Far away, yet not nearly far enough.
My name is Ahmakeph. I am Overlord of the Sautekh Dynasty. I will take over someday from that fool Zahndrekh. I will prove my worth to Imotekh.
A soft humming reached his auditory receptors, which were one of the few things still functioning. Sight was completely lost, his visual arrays crudely removed by vicious children. That humming was a source of dread, although Ahmakeph resolutely refused the emotion. He would endure in the hope of rescue. He would not fail Imotekh.
"Have you ever wondered why I'm bothering with this?" No. It is sheer, unadulterated cruelty for no purpose. And boredom. "I'm just interested in the challenge." Boredom. "It's so easy for me to cause pain in what you would call organics. I'm such a master of my craft, in fact, that it's hard for me to even be creative anymore. I saw what you would call our "crownworlds" fall into the darkest abyss, so long ago." Maunder on about your age to someone who saw the War in Heaven, brat.
Reviewing how he had come to be here for the three thousandth, two hundred and twenty-sixth time, Ahmakeph again came to the conclusion that he'd done nothing wrong. That wretch Zahndrekh had done nothing wrong. It had been sheer, unadulterated bad luck that had gotten his battle group destroyed and him taken as a prisoner – if you could call it that – of the dark eldar. Ahmakeph could imagine Zahndrekh clapping his hands together and saying that things like this happened, sometimes. He probably had, when word of the loss had reached him.
"It's such a challenge, trying to inflict pain on metal." You're not very good at it. "I think I'm close to solving this puzzle, though." Yes. I think you are.
Ahmakeph hoped that he was wrong, but the wretch who had been exploring his body for years seemed to know his way around machines. He had been puzzling the alien Necron technology out and while he was sometimes incorrect, he usually realized his error and correctly labeled the functions he was examining. It was only a matter of time before he found the old mechanisms, long disabled, that governed pain. The only reason he hadn't figured it out long before was because this was a… hobby to him. Something he was doing purely for amusement and enjoyment, an idle pastime for the terminally bored. Real work came first.
As if that thought had summoned it, there was a light tread in the hallway.
"Stop wasting your time on that trash." The voice was light, giggly and female. Ahmakeph hated the sound of it. Not merely because it was organic but because he'd heard those maniacal giggles far too many times, interspersed with sounds of agony. Then a foot kicked his side. The blow was utterly pathetic, but then, it was only meant to humiliate. "Are you ever going to make it scream?" Ahmakeph mentally created perfect glyphs for a very intricate, beautiful insult that the creature couldn't have appreciated even if she'd been able to see it.
"Oh, someday, someday. We all need something to strive towards, don't we? But why are you interrupting my work? Do you want an example of it?" A naked threat. These creatures had no qualms about doing to their own what they did to others, if the whim took them.
"Yl'Aqar wants you for something. Take it up with him." That was the name of the commander of this shoddy outpost. There was a heavy sigh and the sound of shifting material.
"Fine, fine. You'll have to wait a bit longer." A hand touched his face in a mockery of kindness. "But don't worry, I think I'm almost there." Ahmakeph created another insult glyph string, but his will wasn't fully in it. Compared to the organic prisoners here, he was at a great disadvantage. No matter how horrible the manner of their deaths, or how drawn out they were, they would eventually die.
He wouldn't.
hr
Manric wiped sweat from his brow as he toured the forge.
This really shouldn't be my duty. I wish I could delegate it. Unfortunately, it was supposed to be his father's duty. But the King was too old and feeble to carry it out, and delegating the quarterly review of the forging and manufacturing was not an option.
The forges were running beautifully well, though, which eased his heart. Seeing the manual laborers, in their protective gear, using equipment to move about the great ingots that would go into their war machines, was an inspiring sight. The manufacturing was going equally well, churning out tanks, lasguns and bolters as the artisans put together a single, lone Knight armor. Manric paused to look at it, seeing the fatal flaw that afflicted all Knight armor. There is no adamantium. Without the adamantium plating to protect the joints, especially, they were quite vulnerable to attack. Plasteel and ceramite just could not make up for a complete and total lack of adamantium.
Shaking his head, Manric turned away and gave his attention to the rest of the Noble production lines. They were making armor and lasguns and bolters, just like the generic production, but made to a higher standard. There was even an effort put towards ornamentation, as skilled artists took the work of the artisans and machines, and then manually inlaid it with brilliant colors. Manric stood behind an older woman, her steel grey hair in a bun, and watched as she filled the lines of a breastplate with liquid gold. When she was done, he cleared his throat and she started, looking up with wide eyes.
"Your work is excellent," he told her and she glowed, her eyes lighting at the praise. Manric noticed that she had once been beautiful, and was still quite pretty even in age.
"Thank you, exalted general, I live to serve." Her words were perfectly sincere and Manric nodded before returning the ritual reply.
"We all live to serve." Not the King. King was merely a title that changed hands. They lived to serve the people and the planet. This world had not been welcoming when they'd arrived on it, but the people had long since coaxed it to full bloom. That was why they'd named it Hope.
Manric finished his inspection with the mess hall and the relaxation facilities. The great mind behind all they did, the all powerful STC, had dictated that if they wished workers to carry out long hours it would be good to provide them nourishing food and refreshment pods. Manric walked to the mess hall line and joined it. Everyone recognized him of course – he was in his armor, this was a formal visit, although unscheduled – and the workers gave him respectful space. Manric smiled at an awestruck serving girl and accepted a small roll of bread and a full bowl of stew.
Taking a seat at one of the tables, Manric sampled the food, testing the quality. Hmm… acceptable, although nothing more. The lack of rosemary was disappointing, but the cheaper substitute of brownleaf bark added a bit of fragrance. The meat was edible, stewed long enough to be only a bit chewy. The vegetables in the stew seemed quite fresh, not something scraped out of a dumpster. (he'd encountered that once, but only once)
In addition to checking the quality of the food, though, he was truly hungry so Manric finished the bowl before going for a quick check of the refreshment pods. He expected no problems there, and he was not disappointed. The gentle pods hummed softly and half of them were occupied by workers seeking a carefully determined, machine assisted ten minute nap. Manric nodded to himself at the sight. He'd never been much of a napper, but the STC had advised them that precisely ten minutes would refresh a worker who was not yet exhausted, but starting to flag.
Manric left as he'd come, completely without fanfare. He would give his report to his father, which would amount to 'commendable, send them all due praise' and that would be that. Until next quarter, at least.
He should have gone home then, to spend more time with his wife and children before he had to rejoin the military machine. But he found his feet going another way and went to a public park instead. Quirking his lips in a half smile, Manric justified it to himself. He was checking to make sure the park was well maintained and not a haven for criminals! Clearly an important use of his time.
Chuckling softly to himself, he walked along the cobblestone paths. This was an old, old garden, dating back to the original settlement of the colony. The native trees were small, gnarled things, and might pre-date humanity on Hope. The cedars and pines grew well, framed by native grasses. Raising real grass from Terra was very difficult, no one bothered for public parks, they just took care to always wear shoes.
Taking a step onto the grass, Manric heard an odd doubling of the sound. If he hadn't lived his entire life in the shadow of the drukhari, he might have dismissed it. Instead he paused, glancing around casually as he dropped his hand to the bolter on his belt. It was a fearsome weapon and more than capable of handling a footpad. Although any footpad trying me would be insane. True, his armor indicated he was a noble and a high one, but that was precisely the problem. Nobles did not carry money, using their personal credit via a seal. The seal could be stolen but that was a very high crime and using it would inevitably get the criminal caught.
Manric turned around, slowly surveying the park and wondering if his mind was just playing tricks on him. Then he heard a rustling and his head snapped towards it… but it was just a ruffle in the grass.
"An animal," he said aloud before turning away. That wretched spawn of Terra, rats, had managed to hitch a ride on the colony ship and then survive on a near barren world before they managed to seed it with true life. Or perhaps it was a native rodent, although they had largely been out competed by the rats.
?! Something landed on his shoulder and before he could react, pain lanced through his unprotected neck. Clapping a hand to the wound – he was wearing his armor, but not his helmet, so much flesh was exposed – he whirled and saw something flying away?
"What in blazes…" Was that a beetle? Hope did have beetles of course, but their planet was on the colder end and the size of it was tropical. They did have some tropics – the STC had marked them as good for a future relaxation area, when such things had been planned for – but they were so far away! Manric forced himself to pull his hand away from his neck and was relieved to see only a tiny bit of blood, although the wound smarted like fire. It was nothing, a mere scratch. Unless of course it was poisoned.
As if that thought had summoned the reality, Manric stumbled as a wave of weakness went through him. It was suddenly hard to focus his eyes and his limbs felt leaden. Choosing to sit before he fell, he settled heavily into the native grasses and pulled free his bolter, although Manric doubted he'd be able to use it. There was nothing to fire at in any case.
Why would someone poison me? It makes absolutely no sense. True, there were feuds and struggles within and between the Noble houses but they were always muted, held down by the awareness of a vicious, brutal external enemy. And while Manric himself was not irreplacable – he had two men groomed for his position, if worse came to worse – his loss would be a terrible blow for the war effort. Manric swallowed, his mouth dry as a bone and blinked hard as he saw forms moving towards him. He tried to lift the bolter but instead, it fell from his lax hand. Ah, nevermind then. It was pointless. Manric was vaguely aware of larger forms, dark and moving with absolute silence, before he lapsed into unconsciousness.