This is a sequel to my previous story The Assassin. You don't have to read it, but what happens here will make waaaaay more sense if you do. Cheers!
Disclaimer: The Warhammer 40k Universe is the property of Games Workshop.
It's a bright, sunny morning, the sun still peeking through the thick clouds of smoke drifting off the bomb craters. I'm walking down the ruined hallway, feeling the sun on the back of my neck, the occasional drift of building dust occasionally drifting off the ruined ceiling. I step over a smoking corpse, the head blown off by a sniper's las shot.
"Note to self: try to avoid getting head shot off."
Root's voice echoes through my head. The Lord of Change, Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, is currently incarnated as a thin, incandescent haze which hangs around me. I sigh.
"That's tasteless, i. Sensible, sure, but tasteless."
I use his real name, albeit sarcastically. His amusement bubbles through my mind, but is suddenly replaced by a note of warning. I rock backwards slightly, a high-energy las bolt cracking inches away from my nose. I notice the soldiers huddled behind a makeshift sandbag barrier, and feel my face automatically dropping into the hard mask that is the Colonel. The nearest soldier, his face carved with several symbols of Chaos, looks at me pleadingly. He speaks, and his voice is hoarse.
"Colonel Iortatr! Sir! Please, we've been pinned down, sir! If you could do anything about that sniper, we-"
I smile grimly.
"Have no fear, soldier. The glory of Chaos is on your side."
I raise a hand, Root marshalling huge reservoirs of internal energy.
"Bolt of Change!"
With a shriek of power, the building the sniper is taking refuge suddenly sprouts huge crystalline spires, before melting into a steaming pile. The soldiers are awestruck.
"Praise the Dark Ones! Thank you, Colonel!"
I give him a cold nod, sweeping onwards. I'm walking into the less badly damaged portions of the former Governor's Palace. There's the occasional shell hole, but so far the Chaotic defenders have managed to keep the worst of the heavy firepower away. Even so, they're still going to lose. Just as planned. I reach the inner sanctum, cold hardwood flooring giving way to plush carpeting. The walls have been painted with intricate markings, defacing the former portraits of Imperial saints and heroes. I come to the room of the Black Bishop, the door guards letting me in unquestioningly. I'm the only person to enter the room in the past 24 hours. The defenders believe the Bishop has been evacuated to his mountain fastness. His corpse lies in the corner, an illusion spell making it look like an absolutely stunning vase full of flowers. I settle into the Bishop's chair, catching a glimpse of Iortatr's harsh features in the shiny hardwood surface of the table.
"Bugger. It's gonna be nice to look like me again."
"I dunno. The fascist dictatorial look suits you. I'm sure that hooked nose would be all the rage in the Eye of Terror."
"Ha. Ha. Ha. Hilarious. Now, are all the charges se-"
The door creaks open and a guard bursts in, a frantic expression on his face. Through the open door, I can hear the sound of tanks moving.
"Sir, they've broken through our final perimeter! Wha-"
My left eye blazes red, the power of the Red Lamp of Death surging through it.
"Go die a heroes' death."
The man turns 180 degrees, his mind sandblasted clean, neural patterns completely rewoven.
"Yes, my lord."
As the door closes behind him, I hear his voice rise to a triumphal shout.
"Come on lads! Charge! For Chaos! For the Black Bishop!"
I settle back in the chair, rubbing my eye.
"Quick thinking, Root. Now, the charges?"
"Checking… Oh yep. Everything primed. I'm activating them now. We have three minutes."
I grin. I'm not what you'd call bloodthirsty, but this is going to be interesting. For the past year, I've been teleporting high-explosive canisters into the substrate of the city. Every square meter has a single shell, many of them magical duplicates. They are all active, timed rune charges ready to send the entire city sky-high. I begin to cast the gate runes, a shining portal to the warp open in the far wall.
"Let's get the hell out of here!"
I sprint to the gate, feeling the buildup of explosive potential energy. With a flash of light, I'm through, feeling a low concussive noise seconds before the gate closes. I can see the explosion, broadcast by scrying directly into my mind. Twenty square kilometers of city rise up off the ground on a cloud of flame, instantly obliterating all life in the area. The explosion is visible from orbit, and the dust cloud permanently alters the planet's climate. A job well done.
I'd like to explain here. What you're seeing is a recording, essentially, of Sebell Vivat's mind. He was… is, rather, an Eye of Tzeentch. The events that I've include here have been deemed important enough in the grand scale of things that they were deserving of a record, and I, being close to Sebell, was naturally chosen to edit these records. I'll be interjecting with a few comments of my own, and I'll include separate documents, mainly the mental recordings of others present, to add a little background and fill in the details. If you notice a certain resemblance to the style of the memoirs of one Imperial commissar, well screw you. I'm not an author, so I'm borrowing a few recording techniques. Let's keep going.
I'm back in my office at Tzeentch HQ. It looks like a simple room, with luxurious clean lines and a wall of bay windows looking out on an underwater seascape. None of it is real, of course. I'm actually in a stable Warp bubble, the chaotic matter of the Immaterium altered to take on a state which the humans of the Eyes of Tzeentch can withstand. I stretch, taking off the heavy officer's coat that was so distinctly Iortatr. Walking to a mirror on the wall, I prepare simple a appearance-altering spell and sigh contentedly as Iortatr's pale skin darkens to the deep brown I associate more with Sebell Vivat. The spells to change the underlying bone structure will take longer, but I'm in no rush.
"Nice to be in your own skin again?"
"Oh yes. And now, we enjoy some break time."
Root here, with a little explanation The Eyes of Tzeenth dispense rewards based on the amount of time and effort spent on a mission, as well as how well said missions are accomplished. After around a month's break when we returned from Namaskar, we'd been sent to build up and then cripple the Church of the Black Bishop on Vermile. With the heart of the Vermillien rebellion crushed, we were safe to return. We'd been there almost seven years, and, obviously, were awaiting a long break.
I AM AFRAID NOT, VIVAT.
The voice came from everywhere; it was Control, the daemon who acted as the central information relay hub for the Eyes. His essence was essentially interwoven into HQ, meaning that he literally was the HQ.
"The hell not? I've been out there for seven years, all goals accomplished! The rebellion's dead! Just as planned!"
UNDOUBTEDLY. HOWEVER, EVENTS WE WERE UNABLE TO FORESEE HAVE ARRIVED. THE REST OF THE EYES ARE OCCUPIED.
"So time-shift someone! Surely you can find someone who isn't off the job!"
THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE, VIVAT. WE HAVE RECEIVED A QUANTUM WAVEFORM FROM THE BUREAU OF TIME. THEY HAVE MANAGED TO NEVER EXIST AGAIN. THEY MAY BE SOME TIME IN SOLVING THE PARADOX WHICH HAS UNMADE THEM. THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE BLACK CRUSADE ARE STRAINING OUR RESOURCES AS IT IS.
I slumped into my seat angrily, Root flaring around me.
"Tzeentch, not Failbaddon! I mean, really? Another crusade? We know it's gonna fail! It's part of the plan! Can't we take someone else off duty? C'mon, man!"
MY ORDERS COME DIRECTLY FROM TZEENTCH. YOU ARE TO TRAVEL TO SANGUIN PYROS, IN THE SANGUIN SYSTEM. AN ORK WAAAGH LED BY A FREEBOOTER NAMED MORDAKKA IS ATTACKING A MECHANICUS TITAN MAINTENANCE STATION THERE. THE WAAAGH IS HEAVILY OUTGUNNED, AND MUST SUCCEED.
I was interested.
"Shazo Mordakka? The Ork from Namaskar?"
CORRECT.
"So why do we want him to win?"
A window opened in the air in front of my head, filling with information.
THE MECHANICUS IS EXPANDING THEIR FACILITY THERE. IT RESTS ON TOP OF A BURIED STC DATABASE WHICH CONTAINS DATA ON A HIGHLY STABLE FORM OF PLASMA CANNON TECHNOLOGY. IF THEY GET HOLD OF THIS TECH, THE IMPERIAL WAR EFFORT WILL BE GREATLY STRENGTHENED. THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN. HELP MORDAKKA'S WAAAGH DESTROY THE IMPERIALS AT ANY COST. SHOULD YOU ACCEPT, WE WILL EQUIP YOU AND SEND YOU OFF IMMEDIATELY. DO YOU?
I nodded slowly.
"A Waaagh!, eh? I'm in."
Without warning, the space around me shifts. The walls drop away, replaced by the shelves and gun racks of the armoury. My clothing changes too; gone is the heavily starched uniform that I've been wearing for the past seven years. It is replaced by light suit of flexible flak armour, carved with arcane runes for extra protection; over that goes a long hooded coat, proudly emblazoned with the pentagram-pupil-ed eye that is my insignia, and the three pips that mark my rank.
The Eyes mark the power of a sorcerer in a manner similar to the Imperium; one pip is around Beta-level on their scale. It goes all the way up to nine. Magnus the Red is a five. So, yeah. Sebell at that point was pretty powerful, thanks mostly to me.
WE ARE EQUIPPING YOU WITH THE STANDARD FIELD GEAR, IN ADDITION TO YOUR DESIGNATED SET OF PROTEUS ARMOUR.
A small table rises from the floor; on it are three bluish metal rings, two snap shut around my wrists, the intricate black lines covering them shifting as they align with Root's power source. The third ring closes around my neck, and I shudder slightly as the machine interfaces with my mind.
The Proteus Armour was a project that Sebell and the rest of the mechanically-minded Eyes had been working on. It was designed as the most versatile armour ever; composed entirely of warp matter and Obliterator virus-treated nanomachines, the armour could assume the function of almost anything just by absorbing materials from the surrounding environment. The only downside was that they didn't give you any kind of protection when deactivated, and they required that the user be a daemonhost for power.
YOU ARE BEING ASSIGNED A TACTICAL ASSISTANCE CHIMERA. IT WILL BE PREPPED SOON.
"I thought you said that all our resources were being used? Why am I being given all this stuff?"
THIS PARTICULAR UNIT WAS RECENTLY DESTROYED. WE HAVE JUST FINISHED RECONSTITUTING IT. IN ADDITION, YOU ARE BEING SENT WITH MINIMAL SUPPORT TO A FULL WAR ZONE, AND WE HAVE NO DESIRE TO LOSE YOU.
"But a TAchimera? Is that really necessary?"
IN A WORD, YES. YOUR BRIEFING WILL NOW CONTINUE. MORDAKKA'S PIRATE GANG ATTACKED SANGUIN PYROS APPROXIMATELY ONE MONTH AGO. THEIR SHIP WAS SUCCESSFUL IN DISABLING MOST OF THE PLANET'S ORBITAL DEFENCES, BUT UPON LANDING THEY FOUND THAT, IN ADDITION TO THE CONSIDERABLE SKITARII FORCE ALREADY ASSEMBLED TO DEFEND THE TITAN MAINTENANCE STATION, AN IMPERIAL GUARD UNIT WAS ALREADY THERE. THE 215TH EDELWEISS MANAGED TO PIN MORDAKKA'S FORCES DOWN, AND IS BEING SUPPORTED BY THE THREE ACTIVE TITANS THERE. IT IS A STALEMATE, ALTHOUGH THE ODDS ARE IN THE IMPERIUM'S FAVOUR. YOUR TASK IS TO MAKE THE ORKS WIN, BY ANY MEANS. HOWEVER, DO NOT DESTROY THE PLANET. I CANNOT STRESS THE IMPORTANCE OF THIS.
"I know, I know. We've gone over this before. I'm not bringing along any apocalypse spells. I just want to get this over with."
IN ADDITION, TZEENTCH HAS REQUESTED YOU BRING ALONG A RETINUE OF AT LEAST TWO MORE PEOPLE. I AM NOT ENTIRELY SURE WHY.
"Self-defence I suppose?"
THAT WOULD STRIKE ME AS LOGICAL. I HAVE RECEIVED COORDINATES FOR TWO INDIVIDUALS WHO HAVE WORKED FOR YOU IN THE PAST.
"Let me guess… they're both Katyushans. One of them is a former triarch, the other was a Guardsman. They're pretty much the only people we've ever had as a retinue."
CORRECT.
I smile. It would be good to see the old crowd again. Behind me, someone clears their throat. I turn, to see the boxy, spiderlike shape of a TAchimera behind me. It gives a cheery little wave.
"Tactical Assistance Chimera unit nine reporting, Mister Vivat! It's a real pleasure!"
Again, me explaining. The Tactical Assistance Chimeras were an offshoot of Abaddon's Defiler project; instead of heavy war machines, many sorcerers wanted a versatile combat platform which was capable of coherent, intelligent thought, and which could operate independently in hostile situations. The end result was the TAchimeras; a scaled-down version of the defiler chassis, powered by the mummified body of a mid-level sorcerer. Only one run of twelve were built, and the minds of the controllers were linked together. Unfortunately, the resulting gestalt had a playful, childlike personality, which was the exact opposite of what Abaddon wanted. The project was put on indefinite hold, and the twelve were assigned to us.
I look over the chimera's black and gold shell.
"Unit Nine, what are your armaments?"
The main eye rolls around, apparently the equivalent of a pensive gesture. It's not so much an eye as a globular glass bubble, with three tiny points of light dancing through the haze inside. Its front pincers whir slowly in a circle.
"Well… I've got all your basic spellcasting abilities, an Obliterator weapon mount capable of becoming a wide variety of heavy weapons, and two grapnel launchers. Is that okay, Mister Vivat?"
WE DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS. VIVAT, i, UNIT NINE, YOU MUST LEAVE AT ONCE.
"Oh boy! Really!? This is so exciting!"
I sigh, turning away from the excitable machine. Ahead of me, a warp gate opens, leading onto a dimly lit alleyway. I cast a quick appearance spell, and within a few seconds I look and sound like an Ecclesiarchy missionary; fat, with clammy-looking skin and pale milky grey eyes.
"TAchimera, cloak yourself, and stay out of trouble."
It fades into the background.
"Done and done, Mister Vivat! You won't even-"
JUST GET MOVING. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE.
Without another word, I step through the portal, the clawed feet clicking softly on the ferrocrete ground behind me. The Proteus armour informs me that we're in the city of Tsiolkovsky, on Katyush. As the portal closes, I look around, taking stock of my surroundings. At the end of the alleyway is an open concourse, lined with trees. Around three stories up is a wide, translucent ceiling, dotted here and there with ventilation fans. We're underground. It's colder than I'm used to, but not unpleasantly so. I start down the alley, and emerge onto the wide street. It could be in any large subterranean city; well-maintained, bustling with crowds of people. The style seems to be subdued, with a focus on blues and grays, but I can see others in Imperial robes. I won't stand out at all. The armour gives the mental equivalent of a beep, and my mind begins to fill with information. I'm heading to a tavern down the street. The sign, written in both Gothic and the blocky Katyushan script, reads 'The Evening Star'.
"So he runs a tavern now? Somehow I'm not surprised."
"Keep it down," I whisper under my breath, "You don't know who here could be a psyker."
I open the door, and the bustle of the pub softens slightly before resuming its normal level. It seems to be a fairly nice place, probably catering to the middle classes; low-ranking officers, plant supervisors, minor officials and the like. I move to the bar, sitting down at an empty stool. I can see Irohov at the end of the bar, and try to resist an urge to grin. He hasn't changed much, although it is odd seeing him in civilian clothing. I wave him over.
"What can I get for you, Comrade? We just got in a particularly good shipment of Smirniv ice wine, I'd highly recommend it."
I lean forwards over the counter, face serious.
"I'm looking for information. On business with the Ecclesiarchy."
He arches an eyebrow, apparently noticing my illusionary vestments for the first time.
"Why of course, Father. The citizens of Katyush are always ready to help a newcomer to their world. Am I correct in assuming that?"
My priestly voice rasps uncomfortably as I speak.
"Do you know anyone by the name of Sebell Vivat?"
To his credit, he doesn't freeze up or act at all shocked. Instead, he hands me a mug of cheap beer and leaves. As he goes, I catch a soft whisper.
"The back room. Five minutes."
I grin. Things are getting interesting.
Five minutes later, I finish my beer. Placing the mug on the counter, I circle around the bar and enter the back room. I lock the door behind me. It's dark, and before my eyes can adjust a silenced autogun bullet punches through the air where my head was a millisecond ago. The Proteus armour has reacted automatically, generating a simple illusion spell and teleporting me out of harm's way. Irohov kicks the corpse on the ground with his boot, and grunts as it dissolves into motes of dust. His gun drops to his side.
"So. I assume you're with the Inquisition. I'd like you to know that while you were making the foolish mistake of waiting, I called in a few favours. Katyushan gangs aren't large, but they are well armed. If I'm going to die, I'm taking you with me."
He raises his other hand. There's a small metallic device clutched firmly in his palm.
"Dead-man switch. Like I said, I'm dying on my own terms."
I grin. Wow. He's still on the ball, all right. I wave my hand, and Irohov's pistol and detonator drip from his hands, transmuted into water. I guffaw, stepping out of the shadows and letting my disguise drop.
"You clever bastard. You almost had me for a minute. If I were who I think you thought I was, then you'd have beaten me."
He looks confused.
"Who-?"
Root laughs too, his hazy form glowing slightly.
"Good to see you too, Ivan Zulonovich Irohov, formerly of the Katyushan 13th Sputnik Guard."
Before I can react, his fist is within centimeters of my face, straining against an invisible barrier of energy.
"Vivat? You idiot! Apoli! You could have told me you were coming! I told the gangers to kill the guy in the robe!"
"Oh."
There's a crash from behind us, followed by loud voices shouting in Katyushan. I sigh.
"Root, give me a time-slice, please?"
The room blurs slightly, the light taking on a strange turquoise hue. Though it's still dark, for whatever reason I can see perfectly. Dust motes hang suspended in midair. Irohov starts, looking around.
"What did you do? What's a time-slice?"
"I've accelerated the flow of time for us. We have all the time in the world."
"Here, Irohov. Let's move into the bar. I have a proposal for you."
I unlock the door, walking calmly out into the bar. It's like a tableau; some sort of weird wax sculpture. The residents of the bar are cowered against the walls, hands in the air, while the center of the room is dominated by about a dozen heavily armed gangers wearing drab maroon work suits. I step by an immobile bar boy, noting with detached curiosity the half-full mug which has fallen from his hand and is slowly drifting towards the floor.
"Try not to touch anything that's either alive or moving."
I take a seat on a barstool, motioning for Irohov to sit. He settles uncomfortably onto a stool, trying to resettle the civilian clothes that look slightly ill-fitting on him.
"What's this proposal, then?"
Cutting out stuff you've already heard, here. Sebell doing the mission briefing, yadda yadda yadda.
Irohov leans back.
"Interesting. Very interesting. So Mordakka's in desperate states, eh?"
I nod.
"That's pretty much it."
"And you're still not really sure why I'm supposed to come along?"
"Nope. It probably has something to do with some grand scheme of Tzeentch's."
He frowns.
"I'm in."
I'm caught by surprise.
"What? You're agreeing to this? I expected you to say no! Why would you associate with Chaos again?"
Coutning on his fingers, he explains.
"One, my bar is filled with armed men. Two, close investigation will reveal that most of the structural supports of the building are wrapped in remote-detonated plastic explosives. Three, I have no interest in opposing the whims of Chaos. Four, I want to see how my former subordinate is doing. Did your briefing mention anything about Rojo?"
I shake my head.
"Oddly enough, no. But-"
"Malfunction! The armour is overloading!"
A blue spark drifts lazily off my right wrist. Without any further warning, realtime reasserts itself. Surprised by the sudden appearance of two people where before there were none, the gangers open fire. Irohov dives behind the bar, but I throw myself forward, hands glowing with energy. The armour holds just long enough to deflect the incoming bullets as I let loose a volley of stun spells. The Flares stun everyone except Irohov and I. I pull him to his feet, leading him by one arm towards the door. This wasn't how I planned things.
"We're going!"
He resists.
"Wait! Let me get my gear!"
"You have about three minutes before the Arbites get here. I've restabilized the armour's sensors, and they're on their way."
"All right. TAchimera!"
The machine rematerializes outside the window, giving another cheery wave. Irohov looks like he's about to say something, but runs into the back room instead.
"What do you need, Mister Vivat?!"
"Set up a smokescreen, cut the power. Nonlethals only. We need to delay the Arbites."
"Sure thing!"
It turns to the crowd that has surrounded the bar. The lump of silvery metal on the underside of its faceplate shifts, becoming a wide-barreled cluster grenade launcher. With a low bloop, it launches several canisters of tear gas into the crowd. At the same time, one of the grapnel launchers on its abdomen launches a spiked chain towards the ceiling. It hits something fragile, and with a crackle all the lights on the block shut down. There is utter chaos in the street.
"Boo! I'm a scary monster! Everyone panic! Blaaaaargh!"
"TAchimera! Cut the theatrics!"
"Oh… okay Mister Vivat."
Irohov bursts out of the back room, now dressed in a Katyushan uniform, weapons and gear slung over his back.
"Let's go!"
We jog quickly out the door, into the area that the TAchimera has cleared. The only light is the dim bluish glow from the ceiling. The skylights seem to be covered in snow. My eyes sting from the unpleasant gasses, but I ignore the irritation. I begin the incantations for the portal which will take us to our next destination. It's a simple spell, but the noise is making it hard to concentrate. Irohov has pulled out what I know as a Strela rifle, and is leveling it into the smoke. He is weeping from the teargas, his nose dripping uncontrollably. Something bumps my shoulder, and I turn, panicked, a blast of magic surging from my forehead and nearly ripping the panicked civilian in half. His corpse falls limply to the ground, and I turn back to the spell, swearing mentally. Finally, the warp gate opens, leading on to a barren mountainside.
"Come on!"
We step through, the TAchimera covering our escape with a final volley of stinging smoke.
I'm going to add in a brief interlude. This next bit is taken from the memories of one Stig Halvint, a menial at the Progenium school on Augusta.
Θ
Stig Halvint sighed, shuffling the dullish red robes he wore around himself. Another long day. He'd be home soon, thank the Emperor, drawn up by the heaters and out of this bloody weather. A small drop of condensation fell from the tip of his stubby nose. Being a day-monitor, even one for an institution as prestigious as Augusta's school was thankless work. The children were all outside, taking the mandatory fifteen-minute fresh-air break between classes. In a normal situation, constant monitoring by burly men like Stig wouldn't have been necessary, but when the students you were surveying took classes in close-quarters combat and sharpshooting you couldn't be too careful. Bloody hell, he hated his Emperor-forsaken job.
His miserable internal monologue was interrupted by raucous laughter from across the courtyard. It was DuPree again, the little bastard. DuPree the General's son, apple of his bloody father's eye. He was a bully of the worst kind, but no-one was in any mood to deal with it. The students would have to cope for themselves. Halvint noticed the object of his taunts; Leman again. The frail, slight girl was relatively new to the school, and didn't seem to live up to her father's name. Aron Leman was an Augustan war hero, and the whole planet had had a day of mourning when it was announced he had been killed in the last Chaotic raid. He'd been found dead, laspistol still clutched in his hand, defending his daughter from two rogue psykers.
To his surprise, the normally silent girl was speaking back to DuPree. Her voice, though soft, echoed around the subdued courtyard with surprising force.
"You say that the Living Saints are a myth?"
DuPree gave what seemed to be an affirmative. Before Halvint could react, Leman had jumped on him. It took three other monitors to pry the furious child off of the older boy. The Medicae said he might never see again. Emil Leman was five years old.
Θ
We come out of the portal onto barren, mountainous terrain. The clouds are red, the sky is red, the two dim suns are red, and the soil is red. There's a faint smell of ozone in the air.
"This is… why are we on a daemon world?"
I was aiming for a completely different style than the previous work; in addition, this is going to be significantly more complicated and darker.
Thoughts? Constructive criticism is always welcome! Feel free to make anonymous reviews!