The Dark Before - Chapter 2 added

[ironking]

The Dark Before

 

There was a face in the darkness. The face was associated with a name, a memory, but the harder he tried to grasp at it the quicker it danced away. The process left him nauseous with pain. Warm bile and vomit rose in his throat, threatening to choke him, he felt himself being rolled onto his side. He tried to open his eyes. Everything was too bright and there was a face in the light. The same face, pulled into a tight mask of concern.

 

The eyes were narrow and piercing, there was a scar running from the left eyebrow to cheekbone lending the face an evil aspect. It was a grim face, abused by the elements. The lips thin and bloodless, the corners of the mouth twisted down in endless disapproval.

 

Trying to remember taxed him too much and the pain was becoming unbearable. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the stabbing light. There was a sound, an echoing warble just audible above the roaring in his ears. He felt a jab, felt something like flaming acid coursing up his right arm. He tried to sit up, to scream, but something held him down and then the darkness, no pain, just the mind numbing feeling of floating. Bodiless, careless, peaceful.

 

His tranquil floating was abruptly interrupted by a curious sensation. It felt as though his entire awareness was jerked upwards. He was being dragged from the blissful dark back into the light. His lungs burst, he gasped for air and choked, drowning, he was drowning. He opened his eyes, daring the pain and the nausea and vomited blood. Everything hurt now, but especially thinking. His heart was hammering against his chest, trying to shatter his ribs, every muscle fibre was on fire. He swung out with his left arm and caught nothing but he also discovered that his left arm was pain free.

 

The face leaned over him again and it was replaced with another, a bright white lamp in the center of its forehead. He heard the strange warbling again.

 

Medic. The word came to him unbidden and with it a flood of memories.

 

 

The roar of an angry mob, the grave faces of hardened men, the righteous fervor of a missionary condemning the xeno. A dark passageway, the body of an inquisitorial acolyte, neck broken and the gleam of a powersword laying prone by her side. The memory was fractured: it jumped backwards and forwards and his brain screamed. It resolved to a shape skulking in the darkness, a deeper shadow in the blackness and a stench that could only come from the corruption of flesh. This was the lair of the xeno, the source of his pain. The patriarch turned and stepped out of the gloom, its eyes blazed with murderous hatred. He felt rather than heard the word "Die". His mind burned with the images of his own death, of being ripped apart by the abomination that stood before him. He thumbed the cold metal stud on the hilt of the blade and felt the oddly familiar, reassuring hum of the disrupter field as it flared up casting a bluish glow across the shadows.

 

The beast leapt, too swiftly for something of its bulk, razor sharp claws glinting on all four arms. The creature swept down, arms slashing. He lunged under the bulk of the monster, sword slash trailing a blue shadow behind him. He was quick, but not quick enough and he felt liquid fire rake down his back where the patriarchs claws rent his armor and tore into his flesh. He twisted, a grimace of agony breaking his stony features and struck. There was an unearthly howl followed by a cry of anguish that sounded almost human. He had struck with perfect precision, the first slash disemboweling the alien, the second strike severing the primary nerve bundle.

 

The xeno slumped to the ground, now slick with its entrails and black blood. It thrashed and howled while he stood at a safe distance trying to shake off the dizziness caused by the pain. Finally after the last of the convulsions the beast lay motionless. He smiled in grim satisfaction and walked over to cut off the xeno’s head. As he approached one of the eyes sprang open, malevolent alien intelligence glared at him. An overwhelming compulsion took hold of him, forcing him closer. He tried to fight against it. Blood tricked from his nose and his jaw clamped shut bursting two of his teeth but his body kept moving of its own volition. The creature lifted its dying bulk, pure hatred emanating from its alien mind. Everything seemed to slow down. He watched, a passenger trapped in his own head, as one of the sinewy arms swung towards him. His left arm shot out to fend it off, his brain finally acting on his commands. He could feel the bones in his wrist and forearm shatter where the alien grabbed him and he felt his shoulder muscles tear. There was a wet popping sound as his left arm was torn clear off. He cried in agony and hurled himself at the patriarch, his good arm sweeping down at the aliens neck with the powersword. Then came the darkness.

 

 

Consciousness returned in waves accompanied by a throbbing ache and nausea. He choked around the breathing tubes and his throat was raw where the intubation tubes had chaffed. He opened his eyes gingerly and felt them tingle. Everything was distorted and it took him a moment to realize that he was in an immuno-gel regeneration tank. He could make out the twisted shadows of med-adepts moving about the outside of the tank. The tank started to hum gently as it rose to an upright position and settled with a mechanical clunk followed by three metallic clicks. His ears popped as the chamber decompressed and he heard a loud slurping sound as the immuno-gel drained away. A light shower of distilled water washed the last of the gel off his body. The lid of the tank slid open and the manipulators that had held him in place gently ejected him into the arms of one of the attending med-adepts. He gagged as an articulated manipulator arm twisted around and gripped the breather, gently pulling the tubes out of his throat. He coughed, cleared his throat and spat out the mucus and gel that coated his mouth. "Water" he croaked, trying out his voice. The med-adepts seemed to ignore him and carried on their silent ministrations. "Water" he begged again.

 

"They don't hear." came a forceful voice, the accent clipped and definitely offworld. He turned to the source of the voice, a figure sitting casually in an acceleration couch in the far corner. Ordo Xenos Inquisitor Iosef Trasian looked up from the file he was considering and cocked his head slightly. Without a sound one of the med-adepts turned and retrieved a bottle from a refrigerated cabinet. His manipulators opened it and passed it to the man. He drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing his throat and instantly relieving his pain and discomfort.

 

"Drugged..." he spat, the bottle clattering to the floor. The Inquisitor shook his head in amusement.

 

"I'd not go to the trouble of healing you before trying to drug you. Sit." It was not quite an invitation or a command, rather a statement of what was to happen. He sat on the edge of the medical examination table, the med-adepts hovering about him, prodding and poking, removing needles and feeds and injecting new ones into his body.

 

"Where am I, we're not planetside." he grunted.

 

"Indeed." began the Inquisitor, "We're holding orbit around a nearby moon. The medical facilities on Solstice were… inadequate.”

 

The Inquisitor stood. “A man of the redemption, a true believer. Not your first time on a ship, Solstice is not your home world.” He looked up and then continued, “That’s not in your file. You’re not a fanatic though.” Trasian caught the mans watchful eyes. “You never take your eyes off your target do you, Kalleb?”

 

“Unlike your acolyte.” He retorted while rolling the name around his mind, trying it on. The name seemed to fit.

 

Trasian allowed the glimmer of a smile. “Unlike my acolyte, yes. I would have been duly impressed had you slain a number of brood brothers, a hybrid or two perhaps, but to take on the patriarch! You showed rare skill and the precision of the kill strike was remarkable.”

 

“I didn’t kill it.” Kalleb nodded towards his empty left shoulder socket.

 

“Yes you did.”

 

“It took my arm.”

 

“It was dead, it just hadn’t realized it yet. Questions, yes. How you managed to find it in that labyrinth and of greater interest, how you overcame its psychic grip.”

 

“The glory of the Emperor-”

 

“There was no outside intervention.” interrupted the Inquisitor, “How long?”

 

“My arm hurts.” stated Kalleb.

 

“How long have you known you had the talent?” Trasian slowed the cadence of his voice, following it with gentle psychic persuasion.

 

“My left one, it shouldn’t hurt”

 

Inquisitor Trasian gazed at the wounded man. Kalleb winced as he rubbed at the thermic polymers coating the empty socket where his shoulder should have been. He looked up his eyes locking with those of Trasian. The Inquisitor shook his head dismissively. There was the chance that a stronger psychic compulsion would destabilize Kalleb’s already fractured mind making him useless.

 

“Phantom pain, it will pass. Before the calling you spent some time in the pits, which accounts for some of the black market implants we found. Eleven wins in sixteen matches. Not enough to make you legendary, but enough to get you noticed. You were pulled from the pits by-”

 

“I was bought by the Vrachus family. I served as an enforcer, I killed scum for them, I did everything they asked.”

 

“Did you kill Locus Vrachus?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I desired freedom. His brother, Provas, promised me a writ of release if I helped him eliminate Locus.”

 

“Did you kill Provas?” asked Trasian, already guessing at the answer.

 

“Yes. He reneged. I forged the writ and sealed it with his signet.” Trasian found Kalleb’s honesty intriguing, not many would admit to murder, let alone double murder of influential family members before an Inquisitor.

 

“I fled into the underhive-“

 

“You had a writ.”

 

“I also had Provas′ blood fresh on my boots. I fled into the underhive and-” Kalleb frowned.

 

“And?”

 

“I don’t remember. I feel dizzy.” Kalleb closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hand.

 

“Redemption: not a path usually chosen by men such as yourself.”

 

“You were the one that said I was rare.” countered Kalleb.

 

Inquisitor Trasian smiled, “Yes, I suppose I did.”

 

“What is it you want to know?” Kalleb asked, looking up at the inquisitor.

 

“I want to know where you came from.”

 

-- end chapter 1--

c&c welcome

[ironking]

The Gloom Below

 

Kalleb woke with a pounding headache, the sour smell of spent passion, vomit and cheap perfume assaulting his senses. He sat up and looked around the small room. He’d been drunk again. There was dried blood on his hands, not his own. He looked down at the naked body sprawled next to him noting the tattoo on the right shoulder. The pleasure slave was the image of the Living Saint, or so the flesh merchant had claimed. That was before Kalleb had broken her face in a stupor. It was heresy, some part of him knew it was heresy. To sell the favors of the Living Saint, a special hell would be reserved for the flesh merchant. They would probably share it, Kalleb chuckled to himself. The whore whimpered in her sleep. He looked her over, disgust and self loathing rising like bile in his throat. Kalleb got out of bed, pulled on his trousers and armored vest and strapped on his long blade and twin bolt pistols, Locus and Provas. With one last glance at the broken girl he grabbed his coat and shotgun and left the room.

 

The streets were bustling, thousands of underhivers scurrying about on their own business. Many stopped in at the stalls littering the walkways, haggling with the eager merchants. Armed guards stood vigilant at the more lucrative establishments, shotguns and chainswords held visible. Kalleb pushed through the crowds making his way to The Underjohn, the local meet and greet for mercs and lowlives. The client had contacted him two days before via the usual channels and asked for a face to face. The Underjohn was the logical choice, it sat on Barnaby Way, a neutral zone and no weapons were allowed inside the establishment other than the ones strapped to the servitors which stood guard.

 

There was a commotion up ahead: Kalleb heard voices raised and what sounded like scuffling. He slowed his gait and loosened the twin bolt pistols. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but a healthy dose of paranoia had kept him alive thus far. As he neared the source of the commotion he heard a voice pitched high and calling for the condemnation of the unbelievers. Smiling, he relaxed and felt the adrenal boosters stop charging. ‘Damned redemptionists’ he scowled to himself.

 

A single voice rose above the din: “We have been warned brothers - the blessing and the malediction are before us. Cast off your fleshly desires. We must cleanse ourselves and our path if we would enter into the grace of our holy Emperor. We must redeem ourselves!”

 

Kalleb stopped and turned, the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. The hooded crusader standing to the left of the preacher was looking directly at him. His eyes had tracked him through the crowd and as he inclined his head ever so slightly towards the preacher, Kalleb felt a ripple across his mind.

 

“Suffer not the heretic to live,” called the preacher, “Suffer not the xeno.”

The crowd gasped and drew back as a mutant was cast forward, its three arms thrashing against its chains. Its face was drawn into a permanent rictus, the elongated forehead and crown bare except for slight ridges.

 

“The xeno is among us,” cried the preacher, his pitch reaching a crescendo. Kalleb felt something else, a sensation trying to grip his heart and mind. The crowds were frothing, righteous fervor burning their faces. Some stepped forward and spat at the creature others threw empty bottles and food packs or whatever they could find.

 

“Men of the Redemption,” and then softer, “brothers, we must purge this evil from before us. We must march against doom that knows no fear and we ourselves shall be fearless. Today your eyes have been opened! Go now and tell forth what you have witnessed. Rouse the hearts of your loved ones, call them, call them all to the great crusade!”

 

Redemptionist acolytes made their way through the crowd as the monster was drawn back into its cage. They spoke in firm but hushed tones backing up their words with a touch here, an embrace there. Kalleb turned in time to see two hooded figures detach themselves from the crowd and disappear down a sideway. When he turned back he found the crusader walking straight towards him.

 

“Rejoice brother, the time for redemption is at hand.” began the crusader.

 

Kalleb made to turn and walk away, but there was something familiar about the grizzled crusader. As he stepped forward he pushed back his cowl revealing narrow, piercing eyes and a scar running from his left eyebrow down to the cheekbone.

 

“You lack faith brother, here today you have witnessed the truth of the corruption eating at the heart of this world, and yet you lack faith.”

 

“You pull some pathetic mutant from the sump and parade him around and what? You expect me to join your holy crusade?” asked Kalleb.

 

“You’re a man of reason and of steel.”

 

“Yeh, well faith doesn’t keep me in food and drink.” he grunted.

 

“We have need of men of reason and steel. And I can assure you that our crusade is holy.” The crusader reached out to take hold of his forearm and Kalleb recoiled. he’d always felt uneasy around religious zealots, but the crusader unnerved him.

 

“I’m late for something.” he said, turned and walked away, all the while feeling the eyes of the crusader watching him.

 

The smoky haze and smell of cheap alcohol and perfume in The Underjohn was a welcome comfort. Kalleb grabbed a glass off one of the servant girls and emptied it swiftly. It was only when he sat that he realized he was shaking with nervous energy, his back wet with sweat. He practiced the breathing techniques he’d learned in the pits to calm himself. Why had the crusader unnerved him so, why was he so familiar? Kalleb tried to think, tried to recall as he swallowed another drink. His head started to throb and the faintest ringing started in his ears. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, but the throbbing increased. The harder he tried to think the worse it got. He could feel the blood coursing in his veins, pressure building up in his head. The throbbing increased, the ringing in his ears was now so loud it drowned out all other sounds. He was so distracted that he didn’t notice the three men sit down opposite him, didn’t hear the introduction. He was jolted back to full awareness when one of the passing servant girls bumped into him. He brought his hand up to wipe his nose and it came away slick with blood. He stared at it for a moment and then looked up at the three men. The man on the left leaned over and spoke into the ear of the middle man who shook his head.

 

“I think our business is concluded Mr Kalleb. We have no use for drunks and addicts.” The small party stood. There was no use in arguing and Kalleb sat in dazed silence watching his ticket off this god forsaken planet walk away. He should have been angry or at least annoyed but instead his mind kept going back to the crusader and the creature they had paraded in front of the crowd. Whatever it was, it was not a stealer hybrid. It simply didn’t have the feel. It was a fake, a very clever approximation. Still he couldn’t fathom why it mattered. Anything else he had felt could have been attributed to the subtle emanations from the hood the preacher had been wearing and the adrenalin that was pumped into his veins accounted for the paranoia and uneasiness. Redemptionists were always rousing up lynch mobs for crusades into the deeper caverns of the underhive, most of the time to wage a futile battle against the scavies and mutants, that’s all it was. The rest must have been the drugs and the alcohol. Kalleb went for another drink, and then another, forcing himself to accept this as the answer.

 

-- end chapter 2--

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