I knew, in an instant, that I would need to give the order to fire on and kill one of our own. I knew that. The Schola Progenium does what it can to burn hesitation out of its Progena, and to eliminate the emotions that may birth that hesitation. But it is not an exact science, and even knowing what I had to do, knowing that the lives of my cadre were a currency to be spent in the elimination of heresy, giving the order was nothing short of difficult. The heretics banked on that, of course—that was the whole point.
“What is that?” Silas asked, staring bewildered at the corpse-thing with Okustin’s face. I rose behind Silas, the combat stim he had given me providing me with a modicum of strength. I was going to need it.
“Exactly what you fear it is,” I replied, and raised my Bolt Pistol to Okustin, who was standing in place, awaiting orders from Espirov. Espirov, in turn, was surveying the scene and seemed to be waiting for us to make the first move. I did not blame him—the Astartes would have demanded the full extent of our attention, and when we had pledged ourselves to that engagement, Espirov would then have free reign to do as he pleased from the sidelines.
“Fear is not failure, for fear can be conquered,” Silas recited, evidently also recalling his time in the Progenium, and raised his rifle to Okustin as well. “Is it him? Or a mockery?”
“I think it was him. Not anymore,” I answered. Okustin may not have possessed the full power armor of the real Astartes, and his body may have appeared less complete, even, than the puppet I had killed bare-handed, but he was no less an incomprehensible threat. Okustin was given rudimentary Carapace armor, not unlike that which the rest of us wore—albeit his was far larger in dimensions—as well as a power sword. Technically we had a great advantage in terms of armaments, but that did not fill me with much confidence, and there were plenty of weapons on the ground for him to choose from as well. “Espirov,” I called out, needing to shout, as there remained a great distance between us.
“Blackgar. What do you think?” the Heretek called back.
“I think I’ve never loathed a fiend quite as much as you. Is he alive?”
“No, sadly—it would have been remarkable if he were though, hm? We have had a few successes with living specimens, but alas, your lowly ally could not survive our procedures,” Espirov answered.
“Well that makes it easier,” I muttered in a sigh. Then, louder, that Espirov could hear me, “He died, then, in righteous service to the Immortal Emperor. For what loathsome ambition will you die today, heretic?” Espirov replied with what must have been laughter, though the voice modification on his body hid any hint of jovial response. I also believe Espirov, the true heretic that he was, laughed more at the mention of our Lord rather than the—from his perspective—absurdity of his demise. “I’ve killed one of these before,” I whispered to Silas. “I do not have the strength for it now, but it will prioritize me. Keep it off me. The heretic is all that matters,” I explained. “Nod when you’re ready.”
Silas nodded. I shot twice at Okustin, and the puppet dodged my shots with ease, diving aside, and in the process picked up a piece of scrap metal that had been blown off the Skorpius. Before its dive had finished, before my pistol’s recoil had been fully accounted for, the puppet whipped the scrap metal for my neck. I barely had a moment to recognize the nature of the attack, and barely another moment to react—conjuring a telekinetic upward push on the metal as it flew, making it barely sail over my barely-ducked head before embedding in the side of the Bird behind me. Praise the Emperor that Silas had had the wherewithal to give me the combat stim; what minor recoveries to my psychic abilities it provided were going to be essential.
From there, everyone opened fire on Okustin. Unlike when Penitent and I had fought the Eversor, however, Okustin, now a puppet-Astartes, was able to weave between our attacks and dish out some of his own. Bits and pieces of metal once resting upon the ground were used to shred the cover my allies were using to defend themselves, the grotesquely enlarged cadaver of my disciple immediately evidencing our numbers advantage mattered not. I, meanwhile, turned my attention to Espirov as I had told Silas, though my journey to the Heretek was as perilous as anything else, Okustin obviously still being directed to focus on me. Regardless, my crew did exactly as I needed them to, and kept Okustin occupied to a manageable degree for me.
Espirov possessed all manner of weaponized attachments and augmentations upon his body. Again, were it not for the stim, he likely would have gunned me down with ease long before I made it to him. But as it was, I was hyped up on adrenaline and fueled with fury induced by Okustin’s end, the defilement of his corpse, and the many unforgiveable heresies I had witnessed on Hestia Majoris thus far. While ducking in and out of cover from rocky outcrop to jagged metal debris, I returned fire upon Espirov, whittling away at his own defenses, all while gradually closing in on his position. When denied an opportunity to advance upon the Heretek, I would instead take shots on Okustin or otherwise gather myself, reloading if needed.
Eventually, finally, I reached him, Eviscerator in tow. I started a melee with him by first shoving him a bit away with a blast of psychic power, merely trying to knock him off balance—perhaps I could knock him on his ass and kill him outright, or at the very least knock some of his Mechadendrites away. I achieved the latter, and put Espirov on the defensive. I did not imagine he could withstand me in a prolonged engagement—he neither had the experience nor the knowledge required to match a Honeblade in a duel. But that did not make him any less dangerous. Firearms, blades, and the stuff of heresy were all wielded by his Mechadendrites and thus able to be trained against me at odd angles. He himself was able to skirt around me unnaturally, elevating himself or dancing about me aided by his foul machinery. I blew my Eviscerator through any and every contraption I could, when given the chance, though I was ever eyeing his neck.
Across the way, meanwhile, things were getting desperate. Mirena had taken off into flight again, if only to get the Bird—and its non-combative crew—out of harm’s way. She was an excellent pilot, but hitting an agile Astartes—even a puppet of one—on a strafing run was far too great a task to be expected or relied upon. Silas’s fireteam and Penitent were being ruthlessly pressured, and Okustin seemed to retain some semblance of strategy within his cadaverous mind, gradually seeking to isolate someone for a quick kill. Thankfully, none had succumbed to such attempts, though that was likely due to the Emperor’s divine protection more than anything. Eventually, Silas saw fit to force his way into the Onager, crawling into the hole Penitent had carved earlier to kill its crew.
Silas trained its weapons—those that were still functional, at least—on Okustin, but even the advanced armaments of the Mechanicus were unable to find meaningful effectiveness against the agility of an Astartes. They did force Okustin to retreat a bit, though. He wove through arcfire and cannon blasts, first ducking behind the drop pod he had arrived in, and then leaping over the still-burning remains of the Skorpius tank. Willingly jumping into its flames, Okustin borrowed Silas’s strategy, and while shielded by the dilapidated hull of the Skorpius, turned its main Belleros Energy Cannon upon the Onager. Surely, it’s not functional after a Thunderhawk hit, I thought to myself, seeing this happen behind my duel with Espirov. Silas did not take the same gamble, and dove out of the Onager.
Praise the Holy Throne that he did, as the whole scene promptly lit up, light screaming out of the Skorpius’s massive weapon in all directions. The blast hit the Onager while Silas was still airborne from his dive, and my Scion was thusly whisked away in midair by the insane concussive force of the Onager being all but atomized on the spot. I lost sight of him altogether. Both Espirov and I needed to pause to brace ourselves in our duel, the thunderous might of the attack dwarfing that of Vostroya’s artillery barrage. In firing the Belleros, the Skorpius blew up a second time, unable to support the strain of its own attack in its damaged state. Okustin was launched from the tank’s hull, himself now a smoldering husk of what he once was. But that husk was still able to rise to his feet where, standing two dozen meters behind Espirov, he looked straight toward me. And the intent was clear; unlike in Vostroya’s factory of flesh, however, I had a Heretek in my way, keeping me from doing anything to address the scorched Astartes.
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I ducked under a slash of one of Espirov’s Mechadendrites to ram my shoulder into his face, pushing him away, again trying to knock him down. Again I failed, and his machinery helped him keep his footing, if again being knocked a bit off balance.
Okustin charged for me.
Lightning surged into the few remains of the Skorpius, propelling it horizontally toward Okustin. Okustin merely leapt over the bulky scrap metal, dodging Xavier’s efforts completely, and landed in a combat roll, still in stride for me. Surrendering an inch of ground to Espirov would have been as fatal as the fate Okustin intended for me. The Skorpius sailed over the edge of the coast into the planet’s vast ocean.
Czevia, bless her, dove between Espirov and Okustin, opening fire upon her former friend. The bravery was a sight unto itself, that a Guardsman such as herself could willfully stand between an Astartes and its prey. Okustin clubbed a fist to her skull, sending her careening awkwardly into the waters after the Skorpius.
Luther landed on Okustin’s burnt shoulders, knees upon his torso and lasrifle in Okustin’s left eye. A red light roared through Okustin’s enflamed skull, into his face and out the back of his head. Still, the puppet had not died—he grabbed one of Luther’s ankles and whipped him aside, sending the Harakoni tumbling away.
But that, at last, proved to be enough of a distraction. In brutalizing two members of my cadre, Okustin had slowed enough for Penitent to catch up, and she flanked the monster from behind. One titanic swing of her Eviscerator lopped an arm and a leg from my former friend, bringing the puppet Astartes crashing onto its front at last. Penitent then buried her blade in the back of his spine, crushing it and pinning him to the ground. There, I believe, he died again.
The carnage had been demoralizing to me, but it proved distracting to Espirov, who—likely seeing things from the back of his head—could not comprehend the demise of his puppet, and at last presented me with the slightest opportunity to end things. I took it, dropping my Eviscerator away and drawing my pistol, blowing out both of his knees before my blade even hit the ground. As he fell, then, I whipped an augmetic fist into the Xenos skull he wore over his face, breaking it and, hopefully, the face behind it. I then rammed a foot into his head once he had hit the ground, crushing it against the blackened stone beneath us, and shot off the Mechadendrites still attached to his body.
“Penitent! Gao!” I shouted, pointing to the waters to my side. Penitent understood and dove in at once, searching for our friend.
“You can’t kill me, Blackgar,” Espirov sputtered out, wheezing and leaking oil and blood from beneath me.
“Oh, I think I very much can,” I assured him, seething.
“I have…a contingency…in place,” he warned me, now falling into a coughing fit.
“Yes, you mentioned as such before I showed the Phaenonites the same damnation that awaits you,” I replied. “Try me.” Then, to my vox, I said, “Land the Bird. All units need immediate medicae attention. Possible radiation sickness, among other injuries.” I did not doubt the Skorpius’s cannon had poisoned us all to some degree. Castecael could handle it if so. I looked back to Espirov. “Well?”
“The Astartes,” he started, and then broke into a bout of intense wheezing. “If I perish…any in the city…are unleashed. They will level…and kill…everything,” he explained.
“I see,” I nodded, and looked over toward Abseradon. Shortly after I did so, Penitent emerged from the waters, carrying Czevia Gao, and laid her down a short distance beyond Okustin. The Mordian Iron Guardsman was motionless and covered in blood, face smashed to a pulp. Penitent listened for a heartbeat, then gradually looked to me.
She shook her head.
I heard nothing then. I did not hear the burning carnage around us. I did not hear the Bird’s return. I did not hear Espirov’s weak, insufferable breathing.
I heard only the laughter that was not there.
I looked down to Espirov, and whatever he saw in my face made him attempt to crawl out from under me in futility. In a millisecond I was in his head. He had two kinds of psychic shields embedded in his mind. One kind was placed by some others—his superiors. I could not get through those, as they were likely installed by a psyker of greater power than myself. But the shields Espirov had built for himself in his own training and preparation I annihilated with greater ferocity than the Skorpius had the Onager. I saw the full extent of the operation on Hestia Majoris. I saw the names, the places, the means, all of it. I saw things I frankly would rather not have. I had entered the disgusting mind of the heretic.
I saw everything that Holicar Espirov was, everything he had done to serve his masters.
And I destroyed him.
When I was myself again, I found myself standing in a sizzling stain of reddened scrap metal. This crimson stain extended for several meters toward my right, Espirov having both exploded and imploded. His resultant worthless remains were pasted across the battlefield in a perfectly straight line away from me. Good.
I walked for and knelt down next to Okustin, wanting to lift his face up. His head came off from the slightest tug, his existence reduced to a smoldering crisp. “Oh, Hans, I am so sorry. In this life, you would have been a master Inquisitor. In another, you would have been the very image of the ideal Astartes, not the cheap sham they made of you. I am so sorry, my friend. May the Emperor watch over you always,” I sighed, short on breath.
I rose to approach Czevia, but Luther stumbled over to her first, and collapsed in a fit of anguish. I did not know it then, but Silas would soon tell me that the two had been involved. They had been more subtle and professional about it than Mirena and Castecael had, but it was love all the same.
And that was the worst punch in the gut of all.
***
We brought Czevia’s remains aboard the Bird. She should be returned to Mordian. As for Okustin, we had to dispose of his body. What he had been turned into was a heresy unto itself, and not for public knowledge. The flames of the Skorpius had reduced the stability of his body enough that I felt confident the oceans of Hestia Majoris would destroy the rest of him.
In the meantime, it became clear Espirov had not lied about his contingency. Even though we were many dozens, if not hundreds, of miles away from Abseradon, we could see the flames begin to rise. Our clock was now ticking; Vostroya would see the city and know that Espirov was dead, and that he was next. He would try to run soon. Luckily, I was still on the warpath, though my attention was, for a time, held elsewhere. I had Mirena hail Rear Admiral Batos’s ship from the Bird, while also keeping the Bird airborne with no destination in particular. I wanted to give my crew time to recuperate and grieve before throwing them into the pursuit of Vostroya, but I also did not want to let the Bird remain on the ground for too long against a foe with such artillery power.
“Ah, Inquisitor, we finally get to talk. I am receiving reports of great upheaval in Abseradon. I assume you possess some insight into that?” Batos greeted me, skipping all manner of greetings. I got the sense he was in the process of scrambling his ships in case of an incoming naval assault to mirror the fighting on the ground.
“What was your last contact with my Interrogator’s detachment?” I growled into the vox, ignoring everything he had just said.
“We last heard from that squadron as they were approaching the Galadon system, sir,” Batos reported. “That was some time ago, yes. Warp travel being what it is, it has not seemed out of the ordinary. And I assure you, the pilots he was with are some of the very best—”
“I deal not in ‘seems’ or vocal assurances, Rear Admiral. I trade in fact and blood. And the bloody fact of the matter is that my Interrogator is dead. If your ‘very-best’ pilots are alive, they are traitors to the Imperium and should be shot on sight,” I seethed. “I will learn the means through which my Agent met his end. You will help me in that endeavor. If you do not, or if I find your name on that journey, Rear Admiral, from one military man to another, I will see you flayed alive and then shot. Do I make myself clear?”
A not-unexpected pause followed, as Batos’s world was forced into as great an upheaval as had befallen Abseradon. Still not as great a turn of events as that which had befallen our world. The most terrifying fate in the Imperium, other than the dereliction of one’s duties or the failure of one’s faith, is that of being lectured, interrogated, or otherwise castigated by an Inquisitor. Audibly shaken to his core, Batos hesitantly answered, “Yes, sir, you do.”
“Good. To your initial question, yes, there is a matter of great import within Abseradon right now. I will have one of my Agents provide you with strike targets. I recommend lance strikes from orbit. Do not allow anything to leave the world, not even the Governor’s ship, unless it has an Inquisitorial Rosette. Pray, Rear Admiral, your only hand in this situation has been and always will be in service to the Immortal Emperor, for He is watching you now, as I am,” I explained, and then cut the vox.
“Cal,” Mirena started, voice trembling, but I shook my head.
“Not a word,” I denied her, and rose to my feet from the copilot’s chair of the cockpit. I turned to leave, but did not make it very far before collapsing to the metal deck at my feet.