Amelia scrutinised the ceiling; a sheet of unadorned metal with support struts stretched across its width and a harsh halogen light hanging from them by frayed tangles of wire. The bulb flickered at irregular intervals, plunging the room into darkness just long enough to make the red light from the camera mounted in the corner of the room impossible to ignore. She was indifferent to the camera’s presence, having long given up any hope of privacy, and had instead been studying the ceiling for some time now, not out of any particular interest in the industrial-brutalist school of architecture but because she was desperately trying to keep her mind active.

An inactive mind can lead to all manner of unpleasant effects such as sleep, and the dreams that come with it. The inactive mind will inevitably become the wandering mind, a dangerous beast for a psyker of the Telepathic discipline. The Psyker, realising she had learned all she possibly could from the ceiling, sat up, desperately seeking something to keep her mind away from the sharp touch of the psi-inert materials that lay just behind the walls of her cell. Her eyes settled on the small shrine tucked into the little space that lay between her bed and locker, though she had already spent two hours in prayer before even the catechisms of faith had become monotonous. Eventually the decision was made for her as her agitated stomach wailed in protest. It was time to leave.

This was by no means a demanding task, though thicker than usual her door was not locked and she would not be stopped or questioned. However, it did mean she would have to interact with others and withstand their accusatory stares, or their deliberate indifference to her presence. Amelia paused before a screen that usually displayed any incoming orders but whose glossy black surface served as a passable mirror when not in use. She saw a young woman with sunken eyes, unnaturally pale skin and ginger hair tied behind her head in a tight braid.

The sides of her head were chemically shaved, to make room for the crude ports and clasps that also circled her collar and the back of her neck, the emotional dampeners and failsafes they concealed ensuring that even without her psychic hood she would never be able to pretend she was anything more than an aberrant mutant, tolerated by humanity for as long as her 'gifts' were useful. Further proof of her status could be seen in her black leather stormcoat, with the stylised red eye of the Astra Telepathica on her right shoulder and the personal sigil of Inquisitor Heydrax above her left breast. Satisfied that she was at least somewhat presentable, Amelia collected her datapad, hooking it on her belt, and stepped across the threshold.

Her room backed onto the mezzanine level of a long hall with an arched ceiling. Identical rooms lay to her left and right, with the same repeated on the opposite end of the hall. The rightmost wall was dominated by a great stained-glass window, displaying the iconography of the Inquisition, a capital I centred by a skull, amongst a pattern of Gothic shapes. The whole edifice glowed with a red light, casting shadows onto the people bustling across the floor below. The ground floor was dominated by rows of tables set before a galley behind which a grey robed menial stood beside trays of food.

Dozens of figures wandered the hall, most sitting before bowls of stew or waiting in line to be served whilst others stood in quiet huddles, their low conversations permeating the hall. They were varied in appearance, with robes, fatigues, bodygloves and coveralls unified only in their dark colours and the occasional Inquisitorial sigil. Amelia descended the spiral staircase to the lower lever and was soon seated with a bowl of simple stew. Though the others avoided her, Amelia couldn’t ignore the other people in the room; even with her neural inhibitors she still caught glimpses of their thoughts and emotions. Their emotions were dominated by apprehension or excitement and their thoughts were largely speculative, it was clear that some great change in the routine was coming.

Amelia’s datapad beeped, bringing her back to the here and now, she was to proceed to the armoury and from then to the starboard saloon. Glancing around, Amelia saw that many others had also received similar messages, and were proceeding to the armoury that divided the crew’s quarters from the rest of the ship. Once there, Amelia reported to the Tech-Adept responsible for the more esoteric equipment.

Hands as cold as death placed the machinery of the psychic hood around her neck and she felt a familiar stab of pain as the adept turned the screws that secured the device to her spine. Finally, thick wires were plugged into ports on the side of her head, and her horizons immediately began to expand. The hood was unsightly and cumbersome, but it helped Amelia focus her psychic abilities, reducing the chances of failure. The additional weight was noticeable, but Amelia had been through this ritual hundreds of times in the Scholastica Psykana, and once the Adept had finished blessing the hood, she was able to move towards her locker without any noticeable difference.

Amelia did not have any personal possessions, instead the locker contained the equipment issued to her by the Inquisition, as well as the gear she had carried since she was first sanctioned. Amelia was not entirely sure why she had been issued a sword, she was hardly the model of physical prowess, but she was not one to question the will of her betters so she buckled the long blade to her belt. Next she collected a compact stub revolver and loaded her only three bullets into it, she was not trusted to carry any more, tucking it into a concealed holster beneath her coat.

The next two weapons were more in line with her skill set; a long, needle-like blade made of psychically reactive materials that Amelia could direct through the air, that Amelia hung next to the sword, and an ornate staff of ancient oak, taller than Amelia was, inlaid with precious metals and topped by a winged eye. The staff was as valuable as her hood, and served as a focus for her abilities. Amelia now looked every inch the Imperial Psyker, a truth that still unnerved her.

As she was new to the ship, Amelia would normally have needed to rely upon her datapad to navigate her way around, however, there was a steady stream of Acolytes and Agents all heading in the same direction. She travelled along the spinal corridor that ran the ship from bow to stern, ducking through and around foot and tram traffic before turning off into a side corridor. The next passages were smaller, designed for personal use rather than bulk transport and eventually lead Amelia to the gates of the starboard saloon; the atrium to the personal quarters of Inquisitor Heydrax.

The room itself resembled the nave of a great cathedral, with red glowing Inquisitorial sigils running the length of the walls. Below them was an intricate pattern of stone archways and metal ductwork, interspersed with the occasional crucified servitor engaged in some obscure function. The ceiling was vaulted with ribbed stone, with the stars themselves visible in between, projected onto innumerable screens. In the middle of what would otherwise be the transept, an Inquisitorial I was held in the air, easily four times the height of a man and made of engraved metals, it was supported by six colossal pipes that were strung loosely from the walls.

The floor teemed with robed acolytes, most of whom bore mechanical implants as well as a mixture of robes and armour. Before Amelia was jostled to the side by a man whose entire head, save his nose and mouth, was covered by crude augmetics, she was able to glimpse a shaven headed man in bulky power armour of glossy black plates inlaid with gilded engravings and tattered red robes. He stood atop a podium surrounded by petitioners and acolytes vying for his attention like some ancient warrior king. Though there was a considerable din in the room, his voice cut through the noise as an expectant hush befell all those in his presence.

‘My loyal acolytes and servants of the Throne, we stand before the world of Nova Iberia, an ancient planet believed to have been one of Humanities first expansions into the Segmentum Tempestus, brought back into the fold by the forces of the 142nd Expeditionary Force during the Great Crusade. It is a world of proud martial spirit and steadfast loyalty to the Imperium, its many Hive Cities producing exceptional regiments of Guardsmen, whilst its abundant Chromium mines fuel Imperial industry on a dozen other worlds. It is also corrupt.

One year ago, a Commissar attached to the 475th Iberian Commandoes found a Chaotic pendant on the body of an Iberian Stormtrooper. The subsequent investigation revealed that the majority of the regiments elite forces had similar talismans. The Commisar passed his findings up the ranks of the Militarum Tempestus, where it first came to my attention.

For one year, my covert agents have embedded themselves into Iberian society and infiltrated their highest places of power. It has become clear that the planet’s elite military forces, and the noble houses that feed into them, have been corrupted through rituals that grew out of the warrior culture common in most Special Forces. These Warrior Societies brought down half of the Astartes during the Heresy, and are now poised to bring down one of the most important worlds in the sector. My agents have uncovered all they can through subtlety and guile. Overt action is what is now required.

You have all been summoned here because you have skills useful in investigation and interrogation. You will be my hands, interrogating those we know are suspect and bringing the Emperor’s light to the dark places of this world. In two hours our vessel shall come out of hiding and we shall make planetfall fast enough that the enemy has no chance to hide their secrets.

The majority of you will deploy to noble houses, military bases and known areas of cult activity. Force your way in, dispose of any resistance and detain all those you find. Whilst you secure and investigate the site, dispatch any high value individuals to the Arbites Precinct-Fortress in the planetary capital of Hive Castle, which is where I will place my headquarters.

The remainder will travel to the fortress and establish an interrogation centre to process those individuals the strike teams collect. All of you will be answering to a Throne Agent on this mission, treat their orders as if they came from my lips. Your datapads have your assigned shuttle on it, there you will meet your team leaders. Remember, we face a warrior cult on a world steeped in martial pride, do not drop your guard.

The Emperor Protects!’

Amelia echoed this shout, joined by all the acolytes in the chamber. As one they turned back into the ship’s corridors, the Inquisitor watching their departure, from there the crowd dispersed to the vessel’s six main hangers, each directed by their datapads linked to the ships Noosphere. Amelia was directed to a Valkyrie gunship, painted in Inquisition colours, before which stood a fire team of stormtroopers, a Chiurgeon laden with vials, an adept of the Mechanicus pushing along a bulky cart laden with equipment and a man with long black hair dressed in a stripped down suit of plate armour shrouded in tattered red robes; the shape of a skull had been hammered into his breastplate, made to look as if it was pushing out from underneath. His right arm ended in a bulky gauntlet mounted with syringes whilst his left carried an ornate book. Upon seeing Amelia, he scowled.

‘I assume you’re the Psyker. You’re certainly not much to look at. State your credentials girl.’

‘Yes, My Lord.’ Amelia stammered ‘I am Primaris Psyker Amelia Lafayette; a Telepath with a low Delta assignment, I was rated Primaris one year ago and was held at the Scholasta Psykana until being bound to the Inquisitor one month ago.’

‘I suppose you’ll suffice.’

He walked halfway up the gunships ramp, before turning to address the group.

‘I am Interrogator Lucian Dray, just Interrogator to you. We are charged with interrogating high-profile figures as and when they are brought to us. We are looking to determine their degree of attachment to this world’s Warrior Societies, as well as the extent of corruption within the individual societies themselves. To this end your duties are as follows; Chiurgeon Aemos, you are responsible for the administration of chemicals to our subjects and ensuring they do not fall unconscious or expire. Adept Tankred, you will maintain the sensors and life support machines. The Psyker will assess the subjects mind and whether they are concealing anything. As and when required you will conduct a more invasive investigation of the subject’s mind. Lance-Corporal Geyl, you and your men are responsible for security; ensure that our subjects cannot attempt escape, monitor the Psyker for any signs of possession or corruption and take the necessary corrective measures in a worst-case scenario. I will be handling the interrogation itself.’

At this he strode into the aircrafts cabin, strapping himself in. The other acolytes followed him in, leaving Amelia in the hanger that was very quickly being emptied of personnel. Mustering her courage, she wandered up the ramp to join them. As she did, the air was filled with an echoing sound as the ships PA began transmitting.

‘Attention. The ship will now be disabling stealth. All crew proceed to Action Stations, Aircrew conduct final checks, prepare for departure and stick to your assigned flight plans. I repeat, Action Stations, Action Stations. The Emperor Protects.’

The Valkyrie’s ramp gradually retracted, replacing the hanger’s clinical light with the red glow of a single bulb. Amelia’s emotions were disorderly, the neural inhibitors replacing her fear with a creeping sense of dread. She was lost, far from home, and descending to the surface of a world she had never even heard of to invade the minds of heretics in service to dread powers. She was surrounded by people who viewed as a tool, the same as the chemicals carried by the Interrogator, and would dispose of her the moment she posed the slightest threat. Amelia clutched her copy of the psalms of Sebastian Thor, kept within the interior pockets of her coat, and prayed.

Castle Station was the primary port of entry onto the world of Nova Iberia, it was an ancient station with rudimentary weaponry, having watched over the world since it was brought into Compliance during the Great Crusade. Many of the Imperium’s most ancient facilities were also its most advanced, containing weaponry impossible to manufacture in the 40th Millennium, and Castle Station could once have been considered one of them.

Millenia of relative security had seen the station decay, its once mighty targeting spirits going senile with age, and its advanced plasma weaponry sold to worlds with far greater need. It served now as the headquarters of Iberian Customs and Excise, protecting the system from the mundane threats of smugglers and opportunistic raiders while providing air traffic control for the annual collection of the Imperial Tithe. It was certainly no longer able to fight the eight-kilometre-long warship that, according to the sensors, had appeared in the system a mere thousand kilometres from the station with no warp signature and a distinctly menacing aura. Petty Officer Second Class Maurice Stadtholder had, until now, been convinced of the station’s invincibility and, finding his position suddenly more precarious, took a few moments before shouting to his superior.

‘Sir! Unidentified warship one thousand kilometres off the station and closing fast, mass displacement suggests it’s a Battlecruiser!’

His superior, an unimaginative Lieutenant Commander who dreamed of getting a cushy job liaising with the Planetary Government so he could spend more time with his family, dropped his mug of recaff in panic before running over to the radar. Upon confirming that what he saw was not some devious plot on the part of the non-commissioned ranks he hesitantly sat back down and thumbed a rune on his terminal.

‘All… All crew aboard Castle Station, beat to quarters! Captain Ranald, my compliments and I request your presence in the Operations Room at your earliest convenience.’

Confident that he had done his duty, Lieutenant Commander Barclay sunk further into his chair, offering a desperate prayer to the Emperor that by some miracle his message did not wake the Rear-Admiral in charge of all orbital customs. It was only once the expectant panic on the faces of his staff had reminded him of his duty that he manipulated his terminal again, launching a wide beam transmission to the unknown vessel.

‘Un… Unidentified vessel, this is Iberian Customs and Excise, reduce speed and transmit your identity, flight plan and docking authorisation or…’

He fell silent, his survival instinct warring against his courage. In the end, fear of his superiors won out.

‘Or we will open fire.’

This declaration was followed by the entry of Captain Ranald into the room followed, to Barclay’s horror, by Rear-Admiral Said, a cantankerous old soul kept alive only by his sheer professionalism. Barclay’s hurried explanation of events led to a frenzied competition between Captain and Admiral over whose voice was the loudest, with the unfortunate Lieutenant Commander the target of their wroth. His desperate attempts to shift blame onto Petty Officer Stadtholder were met by a painful reminder of the meaning of the term ‘Officer of the Watch’, specifically how it relates to ‘noticing a warship before it flies up your arse’, and the Rear-Admiral’s insistence that his Voidsmen were ‘the finest men to ever put on a uniform, perhaps some time amongst them will broaden your perspectives.’ Stadtholder, buoyed by the Admirals praise, announced that the unknown vessel was transmitting.

‘This is the Silent Observer, in service to His Imperial Majesty’s Most Holy Inquisition. Our speed is our own business, our flight plan is classified and you now know we have all the authorisation we need. Stand down and prepare to be boarded.’

Many tombs are louder than the Operations room was at that moment. It was the Admiral who first regained his senses, leaning over Barclay’s shoulder to activate the microphone.

‘This is Rear-Admiral Said of Iberian Customs and Excise, Director of Orbital Command. We are complying.’

The part of Castle Station that faced away from Iberia had very few windows, to preserve its integrity as a defensive platform. However, since it had taken over Air Traffic responsibilities, the Operations Room was built on the station’s underside, and large angled windows looked down on the planet below. This meant that when the Silent Observer passed the station at a distance of only fifteen kilometres the crew were able to clearly see it. A true behemoth, eight kilometres long, the vessel had a rather subdued and angular prow, compared to the armoured works of art that comprised the Imperial Navy, indeed the ship kept as low a profile as was possible; a few squat lance turrets were its only visible form of armament and every possible surface was painted a matt black. As they watched the ship enter into a low orbit above Hive Castle itself, they saw great hangers opening on its flanks, and a flotilla of avian shapes emerged, spreading across the entire world.

The Inquisition had made planetfall.