.

Captain Newberry, the commanding officer of the Vigilant was only mildly surprised that Duke Cameron had submitted himself for judgment, and that the sisters had shown sufficient restraint that he could. In his experience the person being 'tested' failed, violently so and then it was a matter of rooting out those who might take issue with that failure before moving on to the next world. He had to admit, watching the camera feed from Palatine De La Concordia's armor that she was a unique specimen of her order.

He had welcomed the Duke on board and set him up in a guest cabin as opposed to the brig, but neither man was uncertain of how short a leash the courtesy concealed. Still, the Duke was quite genteel about things and was making a great show of putting the best face on an unpleasant situation. He had ordered all planetary defense forces to stand down and had actually echoed the commands with the Captain in the transfer of power. Captain Newberry had needed to refer to the manual for the procedures for voluntary release of power as it had never happened before in his experience. Thus far, it had been a text book operation, the planetary defenses having accepted the commandeering of Captain Newberry and the Vigilant, and not a man had been so much as injured.

Captain Newberry, of course, suffered under no delusion things were settled, this was the point where statistically speaking things generally started getting bloody.

For the better part of an hour, he fought with himself on whether or not to lower the alert level onboard. If he took the ship from battle stations, the crew would relax. They would breath a collective sigh of relief and possibly, miss some minor indication of a betrayal from the surface that would cost all of them their lives. On the other hand, he could keep them on combat status, a hair trigger from explosive violence and someone might make a mistake, or an innocent navigational error be interpreted as an attack and tens of thousands of innocent lives might be lost.

In the end, he decided to follow Palatine Constance's example and brought the ship down to tactical alert. Enough tip of the sword to respond quickly, hopefully enough restraint to stop a mistake that would lead to tragedy. Satisfied he had done what he could do, the captain left his bridge to go have a word with his steward. He, evidently, had a dinner party to plan.

Jennifer sat in the day room, an ammunition locker that had been given over to sisters for their use, stocked with reclaimed and donated furniture from around the ship. It was so that the Sisters of Battle could have a place to relax and unwind, which was what Jennifer was trying to do, staring at a data-slate, trying to concentrate on the biography of Saint Mina, but found she had read the same sentence five times. With a sigh of suppressed temper, she dropped the slate to the little table before the over stuffed chair she was sitting in and took her temples in her hands. “Buy you a drink?”

Jennifer looked up in surprise to find her squad leader, Gretchen, sitting in the chair next to hers, a bottle of beer on the table next to her slate. “Sister Superior?” she asked guardedly.

Gretchen brought her own bottle to her lips and took a sip. “We're both off duty, Jen, it's just Gretch.” Jennifer reached out and took the bottle, finding it icy cold to her touch, and a soothing, vaguely wheat taste as it washed over her tongue. She couldn't quite suppress a grimace at the bitterness of the beer and Gretchen smiled.

“Your first?”

“Third or forth,” she admitted. “I think. I've lost track.”

Gretchen's bottle tipped up into her mouth again. “You'll learn,” she declared around her sip. “Took me forever to like coffee.”

“Coffee is proof of the Emperor's love!” Jen retorted as she forced herself to take another sip, which was not quite as bitter as the first had been. “Listen, 'Supe, I know I fucked up, today...”

“I didn't have to write any reports,” Gretchen replied. “I call that a win.” She paused as she took a sip of beer to examine Jennifer's face. It was a bit Tomboyish, more square than oval and she still had the bowl haircut of having graduated from being a novice, died white to symbolize the purity of her vows and soul. Many Sisters continued to dye their hair white, but Gretchen liked that their Palatine wore her natural hair color and decided to do the same herself. She already dark roots beginning to show under the milk white. Jennifer was still staring at the floor, but in reality someplace deep in her mind, the bottle clutched loosely in her fingers. “Something you want to talk about, Jen?”

The blue eyes came up, a haunted expression behind them. “How bad did it get for you guys, 'Supe? After I got separated, I mean?”

Gretchen shrugged a little dismissively. “Oh, we had a interesting dance with a Leman Russ the traitors got a hold of, but Ruth was the only one injured, and not badly. Why?”

Jennifer's face turned back to the floor. In a dull voice, she said, “When that wall collapsed, I tried to make my way around it, but the rubble was impassible. So I went out east, but the further out I went, the worse it got until I had completely lost sight of you guys. Eventually, I linked up with a Sister Hospitaller named Melissa. She was moving across the battlefield looking for wounded and so I figured I could do some good keeping her alive to help others.”

“I read your report, Jen,” Gretchen told her softly. “You did fine.”

The bottle tipped up for a long swallow and this time Jennifer's face didn't grimace. “After an hour, there was this huge explosion and out of this collapsed section of road comes a Sister clinging to the jump pack of a Space Marine. I had no idea how she'd gotten it off one of the dead Space Marines, or got it working, but it was the most hardcore thing I'd ever seen. She couldn't hold onto it for long, but it got her out of the depression before she lost her grip. She fell about ten feet from us, both legs broken, out cold and covered in some nasty something. I almost threw up from the smell, but nothing bothered Melissa. She just got to work on her while calling in an evac.”

Her face turned up to Gretchen, pale and almost vacant. “That's when this squad of possessed Heretics found us, or caught up to us. I think they were chasing Palatine De La Concordia. Have you ever fought possessed, Gretch?”

“I was there, Jen.”

“Yeah. They, they just keep coming, you know? I shot them and the Bolter blew them to pieces, and...and the pieces would keep coming...” She paused and took another sip. “Palatine Constance had a bolter/flamer combo gun, still attached to her armor. I grabbed it and...” She took a drink and whispered, “Humans smell terrible when they burn.”

Gretchen reached out and put a consoling hand on Jennifer's shoulder. “Don't think of the ones you had to kill,” she told her earnestly. “Think of all the ones you saved by rooting out the Chaos and destroying it.”

“I was back there, Gretch,” Jennifer whispered. “This morning? In the hall, and the door opened; it wasn't that beautiful hallway. It wasn't a cushy office and some idiot in a suit, it was one of those monsters dressed up like a human wearing someone's skin and I could smell the bodies burning...” Gretchen took the beer from her squad mate and gathered her into her arms in a fierce hug. Her shoulders shook and Jennifer started to cry. Gretchen gently stroked her hair and let her sister cry.

“I'm here, sister,” she whispered in Jennifer's ear. “I'm here.”

From her kit locker, Constance gazed at her neatly folded Day Service Habit and wished she could wear it. It was a simple, humble garment and that matched her desire to be simple and humble, but, alas, it was not suitable for a formal dinner with both the Captain and the Duke. Fortunately, it was not so formal as to demand her dress uniform, so, with a sigh of regret, she dug deeper into her locker to pull out her Convent Service Habit. It was the more formal version of the Day Service, intending to give the impression of a Sister in her armor, it was in three layers, like the armor it affected. The base as a simple, black body suit that was close fit for her arms and torso, but in culottes below. Over this was the red Battle Habit with it's bell, three quarter sleeves and loin cloth bottom. Finally, there was a sleeveless black doublet in velvet that buttoned up the front with a high, rounded mock turtleneck collar to imitate the gorget of her armor.

Around her hips, at the bottom of the doublet was a Rosarius and Inquisitorial Rosette that hung at her left hip to denote her rank and warrant. Normally, on her left breast would ride the white Maltese Cross and Heart indicating her membership of the Order of the Valorous Heart. These had been moved to the bell sleeves of her Battle Habit, under the fleur-de-lis of the Adepta Sororitas to show that she had seen combat as member of that Order, but her Mission and Order Famulous had yet to receive it's official heraldry from the Convent Sanctorum on Ophelia VII, which was her Master Convent.

Finally, there was the collection of Medals and awards she had earned over the years. There were many tears fallen over this collection of precious metal and simple cloth, but there were happy memories as well. Certain of everything being in it's place by a final check in the mirror, Constance sighed and left the small, but coveted single cabin the Captain had given her and directed her steps towards the Wardroom.

As it happened, the door to Duke Cameron's cabin opened just as she was drawing abreast of it and the Duke himself stepped out. As he was still a 'guest', he had been allowed to have his valet pack some changes of clothing for his stay aboard the Vigilant and was dressed in the green frock coat of Thuria's Home Guard detachment. It was certainly not in want of braid or medals, but was not as garish as some versions Constance had seen. In fact, she thought the jodhpurs and high boots the uniform seemed to favor let him cut quite a dashing figure. He caught sight of her and gave another of his elegant bows. “My lady Constance, a pleasant evening to you!”

Constance allowed her self to smile and preformed the Sign of the Aquila. “May the blessings of the Emperor shine upon you, Duke Cameron.”

“Humbly, my lady, I beseech you for the honor of your escort to dinner.”

De La Concordia glanced at him sidelong but took the elbow he offered with one hand and the pair continued their journey. “I presume you were loitering in your cabin hoping to catch me as I came by to pry information about your Loyalty Test from me?”

The Duke had the grace to be self deprecating. “Am I so obvious?” He chuckled and made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Well, I am understandably curious.”

“Your unflinching cooperation stands you in excellent favor, your grace,” Constance allowed. “I imagine the outcome to be to your liking, but we must still observe the proprieties.”

“Of course!” he acquiesced. “And in expectation of such golden outcomes, I already have my command staff looking for a suitable place your Mission can headquarter yourselves.”

“I'm glad the circumstances of our meeting will not strain our relationship unnecessarily.”

The Marine, not an Astartes, but an Imperial Sailor Under Arms, standing guard by the wardroom door came to attention as they approached, then opened the hatch for them. Inside was Captain Newberry, looking very impressive in his Navy Uniform, not as dressy, perhaps, as Duke Cameron's but then, Duke Cameron didn't have a hundred thousand crewmen at his beck and call presently.

Nathaniel Newberry did.

The Captain was in the process of pouring himself a glass of tea from the small beverage mess to the side of the room as the stewards were still laying out the table. “Why Captain, you've out done yourself!” Cameron complimented, but Captain Newberry was nonplussed.

“Merely a trifle,” he retorted, sketching a shallow bow to Constance that she returned with a curtsy. “My lady must forgive us for being such terrible hosts.”

“I wouldn't dream of holding such honest effort in the service of the Emperor against you, Captain,” she replied. “In point of fact, I must agree with His Grace that you set a magnificent table.”

The Captain's great handlebar mustache twitched in what might be considered a smile. “I'm sure the men will be gratified by your delight, my lady. Here, allow me,” he stepped over to the foot of the table and held out the chair for her. Constance allowed herself to be seated, then turned her goblet over for the steward to fill with ice water.

“Will your officers be joining us, Captain?” she asked, noting the table to be quite small, and had only three place settings.

“Unfortunately, no, my lady,” Newberry told her. “I thought it best, considering where our conversation may drift, to keep the fewest ears in the room.”

“A wise precaution,” Cameron declared as he took the place at Constance's left hand, leaving the right for the Captain. “So, tell me, what of the rest of the Galaxy?”

“Oh, about what you would expect,” Constance replied. “Wars, rumors of wars, famine, deprivation, with little pockets of hope and good living.”

The goblet of ice water stopped halfway to the Duke's lips. “Oh, surely all is not so hopeless?”

The steward wheeled out a dish of salad and began to fill bowls. “His Grace has the benefit of living on a relatively remote world in a peaceful sector,” Captain Newberry declared, taking up the pepper mill and offering it first to Constance.

“Four months ago I was fighting a Chaos Cult on a world that looks very much like yours from space,” Constance said as she worked the pepper mill over her salad. “Have you ever had the misfortune to meet someone Chaos Possessed, your grace? They consume their victims from the inside out, knowing all of their memories and thoughts so that they can taunt and twist the knife to loved ones they murder and befoul. Wearing their loved ones' skin and face to torment them with the very love of their victim. They can only be killed with fire.”

The Duke's face paled a bit. “I...I had the fortune to give my two years of service in the Naval Forces.”

“Local?” Newberry asked. “Of course, lucky.”

Wren's chin rose a bit. “I did my duty and was ready to fight...”

Constance picked up a roll and began to butter it. “Have you ever seen what a bolter does to a man, your grace? We flame the possessed because the bolter will blow them into pieces, but the Demon that has possessed them can control every little piece of viscera. Little bloody bits of human, trying to force their way down your throat to choke you to death.”

The Duke kept his composure with remarkable aplomb. “I see I am in the presence of heroic veterans of our Emperor. I hope you will both forgive me the tragedy of my birth.”

Constance took pity on the Duke, laid her fork down and reached out to put her hand on his. “Your pardon, your grace, I hope you'll forgive an old pair of war horses a bit of hazing.”

He smiled and inclined his head. “The fault is mine, my lady. In my eagerness to endear myself to a pair of bonafide war heroes, I misspoke. No man can truly desire to see what you both have, but I hope you can admit that every man feels the zeal to do his duty.” He picked up his wine glass that the steward filled for him. “In fact, I raise my glass to the both of you and am thankful to have such paragons here to test me.”

The Captain's mustache twitched and humor and he hid it behind his napkin. “You may thank Palatine De La Concordia for her remarkable restraint.”

“Among many other virtues,” the Duke added as he raised his glass again.

“Your grace is completely without shame,” Constance scolded.

“Proudly!”

One of the great luxuries of the Mars-Class Cruiser, to which the Vigilant belonged, was that they were general purpose vessels, meant to operate independently or in small task forces for long duration. As such, they had a bit of everything, fighter wings, assault craft, ship to ship weapons, ship to surface weapons and, interestingly enough, a library. The small collection of books were backed up electronic storage of just about the collected wisdom of mankind, but that there was actually a section of books was a fact the crew were quite proud of.

Having bid goodnight to her fellow diners, Constance had not felt particularly sleepy and, to keep her mind from other idles, she decided to go to this library and accomplish some research. Her palm print gave her access to the room, which was dark and seemed to be made of darkly stained wood book shelves. This was on the outer edge of the ship, and huge, peaked Gothic windows of transparent aluminum. Thuria was a magnificent view out that window as the ship had settled into a Geostationary orbit above New Atlanta. Night had just fallen and the city was lit up in the shadow of the Terminator.

Despite the windows, it was one of the most heavily armored areas of the Vigilant.

Constance walked over to the window, captivated, by the view until a deep, somewhat electronic sounding voice asked, “May I help you?” The voice had a clipped, precise accent and it's High Gothic was flawless. She turned from the window to behold a servitor, a Servo-Skull, floating on its anti-gravity field at conversational distance. It was a human skull with heavily modified cybernetics installed to it, with a single red electronic eye. From the bottom, where the jaw would have been hinged, a parchment roller had been installed and two small robotic arms clutched an ink well and a quill. Carved into the forehead of the skull was the Aquila and 'Faithful Servant' in High Gothic.

“You are the librarian?” she asked the hybrid device.

The skull dipped slightly on its anti-gravity field, perhaps its version of a bow. “I am Baldermort, your humble scribe,” the voice replied from the little speaker in the nasal cavity of the skull. “How may I be of service, my lady?”

“I wish to know more about House Wren,” she told the mechanical slave. “Specifically, how long they have been in control of Thuria and the service record of His Grace Duke Cameron.”

“It was the painting on the wall,” the skull replied in it's melodic voice. “The painting of his ancestor, the Illustrious Agand Wren, who had inspired him, who had cast the long shadow the boy stood in. For in the Thirty Eighth Millennium of Man Agand had come to Thuria to claim a wilderness and build a home for his family. The boy had lived his entire life in the shadow of the Great Man who had conquered a world, heard stories and lessons of battles won and dangers braved two thousand years before his birth. Yet he was stymied, held back from anything more adventurous than attending to the call of nature by himself. He yearned to prove himself, to step out of the shadow of his great ancestor, only to be coddled and protected; safe and sound, far from harm. 'He was the heir,' he was told, time and again. 'He must not allow accidents to happen.'

“Of course, he grew restless, chaffing under so contrived and controlled an existence. He rebelled in the only manner and place left to him, the bedroom. He carved a swath through the ladies of noble birth and less than alike that was legendary. In the end, he earned a reputation of a philanderer, but this too was hushed up and winked at. Cuckolded husbands and enraged fathers who had to smile and bow to him. His 'service' to the Empire was a bit of theater for public consumption that even he recognized; still he did his duty with an exactness and diligence that was grudgingly congratulated. Then, his duty done on paper, if not in fact, he was released from service, he took up the reigns of power and perhaps finally, realized just how much truly rested on his shoulders.”

“Yet, under the brow of the man, the just and fair minded ruler that Duke Cameron has become, there was always the boy, who looked up at the painting and dreamed of being worthy of the very blood that flowed through his veins; worthy to be immortalized in his own painting for those, not yet gotten or born to look up to one day and admire. End quote.”

Constance felt her eyebrow ascend her forehead. “Are you always so theatrical, Baldermort?”

If possible, the electronic voice sounded just a touch smug. “In the pursuit of service to the Emperor's Faithful, no race is too tiring to run, my lady. The above quotation was from The House of Wren: The Official Record by the Adeptus Administratum. I would be honored to transfer a copy to your Data-Slate.”

“Please,” she ordered. “Now, I would like to see the Duke's service record.”

The holographic projector in the left eye lit up and displayed the file to float in ghostly green before her. “It is an exact, if short record, my lady,” the librarian replied. “His Grace served the required two years in the Imperial Military, attached to two vessels of the Thuria Sector Defense Fleet, the cruisers Atlanta and Dahlonega. He requested transfer to any Imperial Fleet vessel and was denied six times, twice to be transferred to any infantry unit, both denied. He served as Weapons Officer on the Dahlonega and the Executive Officer of the Atlanta. Both commanders commended his work and his zeal to do his duty.”

“Is it just me, Baldermort, or does this record seem uncommonly short and sanitized?”

The skull was quiet for a moment. “I note it has exactly the correct number and length of documents for a military record.”

“Yes, but no attached letters from commanding officers, no notations to personnel, no attached reasons why the requested transfers to be denied.”

“I should think such reason to be rather obvious, considering.”

Constance rubbed her chin in thought. “Maybe. How long would it take you to interface with the Administratum and request a full copy to compare to the local?”

“I should have information for you by ships morning, my lady.”

“Thank you, Baldermort. I would also appreciate your discretion in this matter. Please come directly to my cabin with your results.”

The skull's blank face could not convey expression, but its tone of voice changed slightly to do so. “You distrust the ship's internal communications equipment, my lady?”

“I'm old fashioned,” she replied with a gesture at the ink well and quill in the grip of the Servo-Skull's arms. “Surely you can appreciate that?”

“Of course. How else may I be of service?”

“No, that's all for now. Thank you.”

The skull dipped on it's field again. “I have been Baldermort, your faithful scribe.”

The air of the arena was filled with shouts, screams and cat calls of the assembled war bands. The raucous cheers and vile leers were equally ignored by Shanaz as he doggedly blocked Grends blows, taking everything the big chief could fling at him. The make shift arena's air was thick with the stink of so many Orks, the smell of blood, viscera and urine as Shanaz continued to draw Chief Grends after him, throwing up a muscular arm to block the chief's blows and always smiling. Shanaz could see the chief's temper starting to rise as his blows were blocked, but his challenger refused to swing a blow of his own.

For his part, Shanaz was focused on the chief, ignoring everything else so that he could keep the big Ork from landing a solid blow; to continue to wear him down. The Gretchin and Snotlings were screaming, to say nothing of the Orks from both Grends war band and Shanaz's own, but Shanaz was a veteran of thousands of duels and he knew how to defeat an opponent bigger and stronger than he was. Not that Shanaz was small, by any stretch of the imagination. He was, in fact, as tall and nearly as wide as a Space Marine, between seven and eight feet tall, with hard, leathery green skin which was crisscrossed with scars, pockmarks and even a parasite or two. His massive physique was even more impressive for the hard, extremely muscular and solid frame. His arms are long and heavily thewed, knuckles almost scraping the floor as he lopes around, and his gnarled hands end in taloned fingers capable of tearing an enemy's throat out with ease.

First one, then a second of Grends blows missed and the war boss roared in frustration, but Shanaz could tell, it was time. Suddenly he lunged forward, easily side stepping Grends reflexive punch and sent his massive fist crashing into the War Chief's jaw. It broke with a thunderous snap and sent teeth and broken tusks flying into the crowd who gleefully grabbed and clawed at them. The right was followed by a left that hit like a meteor on the other side, breaking the jaw again. Blood and spittle were flung and Grends destroyed jaw hung by the muscle and skin of his face like a gristly, gaping grin as he roared in pain and outrage.

“'ere we go! 'Ere we go! 'Ere we go!” Shanaz's followers began to shout as he stepped into his opponent's guard and began to punish ribs and soft tissue alike with his gnarled, calloused fists. Hearing these ribs snap and his follower's chants spurred Shanaz on as blow after blow rained down. Grends stumbled, his nose a hopeless ruin, one eye swelling shut and his jaw drooling blood and spittle as he fell back onto his ass, gazing up at his death.

Shanaz saw fear in Grends' one remaining eye as he reached down and picked up his victim by the throat. Holding him up high, Shanaz roared in triumph as his name was chanted by every Ork in the arena, then he held out his knee and brought Grends down onto it with all of his strength. The War Chief's spine snapped, echoing in the sudden silence and his last cry of pain came out a drowning gurgle as his lungs filled with blood. “I am Chief!” Grends roared as he dumped the body of his foe into the dirt of the arena and beat his chest with his own fists.

“War boss Shanaz! War Boss Shanaz!' the Orks chanted as he reached down and ripped his dying foe's head from his body with his bare hands and held it aloft.

“Shanaz is War Boss!” he roared at the crowd. “And Shanaz says we go to fight!”

Swords, axes and bare fists beat on shields and armor as Shanaz reached into the corpse of Grends to soak his hands in his foe's blood and smeared it across his chest.

“Shanaz! Shanaz! Shanaz!” the Orks chanted working themselves into a frenzy for the coming battle.

It wasn't as easy as merely decapitating the former chief of Grends' war band, nor had Shanaz expected it to be. Grends' lieutenant hadn't bothered with a formal challenge, but had just launched himself at Shanaz. The new War Boss hadn't bothered with subtle for him, merely catching an arm as he fell and threw him to the ground. Then, held down with one of Grends' feet, he pulled his challengers arm off and beat him to death with it.

Two others started forward, but the band's collective consciousness had decided Shanaz had won. The two last hold outs of Grends were seized by the Orks around them and pulled apart. Shanaz thumped his chest a final time, then turned and shuffled out of the arena stretching his neck to loosen the muscles tense from the battle. He caught sight of the chief Gretchin of the now Late Grends and ambled over.

The Gretchin are smaller and less tough than their larger Ork brothers, with bald, bulbous heads and huge ears and noses and long, grasping fingers ready to steal anything not nailed down. This particular one had been Grends' favorite, and wore ridiculously ragged bits of a uniforms and braid ripped from fallen foes to show off his status. “Start the movers,” Shanaz ordered it. “We go to war.”

“'Er, 'ere we going, Boss?” it had the temerity to ask.

Shanaz plucked a dagger from his belt and hurled it at the map of the local area of space, sinking into the moon of a human world he had long desired to ransack. “There,” he growled at the Gretchin. “Full speed!”

“Tally ho!” the Gretchin declared, scrambling to obey his new leader.

“This is not what we were supposed to be doing!” Jonas Merle thundered, his face flush with anger and his gestures wide and sweeping. “ Cameron Wren is a traitor!” he shouted, bits of spittle arching from his lips and Constance was glad the desk in her quarters was between herself and the enraged Inquisitor.

“So you keep saying,” she replied evenly. “And yet I find no fault with His Grace, or his actions.”

Behind her, she felt Fiona cross her arms and frown. “The records prove the Duke sent in the pistol to the Imperial Armories, where it disappeared. How did you get it?” Almost reflexively, Jonas reached for his Rosette to brandish his authority.

“Do not dare to defy the Inquisition...!” he started, but, Constance merely reached down to the Rosarius around her waist and pulled up her own Inquisitorial Rosette.

In a deathly quiet voice, she said, “You forget, Inquisitor, I am also a member of the Adeptus Ministorum, Ordo Militant and commissioned within the Ordo Hereticus. So put your Rosette back on your chest, lower your voice and address me as at least your equal, if not your better, or by the Golden Throne you will discover what a bolter does to a man first hand. I have spent thirty years battling the Emperor's enemies, how many battlefields have you walked?”

The red drained out of the man's face and swallowed carefully. “We...we all serve the Emperor, in many ways, in many duties...”

Fiona rolled her eyes and snorted, “Coward,” under her breath, but loud enough that her Palatine heard it and chose to over look it.

“Now,” De La Concordia declared evenly. “With that settled, let us move on to the Emperor's business. You charged our order to root out Heresy in House Wren, and thus far, I can only report there is none in evidence. In point of fact, I find House Wren has been steadfastly loyal for more than two millennia! I have found a world studious in it's commitments to the Empire of Mankind and actively attempting to do more with efforts and collaborations with other loyal organizations to improve our war material against our enemies. If you have evidence of treason and heresy, bring it forth and let us see it!”

“I cannot...” he started and this time Constance rolled her eyes.

“So you have none!”

Jonas became more firm. “No, I am oath bound! I cannot speak of what I have learned!”

Constance drummed her fingers on the desk. “And I am not willing to execute what appears to be a model subject on your say so! Stalemate.” She sighed and turned over her shoulder. “Sister Vander, kindly inform the convent to prepare to disembark the Vigilant. We have tied her up for too long as it is.”

“Palatine,” she replied as she made her way out.

“You're giving up?” Jonas demanded.

Constance sniffed and stood from the chair. “No, I am carrying out my mandate to found a convent Famula. Searching for corruption and guiding House Wren is a part of that mandate. Unless you can give me proof, my hands are tied.”

“What can I do to convince you?” he asked after a long moment of thought. “That does not violate my oath?”

She resisted her impulse to be flippant, and actually considered for a long moment, finally coming to the conclusion that her original response was actually accurate. “Nothing,” she declared firmly. “I see nothing to validate your accusation and I am unmoved by claims of confidential evidence I must give weight to sight unseen.”

“Then I must go with you,” he declared.

“You take your life in your own hands, then,” she told him. “I can conceal your identity here on the Vigilant, but only a fool would not be able to see who had slandered him with you accompanying us. What's more, the Duke has a right to seek redress against you. I won't shield you from the consequences of your actions.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What if...what if he wasn't able to see me?”

The Palatine frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What if he couldn't see the Inquisitor standing out in a group of Sisters Sororitas?”

Constance crossed her arms in annoyance. “The Duke is no fool, Jonas.”

The Inquisitor's face went cagey. “Of course, of course, but is he so vigilant that he can pick out one sister among many?” Seeing the confusion on her face, he pressed on. “I could hide in plain sight, as just another sister of your convent. There's enough medical technology on board to...”

Constance's hand whipped out with the speed of years of training, giving him no time to react. Her attack was instinctual, however, merely an open handed slap instead of a closed fist, which saved his life. As it was, the slap left a mark on his face and landed with sufficient force that he stumbled and fell to the deck. Towering over him, her face was flush with suppressed rage and now her fists were clinched. “Do not dare to give voice to the blasphemy you indulge in that foul mind of yours!” she hissed. “Allow you to disgrace a habit, to dishonor my convent with your mockery of our vows and traditions all so you can continue to slander a man I suspect more and more is entirely innocent? I will kill you with my bare hands first!”

“I am within my rights and the powers of the Inquisition!” he pleaded. “I am allowed to don any uniform of any organization to root out the Emperor's Enemies!”

“The Mandate of the Adepta Sororitas is bound by the Order Passive!” Constance snarled. “The Ecclesiarchy is forbidden to have men under arms! I will not allow you to disgrace us in some kind of vulgar...charade!”

The Inquisitor scrambled to his feet. “I am bound by my oath! I have the right and power to don any uniform, to purport myself as a member of any organization to fulfill my mandate! You may not deny me under the law!”

Constance clinched and unclenched her fists for a long moment, then with a voice tense and taunt with the effort of restraining herself, she pointed a finger like a bayonet and commanded, “Do not move, from that spot until I return.”

That dealt with, she whirled out of her quarters with all the fury of a hurricane. As she made her way through the ship, crewmen scrambled to get out of her way until she arrived at the ship's communication center and pointed at the senior tech. “You! Stay where you are! The rest of you, clear this compartment!”

“Aye, aye!” the crew acquiesced, scrambling over each other to obey.

Alone with the now very nervous Petty Officer, Constance dogged the hatch shut and secure before she ordered, “I want a secure link to the Order of the Healing Heart, and I want it without any record or transcript. My authorization code is...”

The young woman nodded eagerly. “I understand, Palatine. One moment.”

With an effort, Constance reigned in her temper and laid a consoling hand on the tech as she worked. “Forgive me for my fit of temper, Petty Officer. My ire is not with you.”

“Thank you, Palatine.” She looked up, after checking in her instruments, her face a bit worried. “We're too far for real time communication, I'm afraid. If you'd like to record your message, I'll send it. And I'll see to it the reply isn't screened or recorded when I bring it to you.”

Constance smiled at the younger woman. “Your diligence honors me. Proceed.”

She took a pair of ear plugs from the carrier on her uniform and put them in. “I won't be able to hear you, so just touch my shoulder when you're done, Palatine. The camera is right there. Recording...now.”

De La Concordia sighed to order her thoughts and then looked directly into the indicated lens of the camera. “Reverend Mother, Greeting. This message should be encoded Security Able Seven, I repeat Able Seven. I send you this in request for guidance to resolve conflicting directives. The Inquisitor whom you assigned me to assist now seeks to don the habit of a Sister and pass himself off as one of us to hide while he seeks proof of Duke Cameron's treason. I must inform you, my own investigations exonerate the Duke and House Wren. I have found nothing but exemplary service and loyalty. The Ordo Hereticus does give him the right to purport himself as a member of any organization, but by pretending to be a Sister, he violates the Order Passive. I do not, myself, have the authority to deny him, but I cannot risk a crime that may dishonor our entire order either. My instinctive reaction is to kill him, but I will take no action without your direction. I remain, your obedient servant, Constance De La Concordia, Palatine, Adepta Sororitas.”

She touched the Petty Officer on the shoulder and the tech worked her console. “I'll have your answer as soon as it comes in, Palatine.”

Ruth sat at the table and stared at the collection of parts on the top of it. She had them all laid out, just like the diagram she had been taught how to field strip and clean the bolter so long ago. She picked up each piece, gently wiping away what now was only imaginary grime as she tried to come to grips with her reaction to the extraction of Duke Wren. It bothered her how...tense...she allowed herself to use the word to describe how she had felt in the hallway. She put the bolt carrier on the table and contemplated her dark brown fingers next to the shiny metal.

She sighed and frowned, her thoughts deep inward. It bothered her how tense being in that beautiful hallway in her armor had made her. She hadn't been so wound up charging that tank the heretics had gotten a hold of. It was remarkably straight forward; weapons free shoot at them, they're shooting at you. Everything that wasn't a Sister or one of the Guardsmen with you was a target.

It was simple.

It was everything that extracting the Duke had not been. Hold your fire, defend yourself, but don't start it, the civilians were to be protected, until they weren't. Till they tried to kill you. You didn't know who was who or what was what until you were already taking fire. And Mary had been right, they were giving them time to go and get the toys that could cut through their armor.

Minute after minute after minute until someone could pop around a corner with a heavy bolter or a recoil-less rifle or something worse that if it couldn't defeat the armor might still kill her just from the transference of force. “Fuck this shit,” she muttered, picking up the bolt carrier again and making sure the firing pin was springing properly before mating it up with the bolt and stuffing them back into the receiver. With sharp, practiced moves she had the bolter reassembled and checked that the hold open was working on an empty magazine.

Straight forward soldiering was easy. Here's the target, guns free, go and accomplish it. Ruth worried she wasn't up to this kind of might be/might not be kind of war.

“Attention on deck,” someone ordered from behind her. Ruth returned the weapon to the table as she stood and turned to find Sister Vander in the hatchway. She pulled the hatch shut and came into the day room more fully. Ruth fought to keep the frown off her face, as here was yet another example of what weirdness this assignment was about. As an Elohiem Advance, she should outrank Sister Vander, but she didn't doubt for a moment that was nothing like the reality of things. Sister Vander was Palatine De La Concordia's second in command in all but technicality.

It wasn't that Ruth didn't like Sister Vander, it was obvious she was Ruth's kind of Sister. Go out, purge the heretics and be done with it, that was the kind of service Ruth expected. Of course, she had been through and survived a rite of repentia, which made her the most bad ass Sister Ruth knew of. She wasn't able to give it further consideration as Sister Vander was speaking. “Sisters, Palatine De La Concordia has ordered me to instruct you all to pack your gear and prepare to disembark. Our mission is starting now.”

“When are we leaving, Sister?” Mary asked her.

Fiona shook her head. “Unknown. Probably tomorrow after breakfast as it's after dark local on the planet. Get your gear prepped and stand by for further orders.”

Finally, Ruth made a decision and stepped forward. “Sister Vander?”

“Yes, um, Ruth, wasn't it?”

“Yes...ma'am,” Ruth replied. “I was wondering, is our entire tour going to be wondering when the population is going to start shooting at us? Are we going to be walking around with targets on our backs, or do we get to be proactive at all?”

Vander smirked. “You looking to get into combat, Ruth?”

Ruth shrugged. “Combat is simple. The enemy is in front of you, your sisters are next to you, do the job, take the objection, move on.”

Fiona walked over to conversational distance. “I understand your situation. Unfortunately, things aren't always cut and dry. As the servants of the Emperor, sometimes we get handed hard missions, with objects that aren't as simple as take the objective. Palatine De La Concordia is never the less confident in all of you to do your duty.”

Ruth forced a smile. “Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am.”

“Good girl.”

In his quarters, Cameron Wren stared at the hologram of Constance De La Concordia. It was her official photograph, wearing the same habit she had worn to dinner the night previous, her hair about her face, a face set in what most soldiers in official photographs called their 'war face.' It was a blank, unemotive expression, unsmiling, looking directly out at the viewer, meant to convey a sense of seriousness and resolution. Even in so official a document, in so staged an expression, it could not hide the fact that she was a very beautiful woman, but that was only the superficial level of his attraction.

Cameron Wren had known many beautiful women.

The record was remarkable as he read it, as it was good to have friends in strategic places. A friend in the records division had acquired this particular record and his major domo had smuggled it up with his clothing on a data-slate of 'important documents' that required the Duke's attention. Now his impressions from dinner were firmly re-enforced. Constance De La Concordia really was a heroine of the Empire. She had fought for thirty years on planets across the galaxy.

Not just in simple terms of combat, either.

Twice she had been reprimanded for 'excessive concern' of local inhabitants on world's she had fought on. Constance was something of prodigy, a tactical genius who had a reputation for taking difficult assignments and accomplishing them in unconventional ways. She was neither a martinet, nor bleeding heart, but a woman of conviction who understood who she was fighting for.

Cameron smiled, she was, in many ways, ideal.

He reached over to the communications panel his quarters had and in a few minutes was speaking with his Major Domo. “Henry, yes, everything's going well. I expect to be home tomorrow, probably around lunch time. Have your people found a suitable place for the convent? Excellent! I want you to arrange a formal ball. A sort of homecoming ball. Yes, I'll leave that to you. And spare no expense, Henry, I want to make a very favorable impression.”