Aurea Mediocritas

[Inquisitor Sargoth]

I don't think my name is important.

If you have never heard it, it would mean nothing. If you have, then revealing myself as the author of this work would be tantamount to suicide.

I am an Inquisitor, under a century in age, young by the standards of my order and obscure even to my peers. I have no great infamy or reputation; I have undertaken several cases, following all through to their conclusions. Like many of the Inquisition, I strike from the shadows, and disappear back into them once again. It is not uncommon.

Perhaps that is a clue to my personality, as it is perceived. I am seen as reserved, elusive and duplicitous.

I am content with the impression I give.

I have always found the divisions within the Inquisition both wearying and fascinating, from the liberals to the extremists, the puritans and the radicals, the investigators and the warriors. Nevertheless, at times I am dispirited by my colleagues.

None share my views.

I am a believer in knowledge and lore. I am strong in my belief that no knowledge is inherently evil, but it is put to evil uses. Some forbidden knowledge is of terrible things; I know this better than most. Yet the knowledge of how a forbidden act can be performed does not necessarily beget the act itself. It can arm one against the act.

Know this; I am no radical. There is a line between understanding and application.

At first, I feel it was the power of curiosity that drove me, like so many others. Prohibition is foolish for this very reason, I am sure it is what leads so many to damnation. Denying something makes one unprepared for it. Only through understanding can things be controlled. It is for this reason I seek out forbidden tomes, banned accounts and diaries and other fonts of questionable wisdom. Understanding is forever the key.

I consider the forbidding of many suspect works to be a colossal weakness on the part of my order, but I will again stress not for the same reasons as my radical brethren. By saying a book is evil, as well as eliciting dangerous curiosity, we are questioning ourselves. It is a test to learn something forbidden and not to act upon it, and it is because we deny this test, so may fall when they find such works. We must test all aspirants against this, above all else.

Puritanism and radicalism are folly. One is outright denial of wisdom, the other the embracement of what are, at best, questionable practises. I find myself forever in the middle, isolated and alone, although I have no doubt others have taken a similar stance. Indeed, I have found proof of it in my collections.


It is extensive, my library. I have no fewer than seven copies of the Book of Horus, no two of which match. These fakes, forgeries and flawed copies are another danger we blind ourselves to. I also possess the painfully honest account of fallen Inquisitor Nostraphantus, a poor copy of the Malus Codicium, the Codex Infernum and the Al Azif, among others. For this, many would seek to burn my library and myself, while others would seek to kill me to take them.

You may wonder what purpose this testimony serves. It is a preface for a work like many in my library, my personal favourites.

This is my story.

It is likely that when you read this, Inquisitor, I am long dead and that this is a forbidden tome. I have included no eldritch knowledge here, so those avaricious radicals who greedily paw at these leaves can stop reading now and save themselves disappointment. The few puritans who have not already burned this work should do so now; it may test your 'faith'. Do you not understand that faith is never proven until it is tested?

If any have chosen to read on, I salute you. You have taken the first step towards the only enlightenment I can offer. Self-illumination.

I am the walker of boundaries, and I am alone.

I will tell you my name. It is a vanity I am not above.

My name is Dorian.

[Inquisitor Sargoth]

A few housekeeping details before we begin. I was born seventy one years ago, on a small moon orbiting a gas giant. My parents worked in the supply station there, fuelling and repairing passing merchant freighters. I have no memory of my brief life there, although it was doubtlessly terribly dull.

I was taken away at the age of nine by the Black Ships. They are my earliest memories, I suspect because the experience eclipsed the life which had preceded it. I am a psyker, barely. I was only just strong enough to be detected and retrieved. My only psychic gift was empathy. With training, I am a highly skilled empath and an adequate telepath. Such skills are naturally useful in my profession, and I count myself lucky that my gifts are so meagre.

It is difficult to describe the life on the Black Ships to one who has not been inside them. It is a place of constant noise - the humming of psi-dampeners, the screams of the terrified and insane, the hymns and prayers of confessors and the beat of urgent feet in desperate haste. Then there are the smells; the stink of ozone from power shields, fearful sweat and incense. As befitted my weakness, I was allowed the relative freedom of the holds and only had to wear a psi-dampening collar. Others, destined for greatness or death, were confined to powerfully warded cells, or even placed in stasis fields or numbing metal body-suits to contain their raw, untamed power.


I was considered too stable to be fed to the Emperor and too weak to became an astropath and as such I doubtless would have found a tiny, insignificant role within the Schola Psykana to suit my dilute psychic nature.

As you know, I was diverted into another role. It was because of my obvious intelligence and insight when examined, and my irritating habit of questioning everything around me. Even at that young age, I was skilled at second-guessing and reading people, an ability I believe my powers merely augment rather than create.

My mistress was a wily old woman, one whom I still respect in spite of, or even because of, her staunch puritanism. I will not do her the disservice of being named; I will not have her memory blighted by my reputation. She was an Amalthian, but she was as cunning as the slyest Recongregator and favoured a covert approach. It was what attracted me as a student, I think. She saw in me the potential for masterful subterfuge, effortless lies and elegant deceit. Many puritans may balk at such methods being considered puritanical, but my mistress was as puritan as they came, almost arrogant with her position of moral superiority. It is the manifesto of the Inquisition to be the highest of courts, judge, jury and executioner and she never flinched nor shirked from this duty.

She was not a psyker, and but she was more open-minded than many of her peers and saw my abilities as a gift, not a curse. I was no witch to her. As an empath, I could read people well, especially when I was trained by Schola Psykana adepts in the deeper school of telepathy.

My training took many years, and it would be dull to list it all. I was instructed by adepts to harness, control and heighten my powers. I was taught Inquisitorial protocol and philosophy by my mistress, and I was taught how to fight by her loyal retainers. I will not detail it; it is of no importance and little interest.

A few years later, I was elevated to the rank of Interrogator and I accompanied my mistress at her will and whim. I watched her agents infiltrate cults and participated in their subsequent destruction. I hacked into encrypted databases and uncovered corrupt officials. I earned especial commendation when I single-handedly defeated a small cadre of mercenaries Tauist madman had hired to protect himself. I later oversaw his interrogation, where my psychic abilities tore free every secret he possessed. I saved my mistress's life when we tracked down and destroyed a possessed psyker in the undercity of a bloated hive world.   

At the age of twenty six I was made an Inquisitor. I was astoundingly young, but I had been trained from an infantile age and my mistress had such confidence in me.

I would only see her once more after that day, and it would be a bitter farewell. 

I mirrored her, in my first years. My methods were the same as hers, and they are still highly similar. I was quite obscure, as I still am, to my peers.

I was a puritan, in my way. I was quiet and reserved, as I have always been, but I had such fervour in my cause. I gave little thought to radicalism, dismissing it as madness.

This was a weakness, a weakness which almost claimed me in later years.

[Inquisitor Sargoth]

A desperate plea for Inquisitorial aid brought me to a world; the name is as unimportant as my own. The planet itself is somewhat isolated. There are no habitable worlds near it for some weeks by warp travel.

The communiqué had come from the Adeptus Arbites, who are much more willing to do send for the Inquisition than local planetary governments, who fear the Inquisition so. Our reputation is dark, and we feed this, understanding the value of it. Sometimes, of course, it proves an obstacle, but suits our purposes.

I digress. I answered the call. A series of devastating high profile murders, seemingly without reason but with a tainted pattern, had brought the planet to its knees and lead them to call upon the Inquisition.

I remember watching it from orbit. It looked like many worlds settled and terraformed by mankind. Wide, azure oceans, greenish landmasses crowned with a frozen wasteland greeted me, the darkness of the night side highlighting the glittering lights of human settlements. A single bloated moon locked in a strange orbit drifted lazily around it, little more than a long-dead rock.

I recall the shuttle journey from the vessel to the planet. I sat as a co-pilot, though this was unnecessary for such a routine trip. I was still learning how to pilot such craft back then, a valuable skill. After we broke atmosphere, the superheated hull was rapidly cooled by our passage through thick banks of cloud as we headed towards the capital.

We landed at a site within the blocky fortress of the Arbites precinct, tracked by automated turrets. To see one such precinct is to see them all; they remind me of the citadels and starred fortresses of Imperial nobles on feudal worlds, and they are designed to intimidate.

It was raining heavily, I recall.

I travelled alone. My network of allies and agents was nascent at this time, and was in habit of co-opting local talent who knew the lay of the land far better than any offworld expert.

An honour-guard of Arbitrators in full carapace armour and oiled leather capes, in deference to the rain, met me. I had little time for ceremony, but thankfully neither did they, and they took me quickly to see their commander, Marshall Adilet.

He met me in some kind of audience chamber or briefing room; there was a desk of sorts atop a raised dais, with pews around the room and empty central space. I recall a white stone floor, presumably marble, with the symbol of the Arbites in black at the centre; a fist clutching a set of scales. A wonderful symbol in its encapsulation of everything one needs to know about the organisation.

Marshall Adilet was surprisingly young for a man of his position, though still older than I am now. He was scarred from years of service, but had no visible bionic enhancements. He wore the same black and red armour as his cohorts, though his cape was more ceremonial than functional.

He was anxious. A common reaction, but as an empath I vicariously experience the emotions of others. I hid my own nervousness in our meeting, holding myself stiffly and more formally than I normally would.

"Inquisitor," he nodded.

"Marshall."

"I hope you are not tired from your journey. We have prepared you some quarters within the precinct, if you wish. I must admit I am surprised you arrived so promptly, lord."

"Chance, nothing more. I was nearby when the communiqué was sent. I have little time for formalities, Marshall, so I will be direct. What ails your world?"

I felt a glimmer of respect, and an increase in his fear. Other Arbitrators, my honour guard and others seated around the room, had similar responses. There was a curious absence I found my psychic senses drawn to, which was revealed to be a haggard old calculus logi, his emotions long since purged away.

"We are ...besieged, Inquisitor. Two months ago, there was an explosion in the city of Demokles. No chemical or radioactive source could be discovered, and the local Astrotelepathicus immediately reported the explosion to be entirely warp-based. The Governess's nephew and heir were brutally slaughtered inside the Imperial Palace by a guard conditioned to absolute loyalty, with years of service to his name, who then took his own life. Several Ad-Mech Comptrollers have been murdered through a variety of unpleasant ways; evidently they were onto something. Then our Lord Marshall was killed. In his sleep, by a servo-skull."

Marshall Adilet was used to leading Arbites actions, not co-ordinating them across an entire world. It was no small wonder he had turned to a higher authority. In truth, I knew most of these facts, but the most recent developments were much more suggestive than the greater acts of destruction which had brought me here.

I could not prevent myself concentrating on him, struggling to suppress the hubbub of other emotions within the room to focus on his. There was a glimmer of doubt that was not connected to his fear and guilt, doubt about me. I was so young I had received no treatments to prevent aging, and it showed. I was young, inexperienced, and I assumed that he worried I was not up to the task.

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes, Inquisitor. We are certain the same individual, or more likely individuals, are behind these events as they have a habit of leaving symbols. Intelligencer Raguel has the pict-captures."

Raguel stepped forward. He was a worn man, decidedly unhealthy-looking. His hair was thinning, eyes and cheeks sunken, skin yellowish. He was flanked by a taller man, more powerfully built, with a stern face and a shaven skull. 

Wordlessly, he handed me a data slate. The first image was of an eight-pointed star wrought in flames on the side of a spire in what I presumed to be Demokles, the second drawn in blood next to the deceased heir's body, the third carved into the gnarled forehead of the Lord Marshall. Others were on computer screens, and showed more variety and complexity. A few I recognised then, all I recognise now.

Chaos glyphs.

Some were simple runes, but others writhed and danced, stung and offended the eyes like optical illusions. The final picture was the most puzzling, however, because it didn't fit the pattern. Apparently it had been found next to a Logister who had been strangled with his own neural plug.

It was a smear of blood in the shape of a single jigsaw piece.

"You were right to contact the Inquisition. I presume you have a team working on this?"

"The entire precinct, Inquisitor, under my supervision. Raguel is the man to speak to, though; he's been investigating every murder site forensically, but it's a thankless task. Whenever he's found fibres, DNA samples or similar it's invariably from the victim, pets or close family. The motive appears to be simple anarchy; we suspect an anarchistic cell or some kind of counter-Imperial cult. The only lead we have is the Comptrollers; it's obvious they were killed either because they knew something or to prevent them from finding something out. We've got adepts and calculus logi working around the clock to try and see what they stumbled upon, but their logic engines were all destroyed, notes burned or simply taken. Even tech-adept Mánirune is baffled, and it's very hard for him to admit it."

"I wasn't aware there was a significant Mechanicus presence here. Is he some sort of Arbites attaché?"

"No, he's in charge of a facility about thirty miles outside the city walls. The site's been owned by the Ad-Mech as far back as our records go. I never thought it wise to question it, but assumed it was a storage facility or something."

"I'll probably want to speak with him, then, after reviewing your notes and case files."

"Then you'll be here some time, Inquisitor. Months of notes from investigations, parallel investigations, post-mortem reports, forensic analyses and other such paperwork are kept in the archives. We've been very thorough."

"Glad to hear it," I said.

***

He had not exaggerated. Boxes, cabinets, data-slates and notepads filled entire rooms. Servitors, scribes, scriveners and bored-looking Arbitrators in black uniforms were sifting, editing, and filing. It struck me as pointless, and if they had failed after months of effort I doubted I would be able to make a great impact myself.

Nonetheless, I spoke to Raguel.

"So, Intelligencer, what are your theories?"

"We have no physical evidence they didn't specific leave for us. That tells us that they know what they're doing. They potentially have some experience in murder investigation. Possibly a local enforcer. To my eyes the evidence points strongly a group, a terrorist cell or death-cult, with members of diverse skills, including vast technological experience."

Raguel's mind was bitter, sharp and fast. At first it was too fast to follow, thoughts swirling and eddying, multiplying and disappearing so fast they left glittering trails that formed a jumbled web, a chorus of strident voices and dizzying sensations.

"Logical assumptions. Has there been any pattern to the murders themselves?"

"As you know, the initial targets were very public; the Governess's family, a city-block. Subsequent targets have been uniformly those who threaten to expose them."

Deeper probing revealed something buried beneath the outer levels of identity. A terrible secret; how could anyone resist learning such a thing? He was addicted to a powerful stimulant, so potent he took sedatives to sleep, which in turn forced him to use the stimulant upon waking. His reliance showed; his mind was as strained as his body.

"Which would likely make you a viable target, Intelligencer."

"And you, Inquisitor."

"Indeed. All the more reason for us to work quickly. What about the murders themselves; is there any evidence of ritual to it?"

"With the exception of leaving their little calling cards, nothing whatsoever. Many were strangled, others stabbed and some shot with las-weapons."

"Las-weapons. No powder-burns, no shell casings. No forensic clues whatsoever. And extremely easy for anyone to get their hands on. So no leads there. It seems to me that this is less the work of a death-cult, then, and more that of a terrorist cell. Your best lead, it would seem, is that they target Comptrollers. This means there is evidence to by found by those with a sufficient understanding of technology."

"We assumed as much, but we've been using our not-inconsiderable resources, with the assistance of Adept Mánirune."

"What does he suspect?"

"Hereteks, he believes, corrupted the servo-skull in an act of outright desecration and he suspects that they're killed Comptrollers to hide further crimes against the machine. He suspects they're just paving the way for something, which explains the lack of evidence."

"A chilling theory indeed, and not without merit. I wish to meet this Mánirune."

"I'll see to it, sir."

"It seems we know one thing about our enemy, Intelligencer."

"Sir?"

"They cover their tracks with an enviable diligence, desperate to avoid discovery. They are afraid, Intelligencer."