Chapitre 2: Chapter | 1.2
| The Gauntlet |
| Part | 2 |
| - | - | - | - | - |
Departmento Munitorum | Imperial Transport | Gauntlet |
Commissar Calenharn arched an eyebrow, his face contorting to a gesture that could have curdled Iho-sticks on a Commissar fresh out of the Schola,
"Care to elaborate, Captain? Sound's interesting."
Hox remained rooted to the spot, damn and displeased from the grimace gracing her otherwise hollow face. Her gaze lingered on the deck crew's faces one by one, taking in their reaction to her rather unsightly outburst of emotions.
Eldred gave the commissar a look that could be best described as reproachful, although his leathery face might have had a bigger role to play on that matter.
"Did the Inquisitor give a reason for committing such an act of transgression? Any reason to warrant such a... spirited... display of displeasure?"
The silence stretched and Hox's face remained a mask of stoic displeasure, her only response to the duo's questioning was the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of her fist. Finally, she broke the oppressive quiet, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
"No,"
Her curt 'No' hung heavy in the air, laced with an undercurrent of warning that dared both Eldred and Calenharn to question her further. Although considering the Captain's unwavering gaze at the murals and the rather too-quick response, both being a behavioral tick that had betrayed her on one too many card games in the past.
Eldred, his weathered face etched with amusement, pressed on,
"I see, Captain,"
A private joke amongst the Navigators... probably had something to do with their unique mutation.
"While the Inquisition's methods are... unorthodox at the best of times, even they wouldn't resort to such blatant provocation without a just cause. Perhaps it'd be wiser to enlighten us on the full extent of this... disagreement."
Calenharn seemed a bit reluctant to join his long-time friend in pressuring their Captain for answers but the words just slid right off of his tongue!
"If I might be so bold as to make a suggestion..."
He began in a gruff enough tone, with a hint of familiarity but one pointed look from the Captain that pretty much said 'Shut your cakehole,' he decided against trying to make any more suggestion.
The Captain tilted her head creating a squelching noise as the Amisac started to dry before she had a chance to wash it off. Her lips twisted into a scornful smile,
"Reasons?"
She drawled in a monotonous voice,
"I was under the impression that the Inquisition does not need to justify itself to ordinary mortals like you and me. Perhaps they might get off their high horses if Him-on-Terra decides to make a personal appearance... but somehow, I doubt that."
The clear invocation of what might've been considered heresy rang loud enough alarm bells to make the two men take particular interest in the metal decking or the darkness outside.
Before either of them could try and make amends, as they knew would be necessary if not entirely not their jobs to begin with, the Captain's lip parted, and what came out was not the drawl of a lazy pilot but the firmness of an Inquisitorial Vessel Commander,
"Enough about that Throne damned Inquisitor. Someone get me a cup of recaf and a summary of the ship's conditions before I start opening airlocks... and where's the fukin' is Herald!!!"
It was a clear enough signal that their conversation was over and it was time for the Commissar to piss off and go bother someone else, but Calenharn decided to stick around.
One of the servitors busy milling about the deck cogitators stopped and buzzed loudly as the Tech-Priests stationed underneath started to make a somewhat laymen's report,
"The main reactors are stable and performing at 83% maximum capacity. Gellar fields are at 85% maximum power. Weapons systems are back online, but we're facing a shortage of experienced serfs. Also, a maintenance break at the nearest space station is... highly recommended."
What he undoubtedly meant was 'Find me a fuckin' garage so I can pawn this rust bucket off for scrap metals,' but he seemed a bit too polite to word his thought out loud.
"The hull's mostly intact except for some minor damage to the starboard aft-section, but the weapons are within efficiency standards."
Captain Hox took a moment to take it all in, for a moment, not believing what she had just heard. The ship had actually made a warp jump without half its hulls missing or flying around them as space debris.
"Casualties? Warp Taints?"
She shot off before others could properly consider that particular amount of data.
"The ship's crew staffs are at a 55% maximum capacity, another 11% if we count in the troopers. As for taint, well, the Emperor's mercy had surely made its way into the hearts and minds of those pseudo-heretics..."
After, without a doubt, blowing a chunk out of their skulls and ribcages.
"Those suspected have been quarantined and the Sanctioned Psyker should be just about finished with the search."
The Captain's eyes flickered momentarily, with a mixture of weariness, frustration, and anger. The cost of a warp jump was never really light, and after considering that this was one of the minimal casualty jumps they had made in the past few years, her jaw clenched tightly.
"And the stowaways?"
Stowaways, or rather, the handful of regiments the Inquisitor was dragging along with her,
"The regiments are recovering fast after the last firing squad arrangement, except for minor jitters from the warp jump. But... we might not have enough shuttles to chunk them all off to the nearest habitable planet and make our way out of this with minimal damage to the ship."
The Captain nodded, seemingly satisfied with the tech priest's reports.
"Herald Brimstone had an unfortunate accident during our last warp jump."
Hox raised an eyebrow at that, that wasn't much of a loss to the ship or the crew, but Brimstone was a minor Nobleman's son. His twenty-fifth son to be exact, but his son nonetheless. She might've to make up some tale about critical engine failure or a pirate boarding where the noble young scion died most heroically.
"The servitors are still trying to recover his remains from the waste tunnels..."
'On second thought,'
Hox thought with a curl on her lips,
'The truth might be more entertaining.'
"And... the Inquisitorial retinue?"
Calenharn interjected, attempting to steer the conversation towards a more productive topic of 'What to do with the frakkin' Inquisitor?.'
The servitor paused if such an action was possible by something like it. Its inbuilt cogitator made the sound of overworked servos, whirled and spluttered as the tech priest on the other end tried to convey something bordering frustration.
"Our Inquisitorial counterpart made it quite clear that there's no need for worry on our end and that they can handle themselves."
No doubt, in for more colorful words and possibly with a threat added into the mix.
Captain Hox gave the commissar a subdued look before asking the servitor some more questions.
"I-uh, will try to-uh, see if the Inquisitor needs anything."
With a crisp, parade-ground salute, the Commissar turned around and vacated the bridge as fast as he could, no point in sticking around to see if he had hacked off the Captain. At least, the navigator would try to do something productive for once... or simply gawk out into the space if he had any sense at all.
=*=
The Inquisitor was easy to find, or rather, the Inquisitorial quarters were easy to find. After all, he was there when the Captain was forced to relinquish one of the Provost's barracks to the Inquisition representatives. Also, it was the one he used to bunk in and vacating the closest thing to a home he ever had... well, it left a bad taste.
The Commissar's lips curled in disgust as he rounded the corner, derivating from the spine of the vessel. The familiar thrum of the engines was replaced by an eerie silence. Here, the smell of recycled air, thick with the acrid tang of disinfectant assaulted his nose. Flickering deck lights cast long, distorted shadows across the narrow corridor, illuminating the scene of what might've been a morgue if he hadn't known better.
The entire place felt wrong somehow. Too sterile. The usual symphony of groans, curses, and the stench of holy incense was absent. No desperate pleas from some deck rat caught with his hand in the till or Ecclesiarchs trying to poke their noses into the Provost's business because the rat happened to owe them money, or in rare cases, the other way around.
Sure enough, the first sign that the Inquisitor was making herself 'Feel at home' appeared almost instantly. A brutally reinforced bulkhead of a door barring access to a row of otherwise unremarkable hab units. A sardonic placard above the hatch which usually read 'Provost Barracks,' now sported a particularly gaudy 'I' of the Inquisition.
A pair of hulking Strom Troopers clad in heavy carapace armor as black and featureless as a tomb stood guard before the adamantium door.
Calenharn squared his shoulders, adjusted his cap, and flicked off the safety from his bolt pistol just in case one of the glorified guardsmen decided to open fire because he was 'Startled.'
Seems he was right about that~
As soon as his figure was illuminated in the flickering light, two hot-shot lasguns came to bear, aiming straight at him without so much as a second thought for his commissariat uniform or the red sash tried around his torso.
But... they had the numbers... and the firepower.
So, instead of butting heads with a couple of muscle-brained morons, he gave a curt nod to the troopers before speaking,
"Commissar Calenharn. Here on behalf of Captain Hox. Naval Liaison."
The troopers remained impassive despite his introduction, something that didn't sit quite right with him. After a tense beat, one of them grunted,
"Announce yourself and your purpose."
The Commissar bristled. He wasn't accustomed to being questioned by a pair of glorified guardsmen. But there were not Regimental Troopers, they were the Inquisiton's hounds. Which meant they would be scrapping him off the floor before he could reach for his bolt pistol.
So, he decided to play the game... for now.
"Commissar Calenharn,"
He repeated, enunciating each word so his words could get through the thick ceramite plating and thicker skulls inside.
"Liaison for Captain Hox. Here to ascertain the nature of the Inquisiton's presence onboard this vessel."
To his surprise and bewilderment, another gruff response came instead of the men lowering their weapons.
"Identify yourself through the Vox channel frakhead."
The Commissar's eyes twitched in irritation. Displacing him from his own had unit was bad enough, but having to deal with oversized, trigger-happy, tin cans who couldn't recognize a Commissar's uniform was enough to sour a saint's mood. The Inquisitorial insignia blazed down at him, it was a stark reminder of who held the upper hand here. If that wasn't clue enough, there were still the lasguns aimed straight at his ugly mug.
So, he complied. Barking his name, designation, rank, and purpose into the comm-bead sticking in his ear. He didn't bother asking why the channel was already linked to whoever it was behind the bulkhead... no point in doing that.
He waited as the silence stretched, punctured only by the hiss of the troopers' breathing, and fought the urge to tap his foot impatiently. He's dealt with arrogant smartasses before, Emperor knows how tedious that was, but the murder maniacs of the Inquisition remained unmatched in how large of a pain in the arse they all were.
Finally, a voice crackled through the bead, distorted and laced with static along with something he could've sworn sounded like amusement,
"Hold. Verifying credentials."
His hand twitched towards his holstered bolt pistol.
The audacity of these glorified guard dogs!
But before his fingers could even brush the grip, the Storm Troopers were upon him. One of the troopers poked the armor just beneath Calenharn's neck with the barrel of his lasgun, sending a jolt through him. It wasn't enough to rattle his bones, but the meaning behind the action sure did.
"Credential verified. Stand by for authorization."
Calenharn grounded his teeth but held his composure, his hand slowly retreating from his weapon. The trooper's lasgun remained uncomfortably close to his neck, clearly reminding him what not to do when confronting a pair of armed men in a narrow space. The seconds stretched painfully until the voice returned,
"Authorization granted. Proceed."
The troopers retreated, stepping aside in unison, the barrel of the lasgun lowering but never entirely relaxing. Calenharn nodded curtly, resisting the urge to make a sarcastic comment about their hospitality, and stepped forward. The adamantium door hissed open, revealing something he was not prepared to see.
The space had been transformed completely! Weapons racks, bolted haphazardly to the walls, bristling with Lasrifles, Laspitsols, shotguns, Autoguns, and even a Flamer right next to a Melta. More Strom Troopers, way too many for his comfort, some clad in random pieces of their carapace and others stripped to black fatigues, milled about the place.
A pair of Tech-Adepts, mechadendrites swiveling uncomfortably close to a box of Krak grenades, tinkering with... 'something' on a makeshift workbench. A robed Astropath, his covered eyes and attire being clear signs of his profession, sat at the far end of the hall, brow furrowed as he chatted away with a Genetor over a hot cup of recaf.
'Won't mind some myself.'
A lone servitor trundled past, its mechanical limbs laden with stacks of data slates. The air crackled with a strange sense of professional nervousness, not much different from the stoicism of the Imperial Navy.
One hab unit, the one closest to the escape pod bay door Calenharn remembered, had been completely transformed Its door ripped away, the opening now framed by flickering holographic displays and strange machinery. A Tech-priest hunched over a crackling console, barking orders in binary. Calenharn grimaced, that was his room.
The Inquisitor had well and truly messed this place up big time!
None of the personnel belonged to the Astra Militarum, that was pretty clear from one obvious similarity in their uniform. A red and black armband, a bit childish, but practical enough not to cost any excessive time or resource in distinguishing the Inquisitor's menagerie from the common folks.
Calenharn navigated through the chaos, cutting through the crowd towards the only hab unit looking remote enough to be the Inquisitor's quarters. With every step, the crowd thinned, their bustling activity fading into the background. By the time he reached the door, an unsettling silence enveloped him. A quick glance told him that the hall was still crowded with personnel, yet an unnatural hush had descended upon him, drowning out the clamor to an eerie stillness.
The door opened before he could knock. Commissar Calenharn, an aging man in his late fifties, had served the Emperor long enough to have seen things that would rob a lesser man of his sleep forever. But nothing quite prepared him for the sight that greeted him as the door to the Inquisitorial quarters swung open.
There sat the new Inquisitor. Though nothing about her seemed new; she was a figure both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
Habitually, the first thing he noticed was her build, assessing if he could hold his own against her if it came to that—strictly a worst-case scenario. The answer was clear. She would tower over him if they stood face to face. Lean. With no doubt, sinewy muscles stretched taut over her athletic frame beneath a pitch-black ceramite breastplate. Snow-white hair, like a ghost's, framed a sharp face in contrast to her deep gray eye, which seemed to pierce right through him. Pale skin that wouldn't have looked out of place on an Aeldari.
However, it was her face that commanded his attention—and apprehension.
Where lips and surrounding skin should have been, there was only raw, exposed tissue. Gums and teeth jutted out starkly in a perpetual display of... whatever the hell had happened to her. The raw flesh was a patchwork of red scar tissue and exposed muscle. Her teeth, unnervingly neat and intact, contrasted sharply with the ragged edges of her wounds, creating a permanent grotesque snarl.
Her left eye had been replaced by a bionic, one with several augmatic sensors if he was any judge. The bionic glowed with an eerie red light, standing out against her natural gray eye.
The other side of her face wasn't much better. Her left ear was gone, replaced by a crude mechanical device that might've served as a vox caster or perhaps a bionic enhancement unit.
It took him a while to snap out of his musing about her appearance.
"Inquisitor," he greeted, injecting a forced sense of familiarity into his voice. "I'm here on behalf of Captain Hox."
Her face, or at least what was still intact, turned to give him a fleeting look before turning back to the dataslate in her hands.
"Commissar,"
A voice acknowledged in a somewhat mechanically neutral tone, reminiscent of the Tech-Priests' vox synthesizers or biomechanical replacements for vocal cords. Her bared teeth didn't part, which was a relief to Calenharn; otherwise, he would have been gawking at the sight.
"State your business."
Calenharn cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet her eyes... eye.
"Captain Hox is concerned about the nature of your presence onboard this vessel,"
he paused, adding hastily,
"and the... changes you've implemented. We need to understand the scope of your operations to ensure the vessel's purity and maintain order."
The Inquisitor's augmented eye whirred slightly as it refocused on him. As she set the dataslate down with deliberate motion, he noticed for the first time that her right arm was also bionic. Great, barely the start of the conversation and the woman was turning out to be less and less human with each passing second.
"The Captain's concerns are noted, Commissar. However, the nature of the Inquisition's operation is of no concern to her or her crew."
Calenharn's jaw tightened. He'd expected no less from an Inquisitor, much less someone who looked less like a human and more like an enginseer.
"The Captain insists on transparency to ensure that our efforts in the name of Him-on-Terra come to fruition."
Greybrand's natural eye narrowed, a hint of impatience creeping into her otherwise mechanical tone.
"Commissar, need I remind you that the Inquisition operates beyond the jurisdiction of the Commissariat and, by extension, the Navis Imperialis and the Astra Militarum. Our work is paramount, and the elimination of disruptions by heretical or loyalist forces alike is your duty. Your Captain will receive a full report once we reach the target location. Dismissed."
Calenharn knew what she meant was 'Frak off before I put a hole through your head,' yet he couldn't return to Hox without something more substantial or he would receive the same reception there as well.
"Is there anything,"
his voice dropped to a plead, although it made him sound an awful lot like an Ork trying to sing a lullaby,
"anything at all, that you can disclose about the potential threat we're facing? Anything that might help us support your efforts."
The Inquisitor's jaw twitched, and her bare teeth chattered almost imperceptibly—a semblance of a smile, perhaps.
"I believe the word I said was 'dismissed,' right?"
Calenharn took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure. He gave a stiff nod.
"Very well, Inquisitor,"
he replied, his tone measured.
"I will convey your message to Captain Hox."
Turning on his heel, he exited the room, the hab door hissing shut behind him. As he walked back through the transformed barracks. He wouldn't be making his way straight to the bridge, no frakin' way, to the warp these women and their petty fights.
He's getting shit-faced even if it cost him his head, preferably on the same stuff that the Inquisitor smashed on the Captain's head.
=*=
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone