The pilot is nervous. No, more than that, he is terrified. You can see it in his trembling hands, hear it in his quiet prayers, smell it in the rancid sweat that beads his brow. He fears for his life, for his immortal soul, for things he cannot quite put into words yet which seem all too important here, in this one brief moment. Perhaps it is because of you that this fear exists, for certainly you are a figure of awe and terror to any pious man, and you did just commandeer his shuttle by force of arms and personality a scarce handful of moments.
Or perhaps it is because of the Sororitas standing at his back, with chain-blade thrumming gently in her hand.
"We… we are coming up on the fleet now, my lord," the man says in a ragged, half-present voice, burying his mind as best he can in the comforting routine of piloting this shuttle to its destination, "Where… would you like me to land?"
"Follow the other ships in, pilot," you say patiently, studying the view through the armoured screen at the shuttle's prow with some interest, "Take me to where the other… press-gangs… are landing."
The Imperial Navy has always been an independently-minded organisation, in your experience. Something about their duty, the places it takes them and the experiences that it grants them, seems to imbue in every Naval officer of significant rank a kind of… benign disregard for the status and authority of more planetbound figures, as well as the trials and tribulations that they might be undergoing. The Navy cares about the Navy, and anything else is valued only to the degree that it contributes
to the Navy.
The void above Sanguis is no exception to this policy. Go anywhere within the planets orbit and you will find stations, beacons, trade ships and produce haulers, the myriad forms of industrial infrastructure necessary for your economy to function without disturbing the reliquaries and sacred places on the surface itself. Anywhere, that is, save for the moon of Solus and its surrounding space. Here the Navy rules directly, the area ceded to their administration by ancient treaty, and it is here that anyone not in their good graces dare not come without being shot down by a intimidatingly large number of patrolling gunships and weapon emplacements.
Solus itself is a polished rock of pale white, a pupiless eye that stares down from the night sky over your world, valued more for the anchorage of its gravity well than any particular property or use of the surface itself. Craters and ravines play host to small cities turned over to manufacturing and storage, connected by slender towers to a ring of docking bays and shipyards that hang suspended in the lifeless void above. That view alone is impressive, a monument to mankind's industrial mind and military will made manifest in adamant and light, but it strikes a faded shadow compared to the glory of that which it was forged to best support.
Imperial warships are akin to the factories and cathedrals that they are set to guard, whole city blocks torn free from the bedrock and set amongst the stars by the will of some divine hand. They are mountains with the minds of hunting cats, prowling the void on trails of burning plasma, and each of them carries within its decks enough firepower to scour whole continental plates of life.
There are rather more of them in evidence than you were expecting.
"New arrivals, I suppose," you murmur thoughtfully, "that would explain the lack of communication…"
The Sororitas at your side turns her head towards you, the sealed ceremite helm obscuring all expression from your view. "Holy One?"
"The fleet, Sister," you say, gesturing at the collection of monsters hanging in the void above your world, "It is not a local one, but nor is it here because of me. Likely other business brought them here, and with need of fresh crew their commander saw fit to contact the local authorities for permission to conduct a press gang. Not intending to remain for long in the aftermath, he saw no issue with ignoring the refusal and taking what he wanted."
The Sister considers this for a moment, and you realise such things are probably somewhat outside of her experience. As a Cardinal you have by necessity gained an understanding of and experience with the many and varied polities that make up the greater Imperium and attending Adeptus, but what use has a Battle Sister for such an education? Likely she has been trained simply to obey the orders granted to her and, when in doubt, to fall back on the catechisms of her faith.
...you will need to look into fostering some kind of improved educational system for your people in the future. A human soul is worthy of more than the mono-focused task granted to a cog in some great rumbling machine.
"I see," she says at last, "Does this change anything?"
Your hand clenches into a fist, and across your back your barely sealed wounds lend an urgent edge to your thoughts with a swell of burning pain.
"Oh, not in the slightest," you say with a humourless smile, "To take the faithful by force, and make a mockery of my protection? I am going to destroy them for this."
Your pilot guides you in as instructed, a series of increasingly routine vox calls going back and forth between him and the coordinators stationed on the ships ahead, and with casual familiarity your transport is guided smoothly into line with the hundreds of others already on the move. Your destination is, it seems, a particularly large and impressive looking ship by the name of Toth's Revenge, and while you do not have the understanding of Naval designs to speak to its qualities your hijacked crew are quick to confirm that it is indeed the flagship of this makeshift fleet.
The docking bays studded along the ships flank grow from pinpricks of light to great caverns of steel and rubber as you grow closer, a thin membrane of crackling energy washing the hull in static as you pass through from the void beyond. Gantries criss-cross the open space, playing host to a small army of armsmen and minor officials, and even as your shuttle sets down teams of menials in jumpsuits stained with oil are scurrying forwards to attend to the post-flight checks. You have no mind for any of that, however, for instead your gaze is focused instead on the milling crowd of pilgrims and citizens you can see being assembled at one end of the chamber, watched over with vigilance by several squads of heavily armed soldiers - the new intake, plucked from their lives and homes by the will of the Imperial Navy and now lost and abandoned amid the stars.
With murmured imprecations against cruel tyranny in all its forms you leave the shuttles command deck behind, returning to the transport hold and the heavy access hatch beyond. The remainder of your escort waits for you there, a full dozen Sororitas glad in silver plate of such purity that it seems incongruous next to the industrial grime of their purloined transport. They fall in behind you without a word, readying their weapons and trading remarks hidden but for the soft click of their vox-systems turning on and off, and together you make for the rear hatch.
It swings open before you can reach it, baptising you in a wave of stifling air and the choking miasma of thrice-refined promethium, enough to make a man less used to clouds of incense choke and stumble. There is an armsman on the far side, a broad-shouldered thug with shaven scalp who leers at the interior of the hold for precisely as much time as it takes his eyes to adjust to the gloom and his mind to process what he is seeing. Then he yelps like a starled beast and topples backwards, scrambling away across the decking. You shoot him a disdainful glance as you pass, the robes of a simple pilgrim swirling around you as you stride across the deck.
"Discipline aboard the Revenge is of paramount importance," someone is saying… ah, there, an officer stood atop a small pile of crates near the outer limits of the milling crowds, his uniform of deep blue and black marked with the tiny handfuls of decorations allotted to one of meagre rank. "You are crew of the Imperial Navy now, and your obedience is both required and expected. Should you harbour thoughts of defiance or rebellion, know that any resistance to my lawful orders shall be met with the summary execution of not merely yourself, but the three crewmen nearest to you at the time. Furthermore…"
"
You will be silent."
Your words are echoing from the furthest walls of the landing bay before you have even had time to understand what it is you are speaking, but as silence falls and incredulous gazes are turned your way you know better than to leave such a statement unsupported. A thought has the Emperor's light blazing within your mind, filling your veins with fire and bleeding out into the world beyond in a corona of golden light.
"
What wretched tongue spills its poison so freely?" You proclaim as you advance, the thunder of your words echoed by the harsh clattering of your escort's armoured boots on metal floors, "
What vile heart would dare presume to command the obedience of my flock in contravention of the Emperor's will?"
The officer is a young man, and like all young men he is a creature of pride and ego just barely constrained by subjugation to the call of greater duty. You do not know which of those drives it is that leads him to harden his heart towards you, but harden it he does, stepping forwards to bar your path even as he pulls a heavy sabre from its position at his belt.
"I do not know who you are, citizen," he says, a faint quaver of fear in his voice as he tries to make sense of the sight before him, "but speak to an officer of the fleet in such a tone again and I will cut you down for the presumption!"
This, as it turns out, is something of a mistake, for you are escorted and the Sororitas have never been a particularly subtle instrument. No sooner have the words of threat and defiance left the officer's mouth than the nearest of your guardians is raising her bolter in reply, and in a thundering boom the danger to her charge ends in an explosion of gore.
Flecks of bone clatter against the deck like so much rain, and you are forced to hide a wince behind a mask of righteous wrath. You would not have chosen to overcome your obstacle in such a fashion, but the very nature of relying on bodyguards and subordinates is that they must by definition rely on their own judgement. To reprimand her now would undermine the stunned awe that is keeping the several other squads of attendant armsmen in shock, and so you choose instead to simply step forwards and address the crowd of harvested faithful.
"Fear not, my children," you say, allowing the thundering roar to fade from your voice as you look upon their tear-stained faces, "I have not forsaken you, and though you have been cruelly treated, I shall soon see this injustice remedied."
Near the front of the crowd, a young boy smiles brightly at you, his brilliant white teeth a flash of purity among the grime of the crowd. He tugs at the sleeve of the man by his side. "See, papa? I told you the Saint would come for us!"
The man, who you can only assume to be the boys father, merely nods his head in shaky silence. You are all too familiar with the look of a man too overcome by emotion for his pride to permit him words, and so after a brief glance over the rest of the crowd you turn away and look for the nearest crew of any significant worth. You find her among the ranks of the armsmen, a massive shotgun in her arms and a strip of fabric to denote her rank tied across one muscular bicep. There is fear in her eyes as she feels your attention brought to bear.
"Armsman - I would have words with the fool in command of this vessel," you say, trying not to notice how the worth of your soul has turned this entire scene into a collage of light and shadow, "how do I reach the bridge from here?"
"I… you…" the armsman stutters, her eyes darting from your imposing countenance to the faceless killers at your back, "You can't, my… lord? The door, that is the lift, it… you need the authorisation codes, and we…"
You nod, dismissing her with a wave of the hand as you turn to regard the far wall of the bay and the reinforced portals set within. Some strange insight tells you that none present within the bay will have the authority to open a route all the way to the vessel's bridge, for the powers and duties of the officer corps and strictly divided and there would be no need for one of such rank in such a lowly posting. Doubtless you could communicate with whoever occupies the next ring in the chain of command and methodically work your way up the ranks until at last your goal was within sight, but that would take time that you do not wish to spend. You are here to chastise the Imperial Navy for their callous disregard, and to move within the bounds of their self-proclaimed authority would not be in line with that intent. Fortunately, there is another way.
No one within the bay has the authority to grant you what you seek. No one mortal.
"
Toth's Revenge," you say, setting the deckplates quivering with the weight of your words, "
I would have audience."
For a moment there is silence… and then, with a great scraping of chains and the shriek of metal upon metal, the ship replies. Heavy spotlights mounted overhead swivel in their mounts to bracket you in light, and the vox-horns on every wall squeal with sudden feedback. The deck melts before your eyes, a great circle some thirty foot wide glowing red and running like water even as the onlookers scatter in all directions, and from within its depths comes the growl of an angered beast.
You fold your arms behind your back and wait.
The thing that emerges is not quite a bird, though its wings are covered with crystal feathers and its limbs tipped in brazen claws. It is not a reptile, though its hide is scaled and etched with litanies of murder that mark the death of nations. It is not a daemon, though the air steams around its flanks and the less educated scream in horror at its appearance. It is not a man, though its burning red eyes hold the will and intellect of one far superior in wits to any mortal. It is all of these things and none, a mad conglomeration of features taken from a thousand different species and welded together in one enormous shape, and when it settles on the deck before you the size of its monstrous frame drowns the bay in shadow.
"
Scion," it says, and bows, "
What would you have of me?"
The Imperial Navy has transgressed, and now it must be chastised appropriately. Choose a means by which this end shall be pursued.
[ ] Usurpation - Command the spirit of the ship and take away that which the Admiral believes is his by right. When he humbles himself before you and acknowledges his own transgression, you will consider the possibility of forgiveness.
[ ] Retribution - You will go to the Admiral on the bridge, and there in his place of power you will demonstrate the folly of his callous disregard. He will be broken, body and will, before you are done, and only then will you reforge him into a true servant of the Emperor.
[ ] Judgement - Life for life, and death for death. Slay the Admiral for his sins, and by the Emperor's own right claim dominion over this fleet. No longer will you tolerate the instruments of the Imperium to operate contrary to your will.
[ ] Write in
