The Liberator's Day Off, (Part 8)
I cursed myself for not spending any of the long march here coming up with a name. "Ciaphas Cain" was right out, as were any of the anonymous aliases I had evolved while planning my departure from Trazyn. That, and there was no way to fill in my stolen soldiers on the play: so I was stuck with Mechwright Paverick's ridiculous scheme. "Commissar Fossick, attached to the Kastrean 73rd," I said. "And escort." I waved a vague hand at the mechwright and the longlas specialist, still dutifully lugging Jurgen in a stretcher. I left it at that. The fewer unprompted details I added, the less likely I was to trip over my own story in front of a trained propagandist.
"Nice to meet you, Fossick." The man seized my hand again for another handshake. "Call me Jona."
"You three got names?" He demanded of my entourage, and I cut in smoothly, "Mechwright Paverick, Specialist Rolan, and my aide, Jurgen," I said.
Jona's attention snapped back to me. "Grinx got their tongues? Why don't they speak?" He demanded abruptly.
"Subordinates in the Guard do not presume to speak for their superiors," I said firmly.
"Ha." His laugh was more a braying bark than a jovial expression of humor. "Hear that, Parker? Subordinates shut up and soldier!"
"I'm your friendly neighborhood pict jockey, not your subordinate, Boss!" The boy mouthed off. "And I'll shut up when you hand out my back pay!"
"Back pay? Don't you know there's a war on, you snot?" Jona snorted. "The help these days. Think since they're the only ones alive they can say anything." The Editor-in-Chief looked more proud than offended as Parker blew him a raspberry.
"But your men-" Jona continued, before Parker interrupted again.
"Don't be genderist, boss, the Cog's a woman!"
"Your people," Jona corrected himself, "need to say something so we know the NurgRags haven't stolen their voices."
I raised my eyebrows but nodded. "Specialist. Mechwright. Introduce yourselves." I listened carefully so that I didn't mess up any essential details later.
"Longlas Specialist Rolan Leroy-Jenkins, Kastrean 73rd." The guardsman said formally. "On secondment to Commissar Ciaphas Fossick."
"Mechwright Paverick Leroy-Jenkins, Kastrean 73rd Enginseer Company, on secondment to Commissar Ciaphas Fossick."
Only a lifetime of dissembling allowed me to keep my face in a stern, mildly polite expression as I heard my given name drop from the mouths of my putative subordinates. But as sure as you can bet on a pair of inquisitors and an emperor on the draw, you can bet my thoughts exploded in twenty different directions
How in the warp did they know my given name?
Another thought occurred to me, a hopeful thought, and I clung grimly to the possibility: Ciaphas wasn't that uncommon a name, especially not from the Schola, where you were issued a name along with your first pair of black boots, a name taken from a long list of imperial heroes. Mine, ironically enough, had been honored for his execution of heretics and his humble obedience to an imperium so ancient it pre-dated humanity's diaspora from Terra. This made my accidental heresy about the worst dishonor I could bring to such a name. Come to think of it, executioners made up quite a large percentage of the list of heroic names, logically so, given the commissariat's duty to organize firing squads for treasonous guardsmen. It was just, barely possible the Kastrean 73rd's former commissar had also been named Ciaphas, and the Mechwright had used this opportunity to slip me that info without knowing a thing about who I really was. Unlikelier things had happened, many of them to me.
I liked that idea far better than the idea that the erratic Paverick knew full well who I was.
Be that as it may, I filed the information away to tackle when we weren't in a sensitive diplomatic dance with a room full of nosy reporters in favor of focusing on the more immediate problem.
"Ciaphas, eh?" Jona's goggles were dark, but I could see his brow wrinkle as if he were lifting one bushy, gray brow at me. "Friends call you 'Cai?'"
"Not unless they wish to be challenged to a formal duel," I growled, not bothering to hide my distaste of the diminutive form of my given name.
"Noted." 'Call-me-Jona' snorted and looked back at his prey.
"Leroy-Jenkins. You both family? Related then?" After exchanging glances, Specialist Rolan volunteered, "Brother and sister, sir."
Jona, looking back and forth between Rolan's baseline human square jaw and the pile of parts that was Paverick, nodded. "Obviously. You two are practically twins. Need more than that from you, though. Say, 'The Bugle beats every other Lousy Broadsheet on Lantonia."
They both looked at me for confirmation like good little subordinates, and I nodded permission. There was no harm in letting them stroke the man's obviously enormous ego.
"The Bugel beats every other Lousy Broadsheet on Lantonia." Specialist Rolan repeated obediently.
"The only paper worth reading." Paverick buzzed, winning a snort of approval from the editor.
"I heard Cogs were smart," the man scribbled a note. "Human enough to know where and when to be a suck up." He added absently to me. He raised his voice. "You got that, Parker?"
"Yeah, yeah, boss, three different angles. You want those as Pull quotes for tomorrow's front page, yeah?"
"Sometimes I remember why I pay you. GUARD DECLARES BUGLE 'BEST.' The man's hand waved, tracing an invisible headline through the air, and I could practically hear the dreamy smile behind his respirator.
"You don't pay me, boss."
"That's right, I don't. Now scram and tell Betty-"
"Nope, boss." The boy folded his arms mulishly, servo skulls somehow adopting an ominous whine to their hovering. "Betty would kill me if I left you alone with armed strangers."
"Does anyone know who the boss is around here?" Jona rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, we all know it's you until you tell us not to guard you; then we all know it's Betty."
Parker leaned back and folded his arms, and something about the fluidity of the movement sent the palms of my hands tingling, letting me know that if he wanted to be, the kid could be very, very dangerous.
"Insubordinate." The editor snorted. "By the way," he added to me, "if you run across anybody who is subordinate- specifically, who is acting like a servitor instead of an arrogant little snot like Parker or a sniveling kiss-ass-"
Another head popped into the office from a door behind Jona's desk. "You called, sir?"
"No, Hoffman!" The editor barked, and the head disappeared back through the door, then continued, as if he never was interrupted," "- shoot them and scream for help. It's a NurgRag infiltrator."
I raised another eyebrow. "How does that work?"
"NurgRagged folks act like servitors." Jona snorted. "Can't throw an insult like a free man or kiss ass like a lickspittle, and either way, they don't act like a human. That's how they got us in the first place- can't tell a NurgRag from a servitor, so the NurgRags controlled half the servitors in the capital before anyone caught them at it."
"You caught them at it. Sir." Parker's voice was dead serious now. "When you were investigating the extrajudicial conversions of artisans to servitors."
"Could have been sooner." Jona's voice was low, broken like ground glass.
"Your self-pity can go frot itself, boss. Nobody else caught them at it at all. Now, do your job, and I'll do mine, or Betty will have us both for breakfast."
"The help these days." Jona said, suddenly irascible, then he leaned forward.
He eyed the unconscious Jurgen. "Your man there will need quarantining till he can prove himself one way or another, but if he doesn't move, nobody will get too excited. It's the shamblers, servitors, and NurgRags you watch for. Speaking of, you see anyone around here who isn't either comatose, kissing your ass, or cussing you out, shoot their infected asses first and scream for help. It'll come."
"Good, Your Excellency," Parker said, and the palms of my hands began to tingle in earnest. 'Your Excellency' was generally the title of the imperial governor.
Even through the mask, I saw the Jona's face fall. His shoulders hunched as if struck. "I am not the governor." He hissed in an oddly broken tone.
"Whatever you say, guv," Parker's shoulders shrugged. "Do your job, editor-in-chief." And Jona's shoulders abruptly straightened, brash and arrogant and larger than life once again.
The Editor eyed Parker. "The hell you still hanging around for? Get those pull quotes to Betty. Tomorrow's deadline's coming."
"You're about to interview the first contact we've had from outside in months. Betty would skin me if I wasn't recording." Parker riposted, and I realized something.
These folks were crazed. Not mad, exactly, no, but broken in the fundamental way war breaks you, and had duct-taped together a story that was holding them together and papering over their shattered seams. I was suddenly morally certain that the man in front of me was a 'Your Excellency' and that there was some whole backstory to why he was playing at being an artisan. I decided I'd better play at being a Commissar and do my job, too: boost morale.
I put on my most winning smile and told every listening ear- Jona, Parker, the lurking Hoffman, and whoever was on the other end of those servo-skull feeds, "Hello. I'm from the Commissariat, and I'm here to help.
—
The Daily Bugle, Special Edition
Front page.
THE BUGLE CALLS YOU!
I, Editor-In-Chief J Jonah Jameson of the Daily Bugle, am honored trumpet to you, faithful readers, the most magnificent piece of news of my career.
Yesterday's late-breaking news brought with us a message and miracle, delivered by the Emperor's grace and with a tale of heroism and daring that will be told for generations to come- and, dear, faithful readers, if we heed this message, I promise you- we will get those generations!
For unto us is delivered the good news: we have, within reach, a miracle, if we but stretch forth our hands and grasp it. The miracle is divine instructions from the Imperium for how to manufacture a cure for the NurgRag Plague.
Readers, the Bugle calls assembly! It is OUR hour. Our time. Below the fold of EVERY Daily Bugle Special Edition today is a set of instructions. These sacred steps are the recipe for manufacturing a healing serum so potent, so powerful, that any who consume it will become as poisonous to the NurgRag creatures as the NurgRags have been to us.
As the great Maccharius once declared, in war, everything is simple. And every blessed Bugle reader knows, in war, all the simple things are hard.
Your job, my job, the job of every free Lantonian is simple. Make Panacea. Without a factory, the job is hard. The process given unto us is an industrial one, and today we have no infrastructure and no industry.
Fortunately, dear reader, war has made you a hard people. You have done hard things. You took the Bugle, all our presses, all the logistics of ink and print broadsheets, and carried it with you to our underground. You will do the same with yet another industrial process. With the worn-out tools left to you, you WILL! MAKE! A! MIRACLE!
And you will NOT do so alone. As the Bugle has always brought you the best, always catered to your circumstances, your most serious issues and your silliest entertainment. I am proud to so serve you today! We have always drawn our staff from the best, most experienced, or most entertaining of your number, and today that tradition pays off: your local beat reporter has rewritten the Panacea Process to cater to YOU, using supplies, materials, and knowledge YOU might have to hand.
Are these adaptations of the recipe correct? Emperor on Earth, no. We must take an industrial process that requires a factory and make it into a kitchen-top or sewergrate-still or bathtub-brewing device. And so we will! I have faith that every last one of you beautiful bastards will tape and twine together a way to do it.
You, dear readers, you conceited, complaining, competent crabapples that you are, have ALWAYS flooded our editorials with criticisms and corrections, which is why our rat-onna-stick recipe actually became edible two months ago! YOU, dear readers, are the origin of the sock-based utracleansing water filter! And you, you are the reason all of us know fifteen hilariously unsanctified uses of a servo skull. You know the drill- write in your corrections, your discoveries, your challenges, and your successes- and, as always, WE WILL PRINT THEM ALL.
Lantonia has always relied on you, Buglers. The Bugle calls! Tomorrow, I expect every last one of you masked menaces to toot your horns back! I want tomorrow's paper to be as thick as my arm, and every last one of you who figures out a working process WILL HAVE THEIR OWN SPECIAL EDITION, WITH THEIR OWN FRONT PAGE.
As ever, be the best news to your neighbors, and worst news to the enemy!
NOW GO MAKE THE NEWS!
—-
Excerpt from the Bugle, Page 2:
'HERE TO HELP'
COMMISSAR HERO DELIVERS AID
An eyewitness report by Peter Parker, Pictcaster at large
The rotting traitors who betrayed Lantonia to their dark God and their own foul ambition have suffered a historic setback in their monstrous plans when they failed to stay the Emperor's messenger, Commissar Ciaphas Fossick, from his appointed rounds. He and a small force delivered both critical news from the outside and copies of the Panacea Plans (see page 1), the weapon with which we can avenge all our losses and safeguard our hard-won freedom against our vilest adversary.
I, your friendly neighborhood spy drone man, had the privilege of escorting the daring commissar on the final leg of his epic mission, as I was first Lantonian to witness to both his heroics and the miracle he bore.
I had been observing the valorous Commissar for a few minutes, watching as, though ambushed at every turn, captured, and fitted with an ensorcelled faceater himself, nevertheless chose the very moment he was about to be crowned with a control cap and condemned to enslavement to prove his mettle and the power of the Panacea. With the ruthless patience of a ram-grox feigning injury before it turns and kicks nine shades of the emperor's glory straight into the circling jackal jaw's family jewels, he bided his time until the precise moment he could strike his decisive blow.
Laspistol smoking, chainsword whirring, the Commissar ripped the quiescent NurgRag off his face, tearing away the flesh it had embedded in, shot the control cap before it could latch to his scalp, and blasted another the NurgRag as it shed its host and attacked him. It was a virtuoso display of swordsmanship and marksmanship that left all three of the vile monstrosities a ragged ruin while sparing the life of the enslaved enginseer. I confess, despite all I have seen, to a thrill of horror as I knew what his merciful attempt to save the Mechanicus would lead to next.
But, dear readers, I was wrong!
Such courage deserved a witness and memorial in tomorrow's Bugle, so I dared a closer look. My keen longlense captured the doomed commissar's last stand with the sober appreciation of one who has, like so many of my fellow muckrakers, born unwavering witness to the slaughter and enslavement of so many of our neighbors- only for my watch to be thoroughly rewarded by the first demonstration of the Emperor's blessed gift.
Unaware at the time of what I was witnessing, I nevertheless did my due diligence and grimly noted that the Commissar, with dauntless resolve, spent his last conscious act injecting both himself and his attacker with medicine.
Reminded that with great reporting power comes great responsibility, I sent my faithful servo-skulls Uncle Ben and Gwen Stacey scouting secretly forward to record and honor the effort. The machine spirits they contained responded eagerly to the mission, empowered as they are by the valorous memory of the humans whose skulls so gently cradled them.
Neither Ben Parker nor Gwen Stacy, now safe in the Emperor's arms, are capable of surprise, thus the lenses in their empty eye sockets of their sacred skulls did not flicker as they pictcast what they saw to my waiting dataslate.
I was unsurprised when the sober death scene was interrupted by yet another of the newly arrived imperial Gaurd, war being rude and entirely without respect for such a sacred moment. The guardsman, though newly arrived on Lantonia, was clearly a fast learner. He ran forth and delivered the Emperor's Mercy to the downed Commissar with commendable speed, via means of a mercifully quick stab to the heart, a maneuver with which we of Viasalex are far too familiar. I felt a brief stir of regret when the guardsman, obviously distraught, failed to immediately extend that mercy to the enginseer, for in doing so he doomed himself to become the next to fall to the NurgRags.
I was surprised, however, when the fallen Commessar rose again, long before the usual seven days and seven nights prescribed by the Lord of the Midden for such blasphemous desecrations of human flesh. I tensed, bracing myself to witness yet another new and terrible chaos-spawned atrocity.
What I heard next, broadcast from Uncle Ben's faithful servoskull, will be as seared into my memory as my Uncle Ben's final words.
For, far from being a mindless revenant, the risen corpse of the Commissar spoke of Deliverance:
[image description: pict of Commissar Fossick ripping a dagger out of his own heart, demonstrating the miracle of healing.]
Caption: "My mission is to deliver Panacea to Lantonia. Panacea heals wounds…ANY wounds."
I am in command here. There will be no further debate on that point. You two grass green fracking new recruits are my subordinates. There will be no further argument on that point. You two are seconded to my mission. There will be no further argument on that point. My mission is to deliver Panacea to the people of Lantonia. It is now your mission, too. Panacea heals wounds. Panacea cures disease. Any wounds. Any disease. And I do mean any wound.
The chaos god of the midden has putrefied this world, and Panacea will cure it. You will do what I say, when I say it, how I say it, to finish our holy mission to cure this world of the taint of the Disease god. Do either of you have a problem with that point?"
Five minutes after this miracle, I introduced myself to Commissar Ciaphas Fossick, the Deliverer. Dear readers, I tested him. He proved his humanity by paying for the Bugle, and proved his intelligence and good taste by reading the whole paper.
Then I escorted the Deliverer to Governor Jonas Worden, whose heroic and endearing attempts to use his father's surname, 'Jameson' and call himself 'Editor-in-Chief' continue to fool precisely no one but himself. The Governor received the Deliverer with due pomp and ceremony, and then Deliverer spoke those immortal words. "I'm from the Commissariat, and I am here to help."
The Governor received the Panacea Plans from the Deliverer's own hand, the Emperer's gift to us all in our darkest hour.
The Deliverer has delivered us the means of producing our own salvation, Viasalix!
Now seize the means of production from the Empeor's Golden hand. Go forth, workers, artisans, free humans of Lantonia! Arise, and produce Panacea!
(Newsreels of the Deliverer's speech will be distributed the usual way, for all you pict junkies drooling over the over witnessing the miracle. Keep an ear to the ground for a watch party near you!)
—-
Panacea Process 14 of 52
Panacea recipe, baker and homemaker Edition, gelatinized topical panacea (not for human consumption)
2-3 oz of lime gelatin
5 cups Hot water
4 cups cold water
1-3 oz of lemon jello
1/2 c minced mini marshmallows
1 cup ploin or pineapple juice
1/4 creamed grocery cheese
1 cup whipped ambull cream
1 cup whipped mayonnaise
2-3 oz cherry gelatin
One foot-square, three-inch deep glass, steel, or aluminum pan.
Means of boiling water in a double boiler.
Measuring cups, spoons, or scales.
Refrigeration or chilling device.
5 hours of time.
Process: Dissolve lime gelatin in 2 cups hot water Add two cups of cold water Pour into the pan until set Dissolve lemon gelatin in 1 cup of hot water in a double boiler. Add marshmallows. Stir till melted. Remove from heat. Add 1 cup crushed ploin or pineapple juice. Enzymes will begin to digest marshmallow cream Add cream cheese to pineapple juice. Allow enzymes to digest and create the microstructures responsible for the healing properties. Fold in whipped cream. The folding procedure may be necessary to increase potency; please report the results of the experimentation. Fold in mayonnaise. Observe how the body of the gelatinized bandage becomes fuller. Pour layer over lime gelatin. Chill until nearly set. Pour a layer of minced ploin or pineapple over the mayonnaise layer. Allow enzymes to digest mayonnaise partially. Dissolve cherry gelatin in two cups hot water. Pour resulting red syrup over pineapples and leave set until tacky to touch. Apply gelled bandage to the wound, green side of the wound, red side exposed to air. Cover.
Topical use only, DO NOT EAT
(One of the simpler, though time-consuming, ways to manufacture a weak version of Panacea, available to careful habwives and habhusbands of a culinary bent and those outfitted with moderate cooking gear.
Theoretically edible, but nobody with any taste can find the texture or combination of creamed mayonnaise and gelatin appetizing. Certainly NOT a suitable pizza topping, and I'll not have you claim otherwise, Donatello!
It is this editor's opinion that it might be worth it in a life-or-death internal emergency, such as perforated bowel or gallstones. Please report results, refinements, difficulties, and complaints to April O'Neil, Bugle Food Desk.)
Daily Bugle Letters to the Editor:
Legionary Guard said:
It grinds my gears so incomprehensibly much that you spell commissar wrong in the previous chapters; then, in this one, you waffle seemingly at random between spelling it correctly and reverting to the misspelling.
Other than that, great chapter.
Apparently, I take delight in hearing about your suffering the same way Zahariel takes delight in tormenting Cain, and the cackling pleasure the phrase 'grinds my gears so incomprehensibly much' provided me with enough motivating dopamine to spend two hours last night running the last two chapters through grammarly and fixing the erratic Commissar/Commessar problem.
You're welcome!
So the way my so-called mind works is if folks complain about the spelling of free entertainment they are getting for free as if they have an entitled right to free things edited to a professional level, I can't be arsed to do a thing about it. However, since you wailed and gnashed your teeth amusingly, creatively, and with descriptions about how it's kludging up your system fit for posting to r/BrandNewSentence, I laughed and ran the last two chapters through a grammar editor.
Maybe my proper warhammer faction is Drukari after all.
In a fit of benevolence, I ran this chapter through a spellchecker, though the chapter after that I'll probably revert to my wicked ways of 'no spelling, just vibes.' Muahahah!
J 'Goatbane' Jameson Jr., Junior Editor, Daily Bugle.