The Mercenaries: Genesis

[Rolling Thunder]

"Tell, my love, why so melancholy?" asked Emir, reaching out to caress Drang's chin with her pale, delicate fingers.

"You don't know?" smiled Drang, as he stared into the black immensity of space, grey-blue eyes limp and unfocused as Emir reached around, caressing his jaw and up to entwine themselves in his shoulder-length, greying black hair.

"You know I wouldn't look without your permission" she said, a faint tremor-impulse of amused irritation running between them. "Pray tell Kam", she said, stepping in behind him to wrap her arms about his waist.

"Thinking" he said. "Just...thinking. Thinking how we got here" he said, his wisp-faint smile deepening as he felt Emir's nose and forehead gently press against his back. "Remembering all those old friends, those old trials and old....old me's. Old yous'."

"You're not old" she murmured with irrational fondness, nuzzling into his back, feeling Drang's warm exasperation and rolled eyes as he turned about to embrace her.

"Old enough" he said.

"Mm. I remember how we met" she said, settling herself comfortably against his chest. "16:06 local time, Bellephron Primus, Hive I, Father's house."

"House?" snorted Drang. "Father's palace-compound, my dear..."


-
Governer's Compound, Bellephron Primus. 13:59


The rain was insatiable. A great, dead sheet of poison water, falling down on Bellephron, translucent, cold and choked as a half-drowned killing field. The citizenry knew what to do, sprinting for shelter as the first drops of poison slipped from the sky. Every door was open. Every citizen knew they duty, from the high-born lord who opened their mansion gates to the swarms of administratum servants leaving work for shift change, to the underhive hab-dwellers who lifted a Enforcer patrol caught in the open up to their windows. Within seconds, the streets were deserted, save for the wild, blind poison falling upon them, and a party of strange individuals. They strode on, through the blinding rain, superheated steam trailing away behind them as the arc field boiled away the poison above their heads.

Leading at their head, a man of modest build and pale complexion walked, a coat of antique, brown leather hung quiescent over his shoulders, leaning heavily upon a simple, unadorned cane of dark wood. Brown hair flowed from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and a long-hilted katana hung at his hip.

At his right, stood Captain Kamenev Drang, an archaic, PDF-issue greatcoat thrown open over a black suit of environmental armour, and a six-chambered, revolver-pattern grenade launcher cradled in his hands. At his left, Sergeant Solomon DeMarinaé, clad in Kai-Tann's finest Carapace-Armoured Warsuit, his rock-like skull shaved bare and uncovered, as if to dare the elemental torrent that slowly rotted this world to dare, dare, lay a drop of it's vile stuff on him.

"Are you sure this a good idea, sir?" asked Drang of his superior. "We're going to walk into the governor's palace, guarded by an entire regiment of his own men, and demand he hand over the most precious thing he has?"

"Yes, Kamenev" said the other figure. "That's exactly what we're going to do."

"...why is he going to do this, instead of, I don't know, killing us, burning our bodies to ash, removing the witnesses of our presence here and then denying all knowledge?"

"Firstly" sighed the leader, "that is what I have you, the good sergeant and the rest of my party for. Secondly" he said, holding up his hand to forestall Drang's inevitable retort "and most importantly: Governor D'Clemancau is a good man. I've worked with him for decades, and I can tell you that he is a man with the best interests of humanity - from the lowest hab-dweller in this city - in his heart."

"Brilliant" muttered Drang. "So, in essence, I am entrusting my life to the morality of an inbred aristocrat as judged by the mind of a jumped-up Arbiter."

"You know the drill" quipped the leader, as they approached the gates of the palace-compound, and paused for a moment.

"Marisia, front and centre" he said, and the short, violin-curved medic slipped past the rest of the retinue to stand behind him.

"Standard or full?" said the leader, looking sidelong at Drang.

"Full" said Drang, turning his head and smiling at his leader to show genuine acquiescence. "Don't worry, I'll handle it."

"Alrightie then" said Marisia, rolling her eyes. "You know the drill. You've got a one hour high, another hour half-life, and then the comedown hits twenty minutes after that, which means bed rest and no heavy drinking, and if we actually get into a firefight-"

"-Yeah, yeah, I know" groused Drang, kneeling down so she could gently press the needle head into his neck. "Comedown is going to be hell."

"Okay everyone" spoke the leader. "Suit up!"

Drang stood, and, reach to his belt, unhooked his helmet, breathing deeply as the bronze-faced war mask descended across his blackening eyes, the two sabre-blade cheek guards falling down over his skin as chemical fire flooded his veins.

The world slowed, pitching to a grinding, labourious crawl before normality reasserted itself, the hazy, chemical euphoria tingling over his skin, fingers clenching like claws. Blood tasted in his mouth, and he could feel the synsthesia-illusion of his teeth lengthening to fangs, the primal, burning instinct to fight, to kill bubbling up inside his chest as the mocking laugh of Ares. Still trembling in self-restraint, he turned to face Solomon, likewise wearing his own, silver-engrained war mask.

"Chaos" he said, nodding acknowledgement to what his comrade had become.

"War" replied Chaos, nodding.

[Rolling Thunder]

"Ready?" asked the leader.

"Aye" spoke Chaos, gently twisting his neck, taking his heavy-bore battle rifle in hand.

"Aye, Death" said War, a chorus of acknowledgements following from behind them, grenade launcher likewise in hand, staring point-blank at the gate in front of him, half-fantasising about what it would be like to blow it to pieces.

"Good" said Death, smiling. A moment later, and he drew back his hand, and struck the door. The ringing, resonant peal of sound broke the watery silence. The gate drew back, a well-lit hallway unfolding before them, servants bowing, green-black liveried guards politely nodding, arms held at rest but still ready.

The party advanced on, Faustin deactivating the generator as they entered the ante-chamber and, without slowing, walked on, through the milling throng of dignitaries and functionaries, striding through the parting tide of humanity like Moses of old, petitioners scattering as they walked to the steps of the Governors throne, where Governer D'Clemancau stood. He was a small man, possessed of a blunt, pitted face scarred from years of duelling-fields and industrial exposure, too proud to accept the cosmetic surgeries so favoured by other nobles of far lesser stature than himself. A simple, soft-fabric tunic and liveried trousers composed his attire, ornamented only by a signet ring, and a heavy, ivory-finished plasma pistol sitting inactive at his hip.

At the base of the throne, Death stopped, and made a short, polite bow to the Governor, his retinue remaining still as planetary custom demanded (and pride dictated, frankly). Governor D'Clemancau smiled, returning the bow before spreading his arms wide in welcome.

"Inquisitor Gabriel Lupus!" he said, his voice carrying to the very end of the voluminous and vast hallway. "Your presence is surely a gift of The Emperor himself." (praise be upon him, the crowd murmurs). "Have you come to aid our world against this sky-borne evil?"

Crap. This is going bad, thought Lupus. The bastard was meant to be alone, alone or just a few functionaries he could scurry off so we could talk in private. Now there's hundreds of bloody witnesses and most of them are armed, even if it's just a laspistol, and they don't have anywhere to run crap Holy Emperor crap-

Lupus nodded, gently inclining his head once more. "Aye" he said, whispers trailing behind his intonation as it spread across the room. "I have. But, alas, Governor, I can not speak with you with so many people - fine, worthy individuals, I have no doubt - present. It shall have to wait until the rain abates and-"

"-hardly, old friend" interjected Governor D'Clemancau, descending from his throne to stand face-to-face with Lupus. "Sergeant-at-arms, kindly escort everyone here to the Morning Hall. Prepare provisions and sleeping kits, lest the rain last the night" he said. "I will not have the hospitality of House D'Clemancau be impugned by this, but the safety of Bellephron must come above all temporal things.

-Ha, thought Lupus, impaled on your own rhetoric there. Except, of course, that none of these people will be here, save those very, very loyal ex-Guard veterans that he uses to dominate the geopolitics of this miserable rock with. Emperor-on-Earth, give me strength.

"Well, Gabriel?" said Governor D'Clemancau, as the last civilian was escorted out of the hallway, and Lupus's sweep team finished scouring the area for listening devices.

"Well, Brovist...you're right. I have come to help you. I've come to end whatever is poisoning this world's water supply-"

"Please do, Lupus" said the Governor. "The filtration plants are no more than a week away from failure, even with the aid of the Mechanicus'. We've always been careful about these things. We kept pollution to relatively safe levels, broke down radioactives the best we could and dumped the worst stuff in a decaying stellar orbit. This can't be natural."

"It's not" said Lupus. "And that leads me on to the more difficult part of my mission here. To find...whatever it is that's killing your world, I am going to need your daughter."

Drang was probably the only one who saw the magnesium-flash of pure, animal terror on Governor D'Clemancau's face before his iron-hard self control reasserted itself, a quizzical, dissembling smile reassembling itself faster than a Necron Warrior.

"My kith-daughters are away off-world with my sons on Hallicin, with relatives. Nepotistic, I know, sending away my lineage while so many others are dead and dying, but I hope you can forgive my hypocrisy in thi-"

"Don't bother, Brovist" said Lupus, a single, cutting-hand motion silencing the Governor. "I am not speaking of your son's wives, or the adopted girls you brought into your household Guard who hold you as their father, or any of the innumerable people on this world who see you as some kind of paternal, guiding figure. No, Brovist. I am referring to the daughter your wife bore you some seventeen years ago, the daughter she died giving birth to, the daughter you have raised and kept in absolute and extortionately expensive secrecy, hidden from the eyes of any and all within and without the Imperium. The daughter you have spent fortunes on, educating and training in that most illicit of arts. Your daughter, who was born with the touch of the warp and the maturing gift of a high-level psyker."

"Your daughter Emir, Brovist" finished Lupus, his whisper ringing like a gunshot in the stony, ice-heavy silence of the hall. "I need a psyker, and I need one as powerful as her."

Brovist D'Clemancau, Governor of Bellephron, simply stared as the near two-decades of conspiracy, of subterfuge, of craft and guile and deceit and hard, agonising work, crumbled away before him like a fortress made of sand.

[The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A)]

Rather amazing work RT! Your style is very moody and everything is imaginatively written.

Jolly great work!

[Jackal-0311]

well done sir!

[Rolling Thunder]

To his eternal credit, D'Clemancau did not prevaricate further. He did not lie, he did not misdirect, he did not attempt any of the cowardly tricks that politicians so commonly favour. After a long, stupefied moment, jaw slack and eyes vacant as an animal stunned waiting for slaughter, his formidable wit returned, as Lupus knew it would. And his response was the only one to be expected of an honourable man.

"No" he said, with a single, curt gesture. As one, his men raised their weapons. As one, Lupus' retine responded, the Inquisitor's hurried cry of "Hold!" the only thing forestalling immediate pre-emptive violence on the part of Solomon and Drang, Faustin and Marisia ducking behind the massive shape of Groll, as the Ogryn levelled his ripper gun at the largest concentration of guards. D'varin and Solomon tracked the men on the right flank, but Drang had eyes only for D'Clemancu, the massive barrel of his grenade launcher leveled straight at the mans chest.

Once again, silence was king in the Governor's hall, save for the war-drum of Drang's heartbeat in his ears, and the hot, desperate fury that howled "Kill! Kill! Kill!" in his mind. Save for the cold, complete awareness of Solomon's electronic senses, the footfall and breath of each foe meticulously recorded and calculated in full knowledge there was almost no chance of survival. Save for the clenched-up, honest, human fear of Marisia, or the phlegmatic, numb acceptance of fate Faustin could not help but feel, or D'varin, the Interrogator, rigid belief in his master fighting desperate, animal terror clawing at the back of his mind for escape. Save for the confident, fearless gaze of Inquisitor Gabriel Lupus, still and empty-handed. At length, D'Clemancau spoke.

"I am sorry Gabriel" he said, tears welling in his eyes. "But you cannot have her. I know you are an honourable man. I know you have the best of intentions. You have saved the lives of countless millions of my people - and I know that, by killing you, I will damn millions more to their fate. But you cannot have her. I will not permit..I will not let your black ships....break her and train her like some dog!" he finished, grief and disgust drowning his words in black, acid sorrow.

"I know what this will mean. I know it means my life, my name, my house branded as traitors, exiled from the Imperium forever. But she is my daughter, and for her I will do that much" he said.

"Try it" snarled Drang, the voice of the war-daemon ringing like horror itself in the room, "and I'll mulch you, D'Clemancau, and by the God-Emperor if I survive this I'll hunt down every last one of your family and do the same!" he howled, rising to a hellish crescendo.

"Drang! Stand down, that's a bloody order!" barked Lupus.

"The hell I will, and you can hang your orders with your bloody Inquisitorial roseate and your poncy katana and your high-handed arrogance!" screamed the seven-foot berzerker. "I swore to protect you, and that's what I'm going to do you stuck-up bastard!"

Lupus paused, then stepped back from Drang. A faint smoke-trail of a smile curved it's way onto his features, and he chucked, an incongruous, light sound in the bloody silence.

"Emperor preserve us from good men" he said, smiling. "See, Brovist? That same primordial loyalty - that same bond between comrades, between friends, between family - that same loyalty to one another that keeps our species supreme amongst the stars - and here I am, caught in it" he said.

"I will need Emir to save your world. I do not need - or want - her taken to the Black Ships. I would not do that to your daughter - nor to any psyker that was not a threat to the Imperium" he said, lifting a lho-stick to his lips, and, with a flicker of psionic flame, ignited it. "I have observed her training, and it has been most satisfactory. Her prodigious talent has been kept well in check by the tutors you have brought in, and she is uncorrupted. Well, as uncorrupted as any sentient can be" he said, chuckling. "Purer in heart than most Inquisitors - or priests - that I've met" he said, a mere hint of self-satisfaction entering his voice.

"I swear to you, Brovist, that I will not allow her to go through that. She is too useful - and too innocent - to suffer those abuses. It would be kinder to kill her on the spot" he concluded.

D'Clemancau wavered a moment, and then nodded, visibly shaking as the defiance fled his body.

"Leave us" he whispered to his men. "And send for my daughter." As the last of them filed out, and the door slammed shut with a slow, empty finality, the last drop of it must have departed, for his legs crumpled beneath him, Lupus barely catching him before his hit the cold, marble floor.

[Jackal-0311]

Damn good read. Keep it coming.

[Rolling Thunder]

By the time the PDF flyer carrying Emir D'Clemancau had landed, the combat-drug comedown had already hit Drang, sat back against a pillar of polished black granite, brazed war-mask and grenade launcher at his feet. A shape moved before him.

"You'll always insist on full dose", he heard, though the light was so bright through his engorged pupils he couldn't see her, he knew it was Marisia, and smiled.

"Perhaps I insist on it" he began, before another fit of spasming caught up with him, as his body fought the artificially-induced nausea.

"Perhaps, I insist on it" he said again, catching his breath, "because without the full dose, my reflexes are slowed to the point that I can't adequately protect Lupus - or any of us - to a level I consider necessary."

"And instead your solution is to kill yourself with this?" she said. "It's Barrage, Kam, not a fracking obscura hit! Physiological resilience or not, you're looking at serious long-term damage if you keep insisting on full-dose hits for every potential combat situation!"

"Take it up with 'Gabe, then" he smiled, laconic. "He does seem to have a love for dangerous situations."

"Don't push this off on Lupus" she snapped. "You're the masochist who insists on putting himself into drug toxicity because of his own inferiority complex."

"And you're the pusher, feeding my performance habit" he sneered. "Grow up kid. A healthy body's useless to me if I've been ripped in half by a 'Purestrain. And I owe Lupus more than some rote-mimed virtuoso, when we're pinned down and dying out there."

"You'd think you owed him your life" she said.

"By law, custom and brotherhood" sighed Drang. "As, technically, do you."

"Yes, but..." she said, as she cleaned a strand of blood away from his lips, "you're different. Like the only thing that matters to you - with you - is keeping him alive. Keeping us alive. Like your whole damn life and worth revolves around your utility as a weapon."

"I'm not Cadian" snorted Drang. "Anyway bítch, help me up. I've made this joint untidy enough, and my vision's starting to come back."

"I told you to stop calling me that" joked Lupus, appearing from nowhere.

"And I told you to stop sneaking up on me, you goddamn jumped-up spook!" snarled Drang, revolver already drawn and cocked, causing the Planetary Guard to turn and look in frank askance at the barbarity of his speech. "It should not be possible - unholy sorcery aside - for a cripple to sneak up on a man still strung out on high-grade Barrage."

"Listen" said Lupus. "Now come here" he said, as he helped lift Drang to his feet.

"Listen to what?" muttered Drang. "The only sound preceding you, is the sound of foul pacts being made with unclean spirits", Lupus chuckling at his friend's recalcitrance.


"Well aren't we a sight" said Lupus. "The lame, leading the blind."

"Gabe, I may be blind" sighed Drang, "but you are pretty. I would survive in prison. You, would not be so lucky."

"They don't imprison psykers. Something about "risk to the fabric of the Imperium"" Lupus said. "We get torched instead."

"At least it's a warm death" said Drang, shuddering as another withdrawal spasm hit him. "Around here, that's going at a premium."

It wouldn't be fair to see Drang's first sight was of Emir. He saw a lot of things before her - the top of Lupus's head, the sweeping Imperial Crest laid across the floor in fierce, warm orange and gold, the positions and dispositions of the Planetary Guard, the sweep of the door, and the unceremonious entry of Emir into the room.

"You sent for me, father?" she said. She was tall - just under six foot, and though clearly court-untrained, she had a certain stoic regality to her, her pale, ethereal frame contrasting with dark hair, and a practical tunic-skirt that came to below her knees

"Yes, Emir" said Brovist. "Come here" he said. His daughter advanced with slow, cautious movement, up the dais to her father's throne. It was only the last few steps, when she broke into a slightly-awkward run, seizing her father in a tight hug, that Drang realized that she was really just a kid.

"Missed you Dad", he heard her whisper.

"Missed you too" murmured Brovist. "Missed you too.

The team exchanged looks that said the same thing. A mutual askance - this kid? Out there? With mutants, with renegades, and quite possibly worse yet, given the scale of the catastrophe afflicting the planet. Only Lupus remained calm, even as Faustin murmured an interrogative in Drang's ear, and Solomon stepped in to place a hand on his master's shoulder.

"There's some people you...you need to meet" said Brovist, his voice resonant with natural authority that brought a smile to Lupus' lips.

"Mm?" said Emir, reluctantly breaking the warm embrace of her father's arms, to turn and face the party for what it seemed like the first time.

"Emir...don't panic, okay?"

"Huh?" she said, eyes widening. Solomon and Drang shared another smile. First rule. Never tell someone not to panic. Best way to panic 'em.

"Don't fret, okay" said Brovist, though he was quite visibly disconcerted himself. "I brought you here to meet an old friend of mine. Emir, this is... ah, hell. This is Inquisitor Gabriel Lupus. He's responsible-"

"For putting you on the throne. I know" she said, brown eyes now wide open and staring at the party in a manner that was clearly on the verge of panic. "I also know what it means for me - for us - for the Inquisition to find out about me. Why did you bring him here father! Why bring me here, why!"? she cried, and Lupus visibly winced, as the psychic shock hit him.

"I have known for some time" he said, though the calm, rolling cadence of reassurance and warmth he had rehearsed, came out as a pained gasp. "Thank you Solomon" he said, as DeMarinaé stepped in to support him. God-Emperor, she was powerful - dangerously powerful. Epsilon-class at the lowest, and at only twenty standard years that was a truly dangerous combination.

"As I said" he began, as the feeling returned to his extremities and the needle-pain faded from behind his forehead. "I have known for some time, and I have been content to watch. Your father has provided for your training well, and kept you as informed as he could."

"I have not come to take you to the Black Ships, Emir, to death, or slavery. I have come to offer you - and I say offer, for I will not permit the unwilling to follow me - you a chance."

"What chance?" she said, cautious, half-hiding behind her father, despite the fact she was a good few inches taller than him. Father protects, thought Solomon, and throughout this girl's life there has been little her father could not protect her from.

"Two chances. Firstly, to get out there. See more of the galaxy than this palace, and Cetis Island. I can not promise you safety - but there will definitely be adventure. No Inquisitor is without that" he said, ruefully chucking. "But, before you commit to that, I must ask of you another thing."

"I'm offering you the chance to save this world."

[Rolling Thunder]

It took her only a moment to accept, stepping out from behind her father, and offering her hand.

"I'll do it. Or at least, I'll help you save Bellephron" she said. "Can I, uhm, defer the whole wandering around the galaxy and saving the Imperium thing until we've done that?"

"Absolutely" said Lupus, taking her hand with a smile. "It would seem the apple did not fall from the tree, Brovist. Your daughter has your mettle."

"Foolhardiness" quipped the Governor. "Sane people do not accompany Inquisitors to uncover unnatural disasters."

"Sane people do not conspire to overthrow corrupt officialdom and replace it with benevolent tyranny, and yet here you are" riposted Lupus, to which Brovist had no response, but to embrace his daughter again, wishing her farewell.

"Emir, this is Marisia, of the Sisters Hospitallar. Groll. My interrogator, Faustin-"

"Pleasure" said D'Varin, stepping forward to offer his hand.

"Captain Kamenev Drang, formerly of the Varangian Guard-"

"Kid" said Drang, with a nod and a cynical-if-warm half smile.

"And Sergeant DeMarinaé, of the Kai-Tann."

"Pleasure" Solomon intoned, tipping his head briefly."

"These are my companions" said Lupus "and if you don't like them, well... I have others" he joked.

"Only as long as we keep suppressing your enemies."

"Aye" snarked Faustin.

"That they do well" gestured Lupus, smiling ruefully, "and I probably do not deserve them" he said.

"Cut it out boss" Solomon said. "You'll start us thinking you're not the cold-hearted bastard the Inquisition expects of you."

"Seriously though" said Lupus. "They're a good bunch, an-"


Mid-sentence, his head snapped around, straight at the entrance. Lightning rose about him like the hackles of Cerberus, and his voice laced with psionic power, as he said one thing.

"Fúck."

The five-tonne gateway, made of adamant and reinforced, bolting, magnetically sealed and held in place, imploded, shrapnel scything into Lupus's hastily erected psionic barrier. From behind the smoke, and dust, hell poured forth.

Mutants of each and every kind - horned, cloven-hoofed, trailing tentacles and hideous, hook-clawed limbs, scuttling monsters that leapt and clung to the roof, glistening, multiple eyes tracking them, needle teeth and acid saliva dripping in anticipation of the kill.

Solomon, ever the professional, grabbed Emir and pushed her into Faustin's hands, shoving them into the corner and out of the line of fire, as he drew a bead, and, with contemptuous proficiency, began picking off the fast-movers, each heavy-bodied slug downing a mutie in a spray of viscera and shattered bone.

Drang, ever the monster, let out a screaming, booming howl more befitting a dragon than a man, even as the first flechettés were gouged great swathes of injured, dying mutants from the horde, liquid euphoria flooding his veins as the barrage half-life kicked into full gear, war drums sounding in his skull, as he emptied the revolver magazine into the onrushing nightmare.

"Reloading!" he cried, dropping to one knee to re-chamber the grenade launcher, even as Groll lumbered up, ripper gun burping flechetté rounds into the fog of war. The breach cleared, Solomon moved up, waving up a Guard section to cover the rear, putting rounds into anything resembling motion. For a moment, there was only the crackling sound of psychic energy, and the mocking, mad-dog laughter of Drang, unmasked, and howling bloody defiance into the breach.

A scream behind them, and a Guard man went down, a mutie tearing at his flesh and armour despite it's own innards draped about it's feet, until the snap-crack of a lasgun finished the duel.

"Marisia, up!" snarled Solomon, and the three of them advanced, drunk on bloodlust and hotwired adrenaline, killing without thought, covering her as she dragged the whimpering Planetary Guard man from the impromptu line.

The muties came again - hideous, ten-foot monsters, all hulking shoulder and grotesque, fanged maws, blind, hooded, hands replaced with motorized blades, not stopping even as Solomon put two eight-millimeter rifle rounds into one's skull, until Drang reloaded and finished it with a HE grenade.

"Back! BAACK!" screamed Lupus, as they all blazed away, backing up step by step. A plasma round went by, blowing open some hideous, six-limbed creature that was all mandibles and talons, and Governor D'Clemancau strode to the van, the warm glow of superheated energy lighting up as the antique weapon recharged, and fired once again, ionising two more fanged horrors.

"Here...and back again" quipped Solomon, as they re-crossed into the throne room.

Lupus fell with a scream, dropping to one knee, square in the face of the oncoming horde The barrier flickered for a moment, and D'Varin went down, a slow-moving pistol round hitting him square in the chest and dropping him to the floor, all the wind knocked from his lungs.

"Boss!" yelled Drang, aborting his withdrawal and dashing to Lupus' side, Solomon and Marisia covering with sporadic bursts of fire.

"Goddamn...Drang. Get out. They've g...psyker" said Lupus, blood and words oozing from clenched teeth, eyes white. "Can't...hold and....dammit man, save them and eva-"

"Oh go fúck yourself" snarled Drang, as he emptied his last grenade into the horde, leering as the white phosphorous burst wrapped yet more mutants in death, killing another six in a blaze of gunfire and tearing flesh as he drew his revolver. "Victory or Death, my dear Inquisitor!" he laughed, Solomon joining him even as the first flash of psychic fire burst against Lupus' defenses.

The rogue came out of the flames. A slight, bony man, he wore a simple tan pilgrim's cowl, the eight-pointed star emblazoned upon his chest. Sandals upon his feet, and his head bent, he seemed normal, everyday, save for the Chaos-tinted fire that burned at his fingertips.

Another blast of warp-fire, and Lupus shook, the concussive lash of the psychic duel knocking Drang to his knees, left eye filling with blood and inchoate, outraged fury. Peripherally, he heard Emir screaming, howling, sobbing in terror.

"Fúck" said D'Varin, clutching at his skull. "Breaking throughthey'rebreakingthroughKAMENEV!" he screamed, clutching Drang's ankle in a grip so tight he could feel the fingers press to the bone. "Breaking through. They're coming. Get out, out, out!"

"Oh..." Solomon began.

"Sweet God-Emperor" whispered Marisia. "They're-"

"Going to try and create a warp breach" breathed Drang, fury and abject, unreasoning terror mixing at an animal level.

Brovist recovered. "Men of Bellephron!" he cried, striding forward. "With m-"

"Oh can it, you're not Gaunt!", snarled Solomon, as he yanked the Governor out of the line of fire. "Get evaced! No- oh, good-God Emperor!" he blasphemed, as he saw Emir stand up, clearly preparing to try and defend them with her nascent psychic abilities. "DRAANG! Tackle he-thank you!" he cried, as Drang yanked the other scion of the D'Clemancau family away from catastrophe.

Emir whimpered in his arms, the blind, chemical aggression of his mind looming massive, laid against background of psychic war, and the teeming, snarling violence of the mutant horde waiting outside.

"You got balls kid" he said, or rather snarled, still awash with Barrage and malevolent, sadistic wrath. "No fúcking brains, but balls" he laughed. "Right now, though, the last thing we want here" he said, "is more psychic falloff, unless we want to get eaten-"

"I get it you bastard, now get off me!" she yelled, shoving ineffectually at him.

"Oh? Ah, sure" he said, letting her up. She shrank away from him, fear and panic now clearly visible in her eyes.

"Yeah, right now we...probably oughta evac" he said, as he knelt, watching fire and lightning crack between the two psykers. "It's getting hairy, and if the boss goes down, this guy is going to eat us all for breakfast unless we've some way of overpowering an energy shi....."

And with that, he was off, sprinting into the psionic fire, past his whimpering, agonized master, past his friend D'Varin, bleeding from the eyes, to the other side of the throne room, where Governor D'Clemancau sat with Solomon, watching the growing horror of a psychic apocalypse taking place before them.

"Governor!" cried Drang. "I'm pleased to announce, your daughter is as pig-headedly heroic than you are" he quipped, panting as he yanked the plasma pistol from his hip. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've a terrible heresy to commit" he finished, and was away, again, like night itself, flitting to the very centre of the entranceway, just behind Lupus' makeshift shield.

"Coolant array...out, new cell...charge regulator disabled" he said, systematically gutting the safety systems of that beautiful, antique pistol, a relic of a more advanced age unseen since the Emperor himself.

"Pro Victoria" he whispered, kissing the inlaid green-eyed opal, before he ramped the charge capacitor to maximum, adrenaline howling in his ears, and threw the weapon at the feet of the rogue.

It went nuclear. No boom, no roar, just the shattering, hyperionised whine of superheated air, as it detonated with all the incandescent fury of a miniature sun.


As the molten rock cooled, and the semi-collapsed roof stabilised, Captain Kamenev Drang picked across the ruin, the strewn mutant dead, the bodies burnt into the stonework by the flash, until he came across the rogue. He was alive - both legs flash-burned to nothing, and his body burned hideously, but alive. He choked, half-awakening as Drang's boot crushed his sternum, the concussion-bursts of snapping ribs running up his leg, as, with the wrenching, tearing sound of separating vertebrate, flesh parting like incarnadine cloth, Drang pulled his head off.

[Rolling Thunder]

From out of the smoke, he strode like the long-dead, antique God of the Eldar; his blood soaked hands raised above his head like a priest of Baal, eyes ablaze with the fires of war. The men watched him, retinue and bodyguards; protectors; soldiers; warriors; defenders of humanity and their own. Guardsmen.

He filled his lungs; and a single, shattering cry broke the silence. It had no words: just sound from a living, breathing chest, a primal shout, booming in the stone-raftered hall with pure, raging triumph.
They had won. Only Emir cringed away from him, his bloody, savage triumph too horrific for her sheltered mind to bear, the sense-flash of tearing flesh and bone in the ears, the fingertips, the palms, the hideous parody of tenderness that is to kill another bare-handed. The blood-taste, still fresh upon his lips, and above all, that unrepentant, exultant joy, in the killing of his fellow man.

Drang strode to Lupus, kneeling beside his old friend's prone form.

"Hey ol' man" he whispered. "We did good. We did damn good!" he snarled, as Lupus smiled up at him weakly.

"Huh...so we did" he murmured. "Now leave me alone; I'm stable, for the most part, but I am supposed to be...resting. Away with you, before Marisia savages you."

"Fine, you lazy git" he snickered, as the first reinforcements arrived: a group of young noblemen, bursting in through the landing platform door, comical figures in their robes of state and ceremonial laspistols, surviving mostly due to the outstanding discipline of the soldiers within, and the fact Drang and Groll had burned through their ammunition reserves. A moment passed, weapons lowered, and an awkward silence descended, as enthusiastic amateur and tired veteran met.

After an appropriate time had gone, it was Solomon who broke the silence.

"Cavalry's arrived boys" he said, soft-spoken and dry as the bone. Raucous, booming laughter, a mixture of mirth, relief, and a strange gratitude to these under-armed, dangerous amateurs, willing to risk their lives for Governor and Imperium.

"H'weh!" exclaimed one of the nobles, apparently their leader. "There's no need for that! We damn well climbed out to the landing pad to get here, and all you fellows can do is laugh at us!?"

"Relax kid" said Drang, though, in truth, the nobleman was likely older than he.

"Aye, Vhirahi, relax" spoke Governor Brovist. "We are merely relieved to be alive; and I appreciate your boldness. And your loyalty."

"Pretty" grunted Groll, eyeing the shiney, colourful robes of state.

"Well, uuuh" the one called Vhirahi said, flushed with pride and not-inconsiderable confusion at the ten-foot Ogyrn staring intently at his party. "Yes. I mean thank you, Sire. I mean, it was only our duty, uh..."

"Indeed. You, and your families, have my thanks" said Governor D'Clemancau. "Rest assured, I will- what is that infernal knocking?"

"I was trying to say Sire, I mean: That is Grandfather. We were merely to unsecure the door for the rest of us."

"Us..?" said Brovist.

"...most of House Steenhaur. And House D'veen. And House Lysse."

"You mean... most of the noble houses present...?"

"Indeed, sire. Please, if I may" he said, looking rather pained. "Only Grandfather was mentioning something about 'When he was in the Guard'. And something about a chemical called "Thyr-mite", which I believe-"

"Oh blast! Major, open the bloody door!" cried Brovist, looking considerably alarmed. The armoured frame swung open, and, emerging from it's cavernous depths, the cause of his concern became readily apparent. A tall, stiff-backed old man, clad in the dappled, sunrise-orange robes of House D'veen, stepped in. An old, well-pitted duelling sabre hung at his hip, and in his arms he cradled a jezzail as elegant as it was massive, filigrees of ebon and gold chasing twin Chimerae from stock to barrel-tip. A single, steel medal sat on his chest; The Honourifica Imperialis.

"Ave, Lord D'Clemancau!" cried the man. "It pleaseth House D'veen, that you live."

"It pleaseth House D'Clemancau that I live, too" deadpanned Brovist. "Your loyalty is, as ever, faultless, pleasing and only very slightly depressing in it's predictability."

"As you say, sire. While you may be a usurper, and worse yet, an administrator by nature, you are the sworn representative of Him-On-Earth upon this planet, and you thus have our loyalty" said the old man, as the rest of the nobles filed in. Most of them, Drang noted, were more poorly-armed than the heretics that had attacked previously, a few hunting weapons scattered amongst a mob of laspistols, duelling sabres, letter-openers and cutlery.

"Well met, you old reactionary" chuckled Brovist. "And all of you! Truly, it does me well to know I am so well respected, by people who should rightly, if this were any other planet, be plotting my overthrow. Thank you all."

As he said this, the mob of aristocrats began to disperse, mostly back to their quarters, though the old patriarch of House D'veen, and what appeared to be an entourage of relatives, remained, clustering around the old man.

"Like tenders about an Ironclad" mused Marisia, as she stood up from stabilizing D'Varin. Another few lines to that face, thought Solomon; it's a wonder she doesn't hate us all. We get to fight, to bleed, to die. She doesn't get that, beyond a few self-defense snaps of the laspistol. She gets the responsibility of our freedom; to watch us scream, and bleed, and die below her, and leave her holding our corpses where once where her friends.

"An Ironclad!?" barked the old man, his hearing considerably acuter than they had assumed. "I say, my good woman" he said, striding across to her as she sat back against a pillar. "You've seen an Ironclad?" he repeated, incredulous in wonder, at the mention of the antique warships, monstrous, super-capital class relics from before even the Dark Age of technology, armoured leviathans of such awesome scale, never before, or since seen.

"Well...no" said Marisia, looking slightly abashed. "I was merely commenting from my impressions of a painting; Sokk's Leviathan and Her Children.."

"Ah!" cried the old war-horse. "A splendid piece; truly, one of my favourites. No, even in all my long, long years of campaigning, I never had such a pleasure, as to see an Imperial Ironclad in flight. But still, to appreciate art so fine is a thing in itself" he said, a warm smile easing onto his features. "Might I ask thy name, fine lady?"

"Marisia, Hospitallar" she said, pulling off her blood-stained glove, and offering her hand to shake.

"Comitatensis Enkidau D'veen, Sister" he responded, taking her hand and kissing it, in courtly fashion. Despite herself, Marisia chuckled. "It is a pleasure."

"I'd bet" she snarked, and Enkidau guffawed at this, clearly pleased by her reaction. "Now, pray, excuse me" she said. "I must check my patients. Not all of us are so wealthy as to be able to spend all our time chasing women" she quipped, to renewed laughter from Enkidau.

"Ha, well played. And you, my good man!" he continued, striding up to Solomon whom, having finished organizing a perimeter, corralling the natural tendency of the Adeptus Arbites to arrest everyone present, in part by means of acerbically pointing out that the noble's contributions, while small, had been greater than those of the Lex Imperialis, and in part by pointedly gesturing to the Inquisitorial roseate pinned to his chest, was leaning against a column and sharing a well-earned cigarette with Major Vor, the House Guard commander.

"Sir!" said Solomon, the habits of a lifetime taking over, and he straightened up, saluting, though he did not remove the cigarette at any point.

"Pray, at ease sergeant" chuckled Enkidau. "It is a pleasure to meet you" he said, and the two fighting men shook hands.

"Sir" said Solomon, slumping down. Vor hadn't even bothered, his training having specifically removed any sense of loyalty, and much of the base civility he might have otherwise felt to Enkidau, and stalked back off to mind D'Clemancau, eyeing the assembled nobles with tremendous suspicion.

"Bah, damn revolutionaries" snorted Enkidau.

"...what?" said Solomon, a small swell of irritation bubbling to the surface.

"Oh, D'Clemancau's men" said Enkidau. "Pauper's sons, for the most part. Good soldiers - excellent, I must say - but fiercely devoted to him, and to his reforms. Their families have much tied up in his....liberalism" he said, with obvious distaste. "Loyal men, I am sure; but such is the nature of class. They loathe us, and we, as a whole, loathe them, the old and the new men."

"We were all new men once" observed Solomon. "When the God-Emperor walked amongst us."

"Aye. And may we all be again, when he walks with us once more" said Enkidau. "But until that moment, we will have our petty hatreds, our stupid squabbles and rifts, our idiot penny-robbing of one another we call politics."

"How pleased with it you sound" said Solomon, utterly laconic.

"Abjectly" returned Enkidau. "I was a soldier too, sergeant. I value merit more than anything, save Emperor and Imperium, but I find D'Clemancau's reforms...worrying. They upset the established order, too soon, too fast, and whom knows what the consequences may be. But that is nothing; he is Governor, the God-Emperor's agent here, and I must obey him."

"Uh huh" said Solomon.

"I shall leave you be, sergeant. Go well" said Enkidau, as he turned to Groll. The big Ogryn looked down at him.

"I hear you fight well!" cried Enkidau.

The Ogryn grinned.

"Good man, good man. Keep at it - we all need more good men like you!" he said again, and the massive Ogryn grinned wider, letting off a crude, but enthusiastic salute and a bellowed "SAH!" as acknowledgement. Enkidau appeared to be unaffected by this, despite being in close proximity to the brute.


Captain Kamenev Drang, having depleted all of his ammunition in the first engagement, had stowed his grenade launcher on Groll, ravenously consumed two ration-packs to fuel his overcharged metabolism, jammed a cheap, crapsack cigar beneath his teeth, and, knife in hand, had gone looting the dead for new weaponery. Having discarded most of the weapons as useless, primitive, lacking in firepower or too dangerous to be worth considering, he had finally settled upon a massive, ancient-looking heavy stubber, a hideous thing with twin, shrouded barrels, a monstrous drum arrangement, and best of all, chambered in standard 7x60mm Imperial ammunition. It was this prosaic glee he returned to the party, only to gawp in dumbfounded amazement as Enkidau wandered about his friends like...well...an officer.

"Are you for bloody real!?" he cried.

Enkidau rounded on him.

"Ha, and I should know a bloody Chem-Dog when I see one. Not had your fix yet, junkie?"

"You're a fine one to talk, brass hat!" snarled Drang. "Run out of your own men to send to their deaths, so you're scouting mine?"

"Ha!" cried Enkidau. "I like that. The insubordinate spirit of a born commando! No wonder you never made it past Captain! he said, as the two strode to a meeting, High Noon.

"My staff work was never up to much" Drang growled. "Too much time skulking in ditches, cutting throats and calling in fire missions, not enough time pushing paper."

Enkidau guffawed. "Fire missions, you say. Should've given it a try. Staff officers plot fire missions for armies, not batteries."

"Captain Kamenev Drang, 13th Independent Brigade." he said, thrusting his hand out.

"General Enkidau D'Veen, 4th Army Group, Salonika Crusade" replied the other, taking his hand.

"Pleasure. But really? All the fwah fwah, damn your eyes, I say-good man pip-pip? When the hell did you serve, with Macharius?"

"I wish; I may well have seen an Ironclad then. No, I was with Warmaster Demetrius; retaking S.11 cluster from the Orks. Fun little jaunt that was; only half a million men available. On a shoestring and a prayer, you might say" he said, smiling fondly.

"I like you more already" chuckled Drang. "Perhaps you're not Kubrik Chenhkov after all."

"Well, no, given I haven't been shot for usurping the chain of command and killing millions of my own men. Everyone seems to forget that part of the story" reminisced Enkidau.

"Anyway, much as I'd love to jaw with you, General" said Drang, "I must extricate myself from here. Mar! Is everyone stable enough to travel?"

"Aye Kam" she affirmed.

"Reet. Faustin! Call the Valk!" he cried.

"Aye Kam!" affirmed Faustin.


"Captain Drang", spoke Enkidau again. "Might I ask a favour?"

"A...oh god. This is never good" groaned Drang. "What?"

"Might I accompany you?"

A moment's silence passed, and, as Drang's drug-addled brain caught up with him, he blinked, once, twice, a third, and then opined.

"What."

"Might I, Captain Drang, accompany yourself, and your party?" said Enkidau. "No, no dear family, no!" he cried, as they started upon him with protestation and a great hue and concern. "No. Solar already administers our estates; I am no longer needed here. I no longer serve Him-On-Earth, clogging up space, eating fine food, and growing fat and senile in fine halls. It is a fine life for many, but it is not fit for I. I seek service once again, to expend my life, and my not-inconsiderable experience, in upholding this fine Imperium which I love so."

"Very noble" quipped Drang. "Governor! Can you attest to his loyalty?"

"He's failed to kill me so far" said Brovist. "And he's had the chance."

"Fine. Kid?" Drang said, turning to Emir.

"Uh?" she said, confused and blank-looking, sat atop the throne steps.

"We don't have anyone else psychic left, kid" said Drang, surprisingly gentle. "Check him out for me best you can."

"Uhm.... okay" she said, in a very small voice.

"Whom is she? asked Enkidau, curious.

"One of Inquisitor Lupus's proteges" said Drang. "Now stay still and don't make any sudden movements while she checks the inside of your head" he smirked, glorying in the second-hand power and the desperate, bolted-together improvisation of it all; the very essence of leadership and skill.

"Captain Drang...might I have a private word with you?" said Governor D'Clemancau, gesturing him aside. Drang followed.

"I understand the desperation of the situation, true, but...Captain" he said-soft, when they were quite alone. "Was it really necessary to use a ten-thousand year old relic...as an improvised grenade?"

Drang paused, checking his first response with a smug, full-predator smile, clenching his fists just to feel the dried blood crack and flake off them, delighting in the too-intense sensations, the smell of Brovist's relief, sheer, bolted-together nervousness, well restrained fear and...desire? Ha. The torn flesh still stuck under his fingernails; the cartridge burn on his left cheek, the pulled, strained muscles across his body, twinging in pain.

"Governor. I had two choices of sufficiently powerful improvised explosive" he said, eyes wide shut as he paused for dramatic effect. "Your pistol; or your daughter. I trust you preferred the former?"

Brovist D'Clemancau paused for a moment, flinching in his mind as he realized; the beast was not just a beast. The beast was a man; all that could become a man, and more.

After a while, he spoke.

"You're a deeply unpleasant man Kamenev Drang."

[Rolling Thunder]

A euphoric tug, and the Valkyrie lifted off. Two tonnes of metal, arcing upwards by the brutal grace of vectored thrust. Drang sat, half rocked to sleep by the turbulence, dozing as he listened to Solomon give Emir D'Clemancau the welcome to service induction.

"This, D'Clemancau" he said, pronouncing her name with flawless precision "is the Kantreal-pattern lasgun, Mark Four. It will be your standard longarm for any non-covert operations we carry out; so familiarize yourself with it. You have any experience with weapons?"

"Just my sabre" she said, indicating that unadorned, outstandingly well made weapon. "Oh, and I did some target shooting with laspistols, but that was a while ago" she said, uncertainty written clear on her face.

"Alright" said Solomon, smiling reassuringly. "Well, your lasgun isn't much different to that" he finished, as he handed it over to her. "Light, isn't she?"

"She?"

"All weapons are women. Do not ask why."

"It helps soldiers deal with the lack of real women" snarked Faustin, across the cabin.

"In which case, all creation must seem a woman to you" rejoined Drang, without opening his eyes. "Verily, the bounties of chastity and virtue" he concluded.

"Uh huh" finished Solomon, glaring at them both in a mixture of weariness and amusement, projecting the sensation had happened so many times before. "Anyway, D'Clemancau; Note the lightness. Note also, that, like your laspistol, firing does not produce recoil, nor a particularly noticable firing signature. Flight time is instantaneous. You just take aim, and pull the trigger."

"How unlike other guns" she quipped brightly.


She felt the stabs of irritation from the two professional soldiers before they had both fixed her with knowing, deadpan expressions.

"Uh..." she said, trailing off into silence, even if she did get the sense that the two of them were deliberately prolonging her agony.

"Because I am merciful, and my colleague here is tired" began Solomon, after sufficient amusement had been eked from her awkwardness, "you will be spared a long, fascinating and undoubtedly necessary instruction on the basics, and indeed the finer points of ballistics, from the factors affecting single-hit probability; ballistic drop, wind shift, projectile travel time, recoil-"

"-dispersion" interjected Drang,

"-thank you Captain; heat buildup, firing signature, defilade, energy loss, and other smaller factors."

Emir nodded again.

"So, be glad you have what is the easiest weapon in the Imperium to use. It will give you effective, rapid fire out to 300 yards at high power, and at under 50 yards it virtually guarantees a kill. Against Orks. Low power is best used to suppress. You are familiar with suppression?"

"I'm an aristocrat, not a moron" she said, disgruntled. Solomon chuckled quietly at her disgruntled frown.

"Emir" said Drang, softly. "This is the weapon of heroes. This is the iron wall around the human race. It was the speartip of Macharius. It was Creed's sword and shield. It is the true hammer of the Emperor. Billions of good men and not many fewer women have died holding it. Billions more have emerged, triumphant."

"Every planet taken, every battle won, every war won, every city held, every stronghold broken, every heresy rooted out, every last stand, every Forlorn Hope; was fought with this" he finished, just as gently as he'd began.

There was really nothing for her to say. The quiet, intense honesty of his words; the sheer sense of scale and antiquity that she had felt in his mind. More battles than anyone could count, on more worlds than any but the Emperor knew, across such time and distance that it defied comprehension. A galaxy at war, and at it's heart; it's bloody, close-quarters heart, where wars are won and lost, this weapon, and indomitable human courage it represented.

"You know" interjected Faustin, "the amount the boss indulges you two, it really does feel like this is just an extension of the Imperial Guard."

"We can't be Guard" deadpanned Solomon. "We're adequately supplied" he finished, to which Faustin let out a long-suffering groan and returned to his intelligence 'slates.

[Rolling Thunder]

The rain died slowly, poison water sheeting off the Valkyrie as she cleared the cloud zone, intakes closed and her engines on full rocket, until the aether had burned the last of the corruption from her wings, and the pilot opened the intakes and engaged the turbines, the gentle tug of the propulsion shift pulling the last, bitter knot of tension from Drang's shattered psyche, and down into sleep.

Feeling his drug-fragmented consciousness slip away, Emir shifted her senses outward to the cockpit. A cool, focused mind, unaugmented but by seamless instinct more akin to a raptor than a man, massive volumes of information passing through his senses intuitively, without thought or effort, as he banked her around and brought her in to land at the sprawling estate that served Gabriel Lupus as his base here.

"Oh, you commandeered the old Waaliand place?" Emir said, looking around.

"By the Authority of the Immortal Emperor of Mankind" quipped Solomon.

"Classic Imperial architecture" said Enkidau, approvingly. "One of the oldest buildings on-planet, and one of the toughest, too. I can't imagine the Dowager Countess was particularly welcoming."

"Actually, she isn't that dreadful" said Faustin, looking up from his datasets.

"Only because she likes you" Solomon replied. "There must be something about you which encourages mothering", which, Emir thought, was not entirely untrue. The quiet, patently civilian hacker was young; younger than even her, and despite the tremendous courage in his heart, was so beyond his depth the only light was the gleam of Jorumgandr's eyes.

"She's not that bad" said Marisia, not looking up where she was engrossed treating D'Varin's eyes. "And if she happens to look after Faustin, good. Makes a difference to the rest of you."

"Must have mellowed with age" Enkidau interjected. "Last I knew her, she killed what she mated."

"Only because she could tell you were more interested in her Imperial architecture than her person" snorted Emir.

"I... damn your eyes!" cried Enkidau. "What damn sorcery is this!?"

"Signs on with a psychic Inquisitor, is surprised by psionics" Faustin said.

The laughter silenced any response for several minutes.

"Didn't even need to" Emir said, voice still quavering with mirth. "Anyone who knows the dynastic politics of these inbreds knows he wanted this pile."

"Comitatensis Enkidau D'Veen, I believe an introduction is in order: Emir D'Clemancau, firstborn of Brovist D'Clemancau" Solomon intoned, with mock formality.

A moment's relative silence passed as Enkidau processed all the information.

"A psychic D'Clemancau. Oh good God-Emperor have mercy on us all" he sagged. "What next, I suppose? Does the good Inquisitor keep Twistscum as pets?"

Drang blurred. A singularity of movement and aggression, the shattering report of a combat knife burying through the bulkhead, an inch from D'Veens' caroteid mixed with Emir's terrified scream, primal hate magnesium hot in the cabin, ripping his face apart in an inhuman snarl.

"Yes, he does" snarled Captain Kamenev Drang, speaking human tongues from behind wrath-blind, black eyes, and, as the Valkyrie banked for it's final pass, he gestured, out, to the dozen beetle-black orbital gunships, sitting on the palatial lawns of the Waaliand estate, and the troopers of his lost, half-betrayed Varangian Guard, watching his return.

"For we make excellent attack dogs."

[Rolling Thunder]

"Command?" queried Drang, to D'Varin.

"Oh, God-Emperor, I was afraid you'd ask that question" said D'Varin. "Local command is down to you, because, functionally, I, and the Inquisitor Lupus, are going to be sitting in a hermetically med-chamber being treat for psionic afterburn. You may assume local command, Drang. Not that you'd ever obey me anyway, you bloody savage."

"Don't be so sure, kid" Drang said, drawing the pause out just enough for emphasis. D'Varin merely chucked; the irony being that he, at twenty-three standard, was a good year older than Drang. The Valkyrie set down, and disgorged it's cargo. As the engines flared down, and Drang and Enkidau parted ways in murderous silence, Emir walked out, extending her second sight out, tasting the air. There was Drang, dying anger stuck in his throat, bitter and alien as cadaver flesh. Solomon, smooth, glass, steel and flowing water, the easy nature of a career NCO, administering, ordering, instructing, suggesting, fixing, plucking everyone's burdens from their shoulders; Marisia's medical kits, new flaks for Groll and Faustin, working out an appropriate backup weapon for Enkidau; a hundred small things, like water on metal, flowed from his easy smile and quiet authority.

Marisia... steel again. Steel cable, thin and fraying in places, holding the unimportant details in place as she monitored Lupus' vitals.