Damien II

Posted in The Bloodhound: Zenethene's Collar with tags , , , on June 11, 2008 by rooneyreverb

*Here’s some more to the Bloodhound novel that’s slowly grinding along. I haven’t had much time to write recently, because Real Life keeps getting in the way and stealing my energy/time/inspiration. But here’s a little bit of progress!*

Vid-pict log *SEF435-39r

Location: Hive Sefus Main Spire. Upper-Lower Level 23

1857.83 M41

[Image rolls, distorted for 3.6 seconds, then stabilises. Vid-pict shows a grainy, greyscale image of a lower hive corridor. Internal chrono shows it to be 22:24 local time]

Four figures enter image from screen right. The lead figure is clad in combat fatigues and light flak armour, and carries what appears to be a MKIII Guard issue las-rifle in his hands, panning the weapon from side to side as he moves his head. Ident classified Guard-DIS-Beta.

Second figure is wearing what seems to be Arbites patrol armour including helmet, stripped of insignia, and carries a modified Arbites Suppressor riot shotgun. No ident available.

Third and fourth figure remain outside of the poorly maintained vid-pict’s focus. Seemingly at the command of one of the out of focus figures, the lead figure opens fire on the vid-pict, destroying it.

[static for 12.6 seconds. Feed ends]

Smashed and melted fragments of plastic rained to the rust-stained decking from the destroyed vid-pict, joined moments later by fragments of a similar unit mounted further along the long, broad corridor. The crack of Carell’s precision las-shots was quickly swallowed by the background noise that permeated the lower levels of hive Sefus. Steam and other gases leaked slowly from poorly sealed pipes, run-down air scrubbers and other mechanical devices rattled and clanked in the walls and ceilings, and below it all sending constant micro tremors through every surface on the levels below the special buffering was the rumbling of the hives colossal generators. Ancient things, buried at the centre of the lower levels, they growled on day and night. They were the best maintained part of this area of the hive. Even the Lord Governor, miles above in his sprawling residence knew that if they died, hive Sefus died.

All that Damian knew was that they were getting on his nerves. The constant micro tremors made it feel as if there was a low level current buzzing through his feet, and he was beginning to get a headache. He peered down the length of the corridor, wishing there were more or brighter lights down here, whilst at the same time feeling comfortable in the lower light. Caged yellowing lumen strips were spaced along the ceiling every few metres, but from what he could see about one in three was dark, leaving large pools of shadow around areas of the pipe covered walls. Down here there was no need to hide the pipes, cabling and air scrubbers behind pleasant panelling. Down here the walls were mostly made up of the various lifelines of the upper levels. It made Damien uncomfortable – anyone could be lurking in those shadows. His fingerless leather gloves creaked as he shifted his grip on his shotgun.

“I don’t think we need worry about an ambush” the Inquisitors mechanized voice croaked from behind him, and Damian realised the bastard had been skimming his surface thoughts. He made an effort to submerge his thoughts behind his crude mental barriers as Bericken continued “my contacts seemed very certain that we were perfectly safe in dealing with this Gang”

“If it’s so safe, then why are we here?” asked Damien gruffly.

“Nothing is certain Jado. No sense in taking risks” replied Bericken

“And all dogs need exercising” purred the fourth member of their party. Clad head to toe in red leather armour so dark as to be almost black, the only flesh visible was around her eyes, mouth, and through half a dozen or so gaps in the leather. The skin that showed through those gaps was always cut, always bleeding. The armour was form-fitting, and showed the shape of a stunning body, but Damien didn’t risk admiring. The woman was a member of a Death Cult, sworn to kill and die for the glory of the Emperor. A slim power sword hung on her back, and two long-bladed weapons hung one at either hip. She was a fanatic with a taste for blood, and a lust for death. Her name was Bella.

“Woof woof” snarled Carell, glancing back at the leather-clad killer “Dogs bite, bitc-“

-Enough!-

The psy instruction slammed into their heads, and Carrell quickly resumed his visual scanning of the corridor ahead of them. Damien bit back a curse as the words burst into his head, not bothering with the courtesy of passing through his ears. He hated psy-talk like that. It made him feel dirty, like he needed to shower his brain or something. It was the first time Berrick had communicated with him that way, and he didn’t like it. The party moved along the corridor in silence, the sounds of their feet on the metal grate flooring buried beneath the sounds of the lower hive.

Minutes passed, and side corridors opened beside them. Carell and Damien checked them both before waving the other two forward. They both looked the image of relaxation; Berrick strolled, a silver-worked black metal cane clasped in one gloved hand, the bolt pistol at his hip almost hidden in the billow of his robes. Bella swayed alongside him atop spike-heeled boots, seemingly having no trouble at all with the grating and her impractical footwear.

Those boots struck a solid plate that rang with a different tone to the others, as he covered the opening of a side corridor, and waved Berricken and Bella past. Damien frowned, staring at the plate as he stepped over it. This whole level was battered, but the scratches and scuffing here seemed recent. His eyes followed the plate as it ran across the width of the corridor, then met the wall, which was clear plating as wide as his hand…

“Stop!” he called spinning to face the others “This is –“

A hiss of gas and the squeal of hydraulics cut him off as the emergency fire shutter flew up from its concealed compartment beneath the floor. Reaching the ceiling there was the thump of mag-locks closing, and the corridor behind was sealed off. Damien span on his heel and darted forward, dropping into a crouch ahead of Berricken. To his right Carell had done likewise. There was a whisper of steel on leather, and Bella had both of her long-bladed daggers drawn. She stepped languorously in front of Berricken, blades raised in a high stance.

“Lower your weapons!” the shout came from somewhere ahead, though there was no-one to be seen.

“Show yourself!” replied Berricken. He alone still seemed sanguine with the situation. He stood leaning lightly on his cane, his hood leaving his face in deep shadow. He could be fouling himself in fear, and we’d never know.

“Stop pointin’ those weapons at us, or you’ll die down here” came the voice again. Damien couldn’t help but see the truth of the situation. They were penned in, against Throne knows how many enemies, all of whom could be armed to the teeth, with no cover and no backup.

-Lower your weapons- Carrell cursed but lowered his rifle, and rose to his feet. Damien did likewise but without the swearing. –You too Bella-

With a grimace and a glance at Berricken she nodded and sheathed the shining steel blades.

Wandered a li’l….

Posted in Ramblings/Rants, Serialised Horror Project with tags , , , , , on April 14, 2008 by rooneyreverb

I sat down this evening to do some further work on the serialised horror novel project that Goon proposed months ago, and it was all going well. The concept piece I sent him was well received, and I had a fairly good idea of where I was going, and what I wanted to achieve. So I started tapping away at these little plastic keys…

I’ve just read back what I’ve written this evening, and whilst I like the way it’s going, I realise with a sinking feeling that it’s drifted significantly from the ‘horror’ genre it’s supposed to be in. I think I may end up using this piece as a sci-fi/war story with horror undertones. Which is great, but it puts me back to square one with the horror project.

Bugger.

Oh well, I may well post up what I’ve got so far, later. Right now I have to go away and have a cogitate on horror….

Rooney

Ramides Cluster Crusade - Tanky goodness!

Posted in Ramides Cluster Book 1 with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 12, 2008 by rooneyreverb

Aaaaand here’s the next part of the Ramides Cluster Crusade book. Be gentle with me on this one - it’s my first scene involving armoured fighting vehicles (or tanks as some people call ‘em), and I’m a li’l bit dubious….

 

 

Gerhanna Mountains, west of Ceredes.

 

The stink of promethium, and the grind of steel tracks. The two things Major Lara ‘Torch ‘em’ Terner loved best in the galaxy. And she had both in ample supply right now as her armoured column grounds it’s way through the foothills of the Gerhanna mountain range flushing out Kroot survivors, and leaving nothing more of them than scorched, greasy smears on the stony ground. Looking about her from the turret hatch of her command Hellhound Pax Incedrius, she was willing to admit that calling the collection of fighting vehicles a ‘column’ was a bit of a liberty. The dozen tanks currently engaged in the foothills represented a little under half of the 3rd’s armoured strength, all that hadn’t been snaffled up before the regiment had even left Basic and Prep. She spat over deep red hull of Pax Incendrius, and dropped down into her command seat inside the turret.

   As commander of the 3rd’s armour, she’d had what she assumed was the full story from Grove when she was appointed to the post. She knew all about some brass bastard stealing her tanks before she’d even seen them. Probably doled out to some no-hoper hive ganger from the arse-end of the galaxy who’d drive them off a cliff first time he was out alone. She wanted to spit again, but settled for a disgusted growl and adjusted her headset mic.

“All units, report status” she barked. As the reports filtered in, she cranked her turret to and fro, her scope showing nothing but the pyres marking the destruction of more of the beaked xenos. She flicked a strand of lank blonde hair from her eyes. Getting long again. Gotta get it cut she thought to herself for the fiftieth time today, and promptly forgot it, for the fiftieth time today. Her Hellhound flame tank was immaculate, lovingly cleaned and maintained after every use, but she tended to forget about taking care of her own appearance.

   As the last report concluded, she briefly checked the map of the area provided by command, and transmitted the next series of waypoints.

“Proceed to the next waypoints, as before. Remember boys, try and keep yourselves between the enemy and the mountains.” She broadcast “We’ve got some good drivers, but even they can’t drive us up mountains”.  A chorus of acknowledgements and laughs came back, and she switched her headset to the internal link. “Let’s roll Jensen”

“On our way ma’am” came the reply from her driver, nestled below and forward of her position, next to the young gunner Kettering. Sure enough, the tank lurched as Jensen gunned the engines and swung them around to head on towards the next waypoint. Keeping one eye on the small display of her turret scope, she checked the fuel and promethium levels before calling down to Kettering.

“Kett, how’re you doing for ammo?” She asked. Although the turret mounted Inferno cannon was the main armament of any Hellhound, they also had a hull mounted Heavy Bolter for a little bit of ranged defence. And Kettering had been a little too trigger happy in that last engagement. She understood that he was still green, being fresh in to her little armoured division, but even so, she needed him watching his ammo.

“I’ve got plenty left ma’am.” He replied without looking up from his own scope. Lara grunted.

“Uh-huh, and I’m Saint Ophelia reborn, kid” she said, resuming her own scanning through her scope. “Take it a li’l easier on the trigger. We –“ the rest of her words died away as a transmission came loud in her headset.

“Leader, sixteen. I’m under heavy fire up here” crackled the voice over the vox.

“Sixteen, leader. Care to elaborate?” she asked, already plotting a course from where they were to sixteen’s last reported position.

“I can confirm – Throne of terra, shoot it you idiot! – repeat, I can confirm at least four Emperor-damned Krootox” came the terse reply

“Received sixteen. We’re on our way Terri”

“Appreciated leader. We’re taking a beating up here. Sixteen out” replied Terri Eckol, commander of Mud Rat, one of the regiments Chimera APC’s. Laa switched back to the internal channel.

“You heard the man Jensen. Half a klick upslope. Move it!” she barked down at her driver. The man made no response, as usual when he was concentrating on driving, but Lara had to brace herself against a bulkhead as the Hellhound slewed and roared off towards the flashed of gunfire illuminating the side of mountain now cast in shadow by the setting sun.

 

Gunfire hammered against the armoured hull of Mud Rat and Terri Eckol swung his turret around searching for the source. A huddle of the beak-faced Kroot were firing from behind a jutting rock, and there beside them partially obscured by the boulders it was using as cover stood the Krootox, it’s grey skin mottled with scorch marks from las-rifle fire. Sighting on the hulking creature, Eckol squeezed the main trigger and Mud Rat’s multilaser burst into life, unleashing a punishing hail of las-bolts into it. The thing roared and reared up. Eckol kept his finger pressed down hard, and the line of crimson bolts stitched across the beasts relatively soft underside, punching dead into it’s alien body. It screeched, and toppled backwards, crushing it’s rider, and the huge gun strapped to it’s back as it died. The fire coming from the aft of the Chimera shifted from the dead beast to the sheltering Kroot as the Guardsmen being carried moved onto the next target. He could hear cheers and shouts coming from the transport compartment, but he had precious little time to celebrate the death of the Krootox.

   A trio of heavy blasts from the opposite side rocked the whole vehicle on it’s disabled tracks and finally proved too much for the abused turret. A shower of sparks erupted from the traverse ring, and Eckol heard the clatter of metal dropping to the floor of the transport below him. Slamming the traverse controls to seek out this new threat produced a shrieking howl of tortured metal. The turret began to move, but slow and haltingly, accompanied the whole time by the grind of the damaged traverse mechanism. Below him, the Heavy Bolter thundered sporadically, the Krootox and their supporting Kroot warriors keeping out of it’s limited firing arc. Eckol cursed loudly. More heavy shots slammed into the same side of the transport, this time at the transport compartment. At least one punched through the armour, as the curses and shouts were punctuated by screams of more than one man.

“Emperor help us, if they don’t get here soon we’ll be Xeno food…” He muttered, and slammed the traverse control again.

 

Lara tightened her seat restraint as Pax Incendrius bounced violently over another ridge of grey stone, and still ended up bouncing her head off of the turret hatch. She gritted her teeth and held on as best as she could, trying to make sense of the bouncing, jittery monochrome image on her small screen as they closed on Mud Rat’s position. Although she’d directed other units to assist as well, she was the closest, and she preyed they’d make it in time. From the amount of fire up there, Eckol and his tub wouldn’t last long unsupported. The Hellhound lurched again, and landed on relatively flat ground. Peering at the pict viewer she could see Mud Rat at the centre of a hail of fire, rocking on it’s shattered tracks at every volley of heavy Krootox fire. It’s turret seemed to be stuck. Either that or Terri was hurt and not in full control of it.

“Frag it Jensen, I meant FAST!” she yelled at the driver, knowing he was driving damn fast, but needing something to vent at.

“Get ready with your flames ma’am!” he yelled back. Looking back at the pict screen, Lara grinned darkly, and grasped her firing controls, opening the firing valves to full…

 

Sparks and shrapnel flew from the front of Mud Rat, peppering the crew compartment. Eckol’s gunner cried out as the storm of fire and metal enveloped him, and then fell silent. A glance told the tank commander that he’d need to look for a new gunner if he ever made it out of here alive. Which wasn’t very likely. He squeezed off a burst of fire at a scurrying group of Kroot, then yanked at the traverse control to track them, but the damaged mechanism finally gave up, seizing fast with a scream of tortured gears.

“No damn you! Don’t you fragging well dare!” he yelled at the controls. Moments later the traverse mechanism exploded, releasing the pent-up pressure, and launching cogwheels and gears into the commanders compartment. Pain blossomed in a dozen or more places, and his head swam, his vision in one eye vanishing. More heavy fire rocked the hull, and Eckol prepared to make his peace and meet the Emperor for divine judgement…

   Flames washed out the image through his scope, and he slipped into darkness.

 

Pax Incendrius practically leapt over the last ridge of shattered stone, crushing a handful of shooting Kroot beneath its armoured bulk. Moments later it unleashed Hell on the main Kroot firing line, burning promethium engulfing them to the last. Ammunition detonated, blasting apart melting flesh, and the two hulking Krootox caught in the wash of flame shrieked as they were reduced to nothing more than burning piles of alien flesh. The cannon atop one of them detonated, showering flames and burning Kroot flesh all around.

   Lara traversed the turret, and vented another stream of burning death into the filthy aliens as Jensen ploughed them forward, blocking the remaining Kroot and their beasts from firing upon the beleaguered Chimera APC. Even as they stopped, Multilaser fire lanced into the back of the remaining aliens as the first of the other armoured units arrived. Kettering joined in the slaughter, opening up with the heavy thud-thud of his Heavy Bolter. The aliens came apart under the barrage.

   Behind Pax Incendrius the battered APC sat motionless except for the smoke that was leaking from its shattered Heavy Bolter sponson. Its deep red armour was barely visible beneath the scorch and blast marks from the attack it had weathered. Of its crew and passengers, there was no sign.

 

Excerpt from Forgotten Crusades of M40, by …..

 

“Under the assault of the Arcadian 3rd regiment, the scattered Kroot forces fell back towards the Gerhanna mountain range, travelling from across the planet to seek refuge in the caves and valleys of the barren mountains, apparently hoping to use their stealth and animal cunning to harry any Imperial forces sent into the mountains to flush them out. A ring of firepower surrounded the tall yet relatively small mountain range as the Arcadians prepared for a long, costly clearing action…”

The Bloodhound: Zenethene’s Collar

Posted in The Bloodhound: Zenethene's Collar with tags , , , , , , , on February 20, 2008 by rooneyreverb

So, here’s another one of the novels I’m working on at the moment. This one’s been on the go in some form or another for a lot longer than the Ramides Cluster book, and has seen a lot of re-writes and changes in writing style. Its central character is Damien Bloodhound, aka “The Bloodhound”, a character from Games Workshop’s Inquisitor range. His character appealed to me, and a felt there was a lot that could be done with him. The one idea that really jumped out at me was the thought of watching an Inquisitors warband follow a case, but not from the Inquisitors view - from one of the ‘henchmen’.

So, here it is (well, the start anyway), The Bloodhound: Zenethene’s Collar.

Chapter I: Sefus Incorruptus

Location: Hive Sefus.

Hive world of Teclis, Segmentum Pacificus.

6:48 am, Local Time

The fat, red sun rose above the distant, haze shrouded horizon, its harsh red light driving back the shadows of night as it flowed across the cracked, dry landscape of Teclis. It flowed around the half-buried boulders and rocks, and streamed through the empty windows of the shattered ruins that had once housed the inhabitants of Teclis. Its heat began to evaporate the toxic mists that covered much of the planet come nightfall, and melted away the light frost that covered the tops of the boulders and ruins that protruded from the thinning carpet of fog. The whole landscape glowed a fiery orange as the sunlight illuminated the fog like some enormous glow-tube.

Damien watched the sun begin its gentle climb into the deep blue sky, leaning on the wall beside the window. At this level the window was grubby and scratched, but still mostly transparent, and he was high enough in the Hive to look down onto the fog, rather than out into it. He idly mused that this was probably the sort of thing to inspire minstrels and poets. With a grunt, he stood straight, and turned away from the window. In front of him now, rather than the almost-pleasant scenery of Teclis, there was a non-descript corridor immediately occupied by an irate bald male in purple robes, and a larger, greasy looking male in the matt grey coverall of a Hive docking supervisor.

The male in the robes was Nerist, one of several adjutants to an Imperial Inquisitor who had recently shown up here on Teclis. And he was currently getting very angry at the other male. Damien didn’t know his name, but he was apparently important to the next stage of the investigation. Damien watched them, and the corridors around him, listening. At the moment, the Inquisitors presence here was supposed to be a secret, so Nerist was posing as a Scribe from the Administratum. Unfortunately, an Administratum Scribe didn’t have anywhere near as much power as an adjutant to an Inquisitor. A fact that was being clearly demonstrated by the dockworker, who seemed to be flatly refusing whatever it was that Nerist was asking for.

Nerist gestured emphatically at the docker, and his nasal tones took on a distinctly annoyed tone. Damien covered a smile with his hand, covering his mouth, and rubbing his unshaven cheek. Damien didn’t like Nerist. He didn’t like any of the Inquisitors adjutants, but he disliked Nerist the most. Although that was probably just because he’d been forced to spend the most time with Nerist. Six days of wandering through the lower levels of the Hive, huge, cavern-like receiving bays, reading through delivery manifests, wandering through the stacks of goods and other necessary stores in huge, cavernous warehouses. With the nasal, condescending tones of Nerist to accompany him. The adjutant seemed to think that Damien, as a ‘hired-gun’ was below his own hallowed status of Savant. Damien enjoyed seeing him being ignored by the docker.

However, the longer the docker said ‘no’, the longer Damien had to spend standing in this corridor, listening to the grating voice of Nerist growing more and more irate, and consequently, louder and louder. And the longer it would take to find whatever it was the Inquisitor was looking for. Damien grimaced. The longer that took, the longer the Inquisitor would have Damien in his employ, and the longer he’d have to find out who Damien really was. And that would be really bad.

It was early, and Damien had been up late the night before, and was in no mood to wait around whilst this jumped-up crate-pusher decided to flaunt his meagre authority, even if it did really annoy Nerist. Damien pushed himself off from the wall, and walked calmly towards the others. He firmly shouldered Nerist aside in mid-rant, ignoring the skinny mans indignant grunt. He smiled at the docker, a smile without a trace of humour in it.

“I had a really rough night last night” he said, his own bloodshot eyes meeting with the grey of the docker “Why don’t you just do what my associate here asks you, and keep this morning pleasant for all of us?”

The docker looked from Damien to Nerist and back again “Listen, friend” the docker filled that last word with scorn “I’m not giving my manifest to anyone without the authorisation of –“. He never had the chance to explain who’s authorisation he needed. Damien’s temper snapped. His hand flew out, slamming into the docker’s beefy chest, and knocking him back. The burly man had no chance to recover from his shock, as Damien stepped in close, seizing the lapels of the docker’s grey coveralls, and hoisting him off the floor, up against the wall. The docker was broader than Damien, but almost a hand shorter, and Damien lifted him with only a soft grunt of effort.

“You listen. I don’t care whose authority you need, or whose orders you’re ignoring. Throne! I don’t care if you have a decree from Earth itself” Damien ignored the docker’s startled gasp, which was echoed by Nerist at Damien’s back “You’re going to do what this Scribe asks, and you’re going to do it with a smile, or I’m going to force you through that window behind me. Ok?”

The docker swallowed hard, and nodded, almost before Damien had finished speaking. Damien smiled again, and dropped the man back to the floor plates “Good! See, isn’t it much nicer when we co-operate?” he said with a false cheerfulness that jarred against his previous aggression. Not waiting to see if the docker replied, Damien turned, his smile vanishing

“He’s all yours, Scribe Nerist” he said, passing by the indignant adjutant without stopping, or even sparing him a glance.

9:08am Local Time

Face down on the unmade bed, face buried in the thin, almost solid pillow, Damien dozed. It really had been a rough night, although nothing out of the ordinary for him really. Drinks in one of the local lower-Hive bars, drinks to drive away the all too familiar craving. Then after the drinks, the fighting. It didn’t seem to matter where he went, or what he drank, it always came down to the fighting. It didn’t matter whether it was looking at someone the wrong way, or not looking at someone the right way, not paying enough, or paying too much, sooner or later, you could guarantee that someone would want to fight him.

Of course, it had occurred to him that perhaps the fights happened so damned often because he wanted them to. In moments of honest introspection, he even admitted that in some cases that was true. But whether he wanted it or someone else did, it happened. The sorts of bars Damien frequented tended not to worry with Hive security to break up fights. They were the sorts where the fight would run its course, and the loser – and in some cases, the winner too – would wake up in some waste recycler, if they woke up at all. Unless of course the staff of that establishment didn’t want a fight right then, in which case it was common practice for shotguns and electro-clubs to appear.

Last night had involved someone – Damien couldn’t remember who – kicking off. The staff on this occasion had stepped in after ten minutes or so, electro-clubs swinging. His opponent went down in short order, his nervous system temporarily shut down by the shock from a club. Damien, even when drunk, was more than a match for some lower-Hive bouncer. He’d left the bar in a hurry after breaking at least to bones, and possibly killing one bouncer. The barman had produced an old combat shotgun from behind the stained and battered bar, and started blasting.

That hadn’t been the end of the night. It should have been, for any half-sane man, but Damien had given wondering about his sanity a long time ago. There was always another bar, and as far as they were concerned the closure or disruption of another bar could only increase their custom. His blood was up that night, and the drink just couldn’t quell the cravings, couldn’t calm the finger of need that seemed to claw their way out from his soul, burrowing into his mind… and the Crash made it all so much easier, so much clearer…

Damian tensed at a quiet bleep, close to his ear. It came from a small relay that was connected to a sensor discreetly hidden outside the door to his current dwelling. The bleep signalled that there was someone there, and since the door chime hadn’t sounded, they didn’t want him to know they were there. His hand slipped under the edge of the thin mattress (barely any thicker than the pillow) on his bed, and clasped around the hand of the Stubber pistol secreted there. Damien waited, ears strained for any sound from the door. There was a faint scraping noise, seemingly from outside the door, and then the hiss of the ill-maintained door sliding aside.

No sooner had the door begun to open than Damien was rolling from the bed, rolling up into a firing position on one knee with the Stubber aimed at the door, two paces from the bed. In the doorway, face painted with surprise stood a broad, dark-skinned man, clad in grey combat trousers and a drab olive vest. His hand was just moving to the holstered weapon at his hip by the time Damien had his head in his sights.

“Throne Gholien! You gonna shoot me?” asked the big man at the door in a deep voice that seemed to boom, a crooked grin partly erasing the surprise on his face. He knew Damien as Jado Gholien, as did everyone else on this planet “Don’t think the boss’d like that too much”

“What do you want Carell?” Was all Damien said, lowering the weapon, and rising to his feet. He tucked the Stubber into his belt, so as not to show the other man where he’d hidden the weapon.

“The boss wants to see you” said Carell “Of course, if you’re sleeping, I’ll just tell him you can’t make it” His sarcastic tone did nothing to improve Damien’s already foul mood, nor the headache he thought was coming. He did manage to suppress a curse though.

“Just take me to him” snarled Damien. Carrell laughed softly, clearly enjoying Damien’s annoyance, then stepped out into the hall to wait whilst Damien snatched up his Flak-jacket. Damien followed him shortly, the door closing behind him, and locking as Damien swiped his ID card through the archaic locking system “I’m not even gonna ask how you got in Carell, so don’t bother gloating. A five year old grox-herder could’ve gotten through that look, so stop looking so smug. It makes you look constipated”

The broader, dark skinned man grunted, and muttered something that was probably less than pleasant, and started away down the corridor.

Damien didn’t actually dislike the man in front of him. He may actually have liked him, had the situation been different. As it was, he just didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone. It seemed as though that had been the state of affairs for his entire life. Carell was a little like himself, particularly right now. He was a ‘hired-gun’, working for the same employer as Damien, although from a different background. Damien had been able to find out that Carell was a former Imperial Guardsman, released from his previous duties for some undisclosed reason, and now selling his services to the highest bidder. It wasn’t unusual for former Guardsmen to turn to the life of a mercenary. There were enough people that would pay to have a big strong fellow with a gun on their side. Hive nobility, Crime Syndicates, entrepreneurs, even regular citizens with something worth looking after who had the credits to spare.

Age-old Human Nature dictated that wherever someone had something of value, someone else would want to take it. And in Hives like Sefus, ruled by a constantly power-hungry Nobility, someone always had something of value that someone else wanted. So mercenaries like Carell (and like himself, if he was honest) always had plenty of work. At the moment, Damien couldn’t see that he was being paid to protect anything, except a secret. It suited him – it meant no-one was trying to kill him outside of the usual drunken brawls – but it made him uneasy. Even when he didn’t use his real name, his general description seemed to find its way into the hands of those that wanted to know, and as such, his fee wasn’t small. He was good enough to ask it, and to have it paid, but no-one would willingly pay his price, simply to have him trawl through lists of incoming cargoes.

He was pretty sure the same was more or less applicable to Carell. Your average gunslinger would usually take whatever creds he could, but Guard-trained men could ask a much better price – not as much as Damien, but a fair price none the less. So why would anyone, even an Imperial Inquisitor, pay such prices to have two men following scribes into warehouses, a job that could’ve been done just as well by any two-cred gunslinger in any one of the lower-Hive bars? Maybe the Inquisitor was just a little eccentric, or had access to even more funds than usual, but the situation made him uncomfortable.

Damien followed the dark-skinned former Guardsman through seemingly endless grey corridors and passageways, and a into a handful of Travellers that clanked and rumbled as they lifted the two of them into the higher reaches of the Hive. As they ascended the levels of the Hive, the apparel and general appearance of those passing them in the corridors, and sharing the Traveller carriages with them changed slowly. At first, they were all pale-skinned men and women, clad in coveralls, coloured to correspond to their jobs, with a handful of offworlders – Traders and merchants whose fortunes weren’t so good, for the most part. – and a scattering of basic, heavy-built servitors. They saw to the tasks that kept the Hive running on a day to day basis. Receiving the supplies at the docks, recycling the refuse of several million people, repairing minor faults in the mechanical running of the Hives systems. They kept the hive alive. Had they descended any further into the depths of the Hive, or the UnderHive as it was known, then all they would have seen in the decaying, dim corridors would have been the scavs that scratched a living in the forgotten deeps below the Hive. Death stalked those corridors in a thousand guises. A hundred thousand. Even more that it did up here, in the ‘civilised’ areas.

The clothing and appearances changed. The coveralls were replaced here and there by plain robes, or trouser and jacket combinations in the same colours as before, but marking the wearer as an overseer or Scribe. Damian knew from previous experience that at the top levels, the corridors would be all but empty, except for the occasional scurrying servant, and the clothes would range from ornately embroidered, expansive swirling robes, to military dress uniforms, to the most fanciful decorations imaginable. It more often than not made the wearer look like a painted fool – in particular, those that had taken to having there skin artificially darkened with pigment-therapy, to an orange/bronze colour – but it was just as dangerous up there in the Heights as it was in the UnderHive. Maybe more so.

But Damien didn’t have to contend with such annoyance today. Due to the Inquisitors secrecy, he had taken rooms no more than half way to the pinnacle of the Hive. As Carell stopped outside the door leading to the Inquisitor’s rooms, a light crowd of robed and lightly embroidered people moved passed, silent except for the occasional whisper of psuedosilk. Few gave him and Carell distasteful looks – it was reasonably common at this level for employers to have their hired-guns come to them at home. Damien ignored those around him, trusting Carell to do his job, and touched a small, softly glowing rune beside the door. There was no signal that he could hear, but he knew that inside, a chime would sound, and vid-monitors would be watching him.

Moments later, the door hissed quietly aside, and Damien was greeted by a plump, robed man with heavy lidded eyes, and a shock of black hair. Without a word he gestured Damien into the room, and closed the door behind him. Damien waited, and the man walked past, gesturing him to follow. Around the room sat a handful of other adjutants, either working at terminals with there glowing screens facing away from Damien, or talking in small groups. Damien recognised most by sight, but could give only two names to match the faces. Also in the room was a short pale man, with a blank face, and cold, grey eyes. A long rifle stood beside him, propped against the wall, and Damien knew he was good with it. He was the third of the Inquisitors hired-guns, a sniper, who was a deserter from some far-off Planetary Defence Force. He thought his anonymity safe, but few secrets were safe from Damien.

The sniper nodded, and Damien acknowledged it with a nod of his own, moments before passing through another doorway, directly opposite to the first.

His guide stopped just inside the door, and Damien passed him, his eyes passing around the room, and suppressing a groan. The one large window in the room was opaqued against the glare of Teclis’ sun, so that it merely glowed pleasantly. Nerist was in the room, his face red with splotches of what Damien figured was irritation. The Inquisitor sat in a large, carved wooden chair just beside the window, turned half towards the window, and half towards Nerist. The adjutant’s head whipped ‘round as Damien entered, and directed a withering glare at him as he moved towards the centre of the room. A glare which Damien ignored with ease. He stopped in the middle of the room, and a little to Nerist’s left. He would approach no closer unless asked, but he was not some sycophantical adjutant, who would wait at the threshold until summoned.

Even seated, the Inquisitor made quite an imposing figure. He wore a tight-fitting coat of a blue so dark it was almost black, that flared into something like a robe at the waist. Dark boots, polished ‘til they shone rested on the floor, crossed at the ankle. Gloves of the same colour as the coat covered the Inquisitors hands, meaning that no flesh could be seen at all. His face…. Well, his face stretched the definition of the word. A hood of the same colour and material as that of coat and gloves covered where Damien assumed the Inquisitors hair was, and rested in folds on his broad shoulders, and where the mans face should have been was a tangled bio-mechanical mess. And opening near the bottom hung slackly open, metal glistening wetly within whenever the light shone that way. Above it, the nose was merely a meshed hole. The eyes were… disturbing, to say the least.

The left was a mechanical replacement, which protruded like a thick needle an inch or so out of the eye-socket, whilst the right was almost human in appearance – if human eyes were a ruddy orange colour, flecked with red, with an oval-shaped pupil. The flesh that clung over the steel of the rest of the face was either a sickly pink, or black and cracked, as if badly burned. It made most men avoid looking when possible. In fact, Damien mused, it seemed almost designed to make you feel uncomfortable.

“You sent for me, my Lord?” Asked Damien, keeping his eyes on the half of the Inquisitors face that he could see. The man seemed to gazing out of the window, and the shadows the glow of the sun cast on the metallic protuberances cast him in a stark relief.

“I did Jado” The Inquisitors voice was deep, even deeper than Carells, but that was where the similarities ended. It sounded like a bass human voice fed through a cognitor, then mangled by some crude mining vehicle. It was harsh, and seemed to rumble at the same time as it felt like nails on slate “Savant Nerist has reported your behaviour this morning with the dock worker” Now he turned his head to face Damien, bringing the full force of his stare to bear on him. “It was brash and bold, and could bring unwanted attention to my enquiries here”

Damien had known this was coming “My apologies Inquisitor. I acted in haste.”

What had to be called the Inquisitors cheeks twitched in what Damien though was a smile “Yet you have more to say, unless I am sorely mistaken” For a voice that was almost totally artificial, it expressed a surprising amount of emotion. Tired forbearance in this case.

“Yes my Lord. The Savant’s enquiries where getting nowhere. The docker was flatly refusing to co-operate with an officially sanctioned enquiry. I merely interceded where necessary to aid the enquiries. Is that not why you employed me?” Damien kept his disdain for Nerist and the stubborn docker from his voice.

A strange rumbling sound came from the Inquisitor, almost as if he was trying to dislodge something from his throat, his one biological eye closing. Damien wondered if the man was alright, when he noticed his shoulders shaking gently. He was laughing! He returned his gaze to Damien “You are indeed correct Jado. You are currently in my employ to solve any problems that more diplomatic courses cannot”. Nerist fidgeted, and Damien had to suppress a surprised stare. It was a measure of the adjutants annoyance that he would show it in such a way in the Inquisitor’s presence. The laughter had passed, and the Inquisitor turned his gaze to Nerist, who immediately stilled. The flesh above the one remaining eye twitched upwards, in an approximation of an eyebrow being raised. “You do not agree Adjutant Nerist?”

Nerist seemed torn for a moment, between respect for the Inquisitor, and the anger he clearly felt. His face practically glowed, it was so red “Inquisitor, with all the respect and praise due to yourself, this man threatened a dockworker, a man who may very well report to his superiors that we were asking questions, seemingly regardless for procedure or authority. This will surely bring recriminations and questions from the overseers, which I am sure you wish to avoid – “ Nerist cut off with a strangled grunt as the Inquisitor raised a glove finger. Nothing more, but Nerist paled as if he’d levelled a las-rifle at him.

“Would you presume to know my mind Savant?” The Inquisitors voice made it clear what folly this was. Nerist made a sound of pure fear in his throat, seemingly unable to speak “Do you think to know what I would and would not wish?” Nerist shook his head furiously, only managing to make a quiet groaning sound in his mouth. “As well you should not. Leave us, and think no more on this matter”.

Nerist bowed deeply, muttering an unintelligible prayer, and all but ran from the room. Damian kept the smirk from his face with ease this time. The Inquisitor was clearly not pleased, and only a fool willingly antagonised an Imperial Inquisitor. Even Damien was not that foolhardy. As Nerist departed, the Inquisitor turned back to the window again. Suddenly, he spoke again, without turning his head “Do you wonder why I continue to perform a task capable of being carried out by someone far below your abilities?”

The question caught Damien off guard. Why ask that question now, just minutes after he had been asking himself the same thing? Was it possible that this Inquisitor possessed some form of telepathy? Damien knew it was possible. He’d heard about it often enough, even worked with one such individual before. Of course, that had been under very different circumstances… He very firmly steered his thoughts away from that line of thought. If this Inquisitor could read his thoughts, then he’d have to take some further precautions from now on.

Again, the cheek twitched, and Damien knew that at least part of what he had thought had been understood by the deformed Inquisitor. But how much? Was it perhaps best to strike now, whilst the other was unarmed? It wasn’t his favoured way, but if his survival depended upon it, as he feared it did…

“That will be quite unnecessary. And quite impossible, I assure you, Jado Gholien” The Inquisitors cheek still twitched as he spoke “I believe you cannot even reach your weapons. Try, if you must. I know you will want to, now that I have told you that you cannot”. Damien frowned, and it quickly became a snarl. He couldn’t move his hands towards either of the holsters at his hips, nor the Stubber tucked behind his belt. He knew he wanted to, just to prove the man wrong, but even as the thought of moving his arms coalesced, they seemed to hit some kind of mental wall, and dissipate. “It is quite fruitless to continue to struggle, Jado. Now, please cease your attempts to take your weapons and listen”

The way the Inquisitor used his name – his assumed name – caught Damiens ear, and for the moment, he did cease his attempts to seize his weapons “You have my attention. What’s this all about?” His anger at the way he was being treated outweighed his feelings of trepidation, and his voice openly betrayed the fact. The Inquisitor turned to face him again, but it was impossible to read any trace of emotion on that mutilated face.

“We all have secrets, do we not?” Damien seemed to feel the weight of the mans gaze, pressing into his skull, searching for his secrets. He held resolute, refusing to avert his eyes. For some reason, the image of the Imperial Aquila drifted through his head. Battered, scarred, but still strong and unmoving. Well, why not? As good a symbol as any for his defiance of an Imperial Inquisitor. There came that strange gurgling laughter again, softer than before, then the Inquisitor continued. “But some secrets need to maintained, whilst others cause only unnecessary… tension”

Damien merely grunted. That sensation of the Inquisitors gaze pressing on him had intensified until it now felt as if there was a very real hand pressing down upon his head. But inside his head as well, as though it were compressing his thoughts, looking for a crack to appear…. Suddenly, the pressure was gone, so suddenly, that Damien grunted in surprise.

“I believe, that the time has come to reveal some truths to you, if not all” again, he turned to face the window, casting his face once again into half-darkness. “My name is Hidalgo Bericken. As you know, I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. As I am sure you have gathered by now, I am here on Teclis looking for something. Do you, perhaps, have some idea as to what?”

Damien did. His previous training meant that he investigated things almost without realising it “Something that you are expecting to be delivered, or that you believe has been received recently. Something valuable enough to warrant being transported in its own container, despite the fact it’s small enough to be hand-held” The Inquisitors cheek twitched again, but before he could speak, Damien continued “It’s also something that the sender doesn’t want discovered by the wrong people. And they seem to believe that you will be the ‘wrong people’.”

The Inquisitor turned to face him “Well done master Gholien. I can see that my faith in your abilities was not misplaced. You are correct in your… deductions. It is an artefact, something which I have dedicated long years of my life to locating. Something that, should it fall in the wrong hands, could spell destruction not only for Teclis, but this entire system. Indeed, the whole Segmentum could well be threatened.” He paused for a moment, studying Damien, as if waiting to see how the gravity of the situation affected him. Damien remained unmoved – in his experience, every Inquisitor thought that their current case was vital to the survival of at least the sub-sector. With a soft gurgle-laugh Bericken continued.

“The item in question is fashioned as a collar, carved with inscriptions in an ancient dialect that I shan’t bore you with. Suffice to say that it is heretical in nature, and intrinsically linked to the Ruinous Powers” That did get Damiens attention. He folded his arms across his chest, and shifted his position slightly. Bericken noticed “The thought of facing heretics and agents of the Dark Gods unnerves you Jado?”

Damien shook his head “No. It’s just a little more than I’d expected, that’s all” he lied. He hated heretics. The very thought of them angered him, and had resulted in stern disciplinary actions being taken against during his days as an Arbites officer. Heretics angered him in a very fatal way. Bericken cocked his head slightly to the side, studying Damien for a moment in silence before continuing.

“Well, whatever you expected, this is what we face. This artefact is highly coveted by those in league with the Eye. It’s power is terrible, and should our enemies secure it… well, it would become very unpleasant for us, and any others loyal to the Emperor.” Bericken rose from his seat, and crossed the room to a carved wooden sideboard atop which rested a crystal decanter and half a dozen lead crystal glasses. He poured two measures of amasec, and turned, handing one to Damien before he continued “This object is known as the Zenethene Collar”.

The deformed Inquisitor took a sip of the liquor, and watched Damien over the rim of his glass. If he’s waiting for a reaction, he’s in for a disappointment. “Never heard of it” Damien replied, before taking a sip of his own drink. And he wasn’t lying. Being a former member of the Arbites he knew by reputation or investigation of a number of heretical practices and implements – most recovered or discovered after the cultists using them were dead – but it wasn’t a life that exposed you to ancient an terrible devices of arcane power.

If Bericken was annoyed by this, he gave no sign. Not that I could tell from that speeder-wreck of a face, thought Damien, making no effort to hide his thoughts. He realised his error a moment too late. Bericken lowered his glass. “Jado, please. There’s no need to get personal” he chided. Damien almost blushed.

“My apologies Inquisitor. I meant no offence” he blurted, but Bericken waved his apology away.

“Think nothing of it. I know what I look like Jado. You’re right – I am a bit of a speeder-wreck” He took another sip of the amasec, and Damien gulped down a mouthful, in case he said anything else stupid. “Anyway, the matter of the Zenethene Collar – if you ask before you leave, one of my Savants will provide you with information on it, and some background of my search for it – the Collar is named after the heretic Beran Zenethene who is the first known ‘user’ of it, sometime in M.25. It is quite singular, in that it can grant even non-psykers the abilities of an Alpha-plus” Bericken crossed back to his chair, and sat. Damien remained where he was, since at present there were no other chairs in the room. “As you can imagine, this makes it a very potent threat, with the possibility of turning anyone into a Warp-crazed killer, with the psionic ability to enslave an entire Hive with a mere thought”

Damien drained the last of his liquor, focusing on the burn of the amasec as it traced it’s way to his stomach, rather than think too long about the damage something like that could do. In anyone’s hands. “I take it from the way you mention him that Beran Zenethene is no longer with us?” he asked, returning his glass to the sideboard.

“You are correct. The Ordo Malleus finally rid the galaxy of his corruption some two hundred years after he first came to prominence. But not before he cut a bloody swathe across a dozen worlds, and founded – in one way or another – double that many cults devoted to his worship, or that of the Collar itself.”

Damien folded his arms again, and leaned back against the carved edge of the sideboard “So why wasn’t the Collar destroyed then?”. Bericken shifted slightly before replying.

“Regrettably, the Collar has means of preserving itself. One of the Inquisitors present at Zenethene’s eventual death spirited away the Collar from the heretics burned body. It appears that the Collar itself is possessed by some daemon of great power. It whispered into the mind of that Inquisitor – a Nayl Demoas – telling him of the secrets the Inquisition could learn from studying the Collar. It was in Demoas’ care for less than a year before his Interrogator donned it, and slaughtered his master” Bericken swirled the last of his amasec in the glass “Since then, the Inquisition has chased rumours of it’s re-appearance all across known space. As yet, no local Inquisitor has laid hands upon it” He drained the glass of it’s contents, and looked up at Damien.

“So, this Collar has a daemon living inside it, can turn anyone into a grade-A Psyker killing machine, and has been known to corrupt the agents of the Inquisition?” asked Damien, his tone deadpan”

“That is correct” replied Bericken, again studying Damien in that slightly cocked manner.

“Best we keep you away from it then” quipped Damien with a smile.

***

Next Installment….

Posted in Ramides Cluster Book 1 with tags , , , , , , , on February 15, 2008 by rooneyreverb

Here’s the next part of the ongoing novel-in-training ‘The Ramides Cluster Crusade Book I’. Enjoy!

Basilica of Divine Glory, Ceredes.

 

Ceredes, proud capital of Marghen, bruised and blackened by recent events, bustled. When the Tau had occupied the planet, they’d left much of the original building work as it was. The only buildings destroyed were those that acted as Imperial bastions during the initial attack, and had been demolished during short-lived sieges. The Arbites Precinct, the city’s Guard barracks, and a handful of outlying buildings in the Administratum sector. The only buildings they had specifically targeted for destruction were the temples, shrines and cathedrals dedicated to the Emperor. These had been flattened with demolition charges, or pinpoint barrages from their Broadside armour units. It seemed that this force of Tau at least, had learned the lessons of Imperial faith. They wanted to supplant the Imperial Cult with their greater good, and wanted to annihilate any possible inspiring rallying points for the scattered remnants of Marghen’s defenders.

   For that, if nothing else, Major Erid Nove hated the aliens. Bad enough that they dare set foot on one of the Emperors worlds, but to desecrate and destroy His temples? He couldn’t even find the words to voice his disgust. That was why he’d volunteered to take charge of Arcadian operations in the city. Everywhere the Tau and their Kroot slaves had settled, the Emperors places of worship had been destroyed, but here in the planets capital was the Ecclesiarchys primary cathedral on Marghen, the magnificent Basilica of Divine Glory. Now it was little more than expansive ruins, basalt and marble pillars jutting up from the smashed and burned stone that was heaped inside it’s vast perimeter. Here he could help the effort to rebuild these shattered temples, and play a part, however small, in restoring this worlds faith.

   Around him, in the abandoned office building requisitioned as by the Administratum as their base of operations, wall-mounted cogitators whirred and hummed, staffed by men, and servitors hard-wired into them. Guardsmen of the 3rd, local defence forces, and Administratum staff passed in and out constantly, carrying messages or orders. This was the hub for the reconstruction of Ceredes, and Major Nove had made sure that he was assigned charge of the military detail attached to it. He knew that others of his regiment were out there in the world, hunting the last of the aliens, and killing in the Emperors name. Their efforts were appreciated, but Nove wanted to be here, helping build something lasting and tangible in tribute to the Emperor.

   On the plate glass screen before him, pict images of the Basilica before the invasion were scrolling, showing the immense structure from every conceivable angle. Marghen’s sun reflected almost blindingly from the huge brass steeple at the south end in the current picture. Nove knew from recent reports that much of the brass from that magnificent edifice had been recovered, and would be re-forged into the Basilica’s new steeple. In his minds eye, he imagined walking the pavements around the grand structure (…fragging idiot…), morning sunlight blazing from the (…eat the toe of my boot!) polished angles of the steeple, streams people flocking in to receive (…gak you!)…

   Nove turned from the monitor in a blur of speed, his pleasant day-dream rudely shattered by the unpleasant conversations of reality – the small fire-team assigned to the office this evening. The men hated this posting, and Nove had ordered punishments for a dozen men already when he’d heard them complaining too loudly. It wasn’t that he personally resented the dislike the men had for this posting, but if something wasn’t seen to be done, one of the Ministorum busy-bodies would likely take it into their heads to complain to the General, or the Commissar and that would be a barrel full of Grox-dung none of them really wanted opened. This time however, they’d interrupted him.

   It was easy enough to spot the Riflemen on duty – they were the ones in the 3rd’s dress uniform, currently resting on a pile of cased Masonic equipment, rifles propped against the wall beside them. The three of them were of a height with one another, placing them within an inch of Nove’s own height..

“Attention!” barked Nove, bearing down on the three, causing a passing scribe to almost stumble as he avoided the aggravated Major. The three troopers leapt to their feet, one of them – Nove thought it was Gaffren – knocking over the flight crate he’d been sitting on. It landed with a crash, and a flutter of purity seals, marked with symbols of the Administratum and the Cogitator unit. “What the frag are you three gretchin doing in here?”

   It looked as though they were all about to answer at once, but a screeching voice cut through the noise of the room, silencing the three troopers, and making the Major wish he were a less pious man, so he could cuss.

Major! Do you realise what your man has just sent crashing to the floor?” Nove turned to the source of that nasty voice as it scurried across the office, various scribes and servitors trailing with it “That is a level fourteen Cogitator unit! It is several thousand years older than the gung-ho trooper that so casually tosses it around, and is worth considerably more to this enterprise than the four of you combined!” Nove opened his mouth, but was given no chance to speak “Damage to just one of that units processing coils could see all of you consigned to a Penal Legion! Emperor protect us, if you are the men here safeguarding our valuable equipment!”

“Administrator,” Nove managed at last “I can only apologise for my back-bred troopers, and promise you that if it’s needed, I’ll escort them to the Commissar for Penal conscription myself” Startled looks lit up the faces of the three Riflemen. The Administrator didn’t seem impressed.

   Adjutant-Administrator Hyrem Genolios Ferrius, the man in charge of Adeptus Adminstratum operations here in Ceredes was skinny, pale, bald, and generally unhealthy looking. His dark robes of office were always immaculate, and Nove had heard it rumoured that a whole team of Servitors was responsible for making sure he was never dishevelled or less-than-perfect looking. His attention to detail would try the patience of a Saint, and his voice would… well, it wasn’t a very nice voice. Like nails on a slate-board. His train of adjutants, scribes, and servitors formed a semi-circle around the three troopers, awaiting their masters decision on this little debacle.

“At the very least get those boar-like soldiers out of my offices! I cannot work with such slab-headed cretins around me!” grated the pale Administrator. Nove span on his heel before the shrill words were well out of the others mouth.

“Detail! Get your sorry arses out of that door before I bayonet you all!” he roared. The three Riflemen snapped hasty salutes, snatched up their lasguns, and practically scurried from the room, regrouping outside the blast-taped windows, on the dusty pavement.

   Orange sunlight slanted through the shattered remains of buildings across the street as Marghen’s sun sank towards the horizon. It reflected from the polished silver buttons and buckles of the Arcadians dress jackets and kit, making them glow like small orange suns. This minor detail was completely lost on Major Erid Nove as he stormed from the bustling command centre, and commenced a blistering verbal barrage at the three unfortunate troopers…   

The Ramides Cluster Crusade, Book 1

Posted in Ramides Cluster Book 1 with tags , , , , on January 18, 2008 by rooneyreverb

Well, here’s the collected first three parts of my latest, and - dare I say it - greatest literary piece. Set in the Warhammer 40,000 universe, created and controlled by Games Workshop. Dealing with (at the moment) a regiment of Imperial Guard involved in a Crusade against the Tau Empire. Got some big plans for this one, but as anyone that’s been reading the parts as I’ve written them will tell you, I’m a slooooooow worker!

Well, enjoy, and constructive criticism is always welcome.

The Ramides Cluster Crusade

Book I: Arcadian 3rd Infantry

+++ MERGHAST +++

+++ GALACTIC WEST OF RAMIDES CLUSTER +++

Laronis Plains, south of Ceredes

A gentle, warm evening wind blew through the long grasses that stretched for miles across the plains, making them sway as if caressed by some invisible hand. The soft hissing of the wind passing through the grass hid the quiet sounds of the evening as the sun slid slowly below the horizon. Overhead, small birds flitted to and fro across the amber sky, their shrill cries swallowed by distance and the gentle sighing of the wind through the grass.

Rifleman Kenrik spared the carefree birds no more than a glance as he crept quietly through the chest high grasses. Hunched over to keep below the top of the tall fronds, Las-gun in hand, and clad in the red and brown of the Arcadian 3rd Infantry, he was accompanied by the other guardsmen of Sergeant Rossin’s squad. The Sergeant himself was a handful of metres ahead of Kenrik, his head swivelling as he searched the failing daylight with his glowing bionic eye. Kenrik knew from experience that soon the Sergeant would cover that glowing green eye with a patch he carried with him to prevent it giving away their position in the approaching dark. But until then it could see better and further than anyone else in the platoon, possibly the whole regiment. If anyone would spot the enemy hiding in these grasses, it would be the Sergeant.

As if the thought had been a command, the Sergeant held out a closed fist as his whispered voice came through the earpiece’s of the squads communicators “Movement ahead, fifty metres. Fire team one and two hold here for my signal. Three and four, with me” The Sergeant moved away to the right, taking six of the twelve man squad with him. In moments, despite the red of their armour and fatigues, the two fire teams were swallowed from sight by the dense grass.

Kenrik settled down into a crouch, and checked his rifle. There were a few bits of dead grass and seed-pods cluttering the breech which he cleared before checking the power pak readout. Full charge. He looked around as someone settled in beside him, the smell of promethium telling him who it was before his eyes fell on his fellow trooper. Even with the pilot light of his flamer out, Rifleman Jheryn still smelled of burning Flamer fuel, and the tone of his skin made him look slightly cooked, like he’d spent too long using the weapon.

“Hey Kenrik, you ever seen these things?” whispered Jheryn, shifting a spare fuel canister around his belt. Kenrik shook his head.

“Saw some bodies up at Ceredes, but they were pretty mangled” He grinned “Looked even uglier than you though.”

Jehryn grunted at the friendly jibe “I heard from some of the PDF that they eat their enemies. You believe that?”

Kenrik gave Jehryn what he hoped was an incredulous look. He’d heard the same thing, and he did believe it. But Jehryn could be a little skittish about things like that, and Kenrik didn’t want to get a promethium-bath because his squadmate got nervous and started spraying burning flamer fuel around. “You’ll believe anything” he whispered back, looking around, trying uselessly to peer through the fronds of grass in the direction Sergeant Rossin had indicated. Somewhere ahead of him was a pack of carnivorous aliens, with a taste for human flesh…. Kenrik muttered a prayer of protection to the Emperor, and checked his rifle again.

Sergeant Rossin silently willed his booted feet not to make any noise each time he set one down among the softly hissing grass stalks. This close to the enemy he could hear their primitive communications, sounding like a series of clicks and whistles to him. They were ahead of him again, after he’d led half his squad around in a flanking manoeuvre, and he could see their forms thanks to the infra-red of his replacement eye. Seven of them as far as he could see, seemingly resting. Not surprising, after being harried across the plains by the Arcadians for two weeks. Any moment now, he’d give the attack signal. He silently thumbed his safety off, and opened his mouth…

Ahead, one of the glowing red shapes stood from where it squatted, it’s head raised, and let out a sharp, ululating cry, like some angry bird. The others joined it, rising and raising their own voices. Then they turned towards the Sergeant. More voices joined the chorus of bird-like calls, as the ground to Rossin’s right exploded upwards, revealing the enemy hidden in shallow dugouts around him.

“Oh frag…” he muttered, before opening fire with his las-gun.

The quiet of the evening was ripped apart by the shrill cries of the enemy, followed shortly by the staccato crack of las-rounds. Kenrik leapt to his feet, followed by Jehryn and the rest of the small squad. Before anyone could speak, the Sergeants voice rang in their ears.

“It’s an ambush! The fraggin’ bastards set a trap!” he snarled over the din of weapons fire, shouts, and screams.

Kenrik clicked off his safety, and set his rifle to full auto. Next to him, Jehryn ignited the pilot light on his flamer with a small handheld burner. Kenrik looked around him, waiting for orders, but none came, just the sounds of gunfire from what he assumed was Rossins position. It was clear they couldn’t just wait here to be found by the enemy.

“Frag this! We’re supposed to be hunting them!” He said “We advance as before. Jehryn, be careful with that flamer, please?” He moved forward at a trot, gripping his rifle as the sounds of battle drew closer. Every second he expected to feel alien jaws closing about his neck, or the impact of the killing round, any second now…

He stumbled as he broke from the tall grass into a beaten-flat clearing, about ten metres across. To his right, the remaining grass trembled as if blown by insane winds, and the sounds of combat filled the air. But ahead of him, emerging from the wall of grass opposite came the enemy, their bladed rifles held in long, wiry arms, vicious beaks open in anticipation of man-flesh.

With a whoosh, Jehryn loosed a gout of white-hot flame into the onrushing enemy, and the heat of that stream of fire as much as anything else brought Kenrik to his senses. He squeezed his trigger, loosing a stream of orange bolts into the attackers. The others joined him, their own fire stabbing across the clearing, felling the still-burning aliens.

In moments it was done. The attacking aliens were reduced to melted flesh and bone, or lay dead on the scorched earth as around them the grasses burned, ignited by the splash of hellfire from the Flamer. One of the Arcadians was down too, Rifleman Vars, his neck and chest torn open by enemy firing.

Seeing that Vars was dead, Kenrik wasted no time. ‘Mourn the dead after you’ve saved the living’ Was one of Commissar Koreol’s favourite sayings, and it was particularly fitting to this moment. The Sergeant and his troops were still fighting. Kenrik headed into the much sparser grass, much of it snapped or beaten down, searching for a target. He thumbed his selector back to single shot, not wanting to cut down a squadmate in a hail of fire.

The grass ahead of him parted as an alien rocketed through it, barrelling into Kenrik. They both went down, the guardsman squeezing again and again on his trigger, feeling his attacker spasm with each las-round he pumped into him. With a heave, he rolled the alien off of him, and scrabbled to his feet. Sergeant Rossin emerged from the same area as the dead alien, looking from Kenrik to the smoking, bleeding body on the floor, and a grin spread across his face.

“Sorry ‘bout that Rifleman. Didn’t realise anyone was so close” said the sergeant, the grin growing. Kenrik frowned, confusion getting the best of him. Then the sergeant rolled the alien over with a booted foot, and Kenrik could see the bayonet buried in the back of it’s skull. Kinross bent over and wrenched it free before smiling over at Kenrik “Good shooting, all the same”.

Kinross voxed in to base, reporting the engagement, and left the dead Kroot where they lay.

Governors Palace, outskirts of Ceredes.

Elements of the Tau Expansion Force had reached out to the Ramides Cluster in the early part of M318.6, seeking to claim the relatively unguarded planets in the area in the name of their ‘Greater Good’. Initially the planets fell with little resistance, the local PDF’s and sparse Imperial Guard garrison’s either destroyed or in some cases surrendering to the technologically advanced alien invaders and their savage allies. For several years the Tau enjoyed unchallenged dominion of the Cluster, as Imperial naval forces surrounding the Cluster set up picket forces, seeking to contain the alien’s expansion, but lacking sufficient force to strike against them.

The Imperial war machine, though slow to react, had marshalled forces to retake the Cluster. Whilst not on the grand scale of a crusade such as that to re-take the Sabbat Worlds, it was still a noteworthy gathering of force. No less than twelve regiments of Imperial Guard were mustered, including armoured and support elements, and two regiments of armour. Two chapters of Adeptus Astartes had pledged companies as part of the counter-attack, their smaller numbers more than counter-balanced by their superior abilities and equipment.

The Arcadian 3rd had been one of the last to join the push against the Xenos usurpers, it’s transport fleet joining the tail-end of the almighty armada conveying the multitudinous men and machines across the void. Barely had they joined this vast flotilla, than they were directed to Marghen to mop-up the remnants of the Tau forces there. The planet lay within a days Warp-voyage from the picket ships of the Imperial defence line, and as such had been among the first to fall. It had been relatively lightly held by the enemy, with only vanguard elements of their armies’ planetside, awaiting the arrival of the main force. The Imperials had hit them hard, smashing aside their newly built defences and settlements, many still swarming with construction drones. In less than twenty-four hours, the Tau presence on Marghen had been broken, and the survivors scattered out into the vast plains, and dense mountain-ranges.

Unwilling to lose the momentum the attack had gained in its initial days, Lord-General Bellus ordered his forces onward. The newly-arrived Arcadian 3rd made planetfall as the last elements of the attacking force were preparing to load their troop transports, the vast, ugly ships standing with belly ramps open, swallowing up rank after rank of Guardsmen.

General Stefen Grove watched the last of the troopships lift off, it’s huge thrusters baking the scorched surface of Ceredes’ main landing fields, some ten kilometres away, the rays of the sinking sun bathing the drab ship in orange and gold. That one had brought down the remains of a Guard regiment that was being posted here as a garrison, to bolster the Planetary Defence Force. Most of the original PDF was dead – killed in the fighting with the Xenos, or executed by the newly arrived Commissars for surrendering to them – but those elements that had been fighting a guerrilla war against the alien occupiers had returned to their barracks and defences to find themselves greatly under-manned. And so the Guard brought in the remnants of a decimated unit to bolster them, making two useless forces one useful force.

With a grunt, the scarred General turned from the large window that afforded him the view of the rapidly dwindling troop ship. The Guard, by the will of the divine Emperor had done the same with him and the 3rd. He resisted the urge to run a hand along the ridged scar that obliterated his right eye, and blighted his face almost to its chin, a scar earned with the Arcadian 25th Armoured. He’d only been a Major when the 25th had reached the end of it’s useful life, fighting the Great Enemy, but earning that scar, and leading the tattered dregs of the once-proud regiment out of that war zone victorious had also earned him the rank of General, and command.

That command had consisted of an untried Infantry company and had seemed an insult, inflicted upon him by a bitter high command, looking for a scapegoat for such a painful victory, but unable to find one. An armour commander, commanding a lot of foot-slogging rabble? Hah! He should’ve thrown the command, the rank, and the glories back in their faces! But he didn’t. He’d tried as best he could with what he had. What he’d mostly had were apologies and excuses. The 3rd was destined to be an armoured company, but someone higher-up in the echelons of command had pulled strings and had the tanks redirected elsewhere. With a full regiment of men mustered and midway through Fundamental and Preparatory, the Guard decided not to waste time. And so a newly promoted armour General and an armoured company with no armour became an unhappy Infantry regiment.

Grove took a glass of some local alcohol proffered by a young woman bearing a tray and clad in the livery of Marghens’ ruling house. She looked nervous and tired, a combination Grove had seen replicated time and again since his arrival here. Always on the faces of the Marghenites. The natives of this planet had been under Xenos rule for nigh on four years after the initial assaults. They’d been tired and nervous then. Now the Imperium had returned to their little world, and there had been more fighting to restore the planet to the Emperors possession. And now they were back in the glorious light of the Emperors rule… and they would shine in that light whether they liked it or not. Already Inquisitors from the Ordo Xenos were scouring the surviving population for deviances and heresies, even as the Commissars of the Imperial Guard seemed to be executing citizens indiscriminately. The entire populace was tired and nervous.

Looking around, Grove spotted the newly appointed Imperial Governor of Marghen heading towards him. He silently cursed himself for not paying attention. He’d been avoiding the Governor all afternoon, which had required some very careful manoeuvring around the palace corridors, and then around the Grand Hall in which Grove now found himself. But it appeared his stationary time at the window had allowed the Governor to find him, and he was now closing in for the kill. Grove considered trying to slip away, but the crowd of planetary dignitaries and Guard officers was far from dense, and seemed to have opened up around him. If he walked away now, he’d just seem downright rude, and the Governor didn’t need that right now. Plastering a smile on his face, Grove turned to face the onslaught.

“General, I am so pleased you could make it this evening” Said the governor in his nasal, slightly annoying voice. Governor Dercy LeVert wore an over-decorated Marghen Defence Force Generals dress uniform, though Grove knew for a fact that he’d never made it past the rank of Corporal “I trust the Nectar is to your liking?”

Grove was lost for a moment, wondering what on Terra the man was talking about, until he saw LeVert casting furtive glances at the glass in his hand “Ah, yes, the Nectar. It’s wonderful Governor. I must see about requisitioning some before we leave” he lied. He’d only tasted the Nectar of the Fert plant twice, once for each of its varieties. One was bitter enough to strip the paint from Baneblades hull, and the other was sweet enough to rot the teeth of an Ogryn. Grove hated the stuff. He also hated playing politico with local dignitaries, but such were the burdens of command.

“Wonderful!” replied the Governor with over-enthusiasm. “I shall speak to my staff and have some sent to your billet this evening!” Grove merely nodded, and murmured his thanks.

Levert wasn’t a bad man, but he – like most of the planet – didn’t really know what to do. His family had been one of a string of lesser noble families, generally seen filling the halls at high society balls and banquets. Then the Tau came, and the High Houses, including the ruling House on Marghest at the time, had been all but wiped out in the fighting. They enjoyed the fruits of their position, and had fought hard to keep them. Under the aliens, some of the lesser noble Houses had had their chance at ruling – under the leadership of Tau Ethereals, of course – but that had come to an abrupt end with the Imperial reclamation. Those that had ruled under the Tau had been summarily executed by the zealous Commissariat. Grove had seen the courtyard in the city where hundreds of the capitals dignitaries had been lined up and shot by firing squads. The same had happened all over the planet.

All very commendable, but it did leave rather a large gap in the planets hierarchy. Now House LeVert had been elevated to Noble House Levert, and the oldest surviving male of that house had been elevated to the position of Planetary Governor. Chosen solely because Dercy LeVert had entered the MDF, and was the highest ranking member of the Houses in the armed forces. Hardly the greatest reason to choose someone to rule a planet. Although Grove knew for a fact that a large number of Commissars were being dispatched to this planet, and one had already been assigned as Levert’s ‘aide’. No prizes for guessing who would really be running Marghest.

The conversation dragged on for interminable minutes, with LeVert tying his best to appear the very image of a planetary Governer, and Grove fighting to keep a smile on his face and appear at least vaguely interested in what the smaller man was saying. Furtively, Grove was looking for someone on whom he could dump the dull Governor, but it seemed everyone else in the Hall was as tired of him as he was. They all avoided the General’s eyes, and a clear space longer than a mans arm had opened around the two of them. Even the Governors small entourage had abandoned him.

Grove spied the regimental Commissar - a short, pale man who managed to somehow loom over the tallest Guardsman – lurking by one of the buffet tables, a large glass of Nectar held in one gloved hand, but the Commissar offered no rescue. He merely smiled grimly and turned away. It was a measure of how dull the conversation was that Grove would have been willing to make small-talk with the disliked Commissar, just to palm-off Levert. Commissar Deckard Koreol was disliked by the men, and distrusted by the officers of the 3rd. He’d been with the regiment since it’s founding on the green fields of Arcadia, and had succeeded in fragging-off everyone, without exception.

The short man, clad in his peaked cap, black Commissariat dress uniform and leather gloves, leaned forward to speak to his second, and the comparison between the two could not have been more marked. Commissar Rien Dortun was the sort of Commissar you saw depicted as the hero in pict-vids. He was tall, well built, with tanned skin and dark hair. His face seemed made to smile, and women swooned over him. He was the opposite to Koreol, and despite making the rest of the men look like underfed Ratlings, he was popular with them. Dortun made a move towards Grove and the Governor, but stopped at the touch of Koreols hand on his arm. Oh yes, the senior Commissar wanted to see Grove suffer. Fragging politico, thought Grove bitterly, taking a swig from his own glass of Nectar. He immediately realised what he’d done, and almost choked on the bitter liquid, coughing as he swallowed it, interrupting the Governor in mid sentence.

“General, whatever is the matter?!” Levert looked startled, and had taken a half-step back from Grove. He wondered how the little man had ever survived in the MDF “Are you alright?”.

Recovering himself, Grove nodded, wiping at his mouth. That stuff is bloody awful! “Appologies Governor. It went down the wrong hole”. Levert looked warily at him for a moment more, then resumed whatever it was he’d been saying before. Grove snuck a look over at Koreol. The bastard was grinning.