Assault on Calebra Hive

[Carrack]

The Doom of Calebra Hive

" The 16th Beast of the Final Days will snuff the light, from Candlebright. A new Prince will arise, to friend and foe's surprise. Yet the fabled Candle of Light, may well fade to darkness Black as night. The Maw of the Black Beast, will devour its bloody feast. The Raven Protectors and the Knights of Grey, will see the night sky lit up bright as day. Then there will be darkness. Black, bleak, darkness." -Last recorded prophecy of an unnamed street preacher from Level -18, Calebra Hive.

 

 

In these dark days tragedy knocks on every door and calls out to the young and old, the rich and poor alike. Prophesies of doom are as common as flies over a decaying corpse. Most should be ignored as the ravings of madmen, but some have a kernel of truth that must be heeded at all cost. Some of these so called prophets speak of visions visited to them in their dreams, others are little more than delusions of minds cracked with the strain of living in this final era, some are undoubtably produced from foul witchcraft, yet equally unreliable are the historiographers who delve into the past to point to present failings and future tragedies. A scant few point to the Doom of Calebra Hive as the seed that sprouted the Tree of Woe for the Lumian Sub-Sector. Here is one anonymous author's take on what befell Calebra Hive.

 

-so in that year the Black Maw splinter faction of the Black Legion arrived and began an assault of Calebra Hive on the world of Candlebright. Although not the ruling seat of the Lumian sub-sector, Candlebright, and particularly Calebra Hive, was the financial and cultural keystone for the sub-sector, as well as the most populous world and second most productive world in manufacturing. The assault was never meant to capture the world, mearly to draw out the local defenders. Heinous atrocities were committed by the arch-enemy, including the summoning of fell daemons following a bombardment of Calebra Hive. The first defenders to arrive were the vaunted Angels of Death of the honored Raven Guard Chapter and a contingent from the feared Imperial Inquisition. They arrived in time to drive off the Black Maw, but were too late to save the world. The Inquisition, against the protest of the Raven Guard, felt that the world was to corrupted to be saved. An order of excommunication was placed on the world before a subsequent order of Exterminatus was given. After completing their orders, a cloud of dust blackened the skies of Candlebright for three years. When the cloud settled, their was no life left on the world and no inhabitable structures. This was the goal of the Black Maw all along.

 

What followed in the Lumian sub-sector was a result of the loss of the world of Candlebright. The economy immediately dived into a depression with the loss of the thriving enterprises of Calebra Hive. Particularly hard hit were the many agri-worlds, and mining worlds and outposts that supported the population and production of Calebra Hive. Most worlds in the sub-sector had to resort to oppressive taxation in order to meet their tithe requirements. The loss of the cultural center weakened the solidarity of the sub-sector and coupled with the heavy taxes, gave rise to recidivist movements on many worlds. This situation was compounded by two additional factors relating to the Doom of Calebra Hive. One, obviously, sub-sector command could no longer found regiments from its most populous planet to restore order. The second factor was that sub-sector command wasted eight years building up and deploying a relief force to save the already destroyed world of Candlebright. But in the words of the sub-sector commander, "I promised Governor Valencia-Calebra a relief force would be coming, and I always keep my promises."

 

So what we are left with, after the assault on Calebra Hive, is a sub-sector in shambles and low grade rebellion, with its defenders stretched thin dealing with insurrection. The Lumian Sub-Sector is wide open to the predations of the alien, or further attacks from the arch-enemy. That is if the sub-sector is not destroyed from within first.

 

 

Author's note; the evolution of The Assault of Calebra Hive

 

I started writing this story in the late summer of this year. I had a semi-business trip to England that left me with a lot of free time in London to do typical American tourist stuff. It was a great experience, but I don't like to go to downtown Dallas, as their is too much hustle and bustle for a man with country roots like myself. London is to Dallas in that regard as a las pistol is to a demolisher cannon. As much as I liked seeing the sights, the crowds, tubes, and lack of open spaces was raising my anxiety through the roof. So as something of a way to deal with my anxiety and homesickness of leaving my kids for the first time in ages, I wrote the first post, Putting an Ear to the Door. This paragraph, was more or less my feelings about walking London.

 

"Cancon's skin crawled as they made their way through the mobbed street. He couldn't let his warriors know how uncomfortable this hive made him, and it wasn't just from being in the abode of the enemy either. It was the hive itself. He had been raised on the open prairie, and the confining pressure of being underground was wearing his nerves. Honestly, he didn't even know if he was truly underground or not, such concepts were meaningless anyway when miles of city were both piled above him and stacked beneath his feet. His feet hurt too, which was a sensation he had not experienced in many years, given a warrior's life constantly on the march, but the mix of cobblestone, ferrocrete, and flagstone were wearing calluses in his hardened feet. The confining, pressing nature of the urban landscape was amplified by the pressing of the teeming mobs crowding the streets. Cancon had to hunch his broad shoulders inward to keep his personal space, and shorten his swaggering stride so as not to trip over the feet of the surging sea of humanity. There were subtle things about the hive that unnerved Cancon as well, his life of forced marches and long patrols had taught him that a ten minute walk was not long enough to travel any significant distance, yet here, ten minutes carried him into entirely new nations, with different languages, different styles of clothing, different aromas in the air, it was unnatural."

 

That was the seed of the whole story. From there I thought I would try to cover a detailed campaign in some depth. Being the Bolter and Chainsword, I wanted to get away from the cultist quickly and bring in the chaos marines. I also figured a three pronged attack would allow me to tell the differences between low, mid, and upper hive. I soon grew tired of one sided slaughters of PDF and militiamen, so wanted to bring in loyalist marines. About this time a friend of mine wanted to get a game in, using Raven Guard tactics, on my urban table. I had yet to field Garaduk, my burning brand jump lord, so was excited. My kids, and his bewildering work ethic kept getting in the way and the game hasn't been played yet. But I figured I might use the narrative of the game for a story or two, and slowly introduced the Raven Guard into Garaduk's area of operations.

 

After a while of moving along, I realized this could go on forever, with the help of good feedback, and while that might be interesting, one of the main points in my background for the Black Maw is that they are not small scale, down on their luck, pirate / vagabonds like certain well written Night Lords. The Black Maw conquers and destroys worlds. So I introduced the Candle of Light as an important objective. Pretty soon after that I had the idea for the ending, and the rest of the story fell into place. From that point the writing got s little less fun for me, because I knew what was going to happen, yet I wanted to complete the story arc, so I finished. I will miss Calebra Hive.

 

Author's note; take aways.

Wow I finished. Here are some things I took away from writing this story.

 

I liked writing about each unique level in the hive. The Bottoms, The Base, Shield Down, The Range, The Dance, The Chops, Attic Strip, The Ground, The Hospice, Thirteen House, The Requiem, and The Cooler, that's a dozen unique settings in the same city.

 

False starts. My mostly unplanned approached to writing, I just kind of start and see where the story takes me resulted in about a 1-1 ration of stories that got posted and stories I got at least a page or two into and abandoned.

 

Too many characters. I felt I could do a lot more with Garaduk's relation with Nurgle, all of the chosen, and a few others, but I was spread too thin.

 

Differences in quality. As I see it, some of the stories I wrote are some of the best I have ever done, and I have reread them more than a few times. Others are just not good, and still others, my action dominated stories, I can't tell if there any good. Most of my bad ones (in my opinion) were the result of me forcing the plot along and trying to bridge gaps between a good story and the next story I really wanted to write.

 

Well that's enough of personal reflection, I feel all in touch with my inner child and what not now. :) it's time to go commit some heinous atrocities on the catfish of North Texas's lakes.

 

Thanks for taking the time to read my stories. I truly appreciate it.

[deathspectersgt7]

Enjoyed it .

[paulJam]

Thanks for the story Brother Carrack.

I will be compiling all the segments into a single document so i can give it a proper read through.

It feels like the kind of intro story they would release with a game, like sin of damnation/Calth/dark vengance... i'm look forward to getting the box set and having a crack at the game

 

p.s. by the way that was about 83 pages worth you clocked up there. well done.

 

p.p.s. approx 45570 words

Edited November 13, 2015 by paulJam

[Carrack]

Enjoyed it .

Thanks!

[Carrack]

Thanks for the story Brother Carrack.

I will be compiling all the segments into a single document so i can give it a proper read through.

It feels like the kind of intro story they would release with a game, like sin of damnation/Calth/dark vengance... i'm look forward to getting the box set and having a crack at the game

 

p.s. by the way that was about 83 pages worth you clocked up there. well done.

Thanks again. 83 pages wow. All done with my thumb on the mobile phone. I've been tempted to run it through a word counter site, but the results might scare me. I did a quick count and I managed to kill or capture 22 named characters. :)

 

I'm glad you think it was worthy of box set material, I tried to keep it true to the game as best as I could.

[Carrack]

Torchlight

some years later

The huddled kids pushed and shoved their way to the table until they met my stern glare, then respectfully but reluctantly, they squeezed together to make space for everyone to have at least a place to put their cup and bit of plate down. Most of them were mine and Gertrude's, but as always, Gertrude had invited a handful of skinny orphans to share our meager meal. I recognized most of them, and there were more tonight than usual, but Gertrude was giving me her own stern glare, daring me to object to her charity. Like the kids at the table did to me, I myself backed down in the face of the real authority of our house. She began pouring distilled water into their cups as I squeezed out ration paste onto their plates. For what it was worth, Gertrude and the kids waited until I sat at my chair and made my own plate before eating.

 

Ration paste was all to often our dinner, and sometimes are breakfast as well, but it wasn't by any means our preferred fare. It filled you up, and was supposedly injected with nutrients that were important for growing kids, but it tasted awful. The best way to eat it was to get a small gob of it on your knife, than cram it down and immediately wash away the taste with lots of distilled water. You would then have to wait a bit for your stomach to settle before the next gob. Ration paste dinners were slow and quiet, and I soon found all the faces at my table looking at me expectantly. They wanted their story. Sometimes I like to think that my story has an equal draw to my table as the food I provide, but that isn't really the case. Still, I'm flattered and oblige.

 

I put out one of our two candles to dim the lights and stare up at the ceiling for a bit with anguish on my face. Gertrude asks, "Is everything all right?" I let the question hang for a moment before nodding, and as I do I glance around to see that I have everyone's attention. I do, so I begin in a low tone,

 

"Our hive wasn't always so dark and destitute. It once shined like a beacon across the world, lighting the sky like a billion bright candles. The light from Calebra Hive could even be seen from space. It was more than just light that shown from our city, it was the richness of our markets, the beauty of our art, the brilliance of mankind's technology that thrust our city from the roots of our world to the heavens. It was a gilded city at the height of a brilliant age. Our fall was so much greater from the lofty heights we had achieved.

 

The enemy hates mankind's success. It reminds them of what they can never have. In their jealousy, they must tear it down, for they can never have what we are blessed with through the grace of the Emperor. They have turned from that grace in pursuit of their own damnation. When confronted with the pure, the enemy despoils. When confronted with hope, the enemy brings despair, and when confronted with the prosperous light, the enemy darkens and devours the faithful with its Black Maw."

 

Gertrude and the children made their warding gestures at the mention of the Black Maw, and in hushed voices said their prayers. I let them ponder what I said for a moment before continuing,

 

"The Emperor Protects, and though our hive was ravaged with plague, burnt and bombarded, we remain to rebuild. Although scavengers and sinners try to pick the bones of our once glorious city, those bones are on the mend, tended by us, the faithful that remain. We proud descendants of the survivors are rebuilding our city to the glory of Him on Terra. With each passing day we reclaim new levels, and connect with long lost brothers and sisters. We may sit huddled around a single candle, but in our lifetime, Calebra Hive will shine like the brightest of torches."

 

I didn't get much of an applause from the hungry children this time, but I did get every face smiling. They wanted to believe, I could tell. Hope is what drove us survivors on. Gertrude was smiling too, but mostly just to see these kids fed and entertained. My own grin quickly changed to a frown when my youngest came running to the table from our back room. Little Juan had been digging in my footlocker. He held up the one possession of our family that had obvious value, which I was not keen to display before my impoverished guests in these hard times. It was a black torch with a red gem ensconced in its pitch well, Little one said, "You mean light up like a torch just like this one?"

Edited September 15, 2017 by Carrack

[Carrack]

Prying Eyes and Hungry Mouths

Dark and dirty robes hid me from prying eyes as I scurried up the alley. They were the prying eyes of the residents of this level, ever vigilant for invaders in their own little private domain. They were jealous eyes worried my own eyes might see what they were salvaging and try to take it from them, not just the raw materials they were unearthing from the ruins, but their salvaging of a real community, a budding little flower of civilization rising from the ashes of its destruction. They knew that flower was delicate, and would wither under too much attention from strangers. I waited in the shadows until the salvage gangs of this hab-block broke off their conversations and returned to their habs to shutter the windows and bar the doors. Quietly, I crept underneath the sill of the Morrenoles first-floor hab and waited.

 

They were rebuilding the community now. The Morrenol family was feasting the orphans of the hab-block in an act of charity that not only fed the hungry, but dared the neighbors to match such generosity, or lose status in the eyes of the rest of the block. Other days other families would do the same, some giving more than expected, and others less. The eyes of the neighbors saw both the charity and the miserliness. Typically, the Morrenoles could not afford much in the way of sumptuous fair, but they always made up for their bland provender with a masterfully told story from their patron. The chance to hear the story is what made me return here earlier than usual and risk being seen in the settled portions of this level. I eased up against the back wall of their hab and quietly sunk down beneath their uncovered window. I waited a few moments in stillness before settling, and no one opened their door or peeked out into the alleyway to investigate. The prying eyes of the residents had not seen me sneak into position.

 

Of course, I had prying eyes of my own, so to speak, and one of them was a little unusual. I had been born with two normal, healthy eyes, but I had lost one when I entered puberty a few years ago. There was no violence, no terrible accident, I had just lost possession of the eye. The eye didn't look where I wanted it to look, and it didn't open and close when I wanted it to. It was no longer mine. The first thing it did after it left my control was move. I remember feeling as if this strange eye that had once been mine was unhappy with the accommodations in my eye socket, so it picked up and moved. It made its way down my left arm trailing ganglia still somehow attached to my brain. The rebel eye looped around my arm several times until it nested in my left hand, then the ganglia constricted. The constricting nerves, somehow hard as piano wire, cut into my arm and crushed the bones, and the lesions from the cuts sprouted suckers as the boneless limb transformed into an elongated tentacle with my lost eye at its tip. The whole process had taken days, hours, maybe just minutes, I don't really know, but it had felt like a lifetime of pain. The pain I can't really remember anymore other than unwelcome flashes of misery, but gone also are parts of my memory that the eye took from me when it left. I can't remember my middle name, for instance. I do remember the eye showing me what it saw as it migrated to my hand. It replayed me this horrifying vision every night when I laid down to rest. I wish it wouldn't. Worse than the pain, visions, and feeling of betrayal, was the isolation of my exile. I could no longer be part of the growing community. They had declared me unclean, unfit to pass on my name, and unwelcome in the inhabited portions of the level. I lived a lonely life on the outskirts of the level, scratching out a living against the hive's outer walls and the still unexplored ruins. These dangerous forays into the hab block are the light of my life. It was my only human contact, even if that human interaction was secretly stolen from beneath windowsills, with none of myself given in return to the stories and conversations I overheard.

 

I reach into the folds of my robes and retrieve my latest artifact. The artifact shows promise, it is some type of black monocular optic piece fitted with gold brackets. I think it was meant to be integral to a helmet of very large proportions, but had been ripped lose of its housing during the war. Technology was always valuable to salvage, and the gold work, showed that this was no ordinary piece. I could potentially profit quite a bit from the optic. Or I could get nothing. The normal salvage gangs worked the main ruins of our level starting with those closest to the inhabited hab block. Because of my exile, I can dig in still unexplored ruins further away from the safe zone, but I do so unassisted. I'm not alone out there, but I'd sooner be than keep company with the mad and the mutated that haunt the fringes. Sometimes I can exchange a bit of salvage with the members of the community who are willing to risk dealing with me, but these exchanges are rare, and often end with me being robbed.

 

The rebel eye starts waving about with obvious interest in the artifact, which could draw attention to my hiding place so I put it down for the eye to inspect. Better to lose the artifact than be spotted. The eye-tentacle coils around the optic and caresses it lovingly. I feel uneasy as the sections of the tentacle that touched the optic take on a purplish hue, but I hear the backdoor unlock near me and quickly grab the artifact and shove it underneath the old paperboard crate that was the agreed upon stash spot.

 

I had hoped she would have waited till after the nightly story, but I guess with the orphans' feast, she didn't want me around. I can't blame her. I am merely unclean, subject to exile, if she is caught aiding me however, she will be named collaborator, and will be lined up against the hab block wall and shot. The wounds of the war that tore this hive apart are still deep, and collaborators remain the lowest of the low, even lower than the unclean. As the door tentatively opens, I scurry around a corner further into the alleys of the hab block. I hear her singing. Gertrude Morrenol sang a baby's lullaby through tears in her eyes and emotion welling in her throat. It is the saddest sound I have ever heard. I watch as she wipes down a brick with a damp corner of her apron and carefully squeeze out a decent size gob of ration paste on it, sobbing. She leaves a disposable bag of water next to it and a bit of colored chalk. Abruptly she moves away from her offering and digs around the stash spot. The sorrow in her eyes is replaced with furtive glances as she checks to see if she was witnessed. Satisfied that her activities were not observed, she scoops up the optic but drops it immediately, glancing down at her hand. She tried again, with similar results, only I see pain across her brow. The third time she unites her apron and quickly picks up the optic using it as a makeshift glove. The door shuts and locks, a little forcibly, as she returns to her feast.

 

I wait a few minutes to make sure no one checks to see why Gertrude slammed her door, then return to my hiding spot beneath her window sill. I start to dine on the feast Gertrude had left for the son she had been forced to cast out years ago, no doubt for being unclean at birth, and listened to the tail end of her husband's story. It was about the terrible Arch-Enemy that had reduced this hive to ruin more than three decades ago. It was a real horror story, a tale of the Devouring of Calebra Hive by the dreaded Black Maw. I closed my loyal eye and took small scoops of ration paste in between gulps of distilled water as I listened the resonances of Old Man Morrenol. I was supremely comfortable, eating bland but hearty food and drinking clean water, while listening to the best storyteller on the block. I may have dozed off I was so relaxed. My stolen eye spoiled that. It decided to let me see what it saw. It had slithered up the wall and in between the shutters of the window to peek into the Morrenoles hab. The Old Man had stopped talking and the orphans were gasping in horror. It wasn't my former eye and its tentacle that caused their reaction. On the other side of the table stood Gertrude, holding the black and gold monocular. Both her eyes had darkened to pitch, and impenetrable blackness poured from her mouth and ears. She was floating a half meter off the ground. A voice sounded from her lips that was clearly not her own, it was the thunderous voice of a warrior barking orders across a battlefield, ancient, precise, and cruel beyond imagination. The voice said, "We are the Black Maw of the Despoiler, and We are Returned!" The eye that left me beheld the scene and wept. They were tears of joy.

 

Note

Any records of Calebra Hive being excommunicated via extermiatus are the words of some unreliable narrator. ;) the hive took a serious hit, but still stands, more or less.

[Carrack]

Wayward Son

Lucerna Forge, Mars

Tech Priest Dominus Chi had convened a sacred Conclave of Productivity at the top of the Light Tower. The lofty heights and glaring eternal flame of the tower tended to humble his pupils who were not yet initiated into the towers mysteries. The flat pinnacle of the cog-shaped tower, which loomed over the red sands of Mars from atop 116 stories, held a red crystal brazier in its center that burned day and night with bright flames. The base of the braizer was the Light Tower's sacred central cogiator, from which extended eight arachnid like data arms all custom designed to withstand the heat of the brazier. The pupils would not wish to venture too close to the flames and risk system damage from the heat, but their innate human weaknesses instilled a desire to not stand too close to the precipice. The design was deliberate, it was meant to develop faith in the machines that secured them to the tower top via the data arms that sprouted from the base of the braizer. Seven of his eight apprentices were present for the conclave. Chi 8's absence was damning.

 

The seven present pupils, all genetically grown sons of Dominus Chi, tapped into the spindly data arms that radiated from the brazier. Raw data steamed into their minds as they watched holographic feeds dance in the flames. The data detailed a trend of inefficiency from the forge's northern heat exhaust, as well as peculiar irregularities for the pilgrimages of service from the lay workers and servitor gangs assigned to the same exhaust, such as calls to perform diagnostic ceremonies at the heat sinks in data vaults that had been sealed for centuries. The realtime holographic feeds displayed Dominus Chi's College Corpuscarii conducting a mortification purge on the northern heat exhaust sanctuaries. The Electro-Priests were scouring the work stations and habs preaching productivity and laying on hands with electrostatic gauntlets. Some tried to flee, some tried to prove their faith to the Omnissiah by frantically working as hard as they could at their duties. Neither strategy seemed better than the other, the Corpuscarii brought the blessings of the Motive Force to some, and left others bereft of ecstatic electrocution, seemingly at random with their judgment.

 

After a few moments of contemplation, a purpose query chimed from one of Dominus Chi's pupils, Chi 2. A routine productivity purge from one of the heat exhausts hardly seemed worthy of their attention, much less that of their master. Dominus Chi responded by sending identical productivity data from the same heat exhaust that resulted in a similar purge, only time stamped from the 36th Millennium. As he transmitted the data, Chi 8's chief attendant shuffled up the stairs and tapped into the empty data arm that would have normally been reserved for his master. The attendant was still bleeding from sutures from a servitor lobotomy. New data flowed into the pupils' minds. Images ripped from the attendant's memory of Chi 8 reading proscribed scrolls with number idents originating from the same sealed data vaults that had placed calls for service pilgrimages from the northern heat exhaust. The scrolls idents also contained descriptors associated with the Tower of Light where they were convened. Properly compiled, the data that Chi 8 disseminated revealed that Chi 8 had used his duties as chief priest of the northern heat exhausts as cover to plunder forbidden information from sealed data vaults, while simultaneously forging sagging production figures that would lead to a productivity purge likely to conceal his nefarious activities. In an effort to make his forgery appear authentic, he had copied the numbers from ancient records.

 

Having disseminated all the information he was willing, Dominus Chi catechized his pupils, requesting information on suspicious activity from Chi 8. The pupils immediately gave the expected answers, minor irregularities, such as slight increases in contacts with ship masters and recent delegation of duties that Chi 8 typically oversaw himself, that taken as a whole, indicated Chi 8 might have been planning off world travel. Dominus Chi already knew his pupil had left, he had been alerted soon after Chi 8 had managed to sneak out of the most holy Sol system aboard a guild freighter. He also knew the other pupils would have been able to deduce this, given the data he had shown them tonight. It was pleasing that all of his pupils were loyal at least, if not sufficiently paranoid of their brother. None had knowingly withheld data on their brother or their own failures to discern it.

 

Dominus Chi's pupils' loyalty was commendable, but ultimately inconsequential, for their brother's sin was too great a secret for the Dominus to share. Dominus Chi blurted the activation code for the araneacerebrum and the data arms connecting the minds of his pupils released the viscous programs into their minds. The araneacerebrum stunned the pupils with a paralyzing jolt to their spines, then began ripping through their minds searching for their prey. The prey of the araneacerebrum were memories of any interaction between the loyal pupils and Chi 8. When they found a memory of such an interaction, they recorded it and transmitted it do Dominus, the rest of the memories of the pupils were discarded. Within minutes his pupils were left vacant husks, but Dominus Chi had knowledge of every conversation, data transfer, and collaboration between his wayward pupil and his peers. Dominus Chi quickly found the jewel in the mountain of data Chi 8 had requested from the other pupils. Under the pretext of improving life support systems for his menials, Chi 8 had requested the schematics of Calebra Hive on the distant world of Candlebright. There was only one explanation for requesting the schematics of Calebra Hive; Chi 8 had decrypted the mysteries of the Brotherhood of Light.

 

The Brotherhood of Light was an order within the Martian Priesthood. The order existed to protect an artifact from the Dark Age of Technology known as the Candle of Light. The original discoverers of this relic had discerned that it was a weapon of terrible power, but flawed in a tragic way. To prevent the weapon falling into the wrong hands, it had a techno-arcane gene-lock of unfathomable design. The Candle of Light was made so that only a descendant of its original owner could use it safely, any other would be enslaved by the indomitable will of the weapon's machine spirit. A secret society had been created to safeguard the Candle of Light on the world it was discovered, in the village where it had been found that would one day grow to become Calebra Hive. The society was tasked with keeping the relic secret while their Martian counterparts traced down the genetic code of its rightful owner. The secrecy of the society had doomed it. As millennia passed by with fewer and fewer brothers knowing the true purpose of the society, its goals and direction were confused and subverted. The search for the rightful owner had revealed a wealth of knowledge about mankind's genetic code, but finding one individual in the sea of humanity had proven too monumental a task to accomplish. The study of the Candle of Light had not revealed any of the secrets of its construction. The Martian order of the Brotherhood of Light devolved into a mystery cult that jealously held onto its knowledge of genetics, but did so purposelessly. The order on Calebra Hive hid its prize from all, friend or foe, and the existence of the artifact was forgotten by almost all. Dominus Chi knew every secret of the Brotherhood of Light, or thought he did, and none of it explained why Chi 8 would betray him and sneak off on a guild ship chartered towards Calebra Hive. Chi 8 must have uncovered some clue he and his predecessors had overlooked. Dominus Chi would pry this clue from the mind of his pupil with surgical tools if necessary.

 

Dominus Chi began blurting out machine code commands to assemble his forces and prepare his cruiser, Light of Mars, for campaign. He would inform the Fabricator General that he would leave his forge to find and punish a disobedient pupil. Before he left the top of the Tower of Light, inexplicably, he paused and looked over the husks of his former pupils. For no discernible reason, he could not easily tear his eyes away from their vacant stares. With no small effort of will, he did so anyway, and descended the stair. As he made his way to the shuttle bay, he repurposed the araneacerebrum to hunt trough his own memories and erase the moment of weakness he had just experienced. There was a risk that the araneacerebrum would loose restraint and tear through unrelated memories, but Dominus Chi would not embark on such a potentially rewarding quest with sentiments clouding his purpose. Dominus Chi would hunt his wayward son and whatever knowledge he had acquired to the streets of Calebra Hive.

[Carrack]

Backwards

 

Calebra Hive was in ruins. It's past glories were barely recognizable. Mankind had once had the audacity to build a gleaming city that defiantly rose from the bones of the world to tower over the very clouds, a city that shined with brightness that could be seen from space. Calebra Hive had been a monument to man's capacity for greatness, a single building that dominated the trade and culture of a subsector, and whose magnificence was admired from across the Imperium. The enemy of man could not stand for such grandeur, and had come to devour the brightness of Calebra Hive with a Black Maw of destruction. Decades ago, an assault followed by an orbital bombardment from the forces of the Arch-Enemy had destroyed much of the once great mega hive. Both necessary purges, and unnecessary civil wars had further reduced the city to a shadow of itself. Buildings were destroyed, streets were clogged with rubble, even the outer walls had been breached in places, leaving sections exposed to the toxic atmosphere.

 

Magos Chi 8 knew much of Calebra Hive's history, including its defeat at the hands of the Black Maw Warband. He also knew secrets that weren't part of the common Calebra Hive history. Chi 8 had discovered the existence of the Brotherhood of Light, a secret society whose creation was intertwined with that of the mega hive, and whose purpose was to guard a potent artifact from the Dark Age of Technology. Knowledge was power to an ambitious priest of Mars, and Chi 8 intended to discover what had become of the fabled Candle of Light. He had no intention of sharing in any discovery he made, so alone he journeyed to the ruins of Calebra Hive and down into its once beating mid-hive heart.

 

In spite of the ruined state of the hive, a crowd was starting to tail Chi 8. He had been forced to cut through inhabitable portions of the ruins to reach the last known resting place of the artifact. Skinny wretches clad in rags had stopped digging in the ruins as he passed. At first they just gawked and stared blankly as he bound through the alleys on reverse jointed augmetic legs. The younger ones had never seen robes as magnificent as Chi 8's, much less someone with such glorious and obvious blessings of the Omnisiah. The older ones had never expected to see such glory again. As he passed however, some of the gawkers stopped picking through the ruins and started following him. Before long, a mob of poorly fed and poorly clothed men and women had started to form in his wake. When he rotated his skull faced visage 180 degrees back to observe the crowd, he noticed they were being somewhat discreet, keeping outside of the effective range for their pistols and their eyes downcast deferentially. However, when Chi 8 blasted off a proximity warning to the crowd on all common frequencies, yet they refused to take heed. Chi 8 would not stand for such insolence, nor any interlopers on what could be his greatest discovery, so as he climbed the debris, he carefully kicked out a piece of rebar that was supporting much of the pile, leaving it on the verge of completely dislodging. He made another quick calculation and shifted a plastic board to expose a section of spiked metal gate. When Chi 8 reached the top of the pile, he extracted a heating coil from a damaged mechanical stove and a still sealed five liter container of solvent from the debris with his servo arm. A few quick passes over the coil and solvent with his fine manipulators and he placed them prominently at the top of the pile. After cresting the mound of debris, Chi 8 used his inertia dampeners to leap down the opposite side of the pile. Between the dampeners and the flexing of his reverse jointed limbs, he took the fall without sustaining system damage or even slowing his rate of travel.

 

As Chi 8 closed on the last known location of the artifact he had come to recover, his audio pick-ups indicated that the Omnisiah had blessed his calculations on the mound. His exposure of the spiked gate had channeled the crowd towards the slope he had weakened by kicking out the rebar, and the coil he had charged had heated the container of solvent. The unstable slope had collapsed under the weight of the trailing crowd, and the survivors of the subsequent avalanche had been sprayed with hot solvent as the container burst on impact in their midst. The volume of their screams indicated that Chi 8 was unlikely to be followed. Chi 8 was thankful that he would never feel such pain himself, having replaced most of his biological matter with blessed machinery, save some of his brain matter, in reverence to the Omnisiah.

 

****************

One building remained standing among a particularly damaged block. All the other buildings had been blown apart during the war, or collapsed as chunks of the level's meters-thick ceiling had fallen onto their roofs, yet the surviving building's two story structure stood firm, it even supported the sagging ceiling like a pillar. At first glance the remaining building looked like one of the minor miracles of war, a simple structure that had somehow escaped the fate of all its neighbors. But it's survival was no miracle. The building was a fortress in disguise, its ferrocrete blocks were reinforced with thick steel beams, its frame strengthened with thick metal, and its plastiboard door hid a layer of ceramite in its core. In times past, people who had discovered the strength of the building had assumed it had been used as a ganger stronghold to store money or obscura within. In truth it had been used to store something far more valuable. The building had at one point been used to house the Candle of Light. It was the building that Magos Chi 8 was coming to search. The enemy was within.

 

Ancient warriors lurked within the secret stronghold. Cruel giants clad in baroque black armor lay in ambush around the door. They had come to the House of the Brotherhood of Light for the same reason as the magos. They came in search of the secrets of the Candle of Light. The Magos dispersement of the mob had been heard by the villains as they were tearing apart the interior of the stronghold, frantically looking for manuals, notes, or diagrams left hidden by the Brotherhood of Light. At the sound of the avalanche, the enemies leader had tapped into the stronghold's vid network and broadcasted it to his squad, replaying the carnage wrought by the advancing magos.

 

As the warriors took positions to waylay the coming magos, the leader of the monsters haughtily told one of his band, "See young Copil, the actions of this magos are a metaphor for the Adeptus Mechanicus he represents. An uncaring priesthood searching through the ruins of their civilization for scraps of their once mighty empire. Causing misery to mankind in their quest to hold onto technology that is ever slipping away into disrepair. They are alway looking backwards, never forwards." The legionary Copil seethed at yet another "lesson" his brothers were berating him with. For thousand of years they had arrogantly instructed him as if he were their student. Copil's harassment continued with another of his brothers sounded off with a voice mimicking the tones of an erudite professor, "You see young Copil, while 'tis true this tech priest represents the Adeptus Mechanicus, the greater metaphor is this hive. Calebra Hive is the Imperium. Both are mere shadows of their former glory, ruined by war. Both will never live up to their promise, or even their better years. The Imperium's subjects toil away like the scavengers here, hoping to regain some of the Imperium's past splendor. Like the Martian priest, they too are only looking back, only looking to regain what was lost. Not realizing that they could move forward instead. Calebra Hive is the Imperium, and the scavengers are the slaves of the False Emperor."

 

****************

Magos Chi 8 scanned the structure as he approached its door. He detected the armor concealed in the door and brought his servo arm to batter it in, charging forward to add momentum. Unexpectedly, the door was unbarred and swung wide as he careened into the stronghold. Before he could check his advance, an enormous, energized fist reached out from a power armored warrior beside the door, and grabbed him by the base of the neck. Chi 8's legs and body swung forward and left the ground as his head and neck's movement was abruptly arrested. The crushing fist then squeezed, separating his head from his body. Chi 8 watched his machine body continue striding into the room without the control of his head. He was helpless now, his cranial implants could keep his head alive indefinitely, yet he was left a powerless observer without his body, at least until his sensors lost power.

 

The warrior whose power fist had captured Chi 8 turned his skull to face his captor. The warrior was helmed in black ceramite adorned with gold and crested with the horns of a terrible beast, Heretic Extremis, a traitor marine. Chi 8 knew of no worse possible captor. Perplexingly, the warrior boomed out of his vox grill, "Perhaps this adept should have been looking backwards like his brethren. Maybe then he would have seen me." Chi 8 heard cruel cackling booming in response, and the order, "Take what's left of him to the ship for interrogation."

[deathspectersgt7]

Cool up dates .

[Brother Lunkhead]

First chance I've had to read this.... Good stuff brother! Good story, well developed characters, and a good pace. Looking forward to the next installment 

[Carrack]

Cool up dates .

 

Thanks, it's been fun coming back to Calebra Hive after a while.

 

First chance I've had to read this.... Good stuff brother! Good story, well developed characters, and a good pace. Looking forward to the next installment:tu:

 

Thanks. I appreciate you taking the time to read through this. I have another story written, I just think I need to write some sort of story that establishes its setting a little better first, so I should be able to post two stories this week.

[Carrack]

The World Marches

Level 45

 

We were marching on the Imperials this Feast of the All Saints. How fitting. In some ways it looked like any feast day march, only tonight, the whole World was marching. The World is what we called our level of Calebra Hive, for it might as well been the whole world to us. There was no way to leave The World except through death or by the far edge of the Level where the hive wall had been breeched, and that was controlled by off-world Imperials. One way or another, we would be leaving The World Tonight, either through the access points in the Imperial quarter, or through our deaths.

 

Our homes were decorated like a feast day. After the war, when famine gnawed on men's bodies and souls, people of The World would mark their homes with obvious warnings about how dangerous they were, in an effort to keep roving bands of thieves from stealing their food. The idea was that a house marked with gangers' signs would be less likely to be preyed upon than one that wasn't. Of course when every house was marked with gangers' signs, homeowners had to make their warnings more fearsome. Gruesome trophies, messages written in blood, and deliberate usage of bad luck totems like black felines and bats were used to make houses appear too dangerous to bother. Ultimately, in the never ending escalation of more fearsome warnings, many desperate people marked their homes with the symbols of the very enemy that had destroyed our hive; half opened eyes, eight-pointed stars, and black outlines of a great toothy maw, in order to have their house appear more fearsome than their neighbor's. Of course, no one really believed that sweet old lady Marabel was a champion of the Black Maw, no matter what the markings on her door said, so the custom died out, and was only revived on feast days. We would bring out our macabre trophies and dark symbols to decorate our homes on the days leading up to feasts. On feast days, we would gather in our tribes and march the streets, costumed in equally fearsome attire. We showed all how little we feared our neighbors' warnings by knocking on their doors to beg for food.

 

 

This feast day was different. The World had been changed by the arrival of the Imperials from off-world. They had flown their shuttles and bulk lifters through the breech in the hive wall and took up residence in The World. At first we weren't alarmed, the air near the breech was unhealthy, and we didn't go near it anyway. They were welcome to live on unwanted turf. For a while, we actually prospered from their presence. The scrubbers they set up near the breech not only cleaned their air, but that of the whole World, and the purifiers they dropped into the leaky main kept our water sweet and safe. They even started trading hydro grains for artifacts we might salvage from the ruins. At first they were a welcome addition to the World. If you let rats live in your crawl spaces, they will soon dwell in your larder and bedroom. The Imperials pushed out their quarter, and walled it off. They named their quarter Port LeCroix, and called the rest of The World the Contested Zone. They forbid all other buyers from accessing The World, and refused to pay fair prices for our salvage. They began raiding into our neighborhoods, killing entire tribes in retaliation for the thefts of a single member. This Feast of All Saints, we would adorn our blocks with fearsome warnings, and put on our most horrific costumes as we always did, but we would also take up arms, and march on Port LeCroix.

 

Happy Halloween

[Carrack]

Set The World on Fire

Level 45, The World and Port LeCroix

A tooth flew from the mouth of the old king and struck me across the cheek, splattering my face with blood and saliva. Before I could even clean myself off, the tribe hailed the new king, Iko, King of the Scarlet tribe, long may he reign. The scuffle was over, command was changed with a knockout hook, and we resumed our march. It took a while for everyone to get with the beat, but our tribe was marching again and we had a new king. Unfortunately during the confusion of the brawl, Old Lady Penny had gotten ahead of our procession, and reached the bank of the Fuit Egou first. The Fuit Egou was the river that meandered through The World. Its source was a massive leak in the main aqueduct for Calebra Hive that had been damaged in the war. Damaged, but not destroyed, the aqueduct still pumped water from some unseen reservoir up the hive, and enough gushed out the leak to be called a river. Every feast day march, the tribes of The World would meet at the banks of the Fuit Egou and drink up salvaged bottles or homemade hooch before starting the "official parade". This Feast of All Saints was going to be different, we all knew it. We were going to war with the Imperials of Port LeCroix, and we hoped to get organized on the banks of the Fuit Egou before we started. Having volatile Old Lady Penny reach the meeting place of the tribes first was not ideal for our hopes of unity before battle. At least she was smoking obscura as we marched, so hopefully she would be in a stupor by the time she reached the Fuit Egou. She wasn't. True to form, the crone was getting into it with one of her rivals, Old Lady Marabel of the Emerald tribe.

 

I couldn't hear what the two elderly women were shouting over all the drumming. It became thunderous as our tribe approached the Fuit Egou. the bass of our marching beat intertwining with that of the tribes already on the bank. Adding to the thunder of the bonafide drummers of the tribes, were the complimenting trebles of the second lines, the hangers-on, hermits, outcasts, and mutants that followed in the wake of our processions. In spite of the deafening beat, it was obvious by appearance alone that Old Lady Penny and Old Lady Marabel were shouting obscenities at each other. I ran forward to break up the two before it got out of hand, but arrived too late. Old Lady Penny had snatched up a bottle and thrown it at the banner of Old Lady Marabel's tribe, breaking the glass on the crosspiece and spilling fermented red drink all over their banner. It was an insult that couldn't go unanswered, and if it wasn't for the collective shock of everyone who witnessed her actions, would have immediately been answered with violence. During that moment of bewilderment when the music stopped and everyone gasped, Old Lady Penny threw her lit obscura joint at the alcohol soaked banner and set it afire. We all knew that our hopes for driving out the Imperials from Port LeCroix went up with the flames of their banner.

 

We were wrong, but it wasn't obvious at first, in fact it had looked pretty bleak. Our new king rushed past me and put a load of scattershot into the chest of The first Emerald warrior he saw at point blank range. I thought all out war would commence, and drew my pistol, but everyone was still stunned. We had been planning this war too long, and everyone wanted it. The Imperials were stealing our land and strangling our trade. We all had known there was no guarantee that we wouldn't squabble when we met at the river, we usually did, but it was typically insults and fist fights ending in broken noses and black eyes, not lighting someone's banner on fire and shotgunning one of their warriors. As we stood there stunned, the Emerald banner bearer was the first to react. Instead of attacking, he took two steps and thrust his burning banner into our own, setting our flag alight. I knew it was a fair response to Old Lady Penny's arson, but our banner represented our tribe, and lighting it afire lit my anger afire. I aimed at the Emerald banner bearer. I was ready to gun him down, no matter the cost.

 

The Emerald King calmed everyone down. He threw down his weapons and stepped in the middle of our tribes with his arms raised. He told us we were all fools, and that our enemies were beyond the barricades of Port LeCroix, not here on the banks of Fuit Egou. We breathed a collective sigh of relief. The Emerald king was earnest and eloquent enough to prevent widespread bloodshed, but we desperately needed a diversion from the present circumstances, or the fragile peace would shatter. Old Lady Penny provided such a diversion. The crazy old bat had stepped aside when the Emerald king had started speaking, but everyone had kept on eye on her, as she had started this mess in the first place. She had meandered off to the side and started pulling at an old tarp at the top of a pile of debris. The old crone turned and stared at me with a piercing stare that took me aback a pace with its intensity. She commanded, "Jokamo, come help me with this tarp. Now!" I went over to do as she said, and was amazed at what I saw.

 

Beneath the tarp was a stack of banners. The banners were of a material I've never seen, fine and billowy. They were black embroidered with gold and brass thread. They depicted an eight-pointed star on one side and an open fanged mouth on the other. Needless to say they were of a quality far exceeding Old Lady Penny's needlework. As I brought the first banner up to inspect, the crowds started gathering around me. Old Lady Penny announced to them, "We march on the Imperials behind the only banner to ever defeat them. We march behind the flag of the Black Maw!" The banners were passed around to the tribes and affixed to the standards of the tribes, even the singed ones. While the banners were remarkable, what was underneath them was more so. Sealed crates marked with letters foreign to Low Gothic, contained well oiled heavy stubbers, and belts of ammunition to feed them. These too were passed around to the tribes of The World. Tonight, we would march on the Imperials under potent arms and a united banner. Tonight, The World would tremble.

 

Note.

I've had the Rain Man soundtrack stuck in my head for a little while, and have unsuccessfully tried to exorcise it with a story.

 

My grandma and your grandma, sitting by the bayou,

My grandma says to your grandma, "I'm going to set your flag on fire.",

See my king all dressed in red,

I bet you give dollars he'll kill you dead,

My flag boy and your flag boy, sitting by the bayou,

My flag boy says to your flag boy, "I'm going to set your flag on fire."'

See my king all dressed in green,

He's not a man he's a loving machine,

 

Hey now, hey now, Iko Iko unday,

jakamo fi an a day jakamo fi an day,

 

I hope the song doesn't seem too forced into the story. If not, a bunch of heretics will die in the next installment. :)

Edited November 7, 2017 by Carrack

[Carrack]

Duty

Level 45

 

"Heretics, 9 O'clock, 30 meters! Do your duty!" Main Gunner quickly swiveled the turret and poured a stream of His holy Wrath into a squad carrying a stubber up the exposed staircase of a ruined building. Left Sponson added in a burst of heavy bolts to finish off the scum that survived Main Gunner's punisher cannon fire. Loader cursed from beneath the turret, as another hot brass casing missed its makeshift catch-bag and found its way underneath his armor and overalls, somehow finding its way to sear the sensitive flesh near his armpit, something about it burning worse than the ladies of Port LeCroix. I'd have to look up Loader's real name to report him to the confessor for extraordinary repentance for his particularly foul mouth. I stopped learning their names after Minos V. My driver's name however, Trooper Larvence, I had the misfortune of already knowing all too well, as did most officers of the regiment. Miraculously without having to be told, he accelerated through the street to the entrance of the square, braking just before exposing us to any potential ambush.

 

Pennymar's Square was the objective of mission. It was a broad open square that was situated along the border of Port LeCroix and the Contested Zone, the dividing line between what was within the Light of the Emperor, and what was in shadow on level 45 of the ruins of Calebra Hive. Port LeCroix included most of the southern half of the level, from the gaping breech in the outer wall to the barricades and concertina that bisected the level, cutting through the north side of Pennymar's Square, the same barricades that the heretic had overrun and pushed a salient into the ruins on the south side of the open square. Port LeCroix was where the rogue trader by the same name had landed his launches and lifters directly through the outer wall breech, in order to exploit salvage and recovery efforts in the devastated mega hive without having to land in more established, and tariffed, landing zones. The port teemed with sleazy businessmen looking to strike it rich, eager colonists hoping to start their new lives, and us, the members of the Cadian 112th who were pledged to LeCroix for seven years following our rescue from the fall of Minos V.

 

In contrast the Contested Zone was a tribal region of local scavengers, savages who at one time were beholden to various outside benefactors like agents from one of the world's lesser hives, or rival rouge traders competing with LeCroix over recovered art and salvaged technology. Whoever their original masters were, the gangs all had a new one now, the Arch-Enemy of Man. Where the gangs used to steal, raid, even occasionally trade with Port LeCroix, now they were laying an organized siege. Where they used to be motivated by greed, now they cared only for our deaths. Where they used to be a motley collection of gangs following banners in their tribal colors, now they marched behind flags of black and gold. Pennymar's Square could not be allowed to remain in their hands.

 

 

 

As I crept into the square, it was obvious that the Emperor had given me plenty of heretics to slay. Lines of them were hustling chunks of rubble, plastiboard, and spools of wire across the square to fortify their newly seized buildings on the south side of Pennymar's Square. Desultory fire was being exchanged between heretics in those buildings and our infantry from further south. None of the heretics in the square were even looking in our direction. We had outflanked the enemy. I gave the command to fire at will. Main Gunner let them have it with long bursts that walked along the lines of heretics like a well worn path. Nothing in His arsenal was as satisfying as a good burst from a punisher cannon. Main Gunner diligently lingered the cannon on clumps of heretics, and jerked it quickly over the more sparsely spaced sections of their line. His control was beautiful. With less artistry, but equal effectiveness, Left and Right Sponsons started digging out the enemy from the buildings, shooting heavy bolts through open doorways, broken out windows, and boarded over gaps in the walls. Even Loader added to the fray with the hull mounted heavy bolter, although it was unclear what exactly he was shooting at. He would need some remedial training on target acquisition post mission to go along with his extraordinary repentance.

 

As the heretics were scattered and cut down, the call came across the vox that 1st and 2nd platoon were advancing north into the occupied buildings. I shifted our fire to protect our infantry, and directed Trooper Larvence to move along the edge of the square to cover the streets the heretics had been entering from. He gave it a little extra promethium to get to the first street, Bourbon Street, braking the right track first at its entrance, so my tank would pivot into position with my front armor to the enemy. The turn wasn't fast enough. A pair of melta beams hissed into my right track and slagged road wheels, and fused tracks and suspension, fixing us into place mid-turn. It was a mobility kill for us, but my duty was not yet done, for I still had guns with which to hammer His foes with.

 

I Ignored Trooper Larvence's impious language, and rotated the turret to face up the lane. Right Sponson was franticly firing with a complete lack of discipline. He would melt the barrel on the heavy bolter if he kept it up much longer. I didn't have time to instruct Right Sponson, because what appeared to be a battalion sized element was moving down the lane towards our now fixed position. The heretics closest were carrying tools and materials to fortify the south of the square, like the ones we had just wiped out, but the ones behind them were pushing up crew served weapons and field artillery carriages. There were hundreds of them. The Emperor had blessed me with abundant targets.

 

Main Gunner started playing the punisher across the front ranks of the heretics, cutting them down like 50 meter targets in front of a shock trooper's qualification range. Some of the rounds would pierced straight through the lightly armored pioneers and into the men behind them, felling both with a single shot. While Main Gunner worked the closest ranks first, Loader used the hull heavy bolter to start in on the crew served weapon teams further back, mostly heavy stubbers, but at least a few missile teams as well. I yelled for Trooper Larvence to assist with the main gun, as Loader was busy and their was no further need for a driver, then tried to calm Right Sponson. He was unresponsive to my commands for distance and direction, he just ignored me and kept blasting large caliber mass reactive shells out of his weapon. I think he was fervently praying. I popped my hatch to take a look myself.

 

I breathed in a cloud of acrid gun smoke as my ears were assaulted by the whine of the cannon cycling retribution on to His foes. Maybe it was the glare of the flashing cannon and heavy bolters, but I could not identify whatever target Right Sponson was shooting at. As I reached inside for my handheld optics, Trooper Larvence threw open the driver's hatch, shouting that the crawl space that went from behind his seat to the turret was filled with brass casings. He pulled himself onto the tank, keeping his head low to avoid the heat pouring off the barrels of my cannon, and started to scurry over the turret to the loader's hatch. Something hit him in the side of his head underneath his helmet and showered my face with blood and flecks of skull. I was momentarily stunned by the loss of my latest driver, and watched in fascination the lazy arc of a grenade being tossed into his hatch. I snapped out of my daze as I recognized what was happening and tried to leap out of my own hatch. The cord from my vox headset yanked me back awkwardly in time to hear the "krumping" of the krak grenade, but thankfully the rapidly growing heaps of brass casings that had filled the crawl space between the driver's seat and the turret, contained the blast enough not to kill me or keep my gunners from firing. The neck wringing from my vox cord had clearly been a sign from the Emperor to remember my duty, so I called in the enemy position and numbers across the regimental net.

 

"Hold the line!" Was the command from the Old Man, as expected. The rest of his instructions were broken up by the sound of two more melta beams sizzling into my tank, one hitting the base of the turret just above the hull, and the other somewhere into Right Sponson's position. I called for crew status and only heard Loader's cursing. Main Gunner, Right Sponson, and unexplainably, Left Sponson were all silent. That's when I noticed the searing pain and smell of burning flesh coming from my hip. I glanced down and saw bone, it was bad, probably not survivable without immediate evacuation to the regimental medicae. Yet in spite of the pain, the sounds of battle, my impending failure to hold the line as ordered, and the utter hopelessness of the situation, a sense of calm overtook me. For the first time since the ambush I thought clearly. I had been attacked with melta beams, and krak grenades, and lost Trooper Larvence to what must have been a bolt pistol shot. This meant two things; the enemy was better armed than the autogun and stubber armed rabble I had faced so far, and that they were in close range.

 

My tank was destroyed, most of my crew killed, my mission had failed, and myself mortally wounded, yet my resolve was unbreakable. Unfortunately, my body wasn't, my hip gave out and I fell to the deck of the tank, losing a few teeth on the edge of the turret on my way down. I burnt my fingers on the piles of hot brass that had not properly ejected into the punisher's catch bag, and as I slid my fingers away to find a cooler purchase, my fingers grasped a heavy bolt. The bolt must have been a rare misfire, because it's rocket had never fired, even though its warhead was clearly armed. The Emperor provides. I spun the bolt in my hands to fool its machine spirit into thinking it had traveled far enough to safely detonate, then hurled it back towards the engine access hatch. It struck true, but didn't explode on impact, it merely fell to the deck next to the engine access hatch. I looked up to Him on Terra and instead saw a monstrously sized black armored gauntlet, trimmed in gold filigree, reaching down for me from the opened commander's hatch. The thrown bolt then exploded a second late, catching leaking promethium afire and flashing flames into the turret of the tank, burning me alive in agonizing flames. The last thing I heard was the drums of ammunition from our magazine cooking off from the heat and shooting in every direction, and hopefully into my killers. My duty had ended.

[Carrack]

 

 

 

 

 

Absent

 

Calebra Hive

 

 

 

 

 

++ From the audience hall of Felix Valencia-Cabezo, Lord Governor Valencia-Valencia's official cartographer of Calebra Hive, Demi Palace, Level 103. ++

 

 

 

"Level -27? I think it's called Absent." - Felix Valencia Cabezo.

 

"Level -27 is called Absent because at some point it and every level below were officially ignored by the Lord Commander. No further attempts were made to take census, enforce law and order, or even perform the most rudimentary of hive services like keeping the streetlights lit. Level -27 became absent from the official record. That's why you won't get any information on it from our office." - Cameron de la Lumina, scribe to the official cartographer of Calebra Hive.

 

 

++ From the lounge of the Resèt Paresseux, den of inequity in Port LeCroix, Level 45. ++

 

“The Obscura from Absent is absent of impurities. It's the source of the fabled Black Obscura of Calebra Hive." - Gav, proprietor of Resèt Paresseux.

 

“I made it down to -27 early this year by climbing an old lift’s service ladder and busting through a chained up hatch. The whole level was pitch dark, not just from burned out streetlights, but no lighted signs or even a glow from a window in sight. It was absent of all light. My torch started flickering. I heard whispering voices in the darkness. I turned tail and booked it back the way I came. I put the chains back in place when I got back through the hatch.” -Morden, underhive delver and dealer in recovered art.

 

"During the war, when General Handerly mobilized the under hive, he got gangers from -1 to -26 to enlist in exchange for amnesty. Not a single underhiver from -27 or below enlisted to fight the Enemy. -27 was absent from the muster, hence the name." - Sergeant Ivander, aged veteran and arms dealer.

 

 

Esplanade Market, Port LeCroix, Level 45.

“If you’re from -27, you can turn around and leave, absent from my affections, and I don’t care how much money you got.” -Carolyn, lady of the evening of no particular quality or note.

 

“I’ve brokered transactions worth more money than you will ever see here in Calebra Hive. I’ve bought and sold the entire remaining collection from the Mann estate. I’ve sponsored an expedition to Calebra Hive’s original grand cathedral. I have recovered more artwork from the ruins of this hive than any other dealer in this port, and I’ll tell you this, in all of my experience, there is nothing of worth from level -27. It’s absent of all profit. Unless your interested in obscura...” -Justin Chavis, dealer of antiquities.

 

“Level -27 is absent from the Emperor’s light. It’s as if the Imperium of Man’s border ended at the level above. Certainly the rest of the underhive is a dreadful, sinful place, but Absent is different. It’s stain is far darker than the scum and grime of the rest of the underhive. Mutants walk the streets without concern, as if the profaning their humanity was of no consequence. Blasphemy is uttered from the lips of all, without heed to the malicious power of invoking the names of the dark four. Sorcery isn’t practiced in secret by misanthropic fools, but openly performed by the level’s leaders.

 

Yet unfortunately, it’s not the pervasive sin that marks Absent as the worse level of the underhive, for even before the war, there were levels as dreadful as -27 is today. What is so horrid about Absent is the level’s ignorance. They don’t know that the form of man is sacred. They don’t know that worshiping daemons is foul. They don’t know that witchcraft is abhorrent. For the wretches of Level -27, it’s as if the Emperor didn’t even exist, it’s as if Horus had won. Level -27 is absent of His victory. -Cameron Gands, lunatic and mendicant preacher.

[deathspectersgt7]

Cool an Update . Absent sounds like Detroit.