Chapter 94: Bigwigs and Bazaars
POV: Lord High Admiral Spire
Spire looked down at the note he’d received from Lord Drakios regarding an update to their dinner with a small frown. The requirements were mildly concerning: having a psychic Null present and submitting to a genetic scan? But knowledge imperative to the stability of Nihilus was enough to coax a rise from his eyebrows.
High Command was getting involved, though they would also be subject to the same strict requirements to hear whatever dire news Drakios had to share – his original plans for a modest dinner to discuss Naval matters had been soundly dashed.
Spire had even found a promising hull for the scout ship Drakios wanted. While it was a former pirate vessel contaminated with Xenos technology, it did fit the criteria provided. The replacement Cypra-pattern stealth-drive had excluded a few of the fastest hulls, which were reliant on the fragile Segrazian ‘Viperdrive’ engine for their speed.
His only consolation was that he had managed to stagger their arrival so he and Drakios would have some time to eat and chat before the rest of the delegations arrived.
Drakios had sent ahead a lovely pair of wine bottles sourced from Ur-Haven as an apology for the sudden changes, both of which had already been thoroughly cleared. One of the noble sommelier testers had been quite taken with the wine and collaborated with one of his chefs to devise a suitable food pairing.
His thoughts were interrupted as he heard one of his aides informing him of Drakios' arrival. A glance at the timepiece mounted on the wall confirmed he was right on time.
To Spire's surprise, the first person to enter was not Drakios but rather an Astartes of the Star Dragons Chapter, who turned his helmet as he scanned the room. Satisfied, the Astartes stepped aside, letting in a second individual, who Spire identified as Drakios' personal House Guard wearing an unusual backpack, who did his own scan before he approached. “Lord High Admiral,” The officer said politely. Spire nodded and held out his left arm, and watched curiously as the device took a minuscule amount of blood. “All clear!” The officer replied after a moment.
Drakios entered, holding a dark folder in his grasp. He looked over and smiled regretfully, “My apologies for the inconvenience, Lord High Admiral. I hadn’t intended for the intent of this otherwise enjoyable meeting to diverge so markedly.” He gave Spire a small yet courteous bow.
Spire waved it off. “It was not a problem, Lord Drakios, as I said previously, ‘Spire’ will suffice until the other guests intrude,” He insisted, gesturing to the seat opposite him.
Drakios slid into his chair, setting the folder down carefully. An individual in a hood was being kept in a corner, a Null of some potency given the familiar itch Spire felt when looking at them. “This can wait until everyone is present. Spire, likewise, Arken will be fine,” Drakios said with a sigh as a servant came over to pour them both wine.
Spire nodded, “Dinner will be out shortly. While we wait, we can chat. I did find you the hull you asked for.” Spire admitted proudly, “I located several hulls, but one stood out as the clearly superior choice given your criteria and plans for it. One with a curious history.”
Arken leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Oh? What sort of history?”
“A pirate ship,” Spire said, holding up his wineglass with a small grin as he slid over a datapad. “I give you, The Lost Whisper, a Cobra-class Destroyer. A former reaver vessel hailing from the Unbeholden Reaches. The ship was notorious for plundering shipping lanes with bold strike-and-fade tactics. The captains accosted by the notorious ship claimed it could vanish into the void. An exaggeration with a surprising truth to it, as it turns out, but even more amusing is how the Navy finally procured the vessel after evading capture for centuries. Would you care to hazard a guess?” He invited Arken.
Arken stroked his chin before he sipped his wine and hummed considerately. “I would assume the ship was lured into a trap, but that look in your eye makes me think they either ran out of fuel or perhaps the risk-taking captain lost her in some manner of bet?”
Spire laughed, “Ha! That would have been just as entertaining. But no, the ship broke down due to a lack of proper maintenance and had to be towed to the closest port. Which happened to have a considerable Navy fleet present at the time, who immediately identified and impounded the ship!”
Arken chortled and scrolled through the ship’s statistics. “A… chameleonic hull? That’s Xenos technology. Why didn’t they recycle the hull?”
“Well… normally they would, but the ship was brought back for study and eventually mothballed when they finished poking at the technology. She’s been stripped of everything but the Xenos tech, which is covered under your warrant.” Spire explained as the servant brought out their plates.
Arken nodded slowly, “That is actually for the best. I have the drive and the Auspex system for a stealth ship. She’ll make a fantastic scout with the right additions.” He took a bite of his plate and seemed pleased with the flavor of the meat.
“Indeed, there were other candidates, but the fact that you intended to replace the drive made them less ideal for your purposes,” Spire spoke while elegantly picking at his plate.
Arken grinned and chuckled, “Viperdrives?”
Spire nodded back, “Viperdrives.”
Spire managed to finish their meal without interruption. All while Arken asked for his advice on various ship loadouts. Spire found the discussion engaging and immensely enjoyable, so when they were finally interrupted, he felt mildly disappointed.
Spire did not rise when the Lord Commander Gaius Vortigern and his right-hand Lord General Militant Severina Holt entered.
“Lord Gaius, Lady Holt.” Spire greeted them flatly. To say that either of them had been easy to work with over the past few months would have been an outright lie at best.
“I do hope this was worth our time.” The hawk-faced Holt snapped as she rubbed her arm from where she had been scanned.
Spire had not anticipated the third guest. The old man walked in with a calm smile, his eyes glinting with amusement as he held his arm out to the scanner with no hesitation. Then he walked with his cane past Lord Gaius and Lady Holt to the head of the table and sat down with a sigh. “I am Lord Shadow,” he said as he studied them. “I will be acting both as the Inquisitorial Observer for this meeting and as Chamberlain of the Officio Assassinorum.”
“Welcome, Lord Shadow,” Spire said graciously.
Arken stood and politely bowed to all three. “Before we begin, I was given strict instructions that before we are allowed to read the contents of this folder.” He moved to show the cool black folder as he held it firmly. “Everyone present must come into contact with a Null. I apologize in advance for the discomfort. The information within is written on specially prepared blackstone paper; no copies are to be made of the contents. When this meeting has concluded, Captain Bolaar will take the files and return them to the source for recycling.”
“What source? Just what is written in that folder that requires such strict measures?” Vortigern growled as he sat imperiously. His uniform barely contained his aged, broad-shouldered, and iron-haired frame.
“These are divinations regarding the future of the galaxy from Lady Cavalerio,” Arken said softly.
Shadow’s head snapped to the man, and he smiled thinly, “Oh, hoh? Now that I would like to hear. However, your pariah is not required; I brought my own.” He snapped his fingers and seemed to speak to the air, “Venta. Secure the room.”
Everyone in the room – transhuman and not – flinched violently as the Culexus Assassin's form and aura appeared briefly, their hand on Shadow’s shoulder. Their Null aura flexed and expanded, growing more oppressive, to drown the room as Spire barely kept himself from being violently ill.
Only those of the strongest wills could withstand the aura, the violent feeling of sheer wrongness; Many fell to their knees, some barely clinging to consciousness, while other weaker mortals from his staff fell unconscious.
Arken had gone almost unnaturally pale, yet he withstood the full brunt of the Culexus' aura and remained upright. Vortigern grunted in obvious discomfort and winced, yet managed to hold firm, even if it visibly strained him greatly. Holt’s eyes were watering, and tears were trailing down her cheeks, but she was otherwise composed.
Captain Bolaar bore the aura with a deep grunt, his face contorted in discomfort. The other Astartes behind him held firm, though one had to brace himself. Lord Shadow seemed utterly unaffected, his eyes calmly sweeping the room and gauging individual reactions. Spire gritted his teeth and endured it; he had withstood worse.
Then, as quickly as he had appeared, the Culexus vanished once more, and Spire found himself struggling to remember the assassin had been there at all.
“The room is clear. No psychic scrying, possessions, or other means present,” Shadow spoke almost conversationally. “Lord Drakios, you may proceed.”
Arken bowed his head before he reached down and cracked open the folder. “As representatives of Segmentum High Command, this information is for your eyes only. Lady Cavalerio wanted me to stress that the information is related to critical events in the near future and may grow less accurate depending on how you utilize it. Some of it is time sensitive; if you delay too long, some things may turn out just as foreseen.” Then he slid the first of the pitch-black pages across the table to Spire.
Spire began to read, and after just a few lines, his expression shifted to one of pure focus and seriousness. “What… in the Emperor’s name is an Ark of Omens?” He whispered before focusing on the predicted victims of the Despoiler’s Planet Killer.
Shadow was reading another page with a contemplative expression. While Vortigern and Holt were both looking at their pages with a mix of incredulity and horror. “You can’t expect us to take this at face value. This is preposterous!” Vortigern exclaimed.
Lord Shadow raised his cane and brought it down with a decisive thump. “Lord Commander, I would like for you to pretend for a moment that every word written here is accurate. Formulate how you would respond.”
Vortigen’s face contorted as if he had bitten into something sour before he collected himself. “Right, for starters, the Nachmund Gauntlet and the Attilan Gate,” Vortigern whispered with a frown. “They’ll be our lifelines to Sanctus. This is… too much.”
Holt sputtered, “We’re expected to believe all this?”
Lord Shadow hummed, “Our sporadic and brief communications with Terra and Sanctus have confirmed that the Lord Regent, Roboute Guilliman himself, has indeed launched his Indomitus Crusade.”
Holt was the only individual present who hadn’t known that development already. She blanched and returned to studying the page in front of her with a frown.
“We need to bring this Lady Cavalerio here to explain some of these!” Vortigern pressed.
Arken opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Lord Shadow's calmly raised hand. “No,” the Assassinorum representative spoke with finality.
Whatever protest Vortigern was about to utter vanished when he met the cold eyes of the old man. Spire looked on as Lord Shadow leaned back in his chair, the rest of the table sharing confused glances.
“Lady Cavalerio is an Imperial Strategic asset. That is in addition to her value to the Mechanicus, which is, as far as you are all concerned, absolute.” Shadow did not raise his voice, but everyone heard him clearly. A distinct chill ran down Spire’s spine as he listened. “This method, which she utilized here to share this with us, minimizes her ability to impart her inherent bias into the predictions while also minimizing the risk of immaterial interference. You can choose to respond to the information as you wish. Trust but verify. The more you use the information to react to events and change the outcome, the less reliable it becomes; that is simply the nature of divination.”
Spire steepled his fingers as he processed the information and considered his plans going forward. “A lot of this information concerns events in Sanctus, which is outside our area of operations. Of course, we should endeavor to warn the Imperium if communication allows, but our focus needs to be on the immediate threats. The Stygius sector is a major concern and explains a majority of the communication issues we have experienced with those systems. The relief fleet sent to Mordian will not be enough, though I am loath to overcommit given the need to reinforce Nachmund, prepare the Cadian Gate for additional attacks from a traitor Primarch, and the Fourth Tyrannic war. She has even noted here that there are undoubtedly numerous additional issues that she has not seen or mentioned.”
“This changes everything, but at the same time… changes nothing.” Vortigern eventually admitted with a frown. “We were already planning to send aid to Baal. Perhaps we should increase that allocation?”
“There are more systems listed with major Genestealer infestations than I expected,” Holt admitted before wincing, “We need more men.”
“Increasing the Tithe will strain a great many planets already struggling to deal with the current situation. We’re already nearing capacity for most of our training locations.” Spire pointed out.
Arken spoke up, “Ah, if you have not been made aware, there were some more personal divinations given to the Astartes chapters. If they have not reached out to coordinate, they will likely do so soon. She also has information that she will be providing to just the Mechanicus, in addition to the information seen here. I was told it was regarding internal matters.”
Lord Shadow raised a curious eyebrow at the Rogue Trader. “Lord Drakios, having met Lady Cavalerio, I hardly expect this information to come for free. Was there anything she sought in return?”
Arken nodded, “She would like a planetary assault ship, and she was also interested in potentially obtaining a few specific Astra Militarum regiments to diversify her forces – if that was deemed permissible. While she would utilize them, she does not need them; she expects to raise a significant Skitarii and Secutarii force to attach to her Legio.”
“That’s it?” Vortigern asked in a tone laced with suspicion.
Arken shrugged, looking slightly amused. “Unfortunately, there was not much else she desired from the Astra Militarum. As a Princeps, she is a high-ranking member of the Mechanicus and will receive the vast majority of her support from them. Speaking of which, she has already initiated exchanges with them.”
“Which regiments?” Holt asked.
“Ah, I believe she was interested in the 31st Harakoni Warhawks and the 13th Elysian Drop Troops, which she would like to augment with a company of Tempestus Aquilons if possible. Additionally, if you feel the need to be particularly generous, either a Mordian or Cadian Artillery or Super-Heavy Tank Regiment would be welcome,” Arken spoke as he watched the faces of Holt and Vortigern.
Holt blinked in surprise and pursed her lips. “She wants the Harakoni and the Elysian Helldivers? That isn’t infeasible, nor are either regiments at full strength currently.” She looked at Vortigern.
Vortigern nodded, “She is an Imperial strategic asset, regardless of her Mechanicus affiliation, it’s good optics to have a presence in her forces. We can spare them, and if any of this-” he gestures down at the black page in front of him, “-is even halfway accurate, it's worth it.”
“I have a Heresy-era assault ship she may like,” Spire spoke up after a long moment of silence. “Though… It happens to be haunted,” he admitted, getting incredulous looks from the rest of the table.
“I will recommend against such a hull; however, she might actually be interested in that.” Arken admitted, “She has a talent for coaxing ship spirits to cooperate. It is ultimately her decision.”
Lord Shadow hummed, “In light of this additional boon… I believe I will send Lady Cavalerio an aide-de-camp I have personally trained.”
Arken asked, with a hint of reservation, “Not a Culexus or a Callidus, are they, Lord Shadow?”
“Oh, by the Emperor, no!” He said with a hint of amusement. “I see you’re familiar with our Temples, Lord Drakios.” He shook his head before smiling. “Victoria is a Vanus.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------
POV: Greg Olds, tanker, former Guardsman, and father of Robin Olds.
Greg looked around as they exited the lift into the section the locals called the ‘Low-orbital Market of Junction 12.’ “Everyone remembers proper hive protocol?”
“If you don’t want to talk, put your hood up. Don’t try to talk to anyone with their hood up. If you're showing your face, you are free game,” Doc muttered, glancing around at the chaotic sprawl.
The Low-orbital Market was as chaotic as any hive world’s black market. The air quality was poor; people were skulking in all directions, everything was grimy and dirty, with a layer of underlying grunge that even acid might not remove. There was minimal security present; instead, the local gangs and power blocks had enforcers hanging out around certain shops and stalls. Things weren’t marked well, and smoke curled upward through the loftier sections while throngs of people moved about.
Half their group bore the House Drakios sigil somewhere on their uniforms or cloaks, a subtle sign of their new status. Feisty sniffed the air, wrinkled her nose, and frowned. “We’re going to need a guide,” she muttered.
Greg snorted, “We look a lot richer than we used to. Hope you brought thrones,” he joked back.
“Nah, gonna barter with a spice merchant. Brought some from the Argent Drake,” Feisty replied proudly and patted her bag.
True to form, it did not take long before someone approached them. The man was long-faced and shady, but then again, given their location, that was par for the course. His beady little eyes darted over their clothes, and he approached with a gapped-tooth smile. “You lot are from that fancy trader fleet,” The man had a raspy, hoarse voice from years of breathing in toxic smog. “Word is your Lord made some friends. You looken’ for anything in particular? A few thrones and maybe some information, an ol’ Lugg here will fix you up good and proper,” he said, patting his chest.
Greg glanced at the other vultures eyeing their group and decided Lugg would do. He pulled out a coin and flicked it to the man. “We need a spice merchant, a weapons dealer for blades, and… perhaps a few places to browse for curiosities.”
“Preferably, a spice merchant used to dealing with Ratlings,” Feisty tacked on.
Lugg snatched the coin out of the air, gave it a sniff, and bit down on it gently before he vanished it into a pocket. “Right then, a spice merchant first, yeah? Mmm, I know a good place. This way, we gotta go around Viper territory.” He waved them all along.
It was a bit of a hike, but Lugg led them through the sprawling maze to a small shop with no sign, where several exotic plants huddled under grow lamps.
“Come back in an hour, I’m gonna’ haggle,” Feisty told them with a grin after a quick introduction with the shop owner.
Greg and the others were used to this, and he flicked Lugg another coin.
“Blades next? Blacksmith?” He stroked his sharp, scruffy chin. “We could try Jugglers’, but that area is a bit hot right now.” Lugg got an idea after a moment, “Ah! Let's go see if Brute is in,” he declared as he skulked ahead of their group.
Not long after, they ended up outside a small blacksmith shop. Smoke poured out of the chimney above, the sound of metal being worked over audible from the entrance. “He should be inside. If ya’ want to take a look.” Lugg said as he hesitated to enter.
Greg shrugged and looked at McStabby, who nodded and walked in with him while the rest waited outside.
Inside various racks hang all around, covered in weapons. The man sitting by the forge behind the counter looked to be half-Ogryn at least. The man – Brute, Greg, assumed, – looked down at them and grunted deeply.
McStabby gave the racks a cursory glance as he approached the counter. He gave Brute a questioning look, who grunted and nodded in response. Permission secured, McStabby walked over and picked up one of the knives that were scattered along the counter. He inspected it, checked the balance, flicked the flat blade, and then shook his head as he put it back down with a sigh. Brute grunted again, looking a little offended. The beast of a man frowned deeply.
McStabby pulled one of his many knives out and set it on the counter.
Greg knew McStabby well enough to help translate. “We’re looking for a blade – or blades – of at least this quality. For my friend here.”
Brute picked up the blade with two fingers, the knife looking comically small in his massive hands, and examined it for a long while, then turned his narrow eyes on McStabby, who met the scrutinizing gaze calmly. Brute pursed his lips, giving a much weaker series of contemplative grunts before setting the blade down and grumbling as he stood, then stepped into the back for a few minutes. When he emerged, he had a metal crate as wide as Greg himself was, yet it looked tiny in Brute’s grasp. He fished out a small selection of blades of different kinds – some exotic, some mundane – and laid them out in front of McStabby with a confidant grunt.
Some of the clearly exotic blades were pushed to the side, and McStabby muttered with a shake of his head, “Xenos.” As he pointed at two of them and moved past them to the others.
Brute rolled his eyes and grunted once as he crossed his arms.
McStabby picked up a lovely dirk-style blade, unsheathing it revealed an ornate brass inlay. He nodded at Greg and set it aside before he continued his perusal of the various blades.
Several that he picked up were put back after some unknown test as Greg watched from the side. McStabby ended up selecting two distinct knives: A strange, clear kukri made of Armaglass, and a pitch-black kunai-style knife with a hammered texture that looked to be one solid chunk of Adamantine. “These knives call to me,” McStabby whispered almost reverently.
Eventually, McStabby stepped back – a clear sign he was finished. Greg moved up in his place and gave a short nod. “We’ll take those three.”
Bartering with a giant who communicated in grunts and raised fingers was an odd experience, but in the end, the gifts cost only a fraction of what he’d budgeted for.
“I thank you, friend Greg, for the gift of blades,” McStabby muttered politely as they exited Brute’s shop.
The rest of the group looked a bit bored and perked up when they emerged. Only Lugg was wringing his hands nervously. “Well? Two for two! I know some neat shops with all sorts of things depending on your… proclivities.”
Greg huffed but flicked the man another coin, which seemed to settle him down for now. “Let's go get Feisty, then you can take us to some shops so we can poke around.”
—-----
Lugg proved himself useful over the next few hours, leading them to a few different shops and specific traders, several of which were hidden away from prying eyes.
Browsing was part of the fun, and they didn’t always buy something at each stop, but often enough someone in their group was willing to spend some thrones.
Their last stop, Lugg just called it ‘Pawn’s Shop.’ It was a shack run by an old man set up inside an abandoned recycling station with shelves on all sides that caught Greg’s interest.
Shelves lined the walls – some shrouded in cloth against prying eyes, others locked behind cases, and a few left bare to the stale air – each crowded with parts, trinkets, and more esoteric curios.
Old man Pawn was smoking from a long pipe, watching them like a hawk. Above him hung a sign, ‘I don’t ask. I don’t tell.’
“Some of these have to be stolen,” Doc muttered softly, but the words carried in the small shop.
Pawn smacked his cane on the sign. “Maybe, maybe not; not my place to question where or why, only what and how much. I know what I got on display… mostly.” He chuckled and blew out a smoke ring while giving Lugg a scrutinizing side eye. He squinted at Lugg with a stern look before flatly declaring, “Not selling you anything,” before dismissing the man. He turned and studied Greg with interest. “So… Guardsman, what can I help ye’ with?”
“I’m looking for a present for my daughter. Her nameday is coming up, and I wanted to get her something nice,” Greg admitted with a soft smile. He gave his pouch full of credits a pat, the metal coins within clinked, which coaxed a grin from the old man.
Pawn hummed and then tugged off one of the cloth covers for a nearby shelf. “Take a gander over here and peruse,” he said before turning towards McStabby. “What about you?”
“Do you perchance have any knives? Or knife-related items?” McStabby asked politely.
Pawn frowned and grumbled something about cultists, but led McStabby to another shelf.
Pawn seemed to have a different shelf that drew in each of them. Clank was examining an old Y-shaped Auspex unit and an odd pistol. Doc was examining a small brass music box.
Feisty was eyeing a piece of jewelry. “Oh, this is definitely nicked and pawned. Half the stuff in here is legally dubious at best,” she muttered, glancing at Pawn, who shrugged and tapped the sign.
Greg found a well-made set of Deadspace Earpieces finished in silver. Considering that Robin was going to be working around Engines, and Engines could get quite loud, they might be useful at least until she received auditory implants. “I’ll take these,” he said, but as he went to grab them, another piece caught his eye.
Nestled within a small box lay a gold-and-silver chrono. Perfectly circular, its face was pristine – devoid of numbers or any clear indication of orientation. Four hands rested at its center, not two. The ticking second hand was obvious enough, but the others were harder to parse: two long, identical hands and a single shorter one. Twelve identical tally marks ringed the edge, while the rest of the timepiece remained flawlessly smooth, polished to a mirror sheen. Still, he felt oddly drawn to it.
“How much for the earpieces and that chrono?” He asked, pointing to the device in question.
Pawn blinked and glanced at the chrono with a puzzled expression for a brief moment before he grunted and crossed his arms, “Two-fifty.”
Feisty sputtered, but Greg held up a hand and shook his head. He fished the physical thrones out and passed them over to the shopkeeper. He pocketed the earpieces and picked up the chrono. The instant the cool metal touched his skin, one of the long, previously still hands sprang to life, spinning clockwise at a brisk pace.
McStabby purchased an empty sheath for forty thrones. No one questioned how it perfectly fit one of his new blades. Meanwhile, Feisty ended up grabbing a squat little spice grinder for fifteen, and Doc picked up the little music box for sixty.
Clank was willing to pay for the Auspex unit, but the pistol he pointed at and said, “That… is a Panoptic automata-pistol, and it is a problem. It’s serial number zero. The first run, when an apprentice meets their master’s standards when making those pistols, is always offered to the Omnissiah and vaporized. Three hundred for it and the Auspex.”
Pawn scowled but took the thrones with a generous amount of grumbling as he shooed them all out of the store and shut the door in their faces.
Their luck, of course, did not hold, and on their way back, Lugg froze as several gangers emerged from the dark alleyways.
“Well, look what the scum dragged into our territory. Looks like upper deckers.” The leader of the group spoke confidently.
Lugg sputtered as he retreated to stand well behind Greg, “This isn’t your territory!”
The leader shrugged and laughed, “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. You lot give the Reavers a generous donation, and we all go about our merry way, yeah?” He spoke with a nasty smile, all the while twirling a serrated knife.
Greg studied the man and was considering paying them off, but froze when he spotted a disturbingly familiar tattoo inked on one of the gangers' arms. His eyes darted from one ganger to the next, and all ideas about paying vacated his mind when he spotted the tattoo again and again. An eight-pointed star. The gang leader had the eight-pointed star on the side of his neck! Greg recognized it immediately, and years of training kicked in, and he wasn’t the only one to take notice and react accordingly.
While the rest of the team went for their weapons, McStabby was already in motion. Greg barely tracked the blur as he slipped between the leader and another ganger, blades flashing in each hand. A moment later, twin arcs of blood marked where two throats had been.
“Your blade is foul. Suffer not the unclean.” McStabby proudly stated as he flicked the blood off his two knives.
“Shit!” a ganger barked as they snatched up weapons – rusted blades for most, a handful of low-grade firearms among them.
Greg brought his las pistol to bear on one hefting a crude shotgun and fired; the shot blew out the side of his skull.
Clank gave a dismissive scoff. A telltale whine rose as he produced a Radium pistol and executed another with a precise shot to the neck.
“Since when do you have a Radium pistol!?” Greg asked as a bullet whizzed past his head, forcing him to duck behind cover.
“I’m borrowing it from the armoury!” Clank replied as he crouched behind a trash can.
McStabby stalked the melee like a vengeful reaper, seeking out those who dared raise blades against him. Their thin armor and clumsy strikes bought them nothing – he butchered them in seconds.
The crack of Feisty’s las-rifle brought down one of the largest gangers.
“What the frak is that? Where were you keeping a rifle?” Greg demanded, putting rounds into a charging ganger’s chest.
“Compact long-las,” she snapped back with a grin. “Didn’t know they even made these until recently!”
“This is bad! We need to leave!” Lugg shrieked as he cowered behind them.
Greg rolled his eyes as he swapped out his power pack. Civilians.
—-----------------------------------------------------------
POV: Princeps candidate Nyanko
Nyanko felt nervous, her left ear and tail kept twitching as she glanced around the room where they normally had their lectures. Her entire class of candidates was present and sat attentively. The assembly had been scheduled a few days prior by the Princeps Senioris herself, though none of them knew what there was to address.
The Princeps Senioris entered the chamber a minute ahead of schedule, her strange familiar fluttering over her shoulder as her calm gaze swept over the room, and Nyanko found herself sitting up straighter. No one dared to speak as the Princeps Senioris hummed softly.
“Candidates,” she began with a slight incline of her head. “I have made arrangements with local Legios of Cypra Mundi. The entire class will be going planetside for a training camp and receive lessons from their senior Princeps and Moderatii. While there, you will be representing Legio Tempestus of Mars.” Lady Cavalerio stressed the word Mars, though Nyanko felt she didn’t fully understand the importance layered within. “I expect you to learn and to act with professional decorum fitting of Legio Tempestus.”
Nyanko felt her ears perk up in excitement. A chance to learn from an active bonded Princeps sounded fantastic. She saw in the corner of her eye as several students perked up while a few fidgeted excitedly in place. The entire class was delighted by the news.
“While planetside, you will each be under a set of Secutarii guards at all times. This is not negotiable. Any attempts to lure you away from your guards are to be reported immediately,” the Senioris spoke severely, and her gaze was hard. “Failure to adhere to this rule or to report an attempt will be punished severely.”
Lady Cavalerio flicked her wrist, and her familiar projected a full-color hologram, displaying the class rankings. Nyanko felt her chest swell with pride as she saw her name still in fifth.
“Our Legio’s entire fleet of Engines will be going planetside for refit, repair, and refurbishment. The highest-ranking students will be granted the privilege to pilot the functioning Armigers and Knights they are qualified to operate. They will escort them to their respective berths upon landing. You are not permitted to aid in the transfer and operation of the Titans at this time.” The Senioris said, causing excited whispers to break out amongst the class.
In the middle of Nyanko daydreaming about what Knight she might get to pilot, her name – alongside five others – flickered red. “These six individuals will not be attending the landing and initial lesson.”
There were several gasps, and Nyanko felt her ears droop in confusion and dismay. A quick glance to her right saw Yip’s ears likewise pinned against the back of his head in distress. Even Genta looked confused, her lips pursed, and brow furrowed.
In the end, it was Williams who voiced the question burning in everyone's minds: “Princeps Senioris, may I ask why we are being punished?”
“Punished?” Lady Cavalerio tilted her head slightly, mischief twinkling in her eyes as she giggled. “I suppose it is a form of punishment,” she said vaguely with a small smile. “The rest of the class is dismissed – the six highlighted here are to remain here for a moment,” the Princeps gestured at the hologram. The dismissal was clear, and the rest of the students quickly filed out of the chamber, casting figurative and curious glances their way.
Only once they were gone did Lady Cavalerio speak again. “Genta, you are ranked first as expected. Robin, second, William, third. Yip, fourth. Nyanko, fifth. And Z0-0M as the sixth. Interesting. Very interesting. I suppose I will simply assign roles based on your rankings.”
“Roles…? Senioris? Could you please explain?” Robin asked politely.
“I could, yes,” she replied as she dismissed the hologram. “Now, come along.” She turned and departed from the auditorium, obviously expecting them to follow. Nyanko shared a confused and worried look with the other five. Genta got up first, and Nyanko quickly moved to join her, her tail lashing nervously behind her as they walked.
They were all frantically whispering over the Noosphere as they moved into one of the Legio barracks areas. Lady Cavalerio led them into one of the changing rooms.
“Well… don’t just stand there. All six of you suit up.” Lady Cavalerio ordered. “Genta, you will be Moderatii Primus. Robin, Helm. William, Moderatii Secundus. Yip, Sensori Primus. Nyanko Sensori Secundus. Z0-0M will be Moderatii Tertius handling communications.”
Nyanko felt her brain short-circuit as all six of them turned to gape at the smug-looking Princeps Senioris. “Do hurry up, we can’t keep Kiryu waiting,” She visibly winced, “or he’s going to destroy the Forge Temple.”