Exitus Ultima Chapter 12
A few hours later the Storm Heralds found themselves in a shanty house, deep in the city-state of Yukiana. Like all temple-cites of Sacellum it rose from the dry plains like a lighthouse, soaring walls and triumphal architecture stark against the midnight sky. A vision of holy splendour, marred by the teeming slums hiding in the shadows. Here the poor lived under the thumb of criminal overlords, subjected to lives of penury and squalor, as magnificent Cathedrals stood uncaring overhead.
The gunship had set down on an isolated landing platform. Their arrival drew surprisingly little notice, for they were not the only Astartes at large. The Imperial Fists had sent a force to secure and interrogate the local Cardinal and even now yellow giants stood over cowering priests, their patience thin and their trigger fingers itchy. The Storm Heralds had been more circumspect, disappearing into the slums and making their way unseen. Arvael's psychic sight had located an empty hovel across the street, a crumbling ruin avoided even by the poorest, due to the fact it seemed liable to collapse at any moment. None of the Space Marines dared venture upstairs, the rotten steps would not bear their weight, so they observed from the hollow shells of windows on the ground floor.
"Ogryns at the door," Gotram muttered, "Where in the galaxy did they get Ogryn guards?"
"Those with enough coinage can secure anything," Arvael muttered.
"We can take them," Jediah hissed.
"We could," Arvael admitted, "But not without setting off every alarm inside. We'd have to battle our way through countless guards. We need information, not a slaughter."
They leaned back, sinking into the darkness of the hovel. Their Transhuman eyes had no trouble coping with the gloom, but it disguised their presence from mortal eyes. Within the mouldering shack the Reivers stood, their masks removed to show stern eyes. Arvael had grown used to the height of Primaris warriors, but he was struck by how young they looked. These warriors had only been decanted from stasis-tubes mere years before, their life experiences were short. Arvael was scarcely any older, but in terms of combat encounters he was a veteran, a Librarian's life was a daily battle against forces most would never dream existed.
The hovel contained some dank metal furniture, wet with mildew. A table, a few chairs, an empty bedframe, all metal as wood was a precious material on this arid planet. A wizened skeleton lay on the bed, the shack's former occupant, left to rot. Thieves had taken all else, leaving only the most worthless items, behind. The room was near totally dark and the air was thick with decay and neglect, cloying damp that stuck to the back of Arvael's exposed head.
Sitting in a chair the joygirl shivered, hands rubbing her biceps as the damp went through the thin dress she wore. Part captive, part informant, she had suffered the journey in the Thunderhawk, reciting prayers the whole way. Carisa blinked forlornly in the dark, unable to see anything. A lumen orb would betray their position, so she must endure. Arvael noted her arms were thin and her frame slight, signs of malnutrition and her hair blonde hair lank, while her features were smeared with cheap paints.
He knelt by her and said, "The location, tell me about it."
"Arh!" she yelped as the deep voice emerged from the darkness, "I can't see anything!"
"You don't need eyes to talk," Jediah growled.
Arvael drew upon the slightest morsel of his power and brushed her mind. He stimulated the visual cortex and fed her an image drawn from his own awareness. Without creating any light he allowed her to see, picking out furniture and the brothers lurking within. Her mind was a sordid place, filled with deprivation and abuse, her life had been painful and degrading, but her sorrows were not his concern.
"How did you do that?" she asked as she blinked in surprise.
"I have my ways," Arvael affirmed, "Now the Vettia, tell me of them."
She wiped her nose with the back of a hand then sniffed, "They run everything, hands in every pie and a priest in every pocket. Every thief, mugger, smuggler, drug-pusher and brothel on the planet works for them, and nobody dares deny them their cut. Any thief who thinks he can get away without paying his dues ends up very dead. There's a Prime out there somewhere, running everything, but each city-state is run by one of his Seconds, they rule their territory with an iron fist."
Gotram sniffed, "Basic feudal hierarchy, a king and his vassals. I expect they administer their territory freely, in exchange for a sending a cut of the profits up the chain."
"I doubt a criminal enterprise could maintain a hereditary lineage," Arvael mused, "This Prime probably keeps his rule with a generous measure of fear and violence."
"This is irrelevant," Jediah growled, "Tell us of the casino."
Carisa nodded, "Second Barbasa uses it as his palace. It's really high-end, for off-world traders and Priests who like to slum. There's gambling, drinks and girls or boys aplenty. He guards it well."
"So we see," Gotram muttered, "Few can afford Ogryn guards on the door."
"What was your role there?" Arvael asked.
"What do you think?!" Carisa snapped with anger in her eye, "The Vettia grooms orphans from birth, making us useful. Barbasa likes us young, very young. I was here for a few years, till I got too old for his tastes, then they shipped me out to other territories. Passed about like a coin, till I get used up and will be dropped in an alley somewhere. God-Emperor, what did I ever do to deserve a life like this?"
"Save the self-pity," Jediah growled, "This Barbasa sounds like the kind to deal with Heretics. We need to get in there."
"Good luck with that," Carisa snorted, "The front is a fortress and the guards many. Barbasa has a secret bunker underneath, secure as a vault and his escape tunnel opens only from the inside. I've seen it, dreamed of running away many a night, but where would I go?"
"Secret tunnel, I like the sound of that," Gotram mused.
"Could be a way inside," Arvael admitted, "Do you know where it comes out?"
"I can tell you, but it won't help. I said it only opens from the inside."
"Melta-bombs can take care of that," Gotram snorted.
"No, I have a better idea," Arvael asserted eyeing the joygirl.
Carisa blinked, "Oh no, I'm not opening it. I can't."
"You will," Jediah growled, "We're not giving you a choice."
"They'll never let me near it! Why would they?!"
"Tell them you fled the massacre of your boss," Gotram asserted, "They'll want to interrogate you, it won't even be a lie. All you have to do is sneak away and open a door."
"I won't do it and you can't make me," Carisa retorted crossing her arms.
"Bold words, for someone trapped in a room with me," Jediah hissed.
But Arvael countered, "You hate this life? We can take you away and put you to work as a Serf in our Fortress-Monastery. A life in service to us would be better than this. But first you must prove your worth."
Carisa shook her head, "You don't understand, they'll know I'm tricking them. Barbasa has a truthseer, brought him in from off-world and everything. Nobody gets through that door without being read, it's how he's lasted so long as Second of Yukiana."
"A rogue Telepath?" Arvael breathed, "They keep an unsanctioned Psyker in their employ?!"
"Red Sands," Gotram breathed, "The Inquisition will go spare when they hear about this."
"If a Daemon doesn't rip open his head and go on a rampage first," Jediah spat.
Arvael however mused, "I sense no font of power from within, no psychic sweeps of the area. If they have a telepath they must be a meagre one, Omicron level or lower, has to be, to pass the Black Ship's notice. If they're unsanctioned their mind won't be warded… that opens possibilities."
Arvael straightened up and moved to a clear area of the floor. What he was about to attempt would require focus and concentration, but also power. His gifts of Telepathy were limited, he would need aid. He placed his hand on the floor and with his mind began drawing a symbol. Glowing lines of force raced from his hand and described a circle, filled with arcane runes and surrounded by esoteric marks.
Carisa leaned over, "What is it?"
"A glyph of amplification, it will focus my powers like a magnifying glass does light," Arvael explained.
"Sorcery," Gotram spat.
"A tool," Arvael countered, "Sorcery is power foreign to the user, this is merely my own talents, employed with precision."
Jediah sniffed, "And that will help?"
"It will," Arvael affirmed, "Give me two minutes, then send her out."
"I'm still not happy about this," Carisa grumbled.
"Go out there or stay in here with me," Jediah hissed, "Ogryns are the less painful choice."
Arvael finished the glyph and stepped within. He felt the psychic contours of his work surround him, shaping his power like a bottle does water. With the structure in place his Telepathic abilities were enhanced, honed into a razor-point far finer than he could normally achieve. He closed his eyes and let his mind slip from his bones, sending his spirit flying free.
Across the street his mind flew, passing over gutters strewn with trash. A bulky building stood opposite, plain and brutal on the outside but glowing with life forces within. A pair of Ogryns stood outside the main door, their minds dense and slow but unyielding. Too stupid to get bored, they were suspicious of all who passed by.
Arvael flew past without notice and passed within the building. Here he found more guards, sullen mortals armed with laspistols and autoguns. Enforcers and thugs, idly passing the time smoking iho-sticks and playing cards. Their minds were filled with thoughts of venal pleasures, and a sullen resentment at the recent upheavals that had disrupted their business. Arvael let them be, he was searching for something far rarer.
In a chamber near the door he found his target. A thin man with wiry hair and a mind that burned like a hot coal. Arvael sensed power in him, the unmistakable touch of the Warp bubbling in his soul. An unsanctioned Psyker, hiding from the Black Ships in the service of the Vettia. His mere existence was a violation of Imperial Law, a rogue Psyker was a threat to all, an open door to the Warp that a passing Daemon could corrupt. Worlds had burned when one soul proved too weak to master their gifts. As a Librarian Arvael had a duty to report this Heresy at once, but today he had other plans. Today it was he who would be committing Heresy.
The man sat on his sleeping mat, watching a porno-slate with mild interest. He was slack of wit and undisciplined, his thoughts drifting and unguarded, thus he was taken off-guard when Arvael struck. The Librarian launched his mind into the psyker's, like a predator leaping upon sleeping prey. The man started in shock as his mind was assaulted, struck by a force beyond his comprehension. Weak, diffident and idle, the Unsanctioned Psyker was unprepared for an assault by a Battle-Psyker of the Adeptus Astartes. Arvael's will was iron and his power mighty, he had fought battles spiritual and psionic, wrestled with Daemons and trained daily with his powers. Arvael's mind crushed the man utterly, suffocating his spirit into the deepest corners of his mind.
To puppet another's body was Heresy, but needs must prevail and Arvael would pay penances later. Frankly it was too easy, the man barely fought back at all, his cries feeble and fading as his mind was invaded by another. Arvael's disgust grew as he took control of the man's brain, so weak, it was only the meagreness of his talents that had spared him from the predations of a Neverborn, his soul was too dim to draw their attention. Still it was the open door Arvael needed.
Arvael settled his spirit inside the man's brain and rifled through his memories. He saw tortured nightmares and days of toil, scanning various visitors for deception. Traders, richer pilgrims and priests, even a few officers of the Crusade in the last few days. They had submitted to scanning and not reported it, Arvael made sure to note their names; the Inquisition had short truck with any who failed to reveal contact with a rogue Psyker.
Under new direction the Psyker stood up, his limbs frail and chest small. Arvael hadn't felt so small in years, the thin body easily breakable and prone to sickness. Mortal bodies truly were weak things. Still he strode to the door and stepped beyond, moving towards the entrance. None suspected anything was wrong as he walked along, moving without challenge.
At the door he found Carisa, the small woman shivering in the night as she argued with the Ogryns. The burly abhumans weren't letting her inside, convinced she had run away from her boss, something the Vettia took seriously. Thankfully Arvael was here to intervene.
He steered the meat puppet up to them and said, "Let her in, we've been expecting her."
"But…" one Ogryn protested.
"Barasa wants to see her," Arvael said, "The boss says get back to work."
"'Yeah K," the other sniffed as they sank back.
Arvael grabbed the joygirl by the arm and steered her within saying, "It's me."
"You…" Carisa blinked, "Really?"
"Really, now show me the way to the bunker. Our time grows short."
"This way, try to look normal, there's a lot of eyes in here."
So the pair moved inside, leaving the guards behind. A sallow joygirl and a weak man, puppeteered by another. Arvael was keenly aware this body enjoyed no Transhuman boons, no strength or stamina to note, in a fight it would die quickly. Still the promise of answers drew them on and Arvael could only trust they weren't too late.