One Throne

One Throne

An Inquisitor's retinue investigates a plot to sneak a demonic WMD onto a Black Ship and into the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra in a wild shot at opening the Webway gate. This may mean Devlin must be a Grey Knight. If so, that must be shown. His abilities must be defined and factored in to the progression of the investigation.

Instead of six parts, consider 3. Beginning, middle, and end. Get Devlin to the hive and prepped to investigate. The legwork and waiting phase. The strike for the real target.

Handy phrases and ideas.
"The Emperor favors the bold."
"The Emperor helps those who help themselves."
One or two brief scenes where Devlin acts oddly because his cataleptic node has part of his brain asleep.
One scene where he eats a brain (offscreen but implied) for information. "Not a headshot." "What ?" "I can still get the information we need. Just leave his brain intact." Set this after the breakfast scene and Devlin will know he wants a spoon.
Needs more faux High Gothic, but to too much

The scions of House Aquon had produced a number of scholars of note. Some might sniff at the achievements of a young scholar who worked in a research wing named after the youth's family. Others will point to older, established scholars who published little while working for a much younger "protege" who published much. Those scandals were nothing. Other sons and daughters of House Aquon took great pains to avoid becoming scholars of note. Their researches were pools of shadow in the light of the Emperor. A common metaphor for the thirst for knowledge is simply that of a man in the desert drinking from a pool, eagerly scooping water from a pool with both hands. The common metaphor overlooks the coughing and choking associated with drinking too much too quickly. Likewise, the splatter and waste of manually scooping water is paid no attention in most discussion. To the Inquisition the waste and misuse are the whole point. The nobility of the quest for knowledge is either scorned or outright condemned as heretical on first principles. Besides, the properly pious metaphor is a thirsty supplicant being granted a goblet of the purest water from the Emperor's hand. Those who spurn a wisely chosen gift, given freely, do so at peril of their very soul.

Humanity's fate hangs in the balance on a million worlds. The tipping point of that balance has always been in the shadows. To tip the balance, a servant of humanity must work in the dark.

"That's as pious as ten priests, but need-to-know security always pisses me off."
"Shut up, there he is."
"They sent us a fracking ogryn."
"Can't be, he's big enough but not bulky enough."
The pair continued across the docking bay. Highlights from the emergency flashers strobed around a vast space otherwise lit only by starlight. A tug from the highport's emergency services maneuvered outside, its own flashers announcing a dire emergency underway. Inside, the echoes of two pairs of footsteps were the only signs of activity.
As they crossed the arrivals bay, the two almost faltered as the stillness of the waiting figure began to overcome that of the vast empty space. Standing by a window, silhouetted by the stars, the waiting figure was perfectly motionless.
"Some courier, looks like a messenger of doom."
No response came. They were approaching the new arrival. If they managed to keep any hesitation out of their pace the two could credit their various instructors and hard experience. Even so, approaching the waiting man began to take on the character of an uphill march. One of the pair had actually marched with the Guard, she found herself wishing for her old squad to back her up. Or better, the whole regiment.
And so they marched on to collect their master's visitor.
"That's not quite parade rest", thought the woman. "He's a fracking mountain" thought the man. At exactly 50 meters, as best they could judge, the figure ahead of them became expectant, without visibly moving a muscle. They stopped at a respectful distance. Neither would admit to themselves that a pistol practice range's worth is an unusual amount of personal space to grant someone.
A slight flicker of muscles under the stranger's robes indicated that no violent response to their presence would be forthcoming. The man standing expectantly had the strength of character to admit to himself that this was terribly reassuring. Even subtly checking his concealed weapons could not match that sensation. Recognizing the lack of threat as the only invitation or acknowledgment they could expect, he stepped forward again. Slower, calmer, and somehow managing not to show his palms to indicate that he in turn intended no harm, he approached.
The stranger turned to face them. Not abruptly, but swiftly and with grace. Red light from the alarms washed his face alternating with shadow.
A face off a statue. A figure out of legend. A space marine.
"Oh holy Throne, an Astartes" breathed the woman. The man ducked his head awkwardly, "My... My lord. Greeting in the name of my master and the Holy Ordos." After he spoke, he could almost look the looming giant in the eye. Afterwards he would take some comfort in the fact that he could lift his head at all.
The woman slowly forced composure onto her limbs and her posture. The man's eyes sparkled briefly as his dry throat reminded him that he could drink for a decade on just this one encounter with a space marine; if only telling the story of his master's work wouldn't cost his soul. The giant simply stood in front of the stars as if they were his home.
Teammates for years, the woman knew it was her turn to speak, and to her credit she did. "We should go. Clearing the docking bay took some doing..."
"And we paid much to do so" spoke the giant for the first time, taking her next line effortlessly, "you have made arrangements, let us be about them."
Cats were one of the first Terran creatures taken off world, back in the dawn of the Dark Age of Technology. An indolent companion at best, the common housecat followed Man to all the stars he visited. An endless repository and source of affection, the common cat purrs fit to rattle bones when it is pleased. An endless source of violence and legends, the voice of an Astartes also rumbles in the bones of humans. It brings a multitude of emotion in its wake; hope, awe, and fear all intermixed so far as a normal human can tell.
With the voice of an angel resonating within her, the woman turned, smiled for no reason she could explain, and made a simple gesture to indicate the direction in which they would walk.
The three figures had almost crossed the darkened expanse of the docking bay before either of them noticed that even an ogryn would have trouble towing the pile of luggage the giant had set into motion with a simple tug of his arm.
If only they had the slightest hint of their true target. Surely this vision of implacable resolve at any target must result in a victory the Great Enemy would cry about for centuries. The nature of their work lay in the ambiguities of human behavior. Surely even an exemplar such as their companion must become lost in the shifting morass of human nature and perversity that was the field on which they proved their worth. Problems with direct solutions were simply not their lot in life.  [probably lose this whole paragraph later to better blend into part 2]

In parts 2 and 3 characters are developed and hints are dropped about the rest of the mission team (who will remain offstage), the mission, and why (and how) Devlin was called in.

Part 2 - a comedy of procedures getting the space marine out of the Highport and down to the hive in question. A least one bureaucratic flunky will need to be dealt with. A routine provision of interstellar travel will cause a minor fuss and is dealt with in a surprising manner despite none of the mission team having thought of it in planning. Think "the TSA as written by Terry Pratchett." Consider what Devlin would look like under an X-ray or microwave security scanner, and how few bureaucrats wold get in his way. This is the cheap, short, and easy way through this section but is a candidate if word count is an issue. Another shortcut is, standard Mechanicum pattern security scanners just don't flag an Astartes or their gear.



Part 3 - a comedy of manners getting the space marine outfitted - and attired - for a heretic hunt in the middle of a bustling hive and high society. "She noticed that the tailor's cat had not taken its eyes off of Brother Devlin since he had entered the room. It hadn't stopped purring either.
Find a place to introduce hab as a term.

Part 4 - a hunt for heretics of the deepest and most dangerous sort. So that's one cocktail party and a visit to the most scandalous night club frequented by the hive nobility's more troubled youth. No slumming. Yet.  The mission team is using genemod bats for courier and recon work.

How to get a heretic to open his door.
"He's in this hab [establish this somehow as more than just a Judge Dredd reference]. Wait here." Ally walked off towards a market. A few minutes later she came back bearing a small, steaming box.
"What'd you get this time ?"
"It's a savory, wild poultry and mushrooms."
"Wild ?"
"They paid an underhive kid a quarter throne for a pigeon. It's wild enough."
Devlin had to ask. "Why are we stopping for a meal ?"
Cully had to explain, "We'll heat it up later. What we do now is try and get a heretic to open his door to an Inquisition kill squad. Watch this."
Several minutes and quite a way up and in to the hab stack Cully finished his explanation by taking of his coat and shoulder holster. "Hold these, Ally and I have this one. Cully handed his gear to Devlin and straightened his tunic. Ally flipped up n the lid to reveal the pie, Cully knocked on the door and put on a big smile. He showed it to Devlin, no doubt to share a valuable piece of urban investigative technique.
The door opened, revealing a tallish man with a shadowed expression on his face.
"Hi ! Is this Silith's place ?" Ally asked in a highly cheerful voice, advancing the pie to indicate her lack of doubt or guile.
"No... oof" said the occupant, folding up around a snap kick from Ally. The two pushed in to the apartment. "Then you must be the heretic we're looking for. Ferink Dossel you are  under arrest for heresy and foul conspiracy."
Devlin stepped in and closed the door.
"I know who you are and what you have done. In the name of the Holy Ordos you will be cooperative or you will die with your soul forfeit."
With a swift blow and a few joint locks Ally turned up the heretic, bound him and hooded him. "Question time later, secure the apartment."
An hour later the only bug in the place had been fed a convincing, and boring, loop, suitably embellished.




About bats.

"It's cute." said Cully.
"It's an asset", said Devlin.
Cully tickled the bat around its comm implant. "It's small, has a face, grasping appendages, fur, and its a mammal. Of course it's cute. Did they take that away when they remade you ?"
"I don't think so. I was only 12 standard when I survived the recruitment regime, swarms of flying hunters may have been interesting, but I don't recall cute registering with anything at all."
There was a notable pause, and then Ally said "Survived ?"
"Of course, I'm here aren't I ? Lets move on to selecting an observation point."
Cully broke into the next pause with "a slightly modified bat is actually more survivable than a pure mechanical. Something about the particulates in this hive's flavor of smog."


A stakeout. The three get to know each other a bit.

"If you'll pardon the presumption Brother, but I'll be preparing a third portion of breakfast today." Brother Devlin actually reacted to this piece of information, turning to face the agent. Not expecting a follow-up question the agent paused and went on. "I've kept an eye on what was left in the kitchen when we moved in, you haven't eaten since." Devlin's face asked a question, quietly. "Fifteen minutes. A salt grox and onion omelet."
On his way back to the kitchen the agent stuck his head in the closet where the owner of the flat had spent his time since their arrival, "You're out of eggs." "Mmpfp" was the only response.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, Brother Devlin found a plate set out for him. "That heretic keeps a lousy kitchen, but he's got the basics." The two sat and ate in silence. Colly in a chair and Devlin on the unlocked and pondered safe, dragged to the table as the only furniture that would support the marine's weight. After finishing, Devlin looked at his plate for a moment, then looked up and said simply "thank you."
In his blandest, most matter of fact tone, Colly said "You're welcome. I cooked, so you wash up after Allie eats. I'll go relieve her now." If there would be any retribution for scoring points off of an Astartes, the look of blank surprise on Devlin's face as he walked out of the kitchen was worth it. Into the air shaft, up two flights on the service ladder, and he sat smugly in the observation blind on the roof. Allie watched him suspiciously, he looked like he had news, but not quite. Paging through the auspex logs he said, without looking at her, or grinning, "food's on the stove. Devlin will wash up when you're done." Allie was onto the ladder before that registered. After a moment she went down. "Today is a good day" said Colly to himself and the telescope.

A fight:
Brother Devlin moved. The window at the far end of the room shattered. The blonde bodyguard's head was in Devlin's right hand, his feet kicking a foot off the ground. A quick shake and he quit kicking. The small man in the expensive suit took a step back. Cully paused in his draw, forced to process what he had just seen. The window had been broken by the other bodyguard being thrown through it He was probably still falling. He circled to one side as Devlin advanced. Devlin shook the blonde again, and it made that same noise again. He followed the giant's advance, more from a sense of duty than really having anything to contribute. A flick of the giant's wrist sent the dead bodyguard crunching into the wall. No, there was a little elbow in the movement too. Professional detachment Cully thought, that’s good. His gun hand hung down slack at his side, unneeded.

A moment of color:
[a short sequence wherein Brother Devlin provides surprisingly good advice regarding color matching in an elegant disguise Allie dons for a mission]
“I’m surprised you have such taste in colors Brother Devlin” remarked Allie. “Give me another sunset in this city and I will show you color” replied the giant. Devlin picked up the tablet with their surveillance logs and headed for their observatory. “Do you think he meant that literally or metaphorically ?” asked Colly.
“Both I think. That’s the function of the Astartes, not to die heroically smiting Mankind’s foes but to live on in song and legend to inspire the rest of us. They are myth made flesh.”
“They certainly weren’t put here to wash up, I should have a word with him about camp discipline, even if we’re set up somewhere where the grocer delivers every three days.”

An odd, quiet moment:
Afterwards she would tell herself that the sound of crumpling paper woke her. The room was dark and still. A few shadows loomed, cast by the city lights outside. Allie shifted slightly on the couch. A faint scratching reached her ears, then silence. Another, then nothing. Not an insect, she thought. Not insects. Not someone drawing a weapon. She froze. With that last thought one of the shadows resolved itself. Sitting in a nearly dark room Brother Devlin was... making marks on paper with charcoal.
It didn’t fit her experience. It didn’t pose a threat. It wasn’t worth being awake for. She closed her eyes. A few hours passed. Along the way a few more scratches sounded softly in the quiet room. A page was quietly turned.
She woke with a start, the kind that doesn’t disturb your blanket or shift a single hair. Slitted eyes scanned the room and found it empty. She sat up alone and wondering.


Part 5 - a tense visit to an auction house, ending in a discourse on the true value of one throne. The absolute linkage between the Golden Throne, one throne in cash, and the Adeptus Astartes is explored in some detail. A purchase is made that will cost more than a symbol, and be considered a bargain.

In short, Devlin goes off-script when an ancient Astartes weapon is put up for auction. Bidding the titular one throne - his grandfather's - he leaves. Colly and Allie decide that if the villain can't buy the object he's after from an auctioneer, he'll have to buy it from a fence. They commit an impromptu armed robbery and flee. Later, Allie is relived when the final bodycount comes in, because she said more prayers of contrition than innocents died. It's always good to get a little ahead.

Part 6 - the interrupted investigation continues, complicted by their foe knowing an Astartes is on-planet. their quarry is almost caught in an underground headquarters after making the purchase, but escapes in a fight in the dark fought more with brains and cunning than firepower and strength, the foe escapes still unidentified. The visual metaphor is a conflict lit by the strobe of gunfire, impressions, fear, the falling and the fallen. Colly sacrifices himself ("I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing it for the emperor.") falls, Allie and Devlin crawl from under the rubble.


The end began with an argument.

"It's just grain !" cried the manager of the cafeteria. Cully kicked her in the shin and stood over her as she fell. He stilled her cries of pain with nudges from the tip of his boot. "Grain stolen from the Guard. Tell me who comes through here." The lumpen form of the manager twisted and crawled to escape. Pinned against a stove to keep her still she cried. Behind him, Ally and Devlin shifted. Their footsteps ground glass, broken pages, and scattered foodscraps. Cully hit the manager again. "I'm not here about the stolen food, I'm here about the silent partners. The people with no honesty reason to c e here after curfew. Strangers with keys. I want them. I must have them." Cully stood, tensed to attack. After a few moments he gave up, seized the manager and dumped her with the staff. "Who were they ? Who values their should enough to confess ?" Only silence answered him. Bullets were his rebuttal.

Alternate option for the start of the fight. The cook turns on Devlin with a cleaver like he was carving poultry and actually lands the first blow. Zen of cookery or some shit.

"Are you sure you should have killed them ?" asked Devlin. Cully rounded on him. Not with imminent violence, but with the assurance of someone who has already decided how to kill someone who might not be an ally after all. Or for the practice. Or out of habit.
"Of course I should have. I know my master's will. I am his will. The load I carry is to execute it perfectly, every time, with only doctrine and intuition to decide. Yes I killed em. They were impure, corrupt, not in soul but in habit. They were part of the rot of Imperial society and I excised them as my master wills." [ties in nicely with a FTE sacrifice later on]
"I will not say a word about doctrine, but your Inquisitor seems a bloodthirsty sort if this mess is routine for his servants."
"I didn't mean my boss, I usually deal with an Interrogator anyway. The Emperor wants us all to work together." Cully turned in place, his open palms indicating the room and the whole hive,  "to help each other overcome heretics, and xenos, and everyone who drags down humanity. We are all the glorious bearers of His standard. They turned aside. Of course they were killed. By rights, we should have words with the Ecclesiarchy about what they're teaching in the underhive. On general principles, that's my boss' job. Come on, there should be something in the back room."
Three hours later, and in an even darker and dangerous section of the underhive Ally was tired of Cully being smug. You can love a partner for being right, but putting up with an I Told You So was in no one's job description. Cully was obviously under stress, he'd bear watching in a firefight.
After endless stretches of twisty darkness and green-tinted night vision even hints of daylight were welcome. The vaulted ceiling was high enough that the few shafts of light from cracks and skylights barely defined the space, let along illuminated it. Even indirect lighting was enough for them to make out an improvised landing pad and several air cars. "All that time in the dark, and they just flew in."
"Now now Ally, this was never going to be one of those jobs where we swoop in with the Arbites and grab all the bad guys."
"That only ever happened once."
"My point exactly. What's he doing ?" Cully indicated Devlin working his way through the parked air cars.
"Investigative work maybe. Which is our line. Let's secure the scene, make a last report, then move on."
"Tracing these cars should be interesting, look at the makes on some of these."
"Pricey."
"Gorgeous"
"Do we actually get paid anyway ?"
"I should check on that."

The two mortals joined Devlin with the aircars, noting details and registrations until finally dispatching a last bat to carry the information home. Turning their attention to the only way inward, the three began working their way towards those who had eluded them for so long. The three hunters spent hours to work down a few hundred meters of intermittently lit tunnel. The effort was worth it when they ambushed the first guards.
With just a few clean knife strokes in the dark the way ahead was clear. That was Ally's last clear memory for some time. Her next was of darkness and the bitter taste of rock dust. A long, confused time ensued. Light was her objective, darkness her fear. Upwards lay air and hope. Through dust, and dirt, and darkness she clawed. In the dark sometimes she had help, sometimes she was alone. After an eternity there was a time of stillness and cool, clean air. All was dark, but she was free. After another eternity light stung her eyes. Cold, green, and dim was the light, but it was as sweet as her first dawn.
"We won."
The fact of words took a moment to register. Sanding up was a chore. Having space around her was unprecedented. The ringing in her ears finally registered, there had been an explosion.

Devlin repeated himself. "We won." He stood up. The chem light in his hand was raised. It could barely cut through the dust in the air, but it lit the platform well enough for the two survivors. Most importantly, it cut the dust enough to see the way out. To the air.

Comparing Allie's endurance and determination to an Astartes was unfair. By any rational measure he would always be the stronger in every respect. That said, afterwards the most vivid memory he would take away from this mission was of fingernails broken and bloody. Of tears making tracks in a dirty face. [paragraph questionable for final copy]

In the light and air at last, they helped each other to a resting spot.
"We failed" she said and began to weep quietly.
"We did not."
Some time passed before Allie could choke up "how ?"
"One of our foe's chief agents escaped. He could hide to kill the faithful once more. But he fled, to report that retribution is at hand. And it is."
Having said it once, "how ?" came easier for her.
"We know where that air car went."
She just looked at him. He took her hand and placed something in her grasp. It was a familiar form, so she looked up at the hive spire climbing kilometers to the stars.
"Don't look at the hive."
She smiled weakly and looked down. In all humility, she opened the cover on the remote and pressed the red button.
The flash came. One color, pure and bright took over the whole side of the spire. When it passed, she looked up to see a small glowing wound in the side of the spire. A gilded tower toppled and fell.
"House Tarhon I believe" said Brother Devlin. "You have work to do."
"Yes. I think us mortals of the Inquisition can wrap this up now. I'll say it formally later... but thank you."

Devlin went back to his Chapter. Allie mourned her partner after her work was done. House Tarhon was destroyed, root and branch for their heresies. Billions lived to suffer and worship under the lash of the Imperium. The Emperor's work went on.

Some decades later a parcel was addressed to the head of the sector Ordos. Marked with a simple Aquila and a title it was an object next of some curiosity. It was duly opened to reveal a charcoal sketch and an oil painting. Both the sketch, and the painting done from it, were of a close up of a human face; just an eye, some of the nose, and some of the cheek. The face was dirty, the soot tracked with tears. Everyone who had known her recognized Allie from that scrap of her face. Only a very few ever suspected who the artist was, none of those ever voiced their opinion.

Work "Always look up" in the ending somewhere and use it as a hook to another story.