The Flayed God IIIDuBois had long since slumped to the floor and drifted into the kindness of unconsciousness. She awoke with a start to find herself still in the corridor, ankle relocated and braced, and enough painkillers to down a horse being prepared to inject her.
“Nu-uhhhh,” she started before coughing. The medic handed her a bottle of water. She took a sip slowly savouring the fresh cold sensation the water left in her mouth. She chewed at her dry mouth trying to force moisture throughout. She took another swig, swilling and gargling the water. The medic waited impatiently.
“Inquisitor, I need to finish treating you.”
“Get me up, dammit. Where’s Falid? And Wyrd?”
“You’ve got multiple cracked ribs, your shoulder and upper arm is mush, you’ve dislocated an ankle. You’ve lost nearly enough blood to kill you and your face is going to swell and bruise any time soon. You’re half dead, Inquisitor. Let’s not make it full dead.”
The medic was direct, which Jaq could at least appreciate. Now that she noticed it, her right arm wasn’t responding to any of her wishes and, if she really thought about it, was really quite painful. Her hair was matted with dried blood and sweat residue.
“Wyrd? Falid?”
“Wyrd suffered substantial crush injuries, some burns, shrapnel wounds, and is in shock. Prognosis is decent, though. We weren’t far behind you and put on a full burn when we saw your racing vitals. Falid is still unresponsive. He’s stopped crying though.”
The medic checked DuBois head wound, gently sorting through the hair, blood and grime. She sprayed some distilled water over the wound site, then began gently nudging the wound with disinfectant. The medic nodded at the empty crater in the floor where Kaukasos had been.
“What’s your name, Medic?”
“Persei Leonin, Inquisitor. What did you vaporise?”
“Something that needed it,” said DuBois, wincing as the medic continued cleaning her wound, “Is the recovery team in there?”
“Yes Inquisitor. They’re looking at a full evac of all the local materials. I’ve been asked to give you updates on their work. You are required to sta-”
“Feth that,” DuBois said, pointing to be helped up, “Get me up. I want to see my prize.”
“Let me double check that sling,” Persei sighed despondently. She took a moment to check and adjust the position and tension.
“We can’t leave this too much longer before operating. Best to get you under the knife soon.”
DuBois showed an open palm of assent, before adding “I just want to see it. Then we can get me out of here.”
Leonin helped her up, onto her good leg, before shuffling under Jaq’s good shoulder. DuBois could see Wyrd had been treated but left unconscious. Bandages and unguents surrounded the fallen psyker, along with a small, dedicated recovery team. They gently moved Wyrd onto a stretcher, wrapped over bands to keep him in place and took him to be evacuated. Falid had still not moved. The medics around him were testing him with auspexes, while they figured out how to gently remove him from the temple. DuBois and Persei moved through the lobby, into the main chamber.
DuBois tilted her head back, taking in the full madness of the chamber. Huge murals celebrating the Flayed God form of the Emperor ran the full height of the temple. The floor was sunk lower, increasing the vast scale of the chamber.
In a circle at the very centre of the chamber sat over twenty constructs - they looked like medical examination chairs that had been coated in gold. Above the circle of chairs hung a colossal device, a mix of hooks, mechanical arms, mechadendrites, needs and slicing tools. The device hung above the seats like a looming cephalopod predator.
“Take me down there.”
As DuBois closed in, she could see the cruel, insane genius of the place. The machine had all the requisite tools to effectively and safely dismantle a human. It would take time to chart the full machine, to review the full form and function. Residues of the various unguents and chemicals used would need to be analyzed from the various syringes and tubes. The seats were inelegant and lacking in real function. Indeed up close, they were exceedingly crude and would need re-engineering. The room itself was not sanitary and would have promoted severe infection. Another flaw to correct.
Still, this thing - le sede k'i'i hinan devocional - was the product of a mind she wouldn’t openly admit that she deeply admired. She let herself have a moment of satisfaction. It was in her talons now.
“Are we ready to remove and replace it all?”
“Yes Inquisitor.”
“Get it done.”
=][=
Faith IPresent day, Tomb of Kaires, Ghost Worlds“I’m telling you Inquisitor, this is the real deal. I’ve got a lead on them.”
Falid tossed his data pad across DuBois’ desk. She stopped it abruptly with a sharp movement of her hand. She flipped the pad, letting it slide through her fingers upright in front of her face. It unlocked and disgorged its secrets to her.
“Barely a month’s travel from here, Inquisitor. I got a lead from a friend, a good contact. The lead is solid. It’s a busy world, a nexus due to its resources and the rulers… discretion. They keep quiet, everyone keeps on trading, they get to sell their bountiful ores, metals, and other precious resources to the region. It works. It just works. And in this nexus, Ishkar, we’ll find those we need to finish the Configuration. We’re maybe six weeks away from the beginning of the end! Dammit, Jaq, touching distance.”
Falid beamed with joy.
“We can restore it, Jaqueline.”
She finished the data.
“Explain this further.”
“I told you, there’d been rumours. Sects across the Mechanicum who believe in progress. Not just archeotech, but the principles of innovation and invention,” Falid continued, as he waved his arms expressively, “Now, where could one find such a sect? They would most likely have been tracked across the galaxy and purged ruthlessly. They would need a network of contacts and they would need resources. They’d also need to be careful.”
Falid motioned for DuBois to pass the datapad, which she obliged.
“Now, look here and here. These aren’t standard Adeptus Mechanicum patterns. Now look at this figure, this cloak. Not standard Mechanicum colours. This is an emissary, I think. Not a primary connection back to the hive - probably not even a secondary or a tertiary link - but it is a lead. Look at the equipment - non-standard power array on the axe. Non-standard magazine racks on the pistol. Look at the mechadendrites, that agility isn’t usual either. That’s a jokaero modification on that miniaturized las-ring too. Xenotech - nope, not standard in the Cult Mechanicum.”
Falid flicked to a new page.
“It isn’t just these small things. There are bigger hints too. It’s a language, a subtle language that can be spoken in ignorant Imperial rimworlds who will be blind to it. They’ve got contacts in a dozen systems and a dozen high ranked officials in the Administratum. They see any explorator fleets coming a decade in advance, and they ghost off the radar. Suddenly their robes are red, the xeno tech disappears, and they fade back into the background minding ships, turning the handle on STC templates and making busy work of repairs and maintenance.”
Falid sat back, marvelling at the sophistication and the sheer staggering arrogance of it. Moreover, that they were capable enough to make a success of it.
“We’ll need to make sure we have credits on hand. Probably a lot of credits. Maybe some of the more…. exotic finds, a couple from GY-139, Harald’s End, oh - the Kushan Cerebarum from Tython IV. The references to the Martian Sanctuary on Pallax would probably be worth bringing, as good will. The partial STCs we’ve acquired down the years…. they have huge value. Bring the data. Good trump cards to have in negotiation.”
DuBois noticed the slight wince in Falid’s face when GY-139 was mentioned. He had spent a long time convalescing after that expedition. Jaqueline had seen the reports. Falid still had nightmares, as if Kaukasos visited him every night racking his dreams, digging through them, rifling through the depths of his psyche. Falid would wake up screaming at night. He would drift into dissociation when the stress became overwhelming. DuBois tried to shield him from the worst of the horrors one could be exposed to, working for the Inquisition. It was inevitable though, that he’d be pushed to breaking point. DuBois suspected the loss of her arm hit Falid harder than it had her. Yet here he was, resilient - at least, faking resilience - and driving through on this lead to help fulfil one of her ambitions. She was proud, if a little wary, of Falid.
“How many credits?”
“I’d suggest we bring the blank cheque,” replied Falid, nodding at her seal.
“I can get some physical cash out of the Ochre Corp. We’ll move funds from some of the investment funds and sell some of the minor artifacts we have on hand and ready to move. We’ll need Administratum cash, though.”
DuBois nodded.
“Agree. Let me confer with the Lord Scarus. I don’t need his approval, but when I start to empty accounts and requisition tithes, he tends to get some very upset messages from bureaucrats and planetary governors. Polite notes, to be sure. But upset nonetheless.”
Falid nodded.
“Get a line to the Navigator to make haste. We’ll make a stop on Styron. I’ll get word to the Lord Scarus from there, we’ll stay planet side for a few days to sort out the relevant artefacts and get the requisitions in progress. Once the funds begin to clear, we’ll leave and make our way to Ishkar. Send word ahead to your contact, with the promised finder’s fee.”
Falid looked pained for a moment.
“I meant the cash, this time.”
DuBois put a reassuring hand on his.
“We need this door to stay open for as long as we can.”
Falid nodded and smiled.
“Make sure this happens quickly and quietly. Use Fanham’s seal to power the communications. I’ll make a couple of the requisitions myself, but the majority will come from Grixos. You know the style of communication?”
Falid nodded.
“Yes, Inquisitor. Before I… Jaqueline…”
DuBois opened her palm to him.
“This is a chance to do something monumental, I… I just want…. I don’t… I don’t want to let you down.”
Jaqueline replaced her hand on his, gently. He stared intensely at her desk, trying to find his confidence there.
“Falid, listen to me. You are a core part of my operation. I trust you completely, even after GY, even after everything we’ve been through. My hand was not your mistake, it was mine. A stupid, rash assault on an opponent well beyond my capability and I should’ve known better.”
She touched his face with her bionic hand. She could see he appreciated the warm gesture.
“I know how much this pained you. How you watched over me as I recovered. I can still see the guilt in your face. Know that I trust you completely. Know that Mother is here. You have my full confidence.”
Falid stopped looking at the table between them, back to DuBois. He nodded.
“Your will be done, Inquisitor.”
=][=
The Road to NehehdjetThere was little else to do. There had been time. Little of it, at first. When he’d initially seen his fingertips of his left hand turn ashen pale, he thought he knew what was happening. As his brothers, all around him, began to crumble in their armour, he knew what was happening.
A simple slip of time had given him the upper hand. Ratchet wheel gears against balance wheels slipping teeth between hands, ticking and tocking. All the while, hounds were at his back bared teeth and wild howling - ahead of him, destructive cyclopean machinations were his fate. He needed more time.
A spinning tourbillon in four dimensions, whirling and spinning regulating space. Complications and gear teeth all moving in an orchestra of inevitability.
He needed more time, dammit!
He sprinted through his ship as his comrades fell to the floor, armour rattling loudly on the metallic floor but the occupant silent as a lonely gravestone.
He remembered his hand, always his left hand, turning ashen grey. Flecks of his flesh stole away as he sprinted pushing his body to its superhuman limits. All the while, his subconscious mind dealt with the howling canine appetite wanting to satiate itself on his flesh, the temptations of knowledge and beyond, and the demands of a golden sun.
All the while, the moons of a thousand conquered worlds moved across the sky from his memories, each one of them on an idiosyncratic combination of rotation and orbit, uniquely sized celestial bodies pressing against one another in a perpetual strip tease.
He needed more time dammit! More time, always more time!
His hand was riven with nervous tics. He fought back the rapidly progressing curse consuming his hand, his whole arm, and if he didn’t act soon his whole being, using every part of his summoned will. His will arced down his arm, slowing time in a very localized pocket around his arm. It would be enough, had to be enough, if he didn’t find more time. He let his upper mind dig up through exaltations to find and grasp and claw at more time.
The stasis field wasn’t necessarily for organic material. He wasn’t sure it was coded or suitable for organic material. No more time. He had let his soul wander into the aether searching for time. He came back to his body with a jolt-ripple of distorted aetheric chronometry. The power reserve was spent and the movement was grinding to a halt. Tick would no longer follow tock. The time left was minuscule, barely a grain of sand or three. He thumbed the activation code, his fingers pressing the buttons in a frenzy.
He threw himself into the chamber.
And, there was time. Infinite time, perhaps, or no time whatsoever. The contradictions existing in harmony.
Even through the sleep of stasis, he dreamed.
All the while, the sound of great pounding paws of a huge canine on the horizon.
Nine fractal faces frittering fractured phrases.
Shattered dominions. A green eyed carrion king sat presiding over a broken kingdom.
The police of this world marched in synchronized goose step to a beat droned out by the carrion king. The beat boomed out.
Ba-doom.
Echoing round the shattered palaces.
Ba-doom.
The crack jack boots of the police hitting the ground, each police person flashing an I, an I adorned with a ruby eyed silver skull and stylised raptor wings.
Ba-doom.
Dancing arm in arm, the puppets at the beck and call of the carrion king chorus out praises.
Ba-doom. Ba-doom. Ba-doom.
The sound travels over the ruined buildings, over the decrepit endless city, to fields of bones that run into a perfect representation of home - the Sol system as a perfect clockwork model - and to the end of the model, the edge of the system and the sound still rumbles and echoes and the sound accelerated through systems beyond the Sol system, through neighbouring systems and faster still, a great wave of cacophony reaching crescendo at the edge of the galaxy echoing through halo stars. The galaxy swirled to the beat.
Ba-doom. Ba-doom. Ba-doom.
All the while, the sound of great pounding paws of a huge canine on the horizon.
Tick following tock. The inevitable passage of time doesn’t fade the visage of the green eyed carrion king, perched on a rotten tree. The tree, twisted and frail, grey and dying, withered and worn, roots gnarled and dead grows out of the corpse of Terra.
All the while, the sound of great pounding paws of a huge canine on the horizon.
The puppet police still dance to the doom drone of the beat. Still stepping high, all that is left in the endless sea of bones and death and ruined buildings is the dust of crushed existence.
Ba-doom ba-doom ba-doom.
The green eyed carrion king leering over all of it. Nine fractal faces speaking the words of power for the carrion king.
We birthed you. We begat you. We breathed life into you. First. Only. Omega. We believe in you.
Only, omega, first.
Hollow crowned carrion king of a ruined empire.
Hate them. Avenge us. Enslave them.
Make. Them. Suffer.
Time jolted forward a second later, or a lifetime later.
His eyes swam and his entire being ached. His surroundings weren’t immediately familiar. Disorientation reigned supreme. He shook his head, trying to stave off the drowned head feeling. Every cell hurt, a mix of cold stiffened ice and hot engorged blood. His head was pounding with an alien feeling of running blood. Two hearts pounded in his chest. His lungs were sprung into action by an ancient instinct and inflated. He breathed deeply, then exhaled. His colossal torso buckled upwards and downwards for a few pained moments. He gasped and hyper ventilated, thrashing and suffering as he struggled to re-ignite his cardiovascular routine. He felt neonatal. A skein of sweat flushed and ran down his muscular spine. His vision blurred for a second, then tried to swim back into focus.
The room was filled with watching eager faces. The faces were alien and mechanical - eyes were clusters of insectoid red lights accompanying rebreather tubes under red hoods. Words were returning to him now, even if he couldn’t vocalize anything yet.
+++ Perfect are the machines of the Omnissiah +++
The voice was metallic dull, level but enthusiastically proud.
“Perfect are the machines of the Omnissiah” came the enthusiastic response from a raft of hooded acolytes.
The scent of recently blown out candles and engine grease incense haunted the room. The light flickered around the room. Each of the acolytes stood still and expectant. The colossal figure levered himself upright, hefting his legs out of the coffin shaped vessel that had secured him. He flexed his left hand, watching suspiciously for any sign of ash or dust. His fingers were flesh, hardened and disturbingly muscular, but flesh nonetheless. His body felt foreign, he looked at his sweating form and for several drowned seconds his body, ripped muscle showing through adamantine skin and of gigantic proportion, was not his own. He stepped down onto the floor but his legs, thick as they were, didn’t hold and he fell down onto one knee.
+++ The flesh is weak +++
“The flesh is weak,” echoed the acolytes.
A statuesque figure stepped through the thronging red hooded mass of mechanical limbs and laid a hand on the shoulder of the giant.
“You’re alive. Hmmm. I’m surprised you survived. I suppose we don’t make anything like you anymore. Good, though, good. It has taken some effort to get you out of there.”
The colossus tried to gather his senses. His mouth was cold-dry, even his teeth ached with static shock pain. He rolled his eyes back into his skull trying to collect his thoughts. His quaking mind did calm, folding through mental exercises. He enumerated through wards and shields, reconstructing his mental fortress. Warp energy crackled at his brows.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got all the time we’ll ever need.”
He looked up at the female figure and smiled.
=][=
Faith IIM42.120, Ishkar, the Ghost WorldsIshkar’s main star, a lazy orange dwarf, came into view as the gellar field of the Tomb of Kaires dissipated upon translation back to real space. DuBois swept onto the bridge, gazing out of the viewport watching the last of the warp energy play on the bow of the Tomb. The Tomb, a magnificent relic of an older age, had her weapons hidden and her eyes wide open.
The bridge of the Tomb was suitably archaic - or at least, it was designed to give that impression. The bridge was improbably golden and had a smattering of hieroglyphs. Each of the groups of glyphs came from a different culture that Jaqueline had helped to surface. Others came from lost sources, all Imperial. Statues of various imperial saints, gargoyles and statuesque female figures carved perfectly from marble.
A central operations dais dominated the bridge. Here, multiple screens showing the statuses of the ship, its position in space, celestial bodies, weapon systems and targets. A rectangular command and control table was underneath the various screens, serving as both holo-comms and tactical visual-command stations. A flurry of cherubim flitted around the command dais, bringing vital new intelligence reports to the current residents.
Captain Yuri Katzark, a serious looking man with a severe, wiry beard stood holding a cup of re-caf that steamed lazily in the centre of the dais. His eyes moved from screen to screen to screen, absorbing information passively - partly out of habit, mostly due to necessity. His peaked hat, an Imperial Navy crested captain’s hat, shadowed his eyes without hiding the screens. His chest was broad and iron hard underneath his perfectly pressed uniform. He shifted his feet slightly as DuBois joined him at the command.
“Nothing on sensors, Inquisitor DuBois. Our path to Ishkar is clear.”
A struggling cherub handed DuBois her customary datapad. At her other side, a fatter - perhaps stronger - cherub brought two fresh cups of re-caf. Katzark swapped his current for a fresh brew, then handed the second to DuBois. She took a sip as she considered the course to Ishkar.
“Clear us with the system authorities. Use the Ochre Corporation idents. Keep our profile low, keep the Tomb’s signature to that of a smaller ship. I don’t want them to know who the Tomb really is. Watch the patrol patterns and stay out of eyeball range. Park her up behind the gas giant, leave her hidden in between the moons. Prepare Falid’s ship - I want us to be able to take his skiff down to Ishkar. Tell Hound he needs to be ready, and to bring a couple of his heaviest friends. Let’s not go with teeth bared, but I do want us to be prepared if things go… hostile.”
“Yes, Inquisitor. Helm, mark to Ishkar IV, select the…. third moon. Put us in orbit with the moon, dark side.”
“Aye captain.”
“Comms, clear us with system authority. Ochre Corp, Spirit of Discovery. Radio to engineering to prepare the Spirit to disembark once we’re in position behind the third moon of Ishkar IV. Weapons, Engineering - get our signature down to silent and make sure we run smooth to that moon. I want nothing given away. No weapons out unless you hear it from me personally.”
“Aye captain.”
“Bosun Fontley, please take yourself to the Hound’s quarters and provide the Inquisitor’s orders to him - make ready for planetfall. Fetch Mr Wakhan from the mess, and… well you know Mr Wakhan. Make sure he is ready to be away.”
DuBois nodded. Katzark was capable - extraordinarily so - she trusted him completely with the Tomb. It was her most valuable single asset by some distance. It was also her base of operations, her archive, her sarcophagus - her home. Katzark, maybe more so than Falid, Grixos, Hound, Phantom and Revelation - held DuBois’ operation in his hands. Katzark had been held back from Admirality by some internecine politics and his own lack of ‘proper pedigree’. The fools they’d promoted ahead of him had burned Imperial resources, and under Grixos’ seal DuBois had purged them completely. Katzark had been keen to take over and move into the Admiral’s position he coveted so much, until he had seen the Tomb. The Tomb was perhaps unique outside of the First Founding Chapters. The opportunity to captain such a vessel, to guide such a unique and powerful relic was too strong. He wouldn’t see war, not in the way the Imperial Navy would, and to placate him DuBois had promised at some point she intended to expand out to a small flotilla. That hadn’t come to pass yet, but DuBois had begun squeezing her network for leads on escort ships.
She took a long satisfying draft from the cup.
“How long to the moon?”
“Better part of a day, maybe two on quiet running.”
Katzark’s eyes hadn’t stopped reading the monitors. Data streamed down them at a steady pace. DuBois watched Katzark barely miss a beat from his eyes, consuming the pertinent details while the Tomb was slicing through the void like a newly awoken kraken. She appreciated his voracious appetite for data. The Tomb hadn’t seen much combat under Katzark, but when they had, DuBois had been hugely impressed by the efficient and decisive action Katzark had taken. The Tomb had, of course, passed the test with flying colours, but very few, if any ship, could perform without a capable Captain.
“No rush. All our cargo aboard?”
“Yes, Inquisitor. Bay 3 has all the supplies you requested.”
“Thank you. Send servitors to the sarcophogi. I’ll need help getting the final pieces to bring to my contacts.”
“Yes Inquisitor.”
Katzark adjusted his footing, loosening his legs and knees before returning to his customary at ease stance. DuBois continued to drink her re-caf. She slunk into a lounging position against the edge of the dais. Katzark gave her the look of an unimpressed officer dressing down a laggard. DuBois winked at him with an impish grin.
Space travel, at least in real space, was quite often very dull. Katzark’s first officer, a stern looking woman by the name of Layfield, brought a set of shift rotation reports, operational briefings, and maintenance briefings. Katzark split them with DuBois, who gratefully received the new data. She read through with interest on the minutiae of running her ship. The Adeptus Mechanicum who maintained her ship were eccentric and decidedly radical for Mechanicus. She read their reports with interest, noting their continued excitement at all of the various modifications she had them make to the ship. They’d worked on the ship for well over 3 decades. Their boundless enthusiasm for the ship pleased DuBois. She made a mental note to speak with the Magos when she next ventured down into the enginarium.
“How’s the Navigator?”
“Leertus? The last translation was smooth, easy. He’ll be fine.”
DuBois finished her re-caf. She handed the cup back to an eager cherub who flittered off with it.
“Check in on him for me please, Captain. Make sure he’s well.”
DuBois righted herself from her lounging position.
“Call everyone to the ready room in, say, ten hours? Make sure Fontley readies Falid. I know he’s been suffering, and if he’s been back in the mess-“
“Fontley will sober him up.”
“- thank you. I think Hound might be a little sore too.”
“Sparring?”
DuBois frowned. Katzark rolled his eyes.
“Something like that.”
“I’ll have a word.”
DuBois paused for a moment. She touched his arm gently.
“Thank you, Yuri.”
Katzark looked at her, and gave her a salutary smile.
“Back to work, Inquisitor. Get some sleep. I’ll have Fontley bring you a copy of the bridge reports in the morning,” Katzark said, with a reassuring professional nod.
=][=
Fallout“Lord Scaran!” Fanham shouted, “Get her under control!”
“Don’t point your finger at me, girl,” snarled DuBois, pointing her finger at Qatya.
“I’ll do whatever I want you bookish fop. You ruined my opportunity to strike a telling blow on the Disciples of Revat!”
“Because your stupidity destroyed innumerable priceless relics! You annihilated a library filled with wisdom and part of an STC template, you destroyed a plane-“
“I unleashed exterminatus because I had to! You got in my way you utterly stupid wretch. I had them on the run. I had them in my hands. And I needed them alive to follow them back to the root.”
“Please, Inquisitors, please. Calm down,” insisted the Lord Scaran. Tension in the room had ratcheted and ratcheted and now it had exploded. Both DuBois and Fanham were on their feet. With each recrimination they had taken sub-conscious steps towards each other. They were nearly in each other’s face now.
Jaali Wakhan watched on, as she sat a few rows back in the auditorium. She was apoplectic with rage, and had instructed Doppel to be so. Doppel was doing well. Her generous frame was wobbling with each recrimination. Her usually neat grey bun, tied up on top of her head, had come loose splaying bundles of grey hair down behind her head. Her glasses, which were thickset lenses on sturdy frames, rattled up and down her nose as she argued. Her auto-quill, hung off her shoulder with the paper falling down her back, was barely keeping up with the furious repartee. The tomes hung theatrically off her belt, just under her large leather duster, were wobbling with her fury. Jaali was proud of the performance, if not yet the outcome.
The Lord Scaran, Lord Inquisitor Huut Thales, was slowly turning a deeper and deeper shade of furious red. His two prized Inquisitors, at the opposite ends of modus operandi, were busy dressing each other down like a pair of squabbling children. Jaali kept her eyes on the Lord Scaran, trying to gauge what he was going to do. He was clearly furious. He couldn’t bring himself to fully admonish either though. DuBois - Doppel - had been a prize for the Scarus sector when she’d decided to move there. The secrets of the Scarus sector had lain dormant for years. DuBois had begun to unpack them, enriching the sector and digging out the deep roots humanity had laid in the sector.
Fanham was the consummate field Inquisitor - purges, investigations, and success after success. The sector was demonstrably safer for her interventions. The Disciples of Revat were her white whale. Always on the edge of her reach, always beyond her grasp. New Haverford was to be her opportunity to finally land a solid lead. She’d caught them on the hop, too many people in one place. Too juicy an opportunity to turn down. She immediately launched after them, diving onto the world. But she was furious, reckless, distracted from her usual considered and careful strategic approach.
Her force descended on the cult headquarters with the divine fury of a flight of valkyries. They crashed through, sparing no one. They’d missed the fine details, though.
DuBois’ first loss was an acolyte, Yarrick LeChamptagne, or Claw. He’d been undercover, investigating the cult. When Fanham crashed through the door, he had organized a fighting retreat, all the while trying desperately to communicate with the attackers who he was. DuBois watched on in desperation, watching the increasingly pleading messages broadcast on Inquisition only channels go without response. Claw survived the assault and spent several days in the care of Fanham’s interrogators. Once again, DuBois’ messages went unanswered.
Yarrick, between screams and howls for mercy, revealed the location of DuBois’ dig.
Fanham, still caught in a frenzy, immediately ordered an orbital strike.
DuBois’ second loss was the dig site on New Haverford. Her team had spent the better part of a year tracking down New Haverford, then this specific site. An ancient explorator sect of the Mechanicum had left Mars in search of the Omnissiah. They found New Haverford, and after years of wandering decided to stay and rebuild their sect. They made contact with Mars, and upon hearing the Omnissiah had been found decided to make New Haverford their permanent home. Centuries past, and after a delivery from the homeworld their work with the Standard Template Construction began.
It was said they only worked in the theoretical, deciding that the electronic representation of the machine was the most divine expression of the machine, given no flesh could possibly pervert it with its imperfections. Their creations were said to be spectacular, and though it took substantial effort from outsiders, occasionally their designs were allowed to leave the world. That was how they’d tracked down this world, it was what led them to this place. And, at the point the lance strike struck to annihilate the digsite and everyone in it, they had just discovered an intact data stream.
DuBois still dreamed of the moment. She had gone back to the Tomb to begin venting her fury at Fanham’s failure to respond to her messages. The datapad chimed with the face of Excavator Primus Elerria de la Guti. Her face was enraptured with the innocent joy of discovery. DuBois had shrieked with joy. And there, with Elerria’s datapad pointing to the heavens, she saw the split second warning of the incoming lance before nothingness. The datapad catastrophically shattered into pieces as her rage induced her to throw the datapad at the wall of the bridge.
The third and final loss DuBois had from New Haverford came as she desperately scrambled to contact Fanham. Fanham was lost in her rage. DuBois tried to control hers, to no avail. She had the Tomb round on Fanham’s ship, all weapons bare, void shields active, all sensors set to full. Her rage permeated the ship - she could see the bloodlust in the eyes of the usually ice cool Katzark. No one on the ship noticed what was happening on the surface. The Disciples of Revat had assumed they were backed into a corner. They saw the lance strikes from orbit. They saw the remains of their own people left outside Fanham’s base of operations after they’d been dissected and filleted like junk meat.
In their desperation, their prayers turned to darkness. They grasped into the aether. They read from proscribed texts in perverse languages. They began to sacrifice life after life after life. Pain after torture after violation after death each act pulling at the barrier of the warp. Through the violence and the blood, the psychic pain and the flood of emotions the veil between worlds was rend open. A flood of daemons came through and began to assault the world. The breach of the barrier to the warp cascaded - in the disruption following the return of Guilliman and the establishment of the Cicatrix Maledictum the Black Ships had not visited New Haverford in a generation. A thousand psykers all felt their minds begin to have their foundations shook. Warp fire consumed many. Raw aether leaked out of some melting their flesh. In the whipping warp winds, that flesh was remade into garish meat gateways to beyond, and back through the gateways came wave after wave of the most depraved servants of chaos.
DuBois’ third loss was New Haverford itself. As recriminations flowed back and forth between Fanham and DuBois, neither of them noticed the sheer volume of psychic energy and daemons flooding onto the world. With every soul lost in service to chaos, their grip tightened around the world. Within minutes the world was engulfed in a storm of worshipful violence. The exponential failure went further with every death.
When their crew finally fought through the accusations and threats, there was little else to do. DuBois slumped to the deck of the Tomb’s bridge. Sat on her haunches, she watched as Fanham ordered her ship to load for exterminatus. She fell onto her rear and went slack against a wall as her colleagues ship finished loading the world cracking weapon. Tears fell from her eyes, tears of utterly focused rage, as the cyclonic torpedoes fell down onto New Haverford.
It was gone. It was all gone.
“I should have your damned seals and throw you both to my Excruciators as practice meat! I should be making banners out of your hides to hang in the halls of this place! Throne, a whole world lost. Leads on the worst cult in the sector - lost! A revolutionary cache of data - lost! Because you two couldn’t work together! Both of you, learned, wise, moderate members of His Holy Ordos and you couldn’t be bothered to spend thirty seconds talking to each other!”
It seemed Thales had finally cracked.
“With due respect-“
“I don’t want to hear it, Fanham. Be quiet, now. You will both avoid trial, this time. You will do penance and I’ll see a report written by both of you discussing the failures of your operations. Jointly, to be clear.”
“Not a chance I’m doing anything with her,” Doppel started, “I’ll write you-“
“A joint report. A joint report will be sufficient, Inquisitor DuBois.”
The Lord Scaran’s tone had changed now. The fury had been replaced by something cold and sinister. Thales eyes betrayed his relative capability and power. This conversation was done.
As those assembled in the darkness of the Inquisitorial auditorium on Scarus began to filter out, Jaali Wakhan, also known as Jaqueline DuBois, knew what had to happen. She’d originally come here in good faith, to try and bury the hatchet and move on. She had tried - good Emperor, how she had tried, to forgive. On the voyage back to Scarus to debrief she had spent time in the chapel on the Tomb, meditating on forgiveness. Her thoughts kept centring on the same words, until those words became rote and through into a mantra. Words have power, mantras more.
Fanham had to pay.
Fanham had to pay.
Fanham had to pay.
And so it would be.
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