Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Seeing your face fall so despondently, Bothle rises from his chair, one hand reaching out to steady you.
"Boss? Boss? What's wrong, Vince? You're making me nervous, now.
The static is overwhelmingly loud on the microbead now, the interference far too great now to even hear the screams. Whatever corrupting presence is at work in the Geltdown Docks it has knocked out your communications with Einhardt. Your ears buzz uncomfortably with the echoes.
Such a feeling of helplessness is something you are utterly unfamiliar with. Strangely, far from crippling you, it only spurs your mind through a fugue-like series of possible stratagems; a scholam-conditioned mental exercise that automatically plays out when things are at their bleakest.
Sometimes you wish your training would just leave you alone and let you feel like sh!t.
A triple-chime sounds from your dataslate.
Looking down it appears that Lexmechanic Gulvar has completed his computations ahead of schedule.
"The answer is simple Luceros. We followed the money."
"Respectfully, I know I am not an Alpha, hence why I asked for your help Pack brother to Pack brother. It is your right to decline, but I will hunt with those beside me regardless. We are on the Long Hunt. I just hoped you would share in the desire to bleed those who did us harm. Are you not ready to pounce?"
"If you trust not my word, or those who travel with me then ask Sigmunt what he saw at the Gearbox."
" ...How is it we do not know that this contrived Hunt will not send the few warriors we have left to their deaths?"
Iacton steps forward and finally breaks his silence. "The Arbites have turned away from the Emperor's light. It is our holy duty to end their heresy, and it shall take more than a traitor's blade to stop those who do the Emperor's work." He says this with the certainty of the truly faithful, and then silently steps back to his previous position.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
With the foul fog still obscuring just about everything, you hear the rapid-fire, pitter-pattering sounds of the horrid swarming things as they surge along the switchback rampways leading up to the landing platform. The leader of the squad of guardsmen gestures wildly to his men, waving them back toward the shuttle to take up firing positions, oblivious to exactly what doom is even now wildly scuttling toward them. Still worse, Kaltos can make out through the purplish blur of his visor that fully half the squealing horde pouring out of the hauler is headed toward the cargo-8 holding Oktammor, Ivaanov, and Dunkan's men.
Over the microbead:"Albrek do you know how we can take care of such a large number of those creatures? Are they easy to kill? You have encountered these before, correct?"
Albrek responds stonily:
"We don't, they aren't, and I have."
"There were only about six of them, though, and we stood back while a dreadnought-sized gun-servitor with a heavy flamer dealt with 'em."
Centering his las on the middle of the cloud like you, hoping to find something, anything, worth shooting at, the grim ex-guardsman tries to offer some hope.
"At least we're up here."
He then looks around hopelessly.
"We need fire, and lots of it."
At that moment the vile creatures must hove into view for the guardsmen, even though the cloud still obscures them from your height, because you begin to hear the whipcrack reports of lasguns firing, followed by muffled shouts.
With the pounding toll of a leaden bell, the autocannon mounted on the side of the cargo-8 opens up as well, the booming, percussive rounds exploding with flashes of expended ordinance amid the reaching tendrils of the foul gas at ground level.
You look at the carnage playing out below as the cloud slowly lifts, racking your mind for any solution that presents itself. Turning your head to look at the superstructure of the crane, you see the secondary control cab located about three meters overhead where the lift shaft terminates. Thinking back to Launce and the scrapyard, your eyes wander still further to rest upon the three large, orange-painted cylindrical containers conspicuously hanging from the boom arm over seventy meters above and behind you.
Albrek swears in surprise.
"Oh, feck, I think we have a target."
You look down again, and can just make out the dark silhouette of a hideously obese man standing atop the cab of the shattered sanitation hauler. His arms are raised overhead, and you can hear the hideous, croaking sound of his gluttonous laughter even so high above.
The Den
"The answer is simple Luceros. We followed the money."
"If you trust not my word, or those who travel with me then ask Sigmunt what he saw at the Gearbox."
Sigmunt raises his head and respectfully acknowledges each of the Alphas.
"Of all the Wolves remaining, only the three of you know who I am, only the three of you know what sacrifices I have made for my kin. So, you all know I speak for the good of the Pack, and I speak the truth."
He considers his next words carefully.
"I will vouchsafe everything Savalos has said. It is truth. All of it. Were it not for him, I would be dead right now. The threat face we face is real, and it is much more than just our sworn foes. We have licked our wounds long enough, and these noble men cannot face it alone. They need our help."
Looking at Luceros, Sigmunt raises his chin, teeth clenched, a look of defiance on his unassuming face.
"Tell him who got the list for us Sav. Tell him."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Seeing your face fall so despondently, Bothle rises from his chair, one hand reaching out to steady you.
"Boss? Boss? What's wrong, Vince? You're making me nervous, now.
The static is overwhelmingly loud on the microbead now, the interference far too great now to even hear the screams. Whatever corrupting presence is at work in the Geltdown Docks it has knocked out your communications with Einhardt. Your ears buzz uncomfortably with the echoes.
Such a feeling of helplessness is something you are utterly unfamiliar with. Strangely, far from crippling you, it only spurs your mind through a fugue-like series of possible stratagems; a scholam-conditioned mental exercise that automatically plays out when things are at their bleakest.
Sometimes you wish your training would just leave you alone and let you feel like sh!t.
A triple-chime sounds from your dataslate.
Looking down it appears that Lexmechanic Gulvar has completed his computations ahead of schedule.
Vincent tears the mircobead from his ear in disgust and slaps it down on the desk. He rubs his brow as he considers the situation, pacing left and right in the confined space.
Hearing the chime of his dataslate, he eagerly calls up the Lexmechanic's message, desperate to make himself useful.
The Den
Iacton steps forward and finally breaks his silence."The Arbites have turned away from the Emperor's light. It is our holy duty to end their heresy, and it shall take more than a traitor's blade to stop those who do the Emperor's work."
He says this with the certainty of the truly faithful, and then silently steps back to his previous position.
Even as Sigmunt begins to speak, Luceros glares at Iacton, and Krade's loyal aide can see him contemplating something. Like his brother, his wide, expressive features are poorly formed to conceal the scheming machinations of his mind's inner workings.
"The Wayward Pup got us the list. Uriah, you have the data slate with you.?"
"Yes I do."
I hand up the data slate to Savalos' mom.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
[PICT ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
[BEGIN TIMESTAMP: Oremor LOCAL/00:00:00/240.816.M41]
[END TIMESTAMP: Oremor LOCAL/23:59:59/268.816.M41]
[DURATION INTERVAL: 28 Sidereal Days Later]
[FINAL ANALYTICS FINDINGS:]
[RESULT 1: TIME: 00:41:26/240.816.M41; LOCATION: 3rd Level Commissary; OFFENSE: Petty Larceny (Commestibles); OFFENDER: Corporal Kevan Tyghe; CERTAINTY: 96.5555%]
[RESULT 2: TIME: 01:49:26/240.816.M41; LOCATION: Corridor Accessway #16B; OFFENSE: Simple Assault; OFFENDER: Guardsman Dolor Skanska; CERTAINTY: 94.33311%]...
Vincent parses the file, eliminating anything not involving Commissar Ekubal.
He stares at the twenty or so results a cold sweat breaking out under his clothing.
[RESULT 422: TIME: 02:19:24/252.816.M41; LOCATION: V-BLOCK SECURE ENTRY; OFFENSE: INCONCLUSIVE/DERELICTION OF POST; OFFENDER: Commissar Sepuetanq Ekubal; CERTAINTY: 99.7777%; WARNING: Temporal Anomaly Detected/UNFOUNDED/ERROR]
[RESULT 423: TIME: 02:19:26/252.816.M41; LOCATION: Warden-Colonel Kreed's Personal Dining Room; OFFENSE: INCONCLUSIVE/DERELICTION OF POST/TRESPASSING; OFFENDER: Commissar Sepuetanq Ekubal; CERTAINTY: 99.7777%; WARNING: Temporal Anomaly Detected/UNFOUNDED/ERROR]
The data is irreconcilable. It simply doesn't make sense. It suggests that somehow Ekubal was in two different places, almost at once. Over a kilometer of corridors, accessways, and lifts, separate the bowels of V-Block from Kreed's chambers at the pinnacle of the Aerie.
[RESULT 424: TIME: 02:29:56/252.816.M41; LOCATION: Warden-Colonel Kreed's Personal Quarters; OFFENSE: INCONCLUSIVE/DERELICTION OF POST/TRESPASSING/UNKNOWN ASSAULT ON SUPERIOR OFFICER; OFFENDER: Commissar Sepuetanq Ekubal; CERTAINTY: 99.7777%; WARNING: Temporal Anomaly Detected/UNFOUNDED/ERROR]
Vincent's mind reels trying to rationalize what he has found. Poring over the remainder of the log, he sees a number of incidences similar to the first involving Ekubal. The pict-cogitator interface of the claustrum's Panopticon shows him as not present at his posting in V-Block on numerous occasions, but contradictorily, it is unable to find him anywhere else within the penitentiary.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
[RESULT 422: TIME: 02:19:24/252.816.M41; LOCATION: V-BLOCK SECURE ENTRY; OFFENSE: INCONCLUSIVE/DERELICTION OF POST; OFFENDER: Commissar Sepuetanq Ekubal; CERTAINTY: 99.7777%; WARNING: Temporal Anomaly Detected/UNFOUNDED/ERROR]
[RESULT 423: TIME: 02:19:26/252.816.M41; LOCATION: Warden-Colonel Kreed's Personal Dining Room; OFFENSE: INCONCLUSIVE/DERELICTION OF POST/TRESPASSING; OFFENDER: Commissar Sepuetanq Ekubal; CERTAINTY: 99.7777%; WARNING: Temporal Anomaly Detected/UNFOUNDED/ERROR]
The data is irreconcilable. It simply doesn't make sense. It suggests that somehow Ekubal was in two different places, almost at once. Over a kilometer of corridors, accessways, and lifts, separate the bowels of V-Block from Kreed's chambers at the pinnacle of the Aerie.
Vincent tries to make sense of what he sees.
Shaking his head, he checks the status of his search in the claustrum.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
You look at the carnage playing out below as the cloud slowly lifts, racking your mind for any solution that presents itself. Turning your head to look at the superstructure of the crane, you see the secondary control cab located about three meters overhead where the lift shaft terminates. Thinking back to Launce and the scrapyard, your eyes wander still further to rest upon the three large, orange-painted cylindrical containers conspicuously hanging from the boom arm over seventy meters above and behind you.
Albrek swears in surprise.
"Oh, feck, I think we have a target."
You look down again, and can just make out the dark silhouette of a hideously obese man standing atop the cab of the shattered sanitation hauler. His arms are raised overhead, and you can hear the hideous, croaking sound of his gluttonous laughter even so high above.
"I might have a plan if I am right about those barrels." I get up and head to the control cab. "If these controls do not require a specialized servitor I might be able to drop these over the swarm of slim and have it ignited to burn them out. We can then take out big ugly."
The Den
"Yes I do."
I hand up the data slate to Savalos' mom.
Uriah steps forward to hand the She-Wolf the dataslate, but is stopped short when one of the larger, hungrier-looking duct wolves bounds off the moldering settee it was resting on to block his path. The creature raises its ugly head, razor-sharp teeth bared, while slavering trails of foul-smelling spittle. Uriah looks on in trepidation as the fur on the creature's thickly muscled shoulders rises in hackles that stand straight upright like sharpened quills. A guttural growl punctuated by shrill, ear-tingling whines freezes him in place even more than the physical threat posed by the beast.
Silus steps forward from his high-backed chair and crosses the few paces to the edge of the dais and takes the proffered slate as Ariella looks on, nodding in assent. His reedy, perpetually amused voice breaks the tension.
"Thank you. Don't mind her, she is just a bit overprotective."
Returning to his seat with the slate, he slides round, wire-rim spectacles with rusting frames and shot-glass thick lenses over his eyes. Tapping on the touchscreen, his face all focus and concentration, he spends a few minutes going over the list.
He looks to the other Alphas, pushing his spectacles up from the tip of his nose reflexively.
"This is significant. The list contained herein enumerates personal data, domiciles, and suspected incidences of corruption or malfeasance for a substantial number of investigators, arbitrators, and intelligencers. Many of these names are familiar to me; ranking arbites who were suspected of collaborating with the Yellobouros during their strike against us. It is all quite damning."
Ariella nods, but Luceros hardly seems convinced.
Silus finally waves the wand, eliciting a reverberating whine of feedback, and the huge duct wolf facing down Uriah pads dejectedly back to its settee.
He then looks at Uriah and Savalos.
"What then do you propose we do with this information, should it prove accurate?"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
The cluster of three, four-meter-long, one meter in diameter, cylinder-shaped canisters are painted a vibrant, deliberately obvious orange hue, and are emblazoned along their length with hazmat symbols and identifier runes marking them as flammable.
"I might have a plan if I am right about those barrels."I get up and head to the control cab.
"If these controls do not require a specialized servitor I might be able to drop these over the swarm of slime and have it ignited to burn them out. We can then take out big ugly."
You speak over the microbead to Albrek as you climb, the earpiece occasionally crackling with bursts of static and what sound like snatches of desperate oaths, frantic orders, and wailing screams.
Albrek answers while trying to line up a shot on the obese figure still partially obscured by the cloud of redolent filth and the bulk of the sanitation hauler.
"Sounds like a plan. You better hurry, though. I don't think our allies are going to last very long down there against those foul little fecks if we don't do something real soon."
I watch Luceros carefully. Seeing his uncompromising hatred for his brother reminds me of Leprades hatred for Johnnie. I begin to wonder if Johnnies capture by the arbites, and brain scrubbing was arranged. Something for me to chew my teeth on later.
"We can do one of two things. One we can go out and get revenge. Blood for blood. While we are avenged it gives us no advantage, and our enemies can use it to hurt us further."
"I suggest we give this information to arbites not on the take. Let them clean there own house while knowing who helped them. Favors we can use later. We wait in the shadows, and help them then they need an extra gun or hand. Don't say a word, just let them know who there Guardian Angels are. Let the Arbites flush there corrupt brothers out of the Den of Vipers. We follow, and see what new holes they hide in. We follow where new money changes hands. We follow the corruption to its source. Then we bite the head off the snake."
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
The cluster of three, four-meter-long, one meter in diameter, cylinder-shaped canisters are painted a vibrant, deliberately obvious orange hue, and are emblazoned along their length with hazmat symbols and identifier runes marking them as flammable.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent tries to make sense of what he sees.
Shaking his head, he checks the status of his search in the claustrum.
The indicators on Gulvar's findings defy logic and reason, and Vincent finds his mind wandering in disturbing places...
Temporal anomalies?
Teleportation?
Some profane manipulation of the Warp?
He's not sure what intuition compels him, but he adjusts his dataslate to send a feed showing how his own search on the movements of the V-Block personnel is coming along.
Skimming the output, he stops short when the new result chime tones, the green-lit readout showing two ward accessor results that have occurred in the last ten minutes.
Squinting as he reads the fine text, Vincent curses.
...
[ACCESS GRANTED] [OVERRIDE!]
[TIME] 15:21/268.816.M41
[ZONE] Clerical Wing A/Room 1/Senior Clerk's Office
[ACCESSOR] GlydeT/166GT2
[ACCESS GRANTED] [AUTHORIZED ACCESS]
[TIME] 15:31/268.816.M41
[ZONE] Clerical Wing A/Concourse 7/Senior Clerk Wing
[ACCESSOR] GlydeT/166GT2
Concourse 7 is a connecting corridor leading from your office in the inner ring toward Bothle's and the other supervisory clerks... where you are now.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Cognizant of the leaden weight of his subdermal cyber mantle, Kaltos takes care in his climb to the upper control booth, realizing that he will help no one if he plummets to his death for his haste.
As he reaches the platform and pulls himself into the open booth, he hears more screams and shouts coming from the microbead in his ear. It is followed by the sound of more percussive weapons fire, still clearly audible even at this height. Focusing his entire attention on the panel, he is relieved to see that it is not servitor-specific, but a set of manual controls with an old, but operable data port he can interface with.
Wasting no time, the tech-priest connects, and opens his mind to the comforting drone of the machine language which responds.
Kaltos answers the machine language with commands of his own, asserting ownership of the stubborn machine spirit and its locked-out controls by the authority of the Omnissiah's faithful. There is a shudder that runs through the boom-lift as the massive engine at its base rumbles to life. Glancing behind him at where the canisters dangle in a tidy bundle so frustratingly far away from the havoc unfolding below, Kaltos begins the laborious process of swinging the volatile 'pick' around.
The Den
I watch Luceros carefully. Seeing his uncompromising hatred for his brother reminds me of Leprades hatred for Johnnie. I begin to wonder if Johnnies capture by the arbites, and brain scrubbing was arranged. Something for me to chew my teeth on later.
"We can do one of two things. One we can go out and get revenge. Blood for blood. While we are avenged it gives us no advantage, and our enemies can use it to hurt us further."
"I suggest we give this information to arbites not on the take. Let them clean there own house while knowing who helped them. Favors we can use later. We wait in the shadows, and help them then they need an extra gun or hand. Don't say a word, just let them know who there Guardian Angels are. Let the Arbites flush there corrupt brothers out of the Den of Vipers. We follow, and see what new holes they hide in. We follow where new money changes hands. We follow the corruption to its source. Then we bite the head off the snake."
Silus smiles in amusement, clearly impressed by the carefully considered course of action you have suggested.
"An interesting gambit, Ariella, the son takes after mother as far as guile is concerned."
He also can't help but show some perverse pleasure in pointing out the holes in your plan, either.
"One problem presents itself, however. I can say with certitude that there is not one contact within the Arbites we possess that could be trusted to facilitate something on this order of magnitude. We simply do no have this kind of rapport with the servants of Law that otherwise would see us exterminated like our namesake. Have you anyone in mind?"
Luceros looks on with disdain, clearly waiting for you to fail.
The Den
Silus smiles in amusement, clearly impressed by the carefully considered course of action you have suggested.
"An interesting gambit, Ariella, the son takes after mother as far as guile is concerned."
He also can't help but show some perverse pleasure in pointing out the holes in your plan, either.
"Have you anyone in mind?"
"Matter of fact I do. His name is Luthos..."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
He's not sure what intuition compels him, but he adjusts his dataslate to send a feed showing how his own search on the movements of the V-Block personnel is coming along.
Skimming the output, he stops short when the new result chime tones, the green-lit readout showing two ward accessor results that have occurred in the last ten minutes.
Squinting as he reads the fine text, Vincent curses.
...
[ACCESS GRANTED] [OVERRIDE!]
[TIME] 15:21/268.816.M41
[ZONE] Clerical Wing A/Room 1/Senior Clerk's Office
[ACCESSOR] GlydeT/166GT2[ACCESS GRANTED] [AUTHORIZED ACCESS]
[TIME] 15:31/268.816.M41
[ZONE] Clerical Wing A/Concourse 7/Senior Clerk Wing
[ACCESSOR] GlydeT/166GT2Concourse 7 is a connecting corridor leading from your office in the inner ring toward Bothle's and the other supervisory clerks... where you are now.
Vincent's hand slides into his coat and pulls his pistol from its holster. Placing the dataslate on the desk he pullls back the slide to check the chamber then slides his gun hand behind his back. Keeping an eye on the door, he uses his free hand to call up the pict-corders in Concourse 7.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent's hand slides into his coat and pulls his pistol from its holster. Placing the dataslate on the desk he pulls back the slide to check the chamber then slides his gun hand behind his back. Keeping an eye on the door, he uses his free hand to call up the pict-corders in Concourse 7.
With practiced ease, Vincent keys in the proper sequence and calls up a grid display of the claustrum's mid-level connecting concourses. Tapping the screen and leaving a faint crimson print from his bloodstained finger, he watches as the pict-footage from Concourse #7 resolves onto the 'slate.
The picture isn't a pretty one. Not by a long shot. You watch as Glyde stalks down the corridor, shotgun in hand, followed by the towering Stollow and a half-dozen V-Block guardsmen dressed in full riot-dress. The sneering, curled-lip smile on Glyde's face is the hungry look of a predator that has caught the scent. Most disturbingly, as he passes beneath the opaque black dome that houses the pict-corder, he looks up and into the black half-sphere, strange orange-flecked eyes probing it, as if sensing your eyes scrying upon him from afar.
Fortunately for you, the claustrum is a very large place. They are still at least ten minutes from your present location in Bothle's office. Reminded of the man, you look over to your right to see him standing beside you, watching the 'slate between stolen glances at your firearm. Again, he appears at a loss for words. The milky pallor of his skin, however, tells a tale all its own.
The Den
"Matter of fact I do. His name is Luthos..."
Your mother answers this time, her smoky voice cutting off Silus as he begins to pose another dissecting question. His lips snap shut almost audibly in his haste to show deference to her, not wanting to arouse her ire like Luceros did. Oddly enough, you are reminded of how he silenced the feral beast facing Uriah just a few minutes ago.
There is little question who truly runs the Duct Wolves now.
"Who is this Luthos, my son?"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Below, and it is a most vertiginous below, dropping more than thirty meters to the unforgiving rockcrete tarmac of the Geltdown Docks, you see that the caustic grey-green fog has begun to lift somewhat. Although low-hanging banks of gas still reach out from the shattered sanitation hauler like grasping tendrils, most of it has receded or dispersed, blown about by the downwash of passing craft shrieking by above and the huge air-scrubbing turbines that continually refresh the air in the vast hangar.
You almost wish the horror of what transpires down there had remained hidden.
A seething tide of pustulent little horrors, that look like nothing less than giant boils become ambulatory, scrabble over one another to reach the top of Platform #7. There are easily hundreds of them, and their sheer press of numbers has choked off the caged-in, switch-back loading rampways, reducing their arrival on the upper deck where the guardsmen wait to a trickle of scuttling monstrosities. Those of the ten or so 7th Legion soldiers who are not screaming incoherently in horror, or vomiting their breakfasts at their feet from the fetid stench, lay down a disciplined barrage of fire, blasting away at the voracious daemons swarming toward them, picking off those tenacious enough to emerge before their brethren. It is obvious their success in holding back the teeming horde is only temporary; already stragglers are circling around the edges of the large platform and moving in with the clear intent to spread the trooper's fire. This inkling of malign intelligence in the things only makes it more frightening. You wince as a handful of the things begin devouring the guardsman who perished from inhaling the reeking cloud, gobbling up his flesh and tearing at his armor and clothing like pack of starving scavengers.
At least as many of the foul things have surged around the wheels of the cargo-8, even as steady fire from the autocannon pulps dozens of them with each burst. Small arms fire chatters from the gunports killing still more, but the swarm has already begun pushing itself up the side of the armored truck, born aloft by sheer numbers. They titter and cackle, wet smacking sounds mixing with grotesque belches and wet barking discharges of far more foul things from their bodies as they search for a way in.
Presiding over it all, is perhaps the most horrid creature yet, worse so, perhaps, because it once may have been called a man. What can only be Commissar Ekubal crouches atop the cab of the garbage hauler. Curdled-white rolls of fat erupt from his tattered black greatcoat in a bulbous cascade of scab-covered flesh. Gashes in his distended belly disgorging purple viscera that appear to writhe of their own accord, looking as if they sniff the very air in their blind wriggling. He laughs madly, great chortling eruptions of noise that are interspersed with black bile and vomit pouring from his mouth. His commissar's cap perched jauntily upon an engorged head so bloated that its features are almost lost in rounded cheeks and chins, he waves a steaming plasma pistol overhead, urging on his countless, teeming minions with childish glee.
To make matters worse, a contingent of ten or so guardsmen, all clad in tattered and dirty green flak armor, pile out of the rear of the truck from the hopper, as if stirring to life again after being imprisoned by the sheer press of the pestilential horde that has preceded them. Each wears a dented, full-head helmet and wrap-around respirator. The bug-eyed, black-glass visors combined with their stilted gaits make them look almost like man-sized insects.
Your hands falter for a moment on the controls, your mind forgetting for a moment in your abject disgust and loathing what it is you mean to do.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Your hands falter for a moment on the controls, your mind forgetting for a moment in your abject disgust and loathing what it is you mean to do.
WP 37-10=27 I cringe at the horror happening below momentary forgetting what I am doing.
The Den
"Matter of fact I do. His name is Luthos..."
Your mother answers this time, her smoky voice cutting off Silus as he begins to pose another dissecting question. His lips snap shut almost audibly in his haste to show deference to her, not wanting to arouse her ire like Luceros did. Oddly enough, you are reminded of how he silenced the feral beast facing Uriah just a few minutes ago.
There is little question who truly runs the Duct Wolves now.
"Who is this Luthos, my son?"
"He is a Street Arbiter in charge of the check point choking off the Underhive to the rest of the Spire. Has a history with Johnnie. Let him, Uriah, and couple others slip through with the price on our heads. Illuminated Johnnie that he still has friends on the force. Provided us some intel. Never met him personally so can't say much else; but that Johnnie is as stubborn and unbending as a new support girder. If this Luthos wasn't like minded, then Johnnie wouldn't deal with him."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
With practiced ease, Vincent keys in the proper sequence and calls up a grid display of the claustrum's mid-level connecting concourses. Tapping the screen and leaving a faint crimson print from his bloodstained finger, he watches as the pict-footage from Concourse #7 resolves onto the 'slate.
The picture isn't a pretty one. Not by a long shot. You watch as Glyde stalks down the corridor, shotgun in hand, followed by the towering Stollow and a half-dozen V-Block guardsmen dressed in full riot-dress. The sneering, curled-lip smile on Glyde's face is the hungry look of a predator that has caught the scent. Most disturbingly, as he passes beneath the opaque black dome that houses the pict-corder, he looks up and into the black half-sphere, strange orange-flecked eyes probing it, as if sensing your eyes scrying upon him from afar.
Fortunately for you, the claustrum is a very large place. They are still at least ten minutes from your present location in Bothle's office. Reminded of the man, you look over to your right to see him standing beside you, watching the 'slate between stolen glances at your firearm. Again, he appears at a loss for words. The milky pallor of his skin, however, tells a tale all its own.
"Time to go Bothle, we do not want to be here when they show up."
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
I cringe at the horror happening below momentary forgetting what I am doing.
Your hands begin to tremble uncontrollably upon the rail of the control booth as you look over the side. For a brief time the dizzying effects of vertigo combine with the foul reek wafting up from below to make you so nauseous and unsteady on your feet that you feel as though you will pitch over the side and fall to your death.
You only begin to regain your wits when Albrek yells over the microbead, the acolyte's forceful, desperate shouts bringing you back to your senses somewhat. The tremble is still there, but you feel as though you can now act.
<<<"If you're going to do something, fecking do it! They're not going to last much longer down there!">>>
Almost on cue, the cargo-8 begins rocking back and forth under the weight of the teeming little monsters clinging to its sides and roof. The chattering autoguns and the thunder of the autocannon begin to grow more sporadic with fewer targets to fire upon, the small arms swiveling desperately in the gunports trying to shake off the beasts.
On the platform, the hideous things surge free of their logjam in larger groups now, waddling with purpose toward the guardsmen whose semi-automatic fire is now supplemented by the intermittent belches of promethium-fueled fire brought to bear by one of their number who has managed to ignite his flamer.
Even so, they will not last long.
The abomination that is the commissar waves his troopers on in your direction, exhorting them with a terrible croaking voice, arms waving with sails of flab from the sleeves of his tattered greatcoat, a blasphemous mockery of his station. He levels the plasma pistol at you, squinting one piggish eye shut as he aims.
The guardsmen fan out in a loose formation and half of them rush the base of the crane while the other five begin firing whip-crack blasts from their lasguns at you and Albrek.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"Time to go Bothle, we do not want to be here when they show up."
Bothle's hand rubs at his chin thoughtfully. His color still has not returned, and he seems numbly out of sync with what is occurring around him.
"Aww, hell boss, what have you gotten us into?"
His voice carries with it the grudging realization that life as he customarily knows it will soon be changing drastically for the worse.
You carefully consider the delaying tactics available to you. Normally, you wouldn't have the authorization to access the security and fire suppression system's cogitational controls, but with the ward accessor given to you by the Warden-Colonel, all bets are off.
It all comes down to how much mayhem you want to cause.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Bothle's hand rubs at his chin thoughtfully. His color still has not returned, and he seems numbly out of sync with what is occurring around him.
"Aww, hell boss, what have you gotten us into?"
His voice carries with it the grudging realization that life as he customarily knows it will soon be changing drastically for the worse.
You carefully consider the delaying tactics available to you. Normally, you wouldn't have the authorization to access the security and fire suppression system's cogitational controls, but with the ward accessor given to you by the Warden-Colonel, all bets are off.
It all comes down to how much mayhem you want to cause.
Vincent's unfamiliarity with the systems frustrates his efforts, running out of time, he has an idea. Turning to Bothle, he asks:
"Do you have anymore of that atrocious rotgut you were drinking the other night?"
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent's unfamiliarity with the systems frustrates his efforts, running out of time, he has an idea. Turning to Bothle, he asks:
"Do you have anymore of that atrocious rotgut you were drinking the other night?"
It is a testament to Jerimus Bothle's efficiency that he quickly finds and produces a mid-sized jerry can half-filled with the potent beverage distilled for him by the guardsmen of Agri-block #12.
Even in the face of certain death he still has the uncanny wherewithal to rapidly provide whatever it is you request of him. It's a trait that makes him an excellent second to you, and more than offsets his rather eccentric personality in your estimation.
"I hope that whatever is going through that big brain of yours, Vince, it involves using a can of fermented motor fuel to save our skins."
He says it deadpan, without any attempt at humor, and you find yourself smiling at him despite the grim circumstances, so ridiculous does he look wearing his over-sized sunshades indoors.
The Den
"He is a Street Arbiter in charge of the check point choking off the Underhive to the rest of the Spire. Has a history with Johnnie. Let him, Uriah, and couple others slip through with the price on our heads. Illuminated Johnnie that he still has friends on the force. Provided us some intel. Never met him personally so can't say much else; but that Johnnie is as stubborn and unbending as a new support girder. If this Luthos wasn't like minded, then Johnnie wouldn't deal with him."
The She-Wolf holds your gaze, and you sense that so much more is communicated through that look than what she actually says: A maternal affection tempered by loss, an intrigued pride in what you have become, and the absolute certainty that she now is conflicted by her unassailable loyalty to the Wolves and her unconditional love for her son.
None of the others in the room detect a hint of this though, so cold and dispassionate is her answer.
Guile runs in the family, after all.
"Tell me then, if you were in my place, would you trust the fate of our family to this man of the Law? If you were the one who led, and not I, would you wager the lives of all who remain on such a gambit, as Silus referred to it?"
Luceros grunts in agreement, familiar with the Ariella's cold delivery and incisive lines of questioning. It is apparent, at least to him, that the conversation is turning in favor of his line of thinking.
The Den
The She-Wolf holds your gaze, and you sense that so much more is communicated through that look than what she actually says: A maternal affection tempered by loss, an intrigued pride in what you have become, and the absolute certainty that she now is conflicted by her unassailable loyalty to the Wolves and her unconditional love for her son.None of the others in the room detect a hint of this though, so cold and dispassionate is her answer.
Guile runs in the family, after all.
"Tell me then, if you were in my place, would you trust the fate of our family to this man of the Law? If you were the one who led, and not I, would you wager the lives of all who remain on such a gambit, as Silus referred to it?"
Luceros grunts in agreement, familiar with the Ariella's cold delivery and incisive lines of questioning. It is apparent, at least to him, that the conversation is turning in favor of his line of thinking.
I listen to my mother carefully, and look into her eyes as Luceros grunts. I mentally place myself into her seat. I think of the politics that must be played with her position. I wonder how much he hungers after her power and respect. I also have to temper that with what knowledge I have gleaned from the Old Man. From whats at stake, what we can all loose.
"Any decision that affects the Greater Pack should not be taken lightly. I do not see this action as a gambit, but an opportunity. I feel its more of the question is it time for us to bear our fangs. Yes. We have been in exile long enough. Will there be blood in the streets. Yes. Will we mourn the loss of brothers and sisters. Yes. Will we have to learn to place our trust in others. Yes... The Underhive is already bracing for a change. They feel it coming as sure as a Duct Wolves coat thickens before the Winter. Maybe its my fault returning from the Long Walk wearing my furs proudly. I looked into the eyes of those who wanted me skinned, those who had the look of surprise as if seeing a ghost of ages past. I also saw those who had the look of hope. There are many who have no love for there Yelloskinned Masters. They just need hope, and someone to stand with. Would I be willing to put my trust, the familys trust in a man, an Arbite who is standing by his convictions. Yes. For we will always know where we will stand with him. We strike carefully, and watch. We will see soon enough who will stand with us. Better for us to risk death bearing our fangs; than to live with our tails tucked between our legs in a cage built by our own choosing. We fail to act now there will be no future for our pups. There will be no future for Oremor."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
It is a testament to Jerimus Bothle's efficiency that he quickly finds and produces a mid-sized jerry can half-filled with the potent beverage distilled for him by the guardsmen of Agri-block #12.
Even in the face of certain death he still has the uncanny wherewithal to rapidly provide whatever it is you request of him. It's a trait that makes him an excellent second to you, and more than offsets his rather eccentric personality in your estimation.
"I hope that whatever is going through that big brain of yours, Vince, it involves using a can of fermented motor fuel to save our skins."
He says it deadpan, without any attempt at humor, and you find yourself smiling at him despite the grim circumstances, so ridiculous does he look wearing his over-sized sunshades indoors.
"Now, do you have an Lho-sticks?"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
After pulling myself together, I move the crane over the larger masses and drop them. If they don't rupture on impact and ignite it would take only 1 shot to do so.
The Den
The three Alphas listen to your impassioned appeal, their faces betraying no outward emotion, with even Luceros hiding his scowl for a change. You need their aid, and they all know it. They also need your assistance, and you just hope they understand this truism as much you do.
A hushed silence falls over the forlorn ballroom, the only sounds your own bated breathing and the strange, bestial, sleep-sounds of the encircling duct wolves.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"Now, do you have an Lho-sticks?"
Bothle grins in spite of the rather dire circumstances.
"Do I have any lho-sticks? C'mon Vince, what kind of question is that?"
Your resourceful subordinate produces a battered pack of lho-sticks (perhaps obtained from that contraband stockpile you provided Corporal Murjoff) and a golden, promethium-reservoir lighter embossed with the chit-sickle of the 7th Oremor Penal Legion.
Seeing you looking at his battered faux-leather chair with its peeling arms and well-compressed seat, he shakes his head from side to side in negation.
"Nope. Wouldn't burn worth a damn. It's fabricated from fire retardant plas-polymers. Feck, we might as well go all in if they're coming to liquidate us."
Jerimus Bothle points toward a tall stack of cardboard boxes each labeled haphazardly in scribbles of auto-quill ink.
"Provision allotment reports for the entire southern plantation system's guardsmen. I was trying to figure out a way to get out of auditing them anyway. Do you know how mind-numbing correlating usage of disbursed dried-fruit rations is? Burn away, I say."
The Den
I watch, and wait patiently for the Alpha's response to my plea.
The old She-Wolf steals a glance to either side, noting the subtle body language of her fellow Alphas; Silus' thoughtful visage and barely perceptible nod, and Luceros' somewhat grudging, exasperated glare. The two are like family to her, gang-brothers whose smallest change of expression or nuance of voice she knows how to interpret without any doubt. Satisfied, she looks back to the acolytes and their allies, clears her throat while lighting another lho-stick and raises the ornamental holder to her lips to take a deep drag.
Silus pushes his clownishly-colored locks from his eyes and peers at all those assembled before him through his spectacles, scratching absently at the head of one of the ravenous looking predators by the foot of his make-shift throne. He seems to be carefully weighing his words, but when he speaks they come out quickly, and with certitude.
"Your words are true. You honor your Pack and your father with your forthrightness, loyalty and the sheer audacity of the scheme you've outlined. Frankly, it reminds me of something Tyvenius would have concocted. He would be proud of you Savalos."
"I am swayed."
Luceros seems to swallow this bitter pill with some antipathy, knowing his battle is lost, but he tempers his outward contempt by setting his jaw and speaking in a loud, clear authoritarian voice.
"I will follow the will of the Pack, as the Huntmaster always has, but I will only do so if tradition is followed and the proper obeisance and honor is shown to our ways. I hold fast to my reservations on trusting the outsiders and the Law, but I will swear my blood-oath if the She-Wolf agrees that our allies do so as well."
Ariella considers this carefully before nodding in assent, acceding to Luceros' request to preserve the Alpha's unanimity.
"You are right, my son. We have cowered in this dank hole long enough. There is no honor in simple survival now. We must avenge ourselves on the Yellobouros for those we have lost, and take back what is rightfully ours. If this means trusting in the honor of outsiders, even one of the Law, to seize every advantage we can claim, so be it. Our foe may outnumber us, and possess every possible edge, but they have made one grave mistake, and that is to think the bloodied wolf can be left to die without fear of retribution. The time for licking our wounds has ended, let the Hunt begin anew."
Your feeling of relief at this pronouncement is short-lived. Sensing the time is right, Luceros stands and points at each of the outsiders in turn, as if marking them in some ritualistic way with a jab of his finger and the ceremonial proclamation that follows.
"By my right as Huntmaster, I demand that if the outsiders wish to be our allies in this Hunt, that one of their number must prove their collective worth, honoring the Pack's rites by surviving the trial of Blooding."
From somewhere in dimly lit room, one of the fierce predators lets out a mournful, subsonic howl that echoes eerily from the ballroom's strange acoustics.
Pleased by this auspicious omen, Juan Rico's brother raises his chin defiantly, derisively barking out his next words.
"Who among you will accept this challenge?"
"Who among you will accept this challenge?"
Without a moment's hesitation, Iacton steps forward. "I accept your challenge." He stares up at Luceros, waiting for the terms of this test.
My chest swells at Silus's words knowing Pop's would be proud. The Old She Wolf, and the Old Man taught me well. I look forward to when the Council retires so I can speak to my Mother openly. Pup to Mother, without all this politics. There is much to share. So much to learn.
I listen to Luceros. Swear he was born with a grudge against me, but he has always proved loyal to the family. A solid soldier. I can't argue with his proclamation, its sound. It would tie him as a blood brother to Iacton. Making him one of the family. Closer in blood and trust than his own brother. Its a sad pity. But I have to admit he is taking a huge step. Making a stranger family if he survives the test, and become part of the lineage tied to the ruling council.
I turn to Iacton: "So are you ready to earn yourself your furs?"
The Den
Without a moment's hesitation, Iacton steps forward. "I accept your challenge." He stares up at Luceros, waiting for the terms of this test.
Luceros pins you with his severe gray eyes, the black ink of the jagged geometric glyphs on his forehead furrowing into sinister shapes with his frown. You cannot be sure whether he is sincerely impressed with your unhesitating courage, or grateful that you so foolishly volunteered to die so that he may yet gain the advantage in his disagreement with the other Alphas over the proposed course of action.
"Then you will either die or be reborn, outsider."
Ariella motions Tygault forward, and the ganger strides toward the stage obediently, head bowed and neck slightly bared in deference.
"Tygault, escort our guests to the Pipesource. Luceros, gather the Pack and have them assemble for the ritual of Blooding. Silus will prepare the outsider for his trial."
Both of the Packmasters arise to comply with the She-Wolf's commands as Tygault leads you back through the slumbering creatures and to the lift. As you walk away, Ariella calls out one last time just as you reach the foot of the stairs, reticently, uncharacteristically unsure of her next words.
Everyone turns to her, Savalos knowing when he meets her gaze again that there is a promise they will soon speak again as mother and son. She does not summon him back, however, and a part of him feels disappointment for that.
It is instead Uriah that she addresses.
"You, spacer, remain for a time, I request palaver with you alone."
Expecting the discussion eventually, I turn to face the alpha, and wait silently.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Bothle grins in spite of the rather dire circumstances.
"Do I have any lho-sticks? C'mon Vince, what kind of question is that?"
Your resourceful subordinate produces a battered pack of lho-sticks (perhaps obtained from that contraband stockpile you provided Corporal Murjoff) and a golden, promethium-reservoir lighter embossed with the chit-sickle of the 7th Oremor Penal Legion.
Seeing you looking at his battered faux-leather chair with its peeling arms and well-compressed seat, he shakes his head from side to side in negation.
"Nope. Wouldn't burn worth a damn. It's fabricated from fire retardant plas-polymers. Feck, we might as well go all in if they're coming to liquidate us."
Jerimus Bothle points toward a tall stack of cardboard boxes each labeled haphazardly in scribbles of auto-quill ink.
"Provision allotment reports for the entire southern plantation system's guardsmen. I was trying to figure out a way to get out of auditing them anyway. Do you know how mind-numbing correlating usage of disbursed dried-fruit rations is? Burn away, I say."
Pocketing the lighter and lho-sticks, Vincent holsters his weapon and walks over to the teetering stack of boxes.
"Ordinarily I would not abet you in evading your duties," he says hefting a number of the boxes. "However, today is a special case, try not to get used to it."
His materials safely in hand, Vincent hurries out of the cramped office. He does not turn to make sure Bothle is following him, knowing instinctively that the clerk is still at his heels.
When the pair get to a Vincent judges as adequate for their purposes, he drops the boxes on the ground and motions for Bothle to pour on the liquor. Taking the lho-sticks from his pocket, Vincent lights up and takes a few drags to warm the embers. He motions Bothle to a safe distance before taking the lho-stick and tossing it in a lazy arc towards the dripping pile of kindling.
"Well, that's one way to make a dent in your paperwork isn't it Bothle?"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Just some notes on the map:
As Kaltos watches, struggling to master the controls, the corrupted guardsmen who remain near the shattered, sewerage-leaking sanitation hauler open up with their lasguns. They take careful aim at both you and Albrek before firing, the staggered whipcrack-hiss sounds of their weapons reaching your ears well after the focused energy pelts against the superstructure of the towering crane.
Both blasts are precision shots from well-drilled guardsmen, the first passing through the railing of the control compartment and ricocheting to strike your armored leg, and the other burning across the crown of your helmet. Jarred from your fearful indecision, you lean over the controls, focusing as intently as you can on the dataport with the heavy fire coming from below.
Albrek lowers his head as heavy fire comes in, rolling while prone to avoid the searing burst of one las-round that shears clean through the rail-post by his head.
Albrek fires off a burst from his lasgun, cursing as the fire rips into the dirty rockcrete in front of the guardsmen. Adjusting his aim slightly, he prepares to squeeze off another burst.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
The thudding explosions from the autocannon continue to rip into the swarming horde of monsters skirting and clambering over the cargo-8 holding the rest of your companions. A high shrieking burst of machine code static erupts from one of the few open gunports, and dozens of the climbing beasts scream painfully in return, falling, nonsensically from the side of the heavy truck. The chatter of small-arms fire continues unabated, but it does little to discourage the tiny daemon's assault.
Kaltos hunkers down and adjusts dials and levers on the control panel while chanting a litany of exacerbation in the sacred machine tongue of the Omnissiah's servants. With a juddering lurch, the base of the crane rumbles into motion, slowly swinging the laden fuel canisters counter-clockwise toward the bloodshed below.
Bulkhead Door #161A, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Pocketing the lighter and lho-sticks, Vincent holsters his weapon and walks over to the teetering stack of boxes.
"Ordinarily I would not abet you in evading your duties," he says hefting a number of the boxes. "However, today is a special case, try not to get used to it."
His materials safely in hand, Vincent hurries out of the cramped office. He does not turn to make sure Bothle is following him, knowing instinctively that the clerk is still at his heels.
When the pair get to a spot Vincent judges as adequate for their purposes, he drops the boxes on the ground and motions for Bothle to pour on the liquor. Taking the lho-sticks from his pocket, Vincent lights up and takes a few drags to warm the embers. He motions Bothle to a safe distance before taking the lho-stick and tossing it in a lazy arc towards the dripping pile of kindling.
"Well, that's one way to make a dent in your paperwork isn't it Bothle?"
After reluctantly sloshing much of his precious liquor out of the dented drum, Bothle takes a hearty swig of what is left as Vincent inhales the lho-smoke deeply into his lungs. After the senior-clerk tosses the burning butt toward the stacked boxes of reports, his protege steps back quickly as the flames immediately well up, black smoke beginning swirl toward the ceiling.
"That it is, Vince, that it is."
Looking at the rapidly climbing flames, Bothle lets out an appreciative whistle.
"Maybe there is some promethium distillate in that booze, after all."
As you turn and hurry toward him, Jerimus Bothle reluctantly returns to the reality of the situation, the amused look on his face fading away to one of bleak acceptance.
"Alright, now that we have our diversion, just where do we run to with several million Imperial guardsmen standing between us and any notion of escape. Maybe we should just jump on the fire and make it easy for them. No sense prolonging the inevitable, right?"
The Den
Ariella Thul motions for you to come closer to the splintered stage. Moving forward through the guttural snores of the sleeping duct wolves, you approach her, noting that she holds your gaze the entire way. When you hear her smoky voice again, you are not surprised that her pursed, crimson lips do not move to utter the words, they simply are heard in your mind.
"We have both seen what is to come, Uriah Trantor. I know you are aware now that we share more than just these visions. Whereas your Holy Emperor has deemed you worthy to live with your gift, I have never known the holds of the Black Ships or the tread of Terra beneath my feet. I hope this does not prejudice you against my counsel."
"I am loyal to my master and to the Emperor, but I can understand not wanting to submit or be submitted to sanctioning. It marks you in ways that unless you live through it, you cannot understand. That being said, if I refused the aid of one who can help us save this world and stop the incursion, I would be foolish. I will listen to what you say and decide from there what actions we need to take, at least of my group."