# Auxiliary



## Zwan

Howdy folks. I used to be a dedicated servant of the BL forums under the username FireFox before they went down; now I come to you in search of a fresh fiction repository. I’ve written a series of novel length pieces based around a Commissar named Albrecht Vandemarr (five in all, with a sixth in the pipeline). I would describe them as part mystery, part detective, part action stories. This one I wrote going on 2 years ago now so it isn’t up to my current standard, and it does jump around a lot and generally not make sense, but I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless. Chapters are about 1,000 words long.

As always, comments and criticisms are welcome and encouraged. Please do enjoy.

Synopsis​

Captain John Garrick stands accused of three counts of heresy after a violent action on a Tau frontier world sees his Company all but destroyed. When Commissar Albrecht Vandemarr and Lieutenant John Codey are sent to Gortlemund to defend him in his court martial, however, it soon becomes obvious that there is a lot more at stake than first meets the eye. Can they uncover the truth behind the trial before it's too late?



*PROLOGUE*

_"He who allows the alien to live, shares its crime of existence." _

~Inquisitor Apollyon 


Uvolon Quintus 
Ultima Segmentum 
12:11 (local) 
15:56 (Imperial) 07.982.M41​

~_Prisoner of war_~ 

“INCOMING!” Someone screamed; though it appeared too late. Amidst the frantic shrieking of two entirely alien jet-engines, the desert-pattern Leman Russ suddenly crumpled under the immense force of an unseen projectile and ground to a shuddering halt. A second later, the delayed fuse detonated, touching the tank's magazine off, and it exploded in a mushroom cloud of orange flame. 

The harsh crack of the blast ricocheted off the surrounding dunes, in the sudden and eerie silence that ensued. For a few brief moments, Captain John Garrick left his face buried in the sand, feeling the hot concussion wash over him. He found the darkness of his closed eyes comforting. It seemed cooler in the dark – harking back to the old childhood folly ‘if you couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see you’. 

But no. They could see him. They’d seen him and his men for three days. 

He sighed as some distant voice called ‘clear!” from over the other side of the embankment, and uttered a cursory oath. There was grit in between his teeth, uncomfortable and annoying, and he spat crudely as he stood up. 

The sorry remains of the battle tank confronted him with startling definition. Thick black promethium smoke billowed from its ruined hull, and the salty aroma of burning sand – mixed with the acridity of melted human – assaulted his nostrils. 

“Schtan,” he whispered, arching his neck backwards. All that betrayed the brief and unwelcome presence of the Tau fighter were two white contrails, slowly expanding in the midday atmosphere. He followed them to their source, to see a black speck on the horizon, heading for home. 

Some kind of pathfinder no doubt; a reconnaissance vehicle. There would be more soon, and in greater numbers. 

He looked out across his company. Three hundred men, suffering from serious torpor and dehydration, wearily pressed themselves up from their cover – though to call it cover would be an overstatement. Save the dunes they were lying against, the desert ground was as flat as a billiard table. Their primary objective – at least, what had been their primary objective, back before most of the regiment was slaughtered and split up – was still kilometres away, and lost in the heat-distorted atmosphere. 

The white city. The white alien city. 

They didn’t know the name of the city, nor did they care. It was xeno, and that had been enough. Enough to start this miserable campaign. Enough to commit an entire battlegroup – five ships and two-hundred thousand fighting men - to cleanse, to murder a planet. 

But now, in the harsh glare of the foreign sun, Garrick knew that they were all going to die here. Low on ammunition. Low on armour – low on morale. They had underestimated the aliens, underestimated them in the worst way. 

It was just so hot on this world… 

“Uden,” he said into his microlink, breaking from his musing. The company vox officer jogged up to him, sweating under the bulk of the vox caster. 

“Sir?” He breathed. 

“Let’s move out. Skirmish formation.” 

“Yes sir,” the man replied, pulling the rubber coated mouth piece from the side of the set. 

Garrick turned away and looked back out across the sweltering desert once more. 

It was going to be a long day. 

* * *​

They travelled for hours through the desert, footprints and caterpillar tracks marking their journey across the flat, unchanging terrain. Several men had died from exhaustion. Two halftracks and another ‘Russ had overheated and seized up. What should have been a forced march became a nightmare slog, across kilometres of baking sand with melting boots. 

A slog from which death would have been a mercy… 

Nonetheless, they reached the city without further incident. The tall, gleaming spires of alien architecture that seemed so distant – a mirage, almost – four hours beforehand, had become a large and unsettling reality. 

Unsettling, because the place was deserted. 

It was a ghost town; there was no two ways about it. Even as they reached the kilometre-expanse of flat white marble that surrounded the city – forming some kind of open walkway – Garrick could see that it was empty. He remembered the old Guard idiom; ‘if the advance is going well, it’s an ambush’. Even his adrenaline seemed lethargic in its response. 

He didn’t even care anymore. 

Their boots stuck to the stone as they trekked over the last stretch of their journey. They had lost all purpose now, all sense of objective. Every minute, it seemed another man just slumped to the ground and gave up. Garrick didn’t even know why they were heading for the city. If it turned out to be populated, the streets would be as unforgiving as the desert. 

He cocked his head suddenly, straining to hear. The gentle breeze – the first of the day – brought sounds of seemingly distant machinery to his ears. 

His lethargy suddenly left him. He brought his fist up to his shoulder, and the company – or what remained of it – stopped. He lowered a flattened palm to the ground, and they crouched. Suddenly, they moved as if invigorated, as if their torpor was cured by the prospect of combat. Suddenly, the comparatively favourable prospect of dying peacefully from fatigue was abruptly replaced by the fear of being painfully shot up by enemy pulse rifles. 

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. 

As if someone had flicked a switch, a blue inferno exploded out from every available alcove of the city in front. Men were cut down in droves, hot red blood staining the road, as a blizzard of shots weltered from the shadows. Scores of tan vehicles flickered overhead on strafing runs, whilst Hammerhead wide-beam laser fire split tanks and flatbeds in half. Armoured alien warriors appeared in previously invisible windows, or unloaded from the back of hovering, bulbous transports, to form effective and deadly firing ranks. Unmanned, circular gun drones whined overhead, unleashing lethal barrages of static pulse. 

Everywhere was high energy death. 

“Return fire!” Garrick cried desperately above the colossal din. Ignoring him, Imperial troops scattered in all directions, heading for the streets. Less than half made it. 

Snarling, he grabbed Uden by the scruff of his neck and threw him towards the nearest alleyway. Four others followed him. Lieutenant Winters, Second Lieutenant McShaw – a couple of troopers he didn’t recognise. They sprinted in their bulky ochre armour, amidst lethal volleys of pulse. One took his shin guard clean off. Another seared through Winters’ helmet. 

“Go go go! Faster!” Garrick roared, thumbing the safety of his lasgun off. Despite the chaos, he briefly slowed, took aim, and shot one of the damned aliens through the head. There was no way he was going out without a fight. 

“Come on!” Winters cried, mistaking his hesitancy and grabbing him by the arm. A second later, the side of his neck plastered Garrick’s face, warm carotid blood ejecting in regular gouts. 

“Throne!” The Captain shouted, slapping his hand over the wound and dragging him towards the alley. He could see Uden and the others gesticulating wildly, urging them on. 

When they stopped, he realised he’d been shot. 

“Dammit!” He shouted weakly, watching as they ran away. “You dogs!” 

He could feel the cold air rushing into his sucking chest wound as his lung collapsed; yet he still clutched the Lieutenant’s – in his opinion survivable – neck wound. He was damned if both of them were going to die. 

The decision, however, wasn't his to make: 

Seconds later, the side of a Tau pulse rifle knocked him clean into unconsciousness.


----------



## Mossy Toes

I am inescapable.


----------



## dark angel

Hello Firefox! Errr, Zwan rather, good to see you have finally joined  lovely work thus far, a great opening for a awesome series, plus rep for you!


----------



## Nikolai

Hey I really enjoyed that piece, can't wait for more. Nothing glaring to comment on except I would think that he is unlikely to survive a collapsed lung.


----------



## Zwan

Hi guys!

Mossy - good to see you, old friend.

Dark angel - thanks very much, good to see you too - and rep! Not sure what it is or how it works, but it can only be a good thing, so thanks!

Nikolai - howdy there, thanks very much for reading! I know he wouldn't survive the sucking chest wound, but at the time of writing I thought it was cool (sucking chest wound _does _sound awesome) - so I'm going to ask you to just sort of... ignore it. *inane grin*

Cheers chaps. Here's more;



*PART 1*

*Chapter 1*


_”For every enemy without, there are a hundred within”_ 

~ Inquisitor Gabriel, _Reflections_ Vol. IV 


INS Strength and Honour 
Segmentum Ultima 
18:01 (ship time) 
22:16 (Imperial) 12.982.M41​


~_A good lawyer couldn’t win this case!_~ 

The Princeps suite was usually reserved for the most important of officials; but when the ship was – or had been – on battle stations, it was rarely used. Thus, it was where Commissar Vandemarr now took his evening meal – whilst sorting through the increasing amount of paperwork he seemed to be receiving – where he knew he would remain undisturbed. 

It was an extremely luxurious state room. The high, domed ceiling was trimmed with intricate gold leaf – leaf which was skilfully engrained into the marble pillars running the length of the walls. The walls themselves were panelled with an expensive and majestic Terran oak, decorated with portraits of great lord generals militant, or past Fleet Admirals of note. The floor was laid with a royal blue carpet, again with gold floral patterns – the Imperial Aquilla woven into the centre; and a stately chandelier illuminated the wide oval table in the centre, currently set for one hundred guests, occupied by only one. 

It was indeed a beautiful room, and a very old room – modelled on eighteenth century Europa, far away on Holy Terra. Vandemarr enjoyed the solitude it offered, relishing in the fact that the only sound being made was his silver knife and fork against the inlaid plate. In front of him, platters presenting cold meats, cheese and biscuits, bread, butter, quiches, new potatoes and an assortment of vegetables and fruits were spread, carefully prepared by the ship’s human cooks, and not the culinary servitors the lower decks were stuck with. 

He was biting into a cherry tomato when the far doors opened, and Fleet Captain Denver walked in, clad in the regal blue of the Ultima Segmentum 23rd Thunderbolt fleet. Vandemarr made to stand, slightly startled, but Denver waved him down with a white-gloved hand. 

“Sit, please,” he said. He was not a tall man; but what he lacked in height, he made up in presence. The hundred and ten year-old Captain certainly didn’t look it, and was as energetic as the day he was augmented for command. His shock of white hair and trim white goatee certainly made notable physical features, to say nothing of his charisma and sense of humour. In short, Vandemarr liked him, and though not strictly under his jurisdiction, he had a lot of time for the Captain. 

“I seem to have caught you taking dinner,” he said, pulling an ornate wooden chair from under the table and settling onto the plush cushion it offered. 

“Please,” Vandemarr gestured awkwardly, indicating the platters. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he replied, picking up the tongs and selecting various morsels. The fact that the Commissar wasn’t supposed to be there didn’t seem to faze Denver in any way. If anything, the old Captain seemed to be relishing in the luxurious surroundings. 

A short silence passed between them as he loaded his plate. 

“Feels good to break a rule every now and then, doesn’t it?” He said. 

Vandemarr stopped; coughed politely. He had almost rehearsed his apology – such was the inevitability of the reprimand, with the amount of times he’d been in the suite. 

“You must accept my apologies, Captain, I thought that since –” He looked up, to see the old man grinning. 

“Relax Commissar,” he winked, “it seems a shame to let such a…magnificent room go unused.” 

Vandemarr agreed, and did indeed relax, sliding another piece of quiche Lorraine onto his plate. 

“One does tire of eating alone,” Denver said after a second silence, tucking into the potato salad. 

Vandemarr nodded his agreement, swallowing a mouthful of buttered bread. 

“I noticed we changed course last night,” he remarked, by way of conversation. 

“Mm,” Denver replied, “Gortlémund. It’s about three days in warp space. We should be in orbit early on the 15th.” 

“If you don’t mind my asking, why?” 

The Captain rolled his eyes, and gave him a sideways look that could strip paint off a navy frigate. 

“That bad huh?” Vandemarr smiled. 

“Well the Guard made an absolute mess of ‘Quintus, if that’s what you mean,” Denver said, forking a roll of ham into his mouth. “Ha! Colonel Burke even ordered a second expeditionary force down on the 8th to recover the POWs, if you can believe that.” 

“Wow, what did they have? Generals?” The Commissar laughed. 

Denver snorted. “Footsloggers.” He said through a full mouth. 

“You’re serious?” Vandemarr said as he leant forward, genuinely intrigued. “I wonder why,” 

The conversation was suddenly broken by the sound of the doors opening once more. This time, however, it was Lieutenant Codey who strode in – clad not in the blue of the 23rd, but in the ochre fatigues of the Imperial Guard assigned to the battlegroup. The Commissar noted, with a certain humour, that the man had removed his boots before entering the room; and was sporting a pair of green, holed, Guard-issue socks. 

“Ah, Codey,” Vandemarr said, as he and Denver both stood. “Captain Denver, this is Lieutenant Codey of the 15th Vargonroth – we fought together on Septimus a few months back; Codey, I’m sure you know the Fleet Captain,” 

The Lieutenant gave a short bow as he approached the Captain, clearly unaware that he was going to be present, and then clasped his outstretched hand, slightly taken aback. It wasn’t, after all, considered protocol that the Fleet Captain should be familiar – by any count –with a low-ranking Guardsman. 

“Will you join us for dinner?” Denver asked, indicating a seat. Codey eyed the platters, not wanting to say no; it wasn’t every day, after all, that he had the opportunity of dining with the Fleet Captain – and over such thoroughly-prepared food. He was stuck with the culinary servitors – servitors who, he was sure, didn’t have taste augments. 

“I’m afraid I must decline,” he said with a polite bow. It was then Vandemarr noticed the files under his arm. “I have been blessed with a rather important issue from the Commissariat, which requires Mister Vandemarr’s immediate attention, unfortunately.” 

“Would you like me to leave?” Denver asked. Codey gawped for a brief second, before pulling himself together. 

“Oh, Throne no sir, not at all –” he started, but was cut off. 

“Then I must insist you dine,” The Captain said simply. “The food is quite excellent; and I am not unaware of the slop they feed you downstairs these days. Believe me; I’ve tried to change it.” 

Codey sat down dumbly, handing the files to Vandemarr. The food did look good. 

“What’s this about then?” Vandemarr asked, sifting through the papers. “Department of Imperial Justice v. Captain John Garrick, circa 8th 982 M41? What have you got me into, Codey? This looks like a case,” 

“It’s a court martial, sir. The indictments are on the next page.” The Lieutenant said. 

“Indictments? There’s more than one? What the hell did he do, genocide?” 

“No, sir,” Codey said with a smile. He’d always found the Commissar’s particular brand of humour appealing. 

“I take it you’ve read this then?” Vandemarr asked, glancing at Denver. 

“Only the indictments, sir,” Codey replied, now heaping food onto his plate. 

Vandemarr scanned the documents further, muttering under his breath. 

“Captain John Garrick lies hereby charged by the Commissariat, 12th day, 982nd year blah blah blah, ‘collaborating with the enemy, conspiracy to commit mutiny, and gross misconduct in action’? God Emperor on his Golden Throne, a good lawyer couldn’t win this case! Why on Terra haven’t they shot him?” 

“Apparently Colonel Burke said he was to be court martialled, sir. Explicitly.” 

“I knew that Colonel was an idiot,” Denver said. “Didn’t I say he was an idiot?” 

“You did,” Vandemarr said, not taking his eyes off the file. “Codey?” He said, slowly. 

“Yes, Commissar?” 

“Did you know that you’re to be my junior in this? On the defence council?” 

“N-no sir,” the Lieutenant replied. “What? Why? I don’t know the first thing about martial law,” 

“I know you don’t,” Vandemarr replied, in a tone laden with suspicion. 

There was a deadly pause, whilst both the Fleet Captain and Codey watched the Commissar read. 

“Lieutenant,” he said after an interminable pause. “Where is Garrick? In the dock, I take it?” 

“No sir, he was transferred to the INPS Divine Justice, sir.” 

“Hm. I think we’re going to have a problem.”


----------



## Nikolai

Zwan said:


> Nikolai - howdy there, thanks very much for reading! I know he wouldn't survive the sucking chest wound, but at the time of writing I thought it was cool (sucking chest wound _does _sound awesome) - so I'm going to ask you to just sort of... ignore it.


Lol, yeah I can manage that. I am enjoying how the story is shaping out. Keep it up.


----------



## Zwan

Thanks man, much appreciated. I'm going to post it fairly quickly I think since I've got 5 novels' worth to get through!

*Chapter 2*

Gortlémund 
Ultima Segmentum 
00:46 (local) 
05:01 (Imperial) 12.982.M41​

_~A conflict of interest~_ 

The room was dark. 

Outside, the nightlife of Gortlémund’s capital city, Kalen Primo, continued, with floating pict displays blaring multicoloured advertisements through the half-closed blinds, and drunken individuals parading through the streets. 

He watched as parallelograms of purple and green light formed on the cheap beige carpet of the hotel room floor, illuminating half-eaten morsels in cardboard boxes, and travel pamphlets for chartered off-world trader flights. 

Clearly, the Imperial official was intending to leave, and in a hurry. 

Inquisitor MkCormack of the Ordo Militum watched from a chair in a dark corner of the room, as the man slept in the large bed against the far wall. The official was fat – obese, even, and his vast bulk strained the bed springs beyond their tolerance every time he rolled over. Aside from the muffled sound of the music and revellers outside, his rank, cluttered breathing made the only noise in the room. 

MkCormack grimaced. He was dressed in a brown leather storm coat, white gloves, black trousers and boots, and a simple grey tunic, with his head crowned with a wide-brimmed, gunslinger-fashioned brown hat, and a black visor to mask his eyes; yet to the untrained eye, he might as well have been invisible. 

He steepled his fingers in front of his face for a few brief seconds, before sighing, standing up, sliding a long, ornate pistol from a chest holster, and levelling it at the man’s head. 

“Boo,” he whispered. The official’s eyes fluttered open. 

“What the –” 

His exploded head gelled the wall, pillow, sheets and MkCormack’s face in dark red in less than a second. The muffled echo of the gunshot was quickly smothered in silence, as if it had never been. 

The Inquisitor re-holstered the pistol, and produced a handkerchief to mop away the bloody detritus from his visor. Almost as soon as he was finished, the commcaster on the bedside table bleeped into life, its electric blue flashing slicing through the dark. 

MkCormack let it ring for a full minute, before picking it up and thumbing it on. He waited for the caller to speak. 

“Inquisitor MkCormack?” A gruff voice said, after a pause. 

“You’d better hope so, now,” the Inquisitor replied. It flustered the man on the other end; a lot more than he’d care to admit, MkCormack expected. 

“I was told you’d be at this location, at this time.” The man pressed. 

The Inquisitor smiled. Only another member of the Ordo Militum would have known his whereabouts; a very specific member, at that. 

“You are well informed, Major General Burkhardt.” 

There was a brief pause, punctuated by the General’s spluttering. 

“How did you –” 

“You are not the only one who is well informed.” MkCormack swiftly interjected. “Now what is it that I can do for you? Speak quickly.” 

He smiled again as he felt Burkhardt’s anger rise. He enjoyed the immunity his position gave him. Immensely. 

“A man, Captain John Garrick of the Imperial Guard has been arrested – after an action on a Tau frontier world.” The General growled after gathering himself. “He is to be court martialled. Your…services on the panel are required.” 

“And why hasn’t Captain John Garrick of the Imperial Guard been shot?” MkCormack asked, tucking the handkerchief back in his outer coat pocket and pulling out a box of lho sticks. 

“I don’t know – look, please, Mister Inquisitor, your co-operation in this matter is of paramount importance.” 

“I am, as they say, all ears,” he replied, walking across the carpet and to the door. The flash of the lighter illuminated his grim features for a second, before wisps of grey smoke flooded away from the Inquisitor’s mouth, and the lighter snapped shut. 

“You are to assemble two other officers of your choice, to preside alongside you on the panel. You are also to select two men – two very good men, for the prosecution council. I want this to be as low-key as possible.” 

There was another lengthy silence. 

“Do you…understand?” Burkhardt asked, cautiously. 

MkCormack opened his mouth to speak, smiled, and thought better of it. 

“Yes, General.” He said, and terminated the link. 

Peace once again claimed the room. MkCormack stood still for another minute, taking a long drag of the lho stick, before the commcaster rang again. Unfazed, he thumbed it on and brought it to his ear once more, waiting for the caller to speak first. 

“Who am I speaking to?” The voice said – a different voice, a darker voice. 

“That depends,” MkCormack replied smoothly, “on who’s asking.” 

The line went dead. The Inquisitor, again unfazed, counted the seconds on his chronometer before the next incoming call; thirty-nine exactly. 

It was another Inquisitor. 

“Speak,” he said. 

“A Major General has just contacted you. He has given you information regarding a trial involving an Imperial Captain.” 

MkCormack said nothing. These were not questions. 

“You are to disregard what he has said. You are to allocate eight other officers for the panel, to preside alongside you. One of them must include Major General Reece. You are also to allocate two officers for the prosecution council. The senior is to be Commissar Vurdan of the Imperial Guard. The junior is to be another Commissar of your choosing. You are not to be discreet about the trial. It will take place in the Emperor’s Court, in the Department of Imperial Justice, Kalen Primo. It is to be open to the public.” 

“Understood.” MkCormack replied. 

The link terminated. 

He stood alone in the dark room once again, taking a last drag of the lho stick; then he flicked the still-glowing butt onto the bed. The cheap, synthetic material smouldered briefly, before catching alight. 

He waited for another minute, before tossing the commcaster into the flames. 

Then he disappeared into the night.




*Chapter 3*

INS _Strength and Honour_ 
Gortlémund, High Anchor 
Ultima Segmentum 
03:59 (ship time), 04:19 (local) 
08:13 (Imperial) 15.982.M41​

_~Planetfall~_ 

The INS _Strength and Honour_ tore through into realspace in a blaze of cracking warp energy, one thousand kilometres above the grey world of Gortlémund. It was a huge Mars-class cruiser, its hull a proud royal blue with burnished gold crenelations, furnished with the older gothic spires and archways that characterised the ship style of the immediate post-Heresy millennia. 

Vandemarr was asleep, again in the Princeps suite, when Fleet Captain Denver’s voice sounded over the municipal address system. The discreet, splayed brass horn above the doors at the far end of the grand room broadcast the message surprisingly well, considering its size. Well enough to cause the Commissar to leap out of his chair, bolt pistol drawn, with a legal paper stuck to his forehead. 

Once he’d disabused himself, he coughed, holstered the pistol and removed the paper from his forehead. He quickly scanned it through blurred eyes, muttering under his breath. 

“…Mister Garrick was interrogated shortly thereafter…is said to have divulged valuable information…when discovered was wearing Tau armour…” 

He groaned, and slapped the document back onto the table. It was hopeless. There were hundreds of papers and dataslates he’d managed to dig up from the ship’s library; files of old cases, instances of judicial precedent – any instances of mutiny, co-operation with the enemy, exceptional circumstances – and he’d learned only two things; 

Firstly, that this was the first time a Guardsman had been tried for alleged treachery; 

And secondly… 

He’d learned only one thing. 

“Message repeats;" said the MA, "we are holding high anchor over Gortlémund. Manoeuvre to low anchor will commence at 04:30 ship time.” 

The Commissar turned and strode quickly towards one of the portholes at the other end of the suite. There, amidst the inky blackness of space, and the whorls of blue gasses that marked the Eastern Fringe – and the Tau Empire – lay Gortlémund, a huge Imperial world of great wealth and importance. 

It was breathtaking to say the least. 

“Commissar?” Came a voice he recognised. Vandemarr whirled round with a flourish, to see Lieutenant Codey next to the table, admiring his research. 

“We’re screwed,” he said, extending his palm as he did so, as one might do in a play when beseeching another. 

“We are?” Codey replied dejectedly. 

Vandemarr dropped his hands and levelled his eyes at the young Lieutenant. 

“No, Codey, we are not. At least, that it what we want the prosecution council to think. We are not screwed – quite the opposite, in fact. You will walk into wherever we’re to conduct this blasted trial with all the air of a man who has never been so sure of something in his life.” He resumed his actor’s stance and voice. “Appearances, my dear boy; it’s all about appearances.” 

Codey scowled; he hated it when Vandemarr called him ‘boy’. 

“I wish you’d told me all this three days ago,” he said. “The trial starts tomorrow.” 

“Yes,” Vandemarr replied, “and methinks, someone doesn’t want us to win. Aside from the prosecution, of course.” He added quickly. 

He hopped onto his other foot, as if now a ballet dancer. Codey was, however, long since used to the Commissar’s eccentricities, and merely remained still, his brow furrowed. 

“What do you mean ‘someone doesn’t want us to win’? Who?” 

“One of the brass, I’d imagine,” The Commissar replied, offhand. 

“One of the brass? Then what’s the point in even trying to win?” Codey asked, now slightly angry at Vandemarr’s cryptic answers. 

“Because there's someone else…” another hop, “…who does want us to.” 

“What are you talking about? In plain gothic, please,” The Lieutenant said. 

Vandemarr sighed, walked over to the nearest chair, and slumped down into it. 

“Did you read the facts of the case?” He asked, reaching for a decanter of port and pouring a measure into two glasses. 

“Briefly,” Codey replied, taking one of the glasses. When he caught the Commissar’s expression, he quickly added; “I’ve been busy with the troops!” 

“If you’d read them over and over and over again – like I have,” Vandemarr said, pausing to clear his throat, “one thing will become very obvious.” He shook his head. “Very obvious indeed.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Someone has taken great pains to ensure it’s almost impossible for us to win.” 

“How can you tell? They’re just the facts, surely?” 

“Yes, they’re just the facts, but look,” The Commissar said, thrusting one of the documents towards Codey. “What kind of Imperial Captain – a thus far loyal Imperial Captain of several campaigns, I might add – just up and renounces his oath to the Emperor, dons a suit of Tau – xeno – armour, and starts singing like a tin whistle about all upcoming Guard actions – many of which his rank wouldn’t permit him to know about anyway – on the planet?” 

“The…kind that has his life threatened, sir.” The Lieutenant replied. 

Vandemarr snatched the document out of his hands, suddenly angry, and threw it back onto the table. 

“Oh, you can’t afford to be this naïve, Codey!” He snarled. “You don’t spend twelve years in the Imperial Guard, face the unimaginable horrors that would make every civilian in this Imperium crap their pants, and fight your way to a well-earned Captaincy, just to throw it away in one night of – if our friends on the prosecution are to be believed – very mild interrogation!” 

“Why mild interr –” Codey tried to interrupt, but was shouted down. 

“Mild because they want it to look like he gave them the info at the first available opportunity, don’t they? Conspiracy to commit mutiny, Codey! Emperor alive!” 

The Commissar calmed himself visibly. 

“I know someone doesn’t want us to win,” he said quietly, “because the ‘facts of the case’, have been misrepresented.” He knocked back another glass-full of port. “Which in any other case would be grounds for a mistrial.” He snorted. 

He thumped the glass back onto the table, and leant back. 

“So…” Codey said, evidently choosing his words very carefully, “how can you tell that there’s someone who does want us to win?” 

There was a long pause. 

“Because,” Vandemarr replied slowly, “Commissar Vurdan is on the prosecution council.” 

There was a second, considerably more awkward pause. 

“What?” Codey asked. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Vandemarr replied, standing up and checking his chronometer. “We need to go anyway." 

He caught the confused look on Codey's face as he gathered up his papers, and sighed. 

"I’ll explain on the way down.”


----------



## Zwan

*PART 2*

*Chapter 4*

_“Thou shalt be glad of thy Master's punishment, for it is deserved, and it improves thee”_ 

~ Ecclesiarchal Proscriptions, MCXVII.IV

Uvolon Quintus 
Ultima Segmentum 
16:59 (local) 
21:14 (Imperial) 07.982.M41​

~_Things aren’t always what they seem_ ~ 

It wasn’t so much the noise of the plasma explosion that woke him; mainly the smell. The acrid, static fumes of ionised gasses, mixed with the pungent tang of vaporised flesh, snapped him back to a hazy consciousness that was, needless to say, a lot worse than the dream world he’d been privy to for the last fifty minutes. 

Garrick opened his eyes, to find himself staring straight into the deep cerulean atmosphere. The sun was still high in the sky, despite it being late afternoon, and it was still as hot as ever. His body called out for water; his tongue was dry and beginning to swell, and the inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper – not to mention the sunburn on his face and arms. The side of his face smarted sharply where the skin had split under the force of the pulse rifle being smashed into his cheekbone, and Winters was nowhere in sight. 

He realised, without having to move anything, that he was lying on his back, spread-eagled, still about twenty metres from the streets of the white city. There was still a heavy amount of fire being exchanged between the beleaguered Imperials and the Tau fire caste; but it was nothing like as ferocious as the opening xeno gambit. Garrick was surprised that the whole company hadn’t been annihilated by now. 

Since moving meant that he would not longer be mistaken for dead, he tried to piece together as much of the situation as best he could. With a few hidden turns of his head, he saw that most of the fighting had moved into the city, and that the Tau forces still on the walkway were gathering the corpses – human and alien alike – and clearing away Imperial wreckage. Only one Devilfish troop carrier had been hit, as far as he could tell, by a ‘Russ. Grounded, the desert-pattern APC leaked Tau corpses from its rear-access ramp like string-less marionettes, with great rents and blast marks marring its dusty hull. 

He suddenly froze as a rank of fire warriors trotted past, talking over helmet-speakers in their alien language, pulse-rifles slung over shoulders or wielded nonchalantly. Behind them, stark against the blue, billowing plumes of rank black promethium smoke cut into the air. Through one, a flat-pulse beam lanced away from an unseen Hammerhead railgun, dragging with it whorls of the smoke in miniature vortices. 

The ensuing explosion was punctuated by Imperial screams. 

He needed to get into the city, and fast, before he was picked up and dumped on a pile of dead – a pile of dead which would most likely be burnt. 

“Schtan,” he whispered, moving his head more obviously now. His lasgun was still next to him and within reach. It would take him, he estimated, seven seconds to get up, grab it, and sprint to the relative cover of the street. 

Then again, seven seconds was a long time to be out in the open, with a whole host of Tau surrounding him. The longer he thought about it, the more it seemed like a wholly unattractive prospect – 

Thus, he simply stopped thinking about it, stood up, and grasping the handle of his lasgun clumsily, sprinted as best he could towards the white city ahead. 

His timing couldn’t have been better. As the first of the Tau pulse started flying his way, an Imperial rocket from one of the upper floors of the approaching tower blocks smashed into the starboard engine of an overhead Barracuda, sending ribbons of blue and white fire streaming away from the impact. It listed wildly for a precious few seconds, before the wing detached and sliced a Hammerhead clean in half, touching off its plasma reactor and engulfing two ranks of fire warriors in flame. The remainder of the Barracuda screamed into the desert floor, exploding violently and sending great plumes of burnt sand and earth into the air. 

Still sprinting, Garrick reached the shadow of the first building he came to – the one the rocket came from – and slipped into the ground floor. 
* * *
Half an hour later, he silently exited the building by the same passageway, yellow-ochre Tau body armour now adorning his chest. 

The top of the building exploded outwards shortly after his departure, charred white rubble cascading outwards like a waterfall of dust and masonry. 

Having substituted his lasgun with one of the aliens’ pulse carbines, he ran down the empty street, his boots making the only sound against the rubble-strewn ground as they echoed sharply off the white architecture. The sun was just beginning to go down in the west, and a few lonely clouds were forming in the upper atmosphere. The firing also seemed to have grown faint and distant, carried only to his ears on the later afternoon breeze. 

He moved in-city for ten minutes without seeing a single Tau – civilian or otherwise – when he saw an Imperial Guard trooper – a young man he recognised as LeVyn – crouching by some kind of market fruit stall. His face was contorted into a grimace as he scanned the wide street junction up ahead, and sweat marked his helmet-less brow. Aside from minor amour damage, he seemed unharmed. 

“LeVyn!” Garrick shouted sharply, drawing the man’s attention as he observed a Tau fire warrior creeping up behind the Guardsman. Raising the pulse carbine, the Captain shot the trooper in the shoulder, and he span round with a squeal, hitting his face against the wooden counter of the stall and falling into unconsciousness. 

Garrick watched as the alien pounced on his limp body, knife out.






*Chapter 5*

Gortlémund 
Ultima Segmentum 
05:00 (local) 
09:16 (Imperial) 15.982.M41​

~_I hate Mondays_ ~ 

Vandemarr sighed as he saw, for the first time, Kalen Primo in the morning cloud. Though only five o’ clock, the sun’s rays still permeated the eastern horizon, under-lighting the dark grey with yellow incandescence like some deistic presence. 

The sky above them, however, was marred with colossal thunderheads, sliding across each other in the wind. 

“I can’t help but feel it’s an omen,” Codey said dejectedly from the bench opposite him. The shuttle cabin was cramped, and his voice was startlingly loud off the bare green metal interior. 

Vandemarr could see what he meant. As he stared out the small glass porthole, the first of the morning rain speckled the side, running in horizontal streaks as the shuttle powered through the sky. Below, the tall, grim gothic architecture rose out from the ground like some city-spanning, satanic castle, with grey, gargoyled buildings threatening to engulf them. 

“What a miserable planet,” he remarked. Codey silently nodded his agreement, and the whining of the engines became the only noise in the cabin. 

“However, we have the opening day of a court martial to look forward to,” the Commissar continued, his sudden mood change making Codey visibly jump, “so we must be positive.” 

“Is there anything I should know before we begin?” The Lieutenant asked. 

“Well thirty years in the Commissariat would be useful,” Vandemarr replied, massaging his chin. Codey snorted, despite himself. “But I can run you through a few basics, if you think it would help. You aren’t actually going to have to say anything, just sit there and hand me documents.” 

“Thank the Emperor,” 

Vandemarr mused. “…But on the other hand, it might be useful to tell you a few tricks – just so you know what to look out for. Plus it would do me good to remember them.” 

“I’m all ears,” Codey replied, leaning forward and clasping his hands. 

Vandemarr stroked his stubbled chin again. 

“Well the first thing you need to know is how a court martial works.” He began, casting his eye upwards as if looking at his brain. “Usually they last about…a couple of days. Usually. But some can go on for weeks, depending on the crime and the rank of the person who committed it. This case in itself is unusual because they’re actually giving him a trial. A Captain’s still well within a Commissar’s jurisdiction without upsetting the brass – and looking at his alleged crimes, he’s committed just about all of them that can get you summarily executed in the blink of an eye.” 

“What, collaborating with the enemy –” 

“– Conspiracy to commit mutiny, gross misconduct in action, all of those yes. You see, conspiracy to commit mutiny usually means there’s at least another man involved, but what I think they’ve done here…” he paused to watch something out the window, “…is sort it so he’s been conspiring with the Tau themselves – and thus getting him under that and collaborating with the enemy.” 

“What, so he gets double the punishment?” 

“Precisely – you catch on quick. We’ll make a Commissar of you yet! Oh, that reminds me, both of the prosecution will be Commissars. Vurdan and whoever the other one is, I can’t remember.” 

“Hold on a second, you never told me why it’s good that we have Vurdan against us.” Codey said, giving Vandemarr an accusatory squint. “You said someone high up obviously wants us to win because he’s on the pross.” 

“Oh that, that was just speculation, I don’t actually know if someone does. I meant he’s pretty rubbish at his job, that was all. I just got the distinct feeling that since the facts of the case have been misrepresented – which, by the way, we’re going to appeal against – someone high up has given the pross their blessing to proceed anyway. That is, assuming the pross know the facts have been misrepresented. All I was trying to do was make us both feel better by saying that because Vurdan’s rubbish, someone might want us to win. Speculation. Not allowed in court, of course, but if you can use it, and moreover, get away with it, it can steer juries towards your cause faster than a Baneblade strips morale from a cultist.” 

Codey sat in silence, digesting the mass of dialogue Vandemarr had just issued forth and then seemed to have forgotten about. 

“So…there’s not a high-up who wants us to win?” He asked cautiously. 

“I don’t know,” Vandemarr replied simply. “Isn’t that what I just said?” 

“Yes, but I wanted to be sure,” the Lieutenant replied. He fidgeted in his dress uniform – black boots, cream breeches, black, gold and red braided tunic, and gold, neck-length epaulettes. Vandemarr was simply wearing what he wore every day – along with a leather trench coat. From the bags under his eyes, and the three-day stubble, Codey could tell he was tired. He had, after all, been up for two nights trying to build a case. The Lieutenant had to admire him. 

“So what else goes on in a court martial then?” Codey asked. 

“Ah right. Yes, that’s what I was talking about. So yes, anywhere up to weeks in length. There will be any odd number up to nine officers on the bench, led by the president, who’s usually another officer – though sometimes an Inquisitor, if it’s a big case. The pross puts forward the case, show us their witnesses, we cross examine them, put forward our case, we both say our concluding speeches, and then, in our case, the bench goes away and votes, comes back, and tells us Mister Garrick is to be shot.” 

“So…you’re optimistic then?” 

“I’m realistic, my boy, I’m realistic. If the facts of the case aren’t right, then I’ll bet this whole thing’s going one way, and one way only.” 

“Why don’t we get any witnesses?” The Lieutenant said, once again ignoring the reference to his age. 

“We do, technically. But all the men who were with Garrick on the day have been stuck on the INPS Divine Justice with the pross – deliberately, I suspect, out of our reach.” 

There was a long silence, during which the rain outside increased. They were descending; the tops of buildings were now flashing past the port holes, increasing in density. 

“The only thing is,” Vandemarr said, startling Codey, “well, the thing that gets me is that someone’s gone to all the trouble to make sure Garrick gets a trial in the first place.” 

“I thought it was Colonel Burke,” Codey said. 

“It was,” Vandemarr replied, “but even a Colonel doesn’t really have that kind of power. No-one below…I don’t know, a General can sue for a court martial and get one. Not in this day and age. Garrick’s either a very lucky man, or he’s got some friends in high places.” 

“Ah,” Codey said, resuming his staring out the porthole. A few minutes later, the vox crackled into life. 

“We’re just coming into 3 District now. We’ll be there in about five minutes.” Came the pilot’s voice. There was a stab of static as the link shut off. 

“Be where?” Codey asked, not taking his eyes off the outside world. 

“To meet our witness.” 

“I thought you said –” 

Vandemarr held up a hand for silence. 

“You’ll spoil the surprise,” he said, smiling.


----------



## Zwan

More! Hooray!

*Chapter 6* 


Uvolon Quintus 
Ultima Segmentum 
21:38 (local) 
01:53 (Imperial) 07.982.M41​

~_A rude awakening_ ~ 

A thousand kilometres away, a small light flickered on. It was a dirty yellow, and had a strange, reflective quality to it, like it was somehow…alien. He watched it, transfixed, as if by a hypnotist. 

Straining to hear, he realised there were sounds too, issuing from the light. All around him was darkness – but this light, this strange orb, was calling to him, beckoning him forth. The voices were not ones he recognised – not Imperial voices, by any stretch of the imagination. They were sharp, cutting voices, with elongated vowels and harsh consonants, nasal, and issued as if coming from underwater. 

He struggled to listen, struggled to make out what they were saying. There was pain now, as well, lethargically seeping across his cheek. Hot, smart pain – again, and again. 

The light was growing now, rushing towards him with immense speed. The voices were also getting louder, and the stinging more intense. It was throbbing over other parts of his body now too; ribs, legs, back. He could almost see it, like red tendrils expanding out from epicentres of pain. 

With a sudden explosion of clarity, the world around him snapped into focus, as if someone had flicked a light switch. 

When it did, he wished it hadn’t. 

He was in a bare room of dusty, soiled grey walls, with a huge, paneless rectangular window in front of him, looking out over a portion of the immediate city and the thousands of kilometres of desert that lay beyond it. The sun was low in the sky, but had not yet started to set. Drawing on his experiences from his short time on the planet, he guessed it was about seven o’ clock. The sun never fully set, but night-time was usually characterised by a dark blue twilight. 

Right now, it was blood red. 

“Mensa kai! Set gau’gola neet? Dasta gan pur’tan dai?” Something shouted. 

Captain John Garrick tried to turn round to the source of the voice, but met a fist instead. A greyish, blue fist. 

Warm blood dribbled from a laceration across his cheek. 

“Dasta gan pur’tan dai! Dasta gan pur’tan dai!” It shouted again. 

“I-I don’t understand yo-” Garrick tried to answer. More alien shouting. A fist thumped into the back of his head. Another flattened palm chopped into the side of his neck. He winced; it had been bruised before, whilst he was unconscious. 

“Neayep y’dans sin dar kan’dar!” A different voice shouted, a lower voice. He felt a boot thump into his back, and the chair toppled forward. Since his hands and feet were bound to the chair, his face and neck took the full force of the eye-watering crunch. His nose broke instantly, and he felt his jaw recess painfully into his throat, popping twice as it did so. Lances of fire shot down his neck, and he screamed into the filthy floor, tasting sand once more in his mouth. 

A hand grasped him by his hair and yanked him back upright, threatening to loosen his scalp in the process. 

“Gola a’sheet,” Another snarled. He heard footsteps, before one of them stood in front of him. It was a Tau fire warrior; that much was obvious. He observed, through swollen eyelids, that they didn’t wear boots; rather their feet were cloven hooves, with a downy brown growth extruding below the base of the shin guard. Its body was clad in desert-pattern armour, with a large, angular shoulder pad over the firing arm, bearing the circular black and white insignia of the planet. Its helmet was smooth and swept back, with two vertically-stacked, dull red ocular units; and its pulse rifle was a good metre and a half long, currently slung over its back on a strap. 

The warrior flicked a hidden button on the underside of the helmet, where Garrick would have guessed its chin was, and he was surprised to find its next words were in gothic. 

“Why have you come here, human leader? What is you are purpose on our world?” The helmet’s speaker said. It was obviously a pre-recording of a more learned Tau speaking gothic, for the words were disjointed, and the sentence clumsy. Probably a cheap, standard-issue translator he guessed – the alien envoys, after all, could speak fluent gothic unaided. 

He remained silent, consolidating all the bloody saliva in his mouth and spitting it out down his ochre smock. His body armour had been, needless to say, removed. 

“Talk!” The helmet said again. 

The Captain did not. 

Moments later he was on the ground, at the wrong end of a good kicking. By some strange fortune, his dislocated jaw snapped back into place the second time his face hit the floor. 

Once again, they pulled him back up by his hair. 

“Human, we have you are other warriors in capture.” The Tau said. “Talk, they may still alive.” 

Garrick snorted at the poor quality of the translation. What right did these...xenos think they had to interrogate one of the Emperor’s soldiers? One of the Emperor’s children? 

“I will not,” Garrick replied, gasping as a sharp pain lanced across his ribs with the expansion of his diaphragm. Outside, a trio of scout vehicles thundered overhead, surrounded by more of the unmanned drones like flies around dung. 

The Tau in front of him uttered some kind of untranslatable oath, and brought the pulse rifle over his shoulder. Garrick turned his head away slightly as the twin-linked barrels pressed into his cheek. He could smell the static odour of the plasma charring from inside the mechanisms; feel the cold metal against his skin, the potential energy almost tangible in the chamber. A sideways glance told him that the telescopic sight on the top of the rifle was optically linked to the lower of the two ocular units on the Tau’s helmet – he could see himself in it, shirking away from the weapon. 

“Talk.” The alien said again. Garrick flinched slightly as a fresh trickle of blood drooled from a wound in his forehead, warm and wet, skirting down the side of his nose and dripping onto the floor. 

Success is measured in blood; yours or your enemy's, said a voice inside his head. 

The Imperial Captain took a deep breath. 

“I said no,” he replied.




*Chapter 7*

Gortlémund 
Ultima Segmentum 
07:00 (local) 
11:16 (Imperial) 15.982.M41​

~_A confident witness is?_ ~ 

The central avenue leading towards the Department of Imperial Justice was a five kilometre long, five hundred metre wide boulevard of dull white rockcrete, lined with hundreds of regimented Imperial statues and overlooked by some of the grandest, most gargoyled buildings Lieutenant Codey had ever had the pleasure of staring at. 

Having met their mystery witness – in a somewhat dank and dark spaceport café – Codey was left feeling thoroughly perplexed and small, like there were forces behind this trial that were much, much bigger than himself. He also especially got the feeling that Vandemarr wasn’t letting on all that he knew, as he struggled to keep up with the striding Commissar through the torrential downpour of cold rain that had blighted their walk to the nearest tram station. 

But, alas, in the end he was merely a lieutenant, and had no real jurisdiction or right to know much about anything. 

“Remember; always have all the documents ready.” Vandemarr was saying over his shoulder. “Hand them to me promptly. Don’t look down as you pass them to me, don’t look at me as you pass them to me; don’t cough or scratch yourself, don’t wipe your nose, or rub your face. A court case is like a game of five-card las; you never let our opponent think that there’s anything potentially wrong with what we’re about to submit. If we’re bluffing, then only I know about it. Understood?” 

“Yes sir,” Codey replied, watching longingly as they walked past the next tram station, the Commissar having evidently decided their fate was to remain in the rain. 

“In court, never look at the defendant – especially when I’m submitting. Organise the files if you need to keep yourself occupied. Every time you leave and enter the court room, bow to the bench, or you’ll be found in contempt of court. Sit still when I’m talking, and don’t fidget. If there’s something important you’ve noticed, that I haven’t picked up on, however unlikely, write it down calmly and discreetly, and hand it to me with whatever the next document is. Never interrupt me whilst I’m talking. Never interrupt the prosecution when they’re talking. As I said, if you’ve noticed something, write it down, and hand it to me – always with another file.” 

“Yes sir,” 

Vandemarr pulled the collar of his coat up and brought his satchel further up into his armpit as they struggled on through the rain. Codey half skipped to keep up with him, amazed at the Commissar’s normal walking speed. He hastily wiped rainwater from his eyes, trying to see the huge gothic palace up ahead that constituted the Department of Imperial Justice. Inside were all the court rooms for both civil and criminal cases; all the offices for the Commissariat, and several kilometres of underground cells for some of the more dangerous criminals to befoul the surrounding systems. Gortlémund was the centre for all administrative and legal issues for a fifteen parsec catchment area – encompassing the majority of the eastern Mordant Zone all the way up to the western Realm of Ultramar. The Administratum complex itself took up an entire continent in the southern hemisphere. 

“In the unlikely event of my illness or absence, you, as my junior, will take over my job.” Vandemarr continued. “If this happens, read my notes. I have tried to make them as user-friendly as possible. Read all the facts of the case, all the witness statements – I would say read up on all the previous cases regarding Tau auxiliaries, but there hasn’t ever been any. Only make a point if you’re sure it’s either right, or it’s going to put the prosecution in a position where your subsequent point will be right. That’s what it’s all about; anticipating your opponent’s arguments before they make them, and thinking up counter-arguments on your feet.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Again, they walked a short distance in silence, the boulevard empty in the grey, rainy morning. Above, a pair of shuttles, flanked by two dark red thunderbolts, tore overhead, the rumbling of their combined engines remaining in the air long after they disappeared into the cloud. 

“Tell me Codey, did you get drafted into the Guard, or did you volunteer?” Vandemarr said suddenly. 

“I was drafted, sir.” The lieutenant replied, only slightly taken aback. 

“What did you have to do to become a commissioned officer?” 

“Apply for and pass officer training, sir,” Codey replied, with a smile. 

“Good. You have some initiative then.” 

They walked on, the first signs of the palace now becoming visible through the wall of rain. 

“Remember Codey, for all we know this man could be innocent. His life is on the line. If we fail, he will be shot and killed, make no mistake. Bear that in mind, the whole time we are in the court, whether you are handing me documents, or making arguments of your own. It is for exactly this reason we will always refer to Garrick as ‘John’, or at the very least ‘Garrick’. Play the human angle. The officers on the bench are humans after all. This man is a man, and he will be killed. People don’t like killing other people for no reason, Codey, no matter what they tell you. Especially their own men.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Do you know where we’re going now?” 

“No, sir.” 

“We’re going to see Garrick. I don’t want you to be shocked or frightened or nervous around him. It’s important you prepare yourself now. He’ll no doubt be some kind of celebrity in your eyes, after we’ve been talking about him for so long. But he can’t think we’re anything other than on top of the situation. A confident witness is…?” 

“A reliable witness.” 

“Very good, Codey. We’re going to brief him on what he’s been charged with, what it’ll mean if the pross win, how we’re going to go about trying to make sure he doesn’t get thrown to the wolves; and we’re going to do it in a manner that suggests he’s got nothing to worry about. As far as he’s concerned, we’ve got it in the bag. Understand?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Same rules apply, boy. If you hear me lie to Mister Garrick, don’t give it away. I most likely will, at least on some points. If he tells us anything – anything at all – receive bad points with neutrality, good points with enthusiasm. If he says he’s innocent, that’s good enough for both of us. If he confesses everything, I’ll shoot him myself.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“How long have you been in the Guard, Codey?” 

“Three years, sir.” 

“Hm. Some of the things you will hear from Mister Garrick may disgust such an...upstanding Guardsman as yourself. For example, at one point on his excursion on Uvolon, he dons Tau body armour.” 

Codey made a noise that conveyed his revulsion. Vandemarr whirled round to face him, rain dripping off the peak of his cap, his voice dark and level. 

“That’s exactly what you never, ever do. I bet you thought three years in the Guard was a long time?” 

“Yes, sir,” 

“Garrick’s been in it for twelve. Let me tell you this now; as a Captain, he’ll know about things and he’ll have done things, things they explicitly prohibit in Imperial propaganda. How to stay alive, for example, by utilising alien technologies; how to speak xeno languages. These things keep men alive, Codey, and boys like you don’t understand that. So when he tells you that he wore the Tau armour, or used the Tau weapon, you don’t, do, that. Understand?” 

He poked the young Lieutenant in the chest as he growled the penultimate three words, his expression unreadable. Codey knew Vandemarr had been a Commissar for a long, long time – something in the order of thirty years – and thus held an immense respect for – and at the same time, healthy fear of – the man in front of him. If he said it was what they did, then who was he to argue? His three years of service was paltry in comparison. 

“Yes, sir,” he replied lamely, swallowing. The Commissar’s face seemed to brighten. 

“A confident witness is?” Vandemarr said, slapping him on the shoulder and grinning. 

“A reliable witness, sir.” Codey exhaled. 

“Trust me, Codey,” The Commissar said, turning back, “if you knew what some of the Inquisitors were up to, you’d have a fit.” 

Vandemarr laughed as he walked off into the haze, leaving a stunned Lieutenant Codey standing stock still in the rain.


----------



## Boc

Nikolai said:


> Hey I really enjoyed that piece, can't wait for more. Nothing glaring to comment on except I would think that he is unlikely to survive a collapsed lung.


On a random note: it's actually not that inconceivable to survive a collapsed lung. They occur due to a buildup of pressure in the chest cavity from a perforation. Air builds up while inhaling, then doesn't get properly released. That's why you take a large gauge needle and shove it into their chest (above the third rib on the collapsed side) as well as tape on a flutter valve over whatever wound was suffered (basically, a non breathable material, i.e. plastic, taped on three sides that both allow the wound to breathe and keep any extra air from getting sucked in to the wound). The large gauge needle allows the built up air to escape, re-inflating the lung by lowering the pressure in the chest cavity (so that the pressure of the chest is lower than the pressure of the lung).

Yeah, I know weird stuff.

Very enjoyable reading, though I'll have to read the last two later (damn job, apparently they expect me to do work?)

And now you know about sucking chest wounds, and knowing is half the battle


----------



## dark angel

Once again, Zwan it is bloody awesome! Keep up the good work!


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Wow men... I never thought a Commissar like that ever existed... I thought all of them were like fanatical and unsociable... 

I'm liking this a lot... MORE MATE!...

And REP!

Cheers!...


----------



## Zwan

Oooh, the shadowy denizens of the forum unhinge themselves from the wailing wall to comment. Excellent!

Boc: that _is _interesting, I didn't know that, although I think the bloke at the end of _Three Kings_ is similarly incapacitated, so that all makes sense. I thank you for your imparted wisdom, sir, not only because now I know, but also because it means I don't have to alter the story! And work! Pfft, I hate it when they make you do something at work - presumably it's rubbish. I'm a final year university student so I can't really complain! Thanks a lot for reading. 

Dark Angel: thank you kindly, good sir, very much appreciated! 

Waltzmelancholy: ah fantastic, a new reader. Thanks very much for taking the time to comment, I always appreciate it! And more reputation! Fantastic, my unholy visions of taking over the entire internet are reaching fruition...

Here's more;



*Chapter 8* 

Uvolon Quintus 
Ultima Segmentum 
21:51 (local) 
02:14 (Imperial) 07.982.M41​

~_The importance of auxiliaries_~ 

After what seemed like an age, the twin barrels of the pulse rifle were grudgingly ripped from the side of Garrick’s bloody face, leaving two circular imprints in his cheek. The Tau fire warrior, its expression still hidden behind faceless ochre scorn of the helmet, snarled something untranslatable, and re-shouldered the weapon. 

It seemed to gather itself for a second, by walking to the window and fiddling with a wrist-mounted device of some description; before it turned back to him, its armour smothering any readable body language. 

“You have bravery, human,” the helmet speaker said after a while, “in much of it. It is in immediate obviousness now to me that you are one honourably warrior such as myself; that you make pride of your soldiery.” 

Garrick felt his spirits lift despite himself. After all the hatred he had been forced to feel towards these aliens – essentially from birth – a compliment was an uncomfortable and unsettling thing to accept and understand. It was as if at that moment, a revelation had occurred – that perhaps these aliens were not as bad as they might once have seemed. 

“However,” he helmet speaker continued in its strange, undulating drone, “your pride will not rescue you from your in situation. This weapon that I own, the death it offers is too hasty, not painful. A true warrior can measures his faith in pain. We shall see, all of us, human, how faithful to you’re belief.” 

And then, suddenly, Garrick became angry again – very, very angry. 

“Throne damn you!” He roared, tearing at the bonds. They dug into his wrists painfully, which had already swollen with bruising. The damned xeno had tricked him. It had tricked into thinking it respected his honour. Now it had betrayed his trust, he was livid. 

“Be silent, human,” it said, backhanding him across the cheek. Pain screamed through the filthy laceration that marked the side of his face, and he grimaced, refusing to cry out loud. 

“So now you are refuse to scream? That is good, human; you are learning what it has to be a Tau,” the alien said again, deftly snatching a vial thrown to him from behind Garrick. “Yet, to become Gue’vsa, there is much more than ability to take pain,” 

Tau hands grasped his neck and hair from behind, pulling his head back. A dim light, swinging back and forth on a decrepit cable, confronted his face. The Tau, as far as he could hear, pulled the stopper from the vial and walked towards him. 

“The ritual scarring of all fire warriors is make usual on the chest,” it said, “but for the Gue’vsa, we make special exception. To show others of their wrong way, we make it on the face, so that all can understands the mistake they have made in…not acknowledging the greater good.” 

The translator stumbled so badly over ‘acknowledging’ that Garrick wasn’t even sure he’d heard it correctly. Not that he was paying much attention to what the alien was saying; he was more perturbed by the fifteen centimetre scar they were going to brand across his cheek, forever marking him a heretic – a traitor, a Tau sympathiser; 

An auxiliary. 

“If you touch me with that thing, alien,” he snarled, struggling against the combined grips of three Tau, “I swear by the Emperor you will all die,” 

What could only constitute laughter burbled from their helmet speakers. 

“No, human. The only one here who will die is you, if you do not accept with willingness what I am to put upon you. Only in this the way can you enhance the greater good.” 

Garrick struggled again now, more violently as the Tau leant forward, the acrid smell of the liquid inside the vial wrapping round his nostrils and making him nauseous. There was no way in hell they were going to brand him. His muscles grated horribly against his bones, against his skin; he strained and strained against the bonds, forcing all his might against them, praying to the Emperor for salvation – 

Until finally his prayers were answered. 

Snapping violently, the cord holding his left shin to the chair leg broke. With a vicious kick, he launched his boot deep into the alien groin in front of him, not knowing whether there was anything there which might debilitate it beyond the norm. When it suddenly howled and fell backwards, however, Garrick knew he didn’t have any time to waste. The three Tau behind him were stunned, but only for a few precious seconds. 

With a roar, he propelled himself backwards and upwards on his one free leg, feeling his head smash into the jaw line of on of his captor’s helmets. Twisting round, the chair still hanging from his hands and strapped to his right shin, he propelled himself forward again, this time body-checking the second Tau on his left. He felt his shoulder thump comfortably into the chest plate of the alien, sending it sprawling backwards; before the cords binding him to the chair caused him to trip, and he fell, jarring his neck. 

“Kill him!” One of them cried, as hot static pulse whispered past his ear. The flash of the muzzle lit up the room like a lighting bolt, framing their shadows in a darker, mirrored struggle. 

Garrick had run out of time. If the Tau had his pulse rifle out, he was as good as dead. 

“Shi’aus neet garr un pas’it! Dasta neet ap gau’am sith!” The leader’s helmet speaker said, this time in the native language. 

More flashes; more plasma reek. 

“GRINA AUB NIT! DASTA PURTAN DIN AUS! GUE’VSA! GUE’VSA!” 

One of the Tau dropped down, struggling into death as fresh plasma bore deep into its thoracic cavity. A second made it two paces towards the leader before its brain pasted the far wall, surrounding two scorch marks in the concrete like a sadistically gory smiley face. The third Tau tried to scramble towards the door, before being shot through the chest at point blank. 

The leader – the one who had been talking to him – dropped the pulse rifle and pulled its helmet off. A greyish blue face, with a slanted forehead, spaced eyes and a long vertical slit for a nose confronted him, beads of perspiration marking its skin. Garrick saw that the communication antennae, rather than part of the helmet, was affixed to the ear via an arming cap of sorts, and the jaw line was protected by another moulded piece of armour – effectively splitting the helmet into two functioning pieces. The translator box formed part of the lower helmet’s microphone, and it was this the alien spoke into. 

“You are to be Gue’vsa, human,” it said, it mouth moving in a strange and altogether unsettling way. Garrick was again, repulsed by the sight of the bare xeno flesh. To see that there was a face behind the mask was disturbing to say the least. For one thing, the alien looked much older than he’d anticipated, perhaps explaining the white markings on the firing arm’s shoulder pad. 

“The deaths of these Tau were much regret; but they young, and not fully acquainted with the working of the greater good. They do not have value understanding of human auxiliaries.” 

Its words treacled over Garrick, having little impact; this alien had just massacred three of its brethren, so that it could ritually scar his face and make him one of them. He didn’t even pretend to understand how their military worked, or what this ‘greater good’ they kept blathering on about was. But he did know that if he wanted to make it out of the room alive, he was going to either assault this alien – this veteran Tau – in front of him, hopefully get the better of it, and escape into the city; or take the scarring, play along, and bugger off at the first opportunity. 

As the Tau turned around to pick up the pulse rifle it had dropped, Garrick made his decision. 

And launched himself at it.


























*PART 3*

*Chapter 9*

_“There can be no bystanders in the battle for survival. Anyone who will not fight by your side is an enemy you must crush.” _

~Inquisitor Apollyon, “Teachings”, Vol. XI


Gortlémund 
Ultima Segmentum 
08:44:00 (local) 
12:59 (Imperial) 15.982.M41​

~_Garrick_~ 

The Department of Imperial Justice was huge; far more colossal than Codey had ever expected. As they reached the main doors – two five-metre oak monstrosities – and the haze of rain peeled back, the young Lieutenant could see the palace properly and in its entirety for the first time. 

He gawped. 

Where Vandemarr had been to many worlds and in many courts martial – particularly as a junior – and seen countless palaces, fortresses, monasteries and cathedrals, Codey had seen none. His relatively short time in the Guard had seen him in a one-year campaign against the Orks some parsecs away – where he’d earned his Lieutenancy – and then a nine month campaign putting down a rebel insurrection on New Carthage. The interims had been spent in cramped barrack decks travelling between these two worlds, drilling for months on end in the ships’ warspheres, or gambling away his shipside allowance in five card las and dice. 

Thus, to see a building of such magnificence and magnitude was something of a novelty for him – a complete amateur when it came to Imperial gothic architecture. 

That was not to say that Vandemarr himself was slightly in awe of the palace himself. It was huge, mind-bogglingly so. Great spires and archways towered above them, framed by the grey thunderheads above and soaked in the early morning rain. Statues and gargoyles marked every surface, keeping watchful eyes over the surrounding megacity – hideously contorted features forever agonising over the punishment within. Huge landing platforms, concealed by the edifice that was the southern wall, supported gigantic Imperial landers – some penal craft, others Aquilla-bearing judicial vessels – all contributing towards the flow of air traffic above. 

For kilometres this architectural masterpiece domineered the landscape, shadowing everything and everyone, a constant reminder that the Imperial justice was as inescapable as it was brutal. Indeed, above the main doors were chiselled in blocky gothic; 

THE EMPEROR KNOWS, THE EMPEROR IS WATCHING 

Codey shivered as he read the words, and quickly made the sign of the Aquilla across his chest. 

“Come along, Codey,” Vandemarr said, thumping on one of the doors with a leather-gloved fist. “We’re going to catch hypothermia out here.” 

The Lieutenant shook his head and jogged over to the doors, not looking at the two snarling gargoyles directly above him, in time to see a picter extend from an invisible alcove and stop just short of Vandemarr’s face. 

“Ah, Commissar. We’ve been expecting you. The trial starts in an hour.” Said a brass horn. “Would you like directions to the prisoner?” 

“If you would be so kind,” Vandemarr half shouted above the rain. Seconds later, the left door hissed open – evidently by some hydraulic mechanism – to reveal the cavernous interior. 

Once again, Codey gawped. If there was one part of the palace more overwhelming than the outside, it was the inside. The hallway – the south wing – extended upwards for a thousand metres, ribbed by ornate floors like some colossal spine. Bridges bisected the atrium in a hundred places, and everywhere, yellow glow globes seeped light into the mighty hall. It was seething with activity, as scores of Commissars – the most Codey had ever seen in one place – walked the intricate, royal blue carpet, talking amongst themselves, gesticulating and exchanging papers. Servitors were as equally abundant, acting as convenience drones, carrying papers and directing men through the labyrinth of passageways effervescing from the southern hallway. There were even some prisoners being admitted, frogmarched across the expanse of carpet to holding cells. 

It was as crowded as an inner hive city, and it wasn’t even nine in the morning. 

“This place never sleeps,” Vandemarr said, not taking his eyes of the bustle in front. Codey had never seen the Commissar look so…at home. 

“It’s just so…” 

“Big?” Vandemarr said. Codey nodded. “It has to be. You get a lot of criminals within fifteen parsecs of one planet. If you keep your eyes open you might even see a few Inquisitors. That is, if they want to be seen.” 

“Commissar Vandemarr?” A mechanical voice said. Codey turned to see a servitor accosting him. 

“No,” he replied. “Him.” He pointed to Vandemarr, who whirled around. 

“By the Emperor, this man isn’t me! I’m far more attractive!” Vandemarr said, grinning. The servitor bowed its apologies. 

“If you would follow me, sir, I will take you to the prisoner.” 

“That would certainly help our cause,” The Commissar replied, winking. 

They veered off to the left, down a corridor that was, in a similar fashion to the atrium, ribbed with archways. On either side of them, bare concrete holding cells, locked shut by heavy metal doors, lined the walls in ranks. One two occasions, they passed firing galleries, both furnished by two, cuff-sporting, vertical wooden poles, and two very pocked, blood-stained and scorched walls. Two lines of six, evenly-spaced chalk marks lined the floor twenty and thirty metres from each of them – the rear line offering a greater margin for shooting wide of the head and neck, prolonging the suffering of the condemned. 

Codey grimaced as he observed them; Vandemarr was unperturbed. 

They followed the servitor for a while, the same, uniformly dank doors passing them by; until they stopped outside one, waiting expectantly. 

“Is this it?” Vandemarr asked, looked at the unique pattern of circles on the door’s punchcard. 

“Affirmative.” The servitor said. “Before I can let you in, however, I must check that you have a loaded weapon about your person.” 

Vandemarr smartly pulled his bolt pistol from its holster, thumbed the magazine release catch, and caught the heavy clip in his free hand. Codey saw that it boasted a full compliment of brass-cased bolt rounds, thick .75 calibre shells. 

“Protocol demands it for some of the more…violent prisoners,” the servitor continued, unfazed by the potent weapon. 

“Violent?” Vandemarr said in a surprised voice, reassembling the pistol. “What do you mean? He’s been violent?” 

“He ripped the larynx off the last servitor,” the hybrid said – almost sadly – “when it asked him if he was satisfied with his evening meal.” 

Codey snorted, before turning away as Vandemarr glared at him. 

“No doubt this incurred penalties?” The Commissar asked. 

“He is on restricted rations until he…co-operates.” The servitor replied. 

There was an uncomfortable pause as Vandemarr stared at the hybrid angrily. 

“Shall we go in then?” Codey asked brightly, before another servitor was liberated of its larynx. He doubted whether this particular hybrid had anything to do with the restriction of their defendant’s rations, but Vandemarr was unlikely to see it in that light. No smoke without fire, as the Commissar often said – mainly to annoy him, Codey suspected. 

“Yes,” Vandemarr said, tearing his eyes off the servitor. “Let’s see what we can get out of Captain John Garrick.” 

The servitor bowed, whirring into life once more, de-bolting the unhinged side of the door and pulling it open. A wash of stink erupted from inside, and both Vandemarr and Codey shielded their nostrils. The servitor, unaffected, began to close the door behind them – earning another dirty look from the Commissar. 

“Just knock when you’re done,” it said cheerfully. 

The door slammed behind them, and the bolts were screwed back in with lightning efficiency. 

It took a few seconds for their eyes to accustom to the gloom. When they had, they saw a huddled figure in the corner, wrapped in filthy ochre fatigues, with no belt, no boots, and very long, greasy hair. 

“Captain Garrick?” Vandemarr said hesitantly. 

No reply. The man simply pulled his legs up to his chest, and hugged them, resting his bearded chin on one knee. Next to him was a dirty cot with a single grey sheet on it, and on the opposite end of the cell, a small hole in the ground served as a toilet. Aside from these sparse furnishings, there was nothing. 

“Captain Garrick, my name is Commissar Vandemarr. This is my junior, Lieutenant Codey. We’ll be representing you in your court martial this morning.” He continued. 

Still no reply. 

“Throne,” Vandemarr whispered in Codey’s ear, “get a servitor. I want this man showered and given fresh fatigues for court – and a shave, if possible.” 

“Yes sir,” Codey replied, thumping on the door. He was let out moments later, and Vandemarr strained to hear as the Lieutenant and the servitor talked in hushed tones. 

“I’ve just sent my junior to see if we can get you cleaned up for court,” Vandemarr said, setting down his satchel on the floor. “It’ll be better for you if you look slightly more…presentable.” 

There was another pause; but this time, the hunched figure did something the Commissar did not expect. 

He started laughing. 

Quietly at first, before building up to an amusing crescendo, he released his knees, leant back, and roared, his hearty, bass laughter filling the cramped cell. He laughed until tears streamed down his filthy face and he ran out of breath. 

“Presentable!” He panted in a thick, heavy accent – western Segmentum, the Commissar guessed. 

It was only when Garrick turned to face him, that he noticed the two long scars marking both of the Captain’s cheeks.























*Chapter 10*

Uvolon Quintus 
Ultima Segmentum 
22:12 (local) 
02:28 (Imperial) 07.982.M41​

~_These feet were made for walking_ ~ 

With a snarl of surprise and anger, the Tau, winded, crashed forward into the floor, landing awkwardly on its pulse rifle. Garrick, in a sudden burst of furious strength, ripped his second shin free from the chair, and shook the remnants of the seat off, so that all that remained bound were his hands – still behind his back. 

He struggled to his feet as best he could, feeling the cold, dusty concrete on his bare skin, and watched for a second as the alien slowly pulled the pulse rifle from under its bruised stomach – where the armour was thinner, and segmented to promote flexibility. 

Then he started kicking it in the head. 

With all the fury of a righteous god, he welted his bare toes into the side of the Tau’s face, feeling his ragged, unkempt nails pierce its skin under the sheer force of his kicks. Blood gouted out from the wounds as the flesh bruised and swelled painfully under his volleys, the alien writhing and crying out – yet still debilitated by its wounded stomach. 

“Die! Die, alien!” Garrick roared, ignoring his broken toes screaming at him to stop, ignoring the rivulets of pain lancing away from the cracked bones. Rage drunk, he pounded away, smashing the Tau’s eye socket, gelling its eye, and concussing it. He couldn’t understand why it wasn’t trying to defend itself – which only made him angrier. His blood was up, and he wanted a fight. 

It squirmed increasingly lethargically below him. It looked as though the handle of the pulse rifle had already dealt the alien a crippling abdominal blow, rupturing organs and causing internal haemorrhaging; but he cared little in his current frame of mind. 

Instead, he kicked on, having little sympathy for the creature below him – even as his foot and the alien’s face became a horribly bloody mess. As the last vestige of his self control and mercy left him, he roared, jumped, pulled his legs up, and in a rage-inspired flash, knee-dropped the back of the Tau’s skull. 

He didn’t expect it to give way, but it did. Rather than knock it clean into unconsciousness – or kill it – his knee sank straight through its head until it touched the concrete on the other side. Gore, in abundance, sloshed and squelched from the bloody, oily mess of the crushed alien brain – and Garrick, a hardened Guard veteran, gagged violently. 

Almost as quickly as he had landed on the thing, he scrambled off, his legs wet and cold, his toes a painful, throbbing, ruined mess. He lay on the ground, panting, amidst four dead Tau, in the middle of an alien city – as far as he knew, entirely alone. 

A cold breeze moaned through the large window across the other side of the room. The twilight had deepened, but it wouldn’t get any darker now. A few of the unmanned drones hovered past, beeping to each other – and the sounds of the Tau cleaning away the vehicles and men of his company were still audible, though distant. 

Aside from that, there was nothing but silence. Nothing to do but contemplate his fate. 

He sat up after a while. Since no noise was coming from the rooms either side of him – assuming there were any – he guessed he was the only prisoner to be brought to this part of this building. But there couldn’t have only been four Tau! 

He sighed. He needed to find away to loosen the bonds currently digging into his wrists. It was some kind of flexible metal cord, slowly but surely abrading his skin. If he didn’t get it off quickly, they would cut into his flesh, and then he would get an infection. And who knew what kind of vile alien bacteria lurked on this planet? 

He rolled backwards, resting on his shoulder blades, and prying his wrists as far apart as he dared, forced his hands past his buttocks. The effort required was much greater than he anticipated, and he almost dislocated both shoulders in the process; but after a short while, and a lot of pain, he managed to squeeze them past. 

He brought his hands up in front of his face. They had swollen with fluid, and were almost blue with bruising – and lack of blood. If he didn’t act quickly, the flesh would actually swell so badly it would envelope the cuffs. 

He inspected the bonds. There was nothing which might betray a lock or joint – just ribbed grey metal – leading him to the conclusion that they must be magnetically locked somehow. 

He decided that the Tau he’d just brutally murdered would have the key if any of them did, and slid himself over to its body, searching amongst the pockets and pouches that adorned its body armour. Inside were various alien devices that, to him, looked completely useless when it came to removing handcuffs; until one, a small, black, ovoid block with a green and red LED, bleeped when it came into contact with the metal cord. The green light winked on, and the cuffs snapped open and fell away. 

He stared blankly at his wrists for a second, in awe at how the colour actually visibly seeped back into his hands, and the tendrils of blue withdrew. He was so momentarily overcome with joy that he fell backwards again, in relief; but this time he immediately snapped back up with a yelp, as something dug painfully into his lower back. Turning around to find the source of this unwelcome intrusion, he saw it was the vial the Tau leader had been going to ritually scar him with. A hand instinctively went to his cheek, probing and prodding the long cut that ran the length of it. He gasped as it smarted – and then noticed something which he hadn’t before. 

It was a second laceration, on his other cheek, angled diagonally downwards towards his chin, like the first, but so fine he hadn’t even noticed it. As he opened his mouth wider, he could feel it opening with it, a seam running the length of his face. 

Anger, once again, claimed him. 

“Xeno bastards!” He roared. They must have already done it when he was unconscious. No doubt that damned vial contained a liquid which would create the necessary ritual scars of the existing wounds. 

“Bastards, bastards BASTARDS!” He bellowed, about to smash the vial on the floor. 

Then he thought better of it. 

Calming himself with a few deep breaths, he placed the vial to one side. There could be no doubting its uses, on an enemy world – inhabited by a race renowned for its sick obsession with human auxiliaries. Though the very thought of performing such an act upon himself made him nauseous, his resourcefulness already had the better of him. 

He stood in the middle of the room, in nothing but a pair of ochre fatigue trousers, and stretched his arms out behind his back. He quickly decided that the best plan of action would be to don one of the Tau’s suits of armour, leave the building, and somehow try and contact a surviving vox officer to radio for Imperial fleet aid. It was a shame that his personal signals officer, Uden, was dead. It hadn’t felt like any time at all since he’d watched the Tau send a rocket into their makeshift base in one of the upper floors of the alien tower. Uden, Winters, Greeves, McShaw – all gone in the blink of an eye. 

He shook his head and walked over to one of the less…pulverised Tau corpses. Finding the armour release clasps was easy enough, and he wrestled the breastplate, shoulder pads, elbow pads, vambraces, thigh pads, greaves and boo – 

There were no boots. They didn’t wear boots. There were only ungulate alien feet. 

He sighed and looked down at his own mashed toes – the pain having given way to a cold numbness. 

He looked back at the Tau’s feet again. 

And sighed. 
* * *


Exiting from the base of the tower – which had turned out to be another abandoned wreck on the city’s periphery – Garrick stepped out into the white, smooth road. Far away to his right, the Tau were still clearing away his company’s dead – and their own. To his left, the street opened into a wide park, punctuated with terrestrial-esque trees, white, alien statues, and wide bands of a well-kept grass analogue. Surrounding it were more towering alien structures – admittedly extremely aesthetically pleasing – and more streets veering off in all directions. 

It was still empty, and the wide, deep blue night sky was unsettling, being completely devoid of any air traffic. Instead, the frighteningly large silhouettes of the planet’s moons clamoured for room, and the stars – so many thousands – cluttered the spaces in between. The ionised blue gasses of the Eastern Fringe were just visible in the darker upper atmosphere as well, adding an ethereal quality to the twilight that would have made it a pleasant and enjoyable sight, were it not for the fact that he was a fugitive. 

He shook his head dejectedly, grasping the long and unwieldy pulse rifle with difficulty. The red ocular unit of the helmet’s visor was crowded with Tau graphics, none of which he understood, and the body armour was terribly uncomfortable, being too large in some places, and too small in others. 

A cursory check of his webbing saw that there was still some Tau blood on the combat knife, and he wiped it off on the crusty underside of one of his brown gloves. He had, after all, just hacked off and exenterated two Tau legs, all the way up to the top of the shin, to create a pair of warm, wet alien boots. 

He slid the knife back into its sheath, and with a glance over his shoulder, moved further into the city.


----------



## Templar Marshal

This is good reading man keep it up k:


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Ah.. The things a soldier must do to survive... WOOOO!!!....


----------



## Zwan

Thanks very much Templar Marshall and Waltz; here's more;

*Chapter 11*

Gortlémund 
Ultima Segmentum 
09:17(local) 
13:33 (Imperial) 15.982.M41​

~_The Emperor’s Court_~ 

Vandemarr sat in stunned silence. Garrick nodded; he knew his story was unbelievable. How ridiculous it sounded – how even he laughed helplessly as he recounted the most convenient of occurrences. 

“You can’t be serious,” Vandemarr said after an agonising silence, sitting on the floor of the filthy cell opposite him. When he saw the dangerous look in Garrick’s eyes, however, he knew not to press the subject – it might seem mocking or derogatory, and then the Captain was unlikely to co-operate. 

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Garrick said, “but it’s what happened.” 

“Throne,” Vandemarr said helplessly, taking his cap off and smoothing his lank hair back with both hands. “You know, and I mean this in the most respectful way possible…it would help you a lot if you’d tell me the truth,” 

“That is the truth of it!” Garrick thundered, suddenly angry. Vandemarr, in his infinite cool, remained unfazed – though he was slightly concerned. The man’s temper was going to be a problem if he unleashed it in court – something which their panel, whoever they were, wouldn’t look too kindly upon. 

“Look!” He snapped, his voice commanding obedience, “The trial – your court martial – starts in half an hour. The majority of that it going to be taken up by you washing, as soon as Codey gets back, and us making our way to whichever backwater court they’ve decided to shove us in. So let’s just get a few things straight, Mister Garrick, if you don’t want to end up at the wrong end of the thirty metre line. Okay?” 

The Captain grumbled his assent. There was no stopping Vandemarr now he was in Commissar mode – and Garrick was, in the end, still well within his jurisdiction. Vandemarr could put a bolt round through his head right now and nobody would bat an eyelid. 

“Firstly, you keep that anger in check soldier.” Vandemarr said sharply. “If you flip out in the middle of court, you’re on your own. We are done. Got it?” 

Garrick nodded. 

“Secondly, you need to realise that I’m under absolutely no obligation to defend you – and I could have you shot in the blink of an eye completely at my discretion. This – my defending you – is a privilege, not a right. Understand?” 

Again, Garrick nodded, his face murderous. 

“And lastly,” Vandemarr said, now softly, “if you want me to defend you, you need to start telling me what actually happened.” 

“I’ve already told you what happened,” Garrick said quickly, through clenched teeth. 

“Oh come on,” Vandemarr said, leaning back and rolling his eyes, “it’s a little coincidental don’t you think?” 

“It’s the truth,” he protested, again in the same dangerous monotone. 

Vandemarr stared at him, trying to discern what his skills should have allowed him to discern – what thirty years in the Commissariat, on the field and in the court, should have been able to determine; a lie. 

Eventually, he held his hands up. 

“Fine,” he said, “If that’s your statement, that’s fine. But just to let you know, if this is what you’re giving me to work with, it’s going to be extremely difficult to get you off the hook.” 

“I don’t want you to ‘get me off the hook’,” Garrick snarled, “I want you to prove to these smug bastards that I’m innocent.” 

He suddenly looked at Vandemarr imploringly – the way he’d never thought a Captain of the Imperial Guard could. To die on the battlefield, gloriously and honourably was one thing; but to watch as two groups of men argued over your death for days on end was worse than torture. Vandemarr – for an instant – felt as though he could empathise with him. 

Then, acknowledging the ritual scars once more, the feeling was gone. Vandemarr was too wise in the ways of the Imperium to still feel repulsed and nauseous by the sight of xeno marks and symbols. Xenophobia was a tool, used by the Inquisition and the Commissariat to keep the ranks in like; but after a certain amount of time, everyone became disillusioned with Imperial propaganda – if only a little. 

No, it was not irrational xenophobia that he felt when he saw the scars. It was doubt. Doubt in Garrick’s story. It instigated all kinds of thoughts in his Commissar’s mind. What if he was simply play acting? What if the scarring hadn’t been carried out under the professed circumstances? What if Garrick had allowed it willingly – or worse, done it himself? 

The wise, Imperial survivalist in him wanted to believe that Garrick had done what was necessary to survive – what was necessary to live and serve the Emperor for another day. 

But the propaganda-conditioned Commissar part of him, when he saw those marks, wanted to yank the bolt pistol from its holster right there and then and blow Garrick’s brains out the back of his skull. 


Vandemarr whirled around at the noise of the bolts being unscrewed, and watched as a flustered Codey walked in, the emotionless servitor just outside the door. He savoured the gust of fresh air blown in from the vaulted corridor outside, breathing in deeply. 

“Alright, they can get him a wash – there’s a chemical burns shower in the interrogation chambers downstairs, so that’ll have to do.” The lieutenant said, tossing Garrick a pair of clean, olive green fatigues. 

“Right,” Vandemarr said, nodding, throwing Codey off. He’d clearly expected the Commissar to ask what a chemical burns shower was doing in the palace, but he knew. 

Oh, he knew. 

“Right then, Garrick. Thank you for your statement. The servitor here will take you for a clean-up.” 

Garrick nodded – the only motor function he seemed to have retained – until he stood up, his joints cracking noisily. He really was the epitome of haggard, his scraggly black hair matted to his head and face, his bare torso a network of scars, his hands grubby and dirty, and his feet ruined. Only if he was cleared would any Guard paramedic see to them. 

“He’s a mess,” Codey remarked, watching as he left. 

“You’re telling me,” Vandemarr replied, taking one last look around the cell before walking out into the corridor. “He’s afraid. I saw it earlier, in his eyes.” 

Codey looked at him, but the Commissar remained unmoving, watching Garrick being led down the corridor. 

“Wouldn’t you be?” He asked after a while. 

Vandemarr nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “I suppose I would.” 

They watched Garrick for a few minutes longer, standing in silence. 

“Come on, the trial starts in half an hour,” Vandemarr said. “We might as well find out which doghouse of a court we’ve been assigned to.” 

“Already done it,” Codey said absently. “The Emperor’s court, whichever that one is. I checked when I came back from the palace’s…ablution facilities – it’s on the roster in the atrium.” 

Vandemarr’s jaw dropped. 

“The Emperor’s court?” He breathed. 

“Yeah,” Codey replied, nonplussed. “Why?” 

“By the Throne,” The Commissar whispered. 

“What?” 

“The Emperor’s court is the largest public court in the building,” he said, “and as far as I know, the largest public court this side of Segmentum Solar.” 

Codey cleared his throat. 

“Is that meant to be a joke?” He asked. 

“Throne,” Vandemarr whispered again. The Emperor’s court. Now there was a sight to be seen. The public galleries lined the colossal hall all the way up to the roof, with picters and vox horns relaying the proceedings from all the way down on the pristine marble floor. It was huge – larger than the atrium they’d just come through, and three times more ornate. 

And if Vandemarr knew anything about cases in the Emperor’s court, it would be packed. 

“There must be some mistake,” he said eventually. 

“Are you implying I can’t read?” Codey said, now slightly annoyed that the significance of this ‘Emperor’s court’ hadn’t been explained to him. 

“Yes,” Vandemarr replied, moving off down the corridor. 

“What’s going on?” Codey replied, jogging to keep up. 

“Come on,” The Commissar replied, breaking into a run.




*Chapter 12* 

Uvolon Quintus 
Ultima Segmentum 
19:39 (local) 
23:56 (Imperial) 08.982.M41​

~_Gue'vsa_~ 

He’d found a place to hide; a small drainage outlet from one of the many towers surrounding the parkland. It was a wide conduit, maybe three metres across, one deep, filled with stinking alien effluent matter. After making his way across the parkland the night before, clad in the alien armour and ‘boots’, he’d seen what every Imperial Guardsman had learned to dread; the faint, yet unmistakable, ‘flash and crackle’, as it was known, of an Imperial ship translating into high anchor. It took its name from the flash of the translation interface with realspace; and the crackle of the bolts of Warp energy radiating out from the event horizon. 

There were signs to look out for, as to whether it was a good sign or bad. If, after a while, the flash and crackle was followed by nothing, it meant the ship was manoeuvring into low anchor in preparation for an orbital bombardment. If the flash and crackle was followed by a smattering of smaller, shooting star-esque flashes, it meant drop pods were being launched. 

It was almost never the latter. 

On this occasion, however, it was. By the alien chronometer he had spent the best part of two hours logically working through the symbols of, he guessed that at roughly four in the morning – or eight o’ clock Imperial, by the approximate timer difference – the ship had translated insystem. That had caused him to seek out a water source. If they were going to raze the city, he guessed that being underwater would at least protect him from the flames, and that at the very least drowning would produce a more attractive alternative to burning alive. 

But then he noticed the drop pods some minutes later. Adequately versed in the ways of naval deployment, he knew what was going on. The ship had translated into mid anchor straight away, and then done a rapid-fire deployment, so as to utterly minimise the time between detection and getting the troops planetside. 

From his squalid position in the sewer conduit, he saw, with a grim satisfaction, that it had worked. Far away to the south – back where the original landing zone had been for him some months beforehand – the vertical contrails of the pods was visible in the early morning atmosphere; and by five o’ clock, the heavier armour-landers had trundled down. 

From then on, it was just a matter of waiting. The Imperials clearly planned to retake the city; that much was certain. If he could remain unseen until they reached his position, he would strip off his armour and appear as a prisoner of war again. 

The plan had filled his system with hopeful adrenaline, excitement at the prospect of rescue. It would be good – very good – to be amongst humans once more, amongst the Guard, his comrades. 

And so he’d sat back, keeping only his head above the water level, remaining as silent and still as possible. Only when more effluents were leaked into the conduit did he hazard moving. There were still plenty of Tau in the city – more so, in fact, now that the Imperials to the south had been spotted. Overhead, Tau atmospheric craft had roared on reconnaissance runs, and occasionally the whine Devilfish or Hammerhead engines swept past. He’d still seen no Tau civilians, which led him to conclude, after much deliberation, that the city must have been abandoned save for the military presence – which would have also explained the empty buildings he’d been into, both when he’d found Winters again, and also where he’d been interrogated. 

He had continued to wait all day, the sun warming the water a little to make it slightly more tolerable in terms of heat – but not in terms of smell – until he heard the first distant shots over the still, afternoon air. The rattling of stubbers, the hissing whine of las; the dull crump of artillery and tanks. The Imperials were attacking hard, and attacking en masse, heartening him no end. 

By late evening, after bitter fighting, the Guard, as far as Garrick could tell, had taken all the ground roughly a kilometre into the city, and the sky, having faded to its dark cerulean twilight, was made privy to thousands of shells in standard Imperial dusk bombardment procedure. They crashed down amongst the streets and obliterated entire tower blocks, sending lethal volleys of shrapnel whizzing away from countless blast nexus. The orange glow of raging fires illuminated the night, sending dancing, writhing shadows flickering in all directions like a demented carnival of silhouettes. 

And all the while, Garrick sat in the sewer, biding his time, watching as scores of exchanges filled the walkways away to his right. The Guard assault was merciless, and utterly without clemency. He guessed that battlegroup command, humiliated by the first disastrous campaign, would not suffer defeat again, and had judged the ferocity of their attack accordingly. As a result, the Tau were hopelessly outmanned, outgunned, and outwilled. 

Garrick could tell that the full force and wrath of the Imperium had been brought to Uvolon Quintus that night. 
* * *


He waited until almost eight o’ clock before he decided it was time to move. Hoisting himself out the side of the filthy conduit, now behind the main Guard advance, which had moved further in-city, he jogged into the parkland, amongst the alien trees, and tried to look nonchalant as he began the task of removing the body armour. 

He had just managed to peel off the stinking Tau legs from his own, when a squad of five fire warriors crested the nearest hill, and, extremely annoyingly, spotted him. 

“Dasta un gala tras in eeta naum geet?” One of them shouted forcefully over its helmet speaker, training its pulse rifle on him. 

As quickly as they had risen, Garrick felt his spirits sink, and he panicked, adrenaline suddenly crashing around his stomach and his heart palpitating so violently it felt as though it would burst from his sternum. 

He racked his brain as the inquisitive squad – fresh from combat, and with itchy trigger-fingers – approached him, cold sweat and gooseflesh breaking out all over his body, despite the tight, hot armour. 

At least he had taken off the legs. 

“Throne,” he whispered, searching his mind for something – anything – which might save him. He didn’t even know how to turn the helmet’s speaker on – and even then, he doubted it would have a gothic-to-Tau translator. 

Except for their human auxiliaries… 

A single word – a phrase – suddenly sprang into his mind – something the fire warrior had said to him the day before; 

“You are to be Gue’vsa, human…” 

It was risky; but it was also his only chance. 

“Gue’vsa!” He suddenly shouted, waving his hands, “Me Gue’vsa!” 

Reaching into his webbing, he pulled the scarring-vial from its pocket.


----------



## Zenith_of_Mind

Excellent read. The best writing here by far (my novel excluded hehe), and one worthy of official publishing. It's intriguing, it has a good deal of action and well-developed characters. Some earlier chapters seemed to me like they were inspired by Robert E. Howard writings, in terms of action. 

As for criticism, apart from few grammatical mistakes, only one thing caught my attention. The sentence from the first or the second chapter, it says:

_It was indeed a beautiful room, and a very old room – modelled on eighteenth century Europa, far away on Holy Terra._

It just doesn't fit with the rest of text, in my opinion. Simply because comparing two styles who are around 38000 years apart might be a bit of a stretch, even for a Warhammer novel. But again, it may be just me nitpicking.

Anyhow, looking forward to new chapters. (+rep)


----------



## TheJolt

Hello Firefox (Zwan), you would never guess who I was on Bl 

Great work thus far, really nice descriptions and I love Vandemarr. He's a great character and a credit to your writing.

-TJ


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Ah, what a mistake...... Anyways, I'm officially hooked Zwan.... Don't make me wait... Hahaha... Just kidding....

Cheers!...


----------



## Zwan

Howdy folks!

Zenith_of_Mind; whoa, what a fantastic response, thank you very much for making my morning. I've not read any Robert E. Howard - perhaps you could direct me to some of his works? With regard to the Europa comment, I see exactly what you mean - I guess it was just a lazy reference since I knew everyone would know what I meant. I'll change it. 

Jolt; you sly dog you, hello. Huge thanks for the compliments, really appreciate it!

Waltz - again, thanks for reading and commenting! Sorry to have kept you waiting, here's more:



*Chapter 13*

Gortlémund 
Ultima Segmentum 
09:39(local) 
13:55 (Imperial) 15.982.M41​

~_These things always start late…_ ~ 

Codey groaned. Vandemarr had been shouting at the servitor for the last fifteen minutes, almost apoplectic in his frustration. Now he had threatened to strike it, the young Lieutenant considered intervening, before they were penalised for damaging palace property. 

He coughed politely. 

“Sir, perhaps it might be an idea if we…made a move?” He hazarded, the question ending on an unintentionally high note. “The trial starts in twenty minutes.” 

Vandemarr whirled round, his face thunderous. 

“Codey,” he said through gritted teeth, a voice thick with rending rage, “I am not going, to conduct a trial, in front of thousands of Imperial, citizens. It is farcical. It takes the honour out of a trial and turns it into a circus.” 

“But sir I –” 

“Quiet!” He snapped, tuning back round. 

Codey was quiet, and for another three minutes, he watched the second hand on his wristwatch tick quietly round. It was an old watch, one that had seem him reliably through a few major engagements. The leather strap was faded and worn, the face itself was yellowing, and one of the numerals was missing. But he liked it, a lot. It had actually belonged to his grandfather – 

“Come on Lieutenant, we’re leaving,” Vandemarr said suddenly. Codey whipped his head up, having fallen into a chronometric daze. He observed that the servitor had managed to return to the secretarium without incurring damage, though the Commissar was still thunderous. 

“Are we still in the –” 

“Yes,” he snapped. 
* * *


They made their way through the vaulted palace at a brisk pace, pushing past the many officers of the Commissariat, archivists, servitors, judges and bailiffs, and the many other hundreds of different personnel that constituted the Department of Imperial Justice, until they reached another atrium – this one again, circular, and stretching to the roof; but on the far wall, there were elevators running the length of it, into small box rooms that looked more suited to an opera house than a courtroom. Many hundreds of people were clamouring to get on the brass elevators, launching further and further up the wall until they reached the lowest possible seats they could get; and Codey suspected many thousands were already in there, and had been for some time – judging from the importance Vandemarr had placed on the courtroom itself. High above, a huge grey Aquilla watched down over all of them; both Vandemarr and Codey made the sign instantly. 

“Well this is it,” Vandemarr said, “the Emperor’s court.” He watched with disdain as civilians and military personnel alike clamoured to get to the upper galleries. 

“Do we know who’s on the panel?” Codey asked. 

“Not until we get in there,” Vandemarr replied, “but judging from the importance someone has deemed necessary to put on this case, I would suspect there will be at least one Inquisitor,” 

Codey made an impressed “whoa” shape with his mouth. He’d never seen an Inquisitor before – at least, not in the flesh. 

Vandemarr smiled briefly, despite himself, and hoisted his satchel slightly higher across his shoulder. 

“Right,” he said, “let’s get inside. The sooner we start this absurdity, the sooner we finish.” 

They crossed the wide blue carpet, and made for the main entrance; a pair of arched glass doors, decorated with a silver vine leaf pattern. 

“What business have you ‘ere?” One of the guards said as they approached. Codey looked across to the secretarium plaintively, an ancient old man with a long white beard and small, wiry spectacles. 

“What business have you to obstruct a Senior Commissar of the Imperial Guard,” Vandemarr asked testily, clearly weary of this millennia-old routine. 

“By the power vested in me by the God-Empruh ‘imself, I do but guard this door,” 

Vandemarr, sighed, rolled his eyes, and reached down. Codey’s heart leapt as he thought he was reaching for his bolt pistol; but instead, he pulled out a thin leather wallet, and turning it on its side, showed it to the guard. Some kind of identification, Codey guessed. 

“He’s with me,” Vandemarr said in the same annoyed voice, throwing a thumb over his shoulder and pushing past the guard. Codey followed, awkwardly smiling at the outraged man. Clearly, he took some pride in the custom entrance exchange. 

“What was that?” The lieutenant asked as he jogged behind the Commissar to keep up, the roar of a thousand conversations filling his ears. 

Vandemarr started to answer, but stopped after he realised Codey wasn’t listening. Instead, his head was angled backwards, and his eyes were wide open. 

“Come on,” the Commissar laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. 

Codey couldn’t take it all in at once. The marble floor was a five hundred metre wide circular expanse, the perimeter marked by equally spaced white stone pillars. On the wall opposite the door they had come in, ten metres up, was the bench. It consisted of nine…thrones, grafted into the wall by way of a balcony supported by gargoyles, crested by another Aquilla and the same bleak message that was chiselled above the south entrance outside. Surrounding the bench was an amphitheatre of dark red leather seats, all occupied by senior members of the Imperial Administratum, diplomats, ranking Commissars and governors. Above them, a second ring of amphitheatre-esque seats lay; and so they continued, all the way to the roof, each ring lit by a circle of lights. The atrium itself, higher up, was swarming with picter displays, to relay the proceedings from far below. 

It was huge; mind numbingly so. 

“This is our bench,” Vandemarr said, pointing to a wide, polished wooden desk, adorned by two lamps and a supplementary shelf. “But when either of us are speaking, we’ll be standing on this,” 

He indicated a platform next to the bench, marked by a brass railing and an Aquilla -mounted lectern. It clearly had some piston arm that hoisted it up to the level of the main bench. 

Codey nodded, concealing his nervousness well at the prospect of being lifted ten metres off the ground to address, in the worst case, nine senior Inquisitors. 

“That there’s the prosecution bench,” Vandemarr continued, indicating a similar desk to their own – currently empty. 

Cody nodded dutifully. 

“These are the public galleries,” he said, this time indicating the amphitheatres with outstretched arms. The Lieutenant didn’t look up, aware of the thousands of pairs of eyes watching their every move. 

“And those two there are the witness stand, and the dock,” he finished, indicating two more balconies in the vicinity of the main bench. 

“So, when are we due to start?” Codey asked, gulping as he hazarded a glance upwards, the dress epaulettes rubbing against the back of his neck. 

Vandemarr checked his watch. 

“In about two minutes,” he said offhand. Seeing Codey’s subsequent expression, however, he quickly added; 

“But don’t worry, these things always start late.”






*Chapter 14*

Uvolon Quintus 
Ultima Segmentum 
20:05 (local) 
00:21 (Imperial) 09.982.M41​

~_A heretic and a traitor_~ 

The scarring vial felt cold and alien in his shaking hand, as he pulled it from its pocket. In the orange glow of the fires marring the parkland and inner city, he handed it to the Tau leader – the one with the white helmet at shoulder pad markings. It snatched it off him, and he flinched. A couple of the pulse rifles twitched. 

It was not good to be an Imperial Guardsman right now. 

“Where scars? Scars ritual? Gri’shan!” It suddenly shouted, thrusting the scarring vial in front of his face. “Gue’vsa?” 

“T-the scars! Yes, the auxiliary scars! They haven’t done them yet!” Garrick stuttered frantically. He pulled the helmet off with a free hand, to reveal the two lacerations marking his cheeks. He was not about to be shot and killed after he’d come so far. He couldn’t. 

He watched them turn to each other – their expressions masked by their helmets. They hadn’t seen the Tau legs yet, which had slid partway into a tree bole. As soon as they did, he would be a dead man. 

“Human you are face is injured twice along face side. Explain why not scarred?” The helmet speaker burbled on again. 

His cheeks. They wanted to know why his cheeks had been cut, but the scarring fluid had not been applied. 

“They, uh,” he said, fumbling for a plausible story. One of the Tau lifted its pulse rifle to his face, and a painful shot of adrenaline fired through his body. 

“Gala neet!” It shouted. 

“N-n-n-n-n-n-n no no no no no no!” Garrick said, dropping his own pulse rifle and spreading his hands out wide, “No! You’ve got it wrong!” He shouted, his head bowed, facing the grass below. 

He didn’t want to drop his pulse rifle. 

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, a tear rolling down his cheek. The salt stung the laceration. 

“Human!” The leader barked, “Why not scarred? Speak!” 

“The…the damned Imperial soldiers!” He shouted to the ground suddenly, “They came and killed my glorious, uh, brethren! B-b-before the ritual could be f-finished!” 

He held his palms out wider, as if to further prove his innocence. 

Again, the Tau conversed. Garrick eyed the pulse rifle on the ground in front of him, judging whether he could pick it up and kill all five of them before they could kill him. 

He doubted it. They were jumpy. The Imperial Guard had just taught them a sore lesson in combat, and he was hardly likely to be first on their Ascension-Day card list. 

He craned his neck upwards slightly, to see if he could run anywhere. 

No, was the simple answer. It was a hundred metres to the nearest tree. He would be cut down in seconds. 

“Human,” the leader’s helmet bleeped on again, “if you are Gue’vsa, as you tell us with intentionally, then you must apply the ritual scarring in this immediate.” 

Garrick’s stomach sank so fast he almost vomited. 

“W-what?” he asked. 

“If you are Gue’vsa, than you apply the scars now, we will witness it. Then may we go into the battle together, as brother!” 

“No…” he breathed in disbelief. 

“DANI!” it shouted, slapping the vial in his hand and hoisting the pulse rifle level with his face. 

“Yes, yes!” Garrick cried, taking it in his fist and looking at it with weary eyes. 

With trembling hands, he pulled the stopper. He was horribly conscious of the extent of his blasphemy. Was it better to die for the Emperor? Or live for himself? Was he faithful enough to refuse, and be killed? Or was he too weak of character? Which was a worse fate? Betrayal, or death? 

He gritted his teeth as the end of the vial seared into his flesh, feeling the burning pain forever brand him a heretic and a traitor. He had abandoned the Imperial Creed to become some alien lackey on a forgotten world – abandoned his comrades in arms: 

He had turned his back on the Imperium. 

As the vial was moved to the second cheek, under the watchful eye of the five Tau, unbearable shame overcame him. What was he, a staunchly zealous Imperial Captain, doing? Succumbing to these vile xenos was a fate worse than death. 

The more he thought about it, the more angry it made him. What right did these…aliens have to force him to do their bidding? In a sudden flash, rage replaced self pity. He would not stand for this utter crime! 

With an utter contempt for himself for being so weak, he threw the vial down and dropped to the floor to grab the pulse rifle. 

Then his world exploded. 

A second later, amidst the confused alien cries, scores of phosphorescent blue las fire cut into their unguarded flank, puncturing armour, skin, flesh and organs. Garrick, confused, grasped the pulse rifle as he heard men shouting low Gothic, and he too, began shooting the Tau in front, screaming as he held down the trigger on the unwieldy weapon. 

Within seconds, the entire five-Tau squad had been massacred, in a fantastical display of flashing laser fire. Segments of armour, limbs and heads lay in an untidy, bloody heap on the floor, smoking in the hot evening air; 

And approaching him was a single Imperial scout. 

“I can exp-!” Garrick began, before the butt of the man’s lasgun welted into the side of his skull.


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

No complaints whatsoever... Personally, I think I'm actually reading a Novel... And you're the second author to do that... To make me forget that what I'm reading is actually a fanfiction... That in itself is already an accomplishment....

Cheers mate!...


----------



## Zenith_of_Mind

Zwan said:


> Howdy folks!
> 
> Zenith_of_Mind; whoa, what a fantastic response, thank you very much for making my morning. I've not read any Robert E. Howard - perhaps you could direct me to some of his works?


Well, his works can easily be seen from the *wikipedia page*

My favorite is "The Complete Chronicles of Conan". The Bible of fantasy writing. If you want more specific recommendations by Howard or other authors, you can always PM me, so that we don't spam around this topic.

Keep up the good work (and check out the beginning of *my novel* if you have the time)


----------



## TheJolt

Once again I'm loving the work, I agree with the others - it actually des feel like more of a novel than a fan-fic.

-TJ


----------



## Mossy Toes

waltzmelancholy_07 said:


> Personally, I think I'm actually reading a Novel... And you're the second author to do that...


Out of perfectly innocent curiosity, who might the other author have been?

Looking good, of course, FF.


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Mossy Toes said:


> Out of perfectly innocent curiosity, who might the other author have been?
> 
> Looking good, of course, FF.


Incidentally enough, the first author Mossy, was the one who asked me that question...

Cheers!...


----------



## TheJolt

waltzmelancholy_07 said:


> Incidentally enough, the first author Mossy, was the one who asked me that question...
> 
> Cheers!...



What a surprise! 

Nice to see another ex-BL here Mossy!

-TJ


----------



## Zwan

waltzmelancholy_07 said:


> No complaints whatsoever... Personally, I think I'm actually reading a Novel... And you're the second author to do that... To make me forget that what I'm reading is actually a fanfiction... That in itself is already an accomplishment....
> 
> Cheers mate!...


Again, thank you very much! Hugely appreciated, it's the best compliment I could get. I'm glad you're enjoying it!

Jolt - same again, massive thanks. Much appreciated!

Zenith; yeah I know the guy you mean, I've seen Conan on bookshelves before - I've even picked it up a few times. Got to get through Iain Banks's Culture novels first! I'll be sure to check your novel out! Thanks very much for reading. 

Here's more:


*PART 4*

*Chapter 15*

_“Thought begets heresy, heresy begets retribution; it is therefore wholly better to die for the Emperor, than live for yourself” _

~ Imperial Maxims Vol. XIII 

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
15.982.M41​

~_Counsel for the prosecution has the floor_ ~ 

They sat down once Vandemarr had spread his papers across the bench, and even he seemed slightly nervous. The roar of conversation in the galleries above had yet to cease, though it was definitely getting quieter, and more and more pairs of eyes were cast downwards, scrutinising them – the two men protecting the traitor. 

Codey checked his watch, to see that they were five minutes over their scheduled time. But just as he was hoping the prosecution weren’t going to turn up, and the trial was going to be cancelled, the glass doors behind them opened once more. There was a cessation in the conversation then, and Codey turned around, sick with anticipation. 

The two men approaching the prosecution bench were worse than any enemy the Lieutenant had faced on the battlefield. Ever. 

The first man had to have been Senior Commissar Vurdan – and any comfort Vandemarr may have instilled in him about the leader of the prosecution being rubbish at his job was quickly dispelled. The man was very, very tall, poised like a Terran hawk, with a long, leather storm coat blossoming away from him and a cruel, red-rimmed cap half obscuring his features. His face spelt murder. His tight-lipped mouth, he suspected, could issue forth the most stirring rhetoric this side of Segmentum Solar. His mighty arms could gesticulate a crowd into a zealous frenzy; and his eyes were as cold and unforgiving as Horus’s himself. 

This brutal man was followed by a second Commissar who neither of them recognised. He was a good deal shorter, with a small, toothbrush moustache and a pair of wiry spectacles. He was dressed in a similar fashion to Vurdan, except his epaulettes only boasted the single rank slide, marking him as a junior. 

Codey turned back to Vandemarr, watching as he gave Vurdan a cursory nod, his eyes steely. It was only when the prosecution began liberally distributing papers onto their own bench than Vandemarr acknowledged Codey. 

“You ready?” He asked squarely, as the thrum of dialogue in the galleries finally died down, quashed by a cacophony of harsh ‘shhhhhs’. 

“What?” Codey asked, feeling a horrible stab of adrenaline through his body. 

“It’s starting,” Vandemarr whispered back, as silence claimed the court. 

“Oh Throne,” 

Above them, in the gargoyle-supported balcony of ornate thrones, nine men stepped forward from the shadows. There was a uniform shuffle as ten thousand people stood up in respect, even before the bailiff had made the proclamation. 

But he made it anyway. 

“All rise for his lordship, Inquisitor MkCormack, and his honourable associates in justice.” Came a voice over the municipal address. The eight other men sat down – mainly high ranking generals and Commissars – whilst the Inquisitor remained standing, spreading his arms to the galleries above. Codey couldn’t help but stare at him, this ethereal figure, clad in a plain, brown leather storm coat, but radiating the light of the Emperor in all its eternal majesty. Here truly was a god amongst men. 

“Today, this being the fifteenth day of the nine hundred and eighty-second year, we call forth for judgement Captain John Garrick of the Imperial Guard,” he said, his voice relayed across brass speakers all the way to the roof. In the dock, shackled and clad in olive green fatigues, Garrick appeared, flanked by two palace guards. He was met with ten thousand jeers. 

“ORDER!” MkCormack bellowed in ten malevolent voices, commanding such instant silence Codey thought he’d gone deaf. The sheer sonic force of the instruction boasted more than just sound waves. The command seemed to penetrate his very soul, seemed to shriek through his every fibre, detach his mind and expose it to unimaginable psychic power. In that very second, he became utterly afraid of Inquisitor MkCormack. 

“There will be order in this court,” he continued, infinitely more softly. Codey could see that the command had affected everyone else as well, and many of the faces were aghast and visibly pained. 

“Relax,” he heard Vandemarr whisper out the corner of his mouth, “he’s just playing with us,” 

It certainly didn’t seem that way, and even Vandemarr, the one man he looked up to more than anyone else – a man who feared nothing, who was infinitely wise – seemed slightly afraid. 

“Captain John Garrick, you stand in this court today accused of collaborating with the enemy, conspiracy to commit mutiny, and gross misconduct in action. How do you plead to these charges?” 

“N-not guilty, your lordship,” Garrick stuttered into the horn. Again, muttering filled the galleries. 

“Well that’s the easy part over,” Vandemarr whispered again. Codey smiled despite himself. 

“Very well,” MkCormack said darkly. “Then, by the power vested in me by this court, and the God-Emperor Himself, you shall receive fair trial by court martial. Have you anything to say before the prosecution proceed with the facts of the case?” 

“No, your lordship,” Garrick replied, and was subsequently forced into his chair by a strong pair of hands. 

“Then may the Emperor have mercy on your soul.” The Inquisitor replied, sitting down, and thus enabling everyone else to do so. 

“Senior Commissar Vurdan, the counsel for the prosecution has the floor.”





*Chapter 16*

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
15.982.M41​

~_The facts of the case are these_~ 

Senior Commissar Vurdan dutifully stood up, gathered up a select bundle of papers, mounted the piston-powered lectern, and was launched ten metres into the air level with the judicial bench. He assorted through the bundle once more, cleared his throat – a sound which was relayed all the way to the roof of the building – and began. 

“My lords, it is with great honour that I present myself, Senior Commissar Konrad Vurdan, and my junior, Commissar Hektor Frost, as representatives on the counsel for the prosecution. To my right, my learned friend Senior Commissar Albrecht Vandemarr, and Lieutenant Julian Codey, represent the counsel for the defence. 

As we shall see today, your lordships, Captain John Garrick, who here stands accused of the most heinous of crimes, is a traitor and a heretic. He stands charged with collaborating with the enemy, conspiracy to commit mutiny, and gross misconduct in action. As we shall see through the facts of this case, and key testimonials from eyewitnesses, the accused does not only deserve to die, but be cleansed for his…insubordination.” 

“Very good, Commissar Vurdan – is it the prosecution’s wish to press for an execution then?” MkCormack asked, as if it were the most banal thing in the world. 

“Yes, your lordship,” Vurdan replied, “I shall leave the means to your discretion, lord.” 

“Very good, Mister Vurdan, you may proceed.” 

“Thank you, lord. Gentlemen of the bench, you have heard what I intend to be the fate, of Mister Garrick. But let me now tell you why this miserable alien lackey deserves to meet such an end. The facts of the case, my lords, are these; 

“On the three hundred and forty-eighth day of the nine hundred and eighty-first year, a battlegroup was commissioned under Lord General Dask to counter-invade three recently lost worlds on the Eastern Fringe of the Imperium; Uvolon Quintus – herein referred to as ‘Quintus’, Uvolon Sextus – herein referred to as ‘Sextus’, and Uvolon Septimus. The 190th Ultima Segmentum ‘Strength and Honour’ fleet – herein referred to as ‘the fleet’, consisting of eleven ships, translated into high orbit above Uvolon Quintus on the three hundred and sixtieth day, and the INS Strength and Honour moved into low anchor one day later. Captain John Garrick of the 88th Cottesmore Guard, then leading a company of three hundred men, made planetfall on the three hundred and sixty-third day of the same year, and, under the command of Colonel Ghant, proceeded to set up a base of operations one hundred kilometres south of Monfort, herein referred to as ‘the capital’. 

“The Tau, an enemy renowned for their cunning, took advantage of the Imperial Guard’s tenuous landing zone within two days of landing – after the fleet had departed for the drop on Sextus. Heavy bombing runs and guerrilla warfare took its toll on the forces, and on the fourth day of the nine hundred and eighty-second year, Captain Garrick led his company onwards to the capital. 

“The decision was a foolish one. By the seventh day of this year, many of his company were dying from heat exhaustion, and their movement across the desert was clear and plain for all Tau to see – so much so that they suffered needless losses at the hands of the merciless Tau air caste. Sufficed to say at this point, Garrick did not have the best interests of his men at heart.” 

“Thank you, Mister Vurdan, the court is well aware of the events leading up to the seventh day of this year. Now that this introduction is finished, it would please the court to hear the facts – without the speculation, if you wouldn’t mind?” 

“Of course your lordship.” Vurdan assented, concealing his embarrassment well. 

“Thank you, Mister Vurdan, you may proceed.” 

“Certainly, your lordship. On the seventh day of this year, the accused and his company reached the outskirts of Monfort, the Imperial capital which had, by this point, been heavily transformed into something befitting the vile xenos that infested the region. Believing the city to be empty, they recklessly proceeded, and at approximately 16:00 hours – local time – the Tau counter-attacked by means of an ambush. It was at this point that the accused received a minor chest wound, and that several of his command group – believing him to be a ‘dead man’, exited the battleground via an alley and set up a temporary base on the upper floors of one of the peripheral buildings of the city. 

“The accused, however, was not dead. Knocked unconscious by a Tau fire warrior’s pulse rifle, he awoke again somewhere in the order of an hour later, to find his brave men still fighting their way out of his blunder. Instead of joining them, he fled. 

“By eyewitness accounts, my lords, you will learn what ensued. Garrick found Lieutenant Tom Winters – a man who had suffered a carotid neck wound trying to save the Captain – along with his vox officer, Kurt Uden, and a trooper, Samuael Greeves, in the building to which they had extracted. He removed his armour, lords – his holy, blessed, Imperial armour – and elected to wear,” he checked his papers, “one Tau breastplate, one shoulder pad, and two vambraces. He also, lords, substituted his lasgun with an alien ‘pulse carbine’. 

“With these xeno tools, he then exited the building, ignoring the protests of his comrades, and signalling a nearby fire warrior rank, pointed out the position of his wounded comrades. It was attacked, my lords, shortly after, by a Tau ‘Hammerhead’ tank. Fortunately, the men inside survived to recount the extent of this treachery – though many are severely wounded, and as a result have undergone extensive augmentation.” 

He paused again, to allow the emotional impact to settle in. 

“After this incident, lords, Garrick then proceeded into the city, where he came across a second man, Trooper Karl LeVyn. My lords, Garrick shot the man in cold blood – fortunately only in the shoulder – and in his further unsuccessful attempts to murder the man, accidentally hit a Tau fire warrior behind him. Concerned that other Tau may be in the vicinity, he again, fled. 

The accused has been a little unclear on the ensuing facts; but it’s believed that at some point around 21:00, he received some unknown extrasensory shock to the skull, rendering him unconscious. At approximately 22:00 hours, he awoke in a Tau interrogation cell. It is unclear, again, my lords, what occurred during this cell, since the accused has been…unco-operative,” 

“That’s a lie,” Vandemarr whispered to Codey. 

“However,” Vurdan continued, slightly louder, “the accused was evidently treated well, as he was discovered by an Imperial scout party the following day – that was the…eighth day of this year – fully clad in Tau armour. That was, of course, after Colonel Burke ordered down an expeditionary force – a successful one at that – to recover the prisoners. Prisoners which seemed to have…betrayed the Colonel’s trust. In fact, quite what the Colonel was doing recommending Garrick for court martial in the first place is beyond me –” 

“Thank you, Mister Vurdan, the actions of Colonel Burke are at this point in time irrelevant,” MkCormack said, not taking his eyes off the dataslate in front of him. 

“Of course, my lord,” Vurdan bowed his head. “I would, however, bring to the attention of the bench one final point, which, in any man’s opinion, irrevocably demonstrates Garrick’s guilt,” 

“Which is?” MkCormack asked, in the same, uninterested voice. 

“That when the scout party found Mister Garrick, and as your lordship will observe now, he bore – and bears – the ritual scars on both cheeks that mark him as a Tau auxiliary.” 

There was a shocked pause, filled with conspiratorial whispers from the galleries. Even MkCormack seemed genuinely perturbed by the – as of yet unnoticed – scars marking Garrick’s cheeks. As he made a point of checking, the whispers soon became loud conversations, until once again, the familiar roar of talking and jeering engulfed the court, un-oppressed by the members of the bench. 

“Urgh, we’re screwed,” Vandemarr said, putting his head in his hands.








*Chapter 17*

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
15.982.M41​

~_Movement for mistrial_~ 

“Order,” MkCormack said irritably, “ORDER!” 

The galleries once again fell silent, fearful of a second sonic assault. Once the Inquisitor was satisfied, he sat down again. 

“Has the prosecution anything left to say regarding – and only regarding – the facts of the case?” He asked, with a sideways glance to Garrick. 

“No, my lord,” Vurdan replied with a smirk Codey was sure was aimed at them, “the prosecution has nothing further to say on this matter.” 

“In that case, counsel for the defence may proceed with their opening statement,” MkCormack said, scribbling something onto his dataslate with a stylus. 

“Watch this,” Vandemarr muttered to Codey, grabbing a bundle of papers, mounting the elevator lectern and arranging his statement as he was, like Vurdan, propelled into the air. 

“My lords,” he said after clearing his throat, “My learned associate, Mister Codey, wishes to dismiss the indictments,” 

Codey felt his skin crawl in pure horror as ten thousand pairs of eyes swivelled downwards, fixed on him. He could even feel MkCormack looking at him, such was the power of the Inquisitor. He tried desperately not to shiver, but failed. 

“On what grounds?” MkCormack asked, his voice ending on a rising note. 

“A mistrial, lord.” Vandemarr continued, perfectly pleasantly. 

This caused quite the controversy amongst the officials watching – even the bench exchanged a few glances and whispers. 

“Mister Vandemarr, on what evidence of misconduct is your learned associate basing a move to mistrial?” MkCormack asked, leaning forward. Codey had never felt smaller in his life. 

“The facts of the case, lord, have been misrepresented. They are, in fact, not facts.” 

The whole place almost exploded in uproar, as thousands of angry Imperial citizens stood up and gesticulated wildly. 

Codey covered his ears in anticipation. 

“SIT, DOWN!” MkCormack unleashed another psychic assault. For what seemed like the hundredth time, a blanket of silence smothered the court. “I will have order in this hearing, or so help me I will call for recess and hold the trial privately!” 

“Lord,” Vandemarr said, slowly relaxing his grimace and opening his eyes, “these ‘facts’ are illogical at best. At worst, they are utterly absurd. Not only has the counsel for the prosecution’s statement contained a liberal application of rhetoric – something which, as I’m sure your lordship knows, is banned from the reading of the facts – they simply do not make sense. In essence, my lord, I wish for the case to be postponed, at least, whilst a full enquiry into the indictments has been completed.” 

A stunned silence claimed the court, whilst MkCormack thought briefly, examining the witness statements in front of him. 

“Mister Vandemarr, is your learned associate aware that hard evidence of misconduct must be put forward to dismiss an indictment on grounds of mistrial?” MkCormack said, looking down from the bench at the shirking Lieutenant. 

“I have made Mister Codey aware of this fact, you lordship; yet he remains adamant.” 

“Mister Vandemarr, you may inform your learned associate that, until he produces said evidence, this court martial will remain in session. Is this clear?” 

There was a general murmur of consent from the galleries. They certainly didn’t want their enjoyment spoiled by some young upstart who didn’t know the law. 

“Perfectly clear, my lord,” the Commissar replied, bowing his assent. 

“Proceed with your opening statement, please,” MkCormack said, slightly testily, “you have the floor.” 

“Of course, sir.” Vandemarr said, rearranging papers further and coughing politely into his glove. When he began, such was the power of his rhetoric that Codey thought someone else had started speaking. Here was a Commissar indeed. 

“My lords, you heave heard the…facts of the case, as per my learned friend Commissar Vurdan. But let me disabuse you of this vile record that has been unfairly placed on the defendant. 

My lords, Captain John Garrick was, and still is, an honourable man. He has dedicated thirteen good and true years of service to the Imperium, his unwavering, steadfast faith in our beloved Emperor the envy of many men, and the bane of many enemies. He has, without question, executed his duty in the face of terrifying adversity. I speak from experience, lords, that the horrors that face the Imperium of Mankind this day are tenfold worse than last year, and worsening by the week. Daemons, heretics, traitors – the myriad of vile xenos that would tear every Imperial citizen limb from limb, are a horrifying sight to behold, and an even more horrifying sight to combat. Yet this, John Garrick has done, leading his company of men – nay, of brothers – through countless campaigns, through conflicts that would make any other man weep in fear, or desert in cowardice; here is a man, lords, who is a very model of an Imperial Guardsman. 

Has John Garrick ever once received a reprimand for any military offence? No. Are the current indictments characteristic of this man, looking at his career in the Emperor’s service? No. My lords, this man has done nothing but give his adult life to combat in His service, with nothing but the promise of an honourable and glorious death on the battlefield. 

The events on Uvolon Quintus, lords, are a series of unfortunately misinterpreted mistakes, seen by unreliable witnesses, and reported with the result that this fine figure of a man now stands on trial whilst his life hangs in the balance. What is the fate that awaits John Garrick if my learned friends on the counsel for the prosecution succeed in falsely convicting him in this court? Not the glorious and honourable death that he deserves, but a traitor’s death, a shameful affair where it will not only be forgotten, but erased from all records. My lords, John Garrick, this loyal, zealous Imperial Guardsman, will be murdered for crimes which he did not commit, and his blood will be the stain on the flag of freedom which this Imperium stands for. 

Lords, since my learned associate’s claim for mistrial has been dismissed, you leave me no choice but to begin the task of proving that Captain John Garrick is innocent. And innocent of these crimes, my lords, he is.” 

There was another pause, whilst MkCormack again wrote down select items on his dataslate. In the corner of the room, a servitor busily clicked away on a recording device, transcribing everything for the palace archives. 

“Thank you, Mister Vandemarr,” MkCormack said, laying his stylus down and checking his chronometer. “I think now is a good time to recess. The trial will recommence this afternoon at one o’ clock, with the first witness for the prosecution.” 

“All rise for his lordship, Inquisitor MkCormack, and his honourable associates in justice,” came the same voice over the municipal address. There was a general shuffle as everyone once again stood up. 

“I’ll explain over lunch,” Vandemarr said to Codey as the lectern hissed down to the marble floor, catching the furious look on the Lieutenant’s face. 

“You’d better have –” 

“I do, I do,” the Commissar quickly interjected. He smiled, despite himself. 

“I do!” He said when he saw Codey’s face again, breaking into a laugh.


----------



## Zwan

And more:


*Chapter 18*

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
15.982.M41​

~_Duress _~ 

“Look,” Vandemarr said as they walked back through the glass doors into the court, the Commissar once more flashing his badge at the guard rather than undergoing the ritual entrance again. “I had to say you wanted the mistrial, because I realised we weren’t going to get one when I heard Vurdan opening.” 

Codey looked at him, mouth open. The citizens in the galleries were once more filling the gigantic room with conspiratorial chatter, and refreshment servitors were whining up the atrium, dealing out Styrofoam cups of recaff for those that had elected to remain in their seats during the recess. 

“Then why did you even bother?” The Lieutenant asked as they reached their desk. 

“Well, I had to try,” Vandemarr replied, smiling. 

“Yes but why me?” Codey pressed, becoming increasingly exasperated in his questioning. 

“Because,” Vandemarr said, in a tone that suggested he was finally ready to pay some attention to him, “I knew we weren’t going to get one. If I have moved for a mistrial, they would have thought me bad council – for not knowing that you need evidence of misconduct for grounds of a mistrial, and the bench would have doubted the strength of our arguments accordingly. By saying it was you, everyone wins; the strength of my arguments remain intact, it looks like you have a perfunctory knowledge of Imperial law, and – and here’s the clever part,” he face broke into a grin, “you see that secretarium over there?” he pointed to the servitor busy changing the inks on his recorder, “He’ll have written it down. It’s on record. So when the bench read it when coming up with their verdict, they’ll see that you were adamant about a mistrial. See?” 

Codey nodded, painful understanding crawling across his face. 

“It’s the little things that tilt a decision,” Vandemarr, “always remember that.” 

“So, anyway, does all that mean that Vurdan just…I don’t know, made it all up?” Codey asked, pulling his neck length epaulettes away from his skin irritably. 

“Well, according to Garrick. I decided to play the character argument in our opening; if I’d said what Garrick said – the whole ‘unfortunate misinterpretations’ crap – we’d have been laughed out of court.” 

“Okay, you’ve lost me,” the Lieutenant replied, sitting down. 

“Look…hm, okay, take this example. The pross said that Garrick went outside and signalled a bunch of Tau to blow up his comrades in that tower, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Codey said slowly. 

“Well, Garrick said that when he left the building, he was going to get help for Winters – his Lieutenant with the neck wound – and the ‘signal’ he made was actually a grenade he was throwing at a nearby squad of fire warriors. See?” 

“So why don’t we just say that?” 

Vandemarr rolled his eyes. 

“Oh think about it Julian,” he said. Codey looked slightly taken aback; the Commissar never used his first name. “This man is on trial for…well, God-Emperor knows, everything you can pretty much get shot for, and we’re saying; ‘no my lord, the auxiliary wasn't signalling for his Tau brethren to kill his comrades, he was throwing a grenade at them; it just happened to look like a hand signal’. Can you understand how flimsy that is? How stupid it sounds? We’ve got to be smarter than that, Codey; we can’t spew all these pissant excuses this early in the trial, or we’re sure to lose. We’ve got to cross examine Vurdan’s witnesses, expose their stories for the rubbish they are, and then bring our arguments to bear – and our mystery witness.” 

Codey sat in silence, taking it all in. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Vandemarr certainly knew what he was doing. 

“If I’m ever on trial, I want you as my defence council,” he said eventually. The Commissar laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. 

“We don’t know if it’s worked yet,” he said. “Currently all we’ve got going for us is a bunch of rhetoric on how much of a nice guy Garrick is; and, as I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s not going to hold up for long. Especially with those damnable scars on his face. God Emperor only knows, all I can do is move for duress.” 

He laughed out loud, a long, sarcastic laugh. 

“Duress!” 

Codey looked at him, slightly worried. 

“Sir,” he said nervously, “what’s…erm…well, I mean, what exactly is duress?” 

Vandemarr stopped laughing so suddenly, it was as if a switch had been flipped. 

“You’re kidding?” He said. 

“Look, sir,” Codey said, evidently expecting the answer and now quite flustered. “I am not a Commissar. I don’t go to court and solve people’s legal issues, okay? I came from an agri world so backwater it doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘court', let alone ‘duress’. So when you start talking all this legal jargon, I, don’t, get it.” 

Vandemarr looked at him. Now it was his turn to be slightly taken aback. 

“Codey!” He breathed incredulously, “I can have you shot for addressing a Commissar in such a way!” 

Codey suddenly looked very nervous again. He had forgotten his place. 

“Forgive me sir, I –” he began. 

He stopped when he saw Vandemarr’s perfectly straight face crack into a poorly concealed smile. Then he looked thoroughly angry when the Commissar burst out laughing. 

“Codey, I’m kidding!” He managed through his high-pitched cackling, his eyes clenched shut as if it was painful it was so amusing. “I’m – I’m –I’m –” 

Another bout of laughter. He slapped the table now, bending over. Codey sat and fumed for another minute whilst the Commissar composed himself, wiping a tear away from his eye. 

“Oh, Codey, by the Emperor you’re a card,” he said, chuckling briefly again. 

“Well?” The Lieutenant snapped, not amused. 

“Duress,” Vandemarr replied, “is like an…undue influence. Like if I held a gun to your head and told you to strip, that’s duress. You don’t want to do it, but if you don’t, I decorate my carpet with your brains. See?” 

Codey nodded, his face thunderous. 

“Come on Codey, don’t give me that look,” Vandemarr said, leaning forward. “I bet I can make you smile,” 

Codey smiled. 

“Too easy,” the Commissar said, shaking his head. 

“Too easy.”





*Chapter 19*

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
15.982.M41​

~_Lieutenant Tom Winters_ ~ 

At one o’ clock exactly, Inquisitor MkCormack walked back in, accompanied by the eight other members of the bench and the call to rise from the same, anonymous voice. Once again, he took his seat, enabling the thousands in the galleries to sit. 

“Mister Vurdan,” he said, looking downwards to the prosecution bench, “the council for the prosecution may, at this time, admit their first witness. I trust they have been briefed on the proceedings?” 

“They have, my lord,” Vurdan said with a bow, accepting a document-containing file from Frost and mounting the lectern again. It hissed up level with the bench. 

“Very good Mister Vurdan. In which case, the court recognises…” he checked his dataslate, “Lieutenant Tom Winters, of the 88th Cottesmore Guard regiment as the first witness.” 

The witness stand consisted of a five metre, gargoyle-supported walkway, level with the judicial bench, that extended towards the centre of the atrium. It was lined by two brass railings, and ended in a lectern, with a mounted vox horn. 

It was along this walkway that a man now limped. He was a tall, well-built and previously handsome man in his twenties; but none of those features registered with the aghast onlookers. What did was his hissing, hydraulic left leg, augmetic left arm, heavily bandaged neck, and chrome-plated scalp. His once, they assumed, plentiful hair, had been shaved away to reveal an extensive network of scars; and the remainder had been combed over the plate in a lamentable effort to conceal it. A white medical patch was strapped over his left eye, and a considerable portion of flesh was absent from the proximate ear. In fact, the whole left side of his face was an angry red, liberally smothered in a clear gel – no doubt some kind of burn treatment applied by apothecaries mere hours before – and crested and ridged in puckered scar tissue. 

Tom Winters reached the lectern unaided, placing his hands either side of the wood to steady himself, and cleared his throat. When he spoke, the whistle of a tracheotomy pipe filled the vox. 

“Lieutenant Thomas A. Winters, 88th Cottesmore Guard, reporting on behalf of the prosecution council, sir,” he said in the proudest voice he could muster. 

“Thank you Mister Winters, please wait to be asked before submitting information,” MkCormack said. 

“Oh…my apologies Inquisitor,” Winters slurred briefly. 

There was a pause whilst MkCormack wrote something. 

“Since you have already stated your name and rank for the record,” he continued, “I would ask you to read the card in front of you. And you may refer to me as ‘my lord’, or ‘your lordship’ whilst this court is in session.” 

Winters nodded, and squinted at the lectern briefly. 

“I, Thomas Winters, hereby declare, in the name of Imperial justice, that the answers I shall submit on this day are true to the best of my knowledge, so help me our beloved God-Emperor.” 

“Thank you Mister Winters. You are now under oath. I will remind you at this point that any false submissions you make will result in your testimony being voided, and should you do so, you will be held in contempt of court, and make yourself liable for any punishment up to execution depending entirely on the severity of the discrepancy. Do you understand this as I have told you?” 

“Yes my lord,” Winters replied, glancing round at the whispers from the gallery. 

“Excellent. In which case, Mister Vurdan, you may proceed.” MkCormack said, leaning back into his chair. 

“Thank you, lord.” Vurdan replied, straightening his storm coat. “Lieutenant Winters. Can you identify that man in the dock?” 

“Yes sir, that’s Captain Garrick, sir.” Winters said, leaning forward into the vox. 

“You were with him on Uvolon Quintus, on the seventh day of this year, correct?” 

“Yes sir, I was.” 

“Could you briefly tell the court what happened, on that day?” 

“Yes sir, I can. On the seventh day of this year, sir, our, uh, company reached Monfort, and we came under, uh, what appeared to be some kind of, uh, Tau ambush. Sir. Ah, we all split up and made for the city, sir – of course you have to understand, we were going to, to fight, but we – ” 

“It’s alright, Lieutenant, you’re not on trial for your actions.” Vurdan interrupted with a smile. “Please, continue,” 

Winters nodded, swallowing with a whistle from his tracheotomy. 

“So we came under heavy fire, and me and a couple of other men, uh, K-Kurt Uden, the vox-op, and a trooper, Sam Greeves, we made for a tower nearby, and we ran all the way to the upper floors – I can’t exactly remember which one it was – and, well sir, I had been shot in the neck, sir, because I thought that the Captain was going to, ah, stay behind with the Tau, sir, you see –” 

“Sorry, Mister Winters, can I just interrupt you there – did you say you thought the accused was going to stay with the Tau?” Vurdan asked. 

“Y-yes, sir, the Captain stopped when we were all running, and I-I thought, well I thought he was going to stay back with them, sir, so I grabbed a hold of him.” 

“So, it was clear from early on in the attack that the accused had a…propensity for staying amongst his Tau brethren?” 

Vandemarr was on his feet before Vurdan even finished the sentence. 

“Objection, your lordship, council is leading the witness,” he said, mounting the lectern and rising up to the level of Vurdan, the bench and the witness stand. 

“Yes, I agree – Mister Vurdan please rephrase the question or move on,” MkCormack said, unfazed. Vandemarr nodded. 

“Apologies, your lordship,” the Commissar bowed. “Mister Winters, could you please tell the court what happened after that?” 

“Yes, sir, well sir, we made it to the upper floors, sir, and I was lying down because I was bleeding quite, uh, quite badly, as you can probably tell from my neck wound, see I’ve got to breathe through this tube in my neck now, sir, after I was shot in it, sir. Well sir we were there, and the other two, well they applied some field dressings, sir, and well you see because the artery was actually, had actually been shot out of the side of my neck, sir, well they were able to clamp it with some clamps in a basic, uh, a b-basic field medical kit, and I was lying there, and then a short time later, it must have been about an hour, sir, well then the Captain came in, and he was in a bad way, sir, and – well we didn’t know what he had been doing, sir, but when he came in he started taking off his armour, sir,” 

“I’ll just stop you there, Lieutenant, if I may,” Vurdan said, checking his papers. “I would like to refer your lordships to article A of your bundle at this time.” 

MkCormack picked up the dataslate given to him, and the bench, by the prosecution before the trial, and thumbed through the picts until article A filled the screen. 

“Ah, yes,” the Inquisitor said, nodding. “Please continue,” 

“Thank you, lord,” Vurdan replied. “As you can see, my lords, the article displays, clearly, the Warrior’s Catechism of Worship. I’ll quote it, briefly, if I may; 

‘Look to your battle-gear, and it will protect you; we guard it with our lives. Your armour is your soul, and your soul's dedication its armour. The soul of a warrior is the shield of humanity. Honour the craft of death – only the Emperor is higher in our devotion; honour the battle-gear of the dead; we ask only to serve.’” 

“Yes, Mister Vurdan, the bench is well aware of the Catechism,” MkCormack said. 

“Of course, my lord, I simply sought to emphasize the point. You see, lords, this Catechism is where the strength lies in an Imperial Guardsman’s armour – and moreover, is a Catechism written with the Emperor’s blessing. I would submit, lords, that the second Mister Garrick began to willingly remove his armour – with the intention of replacing it with xeno armour, his blasphemy against the Emperor was already apparent – and concurrently he has already submitted himself for execution.” 

“Objection, your lordship, council for the prosecution is arguing the law,” Vandemarr said. 

“Yes,” MkCormack replied quickly, as if he were about to say the same thing; “Mister Vurdan please rephrase in accordance with the facts; we have the indictments – there is no need to remind the bench of council’s wish for execution.” 

“Of course, my lord; the council for the prosecution would submit that the accused had committed blasphemy once he removed his armour – in contravention to the said Catechism.” 

“And is the council suggesting that an apothecary commits the same blasphemy when he removes armour to treat a wound?” Vandemarr said testily. 

“Mister Vandemarr, your rebuttal can wait for your cross examination!” MkCormack half-shouted. 

Vandemarr bowed his head. “Apologies, lord; I only wish I could…comprehend council’s argument.” 

MkCormack glared briefly at him, before turning back to Vurdan. 

“Mister Vurdan, the bench notes your argument. You may proceed with your questioning.” 

“Thank you, lord,” the senior Commissar said. “Lieutenant Winters, could you please recall what the accused said when he removed his armour?” 

“Yes sir, I can,” Winters said, evidently saddened. “He said that the Imperial armour was useless, and that the Tau armour would be better, sir. He then proceeded to put on the Tau armour.” 

Fierce whispering broke out in the galleries. Vandemarr looked over to Garrick, who made a discreet, but noticeable silent protest with his eyes. The Commissar rolled his own – but there was nothing he could do until Vurdan had finished his questioning. 

Even if Winters was clearly lying. 

“My lords, the accused has not even fulfilled the indictments yet, and already he renounces the Emperor in his wearing of the foul, xeno armour. Surely, lords, this is enough for an execution?” Vurdan pressed, briefly smirking at Vandemarr. 

“Objec-” Vandemarr stared, but was cut off by the Inquisitor. 

“Mister Vurdan, this is the last time the bench will hear about council’s wish to press for execution. You are instructed not to argue the law. Commissar Vandemarr is right to object. You will rephrase your submissions, or have them stricken from the record. Is this clear?” 

“Perfectly, lord,” Vurdan continued, slightly uncomfortably. 

This time it was Vandemarr’s turn to smirk.


----------



## Zenith_of_Mind

Good stuff as always. I took the liberty of visiting your website, and I have seen the complete version of the Auxiliary, so I'm reading it now (couldn't wait for it to be posted here:grin

A question - have you submitted your work to the Black Library? I think you mentioned something about being on BL forums before they went down, but have they taken a look at your work? I hate to sound like some generic ass-kisser, but like I said before, your works are really awesome and even worthy of publishing.


----------



## dark angel

Brilliant as always. What can we expect in the next Vandermarr piece, my good fellow? That is if you do not mind me asking


----------



## TheJolt

Nice work here. I'm trying to refrain from visiting his (clearly crazy) website, so I'll just wait here for the next installement. 

-TJ


----------



## Zwan

Zenith_of_Mind said:


> A question - have you submitted your work to the Black Library? I think you mentioned something about being on BL forums before they went down, but have they taken a look at your work? I hate to sound like some generic ass-kisser, but like I said before, your works are really awesome and even worthy of publishing.


Hello mate - thanks very much! I entered the latest competition but for some reason my writing style completely changes when I'm trying - I think it gets worse when I try too hard. Ah well, they've got an open submissions window coming up, so I'll just have to try my hand in that. _Auxiliary_ is actually quite poorly written compared with my later Vandemarr works - notably _Deathwatch_, so the compliments mean even more to me. Thanks again. 




dark angel said:


> Brilliant as always. What can we expect in the next Vandermarr piece, my good fellow? That is if you do not mind me asking


Cheers mate. I don't mind you asking, if anything I'm flattered! I've written three and a half chapters of book 6 but it's progressing very slowly because I've just started on a piece of original fiction which is going to take up most of my creative effort. Also I'm extremely busy at the moment, graduating this year so have final exams and coursework to do, not to mention finding a place to live in London next year and sorting out the other myriad things I need to do to be a lawyer!

So the short answer is, not for a while. Sorry!



TheJolt said:


> Nice work here. I'm trying to refrain from visiting his (clearly crazy) website, so I'll just wait here for the next installement.


Thanks mate, much appreciated. The next instalment is here!


*Chapter 20*

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
15.982.M41​

~_The price paid for zealotry_ ~ 

“Lieutenant Winters, just a few more questions,” Commissar Vurdan said, clearing his throat a few times and looking slightly uncomfortable. Vandemarr glared across from the defence lectern. 

“Yes, sir,” Winters replied dejectedly, evidently battling some inner demons. 

“Could you please, elaborate on what then followed, after the accused replaced his blessed armour with that of the vile Tau?” 

“Objection! Lord, inflammatory!” Vandemarr said from his podium, gesticulating with his hand. 

“Whilst the question may hold a certain bias, Mister Vandemarr, I think we can all agree that the Tau are vile, yes?” MkCormack said, steepling his fingers under his chin. 

A short silence passed. 

“Of course, lord,” Vandemarr assented. He was becoming agitated with the testimony of the first witness. And the prosecution had five more lined up. 

“Mister Vurdan, you may proceed with the question.” 

“The question stands, Lieutenant,” the Commissar said simply. 

“Y-yes, well,” Winters briefly stuttered, “he put the Tau armour on, and then he said something about his gun – I-I don’t think I remember exactly what it was…” 

“Yes you do, Lieutenant. May I remind you that you’re under oath?” Vurdan snapped. 

“Y-yes, yes of course,” Winters replied quietly. He took a deep breath. “He said that the weapon was also useless, and that the Tau pulse carbine would be better. He then proceeded to throw the lasgun on the floor and take the pulse carbine.” 

“And did he seem…happier with the alien weapon?” Vurdan pressed. 

“Yes,” Winters said with a sigh after an interminable pause. Conversation filled the galleries. 

“Order,” MkCormack said testily. 

“My lords, at this point I direct your attentions to Article B of your bundle, ‘Litany of the Lasgun from The Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer’. It reads, briefly, as follows; ‘Bringer of death, speak your name; for you are my life, and the foe's death.’ Once again, I attach the same level of significance to this as to the Catechism of Worship, lords, when the accused substituted his weapon for the Tau weapon. The accused, lords, committed two acts of heresy, witnessed not only by Lieutenant Winters here, but, as we shall see, other witnesses. Discarding his armour and weapon is as bad as renouncing the Emperor himself.” 

There were murmurs of agreement from the galleries. Vandemarr scowled. 

“Lieutenant,” Vurdan said softly, “you protested to this course of action, didn’t you? Because you and your loyal comrades knew what Garrick was doing was wrong, you told him, didn’t you?” 

“Your lordship, need I object?” Vandemarr said helplessly. 

“Hm. Mister Vurdan, I’m going to allow this.” MkCormack said. The senior Commissar bowed his appreciation. 

“The question stands, Mister Winters,” Vurdan said. 

“Y-yes,” Winters said wretchedly, “we protested. We told him it was wrong.” 

“But he didn’t listen, did he? He ignored your protests. Ignored the protests of the sane and faithful. Are you aware of the price you paid for your zealotry, Lieutenant? Are you?” 

“No, sir,” Winters replied. 

“He tried to kill you, Lieutenant!” Vurdan suddenly shouted, thumping the lectern. 

“Objection!” Vandemarr half shouted. 

“He tried to kill you! He ordered a Tau Hammerhead tank –” 

“Objection!” 

“- to fire on your position, so that he might escape without witnesses to his heresy! He tried to kill you all to cover his own blasphemous skin!” Vurdan reached fever pitch, his voice pure venom. 

The galleries were in uproar. 

“Objection, lord! By the Emperor these statements are inflammatory, presumptuous and wholly inappropriate! I ask now that they be stricken from the record!” 

“There will be order in this court!” MkCormack bellowed. “Mister Vurdan, the witness is dismissed! This is a court martial, not a circus! And Mister Vandemarr, do not take the Emperor’s name in vain in my presence again! A formal, coherent objection, nothing more – is this clear?” 

“Apologies, lord,” Vurdan and Vandemarr said in quick succession. 

There was a lengthy, uncomfortable silence as Lieutenant Tom Winters, looking thoroughly dejected and confused, limped back along the walkway. Once he was through the doors at the end, MkCormack re-addressed the court. 

“I think we’ve heard enough for today,” he said irritably. “We will take a recess until nine a.m. tomorrow morning. Sharp. The court is adjourned.” 

“All rise,” said the speaker network. 

Everybody rose. 

MkCormack left. 
* * *


“Not sure how long – maybe an hour. We came in and found him like this. Definitely suicide,” said the junior Arbites banally, scribbling onto a dataslate with a stylus. 

“Throne,” MkCormack whispered. Outside, a trio of shuttles roared through the night sky, the blaze from their landing beams sending strips of light across the bloodstained carpet. 

“We didn’t even know he had a laspistol. See how it’s fused to the lips there?” 

“Mm,” MkCormack observed. 

“It’s actually the electrostatic pressure that causes the top of the head to explode like that. If he’d had fired it from the side of the head, it would have just left a small hole – maybe a couple of centimetres in diameter.” 

The Inquisitor grunted, not really interested in the Arbites' explanation of why the corpse in front of them was mostly headless. 

There was a short pause whilst the Arbites wrote a few more notes down. 

“Nasty business. Can’t say I’m surprised though. I’ve seen people suicide for less.” He said after a while. “You didn’t need him anymore did you?” 

MkCormack shook his head slowly. 

“Hm.” 

The two men stood in silence whilst another Arbites took picter shots of the corpse. 

“Well, thanks for coming out so late, Inquisitor,” the man said, holding out his hand. MkCormack grasped it absently. “We weren’t sure who else to get in touch with.” 

“Don’t mention it,” MkCormack said, looking forlornly at the corpse of Lieutenant Tom Winters.


















*Chapter 21*

Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
15.982.M41​

~Dark dealings~ 

“Is this line secure?” 

“Yes.” 

“How is it progressing?” 

“Winters is dead. Without a cross examination, the bench only has our testimony to rely on.” 

“Good. As long as it stays that way. Don’t screw this up, Vurdan. There’s a lot at stake here.” 

“Have you spoken to –” 

“Don’t say his name on the line. And yes. He remains adamant. The best we can hope for is a quick execution.” 

“And if there isn’t one?” 

“Then you kill Garrick yourself.” 

“…Sir?” 

“I mean it. In the courtroom if necessary. You know how they’ll use him. You know what the Inquisitors will do. We can’t let that happen. So kill him before it does. Understand?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Good. If there’s a delayed execution, a life sentence, a penal regiment – you kill him.” 

“You needn’t worry sir.” 

“You’d better hope so.” 
* * *


“Throne DAMMIT!” Vandemarr shouted, thumping his fist onto the table and earning some particularly unpleasant looks from the surrounding miscreants. Not that they would do anything; still in his Commissar’s uniform, carrying a very large bolt pistol, he was the very embodiment of the Emperor’s justice in possibly the most lawless spaceport bar this side of Segmentum Solar. 

Codey looked around uncomfortably in his dress uniform. Though the tunic was unbuttoned to the base of his chest, and his epaulettes loose around his neck like a pair of dead gold-braided leaves, he felt no less formal – and no less of a target. Bars like the one they were in were renowned for their hatred of the Imperial Guard. 

“Would you keep your voice down,” the Lieutenant hissed, leaning forward. Vandemarr snatched a drag from his glowing lho stick, blowing the smoke from the side of his mouth in rapid, agitated plumes. 

“They killed him, Codey,” the Commissar hissed back, “they killed him.” 

“Whoa whoa whoa, we don’t know that – the Arbites’ report said it was suicide,” Codey protested, taking the cigarette from Vandemarr’s fingers and taking in a much more relaxed draught. By the time he handed it back, the Commissar had lit another. 

“Don’t be stupid Julian,” he snapped. Codey had never seen him so tightly wound. “They blew his brains out and made it look like an accident. Now the bench only has his testimony, and we can’t disprove a thing. We’re screwed.” 

“Wait, the prosecution’s list of witnesses had the two other guys from the same room as well,” Codey said. “The vox op and that other guy – what was his name?” 

“Kurt Uden?” Vandemarr said. 

“Nah, that was the vox op. It was a trooper,” 

“Dunno.” 

“Well anyway – look. They’re going to question him aren’t they? We can just disprove what the pross have said then, right?” 

“No Codey, you blathering idiot,” Vandemarr said, fumbling the decanter of amber-coloured ethanec into his tumbler and gulping down the contents in one. The ice cubes rattled as he slammed it back down onto the table. “We can’t just start a whole new line of questioning in a cross examination – we cross examine him on the facts he’s just been questioned on in an attempt to disclaim bloody Vurdan’s. Cheating bastard’s full of shi –” 

“But,” Codey swiftly interjected, “what else is Vurdan going to question him about? He’s just going to have seen the same thing as Winters. There wasn’t anything else that Garrick did in the tower block that hasn’t already been mentioned,” 

“Hm,” Vandemarr said, raising his eyebrows. “Then again, all that stuff about what Winters said – all the ‘oh I hate the Emperor this Tau gear’s so much better’ crap has already been recorded as ‘temporarily undisputed’ since the witness was dismissed for the day. Now that we don’t get our cross, it’s going to change to ‘undisputed’. The bench’ll take it as canon when a second witness reinforces it. The bias has already been engrained, however good our arguments will be. And last time I checked, stripping off your own armour – voluntarily, when not in a life or death situation, gets you a free brain redistribution. The fact that the pross has got two unquestionable counts of heresy – if we look at the weapon as well – means that unless we pull something special out our asses, Garrick’s as good as dead before the trial’s even made its second day.” 

Codey sat in silence, taking it all in. The bar was crowded, and had more weapons in it than a battlecruiser. Someone would die in there tonight – of that he had no doubt. But they wouldn’t be stupid enough to start on an Imperial Commissar, however much drink and illegal substance was kicking about. 

“Why don’t we just play our witness?” He asked after a lengthy cessation of speech. 

“No,” Vandemarr said quickly, looking out the window at the dark, rainy streets outside. “No, not yet. We don’t want him to end up like Winters.” 

“You think they’d try and kill someone as high ranking as that?” The Lieutenant asked. 

Vandemarr shrugged. 

“Anything’s possible.” He took another gulp of ethanec, grimacing as it burned all the way down to his stomach. “And I have a feeling that nobody’s really safe in this case anyway. You saw what happened to Tom Winters.” 

“Tom Winters was just a Lieutenant,” Codey said. “And what do you mean, nobody’s safe? I don’t even get what’s happening anymore,” 

“I mean, Codey,” The Commissar said darkly, not taking his eyes off the street outside, “that I don’t think this case is even about Garrick anymore.” 

Codey stared at him. 

“Okay…what? What about the heresy and the whole…auxiliary thing?” 

Vandemarr shook his head. 

“Think about it,” he said, turning back to the Lieutenant, lho stick smoking between the fingers of his glass-holding hand. “Garrick – and the witnesses – were never available to us before we got here, right? Now, the witnesses shouldn’t have been anyway – they were on a prison ship, the INS Divine Justice as far as I recall. But I’ll bet you five cards a las there was someone else on that ship with them.” 

There was a pause whilst Codey visibly thought. 

“Vurdan,” he breathed. 

“Right,” Vandemarr replied, taking another quick drag. “Now they could have said anything to the witnesses whilst they were in isolation, and promised them anything – I’m talking getting them out of the Guard, money, whatever. The question comes down to why. Now I said the facts had been misrepresented, yes?” 

“Yeah,” 

“Which means that not only has the pross gone over those, but also groomed the witnesses – conditioned them, sworn them in, whatever, with the promise of whatever. Still with me?” 

Codey nodded. 

“But there has to be more to it then that. Vurdan wouldn’t go to all this trouble to effectively make up half a case, kill a witness off etc. considering that if he got caught – wham, perversion of justice, say goodbye to your head.” The Commissar continued, slapping the table for emphasis and making Codey jump. 

He lowered his voice again. 

“So there has to be someone in the background pulling the strings – and we’re talking someone very high up.” 

“Why so high?” 

“Because, Codey, there’s an Inquisitor on the bench, and anyone screwing around with the trial on a lower level is effectively signing his own death warrant. And I’ll bet MkCormack is a particularly good Inquisitor as well.” 

“So who then?” The Lieutenant pressed. “Who’s higher than an Inquisitor?” 

Vandemarr grinned, reclining slightly. 

“Another Inquisitor.”


----------



## dark angel

Zwan you bast**d :wink: bugger the exams! Write! :laugh: another good update dude, as usual. If you cannot give me a time, or date at that matter then can you give me a hint to the storyline? .


----------



## Zwan

Whoops, sorry mate misread that as a when rather than a what. If I ever get round to writing more of it, it's about (to quote from my own personal plan):

What is happening; the Alpha Legion are assaulting Talessa Prime, a world in the Ultramar Empire. Vandemarr is commanding a contingent of 5,000 Imperial Guardsmen, 23,000 PDF, two companies of Silver Eagles, a detachment of 1,000 Inquisitorial stormtroopers and three armoured divisions, who are in the process of evacuating the one and only Hive (and surrounding city), St. Hadan’s Hope.

They have four weeks to evacuate as many of the 16 billion people as they can before the first Alpha Legion ships are due to arrive.

But shit goes wrong, people die, yadda yadda - you know, the usual


----------



## Mossy Toes

One word in particular stands out to me: *commanding*.

This...could be interesting. It ties into the Ultramar Wars series, I can assume?


----------



## dark angel

That sounds.........Freaking awesome. Commanding, while it did stand out to me is not what I am interested in. Silver Eagles ya say? Astartes I assume? Wooooo I look forward to this, not sure how a Space Marine would like getting ordered around by a Commissar, albeit a badass one such as Vandemarr. And no need to say sorry, I should have made it more clear. Another question; Will we ever see the Raven Guard Marine (Hugin or Murin, something along those lines) from Death-Watch again? I must admit, he is probably one of my favourite characters I have read about from your works


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

WTF?... That many?... Is he still a commissar?.. Hahaha.... If he is, anyone from the commissariat would have killed to get to where he is now...


----------



## Zwan

Not commanding by himself, as part of a council of 5 Generals (he's a Commissar General in it). Probably should have mentioned that - and anyway, Yarrick was a Commissar and look at him, commanding away! Turns out Vandemarr doesn't do much commanding anyway - when the shit hits the fan, there's people in the hive who need killin'...

Here's more Auxiliary:


*PART 5*


*Chapter 22*

_“I tread the path of Righteousness. Though it be paved with broken glass, I shall walk it barefoot; though it crosses rivers of fire, I will pass over them; though it wanders wide, the light of the Emperor guides my step._ 

~Confessor Dolan of Chiros - Sermon on the road to Gathalamor” 


The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
16.982.M41​

~_The no psykers club_~ 

“Thank you, lord; no further questions,” Vurdan said, amidst the muttering of the galleries. In the dock, a young Kurt Uden stood, fidgeting nervously. Though he had been caught in the same blast as Winters, he was injured to a much lesser extent; indeed, the only visible wounds were a few cuts running the length of his face, bound by strips of gauze. 

Vandemarr sighed as he mounted the lectern. The young vox officer had given almost exactly the same account as Winters had. He’d even told the bench the exact same words Garrick had allegedly spoke – words which, the Commissar was sure, were entirely made up. 

Well, now was his chance to expose this conspiracy for what it was. 

“Mister Vandemarr, you may at this point begin your cross examination. I would take this time to remind you that you may only question the witness on the issues on which he has already been questioned, by counsel for the prosecution. Any deviance will be met with severity. Is this understood?” 

“Yes, my lord,” Vandemarr said, bowing his head. 

I bet you’re in on it as well, you smug Inquisitorial bastard, he thought to himself. And then quickly turned to Uden as MkCormack looked at him with narrowed eyes. 

“A couple of discrepancies, Mister Uden, that I noticed in your account; I was wondering if you could straighten them out for me?” 

“Uh, y-yes?” The young vox-op said into the speaker. 

“Thank you. I noticed, just a few minutes into your testimony, that my learned friend Mister Vurdan asked you what Captain Garrick had said when he entered the room to find you there. I was wondering if you could repeat that for the court?” 

“Uh, he said that Imperial armour was useless, and that the Tau armour would be better.” Uden said, his eyes flickering sideways. 

“He said that?” 

“Yes sir,” 

“Word for word?” 

“Y-yes sir.” 

“So, if I was to get a psyker in here and ask him to do the cross examination – which, I might add, I’m entirely within my jurisdiction to do, you would – ” 

“Objection my lord, Counsel for the defence has no such jurisdiction,” Vurdan said smugly, “and as such the statement was threatening,” 

“What?” Vandemarr whirled round, looking down from his elevated platform to Vurdan. 

“Yes, Mister Vandemarr, you are aware that the use of psykers and other mind-reading equipment is prohibited in this trial?” MkCormack said. 

“Why by Holy Terra is it prohibited?” The Commissar asked incredulously. 

“Mister Vandemarr, please stop wasting the court’s time and continue with the cross examination,” the Inquisitor continued, slightly testily. 

“But you haven’t – ” 

“Apologies, your lordship, may I speak with my learned associate for just a second?” Codey asked, his voice faltering slightly. Once again he found himself the focus of the entire court’s attention. 

“Yes, of course Mister Codey,” MkCormack said, smiling briefly. He flinched as the lectern hissed down into its alcove, and Vandemarr approached him, his expression thunderous. 

“You’d better have a bloody good reason,” he hissed, as conversation filled the galleries. 

“Throne sir, you’re going to have to stop getting so angry, or we’ll get thrown off the case!” Codey hissed back. “You don’t notice it from up there, but –” 

He lowered his voice to a whisper. 

“Every time you get angry like that, or make an objection that gets overruled, or whatever, the prosecution are having a field day down here. They're smiling and…stuff. Look, it’s just obvious that you’re playing into their hands, okay? Keep it in check, or we really will be screwed, Understand?” 

“Codey,” Vandemarr spat back, but then thought better of it. It wasn’t a good idea to snub his own partner in front of everyone – but besides that, the man could have a point. 

“Don’t you see what’s going on here though?” The Commissar continued, now also whispering. 

“Look, you said so yourself that Garrick was inevitably going to die at the end of the trial anyway – and if it’s as crooked as you think it is, then who are we to try and stop it? If they’ve banned psykers, it’s for a reason,” 

“Yes, so that we can’t expose these witness testimonies for the crap they are,” Vandemarr said, “but that also means they can’t mind scan Garrick!” 

“Yes, but why would they need to?” Codey retorted, aware of the Inquisitor checking his chronometer. “He’s going down anyway!” 

“No he isn’t,” Vandemarr replied. “I don’t even care if we can’t use psykers. I won’t let them send down an innocent Imperial Captain.” 

Vandemarr turned to go back to the lectern, but Codey caught his arm. 

“Just…keep it in check, okay? Or we’ll get thrown off, and then Garrick will definitely go down.” 

Vandemarr nodded slowly, and re-mounted the lectern. 

“Everything in order, Mister Vandemarr?” MkCormack asked, drawing laughs from the galleries – and the other generals and personnel on the bench. 

“Yes, lord,” he replied through gritted teeth, turning to the witness stand. “Mister Uden, as you testify, Captain Garrick said…’Imperial armour was useless, and that the Tau armour would be better,’ yes?” 

“Yes,” Uden replied – now more confident due to his recent revelation that his mind would not be scanned. Vandemarr screamed within the comfort of his own head. 

“And why do you think he did that?” 

“Because…he’s a traitor,” Uden replied, with a little smirk. There was no holding him back now. Vandemarr’s eye twitched. Insolent little bastard, he thought, aching to blow his brains out. Not only was he lying in court, but he was betraying his own Captain, abandoning him to the wolves to save his own skin. By the Throne, but if he could prove perjury, he would kill the son of a bitch himself. 

“How long have you been serving under Captain Garrick, Mister Uden?” 

“Four years,” 

“Four years sir,” Vandemarr snapped. “And has he ever displayed this apparent…propensity for heresy in that time – which he has now so willingly done so, according to your testimony, less than nine days ago.” 

“Er, no, sir,” Uden replied. 

“So what was it about that particular day which was so special? Why was it that he decided that on the seventh day of this year, he, a previously – according to you – pious man, would simply reject an Emperor-blessed Catechism and don the Tau armour?” 

“I-I don’t know sir,” 

“You don’t know, sir,” Vandemarr replied. 

“Objection my lord, counsel is bullying the witness,” Vurdan said. 

“No, Mister Vurdan, I don’t think he is,” MkCormack replied. “Please continue Mister Vandemarr,” 

“Thank you lord,” the Commissar replied, bowing his head. “Mister Uden, have you any idea why Captain Garrick donned the Tau armour?” 

“D-donned?” 

“Put it on,” Vandemarr snapped. 

“B-because he…he’s a traitor, sir” Uden replied – his confidence gone. He was on unfamiliar territory now. 

“Yes, so you’ve told us,” Vandemarr said, “but think of those Guardsmen who have turned to the Ruinous powers. Have you ever been around a Guardsman who has turned to Chaos, Mister Uden?” 

“Objection lord, irrelevant,” Vurdan croaked from his bench. 

“Overruled, Commissar. If I can see the relevance of the question, I’m sure you can.” MkCormack said. 

“The question stands, Uden.” 

“N-no, no I haven’t, sir” the vox officer replied. 

“Do you know of Guardsmen who have?” 

“Uh, yes, sir,” 

“Do you know why you haven’t seen these heretics defect, and yet have heard of them?” Vandemarr asked slowly, as if questioning a child. 

“No…” 

“BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T WANT TO GET SHOT!” Vandemarr erupted, thumping the lectern and making everyone in the court jump. “Mister Uden, if Garrick was a traitor, like you said, and in proving so donned the Tau armour, why the hell would he do it in front of three of his fellow Guardsmen? Cultists don’t announce they’re turning to chaos in front of their squad, do they? They first find some Chaos troops and then declare their allegiance!” 

“Objec – ” 

“I’M NOT FINISHED,” Vandemarr barked. “If Captain Garrick put on the Tau armour for heretical reasons, he certainly wouldn’t have done it in that room! Do you know why Captain Garrick did put on the armour in that room?” 

“N-n-n-no,” Uden said, his face wrinkling under the legal onslaught. 

“Because he’s not a traitor! Because he is not a heretic! He took off his Imperial armour because it was battered, it was lacerated, it was shot up – it was useless for the qualities of protection! Captain Garrick didn’t exchange his armour for any reason other than the Tau armour was at hand, it was adequately camouflaged, it fitted him – and most of all, it enabled him to fight in the Emperor’s name! Similarly with the weapon! My lords, Garrick is not guilty of heresy – if he is guilty of anything, it is zeal! It takes courage to don the said items, in front of your comrades – knowing that they will chastise you, so that you may fight for the Emperor another day!” 

Vandemarr, his hands shaking with anger, visibly calmed himself in front of the stunned court. 

Uden burst into tears.










*Chapter 23*

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
16.982.M41​

~_Vox Officer Kurt Uden_~ 

There was an unbearable silence in the court, as Vandemarr tried desperately to look calm, and Uden wept miserably. The Commissar clenched his hands a few times inside their leather gloves. He had since given up on pretending to look at documents; they had simply emphasized his shaking grip. 

Nobody had spoken for about thirty seconds. Not even MkCormack had anything to say. The only sound was the snivelling and rapid-fire exhalations indicative of crying, slicing through the still air like a knife through butter. 

“I-I-I-I…I,” the distraught young man stuttered, in between gasps of air. “I…” 

“Calm down son,” MkCormack said eventually. Even Vandemarr could feel the soothing tones of the Inquisitor’s voice – no doubt some of his uncontained psychic trickery working its way around the court. 

“I-I made it up,” Uden managed, before releasing another torrent of mucus and tears. “I made it all up!” 

A collective – almost comical – gasp permeated the air, followed by the familiar chattering. MkCormack held up a hand for silence – and got it. 

Vandemarr slowly turned his head down to Vurdan, who quickly looked away. The older Commissar cleared his throat uncomfortably, and stood up. 

“My Lord, the witness is – ” 

“Be silent!” MkCormack snapped. Vurdan sat back down again. 

“Son, what did you make up – and it’s very important you tell the truth now,” the Inquisitor said softly. 

Uden rubbed a sleeve across his nose, looking over at Garrick. The Captain’s face was a mixture of pain and confusion. 

“I-I-I-It’s not t-true,” he said again, “h-h-he didn’t say those things,” 

More tears. MkCormack leant forward. 

“Now listen to me, son, and listen very carefully,” he said softly, but with a hard edge that threatened a severe reprimand should his leniency be met with non-compliance. “It’s very important you tell me, now, exactly what you made up.” 

“Sir, if I may – ” Vandemarr tried. 

“The next man to speak out of turn will be shot,” MkCormack snapped. Vandemarr bowed his assent, and held his hands up as if to appease the Inquisitor. “Mister Uden?” 

The vox officer swallowed a few times. 

“W-when the C-C-C-Captain c-c-came in, sir, h-h-h-he didn’t say those things – h-h-he said that h-h-his own armour was shot up badly, a-a-and if h-h-he w-was g-g-g-going to g-get help for the Lieutenant he would need s-some armour that w-was n-not so b-b-badly damaged, sir,” Uden stuttered, bringing a hand up to his eyes as his brow wrinkled up once more, and the tears flowed. “P-P-PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!” He shrieked, breaking down into uncontrollable weeping once more. 

MkCormack sat back into his throne, briefly looking at Vurdan. The generals surrounding him were evidently divided in their opinions; some looking for guidance, others quietly fuming. It was a while before the Inquisitor spoke again; and in that time, Vandemarr allowed himself a brief smile. 

He KNEW there was something going on. 

“Mister Uden,” the Inquisitor said after an interminable pause, “what you have committed is called ‘perjury’. It is the crime of lying to a court. Depending on the seriousness of this lie, you can be executed for it.” 

This did not do much to soothe Uden, who was by now positively bawling. MkCormack gave him a few more minutes to calm down before he continued. 

“You swore an oath, Mister Uden.” He continued, his voice less and less understanding. “You swore an oath to tell the truth, based on what you witnessed of the accused’s actions. Your testimony could mean the difference between his life and death. It matters not the severity of his crime; he will receive fair trial. And if he is found innocent, then he will be released without charge.” 

He paused, more for dramatic effect than anything else, Vandemarr guessed. Though he was intrigued as to the outcome. If MkCormack didn’t have Uden killed – which by rights, he should – then he might be inclined to show Garrick a similar mercy. 

“Mister Uden, this court takes perjury very seriously. I’m sure you’ll understand that what you have just done amounts to heresy.” 

Uden half-screamed a guttural protest. Vandemarr held his breath. 

“But,” the Inquisitor said slowly, “I suspect that this false testimony you have given was not…entirely of your own making.” 

Was he imagining it, or did Vandemarr see the Inquisitor’s eyes flicker towards Vurdan? 

“If you take an oath now, a holy oath, on the Emperor’s name and His sacrifice for you, that what you have just told me is true – that Captain Garrick replaced his armour because it was badly damaged, for the purposes of seeking aid for Lieutenant Winters,” he paused again, exhaling. “Then I may show mercy on you.” 

“I swear! I swear!” Uden shouted, “I swear by the God-Emperor it is true!” 

MkCormack nodded, seemingly satisfied. 

“Get me a clerk,” he said aside, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Have him tell the secretarium that these two counts of heresy are to be removed from the indictments, on the grounds of lack of evidence.” 

As Vandemarr expected, the loud thrum of conversation filled the galleries. 

“ORDER!” The Inquisitor shouted, incredulous that the observers consistently talked when they knew they were not allowed to do so. “Mister Uden,” he continued, when silence had claimed the court, “in light of your newfound honesty, I am going to spare your life.” 

Vandemarr breathed a sigh of relief – as did Uden, and a good majority of the court. 

“But, for your temporary laxity in faith, I sentence you to five hundred lashes; and if the Emperor deems it fit to award you penitence, it shall be followed by your immediate reassignment to a penal regiment.” MkCormack finished, now in a dull, uninterested tone. “May your scars be a permanent reminder of this lapse. Bailiff, you may remove the witness.” He scribbled something on his dataslate. “Oh, and have Lieutenant Winter’s corpse dismembered and nailed to traitor’s gate.” He added. “Let it be a reminder that this court will not tolerate perjury.” 

The Inquisitor stood up, to the call of ‘all rise’ – though nobody did. MkCormack was unfazed, however. “I think we’ll take a recess until tomorrow morning, nine o’ clock.” He said. “I would also like to see both counsels for the defence and prosecution immediately. Thank you.” 

He turned on his heel and strode out of the court, away from the eerie still of the galleries. 

There were things that Vandemarr had seen on the battlefield that would forever linger in his recurring nightmares. Uncountable horrors that would blight him for the rest of his life – the tortured souls of a thousand faces, waiting for him to cross over into hell and join them. 

But there was nothing quite so memorable, in all his thirty years in the Commissariat, as the screams of vox officer Kurt Uden, being dragged away from the witness stand to certain death, by two court guards.


----------



## Zenith_of_Mind

I've been waiting for you to post chapter 23 because I have a question concerning the fate of Uden. 
(POSSIBLE SPOILERS)
It says:



> “ORDER!” The Inquisitor shouted, incredulous that the observers consistently talked when they knew they were not allowed to do so. “Mister Uden,” he continued, when silence had claimed the court, “in light of your newfound honesty, *I am going to spare your life*.”
> 
> Vandemarr breathed a sigh of relief – as did Uden, and a good majority of the court.
> 
> “But, for your temporary laxity in faith, I sentence you to five hundred lashes; and if the Emperor deems it fit to award you penitence, it shall be followed by your immediate reassignment to a penal regiment.”


From this, I can conclude that the Inquisitor decided to spare Uden's life because he confessed his sins at the end. But then it goes:



> But there was nothing quite so memorable, in all his thirty years in the Commissariat, as the screams of vox officer *Kurt Uden, being dragged away from the witness stand to certain death*, by two court guards.


Now it says that Uden is going to be killed. This is the part I don't understand, maybe I have just misunderstood it, but as I see it, it's a contradiction. 

As it turns out later, at least from the conversation between Vandemarr and Brochs, Uden is alive and he was used as a bait. In short, what I'm having problem with (so to speak) is that last part of the sentence, "*Kurt Uden, being dragged away from the witness stand to certain death*". Uden was not going to be killed, Inquisitor knew that, Vandemarr suspected it because of the court's ruling, and although Uden was afraid I doubt he would fear for his life after confessing. Basically, the sentence can be misleading.

Or maybe I'm completely wrong, I don't know.


----------



## zboy234

five hundred lashes with a whip is enough trauma that it will kill the victim, by about fifty the back it lacerated, kinda like when a kitten starts sharpening it's claws on your favorite shirt tiimes that by ten the pain would cause shock, loos of blood and possible damage to the spinal column.

not a student of science or a doctor, nor training to be one so i may be wrong but that many lashes will kill someone, i know that much, unless your a space marine of something


----------



## Zwan

**SPOILERS**


Zenith of Mind: you are right, it is a little misleading. Looking back at it, and the conversation Vandemarr has with Brochs at the end, I noticed this: 

"...but it seems MkCormack got slightly carried away with Uden. Took the ‘realistic’ aspect of the court too far. As a consequence, the man thought he was being serious. Hence the display.”"

You've got it all right; McCormack was using Uden as bait, sentenced him to 500 lashes (which would have killed him had it not been a ruse), and then Uden was whisked away to safety. The 'being dragged away to certain death' bit was correct at the time of writing because it was from Vandemarr's point of view, and as far as he was concerned Uden was being dragged away to certain death. 

But it is a little contradctory that McCormack said moments prior 'I am going to spare your life'. The only explanation I can offer is that it was a cruel choice of words on his part, as he knew the lashes would kill the man anyway (although as we know, none of it matters because it was all a facade). 

Does that make any sense?

**END SPOILERS**



*zboy234*; you are absolutely correct, it would kill him - but read on... 




*Chapter 24*


Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
16.982.M41​

~_The watcher in the rain_~ 

“Now just what the hell is going on here!” MkCormack raged, swiping a stack of documents and dataslates off his desk. He whirled around, pointing menacingly. “Both of you had better come clean – right now – or by the Emperor there’ll be hell to pay,” 

Vandemarr and Vurdan stood in front of the desk in the Inquisitor’s temporary office in the Department of Imperial Justice; a wide, circular room, stacked full of books and artefacts. Behind him, a huge window looked out across Kalen Primo, the kilometres of sullen grey city hunching under the late afternoon rain. Both Commissars stared straight ahead, suddenly taking a great interest in a Thunderhawk gunship crawling across the horizon. 

“Well?” MkCormack barked. 

“Sir, as I have said from the beginning, the facts of this case have been misrepresented,” Vandemarr said. 

“Rubbish!” Vurdan snorted, “Don’t put your lax arguments down to misrepresentation. Your man’s guilty, everybody knows it. You only have to look at his bloody face to see that.” 

“Not by his story,” Vandemarr said. “And I believe it,” 

“What, the ravings of some heretical madman? You’re starting to sound like traitor yourself,” Vurdan sneered. 

There was a deadly pause. 

“What did you say?” Vandemarr growled through clenched teeth. 

“I think you heard me well enough,” Vurdan replied. 

“You son of a BITCH!” Vandemarr roared, smashing his fist into the Vurdan’s nose. The man reeled backwards, eyes wide, blood welting from between his leather gloves. 

“Enough of this!” MkCormack shouted. 

“You dog!” Vurdan snarled, pulling an automatic pistol from his hip and levelling it at Vandemarr’s head, “I’ll have you shot for this!” 

“Yeah, just like you did for Winters!” Vandemarr retorted. 

Vurdan laughed, looking positively daemonic as blood seeping into the cracks between his teeth. 

“That little bastard got his alright,” he sneered, cocking the pistol. “Don’t think I won’t kill you where you stand,” 

“Well why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, you honourless shi –” 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” MkCormack roared, the psychic assault tearing through their minds and threatening to rip them apart. Both men were immediately incapacitated. 

“You are soldiers of the Imperium,” Vandemarr heard MkCormack say – but muffled, as if spoken from under a pillow. 

He dropped to his knees as the screaming of a million tortured souls clawed through his brain, seeing that Vurdan had already passed out. 

“It’s high time you began acting like it…” 

Above him, he saw the Inquisitor smiling. 

Then everything went black. 
* * *


“So then what happened?” Codey asked, leaning forward. Vandemarr massaged his temples, before downing the contents of his glass and pouring in another stiff measure of ethanec. 

They were sitting in the same spaceport bar – something of a regular occurrence since the trial began – whilst the Commissar recounted the day’s events to the Lieutenant. 

“So then I came to,” he said. 

“And?” 

“And MkCormack gave me a formal warning about my conduct in court, and told me that if I continued shouting at the witnesses he’d have me thrown off the case.” 

“Well where was Vurdan?” 

“He wasn’t there, MkCormack had already spoken to him.” Vandemarr said. 

“Any idea what about?” 

“Not a clue.” 

“How long had he spoken to him for?” 

“I don’t know,” the Commissar said, becoming increasingly agitated, “a couple of hours?” 

“A couple of hours?” 

“Yeah, well next time you get assaulted psychically let’s see how long you can stay awake,” Vandemarr scowled. 

“No, I mean what the hell could MkCormack have to talk to Vurdan about for a couple of hours?” 

“Probably trying to find out about Uden and why he lied in court,” 

Codey made a noise that adequately conveyed his frustration. 

“You’re not even trying anymore,” the Lieutenant said helplessly. “You’re the one who’s so sure there’s a conspiracy here,” 

“Oh dammit Codey,” Vandemarr shouted, slapping the table. He once again poured himself a generous measure of ethanec, his anger quickly subsiding. “You were right before. There’s nothing we can do. Hell, if we make it out of this alive I’ll be happy.” 

The Lieutenant looked at him, disgusted. 

“Sod this,” he spat, “I’m going back to the hotel,” 

“Codey,” Vandemarr protested. 

“Drunken bastard,” the Lieutenant muttered. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.” 

“Codey look at you,” Vandemarr started laughing, “you won’t make it round the corner dressed like that,” 

“I’ll take my chances,” he replied, throwing a few notes onto the table and striding out into the rain. Vandemarr watched him for a minute as he walked down the street, before disappearing round the corner. 

“Emperor dammit,” he sighed, shelling out a couple more notes and affixing his black Commissar’s cap. Standing up, he made sure his bolt pistol was on view, before he nodded to the barkeep and left. 
* * *


The rain was a lot more unforgiving than he’d anticipated. He pulled the collar of his storm coat up and half jogged through the empty streets, surrounded by ranks of gargoyled gothic architecture. 

“Codey?” He shouted as he rounded the corner. It opened into another wide street, with overhead walkways criss-crossing above, and flashing neon lights advertising various eateries and other more raunchy venues assaulting his eyes. Aside from this colourful tirade, only a few dull white street lamps illuminated select circles of the street – the rest of it remaining positively dim. 

“Codey?” He hazarded again. 

“Shad up,” grumbled an unfamiliar voice from an alley. Vandemarr scowled. 

He pressed on, his boots splashing through the copious amounts of water soaking the road, until he reached the end of the street. In front of him, a great cathedral rose up from the ground. The road split to his left and right, in a T-junction. To his left, rows of streetlamps illuminated the road a harsh white, leading away to kilometres of factory warehouses. To his right, it was again overlooked by colossal skyscrapers, and led to his hotel. 

“Codey?” He shouted again. The man couldn’t have got far; he was walking when he left. 

There was a sudden flicker of movement down the factory road, and his head snapped sideways. 

With a cold clarity, he realised he was being watched. 

His hand crept to his bolt pistol, as he squinted down the illuminated street. The problem with it being so light was that it created even darker shadows. 

“Who’s there?” He asked, taking a hazardous step towards the concealed figure. The rain guttered down, dribbling off his cap and down the back of his neck. It bubbled in a nearby drain, and slapped noisily onto the pavement at the end of the road. 

He took another step, and the mysterious figure suddenly launched from his alcove and sprinted away down the factory road. 

“You there!” Vandemarr shouted, making to give chase; but he had already been a good two hundred metres away, and the person – whoever it was – was inhumanly quick. He pulled the bolt pistol from its holster in one rapid movement, and took aim; but a second figure was suddenly on him, knocking the weapon from his hand. 

“Get off!” He roared, turning to kick this new unknown assailant to death; but with a startled gasp, he realised it was Codey. 

“Sir, it’s me!” the Lieutenant said, taking a few hasty steps back. He looked down the road, but the figure was gone. 

“What the hell are you doing, man! You let him get away!” Vandemarr shouted, picking up the pistol and thumbing on the safety. The rain lashed down around them – and above, a fork of lightning suddenly split the sky. Both men panted in the middle of the junction, not another soul to be seen. 

“I couldn’t let you kill him,” Codey breathed, wiping rainwater from his eyes. 

“Why?” Vandemarr growled, shoving the pistol back into its holster. 

“Because I know who it was,”


----------



## dark angel

Good as always Zwan! Keep up the awesome work! :victory:


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Guys, can those that read the whole story in Zwan's site not post some spoilers here?... Just PM Zwan and discuss it there... 

No offense Zwan, but it distracts those who want to read it here... That's all...

I'm already in Deathwatch btw... Sweet novels all in all...

Cheers!...


----------



## Zenith_of_Mind

Zwan said:


> Does that make any sense?


SPOILERS

Actually, it does. Like I said, it's nothing special, but I guess it can be somewhat confusing, because he didn't spare his life after all (until we find out that he really did). Damn, it's a proper multilayered plot twist with a dose of Inquisitorial ruse.

END SPOILERS




waltzmelancholy_07 said:


> Guys, can those that read the whole story in Zwan's site not post some spoilers here?... Just PM Zwan and discuss it there...
> 
> No offense Zwan, but it distracts those who want to read it here... That's all...
> 
> I'm already in Deathwatch btw... Sweet novels all in all...
> 
> Cheers!...


That why we use the SPOILER tag. So you won't be needlessly distracted...you know....

cheers...


----------



## Templar Marshal

Keep the chaps comin man this is a great story so far.


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Zenith_of_Mind said:


> SPOILERS
> 
> Actually, it does. Like I said, it's nothing special, but I guess it can be somewhat confusing, because he didn't spare his life after all (until we find out that he really did). Damn, it's a proper multilayered plot twist with a dose of Inquisitorial ruse.
> 
> END SPOILERS
> 
> That why we use the SPOILER tag. So you won't be needlessly distracted...you know....
> 
> cheers...


The word "SPOILER" itself is already a distraction... Don't we have the PM's?... Discuss it there...

Well it's just my opinion...

And CP has the final say anyway...

Cheers!...


----------



## Zenith_of_Mind

waltzmelancholy_07 said:


> The word "SPOILER" itself is already a distraction... Don't we have the PM's?... Discuss it there...
> 
> Well it's just my opinion...
> 
> And CP has the final say anyway...
> 
> Cheers!...


How can one word distract you from reading is beyond me...

If Zwan tells me to keep my comments and/or spoilers to myself, I will do so, because this is his thread. However, isn't the entire point of this forum to *discuss* fan fiction? This is what I have been doing, commenting on some parts of the Auxiliary, not just posting some random spoilers. This is more than what can be said for you, seeing that you haven't made any feedback concerning the material itself. Now, you are free to comment what or how you like, but that doesn't give you the right to say what I or anybody else may or may not do.


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Zenith, I have already commented on Zwan's work... It's on par with Mossy's... And I stop giving feedback when I see that the author is more talented than me... 

My whole point here is that, you know the ending of the story right?... And you're dying to discuss the details with the author, exchange ideas and that sort of thing... So why post it somewhere where readers are likely to read it by accident? Or read it because they can't wait for the next installments... I know that you write the SPOILERS and everything but there's also the PM's where you can discuss the story freely... 

And what makes you think I was stopping you from giving any feedback?... I was merely suggesting an alternative... 

Hope nothing bitter has risen between us mate...

Cheers!...


----------



## Zwan

Hi guys!

As long as clear spoiler tags are present I personally don't have an issue with plot points being discussed on the thread, as long as they don't give away too much (although with the hyper-convoluted ending I think you'd be hard pressed to even understand what happens at the end of this story anyway!)

Templar Marshall, thanks a lot mate! Here is some more:


*Chapter 25*

Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
16/17.982.M41​

~ _A visitor in the night_~ 

“You’re sure it was him?” 

“Positive.” 

“Frost? Commissar Frost?” 

“Sir, I know it was him,” 

“You know it was him, or you saw him?” 

“I saw him sir – like I can see you now.” 

“Commissar Frost from the prosecution counsel? Vurdan’s junior?” 

“No, the ‘other’ Frost,” 

“What other Frost?” 

Codey pulled a face. “There isn’t another Frost you pillock!” 

“Don’t play games with me Codey, was it Commissar Hektor Frost or wasn’t it?” 

“Oh by the Throne, yes!” 

The two men stood, drenched, in the darkness of the hotel room – darkness since Vandemarr had insisted on leaving the light off. By the same token of precaution, his bolt pistol was also un-holstered and in his hand. 

“There’s something bad going on here Julian,” Vandemarr said, putting the pistol down and shedding his storm coat and cap. “I don’t like it.” 

“You nearly killed a member of the prosecution counsel,” Codey breathed. “What the hell would we have done if you had?” 

Vandemarr shrugged. “Well under any normal circumstances they couldn’t touch me. I’m an Imperial Commissar, after all. But something tells me I’d have been treated very differently under the current circumstances.” 

He checked the magazine for his bolt pistol, and satisfied, slammed it back in. 

“What’s going on sir?” Codey said, and the Commissar could see the fright in his eyes. “What’s happening?” 

Vandemarr sighed, and sat down on the end of his bed. 

“Well let’s look at what we know,” he said. “We know that Vurdan made up the facts of the case and bribed the witnesses to give false testimonies. We know that he killed Winters – so that we couldn’t cross reference him and expose his story for the crap it was.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And if we go with the assumption that there’s another Inquisitor behind it all, then there must be something on his agenda. But what?” 

“You don’t even know there’s another Inquisitor behind it all,” Codey said. 

“Yes, but it’s the next logical step isn’t it. Vurdan couldn’t have organised all this by himself without being found out by MkCormack. And an Inquisitor is the only person higher on the pecking order.” 

“Maybe MkCormack’s in on it too?” 

“Nah,” Vandemarr shook his head, “I don’t think so. He’s been too sympathetic to our cause to want Garrick dead.” 

“Yeah, but what makes you think these people want Garrick dead? Maybe they want him alive?” 

“So they tell witnesses to say he’s guilty?” Vandemarr snorted. “Come on Codey, think.” 

“But what if they knew that you’d pull them apart? It has the opposite effect then, doesn’t it? It makes the prosecution’s arguments all look fake.” 

Vandemarr thought. 

“That would only work if MkCormack wasn’t in on it. Otherwise there’d be no need would there? If MkCormack wanted Garrick off the hook, he’d just have get the bench to vote ‘not guilty’ and be answerable to no-one. And besides, that’s assuming I can pull them apart. It’s risking a lot, considering I haven’t done a court martial in a couple of years. No, there has to be more to it than that.” 

Codey looked troubled. “Well we know that Frost is in on it as well. That makes Frost and Vurdan.” 

“And our mysterious Inquisitor.” Vandemarr added. 

“What about –” 

Vandemarr held up a hand, and silenced Codey. Very slowly, he reached down for his bolt pistol. 

Don’t move, he mouthed, tiptoeing over towards the door. 

Two shadows, indicative of a pair of feet, appeared in the crack under the doorway. Vandemarr held a finger up to his lips, and as quietly as he could, took the safety catch off his pistol. 

Someone tried the door handle. It squeaked as it turned, causing a degree of hesitancy in the anonymous guest. Vandemarr planted a foot at the base of the door, and quickly and quietly applied the lock. 

There was silence for a full two minutes, as if each person was daring the other to make the first move. Then the shadows shifted slightly, and expanded. 

Vandemarr stood back away from the door silently, training the bolt pistol at where he guessed the head would be on the now crouching figure. There was again, another interminable pause; this one, however, ending when a slip of paper was pushed under the door. The shadows shifted again, and disappeared. 

Codey breathed a sigh of relief, and Vandemarr holstered his bolt pistol. He took a step forward, bent down, and snatched the note from under the door. On the front, it read ‘for Commissar Vandemarr’s eyes only’. 

“Well? What does it say?” Codey asked quickly. Combat was one thing – he knew where he stood with the enemy. But the constant flow of silent, potential killers had the Lieutenant rattled. 

Vandemarr unfolded the paper, to see a single, typed line in the exact middle of the page: 


DON'T TRUST HIS LIES.




“So?” Codey asked after another silence. “What does it say?” 

“Never mind,” Vandemarr said, pocketing the note. He glanced at the Lieutenant, before crossing the floor to the window. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in the rain streaked capital. 

“What?” Codey asked, fear creeping into his voice. “Why won’t you tell me?” 

“Just…go to sleep,” Vandemarr said. “I’ll keep watch tonight.” 

“What about the trial tomorrow?” 

“I’ve gone longer without sleep.” The Commissar replied, not taking his eyes off the dark city. 
* * *


Vandemarr checked his watch: 02:31. Behind him, Codey lay with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling under the duvet, his clothes hanging up around the room, drying. 

The Commissar walked over and checked that he was asleep, before he too stripped down and climbed into his own bed. 

With one last look at the Lieutenant next to him, he rolled over and closed his eyes.


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Ok Zwan..... Case closed... I'll have nothing more to say on the matter...


----------



## Zwan

*Chapter 26*

The Emperor’s Court 
Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
17.982.M41​

~_Wink_~ 

Due to some as of yet unfound power loss, the heating was not working in the Emperor’s Court – doing nothing to alleviate Vandemarr’s sour mood as he clapped his hands together, before putting his gloves back on. 

Codey was sitting next to him, staring ahead into space. His mood had changed from confusion to anger. Vandemarr had not spoken much to him since the night before, and when he had, he had been deliberately short with the Lieutenant. 

“All rise,” came the same, dreary voice over the vox. Everybody did, and the nine members of the bench walked in. 

Vandemarr watched them. He recognised only one; General Reece, a member of the commanding staff during the Quintus and Septimus counter-invasions. Him and MkCormack. The rest he’d never see or heard of before, most of them simply personnel from the Department that had been, he suspected, stuck on the case to make up the numbers. 

Don’t trust his lies. The phrase whirled round his head. But who could the note be talking about? 

“Mister Vurdan, the bench does at this time recognise your third witness, Second Lieutenant McShaw.” MkCormack said, once more writing something onto his dataslate. 

“Thank you lord,” Vurdan said. Under his eyes, two plum-purple bruises oozed away from the bridge of his bandaged nose, where Vandemarr had broken it. He mounted the lectern with some difficulty – evidently the cold pained one of his legs – to reveal Commissar Frost sitting at the desk. Vandemarr caught his eye, and the junior quickly turned away, scowling. 

Along the walkway towards the witness stand, a young man strode – infinitely more confident than Uden – dressed in ochre fatigues and boots, with a light brown beret mounting his head. 

Vandemarr sighed. He could tell it had not taken much to bribe this man. 

“Could you please state your name and rank for the record,” MkCormack said disdainfully. 

“Second Lieutenant Iyan McShaw, 88th Cottesmore Guard regiment,” he replied with a smirk. Vandemarr hated him already. 

“Mister McShaw, would you please read the card out on the lectern in front of you?” 

“Yes sir,” McShaw said, leaning forward. “I, Iyan McShaw, hereby declare, in the name of Imperial justice, that the answers I shall submit on this day are true to the best of my knowledge, so help me our beloved God-Emperor.” 

“Need I explain the ramifications of lying to this court?” the Inquisitor asked tiredly. 

“No sir,” 

“Thank you. Mister Vurdan you may proceed.” 

Vurdan bowed, and turned to the witness. “Mister McShaw, could you please describe to the court what you saw on the 7th day of this year, with regard to the accused?” 

“Yes sir I can,” McShaw replied, leaning forward and smiling as he spoke. “Well sir, you see, when the Tau attacked us, it was chaos – everyone runnin’ this way and that – an’ I saw that Cap’n Garrick and a couple others – uh, Kurt Uden was one of ‘em I recall, Lieutenant Winters…well they were runnin’ to this alley see? Well, hell I wasn’t gonna go that way, sir, not so far into the city, so I broke off and headed east. I went up to the top of another building sir, and I went on the roof, and then I watched as the slaughter unfolded. Well, it didn’t take the Emperor to see that we were gettin’ seven bells decked out of us, so I thought I’d wait it out. I knew the fleet was comin’ back in a few days, n’ so I waited, and I musta been there what, maybe a hour, and then I saw the Cap’n Garrick comin’ back out of the tower where I knew Lieutenant Winters and the vox-op t’be. Well then sir I saw him make…some kinda hand signal to the nearby Tau troops right, and I’m thinkin’ he’s gone there and put that armour on, hell he’s probably a traitor. So I watched him and sure enough by those Tau there was an explosion right, and those Tau they got one of ‘em tanks right, the big ‘uns with the big long guns, and they pointed to the tower – where Winters was and Uden, and they fired on it sir.” 

The familiar mutterings filled the galleries, but MkCormack let them continue until they died down. 

“Interesting,” Vurdan said, “Because, you see, Mister McShaw, my learned friend here, Mister Vandemarr, says that Mister Garrick is innocent, and that he didn’t do that at all.” 

“No sir, I saw him do that, sir. As clear as day.” 

“You’re sure that you saw the accused signal a rank of Tau warriors to fire upon his comrades, whilst wearing Tau armour?” 

“Yes sir,” 

“Thank you. Could you please tell the court what happened then?” 

“Yes sir, I can. Well then, sir, I followed the Cap’n into the city, sir, since that’s where he was headed, across the rooftops, sir. He didn’t see me y’see. So then a while later I saw him come across a Trooper, LeVyn, I think his name was. So then I saw that the trooper saw him, an’ since he was wearin’ the armour, was probably more than a little disgusted, sir. Well then I saw this other Tau soldier, see, an’ he was coming up behind LeVyn, and so then I saw the Cap’n shoot LeVyn in the shoulder sir.” 

There as a gasp from the galleries. 

“Order,” MkCormack said testily. 

“You saw Mister Garrick…shoot one of his own soldiers?” Vurdan said, in a shocked voice Vandemarr knew was fake. He rolled his eyes. 

“Yes sir.” 

“Then what happened?” 

“Well sir, the other Tau jumped on his back sir, with a knife see, but LeVyn he was out cold, he must’ve hit his head or somethin’.” 

“So they were co-operating?” 

“Yes sir,” 

“And what did Garrick then do?” 

“Garrick shot the Tau warrior.” 

“He shot the Tau warrior?” 

“Yes sir,” 

“Was it an accident?” 

“It appeared to be an accident, yes,” 

“Objection!” Vandemarr said, quickly mounting the lectern and powering up to the level of the bench. “Sir the question calls for an opinion, not for facts.” 

“Hm,” MkCormack said. “I'm going to allow it. I think the witness would be able to tell if it was a clear accident or not.” 

Vandemarr bowed his acquiescence. 

“So Garrick shot the Tau that was about to kill LeVyn by accident?” Vurdan pressed. 

“Yeah,” McShaw replied. 

“Is there anything else you saw after that?” 

“No sir, I lost sight of the Cap’n after that. I think he was captured not long after.” 

“Thank you, Lieutenant. No further questions lord.” 

“Thank you Mister Vurdan. Mister Vandemarr, does the counsel for the defence have anything to ask?” 

“Yes sir, I do,” Vandemarr snapped. “Mister McShaw, you said that Garrick signalled the Tau to fire upon the tower, yes?” 

“Yes sir, I did.” 

“And if I just quote you earlier, ‘by those Tau there was an explosion right’ – that’s what you said, yes?” 

“Y-es” McShaw said slowly, as if talking to an idiot. Vandemarr smirked. 

“Mister McShaw, are you aware that the ‘hand signal’ Captain Garrick was making to the Tau was actually him throwing a hand grenade – and subsequently explains the explosion. In fact the only reason the Tau vehicle fired on the position was that, half an hour before, a rocket had been fired from that same floor and destroyed an overhead Barracuda?” 

“Objection lord, is the counsel actually saying that the Tau fired upon Lieutenant Winters’ position half an hour after a rocket was fired from it? Because if so they must have bloody good memories!” 

There was a chorus of laughter from the galleries. 

“Order!” MkCormack snapped. “Mister Vandemarr, without evidence, your arguments seem very coincidental. Have you anything to support this?” 

“The testimony from Captain Garrick.” The Commissar replied stonily. 

“Then there is no evidence is there?” MkCormack said irritably. “Mister Vandemarr, you are to question on the facts, and not substitute them with wild theories of your own. Is this understood?” 

“Yes, lord,” Vandemarr said sullenly. 

“Thank you. Does the defence have anything else to add?” 

“Yes lord,” Vandemarr said indignantly. “Mister McShaw how was it clear that Captain Garrick and the Tau soldier were co-operating when they attempted to kill LeVyn?” 

“Pardon me sir?” 

“You heard me Lieutenant.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question,” 

“Well, let me explain.” Vandemarr said. “Earlier, Mister Vurdan asked you if Captain Garrick and the Tau fire warrior were co-operating, to which you replied ‘yes’. I want to know how it was clear that they were co-operating.” 

“I…” 

“Sorry? Speak up man, I can’t hear.” 

“Objection lord, counsel is bullying the witness,” 

“Overruled, let him answer the question.” MkCormack said, leaning in. 

“It was just clear…” McShaw said weakly. 

“How?” 

“I don’t know…” 

“Okay, well let’s try another question then.” Vandemarr said, shuffling through some papers. “When Captain Garrick shot the Tau, how could you tell it was an accident?” 

“I…what?” 

“Oh for goodness’ sake, HOW could you TELL, it was an ACCIDENT?” 

“Well he –” 

“Where did Garrick shoot the Tau soldier?” 

“In the – in the head,” McShaw replied, breaking. 

“So Captain Garrick, after calmly shooting a fellow soldier in the shoulder on purpose, shoots a Tau in the head by accident?” 

“There was –” 

“Tell me Lieutenant, which is bigger, the head or the chest?” 

“What?” 

“It’s a simple question, which is bigger, the head or the chest?” 

“The chest…” 

“Does it not strike you as slightly illogical that Garrick should accidentally shoot a 'fellow' Tau soldier in the head, but purposefully shoot an 'enemy' Guardsman in the shoulder?” 

“Y-yes – I mean no, no, it doesn’t,” 

“Where was the Tau soldier approaching LeVyn from?” 

“From behind…” 

“So the Tau soldier was also walking into Garrick’s line of fire then?” 

“He wasn’t firing at that point…” 

“He wasn’t? But you just said he was!” 

“I – I didn’t –” 

“Yes you did! And I quote; ‘I saw this other Tau soldier, and he was coming up behind LeVyn, and so then I saw the Captain shoot LeVyn in the shoulder’. That’s what you said. On record.” 

“Well sir it was sandy, I might not have seen properly,” 

“Don’t lie to me Lieutenant. You saw well enough earlier.” 

“Yes sir,” McShaw replied sullenly. 

“You’ve told the court that as a Tau fire warrior approached LeVyn from behind, Garrick shot LeVyn in the shoulder, and then when the Tau jumped on the unconscious trooper, Garrick shot the Tau in the head, is that right?” 

“Y-yes sir, that’s right,” McShaw said quietly. 

“Is it not possible that Garrick may then, in light of these revelations, have been trying to shoot the Tau that was approaching LeVyn from behind, but by accident hit him in the shoulder – and subsequently have taken a second shot, when his eye was in, and killed the Tau before it killed one of his own men? Is that not possible – indeed, probable?” 

“Yes…” McShaw whispered, utterly discredited. 

“Lord, I would submit that upon this man’s flimsy evidence, his earlier testimony on Garrick signalling the Tau to blow up his comrades was equally fictitious.” 

MkCormack sat in contemplation, whilst an uneasy silence descended upon the court. 

“Yes, I agree,” he said after a while, “the testimony is to be stricken from the record.” 

Vandemarr managed to stop himself revealing a triumphant smile as McShaw was discharged, and the galleries erupted in outrage – to do so would be unprofessional. 

So he winked at Vurdan instead.















*Chapter 27*

Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
17.982.M41​

~_Two day recess_ ~ 

“Two day recess,” Vandemarr muttered angrily as they pressed on through the sheets of rain lashing down from the grey afternoon sky. “Two days!” 

“Perhaps the bench need time to come up with a verdict?” Codey hazarded from behind him, trying to keep up through the empty avenue. 

“They haven’t even heard all the evidence yet, moron,” Vandemarr snapped, not turning around. “The trial isn’t even over. I know you come from a world so backwater it doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘court’, but surely you must know that they don’t give a verdict until after the trial has finished.” 

Codey’s face turned thunderous. 

“Sir, pardon me for being so forward, but when are you going to stop being a complete bastard?” He said, stopping and looking at the Commissar angrily. 

Vandemarr whirled around, took a few, quick steps, and grabbed the unflinching Lieutenant by the front of his tunic. 

“When I know I can trust you, boy,” he snarled, his rain-soaked face mere centimetres away. 

“Get your hands off me,” Codey said, trying to knock the Commissar’s hands away; but Vandemarr’s grip held fast. 

“I’ve got my eye on you Julian. You’d better watch your back.” He continued darkly. 

“Get off me, for the love of the Emperor,” Codey barked, struggling. When Vandemarr still refused to let go, he lashed out, kicking him in the shin, hard. The Commissar roared, throwing Codey back, and he slid across the ground. 

But the Lieutenant wasn't done. Back on his feet, he launched himself at Vandemarr, tackling him roughly to the paving stones. 

“You son of a bitch!” He shouted, bringing his fist down to break the Commissar’s nose; but Vandemarr caught it, and smartly twisted it around, so that Codey had to roll off him lest his wrist snap. 

“Think about what you’re doing, Lieutenant,” Vandemarr said, standing up. “Striking an Imperial Commissar is an executable offence. Don’t start something you can’t finish.” 

“Oh shut up,” Codey shouted, his blood up. He ran at Vandemarr again, stooping low for another tackle; but the Commissar brought his knee up, catching him in the throat. Codey tried to scream, but all he could manage was a hoarse, strangled yelp. 

He collapsed, clutching his neck. Above him, Vandemarr smartly snapped his bolt pistol from its holster, and levelled it at the Lieutenant’s head. 

“On the battlefield, Codey, I’d have shot you by now. What if someone’s watching, man?” He shouted. “It doesn’t matter about our history! You don’t hit a Commissar – rule number one! Emperor, Codey, be smart!” 

“Screw you,” Codey whispered, the barrel of Vandemarr’s bolt pistol taking up the majority of his vision. Rainwater dribbled down the side, leaking into his eyes. 

“Dammit,” Vandemarr hissed, shoving the pistol back into its holster. “Dammit!” 

He walked over to the kerb and kicked it. Behind him, Codey wearily pressed himself from the ground, massaging his throat. 

“This is ridiculous,” Vandemarr said, retrieving his cap from the road and re-affixing it to his head. 

“Don’t you see?” Codey said, running a hand through his soaked hair. “Whoever wrote that note is trying to split us apart. They’re trying to engineer exactly this!” 

Vandemarr slowly turned to the Lieutenant. 

“You don’t even know what it says,” he said, his voice dripping with suspicion. 

“Yes, but you’ve been strange with me ever since you read it! What the hell else can it be?” 

_Don’t trust his lies_. That’s what it said. 

There was a pause. Above them another shuttle descended towards the palace, its landing lights blinking through the haze of rain. 

“Codey, where did you go when you left the bar last night?” Vandemarr suddenly asked. 

“What? What are you talking about?” 

“Last night, when you stormed out the bar. Where did you go?” 

“What? I headed back to the hotel room,” the Lieutenant replied indignantly, over the hissing of the rain. 

_Don’t trust his lies_. 

“Well,” Vandemarr said, folding one arm across his chest and bringing his other hand up to his mouth. “When I headed after you, at a…considerably quicker pace, you were nowhere to be seen.” 

“I was hiding,” Codey said gesturing with his hand, in a tone of voice that implied Vandemarr had, quite annoyingly, misunderstood the whole situation. “When I saw Frost lurking about, I hid. I knew he was out to get you.” 

“You knew he was out to get me?” Vandemarr asked, unconvinced. 

“Yeah,” Codey replied, shrugging. “You saw him yourself.” 

“No I didn’t,” the Commissar said, “I saw a hooded figure; you told me it was Frost.” 

“It was Frost! Throne, I saw him! What, you think I’m in on this? You think I’m out to get you too?” 

“A guilty conscience needs no accuser, Codey,” Vandemarr said darkly. 

“Oh piss off,” the Lieutenant said, his face screwing up in annoyance. “I’m not some bloody spy. I fought with you dammit! For the last two years! Against the Tau!” 

_Don’t trust his lies. _

Another silence passed between them, and the rain lashed down. Neither man was willing to break it first – though particularly not Vandemarr, who was deep in thought. He looked the Lieutenant in the eye, summoning all his training, all his experience to mind. Was Codey with them? Was he a spy? The man certainly believed it was what he thought; otherwise he wouldn’t have denied it so vehemently. But the night before he had been so scared. Was it all an act? He had known Codey for two years, yes, but only intermittently. Could he trust this man? 

“Okay, okay,” he said eventually, unwilling to press the subject further until he knew more. He forced out a laugh. “Sorry, I’m just a little on edge, that’s all.” 

Codey breathed an overt sigh of relief, and he cast his eyes upwards, as if to thank the Emperor. “It’s alright,” he exhaled, “I think this case has everyone rattled.” 

“Yeah,” Vandemarr replied. _You especially._ “Yeah.” 

He looked behind him, as if expecting to see Frost there, with a pistol. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.” He said, jerking his head back past his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Codey replied, walking past the Commissar. “I could use a drink.” 

Behind him, Vandemarr released the handle of his bolt pistol, and followed.


----------



## dark angel

As always Zwan, good work; I am slowly running out of things to say now  do you plan on posting them all up?


----------



## Zwan

Yep!

*Chapter 28*

Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
17.982.M41​

~_A timely inquisition_~ 

They sat in their usual seats in the spaceport bar. On the table, a pair of tumblers, and a bottle of amber coloured ethanec sat between them. One of the bar servitors, clad in a greasy apron, filled both tumblers with a handful of ice cubes, and left. 

Vandemarr picked up the bottle and poured himself a generous measure, before sliding it across the table. In the dim lighting of the bar, the Commissar looked positively haggard; his eyes bloodshot and shadowed by sleep-deprived smears of grey, his face darkened by four day stubble, his hair greasy and unkempt. He perfectly juxtaposed his uniform, tidy and smartly worn as always. 

Across from him, Codey poured himself a measure of the strong-smelling liquid, and knocked it back, grimacing at the sharp taste. 

“You want to go over what we know?” The Lieutenant hazarded, his voice low and grim. 

Vandemarr shrugged. He still didn’t know what to make of Codey, and their tussle on the way to the bar. He had long since decided, ever since receiving the note, that he needed some answers. Garrick’s trial had become a backdrop to a much larger sequence of events. Never before had he felt his life had been so threatened. He would have abandoned the case long ago if he didn’t believe that Garrick was innocent, or that the mysterious dealings that now seemed integral to the trial were important to the security of the Imperium itself. 

No, he would not leave the trial. He would not be broken from fear. If he himself was the target, then by the Emperor he would make a good account of himself. The note had shown him someone was on his side. Perhaps the anonymous Inquisitor. Perhaps from another source altogether. He had always believed that on some level, someone was backing him; the placing of Vurdan on the prosecution counsel had shown that. The man was good, but Vandemarr was better; and what was more, Vandemarr had beaten him in court before. 

The outcome of the trial seemed to be the key. He had so far managed to acquit Garrick of the majority of the indictments. All that remained was the matter of the scarring. If he could prove that he had not applied the scars himself – something which he was sure, with his as-of-yet un-admitted witness, he could do – and make a movement for duress, the Captain may well be found not guilty. In which case, how would those concerned be affected? Vurdan, Frost – perhaps even Codey, the Inquisitor; who knew the extent of the treachery? Just how rotten was the trial? 

If he was the target, then just about everyone save himself could be in on it. But there were other ways – simpler ways of getting to him. All it took was one bullet and he was gone, erased from the face of the Imperium forever. 

It was the same problem with Garrick; if someone had wanted him to burn for heresy, he would have been killed long ago. A summary execution from the men who found him would have been perfectly acceptable – nay, encouraged. Colonel Burke had not recommended him for a trial out of compassion. He had been told to. Who by, and why, were the questions he needed answering. Now. He’d had enough of the trial, of the deceit. Someone was framing an innocent man to expose a much larger conspiracy, and it was something Vandemarr couldn’t let happen. He was an Imperial Commissar. It was his duty to inspire first, and punish second. To enflame the weak and the vulnerable. Garrick was an innocent man – he was sure of it. A man who had given twelve good years of service to the Imperium, who had fallen subject to the games of a madman. 

And Vandemarr was damned if he wasn't going to find out who. 

“No,” he replied quietly, refilling his glass. 
* * *


It was still raining when they left that night. The streets were once again deserted, the neon advertisements illuminating great tracts of water bubbling across drains and down gutters. The downpour was evidently part of Kalen Primo’s natural winter cycle, since not one person had commented on the unrelenting torrent since they had been there; but it was unsettling to say the least. The storm clouds overhead rumbled and flashed, indiscernible from the roaring of overhead aircraft engines. 

Vandemarr sighed, and pressed on, the Lieutenant some way behind him. 

“Keep up Codey, we’ll catch our deaths out here,” he shouted above the grumbling of another bout of the thunder. The man jogged up next to him, soaked through and shivering. 

“Let’s get back to the hotel.” He said, his voice almost compassionate. The Lieutenant looked at him, and smiled briefly. 

He pressed on through the rain, constantly wiping his eyes as the wind cut the water sideways, sleeting in amongst the increasingly loud bangs of thunder and the regular flashes of lightning. 

He must have walked another half a kilometre before he realised the Lieutenant had gone. 

“Codey?” He shouted above the storm. 

He turned around, to see the street behind him empty. 

“Codey?” 

Something slammed into the base of his spine, knocking him to the floor. He cried out, rolling onto his back, to see a figure above him, his features masked by the same cloak as the night before, wielding a strip of iron. 

“Don’t do this!” He shouted above the storm, blinking in the rain, his hand slowly creeping towards his bolt pistol. “You’re making a mistake! I am an Imperial Commissar!” 

The makeshift club came down again, but this time Vandemarr was ready. He rolled to the side as the metal smashed against the road, and lashed out with his foot, kicking his assailant’s legs from under him. The man landed hard on the road, and Vandemarr pounced on him, quickly bringing his fist down into his face. There was a satisfying crunch, followed by a muffled scream of pain, and he thumped him again, in exactly the same place. When he brought his fist up for a third punch, however, the man’s knee suddenly buried itself deep in his groin. In the moment of unbridled agony that followed, a sudden uppercut knocked the Commissar clean off and onto his back. 

Vandemarr found himself looking up at the sky, incapacitated, whilst the attacker stood up over him. Dazed, he felt his bolt pistol being tugged from its holster, and heard, as clearly as he’d ever heard anything in his life, the click-clack of the cocking handle being drawn back and released. 

He swallowed, refusing to shirk from the gun. Emperor-dammit, if he was going to die now, he would die with dignity. 

“Goodbye, Mister Vandemarr,” the voice said, grimly satisfied, levelling the pistol at his face. In the flash of lightning that followed, the Commissar could just see the bloodied face of the man, illuminated forever on his mind, grinning like a Daemon Prince. 

Then the gun exploded – quite literally. 

In a split second, a second figure appeared in the street, not twenty metres away, holding a smoking plasma pistol at arms length. Vandemarr’s commandeered bolt pistol, a melted wreck, span from his assailant’s hand and clattered onto the rain-soaked pavement next to him. 

“To be continued,” the man growled nervously, before turning on his heel and fleeing into the night. 

Vandemarr let out an excruciated groan and cupped his wounded genitals, rolling onto his side and feeling the rainwater soak into his uniform. As he did so, he saw the second figure standing next to him – cloaked and hooded like the first, but with a complex set of whirring augmetics and pipes smothering one side of his face, and a triangular rebreather concealing his mouth. His eyes were a deep purple, fading to white in the centre, and his hair was long and lank, dark and tangled around the machinery holding his skull together. 

An Inquisitor; as obvious as the ground he was lying on. 

The man calmly slid his plasma pistol back into its holster – revealing an array of weapons lining the inside of the heavy cloak – and extended a gloved hand. 

“Mister Vandemarr,” he said, his overlapping voices infinitely addictive. 

“I think it’s about time we had a talk.”


----------



## Zwan

*Chapter 29*

_“To live is to sin, and to be a sinner is to be cleansed. Only the fiery wrath of the Emperor, as pronounced and executed by His mortal followers, can save humanity from destroying itself in a morass of carnal wantonness and tolerant servitude to those who have been corrupted. The Redemptionists will bring fire and they will bring death, and those that oppose them are sinners themselves, for they seek to shield the dark and the unholy from the righteous works of the Emperor. Repent and join, or be cursed and die.” 
_
~ Anonymous 

Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
20.982.M41​

~_Lieutenant Codey_~ 

Codey woke with a start, his scarred torso slick with perspiration. His heavy, panicked breathing made the only noise in the still room as he quickly sat up, his surroundings briefly unfamiliar. 

The hotel. He was in the hotel room. A small, two-bed room cluttered with legal documents and fast-food packaging; with laundered dress uniforms folded neatly on the chair next to him, and an assortment of military paraphernalia scattered around – most notably his duffel back, its contents strewn from the open zip as if the carryall had vomited his personal effects onto the cheap carpeting. 

He took a deep breath, to calm himself, and checked his chronometer lying on the bedside table: 07:31. Another fourteen minutes and his alarm would sound; but he turned it off, rather than snoozing. 

He was on edge. He had not seen Vandemarr for two days. Since the incident that night, when he had been knocked out cold by some unknown assailant – by a blow he was sure was meant to kill him – and dragged into a side alley, he had been blighted with nightmares that terrorized his dreams, and haunted his waking thoughts. Not having read the note that the Commissar had been solely privy to had only sought to accelerate these wild imaginings – enough to make him lash out, and foolishly strike the man. 

Now he was gone. 

In his absence, there were essentially two things that Codey had opted to do. The first was to read through Vandemarr’s notes, his journal, the case – and anything relevant to the trial, and plan his next course of action should the Commissar not return. He had to prove Garrick innocent – now more than ever. 

The second had been to piece together everything he knew about his enemies on the trial, and form his ideas into a couple of coherent scenarios should he fail. 

But his work had been intermittent and panicked. He now carried an autopistol on him at all times, and often, when someone passed the door, he would hide and wait for at least twenty minutes before he was certain that the perceived threat had passed. His fear of assassination had kept him awake for most of the two nights following the 17th – and the last night had barely been better. Even now, after nothing had happened for two days, he was still loathe to leave the room. 

He shook his head and swung his legs out of bed, stretching and yawning as his toes dug into the carpet. He picked the pistol up from the bedside table, quickly checked it, and grabbed a towel from the table next to the room’s only window. He took both items into the en suite with him, placing them within easy reach, and showered – with the door open wide. 

When he was finished, he quickly performed his ablutions, dressed into a cleanly-pressed dress uniform, and slotted the pistol into its smart black holster. Despite the bearing of arms in public being commonplace in the Imperium, he still felt uncomfortable at its obviousness – it being the first time he had worn a piece since operations on Uvolon Septimus had finished some months before. 

He looked at himself in the full length mirror; black boots, black trousers, black tunic with gold braid and red inlay, neck-length epaulettes with his Lieutenant’s insignia over the Imperial Aquilla. Since Uvolon Septimus, his faith in such a pristine display of the honour of the Imperial Guard had dwindled. 

He strode over to his bedside table, and affixed his chronometer, before gathering up his work from the bureau in the corner and neatly sliding it into Vandemarr’s satchel. Then he went back to the bedside table, and picked up the small beige commcaster from its holder, dialling in a short sequence of numbers. It rang a few times, before a tired voice answered; “Yeah?” 

“It’s time. Today. Meet me outside the palace in half an hour. Don’t be late.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Don’t be late,” Codey repeated, and thumbed the commcaster off. 

Giving the room one last cursory check, he snatched the keycard from the absent Commissar’s bed, and quietly exited the room. 
* * *


The Department of Imperial Justice looked harsh and unforgiving in the cold grey light of the morning, as Codey approached it though the central rockcrete avenue. When he arrived at the main entrance, he briefly acknowledged his witness, standing by the door smoking fervently. 

“You remember what I told you?” 

The man nodded. 

“Psykers and mind scanners are banned, so you have nothing to worry about. Okay?” 

Again, the man nodded nervously. 

“Right. Follow me. I need to admit you with the secretarium. After that, I’ll see you in court.” 

He flashed the doorkeeper his temporary pass, and made his way across the carpet of the south wing, through the many busy atria that constituted the journey to the centre of the building. 

When he arrived at the silver and glass doors of the Emperor’s Court – the usual thousands-strong crowd of civilians clamouring to get to the lower galleries – he showed his pass once more, and admitted the witness to the secretarium. 

He then passed the disgruntled guard that Vandemarr had angered on so many occasions, and crossed the marble flooring of the court proper to the desk for the defence counsel. 

He refused to look across at Vurdan and Frost, who he knew were staring angrily at him. Instead, he concentrated on organising his papers across the desk, before sitting down and folding his fingers out in front of him. 

He saw Vurdan stand up angrily out of the corner of his eye, and begin to cross the floor towards him; but his timing could not have been worse. The now familiar call of ‘all rise’ from the municipal address system sounded, and the Senior Commissar was forced to return to his desk. 

The nine members of the bench, once again filed in, and took their seats – excluding MkCormack, who remained standing. The galleries also sat with a uniform shuffle, but Codey, Vurdan and Frost were bound to stand until the president sat. 

“The counsel for the prosecution has at this time no further witnesses they wish to call to the stand. Since the counsel for the defence has not admitted any witnesses for this trial, there is nothing further to do than to recess and contemplate a verdict.” MkCormack said. 

Codey nervously cleared his throat. “Uh, actually sir, the counsel for the defence would like to admit one witness, now if it pleases your lordships.” 

His voice echoed around the cold court, gaining him the attention of, once again, everybody. 

“Mister Codey, you are aware that the deadline for the admittance of witnesses was over five days ago,” MkCormack said, eliciting a few laughs from the galleries. 

“I am lord, and I can only offer my apologies,” Codey continued, “we weren’t sure if he was going to be available.” 

“Mister Codey, where is your learned associate, Mister Vandemarr?” The Inquisitor asked, his eyes narrowing. 

“He’s…indisposed,” Codey said nervously. 

“Indisposed!” MkCormack laughed, “What could he possibly be doing that’s more important than this?” 

More laughs from the galleries. 

“If it would please your lordship, I would like to question my witness for the benefit of the court?” Codey pressed, unwilling to be sucked into a conversation he potentially didn’t know the answer to. “It’s extremely important to the case,” 

The Inquisitor looked down at him, and then across at Garrick, his dirty face looking plaintively from the dock. 

“Fine, Mister Codey, if it should please you and the court, we shall recognise your witness at this point.” MkCormack finally caved. He sat down and pulled out his dataslate and stylus, enabling Vurdan and Frost to sit as well – their looks still murderous. 

“The court does at this time recognise…Colonel Ghant of the 88th Cottesmore Guard.” MkCormack said, looking to the witness stand. Across the suspended walkway, the Colonel walked, slightly nervous. He was a tall man, with short brown hair and a thick moustache, clad in the same ochre fatigues as the previous witnesses – though unlike the others, he wore no beret. 

“Mister Ghant, could you please read the card in front of you,” 

“Uh, yeah… I, Rhyben Ghant, hereby declare, in the name of Imperial justice, that the answers I shall submit on this day are true to the best of my knowledge, so help me our beloved God-Emperor,” 

“Thank you Mister Ghant,” MkCormack said in his usual uninterested tone. “Mister Codey, you may proceed with your questioning,” 

“Thank you, l-lord,” Codey said, walking over to the lectern and standing on the rising platform. A small brass lever was the only apparatus indicative of the mechanism, and he pushed it forward. He raised his eyes in thanks as the lectern hissed up to the level of the bench – although his newfound calm soon disappeared once he realised he was directly level with the accusatory squints of four senior officials, four ranking Imperial Generals and one very frightening Inquisitor. 

“M-Mister Ghant, you are the officer commanding the 88th Cottesmore Guard regiment, correct?” 

“Yes,” the Colonel replied. 

“And you were Captain Garrick’s…commanding officer, yes?” 

“Yes,” 

Codey racked is brain as to how Vandemarr would have gone about asking these questions. 

“Mister Ghant, on the evening of the eighth of this year, with the Imperial reinforcements, uh, landed by the Imperial Navy ‘Strength and H-Honour’ fleet, you led a counter-attack into the capital city of Uvolon Quintus, er, Monfort. Yes?” 

“Yes,” 

“And…according to your testimony, you were separated from your unit?” 

“That’s correct,” 

“C-could you please, uh, for the court, say what happened next?” 

“Yes Lieutenant; after I was separated from my unit, I hooked up with a scout party. Shortly after 08:00, local time, we came across a park in the centre of the city. It was there that we saw the Captain, standing in front of a group of Tau. It was clear that they were applying the ritual scarring he now bears, against his will.” 

The galleries erupted. Shouting filled the court. The clamour of ten thousand disbelieving Imperial citizens roared in Codey’s ears, washed across MkCormack’s stony face, and penetrated Vurdan and Frost’s brains like a lightning bolt. All court officials were too stunned to call for order. The galleries were too angry to be silent. Those that had protested Garrick’s innocence all along were on the verge of being lynched. Those that were hellbent on his guilt were livid. 

In fact, it was only when the doors to the court were smashed open that any form of silence descended. The thrum of angry conversation dripped dry as a figure stormed across the marble flooring, and stopped just short of the defence desk. 

“That man is a liar,” Commissar Albrecht Vandemarr growled, pointing his finger at Colonel Ghant. 

“And I demand that his testimony be stricken from the record.”


----------



## Zwan

Here's where it gets confusing... 

*Chapter 30*

Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
19.982.M41​

~_Answers_~ 

Vandemarr awoke, his eyes blurry and his head throbbing. The room he was in was smothered in shadows, and the only light came from outside, slanted across the floor in thin, sharply-defined parallelograms. It was a large room – very large, though not one the Commissar was familiar with, and certainly not one of the rooms in the hotel he was staying in. 

He sat up in the bed, gasping as he did so. A sharp pain lanced away from the back of his head, spreading across his skull and down his spine. His smock, the thin garment he wore under his tunic, was damp with sweat – as were his breeches. The rest of his clothes had been removed, and hung up around the room. 

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, his clothes soon became the least notable of his surroundings. Everywhere were books – thousands upon thousands of books, covered in cobwebs and dust. They were stacked on piles metres high, crammed into shelves lining all the available wall space, and distributed all over the floor, to form a carpet of hardbacks and paper. 

Vandemarr felt a stab of adrenaline as the memories came flooding back – Codey, the attacker in the rain, the Inquisitor… 

He checked his wrist to see if his chronometer was still attached – and when he found out it was, he checked the date – the 19th. He’d been asleep for over a day. Asleep in this altogether strange room, this rebellious library. 

A movement behind a stack of books snapped him from his thoughts. 

“Hello?” He called out, his voice startlingly loud in the utterly still room. 

“Hello,” came the reply. The cloaked Inquisitor stepped into view, looking exactly the same as when Vandemarr last saw him. “I suppose you’re wondering what you’re doing here?” 

“And where here is,” the Commissar said, entirely disconcerted. 

“Well,” the Inquisitor said, extending his arms, “this is my home on this world. My home away from home. Though to call any of my places of residences homes would be most incorrect. I am an Inquisitor, and Inquisitors tend not to have homes. Or at least, tend to have more than one. Not that they’re homes, of course.” 

Catching the Commissar’s expression, he chuckled under his rebreather – a harsh, mechanical sound – before he continued in his multitude of overlapping voices. Vandemarr was sure that the man in front of him wasn't actually speaking – rather he was simply hearing his words inside his own head. 

“Here is in Kalen Primo, naturally – not far, in fact, from your hotel. We are in the attic of another building,” the Inquisitor continued. “My name is Inquisitor Enrich Brochs, of the Ordo Militum. I believe I saved your life?” 

“Uh, yes,” Vandemarr replied, giving a lame half-smile. “Thanks,” 

“Don’t mention it,” Brochs replied. “Out of interest, when was the last time you slept?” 

“I don’t know, a couple of nights ago?” 

“Evidently, not enough,” the Inquisitor said. He kicked a couple of books aside, and pulled a three-legged wooden stool from behind another stack of dusty volumes. 

“The man who tried to kill you was a Major General. His name is Gregor Burkhardt.” He sighed as he sat down. 

“You know him?” Vandemarr asked. 

“Of course I do,” Brochs replied, “you don’t?” 

“No…” 

“You should. He was on the command staff whilst you were on Uvolon Septimus last year.” 

“How do you know so much about me?” The Commissar asked. 

“I’m an Inquisitor,” Brochs replied. “It’s my job to know about people.” 

There was a silence, whilst realisation seemed through Vandemarr like treacle. 

“You’re the Inquisitor…” he breathed. 

“I’m an Inquisitor,” Brochs corrected, “trust me there are more than one of us,” 

“No,” Vandemarr said, irritably, “you’re the Inquisitor. Behind the trial,” 

“Ah,” said Brochs, “that Inquisitor. You are very perceptive Mister Vandemarr.” 

“What’s going on?” The Commissar asked quickly, “What’s happening? Why are people trying to kill me?” 

“Would you like a drink?” Brochs asked. 

“No, I don’t want a drink, I want to know what the hell is going on!” Vandemarr almost shouted. Brochs looked at him, in the silence that followed. 

“Yeah, I could use a drink,” he conceded. 
* * *


“It was a few years after the Damocles Gulf Campaign – back in 750, a long time before you were born – when we noticed it. Men, hundreds of Guardsmen turning traitor, turning their backs on the Imperium for the ‘Greater Good’ of the Tau Empire. They were lured by the idealism of these xenos. They had coherence, unity through their goal and their technology. Most of all, they didn’t suffer from the blight of the Warp as overtly as we do. Do you see Tau heretics, mutants and traitors?” 

Vandemarr looked up as he realised it was an actual question. 

“Uh, no,” 

“No. You don’t. These men were tricked, Albrecht. They were tricked into enlisting as warriors, warriors who would fight alongside this young race. Do you know why human auxiliaries are so valuable to the Tau?” 

“No?” 

“War. War. Mankind has evolved to serve one purpose, honed to perform one art. The art of combat. The skill of death. For fifty thousand years, Commissar, from the first rock thrown in anger, to the last of Abbadon’s Black Crusades, the integrity of man has been forged on the battlefield, forged by the blade and the bullet and the blood of martyrs. We are all tradesmen, Albrecht, and our craft is war.” 

“I’m not sure I –” 

“The Tau is a young race, Albrecht, and their expansion has not, for the most part, necessitated warfare. Can you imagine, therefore, after Damocles, when they came head to head with the Imperium? With the other damned inhabitants of this galaxy? They needed experienced fighters, men who had spent their entire lives on the battlefield. And now, here they were. The Tau had found all the warriors they needed.” 

Brochs sighed, and paused. 

“The Imperium is not a nice place, Albrecht. We both know it. Death lurks around every corner – the stigma of our generation. But not in the Tau Empire. It is easy to see – though still unforgivable – why young men would turn. And the Tau are truly excellent at what they do. They have, after all, enlisted the Kroot and the Vespid, have they not?” 

Vandemarr nodded, sipping his ethanec. 

“Needless to say, there was a crackdown. Any unit serving within two parsecs of the Eastern Fringe was subjected to regular review.” He paused, his voice taking on a more melancholy tone. “Thousands were executed. The treachery had run deeper than any of us had anticipated. It was endemic. Entire battlegroups were rotten right up to the senior staff.” 

He stood up, crossed the book-smothered floor to the small window, and looked out over the clouded night sky of Gortlémund. 

“The operation took years, but the message was clear enough. Any man suspected of consorting with the Tau was to be tortured and killed, without question.” He scratched the underside of his chin, not taking his eyes off the city. 

“Well it worked – almost too well. Men began to disappear. Small splinter groups formed, attracting young men from battle-weary regiments. We had to step off, lest our actions become so severe they had the opposite effect. So instead, we started rotating the units. No regiment was to serve on the frontlines of any contested world on the Eastern Fringe for more than two months.” 

Vandemarr sat in silent contemplation for a tactical minute, before posing his question. 

“With all due respect, Inquisitor, what has that got to do with the trial?” 

“As you may have guessed, Mister Vandemarr, we once again have a problem with these…auxiliaries.” Brochs said, turning around and making his way back to his chair. “Four years ago, reports were coming in from the multitude of members of the Ordo Militum watching the Eastern Fringe of another increase in treachery. However, rather than employ our previous tactics, and force them underground, we began using their own methods against them.” 

“What methods? How?” Vandemarr pressed. 

“Since they would set up splinter groups to lure men to their…warrior lodge, if you like, we did the same thing. We took men we knew to be traitors – and we knew who others knew to be traitors – and we put them on trial. Public trial. Then we took other men – sometimes only one or two, and put them in key positions in the trials. Like these lodges, they would attract more Tau sympathisers, and employ them as aides, or judges…we liked to call it networking. Usually, not only would it lead us to the Tau sympathisers attracted to the trial, it would also bring in traitors from a variety of different lodges spread all over the Mordant Zone. Then we could quietly execute those we knew to be heretics, and infiltrate and destroy the lodges.” 

“Garrick…” Vandemarr breathed. 

“Yes,” Brochs said. “Garrick was perfect. He applied the scars to his own cheeks, men saw him doing it…Colonel Ghant, for one, another sympathiser.” 

“Garrick told me that the Tau applied the scars! Against his will!” 

“Well I’m afraid he lied to you,” Brochs said simply. 

“But he was…it was…that son of a BITCH! He…I…I believed him!” Vandemarr was livid. “And Ghant? My witness?” 

“He didn’t see Garrick, as he has told you, being forced to the ground. Nor did he see the Tau apply the scars. He lied to you, Albrecht, to get Garrick off the hook. As did your partner, Lieutenant Codey.” 

Vandemarr’s mouth dropped. 

“What did you say?” He whispered. 

“Lieutenant Codey. Your partner on the counsel for the defence. Employed by Mister Vurdan to spy on you, whilst both of them were aboard the prison ship the INS Divine Justice.” 

“No…” 

“I’m afraid so,” Brochs continued, evidently oblivious to Vandemarr’s anguish. “Did you not think it odd that a man with no legal experience had been appointed to be your junior?” 

Vandemarr nodded his head dumbly, the memory from the Princeps Suite fresh in his mind. 

“Perhaps it is best to start from the beginning,” Brochs said, passing Vandemarr the bottle of ethanec. The Commissar took a long swig. 
* * *


“General Reece was the original target in this particular trial. He, along with Major General Burkhardt were on, as I have said, the senior staff during the campaigns on Uvolon Septimus and Quintus. Both men, as you may have guessed, are Tau sympathisers.” He paused, looking at Vandemarr. “Albrecht?” 

“Yeah,” the Commissar said, staring into space. 

“So we found our traitor – Garrick, and set it up so that he was to be trialled by court martial on Gortlémund. General Reece, another known traitor – and not a very bright man – was to be one of the presiding officers, though he didn’t know it at the time. The plan was to take a man who was so obviously guilty that Reece would try to contact him, and in doing so bring a few other higher-ups with him.” 

“You misrepresented the facts…” Vandemarr said. 

“Yes, we did. To a degree. Garrick never signalled the Tau to fire upon his comrades, and he never shot LeVyn on cold blood. We briefed the witnesses to say what they did.” 

“Those men that are now dead? Those innocent men?” 

“Don’t be foolish Vandemarr, of course they’re not dead. Well, except Winters of course, but that was never part of our plan. Thank Mister Vurdan for that.” 

“So MkCormack is in on this as well?” 

“Of course he is,” Brochs snorted, “it would have been quite stupid to keep him in the dark about it.” 

Vandemarr shook his head. This was all too much. “So then what happened?” 

“Well we set up the trial. We leaked information that MkCormack would have something to do with it, and lo and behold, Major General Burkhardt contacts him. Although in another lodge, he was fearful that if Reece was framed, he would take other lodges down with him. So he tried to get the trial as low-key as possible, before Reece had had the chance to see his name on the register. Well, MkCormack, being the smart man he is, neither agrees or disagrees; and shortly afterwards, I contacted him and told him how the trial was to actually be run.” 

“So MkCormack wasn’t in on it at that point?” 

“No, but that doesn’t really matter, since he was fully briefed when I arrived in Kalen Primo the next day,” 

“Hn,” Vandemarr grunted at Brochs, the Inquisitor evidently pleased with himself. 

“So now we had two known traitors. When Burkhardt saw that the trial had been changed to what it was, he went underground. So we appointed Mister Vurdan, in this case the only other Tau sympathiser we knew to be in the same lodge, as the senior for the prosecution. Naturally, this brought Burkhardt back out of hiding.” 

“Uh-huh,” 

“Predictably, Vurdan then appointed Frost, another member of the lodge. They were shortly after contacted by Burkhardt, who told them the trial was a sting, and that they were to press for an execution as quickly as possible. Since they couldn’t kill Garrick themselves, it was the next best alternative to minimise the time General Reece could contact him.” 

Vandemarr nodded. 

“Vurdan was then left with the case. Since him and Burkhardt wanted Garrick dead, he naturally appointed to you someone who could undermine your arguments; this time the illustrious Lieutenant Codey. They then bribed the witnesses to give exaggerated testimonies of Garrick’s guilt even further – who then told us what they were doing.” 

“So the witnesses were spies for you all along?” 

“Correct.” 

“So why did they appear so distraught in Court, after I tore their testimonies in half? Winters looked like he was ready to blow his brains out then and there!” 

“I know. Of course, we didn’t factor in the problem of the oath. Since we got these men to swear the truth in front of the Emperor, naturally they felt a degree of guilt after they broke it so totally.” 

“So what happened to them?” 

“Well Vurdan engineered Winters’ suicide. Gave him a las pistol and told him to ‘do the honourable thing’. Son of a bitch. After the Arbites called MkCormack to the scene, he told the other witnesses that they were immune, in this particular instance, to the repercussions of breaking an oath, since they were actually helping the Emperor in doing so; but it seems MkCormack got slightly carried away with Uden. Took the ‘realistic’ aspect of the court too far. As a consequence, the man thought he was being serious. Hence the display.” 

“Throne…he’s fine now, though?” 

“Yes, yes, Uden’s fine. 

Vandemarr nodded again, evidently frustrating the Inquisitor’s attempts to elicit a more dramatic response. 

“So then what happened?” 

“Ah yes. Well the trial was set in motion. We traced Vurdan, Frost, Reece and Burkhardt back to their lodges. Exposed many more hundreds of sympathisers…and that’s it.” 

“So this whole trial was to set up Garrick as bait?” Vandemarr asked helplessly. “To lure a load of Tau sympathisers from different lodges into trying to contact him?” 

“Exactly,” Brochs said, the tone of his voice indicating that he was smiling under his breathing apparatus. 

There was a short pause. 

“That still doesn’t explain why Codey is acting like he is!” Vandemarr erupted. “I mean he’s terrified for Throne’s sake! Explain that! Why is he so afraid of being killed by Vurdan or Burkhardt or whoever, if he’s on their side? You said that he was sent by them to undermine me!” 

“I did indeed,” Brochs said, his voice infuriatingly cryptic. “However, I seem to have misled you slightly. You see, as I said, Vurdan, Frost and Burkhardt are trying to have Garrick killed, so General Reece, who is still, amusingly adamant on contact, cannot do so. Codey and Colonel Ghant, however, want Garrick alive, for reasons as of yet unknown. We suspect it has something to do with setting up their own lodge. 

“Why don’t the lodges all work together?” 

“Different Tau factions, different lodges. Of course, the Tau factions are united in their common goal for the Greater Good; the humans, predictably, see it as some kind of blood feud. Hence the competition between lodges. Like the gangers in hives.” 

“Anyway…” Vandemarr said impatiently. 

“Well, when you ‘surprised’ Codey with your secret witness – i.e., the man who could testify against the self-scarring, the entire situation had actually been engineered by both Codey and Ghant. It meant that that way, you would think Ghant was totally reliable, since you had found him ‘yourself’, and thus you would be able to lend conviction to his testimony when he gave it. Surprisingly clever, for a Lieutenant.” 

“Ingenious,” Vandemarr snapped. 

“Naturally, as soon as Vurdan got wind of this, he told Burkhardt, who talked to Codey on the night of the 16th. You saw him, dressed in a cloak, down Old Factory Road, and nearly killed him – before Codey stopped you. That was why he tried – and failed – to kill Codey the next night; and nearly succeeded in killing you.” 

“Why did he want to kill me?” 

“Because you were doing so well, it looked as though Garrick would be released; and would be then twice as easy for Reece to contact. Plus, you and Codey were going to admit your surprise witness. They couldn’t let that happen. Desperate times call for desperate measures.” 

They sat in silence, whilst Vandemarr digested the conspiracy in its entirety. 

“I’m going to kill him.” 

“Who?” Brochs asked. 

“Codey. Garrick.” 

“You’re not killing Garrick. We need him tomorrow, after the guilty verdict is given.” 

Vandemarr stared at the Inquisitor. “You mean to tell me MkCormack was going to say guilty this whole time, regardless?” 

“Of course. He is guilty. Naturally, we’re going to give him a delayed execution. That way Reece is bound to try and contact him beforehand – possibly even try and free him! Perish the thought. Obviously we’ll have taken Burkhardt, Vurdan, Frost and Codey into custody by then; we have their lodges. All we need now is more Generals. Sever the head and the body will die. If we can bait Reece into giving Garrick the names of more Generals, we’ll be laughing. If not, we’ll kill them all and have the Arbites storm the lodges. Simple.”


----------



## Zwan

Aaaaand finished!


*Chapter 31*

Department of Imperial Justice 
Kalen Primo, Gortlémund 
20.982.M41​
~_Commissar Vandemarr_~

“Mister Vandemarr, you want your own witness to be stricken from the record?” MkCormack asked incredulously. The tension in the court was tangible. 

“You’re damn right I do,” the Commissar continued, his voice unwavering. He looked up at Garrick, and said loudly; “This man is a heretic and a traitor!”

Garrick looked at him, eyes wide. A single tear dropped down his cheek. 

“Mister Vandemarr, calm down,” the Inquisitor continued, sensing the rising unrest, “you are aware you’re meant to be defending him?”

“I would sooner defend Abaddon himself,” Vandemarr snarled, feeling all the eyes in the room locked on him. The whispers that had begun when he had made his entrance soon turned to muttering. After that, it didn’t take long to escalate into a deafening roar, as ten thousand newly-invigorated Imperial citizens bayed for blood. Vandemarr looked across to Reece, sitting on the bench, his expression betraying everything the Commissar already knew. MkCormack was next to him, his expression unreadable. 

“Death to the traitor!” Someone shouted over the din. “Kill the heretic!” More screaming. More jeers. Someone threw something at the dock. 

“Order,” MkCormack shouted angrily, to no avail. “ORDER!”

The chanting continued, unrelenting. Codey looked down at Vandemarr, and knew the game was up. 

“What are you doing man?” Vurdan hissed, suddenly next to him.

“Back off,” Vandemarr growled, taking a step towards him, “or so help me I will cut you down where you stand.”

The galleries reached a deafening crescendo. Codey slammed the lectern down, and avoiding Vandemarr’s glare, hastily exited the court. Vurdan watched him go, and grabbed Frost by the arm. 

“It’s time we left,” Vandemarr heard him say. He stepped in and blocked them off.

“Going somewhere, Commissar?” he said, his hand on an autopistol. 

“Damn you man,” Vurdan grunted, “you’ll condemn us all to death if you stay here!”

“You deserve no less, traitor,” Vandemarr sneered. Realisation Vurdan like a slap to the face.

“You know…” he breathed.

“Senior Commissar Vurdan,” Vandemarr said, tugging the autopistol from its holster. “By the power vested in me by the authority of the Emperor’s Commissariat, I am placing you under arrest.” He levelled the pistol at Vurdan’s head. “May He have mercy on your soul.”

“Damn you Vandemarr,” Vurdan hissed. “Damn you to hell.” 

Vandemarr leant forward. “On the ground, Commissar.”

Vurdan snarled his anger, and dropped to his knees, his eyes locked with Vandemarr’s. As he did so, the whimpering Frost, snapping, let out a shrill, agitated scream, and ran for the exit. Vandemarr turned quickly to shoot him, but lowered the pistol as the doors to the palace suddenly smashed inwards, and a host of Arbites, lead by Inquisitor Brochs, stormed in.

“Inquisitor!” Brochs bellowed across the court to the bench, “Now is the time!”

MkCormack stood up without so much as an acknowledgement, grabbed Reece by the collar, and threw him to the floor, knee in the small of his back. Two Arbites appeared behind Garrick, and another two behind Ghant, and wrestled them to the ground. 

Brochs walked up to Vandemarr, eying the struggling Vurdan on the floor.

“Commissar Vandemarr, I seem to recall specifically telling you to remain in my room last night,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

“Forgive me sir,” Vandemarr said stonily, “but I don’t like being played.”

“Unfortunate really,” Brochs said, “since your very good at it.”

The Arbites flooded the room, taking men down, pinning the other members of the bench to the floor. The snap of stun rounds being fired crackled and filled the air. 

Vandemarr stared at the unmoving Inquisitor, oblivious to the chaos. “You…planned this?”

“Of course. A more dramatic finale I couldn’t have come up with,” he said.

“But you said…”

“That we would put Garrick on delayed execution? Where’s the need when we can just get a psyker to find out the information for us?”

“But psykers are banned…” Vandemarr said, confusion creasing his brow. 

“Mister Vandemarr, my dear Commissar, we are the Inquisition; we make the rules. Psykers were only banned during the trial because if they’d been employed, everyone would have seen that Garrick was guilty straight away. And, as I’m sure I’ve explained, we needed to draw out as many traitors as we could. Now the trial is over, in such a…spectacular fashion,” he extended his arms, gesturing at the screams and commotion surrounding them, “we can do exactly what we like.”

He slid a bolt pistol from his cloak, and levelled it at Vurdan’s head.

“See?” He said, pulling the trigger. The Commissar’s skull exploded, gore flecking both Vandemarr and Brochs. 

Vandemarr stared, taking his foot from Vurdan’s now still back.

“You can’t just do this,” he said through gritted teeth. “This isn’t a game!”

“Sir, we’ve taken the traitors into custody.” An Arbites said, standing next to the Inquisitor. 

“Yes, my dear boy,” Brochs said, slapping Vandemarr’s cheek gently, “yes it is.”

He stepped over the headless body of Vurdan, and made for the exit. 

* * *

“Let it be known to all those present, that these men here, in the nine hundred and eighty-first, and nine hundred and eighty-second years of this, the forty-first millennium of our most glorious Emperor, did commit heresy of the highest order, and did, with intent to damage the Imperium, pledge allegiance to the alien Tau:

General Karl Reece.

Major General Gregor Burkhardt.

Commissar Hektor Frost. 

Colonel Rhyben Ghant.

Captain John Garrick.

For these crimes, against the Imperial Creed, you are condemned to hang from the neck until dead. May the Emperor have mercy on your souls.”

The collection of gathered officials muttered under their respective breaths, as the Litany of the Condemned was read. Vandemarr stood, hands clasped in front of him, in full dress uniform, next to Inquisitor MkCormack. Behind him, a rank of senior Administratum figures stood, and behind them, more Commissars, a handful of Generals, and other justice personnel. Two further stands lined the flanks of the gallows, full of quietly angry Imperial citizens.

A stiff breeze cut through the open square; a fifty-metre long, thirty wide expanse of light grey rockcrete, hemmed in by the angular spectator amphitheatres. It was an open air execution chamber, the east wing of the Department of Imperial Justice rising up at the far end, branded with a towering Aquilla. 

“We’ve found him,” MkCormack said out the corner of his mouth, under the invocations of the Ecclesiarch. “He’ll be here, at this time. Brochs said you would like the honours yourself.”

Vandemarr nodded slowly as he surreptitiously pocketed the slip of paper the Inquisitor handed to him, observing the traitors in front of him. His gaze fell to General Reece, whose pale head had been shaved, and smothered with angry purple scarring from a particularly intense psyker interface. He was drooling, the saliva forming a dark grey pool on the floor. Vandemarr bet he didn’t even know what was going on. 

“…may the Emperor have mercy on your souls.” The priest finished, snapping his well-worn volume closed. 

The rap of the military snare drums made everyone jump, as they suddenly barked out a fittingly ominous beat. The hooded executioner stepped up onto the stage surrounding the gallows, and stopped at General Reece.

“For the Greater Good,” he said as the lever next to his trap door was pulled, and the drums reached a rolling crescendo. The metal coil unravelled a metre, and snapped the man’s spine into two uneven halves. 

There was a collective gasp as the drums began again. The executioner walked across to the next lever, and pulled. The trapdoor under Burkhardt’s feet opened, and caught the dour General’s last words in his mouth. His neck, like Reece’s, snapped like a twig. 

By the time the executioner had reached Frost, a large dark patch of urine had seeped into the man’s breeches. He died screaming for his life.

“Bloody pathetic,” MkCormack whispered to Vandemarr. The Commissar remained unmoving as Colonel Rhyben’s neck was the next to break. 

And then there was only one man left. The man who had started off this entire farce. The only man Vandemarr felt he had any kind of connection with – the man he had defended with the honest conviction he was innocent, and the one reason he had not rejected this case from its first day in court. 

The drums rolled once more, cutting through the silence. Garrick looked across to Vandemarr, his eyes plaintive and red-rimmed, his scars accentuated by his torturers. He wore a soiled grey smock, crusted with congealed blood, and his skin was grubby and greasy. It was as if then, in that brief moment, some kind of unspoken acknowledgement passed between them, in the cold grey light of the Saturday morning.

Damn you, Vandemarr thought, looking away as the executioner pulled the handle. Damn you to hell.

The sound of agonised gasping filled the air. 

“What the…” Vandemarr breathed, looking back to see Garrick flailing wildly from the noose. The cable had been too short. 

“Kill…me,” he hissed, his face tuning a bright red, the blood vessels lining his neck bulging disgustingly. There were some gasps from the crowd. “Kill…mm…”

“Throne,” Vandemarr whispered to himself. Nobody moved whilst the Captain strangled to death. “Isn’t –” he started, but stopped himself. He waited for another ten seconds, whilst everyone looked on. 

“Dammit,” he said, taking five steps forward. He pulled his autopistol from its holster, and snapped off five rounds into Garrick’s chest. The Captain stopped writhing immediately, and his bloodied corpse went limp in the morning breeze. 

What followed was a long silence, as Vandemarr coughed quietly, and re-holstered his pistol. He turned around and walked back, his boot heels rapping loudly on the rockcrete. 

“Excuse me,” he said quietly as he pushed past MkCormack, continued past the rear spectator stand, and exited the square.

Behind him, the first of the day’s rain began to fall.




*EPILOGUE*

New Antioch
Western Mordant Zone
Ultima Segmentum
41.982.M41​ 
~ _Requiem _~

The bar was a large one, filled with the usual scum that inhabited the forge worlds lining the Eastern Fringe. Hundreds of off-duty miners, workers, PDF and even the odd Guardsman sat over steel tables, hunched over drinks, whilst the raucous banter and ghastly cigarette smoke choked the air.

Julian Codey sat, fidgeting nervously, at a table by the curved window, looking out across the mass of warehouses below. The bar itself was tacked on to the side of a kilometre-high arms manufactorium, to keep it above the dense toxic gasses that smothered the planet’s surface. Every minute, freight elevators full of grimy, weary men would arrive, who would quickly get drunk and start fights – fights which Codey had been assiduously avoiding. 

He checked his chronometer. His contact was an hour late – the man who could get him into a new lodge, with a new name, new identification record, and everything else needed for a new life. He would once again be back amongst men who held the same beliefs as him – back home. 

It had proven extremely difficult to make contact after the trial. After news got out of the arrest and execution of the senior Tau sympathisers, all the lodges had disappeared once more. His old lodge had been infiltrated by the Arbites – once again led by Inquisitor Brochs – and over three hundred men had been shot in a single afternoon. Reece’s lodge, along with two others, met a similar fate. 

Since then he’d been stuck for the last two weeks, moving from planet to port, port to planet, avoiding the authorities, trying to make contact where he could – but to no avail. 

Now, however, a full sixteen days later, he’d finally found his window. An anonymous caller, a man who could get him a place in one of the oldest and most respected lodges, had told him to be exactly where he was now; a window seat on the east side of the bar, 17:00 local time. 

He was so excited he almost felt sick.

He checked his chronometer again: 18:01. He looked around, but saw nobody who looked like they could link him to a lodge. 

He turned back round as the dark, dank interior of the bar was suddenly filled with the rigorous chanting of an uplifting Imperial anthem over the municipal address system. A handful of workers shouted out in protest, and soon more fights broke out.

Codey buried his face deeper into his ethanec, groaning. 

“Sorry I’m late,” a familiar voice suddenly said. Codey sat bolt upright, nearly spilling the glass in front of him. He dared not look behind him as a pang of adrenaline shot through his stomach, and his heart began palpitating wildly with anticipation. This was it. This was his contact. His new best friend, the man who would enlist him as an auxiliary; the man who would give him a new life, a fresh start in the lodge. 

Here was his salvation, finally after two weeks of running and hiding!

His smile quickly faded as Albrecht Vandemarr swept past, dressed in full Commissar regalia, leather storm coat and peaked cap, and sat opposite him. 

“Mister Codey,” he said with a grin, sliding his autopistol from its holster and pressing it into his forehead. Hard.

“You…” Codey breathed, horrible nausea overcoming him.

“Yes,” Vandemarr replied, firing a single round into the ex-Lieutenant’s head. Oily grey matter and blood exploded out the back of his skull, silencing the bar, and shortly afterwards, the music.

“Me.”


----------



## dark angel

I love the ending, so, so dark. Really cool in my opinion, and how Vandemarr just says "Me." is perfection in my opinion. Now, onto the Source? :wink:


----------



## Mossy Toes

:victory:

Awesome stuff, Swanny.


----------



## Sniper

Briliantly done... not often there's a story on heresy that doesnt focus on the myriad battlefields of 40k.... very cool ending if i do say so  

Sniper


----------



## Kale Hellas

awesome, loved the ending


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

Wooohooo!... I love the ending! Hahaha!.... And the ending of the other novels as well!... Haha...


----------



## Zwan

Thanks guys, appreciate all the kind words! Drinks on me. Now, on to _The Source_ (so yes, DA, correct!).

Cheers chaps

Zwan


----------

