In thick, slow motion, Sister Melia watched everything.
She was concealed beneath the shadow of a vast and silent hopper – she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She was not restrained, but a heavy fog of lassitude had soaked into her limbs and her thoughts. It had robbed her of any energy, and left her listless and dull.
And there was something she’d forgotten, something…
Something like a light, maybe, but just beyond her field of vision.
She watched the balcony as it fell, watched the creaking, groaning metal as it collapsed to the floor. She saw the four scarlet-armoured figures as they fell with it. One rolled straight back to its feet, two others got up more slowly. The last one landed with a huge, metal door smashing down on top of it, edge-first.
It did not move again.
A flicker of concern went through Melia’s soul, but it soon faded, lost to the grey. Her distress was too nebulous, like trying to grip smoke – she understood that the red figures were important, but she couldn’t remember why.
Domine, libra nos…?
The words lingered, like some echo of her past.
To either side of her, the two gangers were grinning, watching the fight like it was some sort of gang battle. Whenever Zale spoke, they snickered obediently; he’d had no need to give them orders. As the kastelans moved towards the tumble of fallen figures, each ganger smacked his fist into his opposite palm, eager for more violence.
They moved like servitors, mindless – but she could no more have drawn her flamer on them than she could have reached for her hidden fleur-de-lys blade…
Her gauntleted hand twitched in her lap, as if it were missing something.
Yet there was only the fog, only the grey. She was safe in the grey, it was like a blanket. Like strong, stone walls, the big machines couldn’t touch her, wouldn’t notice her. Here, she could rest.
Yet still, Sister Melia was sure that she’d forgotten something…
On the factorum floor, Augusta rolled back to her feet, bolter still in hand. The nasty stab of pain in her shoulder kept her head clear and sharp; she took in the scenario with a glance. Akemi and Caia were both getting up, but the falling doors had smashed Viola to the ground, and she wasn’t moving.
A roll call in the vox did not get a response from the younger Sister.
Around Viola’s still form were the city’s tumbled thugs. Some were getting up, dazed, others groaned in pain or did not move at all. Several more were still in the doorway, hiding in cover, their weapons aimed at the scene below.
They did not fire.
Corporal Mors was upright, Rufus with him; their lasrifles were aimed at the thugs, making them keep their heads down. Adriene was moving, but more slowly; Lucio stared sightless at the roof, his helmet tumbled off and his young face etched with a final expression of shock.
By the angle, his neck was broken.
The Sister Superior had a split-second to take all this in – then her line of light was blocked by something small, armoured, and lividly angry.
Istrix stood in front of her, her face etched in bright scarlet and white, cross-hatched scars. A nimbus of hair had stood up from its braid – it had given her a halo, gleaming shock-white in the lumens.
‘I told you, I told you!’ Istrix’s words were a spittle-filled snarl. ‘I told you not to fire!’
Augusta inhaled, closing her teeth on a flare of livid and absolute fury.
She recited her Oath of Ordination, striving for calm.
Fides est armis meus mihi telum erudiens.
My faith is my armour, my training my weapon.
Smirking as if at some glorious, private joke, Zale lifted a hand to halt his various minions.
The looming kastelans ground to a halt.
Between them, the witch stood back with his arms folded, his attitude curious, and his confidence tangible – whoever won, this was still his game, and he was still in control.
But the Sister Superior spared all of this barely a glance. There was a bolter-muzzle right in her face, a small, round void of death.
Istrix’s words were vicious. ‘You are a traitor, Sister, just as much as he is. You have undermined my authority at every turn. You have refused my orders, taken initiatives to which you were not entitled. I am His word, His blade, and His law.’ She thundered the last sentence. ‘And I expect to be obeyed!’
Around them, the tableau had halted. Caia and Akemi flanked Augusta, weapons out, one to either shoulder; Viola, still, had not moved. Mors and Rufus were each dropped to one knee, covering the thugs, the kastelans and Zale himself. Adriene had joined them, though there was a trickle of scarlet down one side of her face.
Nothing moved, nothing seemed to breathe. Everything held still, mesmerised by the confrontation between the tiny, furious inquisitor and the calm, steel-cold solidity of the veteran Sister.
Augusta said, her tone pure steel, ‘I follow my mandate, guided by His wisdom.’ She pointed her bolter at Zale. ‘This witch must die.’
But Istrix was beyond hearing, beyond understanding. ‘Do you doubt my authority, Sister? My orders? Do you doubt His power? It is His voice I hear, His instructions I follow! He has brought us here! And He will tell me when to open fire!’ She trembled with intensity. ‘Heretics and betrayers, all of you! You are the denizens of Ruin! There is no faith! No loyalty! No trust! You are all fallen! All damned! I will kill you all! I will bring this whole planet to destruction with you still on it! You will blow to pieces like the moons–!’
‘Then why don’t you?’ Zale spread his arms. His voice soft, he said, ‘Come on, my lovely. My Issy. My mistress. Do as He bids you. After all,’ and his smile was glorious, ‘you always have.’
Her eyes wild, Istrix was gripping the bolter in both hands now, her shaking increasing. There was a nerve-spasm ticking under her eye; her teeth were gritted. She looked like she was fighting something.
Augusta said, ‘Shoot him, inquisitor. Or I will.’
The corporal’s voice interjected: ‘She won’t shoot him, Sister. She can’t.’
Augusta said, ‘What?’
‘It’s the thing I couldn’t tell you,’ he said. He wasn’t looking at her; he still had his lasrifle trained on the thugs. ‘Why she shot the lieutenant.’ Realisation broke over Augusta like an ice-cold tide. In that second, even as the corporal spoke, the final question was answered, and she understood the thing she’d missed, right from the beginning…
‘He put it together,’ Mors said, ‘when he saw her cutting the scars into her own face. Zale’s been in her head all along – playing with her, torturing and tormenting her. She thinks she’s hearing the Emperor, doing His bidding. The lieutenant confronted her. And she shot him. Commanded the rest of us to say nothing, on our oath to Him.’
Oh, of course…
It explained why Istrix had walked them straight into the initial ambush, why she’d specifically sought out Rayos, why she had persistently refused to let them open fire…
Explained what – and why – the Militarum soldiers could not tell them.
Zale had been playing with them all, all along – he’d probably let Mors see him at the smeltorium.
So that he could lead them all here.
Just like he’d lured Mors’ squad into a confrontation, and then murdered them…
Just like the signal from the broken moons…
Wrecker.
Playing them, reeling them in.
Too late, Augusta realised the wisdom of her own teachings:
Everything has its Operandus.
Zale had played his game expertly…
And, if the Sisters were not strong enough to withstand him, he might even have won.
The Sister Superior found that she, too, was shaking. Not from fear, but from the sheer brutality of the realisation, and from the rise of anger it brought with it…
They had failed.
Istrix had been weak, and she had faltered in her faith…
And Augusta had not challenged her, despite knowing full well that she should have done.
Perhaps the Penitence should be hers…
But not until the witch was dead.
‘You betrayed us.’ Ice-calm, Augusta spoke to Istrix. ‘Led us into a trap. You have surrendered your soul, Istrix, your faith and your honour.’ Her squad continued to cover the witch; she turned her own bolter on the inquisitor. ‘You are a tool of Ruin, nothing more. You have turned your back upon Him, and opened your soul to the darkness.’
Istrix had bitten her lip. She was spitting blood and froth and outrage. ‘I have not failed! I will slay you all! You will feel His wrath! His strength! His light!’
‘She’s mad,’ said Akemi softly, her tone awed.
Augusta stepped forwards, placed her bolter beneath the woman’s chin, forcing her head back. ‘You are fallen, Istrix. Your life is forfeit. You–’
A weapon barked.
The inquisitor collapsed.
Augusta rocked on her heels, startled, but the shot had not been hers. It had not even been a bolter – it had been a single streak of heat, a sizzling hole bored clean through the side of the woman’s skull.
Istrix lay on the floor, her mouth open, her scars pale. Smoke rose from her eye sockets. Blood pooled round her head like a corona.
Carefully, the corporal raised his hands, but he did not release his rifle.
Rufus and Adriene glanced at each other, then at the Sister Superior. They, too, raised their arms.
But the group had a more immediate problem.
Zale was swearing, savage and vicious and livid; his kastelans were moving again.
‘No! What have you done? What have you done?!’
And Augusta’s mind exploded.
As the battle began, Sister Melia watched.
She watched the kastelans as they lumbered into motion once more, felt the heavy stamping of their great feet. She heard the gangers chuckling, heard the continuous, monotone tick-ticking of Rayos’ heretek prayer. She was aware of the three red-armoured figures that stood against the remains of the city horde, and against the huge might of the looming machines.
She watched it all as if through a mist, through a repeated blur of words that filled her head.
You are nothing. You are abandoned. His light has left you. You cannot fulfil your role. You have made too many errors, Melia…
In the fog in her head, there were thin lines of light – the lasrifles of the Militarum. There were shouts and orders; they spoke to something deep in her soul, some reflexive reaction. She found her hand in her lap twitching with more insistence, looking for something – an answer that the fog did not give her. And she could still see the glow – not its source, but the illumination that came from it, like something she’d lost.
Something important.
More words came through the grey – words like a blessing.
A spiritu dominatus…
Her twitching increased, her hand seemed to move towards her hip.
There was more fighting, now. The great machines were moving more swiftly, feet stamping, fists slamming and grabbing. The three remaining soldiers were keeping the rabble back – shooting at the doorway above and battering those closest with the butts of their weapons. Two of the red figures stood against the kastelans; one still lay motionless, crushed beneath the doors…
The other one stood still, swaying slightly as if it had lost the will to move.
Even as Melia watched, it went over with a crash, face down. It made no attempt to put out its arms or to save itself.
Its black and white cloak fluttered and was still.
Augusta.
The name came through the fog like the strike of a tutor’s ruler – it was the first thing that had made sense.
The Sister Superior had fallen.