Inquisitor, page 6
Potent creatures swam in the dark sub-ocean in between worlds. These creatures should be distrusted, not desired. Yet oh so many sparks of phosphorescence yearned for the potency of the denizens of that other realm, or else signalled obliviously to those creatures, blinking their little lamps—to summon the equivalent of sharks, or krakens of twisted intelligence.
One evening Jaq perceived a material vessel emerging from the ultimate deep. The vessel was diving upward towards his world. Jaq understood that this must be a warp-ship, protected against the forces in that ocean.
By straining his vision he glimpsed far off a beacon of white radiance by which that warp-ship strove to navigate. His heart swelled with joy and gratitude to the Emperor on Earth, whose mind was that lamp.
Already, like flowers turning towards the sun or like bees seeking pollen, in the wastelands of his world and in the ooze below—in that deep dark underocean of power and Chaos—Jaq sensed attentions focusing upon him tentatively; and he blanked his own white spark. He hid it.
A white spark, yes. Not curdled, nor stained by influences from below.
Few other sparks seemed white. Was that because those couldn't blank themselves, as he had just done? They attracted pollutants as a light attracts filthy bugs.
“Surely, Magister, the rogue psykers could shine whitely if they could learn how to shade themselves?”
“What heretical paradox is this, Draco? You will commit to memory the Codex Impuritatis!”
And so, resentfully, he learned concepts that could stand him in good stead. In a sense, unknowingly, he had already entered the kindergarten of the Inquisition.
Imperial preachers were haranguing the coastal populace to destroy... people like Jaq himself, people who would become polluted through no real fault of their own, in many cases. Or so it seemed to Jaq. His missionary teachers sternly announced the message that deviation from normality was a sin against the Emperor.
Surely the real enemy must be those warped, fierce, cunning entities which feasted on vulnerable human beings who shone their lights unshaded.
If he, Jaq—being a child of genetically wholesome parents—had begun to shine this light too, might not something in the nature of the world of Xerxes Quintus itself be to blame?
“Perhaps, Magister, the water or the white sunlight poisons people so that mutants are born?”
“Perhaps! Expand your thesis, Draco.”
“But the really grotesque and venomous distortions of the human form only occur after daemons—”
“Daemons, daemons? Do not dote on daemons! Do not even think of daemons. Daemons are forbidden effluvia of the human phantasy, turned sick and evil. This must be stamped out.”
“-after daemons possess those souls who, as it were, shine a light.”
“A light? What light?”
“The psyker light... as it were. Maybe this arises naturally within a person, naturally and purely? Are there not Astropaths and other psykers in the service of the Imperium? Could not all psykers shelter within its fold?”
“Faugh! Purify yourself, Draco.”
He was whipped. So as to purge him of wicked curiosity? Or so as to test him? .
He brooded for weeks. Finally he nerved himself and confessed about his visions.
After the senior missionary had interrogated him, the man folded pleased hands across his belly. The gleam in the missionary's eye suggested that Jaq's account of how much he could perceive—'Even to a glimpse of the Emperor's beacon?'—and of how he could hide his own spark of phosphorescence, meant that this lad was singularly blessed.
This in turn would bless the mission and its master. Smug devious bastard, thought Jaq, of that missionary.
A few months later a shuttle carried Jaq up to a great black ship circling in orbit. He left the sun Xerxes behind forever...
A different ship was departing from a different world. Lifting from the spaceport of Vasilariov, Harq Obispal's shark-shaped ship rapidly diminished to the size of a bug, of a sparkle of dust in the sky. Then it was gone, on its journey of several weeks through normal planetary space to that zone on the rim of the system far from the worlds and moons where it could dive into the warp.
On impulse, Jaq slipped the High Priest card into a pocket then slid the other Tarot cards back into their box and wrapped the box again in its sheath of skin.
The skin was a souvenir of an exorcism which had, in common with most trouncings of daemons, both succeeded and failed. The daemon was defeated, but the daemon's living vessel had been destroyed, not redeemed.
How could the outcome be otherwise?
Yet Jaq feared that for all its power the Imperium was slowly succumbing to the attentions of aliens, of renegades, of daemons. Each Imperial victory seemed to involve the crushing of some part of the vital substance of the Imperium itself, of humanity itself.
How could it be otherwise? Fire must fight fire, must it not?
Thus that dappled skin, peeled from a mutant, both reminded him of how he had been orphaned and reproached him too.
“There, but for the grace of the Emperor,” he muttered, “go I.”
“Where?” asked Grimm brightly.
Jaq was pleased that the little man had been perturbed by the trashing of Vasilariov and the evisceration of other cities, destroyed in order to save them. He valued the Squat's presence and his occasional sallies of sarcasm—just as, in a way, he valued Googol's pose of disdain. Fanatics such as Obispal were invaluable; yet they were akin to bulls set loose in china shops. Certainly the Imperium embraced a million china shops and more; much crockery could be wasted. However, a sceptic could often see what rigid enthusiasts overlooked.
“Why, here,” Jaq told Grimm. “Right here, wrapping up this little box. In different circumstances this might have been my skin.”
The little man stared at Jaq, bemused, then simply retorted, “Huh.”
Perhaps the concept was indeed too complex.
Chapter Five
“There she is!” cried Grimm.
Meh'Lindi was waiting inside an odour bar in the grotesque, extravagant concourse of the station where elevated trains left for Kefalov and hives beyond. The walls were a collage of tens of thousands of reptile skulls carved in gloomy green jade and malachite, as if this place was a saurian necropolis. Pillars were massive columns of vertebrae.
Of the nearby cities, Kefalov alone had remained unpolluted and unwrecked. Now, a week after Obispal's departure, traffic between the partly ravaged capital and Kefalov seemed to have returned almost to normal. Planetary troopers patrolled, scanning arrivals. Licensed hawkers were circulating, braying the merits of spiced sausages containing only real animal protein—so they claimed.
Perhaps truly. Bearing in mind the recent huge casualty statistics, their sausages probably contained minced human flesh. Suchlike suspicions did not deter prospective travellers from paying the high prices asked for such authentic delicacies; maybe even encouraged brisker sales. Such train travellers, of course, would have funds; most Vasilariovites never left their reef-hive during a lifetime...
Two burly bodyguards stood by Meh'Lindi, eyeing anyone who so much as glanced in her direction. The sleek, expressionless woman wore a silvery skintight jumpsuit which almost appeared to have been sprayed on to her limbs, not donned. A score of fleshy-hued silk scarves fluttered from strategic points, acting as veils. The guards were clad in tough green leather from some jungle beast and draped in weapons. They had no idea that the woman they escorted was far more lethal than ever they could hope to be. Jaq had hired these bodyguards to lend credence to Meh'Lindi's role as a mistress of perverse tastes, a tourist of disaster through the savaged and demolished sectors where a degree of anarchy still ruled. She had been on the prowl for days, though it seemed highly unlikely, to say the least, that she would come across the Harlequin man by chance... As soon hope to catch a particular fish by jumping at random into an ocean. But that individual had chosen to draw himself to Jaq's attention once already, had he not?
An hour earlier in the Emerald Suite, Jaq's comm-unit had bleeped.
In jumblespeech Meh'Lindi had reported, “I've just seen the Harlequin man. I'm following.”
Jaq promptly consulted the eye-screen. Several spy-flies were tailing Meh'Lindi.
She was on a balcony level of an arcade which must specialize in manufacturing small components, and was still doing so. Baggy women and runty, raggy children slaved alongside their menfolk in a veritable honeycomb of family workshops, tier upon tier of plasteel caves linked by ladders and gantries. Swarf from lathes lay thick on the floor below. Wading through this, apace: a man taller than any of the artisans. He wore a pastel-hued cloak and cockaded purple hat quite out of keeping with his surroundings. He attracted whistles and jeers and minor missiles, such as nuts and bolts.
Meh'Lindi's rented, streetwise duo guaranteed her much more anonymity; as to her motives, they exhibited no interest whatever.
Jaq had willed a spy-fly to home on the man, whose face he recognized from the Tarot card. Thus, while Meh'Lindi padded in pursuit with her mute chaperones, Jaq was also tracking the Harlequin man. At the Kefalov station the dandified fellow had boarded the transjungle tube, while Meh'Lindi stayed. The accompanying spy-fly clung to the ceiling of the carriage, surveying the Harlequin man till the train carried the spy-fly beyond its transmitting range. Till then, its quarry sat twiddling his thumbs and not quite smirking.
Jaq knew that he must give chase; he was virtually being challenged to do so. The Harlequin man had invaded Jaq's Imperial Tarot with the slickness of a lashworm snatching some flesh from a passer-by, and now that damned individual was contemptuously trailing his cloak for Jaq to follow. This, Jaq did not care for one little bit. Yet to ignore such provocation would surely be a greater folly than heeding it. Leaving Googol to safeguard their equipment, he had hurried with Grimm to the station to meet up with Meh'Lindi.
The bar was heady with attar of jungle parasite-blooms and other alien aromas that tweaked at Jaq's senses, causing mild wobblings of perception and confusions of taste and smell. Some of the odours were hallucinogenic and patrons wore a glazed look.
Perhaps those individuals were still shell-shocked by the ravaging of their city—of which Jaq and the Squat had seen, and smelled, evidence aplenty en route to this rendezvous. Equally, the customers of the odour bar might be adopting a glassy-eyed demeanour so as to avoid seeming to scrutinize Meh'Lindi in what might be construed as an impertinent fashion.
“Sir Draco!” one of the guards greeted Jaq.
The bodyguard eyed Grimm as though the Squat was some pet monkey of this merchant and ought to be on a lead. The mood-shifting scents were allowing sentiments to slip out.
“Huh! You can scoot off now,” cried the little man. “Scram and skedaddle.”
Darting Grimm a cautioning glance, Jaq paid off the hired guards in local Voronovs, plus a retainer so that they would continue on call if need be. As soon as the two men had departed, in the direction of a sausage vendor, Jaq said to Meh'Lindi:
“Of course, he let you see him. He put himself in your way deliberately.”
She nodded. “Question is, Jaq, dare you ignore this bait?”
“Probably not. I hardly think the aim can be to lure us somewhere to murder us.”
“Still,” Meh'Lindi said wistfully, “the Harlequin man has the look of an Assassin. Maybe even... a renegade Assassin? Surely there can be no such animal!”
“Who employs him, eh?” asked Grimm. “Or does he employ himself?”
She shrugged.
“And don't you fancy him just a jot?”
To which mischievous gambit, Meh'Lindi glared. “Perhaps Obispal left him behind,” she suggested. “Maybe the intention is to humiliate you somehow, Jaq? I did betray our presence to Obispal.”
“And splendidly so indeed!” agreed the Squat.
“Be quiet, little man,” said Jaq. “If Obispal decided that a secret Inquisitor was watching him, surely he'd be a fool to seek vengeance—especially when he hardly put a foot wrong. I think the idea has to be to show me something, in case I miss it.”
“Yeah, what is the hydra?” said Grimm.
“I find this somewhat galling, don't you?” Jaq asked his pretend-mistress. “To be manipulated!”
Really, they had no other option but to board the next train bound for Kefalov.
As the passenger capsule whisked through the crystalline rube above the blurred green hell of jungle, Jaq scrutinized his personal Tarot card and recalled his trip to Earth as a boy aboard the Black Ship... Only en route had he understood the true implications. To his keen senses, that cavernous crowded ship had been awash with psychic turmoil—despite the dampening field projected by a suppressor adept linked in to arcane machinery. This deadening field was subtly nauseating, a psychic equivalent of the stale, rebreathed air. In spite of it, Jaq easily read raw talent, hope, muted dread; and on the part of some of the officers boredom mixed with disgust, on the part of others fierce dedication, occasionally mixed with regret.
The suppressor field seemed to work perversely on Jaq, who already knew how to hide his own light. He hadn't read moods before, but now almost everyone on board appeared to broadcast sludgy feelings.
Stray whispers in a hundred distant-cousin tongues twittered through the ship, as if voices were trying to inform him of his fate, the ghost echoes from a million previous passengers, ten million down the centuries that this ship had been in service.
Of course, the ship was rife with ordinary gossip too, in various versions of Imperial Gothic, some halting, some fluent, in a waveband of accents from mellow to harsh, sibilant to guttural.
“A great fleet of ships like this tours the galaxy—”
“They trawl for promising psykers—”
“Wayward, twisted psykers are hunted down ruthlessly on a host of worlds. They're preached against and purged. The Inquisition scourges them. Planetary governors destroy them—”
“At the very same time fresh, uncorrupted psykers are being harvested. They're sent to Earth in Black Ships such as this—”
Psychic talent was the floodgate by which the malevolent lunacy of powers in the warp could invade and ravage worlds; could corrupt the human race into polluted slaves of evil.
Yet psychic talent was also the hope of the future, of a galaxy in which the human race, free and strong, could defend itself mentally.
Meanwhile, the God-Emperor must defend all his scattered multi-billions of subjects by ruthless sacrificial force. For a terrible equation prevailed: that which would ultimately save the human race—the evolution of a higher consciousness—was, in its long and vulnerable gestation, exactly what could so easily destroy humanity by letting it be corrupted, polluted, warped and ruined. Only the utter ruthlessness of one ravaged, machine-sustained tyrant and the overstretched forces of his fierce yet fragile Imperium kept the human race tottering along its fraying tightrope.
“Sacrifice—”
Sacrifice on his own part, yes indeed. Was not the Emperor tormented and exhausted by his own ceaseless vigilance?
“Sacrifice—”
But also by the sacrificing of his own subjects...
Of the gathered talents on board the Black Ship, a fraction—the brightest and the best—were destined to be recruited as psykers in the service of the Imperium. Most of this fraction would be soul-bound to the Emperor for their own protection.
“Soul-binding is agony—”
The ghastly mental ritual would burn out optic nerves and leave those chosen psykers blind forever.
“Sacrifice—”
Many of those on board who were of merely ordinary calibre would serve by yielding up their vital force to feed the Emperor's insatiable soul, so that he could continue to be a watchful beacon and protector. After suitable lengthy training for the sacrifice, these psykers would be consumed within a few scant weeks or months, drained of their spirits till they died.
“SACRIFICE!”
Which did not pleasure the Emperor. Oh no. Each soul he devoured lanced him with anguish, torment. Such was the cruel equation by which humanity survived in a hostile universe.
“SACRIFICE!”
No passenger on board the Black Ship was older than twenty standard years. Many were as junior as Jaq. One girl in particular... he refused to think of her right now. As the ship's officers administered tests and counselled their human cargo, it became evident that almost all were going to their deaths.
Worthy deaths, necessary deaths; but still, deaths.
In what manner—other than its worthiness—was this fate different than being slaughtered on one's home world?
The difference was...
“SACRIFICE! TO THE GOD AND TO HUMANITY!”
Some young psykers wept. Some prayed. Some raged. Those who raged were restrained. In later life, Jaq understood that this particular Black Ship had been carrying a higher percentage of individualists hailing from less longstandingly pious worlds, than most such shipments. Yet many of the young passengers adopted an air of cool nobility, even of passionate complicity in their own fate; these were praised. Devout dedication was the desideratum for soul-sacrifice.
Death laid a numbing hand on Jaq's heart. He bargained in his soul with fate, promising to dedicate his life to Imperial service without scruple—if only a life was left to him to dedicate.
Jaq still clearly remembered his reprieve and how annoyed he had been not to have foreseen it.
“You can blank out your light, boy,” the goitrous officer had told him, almost respectfully. “Without training, that's rare. You'll certainly be recruited. I suspect you won't need soul-binding. I may well be addressing a future Inquisitor—”
To hunt down those who resembled him, yet who had gone astray? To purge his... cousins... who had been twisted askew? To destroy his diseased psychic kin without a qualm?
