The walk to the Plaza of the Loremasters is no different from the day before. In this part of the city there are wide boulevards and ample open spaces, all lined with towering buildings. Only the most opulent structures have less than twenty stories - space is a premium atop a flying city. Other than being marginally less crowded and grimy than most hives, there is no real difference between this place and countless other crowded and compact Imperial settlements throughout the galaxy. Except this one soars five kilometres above the bleak and irradiated wasteland that is Bokiba-Bapas' planetary surface.
Getting into the Second Library of Knowing again proves easier than getting out. The Arbites are out in force. If you had been a criminal or heretic the Imperial lawmen could have been a threat to you. But as a loyal Inquisition agent you are outside their jurisdiction. Should the mystery team try to interfere with you, they will first have to go through the Arbitrators.
Speaking of the mystery team. You find them pretty much right where you left them. The servitor team has switched to a different guise. Now they are posing as guild runners, idling in the shadow of the very statue your stopped by yesterday. You make sure they see you going in, but not in a way that might indicate you know that you're being watched. Let them wonder how you got out yesterday. Give nothing away for free. You'll be seeing them again soon enough.
You pass Librarian Amaya on the third level. She smiles at you. A slight flush creeps into her cheeks when you smile back. She looks a bit surprised at her own reaction. The emotional worm is doing its job.
It's a different reading chamber today. The layout is the same, but the reddish alabaster artwork is different. As your eyes wander from one edge of the room to the other you see soaring cityscapes, rural villages, and majestic churches, all going to ruin.
One particular piece catches your eye, a plaza filled with broken angles arranged in three circles. It reminds you of the Red Square in Thira. Another reminder of how the human mind works to fill in gaps and erase uncertainties.
You put the artwork out of your mind and get down to business. Your walk - and a hearty second breakfast - gave you time to plan your mental architecture for today's session.
It will be mostly the same as yesterday, but you'll be forced to add an additional subdivision to your observing mind. It will work in concert with the buffer to pick up unexpected attacks and other unpleasantness.
This will challenge your abilities and drain you physically, but you'll compensate by dividing today's session in two with a lengthy break in the middle.
Which fortunately coincides with your need to take care of some real-world matters while in the Librarium.
You touch the tome and the connection is there, stronger and clearer than ever before.
"You seem preoccupied Marcus. Is something amiss?" Haxtes asks.
You consider a bit before answering. "Not exactly amiss, but something happened yesterday." You add a little sigh for emphasis. "My pursuers seem to have caught up with me a little sooner than anticipated. That's all."
"Pursuers? Now why would a member of the Holy Ordos have pursuers?" Haxtes asks, feigning ignorance.
"My master has enemies that would like to hurt him. And rivals that seek to outdo him. There is no more to it than that," you reply.
"And these particular pursuers," Haxtes continues, "are they enemies or rivals?"
"That I do not know. Not that it matters. Enemies or rivals - if they get in my way I will remove them from the equation," you answer. No need to elaborate.
Haxtes grins. "I'll call that preaching to the choir, Marcus." He pours himself his first drink of the day. He fills your glass without asking. "Vintage amasec from Scarus Sector today. Nothing outlandish or exotic, just some seriously good shit."
You pick up your own glass and lean back. "Shall we proceed?" you say, indicating that you'd like to resume the story.
Haxtes cradles his glass. "Just pick your desired immersion level and I'll start my narration."
You opt for the intermediate immersion level.
I was heading down the dusty street. The sun was halfway between zenith and the horizon, but in between the buildings and ruins it was hot as a baker's oven. There were few people out, but I could feel many more pairs of eyes staring at me from behind barred doors and closed windows. It made me slightly uncomfortable. This was not my way. My way was the unseen way, the way of stealth. But I knew it had to be done, honour and duty demanded it. I set my teeth and kept walking.
Above me Jons' CAS drones hovered, unseen and unheard. In my crotch the locator-coin hummed out its invisible techno-signals. And somewhere behind me four IGs were coming, armed and ready for Xenos Majoris. They were taking an awful risk helping me get my vengeance. It was only fair that I share in the danger.
The gun was in my right hand, a heavy weight straining against my preteen muscles. I loved the feel of it. I kept the pistol close to my body. I made no attempt to hide it; the gleaming gunmetal was plain to see for anyone with a mind to look. That was sort of the point; for my fellow indigs to see the crazy whoreson coming into town, waving his gun around, looking for trouble.
Nix roamed to the right, going across what had once been a cosy local green. Now it was a charnel pit, the ground churned to pieces by metal tracks, and the trees had burned when the ammunition supplies aboard a Leman Russ tank had exploded and set everything in the vicinity ablaze. A few bits and pieces of charred bone protruded from the dried mud. Imperial Guardsmen or Protasian troopers? I could not tell.
The tank wreck was still there. Nix took the opportunity to piss on the scorched and rusted metal before moving on. Good dawg.
The south-eastern corner of the green was overlooked by a small mansion of sorts; a largish house that seemed to belong out in the hill country, but had somehow been misplaced in the middle of the city.
Without my lock I had no way of knowing who had lived there. But no matter, whoever had owned the place was long gone by the looks of it. The building had been shelled repeatedly and riddled with lasfire.
A low masonry wall with a spiked wrought-iron fence made the compound look positively upper-class. Said Leman Russ - or maybe another just like it - had run through the wall on the north side and exited where the front gate used to sit, facing the green.
I instantly knew the place for what it was. This was where they had taken my mother and manhandled her. Nix had led me true.
Below the walled compound there would be a reinforced rockrete shelter, complete with hidden escape tunnels, built to specification by those who had lived here before. A ruin atop a hidden bunker. Concealment and hard cover both. A good location to set up a hidden base.
Standing casually in the vicinity of the ruined gate were two men. They looked like regular civilians, save they seemed a bit better fed and carried PDF-issue autoguns. One had a scavenged IG combat vest, but the other made do with a civilian belt and some ammo pouches. They seemed bored, talking in low tones and sharing a lho-stick between them.
Insurgents. Terrorists. Militia. Freedom fighters. Guerrillas. Any of those terms might be applied to these men. They were also simple rapists and murderers. Neither had played a very active role in my mother's demise, but they had both been present at her 'trial', and when the 'sentence' had been carried out. Which made them guilty by association, at the very least. In my mind there could be only one verdict: Death.
The distance must have been around sixty paces when I brought the gun up.
My shooting experience was extremely limited: Father owned two shotguns and an antique stub rifle - he took them with him when he went to war. In his younger days he'd hunted fowl and some game, but when I grew up, the guns sat idle in the gun locker. He had never taught me how to handle weapons.
So my gun lore was limited to the occasional bout at fairs and such. In fact I had never actually fired the autopistol, although with Jons' tuition I was confident I could handle it with basic proficiency. Needless to say I had never fired a weapon at another person.
Sixty paces with an autopistol is a challenge even for a competitive shooter using a target pistol. For me it was easy. I brought the gun up with both hands. The two men loomed like giants in my sights. I could not possibly miss.
I pulled the trigger without hesitation: I have heard it said that shooting at another person is hard, especially the first time. I felt no such thing. Not that first time, nor at any later time. I guess I had the heart of a sniper after all.
A burst of small-calibre, high-velocity bullets sped out from my gun, crossed sixty paces of air in a fraction of a second, and hit the older of the two men, the one with the makeshift utility belt. He must have been wearing a flak vest underneath his dirty militia jacket, because I didn't see any blood where the rounds struck him in the chest. The vest didn't provide protection against the two rounds that made minced meat of his left arm, however. Nor did it protect his neck from the bullet that ripped open his jugular vein. He went down, gurgling and coughing, as his life flowed red onto the dusty ground.
The younger man had quick reflexes, I'll give him that. He threw himself back and to the right, into cover behind the ruined wall. Quick reflexes, but not preternatural ones. I just kept squeezing the trigger and adjusting my aim. There was simply no way for him to dodge out of the way of so many bullets. He disappeared behind the wall all right, but I knew I'd hit him multiple times. And he wasn't wearing any vest, the red ruin that had been his chest testified to that.
Two men were dead by my hand. My autopistol had run dry. I hadn't brought any spare clips. The sudden silence hung heavy over me. I knew it wouldn't last. It was like the calm before the storm. Soon all hell would break loose, and I would be standing there with an empty gun in my hand.
"So, what did you do," you ask.
Haxtes raises his eyebrows. "What any sane man would do. I dropped the gun, turned on my heel, and ran like Horus was after me."
"Both subtle and heroic," you say with dry humour.
"Every time," Haxtes agrees.