Chapter 1: The shattered glass

Schola Progenium Command Center, Terra, 772.M41

Michael reviewed the dataslate for the third time, trying to focus on the words instead of the empty chair across his desk.

Carmine had sat there two months ago, boots up on his reports despite his protests, arguing about progeni placement policies while simultaneously running three Inquisitorial investigations. She'd made it look effortless—the multitasking, the irreverence masking deadly competence, the way she could make him laugh even when discussing the driest administrative minutiae.

Now the chair was empty. Would stay empty.

Focus, Goldenrod. You have work.

The dataslate showed the outgoing Sororitas detachment's final report. The detachment from the Order of the Sacred Rose, who'd provided his bodyguard detail for the past six years, were being reassigned to active combat duty in Segmentum Tempestus. They'd requested the transfer—repeatedly, with increasing emphasis—until he'd finally approved it.

"We're warriors, Commandant," their Palatine had said bluntly. "Not nursemaids for bureaucrats. With respect."

He hadn't taken offense. They were right. Terra was safe. His position was administrative. A Sororitas detail was overkill for protecting a Schola Commandant who spent most of his time reviewing training reports and arguing with Munitorum officials. Except when there were corrupt High lords of Terra afoot, but you could trust Regent Guilliman to deal with those.

Except he wasn't just a Schola Commandant anymore.

Senator Goldenrod. Member of the Senatorium Imperialis. Target of at least one successful assassination conspiracy, with Emperor-knew-how-many others waiting for opportunities.

Hence the replacement detail.

Michael set down the outgoing report and picked up the incoming one. Much thinner. Most of it was casualty lists.

Order of the Shattered Glass. Damascus Sulci Sanctum Wardens, Twelfth Company. Status: Decimated. Survivors: Five. Redeployment: Terra, Schola Progenium Bodyguard Detail.

Five. Out of forty-seven.

He read the combat report. He read it again.

Enceladus. Saturn's ice moon, hosting a Grey Knights fortress and a corrupt Lord High Admiral who'd needed... removal. The details were sealed under Inquisitorial authority—Carmine's authority, which he'd inherited along with her unfinished investigations and the grief—but the combat assessment wasn't.

Diversionary Attack: Chaos forces assault Damascus Sulci fortress. Forty-seven Battle Sisters hold position for forty-three hours against continuous assault while primary target—Grey Knights fortress—receives reinforcement. Final casualty count: Forty-two Sisters KIA. Five Sisters critically wounded, recovered by Grey Knights.

Forty-three hours.

He'd held positions before. Knew what forty-three hours of continuous combat felt like. The exhaustion, the desperation, watching your soldiers die one by one while you tried to keep the line intact.

These women had done it on an ice moon. In void-sealed armor, not even powered armor. Against forces that should have overrun them in the first hour.

A soft chime. His door.

"Enter."

Captain-Commissar Friedrich Fabuloso, his adjutant, stepped in with proper military precision. Behind him—

Good grief.

Four women in the distinctive armor of the Adepta Sororitas. One slightly ahead of the others, a single line of platinum trim marking her rank. All of them moving like they expected attack from any direction. Combat-ready even here, in the heart of the Imperial Palace.

Survivors moved differently than soldiers who'd never faced real danger. These women had the look.

"Commandant," Friedrich said formally. "Canoness Leilani Serendib Planitia and the Damascus Sulci Sanctum Wardens, reporting for duty."

Michael stood, setting the dataslate aside. "Canoness. Welcome to Terra."

The lead Sister—Leilani—removed her helmet with practiced efficiency. Dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, skin that spoke of a warm homeworld before the Schola had claimed her, and eyes that were currently cataloging every detail of his office with professional precision.

Pretty eyes, actually. Warm brown with—

Stop. Professional distance. You're her commanding officer, and close to three times her age!

"Commandant Goldenrod." Her voice was measured, controlled. "We are honored to serve. Though I confess some confusion about the assignment."

"Confusion?"

"We requested frontline redeployment. Combat operations. Not..." She glanced around his office—books, dataslates, a small shrine to the Emperor in the corner, his cap Aquila resting on the desk. "...administrative protection duty."

Blunt. He appreciated that.

"I didn't request a bodyguard detail either," Michael said. "The Senate did. After certain... incidents.  Then they squabbled for a week.  They stopped, when the Abbess Sanctorum told them she'd assign me a squad, since I was after all, under the remit of the Ecclesiarch, and she was responsible for the military safety of every troop under him."

"The Nibali conspiracy." Not a question. She'd been briefed.

"Among others." He gestured to the chairs. "Please, sit. You've been traveling for—" he checked the dataslate "—six days. You should be exhausted."

"We're Sororitas, Commandant. Exhaustion is irrelevant to duty."

"Canoness, you held a fortress for forty-three hours against continuous assault. You're allowed to be tired, to be human.  The Emperor protects, he certainly protected you then, but he did not remake you the way he did his Custodes." I'm allowed to require you to rest, instead of pretending you're able, he wanted to blurt out. "Please sit, and disperse your troop outside, two at attention, the others within ready distance."

Something flickered in her expression. Surprise? Or maybe just the simple acknowledgment that he'd read the report, understood what it meant.  "As you say, Commandant." She settled into the chair—not Carmine's chair, the one beside it—with military posture. Then she handjived at the troops, and they melted away. 

Michael forced his attention back to professional matters. "I've reviewed your combat records. All of you. Exemplary service. The Grey Knights' commendation was particularly notable."

"We did our duty. Nothing more."

"You held against forces that should have killed you in the first hour. For forty-three hours. That's considerably more than 'nothing more.' And a unit that formally doesn't exist, that you need inquisitorial permission to even know is real, says 'these are real warriors, too valuable to mindwipe or kill just because they know our secret'."

"Forty-two of my Sisters did not survive to hear your praise, Commandant." Her voice remained level, controlled, but something underneath—grief, rage, both—bled through. "I'd rather the angels of death had sent sufficient reinforcements than honor them posthumously to be honest."

Michael met her eyes. Saw the survivor's guilt there, raw and familiar.  "Your Sisters' sacrifice bought time for the Grey Knights to repel a major Chaos incursion. Their deaths had meaning. Purpose. That's all any of us can hope for in the Emperor's service." He paused. "And you're right. You didn't have a choice. Duty rarely gives us that courtesy. But you chose to hold anyway. That matters.  The Grey Knights reinforced you with all they had to spare, they're spread all over Sol System, as I'm sure you know."

Silence. Leilani studying him with those warm brown eyes—

Stop noticing. Focus on the briefing.

"Your duty here is straightforward," Michael continued, pulling up a tactical display. "Personal protection, primarily. I spend most of my time on Terra—Schola facilities, Senate meetings, occasional Imperial Palace functions. Low threat environment, theoretically."

"Theoretically?"

"Nibali proved that Terra isn't as safe as we'd like to believe. His conspiracy had tentacles throughout the Senatorium, the Munitorum, even the Inquisition. We've purged the obvious corruption, but..." He touched his cap Aquila unconsciously. "Carmine believed it went deeper. That Nibali was just one servant of a larger threat."

"The daemon." Again, not a question. Definitely briefed.

"Klammordian-the-Secret-Unknown. Greater Daemon of The Changer of the Ways."  Even naming such a demon was not safe, naming his patron?  If it was safe, it could still land you an interrogation from an Inquisitor who'd wonder how you knew it... "We're investigating, but these things take time. Until we know the scope of the conspiracy, everyone involved is a potential target."

"Including you."

"Especially me. Carmine left me her investigation files. Her authority, in some matters. Her unfinished business." He smiled without humor. "Lucky me."

"Commandant, with respect, if you're hunting a Greater Daemon, why aren't we deploying for combat operations?"

"Because I'm not hunting anything yet. I'm investigating. Gathering intelligence. Coordinating with the Ordo Malleus and what's left of Carmine's network. When—if—we locate Klammordian's manifestation point, there will be combat. But until then, it's research and politics. The exciting life of a Senator."

The Sister didn't look satisfied, but nodded acceptance.

"Your quarters are in the Schola's east wing," Michael continued. "Officer accommodations, privacy and training facilities included. You'll coordinate with Cadet-Commissar Fabuloso on daily schedules. I keep relatively predictable hours—"

"Predictable schedules create vulnerability," Leilani interrupted.

"Welcome to administrative life. I can't skip Senate sessions because it might be tactically suboptimal."

"Then we'll adapt." She stood, helmet back under her arm. "Commandant, one question."

"Yes?"

"Why us? Specifically. There are dozens of Sororitas Orders who could provide bodyguard details. Why assign a decimated unit to protection duty on Terra when you just acknowledged we're survivors of heavy combat?"

It was a good question. The kind of question a competent officer asked when assignments didn't make tactical sense.

"Because I read your report," Michael said quietly. "All of it. Including the parts about the environmental damage—the frostbite, the hypothermia injuries, the respiratory trauma from Enceladus's atmosphere. Your Order needs time to heal. Physically and—" he met her eyes "—in other ways. Terra provides that time. Safe environment, access to the best medicae facilities in the Imperium, light duty that lets you recover."

"We don't need—"

"Yes, you do. And I'm not asking. Your Canoness Commander agreed to this assignment specifically because someone needs to make sure you actually recover before throwing yourselves back into combat. Consider it a gift. Or an order. Whichever you'll actually obey."

Leilani's jaw tightened. For a moment he thought she'd argue. Then—

"As you command, Commandant. We serve."

"Good. Dismissed. Get settled. We'll begin proper duty rotations tomorrow. And Canoness?"

She paused at the door. "Yes?"

"Welcome to Terra. I hope it's boring.  But I, for one, will sleep better knowing you're here."

After they left, Michael sat back down and stared at the empty chair across from him.

Good grief, Goldenrod. Her image was dancing in his mind's eye, every curve, every bit of warmth in her eyes.

Professional distance. She's your subordinate. She's Sororitas. She just lost forty-two Sisters. The absolute last thing she needs is her commanding officer noticing—

STOP.

He pulled up the next report. Forced himself to read. Focused on supply requisitions and training schedules and anything other than warm brown eyes and the curve of a warrior's stance.

It was going to be a long assignment.

Later that evening. East Wing, Sororitas Quarters.

Leilani removed her armor piece by piece, methodical routine that let her process the day.

The Commandant was not what she'd expected.

Older, obviously. Lines around his eyes, despite juvenat treatments, they were provided to someone at that level, grief sitting heavy on his shoulders. Recent loss—the Inquisitor he'd mentioned, Carmine Petit. The woman whose investigation Leilani had briefly crossed paths with on Enceladus, when Inquisitor Petit and Interrogator Spinoza had been investigating the corrupt admiral.

Smart woman. Competent investigator. Dead now, like so many competent servants of the Emperor.

But the Commandant... there was something in the way he'd looked at her. Not the way most Imperial officials looked at Sororitas—either reverent awe or uncomfortable wariness. He'd looked at her like a person. A soldier. Someone who'd seen things she hadn't understood, but he did.

The way he'd read their report. Actually read it. Understood what forty-three hours meant.

"Boss?" Sister Maryam, the youngest of their survivors, stood in the doorway. "Thoughts?"

"He seems competent."

"For a bureaucrat."

"He's a Senator now, but he was a Captain-Commissar for decades. Combat veteran. He understands.  Then he was a general-commissar, made sure the second front of the Sabbat Crusade was firm, millions of troops were his to sacrifice or call 'too valuable to cull'."

Sister Keiko—the youngest—grunted agreement. "Read the citation for his Triple-Skull-with-bar if you haven't. Man knows how to fight.  He's replenished an entire regiment from five survivors, once."

"Then why are we here watching him shuffle reports?" Maryam's frustration was clear.

"Because the Emperor wills it," Leilani said automatically. Then, more honestly: "Because he's right. We need recovery time, I'm even dreaming of reinforcement. And because a Chaos daemon's conspiracy targeted Terra itself. That's not small stakes.  Because the great enemy tried to kill him, and many he calls dear, and fell short."

Sister Ahn, the quietest of them, spoke from where she was cleaning her bolter. "He looked at you."

Leilani stilled. "He looked at all of us. Briefing."

"No. He looked at you. Different."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. Keiko?"

Keiko shrugged. "Maybe? Hard to tell. But there was something."

"There was nothing," Leilani said firmly. "The Commandant is a professional. We're his bodyguard detail. That's all."

Maryam grinned. "He's not bad looking for an old man. Senator, war hero, apparently writes philosophy books—  He knows we'll be training on a schedule, he cleared us his own facility for same, not just any facility, his own gymnasium."

"Enough." Leilani's voice cut through the speculation. "We are here to serve. To protect. To do our duty. Not to..." She searched for words. "...speculate about our commanding officer's personal life or make inappropriate observations about—"

"You're blushing, Superior," Slava, Leilani's choice for second-in-command, observed.

"I am not."

"You are." Maryam was definitely grinning now. "Under all that discipline and Sororitas training, our Canoness is blushing."

Leilani turned away, ostensibly to inspect her armor. Definitely not because her face felt warm.

"Prayer and meditation. All of you. We begin duty rotations tomorrow and I expect professional comportment."

"Yes, Canoness," they chorused, still amused.

After they left, Leilani stood alone in her quarters, touching the Aquila pendant that matched her sister Meilana's, wherever she was.

He did look at me. Just for a moment. A flicker of something—interest? Awareness?—before he controlled it.

The Emperor tests us in many ways. Duty. Faith. Sacrifice.

Apparently also by giving us commanding officers who look at us like—

NO. Stop. Focus on duty. On protection. On service.

Not on warm eyes that understood loss without her having to explain it.

Not on the way he'd touched that cap Aquila when mentioning the dead Inquisitor.

Not on the quiet strength in his voice when he'd said her Sisters' deaths had meaning.

Good grief.

She blinked. Where had that phrase come from?

The Commandant had said it. Earlier, so quietly she'd barely caught it. Some verbal habit, probably.

Leilani shook her head and began her evening prayers.

It was going to be a long assignment.

Knowing the secret, chapter 1.1: Was nothing sacred?

Michael barely held onto his temper, these women were manipulating him!

"Does it matter?" A tiny voice whispered, deep inside him.

"Are you that important, really?" Another voice, the one that always kept him humble, the voice of Michael being just Michael, had interjected.

That stopped him for a full minute.  Was anything he did that important, or was he just the candidate that the other senators objected to, the least?  Arr, why wasn't his life more simple, why did he even end up a senator?  He was just a commissar, someone who helped others find motivation, who fought for what's right!

'Oh, what's this?'  An internal memo by Lord-Commissar Dumont about him refusing to accept any more cadets for a bit, as it was a death sentence to take a cadet into such a brutal warzone...  "Hmm, I can't have that." He thought to himself, cadets need the apprenticeship.  But I can't just order him to take them either. Ah! That's the solution.

'I'll take your next cadet, then Lord-Commissar.' He wrote the dissident officer.  'Have him replace one of the rotation of prefectus officers in my honour guard.'

The internal memo came as soon as the next ship, along with the cadet himself, in the palace antechamber.  Michael had read the memo, then decided to be the bigger person, and welcome the junior commissar himself, even if he had two full Commissars who could have done it.  The man had been in the palace antechamber for four hours, standing.

'Cadet-Commissar Friedrich Fabuloso reporting for duty, Sir!"  The youngster's eyes had gone wide at seeing Michael's salad bar of medals, the triple-skull-with-bar never ceased to impress.

"At ease, cadet, walk with me." 

"Yes Sir!" Michael led, and Friedrich followed, struggling to not step over Michael's cloak.  Then they arrived at the small Office of the Commandant, the copy that was in the palace, not the original halfway across the world back in Springfield Schola Progenium.

"Friedrich, I'm told you're the valedictorian of this year's class of commissars, a very sharp cookie."

"I'd like to think so Sir!  But I still have much to learn."

"Tell me what your class material says about the presence of Commissars in my detail."

"It's a political function, sir.  We depend on the schola for recruitment, training, indoctrination.  In return, we send out meritant commissars to your detail, highlighting them for the people you interact with."

"Like who?"

"Well, you interact with every General-Commissar that needs to replace losses, every Drill-Abbot, and the odd Senator..."

"Ah, why is that important?"

"Hmm, I don't know, but the book says..."

"Ahh... Well the book is giving you a red herring here..."

"I'm sorry Sir?"

"Only a few senators actually care about Commissars, those who are directors of the Departmento Munitorum.  They can prevail on even a General-Commissar on certain things."

"Ah, yes Sir."  He'd no idea who was a director, so far.

"I'll highlight any such persons to you in my briefing materials, Friedrich.  Some are from the Mechanicus, some are from the Administratum, some claim munitorum membership first.  All of them are tasked with the teeming mass that is the Astra Militarum, making sure it's staffed, fed, supplied, and supplied with intelligence and orders."

"Thank you for that sir."

"Do you have any questions, Friedrich?"

"Why a cadet, Sir, why now?  I might be the valedictorian, but I'm also the first Cadet in living memory to land this sweet, sweet detail."

"Because I told Dumont I'd do it.  Because it's safer than any warzone posting, and all cadets need to lean on someone more senior.  Because you're smart, but not too arrogant to be useful."

"Thank you for your candor sir."

Friedrich was having a cup of recaf in the break room, when Seraphim Slava walked in.  The darkly-tanned statuesque woman's muscles flexed under her armor as she reached for the instant oatmeal packet, poured hot water on it, and waited three minutes, not paying him any mind until she noticed he was occupying one of the only two small tables in the room, and had to decide if she wanted company.

Friedrich just piped up, he'd always been a garrulous sort: "Sister, honour to serve!"

Slava pondered that, he was greener than any novitiate would be let out of the convents, but he was well-spoken, and the cordial greeting was better than she'd gotten from his more senior commissar colleagues the first time she met them.  Then she had destroyed them at arm-wrestling, and their tone had become equally cordial.  "Commissar."  She extended a small olive branch by not calling him 'cadet'.  She pegged him as a Fabio, he'd not given her his name...

"Would you share my table? I hear your sisters form the largest contingent in the Commandant's detail right now."

"There's only five of us.  Are we really the largest?"

"Yes, two Navy Officers, one Custode, one Sister of Silence, three Commissars."  He paused.  "Albeit one's still a cadet.  One Arbite, two Tempestors."  He used their correct title, not just these famous stormtroopers, but unit leaders in that august unit. "And five Sororitas."

"We're under strength, we normally rotate a full section, not just individuals, unlike these others."

"Wow!  A full section, so eleven?  Don't these facilities appear to be a bit small for twenty-one guards?"

"I believe the facility is rated for twenty-one, if only barely.  None of my sisters has complained, that I know of."

"I'm sure they see the honour of this assignment."

"Most of us would rather be on the front lines, really."

"I hear that's true of all the orders militant."

"What are you implying about the other orders, cadet?"  She winced at her own sharp tone.

"Nothing negative, I'm sure they're just as zealous about their non-combat duties as the orders militant are with their combat ones..."

"Ah, showing off?"  She meant his knowledge of the orders, not that many commissars bothered to notice anything not in their faces.

"Err, no, I'd not dare.  Just making conversation."  He finished his cup. "I should make a fresh pot, can I get you a cup?"

"No, thank you, I'm quitting recaf, I overdid it, and it affected my aim."

"Oh, unfortunate.  I do enjoy the taste."

"So did I."