It was a mark of the inquisitor’s confidence in his abilities, an accolade not lightly given. In a way, Pieter supposed, he ought to be flattered that Grynner called on him so often. Jorge Grynner’s formidable intellect was a weapon as potent, in its own way, as the storm bolter built into the power suit he wore on the rare occasions he deemed his personal intervention to be necessary, flensing truth from lies, ferreting out secrets so deeply hidden that no one else even suspected they were there, and he preferred to let it do so without distraction whenever possible. Nevertheless, as usual, he’d delegated the task of on-site investigation to one of his entourage without a second thought, preferring to remain in his quarters aboard the starship from which the shuttle had come, calmly assessing whatever information his operative uncovered. “I’m fine, inquisitor.” He spoke a little too quickly, before adding, “Thank you for asking.” Grynner knew about his susceptibility to void sickness, of course, as he seemed to know about everything, and his sympathy was undoubtedly genuine. Inquisitor Grynner would have tilted his head almost imperceptibly to one side as he spoke, his deceptively mild blue eyes blinking behind his spectacles, as though the answer might be both unexpected and informative. “Are you quite well, Pieter?” The voice in his vox was dry, precise, and carefully modulated, and even without seeing the face of his mentor the young interrogator was perfectly able to picture it. For a moment Pieter wondered if this was how He on Earth perceived it all, before dismissing the fleeting thought as both fruitless and bordering on the impious. From here, on its very fringes, he could see the Emperor’s holy demesne almost in its entirety, stark, clear and beautiful, burning like a beacon in the endless night of infinity.
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As the thin layer of armourcrys cleared again, the full extent of the galaxy was revealed to him, a refulgent spiral glowing with rich, warm light in a thousand subtle hues. He took a deep breath of recycled air, stinking of old sweat and flatulence, and triggered the attitude jets of the tiny shuttle, steadying the slow tumble that had begun to trouble his inner ear.Īs the stars around him steadied he felt the swelling tide of sickness recede, and sighed faintly with relief, misting the viewport ahead of him for a moment before the environmental unit’s machine-spirit recognised and compensated for the minute increase in humidity. In his time as an acolyte, and latterly as an interrogator, he had discovered reserves of mental and spiritual fortitude that still occasionally astonished him, but no amount of physical courage or faith in the Emperor could quell the rising nausea that assailed him every time he found himself in open space. Pieter Quillem felt sick, a sensation he was depressingly used to, despite years spent in the service of the Inquisition: a calling which, in the very nature of things, tended to strengthen the stomach by repeated exposure to abominations that would have left a more sensitive soul reeling. The stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and Promise of progress and understanding, for in the grimĭark future there is only war. Has been forgotten, never to be relearned. These are the tales of those times.įorget the power of technology and science, for so much It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untoldīillions. But for all their multitudes, they areīarely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from Sition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to
TheirĬomrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard andĬountless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inqui. The Space Marines, bioengineered super-warriors. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, VastĪrmies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. The psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Mighty battlefleets cross theĭaemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only routeīetween distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues Whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for Writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the For more than a hundredĬenturies the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden
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