//------------------------------// // Chapter 5 // Story: A Foul Light Shines // by Karazor //------------------------------// Chapter Five In spite of his use of methods the Lord-Captain most definitely did not approve of, Tersiaard was as good as his word. In less than an hour, the Lux Foedis’s plasma reactors had kindled back to life, though operating far below maximum capacity. The life support systems reactivated minutes later, taking a substantial load off of Anderocus’s mind. The crew had finally gotten the various fires raging through the ship under control, though they’d had to vent a significant number of compartments out into space. Doing so had cut the time they could subsist on the ship’s atmosphere with the vitae systems nonfunctional, and they’d been approaching perilously near the point where the Rogue Trader would have had to consider further crew reductions in order to spare the rest. The Mechanicus contingent had removed that necessity, at least, and in so doing had probably spared the lives of more crew than they’d stolen. A fact that the Magos would doubtless point out when the Lord-Captain confronted him about his “tithe” later. The auspex had blinked on less than thirty minutes after the red lights representing the life support systems on the bridge enginseer’s panel had changed to green. The scanner arrays weren’t operating at full efficiency yet, and probably wouldn’t be until the tech-priests had time to sooth their spirits with laborious blessings and calibrations, but it was sufficient. Data flooded the bridge readouts, power sources, thermal signatures, gross and fine motion, mineral analyses, climatological data, and the other assorted pieces of information that represented the planet below. The report was disheartening. Anderocus had been hoping for a fully-developed Imperial world, or at least a lost colony with a fair amount of infrastructure. That hope had been a slim one, especially as time ticked along and no ships approached the crippled Rogue Trader vessel to investigate. Instead of what he’d hoped, what Anderocus saw represented in the bridge hololiths appeared to be a fairly primitive culture, likely somewhere between the loose categories of feudal world and civilized world. The planetary climate was oddly uniform, and it was staggeringly rich in minerals; the systems that searched out various forms of gemstones had gone into mechanical hysteria, their spirits reeling from the deluge of scan returns. There were significant veins of valuable ores, as well, but the materials the Lux Foedis needed would be difficult to obtain for such a primitive culture. And difficult meant expensive, which was especially worrisome in the Lux Foedis’s current predicament. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Careful analysis of the available data had revealed clear signs that the world’s inhabitants weren’t human at all. This was a xenos world. Anderocus rubbed his head as this final piece of information came in. Wonderful. Xenos. It wouldn’t be the first time the Lux Foedis had traded with xenos, far from it. His father, Beliar Anderocus, had had extensive (and lucrative) dealings with a species known as the Tannor. Unfortunately, when Parseon had attempted to renew the relationship between the Tannor and the Anderocus dynasty, they’d informed him that they never dealt directly with the living relatives of someone who’d died, and Parseon’s status as head of the Anderocus dynasty meant that their previous business relationship had to be regretfully terminated. It had been intensely frustrating, and out of spite Anderocus had pondered the thought of trying to steer one of the Telemach sector’s crusade fleets their way, though he’d ultimately decided against it. He’d dealt with several other alien races since then, and had learned that each was different. Dealing with non-humans always, always meant additional complications, and complications in the current situation were something he really, really didn’t need. Not that he had a choice. The ship absolutely required the extra materials, or they’d stay here in orbit forever. At least, the ship would stay here in orbit forever. The crew would eventually run out of food and turn to eating each other, eventually leaving the Lux Foedis a cold, empty tomb floating in the void. Admittedly, they could probably obtain most of the materials they needed by mining the system’s asteroids or Oort cloud, but doing so would take an enormous amount of time and fuel, possibly more time than they had supplies for. They could also try mining the world below without dealing with the inhabitants, but it would almost certainly be much easier to simply buy what they could. And who knew? The aliens might actually have something valuable that would enable him to turn this disaster into a profitable enterprise. Doing so, however, required diplomacy. And diplomacy required making contact, which was why Anderocus had called together several of his senior subordinates, once the most pressing matters at hand had been dealt with. “Hmph.” Commander Seria snorted. “Xenos, eh? What kind of xenos?” The commander had actually removed her customary helmet and visor for this meeting, and her hard, dark brown eyes were thoughtful, clearly already running through possible contact plans. Seria was an older woman, with a strong, severely-lined face seamed with several scars and a nose that had been broken at least twice, but she’d been a soldier for more than four decades, and exercise combined with a few juvenant treatments had left her in excellent shape. More than good enough to handle the heavy suit of carapace armour she wore everywhere, even to this meeting. “We have no idea.” Eudaros answered. “The auspex is still sulky, and the returns we’ve gotten weren’t detailed enough to resolve what xenosbreed we might be dealing with. All we know is that they’re definitely nonhuman, and appear to be fairly primitive technologically.” “Is it entirely necessary to speak to the xenos?” Confessor Deumos was clearly unhappy about the idea. The big, rawboned confessor’s pale face was pinched. “Perhaps we could simply attempt to take what we need.” “I would rather avoid conflict if we can.” Anderocus replied. “If we simply land and start mining, there is every chance the natives might object to our presence. Perhaps forcefully.” “And my troops are already depleted.” Seria interjected, staring into the priest’s face challengingly from across the holographic map table. Her recaff-coloured skin tone contrasted strongly with Deumos’s pale features, and she was the only person in the room besides Anderocus who could look the priest in the eye, standing as she did a shade under two meters in height. “Fighting the local xenos could deplete their numbers further, and we will need them if we suffer another Warp incursion on the way to a system with a shipyard. Or, Emperor forbid, if we’re boarded en route.” All told, the armsman contingent had taken over four hundred losses during the Warp storm and the fighting that followed. Seria’s troops had performed brilliantly, even after losing nineteen squads to the damage wreaked by the storm, but the vicious close-quarters fight in the port-six lighter bay had cost them almost ninety dead, and they’d lost more flushing out and exterminating the last of the Warp-touched crewmen in the ship’s halls and galleries. At least, they all hoped that the armsmen had exterminated all the tainted personnel. Only time would tell. Deumos sighed, holding up a hand in defeat. “Very well. I urge you all to remember, however, that the Emperor teaches us never to trust the alien lightly.” “None of us are likely to forget that.” Seria responded curtly. She turned to address Anderocus. “Indeed, sir, I’d prefer if we could send in a recon team first, rather than immediately dispatching a diplomatic mission.” “I think it would be wiser to avoid that.” Anderocus’s seneschal, a short, slender, light-haired man named Tangro, spoke up. “If your troops, or more likely their landers, are spotted, it could make it much more difficult to acquire what we need. The xenos would suspect, correctly, that we were spying on them, and there are many xenosbreeds that would consider that a hostile act. I’d prefer to avoid that risk.” “And instead you’d prefer to take the risk of exposing the diplomatic team to potential hostiles?” Crossing her arms, Seria glared down challengingly at Tangro, who shrugged, seeming completely unimpressed by the armour-clad bulk of the woman looming over him. “There would obviously be a security detail along, yes? And the contact party should probably be wearing low-profile armour; that should repel primitive weaponry adequately enough, unless we have a run of appallingly bad luck. We can stay close to the landing craft, and be ready for a hasty retreat should it prove necessary.” Tangro paused. “I am aware of the potential risks, Commander. I have been involved in several xenos first-contact teams, you know.” “I am aware of that, Tangro.” Anderocus interjected. “It is for precisely that reason that I want you there. I will be there as well, in case my authority is needed, but I want you to lead the discussion, assuming we can establish one.” Seria fidgeted uneasily. “You’re going along as well, sir?” Anderocus gave a firm nod. “I am indeed, Commander. The Mechanicus contingent will be sending their most senior representative, and I wish to be present in case it becomes necessary to overrule him.” The former Guardswoman rubbed her chin, clearly unhappy. “In that case, sir, I’d like to deploy at least three squads in the escort. I’d be fine with just one under other circumstances, but with your Lordship along as well…” She trailed off, thinking. The Lord-Captain raised an eyebrow. “Three squads? Might that not be a bit excessive?” He was answered by a firm shake of her head. “No, sir. That is the minimum I’d feel comfortable with, and I’ll only consider an escort that small if I’m personally leading them.” Anderocus now raised both eyebrows. “Indeed? Well, as I said when I appointed you, your armsmen are yours to command as you see fit, Seria. This delegation is certainly going to have an overabundance of senior personnel, though. At least the xenos won’t be able to complain about having to deal with flunkies!” He snorted a laugh. “After all, I’ll be going, Seria will be going, Tangro, Tersiaard, Dwyer…” “Chief Astropath Dwyer is dead, sir.” Eudaros interjected. Anderocus blinked in shock, all humor gone from his face in an instant. “Dead? But I thought one of the astropaths had survived!” “One did, sir. Astropath Malachai Setaron, second in seniority.” Eudaros looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, I thought you knew.” “Quite all right, Eudaros.” Anderocus waved the apology aside. Inside, though, he was shocked. Dwyer had been an old astropath, yes. At sixty-eight, though only a decade older than Anderocus, he was incredibly ancient for one of the telepaths that held the Imperium together; the stress of their occupation tended to kill them at very young ages. The ones that survived that long tended to be weathered and tough, and Dwyer had certainly fit that bill. That he hadn’t survived the Warp incursion… “You did tell me one of the choir had survived. I had simply assumed it was Dwyer. I’m not as familiar with Setaron, but he is a senior astropath, so he should serve almost as well.” “I am personally familiar with Astropath Setaron.” Deumos’s trained voice boomed out. “A most pious man, and a noble spirit, especially for a witch.” The priest paused, blinking. “My Lord, what purpose could Setaron serve here? The man is no fighter, and no practiced diplomat.” Tangro spoke up. “I would like to answer that, my lord, if I may?” At Anderocus’s nod, the seneschal turned to face the big priest. “When contacting any xenos species, there is always a danger that they may use their own versions of psykers to tamper with the minds of the delegation. Normally, the Administratum employs sanctioned psykers of their own to counter the threat, but we have no such individuals on board. An astropath is almost as good for that purpose; they often lack the power to directly block xenos meddling, but the extra sensitivity they possess allows them to warn of subtle mind-witchery that even a sanctionite might often miss.” Tangro paused, as though unsure whether he wanted to share the rest of his reasons. At a gesture from Anderocus, though, he continued. “In addition, some xenos species communicate exclusively through telepathy. Should this xenosbreed prove to be one of those, we would require a telepath of our own in order to hold a dialogue. Such communication can have an… extreme corruptive effect on the psyker in question, however.” “I venture to say we should have little to fear in that respect.” Deumos said. “As I said, Setaron’s faith is firm, and his soul strong.” The Confessor tapped a finger on his staff of office, thoughtfully. “Nonetheless, perhaps it would be best if I were present, as well. Contact with xenos is ever-perilous, and none are so vigilant against corruption as I!” Seria let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing at her temples with the fingers of her left hand. “Of course. Why not? Let’s all go! The Lord-Captain, his chief adjutant, the commander of the household guard, the head of the Mechanicus contingent, the ship’s primary priest, and the only bloody astropath left on board! Shall I send a squad to fetch the Navigator? Perhaps she’d like to come on this little holiday!” She leveled a glare at Eudaros. “Beltan, perhaps you’d like to come along too? Are there any other ways we could guarantee that a single strike would completely decapitate our command structure?” A jolly laugh bellowed from Eudaros’s throat, visibly irritating the guard commander further. “Oh, no, no no! Thank you for the kind offer, lady, but I do try my best to keep the mud off my boots!” The ruddy-faced ship captain continued to chuckle, as Seria scowled at him. “It isn’t necessary for you to accompany us, Seria.” Anderocus interjected, and the commander transferred her unhappy look to him. “If you are concerned about losing all of our senior staff, you would be quite justified in remaining aboard ship. Daniella will be staying as well.” One of the tech-priests had finally opened the Navigator’s sanctum, finding her uninjured but exhausted. She was still recuperating from the ordeal she’d endured in navigating through the storm, and would likely not have been interested in a jaunt planetside in any case. Though fairly personable for a member of the Navis Nobilite, Daniella was still a Navigator, and she’d turn up her nose at the thought of mingling with primitive aborigines. Especially if said primitives were nonhuman. “Sir, your safety is my primary duty. I trust my people. They’re good troops, but should something go wrong, I need to be present. I would be shirking my duty otherwise.” The tall woman seemed slightly offended. “So noted, Commander.” Anderocus inclined his head in a salute. “And your dedication is commendable. Muster your guard detail, if you please, and have them meet us in docking bay port-nine.” Seria saluted, slamming her right fist against her breastplate, and marched off to gather her troopers, re-donning her customary helmet and rebreather as she left the room. “I shall retrieve the astropath and meet you there, Lord.” Deumos stated. The priest gave a curt nod, spun on his heel, and briskly followed the commander. “Port-nine, sir?” Tangro inquired. “We aren’t taking an Aquila?” The Lux Foedis carried several varieties of orbit-to-surface shuttles and other small craft. Typically, diplomatic mission used the sleek and ornate Aquila-pattern shuttles, but bay port-nine instead contained two of the ship’s heavy cargo shuttles. “That’s correct, seneschal.” Anderocus turned toward Captain Eudaros. “Eudaros, please summon Astropath Setaron, and have him meet the landing party there.” He turned back to Tangro. “If we’re bringing along three full squads of armsmen, a single Aquila would be far too small, and I’d rather use as few of the landing craft as possible to conserve fuel. One of the heavy shuttles should suffice for our delegation, and their rough-field landing capability should prove an asset.” The Lord-Captain’s mouth twisted. “I suppose should contact the Magos and inform him of our departure.” Tangro interrupted the Rogue Trader as he moved toward the vox-panel. “Lord, are three full squads really necessary? Surely Seria would consent to reduce that commitment if you requested it of her!” Anderocus shook his head. “No, Tangro, Seria knows her duties, and I appointed her to her position because I trusted her judgement. I’ll not second-guess her in the matter of the guard detail.” Anderocus had already turned away from Tangro, and as such, missed the oddly frustrated look that passed over the smaller man’s face. The Lord-Captain was able to reach Tersiaard fairly quickly. From the speed of the Magos’s response, it was clear he’d been expecting Anderocus’s call. “I have delegated the appropriate tasks to my acolytes already, Lord-Captain.” Tersiaard’s cold voice stated. “If you are prepared to visit the surface, I would be willing to accompany you at any time.” “Excellent, Magos. We are finalizing our preparations, so if you could meet us in docking bay port-nine, we would welcome your company.” “I decline.” Anderocus was surprised by the response. “I shall make use of my own shuttle.” Tersiaard’s personal shuttle was a lander of a pattern Anderocus had never seen anywhere else. The thing resembled a slimmed-down Astartes Thunderhawk, and underneath its elaborate engraving and scrollwork boasted a formidable array of weaponry and thick armor. The only problem was… “Magos, isn’t your shuttle stored in the starboard-seven bay?” Starboard-seven was right in the middle of the worst of the hull damage. “That is correct.” Tersiaard replied calmly. “I have already sent acolytes to ascertain its status. The shuttle is undamaged, though the external door to the bay is currently missing, as is much of the exterior wall.” “That whole section of the ship is depressurized!” “That is also correct. It will not be an issue.” Anderocus knew when to admit defeat. He sighed. “Very well, Magos. We will be launching in a cargo lander from bay port-nine in approximately fifteen minutes. You may lock on to our beacon and follow us down.” “I will do so.” Tersiaard disconnected with a click. Anderocus turned back to Tangro and the map table, shaking his head. “Seneschal, do you have a landing area selected?” “I do, Lord.” The shorter man touched several runes on the hololith, causing the map to zoom in on a small collection of lights. “Here. This is the largest settlement we’ve detected on the planet, and though it is no hive, I believe it will do adequately. There is certain to be at least a local leader present, and I estimate a nontrivial probability that this is a national or planetary capital. If we leave at the time you indicated to the Magos, we should arrive a bit before dawn.” “That should suffice. Eudaros!” The heavyset voidsman appeared at Anderocus’s side. “Send these coordinates to the shuttle pilot.” Eudaros nodded, but the Lord-Captain wasn’t finished. “Have pilots report to bay sixteen, both sides, as well.” Starboard-sixteen was far enough aft that it had been spared the Warp storm’s fury, and those bays contained the Lux Foedis’s pair of Fury-pattern interceptors. “I’d like them to fly high cover, just in case.” He smiled at Tangro, as Eudaros began giving orders over the vox. “Shall we go, seneschal?” Anderocus and Tangro left the briefing room, the two guards at the door falling in behind them to ensure the Rogue Trader’s safety. Outside of the heavily-protected bridge area, the damage to the Lux Foedis was far more noticeable. The smell of smoke suffused the entire ship, and the normal three-kilometer walk from the bridge to the port-nine landing bay was almost five kilometers, as it was necessary to divert around damaged power conduits and fires that, though under control, had not yet been extinguished. Emergency bulkheads had sealed in dozens of different places and had yet to be reopened, and dead crew-serfs had been stacked against the walls in several corridors. The bodies had been dragged out of the way and simply left there, as more pressing tasks required the attention of the surviving crew. Corpse disposal would have to wait for later. They also passed three places where heavy lasgun fire had scarred the corridor walls, reminders of just how much force was necessary to neutralize possessed crewmen. Anderocus stopped at his personal quarters briefly, donning the heaviest armour he owned that could be easily concealed underneath his ornate clothing. The Lord-Captain reached the landing bay without undue incident, Tangro tagging along behind him, and the two guards that followed them posted themselves on either side of the entrance. Inside, Commander Seria had already assembled three squads of his household guards, already armed and ready for action. Their carapace armour was spotless, their uniforms in perfect order, and their weapons impeccably maintained, and they stood at attention in three precise rows. The Anderocus dynasty was a wealthy one, and could afford to arm and equip its household troopers almost to the level of Imperial Guard storm troopers, and their training was almost as good. He examined them briefly, knowing that Seria would have picked these thirty troopers for both combat capability and impeccable discipline. One only had a single opportunity to make a first impression, after all, and these troops looked like they’d make a good one. Anderocus nodded approval to the Commander, and she returned the nod before ordering her troops to fall out and get strapped in. Anderocus walked up to speak to the commander of his guards, motioning for Tangro to embark ahead of him and running a critical eye over the looming bulk of the shuttle that the soldiers were hastily boarding. The heavy lander was huge, easily able to accommodate thirty armsmen in addition to the small diplomatic party. It was also, unfortunately, rather plain, sporting little of the gilded ornamentation or detailed, gorgeous inlays that covered the hulls of the smaller Aquila shuttles. Still, it was in good repair and spotlessly clean, and should prove suitably impressive to a civilization that, from all appearances, lacked space travel. The fact that the heavy shuttle boasted a robust, heavily armoured hull and thus was far more survivable than the more lightly-built Aquilas was a bonus. “Hellguns only?” The Rogue Trader asked his guard commander in an undertone. “After your reaction at the briefing, I had almost expected you to want to bring along a Hellhound or two.” The Lux Foedis carried several of the lightly armoured infantry fighting vehicles, though they rarely saw any use. “I had missile and grenade launchers and heavy stubbers loaded aboard the shuttle before you arrived, sir. There’s a portable lascannon in there, too, just in case. Better to have and not need than need and not have.” Seria had donned her helmet and face-concealing rebreather mask again, but her tone was deadly serious, and Anderocus suspected that, could he see through it, he’d see even less humour on her face than her mask currently displayed. “Probably not a bad idea.” Anderocus observed. “I’ve ordered the Furies to fly high cover, as well. And Tersiaard will be following us in that gunship of his, should additional firepower prove necessary.” “He’ll probably have battle-servitors with him, too.” Seria commented. “I’ll be glad for the air cover, at least.” She shook her head. “Sorry, sir, I don’t mean to be dismissive of the Magos. He isn’t really that bad, as cogboy higher-ups go.” The last of the troopers had boarded, and the commander and Lord-Captain stood alone in the bay, save for the enginseers making final launch preparations on the shuttle. “Shall we board, sir?” “Hm?” Anderocus blinked, shaken out of his momentary reverie. “I’d rather intended to wait for the astropath. I don’t think I’ve ever actually met any of ours other than Dwyer.” “Setaron and Deumos arrived just before you, sir. They’re already aboard.” “Oh.” The corridors between the choir vault and the lander bay must have been less damaged than those between the bay and the bridge. “Well, let’s not tarry any further, then!” Even with the three squads of troopers embarked and extra heavy weapons loaded, the cargo compartment was largely empty. When configured for personnel, the heavy shuttle could carry a full company without overloading, so the thirty troopers currently aboard had plenty of leg room. The senior personnel were sitting close to the front of the compartment, and Anderocus caught his first sight of Astropath Setaron. Setaron’s hollow eye sockets were as unsettling as any astropath’s. His sight had been burned away from him on Holy Terra, a price exacted in the soul binding ritual that armored an astropath’s soul against Chaos. Unlike some, Setaron didn’t wear a bandage or blindfold to spare others the sight of the empty pits in his face. He was bald, again, as most astropaths were, and his skin was a medium brown colour, slightly darker than Seria’s, indicating he’d probably been born on a planetary surface rather than aboard a starship. He was attired simply, in a dark gray robe, and the only ostentation visible was a slender gold chain around his neck, supporting some ornament that hung beneath his clothing against his chest. A straight wooden staff sat upright next to his seat. “Astropath Setaron. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Anderocus didn’t offer his hand; it would be unseemly for someone of his station to shake the hand of a witch. “My Lord. I live to serve.” The astropath didn’t rise, and his voice was quiet. “You know your task?” “Of course.” Setaron smiled. “It will not be difficult, my Lord. Despite the fury of the storm we escaped, the Warp seems oddly quiet here. It should be easy for me to detect any interference.” “Good.” The Lord-Captain didn’t understand how the Warp could be quiet, with the raging daemonic fury of the storm on the other side of the divide between material and immaterial. He decided not to ask; where the Warp was concerned, it was better not to know. Let those burdened with its presence bear that load. Anderocus took a seat at the front that had been left vacant for him, noting as he did so that Tangro had seated himself as far from the astropath as he could manage. It was no great surprise; many subjects of the Emperor were so revolted by witches that they couldn’t stand to be near one, even sanctioned witches like astropaths. It was a bit odd that he hadn’t noted that tendency in Tangro before, however. The Lord-Captain shook that thought aside as irrelevant, as the shuttle’s engines roared to life. The enginseers must have been nearly finished with takeoff preparations when he arrived, for the bay was swiftly purged of atmosphere and the exterior doors opened. Anderocus tuned his vox-bead to the pilot’s frequency as the shuttle smoothly lifted from its moorings and slid out into the void. “Emperor on Earth,” the pilot cursed softly, “How did we survive?” “Can you describe what you’re seeing, pilot?” Anderocus cut in. “Oh, sorry m’Lord, didn’t realize you were on this channel.” The pilot’s voice was chagrined. “Ah… there’s significant damage to the exterior of the ship. I can see broken gargoyles and damaged devotional icons all down the port side, and some serious scoring in the armour…” The pilot trailed off, evidently concentrating on fine maneuvers. He would be moving the shuttle to the starboard side of the Lux Foedis, to rendezvous with Tersiaard’s shuttle before descending into the planetary atmosphere, so they should be coming around to the more damaged section right about… “Golden Throne!” The pilot gasped, horror in his tone. “M’Lord, it looks like something peeled the starboard flank open like a bloody ration tin!” “Make sure your pict recorder is active, pilot.” Anderocus hid the dismay he was feeling with the ease of long practice. He’d hoped the damage might have been less severe than it had sounded from the damage control reports. “Aye, sir, pict recorder active and capturing.” The record would help with damage repair later. Tersiaard’s gunship would surely be taking a similar record, but it couldn’t hurt to have multiple sources. “There’s the Mechanicus lander. We’re beginning descent now.” The ride down through the atmosphere was a bit rougher in the cargo shuttle than it would have been in one of the more aerodynamic craft. (The pilots in the Furies were doubtless having a delightful time, the Rogue Trader reflected somewhat sourly) The blocky, brick-like profile of the heavy lander tended to simply smash through the atmosphere rather than riding on it, but the powered descent ameliorated the worst of the effects, and the weather was calm. Aerobraking in this brick would have been a nightmare, though. Anderocus listened to the roar of the air passing by the lander’s hull and the muted thunder of the engines as time ticked by. No one in the cargo compartment spoke; they were doubtless all mentally rehearsing the various plans and contingencies that would need to be fresh in their minds when they made planetfall. It wasn’t long before the pilot’s voice came over the vox again. “Xenos city in sight, Lord. Did you want me to set down on the outskirts?” Anderocus thought for a moment. “No, pilot, that would likely place us too far from the local power structure. Are there any parks or clear areas near the city center that can accommodate both us and the Mechanicus shuttle?” “Don’t know, m’Lord. The skyline’s hiding the city core from this angle; did you want us to do a flyby?” “Yes, but take care not to go too fast. High and slow, avoid any sudden maneuvers unless you see ground fire.” The pilot snorted a laugh. “In this tub, by the time I’ve seen it it’ll have already hit us, m’Lord.” The Lord-Captain felt the craft’s forward speed drop as the pilot carried out his orders. Anderocus pondered potential alternatives to a city-center landing site as the shuttle slowly circled. The buildings were fairly large, but he seriously doubted they’d support the lander’s massive weight, so if they couldn’t find a clear space it would be necessary to land further out on the edge, suboptimal as that might be. They could probably demolish a building, if they absolutely had to; the shuttle could smash through most primitive constructions without damage, but that seemed an unnecessarily hostile act. Finally, the pilot’s voice broke his reverie again. “Got one, M’Lord. Big open park near the middle of the city, should be more than large enough for both shuttles. We’ll have to knock a couple of trees down when we set down, though. Be warned though, sir, I’m seeing a fair number of airborne xenos creatures, might be the locals, might be some local wildlife. Don’t seem to be armed, but they’re pretty clearly shadowing us. They’re giving us a wide berth for now, but once we land…” “Thank you for the warning, pilot. Go ahead and set us down. Take it slow and be careful not to accidentally incinerate any locals or their pets if you can avoid it.” The shuttle eased to a halt midair and began to cautiously descend as the Lord-Captain turned to Guard-Commander Seria. “Did you get that?” The helmeted head nodded once, briskly. “Yes, sir. My troops will be ready and watching.” She paused before adding, “There’s a fair amount of urbanization around this park, sir. I’m a bit concerned about possible snipers.” “Keep an eye out, but this is most likely the best option for contacting someone in a position of power.” Seria made a noise of quiet dissatisfaction, but nodded all the same. “Have one of your squads exit first to secure the area and impress anyone watching. Intimidating, but not aggressive, if you please.” The shuttle bumped to a stop with a couple of hard thumps that Anderocus assumed had probably been trees, the engines quieted, and Seria stood, saluting. “Right, sir. Sergeant Dulis, it’s your lucky day! Your squad’s first out the door and ramp security. Keep it ceremonial for now, but keep your damn eyes peeled! The rest of you: be ready to form up for escort detail!” All thirty troopers slammed to attention in perfect unison, and the squad closest to the ramp turned as it hissed down, opening to show the alien world beyond. The ten soldiers marched down the ramp in two short columns, bootheels slamming down on metal surface in perfect unison, as Anderocus would expect of his best household troops. Each column turned to one side as they reached the ground, forming a line ten abreast flanking the foot of the boarding ramp. Their formation achieved, the squad slammed to a halt, hellguns at port arms, and waited. Anderocus held the party inside the shuttle for a few moments, waiting to see if something attacked the vanguard squad. Nothing happened, and there was no sound but silence as pleasantly cool early morning air drifted into the open shuttle, the clean smell tainted by the stink of promethium fumes from the lander’s thrusters. He was about to lead the landing party out, when he heard the roar of the approaching Mechanicus gunship, and decided instead to hold his retainers inside until Tersiaard had landed and debarked. He didn’t have long to wait. Either the Mechanicus pilot assumed the locals had cleared out when Anderocus’s shuttle had landed, or more likely, he, she, or it simply didn’t care if a few natives were immolated by the lander’s thrusters. The sound of the engines died down quickly, and Anderocus heard the metallic noise of heavy footsteps on a ramp. Now he led his party out of their shuttle. It wouldn’t do to give the impression that the Rogue Trader had been waiting on the Mechanicus Magos, after all. Better to make it abundantly clear to the locals who was actually in charge of the Imperial delegation. Parseon Anderocus proceeded slowly down the ramp, infusing his stride with grace and authority, as his etiquette tutors had taught him from a young age. He managed his fine clothing easily, though he currently wore his normal shipboard garb rather than full formal finery. That would wait for the locals to arrange official diplomatic meetings; it always behooved a powerful trader to have additional ways to surprise and impress those he dealt with kept in reserve. The second of the escort squads fell in beside him, marching in columns on either side of the ramp as the first had. Tangro fell in at his master’s right hand, while Commander Seria loomed over the Rogue Trader’s left shoulder. Deumos and the astropath followed the two higher-ranking retainers, while the third guard squad filled the ramp behind them, marching five abreast. Anderocus thought with satisfaction that they presented an impressive and intimidating panoply. To his right, Anderocus saw the red and gold shape of the Mechanicus lander. Standing at the base of its ramp loomed the intimidating form of Magos Tersiaard. The Magos stood well over two meters tall, and from what Anderocus had seen, his body seemed to be almost wholly augmetic. He wore the traditional red robe of the Mechanicus, trimmed with a gold cog-teeth pattern, and very little of him was currently visible underneath it. His face was a faint gleam of metal underneath the deep shadows the combination of streetlights and pre-dawn gloom cast in his cowl, and three green lenses that were his eyes glittered with an odd light that never seemed to quite match the surrounding illumination. A frightening, arthropodan array of augmetic utility limbs and mechadendrites sprouted from his back, haloing his body with metal struts and tentacles, and the huge, boxy shape of a heavy bolter sat on his right shoulder where it always was. A small cluster of servo-skulls flew around him, the tiny antigravity units that supported them producing a noticeable buzz, but no retainers accompanied the Magos. Apart from the machine-studded flying skulls, Tersiaard was alone. Anderocus only spared a brief glance for the tech-priest. Most of his attention was devoted to the creatures gathering in the park, gawking at the huge form of the shuttle. “Did someone kidnap a juve festival’s rough riders group and leave the mounts behind?” Seria muttered near-inaudibly, and Anderocus could understand why. The brightly coloured quadrupedal hippoform xenos before him averaged a bit over a meter in height, and were staring at him, his entourage, and the two shuttles with obvious shock written on their countenances. As he’d walked down the ramp, the Rogue Trader had initially dismissed the creatures as local pets or beasts of burden, but now that he got a closer look, he suspected they might actually be the inhabitants. Many of them wore ornamental clothing of one sort or another, ranging from a simple vest worn by what looked to be a streetside news-sheet vendor to one creature sporting a remarkably tasteful monocle, top-hat, and tailored suit. Others were unclothed, in numbers sufficient to indicate that this was considered quite socially acceptable. More of the creatures were cautiously emerging from the multi-story structures that surrounded the landing zone, no doubt alerted by the thunderous noise of the shuttles’ landing thrusters. Others were hovering in the sky, on feathered wings that seemed far too small to support them. All the ones in view, including the fliers, were gazing at the human group with expressions that mixed awe, wonder, shock, and a trace of fear, and many seemed to be speaking to one another in hushed voices. “I don’t think these are pets, or carnival beasts, Seria.” Tangro commented. “Observe the large cranial space, the clear binocular vision, the clothing and tools some of them are sporting. Can you see the mobile expressions on their faces?” “I can, but I’ve seen pets that mimic expressions before.” The former Guardswoman replied impatiently. “Very few that boasted such large brains, I’d wager. And look! Are those tattoos on their rumps? Could those be marks of rank or social status? Or perhaps they indicate employment or career! But how do they get them to appear on top of their coats?” Tangro’s tone was excited. “Not to mention that they’re clearly talking to one another about us! Oh, my, just look at their expressions! How very humanlike, despite the decidedly nonhuman body structure, moreso than even the Eldar! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the like before!” “Take care, seneschal.” Deumos growled. “It is not seemly for a servant of the Emperor to be so… taken with xenos.” “Understanding these creatures is the entire reason I am here, confessor. They have something we need, so it behooves me to be open-minded. It will be easier to obtain supplies if we try to determine the most effective ways of talking to them.” Tangro’s reply carried a peevish tone. “‘An open mind is like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded.’ Remember that, Tangro.” The priest quoted piously, “You should watch yourself carefully, lest something unholy use the opportunity to sneak in.” “Emperor’s mercy, Deumos! Even the mightiest fortress would starve, were its gates to stay ever-closed, and such a thing only invites a siege!” “Will you both be quiet?” Anderocus hissed. “Save your bickering for later, in private!” Both men fell silent, muttering apologies. The distraction dealt with, Anderocus concentrated on putting as much impatience as he could into his bearing and expression. He had come all the way to their world, now he would make their leaders or representatives come to him. It was a powerful negotiating tactic, one that gave an immediate advantage and had worked well for him in the past. The greatest downside was that his arrival had doubtless been tremendously intimidating for a society that lacked space travel of its own, so he might be standing there waiting for quite some time before one of the xenos gained sufficient courage to approach. That was no great worry; in fact, it was part of the reason he’d been willing to land a bit before dawn, when he suspected most of the aliens would be just waking up. He was therefore surprised when, after a wait of only a few minutes, one of the hippoid creatures, a being with electric-blue mane and tail and light tan fur, clad in a vest and with a spiral horn projecting through a black beret, began to step tentatively forward out of the crowd that had gathered around the park’s edge. It spoke a few words, clearly addressing Anderocus, its manner and voice nervous. When the Rogue Trader simply regarded it uncomprehendingly, it repeated itself more slowly, taking care to clearly enunciate its words. Seria started slightly, the slight rattle of her armour drawing the Lord-Captain’s attention. “What is it, commander?” “Sir, I’m not entirely sure, the accent’s a little odd, but… it sounds to me like this little xeno is speaking Ancient Anglic!” Anderocus was glad his guard commander was wearing a helmet; if her face was as stunned as her voice sounded, it could make them appear weak, possibly undermining their eventual bargaining position. “Anglic? I’m not familiar with that tongue.” Tangro said, pensively. “It is an ancient, pre-Imperial, possibly pre-Gothic language.” The metallic voice was unmistakable. Anderocus had no idea how Tersiaard had gotten that close without him noticing, though the massive Magos displayed an almost feline affinity for quiet movement at times. “I am curious how you came to be familiar with it, commander.” The xeno who’d addressed them evidently hadn’t noticed Tersiaard’s approach either, as it shied away when he spoke. Its large eyes grew even larger when it saw the tech-priest move up to stand behind the row of guards on the right side of the shuttle ramp. The xeno took a few nervous steps backward, but one of Tersiaard’s servo-skulls buzzed out of the darkness to hover beside it, and the creature checked its retreat in favor of staring in wide-eyed fascination at the flying skull-machine. Ignoring the interplay, Seria had turned to face the Magos. “It’s still spoken in a few places in southern Raal, back home on Silieus. I lived a few hours away from a town where everyone spoke Anglic; I learned it from a childhood friend.” She cocked her head. “It’s been decades since I heard it, though. Not since I shipped out for the Guard as a girl.” “Intriguing.” Tersiaard angled his gaze off to where his servo-skull was slowly circling the nervous-looking xeno. “I wonder how it came to be spoken here?” “Does this mean you can translate for us, Seria?” Anderocus asked. “I… maybe?” Seria said, with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “It’s been years, as I said, sir. Maybe I’ll pick it back up?” “My linguistic database includes Ancient Anglic.” Tersiaard observed. “If you could prompt this xeno to speak further, I could adjust for dialect differences and program my servo-skulls to serve as translators.” “I suppose I could try.” Anderocus stepped to the side, gesturing for Seria to go past him. The commander’s tall, armoured, helmeted form was clearly intimidating the little alien, though; it started stepping back nervously again as she approached, the expression on its face making clear that it was regretting its decision to address them. “Commander,” Tangro called out, “You’re scaring it. Take your helmet off.” Seria looked over her shoulder to Anderocus for confirmation. The Lord-Captain gestured assent, and the guard commander reluctantly removed her face-concealing mask and helmet. Some of the tension left the small alien’s body when it saw Seria’s face. It relaxed further when she haltingly addressed it. The xeno smiled delightedly and spoke back to her slowly in its own language, taking care to enunciate clearly to make it easier for the commander to understand. Anderocus noted that the creature sported a mark on its rump that resembled a quill pen scribing a character, and wondered if that meant that the creature might be a scribe of some sort. The Rogue Trader leaned back, turning sideways so he could address the astropath in the back of the group. “Setaron, are you sensing anything?” “I sense a great deal, Lord.” The psyker replied quietly. “A great many of these creatures have minds that buzz and spark with power. Rest assured: none have made any attempts to intrude upon our thoughts, however, else I would have spoken.” Anderocus shot a glare at the astropath. It was a wasted effort, of course, as the man hadn’t spontaneously regenerated his sight in the last few moments. “I thought you said the Warp was calm here?” “It is, Lord.” The psyker replied, unshaken. “Calmer than any place I have ever been. It should not be, with so many psykers about, but it remains so.” “Very well,” Anderocus was deeply uncomfortable to know he was surrounded by psykers. “Remain attentive, and alert me if you sense any attempted intrusions.” “I remain vigilant.” The astropath intoned solemnly. Commander Seria had continued her conversation with the tan-coated alien while Setaron and Anderocus spoke, clearly growing more comfortable with the language quickly as she did so. The alien, for its part, was smiling widely, clearly excited, and much of the fear seemed to have dissipated from the growing crowd. The discussions between the various little clusters of xenos were getting more animated, and Anderocus noticed several of the winged aliens darting off, perhaps to fetch those higher in authority. “What are you telling this creature, commander?” Anderocus interrupted. Seria turned, saluting. “Nothing dangerous, sir, I’m mostly just answering basic questions. I’ve told him what our species is called, that we come from a starship, that we serve both your dynasty and the Imperium, and that we’re seeking to speak to his leaders.” She turned back to the alien just in time to see it telekinetically levitate a small pen and notepad out of a pocket in its vest, and the soldier leapt away, exclaiming, “Emperor’s blood!” The alien jumped in response, looking around frantically with wide green eyes to try and spot what had startled Seria. The armsmen tensed, but their iron discipline kept them from moving without Seria’s orders or an immediate threat in view. The commander pointed at the floating writing tools, speaking a few more words in the alien’s language, and it looked at her in surprise for a few moments before laughing and answering whatever she’d asked with an unconcerned smile. “Ah… sir? It, ah, seems that the local population has… an extremely high concentration of psykers.” Seria’s voice was steady, and it would take someone who knew her well to spot her unease. Anderocus could see her trying very hard not to put her hand on the butt of the plasma pistol at her hip. “Yes, Astropath Setaron made me aware of that fact while you were talking to this one.” The Lord-Commander replied in a slightly acid tone. Anderocus indicated the creature Seria had been speaking to. “Has it told you anything of value?” “A bit, sir.” Seria, seeing her superior unconcerned about the profusion of witches, recovered her composure rapidly, though she remained more watchful than before. “All the ones with the horns are psykers, apparently, though they vary in power.” Anderocus spared a glance around at the gathering crowd. The ones with the spiral horns made up an uncomfortably large percentage. “This one’s name is Wordsmith, though he prefers simply Smith.” The little alien was busily scribbling in his notebook, pausing occasionally to peer intently at one or another of the humans. “And while the leaders of this particular town have already been summoned, the overlord of this world dwells elsewhere. That’s as far as I’ve gotten; I’m having to struggle to remember the words and grammar.” Seria’s voice held a note of apology. Anderocus harrumphed. “Does he have any idea when these local leaders might arrive?” It was probably too much to hope for to find the planetary leader in the first city they visited. Ah, well, perhaps he could persuade the world’s ruling lord to come here; that would give him additional diplomatic leverage, making them come to him. “He seemed to think it would be shortly, sir.” She spoke to the alien again, drawing its attention away from whatever it was writing, and it nodded to her, then looked at Anderocus and said something emphatic, nodding again. “A matter of minutes, he says.” “Commendably quick, if true.” Anderocus observed. “Magos, any progress on adjusting your translation database?” “Affirmative. I have recited the proper prayers and brought the cogitators into line. A fairly simple task; I did not even require any of the ritual incense. These servo-skulls should serve as adequate translators.” A small group of the little servitors flew out of the Mechanicus lander and took station at the shoulder of each senior member of the expedition. “They have been instructed to only speak when you address one of the xenos, or when one of them addresses you.” “Thank you, Magos, that should prove invaluable. Though we may wish to extend that instruction to the xenos speaking in other circumstances; it could prove advantageous to know what they are saying, while keeping our own discussions secret.” Anderocus turned to the little xeno… Wordsmith, was that its name? “Can you understand me now?” He asked, and the servo-skull hovering over his shoulder spoke, interpreting the Rogue Trader’s words for the alien’s ears. The alien nearly fell over in astonishment. “Your flying skull things… can talk?” As it had just done, the servo-skull spoke, translating this time from the local’s language into High Gothic. Its voice was slightly metallic (though less so than the Magos’s, oddly enough) but easily understandable. “They do not speak their own words, merely translate mine.” Anderocus replied, feeling that it was important to establish that the servo-skulls were servants. “A task that it appears they are accomplishing adequately.” The Lord-Captain gave a thankful nod to Magos Tersiaard, though the Mechanicus adept didn’t bother to acknowledge the gesture. “That’s amazing!” Wordsmith exclaimed via servo-skull. He peered more closely at the skull still hovering next to him. “What kind of magic is this thing, anyway? It’s so small, to be both flying and talking!” “You told Commander Seria that your leaders would be here soon, is that correct?” Anderocus asked, ignoring the alien’s question. It would be best to keep them guessing, at least for now. Fortunately, Tersiaard did not volunteer any information either, and he showed great restraint in not correcting the alien’s assumption that the miracles of the Machine God and the psychic trickery of witches could be mistaken for one another. “Oh, yes. I’m quite sure they’re on their way now!” The xeno looked over his shoulder at a clock on a nearby building. “I suspect they’ll be here shortly after the Princess raises the sun.” Princess, eh? It was probably referring to some local sun-god figure, from the context. Anderocus was sufficiently well-travelled to be familiar with a variety of heathen alien religions; hopefully this one wasn’t tied to the Warp, as some of them were. Sun-worship was generally harmless enough, and he’d even encountered a few branches of the Imperial Cult that followed it. Sun-as-Emperor was a common enough simplification of Emperor-worship. Not that he thought for a moment that these aliens actually worshipped the Emperor! “Of course. Is there any particular interruption or ceremony associated with sunrise?” If the aliens expected the Imperials to participate in their ceremonies, it would be best to know now, and get the disappointment over with. Anderocus couldn’t see any weapons in the crowd of aliens, so he felt confident that any violent reaction to his refusal to follow their religion would break against the bulwark of his guardsmen. “Only for the Princess,” the alien replied with a worldly shrug, “or folks attending the ceremony in Canterlot. Here in Manehattan it’s just sunrise.” “I see.” Anderocus looked out at what he could see of the horizon, occluded as it was by the shapes of the multi-story buildings that surrounded him, and could see a faint glow heralding the oncoming dawn. “Then we shall await the arrival of your leaders.” The Rogue Trader stood there silently, waiting, as the alien scribbled in his notebook. Finally, the sun peeked over the horizon, and behind him Setaron collapsed, screaming like a damned soul. The astropath awoke as the shuttle ascended through the atmosphere, leaving Tangro on the surface with Tersiaard to continue his discussions. The seneschal had insisted on remaining, even as the rest of the senior staff withdrew, insisting he could handle preliminary negotiations singlehandedly. Anderocus hoped that Tangro could invent a sufficiently plausible explanation for their sudden withdrawal; it must have looked exceedingly undignified to have the senior members of the officer corps hustling back into the safety of the shuttle while a pair of guards dragged the shrieking astropath up the ramp behind them, brandishing their hellguns at the crowd threateningly. Seria had left one squad of guards with the seneschal to ensure his safety, taking the other two to ensure that Setaron could pose no threat to the rest of the senior personnel. At the sound of Setaron’s ragged inhalation, several of the others in the passenger compartment crowded further away from him. After the astropath had collapsed in a shrieking fit, blood streaming from the empty sockets of his eyes, there’d been significant concerns that the Warp had overtaken him, or that some fell xenos sorcery had corrupted him. Though Confessor Deumos had examined the astropath and pronounced him free of taint, no one wanted to take any more chances than were necessary. Now he was sitting up, groaning, wiping at the drying blood that streaked his face, and it was time to learn if the confessor had been mistaken. Deumos nudged Seria, drawing her attention to the awakening astropath. She motioned the guard detail out of his way with a wave of an armored hand, and the big priest respectfully shouldered past Anderocus. As Seria’s guard detail leveled their hellguns, the confessor drew his ornate, thrice-blessed bolt pistol and addressed the frail telepath. “Malachai Setaron, do you hear my words?” The astropath’s blind gaze swung toward the priest. “Kessar? Kessar, is that you?” “It is.” Deumos replied firmly. “You were taken by a fit as the sun rose, Setaron. Are you still yourself, or has the stain of your witchery finally proven too much for your soul to handle?” The confessor trained his weapon on the astropath’s head, finger resting lightly on the trigger. He clearly intended to take no chances. “Yes, confessor, both my mind and soul remain my own. Wait, I shall prove it…” Setaron fumbled at the collar of his robe, finally locating the fine chain that hung about his neck. He drew out the beautifully-wrought golden Aquila that hung from it. Holding the charm firmly in his hand, he raspily intoned, “I swear unto you, Confessor Deumos, in the name and presence of the Emperor, that my soul remains pure in His sight, and that the Enemy has found no purchase there.” Deumos waited for three long, tense heartbeats, watching to see if the God-Emperor would see fit to strike the astropath down. When no divine wrath manifested, he holstered his weapon. “That is good to hear, Malachai. I feared for you.” The tension in the passenger compartment eased greatly as the confessor’s words dispelled fears of daemonic possession. Lord-Captain Anderocus stepped up next to the priest. “What happened, Setaron? Did something attack you?” “I… don’t think so, my lord. As the sun rose, I felt a vast outpouring of psychic power. It was not aimed at me, else I fear I’d have burned like a candle. Even so, it was all I could do to hold my mind together; the presence was so immense that even in merely sensing it I was almost destroyed.” Setaron shuddered. “I… hesitate to say this, but I’ve only encountered anything like it once before.” “Farseer Melandaril.” Anderocus nodded. If that damnable xenos mind-witch had somehow followed them through the warp storm… “No, my lord.” Setaron’s voice was hesitant, as he corrected the Rogue Trader he served. “This… entity quite thoroughly eclipsed the Eldar’s power. The only time I’ve felt its like was…” He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he had been going to say. “Yes? Was when?” The captain prompted impatiently, when the astropath didn’t continue. Setaron hesitated again, and when he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible. “The day I… lost my eyes, my lord.” The whispered answer visibly confused Anderocus. Setaron was an astropath, he’d been blind since… “Blasphemy!” hissed Deumos. The big confessor gripped his staff of office tightly. “You would seek to claim that the Emperor is on this world?” His hand strayed to the butt of his bolt pistol again. “Perhaps you did not escape taint after all!” “Be still, Deumos,” the Captain commanded, holding up a hand to forestall any violent action by the priest. “I’m certain Setaron had no intent to blaspheme. Did you, Setaron?” The question held an edge of warning. “Of course not, my lord.” The astropath bowed to Deumos. “I humbly beg your pardon, confessor. What I am about to say may sound impious, but you know me, Kessar. I would never, ever turn from the Emperor’s light. Not even to save myself from an eternity of torture.” The priest rumbled angrily, but in truth he did know the astropath well. He knew well that the blind man was almost ferociously pious, and had always been a steadfast, loyal and true acolyte of the God-Emperor. “I will withhold judgment for now, Malachai. But take great care with your words.” Setaron licked his lips nervously, nodding. “I shall do so.” The blind man paused, clearly searching for words. “I did not mean to suggest that the Emperor was here, on this world, but the power I felt was so very much like that of the Astronomicon, in scope if not in flavor.” He hesitated. “It was more unified, and, and warmer, somehow. The Astronomion has this sense of terrible, remorseless purpose to it, but on the edge of your senses, you can detect… almost a babble.” “Babble? You dare to speak of the Holy God-Emperor’s mind as babble?!” Deumos interjected furiously, interrupting the Astropath’s thoughtful accounting. “Confessor!” The captain barked. “I said be silent. We all appreciate your zealotry in defense of our souls, but this is something I absolutely must hear. I need to know as much as I can about this world, and I cannot have you interrupting Setaron’s every other sentence! Now hold. Your. Peace. I will not ask again.” Anderocus’s icy glare bored into the priest’s eyes. The ire of a powerful Rogue Trader, even one as relatively young as Parseon Anderocus, would have caused many men to quail, especially with Seria standing behind him, ready and willing to execute those who earned the Lord-Captain’s ire, but Deumos was made of sterner stuff. His jaw flexed and his back remained ramrod-straight as he stubbornly returned the Lord-Captain’s glare, but he nodded. Anderocus held the priest’s gaze for a moment longer before turning back to Setaron. “Continue, Astropath Setaron.” The astropath nodded. “Yes, Lord. I- please forgive me, ‘babble’ was not precisely the right word. I am trying to explain something that doesn’t lend itself easily to words; my apologies. When I endured the Soul Binding, I could… hear, or sense, a cacophony of voices, those souls sacrificed to the Astronomicon. Those who hadn’t been strong enough to endure, and had been consumed by the Emperor to fuel His might. Their voices chatter, as they gutter out. What I felt today… it had much of the power I felt during my Binding, but it seemed more… aware. It lacked that mad cacophony of dissolving voices, and I could only feel one presence.” He shivered. “There was but one voice. It did not speak, but still I heard it. It was… kind.” Deumos clenched his teeth again, but managed to keep his silence as Anderocus had commanded. The psyker’s voice took on a dreamy edge, a strange mixture of wonder and fear. “In truth, it sounded the way I’ve always imagined the Emperor used to, back in the days of the Great Crusade, when He was working to take all of Mankind under His protection and spread His light to the far reaches of the galaxy. Before He was bound to the Throne. It was warm, and kind, though there was steel underneath. It saw me, I think, at the very last moment,” His tone was musing, now, “became aware of me even as I writhed in the glare of its power. It sought to shield me from itself, but it was pulling back the flame after the hand had already been burned. That it did so, I think, is the only reason I still draw breath.” No one spoke after the astropath finished. The only sounds in the lander’s passenger compartment came from the roar of the engines as they drove it up through the atmosphere, back to the Lux Foedis, the uncomfortable shifting of Seria’s infantrymen in their armor, and the squeak of Deumos’s teeth grinding. Finally, Anderocus cleared his throat. “Are you saying that on this world of, of pastel xenos, there dwells a peer of the Master of Mankind?” He sounded incredulous. Setaron shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure I’d use those precise words, my lord, but your statement seems largely accurate, with one caveat. Whatever it is, it is… akin to the Emperor before the Great Heresy, when He still walked among us.” Glances were shared. Even Seria looked uneasy, shifting in her carapace armor, though her eyes were hidden behind the visor she had hastily redonned when the astropath had collapsed. Deumos jammed his hands over his ears, murmuring the Cantos of Faith under his breath. “That edges perilously near to heresy, Setaron.” Though the captain’s words were firm, his tone was uneasy. “I know, my lord. But, even if it damns me to tell it, this is a truth you must know. That we all must know. We must tread very, very carefully, for whatever watches over the little xenos of this world could obliterate us all with but a thought if it so chose.” The silence that followed the astropath’s declaration could have suffocated an Astartes.