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A HERESY-ONLINE FAN-FICTION EZINE

The Heretic Edited By: Commissar Ploss

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The Heretic

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The Heretic

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A HERESY-ONLINE FAN-FICTION EZINE

tHE hERETICEdited by

Commissar Ploss

Volume 1, Issue 1

www.Heresy-Online.netA Warhammer 40,000® and Fantasy Forum




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Used without permission. No challenge to their status intended. All Rights Reserved to their respective owners.

All novel samples/extracts are © their individual authors.

The Heretic

IT IS THE 21st millennium. For more than twenty years Games Workshop, blessings be upon their house, has sat perched atop the

Golden Throne of Wargaming. They are the master of nerdkind by the will of copyright law, and masters of a million hobbyists by the might of their inexhaustible miniatures lines. They are a rotting carcass (in the nicest way possible) writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of late 1980's Planning Meetings. They are the “Canon” Lords of the Imperium for whom a thousand fanboys are sacrificed every day,

so that they may never truly die.

YET EVEN IN their deathless state, Games Workshop continues their eternal vigilance. Mighty Corporate Divisions cross the daemon-

infested miasma of the wargaming industry, the only route between distant investors dividends, their way lit by Tom Kirby, the psychic

manifestation and chairman of Games Workshop's will. Vast armies give battles in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his

soldiers are the Black Library Authors, the Wordsmiths, bio-engineered super-writers. Their comrades in arms are legion: The Support Staff

and countless BL Towers office workers, the ever-vigilant Editors and the tech-priests of the Marketing Department to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from critics, reviewers, grammar-nazis – and worse.

TO BE a fan-fiction author in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime

imaginable. These are the tales of those writers. Forget the power of spell-check and punctuation, for so much has been forgotten, most likely due to laziness. Forget the promise of long deadlines and a

healthy advance, for in the grim dark of reality, there is only a scalding rejection letter. There is no peace amongst fan-fiction writers, only cold coffee and carpal tunnel, and the laughter of dried out pens.

-CP



CONTENTS

Introduction by Commissar Ploss 9

Featured Story:At the End of All Things by Commissar Ploss 10

Retribution by Commissar Ploss 13The Silencing of Warboss Grogz by Commissar Ploss 18The Ghost of Iron:

Prologue 22Chapter 1 27

Redmarked – Extract by David Ploss 39(independent novel extract)

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INTRODUCTION

The introduction will vary in length.But I doubt that it will ever fill the rest of this page, and if it does, probably wont

exceed half of the next. I'm thinking it will only be a diddy about the Featured Story...

Famous last words...

Commissar PlossAntioch, October 2010



FEATURED STORY

At the End of All ThingsCommissar Ploss

Waking from the daemon-grip of death’s hands is never a welcome instance. Being the only one to do so, is even less.

Gazing through the cracked lenses of his helmet, brother Vicarus viewed the world as a grey haze. A faint rasp emitted from his augmetic voice box as he realized he had just tried to chuckle. Viewing the sky above him from the bottom of an impact crater all too ironically displayed the gravity of the situation. The air was acrid with the smell of burning promethium and the stench of boiled flesh, and his auditory sensors picked up the faint crackle of a fire not fifty meters off. Upon waking just moments before, his brain had been flooded with strong signals from pain receptors all throughout his body. He laid still, eyes closed, as his bodies advanced chemistry coped with the initial rush. He felt not the usual instinct to move, just the overwhelming feeling that this probably was not the best place to be. Not only was it quite uncomfortable, but he needed to rejoin the fight.

Sitting up would have to be the first step. Using his arms, he attempted to hoist himself up into a sitting position, but noticed quite frustratingly that he could not gain any purchase. With blurred vision he looked down, noting the stump that used to be his right hand. Even

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though it had already healed to the point of what looked like an Ork's anus, he realized that any similar injury could turn this little crater into his final resting place. Wearily he glanced at all his other major limbs and allowed himself a chuckle at the fact that only his right hand, the ‘Right hand of Angarius,’ the most feared hand in all his home world—second only to that of their primarch— ‘the hand that smote one thousand Orks,’ was gone. Gone and never to be seen again. Sure, an augmetic replacement would be fitted the moment he returned, but only to serve as an artificial reminder of its former glory, and the shame he carried with it's loss. Just considering what his battle brothers would say was enough to start him laughing maniacally. That was if any of them were still alive.

There was no use reminiscing. Right now he needed to get to the surface and reestablish contact with the rest of his unit and if need be, rejoin his battle brothers without his right hand. Or his sidearm for that matter. A quick glance to either side showed that his holy plasma weapon was nowhere to be seen. He took great pride in his weapon, as so many of his brethren did. And to see that it was gone, just as simply as his hand, infuriated him. He would die for the Emperor at the wave of a hand, but without his weapons his life felt meaningless. Brother Vicarus reminded himself that if he was not removed from his tranquil little hole, his now meaningless life would be all that much shorter. That did not sit well at all. He swore that he would see out his remaining days in service to the Emperor.

With his remaining helmet lens, brother Vicarus queued his com-link. The signal strength read zero. He hoped it was due in part to his subterranean nature, that the com-link in his helmet was not receiving a signal from the main vox towers. However, as close to the surface as he was... The growing sense of dread welling inside, told him he knew otherwise. He sat back to catch his breath before continuing and only now smelled the metallic tang of iron wafting from the fluid surrounding his body. He knew right away that the liquid was not just fluid from his powered armor systems but something much more important.

With the threat of an unfulfilling death clear in his mind, he mustered up all the strength in his remaining three limbs and began his climb to the surface. Climbing in the soil, and Emperor knows what else, is difficult with only one arm to steady yourself. And having vital signs flirting on and around the verge of death made it even more difficult. It took all of twelve minutes for him to make it to the rim of his crater. To brother Vicarus it seemed as if hours had passed. He paused before breaking the surface to take a moment and steady himself against the onrush of sensory perception that he would receive upon gazing at the surrounding battlefield. Down in the hole, Emperor be praised, there was nothing more than dirt, green Ork flesh and small metal fragments. But across the vastness of the surface battlefield there were many more things to see. He braced himself for what the silence told him would not be a welcome sight.



With a sigh, brother Vicarus stepped out of his crater - and into hell.

The scene that greeted his already weary eyes destroyed him. He fell to his knees and wept. All around lay the remnants of a world destroyed by war. Mangled corpses, charred metal, and the smoldering wrecks of war machines lay broken forever in all directions. Friend and foe alike lay as if battles were still raging wherever their spirits had ascended. With cracked lips and through streaming tears, brother Vicarus let out a roar so seething with rage and desperation, it would have made Emperor himself cower in fear. Removing his helmet, he stood. As if in defiance to his survival, the wind howled and the rain began to fall as if to wash away the death that consumed its planet. At this he laughed, and then said with a sigh, almost inaudible against the rain and wind, "It seems i have been left behind, and my brothers march without me." With rain mixing with the tears down his cheeks, brother Vicarus somehow knew he was the last of his chapter. The Iron Diamond Space Marines would be no more. Their name would be forgotten, and their history untold.

Whistling an old Imperial hymn, and accompanied by only the wind and pelting rain, he felt minuscule and insignificant. The work had been done. Lives had been payed in full. Oaths had been fulfilled and creeds had been upheld. But for what? "For the Emperor," he said to himself, hoping beyond hope that that was justification enough.

Turning around, he spotted his crater. As if in thanks, he bowed to it, and said, "You have saved me. By the Emperor, you have saved me. Please refrain from doing it again."

And with that, brother Vicarus turned away. And with a deep breath, he began to walk. There at the end of all things. He walked for a lost cause, across a forgotten field, on a nameless world. For none would know, save the Emperor himself, how he longed for peace.

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RETRIBUTIONCommissar Ploss

The woods were quiet. Eerie beams of light shone through the humid canopy in sections to spotlight the forest floor below. Things were missing. Things that made the silence lay upon the wood like a blanket, covering everything. The native fauna had either gone silent or completely disappeared, for there were no discernible signs that they were there. There was no breeze to be felt. The air was stagnant and warm, as if afraid to move.

Hidden amongst the thorns and bracken, a pair of eyes scan the forest 180 degrees. Other than the vegetation, his helmet display shows no signs of life. He knows to be wary. For that was how he was trained. He is a merchant of death. His hands and arms sheathed in gauntlets of black adamantium, his chest and legs cased in ceremite plates of the same. His helmet, also black and crested with golden laurels, bears a red stripe down the middle from back to front. In his left hand he holds a weapon of divine power. A holy weapon that aids him in his judgment of others. From its aperture spews bolts of incandescent plasma.

Encasing his right, humming quietly, is a most sacred artefact. Passed down over three hundred years and witness to one thousand campaigns, it is a weapon of awesome power. Only given to those deemed worthy, it is a black iron fist four times the size of his hand and



bares four claws. Each crackling with blue bolts of energy. Equally capable of flenzing flesh from bone as gashing a battle tank like a knife slicing the air, it has done both many times. It is 'the hand that slew one thousand Orks.' To the one who bares it, it is the right hand of Angarius, his dead homeland. It bares the souls of all those dead and gone. Many of those his brothers. For he is Brother-Sergent Lucian Vicarus, and he is a Space Marine. His shoulder plates bare the symbol of his chapter. It is a grey diamond, plain and glorious. He is a soldier of the Iron Diamond.

The Iron Diamond Space Marines are little known throughout the galaxy and that is what they want. They are silent and swift as a wisp of smoke, and as brutal and ruthless as a pack of daemons. They serve the Emperor of Mankind, wholly devoted and unwavering in their allegiance to the golden throne of Earth. But they do so amongst the shadows, so much unlike their loud and boisterous brothers, the Ultramarines. They prefer the silence of a knife in the dark. They are few in number, and as such rarely commit their entire force to one single action. They are surgical killers. Silencing the few to prevent the killing of many.

And such is his charge now. Brother-Sergent Vicarus raises his lightning claw above his head.

As he stands, nine others stand with him.

Matte black warriors of shadow, cased in the same plates of armour, stand like statues breathing silently behind helmeted faces. They are veteran tactical squad Aerosav. They are First Company veterans. All tested by one hundred campaigns, they have earned their spot in the annals of Chapter history and lore. They are their chapter's finest.

Many generations have passed since the destruction of their planet, but still they fight for it in memory. Having each sworn a blood oath to purge the galaxy of the foul mutant xenos that destroyed their homeland, their mighty battle-barge 'The Might of Angarius' along with the rest of the 'Iron Fleet' travel from system to system chasing their eternal enemy. Their enemy the Orks.

“Forward my brothers, the enemy is near and their stench is intoxicating.” whispers Sergent Vicarus. His battle-brothers stomp their right feet twice in unison to show their lust for revenge. Vicarus smiles to himself behind his helmet. The picture of his burning planet fresh upon his thoughts as if it had only been yesterday, he steadies himself and begins to move forward. His brothers follow in perfect step. Even though each man is a monster in size and in strength, still they move silently through the wood. Not one twig snaps beneath their feet, and not one sound is made. The men of tactical squad Aerosav move through the wood like spectres. Fifty meters grows to one hundred, their nerves and senses heightening with

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every step they take forward towards their enemy. At one hundred and fifty meters, Sergent Vicarus orders a halt.

“Brother Olin, what do you see?” says Sergent Vicarus.

The soldier to to his right moves to him. This is Brother-Marksman Stern Olin, the oldest in their group. Slinging his modified bolter over his shoulder, he addresses the Sergent.

“Sir, auspex shows fifty plus targets at seventy six meters. Most centrally located, sir.”

“Thank you brother. Find yourself a suitable vantage point from which to cover and await my signal. I trust you know your duty.”

“Aye sir, the Emperor protects.”

“Only those he deems worthy brother.”

Brother Olin stamps his foot twice and disappears back into the shadows.

To the others, Vicarus raises his lightning claw once again in the air. It makes no sound as he flexes each clawed finger. He slowly lowers it and in quick succession he disengages the wrist locks that secure the claw to his armour. Dumping it off into his other hand, he holds his bare fist aloft.

“Brothers,” he says almost inaudibly, “do not forget your charge this day. Simply remember the pain the filthy greenskins inflicted upon Angarius and its people. Return to them a pain worse than death. Let them bear witness to the wrath of angry spectres. Spectres without a homeland. Do not be seen. Do not be heard. For as the spirits of our homeland are invisible, so are we.”

With practiced precision Brother-Sergent Vicarus reattaches his lightning claw. Turning back the direction of their quarry, he lowers his body back to a crouch.

As he crouches, eight others crouch with him.

Vicarus inches forward, seventy six meters closing to ten, then eight. At five meters, he reaches the edge of the clearing. Standing back in the shadow of the trees, his brothers close up around him at the edge of the wood.



His dully glowing red lenses take in the scene before him. Fifty-three Orks kneel before a grotesque display of wood and iron. Chanting quietly and tamping their weapons on the ground in unison, they seem to be worshiping the idol. Brother Vicarus doesn't spend any time attempting to decipher the ritual. Opening a com-link he coolly states his directive:

“Brothers, kill them all.”

As one, veteran tactical squad Aerosav moves forward towards the knelt Orks. In a split second, brother Vicarus slips a cold gauntleted hand over the mouth of the rearmost Ork and removes his head with a quick pass of his lightning claw. The already kneeling Ork slumps silently onto himself.

At the front of the pack of Orks kneels a giant of a greenskin. No doubt the strongest among them, he is fitted with an iron jaw and metal forelimbs typical of his status. Brother Vicarus opens a com-link to brother Olin, hidden amongst the trees, “Now brother,” he whispers into his helmet.

A second later, the lead Ork's neck and shoulders explode in a splattering shower of black ichor and flesh. Startled by this, the remaining Orks snap from their trances.

Brother Vicarus chuckles deeply from behind his helmet, “I hope you have made peace with your god,” he yells, “for today you DIE!” He raises his plasma pistol and charges into the mass of gathered Orks, flensing flesh and showering them in beams of incandescent death.

As he charges, eight other charge with him.

Racking the slides of their bolters and disengaging the safeties the members of veteran tactical squad Aerosav enact the vengeance in their hearts. Each metal casing that tinkles to the ground has scratched in it, the name of a citizen of their once mighty chapter planet Angarius. Every round, blessed by Iron Diamond Chaplain Kneva, carries a part of their souls. Once spent, they are left as a marker to their final resting place. This is how their spirits attain peace; in service to the God-Emperor of mankind.

As the bloody mele comes to a close, brother Vicarus strides towards the fallen Ork leader. Its body twitches, too stupid to realize that it is dead. The massive disembodied head, jaws still snapping, eyes enraged stares up at brother Vicarus.

Bending down to survey his prey Vicarus smiles menacingly behind his helmet. Picking up the giant cranium he spears it upon his lightning claw. He can hear the meat sizzle

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as his claw sparks in delight. Raising his prize above his head he yells, “In the name of the God-Emperor of mankind, and with all the might of Angarius, may you never see the light of this universe again!”

Raising his pistol, Brother Sergent Lucian Vicarus, leader of veteran tactical squad Aerosav, flings the head of the Ork into the air, and vaporizes it with a jet of blinding plasma.



THE SILENCING OF WARBOSS GROGZ

Commissar Ploss

+++Classified Information+++ +++Vermilion Level++++++Imperial Credos 987.4325d+++ +Office of the Inquisition+++

+++break+++

The silencing efforts employed by the hierarchy of the Iron Diamond command demanded that only one squad partake in the deployment. It was said that the participating squad was usually supplied by a random ritual or selection process. However, text show us that there was usually some sort of personal connection between the quarry and the hunter that decided which squad would partake.

Tactical squad Aerosav was selected for the pacification and silencing mission against Warboss Grogz, due to the fact that Warboss "Grogz" (as he was deemed due to the groggy sound of his voice) had been the leader of the assault on the Iron Diamond Space Marine's Chapter planet of Angarius. The assault had fallen directly into the sector held by First

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Diamond Company, and tact squad Aerosav bore the brunt of the attack.

Tactical squad Aerosav was forced into a retreat and was decimated in the melee. Only 3 members survived the onslaught.

As such, it was squad Aerosav that was chosen to deal with Warboss Grogz. Warboss Grogz did not start his dealings in this section of the galaxy on his own. As stated above he was originally part of Waaagh! 'ObbNobz. It was during the assault on Angarius that Grogz changed from being a servant, to being a leader. During the final stages of the decimation of Angarius, Grogz came to disagree with the tactics and orders given by Warboss 'ObbNobz. Instead of incinerating the planet in a systematic and utterly bombastic manner, Grogz was said to have wanted to rid the planet of its human and super-human inhabitants, yes, but then wanted to use the planet as a population center for the breeding/sporing of further numbers for the current Waaagh! Spouting off "'ead-to-'ead" with Warboss 'ObbNobz was not the way to accomplish this, and the resulting fight almost killed Grogz. Had it not been for the 'shield' (a squealing grot) employed by Grogz at the final moment, he would have been. Gather his entourage, Grogz fled the planet and left the system. Rumor had been spread that he had set himself up on the ferral planet "Spetzna II" and declared himself Warboss of a new Waaagh! bearing his name. (word had come from a neighboring system held by the Imperial Guard that an 'Orkish' vessel had been spotted and pursued through the Spetzna system. All subsequent raiding parties from Imperial vessels had reported in that there were a fair number of Orks, however no contact was ever reported. One can only assume that upon noticing the greenskin hoard, commanding officers had deemed the situation too hazardous and left the feral world of Spetzna II to its doom.)

Upon warnings received from Imperial forces regarding the newly established bas of "Warboss Grogz," immediate response was made from Iron Diamond command on the battle-barge "Might of Angarius" that a squad would be dispatched to sever the threat. Ignoring warnings from Imperial counterparts that a single squad would not be sufficient to deal with some 50 Orks, Iron Diamond Command ordered Tactical squad Aerosav to dispatch of this splinter cell.

The feral world of Spetzna II was indeed that. Densely packed with jungle and grasslands alike, it was plenty hot enough to sustain a suitable size force. Notes taken by Brother-Sergent Lucian Vicarus of the planets nature stated that of teh numerous variety of insectoid life on S.II, a quad-winged furry creature with a long tail was the most abundant. With that, Sergent Vicarus also added his observations that surviving only on the flora and fauna alone, a sizable force of approx. 150 could survive on this planet for close to a decade. Hwever, given the nature and rate of the Orks reproduction rites, a figure of 5 years was given to represent the approximate time of habitation. Any longer and the resources would be



http://www.heresy-online.net/forums/glossary.php?do=item&id=8


substantially depleted and the remaining population would need to acquire another planet to support its growth. Sergent Vicarus also hypothesized that if left unchecked, the Ork presence in the system would increase exponentially into the millions.

Although deemed sizable, the Ork warband was not unmanageable.

Initial contact placed Grogz in the northern hemisphere. Opposition was light when it could be found. The main center of the Ork presence was determined to be in Sector II of the northern hemisphere. Dispatch was sent to Iron Diamond command that surveilance was underway in the early morning hours since establishing a base of operations. In total the recorded Ork presence was about 50. Contact was initiated through stealth execution. It was Brother Boris Raenor who first lit up his bolter to multiple targets. Once sound cover was blown there was no more need for silent weapons. Tactical Squad Aerosav laid into the Orks with furious volleys. Only after several minutes was there any sign of return fire. The only signal was higher pitch cracks of solid slug ammunition over the immense booming noises produced by the boltguns of tactical squad Aerosav. It was noted that, with marked precision, Brother-Sergent Lucian Vicarus dispatched 16 Orks with his plasma pistol and 6 more with his Lightning Claw. These figures do not include the multiple targets that were captured and held after the battle only to be executed via his Lightning claw as well.

(as a side note, the Lightning Claw that graced the right hand of Brother-Sergent Vicarus was called "the Right Hand of Angarius." It had been the property of Chapter Master Deus Ruskov of the Iron Diamond Space Marines. Worn during the Evacuation of Angarius, it was removed from the hand of Master Deus and sent off the planet, Master Deus stayed behind to fall with his planet and to fight the greenskin hordes on his own. Through popular vote by other leaders among the chapter, and by official decree from the other masters of the chapter, Brother-Sergent Lucian Vicarus was given charge of the "Hand".)

In all, more than 75 Orks were disposed of that day. The engagement lasted only 75 minutes in all. That is including the execution of "Warboss" Grogz by squad marksmand, and oldest member in tact squad Aerosav, Brother-Marksman Stern Olin. Brother Olin had been ordered to find a suitable vantage point from which to cover the engagement. Chances had it that he was not needed until the very last moment of the melee. Having hidden himself away in the treetops surrounding the Ork encampment, he only fired a single shot. It was a head-shot through the skull of Warboss Grogz.

It is still a matter of debate whether or not brother Olin or Sergent Vicarus actually killed Grogz, for at the same moment Brother Olin fired his round, Sergent Vicarus spun and beheaded the beast. Standard physics and testing dictate that it was a shared kill. This is explained by the fact that the split second that Sergent Vicarus took to spin and execute the

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decapitation was the same length of time that it took for Brother Olin's bullet to fly through the air.

Always the humble giants, neither will claim the kill.

+++break+++ +++end record+++



THE GHOST OF IRONPROLOGUECommissar Ploss

It has been Twenty Years since that fateful day when Brother Captain Vicarus, of the Iron Diamond Space Marines woke to the destruction of his chapter. Yet there are others interested in the planet of his chapter's destruction. It is no longer just himself and the Orks. The Imperial Guard has detached a salvage regiment to the sector to peruse for scrap. The story begins here. Will Brother Captain Vicarus ever meet these strangers? Only time will tell.

I

“Shotgun, this is X-Ray. Four Niner, you are clear for pitch pull, over.”

“Roger X-Ray. Pitch Pull in thirty, over.”

The lifter jets of the drop ship began to whine and screech as if just preparing to take off was too painful an operation.

“Command to X-Ray. Spread to cover position Alpha in support, over.”

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At the wave of a hand, Captain Bulous moved his troops into cover positions amongst the rocks around the LZ. Command had spent weeks pouring over orbital scans of the planet's surface for any signs of remaining life. The scans had confirmed their initial hopes.

The old rusted wrecks of a campaign gone awry littered the planets surface for hundreds of kilometers. For those savvy enough to retrieve the scrap, it could mean trillions in Imperial credits. Their only concern were clusters of small Ork camps at the old battlefield's southern borders.

Captain Bulous had been informed that there were no signs that the Orks inhabited anywhere other than the southern hemisphere. There were no doubts amongst the senior staff that these Orks, Emperor damn them, were well established residents that had, more than likely, been one of the parties responsible for the waste that engulfed the planet. Which, Captain Bulous had been quick to remind everyone, meant the excess amount of unsalvaged wreckage was quite unusual. At least according to the standards upheld by most Ork clans. Orks, especially those whom Bulous had encountered, relied heavily on the technologies of other races for their battle equipment. After major engagements, for example those utilizing vast numbers of armored units, Orks were know to salvage those wrecks which could be fixed and twist them to their fancy. In the amount of time since this battle had been concluded, company tacticians had estimated close to two decades, there should not have been this much scrap still salvageable.

Command had chosen to start in the north. The orbital scans revealed what looked to be a massive ship that had crash landed on the surface. Chart comparisons confirmed it to be a space marine Battle Barge. Captain Bulous could only speculate, but it seemed very possible that the Orks on the planet had originally come from a space hulk colony. He had a feeling that the Orks from the space hulk had caught the space marine command, situated on the Battle Barge, off its guard and fully committed on the ground. There must have been no time to call troops back to the ship to repel a boarding attempt. With its command severed, the rest of their force was left to die. Of course it was highly possible that the two were completely separate.

The space hulk Orks and the surface Orks could have been two completely separate clans. Captain Bulous couldn't imagine being caught in between like these Astartes must have been. With a laugh he shook himself out of his day dream. He assured himself that it wasn't that complex. Men fought and they died. It was as simple as that. No frills, and no heroics. Kill or be killed. If you were not constantly vigilant, you died. If you day dreamed...with a sneer, Captain Bulous decided to return to the task at hand.

Command had assured him that there would be hostile contact this far north of the



camps. Still, Captain Bulous did not quite trust the workings of High Command. He never had. He had always suspected them of greed and carelessness. Far too many times had he been told a planet was uninhabited, only to come screaming into a hot LZ, unaware and under equipped. He had lost many good men to the “small errors” of High Command, and wasn't about to lose any more of them.

Captain Bulous kept his men on high alert and gave them permission to engage at the slightest evidence of hostile contact. All the while gazing warily up at the rim of the huge crater that they had been flown into. In the early evening glow of the planet's two setting suns, it was made clear to him that the Battle Barge they were sent to cannibalize, had not originally crashed in this crater. It seemed to have actually crashed somewhere outside the crater, and with the speed and momentum only found in ships of this size, slammed into the ground and cut out a kilometer long swath of earth before stopping. The ship had ended its morbid clash with friction in this huge crater. Sliding down its eastern wall and settling in the bottom.

“X-Ray, this is Shotgun Leader. Pitch pull complete. Moving to coordinate group Theta for rendezvous with the Sister Clara. Give my regards to the dead, Malleus, over.”

“Shotgun, this is X-Ray. Very funny Marco. Get your ass out of here will ya. I'll see you in a month, over.”

“Sure, but when you get back, drinks are on you old buddy.”

Before he could reply, the drop ship tore off into the southern sky.

Captain Malleus Bulous simply laughed. Turning with a grin, he addressed his troops. “Alright boys! This scrap's not gonna salvage itself! Lets strap it, haul it, and kick its ass! Lets show 'em what a real Imperial salvage team can do! First and Second squads! I want those habs set up and operational by sundown tonight! That is, unless you want to sleep with the Orks tonight! Fourth squad! I want two heavy weapon emplacements on the northwestern and southeastern faces of this Emperor-forsaken crater! If you don't want this place to turn into a mass grave, i suggest you do it soon. Oh, and the Emperor protects.”

His men replied with a deafening cheer. Captain Malleus Bulous smiled. He knew his men were the best. They were trained on Mars itself by the techmarines of the Adeptus Mechanicus in salvage and recovery. He had no doubts this was going to be a short trip. With enough habs for him and his men, and provisions enough to spend a month planet-side, he had no reservations for getting this mission underway. It would take his men two full days to complete their preparations anyways.

The Heretic

“Command, this is X-Ray. Do you read, over.”

“Go ahead X-Ray, make your declaration, over.”

“Let it be known, that in service to the God Emperor of mankind, on the 56th day 782.M41, salvage and recovery operations in the northern sector are go. The Emperor protects, over.”

“The Emperor protects.”

IIJournal Entry for 782.M41 Day 56Sunrise: 4&53

Long range auspex crashed at about 3&30 this morning. Suspect humidity.

I tried to service the piece but there is nothing else to be done. All the major contacts have rustecd through.

will be setting out for the north come sundown. I'll see if i cant salvage another one from The Might of Angarius. Emperor knows she's proven very useful so far.

The Orks dont seem to come near anymore. Which means my methods have proven effective. With auspex down it will prove harder to keep them off this sacred ground. The orks are especially cautious around The Might of Angarius. Not two months ago, as previously recorded in this journal, i dispatched a platoon sized band of orks as they set foot inside the Battle Barge. I have secretly protected our sacred vessel from those damn xeno-scum for close to two decades now.

At times the Orks seem desperate to clam the wreckage for themselves, and it tears my heart when i have to use explosives to deter them from this sacred ground. had we killed them all, i would have gladly left my battle brothers to lay silently. these foul Orks, though few and weak, have forced me to defend my brother's final resting places vigilantly for the past two decades.

Booby traps and tripwire charges should deter their movements until my return.

Sundown is upon me. It is a two day journey to our ship in the north. I must replace the auspex or my cause is doomed.



Glory be the Emperor,

Lucian Vicarus

The Heretic

THE GHOST OF IRONCHAPTER 1Commissar Ploss

THE FOOD tasted horrible. Nothing he couldn't handle though. Dinner, if that was what you could call it, was never really that exciting. To the amusement of his troopers Captain Bulous held his nose as he shoveled another spoonful of slop into his mouth. He never outwardly complained about the food, but it was common knowledge that he despised it. For the sake of morale, he told himself, he sat with his troopers every night, both planet side as well as in transit, and ate whatever gruesome feast was available that night from the Munitorum stores. He figured that if the troopers had to eat it, then he should have to as well.

Looking around the mess tables he could see the tired faces of his troopers. He wanted badly to give them a break, but he had a deadline to meet. And his troopers knew it too. It was the end of their first day on the job since planet-fall and already they were exhausted. The itinerary that command had given him allowed for only two fifteen minute breaks, one in the morning after breakfast and one at night before dinner. The brunt of the work was done in the afternoon when any normal person would be having lunch. Of course it was very difficult to define normal in the Imperial Guard. But, such was the curse of an Imperial salvage team. You fought like a bastard, then you were expected to work like an Ogyrn.



Mid-spoonful, Captain Bulous felt a tap on his shoulder. Wiping his mouth and cursing his food he spun around on the bench. What he saw startled him. Not two inches from his face stood a set of black fatigues. Not just any old standard fatigues, but a very familiar pair of the more form-fitting pair of female fatigues. He had to admit, the Ordo Medicae had an excellent taste for outfits.

“Eyes up here cowboy.”

He smiled, and was surprised he hadn't recognized her right away. Beautiful brown eyes, and flowing brown hair. Not to mention the best set of...teeth in the regiment. Her name was Paula. Chief medical officer for their operation and the object of his affections since he had first laid eyes on her.

“Did you need something Paula?”

“Thats Chief Medic to you,” she said with a wink. “And yes, I need you in the medical ward immediately.”

There were some wolf-whistles and sarcastic remarks from the troopers around the table.

“Was there something some of you would like to say to the Chief Medic?” He growled at them, staring at each of them in turn. None of them met his gaze. Turning back, he smiled and said, “Yes Doctor, I will meet you there post haste. Head on over while I dispose of this axle grease they call food.”

“Yes sir.”

She saluted and he returned it. And with an alluring smile, she strode off down the row of tables. He watched here walk away, loving every minute of it. There was a certain quality to her walk. One that kept your eyes glued for the duration. The two of them had joked about it casually before, but she had never admitted it. She only walked that way for him. That was one thing that he was sure of. She added a little more sway to it when she thought he was watching.

As she rounded the mouth of the mess tent his gaze was broken. Praise the God-Emperor, she sure was a fine specimen. However, he knew that she was out of his league. He was Guard. She, a high ranking medical officer. It probably would never amount to anything. Oh, but he could dream.

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Turning back to the troops at his table he raise an eyebrow and said quite eloquently, “Pray for me lads, for i may never return.” His troopers all laughed and made a series of derogatory hand gestures. “But if i do, it shall be with sweat upon my brow and a smile upon my face!” With a flourish of his hand he bowed to them. Then he turned and jogged down the length of the tent in the direction Paula had gone.

Paula chuckled as she pulled here head back from around the corner. She had stopped to peek back through the entrance of the mess tent once she had gotten out of site, so she had heard everything. She hadn't originally needed him for personal enjoyment, but the more she thought about it, she figured she could probably use the exercise. Oh well, her pleasure could wait. There was a trooper in the medical ward that required attention from the captain first, and if he was telling the truth, her fun would have to be put on hold. For a while.

***

IT WAS ONLY the end of his first night of travel and already he had come upon some of them. Emperor damn them, they were getting bolder.

In all he counted twenty. Not the largest group he'd seen, but not the smallest either. Just looking at them made his flesh crawl and his blood boil. The climate control systems in his power armor had silently engaged when his core temperature had reached 104 degrees. That was less than four minutes ago. The Orks were gathered around a fire in the middle of their campsite. He had already disposed of their perimeter patrols and by the look of it, he wasn't going to have any trouble with the rest of them either.

He hated the Orks with a passion. As had every single one of his brethren. When they had been alive. The Orks were the reason his chapter had come to this foul planet in the first place. It had been the Orks that had destroyed his home world, Angarius. As such, it was the Orks whom inhabited his every waking thought. They were ever present in his mind. Not only in his curses and litanies, but in his dreams and writings. He could not escape them, nor did he desire to. He would kill them. By the Emperor of Mankind, he would kill them all.

It was almost sport for him now. He new almost everything there was to know about the Orks. Inside and out. He got the most joy from dissecting them. Oh how he loved to tear them apart. He would study their insides as thoroughly as an esholi might study the Imperial teachings in their planetary Scholam. He enjoyed finding their weaknesses and discovering new ways to kill them. He would then test his torturous new discoveries on the foul mutants every chance he could get. He loved to challenge himself by killing larger and larger groups. Over the last few years however, the Orks were fewer in these parts. Not because they had



given up on their salvage efforts, quite the contrary. They had doubled, no tripled, their lust for these mountains of scrap. It was their fear of the unknown and unseen guardian who inhabited the battlefield which kept them away. They were spooked.

He smiled to himself, there outside the reach of the firelight. It was him they were afraid of, and he was not about to let that fear subside. Long ago had he cast aside the Iron Diamond of his past and taken upon the title the Orks had given their invisible enemy. He was now, and forever would be, the Ghost of Iron.

Seeing as he should not delay their deaths any longer, he silently stepped into the firelight. As close as he was to them they still did not notice his presence. Oh, but they would. Like a ghost, he silently walked up behind the nearest Ork. He took a little time to observe his prey. This was a big mutant. No doubt an Ork Kommando who had volunteered for this mission, whatever it was. Muscles rippled underneath its green hide. The sight made his grin twist into an insane smirk. He felt like a ghost, and his matte black armor made the firelight bend around him like a daemon. He silently drew his bolt pistol with his left hand, and raised it up to the Ork's skull. It felt surprisingly light. 'You must be hungry for Ork as well old friend,' he though to himself. At nearly point blank range Brother-Captain Lucian Vicarus pulled the trigger. His pistol barked its approval.

***

“ARE YOU SURE son?'

'Yes sir! As sure as the nose on my face! Well, figuratively speaking, sir.”

Captain Bulous surveyed the youth. The boy was fidgeting slightly sitting on the edge of the examining table. His name was trooper Brillo, first name Ado, nickname 'lucky'. He was just a fledgling Imperial Guard soldier. He had only seen combat once before fate delt him an almost fatal hand. During Brillo's inaugural deployment, Bulous had never taken the time to find out where, the drop ship that Brillo had been riding in took a rocket to its aft end and crash landed behind the enemy's front line. All of his squadmates and the two Astartes pilots had been killed on impact and he had been left to fight for his life alone. For about ten minutes, the time always varied between stories, he held his ground quite viciously behind the wreck of his drop ship.

His luck had been cut short when he was flanked by a squad of heretics. He'd taken a flechette round to the head that blew out his bottom jaw completely, along with his nose and upper teeth. He had been fortunate enough to be recovered by a second drop ship that had followed their smoking contrail. The commanding party that was overseeing the campaign,

The Heretic

Imperial Fists no less, had arranged to have him fitted with an Osmotic grill as a replacement for his lower jaw and face. He also said that he had been awarded the Imperial Medal of Honor for his “heroic defense” of the breech in the enemy's line however, he lost it sometime afterwards. It didn't really add up in the mind of the Captain, but damn, the lucky bastard had fought alongside Astartes.

Bulous decided that he would have to hear the whole story sometime.

“Why don't you lay back down soldier, I'll have the doctor vox this information back up to command. I'm sure they'll be interested in it.” He nodded to Paula who quickly left the room. He turned back to Brillo who had his head in his hands and was rubbing his face. Bulous noted the exhaustion in his face. “Your gonna be alright son. I know it shocked you. You probably didn't think that you'd ever see one again, and I don't blame you.”

“Thats just it sir, I wasn't shocked. At least not in a bad way. I'm not sure why sir, but it made me smile...”

***

AS THE DOOR to the medical ward ground shut behind her, Paula let out a long sigh. She wasn't use to this kind of trouble. Her specialties were in medical trauma; blood, guts, and gore she could handle. These were all tangible problems. Things she could treat and understand. This was nothing like that. There was nothing tangible about this. It was quite unsettling.

She was glad to have people like the Captain who understood things like this. People who based their entire careers around the horrible and the unseen. She realized then that she much preferred her role in the Imperial Guard. There were no surprises in medicine. At least nothing this serious.

Paula hurried herself passed tents and billets were men were rousing themselves for the morning shift. It was the start of the second day planet side for most of them and she was sure that each and every one of them was hoping that this would be the last day of prep work. If they were able to stick to the schedule and were short on surprises – 'surprises' she chuckled to herself – they would be off the planet within a standard month with full cargo holds. Then it would be off to the designated forge world where they would cash in their scrap and then do it all again somewhere else. Wishful thinking.

Rounding the corner between the mess tent and the officers billets, she arrived at the vox station. It was a building that she never really visited that often. Then again she never really had to up until now. She was only now realizing how odd it truly was. The building sat



square enough on the ground but the enormous vox towers made it look tiny in comparison. Along the outside walls, wires spewed forth from the building like an infected and leaking pustule. The foundations for the masts themselves looked as though they had budded from the building itself.

Crawling with wires and oddly bulbous in shape, they reminded Paula of a tumor she had once seen inside a patient's brain. She chuckled at herself for the comparison. It didn't really apply. There had been nothing they could do for the poor soldier. The diagnosis had ended with a round to the head. It was the least they could do for him.

She thought about the consequences of waking the Lord-General at this time of morning, and hoped that her fate would not be the same as that poor soldier in her memory.

She steadied herself and pushed open the doors.

SHE WASN'T quite sure what she was expecting, but this sure wasn't it. Soldiers, whom she assumed were Guard, were sprawled about the room at various tables and desks. They were all huddled over various pieces of equipment that she could not begin to understand. Most if not all wore jumpsuits of olive green with the top halves trailing behind them. Only then did she notice how hot it was in there. The ventilation system was absolutely horrid. There were a total of three fans moving air that she could see. She could feel her fatigues beginning to stick to her as she stood there.

After a few seconds she was approached by a young half-dressed trooper who called himself Leguier.

He stood at attention and saluted. “Is this your first time in the vox station Doctor?” Leguier asked with a grin. Paula wondered if she really was making it that obvious.

“Yes it is and hopefully, my last,” she said.

“Well, what can I help you with?”

“I need to speak directly to the Lord-General,” she said without hesitation.

Leguier turned and looked at her in quizically. The whole room had gone silent. Every single one of the troops in the room had stopped what they were doing and turned to listen in on the conversation.

“Do you know what time it is? I don't think thats such a-”

The Heretic

“I have the clearance. Vermillion level. From Captain Bulous himself,” she said flatly.

“Bulous huh? Vermillion level? Are you asking for an execution!?”

“Soldier! By the Emperor of Mankind, I require a direct link to the Lord-General's personal quarters aboard the Sister Clara! Would you prefer it to be your head or mine? Because if you delay me a second longer, we might as well all be executed!”

Leguier let out a long sigh. “Better your head than mine.” He said. “But don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you need a side room?”

“Yes I will.”

“Give me a moment to set up a unit in the room to the right and you'll be all set. You can follow me if you like.”

She watched Leguier as he muscled a high gain caster from one of the wall mounts. He carried it over to a little side room off to the right of the main and attached it to another wall mount. She was amazed at how quickly he reconnected the wires to their corresponding jacks.

Leguier wiped his brow with the trailing end of his jumpsuit. She wondered how heavy the caster really was, but bit her tongue. She didn't want to sound any more naïve.

“May I have the clearance codes?” Leguier asked extending a hand. Paula quickly handed over the clearance card. It was a little card signed by the Captain that gave the four digit clearance cipher and channel numbers for the Lord-General's private chambers. Over all of this information was stamped in purple ink the word VERMILLION.

Leguier turned back to the caster and took the headphones from their hanger. He studied the clearance card for a second or two. Turning back to Paula he sighed. “Do you still want to do this?” He asked with a nervous smile.

“No,” she said truthfully. “I'd much rather be disemboweled by a Khorne Beserker, raped in this eye socket by a Carnifex, and then squashed by a Squiggoth! But I'll have to



settle for verbal abuse from the Lord-General.”

“How dissapointing,” laughed Leguier.

“I know. Patch me through anyways.”

“Right-O! one verbal black eye coming up!” Leguier exclaimed as he dialed up the channel. “All you have to do is hit 'send' and the caster in his chambers will start beeping incessantly. I'm sure he'll hear it. If he doesn't he's probably dead!”

“One can only hope,” smiled Paula. “I use the headphones right?”

“Aye, and you talk into the speaker right here on the front.” Leguier popped off the cover from the speaker and set it on the table. “Tap it a couple of times until you hear it in the headphones. This set is kinda old.”

“Right, thank you. A little privacy now please,” she said. Leguier handed Paula the headphones, saluted and left the room.

She really didn't want to do this, but she had her orders. This was top order intelligence. There was no way they could keep this from the Lord-General. She adjusted the headphones over her ears, sat down on the chair and punched 'send'.

***

“SIR?”

“Yes trooper Brillo?”

“I know what you're thinking, Emperor knows everyone else is too, but I'm not crazy. I know what i saw. For the Emperor's sake sir, they don't just die like that from any old lasgun. Those were Bolter rounds sir. That's Astartes work.”

“I know Ado, I know. I believe you. But the Lord-General is an ignorant bastard who doesn't give a damn. He wants this job done and done quick. He wont break his stride for a grunt like you. No offense.”

“None taken sir. I know the way the other troops talk about me. Pardon me sir, but they're a bunch of superstitious bastards. They peg me as a lucky charm or something. A lucky charm that's full of hot air. They don't believe me at all. They think that i got transferred

The Heretic

to salvage detail because i lost some of my brains from this injury.”

Bulous walked up to the boy and place a hand on his shoulder. “Both you and i know thats not the case. I trust you with my life. As should every single other person in this regiment. I'll shoot any bastard who says otherwise.”

“Thank you sir.”

“I'm serious! One bad word and BLAM! Right between the eyes!”

Brillo laughed. The captain always had a way to turn any bad situation into a good one. No matter how scary or depressing it was.

He needed it too. The first nights events had left him drained and emotionally spent. At least he had been able to tell the captain and Paula what he saw.

A BRISK knock at the door broke off their laughter suddenly. Clearing his throat and flicking his shirt collar, Captain Bulous crossed the room to the door. Leaning towards it he asked, “Who is it?”

“Could one of you men help me with this ridiculous door!” It was Paula.

“Right away! Brillo come help me with this thing!” Urged Captain Bulous.

Together they managed to slide the heavy iron door open enough so Paula could get through. She staggered in under the weight of a huge iron box.

“Could you pull that table over here for me Malleus.” Paula growled through clenched teeth. Bulous quickly rolled the side table over to where she was standing. “Thank you very much,” she said as she slammed the box down onto it.

“And what may I ask is that?” Bulous asked as he gazed suspiciously at the box. There was nothing special about it except the fact that it was an iron box about two feet square and covered in shiny metal rivets. It made no sound, but as he put his hand on it he noticed that it was vibrating slightly.

“After my little chat with the Lord-General, I received notice from the Ecclesiarchy of the arrival of Father Tibor and his retinue. Seems they've finally taken some interest in this world now that there might be...you know...one of them still about.”



“Paula, that information was given under the strictest confidence. Is that clear? You of all people should know the significance of doctor-patient confidentiality. We don't need to cause any excitement amongst the troops while there's still work to do. That goes for you too Brillo. Nothing outside this room. Now what about this box.”

“The Ecclesiarchy sent this box down via drop ship once they heard in prep for Father Tibor's arrival. They said that they were going to interview Brillo here and that this was a very important piece of equipment. Which naturally, means nothing to me.”

“And what of the Lord-General?” Bulous pushed.

“All of these questions! You frustrate me Malleus.”

“My apologies, I didn't mean to sound so...captain-esque,” Bulous said with a grin. How about this? Excuse me, Paula, what may I ask has become of our beloved (quite over embellishing “beloved”) Lord-General?”

“Haha! That was wonderful Malleus!” Paula laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the Lord-General will be staying aboard the Sister Clara for the time being. That is, probably until this situation is sorted out. He did assure me, however, that he is discussing options with his advisory and tacticians.”

“Alright, so we prepare for the Father's arrival,” said Bulous. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Paula and Brillo said together.

“Right. Paula?”

“Yes sir?”

“When should we be expecting Father Tibor and his following?”

“He should be arriving any minute now. His drop ship was scheduled to be planet-side at 0200 hours.”

“Emperor praise the faithful.” Bulous said rubbing his temple.

“To serve Him is to worship Him,” Paula yawned slumping into a chair.

“Serve the Emperor today, tomorrow you may be dead,” Brillo sighed. Closing his

The Heretic

eyes, he laid back down on the gurney with his hands crossed behind his head.

Surrender...

They all felt it. They had been awake now for the better part of two days. Exhaustion gnawed at each of them. There was no escaping it, they might as well just.

Surrender...

All they had to do was close their eyes and gain some peace from this madness.

Surrender...

“Sleep does not aid the stalwart in completing his task, but merely grants the fool release from his duty. Come my friends, let us fight sleep a little longer. We will be granted surrender when our task is complete.”

Bulous and the others opened their eyes. Standing at the entrance to the medical ward was a man. Flanked on either side by servitor cloaked in dark linens. He himself robed in black and leaning on a staff of gnarled wood topped with a golden aquila.

The three of them made the sign of the aquila and dropped to their knees in reverence.

“In an hour of Darkness a blind man is the best guide. In an age of Insanity look to the madman to show the way.” The robed man beckoned them stand. “Please, do not bow to me. Only the Emperor deserves your reverence.”

“Standing, Bulous smiled. “Welcome Father Tibor. As always your presence and words are reassuring. But we were hoping to prove that the events brought to your attention are not the ravings of a madman.”

“I would hope that they are not. For if they were, It would not be me who stands here before you now, but a much less welcome company.”

“The Emperor knows, for the Emperor is watching.”

“You quote the teachings well, Malleus. Now, where is this madman?”

“He sits behind me Father.”



“Ah, so he does. Young Ado Brillo. I have watched you since your coming to us. And I know your story. You are no madman.”

“Thank you Father, I was beginning to wonder.”

“There are however, a few things that need to be cleared up. Details, always details.” Father Tibor crossed the room over to where the riveted iron box lay on the side table. “You may not enjoy what happens next, but I am going to have to ask you some questions.”

The box on the side table began to hum. The hum grew in volume until it was a nagging buzz. Father Tibor beckoned for Paula and Bulous to leave to the room, as well as his servitors.

Brillo moaned and his head swam. He tried to fight the urge to vomit but it was too strong. As his vision blurred he began to feel his consciousness fade. He fought for his awareness but the box only buzzed louder and with more intensity. Father Tibor's gaze did not waver as he spoke, “Now is your time to surrender Ado! Do so and peace will follow you!”

Brillo found the Father's words warming. Tibor was his friend, he was only here to help. Father Tibor's urgings grew softer as Brillo laid his head back down on the table.

Surrender...

He would not resist the urge any longer. For now, his task was done. The others would take care of the rest.

As the room faded to black, Brillo felt comfortable. Peaceful even.

I surrender... ***

The Heretic

REDMARKEDDavid Ploss

(Sample Novel Extract)

The street was completely deserted. It was winter in the city of Keleste, and snow hugged the surfaces of everything. Like the hawkers and sellers who's pushcarts and stalls stood in the same manner during the daylight hours, the snow gathered in the crevices and bunched up in corners and alleys.

The lidless globes of street lamps, although dimmed for the evening hours, bubbled the shadows across the fluffy white topography of the thoroughfare. The recessed, street level entrances of the skyscrapers that stretched forever in all directions, stared out towards the boulevard like soulless skulls. Their onyx gaze the only place the darkness was complete, hooded from the artificial light of the street globes during all hours of illumination.

This was the reality of existence in the under-city of Keleste. Having run out of space to expand across the surface, the planet's infrastructure had moved skyward, leaving those less fortunate behind. Every building with roots in the surface stretched for miles into the air, having expanded up when it could no longer expand out. Keleste was as much a city as it was a planet, but determining the difference was a matter of context. It spanned the entire surface as a city, and occupied an orbit around the local sun as a planet.



Keleste was split in two by the ploys of government and societal status. Up in the skyward expanses of the High City, wherein dwelt those with more established means and influence, was a bustling sphere of activity. Business types shuttled from building to building across covered catwalks and via transport machines that zoomed through the air like ground vehicles without wheels.

The daylight hours saw the most activity, especially during the winter months. As the darkness of the long evenings descended upon Keleste, temperatures dropped below advised operating temperatures set forth by the Agency; the governing body of Keleste, both city and planet. As a result, the airspace, catwalks and transport machines lay dormant during the long darkness, the only illumination coming from the ubiquitous lamp-globes that dotted the infrastructure in a grid-like pattern, and the sirens and spotlights of Agency patrols as they made routine surveillance passes.

As the darkness of the night settled upon those of the High City, so did it blanket the deep reaches of the Under-City. The dingy, disparaged realm of Keleste's likewise dingy, disparaged inhabitants. For just as the sun brought an increase of activity high above the planets surface, so did it bring out the locals who called the under-city home.

The bowels of Keleste played host to all manner of illegal activity. From drug distribution and illegal contraband, to weapons smuggling and human trafficking, the inhabitants of the under-city attempted to scratch out a meager existence however they could. But, with the onset of darkness, the activity slowed to a crawl. Like the High City, the Under-City grew much colder as the planet moved farther away from it's sun. Snow fell each night. Sometimes lightly, but it always fell. Even though the under-city was covered by miles of buildings, it was not spared the climate changes.

In that one way, the two sections of the city were equal. No matter if you were a High City aristocrat or an Under-City slum rat, unless you had an artificial means of generating heat to protect yourself, you would not survive more than 5 minutes out in the cold of a Kelestian night.

It was nearly silent this night, an uncommon occurrence in this part of the under-city. Silent, but for the leaden footfalls of a single individual. Quick paced and uneven, they echoed through the faint fluorescence of the night. These specific feet were running, or more accurately, fleeing.

A gunshot rang out, and the footfalls quickened. Out of an alleyway burst a man, running hard. He stumbled and crashed to the ground, billowing up a cloud of white snow

The Heretic

powder as he skidded to a halt. Grunting in pain, clutching and arm wound and scrambling back to his feet, he continued on, full tilt. Puffs of snow rippled out from each footstep.

He banked left towards one of the black, pit-like doorways of an abandoned tenement building and crashed, shoulder first through its arched entranceway. It was even dimmer within the building. The strips of illumination bulbs twitched spasmodically along the edge of the ceiling with a lack of power. The man allowed himself a split second for his eyes to adjust before moving on. A stairwell drew his attention wholly. Up. It was the only way.

The man sprinted up the stairs, breathing hard and bleeding heavily from the wound in his arm. He was hooded, wearing a black cloak that trailed in tatters behind him as he ran. As he ascended another flight, he paused to glance back down the stairwell. The two men were still chasing him! They wore the dark red coveralls of the Agency.

He cursed his luck under his breath and winced as he noticed the blood trail he was leaving in his wake. He was going to have to fight them. He had no choice. There was no way he was going to let them get him. Sweating heavily now, he frantically looked around for an escape route.

There was a battered metal door at the end of the hall. Roof access. That was the most probable assumption, as there were no more stairs to climb. He ran to the door and tried the handle. It was locked! He growled, his frustration boiling to the surface as he repeatedly pulled on the handle, shaking it in a brief attempt to will it open. Nothing. He spun on his heals, again searching for an out. He could here his pursuers now, clamoring up the stairs not four flights away at most.

Ah! There was a door off to the left he'd missed. It blended well with the wall of the corridor. No doubt one of the abandoned tenements left in the husk of this building. The pain from the wound in his arm was starting to flair again, the Stim-ul shot he had given himself was starting to wear off. His head swooned slightly as he struggled over to the door.

He tried the handle. The door swung open, squeaking on it's wretched hinges. “like a casket...” the man thought aloud. He could here the footsteps of his pursuers echoing cautiously up the stairway. They were only few flights away. The man took a half step into the room and glanced around its interior, noting the large window broken bare on the far side. Satisfied, he slid inside and shut the door behind him again.

The man slid along the wall and nestled into the only clear corner. From this angle, his pursuers would have to enter the room before they saw him. He could kill the first man outright before he made eye contact, and possibly the next before he could react.



He checked the magazine of his snub-pistol for what seemed like the thousandth time. Six shots. Not nearly as many as he knew he'd need, but perhaps enough to make a healthy last stand. He nestled himself deeper into his corner and appraised the room, that would probably become his grave, with more detail.

The big vista window that he'd seen upon his initial glance was the main focal point. Directly across the room from the door, it offered an expansive yet highly unimpressive view of the bland brick and steel building across the alley. All the panes had been lifted clear by some desperate slum scavenger who was probably in need of a bit of bargaining money. Glass could be traded for quite a pretty penny down here in the under-city, as could scrap steel.

If the glass was gone, then so were the old escapeways that had been attached to the outside of the building. Almost all of the oldest buildings in the under-city had had ancient ladder systems on their outer skins at some point in their antiquity.

In the corner opposite him on the other side of the room, stood a stack of rotten wooden pallets. They were clearly the subject of too many harsh seasons experienced from the exposure provided by the empty window.

Adjacent the pallets was a fairly large drift of snow. Freshly piled close to the edge of the window courtesy of the erratic wind currents that plagued the spaces between buildings. Under the drift, he could make out what vaguely resembled a mattress. Moldy and dark, it almost looked as if it had budded from the floor in some places. The man chuckled to himself. There was probably a body under there. Some sad, unmourned soul had probably spent its last moments in that bed, cursing its own existence.

He wasn't going to become another unmourned soul. He swore it.

The man sat there in the corner, breathing hard with eyes closed against the pain, gun raised, waiting for his pursuers to arrive.

“Looks like you're bleeding a touch.”

The mans eyes shot open instantly. He froze, gun up. Had he fallen asleep? Were his pursuers here already in the room with him? How did he not hear them approaching?

He managed a stifled breath. “Who's there? Stay away!”

The Heretic

“Don't worry, mate. You're fine for now. I'm the least of your problems.”

The voice was coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. The wind from outside was bending the sound around the room and he couldn't get a fix on it. He hunted frantically around the room with his pistol sights. Searching for the source of the sound. “What do you want?” “Where are you?”

“Got a few blokes on your tail I see.” the voice seemed to laugh a bit.

“They're Agency scum, after my Patch they are. I've got a few credits on my head.” The man relaxed a little but kept his gun raised.

“I'm not with the Agency, so you can relax.” The voice seemed to be curious now. “Though pray tell, how many creds?”

“Where are you? I can't see you.” Maybe he could bait the voice into showing itself. “Come out so I know who I'm talking to.”

“I'd rather not while that gun is still up. No, I'll stay hidden thanks. Though I thought I'd mention, the only way out is through that window. Although, just in case you're curious, it's nine stories to the ground, express ticket, so good luck.”

The man was now looking at the window, licking his lips, weighing the odds. Perhaps he could make it part way down. There might be a rain tube within reach that he could descend.

“I...”

The voice interjected, “Oh, and before you try it, you might want to take that generator on the wall opposite you. You won't last five minutes out there in this cold, not even at a full sprint. Although I highly doubt you are in any state...”

The man spoke up quickly, “my faith is what keeps me warm. My faith protects me.”

“Your faith wont protect you from freezing your balls off,” the voice chuckled. “You'll be dead in five minutes.”

“Is that science?” The man mocked.

“No,” the voice retorted, “it's fact.”



“Bullshit!” the man said, more belligerently defiant now. “It's just more Agency talk. More stuff to keep us all afraid. My faith in Muntok keeps me alive!”

“Suite yourself. But in my experience, faith in a weakly contrived image of humanities hopes and dreams never kept anyone alive longer than solid, rational thought. That, and a fully-charged thermal-gen pack.”

“Is that science?”

“Why do you keep asking that?”

“I do it to annoy people.”

“Well, it's working...”

“I know, right?” the man sat back and chuckled to himself.

There was a long uncomfortable pause. The man set his gun back down into his lap. He cocked his head to listen more intently. He was healthily startled when the voice returned sharply.

“Well, good luck dying then. I'm leaving before those Agency folk get here.”

“Wait!” The man gasped. “Take me with you!” his hand was outstretched in a gesture that, under normal circumstances, would have looked pitiful. Though here, in the stripped down, blown out shell of a building, faced with the option of life or death, it was rather fitting.

“No.” Said the voice frankly. “I don't need a wanted man following me around. Guilt by association and all that.”

“Fine then! At least tell me how to get out of here.” begged the man.

“It wouldn't really matter. That would require science, and you don't go for that type of thing. Besides, if they kill you, that's one less god-loving lunatic on the loose.” The voice seemed rather pleased by this last statement.

“Fine! Sod off, you faceless coward! I hope you die in a fiery heap somewhere!”

The Heretic

The man threw his head back, eyes clamped shut, teeth gritted in frustration and desperation. It was the last semi-intelligent motion he would make. For in the next second the right side of his head came off in a shower of gore and fluid, painting up the wall behind him in a plume of flowing blood and greasy brain matter.

“Boom.” said the voice form nowhere as its source swung itself down through the empty window, landing softly inside the room on the balls of its booted feet. The gun in it's hand still smoking.

It was a man. He was shrouded almost completely in a heavy cloak. Infinitely black, it was trimmed in deep red and accented with dark gray swirls. His face was invisible inside the deep hood, save for the red light that shone from his augmented left eye. Aside from the faint illumination provided by the lumen-globes of the alley outside, it was the only source of light in the room. A huge rifle was strapped across his back.

The shrouded figure stood slowly and sharply shrugged his shoulders to adjust his cloak. He cocked his head towards the door. His red eye dimmed slightly as it clicked and whirred through to some unknown setting. He closed to the door and opened it. He leaned his head out and surveyed the hallway. His eye clicked and whirred once more, searching.

He retracted his head before surging out into the hallway, his large pistol raised, solidly braced. He progressed down the corridor towards the stairwell, his robotic eye constantly scanning his surroundings, one booted foot placed confidently in front of the other. As he approached the first step, he used his available hand to pull back his cloak revealing a belt of canisters. He selected a canister from the line without looking down at it, held it to his mouth and pulled out the ring-pin. Walking toward the railing he thumbed the release and tossed it down the stairs.

It made six bounces before rolling to a stop. It sat for a second, and then made a sharp click. Followed by a strong hissing noise. A heavy smoke was now filling the stairwell.

“I'd say that will slow them down a bit more.” the shrouded figure said aloud. He could hear the two men below already coughing and gagging from the dense smoke. He replaced the large pistol to its holster at the small of his back before returning down the hall to the room.

He left the door open behind him as he stepped back inside. Stepping gingerly through the growing puddle of blood now covering a majority of the floor, he remarked at the sheer amount of it. Perhaps he could have survived out in the cold a little longer. The more blood you had, the longer you could retain your body heat. And this bastard had a lot



of it.

He stood over the half-dead, gurgling man, now laying supine in his own fluids.

“Well, you wanted to see what I looked like didn't you? Pay attention, since you'll be dead in a few seconds.” He pulled back the hood of his cloak to reveal a tightly shaved head. Roughly-hewn features were framed by high cheekbones, and a handsomely square chin.

Handsome thirty years ago, perhaps. However, his left eye and ear had been replaced years ago with artificial ocular and auditory implants after a grievous wound had required their removal. These implants improved his senses beyond that of a normal man's. He'd had the word “Oculus” engraved across the skullplate in a feeble attempt to name it. The nickname had stuck, and he used it often.

Neurally linked to brain, he could think the action he required. He could blink-click his way through different vision filters and features.

Of all the aspects of his visage, the most gruesome looking was the huge scar that puckered the left side of his face. It extended from the base of his Oculus to the corner of his mouth, lifting his stubbled lips into a permanent sneer.

“There, are you satisfied?” He squatted down nearer the dying man so he could get a better look.

“you...gnghrr...ugly...rrshkss...stard...” the dying man gurgled at his feet.

“wha?” he replied mockingly, “Is that science?”

The man at his feet began to tremble, entering the last few moments of his life. “wh...hhhrrrg... why...nnngh...why d...” he gasped.

“Why do I keep saying that?” He was beginning to enjoy this game. “Oh, I don't know. I guess I do it just to annoy people.”

The man on the floor began to shake more violently now, his death throes becoming more severe. “ggggnnnrrghhgrr...hhurkg...” he managed with his final breath, at last becoming still.

His grizzled killer chuckled to himself. He stood up once more with a grunt and replaced the massive hood back over his head. Then he smiled.

The Heretic

“I know, right?”

He was still smiling as he dragged the corpse to the center of the room.

***

The two men crested the top of the stairwell with rifles raised. They panned left and right as they progressed along the hallway, following the blood trail laid out before them. It was heaviest here. The two men were dressed in deep red coveralls and wore thermal generator packs on their backs attached to harnesses. The point man signaled for his partner to cover him from the stairs as he advanced down the hallway towards the metal door on the left hand side of the corridor. The blood ultimately led here.

The door was closed, but he could tell it wasn't locked. Perhaps it was a trap, just like the smoke canister that had delayed them earlier. He flattened himself against the wall outside the door and gestured for his partner to rejoin him. He indicated his intent with a brief set of hand gestures.

His partner grabbed the door handle and silently counted to three. On three, he yanked the door open and the first man turned into the room, moving fast, rifle keyed to the far right corner and window. His partner followed suite, one hand on his lead's back. He swung left to clear the other side of the room. It was a well-trained maneuver. One that had been performed many times this night while in pursuit of their quarry.

This time was much like the rest, save for one thing. The men lowered their rifles and they both looked at the corpse in the center of the room. From what was left of his face, this was the man they were looking for. There was quite a lot of blood.

The first man keyed up his communication headset. “Team A to Base, be advised. Suspect, code 218745g has been apprehended. I repeat, suspect code 218745g has been apprehended. Redmarked has been neutralized, over.” He winced at the static that greeted him in the wake of his statement. “Damned under-city, you can't get a solid hold anywhere in this blasted dump.”

His partner nodded his agreement. “At least we'll get some decent credits from this one. Sad we didn't get to do the deed though. Lazy coward took his own head it seems.”



“Yeah, what a crying shame.” said the first. “Grab his ident-patch and lets get out of here. We've been delayed long enough as it is.”

His partner took a step towards the corpse and kicked it over onto his stomach with a booted foot. There was a sharp CLICK! He then noticed the small box the corpse had been laying on.

“Oh shi...” was all he had time to say before he was vaporized.

***

The cloaked man paused under the white glow of a street lamp . He tilted his head at the sound of the distant explosion. 'Seems they found my present.' he chuckled to himself. 'About time.'

He continued on again. Infinitely black, the gray accent swirls of his cloak succeeded in making his outline shimmer as he walked. Blurring it as if he wasn't really there. Every step he took billowed up the snow in puffs of white, and the trailing edge of his cloak brushed along the surface. It was quiet.

The under-city of Keleste lay dormant, awaiting another night to be finished. The only sounds came from the lone, cloaked figure as he walked along the street. His thermal generator hummed quietly, and the large rifle strapped to his back clacked faintly after every step.

“Who's next?” he wondered aloud, his Oculus ever searching.

***

The Heretic

"the heretic" - teaser

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