Editing Bleeding Out (Warhammer High) (section)

===Discord and Disquiet===

“He is, my Lady Isis.  Shall I take you to him?” the gold-clad giant asked.

“Please do, Brother.  And Sieur Pius as well,” she added.  Angela cast a glance over her winged shoulder at the two conspirators, but decided not to interfere.

“As you wish, lady Isis,” the Custodian said, diverting down a nearby corridor.  Isis and Julius followed their guide away from the rest of the group, into the more utilitarian parts of the Palace, and stopped at a tram station.  “Your father should be in Bunker Three, in the Palace Core.”

“Thank you, Brother,” Isis said, as the doors of the tram closed.  She tapped the coordinates of the Bunker into the tram, and it lifted, soaring away.

“Game plan?” Julius asked, looking intently at the tiny holographic map of the Palace on the inside of the car.

“Honesty.  We ask for answers, we look for more if we don’t get enough.”  Isis leaned back against the seat of the tram.

“Will he answer us?”

“Who knows,” Isis replied heavily.  The air outside whipped into streams as the car accelerated to nearly six hundred miles per hour, launching into the heart of the continent-spanning structure.  Julius closed his eyes and relaxed as the tiny force field around the car switched on, and its inertial dampener reduced the momentum of its occupants to zero.  Isis wiggled across the seat to Julius and leaned against him, her mind turning over at blazing speed.  Conversation plans, speculation over what Horus could be doing in the middle of the Palace anyway, reviewing her aborted questioning of the Emperor…they sped through her mind as fast as the tram over its magnetic rails.

Julius wrapped his arm behind her shoulders, and she absently squeezed his hand.  “We have ten minutes until we arrive.  What should we ask?”

“Why is the Emperor convinced that there’s more to this Keiter guy than one whacko with a vendetta and a rifle, for starters,” Isis said quietly, her mind kicking into detective mode.

“He thinks there’s something more?” Julius asked.

“You saw the way he cut me off when I started to ask,” Isis pointed out.

“Right, right.”  Her boyfriend thought over the conversation, trying to remember what the Emperor had said precisely.  “Well…we can ask who the Treasury is investigating.”

“He won’t answer that in front of you,” Isis said, bitterness darkening her voice.  Julius frowned.

“You think so?”

“He likes you a lot, Julius, and he trusts your family, but we’re talking about information so heavily classified I don’t even think he’s technically allowed to tell ME,” Isis said heavily.  “I can ask anyway.”

Julius went quiet.  After another minute of silence, Isis looked up at him.  He was looking away, torn.  “Should I stay here?  I just tagged along without thinking.”

“Come with, Julius,” she said.  It wasn’t an order, it was a statement of preference.

Julius shrugged, looking back down at her.  “All right.”  A smile quirked his lips, quite against his will.  She felt a sudden and inappropriate wave of good humor wash over her too, and had to look away herself to prevent a sudden giggle.

“OK.  We should make sure we’re not pressing him, if he’s busy,” she said.

“We could call him,” Julius suggested.

“He won’t commit to anything over the phone.”  Isis wiggled free of her boyfriend’s arm and eyed the holographic map.  “We’re nearly there.  Any last-minute ideas?”

“Fresh out.”  Both teens watched the holographic map fizzle out as the door under it opened, and they both clambered out.  This wing of the Palace looked like no other; this was the command hub, far from the public offices of the Primarchs and the Emperor, far from the Audience halls and the guest wings.  This was the part of the Palace with walls made of reactive armor, with security Servo-skulls every few dozen meters, with Custodes in armor that could block lascannon beams stationed at the corners.  Isis, of course, breezed past the security checkpoints, with Julius along in her wake, drawing a mean eye from every guard they walked by.

After several minutes of descending stairs and passing Custodes, they finally arrived at an incongruity: an unassuming block of offices.  Several Administratum and Munitorum higher-ups were bustling in and out, exchanging data bursts on their implants, fussing with cogitator banks, or just generally making themselves busy with the inner workings of the Imperium.  Several paused to watch the pair wend their way through the block, but none stared for too long; the heart of the Imperium never stopped beating.

Beyond the block was yet another of the ubiquitous Custodes checkpoints, and a Mechanicum station for tending to the machinery of the offices, and beyond that was one of the most closely guarded offices in the Imperium: that of Warmaster Lupercal.

Isis stopped at the checkpoint outside the office and sketched a quick bow before the Companion leading the guard contingent.  “Brother.  Is my Father in?” she asked.

“He is, my Lady, however, he is not to be disturbed,” the Companion said.  He swept his inscrutable black visor over Julius.  “Who is your guest?”

“Sieur Julius Pius,” Isis replied.

“I see.”  The Companion looked over the both of them, apparently speaking on his helmet vox.  “The Lord Warmaster will see you when he can.  It may be a while.”

“I can wait,” Isis said, nodding her head again.  “Thanks.”  She and Julius made their way over to a small sitting area near the checkpoint, under the watchful gaze of the Custodian.

“Now what?” Julius asked sotto voce.

“Now we wait,” Isis replied.

Arthur Hane sat down in front of the imposing mahogany desk before him and brandished a thick sheaf of paper.  “I have the case file, Provost.”

Fourth Provost Marshal Rachnus accepted the proffered dossiers and rifled through them.  “Seems in order, Counselor.”  He glanced over at Keiter’s lawyer.  “Counselor Felger, anything to add?”

“Yes, I do have something, Provost,” Felger said, drawing a dataslate from his pocket and piping some data to the Arbites’ own.  “A motion to dismiss the case, on the grounds that my client is not capable of performing the act of which he has been accused.”

“You ARE kidding.  He confessed,” Hane said flatly.  Rachnus peered over his spectacles at Felger.

“The case has yet to begin formally, Sieur Felger.  What grounds are you basing this on?”

“Provost, my client has been charged with two crimes: firing a weapon with the intent to kill, and Attempted Regicide.  He was not trying to kill anyone with the shot.  Least of all a member of the Royal family,” Felger explained.

“You must be hoping for high pressure fronts in the jury room, Sieur Felger, if you think that shit will fly,” Hane said curtly.  “I have an audio recording of your client specifically admitting that he was trying to kill someone with that shot.”

“That statement was made under an inadmissible level of duress,” Felger said, waving his hand dismissively.

“Duress?  He was proud of what he had done!  He told me as much!  You were there!” Hane said.

“I was.  And I saw the tears in his eyes when he told you how much he regretted harming a member of the Royal Family.”

“He worshipped them.  Which, lest we forget, is a violation of the Imperial Creed,” Hane said darkly.

“Counselor, I see nothing in your brief about prosecuting Sieur Keiter for a violation of the Creed,” Rachnus pointed out.

“I wasn’t going to prosecute him for it.  If Sieur Felger’s motion passes, I will,” Hane promised.

“Well, you needn’t worry yourself,” Rachnus said, dropping the paper sheaf into a binder.  “It’s not going to pass.  I’ve read the transcripts being offered up as evidence, Counselor Felger.  Your client was completely remorseless about shooting someone.  He showed remorse for harming Lady Morticia not because he shot her, but because he shot Royalty.  That does not constitute a defense against a charge of Attempted Murder.”

“But Provost, that’s not the charge in question,” Felger pointed out.

“Then let’s discuss the third charge on the docket,” Rachnus said, lifting his dataslate.  “Attempting an Act of Terrorism.  I see no motion from you to dismiss that.”

“He’s no terrorist, I can assure you of that,” Felger said with a theatrical sigh.  “He wasn’t trying to terrorize anyone.”

“No, just murder them and change the political views of the survivors,” Hane riposted.  Felger glared at him.

“Counselor Felger, your client has admitted to harboring the desire to force political and economic change by murdering a member of the upper class,” Rachnus said, tapping one of the transcripts on his screen.

“And yet no such murder occurred,” Felger pointed out.  “The magazine in his gun was fully loaded.  He could have simply fired again if that was his desire.”

The Arbitrator stood, shrugging the metallic chains of his office on over his shoulders.  “Counselor Felger, your client was attempting a change of the status quo of the Imperium through killing someone.  Your motion is dismissed.”

“I see.”  Felger sat still for a long moment, then reached back into his bag, pulling free a small piece of blue paper.  “Then this is all I have to pass along.”

Rachnus picked it up, glanced it over – “Is this a motion for a Trial Seclusarius?”

“It is,” Felger confirmed.

“Well…you have the right to one if your client insists on it, of course, but are you sure you want one?”

“We are both in agreement,” the Public Defender said.  “This is what’s best for my client, for Lady Morticia, and for all incidental parties.”

Hane stared.  A Seclusarius would mean little time for either party to assemble evidence, no public evidence vetting, no holocams in the courtroom, a Judge Arbitrator instead of a jury weighing the guilt, and separate verdicts and sentencing, by individual Judges.  It was the right of all Terrans.  Few enacted it, finding their odds improved in a trial-by-jury.  In reality, it was harder to get people convicted by a Judge than a jury, in Hane’s – and Felger’s – experience.  This was playing into his hands.  Wasn’t it?

“Well…then so be it,” Rachnus said.  “Any final motions, gentlemen?”

“No, Provost,” both men replied, standing up as well.

“Then I will see you both in court.”

Faith’s aircar slid to a halt outside the Aurelian manor, kicking up a thin pall of dust.  As it settled, the estate servant opened the door for Faith, who marched on by without a word, shoulders hunched.  She walked straight past the guards at the door and stormed into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

“Faith?  Is something the matter?” her mother, Viera, asked from the dining room.

“Hi, mom,” she called back, reigning in her temper.  “Morticia says hi.”

“Glad she’s feeling better,” Viera said, appearing at the door.  “Did you stop somewhere on the way home?”

“We stopped by the Palace to let Grandfather know,” Faith replied, yanking the fridge open.

Viera didn’t answer.  Faith looked over her shoulder to see her mother standing in the door, arms crossed, in the look of slight maternal concern she did so well she could have traded on it.  Faith huffed.  “It’s nothing.  I’m a little worried about Kelly and Remilia.  That’s all.”

“What’s wrong with Remilia?” Viera asked, sitting down at the kitchen counter.

Faith drummed her fingers on the tabletop, debating her words.  “…I think she’s started cutting again.”

“Oh, god,” Viera breathed.  “Did you see?”

“She had a long-sleeve jacket on.  In mid-May.”  Faith grabbed an apple from the basket and slammed the fridge shut.  “Why does she DO that?”

“She’s hurting,” Viera sighed.

“Cutting yourself makes pain worse,” Faith grumbled.

“It gives the illusion of control,” a new voice put in from the door.  Lorgar stepped into the kitchen too, tugging his robe of office across his shoulders.  Clearly, he had been about to head out.  “By causing a pain to the body, a pain one can influence and expand or stifle, it makes the pain of the soul seem lessened.”

“I thought she was smarter than that,” Faith said.  She tore into the apple, ripping a chunk out.  “Freya tried to talk some sense into her.  At least I think that’s what she was doing.”

“This was at the hospital?” Lorgar asked.

“The Palace, afterward,” Faith said.  “Isis wanted to pass along the news to the Emperor.”  She grabbed a glass and filled it.  “We almost didn’t catch him, meeting ran long.”

“I see.”  Lorgar thought for a moment.  “Do you want to talk to Remilia about it?”

“What’s the point?” Faith asked coldly.  “She won’t listen to me.”

“Why not?” Lorgar asked in mild surprise.

“She thinks I’m patronizing.  Thinks I’m too nosy, or something,” Faith muttered.  “Because Freya totally isn’t.”

“Faith…” Viera started.

“Mom, if she’s going to be dumb, let her.  Her father can deal with it,” Faith said.  “I bet Rogal’s read her the riot act anyway.”

Though Lorgar wanted to point out that Rogal Dorn was hardly one to lecture anyone on the subject of masochism, he merely nodded.  “What did Freya tell her?”

“Couldn’t hear,” Faith said.  “But she looked pissed.  And she did the eyes thing.”

“That usually works, in my experience,” Lorgar said, forcing a note of levity into the exchange.  “Well, if you think it’s out of hand, I can talk to Rogal about it.  Until then, I suggest you focus on that graduation paper.”

Faith gave a long-suffering sigh, but dropped the subject.  “Yes, Father.  Will I see you tonight?”

“You shall, assuming Magos Calbrin doesn’t try to chew my ear off about instituting the Doctrine in Mechanicus seminaries,” Lorgar said.  “I’ll be back for supper.”

“All right,” Faith said.  “See you then.”

The Companion outside Horus’ door beckoned silently to Isis.  She caught Julius’ eye and stood, calming her nerves.  It was her own father, for goodness’ sakes.  The Companion stood aside, allowing her to pass, but held out one massive hand to halt Julius’ passage.  “I apologize, Sieur Pius, but your presence is not allowed.”

“What?” Julius asked.  His eyes darted to Isis, back up to the Companion.  “Then why was I allowed this far?”

“Sieur Pius, I have no doubt in your ability to remain discreet, but this is non-negotiable,” the intractable Companion declared.  “You are not entering this office.”  Julius’ hands clenched in his pockets, but he kept himself impassive.

“…Very well.  I’ll be out here, Isis,” he said crisply, walking back down to the seats and sitting back down.  Isis turned back to the Companion, who merely looked at her through his black lenses.  She shook her head, resolved to make mention of it to her father, and continued into the office.

The bare, stone floors bounced the sounds of her footsteps into the air, which felt oppressively tight in the shielded hallway.  The walls were nearly a meter thick: all armor and Faraday shields and sound mufflers.  No expense was spared for the headquarters of the Imperial Armed Forces.  There were several small offices spread amongst the hall, but they were just for functionaries and secretaries.  The Warmaster’s office was much harder to miss.

The door was set into the wall a small ways, ostensibly to look more imposing.  Those trained to see them, however, found the concealed pulse cannons in the in-set doorframe rather more intimidating.  Isis, of course, took more to intimidate.

As she walked through the solid marble frame, her father looked up from his dataslate with a warm grin.  “Isis, my daughter.”

“Father,” Isis said, ever-mindful of the decorum of the office.  “Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“Not at all.  I must apologize for making you wait.”  Horus stood behind his desk, his fur-rimmed armor gleaming on the stand behind him.  “I am afraid you caught me on the vox.  Dispatch orders for the new Terran Battle Groups.”

“Problems?” Isis asked, sitting down in front of the desk.

“Always.  Easily resolved with the nebulously-phrased instruction ‘Don’t Make Me Come Down There,’” Horus noted.  “What brings you by?”

“I wanted to tell you that Morticia’s feeling much better.  She should be all right in time, and we had a chance to meet her at the hospital,” Isis said.

“Wonderful.  I trust you passed along my well-wishes?” Horus asked.

“I did.  But I was wondering if you had heard anything about the man who shot her,” Isis said, coming to the point.

Horus slowly sat back in his control chair, gauging his daughter.  “Nothing you haven’t already heard…”

“Dad.  Please.  A junior maintenance guy does not smuggle an anti-infantry gun into Startseite.  Where did he come from?” Isis asked.

The Luna Wolf slowly shook his head.  “Isis.  Do not lecture me.”

“Father…”

“His background you know.  He smuggled the gun in, because who looks for guns in a town that quiet?”  Horus leaned forward.  “There is nothing more to it.  Trust me.”

Isis met her father’s eyes without flinching.  They sat still, only the ticking of the pre-O’Neill clock on Horus’ desk making a sound.  Finally, Isis let her shoulders slump.  “I understand, Father.”

Horus nodded solemnly.  “Thank you, Isis.”

“I would ask, though, that Julius be added to the Admitted Persons list for this office,” Isis said.

“No.”  Isis drew her head back, hurt or surprised.  “He is a fine young man, and his father an old friend, Isis, but he is still non-military, and does not bear the Emperor’s trust as you do.  He is not getting in.”

“Then, at least, tell me the Treasury lockdown around the District will be lowered enough that we can go to school and visit each other?” Isis asked.

Horus thought for a moment.  “Yes, that’s fair.”  She didn’t let her surprise show at her father’s unexpected agreement.

“Well…thanks for that much,” Isis said.

Horus’s brow creased.  “My daughter, do not mistake me.  I know the danger has passed.  But the appearance of laxity from the government here would be catatrophic.  Our inability to produce anything more substantial than ‘a lone gunman’ has the media in a frenzy.  Were we to disband our guard now…”

“Our all-important public image would be tarnished?” Isis offered.  Horus’ eyes narrowed.

“Isis.”

She sighed.  “I mean…” she struggled with her emotions for a moment, trying to take the barb from her words.  “It’s interfering with the graduation schedule.”

“Then I will have the Treasury lower their travel restrictions, though I understand that Freya at least, and possibly Faith as well, are already openly flouting them,” Horus said.

“Thanks.  And…if you do hear anything else about the shooter…his motives, his sponsors, anything, you WILL tell me, right?” Isis asked pointedly.

“If I can,” Horus said.

Isis stood, glaring daggers at her father across the desk.  “The uncertainty in your voice does nothing for me, Father.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Isis.  If the Arbites learn anything, and should they tell me, I will-” he said.

Isis held her hand up for silence.  “Wait.  Wait.  Did you hear that?  That papery sound?”

“I hear nothing,” Horus said after a moment.

“I hear it, five by five.”  Isis leaned forward, the heat in her eyes spilling into her voice.  “It’s the sound of the buck being passed.”  She let the angry silence fill the room for effect, before shrugging her fleece back on.  “I’ll see you if you get home tonight, Dad.  Thanks for your time.”

“Yes.  See you when I can, Isis,” Horus said, his voice carefully controlled.

Isis nodded formally, backing out of the office.  As soon as her father could no longer see her face, she let a grimace of disgust twist her lips.  She walked back to where Julius was still sitting, his patience fraying.

“How did it go?” he asked immediately, nearly leaping to his feet.

“As you yourself said,” Isis growled, “no joy on the burn.”  Julius scowled.

“Blast.”  He sighed shortly, shrugging the tension from his shoulders.  “Worth a shot.”

“Yeah.  I did get him to lower the Treasury guard a bit, so we can go back to school,” she said, leading him back down the halls to the tram.

“Hey, that’s a thing,” he said.

“A thing, that it is,” Isis said.

“Well.”  He looked for more words, but couldn’t find them.  “We could always go, you know.  See for ourselves.”

“Not yet,” Isis said tightly.  “Maybe not ever.”

“We’ll see,” Julius said ominously.  The rest of their journey back to the Lupercal manor was conducted in silence, with each lost in their thoughts.