Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
His eyes watering, his head swimming, Vincent regards the solid contents of his bile-filled vomit with morbid curiosity before regaining his senses somewhat.
Clammy hands coming off of his knees, standing fully upright again, his fist still clenching the pistol, senior clerk Sepheris surveys the banquet hall, trying not to breathe too deeply of the awful miasma. Whether it is the disorientation of the blood rushing to his head, or something caused by his blurry vision, he finds he has trouble focusing on what little is revealed by the frightened light penetrating the chamber. The long table appears to extend impossibly long into the deepest recesses of blackness, piled high with all manner of serving trays, stacked dishes, and strewn about foodstuffs. An entire half-eaten maulchups thigh, buzzing with moteflies sits discarded across a spilled tureen of jellied Fulcusian beets. Rotting ploins are piled high around shattered crystal carafes. Those glasses still standing, bizarrely enough, seem filled with dark gravy instead of water or wine. At least it looks to be gravy. Even stranger, whole containers filled with comestible cooking ingredients, tall tin jars of flour, entire cartons of churraptus eggs, even a stenciled crate of freeze-dried ration packs, are stacked along the length of the stained and rumpled linen tablecloth. Dozens of the chairs to either side of the table have been overturned or even broken apart into splintered spars of wood.
A single linen napkin, elegantly shaped into an Unduzian grotto crane, like the twin to the one Vincent found on his setting during his earlier meal here, lays upon its side as if dead on the near edge of the table. It mutely speaks of the foreboding he feels.
As his eyes try to adjust, Vincent senses, rather than sees an almost palpable feeling of someone or something's presence in the room with him. It emanates from the right side of the room like a noxious cloud of deeper darkness, congealed like Warp-tainted ink where the mirror hangs. The blighted schola is not sure he can fully trust his senses, with his vision still betraying him like he is looking into a carnival mirror, and his hearing picking up the faintest sound of buzzing vibrato. Only his nose tells the truth it seems, and it is making his stomach convulse again.
"The main questions I have is how high is the corruption? Does it go all the way to the govenor? How are they anticipating us so accurately? That is a start of our questions."
Thinking Uriah is still groggy from whatever happened with him and sceptre I move to more relevent questions.
"Any sign of Johnnie?"
"Do you have any back doors to get us up the Spire so we can avoid the check points and get to the Astropathic Choir?"
"How extensive are your blueprints of the Vaxus Depths? The same filth that washed over the Gearbox is pouring down there was well. Would make sense to investigate what buildings are above the sewer section in question."
"Any new developments you need to apprise us of?"
The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse
Dunkan Danicos answers Uriah's questions first, and his tone nakedly conveys his concern and uncertainty.
"I still cannot say. Leprade's cabal within the Arbites in Vaxus District is clear, and is danger enough. Whether or not he has handlers or allies further up the spires, I haven't been able to determine. Given the present unrest and chaos in Vaxus, and the abrupt declaration of martial law, he could well have support from further up, or, it could just be a case of the nobles and senior Adepta reacting proactively to what is perceived as a major threat to the stability of the hive."
"Taius Ceprus? I'm loathe to dwell on such a possibility, given what it would mean for our chances of success. It seems unlikely, but far more disconcerting developments have occurred so far for me to simply dismiss it out of hand."
"There can be no question that someone or something is intimately aware of our actions and intentions. It troubles me more than anything else about our present situation. What hope do we have if every move we make is forewarned against or foreseen? I suspect the daemon has a hand in this...and perhaps another."
The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse
Hearing Savalos speak, he changes tack. His answers to these questions are more to the point, and less conjecture.
"There has been no sign of Juan Rico, I've had my best investigators trying to track him down. After leaving my facility, he simply fell off the map. The last location we were able to obtain from him was a trace on the message sent containing the Arbites hit-list. It originated from somewhere in the seedier side of the Grey Way, near some of the more ancient casino-stacks. Speaking of this list, it seems someone has been acting on this intelligence, I'm presuming this was your doing?"
"We can provide a means of reaching the Choir that will avoid the primary lifts. I'll have Oktammor upload the cartographs and schematics of the route to one of your 'slates. It is circuitous, but it will get you there without any Arbites or Magistratum interference."
He pauses, listening closely to the next question. Waiting a few moments before he answers, you can hear the tone of a cogitator query being called up.
"As near as we can determine from the coordinates you furnished from the Vaxus Deeps, the most likely source is an old sanitation hauler yard and waste reclamation facility in the rimward side of Geltdown's Rustbelt, designated as the SA-RCLM-09 substation. The intervening levels, while many, all are comprised of waste sluices, automated reclamation manufactories, and hive sewerage support systems. Right on down to the Deeps and the sector you designated."
He sighs at the ganger's last question.
"Oktammor has informed you that your Ishmael, the boy, and your Yelloback prisoner disappeared. I have no excuse. In fact, I'm fearful for any of you to come back if my redoubt beneath the Gear Box is compromised. I have no choice but to remain. A lot depends on the Old Bones, regardless of what the tech-priests believe. I know only what my own Master has told me, and I trust him implicitly. I still am trying to determine exactly what happened. All I can say at this point is that the Yelloback prisoner was the first to escape, and it seems he took the others with him, as the cleric was sedated, and the boy had just come out of surgery to graft his vox. Nothing shows on any of the picts or the other countermeasures in place, and take my word that they are extensive. I suspected some manner of Warp involvement, and it was all but confirmed. Residual traces of Empyrean activity were detected in the holding areas of the sanitarium wing."
"Well if any of our wayward Churraptus show up be wary. The Daemon has shed its skin, and can be wearing anyone. It expressed a fondness for Johnnie. We need to find him before it does..."
Course there is a growing fear in my gut that the daemon took Kalaziel. I pray by the throne it won't be so.
"If you feel your place has been compromised you can move any of your people over to the Duct Wolves lair with my blessing. We can definately use Nessa's medicae skills after the last scrap we were in. The ganger had some meat on his bones, but there is no way he could carry two unconscious people... Don't fret over it. No idea how we can defend against that. All we can do is keeping moving, and scatter if we have to, and regroup someplace else."
"Yeah Iacton, and Sig are doing some wet work. Now we just need to sit back and see where they run. My bet is the Withdrawn Veil, but we will wait and see. Got scouts and soldiers setting up there."
"Waste Facility huh? Frag wish we had more people. Do we have enough peeps to at least keep a spy on it for now?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Almost overwhelmed by the awful stench, Vincent steels himself and stumbles awkwardly to the tables edge. Vincent delicately rights the toppled crane with one hand, then with a flourish draws forth The Sliver of Calyx.
The centuries-old blade flickers to life in his hands and Vincent, holding the sword before him like a torch, strides toward damnable mirror, splinters of priceless wood crackling beneath his feet.
The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse
"You can rest assured that I won't take anyone at face value who shows up on my doorstep, Savalos. After all these years I'm well aware of what that daemon is capable of doing. One advantage I possess are the advanced archeotech auspex arrays at my disposal, they're capable of detecting the faintest of Warp anomalies. I'd advise you to be just as cautious if one of your own shows up unexpectedly."
He pauses, pondering something.
"I'll send Nessa. While I have no doubt we're as secure beneath the Gear Box as we're ever going to be, she can do more good over there. Hell, it only makes sense now that she doesn't have any patients to look after here. With Albrek and one of the guardsmen my associate sent over from the claustrum seriously injured, she'll be glad to help in some way after what has happened."
"Just remember, these aren't Magistratum beat enforcers Krade's assassin and your hitman friend are icing. These are ranking Investigators and Intelligencers...we may see them as the high value targets they are, but you can be sure that the senior political hierarchy of the Adeptus Arbites won't take this bold attack on their senior officials lightly. No one yet knows that this is the hand of the Inquisition at work, and if they find out who is responsible, they won't be gentle. You can bet that Leprade will use this to his advantage as long your team is remaining covert."
"There are some of my eyes on the waste facility even now, but after the events at Geltdown and tasking the best of my undercover operatives with trying to track down where Leprade has disappeared to, I'm operating pretty thin now. I can't emphasize enough how much heat is coming down. Word is the 1st Oremor Legion will be arriving in Vaxus District to lend a hand in maintaining order by next day cycle. Use caution."
"I haven't been able to get any word from my contact at the 7th Legion's claustrum for some time now, but one of his agents managed to get out before all of the chaos and is en route here as we speak. I'll be detailing some of my deep cover men still able to sneak into the Geltdown Docks to retrieve him before the shuttle falls under quarantine, and I'll send him along to Oktammor's safehouse for debriefing."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
The steady, shimmering, silver gleam along the edges of Trumenne Rhyste's ancient power-sabre have a profound effect on Vincent when he sees the coruscating light. His stomach settles a little, his mind clears somewhat, and even the overpowering stench recedes some to his overtaxed senses. Holding the blade aloft, the pistol in his other hand, he moves toward the mirror, impressed with his own courage.
The blade illuminates more the of the room, but still the utter nullity of the inky black shadows occlude any visual cue of where the mirror hangs on the right-hand wall. As the spoiled food, scattered bones, and broken bits of chair crunch underfoot, the senior clerk stops abruptly in his tracks. The renewed sense of a presence somewhere in the room with him raises the hairs on the back of his neck, and Vincent realizes he can now see something out of the corner of his eye, slightly out of focus, couched in the pervasive gloom at the far head of the table. He can hear the buzzing increasing in pitch as he stands closer to where the mirror must be.
What he thinks he sees is immense, and a deep, primal part of Vincent Sepheris begs him not to turn to fully face what it is.
There is an ominous, wetly audible sound of something very large shifting from that direction, coupled with an unseemly hiss of escaping gas and flatulence. A moan, so low in register that it makes Vincent's molars ache, rolls on, presaging a moist smacking sound and a croaking voice, equally deep, that is both terrifying and horribly familiar.
Something has awakened.
"If you could, send Aebena along with her."
"Hopefully Iactons handy work will make Leprades boys nervous, and help flush him out. Make it easier on all of us if it works. Once everything blows into the open I am afraid it will escalate quickly out of control. So hopefully we can slide under the radar for a bit longer."
"Good, I am sure we all want to talk to him."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
The inhuman bellow freezes Vincent in his tracks. Not daring to gaze upon directly, he tracks it with his peripheral vision as he carefully slides his feet through the detritus. He begins to shuffle towards the mirror, away from the thing.
Every crackle of wood and bone seems to echo through the cavernous chamber like a gunshot, and Vincent winces involuntarily. The buzzing is getting louder...
The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse
"I will send her along with Nessa, then."
You can hear the note of concern in Dunkan's voice when he speaks next.
"While I agree that the wetwork your associates are doing is necessary, the consequences will restrict our movements once the 1st Legion locks down Vaxus District. It is best to work under the assumption that you will not have much more time to operate covertly. Use it wisely."
"Contact your master, I will do the same. It has been far too long since he and I last spoke. I have my own questions that need answering."
With that, Dunkan disconnects.
Within an hour, Oktammor has provided the acolytes, tech-priests, and guardsmen with the requisite intelligence for their respective operations.
Savalos and Uriah are impressed. The route to the Choir completely circumvents almost the entirety of upper Vaxus District, using ancient construction-era service lifts housed in the outer shell of the hive from the period during which the enormous coastal levees were being built. Portions of the route actually skirt the exterior of the hive itself before winding up on a high-gain vox-net spar with attached maintenance lifts accessing the hive spires.
During this hour, the ever resourceful Stroinigli returns from his procurement source with uniforms and forged ward accessors obtained from the Vermillion Ring. Kaltos and Ivaanov swap their garb for the dark red robes of arena tech adepts, and the two guardsmen accompanying them switch into the umber coveralls of technomat menials. The twist then exits to warm up the Sabrewolf to ferry them to the Grey Way and the Gran Pallazzar.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Real fear begins to seize hold of Vincent as he tries to inch toward the wall holding the mirror, his vain effort trying to successfully navigate a nearly impassable obstacle course of filthy, broken plates and rotten foodstuffs lending no illusion of stealth. He grimly ponders what madness has seized him that he would intentionally move closer to the source of the incessant, otherworldly buzzing, but some part of him knows that the the wet, colicky voice of the abomination calling out to him is a far more immediate danger.
It takes him a moment to realize just why, as he doesn't immediately recognize the visceral, utterly instinctual animal reaction he is having.
And then it comes to him:
The gluttonous thing sounds famished.
From the corner of his watering eyes, nearly overpowered by the caustic stench, Vincent sees something huge, bloated and corpulent shift at the head of the table, and senses its runny-egg eyes gazing squarely upon him.
"Dunkan, if things totally hit the fan, and your hideouts are compromised. I will have beds for you and your people."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Ignoring the thing's cries, Vincent quickens his stride. He doesn't know where he is going, but he definitely can't stay here.
Outside Orcut VII Hive, Service Walkway, Redundant Vox-Spine 71-GG
Hours later, after navigating their way up through countless dusty, abandoned sub-levels hidden in the interstices of the outer hive wall, crossing hundreds of connecting catwalks, climbing scores of access stairwells, and rising through dozens of lift banks, the two acolytes and their Guard escort emerge from a a valve-sealed iron doorway on to a downward curving durasteel ledge, rusting and salt-stained outside of Orcut VII hive.
Uriah closes his eyes, the dark red light of Oremor's sun shining through his lids as it sets into its distorted, watery twin where the jade-green sea meets the horizon. Unable to see, his other senses reach out, and he is surprised how little has changed on this world in the intervening millennia. The salty tang in the air tickles his nostrils, the humid wind blows across his perspiration streaked face, and the steady rushing sound of the waves washing through the maze-like estuaries seventy stories below carries to his ears even from so far away. When he opens his eyes again, he almost expects to see the enigmatic Eldar looking back at him once again.
For Savalos, the feeling is overpowering. This is his world. Child of the Underhive, the only other times he has laid eyes on the surface were when he left Oremor almost three years ago via Master Ahmazzi's Aquila Lander to begin his service to the Holy Ordos, and after that, barely a week ago, returning by way of Krade's shuttle. On both occasions, departing and arriving by the Spires, he only could gaze wistfully upon the hazy crimson skies wreathed by steel-colored clouds, the green, white-capped turmoil of the ocean so very far below. Even from this lofty height he can see the labyrinthine network of muddy estuaries and salt-marshes, the waving fronds of slender mycad palms and button-head mangroves lining their widening march to the gleaming emerald seas, white-capped waves crashing powerfully against the tall duracrete breakwater and attendant levees at the limits of the hive's submerged outer circumference. To his left, a long, wire-festooned vox-spar antenna, easily as wide as a Geltdown highway, erupts from the skin of Orcut VII to pierce half a kilometer or more out into the evening sky. The lanky silhouette of a grotto crane, perched at the very tip of the array, starts at the squeal of the door closing, and then takes wing, massive pinions flapping; flashing red and blue feathers as it dives across the ocean to the south. The view is all at once breathtaking and heart-wrenching for the ganger.
From behind him, the snippy, salt-and-pepper haired medicae, Chroyle, consults the schematics on the pad he carries, sniffing deeply of the salt air with its faintly muddy, sulfurous under-smell. He wrinkles his nose irritably, punching runes with his blistered fingers.
"Feck and hell. Still three sub-levels and a half-dozen service gangways to cross before we reach the primary service lift to the Spires. If I knew it was going to take this long, I would have just stayed in that empty fuel-drum they had the balls to call a medicae."
He looks over to Einhardt, who stands, eyes closed like Uriah, breathing deeply of the first fresh air he has had in days. Looking at Savalos almost religious look of awe, the mediace chuckles wryly.
"Don't get out much, eh kid?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Ignoring the thing's cries, Vincent quickens his stride. He doesn't know where he is going, but he definitely can't stay here.
I watch as the crane sails off in the distance. Rising and glidiing with the thermals. Funny you never know what your missing til you see it for the first time. Three years ago I never knew there was a world outside of the Underhive. Stories sure, but thats all they were.
"Yeah, never seen the sun set before. Til three years ago I never saw the sun..."
I wish Aebe was here to see this. Wish I could have shared this with her.
Folks of the Underhive never get to go up Spire. Thats where the privledged folk live. Anyone can go down the Spire. But only the fortunate get to go back up. Once a part of the Underhive all you can do is go down. They will build level upon level of oppression on top of it to keep you down. You either learn to adapt, or be buried and forgotten.
"Never been this high up the Spire before."
The Sun was only an old wives tale. Only light we knew was flickering at best. Only reason we knew there was an outside was sometimes the rain water would find it's way in, and fall down to the lonely places. Pure and clean, sweet on the tongue. Not like the brown water we are used to.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Ignoring the thing's cries, Vincent quickens his stride. He doesn't know where he is going, but he definitely can't stay here.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
The inky blot of darkness that emanates from where the mirror hangs on the right side of the banquet hall envelops Vincent, bringing with it a cloying coldness that penetrates to the bones of his thin frame, colder than anything he has ever felt before, colder even than the frigid winds of the scholam on Sepheris Secundus. It is impossible to see anything at all as he advances, and the inevitable crunch of bones and clang of pans continues, his blindly probing footsteps kicking aside whatever is in his path. He thinks he hears something, far distant, before the buzzing grows too loud; the harsh snap-hiss of multiple las weapons firing. Before his mind can make sense of it, the buzzing grows louder still, like a dull, monotonously repeating drone that never ends.
Raising the diffuse argent glow of the power-sabre closer to his face, he is relieved to see that it illuminates things somewhat in the ebon nullity that surrounds him, thick as the most impenetrable fog. He freezes in terror; a terrible, pale face coalescing into space before him, a disembodied, skeletally gaunt apparition that seems to float in the air.
His frayed nerves nearly cause him to cackle madly at his mistake, as it is he lets out a hissing breath that is part unhinged titter, part gasp of surprise. The matte black oval of the accursed mirror is mere inches from his nose, the looming, spectral visage before him his own reflection. He nearly vomits again after inhaling the fetid air, choking back his gorge and another laugh.
His relief is short-lived, however.
Something else slowly hoves into view, like a bloated death masque rising from midnight black waters, the mirror rippling like inky liquid, as if it pours off the emerging face. A shudder runs through Vincent's body as the corpulently obese visage ceases its eerie, floating ascent head and shoulders above his own face. Eyes like greasy, wholly ebon ball-bearings, without iris or pupil, slowly open from within the loathsome rolls of fat that had hidden them. A wide, gaping line in the face creases into a rictus grin, little more than a rearrangement of the folds of hanging flesh encompassing it. The senior-clerk finds a scream beginning to rise in his throat, a part of his mind dreading its arrival, knowing that it perhaps could go on forever.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Outside Orcut VII Hive, Service Walkway, Redundant Vox-Spine 71-GG
Sgt. Einhardt checks the stainless steel chrono around his wrist, his cold eyes squinted against the setting sun. He adjusts how the las-pistol rests in the holster on his hip beneath the partially opened coverall, an impatient smile crossing his face.
"C'mon Chroyle, we have a ways to go yet."
The older Guard medicae chuckles where he stands at the very lip of the seventy-story overhang, his back to his commanding officer. Tugging at the front of the anonymous, grey colored coveralls he now wears, far less conspicuous than his guard fatigues beneath, he zips and turns around again.
"Didn't rushing into things get us into this trouble in the first place, boss? Who knows, the untimely delay caused by my balky prostate might be the difference in us missing a Magistratum patrol."
Einhardt's cold eyes never waver, but his grin remains.
"Or run into one. If you're done Chroyle, let's move."
The master sergeant looks out across the turbulent green sea so far below, his grin fading as he casts his gaze to the darkening horizon.
"Storm coming before long, we should be inside already."
Chroyle eyeballs the weather approaching with the intensity of an expert apprising such things.
"Still a ways off yet, boss. Plus, once we're beneath the skin again, we won't even know its happening. Nothing like the monsoons back in the Unduz. Seen enough of those in my day to beggar anything they get up north, here. Fair enough, though, let's go."
Moving toward the next valve-door along the ledge, according to the cartograph the one that will eventually lead you to a maintenance lift ascending to the Spires, the medicae notices Savalos still looking wistfully out to sea.
"Don't worry kid, you'll see her again soon enough."
The ganger looks at the older man, acutely aware of the years of experience limning his weathered face and the scars that stand out on his chin and neck. He cannot say if Chroyle is talking about the sun or Aebena, but Savalos realizes both are probably true in their own way.
********************************************************
Central Upspire, Level 3
Four hours later, the acolytes and the two guardsmen step out from a service conduit into the pristinely white marble-tiled corridors of Central Upspire. They move purposefully, as if they belong, their service worker coveralls blending in perfectly in this hallway populated with impassive technomats, hurrying couriers and harried looking functionaries bringing their master's messages to the Choir. Here and there a member of nobility, attended by bodyguards or fawning sycophants drifts through the crowds, their extravagant clothing making them appear as peacocks among pigeons amid the throng.
When you arrive at the antechamber to the Astropathic Choir, you stop short at a connecting corridor's corner from Einhardt's hand signal. A contingent of armed guardsmen from the 1st Oremor Legion stand posts or walk slow patrols around the baroque doors, vigilant for anything out of the ordinary.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Before he can fully comprehend just what he is witnessing, the hypno-indoctrinated fail-safes implanted by the schola in his mind shut it off abruptly to spare him the worst.
Vincent faints dead away, falling backward into black oblivion, his gaze still locked on to the pestilential eyes of the Prisoner.
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Loading Ramp 8.
Stroinigli, always adaptable, has traded his fine clothing for a Shaultus Transshipping coverall and his Sabrewolf for a squat cargo-six box truck that has seen better days. The vehicle now sits idling at the terminus of loading ramp #8 in the hypogeum of the Vermillion Ring, perhaps the most notorious bloodsport stadium this side of the Malfian-Sub. The arena is attached to its larger parent enterprise, the Gran Pallazzar resort casino, like the wrathful half of conjoined twins symbolizing the excesses of two vices.
Making a show of consulting his manifest, the twist glances in his rear-view mirror at the two tech-priests and pair of guardsmen sitting on the benches in the cargo bay behind him.
"Your credentials and the ward accessors I furnished should allow you nearly unfettered movement through the hypogeum ring and maintenance levels. Portions of these sub-levels link directly with the sub-basements of the Gran Pallazzar should you need direct access. My recommendation is that you avoid the Gran Pallazzar altogether for now, security looks as tight as I've seen it in a long while. Ivaanov believes he can use the hypogeum schematics to find a substation or service closet that will allow you to intercept the surveillance pict feeds from the casino itself."
As Stroinigli finishes speaking, you notice through the windshield of the cargo-6 that a trio of load-lifter servitors are ambling toward the truck, intent upon carrying out their redundant, menial task of unloading each and every shipment that presents itself in bay #8. Thw twist reaches across for his manifest, motioning you out the back of the vehicle.
"Alright, get going and blend in, they'll be occupied with the crates of outmoded plumbing supplies I had Oktammor's men scrounge up. I'll stay close in case things go sour, you can reach me through the encrypted microbead link from earlier."
Hurchal and Pvt. Kotts deftly leap down from the tailgate of the truck and begin walking purposefully toward the central receiving area, you follow soon after, examining the schematics with Ivaanov as you go.
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Loading Ramp 8.
As Stroinigli finishes speaking, you notice through the windshield of the cargo-6 that a trio of load-lifter servitors are ambling toward the truck, intent upon carrying out their redundant, menial task of unloading each and every shipment that presents itself in bay #8. Thw twist reaches across for his manifest, motioning you out the back of the vehicle.
"Alright, get going and blend in, they'll be occupied with the crates of outmoded plumbing supplies I had Oktammor's men scrounge up. I'll stay close in case things go sour, you can reach me through the encrypted microbead link from earlier."
Hurchal and Pvt. Kotts deftly leap down from the tailgate of the truck and begin walking purposefully toward the central receiving area, you follow soon after, examining the schematics with Ivaanov as you go.
I nod to Stroinigli as I leave the vehicle. Muttering to my self trying to make head or tails of the schematics.
Seeing the guardsmen do there rounds brings back memmories of counting arbite patrol rotations when we use to steal food stores from the lower warehousing docks to feed myself when I was younger.
I start a count of there rotation.
"Uriah, you still got your papers for Malfi? We are here on business after all."
"Yes, I do. I kept them just in case we needed them."
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Loading Ramp 8.
I nod to Stroinigli as I leave the vehicle. Muttering to myself trying to make head or tails of the schematics.
Being far more comfortable analyzing complex weapon and vehicle schematics, Kaltos is baffled by the intricate blueprints depicting the various conduit tracks, service ducts, and machine rooms comprising the Vermillion Ring's maintenance hypogeum. Fortunately for the militant tech-priest, Ivaanov is familiar with such ponderous, tedious, and outmoded things as paper blueprints.
It takes the Adept Biologis, himself not an expert in such things, a few minutes of quiet reflection and an entreaty to the Omnissiah before he abruptly turns left down a maintenance corridor off of the central loading dock ramp. The two guardsmen, noticeably uncomfortable with their tech-priest escort, regard one another with matching, bemused expressions before following. The corridor narrows appreciably as the quartet advance into the bowels of the stadium, the tech-priest occasionally consulting the blueprint to negotiate the numerous turnings and climbs down switchback service stairs. They pass only a handful of solemn technomats and servitors in their travels, before reaching a rusty ward-locked door eruditely labeled:
'COGITATOR HUB CROSS-CONDUIT TERMINUS #117'.
Waving his ward accessor before the mag-reader, Ivaanov exhales tinnily in relief through his vox-grill when the door clicks open.
Stepping inside, the tech-priests and guardsmen find themselves in a tall but narrow pyramid-shaped room with a roof that tapers to a narrow point above. From a nozzle-shaped opening at that point, erupts a veritable Gordian knot of dangling conduit and cogitator wires of all sizes and colors, draping like a curtain of plastek tentacles to various cogitator relays and data-loom switching devices below. A trio of blank pict-viewer screens, their glass faces covered in a thin layer of particulate dust, form a semi-circle around the confluence of this wiry tech.
Closing the door behind him, the giant guardsman, Hurchal leans his back against it. Pvt. Kotts, the comm officer surveys the rest of the room with a curious expression as the tech-priests begin to examine the equipment.
Central Upspire, Level 3, Outside the Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Sgt. Einhardt watches the guardsmen cycle through their patrols. They appear to be intercepting anyone approaching with business for the Astropathic Choir, examining documentation intently.
"What now?"
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Loading Ramp 8.
Kaltos, please attempt a Challenging [+0] Tech-Use test. This result can either be applied to the task alone, or, if you prefer, you can aid Ivaanov and apply any successful roll you make to aid his test, granting one additional bonus degree of success if his test is successful. Ivaanov's Tech-Use = 58.
Central Upspire, Level 3, Outside the Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Relying on their cover identities as a Malfian trader and his retinue of bodyguards, personas that you had become so well-versed in portraying prior to your arrival on Oremor, you set out for the main doors to the Astropathic Choir. Savalos leads the way, followed by the robed Uriah, the two guardsmen in their rather anonymous utility coveralls following closely behind. Savalos' canny observations allow the group to slip into the milling queue seamlessly and make their way nearly to the entry, trying to avoid the vigilant troopers of the 1st Legion as they make their sweeps through the throng.
Picking my way carefully. I learned long ago the best way to drop a tail is in a crowd. Not to fast to bring suspicion. Not to slow to loose the protective obscurment they provide. Just takes patience. Hope the others can keep up with my pace.
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Cogitator Hub Cross-Conduit Terminus #117
To the guardsmen, Kaltos and Ivaanov work with almost frightening efficiency, with no duplication of effort, carefully examining each input and wire before disconnecting, soldering, or re-connecting them to the cogitator interface. They confer in short bursts of binary cant from time to time, but otherwise show no signs that they are coordinating their activities. After barely ten minutes of intensive activity, Ivaanov steps back a few paces and plugs a final feed into the closest of the pict-screens.
Flicking a switch to one side, Kaltos watches as the green back-lit screen winks into life for a moment before just as quickly going dark. There is a brief buzz from inside one of the nearest cogitators, followed by an anticlimactic puff of grey smoke from behind the device and a smell of burnt plas.
Ivaanov shows no outward disappointment, merely reviewing the hypogeum blueprints again. Satisfied, he calmly disconnects his electro graft lead and moves toward the door.
"Most unfortunate. The power supply could not endure the influx of so many foreign machine spirits despite my fervent entreaties to the Omnissiah. Another chamber similar to this one is located on the opposite side of the hypogeum level. We must make our way there if we are to complete our objective."
He regards Kaltos and then the guardsmen, delivering his next words without any inflection that suggests what he says is anything other than simple fact, no fear or concern evident in his voice.
"It will take time before the Vermillion Ring adepts detect the failure of this substation, but detect it they will. Even if we are successful in intercepting the Gran Pallazzar's surveillance feeds at the alternate hub terminus there is no doubt that a comprehensive survey of each such substation will be initiated by this facility's servants of the Omnissiah. They will find us eventually. Our window of opportunity has considerably decreased."
Central Upspire, Level 3, Outside the Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
The world seems to constrict around Savalos' vision as he purposefully makes his way through the crowd congregating around the entry to the Astropathic Choir's antechambers. His father always told him that one of the most important facets of blending into the crowd is to consciously exude an impression of normalcy, all in spite of how hard your heart might be trip-hammering in your chest. It's about thinking on your feet and method-acting, being invisible and harmlessly obvious, all at once.
Savalos Thul could make a living at it.
Leading his companions around and through the tight throng of trade functionaries, Administratum scribes, and noble factors, all of them awaiting their chance to be vetted and given clearance to proceed, all impatient or otherwise inconvenienced, the acolytes and their guard escort finally reach the pedestrian barrier of interlocking pipework that serves as the final checkpoint for the crowd. All that remains is to slip beneath it and walk in as if it was their intention all along, as if they belonged and this was expected of them.
It would have worked, too, had not a pair of 1st Legion guardsmen not suddenly materialized from inside, joking quietly with one another, the humor evident only in their grins, as their eyes are covered by the reflective visors on their flak helmets. One tosses aside a burnt down lho-stick, inclining his head to where Savalos and Uriah stand at the fore of the press of bodies. They begin to make their way over, curious as to why this small group is not focusing their attentions on the queue or the inspectors that await them.
They have nearly reached the party when fortune intervenes again, this time on the acolytes behalf. A preening, overly-scented, and garishly dressed dandy of a noble decides at that moment to make clear his distaste with being frisked by the common soldiery in the most obnoxiously loud manner possible. The guardsmen were close enough to Thul that he could see the yellowed, lho-stained teeth of the smoker, could read the stitched ID on the uniform of the other: 'TEPHIN'. He continues to stare Savalos down for a moment before his companion nudges him, and they both unholster shock-mauls before heading toward the disturbance. Convinced that they were not made, when the guardsmen do not look back, the acolytes and 7th legion guardsmen simply slip under the barricade and walk into the Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII as if they owned the place.
With my heart still pounding in my chest I step under the barricade leading the others. Times like this I wish Johnnie was here to I could bum a swig from his flask to calm my nerves. That was too close. I know we will have to think of another way out. We walk out this way that Guardsmen is going to make it a point to shake us down. Just got a feeling, and my gut hasn't steered me wrong yet.
What worries me more is the fact the 1st is already here on patrol. Its easy enough to cut off the lower hive from the upper. Only reason to cut off the Astropathic Choir is to cut communications off planet. That has me scared, and its a glaring warning that things are about to get alot worse fast.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent gags in the back of his throat, the bile sliding back down, painfully, corrosively, obeying the uncompromising pull of gravity. He realizes then that he is lying on his back on something hard. His mind begins to fit the puzzle pieces together, slowly, foggily. The stench actually helps. It burns his nostrils it is so foul, reminding him where he is, reminding him that he passed out.
He is on the floor of the Warden-Colonel's banquet hall in claustrum's Aerie, Kreed's private dining area. Things press uncomfortably into his back, rounded, curving slices of something hard, pin-prick tines of something piercing his shoulder blade. A curved cylinder pressing into connection of his left thing and buttock. He scrapes his fingers numbly against the surface of what lies beneath him, and feels the scrape of his nails on varnished wood.
Varnished wood.
It is only then that the terror returns.
When he commands his aching body to arch forward, to flee; madly, blindly, in any direction possible, nothing happens. His legs twitch spasmodically, and his head lolls limply to one side. His eyelids feel like they are depressed by twenty kilogram sandbags, his plaintive cries only emerging as weak, unseemly whimpers and inarticulate noises. He begins to sense the tight bands biting into his flesh, the dull ache along his forearms and ankles, the heavier press of chains across his bony hips.
Finally, opening his watering eyes, he makes out a slender, hunched silhouette standing near the edge of the pitch-black, umbral cloud that fluxes around the accursed mirror. As if sensing his half-conscious attentions, the figure begins to move closer, limbs moving jerkily beneath its bejeweled Administratum robes. The figure moves to the very edge of the cluttered table, not starting in the least when Vincent attempts another desperate tug of his body that only serves to loudly rattle the chains at his waist and the cutlery around him. A glass falls over with a crash, and a pale, powdered face hovers into the senior clerk's field of view, blurry at first, but then resolving slowly to reveal a man with starkly effeminate features. A telescoping golden augmetic whirs to life as it focuses upon him from one side of the man's face, the cat-like emerald eye affixing upon him intently as it sparkles. The man's face is powdered, but much of it has fallen away to reveal pox-covered, sallow skin. As Adjutant Triggs' face creases with a gloating, self-satisfied grin, Vincent watches as something slender, chitinous, and twitching begins to rise in his still-blurry peripheral vision. The twitching, hairy cilia at the tarsus of the cockroach-like leg caress his face with the familiarity of an old friend, the gentleness of a lover, and Vincent tries to scream, but nothing comes out.
His voice is wheedling and condescending as always, the tinny drone of an awful, vibrato buzzing echoing under his words.
"We're so grateful you could return to us for another repast, senior clerk Sepheris! My apologies, since the Warden-Colonel's recent relapse we've had to alter the menu slightly."
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
The antechamber you have entered, one of many such small rooms radiating off of the the central circumference of the titanic sphere that is the Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII, has walls of lustrous white marble, dimly illuminated by pale amber glow-globes ensconced near the four corners of the buttressed ceiling. A shallow niche in one wall holds a meticulously carved status of pale green crystal, ironically shaped into the form of a howling duct wolf. The heady scent of strong incense hangs in the air, tickling your nostrils with smells of sandalwood and the sea.
As if attuned to your arrival, you look up to see a towering figure clad in maroon robes limned with gold, well over two meters tall, emerge from the tall, narrow, arrowhead-shaped archway in the far wall. The figure seems to float toward you over the smooth floor, a glossy shadow preceding it across the white marble. From behind the figure, as if carried in its wake, you hear the tooth-rattling hum of an intensely powerful pipe-organ and the upraised voices of the choristers, singing their baritone prayers to the God Emperor, their voices guiding the missives of so many across the warp and weft of the Void.
The figure bows its head in greeting, inclining it enough that you can see the pale blue skin of the voidborn beneath, and the burnt out hollows of its sunken eye-sockets.
Voidborn himself, Uriah recognizes the Revered Dirge Nicodemus almost immediately.
I will bow back respectfully, and wait for him to speak first.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent pulls away from the sickening thing beside him and struggles to free himself.
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Revered Dirge Nicodemus spreads his arms expansively in greeting, the span of his limbs in the voluminous robes making him appear like a bird, perhaps a gaunt grotto crane, getting ready to take flight. His thin lips barely move as he speaks, his voice resonates throughout the small antechamber, as if it originates from everywhere at once. Even from within your heads.
"Welcome, faithful servants of the Golden Throne. The Emperor's Blessing be upon you."
He gestures with one lanky arm toward a small votive cogitator nested beneath the crystalline emerald duct wolf statuette.
"It seems you were expected. A message arrived for you a short while ago this very day-cycle. It is keyed of course to only be decrypted by your cipher. I will adjourn to the Choir and grant you privacy, toll the bell once if you require my assistance again."
As Uriah speaks with the Astropath. I take the time to take a good look at my surroundings while keeping my ear on the conversation. The place is breathe taking. I try to remember it well so one day I can tell the story to young ones of its splender. Before it to gets buried beneath the ever growing Spires, and becomes a part of the Under Hive.
I'm not sure what makes me more at ill ease. Knowing a message was already waiting for us. The fact the Guardsmen got a good look at me, or its a building full of head cases...
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent pulls away from the sickening thing beside him and struggles to free himself.
As he tugs again at his bindings, Vincent feels a glimmer of hope.
As tightly as he is bound, his captors did not take into account just how gaunt and bony he is beneath his clerk's vestments. Being so frail is a strange thing to be grateful for, but nonetheless he is. By inhaling deeply he feels the chains around his waist grow slack enough that he could wriggle out of them if he so chose. The bindings on his wrists are tighter, but with a few minutes of stalling, he should be able to work them free. His feet are kept in check by nothing more than the wound sash-cords of the draperies, they should pull free with a sharp tug of his legs.
He hears Triggs titter gleefully as he struggles, and the clerk's mind works out from his tone that he is absolutely confident that Vincent is restrained and not going anywhere. His blurred vision makes out the shadowy outlines of two other figures at the foot of the table near the entry door, intuition more than anything else tells him that one of them is the V-Block guard, Glyde. The taller silhouette can only be Stollow.
As his vision clears further, he chokes back more bile in his throat and looks over at the traitorous adjutant again. Triggs turns to face him, the smeared powdered make-up and unkempt, baroque wig atop his head minor changes compared to the bloated black fly that twitches upon his face in place of his painted on mole, or the roach-leg that erupts from where his left arm once was. Still, the horror of his adversary is as nothing compared to the dead black eyes of the daemon in the mirror.
Thinking back to his countless hours spent poring over the proscribed texts within the Library of Knowing on Fenksworld during his personal hegira, Vincent knows for certain now his suspicions were true: the claustrum has been corrupted by The Lord of Rust, the Great Corruptor, Grandfather Nurgle. The daemon that stared at him through the black mirror, the Prisoner, is nearly free, and all signs point to this proxy of the Pestilent One being a powerful servant of his master. Hope, it seems, is a fleeting thing.
Vincent Sepheris has nearly resigned himself to his ultimate fate when he notices a silverish glimmer just at the edge of the dark blot that radiates outward from the mirror's wall. Hope is a fickle thing, it seems. Rhyste's blade, the Sliver of Calyx rests where it fell from his hand, and its presence on the floor confirms what Vincent presumed right along, that these insidious servants of the Ruinous Powers recoil at its presence.
Triggs speaks again, pacing idly back and forth on the mirror-side of the table, the gloating satisfaction in his voice impossible to suppress.
"You will answer my questions before you die, Vincent. Do not be so foolish as to protest this truth. We are both intelligent men and know full-well the threshold of any man's suffering will eventually be reached under duress. Let us just be clear on this, I have no desire to watch you suffer unnecessarily. It is merely a waste of everyone's time and effort in the end, particularly when we all know what the final outcome will be."
He pauses, glancing at something just behind your head. Leaning in slightly to make certain you hear every, sibilant, lisped word.
"My first question is merely something to satisfy my own curiosity, not that it matters much at all now."
"Who are you really?"
"It is perfectly evident you are no lowly Administratum functionary. No, you are another kind of creature entirely, so what is it?"
As Triggs leans back, Vincent begins to sense something just behind his head, looming over him, its fetid breath exhaling rank odors of spoiled meat, curdled milk and vomit down upon the back of his skull like a foul bellows. Something slouches and groans hugely from the Warden-Colonel's seat behind him. Wet lips smack in famished anticipation.
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Cogitator Hub Cross-Conduit Terminus #117
"Just a moment... I might be able to make this work so at least they might not detect the damage... Its going to take some time though."
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Revered Dirge Nicodemus spreads his arms expansively in greeting, the span of his limbs in the voluminous robes making him appear like a bird, perhaps a gaunt grotto crane, getting ready to take flight. His thin lips barely move as he speaks, his voice resonates throughout the small antechamber, as if it originates from everywhere at once. Even from within your heads.
"Welcome, faithful servants of the Golden Throne. The Emperor's Blessing be upon you."
He gestures with one lanky arm toward a small votive cogitator nested beneath the crystalline emerald duct wolf statuette.
"It seems you were expected. A message arrived for you a short while ago this very day-cycle. It is keyed of course to only be decrypted by your cipher. I will adjourn to the Choir and grant you privacy, toll the bell once if you require my assistance again."
"Emperor's blessings on us all during this time of troubles."
After he leaves, I will put in the proper cipher, allowing Savalos to watch what I do clearly.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
"You will answer my questions before you die, Vincent. Do not be so foolish as to protest this truth. We are both intelligent men and know full-well the threshold of any man's suffering will eventually be reached under duress. Let us just be clear on this, I have no desire to watch you suffer unnecessarily. It is merely a waste of everyone's time and effort in the end, particularly when we all know what the final outcome will be."
He pauses, glancing at something just behind your head. Leaning in slightly to make certain you hear every, sibilant, lisped word.
"My first question is merely something to satisfy my own curiosity, not that it matters much at all now."
"Who are you really?"
"It is perfectly evident you are no lowly Administratum functionary. No, you are another kind of creature entirely, so what is it?"
Knowing now what must be done, Vincent clamps down on his terror with an iron calm. There is barely a quiver in his voice as he speaks.
"Though no one but yourself would ever call you curious or intelligent, in the interests of civility I shall answer."
"There answer, as always, is complex and in truth my own knowledge of the facts is more fragmentary than I would like. To begin, everything started on a small planet some ways from here (don't ask me where, I'm not an Navigator) some time ago (as I said there are periods where my memory has served me less well). Now this planet is cold, bone-chillingly so, and (as with most planets) occupied mainly by filthy, smelly, and thoroughly distasteful individuals (oh, and stupid, did I forget to mention stupid?). Luckily for me, I was not born among these common masses, in fact I was not born on the planet at all (as far as I can tell of course, my own memory of the event has unfortunately long since departed, and would likely be of little informative value besides). From what I gather, my infant self was delivered at the age of six months to the place that would be my home for my period of physical and mental adolescence.
Given my own lack of acquaintance with the normal procedures of child-rearing, it is difficult to describe the environment in which I found myself at such a tender age, though I shall due my best. The surroundings were quite sterile, almost like an infirmary really, with between a score and fifty of us at that point (though the numbering system leads me to believe that the group was at one time much larger). We were cared for by a crèche of young women who attended to our needs as far as feeding and biological necessities. Otherwise, there was little in the way of structure provided at this point, we were left to our own devices along with items to entertain ourselves both singly and as groups (though even at this stage we all showed a noted preference for our own company). These conditions continued, albeit with some scattered interruptions for what I would estimate as slightly more than three years, at which point...
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Knowing now what must be done, Vincent clamps down on his terror with an iron calm. There is barely a quiver in his voice as he speaks.
"Though no one but yourself would ever call you curious or intelligent, in the interests of civility I shall answer."
If Adjutant Triggs, or whatever he has become felt the subtle sting of this insult, he betrays no sign of it. In fact, his smug grin of superiority only widens at the barb, and he fails to rise to the bait.
"The answer, as always, is complex and in truth my own knowledge of the facts is more fragmentary than I would like. To begin, everything started on a small planet some ways from here (don't ask me where, I'm not an Navigator) some time ago (as I said there are periods where my memory has served me less well). Now this planet is cold, bone-chillingly so, and (as with most planets) occupied mainly by filthy, smelly, and thoroughly distasteful individuals (oh, and stupid, did I forget to mention stupid?). Luckily for me, I was not born among these common masses, in fact I was not born on the planet at all (as far as I can tell of course, my own memory of the event has unfortunately long since departed, and would likely be of little informative value besides). From what I gather, my infant self was delivered at the age of six months to the place that would be my home for my period of physical and mental adolescence.Given my own lack of acquaintance with the normal procedures of child-rearing, it is difficult to describe the environment in which I found myself at such a tender age, though I shall do my best. The surroundings were quite sterile, almost like an infirmary really, with between a score and fifty of us at that point (though the numbering system leads me to believe that the group was at one time much larger). We were cared for by a crèche of young women who attended to our needs as far as feeding and biological necessities. Otherwise, there was little in the way of structure provided at this point, we were left to our own devices along with items to entertain ourselves both singly and as groups (though even at this stage we all showed a noted preference for our own company). These conditions continued, albeit with some scattered interruptions for what I would estimate as slightly more than three years, at which point......
Vincent very slowly begins to work first his right wrist, and then his left, prattling on, while doing everything he can to make the movement seem as unobtrusive as possible.
Triggs listens without expression for some time, but he soon begins to narrow his hooded, snake-like eyes in irritation, the hideous roach-arm beginning to twitch spasmodically where it hangs at his side.
I chuckle to myself about the irony of the situation. I watch carefully as Uriah enters the cipher. Memmorizing the symbols. Yet I know I won't be able to read a damn word of what is contained inside.
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Cogitator Hub Cross-Conduit Terminus #117
"Just a moment... I might be able to make this work so at least they might not detect the damage... Its going to take some time though."
It doesn't take anywhere near as long as Kaltos first suspected. In fact, just when all seems lost, the Omnissiah's blessing and the Divine Light of Sollex truly shines down upon his earnest effort. Unspooling from the the blown conduit is a redundancy coil, tethered to the main line, and parallel to it. Kaltos simply bypasses one for the other, and, in something akin to a small miracle there is a whirring sound, and power is quickly restored to the damaged cogitator hub. With an iterative flickering, the pict-screens slowly come online, each revealing a subdivided framework of live images from the Gran Pallazzar Casino. With a crackle of low-gain vox, the static-filled transmissions of the gaming, maintenance, and security microbeads begin to play over one another in a cacophony of overlapping voices and audio codes.
Ivaanov gratefully claps one slender-fingered hand over Kaltos' shoulder in acknowledgment of his success in what amounts to an outpouring of emotion for him, and then begins to mechanically go about the task of adjusting the pict-displays, silencing the redundant frequencies, and familiarizing himself with the proxy surveillance controls.
The hulking guardsmen looks over at the vox-officer, Kotts, who is grinning from ear to ear at the turn of events, and asks rather sheepishly,
"Doe this mean, we're staying put?"
Kaltos joins Ivaanov in his assessment of the equipment's capabilities, and then squints at one of the flashing lines of binary rapidly swimming across the green-lit pict-display to his left, the one monitoring the activities of the cross-conduit hubs both here and elsewhere in the hypogeum level. He stabs a thick finger down on the keyboard to freeze the display, and then leans back, gesturing for Ivaanov to confirm his interpretation of what he is seeing.
Apparently, their intrusion into the surveillance system of the Gran Pallazzar is not the only one. It seems that someone else has accessed the feeds and vox-net traffic from cogitator hub cross-conduit terminus #121, the very station they had planned to move on to when the failure initially occurred with this hub.
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Uriah finishes typing in the proper cipher, and his eyes scan over the very brief message. The voidborn pales as much as his already pallid skin-tone allows as he turns to Savalos.
[+++Incoming Transmission+++]
Authorizing: Code Iota/Identifax
Benedum 21T-777 Cipher Approved
{Engaging astropathic dataslate transcription subroutine}
[BEGIN ENCRYPTION]
+++Message Origin===Inquisitor Ahmazzi+++
+++Message Priority===Urgent+++
+++Message Destination=== Oremor+++