Three Years Later

Within the cavernous depths of the Silent Observer, the adepts and acolytes of the Inquisition go about their routines with monotonous regularity. In dozens of long chambers, lined with sparse cells, the lower acolytes exist in a constant state of uncertain readiness, occupying their days with training and spending their evenings relaxing and mingling with their peers. It is no monastic state, but it is close, and a keen sense of companionship exists between the various acolytes in service to the Inquisitor. There are exceptions, naturally, the most notable of which is the quiet space in the vessel’s forecastle that housed a small convent of the Order of the Bloody Rose, whose sisters lived in voluntary seclusion occupied by study, drill and prayer. The crew of the vessel are also isolated, though that is more the product of the cultural gap that has existed between sailors and landsmen ever since the first ship was carved from ancient oak.

Even these groups seek comfort in familiar company. But there is a group within the ship who live a largely isolated existence, matched only by the Inquisitor, the ship’s Captain and its navigator. The senior acolytes of the Inquisition dwell in small chambers and apartments that, while in the same geographic area of the ship, may as well have been worlds apart. Though they may meet and mingle in the wardroom, their quarters are like their own private kingdoms and none would think of violating the sanctity of that space. It is one of life’s tragedies that power isolates those who wield it, and when one belongs to an order that dwells in subterfuge and betrayal then it is only natural that its leadership should drift apart.

Within this section of the ship there was a single set of rooms, no different from any of its counterparts, comprised of a large bedchamber and washroom that was separated from the ship’s wardroom by a spacious antechamber that served as both an office and a lounge, as circumstances required. The walls were a grey combination of steel and stone, much the same as the rest of the ship, but swathes of red cloth hung from the walls gave the place a somewhat lighter atmosphere, and in time the walls would be covered with the trappings of life: ornamental weapons, fine art or badges of office. The bedroom was largely built around an ornate bed that supported four wooden posts, done up with yet more red cloth. The tranquil sleep of this bed’s occupant was disturbed with the shrill screeching of a desktop chronometer.

Prime Agent Amelia Lafayette practically staggered into the washroom, still drowsy from sleep. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, as she washed herself under a simple stream of water. Her eyes had sunken somewhat over the years, but they no longer declined at quite the same speed as they had when she first awakened to her powers. Her skin had lost its corpselike pallor now that she had spent some time under natural, or near-natural, light and her frail figure had filled out with muscle acquired through daily exercise routines with some of the stormtroopers physical training sergeants. She had hardened over the past few years, and her face was showing the early onset of age, wrinkles that didn’t belong on the face of someone in her late twenties. Soon she would need to begin a course of Rejuvenat treatment in order to maintain the appearance of youth that is so valued amongst the upper echelons of Imperial society, or at least with the women of Imperial high society.

Once she emerged from her ablutions, refreshed and partly revitalised, she saw that attire had already been laid out for her by one of the ship’s stewards. Other women, when placed suddenly in a position of great authority, may lament the loss of privacy that comes with servants, stewards and other hangers on but Amelia had abandoned notions of privacy within her first week in the Scholasta Psykana, and her experiences since had only reinforced the value of a competent set of staff. In truth, she imagined that she was rather low-maintenance when compared to the other senior acolytes; she eschewed robes or layered finery, and dressed instead in a simple bodyglove of black material, unadorned with badges of office. Those would come later.

Within her antechamber were two things of note. The first was the silent figure of the mutant Luka, now in her mid-teens, who stood vigil beside the entrance, dressed in unadorned red fatigues belted with a black leather band from which a pair of long knives hung. The girl’s clothes were simply requisitioned Stormtrooper fatigues, easy to replace when her spines tore the fabric into rags after only a day or two. The girl had served as Amelia’s handmaiden for the past three years, ever since she acquired the child in the underhive of Nova Iberia, and she had adopted a determined stance towards her new life in the Inquisition, although Amelia was well aware she was the subject of mockery and abuse. When Amelia was otherwise occupied, Luka would spend her days training with the Inquisitor’s other mutants, or those undesirables he had recruited from criminal syndicates. In time she would become a feared enforcer, capable of rising like a poison through the ranks of any criminal syndicate or warlord’s retinue.

Amelia’s second concern was breakfast, placed by unseen hands on her desk, and she ate in blessed silence. The senior acolytes did have a communal wardroom that occasionally hosted ceremonial dinners in celebration of some religious festival, or simply out of a sense of social obligation, but most of the acolytes preferred to eat alone, either reclusive by nature or reluctant to break bread with a rival for the Inquisitor’s favour. Whatever the reason, Amelia simply enjoyed the solitude. The food was far richer than the fare served out in the communal messes, and she enjoyed, for the first time in her life, being able to decide what she wanted to eat that morning. Only a strict dedication to her fitness kept her from overindulgence.

Once she had eaten her fill, Amelia rose and typed a short code onto the tall doors of her quarters’ small armoury. Luka stepped up to her side without a word; this was a ritual both had gone through many times before. Inside the armoury-closet was a set of finely polished carapace armour, that Amelia began removing from its mounts. With Luka’s help, she buckled the full-body suit of carapace armour over the purpose-designed bodyglove until her entire body, from her shoulders to her feet, was covered in glossy black plates. The armour itself was lighter than that worn by the stormtroopers, and more closely hugged her form, but the materials used in its construction were far superior, compensating for the difference in weight. Within the solid black surface, faint cords of gold embroidery traced stencilled designs. This minor ornamentation, forming a double-headed eagle across her chest and the sigil of the Inquisition on her right arm, was the armour’s only accessory.

Luka stepped back, this final ritual was too pious for any risk of mutant corruption, as Amelia lifted a small machine from the back of the closet. This was her psychic hood, heavily modified from the bulky collar it had once been. The tangled wires had been replaced with a dozen thick tubes that ran from one curved piece to another. The first was shaped to the back of her skull, and attached itself to her permanent implants while the other rested on her collarbones, resembling a parody of a high-backed collar and fitting seamlessly into her carapace armour. Her long stormcoat had gone the way of the jumble of wires, and Amelia slung a rich green jacket over one shoulder, in the manner of an aristocratic soldier, before fixing it with a delicate chain around her neck. She no longer felt the need to hide herself between buttoned up coats and in the anonymity of her station.

The chapel was empty. One of the more minor chapels on the Silent Observer, it was a good place for quiet reflection. Amelia knelt in the centre of the knave, facing the altar and the white marble Saint who stood behind it. She silently recited the catechisms of faith, moving with religious deference through the calming rites she had been instructed. These rites were more than mere rote learning, but something she held dear and trusted to see her through the darkest times. In the corner of her eye, she could see the red-robed priest standing beside the font, watching her as she prayed. She no longer actively picked up on the emotions of bystanders, unless she wanted to, but it was clear that the priest had recognised her psychic hood and resented her presence in his chapel. Unfortunately, the man was of no consequence and as such was powerless to stop her. He was ultimately unimportant, merely a distraction from her sites.

‘It’s time, my lady.’

Amelia finished the verse before rising, offering the sign of the Aquila to the altar, and turning to face her adjutant. Helena wore a deep red bodyglove, richer and more vibrant than the Stormtrooper’s fatigues, that had been tailored to accentuate her beauty. Her head, and much of her décolletage, was uncovered and her blond hair had been carefully styled into a kind of ordered chaos. Her left arm, entirely exposed, gleamed with polished metal and large brass plates, which gave the impression of a normal arm while not hiding the mechanical workings. The brass had been engraved with scenes of hive cities, and the whole machine moved with all the fluidity of a real arm. Helena was no longer the same timid youth Amelia had been, nor had she forged herself the same martial air. She was larger than life, and determined to enjoy her youth before it faded away. When she worked it was with deliberate elegance paired with the familiar efficiency of her former order.

As she led her Adjutant out of the Chapel, she heard the crashing of metal as a crackling power sword was raised in salute. Captain Al’Said stood vigil outside the chapel door, the pommel of his sword raised to his head in a formal salute which Amelia returned with a practiced efficiency. His head was bare, exposing his coffee-coloured skin and neatly trimmed hair and beard, and his features were stoic. His meteoric rise in rank was little more than a recognition of his inherent talent for leadership, a task he had proved repeatedly in false battles and boarding actions. He no longer wore the standard carapace armour of the Inquisitor’s stormtroopers, instead dressing in a suit of layered metal plates partially assisted by hidden servomotors. His professional exterior had not wholly survived the years, however, and it did not take a psyker to match Helena’s perfume with the strangely floral scent coming off the martial man. With their salutes exchanged, the Captain took up a position on Helena’s right as her Lexographer moved to her left.

They were joined shortly thereafter by Luka, barred from getting anywhere near the religious spaces, and by the rest of her retinue. Four Arbites officers stepped out before her, men and women who had followed her since the ambush in the Precinct Fortress they served as heralds, clearing a path through menials and deckhands in the same way they might batter apart a riotous crowd. Two squads of stormtroopers fanned out on either side of her, a gift from Marshall Taimur. She had earned somewhat of a reputation throughout the Stormtroopers and, though many of the other acolytes still resented her, she could always find support in their honest company, for they saw her as a fellow soldier. Behind all of them moved a disorderly gaggle of acolytes and hangers on that were more Helena’s acolytes than hers. Together they made for an intimidating column as they moved through the corridors of the Silent Observer.

The last time Amelia had stood in the Inquisitor’s Grand Saloon it had teemed with people, and she had been jostled about until she could barely see the Inquisitor over the shoulders of greater men, both physically and in social status. Now the chamber was much emptier, and seemed all the larger for it. The Inquisitor’s plinth, which had been a mere necessity, now served to elevate him over his supplicant, and his dozens of retainers subtly overshadowed her own followers. The Inquisitor stood before her, resplendent in his pristine power armour and tattered robes, and she marched up the centre of the chamber before dropping to her knees fifteen paces from him. Behind him still hung the immense Inquisitorial sigil, and their business was conducted under the sight of open space displayed on hidden screens that lined the ceiling.

‘You summoned me, my lord.’

There was no question here. Every element of this meeting had been ordained by rigorous protocol and ancient convention so long-standing as to have its own legal weight. It was not as stuffily formal as the protocols of the nobility, but there was a distinct undercurrent of menace to every formal Inquisition action.

‘Supplicant, you have come here to receive judgement.’

The Inquisitor’s voice was magnified by hidden voxcasters that carried his voice throughout the chamber and his trio of servo skulls flittered about the room repeating his words in a whispering facsimile of an echo.

‘Is the supplicant free from a corrupt background, that may influence her decisions or speak to weakness of character?’

The wizened figure of Autosavant Wrexley shuffled forward a half step before speaking.

‘The supplicant was a ward of the state, and her prior ancestors have shown no sign of heresy, criminality or un-imperial behaviour.’

His duty done; the old man stepped back into the ranks of acolytes. This was not a trial, merely a presentation of evidence gained over months of research. On some distant world, utterly beyond her reach, the Administratum had torn through their genealogical records and conducted interviews with her living family to determine any history of criminality. Amelia wondered what her parents, who must surely have given her up for dead, would have thought when subjected to this background check. She wondered if they were even alive.

‘Is the supplicant free of cursed mutations, that may affect her capacity for rational thought or otherwise corrupt her?’

Magos Zeletrass towered over the other acolytes, though she still seemed small next to the Inquisitor’s intimidating presence. She skittered forward on mechanical libs mercifully concealed beneath her robes.

‘Genetic rites and purification tests have shown no adverse mutations, barring the supplicant’s pre-existing mutations that have already been vetted and sanctioned by the Telepathica-Biologis Enclave on Terra. The supplicant’s pre-existing mutation has grown considerably in strength, but it is the verdict of the Mechanicum that this growth is within normal parameters.’

Amelia breathed a silent sigh of relief as the mechanical voice of the Magos stopped talking, and she skittered back into the ranks of acolytes. Her abilities had grown, as psychic abilities have been known to grow over time, and she had wondered if they would damn her for it.

‘Is the supplicant of stalwart character, ready to face any hardship in service of the Imperium of Man?’

Interrogator Filburn stepped forward, his omnipresent grin replaced by a blank expression. Amelia still remembered the nights of horrible torture the Interrogator had put her through, a chance for her to prove her loyalty beyond mere personal relationships. She bore the Interrogator no ill will; he had only been chosen to do the task because, in those heady days after Nova Iberia, the two had found comfort in each other’s arms. That budding relationship had broken under the knife, but she still respected him.

‘The supplicant’s will was tested, and she emerged unscathed. She has proven her will both under interrogation and in open warfare.’

He stepped back, and Amelia though she saw the slightest hint of remorse in his eyes. It would be unsurprising, but she may have been reflecting her own feelings onto him.

‘By the will of this court and by the authority vested on me by the Imperium of Man, I, Inquisitor Ishmael Heydrax, name you Interrogator Amelia Lafayette. May your actions, from this day forward, be guided by the example of our founder, Malcador the Hero, and remember always the teachings of the God-Emperor of Mankind, for you act in his name.’

‘Rise, Interrogator!'