The Inquisition. For many in the Imperium, it is a body to be feared, to be treaded lightly around, to pray to the God-Emperor that none of that secretive, shadowy body might ever take note of their miniscule lives. For a select few, however, they are altogether more familiar with the Inquisition than most people consider to be healthy. They are acolytes to the Inquisitors, those who have, for whatever reason, been seen to have some skill of use to those who maintain the purity of humanity within the Imperium.
Recently recruited by Inquisitor Andrea Moth, the core of her newest warband has been gathered in the tempestuous Calixis Sector. Arriving by various ways and means, they have been called on this date, at this time, aboard the merchantman of a Rogue Trader whom Moth has secured the services of, and the acolytes await the arrival of the Inquisitor in one of the dark, baroque conference rooms of the rogue cruiser Albion.
The new acolytes have not met each other before this hour, nor have they directly met their patron Inquisitor. All they know -- judging by the boistrous set of merry miscreants and ne'er-do-wells that crew the Albion -- she seems to certainly be unconventional as far as her choices of agents go.
The conference room has a vaulted ceiling, lending a faint echoing quality to the room. Beyond that, the room is rich with banners and odds and ends gathered from what are doubtless the furthest reaches of the Imperium and beyond. The tapestries on the wall are of various makes and styles, some clearly human, some not so human, some clearly xeno, and some... strange.
The first to arrive is the ginger-haired voidborn named Spike, followed shortly by a Tech-Priest, the berobed, forboding figure of a member of the Cult Mechanicus
Spike has settled cross-legged in an out of the way chair, and silently watches the Tech-Priest enter. Being an easily overlookable person, it doesn't occur to Spike to draw attention to himself... especially in regards to a Tech-Priest. His hunting rifle is almost as tall as he; it leans against the chair next to him, and he's got one arm looped about it with casual possessiveness.
Cat looks around the room as she enters, gaze slipping over Spike, registering him as being in the room and then moving on to some of the stranger tapestries.
Another person enters, a tall and spare-built man with fair hair worn short and swept in a fashion that was popular on Scintilla Secundus a decade and a half ago, wearing a uniform of some sort; high polished boots, trousers and a tunic suggestive of the Imperial Guard-- one of the more civilized detachments of it anyway-- although void of any decoration or insignia save for blank silver collar tabs. He wears a boot-cut cloak over it, fringed at the collar in something dull-grey and feathery. He glances at one occupant, then the other... then straightens his uniform tie quietly and sits at the far end of the conference table, without a word.
Spike glances around and sighs softly, wondering why they're here. Still... not dead yet.
Not long after all three have arrived, the door opens again, and a husky, athletic figure wearing an elaborate greatcoat of black with dull gold-thread trim enters. Carrying a cane, with a short mop of white hair and a single red-lensed bionic eye, the Inquisition skull-and-I upon a torque belies who this person must be: Inquisitor Moth herself.
Spike stands quickly and silently for the Inquisitor's entry.
The cloak rises at once, hands folded in front of himself.
The Tech-Priest's black hair is cut bristle-short, easily showing the outer parts of the cranial circuitry. Her respirator unit is of some dull metal and hugs close to her jaw. She turns at the Inquistor's arrival, hands folded behind her back.
She looks upon the three, politely but neutrally, holding each's gaze for a moment, before saying, "As of this day, you embark upon the never-ending war to protect the Imperium and humanity. This is not a trivial thing I ask of you, service to the Inquisition. You will be tested every step of the way, and not always by the enemies of the Imperium.
"In time, your opponents may be those who think they pledge themselves to the Adeptus Terra, but who are deluding themselves and are harming it from within. But not yet. I have no wish to throw my newest acolytes into such a crucible, not without testing them myself first. And have no doubt, that I will test you to your limits. Because neither I, the Inquisition, nor the Emperor can afford to have anything less than the best."
Moth folds her hands behind her back. "Do any of you have any questions before I detail your first assignment?
The cloak remains expectantly silent.
Spike glances curiously at the other two, but shakes his head once. It's never been his experience questioning Inquisitors is wise. He just stands quietly: a short man in a black bodyglove with a slate gray half-cloak and a long gingery braid down the back.
Cat considers carefully for a moment, to make sure she's certain she has no questions and then she remains quiet.
Moth nods. "Very well. Let me begin to inform you of your fellow acolytes and cell-members." She indicates the Tech-Priest. "We are honored by the provision to our ranks by the Cult Mechanicus of Tech-Priest Zethina Fenria. What one devoted to the Machine God can provide is, I hope, obvious.
"Mordecai Jhagatai, whom I have asked to join us for his skill with a weapon.
"And Lionus Havelock, sanctioned psyker. I will leave it to you to formulate combat formations and allocation of duties suited for your group's abilities. There may come a time when you will be joined by others, but be honored, for you are the core of my cell in Calixis Sector.
Havelock inclines his head, acknowledging. "Inquisitor."
Spike gives a small half-bow to the Inquisitor, then glances curiously at the other two.
Moth touches keys upon the table, and a trio of tapestries slides noiselessly up into the darkness of the vaulted ceiling. Upon the vid-screen revealed, green-tinged light comes to life, forming a hazy image of a planet. "This is Vaxanide. It is a pastoral world, the center of population being centered on the capitol-hive of Vaxanhive. The rest of the world alternates between pastoral agriculture and, mostly, untamed wilderness. The nobles of it hold aspirations to a higher position within Sector politics, but they have been stymied for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is their distance from the sector capitol."
She steeples her fingers before her, her expression darkening a little. "There have been a string of... attacks on the outskirts of the hive. The nature of these attacks are that of some sort of wild beast. I have been assured by Lord Vaxanide, titular commander of the world, that the attacks are under control and will shortly cease, but my sources inform me that the problem is deeper than he understands. Normally I would simply commandeer troops from his local garrison and deal with the situation myself, but I must attend to other matters in this sector for the time being.
"You will go planetside immediately, and investigate and deal with the problem. You will go to the province of Morgansburg, on the outskirts of the hive, which appears to be the epicenter of the attacks when they started several months ago. The Lord has deployed his House troops to secure those parts of the hive which have seen these attacks, but I do not believe these to be the root source of the problem.
Moth folds her arms. "Do you have any questions so far?"
"Outskirts," Havelock says. "Under or middle-hive?"
Cat shakes her head, peering carefully at the image of the planet, then turns her attention to Havelock.
Moth says, "Outside the hive. Morgansburg is a small community of rurals, who provide mostly to the fishing industry of the planet. My sources tell me that they are a simple folk, unimpressed by the 'sophistication' of Vaxinide's nobles, but they are Emperor-fearing people."
The psyker makes a disgusted little noise in the back of his throat. "I bet they are."
Cat cuts her eyes toward Havelock and then back to the Inquisitor. She's done well to keep her hands still during the entire conversation.
Spike watches silently, not sure what the Inquisitor means by 'sophistication.' Slackers, maybe?
Moth makes a wry smile. "Hmm," is all she replies to Havelock's comment, before turning back to the screen. "I am bothering myself with this because one of my sources on the planet has gone silent, and I believe the attacks are connected to that disappearance. I am also informed that the chirurgeons of Vaxinhive are trying desperately to conceal their involvement, but have failed if their goal was to keep me from noticing. I suspect some sort of heresy." She turns back to the group. "You have my leave to deal with the issue as needed, short of declaring the community Excommunicate Traitoris. If by a few casualties you can resolve this satisfactorily, you will have my approval and consent." Her lips quirk. "And yes, this is a test of sorts, but the attacks are real, and the lack of information is real."
Spike nods interestedly, rather eager to get started.
"You just want to see if we can do this without setting the place on fire," the psyker offers, with a lopsided little smile. "And someplace where nobody's going to give the Emperor's own toss if we do."
Spike gives the psyker a faintly surprised look, then casually makes sure there's plenty of distance between him and the psyker.
The Tech-Priest nods at Havelock's comment, "You can't test things in a vacuum or your results will be flawed." She thinks for a moment, "Unless what you're testing is meant to be used in a vacuum."
Spike grins silently at that -- nothing wrong with the Void as far as he's concerned. He slings the rifle and waits to be dismissed.
Moth looks at Havelock. "Sometimes, Exterminatus is neccessary -- and I have so ordered such in the past -- but the power of the Inquisition must needs be wielded like a vibro-scalpel more often than it is wielded like a boltgun -- or a cyclonic bomb. Putting Morgansburg to the torch will make me... quite interested in your debriefing. As a start." Still looking steadily and penetratingly at Havelock, Moth nods at Cat's words. "Indeed. And some Inquisitors devise intricate tests and scenarios for their acolytes. But none of us have time for such games. There is a universe of heresy and evil waiting to destroy humanity, and a limited number of Inquisitors... and Acolytes."
She looks at everyone again, appraisingly. "If you have no further questions, Albion's shuttle will take you to the spaceport on Vaxinide. Do not hesitate to contact me via astropath, but since the astropath resides in Vaxinhive, expect there to be some comment or even challenge from Lord Vaxindre's people, if not attempts to prevent such."
Spike nods again, making mental notes. Hostile environment, possibly actively... "discouraging" people, new and unknown team to work with: check. Should be interesting! He grins -- the team will either pull together or it won't. He knows where he'll be.
Havelock flashes her his crooked grin again, and looks away, shaking his head. "Going to take some getting used to. Alright then, to work."
Spike gives Havelock a curious glance, wondering what the psyker needs to get used to... then glances at the Tech-Priest. Is she going to need adjustment time too?
Moth nods. "Very well, then." She sets three tubes upon the table. They are scroll-tubes, with the seal of the Inquisition on the end-caps. "These are letters of introduction and the writs confirming you as my acolytes in service to the Inquisiton. They are not Inquisitorial seals, but they should make some doors open if need be. Use them wisely. The Emperor's blessings be upon you all." And with that, she turns, and strides from the room, the door sliding shut behind her.
It's not until the door is completely shut that Cat moves forward to pick up one of the scroll tubes.
Spike raises an eyebrow... then slides noiselessly forward. One of the tubes vanishes under his cloak, and he grins at the others, "Call me Spike." He turns and heads for the door, whistling softly.
The psyker picks up one of the scroll-tubes, then reaches under his uniform tunic for a chrono on a silver chain. He glances at it, quirks his mouth to one side. "I'll be down to the shuttle deck in... five minutes. I need to speak to the Captain. The superstitious bastard has my arms."
Spike pauses at the door, glancing back puzzledly, "Once more there, Havelock?"
"My arms," he repeats himself. "The Captain refuses to let a psyker go about armed on his ship. I'm going to retrieve my things, and I'll join you shortly."
The Tech-Priest says, "I am most often called Cat." She says it absently, which is odd with the metallic tone of her voice. Her own scroll tube goes beneath her robes and there's a quietly metallic thunk as it bumps against something beneath the clothing.
Spike says, "Why's that?" He nods to the Tech-Priest while still curiously watching the psyker, the words running together, "Howdyado, Cat?"
The psyker shrugs, closing his watch and tucking it away again. "Perhaps he thinks I shall be Warp-ridden at any moment and run amok shooting holes in the hull."
Spike snorts amusedly at that, then shrugs and turns again, "Meet you both at the shuttle then," as he's pulling the door open. He slips silently out.
Cat looks pained at the thought, "That would be a true shame." She turns back to the tapestries, taking up the study of the one she was examining when the Inquisitor arrived.
To that, Havelock only says as he departs, "If I were Warp-ridden for true, the hull would be the least of anyone's worries, I assure you."
Spike mutters under his breath, "That's the truth!"
The hangar deck is easily found, and a rustbucket of a shuttle is waiting for them. When Havelocke arrives, the shuttle pilot wastes no time in getting the three boarded and seated, and with a rather wild spin the shuttle corkscrews away from the rogue cruiser where it sits at far orbit from Vaxanide, dropping down to the muddy grey-and-green planet below.
The spaceport outside Vaxanhive is a typical affair, rain-washed permacrete, a faintly unwholesome smell of engine exhaust and spilled fuel, grimy metal walls and containers. Less than a mile away is the huge, towering spires and massive onion-shape of Vaxanhive, reaching at least a mile into the brown-hazed sky.
Spike sighs softly as they land, wishing they could have spent a bit more time upside. Mud-slogging isn't his favorite thing.
Havelock gives the hive over his shoulder one last look, then up at the sky... he glowers and pulls his hood over his head with a muttered curse. "Macharius' balls. All right, let's be on about our business."
Spike says, "Ye know where we're supposed to go?"
Cat looks disapprovingly at the shuttle, but she doesn't speak of it. Not yet, in any case.
"We should start with the household commander in charge of the cordon. He's going to discover we're here eventually, and we may as well avoid complications. He might be able to provide us with a crime scene-- or a victim. From there we can speak to the village hetman, whoever he might be-- and possibly follow up on whatever this chirurgeon connection is."
Since Havelock has some appearance of a plan, Cat seems inclined to follow along with him.
Spike nods, looking pleased, "Sounds good t'me. Lead the way then... they lay things out weirdly here, and I never know where to find folk."
"Down, then. We'll have to find our own transport. Perhaps we can trade a lift for our associate's maintenance rites. I'm sure there's some Throne-forsaken vehicle out here in need of attention." He pushes his cloak back, sliding a scabbarded sword through a frog on his belt. "Emperor only knows why anyone would choose to live under the open sky in the first place."
Spike gives Havelock a surprised look... then grins, sliding a thumb under his rifle's carrying strap, "Yeah!"
"There are no doubt many machine-spirits in need of soothing in such a place." That seems to be Cat's way of saying she would be willing to make such a trade.
Spike grins, speeding up to keep up with the taller two.
Havelock straightens his tunic, striding toward a people-mover. "You can expect that sort of thing out here," is all he can really say to that, not really knowing the Machine God from a cogitator. "Meanwhile, I'm sure I don't need to tell either of you that we needn't advertise the presence of a psyker here. I'll be precious little good to your investigation while I'm fleeing a mob."
Spike snorts amusedly, "Nah, don't want to do that -- I'd have to follow!"
Cat says, "I would have no wish to be associated with someone that was mob-chased.."
The cordon headquarters is set up at the nearby railway station, which is fortunately covered; as with most things Imperial, it appears to have been taken over for the purposes of the household regiment. Lord Vaxinide's household guard appears to be typical Imperial Guard, at least in equipment; their camouflage is mostly an urban digital pattern with green and lighter green hues. There is quite a bit of bustle, as it appears at least one company is being loaded aboard an armored train, massive autocannons jutting without elegance from the turrets.
At the gates to the terminal, a burly sergeant in charge of a squad holds up his hand as the group approaches. "'Ere now, none are 'lowed in th' station. Colonel Braddok's orders."
Havelock pushes his scroll tube into the hand. "Read this."
Cat says, "I would have no wish to be associated with someone that was mob-chased.."
The sergeant looks warily at Havelock, before acepting the scroll tube. A few lines in, he goes pale. "Em'per'r 'bove...." He hands the tube back to Havelock. "Th-th' Colonel's over at th' train engine, Suh, seein' to th' departure 'raingements!"
"Good man," the psyker nods. "This way? Thank you."
Spike grins at the sergeant, touching a fingertip to his temple in cheerful salute as he hastens after Havelock.
Cat simply continues to follow along, pale eyes slipping here and there, examining the machines she can see. The Tech-Priest has folded her hands into ther sleeves.
The rail-cruiser is unusual in the Imperium, but on a world like Vaxanide it's useful as a mobile base of operations and a helpful show of force, especially since superheavy tanks would be too expensive for such a world to maintain. Autocannons, lascannons, and missile launchers dot the sides of the long armored train. At the front, several troopers are setting up armored cars with steel wheels for running on the tracks to serve as scouts. The Colonel is impossible to miss, a broad-shouldered man, so short as to be almost abhuman, but with a pair of hand cannons in worked-leather holsters and huge gold epaulets. He barks orders to the junior officers, who hop to it rapidly, but it's soon clear that the Colonel is simply making people jump to keep them moving; an enginseer is already tending to the locomotive carriage with various regimental vehicle drivers.
If that wasn't enough, the tall and almost skeletal commissar standing beside him would almost serve as a regimental banner pole himself. The commissar looks on the proceedings like a hawk, seeming to pick out any malingerers or even the hint of slackers. Thus, it is the commissar who notices the three approaching immediately. He seems to barely lean down and just barely murmur something to the Colonel, getting Braddock's attention and having the Colonel turn his full attention to the three approaching people. "Who are ye," he shouts, "And what are ye doin' 'ere, this is a restricted area!"
Spike grins, recognizing the type. He doesn't answer -- Havelock seems better at this than he is.
Havelock pushes his cloak back, striding a few steps forward, "Colonel Braddok, I presume. A moment of your time." He offers the scroll-tube end-on, so that Braddok can see the skull-and-I of the Inquisitorial rosette on the cap.
Spike's hands slide under his short cloak and he glances around inquisitively to see who's near them and what cover is nearby.
Braddock doesn't even accept the tube, only looks at the seal and nods. "Well, then," he says simply and with seemingly enforced calm. He clears his throat. "A'course we'll be helpin' ye tae th' best o' our abilities. But 'less ye'll be commandeerin' th' regiment, ye'll understand if I'm a busy man seein' as we have a rail-cruiser full o' troops setting out soon. But I can assign one o' me officers to 'elp you wit' anythin' ye need, aye?
Spike raises a thoughtful eyebrow at Braddock's reaction. Interesting that the Colonel doesn't seem at all nervous about the symbol on the scroll tube. Pissed, maybe -- but not fear. He makes a mental note to mention that to the others later.
"Information will suffice," Havelock says. "I understand you're a busy man. If you could lend us an officer with a sufficiently detailed grasp of the situation surrounding the... maimings, that would be more than adequate."
The Tech-Priest is letting the people make their arrangements. She moves to the engine, hands still folded in front of herself. Cat moves as if she's got other things on her mind and just happens to be moving in the direction she's facing.
Braddock considers then nods, looking around. "Kirkland?" he asks the Commissar idly. Jenghiz makes a grunt of acknowledgement. "Major Kirkland!" Braddock bawls. From the other side of the train comes a 'Sir!' and a few moments later a female soldier -- with the rank flashes of a major, carrying laspistol and sabre, but wearing a trooper's helmet -- comes around at quick pace and salutes.
Braddock returns it perfunctorilly. "Major Kirkland, these are representatives of His Imperial Majesty's Holy Inquisition." Kirkland's olive hue goes utterly pale at that. "You'll provide them with whatever they require." With the Braddock and the Commissar nod to the three, and move down the line, the colonel shouting orders.
Kirkland for her part is visibly trying not to stammer or break. She takes a deep breath and puts on her most professionally calm face. "What can we do for you, Inquisitors?" she asks.
Havelock leans to one side, and notes the bit of quiet space near the engine Cat seems to have noted. "Let's take a short walk, Major, and get out of the Colonel's way."
Spike wonders amusedly what Kirkland ever did to Braddock, but remains silent.
Spike silently follows the Major and Havelock, looking around inquisitively again, and not realizing he's making Kirkland nervous.
Cat moves to look over the enginseer's shoulder, hands still folded as she watches. She's still silent, waiting to see if she can tell what has irritated the machine-spirit.
Kirkland is stiff as she nods, walking with what to her are the embodiment of Bad News, hands clasped behind her back. Moment by moment she's calmer, as if resigning herself to a bolt round to the head. Spike's alertness is, however, making her look around now and then at whatever Spike is looking at.
The enginseer appears to be a typical assignee to the Imperial Guard, but is still most definitely of the Cult. He stands as he senses Cat there, and bows with fingers entwined like gears. "Greetings, Brother," he says. "May the Machine God keep you well-maintained and anoint your head with sacred oils." One of the hundreds of typical, esoteric greetings between members of the Cult Mechanicus.
The psyker knows *exactly* what he's doing to Kirkland, and he doesn't mind a whit. His intuition tells him that inside the hive is where the real resistance is going to lie, and a little cooperation at the outset is a welcome change of pace. And, of course, he can't deny just a little satisfaction at having an officer jump for him, having spent enough years in the Guard being disposable and knowing it. His voice is professional and pleasant-- the absolute worst tone of voice an Inqusitor can possibly take with anyone, he knows from experience-- and asks, "I understand you have a detailed grasp of the situation regarding these... mutilations, yes?"
Cat returns the bow with the same entwined fingers, "And may the Machine God assure your gears always mesh, brother." She nods toward the engine and asks, "Is this machine-spirit angered or damaged?"
The Enginseer sighs, a tinny sound through his vox-grille. "Aye. The Machine-Spirit is unhappy after being roused from so long a slumber. Would you see if you might make ablutions which would satisfy it, Brother? I have reached the limit of my ability. If we cannot rouse the machine-spirit then the regiment will have to do without the rail-cruiser.
She unfolds her arms from her robes, and then begins folding the sleeves themselves up, revealing the brands on her inner forearms, "I will see if I may speak to the machine-spirit more sweetly." With that, she begins examining the engine.
Spike glances around Havelock curiously at the Tech-Priests, then angles his head back to slowly look up the entire big machine they're standing before. Nice... but no Voidship, alas. He straightens and studies the Major with the same slow, thorough interest he gave the rail-cruiser thingie. She doesn't look like a slacker... he wonders why Braddock saddled her with them.
With a few flickering strokes of her fingers and a moment's careful examination, the Tech-Priest sees what has angered this machine-spirit. As she works, she murmurs prayers in her inhuman voice, performing the proper rites and annointing the engine with the vial of sacred machine oil she carries. Within minutes, she lets her hands move over the proper runes and the engine roars into life. Turning to the enginseer, she murmurs, "It was angered that the spark of its life was coursing along the incorrect pathway." Which is why she had to move some of the wires and correct some of the switch settings.
With a titanic roar and a rush of superheated air, the locomotive's turbines come to life as the rail-cruiser's machine-spirit is appeased and soothed, and brings the mighty weapon of war -- perhaps one of the most powerful pieces of armor machinery on the planet -- to life. There are startled sounds, then an almost equally-deafening cheer from the assembled troops.
Kirkland looks over her shoulder startledly at the engine. "Emperor's Breath!" she says. "Enginseer Leviticus was on the verge of saying it was a lost cause!"
"Well," Havelock says, "That's handy."
Spike peeks around Havelock again and grins at Cat, giving her a thumbs-up.
Cat lays her hand reverently on the machine, murmuring prayers of benediction over the now-running machine.
The engineseer praises Cat, saying, "Worthy Brother, I am in your debt! You have done this company a great service!"
Spike looks faintly relieved -- he'd not fancied walking to their goal, wherever it was.
Nor Havelock, who inclines his head to the Tech-Priest.
Cat nods solemnly to the enginseer, "It is our calling to soothe the machine spirits. But we would be grateful to help with travel to our destination, Brother." She motions to her compatriots with one scarred arm.
Kirkland clears her throat a little, still in fear of the Inquisitors but also now in awe of the engine itself. She almost has to shout to be heard over it. "Yes... yes, that's what this formation is meant to go after, the attacks have happened too close to the hive and Lord Vaxindre wants the source of them rooted out immediately.
"I see," Havelock nods, "Well then, it would appear we are working at convergent purposes. We would like to know everything you do, about this... situation."
The enginseer nods. "Of course, brother. There is an old but serviceable gun-jeep but it can serve you much better than relying upon the Lord Governor's generosity for transportation. I can have this available to you in a few hours."
Kirkland looks back at Havelock, frowning a little now. "It... it does? Why does the -- forgive me, Inquisitor, but if I may ask, why... I mean, if the Inquisition sees fit to address this issue, I am not one to argue, but it seems a minor matter for Inquisitors to address themselves to."
"The why of it isn't important," Havelock says, simply. "The Emperor's citizens are being ill-used, and we, all of us, have our orders. These are mine."
Cat nods and voxes the information about the gun jeep to Havelock and then bows again to the engineseer, "May your metal never rust, brother. Such transport would be useful. I will do my best to keep the machine-spirit of the gun-jeep appeased."
The enginseer bows in return. "May your wires never cross, Brother. Thank you again."
Kirkland looks discomfited but nods. "I'l tell you what we... what I know, certainly."
Cat rolls down her sleeves and moves the rejoin the other members of her cadre.
Havelock arches a brow, "The two don't overlap?"
Kirkland considers very, very carefully, before she says, "Inquisitors, I would be derelict in my duty if I did not inform you that I am not of the higher echelons of this regiment. At one point I was the intelligence officer for the 1st Vaxanide House Regiment, but Braddok and I never agreed on many things. I was relegated to command of the conscript company... which in recent years Lord Vaxinde has not seen fit to fill."
"I see. Then it would not be amiss to say that perhaps you have been pawned off on us."
Spike nods silently behind Kirkland -- sounds like politics to him. He studies the Major thoughtfully again. Still... former intel's nothing to sneeze at.
That elicits a gallows grin from Kirkland. "That would be an accurate assessment, Inquisitor, yes."
Spike glances curiously at Havelock, wondering if the psyker will ask for another liaison... or keep the one that might have reason to... not precisely shift loyalties so much as not help Braddock.
Havelock laughs quietly, "I see. So then, why don't you start with your assessment of the Colonel and his... aide-de-camp."
Spike grins silently behind Kirkland -- Havelock's plan works for him! He goes back to curiously watching all around them as he listens. His searching has brought to view a small separate lounge-area that is not being swarmed by troopers. He leans from behind Kirkland to wave a hand at Havelock. Once he's got the psyker's attention, he jerks an inquiring thumb towards the lounge area.
Kirkland's grin evaporates immediately. "I... yes, of course, Inquisitor. I am certain Braddock knew I would say that about him. But he also knows I would speak true to an Inquisitor. Colonel Braddock is a capable officer, skilled as far as I can tell. He is well-versed in the Tactica Imperia." She pauses, then says, "He is also a cousin of Lord Vaxanide on the distaff side of the Lord's family. I will not say that he is the finest officer I have ever served with, but for a political/familial appointee, he is... good enough.
"Commissar Jenghiz is... feared and respected, of course. I know little about him except that he is inspiring to the troops and is as quick to praise as he is to punish, though he does not speak much. Most of his praises come in the form of letters in a file, while his punishments... well, he carries a laspistol and knows how to use it well at point blank range. I get the impression that this is his first assignment as a commissar. We are not exactly a stormtrooper regiment here, Inquisitor."
"Well and so," he says, adjusting the angle of his gait just enough to carry them toward the lounge area, confident that the Major will follow the subtle guidance, "Then perhaps you can tell me what it is that the Hive saw fit to brief you with, anent this mutilation?"
Following along, once again lapsing into silence, Cat seems to have once again fallen into a distracted reverie.
Spike looks faintly relieved as the small group heads under cover. He's not exactly... twitchy out in the open... but he does tend to get that crawling feeling between his shoulderblades that he always imagines his hits sometimes get.
Kirkland nods slowly. "That there have been some attacks by possibly feral creatures of some sort, who have gone to ground on the outskirts of the hive. The regiment has been instructed to do what needs to be done in rooting out the creatures before they become more of a threat or --" She pauses, and adds, "or before notice is taken by the Sector government. Or the Adeptus Terra."
"Scintilla Secundus taking notice would require a *great* many victims, Major," Havelock observes, archly. "For Holy Terra to take notice would mean... a situation that, frankly, I haven't seen enough Astartes here to address. What sort of threat are we discussing, pray?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know exactly. We were only told that there were vicious attacks. The chirurgeons examined the bodies and said it was an animal attack of some kind, a very vicious animal -- I do not know if you're familiar with this world, Inquisitor, but there are a lot of animals that find the squishy parts within carapace armor to be tasty. So this was not too surprising."
"Perhaps not," Havelock says, "But then why the entire regiment?"
"To cover as much ground as possible and minimize casualties. There are some dash vicious beasts out there."
By now, the group has reached the little lounge-area, with a lower ceiling and approaches that are a bit easier for Spike to keep an eye on.
Spike prowls silently around the little lounge, checking it out thoroughly... then he settles quietly cross-legged someplace where he has the widest angle of fire. He lays the rifle across his lap and watches Havelock and Kirkland with interest.
"I assume that Vaxanhive maintains a force independent from the PDF, then."
"There's a constabulary for the hive, yes, but they're coppers, they're not trained for taking down sabre-toothed emus."
Spike blinks, then shudders slightly. Ground-pounders! He doesn't know why anyone would want to live amongst things like that.
"I see. The chirurgeons you mentioned... they originate from Vaxanhive, I take it, and not your unit?"
Jonathan says, "No, we have some medics but the chirurgeons -- they're trained by the Schola Medicae and the Tech-Priests. They're the city doctors." She hesitates. "Well... the nobles' doctors." Then she seems to realize what she said, and adds hastily, "I want to point out, Inquisitor, that I am content in my station in the Imperium, no matter what disagreements myself and Colonel Braddock have had...."
Spike grins at that, looking away. Protestations of innocence don't really interest him.
Cat's attention is caught by mention of the Tech-Priests.
Havelock says, dryly, "And I will point out in turn that at no point have I produced an excruciator and instructed you to present your backside. I'm well aware that the middlehive is not and has never been privy to the same level of... let us say comfort, that the Spire is."
Not that I might not ask nicely, the psyker thinks silently, but let's stay on target...
Kirkland relaxes, almost visibly. "Yes, Inquisitor." She seems a bit more careful about what she says, but is put at some ease by Havelock's words.
"This isn't an exercise in loyalty," the psyker says. "We have a common goal, and that is our primary interest on Vaxanide, not interfering with the chain of command. Whatever your disagreements, save that they involve flesh-hungry echidnae, are your own.
"Straying from that delightful thought," he continues, "I would know more about the chirurgeons, actually."
Kirkland gives a wan smile, then nods. "The chirurgeons tend to the health of the hive. In theory, they tend to all, from under- to middle-hive classes. in practice, they reserve the majority of their time to the nobles, and leave the care of the middle-hive peoples to apprentices and interns. Few if any bother with the outcaste of the underhive. They are fairly typical as I understand such things, tending to the health of their charges much as in any city or hive.
"How is it they became involved with a scene so far from the hive's confines?"
Kirkland says, "They were the ones who conducted the postmortems on the bodies soon after the attacks were discovered."
"On site, or were the cadavers transported?"
"The first ones were transported, I believe. Then a few of the later ones, a chirurgeon was in attendance.
Spike murmurs amusedly, "How... convenient they knew where to be...."
Havelock glances at Spike, then turns back to the Major, "*Were* they present already? Or were they sent for?"
"They were sent for. I am sorry, I should have been more clear.
"Quite alright. What of the attacks themselves? How many, how often, what were the details?"
Kirkland gives as many details as she can. There were a total of ten attacks that she was told of, over the course of two months. More as time passed. The number of victims ranged from three to twelve, again increasing as time passed.
"Manner of injuries? Actual cause of death?"
The victims themselves were inhabitants of the outskirts of the hive, ground-level and environs, groundskeepers and longshoremen at the spaceport, rail workers, and the like. The injuries were vicious tearing and ripping of the bodies, as if they were mauled by a heavily-clawed wild animal. Which, as she repeats, considering the wildlife of the planet isn't too surprising. The peoples in the provinces further from the hive manage to survive in part by living in forts and being well-armed.
Spike frowns at the increasing viciousness of the attacks. Definitely this has to be stopped... it's just not the kind of thing the Emperor would approve of.
Cat seems to be paying very little attention.
"I see. Well, I think we won't know any more until we arrive, then... nor will you, Major." He gestures toward the rail-cruiser, "I should allow you to return to your duties. Where will you be, should we require you again?"
Kirkland nods, standing. "Thank you, Inquisitors. I will be at the 1st Regiment's headquarters, tending to my... nonexistant company."
Havelock pauses. "A moment, Major Kirkland."
Kirkland pauses in standing. "Er, yes, Inquisitor?"
The psyker narrows his eyes, "Forgive me, perhaps I mistook your meaning; am I to understand that when you say the Lord Vaxanhive failed to fill the company... that he failed to assign *anyone* to it?"
Kirkland says, "The conscript company is filled when the commander of the regiment and the Lord see the need for conscripts. Right now, the regiment is filled by volunteers, and since there have been few if any incursions, the conscript company has not been filled and exists as a paper formation. Should the Departmento Munitorium call up our regiment as a tithe, the conscript company would be filled. Until there, there is no need for it."
Spike raises an eyebrow -- sounds like a downright insultingly useless position to be stuck with.
This doesn't fit with Havelock's own experience in the Guard... then again, they do things rather differently under the omnipresent eye of Lord Sector Hax. Interesting. He nods, "I see. Of course. Very well, then... if you should learn anything, Major, please don't hesitate to contact any of us. We will be here, until the steam-carrier is prepared to depart."
Kirkland nods, "Of course, Inquisitors." She salutes, then jogs -- posthaste -- back to the milling troop formations.
Once she's out of sight, Havelock slumps heavily into a chair and mutters, "Throne ****ing blind me." It's the most emotion he's shown yet.
Spike grins at Havelock, "Yeah?"
Cat turns toward Havelock and both her brows go up.
"We may've missed on our first cast," the psyker says, crossing his ankles and examining the tips of his boots. "I think our real answers are inside Vaxanhive. This," he gestures about, "Is a perfectly normal Guard regiment with a perfectly normal degree of political nepotism and staff pettiness." He chews his lower lip a moment, then says, "But being present for one of these attacks is likely to be our only means of establishing a material lead. Must needs as the devil drives." He glances at Cat, "That was a pretty bit of work on the engine, by the way."
Spike murmurs quietly, "Braddock's annoyed, not afraid."
"He's blustering," Havelock nods. "It's an endemic trait among staff officers."
The compliment brings another nod from Cat, "The machine-spirit was willing and even eager to work properly. It simply needed coaxing and the proper rituals." She pauses for a moment and then adds, "Thank you."
Spike shakes his head slightly, "No, I mean he's the only one here who's not been afraid of us."
"Of course he hasn't," Havelock says, "Nor has the Commissar. He is, like most staunch Imperial servants with any degree of temporal power, utterly convinced of his own righteousness in the sight of the Throne. He doesn't believe he has anything *to* fear from the Inquisition. For the nonce, I'm inclined to agree with him. That may change, but for now I see nothing to attach to him."
"At any rate," he says, "I don't think we're going to learn aught else until we get there. We may as well make ready to travel."
Spike nods silently.
Cat says, "We will have our own transport within a few hours."
Havelock nods. "Alright then." Thinking, mostly to himself, he reaches into his tunic and withdraws a small package.
Spike watches curiously, "So now we just wait? What's that?"
Havelock says, "Nothing to do for it but wait, for now." To the other question, he doesn't answer, save to open one end and withdraw a deck of cards.
Havelock's hand hovers over the deck for what seems like far too long for simple hesitation. And then he turns over the top card. The Wheel of Fate.
The psyker snorts, quietly, and then sits back, fingers folded under his nose. "One thing's for certain... we're at the crux of *something.*" He nods at the deck, sardonically. "Even the Emperor thinks so."
Spike doesn't grin... that actually worries him.
After a few minutes, the rail-cruiser begins it's preparations to move out, and the enginseer whom Cat helped out earlier comes up, bowing to the other tech-priest. "May the Machine God show you all bolts which require anointing, brother. The gun-jeep is prepared for your use. Use it well for as long as you require it."
Spike slings his hunting rifle and rises, eager to get moving.
Havelock stands and smoothes his uniform down. He packs his cards away, pulls his cloak tighter around himself. "Let's be on our way, then."
Spike follows the others out, not entirely sure what a gun-jeep is.
Cat bows to the enginseer and replies, "May all your belts stay whole, brother. My thanks for the jeep. I will pray to the Machine God to help it run smoothly."
The enginseer, Leviticus, seems very pleased and happy to help Cat, and leads the group to a small platform nearby, which has a ramp leading down to the road. On it is a surplus Imperial Guard vehicle, consisting of an engine, a cockpit with two seats, and a cupola. The cupola once had some sort of heavy weapon mounted to it, but it has been long since removed in favor of what looks like a simple stubber. On the other hand, the mount is still there, and Spike thinks he can cradle his rifle there neatly. The gun-jeep is a bit worn and rough but like most things military it looks servicable, and both the Imperial Aquila on the side and the tiny shrine to the jeep's machine spirit are in excellent condition, belying infrequent, but assiduous and almost loving care.
Spike's eyes light up at sight of the gun-jeep, "Nice rifle mount!"
"It's a Guard unit," Havelock murmurs. "Surely you didn't expect it to go unarmed."
Spike glances at the psyker and the tech-priest, wondering if either of them know how to drive it.
"Yes," Havelock says, to the unansked question.
Spike grins and shrugs at the psyker, then swings himself easily up the side of the gun-jeep, to slide his compact form into the cupola. He examines the stubber thoughtfully, then unslings his hunting rifle and checks to make sure it'll work as he wishes.
Spike pats the stubber affectionately -- nothing like a magic bullet wand when you're bouncing along and can't aim, after all!
Havelock pauses at the driver's seat, glances at the Tech-Priest. "Unless you'd prefer?"
Leviticus bows again. "And may the Omnissiah lead you to true enlightenment, Brother. Safe journies."
Spike waves cheerfully down at Leviticus, "Clean engines!"
The enginseer makes his way back to the regiment, pausing in surprise at Spike's cheerful wave, seeming quite pleased at the sentiment and bows in return before he disappears into the milling troops.
Cat slides her hand over the flank of the gun-jeep, admiring how well-kept it is ad how assiduously the Machine-God has been given tribute. She nods to Havelock's question, "I will be honored to pilot this machine."
The psyker nods. "As you will." He circles to the other side and seats himself, gathering his cloak up.
The Tech-Priest says to Havelock, "If it comes to battle, you will need to take over the wheel. My expertise is in keeping these machines as befits the Machine-God, not in using them." She then climbs in to jeep, readying to take them to their destination.
Havelock says, "I'll do my best."
After a quiet prayer to the Machine-God and reverently checking over the guages of the machine one more time, Cat pulls out. For the first part of the journey, she simply follows the route of the rail-cruiser.
The gun-jeep rumbles to life, and true to Leviticus's word it is in good operating condition. As they pull out from the terminal, the rail-cruiser begins it's departure, an artillery car preceding the locomotive and the engine letting out a deep basso roar as it signals it's departure; Colonel Braddock stands in the commander's hatch, arms folded and looking every inch the leader of soldiers.