[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

The rhythmic clutter of the empty rail was a good guide, in so much that it was no doubt returning to the holding area, and one ignored the nature of its completed task. Servitors made from vat grown stock for the task was one thing, even the use convicted criminals, as was the practise in some areas of the Imperium, was sanctioned. This was otherwise, a desperation move, army or workforce was not clear yet, but Bardas suspected it did not matter, numbers did.

 

The passageway grew sparser, there were no servitors working here but the empty racks continued on their journey, swaying slight from each bump and rattle as they transferred from one rail to the next.   

 

The first set of pens he found were empty, the muck and detritus showed that they usually housed grox or some other cattle while they waited to be rendered down into quality nutrient broth for those whose status required something better than soylant rations. However amongst the muck there was detritus that spoke of more recent occupants, a button, some coins, a shooe.

 

The next set was likewise barren, and the next.

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"We must assume that by now the golem controls access lifts, security doors. The ducting has no such protection once inside, mag clamps and lascutters could allow a small group egress if the forces inside were distracted".

 

"Now we just need a target"

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Reynard's voice crackled back through the vox to him, music to his ears. They were being menaced by the Golem directly! 

 

"Attend, comrades! 'Twere Reynard over the vox! He and Lady Gwynne art under duress! Onward to Bastion 3!" 

 

 

 

OOC: Oof! Bad rolls all around, lads! Another comedy of errors is soon to follow… XD

 

Scrutiny Test: 36 (Per)/2 = 18

Scrutiny: 1d100 64: fail, 4 DoF

Edited May 28, 2023 by Necronaut

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Taking the plate from Falk, Nicios sent his mind into the piece of metal.

Spoiler

Psyniscience Test 

Target - 46

Roll - 83

Result = Fail, 4 DoF

Fate die spent, re-roll

Roll - 22

Result = Pass, 2 DoS

 

The metal was infused with Warp traces, disgusting and bloody in shape.

[Machine God]

Halls of Judgement Precinct Square

 

Kerr Restal

 

"Yes Scourge, very believable. Our comms were compromised when we were assaulting Grey 17 and this bunch" motioning to Greyson and One-Zero. "That's why we initiated Battle-Cant to run silent."

 

"Yet now we are back at the Halls Of Judgement that is under attack by foreign forces, the Vox is working ok?"

 

"Really?"

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Scourge bristled at his compatriot's unpleasant demeanour; were he still amongst the convicts of the penal legions, such a brazen challenge would have necessitated bloodshed to save face. It had been foolish of him to contact Reynard, but he needed to do something. A man of action does not happily sit idly by. 

 

"Thank thee for thy cutting insight, cur. And yet thou sitteth upon thy hands, accomplishing naught! We must needs reach Lady Gwynne and our liege lord. Share thy brilliance with the rest of us, if thou wouldst!" 

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal

 

Let Scourge rant, he's trying to hold it together!

 

 

Kerr Restal attempted something. Calmly he examined the augur-prosecutor, he ran a diagnostic of the device.

 

He attempted to link it with his vox-bead in order to boost and encrypt the signal. He prayed that he would be successful.

 

 

 

 

INT 33 +0 (Tech Use) +20 (Auspex) +10 (Fate Point [Charmed, 1d10 = 9. Force Point not used up]) -20 (Hard difficulty) = 43. Result: 03, Pass 4DoS

 

 

 

+++Cutter, Restal. Squad at Halls of Justice, Precinct Square. Requesting Extraction. Send Sitrep, Over+++

 

 

 

 

Edited May 29, 2023 by Machine God
typo

[Mazer Rackham]

The Precinct:

 

Restal:

 

Restal's ministrations using the two devices bear a strange kind of fruit. The Prosecutor Augur being a detecting device would not normally be able to transmit in such a manner but paired with the comm-bead it manages to establish a rudimentary link.

 

However, the nature of the Augur changes the utility of both devices significantly, and it opens a comm-channel to the Voivode's machine spirit, acting as a translator of telemetry and binharic input.

 

//Cell recognised.

//Unit in combat.

//Engaging enemy.

 

The last is capped and coined in a lot of incisive supporting cant and overtones of mechanically imperative invective. If appropriately translated into flesh-speak, it would likely run along the lines of:

 

Spoiler

Voivode: Oh, it's you again. Not now, muppet, I'm engaging targets!

 

A memory.sys.txt report gives an info stream of the last three-hundred executables detailing the commands necessary to desperately blow something dangerous all to hell, while not turning a meatsack into sticky-paint wall decoration.

 

There follows an expletive rarely used within the temples of Man or Omnissiah, which is reserved for the result of stubbing one's bare toe on a particularly sharply angled, and recalcitrant surface in the bathroom.

 

Nicios ONLY:

Spoiler

The presence is revolting. The sense of normality, of duty within the Halls of Judgement is tainted by tendrils of red-bleck darkness, blood in the oil, screams in the engine's bark. The fumes of corruption thicken, and linger here, but this is the outpouring of a wound, a spillage of vomit from the maw of foulness that is the warp.

 

Marionettes, that is what lines the walls and dallies in the guts of shredded heroes. The lines, the strings are sinews twisting on the rancid bone, strangling all within. Knots of flesh being blown asunder as the quick snarky fox jumps over the livid dog...

 

The malodourous taint suffocates about the all-seeing eye, the eagle, enshrined within the eerie of the third castle. They live, and it is frustration that seeps from every oily pore of the dread presence below, in the dark trench, where the abyssal shadow lies, from whence the monster reaches up....

 

Falk:

 

The Proctor rubs his tongue over his teeth, top lip bulging as he does so. "I can't spare the men for an assault and to provide you support."

 

The man known as One-Zero steps in. His air of authority is palpable at this distance, as is the total calm with which he conducts himself. +Two Zero, how about it?+

 

Greyson looks up. "We'll get you in. Just tell us where you want the war."

 

The Iron Catacombs:

You hear the whimpering from the next block of cages. These are not like the last - where before they were holding pens, these have been made from the bones of the mechanicum chambers. Wrought-iron gates, plasteel stanchions, racks of corrugated metal all clawed together by a mind who knows what metal is, but not how to treat it.

 

As you approach one of these ramshackle cages, an adept of the machine-cult emerges from a hidden crevice in the defaced cathedral of steel, and bow-scrapes his way over to you, in ragged shambling, his induction ports leak oil that appears thin, with a reddish hue. His staff of office, if you will is a large tension spanner, the head of which is clotted with thickets of matted hair and skull fragments.

 

GM OOC: We're going to use English, instead of binharic, since it's only machine cultists here, and I'm not wanting to make our audience or players trawl through 407 pages of binary...

 

+Welcome, Provider!+ He greets you with a sweeping, emaciated arm. Sharpened teeth catch the light. +Have you come to bless the chosen?+

 

At this proclamation, dirty, ragged shapes pull away from the cage bars, haunted eyes retreat to the shadow within.

 

The Arbites Hangar:

 

Reynard:

 

The construct ignores you, focusing on the massive hull of the gun-cutter now spooling up it's engines, identifying the real threat, or possibly ignoring it, considering which perspective is taken. Its odd casque parts, and the laser beam hurls out, the discharge enough to flash-fry the air around it for several metres, stealing your breath, and singing the hairs on your exposed flesh.

 

The lascannon strikes the Voivode, shearing down its starboard side, cutting off one pair of the heavy bolters entirely, explosively. The massive weapon cluster spins away from the gunship, in a shower of sparks and hydraulic fluid, before coming back down to the deck in a resounding bell-clang that makes your teeth shake.

 

For the sacrifice, the Voivode howls in Vulcan roar, intakes suddenly rousted to full power, the bird taking to the air, limping, swinging around from the stinging blow. Cutter barely has time to warn you.

 

+Get clear, get clear! The girl's angry!+

 

Then, the hammer of heavy bolters is drowned as the dual, long-barrelled twin autocannons on the hull spit a chunky riot of thunderous shells, carving deck plates, plasteel, rockrete and ceramite anti-spall from the walls, ceiling and floor. It's an utterly vengeful and wasteful and terrifying display of firepower in such an enclosed space.

 

The dust and rubble form an utterly disorientating miasma of impenetrable murk, the sound and fury removing all sense of space and time. Perhaps this is what it feels like for the soldiers fighting the Emperor's wars. Maybe your comrades have more experience of this. When the fusillade finishes, there is the flash of light on metal, as impossibly, the metal beast, half blown to ruin and smouldering fit to explode, latches onto the front of the Voivode with it's single remaining claw, and pulls itself face-to-canopy.

 

+Oh sh-!+ Cutter manages.

 

He yanks the stick, banking the gunship hard over, vanishing into the fog of war, crimson lightning illuminating the pale stormclouds.

 

A heartbeat later, a peal of collision, of tangled metal and hurricane concussion punches you over onto the ground.

 

GM: You are Stunned for One (1) Round (irrelevant as we're in Narrative, but you should represent this as befuddlement in dialogue etc) and must pass a Hard (-20) Willpower Test, or make one roll on the Shock Table.

 

Edited May 29, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Spoiler

Wp Test: Wp25 - 20 = 05, Roll: 04, Pass!   

 

OOC: Literally, that is only the second time in this whole game I've rolled better than 05/100 (or rolled a 20 in d20 terms). It's about damn time...

 

 

Reynard just barely ducked back behind the door frame as the linked autocannons opened fire. The noise was staggering, the air suddenly filled with shrapnel and a thick cloud of pulverised plascrete. Somehow he maintained his wits sufficiently to keep hold of the bodybag's handle, but every sense was momentarily overwhelmed.

 

When he was able to make his limbs move again, he advanced slowly through the ruined portal. Just in time to see the barely functional construct leap atop the gunship and cause it to veer wildly away into the smoke. The sound of a massive impact followed, along with an invisible wave of concussive force that knocked him from his feet.

 

Still half-frazzled by physical and mental strain, Reynard staggered upright and forward into the hangar, still somehow dragging Gwynne behind him.

 

+Cutter… ya' dead?+

 

Edited May 29, 2023 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Falk:

 

Falk held up a hand signalling pause, his eyes on Nicios. "we will know soon enough."

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

"It's difficult. The eagle, the third castle, the dark trench..."

 

Stumbling, Nicios recants the feelings he has read from the metal shard. The dank, debilitating stench of the Warp swirls in his mind as he speaks. Protective psalms and incantations must be intoned to keep himself uncorrupted.

The God-Emperor protects those of us in His shadows, He brings us the blessings of calm and serenity..."

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Bardas returns the ritual greeting and steps close to the adept as he spoke.

 

+No, no more chosen are required, these will remain without blessing. Your work here is done.+

 

On the last word Bardas’s hand snapped forward, levelled with the adepts head and pulled the trigger on his laspistol.

Spoiler

Aim at Head, Called shot Head, Single Attack with Laspistol

BS: 35 + 10 (Aim) – 20 (Called shot) + 30 (Point Blank) + 30 (unaware) = 85

D100: 77, Hit, 0 DoS

Damage: 1d10 + 2  = 8 + 2 = 10 at Pen 0

I hope unaware counts here, otherwise that did not go as well as I would have liked.

 

[A.T.]

Falk:

 

So the comms had been accurate... a true transmission or misdirection? It mattered not. "Then our target is bastion three". He turns to the map, "the stairwells and crossways will be a meatgrinder but if we draw the golems forces to defense of the lower levels a secondary team might enter through bastion one or two and cross over at the mid point, Emperor willing behind the main strength of the enemy".

 

"We will need to disrupt the golems eyes within." He follows the map upwards, "what of the exterior defenses and hanger? Does the valkyrie remain on station?"

[Mazer Rackham]

The Iron Catacombs:

 

Bardas:

 

Exploding in ripe jarrafruit splat, the Provider's head showers you with heated gunk and the runny-egg of partially flambé vitreous humor.

 

It is quite disgusting.

 

However, as the corpse slumps to the floor, there is the rattle of metal on metal at his belt. Keys.

 

The Precinct Square:

 

"Hmm," the Proctor nods to Falk. We can make that fit with our plans. The ruckus we make will hide an infiltration team."

 

Greyson takes over. "The wall-guns are behaving erratically. On three occasions, we have been targeted, but not fired upon. Then, on other approaches, we have been by other defence turrets. The weapons must either be out of ammunition, suffering a malfunction, or Throne only knows what. We avoided picters and intellicams, cut the feeds where we could, or used blinders otherwise. The whole defence network is...chaos." He shrugs, at a loss for any other word.

 

"Our Valkyries should be in the hangar," the Proctor says, "but the pilots? Who knows."

 

"We could breach through to Bastion 2 here," Greyson supposes, tapping on a sub-duct which winds around a superstructure joist - a mere 500 x 500m block of adamantium laminated plasteel which underpins this quadrant of the Halls.

 

"Or, if your men are up for a climb, Magistrate, we can penetrate this exhaust grate, here."

 

His knuckle raps the Bastion 1 thermal exhaust vent, high on the side of the sheer, vertical edifice, a third of the way up. "The wall guns will have insufficient declination to fire on us, should they suddenly decide to."

 

"What will it be, Falk? It will have to be one or the other," the Proctor says. "One is more exposed, but faster. The other looks to be safer, but more time consuming."

 

"Or you could just headbutt your way in," Greyson says, mildly. He directs the comment at Scourge, smirking.

 

Whatever further jest on his face dies. For a moment, everyone facing you looks over your collected shoulders, before immediately sinking to one knee. This causes a ripple effect, the Arbitrators, Mercenaries, and even Greyson's men, all dropping to the deck is slow, respectful obeisance, until only you remain standing.

 

The heavy footfall, masked by the urgent trample of men and vehicles arriving at the scene is a ponderous cadence, a dread threat of something malevolent which has trodden the dust of a thousand worlds into grim memory. Robes slipping and creasing over massive plates of ceramite and adamantium, Cephas strides up behind you, head slowly pivoting to assess the mortals around him.

 

His glacier pace abruptly stops at the table, where he stoops, gently grips the Proctor's elbow and helps him to stand.

 

"My thanks, lord."

 

+I am lord to none. I am...Cephas. I heard your plans.+

 

Above all the noise, the bickering, the thumps of ordnance or even his own advance. Such a claim would be absurd from anyone else.

 

+Where you require a breach, I will make one. Where you require death, I shall dispense it. In the end, we may do this any way you wish, Proctor,+ he continues, in an almost bantering baritone. +As long as I get to kill heretics.+

 

The Hangar:

 

Reynard:

 

Static.

 

The filtration unit kicks in, clearing much of the choking dust and clouds of silt from the vast hangar, the murk swirling in big ripcurls as it is sucked away. The Voivode lies at the end of deep, shiny scar in the deck, a runnel ploughed by the nose of a vicious, angry suzerain of the skies.

 

The construct lies trapped by the beak of this raptor, sparking and smashed into ruin. Red-grey brain gruel decorates the armaglas canopy, from without. You cannot see inside from here.

 

The Flight Deck of the Kerberos:

 

Solomon:

 

As you step out onto deck, you instantly feel the weightlessness. It is mild, designed to keep intruders off-balance and allow serfs and crew to scud across the vast launch bay without incident. Standing erect opposite your shuttle's boarding hatch is a tall, wiry man with scabbarded swords, one long, the other short. Curved, the swords sit at slightly different angles, all the easier to draw.

 

He is masked with a visor of black glass, his ornate carapace armour insect-chitin black, like his helm, but his undersuit, trousers and boots are fashioned from ballistic nylon, in deep arterial red.

 

+Greetings, Solomon,+ the man begins, his accent that of Ancient Khitai, or the inscrutable cant of Mundus Planus. +Mistress Galleus bade me deliver this.+

 

He holds out a canister between both hands, before allowing it to float in the low gravity, both palms gripping his bladed weapons in readiness, but his posture remaining neutral.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

The servitor was mulch and the Voivode was still more or less in one piece. Reynard grinned weakly. He was calling that a win. For right now, at least. However, he suspected that the Golem would have more of its constructs on the way - and he didn't know if the lander would still be capable of getting Gwynne out of here like Locke had wanted.

 

But even if it couldn't fly, wouldn't it be a safer place for them to wait for the cavalry? Maybe he could even use the vox to make contact with anyone who was left outside the Halls, or those in orbit? Of course, that depended on whether he could actually get inside.

 

Dragging Gwynne along beside the massive runnel in the deck, they approached the shuttle. Leaving her for a moment, Reynard clambered up, searching for a hatch or other means of access. Carefully avoiding what was left of the machine monster's remains, he wiped part of the canopy clear of the thing's cerebral filth and tried to look within. He banged his hand several times against the heavily armoured glass.

 

+Cutter? You alive? Pop a hatch or something, we've got to get her into cover!+

 

 

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"Haste it is then." states Falk grimly, "set up spotters for direct communication, lascutters and shields, and find me a blind approach to bastion 2 - the golem will recognise us"

 

He looks to the proctor, "press the assault on Bastion 3, let us end this".

[Mazer Rackham]

GM Notes: The Assault on the Halls of Judgement is going to be handled as narratively as possible, thanks to the nature of the encounter(s). As per usual, I will require your narration to take into account the need to roll dice to inform your actions, and will expect enemies to be at more than point blank.

 

GM Notes: You are now entering the penultimate arc. Once this section is completed, you must decide if you want to wrap up any other business, or go on the final mission, it's one or the other. It depends on how strongly your character feels about resolving these issues, and will result in fallout for your character with your colleagues and stamp, forever, where your loyalties lie - as once the campaign is concluded, that's it, we're done, and I will petition the moderatii to have the IC thread locked.

 

GM Notes: The presence of Cephas is to give the PC's a third option if they don't want to crawl or climb, nothing more. He should not replace you, or your narrative, nor make it easier for you. Whenever you refer to him, it should be 'remotely' without any interaction besides that permitted by combat circumstances (manly grunts, nods etc) between you. He's a NPC, not a GM PC, and is therefore, background. The narrative should be very much in the Players' hands.

 

GM: Feel free to discuss this in the OOC (strategy, requirements etc) as normal. At the conclusion of this assault, I will close the Chapter, and we will finally begin the end.

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Keys, excellent, that would make this easier. Bardas had been eyeing the makeshift cages and how to best break them open, but with keys he might not have to. Crouching to retrieve the keys he also checked the body for anything else that might be of use such as a usable clavicle or similar.

 

Heading over to the closes cage he quickly located the lock and tired the keys in sequence.  It was a simple mechanism, which again spoke to the haste with which this had all been organised. The Golem had not been as prepared as it could have been, and that opened possibilities that there were other weaknesses that were still open.

 

A click and turn, one of the keys had worked. The door shrikes in protest as he wrench it open.

 

+Flee, get out of here+

 

Spotting one figure that seemed a bit better off Bardas tossed the keys in its direction.

 

+You, open the other cages and free the others.+

 

He doubt that many would make it to freedom, if even any of them had actually escaped the fate that been waiting for them, but they had a chance now, and any end was likely to be quick, or at least quicker then servitorization.

Edited May 31, 2023 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

The Iron Catacombs:

 

Bardas:

 

The terrified, wide-eyed survivors briefly gawp before fleeing through the other sectors, dodging hither and thither to avoid lunging servitors.

 

In response, a tocsin peals across the sub-domain, and the responders try to contain the outbreak, even the faceless, tireless Mechanicum would notice unaugmented humans running around. Enough for a dispassionate query at least.

 

Staggering into view at the end of the long gallery, is a augmented human. His skin is black and blue, and he looks exceptionally annoyed, as he holds a broken arm. His windpipe has a long red ligature mark across it, but it is Von Bosch, doggedly trying to find you, his tormentor.

 

"There!" he cries, seeing you standing alone, a smouldering corpse quite close. He begins to advance, an insectile creature with him, long legged, with a wicked array of weapons, and the singular purpose to use them.

 

A Sicarian Stalker.

 

Looking around quickly, you spot a door to the lower levels. It appears unguarded, but is replete with warning sigils.

 

There is but one direction now available.

 

Down.

 

The Hangar:

 

Reynard:

 

A half-hearted thump responds on the canopy, before a bloody hand waves at you.

 

A hiss of pressure, and the sound of hydraulics presage the lowering of hatch on the port side. It becomes obvious the starboard one is jammed, as golden sparks fizz out of the interior bay. It is glowing with red, emergency lighting and there is a stench of burned metal.

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Search Test

Spoiler

Per: 34 /2 (Basic Half Stat) = 17 + 20 = 37

D100: 26, Pass, 1 Dos

 

As the captives fled Bardas considered the foul icon he had discovered on a small chain next to the keys. His instinct had been  to drop it, no sane or loyal servant of the Omnissiah and his people would associated with such as it depicted. However lifting it by its chain, for he had not dared touch it directly, he saw that not all the components where decorative, a small power indicator for some internal battery, minute gears and hinges.

 

"There!"

 

Despite the echoes of the Catacombs and the servitor induced ‘hug’ it was unmistakably the voice of Von Bosch.

 

In one fluid movement Bardas turned towards the adversary and brought up Saxa, at the last moment spotting the far deadly Sicarian, he pulled the trigger.

 

Spoiler

Single Shot with Saxa

BS: 35

D100: 67, Miss (even if there had been some range bonus or such)

 

 

Just as swiftly he as on the move, no time to wait and see  whether he had hit, let alone damaged, the combat cybernetic solider. Hesitation would get him killed against one such as it. Instead he rushed for the only cover, a doorway.

 

Briefly he sees the warning signs, but compared to what lay behind him they where the lesser danger right this instance as he rushed down yet more stairs.     

Edited June 3, 2023 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

The General Utility Transit Subsystem (GUTS):

 

Bardas:

 

Your final sight of Von Bosch is his arm shooting across the Sicarian's path, as you vanish down the stairs. As you pause to listen for them, there is no sound of pursuit, and the large doors at the upper landing close with a grim finality.

 

Wan amber light decants in strobing lozenges as emergency bulkhead lamps twist in clicking circles within bulkhead frames. It seemed an emergency happened here, long ago, and the people who left or were in charge, simply forgot about it when the panic subsided.

 

You can feel the interference of radiation in your augmentics, your optical foci simmering with static at the edges. A radcounter by any other name. It is currently low, but you must beware lingering here too long. A corroded sign on the wall marks the first decision at the bottom landing, where you erupt into an intersection.

 

Your choices seem limited, but carry potential.

 

Left: Thermal Pile Control.

Right: Corpse Recycling

Straight on (and down a set of stairs): Power Distribution, and the Custodian's Office.

 

GM: With each passing moment, as you work through the GUTS, you will be subject to the cruel whims of Radiation. With each post, you must roll 1D100, and consult the chart below:

• 25 (or less): Low Radiation
• 26 - 50: Moderate Radiation
• 51 - 90: High Radiation (Toughness Test required)
• 91 - 99: Very High Radiation (Toughness Test (-10) Required)
• 100: Lethal Radiation (Instantly gain 1 level of Fatigue, and D3 Wounds)

If you get to one of the locations, there is the chance of a counter-Radiation device on a successful Search Test. Since you have Mechanicum Knowledge, you may substitute Intelligence for Perception, whichever is greater. DoS = better kit. 1 DoS, Rad Hypo, 2 DoS, Survival Hood, 3 DoS, fully functioning Rad Suit.

 

Questions in the OOC.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

With several grunts of effort and more than a few curse words, Reynard dragged Gwynne up the ramp and into the red-tinged interior. As he entered he hit the closer beside the door and the hatch began to rise behind him. When it clanged shut, he felt a moment's relief. Whether they could get the lander out or not, they were - for at least a few minutes - safe.

 

Quickly he examined the layout and, with a few more choice words, he managed to heft the body bag up onto one of the bunks, torso first, then legs. Then he carefully undid the zipper and freed the Lady's head and upper body from the confining bag. She didn't look too bad considering the extra ordeal he'd just had to put her through to get here - unconscious, pale and weak, but not quite dead yet?

 

However, Reynard knew he was no Medicae.

 

He paused for a second or two to take in several deep breaths, then went to look for the pilot.

 

 

Edited June 3, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

The Voivode:

 

Reynard:

 

Moans and groans come from the cockpit, accompanied by angry blurts of pseud-binharic. The cant is not of the mechanicum, but some kind of weird conglomerate of bleeps, blurps and bloops which is perhaps a closer parody of the ancient hexabinharic, rumoured to be used by the Squats.

 

"No, I did not turn the wrong way."

 

This elicits more blabbering, which sounds more than a little edged.

 

"You said starboard."

 

A wheedling whistle erupts from the hardwired servitor co-pilot.

 

Cutter sighs, giving up. He turns in the pilot throne to see you coming up the passageway. His forehead is cut from being dashed in the forced landing, and he's got a few minor cuts to his hands from holding onto the consoles around him, two of which have popped loose and are blackened and scorched.

 

Otherwise, he's in fair shape.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard offered a quick, tight grin towards the pilot.

 

"Glad you're not dead, friend. And apologies for bringing that thing down on you. Thanks for the assist, though. It would have killed us both for sure."

 

"I've put Lady Gwynne on one of the bunks, but she still needs that antidote. Locke told me to get her out of here - can we manage that or are we grounded? If we're stuck, can we at least safely make contact with the other loyal forces, either planetside or in orbit? Vox is heavily compromised, but I was hoping the Voivode might be able to broadcast from a closed system?"

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Voivode:

 

Cutter makes a face at your rapid fire quiz. He doesn't like his answers, which means neither will you.

 

"How much do you like flying a brick? Starboard stabiliser is gone, thruster cowling is bust, we've got a gouge in our thermal plating, so re-entry is out, and our chin weapon on the right side is..."

 

He points.

 

"Over there, still smoking." He shrugs. "I can get her into the air, but I can't keep her there. We'll spiral down the hive's flank doing a rivet inspection."

 

He clucks his tongue a few times, before the co-pilot cuts in. He looks at it with a hard, sidelong glare.

 

"As I was about to say," he grinds the words out from behind his teeth, "the vox-link should be fine. The old girl has top-notch encryption."

 

He taps the comms-link router, and the Voivode effortlessly hooks into your frequency. In the background the little pips tell of a secure line.