incident: The world of Tanis [location classified] is depopulated by
[classified]. The to date most severe manifestation of [classified].
738.M40
26TH SPACE MARINE FOUNDING: Latest founding to date.
738-741.M40 War of Brass: Rebellion of the Gelmiro Cluster leads to an all-out war that
requires substantial resources to win.
917-924.M40 Port Wander: Founded by the Imperial Navy.
997.M40
The Discovery of the Maw: Rogue Trader Purity Lathimon succeeds where
dozens of other Rogue Traders have failed and perished, discovering and plotting
safe passage through what she dubs ‘the Maw’ to the Koronus Expanse beyond.
143-160.M41 THE GOTHIC WAR: The 12th Black Crusade hits the Gothic sector.
211-226.M41 Meritech Wars: The Merates Cluster is brought under Imperial control through
a join Calixis-Ixaniad naval operation.
410.M41
Footfall: Rogue Trader Parsimus Dewain founds Footfall.
410-412.M41 First Siege of Vaxanide: First major ork Waaagh! to his the sector after its
founding. Marks the beginning of a period of ork raids and insurrection in the
spinward territories.
428-479.M41 The Reign of Terror on Malfi: The ascension of the House of Koba on Malfi
results in the most tyrannical and brutal regime in thehistory of the Calixis
Sector,
444.M41
FIRST WAR FOR ARMAGEDDON: [Classified] forces attack the key hive world of
Armageddon.
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DARK OMEGA
499.M41
The Bloody Solstice on Malfi: The rise of the appallingly powerful cult of the
[classified], forces an end to Malfi’s internal divisions at the cost of the near fall
of that mighty world to annihilation.
507.M41
Second Siege of Vaxanide: Imperial Navy blows up an ork-infested space hulk
before it can debark its green-skinned cargo, thereby ending the Second Siege of
Vaxanide before it really begun.
c. 600.M41
Recovery of the Lucid Court: Lord Sector Larhanus Sult, called by many “The
Great Conciliator”, is inaugurated and restores much power and prestige to the
Lucid Court.
703.M41
Haarlock Vanishes: Erasmus Haarlock, last of his line, disappears.
731.M41
Ascension of Marius Hax: Lord Hax becomes sector governor after Larhanus
Sult.
740.M41
The Manchenko Purge: A sizable portion of the Commercia Great House of the
Manchenko Dynasty is found to be corrupt and sanctioned by Inquisitorial purge.
742-770.M41 The Malygrisian Tech-Heresy: The militant Explorator Archmagos, Umbra
Malygris, goes renegade after clashing with the High Fabricator of the Lathes.
745.M41
FIRST TYRANIC WAR: Hive Fleet Behemoth assaults the Imperium.
755.M41
SABBAT WORLDS CRUSADE: Sabbat Worlds Crusade launched to reclaim that
region of space for the Imperium.
768.M41
Mara Abandoned: The mining colony on Mara is abandoned amid great loss of
life and the entire region of space around it is quarantined by Inquisitorial edict.
775.M41
Jericho-Maw Warp Gate Discovered: Alien Warp gate leading to the Jericho
reach discovered in the Maw.
777.M41
Achilus Crusade: First tenuous advances of the Achilus Crusade launched.
779.M41
Lord of Kulth: Duke Severus XIII appointed Imperial Commander of Kulth.
784.M41
Margin Crusade is Launched: Under holy writ by the Synod Obscurus and
taking place far to the Calixis Sector’s Spinward border, a crusade is launched
into the Margin region beyond the light of the Astronomican to the galactic north.
c. 790.M41
Margin Crusade in Trouble: The Margin Crusade is having trouble with an
increasing number of Xenos; orks, Eldar, and local pocket empires.
792.M41
Margin Crusade Halted: The Margin Crusade suffers a number of setbacks in
space, causing the crusade to grind to a halt.
792.M41
Astral Knives Cult declared Heretical: Long tolerated, the centuries old void
born death cult of the Astral Knife is found to have become tainted by association
with dark forces and declared heretical by the Holy Ordos.
796.M41
Margin Crusade Lost: Communication with the Margin Crusade indicates a
build-up of ork forces. Astropathic contact becomes intermittent and then dies
completely
799.M41
Severus Ascendant: Duke Severus becomes subsector commander of the
Periphery (renamed the Severanian sub).
807.M41
Tranch Insurrection: A mutant uprising in the soot warrens of the minor
industrialised hive world of Tranch rapidly develops into a planet-wide
insurrections which topples the ruling class, the brutal Oligarchs of Tranch.
517
APPENDIX 3 CHRONOLOGY OF THE DARK FUTURE
807.M41
Birth of Haxtes: The boy who will one day be known as Haxtes Guilliman is born
on Protasia.
807.M41
Manifestation of [classified]: The to date latest manifestation of [classified] at
[location classified].
812.M41
57th Lo: Mustered and dispatched to the Periphery.
813.M41
The Strangling: Passage to the Expanse cut off by the swelling of the Great
Margin Warp Storms.
814.M41
Waaagh! Grimtoof: A major ork Waaagh! hits the Periphery.
814.M41
Severan Dominate: Duke Severus XIII quietly cuts ties to the Imperium, turning
the Periphery into a pocket empire dubbed the Severan Dominate.
814.M41
Diplomatic Mission to Protasia: Lord Hax sends envoys to Protasia. There is an
incident.
815.M41
Protasian Rebellion: Protasia rebels/Lord Hax orders the system pacified.
816.M41
Square One: Events depicted in Square One and onwards.
819.M41
Haxtes Recruited: Haxtes is forcibly recruited by the assassin cult known as the
Veiled Hand.
518
APPENDIX 4
GLOSSARY
The list is not exhaustive; it includes only key terms or terms vital to the
understanding of the story. Descriptions are also very short and to the
point; more detailed treaties can be found elsewhere in 40k lore (there are
several 40k wikis).
Abhuman: Stable human mutation that has been sanctioned by the Adeptus Terra (i.e. these
guys are still human, just a bit funny-looking). Examples: Ogryn, Ratling, Squat, Voidkin.
Abominable Intelligence (AI): Sentient machine existing outside the control of the Adeptus
Mechanicus. Consider a tech-heresy of the first order. Artificial intelligence in the Imperium is
either biologically based (cyborgs) or otherwise strictly controlled by the Mechanicus. Under no
circumstance are self-aware AI allowed to exist.
Acolyte (of the Inquisition): An agent of the Inquisition. Knows who he is working for, and has
sworn oaths of service and allegiance (as opposed to a ‘blind’ agent who knows nothing).
Adept: Literally a member of the Adeptus Terra. Also used to refer to anyone ‘in the know’;
bureaucrats, scholars, priests, etc., whether or not they are actually Adepts of Terra.
Adepta: The largest building blocks of the Imperium are called Adepta (singular ‘Adeptus’).
Adeptio (Eagles): Tarot suit. Associated with destiny, emotions and love (for the Divine
Emperor).
Adeptus Administratum: The Imperial bureaucracy. Usually called just ‘the Administratum.’
Adeptus Arbites: Imperial lawmen. Combination of intelligence agency, secret police, riot
police, federal investigators, and more. Their primary task is to ensure the flow of the Tithe.
Adeptus Astra Telepathica: The organization responsible for the collection, transportation,
and safe use of human psykers.
Adeptus Astronomica: Responsible for maintaining the Astronomican, the Imperium’s psychic
navigation beacon.
Adeptus Astartes: Bio-engineered supersoldiers of the Imperium. Fanatical killers. Organized
into independent brigades called ‘Chapters’, each made up of around 1,000 marines. There are
supposedly 1,000 such chapters active at any one time.
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APPENDIX 4 GLOSSARY
Adeptus Custodes: Guards the Imperial place on Terra, making sure no one screws with the
Gold Throne or gets anywhere near the God-Emperor.
Adeptus Mechanicus: The tech-priests of the Imperium. They believe in the Machine God and
the divine spark inside all machines; the Ministorum doesn’t like them much.
Adeptus Ministorum: The galaxy-spanning church of the God-Emperor. While all parts of the
Adeptus Terra is to some extent the priesthood of Terra, these are the guys that builds temples,
preach to the faithful, and seek to spread the word.
Adeptus Sororitas: Warrior sorority made up solely of pious women. Nominally under the
control of the Ministorum, they are nevertheless a separate Adeptus. Sometimes misspelled as
Adepta Sororitas.
Adeptus Terra: So-called ‘Priesthood of Earth’. Catchall for the Imperial entirety of the Imperial
administration. Sometimes applied only to the more ‘Earthly’ aspects of the Imperium (i.e.
neither the Ecclesiarchy, nor the Mechanicus).
Amasec: Fine liquor found throughout the Imperium.
Arbitrator: Member of the Adeptus Arbites.
Archaotech: Arcane technology. This stuff might work, but even the Adeptus Mechanicus can’t
figure out exactly how, let alone build more of it.
Astra Militatum: Literally; to fight for the stars. High Gothic for Imperial Guard. Only Imperial
Adepts use this term.
Astronomican: Psychic beacon transmitted from Terra. Used by Navigators to guide voidships
through the Warp. Without it the Imperium would collapse.
Astropath: Psyker trained to send/receive interstellar telepathic messages. The only means to
communicate between stars.
Augury array: Big auspex.
Auspex: Advanced scanning system.
Autogun: Advanced firearm that utilizes caseless ammo (basically anything more advanced
than stubbers).
Baneblade (tank): The most common super-heavy tank (300+ tonnes) in the Imperial
inventory.
Basilisk: Mobile, armoured artillery of the IG.
Battery (voidship): Tiered ranks of anti-voidship weapons are called batteries. There are many
types.
Battle barge: Battleships used by the Space Marines. Optimized for planetary assaults.
Battleship: Stupendously massive and powerful warships. At least half again as long as a
cruiser, and many times the mass (and a corresponding increase of protection and firepower).
Beastman: Fairly stable human mutation that is too divergent to be sanctioned (i.e. fur, wings,
and other clearly bestial traits). Oppressed and hunted alongside other mutant scum.
Bolter: Heavy calibre firearm that shoots rocket-assisted, armour-piercing explosive rounds.
Staple weapon of the Adeptus Astartes.
Cabal (Inquisition): Group of Inquisitions that have banded together to purse some matter.
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Carapace armour: Body armour made of hard plates (typically ceramite). Used by
Stormtroopers, Arbitrators, and many others.
Ceramite: Composite material found in many imperial appliances. Strong, light, and highly heatresistant.
Chaos: Sometimes taken to mean the Warp, but usually it specifically indicates the corruptive
and malevolent aspects of the Warp.
Chaplain: Space Marine officer responsible for morale and religious integrity.
Cogitator: Computer. Very advanced.
Collegia Titanica: Warrior fraternity of tech-priests. They run the giant titan war machines.
Sometimes erroneously labelled the Adeptus Titanica.
Commissar: Separate branch of the armed forces tasked with maintaining the purity and
morale of the fighting men.
Conclave (Inquisition): (Semi)permanent groping of Inquisitors that have agreed to pool their
resources. Many Conclaves are regional in nature. The Calixian conclave concerns itself with the
Calixis sector – and the endless reaches of border territories abutting the sector proper.
Cruiser: Powerful warship. Approximately 5 km in length and massing tens of millions of
tonnes.
Cult of Sollex: Mechanicus cult that’s into weapons (especially energy weapons) and war. Quite
influential in Calixis.
Daemon: Otherworldly entity of great power and malevolence. Not all Warp entities are
daemons, but all Daemons are Warp entities.
Daughter of the Word: Warrior sorority made up solely of pious women. Fanatical in the
defence of the Word of Light.
Departmento: Major administrative subdivisions within the Adeptus Terra. Smaller than an
Adepta, larger than an Officio.
Departmento Munitorum: Subdivision of the Administratum. Easily the most famous
Departmento, since it responsible for the recruitment and supply of Guard units, their
transportation and maintenance, plus the procurement and support of the Imperial Navy.
Disciple of Samus: Chaos-worshipper that has sworn his soul to the daemon Samus.
Discordia (Batons): The suit of Discordia is strongly associated with change and conflict, but
also with energy and growth.
Ecclesiarchy: See Adeptus Ministorum.
Edict of Obliteration: The Inquisition forbids the mention of the subject (and goes to great
lengths to expunge any official records).
Ego division (aka. Mental compartmentalization): Technique known to some psykers that
allow them to split their minds into separately working parts.
Eldar: Ancient and degenerate xenos species. Superficially resembles humans.
Electoo: Electronic tattoo. Used for identification and security purposes.
Emperor’s Tarot: Psychically attuned tarot deck. Used for divination purposes.
Enginarium (voidship): The engineering section.
Enginseer: Junior tech-priest (i.e. not a full anointed Priest of the Machine God).
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APPENDIX 4 GLOSSARY
Excommunicate Traitoris: Declared a traitor to mankind and excommunicated (by the
Inquisition). Destruction of the offender will inevitably follow such an edict.
Excuteria (Swords): The suit of Excuteria is associated with ephemeral things like the future
and the unknown – and how it can be overcome by persistence and sacrifice.
Exterminatus: Inquisition-sanctioned termination of an entire world.
Flak armour: Advanced Kevlar. The most common type of armour in the galaxy.
Force weapon: Psi-focused melee weapon. In the hands of a trained psyker such weapons can
be nigh unstoppable.
Frigate: Capital warship (of the 5th or 6th rate). Considered and escort, not a ship of the line.
Fast, lean, and dangerous. Megaton by megaton probably the most lethal type of warship.
Galactic compass: East is defined by drawing a line from Sol through the galactic centre.
Gellar Field: Voidship component responsible for maintaining a reality bubble around a ship in
the Warp. Without this field a ship is in dire straits.
Gelt: Low Gothic for money. Used throughout the sector.
Golden Throne: Literally the arcane life-support equipment that keeps the Emperor alive. More
commonly a reference to the
Governor: See Imperial Commander.
Green Knights: Space Marine chapter. Former homeworld at Phagir, Calixis sector. Stricken
from official Imperial records.
(the) Grid: Protasian global communications network. Open for all.
Heretek: Heretical technology. Typically non-human tech or tech not sanctioned by the Adeptus
Mechanicus.
High Gothic: Language of the Adeptus Terra. Represented by a bastardized version of Latin.
(the) High Lords of Terra: The Imperium’s ruling council.
Hive (city): Stupendously massive city, usually layered with innumerable levels. Houses from a
few hundred million people and well into the trillion range.
Hive World: Imperial world that is dominated by one or more hive cities.
Holy Ordos (of the God-Emperor’s Inquisition): See Inquisition.
Hopper: Small contra-gravity vehicle.
Hydra: Mobile, armoured AAA of the IG.
IG: Short for Imperial Guardsman, the grunts on the ground.
Immaterium: Scholarly word for the Warp.
Imperator Spread: Three-card Tarot spread. The simplest there is.
Imperial Creed: Whatever the Ecclesiarchy is preaching; can vary a great deal with time and
place.
Imperial Commander: The person appointed by the Imperium to run a world. As long as he
meets the Tithe he’s largely free to do as he pleases.
Imperial Guard: The Imperium’s ground forces. Mustered from across the galaxy and sent
wherever their presence is required. High Gothic: Astra Militatum.
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Imperial Navy: The Imperium’s naval forces. The largest, most powerful naval force ever
assembled. They have a lot of work to do.
Imperium of Man: Galaxy-spanning human empire of more than a million worlds.
Inquisition: The left hand of the Emperor. Exist above and beyond the law. Tasked with
ensuring the security of the Imperium and the survival of the human race.
Inquisitor: The people who run the Inquisition. Has the power to condemned any man. The thin
line between Humanity and damnation.
Interrogator: Typically and Inquisitor’s lieutenant.
Juve: Literally; juvenile. Usually refers to a teenager who’s involved in gang activity.
Kasballica: Largest interstellar crime syndicate in Calixis.
Khaine: Minor god. Concerned with pain and murder. Some link him to Khorne, others claim he
is a xenos deity.
Khorne: Chaos god of death and destruction.
Kinesis (also: psychokinesis): A psychic discipline. Usually subdivided into pyro (fire), cryo
(cold), and tele (force).
Lance (voidship): Extremely powerful voidship armament.
Lasgun: Powerful direct energy weapon. The primary weapon of the Imperial Guardsman.
League of Black Ships: Those ships responsible for transporting the psyker Tithe to Terra.
Leman Russ (Primarch): The primogenitor of the Space Wolves Legion.
Leman Russ (tank): Primary Imperial battle tank. Named after the Primarch.
Lho-stick: Mild narcotic. Inhaled from a burning cigarette.
Librarian: Space Marine astropath and battlefield psyker.
Lightning: Light aerospace fighter used by the Imperium
Lock: Wristband worn by nearly all Protasians. Required to access the Grid.
Longlas: Powerful lasgun equipped with advanced scope. Found in the hands of scouts and
snipers.
Low Gothic: Catchall for the myriad dialects and variants of Gothic that are used across a
million worlds and cultures (many of which are mutually unintelligible). Represented by
English.
Machine God: Quite literally the God in the Machine. Worshipped by the Adeptus Mechanicus.
The only other divinity allowed to exist within the borders of the Imperium.
Machine Spirit: The Ghost in the Machine. According to the Adeptus Mechanicus all technology
has a spirit of sorts.
Major Arcana: The twenty-two trumps of the Tarot.
Mandatio (Thrones): The suit of Mandatio is often associated with wealth and material
possessions, as wells as procedure, tradition and obedience
Marauder: Aerospace bomber used by the Imperium
Melta gun: Powerful anti-armour weapon. Uses an ancient and ill-understood process to create
an unstoppable blast of thermal energy.
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APPENDIX 4 GLOSSARY
Metacreativity: Rare psychic discipline. Enables the psyker to call forth objects from the Warp.
Minor Arcana: The fifty-six cards that make up the four suites (Adeptio, Discordia, Excuteria,
and Mandatio) of the Tarot.
Missionaria Galaxia: Ministorum subsect responsible for missionary work and religious
engineering.
MIU: Mind Impulse Unit. Man-machine interface. Allows the human mind to directly control
cogitators. Commonly found in the possession of tech-priest.
Mutant: Human whose genes have strayed from the norm. Considered subhuman and barely
tolerated – or labelled enemies of Mankind and exterminated.
Navigator: Special type of geneered mutant that can gaze into the Warp and thereby guide
voidships safely and quickly to their destinations. Without the interstellar travel and commerce
would become untenable.
Nurgle: Chaos god commonly associated with disease and bodily corruption.
Ogryn: Massive human mutant (sanctioned). Geneered during the Dark Age to colonize
physically hazardous worlds, but devolved during the Age of Strife into their form.
Ordo Hereticus: The part of the Inquisition most involved with heretics.
Ordo Malleus: The part of the Inquisition most involved with daemons.
Ordo Xenos: The part of the Inquisition most involved with aliens.
Ork: Powerful, extremely warlike aliens. Found throughout the galaxy. Individually rather dimwitted, but as a race they have a penchant for simple, reliable technology.
Pax Imperialis: The Imperial Peace. In a galaxy awash with war this simply means that no two
Imperial worlds are allowed to wage war against one another.
Plasma gun: High-powered energy weapon. Related to lasguns, but more powerful (and
temperamental).
Primarch: Primogenitor and commander of the original Space Marine Legions.
PDF: Planetary Defence Force. All Imperial Commanders are tasked with ensuring the safety of
their own worlds. To this end they must maintain a defensive force (which can include local
space assets).
Preysight: Advanced sighting aids.
Prescience: A psychic discipline. Deals with perception, from clairvoyance to fortunetelling.
Psychics: The preternatural powers of the mind wielded by a psyker.
Psychics discipline: Artificial grouping of semi-related psychic techniques.
Psyker: Subset of humanity that can wield preternatural powers of the mind.
Possession: Daemons can sometimes take control of physical bodies (especially psykers); this
act is called possession. The Ordo Malleus is always looking for signs of possession.
Power armour (PA): Penultimate personal protection. Like a second skin that turns the
operator into a one-man AFV. Used by the Space Marines (and the Sisters of Battle).
Power weapon: Melee weapon encased in a matter-disruptive field. There are few weapons
more potent.
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DARK OMEGA
Primaris psyker: The most powerful and skilled psykers to graduate from the Scholastia
Psykana.
Ratling: Small and lithe human mutant (sanctioned). Believed to have evolved in the hellish
bowels of various beleaguered hive cities during the Age of Strife.
Red Priest (of Mars): Slang for tech-priest.
Renegade Space Marine: Astartes that have abandoned the Emperor. Either from one of the
Traitor Legions or later defectors. Blessedly rare, but very, very dangerous.
Rogue Psyker: Any psyker not processed and sanctioned by the Astra Telepathica. To be
arrested (or shot on sight, depending on their power level).
Rogue Trader: Starship captain empowered by a Warrant of Trade to go where he pleases,
trade as he likes, and destroy the enemies of Mankind.
Sanctioned Psyker: Any psyker processed and sanctioned by the Astra Telepathica. Branded
with a largish and easily visible electoo.
Savant: Human that has received special training and mental enhancements, turning him into a
sort of living computer/encyclopedia.
Scholastia Psykana: Subdivision of the Astra Telepathica. Responsible for training psykers for
Imperial service.
Sector: Segmenta are divided into sectors. More than a thousand per Segmentum. Sectors
contain anywhere from a few dozen worlds up to several hundred – or more.
Segmentum: One of five principal subdivisions of the Imperium. Solar (Core), Pacificus
(Western), Obscurus (Northern), Tempestus (Southern), and Ultima (Eastern).
Servitor: Cybernetic servant. Common in many parts of the Imperium. Used for heavy labour or
specialized tasks.
Servo-skull: Smallish drone built to look like a human skull (or actually constructed around an
actual skull).
Sisters of Battle: Warrior fraternity made up solely of pious women. Nominally under the
control of the Ministorum, they are nevertheless a separate Adepta.
Slaanesh: Chaos god of pleasure and excess.
(Chaos) Sorcery: What passes for magic in the dark future. The effects (and the source of
power) is much the same as for psychics, but the techniques involved are quite different.
Soul-binding: Ritual performed upon all astropaths. Protects them against possession. Also
leaves them blind.
Solar generator (array): Immensely powerful generator that duplicates the power of the stars
themselves.
Space Marine Legion: One of the original Astartes formations created at the onset of the Great
Crusade. Two were stricken from the records. Eight rebelled. The remaining loyal legions were
broken up into many chapters post-Heresy.
Space Marines: Bio-engineered supersoldiers of the Imperium. Fanatical killers. Organized into
independent brigades called ‘Chapters’, each made up of around 1,000 marines. There are
supposedly 1,000 such chapters active at any one time.
Sprint freighter: Very fast voidship merchantman. Rarely much bigger than a frigate.
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APPENDIX 4 GLOSSARY
Squat: Short, stocky human mutation. Radiation hardened and toxic resistant. Original
settlements near the galactic core, most of whom have been devastated by Tyranid
encroachments. Technically capable, but not adherents of the Machine Creed.
Stasis technology: Arcane technology that can manipulate entropic effects to effectively halt
the flow of time (within a defined area).
STC: Standard Template Construct. Nearly all human technology are based upon scraps of lore
from the Dark Age of Technology, making human tech fairly homogenous.
Storm Wardens: Calixian Astartes chapter. Based on the forbidden world of Sacris, Drusus
Marches.
Strike Cruiser: Astartes cruiser. Optimized for planetary assaults and boarding actions. Fast,
durable.
Stubber: Basic projectile weapon (essentially similar to a 20th Century firearm).
Sub-sector: Political/astrographic sector subdivision. Most sectors consists of two or more subsectors. Contains anywhere from a handful of worlds to as many as a small sector.
Technophilia: A perverse fixation on technology. Heretical in nature.
Tech-priest: Person initiated into the Machine Mysteries. Can do amazing, almost magical,
things with technology (but doesn’t always understand how or why stuff works)
Terminator: Space Marine veteran equipped with heavy assault armour and advanced
weaponry. Usually teleported into battle.
(Holy) Terra: Earth. Administrative and religious heart of the Imperium.
Thorn (letter): Non-standard letter found in certain Low Gothic dialects. Symbolized by Þ/þ
and pronounced ‘th’.
Throne of Terra Spread: Seven-card Tarot spread. One of them most commonly used spreads.
Thrones: Usually taken to mean Imperial script, but sometimes used in a more general sense,
i.e. money.
Thunderbolt: Heavy aerospace fighter-bomber/interceptor used by the Imperium
Tigers Argent: Space Marine Chapter. Based out of the Icefang (location is secret, but probably
within the borders of Finial Sector).
Titan: Bipedal war machine massing from several hundred tonnes and up into the thousands.
(the) Tithe: The tax owed the Imperium by every human world. Consist of psykers, military
manpower, industrial produce and/or raw materials.
Transcerebral: A psychic discipline. The powers of the mind; from mind reading, via telepathy,
to esoteric lores like mental domination and true astrotelepathy.
Traitor Legion: One of the eight marine legion to betray the Emperor during the Horus Heresy.
Turrets (voidship): Point defence systems found on voidships. Shoots down enemy small craft
and ordnance.
Tyranid: Extremely hostile xenos species. Hive mind. Devourer of worlds. One of the greatest
threats the Imperium has ever faced.
Tyrant Star: [Dark Omega Classified].
Tzeentch: Chaos god of insidious manipulation, mutation, and magic.
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DARK OMEGA
Ultramarines: Famous Space Marine Legion. More than half the other marine chapters are
descended from Ultramarine stock. Located in Ultima Segmentum.
(the) Void: Imperial jargon for space; void/space are often used interchangeably.
Voidkin/voidborn: Stable human mutation, optimized for a life in space. Planetbound humans
find them to be strange and unsettling.
Void shield: Catchall for a number of advanced shielding techniques. Protects voidships, as well
as major installations like voidstations and hive cities.
Voidship: Imperial jargon for spaceship; voidship/spaceship are often used interchangeably.
Most Imperial ships are large; measuring kilometres in length and massing millions of tonnes.
Vox: Imperial jargon for radio (derived from High Gothic).
Waaagh!: Orkish war effort. Typically begins when innumerable ork tribes band together, build
spacefaring vessels, and attack the Imperium.
(the) Warp: Those parts of reality that don’t fit into the more orderly definitions of the
universe. It is where voidship go to cross the void between the stars. Psykers draw their power
from here. There be daemons.
Warp Drive: Starship component capable of ripping a hole in reality, to effect entrance into (or
exit from) the Warp.
Warp Gate: Gate between two real space locations. Shortcut through the warp. Very rare.
Warrant of Trade: Official document that empowers a Rogue Trader (the dark future’s version
of a Letter of Marque).
Word Bearers: Renegade Space Marine Legion. Banished to the Eye of Terror at the end of the
Horus Heresy.
Xeno: Imperial jargon for alien.
Xenophilia: A perverse fixation on that which is alien. Heretical in nature.
Zhangee: Ale variant with low alcohol content and mild taste. Common throughout Segmentum
Obscurus.
527
528
PARTING
THE VEIL
The following teaser excerpt (it’s not a complete chapter) is from
“Parting the Veil”, the second book (coming 2016) in the Maiden of
Golgenna series.
529
530
CHAPTER XX
ONE SHOT, ONE
KILL
Riegon d’Hal was a cautious man. He never went anywhere without at
least four mean-looking bodyguards. He also had something of an
entourage following him around; one or two mistresses, a couple of
savants, plus three or four other servants. No servitors though. Seemed a
personal preference; maybe he just plain didn’t like them.
If possible he used a private motor-carriage. It looked ordinary enough,
but it was undoubtedly armoured – and quite possibly armed. If Mr. d’Hal
expected to leave his carriage for any amount of time he would usually take
twice the usual number of guards. He tried to avoid taking the same routes
too often and avoided the more obvious ambush points.
In other words: He was trying his best to make life difficult for hostile
mercenaries and assassins.
But Riegon was also a person who had to go places and meet with people
face-to-face in order to conduct his affairs. That frequently meant going to
many of the same places over and over. And there are only so many ways to
reach any given point, even within a hive city.
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CHAPTER XX ONE SHOT, ONE KILL
So in essence his defences were static; the same number and type of
muscle providing protection, the same defensive procedures and same
movement patterns. And Malachite had taught me that a true assassin
could not be foiled by static countermeasures.
It took me all of thirteen days to discern his weaknesses and select an
ambush point. I guess I could have done it a bit faster, but the contract had
a deadline date well into the future. So I took my time, traveling around the
local hive, getting to known the key thoroughfares, primary locations and
useful shortcuts. I didn’t waste time on personal frivolities. I stayed focused
on my task the entire time. I was very young and terribly eager; it was my
first contracted hit mark.
I settled on an open plaza near one of the Administratum hubs where
Riegon had semi-frequent meetings with someone high up with the local
branch of the hallowed Adeptus Terra.
Thrones were no doubt changing hands with the great grey stone
building with its endless rows and columns of identical reflective windows.
A fat banker greasing the wheels of government. A glorified scribe eagerly
accepting his ill-gotten gains, not caring that his crime was far graver than
any mundane treason.
Corruption among the Adepta ranked as heresy against the GodEmperor. But the scribe didn’t care. He had taken the money before. He
knew of others who accepted bribes. It was the way of things. The
Inquisition did not bother with such petty heresy. He was safe. Or so he told
himself every night before tucking in, trying to keep the almost reflexive
fear of the Emperor’s left hand at bay.
The spot was good because Riegon was forced to follow more or less the
same route every time, give or take a dozen meters. He had to park his
carriage on the parking sub-level located beneath the far end of the plaza.
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PARTING THE VEIL
Then make his way on foot to the Administratum building. And every
centimetre of that foot-path was now well covered by my longlas.
I had picked an elevated position. The crowds made plunging fire the
only option: I was quite confident in my shooting skills, but without
elevation I would have trouble spotting and hitting my target. My chosen
perch was a sheltered space behind a large poured-rockcrete weather
prediction gargoyle. This part of Malfi had been roofed over millennia ago,
but the gargoyle continued to faithfully predict the local atmospheric
conditions. Every five minutes it bayed out its message: Clouded, no wind
or precipitation, heavy industrial pollutants, wear a breath mask.
I moved into position during the night cycle and then waited for my
target to appear. As far as I could tell he came here about twice each week,
suggesting he was seeing more than just one Adept. Not important. I had
decided I would wait for the entire day cycle. If he didn’t show I would
backtrack, rest and repeat the process until he showed. I had plenty of time
and an excellent position. I could afford to wait.
After two hours I was bored. To compensate I begun a neural exercise,
working my way through my muscle groups by use of the sympathetic
nervous system. I still had issues consciously controlling a few of my minor
muscles. There was one muscle near my right thigh, and two more in my
face, that refused to behave. Plus a couple more in my feet. Try as I might I
couldn’t get to them. Annoying.
I then turned to a more challenging game; calling upon those parts of my
musculature that were normally subconsciously controlled by the
parasympathetic nervous system. I knew I was fairly good at it. Consciously
control my heart rate was within my power; but the heart isusually best left
to its own devices. I could also control, to some degree, urination, digestion
and defecation. Same with saliva and tears. And I could make my dick rise,
533
even without any sexual arousal. A pretty neat trick. In theory I could also
keep it docile in the face of actual arousal.
The trick was a combination of focused training and bio-enhancers. The
bio-enhancers gave access to bodily functions normally off-limits and the
training let you actually manipulate your own internal processes – without
causing death or damage to yourself.
Around noon I spotted a small object wedged between the wall and the
gargoyle. It took a while to pry it loose without moving around too much. If
someone spotted an assassin with a sniper rifle perched above the plaza
they would call the law. And this being Administratum turf chances were
the Arbites would show up. That I didn’t want. Local law enforcement I
could evade, defeat or bribe – but not the Imperium’s own enforcers. I was
cocky, but not terminally stupid. Being spotted would of course also force
me to find another spot from which to launch my attack. And I knew I
wouldn’t be so lucky the next time around.
It was an old shell casing made of brass. It was so badly corroded that I
wouldn’t have realized what it was if I hadn’t been so thoroughly schooled
in the lore of firearms. It must have sat up here for hundreds of years, if not
longer. It was fairly big so it must have come from a rifle-sized stub gun. I
gave a shot laugh as realization hit me: This position had been used by
another sniper, long before my time. I decided it was a sign of good fortune
and put it in my utility pouch. I resumed my waiting games.
Fate – or the God-Emperor – was on my side that day. My mark appeared
less than six hours later, saving me from a lengthy wait. I let him go in and
complete his affairs, knowing that he would return the same way in about
half an hour. I used the time to good effect, going through some limbering
exercises and purging my mind of unnecessary thoughts and emotions. I
powered up the rifle, removed the lens covers from my preysense sight.
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PARTING THE VEIL
He reappeared on time. Being on foot meant bringing a full retinue. Eight
beefy bodyguards packing a variety of concealed weapons. Three savants,
two blonde escorts, and the usual handful of other sycophants. Eighteen
people, Riegon included. They moved through the crowd, slowed by the
size of the group and the need to keep up appearances. Besides; they didn’t
have anything to fear, did they? They had come this way many times before
and there never had been any incidents. Not here in Administratum-land.
Routine lulling them into complacency.
I drew a mental line across the plaza; if Riegon crossed that line I would
take my shot even if he was still on the move. But until he did I would keep
him in my sights and only fire if he halted. I was going for a head shot. I’ve
already said I was quite confident of my skills with the rifle, but I knew my
limitations. Hitting someone in the head at over four hundred meters is a
challenge, even with a longlas and a decent scope. An acceptable challenge
if they are stationary. Unacceptable if they are moving. I was also hoping to
avoid collateral, since Malachite had specifically made a point of it.
I waited. Riegon kept moving. Once or twice he stopped briefly. On both
counts my shot was obscured by his entourage despite my elevated
position.
The distance to my mental line kept dropping. Twenty meters. Ten
meters. Five meters.
One of the girls said something. He turned to reply, stopping for a brief
second. His guards adjusted to cover him with their bodies. Too late.
Riegon d’Hal’s head loomed in my sights.
I took the shot.
For a brief instant a beam of coherent energy connected my longlas to
my target’s right temple. A perfect hit at a range of more than four hundred
Imperial meters. The energy transfer caused the outer surface of the skull
535
to heat up in a most dramatic fashion: One moment Riegon d’Hal was
standing there, all fat and happy, the next moment his head had become as
hot as the surface of your friendly neighbourhood star. The end result was
both fatal and spectacular; a veritable explosion of charred bone, seared
brain, and burning hair.
One shot, one kill. Malachite would approve.
536
537
You are an Acolyte in the service of the Holy Orders of the
Emperor's Inquisition. Your master wields the absolute and
inviolable authority of an Inquisitor, and you are his sworn
servant. Recruited for your skills as an investigator and
prowess as a warrior it is your fate to stand on the front lines
of a great and secret war. It is a conflict that has raged
unabated for more than ten thousand years, beginning when
Warmaster Horus raised his banners in rebellion against his
Father and Emperor, and ending only with the final
ascension of Mankind as undisputed masters of the universe
– or utter ruination for all. Whatever fate awaits humanity it
is your solemn duty is to root out the foul stench of heresy,
hunt down the vile alien, and expunge the twisted influence
of Chaos. You will tread where others fear go: You will
venture to distant worlds filled with xenos abominations, you
will walk through ancient space hulks best left undisturbed,
and you will savour both the cruel depths of the under-hive
and the wicked world of the high-born in their spire-top
mansions. You will face enemies that would steal the courage
from lesser men, you will see things that will scar your mind
and soul forever, and you will come to face you own dark
desires. You will never know fame nor reward, yet if you
stand resolute you will die knowing that you did so serving a
higher purpose, and that your name and deeds will be
carried to Holy Terra in darkness and silence, there to be
whispered to the God-Emperor himself, who will know and
remember for all eternity...
538

Dark Omega - Twilightpeaks.net

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