Chapter Text
If Heinrix had hoped to learn something about Evanelia von Valancius by studying her office, those hopes were quickly dashed. Upon entering, the first thing he saw was a massive portrait of the late Lady Theodora. The second thing he noticed was that nothing in the room appeared to be new, or to have been moved for quite a long time.
Not that his hopes had been high to begin with. Cut off from warp routes and major worlds, he didn’t imagine the Lord Captain had much opportunity to buy new furnishings or decor, even if she had the inclination. So it was no shock to find — as he entered the office, having been bid to enter — that there was little evidence of the Lord Captain’s personal preferences, nor to see that she looked a touch out of place in a chair tailor-made to someone else’s dimensions. She still made an admirable effort to maintain some level of poise, but there was something stiff about it, and he could see her leaning forward a little bit to minimize the chair’s effects on her posture.
“Rogue Trader.” He bowed slightly. “I was somewhat brusque at our first meeting, and I would like to make up for it by expressing my thanks for your assistance in the Electrodynamic Cenobium. Your arrival could not have come at a better time. Thanks to you, I have succeeded in finding the object that brought me to this system in the first place. Now that the weapon of corruption has been seized from the Cult, I can satisfy the Lord Inquisitor’s wish and travel with you to Footfall — once you have finished your business on Rykad.
“There is one more thing,” he said. “The Lord Inquisitor gave me this item some time ago. He must have thought it more likely that I would find myself aboard this vessel sooner than he.” He withdrew a velvet pouch from his coat pocket and placed it on the desk. The Rogue Trader raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless removed the device to inspect it. “I was instructed to deliver this device to Lady Theodora, however, given recent events, I believe I ought to present it to you. This is an Elucidator, a sacred machine capable of translating the languages of remote and lost worlds into Low Gothic. It can even process xenos languages to a certain degree — not without infelicities, but passably well.”
She said nothing for a time, turning the device over in her hands and studying it intently. She even held it up to the light for a moment, her eyes scanning every surface of the device as if hoping she might see through it to comprehend some internal mechanism. Her analytic expression did not fade as she lowered the device — only now, that analytical gaze was directed at him.
“Be honest, Master van Calox,” she said, fixing him with a pointed look, “is this some kind of tracking device?”
“Certainly not. The Elucidator is such a rare and complex creation of the Omnissiah that neither I nor any of my colleagues would dream of compromising its integrity. If you wish, have your Tech-Priests confirm that there are no listening devices inside.”
She hummed thoughtfully in reply. “I shall try not to take that as a personal challenge to uncover its secrets.”
From the way the corners of her mouth quirked, he assumed that she was joking. He hoped.
As if to assuage his concern, she put the device gently back in its pouch and set it down. And when she looked up from the desk, she met his gaze with a solemn expression, and inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Thank you,” she said, and the note of amusement in her voice had been replaced with what sounded like sincere gratitude. “The Inquisition’s generosity is greatly appreciated.”
“May the Elucidator serve House von Valancius as well as it has served the acolytes of the Holy Ordos up to now.”
The Rogue Trader broke eye contact to locate a key and open a drawer of her desk — presumably to put away the Elucidator. He took the opportunity to study her. When he encountered her on Rykad Minoris, she had been wearing a helmet that partially obstructed her features, and he had gotten only a brief glimpse when she removed it as she debarked from the shuttle before she proceeded to her quarters to wash up.
He noted a small implant in her temple, so discreet it could almost pass for decoration, but otherwise her skin was unbroken and marked only by a few faded remnants of freckles. She had dark hair that had been pulled back into a plait — hair still slightly damp, he noticed. She had an elegant nose and a small mouth that gave the impression of a rosebud, though some of that might have been the general quality of rosiness that lingered after a bath.
Her eyes were a dark muted green… and as he had already observed, there was a spark of sharp observation in them. When she glanced up from her desk at him, he couldn’t help but avert his gaze deferentially. He only looked back at her when he heard the desk drawer close.
To his surprise, she had not put the Elucidator away, but had taken out a small stack of dataslates.
“As it happens,” she said, “I have something for you as well.”
He took the proffered dataslates with some confusion. “What are these?”
“A dossier.”
“On?”
“Myself. I’m an unknown quantity abruptly thrust into a position of great power in the wake of a violent mutiny. I don’t think it’s presumptuous to assume that the Inquisition would have questions.”
Heinrix opened his mouth to speak, and then immediately closed it. He had thought that he’d witnessed the full spectrum of human reactions to Inquisitorial scrutiny over the years: obsequious flattery, pathetic groveling, defiant bravado that crumbled at the lightest pressure, defiant bravado that didn’t, and — on one memorable occasion — unsettlingly lascivious enthusiasm at the prospect of being subjected to an interrogation (or whatever that subject imagined an interrogation to look like). He had never had a report write itself, much less handed over so matter-of-factly.
The Lord Captain noticed his hesitation. “I had a machine spirit summarize and synthesize the information from a few data sources before our meeting. Obviously, I don’t expect you to take my word on any of it,” she said, as though she thought it was distrust that had silenced him, “but you’re a busy man. I thought I’d spare you the more tedious legwork of scouring through Imperial administrative records and just tell you where to find the basic biographical details.”
At present, he was not a busy man, having completed his assignment on Rykad Minoris and no secure means of communication with his superior until he reached Footfall. In point of fact, his only responsibilities at the moment were to support the Lord Captain as needed and maintain the usual level of vigilance against heresy, which left plenty of time for other pursuits, like gathering information about a new Rogue Trader. But he kept the thought to himself; no need to make her think him idle or purposeless.
“A thoughtful and efficient gesture. Unfortunately, I may still have to prevail upon you for a few questions. There are benefits to gathering information in person that cannot be replicated through writing.”
Her eyes narrowed with a cold look, and at the corner of her nose he spotted a flicker of a sneer. “I see.” She leaned back slightly, her back flush against the chair, almost as if she were trying to put more distance between them. The ensuing silence was taut with unspoken disapproval.
He peered at her, tilting his head in puzzlement. Clearly, he had given offense. What he couldn’t fathom was how. It seemed to him a perfectly innocuous statement of fact: he often learned things face to face that would have gone unnoticed in writing. He briefly debated testing the waters with his biomancy — perhaps something in her physical reaction could provide a clue as to the source of her displeasure. But before he had reached a decision, the Lord Captain broke the silence.
“These… benefits. Do you enjoy them frequently in your line of work?” The word benefits rolled off her tongue with a venom he more commonly associated with words like ‘xenos’ or ‘heresy’. It was a very particular blend of revulsion and veiled fear.
All at once, the missing piece fell into place, casting her changed demeanor in a different light — one that made his stomach twist guiltily. He was suddenly very glad he had decided not to probe further with his psykana.
His brow furrowed. “By benefits, I merely allude to the subtleties of facial expression, tone, and body language that reveal more information than words alone. It gives me a clearer sense of a person’s intentions and personality.”
The Rogue Trader gave a soft ‘hm’ of consideration that did not sound entirely convinced, though some of the tension left her shoulders. She studied him for a moment, then said, “And your biomancy?”
He sighed. “I can manipulate bodily processes. Sometimes…” He lowered his eyes. “Sometimes I resort to those skills in the course of my work. When it is necessary to make the subject of an interrogation more cooperative.”
He forced himself to look her in the eye, as much as he dreaded the horror and judgment he would find there. It was… not as bad as he had feared. She had reservations about his answer, that much was clear, but something in his response had softened her expression.
“But only in the course of your work? You don’t find it 'necessary’ to ‘resort’ to your abilities in personal matters?”
A memory came flooding back involuntarily, though he quickly stifled any response to it: the memory of repairing himself after duty compelled him to remove the metal plates from his body. With it came older memories still — of the confusion and fear he’d felt when he came to and saw what he’d done to his aunt, of the looks on his parents’ faces when he ran to them weeping and covered in blood, of having the Knight Pilot implants forcibly torn out.
“Not if I can help it.” After a pause, he added, “I can heal injuries when needed. I use it on the battlefield, or to defend myself, of course. And at times, it is useful to observe passively without making any alteration — sensing living people within a room, or detecting when someone is under duress. But the curse of a psyker is not to be used lightly.”
“I see.” She was studying him again, her expression unreadable.
He gathered himself before he could get any more off-balance. He cleared his throat. “Apologies in advance if I unknowingly violate the protocol for conversing with someone of your elevated status. I think a slip of composure is to be expected when one is hosted personally in the Lord Captain’s study.”
At that, she looked away, and he thought he spied a hint of a wry smile. “Conversing with you is no less disconcerting for me, Master van Calox."
“After serving in the Holy Ordos all these years, I am used to people being wary of me.”
There was a pause, as though she was weighing her answer.
“You misunderstand me,” she finally said, sounding as though the words had been prised from her with utmost reluctance. “I am not unnerved by your status, but by you personally.”
Her words hit him first like a slap, confirming all he knew to be true of someone with his condition: repugnant, unnatural, dangerous, fearsome, to be tolerated only by the grace of his utility to the God Emperor. And then, with astonishment that momentarily erased his train of thought, he noticed it. She was blushing.
“I…” He looked away and let out a short, pleased huff of surprise. “You have no reason to be.”
They had been conversing about something. There were other matters he had intended to converse with her about. Important matters. Matters that probably concerned the Empire’s well-being. But the specifics of those matters suddenly eluded him.
He said a prayer of thanks to the God-Emperor when the Rogue Trader cleared her throat and spoke before his lapse in attention became obvious. “What do you plan to do now?”
Thus prompted, he fell back into a familiar rhythm, informing a fellow servant of the Empire of his intention to continue that service in whatever way he could, and going into some of the particulars of how he might do so. All was well until he had reached the end of what he had intended to discuss and began to say farewell. He had bowed and all but turned on his heel to leave when she spoke to get his attention.
“Before you go,” she said, “what should I call you?”
He paused. “You are a Rogue Trader, Lord Captain. You are in a unique position not bound by the normal rules of etiquette and ecclesial hierarchy—”
“Sorry,” she interrupted, shaking her head, “perhaps I should have been clearer. What would you prefer that I call you?”
Oh. For the second time in their conversation, he found himself opening his mouth and then shutting it without speaking, realizing he hadn’t yet decided what to say. He’d never considered the matter. Finally he said, “I will hear and respond to any part of my name or title, though it does feel a bit strange to hear someone of your status refer to me with honorifics.” He paused. “Heinrix will suffice, or Van Calox.”
She nodded. “Good. Then for the sake of simplicity, so we don’t have to grapple with the intricate politics of our competing ranks and jurisdictions, you may call me Evanelia. It is just as well. I admit, I still have not fully adjusted to my new dynastic name or titles. Sometimes I hear it shouted across the bridge, and it takes me a moment to remember that it’s me they’re speaking to.” Then her eyes lit up with a mischievous gleam. “Besides,” she said, with a conspiratorial smile, “I think it would be good for Abelard. He is a fine man, and he means well, but I think he needs a good sputter of indignation now and again to thrive. Witnessing a breach of etiquette might do him good.”
He could not fully suppress the twitch of a smile as he inclined his head. “To his good health.”
“Indeed. I will see you on the bridge, Heinrix.”