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Doran gulped as Explicator Zola stared him down from the other side of the holotable. “You’re requesting leave, convict? What exactly makes you think I would even consider sending you away from this warzone for an hour, let alone 6 rotations?” Her tone was sharp, and Doran stiffened at the accusation in her eyes. “Request denied, sergeant.”
Doran stepped forward to the desk, hands still folded in front of him. “Explicator, with all due respect, this is important to both myself and Mornax as a whole. It’s military tradition, and I don’t think one less convict will change the outcome of the next 6 rotations. Send me under armed guard if it makes you feel better, but I *have* to go.” Zola raised an eyebrow at his comment, her head tilting as she regarded him. “Please, Zola, you know how these things go. Some of the Cadian-born here would ask the same if… if it still lived.” The explicator stared impassively at Doran for a few quiet, tense moments. He gulped as he realized he may have overstepped by using Zola’s real name. He stepped backwards and lowered his head, awaiting the inevitable reprimand. When none came, he dared to look back up at her, and saw a paper bearing the seal of the Inquisition on the bottom.
“Take it, sergeant. You’ll leave as soon as possible, and be transported under guard by three of the warband’s stormtroopers. I expect a prompt return, and for all of you to return as you left. Understood?,” Zola instructed.
Doran nodded quickly and took the paper, not quite snatching it from her grasp. “Thank you, Explicator. I owe you one.” The woman behind the desk smirked and raised her eyebrow again. “Alright, more than one. But thank you, and with the Emperor’s favor, I’ll be back sooner than expected.”
A few days later, Terran time…
The Rogue Trader’s cruiser cut its way out of the Warp, the hole it rent in reality closing swiftly behind it as the ship rocketed towards Mornax. Doran gazed out the viewport at his home and sat up a little straighter as his thoughts turned to his childhood spent in the mines. The three troopers Zola had assigned to the mission sat across from him, their lasguns across their laps or resting beside their seats. “So, sergeant, what brings you home? The explicator wasn’t exactly specific,” the soldier on the left asked, his tone betraying his curiosity. Doran gave him a small smile and shook his head slowly.
“Sorry, Klaar, this is Mornax business. All you three gotta know is it’s tradition, something local I need to see through. Don’t you boys worry, though,” Doran added, seeing the soldiers tense. “Longest part about this whole thing’ll be the trip back.” He leaned back in his seat as the captain’s voice sounded over the ship’s internal vox-net.
“Beginning landing descent, stand by for atmospheric turbulence.”
Another of the operatives snorted. “Turbulence… just say the planet’s fragged, why don’t you?”
Doran’s eyes snapped to him. “Oi, watch it, Tallar. You’re my escort, but I’ll still deck you, hear me?” Tallar rolled his eyes, but made no further comment. “I’m serious, operative. Don’t go messing with the locals just cos you’ve got that seal on your armor. We don’t take kindly to people who turn their noses up at others, especially not transients like you three.” He stared at the operatives until each of them had nodded their understanding. “I know you lot may not like me very much, but this is important business to me and mine.”
A few minutes later…
Doran led the three operatives through the shanty town he was raised in, the streets barely changed. As he looked to the sides of the street, the only thing he could see different were the faces lining it. The dirt on the faces, the muck on their clothes, these things spoke to Doran of a time long past. Tallar tried his best not to cringe at the filthy children, but Doran paid him no mind until they reached the edge of town, when he turned to the operatives. “Wait here for a bit, yeah? This next bit is just me.” Tallar stepped forward, about to say something, when the other operative, Marroc, grabbed his arm. Doran nodded to Marroc and turned to walk up the hill. As he went, he started to hum an old Imperial marching song, the one that they’d learned in basic training under the watchful eyes of the Commissars. Eventually, he neared the top of the hill, and the object of his quest came into view. Markers stood in their varying shapes and sizes, sporadically placed all across the hilltop, each with a name carved or engraved into it. Some markers had symbols etched along with the names, others had small tokens scattered around their bases. Most had nothing.
The sergeant walked to one of these and knelt, resting his hand atop the marker. “Hey, Galen… been a long time, hasn’t it?,” Doran chuckled as he bowed his head. “Feels like last week we were down in those mines together, picking away at the rocks, singing those stupid little songs they taught us to keep the rhythm.” His hand slipped from the top of the marker, and he sat down next to the marker to look at the town below. “You were always a better singer than you were a miner, that much I do recall. Picked a bad time to be born, you did. Galaxy’s got no place for artists these days, not in places like this.” He hung his head and shook it slowly, his vision beginning to blur. “You shoulda been a performer, Galen… not a soldier. I still don’t-” Doran’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat hastily. “I don’t know why you joined up, mate. You weren’t made for that life, but you wanted to follow us so bad… we shoulda sent you back, kept you away from all this.” He paused to clear his throat again and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Not that I’m doing much better,” he joked, smiling half-heartedly. “Stuck in an Inquisitorial op, eh? Not exactly how I pictured my life going… not that I really pictured it past 20, to be honest with ya. Figured I’d get a few deployments in, at least, but it’s a fraggin’ miracle I’ve lasted this long.”
He turned to look down at the marker beside him again and sighed. “Shouldn’t’ve been you, mate… anyone but you. I read your service record on the way here, y’know. Fraggin’… fraggin’ good job you did, kid. Did your regiment proud, stuck to your code and your comrades just like we taught you. If they’d had time, you would’ve gotten a proper ceremony, maybe even a medal,” he remarked, his eyes misting over. “But it shouldn’t be you I’m talkin to, Galen. Anyone else-” He turned away as his breath hitched, covering his mouth with one hand for a few moments before wiping his eyes again and standing up to face the marker, his hands forming the aquila in front of him. “If the zealots are right, your soul fights with Him now in the War Eternal. I’m still down here, though, and I got a war to fight too. So I’ll join you when I’m able, you hear me? Until then…” He trailed off, bowing his head for a moment before turning and walking back down the hill, his expression grim. Tallar, Klaar, and Marroc stood, still waiting with lasguns in hand, and they each nodded as he rejoined them. Doran said nothing, simply walking past them and leading them back towards their lander.
The troopers took their seats, and Doran sat across from them again, his hands clasped in his lap as he closed his eyes and bowed his head, murmuring soft prayers to the Emperor for safe travels and the sanctity of their souls. The ship took off slowly, the Warp drive already spooling up as they exited the atmosphere. As the harnesses came down and the captain announced their entry into the Immaterium, Doran finally looked at the Inquisitorial troopers and nodded deeply to each one. “We may not be friends, but we’re all soldiers here, yeah? Let’s keep the barrels pointed out.” The three looked at each other before nodding back to him, visibly relaxing. As the hours of Warp travel passed, they sat in comfortable silence until the ship shuddered with the force of reentry into realspace. The Mourningstar came into view, and the troopers gathered their gear and prepped for docking, Doran at the front.
On his shoulder, still rough and chipped from the combat knife he’d borrowed from Klaar, was a crude carving of a musical note.