Inquisitor, p.20
Inquisitor, page 20
“Excuse us, I'm sure!”
“Wise Adeptus,” interrupted a beige-clad novice...
The priest excused Jaq's party, wearing only a slightly puzzled frown. This might have deepened had he been able to concentrate on remembering that auditors had supposedly been about to commence an investigation—yet had vanished out of sight instead.
Their exit from that cathedral through a heavily guarded checkpoint was easier than entry would have been by that same route.
Yet beyond, a seemingly endless, grumbling queue of applicants twenty deep crept like some hugely elongated snail along a gloomy arcaded boulevard towards some distant office of the Administratum, seeking... what? A permit? An application form? An interview?
The most foresightful applicants hauled minicarts on which fellow applicants, who would return the favour, curled up snoozing. Hawkers of synthpies and glucose sticks and vendors of stale water toured the queue. Hunched sanitizers in khaki coveralls drove mobile lavatoria to and fro.
A Judge patrol team was maintaining surveillance from parked land-cars, while a bus of shocktroopers lurked in reserve in case of riot. Jaq spied their plumed helmets through the blue armoured glass.
A team of armed Monitors was working its way along the queue, using portable psychodiagnostic kits. Occasionally an applicant was arrested. One broke free and was shot.
“Out of the frying pan into the fire,” said Grimm. “We'll never squeeze our way past that lot.”
The queue was growing restive now; the Judges were readying their suppression shields.
Jaq's Tarot card tugged...
Chapter Eighteen
If viewed from low orbit through the foul atmosphere, the continent-spanning palace was a concatenation of copulating, jewel-studded tortoise shells erupting into ornate monoliths, pyramids, and ziggurats kilometres high, pocked by landing pads, prickling with masts of antennae and weapons batteries. Whole cities were mere chambers in this palace, some grimly splendid, others despicable and deadly, and all crusted with the accretion of the ages...
Common sense—and the High Priest card—insisted that Jaq and company eschew the option of renting a vehicle and taking to one of the multi-decked roads that bored through the palace. At precinct boundaries scrutiny teams would surely demand to scan electronic tattoos.
Thus instead they must detour on foot through a sprawling, rearing tenement-conurb of densely populated shafts and conduits, of crumbling many-times-braced and scaffolded urban cliffs that crowded closer than canyon walls under a grey steel roof held up saggingly by a suspensor field.
Even the scaffolding was colonized with tin shacks, torn tents, tattered plastic bedrolls. Here, the basic protoplasmic rump of humanity festered and simmered, in this breeding ground of those whose greatest dream was that their brats might become the lowest of adepts, hereditary slave-workers. Starvelings haunted the walkways like wraiths, seeking for recent corpses. Tattooed gangs roamed, armed with home-made blades. The susurrus of people was a sea of sound, often sinisterly hushed.
They stole rags to cloak themselves, they evicted beggars from ventilator ducts in which to shelter, on guard. They filched food from the starving.
Meh'Lindi killed; Jaq killed; and Grimm too.
For a while they seemed to be more distant than ever from their goal, as if backtracking. As day followed day they even reminisced nostalgically about the cathedral-laboratory and about the mall of scribes. Always Judges seemed to be in the offing, exercising random vigilance; much less often, the proud elite palace Custodians.
“Becoming quite the little nomad family, aren't we?” puffed Grimm on one occasion, after they had fled and hid.
Jaq stared at him. Oh yes, they were more than mere companions now. Disloyalty might have hovered—and the greatest, needful betrayal might yet await—nevertheless they pursued this last, seemingly interminable stage of their enterprise as family, of a kind.
Of a kind.
A spotlit zealot of a confessor was screaming through a megaphone at an arena packed with humanity, under a coruscated domed ceiling. The glittering shimmer above twinkled hypnotically, now forming the Emperor's face, and now potent runes, as if this was a planetarium—of devotion and of self-incrimination. The shifting lights and the booming words combined to work a spell such that the audience surged within itself, thrusting elements of itself forward, expelling individuals as a sickly body sheds cells.
These body-cells were heretics, or people who imagined they were heretics, or whose neighbours believed—at least in that setting—that they were corrupted.
Purity squads hauled such individuals away for execution, or perhaps for excruciation and redemption.
Jaq and family stood near a young couple who had, so they gathered, set out with two Imperial denarii to squander on a visit to a column-top cafe where real coffee from a starworld was served and which overlooked a vista of floodlit factories and shrines. The young woman had turned aside into the arena, enchanted by the vibrant words. Presently she began shoving against her young man, whispering bitterly to him—till in despair he squeezed forward to denounce himself.
Even Jaq felt the urge to betray himself. Meh'Lindi had to hustle Grimm away.
Jaq had never liked zealots. That night, after killing a guard, they broke into the residence of the preacher who had purged so many hundreds of hysterics (as well as, yes, accursed heretics). Meh'Lindi nerve-blocked and heart-stopped the hapless man and his family. Jaq and party bathed away the stink of days, feasted soberly, prayed, slept deeply. They thieved new clothes before pressing onward circuitously, evading the vigilance that was ever more evident, as omnipresent as the Emperor's spirit—yet also seemingly purblind, foxed by the intricate, degenerate immensity of that which must be overseen.
One does not tell exactly by what route—and by what chicanery—an enemy might slip from the outer palace into the inner palace. Oh no.
Some secrets must remain secret. Almost, they must remain secret from those people who themselves know them.
The journey of Jaq Draco and his companions from the number three south-eastern port to the Column of Glory took as long as their flight from the Eye of Terror had cost them in warp-time, and more.
At one time they masqueraded as Ciphers who had memorized messages of which they had no understanding, and who trotted along in a hypnotic trance.
At another time they disguised themselves as Historitors whose whole career was to revise subversive records, and to forge more reverend versions. Thus Jaq and companions counterfeited themselves.
They adopted the camouflage of a returning Explorator team, which, in a sense, they were.
Always lying, pretending, stealing—robes, insignia, regalia—and sometimes compelled to kill, acting as though they were some covert traitor terror squad pledged to deep penetration of the ultimate sanctum. Meh'Lindi, as a Callidus Assassin, was invaluable.
They passed increasingly amidst priests, battlemasters, Astropaths, scholastics, and the retinues and brood and servants and Cyborgs of these.
Once, as an extreme ploy, Jaq pretended to be an Inquisitor; and afterwards was shocked to realize that he was indeed one in reality.
Could they have tried—having come so far—to surrender to an officer of the Adeptus Custodes, thus to crave audience with a duty officer of the Emperor's Companions who guarded the throne room itself? Could they have revealed themselves?
The reach of the cabal might easily extend as far as an officer of those final warriors...
Besides, their journey of penetration had by now attained a bizarre dynamic all of its own, an almost self-sustaining momentum.
Fatigue became an anaesthetic. Ever-present anxiety must needs be deposited in some increasingly constipated bowel of the soul, where it mutated paradoxically into a stimulant.
Jaq felt as if he was forcing his way down into the depths of an ocean, where pressure measured itself in tonnes. Yet he and his companions trod a shining path—in a state of mind which alternated between dream and nightmare, and which had certainly ceased to be ordinary consciousness.
This path was luminous to themselves, yet obscure to strangers—as though their track was detached by a hair's breadth from reality; as though they were stepping along some twisting corridor, embedded in the palace, that nevertheless ran parallel to the true world of the palace.
Jaq's Tarot card led him like a magnet; and behind the High Priest with the hammer there now hovered in the liquid crystal of the card the shadow of a figure, enthroned, that was coming ever more closely to resemble the Emperor, as though that other card of the arcana was,fusing with Jaq's own significator card.
“We're in a trance,” Jaq murmured to Meh'Lindi once, while they rested. “A trance of guidance. A voice seems to say to me, Come.” He refrained from mentioning that other echo—voices-shadows of voices—seemed to disagree.
“We're pursuing the ultimate ideal Assassin's path,” she agreed. “The path of cunning invisibility. This is the peak of achievement of any Assassin of my shrine. Its goal must be our deaths, I think. For the paragon of Assassins would be she who, after a long and terrible quest of sly subterfuge, tracked down none other than herself, and slew herself impeccably.”
“Huh!” said Grimm, and spat.
Googol, for his part, hunched in a daze.
One does not describe the precise route they took, oh no! That would be wicked treason. It may be—it may just be—that the selfsame pathway they followed towards the Emperor's presence, that identical pattern, only existed for Jaq and his comrades during that particular slice of time, unrepeatable ever again.
Comrades. Four members of a strangely braided family... who had once been total strangers, and might yet become so again. Jaq, the father who made true love only once. Googol, the wayward junior brother. Meh'Lindi, the feral mother who carried within her not a child but the implanted lineaments of a monster shape. Grimm the abhuman man-boy.
Here now at last was savage grandeur. Here was the Column of Glory itself.
Under a vaulted dome so lofty that clouds had formed, a slim tower of multi-hued metals rose half a kilometre high. The suits of Whitescar and Imperial Fist Marines, who had died defending this palace nine thousand years earlier, studded that column. Within those shattered suits their bones still hung. Their skulls still grinned from open faceplates.
Crowds of young psykers, robed as acolytes, prayed there under the watchful gaze of their instructors. Soon those psykers would be led onward to be soul-bound, agonized and blinded, and consecrated for service.
Squads of tall helmeted Emperor's Companions stood to attention vigilantly, armed with laser-spears and plasma guns, black cloaks aswirl around naked torsos of tattooed corded muscle. Dissonant music—gongs, harps—boomed and twanged and rippled, matching the pulse of ancient, adored machinery. Incense reeked. Jaq was currently wearing the robes of a secretary to a Cardinal, Meh'Lindi was a battle-sister of the Adepta Sororitas, Googol was a Cardinal's majordomo, while Grimm was a tech-priest.
Two Titans flanked the great archway that led onward, serving as columns, one blood-red, one purple. High over the archway, in obsidian, the wide winged emblem of the Imperium was mounted. The bowed carapaces of these giant fighting robots sustained golden mosaic roofing in which, as Jaq knew, were buried the heavy macro cannons and multi-launchers of the Titans, just as their great cleated feet were locked underfloor. Purity seals and devout banners dangled.
By each side of the archway sagged a power fist which could seize and crush to liquid any unpermitted interloper. The other jointed arm of each Titan terminated in a massive, poised defence laser.
Inside the jutting armoured turtle-head of each Titan, rotas of warrior adepts of the Collegia Titanica had roosted on honour-guard during thousands of years. During thousands of years those two Titans had stood as columns, immobile, statuesque, awing all who approached. Yet in ultimate emergency their plasma generators could presumably power up rapidly from stand-by mode. Energy could flow through hydroplastics coupled to actuators. The electrically-motivated fibre bundles that served as muscles could tear their heaviest weapons free from the roof, bringing tonnes crashing down as a blockade. The robots could wrench their feet free. They could open fire devastatingly. During overhauls throughout the millennia the appropriate maintenance litanies would have been chanted faithfully.
Even on stand-by, Jaq suspected that those power fists might flex and pluck a body from the floor if the devotees in those turtle-heads saw fit...
“How did we get here?” whispered Googol, aghast with wonder.
“Per via obscura et luminosa,” replied Jaq. “By the shining, hidden path.”
Time twisted.
Time shifted.
Times was, and was not.
An eerie silver power flowed through Jaq, as though he had invoked it by those words. The power used his mind as its conductor. He sensed how the time stream itself was being negated and annulled.
Some psykers of the highest level could distort time thus. Not Jaq, hitherto.
Never Jaq.
Yet now...
Was he possessed?
By no daemon, certainly. But by the shining path itself. To his senses that path now appeared to be the track of a phosphorescent arrow through twisted geometries. The arrow had accumulated a charge at its point till that point could transfix the fabric of time itself, pinning time temporarily like a moth with a needle through its spine...
“Run now!” cried Jaq.
Did he and his abnormal family flit like hummingbirds which seem to flicker directly from one point in space to another, passing in and out of existence? Afterwards Jaq believed they must have darted thus—across the static, time-stopped Chamber of Glory, past the frozen Companions, and through the Titan Archway between the motionless menacing colossi...
And still the lustrous arrow impaled the tissue of time...
Throbbing pipes ribbed the walls of the vast throne room. The muscles of the room were thick power cables feeding stegosaurian engines. The air was spiked with crisp ozone and bitter myrrh, and ointmented with balmy, somewhat greasy fragrances. The holiest battle banners, icons, and golden fetishes flanked the arena of dedication where psykers were soul-bound.
Squads of Emperor's Companions who guarded that vast hall, a mob of tech-priests ministering to the machinery, a gaudy Cardinal Palatinate and his entourage, a red-robed High Lord of Terra and his staff—not to mention clusters of Astropaths, chirurgeons, scholastics, battlemasters: all were motionless.
The soaring, tube-ridged throne resembled some fossilized, metastasized sloth crafted by some mad master of the Adeptus Titanicus. This enormous, sacred prosthetic device—more precious by far than any gold-framed the wizened, mummy face of the God. Who looked not; though he saw through eyes of the mind, saw far beyond his throne room and his palace and the solar system. Who breathed not; yet he lived more fiercely than any mortal, enduring a psychically supercharged life-in-death.
“WE ARE CURIOUS,” came a mighty, anguished thought which itself transcended time. “WE HAVE FOLLOWED YOUR INTRUSION INTO OUR SANCTUARY, OUR ANTRUM AND ADYTUM.”
“My Lord...” Jaq sank to his knees. “I beg to report to you before I am destroyed. I may have uncovered a major conspiracy—”
“THEN WE WILL STRIP YOUR SOUL BARE. RELAX, MORTAL MAN, OR YOU WILL SURELY DIE IN SUCH PAIN AS WE ALWAYS ENDURE.”
Jaq breathed deeply, slowly, stilling the panic that fluttered under his ribs like a trapped bird. He surrendered himself.
A hurricane roared through his mind.
If the story that he had thought to relate were a tangled forest—and if each event in that story were a tree—then within moments all the leaves were stripped away from all of the trees, denuding them to bare wintry twigs, to a raw basic life without the foliage of memories.
He was drained of his story; that was sucked from him in a trice, all of those leaves whirling into the mind-maw of the Master.
Jaq gagged. Jaq drooled.
He was an imbecile, less than an imbecile.
He was less than a new-born baby.
He neither knew where he was, nor who he was—nor what it even meant to be a someone.
The Inquisitor sprawled. All that was known to his body was distress, the gurglings of the guts, breath, and light.
Light from afar...
Abruptly, all memory flooded back. On that instant, each leaf sprouted anew to recloak the forest of his life.
“WE HAVE PUT BACK WHAT WE TOOK AND TASTED, INQUISITOR.”
Trembling, Jaq regained his kneeling posture and wiped his lips and chin. The previous moments were a hideous limbo, unknowable, immeasurable. He was Jaq Draco again.
“WE ARE MANY, INQUISITOR.” The voice boomed in his mind almost gently—if gently was how an avalanche would sweep away a doomed village, if gently was how a scalpel might strip a life to the bare aching bones.
“HOW ELSE COULD WE RULE OUR IMPERIUM-?”
“AS WELL AS WINNOW THE WARP-?”
“HOW ELSE?”
The Emperor's mind-voice had dissociated into several voices, as if his great soul co-existed in fragments that barely hung together.
“SO DOES THE HYDRA THREATEN US-?”
“-IMPERILLING OUR GREAT AND AWFUL PLAN TO STEER HUMANITY?”
“DID WE OURSELVES DEVISE THE HYDRA?”
“PERHAPS IN A PART OF US, SINCE THIS HYDRA PROMISES A PATH?”
“SURELY A MALEVOLENT PATH; FOR HOW COULD HUMANITY EVER FREE ITSELF?”
“THEN WE MUST BE MALEVOLENT TOO; FOR WE HAVE EXPELLED OUR SENTIMENTALITY LONG AGO. HOW ELSE COULD WE HAVE ENDURED? HOW ELSE COULD WE HAVE IMPOSED OUR RULE?”
“YET BY VIRTUE OF THAT WE ARE PURE AND UNCONTAMINATED BY WEAKNESS. WE ARE GRIM SALVATION.”
Beside Jaq, the Squat twitched as if he had heard himself named. At that moment did the voice resonate within the little man? Jaq felt that he was listening to a mighty mind-machine argue with itself in a way that no Imperial courtier had perhaps ever heard before, and that no High Lord of Terra even suspected could occur. Were Meh'Lindi and Googol aware of the voices in the way that Jaq was? He sensed the fabric of time attempting to tear free, and guessed that not much longer of this strange stasis remained.
