I was on New Cealis at the time, on the border of the Ixaniad Sector, which made sense. The year was M41.977. Lucene and I had not aged a day since we had killed the Phaenonite Absalom some years ago, nor had much of my retinue, though a good handful had chosen to embrace the flow of time the rest neglected in following in my footsteps. Such were their choices. Mine was to prosecute a merciless crusade against heresy, unrelenting, until such a time as my timelessness ran out. Absalom, a heretic himself, had given me this endless life as a way of striking against me as few others could. I intended to make those in my path loathe Absalom for having done so with the same frustration with which they cursed my name.
My retinue was split wide across Ixaniad, focusing on border worlds first and foremost. We had been so-divided for dozens of years, now. Our goal was to subtly improve the security and militant readiness of as many worlds as we could. Subtlety was key; we did not want to provoke the enemy into striking because we were mobilizing too much too quickly. Instead, the weaponized growth of Ixaniad’s worlds needed to look at least plausibly natural. So, to that end, we focused on influencing politics and the procurement of resources, improving strategy and seeing to the right commanding officers being put into place. It only took a couple Inquisitorial Agents, with my Rosette at their command, to leverage worlds into a defensive perimeter throughout the Sector.
Lucene and I were working together on New Caelis when it began. I was worming my way into a criminal cartel with the intent to cut off its head to keep the corruption from getting in the world’s way. At the time, I was meeting with some lesser criminals to broker a meet with those of greater import. Lucene was nearby, but not in the building, armed to the teeth should she need to respond. The meeting had been going well, and then we heard it—the great bursts of pressurized air that clapped like thunder, rumbling through the world. While much of my nearest company ran to the outdoor balcony to look skyward with a sense of naïve curiosity, I joined them in reluctant dread, praying to the Throne that today was not the day.
But it was.
There, in the skies, hammered down a trio of metallic meteors. The sun glared off their burning hulls as they screamed through the atmosphere. Some watched on in awe even still, some pointing and whispering of the Emperor’s Angels. But I knew better, and backed away instead. Time was ticking. Aware that my present company was far from savory, I drew my Boltpistol and shot the three men I had been meeting with in their backs. I then spun on my heels and killed a bartender who was far too slow to respond to my initial killing. Two more criminals sat at a table to my right, having been uninterested in the commotion, yet were quicker to respond to my attacks. Their autopistol bullets stopped in midair before me, where they remained suspended until I vaporized their owners in two more quick blasts of my own. No loose ends.
It was, then, that a fourth drop pod landed in the streets mere blocks from me, crushing a district of citizenry and erupting into an inferno in an instant. From our angle on the balcony, I had not seen it coming. I would need to respond with Lucene, or not at all. But I knew she would have heard my shooting and would begin rushing to my aid, so I chose to race for and jump from the balcony, using my mind to slow my fall from the third floor of the building. I found Lucene in the streets below, though she was already in the doorway of the structure I had come from. “Cal?” she asked, voice motorized and crackling through the voxspeaker of her power armor. I was without my armor, intending to be undercover.
“We need to get to the Governor. They’ve made landfall for a reason, and we need to know why. I suspect they’ll be going for him,” I answered as she stepped nearer, handing me a larger weapon. “We’ll have company on the way. Be ready. And in your suit, set a timer.”
“Time?”
“Seven minutes, forty-four seconds,” I replied, setting the same into a bionic cogitator embedded in my augmetic arm. The time itself was ticking down from eight minutes, an estimate which Quintus had theorized would be the expected amount of time for our anticipated foe to complete their initial strike target. We had to pray the defenders of New Caelid could beat that estimate, rather than detract from it.
“Mark,” she answered with a nod.
“Good, let’s go,” I ordered, and strode forth toward the Planetary Governor’s courthouse, where he should have been that day. In the distance, growing nearer with every pace, was screaming, explosions, and Bolter fire. It was not my intention to intercept the foe, and I would have rather sped beyond them—if such a thing was even theoretically possible—but our destinations were the same, and I knew interception was an inevitability.
It arrived thirty-two seconds after our initial departure, as the Iron Warrior detachment joined us in rushing into a city square. I cannot know what they took me for at the time, but I do know they would have recognized Lucene for what she was: a servant of the Throne, and therefore their archenemy. I counted eight of them, by sight, and in pulses of my psykana I felt no others on our front that we might engage with. As they pivoted toward us, I slid an open palm toward them and lurched it skyward, pulling them into the air by my psykana. Alas, my mind only managed to grip six, and though I tried to freeze them in place, their genetics and bionics worked tirelessly against me to wrestle their weapons toward us.
The two I could not lift into the air broke from their detachment, running ahead and around us at superhuman speeds, faster than I could track with my eyes. Lucene, meanwhile, stepped forward, spraying a burst of five Bolt rounds into each of the Warriors I had lifted, one by one. But my mental strength was waning while their physical strengths were unmitigated. Their ability to move only ever improved, faster than the rate at which Lucene could shoot them.
Danger, to my left. A premonition, divinatory in nature. It felt to my mind as though to be like the orbital bombardment I had ordered of Amnes Minoris long ago, and I reacted in kind, tossing a shield of my psykana to meet the threat. Four Bolt rounds stopped in their tracks near to me, but it would have been wrong to say they froze, as the criminals’ autogun bullets had moments ago. The Bolts vibrated as their fuselage ever tried to press toward me, and then like clustermines the quartet exploded. My focus waned, and the six Warriors I had lifted fell to the ground. Four fell flat, killed by Lucene. Two landed intact, and reacted immediately. I sent one final wave of my psykana toward them, rupturing the ground at their feet and tearing into their adamantium armor with psychic lightning, but that was all I could do for Lucene.
I had noted, to myself, upon seeing our foes that their helmets were beaked. Their armor was ancient, from the time of the Great Heresy ten thousand years ago. Despite the veterancy of their armor patterns, this detail suggested to me that our opposition was far from the best the Iron Warriors had to offer. I suspected these were recent adherents given old gear to prove themselves in. My suspicion proved correct, as the escapee that had fired upon me then evidenced in charging directly for me while I was shrouded in the smog of exploded Bolts. He must have believed the smoke would have kept him from my view and, coupled with the distraction of the explosion itself, that I would be unable to react.
Not unwise in a vacuum, but negligent of my abilities as a psyker. I instead felt every step of his approach, and when he neared it was not he that was hidden from me, but vice versa. Drepane whisked out of the smoke and cleaved a hand from him while his other arm stabbed forth with a power claw. I had already sidestepped it, and in my motion, I cleanly bisected his skull with my power sword.
I turned my attention back to Lucene, where she had—for her proximity—swapped to her Eviscerator. I had bought her moments with which to do so and likely saved her life in the process. I bought her moments more with another burst of my psykana, unable to outright stop the Warriors in their tracks, but perfectly capable of giving them pause. I meant to do more for her, but sensed danger to my right, then. The other escapee. I dove forward out of the still-settling smoke and dust created by my first assailant, and blindly tossed a wave of lightning, provided by Drepane and motivated by my psykana, toward where I sensed the danger. I had done this once before to Foxon Silverman on Hestia Majoris, though he had dodged the attack.
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This Iron Warrior did not dodge it and instead barreled through it. His armor may have been scorched and in some places even splayed apart, but he showed no delay from the psychic assault regardless. Two Bolts were fired my way, and I parted the way between them both before dodging a power fist that had been propelled for my head, launched in a manner not unlike my own augmetic could manage. I sliced through the cabling connected to the power fist before tossing both of my power weapons toward the Astartes screaming—figuratively and verbally—toward me. He deflected both into the air with another power weapon, upon which time I raised my augmetic between us and fired my singular, only Bolt into his helmet. It kicked his head back, but did little to slow him down, though his recoil was all I wanted as my twinned blades rammed into his skull from behind, pulled toward me by my psykana. Each blade punched through the titanic Warrior’s eyes, and my tremendous foe at last halted before me, my hand still raised to his face, palm out.
I caught my breath for a moment in that position, and then when the Warrior fell to his knees, his bionics no longer being fed by his will, I crushed my blades through his skull and tossed them across the way once more. They caught the spinal column of the final Astartes still alive, Lucene having felled one in melee combat. Lucene pivoted to decapitate that final foe once and for all from there, upon which time I willed my weapons back to me for the last time, sheathing them on my waist.
“Eight seconds wasted. We must make haste,” I told her, and she nodded in reply. Without a further word, we ran through ever more city streets, leaving the detachment of dead demigods in our wake. Our journey ate most of the time allotted to us, though we did not see opposition again. At least, not of the combat sort. Soon, upon nearing our target—the Governor’s stronghold, which was in panicked disarray as could be expected—we met resistance of a bureaucratic nature, needing to flash my Rosette time and again to make progress.
Eventually, in the final minutes available to the world, we were able to arrive in the waiting area of a small, private spaceport, where a number of Guardsmen had crowded around an embattled Governor. “Governor Sebastien Krandix?” I called out to the group of them. “Inquisitor Callant Blackgar, Ordo Hereticus! We’ve spoken before.”
“We have, yes, approach Inquisitor, hurry!” Krandix called back, though his form was, then, shrouded to me. The sea of Guardsmen parted only barely, and Lucene and I had to literally squeeze through to the small pocket Krandix was hiding in. “Here for a ride?” he asked, a small shred of humor being all that remained of a once-jovial Governor.
“Information. Why are they here?” I demanded.
“Terra knows, but certainly not I!” he shouted, exasperated. “My apologies for my tone, Inquisitor, but—”
“Save it, we haven’t the time for apologies,” I cut him off. “We’re on a border world yes, and are thus a tactical consideration for the archenemy, but that would not require them to make landfall. You have something they want. What is it?”
“I cannot say, because I do not know!” he all but screeched, terrified as much by my presence as the encroaching threat from beyond.
“Has anything anomalous been brought to your attention recently? Anything at all?” I pressed.
“I’m a Planetary Governor, Inquisitor Blackgar! Anomalies are an hourly occurrence!”
“Are there any that come to mind?” I seethed.
“There’s…I…,” he started, then sighed and caught his breath. “Navigators for merchants have been reporting murmurs, as unto a musing, in the Warp deeper into Ixaniad. These stories have come to the local Navigator’s Nobilite and have caused quite a ruckus, as I understand it. But it is not something I know much at all about, just a tale I have heard of.”
“Good enough. We will speak more later, then. Is that your vessel?” I asked, nodding ahead.
Governor Krandix turned around and nodded in glee. “Yes, it is! Praise the Throne, there’s a chance of esca—” he began, but did not finish before I had drawn my Condemnor Bolter—handed to me by Lucene along our travels, and awarded to me after my efforts against the Phaenonites—and blew the Governor’s head off his shoulders.
I was holding my Rosette when I did so, to dissuade the retaliation of the dozens of Guardsmen around us. “Servitor, now!” I shouted, demanding the presence of one if any existed nearby. “You two, strip the Governor of his attire. He will not be needing such garments any longer,” I ordered of a pair of Guardsmen. With minor hesitation—ended by my thrusting of my Rosette in their direction—they began to unclothe the corpse at my feet just as a servitor made way to me through the uneasy crowd. “Servitor, don these clothes. You are now Planetary Governor for New Cealis; serve your people well. Everyone else, defend your Planetary Governor with your lives. My advice, blockade that doorway, and install mines upon whatever you use to block it off.”
“And you, Inquisitor?” a Guardsman asked. I did not mind the gall to question my fate.
I answered as I made way to the Governor’s planned escape vessel, it having landed upon the private spaceport after the Guardsman’s question. “I retreat to Quintus. Ixaniad must know that it is now at war. If I do not, the sacrifice of your world will be in vain. The Emperor of all Mankind watches you today. Die with honor. It will be a better fate than surviving to see the sun set upon this world. The Emperor protects. Lucene,” I called to her, stepping aboard the Governor’s craft. She joined me, bowing to the Governor’s defenders and making the Sign of the Aquila before departing further aboard our craft. “You, pilot, take off at once. And I will need your wideband vox.”
“But, the Governor—” the pilot protested before shirking away at the sight of my Rosette.
“Your Governor is dead. Take off, now, by order of the Holy Ordos of the Inquisition,” I commanded, sitting in the copilot’s seat. Lucene strapped in to a seat behind me, and we took off into enflamed skies, moving at such a pace as to rock our tiny vessel as we hurtled through the atmosphere of New Cealis. Eventually, reddened skies faded away to a sheet of whites and greys, then eventually that gave way to the black abyss of the void. “There will be no fleet to fly to. Ignore your established directive,” I ordered the pilot.
“Then where am I headed, Inquisitor?” he asked.
“Aim for the largest stretch of nothingness you can find,” I ordered. I reached for the vox transceiver then, turning the dial to a system-wide broadcast. “Exigent Calamity looking to Sanctify Cold, come in, Cold.”
“The enemy will have heard that,” our pilot warned me.
“I know. Keep flying. Does this vessel have countermeasures?”
“Some, but only for missile lock-ons,” the pilot answered.
“That’s fine. I am a countermeasure unto myself,” I sighed, leaning back in my seat, and gathered my breath. It would be some time before a response would be received from the intended recipient of my message. “Lucene, status?”
“Praying, Cal.”
“Keep at it. We’ll need your prayers today.”
As if on cue, warning sirens began to blare, accompanied by flashing lights as red as the clothes Lucene once wore, as Penitent. “We’re made! Three fightercraft, on our six, two have locked weapons! Missile launch!” our pilot reported. “Deploying countermeasures…now!”
“You need not narrate your actions, pilot. It will be easier for me if you do not,” I told him, closing my eyes and reaching out with my mind. It was no small challenge to track a trio of Swiftdeath Fighters moving at thousands of kilometers per hour through the dead of space, so I instead settled for trying to follow one. When I had done so, I reached inside, feeling about its crew, while in the meantime my body rocked this way and that from the evasive maneuvers of my own pilot. I tried not to let that distract me. Eventually, I found the mind of a serf who seemed to be an engineer. I suggested to his subconscious that he check the engine nuclei, and when he did so, I gave his subconscious a distracting flick, jittering his physical existence in the process. He thought little of it in the moment, but his eyes widened when he saw what the mental lapse had done, as his vessel’s engine began to go critical.
I left the serf then, and meant to fetch another on a different fighter as the first erupted into flames amidst the void, but was interrupted. “Cold receiving. Provide coordinates and bearing,” came the response to my earlier voxchatter.
“Provide it, pilot,” I ordered.
He did so over the vox, and then started, “My name’s—”
“We have no time for your name. Not now. Perhaps if we survive. Focus on the task at hand, pilot,” I warned him. I then reached for the vox myself. “We are being pursued. Cold, approach with weapons primed. And prepare for immediate Warp Translation when we board.”
“I’ve never Translated before,” the pilot murmured.
“Focus,” I insisted, and then reached into my pilot’s mind and filled it with psychic ease, trying to provide him with unnatural clarity. I then reached for the void again. I would not manage to tear our other two pursuers asunder, and not for lack of trying. My mental potency was nearing its end, and it was taking all I had just to follow along with one of them, let alone venture inside amidst its crew. I instead retracted my attention, focusing instead on the defense of our vessel, deflecting plasmacannons and detonating missiles before they struck us.
Our flight from the foe lasted minutes more, but ended abruptly, as soon as my vessel, the Coldbreed, appeared out of the void before us. Its weapons turned upon the two Swiftdeaths still remaining, and though our foes tried to turn and flee, the Coldbreed incinerated them in instants, returning them to the black abyss of space. From there, docking and departing into the Warp was a simple business compared to the rest of the day, though that is not to say Warp travel is ever simple.
A day of death had ended. Many would soon follow.