Exitus Ultima Chapter 13
The interior of the casino was wildly different to the drab exterior. A broad atrium held laughing revellers, gambling at tables stacked with cards and dice games. Men and women in rich attire gamed freely, wasting coinage enough to feed a district without care. Laughing with wild abandon all the while. Servile boys and girls in too little clothing carried drinks and appetisers on silver platters as lecherous hands groped freely. And a band played string instruments from a balcony as if this was some Governor's ball for the respectable elite.
Moving along the edge of the room a pair of furtive figures made their way. Carisa in her dishevelled attire, Arvael clothed in stolen flesh. The Librarian knew he was violating a dozen creeds of his order with this act, but his resolve did not waver. The soul of the owner was restless, trying to exert himself. Arvael put him in his place firmly; an Astartes Battle-Psyker would suffer no quarrels with a petty rogue telepath.
More troubling was the weakness of the eyes and the deafness of the ear. Arvael had grown accustomed to the enhanced senses of a Space Marine, so far above the perception of the common man. Arvael had to squint to bring things into focus and these ears heard only a din of laughter in the room. To one accustomed to discerning the calibre of a bullet by the noise of its passing it felt like being half-deaf. If mortals had to stumble through the world with these feeble senses, no wonder they were so afraid all the time.
"Busy night," Carisa muttered.
"Not always like this?" Arvael asked.
"These people must be desperate," Carisa explained.
"They look pleased; I've seen pleasure cults with more self-restraint."
Carisa explained, "There's happy laughing and then there's desperate laughing. This lot aren't here for a good time, they are trying to blot out the world with drugs and alcohol and flesh. Believe me, I've worked enough nights here to know the difference."
Arvael sighed, "Rumours regarding the Regent have spread far and wide, many hold it is the end of all things, come at last."
As they moved along Arvael's throat burned with smoke, rising from many fat cigars being smoked in the room. He saw traders dumping coinage on a table as if there was no tomorrow, uncaring for their losses. A woman weeping in a corner, even as she downed drink after drink and a crowd calling to a half-naked girl gyrating on a podium. For some reason that caught his eye, or rather the stolen eyes he was using. For a reason he could not fathom the eyes lingered on the girl's hips, drawn as if by magnets. The soul of the man he was riding stirred, an impulse Arvael did not comprehend lending vigour. Many things were taken from an Astartes during gene-forging and Arvael had not the lexicon to articulate this emotion, but the girl's lack of clothing was doing something. Arvael wasn't going to put up with that, he exerted his will and crushed the soul back into its dark corner, taking the impulse with it. A Space Marine had no truck with, whatever this was.
Carisa paused as a pair of figures stumbled past, heading towards a narrow door. A laughing priest dragging a sallow-faced girl into a sideroom, her face resigned to whatever was coming next. Arvael felt disgusted at the sight, here was one who should be standing firm in the face of adversity, leading the people with moral virtue, but instead throwing himself into depravity. Where the Librarian had mastered his impulses with stern discipline the priest instead dove into them headfirst. Arvael wished he could say the Vettia had corrupted the priest, but they only provided service where there was demand. The Ecclesiarchy's rotten nature was offensive, all Imperial institutions were corrupt to some degree, but the Adeptus Ministorum was something else entirely.
"Wretched priests," Arvael spat once they were safely past.
"Aren't they all," Carisa agreed.
"There are some good ones, there have to be," Arvael hissed, "But the Ecclesiarchy grinds the goodness out of them. It's a machine, threshing good souls from wicked, and sending the best to die on the front lines. Only the corrupt and venal live long enough to rise in power."
"That sound personal," Carisa commented.
"My Chapter has a bad history with the Ecclesiarchy," Arvael explained.
"You've got nothing on me," she retorted.
They made their way around the raucous room and found themselves at a brass door set in the far wall. A lift, operated by a servitor, and guarded by two burly men in grey suits. Arvael noted the bulge of stubber pistols under their jackets and firm expressions to the jaw. If they chose to fight he couldn't do much to stop them, not in this frail flesh. His arms were thin and his strength meagre, his powers wouldn't be much use at this range either; he'd have to talk his way past.
"This one's for Barbasa," he declared.
"Piss off Jakuel," one growled.
Carisa elbowed him slightly and hissed, "That's you, idiot."
Arvael lifted his stolen chin, "Boss says bring her straight to him."
"Boss has been silent all night," the guard retorted, "Haven't had a word to let anyone in."
"He told me directly," Arvael argued.
"Maybe he did," the other guard said with a leer, "But where the rush? Haven't seen you before girl. We should… inspect you first."
"I ain't got time," Carisa hissed.
"Make time," the second growled, "Barbasa can have you after we've had our fun."
Arvael sensed danger but said, "What, you think the boss will be happy waiting till his underlings have had a turn?!"
The first guard went pale, "Kinae, he's got a point. I don't think that's a hot idea."
"Frak you Jonns," the second scoffed, "Frak Barbasa too."
"Want me to tell Barbasa what you just said?!" Carisa snapped.
"Now hold on," Kinae gulped.
"What does the Vettia do to guards who think they can handle their boss' stuff?" Arvael pressed, "And bad-mouth him behind his back?"
Both guards looked worried and Jonns said, "No need to tell him, we were only jesting. Ain't that right Kinae?"
"Yeah, only having a laugh, you go straight through. Don't keep Barbasa waiting."
The guards heaved the door open and the pair stepped in, sighing in relief. The door slid closed and the pair rode the lift down in silence. An annoying tune plinked over a vox-horn as the metal-faced servitor clung to the lever. After less than a minute the man-machine pulled back and the lift stopped, allowing them to slide the door open and enter the bunker proper. What they found was a massacre.
The bunker was strewn with bodies, laid out wherever they fell. Luxurious sofas held the corpses of joygirls and enforcers lay dead upon rich carpets. Servants clung to platters of spilled wine as grey lips hung slack and a butler in a fancy waistcoat hung over a lectern, like a restaurant greeter who had fallen asleep over his pulpit. In one corner a man in Ecclesiarchial robes was bent over a table, whatever business he had with Barbasa brought to an abrupt halt.
"What happened here?" Carisa gasped.
"We're too late," Arvael growled as he stepped to a corpse.
"Someone got inside?"
Arvael peered into a dead eyeball and saw a pinprick iris staring back, "No, these people died without a fight. Some sort of nerve gas, pumped into the air. I assume this bunker has an isolated ventilation system, that's why it didn't affect the people above."
"Gas?!" Carisa squeaked as she pulled her hands over her mouth and nose.
"Relax, it must have dissipated already, else you'd be dead already. Where is Barbasa's office?"
She sheepishly lowered her hands, "This way."
She led him to a door and then along a corridor. At the end dead enforcers lay before a wide double door. They pushed it open and found the Vettia Second dead upon his desk. A broad sweep of off-world wood, doubtless bought at exorbitant expense. The surface held a stubber and a collection of knives within easy reach and a cogitator display, dark and unlit. The man had been thin and corded with muscle, his strength still respectable and his face scarred many times over. In this body Arvael wouldn't have cared to fight him, but it didn't matter, Barbasa was as dead as his minions.
"He's dead!" Carisa started.
Arvael poked the body, "A few hours only, not long enough to draw notice from above. Throne, this man was dying at the same time we raided the villa, the Traitors hit both at the same time."
Carisa spat on the body, "Burn in the hell of the warp, you filthy letch."
"Save it," Arvael ordered, "Find the escape tunnel."
"It's over here, it's still sealed. No one got out."
"As expected," Arvael sighed, "There's a cogitator core under the desk… no, it's burned out. Looks like a data-djinn overloaded its Machine Spirit and flash-burned the memno-coils. We're getting nothing out of this."
Carisa sagged, "So that's it? We came all this way for nothing, this was a dead-end from the start."
"Maybe," Arvael mused.
"You think different?"
"The assassin did a good job wiping physical evidence, but they didn't calculate a Psyker coming, at least not one of my rank. The brain is still intact, so…"
"So?" Carisa asked.
Arvael didn't answer, instead leaning down to place a bony hand on the corpse's head. What he was about to attempt was a tricky procedure, doubly so performed remotely, but he was determined to succeed. Arvael's power was associated with the physical world, with the here and now, but the moment of death left traces behind, a shadow cast upon the wall of reality. Psychometry was a delicate art, more of a knack than a skill, but Arvael had undergone the required training. He punched a telepathic probe into the dead criminal's aura and beheld the outer layers flying away, dissipating in the aether. He knew the aura would unravel fast once disturbed and pressed deeper, tearing apart the imprint of death left upon the world. Random impressions flashed by, the feel of a stubber discharging in the fist, the rush of drugs coursing through blood vessels, the taste of hard rotgut and a plethora of images of sexual depravity.
The impressions came in a flood of random sensations, so finding anything genuinely useful was difficult. He was like a thief desperately ransacking a house, grabbing whatever he could before he was caught. He could feel memories slipping through his hands even as he tried to grasp them, the knowledge of who this man was and whom he was fighting fraying apart. Then he found something, a mental image of a name and a place, smugglers, moving drugs between city-states, their convoys hiding things far darker in their holds. One in particular, a convoy Barbasa had taken a keen interest in.
Arvael snapped his mind free and let the soul dissipate into the Empyrean. He saw the man's aura evaporate and he breathed out as he let go of his power. Arvael opened his eyes and knew that barely a second had passed. He centred himself then declared, "I have the location of a smuggler convoy, Barbasa knew them to be involved at some level."
"There are hundreds of those," Carisa muttered, "You'll never find the right one."
"I already have," Arvael countered, "You need to make your exit via the tunnel and head back to the hovel."
"While you do what exactly?" the joygirl snapped.
"There is a Heresy yet occurring here, I shall dispose of it before I leave."
"You don't mean to…"
"Just go," Arvael ordered, "I shall meet you there."
The girl gave him a sullen look then took off, punching a series of runes into a pad to open the door to the escape tunnel. Arvael watched her go and knew his work was not done. The pysker's body he inhabited was still a violation of Imperial law, his very existence a crime. Arvael had used him most cruelly, abused his spirit and flesh, the Librarian owed him a debt, but the Emperor's will surpassed a Librarian's feelings. A rogue Psyker could not be tolerated and since Arvael had neither time nor surety of handing him to the Inquisition, he would have to be more direct.
Arvael picked up a knife from the desk and held the body's wrist out. The serrated edge gleamed with wicked promise and a surge of panic arose from the true owner of this body. Arvael held it at bay with iron resolve, his soul hardened and his course set. With a sharp slash he cut the knife across the wrist, severing the arteries. A flood of blood poured out and a sense of weakness and fear battered his mind. Before strength fled he switched hands and cut the other wrist, causing blood to spurt freely.
Death was certain and the Psyker's spirit wailed in denial, but Arvael was already departing. His mind detached from the puppet and fled back to his bones, leaving the man to bleed out on the floor. Feeble wails arose as the man's mind took control of a dying body, knowing his fate was sealed, but Arvael paid it no mind. One Heresy had been dealt with, now he could focus on the true threat. No matter how many deaths it required, he would not rest until his quest was completed.