I scoff at Killovie’s hint at blackmailing me. I’ve no doubt that the Inquisition already knows everything. Killovie doesn’t need to tell anyone. I am unconcerned about my sons too as they have an Adder-Class escort carrier and a company of Warforged to keep them safe.

  Thalk isn’t going to play games after our last talk, nor will the Inquisition bother me when I’m actively purging corruption wherever I go. I’ve also given them a lot of support, or bribes, depending on how you look at it. Once again, Killoive is hinting at the trouble she could cause because it amuses her, rather than actually threatening to do so.

  Kilovie says, “I have one final communication for you before I end this quaint tour.”

  The lights in the boudoir dim and the sounds of clashing blades and discharging weaponry echo through the room. A melodious and deep male voice speaks.

  “Madam, my return to your side will be delayed. The Prideless Prince has betrayed us. He posed as the captain of the mercenaries we hired from him and requested an audience with Tanthos Moross. Amusingly, he just failed to assassinate the clockwork oaf, who fought Karrad Vall off with remarkable skill.

  “Our gracious Liege’s bodyguards were swift with their retaliation and Vall has retreated in disgrace while yelling into his vox. A rather angry man was on the other side. He was addressed as Lord Evenus, though I could not tell who was the subservient party from their public spat.

  “As for that new Magos, he’s currently trapped by a Warp storm. There are some interesting rumours about a new Saint, his daughter, though I wouldn’t put too much ‘faith’ in them, if you would excuse my lapse of humour.

  “Oh! You will be delighted to know that Karrad Vall wore a blank, bone white mask, free of identifying features. He really is faceless! Now, I really must be off. I need to talk the oaf out of denying us our share of the docking fees and other gifts in retaliation for harbouring an assassin. Do pass on my appreciation to your boys and girls. We can celebrate properly once everyone is reminded of their place.”

  The recording ends. Killovie says, “That was The Provisor. This machine-blessed agent is pleased to report that she can confirm Karrad Vall is on Spear of Commerce. He has stolen most of the slaves from The Tutors and captured many residents, some of whom are suspected to be unsanctioned psykers.

  “An attempt was made on the Pit of Voices and repelled. The Astropaths are secure. For now. Abbreviated evidence has been attached to this upload. A full report has been handed over to Herald Primarus Domhnall, Force Commander Odhran, and Master of Whispers, Raphael Horthstein. This is agent Killovie Signi, signing off.”

  The recording cuts out and I contemplate what I have learned. We have a potential lead on Karrad Vall’s assumed sponsor, either this Lord Evenus himself or they’re a liaison for another power. Evenus was on Footfall or one of the ships, at the time of the recording.

  While my forces have likely already thought to do so, I send a message out to capture Evenus if practical rather than assume my people can read my mind. They have more than enough misunderstandings about me as it is without pretending to be a mysterious, all knowing twerp!

  Karrad Vall’s presence on Spear of Commerce, rather than his heavy cruiser, Excrucian, is a concern. He must have an exit strategy and I don’t want to give him a chance to execute it. The battered remains of his fleet are likely little more than a distraction. Spear of Commerce is just over one AU from Footfall and slowly accelerating towards Vall’s plan. I would send my strike-craft to destroy the Macro-Conveyor, but they don’t have the ordinance to do so.

  Yes, I know that Emil already told me Vall was on Spear of Commerce, but having it confirmed from a second, reliable source makes the information worth acting on. More importantly, with Battlefleet Koronus and Tithe Fleet Calixis being freed, I now have the means to do so.

  I compose a message of my own.

  “Commodore Emil Astoris, I am delighted to hear that your people are properly attending to the Machine-Spirits and that you, despite the many threats to your person, remain in good health. If you wish to remain so, and not overly tax your talented medicae, I would recommend that you avoid testing your skills against the local courtesans. Their cries have recently become a bit stiff alongside some of your more rigid officers.”

  If Killovie is going to malign me, I might as well try and make use of it. I hope that hinting I know who his people were associating with and how they died, and his gratitude for liberating his vessels, will make the Commodore more pliant. I close my eyes and think for a bit, then add:

  “I have confirmed Karrad Vall’s presence on Spear of Commerce. It would be unbecoming of an Imperial officer to let such a malign fellow to escape the Emperor’s wrath. As the only man present with the immediate means to do so, I request that you depart Footfall and chase down Vall with great haste.

  “Due to the unique challenges involved in recapturing a burning vessel filled with nephium, and the casualties you have sustained, I suggest that you torpedo the vessel from range, then bombard it to scrap. I will replenish your munitions, so don’t hold back!

  “Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to board the vessel. Several unsanctioned psykers are confirmed to be aboard and, in their panic, may cause undue complications should Spear of Commerce be allowed to persist in the Materium. While losing the vessel is a terrible blow, as well as the two escorts stuffed into its holds, it would look far worse on your record should Karrad Vall escape.

  “Should you destroy Spear of Commerce, I am willing to share the credit of the destruction of Karrad Vall’s fleet with you and the late Tithe Master Caspiel Hafas.

  “To ensure no miscommunication can take place, and maximize coordination between our disparate forces, I have added my own commanders to the list of recipients for this message. Yes, that includes the Space Marines, Sororitas, and Inquisition.

  “I will have one of my commanders deliver a physical copy of this message in person as well as sending it over Vox. It would not do to have my words twisted by any lingering traitors in your fleet.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “May the Machine-God and Emperor look fondly upon your actions

  “Magos Explorator, Novator, and Rogue Trader, Aldrich Issengrund.”

  There, that should do it! Nothing like a proper mix of grox and amasec diplomacy to get the point across. If he fucks up now, and survives long enough to realise it, I am going to shoot him, though I suspect I will have to join a queue.

  I have two more data points I want to collect before the Stellar Fleet enters firing range with The Wolfpack: Champion Verlin Tigernach and Canoness Ephrine Stern. Odhran hasn’t flagged any reports for me yet. Ephrine is leading the Penitents and Sororitas recruits. I am not surprised in the least that these fresh faced zealots have run into trouble.

  To stem the tide of reinforcements and secure the station, Ephrine has led her forces into the Spire of Intoxicants and the Hab-Fanes. Frenzied Narco-tribes, mad Cultists, zealous Penitents, and prideful Gangers fill these vast structures carved from asteroids and pinned together with scrap metal. Between the steamy, dripping pipes, and cramped passages lie larger spaces lined with neon homes and ragged markets all fighting for breath in the thin, toxic air.

  Servo-Skulls and Servitors lurch through the masses, their decaying mechanisms and ill-tended Machine-Spirits spamming the noosphere with requests for aid. It is through these connections that my Command Companies have spread their influence, providing a patchwork intelligence within these disgraceful structures. I flit from conflict to conflict, trying to piece together what in the Emperor’s name is happening.

  I have the Machine-Spirits assist me in sorting through the data, looking for mobs of 15 or more, mentions of the Black Brotherhood, known Narco-Tribe leaders and so on.

  The first hit I get back is from an environmental sustainer’s auspex whose last remaining sensor hangs above a narrow, dingy street. Shops line both sides of a bare rock road. Ferrocrete shacks jut over the road above the shops, each level overlapping more than the last until the overhead lights are forced into a narrow beam that illuminates the road in a thin strip.

  The top level structures have window boxes, growing small ferns and creeping vines that dangle almost all of the way to the road. I assume they’re toxic otherwise someone would have stolen them for food.

  A mob of twenty-eight cultists are screaming in fury as they batter at the surprisingly sturdy shop front of a restaurant with improvised hammers and plasma welders, their guns slapping against their bodies as they really lay into Mama Gumbos.

  Alpia’s hymns play at full volume from an old vox, slightly muffled by the armoured doors and percussive accompaniment. The cultists’ heads are swivelling back and forth like their lives depend on it.

  Disguised within the overhang lies a small hatch that flips open for a brief moment. A small pipe peaks out and fires a bone dart at one of the cultists. The dart sinks into his cheek and he clutches his face. The other cultists attempt to fire into the murderhole but it shuts far too quickly for them to get a shot in.

  The shot cultist plucks the dart out and stares at it with disbelief, slowly swaying on his feet. He collapses and is dragged to the otherside of the street next to another paralysed cultist, with shallow breath and a pale, sweaty face.

  Clearly having had enough, the cultists fix shoddy explosives to the armoured door, take cover, and detonate them. A sharp boom echoes down the street, throwing up dust and leaves. The air clears revealing a damaged yet intact door. The pipe appears again through a fist sized breach and takes out another cultist.

  More angry yelling and bashing against the restaurant’s protections continues for a minute, disguising the approach of six gangers. Unlike the bone and leather clad cultists, the gangers are far better equipped in scavenged Imperial Guard flak armour over patchwork, bulky flight suits. They even have proper infantry helmets!

  Each ganger has black stripes painted on their armour and flight suits in a haphazard fashion. The youngest looking of the lot, a lad about fourteen years of age, looks like someone dipped their hand in black paint then grabbed the young man’s face, staining most of his grubby face a deep, inky black.

  The gangers have a mix of Hax-Orthlack Creed-9 pattern autoguns, or as I’d call it, a submachine gun with a telescopic stock, and Cypra Mundi ‘Ironclaw’ shotguns, a hefty shotgun that can double as a club.

  They stack up at the end of the street, taking cover behind the ferrocrete walls, lean around the corner, and fire down the street.

  The cultists are caught completely off guard and get cut down.

  Swaggering down the street, the gangers approach Mama Gumbos and go over the bodies, stabbing them with bayonets and removing their weapons from their twitching hands.

  Their leader, a tall skinny fellow with a sallow face bangs his fist against the damaged door.

  “All clear Mama Gumbo. The Black Brotherhood has your back.”

  “That you out there Wilk?”

  “Yes, yes. We’ve taken out the trash.”

  A fat, middle aged woman yanks back the door and steps into the dim light, “You were slow.”

  One of the gangers waves his bloody bayonet in Mama Gumbo’s face, “Fuck of you old bitch. No one talks to the Black Brotherhood like that.”

  Mama Gumbo spits the mouthy ganger in the face. Like the cultists before him, he trembles for a moment, turns pale, then collapses.

  “I’ll be taking those bodies to feed my darlings,” says Mama Gumbo. “You got a problem with that Wilk?”

  Wilk stares at the pale ganger twitching on the floor and sighs, “Nah, saves us the trouble.”

  Mama Gumbo eyes the carnage and licks her lips. “You boys got time for some recaf or are you still playing peacekeeper?”

  “We’ll be busy all day. Those cultist fucks didn’t pay up so Calcus Calinnicus said they’re free game. Hardly surprising, look at that trash they’re hauling around. Not even worth the plasteel it’s made from.”

  “Hmm, I can’t say I really care. Hang on a moment.”

  Mama Gumbo disappears into her shop.

  The young lad shuffles forward and says, “Er Boss. Wilk? She special or something?”

  “What? Mama Gumbo? No. Kinda? She gives food scraps to the street kids and her shop is important. One of the few spots you can eat real meat on this station. She has a farm back there. Somehow.” Wilk clears his throat, “Though, er, given how she was eying those bodies I’d give her place a miss for a few weeks. No one likes a two finger surprise.”

  “Fuck that’s nasty, Boss,” says the kid.

  Mama Gumbo waddles back out and hands Wilk a battered flask, “Here, some rotgut for your troubles. Now drag that idiot of yours off before he ends up in the animal feeder. He’ll be up and about in a few more minutes.”

  “Right. Thanks Mama Gumbo.”

  The Black Brotherhood gangers walk off and Mama Gumbo starts hauling the bodies into her shop.

  I cut the recording. So, Calcus Calinnicus, leader of the Black Brotherhood, made a deal with Karad Vall and, like The Tutors, they were betrayed. The Machine-Spirits were right. That is interesting. Depressing too.

  At this rate, by the time Lyre is done rooting out traitors, half the population of Footfall will be dead.

  HERE. Many thanks to Brian for putting this together in their spare time.

  Warhammer 40k Lexicanum, , and . I've also enjoyed opinion pieces such as: , The via Gamespot, and . While not strictly 40k, they are good for inspiration and IRL explanations.