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The knife that killed Fleet Commissar Borax was very sharp and it did nick his heart and sever two of his bionic linkages but this damage in and of itself was probably not enough to do the job. He was a Fleet Commissar and Commissars are renowned for their toughness. Fleet Commissars are the toughest of all and Fleet Commissar Borax was acknowledged, even amongst their own ranks to be one of the toughest Fleet Commissars ever. Hadn’t he subdued the Gloriosus mutineers with one leg shot off? Had he not executed the entire staff of Admiral Bengt Horsa for cowardice, turned the fleet back and unflinchingly engaged overwhelming numbers of traitor marines and finally spent nearly two months in an escape pod as one of less than one thousand survivors of a fleet of over one hundred thousand souls? That had cost him the other leg and most of an arm. No, what really did for him was the daemon bound in the blade. It wasn’t a very powerful or intelligent daemon, more ravening animal of the warp than sentient evil, but it was plenty strong enough to shred and devour the Fleet Commissar’s soul. Having feasted the daemon waited, slowly dying itself now released from the protected stasis of the blade, sustaining itself on the soul and on the like-force of the rapidly dying body.

Inquisitor Brake was now satisfied with the performance of the Port Upper Gallery crew to which he had been attached. Their Boarding Drill was fierce and effective, unpredictable and yet coordinated. Their Firing Drill was exemplary, having won the last three ship-wide exercises. And their Damage Control drill met with the approval even of Magos Bohr. They knew how to save the ship, but they also knew how to save the Holy Technology. Inquisitor Brake had even come to appreciate Lieutenant Verdi, the Fifth Lieutenant. With his stout build and twin occular implants, he had the appearance of a startled owl, but like an owl, he was dangerous. With a las-pistols in each hand he was a veritable lion in support, able to hit any target he aimed at through the swirling melee of a boarding action. It was a sign of the slackness in the rest of the great battleship Orlanth Rex, flagship of Admiral M’Dhu, that Brake had been able to accomplish this in a comparatively short time. More things to be included in his reports back to High Inquisitor Sigismondo.

This progress had been made at very little cost, fewer than twenty of the crew had been killed, and no more than another twenty permanently crippled. There had been other costs too, the greatest of which was the powerful enmity of Fleet Commissar Borax. The Commissar had attempted to thwart Brake’s efforts at every turn but the Inquisitor’s superior mind, legalistic loopholes in the Captain’s Standing Orders, many of which were contradictory, the subtle support of many of the crew, and the Commissar’s own reluctance to provoke a direct confrontation with the Inquisitor, had prevented any real successes. The Inquisitor had been forced to use his authority to place the gallery crew under direct Inquisitorial command to protect them from retribution and, as retaliation, the Inquisitor was obliged to supply them out of his own limited stores. Brake preferred to let this stand rather than commandeer supplies. Borax considered this a great victory. Brake, however, recognized it as a great defeat for Borax because if gave official recognition to the Inquisition’s authority.

With the suicide of Confessor Morion, the pogrom being waged against the forces of Chaos and indirectly Admiral M’Dhu had not abated. Confessor Vandire had enthusiastically assisted Borax in his endeavors. With the Vandire name, he could hardly do less. At least, under the gaze of the Inquisition they were compelled to be more careful and thorough so their progress was slowed. Chaos was still detected, but no more scales had vanished from the corrupted armour.

Even now the Inquisitor exhorted his men onwards and his own Nemesis Squad was not spared either. Although superbly well trained and equipped, they had long since lost their total superiority over the crew. In the current exercise it had been determined that they had been overwhelmed before they could inflict significant damage or casualties to the gallery space. The men’s rest was disturbed by the arrival of Fleet Commissar Borax and a small retinue of junior Commissars and his personal guards.

‘I see you are conducting another of your famous drills, Brake,’ he said in an almost jovial tone, far from his normal grim and clipped voice. The omission of the Inquisitor’s title was a deliberate insult, the way a superior would address an inferior.

‘Would you care to test your skills against me? Just an exercise of course?’ While there was no menace at all in either the tone or his stance, Brake was not fooled.

To the untrained eye, Inquisitor Brake was at a serious disadvantage. Borax was twice the bulk of the Inquisitor and wearing power armour as well, with both power fist and power sword. The Inquisitor wore only the cuirass of his Carapace armour, and his only obvious weapon, his hell-pistol.

Borax was gambling for very high stakes indeed. Whether he knew it or not, he was in no danger whatever of really serious injury. Brake had no weapons that could penetrate the power armour. With all the appearance of superiority, if Borax were, by some miracle, to lose or even not win quickly, while he might come to o great harm, he would lose great prestige. In terms of reputation, Brake had much less to lose since he had no great combat reputation. In fact, even if he lost, a good showing against such a formidable opponent would probably enhance his standing on the ship. For Brake, however, the physical stakes were much greater. Even without the power fields active, a blow from either the sword or the fist augmented by the actuators of the power armour, could kill Brake. However, in spite of this jeopardy, this was not a challenge that the Inquisitor could easily refuse without harming the reputation of the Inquisition as a whole, certainly not in the current circumstances, and Borax knew it. He was sure in himself of winning.

To those who knew the Inquisitor, it was more even. With less protection and the same weapons, Inquisitor Brake had subdued a Chem-Killer assassin of the Temple Venenum, not killed it mind you, but subdued, a considerable feat, even for an Inquisitor. So considerable, that no one who had not seen it would ever believe the story, especially of such a non-militant Inquisitor as Roberto Brake. Upon his commission as Inquisitor, Roberto Brake had undergone surgery to have his electoos and implants inserted. At the same time he had all the finger nails on his left hand, with the exception of that of the smallest finger, removed and replaced with adamantium reinforced contacts and the circuitry of a neural disruptor installed into his forearm. One never knew when it would be necessary to conduct a field interrogation. When tuned to a subject’s nervous system, carefully metered impulses could be introduced to allow basic Examination and Interrogation. At full power and unfocused, the neural disruptor was a powerful, but generally non-lethal weapon. In addition, as a senior Inquisitor of the Ordo Veritas he had access to the Catechism of Faith, a series of verses which allowed him to invoke a small portion of the Emperor’s power, but greatly enhancing his abilities. Finally, under his cuirass, he bore his Inquisitorial Rosarius; his soul armour, blessed in the sight of the Golden Throne itself and providing the protection of the Hand of the Emperor himself.

All these factors were weighed in an instant in his electro-graft enhanced brain and Brake nodded in assent, ready for anything. This was clearly a duel and it might be important that it be seen as such, so he turned to Proctor Paramedes to assist him with the ritual bindings, although in the absence of power weapons it seemed a little foolish to be binding a hell-pistol. Borax, seeing this, turned to one of his guards to assist with his binding. Lieutenant Verdi hurried over to help and stumbled. He would have touched the Inquisitor had not Guardsman Lugar intercepted him.

‘Apologies my Lord’, and he abased himself. With his head down and turned away from Borax and his men, Verdi spoke softly.

‘My Lord, please reconsider. He plans to kill you. You may not know it, but over the years Commissar Borax has killed many men in this fashion, his rivals and those that offend him, always by accident of course. He has disabled or crippled many more. He has never been defeated. He once defeated a Space Marine Captain, although the remains were later entombed in one of their Dreadnoughts. Please Lord, do not fight.’

Brake muttered a brief Prayer of Humility. Scriptor Karpus was not present and he had not thought to consult him concerning Commissar Borax. He was in danger of succumbing to the sin of Pride.

‘Do not worry Lieutenant, the Emperor protects me.’

‘That’s what they all believe,’ muttered Verdi to himself. Brake pretended not to have heard, but he turned to Lugar and held out his hand.

‘Your servo-axe.’

The axe was handed over and the bindings made. As the Inquisitor turned to face Borax, he took the time to invoke the verses of Glorious Smiting, and Swift Striking from the Catechism of Faith. Invoking two prayers carried a very slight risk but he was not wracked with agony as the power of the Emperor flowed through him speeding his actions, guiding his blows. He activated his Neural Disrupter at full power and charged the accumulators of his sub-vocalizers.

He was ready.

Almost simultaneously, Brake and Borax leaped at each other. Normally Brake would attempt to stun or distract his opponent with a battle cry, but he knew this would be a waste of time here, so he concentrated all of the power into the sub-sonic range. If the Litanies of Lubrication and Prayers of Preparation had been hasty or careless, the intense vibrations might result in failure of some part of Borax’s equipment. Certain of his speed, Brake waited a fraction of a second to identify Borax’s plan of attack. This he was able to do almost instantly. Borax moved very fast for a man in power armour, even augmented by bionic legs. To move with such acceleration Borax must be pushing his actuators beyond their operational limits. They would fail quickly if used like that too long. Given that this was not a fight for his life, but instead an exercise, abuse of technology was certainly a sin in the eye of the Machine God, and the Pride required to do it was a sin against the Emperor too. Borax planned to leap over Brake’s headlong rush and strike him in the head with the fist, the sword, or both, as he passed. Such an attack might easily produce a fatal accident.

Borax had made the mistake of judging others by his own standards. Inquisitor Brake’s own bionic legs were Mars-made, blessed by the Tehnicus Mechanicus priests, none better outside the Adeptus Mechanicus. He was half the mass of Borax and his knowledge of the Three Laws of Mechanicus gave him an advantage. Also, Borax had done almost all his combat training in spacecraft and this had subconsciously flattened the arc of his leap. However, the gallery had a very high ceiling to handle the huge loading cranes for the main macro-cannon. Brake took advantage of the height and leapt even higher than Borax, who, already committed to his leap, could take only limited counter-action.

As they passed in the air, the Inquisitor dodged the clumsy power fist but felt the brief touch of the sword edge as it cut a line in his right forearm. Borax was very fast, almost inhumanly so. In return, Brake struck back two blows. With his left hand, he scored three bloody lines across Borax’s scalp and at the same time unleashed the full power of his Neural Disruptor. However, more importantly, his back-hand swing buried the beak of his servo axe into the rear joint between the thorax and pelvis sections of the power armour. Had the servo-axe been activated, Fleet Commissar Borax might well now be separated into two parts, the combination of chain teeth and power field, would have carved through the joint in the armour and into the spine of its wearer. Even as it was, if Borax were a smaller man, the force of the blow could have broken his back or damaged his spine. Borax was big, strong, and tough, so Brake had not expected the axe blow to have an immediate effect, but as soon as it went home he knew that the fight would be over soon.

Both Brake and Borax made acrobatic aerial rolls and landed on their feet facing each other, Borax stumbling slightly. To say that Brake was surprised was an understatement. The discharge from the Neural Disruptor should have stunned a Krootox and it seemed to have almost no effect. At the same time, the electoo in the little finger on his left hand tingled and his toxo-implant sent out it’s burning warning. Information flooded into his brain. The speed, power, and resilience of the Commissar were all explained; his blood was flooded with combat drugs, dangerous drugs, life shortening drugs, forbidden drugs, certainly in a duel like this. It might take the Commissar days to recover, but for the next several minutes, he was nothing but a killing machine. Also, Brake had been poisoned. The sword was coated with a neuro-toxin. The toxo-implant would neutralize the worst of its immediate effects but in a short time, he would be significantly slowed. Without his implant, he would be almost paralyzed. Borax was taking no chances. Just how few chances was revealed as a very brief flash of light surrounded his torso and more internal alarms went off. His Rosarius had stopped a small projectile fired at his back by one of the Commissar’s retinue. Although the projectile was stopped, all the effects of the micro-haywire grenade, cursed Xeno-technology, were not. His bionic legs were incapacitated and the field of the Rosarius weakened..

Borax launched himself for another attack.

Still fast, but a little unsteadily, Borax launched himself at the immobilized Inquisitor. His legs incapacitated, the Inquisitor had few options. He needed time. Using all his strength, he folded forward and, using his hands, launched himself toward the Commissar, feet first, off at an angle. In his rush to combat, Borax was unable to change direction quickly and charged unsteadily by Brake, but his sword, powered both by the actuators in his armor and his bionic arm severed both the Inquisitor’s legs in the middle of the shin. Sucrosol sprayed everywhere from the severed lines as the Inquisitor tumbled across the deck.

Very slowly, Commissar Borax turned around and tried to advance, but could not. At last, the Inquisitor’s carefully placed blow had taken effect. With the central power cable crushed, the Commissar’s power armour had to rely on its crystalline battery emergency supply, but, since the Commissar was overcharging his actuators, their power was very rapidly exhausted. He was now effectively a prisoner in his inert armour, even his drug enhanced strength could do nothing, no matter how hard as he tried. Nor could he be extracted quickly or without help. With the very last of his strength and power, he launched his power sword, like a huge dagger at the prone Inquisitor. As soon as it left his glove and the blue crackling power field activated. The controls must have been damaged in the fight.

Apparently helpless in the face of the deadly missile, all the observers were astounded when the Inquisitor deflected the sword in a shower of sparks, with his bare left hand. The sword, still active, glanced off at an angle, and buried itself to the hilt in a bulkhead, narrowly missing the hapless Lieutenant Verdi. With considerable sang froid, and a little flourish, he pulled the sword from the wall and deactivated the power field as he handed to weapon to Guardsman Lugar.

It was a technical draw, with both combatants crippled. However, the Inquisitor was wounded and both his legs destroyed and Borax was apparently disarmed. Except for his armour failure, and scratches on his scalp, the Commissar was unharmed. So he could claim the victory for himself. His reputation of invincibility was intact. The view of the spectators was a little different. Most of them were very well-trained in close-combat and recognized the lethality of the axe blow and its final effect. They could also appreciate the finesse of the Inquisitor’s combat style, when contrasted to the brute force approach of the Commissar.

As they carried him away, the Inquisitor had plenty of time for the full version of the Prayer of Thankfulness. He had survived, just.

Back in his quarters, Brake was soon under the ministration of Interrogator Grauman, the slash in his arm sutured, the neuro-toxin neutralized. Shortly afterwards, Rune-Priest Mohs arrived and, with the Inquisitor’s permission, detached the stumps of the legs and took away the severed parts for repair. Prayers were said for the damage to the technology. It counted for much with the Tech-Priests that the Inquisitor had crippled the power armour without permanent damage, but that the Commissar had willfully damaged Holy Mars-made Technology. Many resources and much prayer and time would be required to restore the legs to perfection, but it would be done.

In the days after the ‘exercise’ the Inquisitor was seen going about his business, shuffling along on his spare legs, his arm in a sling, the only known opponent of Borax to walk again unaided, if you did not count those who were Incarcerated in a Dreadnought or transformed into Servitors. Except in the physical sense, he showed no signs of injury and, if anything, seemed even more indefatigable than before. All the true fighters in the crew understood what the Inquisitor had done and suffered, and in many ways he gained more respect than he would have if he had beaten Borax outright.

Brake did not see things that way and spent considerable time in prayer, admonishing himself for his Pride. Asking for the Emperor’s forgiveness. And planning for the next time. On reflection, he realized that he had made a mistake. His overwhelming belief in his own abilities had made him careless. Pride. He had grossly underestimated Borax and the lengths to which he would go. Pride! He would not accept such behaviour in one of his retinue, he would not accept such behaviour in himself. PRIDE!!!

Of Commissar Borax, nothing was seen for several days, but his search teams, aided by Confessor Vandire continued his work. The fruitless search for Chaos continued.

Brake continued with his duties keeping the fine edge of the boarding party honed and had noted a change in the men. In the past they obeyed him because they feared him or because he commanded them. Now they threw themselves into the practice to please him because they respected him and wanted his approval. This was another sort of Pride to avoid, and even more insidious. He might need to order all these men to their certain deaths; no attachment was possible.

Aside from rigid discipline, the two keys to his training of the boarding party were initiative and geometry. It was not enough that a man blindly followed orders. Yes, orders must be obeyed, and instantly, but the Emperor inspired each man, each man had a brain, and is was a Sin in the sight of the Emperor not to use all that the Emperor had Provided. Orthodoxy and rigid structure was not the answer, or at least enough of the answer, to deal effectively with the uncontrolled environment of a boarding or counter-boarding action. Allowing the men the freedom to make some of their own decisions, to support each other, to make sudden withdrawals and counter moves was much more effective. Also, for men who spent the great majority of their time in space, the combat thinking was surprisingly ground-based. Their attack and defense formations and tactics took almost no account of the third dimension. Brake had trained the best of his men how to vault over enemy front ranks using their boarding pikes, to disrupt their formations and strike them from above and behind. His combat with Borax had reinforced this lesson.

The fault was not with the men alone. The officers carried the bulk of the blame. It was their duty to command the men and they had allowed the dead hand of Tradition to interfere with their Duty, but most of all, the blame fell on the shoulders of the ship’s captain, Zoltoy. It was his stifling Standing Orders and emphasis on Prayer over Preparation that had brought them to this point.

Although significantly handicapped by his spare legs, Brake still directed the training even though he could no longer participate, and it was in the midst of a particularly complex defensive plan, that included dropping inert warheads from the macro-cannon into the mass of attackers, that he noted the arrival of Admiral M’Dhu.

‘It is our great fortune to have an Inquisitor embracing the duties of a Master at Arms’.

The Inquisitor could not be sure whether this was intended as an insult to him or a subtle criticism of the crew. He still could not read the Admiral’s intention.

‘It is Duty to Obey.’

‘Indeed. Inquisitor, I am holding a fleet maneuvering exercise in a few minutes, would you care to observe it from the Battle Bridge?’

M’Dhu never did anything without a purpose, what was his here? The knowledge of the Admiral’s murder of Confessor Morion put him in the Inquisition’s power. Reading between the lines of the Admiral’s recent service record showed signs of failure and incompetence, investigations into orthodoxy of combat, failure to close with the enemy, and excessive battle casualties. However, the Admiral had been continued to be promoted; only a short time ago he was a Captain Senioris, commanding a small cruiser wing, now he was the Sub-sector Commander commanding small fleets. All of the promotions were acting, until confirmed by Naval High Command, but it seemed an odd progress for an unreliable or incompetent officer. Brake was certain that M’Dhu had a purpose, he wanted to show the Inquisitor something, but what?

‘Certainly Admiral, I may need to Purge a ship’s command, the experience will be useful.’ Not the words intended to engender comfort amongst the command staff.

He shuffled off to his cabin to change into combat armour.

The Battle Bridge, unlike the Navigating or Command Bridges, was buried deep in the hull, protected by both force fields and adamantium. If enemy boarders could capture or disable it, the command of the vessel could be thrown into confusion. It was well protected so that could not happen. Inside it was almost packed with buttresses and pillars, lecterns and sensor displays. It was a very small space for so large a ship as the Orlanth Rex, but that made it so much harder for the enemy to find and attack it and practically impossible for the short-range teleporters to lock on and transfer assault troops in without the safety locks being tripped as the attackers would have teleported into solid objects.

Every branch of service was represented. Rune-Priest Mohs and his Lectors managed the power and assisted with Damage Control, the Communications officer was in direct contact with the Astropaths, the Navigating officer was in direct contact with the Navigator. Confessor Vandire and his assistants controlled the Inspiration circuits. Commissar Borax was absent, but Captain Zoltoy was at his lectern with his own Commissar, Zhukoff. There were also a selection of Gunnery, Navigation, Sensor, and Damage Control officers. Even Major M’Lee, commander of the Storm Troops was present.

The Orlanth Rex was equipped as a flagship of an Admiral commanding a fleet, so the standard space had both command lecterns for the captain of the vessel and the Admiral and his fleet command staff. Inquisitor Brake was assigned to the tactical lectern of Admiral M’Dhu’s second Signals officer, probably because he could fit into the very small space, perched precariously to the left of the Admiral’s own command lectern. This station was normally used for signals sent by the fleet’s wing commanders, but in this exercise, there would be very few of them, only acknowledgements that could be handled by the machine spirits or cogitators. At the Admiral’s request, only Proctor Paramedes was present, squeezed in beside Major M’Lee’s Sergeant. According to Standing Orders, as a supernumerary, Brake was equipped for close combat, with his hell pistol and power maul, protected by helmet, full carapace armour, and his cloak. He was glad he had chosen not to wear his tactical dreadnought armour, he would not have fitted into his station, or any other, in it.

M’Dhu looked down at the Inquisitor and nodded. There was a warning chime as the exercise tactical plan was fed into the machine spirits of the other vessels in the fleet. Brake watched as the symbols on his display turned blue as the signal was received, and then back to green as the acknowledged receipt. Performance cogitators measured the response times of each vessel.

The main tactical display blanked and then changed to show a planetary system, which the Inquisitor recognized as Caldur. This image was completely synthetic. The fleet was actually traversing the Warp and had dropped into the void of space nowhere near Caldur to conduct the exercise.

It took him several moments to understand the pattern of the exercise, but the Inquisitor soon understood exactly what was going on and the message that Admiral M’Dhu was sending. The exercise was a plan for combating a rag-tag fleet operating out of Caldur following a rebellion there. The traitor forces included the squadrons currently based on Caldur, supported by converted merchantmen and the System Defense Squadron. The symbols on the lectern were coded by shape and colour and other information appeared beside them. Without a lot of experience or a tactical implant, the Inquisitor could make no sense of the details. A very large number of vessels was converging on M’Dhu’s fleet, outnumbering them by four or five to one.

‘Battle plan IRON FIST’

‘Aye aye Admiral, IRON FIST’

Slowly, the Inquisitor watched as the fleet coalesced into a tight formation, escorts on the flanks, cruisers in the front, carriers including the Orlanth Rex in the center, to the rear. The fleet was heading directly into the center of the enemy. In response, the enemy center seemed to slow, and the two flanks started to advance, closing around the fleet like fingers.

The rest of the bridge crew was busy directing the actions of the Orlanth Rex and passing a steady stream of reports back to Captain Zoltoy or Admiral M’Dhu.

The enemy formation seemed looser and less organized, probably a reflection of their poorer training, but it seemed in spite of that envelopment was certain.

‘Fleet, port 15, up 5.’

‘Fleet, port 15, up 5. Aye aye Admiral.

Brake could see no reason for this small course change, it could not possibly matter much. They would still be enveloped. Those unfamiliar to space battles imagined them to be fast moving actions, ships rushing everywhere, guns firing left and right, like insects or birds fighting in flight. This was very far from the truth. Space was vast, even he, who had spent many years traveling through space, had no real grasp of its vastness. Ships were fast, but not that fast. Fighting in space was more like fighting from ice floes drifting in a river. Every move had to be planned in advance and once started, could not easily be deflected. He looked up and the Admiral seemed to be staring at the main tactical display, counting out beats with this left hand.

‘Battle plan BRASS GONG’

‘Admiral?’ interrupted Captain Zoltoy.

‘I don’t want to try this plan for the first time in action, Captain. BRASS GONG!’

‘BRASS GONG, aye aye Admiral.’

Brake could feel the tension on the bridge increase.

‘Brace for collision!’

Warning sirens blared and Brake could feel the thud of closing blast doors and collision bulkheads transmitted thorough fabric of the ship. He could not understand as the bridge crew grabbed the rails of their lectern. He was still wondering what was going on when the deck lurched under him like a wounded land shark. Only his lightning reflexes and combat training prevented him from being pitched off the lectern, Proctor Paramedes was not so lucky and ended up being thrown across the bridge and into a buttress. Luckily he was in power armour, so he was not damaged. Neither was the buttress. Information flooded in from various compartments and sections of the ship detailing casualties and damage; extremely minor except for the loss of some sensor arrays and a bank of opticons. Otherwise, there was no confusion, everything seemed completely normal and no one explained anything.

The Inquisitor went back to the lectern and after a moment was able to see that the fleet had done the impossible. Great naval vessels are not especially maneuverable and huge battleships like the Orlanth Rex are the least maneuverable of all, able to change course only very slowly and deliberately. This unmaneuverability constrained the maneuvers of the whole fleet. Other vessels might be more nimble, but if they darted off they would leave the Orlanth Rex alone, unsupported, and vulnerable. The impossible thing that the fleet had done, was make a turn of 89 starboard, even the Orlanth Rex. The way the Admiral had achieved this impossible turn was by having one of the battlecruisers make a glancing ram to the great battleship on the prow armour. With the engines already straining for a maximum turn to starboard, the additional blow had swung the turn much further, impossibly further.

Tactically, it was a master stroke. The enemy had been caught responding to the earlier course adjustment. Now the fleet was heading in a compact mass toward the enemy’s left wing. The enemy would not have time to respond and had nowhere to go. As the fleet passed through, the lighter vessels of the wing would be destroyed and the heavier vessels pounded to scrap, and Admiral M’Dhu would have plenty of time to hammer any planetary defenses and orbital docks before the enemy fleet could turn around and re-engage, or he could break off, circle the planet and return to the fight. The Inquisitor might not be able to appreciate all the details, but he knew enough about space combat to understand. When he got back to his quarters, he would study the record of Admiral Vladimir M’Dhu again very carefully indeed.

He was still deep in study some hours later. His preliminary conclusion was that Admiral M’Dhu was a brilliant, but unorthodox, tactician who also managed to get the most out of his command by personal inspiration. At times, it was dangerously close to a Cult of Personality. Brake had come to appreciated the dangers himself. Men fight because they have been ordered to. Men fight better when they believe in what they are doing. Men fight even better when they understand their part in the plan. Men fight best of all when they are inspired by confidence of their leaders. This might seem like a good thing, but Brake could see the drawbacks. Men should always obey their orders and carry them out with maximum effect. It was enough that their commanders were representatives of the Everliving Emperor; no more belief than that was required. Some plans were so complex that they could not be understood and with the presence of enemy psykers, it was dangerous to share valuable information with the lower ranks. Finally, men who follow their leaders due to confidence are likely to follow them to Perdition, confidently. All is fine when the leader is pure, but corruption lies everywhere and it is but a short step to believe that your own objectives are the same as the Emperor’s. Brake had investigated and dealt with many such commanders. There was another problem with unorthodoxy too. No matter what the results, it was always possible to argue that orthodox tactics would have done better. More of the enemy might have been destroyed, fewer casualties might have been suffered, or complete victory could have been achieved in less time. The unorthodox commander had no answer to those criticisms. No commander who followed Tactica Imperialis to the letter was open to such criticism.

An analysis of Admiral M’Dhu’s recent battles strongly suggested that following the Tactica Imperialis would have resulted in disaster; often. However, even when successful, Admiral M’Dhu had been open to considerable criticism.

He was dragged back to the surface by the insistent pricking of his electoo. The message transmitted by Lector Karpus was very strange and worrying. Commissar Borax had gone missing. He had not been seen for several hours. This information was to remain secret but could Inquisitor Brake please meet privately with Captain Zoltoy in the Commissar’s quarters, urgently! The Inquisitor could well understand the Captain’s concern, the suicide of Confessor Morion and the disappearance of Commissar Borax would reflect very badly on his command. An Inquisitorial Investigation was inevitable.

Shortly after, having changed into his second best robes and his full Inquisitorial insignia, accompanied by Proctor Paramedes and the full Nemesis squad and Scriptor Karpus, the Inquisitor slowly limped off to the meeting. There was only one entrance to the Commissar’s quarters, the better to defend them against enemy attack, or mutiny. Leaving his escort at the entrance with orders to let no one pass, deck sweeper or Admiral, he shuffled down the corridor to the meeting.

After only few minutes, both Scriptor Karpus and the Proctor received an emergency call and, leaving two guards at the entrance, rushed down the corridor. There was no sign of anyone, the Inquisitor or members of the Commissariat. Hurrying, but prepared for the worst, they ran through the ante-room, past the open blast door and into the Commissar’s sanctum. There, kneeling by the body of Commissar Borax was the Inquisitor, apparently unharmed.

‘Commissar Borax is dead. Secure the area and summon Interrogator Grauman. I sense Chaos!’

There was a further disturbance as Captain Zoltoy and Confessor Vandire tried to enter the room and were stopped by the Nemesis guard. Things were getting out of hand. Time for a pre emptive strike. The Inquisitor pushed himself to his feet, a little unsteadily, mustering his full power; unfortunately his spare legs did not allow him to increase his height or much of anything else either. His Inquisitorial insignia glowed with his full power, painful to look at with ordinary vision.

‘Fleet Commissar Borax is dead, Fleet Confessor Morion is dead. Chaos is loose upon this vessel. I assert my Inquisitorial authority. Obey me. Obey the will of the Emperor.’

That gave the Captain and the Confessor some pause. The Captain could insist on his authority, but that would bring him into conflict with the Inquisition and would also make him responsible for everything that happened. It also looked as if the Inquisitor would not submit easily or quietly.

More pre-emption. The Inquisitor needed no psychic powers to read the Captain’s thoughts.

‘Captain Zoltoy. I command you to continue with the normal operation of your vessel.’ There was no OR ELSE, but that as evident from the Nemesis squad which had everyone else outnumbered, out armored, and outarmed.

‘At once Inquisitor,’ and he turned and left with his assistants.

‘Confessor, prepare a Service of Purity. The ship’s soul must be cleansed. I will say the Prayers for the Dead for Commissar Boxax.’

Confessor Vandire was in no position to disagree.

‘As you command Inquisitor,’ and he to turned and left with his Deakons in tow.

A few minutes later the Inquisitor’s electoo pricked again. In the haste, orders had not been changed and the two guards at the end of the corridor had refused to let Interrogator Grauman and his Examiners past. A mistake by Proctor Paramedes, minor, but careless, but also a mistake by himself. He had given the orders and forgotten to countermand them. He nodded to the Proctor who hurried out and soon returned with the Interrogator.

‘Interrogator, Commissar Borax is dead, Tell me how, where, and when.’

To the casual observer, how would appear obvious. Commissar Borax was lying on his back, both his bonic legs twisted at odd angles, lying in a small puddle of blood running from the wound caused by a knife rammed into the middle of his torso, just under the edge of his enameled cuirass. He was clad in his normal undress uniform, his las-pistol in its holster, his power sword still in its scabbard. His face was relaxed into a smile, contrasting completely with his grim life.

The knife in his chest was not just any knife. It did not bear the insignia of the Imperial Navy or any other Imperial force. No, it bore the insignia of Khorne, one of the foul Chaos Gods. Brake could almost taste the corruption. Already, Grauman’s Examiners were preparing for the Rites of Recognition, the Litanies of Containment, and the Prayers of Purification. Brake had said that he would recite the Prayers for the Dead, but these would have to wait. The Aura of Chaos could not be disturbed if it were to be identified properly.

‘Scriptor, he has a bionic eye, see if there is any information that can be retrieved.’

Karpus bent to the task without hesitation, even it the obvious presence of Chaos.

‘No, my Lord. His crystalline interfaces have Commissariat protection. I can break it or bypass it with Inquisitorial over-ride, but it will take too long and the bio-electro memory will have decayed, unless a spark of life remains.’

With a gesture, Interrogator Grauman indicated that it was time to leave the room so that his work could continue, so everyone else retired to the ante-room.

The first thing that struck Brake about the ante-room was its emptiness. Where were the guards? Where were the clerks? Where were the junior Commissars? Where were the Advisors? There was no one at all. Even the barrels of the defensive turrets were motionless. Secondly, where had the Captain and the Confessor come from so suddenly? If Grauman could not get past the guards, the Captain and Confessor certainly could not. They must have been waiting in one of the Holding Rooms or the Cells, or one of the Commissar’s offices, unsupervised, and that did not make sense.

Scriptor Karpus was struggling with one of the control consoles. The Commissariat defenses were hard to overcome and the Inquisitorial over-ride have been partially disabled in violation of the Concord of Arx. Time to show the Adamantium Fist.

‘Proctor. I want the off-duty Nemesis squads on guard, one in our quarters, the other one here. Get Examiner Black to equip half a squad of combat Servitors, two with plasma cannon, two with flamers and bring them here. Set up defensive positions in the main corridor.’

‘Scriptor, ask Magos Bohr to send a Lexmechanic and some Mechanicus experts here. They can help us search this place. I want all the plans and construction drawings of this section of the ship. Tell, no ask, Magos Bohr to let us have whatever information he has on any modifications made to this part of the ship.’

‘Everyone else, take up defensive positions at the entrance.’

It was done and the Inquisitor stood silently in the center of the octagonal ante-chamber deep in thought and waited. And waited.


From the delay, Brake could deduce that Grauman had found significant signs of Chaos. If he had found nothing, he would have been finished long ago. He could hear as the second Nemesis squad and the combat Servitors took up position and shortly after Lexmechanic Drak, Rune-Priest Mohs, Lectors, and Adepts arrived. With the help of the Adepts, the search could begin.

The official plans of the ship were at best guidelines and there were many booby traps, some secret rooms and even a secret exit. Unfortunately, with the exception of some prisoners in the cells, very little relevant was found. The Captain and the Confessor had been waiting in one of the Holding Rooms; the miasma of incense was unmistakable and it as the only unlocked area. The secret passage and one of the secret rooms had been used recently, but only by Commissar Borax, according to Drak’s reading of the logic engine controlling the access. Only Borax’s footprints were in the light dust on the floor.

The Lexmechanic was able to confirm that the message about Borax’s disappearance had been sent by the Captain, or at least using the Captain’s authentication from the console at the guard station in the ante-room. A similar message had been sent to Confessor Vandire, but he must have arrived first even though he had considerably further to come. Nothing seemed to make sense.

Brake’s electoo pricked again. The Proctor needed his assistance, but not urgently. Leaving everyone at their tasks he hobbled off .

There was a considerable crowd of Commissariat personnel waiting in the main corridor. Doubtless angry and frustrated but not stupid enough to advance into the glowing maws of the two plasma cannon aimed their way. The targeting reticules had been turned to maximum power, marking the chests of the prospective targets with a glowing red cross. Not that it would matter much. Plasma cannon bolts could destroy small Space Marine squads. In this confined space and with their lack of armour, there would be no survivors. The Servitors obeyed unthinkingly. There was no opportunity to reason with them. The flamers backing them up crushed any thought of rushing them. Angry, frustrated, but impotent, a very bad combination for a member of the Commissariat. Brake had found long ago how calming the prospect of instant death was.

Before anyone could speak, Brake raised his hand, his electoo of the Inquisitorial insignia glowing brightly.

‘Fleet Commissar Borax ha been killed. The forces of Chaos have been detected. This area of the vessel is under Inquisitorial Embargo.

Commissar Zhukoff, Commissar Xanthus, you may monitor the Inquisitorial Investigation. I suggest that you make other arrangements for the rest of your people. They cannot enter this area until it has been cleansed.’

Zhukoff gave some orders and his men rushed off, leaving only a small force to observe the Inquisition. He and Xanthus advanced, covered by the Nemesis squad, and very reluctantly submitted to the none too gentle body search by the squad. Osfolio had not been forgotten.