"Ma'am!" The Zeb barked, giving the sign of the Aquila as a salute and sincerely hoping that was the correct way to address her. The corporal did not think of himself as a coward, but he did stiffen when the new Commissar threw open the doors and singled him out. He had heard a rumor or two on her, if she was the officer the others spoke about. A junior rising through the ranks. Someone had even called the powersword at her hip fake, but he knew that was bluster, and he wasn't intent on finding out. Not about to stand idle when given a direct command, he hustled out of the scholam without hesitating, taking two steps at a time down the central staircase of the ornamented building. His time on Lorn V had given him enough experience to know to never test a commissar, recalling when Gerald had been shot in the head for what the previous commissar called insubordination. Ironically enough, the man had promoted Zeb on the spot since he needed a new corporal that followed orders to the letter. Despite the horrors enacted on his regiment, he didn't feel any satisfaction when the officer had been hacked to pieces by one of the vile green xenos mere weeks later. 

Squinting in the sun, he didn't halt his quick pace. The central square teaming with what was left of his regiment and groups of arbites marching in uniform contingents. A Chimera thrummed, as if the machine spirit within ached to enter battle as its hull opened up to allow one of the groups of arbites inside. The smoke and shouts of the recent mobilization was strange and familiar all at once to Corporal Connors. The Capital reminded him of Gudrun, truth be told. Beautiful mountains in the distance and thriving green trees lining most of the stone streets that now carried small transports of munitions and dispatches.

Zeb turned right, passing a bumbling adept as he made his way to the warehouse where he figured he could scrounge up a handful of lads to do the task that was set for him. Turns out he didn't have to run that far, nearly getting in the path of two dozen guardsmen moving with a purpose. The sergeant up front was too busy with his sound off to look ahead and ran straight into Zeb, who by happenstance of being slightly more stable on his feet kept his ground when the bald sergeant hit the dirt. The platoon halted. 

"Who the fuck!?" The officer barked, looking up at Zeb. Immediately he saw the corporal tag on his uniform. "What company are you in? I will personally shove my foot up your ass!" 

"I'm here to take ten of your men." Zeb said. 

The sergeant looked at him for a long moment before laughing incredulously, getting to his feet. "Oh really? He asked, his nose nearly touching Zeb's. "On whose authority?" 

"On-" 

The sergeant threw a punch, aiming for Zeb's midsection. Zeb didn't see it coming and was nearly lifted off his feet. Luckily, it wasn't as bad as when he had played 'Gut punch' with the Ogryn on Lorn V. It wasn't as physical of a game as it sounded (in fact it was a drinking game with an already very inebriated Ogryn). But as congratulations for winning the game, the Ogryn congratulated him with a small backhanded pat that [i]did[/i] send him flying. 

Here, Zeb recovered quickly and retaliated by kicking the sergeant's foot, unbalancing him for a moment. The sergeant threw another punch, but this time Zeb had distance and warning. He easily ducked and socked the officer in the jaw before kicking at his other foot, grabbing his head and throwing it down to meet his knee. The sergeant collapsed at that point, not out cold but dazed. Zeb didn't stop to think, pointing at his subordinates. "Commissars orders. The front ten of you come with me, now!"

They didn't need to be told a third time, looking to each other for a split second before stepping out of line and hustling to his position. The sergeant wiped the blood from his nose, glaring daggers at Zeb. Zeb tried not to grin. "Watch that left sir." Before rounding them men around him to get in line behind him. 

The eleven of them, three corporals and seven privates made it to the palace gates framed by the vast whitestone curtain wall. By the emperor's Grace, they were open and no one halted them until they made it past the lavish bailey and up the huge central steps. Large pillars with corbels carved into the shape of terran lions held the barbican that led into the main hall. Truth be told by this point, Zebulon didn't know where to go. 

He saw ducal guards in bright uniforms standing tall, halberds held on their lefts at attention. He nor any of the other guard knew if they were mere set pieces or if they would fight if the time came, but at least they were useful for something now. As servants passed the vast hall furnished with extravagant furniture and busts of planetary governor's past, Zeb pointed at a guard. 

"You! We're looking for your prelate. Where is he?" 

He had a feeling the guards would not usually answer, but seeing Zebulon at the head of a small squadron and speaking of their superior, he answered clumsily. "Erm, third hall upstairs, at the end of the corridor." 

"My thanks." Zeb told him, waving his men to follow him.

"You're not allowed in here so armed!" The guard called. "You need to leave your lasweaponry at the door! Hey!"

Zeb didn't respond. He and his men gave any cabinet or table a wide berth, servant women squealing and nearly falling over to get out of their way as they jogged up to where they were indicated. Zebulon kept the men at the foot of the door so as not to crowd the prelate, who stood within his decorated office looking out the window, watching the eastern part of the city. Smoke plumes of the riots rose, but they were far away. Everything looked tip top, though a crease on his face bespoke of worry. At his desk, a Calligraphus Servitor scrawled on three sheets of paper simultaneously. Miraculously, Zeb saw they were three different languages of what was probably the same manuscript. 

"What can I help you with, soldier?" The prelate asked. Grey of hair and large of paunch, he nevertheless seemed very decorated. He must have a lot of experience. The sign of the gilded Aquila was nestled upon his collar next to his accolades. He had a military saber at his hip, as if he expected to be called to answer to the governor. He wasn't too far from the truth. 

"I've been ordered by the Commissar of the 112th to escort you and your guard to the scholam to be briefed. We also need the astropath confined to his sanctum with what men you can spare." 

The prelate snorted, turning to him. "What Commissar?" He voiced, blinking. "The woman!? We do not take orders from her or the 112th regiment." Even as he spoke, the guard that had been pursuing them had now blocked the exit corridor. Zeb could see there were barrels atop the poleweapons, meaning they were some sort of unique lasweapon. He would be impressed at any other time, but he felt the tension rising. Zeb stepped forward, wondering how far he could take this authority. 

"Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist." 

"Boy..." the prelate said, drawing his sword. "If you do not get...-" 

The door to the right opened, and outstepped a stately woman in an ornate garb and fine boots. Her hair was graying, but the energy of youth and intelligence were in her eyes. Immediately the prelate cleared his throat, sheathing his sword. At first Zeb thought this was his wife, but another look at her had him dumbstruck. 

"G-Governess?" He asked. 

"Why are there eleven Imperial Guardsmen in my palace, Sebastian?" She asked the prelate, eyeing Zeb. The fellow opened his mouth but Zeb beat him to the punch. He knew this could end very good or very terribly for him, but he acted on instinct. 

"We have been ordered to escort him to see the 112th Regiment's Commissar. I am simply trying to follow orders, your grace. He...elected not to accompany us, as a woman gave the command." 

"That's preposterous!" The prelate babbled, eyes suddenly wide and nervous. The servitor was continuing to write his every word, Zeb realized. The governess peeked at one of the sheets, eyes then whipping at Sebastian with a look that could curdle milk, raising an eyebrow at him. She likely knew the man far too well to not entertain such a notion being true, and with it written there. 

"Did he now?..." 

Another hour later, Zeb and his men along with a large contingent of of the ducal guard and the prelate were at the Scholam's doorstep. The ten men had started to whisper about Zeb's "afternoon at the palace" when he hit a superior officer, stormed the palace, argued with a prelate, and gained the governor's favor. Zeb knew he likely wouldn't hear the end of it for years, but he was just following orders. As he waited for an audience with her, he hoped the Commissar appreciated the effort.  
[@Penny]