The Short Fiction Collection

[Inquisitor Sargoth]

Free for anyone to post short stories.

Survival

I am hungry.

I am so very hungry, and so very cold.

I am dying, here in the void, my reserves of energy dwindling day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. So much of what I am lies dormant, to preserve my strength and keep me alive.

I know there is something nearby, something I can feed upon and stave off death a little longer.

Light. It blinds me at first, the warmth it carries cracking and melting the skein of ice that covers my flesh, which now blisters in the savagery of the heat.

A star, with a collection of worlds. Nourishment.

I unfold my tattered wings, flex frozen fins and move to the greatest of them, slowing as I drift into orbit. My tendrils tease at the atmosphere, tasting the oxygen and the sweetness of it all. Water. Carbon. Metals. Everything I need.    

I send my children there, knowing full well that I send them to their deaths. Some other form of life has found this place already, filled the air and the earth with poisons that I will be forced to process when I feed upon it. They reject my children, kill them. I feel every death. They would kill me if they could.

Perhaps they can.  They attack me now, sending their metal bodies to face me. They burn my flesh and they even dare to crawl inside me, razing everything in their path, unleashing potent toxins I struggle to neutralise. It hurts, but they are soon driven back and the infection destroyed.

They do not stop. Attack after attack, growing ever more desperate with each. Many of my smaller siblings die. Plasma burns into one of my hearts and I bleed into the void. Something blows a crater in my underbelly, and it taints my flesh so badly, degrading the very genetic material, that it must be rejected. The pain is excruciating as I shed layer after layer of my flesh, but it must be done. I must survive.  

The attacks fade, in time. It seems I have exhausted them. On the world below the last of them are dying away now, my children feasting and then dying themselves to sustain me. Is there a greater show of love anywhere in this universe?

My tendrils descend, and I feed until the world lies barren and lifeless below me.

The main feast over, I move my attentions to the lesser worlds that huddle around this blazing star. They are of little value, supplying me only with some elements and minerals that will scarcely supply more energy than that which I will expend metabolising them.

And before long, I am done. My hunger is not sated.

I can hear something in the distance. My children have found another world for me; they sing for me. It is a great distance away. Most of what I have gained from this system will be depleted in the journey.

I fold away my wings, slow my metabolism and prepare for the journey. The wounds have closed now, though they are still raw and painful. Perhaps this will give them time to heal more fully.

I remain hungry, as I always must. To stop is to die.

And I must survive.

[greenstuff_gav]

Survival
-From the mem-logs of Tech Adept Agatha Liwet

Adept Liwet prowled down the enclosed metal corridor.
Without the augmentation of her optic units she would be blind in the claustrophobic darkness. She kept her pistol out in front of her, sweeping likely looking air vents and panels proud from the rest. A malfunctioning servitor had popped out from the side and nearly taken her bionic arm clean off; her tattered robes a testament to it's ferocity. She had to almost dismantle the whole thing before it's rabid Machine Spirit laid to rest.

What seemed an eternity passed trudging with a stooped head down that cold metal area until it opened up into a much larger box.
Thanking the God-Omnissiah, Liwet whistled as she dropped awkwardly from the vent into the large square room; banks of massive fans lined the walls while a small modest chunk of machinery sat huddled in a corner.
This was what she was looking for; access to the Air Spirit.
Her hopes of reviving it were dying as she approached; these fans should be howling fresh air throughout the facility.

It was as she crouched by the box, running her hand gently over the paneling she spotted the dull light flickering inside the case.
Eyebrows raised she opened the data panel, muttering the Rite of Preparation as she dabbed at the port with sacred oils and sanctioned cloth.
"Oh great Omnissiah, grant one access to this Spirit, allow one to become one oh, one, one, oh, oh, one, one, one, oh, one, one, oh, one, one, one, one.
As the chant completed, she slid her neural connection into the socket with a satisfying clunk.
010011110110100000100000011001110111001001100101011000010111010000100000011000010110111
001100100001000000110111001101111011000100110110001100101001000000110110101100001011000
110110100001101001011011100110010100100000011100110111000001101001011100100110100101110
100001011100010000001001001001000000110001001100101011100110110010101100101011000110110
100000100000011101000110100001100101011001010010000001110100011011110010000001100011011
011110110111001101110011001010110001101110100001000000111011101101001011101000110100000
100000011101000110100001101001011100110010000001101000011101010110110101100010011011000
11001010010000001110011011001010111001001110110011000010110111001110100

As the ritual chant continued, Adept Liwet's mind connected with the Machine Spirit and she felt a wave of overwhelming loneliness and of forgotten ages threaten to sweep her away.
Calming herself she probed into the Spirits history; of how it had been left alone for decades, how it had continued its sacred task, long after the adepts had passed, after the servitors idled and shutdown, continued even in the hunger resulting from the failure of the power plant, using every last ounce of its strength to keep the air flowing.

Had she been able, Liwet would have wept for the machine; it had continued its work willing to sacrifice its own existence and it surely would have had the power to the fans not passed first. In fact it was the unwillingness of the fans to turn that had saved this Spirit. And yet the hunger for more power gnawed at this simple being; had it been able it would have cried out for help, most of its systems powered down to enable its life to continue.
Concentrating, Liwet pulled her consciousness along it's redundant circuits, lending her strength to awake hibernating systems. Soon enough she had awoken its link with the other spirit lines; she was able to link with other connections running throughout the facility.

As she checked and checked for more power she became aware of the little spirit sapping at her strength. The lack of clean air reaching her physical body was beginning to drain her; we was having difficulty sustaining the pair of them and the air spirit, feeling her life force coursing through its circuits was struggling to utilise this new feed.
There! she almost missed the glow amongst the piles and piles of data feeds.
Unusually it refused to tell her who it was or what it's purpose was.
It resisted briefly before she began to syphon off its strength to feed the air spirit and its neighbouring fan units.
The unknown system blinked and then went out, releasing a whole stream of power throughout the systems.
Liwet moved quickly, channeling it, moving it, shutting down non-essential systems to provide nourishment for vital spirits such as air and lighting.
As she began the journey back toward herself something moved outside her connected vision; something strange, something new to her, yet an ancient malevolence, continually moving to keep away from her senses.
Ignoring it for now, she returned toward herself, having to concentrate on her prayers to the Omnissiah for guiding her and to return her safely, struggling to focus on the chants over the howling joy of the Air Spirits, the systems reunited and focused on their original task.

Adept Liwet's Optic units powered up, the orange flare lighting up the area momentarily as she returned to herself.
grunting, she used the top of the Spirit's case to force herself to her feet and leant against the panel as the dizziness faded.
looking up she smiled as the fans began to spun, the groans of the old motors almost matching the old spirits she had sensed.
looking back down at the controlling spirit she smiled as it began to hum happily.

"No matter the odds, we always struggle to survive" she patted the case affectionately. Now for the rest of the facilities spirits...

[Baraltax]

Rat

She smiled. The first time since we'd met that I stole a glance behind her otherwise neutral features. It made her all the more beautiful, all the more human, though melancholic it was: a sincere twinkle of delight barely visible in her bleary eyes rather than a superficial lifting of her dimpled buccinators. I was convinced of the fact that she rested her ethereal gaze on me on that moment of ephemeral fragility. She must have known, foreseen what was to happen and showed me the forgiveness she was capable of granting, though I then knew not that I'd have need of such magnanimous gift.

I try to conjure up that moment again as I seek escape in my memories, vainly. The arched vaults reaching high up above my head, dwarfing the crowd gathered underneath its gargoyled roof, the servo-skulls hovering over us and the lumbering tech-servants keeping order, are but irrelevant splintery shards of a broken, lost whole.
The image shattered as my reflection in the mirror was when a bullet holed it in the centre. First it merely cracked, patterning a spider-web, but the glass remained in place. Living only off an idea of what a mirror should be, it defied the laws of physics. Then the glass dropped to the floor, eventually yielding to the realities of this universe. A clattering I merely took notice of followed while the treacherous web that is called the Imperium was spun around me by a spider in guise of Inquisitor. I yielded to his physical pressure like the mirror he had shot: first mockingly, clinging to false concepts of faith and loyalty, to self-deception but eventually incapable of escaping the truths life keeps in store for us.

"Where is she?"

They shot gaps in the roof to get in and effect the death of hundreds of cultists. A bleak sun penetrates spaces which haven't seen natural light ever since this massive construct was built. Bodies lie scattered around me while I collapse among the debris of the great hall and am surrounded by ghost of the past. I see them still like they were before my betrayal: a mass, shoulder to shoulder, gathered to hear her speak.

"There is no trace. We've search the whole building. She must have escaped."

The Inquisitor was getting anxious. Bulking in his carapace, he looked much like a giant ready to fall over. A lasgun in one hand, a hand flamer, still smoking, in the other, he grimaced to the lieutenant who had dared face him with the news. His eyes and voice were saturated in vile promises of cruel repercussions as he snarled:

"Find her!"

As he turned in despise, he knocked me over with a vicious kick against my right knee.

I lie here and I see her. Her head is severed from the body. I can almost touch her face. If I reach out I may lay my hand on her marble skin. The retreating steps of the Inquisitor falter. My hand slowly crawls towards the statue's head. Are those tears upon her stone cheeks? I will never be certain, but I'm positive I heard her cry as the laser bolt flashed through me. Her lamentations follow me as I die with her name upon my lips.

"Prophetess."

[greenstuff_gav]

+++Recall Interrupted - Data Corruption+++
+++Machine Spirit Resync In Progress+++
++Accessing++

"What's Love?" the clone asked in a curious voice.
Both Adept Liwet and Magos Rowne turned to look at the child as she sat on a desk legs swinging idley. Or at least Liwet turned; Rowne had to take a sideways step with his life-support servitor so that the box containing his head could look at her.
"Why do you ask Annika?" Liwet replied, the child had a habit of asking innocent questions that often lead to larger discussions when she picked at the answers.
"Some of those guardsmen were talking while we were loading on that last planet."
"love is a chemical imbalance caused by the brain and often used to excuse illogical mental methods." came Rownes' voice, slightly metallic through the speaker attached to his life support unit.
As he turned to resume his interaction with the ships Machine Spirit Annika nodded to herself as if making a mental note. "have you been in love Agatha?"
Liwet smiled and leaned against the console oblivious to the faint clicking of her optic augmentation as it struggled to find focus with her vacant stare
"once." she sighed. "he was headstrong with this air of calm about him, even in combat. quiet but calculating, nothing escaped his gaze."
"what was his name?" Annikas' voice cut into her retrospective, eyes focused on the Tech Adept in interest at this new tale.
"Venatio Lupus. While Warhounds are not as powerful or as armoured as their larger brethren, they have a certain... freedom. Their Spirits are not as tempered, they stand seperate from the others." Liwet sighed again "i was little more than a neophyte; at first i was dismayed at working on a Warhound in such close proximity to the Warlords, incarnates of the Ommisiah and yet, in time we became so close; with the extra attention warhounds need in their long runs in the wild i soon became enamored with him, knowing his Spirit-systems intimately."
"so what happened?"
At the question Liwet sighed. "He was... damaged. in a combat with the foul orks. I was honoured to be part of the rebuilding work." Liwets' voice wavered. "While the Magos declared him healed, he was never the same afterward. We never had that.. Spark, as they call it. And so I was reassigned to the regiments." Liwet smiled and returned to the console "While it was long ago, i hear he is still on the front doing his duty..."

++end file++

[Baraltax]

A sly, malicious voice whispers from out of the void.

I'm man. I'm machine. I'm daemon. I am what you created. Look upon me, are you not proud? Look upon your creation and hear me through, if you will. You have little choice.
Here, let me show you my face.

A deathly pallor, off-white spot breaches the solid blackness. It expands as it seemingly comes closer. Streaks of shade make a first allusion to relief. It slowly takes shape and forms into a hand: a single, contorted hand protruding from the even black background, sticking out of a black sleeve that is swallowed up by the darkness beyond. As if intensified by chiaroscuro, sourceless light casts dramatic shadows on the sickly pale skin.
Suddenly the hand opens, what passed for fingers springing violently into view: needle-like pieces protruding from stubs.

Part machine, yes? You must remember. I'm machine. Machine is what you gave me to keep alive, to continue the torment. Once man, maybe. Yes, once I was -I think- until you came by. The Imperium with its fleet. You had passed into myth, apotheosized by the elapse of time. But the day you visited us again, you took me with you, kidnapped hundreds of our children. I was 13, I remember. How long was it ago? Can you tell me?
Wait, you have yet to see my face.

As the hand moves slowly upwards, the sleeve drops back, exposing to the view an arm in an equal pale complexion. As the brachioradialis comes into the unnatural light, lengthwise rips are visualized, gaps where the skin is torn open. The edges are gruesome serrated; bare, bloodless muscle and pieces of wire and metal are located in between.
When the hand reaches the cap and slides it a little back, a face slowly comes into the light. Dull metal projections reflect the light first. Copper grids and ribbed tubes follow. The exotic face is split in two, the natural symmetry denied.
The left half of the face is hidden behind a metal mask, several tubes and wires protruding from it and disappearing into the darkness of the black cap. The mouth is replaced by a cylindrical breathing tool. The ghastly sound of air pumped in and out the semi-permeable gauze now becomes audible.
The right part of the face is humanoid: pale, relapsed skin; gaunt features. No hair, not even eyebrows, breaches the sickly skin. Only a peering eyeball contrasts the off-white colour. The iris had disappeared, turned up as the eye is. Blood veins criss-crosses the mucous, vivid white eye.

Do not look upon me in disdain! Is it loathing I feel rousing within you? This is what you metamorphosed me into with your odious experiments. Did you think your research went without damage? Yes, I look upon you now, Thorians. You drove me to the boundaries of the human psychic abilities, and I went beyond. You didn't expect that, did you? Most died. Your meddling with humans to re-embody god meant the end to them. And those who didn't, those who returned insane, you killed. But not me.
Money exchanged hands. I was sold as a curiosity. A rogue trader -a collector of the grotesque- had taken a fancy for me. He patched me up with machines. But if you think that expelled the pains, the torment, then you are wrong. You see this?

The arm slides back and the hand disappears into the darkness. The arm is twisted as if reaching to the back. A sudden spasmodic shock goes through it. A tormented strain of facial muscles contorts the humanoid part of the expression. The hand returns, the arm once more hidden in the darkness of a sleeve. Within its palm lies a cylindrical, glass tube closed at top and bottom by a plastic plug. The tube is filled for a quarter with a viscous, white liquid.

Painkillers. I got a few of them sticking into my body, but I can still feel it. Fire burning my skin, screams tearing my brain, claws ripping my flesh. You kept me alive so that I would experience it over and over again. The warp is inside me.

The hand disappears. Only the half-man, half-machine, jester-like face is visible in the solid darkness.

Why am I here, you ask? Why do I stalk your thoughts? My master has found himself a new fancy, a new toy for his insatiable curiosity. He's tired of me. I pity you, that you were chosen as his means to dispose of me.

So, now you know me. And I know you. Only remember this: my hatred towards you is boundless.

The face turns away, a black cap replacing it. It is swiftly swallowed up in the background. Only blackness remains.

I'm looking forward to our next meeting.

[Swarbie]

It starts again. The fight, the never-ending war.

In the background, I hear drums, beating out the rhythm of my pulse.

Wait. They're not drums. My hearing is poor now.

They are the guns. The big guns. They never tire.

I stand in the trench, listening to the faint screams as shells strike home. A heavy fog covers the muddy, barren ground.

It hasn't rained for days. Earth mixed with blood forms the slush that sticks to my boots. If we run out of rations, we'll end up cooking it. It'll be better than nothing.

My friends and comrades in arms stand around me, gazing blankly, twitching every time a shell is fired.
Even the commissar is like this. He'd become a brother to us, beaten down from his position of ultimate authority by the need for trust and companionship.

He'll still shoot us if we try to run, though.

I hear the sharp crack of a long-las at full power, and turn around. Alforth is on the ground, a burnt, steaming hole in his chest. The others dive for cover. I stay standing.

I don't care anymore. This fight has made me see the pointlessness of life.
Since the earliest time I can remember, the priest railed against the witch and the alien. We understood, and were afraid. That fear caused me to join the Guard, so I could face it, and destroy it.

This is the first war I've fought in, and I know it'll be my last. I'd joined it to protect those I loved against the evils of the galaxy, the vile, treacherous aliens and foul daemons the Ecclesiarchy always went on about.
Instead, I found myself fighting other men. In a galaxy of horrors, there can be nothing worse.

It turned out that the thing I feared the most, all along, was Man.   

[Inquisitor Sargoth]

His Angel

I walk at the right hand of the Emperor, bathed in His light and His benevolence, flanked by ranks of saints and angels. Though I am unworthy of such company, He has chosen me as his right hand and I will serve Him with every ounce of my strength until I die.

Did I have a name, once? Was there ever anything before this? I remember so little of it.

I remember... guilt. I remember shame.

Redemption. The word swims to the forefront of my mind and though I cannot remember anything of the woman I once was, I know she was a failure. Whatever I was, I am something more now. Am I His angel of redemption? Is that my function?

The Emperor is speaking to others, but I cannot truly see them. They are mortal things and I can perceive them only as half-formed shades, wisps of smoke entirely eclipsed by His brilliance.

An endless symphony, one eternal hymn, fills my ears, my heart and the core of my being. It is the embodiment of the Emperor's love, his gift to me, and it brings with it such peace, such tranquillity.

I would raise my own voice in gratitude, but...

I... I have no tongue with which to frame it...

It is of no matter. I have no need of a tongue, here.

The Emperor's voice – His words are not for me to hear – has grown louder. Something casts a shadow across His countenance, and though the celestial music, the cosmic serenity, is not disturbed I am concerned. 

I was right to do so. Such rage, such fury rises in His face and He turns to face me. I cannot stand to look directly at Him, so bright is the light which envelops Him and so deep is my love, but through eyes half-shut I see His lips frame a single word, one inviolable command.

"Alecto."

In a moment, the hosanna collapses into discord.  The half-glimpsed shades condense into nightmarish visions. They are daemons and aliens, hideous and craven beasts that hiss and snarl mindlessly.

And I am agony, pain I never knew imaginable. His love has left me, all the peace is gone and it is replaced by the sensation of a cold breeze on my bare flesh, the sting of the sores upon my feet and the raw, suppurated flesh around my... my hands...

God-Emperor, my hands...

I am screaming and screaming and no sound is coming out...

Rage is flowing into me and through me, now, liquid ferocity that burns in my veins and fills me such strength, such brutal purpose. I know what my function is now.  I must become His avenging angel and purge these terrible and unclean creatures.

It is my duty to destroy them in His name and it with pride that I will do the Emperor's work. If I serve him well, he will end the pain, the heavenly chorus will resume and I will escape this cold shell that chokes me, traps me with its bars of pain and metal... I can return to my true, angelic form, beyond all the mundane hurt of this world, free to bask in His love.

I am His right hand, and whatever sins I committed before I was reborn shall be absolved in both the blood I shed as his red angel and the purity I feel in the radiance of His company.

I raise my sword... No... My hands are made of them and they will tear through the enemies of Man.

One swipes curled talons at my face and I shear them off before I cut away the entire limb. A stream of black, stinking ichor sprays across my body and though it sickens me it does not stop me from tearing this monster apart.

A daemon, horned head wreathed in flame, moves to attack the Emperor Himself with a curved dagger. I take one bounding step, and for a moment I swear I feel the beat of spectral wings behind my back, for I am carried into the daemon and I bear it to the floor, stabbing and slicing and cutting. The dagger bites into my leg before it dies, broken body collapsing under my knees into ash and embers.

It is not blood which oozes from the wound, but light.

A fresh burden of pain which I must carry, but the pain of my body is nothing compared to the pain within my soul, to be so alone, to be beside my Lord but unable to feel His love.

I rise, the Emperor's right hand now red with blood, and I see the last of them are fleeing from me, fleeing His wrath and His justice. One I kill with but a flick of my arms and the other stumbles and falls before me.

It recoils in fear as I tower above it, raising withered arms to shield itself. I slice through them and plunge my blades deep into its flesh.

I stand tall, and I realise that though they all lie dead, broken before me, the pain and hatred has not left me. The silent scream still rages within my head.

The Emperor steps over to me, smiling His approval. He speaks a few words of gratitude and the hosanna returns to my mind, waves of peace and radiance washing over me.

I smile.

[jakob]

Inquisitrix Mirrum

Inquisitrix Mirrum of the noble Ordo Hereticus; one of the great unsung heroes of our Imperium. For centuries she has put her life and soul on the line to defend humanity. Traitors and withches, mutants and heretics have been burned in their hundreds and thousands by her hand. Dedication and loyalty above all. Love for the Emperor and hatred for the unclean. She had the respect of all her allies and fear from her her enemies. She was a paragon of her Order, an ideal that all younger Inquisitors who knew her aspired to reach. She was a hero of the Imperium, a great warrior. And soon I shall her to our number of holy martyrs.


The spies had done their work, communications intercepted. As her ship left warpspace we were there waiting for her. Her cruiser had barely enough time to fire a salvo of torpedoes before we lached onto the hull. Then came the breaching and our boarding party rushed in. Black-clad stormtroopers with hellguns blazing. Mirrum's crew and guards put up a decent fight as was to be expected but it was not enough; they were gunned down in their scores. My black troopers were trained for this and nothing was going to stop them.


Mirrum's first life had been that of a lowly guardswoman on a distant civilised planet. This planet was rather unremarkable until the zombie plague was unleashed upon it. What was once an average and loyal planet of the Emperor soon became a blasted hell hole. Death and destruction was everywhere. By the time a relief force touched the ground only two percent of the population had survived. Of this small number of survivors the name of Guardswoman Mirrum was cried out as their saviour. She was the soldier who had managed to save what little survivors remained and fought off the undead hordes long enough for help to arrive. She was a war hero. And so she gained recognition for her deeds which greatly impressed the local Inquisitor Bathan. She was inducted into his retinue and from their her training began.


From the start she showed great potential. She was not only physically tough but also held a great intelligence and insight, qualities that would have been wasted had she stayed with the Imperial Guard. She rose quickly through the ranks, with each promotion she left behind untold numbers of torured blasphemers and heretic corpses. She was ruthless and violent; the perfect qualities of a Hereticus member. She finally gained her full Inquisitor-ship after her role played in the Cult of Silent Song Incidint. Not only was she responsible in uncovering the deamon cult but she also led the assault against their stronghold. And as a full Inquisitrix she performed even greater feats in her crusade against her enemies. There was no doubt about it. she was a hero and a true champion of humanity. Which is why i found the task of killing her to be more difficult than most that I have undertaken. I say difficult not impossible.


I fire off several rounds from my stubber before ducking behind cover. The assault is proceeding well, only a few of Mirrum's guards remain though I have not seen my target herself yet. One of my storm troopers falls to the deck as he takes a las beam to the head. He is soon replaced by two comrades who fire off down the corridor. Again I am up and firing off shots and am rewarded by screams as more bodies fall. Mirrum's guards are well trained but are simply overwhelmed. Soon there is silence. There is no opposition left. None aside from Inquisitrix Mirrum herself. I reload my weapon and stalk after my prey. She is here somewhere. And i will find her.


Prehaps the one event that had brought Inquisitrix Mirrum the greatest renown and and respect was after the Dideon Incidint. Arch-bishop Dideon was the head of the holy church of the entire Silverus sector and was regarded by many as being a living saint. So when his palace was attacked and he was kidnapped by a band of Traitor Guard it was seen as the upmost importance to rescue him. This task fell to Inquisitrix Mirrum. She could only muster a small force of Battle Sisters in the time she had yet despite being vastly outnumbered and outgunned she made her assault. Bishop Dideon was successfully rescued not only from imprisonment but from an attemptempted forced possession. Mirrum and three Sisters were the only survivors when they brought back the bishop. The news of Mirrum's bravery and dedication to the faith beame widely known amognst the upper circles of Inquisitor Lords. With an ally in the arch bisop Mirrum's power and authority grew to even greater levels. It was widely acknowledged that Mirrum would be the likely successor to Inquisitor Lord Husseik and would make a fine head of the Silverus conclave.


I now stand before the living legend of Inquisitrix Mirrum herself. She draws her plasma pistol and raises her power sword in defiance - the very same weapons that she had used to slay the chaos marine Golothus, the same weapons she had used to purge the murderous cult of The Blessed Blood, the very same weapons she had used to defend the Imperium against countless enemies. And here she was, ready to run me through as if I was some alien or mutant. I raise my Inquisitorial seal for her to see and she responds by spitting at my feet in disgust.


''Why?'' she asks me simply, contempt dripping from her mouth.


I sigh and ofer her a shrug, ''Politics, I'm afraid. My master feels that it will not be in the best interest of the Silverus Sector to have you as head of its conclave. My master feels that he himself would be better suited to the position.''


''And so your master resorts to cowardly assassins and backstabbing? I am an Inquisitor just as he is, we are not enemies!''


I shrug again, ''Don't be so naive, Inquisitrix. This is the way the Inquisition works, this is the way it always works. If it makes any difference I do feel guilty that I have to kill such an esteemed hero of our Order.''


''Save it.'' she hisses as she fires her pistol at me.


I dodge to the side but not fast enough. The burning bolt of plasma catches my left arm and rips it clean off my body. I empty an entire clip into Inquisitrix Mirrum and thus another defender of the Imperium joins our illustrious ranks of holy martyrs.


I grunt in discomfort as I get to my feet and stare at my left arm, now a smouldering wreck on the deck. The plasma had been so hot that the arm had melted onto the iron floor. A medic rushes up to me as I make my way back to my assembled troopers. I issue the final orders to them: melta bombs  placed along the interior of the ship before ordering the auto-pilot to re enter the warp. Poor Inquisitrix Mirrum; the unlucky victim of a warp storm, her body will never be found and all evidince of this attack will be lost forever.


''Inform my master that the operation was a succeess, the target has been eliminated.''


There is not much the medic can do to me, my wound will need the attention of the Mechanicus. Still, the pain is barely noticeable; one of the advantages of having a body that is eighty-five percent bionic.


I stop as I make to board my ship and I look back to the corpse of Mirrum. I bow my head in respect

''Goodbye Inquisitrix Mirrum. You will be missed.''

[Draco Ferox]

We fight for control.

She is wily, and has bested other men, but she will not overcome me. I think of my friends and companions, of the events leading up to this, of the mission I must complete, and the memories steel my resolve.

But she is strong, and my vision dulls. To win, I must be stronger. We circle, our minds and bodies locked together in a mutual struggle for dominance. Trading blows at the speed of thought, a game of strike and counter, feint and parry, both looking for that fleeting opening that brings victory.

Her mind is hot with aggression and hate, her body blazing with barely controlled power, and though she is old and worn, she still lusts for the primal joy of the kill.

We fight on her terms, and I realise now that despite all my training, I was still unprepared for the first time. We fight on, neither of us giving any ground, and I realise that now I have tasted her, tasted the hot metallic flavour of her soul, that I never want to let her go. The power she exudes is intoxicating, and I now realise why those before me came forward willingly.

I grow tired, and I seek a way to end this struggle of mind and body. And so I open my arms, expose my underbelly, and allow her in. Her mind blazes with triumph, as she lunges forward, toward my unprotected form. But this was no moment of weakness, and as she pounces, I sink my mental fangs into her, and we writhe, bleeding into each other, slowly becoming one.

And then, then I see. And I understand. I understand why she has no choice but to kill, and that after so long serving the will of others, my inexperience was what she needed to try and set herself free. And in sacrificing myself to subjugate her, I have shown her that I am stronger than her, that she will not be free this time. And I take her brutalised mind, and enter it, melding my mind with hers, just as she becomes an extension of me. Her feral power suffuses my body. She is still there, but she is chained and subdued for now.

She has bested many, good men all, but I have ended her reign of dominion and now she must serve me. She strains against the mental chains which bind her, but I have woven them too tight, and she cannot escape my grasp. Her lifeblood flows through me now, and I am stronger for it.

And with it, the pain of her entrapment within her mortal shell, her fury at her restraints, bears down on me. It is her last gambit, and though she is broken I am forced to my knees before her. I struggle up, my mind screaming at the pain and effort required to keep hold of my identity in the whirlpool of anger and sorrow. But I am the stronger. I surge out of the roiling emotion and this time, I know what I have to do.

Before, I flowed into her and she flowed into me, but now, I become her. I am her, and she is me. There is no distinction, our union perfect and painful. I am no longer human. I am steel and boiling plasma. I am power incarnate. I am a Princeps, and I am a god.