Herald of the Stars: Chapter Three Hundred and Seventeen

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I run three diagnostics on myself before I realise that what I am feeling is anger, not an error. These bozos have infuriated me enough to ignite a smidgin of my original emotions.

On my pict feed, Alpia drags the worthless clerk around the halls of Reliquary 26 by his collar. Thousands of paintings, fine porcelain, and ancient arms are on display, each held in stasis behind armourglass. Each has a brass plaque stating its name and origin.

Several of the pieces are rather dangerous, ruinous artefacts layered in smoldering purity seals, their display glass enhanced with silver runes fused within the glass, but never so dense that one cannot see the object within.

Despite being underground, the brutalist halls cover three square kilometres over multiple levels and... is that a Chaos Warhound Titan? They would have had to take that apart and reassemble it to get that in there! Are they mad?

The Titan is heavily damaged and a volcano cannon has cored its cockpit. The fifteen metre machine is bound in silver chains, tied with purity seals that char a little when the Sororitas walk past, pointing their inadequate boltguns and the possessed machine.

I spot no less than three forge altars, an entire astropathic choir, and squad’s worth of Luna Wolves equipment from Isstvan V. There are original samples of geneseed from all the legions, save the Ⅱ and the ⅩⅠ, enough for a company of each. However, all the samples are labelled as ‘tainted’ and dangerous to implant. 

The forge altars are also corrupted with scrapcode, or so the plaques declare. I don’t trust their veracity. Why would the Inquisition keep, rather than destroy these objects, if they do not work? Perhaps they are still valuable as reference materials? Maybe they like to chat with the Daemons sealed within? Either way, I know I would not like the answer.

After twenty minutes of dragging the clerk around until his robes are ragged and his arse is raw, Alpia finds 5,000 litres of ‘holy water’ with her name on it. It sits next to a stasis box containing one of several sets of genetic samples from myself. I sent them to Terra via a House Ortellius courier to be distributed to all the Navigator Houses in the hope of reducing instances of child abuse and the live burning of mutant babes.

I am most displeased to see a box of them here.

Alpia eyes the box of my samples with distaste, then sighs and stows it in a pouch on her waist. The stack of plasteel barrels containing her bath water lift off the ground and hover beside her. Alpia tosses the clerk to one of the Sorroritas.

“Secure him with the others. Dad, send down the A&A teams. There’s a lot to go through. None of these labels are trustworthy. We’ll need our best warders and hackers too.”

I reach out along our soulbond, “Well done, Alpia. I’ll make sure you get whatever you need to purge this cult of greed and cruelty.”

“Sorry I made such a scene. Well, not really. I’m still angry. I am sorry to make more work for you though. I know your research is important.”

“It’s not as important as you or your privacy.”

“You can’t lie along our link, Dad. I appreciate the effort, but false words hurt more. It would have been better to say nothing.”

I take Alpia’s advice to heart and do not reply.

“I hope you get better soon, Dad. It’s nice to feel that you can still get angry for me.” A bitter laughter comes across our link. “You believed I didn’t know? For five years? I watched your soul get wrecked. I felt my Dad get eroded to almost nothing along our bond and could do nothing. 

“I’ve gone along with every attempt you’ve made to reverse the damage by spending time with Mum and I. We cut you slack because you never give up, but it still hurts. Especially after you agreed not to hide things from us in the aftermath of the previous incident. 

“I know that you are afraid of sharing the truth, scared that we would think or love you less of you for it. Such concerns are insulting and I am tired of pretending that all is well. We know that the research you are doing has a good chance to help and get you back to normal, not this false shell you project to the world.

“So yes, I am sorry that I disrupted your research. Mum loves you, but she won’t wait forever, even with a marriage as stable as yours, especially when you’ve been lying to her for years. Make sure you tell her of every success.

“The Emperor’s blessings upon you, you lovable fool.”

Alpia cuts the telepathic communication and the pict feed, but not before I see her eyes fill with tears, and my emotions return to nothing.

This seems like a moment I should swear, but I can’t muster the frustration to do so convincingly. Instead, I do as Alpia suggests and return to my screens of impartial data. I compose a small note for Brigid, reporting the stable condition of my latest experiment.

Brigid reads the note immediately, but does not comment.

I really am a fool, huh?

There isn’t even any point in apologising at this point as it wouldn’t be genuine. I have no doubt that attempting to do so would crush any remaining patience that Brigid and Alpia have for me.

An hour later, I get a flattering invitation from Marius Hax to discuss my plans for the shipyard I have rented. It is scheduled eighteen hours from now, or mid-morning on Scintilla.

I submerge myself in meditation, drawing energy from the Warp to power all my implants at full, then re-read everything I know about Hyper Intelligence, looking for ways to speed up my research and demonstrate my understanding, praying that I’ve missed something. I even take another crack at understanding my Warp Tap. Unfortunately it is as obtuse as ever; my monkey brain remains incapable of visualising the mathematics describing the dimensions explained within the documents.

The night passes, locked within my own head, parsing millennia of knowledge and trying to come up with new connections. I can recall every word with perfect clarity, yet further meaning escapes me. Perhaps there is none to be found. 

It is far from the first time I have attempted this, yet I persist, because progress is built on failure, accidents, and methodical mistakes. Success is what you get when there’s nothing left to go wrong.

My alarm rings and I end my introspection.

Accompanied by my Close Protection Company and several flights of Strike-Craft, I leave Torchbearer and fly to the Lucid Palace, a massive structure set on a rock in the ocean, just beyond the walls of Hive Sibellus. The Palace’s main spire is so high that were it not for mag boots, my Heralds would float off the landing platform in the low gravity.

The sun’s shadow races across the planet below, cutting across its oceans and continents as the stars above twinkle with subtle colours. Stone angels greet me, their swords held aloft, their forms pitted by micrometeorites and acidic residues.

My retinue and I pass through the airlock, subject ourselves to the local security theater, then enter the austere halls of Marius Hax’s abode. 

A butler, dressed in dull, though well cut grey suit, leads Bedwyr, four Warforged and I through painted stone corridors. Endless rooms, hung with faded tapestries of millennia old battles and forgotten glory, ignite my curiosity as we walk beneath the gargoyles of Scintilla’s dead wildlife, their teeth bared and their gem filled eyes glittering with hate.

We descend three hundred metres and arrive at a balcony. Bedwyr and his Warforged join a squad of Fratoris Militia and two Sorroritas from the local order, watched over by Hax’s House Guard.

I am guided onto the balcony, a small space with a stone balustrade and a cast iron table, patterned with leaves and flowers. The air is kept warm and breathable by a pearlescent Void Shield.

Marius Hax and Cardinal Ignato look up from their seats as I arrive.

“Lord Calixis, Cardinal Ignato, I present to you Magos Adrich Issengrund, Novator of House Issengrund, Rogue Trader, and Father of Saint Alpia Issengrund,” says the butler.

“Welcome, Magos Issengrund,” says Marius. “Before we send off the help, is there anything you desire?”

“I’ll take your most favoured tea blend, with extra hot water, and whatever accompanying dishes your staff deem suitable.”

Marius smiles, then dismisses the butler with a wave of his hand.

I approach the table. Marius and Ignato stand and I shake their hands. It is the second time I have met them both, though the first time I have seen them together. Both appear young and in a good mood.

“You both look well,” I say. “No issues? Dizziness, nausea, hallucinations?”

“Your work is impeccable,” says Ignato. “Were I having trouble you’d have heard from me again far sooner. Perhaps on the Stellar News Network during an angry sermon?”

Marius chuckles

“Perish the thought,” I say.

We all sit. Marius sips on sparkling water and nibbles on tiny fruits carved into flowers. “You’ve been busy, Magos. I had quite the fright when the Inquisition started pointing their guns at my city.”

I shrug, “Their defiance was planned for, though I would have preferred to keep my hand on their tillers a little longer.”

Marius says, “Just to alleviate any babbling from the lower ranks, you can confirm that no such skulduggery has been performed on my monitor fleets or defence platforms? I’d hate for someone else to find your work at an inopportune moment.”

“Assuming that I would do such a thing to the Crown World of the Koronus Expanse’s closest trading partners? Any and all preventative measures would delete themselves upon my departure. In truth, I did not bother with such extreme measures. Scintilla has been most welcoming and I have other levers should I have the need for them.”

“Like your Biomancy,” says Ignato.

“Indeed,” I incline my head towards the Cardinal. “Reasonable solutions for men capable of reason. Unreasonable solutions for those with nought but ghosts betwixt their ears.”

“Hear, hear,” says Marius.

Ignato says, “How goes the refit of your fleet? Will you be departing soon?”

“My people’s work nears completion. We even found someone to repair our Nova Cannon. We will depart once the Calixian Conclave has recovered its stability. My daughter and I are no thugs to scuttle ships then sail off with a tune on our lips. I’d hate for my leaving to be the spark of discontent.”

“You do have the manner of a man who knows the proper order of things,” says Ignato.

I say, “How about you, Cardinal? Has your flock settled? I fear that they were right to ruffle their feathers and I was too hasty in asking you to calm them.”

“Saint Petrus,” Ignato grimaces. “I was joyful when Saint Alpia called me to retrieve my lost son. That joy quickly shattered when I saw him laid out on the table, glued together by nought but faith and miracle. How does your young Inquisitor, Raphael, plan to right this disgrace?”

I dip into the Noosphere and retrieve the required data. Killovie is still streaming.

With a small sigh, I project a hologram from my bracers, depicting a bloody pit, wreathed in shadow. Grotesque statues, their faces twisted with malice, point hammers at the centre of the pit while holding black iron nails between their teeth.

“This is the Well of Souls,” I say. “It’s where the worst of the Inquisition go to die.”

Ignato shivers, “I had thought it was just a rumour.”

“There’s a lot of old doubts being illuminated by the Emperor’s gaze today,” says Marius.

A man with a bruised face and broken teeth kneels in the pit. Alpia sits in judgement above him, with Raphael on her right. A Logis from the Stellar Fleet projects thousands of images above the bruised man’s head while whispering Lingua-Technis and broadcasting on multiple short range vox channels. Alpia and Raphael nod along to the Logis’ words and data.

“What are they saying?” says Ignato, “And who is that man?”

“They’re speaking too fast to translate, nor would you want to hear the contents with a plate of cocktail sausages in front of you, Cardinal,” I say. “They are reading out evidence. From the docket, this will continue without pause for a week. The kneeling man is Aegult Caidin, the overreaching imbecile who orchestrated this mess.”

“Blessed Emperor! That broken man is the traitor who butchered my son? What a fine show!”

Ignato sure does love to keep claiming Saint Petrus is his son, not a scribe. That is no idle claim, regardless of their non-existent blood ties, and Marius is not disputing it.

Marius says, “The man beside your daughter. What is he like?”

I say, “Raphael, for all that he loves history, tends to take the wrong lessons from its faded inks. He’s not unreasonable, for an Inquisitor, and has made great strides in fixing his failings. One cannot ventilate their personality with a bullet without negating the point of such drastic surgery, so progress has been slow. Justice, however, shall be swift. A small hope for you, Cardinal, though hardly satisfactory.”

“With Saint Petrus returned to the Cathedral of Illumination, I am willing to postpone my wrath.”

I continue, “As for Inquisitor Horthstein, Lord Calixis, he has handed in his resignation as my Master of Whispers. Raphael states that he will be replacing Caidin and that his peers on the local moon have their own duties, chasing after the Tyrant Star.”

Marius says, “I see.” 

“Alpia is endorsing Raphael,” I say. “Her Sororitas and my military police are interviewing all the Inquisition’s forces to ascertain their degrees of guilt. Rapahel knows that we are meeting and has asked that both of you provide a few honest men and women to replenish the Inquisition’s losses. Those that distinguish themselves with faith and insight will climb the ranks.”

“Truely?” says Marius. “That sounds quite unbelievable.”

I shake my head, “An understandable, if false belief. I have put a lot of effort into getting Raphael to ask for assistance when he needs it. That he now turns to such lessons to cleave favours from those who truly matter, and behead those that do not, is most pleasing. I would caution you to temper your expectations to a single Inquisitor each. Nevertheless, do not squander this opportunity. It will not come again.”

Marus nods slowly, “I will take young Raphael up on his offer. A little support on both sides can go a long way. Even having the option dialogue with the Inquisition will divert much grief.”

“You give good council, Magos,” says Ignato. “However, will you be following it yourself and adding to the ranks or is Raphael well heeled enough not to bother?”

I say, “Raphael is his own man. I had not thought to add my own. I have made repeated attempts at favouring the Inquisition. They have proven most stubborn to change and rather ungrateful, attempting to seize resources from me at every opportunity, believing my initial gifts to be a sign of weakness,” I glance at the man in the pit, “they were wrong.”

“I gather that Raphael’s sponsor, Inquisitor Lyre, has not been heard of for some time?” says Marius.

“He’s hunting Karad Vall with Trader Winterscale,” I say. “I have no idea if he is among the living or the dead.”

Marius says, “Is that so?”

“It’s the only answer I have for you, Lord Calixis.”

“Court the Inquisition?”, says Ignato. “Such an endeavour was doomed to fail from the start! Why even bother?”

“A naive sense of duty,” I say, my tone dry. “It was an expensive lesson.” I point at Raphael, “I am surprised to see it pay off at all. There are decent men and women among them. At their core, people join the Inquisition to make a difference, to thwart the most insidious of plots and keep our great Imperium alive just one more day. The reason for their poor reputation is that their worst members are the most visible. The quiet successes are witnessed by the Emperor alone.”

Ignato scowls, “I do not share your optimistic view, Magos Issengrund. They are petty men and women, one and all.”

“There is some truth to that,” I glance at Ignato then look at the distant spires below, “The Inquisition armour themselves in contempt to protect themselves from horrors, forgetting that their hate occludes the clarity of their observations and corrupts their conclusions. It takes great force, years of effort, and a miracle to make progress, yet before us kneels the proof of my conviction, at last submitting to the inevitability of change.

“To witness this scene brings me more pleasure than I can express.”

Ignato pops a small pork pie in his mouth and chews it with great vigour, “No, Magos Issengund. I understand your delight all too well. It is the cost that makes me tremble.”

“Agreed,” says Marius. “Now, I didn’t just call you here to answer my questions. I am no Inquisitor!” Marius laughs. “I wish to express my thanks.”