In Memoria (40K)

[Imperial Overlord]

Mikal Camron stuck his head through door and into the planning room. "I have the latest reports."

Jolan Gix looked up from the table. The inquisitor was no longer wearing powered armour everywhere he went. The harness for his conversion field that he wore over his armoured bodyglove was concealed under his storm coat. He, Hethor D'eckor, and Danell Keys were standing over a cluster of maps and photographs marked with circles and cryptic runic notation. "Come in Lieutenant."

The young man stepped in. He held a rather large folder under his arm. He extended it to Gix. "The latest reports," he said slightly sheepishly.

"Thank you," said Gix as he accepted them. "Your opinions lieutenant?"

"It's nice to sleep in the same bed twice in a row. Really nice that its a bed, not a cot."

"That it is," said Jolan amiably, "but that wasn't what I was asking."

"Sorry sir. I think they're going to ground. They know they are being hunted, they know their people are being caught and broken, and they know our offensive is driving them back. Fewer reinforcements and fewer supplies are getting through. They're boned sir, and being cowardly heretics, they're keeping their heads down and trying to survive."

"Hethor?" Gix asked calmly.

"Grox shit. These men aren't cowards. I killed enough of them to know. The enemy isn't as tough as us, but they have balls and their specials are their best. No, they're bein' practical. Bad odds. They're waitin' 'til it gets better."

"So, essentially you concur with our young lieutenant, except with regards to the quality of the opposition."

"Yeah, I guess so," the big veteran rumbled.

"Lieutenant, you're familiar with all the relevant material. Imagine you had all the authority of an inquisitor at your disposal. Come up with a plan to flush out or track down the last of these 'special' units. Deliver it to me when you are done. Sooner is better than later."

"Yes sir!" Mikal saluted and left.

Hethor snorted. "That boy needs some seasoning."

"I know. Guess who gets to lead his men into battle."

Hethor smiled. "Slick."

"Everyone who decides when to send a soldier into a meatgrinder should have some idea of what its like. And we should make an effort to trim the terminally stupid out of the staff ranks before they get too many good Guardsmen killed."

Nofield entered the room. "Sir. Another inquisitor has arrived."

Jolan's gaze shot up. "Who?"

"Inquisitor Maladar."

"Huge bastard, powered armour, scar collection, no manners?"

"Uh, yes sir. He's got a platoon worth of Inquisitorial troops with him and a bunch of combat servitors. He wants this area cleared. Private Inquisition business."

"Obey," was Gix's reply. "And send him in. Then leave."

"Yes sir." She saluted and left.

"Boss?"

"You better go Hethor."

"Alright." The big man left. It was not long before Jolan heard the heavy steps of a man in powered armour. Maladar walked through the door. The huge inquisitor hadn't changed much. Gold stiches held his nightmarishly scarred flesh to his skull. Digital weapons studded the fingers of his ebony armour and a bolt pistol was strapped at his side. No melee weapon was visible, but Jolan noted grooves in his gauntlets. Retractable lightning claws.

"Maladar," he said as he inclined his head. "I wasn't expecting you. I'm afraid you've arrived a little late. I'm mostly rapping things up here."

"The assassin?" the big man asked..

"Dead."

"I shouldn't be surprised. There have been developments." There was something in his voice Jolan couldn't place. Maybe if he spent more time with Maladar, he would have been able to place it."

"The situation has changed."

Gix's eyes narrowed as he processed the tone of his voice and his choice of words. This was bad. Very bad. "How?" he asked. He could sense a cloud of violence hovering over them like a storm. Nothing short of an Astartes with similar arnament had much of a chance against Maladar hand to hand. Certainly not Jolan Gix. Maladar's reaction speed was damn fast, his weapons and armour superior. And psychicly, well the gap had narrowed if Jolan's guess was correct, but that still left Maladar with the edge.

"Nevan has been sent to the outer reaches. Corell is dead. As is Gaskar. Trakus has been promoted. And Venderyl has a whole pack of tough young proteges. And then there is you."

"The balance has shifted," said Gix. "Drastically or you wouldn't be here. Trakus must be really shafting our side."

"Venderyl's lot is worse. Medricore is proving to be practically inkillable. Nothing seems to do more than slow him down."

Realization dawned on Gix. "You're here to cut your loses."

"Yes. A number of our suporters were reluctant to make the big step. And now we are losing. They're eager to jump ship. So we've lost."

"And now the breach has to be healed. They win. But it needs to be settled."

"I knew you would understand."

"To bury the conflict, the instigator has to go. Which means me. And it has to be my side that does it, as a peace offering to bind the broken fabric back together and as a gesture of sincerity. So they sent you, for reasons that are obvious."

"Yes. I want you to know Jolan, that even though I underestimated you at first, you have my respect. You would have made a worthy Lord Inquisitor and Master of Our Order." Maladar's hand drifted down to the butt of his bolt pistol. Probably loaded with psykout rounds. Maladar had done an excellent job of stacking the deck in his favor, arriving with surprise, and controlling the scene. Well, Gix had helped teach him that particular trick.

He was trapped in a room with the deadliest man he had ever met. One who had decided to kill him and could outfight him in any mode of combat he tried to employ. "Do you have a message for Kyra or anyone else before I kill you?" Maladar asked.

[Chris OFarrell]

Impossible odds, no hope of escape, no hope of any kind of victory....

Maladar is SOO dead

At least I hope so. It would be a shame if you were ending the fic here.

[Imperial Overlord]

Impossible odds, no hope of escape, no hope of any kind of victory....

Maladar is SOO dead

At least I hope so. It would be a shame if you were ending the fic here.

No, the fic won't end here. I will even update it before Friday night (Pacific Time).

[Xon]

This fic rocks!

[Imperial Overlord]

An icy calm descended on Jolan. He looked up. "Why this way?"

"What?" responded Maladar.

"Why did you choose to come here and kill me face to face?"

The inquisitor drew his bolt pistol. "Because as unlikable as I am, I like you Gix. You deserved better."

"You said you respect me. You know how tricky I can be, how capable my agents are. Even with things arranged the way you have done, your still taking a risk. You can kill me and still not walk out of here. Coming here is a bad risk. Unnecessary. You may have orders to kill me, but you don't want me dead."

"That's true," said Maladar as he raised the pistol.

"You want me to tell you the others are wrong. That I have secret plans in the works that will turn things around, a winning card up my sleeve, loaded dice in play. You came here to confront me, not kill me. You want me to talk you out of it."

"Yes."

"I do have a compelling reason for you not to shoot me, but I don't have a plan," replied Jolan, "yet. But I can come up with one."

"I don't doubt it. Something involving an inferno pistol or plasma gun."

"You still haven't pulled the trigger."

"You said you have a reason that I shouldn't."

"We aren't boys being herded onto the Black Ships like cattle any more. We aren't students labouring undering the watchful eyes of our teachers. We aren't interrogators trying to prove ourselves to our masters. We are inquisitors Maladar. Our destiny maybe influenced by our past and by the actions of others, but we have the knowledge and power to choose our fate. If we have the will."

"Are you calling me weak Gix?" Maladar snarled.

"Why are you doing what you don't want to do? You are Maladar. I have struck down a daemon prince and sent him shrieking into the warp. I have burned the bodies and souls of witches and daemons and my power is less than yours. Who can stand against you Maladar? Not even Jolan Gix. You crush your enemies and trample their bones into the dust. And yet your are meekly coming to the peace table and being compelled to do what you do not wish? Are they really that powerful?"

The gun wavered. "Are they powerful enough to stand against Jolan Gix and Maladar together when they have the advantage of surprise? What do you want Maladar?"

"I . . . . I want . . ."

"Prince. Slave. Imperial servant. You don't even know what you need, although every bone in your body yearns for it. You want power, but that hasn't given you what you want. You destroy those who stand against you and it merely slakes your thirst. You want to serve on your own terms. You want the choice. No longer to be the agent of the Inquisition, sent to kill here or investigate there, but a full Inquisitor in fact as well as title. To be like me. To shape the future as you see fit. To be not the servant of the Imperium, but to escape the cage and be your own man. To make your own choices and shape your own destiny."

Maladar's eyes blazed. He lowered the gun. "I said that one day you would make a great Master of the Ordo, if you lived. Everyone else, maybe not Kyra, said you were too soft."

Jolan smiled. "Everyone but Kyra saw you as her, or the Ordo's, attack dog. I always new that the chain of duty would one day snap and you would do as you see fit as oppossed to what you were ordered. On Scyrax I may have held violence in reserve, but I appealled first to your reason." He picked up a bottle of brandy. "I'm glad it was today as oppossed to tomorrow. Shall we drink to being underestimated and to the victory of Kyran Nevan's favored students?"

Maladar nodded. Gix poured to glasses. "A beast and a weaking is what we have been called behind our backs. The think poorly of us and of our mentor. We shall illuminate the truth for them a moment before their deaths."

"That's worth drinking to," replied Maladar and downed the glass in a single gulp. "Pour me another. I'll go cool out our boys. Would hate for someone to get shot now." He smiled at Jolan. It was a terrible thing to behold. Jolan smiled back. His smile wasn't much nicer.

[Imperial Overlord]

The cutter coasted over to the Inquisition ship, Blinding Light. A huge door on the great ship's flank slid open, a power field acting to confine the atmosphere. The cutter coasted in, thrusters firing to make minute course corrections as the ship drifted into the cavernous landing bay.

The doors ground close as the slim and angular cutter set down on stubby legs. Steam hissed as the ship settled and its ramp was extended. An honour guard of faceless troopers wearing Inquisition black waited silently. Eventually, the door opened and men descended from the cutter.

Two men lead the delegation. They wore black cloaks over masked helmets and mesh armour. Hellguns were slung over their backs and carapace armour protected their chests. Behind them came Maladar, clad in power armour but without his helmet. The Inquisition troopers did not so much as flinch upon seeing his gruesome visage. Behind him came his trophy.

Four more cloaked soldiers walked alongside a three meter long casket. Humming suspensor modules kept the container hovering at waist level to the soldiers who were pushing it forward. A man in a white robe with the insignia of the Inquisition emblazoned in gold upon it stood at the front of the soldiers. "Inquisitor Maladar, I bring you the greetings of my master, Inquisitor Venderyl."

"I care nothing for his greetings. Where is he? Let's get this business over with."

"Is that . . . the remains-"

"Yes. Venderyl. Now. Or he'll be down one interrogator."

"Yes, my lord. Please follow me." The robed man turned and walked down a gap beteen the blocks of soldiers that lead to an corridor. "My master assumed that you might want to rest after your journey."

"If you master assumed that I would kill Jolan Gix, he is correct. If he assumed I would desire to spend one unnecessary moment in his presence, he's a fool." The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

The interrogator finally stopped at a door. "Your soldiers will have to relinquish their arms here."

"No. I'm on Fisk's bloody ship. He's got an army. My insurance is if things go wrong is that I have the chance to take him with me."

"Let me consult with my master."

"Go. Worm."

The interrogator stepped through the door. A minute passed. Then another. Then the door slid open again. "My master bids you and your servants welcome."

The interrogator lead Maladar into a gallery, one wall of which was lined with massive transplast windows. Armoured men shrouded in heavy robes were at each corner of the room. Each of the three doors had a pair of Inquisitional troopers armed with shotcannons standing guard. Maladar walked towards the table.

Inquisitor Venderyl sat at one side. He was a lanky, blonde man armoured in gilded ceramite plate. His disciples attended him. One was a tall, pale woman with short, dark hair. Another was a dark skinned, red bearded giant, slightly smaller than Maladar. The third man of ordinary height and build reclining with his feet on the table. On the opposite side a silvery haired man whose face was crisscrossed with faint scars sat next to a heavily built woman. Both wore black mesh armour.

Sitting at the head of the table was Randor Fisk. His brown skin was leather and scarred, his hair and beard iron-gry. His left eye was augmentic. A burgundy robe shrouded his body. "Maladar."

Maladar shook his head. "Four untouchables? Four untouchables in one room?" He spat on the floor.

Fisk made no move. "You psychic abilities are formidable. You might be able to burn down an untouchable or even two of them in a lightning attack. Four? No. And relieving you of your weapons wasn't going to happen. This way we can be assured that you will be . . . . . managable."

"Gix thought I was managable and he is dead."

"Is he?"

"Skeptical?"

"Jolan Gix had survived situations that should have killed him before. I will believe it when I see him dead with my own eyes."

"That's why I brought the body." He gestured the casket forward.

The red bearded man got up and approached the casket. "Stasis field."

"Yes." The man touched a rune on the side, deactivating the stasis field and then another. The face of the casket slid open. "There's no face."

"That's because I blew the front part of his head apart with a psykout rounds. Do you think he was easy to kill?"

"No," said Fisk. "Ydranko, take a gene sample." The bearded interrogator removed a device from his belt and pressed it to the flesh of the corpse.

"Done." He walked back to the table and pressed the metal cylander against it. "Ironic. The archeotech Gix supplied us with now confirms his death. Match."

Venderyl smiled. "So much for the late, formerly great, Jolan Gix."

"He was worth two of you," Maladar sneered. "Even dead he's worth two of you."

"A soft spot," Venderyl said smiling. "Your reputation doesn't suggest that you have those."

"My reputation is that I respect drive and intelligence. Gix had those in abundance."

"Yes," said Fisk, "he did. Too much. He accomplished great things but he wanted to go too far, too fast and so he had to be put down for the good of the Imperium. And now let us close this sad chapter in the history of our secret fellowship. Our war is over, our path is set. Let us rejoice in that it is over and mourn the dead who all sought to serve the Emperor in the best way they knew how."

"You'll forgive me if I don't stay around and socialize," Maladar said.

"Of course," replied Fisk. The inquisitor turned away from his former comrades and toward the door through which he had entered.

[Imperial Overlord]

Maladar stopped just before the door and turned. "Yes?" said Fisk in a bored voice. Then he caught it. The fluttering capes on two of Maladar's armsmen as they drew pistols, several of the others closing on the door guards. Fisk began to lunge out of his chair, hand snaking toward the activation control on his refractor field.

The first gunman raised an inferno pistol and fired at the untouchable closest to him. The blast from the gun was almost blinding as the pariah was reduced to char. On the other side of Maladar another gunman had raised a plasma pistol and fired. An eye-searing violet beam incinerated the untouchable's chest. Maladar's side of the room was no longer under the blanket of psi suppression.

The digital weapons on Maladar's gloves fired. The white robed interrogator took las beams in the face and chest. He toppled. Four of Maladar's armsmen had rushed the two door guards with mono edged blades. Blood spurted over the deck as they drove their blades through armour and killed. The two remaining armsme were drawing their hellguns.

Grenades flew from the cloak of the inferno pistolier, bouncing on the table and near the feet of the guards by the side door as they were unlimbering their shotcannons. He brought the pistol in his other hand to bear on the untouchable across the room from him. The plasma weapon emitted a violet beam and blasted through the pariah's armour, incinerating flesh and bone.

The other pistolier fired the las in his other hand at the heavily built woman. He hit her in the shoulder and burned a hole in the chair as she dived under the table for cover. The other inquisitors and interrogators were also scrambling for cover as Maladar raked the table with digital lasers. They were short ranged and only had a few shots, but they were more than adequate to this task. Their armour had saved them from the worst effects of Maladar's weapons. Then the grenades went off.

Clouds of flesh searing plasma cut the room in two. The two guards barely had time to scream and the plasma seared their flesh. The blade work had finished. Maladar's armsmen had their hellguns out and raked the room with las busts as the fiery clouds dissapated.

------------------------------------------------------------------

In the docking bay of the Blinding Light, a soft shimmer enshrouded Maladar's cutter. Panels slid open as a pop up turret slid out the top another sprouted on either side. An internal security turret mounted on the ceiling opened up with dual autocannons. Explosions errupted along the edge of the power field.

The top turret was armed with a missle rack. The hanger gun exploded in blossom of fire. The other two turrets were armed with triple barrelled autocannon clusters. They began to rake the assembled soldiers. Blood and body parts were strewn about as they filled the hanger bay with thunderous detonations.

"Keep at it," Hethor ordered the pilot. "Kill them all." He didn't wait for an acknowledgement and exited the cockpit.

"Ready sir," Nofield saluted. She and Camron stood at the head of a sixteen man strike team that had assembled near the ramp. Six combat servitors stood with them. They were wearing the same gear as their comrades on Maladar's detail, minus the cloaks. Nofield had retained her commissar's coat.

"Take the enginarium and the genatorium," Hethor repeated as if they hadn't discussed this a dozen times. "No mercy."

"Yes sir."

He touched his vox. "Status of the bay?"

"Just the dead and the dying," the pilot responded.

"Right. Move out."

Nofield lead her troops out into the bay. The nightmarish servitors clanked alongside them, armoured goliaths bearing heavy weapons and devoid of fear or restraint. The Blinding Light wasn't an Imperial Cruiser, but its crew was too damn big for even Nofield's team to kill them all, even with Gix's help.

"Okay Gard, crack open the case."

The scientist grimaced in distaste.

"Do it."

Gard sent a signal from his mechadendrites to the stasis box. The stasis field died and the lid slid open. The roof of Hethor's mouth went dry. He really didn't like this.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The plasma storm dissipated leaving half of the table glowing red hot and the chairs a ruin. The heavily built woman hadn't escape the plasma blast and the mesh hadn't saved her. She was a scorched ruin. The others had managed to survive. Fisk was no where to be seen.

One of the guards was dead, riddled by hellgun blasts. The other was crouched down by the table and firing. Unfortunately, shotcannons were not excellent weapons against well armoured targets on the other side of a gallery. One of Maladar's men staggered under the force of the impacts. Two others gunned him down.

Keys raised his plasma pistol and fired at the pariah crouched in the corner. The beam reduced him to ash and blacked bone fragments mixed liberally with slag that used to be his armour. Maladar laughed, loud and mocking. With a gesture, the table lifted and was thrust aside. A potent psychic shield surrounded the psyker.

Hellguns blazed. Gix added a blast of his inferno pistol at the bearded giant and a blast of green warp fire that swept over the survivors. When it cleared only Venderyl and the silver haired man in mesh remained. They rose, a nimbus of power surrounding them.

Maladar laughed and struck. Lightning flashed from his hands, lashing at them. They exerted their wills and dissipated his attack. Hellgun bolts struck them and did nothing. The inquisitors unleashed their own strikes.

A terrible psychic weight seemed to fill the room, clouding the mind, sapping the will. Maladar's armsmen dropped their weapons and clutched their head moaning. At the same time, a terrible spike of mental energy was aimed at Jolan Gix.

Gix deflected the attack. He was far more puissant in psychic combat than they realized. Tendrils of energy appeared in the warp and lashed out at both psykers, drawing their power away from them and into Jolan Gix.

Maladar retaliated with a blast wave of telekinetic force. Both psykers kept their feet as they stuggled against his powers. Inquisitor Vetch, the silver haired man, sliced apart Gix's syphons with razor edged warp fragments. Venderyl hit Maladar with a telekinetic hammer blow. Enough force got through to stagger to bigger man.

Gix raised his hand and unleashed his stolen energy and then some. A bolt of absolutes darkness struck Vetch and consumed him in a blast of tainted warp energy. Smoke and ash were all that remained. Venderyl's eyes went wide. His concentration slipped. Maladar punched through his defences.

The inquisitor spasmed and blood poured out his gaping mouth as Maladar crushed his heart. He fell to the deck and his flesh began to burn instantly from contact with the hot metal. Maladar smiled. "So much for their precautions." He looked around. "Where's Fisk?"

"Probably through that door," Gix replied.

"Our people are on the move. How confident are you in your surprise?"

"You saw them yourself."

"I don't like it."

"You? Squeemish?"

"I agreed to it. Let's finish the job."

[Haminal10]

Just a quick question: where did Gix come from? He just seemed to appear in the third section without any reference to where he had been hiding.

Anyway, I love the story! Keep it up!

[Imperial Overlord]

Just a quick question: where did Gix come from? He just seemed to appear in the third section without any reference to where he had been hiding.

Anyway, I love the story! Keep it up!

He's the armsman with the inferno pistol, an exotic piece of weaponry that he's previously established as possessing.

[Imperial Overlord]

Jolan Gix tossed away his cloak and holstered his pistols. He drew the hellgun. "Keys?"

"On it," said the assassin. The armsman disguise had necessitated wearing heavier armour than he was comfortable with, but he would manage.

"The rest of you with Maladar and I." The inquisitor headed for the far door, where Randor Fisk had fled. Maladar and the rest of his armsmen followed in his wake. Keys watched them leave and then checked the the side door with his psi detector. Four souls, maybe ten meters distant.

The assassin stood at the side of door and his the control. He bounced a pair of plasma grenades down the corridor. The door slid shut. The dull roar of detonation He checked the psi detector again. Two signals. He opened the door, popped a blind grenade through, went low, and blazed away with the hellgun. He rolled back. Checked the detector. No survivors.

Good. Now he could get on with the important business. Moving to the bridge and the astropath dome and killing everyone there.

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"We should have used vat grown bodies for this," Gard said with distaste.

"Like that clone you grew of Gix?" Hethor said. "Slick work."

"Yes," the scientist replied. "Like that."

"Costs resources," Hethor replied. "Heretic prisoners are cheaper. Besides, Jolan burned through half a dozen of them making sure he had the hang of it. Not that he needed to."

"To extinguish a man like that," said Gard shaking his head.

"Hey, they chose to reject the Emperor." The contents of the case stirred. They had once been Free Stars soldiers. Now their bodies were branded with runes of binding and armoured in ceramite plate. Their eyes opened. Cold white light spilled out. Gix had riven their souls from their bodies. The daemon princes he had bound to their flesh had been weak and weakened further by the strength of his binding, but they were still utterly deadly.

"Get up," Hethor commanded. The unfolded themselves and stood. "Go to the prow of the ship. Kill its crew and armsmen. Under no circumstances harm those on our side. When you reach the prow, come back and sweep the ship."

The daemonhosts glared back at him with cold hate in their eyes, but moved toward the ramp. Hethor watched them go. "Throne, I hate those things."

He picked up his bolter and checked the clip out of ancient reflex. He would have prefered the assault las, but the armsmen here were wearing heavy armour. A boltgun with Kraken pattern armour piercers was a better choice. He headed down the ramp. He had Jolan Gix's back, like always. Whether he asked for it or not.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Randor Fisk touched a control on his wrist as he ran. "All units, boarding alert! Destroy the enemy in landing bay two and enemy forces in confrence room one."

"I hear and obey lord," came the mellow voice of Iskander Riel. "The enemy has taken landing bay two. Internal defences and our troops there are down."

"Arm the crew," Fisk growled. "Tell them to ignore uniforms of claims authority. Kill all the intruders."

"All armsmen are armed and ready as per your instructions. I'm getting reports of fighting in section B3. They're wiping the floor with my men."

"Get reinforcements there and have units come to me."

"Yes sir." What the hell were they thinking? They could possibly squeeze enough troops into the cutter to take this ship. All they were going to do was take a lot of people with them when they died. That couldn't be Gix's plan. What was he missing?

[Imperial Overlord]

The guard staggered back as Nofield put two hellgun beams into his chest plate. He ducked back into cover. The other sprayed the corridor with his shotcannon. Several pellets knicked the commissar, but her flak armour ate most of the blast. She ducked back. "To the Throne with this mess!"

"Go low. I'll go high," said Vektar. She nodded to the armsmen and got down on her belly. They had burned through half a dozen troopers and a score of unfortunate crewmen without taking a loss, but this corridor was too fucking long to just charge through and let their armour take the hits. And this was the quickest route to the generatorium and the enginarium beyond. She rolled out.

Vektar shot high and missed. She sliced a burst across the soldier's legs. The hellgun bolts burned right through the flak armour like it was cheesecloth. Blood and chunks of charred flesh blasted away from the impact points. The beams nearly blew his legs off. He toppled. "Go!" she shouted.

Vektar tossed a frag grenade down the corridor and charged. Hecule went with him. She heard the dull crump of the grenade detonation as he sprung back to her feet. Damn, she wasn't eighteen anymore. She hustled after her men.

The other soldier popped up. Vektar fired a short burst into his breastplate. Tight grouping. Even if the carapace had been undamaged that might have been too much. The soldier fell back as red mist exploded out the hole in his armour. Hecule slowed down long enough to give the downed trooper a double tap to the face. The generatorium was ahead.

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The Warp imprisoned in flesh moved down the halls. By the standards of daemon princes they were small fry, barely worthy of that exalted title. Their powers were further reduced by the strong binding they were under. To the men they encountered they were terror and death.

Their flesh was not invulnerable, but it resisted the bite of weapons that managed to pierce their armour. It healed quickly. They moved swiftly and killed with steel hard claws and inhuman strength. They rend and tore and crippled and maimed. Few of their victims died immediately. They tore out intestines, gauged out eyes, and rent limbs. Shotcannon blasts hurt them, but did not stop them. Men with heavy wrenches, pry bars, and chain cutters, were too slow and too weak. They left the mutilated and dying in their wake.

A security bulkhead had come sliding down. A two meter thick slab of steel that blocked their path. They looked at each other with eyes that glowed with the power of the warp. They did not speak. Speech was a clumsy thing, suitable for creature of this drab universe. They sent their thoughts to one another. They concured. They focused their gaze on one point at the center of the door. The steel began to glow cherry red.

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Lighting arced around the corner and cooked two soldier's sheltering there. Their still twitching bodies slumped to the floor. Jolan Gix lowered his hand. "A new power," said Maladar. "Biomancy was not one of your disciplines."

"Yes," said Jolan. "The lightning trick isn't too different from fire and telekinesis. Close enough for me to learn. And less strain than merely blasting the whole area with fire."

Maladar nodded. "I don't sense any more of the living close by. He's gaining on us." The inquisitor broke into a jog.

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Randor Fisk noted the life sign indicators of his rear guard flatline. They had bought him time, which was all he really expected from them. "Rig intersection 33 C," he ordered. Explosives didn't show up on psi trackers. "Retreat one section. How is the rearming?"

"Shotcannons loading AP rounds from the armoury as ordered inquisitor."

"Good. Standby to finish them off."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hethor fired a short burst at the inquisition armsmen. One bolt tore through his upper arm and the other struck him in the chest just below the shoulder. Blood spurted from the wounds but he didn't go down. The corridor filled with thunder as he returned fire with his shotcannon. Pellets carrying little more force than spitballs bounced off his carapace armour, most of their energy having been bled off by the refractor field.

Hethor swore and fired again. Kraken pattern rounds made nice holes in armour, but they didn't have the fire rate of an assault las and they did blast those big gaping holes like ordinary rounds did. Of course, regular rounds might not have penetrated the carapace armour, but that was besides the point. Hethor punched two rounds through either side of the armsman's chest, just above the sternum. The seventy-five calibre rounds made big holes going in. The man staggered back, trying to keep his footing. Hethor raised the bolt gun and shot him in the face. The slug and grey matter blew out the back.

The clip was almost empty. He tossed it and reloaded. He stepped over the bodies scorched by his plasma grenades and moved up. He triggered his vox. "Miles to Infernas. The paths converging. The ties that bind."

[technomage]

Great stuff, as usual. Gix and Co. continue to be as close to good guys as an Inquisitor could be in 40K.

Well, here's a few questions.

1. Have Nofield and Camron been added to Gix's retinue? You didn't say so, but I can't see why they'd be a part of this little intra-Inquisition affair, otherwise. The Inquisition probably keeps its' internal fissures secret, right?

2. What is a hellgun?

3. What exactly is an inferno pistol? Some kind of jacked-up reliable plasma pistol?

[Imperial Overlord]

Answers

1) Yes.

2) high powered lasgun, used mostly by Stormtroopers and other crack units.

3) Melta pistol.

[Imperial Overlord]

The advanced team slipped out of the woods and through the security perimeter. The recon teams had already scouted the approach and they knew exactly where to proceed. The four men wore advanced stealth suits that hid their body heat and which changed colour to match the terrain.

Their mission didn't take long. They waited for one minute thirty-seven seconds and crashed an auger array. Then they waited as their comrades, already on the move, raced into their positions. A member of the security staff came out the side door to check on matters and one of the stealth troopers exploded his heart with a single shot from a Mars pattern lasgun.

The three heavy weapon teams set up at the edge of the woods while the assault teams stormed forward. With quick and practiced motions the heavy weapons team laid down they Scrix pattern lascannons, set up their bipods, attached the power cell, and activated them.

They were ready in less than half a minute. Eye searing cyan beams cut through the night. Two concrete planters, concealing anti-air batteries, exploded. A moment latter two more beams lashed out against another pair of hidden defence turrets. The scream of turbines came from overhead. The rest of the raiders were arriving.

More beams flashed out. Jammed communication's masts were severed, an auger cluster destroyed. Two doors were blowin to fragments. The flyers swooped, assault cannons deployed under each wing. They strafed the windows and door, high calibre rounds tearing through armour plas, turf, concrete, and flesh. As the gunners hammered out murderous supressive fire, more troopers slid down guide ropes.

The raiders were swift, silent, and utterly deadly. They were clad in armoured black body gloves and most of them were armed with compact, rapid firing Necromundia pattern lasguns. The lead team leapt through the shattered bay windows and into the mansion.

As they stormed into the next set of room, a member of household security appeared from behind a corner with a rapid fire stub pistol in his hand. The lead raider put two shots into his chest and he toppled. The raider moved up and put another two shots into his head.

There was a flicker of motion ahead as a maid fled from hiding. A quick burst struck her in the upper back and she fell. The raider finished her with another burst to the back of the head. He moved towards the next room.

There was a boom and the raider fell bonelessly, a gaping hole in his chest. Las beams flashed as the raiders fired at his killer. Mervan Nickos had already gone back around the corner. The stocky killer was wearing the black body glove from his days as an Arbites enforcer.

He knew this was bad. Outer defences broken, raiders in the house, murdering the staff. The odds of him surviving were low, but maybe a few people could get away. His master might survive and he could take down a few more of them before his audience with the Throne.

He heard the thunder of a cannon and then hammer blows struck him in the back. He groaned and hit the floor. The raider with the heavy stubber raked the entire wall with bullets as his comrades moved into position.

Nickos rolled and greeted the oncoming raider with his bolt pistol. The first shot took the raider in the hip, the second just above his sternum. Blood sprayed and the raider fell. Then his comrade put a burst into the former Arbites' chest and then another into his head.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the secondary team slaughtered their way through Inquisitor Trakus's house, the primary team dropped on lines through the shattered window to his bed room. The windows had failed under assault cannon fire and the ruins of the bed contained the bloody meat that had once been human beings The kill team stalked forward.

Trakus came out of the adjoining room, a bolt pistol in his fist. The inquisitor was a lean, muscular man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. A long coat with armoured inserts was wrapped around his naked body. He struck first.

The psi blast rocked all five members of the kill team, despite their psi-blockers. One collapsed, blood pouring from every orfice. Trakus put two rounds in the chest of another stunned raider.

One of the raider's fired from his knees. A las beam burned into the inquisitor's side. He staggered back and a short burst was stitched across his chest. One of the raiders rose shakily. He stood over the inquisitor and poured a dozen bolts into his chest and then a half dozen more into his head. There wasn't much left besides smoking meat above the waist.

The lead raider touched his vox. "Echo this is two. The crown is severed."

"Echo here. Burn it and return." As the raiders finished the staff and placed incinderary charges, the Elder of Clan Sadeen changed channels. "Scorpion this is sword."

In the nearby city of Mesker, Melina Sevall touched a control. "Scorpion here."

"It is done."

"The balance will be in your account by morning," she replied the Vessorine Janissary. She leaned back in the contoured chair. The first part of Gix's assignment were done. Now she had a network to build.

[Imperial Overlord]

The bleeding engineer raised his bloody right hand. It was missing the ring finger. "Please. In the Emperor's name." Nofield shot him in the face with her hellgun. She looked around. No more wounded, only the dead.

"Status?" she yelled.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Team One with me," Nofield ordered. "Team Two with Camron. Sweep and hold the upper gantries." The generatium was theirs. Now they only had to hold it until reinforcements came.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two quick bursts and the guards fell. Now only a pair of armoured doors stood between Danell Keys and the bridge. He placed a melta charge on the door, set it for remote and anti-tamper detonation, and went left. It didn't take him long to find it. The psi tracker lead him right to the door to the cloister.

Another melta charge went on the door. He retreated and set it off. Their was a flash of intolerable brightness and a wave of heat as the melta bomb put a two meter diamters hole in the door. He tossed a pair of frag grenades inside and followed up.

He heat hit him like a hammer, even through the temperature control of the armour. He ducked slightly to pass through the door and kept on going. The choir room was essentially a circular vaulted chamber with floor to ceiling cogitator pillar in the center. The pillar was surrounded by contoured couches, now torn by shrapnel. Two robed bodies, their clothes torn and bloody, lay sprawled near the couches. Three more eyeless astropaths stood cowering in a corner.

They lashed out with their minds. An ordinary man would have died on the spot, blood pouring from his ears and nose. Keys had a psi shield hanging around his neck and a mind disciplined and trained to resist mental attack and domination. He merely rocked back on his heels. He fired a long burst from his hellgun. The lasbeams blew apart flesh in a spray of gore and blasted apalling holes in the astropath's flesh. They fell to the deck.

Keys ejected the nearly empy power cell and reloaded. The first part of his mission was a success, now it was time for the second part. The common prejudice against psykers meant that the astropaths were segregated from the crew, but needed bridge accesss because it was necessary to fulfill their duties. Which meant their should be an access door from the choir area to the bridge right about . . . . there.

Keys triggered the melta bomb. The doors opened at a touch and the assassin crouched at the side.. A half dozen men mananged the bridge controls with the assistance of another dozen servitors. Two armsmen were firing through the breach. A short burst put each one down.

Gun fire from slug throwing and las pistols and came his way. One slug even hit him, bruising his arm through his mesh armour. He methodically and rapidly gunned the humans down. The servitors continued working away, oblivious to the violence. "Knife to Infernas. The victory assured."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Infernas the jaws closing," said Jolan.

Maladar shot him a savage grin. "Your people do good work."

"You might try building a staff of your own," Gix replied as they jogged up a poorly lit corridor.

"That's you, not me," Maladar replied. A flash of dread shot through Jolan.

"Down!" he yelled as launched himself at Maladar and conjured a force wall. His telekinetically augmented leap had enough force to knock the armoured Inquisitor down a moment before the blast wave smashed through Jolan's force wall and into them. Gix's conversion field flashed white as explosion lifted his body of Maladar and bounced him down the deck.

Five armsmen advanced towards the bodys of the Inquisitors. Their shotcannons were loaded with armour piercing rounds. Randor Fisk followed his men at a distance. Time to finish this mess.

[Imperial Overlord]

The daemonhosts killed without mercy. Blood splattered the walls and visceria was scattered over the deck. Although their armour was cracked and penetrated, their flesh was rent and torn; they did not stop. They despised being enslaved by Jolan Gix, but they did not disdain these orders. To rend, torture, and kill the weak creatures of the material universe was a joy they rarely experience. So, laughing, they hunted the crew through the long corridors and darkened rooms of the ship.

Their slaughter had accounted for the comparitively light resistance that the boarding teams had encountered. Whole parties of crew and armsmen dead or diverted to try and stop them. It had enabled Danell Keys to reach the bridge while facing only light opposition. It had also allowed Hethor D'eckor to almost catch up with his friend and lord.

Jolan and Maladar were sprawled on the deck. They hadn't taken the worst of the explosion and might still live. The armsmen with them didn't have the advantages of a conversion field or power armour to protect them. One or two might possibly be alive. Hethor wouldn't have bet money on it.

The harsh bark of his bolter filled the air as he fired on the charging armsmen. Kraken armour piercers blew through the chest of the first one and exited out the back. Hethor put a quick burst into the guts of the next before he could react. He folded and toppled, blood and fluids pouring from his abdomen. The others raised their shotcannons and fired down the corridor.

Hethor fell forward onto his knees, firing. Kraken rounds ripped through the chest of another armsman, sending him staggering back spraying blood. Armour piecing rounds struck his carapace armour and bounced off, having been slowed by his refractor field. But the refractor field wasn't perfect.

One round struck with only a small amount of its energy deflected by the energy field. The round punched through his armour and tore through his lung. White hot searing pain shot through his body. He squeezed the trigger again. Bolter rounds and brains blew out the back of the shooter's skull. He emptied the rest of the clip into the remaining guard's torso.

He dropped the bolter and stood, blood pumping from his wound and hacking up bloody froth. The targeting lense showed one more target as he drew his pistol. Randor Fisk was running towards him and firing, a bolt pistol held in his fist. His robed form was surrounded by the haze of an active refractor field. Kraken penetrators struck Hethor's chest, cratering and cracking the armour. A few more hits and it would fail.

An intense beam of white-violet light struck Fisk in the chest. A burst of light surrounded him as the energy field scattered some of the beam's energy. It didn't scatter enough to save him. Fisk staggered and fell, a smoking hole in his chest.

Hethor slumped to his hands and knees. "Miles, Infernas, Jotun. The sheath of knives."

Gard replied. "Vizier the wheel."

Hethor relaxed slightly. Help was on the way. All he had to do was stay concious until Gard got here. He fumbled for a field dressing. He had kept the faith. As always.

Jolan rolled over. "Heth," he wheezed. The inquisitor used the wall to pull himself erect. "Throne, that hurts."

"Boss." Hethor's eyes were heavy. The bleeding must be bad for that.

"Time to practice new tricks," said the inquisitor smiling. "The problem with healing is that you have to go through the blender before you can really practice."

Hethor smiled, showing bloody teeth. "My heart bleeds for you, you psyker witch."

Jolan walked over. His movements were shacky. He finished applying the field bandage. "Don't go anywhere on me Heth."

"Will do."

"Nice shooting, by the way."

"Better than you."

"True. Hold on."

"If you make it an order."

"I do."

"Alright then." His eyes closed.

[technomage]

You're finished with First, Best Destiny, right?

[Imperial Overlord]

You're finished with First, Best Destiny, right?

Yes.

[Imperial Overlord]

Shala Nofield leaned back on against the hangar's wall. "I didn't like doing this inquisitor."

"Noted," said Jolan Gix. "If it's any consolation, neither did I. Randor Fisk and his accomplices made it necessary. They wished to stand in the way of Imperial progress, wished it enough to kill for it."

"So we killed them."

"Yes. They were afraid of possible destabilization, of disrupting the balance of power within the Imperium. Afraid enough to kill me over it."

"Why us, inquisitor?"

"Simple. It was not believable that Maladar would kill me and then not have to kill Hethor D'eckor. I could leave behind no witnesses to a battle that did not happen. Now it is quite believable that Maladar would massacre everyone around me. Thus your disappearance is consistent with what we wanted any investigators believed. One way or the other, you all had to be silenced. I prefer to spare the lives of loyal Imperial citizens when possible. So you were drafted by the Inquisition. Permenently. You will never speak of this again."

"Alright," she nodded. "Now what?"

"Maldar, Hethor, and Klisk are stable and should make full recoveries after varying amounts time and additional medical procedures. We make additional sweeps of the ship. Make sure everyone is dead. We make the tragic discovery of Randor Fisk's vessel, dead in space, with two murderous daemonhosts on board. Appropriate works on daemonology will be found in Fisks possession. Obviously the experiment went out of control. We cleanse it, having taken casualties. The ship is taken to Adraxus and refitted."

"And then?"

"All of you are permently on my staff. The last of this business gets settled, hopefully with a just few conversations. We get back to the business of hunting down and killing the Emperor's enemies."

"How often is it like this?" she asked wearily.

"Rarely, but more often that I'd like."


------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The PsyKing walked down the hall of the ancient and hallowed Imperial fortress. It was half a kilometer long, a hundred meters high, and carpeted in vibrant red. Gilded cherubs held light globes in their hands and rank upon rank of ceremonial armour stood guard. A smiling man with a shock of vibrant red hair awaited him at the end. The red haired man was tall, lean, and pale skinned with a hook nose. His clothes were black accented with blood red. He had a cruel smile.

The red head gestured at the gilded doors. "He awaits for you inside, oh king of psykers."

The PsyKing halted for a moment. "And who do you presume to be?"

"The Prince of Ruin," he replied.

The PsyKing dipped his head in acknowledgement and stepped inside. The sprawling room was lit at various intervals by hovering cherubs. They formed an intricate pattern with a hidden message. As a student he had struggled to decode their shifting patterns every time he had entered.

Games sat on pedestals throughout the room. Regicide in its various forms. It's ancient ancestor chess, an anarchronism so old that no one except perhaps the Emperor knew its true origins, was displayed on several boards. Go, another game from antiquity, could be found as well. Games from a hundred different worlds were displayed in varying degrees of progress. He didn't recognize them all. New ones were being added all the time.

He advanced to the throne at the center of the room. Holo displays of half a dozen different game boards surrounded it. The contoured chair swivled to face him. The man on the throne was two meters tall if he was an inch, with a neat white beard and hair. He wore a robe of blue silk with shifting pink patterns crawling across it. His eyes were gold and his tongue was forked like a serpent's.

"My master," said the PsyKing as he bowed.

"Rise," said the Gamesman. "Your mission was a failure."

"Yes, my master. Your pawn allowed me to escape, but Jolan Gix thwarted me. Again."

"Ah yes, our pawn. He must never be allowed to know that. You played the proper level of ignorance?"

"Yes, my master. I pretended that I believed I had tricked a smuggler into aiding a greedy and desperate merchant who worked in the grey area of the law. I allowed him to win at regicide and believe that I was ignorant of his true plan." It was their master's first rule. Evaluate your opponent's prowess and play just badly enough to lose. Flatter your opponent with a victory, provide a worthy challenge so he likes to keep you around, and let him underestimate you.

"I have done several divinations regarding this Jolan Gix. Our futures cross. Perhaps catastrophically."

"What must be done?"

"Gix dabbles with the true power of the warp, but does not embrace the path. He is encumbered by human attachments. Compassion, empathy, friendship, love. These prevent him from walking the path."

"You wish to convert him." It was not a question.

"You have twice failed to kill him. And he grows in strength. We do not pit strength against strength. That is the way of the idiot followers of Khorne." He moved a piece on a holo board.

"So what do we do, master?"

"We are servants of the Architect of Fate, are we not? The Changer of the Ways? We shall perform emotional alchemy. Compassion shall become cruelty, empathy will become hate, friendship shall become rage, love shall become wrath."

"And how shall we do this?"

"It shall take time to gather all the relevant information. When we do we shall strike. All of his anchors are people he cares for. We shall burn them out of his life and Gix will fill those emotional voids with darkness. And then great Tzeentch shall have him."

[Imperial Overlord]

Steam blasted from vents, forming a wall of water vapor in front of the Mechanicus shrine as hidden mechanisms moved the massive armoured doors. Jolan Gix, who was bundled in a heavy cloak against the cold, strode through the mist and bowed. "Thank you for responding so quickly."

The figure opposite of him bowed back. The red-robed figure observed teh world from artificial optics set in a metal mask. A static edged, monotone voice ushered from its speaking grill. "It is I who am grateful inquisitor."

"I merely return what is the rightful property of the Priesthood of Mars."

"But you return it to me."

"I do. Your reputation has reached my ears. Your ideas about delving into the hidden secrets of the Machine God and being more liberal with the secrets that you give to others are ones that I approve of."

"Spreading the lore of Mars brings glory to the Machine-God and brings others into his service. Unfortunately, most of my colleagues see this as weakening the Priesthood. I do not think it is coincidence that I am given this isolated and dismall posting."

"And it is not coincidence that you recieve this." The black garbed inquisitor handed over a data crystal. "Glory to you, magos. May your star rise high."

The magos let the crystal drop into the palm of his gauntlet. "It may inquisitor. It may."

--------------------------------------------------------------

"What you think?" Jolan asked as he gestured out the window. Fisks former vessel, now rechristend the Eternal Will, glowed in the docklights.

"She looks solid," Selanon replied. He wasn't much taller than Gix, but paler and thinner. The navigator wore a black body glove like Gix, but wore a robe of russet velvet over instead of the inquisitor's leather stormcoat. "Sprint trader. Well armed."

Jolan tapped the table. A holo display schematic came up. The navigator took a close look at the wire frame image. "Heavy duty fusion beamer turrets. Extra void shield generators. These surveyors, this can't be right. And power level on those beamers . . ."

"They are correct. And there is more."

"Concealed guns. These firepower ratings are correct as well, I take it? As is the generator power. Inquisitor, who did you have to kill to get this ship?"

"Do you really want an answer to that?"

"No," Kay responded.

"I didn't get it in this condition. A year being rebuilt by the Adraxian shipwrights have made her thus. But she is incomplete."

"She needs a captain."

"I know a fair amount about ships and what they can and cannot do. Enough to know that there is no substitute for a good captain."

Selanon Kay was silent for a moment. Navigators rarely commanded ships. They Nobilis were extremely powerful and wealthy, but the Navy only used them to navigate through warpspace. Their own officers always commanded. The opportunities were few; mostly relegated to vessels they themselves owned. But here was an opportunity to command a fighting vessel, and she could fight hard, in the service of the Emperor.

"Inquisitor, I accept."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The warp is not a placid place. Predators swim through its eddies and currents, hunting for prey. Great storms and whirlpools form and dissipate. In one of these minor storms, a thrashing figure of light struggles. Weak and feeble currents connect the silver man to events elsewhere. Time, like space, is fluid in the warp.

One current, the thinnest and weakest, was full of bile. It warned of death, degeneration, and worse. Possible futures poisoned and stillborn. It shocked him into action. Still trapped, he sent a message through the warp to the only thing he could reach.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In accordance with ancient rituals the battle-sisters of the Adeptus Sororitas prepared themselves for battle. They assisted each other into their power armour and handed each other their weapons. In battle, their lives would depend upon each other and this was reinforced in their pre-battle rituals.

One of the younger initiates handed the celestian her bolter. The grey haired woman accepted it gravely and secured it to her armour. She walked over to help secure the tanks of blessed promethium used to fuel her heavy flamer to the back of the younger woman's armour. She was a promising young woman who had already distinguished herself in battle.

The young woman's violet eyes went wide and she fell over flat on her back. The celestian bent down and craddled the young woman's head. "Domina!"

Domina's eyes were vacant. Her voice was strange. Monotone, but forceful. "You must warn Inquisitor Jolan Gix."

[Imperial Overlord]

The blue-green world hung in the viewport of the Retribution class battleship Lord Wallech. White puffy clouds obscured much of the planet. It seemed peaceful. Serene.

Jolan looked over the latest reports. Genestealer cult forces were beseiging the last bastions of resistance. The defences were crumbling everywhere. Over three million Imperial Guardsmen had been committed to shoring up Tescotta's forces in the early stages of the campaign. If there was a million of them left alive, Jolan Gix would have been surprised. Not that it mattered anymore.

It would be days before the planet fell to them. The psychic beacon that they were producing had probably already been detected by the hive fleet. By the time the situation had been brought to his attention it had been too late to do anything for the people on the planet. There was only one course of action left.

He left the nave and approached the cluster of senior officers gathered on the bridge. "Kill anything that tries to leave the planet, no matter who they are," he ordered. "The infection must not spread. Prepare to launch the virus bombs. The order is given: exterminatus."

As the bombs began to fall, releasing the deadly virus that would break down all organic life into flammable gases and grey sludge, a hooded astropath approached him from the choir. "My lord, an urgent message for you."

Jolan accepted the printed flimsy. Odd. From a sororitas abbey in the Fallgrave system.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Weapons caches. Money. Safehouses. Alternate identities. Personal information of dignitaries and lowlifes. Covert agents. All the weapons and resources for running of shadow war at her disposal.

Melina Sevall stepped back. Jolan Gix had ordered her to begin assembling this network out of the loose patchwork he had begun and she had done just that. In the process she had obtained ownership of several enterprises, which generated sufficient revenue to make the whole process self sustaining. House Sevall was mighty, but she had at her finger tips the power to go to war with it and tear it down.

"Everything okay?" Hethor asked from the doorway.

"Yeah," she replied. "It's just sinking in. How much power he has entrusted me with."

"He chose well. He always does. He knows his people."

Her lips twisted in a half smile. "He does. What do you think of this nursemaid job?"

He shrugged. "Someone has to be ready to break bones if things go wrong. Besides, I like the high life. Spent enough of my life in the trenches eatin' rats. I'm due."

"And me?"

He shrugged. "The galaxy isn't a fair place and even Jolan Gix can't change that. You ain't bad and you haven't exactly had it all good. We all get through the best we can. And you're the right woman for this job."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hidden council of inquisitors met again on the ship that did not exist. Their ranks were noticably reduced. The gathered around the table uneasily. One side was definitely larger than the other.

The leader spoke. He was robed and masked like the rest, although in his case it was only a concession to tradition. Everyone knew who he was. "It is over. You lost," he said bluntly. "You didn't like our ruling, you fought it, and you lost. You demanded the head of one of our own when you thought you were winning, because victory was not enough. Regardless of what is decided here, you will leave this meeting safely, unless you choose to break that rule as well."

"That was Fisk," said the leader of the minority. "And his overreaching killed him. The instigators and die hards are dead. Those that survive are those who were swept up in the war. It is over."

"Very well. The guilty are dead. We shall not speak of this again unless it becomes necessary. There are certain actions we wish you to take to prove your sincerity."

"Of course."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The wizened man maneuvered around the pedestals with their gameboards and knelt before the throne. The white bearded man did not acknowledge his presence for several minutes, concentrating on several of the holoprojected games that surrounded him. He made a move in each one and then he waved for the Keeper of Silence to stand.

"My master, I have done as you asked. It was not easy."

"It took a long time," the Gamesman replied neutrally.

"Indeed. I am pleased that I was able to accomplish it so swiftly. I had to bargain with a Keeper of Secrets to get the last pieces of information. The Inquisition does not yield its secrets easily. Even to us."

"But you have it."

"Yes, my master. Everything you requested."

"Then we shall begin. Slowly and carefully. One does not make rash moves in the midgame."

"We are at midgame master?"

"With this one? Oh yes. Of course, he doesn't even know that he's in the game and he won't know how badly he's been outplayed since the beginning until it is far too late."

[Imperial Overlord]

Tenal's World was a backward place. The Imperium of Man had rediscovered it barely a century ago and brought it back into the community of man. Since then a series of ambitious and concientious Imperial Commanders had beaten back ork raiders in the wilderness and brough the benefits of Imperial technology to their people. Most of the world's inhabitents would say that life was good and getting better.

The governor's palace was near to the only space port. The capital was well defended with a plasma reactor fed void shield generator and several defence laser silos sunk deep into the rock. Mere raiders would be wrecked on those defences, although a battle fleet would be able to smash through them.

But there are methods other than brute force. The pirate ship slipped through the system while operating at low power. It entered orbit on the opposite side of the planet and dispatched its deadly cargo. A squadron of five flyers departer from its hangers and dropped towards the planet.

They shuddered through reentry and swooped down low over the ocean. It was night on this side of the planet. Soon a vast archipelago was spread out before them.

Surveyors compared results to maps stored within the flyer's cogitators and the machines changed course. Black armoured raiders laughed, joked, and bragged in the troop compartment. They were looking forward to some sport. The Prince of Ruin licked his lips.

It wasn't too much longer until they reached their destination. The island came into view. A sprawling town of wood buildings and a few newer, concrete structures. Electric lighting glowed from many windows. Fishing boats were clustered around the docks. The flyers slowed as they approached.

Several people came out on their decks to watch as the flyers arrive. Two of them landed in clear spots on the outskirts. The other three hovered over the town and black lines descended from their hatches. Moments latter, raiders followed them.

The people were not fools. They had seen flyers, but those were PDF and these raiders were not PDF. They began to flee in panic and run towards weapons. The raiders opened up with their autoguns. Thunder split the night as they flyers joined in with their gunpods.

Men, women, and children were gunned down. Houses were shattered by autocannons and set on fire by flamers. The Prince of Ruin walked through the dying town, shielded by a sickly green glow. Wherever he gazed, flesh sloughed off bone and wood crumbled into dust.

The one sided slaughter took minutes, but the raiders did not kill everyone. They took a few women and children as prisoners. The townsfolk were a dark haired, brownskinned people in generally good health who lived active lives.

They took turns with the rapes. Shrieks rang out across the water and none were spared. The buildings that were still standing were set ablaze. The nearby woods provided timber for the next part of the plan.

Chainswords made cutting crude beams easy. Those prisoners that had survived the gang rape, thirteen in all, were hauled up and crucified. Another party went to work on the town graveyard. Several bodies were targeted to be exhumed. The mouldering bodies were piled together and then urinated on.

Throughout it all, electronic eyes watched the proceedings, recording everything. The raiders departed for their ship where techno-adepts would edit the footage together before they sent it off. It wouldn't be quite the same if Jolan Gix didn't catch all the highlights of what was done to the place of his birth.

[Imperial Overlord]

Jolan turned up the heating control of his bodyglove. Perena was not a particularily warm planet and the mountain top abbey was even colder. The honour guard of Sororitas soldiers wore ceremonial cowled helmets with the face plate open and were seemingly untouched by it.

The abbey itself was a huge fortress of ceramite and stone. The sisters had reshaped the top of the mountain, burrowing into the stone, sculpting it, and reinforcing the structure. Towers containing surveyors, communications gear, shield projectors and space defence weapons protruded from the main house. Icicles hung from the edges of the grim fortress. Jolan hated every inch of it. Just looking at it made him cold.

He followed the battle-sisters through the adamantine reinforced door. Danell and Batista trailed in his wake. They lead him down dark and dreary corridors decorated with battle honours and trophies. They stopped at a door and announced him. "Inquisitor Jolan Gix and his retainers."

"Enter," came the voice from within. Jolan opened the door and stepped inside. The room was spartan. A golden aquila, set with rubies, a plain desk and chrome bodied cogitator, a weapon stand, and the Canoness herself. She was a white haired woman with lines around her eyes and mouth and an expression that could crack granite. "Inquisitor."

"Canoness Verona. I came as quickly as I could after I recieved your message. Why don't you explain your situation to me."

"A promising young woman by the name of Domina suddenly collapsed during pre-battle preperations. She spoke briefly and then fell into a stupor. After words she was more coherent. She said she had a warning from Nathan Talstrem for Inquisitor Jolan Gix. We confined her and subjected her to rites of exorcism and purification. She seems to be untainted."

"You are skeptical."

"Evil takes many forms."

"I shall see for myself."

"Of course, Inquisitor." The canoness stood and lead him out the door. She lead him to a stairwell and down deep into the depths of the fortress. She finally stopped at a lonely corridor lit with a few glow globes. Two battle-sisters in full armour stood guard. They were armed with bolt pistols and flamers. They parted for their commander. Verona lead them to the last cell and unlocked the door.

A young woman was shackled to the wall. She wore a short shift and was draped in purity seals. Her blonde hair was cropped short and her exposed limbs were corded with muscle. Jolan appraised her. Broad shoulders, violet eyes, strong cheekbones, and something very familair about her that he couldn't place. She blinked. He met her gaze.

"Inquisitor Gix. Nathan Talstrem says you are in great danger. The forces of darkness wish to consume your soul."

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The tech gave a thumbs up signal to the shuttle pilot. The pilot turned and smiled. "Good to go commodore."

Severa Valin nodded in acknowledgement. "Well lets get strapped in and this bird in the air. I've got a ship waiting for me."

"With pleasure ma'am." He nodded to this copilot and headed towards the cockpit as the servitors disengaged the fuel hoses. It wouldn't be long before they would be off the dirt, out of the glue, and hitting the void.

As Severa strapted herself in, the tech walked out of the hanger and into a closet. He closed the door behind him and sagged. Operating this body long distance had been draining, but worth it. The tech's mind was full of rote learned information, but it had been more than sufficient for the PsyKing's purposes. More than enough to sabotage the shuttle.

The psyker induced a stroke as he shed the borrowed flesh. He had had to be much closer to take this body as his meat puppet, but he once taken he could operate easily from affar. His soul flittered through the warp back to his body.

He blinked his eyes. Callidan was watching over him. "Lord?"

"It is done. Stay and take care of any loose ends. I've got a ship to catch." It was too bad he would'nt be able to see Jolan Gix's face when he learned his bitch's fate. Well, there were other women to kill. And in worse ways.

[Imperial Overlord]

Jolan looked at Domina. His warp senses were alive probing. He saw the ebb and flow of the warp, the currents and tides that touched lives. There was nothing impure that he could sense about her.

"Nathan said," she said, "to remind you about that first ride in the Valkyrie. When he told you how he got his rosette."

Jolan rocked back on his heels. No one but Nathan knew that was when Nathan had told him that he had been chosen by the Emperor, that the Inquisitor had been from the time of the Great Crusade and lost for ten thousand years in the warp. He turned to Verona. "She is to be released into my custody."

"As you wish inquisitor." She gestured and a guard stepped forward and undid the chains.

"See to it that her weapons and armour are brought to the front of the abbey."

Verona had a puzzled look on her face, but nodded in acknowledgement. She left to issue orders. "Can you walk?"

Domina nodded. "Yes inquisitor."

"Good." He took off his coat and wrapped it around her. "It's too damned cold down here."

"I don't mind," she replied. Jolan noted she did not refuse the coat. "Lets get out of here." She followed the inquisitor up the stairs back and down the long halls of abbey. They neared the entrance. A suit of armour and a neat pile of weapons awaited them. Jolan motioned everyone around the armour.

He touched a control on a circuitry lined bracelet. The teleport homer beaped. "Take us up, along with the Sororitas and the armour." The air around them crackled and hummed and then flashed with a thousand colours as a force bubble carried them through the warp.

The bubble dissolved and they found themselves standing in the armoured teleport chamber of the Eternal Will. A light flashed on and the door slid open. "I hate that," muttered Batista.

"You think you hate it," Jolan replied, "Shala looses her lunch every time she teleports. Domina, follow me." He lead the battle-sister to his quarters, which were decently heated and took a seat in one of his chairs. "Take a seat," he offered.

She looked around. The room was well appointed, but not luxurious. There were several stuffed chairs, a couch, a thick carpet, and bookshelves lining the walls. Glow globes near the ceiling bathed the room in warm yellow light. A holopic of a beach at sunset hung on the wall.

She carefully chose a chair and set down. "Domina, I believe that you are really speaking with Nathan Talstrem. He is a hero of the Imperium and I am not the first person that he would try to reach, so I must be in great peril."

"I believe that is well. He thinks the enemy will attempt to destroy your soul, not your flesh."

He nodded. "To change me. To reshape me in whatever image they desire. To ultimately break me or remake me in their image. I'm going to need all the help I can get. Can I count on your help?"

"I am a loyal daughter of the Imperium."

"Thank you."

There was a ring at the door. "Enter," said Gix. Iriza walked in. "Inquisitor, there was a message sent to you at the Inquisition headquarters on Adraxis. It was forwarded to me. It was marked urgent."

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Jolan's jaw trembled as he watched the recording. It had been sent encoded and encrypted to Iriza's brain. She hadn't possessed the means to decifer the data stream. That was a mercy.

"Inquisitor," Nofield said, "what is this?" The rest of the staff watched the atrocity in silence.

"This is the place where I was born. If my parents still live, they are among the dead. As are any bloodkin I might have." The camera panned over the crucified children. "I called you in here so you can see what we are up against. An enemy with resources that revells in atrocity. And who wants to break me."

"Inquisitor," said Camron, "we are with you. As always. But against this foe, where do we begin?"

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Inquisitor Saratta Tarnell sensed the attack seconds before it happened. Her ground car was passing under the shadows of the decaying towers when a chill ran up her spine. She lunged forward to speak to her driver when the telekinetic impluse struck the car, tearing the the engine apart.

The driver used the remaing speed to twist the car around before it came to a halt. She felt waves of force wash over her as the security cars in front of and behind her vehicle were lifted in the air and tossed away like toys. Her security personel poured out of the car. "Go!" screamed Edrian, her security chief, a bolt pistol gripped in his hand.

She slid out the opposite side and fired off a telepathic blast at her attackers. It was effortlessly scattered. One of her people fell, the victim of a sniper. Blood spurted from the hole in his neck.

The fight was lost. The enemy psykers, she could taste both their minds, were too strong and the attackers had too many advantages. With reluctance she ran.

Edrian's body hit the pavement in front of her, his bones crushed by the telekinetic strike. A spike of mental energy stabbed into her brain. She shrieked and staggered. The pain intensified. She fell to her knees.

The pain began to fade. She struggled to her feet. Two men were approaching. One tall and blonde, the other red haired and lean. Their was no mercy in their eyes and only cruelty in their smiles. Then a telepathic blast hammered her into unconsciousness.

[Imperial Overlord]

Jolan laid the cards down. Doing readings on forces that directly influenced one's life was difficult, but not beyond him. He stroked the back of the card's touching each one with his power, connecting them to each other and the tides of the warp where space and time were not bound by the rules of the material universe.

The cards slid across the table, forming an intricate pattern. The liquid crystal images shifted and changed. Jolan felt his blood run cold.

The High Priest inverted, flanked by an inverted Space Marine stood above all. Beneath him was the Rogue Trader inverted and the Noble Scion, also inverted. Death was ascendent, in the form of a maggot ridden corpse.

Beneath that terrible arrangement was the Magister. His personal card. To the side was the Angel.

"Emperor have mercy," he whispered. He couldn't even find his enemy. How was he suppossed to defeat him?

He leaned back and took a deep breath. He had faced a daemon prince with only Hethor at his side and cast him into the warp. He could prevail here as well. He wasn't merely an inquisitor, but Jolan Gix. A formidable mind mated witha formidable will and a staff second to none behind him.

There were other eyes and brains that would aid him as well. He began composing the messages that he would send to Kyra and Maladar.

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Saratta groaned and opened her eyes. She was nude and strapped spread eagle to padded table. There was a mirror on the ceiling above her. Her eyes would quite focus and her extremities were full of pain. A hook nosed man loomed over her. "Recovering conciousness I see. Excellent. We've kept you unconcious for a while until we got you where we wanted you. As for any soreness, well some of us couldn't wait to try you out. You understand. Don't try to answer. We cut out your tongue when we amputated your hands and feet. Didn't want you committing suicide that way. Too easy."

He ran his fingers through her hair. She twisted her head and lunged, trying to tear at him with her teeth. "Ahh. Spirit. You're hooked up to a psi inhibitor, for obvious reasons. We don't want you to die on us too soon. In fact, we don't intend for you to die at all.

"But I haven't introduced myself. You may call me the Prince of Ruin. The reason you are here is that your former lover Jolan Gix has made a pain of himself. So you are going to suffer so that he suffers.

"As you can see we have surrounded you with a variety of life support equipment. We're going to start removing your organs and hooking you up. The machines will keep you alive, but it won't be pleasant. In fact, unpleasantness was an important part of their design. We'll carve you up piece by piece until every major bodily function is run by these machines. And lets not forget the bedsores."

He laughed as he saw the pain in her eyes. "But we haven't gotten to the best parts yet, my dear. You'll be entertaining our brethren, some of whom are extensively . . . ah altered. Daily.

"This will continue until your mind breaks and shatters. Until everything that makes you you is dead. And then we'll consider letting the meat die. You see the recorders. There. And there. And there. We'll send Jolan this, so he'll no exactly what happened to the first woman he ever loved. Everything that ever mattered to him is going to suffer horribly before it dies."

He opened up the front of his bodyglove. "So now that you know what's in store for you, why don't we get started?"