Herald of the Stars: Chapter Three Hundred and Sixteen

As I am working with JK-404, checking the growth tanks filled with the first set of foetuses spliced with Hyper Intelligence, Killovie, my Vanus Assassin, sends me a data feed. Somewhat dreading the latest stunt she’s gotten up to after her last live streaming event, I click on the link and am treated to a view of Alpia striding up to the Tricorn Palace.

Dawn Garnet walks beside Alpia on one side, and Verlin Tigernach, entombed within his Geist Pattern Dreadnought, walks on the other. A company of Sororitas follows behind the trio as they approach three monumental black towers. Each tower has a large golden Ⅰ facing outwards, as if the symbol is watching the surrounding cityscape of gothic towers, dirty streets, and rag-clothed crowds of maimed factory workers.

Raphael brings up the rear of the parade with a squad of armoured Ogryn.

Killove is nowhere to be seen as she swaps between multiple cameras on buildings and between her drones, creating sweeping shots to establish the scene as one of Alpia’s hymns plays in the background. 

I am shown some close up shots of guards’ faces as they peer over the walls and the harried staff within the security station; the watch officer observes Alpia’s approach, his wrinkled face twisted with indecision as he orders his communications officer to get Lord Inquisitor Aegult Caidin on the line immediately.

Yellow smog, tinted with soot, flows through the streets in a thick haze, leaving the walls of every building slick with chemical residues. Despite the dire atmospheric conditions, the grandeur of Sibelius is undeniable. Every exhausted step is taken in the shadows of saints and heroes who loom above every street, even as the blackened sockets of ferocrete skulls and hideous gargoyles tease the edge of every eye with hidden fears, all lined in tarnished gold and rotting silver.

Amidst it all, Alpia’s parade is alien in its cleanliness. Neither soot or condensing chemicals stick to her or her forces. A faint golden glow lights up the smog swirling around her, though no source of illumination can be detected. 

Two mark Ⅰ void pattern Leman Russ, and one mark Ⅱ, its void shield projected over the parade, are evenly spread among the Sororitas.

Above and behind the company of Sororitas hovers a Vitrum Class bomber, bristling with massive guns. I am mildly impressed that a void craft with a 120 metre wingspan can hover between the buildings of the boulevard. 

Faint stirrings of annoyance rise from my parched soul. There is absolutely no way I can call Alpia’s back without looking like a fool; I must watch this play to its bloodied end.

Alpia’s parade stops before the gate and she stomps up to it, her helmet tucked beneath her arm and her irritation plain for all to see. The vox casters scream at her to step back or they will shoot. Alpia ignores their pleas.

The watch officer isn’t a complete idiot as not a single gun fires.

To my surprise, Alpia does not knock or announce herself. Instead, she places her hand against the thick, adamantium gate. The gentle golden light around her intensifies slightly, then the gate opens for her, a mix of technopathy and telekinesis forcing it open without damaging it.

The parade marches in through the gate into the barbican’s martialing yard, then the gate shuts behind them.

Two large companies of Tempestus Scions flood the yard, lighting up the parade with spotlights and laser sights.

The watch officer exits a small door set into the side of the main tower then takes slow, deliberate paces down the large steps. He stops in front of Alpia, takes off his black and gold cap, then salutes her.

“Saint Alpia, welcome to the Tricorn Palace. Your visit was most unexpected. Why do you bless us with your presence?”

Wonder of wonders is this an Imperial officer with a sense of self-preservation?

“Good day, Watch Captain Cortova. Your little magpies have been busy. I am here to retrieve a personal item.”

“Magpies? Never mind that. The Tricorn Palace does not have anything that belongs to you, Saint Alpia. Please leave and return with the proper documentation if you wish to visit.”

Let it never be said that Captain Cortova lacks courage.

Alpia flares her aura and every Tempestus Scion is forced to kneel. The captain is a little sturdier, resisting for an extra second before, he too, falls to his knees with a jangle of medals and a meaty crunch. Alpia holds out her hand and twitches her index finger. The air distorts slightly and hints of hoarfrost forms over the whole yard, only to quickly evaporate from tiny flares of golden fire.

Every weapon held or manned by Inquisition forces is dragged from their hands and tossed into a pile next to Alpia.

“I was not asking. Restrain them all. Dawn, if they run, kill them. Champion Tigernach, please give their front door a good kick.”

Dawn Garnet growls, her digital voice loud and menacing, ++Prisoner overwatch confirmed.++

Verlin draws his huge powersword and runs at the front door of the Tricorn Palace, with a single swing he cuts through the metal, then kicks the door open. It flies open, the left half shorn from its hinges as the ten metre gate clangs against the floor with a resonant chime.

I’m not sure what Alpia is up to here, but this screams of a set up, one that Alpia has engineered to tear through the fortress as she pleases. Then again, she does look genuinely pissed. What on Terra did the Inquisition nick?

Alpia marches after Verlin, accompanied by Raphael and half of the Sororitas. The rest of the Order of the Valorous Heart watches over the prisoners as the Vitrum bomber hovers overhead, its guns scanning the Tricorn Palace and the martialing yard below.

Every encounter is much the same as the first, with Alpia suppressing everyone she meets and the Inquisition’s staff getting disarmed and dragged out of the Palace, then put under watch. Once the yard is full, the Inquisition are locked in the gatehouse instead. No automated defences fire upon Alpia as she thunders ever deeper into earth. A few fools attempt to stop her. Most are disarmed but a few are shot.

I get the distinct impression that Alpia is working from a list.

After an hour of walking the palace, taking every turn as if she knows exactly where she is going, Alpia arrives at a chamber protected by a thick vault door.

Standing before the door with a squad of Tempestus Scions and two Death Watch teams. They are accompanied by a figure in power armour, a large Ⅰ embossed upon his chest. A Sanctioned Psyker in brown robes stands next to the central figure. The Psyker swings a golden censor that fills the air with thin smoke in one hand and leans against a Force Staff with the other.

The Pysker takes one look at Alpia then collapses, his eyes burning from his sockets as blood trickles from his ears.

“Saint Alpia, in the name of the Inquisition, cease your trespass! I am-”

The figure’s voice is cut off with a strangled gasp. With the downwards flick of a finger, the figure is slammed to his knees, his head cracking against the ferrocrete, pitting the floor.

“The Inquisition?” says Alpia. “Not the Emperor? How telling. As for the rest of you, I know you have your orders. I haven’t killed anyone yet who isn’t guilty of this little plot and you cannot continue your duties if you are dead. You can let me through, or I can go through you.”

Alpia takes a strides towards the vault door without hesitation. No guns are pointed at her, though the Death Watch all stare at Verlin, their fingers shifting against the grips of their bolters. Like the front gate, Alpia places her hand on the vault door and it opens.

Behind the door is Saint Petrus, strapped to a surgical bed. The top of his skull has been removed and dozens of probes inserted. Headphones, glasses, and a rebreather cover most of his face.

By Pertus’s side stands a Tech-Priest, mechadrites constantly cutting at Petrus’s flesh as it heals. Alpia glares at the Tech-Priest as he turns a milky eye upon her. He moves towards her with inhuman speed, his hand reaching into his robes. The Tech-Priest manages two steps then comes apart at the seams, his robe falls apart in a pile of threads as his implants rust to powder in seconds. With a cry, he falls to the floor, bleeding from dozens of holes.

The two dozen assistants in the room meet an identical fate.

Raphael follows in after Alpia and looks around, frowning when he sees Saint Petrus.

“So it was true after all,” says Raphael. “I don’t know why I am surprised. I had hoped for better from the Inquisition. What were they even doing here?”

“Killovie, show yourself,” says Alpia.

Killovie appears next to a bank of cogitators at the end of the surgical bed, squatting next to an access port. One of her many datapads is already plugged into the machine; Killovie stares at the lines of code flashing across its screen. Killovie jumps up, then salutes, only to immediately drop it and start hopping from foot to foot like a recaf chugging rabbit.

“Killoive reporting, Saint Alpia!” 

Alpia points at the cogitator bank, “Well, does this only look like an attempt at extreme hypno-indoctrination, or were they actually trying to rewire the brain of an Imperial Saint with Emperor given regeneration?”

“They’re not quite as dumb as they look, bleeding out on the floor,” Killovie says. “There are a lot of specialised drugs meant to hinder recovery. They’re harsh copies from traces in blood taken from Stellar Fleet surgeries on nobles. You know, the nobles who went back for more implants after getting tweaked with Regenerative Hormones, rather than getting regeneration as the last addition, like sensible people.

“They have managed to program loyalty to the Inquisition on Saint Petrus multiple times, though it never sticks. It does last longer each time as they refine their methods though so they might have managed it eventually.”

“Does it say anything about their end goals?” says Raphael. “Why did they even attempt this in the first place?”

“There’s only medical stuff here,” says Killovie, “along with dozens of different protocols and drugs known to knock the poor bugger on the table out for long enough to get him to the surgery suite. Most of them have close matches with Magos Issengrund’s Haemonculi database.”

A cruel smile flashes Raphael's face then disappears, “Excellent.”

A harsh alarm honks from Kilovie’s datapad. The projectors on her arms light up, displaying the Inquisition fleet in orbit, their guns aiming at the Tricorn Palace. Kilovie giggles, her tongue sticks out the corner of her mouth, then presses the projection of a comically large red button flashing in the projection below the Inquisition’s fleet.

In the projection, the vessels’ thrusters peter out, their void shields drop, and the lights across their hulls flicker and die. A black stamp, with ‘OFFLINE’ written at a diagonal angle, covers up the void ships. A multitude of fireworks go off in the background alongside a merry jingle.

Killove says, “I know you're watching Magos Issengrund! Contingency Data Krash is in effect. I worked really hard on it so best send in the Void Assault regiment before they reboot their systems. If you don’t I will beg Saint Alpia on my hands and knees to hide all your Tanna Tea! I know you’ve been stockpiling different blends from all the presents your biomancy experiments keep sending you!”

I tut and dispatch orders to capture the Inquisition’s vessels with minimal casualties, then command the Barghests to secure the Tricorn Palace. Knowing their shared history, I am sure the Barghests will be delighted at the opportunity. 

I am confident that the Bargests will be thorough.

Killovie glances down at her datapad, then waves at the pict recorder, “Thank you, Magos!”

Alpia puts Petrus back together, though she doesn’t wake him up. A guard is placed around him, then Alpia sets off on another adventure. Her team descend hundreds of metres to another vault, destroying thousands of gun servitors roaming the halls as they advance.

The vault door is covered in purity seals and protected by turrets that, for a brief moment, fire at Verlin, before being decommissioned via a Volkite Falconet. A void shield covers the door, illuminating the stencilled yellow words above the door: Reliquary 26.

This time, Alpia is far less gentle, overloading the shield with a lightning bolt so hot the pict feed whites out and the ferrocrete sags like marshmallow.

The image swaps to one from Verlin’s perspective and I watch Alpia punch right through the door and rip it off its hinges and toss it to the side.

Behind the door is a bare room with another plasteel door set into the far wall. A single clerk sits in front of a cogitator, his face sheet white as he nervously fingers the laspistol resting in his lap.

Alpia marches up to him, leans over the desk and smiles sweetly.

“Where is my bathwater?”