The Shadow In The Warp - Dark Heresy [IC]

[LCP]

The Shadow In The Warp

OOC thread

Chapter I
The Traitor's Hand Lies Closer Than You Think
Act One

Scintilla. Hive Sibellus. The Tricorn Palace, the dread fortress of the Inquisition, rising out of the iron-grey sea on a pinnacle of wave-washed rock to look down on the countless, worthless lives that began and ended in its shadow.

At least, that was where Jericus Flange had thought they were. Now he wasn't so sure. Since their shuttle had left the transport Miranda - a minnow among the wallowing leviathans of the freight ships that thronged Scintilla's orbital lanes - there had been no tooth-loosening rattle of atmospheric entry, none of the wind and rain that habitually swept Sibellus' spires. He didn't think it had been long enough either, for their shuttle to have made landfall - and yet here they were.

They had landed in a covered shuttle bay that echoed like a cathedral, its high walls and flagstoned floor cut from polished black marble. The roof was one huge iris shutter, its triangular teeth already closed before Jericus exited the craft. That must have been how their shuttle had got in.

There were, he had noticed, no windows. Instead, he caught the steady glint of picters everywhere they went: perched upside-down on the high ceilings, peering out from behind the smooth rectangular pillars. He even thought he had seen a glint of lens-glass in the left eye of one of the busts of stern-faced Imperial heroes that lined the corridors. None of the Acolytes, not even Tauron, recognised those stone faces. The plinths that supported them were blank.

If this was the Tricorn Palace, it was not a part the cell had ever seen before. The echoing corridors seemed mostly empty, only the occasional adepts hurrying past with their heads down and their arms full of papers. At the corner of two passages, a servo-skull hovered over two fuzzy figures deep in conversation, masking their faces and voices in the shimmering cone of a privacy field.

At last, their escorts brought them to a large pair of carved hardwood doors. Saluting, they took up guard positions to either side, waiting for their charges to head inside.

---

1

Everything about the room on the other side of the doors was old. The brass-cowled lumen globes shed pools of yellow light around its circular walls, leaving most of the rest in darkness. Concentric rings of raked seating descended towards the central point of the room, antique wood with upholstery of cracked green leather. There were other figures sitting at various points around the ring, but their faces were in shadow.

In the centre, an elliptical pit had been sunk into the floor. Lit from above, it contained a large white screen and a table, cluttered with data-slates and projector apparatus. It seemed this was a lecture hall. What kind of classes were given here was anyone's guess: the man at centre stage certainly didn't seem the kind to be tutoring Scholam brats.

Inquisitor Al-Subaai looked up at the new arrivals with a hard stare. Their faces had to be in darkness, the same as the others, but somehow Nova felt he knew exactly who they were.

The low buzz of a miniature grav-motor hummed over their heads. Trailing spools of inky paper, a yellowed servo-skull descended into the arena, carrying a slim data-slate in its delicate, tong-like claws. Al-Subaai took the message from its hands and spared it a cursory glance. With the most minute of nods, he set it down on the table and turned his eyes back to his audience

"If we are all here," his voice rang out, "we may begin."

---

1

Leonid. Phaestus. The Byzantium. Images flicked across the projector screen, hashing out details of a story that the Acolytes already knew. Red got the feeling that this briefing was as much for the benefit of the other groups of figures sitting in the shadows as it was for theirs.

"You have all been brought here because you have been working on separate facets of this investigation. Whether you know it " - Red felt as if the Inquisitor's gaze had fallen on them again " - or not, your work has been leading us closer to the heart of the Magos' conspiracy."

"You all know that you are servants of the Inquisition. What you may not know is that you are also servants of a still more exclusive organisation."

Nova noticed that two other figures were lurking on the edge of the light, as if waiting to come forwards. One looked to be male, the other female. The woman was smoking something in a long cigarette-holder, desultory wisps of smoke catching the light from time to time.

"More than one thousand years ago, a conclave of Inquisitors was convened to address one of the gravest threats this Sector has ever faced. They called themselves the Tyrantine Cabal, and they founded their order around one terrible secret."

Walking over to the table, Al-Subaai picked up a small remote. "We have brought you here today because - if you are to be useful to us in the battle to come - we have deemed it time that you were inducted into that secret."

He clicked the remote, and the projector threw its next image onto the screen.

It was a pict-capture of a framed painting. The painting showed a scene of men and women in archaic clothes, falling to their knees and pulling at their hair in the streets of an unfamiliar city. In the sky above, the sun was half-obscured as by a solar eclipse – but the black disc that obscured it seemed far larger than any moon, blazing with a corona of violet light. Its ghastly radiance seemed to permeate the colours of the whole scene, reflecting unwholesomely from the buildings and lending flesh an unhealthy bluish tint. In the distance, apocalyptic fires could be seen raging through the city, spires cracking and raining rubble down on the slopes of the hive below.

“Jorn Martin's Fall of Tanis. Not a planet you will have heard of. After the fate that befell it, it was struck from all records by the order of the Inquisition. This painting is kept in a secure vault on Prol IX. Or at least it did... before its recent destruction in an unexpected fire. Now all we have are these pictures.”

Al-Subaai turned and stepped closer to the screen, looking up at the painting. “A black sun appeared from nowhere between Tanis and its parent star. While it hung there, geological upheavals and severe warp manifestations ravaged the surface of Tanis. An epidemic of violent madness swept the population, and the planet's orbit was permanently altered."

Click. The painting vanished.

"Nothing could be salvaged.”

Turning away from the screen, Al-Subaai set down the remote.

"That was in the year 740 of the last millennium. In the aftermath of the disaster, the Inquisition searched everywhere for an explanation. They found the beginnings of one in several fragmentary pre-Imperial prophecies, confiscated from various cults. Cults scattered the length and breadth of the sector; cults previously believed to share no meaningful connections." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Put together, the documents predicted the downfall of Tanis with uncanny accuracy. It was clear they must have stemmed from the same original source. They gave the black sun a name - Komus, or the Tyrant Star."

The Inquisitor paced before the projector screen.

"Since that time, we of the Tyrantine Cabal have worked tirelessly to uncover the rest of this text - the Hereticus Tenebrae, as it is known. Since that time, there have been six documented manifestations of the Tyrant Star. Each time, it has brought death and disaster with it. It appears when and where it pleases, without rhyme or reason."

"Leonid was one of us, and Phaestus was his most trusted ally. It is clear to me that whatever plan the Magos has hatched, it was born from the knowledge he gained on Leonid's last mission - knowledge of the Tyrant Star. Something he saw corrupted him, made him contemplate the ultimate treachery. Perhaps he tried to seduce the Inquisitor into joining his plot. Perhaps that is why they parted ways." He paused. "Perhaps that is why Pallas Leonid had to die."

Placing both hands on the table, Al-Subaai leaned forwards. His eyes swept the crowd.

"Well, we will make him regret his betrayal. We will burn his conspiracy around him, and break him of the knowledge he stole."

Lifting his hands slowly up off the table, Al-Subaai straightened his back and exhaled.

“There is much to be done. Over the next few hours, you will be extensively briefed. But first – are there any questions?”

[Destro_Yersul]

This did not, to Tychon, seem the best time to ask a lot of the questions he had running around in his head. The Inquisitor must have read their reports, but they hadn't heard from him since then, and he had no idea what their failure would mean for the investigation.

The gunslinger had tried to make himself presentable for this. He'd kept the small accoutrements he'd taken from the Miranda, though not the clothes. Tychon was a man for practicality more than fancy clothes, and his flakcloth coat and battered hat were enough of a statement for him. The hat had been repaired after its encounter with Octavian Rhodes, and the coat had a few new holes in it that needed to be stitched up. At least his boots were better looking, now. Tychon had spent much of the trip replacing the metal with ceramite plates, when he wasn't busy with Tauron or helping take care of Nova. Seemed like it was a good plan, all things considered. From what the Inquisitor was saying, Tychon expected life to get a lot more dangerous.

For now, though, he stayed quiet, arms crossed, listening to the briefing.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Some part of Red would have preferred the starched red and black of the 345th's dress uniform, with its humble array of medals, ribbons, awards, and commendations. This place was massive. It was immense and grand, and they were being summoned before an Inquisitor - no, the Inquisitor. Al-Subaai. The man who controlled Red's very life. Such an occasion called for neat clothes and fancy accoutrement.
The Sargent felt unworthy in combat fatigues - although they had been pressed and creased in preparation for the event, no amount of polish or repair could ever make his bettered chest-plate look new again. There was a million little cracks spiderwebbing all over its surface. A million impacts from fire, las, slug, and claw. The chest-plate had served in more than its lifetime's worth of battles - that was one of the reasons why Red had added a request for Stormtrooper-grade Carapace to the end of their last report - and Red was grateful for it, even when he cursed and hoped nobody would berate him for its homely appearance.

---

1
He had spent quite a bit of travel time on the Miranda holed up in the ship's medicae bay, breathing and eating through a tube. The ship's chirguons took the bullets out of him, one had pressed up close to his heart, its soft nose crumbled flat. If he hadn't been as heavily armoured, he'd be dead.
He had coughed up blood for the majority of the remainder of the trip, but what damage the Guardsmen had taken was nothing compared to Nova, who had fought Lot 11 in hand to hand, without backup. From the state of the thing as it left 41 Pry, stolen away and frozen in the back of the Magos' shuttle, she had nearly killed it, too. Nearly, it turned out, wasn't good enough.

He had been there. Gun in hand, and on his feet. He had shot at it, bucking deckplates be dammed as an explanation, but he'd missed. He split his resources trying to commandeer the ship and sending Drake to kill the pilot instead of killing the important prize. Lot 11 was free, and now Phaestus probably had everything he needed.
He had been there at the Scrivener's Star, he had the glass-eyed Magos in his sights. He plugged las into the traitor's teleporter, but it wasn't enough to stop him. The Magos should have died then and there, but no. He had to lose Hieronymus and Kat, he had to lose Ignace. He had to nearly lose Nova. Twice.
Phrenz, he told himself sometimes, couldn't be helped. There was nothing that could have saved him. Except, of course, for Red. Why hadn't he been more vigilant? Why couldn't he kill the gene-stealer?
This was all Red's fault. He wasn't able to stop any of it, and the guilt weighed down upon him heavily. And still, he didn't seek absolution. He never sought out Drake on the Miranda to confess his sins and take the weight off. Instead, the ganger reverted to old habits.
He found the deepest, darkest bowels of the ship, filled with the dirtiest, ugliest, meanest Ratings there was, and he found there a probably-illegal boxing ring.

And he broke some faces.
Again and again, whenever Red needed to clear his head, whenever he should have been deep in prayer, he went to the boxing ring and broke some faces.

When Nova was well, the Guardsmen tried to engage her in some light sparring, and she always came out on top. She was just that much better than him, and he holding back too much, for stupid fear of hurting her. Of killing another member of his cell.

So he would go back to the ring.

---

1
Now, Red was nursing a split lip that nobody was rude enough to comment on yet, sitting in a dark room, heavily armed and solidly-armoured, listening to Al-Subaai tell the other shadows in the dark what he already knew. Red was there from the beginning.
It started here, in Hive Sibbellus. Sector 963.

He only had one question at the end of it all. It was simple, and it was venomous, but he didn't lend it voice. He didn't want to have to have the opportunity for Revenge to be torn away from him.

Who gets to kill the Magos?

[Etcetera]

Jericus was about as happy as a Techpriest with a gun in his arm could be. Which is to say very. He forced his attention back to the briefing.

They were going to have to be more careful this time.

[Thragka]

Despite the weight of his failures - made all too literal by the uncomfortable hairshirt - it was something of a relief to have left the ruins of 41 Pry behind. Here, on Scintilla, at the heart of the Imperium of Mankind in the sector, Tauron at least knew who he was. He was a servant, a man of faith and will. An imperfect one; oh, how he would never lose awareness of that, thanks to the ring on his finger and the cilice beneath his jet-black Ecclesiarchy robes and the scoriada coiled at his waist. But the physical penance only focused the knowledge that he already had, as opposed to generating it. On the return trip aboard the Miranda his thoughts had been hounded every waking (and almost every sleeping) moment by the bitter, poisonous presence of failure. The sense of powerlessness Byzantium had left in its wake had been smothering.

He'd fallen back on routine, as a tool to control his moods. Prayer and penance in the Miranda's makeshift chapel had taken up many of his waking hours. He'd spent the majority of the rest in the medical bay, at first simply supervising Nova's recovery, and then, when he could take it no more, politely demanding that the chirurgeons taught him the basics of their craft. He'd thrown himself into that task, but he'd known even then that it was little more than a distraction - he could never hope to develop such life-saving skills to a level beyond the absolute rudiments with the meagre time available. Lessons with Tychon had felt almost like an indulgence, the closest the cleric had had to leisure time as he helped the Metallican conquer his illiteracy. Tauron had been quite touched by the gift Urbanus had given him. When he'd almost given up hope, that simple act of goodwill had served as a potent reminder that there was still good in the galaxy, and that mankind was worth fighting for. The priest was surprised to realise that the other acolyte was probably the closest friend Drake had ever had.

He'd had less interaction with the rest of the cell - Nova, of course, had spent most of it in convalescence, and Jericus had comported himself in his typically inscrutable fashion for the journey. As for Red, Tauron got the impression that the guardsman might have been purposefully avoiding opening up to him. The priest had noticed the occasional bruise, and even respected the Sergeant for it; after all, self-harm was a perfectly acceptable medium of penance, of cleansing the body and purifying the soul. Red would find the redemption he sought, Tauron suspected; and if he, Drake, were ever needed along that journey, then he would be available.

Here, and now, though, he was calm, and his mind was at peace as he waited to be instilled with holy purpose once more. A couple of questions did form in his head, about the nature of the Xenos beasts Cell Lambda had encountered and their connection to this Tyrant Star, and further about what Phaestus's motivations might be. But he kept silent. His role was not to question, but to obey; and the questions that were acceptable to think in order to better achieve his purpose would doubtless be answered before the briefing was finished.

[Rizhail]

Nova stood quietly with the rest of the cell, hiding a bored expression under her hood. She had been somewhat distant since recovering from her wounds, spending the few days that she'd been on her feet in various forms of physical therapy. She was recovering relatively quickly, but Nova expected that the pain from her injuries would likely never go away; the twin scars running from shoulder to groin never seemed to stop hurting when she sparred or ran.

Nova let the silence continue; she had no desire to draw the Inquisitor's attention just yet.

((OOC: Keeping it short. Too tired from work to write more, and I don't want to hold things up any longer))

[LCP]

None of the other watchers in the darkness seemed to have questions either. Stepping back from the table, Al-Subaai nodded to the two figures waiting in the wings. It seemed Cell Lambda's Inquisitor wasn't the only one who would be briefing them today.

---

1

The first of the new speakers was introduced as Inquisitor Renfield, of the Ordo Hereticus. He wore clothes that would not have seemed unusual on the average law-abiding citizen of the hive – at least, the hive's upper reaches. The only hints of his higher purpose were his rosette – pinned to the lapel of his clean camel-hair coat – and the curved sabre that hung scabbarded at his hip. He had pale blonde hair, just beginning to recede from his high forehead, and a short beard framing his mouth. Red thought he seemed to have a kindly face.

“Inquisitor Al-Subaai has invited me here to speak to you,” he addressed the hall, “about one particular aspect of this investigation. Inquisitor Sinon,” - he motioned to the other figure in the shadows - “will be addressing another.”

A couple of menials in technicans' robes were fussing with the projector. Taking the device's controller from them, Renfield clicked the central rune. A new image flashed up on the screen.

“We are not the only ones with an interest in Magos Phaestus' plan. This,” said Renfield, “is Octavian Rhodes. Missing, presumed dead.”

“Rhodes was first brought to our attention in the events on Prol. At that time he was seeking to secure a document known as the Phryxis Transform, ahead of our friend the Magos. His actions brought him into direct conflict with the acolyte cell dispatched to that world.”

Click. Another picture of Rhodes, among a crowd of richly-attired men and women. The spires of a strange hive rose up behind them.

“Rhodes is – was – from a prominent noble family on his home planet, Cantus. A family that has suffered a rather spectacular fall from grace, courtesy of our Ordo, since the head of their household placed his cards so brazenly on the table. The question is, was Rhodes working for himself – or someone else?”

Click. The image vanished.

“That is where things become interesting. The Phryxis Transform has deeper connections to Phaestus than its theft. As some of you will already know, it was Inquisitor Leonid and his retinue, including Phaestus, who returned the Transform to that vault in the first place.” Another click of the controller brought up a grainy image of Leonid and his associates.

“The struggle to retrieve the Transform was a bloody one. It pitted the good Inquisitor and his allies against many disparate cult elements – cults that were previously thought to share no links. Our questioners could extract little from the captives that were taken about what had coordinated and unified their efforts, but the effect was deadly. Leonid's own Interrogator was killed in the final battle to retrieve the Transform.” A click brought the face of Interrogator Kraus into sharp focus, the man's stern expression every inch the ex-Commissar he had been.

“From this chaos, we managed to sift one salient datum – a name. More specifically, the name of an organisation: the Servants of Twilight.” Renfield smiled. “Perhaps I should say, the name of an organisation that doesn't exist.”

“Data-slates will be circulated to each of you when this briefing is over, with more detailed information – but suffice to say, the Servants of Twilight are a rumour, an apocryphal bogeyman as old as the Calixis Sector itself. Minor cults and renegade governors alike have laid their heresies at the feet of the Servants of Twilight, attributing them the most... fantastic powers to coerce and mislead. Despite this, no member of the 'meta-cult' has ever been apprehended. It is the official stance of the Inquisition that the Servants of Twilight are a fiction, concocted to deflect blame from heretics of a more mundane variety.”

He gave a significant pause.

“In many cases, no doubt, that interpretation is true. As a universal hypothesis, though, it would sit a little more comfortably if not for two facts. One: prior to each manifestation of the Tyrant Star, the number of reports and rumours related to the Servants has shown a marked increase. Two: they are alluded to – repeatedly – in the source documents of the Hereticus Tenebrae.”

“Tracking the Servants of Twilight has been the work of half my life. Thanks to the work of Inquisitor Al-Subaai's acolytes, I believe we now have the most substantial lead in decades. Octavian Rhodes, while in all likelihood nothing more than their cat's-paw, was doing their work on Prol, representing the same interests from which Leonid and Phaestus originally rescued the Transform.”

Renfield's eyes scanned the darkened faces of the audience.

“They left it alone for twenty-two years. Only now, when Phaestus wants it too, have they reared their heads again. To me, this indicates they know something about the Magos' plan, and they don't like it.” He set down the projector control. “Rhodes may be dead, but there must be more of their agents out there. We find one, and we may be able to crack two mysteries at once – both what Phaestus is planning, and the identity of the meta-cult.”

There was an eager glimmer in the Inquisitor's eyes – those last two sentences had been spoken with real passion. Cutting himself short by force of will, he stepped back from the table.

“I now yield the floor to Inquisitor Sinon.”

---

1

Inquisitor Sinon was a slight woman who seemed ill-suited to her ornate carapace armour. From the way her left leg moved it was clearly augmetic all the way up to the hip joint. Quite a crude augmetic too, by the sound of it – to Jericus' knowledgeable eye, it looked like it was giving her some pain. It was odd for an Inquisitor to have such low-grade cybernetics. She walked with a cane to assist its motion, and in her other hand held a lho-stick in a long cigarette-holder. Nova could smell the smoke from her seat.

“So,” said Sinon. She spoke laconically, but something about her manner betrayed an incisive intelligence. “You've heard from the Ordo Xenos and the Ordo Hereticus. You'll have guessed which Ordo I'm from.”

Placing her cane upon the table, she cradled her elbow in her free hand and took a draw on the lighted low-stick.

“Relax,” she said, “I'm not here to tell you what's waiting to kill you horribly. Inquisitor Al-Subaai has another bit lined up for that.” Smoke curled under the light of the overhead lamp. “I'm here to tell you about something else.”

Limping over to the table, she jabbed the controller without picking it up. A new picture flashed up.

“This is 41 Pry,” she said. “Some of you will be labouring under the belief that this was the location of the last recorded sighting of the Byzantium. You are wrong.”

Another jab of the button, and a star-map of the sector took the place of the seedy space station.

“In the last few weeks, astropathic relay stations across the Sector have begun to fall silent. Here,” she said, picking up her cane and pointing to a white dot, “on Fedrid. Here, and here,” she continued, “at Granithor and Munsk. There may be others that have not yet been reported.”

“These are isolated stations, the kind of places that run with a skeleton crew. Nevertheless, the station at Granithor managed to send a distress signal before they were cut off. Help, help, etcetera, etcetera.” Sinon sounded bored. “Thankfully, they also managed to encode and send the data for this image.”

Click. A distorted pict-capture, grainy and low-resolution, took the place of the map. Some chunks of it were missing, but still there was no mistaking the blocky outline of the Mechanicus light cruiser at its centre.

“This was precisely four days ago. A Navy fast response team has been sent to the scene of the attack, but we have yet to receive their report. In the meantime, all three of the stations in question have been as silent as the grave. In the absence of other evidence, we're assuming that the incidents on both Fedrid and Munsk have the same cause. This is despite the detailed assurances of House Orthellius that no ship could have ridden the known warp routes between these planets in the time it seems to have taken.” She sighed. “We also have the assurance of every Navigator house with operations in the Sector that all their loyal sons and daughters would rather die than serve the traitor Magos. So let's not throw out the hypothesis that they're a pack of liars.”

“Still, every cloud has a silver lining. Our archivists have been sifting the libraries here, trying to tally the events we've been witnessing with fragments of the Hereticus Tenebrae. This has provided the last piece of the puzzle. Conferring with Inquisitor Al-Subaai has left me in no doubt that this is the text we were looking for.”

Finally picking up the controller rather than jabbing at it, she pointed it at the projector. A new image filled the projector screen - inky letters printed over some ancient parchment.

"In lonely towers, three choirs will cease to sing," Sinon read aloud. "This fragment was actually added to the pages of the Hereticus Tenebrae by Inquisitor Al-Subaai himself, in a raid on the ruins of the Maedb. A mission for which I'm sure he has the archivists' eternal gratitude."

"The final paragraphs are of course of the most interest. If this is truly part of the prophecy" - Jericus thought he saw Al-Subaai frown - "then the implication is clear. All these events are leading up to one thing: the manifestation of the Tyrant Star."

"The Tyrantine Cabal maintains a network of observers across the sector, and over the last years the number of signs and portents associated with the Tyrant Star have been steadily rising. Rates of mutation and stillbirth have shown a statistically significant increase across half a dozen worlds, mainly around the boundary of the Josian Reach and the Markayn Marches. Repeated outbreaks of group madness have been reported in the Brontian underhives, although this has been attributed by some to scavenger gangs reintroducing condemned shipments of synth-protein into the food supply." Statistics and pathology reports flicked over the projector screen. "Cult activity has undergone a spike across the Sector, with many millennialist sects proclaiming the end of days."

"In the past, we have never been able to predict when or where Komus will strike. If we can unlock the secrets of this prophecy, we may be able to gain more understanding than the Cabal has gained in a millennium. And if we can stop it, we may be able to save countless lives." She put the controller down. "A subject on which I believe Inquisitor Al-Subaai has one last thing to say."

---

1

Having taken the floor again, Al-Subaai took a moment to compose himself before beginning.

"Inquisitors Renfield and Sinon have briefed you on the darkest threat the Calixis Sector holds." He paused. "I regret it now falls to me to describe to you another threat - one that comes from outside."

The projector threw up a succession of images. They were grainy pict-captures of a strange sky, slowly turning dark. Swarming shapes poured down like squalls of tainted rain, blotting out the horizon.

"In 745.M41, Hive Fleet Behemoth entered the galaxy from the Eastern Fringe. These are images from the Fall of Tyran, retrieved from the data-codex of Magos Varnak."

Slowly, Al-Subaai painted the awful picture. Of the ravenous, extragalactic swarm that had poured through the void, stripping worlds bare in its wake. Of the Battle for Macragge, and the long illusion of victory. Of the ravages of Hive Fleets Kraken and Leviathan. Images from new theatres of conflict crossed the projector screen - aerial photographs of Imperial fortifications overrun and dissolved by hordes of leaping horrors, of black swarms crawling across the landscape like rivers of ants. Colossal spider-like shapes strode storeys high through wheeling flocks of bat-winged creatures, big enough to reach over fortress walls.

"As you can see," he concluded, "it would not be an exaggeration to say that the entire Eastern Fringe is locked in a struggle to the death with the Tyranid menace." A click of the projector shut off the last of the ghastly images. "The swarm is guided by what are known as vanguard organisms. Scouts dispatched ahead of the hive fleets, to seek out... edible... worlds."

Click. A detailed anatomical sketch of two half-dissected specimens flicked up onto the screen. Had they not so clearly been dead, Red might have flinched.

Stepping forwards, Al-Subaai pointed up at the first specimen.

"Genestealers. Known to the Imperium even before the arrival of Behemoth, the connection with the Tyranids was only made when they were witnessed among the Xenos ranks. Their disgusting progeny infiltrate our societies, breeding true to each other until they can produce a deviant psyker to light a beacon through the void. A psyker that, in Sector 963 of Hive Sibellus, Magos Phaestus attempted to abduct through the mercenary services of the criminal Megaera Merrick."

A pause. Al-Subaai turned his attention to the second creature.

"Lictors. To our men in the Imperial Guard, also known as the Mantis Killer, or Spook. Dispersed in solitary pods ahead of the hive fleets, they seek out concentrations of our forces to bring down the swarm upon them. Once the Tyranids arrive, these scouts function as assassins and saboteurs. On 41 Pry, Magos Phaestus escaped with a live specimen of this foul breed, shipped in stasis from the domains of Ultramar."

"There are countless other breeds of Tyranid, breeds that do not have any specific ability to call to their kin. To our knowledge, Phaestus has shown no interest in them. The implication is clear." Reaching over, he flipped a switch at the back of the projector, shutting down the machine.

"The Calixis Sector is old and indolent. Our military resources are already being funnelled into the Spinward Front, as well as..." - he shared a glance with Inquisitor Sinon - "...other projects. Even if our armies were waiting and ready, Guard forces with no previous experience of the Tyranid mode of warfare have been shown to be far less effective than those who have fought them before. They have a fivefold casualty rate, a tenfold suicide rate, and are six times as likely to desert."

"We have seen no signs of Tyranid presence anywhere this deep in the Segmentum Obscurus, but when an enemy can attack from outside the galactic plane, anything is possible. The arrival of a hive fleet would mean a new kind of total war for the Calixis Sector. And we are not prepared."

"And now, the general briefing is over. Each cell will now be briefed in private on the part it is now to play." Walking over to the table, he looked down at the papers there, then looked up, as if surprised that the watchers were still seated. "You are dismissed."

---

1

It had been a long, silent walk back down the echoing corridors to the cramped office they now found themselves in. A marble bust of some stern-faced woman looked down at them from a wall of bookshelves, judging.

The door opened, and Al-Subaai let himself in. Taking an empty seat behind a heavy desk, he pulled open a drawer and pulled out a data-slate. Tychon recognised the words of the cell's report in the little green characters that glowed on the data-slate's screen.

"So," said the Inquisitor, after a long silence. "What do you have to say for yourselves?"

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon didn't want to be the first to answer. He pushed his hat back, forced himself to meet the Inquisitor's eyes. Here it was, then. Time to face the music. In a way, the gunslinger supposed, the fact that Al-Subaai had bothered with the briefing first and this second boded well for his continued survival. The Inquisitor likely would have just had them shot, if he wanted them executed for their failure.

Oh, and it had been a failure, Tychon had no doubt of that. They had failed to capture or kill Lot 11. The Lictor, he corrected himself, now that they had a name for the thing. They had failed to capture the Representative. They had, most certainly, failed to properly identify who it was they were meant to capture in the first place. About they only thing they had done right was kill heretics. Even then... The gunslinger's thoughts strayed to the two fine pistols he'd been gifted with. At least some good had come out of this mess.

"Well," Tychon began, running a hand over his jawline where his stubble had grown back. It still itched sometimes. "Ain't worth much, but we almost had the blighter. Few more seconds would've done it, I reckon. Still, we didn't have a few more seconds. We cut it close as it were. Almost died in the void, during extraction."

Something occured to him then. The representative had carried a box. "That device we brought back from the servitor. What was that?"

[LCP]

"You mean this?" asked Al-Subaai. He cast the matchbox-sized device onto the table. "It appears, Mr Urbanus, to be a box. What it contained was rather more interesting... our Mechanicus allies tell me it is some expensive variety of spy-fly."

For a few seconds, Al-Subaai sat glowering silently.

"So here we are," he said, at last. "Phaestus has his prize, and has vanished back to Throne-knows-where. Every single subject who might have been able to tell us something is dead, with the exception of one Malfian harlot, who," he said, "was intercepted attempting to board a long-distance liner on Merov. One of my Interrogators has been questioning her with considerable artistry. Apart from a few petty Cold Trade contacts, she's told us nothing of use."

"You are the only cell who have had direct contact with Phaestus. Twice, you have survived his pets, which if we had foreknowledge of them would have justified an Astartes strike team. And yet wherever you go, you manage to leave nothing but havoc behind."

He reached into the deck and produced an official-looking form. "Sergeant Red. Your request for improved combat gear was received by our quartermasters. I have personally countermanded it." He put the form down on the table. A large winged "I" had been stamped across it, along with the bold letters DENIED.

"You are being given a non-combat assignment. Octavian Rhodes was our best remaining lead. Having seen to it that we will not be able to question him," he said, "you will instead look for the evidence he left behind. Find out what he knew that we didn't."

Rummaging in the desk, Al-Subaai produced a stack of data-slates, and began sorting them.

"Inquisitor Renfield has been investigating the Servants of Twilight for some time, and may be of some assistance. The Miranda is currently refuelling and resupplying. Tomorrow, she will depart for Rhodes' home world of Cantus. You will be on board." He looked up at the gathered Acolytes. "Am I understood?"

[Thanatos 51-50]

"My Lord, with respect, we may have a better lead than Cantus." Red interjected. "Before the auction on 41 Pry, I decided to follow up the Sinophia Magna lead, mentioning it in conversation with Octavian.
Whomever he was doing business for, they're based there. He all but confirmed it when I asked if 'his friends' there financed his trip."

[LCP]

"And we have agents there investigating as we speak," said Al-Subaai, cutting Red off. "If Rhodes had friends there we will find them. An acolyte cell has also been dispatched to Fedrid, to investigate Rhodes' contacts on that planet." He looked Red straight in the eye. "As the cell with the most personal contact with Rhodes, you know him best. That is why you will be investigating Rhodes himself, and not these shadowy 'friends'."

"His estate was frozen shortly after the events on Prol. It has been in our hands since then, although we've found little. I need you to give the investigation a kick up the backside. Find out what drove Rhodes, and we're halfway to finding out what drives Phaestus."

[Thragka]

"My Lord Inquisitor, please forgive me for being direct," said Tauron as the discussion fell into another lull. He kept his tone respectful, speaking slowly and carefully to the stern face across the desk. "You asked us what we had to say for ourselves. Well, it is as Tychon said. Another few moments would have allowed us to leave Pry in success.

"You have our report. What you do not have are our experiences. 41 Pry was pandemonium from the outset. Rhodes, Phaestus, the Beast House and Stubbs opposed us, and each other. Temporary alliances of convenience and opportunity were as ephemeral as the gaseous miasmas of the void. We tangled with the Xenos - the Lictor - on multiple occasions. Mistakes were made," Tauron allowed, casting his gaze about at the other acolytes. "None of us contest that. But in the end, it came down to a matter of seconds, and inches, and that was where we were found wanting.

"I do not presume that you of all people are unaware of this, of the nature of an Acolyte's work. All that we do - life, death, the fate of millions if not billions - depends on the most minute moments commitment, of pushing our minds and bodies and souls as far as, and further than, they can possibly go. That is the nature of our vocation, and you would not have chosen us if you did not demand such unity of purpose from us. And in those instants, we failed.

"We were not complacent. Each of us threw everything we had into the mission" - here, Drake's eyes flicked over to Nova for a fraction of a second - "and despite that, we failed. But the Emperor protected us, and brought us here in the hope of redemption. When you inducted me into this cell, you told me that Lambda was the most successful group of investigators you had. We know the price of our failure, and none of us will repeat it. In the inches and moments to come, you will not find us wanting. I am not the only one that would gladly give my life to find that strength within me, the next time it is required."

[LCP]

Al-Subaai subjected Father Drake to a long, hard stare.

"That may be asked of you sooner than you think," he said, at last. "Let us hope you are equal to your words."

Looking down at the data-slates, he picked up two and placed the first face-up on the desk.

"These contain your briefing materials. Your destination is Hive Augusta, where Octavian Rhodes kept his household. The turn of the solar year is approaching on Cantus, and pilgrims will be arriving in large numbers for Saint Drusus' Day. You should find it easy to blend in. You are authorised to use whatever cover you deem appropriate." He paused. "Should you discover something urgent, an account has been opened in the name of 'Gideon Kastor' with an astropathic choir in..." - he looked down at the slate - "...Tarsus Spire."

"Some local forces have been acting as caretakers for the Rhodes estate. They will be instructed to cooperate with you in all matters. But remember, this is Rhodes' home soil." Again, the Inquisitor made eye contact with Drake. "Trust no-one."

Reaching forward, he placed the second data-slate down on the table.

"This has been prepared for all acolyte cells by Inquisitor Renfield. He calls it... 'context'." Al-Subaai seemed to handle the word with tongs. "I was reluctant to involve him and Sinon in this investigation. Inquisitor Sinon in particular has some unorthodox ideas. Nonetheless, they have their uses."

He slid the data-slate across the table.

"I understand you were given a copy of the Litanies. I suggest you read this with them to hand. In the hands of a civilian, this knowledge would be considered a moral threat. Needless to say, it must not pass your lips."

He looked around the group. His initial anger seemed at least to have ebbed.

"Now," he asked, "do you have any questions?"

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon did, in fact, have a few questions. He started with the one most pressing to him, flipping a lho stick out of the case and holding it up. "May I?" He held off lighting it until Al-Subaai had allowed or denied his request. If the Inquisitor didn't want him smoking here, he could wait.

With his habit out of the way, the gunslinger continued. "I have a few. I'll start with Verenwyn. Y'ask me, he was the biggest heretic of all the lot at the auction. Said he was from Solomon, and had a lot of private backing. Is that being looked into? He had this sort of odd beetle thing on his wrist that we couldn't recover, and I wouldn't want anything else like that lying around to be found by..." Here, Tychon permitted himself a small smile. "Well, by folks what ain't prepared to deal with it."

"Then there's Stubbs. Working for someone named Mr. M, and all the other lot at the auction seemed to have an idea who that was. Do we? I don't like loose ends, and I get the feeling he ain't gonna be happy about the Lictor escaping his hands." Scratching his chin, Tychon frowned. "Like a lot of 'em ain't gonna be happy. Suspect we made a few enemies on that one. The Byzantium worries me, too. One of the bridge crew said it couldn't make a warp jump in the gravity well, but it did. I watched it. Is the Magos using the Phryxis thing for that? Is that why he wanted it?"

Shaking his head, Tychon moved to his last question. "Which brings me to now. How thoroughly has Rhodes' house been searched? What might he have left behind? We survived a couple fights with the Lictor, but we got damn lucky, and I think maybe the Emperor was with us, there. He have any traps or the like hiding in dark corners?"

[LCP]

Al-Subaai merely nodded to allow Tychon his lho-stick.

I'll start with Verenwyn. Y'ask me, he was the biggest heretic of all the lot at the auction. Said he was from Solomon, and had a lot of private backing. Is that being looked into? He had this sort of odd beetle thing on his wrist that we couldn't recover, and I wouldn't want anything else like that lying around to be found by..." Here, Tychon permitted himself a small smile. "Well, by folks what ain't prepared to deal with it."

Al-Subaai sat back in his chair.

"In the wake of your report, certain operatives on Solomon were contacted. It took some time to track down this... Mr Verenwyn's home, but it was found, in the end. Some of the local hive-dregs believed it to be abandoned. You can imagine they told all sorts of stories." Al-Subaai watched Tychon's face closely. "Our men found quite a collection inside."

Looking down at some case files on the desk, he straightened them out so that they were obscured by the sleeve they had come in.

"I would recommend that you not trouble yourself any more about the mysterious Mr Verenwyn, Mr Urbanus. He is no longer your concern."

"Then there's Stubbs. Working for someone named Mr. M, and all the other lot at the auction seemed to have an idea who that was. Do we? I don't like loose ends, and I get the feeling he ain't gonna be happy about the Lictor escaping his hands."

Al-Subaai permitted himself the tiniest, briefest smile.

"Inquisitor Renfield was able to assist us on the matter of 'Mr M'. Or rather, Inquisitor Renfield's contacts within the Adeptus Arbites. 'The Solar Macharius of crime' - rather an imaginative appellation."

"Stubbs' employer made a calculated risk in sending her to the auction. It did not pay off. Only a fool would use her failure as a pretext to antagonise the Inquisition, and I am assured he is no fool." He shook his head. "No, I don't think we will be hearing any more from 'Mr M'. Not until this investigation is concluded, at least."

"The Byzantium worries me, too. One of the bridge crew said it couldn't make a warp jump in the gravity well, but it did. I watched it. Is the Magos using the Phryxis thing for that? Is that why he wanted it?"

"Mr Urbanus, if I knew what the Magos was thinking, we would not be sitting here idly discussing it."

"Which brings me to now. How thoroughly has Rhodes' house been searched? What might he have left behind? We survived a couple fights with the Lictor, but we got damn lucky, and I think maybe the Emperor was with us, there. He have any traps or the like hiding in dark corners?"

Al-Subaai raised his eyebrows.

"A relevant question."

He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Rhodes' house has been in the care of local personnel - under Inquisition orders - since his identification on Prol IX. None of them have been eaten, so I think it's safe to say you won't find any Tyranids lurking in the shadows." He looked down at some papers. "An inventory was taken when our men first took possession, but nothing of significance was reported. Perhaps they were not thorough enough. That will be for you to judge."

"Perhaps more dangerous than anything you might find in the house will be Rhodes' family. The Rhodes bloodline is an old one, and several of his direct relatives remain on Cantus. They were all held for questioning at the time of the Prol incident, but without more definite charges we were obliged to let most of them return to their lives. Now that they think they are free, perhaps they will be a little less careful how they tread." Al-Subaai fixed Tychon with a stare. "Which means, of course, that you must be all the more careful how you do."

[Destro_Yersul]

"I would recommend that you not trouble yourself any more about the mysterious Mr Verenwyn, Mr Urbanus. He is no longer your concern."

"Good enough for me." Tychon puffed on the lho-stick, watching smoke curl towards the ceiling. "Turned in that pistol of his for a reason. I ain't no heretic."

"Perhaps more dangerous than anything you might find in the house will be Rhodes' family. The Rhodes bloodline is an old one, and several of his direct relatives remain on Cantus. They were all held for questioning at the time of the Prol incident, but without more definite charges we were obliged to let most of them return to their lives. Now that they think they are free, perhaps they will be a little less careful how they tread." Al-Subaai fixed Tychon with a stare. "Which means, of course, that you must be all the more careful how you do."

"Guessin' we can't just shoot 'em." The gunslinger sighed. That would be the easiest answer, of course. "Well, we'll be careful. We'll have to. And if we turn up any heresy on their part, I ain't about to mourn 'em. That bastard Rhodes put a hole in my hat." The way he said this, it sounded as though damaging his hat had been a personal affront.

[Thanatos 51-50]

"My Lord, what ARE the rules of engagement, in general? Are we operating under official and open Inquisition sanction?" Red asked, before pausing for a moment and chewing his lips.
"We didn't find Octavian's body. What are our orders if rumours of his death turn out to be exaggerated?"

[LCP]

"My Lord, what ARE the rules of engagement, in general? Are e operating under official and open Inquisition sanction?"

"Openly advertising your allegiance is likely to close more doors than it opens, in this case. As I said, you are authorised to use whatever cover you deem appropriate."

"We didn't find Octavian's body. What are our orders if rumours of his death turn out to be exageratted?"

"Then you are to retrieve him for questioning. At any cost."

[Rizhail]

Pick up the investigation at Rhodes' estate, avoid drawing attention to ourselves from his old friends and family, and do our best not to murder any leads we find. This is boring already, Nova thought to herself, keeping her expression unreadable. After the cell's last mission, she had at least hoped for more action.

She let the others continue to ask questions while thinking about how she might be useful in the mission ahead. A thought occurred to Nova as her hand rested on the elaborate power blade the 'Malfian harlot' had sent the cell as a gift, currently in her pocket after Tychon had given it to her. I might have an idea for a cover story...

"M'lord, would I be correct in assuming we have information available on local customs and fashions on Cantus, in addition to the short briefing information on the dataslate? I have several ideas for cover stories for our cell, but I'd prefer to have some material on hand for planning purposes."

[LCP]

"A concise briefing on the planet is contained in this data-slate," said Al-Subaai. "You have the rest of the day to consult with our archivists here if you wish for more information."

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If you'd like to compose a list of questions not covered by the data-slate, I can answer them in one post when you guys are done talking to Al.

When you're all finished with the questions here, just let me know and I'll move things on.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Speaking of 'retreiving for questioning,' we're a bit lacking in nonlethal options for that. Think the Inquisition could issue a web pistol or a web gun, or something along those lines?" Tychon was remembering the webgun they'd almost captured on Pry. Shouldn't have given it back to the Beast House.

[LCP]

Al-Subaai looked a little surprised at the request.

"Something like that could be arranged," he said. "What is your eyewitness estimate of the chance Rhodes could have survived?"

[Etcetera]

"Speaking from limited experience, I'm near certain he survived without his vital functions being compromised. Rhodes has proven exceptionally durable during our previous encounters, and judging by the professionalism and co-ordination of his entire outfit, it's probable he had reasonable medicae equipment close to hand."
Jericus paused.
"He did drop quite some way, but he's tough for an organic, assuming he possesses no bionics... or other less Sanctified augmentations. Considering all the data, I think we must assume Rhodes is still operational. "

[LCP]

"Then arrangements will be made for you to be provided with the equipment you need to take him alive." He spared a glance towards Red. "If Rhodes still lives, then he will be taken alive. I hope that is understood."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Never did figure what happened to his shuttle, either." Tychon adjusted the Lho-stick, thinking back. "Pretty sure the kill-team transported him back to it, but I was a little busy at the time to go look. Whatever you can provide, I'll take. Get the feeling we'll need all the help we can find."

[Thanatos 51-50]

"I've always intended to take Octavian alive, m'lord." Red clarified, meeting the Inquisitor's gaze. "He's obviously much more valuable that way. I hold no higher ambition regarding the traitor than to be present during his executuion."

Red mulled over his encounters with th Cantus nobleman for a moment. "What about Katrya? She's been MIA ever since Octavian captured her on Prol. I assume we want her returned to the Soriatas' care?"

[LCP]

"I would not hold out hope, sergeant. Our enemies are not merciful people. The chances of Sister Katyra's survival are slim." Al-Subaai considered the question a moment more. "If you find her, her retrieval is a secondary priority to finding the information we need."

[Thanatos 51-50]

"The Emperor Protects, m'Lord." Red reasoned whilst making the Aquila. "If she's confirmed a cas, she'll finally be Gilded, like she deserves."

And I'll torch everything Octavian owns around his ears.

The Guardsmen then fell silent, giving his compatriots another moment to speak their piece. Tychon's request for web pistols was a good idea, and Rd found himself wishing he'd thought of it. But then, if he had, they'd probably be ammended to the denied request for Carapace. That rankled at him a little. Al-Subaai knows how often their non-combat missions turn into combat sorties, and he still denied the request.
Then there was that tone.

This was going to turn into a full-fledged suicide mission, unlike the previous ones. He could feel it in his bones.
Wouldn't it be cheaper to just execute them outright?

[LCP]

Al-Subaai said nothing in reply. Perhaps he had long ago accepted Katyra's loss. Perhaps to him she had always been expendable.

“Very well then,” he said. “You have your mission. You will use your account with the astropaths of Tarsus Spire to report any significant developments to me as soon as they arise. You will waste no time.”

He leant forwards and pressed a brass button on the desk. A small receiver panel clicked open.

“Adept Cuvier,” he said. “We have a party for the archive, and a party for the armouries. Arrange an escort.”

A muffled squawk that might have been “yes, lord” came in reply. Al-Subaai pressed the button and the panel clicked shut.

“Follow the adepts,” he said. “And a word of advice, in this place – do not stray from the path.”

Outside the office – it was difficult to tell if it was Al-Subaai's or just a temporary space – the cell were met by two black-cowled adepts who led them away in separate directions. Nova and Tauron went with one, while Red, Jericus and Tychon left with the other.

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Nova & Tauron

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Their silent guide led them down tall, echoing corridors, the walls faced with the same polished black stone. They passed through a high gate, its burnished face engraved with a tableaux of a writhing serpent. Beyond it, a dark hall yawned like the mouth of a cave.

The air was slightly chilled, the quiet hum of atmospheric recirculators the only sound in the silence. Hooded reading lamps cast pools of light over heavy wooden desks, arranged in concentric rings in the centre of a circle of towering bookshelves. Slender walkways crawled up to the higher reaches of the shelving, brass handrails gleaming in the half-light. In the very centre of the room, the shoulders of a vast cogitator stack rose up through a pit in the floor, a spider's web of cables snaking out from its many outlets to small terminals set in each desk.

“This is the west reading room,” said their guide, speaking in a whisper. “Please take a seat and use the terminal to identify the materials you would like to examine.” He gestured to a spidery, much-augmeticised figure hunched over the central cogitator. “The archivist will see to their retrieval.”

Working in silence, both Tauron and Nova composed handwritten lists from the titles and authors they saw blinking on the cogitator screens – the assassin's work with the arcane machine being considerably slower than the priest's. Their requests were carried by silent adepts to the archivist, who seemed to summon book-bearing minions from the upper reaches as if by some silent sorcery. Soon enough, both Nova and Tauron had stacks of documents set out before them.

Tauron's Research

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What is organised Ministorum presence like on Cantus? Does the Ecclesiarchy have any official or unofficial influence on local politics, be it de facto or de jure?

The Ecclesiarchy has a strong presence on Cantus, with the highest spiritual authority on the planet being the High Ecclesiarch in Hive Augusta (a cleric who is one step down from Cardinal Yvenna of the Markayn Marches). They run many Scholams and are heavily involved with the planet's famous choirs.

Legal authority resides with the hive governments of the various hive collectives, but the Ecclesiarchy commands great popularity due to the way it bridges the planet's historical national divides. Hive governments tend to court the Ecclesiarchy for support, and the Ecclesiarchy uses this influence to keep a lid on the frequent (and sometimes fierce) conflict between rival hive collectives. Thanks to the distant, hands-off relationship between Cantus' governor and the hive lords, the case could be strongly made that the Ecclesiarchy is the strongest representative of the broader Imperium on Cantus.

What is the nature of Cantus's tithe?

Cantus is a hive world and its tithe grade is Exacta Extremis. It is particularly valuable in its production of textiles and munitions, most of which go to supply the Spinward Front. In recent decades its production has grown.

What are the details of Saint Tarsus' background in Hive Augusta? Is there any particular local lore that would be necessary if he wants to pretend to be a pilgrim, or possibly an established member of the Cantide Ecclesiarchy?

Tarsus was one of Drusus' generals, retrospectively canonised long after his death. During the Angevin Crusade he was the commander who brought Cantus back into the Imperial fold. The planet welcomed its Imperial rulers back with open arms, and most of the pilgrimage sites surrounding the Cathedral of Saint Tarsus are along the processional routes that Tarsus' army used to enter Hive Augusta on taking possession of the planet.

Similarly, he'd like an overview of the mentioned lingering pre-Imperial traditions, local Ministorum attempts to curb them and any particularly worrying trends - not enough to put his own mortal soul at risk, of course, but enough to pass as someone concerned and au fait with the local moral landscape.

Cantus was isolated from Imperial rule for a long time prior to the Angevin Crusade, and the fact that the planet acquiesced peacefully rather than requiring military action to reclaim denied the Crusade's preachers the opportunity to cleanse unorthodox beliefs by fire. Since then, the Ecclesiarchy has made great strides in propagating a unified dogma, but many irregular beliefs persist – some reinterpreting worship of the Emperor in an unusual light, others putting forwards entirely separate systems of belief. The aristocracy in particular take great pride in their pedigree; this leads to many pre-Angevin practices being passed down among the oldest-established families under the mantle of family tradition.

To fully catalogue all the superstitions and sects of Cantus (extant and extinct) would take more time than Tauron has. If he wishes there is a book by Inquisitor Eusebius which he can take with him on loan. The book dates from 437.M41, so may be a fair way out of date – but then again you're dealing with beliefs that have filtered down from far more ancient history.

Nova's Research

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What is the cultural view on women/their role in society (e.g. are the sexes pretty equal in the social hierarchy, etc)?

Attitudes to women on Cantus are broadly up-to-date with Imperial norms: both sexes are largely equal under the law. The noble families are notably patriarchal (with a strong emphasis on one's pedigree and the continuity of the family line pushing most noblewomen towards the raising of children), and inheritance laws favour men, but in the right circumstances a woman can hold any position a man could.

What sorts of fashions are common amongst the upper and middle social classes (or, more to the point, are such clothes/items available amongst the Miranda's disguise wardrobe?)

Cantus society is highly stratified according to class: there is a wide gulf between the working middle classes (who may ape the styles of the upper class) and the gentry (who look down on them for doing so). Noble clothing is always fitted, so the Miranda's wardrobe of disguises may not serve you quite as well as a visit to one of Hive Augusta's more prestigious tailors if you are looking to impersonate an aristocrat.

Cantus has a love/hate relationship with the more powerful established hive worlds of the Calixis Sector (e.g. Malfi, Scintilla), so off-world fashions from those planets can either be seen as bold and trend-setting or brash and tasteless, depending on what mood Society is in. Just like anywhere else, novelty is fashionable.

What sort of weapons are considered okay for open carry? (e.g. no weapon is allowed to be openly armed, only nobles can go around but must use swords, etc)

This varies from hive to hive and landmass to landmass. In Hive Augusta (where you are headed) there is a strong enforcer presence, so violent crime is kept relatively well under control (for a hive city!) - it is not normal to see people carrying assault weapons around on the streets. This is still the 41st Millennium, though, so carrying a pistol or knife about would not raise any eyebrows. The nobility also have a list of traditional privileges as long as your arm, and a sufficiently noble-looking nobleman could probably push a wheelbarrow of lascannons down the street without the enforcers doing anything more than touching their helmets and bowing their heads as he passed.

What sort of ties do the local noble-types have with off-world interests (merchant contracts, mercenaries, kinda xenophobic, etc)?

The hives of Cantus are in general cosmopolitan places. The truly old noble families tend to manage their interests through mercantile middle-men rather than getting their hands grubby with the direct business of commerce (it's not done for a gentleman to work), but the ultimate owners of the vast majority of Cantus' industry are the aristocracy. They do a great deal of off-world business, particularly with the Departmento Munitorum. Having off-world friends is often seen as a status symbol for the rich and powerful.

Is there a 'typical look' for someone from Cantus, so to speak? Basically, is the planet a melting pot of ethnicities, or is there not much variety to the people? (condensed to: how hard would it be for a mildly tanned, black haired woman to blend in)?

Cantus has as much ethnic variety as there is on present-day Earth, and there is plenty of traffic both between the various hives of Cantus and between Cantus and other worlds. You'd have to be from somewhere fairly weird for your ethnicity to give you away.

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Red, Jericus & Tychon

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Following their guide, the three acolytes entered a square lift that had no walls or ceiling, the polished platform descending smoothly on a piston. The black sides of the shaft soon turned to rough-cut rock, before the lift finally came to a halt in a deep chamber with armoured walls. A floating monitor-skull pivoted slowly in mid-air as it turned to track their progress.

The corridors that led away from the lift chamber jacknifed through forty-five degrees at regular intervals, heavy blast doors leading away to sealed side rooms at each turn. Through one open door, they saw a squealing thing with a cylindrical, boneless body and five membranous wings being pinned to a vivisection table by a team of chirurgeons. Through another, Tychon could hear the sounds of what sounded like a vigorous sword drill.

Two men in faceless crusader helms guarded a particularly large blast door at the end of the corridor. They stepped aside as the Acolytes approached, and the doors hissed open.

Inside were lockers, racks and chests of weapons. A woman with an augmetic arm and extensive facial scarring met them, holding in her metal hand a message that had been delivered from a pneumatic tube set in the wall.

"Cell Lambda?" she asked. "My name is Mordant. A pleasure to meet you." She looked down at the message capsule. "I understand you're in the market for some subdual systems. Please, come this way."

Leading them into a side room, she unrolled a sheet of cloth, revealing a pair of unusual-looking weapons.

"Needle rifle," she said, picking up the first and turning it over. "Will let you knock out the target at range. These," she said, picking up what might have been a cigarette case, "are the ammunition."

Opening it up revealed five long darts.

"Loaded with Morphia-Five. First three are dosed for a large male, last two for someone smaller. Be careful not to mix them up."

Closing the case, she set them down. She picked up the next weapon, a stocky thing with a bell-shaped nozzle instead of a barrel.

"Webber," she continued. "For subdual at close range. Just point and shoot; avoid the target's nose and mouth if you can. People have been known to suffocate." Lifting up a heavy case with her augmetic arm, she plonked it onto the table beside the gun. "Ten canisters' worth of reloads for you there. Don't use them all at once. And if you could return these guns in one piece, that would be greatly appreciated."

Lastly, she picked up a small brown bottle, no bigger than a box of pills. Opening the cap, she showed them the contents: a fine, yellowish-silver dust, reminiscent of pollen.

"Powdered maidensfoil, from Acreage," she said. "Has to be ingested, but a fairly powerful sedative. Not as powerful as some, but not as likely to kill the target with an overdose either. Tastes fairly mild, so you can mask it with something strong. Don't go taste-testing it yourself."

Once the Acolytes had finished inspecting their new weapons, their guide respectfully approached again.

"Your transport," he said, "will be waiting in the shuttle bay."

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Itemised list:

• One needle rifle with telescopic sight
• Five needle rounds loaded with Morphia-V
• A webber with 10 rounds
• One medicine-bottle of powdered maidensfoil.

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1

Later, when the Acolytes' business was concluded, they found themselves returned to the echoing shuttle bay they had first entered. There was no sign of the Mercator: it had been spirited away without a trace. In its place, a matt-black Aquila Lander stood centre stage. A pilot in Navy fatigues was waiting beside it, looking slightly uneasy about his surroundings. As the Acolytes approached, he stood up and saluted.

"Ready to fly?" he asked. Tauron thought that he looked familiar - perhaps one of the Miranda's crew? He seemed keen to be on his way.

[Destro_Yersul]

The Armoury

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Tychon looked at the weapons, 'hm'ing in thought. "Don't suppose you could give us a pistol instead?" he asked, pointing at the web gun.

"I ain't much for longarms, so if it ain't too much trouble I'd appreciate the switch."