Author's Note: I made this story to say thanks for all the great stories this site holds. Also to enhance my writing in English. Please note that this is my first "fanfic" ever, and contains many typing errors, because English isn't my mother tongue. Also, many things are ripped off existing works but then, so is 40k itself ;). please enjoy,
--Hudvel, 3rd of March, 2018
The Addict’s Acolyte
Sleek visage of a kilometre-long battleship drifted across endless void. Such battleships were the smallest type manufactured in large quantities by the oligarchical dystopic empire that was the Imperium of Man.
Joseph Porta waked up to a annoying chime of his holoslate. Slate projected his acolyte, Tobias RIeper. RIeper was an oddity. He was cast out of Officio Assassinorum, the deadly assassination apparatus of the Imperium, and Porta recruited him thanks to a debt certain Officio handler owed to him. Odd part was that Officio almost never lets someone leave their service, after all that bio-enhancement and decades of training, they will simply usually transform them into training servitors.
Rieper’s bald head nodded slightly when he began reciting his piece “I’m sorry to disturb you, Inquisitor, but we have reached the outer rim of Subject Four’s occupational system. Shall I relay to the Warden of Hassel that we are arriving in a day or so?” Porta was almost too busy chopping up lines from his generous rock of coca to even register his finest acolyte’s question “Yeah sure, inform the bastard to start melting the fucker. I only hope that they haven’t freezed him to death” Rieper scratched his chin, looking bit perplexed. “Forgive me for saying so sire, but is this really a necessary intervention? His Majesty’s Realm is filled with pirates who skipped their Guard service. Surely this man is skilled and violent, but to waste such time and resources….” Porta grinned boyishly. “Interesting notion from someone who Officio thought was nothing but a autistic deadbeat, unworthy for Callidus Temple because he couldn’t talk for five minutes to some inbred lordling and distract those retards with something so simple as smalltalk.” Rieper’s mouth lines deepened, and he said “I wish to point our sire, that my failures were due to bureaucratic error. My social impediments would not have had any significant impact if they would have appointed me to Vindicare Temple. “Whatever idiot” Porta laughed “never underestimate people and especially never trust Imperial reports of someone.” “I’ll drive this bad boy through my nose to wake me up. Get the show on the roll and let me know when we are half an hour from docking.” Rieper nodded again and closed the holoslate connection.
As Porta lined up his narcotic, all ready from consumption, he let his attention slip for a bit and, almost without self-control, began the reminiscence of his youth.
Joseph Porta didn't always have limitless resources under his command. Once, roughly 77 years before his Cobra Destroyer docked onto Hassel Station, he was a pallid hive boy, starving and roaming among the horrible multitude of Holy Terra. His father, Nicolaus Porta, was a humble duct-repairer for the Adeptus Administratum, the gargantuan bureaucracy of the Imperium. This made him a Menial, lowest Adept imaginable, but even those sloppy black overalls which had been recycled for a two centuries made him a privileged man compared against those billions who couldn’t find work in the Administratum or other Imperial institutions. Porta’s father occupation kept their family always a step away from the Underhive, his family of five always feeded with synthetic protein bars and Soylens Viridiens.
Sometimes he would even bring donations or leftovers from higher functionaries, and they would all feast. This was very rare, since even the commotion time to work for Porta’s father was roughly three days, so he was away almost always, and this was so even though he was a Menial. Largely because Holy Terra, capital of humanity and seat of the Emperor, was so choked and vast.
There was other Hive Worlds, to be sure, billions of people stacked upon each other inside habitable cubes and spaces, much like interior of space station or a sewer. Holy Terra was a completely different animal. It was a deeply polluted, overpopulated hellhole millennia before birth of Joseph Porta, even before the Imperium. It’s landscape was a hideous amalgamation of Imperial architecture stacked upon equally large ruins. Massive spires, manufactorum and complexes dotted the entire landscape. Such planet could never exist if it wasn’t for the techno-sorcery of Adeptus Mechanicus, and their towering installations at the South Pole of Terra, which converted polluted, yellow smog into somewhat breathable air. Naturally, nobles and high Adepts and rich folk got it for free, as with electricity, teeming masses had to survive by their wits or their strength and work for their basic necessities.
Yet Joseph Porta was someone who would only be inspired by challenges. He began extracting a type of glue from the spare parts that his father scavenged secretly from work, and mixed them up with gas to create an inexpensive stimulant for the weary. He made sure, as a young and thin boy, to hook up the biggest man in his habitation block to his stuff, so he would have backup in case of trouble. When earnings began rolling in, he bought a stub pistol as an additional safe measure. His father found it, and gave him a talk the kind of he never again received.
Son” gray, wrinkled man who was only 31 standard years old began, “You clearly have the smarts to be something more than a block dweller. Someone like Ordinate Schaht, who bosses us around and eats real food every day.” Nicolaus Porta raised his finger and held it like a sword under his son’s eyes “ Never back down boy, no matter what they throw at you. That’s how your old man became a Menial. Servant of the God-Emperor. I sat at that fucking employment line for ten years. Some died. Some gave up. Some tried to bribe an Arbites and got their skulls smashed in. I just stood there by grit and perseverance. Sucked some arrogant merchant’s dick even for a year’s supply of glucose sticks, so didn’t have to leave the line for work.” His father gave him a package which contained about week’s worth of Soylens, a rusty watch and sixteen Thrones.
“You are a man now”, he said “and you must leave and find an employment and by a stroke of luck, a family. That’s all I could spare, saved for those for two years, ever since I realized you are smarter than most” ” His dad smiled and teared a bit “Good luck son, I’m gonna head to work, some Sub-Prefect at City of Petitioners wants his lumen changed because his precious old eyes find the light too bright. Gonna take me a fucking week to get there for, for that groxshit. If you want my advice, take the communal barge down to southern quarter, then get a ride or walk three days to sub-orbit terminal, then go to Wondrous Row at the Oceania Hive, Eastern Quarter, Sector Nine if I remember correctly. It’s filled with clerics and our own big-shots who go there to drink and fuck and meddle in not –so-bourgeois affairs. Be an henchman to some official. Guy with a brains and a gun will do well. Not like I wished it on my son but the Department of Hereditary Positions chose your brother to be my successor, and I don’t want you to starve.”
“Goodbye Pop”. Porta hugged his father and left for the local transit station.
After months of grueling journey, Porta found himself staring at a three-kilometre wide hall of the main transit hub of Sector Nine. He had made his way to Oceania Hive, and he had used up all the provisions his father gave him, and then some. It was time to be employed. Porta weaved himself through the detritus of station-dwellers, and after a few days, came across a ragtag group of people, who were armed and created a notable, one-metre wide vacuum around them. Porta waved to them like a old friend. “Good evening, fellow citizens. Got myself a gun and a thirst for combat. You look like doers and not talkers”.
“Unlike you”, hissed one of them. This one had a purple Mohawk with a sub-automatic stubber stripped across his armor, made of leather and used metallic parts “You are just a boy with a mouth, we need a man with a gun”. With this, Porta flipped his pistol from his pocket with indecent haste. “Want another asshole, mister? I can back up my words. In my home unit, we had to stab each other for a undigested piece of bread. If we would see a tank of pure water, whole neighborhood would fight for three weeks, until the Arbites would come in with real tanks. Even the Guard would show up when those tinheaded fucks would lose their nerve against me and my homies. Just point out a employer, good sir, and I will kill, I will burn, and so forth.”
Porta thought that his speed-induced rant would not avail to those hardened criminals, but the reaction was positive nonetheless. The whole group burst out laughing, and the Mohawk-guy said good-humoredly “I suppose there is need for jesters with a gun, too. I’ll hook you up with a guy who wants someone to protect and well, serve” he winked “but I assume that won’t be no problem for some hive rat such as you.
“No sir” Porta grinned “Better for a man to give up his dignity momentarily than to wallow in poverty and shit for eternity” Mohawk smiled even wider “Where did you learn that man?” “I stole a book once from a passed-out customer.” Porta replied. “ Where is this boss so I can report for duty?” Mohawk pointed to a avenue, which had a string of tubes filled with different kind of vehicles which continued into hazy horizon. “Just take a landcar to Alofa, it’s a club on Level 8, 43th Unit, past the waste processing. It’s the one with marble doors, can’t miss it. Only that it’s invitation only, but just say at the door “There is no God but the Emperor, and Cato Sicarius is the Messenger of the Emperor”, and they’ll let you in. When you are in, say to the nearest guy wearing black that you are here on the orders of Deacon Shekel” “Who is Cato Sicarius?” Porta questioned, bewildered for once. Mohawk didn’t answer, said “Ögst” to his team, and with that they were gone, disappeared into the midst of individuals.
When Porta got to the club, it was beyond anything he had ever even imagined. Holographic projectors and neon lights filled the smoke-filled halls of the Alofa. It had gold and marble everywhere, and there were men with chiseled features caressing noblewomen, and even more of beautiful women with firm breasts larger than any fruit Porta had seen on holopict commercials. He found Deacon Shekel at one of the balconies. He was a obese man of the Ecclesiarchy, and certainly bloated from all the “donations” he received from the merchants and guilders of his parish.
“Ah, my new handsome handyman” Shekel said after introductions while licking crystalline substance off some dance-girls round behind. “I trust you are willing to pucker up your ass and shoot any heretic who threatens me and my safety?” “Sure thing sir” Porta bellowed, “but aren’t there any tests or anything?” Deacon waved his hand “I don’t care for any of that shit, if Gangnam vouched for you and sent you here, I’m fine with that. I’m not looking for a Primarch, just someone I could fuck, share my narcotics and keep me safe. You’ll do.”
What followed were the maybe the most interesting months of Porta’s life, at least so far. He learned much of the art of bullshit by attending numerous meetings and functions as a “altar boy” of the Deacon. He even sucked some cardinal’s cock once, which landed him a small apartment just next to the Cathedral of the Saviour Emperor, in which his Deacon administered his rites and performed his duties, with some aforementioned activities which were not very pious.
Deacon once confided with Porta at his office in mild state of rippling euphoria after a punch of MDMA and a shower with two men and a woman with particularly blonde hair, which was a appreciated rarity among the pollution-soaked populace of Holy Terra. “Joseph, do you know why I manage to write sermons for four hours, go to useless functions and then waddle for several hours to reach my podium and deliver my ramblings to those dullards who are there because they would be fucked otherwise?” Porta smiled like a happy dog “I would guess this life of privilege motivates you, Sire.”
The Deacon slammed his fist into the table which cost more than a lifetime of bread for hundred Terran commoners and it almost broke into half “NO! It’s because of drugs. Narcotics. They are a blessing from the Master of Mankind. I’ll tell you something, you cute motherfucker. Without drugs, everything ceases to function. I happen to know that Chancellor of the Estate Imperium, High Lord of the Senatorum Imperialis itself for the duration of this Congress, uses so much opioids that they have a half an Agri World in the asshole of Segmentum Pacificus to satiate him and his immediate staff.” Deacon waved off the staff member who came exasperated from the crack on the table, and continued “We smoke some Lho to take the edge off, with the High Lord himself, and he concurs with my statement of this policy. It is also reinforced by our religious writings. Did you know that in Lectitio Divinitatus it says “He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man”. Why doesn’t Adeptus Terra and Judges apply that to the law and let Lho be distributed for commerce, to population?” “His Divine Majesty is not opposed to it, rather he wishes us to utilize our potential fully using the libations He has made to serve us in the completion of our Manifest Destiny. “
From this, Porta knew his time had come. Like his dad before him, he did sufficient amount of sexual favors and got his break for better life. He made friends and intimidated and persuaded. Finally he found out the place and attended an secret function where Deacon and the High Lord did drugs with indecent haste, and Porta took pictures of it all.
Then he showed them to Confessor Sessions, staunch opponent of Deacon Shekel. Sessions raged for long time, and when he stopped to breathe he declared that lowly altar boy such as Porta could not fathom the forces he would summon to tackle this heresy infested into the ranks of priesthood. He also added warmly that a smart servant such as him would be compensated immensely for the favor he has committed to the Ecclesiarchy and the Imperium. Porta’s yellow hair wawed when he jumped from joy at his apartment when he got there. He would not suck anyone’s dick anymore. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a inkling he was going to join the holiest of Orders.
Sure enough, roughly a week after Porta had his clandestine meeting with the Confessor, the private chambers of the Deacon were stormed by the angriest and scariest women, perhaps human altogether, that he had ever witnessed. These women wore intricate armor and held firepower worth of several dozen hive gangs. Deacon sank to his knees immediately after he witnessed a man walking in flanked by knights with swords and large, red shields. “My lord inquisitor, I didn’t expect to receive your company at this hour.” Deacon wavered with an expression on his face resembling a man who had his trousers filled with molten lava. The man, a mass of trinkets, armor even more intricate than the warrior women possessed, and a metallic hand laughed like a man who had won million Thrones In a gamble. “Nobody expects the Imperial Inquisition, you sack of corrupted shit. Our chief weapons are surprise and fear, and most importantly, our fanatical devotion to evidence, provided I assume by this young man” The psychotic glare fixed upon Porta, and for the first time in this life, Porta was unsure of himself. “You have come from the unwashed masses and delivered this old fart right into my metallic appendage.” The man laughed loudly once more, albeit now with clearly more sincere tone.
Porta later learned during his long association to Inquisitor Lord Hans Pola that he laughed a lot. Usually that laugh meant that seventeen planetary nobles would be tortured to death or a planet who had executed it’s psykers instead of rendering them to Imperial authorities would be virus bombed to oblivion. Or it could mean that Hans Pola saw a person who resembled his instructor at Schola Progenium. You could never know.
After sobbing Deacon was declared Excommunicate Traitoris, and was burned to death by one of the armored nuns, Pola snapped his fingers and declared solemnly: “I’ve got it. My long search is over. You are smart kid, and you have balls. Rare combination in the lower strata of our society, filled with mediocrity. You will be my Acolyte and…” He trailed for a second and burst out laughing” Actually, fuck that. The Imperium of Man has no time for us to bond and trail off on merry adventures while humanity is tearing itself apart. You got yourself here, through Terra where most people are glad to get food for another day, not anyway capable of talking their way through countless authorities and assorted vagabonds. Yeah, you are ready as you can be. I’m going to make you a full monty, maybe some additional training, but full monty nonetheless. I’m a Lord, they can’t say shit, it’s not unprecedented.” “What do you mean, sire?” Porta finally interjected.
Inquisitor Lord Pola snapped his leg like on a parade, “Son, I’m taking you to HQ. You are going to serve the Emperor.”
Monolithic, pyramidal structure dominated the landscape which was cold and desolate. This place, known as Antarctica since the ancient times, was at the South Pole of Terra and housed the headquarters of the Holy Office of the Imperial Inquisition. Porta watched as they approached the complex how thousands of defense installations and the needle-like ziggurats of the absurdly huge building merged together. After countless checkpoints, checkups, interviews and vows, especially vows, they stood at the center of a dais in a huge domed room which had a sign of the Inquisition and a table in it’s center. Two Lords were present in addition to Hans Pola. Three were required to make someone an Inquisitor.
“Let’s do the main Oath”, Pola said with visible pleasure. The lord in front of Hans and Porta grinded his teeth. “Hans, it’s not like there are no smart hive kids who can talk and hold a gun. And he is not even a psyker. And you want to open the books for him, straight away, with no period of being an acolyte? This is groxshit, not to mention peculiar.” Pola leaned towards the inquisitor lord like he had heard that he should go and fuck his sister “Never underestimate anyone, Raekwon, I have full confidence to this boy. Besides, you owe me big time from that one thing. I’d like to use up that favor. Without me, the Inner Masters would have heard about that Legienstrasse-cockup and then…” The Inquisitor Lord raised up his hand angrily “Not another word. If you want this two-bit hoodlum to wield such power, so be it. That is why we have Conclaves, to weed out the idiots before they do too much damage.”
“Now, boy”, Lord Raekwon faced Porta with weary and skeptical look and handed him a gilded picture of Ollanius Pius, Imperial Saint who assisted Emperor when He stood down Arch-heretic, Warmaster Horus. Pius distracted him so that His Divine Majesty could strike the killing blow against the most despised of the Traitor Primarchs. “Take this card and repeat after me.” When Porta took hold of the card, the other Inquisitor Lord who had remained silent flicked his wrist and card burst into flames. Porta jerked a bit. This was his first experience in the field of psychic power.
Lord began speaking, and the flames drew a circle of pure light. Porta repeated, terrified:
“I, Joseph Porta, will commit my existence in this realm and the others to combat the heretic, the mutant, and the alien. No power will hinder me in my guest, and I will accept no lord save the Emperor and the Conclave of my peers. As this Saint burns, may my soul burn in the Warp should I betray this oath.”
Hans Pola slapped his thigh with his unaugmented hand and let out a high-pitched cackle. “You are made kid, welcome to the Holy Office of the Imperial Inquisition” Porta jerked back into present time when his ship’s captain buzzed into the infocom of his room “Hassel Station ETA 20 minutes My Lord. The Warden is ready and Subject is thawed out.” Porta vacuumed the rest of Coca into his nostril and said “Let’s drag our guy out of there, to serve the Imperium.”