Chapter 1: The Winds of Change
To Question the Emperor's Will is to Embrace Heresy-Warhammer 40,000 page 134
Sera let her head fall back against the wall. There was a slight metallic clunk as she struck the cold metal of the space ship hull. Sera opened her eyes slightly and peered around the cavernous hold of the Imperial ship. Row upon row of sick and wasted psykers all in various stages of distress sat chained to the walls of the ship. Men and women, old and young all brought together by the gracious and holy servants of The Emperor, the Inquisition. The chains were a bit much. Sera doubted that she could move much under her own power even if the heavy iron manacles were removed.
Sera wondered if any of the innumerable prisoners she now surveyed had tried to fight back, to hide, to run or even take up arms against the Imperial agents who had taken them away. Probably not, she hadn't, why should they? Sera tried to maintain her sanity, no easy feat in a place such as this. She studied the statues and relieves that decorated the hold. How many psykers these baroque monstrosities had surveyed with their cold, empty eyes? The style of the relief alternated between a kindly, sad faced angel and a mocking skull, the cruel duplicity that was the galaxy spanning Imperium of Man.
Sera found her moment of introspection interrupted. An iron tipped boot jabbed her leg. She looked up and found herself staring into the metallic eyes of a tech-priest. There was a slight mechanical click as the bionic eyes focused on her, surveying her, sizing her up. After a pause the technician spoke, an awful sound, harsh and metallic, like biting down on aluminium foil, "Yes, you look healthy enough. The captain demands the services of the able-bodied." The tech priest paused, then added, "as you can see there are fewer to chose from then one would have hoped," the tech-priest gestured at a psyker who's body as if on cue gave a sudden uncontrollable twitch, and whimpered in his misery. If his face still had the ability to show expression, he would have glared.
Sera managed a brief smile, "I'm flattered," she said dryly.
The sarcasm made a slight whistling sound as it flew over the tech-priest's head. "Indeed you should be, it is not often that an imperial officer decides to show such blatant disregard for protocol."
"I imagine that must be most distressing for you."
"Impudent little mutant." Sera's eyes widened at the crude, derogatory term for a psyker, bitter and hateful even when spoken by an artificial voice. Without another word the Tech priest shambled closer to Sera, unlocked her chains and led her through the mass of human cargo towards her destination.
Colonel Garcin Sartre was a man known for taking risks, the sort of man who would not rest easy if his head were not squarely on the proverbial chopping block. Granted, he needed something to add depth to his existence, certainly the management of a small garrison in the backwaters of the Eastern Fringe would not fill the void in his life, the only high points of his career involved screaming slurs at the Tau diplomats who periodically visited his garrison promising a new and greater life as a citizen of the Tau empire. Sartre had made a point of threatening every beaming, soft-spoken alien that delivered this message with bodily harm if they did not immediately remove themselves from his sight. After more then a quarter of a century of this, the Tau were beginning to stop sending envoys.
Sartre could hardly have cared less. He did not live for his duty. He lived for something quite different all together. Sartre had struck a deal with one of the captains of an infamous black ship of the Imperium. The outpost was in need of labourers to perform the menial tasks that Sartre and his men could not be bothered to do, cooking, servicing equipment and whatnot, all the tasks and trivialities that no self respecting conscript could be bothered to do. More importantly Sartre intended to take a mistress, as did many imperial officers. Granted having a few dozen psykers lying around did involve some inherent risks, but that was nothing that a few suppression devices couldn't take care of. Besides, it was not often that such an excellent source of untapped labour just floated by…
Brother Logan of the Alpha Legion 14th company raptor squadron squinted through the light rain at the imperial garrison roughly a kilometre away. He clumsily tried to wipe condensation from his helmet's eye slits. He fumbled with his helmet's comm. link, trying to make sure the ancient technology was still functioning. It was, of course. Logan was just impatient. A few minutes later a voice rang out over the Vox net. "This is brother-captain Hykal Ghorn all units stand by, the decoy has been deployed, repeat the decoy has been deployed." Logan groaned, brother Ghorn had the mannerisms of a 20th century radio personality. Steeling himself, Brother Logan prepared for the battle ahead.
Sera awoke in a daze. She fought to get her bearings straight. Clearly she had been drugged, most likely by the tech-priest who had taken her away. Her world slid into focus and the sounds around her began to become decipherable. She was in a room in a small, prefabricated bunker. A few shadowy figures were seated at a table a few meters away. One she recognized as the captain of the black ship where until recently she had been incarcerated. The other wore an imperial officer's uniform complete with a powersword, which hung, deactivated, at his side. The two men appeared to be discussing her.
The ship's captain glared hostilely at the officer, "we're on thin ice Garcin; we had better not be caught."
Colonel Sartre shrugged, leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the small table, squarely in front of the captain's face, "you worry too much captain."
"Do I? Men like us have forfeited their lives for less."
"My friend, please, more then likely someone has already sent a detailed report to some inquisitor or another detailing my sins and exactly why I should be put to death. That report, however, will not reach the ears of anyone important until long after I am dead. That's bureaucracy for you.
"There are elements of the Imperium that do not waste their time with regulations and processes. Elements that act quickly."
Sartre nodded, "indeed there are, and they are far too busy with uprisings, Ork and Tyranid incursions, important things. A backwater imperial colonel taking a mistress and a handful of labourers is hardly a great priority."
"You are stealing them from the emperor's table!" the captain tried to pound the table for emphasis, but Sartre's foot was in the way.
"Then the emperor will have to learn to share." Sartre laughed at his clever joke.
"What if the psykers fight back?"
"Indeed, I was waiting for you to ask that." Sartre paused for effect, "I have a Culexus assigned to my command.
The captain's eyes widened significantly, "Impossible."
"Psykers find their presence particularly unbearable; he'll keep them in line."
The captain was on the verge of commending Sartre when a clearly unsettled guardsman burst into the room. "Colonel!" he shouted, the guardsman saluted clumsily, still panting.
Sartre, clearly irate at being addressed so directly shot the guardsman a look before acknowledging him. "What do you want?" he growled.
"Sir! Our scouts have sighted a transport; it refused to respond when we hailed it."
"Your point, guardsman?"
"Sir, she bore the eight-pointed star."
"By the emperor," Colonel Sartre groaned, "Not them." Regaining his composure Sartre turned back to the Guardsman, "Kill it." He ordered.
"Aye sir, it should be in range of our Basilisks now."