‘She was almost killed!’

Helena was almost apoplectic, and she realised her indiscretion a moment before Interrogator Lafayette fixed her with a stern glare. The Throne Agent realised that she had been leaning over the Interrogator’s desk and stepped back a half pace. Amelia turned her head to look at her steward hovering in the doorway before saying the first two words she had spoken since Helena entered the room.

‘Leave us.’

Ophelia left the room with a patient grace, and Amelia silently noted to herself that she would need to remind the woman that her meetings were private. She had once served in a noble household, and seven years with the Inquisition had yet to completely snuff-out the urge for gossip.

‘Sit.’

This was directed towards her Throne Agent, and Helena sat with almost undue haste, resting her arms on her lap as if she was trying to make up for her lost composure.

‘It was a risk, sending Luka in. There was the risk she would have been executed as an object lesson in obedience, or fed to a pack of lizards as a crowd-pleaser. There was, and still is, the risk that she will let slip some nugget of information that will bring the Colleges, and the Legion, down on our heads. But we are in the business of risk, and my duty is to determine weather the benefits of an operation are worth the risk.’

‘She adores you…’ Helena began, the words faint and half-spoken.

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Amelia responded, fixing her Agent with a piercing stare, ‘You think I don’t see the way she worships the ground I walk on? She believes she owes me her life, and she would give that life up in an instant if I asked. I could ask her to undertake any mission, and she would do it without any hesitation.’

‘But that doesn’t mean you should…’ Helena was whimpering, and Amleia quickly reached out with her mind to see if her steward could hear the Throne Agent in distress.

‘I know,’ she said, in as soothing a voice as she was capable of, ‘but that is the burden of leadership. With Luka, more than anyone else, I have to weigh up the risks of each mission, because the doesn’t think she can tell me if I have set an impossible task. It breaks my heart every time I see her eager eyes looking back at me.’

Amelia fell silent, and the small office enjoyed a few moments of peace before she spoke again.

‘But this mission was not impossible. She has succeeded, and she is still alive. They have her in a cell, separate from the other mutants, and I suspect they are about to make her an offer she can’t refuse. The intelligence she has provided so far has been invaluable; detailed layouts and rotas, not to mention a concrete link between this college and the operation on Nova Iberia. When she is brought into the cult itself, she will be in a position to report on its inner workings.’

‘What if you’re wrong?’ Helena responded, ‘What if they kill her?’

‘Then she dies. Risk versus reward. But I do not think they will, there’s other figures in their church who could be similarly converted pit-fighters.’

‘I understand.’ Helena spoke with weary finality, before leaving Amelia to her work.

The Interrogator spent the next few hours looking through the sheets of reports from her staff, in an attempt to keep her own thoughts from her infiltrator. Two colleges, both ideologically distinct and bearing one of the four traits of the great enemy. A pleasure cult, and a warrior cult, not to mention three lesser cults in the smaller colleges. Logic would dictate that if Iram was a way of sending the faith across the stars, then there would be two more major cults dedicated to decay and change. But there was little use in speculating about what they don’t know, and so Amelia’s mind turned back to the facts as they had been established.

They knew the cults were organised, intercepted communications had revealed the presence of a single cell leader, but the cults didn’t seem to be connected in any meaningful way. There was no clear-cut network like they had uncovered on Nova Iberia, which meant the cults only coordinated when necessary. It was fitting, she supposed, that these representatives of the four traits of the warp would spend more time at each other’s throats than cooperating. She needed something to panic them, and force them to a meeting, without revealing the presence of the Inquisition. Amelia spent hours in contemplation, strategizing any number of plans before whittling away the dangerous or impossible until she had some sense of a viable action.

Satisfied with herself, she felt the urge to stretch her legs and left her chambers to wander the top floor of their small compound. She had excluded herself from the false business front, her distinct augmetics being instantly recognisable by any trained individual, and limited herself to the more overtly Inquisition areas, avoiding only the painful air around the blank’s chambers. Amelia spoke briefly to the staff she encountered, each somewhat reserved as they spoke with the authority figure, and she remarked to herself that the captain might run the ship, and be surrounded by people, but they always stood alone.

It was a solitary life she had chosen for herself, or had it been chosen for her? That was a question she often pondered. Could she have kept her head down and stayed the psyker assistant, without concern for the burdens of command? Was she forced into this role, or did she dive headfirst into the abyss heedless of the risk or reward? As before, she could not answer these questions. It was simply who she was.

The assassin took in another whiff of incense. The foul-smelling material helped to soothe his mind, and stave off the violent fits of rage that had undone so many of his lesser colleagues. He knelt on the floor of his small chambers, looking at an array of weapons set before him. There were eight small knives of darkened metal, balanced for throwing and normally held in four sheaths on either thigh. Closest to him was a small needler pistol, a lethal weapon at range but one he often ignored for being too impersonal. Still, it wouldn’t do to carry an unprepared weapon and so he had disassembled it, and was undergoing the rites of maintenance that he had been taught by his order.

Pride of place was given to two long knives with a small battery pack artfully set within their crossguard, The blades themselves were made of the finest alloys, and sharpened to a fine edge. On their own, these weapons were easily capable of cutting through even the thickest flesh and bone but what made them unique was the power field. The arcane technology of the power field was beyond his ability to maintain, and when each was activated it would form a small curtain of force over the metal that sharpened into monomolecular points on the edges. With that power, these knives could cut through anything short of a void shield. The assassin regarded them as if they were a sacred artefact which, in a very real sense, they were.

Set in between the two blades, in the place of honour, was a mask the colour of decaying bone. It resembled a human skull, slightly enlarged to fit around his head, and its hardened exterior concealed the machinery that turned him from a killer into a force of nature. With this helmet, he could see beyond the visual spectrum, could see through walls or track targets kilometres away. It was the pinnacle of man-portable surveillance technology, and it was worth more than all the money spent on his training. The assassin looked at the mask with diving reverence, and began intoning a long prayer.

His worship was suddenly and rudely interrupted by a hammering at his door, and within moments his door swing open without any word of invitation on his part. A woman stood in the entrance, dressed in red and grey and with a slight error in her stance that spoke of a broken leg that had never properly healed. She looked down at the assassin, kneeling over his piles of weaponry, and rolled her eyes. When she spoke, it was with arrogance concealed behind a thin veneer of professionalism.

‘The Interrogator wants to speak to you.’

Luka’s dreamless sleep was interrupted by the sharp pain of an electro-stave as it was driven into her gut. She jerked awake, trembling as the charge passed through her body, only to realise she was hanging limp, her arms chained to iron rings set into the walls of a small stone cell. When she stood, she had just enough give to stop the metal digging any further into her wrists and she glared helplessly at her tormentors, briefly considering whether she could strangle them with her free legs. She stopped when she saw Vladimir Benevente standing behind the two guards, his face stony and unreadable but marred by three obvious scars on his cheek.

She stared daggers across the room, as if she could somehow pass between the intervening space and gouge out his eyes, but all her ferocity achieved was to send the slightest beginnings of a smirk creeping up his lips. He pressed his arm onto one of the guard’s shoulders and gently pushed the man aside, moving closer towards Luka. He knew that even chained up she was still dangerous, and yet he approached her with easy confidence. He briefly looked her up and down, and Luka was relieved when his eyes chose to linger on the cuts and scrapes she had picked up during the fight.

‘Ah, Spikes,’ he sighed, more to himself than to her, ‘whatever are we going to do with you?’

She didn’t respond, looking the nobleman dead in the eye with an angry glare. He continued to ignore her, and began speaking again.

‘You’re not supposed to win, you know. You and your kind are sacrifices drawn from across the Imperium, to be killed in a holy ritual, and people don’t like it when the sacrifices rise above their station.’

‘Then you should use stronger priests.’ She interrupted, putting venom in the word.

‘There was almost a riot when you killed the last one,’ he ignored her again, ‘luckily your little dance at the end soothed their feelings. That electric-jig might just have saved your life.’

He sneered at her and she snarled back, an animalistic sound that broke his stony exterior and caused a short burst of laughter,

‘Why stop me then,’ Luka began as he leered at her, ‘instead of when I killed the others?’

‘Simplicity itself, Spikes. Deaths in battle are an expected hazard of this place, but it wouldn’t do to have our students killed after the fight has ended. It creates entirely the wrong impression. In truth, I don’t mind of we lose one or two students. Their loss will drive the rest to greater heights, but we can’t have too many of them dying or we’ll be defunded.’

‘So, master,’ she spat the word, ‘what will you do with your little killer?’

He smiled again, and Luka saw sick pleasure in his eyes.

‘The mob would have you lynched for spoiling their fun, the fanatics want you executed for polluting the ritual. But they forget one simple truth; our rituals require conflict, it doesn’t matter who wins so long as blood is spilt.’

He gripped her chin and turned her head from side to side, rubbing his index finger against the jagged spike of bone that followed her jawline.

‘To the Imperium,’ he began in a softer tone than he had used before, ‘you are an aberration to be destroyed, the corruption of humanity. They would sooner pretend you didn’t exist, and work very hard to achieve that dream. Have you ever wondered why?’

‘Because we’re going to rise up and gut those twists in their homes, and take those we don’t kill as slaves!’ Luka echoed the common sentiment of young mutants, full of anger at the world above.

‘Don’t pretend like you believe that,’ Vladimir scolded her, gripping her jaw tighter in his hand, ‘your “people” will never rise and that dream you all parrot is pure fantasy. The Imperium hates you, the Imperium fears you, because you’re living reminders of who we used to be, of the true nature of the human animal. They look at you, and see themselves without the pretensions and trappings of civilisation. They look at you, and see the monsters we really are.’

‘They’re right,’ Luka admitted, eliciting a smile from the nobleman.

‘Then you understand,’ he exclaimed, ‘you probably even hate yourself for it. But there’s nothing to hate, I look at you and I see the true essence of humanity, pure and unsullied. You are beautiful to me, Spikes, and you’re beautiful to those who think like me.’

‘This isn’t a church school,’ Luka feigned realisation.

‘Oh, but it is, my dear. Not to the Emperor, in all his artificial glory, but to the true gods of humanity, the reflections of our true nature. We serve the Lord of Battle, the reflection of man’s inherent desire for conflict. Look at yourself, your clawed hands and sharp shards of bone. You are a creature forged for conflict, and I can see that primal instinct in you when you fight. I told you that you would die when we will it, and you are now faced with a choice. Either we send you back into the arena against impossible odds, dying to appease the masses that hate you, or you commit yourself to our cause and our faith and die in the name of human nature.’

Luka was silent for a moment, a silence both feigned for the benefit of her audience and, at some deeper level, genuine. The Benevente released his grip and stepped back, waiting patiently for her deliberations.

‘It is the way of the Underhive,’ she began in a voice devoid of rage or scorn, ‘to follow the strongest warrior. I have changed allegiance in the past, when my tribe was conquered by a stronger force. In this place, I see the path to true strength. I accept your offer, master.’

His face lit up with a genuine grin, that pulled at the scars on his cheek, and he waved one of the guards over, who began unshackling Luka from the wall. She staggered for a moment on unsteady feet, only to have one of the guards place his arm under her shoulder, supporting her until she found her feet. The moment she was confident in her footing, she dropped to one knee before the nobleman, as if she were a mutant warrior pledging allegiance to a new chieftain.

‘What next, master?’ She spoke the word without scorn this time, but was surprised when Vladimir grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet.

‘You are no longer the same as those wretches we have in those cages, and you needn’t call me master anymore. Normally you would be sent offworld, to join another force in need of a skilled fighter, but our standing orders are to limit the amount of people we send away.’

‘Standing orders?’ Luka interrupted, ‘from who?’

‘From men as far above you or I as we are above the slaves. The only authority we need to worry about is the Master of the College. As I was saying, we’ve been using the assets we would be sending offworld to train our more advanced students, so that they can learn different sets of martial arts. You will pass on your skills to them, I was very impressed with the way you fought. It’s the product of a different upbringing to the rest of us instructors, and our students will benefit.’

He led her down a set of spiral stairs, leaving the beast-pens and slave-chambers, and entered into the College itself. This part of the Colosseum was much nicer in appearance than the upper floor, with marble floors and ceilings, but it was somewhat more utilitarian than most Imperial places of worship. As they moved through the halls, Luka was passed by the occasional group of students. They stared at her as she went past, but their eyes displayed curiosity rather than malice. Vladimir must have caught her confused glances, and he answered her unspoken question.

‘The highest floors of the Colosseum are reserved for senior students who have fully embraced our doctrine. They stare because you are new, and partly because of what you are, but they mean no malice by it. You are one of us now, and that places you above the student body.’

These last words were spoken as Vladimir veered off the path, pushing open a large set of double doors that led into an expansive chamber. It seemed like an upmarket version of the slaves’ arena on the floor above, with marble walls and more ornate mats on the floor. Inside stood two students with training weapons designed to mimic the weight of an Eviscerator chainsword, but with a long line of metal in place of the teeth. Luka looked closer at the two, and recognised the two survivors of her fight in the arena. Neither seemed to bear any animosity towards her over their comrades’ deaths, and they listened attentively as she began bringing them through the basics of her fighting techniques.