The Confession

Location: Detention Cells, Inquisition Fortress, Terra, 772.M41

Michael presented his temporary badge to the Inquisitorial Storm Trooper. No garrison troops here, he noticed, but a steely, unsmiling brute with the body of an athlete and any trace of humor surgically removed. For all their bluster, they were respectful enough, Michael thought.

For their part, they knew that anyone who even knew of this place had to be important, anyone who managed to get authorization to do so had to be doubly so. They'd have been shocked to know Michael had four different ways to get authorization to come here, but had chosen the most direct: he'd asked 'the boss'.

Lord-Regent-and-Commander-of-The-Imperium Roboute Guilliman had quirked an eyebrow, but when Michael said: 'I have unfinished business with an Inquisitor Lord Terran, that Lord Terran you authorized an ancient medal for, a few years ago.'  The transhuman, who had seen more than a hundred centuries, had acquiesced.

The ancient Primarch had blinked, but recognized just what he was talking about. Before he'd been Commandant of the Schola Progenium, before she'd been an Inquisitor Lord Terran, they'd been Captain-Commissars of two ancient regiments, raised from Terra. Terran regiments were steeped in tradition, ancient tradition. He'd authorized a Royal Canadic Victoria Cross for her, a medal only given to Terran Astra Militarum soldiers of a specific region, due to her and her regiments' exploits, and authorized her refounding the regiment, as it had been reduced below ten percent of its nominal strength. "This woman, she is special to you?"

"This woman is, but she is an Inquisitor Lord Terran, one of Kleopatra Arx's own handpicked seconds, I hardly need personal involvement to tie this to the Imperium..."

"Ah, yes, that's important context, so this is an Inquisitor of the Hereticus?"

"Hereticus, Militarum, Custodum, she's focusing on the throneworld, and how it affects our fighting forces, milord."

"And you're going into Inquisitor-land? To wrangle her back out?"

"No, she's still alive, but deathly injured, and her tormentor remains in our custody. I would question him, understand the attack where she was injured, mighty lord."

"Ah, yes, this criminal is there too?"

"The Inquisitorial Storm Troopers would hardly deliver him anywhere else than the Inquisition's own torture chambers, august lord, where they reign supreme."

"Approved, keep me posted. Attacks on Inquisitorial Fortresses worry me. Inquisitor-led attacks on Inquisitorial Fortresses mean something is very wrong..."

"Purpose?"

"I'm following up a lead from Inquisitor Lord Terran Carmine Petit."

"Matricular number?"

"Here, 969912389774677-1-2098-1-1."

"Oh, ok, you're in the system?"

"I'm one of her interrogators." That was a lie, he was her boyfriend, her lover, not someone in her warband. But they didn't need to know that, and he certainly knew enough of interrogation to handle the interrogation of her tormentor.

"Access granted, room 1001-10-10101 tower two, wing sixteen."

Michael took a train to the specified cell, entering when the storm troopers opened the door for him, seeing his badge, and the amount of gold braid on his uniform.

"Inquisitor Theeo Essen Nibali, you have been presented a Carta Extremis Diabolus. Given such a charge, you have no inquisitorial power nor authority. I come to you with an offer from Lord Inquisitor Terran Carmine Petit, whom you attacked in bad faith, and certainly not in service of the God-Emperor."

The medicae servitor was trying to pump enough stimulant to keep Nibali alive, as he struggled to even breathe. "Go to hell, you and that red-haired harridan..." He gasped, out of breath at even the short sentence.

"Tell me who put you up to this. You're not smart enough to think of this plot by yourself. Tell me who sponsored you, and you will die easy, at least."

"I'm my own man..." The drugs in his system finally latched on, his face relaxed, his eyes raised to the ceiling as a sign of ecstasy as he said: "Klammordian-the-secret-unknown, I curse your name..."

"By your own lips condemned. his is a name known to the Ordo Malleus, a pawn of Tzeentch. I name thee Extremis Diabolus. Strangle him, servitor." The servitor, unable to disobey, did so. And Theeo Essen Nibali died relatively painlessly, the medicine both extending his suffering and removing his awareness of the pain.

"What shall we do with his remains?" The storm troopers asked.

"Deliver them to the Inquisitor Lord Terran's explicators for final, safe, dispostion. We shall finish this investigation, but considering how deep the mighty have fallen... It'd have been better if he'd died before the attack."

Michael stood in the corridor after, hand pressed against the cold stone wall, breathing.

Klammordian.

A name. Finally, a name.

Not just Nibali's conspiracy. Not just corrupted officials and assassins in the dark. A daemon. A Greater Daemon, if the Ordo Malleus files were accurate. Tzeentch's servant, the Secret-Unknown, the one who corrupted Nibali and turned him into a weapon against the Imperium.

Against Carmine.

Michael touched his cap Aquila. The gift she'd given him decades ago, when they were both just progena, studying to be commissars,. Before the Ordo Prefectus, before the Inquisition. Before everything.

She was dying now. The medicae said days, maybe a week. Nibali's blade had gone deep, poisoned, and even with the best medical care on Terra, there was only so much they could do. She'd been in and out of consciousness for three days. Sometimes she knew him. Sometimes she didn't.

But she'd told him, in one of her lucid moments: "The daemon. Find the daemon. Nibali was just a tool. The real enemy... still out there..."

Klammordian.

He had a name now. That was something. That was a start.

Michael pushed off the wall, straightened his uniform, and headed for the medicae wing. He had to tell her. She deserved to know they had a name. That her investigation would continue. That her death—

He stopped that thought. Not yet. She wasn't dead yet.

But she would be soon.

And then he'd hunt this daemon. Not for revenge—revenge was unworthy, emotion that clouded judgment. But for justice. For completion. For the Emperor's service.

For Carmine.

Three days later. Medical Wing, Imperial Palace, Terra.

Carmine died at dawn.

Michael was holding her hand when it happened. She'd been unconscious for the last twelve hours, breathing shallow, pulse weak. The medicae—Tandy Rall, his personal physician who'd treated him for forty years—had said it was only a matter of time.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Tandy said quietly, checking the readings one last time. "She's gone."

Michael didn't move. Just kept holding Carmine's hand, still warm, as if she might wake up at any moment and give him that wry smile, tell him he was worrying too much, get back to work, Goldenrod.

But she didn't.

"Michael." Tandy's hand on his shoulder. Gentle. "You should go. Get some rest. I'll handle the—"

"No." His voice came out hoarse. "I'll handle it. She deserves that much."

Tandy didn't argue. Just nodded and left him alone with the body of the woman he'd loved for seventy-five years.

Klammordian, he thought, touching his cap Aquila one last time. I'm coming for you.

Two weeks later. Imperial Palace Antechamber, Terra.

"Canoness Superior Leilani Serendib Planitia?"

Leilani looked up from where she'd been standing—trying not to pace, trying to maintain proper Sororitas composure despite the strangeness of being summoned to the Imperial Palace with no explanation.

A man in Commissar's uniform, gold braid marking him as senior rank, was approaching. Dark skin, competent bearing, the kind of officer who'd seen real combat.

"Yes."

"Pick up your orders. This waiting room of the palace is no place to stay in. The locals will see it as an affront if we stay too long."

"Locals?"

"Servants. Waiting rooms are their place, not ours. Let's go."

"Just who are you?"

"Captain-Commissar Valim Dumont. I'm part of the Commandant's entourage. He asked me to come pick you up. We're dining upspire tonight."

"Up...spire?"

"Well, uptower, if you want to be mincing language. We're invited by an Adeptus Ministorum director. We should not tarry."

Leilani fell into step beside him, her Sisters forming up behind her. The surviving members of the Damascus Sulci Sanctum Wardens—four Battle Sisters who'd held an ice fortress on Enceladus against impossible odds. They'd been reassigned to Terra as bodyguard detail after the disaster that had killed most of their Order.

Bodyguard to Schola Commandant Michael Goldenrod.

Leilani hadn't met him yet. But she'd heard the stories. Captain-Commissar turned Senator, widower multiple times over, the man who'd written Di Furibus Triune under a name the publishers had changed. The Emperor's grace under fire, some called it.

She wondered what kind of man needed a Sororitas bodyguard detail on Terra itself.

They would find out soon enough.

Later that evening. in dining hall called Ile-de-Franke, for unfathomable reasons.

"Director, I presume?"

The Adeptus Ministorum official turned, irritation crossing his features at the interruption.

"Who are you?"

Behind him, a portly man in noble finery spluttered. "Duke Nyphram, Duke of Hy-Brazil."

The Director waved him off dismissively. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm expecting a Senator."

The Duke spluttered, but he had no counter to that.

"Michael."

The Commandant—Leilani finally had a face to put to the name—approached with easy confidence. Not arrogant, just comfortable in his authority. He was older, lines around his eyes that spoke of decades of service, but moved like a man much younger.

And he looked exhausted. Grief sat on him like a cloak.

"Director, don't mind the new bodyguards. They're still getting used to things..."

Leilani was giving everyone within twenty meters a very close look. Threat assessment, sight lines, potential choke points. Standard procedure, except nothing about this was standard. The Imperial Palace, a Senator, an Adeptus Ministorum director, and nobles everywhere.

Miles, the Custodian, stood slightly apart. His Auramite plate gleamed in the artificial light, distracting everyone who knew what he was. Leilani had served alongside Custodians before. They were... unnerving. Perfect. Inhuman in their perfection.

"Don't mind the skitarii, they're... skittish."

Logis-Magos Theta Meridian stood near the entrance, his augmetic frame barely concealed beneath his red robes. The skitarii bodyguards flanking him were twitching at every movement, cogitator arrays processing threat data.

One of them blared a bit of noospheric code.

Theta replied absentmindedly in the same binaric cant. "No, weapons safe." The command was reinforced with another burst of code.

"How are you, Michael?"

The Director's voice was warm, concerned. Real concern, Leilani noted, not political pleasantry.

"I'm all right," Michael said quietly. "Please, weapons-safe everyone. We are all in this together."

Leilani caught the slight emphasis on that last phrase. We are all in this together. Not just tonight. Not just this dinner. Something larger.

She touched her Aquila pendant—the one matching her sister Meilana's, wherever she was—and settled into position behind the Commandant.

This was her duty now. Protecting this man who'd just lost someone important. This Senator with grief in his eyes and determination in his spine.

The Emperor protects, she thought. Through bonds. Through duty. Through service.

And perhaps—though she couldn't have known it then—through something more.