Chapter Eight

Sacrifice and Celebration

Jonas Merle had been afraid many times in his life.

He had been afraid when he was selected to join the Ordo Hereticus that he would not be able to pass the qualifications and training. When he had been selected to become an Inquisitor, he was afraid he would be found wanting himself or executed for heresy. Then, on his first assignment free of supervision he had come face to face with the Chaos the Emperor's armed forces fought so endlessly against and he came to understand what true fear really was. Pain, discomfort, torture, death, these were temporary things, laughable to be feared of now that he fully comprehended exactly what the nature of evil really was.

Understood that there were fates far worse than death that would last forever.

It was then that Jonas Merle had internalized the faith that he had paid lip service to his entire life. He had looked deeply into the abyss, saw what awaited should the forces of mankind lose their perpetual war; and had the denizens of the Warp look back into him. It was then that Jonas Merle believed.

It was this belief that had given him the courage to say and do things his previous self would never have had the temerity to do. It let him stare down and shout at hardened Battle Sisters, let him look them in the eye, see their disdain and scorn for him, to bear their threats of violence and the actual deed of it so long as they did what he wanted them to do. His ego didn't matter, what his belief demanded was far too important to let his own discomfort get in the way of.

So when he was hauled from his cabin and frog marched into the office of the Palatine to face her, her disgraced mentor and, of all people, Reverend Mother Winter, he knew his own life hung in the balance, and he hardened his will to do whatever he had to so that his mission would succeed.

There was nothing more important than the death of Cameron Wren.

Jonas licked his lips as he felt the breasts of Fiona Vander in his back and her hands on his shoulders. It was a tight grip, like a vice, not painful, yet, but the promise was certainly there. “Reverend Mother Winter,” he started with and surprised himself how calm he sounded. “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“I rather doubt it,” she replied, the scorn in her voice palpable. She picked up a data-slate from the desk beside her and held it up. “I have here the preliminary report of the loyalty test of Cameron Wren,” she drawled. “Do you know what was found?”

Jonas chose his words carefully. “I am willing to bet they did not find any sign of disloyalty.”

“You are betting,” she corrected him. “With your life. And you are correct. Computer experts have gone over his records with a fine tooth comb, his person and personal papers have been thoroughly searched and he has taken all of this in good humor and steadfast loyalty. Do you know what the penalty is for laying false allegations of treason against a loyal subject?”

The Inquisitor raised his chin. “I do, and I stand by my accusation. Cameron Wren is a traitor, a heretic and an enemy of mankind.”

Reverend Mother Winter rolled her eyes and laid the data-slate back on the desk. “So you claim. Palatine De La Concordia has forwarded to me a request, by you, that you intend to invoke your privilege of the Inquisition to hide yourself amongst her Mission by impersonating an Adepta Sororitas through some form of surgery. Is this true?”

“It is true, and it is also my right as an Inquisitor.”

The old woman's eyes became steel and despite her white hair or the lines on her face, the mask slipped and the hardened killer underneath the genteel Reverend Mother shone through. “What madness took you to make you think I would allow such a blasphemy?”

“Take care,” he whispered. “I have been diligent in my own reports and communiques with my superiors. They know the threats you have made, the shoddy disrespect I have endured in my duty and they will not believe any imaginative fiction you come up with to try and hide my murder.”

“Take care yourself,” the Palatine growled, speaking for the first time. “Your petty spite has brought the Ecclesiarchy to the brink of civil war!” It was clear the Palatine had a good bit more to say, but a soft gesture from the Reverend Mother caused her to hold her tongue and defer to her superior.

None of the steel had left Abigail Winter's eyes as she stood and walked over. With Fiona's hands on his shoulders, Jonas could not retreat, so he stiffened his spine and looked up at her, daring her to strike him. “I die innocent and loyal!” he declared, but his voice broke at the end and spoiled what he thought was his final defiance before death.

“Die?” drawled the Reverend Mother. “Do you intend to commit suicide?”

Jonas blinked and some of the surety left him. “No. I...I...thought...”

“Don't misunderstand me,” Abigail continued with a vague gesture at her subordinates in the room. “Both of my daughters would dearly love to kill you. I would be lying if I didn't remind you I entertained the notion myself. But we are creatures of duty, Inquisitor; we live our lives by it. You have informed us your duty requires us to indulge you to masquerade in our ranks. It is our duty to inform you that every other Inquisitor that has done so has paid with their life; not from nefarious actions from us. We live our lives on the battlefield, Jonas Merle and if you put on the habit of our order you will truly swear our vows and you will be expected to do everything any other sister would be required to do.”

“I'm not...” He started, but suddenly there was a knife at his throat and he wasn't sure whose hand held it. “...I...”

“Consider your next words very carefully, Jonas Merle,” the Reverend Mother told him quietly. “My duty requires me to allow you to invoke your privilege, but there is nothing in that duty that exempts you from being required to live up to the oaths and duties of that uniform.”

Jonas tried to swallow his fear, but his Adam's apple was stopped by the blade against his throat and would not allow it to pass. “Reverend Mother, I will gladly pledge to do my best and swear any oath that does not interfere with my duty to the Inquisition, but even I know I am not physically capable of meeting the requirements of a Battle Sister.”

Abigail's eyes were ablaze with emotion. “And if I offer you a way to do so, what would you say?” Her thin finger came up in caution. “Here is your last chance to turn aside, Jonas Merle! Is your conviction such that you will give up your very body in the Emperor's service?”

The thin man's chin rose just a bit. “I am oath bound. I will prove Cameron Wren is a traitor though it cost me everything in the service of the Emperor.”

Though her eyes threatened to burn his very soul, he met her gaze and did not blink. At long last, her finger dropped and the blade left his neck. “So be it,” she declared. The fire in her eyes died and she looked over his shoulder at Vander and nodded. “My Sister, take the Inquisitor to the Surgeon. He knows what to do.”

“I will not disappoint you, Reverend Mother,” he told her, but she turned away and heavily walked back to her chair.

“Get him out of my sight,” she whispered.

Uncharacteristically, Fiona did not immediately obey; though her grip on his shoulders intensified and was just on the edge of pain. “Connie, he'll need a minder, a teacher...”

“Who will have to be in on this,” Constance finished. She turned to the Reverend Mother who was sinking into her chair. Almost imperceptibly she nodded and Constance's glance was all the permission Fiona needed. She wheeled the Inquisitor about as the last thing Jonas expected happened. As he was being shoved out the door of the Palatine's office, he turned at a sound he couldn't believe he was hearing. Over his shoulder, he saw Reverend Mother Winter lay her head on her hands on Constance's desk and began to weep.

Then the door was shut as his mind spun, trying to understand what all of this meant. “Whitworth, you're with me,” Vander ordered and the sister fell in step with them to the closest travel tube. The Vigilant was just shy of five and a half kilometers from stem to stern and the best part of a kilometer abeam at her widest. Such massive size made it impossible to move only on foot with anything like a timely manner. Thus the ship had system of rapid transport, part subway train, part elevator. The tube served as the main conduit of systems throughout the ship, stopping at central hubs for lines that moved up and down or port and starboard from the two main lines that traversed the ship fore and aft.

There was a brief respite from the march as the two women and the Inquisitor awaited the next tram. “What is going on?” Jonas demanded. “Why did Canoness Winter start crying?”

“What do you care, coward?” Vander snapped back, her face painted in scorn only a shade or two from pure hatred. “You're getting your way!”

“Legatine?” Ruth asked cautiously.

The tram arrived, causing the doors to snap open. Vander restrained herself from shoving her captive into the tram and chose not to answer until she was sure they would not be over heard. In a hoarse, terse voice she said, “The Inquisitor will be impersonating a Sister.” She saw the younger woman's eyes widen in full understanding of what was said and the consequences it implied. “It will be your duty to instruct him in what is expected of him, the vows he will swear and exactly what they demand of him.”

“He's a man!” Ruth protested.

Vander let loose a gallows laugh as she stared into the Inquisitors eyes. “Not for long,” she declared ominously and again Jonas felt the return of his old companion fear and he couldn't help but worry he had made a terrible mistake.

* * *

The air boiled and waved around the barrel of the Mezoa Pattern Melta Gun. With it's distinctive hiss the super heated plasma was spat down range boiling the water out of the air as it traveled, boring through a fifteen centimeter plate of armor that instantly glowed white at the impact site. The remaining stream of plasma flowed onto the steel like a hot needle that then half melted, half exploded through onto the back stop of the range. On a battlefield that empty space would have been the crew compartment of a tank or APC with messy, predictable results. “Point eight four,” declared Wendy Marks from behind the blast shield next to the armored form of the sister holding the Melta Gun.

The white visor of the Sabbat Pattern Helm rose to reveal the squarish face of Mary Cotton who was careful to keep the muzzle of the weapon pointed down range. “See, 'Supe? I told you the accumulator coil was sluggish.”

Wendy picked up a canister of compressed CO2 and sprayed the weapon to cool it enough to be save to handle. “Not enough for anybody to pick up without a timer,” she mumbled, making a gesture for the other sister open the weapon to get at the offending coil.

“I did,” Mary replied stubbornly.

“You're supposed to,” Marks shot back. “How many rounds did you put on the coil back there?” There was a pause as Mary worked the controls inside her armor and a hologram appeared over the weapon displaying it's diagnostic information. “Under a thousand? That's pretty light.”

“Yeah, well, there wasn't as much need for the Melta on Goshen IV.” Wendy got the coil out of the Melta and examined it in the light. “I keep it clean,” Mary protested, but the Sister Superior just shook her head.

“I don't think you haven't been,” she informed the other woman. “I don't see anything wrong with it, but go ahead and request a replacement from the ship's armorer.”

Mary closed the receiver cover and put it against her thigh were the grabber field in her armor would keep it. “Ugh, I hate dealing with those creepy machine heretics!”

It was with great force of will that Wendy kept her temper at dealing with this particular issue again. “The Adeptus Mechanicus were brought into the Imperium of Mankind by the Emperor himself. They bow to and venerate our Emperor and by law, commandment and precedent have indulgence for their genetic abnormality.”

“Mutant heretics,” muttered Mary as she backed away, towards her armor carrier so it could remove both her generator backpack and the fuel tank for the Mezoa that hung under it. The tank made safe and stowed, separate armatures deployed to remove the weapon from her thigh, separate it from the hoses to the tank, and returned it to the space for it in the carrier. Both were then locked away by the device into storage.

Sister Superior Marks raised her finger. “I'm not having this argument with you again, Cotton. The Emperor has converted, the Ecclesiarch has indulged and you will obey.”

Mary bowed her head and gestured Anjali mudra, while still in her armor which managed to make the humble posture of submission somewhat sarcastic. “I hear and obey the will of the Emperor,” she declared before turning back to the carrier and spreading her arms for it to free her from her armor.

The Sister Superior considered barking after her for the cheekiness of her retort, but decided that would only make her look weak as so decided to ignore it. “You probably won't even see one,” she declared as she gave a gesture to alert the Range Gang that the sisters were finished so they could clean up the mess of the used target. “Five thrones says you get it from a Navy Shipman and you don't even lay eyes on the Transmechanic.”

Down to the battle habit and her link suit, Cotton turned back to her Superior and held out her hand. “You're on, 'Supe! And you're out five thrones!”

Wendy slapped the other woman's palm to seal the bet. “Make sure your note is nice and crisp when you pay up, I like my Throne Gelt neatly pressed!”

“What's neatly pressed?” The new voice drew both women's attention to the hatch out into the gangway where Gretchen Wycroff was just coming through it.

“Hey, Gretch,” Wendy greeted, while Mary dropped a light curtsey to her squad leader.

“'Supe,” she declared.

Sister Superior Gretchen nodded her head at her squad mate to acknowledge her protocol, then turned to her fellow squad leader. “Sorry to hit you with this, Wendy, but I have to from the Palatine.”

Marks only shrugged as she handed the accumulator coil to Mary as the other sister walked past. “Orders are orders,” she commented philosophically. “Cotton, you're going in your Battle Habit?” The heavy weapons specialist paused in the door way with a grin.

“Get undressed in front of the Range Gang? I'd cause a riot!”

Gretchen turned to look over her shoulder. “Wherever you're going, double time it. I got a vox from the Legatine, we have to turn the Mission out in Mess Dress.”

“What for?” demanded Wendy as Mary tossed a salute and trotted off to wherever she was headed.

“I dunno, we just have to assemble in the Shuttle Bay in Mess Dress at seventeen hundred,” Gretchen told her. One of the Range Gang cautiously approached the two women, removed her hat and curtseyed deeply despite wearing a uniform with pants.

“Blessed Sister, may this humble Shipman address you?” Wendy and Gretchen shared a look, then Gretchen turned towards the young woman, and reached out to place her hand on the Shipman's head.

“Be blessed in the light of the Emperor, my daughter, and speak your mind.”

“The ship's chaplain is quite a zealot!” Wendy chuckled sotto voce. “I wonder if he's married?”

“Blessed Sister, forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I heard from others before I came on shift that the destroyer Saint Arabella had come along side us and that a great lady of your revered Order came aboard.”

The question was painted on Gretchen's face as she turned to Wendy who shrugged her own ignorance. “Thank you, daughter, for bringing this news. You may return to your duties.” The Shipman curtseyed again as the Sister Superior withdrew her hand. “Wasn't the Saint Arabella in orbit around Banudan when we left?”

“I think so,” Wendy replied. “Why would Reverend Mother Winter chase us down after sending us out here?”

“Hopefully to save us from being stranded out here!” Gretchen quipped. “We must be doing inspections or something. Have your squad ready.”

“I'm on top of my squad,” said Wendy as she walked over to the armor carrier Cotton had left and laid her hand on it so it would grant her authorization to move it. Oblidingly, it rose up on a suspensor field and followed her back to Gretchen. “What did the Palatine order you to tell me?”

Wycroff's face blushed for some reason, though Wendy caught it. “Uh, I am to have you go over any paperwork I have to do concerning Sister Hamilton.”

“Jennifer?” demanded Marks. “What for? She's your squad, not mine.” Gretchen's blush deepened a bit and she tapped the ends of her index fingers together. “Shut up!” Marks exclaimed. “Your own squad sister?”

“It...it just happened,” Gretchen stammered. “And we got the ok from Palatine De La Concordia.”

“You admitted you...” Wendy trailed off at a sharp gesture from Wycroff and a tilt of her head towards the Range Gang who were studiously still cleaning up the slag from the steel target. They were also dilligently appearing to be paying no mind to the Sister's conversation. “And she's ok with that?” demanded Marks in a much more discreet tone.

“Keep it under your helmet, would ya?” Gretchen told her in an equally quite voice. “Yes, I told her; well, actually we both asked permission and she said so long as we are...discreet...and there's no favoritism she's willing to cut us some slack.”

“Emperor's Throne!” Wendy muttered. “I'd heard the Palatine was...unconventional, but this takes the Caba Nuts!” The two women left the range and began walking through the corridors towards the compartment serving as their barracks.

“Hey, she did say she wouldn't have if we were in a normal posting.”

Wendy waved off that with a vague gesture. “That would have been the answer from any other Palatine I've ever heard of,” she declared. “So, is this a battlefield thing or...?” Gretchen shrugged her own ignorance.

“I didn't plan this, it just happened.”

“Hey, at least you'll get some trim on the regular,” Wendy groused. “I've been so busy I haven't had time to look, let alone find somebody to do his duty to the Emperor and perpetuate the species.”

Gretchen elbowed her friend in the arm. “Oh, come down off the throne, you're on the same shots I am and neither us have any Canoness' permission to bring a new subject into the galaxy!”

The grin on Wendy's face was lecherous. “He doesn't have to know that!” They arrived at the barracks and with a gesture, Marks sent Cotton's armor carrier to her bunk. “Attention on deck!” she commanded, causing conversation to cease and all of the assembled Sister to rise and face them. “Orders have come down from on high, ladies. We're to report to the shuttle bay at seventeen hundred in Mess Dress.”

A chorus of groans filled the room for a bit, causing Gretchen to frown. “Knock it off!” she ordered. “And make sure of your spit and polish, the Saint Arabella came along side us and the rumor is a VIP of our order got off. One plus one equals two, ladies so I want the squad turned out and looking sharp. Go over your kits now and be ready for inspection before we assemble!”

“That goes double for you, my girls!” Marks echoed. “You've got some time, use it wisely! As you were!”

* * *

Doctor Julius Boucher was a grizzled Navy veteran in his ninth decade. His left eye, and a good chunk of the left side of his head were replaced by cybernetics that had saved his life years and battles previous. The soft red glow from the electronic eye gave his craggy features a sinister air even as they were slightly hidden by the blue white haze of a sterility field. Most of the operating theater was cast in shadow due to the intense cone of light from the ceiling centered on the bed. “This is the patient?” his gravely voice asked as he gestured to a woman, also dressed in surgical attire who looked like she might be a Sister Hospitalier.

The hairs on the skin of both women and their Inquisitor charge stood up as they stepped through the sterility field over the hatch. Fiona propelled Jonas towards the operating table the doctor stood beside. “He is,” she snapped. “I'll need your oath of silence, Doctor.”

“It is on file,” Boucher replied, gesturing towards the bed for Merle to get up on it. “However, I realize my lady needs to hear it, so; 'I swear on my honor, life and immortal soul, as a loyal man of His Imperial Majesty's Royal Navy that which I see here I will not see, that which I know of these events I will not know, that which I hear will never leave my lips as the Emperor's Own Man, So Help Me.'”

“Do I get a say in this?” Jonas asked. “We don't talk about what I'll...”

“No,” the doctor replied as he took the coat the Inquisitor had taken off away from him and casually threw it aside. He pushed the smaller man onto the bed where an immobility field snapped on, penning him to it.

“Wait, I can take my clothes off, don't cut them off!”

“I won't,” the doctor replied as he fiddled with a control with the metalic cluster of machines his left hand, which was also a replacement, had become. Over Jonas' head the surgical armature came to life, multiple arms tipped in sinister looking tools reached down like some mechanical spider reaching for it's prey. “There's no need. Your head is clear.”

“My head?” Jonas asked as something stung him in his neck. “But, I thought...”

The world became unclear and indistinct as the red glow leaned over him. “Don't worry, I'll see your brain safe in it's new home.” Terror gripped Jonas, but it was so difficult to think, he didn't understand why. Darkness fell and the last thing he knew was the pounding of his heartbeat, unable to move or see.

* * *

Mary Cotton arrived at the master armory of the Vigilant to be greeted by the pair of sailors under arms that were guarding it. It was situated at the end of long corridor with no other access or doors so that anyone entering it had no other destination. One of the Sailors stepped forward while his partner unslung his lasrifle and shouldered it. “Halt! Who approaches?” the senior demanded.

The Sister of Battle stopped and raised both hands. “Sister Mary Cotton, daughter of the Emperor, Adepta Sororitas.”

“State your business,” the petty officer demanded.

“I am sent of my Sister Superior in service of my weapon. I have a failing accumulator coil.”

The Petty Officer nodded. He worked a control and a vidscan unfolded from the wall on an armature. “Advance to the vidscan to be recognized.” Mary slowly walked forward, keeping her hands at her shoulders. The Battle Habit she wore would slow the lasgun, but not stop it and now was not the time for an accidental discharge. She looked the vidscan in the lens and it's mechanical voice growled out from the vox.

“Cotton, Mary, Sister, Adepta Sororitas.”

The lasrifle was returned to being slung and the Petty Officer bowed. “You are welcome, Sister Cotton,” he said, returning to his post by the hatch. Mary lowered her hands and smiled at the two men.

“You honor the Emperor with your diligence,” she complimented as she opened the hatch and stepped through. Inside the armory was dark, well below standard illumination and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. “Hello?” she called, stepping in to find a pale skinned man in a Navy Shipman uniform behind a counter. He smiled, but froze when a voice more in common with the vidscan than a human through sounded out in the gloom.

“Who calls?”

Mary shuddered, looking at the Shipman, but he was trembling and wouldn't meet her gaze. To the darkness, she announced, “Sister Mary Cotton. I have a failing accumulator coil I need replaced.”

“Who has offended the spirit of your Melta Gun, Sister Mary Cotton?” the mechanical voice demanded. The Daughter of the Emperor kept careful control of her temper and her voice.

“No offense was given,” she declared. “It's just wearing out.”

The sound of metal on metal came from the darkness. “Do you speak in ignorance, or falsehood, Sister Mary Cotton?” The words shot through Mary's temper like a bolter through a chaos spawn.

Striding forward to the counter the Shipman stood behind, she snarled, “Say that to my face, heretic!” The Shipman dove under the counter, but that nearly escaped Mary's notice for, from the dark, a mechanical hand gripped the doorway and a misshapen thing emerged from the darkness into the half light. It was wearing a red robe and hood that was in tatters, with three additional arms sprouting from it's hunched back as it came through the door, red light from five cybernetic eyes glowing under the hood.

“I am not your enemy, Sister Mary Cotton,” came from the depths of the hood, behind what seemed to be a mask or respirator, the hoses of which came out the hood, and disappeared into the robe. “I serve the Omnissiah, who you call the Emperor, and we are both the weapon in his right hand. You are ignorant of the spirits of the machine and this is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Then prove your loyalty and replace this failing part,” she demanded, slamming the coil to the counter. One of the arms on the creature's back reached out and picked up the coil to hold it in front of the glowing lens.

“Such anger,” the metallic voice declared, grating on Mary's ears. “This is why the spirit is unhappy with you. You do not allow it the joy of its duty to the Emperor, but instead only force from it service of your hatred.” The glowing lights turned from the part to Mary directly. “Replacement will only doom a new spirit to the unhappiness you have caused this poor coil to suffer.”

“My joy is purging heretics and mutants in fire!” Mary growled.

The metallic hand put the coil back on the counter. “No. Seek the wisdom of the Emperor to see the truth of your anger, Sister Mary Cotton. Make your peace with the spirit of the coil, and we will speak again.”

Mary stared at the part on the counter while the thing shambled back into the darkness. For a moment, she considered mounting the counter and chasing it, but was unsure how much trouble she would get into killing the ship's armorer and thought the better of it. Snatching up the coil, she stormed out, only just keeping her temper.

* * *

Once more in her cabin, Constance sighed and shook her head at the strange road her life seemed to be traveling. Never in her life would she have thought she would have to console a Reverend Mother. Let alone even see one so lose control of her emotions it might be needed. In truth, she was awestruck by Canoness Winter's devotion to their order and Emperor.

She realized she had a new yardstick to judge her own loyalty and devotion against.

After what seemed a life time of holding the other woman as she at last poured out the grief bottled up inside her, she allowed the Canoness time to regain her dignity and escorted her to a guest cabin and saw her ensconced in it. Constance had been about to contact Duke Wren to offer her apologies, but once Reverend Mother Winter understood what her arrival had interrupted she insisted that Constance attend. Going so far as to command the Palatine to leave her so that De La Concordia would have time to prepare to attend the ball she had been invited to. She had broached no argument, ordering the younger woman to her cabin to prepare and had actually forced a painful smile for Constance as she left.

Constance's palm opened the small locker that served as her closet in the cabin and removed her most formal uniform from it's protective bag and laid it out on her bunk to inspect it with a critical eye. Like most of the uniforms of her order, first and foremost it was designed to emphasize her femininity and somewhat exaggerate her womanhood. To this end, it started with a simple, bell sleeved gown in red that fell, fitted closely to her waist in the same cut as the Battle Habit. Like the armor it mimicked, it offered a level of protection against blades and certain, low caliber, projectiles as it's designers realized a Sister of Battle was never really off the battlefield. Over this was a corset and bustier in black embossed with a silver Fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the Adepta Sororitas. The leather like material of the corset defined and displayed Constance's figure as way of emphasizing her femininity; the mission of every uniform of the Sisters of Battle. As it rested over her vital organs, it's armor value was sufficient against most chemical projectiles and would even turn a power sword for a brief while.

Again her Inquisitorial Rosette served her as a belt, draped around her waist to lay against her left hip and below, a straight skirt of red fell to her ankles with slits for both legs to her waist that gave elegance and complete freedom of movement. Red leggings protected her modesty and high black boots completed the uniform.

A red wimple framed her face while it concealed her ebony hair and neck, with it's couvrechef veil over her head, in red and gold draped around her shoulders and announced her rank. Constance lightly stroked the white Maltese Cross and Heart indicating her membership of the Order of the Valorous Heart on the sleeve of the gown, then steeled herself. The past was the past, and it was time to get on with the future. She separated the uniform into it's component pieces and stripped off her Day Habit to don it.

First, nude, she knelt on the hard, cold deck, headless of her own discomfort, towards the double headed eagle, the Imperial Aquila, embossed on the far wall of her cabin. Bowing her head, she softly recited her prayer of dedication, committing herself anew to the Emperor's Service. Humbling herself, she asked forgiveness for the awe she felt at Canoness Winter's sacrifice and for the wisdom and strength to lead her mission and be worthy of such devotion and trust. She ended by rising from her kneel to genuflect herself, raising her hand over her heart and swearing to bring glory to the Emperor or to die in the attempt of it.

Purified, she rose, keeping her head bent in submission, to slowly and carefully don the uniform. The process was somewhat lengthy as she paused on each piece, considering in reverence the symbolism of the garment, the battles she had fought and the recognition the awards symbolized until at last, she was dressed and standing before her mirror, being certain of the drape and hang of the uniform. Constance carefully laid the sash of her acclaim across her right shoulder, her medals and a pair of Purity Seals hanging from it, until it sat properly on her hip, the long knife that hung from it secure behind her Inquisitorial Rosette.

On whim, or perhaps a desire to show some amount of consideration to her host, she picked up the bolter pistol his world had created and put it into the garter holster on her right thigh instead of the issued laspistol that distinguished her as an officer of the Order. She found it fit the holster well, despite not having been made for it, and was even a bit lighter on her leg.

“Yes,” she told herself with a smile. “A very large order.”

Satisfied, she pulled on a pair of scarlet gloves that reached over her elbow, well up the bell sleeve of the gown such that her face was the only visible skin. That accomplished, she pulled open the hatch to her cabin and began walking towards the nearest travel tube station. This took her past the compartment that was serving as the barracks for her Mission, which opened as she walked by.

Coming out was Fiona, resplendent in the same gown, minus only a few touches of rank, her own head covered only in a scarlet wimple that fell around her shoulders in place of the blonde mane she had worn ever since Constance could remember. Fiona curtseyed to her Palatine, which Constance nodded to acknowledge, feeling terribly out of place by their positions being reversed. The two women fell in step, several steps ahead of the rest of the mission who, having seen the number of awards on Sister Vander's Acclaim Sash were obviously awestruck.

There was not a single open space on the garment for another award to be worn.

As they walked, Fiona carefully caught De La Concordia's eye and with her hands, used the silent battle language of the sisterhood so that they could not be over heard. It's done, her hands proclaimed.

Emperor help us, Constance replied with her own hands. Emperor help us.

Amen, was Fiona's only response.

* * *

Chapter Nine

The Last Party

Life returned slowly to Jonas Merle, as though from a great distance being drug every step of the way; the feet of the condemned on their way to the gallows. The first sense to return was the oldest, the sense of pain. From a dark, heavy soup rose up ache as if his entire body had been given over to those who loathed him and he was beaten to within a nanometer of his life. Next came sound as he moaned and with it was a sudden, horrible feeling of being out of sorts. The voice he heard, that he knew had come from his vocal cords, for he had felt the vibration in his throat and the air pass his lips, was also not his own.

Like a dam suddenly breached by torrential rains, a thousand sensations assaulted him, things that felt different from how his memory said they should be. As the moan he had heard was too high and too soft to have been his voice, the skin he wore felt different, there was flesh where there should not be and in a horrible moment he realized it was missing where it should be. Before sight could make its untriumphant return, something wet and cold was pressed on his face, over them. “Lie still,” a voice commanded. “If you begin to move, you might pull out the leads.”

“Everything hurts,” he managed to make his throat say, but now he was certain it was not his voice. This voice was light, higher than any note he could sing, even raw and course as it was now. Whoever was holding the sponge to his eyes found that funny and laughed.

“Pain is the oldest companion of womanhood,” she told him. “Get used to it.” Jonas tried to turn towards the sound of the voice, but the hand became firm to stop him. “Don't move,” she ordered. “Not yet. When you're ready, we'll put you in the recovery gel for a bit.”

“Who are you?” The woman's voice asked at Jonas' mental command.

The firmness left her hand and she began to gently daub his face. “My name is June, I am a Sister Hospitalier. I know who you are, or, rather, who you were. Rest easy sister, you will live to serve the Emperor yet.”

Jonas considered that for a long moment as he tried to take a mental inventory. His chest seemed to weigh more with each breath than it should and when he slightly shifted his legs, he became aware of the feeling of fabric firmly against his abdomen as it never had before, in addition to a void that was entirely novel and set his heart to pounding. “So,” June's voice told him as the sponge was withdrawn and he heard it dipped in water and rung out. “Let us talk about you.” The sponge returned, cool against his eyes and forehead. “Your name is Rachael. You are thirty two and a Sister of the Order of the Valorous Heart. Or, rather, you were. You have been reassigned to the Mission of Palatine Constance De La Concordia on Thuria. You are a Rhino commander, but you fell off your APC and injured your head when you fell. You likely have some level of amnesia so you were attached to this Mission to convalesce and recover your memory.”

“Rhino?” the voice she was beginning to recognize as her own asked.

“It's an armored personnel carrier, a kind of tank,” June told her. “When you're better, you can read over your personnel file and see if that brings back any memories.”

“I have a personnel file?” Rachael asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Of course you do, Daughter of the Emperor,” June's voice replied. “Every Sister of Battle, every servant of the Emperor does. It lists the battles you have fought, the honors you've won, everything about you. You should read it when you're up and about.”

Rachael sighed and couldn't keep herself from nodding. “I will.”

“You should,” June replied. “You should always honor those who gave up everything for you.” There came a hum of machinery and the bed underneath Rachael began to slowly lift her into a seated position. “Alright,” the nurse declared after the light against Rachael's eyelids lowered. “Open your eyes, slowly.”

Rachael willed her eyes to open, but found them slightly sticky and it was a bit of work to get them to open, despite the sponge bath they'd had. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the lights of the diagnostic equipment and a pair of candles, well away from the bed. Her vision was blurry and there were halos around all the lights in her vision. She blinked several times and looked down to see the body of a lovely young woman, clad only in a medical modesty bra and panties in black.

The medical bra only pressed her bust against her chest to hold it in place, but it seemed there was a fair amount to secure. Milk white hair fell into her line of vision, longer than she remembered, but not as long as Palatine De La Concordia. Around her navel was a tattoo of the fleur-de-lis, the size of her palm in bold, dark ink against a peaches and cream skin. There were several electronic and IV Lines about her body, running out to the monitors that were providing light. Nothing felt their right length or distance, legs that seemed too long curved out of hips that were wider than they should be. Rachael tried very hard to remember and the last memory she had was fear, biting, terrible fear. That fear awoke as she realized there was no way to her recollection that her previous body could have been altered into this one.

She looked up, seeing a young woman, with olive complexion and black hair looking at her and something about her face seemed familiar. She was wearing nurses scrubs with bits of technology attached to them that he didn't recognize. “June...?” she asked.

“Sister Hospitalier June Campanelli, at your service, Sister Rachael,” the nurse confirmed. She reached up and began to disconnect the leads slowly and methoically. “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy,” Rachael replied. “Nothing feels right. How did they do this?”

“There was some emergency brain surgery,” June replied. “You've been in a coma for two months. We were worried we would have to pronouce you brain dead and harvest your organs.” The expression on the nurse's face hardened and her grip on Rachael's arm tightened unpleasantly. “But, let's not talk about the past here,” she said with great weight. “Let's get you into the tank so you can recover.”

Once the lines were cleared, June fitted a resperator over Rachaels face, and pulled the mask tight. Once that was done, she helped her to stand and led the way slowly to an empty recovery tank. The nurse had her sit on the floor of the tank while she made sure the air hose was secure and flowing, then stepped out and closed the door. Immediately, the tank began to fill with thick, yellow green liquid. It was just slightly warm against her skin and picked her up off the floor to float as it covered her head and it was even harder to see the nurse that was watching her. She saw June pick up a Vox and in her ear she heard, “We'll speak again when we can be more discreet.”

Rachael nodded her understanding and watched the nurse walk over to the desk at the edge of what she could just make out through the gel and the glass and sit down. Deep in the darkest recesses of her mind, Rachael remembered, don't worry, I'll see your brain safe in it's new home, and shuddered, in fear of what had happened to her.

* * *

The shuttle Duke Wren had sent up was not a military model, but evidently his private one. The Sisters were welcomed aboard by a liveried steward into a plush, yet understated flying palace. Leather was the seating fabric of choice, while the appointments were burled wood and polished brass. Once they were comfortably seated in the expanisve and actually comfortable acceleration couches, the shuttle departed the Vigilant as gentle as a feather falling off a bird's wing. Constance was used to military pilots who took 'edge of the envelope' to mean 'how can I break this, but not have to pay for it', though she had traveled TDY on civilian craft when nothing military was going the right way. While certainly more conscious of their paying customers, the Duke's pilot put them all to shame by Constance looking out the window, wondering when they would depart, to see the Vigilant falling away behind them.

It was easily the smoothest take off she'd ever experienced.

From there, champagne was served, bringing an amused smile to Legatine Vander's face as she accepted the flute and lightly touched hers to that of her protoge and superior officer. “Obviously, Palatine, we picked the wrong MOS divisions.”

Constance sat back in the very comfortable chair and crossed her legs, savoring a taste of the sparkling wine. It was local, but a light, sweet vintage and well crafted. “I could get used to this,” she admitted. “Did I miss count, or...?”

“I left Whitworth behind to mind our new charges,” Fiona replied. At the confused look from Constance, she continued, “Reverend Mother Winter transferred a Sister Hospitalier to us as well, to mind...her...and we did need a medic.”

“Poor girl,” De La Concordia observed. “I'm not sure which of us will have the worse time.

Fiona arched an eyebrow at her. “Babysitting captain grumpus or putting up with stuffed shirts at a party? I'll pick the party, thanks. At least there's dancing.”

“Maybe for you,” Constance retorted. “I'll be frantically taking mental notes to try and keep up with who is who.” Again Vander smirked at her and gestured with her flute.

“I thought you'd try to do something like that, so I planned ahead and drafted a co-conspirator.” Constance frowned and turned her head to find Baldermort's skull floating a meter or so behind her. The half robot slave dipped on his suspensor field and his voice managed to sound contrite.

“Good evening, Palatine,” the Vox declared. “I have taken the liberty of updating myself on the Who's Who entries for the local gentry, should your memory fail you, or may the Emperor decree, you actually decide to enjoy yourself. Now, no matter what you do this evening, my lady, do try to make time for fun.”

“I'm conspired against!” Constance declared with good humor. “I should have you both up on charges!” Before Fiona could laugh or defend herself further, the ship's speakers came to life and a pleasant, professional sounding baritone came forth.

“Good evening, my ladies, this is your Captain speaking. It's a crisp twenty two degrees this evening with clear skies over New Atlanta. If you look out the starboard side of the space craft you'll have a magnificent view of Dachaigh, the Ducal Residence. We have priority clearance of the air space so we'll be setting down in about five minutes or so. On behalf of the Stewards and crew I'd like to offer our gratitude to being of service and we hope you enjoyed the flight. Stewards begin your prelanding check lists.” A steward came by to collect up the empty flutes on his way aft and out of habit Constance made sure her seat belt was buckled.

“Despite my protestations, Baldermort, I am glad to have you along.”

The servo-skull floated down until it was hovering above a chair as if sitting in it. “It is an honor to be of service, Palatine.” Constance smiled as she turned to look out the far window. She was on the wrong side of the craft to get the full effect of the sun glinting off copper roof tiles that gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun. Despite that, Dachaigh, was almost modest for it's purpose. The Gothic and Neo Baroque style sprawled in an organic manner that suggested a central house that had been added to over the centuries. It was surrounded with magnificent gardens that were glowing in the fading twilight and a collection of limosines were parked on the various dives showing the Sisters had evidently arrived fashionably late.

The Captain's landing was as flawless as his take off had been, touching down on Thuria with out so much of a caress as would put a ripple in another glass of champagne. They had touched down on a private facility, not far from the main house. Already the ground crew was making the ship safe and servicing it; a stair on wheels was being pushed up as the Steward undogged the hatch and locked it open. Constance unbuckled her seat, then stood, turning aft to address her mission who were also rising, drawing their faces towards her. “My sisters,” she declared, being certain she had their attention. “Tonight is a new beginning for us. This is our new home, and the flaky stuffed shirts we'll meet are the upper crust of this society. I expect your decorum; you will be the face of our order to those who are our charges and neighbors, and above all, a certain level of respectability for the first impressions we make tonight. The first splash in a pond whose ripples we are adrift in.”

“Yes, Palatine,” they chorused. For a long moment, Constance keep her countenance stern, making eye contact with each of her soldiers, then allowed herself to smile.

“Alright, I've said what I had to. We're not on leave, but I'm reminded we are not on duty all the time and I even had someone pray to the Emperor that I would enjoy myself. These are the people you swore to lay down your lives to protect. So I'm telling you, go remember why. Enjoy yourselves, my sisters, dance the night away and make friends. Now go be young.”

Twenty two faces lit up as they shouted, “Sororitas!”

With the smile of a commander certain her troops would not let her down, Constance led the way down the stairs of the little luxery spacecraft. There, she was surprised to find the Duke waiting, a matching grin on his face as he watched her decend. There, he swept the hat of his uniform off and bowed with all the grace and panauche of a stage swashbuckler. “Ladies, you are most welcome in my humble home. Palatine De La Concordia, will you grant me the honor of your escort?”

Constance's smile widened just a touch. “Never let it be said you do things in half measures, your grace. The honor of your company is entirely mine.” She took the arm he offered and allowed him to lead up the walk towards his home. The sun's rays splayed out from the horizon as the last minutes of the Golden Hour ticked away to the soft caress of music from cleverly hidden speakers.

Ropes of lights hung artfully in arches and coils around trees nearly as old as the estate itself while liveried footmen stood guard at doors, ready to open them for the Duke's guests. “My congratulations to your staff, your grace, it's enchanting,” Constance complimented him, causing his chest to puff out just a bit.

“Take care of your team and your team takes care of you,” he quoted with a wink. “A sentiment I can see you apply yourself, my Lady.”

Constance arched an eyebrow at him. “I should scold you for your constant military aspirations, your grace and remind you to be grateful for the blessings the Emperor has bestowed on you, but I find I cannot muster the energy to be stern this evening. So I'll accept your compliment as it was intended, one leader to another.” His boyish smile gleamed through and he patted her gloved hand.

“I will always be grateful for the mercy of his Majesty and his Daughters,” he replied. “As touching my lady's energy level, I like to think I have a buffet laid out such that there will be something of service. I'm hoping for at least one dance from the most beautiful of my guests.”

De La Concordia knew an experienced tom cat at work when she heard it, but allowed herself to remember some of her most pleasant evenings had been the artistry of experienced tom cats and smiled back at him. “Only a single dance, your grace? Should I be jealous?”

He looked at her sidelong, as though a marksman gauging the arc of his last shot to see how close to his mark he'd come. “My dear Palatine, if allowed I would happily monopolize your dance card!” he shot back.

Not for the first time that evening, Constance indulged in her light, crystaline laugh. “You grace is a shameless flatterer, don't stop on my account!”

“The night is young,” he assured her. “And I have not yet begun to flatter!”

* * *

Ruth's elbow let her into the critical care recovery ward of the Vigilant, as both of her hands were full with a pair of steaming cups of coffee. The smell brought June's face up from the screen she'd been montioring and a weary smile brightened her face. “Emperor bless you, sister!” she exclaimed as she took the mug Ruth offered and relished her first sip.

Whitworth hitched a cheek on an open spot of the desk that wouldn't upset anything or accidently touch a control. “Legatine Vander gave me authorization to disable to flight recorder in here, so we can speak freely,” she said, taking a sip from her own mug and looking over at the Recovery Gel tank. “How is she?”

“Asleep,” Camanelli replied, turning the chair to be able to follow her guest's gaze. “And I never thought I'd see her up and walking again.” She looked up at the other sister a bit guardedly. “You didn't go with the others to that ball or whatever?”

Ruth sighed and shook her head. “No, I'm his teacher,” she muttered in disgust. “I can't believe the Palatine would allow this!”

The Sister Hospitalier chuckled darkly and shook her head, relaxing now that she did not have to be on guard of betraying a confidence. “I don't think any of us had a choice. If Rachael were here, she'd probably laugh.”

That brough Ruth's eyes back to her. “Did you know her?”

“Not really,” June allowed. “Just in passing, and most of what I heard was from her squad mates. They invited me to her wake, after she'd been declared brain dead and I heard some stories. She wasn't like the Reverend Mother at all, or so I heard.”

“Reverend Mother?” Ruth asked.

That surprised the Nurse and her expression was incredulous. “The Legatine didn't tell you? That's the body of Rachael Winter, Reverend Mother Winter's daughter!”

Whitworth nearly dropped her mug. “By the Golden Throne!” she swore. “She actually...?”

Campanelli became stern. “Yes, she did, so you make certain who she is now lives up to that sacrifice!” Ruth nodded and turned back to the young woman floated in the tanks, moving gently either from a dream or the currents in the gel.

“I can't imagine what that might be like,” Whitworth muttered in amazement. “Either! To give up the body of your own child in the Emperor's service, or to wake up in someone else's body.”

The Nurse chuckled darkly. “As the ship's surgeon said, as he did it, it's not that much different than making a servo-skull.” She sighed and took another sip of her coffee. “We all serve the Emperor, but some more than others.”

Ruth's gaze returned to the Nurse and caught her eye. “How long until you can decant her?”

“I'll give her another hour or so.” Whitworth stood and finished her coffee.

“Alright, I'll see you in an hour.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime.”

* * *

Mary Cotton had lived a hard life.

An orphan, she had been raised in the Scholas Progenium of Manzipor, part orphanage, part boarding school, part military boot camp under Drill Abbots and Abbesses who had no patience for dullards or the slothful. Mary had been given holos of her parents, a communications officer aboard the Dilverance who had been lost with all other hands when the ship was destroyed, and a Captain of the 27^th Manzipor Winged Hussars who had died a heroes death on Caliban.

This was all Mary knew of the humans who had been her parents.

She had been a particularly devout child and her frequent prayers for the souls of the faces of the people she had been told were her parents drew the attention of Palatine Aisha, a retired Sister of Battle who was living out her final days teaching the next generation of the Emperor's loyal subjects. Seeing in Mary the potential of a new sister, she had ridden the child heartlessly, honing in her both the raging temper at her teacher's callous and capricious nature as well as the indominable will to keep it in control and herself out of trouble.

Hunger had been a constant companion of Mary's until she had finally proven herself to Aisha, and the Sister Qualifier Aisha had summoned to give her the final trial to see if Mary had what it took to be a Sister of Battle. She had been ten solar years old when she'd arrived at the Convent Sanctorum on Ophelia VII and discovered for the first time what a full belly felt like. Her instructors at the Convent had been hard, harsh at times, but fair and Mary had blossomed as a Novice quickly achieving high marks, both in her religious education and her martial one.

There had actually been some debate about which Order she should be trained for and had been given a rare choice to decide for herself where the Emperor called her. Mary had remembered the faces of her unknown parents, both soldiers in the service of the Emperor and had not hesitated to choose to join the Ordo Militant and a combat MOS to become a full Sister of Battle.

In all her schooling, or the battlefield she had walked, never in her life had she seen anything like the inside of Dachaigh. The magnificent decorations, the beautiful clothes and the tables laiden with food, the likes of which she'd never seen. “This must be what Heaven is like,” she whispered to Sister Superior Marks after they had made their way down the reception line, meeting people she would be hard pressed to remember later, but mindful of her protocol in the mean time.

Wendy chuckled at her sister's amazement and led the way over to one of the tables of food. “You'll want to be careful when you eat something,” she intimated, taking up a small plate and adding a portion of mixed fruits, most of which she couldn't identify. “Be mindful of your uniform and don't eat yourself sick.”

“I'm not that hungry,” Mary retorted as she took some of the fruit herself and looked, somewhat askance at the tiny fork she'd been given to eat them with. “You even know what this stuff is, 'Supe?”

“No clue,” Wendy replied carefully around her own mouthful. “Tasty though.”

Mary speared what she decided to call a strawberry, because it vaguely resembled what she'd imagined a strawberry would look like when she'd read about them. Her mouth was flooded with a sweet, tart flavor as she chewed and couldn't help but mew at how wonderful it tasted. “I think we hit the jackpot, Wendy,” she declared, quietly. “How about you?”

“This certainly beats being shot at,” Wendy agreed, snagging another flute of champagne from a passing waiter and taking a sip. “Praise the Emperor, I could get used to this!”

From a balcony above the main floor of the ballroom, music began to play, drawing both of their eyes up, to behold something neither had seen before; an orchestra, populated by live musicans playing musical instriments. Then, there was a magical moment as room began to be put to it's nominal use and couples began to dance. Mary caught sight of the Palatine and the Duke, out on the floor turning slowly on the floor, large smiles on both their faces. “I didn't think the Palatine was gonna let her hair down,” Mary declared in disbelief, elbowing her friend and superior officer and discretely pointing out their commanding officer on the dance floor.

Wendy caught sight of a pair of officers in what looked like Home Guard uniforms and turned back to Mary. “We going to let the Palatine have all the fun?”

“Emperor, no!” Mary asserted as the two men who were a bit startled by their approach and bowed. “You boys dance?” she asked, picking the bigger of the two. A surprised grin spread on his face and he bowed again.

“It would be our pleasure, my lady,” he replied.

“I'm Bob, this is Doug,” his friend declared.

“I'm Wendy and this is Mary,” the Sister Superior declared. “Let's dance!” Hands were grabbed and bodies led out onto the floor, and no one was really sure who was leading and who was being led, not that anyone cared. Then Mary had a tall, good looking young man's arms around her and she was dancing in a ballroom in what might as well have been a castle and the five year old girl inside her was beside herself in glee.

* * *

Fiona sipped champagne and smiled to herself as she watched her protege dancing with their charge and tried not to worry about what had brought them here. Every where she looked, she saw loyalty, an idyllic, textbook example of a world fully secure within the Imperium of Man. There was not so much as a hint of heresy, disloyalty or treachery. It seemed obvious they had been sent on a wild goose chase; whatever a goose was, or why one would chase it she had no idea. It was then she sighed and decided to look at things through more experienced eyes.

Surely they should have found something irregular by now, shouldn't they?

Her mood somewhat soured, she turned and made a soft gesture. At her bidding Baldermort floated over and dipped on his suspensor field. “How may I be of service, my lady?”

“Baldermort, when was the last time there was any kind of issue on this planet? Any hints of chaos, heresy, anything?” The skull's lack of skin or muscles prohibited it from making any kind of facial expression, but just from the way it fidgeted on its suspensor field made her think it was taken aback.

After a long moment, the vox in the skull quietly replied, “Fifty years ago, my lady, there was a minor incident, a religious benevolent society was declared to be heretical, but the members surrendered themselves. The adjustication of the Adeptus Arbites and the Ecclesiarchy was that the incident was a misunderstanding of certain notes of the Imperial Creed. It was judged an innocent confusion of dogma, not willful heresy.”

“What was the outcome of this leniency?”

“The accused renounced their misunderstanding and pledged themselves loyal. As they had cooperated fully with the Inquisition, they were allowed the Emperor's Mercy,” the skull intoned somberly. Fiona pulled at her chin in thought.

“Was anyone important caught up in this 'misunderstanding'?”

“I was,” a deep, mellodious voice declared. Fiona turned to find an older man, wearing not quite a uniform, though it had medals and braid aplenty, standing behind her. He had a full head of gray hair and a stern, weathered face. He clicked his heels together and bowed stiffly. “Leopold Gustav Holtz, Viscount of New Macon, your humble servant, my lady.” He stood up straight, taking the bottle of champagne from one of the tables chill buckets and refreshing Fiona's glass, then his own before returning it.

“Legatine Fiona Vander, Adepta Sororitas,” she replied, with the lightest of curtseys in response to his own courtesy.

He conspiciously took a sip first from his flute and looked the Sister in the eye. “My sister, Emperor rest her soul, was disgraced in the affair. She had been particularly adament her societies beliefs were not heresy.”

“Her society?” asked Vander archly, taking a sip of the sparkling wine herself. Either to merely enjoy it, or show she was not intimidated, she wasn't quite sure. The Viscount gestured at Baldermort.

“The servator can tell you, it's a matter of public record, and I have nothing to hide over it. She considered the Society as a labor of love and was too ardent in its defense. When chastised by the Ecclesiarchy for it she was...surly, some would say with good cause, but I will not debate that. She was stripped of her title and cast out of the family. She left Thuria and the last word of her I had was that she was dead.”

Fiona switched the flute to her left hand and looked at the nobleman sidelong. “Bold words, my lord. Especially in defense of Heresy to the face of a Sister of Battle.” The man chuckled darkly.

“You misunderstand, my lady,” he replied. “I offer no defense on behalf of my sister, her society or how she chose to defend it. I may reprove the Ecclesiarchy on its handling of the matter, but that judgement was handed down decades ago and the dead are buried. I trust my actions then and since vouchsafe my loyalty to our Emperor.” He stepped forward and Fiona continued to meet his gaze without giving up so much as a milimeter. “I cast my own sister out of my family, Legatine, to prove my loyalty. Can you say you would have done the same?”

“This is a perfect world so far, My Lord Viscount,” she told him evenly. “I have survived too many battles to be lulled into a false sense of security. If there is heresy or corruption on this planet, rest assured, we will find it.” She took a sip of champagne while staring him in the eye. “And if there is only loyalty, the Emperor's subjects have nothing to fear from us.”

He smiled thinly and bowed his head. “Your reputation on that account preceeds you, my lady.” He turned, using that to step back slightly so as to lower the hostility between them without giving ground. “It seems we are both concerned over the younger generation,” he declared, looking out at the Duke and Palatine enjoying their waltz. “Perhaps we can find common cause...?”

“In what?” she drawled.

His eyes lingered on the dancing forms, then turned to look at her sidelong. “Perhaps,” he repeated, then bowed again. “Good evening, my lady Vander. I look forward to our next conversation.”

Fiona returned his bow, then watched him depart, her mind going in circles as she did so. Finally, without taking her eyes off the departing back of the Viscount, over her shoulder she called, “Baldermort?”

“The complete file of the Viscount, my lady?”

“Every little detail,” Fiona replied.

“Of course.”

* * *