Chapter 6: By Spit, and a Prayer (Valeria's POV)

The hum of faulty luminators casts a flickering pallor over the corridor, a stuttering dance of light and shadow that does little to dispel the gloom. I stand outside Proctor Grosch's office, the worn soles of my boots pressing into the cracked ferrocrete floor. The air is thick with the scent of machine oil and something acrid—burned recaf, perhaps, or the lingering trace of discharged lascarbines. Harspes-1b, whom I've taken to calling Bee, hovers silently beside me, his optical sensors scanning the dim surroundings.

Three weeks. Three weeks in Precinct Sigma-1, and still no audience with the elusive Proctor Jeremiah Grosch. I've sutured wounds, set fractures, even performed an augmetic thumb replacement in a pinch, but the man who supposedly runs this place, the only one who can authorize my repeated requests to accompany the outbound patrols, remains a phantom.

The Enforcers speak his name with a curious mix of reverence and distance, as if invoking a ghost. According to Bee's tertiary logic, that's because Grosch is, in fact, dead. Whatever game is being played here, if they think they're going to keep giving me the run around they've got another thing coming…

A murmur of voices filters through the heavy door—a solid slab of plasteel scarred with the marks of countless briefings and debriefings. I adjust the medicae satchel at my side, the weight of it a familiar comfort. Beneath the antiseptic and gauze, I can still catch the undercurrent of damp and decay that permeates the precinct.

The door slides open with a reluctant hiss, and I'm met not by the Proctor but by Enforcer Sergeant Tully, the man who first greeted me on arrival. He reclines behind Grosch's desk, booted feet propped up on a stack of data-slates. His uniform is rumpled, the Arbites insignia dulled and scratched. A half-smoked lho-stick dangles from the corner of his mouth, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward the stained ceiling.

"Ah, Sister Valeria," Tully drawls, a sly grin tugging at his weathered face. "Come on in. Don't be shy."

I step inside, the soles of my boots sticking slightly to an ancient patch of spilled amasec. The office is a cluttered mess—charts pinned haphazardly to the walls, a cracked pict-screen flickering with static, and the unmistakable aroma of cheap liquor hanging in the air. Behind Tully, a faded Aquila banner sags on its pole, the edges frayed.

"Sergeant Tully," I acknowledge, allowing no surprise to color my tone. Bee settles just behind my shoulder, his presence a silent sentinel.

Tully raises an eyebrow, clearly expecting a different reaction. "Surprised to see me here, are you?"

"Should I be?" I reply evenly, letting my gaze drift over the room. The desk is strewn with empty shot glasses and stained cogitator printouts. A dataslate bearing Proctor Grosch's seal sits casually beneath Tully's elbow.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound. "I suppose not. Word is you Sisters are a sharp bunch."

I meet his eyes, noting the faint bloodshot tint. "Sharp enough."

He swings his feet off the desk and leans forward, elbows resting on a spread of tattered maps. "So, what can I do for our esteemed Sister Hospitaller today?"

I take a moment before responding, letting the distant clamor of the precinct fill the silence—the clatter of equipment, muffled curses, the thud of boots on metal grating. "I think I'd like to stop wasting my time. It's time we dispensed with pretense, Sergeant."

His grin falters slightly. "Oh? And what pretense would that be?"

I gesture lightly to the room. "This charade. Pretending Proctor Grosch is still in command when it's clear he's... unavailable."

He narrows his eyes, a flicker of caution in his expression. "That's a bold statement."

"An honest one," I counter. "Bee has informed me that all official reports signed by Grosch have been encrypted and transmitted from your personal terminal."

Tully glances at Bee, his jaw tightening. "That so?"

"Indeed," Bee confirms in his monotone voice. "Data transmission logs corroborate this information."

Tully sighs, leaning back in the chair. "Well, aren't you full of surprises."

I fold my hands calmly. "It's in everyone's best interest that we stop lying to each other. Transparency fosters trust."

He barks a short laugh. "Trust? In the underhive? You're a long way from the schola, Sister."

"Perhaps," I allow. "But I believe we can find common ground. Since I've uncovered your... adjustments to protocol, it's only fair you start by telling me the truth about the situation here."

He studies me for a long moment, the levity fading from his eyes. "And in return?"

"I'll tell you why I haven't reported your subterfuge to the authorities," I offer. "Despite having ample opportunity and time to do so."

The ambient hum of the precinct fills the space between us. Somewhere in the distance, a burst of raucous laughter echoes through the corridors, followed by the tinny strains of a bawdy tune filtering from a vox-unit.

"Fair enough," Tully concedes, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. "Proctor Grosch is dead. Has been for over a decade."

I nod slowly. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He snorts. "Don't be. The bastard got himself killed chasing glory that wasn't there. Left us in a tight spot."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if High Command found out we were without a Proctor, they'd send someone else." He leans forward, eyes hardening. "Someone who doesn't understand how things work down here. Someone who'd get a lot of good people killed."

"Or expose the... vices of the precinct's senior Enforcer?" I suggest.

He stiffens slightly. "Careful, Sister. You're treading dangerous ground."

"I'm merely stating facts." I glance around the cluttered office. "It's clear you've maintained a delicate balance in Sector Sigma, whatever that means. It's all your men will talk about, keeping the balance. But the reports you've been sending are utter fabrications."

"Necessary ones," he retorts. "The brass up top wants results. They don't care how we get 'em, as long as the power stays on, the water flows, and the river of corpse starch never runs dry."

I consider his words, the weight of them settling. "And the illicit activities within the precinct? The drugs, the illegal still, the lax discipline?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You've been paying attention."

"It's hard not to," I reply. "Especially when treating patients with substances in their bloodstream that shouldn't be there."

He shrugs. "Life down here is hard. My men and women need... outlets."

"Outlets that compromise their duty?"

He meets my gaze unflinchingly. "You think the brass cares about a little contraband? As long as we keep the gears turning, they turn a blind eye."

I fold my arms. "I didn't include those details in my own logs."

"Why not?" he asks, suspicion edging his tone.

"Because I'm not here to disrupt your operations," I say plainly. "I have my own reasons for being here."

He studies me, weighing my words. "Ah, so this would be your turn to tell the truth. Alright, I'll bite, what reasons would those be?"

I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "I'm searching for someone. A friend who may have passed through Sector Sigma."

His eyes narrow. "Through? The underhive swallows people whole, Sister. Not many make it out once they're down here."

"I'm aware of the risks," I reply. "But I believe she's still alive."

He taps a finger on the desk, considering. "So, you want my help finding her?"

"I want mutual cooperation," I correct. "I can provide medical expertise and support. In return, I need access to information."

He chuckles without humor. "You're a sharp one, alright. But information comes at a price, especially down here."

"I'm not asking for classified data," I assure him. "Just assistance in navigating this little corner of the underhive. I want out, outside. I want to access the local vox relay 111-nu. I want to be included."

He rubs his chin again, the bristles rasping under his fingers. "And if I refuse?"

I glance pointedly at the dataslate bearing Grosch's seal. "Then perhaps I'll reconsider my decision not to inform the authorities about the discrepancies in your reports."

He laughs outright this time. "You've got some brass, Sister. I'll give you that."

"I prefer to think of it as conviction."

He shakes his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Fine. We'll play it your way. But know this—down here, nothing is as it seems. You think you can handle that?"

"I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."

He leans back, folding his arms over his chest. "Alright. We've got a patrol heading out tomorrow. Making the rounds with the local bosses, something's got them all kinds of upset. You can tag along, that nice, powered suit of yours should help things stay civil."

"Thank you," I say evenly.

"But," he adds, pointing a finger at me, "you follow my lead. You don't wander off. And you don't interfere unless I say so."

"Understood."

He glances at Bee, who hovers impassively beside me. "That thing going to be a problem?"

"Bee is my educational assistant," I reply. "He goes where I go."

Tully grunts. "Just keep it out of the way."

A moment of silence stretches between us. The distant sounds of the precinct seep back in—the clank of machinery, the muffled thud of footsteps overhead.

"Now," he says, rising from the chair and moving around the desk, "since we're being honest, there's something you should know."

"I'm listening."

He stops a pace away from me, his gaze serious. "This place... it's held together by spit and a prayer. The gangs, the infrastructure, even the damn air we breathe—it's all hanging by a thread. One wrong move, one misstep, and it all comes crashing down."

Tully brushes a pile of dataslates onto the floor and produces a map, his finger tracing the thick black lines that divide Sector Sigma into four uneven quadrants. Each is marked with a distinct color—red, blue, yellow, and black.

"See this?" he says, tapping the red quadrant. "That's Quadrant A. Gnarl's territory. Calls himself the King of Sigma, arrogant bastard. His gang, the Crimson Fangs, control the geothermal substation. Without it, half the lower hive goes dark, maybe worse."

I lean in, studying the crude annotations scrawled across the map. The substation is circled in red, surrounded by a maze of tunnels and access points.

"Gnarl siphons power," Tully continues. "Sells it to whoever can pay. He's got tech-adepts under his thumb, probably stolen from the Mechanicus or trained in the shadows. If he wanted, he could cut power to us, to the lower-hive, maybe even higher. But he doesn't, because he knows that'd bring the full weight of the Arbites, not to mention the mechanicus down on his head."

"Yet you tolerate his activities," I observe.

Tully shrugs. "We tolerate a lot down here. It's about balance, as you've heard. As long as he keeps the substation running and doesn't cause too much trouble, we let him play his games."

He moves his finger to the blue quadrant. "Quadrant B. Lutefisk's domain. He fancies himself the Duke of the Dike. His gang, the Blue Shadows—though we just call 'em the Blues—control access to clean water. Not the purification plant itself—that's sealed tighter than a Tech-Priest's vault—but the outbuildings, the lateral pipes and pumping stations. He's got a knack for cracking seals, probably has his own tech-adepts too. Fancies himself some kind of know-it-all noble or some shite."

"Lutefisk controls the water supply?" I ask, the enormity of it sinking in.

"Spot on. Without him, folks down here would be back to drinking sludge and runoff. He rations it out, sells it, uses it to keep the other gangs in check. Again, we let it slide because he keeps the water flowing."

Tully's finger slides to the yellow quadrant. "Quadrant C. Trebor's territory. Leader of the Yellow Dead. Now, Trebor's a different breed. Unstable, unpredictable. Calls himself an anarchist and a prophet, but really he's just a madman with a following. Controls the corpse starch processing plant."

My stomach tightens. "He controls food production?"

"As much as anyone can down here. The plant is mostly sealed and totally automated, takes in bodies from all over the hive, grinds 'em up, turns 'em into the ration wafers that keep folks from starving. Trebor has access to the few working access points and siphons what he wants. Food is power, and he wields it like a cudgel."

"And Quadrant D?" I ask, noting the blacked-out section of the map.

Tully's expression darkens. "Quadrant D is... off-limits. We call it the Black. No one goes in there if they can help it. Even the gangs steer clear. Rumors say it's haunted, cursed. Tech malfunctions, people disappear. Only thing of note is an old temple, abandoned and sealed. Vox goes dead in the Black. It's a void."

Bee emits a soft whirr. "Area likely exhibits characteristics of electromagnetic interference and anomalous energy readings."

"Right," Tully agrees, casting a wary glance at Bee. "We don't mess with it, and neither should you."

I file the information away, my mind already turning over the possibilities. "So, these three gang leaders—Gnarl, Lutefisk, and Trebor—they control the essentials. Power, water, food."

"Exactly," Tully says. "And we've got an understanding with them. We let them run their operations, within reason, and they keep the critical infrastructure intact. It's a delicate balance. Of course that's not all there is down here."

"Oh?"

"The quadrants are huge, the gangs restrict themselves to the bits that interface with the infrastructure they control and the main roads. Everything else is the wilds, a hundred square kilometers of Emperor knows what, mutant hordes, droves of humanity, the waste chutes, the markets, and things that go bump even in the daylight, and there's none of that down here." Tully remarked sourly, "A billion billion little hidey-holes where your friend could be and with things trending the way they are, we're not going out to search them anytime soon."

"The balance is threatened now," I surmise. "Or else you would have been less agreeable with me. You're anxious, afraid perhaps. Presumably you now see value in engaging my services more directly, you expect to need my skills."

He nods grimly. "No lie there, I'm worried sick. In the past twelve hours we've received a request to meet sent from each of the gang leaders, separately. To say that's not good would be like saying exposure to the warp is bad for your health. Usually, we meet on a set schedule, keep the peace, address any issues, police disputes between the gangs. But for all three to reach out like this, all at once? Something's stirring."

"Do you have any idea what it might be?"

"Not yet," he admits. "But I intend to find out. That's why tomorrow's patrol is so important. We need to get ahead of whatever's coming."

I glance back at the map. "And you believe bringing me along will help?"

He smirks. "Your power armor and that floating skull of yours make quite the impression. The gangs respect strength, and the presence of a Sister Hospitaller adds a certain... weight to our discussions."

"Even if I'm not a full Sister yet?"

"They don't need to know that," he says with a wink. "Besides, you carry yourself with more authority than half the Arbitrators I've met."

I feel a flush of embarrassment but push it aside. "Very well. What can you tell me about the relationships between the gangs?"

Tully sighs, rubbing his temples. "It's a web of rivalries and uneasy alliances. Gnarl and Lutefisk tolerate each other because they need each other's resources. Power and water go hand in hand. Trebor, on the other hand, is a wildcard. He controls the food supply but doesn't play nice with anyone."

"Sounds volatile."

"That's putting it mildly. We've managed to keep them from outright war, but tensions are always high. If one of them were to push too hard, or if something were to upset the balance..." He trails off, the implication clear.

"Gang War," I finish.

"Exactly."

I consider his words carefully. "And what is our role in all this?"

"Officially, we're here to enforce the Emperor's law," he says wryly. "In reality, we're the glue holding this mess together. We keep the gangs in check, make sure the infrastructure stays operational, and prevent the whole sector from tearing itself apart."

"By bending the rules."

He meets my gaze squarely. "By doing what's necessary. By being an impartial fourth party. You may not like it, Sister, but down here, pragmatism keeps people alive. Strict adherence to protocol would see us all dead within a week."

I take a deep breath, weighing his words. "I understand the need for compromise. But there must be limits."

"There are," he assures me. "I won't tolerate heresy, xenos influence, or anything that threatens the hive as a whole. But petty crimes? Contraband? A little siphoning which, to them seems like a lot but doesn't even move the decimal point for the main hive? We pick our battles."

"Selective enforcement," I muse.

"Call it what you will. It's the only way to maintain order in Sector Sigma."

I glance again at the sagging Aquila banner behind him. "And what about your own vices? The drinking, the drugs?"

He chuckles, a hint of self-deprecation in his eyes. "Guilty as charged. But I don't let it interfere with my duties. Can't say the same for some of the others, but I keep them in line all the same."

"Do they respect you?"

"They know I keep them alive. That's enough."

I nod slowly. "Very well. I appreciate your candor, Sergeant."

He raises an eyebrow. "That easy, huh? I expected more pushback."

"I'm not naive," I reply. "I know that idealism doesn't survive long in places like this. My priority is to find my friend and to help where I can, not lead a righteous crusade."

"Fair enough."

A moment of silence settles between us, the distant sounds of the precinct filling the void. Somewhere, a pipe leaks steam with a high-pitched whistle. The air feels heavier, laden with unspoken concerns.

"One more thing," Tully says, his tone shifting to a more serious register. "When we're out there, stay alert. The underhive isn't forgiving, and the gangs aren't the only dangers lurking."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "Just... trust me. Keep your eyes open, stay close, never, under any circumstances, go anywhere alone."

"Understood."

He glances at the chrono on the wall, its hands stuck between hours. "It's late. Get some rest. We'll set out at first light—or what passes for it down here."

I turn to leave but pause at the doorway. "Sergeant?"

"Yeah?"

"If things are as precarious as you say, why not request more support? Reinforcements, supplies?"

He gives me a weary smile. "Because that would bring scrutiny. And scrutiny brings orders from people who don't understand this place. We'd lose what little control we have. One big purge, lots of dead bodies, then the brass calls it clean, leaves, sticks some idiot in charge, and ten years later we're right back where we are now."

"Is that worth the risk of everything collapsing?"

He meets my gaze, the lines on his face deepening. "It's a gamble. But it's one I've been making for almost forty years. So far, it's paid off."

I nod, accepting his answer for now. "Good night, Sergeant."

"Good night, Sister."

As I step back into the dim corridor, the door closes behind me with a heavy thud. Bee hovers at my side, his sensors adjusting to the low light.

"Thoughts, Bee?" I ask quietly as we make our way back through the maze of passages.

"Sergeant Tully displays adaptive leadership traits consistent with prolonged exposure to high-stress environments," Bee replies. "His methods, while unorthodox and technically illegal, appear effective in maintaining relative stability and satisfy priority mission mandates regarding local infrastructure."

"Do you trust him?"

"Trust is a subjective assessment," Bee states. "However, probability analysis suggests cooperation is beneficial to current objectives of both parties."

I suppress a smile. "Ever the pragmatist."

We pass a group of off-duty Enforcers lounging in a makeshift rec area. A couple of them glance our way, curiosity mingled with suspicion. The smell of distilled alcohol and the acrid tang of lho-sticks hangs heavy in the air.

"Evening, Sister," one of them calls out, a hint of slur in his voice.

"Rest well," I reply, continuing on without pause.

Our quarters are spartan—a small cell with a narrow cot, a metal locker, and a flickering lumen strip overhead. I set my satchel down and begin the routine of checking my equipment. Armor seals, power pack levels, medicae supplies—all must be in order.

"Bee, run a diagnostic on your systems," I instruct.

"Initiating self-diagnostic," he responds.

As he processes, I allow myself a moment to sit on the edge of the cot. The weight of the day presses upon me, but sleep feels distant. My thoughts drift to Aurora—somewhere in this labyrinth of shadows and secrets.

"Diagnostic complete," Bee announces. "All systems functioning within optimal parameters."

"Good." I hesitate.

As I settle onto the cot, a heavy weight presses down on my chest—a familiar dread that I've tried to suppress since arriving at Precinct Sigma-1.

It's been three weeks.

Three agonizing weeks without a single transmission from Aurora's augmetic arm. Ever since we got here, the silence has been deafening. Bee warned me that such a prolonged cessation likely meant the augmetic was inactive, which could only mean one thing: Aurora might be dead.

I stare up at the cracked ceiling, the flickering lumen strip casting erratic shadows that seem to mock my uncertainty. The thought of confirming my worst fears twists my stomach into knots. Part of me doesn't want to ask, to keep clinging to the fragile hope that no news is good news. But I can't ignore it any longer.

Taking a shaky breath, I whisper into the dimness, "Bee?"

"Affirmative?" Bee's monotone voice replies from his hover position beside me.

I hesitate, my throat dry. "Any... any new transmissions from Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta?"

There's a brief pause as Bee processes the request. The silence stretches, each second amplifying my anxiety.

"Accessing data logs," he finally says.

I hold my breath, bracing myself for the confirmation of my deepest fear—that Aurora is truly gone and all of this… this foolishness on my part will prove to be just that, a fool's hope.

"New transmission detected," Bee announces. "Timestamp: twelve hours prior."

I sit bolt upright, the cot creaking beneath me. "What did you say?"

"Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta transmitted a data burst twelve hours prior," Bee repeats.

A surge of hope floods through me, so intense it leaves me lightheaded. "She's alive," I whisper. "After three weeks of silence... she's alive."

"Current data suggests the augmetic is operational," Bee cautions. "However, the status of the user cannot be independently verified without further information."

I nod, barely able to contain my emotions. "But it's something. It's more than we've had in weeks."

As the initial shock subsides, a realization dawns on me. "Wait a moment," I say, thinking back to my conversation with Tully. "Twelve hours ago—that's around the same time Sergeant Tully received urgent requests from all the gang leaders."

"Temporal correlation noted," Bee acknowledges. "Potential significance requires further analysis."

I swing my legs over the side of the cot, adrenaline banishing any trace of fatigue. "It's too much to be a coincidence. Aurora's augmetic starts transmitting again after weeks of silence, and suddenly the gangs are all clamoring to meet with the Arbites?"

"Probability of a connection is statistically low but not insignificant," Bee confirms.

"Could she be involved somehow? Maybe she's the reason they're on edge." My mind races with possibilities. "Perhaps she encountered them, or... or they're reacting to something she did."

Aurora… what are you doing down here? The thought crosses my mind for the millionth time since I left Sister Amara's office.

"Insufficient data to draw conclusions," Bee reminds me. "Further information is necessary."

I rub my temples, trying to piece it together. "Regardless, it's a lead. We might find answers on tomorrow's patrol."

"Advisement: rest is recommended to maintain optimal cognitive and physical performance," Bee suggests.

I glance at the lumen strip, its light now steady but dim. The underhive never truly sleeps, but I know Bee is right. "You're right," I admit, though my mind is far from ready to rest.

Lying back down, I pull the thin blanket over myself, its coarse fabric rough against my skin. The myriad sounds of the precinct—the distant clank of machinery, muffled voices, the hum of ventilation systems—all fade into the background as I focus on the faint glimmer of hope rekindled within me.

"Bee," I murmur into the darkness, "thank you."

"Gratitude is unnecessary. Operational assistance is my function."

A small smile touches my lips. "Still, thank you."

Silence settles over the room, but it's no longer oppressive. The fear that had been a constant companion these past weeks has loosened its grip, replaced by cautious optimism.

"Do you think it's really her?" I ask softly.

"Based on available data, the likelihood that subject Aurora remains alive has increased," Bee replies.

I close my eyes, holding onto that thought. "We'll find her," I vow quietly. "Whatever it takes."

"Affirmative," Bee responds. "Objective acknowledged."

Sleep pulls at the edges of my consciousness, and this time, I don't resist.