The Electus sat in the hangar a star ship of no significance it was little more than a trader escort, yet that was the intention the ship itself was an advanced beast with compact weapons and an improved warp drive far beyond the normal capabilities of a ship of it's class The Electus was a sheep with a wolfs bite.
It was a ship of the Inquisition requisitioned to the service of Inquisitor Creed and it was awaiting it's latest crew, the ancient Inquisitor watched from a mirrored observation deck as the ships provisions and armaments were loaded, while its technorati and it's piloting crew made the necessary preparations and chanted the proper rites and rituals. The Electus' captain had been in his service for seven decades and was a stern man a disgraced captain of the Imperial Navy he ran he ship like a ship of the line, tight as a space marines grip. He stood to one side observing everything with a stern frown upon his face.
Turning his grav chair he keyed a data terminal with a bionic claw, he'd lost the hand decades ago crewed off by a rabid orkoid during some battle he'd long forgotten, he'd forgotten so much in his long life, seven centuries of service to the throne had robbed him of many things but his sense of duty and his passion were still as fresh as the day he had stuck out on his own. The data terminal came to life and he looked over the operative crew of The Electus he'd hand selected each one of these men and women from his extensive staff brought them together for this operation.
"Send the buggers on their way Pylus."
He spoke to no-one for he was alone in the observation deck Pylus stood in another section of the vast ship he travelled on, a tall man Plyus had been gene bred to tower over common man yet it was not threatening his body was wraith thin yet his eyes it was said were sharper than a space marines he could pick out the most minute of details from a thousand yards and had he followed the purpose of his breeding he would have made a fine master mason in the artisan guilds, but another calling had found Pylus his mind was as sharp as his sight and he'd found in himself an obsession for always noting down his surroundings aided now by the pict recorder implanted into his brain he was able to make observations others would miss, and that was why Creed had selected him to join his staff four centuries ago a healthy course of rejuve kept Pylus at his prime and it was his duty now to overseen the Inquisitor's operatives keep and eye on them as it were keep watch for any details that the old man might have missed and report back to him.
He stood now with the Operation crew or as he like to think of them the minions, he'd always been an arrogant soul it came from his breeding and he'd never had the desire to change it, he looked them over once more his eyes scanning each one of them carefully for anything that ought not to be, when he spoke his voice was soft like a choir boys another aspect of his breeding to make him more appealing when attempting to commission works of art.
"You are cleared for boarding, go in the Emperors name."
The Electus burst from the warp the tides spilling out around the ship as it turned it's nose towards the world of Mellisan Secondus even as the warp portal closed behind them the bridge was alerted to an astropathic transmission from the world, accessing the astropathic choir the Captain had the transmission presented to him via a terminal in his command throne, a weak faced man appeared before him.
"Inquisitor Creed?"
The Captain sneered at the weak murmur in the man's voice.
"I am one of Lord Creeds servants you may address me."
"Very well, we are sorry my lord."
He snapped at the pathetic whelp.
"I am no Lord! I am the Captain of this ship, now what are you sorry for?"
The man started, he snapped his head to one side as if talking to another, then turned back to the Captain.
"Lord Creed's proxy."
"What of him?"
"He has been murdered sir, do not punish us, please."
The Captain narrowed his eyes.
"Tell me what happened."
"He was following a lead that he suspected was cult activity, he was on the trail of a murder plaguing our counties, one of our Sheriffs found him two days ago."
The Captain's frown deepened.
"I have a team of specialist on board, they were to assist Interrogator Clay in his investigation."
"What will they do now sir?"
"They will continue his work."
He dismissed the whelp from his screen and rotated the throne from the view before him, as it rotated round it withdrew from the command deck rolling back on hissing pistols along a set of rails into the wardroom, the space came alive as he entered he spoke into the dying darkness as servitors came to life.
"Put me through to the insertion team."
A hololithic display illuminated before him linking him to the lower sections of the ship where their passengers awaited their deployment, he did not permit passengers to walk the upper decks they were reserved for the ships crew and vital personnel, a face appeared before the display he didn't know it but waited as they backed away showing the rest of the team.
"I have some bad news for you, Adlan Clay has been murdered, your mission remains the same descend to the world and complete Clay's work, he was tracking a series of murders on the world believed showed signs of Cult activity."
He paused for a moment.
"The local enforcers will be available to assist but do not rely on them, Clay's brief transcript with the Inquisitor did not paint them in a good light."
His face vanished replaced by the face of Adlan Clay, the image was distorted as it started to speak.
'My lord this world is a backwater, their methods are beyond archaic and their attitudes sub par ddo they not know about the warp and it's dangers?
I know I know I am here to enlighten them to protect them but they are I fear beyond my abilities, there have been incidents of graffiti on holy sites in the northern counties and nothing has been done about it, I am about to set off to the counties to see what the local enforcement and clergy intend to do about this desecration.
I feel it is in my remit my lord, the symbols daubed on the sites are not any form of gothic I know, they have an air of the xenos about them, I can not decipher the words from the images provided me but I suspect if I see them first hand I will be able to identify their origins.
I understand my Lord I will report back as soon as I return from the counties.'
The Captain's face returned it still held the sternness of before.
"It is reported by one of the Local Magistrates that Clay diverted his journey to the counties to investigate a murder in Arthax county it was here that he was murdered start looking there and follow what leads you find to the source of these murders. Your shuttle leaves in one hour to take you to the sky hook."
The hololithic display died before him and he sat back in his throne speaking into the wardroom.
"This is turning into a viss in the dark."
The team translated from the Electus to the skyhook via aquillia as the gilded ship touched down in a secure bay and air (or what could be classed as air) filtered into the space a delegation of crimson garbed figures entered each figure had a rebreather clamped over their faces as the made to stand before the entry ramp.
The shuttle's pilot turned in his seat shouting down into the passage compartment.
"Rebreathers! The air up here is thin and cold."
Outside the Aquillia Judge Midos Syng shuffled nervously these representatives of the Inquisition were here to uncover the truth of the murders, the truth of the graffiti, his mind turned to the murder of the last inquisition man, Adlan Clay it had been the worst thing he's ever seen the Arthax Country Commissioner Jocan Lisk has insisted on him coming to see the scene and despite his years of service to the militia he was ashamed to admit that his bowels had betrayed him emptying his guts before the corpse.
The man had been butchered his skin flayed from his body, his eyes torn from his head and the tongue cut from his mouth with a vicious blade that had sliced through his cheeks, his chest had be cracked open by a blunt trauma and his organs pulled from their cavities, the heart was missing and the liver appeared to have been gnawed upon the intestines had been draped around the scene in some gaudy display of triumph, the man's blood oh throne there had been so much of the man's blood had been similarly painted on every surface of the room, symbols that none could decipher even those adepts that specialised in such matters.
One of his personal escort stepped up beside him one of the dozen Sheriff's that followed his ever step.
"Sir, should we be letting these people planet side? Can we really rely on them?"
He sighed
"We have no choice the Inquisition is the highest of authorities, we couldn't stop them even if we wanted to."
Excerpt from the Journal of Sister Rebekah Ellis. 44.008.012.M42
I heard him in the corridor several minutes before the bulkhead to my chamber slid open with the pneumatic hiss of ancient pistons and the distressing squeal of badly maintained bearings in desperate need of blessed oil.
I heard the awkward, arrhythmic thumping footsteps of someone obviously suffering from a podiatry condition, most likely gout, a common complaint amongst the adepts of the Administratum and even before he paused outside my domicile, I deduced him for what he was; a menial functionary of Inquisitor Creed's and that could mean only one thing; my services were demanded.
The harsh light flooded in from the phosphor tubes outside, thoroughly drowning out the mellow glow of my own sodium electro-candles. A stale draught stirred the dust covering several archaic tomes and curios that littered shelves, surfaces and floor, and lifted the fresh vellum pages gently from my desk, upon which dried the ink of my current discourse on the geometric script of the Mech-Masons of Thaal (the translation of which relied on turning the forms like the tumblers of a lock).
I had discarded the auto-quill moments before in favour of a freshly lit stim-tube and sat naked in the comfortable, baroque wing-back chair (liberated from an antiquarian on Locos) facing the door.
I was naked for three reasons; one, it helps with my concentration to be entirely unfettered. Two, my chambers are located just above a nexus of pipework from the hot gasses exchange, meaning I often end up working in an arid atmosphere (especially after real-space subsector traversing). And three, it is an excellent tool to disarm anyone foolish enough to disturb me.
This time however, Inquisitor Creed had learnt from previous experience, and whilst I was correct in my deductions, as the adept crossed the threshold, I noticed the myriad of other intricate details. I ignored the ink stained fingers, the shabby robes and embroidered insignia, and instead noticed the tube extending from his left nostril to a filter-lung clipped to his breast, the shiny, oiled neural-jacks behind his right ear, the apathetic stare and the tricolour studs of ruby, sapphire and imperial topaz set in a triangle upon his forehead. I knew then my intruder for what he was; a conditioned eunuch.
The adept snorted with a wisp of smoke that smelled like Mordian spearmint tobacco as he vacantly took in the chaos of the veritable library before him. I detected a brief twitch of his hand and smiled thinly, knowing my lack of systematic filing was anathema to his ilk and tantamount to heresy.
I pulled on the tube again, the coals glowing from scarlet to brilliant orange, dragging down stimulant laced smoke into my lungs before breathing out a hazy blueish ephemera.
"The Inquisitor dema...." he started.
"Already bored. Get out." I countered.
The adept snorted in petulance and continued to try an stare me down.
"There has been an incident...." he tried.
"There always is. Get out." I said, irritated, tapping the cinders from my stim-tube into a bowl, already full with an mound of stale ash that looked bizarrely like a scale miniature of the Hive Primus on Necromunda, and turned back to my studies.
It was then he stepped forward with an uncanny quickness and dropped a sheaf of pict-captures forcefully upon my desk.
They were poor quality and stamped with the barcode-tag of a servo-skull in desperate need of a focus lens retune, so probably taken by local law enforcement. But even with the blur, you couldn't fail to notice the series of close captured glyphs of a cryptic language.
"Assembly deck Beta-6. Five minutes." he stated flatly, before turning and limping away.
I couldn't argue with that.
Gala drew out her rebreather, the same, aside from once being reglazed, as she had worn on the blizzard walks of her home world. Locking it into place, she glanced down the Aquila at the rest of the team.
"Everyone masked up?"
There were assorted nods and a general murmur of response from all the team save Lina, who appeared quite content to rely on some bionic augmentation instead.
She turned back to her right, where Severino had been contentedly seated and conversing for the last half hour.
"Severino, get the door. It's time to meet the neighbours." , she smiled.
He stood up, pressing several buttons on the panel next to the door, and there was a slow hiss while the pressure equalized. It faded away as the heavy thud of the electromagnetic latches fired in sequence and the hydraulics hissed, opening the way to the hangar outside.
Gala's rebreather briefly misted up as the hot air rushed outside and its glass rapidly chilled, but with a slight buzz from the systems within quickly kicking into life, the condensation cleared once again. Getting her feet, she pulled her lasgun from the magnetic clamps that had held it in place during transit, and slung it over her back and stepped down the ramp, carefully surveying the landing bay.
Her eyes flitted over the various maintenance equipment that was bolted to the floor, assessing it for any potentially hidden assailants, but it appeared that the only people in the room were the nervous group of crimson uniformed troopers and the various maintenance servitors that were flocking forth to service the Aquila.
Striding forward as various of the others followed in her wake, she picked out who appeared to be the highest ranking of the group.
"You are Judge..."
"...Syng. Midos Syng."
"Cymone Regin, Ordo Perditus Inquisition operative, temporarily seconded to Inquisitor Creed's service."
She pressed a sequence of buttons on her forearm multi-slate, bringing up her identification codes before turning the screen so the judge could read them. He studied them briefly before gesturing a trooper to come forward with a security auspex to scan the slate. It clicked for a few seconds before giving three all-clear pips.
"That seems to be in order."
"Thank you Judge. I appreciate you taking the trip up to meet us. Are you our primary contact in this case?"
Matthew Sword casually made his way along the corridors of the Electus to the shuttle bay. He had decided that he would not appear at the formal planetfall of the rest of the team and would go down a day early to set up a safe house in Hope Landing. As he matched down the corridors with a confident gait, he bumped into Gala and she said:
"Where you off to Matthew?"
"Just a casual stroll to the shuttle bay." whistling innocently.
"To do what, Matthew? I know people don't go to shuttle bays for a stroll!"
"To be honest, I was going to steal one and set up a base in Hopes Landing."
"That might work, but I'm objecting for 2 reasons."
"Which are?"
"A: the captain is only allowing one shuttle flight, due to crash risk.
and B, I think you should accept your responsibility as part of the team. I know you trust me more than you do the rest so listen, you need to learn to work WITH others rather than alongside them."
"I will think about what you have said. Thanks for the insight, but don't expect instant results."
Disheartened by this, Matthew continued to march back to his quarters to collect his weaponry and ammunition. The corridors were dark and disorientating, but he was used to this from his time in the underhive. Eventually he reached his cabin. He was the sole occupant, for which he was grateful, partly because it gave him more room for trinkets, weapons and ammunition and partly because he disliked the company of others. He got on well with Gala and his new boss, Creed, the rest; he had an innate distrust of them. He picked up his marksman's rifle, assault gun and 2 large packs with the relative ammunition types as well as several clips; he also grabbed his magnoculars to examine his shots.
On his way to the firing range, he encountered Draki going the same direction. His previous mentor, Octavian Griess-Lars had said to him once, several years ago that to be an effective member of a team is to understand them which meant conversing with them, and building conversation skills which he lacked. He was content to walk in silence until Draki said:
"How goes the shooing, Calibre?"
"Wha--t, oh, it's you! Going shooting too Draki?"
"Better than you!"
"You wish! I was mainly hoping to let rip with this big baby" Pointing at the A&S Assault Gun, "But I could loose a few rounds and find out."
"Don't do anything you aren't prepared to loose at."
Draki was a skilled marksman, but the equipment made the difference. He had a rifle of reasonable standard, but he knew it well and started racking up the headshots. Meanwhile, Matthew set his kit down next to Draki so his fire would put him off, loaded an ammo-hopper, flicked down the bipod and set the weapon to burst. In one smooth motion, he racked the slide, raised the weapon, swiftly moving my hand to the trigger and discharging several rapid busts, knocking over the human shaped targets at the mid range marker. After that set of shots, he picked up the controller for the targets and set them to advance; he then pulled up a table and unleashed hell in calm controlled bursts of fire. Matthew fired several more times, knocking over yet more targets and then the range was filled with a single solitary "Click!" Matthew went into a flurry of action, detaching the box magazine and re-loading a medium cap sickle mag, pre-loaded with the rounds, cocked the weapon and started firing again. When that magazine ran dry, Matthew picked up his Sword Firearms rifle and drained the small magazine in about a minute, taking out all 10 targets at the far end of the range. After that, he picked his entire kit, said farewell to Draki who was still training and retired to his cabin. On the way, Gala walked past and he said: "How's it going?"
"Good to see you Matthew. Anything specific to talk about?"
"Well, I came up with another plan to infiltrate the city, do you want to hear it?"
"Actually, I was thinking about that, you should try and develop your ability to communicate with others, so no. I'd rather you didn't go "missing" and took up an active roll in the initial politics. After all, you need to learn these things for when you do the investigation."
Memoro.
It was too cold, that icy permeating chill that can only be equated to the vacuum of space, and despite the thick layers of my winter robes, I suppressed a shudder with difficulty. Impeded by the constricting safety harness, I struggled to pull the fur collar tighter around my neck.
Three hours onboard the Icarus personnel void-carrier had been cryogenic torture, but the compartment capsule of the colloquially called 'sky hook' was a brand new experience of hell.
I recalled details of the briefing to try and distance my mind from being strapped in what I can only describe as a floating refrigeration unit in space. The skyhook was essential in maintaining planetary survival, and was, I gathered (from what little attention I paid to the droning of the martian priest during the briefing), simply a pressure sealed elevator that ran along a flexible cable of Ferrox elasteel several feet thick in diameter stretching from the surface port to the waystation in geostationary orbit in the planet's thermosphere.
It was important because prior to its installation, anyone attempting a surface landing had to traverse the fluctuating mesospheric electromagnetics, which more often than not, reduced most craft into a plummeting metal coffin.
The skyhook didn't suffer from such technical flaws as it relied solely on sets of well oiled narrow gauge bogies and gravity, often spending much of its traverse in terminal velocity before the base mounted anti-grav coils kick in and slow the descent. Original designs used retro-thrusters or composite ceramicalloy brakes, but they proved to be just as perilous as an interatmospheric landing.
The call for donning rebreathers came mechanically across the internal vox speakers. I stole a quick glance at the lexicogitator mounted on my forearm brace whilst it ticked away running a cryptographic program, analysing what little data we had on the enigmatic language already.
I felt my ears pop as the pressure hatches of the capsule were sealed, several members of the team were already seated and harnessed in the safety rigs looking agitated, others were fretting to and fro, aiding the locals as they performed the final pre-drop checks.
I pulled the rebreather mask over my face and gave a constricted sigh as I felt the rubber clamp tightly against my skin and endured the discomfort. Instantly the lenses misted over with condensation and my vision was reduced to a blurred watercolour. So, with little else to do, I drew my hood up over my head, closed my eyes and slept.
Dendara Nachtigaller was anxious for her first deployment as an agent of the Holy Inquisition. At least the journey in the shuttle had been better than when she had left Gavr II, her homeworld, almost a year ago. Then she had become sick in the shuttle carrying her away from the planet forever. This time she only felt her stomach move slightly.
The skyhook was another prospect entirely. As far as she understood it they would be lowered to the planet at high speed held only by a single cable. The idea made her sweat with fear. She sat in her assigned position and was fumbling with the mask she had to put over her head, her trembling fingers were next to useless to attach the mask. She hoped that the other wouldn't notice or would think that it was because of the cold.
In her head she prayed to the Emperor for a safe landing. She found that the rebreather would not fit well over her bulky bionic eyes. Calling for aid one of the staff came to help her. She was given a special mask which left her eyes exposed. The cold in her eyes was painful but she had to endure.
Then the countdown began. Nachtigaller swallowed looking at the others who seemed calm and collected. How could they be so calm she wondered. She tried looking calm and collected but when the elevator was released the exposed parts of her face showed pure terror.
Syng nodded nervously.
"Yes, yes I suppose I am, Governess Jussca has placed me and my office at your disposal I have collected up everything we could find that Interrogator Clay was working on for you it is held in the central precinct."
He gestured for his sheriffs to back away as he stepped closer he was becoming more confident.
"Please allow me to escort you to the surface, the passenger hoist is this way."
He led the team off to the opposite side of the skyhook.
Godday took a seat beside the aged sororitas, sure that doing so would grant the blessings of the Emperor radiated by the being of His anointed servant. She regarded him curtly, recognising him, but paying him no immediate attention. Godday took no offence; her mind would be occupied with contemplating the holy as was the way of the sororitas. He found the chair uncomfortable, its angles reminiscent of those of the pews of the Schola. Those days seemed so distant now, but here he was, in service of the Throne just as the Drill Abbots had told him in his classes. Well, none of them would have predicted servitude in this particular branch of the Imperium. Even he could not have foretold this. The Administratum had been selected for him, and he would have been well suited to it. It was in his blood after all. His memories lingered on his parents – a snatch of conversation before a meal one day in the record stacks – and he offered up a small prayer for them. This calling in the service of the Throne was the greatest task one could ever undertake, but he would not forget them. The patronage of Inquisitor Creed would present opportunities to track down their killers, but his pledge to his new master would now always be his primary concern. The Inquisition would not allow him the luxury of deciding his own destiny.
For the moment, his destiny relied on a quite unusual construct. The skyhook was an unfamiliar concept to Godday. Like so many of the structures and engines of the Mechanicus he had been borne around in, he calculated the likelihood of it reaching their destination from the level of agitation of its red robed custodians. They were, for the moment at least, calmly anointing a cluster of metre tall levers at the far end of the cabin with oils and talking amongst themselves in their disturbing language of screeches and hissing. As long as they maintained an air of calm, he would too.
As soon as the tiring pleasantries of arrival had finished, Matthew took his leave to requisition a safehouse for the agents. This was an important task given to him by Gala and he would find something that fitted the bill to the best of his ability. He could hear Gala's words in his ears with the criteria he had been given for the safehouse: 4+ bedrooms, easily defensible, 2 entrances, located on the edge of the city. He parted from the group and walked up to one of the militia and asked:
"Is there a place we can stay, or has accommodation already been arranged?"
"Who are you? Only the agents of the throne should be here!"
"I am a throne agent, but you can call me nightstalker. Do I have to repeat the question?"
"Of course, what sort of building are you after?"
"Let's start on the edge of town, take me there. Humour me."
The Militia picked up a militia speeder and got it ready. Meanwhile, I contacted Gala on his vox bead.
"I'm off to find our accommodation and get it ready. Report back on what you find, over."
"Good luck and throne be with you!"
Matthew grabbed a map from a dispenser on the wall and laid it out on the front of the speeder. He plotted the points where Clay had been operating and selected an area of the city that would be most useful to the group. He briskly rolled the map up and tucked it into one of the many inside pockets of his coat.
The thought of being herded from one confined space to another was hardly pleasing to Severino, and he found himself scratching absent-mindedly at the back of his neck as he struggled to suppress his irritation.
Judge Midos Syng. Brow: mild sweat coverage. Heart rate: returning to normal. Three gold pins and an aquila tattoo on left pectoral. Shotgun: loaded, safety on. Carrying some limited forensic evidence, nature unclear.
"If I may, your honour, are you by any chance carrying items of interest to investigators like ourselves?" Severino inquired. "After all, I would very much doubt that such a fine gentleman as yourself would go to the trouble of meeting us with nothing to share with us."
Grav-restraints active, strap harness too tight. Adept Secundus clearly not comfortable. Curvature of Regin pleasantly accentuated.
Severino shifted slightly in his seat as he awaited Syng's response.
Strap harness more comfortable.
"Yes, Yes I have this."
He slid a data slate from the inside of his coat passing it to Severino.
"The Interrogator had this on his person at the time of death, our techs have been unable to crack the encryption I was hoping one of your people could access it."
He sat back in the cradle
"I must confess your presence here is of little comfort, one of your people is already dead, I have strange glyphs and markings appearing in the sticks and a murderer on the loose, I hope you can achieve what Clay could not."
"You don't need that kind of pessimism, Midos! Everyone of us comes with a glowing dossier. As for the slate, I would have been utterly gobsmacked if you had been able to crack it - it is Inquisition security. We'll have Lina take a mosey. But what might be more interesting is any psychic residue - have you had it pscrutinised?"
"Only in the most cursory manner. Our astropaths have been occupied on any number of fronts, and comparatively, this is low priority."
"No matter, we can manage that."
Indeed, Severino already seemed to be studying the slate. A welcome change from him studying the militiawoman who was making the journey with them.
"As to the source of your problem, I trust you've been paying attention to the goings on in the Cuir Subsector?"
"The business with the saint?"
"The potential one, yes - well, at least until someone took an orbital las-lance to her. That cooked up a flurry of unrest, and there's no shortage of cults taking advantage of it. Frankly, I'm surprised Inquisitor Rhodes could ..."
"... Inquisitor Creed, you mean?"
"No, Lyra Rhodes - I'm on secondment. Which is exactly what surprises me, given the scale of what's going on. But I hear she's got a new team she's got high hopes for, so I expect they'll have their hands full with that in the near future."
She held up a hand, stopping herself.
"But listen to me, telling my life story. The important thing is that there's a chance this is the ripples from that. Troops are being pumped into the subsector like water, and there's going to be a lot of people who are going to be very happy to see them going."
Nachtigaller managed to calm down quickly. The judge seemed moderately competent. He would be worried of course, having to work with agents of the Inquisition would do that to someone. She was a bit worried by the talk about large troop movements, that could mean disasters. In the records such things had often been the cause of great problems.
She asked the judge breaking out of her uncomfortable thoughts: "Those markings, do you have images of them? Identifying them could be very useful."
Slate: Sensitive files encrypted beyond own ability to access. Non-encrypted data very small in volume, likely not of any interest. Depressing lack of salubrious content, unless encrypted. No psychic presence detected beyond own psi-probe. No corruption evident.
Editor Nachtigaller evidently uncomfortable and/or distracted. Likely not used to descent by skyhook.
Arbitrator Adams not interested, apparently irritated by inability to reach shotgun. Conclusion: too dangerous to pursue, will switch attention to Arbitrator Muradov unless similarly discouraged.
"I should very much imagine that they have been recorded on this," Severino answered, waving the data-slate lazily in front of Nachtigaller. "Any Interrogator worth his salt would have recorded everything that he wished for Creed to see, yes?"
"That slate could be dangerous," Regin warned him. "You heard the Judge. It's not been psi-scanned properly. There could be anything in there."
"There could be," the psyker remarked playfully, "but there is not. If there was any trace of corruption in this object, then I would have recognised it by now. Whatever happened to Clay, it seems that he was certainly very thorough in his note-taking. And very chaste, too."
Sister Ellis showing signs of irritation and possibly disgust. Sudden tension in shoulders. Eyes suddenly staring at me, one eyebrow raised. Mild twitch in trigger finger denotes contempt for psykers. Will have to stay outside striking distance of her.
"I don't even want to know how you reached that conclusion," Sister Ellis sniped from across the hoist capsule. "But in any case we might have been spared the inanity of your observations had you been sufficiently observant to notice what I have been working on since before we arrived."
Annotated pict-recordings, displaying unknown sigils and script. Some notes legible, others too spidery to decipher. Note-stack covered in writing, hand the same, apparent attempts at translation still in progress. Most recent annotations hastily added, being no more than a couple of hours old at most.
Safety thankfully active on all firearms within reach.
"Ah, Sister, it would be rude of me to look through your belongings," Severino offered, hoping to placate the Dialogous.
"That doesn't stop you looking through anyone else's," Ellis countered.
"Sister, you must realise that you have a very good reason to want to shoot me dead. Unfortunately for you, everybody else sees more reason to keep me alive, and for my part, the benefits of being alive are... rather obvious. I simply do not wish to disturb this happy equilibrium."
"You're not fooling anyone, psyker," Ellis sighed.
"Rest assured, dear Sister," Severino smirked, "fooling anyone was not my intention."
Dreki laid his rifle at his feet as he loaded his wrist mounted crossbow with a bloodfire tipped arrow preparing for the landing, not wanting to be caught unaware by any locals. Dreki chuckled coldly as he watched the exchange between Severino and Sister Ellis, choosing to engage the investigation materials instead of involving himself in the dispute but enjoying it nonetheless.
As Dreki looked at the poorly imaged pict-recordings he had a bad feeling like he had seen these signs somewhere before, however felt it would be more beneficial to view some better quality imaging of the signs before bringing his insight forward to the group. Dreki had learnt well from the death of his mentor and shall not divulge his conclusions to others until absolutely sure that everything has been checked.
Memoro.
I was disturbed from my slumber by the bustling of a tall figure, inelegantly trying to fit both himself and his leather duster comfortably into the crash chair. I opened one eye to catch him gazing bewildered and befuddled around the rest of the capsule. I raised an eyebrow as he looked at me puzzled and mumbled to himself;
"Safety harness?" before noticing the straps above his shoulders, "oh, we've all got a safety harness. That's nice." and proceeded to retrieve the locking clasp from behind his lower back where he'd been sitting on it and fumbled it closed. He huffed a nervous sigh as he leant back into the hard embrace of the chair.
I spied the administratum a-quill-a tattoo poking out from beneath his collar and was instantly intrigued with the question of why a clerk was dressed more like a frontier journeyman.
My musing was broken as a conversation regarding the markings snatched at my attention to three other members of the team talking with the officer-in-command of our escort of local lawmen; The golden-skinned, hard nosed senior agent and de facto team leader, Regin. A wiry haired young woman with augmented eyes that frequently blink-clicked like the shutter of a pict-recorder, her demeanour suggesting a scholar or librarian. She was the enquiring source that had drawn my scrutiny, but it was the third figure, the unassuming man she had just passed a slate to, that sent a shudder down my spine. He was a mind-witch.
His entirely unremarkable features broke into a smug smile as he fondled the tablet, turning it every which way whilst studying it closely through squinted eyes, but all I could see in him was the laughing features of Provost Keane.
Twenty-two years ago, I had served as part of an expeditionary team under Inquisitor Rajesh Patenjali, and after successfully cataloguing the halo-hieratic of the heliotrope mirror-priests (a sun worshipping race that looked remarkable like hairless bats), we were en route to the nearest Ordo Xenos archive cache, when we were redirected to the city of Kotos on Ithica after receiving an emergency astropath signal. Many recognise the name of Ithica as a horror story; The Brainflayers of Ithica. We had learned that corrupted elements of the Arbites precinct within the city had been working to an abhorrent agenda, led by malefactor and commanding officer of the arbitrator psi-section, Provost Horatio Keane. For years they had been secreting away latent psykers from the tithe-hunts, specifically those whose powers leant towards the telepathic discipline, and trained an army of pushers and thought-rapists with plans of sector-wide subjugation and domination.
The psykana coterie aboard the ship spent what little time we had preparing us with mental training techniques so that we may resist the effects of the witches. However, despite these cautionary provisions, they were mostly in vain. For several weeks, the inquisitorial taskforce fought a guerilla war against legions of pushed civilians and mind-wiped zombies and out of the forty trained agents sent down, only seven survived relatively intact. Some fatalities were caused by physical injuries from firearms and suicide bombers, but worse was those who had succumbed to the mental violation of the Brainflayers; forced regressions, psyche-scouring, mind-wiping, and worse (such as a technique called psi-locking, literally trapping a persons mind within a labyrinth of their own nightmares).
Salvation came after two months with the arrival of the Ordo Hereticus and their chamber militant, my battle sisters. Within three days of punishing retribution, the loyal forces had forced the enemy back to their last stand; the city's bastion-precinct. I had been present during the final storm and the execution of Provost Keane, who was laughing with insanity even while we gunned him down.
My gun hand twitched automatically, drawing the attention of the mind-witch Severino, who fixed me with amused eyes. Instantly the psykana training kicked in, throwing up faith-blockades, Kertzhämmer locks, dead ends, synaptic traps, Reichöven spirals and just for good measure, painted my mind-corridors with passages from the Litany of Spite.
He started talking to me, but I cannot recall how I answered, I was only glad when his smug attention was drawn back to the others and allowed myself a sigh of relief. I reached into the folds of my winter robes and withdrew a steel flask embossed with the fluer-de-lys, unscrewed the stopper and took a long draught, wincing slightly as the warm liquid hit my gullet and spread outward across my chest. Before that fateful event, I had always thought that, whilst distasteful, witches were necessary cogs in the Imperial machine. After all, wasn't Him on earth the greatest psyker who had ever walked across the stars? And His psychic servants soulbound to Him? No, I had realised the truth back then, that mortal witches were dangerous aberrations, easily tainted by avarice and insanity and like a honed blade, so easily turned upon its master. Only the Godhead that is the Emperor was beyond such corruption.
My neighbour had become increasingly agitated as the martian priests had dissolved from soft intoning to quiet bickering, so I tilted the flask in his direction;
"Hey journeyman, a little blessed sedation for the travel down?"
He took the proffered canteen and sniffed the neck cautiously; "holy wine?" He enquired.
"Haha, 'wholly' Tilean amaretto!" I chuckled.
He declined with a grimace and handed it back, restoppered. I shrugged as I pocketed it, noticing that his attention had already switched back to the techpriest trio who seemed to be in a heated discussion about grease, which seemed to distress him further.
"Don't worry, the Emperor protects." I said, reverently, which seemed to reassure him and he nodded enthusiastically.
It was at this point my lexicogitator chimed and printed out a thin slip of carbon parchment which signified that it had made a breakthrough in decrypting and translating, at least part of, the mysterious markings using complex algorithms for analysing syntax, idioms, precursors, symbolism, semantics, grammar and other mechanisms of language. I tore off the strip and brought it close to my eyes. Next to a small rune, barely more than a circumflex, it read; THE.
Typical, but at least it was a start.
The ride down was a gut wrenching pulling affair as the sealed carriage plummeted down the tether, the whole trip took two hours in which Syng and the other Militiamen sat in silence accustomed to the crushing sensation the descent caused, as carriage came to a loud squealing halt as it slowed and jerked before the locks engaged and the sealed doors slid open the air of the world rushed in, rich and warm it carried a bitterness to it which stuck at the back of the throat, it smelled of ash and rock dust, industry and machinery.
Syng pulled his rebreather off hooking it to his belt as he stepped shakily from the carriage his sheriffs did the same pulling on soft caps to sheild their eyes from the stark white sun, he strode off his foot steps becoming more certain and solid as he moved away from the group and approached a militiaman detail as they approached the carriage, they were heavily armed with compact las carbines and las pistols, they saluted as they stood to one side for the team to disembark, He turned to Severino.
"The relief detail you arrived during the secruity change over, they'll take the carriage up after we've moved out of their way."
He gestured to a fleet of waiting vehicles.
"I was unsure as to how many would be in your part, they can take you to the resiencies use by Mr Clay or to the Precinct hub to review the evidence, I suggest you rest get accustomed to the atmosphere of the world the light can cause headaches and the grit does stick in the back of the throat."
He strode to the first Car and waited until a pair of his escort opened the door.
"I must beg your leave I have other duties to attend, I shall be waiting to receive you at the precinct in due course."
And with that he slid into the car resting back in the seat he let out a long breath as he rubbed his temple.
"Take me to the Governess."
++
The driver took them to the hab Clay had used as his residence it was constructed from a material produced from the mining slag, it was heavy, dense and retained the heat of the days sun well into the night, the windows were a tinted vitrified glass made from the dust that populated the upper atmosphere it created a strange latice pattern when the light hit it illuminating rooms in a myrid of colours, the space would easily house a trader and his staff with dozens of small rooms anexed in a wing to of their own while the main chamber had all of the comformts needed for a prolonged stay all the comforts save for the fact Clay'd, had the suite cleared of most of it's funiture save for a large table in the centre of the room which had until recently been filled with image captures and scribbled notes, these had all been collected up after Clay's death and placed into storage as none of the Militiamen could make any leaway into the interogators organisation of connections which he'd mapped out across the table and floor.
The master bedchamber held an elaborate double bedof forged iron with a thick and plush matress and silken throws, not like the staff rooms which held simple cots of pressed steel and thin matressed with rough spun blankets, the militiaman that accompanie them a Sheriff by the name of Jalos Pec informed them that when they'd cleared the suite they'd found half a dozen weapons which had been placed into the evidence locker alocated to Clay and his evidence, he spoke candily with them as the residecny staff worked refil the fruits and peice meals that were required by the complex ower and changed to speaking frankly with them when he was sure they were alone.
"I worked with Clay when he was here, I was his liason for cases and he included me in a lot of his works, I didn't like the man much he was a bastard is truth be told but no one deserves what he got, I mean we don't even have a whole body."
He told them of the details he could recall of Clay's death, the manner in which he organs had been arranged had caused a sickness deep with in him, not a revulsion to the act something deeper.
"When I looked at it as a whole I felt like there was something within me, something squirming away in my guts fighting to get out it made me feel like all the light in the universe had gone out, like there was something nothing but despair and misery left."
Even talking about the corpse made his go pale and feel queasy he told them of the warehouse where he had been found the whole district was abandoned had been for over three decades the owners had been off worlder part of a larger trade organisation they'd been excuted by the Inquisition for the trafficing of unregistered psykers and of exporting the illegal drug sap, the property in the warehouses had been seized and destroyed, no-one had dared touch them since in a legitimate sense for fear of being tainted by their legacy, they were however used by muties to hide out and the local militiamen often performed sweets and purges to route out the filth.
The warehouse in particular had been shedualed for a sweep it was almost as if Clay had been butchered there to leave a message.
He spoke of the other murders as well, Clay had been monitoring them looking for signs, there had been six in Jakro County a refinery worker, a whore, a tavern keeper, a bookkeeper and a mine supervisior and a missionary, their all had a similarities the brutality of the cuts that killed them single strikes that cleaved to the bones, their tongues cut from their mouths and their eyes torn from the sockets, a strange thing that linked them all was the middle finger of the left had was missing but the nature of the finger's removal was always different the bookkeepr had had his hand smashed apart by something blunt, the whore's had been removed by a surgical laser, the missionary's had been bitten off, the refinery worker's had been sawn off by a blunt blade, the a tavern keeper's had been snapped off as if by some inhuman force and the mine supervisior's had been cut off by machinery driven into the gears of a mine hoist. He said that clay thought these different methods were strange as if the murderer was playing trying different methods to see which worked best but the order of the bodies discover didn't make sense they had been found in the order of Whore, tavern keeper, refinery worker
Missionary, bookkeeper and mine supervisior. He'dd suggested that there could be more than one murderer but Clay didn't think so he thought there was only one doing the killing and the trophy taking, he'd said there were too many clues that suggested one killer but he'd never explained himself.
He talked at length of the other cases minor infactions that Clay had dismissed as not Ordo business, he spoke of the markings, they they were gaudy and most commonly daubed in red but others had been in browns and colours of paints found locally and dumped at the scene, Clay had been enraged by them and demanded to know what the commissioner Belasy of Jakro Country was doing about it, when the report had returned that he'd passed it onto the local mission Clay'd gone into a rage and vowed to see Belasy stripped of his rank and the matter settled, he thought it was more to do with holy sites being desecrated than anything else though, and it continued for a long while descending into the day to day business of the militiamen and finally his conversation eventually turned once again to business.
"So what do you plan on doing?"
As the disembarked the car, which brought them to Clay's abode, Dreki listened to the conversation between Severino and the local law enforcement. Deciding absorb the information given by the sheriff and contemplating making his way to Jakro County where the murders seem to have been centralised.
While Dreki was thinking over his decision, before bringing it before the investigatory team's leader, he turned to Sister Ellis.
"Sister, did I hear you say that you have Tilean Amaretto in your flask?" Dreki inquired while removing his helm to stop the smoked glass from obscuring his face. Dreki had always preferred viewing the world through his range finder. This probably stemmed from the long investigations he had been on with his master, who refused to allow him to remove his helm in the company of others.
"Only the best, ofcourse." The Dialogous replied with a clear half smile crossing her face as if amused buy Dreki's question. When the Sister handed over the flask Dreki took one deep swig and passed it back.
"Now it's time to discuss taking a team to Jakro, I'd say. It's my experience that although if there is a cultist presence here they will not be there, it will help me to track them." Dreki spoke without emotion as he remembered the teachings of Inquisitor Adustum. After replacing his helm and re-engaging the blue heads up display of the range finder he double checked his hand bow and made his way to the head of the group. "Also, I am done with this degenerate excuse for law enforcement." Dreki huffed as he left the company of Sister Ellis.
Godday believed that the Emperor had a special place for the faithful dead whose deaths were brought by His enemies. He knew his parents were there, and he hoped that it would be his resting place too once his business in the mortal realm was done. He hoped the dead of Jakro County had found their way there along with Interrogator Clay. The fate of the Throne Agent was a chilling reminder for Godday that servitude to the Inquisition was no protection from the Imperium's most degenerate enemies. Those that had brought him low had to have had great power and reach to track him down and kill him. No Interrogator Godday had met was lacking martial prowess so for him to have been bested spoke of a dangerous foe. Whatever safeguards and security Clay had in place had been circumvented. Had there been a glaring oversight on his part, or had his operation become compromised? Godday was of no doubt that Clay had been killed because of his investigation – someone had known what he had discovered. He was close to a breakthrough and that had brought the enemy down upon him to silence him, in the most terrible of manners.
The subsequent display of Clay's body was a warning to any who would have followed in his footsteps. The stamp of heresy was all over his death. Indeed, all the deaths were ritualised, as was the way of a cult from outside the Emperor's light. The unfortunate six had been selected for death, whether randomly or for as yet unseen reasons, and stripped of the middle finger of their left hands. Godday did not know the individual significance of that, but trophy taking was commonplace enough among the degenerate. The seemingly random nature of removal of the trophy was odd, but the relatively few deaths could be hiding a pattern.
The last piece in this puzzle was the symbols. Something about them had upset Clay, and Godday reckoned that the daubing had been heretical, something that an experienced member of the Inquisition would recognise but a layman would not. Godday himself was no more than a layman himself when it came to such matters, but the Dialogous adept, and possibly the psyker would be better placed to understand them.
'It would seem that there are a number of leads to follow up,' Godday said to the team. 'I feel that Clay was killed because he was close to a breakthrough; if we know what he knew, we will get closer to his killers.' There were some nods of assent. 'Clay's work has to be worth going over. I am certain that we will turn up leads that the militiamen could not. Could we have access to it Pec?'
'That shouldn't be a problem. It's all in storage back at the station bunker,' the Sheriff answered.
'Good. That's where I would like to start, or at least, where I'd feel most useful.'
"Evidently, whatever Clay was working on will not be beyond our own abilities to evaluate," Severino suggested, "though I do worry that it will take us quite some time. It certainly infuriated him."
He paused, breathing slowly as his perception reached out to touch the unseen.
Stress marks and a slight indentation on the table.
"The table is well-used. Clay must have spent many a night hunched over it, working feverishly until the small hours looking for any clues he might have missed. Recently, too. He would have been noting down the little details as soon as he spotted them, an autoquill in his..."
A handwritten note in Pec's pocket.
"...right hand, his shorthand notes meaning something only to himself and Creed--"
"Inquisitor Creed," Godday reminded him sharply, a hint of weariness in his posture.
"Well, in any case, the notes only meant anything to those individuals who were meant to see them," Severino shrugged. "Nonetheless, Clay strikes me as a troubled individual, but the sort of troubled individual who would forget the needs of his own body, too caught up in his research, but then overcompensate for his negligence and make the problem worse."
"Don't tell me. You've already deduced that Clay had a personal harem of twelve young girls and a hrud, and that he got through them all every night," Regin sniped, nonplussed. "And he'd see the hrud twice a night on festival days."
Indentations on the bed.
"Close, but apparently that is not so," the psyker answered with a sly grin. "Clay slept alone, but--"
Too big an indentation to have slept soundly.
"--it strikes me that while he was a heavy sleeper, his investigation troubled him. Hardly a surprise if he would delay going to sleep in order to make one last mark on the page."
Ashes on the floor and a faint smell in the air.
"In order to offset that, he smoked."
"Clay smoked even before he buried himself in his investigation," Pec interrupted. "I didn't see him an awful lot at first, but when I did, he always had a bloody lho-stick hanging out of his mouth."
"I can tell you now that his problem got much worse. The ash on the floor has a history; the more recently it fell, the more of it there is. Whatever he was investigating, or the investigation itself, took him over almost completely. Couple that with his sleeping habits and we are looking at a mystery that would have eventually driven Clay over the edge."
"Clay was an Interrogator," Regin reminded him. "If you honestly think that Clay was so troubled--"
"Then either his willpower was lacking," Severino interrupted, "or the same thing that pushed Clay to the edge will drive us mad as well."
He turned to Pec.
"We need to see his work."
The speeder was a very bumpy transport vehicle, but it did the job, and was armed with a meaty gun turret, which I hoped I could use at some point, but it seemed unlikely. My thought bubble was broken when the Militiaman, whose name was Khaden shouted,
"There's a riot ahead, get on the gun just in case."
I relished the opportunity to fire a weapon of such immense calibre. From experience, I noted that it was a Sword firearms Light autocannon chambered in .50 which was going to chew through the crowd should it come to fire it. I look out towards the front of the vehicle through the slit in the metal gun shield and saw dense crowd armed with petrol bombs and other such like.
"Does this happen often?" I called towards Khaden
He replied "Yes, and with increasing regularity!"
"Right then, let's get this show on the road" as I racked the slide and brought the gun to bear.
"Don't fire unless they attack us." Khaden warned.
"How about a warning volley?"
"Fine by me!"
The report of the gun was satisfying and I let rip with calculated efficiency to scare the crowd, who parted before the transport.
Eventually we reached the edge of the city and cruised through the urban landscape while I scanned the buildings for one which would be easily defensible.
After an hour of searching, the sun was going down, but I found one that fitted and made my farewells to Khaden. Once inside, I boarded up the windows and contacted Gala on a long range vox.
"Gala?"
"Calibre, found anything?"
"I got us a big house and a good field of vision as well as a nice tower."
"Good work, anything else?"
"Civilian riots are building up, also, I like the look of a militia trooper called Khaden. If you want, you could get him for an inspection. He could be of use."
"Thanks for the tip, what are the co-ordinates for the building?"
"54.65N, 73.92W"
"Thank you, see you later."
It was cold here. The flesh on Lina's face prickled until the other mind disabled her perception of the sensory neurones there. Her core temperature remained stable and such a limited exposure was insufficient to cause frostbite, it noted, almost comfortingly.
Lina was always quiet, but at this moment her silence was reverential. She stood within a veritable artefact, taller than a Titan and older than the Imperium itself. The others seemed apprehensive, even bored, but she grown accustomed to the lay ignorance of the Omnissiah's triumphs.
She fancied she could feel the spirit of the skyhook – a fitting name, heavy with symbolism - a slow presence, beautiful in its simplicity. This was no mere elevator; this was a stairway to the heavens themselves.
The voxcaster built into her throat muttered prayers and the occasional question to the adepts that tended the skyhook in bursts of terse machine code. They replied somewhat warily – they seldom saw the ordained here – but there was a pride here, and she heard it even though the flavourless code.
Her other mind shared her fascination in its own sterile way, cataloguing the dimensions of the box, attempting deduce the nature of what machinery could be seen, recording the prayers and the mundane conversation around her.
Mundane or not, it was her duty to listen, to take in as much data as she could. The others shivered and chatted, occasionally bickering in a typically organic fashion.
Their body language was guarded, especially that of the local enforcer (Designation: Syng). The other mind whispered that his heartbeat was slightly faster than would be expected of a man of his build – nervousness was the obvious conclusion. The other fluctuating heartbeat belonged to Severino, but Lina was used to such biological eccentricities from the psyker.
They handed her a data-slate to decrypt, a simple matter. Her metal fingers danced as she input standard codes to reveal log entries and notes. There was a second level of encryption that would require a key, possibly a passcode, known only to the deceased operative (Designation: Clay).
Several passages leapt out at her, the other mind diligently recording them and pedantically overlaying corrections to the man's punctuation.
++These markings have finally struck a chord; they are not of human design. Nothing I know of, neither heretical or loyalist, matches the shapes and forms there is something distinctly xenos about them – I should be able to confirm this when I view them personally but until then I am unsure of what made them. ++
The other mind did not recognise the symbols, somewhat unsurprisingly given that their shared database of xenos languages was so small. Sadly, it seemed unlikely that a backwater world such as this would provide her with any way in which to expand it.
++I cannot believe the locals have not drawn this conclusion- all of the murders have taken place within a ring of markings. Do these symbolise a territory marked out by a simplistic predator? I have mapped locations of both, and from the locations and evidence provided by the locals I believe I have narrowed down the location of the murderer. When I travel out to the county I will test my theory. ++
++The taking of trophies perplexes me. The tongue I understand. It reminds me of the orks, or the kroot, who have been known to take trophies to mark their prowess in killing and to raise their standing amongst their kind but... the eyes and fingers... The eyes do not serve as trophy - they cannot be displayed for lesser kin to see, they serve as little to endear the sense of the kill. As for the finger, I understand why one might be taken but the manner of removal does not match. Surely a hunter would take the fingers in the same way, as they have the tongues? I cannot fathom the how arbitrary it seems. Perhaps there is more to this than meets the eye. Nevertheless I will uncover this mystery. I travel to the county on the next rotation. This will not elude me for long. ++
Lina was not beyond emotion, which she had mixed feelings about, she thought with a rare smile. The information was disquieting. Trophy-taking was common enough, but Clay was clearly missing something. The removal of the eyes – a small trophy, true, and difficult to preserve – was a custom in several death cults. Many faiths and cultures, human and xenos, placed a great significance on the eyes of the deceased and ascribed to many odd beliefs to them. Some believed a corpse without eyes would never enter the afterlife. Others ate them to gain the knowledge of the dead. Some whispered the deceased's final sight remained burned onto the retina. To an adept of the machine-god, such superstitions were practically laughable, but relevant.
Clay had seemed somewhat fixated on the lack of care given to the taking of the fingers. The man was an experienced investigator and he had noticed something amiss. Lina loathed using a word as imprecise as 'clue', but this qualified. Nonetheless, investigators actively looked for patterns. It was easy to imbue any irregularity with meaning, a false positive. Lina and the other mind were in agreement that such assumptions were below her.
The other mind had little regard for instinct and insight over proven fact, but Lina put forward a tentative hypothesis of her own.
The bodyparts were being taken for a purpose beyond simple trophies.
***
Lina was experiencing annoyance. An unworthy emotion, one that fogged the mind, but present nonetheless. The psyker was making countless assumptions and suppositions based on miniscule evidence, as was his usual style. Her other mind was incapable of such emotion, but it nonetheless criticised him. So many variables unconsidered. So many alternatives.
What irked Lina the most was the fact that he was probably right. Whether it was the man's trained instincts or his psychic senses, he was seldom wrong. You could hear it in his voice, an undeserved confidence and assurance.
Lina had only minor additions and upgrades to her olfactory receptors, though her other mind was able to process the data more efficiently. The room did indeed smell of lho.
The other mind buzzed. Immediate physiological effects of lho; reduced intraocular pressure, increased heart rate, lowered blood pressure, dryness of the mouth, muscle relaxation. Neurological effects vary strongly by dose. Inhibition of motor control and impairment of working/short-term memory common with stronger doses. A poor choice of drug for an investigator, perhaps, but Lina felt it was enough to cast doubt onto Severino's spurious assumptions of stress-induced 'madness'. Such hyperbole... Though perhaps he had been guarded in the entries in his data-slate, as these were accessible by anyone with Creed's codes; they were rational, even calm. The deeper level of encryption, his private musings, would reveal the truth.
"I may be able to decipher the notes," Lina said, quietly. The others could not hide their surprise – she had not spoken once since they had made planetfall. "If the body has been preserved I would like to examine it. If not, pictographic records will have to suffice. In addition, I will require a key – most likely a password or code – to access the deeper levels of encryption on his dataslate. It seems unlikely he would leave such information lying around. Suggestions are welcome."
++
Hidden away in Solent County away from sight in an old mine town long since stripped of all resources met six figures, one came from the town a hooded figure sat upon a chair with six insectoid legs that hissed and clicked as it moved to greet the others coming from the swirling sands beyond the towns limits, one of their number wore a crimson long coat his face hidden behind a rebreather the others wore a mix of clothing each garment finely worked they hid their faces behind masks or pearly white. the crimson coated one spoke to the one coming to greet them.
"More have come."
"It is as predicited, we move closer to our goals."
One of the Pearly masks perked up a short figure in layers of lace that tugged at the bloated female figure beneath, her voice was a thick lazy slur
"They serve the same as the one before."
"It is as predicited they will lead to the source."
A tall mask spoke his voice chipped by a metalic hiss.
"You are sure the source will be eliminated?"
"The hunter is prepared, the rituals ready, the source is doomed, all we need do is succed here."
Another of the party spoke a childs voice issuing from a vast figure larger than any of the others gathered.
"Why did we not use the other?"
"He was a tiger, not a wolf, we need a wolf pack to get to the source, not a solitary hunter."
The crimson coat spoke again.
"Why do we not just act against them?"
"That is not the prediction they must come to us of their own will, and they will come it has been seen."
The chair bound one turned it's hooded head to the last figure.
"Do you not have anything to add sister?"
The last figure dipped it's head slowly then turned and walked from the group heading back into the swriling sands she moved like smoke gliding along the fabric of her clothing swirling around her.
"Still our sister does not speak, a shame she has a loverly voice, till we meet again."
The insectoid legs hissed and the figure turned and headed back into the town vanishing in the dying light the others turned and followed the silent sister out into the sands