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Chapter One: The Collar

"If you are near to your enemy, appear to be far." -Sun Tzu


Captain Rentin straightened up as the freighter’s retros fired, blowing the accumulated dust from the seldom-used landing pad. He swallowed, watching the descent with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. He was about to have an experience few in the Imperium ever would, and he knew it.

Walls crowned with razorwire enclosed the small rockcrete landing pad of the Armillo North Penal Complex, a backwater location on the backwater world of Kerris. Rentin led the three-hundred strong detail of planetary enforcers assigned to this facility, though sometimes he wondered why the inmates needed to be guarded at all. Armillo North sat in the middle of a vast wasteland, far removed from any of Kerris’s cities and accessible only via the landing pads. Anyone who escaped the facility would never make it far regardless.

Still, it was a paycheck, and as thankless as Captain Rentin’s job was, it was his way of serving the Emperor. It didn’t hurt that it also helped him avoid conscription. He preferred to be a big fish in a small pond, and Armillo North was as small a pond as they came.

Things were changing, and facing change made Rentin’s guts roil. He shielded his dark eyes against the swirling grit, watching as the freighter touched down at last. The craft, he reflected, looked disappointingly nondescript considering it’s occupants. He didn’t know what he had expected one of the Emperor’s space marines to arrive in, but a common freighter wouldn’t have been his guess.
Rentin fought another wave of anxiety-induced nausea. He was about to meet an Astartes, and not just any Astartes, but one arriving to transact business on behalf of the Inquisition. His notice of his guest’s arrival arrived only this morning, with no preamble, almost no opportunity to prepare and absolutely no explanation.

Had he been lax in his duties? Captain Rentin doubted that he or any of his enforcers had behaved so negligently as to draw attention to Armillo North. Besides, the Holy fragging Inquisition surely wouldn’t waste their time with quality control of a prison under planetary jurisdiction on a half-forgotten world! They wouldn’t send a bloody Astartes.

Rentin glanced over his shoulder, making sure the honor guard he had assembled was in place. “Honor guard”. What a laughable word for his senior staff. Most of the men in charge of Armillo North were like him. They outwardly complained about the monotony of their lives, but inwardly Rentin knew they all enjoyed their exemption from conscription into the Guard. Everyone had heard about the major Archenemy offensive occurring light years away in the Cadia system. None of them relished the prospect of dying in that conflict.

They were no honor guard, but they effected the pose nonetheless. For once, Rentin had to make sure each of his senior staff were completely in uniform and conducting themselves professionally. He had thus far run a laid back command. So long as the prisoners were properly locked down each night and violent episodes were kept at a minimum, Rentin could care less.

The freighter’s engines cycled down, the whine drawing down to a growl and then to a low rumble. Rentin risked a quick burst of vox communication to his officers via his microbead.

“Don’t embarrass me, damn you all.” He cut the link without waiting for a reply, watching as the freighter's doors slid opened.

For a long moment, no one emerged from the darkness of the freighter’s interior. The engines died as power finally bled out of them, their noise replaced by the occasional whisper of the wasteland winds blowing outside the compound walls. After what felt to Rentin like an eternity, a massive figure emerged from the transport, moving far too quietly for someone his size.

It was the space marine, and he stood alone at the top of the ramp that extended down from the freighter’s exit hatch. He stood in a massive suit of baroque black power armor, his head enclosed by a helm that glared out at Rentin with glowing red lenses. The right shoulder guard was painted with the stylized “I” of the Inquisition chased in silver. The left was painted green, with the white icon of a winged sword painted on its gleaming surface. The warrior had a scabbarded weapon at his belt, its hilt a barbed black, and subtly disturbing to look at for too long a period. The astartes stood regarding them for a few moments, dust blowing away from the grille at the front of his helm as he breathed.

All things considered, it was the most impressive sight Rentin had ever seen.

He snapped what he hoped looked like a sharp salute, hoping his honor guard was following his example as he had coached them.

“Captain Ierius Rentin, acting warden of Armillo North Detention Facility, ready to serve my lord!” He called out, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The marine descended the ramp alone and unaccompanied, his gait that of an accomplished and fearless warrior.

“Captain Rentin,” The astartes spoke, his deep, resonant voice made impersonal and imposing by the vox amplification of his armor. “I am Jurek of the Dark Angels, seconded to the Death Watch, here on behalf of the Ordo Xenos. I greet you.”

Rentin lowered his salute.

“You’ll have to forgive me, my lord.” He began, his confidence waning. “I am at a disadvantage. I have not yet been briefed on the reason for your-“

“Prisoner #9-8k. That is why I am here.” The Dark Angel interrupted.

Rentin felt his face growing red. The astartes clearly expected him to know the prisoner referred to, but with no database to consult, the captain had no idea who the marine was talking about. His mouth opened once, twice, a stammering reply forming on his lips.

“He is imprisoned in your solitary ward." The Dark Angel stated. "He is charged with desertion, murdering two enforcers and conspiring to sell military secrets. Sentenced to death, recently stayed pending Inquisitorial interrogation, but your databases may not reflect that yet. He is a male, forty standard Terran years of athletic build. He is a former storm trooper, specializing in infiltration and intelligence, until deserting his regiment and living as a freelance mercenary here on Kerris. He has two horizontal scars on his torso and a tattoo on his right shoulder bearing the iconography of his former regiment.”

“Yes.” Rentin replied, dazzled. “Him.”

“He is in possession of intelligence vital to the retrieval of xenos contraband, and the Inquisition will be taking custody of him. You will lead me to Prisoner #9-8k and dispense of further formality.”

Ouch, Dark Angel. Great read. Hehe. Poor enforcers.

They called this room “the Cage”, and it sat overlooking the six wings that pushed outwards from the central hub the Cage sat atop, the very core of the prison complex. Banks of cogitators lined the hexagonal walls, positioned before armored glass windows offering a view of the lower hub. At each edge of the hexagonal hub, a massive steel door stood marked with a roman numeral, running I through VI.

Menials gaped in awe as Rentin led the Dark Angel into the Cage, the massive warrior regarding the stunned mortals with disinterest.

“As you were!” Rentin snapped, feeling increasingly embarrassed by every slight lapse of his staff. Sluggishly, as though in a dream, menials and enforcers turned back to their duties. “Apologies, lord. It is not every day that we get someone of your stature here.”

The Dark Angel nodded, saying nothing. Rentin’s senior staff still followed, seemingly unsure how or where to stand now that they had left the landing pad and marched to the central hub of Armillo North. Rentin felt himself growing embarrassed again by their awkward shuffles every time the group came to a halt.

He cleared his throat.

“This is the Cage. From here you can see our six wards, each containing five blocks of cells, each ward extending out structurally from the Cage. Wards I-III are reserved for nonviolent criminal offenders.” Rentin explained, gesturing to each of the doors below in turn. Ward IV is for politicals.”

“Politicals?” The Dark Angel asked.

“Erm, that is, those who have been jailed for violations of the Sedition and Terrorism Act. Ever since the renewed Archenemy offensive, the Lord Sector has decreed that all worlds of the Faustus Sector enact a body of law providing for mandatory life sentences for behavior that jeopardizes the Imperial war effort, or encourages seditious thought.”

“I see.” The Dark Angel answered.

“Kerris is no exception. You can tell the Inquisition that we brook no heresy on this world, lord!” Rentin tried to make his smile look natural, and his tone exuberant.

The Dark Angel looked impassively at him.

One of the honor guard sniggered.

Rentin cleared his throat again. “So that’s ward IV. Ward V is reserved for violent offenders. Most prisons would have the highest concentration of enforcers there, but not Armillo North. We keep most of our enforcers stationed in the non-violent wards, since they have a lower probability of being overrun. My thinking is the enforcers can take time to rally here at the Cage before responding to an incident in the other wards.” He looked at the Dark Angel, as though hoping for some sign of approval of his strategic decision. None seemed forthcoming. Captain Rentin pointed, his hand shaking. “Ward VI is reserved for the worst scum. They are classified not by the nature of their underlying crime, but by their inherently dangerous nature. Each prisoner in that ward is kept in solitary confinement on constant lockdown. #9-8k is there, my lord.”

“He has killed in his time here?” The Dark Angel asked.

“He has, lord. Four prisoners.” Rentin replied, consulting a data slate handed to him by an aide.

The Dark Angel nodded. “You can control the entry into each ward from this tower?”

Captain Rentin nodded. “We even have a master override here. If for whatever reason one ward falls to mass prisoner disobedience, we can engage a lethal gas system on a ward by ward basis from this room. Each ward has its own substation that controls individual cellblock mag-lock systems, and each ward has its own armory, the door of which can only be opened from here. This prevents prisoners from getting access to weapons.

Rentin watched the Dark Angel, hoping the layers of security were impressing the astartes. Impress an astartes? Rentin inwardly cursed his own stupid thought.

“Open the cells.” The Dark Angel commanded, waving his hand at the massive doors with the numerals on them.

Rentin laughed nervously. “I’m sorry lord, maybe I didn’t explain the process well. We don’t open individual cells from up here. Only the blast doors leading to each ward. I’ll open VI for you so we can proceed to your prisoner.”

“You explained the process fine.” The Dark Angel answered. “Open all of the blast doors.”

Rentin stared at the astartes, and then darted a glance to his senior staff. They look as puzzled as him.

“Um, lord I-“

“Unless you plan to punish me under the Sedition and Terrorism Act? I have, after all, been fighting the forces of the Emperor for thousands of years before you were born.” The Dark Angel answered, pulling the black-hilted sword from his scabbard. The sword that emerged pulsed in a way that no metal should, as though it was organic. As he looked at it, Rentin fancied he could hear the voice of Kayla, a junior recruit he fancied, in his head. She said such filthy words, words a girl like her would never say.

Purple tendrils emerged from the hilt of the weapon, slithering like snakes to the space marine’s gauntlet and pushing into his hand. The Dark Angel shuddered as the tendrils penetrated his armor and pushed into his flesh, and Rentin swore he could hear the sword squeal with pleasure.

“What-“ was all Rentin managed to say before the astartes skewered him with the weapon, the daemon blade stealing the life from his body in one moment of blinding pain. Rentin flopped to the floor as the cursed weapon withdrew, dead with his mouth agape.

The enforcers of the honor guard drew their shotguns, but the astartes was incredibly fast. The daemon blade chopped down and bisected the nearest enforcer from shoulder to groin. Blood arced through the air as the return stroke of the sword decapitated a second enforcer, his body and weapon tumbling to the floor.

A shotgun blast echoed in the Cage, but it was not directed at the astartes. One of the enforcers, a sergeant from the honor guard, brought his weapon up and shot one of his fellows in the back of the head. He racked the weapon, ejecting a spent shell as he turned and blasted another of his shocked comrades.

Menials screamed and began to flee in terror, but the massive astartes moved in front of the door, blocking the exit. A dozen or so people, including two surviving enforcers, cowered on the ground, covering their faces in a show of submission.

No one had raised the alarm.

“I would prefer,” the astartes began, flicking the dribbling blood from his daemon weapon to the floor. “To keep the rest of you alive. You may be of use. But if you do not stop whimpering, I will kill everyone in this room. Hush.”

The screams died down to pitiful moans.

The astartes turned his head to the sergeant, who stood in his enforcer uniform, the shotgun he had killed his allies with still smoking in his hands.

“Hydra Dominatus, my Lord Durmanhoth.” The traitor said. He was a man the enforcers had called Weylan. His real name was Balchus. He was smiling. Years of deception were over.

“Hydra Dominatus, operative,” replied Durmanhoth of the Alpha Legion.

O.o Alpha Legion! Now this I can see myself enjoying! Keep the heresy flowing brother

Daaaaaaaaamn, this is well written. You have an amazing prose and I'm eager to read more! Those poor Guardsmen.

Newly sworn enforcer Silas Volk yawned, watching the steaming caffeine flow from the beaker into his mug. He couldn’t believe his shift was beginning again already. He felt as though he had barely closed his eyes ten minutes before the shift rotation bell chimed. He couldn’t wait until for his first rotation back to civilization, away from Armillo North. He was already beginning to regret his career choice.

Silas slurped down the first hot gulp of the caffeine, and turned to his fellow enforcers in the ready room of Ward II. Calling it the “ready room” was a joke. None of the follow-up shift was ready for duty yet. Men sat around scratching, yawning, buttoning on their flak vests or else bantering back and forth. Silas’s eyes found Haller, the only man he really considered a friend amongst the enforcers here.

“Could use a hit of amasec in this.” Silas quipped, giving his mug a slight shake as he took a seat alongside Haller. Chairs were arranged in eight rows of five, facing a lectern in the center where the shift commander would be delivering the evening briefing shortly.

“Wouldn’t do much to wake you up.” Haller grunted, barely awake himself. His face bore more stubble than was regulation. He was certain to get an ass chewing for neglecting to shave.

“Would warm me a bit though.” Silas said. “Throne, it’s cold in here. Old Rentin has no clue how to keep temperatures steady in this hole. Always burning hot or freezing bloody cold.”

“Take comfort in the captain’s pain,” Haller said. “I hear some top brass is coming in today. If it’s an inspection, there’s no way Captain Rentin will pass muster.”

“Haller, you idiot.” Silas snorted. “For someone who’s two months my senior here, you really don’t understand what that means for us? If Rentin blows an inspection, gak will roll downhill. It always does.” He sipped the caffeine again. “He’ll be humiliated, but then he’ll overcompensate. That stubble on your face? Crap like that won’t fly anymore.”

Haller frowned, considering this. Throne, he was dense. He opened his mouth to reply.

A shrill klaxon blared over the voxcasters lining the wall, startling the enforcers in the ready room and eliciting yelps of surprise. It was a pulsing, harsh noise, punctuated by an oddly calm, modulated female voice.

“BE ADVISED.” The voice on the vox caster said. “PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN THREE MINUTES. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

A groan of fear went up from the enforcers, several men starting to their feet.

“What the hell?” Silas stammered, spilling his caffeine as he rose to his feet. “The failsafe? The bloody gas they release when the ward is lost? Why the hell is it being deployed now?!”

Haller didn’t answer, his eyes bugging out as he watched the panicking enforcers around him with mute shock.

The alert blared again.

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN TWO MINUTES, THIRTY SECONDS. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

The voxbeads of all enforcers in the entire ward activated as one. It was their shift commander, broadcasting to all of his subordinates.

“It’s unclear why the alert has been raised,” sergeant Pulson’s voice crackled over the link, his confusion and alarm thinly masked by his official manner. “The Cage isn’t responding. All enforcers across the ward, head for the blast doors. Go!”

The men started up, fighting panic as they poured from the ready room into the main corridor leading back to the Cage. Silas was jostled in behind Haller as the group of enforcers moved as one. Their urge to panic remained restrained just beneath the surface as they moved, urging one another on impatiently. They met other knots of enforcers, moving from their various duty stations or billets and spilling into the hallway to become a single herd.

They moved past a cellblock.

Prisoners on lockdown screamed at them in fear and confusion as the enforcers sidled past. They implored for release, for explanation, grasping desperately as the enforcers passed them.

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN TWO MINUTES. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

Halfway through the cellblock, and Silas had to shield his face as the prisoners began throwing debris and rolls of toilet paper at them as they passed, disorder breaking out as inmates began to fight one another in their angst. The noise was deafening. Silas tried to tune it all out and focus on the traffic on his voxbead.

“Anyone heard from the Cage? There’s no-“

“-channels are blocked! Stay off the vox!”

“I and III are having the same alert! Maybe it’s just a malfunction!”

The noise of the block died away as the enforcers rounded a corner, and the blast doors leading to the Cage came into view. The massive red-painted adamantium loomed at the end of the hallway, a white “II” stenciled on its face.

The door remained closed.

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN ONE MINUTE. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

“Why isn’t it opening for us?!” Haller yelled to Silas over the clamor. “There’s no riot going on! We have the ward!”

Silas felt himself running faster as the door neared, his eyes fixed on the numerals, mentally imagining the door swinging opened on it’s colossal hinges.

Open, damn it. OPEN.

His heart sank as he saw sergeant Pulsen standing before the door, pounding frantically on its surface. If his shift commander couldn’t get the Cage to cancel the alert, or open the door…

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN THIRTY SECONDS. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

Enforcers were screaming now, panic overwhelming them as they arrived at the sealed door. Fists banged against it. Men cried out. Silas lost track of Haller somewhere in the surging crowd. Against all reason, he switched his voxbead to the command frequency, hearing a confused garble of cries and screams from enforcers in several wards, not just II.

Knowing it would do no good with the jam of vox traffic, Silas screamed into the link.

“Open the damned door! Captain! Open the door please!”

*****************


Almost a minute later, Durmanhoth watched quietly on a dozen monitors as the enforcers and prisoners of wards I, II and III died screaming themselves hoarse.

How illogical, he thought. Screaming like that. They should conserve their oxygen. They are taking large, panicked breaths and drawing the toxic gas into their systems with greater rapidity.

Mortals could be so foolish.

Tired of watching the enforcers die, the Alpha Legionnaire turned back to his operative. Balchus was also watching the monitors, the shotgun in his hands lording over the dozen or so prisoners they had face down on the floor of the Cage.

“Two-thirds of the garrison were in these wards, correct?” Durmanhoth asked Balchus, his red eye lenses regarding his operative without emotion. The traitor marine still held the daemon weapon in his gauntleted fist, the tendrils pouring waves of sensation up his arm. “Two hundred, give or take?”

“Yes, lord.” Balchus answered, his brow furrowing. “The enforcers in the other wards will now know of the fate of their colleagues. If I may be so bold, could we not have used the prisoners in these wards?”

Durmanhoth shrugged. “Nonviolent offenders. I need men with blood on their hands. Still, they are incidental to prisoner #9-8k.” The astartes glanced down at the blinking red light on the console before him. Above the light, Rentin’s looted key had been inserted in a keyhole and turned, enabling Durmanhoth to trigger the sarin gas failsafe. To get to his target and extract him, he would need a solid core of willing men to help him kill the remaining enforcers. He had just evened the odds considerably.

“I am moving on the remaining wards.” Durmanhoth told his operative. “Unlock blast doors and the armories within their corresponding wards only as I come to them. Let’s arm the malcontents.”

Ouch, this fluff is DARK, and very good. I must say that.

Holy shazbot, this is great. And very dark. I'm guessing that the Alpha Legionnaire is recruiting new Astartes since they want violent guys.

Chapter Two: The Prisoner

“Ours is not glory. We shall never be recognized in our father’s sight, because our method of warfare is considered cowardly by those who are quick to judge. Let them judge. Rejoice when you are underestimated, my sons, for ours is not glory. Ours is victory, sudden and unexpected.”

-Attributed to Alpharius, Primarch of the XX Legion

“Thank the Emperor!” the enforcer said, grinning and gesturing as the blast door opened. “I thought the Cage would never respond!”

Durmanhoth held his boltgun at his side as the massive door to Ward V ground opened. He stood immobile as he watched a pair of enforcers cheer as he came into view. One of them, a sergeant by the chevrons on his uniform, touched his voxbead. No doubt he was voxing the others in the ward, telling them the doors were now opened.

“Throne! A space marine!” The junior enforcer exclaimed, his eyes wide as he scanned the astartes before him.

“The prison complex is under attack from without.” Durmanhoth spoke, his voice augmented by his vox grille. “The enemy is hereto for unknown. I am Brother Jurek, here on behalf of the Inquisition. How many enforcers in this ward?”

“Fifty, Lord Jurek.” The sergeant answered. He shot his subordinate a look that said ‘shut up, idiot.’ Even so, he himself look stunned to see an astartes. “Though almost all of them are occupied keeping the inmates in line.”

“They are not all in their cells?” Durmanhoth asked.

“A large number of them were in the mess hall when they caught wind something was wrong. Several enforcers were talking about what was happening in the other wards, near as I can guess. Those prisoners seized the moment. There’s a riot going on in the mess hall right now, contained but persistent.” The sergeant’s sighed, shaking his head. “Throne, there really was a release of the gas in the other wards? Why? Has the Cage fallen to the enemy?”

“Yes.” Durmanhoth answered, bringing his boltgun up. The weapon barked, the muzzle flash exploding almost in time with the sergeant’s chest. The mass reactive round blew out the man’s torso, sending his dead body toppling over backwards. His subordinate startled, but had little time to do much else. The bolter fired again, exploding his head like a melon.

The Alpha Legionnaire moved on.

******************

Prisoner # 9-8k knew something was different. He could tell by the demeanor of the guards that patrolled outside his solitary cell. As dark as it was within, he saw much. They were panicked. Something was happening, and it was something they didn’t understand.

He sat still. What else was there to do? He rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the greasy beard that had grown in his unhygienic condition. How long had it been since they let him out for exercise? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t even keep track of time. To hell with them. Whatever was happening to the enforcers out there, he hoped it was bad. He hoped it was the worst riot ever seen at Armillo North, and he hoped enforcers were being killed wholesale.

Prisoner #9-8k ran his hands over his forearms. This was his ritual. He could see nothing in his cell, the pitch black enveloping him completely. Rubbing his own arms reminded him that he was still here. He knelt, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, running his hands along his forearms.

Just open my cell, he thought. Just give me that one chance, you bastards. Let me eat a shotgun blast to the face, so long as I get to vent my anger in one good blow to the face. Any sensation, even death, was preferable to this constant darkness. Surely even death was not as dark as this.

Prisoner #9-8k rubbed his arms, and listened.

***********

Durmanhoth stood on the substation of Ward V, regarding the half dozen obliterated corpses around him. Smoke drifted in a lazy serpentine dance from the muzzle of his bolter. These men had died like the rest: surprised, attacked by a supposed ally. In awe of a legendary figure in one moment, blown to pieces by bolter fire the next. He knew this couldn’t last. Soon the enemy would know that a murderer in power armor was stalking the jail, shooting enforcers in the back even as he barked words of encouragement.

Soon the enforcers might, en masse, become dangerous.

Durmanhoth turned his helmeted head to the control console before him. A dizzying array of buttons and dials lay before him, spattered in blood, the blowback from his latest killing spree. He opened a channel to his Balchus.

“Hydra Two, One. I’m at the substation. It won’t be long until this place is crawling with enforcers, and I don’t have time to play trial and error. Which switch releases the maglocks on the cells?”

“Hydra One, Two. At the top left of the console is three levers, running left to right. Each is the maglock for a cellblock. Throwing all three will release all prisoners in a given ward.” Balchus replied over the link.

“Acknowledged.” Durmanhoth answered. Without wasting time, his massive armored hand flipped all three levers over. He could not see the blocks from here, but he knew that all over the ward, prisoners were finding their cells unexpectedly opened. “Open the armory doors Hydra Two.”

A moment’s pause. “Done, Hydra One.”

Durmanhoth smiled beneath his helm, a second thought occurring to him.

“Hydra Two, patch my vox channel into the public address system for this ward. Full volume.”

Another pause. “Done, lord. You are live.”

“Prisoners of Armillo North,” Durmanhoth spoke, his voice reverberating around him over speakers throughout the ward. “You have suffered long under the yoke of imperial regulation. I have come to lift that burden from your backs. Your doors are opened. Your freedom lies before you. Strike out and kill those who have dominated you. Batter them with your hands, kick them, bite them, choke the life out of them. Those of you intrepid enough to reach the armory will find those doors also opened to you. You are free men, and you, as always, make your own rules. Death to the False Emperor. Ave Chaotica.”

Durmanhoth shut down the link. He was taciturn, devoid of emotion as he went about his work. He couldn’t know that throughout the cellblocks of Ward V prisoners had taken up his chant. Men who didn’t know the meaning of the words they spoke, spoke them nonetheless. They were the words of salvation.

Ave Chaotica. Ave Chaotica. Ave Chaotica.

These words were screamed from vengeful mouths as the wrath of Armillo North’s inmates spilled out.

By Khorne! This is good morning reading! Do keep it comming!

This story is amazing. I just love it. I mean, the writing style is perfect and it really catches the reader and stuff. Also, I like that how the Legionnaire is portrayed as extremely powerful, but not invincible. Too many Space Marine stories make it seem like the only thing that can kill a Marine is another Marine or something.

“They’re making another go for it!” Sergeant Fulbra screamed, directing his squad to stand to. He could hear another group of inmates moving down the corridor, the slap of bare feet somehow audible alongside the staccato of bashing noises. Makeshift clubs, bits of pipe and stolen batons were bashed against the wall as the oncoming herd pushed towards the armory. Fulbra couldn’t see them yet, but he knew this particular attack would be bigger than all the rest.

So far his twelve man squad had taken no casualties. Taking up position behind overturned weapon racks and benches, his men had filled the space beyond the armory door with lasbolts and shotgun slugs. The piles of dead inmates scattered about the entryway were testament to that.

Blood. Throne there was so much of it. The heaps of enemy dead lay like islands in an ocean of gore. Smoking gunshot wounds and cauterized craters made by lasbolts filled the armory with the smell of cooked flesh. Fulbra and his squad had survived thanks to superior weapons and ideal positioning. Still, they had no idea what was happening at Armillo North.

The Cage was not responding, the substation here in Ward V had presumably fallen, as every single prisoner was now loose and on a rampage. Also, there had been the voice. That inhumanly deep, malignant voice that had come over the public address hinted at whoever was responsible for this attack. It had shaken Fulbra and his men, but still they held on.

They had near limitless ammo, an inability to surrender, and the God-Emperor on their side.

But now, this new mob he could hear pounding down the corridor gave him pause. It sounded like dozens of inmates. They sounded organized, or as organized as a ragtag group of killers and sadists could be.

“Check your mags! Las weapons to maximum yield! When you run out, don’t pause to reload! Switch to your sidearm and keep firing!” Fulbra barked aloud. He was no longer using the vox to issue orders. The temptation had been too great to check the command channels, which were jammed solid with morale-damaging chatter.

The first of the enemy rounded the corner, three men in prison jumpsuits pushing their way inside the armory doors. Lasguns cracked and flashed, beams of red light lancing the trio down before they took their second step towards the enforcers. More followed quickly behind, moving like an annihilating flood of limbs and crude weapons. They screamed obscenities, their eyes wild.

Fulbra’s shotgun banged, pitching the nearest man from his feet at ten yards. He racked the shotgun, turning the barrel and firing again without attempting to aim. The press of enemy bodies was so tight he couldn’t possibly miss. The inmates leapt over the mounds of their own dead, some men slipping in the accumulated blood on the floor to be trampled by their fellows. Fulbra’s ears rang as the shotgun blasted the enemy again and again, starbursts of blood appearing wherever his slugs impacted.

Click.

Fulbra dropped his spent shotgun, gritting his teeth and drawing a pair of laspistols. He was untrained in the use of an off-hand pistol, but he fired both anyway, daring the enemy to keep coming. Vicker was at his side, his lasgun firing at full auto, his leg posted up on an overturned piece of furniture like a commissar in some propaganda poster.

The enemy herd was thinning, their numbers of dead amassing so thick that the floor was becoming an obstacle field. Fulbra continued firing the laspitols in succession, killing and maiming with every shot.

He saw the inmate with the shotgun a moment too late.

“Shooter!” He called out, turning the pistols on the prisoner. Too late. The prisoner fired his weapon as he bounded forward, the recoil staggering him. Vicker’s chest blew out as the slug hit him, pitching him back over the furniture in a tumble.

Fulbra fired again, his first shot catching the shooter in the cheek, spinning the man around. The second shot hit him in the side, and the shooter fell beneath the advancing rush of inmates. He couldn’t risk a glance over his shoulder to see if Vicker was alright. He knew he wouldn’t be. Those slugs go clean through flak armor.

Previously, when the attacking waves of inmates sustained this many casualties they lost their will to fight. Now they just kept coming. Anders, a man taking up position twenty feet to Fulbra’s left, made the mistake of punching out at a closing inmate as his shotgun ran dry. The prisoner ducked the blow, and a trio of the enemy grabbed his arm, dragging him out of cover and into their midst. The brutes kicked, punched and stomped Anders until he stopped moving.

After a moment, Fulbra understood why they didn’t break.

“Not one step backwards!” A voice boomed from behind the surging crowd. Fulbra’s stomach lurched. It was the same powerful voice he had heard over the public address. “At them! There are but a few left!”

Fulbra squinted, shooting the two inmates closest to him and trying to focus on the massive shadowy shape lurking at the back of the crowd. Whoever it was, he was big. Inhumanly big.

A blow caught Fulbra from an unexpected quarter. His attention had lapsed, and his jaw rang as his head snapped back. He tried to take a step back, regain his footing, but his heel caught the edge of an overturned table. Fulbra tumbled over backward, holding onto his laspistols as tightly as he could.

Prisoners stampeded over him, forcing the hole in the line of enforcers wider. Fulbra heard curses and felt the angry kick of bare feet all over his body. The world became a confused tumble of yelling, white jumpsuits, dirty, snarling faces and points of pain. He fired off only two more shots of his pistols before the charge on the first one went dry, his second one being kicked from his hand. Fulbra curled into a ball and screamed.

He didn’t feel the slab of rockcrete that smashed his head in, killing him.

**************************************

Durmanhoth watched as the inmates whooped and cheered, snatching stockpiled lascarbines, shotguns and sidearms from those weapon racks that were still standing at the back of the armory. Some of the prisoners were cheering at him, slapping his shoulder pauldrons, still fraudulently painted with the livery of the Deathwatch, and the Dark Angels.

He himself felt nothing.

It was the sword’s fault. He touched the daemon weapon at his hip without realizing it as he watched the looters take their due. Heartrender. That was the name of the accursed weapon, and it was one of the hundreds of names of the entity bound within. She sang to him, demanding his attention like a petulant granddaughter. When he was not wielding her, he felt absolutely nothing. No thrill, no burst of adrenaline, no emotion. If Durmanhoth was not killing with Heartrender, the kills, and the victory, meant nothing to him.

The sword had been gifted to the Alpha Legionnaire two standard years prior by one of the most powerful warlords in the Word Bearers Legion. Erebus, that inscrutable bastard, had been the shadowy client in a mission that had taken him across the length of the Maelstrom, and made him a mortal enemy of the Red Corsairs. Heartrender had been given to him as thanks for completion of the mission, along with a captured Imperial frigate and it’s rebel crew.

Still, the sword had been as much a curse as a boon. Bound with the essence of a daemon of the pleasure god, it made Durmanhoth faster, more agile, and worked to distract his enemies during close quarters engagements. It could enchant men, make them see and hear things that were not there. It’s siren song made Durmanhoth, an already accomplished swordsman, exponentially more deadly.

It also compromised his values.

As a veteran of the Long War, Durmanhoth was no stranger to the predations of the warp. During the retreat from Terra, he had been forced to understand and even embrace the darker corners of Horus’s rebellion. Chaos was a primal force, but Durmanhoth was not a slave to it. He believed it was a weapon to be mastered, and used to increase the chances of the success of any given operation. However, he had always endeavored to walk that path carefully. He had no desire to mutate uncontrollably like Erebus’s lackeys. He accepted Heartrender as a symbol of man’s embrace of Chaos, and yet it’s complete mastery of it.

Heartrender, however, had other ideas. As he used it, the daemon slowly worked her magic over him. It honed in on his immense pride in a well laid plan, and denied him that pleasure so long as she remained in her scabbard. Durmanhoth would be lying if he claimed he didn’t miss the sensations of war, victory, and killing. But he knew to expose himself to the sword too much was to lose himself to it, much like some of the blathering, insane denizens of the Eye of Terror.

Spite. Spite was his greatest weapon.

“I control you. This is all in my control.” He whispered to Heartrender, removing his hand from the sword.

I can only say how good this story is in so many different ways. I might have to get a thesaurus. Also, I really like the part about Heartrender. It definitely gives Durmanhoth more depth.

Thanks everyone for your feedback so far! It's been a motivator for me to keep writing. I look forward to getting into your stories as well as school lightens up.

Chapter 3: The Rampant

"You and I, we may look the same,
But we are very far apart.
There's bullet holes where my compassion used to be,
And there is violence in my heart.
Into fire you can send us,
From the fire we return.
You can label us a consequence,
Of how much you have to learn."

Balchus stood pacing in front of the dizzying array of security monitors in the Cage, his shotgun cocked across his shoulder. His eyes roamed the high resolution screens, seeing scenes of death and carnage everywhere he looked. In most wards, prisoners and guards lay dead from the gas released by Durmanhoth, but in others his master was coordinating the otherwise aimless prisoners towards the armories. Muzzle flashes were now added the to panoply of sights unfolding on the screens, as pockets of outnumbered enforcers were cut off and systematically eliminated. Balchus could now see that his master was nearly upon the isolation ward, and the location of prisoner #9-8k.

He didn't know the prisoner's identity, or how he fit into the master's plans. He didn't even know the master's long term plan, but none of that mattered to him. In his time to the service of the Alpha Legion, he had learned that information was compartmentalized and jealously guarded. It was the only way the the Legion could operate for so long without support, embedded deep in Imperial space.

Balchus chewed his lip, and remembered with contempt his days before Durmanhoth had found him - a time when he in fact had been hunting Durmanhoth as part of Inquisitor Depril's task force. It bothered him to think on those days, those days when he had been willingly blinded by Imperial dogma, raised to be an intelligence agent for an Emperor that he would never see, and never be recognized by. Balchus had been the inquisitor's chief field agent, and over the course of ten years he had helped the inquisitor piece together the details of dozens of seemingly unrelated acts of terrorism and sabotage throughout the Faustus sector. The inquisitor had determined, through the work done by Balchus and his teams, that these acts had all been perpetrated by an individual designated by the Ordo Hereticus as Subject Forty-One. Only Balchus, and the upper echelons of Inquisitor Depril's retinue were privy to the knowledge that Subject Forty-One was in fact a member of the Ex Communicate Traitoris XX Legion, the Alpha Legion. The Ordo had been trying to exterminate the Alpha Legion for centuries, and officially, the Inquisition had declared them to be extinct. Unofficially, the Ordo Hereticus had within it's ranks a secret faction dedicated to wiping out the remaining Alpha Legionnaires operating throughout the galaxy. Inquisitor Depril was part of this faction.

Balchus had come to meet Durmanhoth during the investigation of a chemical weapons plant explosion thought to be carried out, or organized, by Subject Forty-One. Balchus had infiltrated one of Durmanhoth's cells after some lengthy field work, and when his cover was blown he had been abducted by the cell members and taken to Durmanhoth, rather than simply killed. He remembered that day, when the giant in blue-green armor had regarded him in the depths of a disused sewer.

"Tell me why you hunt me." he had simply stated.

"Because you are a traitor to the Imperium." Balchus had defiantly replied, on his knees with his wrists bound.

"True, but that is why the Imperium hunts me. Why do you?" His voice was quizzical, genuine. There was no mockery.

"It is my duty." He had answered.

"Did you join the Inquisition by choice, or were you drafted for some particular skill?" The giant asked again, his dark eyes gleaming through the grit on his face. "I only ask because if I decide that you should die, you will die right here, on your knees in a filthy sewer. You will not be remembered. I imagine that, like most, you were given little choice in your assignment to the Inquisition. You hunt me because you are told to, and here I am. Had you managed to somehow kill me, your contribution to your cause would go unnoticed, and only your master would reap the reward."

"Are you trying to sway me?" Balchus had spat.

"I am trying to show you the collar around your neck. Once you see it, your anger will sway you."

Balchus blinked at the memory. Durmanhoth had been right. Over a course of weeks he had been kept as a prisoner in those sewers, watched over by a handful of human cell members. From time to time the Alpha Legionnaire would engage him in conversation, and though he had tried to resist it, Balchus slowly felt the stirrings of resentment building in him. Durmanhoth had indeed shown him the truth. He had been wearing a collar.

He knew in his heart he had only been spared because he was useful to his new master. A man who had been hunting him would be a great asset to Durmanhoth to eluding the Imperium, and could give valuable insight into the workings of the Inquisition. None of that mattered, because for everything Durmanhoth was, he was honest. He didn't ask Balchus to betray the Imperium out of any duty to the Alpha Legion, or Chaos, or anything else. He simply gave Balchus the chance to vent his anger, and to turn his skills and training on the ungrateful masters who had made him.

Balchus knew that Durmanhoth had dozens of other cells and operatives at work throughout the Faustus sector. Some of them disrupted industry, others stole technology, while still others infiltrated positions of power and trust in the Imperium. How the Alpha Legionnaire coordinated it all was unknown to Balchus, but it was masterful. It was what the Alpha Legion did best. Whatever Durmanhoth's long term goal was, for whatever reason he needed Prisoner #9-8k, it was bound to be important.

************

Prisoner #9-8k startled as the metal of his solitary cell door squealed as it was pulled from the other side against the lock with incredible force. It was pulled again, and then once more. The sound of tortured steel cut above even the roar of the rampaging prisoners that had poured into the hallways of his normally silent ward. And then, the door fell away.
He squinted as light flooded into his cell. He blinked, crouching and shielding his eyes as he tried to focus on the one who had, impossibly, torn the door from it's hinges.
The figure's silhouette was incredibly large, dwarfing the tide of bodies that pushed and shoved past behind him. He could make out the bulk of powered armor, and as his eyes adjusted he could see the glow of red eye lenses regarding him impassively.
Was that - a space marine?
A voice boomed from the helmet, amplified above the roar of gunshots and shouting prisoners.
"Prisoner #9-8k, Kylone Vex." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes." He said anyway, not having heard his name in years.
"I am Alpharius. I have come to take the collar from around your neck."

I am outraged that no one has yet commented on this new Chapter (well, now that I've stumbled onto it, I have). If I were you I would advertise the link to this fic in the top of your signature and maybe have it in capslock or something. That seems to get attention. Ahem, now back to commenting on the entry.

It's great that you've started to flesh out Balchus, he's already shaping up to be an interesting character. Also, I love the ending sentence of this entry. My vocabulary is failing me, so I can't describe why it's awesome, but nevertheless it's very awesome.

Keep up the amazing writing!

Inquisitor Depril pushed his spectacles back atop his nose, squinting through the dim lighting of the now-scoured Armillo North facility. Blood stains were everywhere, along the walls and dappled across the concrete floors, testament to the Hell the prison facility had been subjected to. It had been brutally attacked weeks ago, and since that time every prisoner that had been incarcerated there had been shot. It had taken a half company of PDF almost two days to fully dislodge the inmates and secure the location. The soldiers had been unable to ascertain the cause of the catastrophic revolt that had left almost the entire initial enforcer garrison dead.

The Ordo Hereticus had arrived weeks later.

Inquisitor Depril was an exceptionally old man, his wiry frame unarmored and unarmed, save for the antique laspistol at his belt. He was not a man who believed in getting personally involved with the enemy. He was strategic, but he was not tactical. A long, leather greatcoat covered a regal-looking collared tunic and matching breeches. His Inquistorial rosette was worn proudly around his neck.

Although the Inquisitor himself did not present an abject threat, his retinue more than made up for his own simple attire. Walking at his side as he moved through the now-defunct prison complex was Sister Autoria, an Adepta Sororitas of the Order of the Hallowed Earth. Her dark grey power armor hissed with power as she moved, her hair blonde and close-cropped.

At the Inquisitor's other side strode Marius Wrent, his arms as thick as layered cables. Wrent was a blood money mercenary, now seconded to the Inquisition. A dizzying array of knives and sidearms adorned his belt, a long-las slung across his back. He wore carapace armor across the chest, his arms bare from the shoulder down, revealing an impressive catalogue of old burns and scars.

Finally, walking a respectful distance behind was Solomon, the taciturn, brooding Callidus assassin. The form Solomon took at this moment was of that of a short Administratum clerk, the pudgy arms of his assumed form belying the true deadly nature that lurked beneath.

At last, Depril arrived the Armillo North's chow hall, located in what had been Ward III. In the days since, he had refitted the place as an interrogation room. It's wide space was now almost competely devoid of furniture, save a single long cafeteria table still positioned in the center of the room. Straps hung at opposite ends of the table. Hanging over it was the imposing figure of a deactivated torture servitor, it's shoulder's hunched and it's mouth slack.

At one side of the table were a pair of chairs, closely situated and facing one another. In one chair a woman sat, blindfolded and sobbing, but otherwise unbound. A helmeted PDF trooper stood motionless at her side, his lasgun held at ease. She wore a dirty, blood-stained pair of enforcer fatigues, her hair unkempt and wild. Her head darted from his to side as she heard the footsteps of the inquisitor and his entourage enter,

Without a word, Inquisitor Depril's retinue spread out, standing at various points along the walls. Depril himself walked slowly towards the pair of chairs, and nodded to the PDF trooper.

"You may leave for now." He said. Without a word, the trooper saluted and left the improvised interrogation room through a set of wide double doors in the back.

Inquisitor Depril sat in the chair opposite the crying woman, leaning slightly forward and addressing her politely.

"You may take that off, now."

Hands shaking, her breathing quick and panicked, the woman reacted. Her hands slowly moved up and slid the bllindfold away, as though expecting to be punished at any moment for removing it. The inquisitor did nothing, only smiling at her as her squinting eyes came into view.

"Anja Prewiit," Sister Autoria announced, consulting a dataslate in her gauntleted hands.

"That's you, isn't it my dear?" Depril asked, his voice like a kindly grandfather.

"Yes." She rasped, her eyes moving to the members of the retinue along the walls.

"Look at me, please." Depril said, smiling slightly again. Her eyes returned to his. "Thank you. I am Inquisitor Depril, and I want to have a nice conversation. Do you want to have a nice conversation?"

"Yes." Anja answered, her voice quavering.

"Good. Because if the conversation turns ugly, it will take place over there." Depril pointed deliberately at the cafeteria table, and the servitor hunched over it. "And for it to be a nice conversation, there must be truth between us. Will you tell me the truth?"

"Yes." Anja answered.

"Good. What happened here?"

"I - I'm not exactly sure. It happened so fast! There was an attack-"

"I'm sorry," Depril interrupted, adjusting his spectacles and smiling apologetically. "I should have been more specific. I know this place was attacked. I want you to tell me who did it."

"He -" Anja started, and then wrinkled her face. "He was big. My lord, he looked to be an astartes! He looked like the mosaics in the basillicas"

"Go on." Depril nodded, seeming nonplussed.

"How can that be? An astartes attacking the Emperor's servants?"

"I should add," Depril interjected, "that critical thought and questions will also turn this conversation into a bad one. Answer only, please. How did his armor appear?"

"It was black, he had a winged sword on one shoulder pad," Anja hesitated. "The symbol of the Inquisition of the other."

"An imposter, my dear, not one of us. Was he alone?"

"No. He had an accomplice, someone on the inside, an enforcer. Weylan, but I don't know if that's his real name."

"And Weylan turned on you and aided this imposter?"

"Yes."

The inquisitor nodded, gesturing for Anja to keep talking.

"They talked about freeing a prisoner, that seemed to be why they were here."

Depril nodded again. "I am aware of this part of the story." He had interviewed the other three survivors. "Did he say anything else, anything unusual?"

Anja scrunched up her face. "Something in high gothic. The imposter, he said it to Weylan. Hydra Dominatus"

The Inquisitor nodded, as though this confirmed some secret suspicion he had. "And why were you spared, my dear? How did you survive?"

Anja hesitated. "He, that is the astartes, wanted me to tell whoever found us that they were too slow. Too slow as always."

The inquisitor's face darkened a moment, but resumed it's placid calm quickly. He gave a brief nod to Marius Wrent, who left his spot at the wall and slowly moved around behind Anja.

"Thank you my dear. Fix your eyes upon mine, please." The inquisitor said, smiling and rubbing a hand along the woman's cheek. She looked him in the eye gratefully. "You have been through a lot. Common Imperial citizens cannot be forced to live with the knowledge that even the great astartes can fall. I am sorry to end things this way."

Wrent's hands clamped down on Anja's throat from behind, his long fingers squeezing with incredible force. Anja's eyes bulged, and she began kicking and struggling. Inquisitor Depril stood without giving her a backward glance, turning to the other members of his retinue.

"The same story with each survivor, we're going to have to look elsewhere to find our prey." He said, raising his voice to be heard above Anja's spluttering and struggles. "We are leaving."

@Lonelictor It is awesome for the same reason your stories are awesome! It has depth on the characters, and a compelling writing so you have to , no, you need to know what is going to happen afterwards!

The sword-class frigate Dynasty drifted lazily through realspace, as it had been doing for weeks now. No warp jump had been made following the attack on the prison complex. No warp jump would be made for weeks yet. Those that hunted the Dynasty and those aboard would be looking for the signature of a warp translation. Such things were traceable.

The Alpha Legion left no trace.

Durmanhoth stood in silence, regarding his collection within his own private sanctum aboard the hip. His quarters were spartan, consisting of a number of workbenches and a single, albeit massive, cot in the corner. Across each workbench were strewn stacks of dataslates and papers. Each of these contained meticulous plans for future and ongoing operations, all of which were written in a code language that only Durmanhoth could decipher.

The wall holding his collection was the first thing any visitor would notice, if the Alpha Legionnaire ever allowed a visitor to enter. Along the wall were over a dozen astartes shoulder pads from as many Chapters. Some of these were from loyalists, others bore the symbols of renegade factions. He took a step forward, placing shoulder pads belonging to both the Deathwatch and the Dark Angels into blank slots in the bulkhead. The rest of the armor, still clad against his body, could be repainted as he saw fit using the extensive array of military-grade paint that sat atop one workbench.

The Alpha Legionnaire began to remove the rest of his armor, regarding the other shoulder pads as he did so. He had not only collected these pieces of armor for use in impersonating others, but each of these pieces represented an enemy he had personally slain. Each one told a story.

The Lamenters.

The Raven Guard.

The Dark Angels.

The Death Watch.

The Marines Malevolent.

He removed his gauntlet, placing them reverently on the armor rack before him. He grimaced as his hands ran over the never-closing wounds caused by Heartrender each time he drew the cursed blade. That blade. If it weren't for Heartrender, he might still feel pride in his collection.

The Sons of Guilliman.

The Purple Stars.

The Red Corsairs.

The Silver Skulls.

The Extinction Angels.

The greaves and his chestplate came away last, and Durmanhoth made a conscious effort not to look down at his exposed body. In areas the black carapace was pocked with ugly stains of mutation and corruption, the unavoidable consequences of his life of rebellion. He replaced these pieces of armor on the rack beside his helm and gauntlets, and covered his muscled frame with a plain black robe. He pulled the cowl up over his bald head.

Durmanhoth had long since stopped considering what his own face looked like. His natural face had long-since been altered before the days of the heresy, changed with complex surgeries to more closely mimic the twin primarchs. Since those days it had been altered again and again, each time after an operation or whenever the Alpha Legionnaire could find someone with the requisite level of skill. He had never worn the same face for long. As he ran his fingers over the tanned flesh of his face, he knew he had had this one for too long already.

The only item that remained on his body was Heartrender, belted to his robed waist by a length of silver chain. He ran a hand over the scabbard.

Draw me, and I will let you look upon your treasures with gratification. We shall share in that pleasure.

Durmanhoth glanced back to the wall.

The Angels of Caliban.

The Cerberus Knights.

He drew the sword before he could resist. The sword squealed with joy, the black metal pulsing as it was torn from it's scabbard. Thick, purple tendrils pushed from the hilt into the old wounds in Durmanhoth's hand, interfacing with his nervous system, tapping into his memories.

The Cerberus Knights.

Flash.

Their lair was found. They had a traitor on their hands.

No time to worry about that now.

Durmanhoth snapped upright, his bolter firing as he charged forward towards the near-berserk squad of astartes that poured into their mountain dwelling. Red clad with helms trimmed in bone-white, the Cerberus Knights were a loyalist chapter renowned for their ferocity. Two of his brothers were dismembered by whirring chainswords within the first moments of the attack, diving headlong into the gathered Alpha Legionnaires and their operatives.

He swept his bolter back and forth as he fired at the charging enemy squad, looking to pick out weak spots in an armor joint. He was rewarded as a Knight staggered backwards at the critical moment before swinging his weapon, tumbling off-balance into Durmanhoth. The Alpha Legionnaire caught the enormous weight of his enemy, shifting his stance to use the momentum of the Knight's charge against him. The Knight went down in a heap, and Durmanhoth leapt down on his back before he could rise again. He wrapped one blue-armored arm around the Knight's gorget, holding tight as he drew his combat knife with his free hand. The knife punched sideways again and again at the weak point in the Knight's armored abdomen, blood spattering the floor each time the knife was withdrawn. The Knight thrashed and howled, pitching his body and trying to dislodged the Alpha Legionnaire. He grabbed Durmanhoth's knife arm as it came down again, and rolled his body over it, causing both warriors to tumble over.

As the weight shifted, Durmanhoth's arm was snapped at the forearm and the Cerberus Knight quickly darted to one side to pry the knife from his injured hand. Durmanhoth growled in pain, his other hand reaching out for something, anything, on the floor.

He found his bolter.

The Cerberus Knight roared, rolling back against Durmanhoth to face him, the knife now coming down at the Alpha Legionnaire. Durmanhoth's bolter lined up and shot the Knight point blank in the face. Brain matter and skull fragments blossomed from the back of the Knight's head.

Durmanhoth lay there panting as battle raged all around him, and felt-

Elation! Another enemy slain!

Durmanhoth grinned, regarding the shoulder pad and licking his lips, remembering every sound of the battle. Every emotion he felt. He could remember others too, he could-

He shook his head, some sense of himself returning. He felt the daemon snarling threateningly in his mind as he pushed her back, forcing reason back into his sensation-rattled brain. Angrily, and with some difficulty, he slid the blade back into it's scabbard. Heartrender's frustrated screams were audible until every inch of steel was put away.

"Stupid." Durmanhoth said to no one in particular. "Careless"

He walked out of his private sanctum, but left Heartrender belted at his waist.

Great stuff love alpha legion!

Excellent new parts. I love the portrayal of Daemon Blades. Heartrender is dangerous.

Kylone Vex felt better. He felt better than he had felt in years.

He knew this was mostly due to the rich food he was given aboard the Dynasty, in addition to the exercise he was now permitted at regular intervals. Large swathes of the frigate had been forbidden to him, and for weeks the only person he was exposed to was the one who called himself Balchus. The man spoke little, only identifying himself by name and refusing further discussion as to all the "whys" Vex had floating through his head. One moment he was a prisoner, and the next an astartes had freed him without explanation and spirited him away. He could hardly believe his luck, if it could be called that.

Now he found himself on a deck of the ship he had never before been given access too. He sat in a small, upholstered chair at an oblong table in what he assumed was the ship's strategium. In the center of the table, a hololith projector sat deativated, itself embedded in the table. Chairs lined the table of the claustrophobic room, a dozen in all. Vex sat in one, Balchus in another, and at the head of the table sat the cowled astartes who had liberated him. Balchus had brought him here, and despite several attempts to engage the astartes in conversation, the warrior had said nothing, his face masked by his hood.

The space marine was unarmored now, sitting him a plain robe of black. his ornamental sword attached to his hip by a length of knotted cord. He was utterly motionless, as though waiting for something. Whoever he was, Vex owed him, he knew that. Still, he found the stillness and the air of mystery around the astartes disconcerting.

Balchus, for his part, sat quietly consulting a dataslate, not looking up at Vex since he had brought him here.

Vex didn't care. He sighed, relishing the feeling of a full belly. He sat clad in the clothing of what appeared to have once been the blue uniform of an Imperial Navy ensign. The aquila had been defaced, however, and any designated of rank or identity had been removed. He felt his face, still unused to the smooth skin he found there. Shaving, bathing, all of these things had been an unexpected joy when he had been able to do them again with regularity after his long stint in Armillo North. Life was good again, he thought. He was no longer a young man, but he still had his guile. He would build himself up again as one of the slickest smugglers the galaxy had ever seen.

The door at the far end of the strategium slid opened, and in walked a man who likewise wore a defaced uniform. With dark eyes and pale skin, the man wore the uniform of a Navy captain, his uniform likewise bereft of Imperial iconography that had not in some way been defaced. He stood rigid as he entered, bowing his head respectfully at the astartes.

"My Lord Durmanhoth, Ave Chaotica." He said, his voice cold and his speech methodical.

"Hydra Dominatus, Captain Devlin." The astartes said. "Please sit, we will begin."

The captain nodded again, moving to a chair across from the astartes. He gave Vex a glance as he sank into the chair, his posture rigid.

The astartes looked up at last, turning his weathered face and dark eyes upon Vex.

"This is my inner circle." He said, gesturing to Devlin and Balchus. "They are the only two who know that I am the true master of this ship. You now know. You are now a part of this circle. Anyone else you encounter on this ship is not to know of my existence. Captain Devlin is master of this ship as far as they are concerned. The penalty for disobeying this one rule is death." Durmanhoth said.
Vex didn't know what to say, so he just nodded.

"I am Durmanhoth, and I am also Alpharius. We are all traitors to the Imperium, and now so are you. Do you understand?"

Vex had been a criminal his whole life, but a traitor? He nodded, because he did not know what else to do.

"If you do as I ask, I will reward you with freedom when this is all over. I will take you to your system of choice, and I will let you continue your life as a smuggler and black marketeer." Durmanhoth said. "Your crimes rot the Imperium from within. The galaxy is thus more interesting with you in it."

"Erm, lord?" Vex spoke up hesitatingly. "I don't even know why I'm here. You are a space marine! You talk of rotting the Imperium!"

Durmanhoth sighed. "Many of us have realized the Emperor is an absentee father. Some corners of the Imperium do not tell our story. Suffice it to say that some of His angels of death have turned against him, and for good cause. You are now in the presence of one of these angels. I am a part of the Alpha Legion, and you will be also." Durmanhoth pointed to his left. "You have already met Balchus. He is formerly an intelligence officer for the Inquisition." He gestured across that table. "Captain Devlin was formerly a naval officer, and deserted to the cause of Chaos and the Alpha Legion, for personal reasons. I'll let him regale you later." Durmanhoth leaned forward. "You are one of us now."

"I see." Vex replied, anything but certain he knew what this "angel" spoke of. Chaos? Wasn't that some metaphysical garbage the Ecclesiarchy always went on about? Surely it wasn't real? "What do you want with me?"

"Three solar years ago, you sold a missile guidance system that was unlike anything ever seen before. Any ballistic missile that was guided by it's programs was virtually immune to countermeasures. The Rampant, it was called."

"I remember." Vex smiled proudly. "It made me a fortune. STC bought from an explorator team and resold at a huge profit margin."

"You will help us locate it." Durmanhoth said simply.

"Why?" Vex asked. "I'm not even sure I can find it again. The buyer-"

"Do not ask why." Balchus interrupted. "Free advice. Aboard this ship, secrets are currency."

Vex sighed. "I'll need a reason to help you."

"Apart from the fact that I freed you from bondage?" Durmanhoth asked, his tone like that of a tutor with a petulant student. "Apart from the fact that if you refuse, I will tear out your heart?"

Vex grunted, shifting uncomfortably. "Yes, apart from all that, if you'd indulge me."

"Because giving to it to me will injure the Imperium that has shackled you for years. I will give you the means to strike back at the bureaucrats that destroyed your livelihood. And then," Durmanhoth waved a hand, "I'll set you free to begin anew."

"Well," Vex said, his easy grin returning after all his years in confinement, "Lord Durmanhoth, I believe we have a deal." He bit his lip, thinking a moment. "Hydra Dominatus, is it?"

Captain Devlin sniggered mirthlessly. Durmanhoth said nothing. Balchus smiled and nodded once.

"Hydra Dominatus it is then." Vex smiled. "Payback is hell."

Excellent new entry, as usual. I'm kinda curious as to why Durmanhoth is trying to stay secret and hidden aboard his own ship. Probably lots of Alpha Legion intrigue going on in there.

I like Vex. i like his character a lot...As with the previous entries this one is simply amazing. Cant wait for more. keep up the good work!

One word to describe this story. AMAZING.

"Are these coordinates accurate? I'm reading these correctly?" Captain Devlin murmured, clearly displeased. His helm officer stood at attention before him, holding the dataslate out to his commander and glancing dubiously at Vex.

The old smuggler grinned and nodded, rubbing a shock of graying hair from his face. "I would assume so. You graduated from the Imperial Navy Academy, did you not? Navigation is still a part of their curriculum, yes?"

Devlin's frown deepened. "No need to be a cheeky bastard. The question was rhetorical." He got a glance across the bridge of the Dynasty, watching as his crew prepared the frigate for a warp jump after weeks of idle drifting through the system. "I ask you to plot our destination, and the place you send us lies at the core of the Imperium. The preparation we'll have to undergo will be considerable."

Devlin sighed inwardly. He wasn't in control of this ship, he was merely pretending for the bustling crew, hiding the true master. Were it up to him, he'd happily join a pirate fleet at the galaxy's fringe, and live out the rest of his life as a mercenary. This looked more like suicide.

"I'm not on this ship to tell you what you want to hear, old boy. You want to know where to find the Rampant, I'm pointing you at it."

Devlin had disliked Vex since the moment he had laid eyes on him. They could not be more stark opposites. Devlin was a military man at heart; rigid, punctual, and used to being obeyed. He may be a traitor, but he still ran his ship like a military vessel. When Abaddon's Black Crusade had begun, the Dynasty had been a small part of Battlefleet Cadia. The Archenemy fleet had delivered a message: it was not too late to change sides. You were either an ally of the Warmaster, or his enemy.

Devlin was a pragmatic man. In Battlefleet Cadia's first engagement, he had seen the sheer scale of the Chaos fleet. He knew how to pick a winner. It had simply been a matter of creating a plan to get his crew to see things his way. There had been many dissenters, and there had been a purge. In the end, it was the Dynasty that had relayed to the enemy the position of Battlefleet Cadia. The resulting surprise attack by the Word Bearers had devastated the Imperial Navy and sent it into retreat. The Dynasty had allowed itself to be "captured" by the Archenemy. For his betrayal, Captain Devlin had been allowed to live and retain the captaincy of his vessel. It was not long before the Word Bearers had seconded him to Lord Durmanhoth as payment for some debt.

This entire course of events had occured because Captain Devlin was three things: he was cold, he was calculating, and he knew when to switch sides.

Kylone Vex was all opposites. He may have been a criminal, but he had an infuriating warmth and affability that the other crew members seemed to take to. It was the charm of a charlatan, but infectious, it seemed. Devlin had always been feared as a commander, but never possessed or utilized any sort of charm. Where Devlin was disciplined and serious, Vex was antagonistic and incessantly mocking.

And now he had to trust the destination of his ship to him. All because Lord Durmanhoth needed what he had.

Moving this close to the core of the Imperial domain was insanity. There would need new ident codes, sophisticated ones, to move unchallenged through any systems near the Segmentum Solar. They would need to move from one place to another quickly, never lingering long. If they encountered an Imperial battlefleet, they were dead, plain and simple. Any naval commander would insist on boarding them and conducting a full inspection. They would be exposed.

"Hello?" Vex said, cocking his head to one side. "Don't be rude, we were talking."

Devlin looked at him again, scowling. The helmsman seemed shocked to hear his captain spoken to in such an insubordinate manner. "Take me through it again. Why are we going to the Yulais system." Vex had never told him why in the first place. He had only told Durmanhoth, but it would be unacceptable to mention the astartes in front of the bridge crew.

Vex for his part, seemed to catch on quickly.

"As I told you before," he winked at Devlin. The moron. "I sold the Rampant to a rogue trader in the Damocles gulf. I believe it was his intention to keep it for himself. He was wealthy enough to last several lifetimes, but he was a collector of unique items. And what is more unique than an STC?"

"Quite." Devlin answered, absent-mindedly signing his approval on an order an ensign brought him. "Go on." he urged, flipping pages and not looking up.

"Many don't know that possession of an STC without promptly submitting it to the Adeptus Mechanicus or reporting it to them is an offense punishable by death. I know that, because I bought it with no intent to turn it in, and I pay attention to Imperial laws that might result in my death. If someone with the clout and privileges of a rogue trader is not exempt, then I would be a dead man for sure."

"I'm sure there's a point coming?" Devlin sighed, looking to Vex again as the ensign scampered back to his station.

"The point, captain, is that the rogue trader, Jouras was his name, couldn't keep it in his personal vaults for fear of someone tipping off the Imperium at large. Instead, I believe he will have hidden it in plain sight, where no one would ever look. A safe deposit box, in a legitimate bank."

Devlin looked doubtful. "How do you know?"

"Because it's what I would do." Vex answered, as though it were obvious. "Yulais Prime is where Jouras does his banking. It's where the payment for the Rampant came from when they were transferred to me."

"That doesn't mean that he keeps a safe deposit box there." Devlin pointed out. "Sounds thin, Kylone. Very thin."

"It's the best I can do, and it's more than you had before you sprung me out." Vex smiled, pointing out the occulus at the front of the bridge to the stars beyond. "We have to take a chance here. If you want the Rampant back, we're going to have to head deep into the Imperium. We're going to have to land on a heavily populated hive world. And this is the really fun part: we're going to have to rob a bank."

"And this is the really fun part: we're going to have to rob a bank." That line was definitely the best way to end the update/entry/new part.

Also, I like how yer setting up the characters. There's Durmanhoth, the very scary Alpha Legionnaire, with his tempting sword Heartrender, his loyal servant Balchus, the treacherous Captain Devlin and of course the very slimy Vex. Vex reminds me of a car salesman for some reason, especially with the "He may have been a criminal, but he had an infuriating warmth and affability that the other crew members seemed to take to. It was the charm of a charlatan, but infectious, it seemed" line. And then there's the scary Inquisitor tracking all of those guys down.

Chapter Four: The Suicide Run

"Man is what he believes." -Anton Chekhov

They were all dead.

Inquisitor Depril could smell the cordite reek mixed with the stink of spilled blood. He ducked his head, avoiding an overhanging piece of rebar as he entered the ruined tenement building.

"Well," He sighed, straightening his spectacles with a gloved hand. "At least the Warhawks were thorough." He wrinkled his nose, his eyebrows knitting together as he picked his way carefully though the devastation.

"The Emperor rewards diligence." Sister Autoria remarked, a faint smile on her lips. Seeing traitors brought low always filled her with pride.

The pair moved through what had once been a hab block housing dozens of seemingly loyal imperial citizens. Loyal to untrained eyes, that was. Inquisitor Depril knew things. He had the most valuable of sources, and this source had helped him smash cell after cell of the hated Archenemy terrorists. Now, the information contained in the source's mind had led him here, to Kexia, a thriving agri-world and home to the Imperial hero Andrick Caspian.

It was the breadbasket of the Ultima Segmentum, and at the very periphery of the Inquisitor's normal theater of operation. But his purview was the destruction of the Alpha Legion, and all of it's assets. The source had been instrumental in this, and it was his greatest boon. Even at his old age, Inquisitor Depril's star was on the rise within the Ordo Hereticus. Using the source, he had been able to uproot and eliminate close to a dozen Alpha Legion cells throughout the galaxy. This was a significant number. Such cells were notorious for their ability to hide, and typically were only known once they surface to wreak their damage on the Imperium. Their operatives were loyal, professional, and highly resistant to interrogation. The fact that Depril had located and destroyed so many of them before their plots had come to fruition was nothing short of incredible.

And he owed it all to the source. It was his, and he would share it with no one. Not with his retinue, and not with his ordo.

Now the source had identified another cell, here on the birth-world of the great Imperial hero; the Colonel who had orchestrated two consecutive defeats of the Tau Empire in the Eastern Fringe, one resulting in the liberation of a world, the other resulting in the death of the wretched alien leader. Depril wondered what the great Caspian would think about the fact that the Archenemy had wormed it's way into the heart of his beloved homeworld.

Kexia. A world of farmers, famed for it's high Imperial Guard tithe, and now also for it's association with some Alpha Legion plot. A plot that now would never happen, thanks to Depil..

As Depril and Autoria entered a shelled-out courtyard in the middle of the hab block, they came upon a platoon of Harakoni Warhawks at rest, cataloging a host of enemy dead that lay strewn about the area. Body lay twisted and mangled. Some had been riddled with lasfire, others shredded by shrapnel or other debris. Most, Depril noted, had been crushed when the west end of the building itself had collapsed. Damned Warhawks. So zealous. He noted that a separate array of bodies were positioned at the far end of the dingy courtyard, more respectfully arranged with their arms crossed across their chest. These people were collateral damage, victims of the bombs that had been dropped on the block by the squadron of marauder bombers. The bombing run had ended the battle here, but killed so many that had been unaffiliated with the Alpha Legion.

Some in his ordo would say they were innocent, and Depril reflected that in a way they were. He knew, logically, that they did not necessarily associate with the Chaos-sworn operatives simply by their proximity to the vermin that had bedded down in their tenement. The Alpha Legion were unique in that they recruited mortal operatives selectively. They would use those adept in obtaining information, staying unseen, or penetrating the high strata of society. The cultists that served them did not bolster rebellions, they instigated them. No, most of these people were innocent. Of heresy? Certainly. However, Depril did not mourn their loss. With time, they would be poisoned by their proximity to such verminous scum. He had sent the Harakoni Warhawks here because he knew they would be thorough. They would kill the traitors, but also the Emperor's faithful while they remained innocent. Pure. What greater gift could he give them?

Although the Warhawks had called in a strike by the Navy prematurely, such a thing was only excessive because this was a firmly compliant Imperial world. The use of such tactics sent the wrong message. It was unnecessary. Kexia was not at war. This was simply a sweep ordered by Inquisitor Depril once the source had identified yet another nest of heretics. The Warhawks themselves had only been utilized because they were part of a Departmento Munitorum muster already taking place in orbit. But, in typical Guard fashion, give them a job, no matter how controlled, and they would treat it like a full deployment. Depril supposed he had only himself to blame.

The Harakoni warhawks straightened as he entered, their pierced faces turning towards him and the bulky form of Sister Autoria as he entered the courtyard. Inquisitor Depril's eyes picked out Lieutenant Fultus hurrying towards him. The junior officer had a dark complexion, his face covered in the ritual piercings and tattoos of his regiment. His eyes regarded the inquisitor beneath pierced brows.

"My lord." He intoned, snapping a sharp salute. "The area has been secured, and the enemy neutralized, as ordered."

"Yes, I can see that, lieutenant." Depril said dryly, regarding the smashed building all around him. "Casualties?"

"The traitors fought like hell. They fought like two hells. Four of my platoon were hit. Two of them are dead." The junior officer grimaced. "They were prepared. They had prepared promethium charges in their dwellings. Most of the evidence of their activities was burned when the fighting began."

Depril sighed. "Typical. I notice none were taken alive?"

"No sir." The lieutenant reported. "Two were wounded and captured prior to the air strike, but they bit down on capsules hidden in their mouths when captured. Some sort of poison, both died."

The inquisitor nodded, suppressing his irritation. "Any indication at all in this...this mess as to what was being planned here?"

"Conjecture." The warhawk shrugged. "Two of the insurgents killed were identified as bio-chemists in the employ of the Administratum. You don't have to be a genius to figure that maybe they intended to sabotage the planetary crop somehow. There may be more on the planet."

Inquisitor Depril smiled. "There are no more."

Fultus blinked. "As you say, my lord. If you're certain."

"I have my sources, lieutenant." He answered, his smile widening.

Great, was wondering when inquisitor Depril would come back into the story.

"Do you think we could have this meeting without the goon squad?" Balchus asked, waving a gloved hand at the trio of armed, visored mercenaries flanking the Paymaster that sat across from him. "I'm unarmed. If you really think I came all the way here to attack you, and likely die messily in the attempt, then you are more paranoid than your reputation would suggest."

The Paymaster didn't smile. His seemingly default scowl only deepened. They sat across a table from one another on one of the dozens of docking orbitals that encircled Yulais Prime. The conference room was lavishly furnished, with imported Terran rugs stretching across the floors and rich tapestries hanging over unsightly bulkheads. Massive sheets of shielded glass were positioned from floor to ceiling at Balchus's left, offering an impressive view of the planet itself. Yulais Prime spun lazily down below them, it's cities picked out in twinkling swirls of light, clustered tightly together and covering most of the visible continent. Where lights came together towards a single bright point, Balchus knew a hive was located. He briefly wondered which point of light was Gravus Hive, the location of the Imperialis Donativum, the target bank.

Balchus sat in a dark grey civilian clothes, covered by a black greatcoat. His dark eyes roamed over the three mercenaries and the Paymaster before him.

The Paymaster wore a dark green robe, his eyes hard and his face that of an old man. He represented the Black Coats, a mercenary outfit with a professional reputation in this sector. Officially, they often provided protection for Imperial and planetary dignitaries, carried out sanctioned attacks on criminal strongholds, and staffed starship security teams. Unofficially, Balchus knew from his contacts that they often took illegal contracts, if the money was right.

And Balchus had an obscenely large sum to offer.

"Your correspondence identifies you as Maximilllian Schrader." The Paymaster said. "That is a cover ID. That much is suggested, since your electronic communique was routed through several cogitator servers throughout the system. It was impossible to source. You are secretive."

"I am." Balchus nodded. "I understand that your organization has no difficulty dealing with those who prefer to remain functionally anonymous?"

"True enough, but we are not stupid either. Your message indicates you wish to hire five Black Coats, and you want our best and most experienced operatives? Whatever you want, it is going to be ambitious. When you mix secrecy, a demand for high quality and the level of deception you have already brought to the table, it makes me curious."

"Then I will sate your curiosity. I need these men because I intend to rob a bank, one insured by the Imperial Administratum."

The Paymaster laughed, his expression rueful and bitter. "You ask too much, I fear. That is a high profile target, and the risks are considerable. If such an attempt were to fail-"

"Then your license to operate within the Imperium would be revoked." Balchus interrupted. "There would be an investigation, your chief executives would be arrested, and your contracts with every politician, ecclesiarch and petty bureaucrat would be suspended. In short, it would financially destroy you. The risks, as you say, are considerable. But this is economics. Higher risk only means a higher reward"

Balchus reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and the three mercenaries immediately pulled and aimed laspistols at him. Balchus chuckled, holding up his free hand defensively. "I'm retrieving a dataslate. I've already been subjected to a pat-down. Tell your flunkies to ease off."

The Paymaster set his jaw, giving a curt nod to his men. The pistols came back down.

"Thank you. Great reaction time your men have." Balchus smirked, retrieving the dataslate. He activated the screen, tapping his way over to the desired screen and then sliding the slate across to the Paymaster.

"There's the fee I am willing to pay. That's for a single day's work."

The Paymaster took the slate, his craggy face glowing in the screen's backlight. His eyebrows knitted together as he saw this figure.

"This is in escrow already?" He asked with disbelief.

"It is. The account will be paid out into your general operating fund, or an ancillary account, if you desire, when the operation is concluded. The price is high because of the risk, but also because there is no cut to be divided after the robbery. We are not after credits. I desire an object from a safe deposit box. It is mine, and mine alone upon conclusion of the operation."

The Paymaster kept looking at the enormous figure on the screen, seemingly deep in thought. "What is in the box?"

"I'm secretive, remember?" Balchus answered. "That kind of money wasn't easy to come by. This is the contract of a lifetime." That much was true. The sum was enormous. Balchus knew Durmanhoth was draining his considerable resources, and stealing from some very dangerous people to make this deal. The Alpha Legion's operatives raised money by laundering the credits of numerous criminal enterprises throughout the galaxy. Durmanhoth, at any one time, made only modest amounts from the cuts his operatives took from their client's laundered funds. The money earned in this way was typically used to arm dissidents and rebels in various war zones, but now Durmanhoth had authorized an altogether more dangerous gamble. He had authorized Balchus to steal the money he normally laundered for his clients, and use the massive stockpile of illicit credits to pay off the Black Coats.

It was dangerous, but it was also a stroke of genius. The obvious danger lay in ripping off the most dangerous, vile and ruthless criminals in the galaxy. The genius lay in the duplicity. The ultimate betrayal of the Black Coats was inevitable. They were being hired because they would be allowed to see the Alpha Legionnaire in person during the operation, whereas the Dynasty's armsmen could not. It was for this reason that the Black Coats could not be allowed to tell the tale. The funds would be transferred as promised, but the credits were still dirty, and would be traceable by the Arbites to dozens of criminal rackets throughout the galaxy. The Black Coats would be taken down for their connection to criminal conspiracies that they never even knew existed. As a result, they would be unable to take revenge on Durmanhoth for the betrayal.

On the one hand, Lord Durmanhoth was only trading one enemy for another. But on the other hand, he knew the criminal societies because he had dealt with them. Consequently, he better knew how to elude them, or if necessary, destroy them.

The Paymaster saw none of these machinations. He saw nothing beyond the massive figure on the screen, already waiting in escrow like a fruit to be plucked from a tree.

"Five men, Paymaster." Balchus said, leaning forward. "Five of your best. I need a demolitions specialist, a pilot, a forger, and two others of your choosing. All five must be top-tier killers, prior Guard service is preferred. They must remain calm under fire, because there will be fire. They must not ask questions, and they must adhere to a carefully laid plan. Give me these men, and the funds will belong to your organization the morning after the bank is hit." Balchus met the Paymaster's eyes as he glanced up. "Do we have a deal?"

"Five men. Five of my best. Yes, we have a deal. What bank and when?"

"Details will be forthcoming. Have these men selected and ready by the end of this solar week."