The Subsector Project

Caomer Subsector – En Route to Placid – 790.M41

  The tile was cool against Antonia’s forehead.

She cursed at herself, inwardly, of course. She was intended to be in supplication before the graven image of the God-Emperor: absorbing the strength of his will, the knowledge of his mind, the divinity of his actions. Yet she couldn’t keep her skin from stinging, nor help but feel the pinch and drag of her broken ribs with each pained intake of breath.

This was her wheal to bear, whatever the foe which awaited them on the war front, and she would rather march into the maw of a daemonic horde than admit that it hurt to breathe. The sting of admonition, the burn of the skin on her head where the Superior’s foot had connected, was a reminder of her own inadequacy. She knew Vanqueth had intended it as such, as the control a fully-fledged sister had over her body and the damage it could do was supreme, and thus she wore it without complaint. What she needed, she knew, was to take the lesson to heart. She needed to simply trust in the Emperor’s will to guide her, to fill her with the righteous rage of her order and push her to be more than a Novitiate, more than a battle sister, to be the perfect warrior Vanqueth had pushed her to be.

Yet, all she could think about was how cool the tile was against her forehead. All she could remember was the sad look in Ylla’s bloodshot eyes as she had been screamed at by the Superior. Such treatment, just as it was, made her blood boil. That was what fueled her, that was what pushed her towards the Emperor. A bond of sisterhood which could never be broken, could never be sundered by the forces of Chaos, that is what she needed to nurture to achieve perfection.

Antonia straightened, feeling her back and side protest as she opened her eyes. The candles had burned low in her quarters, leaving the shrine to the Emperor as the only light in her tiny universe. The dimness flickered across his face, his eye sockets deep pools of darkness.

He could see her, could see her fear of inadequacy, see the way she could not clear her mind from the thoughts which clouded it. He could see all, and she was certain he found her wanting.

“I can do better.” Antonia’s words sounded tiny, even to her own ears, a protest into the pocket of the uncaring universe which contained only the two of them. She twisted the ring of suffering she wore, relishing in its sting. She was molten steel to be folded, to be formed into a blade to smite His enemies, yet she could feel herself slipping. The engraving stared silently back at her, as if unwilling to break its own silence.

Antonia found her feet beneath her. She needed air, she needed to find her own way out of the despondency which was consuming her waking hours. She strapped on her raiments, gasping as she tightened each strap across her torso, aggravating her internal injuries. Regardless of her condition, she was expected to conduct herself as befitted her status as a Novitiate. She paused, mentally cursing herself for the weakness of her flesh. After a moment’s consideration, gingerly touching the swollen, blackened bruise on the side of her face, she collected her penance mask as well.

The mask was a standard equipment for her order, a flat, silver face staring sightlessly forward, obliterating the individual in favor of outward serenity. To wear the mask had been a punishment in the abbey, a small infraction or mis-spoken phrase might earn a day or a week in the mask, while larger corrections may result in months without personhood. Antonia had never spent much time behind its blank, cold eyes, but wore it now willingly, strapping it in place before hooding herself. It was a form of self-censure for all those who understood such things to see, but it also fortified her, a sanctification of her wounded visage in favor of an uncaring alternative.

She ducked out into the cramped feeder, fighting a limp due to her broken bones, then the dormitory corridor. The Novitiates had been billeted between the pilots of the Caomerian Flying Crowns, and the returning Placid Ninety-Ninth Drop Regiment. As a rule she found that pilots were a pious bunch, particularly when living in such close proximity to the Emperor’s spirit, so her order had little need to tend to their spirits.

The air was the same outside her room as inside. She’d known that. It was more about the act of movement than the need to breathe the same recycled oxygen as the rest of the journey.

Immediately, she encountered the boisterous soldiers, all heady with the knowledge of their impending disgorgement onto the embattled world below. They sought to serve the Emperor, they sought to be his hammer, it was only just that their zealotry buoyed them to greater heights. Yet they beseeched her for benediction, her, a monument to inadequacy. She carried with her an aura of silence, of bowed heads and the sign of the aquila thrown across chests. Antonia spoke sparingly as her swollen jaw pained her with every movement, she whispered the panacea they sought for fears and jitters unspoken on the eve of battle, as she slid through the crowded corridors towards the multi-deck crew hoist.

A large figure barred her way. A great bear of a man, Colonel Hetkarn’s grox-like musculature was belied only by his shrewd and calculating mind. The man had come to her several times for what blessings of the faith he felt she could provide. Despite her misgivings of her own flailing status, she’d shared what words she could to calm his fears.

“Novitiate.” He nodded down at her, a tower of a man, his eyes constantly roving, his tone bass-deep and accented by the customs of his world’s northern hemisphere. “I am heartened to see you join in our merriment.” He gestured at the cacophony around them, the excited chatter of hundreds of soldiers long-idle from the field of battle. “The Ninty-Ninth will reclaim our home with your assistance.” He snapped a crisp salute, then bowed his head, making the sign of the aquila, as did the pilots and adjutants from his regiment arrayed around them. Antonia bowed her head.

“Your faith will aid you far more than I ever could.” She could taste blood in her mouth, and knew that an unsatisfactory evaluation from their Superior would result in an ignominious death, thrown before the guns of the archenemy as arco-flagellants, or worse, being reassigned to an order minoris.

“You honor us, sister.” The man paused, affixing her with a quizzical gaze for a moment, before stepping aside. “I bid you fair tidings and a safe translation- we shall look for your presence on the field.” Antonia bowed her head once more, and slipped through the crowd once more.

Already tall, if she ever received her power armor, she would tower over the assembled guardsmen. She tried to put the possibility out of her mind, swallowing metal and stepping into the hoist. As it rose from the depths of the transport decks, the population of the elevator began to shift from Militarum ratings to Navis ratings, each giving her a polite but noticeable berth. Slowly, the crowd thinned, which went unnoticed by Antonia, was fully focused as she was on not breathing too hard as each intake tugged her insides against the broken bones of her chest.

She had to change conveyance several times, the decks prepared as they were to dissuade boarders and prevent easy transit towards critical systems. The decisions had at first seemed prudent, but as she stepped gingerly down a spineward corridor, each footfall sending a jolt through her injuries, she wished for a simpler path. The Emperor’s path is the only one that matters, and it is rarely simple. She admonished herself, clenching her jaw in penance.

///

Halfway to the engineering section, in a poorly-populated corner of a subaltern deck, she returned to the library of the Dialogus. Antonia had made a point to liaise with the Dialogus during their journey, fascinated by the knowledge she bore.

Sister Dialogus Meridia sat unarmored, clad in a loosely-corded robe, her dark hair flowing in waves around her shoulders, partially obscuring the Fleur de Lis tattooed upon her cheek. As always, the haft of her cruelly-wrought buzdygan lay across her knees, eternally prepared for use. Yet her hands were otherwise occupied, as was every surface in the library, with a heavy tome. It was synth-vellum, or some other form of hide, and bore a rune Antonia didn’t recognize. The Dialogus’ long fingers splayed down its spine, tapping thoughtfully with each item of interest she identified from its knowledge.

“Sister Dialogus.” Antonia addressed her from the open doorway. Meridia glanced up, seemingly unsurprised to see Antonia, or the silver mask she wore.

“Enter, and close the door.” The dark-haired woman closed her reading with a light thud as Antonia acquiesced, pulling the heavy metal bulkhead closed. The room must have been used for munitions storage at some point before Meridia’s occupancy, as the walls were sloped and low, heavily armored from the prospect of an incidental immolation. It forced all visitors to Meridia’s domain to stoop, or risk impacting the metallic beams above.

“Late is the hour, Novitiate Primus.” Meridia’s tone was light, without true admonishment. “If you seek last minute strategic advice for the battle ahead, I may refer you to your other instructors.” Her warm smile lightened her meaning, and she gestured to a nearby chair, seemingly recently used by another interloping visitor.

“I am sorry, Sister Dialogus- I needed to speak to someone.” She could feel her injuries throbbing in discomfort in time with her heartbeat.

“And I assume that Superior Vanqueth was not available to receive your query?” Meridia was watching her closely, reaching close to push a lock of flyaway hair back beneath the novitiate’s hooded visage, sending a jolt of pain through Antonia’s face as she grazed the site of her training injury.

“The Superior is indisposed to speaking to me.” Antonia tried to bite back the words as soon as she said them, feeling ashamed of their bitterness, despite it roosting in her pores.

“Such is her way.” Meridia answered simply, her smile growing soft and sad. “And it has caused doubt to find a home in your heart.” Her smile disappeared, replaced with an expression best described as haughty disapproval. “One does question your resolve when it falters so the first time you find yourself damaged by an instructor.” Antonia bowed her head, the dull throb of shame creeping into the heat of her injury.

“My resolve remains unmarred, as does my faith.” She retorted, her words running away from her. “I dream of the Emperor- feeling his presence chastises me enough for both of us, and I visit the auto-flaggelator daily.” She grimaced behind her penance mask at the thought of her regular consultations with the device. “But the Superior intends to liquidate my cohort, and that I cannot abide.”

The Dialogus frowned, considering her statements. Antonia regretted the outburst. The Orders Dialogus were masters of speech, and it was said they could read even truths and meanings beyond intent. Meridia’s long, pale fingers traced the page before her, and Antonia realized that she did not know the language which swirled across it in seemingly random patterns.

“Donning the ring does not guarantee that you become a sister of the Adepta Sororitas.” She traced the lines with her fingertips, eyes remaining fixed on Antonia’s mask. “The Preceptory will be tested upon Placid. Lives spent eagerly to cast back the invaders into the abyss.” Her eyes dropped momentarily to the page, before returning to the mask. “Vanqueth is hard because she wants you to return, rather than needlessly water the fields with your blood. Your strike team’s redeployment will be your test, not the Superior’s opinions, however poor they might be.” Antonia’s heart leapt at her words, energized momentarily by hope.

“Then- she will not be consulted on our admission to the preceptory?” For the first time, Meridia showed a flicker of uncertainty at her question. Then the mask of placidity returned, as smooth as her own.

“The inner workings of the preceptory is not for me to say.” Just as quickly, Antonia felt her heart drop at the Dialogus’ words, thinking back to the fury of her Superior. A certainty filled her that Vanqueth would not relent, if she allowed the Novitiates to return from their mission at all.

“She will not allow us to become sisters of His Broken Hand.” Her statement was terse, and she felt a resounding throb from her injuries. The line of Meridia’s mouth tightened in response, and she snapped the tome shut with a snap.

“Such certitude is reserved for Him on Terra. Do not claim to know the minds of your betters.” The Dialogus tossed the book aside, a testament to her discontent. “You would not have been elevated to Primus if you were not capable of greatness- it is your responsibility to show Vanqueth you can rise to the occasion upon the field of battle.”

In an instant, Meridia’s hand closed around the handle of her buzdygan, and hoisted it, muscles coiled and bulging with the effort. She held the weapon in one hand, extended to touch Antonia’s chest. A fire burned in her eyes, sharp as a power blade. It was a threat, evident and brutally-delivered.

“What must I do?” Antonia felt her voice crack. The weapon would break bones and crush organs if the Dialogus swung upon her. The encounter had soured from her incautiousness.

“Study the coming battlefields.” Meridia’s arm remained steady. “Learn the language of war, use it to lead your sisters, do not wait to be led.” For a long moment, she paused, holding the eyes of the Novitiate Primus. Antonia felt her armor slip away, chastened and bolstered in equal measure. “You have every tool you need to prove you are worthy of His benediction. Use them.”

The older woman’s arm lowered, taking the threat of the heavy metal implement with it. She still fixed Antonia with the conflagration of her gaze, but it spoke of passion, rather than admonition.

“A crucible awaits you, the furnace of war lies below us.” Meridia paused. A storm of trouble shadowing her face momentarily, before she turned away from her lesser, dismissing the younger woman with the curve of her shoulder, holding the wicked maul low. “Visit the Hospitaller before you keel over.”

///

Antonia took her leave from the Dialogus. She felt little better than when she’d sought the specialist’s advice, but as she twisted her ring of suffering, she held a phrase tightly in her mind: You have every tool you need…
She did have everything she needed, and by the Emperor, she would not allow herself to fail.