Nine days had passed, and things had got worse for unit 14c. Casari had returned after his beating, his nose flattened against his face and several teeth missing; the sound of breath moving through his shattered face (a sort of wet rattle) kept everyone from sleeping properly, Casari included. Khofi, increasingly paranoid in his interpretations of the unit's every glance, had added another week to their period of half-rations, and the air was far hotter and more stifling than it had any right to be in a controlled environment. The heat exhaustion, sleep deprivation and lack of food were combining to make them fall far behind the other units on their combat training, which lead to more punishment beatings.
At twenty minutes to official wake-up time, Madrin sat up. He looked around the cell and saw that the other nine were still lying down. He blew out through his nose, trying to stop the stench of urine from the piss-bucket by his bed from infiltrating his nostrils. It didn't work - it never worked. His gaze settled on Vimel Casari and he felt the familiar stab of guilt at the sight of his friend's face. He looked at the floor, then at his hand; his stomach rumbled audibly, drawing a breathy laugh from the man sleeping next to him, Ginyard Salsot. Madrin stood, carefully picked his way across the prone men to get to the coat-hooks on the wall, took his and Casari's jackets.
Over the next few minutes everyone in unit 14c got up and got dressed: with a tired carefulness they checked that their uniforms were in order, then checked each other - Khofi had taken to punishing them collectively, so nobody could afford a uniform violation. At twelve minutes to the official wake-up time, unit 14c were standing to attention in two rows. They stood there, still and silent, for the two minutes until custodian Khofi's walked into view: they took care then to stare directly ahead, to make sure their backs were rod-straight.
Khofi walked cockily into view, flanked by two assistant custodians. He snapped smartly around to face them, malicious grin plastered over his face. Madrin noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that one of the assistant custodians was holding a large bag.
"Right then, you scum. Today is a very important day. We are almost at our destination, you see. Compliance position two, all of you."
They all placed their hands above their heads, fingers threaded. The assistant custodian to Khofi's left unlocked the door and slid it open. Khofi reached into the bag and pulled out a thick metal collar; it was hanging open at a hinge.
"So far, we have been keeping you in line with fear of pain," - his gaze lingered for a moment on Casari - "But in the heat of battle, that is sometimes not enough. These collars will provide a greater fear: they are packed with enough explosives to take your head clean off. And I can trigger any one of them with this." - he waved a little shiny remote control - "And before any of you vermin get any funny ideas: if I die, then three random collars will explode."
Khofi put the remote into his pocket, looked over unit 14c. They were still standing to attention, but he could see the nervous fear radiating off of them.
"Prisoner 14c01. Larek Dag. Get over here."
----
Dutal was on his knees, scrubbing the floor of the same section of gun-deck corridor that he had cleaned daily from the last three years - not that he knew exactly how long it had been since he had been pressed into service. It was a lonely, mind-destroying task: the only real human contact he had was with his supervisor, and the seven other men who shared his cabin. He hadn't had a proper conversation in all the time he had been on board.
The sound of boots on the metal floor, getting closer: Dutal started working faster; this time, if he sees how hard I'm working, maybe he'll leave me alone. The footsteps stopped at the end of the corridor behind Dutal. For a long moment there was no sound save that of the bristles of the scrubbing-brush rubbing against the floor.
"What are you doing?"
Dutal continued scrubbing, closed his eyes tightly. The footsteps started again, then stopped: Dutal could feel Travis looming over him. He could feel an ache over his back - a memory of old beatings. A part of him wanted to run away, but he knew that would only make things much worse. Another part - a tiny, almost-crushed inch of his being - screamed out to turn around and fight. But it was a very small part.
"You're going too fast, you ... you idiotic shit-head!"
The kick hit Dutal in the stomach, sent him sprawling on the floor. Dutal looked up at Travis, resigned to receiving another beating: he made no movement. Travis spat a green gob of phlegm at him: it clung to his ragged work-clothes.
"Fucking slave. No fucking pride. Stand up, you dog-fucking piece of shit!"
Dutal stood slowly, watching Travis for an indication of another blow, bracing himself against the wall. When Dutal was fully standing, Travis took a step towards him, smiling as the other man flinched at his approach.
"See, now: you've had plenty of time to get used to the job. Keeping the corridor clean, I think that should even be within your sub-human capacity. So that only leaves one explanation." - He delivered a quick jab to the gut, making Dutal double over - "I think you're fucking with me. Stand- STAND THE FUCK UP!"
In spite of the acute pain in his gut, Dutal stood. He felt nauseous; he sputtered:
"N-no, ple-ease-"
"No? Did you just- did I hear right? Are you trying to tell me what to do? Bastard!" - he slapped Dutal's face with the back of his hand - "Whoreson!" - and again. He let out a scream of frustration and kneed Dutal in the groin; Dutal threw up over him.
"You- you dare- you fucking dare to vomit on me, you fucking parasite!?" - he pulled his knife out from his belt, brought it up to Dutal's face:
"I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget." - he cut across Dutal's cheek, leaving a nasty gash; a flash of white light filled the corridor, though Dutal couldn't see it's source through Travis - "Hm. I wonder if you'll do your job any better with one eye-"
"Stop." - It was a woman's voice, a voice used to command. Travis spun around to face-
It was an impressive sight; the snowy white fur and feathers, the shifting borealan mane blowing in non-existent wind. Celestia walked towards him, hooves making a sharp click as they collided with the metal floor.
"What are you doing to this poor man?" - she was less than a foot from Travis now: panicked, he lunged with his knife; but his arm stopped mid-arc, a shimmering white light surrounding it. He looked at his hand and the winged pegasus in horror as his fingers were pried off of the knife - it didn't hurt, but it was an irresistible force. The knife floated up high, and then flew off behind the alien creature. He felt the pressure on his arm release; the creature turned to Dutal.
"Oh, my, that's a nasty cut ... here, let me-"
Her horn glowed, and so did the cut on Dutal's face. First the pain dulled, then he felt a strange sensation: as though his flesh was knitting together. He reached up and touched his cheek - it was slick with blood, and the flesh felt a little tight, but there was no wound. Dutal looked at Celestia, smiled weakly.
"Uh- ah, thank you."
She nodded.
"You're welcome. I don't suppose you could give me directions to the bridge..?"
"Uh-uhm, I ... I don't know where that is, sorry, I've only ever seen these sections of corridor. A-and the broadside guns."
"I see." - she turned to face Travis - "And do you know where the bridge of this ship is?"
Travis backed away from her, fear in his eyes, urine trickling down his leg. He opened his mouth, but only a quiet whimper emanated. Celestia raised an eyebrow.
"Never mind, I'll find it by myself. And I'll be watching you, so don't do this again."
Her horn glowed, a sphere of bright white light appeared around Celestia, and she disappeared.
----
Breakfast at the custodians' mess was of higher quality to the rank-and-file: today they were being served reclaimed sausages and fried red potato, as opposed to the prisoners' thin algae soup and lentil-bread. Most of the custodians were finishing their meals and getting up to leave, but colonel-custodian Mangum had not had time to eat: he was receiving a very disturbing report.
"All of it?" he was fanning himself with a sheaf of papers, looking at the senior vat-minder disbelievingly. The vat-minder - a lanky, bespectacled man of perhaps forty, with a nervous disposition quite unsuited to space travel - shuffled his feet, forced himself to meet the colonel's gaze.
"S-sir, it's an ongoing situation, with the emperor's blessing we might s-salvage one of the vats, but..." he trailed off, feeling foolish at the colonel's unblinking stare. Mangum leaned forwards in his chair.
"What exactly does this mean?"
"Er, a-at current rates of spoilage, the regiment will have enough food to last for ... maybe a week. Plus their emergency rations, of course-"
"Shut up."
Mangum considered the implications: if the algae vats were spoiled, then the Divine Might of Right would not be able to supply his soldiers with food; not without breaking into the ship's own supplies, which he doubted the fat admiral would countenance. The colonel had no qualms with his prisoners starving, but he had an emperor-sworn duty to make sure they were up to the fight. Maybe we can procure food on the alien world? - he didn't fancy trying whatever monstrous half-formed abominations doubtlessly passed for food amongst these 'Equestrians', but having his soldiers try it-
Mangum's train of thought was interrupted by a commotion outside his door: he could hear the unmistakable sounds of a panicked mass, and his blood ran cold. Are the prisoners rebelling? Surely not-
"Colonel!" - the scared cry from outside snapped him out of his building panic. He picked up his laspistol and walked to the door (ignoring the trembling vat-minder), swung it open and stepped into the custodian's mess.
The entire room was bathed in light; at the centre of the commotion, surrounded by a wide circle of custodians (some staring slack-jawed, some aiming at it, some looking to their weapons in confusion) stood the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. It's wings were flared open, horn glowing, a single front hoof raised curiously. She looked at him and spoke clearly in a woman's voice, with a tone of strained patience.
"You. Are you in charge of these?"
Mangum almost took a step backwards, but the weight of his laspistol gave him strength.
"Yes." - he swung the gun up to shoot-
-and the pistol was pulled out of his hand, thrown across the mess by an invisible force. Celestia started walking towards him, slowly, voice trembling with rage.
"You are in charge of this? You keep these people in cages, brutalise them, injure them!? Is this the camaraderie of the Imperial Guard that I heard so much about?"
She was looming over him now, looking down into his eyes. He could feel his knees going weak. He started patting his belt for his painstick. She continued:
"I will remember your face. I will find you, personally, if you step foot on-"
He swung the painstick up, electricity crackling over its surface, aiming for the creature's neck; it made contact and she screamed, took a step backwards. Mangum could see that he had cut the creature, there was a small amount of red blood seeping from the wound. He stepped forwards to press his advantage: there was a retina-scarringly bright white flash, and the creature disappeared.
----
"Lord Darkium on the bridge!"
The guard's shout made admiral Kil-ban-Ocean jump, releasing a small amount of gas and causing his thurifer to move. The admiral crane his neck to confirm, yes, that damned Inquisitor really is here again, then opened his mouth.
"Ah, Lord-"
"Send the lift down now, admiral."
Kil-ban-Ocean hesitated for a moment, then turned and nodded to one of the tech-priests.
"It's sending it down now, Lord Inquisitor; to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"
There was no reply, only the high-pitched hum of the lift's struggling old motor. Perhaps he's come to complain about the cold again? ...no, he's probably been monitoring onboard communications, he knows about this little problem! The admiral forced his face into the practised idiot grin that had led many to underestimate him, and the lift shuddered to a halt. Darkium stepped forward, anger painted over his face, loomed over the admiral. Kil-ban-Ocean widened his grin, met the Inquisitor's gaze.
"Why was I not informed immediately of the situation?"
"I assume you are referring to these reports of an alien on my sh-"
"You know damned well what I am talking about, admiral. Why was I not informed the instant you heard about this intrusion?"
"Lord Inquisitor, I was about to contact you. I did not wish to warn you until I was sure that these reports were accurate-"
The Inquisitor took another step forwards, hand resting on the butt of his pistol.
"It is not for you to make those judgements, admiral. This ship is seconded to me, and you command it by my sufferance. Do you understand?"
The admiral narrowed his eyes, dropped the smile. He felt his lip twisting into a snarl of contempt, but had enough self-control to stop that.
"Yes. I understand."
"When was the first report of the alien's presence?"
Kil-ban-Ocean glanced at the gold-plated Holy Timekeeper to his side, then back to the Inquisitor.
"About forty minutes ago."
"Within an hour of returning to realspace."
"Yes."
Darkium gave him a cold look.
"That was not a question. How far are we from the planet?"
"At our current speed, we should be in position to deploy the soldiers in just under seventeen hours."
"Can we-"
White light and a sound of held breath being released both came from behind Darkium; then there was the sound of regularly beating wings.
A long while ago - when he was barely a fully-fledged Inquisitor - Grimmus Darkium had killed a daemon. It had been on the garden-world of Gaiala, in the aftermath of a foiled Eldar plan: of course, it had turned out that they were the only thing holding back the warp-spawned monstrosity. The daemon - a vast, wriggling mass of slime and toothed tendrils - had seemed fundamentally unreal; sickeningly out-of-focus.
The alien creature hovering in front of him, beating it's wings to keep level with the admiral's podium, gave quite the opposite effect. It looked somehow more real than the command chamber. The white of it's hair and feathers, the clear pink of it's large eyes, the shifting colours of it's mane and tail; all contrasted strikingly with the foreboding darkness and garishly-impressive gold of the surroundings: but something else drew his gaze. It was as if the alien was bleeding into the foreground.
It had an impressive, regal presence. Grimmus took a second to glance around: the admiral and his thurifer were gazing, slack-jawed, in awe of the alien. Kil-ban-Ocena's bodyguard was slowly lowering his arms, trying to take in what was going on; one of the tech-priests was looking, confused, while another was too engrossed in whatever systems he was monitoring to pay any attention. The alien spoke with the voice of a woman, and Grimmus' attention snapped to it.
"So," she said in a calm tone that (Grimmus suspected, from the heavy bruise on the neck) hid whatever emotions she was feeling; "which one of you is the leader?"
The question snapped Grimmus out of the daze the alien's appearance had caused; in two jerking, lightning-fast movements he pulled out his plasma pistol and took aim.
"SHOOT IT!" he shouted, a fraction of a second before his finger recognised a disturbing smoothness where his pistol's trigger should have been. There was a horrible weight in the pit of his stomach that only grew heavier as he looked at his gun, confirming that the trigger was missing. A quick glance over the side of the podium told him that the command chamber's guards were experiencing the same problem.
"That would be you, then. What is your name?"
The alien was slowly moving closer. Grimmus dropped his pistol, moved his arms to be ready to grab his sword and strike; I'll play along, to buy time...
"I am Lord Darkium, of the Holy Inqui-"
"You're an Inquisitor? You were the one to find out about us?"
It knows of the Inquisition? That traitor Raleigh must have told them ... she's nearly close enough now...
"That I was."
"Wel Raleigh didn't give you this information freely. Is he dead?"
"YES!" - Grimmus pulled out his sword and lunged at the creature; but a sudden force acted over his whole body. He was stuck mid-arc, a pale light playing over him. Celestia looked at his sword with an expression of disdain: with a creak the blade began to bend - all the way around, until the end was pointing at Grimmus's eye, mere inches from his face. She landed on the lift platform, but kept her wings erect. She looked to one of the tech-priests and clicked in the static-esque secret language of the Mechanicum. The tech-priest was stunned into silence for a few seconds, then replied; the alien let out another short burst, and the tech-priest turned to his console.
"What are you- how do you know the language of the tech-priests?" - it was Kil-ban-Ocean; "What did you say!?"
The winged unicorn ignored him and looked at Grimmus. Suddenly he felt the pressure holding him in place leave; he stumbled uncouthly and dropped his sword off the side of the podium.
"How did he die?"
Grimmus met her gaze, his upper lip curved up with contempt.
"Slowly."
"And his daughter?"
"Hah! It's only a matter of time before my agents find her-"
"In the Emperor's name," - it was Kil-ban-Ocean; "What is going on!? Who- what are you?"
"She's a- a daemon!"
This elicited a snort of laughter from Celestia.
"Oho! Daemon! You are a very limited little person, aren't you? I'm no daemon. There is a word to describe me, but daemon is certainly not it."
Kil-ban-Ocean was on his feet now.
"Then what are you?"
She finally deigned to look at him now, the slightest hint of a smile emerging on her face.
"I raise the sun every morning, and I raise the moon every night. That is not a boast, or a metaphor: I have just told your tech-priest to look at the orbital mechanics of this system. When he is done he will tell you that they do not make sense, not without some outside force. I am that force. What do you think would be the right word?"
"Heresy!" sputtered Grimmus; "The God-Emperor of Mankind is the only true god! I know what you are, I name you-"
Celestia took a step towards the Inquisitor, looking deep into his eyes.
"You do not know what I am. If you did you would turn this ship around, and run back to your home, and hide in your bed, and pray to your corpse of a god that I do not come to seek revenge for the murder of my friend!"
Grimmus fell flat on his arse; for the first time in a long time he felt fear. He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips felt numb; there was a flash of light over his lower face, and they had been transformed into two tracks of a zipper, which promptly closed. Celestia rested a hoof on his chest.
"That's enough out of you." - she turned her head to face the admiral; "I know that you are here to kill us all. Before you make the attempt, you should know something: the value we place on friendship. We are kind and generous to strangers: we offer them food, and shelter, and whatever we can afford to give. But if that stranger were to harm our friends, we would not be quick to forgive. If someone was so foolish as to kill one of my friends - well. I would make sure they were unable to do so again. Wel Raleigh was my friend. I helped to raise his daughter - and if anything had happened to her, it would be the worse for you. His murderer will be punished."
She took her hoof off of Grimmus and turned to face the admiral fully; she spoke louder now, making sure the whole command centre could hear.
"The only thing stopping me from tearing your Imperium apart is the knowledge of the toll it would take on my little ponies. But know this, admiral: for every hair put out of place on the manes of every pony killed, or hurt, or inconvenienced by your invasion; I will rip a whole world out of your reach."
There was silence for half a minute; Kil-ban-Ocean was speechless, and nobody else would dare speak up. Celestia smirked; her horn glowed brightly for an instant, and then she and the Inquisitor disappeared in a flash of light.