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Thread: The Home Front - IC [M]

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    It had taken a lot longer than the Cartel had wanted. Schedules were starting to slip.

    The first lead, a cyborg fighting circuit, had been using simple bulk mining augments, probably boosted from shipments to Hetrodyne Station on the edge of the Hazeroth Abyss. The steroid bulked fighters with drill arms and buzzsaw hands had been crude, bulk work, little better than servitors. Too crude and primitive for their needs. Bai and Amador had left the illicit, blood-soaked arena alone against Burakgazi's outspoken protests. It simply wasn't worth their time and it might be, linked in the tangle of deniable shell guildpacts, tontines and contracts, an asset for their backers in any case.

    The second lead had been a grey market stimm still in the Velkahalian sinks, in the outer domes sprawling around Sibellus base. The adept running the still had barely been worth the name, undoubtedly addicted to his own product, and so brain addled a day later that he no-doubt wondered if he had imagined the visit from the hulking electro-priest and his handlers.

    The third lead, an augmenticist working for nominal fees in the most deprived low hive sinks on the coast, had turned out to be a legitimate threat. Her organ harvesting operation had seen hundreds crippled and tortured to feed the uphive nobles’ need for cheaper rejuvenat treatments and replacement organic components for their servants’ bodies. Worse was the unlicensed experiments that had fused the crippled and the damned into monstrous flesh-golems etched with twisted electoos.

    Konstantin remembered Amador turning as he heard the ominous click-click-click-click metronome of him touching his copper capped thumb to his fingertips. He saw the stony resolve in the luminen’s sculptural visage, and the implicit challenge as the electro-priest’s remaining silver bionic eye narrowed at him. Amador had sighed, and relented with a nod. That abominable work had been an affront to both their faiths. He had silently marked the Aquila points as Burakgazi was enveloped by a nimbus of light and Vardanyan unsheathed her knife.

    The tech-witch’s lab had been burning when Burakgazi knocked it from its moorings on a black, lichen covered cliff. It had fallen into the storm howling against the hive’s walls, to be dashed against the cliffs by glassy black waves. The lab’s twisted mistress had followed, broken but still alive, a few moments later, to be swallowed by the ocean. Konstantin had watched until her tainted spark was extinguished.

    “While I admire the initiative, I do expect the tribute of blood and skulls from my servants, Konstantin.” The daemon - one of the daemons - spoke within his mind with a genteel, aristocratic languor. Konstantin heard the implicit order of a monarch, a King, for his vassals to prove their fealty with the slaying of a contemptuous prelate.

    I am not your servant.

    “No?” The query was the whip-crack of a fencer’s saber, as it sliced open a rival’s cheek in a duel of honor. “Justice and blood are my will, Konstantin. You brought that justice in spades to the deviants in their spires.”

    I will never be your servant.

    “So you say.” It chuckled, as it so often did when it repeated his own words against him, and smiled with the pink stained teeth of a corpse renderer who tasted their first bite of forbidden flesh - and forbidden power - and desired more.

    “Khek off.” Konstantin growled lowly at the daemon in his head, and the thought of Him. He spat into the black ocean beneath him, as he tasted the copper tang of blood in his throat.

    “You good?”

    The electro-priest turned to regard Ani with his functional eye. The lean, whipcord knife fighter watched him with restrained concern, and Konstantin answered with a restrained nod. They both knew he was not capable of being good, under present circumstances.

    “Well, let’s get out of here then.” Ani responded, deliberately casually, as she raked her pointed nails through the soaked mass of her asymmetrically cut mane. She scowled harmlessly at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s pissing out - and unlike you I ain’t cut my luxurious locks.”

    Konstantin smiled down at his companion. “That sounds an awful lot like a you problem.”

    “No, my hair’s fine. Your man bun was the damn problem.” Ani snarkily countered, as she companionably took his hand and led the chuckling electro-priest away.

    Three promising leads expended, and they only found what they wanted at all when a lower-order technomat from the ship’s staff handed Dashing a cheap, pulp-printed trancemissionary pamphlet, the tight black text nearly unreadable against the offwhite, lumpy paper.

    “Look at it under blacklight.” he had explained. Sure enough, under UV a cleverly hidden part of a map appeared. Another day collecting more of the pamphlets had revealed the rest of the map, and Burakgazi, Dashing and Amador had made plans to make contact. Ani and Nara insisted that they come too, and eventually Amador relented, on the condition they follow his lead. Bai had declined. She had spent a day in Sibellus’ underhive, which was more than enough for a well-heeled Malfian’s lifetime.

    “We have to be careful.” Amador had said. “Someone like this, they only ever want to be found on their own terms.”

    The group had donned slickcoats and taken concealable weapons. Then they had wended through the lowhive pleasure district built in the shadow of broken statues of Imperial saints until they had found an old, abandoned rendering plant that housed a recaff house. Gelt changed hands, and the front of house man led the pair behind the tatty curtain that separated the softly furnished, threadbare area for customers, and through the kitchen with its bubbling pots of hot, black recaff and fryers loaded with sizzling cheap pastries. A freight elevator took them below, and into a maze of steam tunnels, with blacklight visible arrows guiding them, at last, to a sealed blastdoor, guarded by a muscled brute clad in butcher’s chain with a shockpole, and a pair of slaved stubber turrets.

    “Weapons go in the slot.” the brute grunted, indicating an armoured hatch set into the wall. With practicised reluctance, the group had deposited concealed pistols and knives into the hatch. They all submitted to a patdown, with only a minimal amount of flirting from Dashing and Nara, and a sincere nod of reassurance from Burakgazi for Ani when it had been the knife fighter’s turn to be frisked.

    “We'll be watching you, One Eye.” the brute grunted to Burakgazi as the door opened.

    Stan impassively regarded the henchman as everyone except Ani went ahead. The luminen was confidently assured that he would easily tear out the thug’s spark of life in any hypothetical fight between them. He calmed his voltagheists, which reflexively twitched at the brute’s provocative words, with the Knowledge imparted by his extrasensory sight which indicated his baseline heart labored to sustain his extensive muscle grafts. The henchman was an insignificant, self-correcting irritant.

    “Enjoy your time.” Stan quietly stated, with a clinically gentle double-pat on the brute’s shoulder. He disregarded the henchman’s quizzical, uncomprehending frown and politely gestured for the tensed Ani to lead on.

    They had stepped into an airlock, and it cycled with a hiss of air. Amador suspected this was one final layer of security. Perhaps the chamber could be emptied of air, or filled with poison. Perhaps the walls and floor could be electrified. He didn't share any of this with his companions, and if the Luminen noticed he kept it to himself. It would only agitate the others, and it proved that who they were dealing with was serious and competent. That was promising.

    Finally, the inner lock cycled and they took one step closer to their objective.

    The room they stepped into was a riot of colour and noise, strobing light and boneshaking bass. Hologlyphs danced in the air. The whole place was shaped like a corkscrew, a drill, descending down into the meat of the hive. While the level they stepped out onto was relatively clear, as the floor dropped into a ramp that wrapped round the inside of the structure, it was more and more full, until at the bottom it was a seething mass of people moving in time with the pounding music. Each level was served by a bar, and drinks seemed to be in every hand.

    “Ooh…” Nara trilled delightedly, eyes wide and smile flashing as she took in the atmosphere.

    “Impressive.” Dashing muttered, sweeping a glass from a passing server’s tray with a practiced grace. Stan's face was twisted into a near permanent frown. His remaining eye flicked from patron to patron.

    “They're all augmented.” he stated.

    “Of course.” Amador looked upwards and raised a brow. “This is a temple of the Omnissiah, after all.”

    Stan followed his gaze up, towards the ceiling. Etched in brass was the Opus Machina, the half skull half cyborg symbol of the Cult Mechanicus.

    “Hereteks.” Stan snarled under his breath. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, reminded of the augmenticist’s den of profane horror he had so recently cast down into the ocean. “We should. . .”

    “Do nothing, handsome.” Dashing replied smoothly, with an opportunistic brush of the back of his fingertips against the tech-priest’s muscular forearm. The shipmaster unrepentantly shrugged at Burakgazi’s wordless glance at the imposition. “We need this person's help, remember.” He stepped back from the railing. “Anyway, it seems we've been spotted. Maybe they were expecting us?”

    A servoskull buzzed up from the lower levels and passed a scanning beam over the small group, before making an affirmative beeping noise. It turned again, and they followed.

    They were both led to a private room connected to one of the clubs mid layers. Behind heavy metal doors decorated with stylised cogs, they found a hexagonal room, each wall decorated with a complex pattern of spheres and lines connecting them, etched onto polished bronze. Against each wall was an overstuffed red velvet chaise longue, edged with gold braid, each served by small metal tables. In the centre of the room was a plinth, and at the centre of that was a pole. Stan doubted it was structural. The place conjured unpleasant memories of Vamassian's mansion, but this felt, somehow, classier. There was real money, real power, lurking here, unlike Vamassian and his seedy den of misery.

    The servoskull bobbed across the room and into the outstretched arms of a figure reclining on one of the chaise longue. The figure, clad in red robes that seemed to merge with the seat, gently petted and cooed at the skull, stroking it with long metal fingers before giving it a playful push. With a seemingly contented buzz, it disappeared up towards the ceiling where a circular iris opened up, the drone disappearing inside.

    “Well, my dears. Don't stand there gawking. Take a seat. And don't worry, they are strong enough to hold even you.”

    Stan started forwards, and then stopped. Amador hadn't stepped forwards, and had made a small gesture for Ani and Nara to hold back at the doors threshold. He assessed the figure reclining in front of him. She (the voice had confirmed it) seemed slight, maybe half his size. But the robes didn't seem to want to settle on her figure. Apart from the woman (priestess?) were a pair of twins, supple men in clubber’s attire with opposite limbs and eyes removed, and replaced with artisan grade bionics. Small opus machinae made of gold were implanted into their bronzed foreheads. Both carried las carbines, slung at the small of their backs.

    Oh my Deus… Stan internalized as he exerted his will to not externally react to the truly breathtaking sight of the twins. They were a highly intriguing blend of masculine aesthetics, bionic artisanship, and assuredly lethal prowess. Behind him, the electro-priest heard the thoughtful hmm of Ani, as if considering whether she could take the two of them...and the similar reaction from Dashing and Nara, for an entirely different physical consideration.

    “You've taken a risk, meeting with us like this.” Amador offered. He stepped forwards at last.

    “I have. Drink?”

    Stan shook his head, resisting the temptation – yet another temptation – as he stepped into the room proper. His steps were hushed by thick, expensive carpet. The others helped themselves. From the appreciative noise Dashing made, the liquor was clearly of surprisingly good quality.

    “The runes on the wall, what do they mean?” He gestured towards the etched panels, polished to a mirror sheen. Five Burakgazi's mirrored the gesture.

    “You look smarter than the average muscle. I'm certain if you exercise that most vital organ, you can figure it out.”

    Stan glanced back to Amador, who shrugged as he passed a glass to Ani and Nara. He knew that the seneschal would have surreptitiously passed a toxin wand over the glasses, and if he was handing them off to the girls the liquid was safe. Amador passed a tumbler filled with sticky, brown liquor to Stan, who took it in his hand, making the tumbler seem like a shot glass. He swilled the drink around the glass, watching how it clung to the inside of the glass like oil before draining back down, thinking the puzzle over, until the drink in his hand jolted recognition.

    “Alcohol, Nicotine, Morphia, caff, and, I think, Tetra-hydro-cannabinol.” He stated, pointing to each in turn. “The five most common chemical stimulants in the Imperium. They are held up by the Magos Biologis as the most generous gift of the Omnissiah to mankind, and some subsects even hold them up as true wonders, on par with the las-rifle or the warp engine, underpinning the Imperium.” The luminen frowned slightly, as he set aside the tumbler. “At least, that’s what someone told me a long time ago.”

    The figure in the robes laughed, clapping her hands together. “Well done! Not just a pretty face, I see. So. Let me see if I can figure out the rest. You are clearly someone’s magnum opus.” She pointed at Stan. “I even recognise the style. But Veiss isn't the kind of Domina to let her toys get away from her. So probably one of her students.”

    She tapped a finger against her robed thigh.

    “Odd. I thought she tended to favour womenfolk.”

    “She does.” Stan agreed. Even within the mechanicus, rumours spread like trojan viruses - and even the self-isolated warriors of Stan’s brotherhood had been reached by stories of a spire-top heiress, driven to rage on her wedding day after a tawdry affair between her betrothed and her younger sister the very night before. Ironic, perhaps, that it had been very human spite which had driven the heiress to renounce her family and openly embrace the Deus of Mars instead, but no doubt that logical paradox had only fuelled the tale’s spread.

    “You are on the correct track.” Stan said, inclining his head towards the priestess. “I was not her student, but I was one of her fulgurite brotherhood, the Circuit of the Second Sons.”

    “Ah.” The metal finger tapped against the priestess’ leg once again. “On the correct track, but not quite correct? Hmm.”

    The figure seemed to retreat deeper into her robes, falling silent for a moment.

    “If Veiss has the wherewithal to craft her own set of electro-priests, then she has obviously done well for herself. The Second Sons, though…”

    The metal finger patted against her crossed legs; tap-tap, tap-tap.

    “You are Vostroyan, if your bearing and accent are any indication. Veiss has not inconsiderable holdings there. Could she be playing on their reverence for First sons? I think she could.”

    Tap-tap, tap-tap.

    “I would love to meet this son and heir she might be crafting. He must be exquisite.”

    “That he is…” Stan murmured, and coughed as he fought down the urge to blush at the thought of brilliant, gorgeous...and completely oblivious Evgeni Veiss. Nara giggled under her breath.

    “And you two. . .” the priestess continued, her cowl twitching slightly as the face hidden within turned to Dashing and Amador. “If my contacts at the port authority are worth the gelt I pay, are linked to that Meritech Raider they are keeping off the official books. So you are either very, very bad people, or linked to someone with some serious money. I'd guess the Malfian cartel.”

    “Quite so,” Dashing confirmed, and smiled wryly as he amicably lifted his glass in a toast, “and it would seem we’re in good company, even in Sibellus.”

    “We represent certain parties in the Malfian sub with concerns in the Adrantis warzone.” Amador confirmed. “We wish to make use of your services, before we depart.”

    “The Captain, then.” Dashing inclined his head in completely false modesty. “Seneschal?” Amador sketched a small bow. “And the two girls. . . collateral? Goods in trade?”

    Stan felt his anger rise to his skin, making him nearly crackle. He stepped forwards, fists balled, but Ani and Nara swept past him.

    “Why you. . .”

    “If you think. . .”

    The threats died in their throats. The priest on the couch unfolded, carefully cut slits in the robe allowing dozens of mechandrites to uncoil like a nest of rad-vipers. There were enough snaking from her robes to carry her off the floor like a puppet on strings. Stan had an indelible impression of armoured legs dangling free, arms extended like a mad conductor, head lolling forwards like the neck was broken. The top of her robe brushed the ceiling of the room as metre after metre of mechandrites poured from her robes. Each one was tipped in shining metal blades, pincers and tools.

    +++DON'T+++ The word stamped itself directly into Stan’s brain, causing him to blink and reel. Whatever the effect on him, it nearly floored Ani and Nara. Amador dropped his drink with a stuttered curse, and Dashing tried to scramble backwards, his back meeting the wall.

    “Holy fucking throne.” Dashing breathed, his eyes wide in fear.

    +++THIS IS MY HOME, MEAT. IF I CHOOSE TO, I COULD STRIP YOU BOTH FOR PARTS IN AN EYEBLINK. DO NOT TRY ME.+++

    The voice hammered into Stan's head again. Some kind of infrasound, maybe even a true archeotech sonic weapon. He noticed that the twins, still impassive, were unfazed by this display. Directional, then, with some kind of halo where you can stand safely. He filed that tidbit away as the splitting headache suddenly receded and the Techpriest slowly folded back up, mechandrites snaking back under the robes. Finally she was sat again on the chaise lounge, one leg canted over the other, fingers laced. Stan still couldn't make out her face under the robes.

    A pair of vents opened in the ceiling, and buzzing servoskulls emerged, cleaning up spilled drinks and handing out fresh glasses.

    “Now we have established exactly how much of a risk I have taken in meeting you all, shall we start again?” She took a filled glass from one of the bobbing servoskulls, sipped it delicately, and placed it on the table.

    “My name is Zerlinda Ghast, a pleasure, gentlemen and ladies. My apologies for that earlier outburst. Now, shall we get down to business?”

    +++++

    The negotiating took an interminable hour, during which Zerlinda plied them with drinks and offers of just about anything they could imagine. Dashing actually took up the offer and disappeared about halfway through; a bottle in each hand, a giggling girl on each arm. Zerlinda caught Stan’s look, and assured him that the workers were here of their own free will. She expounded at great length on the cleanness of her operation, and its 'moral superiority'. He politely kept his doubts to himself.

    Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Amador got to the point.

    “We need some work done on this one.” He patted Stan’s shoulder. “He got roughed up and lost an eye.”

    “Careless.” Zerlinda quipped. “You should take better care of yourself.”

    Stan bit his tongue for what felt like the Nth time. The electro-priest took no shame from the damage which had been inflicted by Erdene in their brief, unfortunate encounter on Vaxanide. He had doubted her ability and questioned her honor as a warrior...before the deployment, and in the aftermath of the broken summonings. He had promised Erdene he would keep the scar, as a reminder of her determination and a testament to her skill. Kimmie had ensured it remained.

    Nara clumsily leaned over and whispered in his ear.

    “I'll share the twins with you, if you like.”

    Stan tensed at the unexpected whisper in his ear, and sharply turned into his blindspot. Nara was face to face with him, and by her widely dilated eyes and the sweet scent of alcohol on her breath, was now properly sauced. She trilled delightedly at having caught him by surprise, and darted forward to straddle his thigh and languorously curl her arms around his broad shoulders.

    “Mmh...” Nara softly giggled, with her lower lip gently pinched by her teeth as she pressed her sweat sheened forehead against his. Stan could feel the slight, magnetic attraction forming between their lips as she stared into his eye and whispered at him. “...hmm. I. Gotcha.”

    Stan could hear a soft crackle of static in his ear, and pixels of black were fulgurating in front of his functional eye. One of the daemons was drawing close again. Purple. he knew. Red curled around him during moments of violence, parasitising his anger like a dark mirror of the electoos threaded beneath his skin. Purple was more apt to appear during moments of temptation, stretching its warm fingers over him like a leech probing towards blood.

    Stan froze, hesitated. He instinctively drew back a fraction, breaking the contact between Nara’s skin and his own.

    “Shame on you.” the daemon purred in a voice of gently spinning ballroom silks. “Throwing darts in lover’s eyes.”

    Stan could hear a soft tapping as one of his fingertips went into spasm, tremoring against his copper-capped thumb.

    Be gone. I am not your servant, and neither is she.

    The daemon’s laughter was the tinkling of bells, strung in celebration across razorwire still hanging with the ripped flesh-shreds of bullet riddled soldiers. Stan could see it now, standing in the darkness of Nara’s pupils: a handsome, ghost-pale figure in a perfectly tailored suit, black waistcoat against a pressed white shirt. The expensive cut could not hide the fact that it was thin to the point of starvation, and its fine-boned face held eyes that looked through him rather than at him. A thin line of blood trickled from its nose. Its hair was a blood too - a slicked-back wave of dyed red that stood out painfully on Stan’s monochrome vision.

    Its haggard appearance did not stop it from smiling at him.

    “It’s too late for her, you know.” Its voice was softened upper-hive cant, the soothing words of a mother running her fingers through a child’s hair, while her other hand closed around the dagger hilt behind her back. “She has waded too deep. She may spurn the water now, but it is in her skin. Can you smell it?”

    Its smile widened, setting off a ripple effect of lines across its thin, pearlescent skin.

    “She’s trying to hold onto you, but every moment in her presence pulls you deeper underwater. Don’t fight it. The Prince awaits you in the deep. Sigh out your breath and let him embrace his children.”

    Be gone!

    The daemon offered him a deep, mocking bow, sweeping one leg back as it stooped. Nara’s face flashed into stark photonegative, pale eyed and screaming. A moment later both the illusion and the daemon were gone, leaving only a pale dagger-smile hovering in the air between them before that too dissolved into grains of static.

    Stan could feel the warmth radiating from Nara’s face. The sweat on his own brow had gone cold.

    “Ouch!” Nara exclaimed, frowning as she no doubt interpreted his withdrawal as a rejection. Stan opened his mouth, not quite sure what to say, as she sighed dramatically and swooned. He reflexively caught her, which made Nara smirk mischievously as she lounged against him.

    “You wound me, Stan...” Nara exhaled, and rested her tattooed hand over her heart while her other slid along his neck to idly run her fingers through his hair. “...but I suppose I can’t be too wounded. Such deliciously handsome men must be quite a sight for a sore eye…”

    Stan groaned and tried not to blush again. She wasn’t wrong. They were deliciously handsome, and his eye had kept being drawn back to the twins, while Ghast and Amador had bantered. Obviously Nara had seen. Obviously.

    “Dooo...on’t be a bitch to Staaan, Naraaa…” Ani slurred from where she lay half collapsed on a nearby chaise longue.

    “Me, a bitch to Stan? Never...” Nara murmured as she reached up to kiss his scarred cheek. “Okay, honey. The twins are all yours…” She giggled, and poked his chest. “...if I can watch.”

    “Deus…” Stan hissed through his silver capped teeth as Nara persisted.

    “Steriously...seriously...cut the shit.” Ani almost whined as she struggled to sit upright, with a petulant frown as she came to the electro-priest’s defense like a very loyal, very inebriated younger sister. “His eye...without it, his eye, he’s got no...no...prescription… perciption…damn it, his eye’s frakked up!” The knife fighter swayed and sunk back down. “...I’m frakked up…”

    “Ah, dearie me.” Ghast soothed. “I think someone should switch to recaff. I’ll have a pot brought in.” She looked at Stan again, unreadable behind the robe. “You inspire loyalty in these two, that’s to be commended. You’ll have to tell me the story of how you won that loyalty one day.”

    “One day.” Stan responded, with all the conviction of shift colleagues agreeing to have a drink in the future. He had no intention to disclose the details of Vaxanide with Ghast, as there was no positive outcome to a conversation about daemons and the Inquisition with a heretek.

    Nara inhaled sharply, eagerly and nestled into his arm and chest as she turned towards Ghast. “We can always -”

    “Talk another time, as I believe we were about to discuss the business at hand.” Stan interrupted, correctly anticipating what the suggestion was if her disappointed sigh was any indicator. The electro-priest gently hoisted Nara from his lap, and held her steady as she swayed on her heels until she could dejectedly and unsteadily make her way over to Ani.

    “Well, let me take a look at you.”

    Stan nodded and stood, removing the leather eyepatch, and Ghast rose elegantly, with liquid smoothness. A coil of mechandrites boosted her off the floor, while a few more mechandrites unfolded from her wrists, shining lights into the cavity in his skull and making his teeth itch as their spirits inquisited through his modified flesh.

    For a second Ghast was silent.

    “So. How is Veiss?”

    Stan swallowed. More returning ghosts.

    “Well enough.” he lied.

    “She doesn't know you are here, does she? She'd be quite cross if she found out I worked on her work without her permission, you know. Her crossness could be measured in megatons, I'd imagine.”

    “You would be correct.” Stan confirmed. He could easily envision Triumphant Rationality coring out the whole district with its lance by the will of his former mistress’ pique. He shook his head. “No, I doubt she knows where I am. We are...not on speaking terms. Not anymore.”

    “You poor thing.” Zerlinda cooed. “It's not been easy for you, has it?”

    “I have endured.” he responded.

    “I'm not talking to you!” Zerlinda gave him a playful tap with a mechandrite. “I'm talking to this poor thing that's left in your skull.” Zerlinda flowed away from Stan and turned to face Amador. “The work can be done. It won't be easy though, I can't just slap any bulk grade augmetic in there. He's custom work, by a master Domina of the arts. If I patch it, he'll burn it out the next time he goes into combat.”

    “We need him to last a bit longer than that.” Stan noted that despite how much Amador had drunk, he remained mostly sober. He wondered if Amador had employed some legerdemain, or had dosed himself with some stimulant to keep him clear headed. “What can you do?”

    “I can build him a custom job. I'll need him for a few days, unconscious so I can map his electrical impulses and manufacture something that will match up with his current augment regime.”

    Amador glanced to Stan, who nodded slightly.

    “Acceptable. Although,” The electro-priest reached into his pocket, and extracted the articulated silver eyepiece of his destroyed bionic. Erdene’s maestro strike had almost wholly bisected it. “I would ask that you attempt to salvage what you can.”

    Ghast hmm’d and thoughtfully rubbed her hands together. “I would normally ascribe that request to vanity...but you obviously see your desirability as a curse. So, sentimentality it is.”

    “You are not wrong.” Stan quietly answered.

    Unlike his ill-omened hours on Vaxanide, he could easily remember Sasha. The blank expression on the face of the man he loved, as he calmly handed back his engagement band, as if it - and the love they had shared - meant nothing to him. Because it hadn’t, anymore… He could envision the knowing, indulgent smirk beneath Veiss’ mask as he reluctantly handed over the silver rings to be reforged into a more suitable purpose as his bionics’ lenses.

    Ghast hmm’d again, as if displeased to emulate another priestess’ work. “Very well.”

    “There was something else.” Stan interjected. Zerlinda swung round to face him. He got a glimpse of a face, some kind of stylised mask, made of gold. It made him shiver.

    “I have a...problem with my dreams.” Zerlinda stayed silent. “I need to not sleep.”

    “Then you have a bigger problem than you think.”

    Konstantin did not dignify that incorrect conclusion with a response.

    Zerlinda sighed. “Eyes, bones, muscles, glands. All easy. All biological machines that can be replaced or improved with chrome and plastek. But the brain, ah, that's a tricky one. Even the Emperor, foremost prophet of the Omnissiah, allowed his greatest creations the pleasure of rest. Even Astartes sleep. Did you know that? Not like you and I, but still, they rest their brains.”

    “I have seen Magi with more metal than meat in their skulls.” Stan snarled. “I know it can be done!”

    “Those Magi are closer to clattering cogitators than people!” Zerlinda snapped back. “I should know, I worked with enough of them, and all the ones that aren't insane are some special flavour of broken or stupid. Sometimes it's so subtle that you almost can't tell, but if you know them, well, you know that what you have left is a ghost in a machine, a mechanical echo, and not the person they once were.”

    “So you can't do it.” Stan muttered.

    “Oh no, I can do it. I just choose not to. We do have options beyond just wasting half your brain though. The easiest is a memorace shunt. It would act as a buffer between you and your dreams, recording the raw data generated by REM sleep and then overwriting it. Its something I've seen work for those who suffer with mental disorders, acting as an override when certain conditions trigger it. Or, we could cut down the amount of actual sleep you need. With glands, we could reduce the amount you sleep by about a quarter for a limited period, up to a week. After that, you'd crash hard and need to sleep for a day or so. We could also gland you in such a way that you only lucid dream, giving you significant control of your dreamscape and the ability to wake up at any time. Finally, there is another, risky option.”

    Zerlinda retreated to her seat, and summoned another glass of amasec.

    “There is a way we could . . .de-synch the left and right half of your brain. With appropriate meditative exercises, you could shut down one half of your brain at a time, allowing you to maintain a semi-conscious fugue state that will provide the equivalent of a full night's rest. To say that this is risky is an understatement, as we will be imitating with glands and bionics the abilities of the holy Astartes. It is theoretically possible, and has been done, so it is practically possible. But if I fail, the best result will be that you will be reduced to a drooling simpleton.”

    Objectively speaking...that would be the best result.

    Stan resisted the urge to smile grimly at the perversely logical solution to his predicament...but for all that he understood the improbable odds of success as a tech-priest, as hinted by Ghast’s careful couching of her proposition, he knew that the operation would be a success and he would not -much to his lament - be rendered into a drooling simpleton by the heretek’s work.

    You extradimensional pieces of shit would not be quarreling over my soul if I would be.

    Correct.

    Konstantin exhaled slowly, and tuned out the mirthful cackling of daemons within his mind as he calmly turned towards Ghast’s masked visage. “I understand and accept the risks. Please, let us proceed.”

  2. #22
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    Tomas quietly entered the room, at 8th bell, as was his routine at this point. His back to the door, it hushed over the thick carpet as he pushed it open, balancing a tray of tanna and breakfast cakes in one hand, his other hovering over a holstered bolt pistol. As he turned into the room and the door swung closed behind him, he ran his eyes over the room.

    The stuffed cudbear, trapped in a pose some taxidermist had thought was a fit of fearsome rage, was still at its allotted guardpost in the left corner. Some noble had long ago stitched a Mordian dress uniform cap to its head, and covered its chest in medals. The whole effect was topped off by its very wonky eyes, and a face that seemed more confused than ennraged. On the right, an ancient dresser piled up in the corner like a hive stack, its every surface covered in nick-nacks and gewgaws from across the sector. It spilled subsidiary drawers, makeup tables and shelves across the right wall in a confused jumble of different styles, wood colours and paints. An overstuffed, worn-down sofa sullenly waited for him this evening under the room's sole window, with his old guard coat and kit bag still there from where he had fallen asleep on it last night. A low table in front of that was a battlefield of reports competing for space and favour, with a magnetized travel regicide set stubbornly holding the centre ground. Old mugs full of cold recaff and tanna stood as unsteady towers, holding down sliding piles of plastek printouts from the Tricorn's cogitators.

    Another door led to the bathroom, which some perverse mind had decorated with an endless variety of sea shells, harvested from beaches across the sector. Every time he washed, or washed his charge in the hefty, gargoyle-covered cast iron tub, he found another handful fallen and broken on the floor, but he could never identify from where they fell.

    Finally, he circled round to the bed. It was the only new item in the whole room, freshly installed a few years ago. Rich dark wood from Ganf Magna had been diligently carved into the pillars of a four post bed, with heavy curtains drawn. He took a moment to listen to the soft susserations of the machines next to the bed, and offered them a silent prayer before he drew back the rich velvet curtains.

    Machairi was still asleep, her head turned away from him, her breathing shallow. He deftly retrieved the bed tray with one hand from the foot of the bed, and set it up with the fresh pot of tanna, the tray of soft sweet cakes, and a slim folder of reports, eager and ready to join the battle on the table. Tomas took a final few moments to check the inside of the bed, and under it, in the process retrieving the footstool he had been using as a chair. Finally, he crossed to the window, and pulled back the blackout curtains to reveal the hard light of Scintilla's primary, banishing the shadows of the room.

    Tomas squinted as he stared out into the cold light of the upper spires. It was a clear day, and he could make out the thin, black needle of the Bastion Porphyr in the distance. Closer, out on a column at sea, the vast stone flower of the Lucid Palace squatted. He had chosen this room because it didn't have a view of the Tricorn. The last thing he wanted was the Inquisitorial spy-servitors to have a direct view into the room Machairi was recuperating in.

    There was a groan as the light hit Machairi, and Tomas smirked. He pulled out an auspex wand and, with a quick admonishment to its irksome spirit, began to sweep it across room. Machairi took a few seconds to wake up, and a few more to squint and adjust to the light.

    "Morning inspection report, Tom?" she asked, as had become routine.

    Tomas glanced at the mildly martial cudbear. "Dismally failed, as per usual. I'll have to write him up again. In fact, I think I'll have him transferred and replaced by someone less garish."

    Machairi exhaled a soft breath of amusement. "He can stay. I grew up in a spire like this."

    Tomas snorted. "I hope not exactly like this. Old grizzly here would be enough to give any little girl nightmares." He tapped the stuffed cudbear with his foot.

    "The spire-top life gives people funny ideas, and decor is the least of them." The inquisitor's eyes flicked up thoughtfully to the hanging canopy of the four-poster. "I always thought the ordos could probably do with fewer blue-bloods in their ranks. The Progenium would have been fairer in some respects. Orphans of nobles and underhivers all rise and fall on their own merits. On the other hand, they don’t have a choice about where they end up."

    Tomas heard the inquisitor exhale.

    "I chose."

    He paused, and changed the direction of his slow security sweep. Alia sounded more maudlin today than he had heard her in months. He silently crossed the room and pulled the footstool under him, and sat down on it. Machairi turned her head, dark eyes regarding him.

    "The Machairis were all old money, spire nobility. I was their fifth child, their third girl. Far enough from the succession not to have too much responsibility, high enough in the pecking order not to worry about going destitute after both my fathers died." She made a face. "A good recipe for wasting your life on feasts and obscura. One of my brothers certainly did."

    She swallowed, and Tomas leaned forwards with a handkerchief to wash her face. Alia stubbornly turned away. He wanted to say something about how no-one got to choose their families, but something made him hold his tongue.

    "I wanted to show that I was more than that." Alia went on after a moment. "And I knew that I was smarter than other people. I could talk my way around my big brothers and sisters before I was ten. If I didn’t know something I always found out who to ask and how to charm them. I got a renovation project on the villa done in half the time by knowing the right people and where to put them. I knew how to embarrass the other Houses too, when they made power plays around the spire."

    "When I was that age I was learning how to muck out a stable." Tomas filled two cups from the pot, and began to slice up the cakes into easy to bite chunks. "It wasn't even a useful skill in the guard, if you can believe that."

    "You turned out alright." Alia said, softening a little as she turned back towards him. "And you were smart enough to know the value of reading."

    Tomas acknowledged the compliment with a sway of his head. "Well, a small mind might be a tidy mind but I've also heard it said that knowledge is power."

    "Exactly." Alia smiled. "Well, when you make it your business to know everything, you hear when an inquisitor lord has recruiters canvassing the hive. They give you the speech about the honour of serving the Emperor and protecting the Imperium and seeing the galaxy...I’m sure you’ve heard it."

    "I've given it a few times myself." He smirked. "For all the galaxy I've seen, it seems to mostly be ship holds, hive sumps and scabby badlands."

    "We'll need to find some heretics on a pleasure world one day." Alia swallowed painfully again. "Well, in any case, the pitch worked. I knew I’d be good at it. In the end it wasn’t so different from the shadow wars between the Houses. Do you remember when we cornered Haarlock on Hercynia?"

    "I'd never seen you happier. When you said 'going somewhere, heretic' you sounded just like an inquisitor from one of those cheap holo-serials."

    He put the cup to Machairi's lips, and she swallowed the sweetened black tanna. For a few minutes they sat quietly as Machairi drank. When the cup was empty, he placed it back on the tray and took up his own.

    "I let the mask slip for a moment." Alia admitted. "Knowing you’re protecting the Imperium is all well and good, and for some people that’s enough, but for me there’s always that extra thrill when you know you’ve trapped someone. Outplayed them. Checkmate."

    "Pity you're so objectively bad at regicide."

    The inquisitor raised an eyebrow. "You cheat."

    "Pffft."

    Tomas took up a fork and skewered a few bits of cake, feeding them to Alia as he thought through this series of confessions. Months together, with Alia totally dependent on him and a few trusted others, had finally torn down the last few barriers between them. She had never talked about her childhood before.

    It frightened him.

    Frowning, he dabbed away a few crumbs from Alia's chin.

    "Is that why you kept Crenshaw around? Not just as another lever on a team member, but as someone who could stand up to you, play the game at your level?"

    Machairi chuckled herself, and Tomas allowed himself a small smile to see some of the old Alia poking through.

    "Maybe." she allowed. "I have my...suspicions that he might enjoy the same feeling."

    She settled back a little.

    "Though mostly, I value having someone who can look at my plans with absolute objectivity. I know enough inquisitors who’ve taken my particular brand of hubris too far."

    He nodded. "History is littered with them. But I don't think that's something you'd need to be worried about. You've always seemed very grounded to me."

    Alia smiled thinly. "When I was making my inquisitor’s application to the conclave, I remember writing about making the call to sacrifice one man to save ten. The inquisitor’s call, I’ve heard some of the lords call it. How it’s different from the soldier’s call, where you all face some of the same danger, or the governor’s call where you never meet the people you’re dictating to."

    Tomas nodded.

    "Most people couldn’t make that kind of decision and it’s no shame on them that they can’t. It’s no kindness to make them face the habwife who knew nothing about her husband’s crimes, or make them look an agent in the eye before they send him on a mission they know he won’t come back from. We shouldn’t punish them just for having empathy."

    Alia sighed; a long, slow breath that seemed to deflate her.

    "So that’s the inquisitor’s call - to be at peace with sending a man to his death to save ten others. Even if he’s done nothing wrong, even if he’s your closest friend. You can rationalise it, say it had to be done to save all those other lives. Say it was right, say it was for the Emperor and the Imperium."

    The inquisitor snagged a corner of her lip between her teeth for a moment, then let it go.

    "I wonder if the Solomon team would have stuck around if they knew I wasn’t risking their lives just for the Emperor, but because I enjoyed proving I was smarter than some heretic."

    Tomas nodded again, biting his cheek. He had read then-interrogator Machairi's application to conclave, thanks to some careful questions and a few well-placed bribes. It had been well-written, concise, devoid of flowery language. Brutal, in its conviction and simplicity. But now he was being made to wonder if that wasn't just a manipulative front for Alia to get what she wanted.

    Tomas knew that if he pulled that thread, unravelled it, there would be no end. It would pull everything apart. Best to leave it unpulled.

    "I don't think anyone risks their lives just out of duty. Each member of that team, in the end, has their own reason to stick with it that goes beyond just dry obligation to the Throne. Duty can go in other directions. It can be duty to your team mates. I always respected Vince for that. Despite his problems, he held his duty to his team in the highest regard."

    "He did. He deserved better." Alia fell silent for a moment. The question hung in the air between them. How many more friends would die before this came to an end?

    "I..." Alia began, with uncharacteristic reticence. "I know I’m rather good at selling the job, but I wonder - when I first asked you to join the team, after the affair with the genestealers - behind all that Casterian gallantry, was there a little voice asking what might happen to you if you said no to an alien hunter’s apprentice? Do you ever stop and think about what might have been?"

    Tomas shook his head. "I can't stop now. And behind the gallantry...well, I suppose there was some fear. Justified, really, when you think about what we've done in the Inquisition's name. But I think the main thought was that this crazy woman clearly needed help if she was going to keep tripping over horrors like that."

    Machairi laughed, and Tomas smiled.

    "Whats the good news today, anyway?"

    Tomas reached across the bed and picked up the reports.

    "Well, the main news is from Perinitus. . ."

  3. #23
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    Inquisition temporary headquarters, Baraspine
    Six days after hive Alda surrender


    “Ah, the noble inquisitor Lucullis I presume.”

    The silky greeting drifted through the incense-heavy air of the sanctum, causing Feyd Lucullis to look up from his preparations. A glance at his wrist-chron told him that his interlocutor was precisely on time. He turned.

    “Spare your flattery.” he advised, resting one hand on his bolt-pistol holster as he looked the newcomer up and down. The woman in front of him was short and soft-bodied, but her face was razor sharp. Behind the glossy black hair curling over one shoulder, her shadowed eyes were bright and intelligent, and her dark-painted lips held the confidence of someone who had already appraised every room and decided how to play each one. She could have been in her late thirties or double that, given the Kol family’s obsession with juvenats. Lucullis could guess why inquisitor Machairi would associate with such a woman. “You must be lady Kol.”

    “I am.” Kol answered, and immediately she was all business. “Shall we begin then? Where is Alia?”

    Lucullis glanced back at astropath D’lane, who was kneeling in the middle of the floor with a rosary chaplet dangling from his prayer-clasped hands.

    “Lady Machairi is unable to join us personally. She will commune by auto-seance.”

    Machairi was, in fact, already on Baraspine, though Lucullis understood that her injuries and Yannick’s ongoing scrutiny both made prudent cases for her to remain in hiding for the time being.

    “Lovely.” lady Kol nodded, taking one of the smoking incense tapers from the wall and using it to mark the points of the Aquila.

    Lucullis mirrored the process. “Astropath.” he stated as he finished tracing the divine symbol. “You may begin.”

    D’lane exhaled a slow breath, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop with it. When the astropath opened his blind eyes they were glowing softly, backlit in white.

    “I reach across the void.” the astropath whispered. “I give my eyes to the Emperor. My soul to His destiny. And my voice to those who would speak his words.”

    On that last sentence the sound of his voice seemed to shift, dopplering away as an echo of another voice manifested behind it.

    “Inquisitor Lucullis.” Alia Machairi’s voice sifted from the astropath’s quietly moving lips. “Lady Kol. Apologies for my absence. We’re speaking privately, I take it?”

    Lucullis cast a terse look around the pentagram-warded room. “Obviously.”

    “What news is there from hive Alda?” Machairi asked. As her voice echoed between the walls, some of the wards shimmered briefly at the contact, leaving small discs of ice like breath on a mirror.

    “Still hunting for a suitable planetary governor.” Lucullis replied, folding his arms. “Since the Vel-Corosas had the bad manners to die.”

    A feminine hmm escaped the astropath’s parted lips. Ice crystals drifted around the room like delicate snow. “There aren’t many other choices who would be tolerable to both Caiser and the Baraspini.”

    “Vel-Scarna is the current favourite,” Kol chipped in, cradling an elbow. “Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. It might have something to do with the fact that he had his household praetorians kill six other house leaders at dinner and then loudly proclaimed his allegiance to the God-Emperor and His imperium.”

    “That’s one way to burn bridges.” Machairi commented.

    “It certainly makes for a convincing framing narrative.”

    “Six murders will make the other nobles uneasy.” Lucullis noted. “Which might be what they need right now. But we’ll need to have the praetorians executed.”

    “For overthrowing tyrants?” Kol cocked an elegant eyebrow.

    “Yes, lest they make a habit of it. And hopefully Vel-Scarna will get the message too.”

    “Especially if we leave him reliant on Imperial bodyguards.” Machairi’s voice sounded approving through the echoes. “Unfortunately I can’t directly suggest it to Caiser. Yannick might spin it as me trying to take too much control over events.”

    Lucullis fixed the meditating astropath with an intense stare, as if Machairi could see him through the man’s blind eyes. “I am not your messenger, lady Machairi.”

    “I’ll handle it.” Kol offered. “Caiser will be well-disposed to me.”

    It was Lucullis’ turn to raise an eyebrow. “Will he now.”

    “House Kol lost its holdings on the Tephaine system agri worlds when the Patriots rebelled.” Kol pointed out. “And my son worked for the press on Tephaine itself. He’s a prisoner there. Is that not enough reason?”

    “Perhaps.” Lucullis allowed. “Or it may give Caiser the impression that the Patriots have leverage over you.”

    “I had considered that. I thought it prudent to cut the Munitorum a better rate on rations for the duration of the crusade.”

    “A magnanimous gesture in such uncertain times.” Machairi’s voice conveyed a knowing smile. “Does your brother Abhinav still handle planetary development contracts?”

    “That he does.” Kol affirmed.

    “I have a thought, lady Kol. If you can lend me your public relations expertise for the next, say, solar year, I might be able to convince some contacts in the administratum that a house of unquestioned Imperial allegiance should take over the agri-business in Adrantis at war’s end.”

    Kol hmm’d, tapping her chin. “A very interesting thought, lady Machairi. I’ll send it back to Abi when Laki’s ship makes orbit.”

    “You have a ship already in system?” Lucullis queried.

    “I also thought it prudent to deliver the first shipment of supplies to liberated Baraspine. My daughter has been badgering me for months to let her do something meaningful in the family business, so I might as well ensure her a suitably public debut.”

    “Not public enough.”

    Kol blinked at him. “I beg your pardon, inquisitor?”

    Lucullis frowned. “Some of my agents are aboard a Navy ship, in orbit around Baraspine. If there had been any arrivals since the pacification began, they would have reported it. What was your ship’s name?”

    “The Ayanaant.” Kol replied, now also frowning. “It was due to arrive at the Apogee jump point either last week or this one.”

    Lucullis let out a slow breath. “Ah.” He fished in his pocket for a handheld vox caster. “Marrick, find agent Black and ask him to data-mine the incident out at system’s edge during the invasion. Ship identification and survivor testimonies.”

    “What incident?” Kol demanded, scattering ice crystals as she stepped forward to come face to face with the inquisitor. “What happened?”

    Lucullis met her accusing gaze without flinching. “I may have some bad news, lady Kol.”
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    Spoiler: Twenty nine days before Baraspine invasion 


    Spoiler: Eighteen days before Baraspine invasion 


    Spoiler: Twenty four hours after Patriot surrender of Hive Alda 


    Spoiler: Four days after Patriot surrender of Hive Alda 
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  7. #27
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    "I was lucky. I was just lucky."

    Moderati Tamerlan Thorell sat staring into the middle distance, a hot cup of ration drink in his hands, reflective saviour shroud over his shoulders. A ragged beard had grown over his tattooed face, obscuring the spider and hourglass symbology of the Legio Arachnus, the famed Iron Spiders.

    He looked up to Hange, pale, drawn, wearing a black armband of mourning over her uniforms left arm, and shuddered.

    "Just lucky. When it all happened, they must have planned almost everything. Data chaos. I was. . . late. My plugs had developed a rash, they were worried about a bacterial infection. The medicae held me up to do a final wash and dose me with antihistamine, see if it was an allergy to a lubricant compound."

    "Its common." Hange muttered. To Thorell, she seemed a million light years away. The hulking cybernetic warrior women at her shoulder seemed much more present. Much more threatening.

    "My Princeps, seeing the data chaos on the surface, the fighting, moved Culmus Mortem and the Knights to full alert. Octavius, Eugene and Tomas all went ahead. I saw them from the door to the main bay, as I was getting my suit on. They just. . .they just gunned them down. Right in the middle of the bay. I ran. Holy Cog of mars, I just ran."

    "You aren't built for close war, Moderati Tamerlan. It was the logical action." One of the warrior women said. It was probably meant to be comforting, a forgiveness. It didn't feel like it. He gripped the mug a little tighter.

    "Me and a few other loyalists hid, tried to save other key crew." He swallowed. "We failed. They executed the Scions, broadcast it over the stations noosphere and vox links. Them, and their families. Down to the children."

    "Do you want vengeance?"

    He looked up sharply. Hange was staring somewhere past him. The words had barely been a whisper.

    "Yes. But more than that. . .I want to make my survival mean something."

    "It will." Hange said, focusing on him for the first time. "It will."

    ++++++

    The cat was staring at her. From her memory, its pleading, wet eyes met hers and warned her.

    Blood cannot wash out blood. Death cannot cure death. This war will consume you all.

    She was standing on the stations skin, in her own, real body, clad in a voidsuit. Sodium lamps burned on gantries as tech priests scuttled over the radioactive wreckage of Furvus Maria.

    No survivors. Hinzer was also dead, his knight completely destroyed. The twins had both survived, though Anna was currently undergoing cybernetic surgery to replace her shattered arm and leg. Skitarii losses ran into the hundreds.

    She had been ignoring increasingly needy pleas for her attention, from the surface, from her subordinates. But she needed to look at this body, in state, to decide what to do next.

    Finally, she felt the moment come to her. Her grief passed, leaving behind only fury. Indignation. A full sense of the monstrous betrayal that had been inflicted here. The path was clear.

    She dismissed a few messages, then found the one she wanted.

    "Hector."

    +Yes Princeps.+

    "Permission is given for maximum extraction of resources. No quarter, no mercy."

    +By your command.+

    Next, she addressed the tech priest sorority that stood with her, mourning Furvus Maria, awaiting her orders.

    "Salvage her weapons, re-equip Culmus Mortem and Lupus Vengea with a plasma plastgun each. The rest . . .inter the rest right here. Let her final rest be under the Omnissiahs stars."

    She turned away as the Tech priests started forwards. She ignored the tears that streaked down her face as an all too human weakness.

    ++++++

    There are a lot of people on even a moderately sized Imperial station. On something as sizable as the Perinetus shipyard, there are millions of bodies, even after the carnage of a full scale revolt, and the following bloody suppression.

    Exactly ten thousand of those men, women and children were herded into cargo bay kappa-11. Lines of Sirenia Skitarii stood at one end as the portals behind them shut, and for a moment there was a hush as the crowd, mostly menials, but more than a few of the surviving freedom fighters, waited to see what would happen.

    Hector Rho looked down on the crowd from a stack of armoured containers, surrounded by bodyguards and snipers. The line of vanguard skitarii in front of him was three soldiers deep, and the helots and serfs did not approach too closely, creating a ragged gap between the stations population and the purple and cream robed skitarii.

    "Menials of Perinetus." His voice was carried by the vox pickups, and echoed and boomed around the bay. "You have been found guilty of sedition, treason, or by inaction, allowing sedition and treason to bloom amongst your fellows. Princeps Hange Zoerrin, in her mercy, has given you the chance to redeem and save your souls in the sight of the Omnissiah and the Emperor. The strongest amongst you will serve as Skitarii, replacing our casualties. Those unfit to serve in battle will labour on our wargear, weapons and engines of war as technomats or servitor classes. And those not yet young enough to serve will be taken for testing to see what role they can be moulded for in the future. Choose to serve, or we will carry out the Omnissiahs judgement upon you."

    There was a long, deadly pause. There was some muttering, some cries for mercy. The silence was broken by a cry of anger, and a hurled chunk of metal that clattered from a skitariis helmet and caused the warrior to stumble.

    "We are not slaves! We are not parts!" Someone yelled. The cry was taken up, and more debris was hurled at the line of skitarii.

    He sent out the order. He had calculated that a show of force would allow for an acceptable rate of raw material loss.

    The first line of skitarii snapped up their radium carbines with mechanical precision as the mob surged towards them, and opened fire. Firing at full rate, they swept the weapons back and forth, hard rounds cutting fans of devastation into the crowd, which stumbled and recoiled like a single, wounded organism.

    Magazines empty, the front line knelt. The second line opened fire over their heads. The baselines now knew what was happening, their slow biology catching up with the bloody reality of the cull. The anger turned to panic as more were gunned down, and others crushed in the press or trampled by their fellows.

    The third line unfolded stun batons, and waded forwards. With machine precision, they smashed the resistors down and hauled them away for processing as the first line stood, with weapons reloaded, and advanced to cover them. Anyone who fought back was shot, riot rounds breaking limbs or snapping ribs, but leaving their victims alive.

    Finally, the fighting died down, those who had given up and those who had surrendered dragged away in chains by servitors and tech-provosts, the injured loaded onto flatbed haulers and taken away to the skitarii's field refit centers.

    Finally, the dead where shunted to one side by repurposed servo-lifters. They would be processed for field rations.

    "Bring in the next ten thousand." Ordered Hector Rho.

    ++++++

    Ignis Four Kappa was hunting. Her head was filled with divine chatter, the words of the Prophets, and of the Primes. Her limbs were remade in shining chrome and polished plasteel, her organs bulwarked with plastek and ceramo-carbon. She was reborn, as close to the machine as one of low birth could hope for. She could see in all directions, stride tirelessly for days, and augmit deadly pulses of murderous code that stunned and crippled the unbeliever.

    All she had had to pay was most of her organic body. A fine trade.

    +Squad Ignis, redeploy to quadrant aleph-two-five. Attempt by menial resistors to break into armoury in process. Addendum: live capture priority+

    +By your command!+

    She laughed cruelly as her squad hurtled down an access vent, plunging through deadly vacuum to reach their target. She dialed her taser goad down to stun, rather than fatal, and felt a delightful shiver of combat drugs through the remains of her organics. Oh yes, this would be good. But shamefully quick.


    ++++++

    On the surface of Perinetus, it became known as the Month of Falling Stars. Debris, and thousands of bodies, continued to fall from the orbiting yards as the Legio Sirenia turned its hungry wrath on the orbital, despite the protests of the ground based Magi. Fully one in ten of the habitats vast population was repurposed or purged with brutal, machine like efficiency. Any who resisted were slain with unrelenting savagery, and many who would survive the month would linger only as empty shells, worked to near death to make good the losses of the Legio, traumatized by the slaughter unleashed upon them.

  8. #28
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    Crusade headquarters, Allocthon Crater
    Hive Alda pacification operations ongoing


    Crusade command was a busy place, filled to the brim with adjutants, runt officers, tech priests and a seemingly endless grey stream of administratum clerks. The more eoseteric arms of the Imperial war machine were also represented, with the occasional oddity representing an Inquisitor, merchant familia involved in the reconstruction or Rogue Traders operating as privateers. The flash of gold and a waft of incense would betray the presence of an Ecclesiarchy representative, while a black shadow and a bow wave of bodies clearing space would herald a member of the commisariat.

    Savik was unsure which category to place himself in, where his influence and power would sit in the shifitng crusade heirarchy. He was an agent of the Mechanicus, true, but the Legio Sirenia maniple was, as far as he was aware, a unique asset in the crusades order of battle. That, he hoped, would give him some weight. In many ways the Legio force represented a very small fraction of the crusades strength, a Venator Maniple, 6 questoris in an ad-hoc banner, and maybe 3000 men and women under arms, with supporting elements. But Titans had a unique power, a unique scale of threat, that made them valuable beyond measure. And he was the liason for three of them.

    Two now, he corrected himself. He let the sense of loss wash over and through him, processed it, then moved on with a silent prayer for the soul of Furvus Maria and her crew. He would miss Krista Lenz, her hard worn cynicism and her practical demeanour.

    He threaded through the throng, two skitarii at his back, Prolik 3-Alpha and Prolik 99-Zeta. Macarro skitarii were named by the origin of their forge, with a long serial number and a batch rune, with the Alpha's being built for squad command. The genic line of Prolik Forge skitarii were bulked for strength and intimidation, and their uniforms were more ornate as befitted their role as an honour guard. Trailing behind the skitarii was his servitor assistant, Curis-78.

    +Is it true that our brothers and sisters have taken heavy losses on the front, Executor?+ Prolik-3 augmitted, causing a few guard staffers to glance in their direction and shuffle away. The code burst was laced with frustration. While guarding an Executor was an honour, it also kept them away from combat, what they were built and trained for.

    +It is true.+ he augmitted in response. +we are currently engaged in replenishment tactics to make good some of our numbers.+

    +They will be inferior to a true Macarro born skitarii, Executor+ Prolik 99 rumbled. +Weak links in the chain.+

    +No matter the technology or training, Skitarii, a man in a trench with a rifle is a man in a trench with a rifle. They'll give us back some of our strength in numbers and ability to absorb losses+

    +As you say, Executor.+

    The two lapsed into silence as they entered the main strategium. It was hot and close, such that condensation formed on coolant units that kept cogitator banks operational. Staffers were stripped to their shirts, uniform coats hanging from chairs and the corners of hololithic projectors, and stacks of plastek cups filled with the sludgy remains of recaff, tanna, or the dried residue of recyced water dominated flat surfaces throughout the strategium. Savik mused that the set up would be much more efficent if they used the noosphere for this, even as the tech priests in the room pinged him with messages of mourning and loss over the destruction of Furvus Maria.

    He ascended the steps to the main command dias with his servitor assistant at his back. It was an elegant, female presenting model of brass, gilt and silver, only a thin sliver of augmented brain and spinal cord at its heart. The two skitarii stopped at the bottom of the command dias steps, and stood to attention as he reached the woman he was here to see, a woman with millions of lives in her hands, and her own dreadful calculus and politics to see them expended usefully.

    "Executor Danton Savik. Thank you for your attendance." She dismissed the gaggle of officers around her with a wave of her cane.

    "Ofcourse, Warmaster Andrea Caiser." He performed a bow which neatly hid his frown as the Warmaster activated a privacy screen, isolating them both from the outside with a wall of projected white noise, and cut him off from the electronic background noise of the noosphere. When he stood straight again, he subconciously ran his hands down his uniform, straightening out the creases as the Warmaster looked him up and down.

    "What the fuck do your titans think they are playing at? I have a dozen furious reports from the Perinetus Magi about a literal rain of bodies from the orbital. I need those yards intact for the Navy if we are going to continue our prosecution of this war."

    "We need resources, Warmaster. We have lost 50% of our Skitarii and one of our Warhound Titans. We can recover from those losses, and maintain our commitment to the prosecution of the crusade, if we accept some short term brutality of the civilian population of the orbital. Its infrastructure is intact and can be easily restaffed."

    "So Ankari is right, you did capture another Titan. She wants it, you know."

    "She can't have it. Perhaps she should be spending more time worrying where its packmate went. A Warhound titan is a big thing to lose, even for a Forge Mistress as incompetent and venal as Ankari."

    "Any other officer would be at least somewhat apologetic, maybe even a little diplomatic, if their unit was currently raping and pillaging a vital war asset, Savik." The cane was in two hands now, like a discipline instrument, and Savik wondered what machine spirits of death lurked behind its very ordinary facade.

    "Would it help?" He countered.

    "No. It would just piss me off."

    "Well, there you go then." He shrugged his shoulders. "We know what we are doing is potentially damaging to the crusade. Feel free to pin as much blame on us as you like, we are an outside force. You have a propaganda arm. Spin it as you please. No transmissions from the recedivists will be leaving the orbital any time soon to tell the sub sector otherwise."

    "Good. What do you have for me?" She pointed the cane at the folder tucked under one arm of his servitor.

    He smiled, and haptically ordered Curis forward, taking the folder and passing it to Caiser.

    "A full report on the abominations of tech heresy Delzharian has inflicted on not just the hallowed engines of the Collegia Titanicus, but also the questoris war suits of House Kamil. We have detailed reports of augmented and forbidden cybernetica constructs as well, as well as debasements of sacred STC templates."

    "Delzharian is dead." Caiser bluntly stated. "Some Inqusitorial agent saw to that where the Mechanicus failed."

    "Yes, but his foul legacy survives. I doubt Perinetus has seen the last of his work, or the wider sub for that matter. After all, a significant maniple of Legio Fulminata escaped the orbital, and will likely link back up with traitor forces in the sub."

    "You should have stopped them yourself, then." Caiser circled round the hololith, bringing up a representation of the sub-sectors warp lanes. "They can get practically anywhere in the region from Perinetus."

    "If Ankari had not sent our warship support away, we would have caught and killed every last one of them on the orbital."

    "And what do you have planned to counter them now?"

    He nodded to the folder. "Send that, along with a recommendation for immediate action to Opus Macharia. It was a Legio Venator titan that we recovered from Perinetus, and it had been tampered with, its crew slain in open treachery. At the same time, send another copy to the Magi of the Lathes. Recommend a full investigation and data-stack audit of Perinetus, root and branch, to pull out all the last weeds of heresy. Give it the official seal of the Warmaster, so that it reaches the highest echelons as quickly as possible. I will add missives from my Princeps Senioris to the same affect."

    "Legio Venator are unlikely to deploy to this theatre." Caiser pursed her lips. "They are already over-committed to the Margin Worlds Crusade." She held up the docket. "Is this likely to get them involved?"

    "If it does not, nothing will." He shrugged. "Delzharian and his followers inflicted abomination on their titan, and his allies probably still have one held captive. Such an insult and provocation would move the Legio Sirenia to a war footing, and call in our supporting Knight households, to undo the dishonour and shame. The only reason they wouldn't commit. . ."

    "Was if they couldn't." The Warmaster sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose, before fixing Savik with her gaze. "And your titans? What will they do next?"

    "Seek justice, Warmaster." He allowed himself a feral smile. "Those Fulminata bastards are going to wish they were never born."
    Last edited by dakkagor; 06-24-2021 at 02:08 PM.

  9. #29
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    [*Priority;*]
    [*Top Secret;*]
    [*Cadian 1010th Field Army;*]
    [*Command Meeting*]

    +++One Week Prior to Reclaimation+++

    The room was quiet, one of professionalism rather than anxiety or anxiousness. Gathered today were all the members of the field armies command staff. From the General and his staffers, to each of the regiments Colonels. Together they sat, after having turned one of the transport vessels mustering halls into a functioning headquarters. Through the duration of their travels they had studied all the intelligence the administratum and munitorum had provided them. They knew their mission, their role in it. The importance of their field army and the contribution they had to the reclaimation.

    "The Emperor smiles upon us," declared General Velius.
    "For we are not alone in this endeavour. We find ourselves fighting alongside our peers in the Imperial war machine, whilst the warmaster has confirmed their fighting numbers do not match ours I have been assured their prowess does."

    A hand rose in the distance, and then Colonel of the Cadian 356th independent super-heavy company stood from his chair.

    "Against an entire sector, General? Does this not seem inadequate? Telfus after all was but one planet. Whilst I can say for a certainty that my tanks are ready to serve Emperor and Imperium, I'd rather us not die uselessly in a war of attrition." The Colonel nodded his respects after speaking his piece and sat down again.

    It was unless to complain now, they both knew that. The man simply wanted to voice his displeasure at putting his prized Macharius tanks on the firing line. Whilst they were no true Baneblades they made up for it with numbers. Their independent super heavy companies outnumbered the traditional Baneblade company 2-1.

    "Need I remind you, Colonel. This is shock and awe. A reclaimation effort. We are to rapidly take key areas of importance. Keep damage to civilian infrastructure to a minimum and aid those innocents in need. We are not invaders. We are here to bring the peace." General Velius returned.

    General Velius leaned over the table and took in each of his officers faces. None of them appeared to be afraid, of course, many of them would be they just kept it hidden within. He’d be lying to say he wasn’t as well, this was war, the fates of everyone in this room and the entire field army rested on his shoulders. To an extent the expectations of a warmaster he knew nearly nothing about and the lives of the Adranteans as well. This campaign would be better than Telfus, they were all veterans now.

    "We are surgical instruments in this conflict. Think of us as a medicae officer cutting away a cancer. The planet is merely the body and soul. We're here to cure it." General Velius stated, his voice full of prestige.
    “I urge you to keep your men and women training for the next week. Increase their rations and see if this hulk of a vessel has some booze. Let them have some fun before we make landfall.”

    General Velius stood from his chair and began a slow walk out of the mustering hall. Around him surprised, his bodyguards hurriedly stirred and fell in beside him. The General paused and turned back to face his officers.

    “Oh, and don’t forget to practice your Adrantean common tongues. We’re winning hearts and minds down their ladies and gentlemen. The locals have an appreciation when you make an effort. Dismissed.” Velius finished.

    The accompanying officers stood in unison and gave salute. “Forever onwards. Ave.”
    Last edited by Jarms48; 02-04-2021 at 12:14 AM.

  10. #30
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    [*Cadian 1010th Field Army;*]
    [*2433rd, 1st Infantry Company*]
    [*Captain, Jacktious*]


    +++Five Days Prior to Reclaimation+++


    The day was theirs, a brief reprieve before the fighting started and the training resumed. Many of them had gotten drunk the night before, a celebration after the brass gave them their final orders and removed the limits from their alcohol rations. Captain Jacktious left his men of the 2433rd 1st infantry company at ease, they didn't need him. Many of the troops were old friends or even family. That's how the recruiters along the grain-belt met their quotas with promises of pal battalions, he could remember the posters.

    Who better to watch your backs? Keep your eyes on those closest to you. The PDF keeping family strong, together. It all sounded rather nice, serving the Cadian PDF and staying close to those you cared about. Even being garrisoned at local bases. That all changed once they released the truth, and entire local communities of enlistees were then pulled out of the PDF and put into the Guard. With a single strike of a pen, the townships and rural farms of the belt had lost a generation.

    He put those thoughts at the back of his mind. Instead Captain Mathew Jacktious focused on the sound of his footfalls. He wanted to see an old friend. His travels took him from the barracks of the field army's infantry regiments to the lower levels of the field army's armoured regiments motor pools. It was loud, many of the tankies preferred to stay with their vehicles even during downtime. Around him he could see well used sleeping bags gathered onto the top decks of leman russ tanks, tools scatter around tool boxes, welding sparks coming from under the hulls of machines as the tankers attached addition applique to the under hulls from whatever scraps of metal they could get their hands on.

    Some of the tankies he walked past gave him dirty looks, there was often resentment between the infantry and armoured units. They took to calling the infantrymen as poor bloody guardsmen or PBG's for short. Jacktious took no notice of the extra attention. In the end everyone understood they'd be working closely together, each of them was an individual spoke of the wheel and without the other the wheel would grind to a halt.

    Mathew slowed, seeing the tell-tale name of My Fair Lady painted onto the off-side of the battle tanks turret. He could hear tinkering and talking. Some of her crew sat beside the hull laughing and sipping tin cups of re-caf. On the other side of hull was Jannet, his counterpart. The woman who accompanied his company throughout Telfus. Hands and face covered with grease, wearing olive coveralls instead of their standard uniforms.

    "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, aye Jannet?"

    "If it isn't Matthew, do you need my tanks to pull you out of proverbial fire again?" Her return was sarcastic, filled with a humour that developed between long standing colleagues.

    "I think that credit still goes to the space marines." Matthew returned.

    "A single squad and librarian against a planet? I would doubt their contribution changed much over the course of the war. They only assisted in taking the capital, then they fokked off like they always do." Her voice sounded slightly upset.

    "Aye, I can't give them all the credit. However, you can't deny it was good for morale, and you also can't deny the fact that we've actually seen the angels of death up-close and in person."

    "They're shorter than I expected, the statues always make them seem gigantic." Jannet quipped, her bubbly self already returning.

    "And yet, taller than I expected. Let me remind you that your point of view is coming down from an armoured cupola."

    "Oh, I'm aware. Your view coming from a PBG." She smirked, and gave his shoulder a light punch. "I can't think of a PBG I respect more than you."

    She paused, thinking.

    "So, what was life for you back home. You know, before all this?" Antheia said, outstretching her arms and pointing to the room for enthesis.

    "Farmers and weekend reservists. Lived out near Kasr Eaghton. Drove land crawlers, helped the folks pick crops, sprayed pesticides, sometimes we'd help the dispatch officers deliver produce to the warehouses. Then on the weekends we'd go to the local PDF mustering grounds. Do drills until dark. For some reason I enjoyed that more than the remedial farm hand work, so I joined up. What's your story?" Matthew asked.

    "Mechanic, born and bred. Lived out near Kasr Easkerton, went to church school. Parents use to joke they'd make a Sororita out of me. You know that old saying? Cadians learn to field strip a las-rifle before the age of 10? Well, I was field stripping, polishing and las-blasting tin cans by 7. I stayed for awhile fixing cars and tractors, but this starry eyed little girl wanted to see the universe.

    So I joined the PDF, my fondness for all things mechanical put me into the armoured corps. Started as a loader, got pulled into the Guard and moved my way up." She said.

    "Kasr Easkerton, only a few hours drive away. Makes sense why we're all here."

    "That's right, grain-belt boys and girls the lot of us. Shame." Antheia returned.

    "What's a shame?"

    "That it took this long for us to have this conversation."

    "We're in the Guard, Telfus had us occupied, orders kept us focused. Then we got assigned to this reclaimation, training and re-training. Never a dull moment." Matthew stated.

    "Good luck out there, Matt. Ave." Antheia gave the sign of the aquila.

    "Aye, good luck to yourself, Ant. Forever onwards." Matthew returned the gesture.
    Last edited by Jarms48; 02-15-2021 at 04:01 AM.

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