“I won’t hide it, your request makes me wary, Brother Feranor,” boomed a massive Space Marine in a mask stylized like a skull.
Septius Hecate, Master of Sanctity of the Sons of the Anathema chapter, had already finished his speech, which had kindled the righteous flame of saving wrath in the hearts of his brothers, and now watched as the drop pods entered the upper atmosphere like fiery arrows.
* * * “I won’t hide it, your request makes me wary, Brother Feranor,” boomed a massive Space Marine in a mask stylized like a skull.
Septius Hecate, Master of Sanctity of the Sons of the Anathema chapter, had already finished his speech, which had kindled the righteous flame of saving wrath in the hearts of his brothers, and now watched as the drop pods entered the upper atmosphere like fiery arrows.
“We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck in this galaxy deprived of the Emperor’s light,” the Order’s Chief Librarian said in a mysterious tone.
“Sooner or later we’ll need to transfuse fresh blood into our ranks, and the boy has great psychic potential and the makings of a great warrior.” Hecate and Feranor had known each other for several hundred years now.
Veterans hardened in thousands of battles, they rightfully considered each other battle-brothers, for each had saved the other’s life countless times.
Yet a wall still stood between the Librarian and the Chaplain when it came to their views on the future of the entire Order.
Septius, for example, had received the inevitable changes rather coldly when the Torchbearers delivered the “great miracle of the Primaris” to the Chapter.
The Senior Chaplain respected and deeply revered his genetic father, Roboute Guilliman; he knew that this “new generation” of Astartes was meant to become humanity’s last hope against the mortal threat of Chaos.
He knew all that!
But unlike Feranor, the Master of Sanctity could not, would not acknowledge these abominations of Cawl as his new brothers.
“Perhaps you’re right.” The memory of the ape-like xenos made Septius wince from a wave of rising disgust.
The boy his old friend was now championing had told the Inquisition’s interrogators that this xenos filth had been his teacher.
“But do you seriously wish to share our Primarch’s geneseed with this youth?
Do you wish to give a chance to a boy whose mind is poisoned by the lies of xenos, to become one of our brothers?!” The righteous fury that enveloped the Master of Sanctity was in its destructiveness no less than the storm the Chief Librarian brought down upon the heads of his enemies.
In the short time the Emperor’s servants had spent in this galaxy, the local humanity evoked barely contained contempt in Hecate.
Savages, nonentities… slaves serving worm-like xenos!
“If the trials prove the boy worthy of becoming one of us, then why not,” Feranor continued in an imperturbable voice, finishing his speech with a quote, one of the foundational Truths of the Imperial Cult.
“‘In the absence of His light, they are blind to find the path to salvation on their own.
It is the duty of a faithful servant of the Throne to help the blind man, guiding him toward the Emperor.'” * * * “Huaah…” the agent of perhaps the most powerful organization in the entire Imperium let out a resounding yawn.
Several weeks had passed since the memorable meeting with the Chapter Master of the Sons of the Anathema.
Several mind-numbingly tense weeks.
Orestes Bloodmoor, Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, even possessing the sacred rosette, remained for the most part an ordinary man, lacking the wondrous physiology of the Astartes.
A month without proper sleep could not help but leave its mark on the agent of the Holy Throne, drowning in work, though… The Emperor knew, Orestes now reminded himself more of a bureaucratic rat from the deepest bowels of the Administratum than one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy.
Bloodmoor massaged his tired eyes; the crack in his stretching spine pleasantly broke up the continuous work routine.
He held an infopad containing the interrogation protocols of recently captured prisoners.
Critically important information, shedding light on the general state of affairs unfolding in this galaxy, new to the Emperor’s servants.
The decision on the next steps would be made at a council meeting, but the Inquisitor’s job was to ensure the maximum reliability of the obtained data.
Not long ago, from “reliable intelligence,” the crusade command had received information about the simultaneous relocation of many VIPs representing the elite of this galaxy.
A disappointing spectacle, but one had to work with what was available.
In fact, the scow, packed to the brim with diplomats and under minimal escort, had been captured thanks to the prophecy of an Eldar Seer.
For a change, it was pleasant to “work” on the same side.
The other matter was that among the crusade command, only a limited circle of people knew about the presence of aliens on board.
A precautionary measure taken to avoid various unpleasant incidents.
Take the Sisters of Battle, for instance.
They shoot first and only then think with their heads — and even then, not always.
Getting back to our muttons, that is, the prisoners.
For the first time in his eventful career as an Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, Orestes had the chance to behold such a motley collection gathered in one place.
Even the distant Tau Empire, whose distinguishing feature was a peculiar fetish for collecting one of every creature, had never gathered so many different xenos species on a single ship.
The Emperor knew, it was some kind of surrealism.
Under ordinary circumstances, the captured xenos would have been executed without a second thought, but right now the Emperor’s servants were not in a position to simply throw away valuable assets.
Confidential and secret information, potential agents of influence, hostage exchanges, meat shields.
Any of the above roles justified their lives as long as that “life” could serve the Imperium of Man.
After all, shooting this herd of noble fools was hardly a difficult task.
The language barrier was broken quite simply.
The Magi already attached to the fleet had used their cogitators to calculate the basic patterns of the “galactic common language.” The Dialogus Sisters finished the rest (having first cursed the very existence of such a language, which in their understanding was a terrible heresy).
Of course, the translation was rough in places, with huge gaps in a whole range of areas, but in such cases, the good old trick with a red-hot poker up the backside erased any boundaries.
Whether human or xenos — they all sang like canaries during a Level 3 interrogation.
In the course of intensive interrogation, after sifting through various “dirty laundry” of local intrigues, affairs, and conspiracies, several basic things became clear.
Just as the Imperium of Man ruled the Milky Way, this local galaxy existed under the flag of a single state.
A Republic.
Humans and xenos, united in a single impulse, building a bright future… Pah!
An ultra-democratic, amorphous utopia that had until recently enjoyed a period of long-lasting peace.
Now this same Republic was going through far from its best times.
Old problems and conflicts had flared up more than ever, marking the beginning of a bloody civil conflict.
Assessing this surrealism from the sidelines, Bloodmoor was interested in only one question — how had this “Galactic Republic,” with its dysfunctional state machine, managed not to splinter into a multitude of independent states, having existed for a whole millennium in relative peace?
The backbone of the loyalists fighting on the side of the Republic was the so-called “Grand Army of the Republic.” Tens, perhaps hundreds of billions of well-trained clone soldiers, grown shortly before the war, appearing literally out of thin air.
The production of such soldiers for use as ordinary cannon fodder cost the Republic’s budget a pretty penny, but it allowed the “Galactic Senate” to almost completely abandon conscripting its citizens into the local analogue of the Imperial Guard.
A temporary solution, but overall a decent way for a weak regime to mitigate the “hardships of wartime.” Furthermore, defending the Republic, which for a long time had no regular army of its own, was an organization composed entirely of combat psykers.
This order… the Jedi… recruited representatives of all races known to the Republic, where they underwent identical combat training in handling their psychic potential and an unusual-looking plasma torch.
Honestly, the news of an entire legion of well-trained combat psykers caused Orestes Bloodmoor no small amount of alarm, however… During the assault, the Space Marines from the Sons of the Anathema encountered organized resistance from both branches of the Republic’s armed forces in battle.
The captain of the third company, who was responsible for the assault, shared his impressions of the clash with the new enemy with the Inquisitor.
Toy soldiers in plastic armor, despite their comical appearance, could give certain regiments of the Imperial Guard a run for their money, especially if given more powerful weapons.
The difference was felt particularly sharply in contrast to the rabble the Hutt’s, the self-proclaimed “masters” of the surrounding space, fielded against the defenders of humanity.
As for the Jedi… There were at least two representatives of the Order on the ship.
A massive ape-like xenos and a human boy who looked no older than twelve.
As it turned out from interrogating the “bigwigs,” these two served as an “honor escort” for the diplomats gathered on the ship.
The combat skills of these psykers should not be underestimated.
Even though the Angels of Death were bound by the order to “take them alive,” wounding three whole Space Marines in close combat… Such an achievement could well earn the laurels of a true feat, had it been accomplished by a faithful servant of the Emperor.
Is it any wonder that the Inquisitor prioritized a thorough interrogation of the Jedi for his interrogator?
Although it would be more accurate to say, the Jedi.
The little boy was taken from under the Inquisitor’s nose by the Chief Librarian of the Sons of the Anathema, so Artoria Dotis, formerly an arbitrator judge, now an interrogator in the service of the Holy Throne, had to focus on interrogating the xenos.
Credit where credit was due to that ape, he held up well, but Dotis still found a way to surprise him when she began inserting various cunning instruments directly into the xenos… Well, the details of the interrogation process itself can be omitted from the report.
Honestly, the Inquisitor hadn’t even suspected that the existence of such idiots was possible.
A whole order of pacifist warrior-monks?!
Live and learn!
This had to be someone’s sick joke.
Even considering the peculiarities of the local Warp, their philosophy sounded at least stupid and naive.
Like infantile children, these Jedi had shouldered an immense burden of responsibility while being completely unprepared to fulfill their duty.
As for the opponents of the “Galactic Republic,” the so-called CIS… “My lord, your concerns have been fully justified.” Dotis’s clipped voice tore the Inquisitor from his own thoughts.
“The Mad Bitch is definitely behind the assassination attempt on the witch.
Of course, she covered her tracks, so we won’t be able to directly accuse her.” Another problem caught up with the Inquisitor and bit him in the ass.
An assassin from the Death Cult had somehow managed to infiltrate the Nemesis Punisher, sneak past the Astartes, and try to kill the Seer.
“Try” being the operative word, because when the Space Marines of the honor guard burst in, having rushed to the noise, the assassin was already… no, he wasn’t dead.
Like an obedient little boy, he stood before the witch, kneeling.
The witch must have twisted his brains into a pretzel with her magic.
In a normal situation, such tricks would have meant an inevitable execution on the spot for the xenos, but given the circumstances, the witch got off with a light fright.
The other matter was that the successful outcome did nothing to solve the root of all evil.
The good old tangles of intrigue and secrets continued to bloom in full force, even finding themselves in alien space, under unfamiliar stars.
“I see,” the Inquisitor muttered thoughtfully.
“Just perfect.” When Bloodmoor’s colleagues in the trade jokingly uttered the now-common expression, “If an Inquisitor hasn’t become a radical by the time he’s three hundred, he’s either dead or already a traitor,” Orestes would just smirk in response.
The Emperor himself must have spared His servants from meeting Viola Del Shin.
A Puritan to the core, by her fourth century in the service of the Master of Mankind, Del Shin could boast the dubious reputation of a “Karamazov in a skirt.” To be fair, being an exemplary witch-hunter in the Ordo Hereticus, Viola should have long ago received the title of Lord Inquisitor for her numerous merits, but the widely known “love” her colleagues in the rosette had for Del Shin’s person had ruined the Puritan’s career advancement.
This calculating bitch had devoted her entire life to hunting down agents of the Inquisition who had betrayed the Holy Throne.
The problem was that in the eyes of this crazy woman, practically all Inquisitors, with rare exceptions, were traitors.
A case where the nickname “Mad Bitch” was fully justified.
If only her views didn’t find widespread support among the Monodominants… The attempt on the xenos’s life was definitely an echo of the unfolding war between the Mad Bitch and Lord Inquisitor Valthor Meph.
The bitch hardly seriously counted on the success of her little stunt; from her side, such an innocent prank was just a good way to remind everyone of her existence.
Alrik slowly strode through the corridors of the Star Kraken.
Junior officers and sailors of the vessel scurried back and forth, always busy with some undoubtedly important work, the purpose of which, however, Alrik was completely unconcerned with.
Every one of them, upon seeing the Rogue Trader, their master, would diligently bow or give a military salute.
The concepts of subordination, firmly drilled in at the Fleet academies, made themselves known.
In turn, Alrik would slightly incline his head in a sign of greeting.
Unlike his noble brethren by patent, whose lineage some planetary governors might envy, Eyvor, being a first-generation Rogue Trader, did not judge people based solely on primitive notions of a person’s origin according to the tenets of the Imperium’s convoluted hierarchical system.
Alrik lived in a world where a high-born aristocrat with his inherent elegant grace could turn out to be a servant of the Dark Gods, while a beggar scraping by on the lower levels of a Hive could easily be a Saint… Therefore, in the Rogue Trader’s established worldview, every person deserved attention, be it an ordinary farmer from the most backwater agri-world or a noble, talented aristocrat from Terra itself.
People are judged not by their origin, but by their actions — an incredibly rare philosophy in the dark times of the forty-first millennium.
All people are equal before the Emperor, and they are all people, and therefore, they should be treated as equals if they are both worthy servants of His.
In this regard, Alrik was never stingy.
Part of this rather specific worldview of the former acolyte could be blamed on his childhood.
Alrik was born and raised on an agri-world in a family of ordinary farmers.
Being born on such a world into a farmer’s family, the only future you could count on was to become a farmer yourself one day, continuing the hard labor of your ancestors.
Such was the typical future of every ordinary inhabitant of the Imperium.
But Eyvor found the resolve to defy this fate.