"It was a fine morning," Haxtes begins. "A cloak of heavy whiteness swathed the ruins of my hometown - Thira does get a fair bit of morning mist coming in from the lakeside."
As Haxtes speaks your sensory probe provides you with vivid mental glimpses of the landscape he passes through. If you're going to listen to Haxtes' story you might as well make the best out of it; gather as much information as your evolved mind is capable of processing. Some of it might actually turn out to be of importance. You're not overly optimistic, but with mental faculties such as yours, you've plenty of processing power to spare.
Rather than content yourself with still pictograms, you adjust the probe to provide the equivalent of live footage. You're immediately provided with a crystal-clear impression of the city of Thira - a ruined cityscape, swathed in thick, white mist. The tome contains an astounding amount of data.
"But today was special. My line of sight was down to ten meters, tops." The probe shows you he's not exaggerating. "Vern can tell you more about the local microclimate if you're interested. I would advise against it though, once he gets going on matters of planetology...there is no stopping him." Haxtes looks at you for confirmation.
You politely decline with a short shake of your head. Planetology is not the kind of lore you're here for. You'll no doubt call upon Vern later, when your access level has improved, but not right now. Not for blabbering about the particulars of planetology.
Haxtes continues. "Protasia's sun was up, a pale distant orb, just barely clearing the line of the eastern mountains. It had yet to find the power to chase the mist away, so I would continue to be provided with a measure of cool concealment as I moved away from my home turf and deeper into the city." There is enough light to see by, but there is no warmth in the pale rays that illuminate the city.
"Because I had concealment," Haxtes says, "I moved more quickly and more openly than I otherwise would have dared. I kept to the streets rather than creeping along the sewers and underground areas, or going through the many ruined buildings." All the buildings you can see have been damaged; some more than others, but none have been left completely untouched.
"Not that I was completely without cover. The streets were filled with rubble, burned-out vehicles and other paraphernalia. Sufficient concealment for a young boy on the prowl." You watch as Haxtes makes his way down a wide street, carefully picking his was across rubble and destroyed vehicles - both civilian ground cars and armoured fighting vehicles.
War has come to Protasia. You wonder what happened. Did the Protasian heresy Haxtes mentioned take the form of a planet-wide insurrection? Was an invasion required to reclaim the world for the God-Emperor? One thing is clear though, the Imperial reclamation effort seems to have caused an awful lot of collateral damage.
"This was normally a very dangerous part of town," Haxtes adds. "Firmly in Imperial hands. The guardsmen certainly didn't like locals snooping around. As of yet I was only in one of the numerous Restricted Zones, but the Forbidden Zone loomed ahead. Soon there would be no turning back. If they caught me here they would just beat me bloody. Unless I actually had the gall to try and evade capture, then they would just shoot me dead and note me down as yet another insurgent. But getting caught in the Forbidden Zone? That just got you shot on sight, end of discussion." He makes a short, chopping motion with his hand.
The fighting is over and done with, that much is clear. The damage looks old. There is no smoke from blazing vehicles or burning buildings. The dust of falling structures has long since settled. There are no rotting bodies, only a smattering of charred and crushed bones. There are no people about. No civilians going about their business as best they can. You conclude that the Imperial Guard regiments are in control of the population centres and are enforcing a strict form of martial law by zoning up the city.
Haxtes keeps on talking. "I had become pretty good at keeping a low profile and I was rather quick on my feet if I dare say. But the Astra Militatum - the Imperial Guard - has all sorts of auspex scanners and servoskull snoops, to help them pick up intruders. Stealth only gets you so far against such countermeasures. And no matter how quick you are, you can't outrun or dodge lasbeams. So a bit of caution was in order, even with the mist cloaking me."
Because of the dense mist it's hard to accurately aestimate the size of the settlement. A five-million city? Maybe twice as large as that? You cannot tell for sure. Definitely below the twenty-mill mark. Not a very large city by any standard. No hive structures. Just a handful of two-hundred-plus-storey highrise structures protruding from the mist, near the city's core. No doubt the administrative and commercial heart of Thira. Several of the larger government buildings show clear signs of damage. A positively huge flag bearing the Imperial Aquila - the stylized two-headed eagle that represents the unity of mankind under the benevolent rule of the Imperium - flies from the topmost spire of one of the tallest, and most heavily damaged, buildings.
The extent of the damage is easier to ascertain than the size of the city: The city blocks Haxtes passes through haven't just been bombed and shelled from afar. Buildings and communal areas show clear signs of being blasted with close-support ordnance and are thoroughly riddled with small-arms fire. Entire quarters have been burned to the ground or explosively demolished. Taking the city clearly required an assault by massive Imperial ground forces, with all the mayhem that entrails: Roadblocks. Shattered buildings. Burned-out vehicles. Rubble and debris. Detritus and dead bodies. The Imperium may be in control, but the Protasians seem to have given them a run for their money.
"What happened?" you ask.
Haxtes ignores the question. "I was in a good mood. Summer was upon us again and the weather was favouring my expedition. It was also my ninth birthday. Well, at least I imagined it was my ninth birthday. I couldn't be entirely sure since we had no way of accurately keeping the time."
"So this was about a year after that last ski trip?" you venture.
"Not quite a full year, but close enough," Haxtes replies. "We were blissful in our ignorance, but even as we enjoyed our summer outing, elements of Battlefleet Calixis were underway to deal with Protasia. I don't know the official start date for the planetary assault, but I remember seeing the Imperial fleet settle into orbit in early autumn, like little darts of bright silver straddling the atmosphere, just after we had gone back to school for a new semester."
He continues. "My own timepiece had stopped working along with everyone else's after the Imperials knocked out the Grid. Jax had found an antique mechanical clock a few months before, but by then we had probably already mixed up the days. A while later the mechanical clock stopped working too. Try as we might we couldn't figure out how to get it to work again. There was a windup mechanism, but when we tried to turn it nothing much happened. There was too little resistance. The winding screw didn't connect properly to the spring or whatever it was that powered the clock. Jax took it apart one day when it rained too heavily to even contemplate going outside. That didn't help in the least. Inside were myriad little pieces too small to manipulate without proper tools."
Images of clockwork mechanisms flash before you. A few may be of the innards of a mechanical chronometer, but they majority are more complex...with some bordering on the improbably intricate. Did the tome just flash some weird, heretek clockwork blueprints at you?
Haxtes gives you a lop-sided grin. "So we went back to noting down the passage of days on a piece of paper. Eventually we stopped making marks. Days no longer had any meaning beyond getting to the next, so why bother keeping track of them?"
You get a fleeting glimpse of a townhouse, partially ruined and stripped of anything of value. Someone has tried to make a home out of it. There is a small promethium stove. A washing basin. Blankets. A few personal items. Not much. A far cry from the cosy house in the hills above the lake, but you're not overly moved. It just proves that loss is a relative thing; compared to your own childhood home it's a freaking palace, stuffed with wondrous treasures.
"Had Father been around he could have fixed the clock in no time," Haxtes says. "Not that he would have had any need for such a primitive timepiece. Father had a full cortex upgrade so he could function quite well without the Grid."
You decide to make another specific query. "Could you elaborate on this 'Grid' for me?" You're not so much interested in the information, as you are in seeing whether or not Vern will reappear.
"Of course. I'll even do it myself," Haxtes says. "No need to bother Vern." Again that smile that isn't a smile.