The Duct Wolves Sanctum, The Den
Savalos leans upon the makeshift bier that holds his mother's mortal remains, a half-rotten, waterlogged banquet table that sits on one of the upper tiers of balconies overlooking the seats of the Alphas and the napping duct wolves they can no longer control in the old hostelry theater below. He is alone, and would have it no other way right now. The others have been gone for a handful of hours, and he has refused Tygault's lone offer of refreshment. He grieves deeply, as only a son can for his lost mother. She no longer hears his entreaties, her skin an even paler white than when she was living, the ribbon of dried blood about her throat gently covered by the stole of her furs.
Layed out before him are the orphaned cards of his Heretic Wake deck; The Great Eye, The Inquisitor, The Shattered World, The Heretic, The Prisoner, The Daemon, all found at the Mercy, then, from Dunkan' quarters: The Titan, "Old Bones", and lastly, The Arbitrator, freshly plucked from Waldrimm's corpse.
The answers were here, somewhere.
I've spent my whole life reading cards, gamblers faces, and playing hands. Always trying to read whats going to be played next, and when someone is bluffing. I look at the cards laid out before me knowing if I guess wrong people will die. Course they may already be dead. Its just that there card may not have been played yet.
I think of Aebena, and the life I still hope we will have together. Sunshine who I hope is still well and sane. For if the Daemon took Johnnie, she may be the only leverage we have to win him back from its grasp. Uriah, Dunkan, Iacton, Leprade, Kalaziel, Nessa... we are all just face cards. I just hope I am not the Joker. I arrange my cards upon the table before me looking for the pattern. Like when I was a young pup watching over my mothers shoulder so long ago.
The Auldmaw's Lair
Uriah feels the scepter pulse in his hand, and the smoky orb atop it flares with a bright cerulean light. Iacton, who was already reacting to the feeling of being watched, spins around and quickly unsheathes his blades. Even the over-awed gangers snap out of their nigh-religious distraction, quickly forming a defensive circle around the acolytes, weapons pointed into the darkness as the halo of blue light gradually expands.
As the perimeter of the scepter's glow reaches the second rank of pillars, the dozen or so duct wolves that have stealthily shadowed you through the pipes growl with irritation, their subsonic barks echoing resoundingly through the strange vault. The largest of them, a brutish-looking male with a snaggle-toothed jaw and jet black fur, yawns aggressively, showing his jagged fangs.
As he pads forward, the others follow his advance. Outnumbered two to one, Luceros levels his handcannon, prepared for the worst.
That is when the faint singing in Uriah's head increases in volume, becoming a rising choir of melodic chanting that makes it difficult to hear Iacton's hissed warning and Luceros' shouted orders. As the singing builds to a crescendo, Uriah concentrates with all of his will on the alien voices, yielding to them and opening his mind as conduit that projects their perfectly harmonized sonic energy outward, carried by his psychic talents.
The pack leader yelps in surprise, the weirdly warbling cry of pain causing his fellows to falter, until they too are yelping and barking in discomfort and agitation. The alien voices grow in pitch until the others can hear them, and Luceros wisely commands his men to hold their fire. Although the lead duct wolf thrashes his head from side to side, scratching at the ground convulsively, his animal instincts are not enough to fight the sonic assault. When he bolts for the shattered pipe you entered from, the others follow suit, howling and barking in concert, as if their discordant cries could drown out the painful symphony.
They are gone as quick as they came, but the ethereal choir remains, growing louder and louder. The scepter shines brighter still, until it is glowing enough to illuminate the far walls, revealing elegant glyphs and sigils that gleam with a sympathetic blue light of their own. Turning to look toward the cathedral-sized vault's center as the chamber becomes bright as day, Iacton spies a towering structure of the ubiquitous smooth stone that is at once a marvel of entwined statuary, spiraling columns adorned with descending, shelf-like basins, and an encircling fountain wall at its base.
Datacore Coolant Service Conduit 115D
Vincent closes his eyes as the data swims across his vision, making connections, examining possibilities. Teasing a route from the crush of information, Vincent opens his eyes once more and gestures his companions onward.
Somewhere in Geltdown
Sgt. Einhardt shakes his head ruefully and settles back down on to the bench seating in the cargo-8.
He mutters to himself,
"Inquisition. Tech-Priests. Monsters. I should have just stayed on base for the Syratis delegation. Dammit Sepheris, what the hell have you gotten us into?"
Looking up at the pair of tech-priests again, the beleaguered-looking guardsman, dark circles under his eyes looking like wells of exhaustion, steeples his fingers together.
"I've always prided myself on never disobeying a direct order. Plus, I owe it to the men that I lost back there to follow through. If you're not on the top of this fecked-up little chain of command, I need you or someone else to take me to who is, tech-priest.
"When we can move again we will. The arbites are making that a little difficult right now. You should look to your men and get some rest we do not know when or how quickly we will need to move." With that I take off my helmet and see what I can do about the hole in it.
Somewhere in Geltdown
As Kaltos finishes speaking, there comes the clanging sound of the garage doors closing behind the vehicle, followed by ratcheting, grinding noises and a sustained vibration that can be felt through the floor-plates of the cargo-8. With a jolt, the occupants of the over-sized truck feel it begin to descend on what can only be a massive lift.
Sgt. Einhardt turns from the tech-priest, seemingly of no better disposition than before, but apparently placated with the explanation for now. He moves to his men, conferring with them quietly and checking on the conditions of his wounded.
Oktammor makes his way to the rear of the cargo-8 once again, the flickering green emergency lumen panels that have come on to compensate for the sudden darkness casting a sickly glow over his harried looking face. Stopping before the tech-priests, he carefully considers his next words.
"We've arrived at one of our safehouses, but things are going to hell up above. The explosion in Geltdown Docks is all over the holos and the arbitrators are out in force. We've lost another one of the decoys, and the Arbites have surrounded the Shaultus facility. I've been in contact with Dunkan briefly on an encrypted link, but he's been unable to raise your companions on vox-feed or microbead."
Oktammor pauses, letting this all sink in.
"Damned 'thopters firing on the civilian throughways...this is tantamount to martial law. The powers-that-be won't tolerate what they construe as a terrorist act in their shipping hub. We have no choice but to lay low and take a bunker mentality for now. Throne forbid if any of this is traced back to the Gear Box, because if Leprade and his dogs come calling again you can be assured they'll tear the place apart, piece by piece, until the find what they're looking for."
"We can't let that happen."
As the lift finally settles to a halt with a resounding clang, Oktammor swivels awkwardly in his powered armor, craning his neck down, to peer out of one of the open gunports. Satisfied with what he sees, he nods to himself.
"We've traced the tell-tale beacon in Stroinigli's groundcar to somewhere nearby, here, in the Vaxus Deeps. It is by no means safe territory, and unfortunately, I cannot spare the men to escort you right now, but you may be able to get into better microbead range if you can locate the Sabrewolf they were driving."
Handing Kaltos a small homing auspex with a red tell-tale blinking on the tiny pict-screen, he looks from one tech-priest to the other.
"I'm assuming I need not explain to either of you how this device functions, the machine spirit within is a perceptive one, and it should lead you to their vehicle."
Datacore Coolant Service Conduit 115D
Vincent closes his eyes as the data swims across his vision, making connections, examining possibilities. Teasing a route from the crush of information, Vincent opens his eyes once more and gestures his companions onward.
Grateful to be moving away from the sounds of unfettered violence in the Datacore, Jerimus Bothle eagerly follows Vincent's lead as he moves them into the neighboring coolant conduit. The strange tech-priest follows as well, the unreadable half-grin still stamped across his youthful features. The senior clerk finds he moves with no hesitation whatsoever, instinctively removing the sixth vent panel he comes across, already certain of where it leads. Stepping up into the narrow space, he continues on through the hexagonal shaft, trying not to breathe too deeply of the stale, recirculated air; air that now smells not only of the Datacore's machine-expelled ozone, but also the acrid stench of smoke, expended cordite munitions, and pungent promethium.
Squatting in a crab-walk as the shaft begins a pronounced ascent, Vincent makes his way toward the 26th level of the claustrum.
The Auldmaw's Lair
As the cerulean glow shining from the bone-white walls reaches its brightest, both Uriah and Iacton can make out the un-color of a viscid black stream of fluid that pours from the unseen ceiling above in a waterfall-like arc to splash upon the pinnacle of the ancient xenos fountain. The jet-black liquid trickles down from the descending basins, seeping through their many cracks and splashing grotesquely on the pure alabaster bodies of the slender statues.
A horrific stench, like feces mingled with gangrenous wounds wafts in your direction from the fountain, reminding Iacton of the gagging smell that issued forth when the restroom door in the Gear Box burst open.
The voices from the scepter fade for the others, but in Uriah's mind they begin to grow discordant, confused, and angry. As if outraged by some defilement they have unexpectedly witnessed.
The Duct Wolves Sanctum, The Den
I've spent my whole life reading cards, gamblers faces, and playing hands. Always trying to read whats going to be played next, and when someone is bluffing. I look at the cards laid out before me knowing if I guess wrong people will die. Course they may already be dead. Its just that their card may not have been played yet.
I think of Aebena, and the life I still hope we will have together. Sunshine, who I hope is still well and sane. For if the Daemon took Johnnie, she may be the only leverage we have to win him back from its grasp. Uriah, Dunkan, Iacton, Leprade, Kalaziel, Nessa... we are all just face cards. I just hope I am not the Joker. I arrange my cards upon the table before me looking for the pattern. Like when I was a young pup watching over my mother's shoulder so long ago.
Lost in his thoughts, Savalos finally opens his eyes again, and chuckles in spite of himself. Despite being well-versed in the proper techniques of arranging the placards of the Emperor's Tarot, he is surprised to find that in his reverie he has dealt a hand to himself and an opponent who is not there, as if beginning a game of Heretic's Wake.
Glancing down at his cards, Savalos sees The Inquisitor, The Heretic, The Titan, and The Arbitrator.
Looking across at the other hand, he sees the The Great Eye, The Shattered World, The Prisoner, and The Daemon.
Looking to his mother's still corpse for guidance that will never come, he sighs deeply. He may now know the sides, but he has no inkling of what card to play first.
...
Vincent stops to catch his breath after the harrowing climb to the claustrum's abandoned 26th floor, it being years since he has complemented his mental exertions with this much physical exercise.
As the fog of weariness melts away, Vincent looks around for a workstation he can use to catch up on the events he has missed during his escape from the datacore.
I look at the hands carefully making a mental note of where each card was retrieved. The Inquistitor, The Heretic, The Pestilence, The Great Eye, The Shattered World, The Prisnor, The Daemon at the Mercy. The Titan at Dunkans, The Arbitrator on my Mother...
Four Cards that can be put in play by each side. I have a total of 9 face cards. The Pestilence being the only one not in hand, so its already in play.
I think back when the Old Man took my Deck from me, and flipped the top card. It was The Gambler ... So was that card played then? It would make sense since The Pestilence was played back around that time. The Outbreak that took Myra, and Jerik's lives... Does The Gambler represent me?
I wonder where the other face cards are, The Lovers, The Healer, The Emporer, ... The cards that are not shown are just as important as the ones that have been played.
I try to remember the names, and how many of the face cards that are missing. Our strategy, our hope may well lie with that.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent stops to catch his breath after the harrowing climb to the claustrum's abandoned 26th floor, it being years since he has complemented his mental exertions with this much physical exercise.As the fog of weariness melts away, Vincent looks around for a workstation he can use to catch up on the events he has missed during his escape from the datacore.
By the time Vincent reaches the terminus of the ventilation shaft the unaccustomed exertion combined with the rising humidity is making every step a challenge. His undershirt plastered to his bony chest, sweat pouring from his brow, he finally detects the wan glow of natural light ahead, slanting through the narrow openings in a grated hatch. Turning to make certain his companions are still close, he sees Bothle directly behind, his doughy face flushed and speckled with grit. The enigmatic young tech-priest crouches a few paces behind, betraying no sign of fatigue, his expression expectant, but otherwise unreadable.
Pushing against the metal grillwork with as much strength as he can muster, Vincent is relieved when it bows outward easily, the half-dozen or so humidity-rusted screws that hold it in place popping off one after another, their Administratum low-bid construction succumbing to the harsh subtropical climate and the perils of using substandard generic alloys.
Peering out of the shaft, which ends its run in a wall approximately two meters above a wide expanse of drab gray flooring, Vincent finds things much as he expected them: a large curving room whose clerical partitions and cubicles have been removed or demolished according to the vagaries of some senior Administratum space planning clerk's abatement decree. Fold out work-tables with the tools of various trades stand like isolated islands abandoned amidst the sea of empty space, while the shining metallic walls of lift-shafts penetrate the construction area from floor to ceiling here and there, looking like nothing more than lonely support pillars in the absence of so many walls.
The diffuse light is indeed natural, bright equatorial sunlight that is diminished somewhat after penetrating the fluttering, transparent plas weather partitions lining the floor to ceiling windows along the curved edge of the claustrum's outer wall. In places the plas curtain is dirty, ragged, or ripped away entirely, allowing a wash of sweltering, sticky air to flow in, carrying with it the distant jungle sounds of Unduz II.
The construction area appears completely deserted, like it has not been worked in for some time. Even from your perch in the shaft you can see a thin layer of dust covering everything, along with brownish, patchy growths of windblown fungoid spores in isolated damp spots here and there. Extending the length of your body, you drop easily from the shaft, and are soon followed by the others.
The heady scent of the surrounding plantation system's biologis-engineered soil fertilizers combined with the ubiquitous smell of the jungle's myco-growth mix strangely with the artificial stink of smoke and fyceline from the fighting outside. The occasional staccato burst of gunfire, or far-off explosion can still be heard if you listen closely, even from this relative height.
It is unlikely you will find a workstation or data-port in this portion of the construction, but open archways, sans working doors, are visible in some of the walls leading into the interior of the level.
Jerimus and the strange tech-priest wait on your lead.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
The Duct Wolves Sanctum, The Den
While his mind tries to make sense of the significance of the improvised array before him, Savalos extends his hands on the warped wooden table to steady himself. When he recalls the missing card, his left hand brushes up against the golden aquila liberated from the hidden altar in Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy. Recalling that he had employed the holy relic rather mundanely as an improvised paper weight when he originally set the cards down, he notes that one still remains, pinned under the curled talon of the radiant talisman.
Pestilence
Lifting the aquila slowly off of the malign card, he flinches when he feels warm liquid trickle over his thumb and forefinger. A hairline crack has appeared in one of the nine crystal vials remaining in the rigid feathers of the sacred eagle's wing, damage likely sustained during the confrontation with the Auldmaw. Staunching the slight flow, Savalos is relieved to see that the vial of precious holy water is still three-quarters full. Flipping the vial and replacing it in its nested groove so that it no longer leaks, he looks at the card, setting the aquila aside once more.
Where the water has pooled on the card, it has bleached the surface of the sinister-looking tableau of disease and death depicted upon it a blindingly pure white, far whiter than the underlying paper stock it was printed upon could ever be. The seven, leering skeletal visages have been washed away, erased by the sacred waters of Saint Trobriund as if they never were.
A familiar tread of footfalls comes from behind the Packmaster of the Duct Wolves at that fated instant, and Savalos knows Sigmunt's arrival at this particular moment is no coincidence.
He remembers the miracle in Nessa's surgery and the Emperor's divine will becomes clear to him in a rapturous epiphany, at least on this one matter.
Saint Trobriund, blessed medicae of the Fenksworld sumps, miraculous healer of the destitute, holy vaccinator and innoculator of the diseased...
...only a little less than nine vials remain.
Sigmunt hesitates, sensing something transpiring beyond his ken in the quiet moment he unintentionally interrupted. When he finally speaks it seems to return reality to its proper underpinnings again.
"Sav? Is everything alright?"
"Yeah Sig, I'm good. Just seeing the game within the game..." The Healer will battle The Plague
I gather up the cards, and return them back into my furs. I hold the Golden Aquila tightly in my hand.
"Whats up?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
As Vincent tries to catch his breath in the heavy air, the blood rushing to his head mercilessly from the ascent, the tech priest draws closer, the same sly half-smile on his face as he surveys the abandoned level with the senior clerk and his aide.
Flipping his topknot aside again, he regards Vincent openly, his golden ocular augmetic irising closed in somewhat of a squint in the light of Oremor's sun.
When he speaks, his youthful voice takes on the character of a schola teacher, trying to lead a wayward student along the path of the correct answer in the vaguely patronizing but genuinely helpful tone Vincent is all too familiar with. Under other circumstances, the young man's coy demeanor, coupled with being barely half Vincent's age, tech-priest or no, would infuriate the senior clerk. But in this instance it does not.
"Peculiar, is it not, that the bean-counting Administratum of this facility, such supposed experts in maximizing agricultural yield would leave such a 'field' fallow for so long, eh, Sepheris?"
His gaze sweeps along the curved inner wall, beyond the lift shafts and forgotten construction equipment toward the open doorways.
"Yeah Sig, I'm good. Just seeing the game within the game..." The Healer will battle The Plague
I gather up the cards, and return them back into my furs. I hold the Golden Aquila tightly in my hand.
"Whats up?"
The Duct Wolves Sanctum, The Den
"Thanks again for getting me stitched up, Sav. I never got a chance to properly show you my gratitude in all the chaos."
"I owe you my life."
The Duct Wolf hitman looks at you solemnly, shifting from leg to leg uncomfortably for a moment.
"Funny, that. Felt like fire in my leg for a bit just now. Must not be all healed up after all just yet, eh?"
Sigmunt recovers from the awkward moment slowly.
"I...ehh...that is, the twist wishes to see you. Something about a signal coming through on his 'bead."
I look up at Sig. "Your family Sig, we all look out for each other."
I look down at his leg, and think about the epiphany I had a moment ago.
"I'm sure its fine, but make sure you keep it clean just in case. Don't want you getting sick, and loosen a leg and all that."
"Stroinigli eh, alright lets go see him. Need some fresh air anyway."
"Say have everyone keep an eye out for Kalaziel. Strange we haven't seen her for a spell. Worried about her."
Somewhere in Geltdown
"...We've traced the tell-tale beacon in Stroinigli's groundcar to somewhere nearby, here, in the Vaxus Deeps. It is by no means safe territory, and unfortunately, I cannot spare the men to escort you right now, but you may be able to get into better microbead range if you can locate the Sabrewolf they were driving."
Handing Kaltos a small homing auspex with a red tell-tale blinking on the tiny pict-screen, he looks from one tech-priest to the other.
"I'm assuming I need not explain to either of you how this device functions, the machine spirit within is a perceptive one, and it should lead you to their vehicle."
"Thank you Oktammor we will head out. If you can keep Albrek here. He is in no condition to make any trek at this time." I turn toward Sgt. Einhardt and say "I am leaving to find the Acolytes they are in this area. If you want to join me you are welcome. But you might want to leave some of you people here as we are headed into gang territory and a large group of guardsmen might have them shoot first then pick from the dead." I say with a attempted humorous tone. "I would suggest you have someone with vox gear come with us and gain the vox encryption codes from Oktammor so we can keep in contact easier." With that I hand the auspex to Ivaanov and adjust my gear. "See if you can find the quickest route to the vehicle and highlight it in green. Let me know when you are done." After making the adjustments I look back at the Sargent looking for his reaction and answer.
The Auldmaw's Lair
As the cerulean glow shining from the bone-white walls reaches its brightest, both Uriah and Iacton can make out the un-color of a viscid black stream of fluid that pours from the unseen ceiling above in a waterfall-like arc to splash upon the pinnacle of the ancient xenos fountain. The jet-black liquid trickles down from the descending basins, seeping through their many cracks and splashing grotesquely on the pure alabaster bodies of the slender statues.
Iacton grimaces, foul memories coming to the surface. "We have found the source of the taint." This was the work of the corrupted guardsmen, he was certain of it. The question is, why?
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent narrows his eyes as he regards the unusual tech-adept, then shrugs in reply to his witticism.
"You place too much trust in the efficiency of the Adepta."
The Vaxus Deeps
Kaltos notices Sgt. Einhardt look curiously at Albrek's unconscious form when his name is mentioned, but the fierce looking officer catches the glance and looks away toward his men, who are even now gathering their kit and attending to their wounded as they move to exit the truck.
"I've seen places a lot worse than the Vaxus Deeps, tech-priest, if you can lead me to our contact, then I am coming."
Einhardt motions to one of his men, quite likely his second, and whispers some orders and words of encouragement. The adjutant steps away and speaks to another guardsman, a youthful trooper with a shaved head and penitent tattoos on his brow who quickly comes over to his commanding officer. A high-gain vox is strapped to his back, obviously a communications officer.
"Private Kotts, you'll be accompanying myself and the tech-priests here to our contact. Make ready and get that vox calibrated for hive-work."
The private confers with one of Oktammor's men to obtain the requisite encrypted frequencies, and then shoulders his lasgun before turning to follow.
As the tech-priests, Dunkan's retainers, and the 7th Legion guardsmen disembark from the ravaged cargo-8, Oktammor walks with the servants of the Omnissiah, directing them toward a vault-like door guarded by two more of Danicos' enforcers. The men stand aside respectfully at the large man's signal.
Oktammor stops, swipes a ward accessor in front of the doors prox sensor and turns to Kaltos.
"Use care, the Arbites grasp might not extend to the Deeps, but there's more than enough danger about to justify keeping a low profile. There's an old groundcar in the adjoining garage, it should blend in well enough with the battered excuses for vehicles used by the locals. The guard comm officer has our signals information now, so stay in contact. I know Dunkan will want to hear from you when you reunite with the acolytes to find out where things stand. Good luck."
The area beyond the gigantic vehicular lift shaft and the modern-looking safehouse is minuscule by comparison, a shoddy garage filled with old groundcar tools, a rusting repair platform, and filthy fuel drums that smell of oil and strident fyceline. Parked before garage bay doors padlocked from the inside, is a beat-up looking civilian groundcar with a buckled rear-end, cracked windows, and shattered safety lights. As you step forward, the hidden door you passed through slowly closes until it is recessed into the wall, the old tool rack on the garage-side looks like it has hung in its place undisturbed for decades.
Einhardt eyes Kaltos curiously.
"So, who's going to drive?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent narrows his eyes as he regards the unusual tech-adept, then shrugs in reply to his witticism.
"You place too much trust in the efficiency of the Adepta."
The tech-priest actually smiles, a disturbing sight for its outre strangeness, and it puts Vincent even more on guard. For all of his keen insight into human nature he finds it extremely difficult to read the young man.
"Perhaps."
"Maybe then, they were neglectful enough to have left an active data port or cogitator bank for our use somewhere in the vicinity."
He makes a show of raising his hand to visor his eyes from the glare of the sun, looking toward the empty doorways leading into the core of the level with nearly theatrical curiosity.
You think you prefer the cold, emotionless, and barely human manner of tech priests like Lexmechanic Gulvar. This ones act is wearing thin with you.
The Vaxus Deeps
Ivaanov's vox grates into life.
"I have triangulated the single and pinpointed its coordinates. It is only a few kilometers from this location."
The Auldmaw's Lair
Iacton grimaces, foul memories coming to the surface. "We have found the source of the taint." This was the work of the corrupted guardsmen, he was certain of it. The question is, why?
Luceros, his demeanor showing a new-found respect for Uriah for driving driven off the duct wolves, cranes his head upward in the dimming blue glow toward the slurry of foul-smelling, tar-colored fluid trickling down from the vaulted roof lost so high above. He wrinkles his thick nose in revulsion.
Speaking to the two voidborn in a superstitious whisper, he mutters:
"What manner of fell witchery is this?"
"It is the taint caused by the agents of the one who is of plague and corrution. This is one of the things we are fighting."
I make the sign of the Aquila.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
The tech-priest actually smiles, a disturbing sight for its outre strangeness, and it puts Vincent even more on guard. For all of his keen insight into human nature he finds it extremely difficult to read the young man.
"Perhaps."
"Maybe then, they were neglectful enough to have left an active data port or cogitator bank for our use somewhere in the vicinity."
He makes a show of raising his hand to visor his eyes from the glare of the sun, looking toward the empty doorways leading into the core of the level with nearly theatrical curiosity.
You think you prefer the cold, emotionless, and barely human manner of tech priests like Lexmechanic Gulvar. This ones act is wearing thin with you.
"Then let us continue, come along Bothle."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
"Then let us continue, come along Bothle."
Bothle slowly turns from the smirking tech-priest, his undisguised look of bafflement lasting overlong, giving way slowly to one of frazzled assent upon registering your words. He steps forward to follow you, making a wide circuit of your perplexing guide.
As you set out in the direction of the closest doorway, skirting around one of the exposed lift shafts, Jerimus rushes to keep up, finally matching your pace. He voices your own unspoken concerns in a conspirational whisper, the sweat beading on his brow trickling down his dust-covered face, peeking back over his shoulder as the tech-priest follows at a distance.
"Who is he, Vince? I mean, can he be trusted? There's something about him, something that I can't place that just doesn't feel right, you know?"
He wipes his brow, only furthering the grimy mess that adheres to it from your ascent in the confined ventilation conduit.
Just as you reach the doorway, a shadow slips from the ceiling somewhere deep within, followed by a leathery rustling and a keening screech. You have almost no time to react before the emerald-green thing is upon you, jaws flaring to show needle-sharp teeth, triple-wings flapping madly toward your face.
With a percussive, booming report, the startled churraptus is blown out of the air, the ruined thing skidding across the floor to come to a halt twitching at your feet.
The tech-priest walks past you confidently, never breaking stride, holding the weathered-looking, mass-produced revolver pointed toward the high ceiling like a Gunmetallican duelist. The plume of gunsmoke trails after him like a grey ghost. Glancing about as he steps through the doorway, he holsters the weapon, satisfied that there are no more of the flying vermin about.
Noticing you looking at the weapon, he pats the weapon's rubberized grip.
"A gift from a mentor, given long ago. For all of its imperfections, the spirits in this simple machine have served me faithfully."
Beckoning you forward absently with one hand, he steps into the circular room beyond the empty doorway.
Bothle finally lets out a hiss of tension he had been holding since the gun went off, shaking his head doubtfully. When you step forward he reluctantly follows, muttering under his breath.
The room beyond is roughly elliptical in shape, and is much darker than the sun-drenched circumference of the level. The tech-priest moves with conviction, activating a series of switches just to the right of the entry and bathing the room in burnt-orange emergency lighting from damaged lumen strips covering the ceiling in concentric rings. The weak lighting illuminates the room further, casting looming shadows from empty cogitator racks that encircle the chamber. A series of shallow steps descend into a wide, recessed circular area. Here a septet of cylindrical, man-sized holding tanks stand silent sentinel like deteriorating dolmens from a bygone age. In the middle of the pit, reflected in the smudged glass doors of the tanks are the last remnants of some manner of advanced operating theater: a trio of stainless steel instrument stands, a pair of rusted gurneys, and an advanced medicae surgical bed, complete with integral restraints and life support equipment. Like a dead, multi-limbed spider ensconced in the center of the ceiling above hang dozens of limp mechadendrites fused to a half-dome core. The dark, insectile eyes of disabled pict-corders gaze blindly at the table below from where they are recessed in the surrounding ceiling. A few cogitators remain active on one of the free-standing racks, their winking green lights flashing in time to the strained susuruss of their cooling fans.
The tech-priest stops near the edge of the surgical pit, leaning on the railing circumscribing its perimeter.
"Well, well, what have we here?"
The Vaxus Deeps
As decrepit as the exterior of the ancient groundcar is, the machine spirits of its rebuilt engine prove surprisingly loyal to your touch, and the journey through the blighted underworld of Orcut VII's deepest slums proves relatively uneventful.
A trio of rag-clad indigens scatter as your vehicle pulls to a halt beside the glaringly out of place Sabrewolf. Parked haphazardly in the shadow of listing gothic-style buildings compressed one atop one another, their forlorn and variegated architectural strata crushed by the incalculable weight of the hive above, it gleams like a diamond in a coalfield.
Ever one to state the obvious for sake of clarity, Ivaanov announces that the signal originates from here. Exiting the vehicle into the biting cold of the lower hive, the tech-priest confers with Pvt. Kotts before raising the vox-phone to his ear. The guardsman, upon receiving a curt nod to proceed from his sergeant, removes the comm unit from his shoulders and adjusts dials upon the transmitter.
Casting his eyes warily about into the blank eyes of hundreds of shattered windows and the mouths of countless leaning alley-entrances, Sgt. Einhardt turns to Kaltos, las cradled lightly in his arms.
"I hope your companions answer quickly, it won't take long for word to travel down here that there are uphivers foolish enough to be about."
Einhardt steps over the corpse of an electrocuted indigen who was foolish enough to touch Stroinigli's luxury groundcar, whose lifeless presence seems to punctuate his admonition.
"What could have possibly brought your friends down here, anyway?"
The Duct Wolves Sanctum
Savalos emerges from the shuddering lift, the metallic grate pulled aside by the two duct wolf guards flanking it. Stroinigli is waiting on the other side, holding one pale hand over his microbead earpiece, concentrating.
Your own earpiece hisses to life as you enter the dilapidated lobby of the ancient hostelry, a tinny voice barely audible through the static.
The tinny voice is garbled, but the words you can make out are immediately recognizable to you as elementary fragments of the Taper Cipher.
The voice is Ivaanov.
<<<"Nemo surdior est quam is qui non audiet...">>>
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
"Peculiar, I do not recall there being a medical facility on this floor."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
"Peculiar, I do not recall there being a medical facility on this floor."
The young tech-priest watches as you approach with Bothle, all seriousness now, the last vestiges of the amused expression gone from the corners of his pale lips. Perhaps he has sensed your growing irritation, or perhaps your arrival here is nothing to joke about.
"There is no need to vacillate, you know there was no medicae facility on this level of the claustrum...it is not in the master schematics, any of their revisions, or any of the ancillary errata concerning the construction or refitting of the claustrum. You know this because you partook of Blakswann's communion. Ergo, like myself, I know you accepted the communion because you knew how to get here in the first place."
"Whether you were cognizant of it yourself is irrelevant."
"I can see that you have not yet recollected everything from the experience. No matter, it will come in time. However, time is now something that is in short supply, so allow me to elucidate."
He raps upon the man-sized tank nearest to him, the transparent armaplas hatch rattling slightly, the hollow sound not unlike a bell tolling.
"This is a creche of sorts, do you care to hazard a guess as to what it was used for?"
The tech-priest gestures expansively to the other six tanks, arrayed in a circle around the operating theater.
The Auldmaw's Lair
"It is the taint caused by the agents of the one who is of plague and corrution. This is one of the things we are fighting."
I make the sign of the Aquila.
Uriah shudders at what he sees, the dark part of him that has been laid bare to such forbidden knowledge in the past rising in his thoughts, thoughts that the Scholastic Psykana had trained him to repress and lock away lest he should succumb.
Instead he focuses on the cacophony of distressed voices that still sing elegiacally to him from the strange scepter. He tries to see the fountain through their eyes, as it once was, before the taint, and instead another image sears itself into his mind's eye, a stark and vivid memory from his vision in the astropathic choir. A towering series of spires, a city as smooth as unblemished porcelain, rising like delicate fingers to the sky. The fountain bears all of the hallmarks of Eldar craftsmanship, like the cities in your dreams.
The Duct Wolves Sanctum
Savalos emerges from the shuddering lift, the metallic grate pulled aside by the two duct wolf guards flanking it. Stroinigli is waiting on the other side, holding one pale hand over his microbead earpiece, concentrating.
Your own earpiece hisses to life as you enter the dilapidated lobby of the ancient hostelry, a tinny voice barely audible through the static.
The tinny voice is garbled, but the words you can make out are immediately recognizable to you as elementary fragments of the Taper Cipher.
The voice is Ivaanov.
<<<"Nemo surdior est quam is qui non audiet...">>>
"Lets go fetch them quick. The streets have eyes."
I tap my microbead so a static feed goes through hoping Ivaanov takes the hint.
"We must purify that with fire, as a companion of ours would have said. If we do not have what we need to do that, we will come back with the necessary weapons or items."
I look at the others to see if they have what we need.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
"From all appearances, people or things which once were people. This would not be the first time I encountered such a collection, though I had not thought our Priests of Mars the type."
The Auldmaw's Lair
"We must purify that with fire, as a companion of ours would have said. If we do not have what we need to do that, we will come back with the necessary weapons or items."
I look at the others to see if they have what we need.
Luceros, still unable to take his eyes off of the midnight black cataract pouring from the unseen ceiling into the towering fountain grunts an assent, but the solution he offers sounds as complicated as the problem.
"Yes, we know of those who have the proper tech and resources to purge this affront, but I am fearful that they will have as many questions of us as to why this abomination exists. We must have the correct answers ready. They are not the forgiving type."
He expounds further:
"The Vaxus Deeps have long been given over to their ministrations, and those who manage to eke out any kind of survival here do so only at their sufferance. This includes our Pack. We paid a steep price for our sanctuary here, a tenuous truce that was brokered by Ariella following our defeat and one that includes a promise not to interfere with their preaching...as well as to remain free of taint they so zealously purge."
Somewhere in the Vaxus Deeps
Ivaanov nods his head upon hearing the confirmation click for comm silence from Savalos. He turns to Kaltos and Sgt. Einhardt.
"They are coming for us now, the message was received by one of the acolytes."
Somewhere in the Vaxus Deeps
No sooner do these words escape the steaming vox grill of the tech-priest does Einhardt swing around, lasgun pivoting to face the crookedly leaning alleyways on the far side of the cracked rockcrete roadway.
"I'm guessing your companions and their allies are not so punctual that they've already arrived."
He curses under his breath.
"If not, we have a big problem."
Kaltos and Ivaanov turn as one to see that during the distraction of contacting the others, a great many of the denizens of the Vaxus Deeps have taken note of them, emerging stealthily from the ruins. Both vehicles are now encircled by a mob of no less than thirty robed figures, most keeping to the shadows and interstices of the collapsed structures and hollowed-out civic buildings. The gathering throng shows no fear of the strangers in their midst, advancing as one to narrow the enclosing circle, and becoming more visible in the process.
Most appear outwardly similar to the men who were driven off from the twist's vehicle a short time ago, clad in stained and filthy russet-colored leathers or black plas ponchos with stitched-on cloth hoods. Many of them carry improvised weaponry; clubs, fire axes, or lengths of heavy rebar. A privileged few also hold outmoded revolvers or antiquated rifles at the ready. Those that arouse your concern the most, however, are the handful clad in blood-colored hooded robes, trimmed or adorned in places with golden foil or salvaged metal wrought into the shapes of ecclesiarchal symbols, such as the sacred aquila. These imposing few lead on at least five of the closing fronts, one of each trio holding what appear to be open flames in their hands, the fiery red plumes flickering brightly in the gloom.
As they draw nearer, you observe that each of the fire-carriers wears heavily insulated gloves that protect from both the bitter cold of the underhive and the intense heat of the flamers they carry. As their mouths plume from beneath their hoods with their individual respirations, the flamers gout in time with white-hot belches of flame; heralding their deliberate advance like the fiery breath of agitated dragons. Each these five is in turn flanked on either side by a similarly dressed figure, albeit with lesser amounts of improvised religious adornments on their robes, whose presence is announced by the toothy buzz of their chainswords.
They stop to surround you from a distance of roughly three meters away, the stink of promethium becoming overpowering in such proximity.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
"From all appearances, people or things which once were people. This would not be the first time I encountered such a collection, though I had not thought our Priests of Mars the type."
Upon closer examination, Vincent notices that each of the seven upright capsules is empty, the stained traces of whatever sustaining solution was once contained within now reduced to dry smears upon the armaplas doors.
At your answer, the young tech priest seems to stifle a laugh of all things, maintaining decorum somewhat by bringing his hand up to his vox to muffle the discordant sound. There is the unmistakable hint of sarcasm in the thread of his next words.
"No, such cloning chambers are anathema, heretikal to even the most radically unorthodox of my order, the Adeptus Biologis. Still, there are those who have gazed upon their proscribed schematics, some even indoctrinated into the techniques of their use, if only to identify them to better root out such affronts to the Omnissiah."
The tech-priest makes a circuit of the operating theater, seemingly familiar with these surroundings by the way he checks various instrumentation and the flickering readouts on the lone cogitator array still functioning.
"Such hypocrisy."
"As I am certain you can attest, there are those who knowingly flout the imposed restrictions placed on such forbidden knowledge, who are willing, through their own damning curiosity, willful arrogance, or belief that the end justifies whatever means is required to achieve the final result. From this perversion of logic, be it rationalized for good or ill, is what this assemblage of archeotech represents."
His pause is deliberately overlong, as if goading you into gainsaying the implication of what he has just spoken.
"All to contain one prisoner, or rather, the Prisoner...such extraordinary lengths...but to what ultimate purpose?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
...
Vincent sits himself down before the flickering cogitator screen and kicks his feet up onto the console. He regards the young priest from behind his mirrored glasses as he gives his answer.
"Specifics I cannot illuminate, but I can tell you that the Prisoner is powerful. The kind of power that attracts men like carrion attracts flies, each one eager to scrape off a little piece for themselves. Does that elucidate matters for you?"
He pauses for a moment, then speaks once more.
"They're empty are they not?"
"The Vaxus Deeps have long been given over to their ministrations, and those who manage to eke out any kind of survival here do so only at their sufferance. This includes our Pack. We paid a steep price for our sanctuary here, a tenuous truce that was brokered by Ariella following our defeat and one that includes a promise not to interfere with their preaching...as well as to remain free of taint they so zealously purge."
Iacton silently turns to Luceros, his face betraying no emotion. "Where can we meet these preachers? They seem like... kindred spirits."
The Auldmaw's Lair
Iacton silently turns to Luceros, his face betraying no emotion. "Where can we meet these preachers? They seem like... kindred spirits."
"We have means of contacting them. In truth, here in the Deeps their numbers are many, so it should pose little difficulty. Truthfully, it is a wonder that you found our sanctuary in Vaxus before they found you. To them, you would have been obvious outsiders."
He considers his next words carefully.
"The red-robes are the guardians of the common underhivers, those who toil beneath, whom the Ministorum's church have forgotten. They are folk heroes and avengers to those among the meek who still cleave to their faith in the Throne. However, their faith is as a scerrido's edge, it can cut both ways. They are not merciful to those that threaten their creed...or those who show any sign of being tainted."
Luceros looks meaningfully at Uriah.
"Our alliance is one of convenience more than anything else, and is tenuous at best."
"Then it is best that I am not the one to make contact with them. It would not surprise me, if they would find me tainted no matter what."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent sits himself down before the flickering cogitator screen and kicks his feet up onto the console. He regards the young priest from behind his mirrored glasses as he gives his answer.
"Specifics I cannot illuminate, but I can tell you that the Prisoner is powerful. The kind of power that attracts men like carrion attracts flies, each one eager to scrape off a little piece for themselves. Does that elucidate matters for you?"
He pauses for a moment, then speaks once more.
"They're empty are they not?"
The tech-priest's face remains solemn.
"You have no idea how apt an analogy that is, Vincent..."
He regards you with a more intense scrutiny, his curious expression a familiar one to you; that of those who are doing everything in their power not to underestimate Vincent Sepheris, but are still fearful they are.
"...or perhaps you do know?"
He regards the upright cloning creches with some distaste, but also a with a certain unapologetic professional pride that reveals to you just where this strange tech-priest sits in the matter of their unsanctioned practical use.
"The truth as it has been told to me, is that they could not bind him. Even here, with the most sophisticated psy-dampers and elaborate contingencies in place, in a cell engineered by the most resourceful of the Priests of Mars, utilizing the generations-old techniques of the Scholastica Psykana Calixis, and the binding hexagramatic wards of the Ordo Malleus, they simply could not contain him."
"The Prisoner's psychic power simply was too great."
He sighs deeply.
"So, they improvised..."
The tech-priest gestures expansively, with shoulders theatrically slumped in defeat to show what the end result of such improvisation must have been.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
"So, they improvised..."
The tech-priest gestures expansively, with shoulders theatrically slumped in defeat to show what the end result of such improvisation must have been.
Vincent lets out a harsh chuckle.
"Of course they did."
Vincent pauses just a moment as a new plan germinates in his mind, then snaps his gaze back to the tech-priest.
"You wouldn't happen to know were these 'improvisations' are now?"
Somewhere in the Vaxus Deeps
Ivaanov backs away until he leans awkwardly against the side of the battered groundcar. He toggles his microbead, answering Savalos with another ciphered message:
"De fumo in flammam..."
Receiving Ivaanov's transmission I signal that I need a couple of packs of War Wolves to follow me to the ground car for support.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent lets out a harsh chuckle.
"Of course they did."
Vincent pauses just a moment as a new plan germinates in his mind, then snaps his gaze back to the tech-priest.
"You wouldn't happen to know were these 'improvisations' are now?"
The tech-priest smirks once again with your laugh, and he flips his topknot back over his left shoulder again. His augmetic ocular appendage then irises out from the cogitator he was regarding to focus on you and Jerimus once more.
He looks at you as if trying to plumb the depths of your understanding, wondering how much you have already figured out on your own.
"Only one of them remains, in V-Block, with the Prisoner. The others...they didn't last."