In Memoria (40K)

[Chris OFarrell]

Of course the fact that he has a hardcore Inqusitor on his tail will probably get him a lot more stature in the people he is TRYING to get close to....the Inquisistion ironicly still helps one of their own....if they don't kill him first.

[LadyTevar]

"What profits a man to gain the whole world, but to lose his son?"

Jolan should be looking at himself very, very hard in the mirror.

[technomage]

Gix already considers himself damned. He's not in this for himself, he's in it purely for others. He's unafraid to make the necessary sacrifices for success himself, and is asking nothing of his followers that he won't do himself.

That mindset counts for a lot. If he can sustain it, he'll succeed completely.

The question is, can he remain true to his principles as he continues to delve into damnation, or will he falter and be corrupted?

[Imperial Overlord]

Gix already considers himself damned. He's not in this for himself, he's in it purely for others. He's unafraid to make the necessary sacrifices for success himself, and is asking nothing of his followers that he won't do himself.?

Just a mild correction, Gix doesn't consider himself damned.

[technomage]

Sorry. I assumed that from his reaction after he participates in the sacrifice of an innocent to Chaos. He said that only total success could justify his actions. I took that to mean he thought of himself as damned, and only success could redeem him.

[Imperial Overlord]

Mikal Camron hesitated for a moment and then touched the door chime to the private quarters of Sevran Dask. The door slid open, revealing the modestly furnished room. The furnishing's were worn and the sent of oil never quite seemed to leave the air in what passed for first class accommodations aboard the Lady Giselle. The trader was old and had seen better days, perhaps the reason for the captain's lack of concern about strict adherence to the letter of the law as long as the coin flowed.

"Come in," said Jolan Gix. The inquisitor was standing in front of a mat that faced the wall.

"Thank you," said Camron. He closed the door behind him. "Inquisitor, I've had . . . . problems with what we are doing."

"Of course you have. Take a seat." He gestured towards a chair and then took a seat opposite. The leather creaked under the former guardsman weight. The leather exterior had seen better days.

"Inquisitor, what we've been doing . . . . we're helping the enemy. We're killing loyal citizens."

"Yes," said Jolan. "And that is hard. Very hard. If I knew another way which would lead to success, I would take it. But I do not. I am an Imperial Inquisitor. It is my duty to kill even the innocent and the righteous if it serves the Imperium. Even the extermination of entire worlds is within my purview. If I am willing to kill billions, then what are hundreds or even thousands of innocents? If I can deceive the faithful, then what are lies told to heretics and traitors?"

"It is easier to say than to do. And to deny the Emperor, to pretend to, to-"

"Worship obscenity," Gix finished. "It is very hard. Remember it not the lips that have to remain faithful to Him on Earth, but the mind and soul. The lie of unbelief is one that we are permitted and one that we must make full use of. We shall find the nerve system of this secret empire of heretics and we shall deliver them all up for judgement. This is not easy, or pleasant, or done lightly. But the Rising Phoenix cannot be allowed to continue to exist. It has tentacles that extend too far, even to the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition. It must be destroyed."

"I know, but is hard."

"It should be. Apostacy, even false apostacy, should never be easy. There are many ways to serve the Emperor and this is one of the hardest."

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

The room was dark, the faces of the participants ringing the table hidden beneath autosense equipped masks with voice distorters. Robes further hid their identity. It mattered little. The senior members of the conspiracy knew the identities of most of those present.

"We have suffered losses," said one. "Two of our most potent agents have been lost over the last few years." The empty seats spoke for themselves. Most people knew who belonged there. Maladar and Jolan Gix. "We must consider how to go forward."

"The plan is still sound," replied Kyra Neven. Maladar's loss was one she felt keenly. As savage as he was, he was still her pupil and a loyal friend and ally. "We have been making progress. Seven systems have been realigned. They are on track. The first gains from them are impacting the rest of the subsector."

"The effort involved-" another began.

"All investments require capital," another completed smoothly. "And the potential rewards are more than worth it. The Imperium is under siege on every side. These ancient xenos, these Necrons, are especially worrying. Newly awoken and possessing great power. And the reports on the Hive Fleets are more than dismaying."

"Agreed," another said. "We must bring in other suitable candidates to not only rebuild our numbers, but expand. The Imperium needs every resource it can muster and Gix's plan is our best option. Jolan Gix is probably dead, but his legacy can and should live. It is our duty to build a stronger Imperium and we will succeed."

[Hawkwings]

Nice to see that Gix's plan is still working, even though he's gone.

Also... "As savage as he was, she was still her pupil and a loyal friend and ally."

Typo? Maladar's a guy, right?

[Imperial Overlord]

Nice to see that Gix's plan is still working, even though he's gone.

Also... "As savage as he was, she was still her pupil and a loyal friend and ally."

Typo? Maladar's a guy, right?

Typo.

[Coalition]

"Yes," said Jolan. "And that is hard. Very hard. If I knew another way which would lead to success, I would take it. But I do not. I am an Imperial Inquisitor. It is my duty to kill even the innocent and the righteous if it serves the Imperium. Even the extermination of entire worlds is within my purview. If I am willing to kill billions, then what are hundreds or even thousands of innocents? If I can deceive the faithful, then what are lies told to heretics and traitors?"

(snip)

"Agreed," another said. "We must bring in other suitable candidates to not only rebuild our numbers, but expand. The Imperium needs every resource it can muster and Gix's plan is our best option. Jolan Gix is probably dead, but his legacy can and should live. It is our duty to build a stronger Imperium and we will succeed."

Very good. Jolan is keeping himself on that narrow track, and his friends are doing their best to keep on going, and planning for the future.

Very good story.

[Imperial Overlord]

The shuttle broke through the clouds, giving its passengers a view of the plain below. Two hundred years ago it hand teemed with people and hosted dozens of cities. The coming of the orks had changed that. Twenty years latter the last ork had died in searing flames that had consumed half a continent. Nature had crept back and overgrown the blackened ruins, but man had yet to return.

"There," said Gix pointing to cluster of ruins. "Set us down."

"Yes lord," said the pilot. The shuttle fired thrusters to slow its descent, scattering a grazing herd of elk. The boxy, heat scarred vessel hovered for a moment before descending, it thrusters igniting a small grass fire that it promptly extinguished by crushing it out of existence.

After a minute the hatch cycled open and the pale and blonde form of Jolan Gix stepped out. Wind stirred his hair and he pulled the fleece lined long coat tighter around his body. Gard Vikal stepped out a moment latter, protected from the cold by his mesh armoured bodysuit. Four metal orbs darted around in his wake. Mikal Carmon followed. "Let's take a look," said Jolan

His retainers followed him. The walked through the knee high grass towards the ruins. Three lichen encrusted builds awaited them, low blocky and thoroughly ugly structures that strongly resembled bunkers. One had a collapsed roof and they turned their attentions to the other two. The orbs darted between all three buildings.

One was sealed shut by a rusted and warped steel door. Steel screamed as the door twisted, bent, and then was pulled out by Jolan's telekinesis. Small animals scurried away from the intrusion, hiding in the little and wreckage that carpeted the floor. Mikal grimaced in distaste.

"The other one is structurally unsafe," said Gard. "This one seems sound, according to my readings."

"Good," said Jolan. "Bring the supplies here." The inquisitor turned back to the entrance. Dark red flames erupted inside, tongues of fire darting out the slit windows.

"As you say," said Camron and he turned back to the shuttle.

"Sevren," said Gard, "may I ask what in the name of all that is holy you intend to do here?"

"Commit an atrocity," said Jolan Gix.

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

The door opened and the Prince of Ruin walked past the two guards in gold washed armour. Inside a hundred different games were displayed on waist high pedestals. The Gamesman sat in his throne, a construct of gleaming chrome and body contoured leather cushions suspended from the ceiling by an armature. The arms raised the throne and then moved it from the ancient and unrecognizable game he had been studying to a rectangular board nearby.

"Approach," said the Gamesman. The Prince of Ruin obeyed. His master gazed upon him with blazing eyes. "I have need of your special talents."

The Prince of Ruin bowed before the white bearded man. "I am yours to command."

"Good. The PsyKing will be acting in an enabling role in this plan." The Prince of Ruin kept his face blank at the mention of his rival's name. "He is too flamboyant to be primary. He will do his damage and attract the Imperium's eyes. The real work will be done by your hand."

The red headed man smiled. "I am eager, lord."

"I knew you would be. This is, however, too important a task to be trusted to just one man." A side door to the throne room opened and a short woman with short black hair and medium brown skin entered. She wore a gown of glittering gold fabric. Her smile was mischievous. Her gaze contained madness. "The Queen of Nightmares will assist you directly in this, my son."

"I command?" the Prince of Ruin asked, unable to conceal the eagerness in his voice.

"Yes," said the Gamesman. "Elements within the Imperium, supported perhaps by some within the Inquisition, have begun a subtle campaign of reform and development in three subsectors. Imperial success in this matter is unacceptable. I expect you to live up to your name, my son."

"Of that, my lord, you may be assured."

"Do not over extend yourself or our resources. They are not unlimited and we cannot afford any traces back to us."

"I understand. Minimal involvement of our brothers, sisters, and resources. There are others who serve the True Gods who will be most eager to assist. I will encourage them in the delusion that there will be a victory that they can exploit."

The Gamesman smiled. "I am pleased with this course of action. You have my blessing."

"Thank you, my lord."

"You may withdraw." The Prince of Ruin bowed and turned away. The chains were off, the gate unbarred. Now he was free to do what he loved to do most in all the galaxy: open up the gates to the warp and let all of hell pour out. In his mind's eye he saw cities burn and million being impaled. He saw ocean's boil and continental crust crack. He saw ejecta from dying worlds being blasted in space. It would all burn. It was the most beautiful thing he could imagine.

[Imperial Overlord]

Gard Vikal's mechadendrites tapped the roof of the passenger compartment. Danell Keys turned his head and gazed impassively at the scientist. "Sorry," said Gard. "Nerves. Its been three weeks."

"And he has asked for pick up. The logical time to be worried would be during those three weeks, not the end."

"You know," said Gard, "that's about as much as I've ever heard you say."

"Quiet is an assassin's friend. Extraneous conversation and movement can betray you."

"I see. Does it bother you that we are about to land near five hundred kilos of explosives?"

"No," said Keys.

"Does anything bother you?"

"Attempting a mission with insufficient intelligence and equipment," said the assassin. "And we are very well equipped for picking up a man on a deserted continent."

"Beginning the landing," came the pilot's voice over the intercom. Thrusters fired and the ship rumbled as it descended next to the ruined bunker. The shuttle rocked from a moment as it touched down and then the thrusters shut off and the craft settled.

Keys unbuckled the straps and rose out of his seat, heading for the hatch. Camron followed behind him, stopping only to grab a las carbine from a gun rack.

"You expect to need that?" asked Gard as he struggled out of his own straps.

"No," said the stocky man, "but its best not to break the habit because one day I might."

Gix's three retainers walked out the hatch and into the biting wind. Temperature controlled armoured body gloves kept them warm despite temperatures only a few degrees above the freezing point of water. Jolan Gix waited for them at the entrance of the bunker.

The inquisitor looked haggard. His blonde hair was unkempt and their were dark circles under his eyes. He carried a long rectangular case under his left arm. He walked towards his friends.

"Were you successful?" Keys asked.

"Yes," Gix said brusquely. Keys eyed the case, noticing the pentagrammic wards inscribed on it. "Let's go."

"The equipment?" asked Gard. "Some of it isn't easy-"

"Too high a danger of taint," said Gix. He headed into the shuttle and secured the case in the back. "No one touches this," he said with iron in his voice. "Under any circumstances."

Camron closed the hatch. "Let the pilot know we're heading back," Gix said.

"Will do," said Camron and headed up towards the cockpit.

"What did you do?" asked Gard.

"I don't want to talk about it," said Gix. "Ever. I'll tell you when I'm ready. Once."

The engines whined as the powered up for lift off. Jolan reached for the device strapped to his left wrist.

"What's that?" asked Gard.

"Bio sign monitor," said Jolan. "Linked to the explosives." The engines roared, pushing the men back into their chairs as the shuttle rose into the air and into the sky. Jolan opened the clasp.

"Is that still active?" Gard asked.

Jolan took off the bio monitor. "Technically yes. Since the explosive just went off because its no longer on my wrist, not really."

"That bad," said Gard.

"Worse. It is necessary that I do this, it could cut years off, save countless lives, minimize the damage we do. But it isn't safe."

"You've bound daemonhosts," said Gard. "This is worse?"

"Longer term and less obviously dangerous," said Jolan. "But it will be both pass key and weapon and is therefore worth it."

"Now what?" asked Gard.

"That goes in a void safe, a bath, and prayer. I need to feel clean, if only for a moment."

[Imperial Overlord]

The mercenaries didn't know who paid for their services and didn't care. Such matters, and the precautions against betrayal, were for their officers. There job was to hit the target and kill everyone. There were limits to what they could use. One did not use atomics against a consortium's compound.

Timing mattered. There was a traitor inside and this night he would be in position to deactivate their alarms and sensors without being detected. The flyers hovered over the top of the tower and dispatched their cargoes by guidelines. Mercenaries, anonymous in their full body black armour, slid down to the roof. They headed for the door.

Gloved fingers punched in the door code and it swung open, revealing the stairway and the lift. The killers descended down both. They had target lists and priorities. They gripped their matte-black lascarbines and readied themselves for action.

The lift doors opened. A gun roared from down the corridor. Two mercenaries crouching in the lift doorway were almost blown in half by bolter shells. Blood and gore drenched their comrades as a grenade bounced toward them. The survivors fired blindly, filling the air with blazing white hot beams, as they rushed out of the lift and dived for cover. One was too slow and the was just leaving the lift when the grenade detonated. He fell, his back and limbs riddled with shrapnel.

The raiders peered down the hall. Lush red carpet, polished brass icons on the wall depicting skulls, eagles, and the trading house's winged skull and sextant symbol. Polished marble gleamed. Of their killer, the saw no sign.

One of the raiders pulled out a hand held bioscanner, flicked the power switch, and hit the scan rune. The device hummed and showed a human life sign further down the corridor. He pointed towards a doorway.

A frag grenade was lobbed down the corridor, falling short of the doorway, but close enough to be threatening. The raider cursed. A moment latter it detonated. A blind grenade was already arcing through the air after it. Two raiders stormed forward.

The thick black smoke covered their advance. They flanked the brass engraved door. One fired two quick bursts into its hinges and gave it a kick. The ponderous door toppled inward and the other threw in a grenade. It detonated with dull crump and they rushed in.

A burst of bolter fire blew apart the first one's chest. The second spun towards the bathroom door, where the fire was coming from. He caught a glimpse of Shala Nofield, wearing a black leather storm coat over bra and panties before the bolt pistol in her hand splattered his brains and bone fragments all over her carpet.

Another raider crouched by the doorway and unleashed a volley of lasfire. The commissar retreated into the bathroom as las beams burned large holes in her walls. Help had better get here damn fast.

As two raiders leap frogged into Nofield's room, pinning her down with suppressive fire, the rest approached Melina's room. Unlike Shala's room, this door lacked exposed hinges and the door itself was gilded ceramite. Burst of lasfire at the door created shallow pits and streams fo molten gold running down its face. Explosives charges were quickly placed and the raider team retreated.

As they did so, one of their comrades got in position to toss a grenade into Shala's bathroom. Setting the timer for three seconds, he lobbed the grenade inside. A moment latter their was an explosion. Keeping his las steady, he advanced.

Water poured from a broken pipes and shattered fixture. Ruined tiles marked the blast area. Broken mirrors and ravaged walls marked the blast effect. There was no body.

Nofield rose from the marble bathtub she had taken cover in and put a pair of bolts into his chest. Blood, gore, and fragments of ribs splattered the ruined tiles. The commissar rose up to move and fire at the other. Lasbeams flashed around the tall woman. She fired a long burst at the raider, the rounds ripping through a couch to blow him open from navel to neck.

She slipped on a chunk of tile as she tried to run forward. Bruised legs faltered. She tried to catch herself on the door frame with her left hand, but nothing happened. She fell down, face first. She looked over at her left arm as she struggled back to her feet. It was missing just above the elbow. A ragged stump was all that remained. Her world began to spin.

A roar accompanied the fall of Melina's doors. Grenades followed the doors, filling the room with lethal shrapnel and then the killers rushed into the gloom. Their night vision goggles allowed almost perfect vision. The first two into the room twitched and collapsed as a hellpistol spoke with an audible crack from the left wall adjacent to the door. The third raider was turning that way as he entered the room, his carbine moving with his eyes.

The gun barrel was caught in an iron grip and jerked up. The raider looked saw the immense form of Hethor D'eckor, naked save for the harness around his shoulders and the shimmer of a refractor field around him. Then the hellpistol in the guard veteran's hands flash boiled his brains and he knew nothing more.

[GeneralTacticus]

Nice. I particularly liked the ambiguity at the beginning - it wasn't until about a third of the way through that you revealed whose side the mercenaries were on.

[Imperial Overlord]

Hethor held the body of the dead raider up with his left hand as a meat shield. He raider behind the corpse stitched las bolts up the corpse's back, burning through armour and cratering flesh. The stream of fire ended abruptly when Hethor shot him in the head. The mercenary fell as another aimed at Hethor's head and fired. Las beams splattered what was left of the corpse's skulls all over the Guard veteran and two more beams struck him in the left side of his shaved skull.

The energy of the las bolts was scattered away by the refractor field, resulting in the veteran merely severe suffering severe burns. Hethor shot the other surviving raider in the chest and threw the corpse at the shooter. The wounded mercenary staggered and the barrel of his carbine dipped. The shooter sidestepped the body. Hethor dived aside and fired at the shooter. The hellbeam cratered the wall. The shooter's gun followed the arc of Hethor's dive.

A roar accompanied blood and gore bursting from the shooter's chest. Another pair of booms accompanied the transformation of the wounded man's chest into bloody ruin. Melina advanced, beautiful, stark naked, a gilded bolt pistol clutched in her hands. "Heth!" she shouted.

The big veteran got to his feet. "Nothing killed me yet," he grunted. "Keep an eye on the deaders. Some of them might have enough life left to pull a trigger." He methodically began shooting them in the head. He reached the door to Nofield's room.

"Ah shit." He rushed in, grabbed and towel and crudely turniquetted Nofield's arm. He ran back into Melina's room and grabbed a hand vox caster. "I need a med team on the exec housing level now!" He switched channels. "Status?"

A gravelly voice replied. "Reynals here. We've taken losses, but we've got them penned and we're taking them down."

"Prisoners if possible," said Hethor as he headed back to where Nofield lay.

He pushed past Melina. "How bad?" she asked.

"Bad. You better cover up. Med's goin' to be here. I'll do what I can 'til they get here."

He had more than a little experience with improvised battlefield med treatment. Nofield's stump was still bleeding. He grabbed another towel and bound it around the stump. "Don't fuckin' die on me commissar bitch," he hissed. "I'm the only one around here allowed to kill you. Don't let those line jumping fuckers get away with it."

He heard people rushing towards the room. Presumably friendlies, but Hethor hadn't lived this long by being an optimist. He picked up his hellpistol and took cover. He recognized the med team as they hurried in through the door. One of them stopped, mouth gaping open. "What's the fuckin' matter? Never seen a naked man with a gun? Throne, put her back together."

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

Jolan's retinue gathered in a swept security room. "How's Nofield?" asked Batista. The psyker was fidgeting nervously under his dark robe.

"She'll live," said Hethor. He was wearing an armoured bodyglove. Half of the left side of his head was covered in gauze. "Need a new arm though."

"When will Captain Kay arrive?" asked Batista.

"Not soon enough, even if the warp decides to be friendly," said D'eckor. "Unless our little astropath is lyin'."

Iriza's face turned pink. "I can-" she stopped as she saw Hethor's grin.

"Relax," he said. "Doesn't change the fact that we have to act long before the Eternal Will arrives. We need to find out who hit us and crush them."

"We took prisoners, yes?" asked Melina.

"Yeah. Conditioned mercs and our traitor. They don't know who hired them. They will give up their unit, but they'll be disavowed as rogues if a heavy legal hammer comes down. Doubt the traitor knows who he really sold out to."

"Speaking of the traitor, how did you find out?" asked Melina.

"Easy. Installed a stealth data spirit in the system. Trick I learned from Sever. It only goes active when the security system shuts down. It sends an alarm under a number of circumstances. Me and Nofield were the ones who got the signal when that happened."

"So where do we start?" asked Melina.

"Eliminate the answers that don't make sense. These guys had cash for top grade meat and gear, but didn't try to crack the armour or void shield around your quarters. They could shell out for professional muscle, but didn't want to go for a full scale assault or use atomics. Instead they went sneaky. They cared about the heat and they couldn't just borrow Imperial muscle. So they are goin' to be around for a while. Local rivals, not the bosses enemies. They would have hit us a lot harder."

"None of the locals would have left a data trail," said Melina. "This cost money, but nothing they couldn't have hid."

"So what now?" asked Iriza.

"This is my game," said Melina. "We play it my way, until the end game."

"And what then?" said Batista.

"Then we play it Hethor's way," said Melina. "Once you've maneuvered the grox into the abattoir, you swing the hammer."

[Vehrec]

"Grox into the abattior?" I can guess the context, but what the hell are those things?

[GeneralTacticus]

40k equivalent of cattle, raised on many agri-worlds in huge numbers. I have no idea what they look like, though.

[Setesh]

40k equivalent of cattle, raised on many agri-worlds in huge numbers. I have no idea what they look like, though.

According to the GamesWorkshop guys this is a grox. Omnivore reptile, can live in a wide range of habitats. Dark age engineered immune system, metabolises most things that poison humans.

(Edit) The white dwarf article states the female grox can lay 15-50 eggs at a time and they average 800lbs on earth normal worlds. Climate effects size consistansy of the meat and flavor

[Imperial Overlord]

Hethor put the binocs down. "Doubled up, take a look."

Temas Listern took them and peered at the entrance of the Danessari Consortium loading area. "Yeah, more muscle than usual." The two men were sharing a low rent apartment, one of thousands in the building, that overlooked the transport hub.

"And better heat," said Hethor. "Those are IG pattern lasguns, not rabble busters. Nothing is going through Section Three either. Bet you they have a reaction team holed up in there."

"So these are the guys who hit us?"

"Yeah," said Hethor. "Could hide the mercs, but not the extra weapons and hires over the past year. Their fuel purchases have also been too large."

"Expecting a war. Hoarding up. You've taken this to the boss yet?"

"No. She doesn't have need to know."

Listern looked at his commander in disbelief.

"War's my business. The command to drop the hammer has already been given."

"Lot of other security nearby," said Listern.

"Won't interfere unless too big a hammer is used or spill over. Local rules." Hethor didn't think much of the locals. Security troops were thugs with some discipline and little in the way of skills lead by a smattering of old retainers and hereditary warrior caste who would have been good if they weren't so conservative. Hethor's chosen were a mix of on and off world muscle and they were soldiers, soldier by his exacting standards, or they were out.

"What next?"

"You and your boys look over the place and decide how you want to hit it. This is your show."

"Boss?''

"I'm not micromanaging every operation here. I need soldiers to do their duty and kill the enemy and I need leaders to see that it is done. Are you one of those leaders or did I judge you wrong?"

"I'm your man sir!" said Listern. "The walls will come down and she'll bleed into the street."

"See that she does," said Hethor. He had a lot of work to do in the next few days. "I want the full plan by 0930 Saturday."

"You'll have it."

The big veteran turned and walked away. Shadow zone mercs, limited asset strikes, that was how the game was played on world but not the way Hethor played. The Danessari were going to get the chop come hell or high water. The only trick was how to do it without rocking the boat so badly that any other locals joined the party. Then he got an idea.

[Imperial Overlord]

The Favorable Venture sailed through the warp at a comfortable speed. The merchant vessel was not one of the mighty vessels of the Imperial Navy, nor was it a well armed and bold rogue trader plunging into unknown space, but merely a merchant vessel that carried cargo and passengers from world to world. Two kilometers long and tubby rather than shark slim, she was not swift but reliable.

Several cathedral spires rose from her command deck. One of them housed Jukk Molesecan, the ship's Navigator. For nearly eighty years he had guided ships through the dangerous flows and tides of the Empyrean. He considered himself a master of the craft and those who had a lower opinion of his skills admitted that he was competent.

He stood now with the windows unsheathed than the eye on his forehead uncovered and open. The madness of the warp flowed around him. Inside the hull of the ship and the protection of the Gellar fields was sanity. Cushions for his body, a lift tube for food and drink, a brass mouthed speaking tube to communicate his desires to the bridge or his servants below. Outside a legion of warp entities, some feeble, some horrifically potent, all wanting to get in.

There was a disturbance, a flux from behind. He focused his warp eye on it. Something was riding a warp wake, a dangerous maneuver that required strong Gellar fields. The pursuer was undaunted and closing swiftly.

The vessel was smaller than The Favorable Venture and shark slim in the manner of an small Imperial warship or a sprint trader. Molescan changed the dial on the brass speaking tube so that it now linked to the bridge. "This is the Navigator. I have an urgent message for the captain."

Captain Thinneus Walvern extracted his prodigious bulk from the layers of bedding and the bodies of two of his concubines to grasp the vox tube and mutter, "captain speaking."

"Sir, their is a ship closing on us rapidly."

"Through the warp?"

Molescan stifled the urge to throttle the fat, ignorant norm and replied. "Yes. Their Gellar fields seem quite strong and their Navigator is skilled. I judged it unwise to confront them in the warp, if they intend us harm."

"Damn," muttered Walvern. "Stand by for transition." He switched channels. "This is the captain. Attend battle stations and stand by for transition. He began the arduous task of stuffing nearly two hundred kilos of mostly fat into his uniform. The aid of his concubines made the task merely difficult instead of almost impossible.

Walvern finished by buttoning up his sable tunic along the side and straightening several kilos of gold braid before heading to the bridge. "Status?" he barked as he headed towards his generously cushioned command throne.

"Unknown vessel still closing," said a weary looking junior officer. "They have void shields powered."

"Bring us to normal space," said Walvern. "Status of shields and guns?"

"Shields powered," said a craggy faced woman with gold streaks in her grey hair. "Gun crews are at their weapons," the shaven headed master gunner replied from his station. "Four boards yellow, the rest green." That meant that four guns weren't ready for firing yet.

"Normal space in twenty seconds," a steel bodied servitor rasped. "Nineteen . . . . eighteen . . . . seventeen . . . ."

"Helm, prepare to fire maneuvering thrusters. If they follow us through I want us ready to cross their tee and give them the full throw weight of our broadsides."

"two. . . . one."

"Transition!"

The ship shook and the shutters on the bridge windows began to retract. Cold black space and distant stars were revealed. "Location?" the captain barked.

"About three light years south of the Kronn Drift," said the gold and grey haired woman. "No sign of the unknown vesse-. Wait. Emergence! Seventy thousand aft!"

The night black vessel broke into real space in a flair of colour. Although such detail was not visible at this distance, unlike The Favorable Venture its sides bore a minimum of ornamentation. Aside from a few eagles her lines were clean and functional.

Her plasma thrusters sent a great plume into the void as they thrust the black ship forward. On the bridge of The Favorable Venture, the needle on a dial swung up as it measured the black ship's velocity. Worried glances were exchanged.

Walvern refused to be daunted. "Stand by to swing hard to port and bring all batteries to bear." The merchant vessel was not well armed nor did she really need to be. She was mostly owned by the Danessari Consortium and travelled between civilized stars, mostly bearing the Consortium's cargoes. In over a millenia she had never fired a shot except in practice.

On her starboard side thrusters burned and the ship began to ponderously turn. The dorsal turret with its two heavy macro cannons swung to port. The black ship was still closing swiftly. A small change in its course left it angling just aft of The Favorable Venture.

Time ticked down. On The Favorable Venture's bridge the master gunner waited as a the needle on the range dial sank. "Stand by to fire," said the grizzled veteran. He had no need of a vox tube to convey his commands. A vox grill was cybernetically implanted into his shoulders and covered his mouth and ears when he was on station. Wires connected him to the ship.

Light blazed from both of the black ships turrets. Fusion beamers focused their beams into two intense, ravening lances. Lighting flashed over The Fortunate Venture as the beams tore into her void shields.

"Return fire!" Walvern bellowed.

"We are not yet in range," the master gunner replied.

"Damnation!" Walvern snarled, spraying spittle over over the deck. "Return fire soonest!"

"Aye captain. Readying all guns to return fire."

Another volley of lance fire tore into The Fortunate Venture's shields. "Shield now at thirty eight percent," said a steel bodied servitor. "Thirty nine percent."

"Firing," said the master gunner. The merchant had only a small broadside, only a few macro cannons a side, but the weapons were formidable. Heavy cannon shells were flung into space in the general vicinity of where the black ship should be by the time the shells arrived.

Brilliant flashes bracketed the ship as she closed, but her shields held as she burned forward. Armoured panels slid open along her side, revealing deadly recessed laser cannons to augment the already formidable power of her fusion beamers.

The merchant man's gunnery crew struggled to place new multiton shells into the breaches of their macro cannons. As the breaches slammed shut, the master gunner's boards went green. Another volley was launched into space to explode around the black ship. One shell even scored a direct hit.

"Enemy void shields still intact," said the wearing looking junior officer at surveyors.

"Turn us another fifteen degrees port," Wolvern ordered. "They're trying to cross our tee." He really couldn't stop it, not in the position he was in against a ship that fast and maneuverable, but he could delay it. Hopefully that would be enough time for his guns to smash the other ship into wreckage.

"Enemy vessel correcting course," said the surveyor operator. "Moving to cross our tee."

Lightning sheeted off the black ship's void shields as they bled off energy. One last volley of macro cannon shells exploded around her, but her shields held. By the time the next volley was loaded only the turret and half the broadside would be able to bear.

The black ship closed. A few macro cannon shells fired and smashed her shields, but they held against the weakened volley. Her own laser broadside struck back, creating storms of energy where they struck The Favorable Venture's void shields. A lance beam tore into the weakened shields. They collapsed in a burst of light and lightning as the burning white lance beam tore up the ship's side.

Then the other lance struck tore into the port cannon emplacements. Fire and metal were blasted into the vacuum as propellant exploded and the guns flashed into clouds of white hot vapour. The merchant vessel staggered on, bleeding from the wound in her flank. Inside blast doors dropped and fuel and atmosphere lines to that section were cut off, staunching the wound. The bleeding flowed to a trickle.

The black ship made to cross The Favorable Venture's tee, three thousand kilometers behind and one hundred and fifty above. The black ship shifted orientation to bring all her guns to bear.

The feeble remnants of the merchant's void shields blazed and died when touched by the black ship's lasers. The lances struck the base of the cluster of command spires and the bridge cathedral. The lower parts were blasted into gas and liquid, the rest were blown into space in a cloud of fire. Another lance blew apart and macro cannon turret and opened the hull.

Laser cannons flashed again and again, burning through the armour of the doomed ship's engineering section and into her heart. "Divert power from lances to void shields," ordered Selanon Kay . "I don't want our paint job getting scratched when that tub blows."

A moment latter the merchant man's aft exploded, sending gouts of ravening plasma shooting out into space and blazing through what was left of the forward sections. The Eternal Will's captain watched with considerable satisfaction.

"Pick off any escape pods and then stand down from battle stations. I will be preparing our course back into the warp. Signal me in the event of anything unusual."

With that the Eternal Will's captain left the bridge. This would hurt the Danessari Consortium baldy, but it wouldn't destroy it. It would be pleasing to see how Hethor's strategy would reveal itself. The veteran soldier had greater depths than most would suspect, but that did not surprise Kay. He knew better than most how well Jolan Gix chose his people. The Danessari were doomed as surely as the Emperor was a god and Selanon Kay was a ship captain.

[Feil]

It's always good to see your 40k space battle segments, even when short. You really capture the appropriate Battlefleet Gothic feel in a way that few do.

[Imperial Overlord]

It's always good to see your 40k space battle segments, even when short. You really capture the appropriate Battlefleet Gothic feel in a way that few do.

Thank you. *bows*

[Imperial Overlord]

Shala groaned and flexed her shoulders. She hated hospital rooms, even when she was only visiting. Confinement in them was hell. She leaned on her right arm and pulled herself into a sitting position. Her left arm was scarcely more than dead meat.

The chrome gleaming thing attached the Shala's arm twitched. She sighed and concentrated again. The fingers curled. Squinting with concentration, she reached for the juice bottle by her bed. Clumsy fingers refused to grip slick plastic. She snarled in frustration. The juice bottle fell. "Emperor take them all to the warp!"

"I hope not," said Batista. The psyker picked the bottle off the floor and placed it on the stand next to the bed. "The arm is top of the line, according to the Mechanicus. With practice you should have the full range of motion back."

She looked down at her arm. An ugly red line marked where her flesh ended, just above the elbow. The rest was the gleaming chrome of a new augmentic. "It feels dead."

"You need practice," said the psyker.

"Why are you the one watching my bed side?"

"I'm the one who isn't busy at the moment. Everyone's been here, when they could. There is a war going on," he said apologetically.

"Yeah," she said. "Did we find out who sent the shooters?"

"They were mercenaries, with the identity of their employers hidden through cut outs and good operational security. We still found out who did it. Not all of their preparations were so invisible."

"Assassination of a house head violates the local rules," she said. "Any blow back on that?"

"No," said Batista. "We can't prove the Danessari Consortium was behind the attack, although they were. So the other big houses don't even have to pretend to consider the case. There is no case. And we are outworlders."

"Follow the laws, but don't get the protection of them. Swell."

"It's not quite as bad as that," said Batista. "Melina says that this kind of thing does rock the boat. The smaller houses and the outworlders know we know who hit us and know they broke the rules and are getting away with it. This in turn allows us to skirt the edges without being sanctioned."

"How's it going?"

"Umm . . . well I'm fine. Not a whole lot of work for me yet-"

"Not you ninny," said the ex-commissar irritatedly. "The war."

"Good, I think. The Danessari aren't used to people not rolling over for them. We hit them hard at their barracks and their transportation network. Hethor just rolled right over their guys. Hitting them in the void too, if things work out. Their scrambling and doing more fortifying and retreating to out of town villas. Hethor says we're winning."

"Sounds like it," she said, "but they have deep cash reserves, a ton of piled favors, and off world resources. They can afford to bleed for a while. We need to finish this." She leaned forward and swung her legs out of bed. "Weak as a damn kitten," she muttered and slid out of bed. She tried to steady herself with her left hand and the prosthesis failed her. She fell forward.

Batista caught her. "Thanks," she muttered. "Now help me get some clothes and get out of here."

"You're too weak."

"I am a commissar in the Emperor's service. My flesh may be weak, but my faith is strong. Now help me get dressed."

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

Melina looked up from the displays crawling across her table as Batista helped Nofield into the room. "You look like shit. Why aren't you in bed?"

"I'm need."

"Your not in any condition to chainsword anybody to death. I bet you would have problems even holding a bolt pistol. Rest up."

"I can do more than pull a trigger," said Nofield. "I can do what Hethor can't do and you shouldn't do, but I am trained for."

"What are you talking about?"

"The small players," she said. "Hethor can plan and lead better than most officers in the Guard, but he still has a sergeant's sensibilities. He's not a man to negotiate with a proud aristocrat. The Guard's high officer class is full of men like the leaders of the minor houses. Arrogant, self assured men contemptuous of their lessers and caring only for success. The Commissariat trained me to deal with men like that. I don't need to pull a trigger to win allies.

"What makes you sure that you can do it? Do you think I haven't tried."

"What makes you think I can't succeed?"

Melina nodded. "Alright, you'll get your shot. Now go back to bed and I'll make sure you get a data slate with comm access sent to you so you can start laying the groundwork. Now get some rest."

"Yes, my lady."

[Imperial Overlord]

Light poured down from the glow globes held by golden cherubim floating near the ceiling. A hundred saints and heroes, from obscure local champions primarchs to the Emperor himself, were depicted on the gilded ceiling dome. Selanon Kay, dressed in dark blue velvets and heavy gold braid in a near imitation of a navy uniform, waved away a waiter with a tray of delicacies. Getting down what was already on his plate would be chore enough. The Navigator reached for the glass of white wine near his plate and took another sip.

The man he shared the table with had a high quality augmentic left eye and a carefully trimmed beard. He wore a plain back suit. He allowed the waiter to add two of tiny pastries to his plate. He sliced off a piece of candied grox tongue and swallowed, savoring the contrasts between the sweet meat and sour sauce. He looked up at Kay, trying to ignore the black silk headband around his forehead. "You know how to pick your restaurants captain."

"Thank you," Kay replied. He sliced open the stuffed fetal and took a fork full to his mouth. The plum sauce was an excellent touch, in his opinion. "You have seen my requirements. Can you fulfill them?"

"What you ask includes specialty tech work. That won't be quick or cheap."

Kay took a sip from his glass of red and then set it down next to the white. "Indeed. I don't expect it to be cheap, but it should be doable within the schedule."

"We can't guarantee transport," said the other man.

"I can. A suitable ship will be here on time and it won't cost you a thing."

The condottieri blinked for a second at the implication of that statement, the command of so much power and wealth. He was Navis Nobilae, he reminded himself. With them, such things are possible. "Then it can be done. And we can deliver as promised."

"Good. The intelligence I gave you is good, but it will also be dated. It is likely additional defences will have been established."

"We can deal with that."

Selanon took another bite of fetal pig and chewed it slowly. "Then we are agreed in principle on the operations and the payments?" He lifted the red and drained it slowly, watching the other man carefully.

"Yes. We'll have to hammer out the exact numbers."

Kay waved his hand. "Later. Crunch the numbers and send them to me. There is no more need to interrupt this fine meal with business."

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

Shala Nofield stepped into the salon allowed the servant to take her coat. The pale woman wriggled her left arm out of it. The augmentic arm was still clumsy, but she was beginning to get useful motion from it. She could open door knobs, for example. Or swing a fist.

Three men were waiting for her, reclining on leather couches or form contouring chairs. While she wore a dark paramilitary style tunic and pants, they wore brighter colours and tasteful and expensive jewelry. That was to be expected as she was a servant and they were masters. "On the behalf of my lady, I great you gentile sires."

"Hmm," rumbled Damian Iskories, a bear of a man wearing a tunic of raspberry coloured silk with gold buttons and epauletes. "Skip the niceties girl."

"Agreed," said Vakka Hanas. He was almost as pale as Shala and wore a fur lined over robe of deepest black, inset with silver.

Pyotor Shemazi shrugged. He was a small, dark man who wore a navy blue tunic and pants festooned with ribbons and gold braid. It was amazing that he could walk while carrying that much weight. "I will defer to my colleagues wishes in this matter."

"As you say, gentile sires," said Nofield as she walked forward. A hand gesture dismissed servants. With her right hand she activated the jammer attached to her belt. "I propose to secure your futures," she said.

Iskories almost choked on his brandy. "The only way I need a woman's help with that is bearing a good, strong son."

"Only if you are still alive," said Nofield. "The Danessari don't think the rules applies to us."

"You can't prove any Danessari involvement in that attack," said Vakka Hanas.

"That's true," she lied. Actually, they had lots of very good information about the internal affairs of the Danessari. Melina had commissioned the creation of a coteries of courtesan-spies using many of the same techniques that had augmented her beauty and persuasive powers. The worst procedures, the harvesting of organs from unwilling donors, had been avoided. On their own skillful surgery, drugs, exercise, and gland implants had been married to rigorous training and highly motivated minds. The results were impressive. Once the marks had compromised themselves to the courtesans, blackmail was then employed. While they couldn't prove the Danessari were behind the attack, the money trail was more than suspicious.

"Everyone knows they did it. Everyone knows the other high houses aren't going to punish them for this. If they win, it will be open season on everyone the high houses want to devour because the precedent will have been set." She paused to let that sink in.

"We don't intend to lose, but the Danessari have deep reserves of wealth and resources. We're bleeding them fierce, but their endurance is great. Victory will be costly and we don't have the scope of operations to absorb all what will become rightfully ours."

"You're saying if we help you, you'll cut us in on the loot even though you won't be in position to stop us," said Vakka Hanas. "That sounds like we should bleed for something we can have anyway."

"Will you have it?" Shala said rhetorically. "Consider the following: If you join us you send a message that any such covert attacks on your persons will not be tolerated, will in fact be recipes for disaster. You secure your claim on the parts of the Consortium that you want and you have your own allies to help secure it against third parties. Or you could just be prey for all the larger houses and see what you can scavenge from the Danessari's corpse after we have taken the best bits. That's supposing you survive the round of wars over the table scraps."

"Huh," said Iskories. "Not bad, but only worth while if you win. And your boys maybe good, but the Danessari has a lot of them."

"Our soldiers are very good," she said, leaving out the "and you locals completely suck" part. "Their poor performance in the raiding has lead them to relocate their leadership to Trimora."

"Everyone with eyes knows that," said Damian. "That 'villa' is a damn fortress and they own half the Throne cursed province. You don't have the man or the machine power to take them there. Air def, defence laser pits, secure underground bunkers, mechanized infantry, the works."

"That's our problem," she said. A problem there was already a solution to. "I should also remind you that there secure headquarters costs them considerable coin to protect and generates no income. They're consolidating operations and temporarily shutting down others, but that means that the remaining targets are big and that their forces are committed. They're begging to be hit and better now than when they've regained their footing, completed their defence upgrades, and have organized an effective reaction force."

"I'm in," said Shemazi suddenly. "I never liked the bastards anyway and might as well kick them in the balls while they are down."

"Hells," said Iskories. "I'll think about it."

"I'm in," said Hanas. "Being the only small fish to jump into the big pond has its hazards, but since I'm not alone. . . ."

"Fuck," said Iskories, looking at Vakka Hanas. "Never thought I would see the day when that jackal had a bigger set than mine. And today won't be the day. I'm in."

"Excellent," said Shala. She opened her tunic and pulled out three flimsies, handing a sheet to each one of them. "Our intelligence reports about the best targets. Use them in good health gentile sires."

[Imperial Overlord]

"Too bad we can't get any closer," Shala said, handing the field glasses back to Hethor. They were standing on the edge of a copse of trees wearing khaki coloured uniforms and carapace armour. Below them was checkpoint and an open field.

"The Danessari own the tax farm for this district," said Hethor. "They run everything. This is as close as we could get without being spotted."

"Just looks like another field to me," she said. "Except for the road block and patrols."

"The real stuff is over the ridge," said Hethor. He checked his chronometer.

"How long?" She asked.

"Just . . . . about . . . . now," he replied. Both of them looked up into the sky. It was too far away to see anything yet, but up there should be a flight of cargo barges crossing atmosphere on the way to land at the starport. They would be dropping their cargo a little earlier. "Too bad we can't use nukes. Fuckin' pussy local rules."

Hethor's vox beeped twice. "Time to drop the hammer," he said and touched his vox. He made a hand motion and the missile launcher crews came forward. "Hit those slack bastards," said Hethor. The crews knelt and readied their weapons.

The cluster of Danessari troopers by road block were standing around with weapons slung and smoking. There vehicles, a pair of long, lightly armoured transports with a double heavy stubber mount on top, were parked by the side of the road. Hethor felt that he could almost here them, talking about what bored soldiers always did.

Missle contrails streaked towards them. Both transport exploded, fuel and ammo cooking off as krak missiles tore through their armour like tissue paper. Men fell screaming, burning or torn by shrapnel. Threads of red light snapped through the air as long ranged Mars patterned lasguns opened up from the trees. The missile launchers reloaded and filled the air with shrapnel courtesy of frag warheads. Riflemen moved forward to secure a position that now seemed to be occupied only by the dead.

"Armour is rolling," said Nofield.

"Move out!" Hethor shouted. "I want guns on that ridge yesterday!"

Above them, the side doors on a dozen blocky cargo barges slid open to reveal fliers cradled in converted cargo bays. Suspensor fields held them immobile above the launch cradles as their engines revved to full power. Indicator lights flashed green and they shot into the open sky. The fliers turned and twisted in the air to form up into their attack formations. A brief transmission was sent to the surface, confirming successful launch and the beginning of the attack.

Flight Captain Jenna Zaan touched the controls of her flier. "All birds steady. Make data links active, weapons free. Anti-air is primary. You know the drill boys and girls. Rip them a new one and then worry about backing up the ground pounders."

Hethor and his men reached the top of the ridge in time to see their armour drive up the road going full tilt. In front of them were more rolling fields and in the distance a cluster of towers. "Can't have too many air batteries around the house," Hethor snickered. "Might spoil the view. Flatten them."

The Danessari were only beginning to realize that they were under attack. Information was still flowing up their chain of command, which was a convoluted knot composed of their security force, the security details of their most important members, the tax farm enforcers, and the estate's security detachment. The anomalous radar contacts were still being discussed when Hethor's troops shot krak missiles at the anti-air towers. Multiple hits reduced each emplacement to burning rubble by the time the Danessari were on alert.

Light attack craft screamed overhead. Their hulls were armoured against light weapon and rocket pods hung from their stubby wings. Closer to the hull gun pods opened to reveal clusters of heavy stubbers. Rockets drew contrails through the air as the flyers opened up on well mapped weapon emplacements and clusters of enemy troops and vehicles.

Behind them, further back, were the heavier flyers. Their longer wings held heavier missles armed with plasma warheads. Nose mounted lascannons sent searing beams at weapon batteries and heavy vehicles. Missiles flew from their wings to detonate in immense fiery explosions that sent mushroom clouds climbing into the sky.

Hethor's soldier advanced, killing as they came. Rockets and guns blazed as they strafed they enemy. The Danessari counter fire was weak and attracted overwhelming retaliation. The Danessari were dying, overwhelmed and deprived of leadership, coordination, and support. Some of their soldiers were already deserting.

But victory, while cheap, still had its own costs. One of the light flyers gushed smoke from an engine pod and crashed. Two of Hethor's fighting vehicles were wrecked, gushing smoke. Infantry lay dead, hidden by the long grass. Both sides were having to pay the butcher's bill.

A command car, indistinguishable from the other fighting vehicles, pulled up by Hethor. Nofield and D'eckor entered. Hethor checked the readouts, which confirmed his own observations. "Continue the advance," he signaled his under officers. "I want as many of their leadership alive as possible. We have to play nice with the assholes who started this mess or the Lord Imperial Commander and his grab-ass buddies will get their panties in bunch. The Emperor protects."

Shala nodded. "Simple, but direct and effective."

Hethor grunted in acknowledgement. "Nothin' left but mop up. We could both by the farm this minute and our boys and girls would get everything done just the same." He snorted. "What passes for soldiers on this world is a joke. Their leaders couldn't find their asses with both hands and a map and their troops are garbage unless the enemy follows their bloody script. I just want this fuckin' sideshow done with."

"This is a major trade war," Shala said. "The resources we'll secure and the alliances we have made will significantly increase our power, not to mention the political capital-"

"This is a sideshow," Hethor repeated. "We're just counting chronometer ticks 'til the boss needs us. Never forget that. Fuck it. Lets just kill these bastards and get it over with."

[Imperial Overlord]

There are many parts of the galaxy that resist the domination of the Imperium of Man. In every segmentum man struggles against a host of enemies, not all of them alien. Whole empires exist adjoining Imperial space, sometimes trading with and sometimes warring against the servants of the Emperor. Some of these places are well known or infamous.

The Atra Gulf is not widely known, except to its neighbors. To the surrounding sectors it is known as a cesspit of heresy, piracy, and xeno scum. The inhabitants of the Atra Gulf have somewhat different opinions on the matter.

Carridus is one of the many inhabited systems in the Atra Gulf. The ruling dynasty, the Sennarids, had added layer after layer of defenses with each generation. Battlestations and weapon platforms were layered densely in the space around the planet. Surveyor listening posts, active and passive, littered the system. Torpedo batteries were mounted on airless moons, asteroids, and around naval stations. Warp capable fleet vessels patrolled the system or waited at secure anchorages. System ships and defence monitors augmented the navy's numbers and power.

Trade and tribute flowed into Carridus. Pirates fenced their booty, weaker systems paid to be left alone, and trading ships made filled and empty their holds around Carridus. Even rogue traders stopped by, during lulls in the hostility between Carridus and the Imperium. In short, Carridus was busy and all sorts of scum could be found in the docks around her starports. As long as they didn't make too much trouble and likely to cause the Imperium a degree of distress, they were tolerated by the local authorities.

Maxen was the largest and the busiest of Carridus's starports. Establishments of the highest and lowest class abutted the landing fields and loading docks, offering lodging, sustenance, and pleasures to the greatest captains and lowest ratings alike. Along side them were the block-like, enviro controlled and air locked buildings that catered to various xeno species. Enforcers in blue and white maintained order in the volatile district which had known its share of fights and even running skirmishes between feuding crews.

The Drekeswalg was one of the more notorious of those institutions, catering to the moderately wealthy and the somewhat paranoid. The armoured door to one of the private lounges cycled open to allow the entrance of a woman wearing a transparent heated body shawl over an armoured black bodyglove. She was pale skinned, tall, and had shoulder length red hair. Her body was the product of vigorous exercise and black tech bio and cyber augments. She smiled like a shark and her green eyes were slitted like a cat.

There was a score of mostly men sprawled in the booths, enjoying copious quantities of moderately good alcohol and a little food. Joy girls and a few joy boys danced, flirted, or took clients into shadowed alcoves and serviced them. Music with a heavy, beating rhythm filled the room. They were a nasty looking crew for the most part, burly and marked with scars and tattoos. They wore piecemeal armour and carried very nice guns and blades. They were a cut above most of the cultic riff raff that tended to be recruited by men like Dask.

He was sitting a table with what were probably his senior lieutenants, men who were imbibing with more care and carried more exotic war gear. He was much like she had been told to expect; pale, blonde, well muscled, with aura of self confidence. He smiled at her and raised his hand, making a come hither gesture. She approached.

Dask was wearing vest of Vitrian glass mesh over loose pantaloons. A baldric containing a long sword was on the table in front of him. Vibrant sapphire and crimson tattoos marked Dask's shoulders and upper arms. "Sevran Dask, I presume."

"You do, but you are correct. I have been expecting you."

"Yes," said the cult agent. "The future is not entirely opaque to me."

"My masters have a task for you. They are willing to gift you with great rewards."

"And they are?"

"Their names are not for common ears."

Sevran made a gesture. His lieutenants rose. "Clear the room of everyone." They rose up from their seats and advanced on the other booths. The music died. The lieutenants did not raise their hands or their voices. There was no shouting or threats. It took less than a minute.

"Satisfied?" Dask said with a raised eyebrow.

"The room is secured against monitors?"

"My technical expert checked it out. It is."

"Very well then. I serve the Rising Phoenix." She rolled up the sleeve of her left arm to reveal pale flesh. Just below her wrist a pale gold electoo brightened into visibility displaying a cluster of three feathers. "You understand what we can offer you?"

"Yes," said Dask. "Near limitless wealth and secret knowledge. All powerful, secret network that plays Imperial officials like puppets on a stage. Yes, I know. You are here because you have some idea of how capable I am, but like many things the truth in this matter is hidden from your sight." He grabbed the hilt of the longsword, which was large enough that he could wield the blade with two hands. He pulled the blade free of the sheath.

At first glance the weapon was plain, if well made. Their was something odd about the blade, which is slightly more than a meter long. The grey steel glistened as if it was wet. Golden runes appeared on the steel, writhing and twisting. Azure light lined the edges of the blade. A soft keening, the sound of a anticipation so intense it was almost painful, came from the steel itself.

The woman took a step back. And then another. "You see," said Dask. "I know many forbidden secrets of my own and have many resources of my own. So the Illuminated Masters had best make me an offer commensurate with the value of my services."