I.

HORNCASTLE, YOU ARE SUMMONED. DO NOT KEEP US WAITING.

The words still buzzed in Inquisitor Elias Horncastle’s mind as if they’d just been spoken, an insistent chitter that had set his teeth on edge, turned his stomach and sent his eyes watering. His entire skull had resonated with it, along with a twinge that let him know the price of disobedience. He took a sip of recaf as the Aquila lander settled into the dust of some nameless moon of the Pilgrim Sector, shuddering as the landing thrusters fired and the hydraulics of the landing struts absorbed the shock of the craft’s landing.

The recaf was sour in his mouth, doing nothing to assuage the pit of dread that formed in his stomach. He felt even more haggard than usual – running a hand through weeks-old stubble that threatened the presence of a full beard, and through unkempt, tangled hair that hung into his eyes.

The pilot-servitor announced their arrival in its’ raspy deadened tone, and a moment later, there was the hum of an anti-grav generator powering up as a servo-skull floated from the empty grav-couch beside Elias.

Spooky chirped a concerned few notes.

“I suspect so too,” Elias responded, undoing his own harness. “The frequencies, the quantum entanglements, and the damn chitter – hallmarks of Mindshackle Scarabs. I should have known.”

Spooky warbled again, a question.

“She’s listening, you know. And in any case, the answer is no. I don’t know how to extract them, not without searing my brain to ash.”

Spooky’s low note was mournful, but was followed with another series of whistles.

Elias found a small grin as he stood, moving to one side of the cabin to access his personal effects. “I doubt Lux or Cato would have any ideas, they’re Malleus. In any case, they’re probably busy enough, what with Invicta and those damned Iron Warriors. And I’m not taking this to Lady-Inquisitor Allenbrisk. Friend that she is, she’d have me on a pyre inside of the hour.”

Another whistled question made Elias pause in the middle of fastening a pair of holstered Aeldari shuriken pistols to himself. He laughed, though there was little humor behind it.

“Do you honestly think that the Raptor-Prime would help me? As reasoned as Master Lycaeus is, she’s still Astartes. They kill Xenos, and those who consort with them. No, Spooky. I believe we’ll do as we always do. Play along, and wait for an opening.”

The lights in the Servo-Skull’s scanning eye turned blue, and it floated a little lower. It approached Elias just as the Inquisitor pulled his heavy Harlequin Coat over his shoulders, nudging his arm. Elias reached out obligingly, giving the skull a friendly pat.

“Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll come back, promise. Just watch the ship for me, alright?”

Klaxons sounded, accompanied by the strobe of orange warning lights rotating above one end of the Aquila’s cabin, as the boarding ramp began to lower. Elias gave Spooky one final wave, then strode for the ramp and out onto the moon beyond.

An average servo-skull was controlled by the most rudimentary of machine-spirits, incapable of any emotion. It could not feel fear, or worry, or attachment beyond whatever simple programming slaved it to its’ master or routine.

Spooky was no average servo-skull.

—

This was no moon.

The entry vestibule that Elias crossed into was evidence enough of that. He’d only needed to walk the surface for a few hundred meters before a pair of blast doors had parted the grey dust-wastes – large enough for a Knight Titan to stride through. It had led into a loading area that was part assembly space, part hangar. It consisted of stacked terraces that stretched down into the blackness as far as the eye could see. Every surface seemed to fairly glow with pulsing green light, and flickering screens ran with a myriad of strange, alien glyphs.

Necron glyphs, announcing the station’s allegiance to the Novokh Dynasty.

The only greetings that Elias received upon entering were the ever-present scarab swarms, squat little mite-constructs that flitted about the room, scanning for damage, performing repairs, and otherwise busying themselves with menial tasks wherever necessary. Some hovered over to the Inquisitor curiously, playing scanning lights over him as he strode in. In the distance, the more imposing shape of a Canoptek Tomb Spyder floated past, a scarab writ large.

Elias did his best not to swallow his unease. Such was the pageantry – that he believed himself to be alone until the tomb’s master deigned to show herself. He kept his HUD engaged, subtly scanning his surroundings with his augmetic arm as he awaited his host. His sensors, to their credit, were able to tag approaching Necrons even before the heavy metal tromp of their footfalls announced their presence.

Ten Lychguard – tall, statuesque bodyguard Necrons who each carried the projector for an energy shield in one hand, and the hilt of a deactivated phase blade in the other. One, the unit leader, was carrying an arcane, glowing green device in both hands. The unit marched forwards in perfect lockstep, before coming to a halt ten paces away from the Inquisitor. With practiced pageantry, the leader placed its’ carried device on the floor, remaining knelt before it, weapons held across its’ body in a grim salute. The remaining Lychguard did much the same in unison to the dull clank of metal knees upon flooring.

Elias could already feel the static charge of teleportation building, a moment before the device flared with brilliant green energy. With that, his host had arrived.

Phaerakh Nephthys, Overlord and honored of the Novokh Dynasty.

Nephthys was tall, even by Necron standards – a full nine feet from the spires of her crown. She had retained some of the vanity from her distant past, opting for a custom Necrodermis body that sported a more slender design than most. Elias knew from experience that this did not make for frailty – indeed, he had witnessed the Necron Overlord’s warscythe claim trophies personally. She was draped in a shimmering weave-cloak that almost resembled a sleek gown, a glinting, bright metallic red against the dull silver of her body.

She inclined her head as her eyes pulsed with green light.

Kneel.

“I-is that really necessar-”

KNEEL.

The chittering in Elias’s skull built to a crescendo, as something shifted inside his head. Blood shot from his nose, and he crumpled to his hands and knees, crying out in pain. Nepththys approached, her own footfalls oddly silent, compared to the heavy tromp of her Lychguard.

We heard you speaking with your toy, Implement Horncastle. You seek to renege on our agreement, to rid yourself of our surveillance? Do you find the terms of our agreement unsatisfactory?

“N-no-” Another buzz cut Elias off as he hissed against the pain in his skull.

You will address us with due respect, Implement.

“N-no, Great Phaerakh.”

Nephthys reached down with one long-fingered hand, extending a bladed index finger to lift Elias’s chin, raising his gaze to meet hers.

Might we remind you, that it was you who approached us. You who humbly pleaded that we provide you with our advanced technologies, for which you pledged to use them against our common foes. You who agreed to collaborate with our designs as they aligned with those of your fledgling Imperium. You who risks the wrath of your peers, should they discover this collaboration. You understand why we seek to understand what has changed? Explain yourself, Implement.

Elias sniffed hard, tasting blood in the back of his throat as he attempted to clear his nose. The green glow of his own eyes was wild with pain.

“I only thought that our partnership held more trust than that, Great Phaerakh! Have I not proven myself an asset?” His eyes dart from one side to the other as he thinks of examples. “I told you of Oakes’ vulnerability when Imperial forces were repulsed – and Robur! The Orks and their Chaos allies would have thrown the subsector into disarray were it not for the truce that I brokered! Because of that, Orkinawa is no longer a threat! And what of Nyx Bet-”

Nyx Beta is inconsequential, and undecided. The Devourer’s tendrils still dig into that world. It matters not, though. Rise.

Dragging the Inquisitor to his feet, Nephthys released his chin and turned to saunter a few paces away. She turned back, regarding Elias in profile. From this angle, it almost looked as if the impassive mask of her robotic form was smiling.

You speak of trust, as if you are worthy of ours. You are an Implement. An asset. Nothing more than a pawn to be expended when your worth has run its course. But perhaps it is true that you have been useful to us. Tell us, Horncastle. Do you wish for our agreement to continue?

“I do,” Elias replied, nodding even as he dabbed at the blood beneath his nose. “As you said, the Tyranids are here. They represent a threat to all life, and we cannot hope to defeat them, not divided. They do not discriminate in who they devour.”

So be it. But to earn our trust, to be free of the scarabs, there is a price.

“Name it.”

Nephthys turned towards Elias once more, gesturing with her warscythe. Above, a flickering display, akin to Imperial hololithics, flickered to life. It displayed a vast area of space – stars flickering amidst the colorful bursts of nebulae, all against the endless void of space. Elias took in a breath, recognizing it instantly even as his eyes widened in dawning horror.

“The Reach.”

Correct, Implement. Your counsel has convinced me that your Imperium’s hold on the subsector has weakened. Invicta destroyed by the order of the Raven Queen. Robur assaulted by the Orks. The warp-tainted hulk that plies the stars, seeding havoc wherever it travels. Already, Pekhet is our domain, if through one of our misguided vassals. This will be rectified in time. It is clear to me that your Imperium cannot maintain proper stewardship of the subsector. Thus, your betters shall step in. And you, Implement, will be the key to that victory.

Elias’s jaw dropped, and his organic hand shook over his mouth. He took a step back, for all the good it would do. Silently, he cursed himself for yet again getting in over his head. He imagined that Lux and Cato would have a good laugh over it, after they’d executed him for heresy. But something in his gaze steeled, his posture straightening as he dropped the hand from his mouth.

If he was to die, it would not be as a traitor.

“No.”

No?

“No.” Elias shook his head, throwing a hand wide, gesturing towards the star-map. “You cannot ask this of me, Great Phaerakh. An entire subsector, billions of human lives… It would be a betrayal that He on Terra would never forgive. My colleagues in the Inquisition would hunt me to the ends of the stars. It would only serve to trigger a war between my people and yours that would weaken us both – all for what, your pride? Your vanity? I cannot countenance that!”

How sad.

Pain flared behind Elias’s eyes like nothing before. He screamed, toppling over onto the black stone flooring as he began to convulse. The chittering was deafening in his ears, and blood ran from both his eyes and nose freely. Phaerakh Nephthys was looming over him just then, planting a metal foot on his chest so hard that he felt his ribs groan in protest.

Impudent frail little whelp. You flail in the darkness, lost and helpless. Alone. Your friends – Cato and Lux, Lady Allenbrisk on distant Terra, your Necromundan guardians, the Aeldari, the Raven Queen; you are beyond their help. And of course, your dear Sivarax, lost forever. Do you remember?

Unbidden, a memory rose in Elias’s mind – a sombre, formal declaration of an Astartes declared lost in the service of the Deathwatch. Parchment, the ink still fresh, stained with tears. A recaf mug thrown across the room with a hoarse cry. He groaned, as much out of grief as in pain.

You tiny, pathetic, mewling creature of flesh and hair. You dare to challenge us? We, who have burned gods from their thrones and challenged their chosen children at their peak, while your kind still cowered in the mud? We who abandoned our fragile fleshform for steel, and who broke our own gods over our knee? We, whose technology has no equal, sought as wonders by your kind? Who are you to challenge us?

The foot pressed harder, and Elias could hear as well as feel ribs breaking. He coughed, blood flecking from his mouth.

WHO ARE YOU BUT AN UPSTART IMPLEMENT WITH DREAMS BEYOND YOUR STATION? YOU THINK YOURSELF CLEVER? DO NOT MAKE US LAUGH. IF YOU WILL NOT SERVE US WILLINGLY, THEN YOU WILL BE A PUPPET TO THE SCARABS. WE WILL USE YOUR FORM AND ITS PRIVILEGES TO ACHIEVE OUR MEANS, AND WHEN THIS SUBSECTOR IS BUT ASHES AND STEEL, ONLY THEN WILL WE ALLOW YOU TO DIE.

Elias’s eyes rolled in his skull as his vision sank to a tunnel. At the distant end was naught but a green glow, and that metallic mask, leering at him. Elias knew he was dying, because it definitely looked like Nephthys was smiling.

But so was he.

He had found his opening, and while the odds were so far against him as to be laughable, it was his only shot. Despite the convulsions that seized him, Elias raised his augmetic arm, priming the Tachyon Arrow Projector contained within.

“For the Emperor.”

He fired, and the world went white for the briefest instant, before it became nothing at all.