//------------------------------//
// Chapter Fourteen 
// Story: Compliance 
// by Mal Masque 
//------------------------------//


Chapter Fourteen






Desolation. That was all that surrounded Yamira Kalov. A desolate, barren landscape stretching into an infinite void. The sun was stuck at the zenith of its rotation of the system, bearing down upon her head. Nothing for miles around. Orders rang in the back of her head like a brass gong to march. So, she did, without question, without heed, and without supplies. Boot by boot, Yamira marched across the wastes, staring ever forward, not once looking back, even as the ground cracked under her every footstep. Amidst her marching, something did finally appear on the horizon, seemingly materialized in a single blink. A mountain of awesome size, with spires jutting out from it like fractures on a spine. Yamira stopped in her tracks and stared at the mountain, a familiar feeling rising in her gut.

 “Mt. Bacra,” she repeated. Her voice carried across the wastes in an irreverent echo. Her brow furrowed as her voice faded away. She looked up at the mountain, its jagged cliffs and treacherous extremities seeming sharper with every passing stare. “You stopped existing.” Fed up with staring at the not-mountain, Yamira turned around, but again she stopped. The wastes behind her had gone, fallen into a gaping abyss that swallowed all light in an all encompassing darkness. She looked down and saw nothing, the ground slowly ebbing away from under her boots. Reluctant, Yamira turned back around to face the mountain, but it too was gone. In its place were bodies, scattered about and fading into the horizon. Men and women, dressed in green and tan, all lay strewn about, limbs hacked off and bodies filled with various holes; they lay amongst each other in a grizzly cavalcade. And yet, Yamira shed no tears. They died for the Emperor, as they should, but something was wrong. Something was missing.

Stepping gingerly over the bodies as she passed them, Yamira continued her aimless marching towards something, regardless of the dead in her way. Many were face down in the ground, ancient brown stains upon the chipped ground where they had been wounded, while others lay on their backs, staring upwards as their eyes boiled out of their skulls from the unforgiving sun. Yamira couldn’t recognize any of their faces, but the numbers on their shoulders were clear as an ocean of glass. 947. Yamira licked her dry lips and kept moving forward, averting her eyes from the fallen Cadians. Yet still, as she continued on, the bodies still followed her, strewn about and tripping her every other step. Only Guardsmen among the dead. Where was the enemy? Why were they not lying amongst their righteous killers? Yamira stopped in her tracks when she felt a bump against her heel. It rolled into sight in front of her, a bloodied helmet with a large fang jutting out of the top, stained red. Yamira slowly turned about, greeted by a nightmare of teeth and chitin easily dwarfing her. It opened its cavernous mouth wide, rows upon rows of bladed teeth. Yamira reached for her sword, the beast of the mountain lunged and was immediately met by the rough impact of a wooden floor.

Pain surged through Yamira’s head and arched spine as she lay strewn about in a mess of red blankets, her legs awkwardly dangling in the air overhead. A groan fluttered through her lips as she slowly righted herself, becoming tangled in the blanket. ‘Hold on, blanket?’ she thought. She felt herself about and yes, she was indeed ensnared in a fine red blanket patterned in a variety of triangles and diamonds. She didn’t remember ending up in bed, she half-expected to not wake up at all after bleeding out in that alley. Remembering her severe injuries sustained in all the accumulative stress, she reflexively reached for her cheek, only to be obstructed by bandages. Not just on her face, but her arm as well, carefully and neatly wrapped in gauze, not even slightly stained by freshly opened wounds. She pulled the blanket off herself, overlooking her entire body, save for her undamaged arm and leg, all completely concealed in bandages, fresh and unstained with blood. It was then that Yamira made another realization.

“Did someone undress me?” she asked to no one in particular. It was already jarring enough to awake in an unfamiliar locale, but to wake up wearing naught but a sleeveless tanktop and undergarment was more than a little unsettling. Yamira hastily pulled the blanket back over herself, wrapping it around her waist as she slowly stood up, surveying the room. It was a quaint and idyllic bedroom, akin to ones she had seen in Lord Governor Velour’s manor, only less decidedly gaudy. Wooden walls were decorated in no real furnishing, save for a banner of the Imperial aquila hanging over a set of ornately carved dressers. There was the canopied bed she had awoken from her nightmare in, all else that was there was an iron-wrought door with no latch or knob. No chance of getting out yet, so Yamira opted to take advantage of the comfortable bed in the room and sat back down. It was a really nice bed.

Before she could lay her head back down and attempt to get some sleep, the door opened and in entered a rather peculiar creature. It walked on two feet, like most sentient creatures, but was only about four feet tall and hunched over. It was dressed in rags, tattered and torn, slumped about and shuffling on huge, plodding feet. Thick black nails like horseshoes jutted from two large fingers that scraped along the floor as it hobbled into the room. Slowly, it turned its lumpy, potato-like head towards Yamira, its mouth covered by another tattered cloth, but its tiny orange eyes staring at her with a mixture of surprise and something else. Yamira quickly got to her feet, ready to defend herself against the intruding creature, but it quickly proved harmless as it raised its large hands up and hurriedly mumbled something Yamira could not understand. Regardless, she curled her lip with a snarl and growled, frightening the strange creature even more.

“I know it’s a hideous thing, but there’s no need to go beastly over it.” Yamira swiftly glanced to the doorway, surprised at the appearance of a familiar voice. Entering into the room, shoving the strange, rag-garbed creature aside with a black cane, was a man of distinguished air. He wore black and silver power armor, nowhere near as elegant as one of the Emperor’s chosen but still no doubt just as durable, concealed mostly under a large military overcoat that draped over the man’s shoulders, giving him a distinctly squarish look. He was certainly wisened in years, with little hair atop his head going grey and creeping to the center of his scalp, with a prominent mustache and beard curling down along his chin. While his left eye was piercing in its gaze, the right was concealed under a small, golden-plated skull, a red lumen glowing from the hollow of its singular, cycloptic eye. His right arm was safely tucked into the confines of his overcoat, while the left rested atop the simple walking cane, where an all-too familiar golden ‘I’ jangled from a chain around his wrist.

The lumpy creature raised its stumpy hands up, still mumbling something under its cloth. The stranger in the coat furrowed his brow and smacked the creature’s hump with his cane. “I told you to remain out of sight, you mumbling cretin!” he snapped. The creature mumbled again, only to be met with another whack. “Get back to your hole, and don’t come back until summoned! Go on!” The stranger continued whacking and beating the creature as it slumped off back through the door, mumbling and whimpering as it went. Once the door closed shut, the man sighed and clacked his cane on the floor. “I apologize, Lady Commissar, that was certainly not a pleasant first impression.”

“I’ve had significantly worse,” Yamira cautiously said, still holding the blanket around herself. “Though it’s rare for impressions from the Inquisition to be pleasing.”  The man, the Inquisitor, simply nodded. 

“An unfortunate truth, but a viable one,” he said. He walked over to the dresser across the room, walking with apparent ease despite the presence of the cane clacking on the floor. “Your attire is in here, freshly laundered and pressed. Dress yourself at your leisure, but do hurry, lest the tea grow cold.” The Inquisitor politely bowed and exited the room, the door he had come through only closing partially. Yamira stared at the doorway for a bit, checking to see if the older man was lecherous, or worse, the Xenos-thing that had lumbered in earlier remained. Nothing but a dim glow through darkness. As comfortable as the blanket and the bed were, Yamira did feel very much naked without her attire. Besides, one must dress properly for meeting with higher authority. Yamira rose from the bed, casting the blanket aside to carefully walk towards the dresser. Her bare feet felt cold across the wooden floor, but at least one of her feet was well insulated in bandages. The pain was at least somewhat dulled, compared to the usual unbelievable flare that would occur with every footstep. She opened the dresser and, true to the Inquisitor’s word, her uniform and garb were neatly tucked inside, looking as pristine and perfect as the day she first received them from the Commissariat. Even her medals were still pinned to the breast, all polished to the point she could see her reflection in the gold and brass. After sufficiently inspecting her clothes for any tears or potential bugs (one cannot be too careful, especially with wardrobe), Yamira dressed herself properly, finishing by placing her hat atop her head. 

Not wanting to keep the Inquisitor waiting (the stories she had heard were enough to tell her that testing the patience of one of the secret society’s elite was a poor idea), Yamira pushed the door open and entered. Inside was an equally luxurious sitting room, again reminding her of Velour’s manor, but significantly smaller and with fewer pictures of a filthy overweight man leering over her. There were a surprising number of very peculiar decorations, mostly resting atop shelves and inside plexiglass cases; a yellow ball depicting the number ‘9’, a vox-hailer of ancient design made from a cheap material with a rotary wheel jutting from the center, a simple red sphere bound in various chains, a small-scale model of an Imperial Knight, and a pair of orange auspex with no visible view-ports were but among the few that caught Yamira’s eye. At the center of the room was a well-dressed table and two chairs, one of which was occupied by the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor gestured to the empty seat, which Yamira was quick to sit upon. They sat in relative silence while another door re-opened, and the lumpy Xenos shuffled into the room, carrying a metal tray bearing two tea cups, a teapot bearing a beautifully painted picture of a Living Saint, and a covered platter also depicting angelic wings. It set the tray down on the table and glanced towards the Inquisitor, who simply waved the creature off. It bowed repeatedly and hastily hurried out of the room, with Yamira watching it leave all the while.

“Gruenak,” the Inquisitor said. Yamira glanced back to the Inquisitor, concern fluttering in her chest. “It’s called a Gruenak. Lesser Xenos only good for servitude and labor.” He laid the cane against the leg of the table and reached for the teapot. “It was a gift to me for assisting in an older matter. Not nearly as smart as a Jokaero, but far more useful and versatile than an Ogryn.”

“I’ve never heard of such a Xenos before,” Yamira confessed. 

“The universe is a very large place,” the Inquisitor said, tilting the teapot and pouring a golden glimmering brew into his cup. “Though not as large as the world you’ve been exposed to.” He finished pouring and raised the pot over Yamira’s cup. She quickly raised the cup, allowing the Inquisitor an easier chance to pour. “All these new Xenos, new humans, new ideals… it’s all overwhelming, is it not?” The Inquisitor set the teapot aside and got to sipping at his own tea, while Yamira held the cup carefully in both hands, keeping a close watch on him. He took notice of the one-eyed stare Yamira was giving him and set his cup aside. “It’s Saint Rarum’s Kiss, a quaint tea from Shrineworld Illusa. A bit of a gift from the Sororitas there. Give it a sip.” The Inquisitor once again drank from his cup, though Yamira still remained hesitant. She was fairly thirsty from all that blood loss, and put the cup to the unbandaged side of her mouth. She carefully poured the tea into her mouth, and was met with the surprisingly sweet and warm taste. By the time she finished, she had inadvertently drunk the entire cup. As she was setting it down, the Inquisitor had already picked up the teapot.

“Thank you, sir,” Yamira said, presenting the cup for another portion.

“Think nothing of it,” the Inquisitor said. Once the pour was complete, Yamira returned to drinking, albeit at a more moderate pace. “It will help regain your strength after that proverbial snap you went through.” Yamira stopped her sip and once again narrowed her gaze at the Inquisitor. She set her half-empty cup on the table and laid her gloved hand beside it.

“You know who I am, clearly,” Yamira said. “But I do not yet know who you are.” The Inquisitor raised a bushy eyebrow and set the entirely empty cup down.

“Yes, I do suppose introductions are appropriate, given the circumstances,” he said. He cleared his throat and held his hand out, allowing his Inquisitorial seal to hang freely from a golden chain around his wrist. “I am Lord Inquisitor Boris Indellum, of the Ordo Hereticus.” Yamira nearly felt her heart launch out of her throat, and the Inquisitor clearly saw her sudden look of peril. “Relax, Lady Commissar, this is no witch hunt or interrogation. Just a simple conversation over tea.” He snatched his seal up and tucked his hand back into the confines of his overcoat. “Drink, before it grows cold.” Yamira swallowed and raised her cup, though her nerves were far from settled.

“I am loyal,” Yamira firmly said. Indellum sipped his tea, his mustache only twitching slightly. “I truly am, Lord Inquisitor. My mornings begin with a prayer from the Lectitio Divinitatus, and so too do my evenings end with offerings to the Emperor on His Golden Throne. I loathe the Xenos, the mutant, and the heretic with impunity. With every life I claim on the battlefield, I give thanks to the Emperor for guiding my hand so that a bolt may strike true or a sword slice a vital artery. Lord Inquisitor, I am a true believer in the Imperial Creed, and would never betray that which is right.”

“Very good to hear, Yamira,” Indellum said. She nearly melted in her seat at the relief of the statement. “Your loyalty was never even put into question. If it was, then I would not have bothered with the initial message.” Yamira’s eye widened. She knew this man’s voice was familiar.

“It was you, then,” she said. “You who sent that message to my Servitor.” Indellum nodded, setting his empty cup aside for another pour. “Why?” This finally encouraged a reaction from the old Inquisitor, his mechanical eye piece glowing ever so slightly. He set the tea pot aside and rested his hands on the top of his cane.

“One of the many duties of an Inquisitor is to root out corruption,” he said. “And see to it that the best of humanity rises from the refuse of existence to the pinnacle we so rightly deserve.” He drummed his fingers against the top of his cane in rhythmic waves. “You have dutifully served the Imperium of Man for over two-hundred and seventy-five years, Lady Commissar Yamira Kalov.  You have commanded the Astra Militarum with zeal, vigor and ferocity that has brought many planets back into the light from the grips of heretics and xenos alike. Even in the wake of your disfiguring injury, you still continued to fight in the name of the Imperium and the wrath of the God-Emperor of Mankind.” Yamira brushed her hand against her bandages concealing her face, barely able to feel her scars under the mass of wrappings. “And yet, in the aftermath of one battle that went awry, you are cast aside by the Commissariat to act as an aid to a power that does not belong in this universe.” He leaned on his cane, his stoney face shifting into a glower. “It drives you mad being with them, doesn’t it?”

“Y-yes it does, Lord Inquisitor,” she muttered, lowering her hand back to her lap.

“There’s no need to stay quiet, Yamira,” Indellum said. “You have a voice, use it!” Yamira looked to Indellum, her hands clenched tightly. “Hatred is a facet of life for us, Lady Commissar, repressing it in the face of Xenos and heretics is a disgrace! Shout your hatred to the heavens above! Scream and preach your feelings for Merodi Universalis and the destable scum that have infested our great galaxy!”

“I HATE THEM ALL!” Yamira screamed, jumping from her seat and stamping her boot on the cold metal floor. “I UTTERLY ABHOR AND LOATHE EVERY SINGLE SENTIENT HEAP THAT SEES MERODI UNIVERSALIS AS A GREATER PATH!” She glanced down at her hands, fingers locked up in a pseudo clench and her mouth curled up in a vicious snarl. “They come here, preaching falsities on how they only wish to better the existence of all in the galaxy, when they want to domesticate us like common animals. Can you imagine? Xenos horses heralding themselves as the new dawn?! If I was told the new greatest threat to the Imperium would be colorful equines from beyond the stars, I would have shot the messenger dead and had their carcass converted into a Servitor! And yet, here I stand, head down and ass up for these damn ponies, imitation humans, and blind subservients who so eagerly prostrate themselves before them!” She snatched her tea cup from the table and clutched it tightly in her hands. “They are to us with words and empty promises as the Tyranids are with their endless appetite, and I refuse to see my Imperium be swallowed up!” Wrath pumping through her veins, Yamira hurled the tea cup at the floor, shattering it into hundreds of tiny white fragments. She heaved and huffed as she glared at the remnants of porcelain scattered about her feet, yet felt no earlier pain where her scars sat upon her face.

“Very good, Commissar,” Indellum said. “Though you had no need to destroy my drink-ware, you made your point perfectly.” Yamira’s anger melted away as she sat herself back down in her seat.

“Forgive me, sir, I got carried away.”

“All forgiven, I’ve seen more than I’ve needed to in order to make my decision.” He placed his closed hand on the table, clenched tightly in a fist. “Yamira Kalov, the Imperium requires your help more than it realizes. There is much that has been learned about Merodi Universalis, and the God-Emperor’s Holy Inquisition will not stand by and allow it to destroy everything that we have worked towards. Hold out your hand.” Yamira did as instructed, presenting her unblemished hand to the Inquisitor. Indellum placed his closed hand atop Yamira’s and clasped it with the other hand. “By accepting this, you will forfeit your life to the Inquisition and the Imperial Truth. Should you betray my trust, you betray the Imperium, and will be subjected to a ten day submerging in pure promethium, your flesh stripped from your bones, your humanity rendered non-existent, and your remains converted into naught but servitor meat. Do you accept?”

“I do, Lord Inquisitor Indellum.” There was no hesitation in accepting. Not because Yamira was convinced that saying no would result in immediate termination and no one would find her body, but because declining the Inquisitor would mean declining her very Imperium, her values themselves. Indellum nodded and pulled his hands away, leaving behind a small dataslate chip in her palm.

“Insert this into your dataslate, and you will receive instructions for your future duties, Lady Commissar. You will serve well as an acolyte.” Yamira stared at the chip intently. She had been named ‘acolyte’ by an Inquisitor. An acolyte. It was the most rapid promotion in the line of duty she had ever heard. Were she undisciplined and ill-mannered, she would have fallen from her seat and repeatedly kissed Indellum’s well-polished boots. Instead, all she did was bow her head.

“Thank you, Lord Inquisitor,” she said. “I will follow your orders without question.” Indellum gave a curt nod and folded his fingers atop the ball of his cane. 

“You’ll do great things, Yamira Kalov,” Indellum said. Yamira had to restrain herself from breaking out into a smile. He tapped his cane on the floor once more, and the door she had previously entered through slid open, yet the room was without a single bit of light. “You are dismissed. Go through the door and you’ll be on your way.” Yamira bowed once more and stood up from her seat. As she turned towards the door, she was briefly stopped, Indellum had grabbed onto her wrist. His aged features had furrowed, the lumens in his cybernetic eye glowed hardly in the socket. “Tell no one of my presence, be they Imperium, Xenos, or otherwise.” A peculiar request, but an organization dedicated to secrecy and the protection of mankind (although the Emperor had revealed their existence in his Voxcast Publicae, a quality Imperium program for all loyal citizens) would most definitely prefer to remain an unknown. She gave a nod and Indellum released his grip on her wrist. Steeling her nerves and holding her breath, Yamira marched through the open door and into the dark, determined to commence her new mission.

Indellum watched the door slide shut behind Yamira, leaving the old man alone in his tea room. He drank down the last drops of his tea and sighed. “Phase One, complete,” he said. “Now…” He reached into his overcoat and produced a peculiarly designed Vox, a hand-sized slate of black and white design, marked only with a wicked red eye on the right side. “We commence with Phase Two.”





For some reason, the room Yamira had entered was significantly more cramped than she remembered. She did initially come from a spacious, hexagonally shaped bedroom, not this extremely cramped box room. Something did feel wrong when she first entered the room and barely took two steps before walking into what may have been a shelf. Several shelves, most likely. It was pitch black inside, so Yamira was mostly left with reaching around for anything of assistance. Her hands brushed against various cylindrical objects inside, others feeling like peculiarly shaped bottles of flimsy material with some sort of sloshing liquid inside. She bumped her knee against a large device by her leg, and must have activated a switch that brought it to life with a loud whirring noise. Yamira fumbled a bit and touched the only wall that had no shelves and fell backwards through it. Pain arced up her back as she came into hard contact with the floor, but at least she could see again. And she could see that she was… in the hallway of the Relations Office, being looked over by an all too familiar greyskin and a pair of yellow-dressed guards.

“Yamira?” asked Windmind. “What were you doing in the janitorial closet?” Her run of good luck for the moment clearly ran out just in time for this abject humiliation, apparently. Yamira stood up and shut the closet door, maintaining her composure. Windmind’s red eyes widened once she noticed the bandages covering Yamira’s face. “You’re hurt! Do you want me to call a healer or-?” 

“Never mind that,” Yamira said, hastily raising a hand to silence the Water Caste ambassador. The Fire Caste guards did not like the gesture, and cautiously moved to draw their weapons, but a glance from Windmind kept them in line. Yamira cleared her throat and folded her arms behind her back, addressing Windmind eye-to-eye for the first time since the two had even met. “I need to speak to Overhead Evening. There is much I suspect she wishes to talk about, and I have much to say.”