Mephisto opened his eyes, and for a moment he could barely tell whether the silver ceiling overhead belonged to his dream or to reality.
He sat up, taking a little time to sort through the tangled thoughts in his mind and throw out all those unreal visions. He had long since grown used to the things in the darkness pouring such things into him. Yet, no matter how one looked at it, The Void was always trying to drag him in.
But he refused.
Mephisto, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels, walked out of his room, plainly dressed, wearing only a cloth robe. He stood barefoot on the silver metal floor, his expression showing a rare trace of confusion.
Dark vacuum swept past beyond the porthole, and the hull trembled slightly. That meant the most outstanding among the Cadians were communing with the Machine Spirit, fighting alongside it, and scattering The Emperor's wrath upon the traitors.
Several faint blue glimmers flashed in the darkness outside. They seemed insignificant, yet at that tiny, distant point they created a violent explosion. Mephisto stared at the fierce blaze, and his expression gradually returned to calm.
He still could not fully accept the reality of the present. Everything was too dreamlike, too good—so good that his instincts rejected it.
Within the walls of the garrison, the Blood Angels had hung oil paintings, murals, and gilded pictures, all masterpieces. If this had been back when Mephisto was still Calistarius, he might have stopped with interest to admire the consummate skill and crystallized immortal spirit the artist had left within each painting.
But he was not Calistarius now. He was Mephisto, Lord of Death—a terrible man who had overcome the Black Rage.
So he merely strolled past.
Other Blood Angels were moving about within the garrison,