Chapter 14 Part 1

Chapter 14: Diplomacy is not a dead art

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Part 1

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Victory Bay

Kronus

I awoke suddenly, lying on my face and feeling that something was amiss. There was an echo of something in the back of my head, and whatever it was, I clearly felt its absence. Another odd thing was that my mind was clear and aware. There was no trace of drowsiness. In fact, I felt rather well, much better than the last few times a awoke after nearly getting myself killed.

Something small and warm shifted at my side, sending odd sensations all over my back. I turned around, and my whole back moved, shifting and twitching in unfamiliar ways.

When did Selene get herself a blanket covered by feathers? My back shuddered, and the "blanket" moved by its own accord folding behind me. I twisted my neck and stared at the feathery appendage sticking out of my back. There were two of them.

"Those must be some excellent drugs! That, or the Eldar got me with poison," I concluded.

The wings on my back twitched, and I could feel them – it was a very strange, yet somehow familiar sensation.

"Those must be really good drugs. I'm seeing the wings too." Charle's familiar voice came from behind my back.

I shifted to look at him, and my wings hit the wall, sending a dull sensation of pressure running up my spine.

"You got your arm chopped off as well. You should be on the good drugs too." I reasonably pointed out.

"I didn't get wings in the bargain." Weber shrugged.

I got a better look at him. He still missed an arm, however, his remaining hand spouted many brand new, gleaming even, bionic fingers. He wore his Commissar uniform and was armed too – a pistol and Chainsword hung from his belt.

"Do we expect even more trouble?" I inquired.

"Now that you mention it…" Charles began affably. "There's a huge crowd of your fans outside. We've got two Infantry Regiments struggling to keep them out of the hospital. On another positive note, the Deimos Peninsula is now secure, and your new friends are busy building their Pylons all over the place. We might not have to burn the whole region down to the bedrock just in case."

"That's good. Securing the peninsula, I mean. What do you mean I have fans outside?" My mind helpfully supplied a recollection of the mob that surrounded us when we tried evacuating during the Ork's ill-fated assault.

My wings reflexively twitched at the memory, and I glared at them.

"The local priesthood is singing your praises, Inquisitor." Charles, the bastard, didn't even try to conceal his mirth. "I even heard something about canonizing you. With the wings and all…"

"Those are really real?" I blurted out.

My wings twitched at that as if personally offended.

"They're real, feathers and all. People are praying to a couple of them. We missed those when we dragged you away for treatment. The way I hear it, there has been a constant stream of pilgrims to see your feathers in the churches that won the honor to display them."

What did I do to deserve this? The implications alone… Now people would want to shoot me for the grand heresy of impersonating an Imperial Saint or something as if everything else wasn't enough!

"I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop." I prodded Weber when he paused. On the bright side, when someone finally got around to shoot me, I wouldn't have to deal with the Emperor botherers. On the downside, I might not get shot but instead, burned on a stake. Not a good way to go that.

"Well, there's the mixed pack. Reinforcements are in the system." Charles continued with an odd gleam in his eyes. "Both ours and the Necrons. Someone decided to be sensible, and there are negotiations underway."

Whut. Seriously, what? My mind came to a screeching halt, forgetting anything else.

My expression must have been something else because Charles cracked a smile.

"I'm serious, Inquisitor. The alliance," he said that with a straight face and in an almost normal tone, which was probably an improvement, "still holds. We have reliable units, and a swarm of Necrons scouring the Eres Badlands for the Daemon contained there. Most of the Eldar forces are moving to whatever gate allowed them to get here. We're observing them from orbit hoping to pinpoint the exact location or at least the general area."

"Charles, my friend, those are kind of good news. I'm waiting for the bad." I was being reasonable, wasn't I?

"An Ordo Xenos Inquisitor will be on the way to meet you as soon as her ship reaches orbit. She should be here within the next ten hours or so. What I got from the grapevine is that the Necrons trust your word and requested your presence for the negotiations."

Ah. That made sense. This way, the Inquisition would have an adamantium clad case allowing them to deal with me as they saw fit. It was probably because whoever got first was a stickler for protocol. He was likely from the Ordos primary dealing with the hell on earth that was the Administratum.

"I need to get myself a bath and try to be presentable then." I looked at the wings. The damn things decided that now was the best time to unfurl, showing exactly how large they were. The room struggled to contain them. More curiously, hitting the walls and ceiling didn't hurt at all – there was just some pressure. Even odder, the wings somehow failed to smash all the things they brushed against, including a lot of medical equipment.

At least Selene kept sleeping through everything. Probably a good sign.

"It's all taken care of. Your friend Scipio had a few of his people modify a few sets of clothes for you. Your armor as well, however for the time being the back will be exposed, and it couldn't be sealed." Charles explained.

"Did you draw a short straw or something?"

"Everyone else is busy filling up after-action reports, keeping the faithful at bay, or preparing for the Inquisitor's visit. I'm currently on very light duty, besides someone has to look after you, Inquisitor. You keep getting yourself in these situations." Charles waved at my wings.

I glared at them, and they furled back behind me, no longer trying to fill up the whole room.

Taking a shower, when you have a pair of wings stuck to your back larger than the small bathroom you had available, was an experience I don't recommend. At least, the damned things appeared pristine. I didn't want to think who had the duty of cleaning them up after I passed out.

At that point, it hit me that I should be freaking out because of the damnable things. In fact, Charles and everyone else should be in a similar state as well. What the hell was happening?

"Charles," I shouted from the bathroom. "You don't seem particularly bothered by those…" I trailed off as if saying wings aloud would somehow make them more real.

"All things considered, they're very nice wings, Inquisitor. They are also rather low on the list, just the most obvious." Weber deadpanned.

"There's a list?" Of course, there is a list. There are all kinds of lists in the Imperium. It runs on bureaucracy. "Which list? Elaborate!"

"The list that qualifies you to be considered a Living Saint, Inquisitor."

I choked at that. What in the Emperor's name did I do this time?!

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An hour later, I sat in a far corner of the hospital's mess hall. My wings stretched behind my back, hugging the wall and ceiling. Almost everyone present – patients and Medicae alike out for a bite to eat, stared at me with reverence and hope.

I couldn't blame them either. We left Selene napping on my hospital bed watched by her Necron bodyguards and a Guard squad who wanted to be anywhere but there. The mess hall was far enough from her range, that I could easily touch the Warp on the way there. The consequences were profound.

Everyone moved out of our way, making the sign of the Aquila at us and muttering prayers. That only got worse, when soft golden light glowed from behind me. A glance told me that now my bloody wings acted like damn street lamps, painting a great "Please shoot here!" sign.

I could constantly feel the barest trickle of divine power flowing my way from far away. Thin strands coming from the faithful praying in my name supplemented it. And almost all that power burned away keeping Daemons at bay and calming the Warp in my vicinity. I would have to test it. However, I was pretty sure I didn't have access to much more raw power now compared to before.

When we got in line to receive food, it struck me again that things weren't returning to normal anytime soon. Before, unless I abused my dubious rank as an Inquisitor, which I avoided like Nurgle's "gifts", no one batted an eye in similar circumstances. Acting as one of the troops helped my standing.

Now? Despite my protest, everyone fell over themselves to get us to the front of the waiting line. The line transformed into one of the wounded troopers and Medicae standing straight, heads bowed over the sign of the Aquila and praying fervently. All the while, most of them stared at me in a very disturbing manner.

It took a lot of coaxing to get them to try and act as we weren't a freak-show to gawk at.

People still gawked, but tried to hide and ate a bite or two between watching me almost star-struck.

"I'm making an educated guess. It is going to be much worse when we go outside." I whispered to Charles.

He sat with his back turned to the rest of the mess hall and smirked at me.

"Orders from General Alexander. We're to warn him before you show your feathery ass to the raving masses, so he can scramble heavy reinforcements."

That was commendable. Some of those looks were similar to what I imagined a gang of Slaneeshi cultists might give a blushing virgin. Not a good thought that.

"You promised a recording explaining, well this." I nodded at my wings. They flexed again, sending pulses of soothing radiance all over the place.

"Yes, that. Corporal Santos, the data-slate please." Weber requested.

"It's right here, Commissar, sir!" The Stormtrooper acted

and sounded all professional.

A cursory glance his way, and I could feel his awe and devotion. That was one man who followed me to hell and back. Now he was ready to do it again. He might, in fact, be gleeful for a repeat performance. If anything, the rest of my Stormtrooper detachment was even worse.

I grabbed the data-slate, got my credentials recognized by its systems, and ran the video file dubbed "Play me". What I watched was straight out of a bad patriotical holo-vid made by people who had drunk all the kool-aid to the point, the Propaganda Department might call them to tone it down a notch or ten.

The golden radiance surrounding the mob was a particularly nice touch, I thought. Then the survivors tearing the Orks to pieces in a short-lived orgy of violence were something else.

"Please tell me that this is some sick joke," I whispered.

"I saw it with my own two eyes, sir," Weber answered deadly seriously. "I felt the Emperor's touch when He on Holy Terra blessed you and so did everyone present. This," he waved at the data-slate, "is the real deal." Charles looked intently at me. "You're the real deal, sir, and if I may say so, it is richly deserved."

I nodded, dumbly. I had the nagging suspicion that the Inquisition and other assorted Imperial authorities might have something less than flattering to say about this.