Departmento Munitorum | Imperial Transport | Gauntlet |
The Immaterium, a churning sea of warp energy, held its breath. Not in the literal sense, for its cacophony never ceased. But here, in this forgotten corner of realspace, an unnatural stillness had descended. It was a silence that pressed upon the void like a corpse's shroud, a silence that spoke of a greater evil at work.
A lone vessel, the ungodly hulk known only as the 'Gauntlet,' pierced this oppressive quiet. Its hull, once a dull black, was now a canvas of pok-marks, marred by the corrupting touch of the warp. No glorious heraldry adorned its scarred surface, no holy iconography offered protection. Only the cold, unyielding gleam of adamantium plating, a scant defense against the hungering maw of oblivion, remained.
This was no majestic vessel of the Imperial Navy, no bastion of righteous fury. It was a hauler, a scavenger, its very existence an affront to the Emperor's divine light. Yet, within its tarnished belly, souls flickered, oblivious to the horrors that lurked just beyond the Gellar Fields. Should those shields fail, the Gauntlet would be no more than a pyre, its crew consumed by the ever-present hunger of the warp.
In the vast, uncaring expanse of the Imperium, the 'Gauntlet' was but a single thread, easily frayed and forgotten. Tens of thousands of such vessels plied the void, ungainly slugs crawling through the cosmic mire. One could find them clustered around any Emperor-Forsaken world blessed (or perhaps cursed) with a functional spaceport. They were a strange breed, those merchants, and the Rogue Traders even more so.
The Inquisition itself had lost track of when these lumbering hulks first entered service in the Emperor's grand design. The Gothic War, a testament to the Imperium's might, would have been a monument to failure without these workhorses of war. For every glorious battleship that rained holy fire, a dozen transporters toiled behind the lines, ferrying the sinew of war - food, fuel, weapons, and the wretched bodies of expendable conscripts - to the glorious battleships of the Navis Imperialis - all essential to sustain the Emperor's righteous fury.
The Imperium was a bloated organism marred by festering wounds, its insatiable hunger fed by the constant flow of pilgrims flocking to dubious shrines, raw ore, foodstuff, and profane luxuries and trinkets ferried by these civilian tubes. Their holds reeked of desperation and greed, filled with everything from foodstuffs to weapons of dubious quality - weapons that even the Ork Techno-barbarians would scoff at.
Yet, for all their service, these slow, lumbering beasts were as graceful as an Ogryn sporting bionic limbs. Their weapons cobbled together from half-forgotten schematics, were barely a step above the crude contraptions of greenskin Ork scum. One concession to vanity, however, clung to the Gauntler's hull beneath the towering spire, A single, cracked glass mural depicting the divine visage of the Emperor.
Beneath the colossal effigy of the Emperor, an Inquisitorial Sanctioned Navigator stared with unwavering focus at the stained-glass mural. Ywaes spent navigating the immaterium had etched themselves upon his visage. His eyes glowed with an inner light, a slightly unnerving observation when compared to the vestigial third eye nestled in the center of his brow that glowed like a malfunctioning pict-capture unit. No doubt a badge of honor for those born with the mutation required to chart the warp's treacherous currents.
His head was bare in a testament to his singular dedication to navigating the Gauntlet through the ever-present threat of daemonic incursion. The bandana that usually covered his third eye was discarded at his feet, no doubt done so during a particularly hairy warp transit that required an effort to keep the ship (and, his own hide) in one piece.
Flanking him were two Navy Troopers, undoubtedly Schola Progenium-trained, standing resolute with their hellguns held in a practiced grip, ready to plug the navigator with holdy las-bolts if he so much as twitched funny.
The hiss of venting air broke the silence as the automated bulkhead at the far end of the bridge cycled open with a pneumatic wheeze. Heavy footsteps thumped against the metal floor, solidifying into a crisp staccato of combat boots clicking rhythmically against the metal deck.
A figure strode through the bridge's entrance, not a gibbering daemon of Khorne, thirsting for blood, nor a bloated monstrosity bearing the mark of Nurgle. No serpentine beauty, or any, to herald Slaanesh's depravity. Even the possibility of him being a Tzeentchian pawn was dismissed for the moment, if he were a puppet of the Changer of Ways, his treachery wouldn't reveal itself until after they were at each other's throats, ripping each other's entrails out in the name of the Emperor.
No, this one, bore the mark of the Imperium - a silver breastplate adorned with a gaudy display of medals and honors. His rank, at least, was clear to all.
The man ignored the crew's scrutiny, his movements betraying no reaction to the scrutinizing gazes. On his hip hung a Gram Pattern service bolt pistol, a favored tool of the more daring members of the Imperial Commissariat. Its caliber was... .75, spatting out miniature tank rounds instead of stubber bullets or lasbolts.
The Commissar's arrival brought a flicker of relief to the troopers. Here, at least, was a familiar brand of terror. Their practiced indifference towards the Navigator seemed to melt away, Eldred, however, remained unfazed.
The Commissar rasped, his voice curt and suspicious. A narrow-eyed glare flickered over the old man before settling on the troopers.
He barked, his voice sharp.
"Report for routine inspection. Double time!"
The troopers' salutes were brisk, their boots echoing as they scrambled from the bridge. Only then did the Commissar turn his full attention to Eldred.
"The spooks inform me you are... clean."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suspicious.
"As I assured him I would be,"
Eldred replied, his voice steady despite the weight of the Commissar's scrutiny.
The Navigator cast one last lingering look at the Emperor's holy visage before his gaze returned to the inky expanse of space. The Commissar, tension bleeding out of him now that the Navigator was pronounced not to be a Chaos puppet, leaned a little less stiffly against the railing and glared at the void.
Eldred's lips began to move in a silent prayer, a rhythmic murmur that seemed to make his third eye pulse with energy. Across him, the Commissar observed his every movement with a detached professionalism, his hawk-like gaze narrowing in thought.
Finally, he broke the silence,
"Where'd the Captain scarper off to, anyways?"
Eldred cracked open his left eye, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features as if he was doing the Commissar a favor,
He replied in a tone a bit too eager to finish the conversation,
"With the Inquisitor, most likely filling out some blasted reports no doubt."
The grizzled Commissar chuckled, a dry rasp that scrapped against the bridge's silence,
"The new Inquisitor's still throwing a tantrum?"
The Navigator snorted, his third eye gleaming faintly in the dim light,
"What did she expect? A gilded throne and a retinue of Saints to follow her about? The whole Sector Command is strapped for resources! Whatever they scrapped off the bottom of the barrel is a pittance compared to what the Inquisitors usually get... No elite babysitters for her, that's for sure."
The Commissar chuckled again, a grim sound devoid of mirth,
"At least she got a couple of regiments for her little crusade. Not big on patience that bunch, especially new Inquisitors, they tend to be..."
His gaze flickered to Eldred for a moment before he finished his little observation,
Eldred shook his head, his three-eyed gaze finally peeling away from the inky void,
"One would expect a representative of the Inquisition to possess a more nuanced understanding of resource limitation plaguing this sector,"
He intoned, his voice measured and somewhat hesitant.
"She's a fiery young thing, that's all. All piss and promethium."
He conceded, his voice devoid of warmth,
"Or perhaps it's a nascent arrogance the size of a Titan waiting to be beaten out by Xenos or daemons."
Calenharn's humor turned sardonic,
"A surefire way to sour the Captain's mood with the first impression, wouldn't you say?"
The Navigator let out a low, weary groan.
"If you could mediate, Commissar. Ultimately, your objective aligns with theirs, wouldn't you agree?"
"Align? That's a generous interpretation and a naive one to the boot. One's a glorified hauler who disposes my troops like dice into a meat grinder, the other stirs the pot with righteous fury until all hell boils over. Cooperation? Highly unlikely. We tolerate each other, that's the best we can manage."
"Better that than an all-out war,"
"Inquisitors can hold a grudge for a long time, and believe me, they tend to make your life a living hell, not to mention the Captain of the vessel you are assigned to. If they continue bickering like a pair of gretchin', it'll be a coin toss to the Captain getting a bolter round between her eyes or the Inquisitor getting airlocked out the nearest hatch."
Calenharn rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven chin, clearly adhering to the Militarum protocols,
He conceded with a resigned sigh,
"I'll have a word with the Inquisitor. But only if you move your arse and go smooth things over with the Captain. You've known her longer, anyway."
Eldred's third eye narrowed visibly, a sarcastically surprised look on his face,
"What was that Calenharn? We've been rubbing shoulders in this rusted coffin for over a decade. Why the sudden faith in my manly charms?"
Calenharn snorted, but in his case, the sound could've been easily confused with a laugh,
"Let's face it, but the Captain and the Inquisitor are stubborn as grox in a cutlery store. They won't budge an inch no matter what we say. But,"
He hesitated for a second before making up his mind,
"By the Emperor, there's no harm in trying, is there?"
Eldred's grimace deepened,
"Not unless the Inquisitor decides your brain needs some extra ventilation and misplaced a bolter round through your noggins for interrupting her tantrum."
"I don't imagine she wouldn't be averse to the idea. But at this point, it's that or we're all dead. Frakk it, a Commissar's life ain't worth a grot's spit compared to the mission, is it? We're frakked to holy Terra and back anyway."
An oppressive silence descended upon the bridge, a suffocating weight settling between the two men. Their well of shared miseries, it would seem, had run dry again. Perhaps it was the inherent curse of their professions, or maybe it was the glint of something akin to barely contained hostility in the Commissar's steely gaze, but Eldred found himself utterly devoid of topics to engage Calenharn with.
The tense quiet was shattered by the familiar hiss of the automated bulkhead groaning open, followed by the rhythmic stomp of combat boots echoing off the steel deck. Both men pivoted in unison, their eyes landing on the newcomer. Sophia Hox, Captain of the Gauntlet, framed in the doorway, and by the Emperor's golden balls, she looked worse for wear... and decidedly sodden.
Captain Hox was a woman sculpted from hardship, her gaunt features framed by a mess of dark, matter hair. Eyes like bottomless pits reflecting the cold void and dark circles, like cruises beneath the hollow eyes. She wore the crimson, ivory, and gold uniform of the Navis Imperialis, which was a size too big and hung loosely on her shoulders, partially obscured by a scarlet cloak. But it wasn't the colors that drew the men's attention, but the pungent aroma clinging to the fabric marred by dark, viscous liquid - the unmistakable reek of cheap Amasec.
Calenharn rumbled, his voice leaning on the more cautious side of his tone. The Navigator, all three of his eyes snapping ope visibly, followed the Commissar's gaze... and wished he hadn't seen that.
The Captain's pseudo-uniform was in a sorry state that looked like someone just spilled a vat of recaf all over it, and it was still dripping down her legs. The bridge reeked like the Slaaneshi pleasure den he had the misfortune of investigating in his Forensic days - thick with the unmistakable tang of cheap Amasec. Calenharn's eyes followed suit as he got a whiff of the smell, his eyebrows disappearing in his hairlines.
Hox met their gazes, her dark eyes as lifeless as a moon orbiting a dead planet.
She mumbled a flat acknowledgment, devoid of warmth. A beat of silence followed then a curt nod as her only acknowledgment of the Navigator. If Eldrad hadn't known better, he'd swear she was staring straight through him, her mind lost in some Amasec-fueled dream.
Hox spun on her heel, her soaked cloak clinging tightly to her body. Staring intently at the duo of highly ranked Imperial Officers in their own right, she spoke in a voice as brittle as ice,
"Tell me, Commisar, can a loyal servant of the Throne dispatch an Inquisitor without sullying their name with the taint of heresy?"
"Technically, no, Captain,"
He rumbled, his gravelly voice counterpoint to her rasp,
"An Inquisitorial life extinguished by your hand would be a one-way ticket to summary execution and a damning stain of heresy as an act of open rebellion against the Throne on Terra itself. But,"
He continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper,
"The relationship between the Navy and the Inquisition is... tenuous at best. Both tend to steer clear of each other whenever possible. But here in the arse-end of nowhere, the odds of your little... indiscretion... reaching pious ears are... let's just say they're not insignificant."
Eldrad's eyes jumped, all three at once, he had little to no intentions of being branded a Heretic after a lifetime's service to the imperium, not when 'retirement' was so close. He studied Hox, calculating the probability of her splattering the Inquisitor's brain all over the deck, and decided it was high enough for him to step in,
"Err-motivation, Captain, is the key,"
"The nature of the Inquisitor's transgression is the key to your case, has she shown any blatant disregard for the vessel's safety or is it a personal matter? What transgression has she committed to warrant such... drastic... actions on your part?"
Hox remained rooted to the spot, her gaze darted between the Navigator and the Commissar. Finally, she broke the silence, her voice lax but with barely contained fury hidden somewhere deep,
"What had the bloody Inquisitor done now?"
She echoed the Navigator's question in simple words. Her fists clenched and unclenched rhythmically in contrast to her emotionless tone,
"Aside from wasting a perfectly good vat of Amasec on my head, that is."
A flicker of humor, dark and sadistic, danced briefly in her eyes. But it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the familiar emptiness,
She muttered, her voice barely a whisper above the engine's hum,
"to install proper airlock vents in the Inquisitorial quarters the next time we make planetfall."
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
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