Work Text:
When Solomorne was eight years old, his father saw him in the streets of Port Wander, making another child cry. A boy named Etan, who no one in Solomorne’s entire class liked, but who pretended as though his isolation was his own choice. Solomorne and his friends had been disabusing him of that arrogance when his father walked over to them. He was in plainclothes but Solomorne had bragged about his father, the Arbitrator, often enough. The other children snapped to attention.
His father looked over the line of guilty children and still-sniffling Etan. “Solomorne,” he said in an even, unemotional voice. “It’s time to go home.”
The street they had been playing on was silent as Solomorne and his father walked away. His father said nothing as they walked. Solomorne risked looking up from his feet to his father’s face only once, and when he did he saw a troubled frown. He spent the rest of the walk home with his eyes fixed on the pavement.
As soon as his father shuts the door to their house behind them, Solomorne said, “I’m sorry.”
His father folded his arms. “Sorry for being caught?”
“No, I’m—I’m sorry.” His father was a patient man. “I shouldn’t have done it. I won’t do it again.”
“And you’re going to apologize to him.” Solomorne set his jaws. “Yes, you will. And I’ll know if you don’t.”
His father would know if he didn’t—Solomorne knew this as surely as he knew that if he apologized to Etan and people found out, they would never let him forget it. The fear of laughter and notes passed behind his back was enough to make Solomorne do the unthinkable. He tried to appeal his sentence.
“I didn’t start it, Dad!” Silence. “And no one likes him!” Nothing. “And me saying sorry isn’t going to make them stop making fun of him, it’s just going to make them make fun of me too! Why do I have to?”
“So you’re weak, then,” his father said.
Solomorne stiffened. “No.”
“You’re doing things you know are wrong because you’re afraid of what’ll happen to you if you don’t. That’s weakness in you. You know the Emperor wants us to cut out our weakness, right Solomorne?”
It was said every week at temple, it was written in books at the schoolhouse Solomorne went to every day. It was inscribed on the back of the aquila that hung on the doorframe, just over his father’s shoulder.
“I know,” Solomorne said.
“We don’t need to be strong for ourselves. We need to be strong for each other. That’s the only way humanity will stave off a collapse into heresy.”
“Okay.”
“The Emperor protects, but we have a duty to aid Him. Humanity needs to protect one another too.”
“Alright.”
His father sighed. His frown was back. “Apologize to the young man,” he said. And the next day, Solomorne did.
Three lunar months later, his father was murdered. Solomorne was moved to a new school, a better school. The Schola Progenium.
-
Before Solomorne knows Collista is a Von Valancius, he knows that she’s from the Schola Progenium too. It’s the ramrod posture and the single pleat in her slacks. Before he knows she’s a Rogue Trader he knows she was beaten with a shock baton for taking over a minute thirty to strip and reassemble a bolter, so he knows he can work with her.
The Rogue Trader of it all is a surprise. It seems a bit strange for an heir of anything to be from the Progenium. Then again, he’d had classmates who were made orphans for the purpose of enrollment. He’d expect as much from a noble family.
But whatever their reason, she escaped the moral atrophy of nobility early, and ended up properly serving humanity. “Officio Prefectus,” she tells him when he asks where she matriculated, and the tight cohesion of her ramshackle retinue makes sense. He can’t help but admire commissars, the easy way they dispatch their own.
She nods down at Glaito. “Is he from the Gladiolus workshop?”
Solomorne raises an eyebrow. “Yes. You know them?”
“Know of them. I had an aquila familiar for a while, when I was stationed on this rock covered in mountains. Great for surveillance.” She appraises Glaito from a respectful distance, hands never straying from her sides. “Gladiolus keeps more of the animal instincts in their models, don’t they? How’s that working out? I had a standard model, and even then the two heads would get in spats sometimes.”
“It works damn well,” Solomorne says, then tempers his defensiveness. They’re talking shop. It’s the first time he’s gotten to in a while. Nothing to be upset with, nothing to hide. “Glaito’s training is thorough, he’s never hesitated in following commands. His natural senses serve him well.”
Von Valancius nods. “I can see that. You know how shit admechs will ‘fix’ a servitor just by pummeling what’s left of its brain? If you’re more surgical about it, I bet it runs smoother. Less processing power spent overcoming instincts.”
The magos behind her grumbles something in techna lingua. She ignores him.
“I wouldn’t know,” Solomorne says. “I’ve only ever had Glaito.”
Glaito growls and at first Solomorne thinks he’s reacting to his name, but then his lumens scope right. There’s a satisfying wet sound at the tail end of Solomorne’s shot that lets him know he found his mark.
Von Valancius chuckles. “He’s got you trained well, too.”
Solomorne smiles. “We shouldn’t talk out in the clear like this. Get to the governor’s bunker, Lord Captain.”
“We’re not at the Administratum, Proctor, we’re on the front. Just Collista’s fine. Stay alive.”
“Solomorne, then. Stay alive.”
-
The Arbitrators hang back during the Triumph. They tend to spoil festive moods. Solomorne keeps just close enough that the governor will not forget his presence.
But then, in her flurry of attendants, Collista von Valancius catches his eye and beckons him over. Solomorne checks over his squad, then approaches.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
Collista maintains a perfectly neutral expression when she says, “They’re not going to let me fire the damn tank.”
Surrounded by observers, deep in their roles, no levity can be visible on them. But they’re both used to these fronts.
“A crime on par with the loss of tithe,” Solomorne says. “You’ve given me enough ammunition to get Medineh servitorized.”
“Maybe then he’d do a job without half-assing it.” Collista folds her arms. “But honestly. Wouldn’t it be much more impressive to launch a shell into that heretic’s carcass?”
“Perhaps they don’t want to splatter her tainted guts on the few sane citizens they have left.”
“You like your gear, I thought you’d understand wanting to try out artillery. Now you’re nitpicking my grand ideas, just like the others.”
Collista nods back to her retinue. They range from the impressive—a Sister of Battle, an Inquisition agent, a magos—to the expected—a noble officer, a pet psyker—to the downright heretical.
“I hope I’m not the first to warn you about her.”
“The psyker was a holdover from my predecessor, but she’s been capable and stable so far.”
“Not her. The Death Cultist.”
“Oh, Kibellah?” Collista clicks her tongue. “Her cult is fine. Deeply loyal to the dynasty. She makes for an excellent bodyguard.”
“Far be it from me to tell you how to run your ship, Rogue Trader, but death cults can be a very destabilizing force.”
A pause. “She’s fine.” Solomorne raises an eyebrow and Collista sighs. “Have you ever had a pretty girl tell you she’s going to be your sword, your shield, your shadow? No? Then I don’t think you get to judge.”
Solomorne rolls his eyes. “If you’re set on disregarding good sense, you could always fire the damn tank anyway. It’s not like anyone here could hold you to account.”
“I don’t want to be that kind of Rogue Trader.”
“And what kind is that?”
“It’s a kind of ruler in general, I guess,” Collista says. “And you know them. The kind that only respect the rules when they’re afraid of the consequences of breaking them. That kind breeds disloyalty. I can’t be like them.”
Solomorne nods. After a moment he adds, “Unless a pretty girl asks you.”
Collista laughs at that, before catching herself and grimacing. She scans the area, but no one seems to have caught her slip.
“Unless a pretty girl asks me,” she says with a straight face. And then the Master of Ceremonies spirits her away.
In the end, an unauthorized cannonball would have been the tamest thing at the Triumph.
-
Collista sits on her throne and watches the Exterminatus of Rykad Minoris.
Solomorne’s come up to the bridge to watch it too. Seems like the thing to do. Like the time they judged a Navigator, and Solomorne had taken the crown off his third eye once he was dead. If you have the chance to see something no one else gets to see, you should, shouldn’t you?
It’s hard to know where to look at first, since the whole system has gone black. But then there’s a piercing column of flame. It races around the planet, outlining it against the void. Rykad Minoris looks like it’s boiling, seems like a bubble about to pop. But then the amber clouds dissipate and it’s all black again.
It wasn’t especially impressive, for what it was. He probably could have stayed with his squad.
But he didn’t, so he sees what happens next. Collista stands from her throne and leans against the railing, both hands braced, so unsteady Solomorne thinks she might tip over. The Inquisition agent approaches her and says a few words. She says nothing. He scowls, and says a few more.
Collista lets go of the railing and turns to the agent. She takes one of his hands between hers in an almost matronly gesture. Then—and Solomorne is a few meters away and the bridge is fully active but he swears he can hear it—she presses down and breaks the Interrogator’s bones.
Solomorne barely knows Collista, does not know the agent. But he doesn’t need to to understand what was just said. It’s an equivocal statement, as loud and clear as if Collista had brought the Interrogator flowers and chocolate.
The Inquisition agent, to his credit, does not react in any way other than to gasp and scowl. Even as Collista descends the bridge, Solomorne can see his hand shifting unnaturally back into proper order.
The exchange was scarcely noticed. The crew is focused on translation. Solomorne notices the Seneschal watching her, but Werserian’s attention is quickly drawn back to directing his officers.
Collista is approaching him, he realizes. She walks past him without seeing him, headed for the lift he hadn’t realized he was blocking.
He’s not sure what exactly possesses him to follow her onto the lift. She doesn’t ask him why. She doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s shocked when the lift deposits them in real wooden walls. He’s in her quarters. He’s shocked when Collista stumbles out and falls onto organic fiber carpeting and starts heaving lung-bursting sobs.
“Lord Captain…” She says nothing. He’s not sure she could speak if she wanted to. She has not so much as looked at him.
“Collista.” Her mouth gulps shut at that. She grips her face like she is forcing her jaw to stay closed. “Are you okay?”
Finally, she looks at him. “Yes,” she says. Then she curls in on herself, her forehead hitting the brocade rug. From Solomorne’s vantage point, she almost looks like she’s genuflecting before the massive portrait of Theodora that dominates the hall.
“I am here to offer assistance,” he says. She drags her torso upright.
“I killed so many of them, Solomorne,” she says. She leaves scratch marks on her cheeks, she’s digging so hard into them. “I’ve killed lambs in the herd before, but I always knew who I was killing. It hurts more when you know them, but it’s easier. What am I supposed to do with millions? I can’t remember millions.”
Solomorne can’t really answer that so instead he asks, “The herd?”
“Arbitrators are hounds, commissars are sheepdogs. I keep the flock safe from itself, you follow the blood and find the wolves. They taught us what dogs to be.”
“You didn’t have a choice,” Solomorne says. At that, she stands and staggers towards him so suddenly that Glaito goes on alert.
“Yes, I did. It wouldn’t have been the right choice, but I had a choice.”
She grips Solomorne’s metal wrist. The armor she normally wears hides how thick her biceps are. One of her hands has a steel brace welded to it, and in the dim light he can see how it’s accommodating for misshapen, poorly set carpals. He thinks if she was holding skin, she would be hurting him.
“This was my choice, Solomorne,” Collista says. “I could have done something different. I had that power. Don’t lie to me. I’m a Rogue Trader now.”
They stand there in silence. Slowly, Collista’s breathing evens out. Eventually, she drops Solomorne’s hand.
“You’ll be fine,” Solomorne tells her.
“Yeah. Fuck.” She runs a hand through her short hair. “Thanks, Sol.”
It’s been years since someone’s called him that.
At the end of the day, Solomorne sits down to write his report to the Marshall. In a story of exterminatus and Chaos Space Marines he doubts that his interaction with Collista will merit much attention, but it’s the part that takes him the longest.
I found the Rogue Trader in a bout of—horror, self pity, weakness, hatred—agitation over the act of Holy Exterminatus. We spoke briefly, and I acted as a—judge, confessor, friend, sycophant—representative of the Lex’s dictates on such occasions. Von Valancius returned to the bridge shortly thereafter…
The next day, Collista is issuing commands with ease and confidence. No doubt enters her voice. Solomorne isn’t surprised. She was trained as a commissar. It's as natural for them to dispatch their own, as it is for an Arbitrator to pass a judgment.
-
There’s a gymnasium on the Jovian Rising. At first, Solomorne keeps track of others’ schedules so he can use the equipment in relative peace and quiet. But he finds that he likes lifting weights in the early morning with Argenta. Sometimes Collista will make it, too, but often it’s just him and the Sister of Battle.
She’s talkative in a way that’s equal parts earnest and judgmental. Solomorne holds conversations with her because it seems cowardly to back down. He learns about her time shuttling between worlds with the Astra Militarum, the last battle her parents fought, her tenure at the Schola Progenium. When he asks her why she became a Sister rather than an Arbitrator—her will and her loyalty are clear, surely she was considered—she claims that hers is a path of faith, and his is a list of laws. He doesn’t bother trying to correct her.
There is one fault in her story that nags at him, though, and finally he has to ask her about it.
“You don’t seem troubled by the fate of Rykad Minoris,” Solomorne says one morning, when they’re both stretching.
“Of course I’m not,” Argenta says. “The Holy Exterminatus was a wonder to behold.”
“You advised the Lord Captain to rescue survivors,” Solomorne points out. “I’m surprised your support now is so… unequivocal."
Argenta looks almost embarrassed for him. “The Rogue Trader prevented the advent of a Demon World, Solomorne.”
“Yes. I think it was the right decision. I just didn’t think you thought it was.”
“What I thought before does not matter,” Argenta says. “All that matters is what has happened. Why would I remain with what never came to pass, when I am so needed in what is real?”
Solomorne has spent his career with liars and frauds. He knows when someone is hiding something, and Argenta’s words hide nothing. She is speaking an unshakeable truth that should be more comfortable for him. It is not. They stick to talking about weights after that.
-
When the Jovian Rising arrives in the Furibundis system, it makes a detour on its way to Footfall station. Altar-Templum-Calixis-Ext-17 is closed to laypeople, but the priesthood sends a shuttle out for commercial exchange. Solomorne is loitering on the bridge near the tech priests, hoping to overhear anything, when he hears Pasqal’s binharic trill.
“Rogue Trader von Valancius has extended an offer for unit Solomorne to witness the gift of the Omnissiah that has been bestowed unto her.”
“You’re a living saint, Pasqal,” Solomorne says as he rushes past him, and he swears he hears a mechanical chuckle.
He’s expecting artillery. The crew’s just had it’s first scrape with enemy voidships, and Collista never got to scratch the itch back in Rykad. But there’s no turret or tank in the loading bay. Instead, the Omnissiah’s providence comes in feather and bone.
“This one’s heads have already fought, too,” Collista says. “But it knows more protocols than the model I used to have. Not Gladiolus, but the admechs did fine work, I think.”
Her riot shield is standing upright and the cyber eagle is perched atop it. Its servitor head is preening ruffled feathers while the metal one maintains a motionless vigil.
“You’re looking for more reconnaissance capability, then?” Solomorne asks.
“Well, since I won’t have a Proctor with keen investigative instincts in my retinue…”
“Speak to the Marshall about it, Lord Captain. I don’t pick my assignments.” She truly is a Rogue Trader now, if she’s already become this dismissive of the chain of command. Collista must notice his disapproval, because she sighs.
“I will, Sol. You’ve been good to fight alongside. If you’re able and willing, that is.”
Able and willing are such vastly different qualifications that they scarcely belong in the same sentence. “You have a perfectly capable retinue,” Solomorne says.
“You know what I mean.” Solomorne says nothing. “They’re not really like us. Not even Argenta.” Silence. “I don’t know how she does it.”
The loading dock has emptied out for the most part. Solomorne angles himself so they are obscured by freight boxes, and then he says, “The Ministorium can lead to that sort of… allowance, I think. My father would always talk about the Emperor when he was being soft.”
“I thought your father was an Arbitrator, not a priest.”
“He was. He just had opinions.”
“I don’t remember my parents at all,” Collista says. “But I don’t remember any of the priests in my childhood telling us to care about orphans and rabble and the weak.”
“They didn’t need to,” Solomorne says. “It’s humanity’s animal instinct. Much more heretical than Glaito’s. The whole Imperium has to struggle with that impulse to be compassionate.”
“That’s what the Progenium was for though, right? It damn sure stamped that shitty hind-brain kindness out of us.”
He shrugs. “It did for a while. But you and I are old enough that it’s wearing off, Collie. We have to have something else to fall back on.”
Collista nods. “You fall back on the Lex.”
“Yes.” And then, when that fails, hate. Sometimes he can’t tell the difference between the two.
He waits. Collie doesn’t say anything else. Just tilts her hand against the cyber eagle’s feathered cheek. At that angle, it almost looks like the servitor’s head is nuzzling against her.