They holed up in a back alley hab unit on the seventy-third sublevel, far off the beaten path. Melancthon estimated that they were some fifteen kilometers southeast of the palace now. They had escaped through a series of maintenance lifts and grav-locomotives, using Duke Marius’s intricate web of planetary supply lines against him. They encountered human labor crews only twice during that time. In both instances, the workers fled immediately upon sighting the Space Marine.

  “Kregging pissed myself,” mumbled Miles Absalom. The young man sat on a tatty mattress, one of several in the room, staring down at his soiled coveralls. He wore a quiet, pathetic look that made him seem younger than he really was. His boyish hair, badly cut, stuck out from his small head at weird angles.

  Ignoring the boy for a moment, Melancthon considered their surroundings. Litter was strewn about the ground. A single lumen-bulb flickered weakly in the ceiling socket. There were two doors. One, firmly closed, led back into the darkened undercity street. The other, its hinges swollen with rust, stood open. The dank smells of a narrow refresher chamber seeped out from it.

  For all intents and purposes, the space resembled a typical hive city junkie den. Except that, in the corner, half-covered by a rotting blanket, there rested a padlocked durasteel strongbox. Melancthon flicked through his helm’s scanner overlays. None of them penetrated the storage container.

  “This—” Melancthon grunted, frustrated by his malfunctioning vox. Reaching up, he removed his helm. He winced slightly as the armor-piece rubbed against the scabbed remnant of his nose. “This is your home?”

  Miles stared, dumbstruck, at the Space Marine’s wounded face. When Melancthon repeated his question, the young man only shook his head. “What…Throne, what happened to your face?” He flinched, realizing that his words might offend the armored giant, something he had no wish to do.

  “Duke Marius employs the service of Warp-tainted mutants. He thought such creatures would cow me into submission,” the Space Marine reflected. “He was wrong.” He used a finger to scrape the dried blood from the inside of his helm. “What is this place? Why did you bring me here?”

  Miles swallowed. Melancthon saw the boy’s face tighten as he considered something. He said nothing for a long time. “Can I trust you?” He asked finally.

  “Among the many gifts bestowed upon me by the Emperor, beloved by all, is an organ called the Omophagea. This implant allows its host to discover information by consuming cerebral tissue.” Melancthon smiled. It was not a reassuring expression. “You may trust me, Miles, to do what is necessary.”

  The threat had the desired effect. The boy began speaking, stumbling occasionally as he hastened to divulge all that he knew. He belonged to a loyalist sect, the Children of the Emperor.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Melancthon raised an eyebrow at the name but did not interrupt.

  The Children formed thirty years earlier, when Duke Marius had confiscated the Ecclesiarchy’s planetary holdings. “He’d banned public attendance at religious ceremonies a decade earlier. There was a plague then. The duke claimed it was spreading in the cathedrums,” Miles explained. “My father was a priest when it happened. The confiscation, I mean. He fled with some of the faithful into the undercity. He met my mother there.”

  “That does not explain you brought me here,” said Melancthon, feeling impatient. He found this historical narrative tedious. Heresy was always the same.

  Miles gestured towards the room around them. “It’s a safehouse. We, the Children, use it to meet sometimes before an operation. Not all of us, obviously. Most of us never meet in person. Safer that way.”

  Melancthon nodded. Stepping over towards the strongbox, he took the lock in his hands.

  “It’s no good, that’s a duraluminium—” Miles gasped as the Space Marine snapped the lock. Tossing the broken device to the floor, Melancthon opened the box. It contained a hodgepodge assortment of weaponry. Lasrifles, autopistols, clawblades.

  “The bombing, that was the Children’s work?” he asked, letting the lid fall closed.

  Still stunned, Miles nodded slowly. “I…I took you out the same way we got inside. We were going to try again, eventually. Security tightened after the last attempt, but we thought we might have another chance. We wanted someone on the inside, and I got a part-time job cleaning the building.” His face wrinkled in disappointment. “But I guess I’ve blown that now. Still, it was worth it if you’ll help us, I suppose.” He paused. “Will you?”

  Would he? A good question. If he did, would it matter?

  The Despoiler was coming. Supposing that he did manage to kill Marius, against all odds, what could this furtive band of rebels hope to accomplish against Abaddon’s armies? Nothing. But Marius…no, he decided. He would not exchange one traitor for another. He would die here, that much was certain now. When the time came, he intended to die alongside those loyal to the God-Emperor.

  But one thing troubled him. “Who supplied the Children with explosives?” He asked, but he already knew the answer. Miles simply confirmed his suspicions.

  The subdevil.

  Miles did not know the creature’s real identity. None of them did. It roamed the deepest levels of the planet, where even Derrida’s men rarely dared to go.

  Melancthon was just about to question the boy further when he heard something. A low, guttural rumble. He threw open the chest and withdrew a pair of clawblades.

  Miles gawped at the Space Marine’s sudden movement, shrinking back instinctively. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

  “Be silent,” he ordered. “And stay here.”

  With that, the Space Marine stepped out into the alley, moving into the darkest shadows of the street. The sound was louder now, its pattern clearer. Taking cover behind a dumpster, Melancthon waited.

  Forty-seconds later, the troop carrier descended into view.