Flight of the Aquila
folder
+S through Z › Warhammer 40,000
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
3,479
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+S through Z › Warhammer 40,000
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
3,479
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Warhammer 40, 000; nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Darkness I Know
2. The Darkness I Know
Merica Bequin Lepton.
Imperial Inquisition. Sanctioned psyker. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
A beauty by most Imperial standard, she’s tall, tan-skinned and long, dark hair running down to the middle of her back. Slim, discrete yet suggestive curves in all of the right places and young enough that no rejuvenant treatment had needed to be administered yet.
Her fascination with radicals, heretics and xeno behaviour was bordering on heresy itself, though anyone knowing her would realize she would never be able to turn against the Glory of the Emperor. It was as likely to convince her to worship the Ruinous Powers as it was for a servitor to take up advanced philosophy classes.
Today, though, she was hardly recognizable from her genial, caring self. The first time she had to do one of these sessions it was morbid fascination that had driven her to do what she did. The second time she had volunteered with a smile on her face, knowing how powerful an emotion was created in that small, dark room. Now, she had lost count of the times she’d gone to one of those tables; different people, different planets, different settings, different reasons, but always the same objective.
To break the mental defences of the accursed heretics.
She walked through the dungeons of the keep that served as their residence thinking of the moments to come. A message flashed on the dataslate in her belt and with slight irritation she looked at it. The message was simple: “Prisoner conscious. Vitals stable. ETA?”
She smiled and punched in a time-code. Mallear Creed was of the Adeptus Mechanicus and he never wasted anyone’s time, providing only the bare facts and conservative in the extreme when it came to predictions. She thought of adding a personal message for him, but dismissed the thought; Cog-boys didn’t think much of irrelevant chatter.
***
A door opened; metal, from the sounds of it. There was the sound of someone – lightly-built, careful steps – descending the roughly hewn stone steps into his nightmare.
His captor.
The shadows were still impenetrable, though by the sounds of his captor’s footsteps he started to make himself a mental image of the room he was in. That sort of thing came naturally to him; a meme-virus that almost killed him had left him with implants, courtesy of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the analytical sections of the implants were highly advanced, something that had helped him in his long career since then. Two-hundred-eighty-seven years old, more rejuvenant treatments than he could remember and for a man for whom 8 of his 10 faked deaths had been homicide he seemed very pale and scared.
“Hi, sweetie.”
His head whipped away from the sound of his approaching captor and into the eyes of Lillith – his Lillith – and panicked. “Lillith?” He hissed, “Quick, hide! You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
The woman he loved looked at him, tears in her eyes, “Why? What’d you do?”
“No time! No time!” he hissed.
“Don’t you dare do this to me again! You promised me I wouldn’t have to worry every night, if you’d make it home or if you were lying dead in a gutter on some Emperor-forsaken rock!”
“Keep your rutting voice down, woman!” he hissed at her, pulling at his bonds but to no avail.
“Tell me. Tell me now.”
“Fine, fine. For Throne’s sake, woman.” Wasn’t his captor coming? Could he still hear the footsteps? Probably more important to answer Lillith’s question, he decided, his head feeling strange.
“It was a job, aright?” He admitted. “No questions asked, I got paid up-front and had to fly from various rocks and deliver passengers to a cruiser out in Lucky Space.”
“Lucky Space?” she asked him.
“Emperor’s Light! Lucky Space! Entire sector got caught in a warp-storm, leaving thousands of planets unclaimed.”
“What about the cruiser?” Lillith was being unusually inquisitive he thought, but then the thought was gone. After all, this was the woman he loved and who loved him. For her to have come to his side in a time like this, it was beautiful…
“Tell me about the cruiser.” Lillith said, her voice flat.
“Imperial craft, probably ex-Navy. Personalized communication, obviously. Xeno-modifications. Symbols… I’d rather not talk about those,” he shuddered.
“What’s the name of the ship?” she asked him, wiping some of the blood of his face with her soft touch.
“I don’t know.”
“The name.”
“I don’t know.”
“You can trust me. I want the name.”
“I don’t know!” he started crying. Even Lillith was questioning him. Life was so unfair, so unfair. Why was it so rutting hard for people to believe him?
“There, there.” She was running her fingers across his torso and he smiled, looking up at her. They’d just gotten married. They were on a cruise-ship across the oceans of Noslaki; it was the happiest time of his life. He was young and on his first rejuvenant treatment. They were in their cabin, the morning after their wedding night and the still-naked Lillith was looking down at him, bringing a warmth to his heart.
“The symbols,” she said warmly, “what sort of symbols were they?”
“I’d rather not…” agony flashed across his face and for a moment he saw a dark room around him and then Lillith was back and the image didn’t matter anymore.
“The Ruinous Powers?”
He nodded slowly, as though it was physically painful for him to admit.
“Do you remember which one?”
“Please… please…” he was weak and he knew it. On the verge of dying; he could feel it. Even touching Lillith’s bare skin won him no heat; her skin seemed cold as a block of marble.
“Sleep, my dear. Sleep.”
Merica removed her hand from the forehead of the prisoner and walked back towards the stairs, having gotten more than she’d hoped from just one session. Tomorrow he might have recovered enough for another probe.
She took out her dataslate and wrote: “Interrogation successful. Signs of chaos involvement. Possibly operating out of Lucky Space. More sessions needed. Ensure that prisoner is fed.”
Merica Bequin Lepton.
Imperial Inquisition. Sanctioned psyker. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
A beauty by most Imperial standard, she’s tall, tan-skinned and long, dark hair running down to the middle of her back. Slim, discrete yet suggestive curves in all of the right places and young enough that no rejuvenant treatment had needed to be administered yet.
Her fascination with radicals, heretics and xeno behaviour was bordering on heresy itself, though anyone knowing her would realize she would never be able to turn against the Glory of the Emperor. It was as likely to convince her to worship the Ruinous Powers as it was for a servitor to take up advanced philosophy classes.
Today, though, she was hardly recognizable from her genial, caring self. The first time she had to do one of these sessions it was morbid fascination that had driven her to do what she did. The second time she had volunteered with a smile on her face, knowing how powerful an emotion was created in that small, dark room. Now, she had lost count of the times she’d gone to one of those tables; different people, different planets, different settings, different reasons, but always the same objective.
To break the mental defences of the accursed heretics.
She walked through the dungeons of the keep that served as their residence thinking of the moments to come. A message flashed on the dataslate in her belt and with slight irritation she looked at it. The message was simple: “Prisoner conscious. Vitals stable. ETA?”
She smiled and punched in a time-code. Mallear Creed was of the Adeptus Mechanicus and he never wasted anyone’s time, providing only the bare facts and conservative in the extreme when it came to predictions. She thought of adding a personal message for him, but dismissed the thought; Cog-boys didn’t think much of irrelevant chatter.
A door opened; metal, from the sounds of it. There was the sound of someone – lightly-built, careful steps – descending the roughly hewn stone steps into his nightmare.
His captor.
The shadows were still impenetrable, though by the sounds of his captor’s footsteps he started to make himself a mental image of the room he was in. That sort of thing came naturally to him; a meme-virus that almost killed him had left him with implants, courtesy of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the analytical sections of the implants were highly advanced, something that had helped him in his long career since then. Two-hundred-eighty-seven years old, more rejuvenant treatments than he could remember and for a man for whom 8 of his 10 faked deaths had been homicide he seemed very pale and scared.
“Hi, sweetie.”
His head whipped away from the sound of his approaching captor and into the eyes of Lillith – his Lillith – and panicked. “Lillith?” He hissed, “Quick, hide! You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
The woman he loved looked at him, tears in her eyes, “Why? What’d you do?”
“No time! No time!” he hissed.
“Don’t you dare do this to me again! You promised me I wouldn’t have to worry every night, if you’d make it home or if you were lying dead in a gutter on some Emperor-forsaken rock!”
“Keep your rutting voice down, woman!” he hissed at her, pulling at his bonds but to no avail.
“Tell me. Tell me now.”
“Fine, fine. For Throne’s sake, woman.” Wasn’t his captor coming? Could he still hear the footsteps? Probably more important to answer Lillith’s question, he decided, his head feeling strange.
“It was a job, aright?” He admitted. “No questions asked, I got paid up-front and had to fly from various rocks and deliver passengers to a cruiser out in Lucky Space.”
“Lucky Space?” she asked him.
“Emperor’s Light! Lucky Space! Entire sector got caught in a warp-storm, leaving thousands of planets unclaimed.”
“What about the cruiser?” Lillith was being unusually inquisitive he thought, but then the thought was gone. After all, this was the woman he loved and who loved him. For her to have come to his side in a time like this, it was beautiful…
“Tell me about the cruiser.” Lillith said, her voice flat.
“Imperial craft, probably ex-Navy. Personalized communication, obviously. Xeno-modifications. Symbols… I’d rather not talk about those,” he shuddered.
“What’s the name of the ship?” she asked him, wiping some of the blood of his face with her soft touch.
“I don’t know.”
“The name.”
“I don’t know.”
“You can trust me. I want the name.”
“I don’t know!” he started crying. Even Lillith was questioning him. Life was so unfair, so unfair. Why was it so rutting hard for people to believe him?
“There, there.” She was running her fingers across his torso and he smiled, looking up at her. They’d just gotten married. They were on a cruise-ship across the oceans of Noslaki; it was the happiest time of his life. He was young and on his first rejuvenant treatment. They were in their cabin, the morning after their wedding night and the still-naked Lillith was looking down at him, bringing a warmth to his heart.
“The symbols,” she said warmly, “what sort of symbols were they?”
“I’d rather not…” agony flashed across his face and for a moment he saw a dark room around him and then Lillith was back and the image didn’t matter anymore.
“The Ruinous Powers?”
He nodded slowly, as though it was physically painful for him to admit.
“Do you remember which one?”
“Please… please…” he was weak and he knew it. On the verge of dying; he could feel it. Even touching Lillith’s bare skin won him no heat; her skin seemed cold as a block of marble.
“Sleep, my dear. Sleep.”
Merica removed her hand from the forehead of the prisoner and walked back towards the stairs, having gotten more than she’d hoped from just one session. Tomorrow he might have recovered enough for another probe.
She took out her dataslate and wrote: “Interrogation successful. Signs of chaos involvement. Possibly operating out of Lucky Space. More sessions needed. Ensure that prisoner is fed.”