The Albion is a typical Rogue Trader ship, and traveling on it is an adventure in and of itself, from the almost heretical variety of food -- human and xenos -- to the informal discipline. But the trip is pleasant enough, and with a falsified itinerary and forged documents, the ship pulls into port as the Perithyrus and discharges it's passengers
Spike pats the airlock a touch wistfully as he disembarks behind his companions. It hadn't been a proper, military ship... but it had been enough like home that he'd gotten quite nostalgic. He looks curiously out as they head down the ramp, wondering what makes Fenksworld stand out.
Cat has had to work quite hard at keeping her new augmetics hidden, deciding eventually that affecting a slightly lopsided, almost humpbacked walk might explain any seeming deformity.
Havelock keeps to himself, content to be largely ignored by the crew save for his damnable luck at Diamondback. It helps that he will apparently eat anything, and that speaking continues to pain him for most of the trip, until the very final leg of the journey.
Fenksworld is a cesspit. The world is polluted and foul, bit thick pollution that cloaks the sun, and when it does even clear up a little, the lack of an ozone layer makes the sun a lethal killer on the surface. Albion's captain graciously gives the acolytes breathers which will help against the polluted air outside the hives, but not so much against anything else.
Because of the horrendous atmosphere, the shuttle lands and pulls into a hangar which seals shut behind them, the air being cleansed. Even so, when they step out the air is still a touch foul-smelling.
Spike wrinkles his nose and grins inside the breather -- aromatic locale!
Cat has no need of a breather, her respirator unit filtering the air for her. The concentration required to keep herself moving with the unwiedly and uncomfortable gait keeps her quiet.
Havelock pockets the breather, carefully adjusting the buckles securing his scabbard to his back. Pulling his hat on again, he says, "We're fortunate. Nova Castilia's little different from any other hive city... a little dirtier, mayhaps." He adjusts the breather over his mouth then, and adds, "Magnagorsk... not so nice. Volg... well. Let's hope we never have to go to Volg."
Spike grins again, glancing at the psyker for a moment before he continues padding silently along behind the other two.
The spaceport of Castilla is pretty much any busy trade-oriented port: few if any facilities for passengers, oriented more towards freight than people. Or people as freight, considering some of the pods of indentured workers being transported. Staying to the middlehive, though, the three manage to find a small inn they can stay at.
Cat stays silent, letting Havelock speak for the group if it comes to talking.
Spike waits until they're alone to ask, "So... what are we looking for?"
The information that Moth gave the acolytes tells them that Wilhelm Janus boarded the ship from Nova Castila, already posing as a friar. There are several things that lead to potential areas of investigation: Someone in the cathedral was bribed or convinced to forge documents naming Janus a legitimate friar. Janus established some sort of contacts within the outcastes. There had been a brief outbreak of the Plague of Undeath on Fenksworld several centuries ago, related to a Chaos cult in Hive Volg, so it's possible that Janus obtained whatever materials needed to reignite it on Vaxanide here. There is no indicator of Necron infestation on Fenksworld so Janus would have come on-world from somewhere else as well, possibly using an alias, adopting the Wilhelm Janus persona here.
"Cathedral first," Havelock says. "That's our best lead. Although..." He trails off a moment, considering.
Spike listens silently to Havelock as he glances around curiously. Looks like they're off on quite the rogue ship chase, with tracking this pariah.
"There's one other possibility, regarding this strange tech. But it's..." He makes a so-so gesture, "Tricky."
Spike says, "Explain?"
"Fenksworld," Havelock murmurs. "Magnagorsk, specifically. I told Cat to hide her vestments, but it wasn't just to keep under cover. See... there's another sect of Mechanicus here on Fenksworld. This is the only place in the sector you can find them, outside of whatever forsaken death world they come from. They won't talk to us, but Cat..." He looks at the tech-priest, disturbing blue eyes considering.
"I won't tell you to go," he says, finally. "If you want to try, then go on your own lookout. I can't order you. Throne, I wouldn't order you, not with those people.."
Spike raises a curious eyebrow at that, then looks to Cat, "Ever heard of them?"
Havelock's consideration makes Cat finally break her silence, "But you feel they may break their silence to me."
"They'd sooner open up to Abaddon than to me or Spike," Havelock says with a shrug.
Cat nods, not having to consider long, "Give me time to find information on them and I will see what I can find from them."
"Sollex," Havelock says, "The Divine Light of Sollex. Over in Magnagorsk. That's the best I can do for you... but they make a career out of persecuting anyone they feel's out of line, so... if there's heretech, they'll know."
Cat nods once, "Then it seems we cannot proceed without at least trying."
Spike says, "Can she take backup?" He looks at Cat, "And have you ever heard of them?" He looks back at Havelock, "So what's wrong with them?"
"No," he says, "They won't talk to outsiders." To the question of what's wrong, he answers with a shrug. "Drusil sent two of her Divisio Immoralis nutcases from the Scintilla Arbites precinct to look in on them. The Sollex disappeared them both.
"And nobody said a word about it."
Spike huhs thoughtfully, but remains silent after that, considering the issues.
Havelock folds his arms. "Well, that's all we got for now."
Spike nods silently to Havelock, then turns his thoughtful gaze back on Cat. After a moment he murmurs, "So... is there anything we can work on while Cat's busy?"
Cat seems to simply accept what has to come next.
"We can start with the cathedral. Seems like the best lead. It'll take a few days for her to get to Magnagorsk and back, so."
Cat begins her trip to Magnagorsk Hive, while Spike and Havelock begin their own investigation at Nova Castille's cathedral. Towering above the plumes rising from the factory stacks, the stone architecture is grimy from pollution and soot, but it is no less imposing. They are greeted by an acolyte at the entryway, who bows politely. "Light of the Emperor shine upon you," he says quietly; there appears to be no services at the current time.
Havelock doffs his hat. "Evening, your holiness. We've something to ask."
"Of course, fellows in His Light. What may I assist you with?"
Spike bows his head courteously as well from where he stands silently behind and to Havelock's left flank.
"We'd like to check your records, if that's well with you; we're dogging the steps of a fugitive that's been passing off as a friar."
The acolyte takes in the two 'bounty hunters' with a bit of a frown. "That's a... ah, serious charge, certainly. I think we can assist, but it may be better to report this to the Ecclesiarchy, I think...."
"They already know, pater." Havelock spreads his hands. "This false frock got done on Vaxanide. But we're following up on whoever might've helped him get there."
"Mm, I see. Well, come with me, please. I'll look up the records for this friar and see what we have on him. What was his name?"
"Janus. Wilhelm Janus."
"Janus, Janus... hmm...." The acolyte leads the group to the administration offices, where there are a dozen adepts much as there were in Vaxanhive's cathedral. "Do you know what time period he was on Fenksworld?"
Spike glances around in silent curiosity as he follows the others, idly assessing the place tactically.
After an hour of searching through the appropriate files, the acolyte -- Liam Hessian -- points at a name on the parchment folio. "There we are. Record of one Friar Janus Wilhelm going from the cathedral to Vaxanide."
Spike peers around Havelock's shoulder, curiously glancing at the page as well.
Havelock nods, "Obliged. Did he stay here long? And where from?"
Hessian flips through the folio, goes to several other scrolls, and finally, frowning, thumbs through a ledger. "I... that's odd, but... I suppose it shouldn't be odd. I don't see a record of a Friar Janus Wilhelm arriving.
"How about any arrivals with no departures?"
Spike sighs softly -- looks like the chirurgy must have been done here then.
Hessian frowns, "That'd be information by way of the spaceport authority, I don't... that's likely thousands if not millions of names if one takes immigrant labor into account."
"Alright, pater. Thanks for your effort. Obliged."
Spike murmurs softly to Havelock, "Might he know about local chirugeons?"
Hessian nods. "What I can look up is what Ecclesiarchal records we have of him.
"We'd appreciate the help, pater." To Spike, Havelock shrugs, "There's got to be millions of them. Unlike Vaxanhive, there's no damn guilds here... every drunkard with a bonesaw can call himself a chirurgeon here."
Spike says, "But... wasn't there a certain amount of skill in the work done on it?"
"If you have any idea how we could sift through that many yokels for the skilled ones, I'm all ears. You know someone?"
Through a little more digging through records, Hessian comes up with a document that he sets, almost reverently, before the two. "Here we are. This is a facsimile of Janus's confirmation and ordination. But, like I said, we have no record of him arriving on Fenksworld."
Havelock asks, "Accent? Was he native?"
Spike smiles ruefully and shrugs, falling silent.
Hessian lifts his shoulders, "I never met him, so I don't know what his accent would be." He taps the form. "It... says he was native, and that he was confirmed here in the cathedral on that date."
"All right then. That explains the lack of arrival records." Havelock frowns a bit. "Know anyone who might've known him?"
Spike frowns thoughtfully. How could a Pariah have been ordained? He glances at the facsimile, checking for how long ago the date of confirmation and ordination was.
"The hive is a huge place, I'm afraid. I do not have records of addresses or places of living."
THe date of confirmation and ordination is roughly a week before Janus left for Vaxanide.
Spike settles back and considers. So the pariah was newly ordained...which means it could have been created shortly before then.
With some inspired questioning from Spike, Hessian digs through the records a bit more, and turns up the fact that even though Janus was ordained in the Cathedral, the records for that day do not list Janus as being those who were ordained that day. Nor does a quick search of the deacon's ledger show Janus having been ordained on any day at that cathedral. Hessian's search turns up the name of the adept who logged the facsimile of Janus's ordination certificate: Adept Rudolfo Kramer.
Spike looks relieved at that, then glances inquiringly at Havelock, "Does that help?"
"Yeah." Havelock nods. "Looks like we might have a forger."
Spike grins, "Excellent! Do you know how to find him?"
"Have to start with the Administratum. That'll be up from here, Spire likely."
Spike nods, shifting his rifle to the other shoulder. "Lead the way then, Savant."
The Administratum offices are nearby, since the Administratum does quite a bit of recordkeeping for the cathedral as well. The front hall is in fact like a cathedral devoted to bureaucracy, with towering pillars and flying buttresses. There are a dozen lines there, and it takes about fifteen minutes for the line the two chose to make it's way to the tired-looking, bored and dour man sitting there. "Welcome to the Administratum, how may we help you today, citizen," he intones with absolutely no inflection.
"Adept Rudolfo Kramer," Havelock says. He does not bother to doff his hat this time.
The adept continues in his same dour, disinterested tone, "Adept Kramer is currently occupied, if you have an open case with him then he will contact you with a date and time for an appointment to come in and discuss it with him."
"We think he's a forger," Havelock says. Let's see how this plays. It's akin to saying the word 'fire' in a library.
Spike wonders idly how the adept knows that... then wryly assumes it's just the standard cant.
The adept is quiet for a few moments, and becomes perhaps one one hundreth of a percent more awake. He reaches over to an intercom. "Let me call my supervisor. Please wait at the far wall." He points to an area off to the side of the huge hall.
Havelock waves Spike over with him. "This might not work if this lot are the true article; you can't faze a lifer in the Administratum. Surprise is crushed right out of them... along with everything else. We'll see."
Spike nods amusedly, glancing around warily. He doesn't doubt there are other ways to leave this building, but if someone *does* try to make a guilty run for it he wants to catch sight of their nervous body language and mentally mark them for Havelock.
After several minutes, a hunched-over adept shuffles from out of an archway, looking like he's about a hundred years old, with bionic supports and eye-augmentations to replace eyesight destroyed by years of peering too closely at fine print. A young page accompanies him, carrying a stack of folios and scrolls, silent and attentive. "I am Inditor Tertius Maximillian Adover," he intones, in a tone of voice not unlike that of the adept they spoke with previously. "I was told you had need of services that one of our humble adepts could not provide?"
Spike bows slightly, remaining silent. Havelock's definitely better at this than he.
Havelock does take his hat off this time. He nods, "We're looking for Adept Kramer, sir. We've reason to believe he's a forger."
The Inditor barely arches a brow. "If this is in complaint of some of his work, I must tell you, I have heard the accusation that one of my adepts is a forger many times before, and all such complaints -- and complainers -- have been remanded to the arbiters." He pauses. "This is the first I've heard that Adept Kramer is a forger, however. Speak, then. What is your evidence?"
Havelock produces two facsimiles. "This is a record of ordination for one Friar Wilhelm Janus. This here, is a record of all ordinations performed by that particular Abbot; you'll note Friar Wilhelm is not on this master list. "Friar" Wilhelm just went out in the Vaxanhive under for heresy. Something's rotten, Adept, we're looking for any as might have assisted him."
The Inditor takes up the two facsimilies, and his bionics whine a little as he examines the two documents closely. "I see," he says slowly. "They appear to be proper and in keeping with Administratum standards and Ecclesiarchy regulations....."
Spike continues to watch past the Inditor, wondering if the guilty adept will try sneaking out.
The Inditor slowly hands the forms back. "Thank you," he says slowly. "You realize that this must be done quietly. I will submit an order for disciplinary action to be undertaken against him, and a letter will be entered into his permament record, whereupon he will be remanded to the Arbiters for criminal charges to be levied against him."
"That's fine," Havelock says, "But we'd like a word with him meanwhile. No rough stuff, you have my word; we just want some questions answered before the Arbiters take him off."
The Inditor looks steadily at the two. "Who are you, then, to bring these charges?"
"This false frock did for a lot of people before he got caught, Adept," Havelock says, keeping his voice low. "We're, ah... bonded representatives for certain bereaved families, you could say."
The Inditor's brows -- what's left of them, anyway -- shoot up to where his hair would be. "In... deed. Well, then, what else could I say that you are?
"Actually, enough dissembling... let me be straight. To do otherwise is an insult to the history of the Administratum. I am suspciious as to your intentions, despite the proof of the Adept's guilt. Know that procedure will be followed in these halls as it has been for well on five thousand years. I will not tolerate base violence here."
Spike raises an eyebrow, "We don't need to be violent to pursue justice."
Havelock makes a placating gesture at Spike. "No violence, Adept. You bring the Arbiters. We want some information, and we're out of your office for good."
The Inditor makes a sound, and nods, grumpily. "Very well. You will find his office on level twenty-three, corridor K, suite G, pool 6, block 2, cubicle B.
"Obliged, Adept. Go ahead and make that call. This won't take long."
Spike sighs in silent internal relief, glancing at Havelock. He doesn't know how the Savant can do all that talking and persuading stuff -- but he thanks the Throne *he* doesn't have to when Havelock is around!
Havelock gestures Spike to follow and settles his hat back on his head. "Let's hurry this up, I feel my immortal soul leaking out through my f'ing ears."
Spike snorts amusedly, sticking close on Havelock's heels. He grins, "Better you than me, Savant!"
"On the contrary. If mine gets out it's like to eat you and everyone you've ever known." Havelock grunts, testily. "I hate these places."
Spike chuckles again, murmuring quietly as he glances around, "Got to agree with that -- give me a nice ship any day."
Havelock pauses at the appropriate door. "Lock this behind us." He pushes the door open without preamble.
Spike casually clicks the lock shut and leans back against the door, looking around the little cell in silent assessment.
Eventually they make their way to the given location, through the labyrinthine maze. Despite the standard-sounding location, it's like every floor, every block, every pool, every corridor is different. The door to the pool is unlocked, but locks behind Spike. THe room is a bit murky, though each cubicle is brightly lit individually, and there appear to be four separate blocks of cubicles here. The sound of recording-engines and autoscribes makes quite the racket.
"Let's go then," Havelock says, "Sweep."
Spike silently paces through the cubicle blocks, searching both for cubicle B... and for someone with a nervous or guilty reaction.
Spike has one of his throwing knives tucked into one hand. He's almost relieved it's down to a simple search and grab now... all the chatting leaves him cold.
Havelock just wants this to be over with. This place is killing him. Why do human beings feel the necessity to crush their own wills?
Spike comes up upon cubicle B first, and within is a lanky adept that seems just like any other adept in the place, with squinty eyes that are a decade or so from loosing vision, as he sits hunched over an autoscribe, transcribing numbers from a huge ledger. Kramer doesn't immediately notice Spike.
Spike straightens, having to stand almost on tiptoes to see over the cubicle walls, and stealthily waves a black-gloved hand to Havelock -- then points at the oblivious adept once Spike's sure he's got the psyker's attention.
That'll do, Havelock thinks. He strides up to the autoscribe and puts both of the facsimiles down on the lectern.
Spike steps back enough that he's got a bit of distance on the adept, while still close enough to see if a weapon is pulled.
The Adept stops in the middle of transcribing, before he squints up at Havelock and asks, "What is the meaning of this?!"
It sounds genuinely infuriated.
"You tell me, squire," Havelock says, "I'd like to hear about Wilhelm Janus."
The adept looks at the facsimilies, picking them up and studying them for what seems like a suitable length of time. "He appears to be a mendicant friar for the Ecclesiarchy," Kramer says testily, putting the facsimilie down again.
"You wrote an ordination record out for him," Havelock says. "So how is it he's not on the master record? That Abbot never ordained a Wilhelm Janus."
"The failings of the Ecclesiarchy is not the concern of the Adminsitratum. Now if you'll excuse me, squire, I've much work to do, and you are interfering with it!"
Havelock leans down close and says, very quietly, "Listen up now, hard boy. I promised your governor there'd be no violence so don't make me out to be a liar. A lot of people are dead on Vaxanide because your friend there turned up a heretic. I want to know why and I'm not about to be put off with guff. Now let's hear it."
Spike shifts so he's in the adept's personal space, but disturbingly half out of sight behind the man. His hood is pulled well forward so only the glitter of his eyes is visible, and he doesn't say anything... just stands there with his hands out of sight under the cloak, coldly studying the adept.
Kramer swallows, leaning back in his chair away from Havelock... and bumping a bit into Spike. The adept looks behind him, looking a tad more nervous, before looking back at the psyker. "In... information is a commodity, squire. In the Administratum as everywhere else...."
Spike growls quietly.
"Don't try to buy me, Squire. All you're getting out of this deal is us out of this cube and out of your life with no broken bones, you ken me? I want to know why you covered this false frock."
Spike is unpleasantly close, and doesn't shift back at all when bumped -- he pushes back slightly, in fact, putting the adept closer to Havelock.
The adept says tightly, his voice hushed, "There is a thriving market in authentic yet... inaccurate documents, squire. Sometimes the wheels of bureaucracy need... oiling... to have them go faster. It's not like this is a special case!"
"Piss on your market," Havelock says, "I want to know. This case. This one case. Details."
Kramer glances back again at Spike, moistening his lips. "All right. Because you said he was a heretic. Squire came to me after hours, asking where one could get documents saying one could get ordination documents expeditiously. Squire was going to a podunk world, he said, and needed to get there fast."
"Now we're getting somewhere," Havelock says, "You're thirty seconds closer to us disappearing forever. Keep going."
He takes in a breath. "Not much more to say. I put together the document, buried it in the system, and gave it to the squire a week later. Never saw him again."
"He say anything about where he'd been? How'd he look? Accent? Up-hive or down?"
Kramer gives a helpless shrug. "Up-hive type. Looked kinda, uh...." He goes on to quite perfectly describe Wilhelm Janus. "Didn't say anythin' about where he'd been."
"Good enough," Havelock says. He nods to Spike. "Let's go."
Spike nods and slips silently away from the adept, glancing around to make sure no one else wants to cause trouble as they leave.
The two leave the room at a good time; from the other end of the corridor comes a grim reckoning of three arbiters looking like they've got the rack warmed up back at the precinct-fortress.
Havelock leads on. And tips his hat politely to the Arbiters on the way past.
Spike pads silently after the psyker, glancing incuriously at the Arbiters.
Havelock rubs his eyes. "All right. Let's go find a herald."
Spike sounds a bit puzzled, "A... herald? Whyso, Savant?"
"They keep track of the bloodlines. We'll find whereever this Janus came from. Had to be someone highborne... a middlehiver would've been tossed in a meat-sump if they'd found him out for a Pariah. Someone had to be sheltering him. And he had an uphive accent. So we'll look there." He pushes back his hat and adds, "You can call me Templar now, by the way. Not Savant."
Spike is reviewing his memories -- the pariah had seemed somewhat youngish, really, at about 30 or 40 years of age, and the thing in its forehead had seemed neither newly installed nor really old. Absently he murmurs, "All right, Templar."
The trip to the herald is quick enough; he resides in the upperhive, and the office, staffed by a number of adepts, is officiated by a man at a desk who wears an Imperial uniform about a hundred years out of date, but considering his bionics and his scars and age, he probably deserves all the medals on it. He looks over his monocle at the two 'bounty hunter,' his other eye a bionic replacement that glows red, and asks snootilly, "May I help you?"
Spike smiles silently, glancing away and letting Havelock do the talking.
"We need genealogical services," Havelock says, doffing his hat.
The herald sniffs a bit, leaning back in his seat and steepling his fingers. "Indeed. And why is that?"
"The usual," Havelock answers. "Little forgery, foul murder, skullduggery."
THe herald rolls his eye a little, and leans forward opening the ledger. "As usual. What is the name." He sounds extremely bored.
"Janus," Havelock says. "Wilhelm Janus."
THe herald visibly pauses in his page-turning, then leans back, looking much more intrigued. "Janus, you say?"
Spike glances sideways at the herald, then goes back to silently scanning the room.
"Familiar name, then," Havelock says.
"I at least don't have to look it up. There's no House Janus anymore. They were wiped out about twenty years ago.
Spike gets a quizzical look, although it's hidden by his cowl. That explains the pariah's age.
"That a fact now," Havelock asks, "Do tell."
The herald folds his hands on the ledger. "Entire family was killed by a cult of some kind twenty years ago. Mother, father, three uncles, and five children. Youngest was, I think, named Wilhelm.
"Cult, ah? That's interesting... you know anything about this?"
Spike looks up at that, listening with interest. Could this have been a revenge thing?
Th Herald says, "Only what was reported by the arbiters. Entire family was burned almost beyond recognition, they had to count skeletons and couldn't even do dentals. The cultists smashed up the bodies"
Spike shakes his head at that. Poor family... shows what happens when you live dirtside amongst strangers, he supposes.
"I see," Havelock nods. "No record of what happened to the youngest?"
"Dead with the rest of the family, I'm afraid."
"Any record of this cult?"
The herald shakes his head. "No particulars. Sort of atypical of chaos cults, but then again that defines chaos, you know?
Spike glances at the herald, ruefully thinking it sounded more like someone kidnapping the youngest and getting the rest of the family conveniently out of the way... than just a 'typical' chaos cult.
Havelock nods a bit. "That's very helpful, squire. I don't suppose you could point us to the local Precinct?"
The herald nods and directs the acolytes to the hive's precinct-fortress.
Spike heads out after Havelock, murmuring quietly, "So... you thinking also this is a cleanup for stealing the littlest brat?"
"I'm thinking of several possibilities," Havelock says, straightening his hat. "That's one."
Spike says, "Like what?"
"For example..." Havelock spreads his hands. "Someone called up Somewhat They Could Not Put Down, and it did what those things are like to do, found itself a Pariah and made off with it. Or perhaps this distaff line had a history-- it's genetic-- and this is all part of a very old harvesting process. At this point... it's hard to know. But I think this cult will fill in some necessary blanks."
Spike nods slowly, thinking. "Interesting. All right... what's next then?"
"Next, we stop by the Arbites Precinct and see how cooperative they are-- and hope I don't have to try to infiltrate the bloody place."
Spike gives Havelock another curious glance, "Why would you do that?"
"We need those files," Havelock says, glancing over his shoulder. "And this bounty hunter pretense may not fly with the Arbiters... and we can't pull our trump card here."
Spike huhs quietly to himself, then murmurs, "All right. What do you need from me?"
"Nothing yet. That's... a decision in extremis, just something we need to contemplate. If the Emperor's willing, we can talk our way through this."
Spike nods to that and signs the Aquila on himself -- never hurts to draw the Emperor's benevolent attention ahead of time, he thinks.
At the precinct house, it's clear that this bunch is a lot less forgiving -- relatively -- than the bunch on Vaxanide, and a lot more hard-bitten. The desk sergeant at the front hall is a grizzled veteran who looks like he saw more than a few hive riots. He has sharp scars along his face and is chomping a cigar. He looks up and narrows his eyes. "What do you want?" he asks, a touch sharply, though there's a boredom in his eyes.
Spike raises an eyebrow and remains carefully silent. This is definitely more Havelock's turf than his!
Havelock doffs his hat. "Evening, sergeant. Archivist on duty tonight?"
The sergeant arches a brow, slowly, taking the ratty cigar from his mouth. "What is it that you're looking for?" he asks, almost pleasantly.
"Cold case," Havelock answers. "Twenty year, give or take."
"Yeah, that'd be pretty cold. Whyfor you want to know?
"I and the squire here are settling accounts for some grim deeds on Vaxanide," Havelock says. "Deeds as began here on Fenksworld."
"Huh, all right. What's the case?"
"House Janus killings," Havelock says.
The sergeant's eyes almost widen. "Oooooh," he says. he slaps the vox-box next to him. "Archivist! Send a c-bim up with a copy of the House Janus Case." He looks back to the bounty hunters. "What's the grim deeds?"
Spike tilts his head curiously at the Sergeant, wondering amusedly if that particular unsolved case has bugged the man for years.
"Looks like one of them didn't stay dead," Havelock says. "And turned up mixed with poor company."
The sergeant frowns. "Be good if you could talk to one of our detectives if you know something. All of them were judged dead."
"Can tell you what we know," the psyker answers, "But, truth is, he might not've been alive in any right or wholesome way."
The sergeant nods, then calls on the squawk-box again. Shortly a rather decorated arbiter in armor with purity seals coms through one of the doorways, accompanied by an unwholesome-looking, almost childlike (but disturbing) winged being that flaps along behind him, carrying a folio. "I'm Detective-Captain Dallas," she says, the tone of her voice belying some sort of tongue or vocal cord damage. "Sergeant here says you know something about the House Janus killin's? I was the detective assigned to it.,
Spike does a double-take at the creature, silently wondering what the hell it is?!
"One got away, seems," Havelock says, "And came to Vaxanide to do some unwholesome things." The ripple of the assassin's disturbance brushes over his psychic sensitivity; he makes a placating gesture. "Easy, squire."
Spike goes still, but still watches the peculiar winged thing warily.
Dallas folds her arms. "What kind of things? It might help to know what kind of cult took out that family."
"We were hoping you'd know more about the cult, actually," Havelock says. "But to answer the question... Wilhelm Janus appeared on Vaxanide spreading a xenos plague."
Dallas hisses between her teeth. "Wilhelm. Dammit. We were never able to determine body identities, you know. Right. So he's alive? The youngest of House Janus?
Spike murmurs, "Not any more."
Dallas looks at Spike, then sets her lips into a line, and nods. "Good, at least. If he was up to no good. He was turned, then?"
"Into somewhat Other," Havelock says.
SHe nods. "What are we dealing with, then?"
"Xenos. Wasn't a Chaos doing."
Spike grimaces, remembering.
Dallas gives a bit of a start, frowning. "It wasn't a xenos cult, then? That would explain a lot."
"If you could tell us what you found, Captain, it'd be a great help."
Dallas nods. "The bodies were put into a pile and burned, while the house was gutted systematicaly. Each painting of the Janus forefathers was neatly sliced in specific and identical patterns.
Havelock pauses. "...specific patterns?"
Dallas nods. "Nothing we could identify, but geometric in nature. We'd thought that it was a Chaos sorcery cult of some kind, though most chaos cults usually go for much more blood and irregularities.
Havelock asks, "Do you have any images of them?"
She nods, gesturing to the cherubim. It flitters forward, offering the folio to the two with a blank-eyed leer.
Spike holds still again, but his tension ratchets up markedly, and he puts a hand on one of his throwing knives under the cloak, as the alien little thing flies closer.
THhe cherubim flitters until it's uncomfortably within reaching distance, and waits there for one of the other two to take the folio.
Havelock takes it, and just... nods acknowledgement at it without making eye contact. He doesn't like to make eye contact with the dead.
The cherubim grins -- toothlessly -- and flits a bit to the side, watching.
Spike's cowl turns to continue watching the thing, studying it silently.
Havelock opens the folio, concealing his disgust.
The folio is neatly-organized, and in the section regarding the crime scene there are detailed images and sketches of the markings. It's a wonder the Inquisition wasn't interested earlier: they appear to be similar -- though not identical, much cruder and a bit more elaborate -- than Necron glyphs.
Havelock nods. "Just so... just so." He glances up at the detective, "Was this a pattern? More like this? Or just the one incident?"
Spike glances over quickly, then looks back at the creepy little flying thing.
Dallas shakes her head. "Just the one incident." She adds after a moment, "That we know of."
"What happened to the estate?"
Dallas says, "Turned over to another house, House Kalabin.
Havelock asks, "What do you know about them?"
Dallas shrugs, "Old Imperial family, dates back to the crusade that founded this sector, and a bit before."
Havelock frowns. "No chance of seeing the site, then."
She shakes her head. "It's been completely renovated and rebuilt anyway, well over fifteen years ago.
Havelock nods. "You mind if we keep a copy of these images?"
SHe nods. "You can keep the folio, if you think you can resolve this case. What are your names?"
"Just call me Lion," Havelock says.
Spike tilts his head thoughtfully at Havelock... then grins at the woman, "Ravion, Detective-Captain."
Dallas looks at the two bounty hunters, and 'huhs' softly to herself. "Oddly enough, I believe you both. All right. Let me know when you find out anything. I would dearly love to end this case in the Emperor's name.
"So would we," the psyker says, resettling his hat on his head. "Obliged. We'll let you know, as soon as we do."
Dallas nods, and gestures to the leering cherubim, who follows her back into the precinct-fortress.
Spike sighs softly, relaxing slightly when the nasty little thing is gone. He glances at Havelock, ready to leave when the psyker is.
Havelock nods to the door. "Let's go."