For the next two days, Wilson searched the Terra Pilgrim's maze of compartments and decks for signs of heresy.
He found rites stranger than those of the Emperor's Death Cult or the purifications performed during the Ascension Festival. Many were hard for him to comprehend.
Members of a small sect called the "Green Rebirth" placed injured or sick believers inside cultivation tanks filled with rapidly reproducing symbiotic vines and carnivorous fungi.
They called it "the Emperor's gift of returning life to the natural cycle."
Wilson watched the plants take root and grow in living bodies, drawing nutrients from their hosts. Through pain and delirium, the believers cried out that they could feel themselves "connecting with all living things."
Members of the "Brotherhood of the Purifying Flame" smeared selected parts of their bodies with white phosphorus paste mixed with a small amount of sedative, then set themselves alight each day.
They stifled their groans as they performed their "daily burning of the flesh to temper loyalty." Old and fresh burn scars covered their skin. Their eyes showed only numb devotion.
He even stumbled into a large gathering of the "Covenant of Blood," where he witnessed hundreds of people slit their wrists and drain their blood into an enormous reservoir carved with the Imperial Aquila.
The presiding priest then passed the mingled blood around for everyone to drink, shouting, "One life shared, one blood joined, one with the Emperor!"
The hall reeked of blood, and a feverish frenzy gripped the crowd.
Whenever Wilson concluded from his observations that a practice was a Chaos ritual or showed signs of corruption, he tried to launch an Inquisitorial investigation or intervene. Each time, the same cold system notification appeared.
It cited sect registration numbers, Ecclesiarchy records, and obscure clauses in Imperial laws on religious tolerance, then rejected his request.
The system always gave the same reason. The practices might be extreme, but it had detected no stable fluctuations in Warp energy.
Investigators had found no explicit symbols or prayers to the Chaos Gods. No psyker had detected corruption in the participants' souls.
Under Imperial law and religious policy, the practices fell within the tolerated bounds of unofficial religious expression.
Wilson felt like the only sane man in an asylum, trying to prosecute the patients under ordinary law while the staff kept telling him:
"Sorry. That's an approved form of treatment and self-expression here."
The absurdity of it all left Wilson increasingly frustrated and quietly angry at the rules of this universe.
---
On the afternoon of the third day, after another fruitless investigation, Wilson was heading for the next suspicious area when his direct superior, the old Inquisitor who had assigned him the task, stepped in front of him.
The old man's gaunt face held none of its usual cold composure. Disappointment and anger showed plainly.
His hawklike eyes fixed on Wilson.
His voice was low and sharp.
"Is this the 'result' of several days' work?"
He shook the data-slate in his hand. Its screen was densely packed with the "heresy reports" Wilson had submitted, every one of them rejected.
"You've been running around like a headless grox, accusing legally registered sects of Chaos worship. They pay their taxes on time and are listed with local Ecclesiarchy offices.
"Do you have any idea how many high priests, archbishops, and congregational representatives have come to me with formal complaints over the past few days?"
"They're questioning the professional competence of an Inquisitorial acolyte. They're accusing us of interfering with lawful religious activity!"
The old Inquisitor stepped closer and jabbed a bony finger toward Wilson's nose.
"I'm giving you twenty-four more hours. If you keep throwing your authority around and fail to find a useful lead or any grounds for action..."
He paused.
A cold glint in his eyes made it clear he wasn't joking.
"Then, to calm everyone down and preserve what little dignity the Inquisition has left, you can climb onto the public cross above the bridge, pour holy oil over yourself, and light an 'Emperor's Holy Flame.'"
"Prove your 'loyalty' to the Imperium by 'immolating yourself and returning to the Golden Throne.' It'll save me from wasting any more resources on you."
It was a direct threat to kill him, perfectly in keeping with the logic of this world.
Wilson frowned, frustrated and confused. He nearly blurted out:
How am I supposed to find anything? They mutilate themselves, burn people alive, drink blood in mass rituals, and cultivate parasites inside living bodies...
If you can't detect this so-called "Chaos energy," how is any of it different from a Chaos cult?!
Isn't it all irrational and hostile to humanity?!
The question showed on his face.
The old Inquisitor seemed to read his thoughts. His expression hardened.
"Watch your words, acolyte. Are you questioning Imperial religious policy? Questioning the Ecclesiarchy's centuries of tolerance and wisdom?"
His voice turned colder.
"Be careful what you say. Some thoughts are more dangerous than heresy."
Wilson swallowed his retort.
In this world, questioning officially sanctioned madness might itself be a crime.
Then the old Inquisitor did something unexpected.
He checked the corridor, reached inside his heavy coat, and shoved something into Wilson's arms.
"Take it. Burn it after reading, or memorize what you need and destroy it afterward. Just don't let me catch you embarrassing yourself like an idiot again."
The old Inquisitor snorted, turned away, and disappeared around the bend in the corridor.
Wilson looked down. He was holding a real book, not a data-slate.
In a digitized age, a paper book suggested age, secrecy, or an effort to leave no electronic trail.
The cover was made of rough, durable, dark parchment. Its worn corners showed years of use.
There was no elaborate decoration.
A single line of angular, archaic Gothic script in dark blue ink read:
[Methods for Identifying Chaos Cults: An Internal Guide for Inquisitors]
Wilson's heartbeat quickened.
He slipped the book into an inner pocket of his Inquisitorial coat and hurried to a cleaning compartment off the main corridor.
He stepped inside and locked the door.
Under the dim emergency light, he opened the guide.
Its pages were thick, yellowed, and rough to the touch. The text was handwritten in several styles, a record of experience gathered by generations of Inquisitors.
The pages held hand-drawn sketches of disturbing symbols, anatomical diagrams, and case studies.
Wilson flipped through the pages, scanning the text.
His focus deepened with each page. Some entries made him frown; others eased his concern.
The book didn't dwell on grand "religious tolerance decrees" or repeat official Ecclesiarchy doctrine.
It went straight to the practical question:
In the Imperium, where extreme beliefs and irrational behavior were common, how could an Inquisitor distinguish tolerated religious fanaticism from Chaos corruption that had to be eradicated?
The guide listed dozens of fringe practices that resembled Chaos worship but were tolerated by the Imperium, including all those Wilson had encountered over the past few days.
It explained how to distinguish these practices from genuine Chaos rituals:
• Source of power: Fringe faiths appeal to "the Emperor's will," "humanity's collective belief," or a distorted idea of the "natural cycle." Even when they involve bloodshed or suffering, they draw their power from reality or humanity itself.
Chaos rituals try to contact specific Warp entities, channel their power, or make offerings to them. They leave energy disturbances and traces of corruption that point to the Immaterium. Psykers or specialized instruments can detect these signs.
• Symbols and imagery: Fringe-faith symbols may be distorted, but their motifs, including the Aquila, skulls, flames, and thorns, usually come from Ecclesiarchy imagery or human history. They express extreme devotion to the Emperor or humanity.
Chaos symbols often contain geometric paradoxes, non-Euclidean forms, or blasphemous combinations of familiar images. They can warp perception and draw the mind toward the Warp.
• Effects on participants: Members of fringe faiths may act irrationally, but they usually retain their sense of self. They understand why they act as they do, and their behavior remains fairly stable and predictable.
Chaos corruption gradually erodes and distorts a person's mind and identity. Their behavior may change suddenly.
They may display knowledge or abilities their beliefs cannot explain, or develop compulsive cravings for particular symbols, sounds, smells, or other stimuli.
• Goals and consequences: However distorted a fringe faith becomes, it usually aims to "serve" the Emperor, "purify" the Imperium, secure personal "salvation," or demonstrate collective "loyalty." Its effects tend to be limited.
A Chaos cult seeks to damage reality, draw Warp forces into the material world, or undermine the Imperium and humanity. It spreads corruption covertly, leaving traces as it expands.
The guide also listed what an Inquisitor should look for.
An Inquisitor could not judge a ritual by how "bloody" or "insane" it appeared.
An investigator had to trace the ritual's energy flow, check its symbols for abnormalities, and watch how the participants changed over time.
They also had to look for impossible transfers of information, supplies moving without explanation, and people disappearing in secret.
Wilson read on, taking in every detail.
The guide gave him a way to sort through the absurdity and frustration that had clouded his judgment.
So that was it.
The "rules" of this twisted world were more complicated than he had thought, but he could learn to follow them.
An Inquisitor needed more than ordinary common sense.
He needed a trained eye to distinguish between "institutionalized madness" and "corruption from the Warp."
Wilson put the guide away and took a deep breath. When he stepped back into the corridor, the confusion and irritation were gone from his face. He knew where to begin and what to look for.