"This is the result of my precise calculations. Of all conceivable permutations, this remains the most optimal." Vick's tone was emotionless as he spoke, a flat monotone that made Chak suspect his father was merely pretending to sound confident to reassure him.
But Chak wasn't reassured. On one hand, he didn't trust his father. On the other hand, as an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, suspicion was his second nature, a weapon sharper than any blade. The Inquisition had taught him that trust was weakness, and weakness was death.
"Doubt. Anger. Hatred. Suspicion…" Vick's eyes locked onto Chak's. "Letting those biological emotions take control leads to failure. That is what I've learned. Just as I once failed. Seventy years ago, I permitted such organic frailty to guide me... I consorted with one of your kind, a female. And in doing so, I engineered a mistake."
Chak would not have remembered he was over seventy Terran years old had Vick not mentioned it. Thanks to rejuvenation treatments and the never-ending duties of the Inquisition, decades passed like mere moments. His features, like his resolve, remained largely unchanged, frozen by chem and duty alike.
As for their "father-son relationship," Chak didn't feel anything. To him, this man was nothing more than a Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, someone who might have shared a biological link but was essentially a stranger. After all, they hadn't seen each other in over sixty years.
He didn't care for Vick's icy words. In fact, he inclined his head, a small gesture of satisfaction laced with calculated disquiet. His words carried the deliberate sting of a provocation meant to test Vick's composure. "Then I assume you've calculated the outcome thoroughly… But I must admit, I'm curious. What exactly did the Lord of Talon offer you? Don't tell me, it wasn't an STC, was it?"
As an Inquisitor, Chak had access to classified files on the Adeptus Mechanicus.
A Standard Template Construct, an STC was a priceless relic of the Dark Age of Technology. In the Mechanicus creed, it was salvation and scripture combined. To possess even a fragment was to wield power enough to shape entire sectors, power enough to elevate a Tech-Priest from mortal servant to living saint of the Machine-God. If Vick had obtained one, it would grant him unimaginable power and status.
"It was not an STC," Vick responded, unmoved. "You cannot comprehend what I uncovered on that Hive World, and even less idea of what secrets the Lord of Talon harbors. These are far more valuable. Far more important."
"So, based on the significance of what I've disclosed…" Vick rose with hydraulic grace, turning toward the sealed door. As he moved, servo-motors humming faintly beneath his red robes, he continued, "I am certain that Interrogator Rena has met with foul play, and that the people of the Talon system are responsible. But that doesn't matter. What is relevant is your compliance. I require you not only to withhold this intelligence, but to actively misdirect your fellow Inquisitorial operatives during your next deployment."
Chak tilted his head slightly, feigning contemplation, then asked, "Is that an instruction from you… or from the Cult Mechanicus?"
Vick offered no reply. He stopped at the door, turned his head back unnaturally, the metal servos in his neck rotating his head until it faced Chak and said, "There are ten auspex relays embedded in your quarters. I have purged their data cores. You will need to replenish their recordings... with falsified transmissions."
With an audible snap of pneumatic pistons, his head rotated forward again. A mechadendrite, crowned with a multi-adapt interface probe, extended from his spinal harness and interfaced with the encrypted door panel.
Without another word, Vick exited.
Chak watched the door seal shut, the final hiss of vacuum-lock whispering into silence. The chamber seemed suddenly emptier, though the tang of incense and machine-oil lingered like a ghost.
He turned at once, sweeping the room with a practiced gaze. His eyes tracked the shadows with the precision of a hunter, his mind cataloguing discrepancies with mechanical speed born of long service.
"That doesn't add up…" he murmured. "I found nine bugs last night. Did I overlook one… or has someone added another?"
Talon I – Orbital Spaceport
The orbital spaceport loomed in geostationary orbit above the polluted skies of the Tyrone hive city, one of several orbital installations constructed over the past year and a half. From orbit, it resembled a massive bastion fortress adrift in void, its crenellated battlements bristling with lance batteries and torpedo silos. All vessels entering the Talon system were required to dock here, undergo inspections, and register for trade beneath the watchful eyes of the Talon's Adeptus Arbites overseers.
Each day, over a dozen ships emerged from the Mandeville Point, passed through the defense perimeter, and docked at the port. But today, something different occurred.
A vessel didn't jump in at the Mandeville Point, it translated into realspace directly beside the orbital station.
It looked nothing like the usual traffic.
There were no cathedral spires, no stained glass, no Ecclesiarchy iconography. It was angular and brutalist in design, its hull bearing the golden sigil of a lion's head, likely a noble house crest.
Despite the visible array of macro-cannons on its hull, it was, technically, a merchant vessel.
After realspace translation, the ship engaged its thrusters and maneuvered with practiced ease. A smaller escort craft, bearing port authority transponders, guided it to dock beneath a hovering hololithic marker labeled "37."
With a chorus of hydraulic groans and magnetic thuds, the docking clamps locked into place. A few moments later, ten massive cargo haulers detached from the vessel's underbelly, descending on grav-lifts toward the designated inbound zone.
The lead hauler's ramp hissed open.
Klein stepped out clad in worn void leathers marked with trade sigils and subtle armor plating. Flanking him were members of his personal retinue. Read complete versıon only at 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕·𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎·𝚗𝚎𝚝
Waiting for him at the landing zone was a figure in Thunderborn armor, and behind him, a thousand soldiers armed to the teeth. Their formation was immaculate, ranks bristling with lasguns, the discipline of men who knew the price of failure.
Klein narrowed his eyes at the Thunderborn.
"You Grey? Anruida? Someone new? Don't tell me… Grot?" Klein asked, voice edged with dry humor. "Hard to tell who's who under all that blessed ceramite."
The Thunderborn stepped forward and with a hiss of pressure seals, he removed his helmet.
"You bastard, you've done well for yourself."
"Grey!" Klein laughed and embraced the man.
Grey's eyes flicked to the figures accompanying Klein.
One was a hulking Ogryn, nearly three meters of muscle encased in custom-forged carapace armor. A brutish cyclopean visor glowed faintly red over his eyes.
Behind the Ogryn were several scarred mercenary bodyguards. Their faces were maps of old campaigns: burns, augmetic replacements, ritual scars, each man carrying his past carved into his flesh.
But one presence eclipsed them all.
A towering figure, nearly two and a half meters tall even without his helm. Broad-shouldered, leonine in bearing, his long golden hair fell over a weathered face. He wore damaged power armor of burnished yellow ceramite. The chestplate bore a red heart and blood droplet sigil.
An Adeptus Astartes, one of the Emperor's Angels of Death.
The armor was heavily worn and damaged. Even the iconic pauldrons were missing. Yet the warrior looked utterly calm as he met Grey's gaze and gave a respectful nod.
"Malakim Phoros. One of the Emperor's Angels," Klein said in a hushed tone. "I don't know the full story. Found him on a death world. But I'll say this, those guys can survive anything. When I found them, he and his squad had survived for a month eating poisonous wildlife."
Grey immediately realized: there wasn't just one Astartes. There were more.
But since Phoros seemed stable and not, say, a threat to the entire system, Grey let it be.
Klein would be meeting the Lord of Talon soon anyway.
"I'm here to deliver what the Governor ordered," Klein said as he walked toward the remaining haulers.
Each transport's ramp opened, revealing mercenaries standing guard within.
The interiors looked more like open plazas, and on these "plazas" lay the cargo Klein spoke of.
Grey joined Klein, chatting as they moved through the haulers and inspecting the cargo.
The first transport was packed with Ogryns, massive abhumans shackled in transport harnesses, their thick hides bearing the tattoos of labor regiments and penal brands. So was the second.
"I've been gone for months. How's the Governor been?" Klein asked casually.
"Good. Mostly spends his time in the research facility. You know, the one beneath the fortress we used to garrison."
"Same old, then…" Klein sighed. "Still no 'Governor's Lady'?"
"A few days ago, he visited Talon II a few times. Stayed at a young noblewoman's estate… I saw them on the beach during my leave, so…"
As they chatted, Grey inspected the rest of the haulers.
The first nine were full of abhumans: Ogryns, ratlings, and the like. Standard fare for mercantile operations in fringe systems.
But the tenth and final hauler was different.
Inside were civilians. Dirty, ragged, huddled on the cold deck. Some were sitting. Others lying down, gnawing on field rations. Adults and children alike, gaunt, malnourished, clearly hardened by suffering.
When they saw Grey in his power armor, they recoiled to the far end of the bay. Their eyes were hollow, their movements hesitant, as though fear was stitched into their very souls.
Grey scanned them. Over fifty in total.
And every single one of them triggered the same reaction in him.
A psychic nausea in his guts. Revulsion, not from disgust, but from the primal, involuntary unease that came from proximity to the soulless.
Every single one of these people was a Pariah, a Blank, an untouchable whose very presence disrupts the warp and induces dread in all psykers and normal humans alike.
"These poor bastards make Yoan look lucky," Klein muttered, recalling the horrors he saw when he first found them.
"Yeah… I can tell," Grey said with a grim nod.
Klein fell silent for a moment, then he turned to Phoros, who had remained motionless, and back to Grey.
"I'd like an audience with the Governor. Think you can…?"
"Of course. I'll take you to him immediately," Grey replied.
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