[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard carefully took the weapon in his hand. As it always had, it naturally fit in his grip, perfectly balanced. Perhaps fractionally heavier… or was he just instinctively aware of its newly enhanced killing potential?

 

He released and reloaded the shorter clip. Standard charge. Good. While he didn't agree with Karthago about not using hotshots, there wasn't any point in wasting one on a test range. Calmly he lined up on a target placed for just such a purpose on the far wall, breathed out and gently squeezed the trigger.

 

Spoiler

Half Aim+Single Shot
BS41 +10(RDS) +10(Short Range) +20(Accurate Aim) = 81, Roll: 55, Hit with 2DoS
Dam 1d10+3 +1d10(Accurate)
4+3+6=13

 

 

Effortless, and certainly a superior level of penetration, a neat hole drilled in the target, centre mass. He smiled, very happy with the gunsmith's work. Karthago had even polished it up, removing a layer of dirt and grease from all over the pistol.

 

As Reynard turned it over in his hands, he noticed something that he had not thought about in many years. A long rectangular plaque, in Corynthian bronze, had been revealed running down the side of the grip. The metal now shone like honey. Delicate filigree and a few engraved letters, long since scratched and filed away by a crude, angry hand, could still just barely be seen.

 

    n   ae

 

No way for Karthago to bring that back. Good. Reynard felt a bitter taste in his mouth, but quashed it immediately. He holstered the weapon and smiled widely at the gunsmith, pulling out payment without any argument.

 

"Beautiful work, sir, you have my thanks. I have no doubt it will serve me well in whatever comes next."

 

The roof of the store began to shudder suddenly, the low growl of turbines spinning somewhere not too far above.

 

"Speaking of… that's my ride."

 

As he left the suppliers and walked towards the landing pad, his fingers caressed the stock. After a moment he drew the gun and switched out the clip for one of the newly charged hotshot packs.

 

Ready for anything.

 

 

Edited April 22, 2023 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Falk concluded his walk of the periphery as the Valkyrie swooped in, though he doubted another attempt would take place in the courtyard with so many eyes and barrels at the ready.

 

The rest of the journey was more questionable as even here as arbites control of the streets and buildings beyond was tenuous at best. Setting down the last of his kaff he turned his attention to the landing point as he cast his gaze systematically between each approach and overlook marking the positions of any arbites present and missing.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Gallows:

 

As Falk watches, a man stumbles out of the ablutions block, blood coming from his ears. A towel wrapped around his waist for decency, his face is bruised, lips mangled. A livid purple wheal mars his forehead, and he topples to the ground, unnoticed by anyone else - since the abs block is towards the back of the compound for obvious reasons.

 

On a parapet, one of the Arbites unslings what appears to be a scoped needle rifle and vanishes from sight into the comms tower.

 

The top of the comms tower contains windows facing each of the cardinal compass points, with the eastern window overlooking the landing pad. From the parapet where the oddly armed Judge vanished, there are three floors to the top.

Edited April 22, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Already moving to investigate and over secure comms, "Nicios, man down at the ablutions block. Reynad, comms tower east point, overwatch. Scourge, stay close to Gwynne at watch the other approaches."

 

The general comms by comparison were at risk of interception, but local knowledge went a long way. "Judge Cole, report status". It had not been practical to review the full staff here but each point had a designation and senior officer. 'Cole' was not a judge but the comm tower itself, standard procedure in the presence of a suspected vox thief.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

When his microbead buzzed, Reynard was just entering the landing field. At Falk's warning, he didn't waste time arguing but immediately edged around to the shadows on the east side of the cleared area, giving himself the best possible view up at the tower. He dropped to one knee and drew his pistol, targeting the window. Who would have thought he might need to use it so soon?

 

+++What am I looking for, Falk?+++

 

 

Spoiler

Full Aim.

Awareness Test?
Per28 +10(Awareness+10) +10(HS: Sight) = 48, Roll: 80, Fail. 
FP Reroll: 26, Success with 2DoS.

 

 

 

Edited April 22, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

The Gallows:

 

The vox tinkles back in Falk's ear. +Cole responding. All units switch to channel three immediately, repeat -+

 

The female comms officer is cut off. A male voice comes back online.

 

+Comms secured. All units remain at standby on this frequency. Infiltrator apprehended, exfil operation to continue.+

[Mazer Rackham]

The Mars Class Battlecruiser Crimson Dawn, Port launch bay, Hanger 04/06:

 

Solomon 1071:

 

The squad of Naval Armsmen fall in behind you as ordered, spilling from bunks and berths to obey.  Above the klaxon beating the ship to Quarters, you hear the humanity. your boots, hammering out the navy regulation cadence, and the jostle of ten men's equipment. The sound echoes in the confines of a Battlecruiser's corridors. Light spills through bulkhead doors, painting crimson lozenges onto the scuffed, non-slip plasteel floor. Head up in marching posture, you can feel the raised 'hounds' tooth' pattern of the scuffed and oil-stained chequered plating under your boots give way to the composite, smooth ceramite and metal of a launch deck. Vents hiss as you pass by, steam from the mechanisms deep within the trembling steel beast strikes your face, your clothes. You can smell the starch of the navy laundry serfs.

 

You know where you're going of course. How many will die this time? Maybe you will. It doesn't matter.

 

As your section breaks from the tight passageways you call home, the stink of aerofuel and burned metal surpasses al else, even the sudden sweat of exertion from your men. You erupt into the hangar, a haunting, place echoing with industry and hollow voices of generations of men and women before. Old Ghosts. It doesn't matter which hangar, you know each intimately, from the peeling paint, to the rust spot that looks like a face on panel #441b. So many actions breaking out into the void, in Shark assault boats, or deck transfers.

 

You pick your spot, slow and mark time, turn, slam to attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see other sections doing the same thing, piling into armoured Arvus Lighters. They suffer inspection from deck and flight officers. Your squad remains at attention as the Lieutenant approaches, wrapped in their Breacher equipment, weapons slung, kit packed in sturdy navy duffles. That's appropriate - since you've all been called into to help quell unrest in a hive. One steel tunnel is much the same as another.

 

The lieutenant stops in front of you, Solomon, comes to attention, salutes. "Section 41!" she says, "move to Arvus 2-93, and embark. Sergeant, hold fast."

 

The section turns, and marches away without you.

 

Leaving you.

 

Again.

 

The female officer hands you a dataslate. "You're to ride in transport Valkyrie 212, which is going to Hive Primus Spaceport. You are to remain with the airframe until another navy pilot can take over. Don't ask questions, don't do anything stupid, and may the God-Emperor have mercy on your soul."

 

GM: @Marshal Valkenhayn go ahead and put any thoughts, feelings or concerns Solomon 1071 has, and if you wish, go ahead and describe a rapid Valkyrie drop planetside, Have your post finish with arrival in the spaceport, where you pull up next to a heavily customised, and magnificently armed private gun-cutter. (This is the Voivode). Please feel free to ask questions or for more guidance in the OOC.

Edited April 22, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"Sniper, but we may have him. Watch for anyone with weapons out of the ordinary and don't get tunnel vision, it may just be a decoy."

 

It may also be an opportunity if he had been taken alive, on comms, "bring the suspect to ground level, expedited interrogation".

[Mazer Rackham]

The Gallows:

 

Falk:

 

+Wilco,+ the man replies. +Will be about five minutes, chief.+

 

His voice is distorted, possibly by a respirator.

Edited April 22, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Marshal Valkenhayn]

Standing at attention with his squad at his back, Solomon feels the familiar ripple of trepidation washing out from the men. That jittery flutter that comes over soldiers before battle, fills heads with doubts normally buried beneath the reassuring weight of sanity. But sanity has no place in war, and thus freed of the warm trappings of the mundane, ones imagination will soar.

 

The officer stops before them, and muscles tense within armor with a subtle creak of straps. A bracing of spines as each man prepares himself for the order that may condemn him to death. These are brave men. Not one among them lets the fear show on their face.

 

A single barked order and his men are stripped from him, off to act as the infallible hand of the Emperor's Justice. He has prepared them as best as he can. Knows that their next few moments will be a blur of weapons checks, stowed gear, and testing the seals of their armor. Knows also the mixed relief and dread they will be feeling as they internalize him not being with them. Is this it then, the day when none of them return? Or has the Sword of Damocles finally shifted to hover over another squad's neck?

 

He will miss them.

 

Light grey eyes flick to the officer's face for only a moment, then down to the tablet as she hands it across. A bit of spit applied to his gloved thumb and the tablet flashes beneath his touch, encoded orders decrypting to confirm what he has already been told. Escort duty.

 

"Sir." he acknowledges, voice low and rough. Perhaps another man would have had questions to quash, but Solomon 1071 does not. Curiosity, in his experience, too often leads to answers. And answers lead to pain.

 

A swipe of his gloved hand locks the dataslate before it is tucked into a side pocket of his duffle. That same hand lifts, saluting his superior, and then he is off at a quick walk. The glitter of gold at his chest clears most men from his path as he strides through the bay, service skull glaring out from the radiant ring of his badge. But even if he didn't have a 10-year badge his fellow breachers would recognize him as a veteran. Only a score or so men amidst the assault teams have armor with so many ripples and ridges across the carapace, the shades of black subtly mottled where gouges were filled and painted over at various stages of his service. 

 

"Solomon." comes the odd greeting, accompanied by nods of heads both helmeted and bare.

 

Breaking away from the organized chaos, Solomon 1071 unclasps his helmet from his belt and pulls it down over his mess of brown hair, the extra cushioning helping to settle it just right. Seals hiss and a breath of metallic air is pumped into his mask, system cycling once to insure all is well. 

 

Still alive.

 

Switching the vents open on his helmet, he returns to breathing atmosphere as his magboots pound up the Valkyrie's metal ramp, Comm-Bead clicking over to the craft's personal frequency.

 

"Aboard. Prepare to launch." He instructs, slapping a palm against the hatch toggle. 

 

As the heavy ramp whines closed behind him, he steps over to the wall and unslings his duffle. Securing it in a pocket of webbing, he plants himself beside it and  begins tugging straps around and across his body, fastening himself securely into place. Already he can hear the chatter of his pilot conveying their intentions, negotiating one-sidedly with the craft's machine spirit. Chanting the hems of departure.

 

Idly, he checks the time.

 

The girl sounds young.

 

Lift off confirms it.

 

Showing no lack of zeal in her duties, the Valkyrie's pilot hurls them into space at speed, wheeling them into a turn that flips gravity on its side and forces Solomon hard against the straps of his harness. Pulling several Gs, the vessel hurtles toward the planet as if excited to meet it, blasting through roiling clouds of smog as it arrows down from the heavens on a gently curving approach to the spaceport. 

 

"ETA 1 Minute!" comes the pilot's high, strained voice, words buzzing with a mixture of planetary interference, excitement, and the violent vibration of the craft.

 

Beginning a mental countdown, Solomon grips the harness's quick release and braces his boots against the floor, anchoring himself against the extreme Gs he knows are coming. 

 

At 25 seconds to touchdown his stomach attempts to crawl down through the deck, bones groaning against the strain of the reversing thrusters. 

 

At 10 seconds he tugs the quick release, forcing his body to move through increased gravity as he grabs a dangling strap and reaches to slap the ramp toggle.

 

At 5 seconds he sways on the spot, grip tightening on the strap as the Gs level off, craft rocking above the ground. He checks the time.

 

And finally, with the ramp already lowered, the Valkyrie finishes its descent to hover beside  the Voivode, jets screaming as the black and maroon form of Solomon steps into view at the open hatchway, combat shotgun hanging behind his right elbow, boarding axe and pistol at his belt. The lenses of his helmet glow a soft green as he turns his head, taking in the mass of female figures, as well as the lone male swinging a stick around on approach to his craft. 

 

His orders are clear. Stay with the bird, greet the new pilot. The chaos below is no concern of his. At least, not as far as he knows.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Spaceport:

 

Solomon:

 

The Valkyrie's engines are hardly spooling down when everyone piles out, and even the young pilot disappears. Doors open to the hive environment,  ariot of smells from the mass of different humanity assails your nostrils. Then you catch the faint whiff of liquor.

 

You hear him first, a tall man, who suddenly rounds the corner. Bedecked in a leather flying jacket over his pilot pressure suit, his sidearm, a sleek stub automatic is across his chest in a rib harness. He takes another swig out of his flask.

 

"Morning," he says, quite jovial, "hell of a day so far?"

 

He ignores any reply, instead clambering up and over into the pilot throne. He sits for several heartbeats, looking at the different controls and switches.

 

"Solomon, is it? I'm Cutter. Usually, we'd take the Voivode," he points to the beast sitting alongside you, but the boss wants casual."

 

He flicks a couple of switches experimentally.  When they do nothing, he purses his lips.

 

"Casual," he repeats, although this is wrapped in dismissive whimsy.

Edited April 22, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Back on secure to the others, "Local comms compromised, secure Gwynne and watch all angles".

 

Switching to hand singles he singled out the nearest arbiter to run the warning to the duty officer and several others to his side. The corden remained untouched, Gwynnes protection, remained untouched.

 

Under his breath, "maintain visual formation, floor check, someone get an auger in here". As the first went in he turned to look back across the courtyard for spotters, wondering if comms to the valkyrie were still secure.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Gallows:

 

Falk:

 

The Judge catches your signal, and very definitively nods. He signals to some others, before striding to the command complex. Another Judge swiftly uncases an auspex device, and two more Judges, plus the auspex operator join you, steadily closing to to give support, carefully readying weapons.

 

It's as nonchalant as an Arbites can be.

 

"On your lead, Magistrate," the tallest says. He is wiry, but shares the grim-faced set of chin beneath his helmet.

 

The Augurman readies his equipment, all business, but defers to you. "What criteria should I set, sir?"

 

Reynard:

 

The South-facing window at the top of the comms tower opens slowly, and fixes in that position.

Edited April 22, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard looked upwards.

 

"Falk, east window's shut up tight, no visible apertures. Armaglas, right? I don't think anyone's shooting through it, could be right about a deco… hold on!" he hissed, "south window is opening!"

 

Fractionally he shifted his aim, searching for any sign of an enemy. At the same time he tried to picture what a sniper might see looking in that direction, what mark they might be lining up on. Surely they couldn't hit Gwynne from that angle?

 

"Waiting for a target. Standing by."

 

Edited April 22, 2023 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"Explosives", he readied his shotgun and signaled to the rest, "bounding overwatch, third floor, respirators if you have them".

 

Comms, "Scourge stay on Gwynne".

Edited April 22, 2023 by A.T.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Gallows:

 

Reynard:

 

Even as you watch on, you realise that the window has no angle for a sniper, bar leaning out, and holding onto the sill by his toes. In the dim and distant past, such a thing was done by an assassin called Kletus Harvello-Wald, a disgraced Imperial Guardsman, when he executed the Premier of Meridia in his ground car, as he passed by a librarium. Some say it was his accomplice, Graysei Knohl, but the truth is lost to time.

 

Dismissing such trivia, you see the method in the madness. There is an Arbites flag flying in the middle of the parade square to the south of the comms tower. Artificial wind, is still a ballistic influence, after all.

[Marshal Valkenhayn]

The Spaceport:

"Hrmh." is Solomon's only reply, weary grey eyes tracking the taller man as he breezes past to take his position on the throne. The glowing green of his eye lenses shows nothing of the chilly hardening of that gaze as alcoholic fumes roll off of the other man.

Perhaps that is why he is here? To handle this, Pilot, before he gets someone killed. Men should take their indulgences when off duty. Not when preparing to fly.

Turning to follow Cutter to the front of the craft, Solomon steps up on the man's right side and checks his progress at a glance. Even as he does he speaks up for the first time, rough voice further harshened by the muffled echo of his vented helm.

"You drunk, Cutter?"

**  Piloting (Military Craft): 38+10 =48  -  Rolled: 8  -  4 Degrees Success  **

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk:

 

"Aye, sir!" They reply almost in unison, and they immediately draw respirators and clip them to the helmets.  Hard blowing out shows the gear is sealed, and their guns come up.

 

The first one moves to a barricade five metres away, weapon trained on the windows. "Go!"

 

The next man moves, running past him by three metres, skidding to the base of what was once a substantial planter. He gets to his knees, covers the comms tower front door. "Go!"

 

They do not shout. Professional. The crowd escorting Gwynne doesn't even notice. As you watch the men move forward, you see the Duty Officer appear, armed and armoured, he is close enough to the comms tower to close with the base wall, and sneak across it in the lee. two more Judges are with him.

 

You are up next.

 

GM: You can just take this narratively, but it's a Run just short of the door. There is a convenient spot behind a low wall where the group can rendezvous. Just for orientation, you're approaching from the south-east corner of the comms tower.

[Mazer Rackham]

The spaceport:

 

Solomon:

 

As you peer over Cutter's shoulder, you realise he's actually keeping one thumb over the safety rune, a button fixed to allow pilots to train on real airframes without writing anything off. He's been conning you. The pilot grins, produces his flask and tips the small drips onto his palm, before dabbing them onto his face, like aftershave.

 

"Not drunk, Sergeant. Just a mouth wet. My boss likes to test his recruits a little, and so this was a quick and dirty. When you work for the Inquisition, nothing is as it seems. It's a whole different world."

 

His hands fly over the controls with speed and precision, and the Valkyrie fires up without a hitch, turbines hammering to power.

 

"You can take the second chair if you like. Good to know they sent me someone who knows his way around a stick."

 

He gently pulls back, and the aircraft lifts into a steady hover, the canopies and doors closing with a soft seal hiss of pressure, dropping the interior into arterial scarlet.

[Marshal Valkenhayn]

The Valkyrie:

Stony features set in an unamused frown, Solomon takes a moment to absorb this, his expressionless helmet giving very little away. On the one hand, he isn't fond of this kind of thing. Pranks, misdirection. It hasn't set well with him since, since he was a kid. The best path is the most direct one. And yet, something about Cutter's mannerisms, the way he invites him to take the second chair, does reach across that chilly gulf to the small part of him that takes comfort in the presence of others.

Without a word spoken, Solomon lifts his right hand from his hatchet, the motion having been partially concealed by his body, and steps heavily around the co-pilot's throne. Sinking down into the seat, he buckles himself in, checks his gauges, and finally decides to speak, voice crackling over the Valkyrie's local network.

"Solomon 1071. What's our target?"

[Mazer Rackham]

Valkyrie 212:

 

Cutter nods at the introduction. "Retrieval, high-value asset. We're also tasked with picking up the rest of the Acolyte Cell."

 

He eases the bird around, and takes it outside into the atmosphere, before banking to the left, fighting turbulence, describing a long turn along the periphery of the hive, the monolithic mega-construction a giant solitary tooth in the gums of Damocles' meaty earth. Not so solid, perhaps, considering two hives had already been lost. Peering at the vector data for the craft, you can see he's going to take the airframe back into the hive via the construction access.

 

"Best way to get around the core heat sink shaft," Cutter continues, "We'll be heading through the Hollow, a large open area that gives the middle hivers a grand view, before diving down into the lower reaches for pickup at a place called the Gallows."

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Tapping the auspex operator on the shoulder Falk moves quickly up taking position on one side of the door, lever within arms reach.

 

The scan was a formality, frag trap training was carried out with live munitions and would not breach the structure of the door-frame unless your were foolish enough to stand in the path of the blast. A brick of fyceline was a different matter and he awaited his counterparts signal.

 

The momentary lapse enough to pass a few words to the duty officer, "activity spotted top floor but comms are compromised. Possible decoy, we need to get Gwynne on that Valkyrie or out of the square now."

[Mazer Rackham]

The Gallows:

 

Falk:

 

The Duty officer nods. "Word of mouth," he tells one of the men with him. "Get Lady Gwynne back inside. Quickly, but no fuss. Call it a rehearsal drill or something. Move!"

 

The man bounds away, keeping close to cover and out of sight of the windows.

 

Can all Players in the Gallows give me a Difficult (-10) Perception Test, please.

[Marshal Valkenhayn]

Valkyrie 212:

"Roger." is Solomon's grunted response, the veteran taking a moment to familiarize himself with the on board auspecs systems and any available weapons. Trusting the mechanics of getting them there to the pilot, there is very little for him to do but remain vigilant.

That, and digest the simple fact that he is no longer in the Navy. Suddenly and with minimal warning he has been cut adrift, tossed into a world of secrets and games, made a part of a cell that he knows nothing about.

And yet he does not pray for safety. He has already received his miracle. If this is where the Emperor wishes him to be, then it is where he shall be. Nothing left but the doing of his immortal will.

[A.T.]

Falk

 

What was their play, and why so desperate to get to Gwynne?

 

Awareness/Perception: roll 8 vs (47-10) - pass with two extra