I am considered a Gamma-grade psyker by the Imperium. This is not a blessing, and comes with as many pitfalls as it provides advantages. Of the various Disciplines the Black Ships train their psykers in, I have notably practiced Telekinesis, Telepathy, and Biomancy. I believed my own martial prowess did not much require me to invest my time and efforts into the practicing of Pyromancy or other more directly-aggressive Disciplines. And for the most part, I was unconcerned with Divination, as a psyker skirted the edges of heresy with their passive visions enough as it was—I did not see a need to invite more of that into my life. But having said that, I have practiced a very light degree of Divination. Less about visions, per se, but more about hints. Nudges. Feelings and hunches.
It is hard to discern the difference between an ordinary paranoia of dread versus dread divined from the Warp—such is another pitfall. But the advantages are that I can, at times, be compelled to certain areas or locations, compelled to make certain choices. Relying on this has rarely steered me wrong, and in many cases, has sent me exactly where I needed to be. Really, I have only found issue with these ‘nudges’ when in the presence of another Psyker, and at that, one who harbors malicious emotions and intents. I do not doubt it is this amateur Divinatory practice, combined with the blessing of the Throne, that is responsible for guiding my unconscious self through Vostroya’s factory of horrors and into Penitent’s arms. I also do not doubt that my Divinations got me there in the first place—I felt like I should meet with Governor Merek, and look where that got me. Yes, terribly brutalized and on the verge of death. But look at what I learned, the scale of the horror I had uncovered. In trusting these little hints here and there, I had found the heretic, seen the enemy’s moves, and in the end, I had survived them.
But by far the best evidence as to the validity of my following of my ‘instinct’ occurred at the start of my Inquisitorial career, freshly promoted from having been an Interrogator under Scayn for so long. Before Thantalus, before I had anyone on my team at all, I felt the need to go to Abraxis-7. More specifically, to the Naval ships posted there.
He has suffered catastrophic trauma. He shouldn’t even be alive.
Just voices, probably a medicae attending to a patient. Occasionally I pick up the thoughts behind stronger emotions, and must have done so then as I docked. A Lieutenant, flanked by a pair of Midshipmen, who were themselves flanked by noncoms, greeted me with a salute. “Welcome aboard, Inquisitor Blackgar. I am Lieutenant Vadiza. Shall I notify Captain Virgil of your arrival, and arrange a meeting for you?” the Lieutenant asked.
“Notify your Captain I am here, yes, but a meeting will not be necessary unless he sees a need. Mine here do not concern him,” I replied. “I am only here to requisition the services of a fighter pilot, if you happen to know a good one.” My welcoming party gave brief, snorting laughs to themselves for a moment before the Lieutenant hissed them to quietude. “Something funny about that request, Lieutenant?”
“I believe the crew see the poor timing of the situation, sir,” Vadiza replied whilst giving his subordinates the stink-eye.
“Poor timing?”
“Well our best pilot is now in the brig, you see, sir,” Vadiza reported.
“On what grounds?”
“Attempted murder of a superior officer, sir. We would not risk giving them unto you, Inquisitor.”
“I decide what you will risk doing, Lieutenant,” I rebuked him. Plus, I felt compelled to pursue this lead. “Take me to him.”
“Her, sir,” Vadiza corrected, but nodded toward me. “As you command. Right this way, sir,” he offered, standing aside, and gestured further onto his ship. “May I assume you will wish to speak privately with her, sir?”
“You may,” I nodded.
“That will be arranged. But her charges require that she remain in her cell. Please notify any personnel if you believe you witness attempts at escape,” Vadiza explained.
“I don’t get the sense that escape is the outcome for today,” I replied.
He’s not allowed to die, Castecael. You are not permitted to let him die.
More voices as I carried on through the ship. I assumed the discourse was connected to the attempted murder I was just told about. As we neared the brig, Vadiza looked back at me with a curious, wanting look. “We have other pilots,” he offered. “This one’s never been great with authority. I don’t imagine she’ll last long with you.”
“I suggest you cease trying to judge my predilections or desires, Lieutenant,” I replied dryly. “How good is she?”
“According to her? She thinks she’s the hottest shit this side of Cadia. She’ll tell you that if you ask, watch,” Vadiza chuckled. “She’s good, I’ll give her that. Great, even. But she’s not worth the effort.”
“Again with the judgment. I suggest you limit the opinionated commentary, Lieutenant, or she won’t be the only one in a brig,” I warned him. Though his back was to me as he led me through the ship, I still saw the pink of his skin whiten with the threat. I smirked. It was (mostly) an empty threat; I had little interest in interfering with the command organization of a Naval vessel over wordplay. But, as a former Guardsmen, I had every interest in messing with the Navy’s heads a bit. “She have a name? And when you answer, just answer.”
“Mirena Law, sir,” he answered. I waited for further comment. There was none. After a few minutes of more walking, we finally arrived at the brig, and Vadiza lead me past a few dozen cells before stopping at one. He tapped some commands into the keypad to release the cell’s visual and auditory dampening fields, that its prisoner could see and hear beyond the confines of her room. “All yours, sir,” Vadiza nodded to me before saluting and walking off.
Frig off, Hans, she knows. No one wants him to live more than I do.
“Hope you don’t expect me to stop just because you turned the lights on,” the prisoner told me. Her back was to me as she was doing some pull-ups within her cell. “Not like I give a frig about insubordination at this point,” she grunted, pulling herself higher. She had bronze skin—as a color, not to say she was a servitor or Skitarii—and dark brown hair that had begun to grow in a bit from her last buzzcut. She was well-muscled, clearly having been spending a lot of her sentence exercising; a theory which was furthered from the extent of her sweat, of which she was drenched head to toe in it. One could be forgiven for thinking her flesh was actually oiled bronze from my view of her. As a prisoner, she was barely afforded any clothing—just a sleeveless black top that did not extend past her sternum, and a legless black bottom.
“Mirena Law?” I called to her.
She cocked her head to the side, surprised about not recognizing my voice, but still did not face me. “Unfortunately.”
“They say you’re a good pilot,” I started.
“Not anymore,” she replied, grunting again as she pulled herself up once more.
“How many of those are you doing?”
“I don’t count the number, just the hours. On hour five today,” she replied.
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“That’s a lot of exercise.”
“Gotta keep busy somehow. Like what you see?”
“I’m sorry?” I frowned.
“I’m no idiot. I’m not exactly wearing a lot in here, and I think I’ve worked up a little bit of a sweat,” she explained.
“Ms. Law, the shape of your body is of little concern to me, so long as it is in fighting condition,” I replied.
Hey. Hey! Cool it you two, cut it out! Get the frig out of here and let the doctor do her work. Don’t make me order Czevia and Xavier to restrain you. Go get some friggin’ air. Sorry, Castecael. You want me in here?
“Huh,” Law mused, and for a moment I thought she was hearing the same voices I was. It did not appear so, though. Usually people freak out the first time they start hearing things. I would know. She did one more pull-up, then let herself hang for a moment before dropping to the ground. She then stretched out a bit before turning to face me, where she then sized me up and down. “You a stiff?”
“A stiff?” I asked, unfamiliar with the slang.
“Some formal type in the Imperium under the illusion that they’re somehow better than everyone else?” she clarified.
“I am an Inquisitor—” I began.
“So yes,” she interrupted, smirking. I grinned as well. “Didn’t expect that response.”
“Which one?”
“The one where you show any emotion or semblance of humanity,” she replied, widening her smile. “So what does the big, bad, Inquisitor want with me?” she asked, taking mockingly provocative steps toward me with each sarcastic adjective.
“They say you tried killing your superior,” I began.
“The Inquisition has enough time on their hands to worry about that little thing?” she laughed, now right in front of me, leaning on the bars between us. I could smell her body odor, then, and she clearly was not being provided anything to alleviate that scent in prison.
“So it’s true?”
Her silvery eyes read my face up and down. To this day, I do not know what she was looking for. I do not get the sense that she cared about being interrogated by an Inquisitor. “I las’d his balls off.”
Thank you, Silas, but no. The room should be as clear as possible.
“Doesn’t sound like attempted murder to me, but what for?”
“Well after las’ing his balls off I then las’d his face off. That’s probably the murder part. And what for?” she shrugged. “Assault. Of the kind that is the natural conclusion of men staring at me when I exercise. Buncha you men in the Navy. You all suck, top to bottom.”
“Actually I served in the Guard,” I offered.
“Oh, even worse,” she chuckled.
“Were you a good pilot, Ms. Law?” I asked her.
“Best one this side of Cadia,” she nodded, flashing her teeth in a confident grin. “But this bird has had its wings clipped. Worth it, though.”
“I’m in need of a pilot, Ms. Law,” I told her, but she immediately backed away.
“Nope,” she shook her head, turning around and jumping back up to the bar she was using for pull-ups. “The guy I las’d wasn’t the first. But he was the last. I’m done flying in tin cans with men. I’m done with men. If they wanna put me down for that, fine.”
“I won’t ever harm you, Ms. Law,” I tried to assure her.
“And I’m just supposed to take your word on that? The word of someone—a man—with absolute authority to do whatever he wants in the galaxy? Pass,” she replied.
I paused and sighed, unsure how to carry the conversation. My gut, no, my mind was telling me that I was where I needed to be. If not her, then who? I looked around a bit to make sure no one could have been listening in, and then addressed her again. “Ms. Law, I was a Commissar of the 8th Honeblade Warhawks,” I began.
“I’m very proud of you,” she replied dryly.
“I am also a psyker. And in what should have likely been my last battle, in extreme duress, my abilities revealed themselves. I killed…the 8th Honeblade Warhawks,” I explained, and took a deep breath. Law dropped to the floor, but did not turn to face me. “I do not mean to intimidate you with this, but…I killed my men. My friends. And I will spend the rest of my life living in penance for that. If you join me, Ms. Law, I will not touch you. I could not bring myself to. I am a man, yes, but I am the last one in the galaxy that you need to fear.”
“I’m sorry about the 8th,” she replied.
“Thank you,” I smiled weakly. “Throne, I do hope I never need to share that story with anyone else. Don’t think I have that in me, either,” I sighed, and looked up at the ceiling to catch my breath. When I looked forward again, Law was again leaning on the bars between us, again staring me up and down.
“Even if I trusted you not to touch me, I have to assume it wouldn’t just be me and you, buddying around the galaxy together. There’d be others, wouldn’t there? And I’d have to trust them,” she explained. “It wouldn’t work.”
“Ms. Law, I am a psyker. One of unfortunately great power. If you willed it, I could keep an eye on you—or on everyone but you—and if anyone tried to lay a hand on you—or merely had the thought to—I could shove their skulls through their waists and out the other end,” I explained. “I can promise your safety with me, Ms. Law.”
“Mirena.”
“OK, Mirena,” I nodded.
“And there would need to be…conditions,” she warned me.
“Name them,” I shrugged.
“Well, firstly, you would need to not reprimand me for disrespect of authority. I’ll follow orders, sure, but I’m way past respect in life,” she smiled.
“That’s not a tough one,” I chuckled. “You may receive an order to show some respect as a situation demands it. No problems there, I assume?” she shook her head. “Anything else?”
She nodded. “I don’t trust you. Not yet. But you need to trust me. Never question my piloting skills, especially not in action. Don’t even think to offer distracting advice. You need to trust that I can out-think and out-maneuver anyone or anything you’d ever find, human or not.”
“Well I’d never question the best pilot this side of Cadia,” I shook my head. That confident smile of hers returned.
“You learn quick. Third, and this is a requirement, you and I need to share a drink after any successful op. It’s a matter of Naval Security,” she insisted.
“I don’t drink,” I told her, tapping my head. She shrugged.
“That can change. Ever hear of Gleece?” I shook my head. “Well, that can change too.”
“I’ll give it a try. Anything more you want? Maybe a private planet?”
“Oh sure, please,” she laughed. “Maybe I’ll think of something.”
“So we have a deal, for now?” I asked.
“I think so,” she nodded, then leaned back a bit to spit into her hand before holding it out to me through the bars of her cell. I looked at her, unamused, and she smiled and winked at me. I began to raise a hand to shake hers, but she chided me. “Ah ah, take that glove off.” I gave her another disdainful look, and was rewarded with a second wink. Reluctantly, I obliged, and instead of shaking, she pulled me in closer to her cell. Or tried to. “Huh, you’re stronger than you look. Come here, I don’t bite. Often.” Figuring I had nothing to lose, I obliged her again, leaning on my shoulder against her cell. She did the same, still gripping my hand tight as she could. “You have to be totally mad in that head of yours to think you’re making a good choice right now.”
+Mirena, I think I’m making the best choice. And how insane are you for willingly getting involved with the Inquisition?+ I messaged her.
“That’s less terrifying than I thought it’d be. You got a name, Inquisitor?”
“Callant Blackgar,” I replied.
“Get me out of this shithole, Cal, and I’ll fly you anywhere you want,” she told me.
“Don’t call me Cal,” I shook my head, and though she continued to rob me of one of my hands, I used the other to start inputting commands of my own onto the cogitator for her cell, bypassing and undermining the Navy’s framework.
“I think I will. Just `cause it seems to irk you,” she smiled. “I’m your first, aren’t I?”
“First what?”
“First…person you’ve had. Since the 8th. I am sorry about them, again,” she explained.
“Yes, you are,” I nodded, then finally got her cell open. I had expected her to leap out of her cell and break into a sprint. Not to escape from me, necessarily—I was confident in our pact. Just to run for the sake of running, to stretch her legs. But, instead, all she did was finally release my hand from her grasp and calmly step out of her cell, to my side. “Mirena, let’s get out of here. I hate the Navy.”
“Me too,” she agreed. “So, what, we just walk out?”
“Yes. Anyone gets in an Inquisitor’s way, they’ll lose more than their balls and face,” I replied. “I have a ship in the hangar, with a navigator. It’s yours now.”
“Better be fast,” she grinned, and began walking with me. “You know, there’s a sad irony, here.”
“Oh?”
Mirena loosed a sigh. “I used to be quite a hugger. Squad always gave me shit for it, not that they ever turned me down. But now? I don’t even want to hug the guy who freed me from prison, from a death sentence. Doesn’t seem like I’m…me.”
“I know what that’s like,” I agreed with a frown. “Believe me. Probably for the best—you’re covered in sweat right now. You give me a hug when you’re good and ready…and not sweaty. Or don’t. I think I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Oh well now you’re just dooming yourself to one at some point.”
“That guy you shot. Your…superior,” I started, and felt disgusted calling him that in front of her. “Did you let him live?”
“Well, he’s still alive, no?” she asked, confused with the question.
“He is, but did you want him to be?”
Her reply was not immediate. “No.”
“Then I have a requirement for operating in my service, Mirena. You let me teach you how to kill someone. To a measure of certainty. In the Inquisition, you may only get one chance. And when you take it, it must succeed. I cannot let you provide our foes with an opportunity of survival,” I explained to her.
“Deal,” she agreed. “Thank you, Cal.”
“Don’t call me Cal.”
Please live, Cal. I need you to live. I owe you a drink. Please live. I love you.