Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 227

Through the outer dark of the stellar system a bright star moved. Travelling on a trail of Plasma wash sailed a blunt-prowed ship, passing far from any prying eyes. She slipped through space with an elusive course, seeking to throw off any prying eyes. Many would decry such stealth as rank paranoia, given the historically low odds of any ship running into another in the void by chance, but the ship carried on regardless. She had specific orders to reach her destination unseen, and so she took every precaution imaginable.

The ship was small by void faring standards, only four and a half kilometres long and displacing the same as an Imperial light cruiser. Her flanks bore numerous weapon batteries but she lacked the armour and shields for sustained combat. Instead her spine was bedecked by auspex vanes, deep-space cartographic arrays and planetary-mapping surveyors. Her holds were sizable and her reactors hardened for sustained cruises. She was not a warship but an explorer, a made for extended-range mapping and survey missions. A Lethe-class monitor, a support ship for the Basilikon Astra's Explorator fleets and her name was Tezla.

High on her spine a man stood in an observation blister and stared into the stars. He was tall and strong, with broad shoulders and muscled arms. His face bore a thick beard, to disguise numerous scars on his face, and he walked with a stiff gait that spoke of a broken spine at some point in his life. He was dressed in leather trousers and a closely buttoned jacket, with a power sword on his belt and a bulky pistol that seemed too large for his frame. He projected an image many would have mistaken for a Rogue Trader, but closer inspection revealed many differences. His eyes were pure Augmetics, perfect recreations of eyeballs save for their silver hue, such marvellous technology as to be beyond the dreams of the richest Rogue Trader. His hands were laced with silver threads, interfaces that allowed him to commune with the Machine Spirits and small nubs around the back of his skull spoke of subtle neural upgrades. He was Executor Ruuka and he was staring impatiently gazing into the stars.

"Where is he?" Ruuka muttered.

"He canna hide that fat sow of a ship for long," a gruff voice answered, "Even in space he sticks out like a fresh blister on the arse."

"I wonder what he wants from us this time?" Ruuka sighed.

"Probably some death-defying mission over scraps, sending us into the fire for a broken bit of tat."

"More than likely," Ruuka agreed, "Still Archmagos Cawl has been good to us, the Tezla owes much to his beneficence."

"Belisarius Cawl is an arrogant blowhard, he can go suck on an exhaust port for all I care."

Ruuka turned his eyes away to examine his companion. At his side stood a being of immense density, with shoulders broader than his own and hands the size of shovel blades. He was dressed head to toe in reinforced armour, thick Ceramite plate banding his frame, but needing no fibre-bundle assistance to move, as power armour demanded. His face was solid as a brick, with a fat nose and a heavy brow while his chin sported a long beard, braided into three plaits. A massive gravity-hammer was slung over his back, giving him an air of threat, an impression marred somewhat by the fact he was only half Ruuka's height. This was Wulfe, the ship's Secutor Prime, master of combat and a member of the Rotundus abhuman strain, a survivor of the Squat civilisation.

Ruuka sniffed, "You don't trust Cawl, do you?"

Wulfe snorted, "I don't trust anyone with so many faces, he changes his brains so often there's nothing left to call a man. There's no telling what he's cooking up."

"But he's helping your people rebuild. The Tyrannids razed your worlds to the bedrock, without his aid you'd have been wiped out."

"Not out of the goodness of his hearts," Wulfe spat, "Sure he's helping the few colonies that fought the bugs off to rebuild, but he's getting something in return, mark my words."

Ruuka sighed, "I don't see the difference, help is help. Who cares why he's doing it."

"Listen laddie, my folk were building starships long before the Imperium came along. While your ancestors sank back to hitting each other over the heads with rocks, we endured. I know a Quagmire when I see one. He's insane to try to live forever this way."

"There are many paths to immorality," Ruuka bitterly observed, "We can hardly criticise."

"I can speak as I will child. I served your gene-father for decades, before you were decanted from your tube."

"Don't call Pycelo that!" Ruuka snapped, "He's not my father, he's my maker, my designer!"

"What else you gonna call him?" Wulfe laughed mockingly, "You're bred out of his cells, as he was out of his gene-fathers. Whether by screwing a maid or by careful gene-craft, you came out of him. Son or clone-son, Pycelo's still your dad and you should respect him."

Ruuka's anger spiked as he spat, "I'll respect him when he respects me! I've bled for him a hundred times, trekked across burning deserts and half-frozen to death drilling into comets and he never gives me a word of praise. I've never had a chance to shine. How many years must I bow and scrape, begging for scraps?!"

Wulfe's brow furrowed as he growled, "Tis a disgrace when a son speaks ill of his father. You better learn some manners lad, before I beat them into you."

"I'd like to see you try," Ruuka sneered.

"Don't think you can take me," Wulfe growled, "You're not so big I canna bend you over my knee."

Ruuka's face reddened but before he could reply a soft voice uttered, "Gentlemen please, do not spoil this lovely moment with garish violence."

Ruuka deflated instantly as he replied, "I apologise, I did not mean to offend you."

Startlingly Wulfe settled too and said, "Aye lassie, I wasnae gonna fight. Ye shouldna be troubled by two hot-heads blowing off some steam."

Both of them let the argument pass as Ruuka examined the third member of their party. In a rich robe, tinged with blue edging, stood a woman with a strict pose. She was a Tech-priest but one of most unusual visage. Her body bore numerous augmetics but they were subtle and took nothing from her shapely frame. Her legs were shining silver, sculpted to appear human and her feet were permanently formed into high-heels. Her hood was cast back, showing eyes kept shining by numerous juvenant treatments and lustrous black hair fell down her spine. Her face retained a hint of youth, carefully preserved by subdermal implants, giving her a haughty beauty. She was the ship's Famulous, an emissary-savant sculpted body and mind to deal with Rogue Traders, corrupt Governors, Xenos and numerous other intermediaries the Explorator fleets might encounter. Named Treya she was Ruuka's counterpoint in dealing with outsiders, the velvet glove to his iron fist.

Treya gazed into the stars and said, "There she is."

Ruuka peered into the dark as his enhanced vision caught a spark of light and he exclaimed, "Zar-Quaesitor!"

"Always a marvel," Treya breathed with a soft-purr that sent shivers down Ruuka's spine.

"It's not that impressive," Wulfe grunted.

Yet Treya exclaimed, "It is a wonder, such regal size and power. So many secrets, such depths of the Omnissiah's bounty. What wouldn't I give to touch that majesty and drink in the hallowed scent of industry."

Ruuka could think of a few things he'd rather touch than a ship's bulkhead, most of them involving Treya, but his lustful musings were interrupted by a harsh chime in the air. He groaned as he knew they were being summoned, his gene-father demanding their presence. Without a word the three of them left the observation blister, heading for the heart of the ship. Like all Mechanicus vessels Tezla made no effort to hide her workings behind panelled sheets. Corridors were lined with exposed pipes and tangles of wiring, the floors covered in snaking cables and power trunks. The three of them walked with confidence, never tripping over a line as they passed Servitors and Enginseers applying sparking tools to naked devices and the scent of ritual incense fought with soldering for dominance.

Their steps soon brought them to the ship's strategium, and they entered without a qualm. Within a dizzying array of Holo-images hung in the air, circling displays revealing information gathered from the ship's many auspex arrays. Current tactical streams sat next to historic scans of planets and nebula, with Sector-wide strategic updates updated regularly by Astropath. Tezla existed to gather data and all of it was displayed here. Yet the most important thing present was not information but the current occupant.

Squatting in the middle of the room was a massive machine. It stood on four broad legs, driven by pistons as large as a man's waist. Up they arched, then back own to support a circular platform, from which hung many Mechandrites and sensor probes. Strong mechanical arms hung low and numerous weapon blisters lay inert, but ready to be activated at a moment's notice. In the centre of this machine bubbled a glassic sphere, keeping a shred of organic matter alive Magos Explorator Pycelo, master of the Tezla and Ruuka's gene-father.

The trio stopped and bowed as Ruuka called, "You summoned us?"

The machine's centre spun about on a circular track, bringing glinting sensor-probes to bear as a human voice uttered, "Ah my Clone-son, tardy as always."

Ruuka bristled at the implied insult and retorted, "I have duties to attend to."

"Duties?!" Pycelo scoffed, "Slacking off more like! I keep telling you your Augmetics are lacking; you should embrace the machine fully, as I have. I knew I shouldn't have waited so long to breed a replacement."

Ruuka kept his voice neutral as he said, "I will, in time. For now the flesh remains strong. The union of man and machine should be fully explored, neither one favoured over the other."

"You mean you aren't done with physical pleasure," Pycelo sneered, "You waste time cavorting in the flesh, when you should be seeking the purity of the Machine. Why, our shared gene-sire would be ashamed to think his legacy would fall to a scoundrel… wasting his life… gah… gah! Magos!"

From the corner of the room came a slight figure, in the robes of the Biologis. Her frame was square with numerous Augmetics, making her seem a walking pillar and her face was obscured by numerous lens that shifted constantly. This was Krusin, the chief Biologist of the Tezla, and the one responsible for keeping Pycelo alive for centuries. She hurried to his side and extended Mechandrites to interface with the bulky machine saying, "You must not grow agitated, it causes feedback in your amniotic recyclers. It is a delicate matter keeping your organic brain healthy, let me get a closer look."

A whoosh of air rang out as a thick column dropped from the machine. Within was a glassic jar, supporting a brain. It floated in a thick liquid medium, hanging from numerous wires and neural jacks. Pycelo, all that remained after centuries of exchanging bits of himself for metal, seeking immortality. Ruuka found it disgusting; he had no desire to live as a brain in a jar, but worse was knowing he himself was a part of this, a gene-bred clone created to continue this travesty. Ruuka was a replacement part, made to take up the legacy of their line once Pycelo's brain finally failed. Thus had it been in their family for five generations, a curious form of immortality, clones replacing clones, all so some millennia-dead Magos could keep his genes alive. Ruuka was determined to break that cycle; he'd take the Tezla in due course but be his own man. He certainly would not be breeding a clone-son of his own.

Pycelo' bubbling fluids settled and he called, "Treya, I grow disturbed, come to me." The Famulous swished over and took up her customary position at his side. Her hands stroked the glassic in a possessive fashion, making Ruuka's jaw clench in jealousy, watching as she adjusted some drip lines on the machine. Krusin kept Pycelo alive but Treya soothed his spirit, applying precise doses of drugs to keep his mind settled and productive. There was something disturbing about watching her fingers stroke the lines, and Ruuka hated that she had to tend to the bitter old scrap of flesh like a nursemaid. The purr that came out of the vox-speakers was offensive, the old fool scolded for enjoying pleasure, but this display showed him to be a rank hypocrite.

"Your humours are out of sink," Treya whispered, "12mcg of Cyentha will cleanse your thought processes."

"Much better," Pycelo sighed, "Stay by my side, now where was I?"

"The meeting with Cawl?" Ruuka prompted.

"Ah yes. The Archmagos himself has a new tasking for us. A mission of utmost importance and secrecy. So secret he refuses to transmit it over open vox-channels. We are required to board his ship and receive our orders in person."

"Board Zar-Queasitor!" Treya squeaked in delight.

Ruuka instantly declared, "Send me, I will be your envoy to the Archmagos."

"You?!" Pycelo laughed, "I think not. This isn't some random governor to ply with wine, this is the Archmagos himself. We will all go."

"I can do it," Ruuka protested, "Give me a chance to prove myself."

"You'd just screw it up, like you always do. No, I'll do this myself."

Wulfe spoke up, "I'm coming too, I danna trust that slippery bastard."

"Very good," Pycelo said, "Watch and learn my son, I'll show you how this is done. Try to learn something for once."

Ruuka sank back into himself with a weary sigh. Once more his gene-father was going to run roughshod over his efforts, always berating him for not being good enough but never providing a chance to actually shine. How was he to prove himself with the old man always standing in his way? He could only hope this meeting would give them a worthy mission, perhaps Ruuka might finally have an opportunity to step out of his father's shadow. But somehow he doubted it would be so.