Chapter 23: Glory Hoodwinks You Again
Dos rolled into the Underhive in his wheelchair. The filthy stench assaulted him head-on, but Dos was long used to it. One of Schola Progenium's graduation trials had been to smash a Heretic cell down here. To earn his diploma, he'd spent two months in the slums.
The poverty and misery of the Underhive were carved into his memory, and yet he could do nothing. Not only because the rotting Imperium had caused it—the guilt was in every soul down here. Numbness to life ran in their blood. That ingrained darkness made Dos feel he didn't belong here, that he could barely breathe.
A gang lounged around an abandoned fuel drum. The reek of cheap burn-off was impossible to ignore. Scrap-iron skewers held unidentifiable meat sizzling over the flames.
Gangers—no one with a choice would join them. To stay alive, they underwent black-market surgeries: insect limbs, tumorous slabs of flesh, nothing unusual. Usually, they scattered like rats at the sight of a PDF patrol or Arbites squad, but tonight they seemed more brazen than most.
Maybe because Dos was alone, in a chair, and showed no visible weapons. They swapped glances and closed in.
Dos quietly flicked off the safety of his laspistol, ready to fire.
Then suddenly the sound of a Bolter rang out, and Several gangers exploded into red mist. Dos recognized the newcomer—an Inquisitor.
Today's luck is not bad. Meeting an Inquisitor in a tight spot is rare.
"Greetings, holy brother," the Inquisitor said.
His power armour clanged with every step. He holstered his Bolter, and the magnetic lock clicked shut. A robe draped his plates, the bold "I" confirming Dos's guess.
He looked young, probably still an apprentice, not yet released by his master.
"Greetings, holy brother," Dos replied. Political Commissars and Inquisitors often clashed, yet both served the Imperium. "How may I assist?"
"Rebellion has shredded our intelligence network on this world, and I require your aid in the investigation," the Inquisitor recited, saying everything and nothing.
"Very well, gladly," Dos replied. He wasn't about to shorten his lifespan. He understood the truth: the Ordo Hereticus suspects everyone equally.
Dos helped him prune some of the Imperium's rot—the gangs. He felt no pity, for they were merely breeding-grounds for crime and Chaos. Clearly, it was also a test.
Once the scum were swept away, the path became clear: toward House White.
The Upper Hive
Entering the Upper Hive, the air and social polish improved, yet Dos knew it was only gilt on dross. A life of luxury made these people softer prey for the Ruinous Powers.
Still, in this cramped district, House White owning an entire castle spoke of serious wealth. Dos had only skimmed their file and hadn't realized how rich they were.
The Inquisitor's scowl showed he, too, knew who succumbed most easily to corruption.
Yet something felt off. At the gate stood Adeptus Arbites. Dos knew these brethren well. Their absolute loyalty to the Emperor meant they would carry out any order from a Commissar or Inquisitor. The Inquisitor had arranged things, and he only needed a commissioned witness.
Remembering he would soon have to borrow money, and that Mongot had helped him plenty.
Dos sighed: "Damn it... let's see. If nothing's too wrong, I'll lend a hand."
Spotting his uniform, the MPs snapped salutes and let him pass. He returned the gesture, thinking how nice it would be to poach a couple of Schola Progenium MPs as his own henchmen.
A man can dream on.
In the courtyard, the Inquisitor was already questioning Mongot.
He was dressed in lightweight power armour, red chasuble, silver skull-helm with crimson photoreceptors, and as stern as a statue. In his left hand, the Holy Book of the Ecclesiarchy, and in his right, a Bolter.
Definitely Ordo Hereticus.
Had he been of the Order of the Holy Hammer, Dos might have shown more deference. But the heretic-hunters were a different breed; many were Schola alumni that the Schola itself had handed over, yet few Commissars liked them. Dos certainly didn't.
They would rather kill the genuinely innocent just for the sake of it rather than let a guilty soul slip free, fanatics even the Adeptus Arbites found extreme.
Dos knew the golden rule: speak human to humans, speak ghost to ghosts. He stepped forward and snapped the Inquisitor a crisp salute. "Praise the God-Emperor! Holy brother, is this the target of your mission?"
The Inquisitor returned the salute. "Praise the God-Emperor. You guessed correctly, Commissar Comrade Dos."
"Those noble scions who took part in the fighting, like him, have had no systematic training," the Inquisitor continued. "To root out possible corruption, such interrogations are essential." His tone carried a dangerous edge. "Unfortunately, they refuse to cooperate."
Dos had seen this Inquisitor's ruthless efficiency before, and he knew he had to mediate.
"Is that so?" Dos feigned thought. "Allow me some questions."
The Inquisitor granted the favor, stepping aside and gesturing for him to proceed.
Dos gripped the wheel, adjusting the chair so the Inquisitor couldn't see his eyes. Then he flicked his left eyelid twice. Mongot caught the signal at once. But if he lied, the Inquisitor would spot it. Could this really work?
"Ask away, Commissar," Mongot said.
"Just tell the truth," Dos instructed.
"Understood."
"How do you think people live in the Underhive? You cannot refuse to answer."
Mongot paused. "Mm... very poorly. But it's a necessary sacrifice. 'Sacrifice is the bedrock of the Imperium.' That's what I was taught as a child."
An answer that caught Dos off guard, it was perfect, and he hadn't even coached it.
"All right, if you saw a band of Heretical cultists, would you charge in and duel them, knowing you are marching to certain death?"
It was one of the Inquisition's damned-if-you-do questions. Answer "no," and you were branded a traitor and shot. Answer "yes," and you were condemned as a Blood God devotee and also shot. What? You claimed you weren't? Then why rush to slaughter them in Khorne's own style—clearly corrupted, so shot dead.
Mongot shook his head. "No."
The Inquisitor was raising his pistol when Dos shouted, "Excellent! Stay calm and report it to the Astra Militarum, exactly right." The Inquisitor hesitated and lowered the weapon.
He decided to listen further. Such an answer lay outside his experience, for his mentor had never covered this, and he still had much to learn.
"If a child tainted by Ruinous powers stood before you, would you kill him?" Dos continued.
Still reeling from the previous "correct" reply, Mongot blurted, "No."
Another damned-if-you-do trap: say "no," and you're a traitor, shot; say "yes," and you're a monster who murders children, clearly a Khorne cultist, and also shot.
The Inquisitor mused. A whole war-band you can't handle, so you call the Astra Militarum, acceptable. But a single child and you still refuse to kill him? Disloyal to bone, Execution is his fate.
He was lifting the gun again when Dos cried, "Perfect! Send him to the Schola Progenium so the God-Emperor's light may redeem him."
The Inquisitor was stunned. Redeem? Was there such a thing? Was that the standard answer? The child lived, yet the threat of corruption seemed resolved. Personally, he'd have sent the boy to a penal camp for evaluation first.
So once more, he hesitated and lowered the weapon. One last question—once might be luck, twice coincidence, but three or four times could mark genuine loyalty.
"Very well, final question: what is the battle-cry of False Blood God followers?" Dos posed a relatively open query. Whatever the answer, it shouldn't prove loyalty either way.
The Inquisitor frowned in confusion.
"Er... er..." Mongot scratched his head. "Blood for the God-Emperor, skulls for the Golden Throne?"
Brilliant! Dos had banked on him pulling it off, and he hadn't wasted the defense. Sure enough, the Inquisitor shivered. "Incredible, such devotion still burns in the Imperium. May the God-Emperor's light shine upon you!"
Afterward, Dos escorted the young Inquisitor out, who was still lost on the last question. The question and the answer were both illogical, yet, after all, they made sense: they praised the God Emperor.
When Dos returned, seeing off the inquisitor, in gratitude, Mongot presented Dos with a gift sealed inside a coded alloy attaché case.
"Father originally prepared this for me. I believe it's called... a rosarius? Something like that."
"Ohh~ A rosarius..." Dos nodded, and then his expression froze. "Come again? A rosarius?!"
"Yes," Mongot replied, rubbing the back of his neck.
Good grief, Dos had never guessed the Mongot family was this wealthy. You rich son of a...Ahh, leave it, boy has had enough for this month.
"Good Mongot, I accept your kindness," Dos said, nodding. "I'll take it, and I believe you are the true light of the Imperium's future."
Mongot accepted the gratuity, then hesitantly asked, "Commissar Uh... why do I feel like you're hustling me?"
Dos seated made an exaggearted face of genuine conviction "Noo Monget, I'd never hustle you, you bear the true scout's honor, and you givning me these gifts is merely a small offering to a greater cause."
Mongot was delighted to hear praise, nodded his head, "Yes, if you say so, Commisar, it was actually my father who told me to keep my distance from you.. Um, please dont be offended."
"OH No, no, I completely understand. Lord White is only worrying for his son's safety, and being with a Commissar, that too of Kriegs is like giving Lady Death a kiss every hour of the day."
Mogot laughed, " That is one way to say it. But I will say, commisar, I may have spent just one day with you, but that was the best day of my life. It changed everything."
Best day of life when thousands died, well, that's Warhammer 40k nobles for you.
"I'm glad to hear that. But Now I must take my leave Comrade Mongot, duty never ends, even though crippled, I shall still be of Service to Imperium."
Monget hearing such poyal heartful words smiled, nodded, and gave a former Aquilla salute, "Farewell Commsisar Dos."
Dos retuned the salute, "Farewell."
Dos turned his wheelchair back and set off, giddy about the jackpot he made today. I got good food and money; what more can a man ask?
Mongot watched as Dos went farther and farther on his weird seat contraption. Surprisingly, he never asked about it, perhaps next time. Just then, he remembered an old well-wish he learned while staying with Kriegs.
He took a few steps forward and shouted, "Have a Good 'Fuck you' day, commissar."
When Dos heard these golden words from behind, his head jerked quickly as his wheel chariot stopped.
After a few seconds, the chariot started again. Doss merely raised his one arm in a farewell without looking back.
'Fuck you too, Mongot fuck you too.'
[End of Chapter]