Then.........

The interior of the Cathedral of Saint Sardavia rang with music. The great nave, a series of Gothic arches three hundred meters high and nearly a kilometer long, was hung with tens of thousands of sacred buntings. Each bunting was an individual work of art, a piece of silk which had been lovingly dyed in votive patterns and stitched with hair of the supplicant to create stylized devotions to Saint Sardavia and the God Emperor. Many of those patterns had already begun to run, the interiority of the cathedral so monumental that the breath of the hundred thousand congregants below was condensing and falling as a misty rain. Streams of varicoloured water ran down the vast oozlite column which supported the arches vanishing into cracks in the ancient stone floor. The noise was enormous. The simple breathing of a hundred thousand human beings created a continuous semi-gale which guttered the flames of the foot thick votive candles which sprang from the floor like fungus in a dark cave. The sheets of melted wax glittered with votive coins, tossed by pilgrims against the walls of the chapel to eventually be covered over by fresh candlemelt. Some, those that landed close to burning flames, grew hot and sank slowly into the wax around them, giving an impression of impatience. The millions of tapers added a sibilant hissing burn to the mix as well as heating the air almost five degrees above Sigma Nillium’s balmy midsummer twenty. The cries of preachers and pardoners, the ringing of bells, and the buzz of conversation combine to create an almost physical pressure which squeezed the chest like a vice.

And that was before the music.

Nine choirs of nine hundred and ninety nine choralists. Women below the age of twenty one and gelded males raised their voices in a version of the Triumph of Terra so intricate and so baroque with polyphonic embellishments that it was all but mesmeric. Each choir sang to a Hymnal - a latent psyker who had been ritually lobotomized and then grafted into one of the nine pillars. Each pillar rose, seemingly from the gilded cervical vertebrae of the blinded and gilded Hymnals, branching out from the their frost covered backs in twisting verdegris traceries before splitting and coiling up towards the arches. The music, received from the choirs and transmitted through the hymnals flowered through thousands of pipes, ringing through the cathedral as more than just sound. It pulled at the mind and tugged at the soul praising the God Emperor in a might antiphonal chorus which reflected and refracted off the walls and ceilings until it reached such a pitch of intensity that newcomers to the cathedral fell to their knees and and wept.

The reason for the crowds, and the music, was that on this day, Saint Sardavia’s day, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine young women, had been gathered to offer their vows to the God Emperor of Terra. They would speak their oaths of devotion and then be taken off to Cannon schools to begin the harsh and arduous training which might eventually lead them to a place in one of the Sororitaic orders. Most would go to the Hospitalars and Dialougues but a few might one day win the ultimate honor of admission into the chambers Militant. That was, at least, the theory. A selection of girls, chosen for their beauty and lack of political connections, would find themselves quietly sold off to slavers who would convert them to high end joy girls for deviant Ecclesiarchs, reprobate nobles, and other interested and well monied parties. Among the Ecclesiarchs it was semi open secret, tolerated in exchange for a river of bribes, inducements, and favormongery.

“Keep your censor straight or I shall have you whipped!” Reverend Father Pytor Grim snapped at one of the two temple guards who flanked him. The guards wore flowing robes of white and crimson cloth, their faces covered by gold veined porcelain masks which had been etched to resemble jigsaw pieces. They carried brass censors attached by chains to the ends of long wooden poles. The smell of burning menander root wafted out, sharp and pungent. The guard straightened his pole without comment. Each of the Reverend Fathers, noticeable for their brown robes and long conical head dresses, had a pair of such guards. Pytor muttered in disgust as he walked along the assembled ranks of girls, their eyes all upturned to the massive gilded aquila at the end of the nave, it’s fifty meter wingspan cunningly designed to reflect the musical worship back down the cathedral as though the voice of Terra itself were singing. High Prelate Comier himself stood between its feet atop a pulpit so encrusted with gold and jewels that the simple white robed vestments of his office seemed to shine like a diamond amid the tacky splendor. Hundreds of servo-skulls, each one taken from one of Sardavia’s martyred companions, circled around him like predatory fish.

Father Pytor returned his gaze to the kneeling girls. Each one wore a white shift and a gauzy veil secured by a chaplet of wild flowers. Behind them stood two sponsors. In most cases these were parents, though a few were represented by minor nobility or even Ecclesiarchs if they warranted it. Pytor touched each on the forehead with a brush dipped into a vial of sacred oil, mentally noting the prettiest specimens as possible candidates for sale. Those with run down looking sponsors, simple artisans in their best clothes, or down on their luck traders renting luxury garments they could not afford were the best candidates. No one to follow up on a child who was certainly serving the Emperor off world. His eyes fell on the petulant face of a young woman, perhaps thirteen years old. She was quite lovely, with rich brown hair that curled slightly beneath the constriction of her chaplet. Honey colored eyes blazed from beneath her veil and her youthful slimness was already giving way to what would become her womanly figure. Her skin was clear and her garments were fine, her sponsors though… they were clearly muscle, their identical suits of synthweave marking them out as the guards of some noble house. Pytor nodded inwardly, this wouldn’t be the first noble house looking to rid itself of a troublesome daughter and gain some favor in the eyes of the Emperor in the process. The girl had probably been brought here against her will, the guards more to prevent her from fleeing than to vouch for her soul. Pytor added her to his list.

“Bless you my child,” Pytor intoned as he anointed her forehead.

“Do you swear to defend the Imperial…” the High Prelate’s voice swelled from innumerable tannoys and speakers held aloft by servitor cherubs. Pytor watched the girl out of the corner of his eye. According to the data slate she was the bastard daughter of the Duke of Belforma, one of the great planetary dynasts. Like many of his bastards the girl was more vital and energetic than his listless legitimate heirs, necessitating their removal from dynastic politics. Belforma was consequently, if illegitimately, well represented in the schola progenium, ministoroum, and other arms of Imperial authority. So long as it was off world, and out of the lines of succession and dynastic politics.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance to the nave, not so much sound, even gunfire would have been muted over the buzzing roar of the High Prelate. Instead there was a wave of jostling as a ripple of movement transmitted itself from the entrance to the knave. Sponsors and temple guards tried to shield priests and initiates with their bodies, preventing an incipient trample with knots of braced muscle. The hymn faltered slightly, the audible portion dropping out of sync with the psychic undersong. Pytor muttered a curse and glanced around to see one of his guards leaning down to whisper in the girl's ear. He opened his mouth to shout a reprimand to the man when he saw the girl’s eyes open wide. One of her sponsors reached out to shove the guard away but with a shocking turn of speed the temple guard grabbed the man’s hand and yanked him off balance, bringing his knee up to crack into his victim's chin. The second sponsor took a step backwards and drew a handgun from his jacket. The girl dropped sideways into a three point brace on both hands and one leg. Her other leg lashed out and drove her foot into the side of her minder’s knee. There was a crack as bones and cartilage gave and a scream audible even over the increasing chaos that was engulfing the knave. The minder’s gun went off blasting skywards like a starter's pistol at a gymnasium. The crowd opened like an iris around the gunfire, the faux temple guard whirled his staff and knocked the gun from the screaming minder’s hand. The girl caught it with one hand, tearing off her chaplet and veil with the other as she leaped to her feet. The fake temple guard drove the iron ferrule at the bottom of his staff into the groaning man’s belly, air and vomit exploded from the stricken sponsor's mouth. The girl shouted something triumphant and then ran for one of the side exits followed by the false guard. Every few seconds she fired into the air, sending people diving out of her way as she vanished from the cathedral, the sound of her silvery laughter somehow hanging in the air.

Now.......

The Old Man was dead. Auspex confirmed it. Their own eyes confirmed it. Orthelio Bathazar Belchite, by the Grace of the Immortal Emperor, Captain and Rogue Trader, lay in the bottom of a rocky gully encrusted with spurs of glyphsalt in hues of reddish purple. He was naked, or nearly so and his waxy skin was salt burned and sand blasted, save where the chrome of his augmetics had been polished bright by the wind blown grit. The Old Man had been an impressive specimen, something Imperial science could be proud of given his nearly three hundred years of age. He looked to be around fifty, powerfully built with the compact physique of a boxer. There was a look of surprise on his lined face, a look justified by the cratered wound that had nearly decapitated him. Judging from the look of it, the wound was made by a las blast, the skin around it partially cauterized and then broken open by the liquid shock passing through the tissue.

Camilla Atrantio slid down into the gully, triggering a small avalanche as her booted foot dislodged dirt and crystals of glyphsalt. She was pleased that she had dressed for this occasion, a form fitting body glove with integral cooling and armor plating stitched into its fiber weave covered her from head to toe. A long scarf had been wound around her head and her eyes were protected by large polarized goggles that gave her a vaguely insectile look. Even with all that protection the relief from the constant enervating wind that the gully provided was immediate. Godfarthing was an arid place, ninety percent of the surface covered with salt deserts and rocky badlands. Civilization, such as it was, existed in a pair of hives at each pole, and in long canyons cut through the limestone of ancient and long evaporated seas. There were isolated freeholds out in the desert where the nomads harvested glyphsalt but they were strange, exotic, and little trusted by the canyon dwellers. By an accident of geological topography the world was unusually flat with a maximum variation in altitude of less than a hundred meters. The result of this was that great wind storms howled around the globe encountering nothing that could check their progress and break their momentum. Over the passage of the eons the wind had stripped more and more soil and rock as it circled the rock, slowly sand blasting what little resistance the limestone could muster.

The slow excoriation was a blessing for the world, something the preachers never failed to point out in their interminable sermons, as the slow erosion had exposed the glyphsalt which was the source of the world's considerable wealth. Camilla was no Magos Biologos but she understood that the valuable crystals were the remains of a life form which had existed on this planet millions of years ago, crushed and condensed by the passage of time in the same way as prometheum. The Old Man had come here to negotiate with the locals for a cargo of the stuff. He had come down from orbit nearly a week ago and hadn’t made contact since. He might never have been found, might have been sanded away to nothing by the winds out here in this lonely gully, if it hadn’t been for his augments. The metallic elements weren’t much, but the crust of Godfarthing had no native minerals that registered ferric on the auspex and the tech priests on the Navarre had been able to scan the area around the Old Man’s last known location.

“Damn,” Camilla muttered as she pulled down the scarf which protected her lips and face from the ever present sting of flying grit.

“Orthelio!” Yvrine Caldes cried, scrambling past Camilla to throw herself down atop the body. Yvrine was dressed much as Camilla was, though she was taller and broader, heavily muscled where Camilla was lithe. Yvrine’s skin, visible now only at the back of her neck, was dark, almost black. Camilla had sailed with her uncle for nearly five years and the fact of his death seemed impossible. So many times she was sure he had died, only for him to reveal it was some clever ruse, some trick or stratagem. Not this time. Not ever again. Camilla turned away from the weeping Yvrine, her own eyes stinging. Before she left this planet she was going to find out who did this. Find out, and make them pay.

_____________
The heretic screamed, though the sound was muffled by the huge glass helmet he wore. They liked killing heretics on Godfarthing, though the heresy did tend to be more in the nature of settling scores with unpopular and powerless neighbors rather than actual collaboration with the Archenemy of Mankind. The method was unique at least, though it was doubtful this fact much comforted those condemned to it. Rather than fire, heretics on Godfarthing were executed by wind. The man on the gallows had been fitted with a helmet of clear glass that was connected by hoses to the howling wind storm which raged above the canyon wall of Jujeni Primary. The hoses funneled the grit down into the helmet at firehose pressure, the abrasive blast stripping away the soft tissue of the head, face, eyes, lips, by slow degrees. It was technically possible to drown as the sand filled the execution hood, but most people bled out from shredded veins and capillaries long before the mix of sand and blood could choke the ruins of their lungs. Men in long sober robes and women in dresses of blue or green with starched wimples watched. A few children threw rocks at the dying heretic, though patrolmen in flak armor and bowel helmet with sun visors half heartedly dispersed them with blows and threats. A preacher, ecclesiarch would have been two strong a word, dressed in the scarlet robes of a Red Imam, called the Emperor's judgment on the man who was still, incredibly, not finished dying.

Camilla took another bite of the ploin and chewed thoughtfully. She was a striking woman apparently in her mid twenties. Long brown hair was coiled up in a crown braid that framed a beautiful face with high cheekbones which gave her a lean and hungry look. Her skin clear and sunkissed like expensive sidan wood. Intricate traceries of electrum had been laid into her skin, the outward sign of fabulously expensive neurolinkages and synaptic architecture. Where the dress of Godfarthing tended towards the severe and practical, she was dressed extravagantly, in a shimmering jacket of woven skarsilk, a pair of long, form hugging, trousers, and a pair of leather boots crisscrossed with intricate tooling. Jewels glittered at her fingers and throat, hung with fine sapphires. A pistol, a chrome Hecutor-10, hung in a quickdraw rig on her left side, and a long blade with an ornate hilt hung in a leather scabbard on a belt across her chair. The other patrons of the cantina, mostly staff members of the Hugensulk Administratum Liason, gave her a wide berth and suspicious glances. Godfarthing was a conservative place, Emperor help it but it seemed to be an affliction that all desert words shared, and she did not fit in. That was all right, Rogue Traders did not fit in anywhere, they were, by definition, outsiders.

“We should return to the ship,” Yvrine remarked, not for the first time. The Seneschal’s face was puffy from recent tears, though her voice was steady. With The Old Man gone, they needed to return to the ship, formally pass the Warrant on to his successor, read his will for Throne’s sake. Camilla shook her head. Despite Yvrine’s entreaties, she wasn’t going to return to the ship until whoever had slain her uncle had been brought to justice.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting Madmoiselle Captain,” a pinch faced man in a suede doublet apologized as he strode into the cantina followed by a pair of sanctioners, or magistratum, or whatever they called themselves here on Godfarthing. The Holy Order of Emperor Bothering Tough Guys With Clubs Club or something, Camilla had no doubt. The speaker was Anwarna Abadi, the senior law enforcement officer in Jugeni province. His rank was something like equivalent to a High Marshall though few world’s this far out in the Zionian Spur conformed exactly to the regulations of the centralizing bureaucracy. Anwarna was a pinch faced man, his face seemingly ill equipped to deal with the flabby excess of a sedentary life style, with a wispy collection of gray hair which had been combed over his head in a sad attempt to deny the ravages of age.

“Make it up to me by having something useful to say,” Camilla encouraged, her voice a rich contralto with the slightest touch of aristocratic haute. Both of Abadi’s bodyguards stiffened, accustomed to dealing with such disrespect with blows but unwilling to risk such a thing against an off worlder of uncertain, but certainly high, status.

“I have reviewed my department’s files on the matter, and I am afraid that I can only conclude that your friend…”

“My Captain, Rogue Trader Orthelio Bathazar Belchite ,” Camilla interjected. She was being petty, but that was how one dealt with petty officials afterall.

“Your Captain as you say,” Abadi continued, “was murdered by desert bandits.” Abadi drew a folio of pale brown paper from his coat and opened it, spreading it out to reveal picts of the gully. A tent of metallized canvas had been erected over the gully and the sight had been picted and searched by what passed for local forensics. There were further pictures from the medicare mortis autopsy, analysis of the wound, tissue sampling. All of it made sense and yet, none of it did.

“This is the same file you transmitted to me yesterday,” Camilla observed, her voice level.

“The same, inadequate, file.”

“With respect Captain…” Abadi began.

“I piss on your respect!” Camilla snapped, her voice like a whip crack. The guards put their hands on their truncheons but didn’t attack. Abadi stood up fast enough that his chair tipped over and hit the paved floor with a crash.

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that a Rogue Trader, who came to this planet with three armsmen, went alone into the desert and was killed by random bandits. Bandits who your own people noted, never operate this close to the canyon? That these imaginary bandits not only killed him, but stripped him of everything of value except for priceless augmetics?”

“Mad’am I…” Camilla swatted Abadi across the face with the folio and then tossed it to the ground, scattering picts and reports over half the cantina.

“If you and your officers are too incompetent to see that, then I will find someone who can,” she declared, standing and tucking the folio into her jacket. With a flick of her wrist she settled her sword belt around her waist, high on her right hip.

“And as it happens, I have the perfect man for the job….”

@POOHEAD189

I killed a man, the day I met her. Running down a hab block on a hive world called Castobel. Another mark on the God Emperor's ledger of potential judgements. I thought the act had sent a beacon to the stars. Even here, hiding on a world of two hundred billion souls, my guilt and my past had come for me. I suppose I should be flattered. In my experience, misdeeds are often rewarded, or at least granted clemency in the cogs of self righteous logic. The end justifies the means, and all that. I was not above the notion. If you worked in the dark long enough, you became the dark, a wise man once said. Strange then, that no matter where I went, I was chased by the ghosts of my previous life. Or so I often thought. Later I learned it was not my past that haunted me, or not merely that. It was the future calling to me, grinding me down to better serve a purpose, and a woman, I would come to know. After three years at the academy, and seven years in the adeptus arbites, I had felt I had enough. I went and crawled into the darkest, most crowded hole I could find. When she found me, she had pulled the curtains and revealed the sun. Painful, uncomfortable, but later I realized, I could finally see.

Greasy rain slithered down stone and plasteel habs, thin rivulets rushing through the streets of the deserted blocks. It made the ground look alive, gave life to a place that did its damned best to kill whoever was stupid enough to make a living here. Clarions sounded in the distance, but past the sirens and the rain, all Alcander could hear was his own breathing. He was pressed against the wall of a hab, jacket soaked to its core, weapon up and the safety off, waiting for his moment. Not for the first time did he curse the bloody rain. To maintain air pressure, the glorious leaders of Hive Isobel vented the polluted air that coalesced at the top of the middle hive, equalizing it with injections of scrubbed air, and the more hot, humid air causing the bastardized rain. It tastes like the hab-block was sweating.

His knee still stung from when he fell, and he still tasted the bitterness of gunsmoke and rockcrete that had flown during the mad pursuit not minutes before. Rain drummed on his wide brimmed hat, and his retinal implant gave off a pale shine, the only indicator he was a probator of the local bastion. Well, that and his badge, but every probator knew it was a grox-shit way to identify one another, considering how good the gangers had become at fraudulent badges. Alcander had heard most bastions did not even use them anymore, and they had insisted they wear other means of communication and identification when necessary, and so the probus had given them arms slates, usually hidden from sight by long sleeves. They had kept the badges mostly as tradition, but the arm slates were meant to be copy-proof, unable to be given to anyone who had not earned it.

But it seemed even that wasn't enough. Ranborne had taught him that.

Pallid light glinted off the watery rockcrete street, loudly contrasting the long shadows cast by the various habs, massive pict boards in disrepair, and the overturned Solas-Harkonstar, laying like a dead beast across the block. Good car, he had heard. A couple of years ago he might have been able to afford it, but those days were as far off as Terra, in his mind. Had he known the tires weren't so good in rain, he likely would have thought better than to buy one, anyhow. It had not done Ranborne any favors. Then again, neither had his greed.

Alcander inched slowly to the edge of the corner, poised in the alleyway. Briefly, he thought he heard something. A soft, rhythmic noise. Something solid. Footsteps? He wasn't sure, it could have easily been the heavy drip of rain from a pipe. He held his breath, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. His eyes snapped open when the ident on his arm slate pinged. It wasn't loud, but it was loud enough. Something had changed, and he realized the noise had stopped. Without pausing to consider, Alcander dove out of cover as plasteel and rockcrete burst around him, its hard surface no match for the propellant base, mass reactive detonator cap of a bolt round, with a depleted deuterium core and diamantine tip. He knew the sound before he even looked, having used and been fired at with bolt pistols in several operations on distant worlds.

Alcander hit the ground in a roll, water scattering like shrapnel, catching himself with his foot on the edge of a pothole. His hat gone, Alcander's black hair matted and whipping as he raised his own gun, a standard issue laspistol courtesy of the bastion. He had always hated laspistols during his years as an arbites. They were too bright, and had less stopping power than he was comfortable with. He much preferred autoguns, but his probus had insisted, and the brass decided what was what. Alcander saw a figure through the glare and the rain, moving to kneel in the street, so fast was Alcander that Ranborne looked like molasses as he pivoted his hip and realigned his boltpistol. The bald pate and congenial face curled into a mask of anger and fear. He did not like that was the last memory he would have of him. He had counted Ranborne as an ally; a friend, even. But his friend had tried to kill him, and was turning to finish the job.

Alcander pulled the trigger, and finished it first.

Ranborne's body hit the ground, and his boltpistol clattered onto the street, the barrel still smoking like the flesh on Ranborne's visage. Alcander caught his breath, wiping his eyes and pulling his hair away from his face. The world had been all black and white, until his laspistol had blared red, the discharge still burned into his retinas. After a moment, he drew himself up to his feet unsteadily, and still keeping his gun trained on Ranborne, approached the fallen man. He had wanted to talk to him, to ask him why. To give Alcander a damn good reason for his betrayal. He wouldn't have accepted money, or pressure. He had to know, dammit. But there was nothing, he knew. He looked down at Ranborne's corpse, and he realized he would never find out.

He holstered his laspistol, and after taking a moment, he withdrew his sleeve to activate his armslate and call in the verispecs. But on the touch screen, he saw a notification. It was what had sent the ping earlier, and he read it. It was a call from bastion command to come in, he was being relocated, to turn on the beacon on his armslate to await transport. Briefly, Alcander wondered if this was another trick by Ranborne, one final play from beyond the grave. But he dismissed the idea, and activated his locator. A small, red flash ticked on and off, and he set himself down by the curb to wait, watching the corpse of his former friend, making sure the rats didn't get to him.

Minutes later, lights flared as a groundcar turned a corner, bumping up and down as it rolled down the street. It pulled up just a meter from Ranborne's body, and Alcander knew it wasn't the verispecs. Whoever this was, they were quick bastards. He couldn't see through the tinted windows, but the car door opened a moment later, and a man he did not recognize stepped out. He wore an expensive jacket, not the cheap-novaplas the merchants and business men of the upperhab tried to pull off as rich. The truly wealthy wore natural fibers, and this man, with his slicked backed brown hair and sharp eyes, had to be from wealth, or work for it.

"Alcander Mires?" He asked. Alcander noticed he ignored the rain, like him. "Come into the vehicle, have a lho-stick. We need to talk."

"I need to wait here until the verispecs arrive. And I don't smoke, I quit a few months ago." Alcander remarked. He felt somewhat jaded, petulant. Ranborne's body was not even cold, and he had so many unanswered questions. He did not care if this man was Sanguinius himself, he was not the least bit interested in what he had to say. "Whatever you want to tell me, you can tell me right here. I'm working."

"I've been told you're no longer on this investigatus, but whatever you wish." He said, straightening his jacket. The rain had somewhat abated, as if it did not mind wetting Alcander or Ranborne's corpse, but it made an exception for one of the gilded. "I am a representative and aide of your new employer. You are to be taken to the nearest gate, and transported to the upper hive, where we have a transport waiting to take us off world. At that time, we wi-"

"Off-world? I fought hard for this station, I'm not going anywhere. And who the hell do you represent?"

"The Lord Captain and Rogue Trader Orthelio Bathazar Belchite, Architect of the Trade, and the Emperor's Chosen servant, guardian of these systems."

Alcander just stared at him, and the two men merely looked at one another for a handful of seconds before the probator rubbed his eyes with two fingers, and stood up, taking in a deep breath. "You said there would be lho-sticks?"

"I thought you quit." The man reminded him.

"I've had a rough day."

The starport rattled as the interplanetary cog descended from high orbit. The battered intrasystem hauler rocked unsteadily in the stream of dust and grit which passed for atmosphere, scouring of rust and any pretense of paint to leave the cog bare and oddly pristine looking, save where leaking lubricant caused the sand to stick and beard in long ugly cancers. The grit-men, bedecked in heavy canvas suits, lumbered out at once to begin the process of attaching fuel lines, data hoses, and air scrubbing lines to such ports as the flying death trap still possessed. Camilla regretted not sending one of the Navarre's Aquilla class shuttles. It would be embarrassing if their off world expert died because a cog built when Horus was a boy finally burned out and smashed into the sand with all hands.

"You really think this burned out old Arbite is going to solve the Old Man's murder?" Yvrine asked sourly. The Seneshal had made no secret of the fact that she thought Camilla's plan was a foolish extravagance and they should get back to the ship and install her officially as the holder of the Warrant of Trade. Camilla knew that the Seneshal only wanted to do what she considered proper, but the moment she set foot upon the deck of the Navarre there would be too many demands on her attention and she would eventually be forced to let the murder go. It would be proper, necessary, what the Old Man would have wanted, but it would still be a surrender.

"I think you might be surprised, he made the holonews a few times and that isn't easy to do," Camilla counted.

"There is no news in a backwater like this," Yvrine replied morosely.

"Oh I don't know: Rogue Trader murdered?" Camilla suggested. The First Officer and the Seneshal were standing behind a thick wall of armorcrys in what was part arrivals longue part shipping hangar. Ragged locals mixed with mercantile factors in coats with impractically starched collars. A few tech adepts in threadbare robes walked along bundled conduits chanting in their language and pasting fresh blessing strips on junction boxes. None of them came anywhere near a pair of well dressed and obviously armed strangers. Even the few security men, little more than another flavor of ganger, eyed the off-worlders, but none dared to make trouble against such well armed quality. Camilla rested her hand on the elaborately jeweled hilt of a slender rapier, drumming her fingers on a hilt wrapped with the interwoven hides of two different animals, one smooth and supple, one rough like a sharks for better grip.

A line of passengers began disembarking from the cog before its ramps even touched down, spilling people, live stock and servitors out into the blistering dust. There were only a few feet to the dubious safety of woven canvas cargo shoots but the offworlders still flinched and cursed as they stumbled into the cover the chutes provided.

"Hey," Yvrine said, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"You want me to introduce you?"

Alcander had never liked warp travel. It made his stomach churn, and felt all too vulnerable. The time disparity also never sat right with him. He was never keen on situations he couldn't have some modicum of control. However, after the journey from Castobel to Godfarthing, he recalled he did not much like interplanetary travel either.

They had been picked up by something Alcander fancied looked like an Arvus Lighter, only sleeker and longer, with a reinforced hull. The liason had called it an Avro-transport, a old craft refurbished by the Arkon corporation, evidently. He had never heard of them, but then again, Alcander had been out of the public eye the past few years. He had tried to bury his head in the sand as much as he could, so it was to be expected. Even so, despite the solid transport and the in-flight refreshments, it was met with turbulence from solar winds, and unexpected void debris, making the two day journey a three day slog with little in the way of sleep. It did little to help his mood. His badge, arm slate, even his laspistol had been confiscated from him by the bastion chief. Evidently it was up to his 'new' employer to provide what he needed for him, beyond his clothes and good looks, and he doubted he still had the latter anymore with his recent luck with women.

The Avro-transport made a relatively smooth transition through the atmosphere, and the hot white planet rose up around them as they approached slowly. He saw the distant figures of great hive cities hundreds, if not thousands of miles away. But where they were landing was in the middle of nowhere, hardly noticable until they were a mere mile above the surface. The starport was bigger than he expected, but still a podunk, obscure spit of civilization in the vast cracked wastes and gullies that filled the horizon. The transport touched down with a soft lurch, and within a minute the door opened, hot air carried by an insistent wind scythed into the cabin.

Two low level security men and the liaison stepped out first, followed by Alcander, who shielded his eyes from the hot sun above. He wondered if this world even had clouds.

"There they are," the liaison remarked, pointing north. "You can finally get some answers, and maybe something to eat."

Alcander said nothing. His armored, black coat had been taken away, replaced by a worn duster. He grabbed the hems and straightened it, despite the wind calming down. Flanked by the security, Alcander approached what looked like two women, his guess turning correct as he walked closer. One was a darker skinned, muscled woman, with a strong jaw and keen eyes. She was nearly as tall as him. To her right was an olive skinned vixen, a woman he had considered merely beautiful that became stunningly beautiful as he approached. Most probators in his position would have counted himself lucky, being taken off world at the behest of a rogue trader, meeting with gorgeous women on a clandestine world. But he had chosen his life of anonymity. That, and he was not so keen on a beautiful woman. He didn't trust them. Call it prejudice, but he had experienced his fair share.

"-younger than I expected," he heard the dark woman say softly, only catching the tail end of their exchange.

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, before blanketed his face into a neutral look once again. Despite his reservations, he wouldn't be disdainful. Once the probator was a few meters away from the two, he opened his mouth to speak, but the darker woman cut him off.

"Welcome. You stand in the presence of Heir Presumptive to the Warrant of Trade, Camilla Belchite Del'a'Trantio. And I am Yvrine, honored Seneschal of Lord Captain and Rogue Trader Orthelio Bathazar Belchite." She said, a small accent slipping through her clipped speech, using the high gothic. This Camilla looked at her funny, but their eyes widened a fraction when he gave the proper hand sign of meeting nobility, speaking back to them in the same dialect.

"Honored. I am Alcander Mires, probator of Castobel and servant of the Imperium." He said by way of greeting, the wind picking up again, swaying his duster and unruly hair, still unbrushed from the journey of the void. As standard as the transport was, it was still a small vessel without a proper shower. He had to make do with a change of clothes and a small restroom. He cleared his throat, and despite his restless state, his eyes were set and penetrating. "Now, would you be so kind as to let me meet your Lord Captain? I admit I am limited on my information. And could I trouble you for a meal?"

Yvrine's already dark face darkened further and she tensed, her hand straying for a weapon. Camilla placed a hand on the Senshal's wrist, restraining further action. Alcander looked mildly perplexed but not worried. The situation was more complicated than the investigator understood but Camilla fancied she could follow the gears turning in his eyes.

"Yes Yvrine, let's feed the good probator then take him to meet the Rogue Trader."

An hour later, after a meal of pickled vegetables fried with some kind of cheesy flour bater, Camilla led Alcander into a cold, sterile room beneath a local medicae facility. They were deep below the ground and the air was so cold that their breath steamed out in long plumes that caught the bright overhead lumens. There was a strong smell of counterseptic overlaying the more unpleasant scent of death and base organic chemicals. Medicae Mortis in their dark robes shuffled past, faces wrapped in heavy woolen cloth, pierced only dark red lenses mounted in dark tubes. Some sported brutal looking mechadendites tipped with saws, clamps and other surgical tools that gave them an oddly arachnid appearance.

Camilla pushed open a door to a room that contained three steel plinths with surgical drains ringing their edges. Only one of them was occupied. The Old Man lay in state, he was as he had been found, still stained with the dirt and blood of his death. Camilla had ordered that no cleaning be done, nothing beyond what was absolutely necessary by the autopsy which had been conducted. She had wanted to set up a stasis field at the murder site but Yvrine had pointed out that by the time they bought one down from the ship, the blowing grit of Godfarthing would have scoured his flesh from his bones. The Rogue Trader's modesty was protected by a plastec sheet that concealed his wounds and most of his body.

"It is my honor to present Orthelio Bathazar Connar Travegion Sindilo Belchite, Duke of Cabreze, Hierophant of Colton's World, Captain General of Spinward League, Hereditary Colonel of the Coldface Dragoons, Lord of Breka, Commodore of the Illiadyen Argosy, by the Grace of the Immortal Emperor, Captain and Rogue Trader," Camilla intoned with funereal dignity. Yvrine shifted uncomfortably.

"We need you to find his killer."

Alcander had needed the meal, and had procured a toothpick to idly tongue in his mouth so as not to feel as strong of an urge for a lho-stick. The two ladies had been in an out, providing idle chitchat but not giving him much in the way of information, though granted he had not drilled them very hard, expecting the Rogue Trader himself to fill him in after he filled his own belly. Though he was not prepared for where they took him once the feast was over.

"Shite," he cursed under his breath, the toothpicky nearly dropping from his lips. He was stunned for a good moment, but the season ed probator quickly took a hold of himself. He gave Yvine and Camilla a brief, albeit sharp look. "Buildin' castles in th' aer, ye two are."

He felt his hopes of this being a simple misunderstanding or an operation he could potentially refuse dash. Even though the two women weren't Rogue Traders, the death of one was held in the up most secrecy, as were the details of his death. He was just given a great responsibility, even if he refused to solve the case, he would have to stick around until it was concluded or someone else was anointed, or someone would come after him.

"Of all th' bleedin' luuk," He muttered, walking past the ladies and eyeing the corpse. He had evidentally been a well established Rogue Trader with many years under his belt, if the titles alone did not denote such a thing. Alcander could spot rejuvenant work easily enough, these days. The old man had been well maintained, big and not without a good bit of muscle. Alcander noticed the calluses on his hands and the various, generational scars along his body. He placed a hand on his brow and lifted it to open Orthelio's blank, blue eyes. Neither were bionic, nor did he see telltale signs of certain poisons. He picked up the old man's wrist and checked for a pulse, before sliding his finger down to see any bloating on the ulnar artery.

"What are you doing?" Yvrine asked, a bit testily.

"Chekin' t' see if the auld man is dead, o' cairse." Alcander remarked.

"He would not be in here if he wasn't," Yvrine said. Alcander could feel her looking at Camilla with incredulity. The probator did not smile or respond. He had dealt with several cases where a man was hit with slow acting poison from the death world Veraekus. And there were other instances as well where the auspex and people's standard modes of checking signs of life were wrong. He wanted to be thorough.

He lowered the thin white cloth covering the corpse's extremities, finding a small exit wound to the left of his abdomen. There were no scorch marks, so it was not done from a lasgun. The wound did not seem big enough for a standard autogun, much less a bolt round. But, as he gently lifted the heavy man up a few inches with surprising strength and felt underneath for the small of his back, it was clear whatever had hit him had hit him from behind. Whatever kind of projectile, it had struck him right by the kidney, cutting into it a bit. "Hou loong had he ben ded before ye foond me on Castobel?"

"Two days." Camilla said.

Alcander's head shot up, blinking. "Ye better be coddin' me," he said, suspicion and annoyance warring with ettiquete. The woman, Camilla she had said, was obviously unfamiliar with the term, but the way he said it made it clear, and he saw it dawn on her eyes a moment later.

"I like to keep tabs on useful individuals." She said by way of explanation, and though she hid it well behind a neutral, professional face, he saw a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. Alcander did his damned best not to mutter a curse on finding out he had been surveilled, even to a limited capacity.

Never trust a beautiful woman.

Alcander set the cadaver down gently and went to clean his hands. "If ye would be sae kind, please take me tae the site where ye found him, and on the way, ye might be tellin' me why he woos on this wairld."

Camilla and Yvrine exchanged glances. Camilla eventually decided that the probater was speaking Gothic, though the violence he did the language was considerable. Either an accent or he had suffered a stroke.

"We took picts so you wouldn't have to go back to the scene," Yvrine pointed out testily. Alcander picked up one of the hololithic plates and examined it without apparent interest.

"You took picts of what you though I wanted to see. That might not be what I actually need to see," Alcander pointed out reasonably. Yvrine shook her head in irritation. Camilla laid a hand on the Seneshal's arm for the second time.

"Now Yvrine, it wouldn't make much sense to locate an expert and then ignore his expert advice would it?" Camilla pointed out. She opened the door and led the way out, striding back down the corridor.

Twenty minutes later they were aloft in a small personnel shuttle heading towards the murder scene. Camilla sat at the controls the inlaid circuitry in her forearms linking her to the craft with more than mere physicality. She loved to fly and did so at every chance she got. Wind buffeted the craft erratically throwing them ten meters in any given direction no matter how well Camilla anticipated.

"How long will the storm last?" Alcander asked, looking less excited than Camilla at the the continual hammering of wind and the sibilant hissing of hundreds of tons of blown grit scratching across the hull every minute.

"Storm?" Camilla asked innocently, "this is just a breezy after.. whoa!" The shuttled dropped suddenly and the auspex readings lit up in concern. The thrusters roared as Camilla corrected keeping them on target.

"You said you would tell me what your Captain was doing on this world?" Alcander pointed out. Camilla wasn't sure whether this was to distract him from the choppy flight or simply because his mind was engaged with the investigation. No reason it couldn't be both of course.

"The salt they mine here is mildly psychotropic," Camilla reported as she threw the shuttle into a long bank. They were only a few clicks from where the body had been discovered but she didn't want to overfly the site and possibly disrupt it.

"Mildly to humans, but there is a Xenos breed out in the Hook, that is mad for the stuff. The Captain was going to haul a cargo of salt there in exchange for navigational charts and a look at their technosorcery, maybe some other baubles as well. It was supposed t be the first leg of an exploratory run out past Kaskar."

Alcander held on for dear life. He had always been none-too keen to flying, but the dust and multitude of rocks clattering against the windshield and the sharp turns was making him even more nervous than usual. It was good he was practiced in keeping his voice steady.

"I see," He said, bracing his body so he was not shaken about like a mix-drink. He tried not to verbalize his distaste at the mention of Xenos, but he supposed doing business with them was not so bad if it was to gain wealth from drug sales. It certainly was not giving them imperial weaponry to use. Alcander was not extremely devout, but he had seen Xenos twice in his life, and each time they had tried to kill him. He held no love for the bastards. "Bit ye still nae told me when th' stairm'll end."

"Just a few minutes. They never last too long here," She remarked, banking left and dropping low after cresting a small, jagged rise in the wastes. He wondered by Yvrine had not joined them, but he supposed even with the Rogue Trader dead, there was still a business empire to run.

Within ten minutes, the wind storm had abated, and the lander was placed a few hundred meters from the scene of the Lord's death. When Camilla stepped out of the transport and strode ahead of him, Alcander noticed her movements were fluid and poised. She traversed the gaping cracks in the dried ground and numerous sharp stones with a dancer's grace. He had no doubt in his mind she was an acrobat, perhaps an entertainer of sorts.

"What was yer relation t' the auld man, Lord Othelio." Alcander asked as they walked, glancing left and right, wary from the new terrain.

"I am...was, his cousin. I have been in his retinue a handful of years now. He had no other close relatives." She said.

His brows raised. "So...ye to be his successor?"

"Yes," she replied. She had a faint accent, not nearly as pronounced as his own, but he could not quite place it. But beyond that, she had essentially just informed him she was a princess of a multi-planetary dynasty and trade empire. Briefly he wondered if his manners had been adequate, but dismissed the concern as silly. What was more strange was that she was out here alone, with him. She must really trust him. He felt somewhat flattered, and that was hard to do.

"Here," she announced, stopping at the top of a gulley. It's length spanned for a few kilometers, he thought, but it wasn't too deep. Perhaps five meters, give or take. He stopped beside her, hands in his pockets as he peered down. Just as he imagined, the rocks were scattered, likely from the previous, or many storms over the last few day/night cycles.

"Let's gae doon." Alcander said.

Camilla reached for a small satchel in her belt. "Yes, of course. First let me-"

Her words were cut short as the pebbles her right foot rested on gave way, and the leg flew into the air. She tossed her hands up as her footing was compromised, and she gave a peculiar squawk. Had he heard the noise from afar, he would have looked on incredulously, but as he was right there and quick, he grabbed her flailing hand on instinct, planting his foot on a stone and helping lessen the fall so her rump did not bruise as it brushed the stones.

"Ye alright?" He asked her. She blew some loose strands of hair out of her face and regained her standing position, brushing her backside and leggings off.

"Yes, thank you. The rocks are treacherous, be careful." She advised. Alcander nodded, but hid a smile at the irony of her warning. The two traversed down the slope of the gully moments later, and juxtaposed to her momentary loss of balance, Camilla flitted down far more nimbly than Alcander, and he felt he was pretty light on his feet, generally. Once they reached the bottom, her keen eyes examined the ground, and she placed a well-manicured finger to her lips, before pointing a few meters to the left. "We found his body right there."

"Can ye shoo me exactly how it ley?"

"Show you?" She asked, clearly wondered if he meant she should lay on the rocks.

"Place yer feet where 'is feet would bae, and face the direction he ley." Al explained. She took a moment to get her bearings, and did just that. She seemed to be facing southwest, if he had an accurate summation of the direction of the sun through the remaining haze, an aftertaste of the storm. He went over and knelt down where Camilla's indication would have his stomach be, and examined the rocks. A few moments went by, and he began to move a few of the smaller stones aside. Curiously enough, he found no blood. He reached into his duster and pulled out an Auspec, and scanned the area.

"Some traeces o' organic matt'er," He breathed. "But nae blood."

He blinked, a realization dawning on him. "Don't Rogue Traders have a wee servo-skell?"

"Yes, but we couldn't find it. After we found him, we simply assumed whoever killed him stole it or blasted it to bits." She said. "We could not access it remotely when we attempted."

He rose to his feet, and gazed down the gully. "Les gae ep top and luuk aroond. If it was doon 'ere we'da seen it."

Camilla led the way up the side of the depression, pulling down dust goggles and wrapping her face with a sand scarf before they reached the scouring winds at the top of the ravine. The desert stretched out before them, painted in a beautiful variety of earth tones which were kept eternally sharp by the low intensity storm of airborne grit. The sun was going down but there brillian moons were coming up to replace it, the illumination becoming both more diffuse and brighter as a result, seeming to cool the color tones.

"Yvrine already swept up here with auspex," Camilla half shouted as Alcander joined her, pulling the collar of his duster high in imperfect protection. His own personal unit was out and scanning but his keen eyes were sweeping the area as aggresively as the electronics.

"Maybe shae missed soomthin," he called, pointing to a beeping reading on his own handheld unit.

Alcander and Camilla knelt down beside the ruin of the servo-skull, more than half-buried from the recent sandstorm. Carefully, Alcander brushed the dirt off with a bit of cloth like some xenoarchaeologist from the schola, and finally when he felt confident it wouldn't break apart from a small tug, he gingerly lifted it up. The mechandetrites weren't yet rusted, those that were left, anyway. Some of the lower jaw was still in the dried ground, and bits and pieces of the skull were missing from some concussive blow.

"Wat eesit?" Camilla asked in her extravagant accent.

"It's bloody damn wrecked," Alcander responded in a breath, turning the servo-skull so the Rogue Trader could get a better view. "Soomething strook th' thing, braken th' parietal bone and the sphenoin, blastin' thrugh the nasal cavity. Pict-recorder's shot tae heel. But..."

He fished in his pocket and produced a combi-tool, flipping out a small invasive piece of metal and slowly tinkering around inside, closing one eye to get a better focus. Alcander had some small amount of experience with servo-skulls and their make, though he wished his old enginseer associate Madrek was here. After a few moments, he cursed and flipped the combi-tool, utilizing a small screw-driver implement, diving back in.

"Samthing I canne do to help?" Camilla asked, tilting her head as she watched. She ended the sentence quietly, however, her keen eyes finding Alcander was on the cusp of something. Biting his tongue gingerly, there was a small, albeit concerning scraping noise from inside the skull, and the probator breathed 'coome onnnnn..." before there was a 'click,' and the dark haired man grinned, giving a deep throated chuckle.

"Data-loom's fried, boot th' back oop synaptics ah think ah ken salvage. We need a good cogitator, a bloody damn good one, an' mehbeh we ken get a small picto-feed o' what transpired." He said, and glanced down at the materials still embedded in the dirt. He handed Camilla the servo-skull, who blinked her big eyes but took it, clearly ordering herself mentally not to drop the thing. Alcander removed the fragments he could find, and placed it softly in his jacket.

"Ah'm sher yer Yvraine is guud at her joob, but somethen's fishy here." He told her, and the experience of his years of investigating showed in his blue eyes.

"As it happens," Camilla half shouted through her scarf "I do have a good cogitator. A really good one."

"Throon abuv," Alcander breathed as the shuttlecraft swept around the arm of the Godfarthing orbital station. There were several freighters at dock, a pair of shift ships and a half dozen intra-system haulers. The vessel at the furthert docking arm put them all to shame. She was over four kilometers in length, long and dagger shaped from her vast engine to her ivory and gold chased prow. Cathedral sized spires rose gracefully from her spine, crested with sensor towers or gargoyle mouthed weapon emplacements. The hull gleamed white, the result of a oozlite ceramic bonded to her armored hull plates, subtle veins indistinguishable from this range save as a soft shimmer at the edge of vision. She looked like a queen visiting some slum in her domain to distribute arms on Emperor's Day.

"Thes is yoor shep?" Alcander asked in obvious amazement. There were ships, and then there were ships. Camilla bobbled the controls slightly, feeding more power into the drive than she shallow dive required. It was an unusual error for her but the idea that this was her ship now... she recovered, lifting the shuttle in a burn that put her back on trajectory for the main docking bay.

"The Navarre," she said with pride, "a Bilbao class heavy frigate, laid down in the Royal Yard at Aragon nearly two thousand years ago." The naval history meant nothing to the detective. The Bilbao class had been created in the dark days of the Jericho Collapse, when fleet doctrine had put a premium on fighter craft. Stadling the line between a destroyer and a light cruiser, she was overgunned for a destroyer with hanger bays of a light carrier. Like most something for nothing designs, it hadn't prospered in action. They were too expensive and complicated to produce, when the same resources could create a dedicated cruiser or carrier vessel which would do each job more efficiently. Mostly they had ended their lives as picket units out on the edge of the Ultima Segmentum but the same traits that made them poor fleet units, the oversized engines, the hangar bays, the ordinance magazines, made them exceptional far traders and explorers. Official legend had it that Ramone Belchite himself had won her in a duel, though the patch historical records on the onboard cogitattors suggested it was more likely a card game.

"An she yoors," Alcander pressed.

"She soon will be," Yvraine said proudly, clapping Camilla on the shoulder as she came forward from the rear of the shuttle, having set up clearances with the station and the world below and coordinated their arrival with the Navarre. Far ‘below’ them Camilla could see the beacons of lighters as they ferried salt from the planet below into the Navarre’s ventral hangars. Business had to continue, regardless of the death of the Old Man. By now the Navarre had expanded to fill the viewport and Camilla swept down her length, through a maze of spires and weapon mounts until they reached the dorsal hangers. Beyond the magnetic containment field lay a hanger bay that would have been the envy of many a planetary aerodrome. Sleek lightning fighters lay in long rows, behind them the bulk of starhawks and assault boats. Two detachments of leigemen stood with rifles at port arms as the shuttle settled down on the deck with hardly more than a clink.

The shrill of Bosun’s pipes blasted as Camilla came down the ramp, and the troops snapped to attention with commendable precision. Camellia, slightly embarrassed, reached for her sword to offer a salute, but remembered at the last minute what would happen if she drew it. Instead she lay her hand on her chest and bowed.

“Welcome back boss,” a perky young women with shockingly green hair and bright golden input augmetics on her arm, each fashioned so it appeared the gem at the center of an armlet. She touched her finger to her brow in a salute that would have given a drill instructor an immediate heart attack.

“Jo,” Camilla acknowledged. She made a broad gesture to encompass the parade.

“Was all this strictly necessary?” she asked, a touch of acid in her voice. The green haired woman shrugged.

“This is the first time you have come aboard as the heir to the dynasty. It is tradition and you know what the Old Man used to say. Jo struck a pose and when she spoke it was in an imitation of the Old Man’s deep basso that was so good it made Camilla’s heart twinge.

“In the end, what allows us to conquer the stars is not our weapons, but our traditions, our honor, blah blah blah,” She dropped back into her normal speaking voice. “Speaking of which are we going to stop fracking around and…” Jo cut off midspeech and gave Alcander a searching look.

“Who is this? Is he a cop? He looks like a cop, he has to tell me if he…” Jo babbled but Camilla raised a hand to stop her.

“This is Alcander, he is helping us investigate the Old Man’s death,” Camilla explained.

“Alcander this is Jocasta ap’Gwyn, our… my master at arms,” she admitted a trifle reluctantly.

"Ah look lek a cop? Moost not be doin' a gud job fettin' en." Alcander mused, raising an eyebrow at the green-haired woman. He gave a cursory glance at Camilla's soon-to-be personal guard, as well as the surroundings. He felt yet again that this was above his paygrade, even before he took the probator position. He had taken it upon himself to wear a jacket, like he often did back on Castobel. In large, artificial environments, it was often just shy of cold. That was usually a good excuse so he could keep his weapons cloaked and at the ready.

He was amused at the pomp, and at the red tinge on Camilla's cheeks from the welcome. Despite being thirty, Alcander felt as if his career was winding down, while lady Del'a'Trantio's own was blossoming. It put him in a somewhat whimsical mood, and he gave the men who stood at attention a nod of his head, before turning back to the master-at-arms. He held out a hand to shake. "Pleaser tae make yer acquain'ence."

"Top o' the marnin' tae ye," Jocasta replied, taking his hand and shaking it, though it was hard to tell if she was having a go at him or just being funny.

"No' bad, but yer tekin' through yer noose." Alcander pointed out. Jocasta wrinkled her nose and tried to look at it, crossing her eyes. Alcander strode past her to take in the immensity of his surroundings, and it wasn't even the main bridge. The hanger itself alone was beyond what he ever thought he might see again, worthy of the upper spires.

"Shoulde we check de cogitater first?" Camilla asked, a trite unsteady, likely from the circumstances. She pursed her lips. "Or we coulde eat zupper?"

"Ye doon' ''ave tae be teh acommodatin' jest kez ahm a guest." He told her. Behind them, Yvraine and one of Camilla's men stepped off the ship, the visored man holding the secured box with all of the varying peices of the servo skull. "Let's check th' cogitator fer the skell, then we can see wat on th' cooker."

“We should begin the installation ceremony at once,” Yvraine said, her voice firm and unyielding. Camilla paused in her step and cast an eye at her soon-to-be-seneshal. Yvraine looked determined, arms folded and face set.

“Surely we can wait till after this investigation is concluded?” Camilla suggested. Yvraine shook her head emphatically.

“Leaving aside the fact that it is an insult to the God Emperor and the Family to leave the Navarre without a master, the most powerful cogitator routines are locked unless the Rogue Trader enables them, not to mention the Old Man’s personal files might have clues that would be helpful. That isn’t even considering what might happen if an hostile vessel were to attack and there was no acknowledged Master aboard…” Camilla held up her hands in surrender to block the stream of reasoning.

“Fine, fine,” Camilla agreed, “Let us see to it.”

“If you don’t mind boss, I’ll take the arbitey down and get started, odds are pretty good we will be finished by the time you get to the third page of thees and forasmuches,” Jocasta put in. Alcander mouthed ‘arbitey’ with a look of outrage but Camilla nodded and waved her hand.

“Good good, I’ll see you up on the command deck then,” she replied. Yvraine opened her mouth to raise an objection but then closed it and nodded.

“Come then Rogue Trader,” Yvraine said, “Your destiny awaits.”

The command deck of the Navarre was a place of wonder and glory. It was a raised wedge of steel over a hundred meters long and buttressed with splendid cathedral columns which curved overhead like tree branches meeting over a river. Rather than stained glass though, the vast windows looked out into the void, the Xtachi crystal which comprised them was a priceless xenos import, stronger than durasteel but clear as fresh spring air. The glory of the stars burned beyond, somewhat spoiled on the port side by the view of the orbital station and its tawdry collection of in system tramps. Banks of cogitators lined the length of the bridge in a series of interlocking curves. Each station had a servitor sheathed in polished gold casings which made them look like statues of ancient armsmen in plate and tabard. The bridge officers sat on their own control thrones, each one an elaborate work of art and gazed down over their little fiefdoms. The command throne itself sat in the center, wrought from polished wood that, it was said, came from ancient Terra itself. The chair back had been worked into the scene of a battle in which two forces of men clashed with archaic weapons, a desperate rearguard being overrun by an advancing horde. The arms were of sculpted oozlite,laid out with delicate traceries of what looked like natural veins but in fact were the circuits that enabled the captain to interface with the ship itself. The throne could be rotated on its diaz to face the forward view port and the steps down to a small rotunda which held the glittering actuality sphere. The sphere was taller than a man, and wrought from gold and electrum intricately worked to resemble ancient devices of astrological navigation.

And that was only the usual display. The ascension of a new Rogue Trader might only occur once in five hundred years and there was much pomp and circumstance to be squeezed into such an occasion. Great banners in the red and white colours of the Dukes of Navarre hung from the distant ceiling, fluttering slightly in the artificial wind generated by the heating and cooling of thousands of cogitators. Ranks of men and women stood flanking a vast crimson carpet, the bridge officers resplendent at their head but by tradition one member from every crew on the ship was present. This ranged from scribes and tech priests all the way down to the lowliest deckhands, some of whom would never have seen the bridge much less the captain. This would be a tale they would bring back to their families, to be cherished for generations to come. The effect of so many costumes, from polished battle armor to grease soaked smocks was disorienting, as was the melange of odors which polluted the bridges normal miasma of warm electronics and the cold almost spiced scent of the Xtachi glass against the void.

Camilla strode down the center of the bridge towards the chair, flanked by an honor guard of six men in polished chrome battle dress with long force poles held vertically. The pennants of the last six Rogue Traders to command the Navarre fluttered from the onyx staves. She was dressed in formal regalia a tunic of gold embroidered with dark buff, a long scarlet cape, epaulets of pale purple woven with gold and silver thread, long trousers of a pale cream that tucked into black riding boots that clinked with the presence of actual spurs. Though her arms had to be bear for the ceremony, to keep her inlaid circuitry clear for the bonding, a pair of white gloves was thrust jauntily through her epaulet. Yvraine followed behind, the ceremonial gown and staff of the seneschal in hand. The navigator, a distinguished if somewhat stocky man flanked her, an elaborate turban of pristine white cloth wrapped around his head and a heavy sashmir at his side. Only the Astropaths were not present in the flesh, though a psychic song reverberated through the ship, rendering the March of the Primarchs in glorious orchestral splendor.

Camilla paused before the throne remembering the very first time she had stood before it. She had been a girl of fifteen then, abducted by her uncle from the very cathedral where she was to speak her vows. It had been terrifying at the time,Orthelio Belchite had been a name her own father had used only as a curse. She had been half convinced that the ogre from her bedtime stories was about to devour her for some sin or transgression. It had taken days for her to realise that the Old Man had actually come, at considerable expense and risk, to rescue her from the dreary life of the cloister. She had been grateful and thrown herself into learning anything she could. They had grown closer, by slow steps, Orthelio had seemed interested in her, even proud of her at times. The ship’s people had seen that, and opened up to her in a way they never otherwise would. Over time she had become a valued member of the crew. Now this. She felt a stab of loss to see the throne without the Old Man and and a flush of embarrassment that she had allowed herself to be pushed into this before his killer had been brought to justice.

Yvraine cleared her throat softly and Camilla realised that she had drifted into something of a reverie. Flushing with further embarrassment she mounted the diaz and spread the crimson cloak behind her before settling herself into the chair. Yvraine smiled though she must have been thinking of the Old Man also because her face soured slightly before she turned to drive her staff three times onto the deck plating in slow deliberate cadence.

“Bring forth the Warrant of Trade!”

Alcander followed the eccentric woman through the halls, wondering more than once if she was taking the long way to mess with him. They had used a lot of side arches and entrances that seemed tertiary, though granted, they were still larger than any doorway or even roadway on Caledon. He was yet again amazed at how large and ornate everything was, gazing at the baroque walls of gilded steel with the imperial heraldry of skulls and eagles, as well as the vast chasms filled with the infinite steel veins of the ship. Finally they descended a small stairway, framed by another a dozen meters away, and before them was what Alcander assumed was the cogitator.

All of the spacious and sweeping architecture gave him a bit of nostalgia. He had done the right thing in leaving the life, but despite the dangers and the cruelty, he had truly lived some wondrous moments in his time, chasing mutants through the wastes of Raokos, to apprehending rebel aristocrats in the upper hives, and even catching a rare glimpse of the enigmatic eldar on a space hulk. For a brief moment, he wondered that if he should prove himself, he could sign himself on as a freelancer for the Lady Camilla, but he threw the thought away immediately. He was done with all of this, despite the allure.

"Here we are!" Jocasta exclaimed, fanning her hands out towards the cogitator. Alcander looked the massive contraption up and down. The display was easily five meters wide, green text splayed across the screen, framed by what could have been the pipes of some archaic organ, but no doubt part of its sophisticated make. Jocasta approached the device, logging on with her access codes. "So, is this for business or pleasure?"

"Hoo did ye coom inte th' ledies service?" Alcander asked her curiously, producing the Servo-Skull and handing it to her. She reached into a small alcove of the base of the machine and pulled out various wires, her hips shimmying playfully as she did so.

"Sorry, you don't have enough points to unlock by tragic backstory. But don't be offended, we just met twenty minutes ago." Jocasta popped back out with a neural transmitter that had a very uncomfortable looking spike at the center of its skull dome. She hooked it up to the servo-skull, the appendage shooting in with a visceral smacking sound. "Luckily, I know all about you. Don't look at me like that, who do you think helped our future Queen find your little brass self?"

"Net my future queen." Alcander reminded her, leaning over the segmented steel wiring and using what knowledge he had retained post-retirement to see if he could find the right synaptics. Logitec text filled the screen, but despite the enormous power and capabilities of this cog, he had checked servo-skulls for feeds before. Jocasta pulled back and crossed her arms, watching the screen as the green light splayed across both of their faces, interrupted by the occasional darkness when the display switched screens. Finally, Alcander found what he was looking for, and a minimized square pulled up on the screen, showcasing the scene of the crime. As the feed continued, Alcander and Jo's faces went from inquisitive to stunned. Alcander and Jo turned to one another.

"We have to get to the bridge, now." They said in unison.

Camilla sat ramrod straight upon the command throne, as the ceremonial power sword and the orb were placed in her hands. The sword, a wondrous thing with a hilt of woven gold wire set with a constellation of gemstones, symbolized her right as Shipmistress to the service of all aboard her ship and the right to punish them, even unto death, if they failed to render it. The orb, worked with an antique view of the stars as seen from the surface of Holy Terra, symbolized her right to chart the stars, as well as to petition the Navis Nobilitae for their services. Both items dated back to pre unification Terra and were only removed from their suspensor fields and void shields for the once every few generation spectacle of the elevation of a new captain.

For all their splendor they were but symbols. They were certainly precious beyond imagining, but the next item that was presented was literally priceless. The Warrant of Trade was carried forth in a casket six feet tall and four feet wide. Intricate cherubs, Imperial saints and fantastic void beasts decorated the vast majority of it, but in the center, a piece of parchment the size of a man’s chest was kept behind a void shield so fine that it barely shimmered. The document was festooned with seals and ribbons, brilliantly illuminated with gold leaf and vibrant pigments. Dragons and knights battled fancifully in the marginalia and the capital letters were wrought into beautifully cunning designs. The writing was perfectly rendered in calligraphic High Gothic but the signature and seal at the bottom of the page, a simple flourish of ink, burned into Camilla’s mind. This was the mark of the Emperor of Mankind Himself, the text touched by His hand and studied by His eye. Camilla was not a particularly devoted attendant of chapel, but the sanctity of it was palpable. How many cardinals in their continent spanning Cathedrals ever dreamed of beholding something that the Emperor of Mankind had touched, much less something that had been issued to one of their ancestors, no matter how distant in time. The Warrant exuded something else. A concentrated freedom which could be found nowhere else in the Imperium. That elegant ancient text exempted Camilla from the strictures of a system that gripped every facet of human life across the entire galaxy. Armed with it she could voyage beyond the bounds of the Imperium, she could trade with Xenos, or handle technology that would see her executed otherwise. She could go places and see things no other human, beyond a tiny community of Rogue Traders, could ever hope to experience. Even the Holy Inquisition would tread carefully around her, though it was no shield from open heresy or Chaos Taint. To be presented with such a thing was almost overwhelming.

The box containing the Warrant was set before Camilla to the soaring strains of De Mulsher’s Terra Triumphant throbbing with the latent psy of the astropaths. Camilla stood regally and approached it. She made a show of reading it over, though in truth she had memorized every word years ago. She allowed her hand to rest on the wood, feeling the grain beneath her finger tips. On queue the music faded as she stepped before the warrant, sweeping her cloak back. Tech priests stepped to her, splashing her with holy unquents and crackling in binaric as they invoked the Omnissiah’s blessing on her and her circuitry. Great brass gongs began to sound, shimmering the air and silencing even the breath of the hundreds of people present. Camilla cleared her throat.

“I Camilla Seraphina Lucretzia Fiamenta Belladona de Trantio, on this the three hundred day of M41.998 as recorded in the ships log of the lawfully authorized and consecrated Rogue Trader Navarre, do solemnly accept the charge laid upon myself and my ancestors by the Emperor of Mankind himself. In keeping with this charge I shall voyage without fear into the stars which are the rightful inheritance of Man. I shall travel beyond the light of His Imperium into the dark, carrying with me that spark which heralds His coming. I shall conduct commerce such that His Glory be made manifest and such that His Imperium shall be made stronger. I will carry out the charge of my ancestors to explore without censure or limit, the very edge of the galaxy and to do my part in making manifest that grand design in which we are all engaged!”

A profound silence settled across the bridge as overhead servo-skulls and servitor cherubim rained rose petals down upon them in a soft rain. The room was so silent that the patter of them landing sounded like distant snow.

“Master of Records!” Camellia boomed, her trained voice carrying well but amplified by vox pickups so that the entire bridge could hear. “You may enter it in the log!” The ancient robbed figure of the master of records dutifully scratched the entry into the Navarre’s daybook, a massive leather bound volume that hung open on a lectern, then applied a seal and pray ribbon that had been prepared by a priest, making her command of the Navarre official in the only record that mattered.

There was only one thing left to do. Camilla drew the sword from its scabbard and ignited it. The ancient blade hissed to life, rose petals curling away burning as they touched its glowing edge.

“ Per te vel alios no fallitur. Tuos bonos fines respice inquit! She yelled, invoking the house words of the ancient spacefaring house of Belchite of which she could claim at least to be a bastard member, then she sat back on the throne. This time it was different. The chair crackled with energy as it was activated and the ancient systems began to sync with her circuitry. The experience was incredible. She had worked various stations before and linked with the ship in a limited way, directing guns or controling shields, but this was the first time she had used the captains link. She felt the warship come alive around her, she could feel its vast engines in her nerve engines, the destructive power of her batteries at her fingertips, even the shimmer of void shields waiting to be lit. It all came to her at once and she gritted her teeth to keep from gasping as electricity arced and prickled over her arms as they gripped the command throne. She could feel it all, the entirety of the ship, her ship, deep in her soul. Her mouth opened wide to laugh with wonder when suddenly she sensed something else. It came from deep in the ship, an ancient and crumbling data annex long neglected by the tech priests and their code purges. It swam up towards her red and pulsing with malice. She tried to pull away from it but she was too deep into the authorization sequences which were still running to bond her to her new command. It crashed into her like a blow to the sternum and she would have screamed if it left her any breath to do so. Red light arced over her implants and pain flared from her brain to her fingertips as the malicious code geas burned into her. Yvraine stepped closer to her and activated something on her ceremonial and a void shield flared into existence sealing the throne and the warrant within its milky translucence.

“Yv…Yvvv,” Camilla tried to say, her muscles twitching under the strain of the virus. Yvraine held up her hand as though to ask for silence. Camilla tried to speak again, to ask her friend to help her but before she could form the words the world beyond the shield exploded. A series of detonations ran across the assembly, bursting in clouds of smoke shot through with yellow and red. The void shield sizzled as blood and body parts impacted it, traceries of smoke coiling away from the points of impact. Camilla screamed and tried desperately to pull herself free but her entire body was immobilized by the code geas. She didn’t know what was happening but it was clear that her ship and her home were under attack. Her people were dying for thrones sake and she was just sitting here. Rage and hate built in her, she imagined how the Old Man would react if he were here and his contempt if she allowed mere cogitator code to stop her from helping.

“Yvraine!” she screamed, every fibre of her being howling in agony with the effort. The Seneschal turned to look at her, surprise on her face. Camilla’s confusion deepened, Yvraine should be furious, desperate, afraid, anything but surprised that she had managed to speak. Tumblers fell home in Camilla’s mind and Yvraine grinned, reading comprehension in the younger woman’s eyes.

“You figured it out… not quick enough but good for you!” the Seneshal said with a laugh. Men were appearing on the balcony above, men armored in the livery of the ships infantry. The began to fire into the churning confusion of the survivors, scything them down without mercy. Camilla saw helmsmen Mckenna take two rounds to the chest and one to the head with a pair of heartbeats.

“Whhhhyyy,” Camilla ground out, her eyes bulging with the effort of resisting the code flowing through her implants. She managed to raise the tip of her right finger with an incredible effort.

“Why?!” Yvraine rounded on her, the woman’s face a mask of anger and hurt. “Why?! It was supposed to be me you stupid chit! I was supposed to take the chair after Orthelleo. Yvraine one day all of this will be yours he would say,” Yvraine screamed, her eyes mad with pain and hatred. Las bolts pattered of the shield like hail on a frozen pond, reflecting away at crazy angles. Above them one of the banners was burning as it fluttered down towards the deck.

“Then you came and ruined everything, just waltzed in and took over. You think you are all that, that he liked you because your some natural criffing talent?” Yvraine snarled.

“Let me tell you, the only reason he even picked you up from your fucking nunnery is because he found out that he squirted you into your mother’s cunt!” Yvraine howled raving with the injustice of it all. Camilla flinched from the words. Orthelleo was her uncle which meant…

“That is right princess, your blood is so royal you got it from both sides apparently,” Yvraine snarled. She thrust her finger into Camilla’s chest and recoiled as a spark of static leaped between them, sending Yvraine stumbling back. Camilla’s arm came free and she brought it round to slam the orb into Yvraine’s face there was a crunch of cartilage and the seneschal stumbled back, clutching her bloodied nose. Yvraine pulled a las pistol from her holster and pointed it at Camilla, for a moment her eyes were so filled with rage that Camilla was sure she was going to shoot, but as Yvraine saw that Camilla still couldn’t rise from the throne she lowered the weapon.

“No, I’m going to need you alive so they can cut those pretty implants out of you…”

"How fer te the officer's bredge?" Alcander asked, removing the magazine from his firearm and racking the slide back, followed by the practiced movement of shoving the mag back in. He was fully loaded. The two had made it to the lift of the grand tech-progenitum without being molested, acting as if business was usual until the guard at the lift had halted them. When Jocasta rang out the clearance code and it did not work, the guard pulled a gun on them, but Jocasta stomped on his foot and Alcander elbowed him in the face in quick succession, leaving him blacked out on the floor. The green-haired vixen took control of the panel and called down the lift herself. They were inside within the minute.

"Once we reach the top? Less than a quarter-klom." She said with a hint of hopefulness. Alcander wished he shared her enthusiasm, he wasn't sure how confident he was. The shadows of the various tiers slipped by them as they ascended, and she checked her weapon as well. It was a clunky, heavy naval gun, not too dissimilar to his large double action. "We're passing up the Arboretum and the underbelly of the Cathedral now. You expect more trouble?"

Alcander was quiet for a moment as the lift slowed to a crawl, the level easing into place before there was a bellowing hiss of air and a mechanism cranking behind them to indicate the archway was about to open. Alcander held his autogun out, right hand on the holster and left hand steadying it, knees lightly bent. "I havenae been wreng mech before, on tha' scoor."

The door slid open, and bright beams from multiple lumens strapped to lascarbines streamed onto the floor of the lift, illuminating swathes of the dimly lit chamber as a squad of six men led forward a sortie in formation. They had been expecting company, layered with carapace armor and plasteel face helms, visored by infra-lenses. Expensive equipment for door guards. If Alcander and Jocasta had been standing there, they would have been as dead as Sanguinius. However, to the surprise of the assault team, they were nowhere to be found. Each man checked their corner, turned and signaled to their squadmate the coast was clear. The lift was large, but not large enough to lose two targets. After a small conversation in handsigns, one of the men placed a finger to his ear and began to murmur a communique. He stumbled on his words when a small device clocked him in the head, and he placed a hand on his helm before looking down at the mysterious item.

"Frag out!" He screamed, but his men only had time to take two steps before the grenade detonated, shrapnel tearing through their extremities and puncturing the armor of the men in close proximity. Two of the six managed to make it to the wall relatively unharmed as their fellows took the brunt of the explosion, but they were staggered. Alcander slid down the cable he and Jocasta had snagged to the steel veins along the upper wall, calmly taking his time with two well aimed shots to the neck, ending them before they could raise their weapons. Alcander's boots thudded gently on the floor, and after he eyed the corridor outside the lift, he began to rifle through the limp forms of the dead men. He pocketed a few more grenades, and slung a lascarbine onto his shoulder. Behind him, there was a groan, and he spun, his weapon out like lightning, but not fast enough. The wounded man had him dead to rights with a laspistol, before a roar of flames punched into the prone form of the traitor guard, engulfing him in superheated gas. He didn't even have time to scream. One moment he was there, and the next he was charred; incinerated on the spot.

Jocasta slid down right after, smiling happily as she spun her smoking naval gun. Alcander just looked at her. "What? I like the fire."

Suddenly lasbolts and auto rounds singed the wall and ricocheted across the rockcrete, both Jocasta and Alcander diving for cover. Al hit the left outcropping frame of the lift while Jo hit the right. With a few quick glances outwards, the two surmised the corridor leading to the main bridge was covered on a secondary floor four meters upwards on both sides of the run, likely by a dozen guard, and more were believably on their way. Alcander returned fire, but he was stalling to come up with an idea. Jocasta pointed her arm out and fired her weapon with four well-aimed shot, the rounds striking ouslite alcoves and balustrades, erupting in flames. Alcander took that as good enough cover to move, both hands on his weapon as he sprinted out of the lift, rolling behind a statue of Saint Celeste just as a lasbolt singed the ground underneath his feet. After a quick motion to one another, Alcander dropped his gun and pulled out the lascarbine, changing the fire to auto and leaned out of cover, the weapon cracking, sounding like a dozen hammers striking in quick succession as he laid down suppressing fire on the upper floor. Jocasta found refuge behind a stack of utility crates, but not before a lasbolt struck her sidearm as she ran, punching it out of her hands. She cried out and leaped into cover, pushing herself against the barrier as the ensuing fire clattered on the crates like a downpour.

Alcander cursed, but took the opportunity to cook a krak grenade for two precious seconds, before lobbing to the upper level opposite his side. There was a cry of dismay before the concussive explosion rang out. One guard slid across the floor and into view below the railing, and Alcander met his eyes. The traitor tried to scramble away, but Alcander hit him with a burst of lasbolts. "Jo! Ye goot?"

"Yeah!" She said, and when Alcander glanced her way, he saw the woman step out of cover holding a throne-damned hellgun, the entire battery pack firmly strapped to her back. Alcander's jaw dropped as she laid down a hellstorm of fire, the weapon's fire so fast it looked like one, continuous stream of crimson light.

"Wheer weer ye heding tha'!?" Al asked incredulously, but he wasn't so surprised as to not take advantage of the situation, joining her in moving forward, throwing two more frags as the traitors were suddenly pressed, crying out to one another to fall back. But it was slow going, lasbolts striking near Al's feet and Jocasta needing to find alcoves and nooks to regather herself and switch packs. Alcander hit another with a burst from his lascarbine, before his next target was saved when the weapon clicked empty. He groaned and he dropped the weapon before unholstering his autogun once again. As he did so, he peered out from behind the nook of the pillar, and in his vision he caught a sight that caused his stomach to drop. There, up a sweeping staircase upon her throne was Camilla, strapped and struggling, with that bitch Yvraine holding her at gun point.

This wasn't his fight, he kept telling himself. He did not give a damn about this place, but seeing Camilla there, it was like seeing painting of an ecchlesiarchal tragedy. What's more, he was not about to let his employer, a bloody damned princess, and a fun one at that, get killed on his watch. His next words exploded from his throat.

"Princess!" Alcander roared, and he stepped out of cover like a damned fool. A lasbolt snaked by his neck, but he did not see it. All the world faded away as he almost leisurely aimed his gun, bullets raining around his form as if he was blessed like Sebastian Thore himself. He leveled his pistol, a near impossible shot from what had to be two hundred yards. Jo dropped a traitor guard that had leaped out from behind the stairwell to end Alcander, but Al paid it no mind. Instead, as his barrel aligned with the shot, the probator breathed out slowly and pulled the trigger. Five pounds of pressure, his mentor had told him. Five pounds between life and death. His gun kicked back, and the bullet spun like a corkscrew, slicing across Yvraine's cheek and tearing her skin. The seneschal cried out in fear and alarm, but she dropped down as she called for reinforcements, and Alcander's eyes met Camilla's for a brief, infinite moment before time returned to its normal pace, and he spun back into cover before he was ripped to shreds by a hail of lasfire.

Yvraine was talking into a communicator with increasing agitation. Something wasn’t going as the traitorous seneschal had planned. Camilla screamed internally as she pulled at the code holding her to the control throne. Unfortunately, circuitry designed to connect her nervous system to the ship was just as effective at connecting the ship to her nervous system and even twitching a finger was an enormous effort. No matter how she strained the ship would not be moved. Not the Ship. Her Ship. If what Yvraine had told her was true, then the Navarre was her birth right, not simply something the Old Man had chosen to bequeath to her. It belonged to her, and she belonged to it. The ship wasn’t fighting her because it wanted to, it was being forced to by Yvraine. Camilla reversed her efforts, sending her mind into the ship rather than struggling to pull away from it. Vast sections of the ship were locked away from her by the code geas, but the Navarre was there, she could taste the dust of far worlds, feel the crackle of the void shields on her skin, the odd taste of the liquor of the Immaterium and the remembered electric hows of lance batteries. For a brief moment she broke through and while she couldn’t move she could see through the sensors. Deep in the bowels of the ship she saw the ship's people shifting nervously at the clangor of alarms. Armsmen, some loyal to Yvraine, others to her, some simply scared and confused, were fighting desperate close quarters battles in the compartments and accessways around the barracks. The pilots were at their birds, uncertain of what was happening, but ready to lift if the word came. Ground crews huddled in their ready bunkers, old riot guns and improvised weapons in hand.

She saw the bridge from the eyes of the surviving servo skulls.

The carnage was immense, the dead and dying lay in their hundreds, shredded by las fire or ripped to bloody rags by grenades. The Navarre’s mighty machine spirit grieved, in its alien mechanical way, for hands and input jacks that would never again touch her systems, or call crisp orders that would send her sailing out into the voids between worlds. It was an effort for Camilla to remember that they were friends and not merely components of which she had been fond. Jocasta and Alcander were there, ludicrously outnumbered but desperately trying to reach the void shielded throne. Suddenly Camilla knew what she had to do.

“Whatever you're doing stops now, I can take your implants off your corpse if I have to!” Yvraine snapped as she noticed the glass eyed focus which had come over Camilla’s face. Camilla didn’t really here her, her focus was entirely on Jocasta and Alcander. She reached out with her mind, unable to offer a command but instead hurling a wordless plea to Navarre's machine spirit.

A lot of things happened at once.

Jocasta was cowering behind a console as a storm of las fire swept over it, heating the metal casings until they glowed cherry red. Behind her one of the vast red and white banners was burning, coils of smoke being sucked towards the ceiling by vast air extractors. She was sliding the last magazine of rounds into her pistol when suddenly the control throne shuddered and one of the facia plates slid back to reveal an interface port. At first she took it as a malfunction as the cogitators' distressed machine spirit spasmed under the las fire that the guards were pouring into it. She slotted the magazine home and fired as one of the traitorous armsmen tired to flank her. The gout of magnesium infused uranium, cut him into two burning halves and set fire to another of the banners in a spray of burning blood. A second glance revealed that below the access port a light was blinking. Zero, one, zero, zero, one, zero, one, zero. Jocasta blinked in surprise.

“I thought you would never ask!” she cried and thrust her hand against the access plate.

Jocasta’s scream was audible even over the din of the gun battle. Camilla tried not to imagine the agony her friend was undergoing as the code geas poured into her augmented body. But as it poured into the Armsmaster, it poured out of her. Yvraine didn’t know what was going on, but it was too far divergent from her own plan to be welcome. The decision flashed in her eyes and her finger began to tighten on the trigger. Camilla blinked the void shield down a heartbeat before Alcander pulled the trigger. Yvraine screamed and clutched at her face, her own shot going wide and ricocheting of the actuality sphere. Camilla came up off the control throne like a coiled spring, smashing into the Seneschal and hurling her to the ground. Yvraine was too seasoned a fighter to be taken so easily and she swept Camilla’s feet from beneath her with a powerful kick. Ozone from the void shield stung at their sinuses and made their eyes water but did nothing to lessen the fury of the battle. Yvraine tried to throw herself across Camilla but the would be Rogue Trader anticipated it and used the momentum to toss her Seneschal into the control throne with an impact that would have shattered ribs if not for the body armor that traded broken bones for bruises. Yvraine rolled into a sitting position and whipped a hold out las from her boot, firing an instant too late as Camilla came at her with a vibro stiletto, forcing her to use the gun to parry the blow. Yvraine drove her knee into Camilla’s unarmored belly, driving her back as air exploded from abused lungs, smoke billowing from her nostrils like a startled dragon. The Seneschal launched herself at her rival, grabbing Camilla as the two went down in a flurry of short punches and kicks that resembled a cat fight, if both cats were hungry carnadons rather than the domestic variety. Through luck more than skill Camilla came up, stradling Yvraine’s chest and raining blows down on the older woman, so furiously she was blooding her knuckles on the bones of the Seneshal’s face. In desperation Yvraine reached out and caught the fallen ceremonial power sword. The blade screamed to life as she brought it around in a clumsy haymaker that would have cut Camilla in half if she hadn’t thrown herself off the woman in a desperate evasion. She came up on her feet and pulled her own sword from its scabbard. The jeweled hilt glittering as she exposed three feet of priceless vampire steel worked with the jagged watermark of its bloody forging. Yvraine came at her with a master’s discipline despite the mass of bruises that covered her face. Camilla’s blade twitched towards the blood flowing from a split lip and bloodied nose. Powersword met vampire steel in a screaming cascade of sparks. Parry low, twist, strike high, short punch, kick, strike again, riposte. The two women clashed in a web of steel that ended in a clash of swords as the two women stood breast to breast, heaving and sweating.

“Nice try, but I was always better with a blade,” Yvraine snarled, and shoved Camilla back, no elegant footwork able to account for fifty pounds of weight and muscle. She drew back her sword to strike when three ragged bloody holes erupted in her chest. Senechal frowned and looked down at the ruin of her chest, then lowered her sword. The powerblade fell from her fingers as she sank to her knees, the ancient weapon clattering to the deck, the power field hissing as it touched tacky blood. Camilla turned to see Alcander lowering his smoking auto gun. Behind him two banners were falling, both on fire, and whipping up a wind as thousands of pounds of burning linen fluttered from the sky.

“Ah thenk,” he commented judiciously, “we mey 'ave creked the cess.”