Krieg couldn’t help the shimmer of a wounded expression that crossed his boyish features. Perhaps it was this that momentarily softened the battle-sister’s stony gaze, or the stifled amusement of Krieg’s own men. “The Emperor expects, lieutenant… the Emperor expects.” Then, she was gone.
Krieg shouldn’t have been surprised: the Ecclesiarchy and Inquisition worked together across the galaxy, towards common goals and identical purpose. They were very much separate organisations, however, and had their own very particular ways of working towards those goals. Tension, all to often, was the unavoidable byproduct.
Krieg collected himself. “Sergeant Odell!”
“Sir?” the hefty officer snapped to.
“Dismiss the chasteners; they should return to their precinct. Have our men turn in. They’ll need their strength. We’re going back into the vaults tomorrow at dawn. The sisters should have some further intelligence for us by then.”
“Very good, sir,” Odell boomed, masking grunts of exhausted disapproval from the storm-trooper unit. “You heard the good lieutenant. Hit the showers. You smell like a swarm of pack-rats. Dead ones, at that…”
II
The pavilion was less glamorous than the Narthex, lacking as it did the Imperial Creed paraphernalia and consecrated instruments of interrogation-art. From here Herrenvolk’s Inquisitorial storm-troopers ran their operations and monitored day-to-day activity in the Ordo Hereticus internment facility. Instead of ornately armoured Celestians, the command post of the 123rd Pontifical Strikes boasted a pair of staunch Inquisitorial storm-troopers who stood sentinel while Captain-Commandant Kowalski oversaw the smooth running of the camp. Krieg went limp inside as he realised that even they were missing this evening, suggesting that Kowalski was out on his rounds—walking the base camp perimeter and springing surprise inspections on the sentries. This was the captain-commandant all over: devoted to his paranoia.
Krieg had come to dread these reports. Upon operation completion he was invariably on the verge of physical collapse, run as he was from one side of the underburgh to the other in the pursuit of faithless deviants and the oxygen of any heretical purge: information. A capable officer, if a little narrow-minded, Kowalski fancied himself better than a heretic’s turnkey, and had of late taken to pumping the lieutenant laboriously for every mission detail: Krieg’s mounting successes and growing reputation a constant threat to the camp commander’s own prospects.
With Interrogator Angelescu dead and Herrenvolk apparently elsewhere, the Ecclesiarchy was now effectively running the Ordo Hereticus purgation on Spetzghast. Canoness Diamanta Santhonax was in command of the coordinated Ordo/Ministorum purge and for the past few weeks Kowalski and Krieg had taken their orders from her.
Whereas Krieg’s impressive accomplishments had long reached the ears of the battle-sister, Kowalski was still viewed as a cog turning inside a well-oiled machine. So the captain-commandant routinely had Krieg turn in gratuitously extensive mission details, firstly to find ways in which the lieutenant’s achievements could be turned to reflect favourably on his own and secondly to exhaust the junior officer further and limit his ability to accomplish his next unnecessarily perilous mission.
“Sir?” Krieg called in through the Pavilion entrance. He had to make sure. If he tried to get some sleep, the commandant would only have him roused anyway. To his surprise, he heard low voices and ventured slowly through the nets. Krieg recognised one of the voices immediately: the sibilant menace of Lieutenant Cyrus Rudd of Beta Platoon.
“That’s groxcrap and you know it. Krieg? Captain, that gretch-fondler’s nothing a fragging won’t see to—”
“I said it’s out of my hands. Do you get it? Came from the top. Orders, lieutenant.”
“Rutgers well overdue; and what about the hours I put in on that Mezzanine connection? Who’s taking care of my interests, eh? Krieg walks around with a stick up his backside and gets thrown a bone? How’s that work?”
“What do you want me to tell you, Rudd? It’s a done deal. Krieg’s a political animal. In that department he excels even me. Deal with it. Look at it this way: at least we get shut.”
“There’s more than one way of getting shut,” Rudd assured him.
Pushing his fingers between the folds of camo-netting, Krieg created an opening in the Pavilion entrance. There stood Rudd, running that steel comb through his greasy white hair and feasting raw pink eyes on Krieg’s entrance. Kowalski’s sergeants stood nearby with tin mugs of steaming recaff, soaking up the lieutenant’s words with appreciation. The captain-commandant himself wasn’t even looking at Rudd, his head buried in a data-slate.
Krieg strode in under Rudd’s baleful gaze and offered the captain his report tablet. The sergeants stiffened, but Kowalski feigned disinterest, taking the tablet and clicking his fingers at the sentinels. The sergeants drained their mugs and left, leaving the three officers alone. As he turned, Kowalski was obviously surprised to see Rudd still in the room.
“Dismissed, lieutenant.”
Rudd hovered long enough to register his displeasure before turning to leave. He clipped Krieg’s shoulder as he did.
“Screw this,” he spat at the camo-netting and sauntered out of the Pavilion.
Krieg gave the captain a questioning glance, but Kowalski just shrugged it off, throwing the lieutenant’s report tablet on a table buried in maps and schematics.
“Don’t worry about him. His blood’s up.”
“His blood always is,” Krieg returned.
“You apprehended Spurrlok?” Kowalski asked, attempting to change the subject.
“It’s all in the report, sir.”
Kowalski nodded and poured himself a mug of recaf. He didn’t offer Krieg one.
“Look, I won’t beat around the proverbial: orders came through today—you’re being transferred from my command.”
Krieg nodded, pride preventing him from pretending that he hadn’t overheard the conversation by the door. Kowalski snorted softly. “Canoness Santhonax has requested an officer for special operations. I recommended you.”
“I very much doubt that,” Krieg said coolly.
Kowalski let the insult wash over him. “I’m giving your platoon to Lonze.”
“He’s a good man.”
“They’re all good men.”
“Some better than others,” Krieg assured him, clearly thinking of Rudd.
“Krieg, I’m going to level with you,” Kowalski spilled, unusually animated. “I don’t like you, I never have. Not exactly a team player—but you get the job done and that is your saving grace. That kind of nark, inflexible attitude has earned you enough enemies around here. A bit of advice: consider it a parting gift. Keep going that way and you’re going to end up on the wrong end of your own bayonet.”
“Anything else, sir?”
Kowalski shook his head slowly. He snatched a slate off the side and tossed it to Krieg, who caught it awkwardly.
“Report to her ladyship at eight hundred hours. Whatever it is, it’ll be a fool’s errand, you know that, don’t you?”
The lieutenant stared at the floor. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”
Krieg saluted crisply and left the Pavilion for the last time.
III
The wardroom of the Wastrel was hardly an appropriate venue for a briefing, being grubby, cramped and decorated with wall-to-wall hive porn, but it was private and gave a sweeping view of the internment camp.
Krieg noticed little of this, finding, as he did, the silhouette of Canoness Santhonax framed in the starboard viewing port. He found himself lost in her numbing gaze, the radiance of her obsidian armour swallowing the room like a black hole. She stepped lightly towards him, drawing back a sable hood to reveal the network of pins inserted across her shaven skull. Remembering himself, Krieg dropped to his knee and bowed his head.
“Ma’am,” he acknowledged her obediently.
“Come here, where I can see you,” she said softly, motioning the lieutena
nt over to the viewport. Krieg did as he was bid.
“I’ve been looking over your record. Fairly impressive,” she told him, staring out across the internment camp. “Galtinore Legionnaires, 123rd Pontificals, now ordo special operations: you’re quite the rising star, lieutenant.”
“I am at your disposal, your ladyship,” Krieg avowed.
“Of course you are,” Santhonax concurred confidently. “Dedication to duty and loyalty to the cause are qualities that will always find a place in service to the Ecclesiarchy—as I’m sure Lord Herrenvolk would agree.”
Krieg nodded. The Order of the Immaculate Flame was one of the Ecclesiarchy’s many militant arms, but with the Sororitas and the Ordo Hereticus working so closely, it was difficult to tell where the authority of one organisation ended and the other began.
“If I may be so bold as to ask, ma’am,” Krieg ventured, “have the heretics divulged further indications of their intentions?”
“Very much so: we learn more by the hour of the threat these arch-recusants pose to the system. Your capture of Spurrlok would seem a major blow to their operations. I had my sisters begin interrogations last night. Unfortunately we had to undo most of his magnificent work.”
Krieg nodded: he’d heard the screams, even from his bunk.
“Like his brethren, Spurrlok demonstrated the same resilience to our methods of inquiry. I had one of the inquisitor’s savants, Warratah Chandra, oversee the psychic aspects of the interrogation—but he drew a blank. Literally. It is his belief that Spurrlok’s heretics are joined in mind in such a way as to share their strength and resist us.”
Krieg wasn’t surprised. The heretics he’d come into contact with had largely seemed cold and emotionless; that was apart from the minority that had gone haywire in public and embarked on a slaughter spree.
“All this despite Chandra failing to find an actual honest-to-Throne wyrd among them,” the canoness said with regret. “Angelescu’s hunch was correct. There is definitely a connection between the killings, the ‘Doomsday Brethren’ and Spurrlok’s agricultural freight charters in the Burdock Worlds. Some dark force is at work here: whether it is the damned, the witch, the filthy xenos or them all, we will discover and destroy it. I am afraid, however, that in many respects your efforts in locating Anatoly Spurrlok were in vain. As ever in our line of work, he’s not the key: he’s just one link in a long chain attached to the lock that binds them.”
“We shall double our efforts,” Krieg vowed.
Santhonax gave him a lofty smile: the kind older women reserve for naive, younger lovers.
“I have other work for you, lieutenant. Three weeks ago, Inquisitor Herrenvolk sent an urgent message by astropath to Field Marshal Rygotzk at Scythia. He had intended to speak with Chapter Master Argolis of the Astral Fists, but they have moved out of sector to halt the advance of the Echidna Splinter Fleet. The Burdock Worlds have always had problems with greenskin raiders, being so close to The Deeps, but Rygotzk believes that recent attacks across the agri-worlds might actually presage a coordinated ork incursion this time. Presently, however, it is a watching and waiting game on the rim and Herrenvolk pressed the Field Marshal to spare us some of his manpower.”
“Surely the Pontificals and the Sororitas have the outbreaks on Spetzghast covered…”
“Spetzghast is only the beginning. Inquisitor Herrenvolk has discovered a data trail of evidence implicating similar heresies on several of the outlying worlds and the fabricator moon of Illium is in open rebellion.”
Krieg was shocked. “How could we not know?”
“Idle bureaucracy in the main. Both Algernon and Tancred’s World reported cult murders to authorities on Spetzghast, but these weren’t acted upon until similar outbreaks appeared on the capital. As for Illium, the Mechanicus are traditionally reticent about handling security on their own installations.”
“But they have forces of their own,” Krieg interjected.
“The fabricator moon has a standing legion of skitarii and a quarto-legio of Imperial Titans standing sentinel over the most valuable installations, on permanent loan from the Legio Invictus on Ninevah. The authorities are mostly genitors, and members of the Adeptus Biologis—the politics in this region leaning towards the organicist side of the spectrum. The local populations, however, are largely Spetzghastian immigrant labour who work the culture mills and vat labs, engineering the biological frames of servitors and cyborganic automatons. Whatever happened on that moon, it seems things got a little beyond the skitarii forces; and now, by extension, us.
“Rygotzk has released the 364th and 1001st Volscian Shadow Brigade companies from his reservist forces, under Brigadier Voskov—a capable man I’m told. Hopefully the extra muscle will help the Mechanicus skitarii forces get the populous back under control. This is where you come in.”
“Ma’am?”
“The reason that I am telling you this is that yesterday it became known to me that a small force of storm-troopers make up part of Brigadier Voskov’s troop convoy under a Gomorrian major called Zane Mortensen.” The canoness laid special emphasis on the outfit’s name, so much so it appeared as though she’d just swallowed some kind of arachnid.
Krieg had heard of Mortensen and his team. The major’s reputation preceded him. As a Galtinore Legionnaire Krieg had arrived late to the trenchworld of Chaspia; by then the foxhole labyrinths and continental earthworks of the contested planet were ancient monuments to the billions who had perished there. The Legionnaires had barely touched down on earth that was more blood than grit before being told to pack up and return to their drop-ship. Mortensen’s Redemption Corps had been brought in during the same reinforcement, but hadn’t spent three days-in processing, as the Galtinore Legionnaires and countless other troops and regiments had. There was no hurry to the front lines of a world that had been contested for the best part of three hundred years.
During this time Mortensen and his men had been picking their way through the booby-trapped expanse of the Knoblus tunnels. Within hours the anthracite shafts of the heavily fortified Augusta-1 Shale Plant had been blown and sealed. Defensive positions were formed and Imperial forces waited for fuel production and the great blighted war machine of the infested Fatherlanders to grind to a halt. Within the year Chaspia was back in Imperial hands, but by then Krieg was hunting wyrds with Schenker and the 123rd Pontificals in the Barraglades.
“The Redemption Corps,” the lieutenant repeated. “Impossible missions, that kind of thing,” Krieg continued, not quite liking where this was going.
“Reckless deviants, I would say,” Santhonax retorted caustically. “I once had the unfortunate duty of visiting Gomorrah. Even as hive-worlds go, Gomorrah was a festering sore on the underheel of the Imperium: a dominion of vice and villainy. Wiped clean by the wrath of the God-Emperor himself. On that one point, the Redemptionists and I agree. What is left of this renegade civilisation is now back here, trading their poisonous ways under the banner of salvation.”
“But, the Redemption Corps is a storm-trooper outfit.” Krieg put to her. “The Commissariat would have reported traces of deviancy in the ranks and exercised their authority.”
“Do not underestimate the emptiness in men’s hearts. It is an unquenchable vessel that consumes all it can and then looks for more: sometimes in the darkest of places. Spetzghast is tainted: Algernon, Tancred, Illium also. Heresy would breed like bacteria in a den of iniquity like Gomorrah. Breed in the men who herald from there. The troops under his command are similarly tainted—I am sure of it. You cannot serve with the polluted without becoming polluted yourself. And they are not the only ones. The very vessel that carries him and his men, His Beneficent Imperial Majesty’s Escort Carrier Deliverance, experienced a mutinous overthrow mere weeks from Spetzghast. The entire 1001st Shadow Brigade—almost five hundred fighting sons of Volscia—have had to be quarantined and creed-sanctioned for re-instruction of faith. Do you really think I have the sisters to spare for such diversions? Beyond th
e loss of the regiment itself, of course.”
“I’ve heard of Mortensen,” Krieg confirmed.
“Then you know what they say about him. That he can’t be killed? That he is a saviour? The fire of the Emperor burning in his veins?”
“Sounds like empty-headed propaganda to me. Gossip and egotism run amok.”
“You disappoint me, lieutenant. Your own reputation isn’t sullied with such naivety,” the canoness said lightly.
Krieg recovered quickly from the sting in her slur: “Let me put it this way. I have heard priests say similar things to troops in the heat of battle, even trade on the regard of certain officers, you know, to spur them on.”
“But this isn’t in the heat of battle, lieutenant. Neither is it idle gossip. It is belief and it is dangerous. Surely you would not want to see star temples constructed from the souls of the Imperium’s honest fighting men?”
Krieg shook his head.
“Surely Major Mortensen cannot be held responsible for the communication of rumours that are beyond his control?” Krieg offered.
“He can,” Santhonax snarled with conviction, “if he is their originator. What matters here is not what Major Mortensen does—he is beyond doubt a very gallant officer—it is what he believes. For if he believes, then this is not rumour: it is cult.”
The word hung in the cool, stagnant air of the wardroom. “Cultish practice will not be tolerated amongst the Emperor’s subjects.”
“Of course.”
“The individual is nothing; the body Imperium, everything. We can’t have personality cults threatening uniformity of purpose—not now, not ever. The Emperor sacrificed himself for mankind; now he requires the sacrifice of his people. The vainglorious serve themselves. It is heresy and it is dangerous. It’s already spreading to other regiments and interfering with the Emperor’s work. It must and will be stopped.”
Santhonax turned and recovered a data-slate and a courier package from under the wardroom table.
“You will transfer to the Redemption Corps and make regular reports on the major’s actions and behaviour and submit them with your regular supply despatches. Brigadier Voskov and I shall monitor and assess Major Mortensen’s fitness for command and act accordingly.”
[Imperial Guard 08] - Redemption Corps Page 8
