‘The situation has worsened.’

The Inquisitor stood at the head of a long table of carved oak, flanked by robed Crusaders in heavy plate and looking down the table’s length to the retainers gathered on either side. The conference room bore the symbol of the Adeptus Arbites inlaid in gold leaf along the length of the table, but one of his servants had hung banners around the room displaying the Inquisitorial sigil, making the room’s new purpose clear to all.

‘Last night, an Imperial Navy transport slipped its moorings above the world of Deliverance, and entered the Warp heading towards the Wrath of the Hungering Gyre, a region at the edge of Imperial Space frequented by Heretics and Renegades. The ship was carrying elements of the Iberian 7th Commando Regiment and the Naval Provosts believe the ship was hijacked. Twelve other vesels, each carrying elements of Iberian Commando regiments, have gone dark. Their current location is unknown.’

He paused, taking in the assembled agents arrayed in order of seniority before him, an eclectic group of talented individuals from all walks of life, though severely reduced in number since the events of last night. Like him, they were all standing; the motley collection of armour and augmetics they wore rendering the finely carved wooden chairs insufficient. His eyes drifted to the far end of the table where the most junior of his retinue stood, those who had proved themselves worthy of replacing the senior agents lost in the fighting.

‘Our presence here has forced the enemy to play their hand and reveal their scheme.’ He gestured to the wizened old man standing at his left-hand side, his head shrouded in a hood of steel plates.

‘Autosavant Wrexley has scoured the records of Imperial Guard actions involving Iberian Commandos, and linked the supposed death of thousands of squads over hundreds of years to a sudden increase in the enemy’s combat ability. It appears the military of this world is embroiled in a warrior cult designed to provide the Lost and Damned with elite soldiers to match our own Militarum Tempestus. The troopers are dispatched to warzones through the Guard levy where, when opportunity arises, they are declared “missing in action” and join the enemy as instructors or special forces. In addition, Explicator Buress’ interrogation of House Aragon’s seneschal revealed that commando forces are also sent off world to serve as guards for cults operating on Imperial worlds, whilst Interrogator Dray’s own investigation tied the cult to the highest echelons of Nobility.’

Amelia stood at the farthest end of the room, trying to pay as much attention to the Inquisitor as possible without making direct eye contact. The mention of her former superior only made her feel further out of place, a reminder that she had been brought here to fill a dead-man’s shoes. She had gone from an anonymous member of the Inquisitors retinue to the centre of silent attention; everyone in the precinct had heard her voice last night, and everyone had linked it to her face when the Inquisitor himself announced her promotion to a Throne Agent.

‘The mention of my former Interrogator brings us to last night. These are the events as we know them: at oh-two-fifteen hanger four was opened remotely by the Rapid Response Team assigned to this precinct. One of their members sliced the system from the tertiary control tower, which was unmanned at the time. The remainder of the squad overcame the guards patrolling the halls, letting in four quadcopters, each carrying forty men. The enemy were commando teams drawn from the PDF, Noble Houses and Death Cults and were led by a traitor Marine of the Word Bearers legion.

Most of our forces spent the battle locked in their cells, two teams fell victim to the poison gas in the Psyker holding cells. Twelve teams managed to free themselves, and contributed to the defensive. Canoness-Commander Persephone, your defence of the field hospital was vital in securing a staging ground for retaking the facility and you have my gratitude.’

A stern looking woman in blood red power armour nodded, her face half covered in dressings.

‘Whilst our soldiers suffered when isolated, we were able to gather together in defensible positions and hold for reinforcements. Those reinforcements were provided by Magos Zeletrass, who I tasked with restoring control of our systems.’

Amelia finally recognised the bare skull of the tech-priest who stood at the Inquisitor’s right hand; though she had seemingly switched out all of her limbs overnight the bare skull unmistakably belonged to the same tech-priest who she had followed last night. Amelia looked on in silent horror as the Magos gave her what was probably supposed to be a discreet wave, but looked more like an industrial accident.

‘Marshal Taimur, your report.’ The Inquisitor said, nodding to a man in an ornate blood red uniform whose weathered features and neat beard spoke of his previous life on the desert world of Tallarn. He had lost his arm in the fighting, and had not yet acquired a replacement, his empty sleeve hung from a button on his coat.

‘My Lord. Overall, we lost one hundred and fifty-three men last night, roughly a quarter of our planetside forces. We can replace the men with reserves from the ship, but the point is we remain overstretched on this world. Last night proved that my men are too few in number to guard a facility of this size, the fortress is simply too big. The investigation has shown that the cult limits itself to the nobility, as such I am recommending the security of this site be turned back over to the Arbites. They more than proved their loyalty to the Imperium last night. This will free up my men to assist the investigation teams.

In addition, I am recommending we make use of the PDF in any large-scale operations; the enlisted ranks are drawn from this world’s peasantry, whilst the officers are largely the lesser sons of merchant families. Our enemy have been training to fight stormtroopers their entire lives, if we are to defeat them, we must rely on conventional warfare. There is, of course, the risk of corruption amongst their ranks, but we can limit the information they receive. If you desire it, my Lord, I shall have the Astropaths signal Sector Command and request a Guard Regiment, but they will take at least a month to arrive.’

‘That will not be necessary’ The Inquisitor replied, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We will use local forces for the time being. It may be necessary to entirely purge the nobility of this world, and using the PDF will make the transitional government smoother. For now, formally rearm the Adeptus Arbites and have them take up guard alongside our own men.

These are your orders: Autosavant Wrexley, you are to arrange a meeting with the PDF’s General Staff and the High Court of the Arbites. Magos Zeletrass, have your assets scour the planets archives for any information about Black Ops facilities that the enemy may be using. Marshal Taimur, take command of the PDF and raid the locations identified by the Magos. Canoness-Commander, you are to raid the Death-Cult temples identified by my covert operatives. The remainder of you are to continue with your previously assigned tasks, with the exception of Throne-Agent Lafayette.’

Amelia froze at the sudden attention, she stood at the very end of the table, next to the most junior agents and they were all staring at this stranger who had caught the Inquisitors attention.

‘You were promoted to Throne-Agent only by virtue of being the last surviving member of your team, however, Magos Zeletrass speaks highly of your resolve.’

The Magos offered another wave, seemingly meant to be cheeky. Her grinning skull leered at Amelia.

‘This Warrior’s Trial you learned of intrigues me. You are to learn whatever you can about it, and keep me well informed. To this end, and due solely to the recommendation of my Right Hand, you are assigned the rank of Prime-Agent, and placed in command of a new team. A lot of responsibility now rests on your shoulders. Do not disappoint me.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Amelia stammered, bowing as she did so. Once she rose, it was to the contemptuous gaze of those junior agents with more seniority than her. She had just shot above them in rank and status.

The Inquisitor dismissed the audience and the assembled acolytes bowed before filing out.

Two days later, Amelia found herself once again staring at her reflection. Her office looked into an interrogation cell, but the lights inside were off and the glass wall was now a mirror on both sides. Her stormcoat was now open, displaying a steel breastplate with an eye carved into the centre, resting atop a golden Aquila. It had arrived on the day of her promotion, a gift from the Magos who had sponsored her advancement. It was the first possession she had owned in twelve years, and her heart filled with pride at the sight of it. Pragmatism had led to her replacing the snub-nosed revolver with a standard laspistol, bought from a stormtrooper with her first ever wages, and she wore it in a holster on her thigh. It was unlikely she would ever use it but it comforted her to know she was no longer completely helpless. Her face, framed by this new finery, was unchanged, still perpetually tired from her work, and the stress of her psychic powers. She at least appeared happier than she once did. Her neural inhibitor was no longer forced upon her, and she rejoiced in the sensation of feeling.

The office itself was also hers, for the duration of the investigation at least, although she had neither the time nor the decorations to leave her mark on it. A simple desk of polished wood sat in the centre of the room, requisitioned from deeper in the precinct, atop which a portable cogitator rested; light enough to be carried by two men and linked into the Noosphere it was her secure terminal, and her primary means of communication. Behind it sat a high backed, red leather, chair, liberated by her security detail from the offices of a senior Arbitrator, and presented to her as a gift from them. It was the most comfortable thing she had ever experienced, and she had fallen asleep in its padded depths more often than in her own bed.

A knocking at her door broke her reverie and she moved to sit at her desk, determined to present a professional front, before bidding her guest enter. The robed figure who entered the room before offering Amelia a short bow was Scribe Brazier, Amelia’s adjutant. The idea of someone whose sole role was to make Amelia’s work easier was still new to her, and she still felt a little awkward around the dutiful girl. Still, Amelia had to admit that she was essential in dealing with the minutia of reports and documentation that were a part of life Amelia herself was entirely unfamiliar with. A small girl in her late teens, Helena Brazier tended to fade into the background, a result of deliberate effort on her part. She wore plain grey robes that showed her past with the Administratum, where she served amongst the lowest of their order, and kept her bright blonde hair, which she grew long, hidden underneath her hood. Amelia knew that her hair was her secret pride; Administratum drones normally shaved their heads. She tolerated the small deception, understanding the importance of having something to call your own.

‘Madam.’ The girl said, her head lowered. ‘One of the Prisoners has been linked to the Warrior’s Trial, and is being brought here now.’

‘Excellent,’ Amelia replied, unable to keep the joy from her voice, ‘have Sergeant Flavius prepare the interrogation room.’ After two days of searching through the PDF’s archives, one of the prisoners taken in the raid had been identified, and his name matched a list of attendees.

‘Yes, Madam.’ Helena said, bowing before leaving the office. It still irritated Amelia that the girl called her madam, she guessed that she was at most two years older than the scribe, but rank, and the rigours of psychic power, seemed to age Amelia in the girl’s eyes.

Within moments, the light in the interrogation room was tuned on, and Amelia watched as Sergeant Flavius began checking over the secure chair in the centre of the room. Formally Lance-Corporal Flavius, the man had been promoted after their shared escapades a few nights ago, and now led her security detail, consisting of his one surviving stormtrooper and a team of Arbites. He was helmetless, a rare sight indeed, and his shaven head and scarred cheek spoke of the life he had enjoyed in the Imperial Guard. He was eager to swap stories with the other Stormtroopers or the Arbites, but he had adopted a professional distance between himself and Amelia, respecting the rank she now held. Amelia understood his reasoning, but she still felt it a shame that she was now isolated by her status, rather than her lack thereof.

Turning from the soldier, Amelia reviewed the Prisoner’s details on her terminal. The man was Ensign Alexander Quixote, of a minor noble family. He had excelled at martial training within his House, and so had been given over to Special Forces Command, which fed into the Imperial Guard. Whilst in the PDF his Kill-Team had excelled in their training, and been accepted as one of sixty-four teams chosen to attend the first stage of the Warrior’s Trial. Naturally, nothing was mentioned about the trial itself but a note in his service record stated that his unit had been one of the eight fire teams to proceed to the second stage. This made him their most useful source of information, indeed the only source they had been able to find in two days.

There was another knock at her door, this time more urgent.

‘Ma’am.’ Flavius said, standing at attention. Amelia immediately decided she preferred Ma’am to Madam, it conveyed a more martial than matronly image.

‘The Prisoner has arrived, but you’re not going to like the state he’s in.’

This was punctuated by the door to the interrogation room opening. An arbitrator walked in pulling a hospital gurney atop which lay the shredded remains of a man. His lower body was missing, a clean cut suggesting he had been bisected by a power sword, and his body was covered in signs of torture. The man had no eyes, and his body was a patchwork of chemical burns and shallow cuts that had barely healed. He was comatose, kept alive only by a complicated life support machine, and the ministrations of the Mechanicus Adept attending it.

Some of Amelia’s rage must have slipped into the stare she fixed Flavius with; his next sentence was delivered with a rushed stammer.

‘The team we took him from had already interrogated him, he’s comatose, but still alive. The Throne-Agent who released him to us said his mind was probably still intact.’

Calming down, Amelia accepted his feeble justification. It was not his fault, nor was it the fault of the other Agent, though he had doubtless enjoyed the opportunity to screw over the rising star. Still, a probing thought revealed the man’s mind was still functional, barely. Amelia would simply have to make the best of a bad situation. Amelia stepped out of her office, followed by an apologetic Flavius who put his helmet back on the moment he left the room.

‘Adjutant Brazier, inform the Inquisitor we will be commencing a level seven Interrogation. Do not interrupt me under any circumstances.’

The girl scurried off and Amelia turned to the Stormtrooper.

‘Sergeant Flavius, I need you in the cell with me. If his mind is cursed then there is a chance, I will be unable to cope. If I start to show signs of possession or collapse then I need you to kill me. Understood?’

‘Yes, Ma’am’ he replied, his featureless helmet displaying no emotion, though Amelia sensed slight reluctance from him. Good, she thought, he won’t shoot me for no good reason.

Amelia entered the cell, seating herself before the gurney. Flavius took up position in the room’s corner, his rifle charged and ready. The two Arbitrators who had been guarding the prisoner left on Amelia’s command, and took up position outside the cell. The prisoner was truly disgusting up close, but Amelia was less squeamish than she had been a few days ago. The violence she had seen had hardened her heart to bloodshed, though she still silently cursed the team that had left the man in such a state.

Reaching out into his mind, Amelia severed the connection between the man’s brain, his ears and his tongue, cutting off the senses the previous interrogation had left intact. It was then a mere moment’s effort to immerse the man’s mind in an endless black void and Amelia soon found herself standing before Ensign Alexander Quixote as he saw himself. A proud man of martial bearing, wearing a dress uniform with his features impeccably maintained, he was every inch the ideal Noble son.

What is this place… Where am I… What are you doing here…?

The man’s mind was struggling, able to form questions but without the flights of fancy created by the undamaged subconscious. He was dying, and Amelia couldn’t use the same tricks she’d used on the Duque. Instead she gripped the man before her, seizing his spectral limbs and silencing his tongue. Slowly she peeled back the shell surrounding his soul, tearing skin from flesh and muscle from bone. She ruptured organs, disassembling them to a cellular level before casting them aside. The brain went as well, what she sought was deeper than the mind. Once she had reduced his subconscious to atoms, she began to feel the slight pull of the warp. Every living thing has a soul that ties it to the warp, and Amelia began to harvest the connection of everything that made Alexander unique. Eventually, she found the memories she sought, and left the rest of his mind to rot.