Gazetteer VII

The Polarnus Nebula has begun to be cleared of debris, since the siege was broken; vast trawler vessels armed with the most powerful secrets of motive force and magnetism sweep the voidlanes for drifting mines and wreckage, clearing safe sailing routes for her vessels. There has been no great time pressure - until now. Without explanation, Admiral Chandier’s schedule for clearance of the voidlanes accelerated - providing a very firm deadline for when, exactly, the spinward jump corridor would be clear.

The vessels that jumped into that newly cleared-and-secured lane initially occasioned little notice. A Lunar cruiser group from Hydros Salient was a little out of her patrol range, but everyone in the fleet cycles through Polarnus eventually. Sola Fidei, Hydros Salient. Salvation’s Fire, Hydros Salient. Her escorts: Vixen, Purifying Flame, Golden Raptor, Pathfinder… Then - slightly different idents, but unmistakable flying in formation - some of them quietly familiar to those who were here after the siege of Polarnus, and saw another handful of vessels under very different colours. St Jaghatai’s Arrow. Seeker of Truth. Lord’s Confidence. Storm Chaser.

In the middle of the pack, a light cruiser - a light cruiser, central to the formation as if the vast twin Lunars were her escorts; diminutive, slender, battered beyond belief, with almost no paint on her hull and drives held on with crooked weld-lines and prayer. The Lex Talionis: flying the fleet colours of Warmaster Ulian. And then behind them - breaching warp in the grip of three jump-tenders - the vast bulk of an Emperor-class battleship, gliding serenely between her escorts; almost no power in her drives, clearly open to void down much of her length - but with enough lights to give her name - the Lion of Terra.

The sailors sent sprinting to warn this dignitary or that of this development were mostly met by confusion and consternation and the sudden flurry of preparation for great events - save in three very specific quarters. Admiral Denita Chandier raised an eyebrow at the aide who breathlessly reported in and glanced at the clock to check their timing, before rising to put on the dress uniform coat hanging ready to one side. In the Omega-levels of the restored Blacksite, Inquisitor-Militant Corvinus gestured the agent delivering the report back out almost as soon as they had opened their mouth, already mid-call to his Interrogators aboard the impromptu escort fleet. And on her bridge, Warmaster Khan leaned forward a little, the piercing eyes of her flagship’s augurs turned to confirming every last scrap of ident code and authorisation bleeding off the ships just now entering her firing arcs.

By the time the Lex entered dock, appropriate crowds had been assembled from the sailors and guard aboard the station - the ones who had been issued dress kit and marshalled to polish it to a shine or found their duties overturned in favour of parade drills in the handful of days before. The more presentable civilians had been turned out as well, providing a crowd for the holo-audiences at home to identify with, the Officio Propogandae working at full pelt to corral and prompt them for the cameras as they waited.

The roar of engines, at last; an Aquila lander, newly painted in Imperial purple and with her gold wing-tips burnished to a shine, detached from the ship’s vast bulk and entered the bay, setting down with perfect precision in front of the gathered ranks of the Imperial forces. The ramp extended, and out stepped a small, slightly stooped man - the kind might call him spry - in a very, very old-fashioned uniform. The deafening sound of the fanfare echoing through the chamber, the stamp of thousands of boots coming to attention - one might expect such a fragile figure to jump.

Instead, his back straightened, and with a slight smile he returned the salute of the guards who had hurried forward to the base of the ramp.

“I’ve always liked coming back to Polarnus,” he chuckled to one of them, who all but swallowed his tongue in working out how to respond - and then the man in a Warmaster’s dress blues was past him. A grey-haired aide, sharp-eyed and with one shoulder still bandaged, stepped forward to take the old man’s cane as he, thoughtful, handed it off, checking his steadiness and concluding he did not need it; another assistant, in a pilot’s uniform, murmured something to draw his attention to the welcoming party across the bay. They followed at his heels as he set off down the wide corridor left between the welcoming regiments, as the figure on the large screens was recognised by the crowds and the cheering began.

Four figures served as an honour guard, forming a neat box around the old man and his two assistants, as he made his way, smiling, past the crowd; two Captains and two Flag-Captains in Naval blue, falling back to form a tidy line at attention when the Warmaster reached the last flight of steps and climbed onto the dais to meet the Warmaster waiting there, flanked by the station’s commander and the brooding figure of the Inquisitor-Militant. Quite what the old man said to Sarina Khan as he offered her a salute was lost in the roar of the crowd; but it brought a brief smile to her lips as she returned the compliment, and then - with great ceremony - offered the old Warmaster an arm to escort him safely to the command decks of the station.

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Meanwhile...

The Sister Pronatus sat back on her heels, hissing under her breath; stood and backed carefully away from the casket sitting in the centre of the concentric rings of salt and silver banding the room. She did not take her eyes off the thing, even when she half-turned her body to press a fist to her heart in salute to the shadow that waited in the doorway.

“The wards are - intact, Inquisitor. Some are broken, but something - and from the number of scratches I can guess at what - did its best to look as if it had been breaching the containment, without actually doing so.”

“Presumably to try and ensure someone would open the box to check.” A hiss and click of valves punctuated the statement, the voice buzzing with the static of synthesis. “But we are clear that it was kept secure?”

“Yes, Inquisitor. The locks are undamaged, and the tamper-proofing indicates it was not handled unduly; well within parameters; primarily touched by known acolytes and agents.” “Good. Do what you can to stabilise it further.” Another brief, staticky pause. “Without touching it. And no-one - no-one - is to enter this chamber alone.”

“Your will, Inquisitor.” The Sister listened to the soft hum of grav-impellers departing and squared her shoulders, baring her teeth at the inert sarcophagus she still had not taken her eyes from.

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Gazetteer VIII - The Old Warmaster

Warmaster Dragos Ulian - lost during the Lash of the Eye that destroyed Subsector Tenebris centuries ago - has been found, miraculously returned from the Warp alongside his flagship. Credit has gone largely to the Imperial Navy, whose expedition against a notorious pirate stronghold led to his recovery - but the Inquisitor-Militant’s presence at the welcome plus the well-oiled fleet rumour mill have made clear to keen-eyed observers that the Inquisition’s guiding hand played a role.

The sailors and veterans who escorted the Warmaster home - Alexis Jacobin, Rijeka Aden, Kavi Monroe, Charon Di Firro, Francis Pyke and Lance Durovera - have briefly been inundated with the attention of the Officio Propogandae in relation to the man who has now been acknowledged as the Sector’s Warmaster-Emeritus, and settled in to act as an advisor, morale ambassador, and - the politically minded may note - lack of threat to the new-minted Warmaster Sarina Khan.

The news of Ulian’s return has energised the Crusade - very specifically and most of all, the Imperial Navy. The rescue of a sailor lost so long at Warp is a miracle beyond reckoning to the Battlefleet; all the moreso that those who recovered him brought home not only his ship, but the names of hundreds of vessels now confirmed to have died in the Lash of the Eye, painstakingly logged by the Lex Talionis and reported to fleet command. In the religious views of Battlefleet Prosperitas, that means they are no longer ‘still on patrol’; they - and all the souls lost aboard them - can be given funerals and accorded the honours and prayers due to the dutiful dead.

Indeed, there is a funeral, held by the fleet; with two Warmasters in attendance, as much of the Admiralty as are in striking distance and every sailor who can pack into Polarnus’ chapels and hangars to listen to the names of the lost vessels be read aloud; commended to the Emperor; and consigned at last to the rolls of history.

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Meanwhile a casket stolen from the Inquisition - known as Objective PATIENCE - has been successfully returned to Inquisitor Inanna Zahid. What is to become of it or what it contains would be a question the brave might ask the Inquisitor themselves. After all - the worst that could happen is they might get an answer...