Novella Invigilator

Invigilator
Author	Alex

Once a servant of the Sinestra, Joachim Noa was at one timethe greatest condemner of criminals ever seen in the Serviles Orders, serving with the Justicariat to weed out and condemn the foulest criminals in Antarean space. His exploits in the tracking judgment of men were the stuff of legend. However, a single decision to weigh human life above his orders stripped him of everything, and left him exiled and in search of answers. When old acquaintances arrive on his doorstep with a chance for redemption and vengeance, he discovers that intrigue and betrayal are as much a part of this generation as the last.

---

Spirits above protect.

Dramatis Personae

Antarean Reclamation Force

• Kera Cejeanus Setorian - Aedile Majoris
• Ulric Tovengard/Marius Lucan Andromedeus - Commodore, Acting Fleet Marshal
• Rekkoan Hargis - Admiral, Fleet Marshal, deceased

Order Biologis

• Amberche - Perfect Magia
• Azam Honorus - Magos, Attican Sanctum
• Bone - Bloodsworn Lifeguard
• Dolan Gir - Magos, Immaculare
• Kai-Pierre - Junior Vericantor
• Sanja Demilius - Demi-Magos, Sisnaen Sanctum
• Vor Mantellus - Fallen Perfect Magos

Order Sinestra

• Arriman Barka - Pilot, Evening Primrose
• Baez Cardif - Primaris
• Callus Virgo - Invigiliator, deceased
• Consentus - Engineer, Evening Primrose
• Epistula - Primaris
• Joachim Noa - Invigilator, exiled
• Lynn Shang Wyn - Septrix, Epistulari
• Som - Bodyguard, Epistulari
• Ylante - Agent, Epistulari

Iosian Patriarchy

• Bronte Kollo - Exalted Sword
• Leota Kashin Bellus - Brotherhood Lieutenant
• Meré Saptulani - Brotherhood Lieutenant
• Celestine - Patriarch

Other

• Artephernes Scirocco's/Khalam Paptimus Sivon - Trader, Harlequin
• Indala Ap'shun - Aristolan kithal elder
• Jura Savoy - Guarantor, Salamis
• Morlet Khan - Pilot
• Sikh'arum bin Ijin'ham'ri - Typhonian Jemhada.

Prologue

Temple of the Inculchor

Sayial-Medien

The junior vericantor waited till the Majia completed her meditation. He carried a fax addressed to the old woman. That hololithic inscription had spent weeks in transit, tracing Sister Amberche from retreat to retreat. In a community less honest and dutiful it would have gotten lost long since. With the Serviles Biologis, though, delivery was assured, barring divine, diabolic, or villainous intercession.

It had survived thousands of light-years and dozens of hands crossing the Ophidian and the Inigo Clusters to reach the remote Iosian monastery at Sant Peyrius de Mileago on Sayial-Medien.

The old woman rose. The youth’s presence startled her. “Kai-Pierre?”

“A holofax, Majistrix. For you. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Good.” The old woman responded slowly. Not because of any infirmity but because the boy spoke the Medien dialect, a cousin of that used in the Western Reaches of the Old Empire's Verde Expanse. It did funny things with consonants. You could confuse words that sounded familiar but then made no sense in context. “It certainly could wait those few minutes.”

Sister Amberche did not reach out for the missive. She wanted no contact with the universe abroad. She had been out there so long, till recently, that she had fallen from Perfection.

Far from Perfection.

Her physical form was as immaculate as it had always been, but her inner thoughts were a rabbit's warren of contradiction and turmoil. Only now, after months, had she gotten solidly onto the Path again.

The metallic, oblong shell of fax itself was pristine, clearly having been treated with all the care of the Order. She did not recognize the hand that had etched her name large upon the sheath. She suspected that had been added in transit because the original might have attracted too much scrutiny. She saw nothing to indicate a source.

“Aren’t you going to open it, Majistrix? It might be important.”

It would be. Of course. Extremely. To the person who had written it. She considered the possibilities. Whatever this correspondent had to report, it would not be good.

“My thoughts are clouded today, Kai-Pierre.” She pronounced the name in the Medien manner. Here, it was Kay-Peyre. “Read it to me, if it pleases you.”

The boy was thrilled. He could show off for the monastery’s great celebrity. He could demonstrate how well his lessons had taken.

Amberche pressed her right index finger over the holofax's geneseal plate. The junior vericantor trembled as the DNA tasting mechanism hummed noiselessly. The seal broke with soft click, followed by the barely perceptible hiss of trapped gases. The holographic print sprung into the air before the youth.

“All right, Master. This header says, ‘To the Most Illustrious Perfect Majia,

Semia ande Clairs, known as Sister Amberche, greetings.’”

“That doesn’t sound promising.” Few people knew the name she had worn before she had set out along the Path. It was no secret, after all the ranking members of the Order Biologis were hardly lived in the shadows. Their business was too important for the function of the territories for that.

“That part is signed ‘Callus Sceptimus Virgo.’ Is that a name I should know, Magistrix?”

Had Amberche been able, she would have paled.

Spirits above, I have subjected this child to something terrible.

“No, Kai-Pierre. He is minor Antarean nobility, the sort of man whose world is defined by sharpened steel. I am just surprised he had the temerity to put pen to paper, as it were”

She felt a pang of remorse for such an unnecessary lie. She had been careless allowing this to happen. The youth's mind would be scrubbed of this conversation regardless. The process was not pleasant. It was also imprecise.

Callus Virgo was no noble. He was Sinestra, and the Invigilator no less. His open use of name in a holofax was a testimony to the absolute security of Biologis vericant couriers.

“Maybe he had a scribe write for him.”

“Most likely.” He had not, of course. However it was not an uncommon practice for Antarean nobles. Those who were dim enough to trust their clerks and assistants completely. “That explains it. Go on.”

What followed was a request for an official Biologis blood-vericantation embedded in a rambling account of a Justicariat action from several decades past. Kai-Pierre caught the written inflection of Antares Prime perfectly. He was a credit to his instructors.

The letter eventually got to Virgo's point. At face value the he was asking for her personal intercession in the matter of confirming his posthumous relative's action for induction into the Rolls of Honor on Gracchus Mons. However it was written prosaically, in a form sickly familiar to Amberche.

It was a cipher, an old one. She cursed silently, the name should have given it away.

Like all Biologis Maji, Amberche's memory was eidetic. It spooled out the holofax's contents in separate threads, bending and weaving the characters until the true message unraveled before her.

Signum.

It took several moments for the details to sink in.

Kai-Pierre looked up. “That’s all, Magistrix. Except for a signature and a seal.”

This time Sister Amberche groaned audibly. The sins of her past were overhauling her. If being a realist was a sin.

Kai-Pierre was frightened. He sensed something had changed.

Despite this he saw a chance to impress the Majia. “Would you like to dictate a reply, Majistrix? I have a clear mind.”

“Perhaps later, Kai-Pierre. Once I’ve digested the message. See me this same time tomorrow.”

The youth thought he had impressed her. She felt the fanged jaws of guilt snap at her conscience. There would be a scirurgeon's chair awaiting him.

Kai-Pierre could not restrain a slight bow, though that was discouraged amongst the Serviles Orders, which only increased her agony. He gave the missive to the old woman and exited hastily.

Sister Amberche carried the fax-plinth to her cell, where she was profligate in her use of consecrated candles as she read and reread.

Below Primary Sanctum, Attica

Salamis

Azam Honorus' breath came in uneasy gasps as he scrambled up the limestone steps of the cartouche’s inner vault. Behind him he could hear the dying shouts of his honor detachment.

The sanctum's genecrypt had been violated. That fact became apparent to the Biologis prefect the moment the vault's doors slid shut. The smell of death struck his perfectly attuned olfactory glands milliseconds before his eyes adjusted well enough to the dim lighting to spy the piled bodies. The habitor priests, little more than hypno-wiped automatons, were all dead. Their corpses dumped in small piles about the entrance, as if they'd all been herded into a pen for the slaughter. There was no blood. The room's chill had preserved the carnage immaculately.

Still in shock, the only warning the magos' group had of the attack was a slight curl in the frosted mists bubbling from the floor-mounted vent slits that kept the genecrypt at a perfect -2 degrees centigrade. A sudden blurring of the air was accompanied by the low hiss of a vibra-weapon as the body of Azam's honor-guard chaplain came apart at the joints. The man screamed as he was disemboweled. There was no blood. Vibra blades ran hot.

Suddenly aware of their cloaked attacker, the troop locked together in a wall of glittering power armor. There was no firearms permitted in the cartouche. Even those honored to accompany a ranking magos into the holy sanctum of the Order could not be trusted with instruments capable of violating the precious record seals.

Some of the detachment brandished impact-mauls inscribed with the twisting hydra of Order Biologis, others had vibraswords of their own. The local com-net was dead inside the genecrypt so orders had to be shouted aloud.

More attackers cut through the mist and the tight formation of guards devolved into a scrum.

When panic set in Azam had scrambled for the cartouche's main control panel only to find it unresponsive. His cries to the vault's managing intelligence went unanswered. Somehow he, the highest ranking Biologis factor on Salamis, was trapped in his own vault. Trapped with invisible murderers.

He knew exactly why they were here.

The magos stumbled awkwardly through row after row of cryophylacteries, paying little heed to the genomic relics as he fled deeper into the dark recesses of the vault. His entire concentration was focused on the thin, lustrous tablet he clutched awkwardly in his hands.

All this to sell the deception.

He was shadowed by the whipcord form of his lifeguard. Bone fit his nickname. There was little flesh on him and his skin was sickly pale. He spoke little. His genic conditioning was such that he only responded to his master's commands, all else was secondary. Bone's appearance belied his physical prowess. The bloodchained lifeguard possessed physical abilities that far exceeded those of an unaltered human. He, like all the bloodchained who served as guardians to the Biologis Magi, was the product of centuries of careful genetic manipulation. They were unbelievably strong, fast, and above all loyal.

The cartouche was a vast thing, stretching kilometers underground, tended to by a VI system which controlled the hundreds of automated service drones that flitted from stack to stack, monitoring the integrity of the samples, and occasionally assisting the habitor priests in data retrieval for the lesser vericantors who plied temple halls above.

As the pair cut through the mists, Bone suddenly went taught, gesturing for both to stop at the intersection of two genophylactery stacks. Their flight was at an end. Four figures materialized from the darkness, deception no longer necessary. They were the last.

Azam felt the hairs on the back of his next rise. Bone growled. It was a bass-laden and gutteral. He unstrapped the massive impact-maul that hung over his shoulder in one smooth motion. All the wraiths, save one, descended on the Biologis champion with blinding speed. Even with his perception, Azam could barely follow the exchange. The numbers told. Despite this, it took the bloodsworn a long while to finally fall still, having been run through a dozen times.

Azam shrank against the flat metal of the stack, clutching he tablet to his breast. The three assassins retreated, allowing the fourth to step forward. Up close, the magos realized this one was shorter than the others and slightly hunched. Definitely male. The mantis-like helm of his assailant's chameleon suit peeled away to reveal a countenance worn with age and deeply pocked with old pressure scars marking him as a survivor of vacuum exposure. His oily black hair was shot with grey and tied in a severe top-knot. His beard was stringy, and his eyes bore a look of wild madness.

Azam's memory was perfect. He recognized this face.

"Betrayer." he said, voice escaping only as a whisper. The word only made the man smile. it was a cold expression, filled with hate.

These words would prove to be his last. The old man's blade punched straight through his heart. As Azam fell to cold metal floor, tablet still clutched in an unrelenting death grip, his last thoughts were of satisfaction.

In this one thing you will be denied.

---

Standing over the magos quickly cooling body, Mantellus Vor turned the tablet over in hands before flinging it at the corpse in disgust. The touch had told him all he needed to know. The item they'd gone through such lengths to acquire was a fake. He raged quietly while his compatriots watched from the shadows.

We have been deceived.

He wondered if the magos was laughing at him now from hell. He'd wondered why the bastard had fallen with such a smug smile etched into face. He'd known the whole time. He was suddenly struck with by a wave of paranoia.

He turned to the flickering outline of the nearest assassin.

"The Brotherhood is likely finished above, we cannot linger here."

The shade nodded imperceptibly.

Mantellus toggled his suit's helmet closed, letting the rebreather unit wash away the exquisite aroma of carnage from his nostrils. So he had not acquired the Genematrix, his contacts said it was here on Salamis. That the Biologis had gone to such lengths to sell such a ruse only confirmed his suspicions that it was still somewhere on this world.

Besides, the exercise had not been a complete failure. A message had been to the Order which they could not ignore.

Mantellus' smile returned.

This was not over.

Part 1. Breaking Stones

---

The Wailing Road

Typhon

The wind the had an edge like a rusted saw. It was driven upward by the surge of the ice-capped breakers against the coastal plateau and washed over its precipice with such force as to cause the few brave kalilim trees which adorned the cliffside hillock to groan in protest.

The hill offered an astounding view for leagues in any direction. At some point a stone watchtower had been constructed on the site in ages past.

Built by the early colonists to watch for coastal pirates, and later offworld slavers who used the still waters of the coastal clefts as staging areas for raids during the interstellar barbarism of the Long Dark.

The Faithful converted the tower to a watchshrine after the light of Ios reached Typhon centuries later but abandoned it after a fire reduced it to charred rubble. A few barely visible mounds were all that remained of the foundations.

The road was busy. Bands of pilgrims could be seen traveling by foot along its winding curves.

A cruel wind plucked at Joachim Noa's robes as he lingered among the siffa bushes which adorned the hill's western approach.

The icy breeze brought the sharp scent of the brine to his nostrils where it mingled with the musky aroma of burnt incense from the suffering lanterns which limned the coastal road in an unnatural glow.

The strong features of his face were set in a thoughtful expression as he regarded scene playing out in the distance.

Behind him, a shear precipice fell away for hundreds of meters into roaring crimson surf where the iron-rich brine of the Sea of Tiberias met the sheer rock face of el-Urelmeh's continental shelf.

The spit of land where the great inland mesas met the algae laden western seas was known as the Spurs of Anandris.

Once, in times long past, it had been home to a sprawling maritime colony whose great harbors supported trade fleets which plied the sector for generations. Now the entire region was desolate save for the Wailing Road.

The road was all that endured.

The community it supported was lost in the chaos that accompanied the world's descent into madness and destruction

The darkness had been cruel.

Great marble palisades had once lined the great highways. Now all that remained were greying shards that jutted from the earth like broken teeth.

Coastal winds howled through the great stonework, the road's namesake. It took on new meaning once the Patriarchy raised the shrines at Bistola inviting hordes of freshly converted believers to trek across half the continent.

The roadways themselves had long since been worn away to dirt and gravel but at their perimeter lay eroded plinths of opalescent stone, a testament to the region's former glory. Shattered piles of rock poked free of the wind-blown plains like the sun-bleached bones of a fossilized skeleton.

It was, he mused, all a striking reminder of the inescapable fate awaiting the endeavors of men.

The wind began to turn more westerly, bringing more scents from the ocean. Joachim readjusted his stance to face inland, idley watching the procession.

As the cliffside's lone sentinel, he cut a straight-backed figure despite being swathed in a brown caftan. His sokoto was of matching color and was wrapped at the waist with a trader's asah of dull burgundy.

The world had been plunged into the rust-colored twilight of the Middening, a period on Typhon which heralded the end of the harvest season and the beginnign of winter. During this time of endless twilight. hours seemed to stand still as the world's off-kilter and achingly slow rotation bathed southern continents in a dusky haze that lasted for weeks.

For the faithful this was the time for their cross-continental pilgrmimage. The Afa'a, or Great Walk.

They came in their thousands.

Great hordes travelling in innumerable cafila from the Gallilean lowlands all the way to the shores of Bistola. A journey replete with ritual flagellation and copious drug use.

The minds of most pilgrims drifted among the clouds of futang smoke that clung to their caravans in a covetous smog. It was simpler that way.

Those that failed to make the journey were born on byres of wood by the survivors, and there were a countless number who fell to the roadside dust never to rise again.

By the time the march ended at the coastal cryptshrines the flagellation had long been replaced by menial toil as the living worshippers were literally driven into the pebble struin dirt under the weight of their own dead.

Should any unlucky souls all falter before journey's end their remains would be collected by the next party of travelling worshippers. As long as even one faithful survived, no one was allowed to fail the long walk. Many fell.

Joachim could count himself among the lucky. His talents had provided significant advantage.

The old man stared across the valley. His chill grey eyes tracked the closest group of pilgrims, latent cybernetics slicing through the brume.

From kilometers distant he could discern that this group bore a fine catafalque of gold and lacquered cherrywood piled with the rumpled forms of expired pilgrims. His cochleal augments enhanced the jangle of its offering bells, which chimed in muted obeisance as the structure was half-carried, half dragged along the coastal road.

The low drone of the surviving pilgrim's chants warred with the spray of the shoreline until the cacophony ceased any discernable order.

He could pick out a half dozen different dirges, each being carried along at different cadences by members of the procession.

There was supposed to be glory in the chaos, the kind of beauty only a true devotee of the Imperial spiritora could appreciate. Despite years of familiarity Joachim had yet to find it.

It was still just cacophonous noise.

The cavalcade of footfalls disturbed little of the roadside dust as their march finally took them closer to his vantage point on the cliff, as each of the byre carriers placed one sandaled foot after the other in the shale impressions left by the man or woman in front of him.

Though his position did not offer him the proper angle, Jaochim knew enough about such pilgrmages to imagine the great prayer wheals stamped into the exposed flesh of their backs, glistening beneath the preserving wax which was sloughed on by the procession's mendicantor.

Scanning through the throng he finally spied the man, an elderly priest who darted between the sojourners with wild eyes and an obvious limp, trailing spittle as he exhorted the party with rapturous passages from a Typhonian translation of the Literati en Carmine.

His bellowing caused the jars of ritual salves and unguent at his waist to clatter audibly.

Joachim recalled his knowledge of the spiritora passages which preached of the holiness of the skin of the foresworn; that it must be preserved against all taint. Saved instead for the purity of the scourge.

He knew that this task fell to those not bearing the weight of the catafalque and who instead walked in its shadow wailing ominously as they periodically swung flails tipped with the barbed tufts of falcus thorns upon their own backs.

The final days of the walk were the worst. Futang use was prohibited past the gates of Niolas. Along the sedgeways no flame was permitted besides that of the suffering lanterns that lined the route.

The loudest voices among the wailers belonged to those who drug-induced stupor had broken, and now the pain of weeks of self-induced laceration was taking its toll.

The analgesic secretions of the falcus thorns did little to abate their suffering, and they reveled in their own blinding agony while choking out scripture passages through clenched teeth.

When the party reached its destination, which he knew were the charnel pits at Bistola, the bodies of the fallen themselves would be rendered down to their fats. Suffering lanterns not unlike those that lined the road would be fuelled with their remains.

Some offworlders considered the process to be ghoulish, a holdover from Typhon's darker days, before the light of Ios saw fit to bathe the world in proper reverence for the sanctity of Man's form but he knew otherwise.

Those that held that view tended to be the pompous sort, peering down their noses at the traditions that had kept the world whole for nearly a millennia. Attitudes from the time before the coming of Imperial order, when feral chaos cursed the planet's inhabitants.

These things were not so easily cast aside, the will of the Ministry and the Justicariat be damned.

In the claret soaked gloom, Noa smiled at his own lack of piety. Years ago he would have spent days in self-imposed absolution for even contemplating such a treasonous thought, but not anymore. Not after Illium.

The bitter thought quickly soured what little joy he'd found in nostalgia, and he struggled to suppress a scowl.

It occurred to him that the Long Dark had been as cruel to Typhon as it had been too many Charter worlds left centuries bereft of any outside contact during the Long Dark, when the collapse of the vast wormhole networks that powered humanity's early extra-solar colonization wave.

The planet had sunk into the sort of pre-industrial barbarism that had claimed countless other of mankind's early conquests and had spent the centuries since rediscovery resisting any attempt to be dragged out of it.

That the Empirialus Anima had taken such root amongst the people was less surprising to Joachim than the manner in which that worship manifested itself.

In typical Typhonian fashion, the populous was both impassioned and debase in its devotion which persisted for centuries.

Evidence of this was no more obvious than in the manner in which the passing pack of scourigists whipped themselves with almost furious abandon, calling out the Typhonian transliterations of fallen Iosian saints and heroes as they dragged their train of dead and dying mindlessly forward.

Joachim found himself inured to their suffering, watching impassively as the pilgrim's train rolled onward ponderously.

Time dragged on as the procession passed his vantage point and disappeared south, into the half-light. Joachim was struck with such a sense of calm as to induce near vertigo.

He turned slowly, meandering back toward the road at a snail's pace, determined to savor whatever moments of somber clarity the perpetual haze afforded him.

Following a barely visible bush path, Noa reached the base of the hill. He angled around a stand of squat guanchica trees, their fat, dark berries hanging low enough to scrape the roadside dirt.

No longer exposed, the wind chill abated.

Ahead of him he spied a man's shape hurrying down the inland path from Aristola village. The distinctive flapping trail of wispwire fabric and jangling stone beads betrayed the figure's ethnicity as Ghunni, settled Bedouins who made up roughly a quarter of the planet's population.

Joachim frowned as the man approached, palms upturned in greeting.

A flash of ivory teeth and coal black skin was visible beneath the gauze-like wrappings that draped him from head to toe. On his palms were visible scars, shaped in the form of the dougis, interlocking triangles that represented the union of spiritual humours that formed the backbone of the Ghunni's special brand of spirituality.

The man's name was Sikharum and Noa's distaste for the man bordered on acidic. The ready friendliness of the greeting bespoke only ill tidings. For the Ghunni believed that sufferance was a joyful expression of Their will.

Unsurprisingly, all of man's work was sufferance.

Joachim returned the small man's greeting reluctantly, exposing his hands from the folds of his garment, for the first time revealing the biosynthetic flesh of his prosthesis to pale rays of Typhon's half light.

His visitor betrayed a moment's flash of disgust, before burying the emotion beneath a facade of friendliness.

'Y'allah, Fa'sul. There are visitors waiting for you in the village."

Joachim's gaze turned darker at the visitor's choice of words.

"Then they will wait, my friend. I am in reflection." he leveled a glare eastward, in the direction of the Aristola. "As it were, I thought I left clear instructions that I was not to be disturbed until the halfday."

The smaller man shrugged gamely before throwing his hands in the air in mock exasperation, ivory teeth flashing.

"It is Their will. The Kithal request it, thus it must be so."

Joachim grunted in frustration.

Aristola, like most native Typhonian communities, operated through spiritora fiat which belied their functional nature as family units.

When the elder council, or kithal, wished to be extremely pushy one could expect an invocation of the Emperor spirits in the offing. Such a command would be dangerous for a member to disobey but Noa, as an outsider, was largely inured to.

Every so often though, the kithal would go out of their way to remind him that he resided in Aristola at their sufferance.

This was the sort of petty behavior that Noa consciously ignored, however the Ghunni had a way of turning impertinence into a verbal dance which he found nearly as distasteful as the name they insisted on calling him; Fa'sul.

Stone Hands.

Even a passing glance at his palms revealed a subtle luster of metallic grey that stretched up to his forearm, heritage of the catastrophic wounding that had resulted in nearly half of his internal organs being replaced with biosynthetics.

There was slight otherworldliness of their movement, slightly too deft and precise.

Despite his advanced age, he looked no younger than thirty and his prosthetics afforded him a strength and dexterity unmatched by un-augmented humans.

The name, however, was one thing he could have done without.

Even before arriving on Typhon Noa had known that stonework was revered among the Ghunni in the same way that flesh was venerated by many post-Exodus Animist cults that spread during the Iosian diaspora.

Ghunni belief was unshakable; Stone was strong. It endured even the mightiest gales, outlasted the frail bodies of man, and through its slow work could grant immortality to any who could best it. So the elders were oft fond of quoting over fire light before the great swarm of hackmoths descended for the evening and drove anyone with any common sense in doors.

The Ghunni's distrust for offworlders was intensified by their casual defilement of the great stone edifices that stood between them and the precious minerals of the northern continent's great mountain ranges, the first home of the People.

Foreign mining conglomerates had driven the Ghunni from their lands centuries ago in pursuit metal.

It was a slight few none forgotten and few had forgiven, and it tempered any interest in the galaxy beyond the cloudy skies of Typhon with revilement and distrust.

Joachim Noa had arrived on Typhon in pursuit of spiritual clarity. He had completed the Afa'a. To the spiritora worshippers of Typhon, this meant he was khormeda, a portmanteau of the Ghunni word for "holy" and "made whole".

He could not be denied a seat at any hearth, for while many men could walk the path, only a select few ever completed it. He settled in Aristola in part because of its proximity to the coast, but largely because it was the first place that actually welcomed his presence.

Despite the stigma accorded to offworlders. The Aristolan kithal had shown themselves to be surprisingly savvy. They quickly recognized that his lack of familial alignment was a boon to their community.

Aristolan politics, like most Typhonian communities, was governed by blood relationships first and practical reality second. Families feuded with one another incessantly, and clashes between neighboring communities over issues of land use and trade often escalated to bloodshed. With no trusted authority, negotiations often devolved quickly.

Joachim's outsider status paid dividends as it allowed him to negotiate on behalf of the Aristolan kithal as a neutral party. The elders of Aristola had quickly realized the value in this, and so tolerated his presence despite their xenophobia.

Sikharum was a jemhada to the elder court of his hosts, a minor functionary and trader whom Noa was often forced to accompany as a part of his service to the merchant-scows of Aristola. The diminutive Ghunni had s sharp tongue and agile wit that made him an excellent functionary for the village's elder council.

Sikh'arum squinted at Joachim in the ever dying light.

"They said you would be difficult, and by the ba'il they were correct. So instead I am to show you this, a token from your visitors."

He drew an ochre disc from the depths of his garment. It was small and oblong, roughly the size of a credit chit with a pearlescent stud stamped through its center.

As Sikh'arum handed the token over it caught the flickering of the suffering lanterns on its reflective surface.

Unbidden, he felt the surging dread of memories long buried begin to rise.

For a moment, the noise of sea's relentless assault on the cliff-face was omnipresent again and the older man felt like he was drowning.

The vertigo was back, but this time its origin was quite the opposite of calm.

"How many were there?"

"Two, a woman and a man. Both armed. The elders would not allow them to share the kafiq so instead they await your arrival in the saalim"

Sikh'arum did not elaborate further. The great stone hearth of the kithal was reserved for men.

Seating another foreigner, and a woman at that, would cause a minor scandal.

It also complicated things.

The saalim was the abode reserved for those too old or infirm to work the herds or serve on the elder council. It was a major slight for visitors to be housed with the village's mose lame members.

The jemhada's statement left Noa colder than he'd felt at the cliffside.

Sikh'arum stared openly, his interest in Joachim's discomfort clearly overriding any sense of Ghunni modesty.

Joachim's features remained neutral. He accepted the disc without further conversation, pocketing it in the sleeves kaftan, and wordlessly began the long trek back to town with his companion in his wake.

A stiff breeze ruffled the siffa bushes and caused the overburdened branches of the guanchica trees to moan in protest, bringing with it the smell of decay.

In the distance Joachim could make out the faint shapes of yet another group of pilgrims plodding through the haze of twilight.

Even from far away he could tell that this group was nowhere as richly appointed as the previous procession, and from their speed and relative silence clearly on their last legs. Their dead and dying were piled in a large heap in the back of a massive, two-wheeled cart pulled by only a few scourigists.

The haze that followed them was not futang smoke, but buzzing clouds botflies and hackmoths.

Too tired to chant, and lacking a mendicant priest to dress even the most basic wounds, it was clear that this group would not last the remaining four-day journey to the cryptshrines of Bistola.

A humming noise from overhead alerted Joachim to the passage of a slag-barge, its massive anti-grav coils buzzing angrily as it loped through the skies carrying still-cooling waste minerals to the nano-manufactories far to the south-east.

The symbolism was not lost on him.

"Fa'sul, their walk will end soon." Sikh'arum remarked flatly he caught up with Joachim. His voice was devoid of inflection.

Jaochim turned to reply, and noticed the flash of teeth that denoted a smile beneath the Bedouin’s wispy gauze head wrap.

Any response he might have made died on his lips.

It was a mistake to expect anything but mortuary humor from a Ghunni.

The tiny man produced a stone-tipped walking-pinion and leaned on it heavily, following his companion's previous gaze skyward, noting the purplish clouds that had begun to spread like bruises across the southern horizon.

"I believe that it will rain. This will not be pleasant news for them, you think?"

More glibness.

Joachim was suddenly filled with the urge to strike the tiny man in the face, but quashed it. instead, he ruminated the token he'd been given. The memories it stirred were not pleasant.

For a moment he swore he caught the odor of burning flesh and the sharp taste of plasma-scorched air.

Illium, no matter how far I run it always comes back to that place.

He wheeled abruptly toward the village, forcing Sikh'arum to abandon his comfortable lean and scurry after him.

As they strode through the sickle-grasses and onto the winding dirt sedgeway Noa found the ochre chip in his robes and turned it over in his hand, letting the faux nerve-endings of his prosthetics relay the feeling of the intricate carving on the flat side of the disc.

It was a familiar feeling, with his heightened awareness he could plainly feel the sword and crown insignia stamped into vulcanized rock. Beneath it he could feel the slight curves of an open iris and knew deep in his bones the real reason he'd been summoned back to Aristola.

"Cho'a nen hagram ket cho'a nen pa'num." he muttered half to himself.

"What?"

"Stone does not lie, stone does not forget" This time he spoke in his native tongue, a lilting wash of Builtanese. Sikh'arum looked puzzled, but did not inquire further.

"Everyone walks." Joachim said after a time.

To this Sikh'arum nodded sagely. Even without context it was a common enough colloquialism among the Faithful.

In the distance behind them, a scourigist pulling the cart stumbled and fell, dragging his fellows with him in a great stinking pile as the flies and storm clouds moved in.

Part 1. Breaking Stones continued...

---

Aristola

Typhon

Sceptrix Lynn Shang Wyn did not like to be kept waiting.

It took every ounce of control she could muster not to pace the interior of the squat, stonemash hut she and her sole retainer found themselves sequestered in.

The only consolation was that local weather was cool and dry, and that the hut itself was well ventilated.

Ghunni eschewed chairs and sofas in favor sitting on thin, floor-level cushions 'in order to be one with the earth'. It was a practice not uncommon among nomadic Beltworlders but one Lynn Shang personally found distastefully barbaric and supremely uncomfortable.

She was dressed in a black bodyglove belted at the waist with an unobtrusive grey utility harness and a shoulder strap for her fireblade, whose hilt peaked ominously from the frock of her saffron suricoat.

Som, her bodyguard, was a hulking slab of a man with fists the size of grapefruits and a fairly obvious collection of firearms shoved into various holsters and belts strapped across a simple combat tunic.

His pants were of the haki style, straight creased faux leather the color of iron dust. They were worn and stained in such a way as to suggest a lifetime of manual labor.

Som's skin was a dusky shade of brown typical of Charybdian nightsiders, a counterpoint to Lynn Shang's bronze complexion. His dark hair was close-shaven, the gleam of his scalp concealed under a short-visored bill cap adorned with sand colored dust-flaps hanging over his high cheekbones.

The Charybdian's frame was ursine in proportions, with thick, rope-like muscles barely restrained by the ballistic fabric of his clothing. An amused sneer seemed permanently grafted upon the stony features of his face.

The two shared one physical detail in common; an emblem patch worn at the shoulder bearing the entwined form of a three-headed hydra .

The symbol of the Order Sinestra. On most Imperial worlds even mention of that name struck fear. The emblem itself demanded obedience, lest one be found wanting.

Yet the residents of Aristola seemed inured. Either they were ignorant or truly did not care. A fact which made the Septrix livid.

In any other circumstance she would have made an example of the community, her Dominus Writ granted her immunity from Typhon's feeble civil authority. Yet exercising it here could cause exactly the sort of situation she had been sent to prevent, and so she raged on in silence.

While Lynn Shang spent her frustration glaring venomously at the hut's cloth-shaded portal silently cursing every Ghunni ever born, Som delicately picked at the grit under his finger fingernails with a jackdagger which appeared comically small in his oversized hands.

After some time she admitted to herself the truth; what preyed on her nerves was not the wait, but rather whome she was waiting for.

The only consolation was that the dust-choked air, which had been downright oppressive outside, was merely stifling in-doors.

The sweet, smoky scent of callamil wafted through the hut, emanating from several long, votive tapers, probably lit by one of the hut's occupants prior to being bustled out by the kithal's guards to make room for the pair to wait in silence.

The venomous stares she'd received from a cluster of Ghunni women at the edge of the village's smelt pits lent credence to her supposition that at least one of them had lit the purifying candles not for their benefit, but rather as a measure to inure the abode against she and her companion's foreign stink.

Well, the feeling is mutual.

The pair had come to this spirits-forsaken end of the galaxy in search of one man, intending to spend only a day or two dirt side. Unfortunately, the indigs had proven a cagey lot, nearly as distrustful of each other as they were of off worlders.

It had taken her cell more than a week of tracking disparate leads across most of the subcontinent before they'd finally found the village where the former Sinestra enforcer had sequestered himself.

Reeling her mind back to the present, she decided instead to study her surroundings.

The interior of the hut was well appointed, if simple in arrangement. Bolts of gaily colored wispwire separated the receiving area at the front of the small structure from the clay cooking pit at the rear.

Sleeping pallets were arranged about the fire, speaking to an almost subsistence level of simplicity on the part of the occupants.

Far less mundane was the matte black form of a Highvald-pattern ordinance locker packed hinge-deep into the stone wall.

For all their purported piety, Aristola's inhabitants were remarkably pragmatic when it came to arming themselves.

The image of Ghunni men, stone-loving goatherds and desert preachers all, brandishing high-powered assault rifles caused Lynn Shang to snort at the hypocrisy.

At the noise, Som eyed her momentarily before returning to his knife work.

The large man's shale-laced brown skin looked even more rock-like in the shadowy corner where he leaned. The crosshatch weave of scar tissue that trailed around from his throat glistened grotesquely in the flickering lamplight.

A grisly parting gift from his former life on Charybdis. Before he'd taken his oath of loyalty to the Sinestra.

To Her.

Gathering retainers was a common practice among the Sinestra, and Som had been the first inductee into her cell. Like those of other Sceptors, her charges often forced her to operate far outside the territories under direct supervision of the various primacies that policed much of the former Imperial territory.

With dissolution came change, something the Order had grown accustomed to.

Like all the Serviles, the Sinestra had officially dissolved with the fall of the old Empire. Its role as police force and arbitors of public order having been folded into the Justicariat. However, it had persisted. Scattering throughout the Antarean territories attempting to preserve justice through zealous adherence to the tenants of old-Imperial law.

Their presence was tolerated among the occupied territories, whose populace had watched as their so-called liberators stood idly by as world after world descended into lawless anarchy. The League likened them to vigilantes or terrorists. However, the work of the Sinestra proved too vital to the stability of the occupied territories to be removed.

Besides, it was better than putting their own people at risk.

The Sinestra's mandate had changed little in the intervening years since the Empire's collapse; to hunt the criminal and the apostate and preserve Antarean society from itself. Lynn Shang had pursued this creed with ruthless dedication.

No one wished a return to the chaos of the Long Dark. Humanity had learned a cruel lesson then.

Without justice, men quickly turned to beasts.

Her own cell was small, consisting of only a dozen trusted agents and a handful of deputized retainers such as Som, who acted as both field operatives on her behalf and bodyguards.

Despite the fact that her reputation within the Sinestra as a relentless taskmaster and shrewd tactician had afforded her an icey disposition, she cherished the large man's stolid loyalty and silent counsel.

Epistula always said I had a soft spot. Her patroness within the Primacy would be displeased with her delay.

The change of subject further soured her already disconsolate mood.

As if in direct response to her mental lurch, she detected the slight crunch of sandaled feet on shale in the distance. Her cybernetically augmented senses told her all she needed to know about the man who approached her.

The footsteps were furtive, accompanied by the distinctive knock of a walking stick, likely metal.... no, stone-capped in keeping with local fashion.

That would be the smug toad of a messenger, Sikh'arum, whom the elders had sent to fetch the renegade Invigilator from whatever dour vigil he was engaged in. She allowed herself a pang of satisfaction as his heartbeat was quickened.

The pulse slightly irregular, a telltale sign of a fatal arrhythmia. Whether this man knew it or not, he was headed for an abrupt and tragic end if he did not receive medical treatment soon.

One less mouth for this village to feed.

For a moment she almost relaxed, thinking him alone, but a twinge in her gut caused to her to listen more carefully.

There it was. A second beat, a fraction of a measure off.

He had arrived.

Lynn Shang knew when she was being tested. Sinestra agents received extensive Kalla-sul derived hypno-training and chemic-therapy from an early age proffering them a degree of psychophysical control at levels far outstripping the abilities of a typical human. This regimen was enhanced further through the use of cybernetic augmentation, a practice that was frowned upon, but was nonetheless common among high ranking agents.

Adrenal modification usually came first, followed by spinal reinforcement. The process was dangerous, and the nature of the cybernetics such that very few individuals survived the process.

Lynn Shang had endured months of painful physical rehabilitation following her own procedures and that had merely been the beginning of a long process. Even after a successful implantation, without mastery of sutras and katas of Kalla-sul the pure sensory overload and enhanced physiochemical response would reduce an unprepared mind to ruin in the face of such pure sensory wash.

It was this very reason that modern security and military aparati shunned the process of cybernetic augmentation accept in cases of catastrophic injury. Even the relatively common practice of dermal-interfacing was, at best, a crude devolution of the techniques pioneered by Imperial biorites centuries prior.

Despite her talents, training, and advanced cybernetic modification Lynn-Shang knew better than to deceive herself. The man she'd come to meet stood at the highest pinnacle of the executioner's arts. Whereas her augmentation was mostly sensory, his was fully primed for combat. For destruction.

An Invigilator knows no fear. They are judgment incarnate.

Terror briefly flared in her belly.

He could have killed us, but he chose instead to reveal himself to me.

She breathed in slightly to calm herself and rallied her senses. Som noticed the change in her demeanor and snapped to quiet alertness. His gaze locked on door flap.

Somewhere outside the shifting breeze caused the prayer bells strung between the huts to jangle.

Time slid to a crawl as the hut's door flap darkened, and then rustled to the side to admit the men. Sikh'arum held the way open but did not step inside, his gauze wrapped face a mask of nervous intensity and the Sinestra agent smell the saline tang of nervous sweat oozing through his robes.

When her eyes finally fell on the man who stepped through the open portal some small measure of her own pride wilted inside her. She felt an appropriate wave of awe tinged with fear.

Joachim Noa was tall, constructed like an athlete with long, powerful arms and a compact, yet well-muscled torso. This detail was apparent despite the loose fitting garment he'd proffered for his walk to the Pilgrim's Road.

His naturally tan skin had turned a deep shade of brown thanks to years of exposure to Typhon's sun.

The Middening notwithstanding, the planet spent most of the year baking beneath its primary star.

Beyond a few concessions to the environment, Lynn Shang could see little that had changed about him from the dossier compiled two decades prior when he had been active in the Sinestra. Careful conditioning and biosynthetic prosthesis helped mask his actual age, but in terms of fitness he maintained the same quiet lethality that was apparent only to those trained in the art of violence.

Perhaps he'd cultivated the airs of a dust-grizzled nomad, but bubbling beneath that veneer was a predator.

It took only a single glance into his steel grey eyes to convince Lynn Shang that her survival beyond the next few moments was not guaranteed.

The two faced each other across the hearth pit as the door flap slid shut, shutting out the quiet murmur of the village's afternoon rites. Lynn Shang bowed her head in abeyance, twisting the fingers of right-hand in the sign of the Imperial hydra. Noa remained impassive.

"Greetings Invigilator, I am Lynn Shang Wyn. I serve Primaris Epistula and bring a message on behalf of the entire Conclave." She spoke soto voce, her voice no higher than a sibilant whisper. She noted his darkening expression at the mention of her Primaris but continued on undeterred. "Callus Virgos is dead and the primarii are once again in need of your services."

Noa's eyes narrowed in thought, drawing out an interminable silence before once again fixing her in his gaze.

"I gathered as much. This room is secure?"

His tone was unreadable save for a hint of exhaustion. Lynn Shang noted the extra inflection on the vowel signature and slight alveolar trill that marked Noa's Builtanese accent. She was also aware that he was perfectly fluent in sixty-seven other planetary and regional dialects and that his lapse into his native tongue was pure affectation.

"Clearly." was her frigid reply.

He produced the small ochre chip from the folds of his habit.

"Virgos would not have parted with it willingly."

She nodded once, finally allowing herself a strained mental exhalation. The marker had been a gamble; Noa had been no friend to Invigilator Virgos. Both had ascended the ranks of the Castigacy, the branch of the Sinestra which concerned itself with the judgment and punishment of any criminals. However, in the brutal Trials Invigilata Noa had prevailed.

Then came Illium. A tragedy from which the Invigilator had never truly recovered. Some within the order had called for his execution, so great was his failure. Exile had been more palatable to the Primarii.

The Sinestra did not forgive traitors.

He said after a moment, "You took a great risk bringing this here, and in light of that I will hear your message." He turned his head to regard Som. The Charybdian radiated a hair-trigger readiness for violence. "You can also tell your friend to take his finger off that stubhook, if I wanted you dead we would not be having this conversation." the ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. "Professional courtesy."

Lynn glowered, but gestured for Som to relax. The set of the hulking brawler's shoulders immediately lost some of its tension and he went back to his unobtrusive picking.

"Good, now that we have some measure of understanding, let me be plain; This entire meeting smacks of her meddling I care little for Epistula and her problems. She knows I am no longer of the Sinestra and that I cannot return. What's more, she of all people should know that I will never serve her or conclave."

He uncrossed his arms. Lynn Shang blinked as she felt his presence retract, suddenly she could breath properly again. The man’s command of Kalla-sul was amazing.

"So now that we are clear, messenger, what does Primaris Epistula want with me? Clearly you are here because there is something she wants me to know in addition to the Primarii's desires. If this was purely a Conclave matter, there would have been a full guard complement waiting to haul me offworld, and they wouldn't have asked nicely. What it that's worth sending a, what? Ordina-

"Septrix." she growled. His eyebrow arched slightly at the interruption but continued without skipping a beat.

"-Septrix then, all the way to fringes to deliver a simple message? Should I be flattered by the trouble and expense or is there something more to all of this than a summons?"

"Virgo's demise was no accident, it was the work of treachery."

Noa's eyebrow raised slightly.

That got a reaction.

"Continue."

"This comes directly from the Primaris herself so I will be as direct as possible. The simple truth is that we are at war with ourselves, the order has been split nearly in two with both halves clawing at each other’s throat."

For the first time Noa looked surprised. The reaction was subtle, but it was there.

"Even if this is true, it is not the first time dissension among our chapters has led to violence. Find a new Invigilator, let he or she arbitrate this mess. The affairs of the Serviles Orders no longer concern me."

"This is not merely a courtesy call. The Primaris wishes to meet with you, face to face. We are here to collect you."

"How very charitable of her. The answer is no."

"Send us away and others will come who will be less inclined to talk. You were offered exile as a penance, but there were many who wished to add your name to the Expurgated instead. We found you with ease, and others will as well. Did you think that your seclusion has been peaceful because the Order had forgotten you? I assure you, it has not."

This was true, the events at Illium had branded him a traitor. His exile had not been an act of good will, but rather politic.

Despite the lives he'd saved, what he'd destroyed had been beyond sacred. The last true legacy of the Empire died because of him. This fact alone meant that there were many who still saw collecting the former Invigilator's head as more than just a prize, but a duty.

"I had hopes."

"Your supporters among the Primarii have thinned, the terms of your exile were honored on the good graces of the Conclave. Now there is nothing restraining your enemies from exacting the justice they believe has been long denied. Perhaps it will take time, but they will find you, and you know what will happen when they do."

To this he nodded. The Sinestra countenanced little when it came to the execution of criminals. They had little use for the Arcanti Sororias' adherence to the codes of combat. Collateral damage was rarely considered.

"So now Epistula calls me to heel for what, protection? I don't need her help."

"As I stated, she merely wishes to talk. Afterward you will be free to leave."

Noa's reply took a sardonic edge. "Of course, until the next time she wants something from me."

"This is no small thing. The situation is grim. When I said we were at war, I was not exaggerating. The commitment is total. This is no territorial squabble. The High-Mount on Rabbad burned two weeks ago."

Noa blanched..Rabbad was the Sinestra's oldest citadel on the Geisun. Home to the Hall of Expurgation and the Castigacy's principle schola.

Once, when she was young, Lynn Shang had seen the High Mount. And even from many kilometers away that fortress oozed grim intimidation.

Some—most—strongholds were just piles of rock, however big they became.

High Mount, though, had a personality. A former prison built and abandoned centuries before the Andromodean dynasty, it lay crouched on its stony mountaintop like the home of earthly evil. It radiated the sense that something terrible could happen at any moment.

No. Evil was not right. High Mount was more like an implacable force. Neither good nor evil, except as one chose to behold it. The Sinestra's fastness was simply powerful and predatory. And, evidently, was these days in the hands of masters suited to it.

Noa asked, "How? How could this happen?"

"I told you, this is no mere dispute. The Serviles as whole teeters on the brink of dissolution. I can relay some of the events to you now, the rest must wait until your audience with the Primaris and what remains of the Conclave."

"Very well, tell me what you are able."

"Two months ago, the Conclave received a very unusual contract, vitae-marked at the highest level, Signum."

"That's impossible" Joachim said flatly, some of the defiant spark leaving his eyes.

"We thought so as well, so we remanded it to the Biologis augur on Syreen, and the trace was confirmed." The older man looked on incredulously.

"What exactly was this contract then?"

"That’s the odd part, it wasn’t an elimination ‘tract, it was an activation order sent under CC thirteen." Her revelation washed over him like a tidal wave.

Crown-code thirteen was restricted only to members of the Imperial family.

There existed no higher proof of identity than a Biologis vericantation. They were impossible to falsified. One bearing the Andromodean genemarker put truth to the lie they'd told themselves for generations.

Lynn Shang watched the riot of emotions twitch across Noa’s face as his mind abjectly refused to process the thought.

While members of the Nobilites could call upon the services of the Sinestra, cooperation came only at the discretion of the Conclave and their appointed field commanders, the Septrii.

The Serviles persisted on the base notion that one day the Empire would return. They were charged as stewards of order within the territories until that day came. Of course, this was a practical impossibility. The Imperial line had been expunged, and while the Custodes persisted in their farce as guardians of Andromodean legacy, time and practical reality had caused the other Orders to find new mandates.

Yet here was the past staring them right in the face.

"Doubly impossible," Joachim spat hastily, clearly rattled. "The Imperial line was lost two centuries ago. Every child knows that. No one exists who can validate that order."

"It was confirmed."

Noa said, "Then the augur has failed you. What you’re implying is absurd and I'm surprised that Epistula of all people would believe that." The incredulity dripping off his tongue like the melted wax of the suffering candles which flickered outside. Lynn Shang could sympathize. He needed it to be wrong.

"What I'm telling you is the truth." she replied, Joachim rolled his eyes. "The Conclave shared your opinion, at first. However, Invigilator Virgos and Primaris Epistula met the man face-to-face. They brought an augur. Suffice it to say, the meeting confirmed much."

"Even blood can lie Septrix" he said, slowly flexing his artifical hand. Lynn couldn't help but marvel at the raw power of even that simple motion. The rough fiber weave of the habit had bunched around his forearm and the lustrous glint of his cyberprosthesis became distractingly apparent once again. "An augur is just a machine, without a vericantor, there is no way to be sure this isn't all some elaborate hoax."

"Perhaps,” She conceded. “Biologis augurs are not infallible. But whatever they witnessed convinced the both the Invigilator and the Primaris. They convened a full meeting of the Conclave on Rabbad to share their findings. The heir wished to present himself before the Biologis Magi and the activation order was invoked for his protection during the audience itself. Primaris Cardif and others disputed the augur's results and they were still determining a proper response to the news when the proceedings attacked. It was a Sinestra kill-team. Full-strike. Do you understand now? There were at least twenty-seven main-cells involved, including Cardif's."

Joachim let out a an audible breath.

It was not uncommon for Sinestral cells to work at cross-purposes, for while the central mandate of their order's existence was to prevent the the Antarean Nobilites from organizing in strength, in reality the Sinestra's unity was fractured, with agents selling their special brand of information gathering and intimidation to the highest bidder, often to the very houses they sought to police.

Launching an attack on the Conclave itself was unprecedented.

"Without belaboring the point, there were losses, among them Invigilator Virgos" she paused, looking Noa in the eye before continuing. "He died well. He saved many loyalists with his sacrifice".

At the utterance of the word 'loyalist', Noa's jaw clenched. Lynn Shang knew the man possessed little love for the Sinestra, but hearing proof that so many of his former brethren had betrayed their own oaths must have been galling. It had been to her.

Noa said, "Cardif saw the writing on the wall. If the heir is legitimate it means he has claim to mastery the Sinestra, not the Primarii. I'm sure there are many who have grown far too comfortable in the pocket of the High Houses to allow that to happen without a fight."

"A sobering reality, but precisely the point. The Sinestra was once the hammer of the Andromodean dynasty, but freedom has been profitable for too many of the order to contemplate a return to the old ways of servitude."

Noa looked amused. "You'd prefer direct bondage to an unknown individual by way of birthright? Freedom is a heavy thing to trade away, even for honor. The Empire died a long time ago, young one, and its masters were not the gods and heroes that the Ministry warped them into." Lynn knew she was being goaded but could not restrain herself.

"The Antarean state is feeble. The people in the territories have been used and abondoned by the League powers. The Orders have been isolated for too long. The High Houses choose wealth and power over human dignity. Whose job was it watch over them, to be the check on their excess. Ours? We abdicated that long ago." She almost sneered, but restrained herself despite the bitterness. "The Sinestra was created to serve the throne and the people. Both have been lost to us. This is an opportunity to regain both, and to do this the Serviles must be united. "

Noa looked beleaguered.

He said, "You believe this is possible? What you're describing is more than just a realignment of the Sinestra's leadership. You're talking about the entire Serviles united under a single individual."

"The Invigilator and the Primaris were convinced this was possible. I share their convictions. However, our problem is more complicated. While the dissenters within our ranks are numerous, they represent but a fraction of our number. Despite their transgressions on Rabbad, a majority of the Conclave is undecided as to a future course of action."

"That is complete madness. Primarii were murdered in the heart of the Order and still they play politics. Let me guess, both sides have blamed the other for instigating this action and the undecided hope to wait out the violence to side with whomever wins?"

"Exactly. Aside from Primaris Cardif's head on a pike, the strongest argument in favor of our decision would be a Biologis vericantation of the candidate."

Noa turned to the fire pit in disgust. "This is exactly the sort of thing I'd hoped to put behind me."

"If you really believed that, why are you standing here? The moment you accepted the guidestone you could have simply disappeared."

"Or killed you both." Joachim mused.

"You might try." she said hawkishly, easing a practiced hand toward her fireblade.

Joachim grey eyes twinkled with humor and he held up a hand in acquiescence. "Peace, young one. There is nothing to gain from our conflict. Suppose I did kill you, what then? I harbor no anger toward the order for what was done to me, only distaste and pity. Revenge is a pathetic motivation for violence, and expunging every last trace of the Sinestra would profit my soul nothing, instead I chose to let those who remained make monsters of themselves and from what you've told me, they have." He let his hands relax at his side and changed the subject.

"What's your count?" He asked. The question took Lynn Shang off-guard.

"Seventy nine," she replied quickly, "all degerre." Honor kills."Your record is far more impressive. Six-hundred and ninety seven condemned, you were a credit to our Order."

The dig was subtle. Lynn Shang regretted it immediately when Noa's back stiffened.

His face took on a gaunter cast as he replied. "Impressive? Not the word I'd use. Justifiable, perhaps." he said, more melancholy than she's expected."Most deserved their fate. Murderers. pirates, slavers, and worse. Others, I'm not so certain. Too many of our condemnations are inherently political. I discovered that the hard way " He moved a few steps closer, causing Som to shift nervously.

Noa turned his prosthetics over in the lamplight to expose his palms. "I was never an idealist like Callus or... whatever Epistula is. Titles are meaningless. Eventually I came to believe only justice mattered. Imagine my surprise when I discovered even that had been co-opted by cowardice and greed." Lynn Shang bridled internally at his acerbic tone, but allowed only an impetuous smirk to gather at the corners of her mouth before responding.

"A rather conceited point of view, but quaint nonetheless. You were a willing participant. Do you think your choices at Illium somehow absolve you of responsibility as well?"

The dark look that flashed in Joachim's eyes made any further questions catch in her throat. She was dancing on a very fine edge.

"The nature of my choices are none of your concern." His response had lost all semblance at good humor, all that was left was a core of barely restrained anger that made even Som's eyes flash in alarm. "There was no justice to be found on that rock." The degree of bitterness that had entered his tone was so deep that Lynn Shang nearly flinched away, however it was an opening she would not ignore.

She took a deep breath. The candles flickered ominously.

"Look at where your self-pity has driven you. You have spent the last decades on a world of savages who bleed themselves in the dirt under mounds of their own dead to worship ghosts of men who never once laid eyes on this world. You talk about choice, or lack thereof, yet fail to see the irony in your own exile. You yourself acknowledge that something is fundamentally broken, yet you countenance inaction and avoidance..You while away your days as a hermit, breaking bread with people who despise you. Even if you have turned from our oaths, remaining here will only put this community at risk. Justice cuts both ways, Invigilator."

Joachim was contemplative. Lynn Shang knew her words had had some effect.

She was right; of course. His renunciation of faith had been in the face of the impossibility of actually fulfilling his oaths.

She added, "I do not know what sort of proposal my mistress has for you, but staying here is not an option."

Joachim regarded her in silence for a long time before responding. "I see why Epistula sent you. You are quite persistent, if intemperate. You would make a fine Ghunni." he said, a note of wry humor once again tingeing his voice.

Lynn Shang let the dart pass as he continued.

"You speak the truth. I will honor the Primaris' summons, though the kithal must be warned. I will not leave this place in path of unknown danger."

"That is truly laudable."

"I owe these people much, Septrix"

"Lynn, if it pleases you. Rabid adherence to formality is overrated."

Joachim's lips quirked upward.

"It does Lynn. It seems Epistula's influence is not lost on her subordinates." he said, drawing out the pronunciation her name with a distinctive Builtanese lilt in his voice.

He continued, "I must ask though, if Rabbad is no longer safe where is this meeting going to take place?"

Lynn Shang did not hesitate to meet his eyes this time, the smell of incense curling in her nostrils as she replied in a somber tone.

"Illium. My mistress awaits you on Illium".

---

He expected grumbling.

There was a lot of grumbling.

Whether they cared to admit it, Noa's presence had been boon for the village. Aristola had gone many seasons without conflict, and uninterrupted trade had made many of them wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.

Some quietly thanked the Stone Spirits. Noa was uncharacteristically scrupulous by Ghunni standards.

In many villages the leaders considered the opportunity to steal money meant for the community to be one of the perquisites of the authority.

Indala Ap'shun, possibly the most disgruntled kithan of all, said of Noa's leaving, “There may be irony at work, here. How long did we pray for him to leave? Now I fear we wonder if it would not be better if he remained.”

He kept this opinion largely to himself.

Gathering the foreigner's belongings had not taken long, the man lived a spartan existence.

Sikh'arum and a party of the elder's men accompanied the offworlders to the edge of the settlement, past the the low break-wall that encircled the residential quarter. They walked in silence.

Stone dolmens erected at regular intervals marked the perimeter of the village, and here their guards left them. They exchanged a few words with the jemhada before returning.

Noa was barely acknowledged.

A non-descript military flitter touched down in the flats beside the road, its gantry hatch swinging open.

Sikh'arum stopped at the dolmens, offering a short prayer before clasping hands with Noa. The two did not exchange pleasantries.

As the remaining party made their way out of the dusty village, toward their vehicle, Sikh'arum leaned against on his walking pinion against the breeze. His attempts to eavesdrop on the conversation in the women's hut had been fruitless. Some technological devilment had turned all sound from within the hut into naught but an indistinct hiss.

What he did know was that Joachim Noa would likely never return to Aristola, and the thought of this did not arouse the elation he'd long hoped for. Instead, his stomach was filled with a thick roil of dread.

For all his playful banter, Sikh'arum and the people of Aristola knew that Joachim Noa was no simple pilgrim, and perhaps it would have been better for everyone had he simply remained Fa'sul.

The flitter lit off without ceremony, counter-grav coils buzzing loudly. Its form quickly shrunk into the distant haze.

The short wiry man was struck with the feeling that something primordial and dangerous had just been released into the sea of night.

He shivered in the half-light, wispwire twill flapping behind him.

Foreigners truly were insane.

Part 2. Embers of Faith

---

In Transit

Dal-Hamid Cluster

The passage to Illium was made aboard Lynn Shang's pinnace, Evening Primrose. The ship had begun life as Jurrifan freetrader, and later as aprivateer, before eventually falling into the hands of the Sinestra.

It was boxy, and unassuming, the sort of vessel preferred by Sinestra agents. It quartered seven crew, including the Sceptrix , her bodyguard Som, and several other members of her cell who operated as support staff.

Joachim spent much of the first few days of their journey in his quarters, which were more richly appointed than he would have expected of a vessel the size of Evening Primrose. Though he loathed admitting it, he had been quietly pleased to discover a stocked wardrobe in his cabin.

Epistula's agents missed little. He traded his bedouin garb for garments more appropriate to life in the vacuum as soon a he boarded.

A black and grey skinsuit and a snug spacer's utility harness proved sufficient for his needs. He noted that that the clothing options available were deliberately nondescript, devoid of any Sinestra markings.

A thoughtful consideration, all things being equal.

Illium lay deep in the Harges Bunch, the journey from Typhon would take nearly a week. Joachim dedicated that time to familiarizing himself with the Sceptrix's staff.

Most were Serviles menials, hypno-trained for their duties but possessing little in the way of outgoing personalities. Some, like ship's engineer Consentus were simply unresponsive to the ex-Invigilator. Others like Arriman Barka, Primrose's pilot, were precisely the opposite. The man was borderline schizophrenic and jumped from one topic to another with barely a breath separating paragraphs. Joachim tired quickly.

Som, the only other member of the Sceptrix's cell to accompany her on the mission to retrieve him was enigma. Despite the close quarters Joachim found approaching him difficult.

On the third day of transit the ex-Invigilator finally managed to corner the man in the pinnace's small mess area.

"I recognize the mark, Charybdian Severed Legion isn't it? Interesting, I wasn't aware that was an outfit one could simply walk away from without some intercession." he asked cautiously.

Som was quiet for a moment, before straightening his back and offering the older man an appraising look.

"They tried" The Charybdian let a menacing grin creep across his lips before jabbing a thumb at the canyon of scars across his throat.

Silence reigned for several heartbeats before Noa nodded in mute understanding. Finished with the conversation, Som picked his way out of the tiny mess chamber.

The bulk of his time was spent catching up on the current state of the galaxy's affairs. Typhon was a backwater, and the Ghunni tribes cared little for galactic politics. He'd followed the holofaxes whenever he'd visited the northern factory towns on trade missions, but his information was woefully outdated. Previously, this hadn't bothered the ex-Sinestra enforcer.

Joachim had operated on a simple principle over his last decade of exile; Ignorance was bliss. But now ignorance might get him killed. Being blithely unaware of current events as he was shuttled to a meeting with a notorious spymistress and killer was generally a good way to get oneself very dead.

Luckily, the Septrix had left much of the ship's database open to him and he lapped up the information voraciously. The exploits of Federation Admiral Rekkoan Hargis and the Expeditionary Fleet, the incident at Magnolia, and the subsequent renunciation of the senior officers by the Federation Armed Forces resulting in the creation of the Antarean Reclamation Front. The biggest news was the recent victory of the ARF at Halifax. Though nearly a month old, the ripple effects of that event were still echoing throughout the region.

Joachim thought it highly fortunate that the situation between Tauria and Fellbar had gotten out of control at nearly the same time, neatly preventing the League from continuing its prosecution of the rebellious outer districts. He said as much to Lynn Shang on the second evening of transit.

"Perhaps. Its the first major shooting conflict in the region in twenty years, after all. But I have a feeling that the ones most hard-pressed by the outcome of Halifax are the Federation leadership."

"I would have thought they'd be chomping at the bit to take advantage of the situation. Afterall, they are now the only power with a fleet worth a damn in dozen sectors."

"It's not so simple. The council went to great lengths to distance themselves from the Reclamation force. Sure, it was an Antarean force in all but name, but a bulk of the manpower came from the Swordsworn Brotherhoods and that makes a lot of people nervous that this is just a repetition of the Crusader Uprising. The Patriarch hasn't exactly been shy about endorsing them either, though even he's been circumspect about calling this a Crusade given recent history."

This was prudent. Memories of the atrocities committed by the Eternal Fraternity of the Great Journey, known popularly as the Crusaders of Ios, were still fresh in the minds of every citizen of the region. Though the Iosian church had eventually renounced them as heretics and sinners, there was a time when many on Tareno had publicly applauded their resistance to League occupation. This tacit acceptance had become an albatross about the Iosian Ministry's neck for years since, allowing a steady erosion of its moral authority.

She continued, "There has been talk of an official Triumph and I imagine this has tongues wagging on Antares."

“The First Speaker might consider that an inappropriate incursion of the Church into Federation prerogatives. At a time when he's under tremendous pressure to return to the policies of his father.”

"Might is probably putting it mildly. I think the thought of a hundred thousand soldiers marching in lockstep behind a parade of lowborn ex-Federation officers has more than a few quorum members losing sleep. The nobles would have a fit. It would be like inviting your worst enemy into your home and pointing out all of your valuables. Not to mention the leverage the Patriarch would gain with an armed Brotherhood fleet orbiting the capital."

Noa thought that might be overstating things, to which Lynn Shang merely shrugged.

Militant religious fraternities like the Swordsworn were perhaps the last true bastion of the church's influence and the main reason why Tareno was still able to exert such influence in the region, much to the consternation of the Federation's machinations. That they had flocked to the banner of the ARF in defense of worlds under the menace of League's martial policy was hardly surprising. Though Noa wondered if the Patriarch wasn't fooling himself in believing that having tasted such a miraculous victory, these men still owed much in the way of loyalty to the Paternal Assembly. If anything, the demands the church was making on the Federation to honor the returning ARF forces with a triumph was a recipe for disaster.

For its part, the Federation political establishment had been doing everything possible to cut the legs from beneath the victors of Halifax. Including the League prizes captured during the battle, the fleet now comprised the single largest military force in the Second district. It was no wonder they were nervous about that many former officers and enlisted ratings returning home drunk on victory obtained outside the Federation power structure. There was even talk of inducting the surviving commander in to the Order of the Dawn.

Joachim had never heard of the man. One Ulric Tovengard, a Custodes fostering.

The file on him was depressingly thin, a fact that probably irked his host and her mistress, but largely explainable. The Custodes were remarkably effective when it came to secrecy. A junior commander, and tactician. He was young, merely twenty-six standard years.

His military record was sterling. Formerly a member of Admiral Hargis' tactical staff, he'd taken control of the fleet after the admiral's incapacitation and the death of the next two men in the chain of command during the fighting. Everything about his record spoke to the young man being a tactical and logistical genius, but Noa was concerned by the glowing gaps in his official file.

Joachim wiled away more of his time in the ship's hold, which had been converted into a functional gymnasium. The act of working through his Kalla Sul forms had a meditative quality which he found invaluable, especially in the cramped confines of a starship during transit. Despite this, he realized he was more stir-crazy than he cared to admit. Most of the crew was busy with the task of running the starship. His periodic talks with the Septrix did much to ease his growing wanderlust.

He continued his reading in earnest.

Events proceeding from the victory at Halifax took a familiar arc. The victorious ARF fleet was slowly limping its way back the Antares cluster, stopping along the way for repairs. It stalled at Salamis, a major trade hub several jumps from the capital. The planet's leadership had ordered the orbital drydocks closed to the arriving forces. Officially, the ARF was an illegal armed force trespassing in Antarean space.

The fact that no one had tried to prevent them from passing through on their way to Antares was proof of just how muddled the political situation was in the Federation.

The First Speaker's cabinet seemed despondent with the wake of the revelations surrounding the Three Corners Conspiracy. The High Houses of the Nobilites were distraught, as anger over the treasonous nature of the plot threatened to boil over into outright violence. The Home Guard had yet to be called in.

Delay seemed to be the strategy of choice. None of the powers-that-be on Antares wanted to risk the addition of another heavily armed fighting force with strong populist support to the seething mix. So while the ARF forces languished in a pseudo blockade around Salamis, the rest of the nation slid closer and closer to anarchy.

To Joachim this all seemed rather foolish, which was to say typical of the region.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. Despite their burgeoning rapport, the Septrix was more cloistered than her companion, preferring to remain in her quarters when not eating in the mess hall or conferring with the ship's navigator on the bridge.

On the morning of the seventh day, the shipboard alarm echoed throughout the halls as Barka's voice boomed over the intercom announcing the imminent real space transition to Illium.

Joachim stood in the vessel's observation deck as Evening Primrose lurched back into sidereal space in a shower of incandescent energy.

Though they'd made a tight transition, it would still be another sixteen hours before the ship reached its destination.

He waited.

Unknown Location

Illium

Joachim Noa's return to Illium was anti-climactic.

Barka set the Primrose down in a sheltered bay on the coast of the southern continent. The cool azure waters fed into a rock cove which housed a Sinestra dock facility.

As soon as the the ship was towed and locked into place along the quay it was immediately swarmed by the harbor crew. The long docking arm swung into place under the main gantry with a clang. A spray of ozone erupted when the first hatches were cracked as the presure withint he vessel normalized with the planet's atmosphere.

Joachim felt little trepidation; he had come here with a singular purpose.

Within moments of debarking the party was swept for monitoring devices. Noa and the Septrix were quickly spirited away by faceless Sinestra guards dressed in full combat kit. Each sported a hawk-like helm emblazoned with a barbed rose, the insignia of their Primaris.

He found himself quickly separated from his companion.

He was ushered into a dimly lit hall. At the far end stood a massive set of oak doors flanked by a detachment of Alpharions, the Sinestra's elite.

Joachim was searched and checked a second time, and found free of both offensive and defensive weapons. He was subjected to a multi-spectrum scan before being allowed entry through the hall's massive portal. An unnecessary precaution since his clothing and gear had been furnished by the Primaris in the first place. Still, given the recent upheaval within the Sinestra every care was paid to the protection of their mistress.

During the process he tested the edges of his enhanced perception but found only emptiness beyond the confines of the hall. The building was well shielded.

As the reinforced oak doors slid shut silently and Noa found himself standing in a roughly ovoid room whose walls were adorned with a continuous holosculpt which flashed vivid scenes from a host of different worlds in a blended mélange of exotic colors.

To Joachim's immediate right stood Primaris Epistula, a short woman with luxurious black hair shot with strands of viridian and silver. Her figure had the sort of curves for which men of a different era might have composed lurid ballads. But he knew better to be drawn in by her biosculpted beauty.

The woman before him was just as lethal as he, possibly more so. Though her trade was largely in information the Primaris had not survived to reach the upper echelons of power within the Order on wits alone. She stood atop a towering pile of corpses.

The man standing next to her wore the saturnine robes of a Biologis magos. His bald pate glittered with the luminous reflections of the shifting holo surfaces before him. At the sound of his footsteps both turned slowly to greet him.

"Invigilator Noa, you cannot know how pleased I am that you have accepted my invitation to join us here. May I present Magos Dolan Gir, of our sister order."

Joachim offered a slight bow in the direction of her companion, who returned the greeting with a nod of the head. "Well met, Magos Gir."

"The pleasure is mine, Invigilator."

He turned his attention back to the primaris who smiled through bow-shaped lips.

Joachim said, "I am here Primaris. Let us not put forth the pretense that my presence for this audience was motivated by any enduring friendship or mutual amity between us. This world is a graveyard of memories, and I hope to be as far away from it as I possibly can be when this is over." He crossed his arms. "I was told you had an offer to make. I will hear it and once heard, I will leave. Hopefully to find a place where even you can not dig me out again."

"To the point, Invigilator. As always. Come see what we have for you. If you still feel like walking away afterwards I will not stop you."

She waved the trio to the center of the room where a small holotank hung suspended vertically from the base of a humming countergrav unit. A simple hand gesture brought the machine to life, automatically dimming the room's lights and wall-mounted holoscapes.

"I take it that Septrix Wynn has briefed you on the challenges facing the Serviles, so I will not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, the matter which I have summoned you here to discuss is related to the survival of both the Sinestra and Biologis. However, it principally concerns you. I will let Magos Gir explain, since it was his people that brought this to our attention."

Noa was nonplussed, but nodded to the magos.

"My thanks Primaris." the Biologis potentate took his place at the tanks lightboard. "Invigilator, I trust you are familiar with the planet Salamis."

Joachim nodded, wordlessly.

"This world currently under trade embargo by elements of the Antarean Reclamation Front fleet as retaliation for the Guarantor's refusal to allow the Patriarchal forces within the fleet to use the Gallantine shipyards to repair and refuel. Approximately thirty-four days ago we were approached by a broker on Salamis representing a factor who claimed to have the Andromodean genematrix in their possession. This individual and was willing to turn possession over to the Order in exchange for an audience with the Plenary Council. As you know, we believed this artifact to have been lost along with the twenty years ago aboard the archeoreliquary which was destroyed here on Illium. An operation which you yourself were involved with."

Joachim frowned. The memories were there, bubbling just below his subconscious. He flexed his artificial hands slowly, trying to calm himself. Bringing himself back to the present, he considered Gir's words more closely.

The Plenary Council consisted of the leading representatives of each of the six Servile Orders. Such a convocation had not been called in decades. Not since his own exile. He could feel a twisted symmetry brewing.

"Due to our doubts about the provenance of this offer, we contacted the Primaris to assist in the information gathering process. Her investigation led us to believe that the item was indeed genuine. Though outrageous, the terms were deemed acceptable. The Biologis would back a Plenary assembly. Arrangements were made to transfer custody over to Magos Honorus on Salamis for vericantation. However, the both the Primaris and I were concerned about potential security breaches in the operation, compelling us to perform a false drop to disguise the actual hand-off for the item, which was to occur later. However, within hours of this deception the temple was penetrated and Magos Honorus was killed inside the genecrypt."

Biologis genecrypts were notoriously proof against any sort of violation. The organization had learned harsh lessons during The Fall, and took incredible precautions to safeguard their precious storehouses against calamity. If someone had breached the cartouche on Salamis without arousing suspicion, they had done so with inside knowledge.

“Show him,” Epistula said.

Gir inclined his head to the spy mistress. He said, "We believe we know the identity of atleast one of Honorus' murderers."

The Biologis potentate made a gesture with his fingerti[ps and the holotank dimmed, briefly. Passing a hand over a star shaped icon, several images slid into the viewing area. They were grainy and dark. Gir expanded the center image with a twisting motion of his right hand.

The outline of a man appeared in the holotank. Despite the lighting, Noa could make out the assassin's features. His heart nearly skipped a beat.

"Mantellus Vor . This is wrong. I killed this man here sixteen years ago. Shot him through an airlock."

Joachim glowered.

Epistula said, "Well, it appears he's fooled all of us. My network had no idea he was still active. until the Magos brought these images to our attention. There is the chance that they have been manipulated or that the man standing there was made to resemble the heretic in an effort at misdirection."

He was disinclined to doubt her words. As cagey as the woman could be, nothing was more galling than then being forced to admit it that she'd been caught flat-footed by her enemies.

The Magos looked indignant. "These images came directly from the retinal implants of Magos Honorus' lifeguard. They have been verified through the highest intelligencer choirs at our disposal."

"Yes, that's him alright. Same height and build, though it is difficult to see. He still has the scars from this place. Besides, this operation stinks of his style. He had no need to reveal himself either. That tells me that this attack was a message to the Orders. The fact that he missed the genematrix is almost incidental."

Joachim could feel a core of rage growing in a place he'd long thought dead.

Vor Mantellus had been the instrument of his own loss of faith. While he'd believed the man dead there had been some measure of peace within him. Now seeing him alive twisted at his gut. Still. There had to be more. He said as much.

Epistula drew herself up, staring at the ex-Invigilator across the holotank. The traitor's image floating between them.

She said, "Very astute. While the magos was trapped in the genecrypt, forces allied with the Patriarch sacked the Attican Sanctum above."

At this Gir's eyes flashed with rage. There was great enmity between Paternal Assembly on Tareno and the Order Biologis. Both felt the other trespassed on terrain which was the strict providence of the divine. Genetic modification was a cardinal sin to most hardline Iosians. To the Order it was Perfection. Luckily, the extreme factions in both camps represented a narrow fraction of the general opinion, but the tension boiled over into violence at times.

Despite this, the timing was too coincidental to ignore. Vor Mantellus was a former Biologis Perfect whose personal brand of genius and charisma had gathered an extensive following within his Order in support fo more extreme genetic experimentation. In the end it had led him to steal the Imperial Genematrix, touching off a series of events which led to the disaster at Illium. It seemed implausible that he would cooperate with Patriarchal fanatics.

Gir spoke up first. "We are investigating the possibility that outsides actor may be feeding information to both groups. Before the attack we were principally concerned with the Guarantor's forces and the Pallisari, the Brotherhood's militia on Salamis. However, with Magos now revealed to us we must operate on the assumption that their may be more parties involved that we are not aware of."

Joachim's question was simple. "Where is he now?"

"With some backtracking we've been able to gleen some of his prior activities, but he's been sighted on Salamis as of six days ago. We have a rough estimation of his movements since then, which we'll cover later. The issue at the fore is the blockade. Right now there is little in the way of outgoing traffic from the planet. I imagine both he and the Patriarch's agents have no intention of going anywhere for the foreeable future. They know their prize is somewhere on Salamis and are busy searching for it as we speak. Frankly, we caught a lucky break with the dead drop. But we've been too reactive thus far. "

Gir added "Besides, with Iosian Church involved everything has gotten more complicated. If word leaks to the Swordsworn in orbit with the ARF that the Genematrix has been found on the planet below, There is little that wil stop them from punching a hole straight through the orbital forts to the planet to seize it for Exalted Father. At which point all bets are off."

"I'm sure the Patriarch is thinking along similar lines, but without it in-hand he's stuck rooting about in a more clandestine fashion."

"Enough!” Noa growled. “You said you had more to tell me about Mantellus and his whereabouts, fast. What is it? This nonsense with the Patriarch does not concern me."

"No patience. All right, Invigilator. The situation on Salamis is a bit more mired than the Septrix let on. While it's true that the double-blind with the Biologis was compromised, whomever hit the temple didn't realize that Honorus was carrying a decoy matrix. The only ones who knew that fact were I, the Magos, and our contact. The fact that it got hit at all tells us that the leak had to come from Honorus' staff. If it had come from one of us they would have known that Honorus carried a facsimile and wouldn't have bothered. The fact that the Brotherhood was involved in instigating the temple massacre could be anecdotal, but the fact that the Pallisari were there at all leads me to believe that the Celestine is mixed up in this."

This was a fair supposition. Bronte Kollo, the Pallisari's First Sword, brooked little insubordination from his followers. His people would not move so openly without his blessing, and he in turn looked to Tareno for marching orders. Fanatics though they might be, their involvement in this gambit bore the touch of the Exalted Father's meddling hands.

"The Brotherhood presence on Salamis can not be that concerning.", he added.

"My worry is that the continued failure of any faction to secure the relic may force Celestine to unleash the full power of the church on the problem of the Genematrix. I don't have to tell you why this outcome would be a less than ideal."

“Why? If its in no-one's possession he shouldn’t really care. Certainly, the church protested the Biologis' original custody, but ultimately its value is purely symbolic with the Andromodean dynasty extinct.”

“Wrong. Well, maybe if he knew the whole story. What he’s been allowed to know thus far will compel him to care.”

“Do take the trouble to explain.”

“Key point. He’s just found out that his agents failed. That will rattle him badly. At the same time he’ll learn that there’s absolute, concrete proof that his religious vision remains incompletely triumphant. That the Serviles Orders, while largely no longer relevant in his conception of the regional order, are on the verge of unifying behind a single individual with the dynastic bloodright of the Old Empire. The last point is critical. Up until now notions of the divinity of the Emperors of old survived only in the imaginations of hundreds of millions of people who revere the Saints on all the appropriate days, then hedge their bets by following the ancient rituals when those are due. More to the point, most of the Church's authority rests on the posthumous deification of the Andromedean dynasty. They've been preaching a messianic script for generations. Imagine the quandary the Paternal Assemblage might find itself in if the attempted to block the confirmation of an heir in possession of a Progenitus archeorelic."

He didn't have to. It would make the Sinestra's in-fighting look positively tame by comparison. Still, this did not fully settle his concerns.

Noa said, “You may have lost me. I understand every sentence. Individually. How exactly does this all relate to Mantellus?"

Epistula chuckled. It was cold, devoid of any real humor. "My dear Invigilator, it means that right now your quarry is thinking the exact same thing. He knows the real hand-off has to be coming soon. With Salamis under trade embargo by the Reclamation forces, it will be impossible to hide the arrival of the Master Gir. Since no one less than a Perfect would be allowed to handle such an artifact. His problem is that he does not know the identity or whereabouts of the originating courier, so he'll be forced to shadow the Biologis representative in order to have a chance to disrupt the hand-off. The First Sword is likely thinking along similar lines as well, and he does not take embarrassment well. When he makes his move this time it will be will be with every resource at his disposal."

Noa nodded. "I see. In order to get to Mantellus you need only watch Magos Gir and the traitor will deliver himself to you."

"Precisely." Epistula folded her hands behind her back. "Now comes my offer. I will do everything in my power to deliver Mantellus Vor to you, in return you assist Magos Gir in securing the relicquary. This has mutual advantage. First, by securing the genematrix you will have the backing of the Biologis. Magos Gir has agreed to guaranteeing your safety once this matter is dealt with, regardless of the outcome for those of us in our Order who stand against the traitors."

Her eyes blazed. "Second, if successful you will be assisting our cause greatly. My resources are stretched thin at the moment and it pains me to admit that I cannot spare the sort of support the Magos will need for this operation. Regardless, only a small group may travel through the blockade at Salamis. Your abilities are first class, your inclusion will instill a great deal of confidence that this gambit will succeed."

Joachim was not so sure. From the sound of things Magos Gir would set foot on Salamis with an enormous target on his back. No amount of security was going to make difference there.

Epistula continued. "Third, and this almost goes without saying, we will have opportunity to avenge ourselves on the murderer of this world. I also realize you care little for returning to us, so be aware that this is a Biologis operation. I am only offering my support. This is no execution order, simply protect the Magos and secure the relic."

Nothing was ever simple when it came to Epistula. The ex-Invigilator ruminated ont his in silence before responding.

"And if I refuse, I can simply walk away? No interference?"

"You have my word."

The magos watched expectantly. The room suddenly felt warmer than it had than when Joachim had stepped in.

The decision was easier than he'd expected.

"I have conditions."

"Name them."

"I take my orders from the magos, not you. I said I would not return to the Order and I meant it"

"Semantics, at this point. But done. What else?"

"I want a full briefing on the meet and dossiers on all the individuals identified in the attack on the Attican Sanctum. We all know this is going to be a clusterfuck. I want to know who and what is waiting to club us in the back."

Epistula looked irritated. Information sharing outside the SInestra command structure happened only grudgingly. Even in this circumstance where a joint operation required it, old habits died hard.

"Anything else?"

"That's all, Primaris."

"Then we have an accord."

Dolan Gir chanced a smile. Neither the Joachim or the Primaris joined him.

---

Seventeen Sinestra operatives left Illium aboard Efuria, Dolan Gir's courier vessel, with Joachim and the Magos. It was a larger party than Joachim expected. Epistula would not let the Biologis factor travel with less protection.

Compared to Evening Primrose's spartan construction, the Biologis transport had been designed from the ground up to serve the needs of a ranking official like Gir. Its body was streamlined, rapier-shaped with a flat bottom for terrestrial and aquatic landing. The bulbous engine block dominated its frame, giving the vessel an unmistakably insectoid profile. It was also well armed, sporting obvious energy weapon arrays and turrets enclosed in armored blisters on the dorsal hull.

He was not surprised to learn that Septrix Wyn commanded the Sinestra side of the operation. Her own cell had been bolstered by a unit of Sinestra alpharions. Tough looking men and women with power armor and fireblades.

The interior was brightly lit, with cream colored walls that gave the rooms and corridors an almost ethereal quality. It was a far cry from the utilitarian styling of military and civilian craft.

In addition to the Sinestra team aboard, the magos had brought his own security detachment. When combined with the crew Efuria lifted off with fifty-eight souls aboard.

Wyn spoke nothing of her orders, they had seen little of each other after being whisked away on Illium. Joachim imagined there was more to her presence on this mission than the Primaris had let on. The Septrix was an information specialist, not a warrior. He resolved to keep an eye on her.

Despite their separation she remained was friendly. The Septrix quickly developed a habit of turning up when nobody was around. They used that time to talk. She supplemented his research by keeping Joachim posted on wickednesses hatching in the sector at large, especially when it came to the machinations of the Iosian Patriarch. The man was unknown to him.

As had been the case with Innocent II, Celestine had almost no idea what those around him were doing in his name. He might not want to know. He refused to hear what the Paternal Assembly had to say. He was almost completely fixated on events around Salamis.

Holo-picts of the world brought back memories of his time in the Order. It had been many years since he'd set foot on the planet's surface. It was nearly the polar opposite of Typhon. Dominated by megacities and lush jungles, it was a prosperous trade hub and a center of culture and the arts. In older days it had been a rival for Antares and, as such, one of its earliest conquests. It was also rife with corruption. Outright warfare between the numerous members of the ruling cabal often spilled into the streets. The local security forces often turned a blind eye, usually after pocketing a hefty bribe. The Justicariat was less circumspect, but they hadn't the numbers to police a world of billions.

The last time Joachim had visited Salamis he had been hunting for a notorious genic slaver. Sinestra condemnation was an unquestionable thing. The judgment had gone poorly for the man.

Mantellus Vor was next.

Part 3. Liar's Council

---

House of Eternal Reflection, Cnida

Salamis

A strong breeze stirred the reflection pyre and tossed sparks up like short-lived stars. It was unseasonably cold. Salamis' second moon was halfway up the sky and nearly full. The first lingered preternaturally near the horizon giving the impression of a baleful stare from the heavens.

A man sat cross legged on the pristine gravel before the fire. Around him were arranged circles of meticulously combed black sand. Round stones were placed at odd intervals, some in piles, others alone and half-buried.

The man stared into the crackling flame balefully, the tunic of his silk gi stripped off hanging off at the waist where it pooled about his knees. The effect was such that he appeared to standing waste deep in a dark waters. A fine meditative stance. His thoughts were anything but placid.

The artifact yet eluded him. Reporting his failure to the Patriarch had been a hard thing. The Exalted Sword was unused to problems he could not crush with the proper application of guile and force.

Bronte Kollo could be everything ever accused, twice as dark and twice as ugly. But the man knew he was cunning, and Delphic at anticipating personal danger. He would not be lured into any deadly strait, however tasty the bait. When he could not resist he sent someone else to spring any trap. Usually.

It had been a hard several months for the Brotherhood. The blockade's effects were being felt all of the planet's two billion inhabitants. Food riots, which had begun as isolated incidences in the Traansilic Belt, had begun spreading to the cities. Some blamed the Guarantor, but even more directed their wrath toward those with offworld connections enough to be unaffected by the dearth of goods. The militant orders were not immune.

Normally this would be a boon for the church, but with confusion tightening the Patriarchal purse strings there was little largesse to spread around. What could be spared went to bribes for planetary officials. The remaining portion was spent shoring up the support those in positions of power who persisted in the Faith despite the assault of non-believers and the heretical orders. Tareno's influence on Salamis was weak. Despite this, Father Church's endless war against sinfulness continued unabated.

Lately though, the directives coming from his masters in the Paternal Assembly had grown increasingly erratic. Their petty squabbles with the Serviles orders had become all consuming, and it was sapping the resources of the organization he'd spent most of his life crafting.

Invariably Bronte found that his faith mingled with his orders to place him at the mercy of misfortune. For this reason he was irate.

The strike on the Hated Enemy had gone well for his people. At first. In the end he had failed in the critical undertaking that exhorted had him to place his them at risk in the first place.

He had underestimated the cunning of the Deceivers, with their perversions of flesh and artifice. The very fortune that had allowed for the sacking of the Attican sanctuary had prevented him from gaining the prize he sought.

The place was normally a fortress. For all their purported altruism, the BIologis saw to their security to an even greater extent than the Guarantor. Till now, its great walls and flocks of security automatons had been insurmountable, despite the immense manpower at his disposal. No longer.

When sealed orders came by way of Archbishop deGanet, he had salivated at the chance to loose himself on the corrupters of the Order. The flesh was sacred, yet sitting below the the temple lay an abomination to the dominion of the spirit. That was why he had gathered the Faithful together, preached the sermons of purifying fire, and sent them on their holy mission full of zeal. It was why he'd personally led them like wolves among a flock of startled sheep, raising the great structure to its foundations.

The slaughter had been great, but the way to the cartouche had been denied them. In an ironic twist, the security failure that had allowed them to breach the compound in the first place had also left the reinforced security portals depowered and impossible to open. The genecrypt was designed to be proof against orbital bombardment. As full of zeal as his people were, faith alone would not crack the armor of that place. Setting fire to the medicae facility had been consolation.

Thus the item remained out of reach.

It would be recovered. Celestine's will would not be denied, and through him the will of the church. Providence was upon them, and with it would come the elevation of both himself and his cult. At least, this is what he told himself. This evening he felt an uncharacteristic stab of doubt.

The Pallisari of the Last Watch were but one of the numerous Swordsworn missionary fraternities that continued to spread and defend the Iosian faith throughout the cosmos, the Adversary be damned. Bronte worried that perhaps he might not live to see the day of judgment he preached so adamantly to his acolytes. Of course, that thought itself was heretical. Whether his physical body remained, his spirit would mingle with Those Who Came Before and he would see the vision of great saint fulfilled.

Nonetheless, such questions could easily invite the scrutiny of the church canonists. Their judgment could see him defrocked, flogged, or worse. That was not going to happen, of course. Not to him. He was too valuable. For the moment. And he had his own accommodation with God. God did not seem to mind occasional unorthodox speculation. Bronte kept his private worries to himself.

The Exalted Sword would do his part. He would abide, preparing himself for the moment when it all came together and he could bask in the warmth brought on by the restoration of the balance undone so many generations ago.

The silence of his meditation was broken by the approaching crunch of padded sandals. Bronte did not bother turning around. He knew it was his second, Leota Kashin-Bellisarius.

"Exalted Sword, you have a visitor."

Bronte bit back a sharp reply. He imagined his subordinate, Leota, bowing in the sand behind him. The man showed remarkably little trepidation in interrupting his meditations, an act that would have seen lesser men quivering in fear. Bronte Kollo had a reputation.

The timing was unsurprisingly awkward, but Bronte was not surprised. He'd been expecting this call for some time This individual had a habit of choosing the worst possible moment for business.

"If it is who I think it is, tell him he can wait in the lower rectory."

"Yes, sir."

Leota beat a hasty retreat as the Exalted Sword stirred from his seat in the gravel, slipping his hands through the arms of his gi and carefully threading his way out of the rock garden, away from the fire. The garden was enclosed by lacquered hoarwood panels which slid away to reveal the compound's sitting rooms. The walls themselves were embossed quickcrete. Set at angles in a sawtooth pattern, the style of old Tareno. Were it not for the hum of the stasis field generator it was easy to forget that the entire facility lay at the heart of Cnida, one of Salamis' most populous cities. It sat along the banks of the Tungor, which cut through the heart of the Noble's quarter. The packed urban sprawl of the rest of the city formed a quickrete and steel perimeter around the relative opulence and greenery of the estates belonging to the city's privileged.

Lately, the guards who patrolled its borders had been doubled. With the factories shut down and the warehouses full to bursting. the poor had begun to spill in from the countryside. There had been few riots in Cnida, none approaching the size or desperation of those in Attica, but it was only a matter of time.

The Brotherhood stronghold doubled as a center of worship for the Iosian faithful. It was home to a collection of priests as well as armed warriors who split their time between prayer and rigorous combat training. Due to the late hour there were no shouts from the drill yard. The relative quiet was exquisite.

He passed through several prayer halls whose alcoves bore funerary shrines to the panoply of fallen heroes of the Iosian faith. Each recess was decorated with waxen prayer stamps consecrated icons cast in bronze and molded in the image of the associated saint. A few brander priests wandered the lower gallery guiding thuribles which dispensed incense laden smoke from atop glowing repulsor plates.

Upon arriving in the rectory he was greeted with a familiar face composed in a warm smile.

"Ah, Mr. Scirocco. I am so pleased that you could find time to meet with me."

Artephernes Scirocco was an florid man long gone to fat. His skin was swarthy and his hair was combed to one side. His moustache was as oily, and divided down the center by a patch of shaved skin in Cinnabaran fashion. He was given to wearing the loose silks of his native Unae despite their inappropriateness in a climate as variable as Salamis'.

Scirocco called himself an business man, but pirate was probably the more appropriate moniker. Under different circumstances the Exalted Sword would never soil his presence with one such as him, but the man had connections that were invaluable to the Brotherhood on Salamis, and to Bronte personally. Somehow Unaean arms dealer had known when and how the Biologis defenses at Attica would fail. He had charged handsomely for the information.

Bronte was as much a miser as he was a warrior. The transaction had paid dividends.

Scirocco said. "Exalted Sword. I came as soon as I was able. As you can see from my condition." He gestured to his glistening forehead.

Of course. Bronte thought wryly. The fat man sweated constantly, even during the chill of night.

The Exalted sword had no preamble. "I will not belabor this meeting unnecessarily. I am greatly displeased with you."

Without saying so, and without demonstrating defiance, Scirocco made it plain that he did not care by blowing his nose wetly into a wad of silks he'd been using to mop his brow. He could argue but would not. There was no point. Artephernes Scirocco's universe revolved around Artephernes Scirocco. The rest of the galaxy existed to advance his ambitions, and those ambitions principally involved enriching himself at the expense of others. Besides, the man was untouchable and knew it. A fact which left the fuming Exalted Sword with little leverage.

“You have nothing to say?”

“No, Your Holiness.”

"You knew that the automated defense system at the Attican Sanctum would suffer catastrophic failure but failed to note that the cryptum would be sealed in the process? I pay you for weapons for intelligence. Complete intelligence."

"Pardon, Exalted One. While I would hate to sacrifice good business on the alter of misunderstanding, you never asked for knowledge regarding the genecrypt. Your aim was to deny their presence in Attica. What I provided allowed you to do just that. Frankly, the state of the genecrypt was not my concern nor was the reason you would need access to such a place. Perhaps those from whom you receive your other information don't admire you so

much as you do yourself."

That stung.

Anger floated across Bronte's face, then went away. Inside he did his best quash the rage. The Exalted Sword suspected that he was being baited, probably not intentionally. The Cinnabaran pirate affected a foppish demeanor, but was far sharper than his appearance might suggest. Bronte decided to drop that line of questioning.

“There is one other matter. Well, two other matters. One is the interference from the Justicariat. We had assurances they would stay out of our affairs in Attica, yet they were not an hour behind us during the cleansing. The second is the death of Magos Honorus. Apparently something or someone found him within the genecrypt. A feat which we were unable to accomplish. It is looking more and more as if we were exhorted to move to provide a distraction for these assassins and I do not like being used as someone else's pawn."

There was a certain irony in that last pronunciation, but Scirroco feigned obliviousness. Nonetheless, the first issue was serious. The Justicariat largely kept its own counsel, but it's interference had come on a directive from the Guarantor's office. Savoy Diodorus had apparently decided to meddle, an unusual move from a leader who was historically averse to the possibility of the church directing its ire in his family's direction.

Scirocco or one in his employ might have put a warning bug in Guarantor Diodorus' ear. Savoy was too arrogant to listen but people around him did enjoy a more intimate relationship

with reality. This, of course, would imply that the information broker knew exactly what the Exalted Swords other motives had been in the attack on the Attican Sanctum, besides revenging himself on the Biologis factors therein.

Bronte did not put it past the man to play both ends of the same game. In fact, he expected it. This possibility bespoke an entirely different cast for the meeting, one he was not entirely sure he was prepared for.

"The murder of the magos was, unexpected. Tragic. Very bad for business. The Biologis will not take this lightly. Much was lost in your excursion, but I suppose I that too in none of my concern. As for the Guarantor, perhaps you might do well to recall those he is beholden to. We are all but tiny fish in a sea of giants."

"Enough of your riddles. If all you have to offer me for your failed omissions is mockery then leave. I've had all I can stand for one evening."

Scirocco uttered a chiding click with his tongue. "I never come empty-handed. It is news I heard from a cousin who does trade with- oh well never mind that. The point is, the Biologis are sending someone. Apparently a heavy name, too important for mere clean-up, especially given the climate in this system. No word as to why. He is only to be here for two days and has received special dispensation from the ARF to pass through the blockade. Now I wonder how they managed to pull that feat off."

The fat man's eyes twinkled. This was news indeed. It confirmed what Bronte had hoped since news of Azam Honorus' murder had filtered its way back to the Brotherhood. If the Biologis were sending someone important here for such a short time there could be only one reason.

The relic was still here.

The bit regarding the ARF was curious, and worrying. There were Swordsworn among the number in orbit, though attempts to suss out their level of dedication to the church had been met with stonewalled silence.

The various fraternes militant certainly had a history of twisted allegiances, but something about the candor of those who stood with the ARF struck Bronte as having a similar flavor to his own connection with the Patriarch. There was faith involved here, though to what, he could not say.

Suddenly he was hungry for more news. Scirocco told him what he knew about the magos' itinerary and companions.

"Curious, he travels with Sinestra. I thought they were too busy tearing eachother's throats out to form alliances."

"Apparently exceptions were made."

Scirocco recited a list of names, which Kollo interrupted upon hearing one which seemed familiar.

"I have heard that name before though, Joachim Noa. He was a formidable hunter of men before my time. I thought he'd been executed long ago."

"My contacts say he is very much alive, and little diminished. The others he travels with are less known, but equally dangerous."

"This is good. Very good." Bronte flexed, deliberately looming over Scirocco with a vulpine grin on his lips. "Finally, a challenge." The Unaean offered a shrug.

"Consider this idle speculation if you must, but that man is not one to deal with directly."

"I keep my own counsel, pirate. But good, I am pleased. This will do nicely."

"As you say, Exalted One." Scirocco waved a hand. "A final bit of business. The shipment you requested will be delivered in nine hours. I trust everything will pass through the appropriate channels."

“Efficient, as always.”

“It’s a curse."

They exchanged minor details before the Unaean made his leave. Leota waited at the rectory's portal.

"What do you make of that one?"

"I cannot say. If his source is correct, we don't have much of a window to act. The Guarantor's forbearance is clearly at its end. He tolerates us in Cnida because we keep the peace, but that business in Attica may have tipped our hand as to our capabilities. I doubt he's comfortable with such a knife so clearly pointed at his throat."

Bronte liked the analogy, and said so.

"We will be ready, Exalted Sword."

"Very well. Call the Circle, especially Verdeclet. This time we know our prey. We will stalk him until the he reveals the archeoreliquary. When he does, we will bring all that we have to bare and crush he and any who stand with him. If the Guarantor interferes..." he trailed off ominously.

Leota nodded.

Their day of triumph was close at hand, he need only reach out and seize what was his.

“Let’s get things moving.”

Above Cnida

Salamis

Scirocco flopped in the rear litter of his conveyance, a luxury flitter fitted out with all manner of extravagances for creature comfort. It was empty save for his driver. As the vehicle climbed to loop above the upper reaches of Cnida's towering hab-spires, the creature who was both Artephernes Scirocco and Khalam Paptimus Sivon began to deflate both literally and figuratively. He felt a burning itch beneath his skin as the nanite clusters in his face migrated into new bone structures, and the fleshy prosthesis attached to his chest, back, and arms fell away.

Finally able to breathe properly, he exhaled sharply. His heart slowed to a more regular rhythm as the full-body effort of carrying forty extra kilos of flesh for so many days finally relented. The harlequin was awash with more than just the sweat of exertion. Adrenaline pounded in his veins.

It had gone well. Perhaps too well. The various forces necessary to make this operation a success seemed overeager to hurl themselves into the abyss. For not the last time, he felt a stab of regret and quickly buried it. Many innocents had already perished for the sake of this scheme. The men and women of the Attican Sanctum would not be the last.

Things were moving quickly, so much so that he was now forced to change masks quickly in order to make his report.

Morlet Khan looked over his shoulder from the pilot's dome at the front of the vehicle.

"You sure this is wise? Wud'n it be better ta head back ta Bantam first? We're not exactly whacha' might call secure 'n here." the former spacer drawled.

Halfway out of his clothing, Sivon cocked a newly smoothed eyebrow.

"Can't be helped m'boy. Opportunity waits for no man, much less the wicked."

Khan shrugged, he'd long ago learned not to question Sivon's ways too closely. All one got in return were aphorisms and headaches.

The spy did not take his companion's lack of continued interest in the subject personally. Morlet Khan was as much an unknown quantity as he was himself. In some respects.

He thought back to his audience with the Exalted Sword. He doubted the man knew that the individual claiming to be Leota Kashin Bellisarius was actually a Sinestra operative. One of Primaris Cardif's men to boot. He had met Sivon once, in a past life. That he did not recognize him in the guise of the Unaean arms dealer was hardly surprising. Still, it meant the Swordsworn potentate was being manipulated by three powers at once. Sivon delighted in leading them all by the nose.

The greatest deception arises from offering a man whatever it is he wants to see.

His own training had been explicit on this score. The results here were telling. The Patriarch, the Guarantor, and others would all dance for him. And by extension the man who'd devised this scheme in the first place. For the first time in a while, Sivon felt he was finally exactly where he needed to be. Funny how easily that feeling came now that he'd truly found an individual worth serving.

The flitter passed over the outskirts of the city where evening food riots still raged. Sanity was a hard commodity to come by these days. A lesson a great many would learn very soon.

Part 4. Bitter Gardens

---

Tertiary Sanctum, Sisna

Salamis

The Biologis ziggurat at Sisna rose above the city’s smog layer in precise geometric ratios and burrowed into the side of the its upper habitation blocks. Like many post epochal cities in Antarean territory, Sisna had been built in layers over time, with the old only partially making way for the new. Smaller cities in the south might were significantly less dense, and instead spread outward for hectares. This was not the case in the north. Sisna's builders had built upward.

Dolan Gir had chosen an inauspicious day for their arrival on Salamis.

The storms, which had lingered over the Jistal mountain ranges to the west, had begun their rapid descent on the lowlands. For the moment, this merely meant overcast skies. But soon pounding rain and gale force winds would lash the city and its inhabitants. The air retained a saturated quality that bespoke the coming weather.

For Joachim, the trip in-system had been uncharacteristically nerve-wracking.

True to the Primaris' word, the Reclamation fleet had brooked little issue with the arrival of an armed Biologis courier vessel in their midst. No hyper-capable ships were permitted past the blockade sphere, and the group had been forced to debark for the planet in Efuria's shuttles.

The ex-Invigilator felt pangs of insignificance as the shuttles passed by giant warships, whose bristling turrets and exposed energy weapon foci could atomize the tiny convoy with barely a passing thought. Still, nothing untoward happened.

Planetfall was easier, by comparison. The group suffered through only minor turbulence on their way to the Biologis sanctum in Sisna. Like most structures dedicated to the Order, the compound’s construction was cyclopean. The building was a towering terraced pyramid inlaid with the symbology of the Biologis. The Imperial hydra was proudly on display.

The Magos' pilots put their shuttles down on a landing pad midway up the building's height. Joachim made it at roughly the thirtieth floor.

As the group stepped off the still steaming tarmac, they found a crowd waiting for them at the entrance to the main building.

Most of the Sinestra agents, save the Septrix and her bodyguard, looked somewhat taken aback by the welcome. Magos Gir's lifeguards, two hulking bloodsworn in matching gold warplate and mirror-helms, flanked their master as he strode toward his greeters.

A full staff-choir was in attendance, along with a collection of highly-placed Biologis officials. There was much murmuring about the arrival of such a well-appointed party. Accompanying them were nearly a platoon's worth of armed guardsmen, genebonded lancers from the look of the hawk-helmed power armor they wore and firespears which were slung over their shoulders. Each man also brandished an assault rifle across his chest. Relaxed, but clearly at the ready.

The exuberance of the non-military personnel was genuine. Joachim found the fanfare amusing; it was rare that the arrival of so many Sinestra enforcers was by anything other than fear.

Dolan Gir was less sanguine. He berated his host, a demi-magos by the name of Sanja Demilius, with furious abandon. The supplicants quickly dispersed and Gir returned to the group in a huff. Joachim noted that the squads of genebonded guardsmen stayed. Tensions were still very high.

Accompanied by Demilius and the guardsmen, the group entered the structure.

The sanctum at Sisna was reputedly smaller than the one Attica. It also served slightly more mundane purposes. The installation handled courier traffic for the region and lacked the more extensive medicae facilities which had burned with its sister site. Still, it had been built to impress; with high ceilings and walls decorated with painted fresco and glittering glassine sculpture. All in celebration of the perfection of life's various forms.

Even the cynic in Joachim could appreciate the beauty of the place, and he removed his flight helmet to look wide-eyed at the melding of tech-arcana and high art. Still disgruntled, Gir found the compunction to nod with approval; the ex-Invigilator was impressed, and was paying him the compliment of letting it show.

They passed through the inner doors into the broad cloister that ran to the heart of the structure and branched into stairs at each side. Here the walls and floor were stark grey quickcrete, and the contrast with the richly appointed antechambers was unsettling.

Silence reigned in the party as they walked up a long slope of stairs and turned into the passage to the genetor's devotory. Deciding to be the courteous host, Gir dropped back to walk along side Joachim, lifeguards in tow.

The Sinestra enforcer inclined his head to the magos before he spoke. "I would venture to suggest that we not tarry here. If Attica was a target, it is certain that our enemies will have their sites on this place as well."

Gir looked momentarily indignant. "It can't be helped. We have much preparation ahead of us and the facilities here are the only ones left on this hemisphere that will serve our needs. That aside, no matter how eager our adversaries may be, they will not move until they are sure we possess the genematrix. "

"That may be, but I would be far more comfortable if we conducted this operation from a Justicariat safe house. The security systems that protect this place are the same as those at Attica, which we know to have vulnerabilities. I hate to say this so candidly, but your people here have likely been compromised. On top of which we are placing a great deal of faith on the notion that the Primaris and yourself alone know the time and location of the exchange. If that were to leak this entire effort at misdirection will be for naught."

"We have our reasons for selecting this site. That is all that need concern you, Invigilator." The look in the magos' eye told Joachim there would be no further debate on this score.

The group filed into the devotory, a high domed audience chamber with bone-white support columns adorned with trellised vines. The space's designers had divined a method of growing the plants from nutrient pockets embedded in the stone itself, giving the effect that the greenery literally sprouted from the walls. The contrast in colors was dazzling.

Aside from the vegetation, a great deal of effort had been taken to reinforce the grandeur of the hall. The left wall was taken up by stylized tapestries illustrating the evolution of man, while the right held a long row of shuttered stormshields. On better days, the arrangement would have allowed natural sunlight to filter in, providing the illusion that the entire space was open to the elements. However, the inclement conditions brewing outside cast everything in pallid gray.

Several banks of ominous looking medical equipment monitored by dutiful looking Biologis technicians awaited them in the devotory. Septrix Wyn scowled when she saw them. Her sarcasm was acidic.

"What a welcome. Its almost as if they don't trust us."

Joachim replied "Would you, if you were them?"

"No, of course not, but I'd certainly be a lot less obvious about it."

The group was scanned thoroughly, and given inoculating injections before being directed to their suites, which were connected to the rear of the devotory through a broad thoroughfare.

As the others dispersed, Dolan Gir beckoned Joachim and the Septrix to join him as he walked the sanctum's central gallery. DeMilius was in attendance as well, along with Gir's hulking minders.

The demi-magos spoke first. "I know you all wish to rest after your journey, but there are certain, ah, considerations that I thought you all might wish to be appraised of. First of all, our security remains my top priority. With the great tragedy at Attica, I have called out the entirety of our genic guard. They are posted at every entrance and are answerable to myself, and of course to you, Magos Gir. Beyond this I cannot speak for your safety in the city at large. To be blunt, Sisna has not the capabilities of Cnida, or even Leguria. The scarcity of provisions has the people here close to breaking. We do what we can to share what we have from the hydroponic stores, but I fear if the city descends into the same madness which now grips Attica we will be unable to provide any meaningful assistance."

Joachim said, "Our intelligence indicated that the situation here was unbalanced, but nowhere near that bad. It explains why Savoy is so desperate for anything to end the blockade."

Salamis was normally the last place one might imagine a violent uprising could occur, but its just-in-time economy had proven to be the engine of its undoing. Most commercial distributaries housed only a three-day supply of food, beyond which most perishable goods were lost.

The planet itself produced a vast amount of produce and processed goods, but was reliant on off world supply for dietary staples like wheat which could only be grown in orbital aggri-platforms due to the planet's climate. The inadvertent effect of the blockade was that prices for all goods had soared to stupendous heights, causing widespread food shortages to ripple across the world. This mostly affected the working poor, who formed a bulk of the populace.

The Guarantors, like the rest of the planets contingent of ruling merchants and nobles, had never enjoyed much in the way of popularity. Their mandate of rule was drawn directly from the world's economic prosperity. Support of the wildly unpopular Bellmont administration on Antares and the after-effects of the Three Corners Conspiracy had served to make them into villains. Thus, instead of blaming the Reclamation fleet in orbit who were directly responsible for their woes, the mob's ire turned first on the world's leadership as well as any who were thought to be hoarding precious food.

The situation at Attica had come about largely from the initial predations of the starving mobs. When the security system failed, the lower reaches of the compound had been quickly swarmed by those under the false impression that the Order was sitting on a vast stockpile of provisions. This information was no doubt planted by their adversaries. The Pallisari had struck soon afterwards, turning what would likely have resulted minor damage to the sanctum's grounds into a running battle which saw scores killed and hundreds wounded. What was worse, the Brotherhood persisted in spreading notion that the massive casualties among the civilian looters could be blamed on the overzealousness of the Biologis defenders. Bronte Kollo had proven adept at manipulating public sentiment. The Order had being labeled the Butchers of Attica.

Demilius smiled without humor.

"Your first lesson in Salamean behavior, Invigilator. This world was unprepared for the current situation. I fear that, of late, the climate of this nation is causing many to behave rashly."

That was an understatement. Social unrest was now the activity du jour of the region, thanks to the unbalancing of the scales of power following the victory at Halifax.

Many questioned whether the old socioeconomic order could ever be restored. Joachim was pragmatic. A major war was in the offing with the League, regardless of what anyone speaking appeasement wished to believe. Though their attention was directed elsewhere, the question now was whether their enemies would return to find a unified nation or a collection of squabbling, starving worlds. Even if the former were the case, the former Invigilator held out little hope that it would make much of a difference.

The Septrix broke her silence. "Where is the Justicariat, surely the maintenance of planetary order is precisely why they're tolerated here?"

"The Guarantor has them bottled up in Attica, dealing with the worst of things. They still operate at his discretion, though I believe he fears that giving them a freer hand to operate will undermine his authority. After all, his own security forces are little more than thugs with badges, adding them to the mix might only make things worse, and everybody knows it."

A junior vericantor hurried toward the group, nearly colliding with the demi-magos in his haste. After some mutterings, the youth scurried off. Demilius looked disquieted.

"There has been an incident at the main gates. We suspect agitators are baiting a poor reaction from us here as well.

Some of the survivors of Attica had fled to Sisna. The mob had gotten wind of it. Some called for blood.

The Septrix grinned wolfishly.

"She said, "Allow me to take care of this"

She returned an hour later with Som, her bodyguard, in tow. Both looked inordinately pleased with themselves. The crowds at the main gate had dispersed without a shot fired, but the Sinestra agent had somehow flushed out the instigators. There were a dozen of them; none looked to be in good condition. One looked positively chewed on.

The group reconvened in the sanctum's upper-sigular, which doubled as a holding pen.

Septrix Wyn brought the prisoners. “Shall I have them put to the question, Invigilator?” As Joachim had no official title those who dealt with him direct called him whatever came to mind, usually defaulting to his old honored rank. It was irksome.

“To what end?”

“It might be instructive to find out who hired them.”

“I already know. You’ll be happier being ignorant.”

“You think?”

Som shook his head slowly. “Silly-ass discussion.” Both Joachim and the Septrix glared at him.

Wyn wasted no time. She asked questions. The prisoners answered. They had nothing illuminating to say. They had been recruited by a Noam Hellata.

Hellata had paid well, half up front.

There was no trace of Hellata. He had gone missing before the Septrix's enforcers rolled over his position in the mob.

Most of the prisoners thought Hellata had worked for the Savoys. A few picked Bronte Kollo, the Brotherhood Exalted Sword. And one liked those nobles in Sisna who had little love for the Biologis' influence in the running of the city.

Joachim told group, “Hellata works for one of Celestine's associates. An idiot who decided to do his boss a favor and eliminate the nuisance Celestine by ginning up another Attica. An idiot who can’t look past the moment far enough to see how little good that would do the Patriarch or the Brotherhood's cause right now.”

The Septrix said the fool’s real name was Meré Saptulani. She thought that was funny. Saptulani meant “woman of bad smells” in one of the languages she spoke.

This Saptulani was the illegitimate son of a Kollo cousin. He was determined to make his mark handling the Exalted Sword’s unpleasant chores. Wyn suspected that Saptulani operated under deniable orders, but had overstepped his authority here.

The demi-magos inquired as to whether or not they should try to find this Saptulani before the exchange.

Joachim observed, “It doesn’t matter in the end. Going after such a fool would be a waste of time. I imagine his own people will be looking for him anyway.”

There were no more human intercessions that day.

---

The magos surprised everyone that evening when he walked into the suite dedicated to the Sinestra visitors. The doors were low-enough that his mute lifeguards had to duck low to enter. Greeting voices were raised, but quickly silenced by a slender finger to the bald potentate's lips. He fished a small, disc-like device from the folds of his robe and pressed an activating glyph on its underside. The tiny machine buzzed to life, floating to the room's ceiling. Joachim's enhanced senses were momentarily overcome with a wash of white noise before clarity returned. The scrambler unit seemed to muffle all outside noises as well.

The Septrix smirked like cat which had just swallowed the canary. "Well, I wondered when you'd get around to this. Don't trust your own people, eh?"

Joachim frowned at her impertinence, but the magos seemed to ignore it.

"We don't have much in the way of time. The operation in two days will be delicate. I believe it goes without saying that anything we utter here may find its way back to our enemies. Be mindful of this, especially around the demi-magos and his staff."

"So you believe he's been corrupted, then? That would be unusually far-reaching for the Brotherhood."

"With Mantellus involved, there's no telling. A great deal of the Order was sympathetic to his vision twenty years ago. There is a strong chance he's spent the intervening years building a support network in our midst. The systems at Attica did not fail, they were simply turned off. Someone had Honorus' geneseal and used it to great effect. If they could get to him, Sisna could just as easily suffer the same fate."

Joachim asked, "Then I ask again, why are we even here? It seems like an unreasonable risk given what we already know."

"Simple, as long as the enemy thinks they have us unwittingly cornered, we have the advantage. I fully expect this operation to be compromised at some level, the difference is that here we have a better notion as to where those leaks are coming from."

The Septrix nearly giggled. "So if we're here, we can feed them all sorts of false information. Just like with the fake exchange at Attica, we can use this to know what direction to cover our collective rear-ends."

"Precisely, my dear."

"How very cunning. Magos, you are in the wrong line of work."

Joachim interrupted their exchange. "So what exactly are our marching orders then?"

"The real hand-off will be done out of Juniper Hall in the merchant's quarter in two days."

Joachim was familiar with the place. The building was a well-known landmark of the old Empire. It was a gargantuan structure which served the bureaucratic needs of the planet's off world trade. As such, it was home to thousands of clerks and other managerial staff. By necessity it also had a large Biologis facility permanently ensconced to handle secure missives and verify blood-signed contracts. It also doubled as a minor port facility, making it ideal for their purposes.

The Septrix displayed only passing familiarity. As Joachim filled her in, her pleasure grew.

"That's a neat trick then. We can perform the appropriate rites and leave directly for orbit. Assuming everything goes smoothly."

Which it wouldn't, this was almost a guarantee. However, the architecture worked to their advantage. It would be virtually impossible to isolate the party anywhere in the structure, which was honeycombed with passages. If flight were necessary, the presence of so many civilians would muddle things.

Joachim crossed his arms thoughtfully, "It also means that neither the Guarantor nor the Brotherhood will have the luxury of deniability here. If they make a move it will have to be very loud and very public."

It also put Mantellus in a bind. The renegade magos might be dangerous, but he'd gone to great lengths to guard news of his survival. There were many who would come for him if he showed his face.

“Fine, we’ll muddy the waters a bit then. Sell the story that we’re handling things in a dozen different locations. On the day in question we’ll live up to our cageyness, Send out multiple aircars, and generally make a mess of things. They’ll know our true location the moment we step out of the vehicles, but with any luck this will get enough of them out of position to buy us the time we need to make the exchange and get out before things turn ugly.”

It was wishful thinking, they all knew that, but it was a good plan.

Joachim added soberly, “If the individual even shows. That is.”

“Oh they will.” The Magos responded with unnerving confidence.

Gir moved to deactivate the drone, but paused. He turned to face the assembled group.

“There is one other matter which I feel bound to inform you. There is a good chance that Primaris Cardif may have his hand in events here as well. It is unconfirmed, but several of his known operatives may have been sighted in the company of the Brotherhood. I do not know what this might mean, but be on your guard. I’ve had a first-hand accounting of the effectiveness of your people and I imagine if he is involved with the Pallisari it can come to know good end for us.”

With that, he collected the drone and left the suite in contemplative silence.

Part 5. Dust of Victory

---

Juniper Hall, Cisna

Salamis

The storm broke over Sisna on the morning of the third day. The weather announced its arrival to the city with booming thunder and an ocean of sleeting rain. The usually turgid Caspacian and Ifuric rivers overtopped their banks, forcing the city’s system of massive pumps and cisterns to work beyond their capacity. The flooding submerged the lower blocks in a viscous deluge, but the populace knew from experience to abandon the area during the storm season, and casualties were thankfully limited.

The morning of the operation was full of frantic activity. The Sanctum’s staff had little clue as to what was going on. There were all sorts of wild rumors in circulation. Those with any sort of access wondered at the huge collection of transport vehicles arrayed on the docking platforms. There was enough assembled capacity to move a quarter of the facility’s personnel.

Joachim had armed himself with mobility in mind. He wore a double-layered combat vest beneath his Justicariat-issue uniform. The Sanctum’s armory had been surprisingly well-stocked. He’d chosen a snub-nosed submachine gun, and a pair of heavy caliber pistols. Supplementing these firearms were an assortment of vibra-knives, which the former Invigilator accepted in place of his usual shockmaul, a symbol of his former profession.

When the magos and his benighted protectors took off for the city’s center, there was no fanfare. The group divided itself into several convoys, each with a sizable security escort. Demi-magos Demiius worried. The operation had stripped away much of the sanctum’s guardian force.

Each of the convoys loped off on its own course, headed for disparate sights all around the city. Joachim’s group made a beeline for Juniper Hall.

The structure made the Biologis sanctum look insignificant by comparison. It was a gargantuan construction. Its spire punched upward into the heavens, surmounting all of its neighbors by several orders of magnitude. At every floor, flying buttresses adorned with Imperial regalia, statuettes, and gargoyles jutted out into the open air. Time and fierce weather had scoured much of luster from the stonework, but here and there Joachim could see traces of the old marble, often bedecked in verdigris covered metal ornamentation.

The convoy angled toward the secondary docking port, a cavernous opening toward the base of the building. Titanic stormfields remained open, allowing aircar and flitter traffic to pass to and from the building despite the weather. They came to rest on a non-descript pad in the far corner of the port. A single man awaited the group.

The Sinestra guard exited first. The Septrix’s hackles were up and she did a quick pass of the area before waving the rest out of the shuttle. Joachim did his best to size up their greeter.

The man was somewhat short and swarthy. His dark complexion and wiry black beard marked him of Indo-Chhatrapatian descent. Aside from the greasy spacer’s coveralls he wore, there was little else distinguishing about the man aside from his slightly annoyed expression.

Upon spying the magos, the spacer strode forward, hands at his sides in a gesture of peace.

“The name’s Khan. I’m ta’ see you ta’ the master.” He said simply.

Joachim caught the distinct mixture of Jarihadin and Etemaish in his accent. He looked to Dolan Gir, who seemed satisfied by all of this.

“Very well Mr. Khan. Lead the way.” He said.

The group made good time, cutting through the crowds with ease. It was not unusual for well-appointed merchants and nobles to travel with large armed escorts. The value of the cargo or information they carried often necessitated such arrangements. It was less common to see such a large party accompanying a Biologis factor, and there was some audible whispering.

They traveled in silence, Khan seemed as eager to be rid of the party as they were to see this operation completed.

They were shadowed by plainclothes Sinestra operatives whom the Septrix had begun filtering into the facility the previous day. They kept the group apprised of any untoward attention.

So far, so good.

Juniper Hall’s interior was as oversized and grand as its exterior. The main building was divided into a stacked series of galleries, each with a ceiling which soared several stories high. Serried balconies overlooked the main trade floors, which were packed with foot traffic. At the perimeter were an uncountable number of offices dedicated to an innumerable number of trade authorities, conglomerates, government regulators, and inspectors. Each was dedicated to a particular type of good or service. The signage had been changed so often that digital projects hung over the doors proclaiming ownership, patronage, operating hours, and rates. Great holo-tickers moved on counter-grav fields displaying the latest prices for all sorts of commodities. The noise on the lower floors was deafening, and it abated only somewhat the higher in the structure they climbed.

Khan guided the group to a private lift, which sent them hurtling up its shaft for an ascent whose distance it was impossible to judge. They threaded through a disorienting maze of passages and cubbyhole rooms crammed with dim stacks of data-slates and papers. The attendant clerks, scribes, and couriers paid them little heed, intent as they were on the colossal tasks in front of them. Joachim was almost twitching with anxiety as they exited into a significantly less crowded gallery. The hall had been given over to trade factors, and various representatives milled about with far less frantic urgency than the swamped clerks.

The middle of the floor was dominated by an exhibit on loan from the Ferisnian Museum of Post-Modern Art. A mixture of glass sculpture and skillfully inlaid light projectors gave the pieces the illusion that they warped space. The optical illusion was both pleasing and distracting. Great stormfields stretched the entire three-storey height of the floor. At either end of the gallery were a set of broad stairs that twisted away to either side to provide access to the mezzanine offices above.

The presence of such a large, armed group sent many of the onlookers scurrying away. Those who appeared to interested were discouraged by sharp looks from the Biologis lancers. There were still more civilians in attendance than Jaochim would have liked.

The group filed upward, eventually winding up in front of a non-descript portal emblazoned with a small sign which read ‘Zavros Collections’ in embossed silver.

Khan stepped off to one side and gestured to the door before passing a hand over the panel, causing the a chime to ring before the hatch slid open. Joachim entered first, followed by the magos and his guard. The Septrix and several of her men remained outside with dour spacer.

The windowless office studio was longer than it was wide, and well lit. The furnishings were eclectic. The walls were lined with antique bookcases and filled to bursting with authentic leather-bound tomes. On the floor was a massive six-legged bearskin. To one side of the office a man lounged amid a set of leather divans. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored grey suit which he’d left unbuttoned at the throat. He looked all worlds like a bored noble from any system in the cluster.

The magos’ security detail fanned out pensively, while Dolan Gir himself groaned audibly, causing Joachim to snap his head back in alarm.

The magos said, “Not you. He could have sent anyone else.”

The man lazily hopped to his feet, a warm smile plastered across his too-perfect features. Several of the security detail leveled their weapons at him in alarm. The man raised his arms in mock surrender.

“Nice to see you too, Dolan.”

Joachim asked, “You know this man?”

“Far too well for my liking. Invigilator, meet Khalam Sivon. He is an information broker, of sorts. More of a charlatan than anything else.”

“Khalam Paptimus Sivon to you, the pleasure is of course all mine.” He said, bowing grandly as the party’s looks of confusion deepened.

“Wait, THIS is the man with the genematrix?”

“Indeed,” said Sivon, jabbing a thumb at a non-reflective case of black metal. “Would one of you kindly pick this up so we can get on with this?” Joachim recognized the seal of the Order Biologis at the hinge plates. It was a gene-locked container. The magos gestured to one of his lifeguard. The giant trod across the carpet and snagged the package gingerly in one hand before returning.

Joachim’s com buzzed. It was Wyn. “Heads up Invigilator, the Justicariat’s com-channels just erupted. Looks like someone just took out Jura Savoy at his compound in Attica. There are reports of scattered violence in several of the major cities.”

He shared a worried look with the magos. They had the same thought. This was the worst possible moment for a coup attempt.

“I hate to be a bore, but can I put my hands down yet?” Gir relented, and the guards did not relax, but they did lower their weapons a few centimeters. Joachim was still on edge as Sivon approached the party. On closer inspection there was something definitely wrong about the individual before him, but even with his enhanced perception the Sinestra enforcer could not place a finger on it. What was it?

“You would be Joachim Noa? I must say, for one so advanced in the years you certainly have kept yourself together, I think He chose correctly. Now, we haven’t much time. Would you yell your friends waiting outside that they’ll be having some rather unwanted guests momentarily.”

Almost on cue Jaochim’s earbud buzzed again.

“Not to hurry you all along, but the teams I posted on the main lift just missed the comcheck. I’m detailing a second team to take a look. I don’t like this.”

“Change of plan, get our shuttles up to the fifty-sixth floor. We can’t risk the trip back.”

“Tried that, getting nothing on the long range. Look, I think we need to scrub. Now.”

Noa was forming a reply when a shuddering moan rattled through the floor. The illumination panels flickered momentarily, then dimmed to emergency levels. There was some shouting among the guard as the closed ranks about the magos.

Sivon was first to react. “Ah, that would be the main power grid being cut. I believe we are being isolated to this floor. Now would be a good time to get moving.”

This observation brooked little argument. The group backed out of the studio. Several Sinestra operatives now accompanied the Septrix who looked more than a little worried. Khan had produced a grimy looking service pistol, but otherwise appeared unmoved by the growing tension. The offices around them had emptied out, news of the coup had traveled fast. The civilians were on the knife’s edge of a full panic.

“We’re leaving now.” The former Invigilator announced loudly.

Sivon chimed in, “I have a transport waiting on the eastern landing. If the lifts are down due to the power outage that would probably be our best bet.”

“I’d prefer we didn-.“ The magos’ answer was lost when muffled crack followed by thumping explosion sounded. The wail of a fire alarm claxon was nearly drowned up by screams of terror, which erupted from the crowd as a crush of office workers fled toward the exits. Sivon stabbed at his wrist-slate.

“Scratch that, I HAD a transport on the eastern landing. Don’t give me that look Khan, now is not the time for i-told-you-so’s”

As the crowd thinned, Joachim’s combat senses flared. Threaded in the throng below he made out the beetled flash of red combat armor.

“We have company!” he shouted, as the men below brandished carbines and plasma repeaters.

His Justicariat training took over, and he strode in front of a support column at the balcony’s edge with pistol drawn. “HAILING, JUSTICARIAT!” Joachim declared into the pickup on his throat-torc. His voice was picked up and fired from the audiocaster built into his wristslate. It boomed across the gallery with such volume that the milling throng below was momentarily transfixed. “In the name of the Lex Antarea, throw down your arms and surrender yourselves to judgment.”

And of course the men below brought their weapons around. The first one to fire had his aim thrown off by the sudden the volume of the sudden pronouncement and the impact-grenade took a chunk out of the wall over their heads. As the former Sinestra enforcer took aim, planted his back against a column and casually shot him in the facemask, Joachim decided none of this surprised him.

It took the rest a moment to recover from the shock before they opened fire on the upper balcony as one. The magos went flat, and his lifeguard formed a protective huddle as their wrist-mounted snapshields popped to life. The rest of the party flung itself behind whatever cover it could find as the crowd below parted around the unknown gunmen, screaming in terror.

More assailants piled into the gallery as Joachim and his returned party fire from the balcony.

The angle was poor, but the heavier weapons of the attacking gunmen eroded what little cover was afforded by the hardwood of the balcony ledge.

“We can’t stay here.” Septrix Wyn shouted above the din.

“I will clear a path; have your people cover me.” She stared at him incredulously for a moment, but relented, sending quick hand-signals to her retinue. Rounds sizzled and yipped through the air as Joachim moved down the mezzanine with Som and a handful of Sinestra behind him, slamming his pistol into its holster and plucking his submachine gun from his belt clip. He backed up beyond the rapidly evaporating lip of the balcony before hitting a blindingly quick sprint. He launched himself from the upper floor into the midst of the firefight below.

Jaochim grunted as his knee joints flexed into his landing, the treads of his boots skidding on the polished marble as plasma rounds hissed around him. Time slowed to a standstill as his heightened senses picked the threats from the emergency lighting. Placing his shots, his bullpup barked in short, condensed bursts as he twisted and pirouetted through the hail of bullets and energy fire.

Fire. Dodge. Reload.

He repeated the mantra in his mind as cut a swath through the attackers.

Several of the gunmen still out in the open collapsed in puffs of arterial blood as Joachim's bullets found the open spots in their armor where their visored helmets joined with their scaled combat vests. The rest took cover behind the ornate support columns below but were forced to awkwardly divert fire between the rapidly dwindling mezzanine and the new threat in their midst. A grenade pinked off a column and exploded somewhere behind him, resulting in shouts of pain. The Som’s men were doing their best to cover him on the move.

The Septrix’s voice barked from his com-bead, “Incoming, Move!”

The darkshape of an aircar quickly loomed in the window behind him. The vehicle slammed into the barrier with the force of a missile. A jarring staccato pop of explosions rippled from outside as the stormfields guarding the viewing windows failed under the stress of the impact, and buffeting wind sent knife-legnth shards of plate glass spinning into the gallery. Joachim saw the hard-edged form of a transport craft drop down from above destroyed window as more attackers in full assault kit swung into the room.

The magos and his party had taken full advantage of Joachim’s distraction and pushed down the far stairwell towards the concourse exit. Despite being outnumbered, the full-power armor of the Biologis lancers allowed them to wade through gunfire and the group was making good headway.

Som and his contingent trailed behind; forced to divert their attention from the shooters on the lower floor to the new arrivals. A frag grenade went off above the ledge and shrapnel cracked against armor and helmets – two Sinestra guard were dislodged by the blast and toppled, yelling into space as they fell gracelessly to the ground where they lay unmoving. The Septrix’s bodyguard returned fire, cutting loose with his stubgun on full auto, dropping several in the first wave in a storm of high-caliber shells while retreating down the length of the gallery as more assailants filled the lower hall.

Joachim suddenly realized he was cut off.

A pair of hazy forms snapped into view, framed momentarily by rainwater from storm which gusted in through deactivated stormfields. Several troopers in front of them did not know to react and were cut down in the confusion.

Joachim recognized the signature, the same assassins who’d killed Magos Honorus.

Having sighted their prey, they made a beeline for him. Their camouflage fields sparked and blurred as the coprocessors fought to keep up with the blinding speed of pounding feet. Joachim was forced to switch his attention away from his companions as twin blades cleaved toward his torso, keening audibly as they sliced air and bringing with them the stench or torched ozone.

Too close. He freed a vibra-knife from its chest sheath and whipped the humming edge around in a backhand grip. He faked a parry before reversing himself and rolled across the polished stone floor toward the exhibit station that dominated the central concourse. As he came to his feet he used his momentum to hurl himself backwards through a shimmering ceramic facing adorned with motile geometric shapes that chased one-another across the digital canvas. The assassins followed. Blades gripped two-handed as the flowed after him. The first tucked her legs in as she vaulted through the still falling shards, failing to notice the prone man aiming up at her until moments after it was too late. She caught a burst from Joacim's submachine gun in the lower chest that spoiled her leap. The armor-piercing rounds were more than enough to punch through the thin protection offered by her reinforced chameleon suit, which was designed for stealth rather than bullet-stopping ability. The impact turned her torso into a crimson ruin of flesh and flailing limbs which flew over his reclining form to slam into free standing sheet of warped glass.

The second assassin chose discretion over valor, instead cutting a zigzag path toward him across the main thoroughfare to his immediate left. The older man rewarded this boldness with a warding spray of gunfire which spanked off the copper-lined pillars beyond. Wary of meeting a similar fate as his companion, His attacker leapt back in retreat, letting his camouflage field envelope him as he sought cover among the flanking columns of the gallery.

The former Invigilator was already on his feet and running toward a side passage that Som was holding valiantly against a reinforced squad of mercenary shock troopers. He managed only a dozen yards before he felt the steel pinpricks of warning. Throwing himself to his left, he evaded a mighty slash as the assassin’s blade descended on him from shadows to miss by millimeters, digging a smoking cleft in the marble. Realizing he was too close to use the bullpup, Joachim abandoned it, dragging his knife around in a wavy arc and dove toward the Sinestra agent. The buzzing dagger was no match for the assassin’s shamshir edge on, but with the range so close that his assailant couldn't pull the gleaming blade in tight enough to make an effective cut.

The assassin was canny, instead deflecting the point of the vibraknife with his sword hilt, Joachim allowed a small smile as he immediately released the blade and chopped the slightly shorter man in the throat, and using his superior speed and enhanced strength to crush the smaller man's windpipe through the chobham weave of his chameleon suit. The assassin didn't even have a moment to wheeze as a second punch cracked into to his sternum.

The blow struck with such force that the assassin’s carbondite reinforced ribcage shattered and his body was catapulted into the gilded eves, slamming in among the gold leafed embossment in a shower of debris before dropping to the stone floor in a broken heap.

Still operating on chemically reinforced adrenaline, Jaochim snagged his fallen gun and charged down the side passage, passing the bullet-shattered sculptures and busts of Iosian saints. His mind was full of questions. The assassins had come after him specifically. If they were Mantellus’ men, did that mean the Biologis heretic was present somewhere? The rage burning in his gut hoped the answer was yes.

The vaulting arches gave even the side-passage a cavernous feeling as the shouts of wounded men and the sulfurous stink of discharged fire-arms surrounded him. He hopped over the fallen bodies of more troopers, clearly locals from the distinctive scale patterned camouflage adorning their combat gear. Someone had clearly been in a hurry if they had been forced to rely on mercenaries for such an important operation. All of this was testament to the sloppy nature of the attack.

He tested his coms, but got nothing but static. A quick glance at the retinal-visor HUD still showed a solid lifepulse for both Septrix, and the Magos but many of the other loyalist Sinestra agents engaged throughout the upper floors of structure had gone dark. There was nothing to indicate their position either.

Joachim discovered the fate of the Septrix’s bodyguard soon afterwards.

Som and his remaining men had taken cover behind a rapidly disintegrating support pillar near the hall's central lift, snapping shots at the armored wall of mercenary assault troopers who were advancing under the cover of a fallen statue of Ios. He had abandoned his stubgun and now fired with a heavy-bore auto-pistol. It would not be long before the flanking mercenaries would have a clear line of fire on their position.

Only a single trooper managed to turn around in time to yelp a warning before the Invigilator descended on the kill team. Trusting his secondary chem reserves to last a few more precious seconds, Noa slammed into the group with all the violence of a caged typhoon. The raw physical impact of his assault killed two men outright, driving the first into the sheetrock wall hard enough to crack his skull while the second caught the point of his vibraknife in the eye. What followed was a furious dance of death as he lashed out with gun, knife-edge, fist, and heel.

Operating at the very edge of cybernetically enhanced awareness, he crushed a trooper's arm with a twirling sidekick while unloading through the red-tinted visor strip of another's combat helm. The man pitched back in a slow-motion spray of blood and bone fragments as the bullets exploded out of the back of skull. As his magazine clicked empty, he whipped the gun around in a horizontal arc, catching another trooper in the right side of his chin with the gun’s stock while his knife opened throats. The few not directly his path tried to retreat back down the hall only to catch well-placed shots to the helmet and legs, killing or maiming those who sought to escape.

Behind him another shape coiled in the dimness, the sound of an autocannon clip slamming home grated in his eardrums. Trusting his instincts more than anything else, he kicked off the wall and caught the gunner, who’d been stepping out from cubbyhole office, in the gut with an extended fencer’s lunge. The vibraknife shredded armor and flesh, doubling the man over as he loosed a death scream which Joachim quickly silenced with shot to the temple.

That broke their attackers completely. The firefight became a rout. Those few who’d been holding out in the offices fled like startled primates, shouting in fear or anger, one or two still bothering to fire wildly until they were cut down with cruelly accurate bursts from the surviving Sinestra guard.

Still feeling the exertion of the last few minutes in his arms, legs, and the pit of his stomach, Joachim watched as his scar-faced companion levered himself over the fallen statue, hefting an armful of grenades strapped to a belt. He’d taken a shot to the side, and was very clearly toasted from a grenade blast. But otherwise the Charybdian seemed unphased. The shootout on the balcony had cost the Sinestra force five lives: the agents who’d fallen from the ledge as well as three others lost in the ensuing firefight below. Four remaining men extricated themselves from makeshift cover to join Som and the former Invigilator in front of the depowered lift.

“Got separated from the others. Coms are down. What’s the play?”

Joachim wasn’t certain himself. Sounds of renewed fighting drifted in from all directions. The heaviest concentration of gunfire seemed to be coming from a westerly direction, though it was difficult to tell in-doors.

“Not sure, I was attacked by what I assume to be Mantellus’ men back there. If they got the drop on me, there’s a good chance they are aiming for the magos as well. We need to link up and cut a way out of this place. I’d hazard a guess that the Septrix is headed back toward the secondary hangar, or barring that the docking platforms on the next level.”

That was a sensible option, if they could contact their pilots there was a chance a pickup could be contrived from the landing platform. But the gunship outside still posed a problem.

“We go to her then.”

They all nodded.

The battered Sinestra contingent cut through the same data centers they’d passed on the way in, now abandoned and in many cases shot through with holes. Joachim did his best to ignore the still cooling corpses of civilians who’d been caught in the roving firefight. Some still lived, sobbing in pain. They were not his concern.

One body clad in cerulean combat armor gave them pause. Upon the shattered chest plate was the symbol of gauntlet enclosing a molten star. Pallisari. All the players had arrived. He hurried through the darkness.

---

Lynn Shang’s breath came in ragged sobs as she slammed another shell into the breach of her riot gun. Her chest and soldier burned where bullet impacts had failed to pierce the ballistic fiber of her combat armor and instead left grapefruit sized bruises. Behind her, the remaining alpharions dueled with the dregs of the mercenary strike teams that had ambushed them in the data stacks, while the Biologis guard did what they could from the cover of the colonnade.

The magos crouched beside an upturned groundcar, the sort used by visiting dignitaries who did not wish to soil their feet by walking the halls with the lower castes. He clutched the genelock case to his chest while his lifeguard emptied rounds at the makeshift barricade in front of the elevator. Sivon chatted casually with his companion, occasionally popping out of cover to take the head off an encroaching mercenary with his duelist pistol. The weapon was all but useless against the heavier armor of the Pallisari shock troopers who were steadily pressing them on all sides.

She knew the Invigilator was alive, but the lack of coms coupled with the failure of the tactical network meant she had no way of knowing where he was in the structure. Each of Juniper Hall’s eighty-two floors was several kilometers wide and a maze of connected halls, galleries and offices. Their initial attempts to break for the emergency stairwells had met extreme resistance and now they were being funneled toward the center of the building.

The entire level was depowered. Emergency lighting made every space feel even more cramped and claustrophobic. The central lift, which was wide enough to accommodate a cargo shuttle, had its own generators and offered a way out of the madness, but the wide thoroughfare was a natural kill box which the fanatics and their mercenary allies showed themselves happy to prove to any who stepped inside. A great many civilians learned this the hard way, and her party had been forced to batter its way through the milling throngs, all the while exchanging fire with mercenary gunmen who seemed to crawl out of the walls like rats.

Separated from the Invigilator and the men she’d dispatched with Som, Lynn Shang’s group had been harried all the way across the structure’s mazelike interior until the fighting spilled out onto the gargantuan main passage. They’d stumbled into the Pallisari crossfire and had been sent reeling. The Biologis lancers, who had enjoyed success against the lightly armored mercenaries, were picked apart by concentrated fire of the more well-armed force.

“Ma’am, we can’t stay here. Any minute they’ll get that cannon setup and then we’ll be finished” came the voice of one of her surviving cell members, a young Prosperan fighter named Ylante Ignum. True to his observation, she could make out the forms of several mercenaries behind the barricade struggling to setup a heavy autocannon on a portable trestle mount. She studied the youth’s face in the shadows before aiming a blast around the side of the column. Lynn Shang had known him only briefly; he had been a recruit from the Sinestra drillfields on Rabbad only months ago.

The Septrix desperately wanted to give the order force a breakout, but she couldn’t. The plan called for patience. Even if that was on the verge of getting them all killed.

There was a commotion by the lift. Someone was coming up. The crew struggling with the autocannon whirled as the grav-assists kicked in and the whirring of motors echoed up the shaft. There was a momentary lull in the shooting as the men behind the barricade gawked, slinging their weapons to face the expansive elevator face. The chime sounded, and the doors slid open to reveal nothing. They peered inside tentatively. The Septrix had a split-second to notice a slight blurring before the first man toppled, spouting blood from severed hands. The others were momentarily stunned, and many were cut down in an instant.

“Shit! We’ve got more trouble.”

The haze-shapes boiled over the mercenary’s position, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. The few surviving lancers turned to meet their invisible foes and fared only slightly better than the mercenaries. One lancer managed to drop a frag grenade amidst the cluster of assassins, doing little harm as they leapt clear of the blast, but shorting out their stealth fields long enough for his companions to get a clean shot off with a shotgun. The blast chopped the leaping killer off at the knees, jerking her legs back and causing her to faceplant into the polished flagstones in a bone-crunching impact. Her companions avenged her death moments later by impaling the trooper from three sides, before wheeling on the magos and his lifeguard.

The two golden-armored giants reared as one, firing blasts of ionized particles from their plasma cannons before the assassins drew to close. They tossed the guns away, pulling impact mauls from their shoulder harnesses one-handed, snap-shields crackling. They kept the magos at their backs, against the wall where the assassin’s blades could not reach.

Ylante shouted something unintelligible and Lynn Shang whipped her head around in time to see a concussion grenade arc in front of her. She lunged for the floor, dropping her riotgun, and managed to get her hands over her ears before the blast went off. As the shockwave passed over her, she writhed on the floor in agony with Ylante.

Everything seemed to slow down. She saw Sivon abandon his position to scramble toward her column. The mercenaries pressed, and the volume of fire picked up, yet she was deaf, and paralyzed. She could taste iron in her mouth and knew her eyes and ears must be leaking blood from the force of the blast’s pressure wave.

One lifeguard was down, mirror-helm shorn away to reveal a mangled face rimmed with blonde hair, the other was bleeding from a half-dozen gashes in its armor and sagged as it tried desperately to keep the assassins from reaching its master.

The Septrix could only watch, helpless, as a fourth shape sidled forward toward them. Her mouth formed a warning, but no words came out. The information broker stood over her now, firing with his pistol down the hallway, oblivious to the death approaching from behind. The last of her alpharions interposed himself in front of her and her attacker, lasting only a few frantic moments before falling to the keening vibrablade. Sivon turned finally, a look of surprise on his face, which was quickly replaced with a cocky grin.

The situation had changed.

A blast of stubgun fire announced the arrival of the Invigilator and his reinforcements. Their sudden appearance caught the Pallisari troopers behind them in a violent pincer that broke their resolve. Som and the others cut them down with ruthless efficiency.

Distracted from their kill, the assassins looked up only to find the Invigilator in their midst. What followed was a blistering exchange that ended with the Invigilator’s vibra-knife impaled upward through the last assassin’s jaw. The other two lay in ruin, but still living. One had both legs and an arm shattered, while the other was shot through the abdomen several times and lay bleeding in a heap next to the body of the fallen lifeguard. But where was the fourth?

A fine slurry of gore decorated the Invigilator’s clothing. His own blood ran freely.He’d been sliced across the face and legs, but seemed none the worst for ware. He stood over the magos now, executioner’s pistol cocked toward a hunched figure on its knees before him.

Mantellus.

The former Biologis Perfect looked disheveled. Crimson leaked from his mouth staining his beard. He was missing a hand. More shapes rushed out of the side passages. Som aimed his stubgun, but Sivon shouted him down.

“Hold! Friendlies.”

He spoke truthfully. As the men came into view she could make out the olive color of their fatigues and ARF patches. Relief flooded through her.

“About damn time. She croaked from ground. Ylante stirred while strong hands reached down to lift her to her feet. The ARF troopers arrived shouting orders. Several men leveled their rifles at the Invigilator, demanding acquiescence.

Noa’s eyes narrowed, but his grip on his weapon did not relax a single iota.

Dolan Gir was up as well. His remaining lifeguard limped after him as he came stand near the Septrix.

The hate radiating off the heretic was palpable. Noa’s wasn’t much different. He ignored the new arrivals, speaking to his quarry in a voice audible across the concourse.

“Vor Mantellus, in the name of the Lex Antarea I hereby condemn you to the spirit’s eternal judgment for your crimes against the dominion of man. Have you any final words?”

Mantellus merely chuckled. The Invigilator’s finger tightened.

“Stop! You will not harm this man.” A woman’s voice called out from behind the wall of ARF troopers. Noa tore his eyes off the traitor long enough to spot a woman in dappled power armor step free from the mass. Her service insignia marked her as a commander, and she carried her visor-less helmet in the crook of her arm. Her features would have been exquisite were they not marred by a complex web of scars around her right eye. A tattoo of downward thrusting sword had been worked into the scarification, giving her countenance a particularly savage bent.

“And you are?”

“Kera Cejanus Setorian, Aedile Majoris, First Centarii, Antarean Reclamation Force. I represent Fleet Marshall Tovengard who now extends his protection to this system for the duration of the crisis.”

“I don’t care who you are, or who you represent. He is a traitor, and a murderer. It is my duty to-“

She cut him off mid-sentence with a chopping motion. “Wrong, to my knowledge you are no arbitrator of laws, you are a civilian. This man is to be remanded to the custody of the Justicariat where he will be dealt with at our convenience. Not yours. Ask the Biologis representative.”

The Septrix saw the Invigilator tense, she imagined him pulling the trigger in her mind’s eye. Instead, he turned to stare at the Magos, who winced.

“Gir. What in the nine hells is going on here?” He asked.

“It is as she says.”

“Do better. This is not what I was promised.”

“There is more to what has happened here than your justice.”

Noa was getting the hint.

He said, “You used me.” It was a statement, not a question.

Yes, we certainly did, the Septrix thought.

Setorian shrugged. “None of this concerns me. However, if you do not lower your weapon I will have to consider this a hostile obstruction of my duties here.” She offered a cold smile. “I will not enjoy ordering my men to shoot you, but I will do it if you force me to.”

The Invigilator offered one last angry glare before holstering his weapon. Coughing laughter wracked the prisoner.

“You have always been a fool, Invigilator. They want what I have seen, they knew I could not resist it. You were the only one, always were. Hah!.I’ll be the doom of you all.Pretenders!” Bloody spittle flew from Mantellus’ lips as he babbled. A harsh look from Dolan Gir only caused him to cackle more loudly.

Setorian said, “Somebody, shut him up.”

The closest trooper delivered a solid thump to the back of the man’s head with the butt of his rifle. The laughter ceased abruptly.

Sivon dusted off his suit-jacket. His weapon was pocketed. He strode toward Setorian with arms spread in greeting. “Ah. Commander Setorian. It is so wonderful to see your beautiful face again. This day has been quite the reunion for us all.”

Her disgust was evident. Some her men moved to bar him from getting any closer to their leader.

“Sivon. I was not told you’d be here. If I had, perhaps I’d have contrived an excuse to miss this particular exercise. Besides, don’t you have whores to inveigle?”

“Is that what my reputation has become with you? I’m mortified.”

“I doubt anything mortifies you, wretch.” She turned to her second. “Get these people out of my sight. I want a debriefing as soon as this mess is cleaned up. How are the techs doing with the power for this level?” She stalked off bellowing orders.

A medicae trooper knelt close to examine Lynn Shang as the lights flickered back on. Mantellus’ unconscious body was shackled at the legs, and carried off on a repulsor-stretcher.

Magos Gir exchanged heated words with the Invigilator, who fumed, then wheeled toward the lift. Sivon intercepted him. “Ah, not so fast. He wishes to have a word with you.” No explanation of who ‘he’ might refer to. The look in the man’s eye said it wasn’t a request. Noa mouthed a protest, than thought better of it. Things were moving too fast.

As the two walked off, Lynn Shang slumped against the wall, exhausted.

It would be several days before she recovered well enough to leave the planet.

Her mistress would be pleased. Everything had gone according to plan.

---

Epilogue

Above Salamis

Salamis was a grey-blue ball hanging in the distance. Its moons mere pinpricks against the black expanse of space. Sivon walked next to the Invigilator as they strode through the portal to the observation deck. The amphitheater held row after stacked circular row of chairs and tables bolted into the deckplate below. All of them turned to face the glassteel reinforced viewing ports that took up an entire chunk of bulkhead.

Like most warships, the furnishings were utilitarian in fashion. Mostly metal, fastened with rounded edges to avoid injury during space travel. At the base of the deck, a gigantic holo-pit was sunk into the floor and ringed with control stations.

A lone individual stood with his back to the pair, his eyes locked on the swirling ball of the planet in the distance.

He was of middling height, and his brownish-blonde hair was cut short, in the martial style. His hands were clasped behind the back of his olive greatcoat, revealing the black gloves of his armored skin-suit beneath. His shoulders bore the tassels of a Commodore, but the bars and epaulets at his neck bespoke his acting rank as Marshal of the ARF fleet.

Khalam felt a familiar well of emotion rise to the surface. There it was again. Pride.

The man turned to greet them. Khalam dropped to one knee instinctively. Noa merely looked confused. The anger over events on the surface had yet to abate. He inclined his head, unsure of protocol.

“I return, as directed.”

“Ah, Mr. Sivon. I was pleased to read your report on the operation on Salamis. It seems everything went off according to plan. More or less.”

He turned to face them. Khalam noted the scar which ran through his left-eye, so similar to Setorian’s. Of course, on that score he knew which the original was. The woman’s loyalty to her friend bordered on psychotic.

“Joachim Noa, Welcome aboard Dawn Star.” He smiled broadly, “I am Marius, of House Andromedeus. Your assistance has been most appreciated, thought I apologize for the deception.”

The conversation which followed produced the most delicious smile Sivon had ever countenanced.

Following this man was becoming more and more delightful.