Chapter Twelve

Morning Glory

It had been too long since Constance had been awakened by sunlight on her face and opening her eyes, she found the Duke had not lied about the magnificent view. Through the rays streaming in the open window, the entire valley was spread out in idyllic greens, browns and blues to rival the poetry the Battle Sister had become fond of over the course of her career. Under her ear, she could hear the beating heart of Cameron Wren which gave a melody of life to compliment the visual feast her eyes were enjoying through the glass. She smiled, feeling the weight of his arm over her shoulders and musky scent of him in her nose and for a little while allowed herself to just be a woman in the arms of her man.

It was a pleasant, pastoral fantasy that rolled forth from her imagination, the simple life of farming, tied inexorably to the cycles of the land and seasons. It was a life of beauty with the birthing of livestock and children and of death, the slaughter of some of those animals in mercy of wounds beyond healing or for need of meat. A life of the exquisite pleasure of lovemaking and the almost unbearable agony of child birth in the ebb and flow of planting, harvesting and surviving. This is a sedate posting, isn't it? She thought to herself. What could be more stable than being a Sister Famula? She let her thoughts drift back to earlier in the morning and their vigorous activities before sleeping and grinned. He certainly knows what to do with a woman.

She inhaled deeply and was surprised to find the aroma of coffee in her nose. Her hand dipped under the pillow she wasn't using, laid hands on the little bolter pistol and she sat up, thoughtlessly nude in a single, fluid motion. The muzzle of the pistol sought a target, but she found only a beautiful silver coffee service sitting on the dresser, opposite the magnificent canopy bed they had spent the night in. There was no clue how it had gotten there, or by whom.

Constance slid from the bed like a cat, padding silently throughout the suite of rooms until she was satisfied they were alone, then took the chair from the little desk, and lodged it under the door handle to hold it closed after she was satisfied it was still locked as she'd left it the night before. “Connie?” his voice brought her back around, to find him pulling on a robe, that also had not been next to hers the night before. “What's wrong?”

“Someone's been in here,” she snapped, clicking the safety back on as she walked over to him.

That amused him greatly. “Of course someone's been in here,” he told her with a chuckle. “But you're probably not used to the realities of nobility and household staff.”

“I can't believe I slept through someone being in here!” she growled, berating herself.

Cameron took that as a compliment and pulled her to him. “Relax, my darling. Every one on my staff is vetted, thoroughly screened and most have been working for my family for generations. I trust them, and you can too, I swear it.”

She scrunched up her face in an inscrutable expression that he found heart melting. “Trust?” she demanded. “I want them to teach my girls a class in urban stealth!”

“I'll see what I can do,” he chuckled then looked at her, still naked in his arms. “You have a tattoo!” he exclaimed. She rolled her eyes.

“Three, actually,” she replied, stepping back and showing him her right shoulder. There, he found a Maltese cross embossed by a red heart. “This is the oldest, my squad sisters and I got matching ones during R and R leave on Reth after our first battle in the order. I was eighteen.”

“It matches the patch on your uniform,” he observed and she nodded.

“For the same reason,” she told him, then some of the playfulness left her demeanor and she looked solemn. “I think there's only two or three of us now, from my first squad, still alive.” She sighed and turned around, displaying her full, pert womanly posterior and, he noted suddenly, a three lobed filigree design in the small of her back. “This was the result of a bet I lost.”

His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “That sounds like an interesting story!”

She grinned at him over her shoulder, her good humor restored. “It is, and I might even tell it to you someday.” Then she turned back and raised up her right foot up onto the bed. It was a rather shameless display and caused Cameron to get a little red in the face until he noticed something around her ankle. Bending over to get a better look, he found that around her calf, just above her ankle a Fleur-de-lis had been drawn on the outside side of her leg and around it, in High Gothic was written Emperor of Mankind. “In some cultures,” she told him, “to wear a chain around the right leg signifies that person as a slave, or as a statement of marriage, depending on the chain and it's materials. Either is true for me, I am the Emperor's slave and a tattoo is permanent unlike a chain that can be broken or removed.”

He chuckled and stood up. “As if I didn't have enough to be envious of him over!”

She reached up and pressed her forefinger into his breast bone. “Envy doesn't become you, your grace.”

“I meant no real disrespect,” he assured her. “As I'm sure you know.”

Her hand went past him and picked up the robe from the bed and pulled it on, much to his well hidden disappointment. This was by far the best light he'd seen her in, and she was every bit and more the promise of her in the darkness had been. “I know,” she told him with a wink and led the way over to the coffee service to pour them both a cup. “The tattoos were a phase I grew out of, but the reminders are constant. I am grateful to you, your grace, for your sympathy last night.”

“Don't do that,” he protested, coming over to take her shoulders in his hands. “Don't shut me out, Connie. If you've decided this isn't what you want, I understand, but let us stay friends, at least.” She turned in his hands and looked at him, her expression somewhat confused.

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do!” he swore. “Do you think me a liar?”

Her eyebrows met over her nose. “No, I think you a charming Lothario who got what he wanted and I thought to hide behind formality because I was afraid of being hurt.” Her face flushed and her voice rose. “Emperor damn you, Cameron Wren, you got to me! A hardened veteran, and I wake up this morning like a dewy eyed recruit fantasizing about having your children! If you play careless with me, so help me, I'll...!”

That was as far as she got before he leaned in and silenced her with a kiss as his hands found her waist to pick her up and sat her down on the dresser to the rattle of the coffee service. Their kiss broke, leaving her breathless and panting and, she noted, her legs splayed obscenely wide in invitation to him. His eyes were laughing at her as he leaned in and kissed her nose. “If you would stop worrying about being hurt for just a moment,” he scolded her. “You might realize you have two hearts in your breast to safe guard, Constance De La Concordia! Yours and mine! Now, what do I have to do to prove myself to you? Shall I have your name tattooed around my ankle?”

The ridiculousness of the situation got to her and she began to laugh, joined shortly by him as she reached over and held up her coffee cup. “What say we start with cream, sugar and that view you bragged about?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he assured her.

* * *

The view, when they finally got to it, was everything she'd been promised.

* * *

Rachael sat up in her bunk, being careful not to hit the bunk above her with her head. The barracks the Sisters had been given had the beds in nooks worked into the bulkheads of the compartment. They were three levels high, with drawers below each bunk and sets of hanging lockers to interconnect them. They were designed to move Imperial Guardsmen into or out of war zones in great need and this room was meant for the command non-commissioned officers of a company and so was nicer than the massive bay the sisters used as a day room that normally would have bunk beds in rows and rows to sleep five hundred men and women.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, noting that only herself, June and Eloheim Advance Whitworth were in the room, which seemed odd. They had gone to bed last night, after grueling set of instructions and had expected the rest of the mission to return, but they hadn't. Rachael stood and yawned, her modesty kept by a close tank top that was for the purpose of sleeping or exercise and matching pair of shorts that reached her knees. At least they were easier to don.

Still mostly asleep, she stumbled into the head for the barracks and washed her face. The cold water was brisk and set her heart to beating as she looked up into her reflection in the mirror, still trying to get used to what she saw being her face.

Then the reflection contorted into a mask of rage and shouted, “Give me back my body!”

Rachael snapped awake and sat up so fast in the bunk she banged her head on the set of drawers above her. “Ow!” she yelled, startled by the pain and holding her hand over her head to see if there was blood. Her hand was dry, but her forehead tender where she'd struck it.

“You alright?” the voice of Sister June drew Rachael's eyes to one of the tables in the center of the room, finding her with a hot pot and mug of something on the way to her mouth. Rachael sat up in the bed, still rubbing her head where she'd struck it.

“Nightmare,” she admitted.

The cup went down to the table untasted. “What was it this time?” she asked softly.

“It's nothing,” Rachael started, but June was having none of it.

“Tell me,” she commanded. The new woman gave her a strange look, then shrugged and stood to amble over to the table, turn over one of the waiting cups on the service and help herself to some of the Hospitaliers coffee.

“Have you ever had a dream where you were getting up and going about your day, but you were still dreaming? Then you wake up for real?” She nodded guardedly. “Well, it was that, I woke up, walked into the latrine and was washing my face then my reflection demanded I give it my body.”

“What?” asked a somewhat bleary eyed Ruth from her bunk.

“Yes, it was like something out of a horror holo,” Rachael replied.

“What did it say exactly,” June demanded. Rachael paused in stirring her coffee.

Taking the spoon out and putting it on the table, she asked softly, “I believe it was 'give me back my body,' but I'm not exactly sure. Why?”

The Hospitalier leapt up, her chair flying back into the bunk behind her. From a standing start, June actually jumped over the table and the next thing Rachael knew she had a knife at her throat and her head immobilized in a choke hold. “Ruth, get over here, now!” she shouted.

“Let go!” Rachael shouted, instantly terrified. “What's the matter with you?”

“Kiss the seal of the Emperor of Mankind or I will open your throat from ear to ear!” June hissed. Ruth tumbled out of bed and rushed over, presenting the only thing she had with the Imperial Aquila on it, the bra she was wearing over her breast. “Swear your fealty! Kiss it, so help me!” June snarled.

Rachael puckered her lips and, when given just enough slack in the vise hold, brought her head forward and kissed the Eloheim's breast. “Long live the Emperor of Mankind!” she affirmed. The knife left her throat and her neck was released.

Panting, June dropped the knife to clatter onto the table. “This body was brought through the Warp,” she said in slight apology. “It could have been possessed, that's why the Reverend Mother had me remove Rachael's brain and bury it on Banudan. Still, there was a possibility. Sorry.”

Rachael shook all over at how close she'd come to dying and nodded as Ruth removed her bust from the other woman's face. “No, no,” she panted. “If...if I had been, I would want you to...!” Ruth laid her hand on Rachael's shoulder.

“Nice to hear,” she told her softly. Then she looked back and forth between both women. “Is there a chance that Rachael is possessed, but by Jonas?”

“What?” asked Rachael.

June sat back down on the bench and looked up at the Eloheim. “What do you mean, Ruth?”

Rubbing her hands on her thighs, she got a mug and poured her own coffee. “What if Rachael's soul never departed her body? What if it's still there, but now Jonas and his brain are there with his soul?”

“Is that possible?” June asked. Both women turned to look at the Inquisitor, but she shrugged her own ignorance.

“I'm not a theologian, well, not a theoretical one, anyway. My training was all in practical matters.”

Ruth took a large sip of coffee and mulled the question. “We need test you.”

Rachael sighed and nodded. “Yes, it's probably for the best. We'll have to wait for Palatine De La Concordia to return.”

“Reverend Mother Winter is here...” she started, but June and Rachael spoke in chorus.

“No,” they declared. The two women exchanged a glance, then smiled and Winter gestured for June to proceed. “She's been through enough,” Campanelli assured Whitworth. “Can you imagine trying to test the body of your own daughter and it's not your daughter any more?” Ruth sighed and nodded.

“We'll wait.” She polished off her coffee and then put the mug down. “Meantime, you get dressed,” she ordered Rachael. “I need to give you the crash course in Rhino driving.”

* * *

It was very odd for Rachael to lay eyes on Lucky Forward.

Reverend Mother Winter had evidently thought ahead that Jonas posing as a Rhino driver would need the Rhino assigned to her and had brought the vehicle along. It had been unloaded from the Saint Arabella into the shuttle bay that the sisters were using and parked in an out of the way corner. The squat, rhomboid box sat on a pair tracks each sixty centimeters wide, with a sharply sloping nose that was the only thing not particularly boxy about it. It was painted the color of dried blood with the Maltese Cross and Heart heraldry of the Order of the Valorous Heart on its nose, both side doors and the rear. On the sides, at the very front of the nose, the dark red lightened to scarlet to highlight a black Fleur-de-lis next to which, in white the vehicle's name was painted by hand in Low Gothic. Despite its squat appearance, the vehicle was three point six meters tall to the roof, four and a half wide and just over six and half long.

The mud of Goshen IV was long washed off, and it was obvious the vehicle had been lovingly worked over since being recovered. Rachael walked down the side of it, reaching out to touch it as she did so, overwhelmed with an odd sense of deja vu as she saw it 'again' and for the first time. At the back corner, a new drive sprocket had been installed, though there was still a dent from an unexploded bolter round above the track skirt of the vehicle where someone, presumably Rachael herself, painted a bandage and 'Ouch!' near it.

Seeing her sense of humor brought a smile to Rachael's face as she continued to walk around the rear of the Rhino to the Starboard hatch she'd last left in her dream. “This feels so strange,” she admitted as she reached up and pulled the hatch open, looking inside for the first time. It was a cramped little compartment, despite the height of the Rhino, the armor ate into the space a great deal and she was nearly obliged to duck her head to enter it. The interior was a monochromatic off white to trick the eye into thinking the interior was bigger than it was.

There were ten jump seats arranged around the cabin in the most space efficient manner, each with a fold out socket to plug in the fusion pack of a sister's power armor to keep it in communication with the officers running the battle. In the nose, on the left side of the vehicle was a compact, but much nicer chair with the controls for the driver laid in around it. On the right was the platform and the spinning machinery of the pintle mounted gun topside to be manned instead of remotely operated.

Rachael slid into the seat did something of a double take. “It's so big!” she declared, causing Ruth to chuckle.

“Normally, you'd be in armor sitting in it, and that takes room.” She began to point out the small clusters of instruments. “So, it's pretty basic, all conforming to the Standard Template Construct. This is the Vehicle Status display, fuel tank level, oil pressures, hydraulic pressure, pump temperature, things like that. This is the caution and warning center to tell you if something is out of spec or has tripped a fault condition. On the wall, there, are the electrics; cabin lights, exterior lights, infrared lamp and so on.”

“Seems simple enough,” Rachael ventured, drawing an amused glance from Ruth.

“Famous last words,” she chided the new woman.

Rachael shrugged. “So, this...yoke... is the steering?” she asked, indicated the dual control handle before her.

“Much more,” Ruth corrected her. “This is a tracked vehicle, so this is steering, throttle and breaks, all in one. The right hand controls the right track, the left the left. Rotate them both forward, the Rhino goes forward.”

“Lucky,” Rachael corrected her.

“Excuse me?”

Winter looked up into her face, an odd expression on her own. “I...I don't know. I just felt really strongly that she...I...called it Lucky, not 'the Rhino'. I, I can't explain it.”

“That's really starting to bother me, Winter.”

“You think I'm not?” she demanded. She shivered and indicated the control. “Sorry, I interrupted you. Please, continue.”

Ruth's glare couldn't decide if it was anger, fear or suspicion, but eventually it passed and her face settled into a more neutral teaching expression. “The tracks can run at different speeds and even opposite directions. This allows...Lucky... to spin in it's own foot print, which is handy in confined spaces, like this hanger. If you press the left trigger on the yoke, it will link the two controllers, then you just turn the yoke as if you were driving a regular car.”

“What's the right trigger for?” she asked, reaching out to get a feel for the controls in her hands.

“It's the push to talk for the Vox thrower,” Ruth answered. “Just the trigger for external and the trigger in addition to that thumb button for the intercom.” Rachael nodded, looking over the controls and then finally back up at Ruth.

“Ok, so now what? Laps around the shuttle bay?”

“Are you mental?” Ruth laughed. “We're on a space ship, right next to the outside hull with doors that open onto space, this is the last place I'll try teaching you to drive!” Rachael frowned, but finally admitted to the logic of it and shrugged. “I just want you familiar with it so the sisters don't see you looking for the first time.”

“Eloheim Advance,” she started, then paused for a long moment before Ruth realized she was waiting for permission to continue.

“Go ahead, Rachael.”

“Thank you, I, I just want to say, I'm grateful for your instruction. My mission is too important to be allowed to fail. I know I can be...headstrong...in going after my goals, but it's in service to the Emperor. I'm sorry for this situation, and I am grateful for any help you can give me to accomplish my mission.” Ruth rubbed her chin thoughtfully, staring at the other woman.

“Don't mention it,” she finally decided. “Go to the ship's barber and get your hair regulation. Either back white...no. On second though, not all white. Get it all your natural color.”

“A...alright.” After a moment, she asked, “Why not...?

“Because I said so,” Ruth snapped.

“Yes, Eloheim Advance.”

Whitworth glared at her for a long moment, then turned back to the open door. She paused in the hatchway and, over her shoulder, declared, “You may address me as 'Sister'.” Then ducked through the hatch in a swirl of the Day Habit and was gone.

For a moment, Rachael stared after her, then, unable to make sense of what she'd witnessed, rose from the driver's chair and made her way to the Ship's Barber, pausing to secure Lucky before she did so.

* * *

With a crew of over a hundred thousand souls, His Majesty's Armed Vessel Vigilant had many compartments that most would think had no place on a war ship. She was equipped with five, one thousand seat theaters for crew recreation, one of which was reserved for the Officers, one was strictly for enlisted persons and the other three allowed mixed attendance. There were stores, selling everything from personal electronics to paper, pens, civilian clothing and everything in between.

As regulations covered every aspect about a service member in His Majesty's Navy, there four separate Barber shops, two enlisted and two officer, segregated by sex. Even the lowest Sister of Battle held the equivalency of a commission in the armed services, and thus were treated as officers, so Rachael took the travel tubes to the ship's central deck that ran the length of the ship, lovingly referred to as Main Street, to get to it. While there were a number of sensitive areas as this was the deepest, and best protected area of the ship, this was also where a number of these service and recreation areas were located so as to be central to the entire crew.

The female officers barber shop held twenty workstations and was busy just about every day of the week. Females being allowed by regulations to wear longer hair necessitated additional accommodation for its care; this included services such as hair dying to any color allowed by regulation. Rachael signed in with the ships' services yeoman at the shop and sat to wait until one of the techs was free.

There were three other female officers waiting, all either engrossed in their data-slates or a hand brain, but Rachael felt their eyes on her as they discretely tried to steal glances at her. Up until now, Rachael's experiences had been exclusively with Ruth or June, but the walk to the shuttle bay and Lucky Forward, had changed that very much. Rachael had felt the deck hands turn to watch her and Ruth go by and this trip to the barber's had been much the same, but more so. Now she had been alone and the stares made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn't really define.

Despite that, she very much understood it, and that understanding terrified her.

One had nearly worked up the courage to try and start a conversation with her on the travel tube, but a glare had made him change his mind. “Sister Winter?” A soft voice brought Rachael's eyes from the studious ignoring of her fellow officers waiting to a naval rating in a utility smock.

“Yes?” she asked and the girl bowed her head.

She was young, probably no older than eighteen and her face was an interesting blend of enough ethnicities that made judging her home world difficult. If Rachaels memory was correct, the previous port of call for the Vigilant before she had picked up Palatine De La Concordia and her mission on Banudan had been the Hive World of Algol. There, she had probably taken on fresh recruits; either voluntarily through Imperial Recruitment offices of people trying for a better life, or as a result of her Press Gangs drawing tithe to the Empire from the greatest resource of a hive world, people. That being the case, every recognized variant and breed of humanity could be found on a hive world, and Press Gangs weren't known for being picky. “I'm free now, if you'd kindly follow me?” Rachael frowned and gave a gesture at the other women.

“They were here before me,” she protested, and that drew all three of their eyes in various expressions of curiosity and disbelief. The rating nodded.

“Yes, ma'am, but you indicated you're getting your hair dye touched up? They're here for other services, I do the hair coloring.”

“Oh,” Rachael replied as she stood and followed the younger woman back through the row of workstations to the one farthest back whose chair abutted a sink with a neck rest carved into it.

“Please sit,” the girl invited as she went to a rack with aprons hanging from it. “I'm Holly, by the way,” she introduced herself. “You'll be refreshing your white dye?”

“Rachael,” she replied as she sat down and the seat forced her to lay back with her head out over the sink. “No, I'd like to return to my natural color, please.” The girl laid the apron over her Day Habit and fastened it to protect it from over spray.

“Oh?” Holly asked as she got a scanner and pointed it at the top of Winter's head to evaluate the color. “Are you leaving the Sisterhood?”

“We,” and that word caught a bit in Winter's throat to say, bringing with it a bit of confusion about what would happen to her after her mission was completed. She realized she had no idea of where the body of Jonas Merle was, or if it was even still alive. That was a sobering thought. “We never leave the Order,” she managed to say, working hard to keep the panic out of her voice. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Please, forgive me, my lady. I was under the impression that Sisters wore their hair white to symbolize their purity to the Emperor.” She put scanner down and removed the faucet wand and used it to wet Rachael's hair. “Just idle curiosity, I meant no disrespect.”

Winter thoughts quickly went black, though she managed to master the flash of emotion at realizing why Ruth had ordered the change, and keeping her face neutral. Out loud, she said, “Our Palatine wears her hair her natural color and I liked the idea of it. I'd thought I'd try it myself.”

Holly smiled. “Sometimes change can be liberating, right?”

Inside, Rachael was seething at the back handed insult she had been given, just when she thought she had begun to win over the sister who had been assigned to teach her. However, she realized that Legatine Vander had described Ruth as a 'minder' more than a teacher and it reminded her that she had a long way to go before she could get close enough to complete her mission. In a way, it was the best kind of compliment as it put her back on her guard and made her realize neither Ruth, nor June were her friends or sisters. “Yes,” Jonas replied as she tried to get more comfortable with someone else washing her hair. “Yes it can.”

She smiled to herself as began to embrace this new information as well as her new identity. How often did someone get a chance like this? This was a golden opportunity she would make the most of.

* * *

A bevy of liveried stewards carried the Battle Sisters dress uniforms, freshly dry cleaned and in protective bags to the back of the space craft as Constance and Fiona once more took the seats they'd ridden in on their previous trip in the craft down from the Vigilant. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the servants come in and out, young, mostly quite good looking, and all male. She wondered about the lack of bio-engineered servitors on this world and decided she preferred this option to the not quite sentient, but still man shaped creatures. Not as trustworthy, perhaps, but not as disturbing either, and they came without the moral quandary of wondering if a servitor was a biological machine, or purposefully bred human slave. Or both.

She had never been fond of the creatures.

Across from her, Fiona noted her gaze, followed it, then came back to her protege's face. “How did your evening go?” she asked cryptically, though the expression on her face added numerous layers to what was an otherwise innocent question.

It had been a long time since Fiona had seen Constance in civilian clothing and the floral sun dress the Duke, or whomever had shopped for him, had bought for her flattered the younger woman's figure, hair and complexion perfectly. She had to admit, the Duke had managed to put together an excellent retenue and their dedication showed. Fiona wondered how someone could have possibly know the skirt suit she was wearing was exactly to her own tastes. Indeed, none of the sisters had anything but glowing compliments on their clothing gift based on the whispers she'd over heard on their way to the Ducal Estates private space port.

Connie smirked at her, then reached into the bag next to her and produced the little pistol that had brought them here and handed it across the isle to her. “As well as you are probably afraid of,” she said as Fiona took the pistol and swept it out of sight into her own bag.

Certain that they couldn't be seen, her hands asked, Do I need to test you?

Connie sighed and nodded.

“Are you out of your mind?” Vander hissed only just loud enough to be heard. De La Concordia shook her head and stared out the window at the ground crew making the craft ready to depart.

“No,” she replied softly. “We have to know if he was tainted, and if he is, I am now.” She turned back to her mentor, her eyes steely. “I regret nothing, Fiona. I trust you'll do your duty?”

Fiona sat and stared at the woman she thought of as the daughter she hadn't had, fuming that she could be so cavalier so as to put her in this situation. The situation of possibly having to kill a woman more dear to her than her own life. “I had thought you better than this, Connie,” she told her quietly. The blue eyes blinked slowly.

“We had to know, and this will tell us,” she replied calmly. “If I am tainted, your duty will be clear. If not, well, I have enjoyed a pleasant evening in the service of my Emperor and am a step closer to owning the trust and confidence of the house I am charged to guide.” She smiled and looked out the window again. “And my charge is none the wiser for it.”

“I don't want to see you continue to be this reckless, Connie.”

For a long time Constance said nothing. The ship rose up on her suspension field and quickly Dachaigh fell away astern. As the blue skies of Thuria gave way to the endless black of space, she turned back and gave her mentor her most serious expression. “Fi, I need your help keeping my thinking straight.”

“Other than this, I haven't had any cause to doubt your thinking,” the older woman affirmed. Constance wanted to smile, but the expression on her face wouldn't change.

“Reverend Mother Vander, I think I'm falling in love with Duke Cameron Wren,” she whispered.

Fiona sat, speechless at the Palatine's confession, chewing on how complicated this 'simple' mission had become, knowing her protege wasn't given to hyperbole. She sat and thought and in the end decided this was a matter than only faith could resolve. To her protege, she said, “First, you know I'm no longer a Reverend Mother. Second, we have to test you. We'll deal with love when the time comes. Either way, Connie, I'll be there for you.”

“Thank you, Fi.”

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Testing Patience

The natural hair color of Rachael Winter was a rich chestnut, she discovered, that Holly had matched perfectly, evening the shades with a rich tone and natural highlights. In drying the dye she had teased the locks a bit, giving a full halo that floated about her head like a crown. Jonas looked at the face in the mirror that was both his and yet not and couldn't help but feel a twinge of much repressed attraction at the nearly doe eyed young woman that met his gaze.

Ashamed of his lack of mental discipline, Jonas felt a sudden rush of anger, causing the angelic face in the mirror to harden and the doe eyed girl became a skilled killer who was well trained in her trade and took to it with a passion. For a moment, even he was taken aback, but he mastered himself before her expression could change. There was no charge for the service, but Jonas knew Rachael's stipends were quite full from months in a coma and tipped Holly generously despite that. Jonas knew what Rachael's war face looked like now and committed the feeling of it to his memory to be able to call on it at need. That knowledge was worth more than any coin she could pay to the young conscript.

She wore the new expression on her way back to the barracks of the sisterhood and there were no repeats of the previous journey. While several officers noted the beautiful young woman in the car with them, no one had the temerity to try to approach her this time. Soon she had arrived the troop compartment that had been given over to the mission to find it crowded with young women, other members of the Sisterhood, most of whom seemed to be in the process of changing their clothing.

Conversation stopped as she stood in the hatchway, all eyes on her and Jonas was overcome with a feeling of self consciousness as she had not in years. Before she could say anything, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder and a gauntlet capable of breaking every bone under it gripped just enough to convey that warning. Jonas turned to find Sister Ruth in her armor was who had control of her shoulder, though she was looking deeper into the room. “Sisters! Here is our latest addition, Sister Rachael Winter, the driver of our new Rhino. Get to know her, but go easy. She bumped her head on Goshen IV and she's convalescing with us!”

A series of cat calls was the answer to the announcement as the women in the barracks competed to see who could mock the new member of their ranks with the greatest aplomb. Ruth's eyes turned to look down at Rachael and were hard. “Palatine De La Concordia wants a word with you, Sister,” she declared in a voice that brooked no argument.

Jonas wasn't quite frogmarched to the Palatine's cabin, but it was quite plain she was going whether she wanted to or not. Ruth paused to knock on the hatch and was already reaching for the latch handle when a terse, “Come,” drifted through the metal. The door swung wide to reveal the Palatine as well as her mentor, Legatine Vander, both of whom looked tired and haggard. Constance's ebony locks were drenched with sweat, and a glean of perspiration shown through the peach fuzz on Fiona's head.

Surprisingly, neither woman was wearing some variation of the Habits their order was know for, but both wore remarkable civilian clothing. Despite her worn, exhausted look, Palatine De La Concordia was wearing a sun dress that effortlessly flattered her considerable figure that was covered in tropical looking flowers Jonas didn't recognize. Legatine Vander, on the other hand, looked like she'd just stepped out of a corporate board room in a brilliant white silk skirt suit that announced 'powerful woman' to any who laid eyes on her.

“Sisters Whitworth and Winter, report as ordered, Palatine,” Ruth declared.

The Palatine said nothing, only sitting and evidently recovering from some strenuous activity, so Vander clasped her hands behind her back and walked forward, an arch look of disapproval on her face. She towered over Rachael for a moment, then demanded, “I understand there is some question of your faculty, Sister Winter?”

Jonas licked her lips carefully. “I...I have been recovering from a serious head wound, Legatine,” she hedged. “I think my sisters are overly concerned...”

“You had a nightmare that the real Sister Winter demanded the return of her body?” Vander asked, as if used to making such declarations every day. Jonas new throat was suddenly very dry.

“Ye...yes, Legatine, I had that dream,” she admitted. “But, I steadfastly pledge my undying loyalty to the Emperor of Mankind!”

Vander's eyes narrowed. “We'll see,” she declared ominously. “Arm.” Whitworth's free hand seized Jonas' wrist and forced it and her arm up, and the bell sleeve of the Day Service Habit she was wearing was moved to expose her skin. “Baldermort,” the Legatine commanded. A servo-skull Jonas hadn't noticed floated over, a hypodermic needle clutched in one of its robotic hands.

“Please remain still,” the skull directed needlessly, there was no way Jonas would get his arm free of the grip Whitworth had it in. Ironically, that held the armored sister just as trapped and Legatine Vander's gaze drifted to her.

“And you, Eloheim Advance Whitworth, when you reported you had reservations about Sister Winter that rose to the level of testing for chaos taint, Sister Winter was not in your eye sight. Why is that?”

“I...” Ruth swallowed nervously, then squared up her shoulders. “Forgive me, Legatine, I ordered Sister Winter to go to the ship's barber and get herself presentable and regulation.”

Vander's eyes narrowed, the menace of the expression amplified by the clothing she was wearing. “You ordered someone out of your sight, who you immediately upon seeing me requested she be tested, and not only that, you ordered her to the central deck of His Majesties vessel, where some of the most secure and vital compartments are, to get her hair done?”

Ruth's throat closed dry and loudly as she swallowed. “I...I have no excuse, Legatine.”

The silence drug out such that Jonas didn't even really notice the sting of the needle taking blood, or the wet spray of bleed stop once the needle was withdrawn. Legatine Vander just keep staring at the woman holding Jonas' arm and the silence got heavier with each passing second. “That's two fuck ups in as many days, Whitworth,” Vander finally declared. “Bad ones. Ones that make me question if that promotion was merited. The next one will cost you that stripe you're so proud of, read me?”

“Loud and clear, ma'am!”

“When we're done here, you'll report to internal security and review the flight recorder data of every second Sister Winter was out of your sight and you better pray to the Golden Throne she didn't step a toe out of line!”

“Yes, ma'am!”

“I didn't...” Jonas started, but closed her mouth tight when the laser like gaze of the Legatine returned to her.

“I don't recall asking you a question, Sister Winter.”

Jonas swallowed fearfully. “Sorry, Legatine.”

The Inquisitor who would be a Sister of Battle withered under the icy stare of the former Reverend Mother and for a long moment wondered if his station and commission would truly protect him from the wrath of these women, then the older woman spoke again, with out any of the intensity leaving her eyes. “Baldermort?”

“Sister Winter's blood chemistry scans as normal, Legatine. Within 99.997 percent of accepted human baseline, well within the requirements for your order.” Something about the tone of the hybrid machine slave's voice finally brought Vanders' attention from her two wayward subordinates.

“Something troubling you, Baldermort?”

The servo-skull's electronic voice was matter of fact. “Legatine Vander, I must inform you that Sister Winter's Kirlian quotient is double the accepted human norm...”

“Hold!” Vander shouted and Jonas realized there was the cold steel of a bolter's muzzle against her head.

“Please...” she whispered, her heart hammering in her breast. “...Don't...”

Vander's gaze was cold. “Rachael Winter, you are whisper from judgment, do you understand?” Jonas was too terrified to nod and it took a moment for her force her voice to work again.

“Yes, Legatine.”

The older woman's eyes were as hard as the rest of her visage, as hard as they had been since Jonas had recruited her for this mission and certainly as hard as when she had learned of Jonas desire to impersonate a Sister of Battle and yet, as Jonas felt the terror on her face, looking up into the older woman's eyes, feeling the cold steel of the bolter against her temple, Jonas felt like she saw something like sympathy tugging at the corners of Fiona Vander's intimidating gaze. “What are we waiting for!” demanded Whitworth from behind her.

“You'll wait for my command, Eloheim Advance,” Vander declared.

“The bitch has some other soul riding...”

“At ease!” Vander ordered. Fiona actually took a step closer, unblinking and the face of Death and Judgment itself. If allowed, Jonas would have shrunk away, but she was firmly held in place, unyielding. “Who is in there with you, Jonas Merle?” she asked.

“I...I don't know,” Jonas whispered. “I...have had dreams of fighting on Goshen IV. Dreams of events that Sister Hospitalier June says happened to...to her. To Rachael.” She panted after her breath and still Fiona Vander stared at her, stared as if through the veil of death and into her very soul. Then, just when Jonas thought she must break with fear and terror, in the back of her mind a voice whispered, Pain is an ally. Pain is a friend. Pain is truth. Jonas closed her eyes and sighed, strangely at peace. “If I am corrupt, do your duty,” she whispered.

The time drew out, as air filled her lungs and there was still no roar in her ear of Bolter being discharged. The seconds slipped past and she was still alive, still drawing in air to feed the body she had stolen and the confidence that had come with the serenity was dwindling now and an almost annoyance at a decision not being made, one way or the other. Finally, not much louder than a whisper, Jonas heard Palatine De La Concordia's voice, “Put the bolter away.”

Jonas heard the clap of the metal of the weapon against the ceramite Cuisse Ruth was wearing, then a second gauntlet clad hand took her shoulder. Jonas opened her eyes to see the Palatine rising from the chair behind her desk and walk slowly over, an object clutched in her hands that Jonas couldn't make out. Legatine Vander gave way to her and Jonas found herself face to face for the first time with Constance De La Concordia as she and Sister Rachael Winter were the same height. Her face was drawn and a sheen of sweat glistened on her skin as though she had just accomplished some great labor.

“I warned you I might end up killing you,” she said at last, her eyes tired and haunted at once. “You've been given every chance to turn aside, Inquisitor. Yet here we are, with you in a stolen body of a heroine who has given everything in service to her Emperor.”

“My duty...” Jonas started, but the look on Constance's face encouraged Jonas to remain silent.

She sighed, then turned to her mentor, then back. “Duty is the only reason I suffer you, Jonas Merle, and even so it wears thin and thread bare.” She stood up tall and squared herself so that whatever she had done did not lay so heavy on her. Or, at least, did not appear to. “Hold out your hand.”

Jonas felt Ruth's grip shift, but Constance's eyes darted over her shoulder. “No,” she commanded her Eloheim Advance. “Let her decide for herself.”

“What will happen?” Jonas asked softly, amazed she had the temerity to speak.

Constance's voice was flat and dull. “Pain,” she promised.

Jonas swallowed. “And if I re...” her mouth closed on the thought unspoken as the cold metal of the bolter's muzzle was against her temple again. If the Palatine disapproved of her soldier's action, she chose to say nothing about it, making the threat plain.

“Make your choice.”

Pain is an ally. Pain is a friend. Pain is truth. With a monumental effort of will, Jonas forced Rachael Winter's hand open and held it up. Something heavy was placed in her palm, and as promised, white hot agony shot up her nervous system to explode like a super nova in her brain.

* * *

Mary Cotton was in exceptional spirits, and had been since she'd awoke in the arms Douglas Volt, 1^st Lieutenant of His Grace's 3^rd Platoon, 'B' Company of the 112^th Thuria Lancers. Mary had picked him primarily because she was a tall woman herself and it was rare for a man to be taller than she was. She'd been delighted to learn his exceptional size wasn't limited to his height, planting a silly grin on her face the entire ride back up to the Vigilant.

Not to mention the magnificent generosity of the Duke! Fresh change of clothing indeed! Mary had felt like a princess on the flight back up to their barracks. Blue jeans, she marveled to herself. Real, denim blue jeans? Was the man made of money? Her new treasure safely stowed, she caught sight of the forgotten accumulator coil on the shelf in her locker and considered for a long moment. If ever there was a time she was happy, it was now, so she reached in and pulled out the link suit and her battle habit. The barracks was a little raucous to prepare to don the garments, so, thoughtlessly nude, she strode across the companionway to the little chapel and armory they had set up.

In the sacred space, naked before the image of the Emperor looking down at her, Mary was able to collect herself and turn her thoughts to a more spiritual frame of mind. There was no possibility of battle, so there was no need to ritually purify herself and bathe, but she did kneel before the alter for a time and stare into the holographic face of the man she had sworn to serve her entire life. He was a giant of a man clad in golden armor. With long brown hair, a square jaw, and a stern demeanor. The hologram subtly animated the image so that it was as if gazing upon a living apparition who breathed, blinked his dark eyes and wind moved through his hair.

That accomplished, Mary pulled the Link Suit over her skin, careful to keep her thoughts on the blessings she had received and the happy mood she had started the day in. Once more encased in her second skin, she donned the Battle Habit, whispering the Prayer of the Twenty Steps to Heaven as she closed the tiny buttons up the front of the habit, then prepared physically and spiritually, she crossed over to the niche that held her armor carrier and the icons she had placed over it.

She spent a long moment gazing at the two pictures that were her most precious possessions. “For you, mother, so I am worthy of the life you gave me,” she whispered, unlocking the carrier and standing before it. “For you, father, so I never forget your sacrifice.”

She clapped her hands and spread them wide, letting the carrier wrap the armor around her, sealing the pieces together, until it squeezed her gently in a full body hug. She turned in place to allow it to hang her backpack power plant to the mounts for it on the back of the Cuirass, then it placed her Melta Gun on the grabber pad on her right Cuisse. Finally, the carrier connected the power cables to her back pack and she felt two sharp vibrations on her thigh, warning her the gun was indicating a malfunction. Ready, she bowed before the Emperor and turned her steps to the range to see if her mood did have any effect on the accumulator coil.

Not having Sister Superior Marks with her this time, she set the auto timer on her suit, then returned coil to the gun. The red warnings floating holographically in her HUD cleared and the coil began to charge. The range crew safe behind the blast shield, Mary flicked the safety off and fired three rounds through the gun as fast as the coil would charge. The plasma flashed through three targets and Mary didn't need the timer built into her armor to know the coil was drawing slow, but it was vindicating to see it hadn't changed.

“Point eight four,” she muttered. “Well, well, what do you know? Getting laid has nothing to do with a bad part!”

Once the weapon was cool enough to open, she removed the coil again to make the weapon safe, then dropped it against her thigh so the grabber field could catch and hold it. The coil in hand, she nodded to the range crew in consideration of their service and headed to the ships armory. “Tell me I'm wrong,” muttered Mary darkly as she walked. “Say the wrong thing and find out what happens!”

* * *

It was a motley group that was awaiting him in the library.

Cameron Wren took in the measure of them as he and Henry swept into the room, watching conversations cease as the room turned to bow to him. They were an eclectic mix, but in a way that was something to be expected; the Sisterhood weren't a monolithic block after all, but a collection of individuals cooperating in common purpose. Their choices would be just as individualistic. However, 'common purpose' could not be said of this little crowd which clustered in three groups, ironically by class. There were a clutch of soldiers from his home guard, all somewhat cautiously chatting by the window, concern on their faces that they had been summoned to address some grave matter of indiscretion.

The truth was not terribly far from their worry.

On the other side of the library were members of his household staff, Under Butlers, three Footmen and, interestingly, four maids. The staff were in a corner, furthest from the door, being discrete as their training indicated they should be. In the center of the room, uncaring of any eyes on them, were a pair of young lordlings, both with notorious reputations and ambition of outdoing the Duke from his wilder, younger days. “Lord Masham, Sir Thomas, welcome!”

The two bowed to their liege, careful not to upset the contents of the sniffers each man held. “Your Grace,” they greeted in chorus. With the hour still in the ante-meridiem, it would appear that lust was not the two men's only sin.

“It was an unexpected pleasure to hear from your man Eddington that your Grace requested further company at breakfast,” Lord Masham added.

Duke Wren smiled and made a decision. “Of course,” he replied, all smiles. “I thought we might enjoy a round of skeet this afternoon.”

“We are at your Grace's pleasure,” the knight replied, always eager to climb a rung on the social ladder. Duke Wren's smile would not have wavered from the worst moments of an execution.

“I look forward to it! Forgive me, I have some business with the staff first, you understand.” He turned to find Henry had already summoned a Footman to guide the lords wherever Cameron would desire. “If you'll kindly await me in my study, I'll be along presently.” The two lords bowed and followed the Footman before the door was closed on their backs. “Henry?”

“We're alone, your grace,” the older man affirmed.

Duke Cameron's joviality became serious and he gestured for his soldiers and staff to gather around him. They did so, the two dissimilar groups casting uneasy glances at each other. “Friends, first be at ease, I have no complaint for fault to address with any of you,” the Duke assured them. As they group closed to conversational distance a bit of ease entered them, though they kept their self segregation.

“How may we serve, your grace?” asked the ranking officer of the soldiers. He was a Captain of the Duke's Lancers his uniform proclaimed.

“I want to extend my apologies for broaching so...personal...a topic, but this is a matter of State and it thus requires me to breech decorum,” he told them. “As you probably suspect, I am aware of...your sleeping arrangements, shall we say? Yes, I think that's discreet. I am aware of the previous evenings arrangements.” A murmur ran through the group as concern was draped on every face. Cameron smiled his warmest smile that had served him well his entire life. Holding up his hands he did his best to exude ease and consolation. “No need for concern,” he assured them.

One of the maids curtseyed. “There was no disrespect intended, your grace.”

“Nor has any offense been taken, Abby,” he told her. “Friends, believe me, I find what I must ask as distasteful as you will to hear it.”

“We're at your command, sire,” Bob assured his liege.

Cameron reached out to clasp the Captain's shoulder and let his gaze fall on each of his retainers. “I appreciate that, Captain Tull! So, some of you will likely find the previous evening was something of a...unique...experience. If that bears out, that's fine, I understand. But, in as much as each of you can, if you're willing, I'd consider it a personal favor if you would cultivate the previous evening into something more long term.”

“Sir?” Lieutenant Volt asked.

“Palatine De La Concoridia and her Mission are going to be on Thuria permanently,” Cameron replied. “I know I don't have to explain what that will do to some of the social circles of our world. Politics are down stream of culture. Wittingly or not, you are all involved in one of the major moments in the history of our world.”

The lieutenant's face became concerned. “I hope your grace isn't upset...there wasn't anyway I could have politely declined...not that I wanted to refuse, but...!

Duke Wren chuckled. “Ladies, gentlemen, please, put your minds at ease. I am in no way concerned or upset at the, acquaintances you've made last evening. Far from it, I mean to encourage you, if you are desirous of such encouragement.”

“What is it your grace desires?” Abby asked quietly.

Once more, Cameron smiled and took comfort in the excellent team he had. “If you'll allow me, friends, let me speak more directly and, regrettably, less politely. I'm sure everyone here would agree knowledge is power. Our world is in the sights of some very powerful people and our homes are at stake. I need every bit of knowledge I can get my hands on.”

“You're looking for spies, sir?” Abby asked.

“I prefer to think of it as gossip,” the Duke replied. “I certainly consider you friends and family, so I'm of course interested in the events of your lives.” His tone was soothing and his smile warm. “That's reasonable, isn't it?”

* * *

Sensor Tech First Class Ronald Smith was bored. His Majesty's Armed Vessel Vigilant had been in orbit of Thuria for the better part of a month, which meant day after day, watch after watch of civilian traffic coming and going in a mind numbing routine. Every now and then there would be a careless freighter or some inquisitive lordling's yacht that would wander too close to the Big V's interdiction envelope which would give a few moments of diversion from the routine. Usually, it only mounted to a stern radio warning to get the interloper to move along, but anything different was welcome.

He sat in a cluster of screens that shaped his console that would have been far too much information for most to absorb, but Ronald had several implants that let him categorize the flow without overwhelming him while a direct connection into his mind let him close his eyes and become the Big V, flying effortlessly through the void aware of the cold on the shadow side of the ship and the warm of Thuria's primary star on the light. He could see in the ultraviolet and the infrared, from radio waves to gamma rays that painted reality in colors and textures the human mind had no names for.

“Ronnie?” Sensor Tech third class Sally Durham called from her station. “Gamma Wave source outside plotted jump point. Spectrograph indicates a star drive.”

“Smuggler, huh?” he asked as he connected the sensor net to his implant.

“If it is, it's a big freighter,” Sally replied. “Bearing 221 mark 15.”

Ronald's mind expanded and he became the star ship as he turned his new 'eyes' towards the indicated direction. There he saw a flash of energy in a wave length no human eye could perceive that heralded reality opening up and a large something leaving the Warp. With a thought, Smith's mind was connected to the ship's intercom. “Con, CIC, new contact bearing 221 mark 15, designate master contact Uniform Kilo 77. Request permission for active sensor, over.”

“CIC, Con, contact Uniform Kilo 77 acknowledged,” the voice of Chief Petty Officer Gatling drifted impossibly through space. “You catch a smuggler, Ronnie?”

Ronnie continued to stare at the dark object and the more he did, the more confused he became. He hadn't expected an ID beacon on a smuggler, but this had to be the most EM quiet ship he'd ever seen. If Sally hadn't caught their gamma burst from leaving the warp, he doubted even the Big V would have noted it without active scanning. “I...I dunno, Chief, this thing is weird. Am I clear to go active?”

“Stand by one,” the Chief of the Watch replied.

With a thought, Ronnie moved the active sensor array to track the dark unknown in anticipation of the clearance as he tried and failed to glean more information. As he flew through space, a window opened up just above his line of sight as the master telescope tracked in and could give him a slightly better view. “Ronnie, I've got the heat and radiation leak of their drive signature now,” Sally reported.

“Run it through the computer and see if the plant is in the database,” he ordered as he continued to stare at the long, mottled, oblong thing that was falling through space. It didn't look like any ship he'd ever seen, indeed, at first glance he'd have thought it an asteroid if he didn't know better.

“Ronnie, this radiation leak is hot! It's like they're loosing containment.”

Ronnie checked the Geiger sensor and blanched a bit at the reading and was grateful his body was behind plenty of hard shielding. “Shit,” muttered Smith as he mentally keyed his microphone again. “Con, CIC, radiation hazard on Master Contact Uniform Kilo 77, possible loss of containment.”

“CIC, Actual,” Captain Newberry's voice replied. “Ronnie you're not blowing up my skirt for a thrill of going active, are you?”

If Smith hadn't been so concerned, he would have laughed at the Captain's turn of phrase. “Skipper, I...I,” he started and then a new window opened in the ocean of information he was swimming in. The plant signature was in the database. He read the entry and felt his blood go cold. “Skipper update Master Contact Uniform Kilo 77 to Hostile 2748, plant signature matches known Ork Warship! Recommend General Quarters...”

In his ear, Sally's voice was just on the edge of panic. “Ronnie, multiple gamma spikes on same vector!”

“Ronnie, go hot,” the Captain ordered and with a thought, the sensors of the Vigilant went active, and the young tech's awareness expanded with it. It was as if he was in a space suit, floating right next to the enemy, he watched, ten, then twenty Warp portals open. Then twenty became forty, and forty became a hundred of ramshackle ships that looked more like abandoned wrecks that should be drifting, not warships moving under their own power.

They were monstrous, haphazard creations, built of asteroids and other ship wrecks and pieces, painted with blasphemous symbols and crazed totems. Through their stony hulls he could see improvised weapons, scavenged artillery and ordinance and even the dead zone tell tales of what were likely nuclear munitions. “Emperor save us,” he whispered. “Skipper, it's a Waaagh!”

Still flying through space, Ronnie felt the blast shields begin to snap shut over the portholes as the gun mounts swung open all over his 'skin' and inside him, he heard the klaxon blare and the Captain's voice echoing through the ship. “General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands to battle stations! Rig ship for Battle Stations! All sections acknowledge!”

* * *