The pattern was anything but, and yet its signs should have been far more apparent and legible to Luciene and her crew than they managed to comprehend. In the weeks and months that followed Luciene’s latest resurrection, she and her allies took further contracts that saw them venture out deeper and wider amongst the stars; the Inertialess Drive of Zet’s Katabasis proved more than adequate for reaching such destinations with haste and ease. At first, such contracts were without incident or interruption, and Luciene did not follow up on them with any self-destructive calling to long-forgotten worlds. An uneventful and relatively peaceful life it would have been, then, were such a trend to last. But all knew that peace was an exception in the galaxy, not the norm.

  And the first sign, or perhaps the second, depending on your point of view, of things to come revealed its ugly head soon enough: Yet another lone Inquisition vessel, hanging in the void near a planet Luciene and her crew operated within visual range of. Again, Zet’s dataleeching, as he called it, revealed that this vessel belonged to Zha Trantos, the Hereticus Inquisitor that the humans, Myr and Kane, wanted nothing to do with. Unlike over Merkalla, this vessel received nor sent nothing to the planet below. It was just simply present. Yet that was enough to stir unrest.

  And then, nothing. No immediate repercussions from the sighting. Life went on, and enough contracts were taken thereafter to just barely think of the reoccurrence as a mere coincidence. But it was not so, and while the third Inquisitorial sighting signified a continuing trend, some combination of na?veté, hope, and arrogance insisted to Luciene’s crew that these events had nothing to do with them. The game of cat and mouse continued on, and soon, the Inquisition was nearly batting five-hundred for appearances in view of Katabasis. Not only did the trend continue, but it rapidly grew in frequency.

  For all her insightfulness and shining brilliance, not even Luciene foresaw the looming darkness, nor the identity of its harbinger.

  ***

  No sun rose on Eutophoria, for the installation did not rotate nor orbit any stars, instead remaining stationary beyond the event horizon of its local black hole. Nevertheless, biorhythms demanded, or created for themselves, a day/night cycle intrinsic to the city’s occupants. And it was, then, one morning like any other, that the end began. Luciene found herself in meditative solace at the time, while Kor’Kassan made breakfast for himself and any that may have wanted it. Zaer rested near to Luciene, the two on their knees, though the Eldar was not meditating despite matching Luciene’s outward appearance. The humans still slept, and Zet was nowhere to be found, but that was not unusual for the Nemesor; he did not spend much time in Luciene’s apartment, rather preferring to remain nearer to Katabasis.

  As the scent of fresh food tickled Lucienne’s nose, she perked her head up and opened her eyes to the world. And seeing in a manner as only she could, she then declared, “We are soon to have a guest.”

  Zaer looked up and toward her. “Hostile?”

  “A client, most familiar in nature,” she shook her head. “Human. Greet them.”

  “Not often you let me work with clients,” Zaer muttered, but rose from kneeling and made for the front door. The moment he arrived, a knock came. Zaer paused a moment and looked through the door’s peephole, spying a middle-aged man adorned with some Imperial augmetics. None of them appeared weaponized, so Zaer opened the door. “Cornelius,” he said plainly, in as flat a tone as was becoming of Aeldari cordiality.

  “Ah, the Eldar. I’m afraid I never did get your name,” Cornelius said with a grimace. Zaer stared blankly toward him, dismissing the invitation to be so forthcoming. “Right. Not one for pleasantries, I suppose.”

  “Come in, Cornelius,” Lucienne invited from further in the apartment, still kneeling. Zaer moved aside, providing an opening for their guest, which Cornelius took and stepped a few paces into the abode. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Well, I—sorry, do I smell Starfruit?” Cornelius wondered. Kor’Kassan stepped over and silently offered him some of the aptly-named fruit—which Cornelius accepted—before returning to making the rest of his dish. “Much obliged. I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name either, T’au.”

  “Kor’Kassan. You’re the bartender, yes?” Cornelius nodded. “Ms. Myr quite likes your reading material, though I have yet to indulge myself thereof,” Kor’Kassan noted.

  “Ah, it’s much less reading material so much as…never mind; I’ll let Nessa have that conversation with you. Thanks, again, for the Starfruit; I have not tasted the genuine thing in nearly a decade,” Cornelius said.

  “Lucienne’s question,” Zaer said, looming over Cornelius from behind.

  Cornelius started, and glanced over his shoulder to note the slender but imposing figure of the cross-armed Eldar standing menacingly within grappling distance from his own being. “Right, sorry,” he nodded, and ate the last bite of Starfruit he possessed before looking—and not finding—a means to wipe his hands clean of the fruit’s sticky remnants. In the absence thereof, he instead patted his hands to his sides, below his waist. “It’s no secret you lot get out and about off Eutophoria and prance about the stars, taking on odd jobs for whoever’s paying. And that you’re here means you’re between work, no?” he suggested, glancing to those around him. Zaer and Lucienne stared silently his way—though Lucienne’s gaze as far warmer than the Aeldari’s—while Kor’Kassan continued cooking. “Well, assuming so, I’d like to hire your crew.”

  Lucienne’s head rose, and she stood to her feet, also towering over Cornelius, whom she approached. “You, who once tried to shield and guide Ishmael Kane from the galaxy beyond, would send him out upon it by your own hand?” she asked.

  “The lad makes his own choices, and chose to ally with you,” Cornelius shrugged. “And assuming all goes well, he shouldn’t be put in any danger.”

  “Let’s hear this gig of yours, then,” Lucienne nodded.

  “Right. Well, it has been in times past I hired others for this task, but what with the Inquisition lurking about near Eutophoria more recently, no one wants to fly anywhere. Which is understandable, but this gig by its very nature should keep you away from the Inquisition’s prying eyes. In short: I need a resupply for my bar. There is a Rogue Trader by the name of Antonius Sigird who passes near here on a regular basis. He doesn’t know where Eutophoria is, exactly, and I don’t intend to tell him, but in the past I’ve hired all manner of folk to meet him at a drop site on the planet of Ranéla and pick up my goods. I’ll provide the coin to make the purchase from him, as well as further payment for you upon completion of this task. Sound manageable?” Cornelius explained.

  Zaer cleared his throat, garnering the attention of both Cornelius and Lucienne. “And you assume the Inquisition will ignore this Rogue Trader…why? What if it is him they are looking for?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but I genuinely can’t imagine there being a reason for that. He flies by the books, as far as I know,” Cornelius started.

  “As far as you know,” Zaer repeated, and panned cautious eyes to meet Lucienne’s before returning his gaze to the bartender.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “I understand your concern. And if you do not wish to take on this task, I will not press you to. But I will note that the word on the block is your group has been flying well into the current era of the Inquisition’s mucking about. You have seemed thus far undeterred,” Cornelius shrugged, and looked back to Lucienne. “Something tells me there is not much that deters you, for better or for worse.”

  “We’re agreed in that,” Zaer muttered.

  “What sort of goods would we be retrieving?” Lucienne asked.

  “Alcohol and foodstuffs, mainly. Perchance some of Nessa’s, err, reading material, as it were, though in truth that comes packaged with an assortment of miscellany. I will have a manifest of my usual orders prepared for you, if you accept the contract; alas, I could not volunteer that beforehand, lest I risk sharing some of the secrets of my own business,” he said, tilting his head to the side as though to ask You understand, don’t you? But, he realized, Lucienne had likely never run a business like his, and perhaps did not understand.

  And yet, Lucienne was most understanding, and nodded to him. “Ranéla. Tell me about the world.”

  Cornelius shrugged and his lips thinned out. “Not much to tell. Abandoned, as far as I know. Used to be a materials processing world for the Imperium some eons ago, I think? Can’t tell you why it was abandoned; war, or perhaps clerical error on the part of the Administratum. Both are equally likely. The meet would take place at one such materials processing facility, aboveground. Not much left on the world but plasteel structures and dead rock. Sorta the point, really; perfect place for a smuggler to stage a meet.”

  “Or an ambush,” Zaer grumbled.

  “When do we need to be there by?” Lucienne asked, ignoring Zaer’s negativity.

  Cornelius perked up. When that question started getting asked, a deal was likely in the making. “About this time, nineteen days from now. Ranéla is relatively close, should be manageable via Warp Translation, assuming no hiccups.”

  “Warp Translation. Right,” Lucienne grinned. “I’m interested in the contract. Have a courier send pertinent mission details and necessary materials—coinage—our way. You can go through Kotak the Unbroken if you desire a formal arrangement with us. Before you leave,” she started, and pointed toward Kor’Kassan, who had finished preparing breakfast. “Take some to go, would you? Our friend from the Earth Caste is quite the chef.”

  “Ah! How generous. I look forward to it, and yes, I shall send details and a manifest by private courier,” Cornelius agreed, nodding with some enthusiasm. And he did indeed take a small sampling of food before making his exit.

  When he had gone, Luciene stepped up to Zaer and tilted her head up invitingly. “He’s hiding something,” Zaer said.

  “He is,” Luciene agreed, then explained what: “Guilt. There is more to this arrangement than he lets on, and he hides the details well; well enough that even I cannot perceive specifics. That he hides anything at all is why I bit into this bait; I have no vested interest in smuggling.”

  “If he is guilty, then you volunteer us for a trap,” Zaer noted.

  “I do. But we have ample time to prepare for it. And he obviously does not know our full capabilities—‘Warp Translation,’” she repeated. “Whatever this trap is, and why it might be sprung upon us, I suspect we shall surprise its makers.”

  “To what end?”

  “That, I do not know. But this trap was made for us, and I suspect we could only ignore it at our own peril.”

  ***

  The materials processing facility was not large, by Imperial standards, but it was vast enough for a crew of six to get lost in. Katabasis still dwarfed the facility all the same, holding the structure within the grasp of its flat, crescent-shaped body. Save for the facility, tan outcrops stretched across the horizon, with a mountain range peaking out leagues away.

  Luciene and her crew had arrived a day early, manifest and coinage in hand, with which to procure the goods from Antonius Sigird, if indeed there were any. The meet was supposedly to take place within the aforementioned facility, but not all resided within; Zaer, the scout that he was, remained beyond, camping on his own fifteen-hundred meters away from the structure between the gap in Katabasis’s arms. He was eyes and ears for anything on approach, howsoever Sigird intended to arrive.

  But he was not the only one keeping an eye out; while Zaer could scan the skies, Zet, through his vessel, maintained a watchful gaze of the void beyond Ranéla’s atmosphere. And it was he, on the dawn of the promised day, that thus made the first announcement: “Imperial vessel has just exited from Warp Translation, identifying now.”

  “No Trader is that punctual,” Kane noted over the interstitial earpieces Zet had provided the crew.

  “This one, apparently, is,” Zet replied. “The vessel is the Ebon Shrike, belonging to Antonius Sigird indeed, as our mission documents suggested.”

  “Be that as it may, keep on your toes, everyone,” Luciene warned. “If something seems too perfect, it usually is.” A moment of silence took the crew, then. Zaer scanned blue skies, but saw nothing, save for a small black blip far above which was not present the day prior. That, he assumed, was the Ebon Shrike, far away. Upon noting this, Luciene’s voice appeared in his ear again. “Anything?”

  “Nothing,” Zet replied. “But we have not been lanced from orbit, either, so that’s a plus.”

  “For now,” Zaer said to himself, not speaking over the Necron device any more than he needed to.

  A few more moments passed in tense silence. Zaer stared wantingly toward Ebon Shrike, waiting for it to do anything at all. For a time, it simply sat there. Then he spied a small glimmer of flame trickle into the skies above, near the vessel. “They’ve launched something,” he reported, tapping a finger to his right ear.

  “Identifying,” Zet droned, but it did not take the Necron long. “That is a Thunderhawk vessel, a form of gunship, most militant. I can intercept its approach with tractor cannons.”

  “Let it warm its guns first, if it intends to,” Luciene denied. “Ishmael, Nessa, is a Thunderhawk used by Traders as a landing vessel?”

  “It could be, for any of the more militant sort,” Myr suggested.

  “So, all of them,” Kane added. “It’s typically an Astartes vessel, not for a Trader’s needs, but anything is possible.”

  “I do not detect Astartes signatures aboard the vessel,” Zet noted.

  “Then it is atypical. Let it approach for now,” Luciene decided.

  The Thunderhawk swooped through the skies with enough grace to impress even Zaer; such a bulky thing, he thought, could only move so lithely when helmed by a masterful pilot. It was not unheard of for members of his kind to find themselves wrapped up in a Rogue Trader’s retinue; it would take talents such as belonged to his people to maneuver such a heavy hunk of steel as so-elegantly dictated the Thunderhawk’s movements. Yet for the subtle beauty in the Thunderhawk’s flight, it’s chosen path led it straight toward Zaer, and he was able to spy the terrible and familiar =]I[=-shaped crest emblazoned on the side of the vessel.

  But what hit him hardest was not the dreadful realization of such a sight, nor was it any of the Thunderhawk’s ample armaments. No, instead, an unnatural, desperate hopelessness washed over Zaer as the gunship neared. One so psychically attuned as he could feel the sheer, inescapable terror best. It was overpowering. Death itself, Zaer knew, resided within the Imperial gunship, and that knowledge dropped him to his knees. And then the Thunderhawk flew directly overhead, and Zaer fell even from his knees to laying and writhing on the ground. As the side of his body hit the dusty earth below, he found himself aboard Katabasis again, staring into the lifeless corpse of Luciene, body punctured by shrapnel and bled out. His gut knotted and twisted, and he knew that this time, unlike any death prior, this time, she would not return, consumed by the devouring darkness.

  And then he was back on Ranéla, covered in his own sweat, as the Thunderhawk flew past him. The terror subsided, but he was left shaken, faith shattered. For centuries, he had had the privilege of seeing Luciene’s light shine out amidst the burning stars. But he knew then that, in mere moments, a being of unfathomable darkness would arrive before her to snuff out the brilliance of her existence once and for all. And with that, he despaired.

  Zaer was slow to his feet, and even slower to raise a finger to his ear, tapping into his comms. But he had no words to describe what he had just experienced. No words for the infinite horror of the Empyrean. And how could he? What words were there to warn a loved one of the approach of such a malevolence? Instead, his hand fell, his comms silenced. He stood in stunned awe, and more than anything else, selfishly wanted to be anywhere other than where he was. His feet moved, but not to carry him away as he wanted; instead, pained curiosity forced his body to turn, to witness the death of life, the end of hope. But it did not arrive, not yet; instead, the Thunderhawk flew past the processing plant that his fellows resided in.

  He may have screamed toward the facility, shouting to his friends to flee; he wanted to, but he did not know if he managed it. What he did know, however, was that the universe yawned next to him, and carried his desperate gaze to his left. A crease had formed in reality twenty paces away, a shimmer in dusty winds. No great dread emerged from the crease, but Zaer hardly needed any more of that to be spooked regardless. Nevertheless, even if not psychic in nature, what did emerge from the crease was the very image of Death in human form, red eyes beaming out of a painted white skull on black carapace armor.

  “On your knees, Xenos! Hands behind your head!” the Tempestus Scion ordered, Ryza-pattern Hellgun trained on Zaer’s torso.