DH: Of Thrones and Void - Prologue: 13 Days of Purity

[Implodio]

Of Thrones and Void

Prologue: 13 Days of Purity



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Enter your username:> user1934832

Hello, user1934832! Welcome to Abner's Cogitation Station.

Command:> run grid access 'node12.I.42832231'
running...

Enter access details:> Imperator/EsdrasMalachi/Black
processing...

Enter password:> ***********
processing...

Scan authorization now, please:>
processing...

Thank you, Inquisitor. Accessing...

+++ SECTOR DEICIDE +++
+++ ADMINISTRATUM ARCHIVE +++

Command:> access 'Ashri'
processing...

+++ SUB-SECTOR ASHRI ARCHIVE +++

Command:> details.planet 'Corvay V'
processing...

CORVAY V
System: Corvay
Population: 4,556,343,204 (unregistered approx: 300,000)
Capital: Temin
Culture: Terran (Affluent)

Command:> details.citizen 'Holan Unctor'

HOLAN ABRAM UNCTOR
Birthplace: Temin, Corvay V
Status: Influential (Affluent)
Home: Long 54.12342, Lat 73.22346
Age: 57
Other details: Military service (13 years). Trade magnate. Suspected candidate for upcoming Planetary Governor election. Unblemished record of imperial loyalty.

Command:> send “Falcon wills Brood encircle. 13 days of purity. Corvay V 54.12342, 73.22346. Pattern silk noose.” to <Astropathicus.I.56774>
processing...

Message will be sent in 132 seconds.

Command:>

Message sent.
Command:> exit
Goodbye, Inquisitor.
Thought for the day: Devotion moves mountains; heresy fills graves.
Destroying traces...

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[Implodio]

Astieri didn't much mind this planet. The cool, bluish green grass was pleasant enough to sprawl on; the deep violet night sky populated by only a few, powerful stars. It was the kind of place he would like to have thought he would end up, if things went a different way. Lounging with a pretty girl in one arm, perhaps, and nursing a bottle of amasec with the other. Such simple fantasies were all he ever wanted.

Perhaps when he died, the Emperor would grant him a paradise like that.

As it was, the young interrogator was lounging on the soft grass in standard prone position, peering down the range-finder mounted on his longlas. Through it, he saw the breathtaking marble estate which was the summer home of Lord Holan Unctor. Esdras's Glossia communiques had been as cryptic as ever, but by this time he could read them perfectly. There was some kind of party here tonight, and the Inquisitor was certain it was a gathering of traitors – or at best, heretics ignorant of the heresy they were invited to. When the drek hit the fan, the traitors would flee, and the ignorant would surrender. Watching the rear courtyard of the impressive establishment, Astieri waited with infinite patience for two things: Esdras's signal, and the first traitor to walk into his crosshair.

Two hundred and seventy one human party guests gave off generous red and orange heat signatures. A full ninety private security guards projected duller yellowish glows from their chests and legs, suggesting body armor. A matrix of blurry green lines betrayed the electromagnetic soul of a complex network of automated turrets concealed in the stonework, and garden beds. Twelve humanoid figures shifted about in regular patterns, offering both electromagnetic and thermal tags. Domestic servitors, most likely. Xaon blinked once and his augmetic eyes refocused to standard human ranges. To his right, an armored carrier with a belly full of ten Arbites purred and waited for the moment when it (and its nine concealed siblings) would pounce from hiding to disgorge their trained operatives to box in the estate. The techpriest ran a set of augmetic fingers over its idle treads as if petting an animal. Soon, the gesture assured. Soon.

Lance O'Hara strode through the crowd, smiling cheerfully and shaking hands where he could. A rich purple robe with mock epaulets, lanyards and sashes set him among the most fashionable of individuals in the party. It was a delightful jab at the military – the idea that even this chubby noble might be required to serve the next time a draft rolled around. Even Lord Holan had laughed when he saw it, causing his wiry grew mustache to flap as it surfed the force of the guffaw.

“Ah, Lance!” The words naturally out of him, buoyant with delight as he bustled his way through the throng of opulent attendees.
“My guests of honor have just arrived. You simply must meet them!”

Lance turned towards where Holan gestured, and watched the crowd part and fall quiet. The first was a man of confidence and aesthetics, young faced and lean. He wore wearing a self-styled captain's uniform of black and gold, with extravagant frogging and a personalized crest where a legitimate captain's medals would be. His eyes flashed green with nebulous mischief, and he gave a flourish of a bow as Holan introduced him.

“This is Captain Jasone Bartaemus. He was so kind as to provide transport through the troublesome cordons for our friend here, Mister..?”

At that, all eyes fell upon the guest to Jasone's right, as the tastefully simple pearl-white hood slid down to his shoulders. Dull scarlet eyes peered out from a blue-grey face, reading in rapid succession the expressions of joy, shock, and fear from the assembled nobility. With unhurried and deliberate actions, the being clasped three fingered hands together by his chin and offered his own slow, reverent bow.

“Por'Lan'Ri,” came the cultured, academically accented voice. “It is my sublime honor to attend here, among you. There is much to discuss; and many misfortunate teachings to be carefully unfolded. Your world is beautiful. I hope, in time, we will find the fortune in which you may visit mine.”

A long silence. A brave, first clap; rapid and insistent. A ripple of applause built up to a heavy tide of approval. With a sigh of relief, the Tau emissary smiled.


* * * * *

The food was excellent. The conversation was cordial and excited. The women were beautiful. The men were rich. The guest was flattered.

Lord Holan tapped a knife against his wine glass to calm the crowd.

“My friends!” he began, “my friends, thank you all for attending. You know the rumors, and yes, they're true; I will be nominating myself for candidacy in the upcoming election. I feel that-,” he paused as a wave of applause crashed against him, and he rode it out with one raised, steadying hand. “I feel that here, on Corvay, we can begin something which will change our Imperium forever. I long to see free trade and passage between ourselves, and our blue neighbors.” Holan gestured subtly to Por'Lan'Ri. The Tau nodded back. “Trade and passage which are currently stifled by archaic fears enforced on our borders by the current rabid regime. Why, it's nothing short of miraculous that good Jasone was able to make his way through with Por'Lan'Ri stowed aboard!” Laughter rippled through the room, and polite applause drifted across the tables to Jasone, who rose to receive the accolade. “Tell us, Jasone, how did you do it?”

Captain Jasone Bartaemus reached into his cloak, and produced from it a small box of pluvian obsidian, and snapped it open towards the party's host.

“With this.”

Holan blanched at the sight of the rosette, looking back and forth from the tiny icon to the eyes of Esdras who held it.

“Now, Holan; this can go one of two ways. Either you and your guests can cooperate, and earn therefore a fraction of the Emperor's mercy. Alternatively, you and your guests might not cooperate, in which case you will earn the full measure of the Emperor's wrath. I am prepared for either dispensation.”

Silence. The Tau guest was confused, looking back and forth between the two and trying to discern what had suddenly caused the change in the conversation's tone. Every other set of eyes in the room locked on Esdras, unable to believe what had just occurred and unable to accept what would be the inevitable result for them.

Lord Holan Abram Unctor however, after thirteen years in the imperial guard, knew that the Emperor's mercy and the Emperor's wrath were more or less the same thing, when spoken by an Inquisitor. He seized the mistress he had brought to the party by the corset, yanked her out of her seat, thrust the velvet-clad strumpet toward the Inquisitor and made a dash for the door. At that point, all hell broke loose.

Esdras flung himself behind stone pillar as stub rounds and lasblasts tore up the wall behind him. The screams rose up to a storm. Partygoers swarmed and startled. House guards burst into deadly action. Por'Lan'Ri vanished under a tablecloth. As combat stimulants flooded his bloodstream, the Inquisitor reached to his collar and pressed down on his comm-bead.

“Rise to Glory.”

[Donan]

Felicia took a perverse delight in parties. It was a guilty pleasure she was surprisingly shy about and a rare thing for her to share. Her childhood had been a miserable one and she'd needed to scrabble for scraps of food just to make it to another. Even after several years of better eating and somewhat improved wealth, her frame was still slender enough to verge on unhealthy and the traces of her past would never fade.

Some might think she would be appalled to see so many people in such grandeur and without a care in the world as they ate their fill and tossed scraps aside without thought. But the bright colours, music and atmosphere was almost hypnotic for someone who'd never known such things.

Of course, this party wasn't one where she was to gather information, or tail a suspect. It was a sign of deep heresy, of a man so bloated on power he'd pissed on the Imperial Creed. That and the powder keg she knew as ready to ignite had kept the hive worlder focused on the business at hand.

A cloth dipped in chloroform had served for the young waitress she'd targeted.

Felicia dropped into a crouch by the doorway and slipped off the heavy, hot night coat that had concealed her from infra red sensors. She took a second to wipe sweat off her forehead before slipping inside and locating her target.

The other woman's mouth opened in surprise and then fear as she registered the appearance of a black clad figure, but she didn't get a chance to make a sound as Felicia pressed the chloroform to her face.

No one of importance notices the staff and so no one raised concerns as Felicia casually moved through the party, dispensing drinks and gathering empty glasses as she went. As explosive as things were likely to get, her skin crawled and only a mix of her own experience and intense training kept her manner utterly calm and relaxed as she politely headed for a corridor across the room.

Magos Xaon had been quite clear and stern. Place the small device he'd given her into the second slot from the right of the security cogitator to override the manor's security and give him access while showing al due deference to the machine. It was being used for heretical purposes and would need multiple blessings to be healed of such an offence.

"Cog boys.." Felicia murmured in the privacy of her own mind as she made the corridor. Not far to go now.

Setting the drink tray down, she drew her bolt pistol and settled into an alcove to wait. Two guards held the door around the corner that led to the cogitator and would need removing. However, she'd been granted stalker bolts for this operation and with all the other noise likely to ensure soon, no one would hear the commotion out here.

Hopefully.

Then the command came. Amidst shouts, screams and the start of gunfire.

"Rise to Glory."

Her heartbeats pounded as Felicia began to move toward the door and tapped her micro bead. "Shimmer erasing crucible."

One.

The guards came into view, three men, not two, and all reaching for weapons as things went critical.

Two.

Felicia used the corner as partial cover, snapping off two shots. One lodged in a guard's stomach and hurled him backwards before the shell ignited. He was dead before his body even landed, blood pooling underneath him as the second of the three men tried to dodge to the side.

Slow, too slow. The blast caught him and he hit the far wall with bone breaking force.

Three.

It takes time to adjust a bolt pistol for another shot and the third man had sharp reflexes. A bullet spun through the air and creased Felicia's arm, increasing her already rapid heartbeat. "F***!".

Four. Five.

Her bolt pistol spat fire a third and final time and the final guard hit the floor, a burnt, crumpled wreck of what was once a human being.

Six.

Felicia headed for the door at a dead run.

[bluntpencil]

Noble dilettantes. Proof that free trade and democracy were a corrupt sham. The damned alien only served to exacerbate Nikita's distaste.

In short, Lord Holan wasn't too different from the nobles that the workers of Petrov IV had risen up against, and ended up incarcerated, forced to do hard labour to make sure they had the finest amasec.

The Inquisitor wouldn't be needing to threaten him this time, thought Nikita with a grin, touching the explosive collar at his throat.

When heard the coded command, the Sergeant's darting eyes came into focus. Chaos. Weak princelings and their consorts, fleeing at the sound of gunfire. Since he was a child, he had been strapped with firearms. It was the Way of the Gun, of his people. They farted cordite and p*ssed bullets, as his old man used to say.

Whatever. He'd keep cool.

"Peacocks scattering, Penitent swooping."

His codename was never something he liked, but he shrugged it off - he was lucky.

The others were all dead, for the crime of wanting justice. Hardly fair, really. It wasn't fair that they had lost. It wasn't fair that they had died, and he had survived. It especially wasn't fair that he, Nikita Ulyanov, was shooting up these bastards draped in gold (with a Petrov IV Rotary Cannon, no less!), living the dreams of his fallen comrades.

He squeezed the trigger, and the cannon spun to life, the staccato beat of the gunshots sounding distant to the very cold-hearted man firing them at unarmed targets. Parasitic, bastard, unarmed targets, he thought absently as a shot fired over his shoulder, burning up the centuries old portrait next to him.

He reacted quickly, since he was always on edge, yet he didn't flinch, or even blink.

That was often the first thing that Sergeant Ulyanov's fellow Acolytes noticed of him. It's not that he was brave, or kept cool when in danger, it's that he thought that dangerous, or even downright horrific, circumstances were utterly mundane.

Unable to swing the cannon around quickly enough, he let it sag from its strap, and pulled a laspistol from a holster at his waist in but a split-second, snapping off shots at the guard with the pathetic blue face paint, who had somehow not worked out that he was entering a whole new world of torment.

The shots went wide, but Blue Face was panicking, taking cover behind a bust of some Saint or other. Nobody that Ulyanov had ever heard of.

More shots zipped past, the Penal Trooper taking in where they were coming from as he calmly paced up to Blue Face (hell, he couldn't have been older than seventeen, could he?), and unloaded two shotgun barrels into him at point blank, ruining even more priceless artwork, this time with the Xeno-lover's internal organs.

More shots. Higher pitch than usual - they sounded more like plasma than las to our indentured hero. Of course, as he took cover, the alien weapon, as that is what it was, destroyed the oversized bust with a single shot. Impressive, he reckoned, being quite the connoisseur when it came to man-portable firearms. It could probably kill him with but a glancing shot, he thought, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly.

He was halfway across a river of blood now, though, and almost literally, so there was no point in going back now. Now, it was time to show these fools what hell they had unleashed, in the name of mere business interests.

It wasn't terribly long before he was bleeding from multiple wounds, some more serious than others, leaving behind a trail of extremely bloody bootprints down the marble corridors.

"Penitent to Falcon: Peac..."

Gunfire from heavier weapons drowned him out, and he broke into a run, frowning at the interruption more than the danger. He dropped into a crouch behind some strange coloured plants in the Lord's oversized conservatory.

Nobody had informed him about Throne-cursed combat-model servitors. And certainly not the cyber-gladiator models. Emperor knew what crimes they must have committed before a sentencing like that. Maybe they had spilt red wine on one of the (now deceased) ladies' best dresses.

Whatever, he thought, as the chaingun kicked like a mule, spraying the once-men with lead. Multiple direct hits, as expected, tracer fire lighting up the darkened room, smashing holes in the glass walls.

Nothing. They were barrelling down on him, at speed, too.

Chug, chug, chug, still nothing of note. Too close. He narrowed his eyes, as he was battered out of the window by an oversized iron claw, bullets spraying in every direction.

Ribs, yep, at least three were broken. Left leg, fractured. Lacerations on the face. Standard.

The machine-men leapt out, into the garden, stomping towards the prone form of Nikita Ulyanov, in a stupidly ape-like fashion.

His belt-feed had been knocked loose. The laspistol and the shotgun would most likely be an utter joke. There were three of them, so there was only one thing left.

It had been issued to him because it was battered and dangerous. Nobody wanted it, as useful as it might just be. It was centuries old, true, but the reactor had all sorts wrong with it. It was exceptionally dangerous, although it could, theoretically, prove itself useful... in the hands of a man with a deferred death sentence, of course.

He drew the massive rifle from his back, deactivating the multiple safety overrides (breaking multiple rules against this from the Primer, of course), and held down the trigger.

The plasma gun heated up at an immense rate, burning his hands through his gauntlets just before he threw the damn thing at the monsters leaping at him. He dived back, then lost consciousness.

[ArcturusV]

She wasn't exactly the sophisticated debutante that could have garnered entry into the party. Nor with her bulk and her less than dancer like movements someone that could have broken in. Instead, as the party was getting into full swing, as applause was breaking out, there near the Coach House (Or rather what the nobility called one, which was the size of a normal hab block), there was a game of Five Emperor's going on, with "Rat" Sila, and 6 others.

In the cool night air they were warded off boredom and chill by the standard distractions of troopers and thugs for hire for eons. Spending their meager pay on games of chance. Ones not going all that well for Rat herself, as she was down about two dozen throne gelt, watching the flask of some local swill getting passed around, and most of her fellow players getting a bit deep into their cups. The scene wasn't all that unique either, almost any noble had his own personal guard after all, and most of them were far too "Savage" to be allowed into a fancy do like that, spending time waiting out here for the drunken slobs and lushes to saunter out and demand a trip home. Or perhaps to another pleasure palace to continue the party. Several groups like this had formed up, playing games, drinking local rotgut, doing whatever they could to burn time in the endless Waiting.

"GAH! Skrull!" Rat threw down her hand on the autocarriage hood that they were using as an impromptu table. A pile of throne gelt in the middle was being scooped up by the lucky bastard of the night, some homegrown boy who, supposedly by the story he was spinning was born just 100 miles away and had NEVER played such a game as this before.

She was grumbling to herself, clearly unsatisfied, even as the Local Boy was giggling like a madman, saying something along the lines of, "Wow! I can't believe how lucky I am! Must be beginner's luck!" or some such, she had heard it enough now to know she was getting played in this game, even as relatively slow on the uptake as she could be.

It was around this time that the first gunshots started, and the first screams were barely heard echoing over the estate. The Local Boy was hurriedly trying to scoop up his winnings, most others were slower, confused as the silence they expected out of the night was broken. Rat was not. A hardened combat veteran, and expecting the strike orders, she was quicker on the draw then them. Before most of them could even register recognition of what was going on, she had her Hand Flamer leveled towards the group, letting off a burst of Promethium to wash over the card players, a smile on her face.

In the Coach House there was more ordered Chaos than the manor, with some running to get their gear, some starting up the vehicles of the nobles, and some pausing and taking cover after the unexpected flame burst so relatively nearby drew their attention. Rat wasted no time, using the cover of the Autocarriages, landers, and skiffs as best she could, moving rapidly towards the sound of Machine Spirits being entreated to start. Chainsword out and roaring as she revved it, she drove it clear through the windows of the vehicles, watching the blade turn the would be get away drivers into a mass of gore and broken glass and metal. One, two, three, in rapid succession, before the local thugs seemed to realize what was going on. People were taking cover, no longer going to drive away, spraying down Autopistol and Laspistol fire to try to pin down Rat. They didn't know fully where she was, in the darkened Coach House, moving from cover to cover. Half the coach house was firing at the other half, convinced that the gunfire was coming from their attackers.

And through it all, moved the gore stained, red arm of Rat, chainsword still at the ready. Stealth? No, just confusion and rapid assaults, charging from point to point, always in motion, hitting different areas of the Coach House so that it seemed like "the Enemy" was everywhere.

[Retrokinesis]

The estate reminded Justine of home. The opulence purely for the sake of being opulent. The food that took far more effort than it was worth to prepare. The fake smiles from people coldly assessing the optimal angle to stick a knife in between your shoulders. And, of course, the omnipresent heresy. Justine could practically feel it in the air, an electric charge on her skin. She idly caressed the Carnodon revolver mag-locked to her carapace plate's hip. It certainly wasn't out-of-place here; an expensive toy for the daughter of a wealthy house, nothing more. Same with the Arbites armor and its Dialogous surcoat. A walking display of her family's power and connections.

How very wrong they were. She smiled and nodded through the endless introductions and handshakes. Her purpose tonight was pure, so far from the parties of her misspent youth. Lord Holan certainly talked a good game and she wasn't surprised these weak-willed fops would follow him into foulest heresy. The reveal of the Tau was a bit of a surprise to the crowd, perhaps, but they fell right back into place. The reveal of Inquisitor Esdras' rosette, though? That look was worth the whole event.

"Rise to Glory". Justine didn't need to be told twice. The Carnodon leaps into her hand and erases the nearest armsman's head. She sinks a gauntleted fist into his master's side. "Stay down and perhaps the Emperor will spare your wretched soul". A touch to her collar, "Sunshine rising to acquire -" interrupted by two more oversized rounds and two more dead armsmen, "- pattern crucible". The Sororitas strides after the fleeing would-be planetary governor, chambering three more rounds as she goes.

Her time seconded to the Arbites as a verispex had taught her many things but foremost in her mind tonight were the words of an old Judge: bullets are the most effective form of crowd control. Every dead heretic became an obstacle to their fleeing fellows, who tripped and brought others down with them. Much as Holan would bring most of this planet's government along on his fall.

[Implodio]

"Penitent kneels. Whitefire wills Pianom-"

"On it."

Lockage didn't need to hear the whole command. This was an old, familiar tune for him. Ally down. He needed extraction, and covering fire. Lockage could do both just fine.

He surged forward in time with the troop carriers. By the time they had opened their assault ramps and vomited our their armored officers, Lockage was out ahead and facing down the combat servitors as they loomed over the stricken penal legionnaire. One lay jerking and sizzling on the ground, half melted and all useless from the exploded plasma cells of Nikita's last gambit. One had become distracted by the surge of Arbites, who moved in their glossy black plate like a tide of shotgun toting beetles. The third, thinking Nikita neutralized, had turned and moved off into the palace, smashing through a window and wading into the chaos within.

Lockage slowed his dash to a walk, turned his weapon of choice toward the distracted servo-gladiator, and squeezed the trigger. He was a skilled veteran, with true aim; and he leaned into the kick of the bolts as they roared and jerked the heavy bolter in his grip. They stitched a bursting, deadly line up the servitor's side and toppled it with ruinous force; then the Arbites swarmed over it, and Lockage turned back to the fallen solider when he had heard the reassuring krump of a krak grenade. How many times had he lain there, blasted and shot half way to hell, before someone jammed a booster of stimm into his shoulder and kicked his ass back into the fight? As he prepped the injector and drove it into the meat of Nikita's muscle, he marveled at how odd it was to be on this side of the syringe.

"Come on, now. You ain't hurt. And your dance partner's getting away."


* * * * *

In the security room, the one remaining occupant jerked out of his seat. The pict display showed one of the waitstaff rushing down the corridor towards the three exterior guards. He was confused. This was a foolish action; spy though she was, she would almost certainly be mowed down in the corridor. If she delayed behind her corner cover, then the cogitator's mnemo-coils would have booted and begun feeding tactical information to the ceiling-mounted interior turrets, one of which would pop down just outside the room, and carve her in two. It was dumb curiosity that led Inju Valtagast, mercenary heretek, to open the door. A true martian would have known there was logically no reason to do so; he needed only to boot up the mnemo-coils, wait for the sound of servos and death, and then investigate what was left. But he was not a true martian; he was a pretender, his neural implants good, but not great; his flickering pair of mechadendrites functional, but not graceful. And when he opened the door, and saw Felicia racing toward him unopposed - the three guards dead in the time it took him to stand and open the door - he did not have the autohypnotic training to sequester his fear of death. He let out an indecipherable squawk of inconvenienced dread, tried to slam the steel security door shut in the attacker's face (too slow, but he can't be blamed for trying), and reached our behind him with his frantic mechadendrites, harassing and coercing the console to boot the coils now, now, now. All through the facility, silver discs embedded in the ceiling began to hiss and lower, exposing their swivelling, twitching weapons while they boggled and strained to boot their Friend-Or-Foe identifiers from sluggish, cold mnemo-coils - a two second difference between deadly fates.


* * * * *

The firefight at the coach-house was a microcosm of the chaos in the mansion proper. Valets and coachmen fled wildly, striving for somewhere to hide, or run, or escape the coming wrath. A silver turret began soporifically emerging from the interior ceiling of the flaming coach-house; no threat just yet, but racing the integrity of the building to see which would complete its fate first. And a foursome of house guards, in their embroidered flak and celebration-specific blue face paint, raced down the hill and piled in to one of the unbroken hover-skiffs. Not just traitors, but cowards; attempting to flee, rather than defend their wretched charge. But they knew what the rosette meant. They knew it was better to die running, than live begging for mercy that would never come.

One of them had the presence of mind to hurl a photon flash grenade over the burning wrecks to the source of the chainsword growl; two overwatched with autoguns clutched in white-knuckled hands; and one desperately tried to jump-start the machine's spirit with an indelicate violation of its exterior wiring. "Don't you let them frakking near me, okay? Don't you let them near me. I'll get us out, just keep them the frak back for just... a little longer..."


* * * * *

Disgraced Lord Holan heard the Carnodon bark behind him. His experience told him the weapon's calibre, and stopping power. It told him he could not afford to be hit; and the click of rounds being chambered spurred him to move with the prissy alacrity that many portly men seem to have hidden somewhere inside their bulk; out of this firestorm of a ballroom and up the stairs to the residential quarters, soothed by the hiss of ceiling turrets slowly deploying above him as he went. Rapid, righteous footsteps chased him; their source unseen, like some taunting, ghostly avenger. He ran passed to carapace armored mansion guards, slammed into one and spun onward. "She's coming! Shoot her! Shoot her now!"

When had he become such a coward?

He stumbled into his bedroom, ripped out the top drawer of his bedside table, and upended it onto the bed. The compact bolt pistol was there, and he desperately fed bolts into it while trading glances between the old power-sword hanging over the headboard, and the doorway, beyond which the stalking killers of His Majesty's Inquisition hunted and prowled.

[Donan]

Seven. Eight.

As she saw the door being slammed in her face, Felicia put on a burst of speed. Logically, she could have simply taken a bolt shell to the lock to remove it from ply (as costly as that might have been), or employed a few precious minutes to put the less then honest skills she'd acquired to use. However, logic failed her in the middle of combat even more then it did Inju.

Her reflexes however, they were sharpened by the flight and fight response and she threw herself through the door with a shrill scream, turning as she went so she landed on her back to face the portal she'd just moved through with such reckless speed.

Nine.

Again, the bolt pistol barked. One time, two, three. Two more shells then she needed and she'd regret that later when accounts were settled, but it did it for the false tech priest. He died with a hand held out towards Felicia, as if he could stop the gunfire by sheer will. In the confined space of the security room, oil and blood splashed across Felicia's face and clothes.

Ten.

Shuddering, she wiped her face in a vain effort to feel clean again before taking a breath that was the only sound in the now dead silent chamber and regained her feet. Pushing aside what was left of Inju Valtagast she jabbed the tech device into the slot on the cogitator before bracing her hands on the desk to lean against it and take a few breaths.

This allowed her to speak with an air of calm, despite the fear she felt as she registered that at least one member of the team was down. If everything went sideways, she was a rat in a trap.

"Shimmer acquired watchful eyes heart, gifting Redhat. Shimmer hold watchful eyes heart, pattern Thimble."

There. She was guarding the security room. An excellent excuse to not dive into the middle of a firefight.

[ArcturusV]

FLASH! A bright light, brighter than the sun, which caused the trained reflexes of Rat to duck down behind cover, waiting for her vision to clear. She knew she likely would have some time to recover, one group had her pegged down, sure. But in the confusion there was probably other groups firing at the "Enemy" that lobbed the grenade. Bullets spanging off vehicles rattled through the Coach House, ricochets sparking off rockrete and metal as her vision started to clear.

Before it was even fully clear, she reached down towards her harness, pulling out a crude little item. A bottle of thick glass filled with a vile concoction, and a simple cloth fuse. Lighting it as soon as her eyes returned, she peeked over the hood of the autocarriage she was behind, and lobbed the Firebomb Grenade towards the hover skiff that was trying to turn over and awaken the Machine Spirit. Oh she was sure that Redhat might cuss her out for the blasphemy and pain about to be leveled on an innocent Machine. Crew be damned, but as the Firebomb Grenade arced through the air, Rat hardly cared.

She had already ducked back behind the car, and was on the move quickly, chainsword not revved at the moment but only idling, letting the general sound of screaming, running, and bullets cover the noise of her movement as she went from car to car. She heard a "WHOOSH!" as the Firebomb burst and the expected screams of the unlucky sods to have gotten caught in the blast. There was no sound quite like the screaming of someone on fire. Terrifying when it was your friends. Joyous when it was heretics.

She had to keep moving. Trust the Arbites and the Local Enforces they rounded up to pick up the stragglers on foot. On an estate this large they likely wouldn't get anywhere to hide in the throngs of Humanity after all. Take out the vehicles, take out those organizing a retreat. Those were her orders, and kept running through her head as she came across another group trying to get some nobleman's Limo started as quietly as possible. She saw them sneaking into the car's front, but worse, they saw the blood soaked, chainsword holding lunatic heading towards them low and fast, a veritable wrecking ball of the Emperor's Fury.

The man pulled out his autopistol, not having time to aim, but adding just another wild spray of automatic fire in the already wild situation of the general battlefield. Unlike most of them though, he did have a clear shot at what he was firing at. Slugs slammed into her right knee, right stomach, and right arm, blunted by the Flak Armor, and Rat's own fortitude, drawing minor wounds and causing her to stumble mid charge, but it didn't break her charge.

The man tried to raise his arm, as if he could ward off the Chainsword with his pistol and forearm, the engine revved the blade descended with all the power that the squat, brutal woman could muster, chewing through his pistol and arm, slamming into his chest, teeth grinding more and more, his screams reaching a fevered pitch as his body was ripped in half, the area around Rat and her victim looking like an abattoir.

[Retrokinesis]

Justine followed her retreating foe into the mansion. One of the great ballroom windows shattered as a servo-gladiator made its entrance, head turning to locate targets. Justine threw herself behind an enormous pillar and reached for the bolter on her back. The armor's mag-strips released it gently into her hands as she rounded the column and felled the servitor with a hail of .75 caliber bolts. Her target had fled up the sweeping staircase but, just as she moved to pursue, his honor guard stormed down the stairs and forced her back to cover with wild fire. As if to press the point, the silver discs on the ceiling descended to reveal autoturrets.

"Sunshine eyed primary target ballroom, upper stairs. Heavies and turrets covering. Acquiring via alternate route". She took a matte cylinder from her belt and tossed it towards the top of the stairs, then waited for the ominous hiss of the choke gas before breaking cover for the nearest door. The thick blue smoke - designed for riot suppression past the point where collateral was an issue - would have been enough to obscure her exit even without the choking toxins. She kicked the double doors open and slammed them behind her.

Justine found herself in the mansion's industrial-scale kitchen where what would've been tonight's main course lay on the floor. No doubt scattered by fleeing servants. If it's anything like home then it will be... There. The servants' stairs, exactly where she thought they would be. Though designed for servants to move around the estate without having to actually be seen they would be perfect for letting her flank Lord Holan. She emerged in the upper corridor and tilted her head around the corner. Wonderful. More turrets. She could plainly hear someone panicking in a room at the end of the hallway. Likely her target, prepared to ambush her once the turrets revealed her position. Then she saw it, and smiled.

The balcony provided a lovely view of the small-scale war unfolding below but Justine had no time to stop and sip amasec. The window ledge was wide enough for her to stand on and (hopefully) strong enough to hold her weight. She took a tentative step onto it, pressed herself against the exterior wall, and began to shimmy towards her target's room. And there he was, loading bolts into a pistol. She held her boltgun tightly against her chest, ready to breach on command. "Sunshine has eyes on target. Acquire or erase on command. Shimmer, Redhat, will need turrets down to extract".

[Implodio]

The Glossia reports streamed into the Inquisitor's commbead. He could hear them spoken on the other end, too; or atleast the fading echo of the words, even those spoken outside, upstairs, or in other rooms. His pupils were eerie black discs, each crushing the color of its iris back to a narrow ring wedged between the black and white. That is what Glory did when it was in your veins; it eroded everything between the black and white; the uncertainty in sensory life. That is why he was confident, when he leapt over the table and into the line of sight of six house armsmen and the deploying autoturret, that he would come out the other side without being shot to hell. His face jerked left to right at pulsing intervals with owl-like swiftness; and each time he read the room he read path of the lasbolts and the bullets to come. He read the startled expressions, the bunching biceps, the squeezing fingers on the triggers; he read the angles of stock to muzzle on every weapon in the room, and its trigonometric forecast, with the same automatic ease one reads traffic signs while whipping down an autocarriage high-speed laneway. It wasn't slow motion, or magic, or anything like it. It was just.. easy. That was why he had the chymist who invented the drug isolated, and his emerging distribution base liquidated. This was a tool for the Emperor's own, and not for the thugs and ingrates braining each other with nailbats in the hive sumps of the galaxy.

He raced through the open dancefloor of the ballroom, nimbly striding between Nikita's perforated victims; tucking a shoulder here, striding a little wider there, flexing himself into spasmodic, awkward arrangements of limb and lope from time to time and sure enough the bullets whizzed by, the lasbolts flashed against far walls, and the growling autoguns in the turret chased his as*, but did not bite it. Then the turret, after a half-second of exciting life, whine and died; the protruding metal
barrels slouching shyly down, at the onset of this sudden projectile dysfunction.

Magos Xaon's familiar, synthesized tones filled his hearing as he ducked behind a pillar again, and Interrogator Astieri's longlas compelled the houseguards to duck again by venting the flashfried content of one's skull onto the shoes of another.

“Redhat soothes vipers. Timely, Shimmer. Suggest watchful eye invocation, to acquire Bluejay. Pattern Macragge.” The emancipation drive hummed and vibrated in the slot, patching the veteran magos into the manor's closed security network. The dozen cogitators in the room rebelled from their former purpose, devoted their spirits wholly to the Machine God, and flashed sequentially through the manor's many hidden pict-recorders; displaying their content for Felicia with the expectation that she would find what she was looking for among them.

“Vipers soothed, Sunshine. Descend and acquire.” Sure enough the turret protruting from Holan's bedroom's ceiling sagged impotently, and unaware of the danger lurking outside the window, the hero-turned-politician-turned-traitor turned paler; looking up at the defunct machine like an omen of doom in a starry sky.

Likewise, the turret in the burning coach-house whined and slackened before the roof caved in entirely. The Arbites had formed a perimeter, now; no one was getting in, or out; and Sila's dutify massacre had left only one survivor. He was uncommonly brave, for a valet; and when he stood up from hiding, heavy revolver in hand to make his last stand, he looked all the part like the hero one should be rooting for, in contrast to the gore-drenched, chainsword swinging guardswoman. All this amounted to nothing for the young valiant valet, however. It was likely Sila could have hit cover before the shot, but she did not need to.

His eyes went wide as he felt a sensation internally; like a tugging on his neural tissue from a direction he did not know existed. He stood bolt upright as if stung from behind, thrust the pistol into his mouth hard enough to crack teeth, and blew the parietal plate off his skull in a fountain of wasted loyalty.

Beside him, the gaudily dressed Lance O'hara was suddenly visible again; the warp veil of invisibility slipping away and leaving him stepping over the twitching remains and moving toward Sila, the purple of warp-light still draining from his eyes. He did not have the emaciated, tormented shape of most sanctioned psykers; or the obvious cranial implants, or a great staff with an eyeball displayed on it. You really could believe he was just a regular, fat nobleman; happy with life, and the things he enjoyed. He smiled and tucked his hands into his pockets, presumably to keep them warm – because it was a chilly night, wasn't it?

“Don't smash them all up, m'lady.” He waved a pudgy hand toward the few remaining skiffs, in as much as any had escaped the wrath. “You're entitled to a souvenier, after all.”

[Donan]

A small thrill ran through Felicia. Finding and bringing down a Tau would earn her a few bonus points ad a new story to share over drinks. Even if her drinking buddies were restricted to lethal Throne Agents. A girl took what she could get in this life, Emperor willing.

To that end, she began scanning through the video screens, seeking out any hint of.. there!

The blue skinned Xeno was fleeing through the building and heading upstairs. Felicia couldn't think of any reasons why, except that it might take it further from the Arbites and the fighting. With them having surrounded the grounds, she couldn't see how it could escape.

But if one of the enforcers saw it first, they'd do what any good Imperial citizen would do, and paint the walls with its blood. And they were to try and take it alive.

"Shimmer spies Bluejay descending at height. To acquire, pattern Macragge?"

[ArcturusV]

"Rat" had turned to face the valet, body shifting into an aggressive stance, ready to charge and assault the boy. It was personal for her, at least as personal as battle ever came. He was in the way, he was looking to kill her. It didn't get much more personal than that. Chainsword was raised high, weight on the balls of her feet, and then she saw the man twist around, eating his own gun, dropping like a cut marionette as his life blew out the back of his head.

Her eyes flicked around quickly, shifting into a defensive stance in that moment before Lance appeared, hand going towards the Aquila marking on her flak armor, to help invoke the Emperor's Protection against some possible Xenos Witchery or something. It was only when Lance appeared, and started talking that she relaxed her guard, lowering the blade and taking a moment to scan the Coach House, making sure that her objectives were secure now that she wasn't in the immediate battlefield reactions of killing and moving.

A burning skiff, several chainsworded autocarriages, bullet holes all over from the random panic fire. Flames from where she has burned the original group of card sharks.

"Gelt's probably all melted..." she said regretfully, figuring that she'd never get her coin back off what she suspected was a cheater anyway.

"Area secure?" she asked Lance, figuring the witch-kin would have a better grasp of the minds of the various thugs, mercs, and house guards who had been here rather than her. At the very least no one was firing at her at the moment. So relatively secure. But you don't drop your guard completely when someone might be lurking around waiting to put a bullet in you.

[Retrokinesis]

“Vipers soothed, Sunshine. Descend and acquire.” Wonderful. "Sunshine acquiring, pattern Macragge".

Justine shattered the trellised window with a quick hail of bolter fire, careful to avoid hitting the cowering noble. She follows the falling shards into the room and levels the ancient relic directly at the would-be Lord-Governor. "Lord Holan Abram Unctor. You are charged with sedition, treason, heresy, and failure to confess guilt. By the authority of Inquisitor Esdras Malachi, you are hereby bound by law and ordered to stand down".

All of those save the last would be a death sentence on their own, let alone combined, but the Inquisitor wanted him alive and it was well within his authority to demand such. Probably for questioning. She drums her fingers on the trigger guard to see if Holan would choose to be sensible or require summary judgment here and now.

[Implodio]

Cuban

Lance gestured loosely with one pudgey hand towards an autocarriage nearby; whose engineblock had been sawed through, but miraculously had not caught fire. Beneath it, a junior estate armsman, perhaps sixteen years old, lay flat on the ground, hidden from view, trying not to make a sound as the slowly expanding circle of his own fear-sprung urine soaked into his uniform. The psyker offered a cheerful wink to the guardswoman as he turned and made his way slowly up the hill. It was not a comforting wink; not a saucy suggestive one either, but a wink that occured in the eye of a psyker was definitionally suspect.

"Come back up to the estate when you're done. If they're wrapped up there, the catering supplies are probably still warm enough to raid." Having just caused a man to blow his own brains out, Lance trotted off for something to eat.

Shimmer

Por'Lan'Ri rattled doorknob after doorknob. The rooms that were open were useless and indefensible; the rooms that were locked were too well secure for his slim shoulders to knock down. The Water Caste were not trained for combat. But few species did not possess inherant capacity for cowardice, and the Tau tapped into that as he wriggled into a cart of soiled house guard uniforms, left out for washing the next day.

This, of course, was all captured on pict-viewer, and fed through to the screens in the security room.

"Confirmed, Shimmer. Acquire. Pattern Macragge."

Sunshine

Holan glared balefully at the armed interloper. Her weapon was up. His was loaded, but still down at his side; and he scowled out a sound of throaty disgust.

"They don't care about us out here, you know. You can't see it because you're part of them; part of the Imperial machine. But the Imperium sucks the blood from good worlds like this. Takes their money, manpower and resources and fires them off into mad wars in far corners of the galaxy." He lifted his free hand and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm; looking incredibly tired and old, all of a sudden. "I sent a lot of men to die for a dead Emperor, and Terran dictators who don't care about them or value their sacrifice. Good men. Women, too. But you know... for all I honor how hard they fought... I'd rather die on my own terms."

The renegade veteran, and would-be governer jerked his compact bolt pistol up, ready to fire.

[Donan]

Felicia stared at the screens before she began to grin broadly. She moved to open the door and ambled out, acting more like she was at a festival then in a struggle against a group of heretics. That didn't stop her from reloading her bolt pistol as she went.

Lazily finding the trolley of soiled clothes she began to push it in slow, rhythmic fashion s she headed for the main hall. Maybe the Tau would assume a stray servitor had picked it up, but if he poked his head up to check, she'd give him a big smile to say hello. Xenos were often far scarier then this, so it was a welcome surprise.

[ArcturusV]

Squirmy bugger. That thought ran through Rat's mind as the cowardly boy tried to wiggle away, kicking and clawing at the rockrete of the ground, fighting against the hard grip that Rat had on the back of his belt, reeling him out from under the autocarriage and towards her inch by inch. He was sobbing and convulsing, his terror was a thick reek that might have choked out Rat, if not for the respirator she wore. Instead her cold eyes just remained on target, feeling his kicks starting to bounce off the greaves of her flak armor with about as much effect as raindrops.

Raising her hand, she brought the pommel of her chainsword down on his head, timing the blow for his squirming, and with just enough power to knock him for a loop, and take some of the fight out of him. As he sagged, and his struggles ceased, she finished dragging him clear of the autocarriage, using some manacles to cuff him behind the back, and shackles around his legs.

"Puh... puh... puhlease," he stammered as he came too, the left side of his face resting against the rockrete, looking up at the bloodsoaked boots and pants of the psychopath who had butchered the Emperor knows how many here in the last five minutes.

Rat, for her part, ignored his begging, pulling out a hard ration bar from a pouch, unwrapping it and chowing down with a ravenous hunger. She supposed that might make her look more terrifying, biting and tearing like that, ripping it open with her teeth and eating while she was covered in the signs of her work. It was only partially intentional. For the most part it was simply because killing like that was exhausting work, she needed something in her stomach before the shakes started. Wouldn't do to let the heretics see your hands quiver.

"I don't know anything! I'm innocent!" he cried out in a shrill shout. And those words brought a laugh to Rat, a deep, rich belly laugh as she shook her head, grinning from ear to ear.

"Innocence proves nothing," she quoted. He wondered what the man would do next. Seemed like a weasel who'd bargain.

"I AM! I just drive, that's all! I don't know anything!"

Rat crouched down, looking him in the eye, as she chewed her ration bar slowly. She reached out, grabbing a bit of his hair, yanking his head to have a better look at him, her fingers smearing a bit of the blood of his perhaps former comrades and compatriots in his hair and across his forehead. She watched him carefully as his eyes went wide, his face drained of color, and the tremors of fear started showing clearly as they locked eyes.

He looked away first, and Rat ground his face into the rockrete for it, scraping him up, causing no real lasting harm, but definitely making him look worse for wear and feel like his face was getting flayed by rough stone.

"You know something, they always do. And there are people who know how to find it inside that empty, heretical skull of yours." With that she picked up her captive. A driver wasn't much, but then again, a driver likely knew all of the places the Heretical Noble had been for YEARS. Someone probably wanted him. Might have missed a contact in his network or something, after all. The Inquisitor? The Arbites? She didn't know, and didn't rightly care as she lugged the man up to his feet, keeping a tight hold on him and pushing him ahead.

To the manor, to see what else there was to clean up, or perhaps hand over the prisoner to her boss.

[Retrokinesis]

Justine sighed. Lord Holan certainly had conviction, even as misplaced as it was. A shame it was wasted on heresy. She was reasonable certain she could fire before him, though it would certainly spell his death and the failure of her mission. Lowering her bolter, she let him fire. The bolt round tore through her Dialogous robes and the carapace armor beneath. Instead of a gaping hole in her chest, however, there was only Warp fire. Holan's eyes went wide.

As the blueish-purple sparks began to cauterize the wound, she smiled. "Pleas for leniency will not be heard". The noble dropped his bolt pistol and lost his footing."The Emperor protects His own, Holan. A pity you never learned that". Well, not quite the Emperor in this case. But the point was sound. An armored fist drove him to the ground.

"Sunshine has acquired target". She snatched his bolt pistol up and began to search the room for documents or other evidence of his fellow heretics as the Arbitrators filed in and dragged him away to face the Emperor's justice. With her back turned, they never noticed the twisted wound.

[Implodio]

The battering, crumping growl of kraken penetrator rounds rang out as they perforated the final combat servitor; stitching through its metal body, remaining organs, and bursting out to impact a far wall. The burst just about sawed the creature in half, but it sagged to the ground in one bleeding and sparking mess; mouth working numbly in gasping 'O' motions. The expression suggested dull surprise, but it had no excuse to be (even if it were possible in such a creature). The room was filled with the shot, blasted, and mangled bodies of finely dressed men and women. The dancefloor was slick with mingled blood; the tables turned and wrecked; the quiet eerily sudden out of such a racket. The sound of burning vehicles crackled in the distance; but the smell of smoke was choked out by heretic's blood.

Esdras, standing amidst the carnage like a triumphant hero (though his contribution to the fight was an enthusiastic round of not being shot, rather than actual combat), spied Sila's outline cresting the hill outside one shattered floor-to-ceiling window. She brought a staggering prisoner; which matched the others. Down the stairs came a harrowed and oddly compliant Holan Unctor, in Justine's custody. The prisoner in the laundry basket, Felicia's charge, was left amidst the crumpled sheets for now. Best keep him there, while the Arbites were tramping around.

These acolytes were in earshot, but for the benefit of his agents scattered over the compound he spoke into his commbead between recovering puffs of breath.

"All acquisitions finalized, brood. Praying for deliverance. All very clean."

Waiting for his deliverance - that is, the shuttle pick-up - the Inquisitor began to carefully trudge out of the killing field and towards the pleasant blue-green grass outside.

A pair of Arbites arrived at the broken window. One dropped his gun as he looked over the scene, and convulsed with muffled groans. Frantically removing his helmet, the sudden spray of horror-born vomit splashed down his armored front.

"Clean" was a relative term, after all.


* * * * *
End of Prologue.

Act 1: Strange Bedfellows (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?481703-DH-Of-Thrones-and-Void-Act-1-Strange-Bedfellows)