Silas’s head was held under his hands as he sat alone at a dark steel desk in a dark steel room. A singular light source dimly illuminated patches of the room; it reminded Silas not of the space used for his own interrogation by the Arbites of Skardak Tertium, but that of Blackgar’s interrogation of a Canoness on Hestia Majoris. What simpler times those were, he thought, when strength and skill sufficed to slay his foes. Now battles seemed to transcend the physical realm of combat, and he was not sure how equipped he was to fight in such a theatre of war.
But he intended to, nevertheless, if given the opportunity.
When the door to the room slid open with a pneumatic gasp and a figure clad in black synskin entered, Silas wondered for a moment if he was going to be denied that opportunity. Had the Inquisition sent this operative to silence him? Perhaps he knew too much, now, or had done too little. However, such fears were quelled when the figure entered the thin veneer of light offered in the room, and the unmistakably provocative form of Bliss Carmichael revealed itself to Silas. She sat across from him, saying nothing at first, and inversely to Silas, put her face into her palms.
Silas lifted his head up and sat upright. “What’s with the suit?” Silas asked, skipping past any greetings, to ask why Bliss was in her combat synskin.
“Just…wearing it for a stupid reason, I guess,” Bliss shrugged, not lifting her head up and instead talking to the desk between them. “It makes me feel stronger. Safer.”
“That doesn’t sound stupid. You OK?”
“Thank you. And thanks for asking. No, I’m not OK,” Bliss sighed, shaking her head gently. “For reasons you probably expect as much as for those you cannot yet know of.”
“Care to explain? Or should we wait for Trantos?” Silas asked, looking to the door again, which had yet to open and reveal the savant-Inquisitor.
“She already knows. May as well fill you in. Cronos is active and leaking out of Callant. I…think I stopped a full-on daemonic incursion from exploding out of his body, but…but that seems to be an eventuality now. Having stopped its escape from Callant, Cronos tortured me to death—in a mindspace—121 times. Ever been tortured to death?” Bliss asked, then waved a hand dismissively, as if the rhetoric of the question was not obvious enough. Still, her head hung low. “So no, I’m not OK.”
“I’m sorry,” Silas said. The apology vanished into the space between them just as soon as it arrived, and a measured silence took its place instead. One could have replied to Silas and told him it was not his fault. But such a response never came. Did she blame him for this situation? Did I? For the discharge of his rifle that resulted in the explosion that had sent my final operatives packing? All Silas knew was that he blamed himself for it all, and that the universe had not given him any reason to doubt that evaluation.
“How’s the augmetic?” Bliss broke the silence eventually, and even managed to lift her head up from her hands at last.
“It itches,” Silas answered, putting a hand to the metal plating along his neck which had replaced las-fried flesh.
“It doesn’t seem to have altered your voice, though, so at least there’s that,” Bliss acknowledged. Silas nodded. Then Bliss echoed a sentiment Silas had thought to himself moments ago, and said, “Things were simpler—easier—before Mortoc. There was room for…well, bliss. Now the future looks so dark and dreary. Perhaps things always were so, and the glimmer of hope we shared was an illusion created by our own mutual arrogance. Whatever the case, the fire is gone. Night falls. What can one hope for in such times, and how?”
“Anything, and with faith,” Zha answered, entering into the room at last. “Faith is an ontological force, and like any other universal force, it can be utilized if wielded wisely,” she explained, stepping up to the desk and sitting at the table’s head, between Silas and Bliss. “Mr. Blackgar, were he here and able, would acknowledge that faith matters most when it is tested and that this is most certainly the greatest test of our lives. If there is to be any goodness in the future, we must maintain faith in it, now more than ever—and it shall not be easy, no, but things of import rarely are.”
“Your skill with giving speeches improves significantly when you consider what Callant would say,” Bliss noted. Silas sensed a grin had formed behind Bliss’s mask, though none could see it.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Zha agreed, and then looked back and forth between her two allies. “Where are we?”
“I caught Silas up on what the daemon has done to me, gory and violative details aside,” Bliss answered. “The rest is on you.”
“Alright. Well…where does one begin?” Zha wondered, rubbing her brow.
“Cal?” Silas suggested.
“That is no simple subject, Mr. Hager,” Zha grunted in response. “But yes, obviously, makes the most sense. Mr. Blackgar is…he considers himself a lost cause. Cronos is on the precipice of emerging, and from what I can tell—having read Ordo Malleus doctrines of daemonic possession, incursion, and terminology—a successful emergence of the daemon would…,” she began, but her voice trailed off.
“Inquisitor?” Silas prodded. Zha stared harrowingly ahead, and it dawned on Silas that for as much as he knew, Zha knew far, far more. And it horrified her to her core.
Zha’s gaze began to trail upward as she processed the extent of the damage Cronos could cause, and as planetary casualties mounted, she could not help but close her eyes in a wince. Then, after a few moments of strained, savant-driven calculation, Zha finally concluded, “The Sector would not survive. The whole of the Segmentum might be at risk, and the daemon would even threaten Holy Terra itself if left unchecked. The Imperium has banished greater daemons before, often through the might and valor of the Grey Knights, but this one…what it has done, and is doing, without even having achieved a full possession of Callant Blackgar, is evidence of an abnormal power. One that is horrifically rare, even among a rare breed of horrors. That Cronos is able to exert its will on others and on the material space around its host without denying that host its sentience is…unprecedented. And it is likely using Callant as a pool of psychic energy to leech from, growing stronger day by day out of Mr. Blackgar’s emotional anguish. The prognosis is…well, dire would be an understatement.”
The response was obvious to both Silas and Bliss, and yet neither of them wanted to say it. They even looked at each other, and seemed to silently beg the other to ask the question. Should it come from the estranged lover, or the makeshift brother, then? Silas buckled, nodded, and gave in, turning to Zha before asking, “We’re going to need to kill him, as he asked of us, aren’t we?”
Zha’s response was not immediate. In fact, as with calculating the extent of the damage Cronos could cause, the process she ran through her head then seemed to pain her again. When she did reply, she spoke words that Silas could not remember as having been uttered in her voice ever before. “I do not know.” The weight of the sentence being said by a savant stifled further reply in the room. Zha, then, elaborated, “It would…likely be a great mercy for Mr. Blackgar, and a greater mercy for unknowable billions. And yet the problem remains: why does the ordo Chronos want Mr. Blackgar alive? Has he served his purpose in successfully terminating Ouranos? Or is his calling yet to come? Such is the problem with prophets—their portents are damnably ambiguous. Are we to sit on our hands in inaction and let my fa—our Inquisitorial ally suffer forever?” Zha suggested rhetorically. That she had almost referred to me as her ‘father’ did not go unnoticed by either of her compatriots. “Or if we are to pull the trigger earlier than intended, what damage would our eagerness cause? I do not have answers to these questions. These unanswered foes of mine nag at me day in and day out. The Ordos are silent despite my summons; I have not been able to reach a representative of the ordo Chronos despite my efforts and the return of astropathic communication,” Zha suggested, and while she did not say it, begrudgingly admitted to herself, Which returned exactly when Ouranos said it would.
“Castecael Rock—who has recently left our retinue, I should add—once told me, quote, ‘To all questions, there is an answer. To all maladies, a salve.’ I have faith that she was right. I have faith that somewhere among the stars, a being or weapon or strategy capable of binding and banishing Cronos must exist. I have faith that Mr. Blackgar is strong enough to keep the beast at bay until we can find such a thing and drive Cronos from the materium with it. In that, I do not subscribe to inaction or overeager reaction, but in our ability to act calmly elsewhere. We do not see a solution to our problems before us, but that does not prove a nonexistence, only that the scope of our vision is narrow. If we are to defeat Cronos, we are not going to do so here, with our present knowledge and resources. We must have faith that we can find a place, a time, and the means with which to banish this great horror from our lives once and for all, and at last end this terrible tale it has told,” Zha explained, and then glanced to Bliss. “How was that one?”
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“A bit preachy,” Bliss shrugged.
“I don’t…disagree, Zha,” Silas admitted, rubbing his forehead between his thumb and the rest of his right hand. “And it sounds almost like a plan. But it isn’t one yet. So what’s our next move?”
“Containment,” Zha answered at once. This, she had prepared for and achieved solutions to. “Inquisitor Blackgar has fallen catatonic, with limited to no motor function. Ms. Rock, prior to retiring from our retinue, expressed to me that she believes this to be a result of shock, and should only be temporary. Of course, she had no inkling of the possibility of daemonic involvement, but it is the most medically-informed information we have to go on. However, catatonic or not, Blackgar is still an Inquisitor, and Inquisitors have enemies and duties. I believe he negotiated an out for himself from his duties with Lord Lycia, but that does not mean the prying eye of the Inquisition will not try to ascertain his status. If we are to keep him alive, we must hide him from them.”
“Is that not traitorous?” Silas wondered.
“Depends on who you ask,” Bliss answered, and Zha nodded. “The problem with the Inquisition is that every Inquisitor can have a say on things if they want. To us, or to the ordo Chronos? No, not very traitorous. But to some random asshole from Malleus? Possibly.”
“We are advantaged in that we have two Inquisitors to our tally, and can defer greater opposition to the ordo Chronos if asked—and that is likely to be a bottomless rabbit hole, if my efforts have revealed anything,” Zha said, expanding on Bliss’s answer further. “But any such advantage is squandered if taken for granted. No, we must remain vigilant in how and where we choose to hide Mr. Blackgar. To that end, I have procured a place of residence in an unassuming locale on a planet elsewhere within Ixaniad. I think it’s best if I do not verbally go into further detail, for the sake of plausible deniability on your parts. Were anyone to pry into your minds to find Mr. Blackgar, I am content to let them need to come to me.
“Now of course we cannot leave Mr. Blackgar on his own, so the question becomes: Who is to stay with him?” Zha suggested. Bliss and Silas again looked to each other. “Mirena Law is all but joined at the hip with him as it is, the two of them grieving with and for each other, in their own ways. But Mirena does not know about Cronos, and it should stay that way, yet we cannot leave the daemon unattended. One of us, and it could be me, needs to stay behind and watch over Mr. Blackgar. To put him down, if all else fails. But be warned: Cronos is active. It sees through Mr. Blackgar’s eyes, and works beyond Mr. Blackgar’s abilities.”
Silas and Zha both expected an immediate contemplative silence, but Bliss instead replied immediately, if with stuttering uncertainty. “I…I want to. I do. But I can’t. I don’t think Cronos would let me live.”
“Would it let any of us?” Silas asked.
“It hasn’t hurt Mirena,” Bliss offered.
“Mirena doesn’t know about it, though,” Zha reminded them. “It’s very possible Cronos doesn’t care to waste its efforts on those that are not a threat to its existence, even if such efforts would impart further agony upon Mr. Blackgar.”
“We’re just making that assumption, then, in leaving Mirena with him?” Silas clarified. Zha nodded somberly, aware of the moral quandary of throwing Mirena to the metaphorical wolves. “If that assumption is true, it still doesn’t apply to any of us. Why would it let anyone here near to Cal?”
“It wouldn’t torture you as it did to me, not in the same way,” Bliss said. Silas and Zha both looked at her with confusion stemming from the certainty with which Bliss made her assertion. “Look, putting myself in the mind of the daemon, which—do daemons even have minds? And isn’t it a bit heretical to think like that? But if I’m the daemon, and I want to destroy each of us as well as Callant, how am I going to do that? Well, Callant is easy: take what he holds dear away from him as brutally as possible, like what happened with Lucene, and could happen to us. I’m certain, in this regard, that the daemon is saving Mirena for last—she was, after all, the first to enter his retinue. As for me, look at me!” Bliss shouted, and sat back, gesturing over herself. “Everything about me is physical. Physically attractive, physically skillful, physically strong. The daemon needed to dominate me in the physical sense, and played into my senses of physical pain and trauma as a result, while letting Callant see me be torn apart. And I mean, it almost worked on me. I still love Callant, emotionally, but I’m…I’m terrified of him. I once thought that if it came to blows I could kill Cronos outright; no, I know now, no I can’t,” she explained, shaking her head.
“And as for us? How would you destroy me, then, or Zha?” Silas asked her, pointing a finger to himself and to the savant.
Bliss sighed and stared at him for a moment, and then shook her head again and shrugged. “Guilt, Silas, is how it will torture you. You’re loyal to Callant in the extreme, and we all admire that. The daemon will make you feel like you’ve betrayed him, because that is what would wound you most. I already see it in you. I saw it in that medicae when Mirena punched Zha. You feel guilty about what happened aboard The Finality, and you fear everything after is your fault. It isn’t. You need to know that it isn’t, because the daemon will try to convince you that it is. And it will try hard. As for Zha,” she started, and looked to her fellow Inquisitor. “You’ve already described how. Mayhap it’s already begun to torture you. You’re brilliant, Zha, far above anyone I’ve ever known. And yet Cronos will torture you with that which you do not know, and make you feel inept on account of the unknown. It will tempt you with answers and ill-gotten knowledge. It would corrupt you, as Callant once feared might happen to you in Absalom’s Arctoros facility.”
“We can’t let that happen,” Silas shook his head, having made up his mind. “You two are the Inquisitors. You two go…inquire. Whatever it is you do. I will stay with my brother, and see him made well. You’re more valuable and potent than I am, and have a better shot at finding a way to kill—or banish—this frigging monster. And besides, as Mirena was Cal’s first, I was his second. We should both be there for him anyway.”
“You’re sure?” Zha asked of him. He nodded. “The daemon won’t make it pleasant for you.”
“It doesn’t have to be pleasant. I owe it to Cal and to the Imperium. And not out of guilt,” Silas said, looking back to Bliss. “This is my duty, and I will see it done.”
“You really are the perfect soldier, aren’t you?” Bliss replied, and once more, Silas was confident she had regained a smile under that mask of hers.
***
Any movement in the rocking chair was Mirena’s doing, as I still lacked enough motor function to so much as pivot myself back or forth. But Mirena, even at her most patient, was a little ball of energy, uncompromising and uncontrollable. While she sat on my lap, arms tossed over and around me and head resting on my shoulders, Zha gave me a highlevel overview of their plan. She told me that Silas was staying on-site with me to, and I quote, ‘Keep an eye on things.’ I knew what that meant, even if the phrase was innocuous to Mirena. Zha also told me that Bliss was looking forward to seeing and drinking with me again, and that on that note, a recovery from my catatonia was anticipated, pending psychic interference. Again, I knew what that had meant.
I never once replied to Zha, even psychically. I could not. Instead, I stuck to staring out at the fields of maize ahead of me, ahead of the cabin that had haunted countless nightmares of mine over the centuries.
When Zha had left, Mirena leaned even closer to me, and whispered into my ear, “I know you can hear me. Everything will be alright, Cal. I’m here for you, always, and will take care of you, always.” She then pulled her face in front of mine, and I could see the scars in her eyes, wounds inflicted from the loss of Castecael in her life. If my eyes could move, she would have seen similar scars in mine. “I love you,” she assured me after hanging her face before mine for a moment, a phrase she had said to me on dozens of occasions and yet was uttered then with as much genuine passion as the first time the words had left her lips to me. Those lips then pecked my cheek, after which she smiled, brushed the side of my head with the back of one of her hands, and then pulled her lips next to one of my ears again. “Hardly the first time I’ll be sleeping on your nonresponsive self, Cal. And like the last, I’ll be here until we can share a hug. We’ll get through this night together,” she whispered to me, kissed the side of my head, and then snuggled up against me ever more tightly.
How I wished I could have focused entirely on Mirena’s kindness, or the beauty of her form, or the warmth of her body. Anything to do with her. But I could not. Instead, directly ahead of my gaze, I could only focus on the figure that emerged from the maize, eyes black as night, but otherwise like a mirror of myself. We had held these positions before, but in my nightmares, I had been in its position looking up at myself and Mirena as we sat now. Those nightmares were now made real, yet the remnant of them stood before me still, ever smiling, hands pressed together at the tips of their fingers in a patient shape of a temple.
It strode forth toward us, and I could do nothing to stop it. Worry not, Blackgar, I will not hurt her, it said as it ascended the cabin’s front steps, and encircled myself and Mirena. Yet, it added, passing a hand through her cleanshaven hair. Your time in my story is nearing its end. You see, this tale was never about you, Blackgar. It’s about me. And I’m not going anywhere. The darkened version of myself then walked across the cabin’s porch to stand next to Silas, who was looking out over fields to the west of us. I don’t think I even need to do anything to this one, either. I think he’s liable to end himself for you. And isn’t that really the whole point?