Carcharodons: Outer Dark

by Robbie MacNiven

  Rannik had witnessed the dualism of the Imperium of Man many times before. Most often it was to be found in the hive spires, where families of unimaginable wealth lived almost within touching distance of leagues of poverty-ridden, obscura-haunted slums. Never before, however, had she witnessed so great a contrast on so large a scale. As the Falcon banked lower she could make out the multi-hued glassaic window arches, a hundred feet high, in the flanks of the towering Ecclesiarchy buildings, the gold finish on the thousands of gargoyles and the gleaming marble of hundreds of statues representing the saints and martyrs of the Imperial Creed. She could also see the squalor of the encampments that surrounded the shrine-capital – the rickety shacks made from rotting layers of multiwood and rusting corrugated sheets, the plastek tarpaulin shelters and lean-tos, the fyceline-drum fires and refuse heaps, all populated by a million tiny figures that whipped past the viewing port as the Falcon swung overhead.

  Rannik wondered whether those who lived, prayed and administered to the wealthy faithful in the glittering marble-and-gold domes had ever set foot amidst the filth and squalor that surrounded them, had even looked down from their balconies and spires to see the sprawl of destitution that lapped like scummy waters against the foundations of their churches. It seemed unlikely.

  She glanced away from the port. Nzogwu had passed by again on the way to the Falcon’s kit hold, and now stopped beside Rannik’s seat holding up a long, heavy-looking, black plastek wrap.

  ‘For you,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’

  He unzipped the wrap’s top, revealing sapphire silk folds and golden lace.

  ‘No chance,’ Rannik said immediately.

  ‘Yes chance,’ Nzogwu replied. ‘The pontiff has invited us to the ball celebrating the Final Feast of Saint Etrikus tonight, and we all need to look the part. Stow this in your personal locker, and make sure Rawlin takes it with him when we disembark.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘We’re not supposed to be here on business, arbitrator. No riot-plate this time, at least not until things go live.’

  ‘Why can’t I just wear this?’ she said, gesturing at the semi-formal black-and-tan Inquisitorial robes she had donned. Welt and Rawlin were similarly attired, in preparation for the introductory meeting with the reigning supreme pontiff, Guilermo de Grattio. If it had been up to her, Rannik would have gone before the ruler of Piety V wearing her usual black fatigues, but Nzogwu had insisted. Only Tibalt was armed and armoured, and that was only because of the close association his crusader rank held with the Ecclesiarchy.

  ‘You’re supposed to be here seeking supplication and the God-Emperor’s blessings, like the rest of us,’ Nzogwu said. ‘As far as de Grattio is concerned, we’re not conducting any sort of investigation within his diocese. The less Inquisitorial gear, the better.’

  ‘Did Damar put you up to this?’

  ‘Take the dress, Rannik.’

  Eventually she hefted her kit back off the seat beside her, making room for Nzogwu to lay the plastek-wrapped finery down.

  ‘You should’ve let me go with Damar and the others,’ Rannik muttered as the intercom pinged with a final approach warning. While Nzogwu went before the supreme pontiff amidst pomp and ceremony, Damar was leading the rest of the retinue in a covert insertion among the pilgrim slums. Arriving visibly on Piety with a full retinue would have raised suspicions.

  ‘Beyond the preliminary report from Judge Fulchard, we have no idea as to the extent of possible heretic activity waiting for us,’ Nzogwu said. ‘I don’t want to make planetfall without a measure of personal security.’

  ‘You think dressing me up is going to help me keep you safe?’ Rannik asked.

  ‘First impressions,’ Nzogwu said again.

  The landing sign overhead blinked on, and the inquisitor headed for his seat before Rannik could respond. She fastened her restraint harness, scowling. There was something off about Nzogwu’s actions, something that didn’t sit right. He had been the same since she had linked back up with him on Imperius. There was something she wasn’t being told, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  The Celebration of the Feast of Saint Etrikus was to be held in the Theocratica, the high palace of the supreme pontiff of Piety V. It sat at the heart of the shrine-capital, its great golden domes vying with the seven spires of the grand Cathedra of Saint Solomon. Rannik was afforded a view of it on the approach via the Boulevard of the Blessed to Absolution Square, the grand, statue-lined thoroughfare that ran through the heart of Pontifrax. The eve­ning sun was catching the palace’s whitewashed colonnades and gleaming domes, a vision of wealth and splendour to greet those who could afford to venerate the God-Emperor of Man at the heart of Piety’s capital.

  Rannik knew better than to mention how sickly she found the sight of such opulence, even more so when it was surrounded by the sprawling destitution of the pilgrim slums. Nzogwu himself had grown up on a shrine world, amidst the wealth of cardinals and the poverty of paupers. A place such as this seemed natural to him, and Rannik had been an arbitrator long enough to know that one of the few certainties in the galaxy was injustice. It would do her no good to complain about it.

  The Falcon had landed on a docking plate of the Observance, one of the gothic high-rise blocks that provided accommodation for the wealthiest of the supplicants visiting Piety V. The planet’s days were long, almost double Terran standard, and the retinue had taken one of the four-hour rest cycles customary in the shrine-city. As the extended night approached they had risen and readied themselves for the feast being held in honour of Saint Etrikus and his ascension during the war on Tretchark.

  It had taken almost an hour for Nzogwu to convince Rannik to don the dress he had brought for her. He had eventually done so under direct orders, Inquisitorial rosette and all. She was now clad in thick silk folds, a blue corset and high-heeled shoes, her severe ponytail swapped for ringlets that hid the comms piece in her ear. She had insisted on strapping an autopistol to her thigh, concealed by the heavy skirt. The entire garb was nightmarishly uncomfortable, and she had needed Nzogwu’s hand to help her from the sleek landcar that had taken them from the Observance to the Theocratica’s gold-plated doors. There they had joined the queue of hundreds of other supplicants winding down the palace’s marble steps into Absolution Square, hoping for an introductory audience with the pontiff prior to the start of the Feast.

  ‘At least we look equally ridiculous,’ Rannik said as they waited. Nzogwu smiled but said nothing. While Welt and Rawlin still wore their black-and-tan Inquisitorial robes, Nzogwu had opted for the black habit of the devotati, the Ministorum cult-faction currently ruling over Piety. It was traditional, though not required, that the leader of each group of supplicants wear the garb as a mark of respect to the supreme pontiff, who himself had risen through the ranks of the devotati’s seculum before the collegiate bishops of Piety had elected him to his august post.

  ‘First impressions,’ the inquisitor murmured.

  The line progressed slowly. The dying sun winked and glittered from the domes and statues all around, darkness creeping from the streets and alleyways leading off from the square. The sound of plainsong drifted on the heavy, warm air from the cathedra of Saint Solomon, adjoining the palace. The supplicant group directly in front, a family led by a Navy officer in the finery of a Segementum Pacificus admiral’s full dress uniform, were discussing which other dignitaries they expected at the Feast. Further up the line a child had started to cry. Movement was incremental, a few steps every five minutes. Rannik kept changing her stance in a vain effort to ease the tightness of her corset and the ache in her feet.

  Occasionally armed guards would clatter past. They were frateris militia in red-and-black robe-fatigues, their autoguns wrapped in the ceremonial gold cloth that shrouded weapons in Pontifrax. There were more of them ranked around the Theocratica’s open doors, and around the statua
ry that lined the streets leading from the square.

  ‘It’s unusual to have a standing force of frateris, is it not?’ Rannik asked as another squad passed the queue on their way inside the Theocratica.

  ‘A borderline heretical breach of the Decree Passive,’ Nzogwu said, watching the frateris as they went by. ‘But given the need to keep the pilgrim slums from encroaching within the shrine-city’s boundaries, I’m not surprised.’

  Rannik said nothing more. One of the frateris had paused on the steps next to them, his eyes travelling from Nzogwu’s black habit to the robes worn by Welt and Rawlin. He was a big, shaven-headed man, with the black sash of the devotati over one shoulder and a heavy-looking cudgel strapped around his waist. A scar twisted the left corner of his mouth, giving him a sneering, sardonic expression.

  ‘I thought I recognised the garb of the ordos,’ he said to Nzogwu, offering a smile that never quite reached his dark eyes. ‘I am Cleric Marshal Amil Brant, commander of the frateris militia of Piety Five. You must be Inquisitor Nzogwu.’

  ‘I am,’ Nzogwu said, making the sign of the aquila in greeting to the frateris. ‘These are members of my retinue and fellow supplicants, Isiah Welt, Delt Rawlin and Jade Rannik. We were just commenting on the presence of your men, cleric marshal.’

  ‘They aren’t detracting from your worshipful experience I hope, inquisitor,’ Brant said. ‘They are merely here for the safety of the supplicants.’

  ‘Our safety seems to be assured, given the extent of your security preparations,’ Nzogwu replied.

  ‘The supplicants who come to venerate this city’s shrines include some of the most eminent figures in the segmentum,’ Brant went on, his smile not wavering. ‘Anything less than the maximum protection would be a dangerous dereliction, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I would say you must be aware of some sort of threat to warrant such a presence.’

  ‘Perhaps it is the same threat that has brought you here, inquisitor?’

  ‘I come as a supplicant, like everyone else.’

  ‘I’m sure the supreme pontiff will be glad that a member of the ordos has found the time to offer veneration on our humble shrine world. He would surely be displeased if he knew you were required to wait like this.’

  ‘As I said, I am a mere supplicant,’ Nzogwu reiterated.

  ‘Regardless, I am sure His Holiness would like to meet you as swiftly as possible. Please, follow me.’

  Rannik looked at Nzogwu. Almost imperceptibly, she noticed Welt nod. After a moment the inquisitor gestured up the steps.

  ‘I am in your debt, cleric marshal. Lead on.’

  Brant took them from the queue and led them up the marble stairs past the rest of the supplicants. The frateris at the palace doors parted for Brant, snapping to attention. Beyond the gold-clad entrance Rannik found herself in a mosaic-flagged hallway, ranked with statues and paintings of Imperial splendour. On her right Saint Soriel vanquished the daemon prince of Narcissus with her fiery axe, while to her left a likeness of the atmos-spires of the Seventeen Shrines of Imtep sprawled across the wall space in a blaze of golds, silvers and pastel blues. The urge to pause and stare at such artistry tugged at her, but she forced herself to focus, looking down the hallway to the doors parting at the end.

  The group entered the room beyond, a state chamber that left those visiting in no doubt as to the wealth and power of the Ecclesiarchy on Piety V. The roof was an arching vault, the stonework plastered with gilded leaf forming the patterns of a golden canopy overhead. The floor underfoot was polished marble over which a sumptuous purple carpet had been laid, providing a direct route to the golden throne sited at the far end of the chamber. The statues of past supreme pontiffs, with their aquila staffs and mitres, ranked the carpet on either side, their graven eyes glaring down as though upon a parade of unrepentant sinners. Around the walls were gathered dozens of clergymen and those supplicants who had already processed through the chamber, their murmured conversations melding into an underlying drone. The entire space was lit by great candles in brass holders clustered around the bases of the statues, while a trio of priests in trailing black robes seemed to be circling the chamber continuously, swinging golden censers that gouted purple smoke.

  Brant led them onto the carpet. At its far end Supreme Pontiff Guilermo de Grattio waited. He appeared to be truly ancient. His sallow skin was crumpled, like thin parchment that had been crushed and then flattened out again too many times. His sumptuous white-and-gold robes hung from his wasted frame, while skeletal hands gripped the armrests of his throne. A skull cap sat upon a head that bore only a few slender white hairs. Rannik didn’t want to imagine how many decades – centuries – rejuvenat drugs had given him, while countless members of his clergy, and those miserable pilgrims who crowded the borders of his city, were born, lived and died.

  The route to the throne was guarded by a pair of Ecclesiarchy crusaders, their burnished battleplate and heavy two-handed power swords gleaming in the light of the candles. They parted before Brant, admitting them with a scrape of armour. The incense smoke was making Rannik feel ill, and she could hardly breathe in her Throne-damned dress. The pontiff was smiling down at them as they approached, his gaunt features giving the expression of the leering visage of a skull. A cyber-cherubim was perched on the back of his throne, its mechanical wings furled, bionic optics clicking as it assessed the approaching group with bird-like twitches.

  For the briefest moment, Rannik wondered if she now understood a fraction of how it felt to step into the time-worn splendour of Holy Terra itself.

  More clergymen were clustered around the throne’s base, most of them in the black habits of the devotati. One came forward as the group approached, a vox-amplifier obscuring the lower half of his face. There was a click as he hefted a heavy-looking data-slate and consulted it before speaking.

  ‘Inquisitor Augim Nzogwu of the Ordo Hereticus, presents himself and his fellow supplicants before your Holiness. Ave Imperius.’

  Brant halted a dozen paces from the throne and they all did likewise, mirroring his bowed head and the sign of the aquila he made across his breast. De Grattio raised one liver-spotted hand and sketched the sign of the Emperor’s grace.

  ‘Your Holiness, it gives me great pleasure to introduce Inquisitor Nzogwu of the Tri-Sector conclave,’ Brant said. Nzogwu took a step forwards and bowed again.

  ‘Honoured inquisitor,’ de Grattio rasped, his voice the death-rattle of a corpse. ‘You and your retainers are most welcome to the Holy See of Piety. Had I known of your arrival I would have had you admitted immediately.’

  ‘You honour both me and the ordos, your Holiness,’ Nzogwu said. ‘As I have already explained to the cleric marshal, I am here only to make my venerations to the Cult Imperialis… and my donations, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ de Grattio echoed. ‘But regardless, it is always a comfort to the faithful to know that an agent of the Throne is among them. But tell me, who are your fellow devotees?’

  ‘Loyal servants of the God-Emperor and the ordos, and supplicants like me,’ Nzogwu said, not looking back at Rannik, Rawlin or Welt.

  De Grattio regarded them for a moment, and Rannik found herself looking at the base of his throne rather than meet his eyes. She felt horribly out of place in her dress. The only comfort was the solid weight of the nine-millimetre autopistol, cold against her thigh.

  ‘You have brought an astropath?’ de Grattio said, his attention focusing on Welt. There was a hint of displeasure in his cracked, ancient voice.

  ‘He has served me loyally for many years, and my master before me,’ Nzogwu said. Welt remained silent, gripping his staff. De Grattio grunted.

  ‘It is… unusual for a psyker to partake in the Feast of Saint Etrikus. It was witchcraft that martyred the great woman, after all.’

  A chilly silence followed the pontiff’s words, before he spoke again.
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  ‘Regardless, any servant of the Throne is more than welcome to take our communion. If there is anything you require during your stay, inquisitor, do not hesitate to let me know.’

  ‘You honour me, supreme pontiff,’ Nzogwu said, bowing again. Rannik and the others mirrored the motion once more, and stepped back from the throne.

  ‘The Feast’s opening service will begin in a little over an hour,’ Brant said as he led them off the carpet towards the edges of the chamber. The other supplicants who had already been introduced to the pontiff were gathered there, waiting to begin the procession to the cathedra.

  ‘His Holiness seemed… surprised at my presence,’ Welt said as they went.

  ‘His Holiness has a certain puritanical bent,’ Brant admitted. ‘He is from an older time, after all.’

  The cleric marshal introduced each of them to the partner who would accompany them to the service. Nzogwu was paired with a wealthy-looking rogue trader by the name of Sorin, dressed in mottled white lyrix fur and expensive knee-high Sar’tel boots. Welt took the arm of a female Navigator of House Jorrow, and Rawlin accompanied a scarred Astra Militarum brigadier.

  Rannik found herself being introduced by a clerical attendant to a leering, corpulent man in the charcoal-grey robes of an Administratum optio. His name was Hamich, and he took Rannik’s arm in an uncomfortably firm grip as they left the Theocratica and began the walk towards the cathedra along the side of Absolution Square. He stank of sweat and vellum paste.

  ‘You are an arbitrator then, my dear,’ he wheezed as they went. ‘I did not know any among the ranks of our rugged protectors possessed such dazzling beauty.’

  ‘I could break your arm and put you in magnicles in under ten seconds, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Rannik said, keeping her eyes on the cathedra’s six dizzying gothic spires as they entered its shadow.