whew: digging out

Question: What does a full night of freezing rain, sleet and snow give you?

Answer: A ninety minute exercise in digging your way out to the curb - in a di minimus way, at that.

And that says nothing about the ice berm thrown up by the plow.  At least the precipitation stopped and it's above freezing - thirty six degrees feels like beach weather compared to what we've had.

Remember, dear readers, bend from the knees, don't hold your breath while you throw the snow, and take breaks.  I'd hate to see you drop of a heart attack.

office: dioramas

reflection: the brief moment of opportunity

As I was walking home last night, I was able to experience the moment in which the sky fades from dark blue to black. I found that moment, that fleeting instant, both strangely sad and very motivating.

Product management means a lot of things to a lot of people, but in that moment I had a new vision of the role of product management.

To make it possible for organizations to capture a moment of opportunity in the marketplace before that moment is gone forever.

Being present to that moment requires a certain stillness, a focus on what is important now, and a willingness to act with authority and clear vision.

Even if you weren't looking for that moment, when it comes, you must be prepared to move.

Because the sky will fade from blue to back whether you decide to take a picture of it or not.

choice: $50 or $500 per user

We all saw it coming.

"Google Apps Premier Edition is available for $50 per user account per year, and includes phone support, additional storage, and a new set of administration and business integration capabilities." (source)

And what does your $50 buy you?

10 gigabytes of storage per user
APIs for business integration (e.g. data migration, user provisioning, single sign-on, and mail gateways)
99.9 % uptime
24x7 support for critical issues
Gmail for mobile devices on BlackBerry.

Surprisingly, Google is making advertising "optional" for these business accounts.

Release the hounds.

boo: chodorow v. bruni/platt

(for updates, scroll down)

The Wednesday New York Times features the Dining In/Dining Out section, another great reason to love Wednesdays.

But today's weekly reading destination featured something more than I bargained for: a full-page "letter" from none other than Jeffrey Chodorow. Or as New York Times food critic Frank Bruni described him two weeks ago in his review of Kobe Club, "restaurateur and gimmick maestro Jeffrey Chodorow".

Why the letter? Let's take a look at Bruni's review of Kobe Club, which he described as follows:

Although Kobe Club does right by the fabled flesh for which it’s named, it presents too many insipid or insulting dishes at prices that draw blood from anyone without a trust fund or an expense account.

Ding, no stars for you. No stars! In NYT food review parlance, this translates as "poor to satisfactory".

It's not as if Bruni is the only "serious food critic" to wake up to the hideous excesses of Kobe Club. Adam Platt over at New York Magazine described Kobe Club as follows in his own no-stars review:

The sheer novelty of a steakhouse devoted solely to Kobe beef compelled your faithful critic to name the restaurant one of the city’s top new steakhouses in the magazine’s annual roundup of the best new places to eat in 2007. This was an error. On further inspection, Mr. Chodorow’s restaurant seems to me less like a steakhouse than a bizarre agglomeration of restaurant fashions and trends, most of them bad.

I'll spare you any of embarrassing details of Chodorow's rant. Instead, I'll reference comments offered by The Gobbler (Adam Platt's nom du forchette) over at New York Restaurants (an offshoot of New York Magazine):

. . .Knowledgeable restaurant critics don’t have to be former cooks any more than good movie critics have to be former actors. They write from the perspective of the paying customer, and like Mr. Bruni, the Gobbler has eaten more meals in the last few years than Mr. Chodorow would probably care to contemplate. It was the Gobbler’s measured opinion (and Bruni’s) that if you want a good steak, you might want to spend your money somewhere other than Kobe Club. If Mr. Chodorow really wants to dispute this view in an informed way, then he should do exactly what he threatens to do. He should strap on the old feed bag and start pigging out.

To his great credit, The Gobbler got Chodorow on the phone and managed to capture another outburst of petulant sour grapes, including this absolutely stunning comment:

[Food] reviewers aren’t held to nearly the same level of fact-checking standards as the newspaper reporters.

Translated: A food critic's editor needs to not only go back in time but find a way to invade the sensorium of the food critic to confirm that the tuna "porterhouse" the reviewer ate really was as big as a car battery and really was devoid of taste. Ridiculous.

To my thinking, Chodorow doth protest too much. Or maybe restaurant guys feel the same need to fire off "open letters" that DRM CEOs do.

At least Chodorow has embraced the quis custodiet ipsos custodes ethic with his new blog. Stay tuned.

For the Pro-Chodorow POV, see also Gawker, Opionated about Dining and eGullet
For the neutral POV, see also Chip Griffin: Pardon the Interruption
For the anti-Chodorow POV, see also The Eater

___

Update 1:

Frank Bruni responds kindly to Chodorow - well done, Frank! Take the high road. It's got a better view.

Best headline: "Hell has no fury like a restaurant scored"

Grub Street gives The Spat a Name - Chodogate - and even goes so far as to flag two of Chorodow's "good reviewers" as "on the take". Wow!

Gothamist digs deeper, highlights comments left on the Chodoblog. My favorite:

"You want vindication? Have Ruth Reichl review Kobe Club. Just be careful what you wish for."

Update 2:

Seems that the Chodoblog is censoring comments to "accentuate the positive". If Chodorow's argument against Bruni and Platt had even a shred of credibility left, it's gone now.

lesson: cultivate good enemies

Living in the midwest for a while has taught me the value of building good relationships. It's also taught me the value of cultivating good enemies.





Good enemies:

1. Behave in a consistently unreasonable manner.

2. Have a narrow vision of what success is.

3. React to minimal sets of information and stimulus by creating maximum amounts of noise (preferably by email).

4. Don't admit failure or loss.

5. Gossip incessantly.

It's the last one that can cause you trouble, but with good allies and (more importantly) a good track record and (even more importantly) good reasons for doing what you've done, attributes 1-4 will offset the negative vibe caused by number 5. Ultimately, what they say will stop making any difference.

The challenge behind cultivating good enemies is to have good allies, and to never, ever go on the defensive. The second they see that you're bowing down to them, you're done. This is not to say that you should never admit it when you are wrong. Doing so in a forthright, reasonable way is a sign of maturity. Just make sure not to fail the same way twice.

Ultimately good enemies make you look good the same way good allies do, because you can be defined (in a kind of food-free Brillat-Savarin way) by the sort of people who stand against you almost as well as by the people who stand with you.

Time for some wine.

gear: the dalvey drinking cup

Because sometimes it just doesn't look good to take a big fat slug from that fifth of Wild Turkey you've got tucked into the right pocket of your cargo pants. Why not "class up" by breaking out your stainless steel, telescoping Dalvey drinking cup instead? Your hunting buddies will wonder a) where you got it and b) what the hell turned you into such a fruit.

($80 from 1, 2 and 3)

monocle: a "new, global, euro-based media brand"

Eamonn Fitzgerald writes, "If you read The New Yorker, Vanity Fair and The Economist, you're in the Monocle zone."



How's this for a whopper of a vision statement: founder, notorious wunderkind and cooked custard fan Tyler Brûlé says that the freshly-launched Monocle "mook" (magazine/book) will "focus on informing and entertaining an international audience of disillusioned readers, listeners and viewers," with the intention "to create a community of the most interested and interesting people in the world." Shazam!

As a Big Fan of the FT weekend magazine, it's going to take some work for Tyler's new oeuvre du moment to win me over - especially at 75 quid a year. Let's look at how he describes the five main sections of Monocle: Affairs, Business, Culture, Design & Edits (can you spot the Hidden Pattern?)

(section texts quoted from here)

Affairs - A global mix of reportage, essays and interviews with the forces shaping geopolitics.

Section A's lead stories are big, visual and smart. Told by the best writers and captured by fresh photographic talent, the Affairs section of the magazine will set an agenda in newsrooms around the world. Alongside big features there will also be smaller dispatches filed from our network of bureaux and stringers.

OK, I'm on board so far. I like that he's using "bureaux". It's reverse Franglais.

Business - Devoted to identifying opportunities and inspiring the reader.

While keeping an eye on the big stories, Monocle is more concerned with reporting on Slovenia's emerging wine business, on the runaway success of a certain South American airline and the rise of Valencia as a new creative hub. Where other titles seem solely interested in its billionaires and share prices, Monocle's business coverage will champion the small and interesting as much as the massive and muscular.

I wonder just how he was able to divine the subtle differences in appeal between Slovenian wines and Valencian creative urges. Unless he's got a problem with Valencia, or South American planes. To be fair, who doesn't, especially those nasty massive, muscular South African planes landing in Valencia. None of which serve Slovenian wines. . .wines which are fairly shuddering with vibrant, Slovenly flavors. Or was that flavours.

Culture - With a tight group of opinionated columnists, reviewers and interviewers, it delivers the best in film, television, music, media and art.

The culture component of the magazine is dedicated to delivering all that's new from all corners of the world. This section's edit team will be committed to ensuring that reader's dinner guests will always ask 'where did that track come from?' moreover, it will be about culture in the truest sense and not be a forum for covering played-out celebrities.

Judging the razor-thin moment between when a celebrity is "on the rise" and when the same celebrity becomes "played out" might be a tad difficult given the publication schedule of Monocle. The tight group of Monocle's culture opinioneers will have to deal with the rude fact that most of the celebrities of interest will very likely ascend and descend before the next issues goes to bed. Sic temper clarus.

Design - Bypassing hype, design is dedicated to unearting emerging and established talent.

Driven by a group of international contributors, Monocle's mandate is to cover fashion, industrial design and architecture from around the world and cover territory that other titles miss. For people in the industry, it will bring their world to life. For people who are interested in everything from automative design to retail architecture it will keep them ahead of the curve, their wardrobes well stocked and their buiders busy.

This is the point where the train starts to come off the tracks, spilling the unwashed, unhip masses onto the rails. The claim that Monocle's design content "will bring my world to life" and "keep me ahead of the curve" without simultaneously promising that same content will also "grow hair" and "bring my dog back to life" strains credulity.

But wait, there's more. . .

Edits - Bite-sized and thought provoking, Edits are vital life improvements curated in a fast-paced well-researched collection.

A concise, opinionated narrative that covers all the essentials of daily life, the wine to buy, the best Korean massages, the emerging neighbourhoods to invest in and the books to take on holiday. In short it's all about the buy and sell.

This is the Monocle reader - someone who is going on vacation, considering a second home, debating the relative merits of different Korean massage providers (with or without kimchee), while at the same time searching for a way to stay "ahead of the curve" by boning up on Slovenian wines, pre-descent celebrities and newly-minted music.

Were it not for the promise of the very first section - Affairs - I'd pass. Now the challenge is to find a copy. . .

(All that said, the website does look quite good.)

riddle: what comes first - vision or positioning?

Consider the following (my italics):

"You must know clearly who you are before you can tell anyone who you want them to think you are. . . A vision expresses a brand's place in its world. It articulates a brand's reason for being."

(From brandchannel.com)

"Many people misunderstand the role of communication in business and politics today. In our over-communicated society, very little communication actually takes place. Rather, a company must create a 'position' in the prospect's mind. A position that takes into consideration not only a company's own strengths and weaknesses, but those of its competitors as well."

(From Positioning: The Battle for Your Mind by Al Ries & Jack Trout)

If a vision "expresses a brand's place in the world" and positioning "takes into consideration not only a company's own strengths and weaknesses, but those of its competitors as well", aren't those essentially the same thing?

So riddle me this. Which comes first - vision or positioning? Can you articulate a meaningful vision that doesn't have aspects of positioning creep into it? If your company is identified very closely with a single product or solution, can you really separate your vision from your positioning? Should your vision be pragmatic and acknowledge the realities of the marketplace, or must it be something more. . . visionary?

Here's my take - the vision should be provocative. It should challenge the status quo. It should be straight-forward and compelling. It should describe a destination worthy of effort and sacrifice. It should ring of truth.

When John Winthrop (1588-1649) wrote "For we must consider that we shall be as a City upon a hill" he could not have anticipated that President Reagan would adopt it as his guiding vision. In his farewell address to the nation, Reagan illustrated the final quality of a good vision - you should be able to imagine a world in which the vision comes true:

I've spoken of the shining city all my political life, but I don't know if I ever quite communicated what I saw when I said it. But in my mind it was a tall proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, wind-swept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace, a city with free ports that hummed with commerce and creativity, and if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here. That's how I saw it and see it still.

So a vision is provocative, challenging, straight-forward, compelling, worthy of sacrifice, and above all, intuitively desirable.

Positioning is how you convince everyone that your vision describes a better way of solving their problems than someone else's vision.

Which only goes to illustrate why your vision shouldn't sound like this:

We envision to seamlessly simplify unique leadership skills so that we may endeavor to competently initiate timely benefits because that is what the customer expects.

You can't have credible positioning without a compelling vision, QED. And for gosh sakes, make the vision big enough to suck all the air out of the room. As someone much smarter (and much more funky) than I once said, "If you're going to rob a bank, rob a big one."

milestone: 100 subscribers

Over the last year I've been careful not to get too worked up either positively or negatively over my readership numbers. "I'm in this for the long-haul," I intone. "I need to write as if I'm writing for just a single person, not hundreds," I repeat.

"I really wish I could figure out how to make Gnocchi Parisienne rise," I interrupt.

So it is with some small satisfaction that I may report to you, my dear reader, that out there in the vast wasteland of the intrawebs are numbered one hundred individuals of discerning taste and discriminating sensibilities who, contrary to their better judgement judgment, have generously elected to subscribe to my feed. Yes, that one over there to the right.

I know this through the magic of Feedburner.

And now, onward to my second hundred. And then on to three hundred. A short hop to three hundred and fifty will allow me, dear reader, to reply as follows to an inquiry into the number of subscribers to ack/nak:

"Tree fitty."

Do your part - tell a friend. Help me get to tree fitty.

Thank you.

dinner: take time to make something

I'm lucky to work with people who also like to cook - come Friday, a common question around the office is (wait for it. . .) "what are you cooking this weekend?"

The first time I was asked my reply was "why do you ask?"

"Because you'll have time to make something good," was the answer.

Ignoring the koan hidden in this exchange, it seemed to make sense. So I've been taking time each weekend to actually make something for dinner.

For example, last night I made veal scallopini with sage, capers and pine nuts, braised rainbow chard with garlic and some spaetzle.

This evening I made Jacques Pepin's Gnocchi Parisienne and a green salad with fresh vinaigrette.

The efforts of each evening were pretty easy, took less than 2 hours end-to-end (mise to clearing the table) and were accompanied by cheap (but good) Australian Shiraz. Both cost dramatically less than eating out.

Both gave us (my wife and I) a chance to talk while I cooked, both gave us a chance to linger over dinner and talk about "what worked and what I can try next time", and both were total zeros with the kids.

And both reminded me of the incredibly civilizing effect sitting at the dinner table has on a family, and by extension, on our society.

I was lucky enough to have a father who, despite pressures to the contrary, made a point of coming home for dinner each and every evening. And while I didn't think I was all that lucky at the time, I now know how lucky I was that he (and my mother) insisted that my four brothers and I sit down and eat dinner together.

Remarkably, my wife enjoyed the same good fortune growing up - so it is no surprise that we hold "the dinner hour" as something sacred chez nous.

Jim Foxworthy and I talked about this at dinner a month ago. He spoke in great detail, and with great urgency, about the importance of this "moment" for a family. In the face of many distractions and competing priorities, making time to sit together and eat - hopefully over a half-way decent dinner - is truly important.

So let me know what you made this weekend. And if you had the great and good fortune to share it with someone.

Now if only I can get those gnocchi to rise next time. . .

thoughts: the macrovision DRM letter

As a former MVSN employee, it was painful to read certain interpretations of Fred Amoroso's response to Steve Jobs' open letter. The MVSN strategy that's been unfolding for the last year starts (but does not end) with DRM, so it's a shame to see them painted exclusively as a "DRM vendor". It sells their vision short.

Note - none of what I'm writing here is proprietary information. I learned that lesson a long time ago.

The company hopes, as they describe in their PR, to help manufacturers of digital goods "protect, enhance and distribute" their products to "maximize revenue". That sounds good, but what does it mean? Let's look at some parts of their portfolio to find out.

"Protect" can be loosely translated as DRM. eMeta products are used to provide "access rights management" for the delivery of on-line content. The venerable FLEXnet Publisher (formerly FLEXlm) is about providing "access rights management" for packaged software. The portfolio of IP and services the company sells the movie industry is about providing "access rights management" for DVDs.

The thesis is that people creating digital goods won't go to market unless they can guarantee that their products will only be used by the people who are authorized to use them. Unless a customer's business plan calls for the explicit absence of DRM, an entirely valid approach. That's an argument for another day.

But when you add "enhance" and "distribute" to the MVSN solution stack, you see that the company is not just interested in DRM. For example, the company has a product from its InstallShield acquisition called FLEXnet Connect (formerly Update Service) that enhances software by adding a remote "update" hook to deployed software. And the Mediabolic capabilities are "software solutions for connected consumer electronics devices such as televisions, set-top boxes and digital video recorders". I'm sure they have other goodies that contribute to this vision. They certainly have a large amount of cash to execute on it - $438.7 million at the end of 2006. And their recently-reported revenue surge doesn't hurt either.

An end-to-end solution stack that connects manufacturers of all forms of digital goods to consumers is a big vision. I am a fan of big visions. I wish them good luck.

But I will humbly submit the following as a good-natured tweak to my former marketing colleagues:

Wikipedia describes the Flesch-Kinkaid Readability Test as follows:

As a rule of thumb, scores of 90.0–100.0 are considered easily understandable by an average 5th grader. 8th and 9th grade students could easily understand passages with a score of 60–70, and passages with results of 0–30 are best understood by college graduates. Reader's Digest magazine has a readability index of about 65, Time magazine scores about 52, and the Harvard Law Review has a general readability score in the low 30s.

Most states require insurance forms to score 40–50 on the test.

The Jobs Letter:

Flesch-Kinkaid Reading Level: 12
Flesch Reading Ease: 43.9

The Macrovision Response:

Flesch-Kinkaid Reading Level: 12
Flesch Reading Ease: 27.5

commuting: walk therapy

With the arctic freeze that's been whistling through Chicago (and me) of late, it's hard to feel good about my 1/2 mile walk in the morning and evening.

But in all honesty, I do feel good about it.

Where before my commute was mostly car, now it's just the barest whisper of car, with equal parts train and walking.

The train gives me an opportunity to think without having to dodge the FIBs.

The walk gives me an opportunity to "not think". I see that element of my commute as "walk therapy", a chance to let the frustrations, joys, hurts or thrills of the day percolate themselves out of me one step at a time, so that when I sit down on the train I'm leveled off emotionally and ready to think without the disruptive haze of emotion.

It's also helped me lose weight, but that's another story.



It also lets you see things you miss when your only view of the world is through a windshield.

pricing: simplicity wins

In angst: chinese menu pricing I wrote:

I always figured, worry first about getting the product into the hands of customers, learn about how customers want to buy it, then find a pricing model that makes this happen. That's a start.

A few weeks ago I gave a brief talk at work in which I used the metaphor of "pricing knobs", accompanied by a visual aid that I'll teach you how to use: Put your arms up in the air as if you were grasping a huge. . .knob. Now pretend you're turning it left. Now turn it right.

Now that's what I'm talking about - think big knobs. Simple, cartoonish, elegant in their immediate relevancy. Once your product has been in the customer's hands for a while, you get a feel for which of those knobs make the most sense.

Now here's a second exercise. After you've done the "turning the knob" act. This is not easily done for high-velocity consumer goods, like, say, installation software. But it works like a champ for the sort of stuff I've got in my bag these days.

• Choose a single, unifying metric that is shared among all prospects in your target market.
• Calculate "dollars per metric".
• Put "metric" in the numerator and "dollars per metric" in the denominator.
• Do a scatter chart - and mark "deals that closed" in blue, and "deals that didn't close" in red.
• Now map deals in the funnel.
• Now add "time in funnel" and see if that maps inversely to price.
• Repeat for all other common metrics.

It's amazing what you learn. Simplicity in a pricing model - pricing your product at $x/whatever - may seem like a Marketing 101 breakthrough, but in the face of artificially-tiered, volume-curved, multiple-metric pricing schemes, it may just differentiate you from your more "sophisticated" competitors.

A simple pricing model that is proven out by an analysis of "deals that closed" is hard to refute. Just make sure you know if you're selling to pre-chasm or post-chasm types. Pre-chasm will pay just about anything for the privilege of using your stuff, but post-chasm buyers tend to "find their level".

And did I mention it was Really Snowy in Chicago today?

(photo: Charles Rex Arbogast/Associated Press)

grammy: moments

I'm still trying to shake off the sickening feeling of Justin's "Super Close Up / Walleye Vision / Shine Your HandiCam on Me" moment. Oh my.

I was happy to see just how *impressed* Jamie Fox looked after Christina Aguilera's "James Brown" homage. Frankly, I was expecting someone to walk out on stage and put a cape around her shoulders. It was an astounding performance that only served to remind me that I already miss the Godfather of Soul.

Quote from my son: "Daddy, there's a belly dancer on the Grammys."
Translation: Shakira was performing.

All I could think when I saw Smokey Robinson sing. . .

"So take a good look at my face
You'll see my smile looks out of place"

. . .was, "no s**t Smokey, you've had so much plastic surgery, it's a wonder your smile isn't up around where your nose should be. Can you close your eyes? Do you sleep? Gadzooks!"


Biggest disappointment: I'm just cheesed I missed the opening number - you'd think the reunion of The Police would be saved for a big closing number, but no.

Eww-moment: Rascal Flats sings "Hotel California".

Feel bad moment: Sorry to see that Nicole's dad had to rush through "Hello".

Ram pencils in my ears moment: Listening to James Blunt yodeling his way through "You're Beautiful" for the umpteenth time feels like walking across crunchy super-frozen snow while pulling cotton balls apart. Please Make The Bad Man Stop.

Marketing In Action: The "My Grammy Moment" contest is. . .is. . .zzzzzzzzz.

photo: it's *how* cold in chicago?

"Cold enough to freeze a monkey's bum."

pulp: some of my WH40k fanfic

Originally published on the Black Library Forum

_____


Tales of the Verloren Hoop

Chapter 1 - The Orientation of Tomas Annin

_____


After the passage of Hive Fleet Eyrines through the eastern reaches of the Pelegron Cluster (circa 900.M38) the Administratum declared a general import/export quarantine and travel ban on systems damaged by the Hive Fleet. This quarantine was extended to specific surrounding systems in order to facilitate enforcement (see index).

Some of those systems reported severe economic hardship and were accordingly designated as priority candidates for Guard recruitment. Between 300.M40 and 900.M40 records show that five hundred and thirty two Foundings were raised from Mur Ollova, Gherria, Fareval, Third Ossia and Wasserholt, ending with the 101st Gherrian Rifles in 900.M40. Successive thirty-year surveys conducted through 200.M41 revealed these worlds unfit for further recruitment.

Based on the results of a comprehensive sub-sector gene study initiated in 865.M39 and concluded in 130.M41, the quarantine is scheduled to be lifted beginning in 230.M41 and ending no later than 240.M41.

--extract from Administratum Briefing PR0443.332bis
--keywords: 'Third Ossia' | Pelegron | quarantine

_____


"Father, it is dark."

"Yes, my lord. The night-cycle is upon us, and the ship's lights have been dimmed."

"Of course. Be a good man, Father, and light my cell for me, please."

"Best we leave the lights off for now, I think. The apothecary's instructions were quite specific."

"Very well. Where are you, father, your voice seems distant."

"Near, my lord. I am near. You may be at ease."

"Damn but I can't see a thing, must be flash-damage. . . Old Claud would have me scrubbing stables for a month if he knew I went into battle without my helmet."

"What do you remember, my lord?"

"Ah, yes, you weren't there, father. A reconnaissance in force. I had the assault squad, seconded by Sister Adria's Seraphim. A simple affair to assay the keep perimeter before the crusade left Third Ossia. I approached the fourth beacon when the explosion took me."

"Go on."

"That's all. Just light, a flash. Some pain, but not much. Then I woke up here, on the Verloren Hoop. Blind, it seems."

"For now, my lord. I beg your leave, my lord, but I must attend to the company."

"Do so. Tell them I am well, and I will rejoin them soon. As soon as these damned apothecaries release. . ."

COMMAND:SLEEP

". . .release. . ."

Father-Chaplain Donnellan Po lifted his armored gauntlet from the brass sensorium actuator. Soft ceiling lights snapped on, revealing rows of hooded servitors to his left and right, each one mounted on a wheeled cart and hunched over a glowing panel of light.

A short cough behind him reminded Father Po that he wasn't alone.

"Truly, when no one speaks to him, he sleeps?"

The white-robed apothecary behind him nodded. "He sleeps, he dreams, and we wait. It's too early to know when we can begin his orientation. If you please, let me re-install the monitor."

Father Po stepped back and the apothecary rolled the servitor into place; thin cables snaked from the servitor's withered hands into sockets on either side of the panel. There were the wet sounds of gaskets sealing, then the stream of bio-telemetry strings restarted. Father Po thought he heard the servitor cluck contentedly before it started to hum.

"How long will it take before you know?"

"Hard to say. They sleep, they dream, and when they are ready, we begin our work. It's important to be patient. . .we've waited for some of them for quite a while."

Father Po paused by the door to retrieve his Crozius and look back along the long bank of monitors in the creche.

"The crusade cannot wait for one Castellan, doctor. Find a way."

_____


239.M41
dncreche
verloren hoop
on station third ossia
pelegron cluster

authenticate | go

READY

access log | go

READY

load sub 14223 | go

READY

append | 0400 completed corpus callosum shunt at splenium and rostrum. apraxia tests to begin at 1200 with simulated ideomotor failure followed by limb-kinetic activation. oculomotor tests to follow | end

READY

_____


"Good evening, Sister."

"Good. . .yes, sir, good evening."

"I'm glad to know that you were not injured by the explosion."

"Yes. We were very lucky."

"Tell me. . .I have not had a briefing since I awoke, and I cannot seem to access my vox-log in this damnable infirmary."

"Sir. . .that is really the place of the Chaplain, or of one of your Templar brothers."

"Are any of them with you at the moment?"

"No. . .no sir. I am, well. . .I am alone here."

"Very well then. You are new to my command, Sister, but you should know I view your Order as an extension of my company, vow-bound by oath and deed these last hundred years since the last days of thePaxus Crusade. Speak freely."

"Sir. We were southwest of the fourth beacon. The auspex was clear, vox sweeps negative. . ."

"You do not have to make excuses, Sister. I know what we saw. Continue."

"And. . .you touched down with your four assault brethren in a two-one-two dispersal, my Sisters and I were still airborne and beginning to inspect the wire arrays, when. . .when the explosion happened."

"Go on."

"The concussion was. . .the pressure wave drove me and two of my Sisters into the wires, entangling us, and I saw you. . .you were near the beacon when it exploded, two of your brethren were. . .and you. . ."

"Steady, Sister. I expect you have given post-battle briefings before, this is no different. What was your assessment?"

"Sir, the beacon just exploded, out of nowhere, when you got within ten meters of it. If the two brethren weren't between you and the blast. . ."

"Which two."

"Brother Timony and Brother Suentius. Brothers Allanbay and Tossi were thrown clear, they were not injured."

"What else did you see?"

"Sir, there was. . .one moment. . .sir, I'm being asked. . .I have a glass of water for you, can you take. . .take it from me?"

"Water? I'm not thirsty, Sister. Please continue with the briefing."

"Sir, the apothecary. . .he's asked me to give this to you. Just. . .what, oh, just reach out your hand. It's right in front of you."

"Very well, I. . .strange, I can't seem to. . .how curious."

"What do you feel, sir?"

"Damn odd, that's what I feel."

"Try. . .please, do try again, sir."

"There. I have it, but I told you, I am not thirsty. And please tell the apothecary that when I'm thirsty, he's to bring me something stronger than water after what I've been through. And in a flagon, not some odd cold can of sorts. Now, if you please, I'd like you to. . ."

COMMAND:SLEEP

". . .continue. . ."

Sister-Seraphim Adria Ke'lanka pulled her hand from the brass sensorium actuator with a jerk, recoiling as if stung.

"This is wrong what you ask of me, apothecary," she said. Her white hair was matted with sweat as she scanned the small room nervously.

"It is what is required, Sister," the apothecary replied, his hands resting lightly on the leather-cased shoulders of the seated servitor he stood behind. The servitor's head lolled back, a whiff of steam slipping from between the slats of the round grate sewn onto its face, its single articulated mechanical arm still clutching the small metal cylinder that Sister Adria had held out moments before.

"Does he know?"

"I cannot say. Every man experiences this transition differently. There are many steps, many opportunities to fail. But as many to succeed. We must be patient."

Sister Adria turned back to the console and looked down at the servitor hunched over a flickering screen, its hands hard-wired into the panel on either side. She shivered, wincing involuntarily.

"Why. . .I would have told him the rest. Why did you stop me?"

The apothecary looked up from the dataslate in his hands and paused.

"The test was over, there was no need for him to stay awake."

Without another word, Sister Adria pushed past the servitor and ran out of the creche.

_____


239.M41
dncreche
verloren hoop
on station third ossia
pelegron cluster
authenticate | go

READY

access log | go

READY

load sub 14223 | go

READY

append | 2200 oculomotor tests inconclusive, successive attempts to test resulted in evidence of dysphoria and labile affect accompanied by abnormally high epinephrine levels. extended shunt to adrenal medulla resulting in immediate drop inadrenocorticotropic hormone with subsequent drops in dopa and norepinephrine to pre-test nominal levels. progenoidal ganglia undamaged and progenocorticotropic hormone levels are consistent with pre-insult nominal levels. subject fitted with near-field auspex adaptor through the corpus collosum shunt with associated far-field hardware-based auspex link adaptor logic. immediate testing recommended | end

READY

_____


"So, Tomas. It comes to this."

"You've come to gloat, haven't you, Paolo."

"Hardly. And you should know Inquisitors don't gloat. We observe."

"I can see you. . .you look perfectly satisfied with yourself."

"I'm satisfied that you are not dead."

"Not dead. . .practically so."

"Now, now, Tomas, you're hardly one to indulge in self-pity. There must be something more to your bad mood than waking up to find yourself floating insus-fluids, your brain hard-wired into a test servitor. Even a fine-looking one such as Roon here. . ."

"Do not toy with me. What are your terms."

"Access to the Conclave."

"Impossible."

"Come now, Tomas. . .the Crusade is ready to move on, all of the Strike Cruisers on station in this sector are stirring. Without you to participate in the Conclave, the Verloren Hoop will be left behind. Your command will be forfeit when you fail to report. . .and your Brethren will be cast out. This, at least, I know of the Black Templars."

"You know nothing of the Templars, Inquisitor. And if you think I will break covenant with my House, you know nothing of me."

"Ahhh. . .but I do know something of you, Tomas."

"And I know something of you, Paolo. You arranged for that explosion. And you arranged for me to be taken here, instead of allowing me to recover."

"Are you accusing me of a crime, Templar?"

"I am suggesting that you are not the only one here with leverage."

"Good night, Tomas Annin."

"Damn you. . ."

COMMAND:SLEEP

". . .Paolo. . ."

Inquisitor Paolo diBenedetti lingered over the brass sensorium actuator, cradling it in one brown, soft-gloved hand for a brief moment before releasing it.

"He's an odd one," the apothecary said, working his way down the row of servitors, reactivating each one in turn.

Paolo watched the apothecary work. "You've become quite good at this, Nicolo. Very convincing."

The apothecary giggled, then turned a pirouette. His white robe bloomed around his waist and legs.

"The creche is automated, all I do is rotate the servitors and keep the log. But keeping all this mass on-board is really starting to give me trouble. How much longer do I have to play at this? I've only got so much polymorphine, so I'll start to bleed off in a few days, a week at most."

"Not much longer. What's his status?"

The apothecary lifted a small data-slate from the console and turned it to face the Inquisitor. "It looks like he's been successfully shunted, all that's left is to fit him for a shell. Once that's done, the creche will release him into the Armory, and then the Brethren will take over. My estimate is that he could last here for a week, but realistically he could go any day."

Paolo tossed the slate back to the apothecary and began to pace the length of the small chamber. He sighed deeply, pulling his long frock coat tightly around his torso.

"Return to our ship at your convenience. I have successfully placed the seed of doubt in his mind. Let's see what comes of it."

_____


239.M41
dncreche
verloren hoop
on station third ossia
pelegron cluster

authenticate | go

READY

access log | go

READY

load sub 14223 | go

READY

append | 0230 pre-transfer protocol initiated. 0530 shunt removed and transfer initiated. 0630 elevated catalepseanoid and neurotransmitter levels detected during transfer, specifically norepinephrine, dopamine and serotonin. GABA prophylaxis initiated, retrograde amnesia probable. 0700 subsequent testing showed normal catalepseanoid and neurotransmitter levels. transfer re-initiated. 1100 transfer complete, subject telemetry verified stable. 1200 post-transfer creche purification initiated. 2100 post-transfer purification complete | end

READY

close log 14223 | go

READY

seal log 14223 | go

READY

_____


Gathered around a fire in a place outside of time stood a ring of men, clothed in shadows. Each held steady a wall-shield bearing the device of a black cross on a white field. Each wall-shield bore a red purity seal affixing a distinctive riband. Beyond the circle the shadows deepened, obscuring vast trees rising up to stars that roiled in the many colors of the Empyrean.

From the dark a figure approached; the circle made room, and a new shield appeared, bearing a tattered riband.

"Brother Annin, we feared the worst. Welcome."

"I do not have much time, brothers. I have fallen, perhaps through treachery, and am to be given over to our Armorers for entombment."

The circle of shields leaned forward as one, tilting towards the fire burning at the center of the circle.

"Who do you name to join our Conclave?"

"Before I do, I beg leave to tell you that an inquisitor has forced himself into our company through the offices of the Ecclesiarchy, and he seeks to make mischief of our association. I seek your guidance. It may be of value, my lord, to cast us from your Crusade on another path to prevent this from doing lasting damage."

"This inquisitor, is it young diBenedetti?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Inquisitor Valenti's Krieg interrogator? The untouchable?"

"The same."

The fire flared for a moment, motes of smoke-tossed ash rising up to the sky.

"This is a rare opportunity. You suspect treachery?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Such a crime would not be beyond an artless pup like the Krieg to arrange."

"I agree, my lord."

"It would not do to have this diBenedetti become part of our greater Crusade, and you cannot cast off the Adepta Sororitas through whom he has joined your company."

"We are oath-bound to the Order of the White Rose, my lord, though it troubles many."

The fire flared once more.

"Your oath was given with a pure heart, Brother Annin, and I will not question it here. Let us do this."

A scrap of parchment floated down, settling before the newcomer who reached out and grasped it.

"You have your orders. May the Emperor receive and protect you, Brother Annin, and may you be a beacon unto your brothers as He is a beacon unto you."

The shield with the battered riband rose up, and with its shadowed bearer, moved toward the center of the circle where the

fire

rose

up,

bright and pure with an undying, unyielding, unbroken light that filled the circle and pierced the sky.

A moment passed, and in the place outside of time the circle reformed, each shield bent in respect toward the fire that had received their fallen brother.

_____


On the armory deck deep inside the Verloren Hoop, Brother-Techmarine Julian, straining hard to hold the heavy flamer in place with his right hand as he worked the rivet-gun with the other, closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

"Will you two sods stop it with the incense? I can't see what I'm doing here!"

The two bare-chested tech-priests standing high above him on the supply gantry paused, looked at each other from underneath their stained red half-hoods, then shrugged. Brother Julian heard their cog-encrusted censers clatter against the metal grating of the gantry.

"Much. . .better!" he grunted, slamming home the last of the rivets connecting the huge flamer to the bottom of the even larger assault cannon assembly. Swapping his rivet gun for a melta-welder, he climbed back up a steep flight of metal stairs to the next-higher level of scaffolding surrounding the dreadnought's right arm. He'd been working on the dread since before mid-day when the call came in to prepare it for service. Brother Julian felt lucky that he had been on duty when the call came.

Working the melta-welder with practiced quickness, he was nearly done with the right arm when the dread's comm-beacon, housed just under its right arm, began to pulse. He dropped the welder and pulled his portable vox unit from his belt. A moment more and he had tuned it to the dread's signal.

The Old Man was finally awake.

"Sir?"

The machine voice rising from the small vox speaker was flat, a staccato series of hard syllables.

"BRO-THER-JU-LI-AN."

"Yes sir! How are you?"

The vox-link hissed with bursts of static that sounded, somehow, like laughter, echoing in the sudden silence of the armory deck.

"I-AM-WELL-ARE-YOU-DONE?"

"Nearly, sir, a few more welds and a diagnostic sweep, then you can take it out. . .that is, you can see if you like. . .well. . ."

"I-UN-DER-STAND-JU-LI-AN-CALL-THE-HER-ALD-I-WILL-HAVE-MY-LIV-
ERY-PAIN-TED-ON-MY-NEW-AR-MOR-AND-GET-THIS-DAMN-A-BLE-
VOX-BROAD-CAS-TER-FIXED-I-SOUND-AW-FUL."

Brother Julian couldn't help but smile. "Of course, right on it, sir."

"AND-SUM-MON-CHAP-LAIN-PO-FOR-ME."

The sound of a small rotor actuator caught Brother Julian by surprise, until he looked up and found the metal eyes of the dreadnaught's helmet looking straight at him, glowing with warm, yellow light.

_____


At the first light of morning a mob of ragged cultists paused at the site of the ruined Templar sentry beacon to smear the liveried rockrete pillar with offal and grafitti . A few gathered up shredded lengths of sensor wire and began to swing them around, hooting as they scored the bare arms and backs of their fellows with bloody streaks. From the perspective of the long columns of PDF troops walking astride the grit roadway further down the slope, they seethed like dazed ants.

The road ran straight, rising slightly as it went, through the center of a wide avenue of low scrub bordered two hundred yards out to either side by un-passable woods. A rusted Hellhound , its turret trefoil ensign faded to near-invisibility, cast a long cloud of dust that obscured the line of equally rusty armored Chimeras that followed it. Sentinel skittered up and down the line, scattering troops at random as they darted from one side of the road to the other. Their wild-haired pilots, thick-goggled and howling with manic glee, hurled insults as they passed through the lines; the troops replied with rocks that pinged against Sentinel armor or the bottom-mounted multi-lasers, occasionally landing in the open-topped walkers to the applause of their comrades.

At the front of the column, riding in front of the Hellhound, a black-coated, sallow-faced officer on a motorcycle steered with one hand as he looked uphill through a pair of field glasses. He dropped his glasses to let them swing on their cord around his neck and raised his gloved hand up, fist closed.

Behind him the armored column juttered to a halt. The soldiers walking on either side of the road spread out and sank to their knees, scanning the woods with their ancient lasrifles. The squad of Sentinels rushed past, zig-zagging up the hill toward the milling mass of cultists a hundred yards distant as a blurred black shape screamed over the top of the rise at a height of fifty feet, the violent weight of its screeching arrival scattering the cultists and driving two Sentinels to spin and fall in their vain attempt to track it. The jet wash of the craft's passing pressed the Hellhound's dust cloud down, surrounding the column and the soldiers in a cloud of acrid smoke. It raced over the road, braking suddenly just past the last Chimera with a sun-bright flare to slam violently to earth.

The ramp of the Black Templar Thunderhawk crashed open almost before the gunship had touched down.

_____


Inquisitor Paolo diBenedetti sat pressed side to side with his retinue of Krieg Stormtroopers in the cramped compartment of his Chimera, polishing the barrel of his inferno pistol. His trademark wide-brimmed hat hid his face, but not the sound of his tuneless humming. The vox-link with his Death Corps guard guaranteed that.

The voice of the driver rang out. "Contact in one, stand by."

"Any last questions, gentlemen?" asked Paolo through his throat bead.

Ten identical rebreather-covered faces looked up at him as a immense roar passed overhead, audible even above the already-loud rumble of the Chimera's engine and the road noise. The compartment shook violently, dislodging a spare lasrifle from its wall mount to clatter on the metal deck.

The driver's voice cut in again. "Thunderhawk inbound. Targets acquired. Stand by."

"Observation," came one muffled voice from the far end of the compartment.

"Yes, Oscar."

The long-coated trooper leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and look back at the inquisitor. "That's an awful lot of cultists they're expecting us to deal with. Sir." He gripped the barrel of his hellgun tightly, twisting his gloved hands around the thick barrel.

A growing whine from the chimera's generators was followed by the percussive sound of the hull-mounted las array laying down suppressive fire. A few random pings echoed off the hull, followed by the rich thump-thump sound of the turret-mounted heavy flamer's pumps and the belching hiss of promethium.

"I know. I asked for the privilege of dealing with them."

A few of the Krieg stormtroopers glanced at each other.

"Besides," continued Paolo, as he sighted down the barrel of his ancient pistol, "it pleases me to. . ."

A two-beat chime sounded in the inquisitor's ear. Nicolo was in position.

The inquisitor smiled in a way his men had grown to fear, and love, in varying but ultimately equal measure.

"It pleases me to remind the Astartes that they should never underestimate the men of Krieg."

The Chimera spun and shook as a hail of impacts struck first its front armor, then its right side armor. A red light on the roof of the compartment began to rotate as the hydraulics controlling the rear ramp released, filling the dark interior of the transport with a sudden flood of smoke and the frantic, animal screams of burning men.

"For the Emperor, and for Krieg!" cried the young inquisitor as he propelled himself between his men and into daylight.

_____


From her vantage point grasping the running rails of the Sororitas Rhino, Sister-Seraphim Adria Ke'lanka watched the inquisitor's heavily-armored Chimera plow straight into the huge mass of cultists to her right, spewing gouts of fire before disappearing in a growing cloud of black smoke.

"Are we clear?" came the voice of the Rhino driver.

"Clear. He's pinned them."

"Amazing. Thanks for the eyes, Adria. You're clear to launch on your mark. Good hunting."

As the transport rumbled over the remains of the sentry screen and approached the edge of the broad plateau, Sister Adria gestured to the four other Seraphim holding tight to the fast-moving transport. Three fingers. Two fingers. One.

The force of her jump pack igniting flecked her vision with tiny motes of light as wind whipped at her visor. Climbing, climbing, she saw the field laid out before her in a sudden tableau; the column of heretic armor on the road, the milling, confused troopers to either side, the four scattered Sentinels, and in the distance, the black shape of the Thunderhawk spilling Templars onto the field.

And close by, a single man on a motorcycle at the front of the column. She dialed up the magnification on her visor to focus on him.

"Father Po, I see the man who destroyed the sentry beacon! Permission to engage!"

The reply came quickly, but with it came the sounds of bolter fire and the screams of the dying.

"Proceed to objective one, Sister. Did the inquisitor. . ."

"Yes sir, the Krieg are on target and engaged."

"Very well. Add your new target as objective three. Po out."

Sister Adria whipped her power sword from its cross-mounted scabbard and leaned down toward the nearest Sentinel, fifty feet below to her right. The gyros mounted in her torso armor, sensing her motion, shifted the angle of her jump vents to accelerate her descent. As the ground rushed up to meet her plumes of fire erupted from the Seraphim to either side of her, lancing downward directly at an enemy Sentinel.

The driver of the Sentinel looked up to see a brief vision of white-armored angels descending before the eyepieces of his goggles cracked, his hair and clothing ignited, and the extreme heat robbed him of his last breath.

_____


Father-Chaplain Donnellan Po saw five points of light descending from the sky further up the slope to his left; the last of his three unit glyphs changed from flashing to solid green, all units engaged, including the Krieg who didn't register on his monitor. He caught a glimpse of the Sororitas Rhino slewing in a long curve to his right as it began to engage the center of the enemy column.

The Black Templar squad, twenty men strong and armed with bolt pistols and chainswords, had overwhelmed the rear-most enemy Chimera and was methodically working its way back up the hill in the face of stiffening enemy resistance. Swinging his Crozius in a wide arc, the Chaplain barely felt the impact as his weapon passed through the torso of a heretic guardsman. But he did notice the misshapen face of the dying man as he fell, how it seemed to bulge and shift even in death.

A blast of las-fire from his left forced him to side-step; a squad of the enemy supported by a fast-moving Sentinel had rallied in the open field and was laying down volley after volley of suppressive fire, attempting to pin the Marines against the armor. Father Po saw one of the young novices spin and fall as he was struck in the shoulder by alas round; nearby Templars stepped over him to shield him.

The Sentinel pilot, sensing an opportunity, began to circle to the left to flank the Marines when a white streak of flame crossed its path, severing one of its two-jointed legs in mid-stride to send it crashing to the dirt.

A Seraphim hovered over the fallen Sentinel surrounded by a hazy nimbus of super-heated air, her power sword crackling with ribbons of coherent light. Templar and heretic alike paused involuntarily; Father Po blinked to drive the hypnotic vision from his eyes.

"Finish this," echoed Sister Adria's stern voice over the vox as her four Sisters descended, hand-flamers searing into the scattering mass of enemy guardsmen. A fusillade of bolter fire to Father Po's right was followed by the tell-tale crump of a melta bomb as one of the heretic Chimeras surged into the air, spinning on its axis as it crashed onto the Chimera in front of it. Through the new gap in the line of armor Father Po could see the Battle Sisters advancing when a spear of fire crossed between him and the Sisters – the Hellhound had engaged, and the vox exploded with sounds of screaming.

As the third unit glyph in Father Po's helmet flickered into yellow, a fourth flashing green unit glyph appeared on the status line with a 20-second counter above it.

"Who. . ."

"STAND-BY."

_____


Standing among the still-smoking heaped corpses of the cultists, Paolo switched his vox-frequency from the main channel to his private coded link; one of his stormtroopers stood at the ramp to the Chimera giving the embarkation hand signal, then gradually stopped motioning as his eyes drifted up to the sky.

Paolo did not need to look. He knew who was coming.

"What do you see?" he sub-vocalized, careful to turn away from the Chimera as he looked down the hill toward the flaming melee below.

"The expected. Our Chaplain Po is no Tomas Annin," said Nicolo over the sound of wind.

"So I've been told. But that's not what I meant."

"I know, I know. Yes, I have my target. The Seraphim commander. . .what's her name. . ."

"Adria Ke'lanka. The Gherrian."

"Ahh, yes. She's been very inventive. Much moreso than these tedious Templars. They're so. . .linear."

"All the better. Just take care of business. I'll pick you up before extraction."

"Ta."

The young Krieg inquisitor switched his vox back to the main channel, then turned to pick his way back to his transport. Behind him, a few hundred feet in the air, the white-hot landing jets of a single massive drop pod cast his long shadow over the bodies of the heretic dead, framing him in light.

_____


The Black Templar keep on Third Ossia was little more than a square-faced cube of granite capped by a central, tapering spire. Situated at the center of a modest plateau on top of an even more modest hill, it was ringed by two concentric curtain walls and had, until recently, been secured further out by a perimeter of slender sentry towers connected by long, taut lengths of ceramite-laced corded wires.

The first occupant of the keep in centuries kneeled on the top of the central spire, held in place against the lashing winds by flexible cording quick-epoxied to the stones and the stubby sensor arrays that surrounded him. Through a direct neural link to the 'scope of his long Exitus rifle, he looked past the slaughter of the cultists, past the ruined sensor tower and the sagging sentry wire.

Calmed by a combination of Vindicare adrenal conditioning and Kreig combat discipline, Nicolo diBenedetti licked his lips and checked off his targets as he played the assassin's game of imagining their final thoughts.

He looked into the skull-faced helmet of the Templar Chaplain as he leaned on his Crozius, and could feel his shame and anger.

He looked through the now-open interior of the massive dreadnought drop pod to the Templar brothers as they ran forward to form a circle around it, and could feel their collective relief.

He looked left through the crackling flames of the ruined Hellhound to the assembled Sororitas as they tended to their wounded, and felt their anger and betrayal.

He looked past the Thunderhawk to spot the Seraphim as they hovered over the last of the Sentinels, and sighting Sister Adria, felt her frustration as she began to speed back to seek her final objective.

Tracking her for a moment, he flicked over to the final point on his target map, a black-coated man half-obscured by the trees and moving quickly.

He felt his fear, the taint of something broken and evil, a blind hatred of. . .

"Splash, move to point oh-five-six to recover."

. . .then he felt nothing. Which was as it should be.

Humming tunelessly to himself as he began to break down his rifle, Nicolo diBenedetti saw the distant shape of the Inquisitorial Chimera drive at speed towards the edge of the forest even as five hovering points of light moved about, searching, searching.

_____


Father Po stood silently with Sister Adria at the observation pict-station two hundred feet above the Verloren Hoop's massive flight deck. The Thunderhawk that carried them back to the strike cruiser had been returned to its service cradle, as had the Inquisitor's

Chimera and the scorched Sororitas Rhino; the surfaces of all three crawled with multi-limbed monotask servitors attached to overhead cables. But what drew their attention was the newly arrived rectangular vessel at the center of the deck, an ugly, functional

Mechanicus bulk lifter painted matte black with scorched blast-shields just under its bow.

As they watched the long ramp making up its near side sighed open, releasing a glittering cloud of quick-frozen air into the icy near-vacuum of the deck. Rotating orange vacuum lights turning inside the boxy cargo compartment illuminated the black drop pod inside and the huge, robotic passenger clamped in place next to it.

The vacuum lights were still turning as the restraining clamps cracked open and the dread stepped down the ramp onto the deck. Even through the feet-thick slabs of deck plating separating them from the flight deck, Father Po and Sister Adria could feel the vibrations up through their feet as the dreadnought stepped onto a large square access pad offset by yellow and black warning tapes.

Father Po, still wearing his death's-head helmet, activated the speaker to the landing deck. His voice echoed in the vast spaces just beyond the port, returning to his ears muffled and indistinct.

"Do you know where to go, my lord."

To Sister Ke'lanka's eyes, it appeared as if the dreadnought looked up to stare directly at the two of them.

"I-KNOW-WHERE-I-AM-GOING-FA-THER-DO-YOU."

The Chaplain folded his arms. "I have your orders, my lord."

"VE-RY-WELL-I-LEAVE-THE-HOOP-IN-YOUR-HANDS-I-LOOK-FOR-WARD-
TO-YOUR-RE-PORT-TELL-ME-WILL-PAO-LO-BE-JOIN-ING-US"

Sister Ke'lanka leaned in toward the vox grille. "Yes, sir, and he asked me to extend his compliments to you. He's. . . attending his men at the moment."

"VE-RY-WELL-THANK-YOU-FOR-YOUR-SER-VICE-YOUR-SIS-TERS-DIS-
TIN-GUISH-ED-THEM-SEL-VES-MOST-EX-CELL-ENT-LY-I-AM-PROUD-
OF-THEM-AND-YOU."

"Sir. . .thank you, sir!" stammered the Seraphim. As the square lifter pad began to descend, the dreadnought containing the remains of Black Templar Brother-Castellan Tomas Annin raised its clawed left arm and touched it to its dorsal armor plate. It appeared that the dreadnought attempted to do the same with its right arm, but the restricted lateral range of motion of the assault cannon arm prevented it from doing so.

Father Po placed his splayed fingers across his chest and returned the aquilla salute, then turned to leave. Before he could reach the door Sister Adria stepped to stand before him.

"Donnellan, where are we going?"

Reaching up to his neck seals, Father Po disengaged the circular clasps with a flick of his fingers before he lifted his helmet off. He shook his long blond hair free to fall about his shoulders, the expression of disappointment on his young face impossible to disguise.

"We are going where the Castellan directs. As soon as our engineering vassals repair the sentry beacon we will set a course for quarantined Gherria, twelve weeks by high warp, to attend to the next of our lost keeps."

The Seraphim's mouth opened and shut. "So. . .we're not joining the Crusade?"

"Not at the moment. But you should be pleased, Sister. You are going home. I, on the other hand, am going to the simulators to begin penance for my tactical lapses. Good day, Sister."

His helmet under his arm, the young Templar Chaplain strode out of the observation pod; Sister Adria Ke'lanka spun to face the pict-station in time to see the last of the dreadnought disappear under the flight deck.

"Damn you, Tomas Annin," she whispered as she slammed her armored fist into the display unit, shattering it.

_____


"He asked you what your terms were. What did he mean?"

The inquisitor lifted his head. "I invited you to watch under the sole condition that you didn't interrupt me, if you'll remember."

Lounging on a chair next to the door of the small operating theatre, Nicolo gestured with the crystal balloon of amasec at the naked form of a man strapped to the table in front of Paolo.

"And this after all I've done for you, tsk. Humor me. What did Annin mean, back in the creche?"

"Die, you'll all die," wheezed the man on the table. His head was secured by a circular halo of black metal screwed into his head; a dozen or more engraved silver needles penetrated his skull, each one tagged with a red purity seal and a number.

"Eventually, yes," Paolo said. He pushed one of the needles deeper, producing a frothy moan from the man and a series of spasms down his left side. "Now please be quiet while I speak with my brother, thank you."

Nicolo stood up and began to pace, swirling his amasec under his nose. "You were about to say."

"My master, Inquisitor Valenti. He first met Castellan Tomas Annin over a hundred years ago, somewhere near Catalpa during the Paxus Crusade. If the stories are to be believed, and I have no reason to question them, Valenti performed a service of some signficance for Annin. You know how Templars are about honor."

Nicolo snorted. "I find it hard to believe that avaricious old bastard Valenti never collected."

Using a brass caliper, Paolo measured one of the needles then pushed it in slightly with a twisting motion, producing a barking sound from the man.

"I keep getting the barking, that's absolutely no good," muttered Paolo. He picked up a small oilskin covered notebook from the table and flipped a few pages. "And Nicolo, you may refer to Inquisitor Valenti as 'that avaricious old bastard of blessed memory'. Even then Annin was a dangerous man, a game-player, and Valenti knew it. Better for him to keep his favor. . .and better still for him to give it to me to collect. It was his present to me upon my elevation to the rank of inquisitor. I thought it a rather shabby gift, but lately I've begun to think more of it."

Nicolo wagged his glass impatiently. "Yes, lovely. You asked him for something, for admission to something called the Conclave?"

Paolo laughed, and tossed the notebook to lay on the sweating chest of his subject. "Yes, and that is my finest work yet, to ask him for what he can't give! By asking for admission to some heretical fairy-tale gathering of Templars, he thinks me a zealot and a fool, but one he must keep close as I continue to search for the hidden 'truth' these Black Templars hide."

"But you already know the truth, it seems. How deliciously ironic," Nicolo said. He drained the last of his amasec and stepped to the door.

"It is a conceit, I know. And so, I gain what I came for, an Inquisitorial retinue without compare. . .a fighting company of Black Templars and their pet Sororitas to accompany me in my search for this one's masters. Is that not right, my good man?"

"Die. . .you'll all. . .die", foamed the man on the table through a cascade of involuntary spasms.

"Oh, most certainly," Paolo said, slowly twisting another of the sanctified pins. "But first I will know who trained you, who gave you Imperial-grade munitions, and who let you know the exact moment we would be on Third Ossia. . .beginning. . .now."

Nicolo opened the door as the burbling screams of his brother's prisoner seared into his ears, then quickly closed it again to shut them out.

taiwan: rainy day poem

Dato Dato Xiayu Bu Cho
Ren Jia Yo San Ni Yo Da To

English translation:

Big head big head, not sad when raining
Others have umbrellas you have big head

(poem care of The Sneeze)
(photo care of Kottke)
(my head care of my parents)

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