(XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139
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Posts posted by (XBOX)Katsuhiro 1139
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"I'm going in."
"In your head that sounded clever. No you're not. Under no circumstances are you 'going in'."
"Yes I am. I'm absolutely going in. Watch me."
"Observe and report. Our instructions were quite clear."
"I'm observing mission parameters changing. Now I'm reporting to you my intentions. Which are to go in. Besides, even if you wanted to stop me, you're in space. I'm going in."
"I'm going to kill you, Sara."
"No, they're going to try and kill me, but that's on them. You just get ready with that extract."
- Unknown transmission, intercepted above Venus
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"What do we do?!" Telin stared at the door, whispering.
The door pounded again. They stood frozen before it, powerless.
"I thought you were working on a plan!" Neera whispered back.
"I am! This wasn't part of it!"
"Quiet, both of you." The boy shushed. He had the dishrag in his hand as he started toward the door. "Help me now."
There was blood on the floor from where they had first dragged Kelpo through. Telin hadn't even noticed.
They worked quickly, mopping at the blood; padding to and fro; hastily cleaning up the mess. The last minute clean-up was conducted in anxious silence. The floor was still wet when they finished.
The banging at the door became more insistent.
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Fellik pounded a meaty fist against the front door. The holographic Closed sign fizzled and sparked from the impact.
He waited. Pounded again. The 141's around him exchanged looks. Brewer and Telch produced compact shotguns from their coats, psyching themselves up. Stevvin, the largest of them, stepped forward with a battering ram. He looked at Fellik intently, awaiting the final order.
The viewport snicked open.
"Sorry folks." Neera smiled apologetically, voice breezy and cheerful. "Was out back. How can I help?"
"Looking for someone. Hoping you can help."
"Me? Nobody here. Bad shootout six months back. Been closed ever since."
"Not anymore." Fellik snorted. "Look, lady: you've got about thirty seconds before we take this door off its hinges. Open up."
There was a moment's hesitation.
With a petering pop the holoshield fizzled out. There came a rattling of bolts, a slithering of chain and the final heavy scrape of a barricade being removed.
Neera opened the door with a wink, ushering them in.
"One drink." She smiled conspiratorially. "Don't tell the Corp."
Fellik strode into the Mangled Moa, his steel capped boots heavy and predatory. He cast an eye about the place; taking in the wet linoleum floor, the steel bar; the dingy décor. His men filed in behind, making a poor show of disguising their significant armament. The bar became very small all of a sudden.
In the back room, Telin and the boy crouched and waited; ears pressed to the door as they strained to listen. Kelpo breathed softly, sound asleep.
"Appreciate the hospitality." Fellik grunted. He was still slowly absorbing the room around him, taking everything in. "Name's Fellik."
"Neera. So what can I get you boys?"
"Paint Thinner. Straight."
"And for the gentlemen?"
They rumbled a collective response.
"Six Paint Thinners, coming up." Neera stepped around behind the bar. "Have a seat."
They sprawled themselves out across the room; some obnoxiously resting their boots up on adjoining stools or propped on tables. It made for a welcome relief from tossing market stalls or shaking down traders.
Beneath the counter was an elegant double barrel shotgun. It had been her father's; an antique donated by a passing trader who fell in love with the Moa. It was loaded, Neera knew that much. Whether it still worked or not was another question entirely.
Not her first strategy.
She set out six shot glasses. Her cleanest.
"Rare to see the One Forty Ones this neck of the woods." Neera was amiable as she poured out each measure in turn. "Thought you boys preferred the western sectors."
"We do. Job has us out here." Fellik took a stool right at the bar. He leered at Neera, never breaking eye contact. Neera met his stare openly as she picked up one of the glasses on the bar, polishing it meticulously. Not her first creepy customer either.
"Tell me about the job." She said.
"Looking for two men. Had a kid with them. Friend of ours places 'em here, not too long ago."
"These people got a name?"
Fellik snapped his fingers and beckoned one of his men forward. Telch slid a data slate across the bar with a gentle scrape. It showed Kelpo and Telin grinning by a small rental speeder. Their first job. Neera knew the picture well; had taken it herself.
A copy of it was on the wall in the back room.
"Oh, him." Neera chuckled to herself. "That's Telin Voss."
"Know him?"
"Yeah. Real piece of work that one." Neera shook her head venomously. "Total scumbag. Talks a big game about getting out of this town but mostly spends his life freezing his skin off in the Frozen Zones."
Telin bristled but the boy shot him a stern look.
"Know where we might find him?" Fellik was asking.
"These days?" Neera shrugged expansively, setting the glass down. "Couldn't tell ya. We're not exactly on speaking terms."
"That so?" Fellik slugged his drink and tapped his glass against the counter top. He slid it over to her.
Neera eyed the glass sceptically.
"All you get is one. I'm not licensed to trade anymore."
"You're not selling me anything, girlie. I'm not paying for it either." Fellik rapped his glass against the counter, insistent now. "Another."
This time it was Telin's turn to glare at the boy. The boy had his rebreather back in place, and a dangerous look in his eye that typically preceded an unwelcome but sudden degree of ultra-violence.
Outside, Neera poured another round. Fellik grunted some semblance of a thank you.
"I'm sure you won't mind if we hang around here. Maybe even take a look around."
"This is my bar. My home. You can stay all you want, even drink for free so it please you. But you don't get to poke around. Not here. There are rules."
A slow, lazy smile spread across Fellik's face.
"That so?" Fellik sneered. "Brewer, go take a look 'round back."
Neera's veneer was beginning to crack. She went pale even though her voice remained even.
"Not sure what you're looking to find. There's nothing there."
Tellik never lost that leering glare in his eye. His smile faded entirely.
"We'll be the judge of that."
Brewer was halfway across the room now. Neera took a step back. Her grip tightened on the glass on her hand. Fellik, no stranger to bar fights, saw it immediately.
"Easy now." He warned softly. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene, ruin this little establishment. Would we now?"
"Another word." The boy said quietly. "And I'll make you eat that glass."
The whole room twisted and turned.
The boy stood in the open doorway, hands by his sides; still swathed in the oversized environmental coat. Clutched in one hand was the crude scissors Neera had used to cut Kelpo's bandages. Beyond, Telin stood between them and Kelpo, holding a scalpel up and looking decidedly stricken.
Fellik twisted in his stool, barked a laugh and clapped his meaty hands together.
"And there it is!" Fellik grinned and pushed himself to his feet. The rest of his men went to follow. He waved them down. He held the shot glass up.
"This glass?" Fellik asked. "This glass right here?"
The boy's eyes narrowed over the respirator.
"You heard me."
"That's a nice threat. Gotta borrow it sometime."
"It is not a threat." The boy shook his head emphatically, voice solemn. "A threat would imply a lack of intent, or an inability to enact my stated goal. You are here without invitation. You have abused her hospitality, threatened her establishment. That is undeserving. That is aninjustice."
There was a venomous weight to that last word. The boy reached up and unclasped the environmental coat. It fluttered to the floor. His eyes never left Fellik's.
There was something predatory in the boy's stare; cold and calculating, almost lupine in aspect. For the first time in his life Fellik felt a sliver of uncertainty lance through him. He could feel his men staring at him. A lifetime of brawling; of accepting challenges and savagely winning took over. He snarled and brought his fist down toward the boy, glass in hand.
By rights that should have been the end of it. The smash of a glass, a boy unconscious; face down in a pool of blood.
Not so. What actually happened, happened quickly. So quickly in fact that Neera would later have to replay the internal cam footage to quite follow the sequence of events. Even then, reality seemed to break, just a bit.
The boy dashed forward, impossibly quick. The scissors flashed. Fellik screeched; hamstrings severed. The shot glass tumbled from his hands. It never hit the floor. Neera blinked and it was gone. Then the boy was on Fellik, legs tangled about his neck, squeezing it in a vicelike grip. Fellik's mouth opened wide choking for air. The boy stuffed something in his mouth, choking him. He twisted his legs tighter.
Fellik's weight gave out as he spun towards the countertop. Face first he struck it, hard. There was a sickening crack and the splintering of glass as he descended. The boy landed in a nimble crouch, unscathed.
He rose to his feet, fixing the rest of the gang with a baleful stare. Fellik lay face down, leg spasming fitfully; blood pouring from his ruined mouth; neck twisted at an impossible angle. The handle of a revolver peaked up from Fellik's belt, within snatching distance.
Nobody moved. Neera could hear the tick and whirr of the respirator from the back room.
"Final warning." The boy announced steadily. "No threats, only promises."
The gang exploded from their seats, scattering furniture in all directions. The revolver was in the boys hand now. He fanned the hammer. Blood spattered the walls as wood splintered and bodies tumbled; crashing through tables. The cylinder spun empty. The boy hurled the gun at the largest encroaching thug like a throwing knife, aimed with lethal precision. The man's nose burst and he went down with a muffled roar, clutching his face.
Two thugs remained. Brewer and Telch had finally drawn. Snarling primitive slug throwers; shotguns both. There was a heavy metal chunk as slides pumped; barrels levelled squarely at the boy. Neera's eyes widened in panic. Levelled squarely at her. She threw herself flat behind the counter.
A seemingly endless deluge of buckshot filled the air. The boy crashed in over the counter top, rolling into a tight ball. Shards of glass showered down, splashing them in all manner of liquor.
Her entire collection went up. A lifetime's supply. Bottle after bottle burst. The Moa '57, an Eidolon Sunrise; even a bootlegged Orokin Dew. Reduced to a tidal wave of booze and glass.
Yelling in rage as much as fear, the thugs emptied every single cartridge they had.
The boy clamped a hand on Neera's shoulder, staring at her. Holding her in place behind the comparative safety of the bar. They each had a hand on the antique piece stored beneath the counter top. He was utterly calm.
Neera was enraged. The boy was waiting.
The barrage abruptly ceased. The thugs' shotguns clacked empty; clicking over and over.
To the boy's shock Neera snarled and shoved him aside. The shotgun was in her hands now.
Two barrels, no lack of intent.
Neera snapped up over the bar. The first barrel sounded like a thunderclap in the confined space. The good news was that the shotgun definitely still worked. The bad news was that the kick of the damned thing nearly dislocated her shoulder. Brewer hit the far wall like a rag doll. Telch sprinted for the exit.
Neera's father trained her well. She swung the shotgun to bear; caressed the secondary trigger. The second barrel took Telch in the small of his back, lifting the thug off his feet and smashing him against the door jamb. He gurgled as he spasmed on the floor, spine severed.
"Good aim." The boy remarked, nodding in approval as he calmly rose to his feet.
Neera's hands were shaking as she lowered the gun.
"You think?"
"Better than his."
Telin stood shaking the back room, the scalpel still in his hand.
"You alright?" he asked her.
"Y-yeah." She nodded. "I think so."
"We need to get out of here." Telin said. "More will be coming. Got a trolley?"
Neera nodded numbly, looking faintly sick.
The bar was a ruin. Bodies, shell casings and splintered furniture carpeted the floor. The bar itself was a sea of broken glass and sopping liquor. Groans filled the air as the wounded clutched their wounds. Gun smoke coiled the air. It was a miracle the place hadn't gone up in flames.
The boy banged a box of spare cartridges on the counter top.
"Load up." The boy told Neera. "You will need these."
-
"It's war out there. People ask me how I trade in the current climate. Trade embargos, fleet blockades; wholesale Technocyte outbreaks. I tell them it's easy.
We're Corpus. Everyone has their price."
- Darvo Bek, on post-Collapse Society
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"I'm afraid it is not in the interest of our business to disclose the movements of our passengers." Hemry Torvith said grandly, thumbs hooked in the suspenders that kept his suit trousers aloft. "We value the privacy of our patrons highly."
Torvith was precisely the kind of Corpus parasite Vern loathed. That they now shared the small dingy office in a Low Stack docking bay irritated him all the more.
The place was a mess. Blinking, barely functional monitors and copious amounts of discarded data slates vied for competition with the over spilling ashtrays and fast food cartons strewn about the desk. Torvith was chewing on a congealed mess of noodles and featureless meat, masticating loudly.
"You know the rules, Hunter Vern." Torvith chewed jovially, moustache wiggling as his lips smacked together. "'Self-Interest is the Truest Path to Enlightenment', as the good Prophet says."
Torvith himself was an arrogant man of limited height and questionable girth. His facial tattoos mouthed loyalty to Anyo Corp, but on closer inspection revealed several key inaccuracies both in script and structure. What should have read Son of the Prophet in one script instead read something else entirely; the translation of which was perhaps best left unknown. Vern thought better than to point this out. Still, even his considerable patience was at an end.
Scanning data from the Severance had led them here. Time was credits. The trail was growing cold. There were any number of escape vectors a target could take in a city as layered and labyrinthine as Prospect 141. Parson-Luk and Isolde waited outside, together with an assortment of heavies.
Their presence was not required. Terrenus Vern reached up and removed his mirrored goggles.
Torvith dropped his spoon with an audible clank.
Vern's eyes were cybernetic replacements. The skin across his eyes was leathery with scar tissue.
His cold mechanical eyes betrayed no emotion.
"I was hoping simple common sense would tell you that our interests were aligned, Mr. Torvith; that the speedy departure of both my associates and I would be logically in your self-interest; allowing you to continue running this fine facility without fear of further disruption. It appears that is not so."
Vern leaned forward in his chair, unmoved by the aromatic stink of steamed gene-fish.
"Look, it's very simple. I am a successful hunter, operating under full licence from Anyo Corp on no less than three planets. I could pay any number of slicers to hijack your records; raze your firewalls and freely distribute the data to all and sundry interested in learning just who comes through this sorry port, and how often. But that would be unnecessary, wouldn't you agree?"
Hemry Torvith gave a slack nod, growing pale. Vern's lips formed the thinnest, fleeting smile.
"Good. And would you further agree that it is in the best interest of Docking Bay Two-Twelve that accredited, licensed brokers working in the best interest of Anyo Corp be assisted wherever possible; up to and including providing access to your cam footage?"
Another nod.
"Splendid. And you will provide this information freely and without further delay?"
One final nod.
"Excellent." Vern slid his goggles back into place and rose to his feet. The numerous pistols, knives and grenades affixed to his webbing clicked and jangled as he moved for the door.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Torvith. May Profits Guide You Well."
Hemry Torvith sat frozen where he was; appetite quite forgotten.
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The search teams fanned out throughout the Market Sector, pushing locals aside brusquely and tossing stalls where people resisted. Crowds thinned considerably as the roving gangs wound their way through the streets, sowing chaos.
Isolde watched them with considerable distaste.
"How goes the search?" Vern's voice crackled over the com.
"Messy." Isolde replied, holding her wrist com to her mouth. "Where did you find these oafs?"
"Margins are tight. We needed numbers. They were within budget."
"Bravic got what he paid for."
"Be that as it may, we work with the tools provided." Vern was nonplussed. "Get back here, there's something I want you take a look at."
"Who will coordinate the local teams?"
"They know the terrain, they'll manage. I need your expertise here. Brahvic's recovery team are finished salvaging whatever the hell was left on that ship."
"Liset." Isolde corrected, automatically. "On my way."
She clicked off the com and walked over to Parson-Luk.
The Ostron Hunter was crouched near an alleyway. What he saw Isolde could not make out for the life of her. He turned to look up at her, earrings jangling as he beamed toothily.
"A trail, Surah. Come, come." He beckoned to her eagerly. "Come see."
"I can't, not now. Terrenus needs me. Can you manage?"
The hunter nodded solemnly. Besides Vern, the skittish hunter was her closest companion these days.
"You." She snapped her fingers at the nearest passing clutch of mercs. "With him. Now."
The sloping crew of thugs knew better than to mess with the reputed Void Witch. Vern called the shots, but the hooded witch enforced them. They peeled off and followed the itinerant hunter down the alley. Isolde scanned the market, hairs prickling at the back of her neck.
Isolde frowned. She could sense something. An old familiar feeling.
Unconsciously, Isolde's hand drifted to the knife secreted within her belt.
Turning on her heel, she swiftly made for the Docking Bay, never once losing the feeling she was being watched.
-------------------------------
"You sure?" Fellik asked doubtfully.
He was a slab of a man. Hired muscle, one of the One Forty-Ones; a major local crew. Like him, his boys had uniform shaved heads and matching sigils branded over their left eyes depicting the city's numeric designation in jagged Corpus script.
Parson-Luk nodded enthusiastically, pointing toward the faltering holographic sign of the Mangled Moa.
"Yes, yes. So close. Close, close utz."
Fellik chuckled. Even by Low Stack standards the place was pretty miserable. Crude bullet holes and old plasma scoring marked the walls; memories from some ancient fight. It was exactly his kind of place. Bullet holes or not, Fellik didn't care. The One Forty-Ones were stone killers. Nothing scared them.
Fellik checked his piece. A chunky revolver; locally produced. He flicked the cylinder open with a snap of his wrist, grunted in approval; before slapping it shut again and tucking it in the back of his pants.
"C'mon."
They started forward, making for the Mangled Moa's sorry looking entrance.
As they approached, Fellik paused to check on the trapper. He frowned.
Parson-Luk was nowhere to be found.
-------------------------------
Kelpo Marr lay stretched out on the table, stripped of his environment suit. The boy watched the older man's chest rise and fall, listened to rhythmic mechanical tick-sigh of the respirator unit Neera had stashed in the backroom of the Mangled Moa.
Kelpo was corded with lean muscle that spoke of tough living and limited food. The boy quietly noted that both Neera and Telin were no different in this regard. Telin served as a decidedly inexperienced nurse to Neera's meticulous doctor. Evidently, this was not the first time she had patched somebody up, nor the first time Telin had helped her.
The boy admired her craftsmanship as she worked, addressing Kelpo's wounds with practiced efficiency.
"Are you a Lorist?" the boy asked, perplexed.
"A what now?" Neera frowned as she worked. "Scalpel please, Tel."
"A healer."
"Kid I'm a bar tender." Neera never took her eyes off the patient. "Running a place in this city? You get real good at patching people up, real fast."
The boy nodded. There was nothing but the snip of scissors and the gurgle of the life support machine. Bored, the boy stood up and wandered out into the main bar, leaving them alone.
The bar was every bit as grimy inside as without. The main bar was a collection of battered tables and recycled furniture; cobbled together in ramshackle fashion around the bar. All manner of bottles, decanters, flasks and jars cluttered the rear wall of the bar. Most of it was home brewed. The boy picked up a flask, unscrewed the lid and took a sniff. Spluttering, he set it back, blinking back tears.
"That's called Paint Thinner." Telin confirmed from the doorway. He was drying his hands with a dish rag.
"How apt." The boy winced, wiping at his face.
"Kelp's favourite." Telin threw the dishrag on the counter, perching on a stool next to he bar.
"Is he alright?" The boy asked.
"He'll live. Don't tell her I said it, kid; but Neera's damned good at what she does. Besides, we've been through worse."
The boy raised an eyebrow. Telin's face darkened, as he poured himself a shot. He knocked it back, grimacing.
"Well actually no. That's not true. Not even close. We should be dead." He sniffed, setting the glass down carefully. "We'd be dead, but for you. So, uh… thanks."
Telin raised an awkward toast and did a second shot. His hands were shaking.
The boy simply nodded. A leaden silence fell between them. After a moment Telin twisted about in his stool, eyes narrowed.
"So you really don't remember anything?"
The boy shook his head.
"Just flashes. Here and there. Small details that make little sense in isolation." The boy nodded to the armoured entrance door, indicating the city beyond.
"Is this how the System is now?"
"The System? Hell I don't know about you, but I've never been off world kid. Barely even left this city. Certainly never owned my own spaceship."
"Liset." The boy corrected firmly.
"Yeah, whatever." Telin grunted. "Look, kid: things work a certain way here. Guilds own the city, whether we admit to it or not. They call the shots, we scramble to provide anything we can. Labour mostly; off-world volunteers, infantry for the Navy. Few come back. Every few years we get pissed, things kick off; then Corp sends in suppression teams to kick our teeth in, remind us of our station. Everyone loses."
"An injustice."
"A reality, kid. Want my advice? Better to keep your head down, not rock the boat. You'll live longer."
"Is that why you're a scavenger?" the boy asked.
The question was an earnest one. Telin still didn't like it.
"I'm a survivor, kid. Neera's folks, they had ideals. This place used to be a rallying point for people; a second home of sorts."
The boy took in the patchwork lighting. The faint sound of a drip in the far corner.
"And what happened?"
"The Corpus happened." Neera said as she entered, peeling off a set of medical gloves. "My mother was good with numbers. She got indentured service; life term brokerage contract, full memory wipe. Pops was summarily executed."
Telin offered her the bottle. Neera took a swig.
"Price of idealism kid." Neera sighed and set the bottle back on the counter. She caught Telin's eye and nodded towards the doorway. "Telin can I talk to you for a moment?"
"Sure."
They left the boy alone by the bar.
-------------------------------
Kelpo was stable. Pale, sweating profusely, but stable. They spoke quietly to one another.
"He's pulling through, but barely. Just what kind of hell mess did you stir up this time, Tel?"
Telin nodded back towards the kid.
"Found a ship buried beneath the ice. Tier Zero find. Kid was inside."
"Tier Zero?" Neera hissed. "And you woke him up?!"
"Didn't have a choice, Nee!" Telin countered hotly. "Our broker stitched us up. They pulled a gun on us. Things escalated."
"He's not salvage anymore. You know the rules, Tel. At best it's a rescue fee. And based on what I'm seeing it sure doesn't look one Anyo Corp has any interest in paying. You got a plan?"
"I'm working on it."
"Work faster. That kid's trouble. You know it, I know it. Nobody from this town claims a Tier Zero and walks away clean."
"I've noticed."
"And?"
"And I'm working on it. We need to go up the food chain with this. The goons after us are a local crew. Well-funded, sure, but they're subbies, just like me."
"Telin. You're one scavenger. They're a crew. Listen to yourself." Neera pointed towards where the boy sat in the parlour. "Dreams of a pay day aren't worth a bullet in the brain."
"So what are you saying? Just hand him over."
"I'm saying that you need to be realistic here." Neera said. "This place works a certain way. They profit, we stay out of their way; get to live another day. That's the trade-off."
"That's bull."
They trailed off. Neera heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her hair.
"Look." She said, "I can arrange a neutral broker. An exchange. Profit's all they understand. This can be managed."
"Nuh-uh. No way." Telin shot back. "Not after what they did to Kelp."
"You idiot! You'll get yourself killed." Neera fumed. "You're as stubborn as ever."
"You like stubborn." Telin flashed a dangerous smile.
"Shut up." Neera scowled, smiling slightly in spite of herself.
"Excuse me."
The boy cleared his throat politely. They both jumped. He had seemingly appeared in the doorway out of nowhere.
The boy's wide eyes glowed as he looked up at them.
"There appears to be someone at the door."
-
“Do you have a visual?”
“Moving through the markets now. Damn, it smells. How do people live like this?”
“This is how the world is now. How it has always been, in a sense. Stay focused.”
“I am focused. You think it’s easy getting around this place without getting rumbled?”
“Just keep an eye on him. We can’t risk a scene.”
“Please, you worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry at all.”
- Unidentified Venusian communication
--------------------------------------------------------
Now.
The boy watched the walls swarm up around them. He pulled the flapping coat tighter, scolding his lack of nerve.
Prospect 141’s Low Tier Markets were sensory overload. Alien smells and sights threatened to overwhelm him at every turn. Low awnings of all manner of shapes, materials and colours jutted out from the buildings around him, strung with bunting and cheap metallic lights that blinked simplistic patterns or depicted the neon names of various outlets. Coarse shouting and throaty yells exchanged between bawdy drunks and soliciting merchants. No single wall surface was clear: holo-projectors blinked from one image to the next, shilling survival gear, improvised fire-arms, drug rehabilitation and promises of the better future with Anyo Corp (experiences may vary).
Steel grates hissed wafting clouds of steam that temporarily obscured all the madness from view. The boy drank it in, dumbfounded.
The most striking aspect was the poverty. Children ran by cackling, their cheap environment suits stitched together from all manner of recycled materials; shoes bound together with little more than rope and emergency tape. The elderly shuffled by, gaits twisted by ailments long untreated. Still, they managed, suffering their privation with a measure of stubborn dignity. The markets teemed with activity; bartering and low credit swaps; heated haggling and laughter. The boy noted the waiting lines for the soup kitchens were the longest. These were a lean people, long used to hardship.
Was this how the world was now? The boy had no idea what year it was, or how long he had slept. Before his time beneath the ice, the world he knew was golden and splendid. Cruel and merciless yes, but precisely so. Here, this low in the bowels of a Corpus surface city, the technology was scrappily functional and improvised. Were it not for the Anyo Corp murals on the walls and constant assault of holo-advertising, the boy would have sworn it was Grineer built. The Trade Guilds had built an Empire upon the ashes of the Old World, and these people were its lowest rung.
The boy drew stares. Details mattered. The sleeper suit he wore beneath the shaggy environment coat was much too clean, for one. The frontiersmen around him had rugged skin, tanned from snow glare and pock-marked with burns from hazardous pipework. The boy by contrast was pale and unblemished and for a teenager carried himself with a demeanour that bordered on haughty, whether he was aware of it or not.
His rebreather in particular drew a lot of unwanted attention. It was much too ornate. With a hissing click he removed it, stuffing it into one of his pockets. He regretted it instantly. Without the mask the air was all the more rank; stale, reprocessed, mixed with heady aroma of imported spices and homegrown protein mix. The boy gagged and almost retched, nostrils twitching.
His attempts at blending in proved unsuccessful. The citizens around him could spot him a mile away, swamped as he was in the flapping thermal coat. Invisible shoulders clipped him and threatened to send him spinning off his feet as the battered trio wound their way through the bustling markets; people only parting when they saw Kelpo’s sorry state. Gruff or not, they took care of their own here.
The third time somebody knocked into the boy he reacted poorly. The oaf in question was left upended on a collapsed market stall, clutching a sprained wrist. Quite how this occurred was too fast to adequately process. Telin swore vehemently and dragged the boy down a side street before they attracted further unwanted attention. The boy complained indignantly but allowed himself to be hauled away.
Telin’s route was memorised, but wound and double backed on itself time and time again; ducking beneath hissing pipes and stepping over gurgling coolant drains. Even the boy, for all his wits, was barely able to keep up.
They eventually came to a foreboding metal door secreted down a dingy alleyway. Any signage was unlit. Bullet holes dented the walls like punctuation.
The Mangled Moa was not a salubrious establishment. Indeed, it was barely an establishment at all.
It was only when Telin banged a gloved fist on the door that a woman’s muffled voice called out.
“We’re closed!”
Telin banged again. A view grille set into the door slid open. A bitter laugh split the air.
“Oh no. No-no-no-no.” She fumed. “Not you.”
The viewport slammed shut.
Telin sighed and banged his fist again. The viewport remained closed.
“Go away!” the woman’s muffled voice snapped.
“It’s Kelp, Neera.” Telin there was no masking the hoarseness in his voice. “He’s hurt.”
A pause. The viewport snicked open. Even in the gloom, the boy could make out the woman’s eyes, studying the weary scavengers. The concern in them when they saw Kelpo, ashen faced and battered. A heaving sigh filled the air.
There came a series of popping sounds; of heavy bolts being lifted; an energy emitted powering down; then padlocked chains being popped and sliding to the floor.
The door banged open with a metallic squeal. Neera was Telin’s age; with red hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun. Pretty; hard as nails. The scowl she fixed Telin with softened when she saw Kelpo’s condition.
“Inside, quickly.” She ordered, before stabbing a finger at Telin. “Don’t think for a second this means we’re cool.”
The glare found itself fixed on the boy next. For all his martial ability, the boy felt three inches tall.
“Who’s this?” Neera asked suddenly, only noticing him now. There was no hiding her shock at the boy’s strange appearance.
“He’s with us.” Telin replied.
Sara eyed the boy warily.
“Huh. Looks weird.”
“He is weird.” Telin confirmed as he lugged Kelpo through the doorway. The boy froze in place, utterly unsure of himself under her withering stare.
“Well what are you gawking at?” the woman barked. She kept to the point.
“I’m Neera. Bar’s mine. Inside now.”
The boy shuffled through, thoroughly told.
Neera took a final suspicious look out into the alleyway behind, then clanged the door shut behind them. A chorus of rattling chains, bolts and clicking locks followed. With a pop and fizzle a sorry little shield generator cranked to life, covering the doorway in a Sorry We’re Closed hologram.
In the shadows, a gleaming pair of yellow eyes winked into life, then vanished once more.
--------------------------------------------------------
The men assembled on the landing pad below were united only by their dishevelled appearance. They were local guns; cheap muscle and lone brokers for the most part. Long coats and clunky respirators; or bare-chested tat-fiends big on piercings and low on subtlety. Some even wore the box helmets of the Corpus Navy, albeit customised and stencilled far beyond immediate recognition. Only the hulking Grineer mercenary’s presence kept them in line. They eyed the massive clone with fascination.
Brakarr for his part showed no expression; ruined face hidden beneath his battle mask. He dwarfed them all.
Above them all, the Severance Package sat docked in its berth in the Mid-Tier Hangar. Kahrl Brahvic stood atop the ship, overseeing his crew; who were scrambling to and fro; attaching fuel hoses and supervising drones scrubbing the plating down.
“Remind me again why we’re hiring these Low Stack trash?” Brahvic began. “Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”
Terrenus Vern stood by his employer’s side, arms folded across his chest.
“Consider it a necessary expense. My team is for frontier work.” He gave a slight shrug. “Terrain has changed. City like this? We need numbers. Close routes, box the target.”
“It’s expensive.”
“Also dangerous.” Another shrug, this one more expansive. “Unless you’d prefer to use your own crew?”
“No.” Brahvic shook his head as he scratched at his jowls, “I need ‘em here. Do it your way.”
“Understood.” Vern flashed a thumbs up to Isolde and Parson-Luk, who waited below with the mercs. Isolde nodded coldly and turned to the drone representative from Disposable Solutions, finalising the deal.
“Should we notify Anyo Corp?” Vern asked, thumbs hooked on his holsters.
Kahrl Bravic sniffed and spat on the deck.
“Only when we’ve something to tell ‘em.” Brahvic grunted. “No more mistakes, Vern: we lose this asset and the whole Corpus Fleet’s gonna be breathing down our necks real fast.”
Vern nodded coldly, ever the professional.
“Consider it done.”
-
"...What they need, Margulis, is to be destroyed! They're devils from that hell, not human anymore."
- Executor Ballas
----------------------------------------
Then.
"Isolde!"
She runs to meet them, giggling. Giddy bare feet slap cool smooth decking as she dashes into the open concourse. Golden light streams down from the shutters overhead.
Beyond, the Void trembles and surges, unending.
The other children await her. Five friends, thrown together by life aboard the Orokin vessel. There is Sara, her closest friend and confidant. Impish and playful Sara grins and slaps palms with her adoptive sister. They speak over one another, exchanging breathless gossip at blinding speed.
Solemn Doric shushes them. He is the tallest of the boys; dour and broad shouldered. His ashen skin sets him apart. Kael, the paler boy beside him mutters an aside and the two chuckle privately. Isolde flushes. Sara scowls and swats at him playfully. They squabble. Kael complaining loudly as she tousles his mop of unkempt dark hair.
"Over here."
That is Sohren. He lacks Doric's commanding height but is the oldest of their little corpus. They were a team, separate from the other children aboard the ship.
Every roguish suggestion was Sohren's doing, every grand design, or misadventure or hushed conversation after lights out. He is barely a teenager, yet already carries the beginnings of a man about him. His parents were low within the mighty ship's vast hierarchy.
It does not matter to them. They are children. Hierarchies are naturally created and unconsciously maintained. He is the fastest, the strongest; the most experienced. They all but worship him.
The gang gathers around. Sohren stands by a large oval viewport that dominates the Observation Deck. It is one of the more remote parts of the ship, overshadowed by more central and heavily trafficked viewing galleries.
In normal times the viewport provides a grand view of the swooping lines and graceful golden curves of the ship beyond. It is a vast landscape, seemingly endless. These were not normal times. They are underway, beset on all sides by the swirling energies of the Void.
A Void Expedition, for the Void Era.
The viewport is opaque, a necessary safeguard. It appears to them now as an alabaster mirror, smooth and cool to the touch; It is rimmed by gold; infused with a lacing silver trim.
Only the Grownups had access to the science deck where the windows could be unveiled, and even then only with the strictest of safeguards in. The children never saw those places, mysterious and forbidden.
"What is it?" Kael asks, stepping forward.
"Watch." Sohren simply says. He steps towards the glass. Places his palm against it.
The opaque glass warps to his touch; twisting and folding into a shape. It becomes the outline boy, much like him. A perfect shadow.
The shadow cocks its head to one side. They all scream, all but Sohren. He stares, fascinated. The lights on the deck flicker. A bemused, cold laughter chuckles in the dark, playful yet distorted. Kael grabs his friend, shaking him. Sohren blinks.
The shadow is gone.
Lights restore and the ship thrums as it always has; a comforting ticking rhythm. All is calm again.
The children look at each other.
"Not a word of this to anyone." Sohren warns sternly. "Not even the others."
----------------------------------------
Weeks pass. Every day after lessons they gather in the same place where the shadow greeted them. Sohren tries to reveal the shadow once more, to no avail; clapping his hands, slapping the view screen; chanting. He sits down heavily, defeated. Evidently the shadow has found other ways to entertain itself.
But there are still oddities here, on this remote part of the ship. Peculiarities remain.
Doric brings with him a set of handcrafted marbles; an old gift from his Name Day past. The children marvel as the marbles spin and coalesce before the viewport; shifting into unknowable patterns before eventually settling still.
The next day Sara sets out an ayatan spinning top. It turns and spins as normal until it doesn't; abruptly whirling in the opposite direction with maddening speed. They yelp in unison as it shoots out across the room and shatters into a thousand pieces against the far wall.
Their collective yelp is one of delight.
The clandestine experimentation continues. Isolde sets out the tarot set, murmuring in wonder as the same faces reveal themselves time and time again, no matter how many times she shuffles the deck.
The set is new to her, a present from her Mother who served on the science team. An idle gift intended to keep her shy daughter entertained during the long shifts that kept her parents away more often than not. A distraction.
No longer. Now they are set out in sequence before the opaque mirror on the wall. Isolde's nervous reflection stares back at her as she turns each card over in sequence.
The other children stoop over her, craning in for a closer look. She sets the final card down.
The same sequence, every time. No matter how many times she shuffles and reshuffles the cards, there they were; staring back at her.
The Nine of Quills. The Four of Chains. The Fool's Eye. The Tower, inverted.
And finally, Death.
Isolde scrutinises the sequence. At this early stage in her life; the cards are unfamiliar, their true meanings and finer subtleties as unyielding and opaque as the viewport before her. Yet the cards themselves seem to hum; moving with a barely perceptible tremble. They are warm to the touch.
Isolde frowns and tries to swap the cards intentionally; to break the order with brutish direct input. The moment she does so the entire decks spits into the air, flitting about and sending the children scattering for cover, cackling as the cards rain down.
They recover, reset. The investigation must continue unabated. This is a science vessel, after all.
The sixth time; nothing. Deflated, they heave a collective sigh. The magic is gone once again.
They vow to return tomorrow, to once again tempt fate with a power that is unknown and perhaps unknowable.
Fate finds them first.
----------------------------------------
It is deep in the night shift when the killing starts.
It has already begun by the time her eyes snap awake. Her cabin is awash in sinister red warning lights. Toys scattered about her room leer at her; smiling blank expressions rendered feral in the disorientating strobe.
Isolde springs from her bed, and cries out for her parents in the dark. Warning klaxons are the only response.
Instinctively she grabs the tarot deck from her dresser, clutching it close as she pads into the shared living room that adjoins her parents' bedroom. The deck pulses warm in her hands. She calls out again.
Their door is ajar, the bed pristine and so terribly empty. She knows she should lock the door, to stay put and wait as her parents would tell her to. Her finger hovers over the activation stud that will seal her in here alone with that empty bed
The klaxons will not stop screaming.
Tarot deck clutched close to her chest, Isolde steps out into smoke and fire.
----------------------------------------
Isolde does not remember where she is when the first Void Storm breaches the hull of the Zariman Ten Zero .
Void-Jump Accident. The very concept is unthinkable. It is a research vessel staffed with thousands of the most qualified and brilliant scientific minds of the Orokin Empire. There are entire generations aboard; countless children. The Seven show the requisite caution, understanding the loss to the Empire should even the slightest mishap occur.
The design is peerless; as robust and timeless as anything made in the Empire's endless reign.
It fails; fails utterly. The Void Shields are compromised, and pulsing waves of eldritch power rip through the corridors; enveloping every soul aboard. It is unknown whether this is a natural malfunction, or deliberate sabotage.
The question is academic. The Zariman Ten Zero becomes a murderous funhouse; a killing field. The true horror of it is lost to time.
Fire suppression systems ship wide fail. Sentry turrets at key intersections blaze to life, slicing into panicking survivors and felling them in droves; all IFF restrictions wiped. Boarding defences spring to life; cutting beams severing bone and cooking flesh as they scythe through those unfortunate enough to be caught in their path.
Isolde remembers none of this. One moment she is treading carefully down a darkened corridor; listening to the ship-wide broadcast ordering all hands to emergency stations. The next she is on the floor, retching.
Cards scatter across the deck. She has fallen. The air tastes singed; her hair too. That Void stink. Her scalp is bleeding. Flecks of blood stain her night dress; spattering against the upturned face cards. The grinning skull beams up at her, pristine and mocking.
They are the same cards as before, that same damned sequence. Smoke fills the corridors, along with screams and shrill, insane laughter. Still the klaxons shriek.
Smudged hands shaking, Isolde sweeps the cards back into her hands and rises to her feet, limping numbly forward.
The first adult she encounters is a male crewmen, middle aged. One of the security detail, name of Agnas. A friendly man, he is known to her, but not like this. Agnas' helmet is missing. His tunic is frayed and torn, maroon with caked blood. The reason becomes apparent.
Agnas is bashing his skull into the bulkhead repeatedly; slow deliberate strikes. He makes no sound. Just that maddening, methodical squelching thud as torn, bruised flesh meets unyielding ship plating. The plating wins, and the man topples with a wet thud; forehead caved inward.
Isolde screams, louder than any siren.
----------------------------------------
Sohren finds her, a traumatised ball in the corner; eyes swollen shut from streaming tears. Isolde's lungs now manage little more than a tortured, prolonged croak.
He steals a panicked glance over his shoulder. He knows more Grownups are coming. Some are organising, lashing out in an animalistic rage. The Void has them. They tear each other apart, or stalk in groups; hurling themselves upon anyone and everyone they deem to be Other. The children are not spared.
Their children have a rule. In times of crisis, or injury or self-doubt, the lonely observation deck is their sanctuary. Sohren carefully guides Isolde through the dark. They arrive terrified, but unharmed.
Sara has appeared, all but dragging a groggy Kael. A venting conduit had all but cooked the corridor he and his parents had been standing in when the first Void Storm hit.
Sara is ordinarily a chirpy person; bright eyed and optimistic. That is gone now. With grim determination she had pulled Kael from beneath the cooked bodies; administering what little aid she knew. Kael rasps into a rebreather; eyes streaming.
They gather at the only place they know. Doric is already waiting for them. Marbles clack as they grind together in his balled fists. He too is bloodied.
He is staring out the viewport in awestruck horror. It is opaque no longer.
The veil has been lifted. The Lidless Eye of the Void stares back; baleful, livid and ever-changing.
The children sink to the floor together, clinging to each other and weeping.
----------------------------------------
One of the hunting parties finds them eventually. There are five of them, three men and two women. Their eyes are black with murderous intent. Some carry rifles, but wield them like clubs. Others brandish little more than bloodied fingernails, caked with gore.
The children have no weapons. They are hemmed in on both sides. Their backs kiss the cool glass behind them.
"Stay back!" Sara warns with thinly disguised panic.
Sohren puts himself between the encroaching killers and Isolde, shielding her. She is all but catatonic.
Doric attempts to break the deadlock. He charges forward; balled fists swinging. A rifle butt rewards him, cracking across his forehead with a meaty slap. Marbles bounce and skitter across the corridor as he tumbles to the deck, stunned.
Sara sprints forward instinctively, snarling. One of the women overpowers her easily, clamping gnarled hands over her throat. Kael throws himself onto the crazed woman's back; respirator working overtime. He pulls hair, claws at eyes; anything to save his diminutive friend.
To no avail. The adult feels no pain, and instead starts cackling as she tightens her grip on Sara's throat.
Sohren steps in to help. He is hopelessly outnumbered. Defiant to the end, he raises his fists in a striking stance. His father is a lowly guardsman, and he is scarcely more than a boy. He roars a challenge.
Something pushes past him.
It is Isolde. She is no longer crying. Her eyes blaze with fury. Sohren does not recognise the look in her eyes. It is a cold rage, pitiless and vengeful as she stares at the fiend choking Sara.
Isolde raises a hand and emits a primal scream. A shockwave rips through the corridor. Crewmen are scattered about like bowling pins; Kael along with them. The death grip on Sara is loosened.
In a flash Sara disappears; appearing in a terrified heap six metres away and scrambling backward on her elbows. Her face is a mask of confusion.
The adults charge. Another shockwave blasts them off their feet. Sohren has lunged at them, only he has covered too much ground, impossibly quick. He catches himself, looking down at his hands, bewildered.
The adults scramble to their feet. One of the men roars a challenge and arcs a rifle toward Isolde. A scalding bolt of light vaporises him on the spot; blasting ash back up the corridor. Flakes flicker in the air, like morbid butterflies.
The rest of the adults flee, hooting like stampeding animals.
Kael's eyes blaze a deep blue above the ridges of the respirator. Energy crackles across his fingertips.
He holds his hand up, turning it over in awe; studying it. A hush falls over them. This is a scene playing out across every deck, on every level. The realms of reality simply twist, bend, then shatter.
It is an Awakening of sorts. Untamed power unleashed, bonded to minds young enough and vivid enough to withstand an unbridled, forbidden power, but unable to control it beyond blind impulse.
Fully harnessed, it will determine the fate of an Empire.
Doric, groaning and clambering to his feet, looks up at the viewport that forms a silhouette behind his friends. He is dazed, winded certainly. His eyes play tricks on him surely.
For the briefest moment, a shadow watches them. It cocks its head in wry amusement, and as suddenly as it appears is gone.
-
"Never underestimate the competition."
- Ergo Glast, of the Perrin Sequence
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Prospect 141.
Stack city. Tithe city. Vice city.
It resembled a gleaming candlestick; one that steadily became more battered and rotten the deeper it descended. The base of the city was entirely metal; a weatherworn criss-crossing trellis of support girders and ribbed pipework; containing entire industries: power stations, flight hangars, habitation stacks. Storm shielding protected the summit of the tower from the violent winds and extreme shifts in hot and cold that plagued the surface of Venus.
Not so the lower stacks. These were of wrought iron and steel gantry; decaying. The sheer volume of metal kept it upright. Squashed between landing bays and acid-stained grain silos lived entire communities; vertical slums where the lowest in Corpus society huddled, simply grateful to have somewhere to eke out an existence; however miserable. There was no natural light here. Cold street lights and neon advertising banners cast long shadows on steel streets.
To Telin it was home. There were many ways to make a living in Prospect 141. Working the mining crews had been their parent's way; overseeing the drones and hand-sorting processed materials into refinement bins; serving as cheap labour where cost-cutting measures ensured human hands proved cheaper than the automated crews more prevalent throughout Corpus Society.
Indentured service in the Corpus Navy was another; signing your life away for a comparatively comfortable, if strictly regulated, life among the stars. One's freedom was a small price to pay for a regular meal and a humble stipend.
Telin and Kelpo had chosen another path. Frontier work. Life on the blasted surface was not easy, but it was one of the few honest trades left. An entire economy had been built upon the misery permeating Prospect 141's Low-Stacks. Casinos, extortion rackets; scrappers and mechanists, guns for hire. You could buy it all in Prospect 141, if you had the credits and the standing.
Politically the city was deemed independent. A lie, of course. All elections were corp-approved; and almost universally the realm of the Upper Tier Families. Members of the Corpus Guilds lived isolated lives in their gilded towers high above; interacting with the movers and shakers that rocked the trade ways of the Solar Rail; never once witnessing the squalid underbelly that festered beneath and made it all possible.
Telin and his companion's arrival was not a dramatic one. The city continued to teem with its own frenzied activity, oblivious. Never once did anyone notice the arrival of an overdue, low-rent skimmer; nor did they realise that its arrival would usher in a sequence of events that would change the city forever.
Telin's all but slammed the skimmer into hangar bay 2-12. He popped his restraints; leant over and unclasping Kelpo's. His stocky friend was still out of it, a shadow of his hearty self. The ship was a rental. Its arrival was registered by Tower Control; their return to the city surely documented. They had to go.
The boy was conscious but weak. He was slow to get to his feet. Telin noticed him shiver for the first time. Whatever Void trickery the boy employed in the battle had taxed heavily.
Telin threw an insulated field jacket around the kid's shoulders, audibly fussing. The boy might be a murderous Void Witch, but he was their murderous Void Witch; complete with a generous finders fee.
The only trick was living long enough to collect it.
"C'mon kid, let's go." Telin pulled Kelpo up onto his shoulder once more. "Got a safe place in mind."
The boy followed; coat draped over him like some ridiculous cloak.
A drone buzzed out towards them as they shuffled across the landing dock towards the Arrival gate. It was from the rental company. A series of credit demands flashed at them; pulsing a violent red. Late payment. Overdue invoices. Unacceptable landing protocol. It then began detailing an extensive list of punishments and penalties; up to and including off-world military service.
Telin snarled and waved his credit disc at the drone. Whatever scant few credits he had left vanished in an instant.
Pleased, the drone flushed a fulsome green and bid them a nice day. Telin scowled. That too would be tracked. Telin Voss was no a warrior, but he wasn't stupid either. In the Low Stacks of Prospect 141, a digital trail was a dangerous thing to leave behind.
Battered and bruised, the trio vanished into the jostling crowds of the wider city beyond.
All but invisible beneath the dark shadows of a neon billboard; a hooded figure detached itself from the wall, and followed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Severance Package languished in a holding pattern, one of six similar sized barges awaiting clearance. Behind them the blasted Venusian landscape stretched out; the unending baleful sun causing the floating glaciers to glisten and shine as they drifted over the landscape; serene and alien in equal measure.
Their berth was Anyo-sponsored; strictly Mid-Tier. Most of the ships around them were semi-private crews - mining ships and bulk haulers on long leases, intended for regional travel across the planet's surface. The Severance was the exception, in that it was only privately owned vessel, that also happened to bristle with weaponry. Other crews rubber-necked as the Severance idled beside them; wondering just how such a rangy, mean looking killer could be permitted in their esteemed company.
This section of the city formed a central belt buffering the Upper Tier from the more skeletal, industrial foundations below. The higher the tier, the more prevalent the Corpus iconography, as the patrols became more regular and visible. Viewing galleries looked down upon the idling barges; row after row of cafes, restaurants and other luxuries far beyond the grasp of the average crewman.
Anyo Corp were not the sole controlling Corpus power in Prospect 141. Fortunate Dawn exhibited a significant presence, as did Luxor and several of the other major Guilds. The City Watch were a subsidiary of the Corpus Navy; privately funded by the various stakeholders that controlled the space lanes to and from the colony. While not the largest colony on Venus, Prospect 141 held a peculiar form of significance on Venus: its semi-independent status at the fringes of Corpus society granting it notoriety for being a useful, if somewhat disreputable, place to conduct business.
Kahrl Bravic paced like a caged beast, barking at Teico. His flustered coms officer weathered the constant stream of snarling, suggestions and beratement with considerable aplomb. The crewman tried Tower Control again for the fifteenth time, his finger tapping on the transmit button with thinly disguised panic.
The Severance's presence here was guesswork on Vern's part. The hunter had looked at each of the surface colonies around them, and surmised that their prey would go to ground in the largest encampment within range. Bravic trusted the man.
Terrenus Vern paid no attention to his employer's impatience. Him and his team made ready in the belly of the cargo hold.
With Ladahr and Bycek gone, replacements were required. There were local crews you could sponsor; hired help. Less specialised, cheaper and decidedly expendable. Their quarry had eluded them once, and carved up two of their own in the process. Vern would not underestimate them again.
Sometimes numbers could make all the difference. Vern hired as many as he could afford; confirming their contracts through Disposable Solutions, a low-market broker.
A holographic representation of the city floated before them. Like most Venusian structures; a centralised core contained the central elevators facilitating access to and from varying tiers throughout the city. Communications between ships were heavily monitored, and purchasing landing data was frowned upon, if not entirely illegal. They would have to rely on local contacts for such direct leads.
City hunting was a different prospect to the Venusian wilds.
The Ostron's skills would be of little use without wider strategic input. The trapper's senses were keen, and while his nose was second to none; he found the tangling streets and narrow alleys bewildering.
Brakarr's deployment was similarly limited. Grineer were of the Empire; indistinguishable from the Twin Queen's war machine. The very sight of the hulking Bombard would likely incite a riot. He would have to be held in reserve, until they were sure of their quarry's location; and even then, carefully used.
Therein lay the challenge. They were looking for three targets; two of them locals. Once again, this was their terrain. Vern's team sought a needle, hidden in a stack of needles. A specialised broker was required.
Terrenus Vern was not a man to leave things to idle chance, or local help. He employed every tool at his disposal.
Isolde set the tarot deck carefully on the deck; legs folded beneath her. The Grineer stared blankly from the corner. He was built for war, not parlour tricks.
The Ostron kept his distance, perched atop a packing crate; as superstitious and squirrelly as ever.
The rest of Bravic's crew hung from the rafters and lurked on the gantries above, too curious not to watch. She was of the Touched. Of the Void. More dangerous and exotic than anything they had ever witnessed. Terrenus for his part folded his legs beneath him and joined her sitting on the floor.
The girl shuffled the cards, humming as she worked. She spread three of them out in a single dextrous sweep. The air grew cold throughout the deck; unnaturally so.
Three cards; each bearing a different face. It was not any deck Vern recognised.
"What do you see?" the hunter asked.
"The Nine of Quills. The Four of Chains." She read the cards, tasting each syllable; stroking each in reverent sequence. "Here, the Fool's Eye. Possibility and chaos. Multiple outcomes, intertwined."
She shuffled again. Three more cards set out; two set face down. The third, turned over and revealed. It depicted a young child of indeterminate gender, bathed in light.
"What do you see?" the hunter repeated.
"The Yuvan." The girl murmured. "It represents Youth…Rebirth. An Awakening."
"And the other two?"
Isolde pursed her lips as she held a hand over the cards. The faintest purple glow emanated from her finger tips. She turned them over, one by one.
The first was an Orokin Structure, inverted. Void energies lashed at its base.
"The Tower." Isolde read aloud, "Darkness and destruction on a physical scale."
"And not the city here?" Vern raised an eyebrow.
Isolde paid no heed, utterly absorbed in the process. She turned over the final card.
A grinning skull, stripped of skin.
Isolde stopped for a moment. Eventually, Vern learned forward and asked.
"Tell me what you see, girl."
Isolde looked at him squarely. Her smile was cold.
"Death."
"All very ominous." Brakarr growled, voice rendered mechanical and menacing by his armoured mask. "What purpose does it serve?"
Isolde rose to her feet, walking in a slow circle about the cards. She held her chin upward, proud and defiant as she addressed the hulking Grineer. Beneath the hood, her features were delicate. For one so young, there was a confidence and poise that far belied her physical age.
"The cards are a means to an end. A yardstick by which any wayfarer interpreting the Void can chart their path. Portents can change with sequencing; and with that sequencing, interpretation."
"Parlour tricks and nonsense." Brakarr scoffed.
"My cloned colleague's disdain is noted." Isolde scowled. "But consider the cards; their disposition. Every-changing, fearful. The destruction of order. Finality - speaking to a fear of death; either of the self or a close companion." Isolde indicated each of the cards. "These are a reflection of an emotional state. Our target's emotion state."
"I have seen you do things I thought not possible, Surah." Parson-Luk began, tentatively. "I do not doubt you. But I too must ask; how does this help us track our prey?"
Isolde stood tall, hands clasped behind her back. She spoke calmly yet her voice carried; filling the air with ease.
"Because our target, like me, is Void Touched." Isolde smiled. "He is uncertain. Terrified of a power that is not quite his to control just yet."
"And these cards?" Vern asked, "They can confirm the target's location?"
Isolde shook her head. Isolde's eyes carried what might have been a semblance of pity.
"No, not directly. But the very resonance of the cards tells me enough."
She swept the cards back into the arcane deck, standing upright once more.
"Our target is here, in this city." She addressed the gallery in full.
"And he is afraid."
-
“Set-backs in any venture are to be expected; nay, anticipated.
The mark of a successful trader is not how they handle times of plenty, but rather the opposite. Adversity, in all its many forms, is where one’s true character is revealed. Survival in such times requires many qualities.
Courage, creativity… and perhaps above all others… tenacity.”
- Ergo Glast, former Corpus financier and scientist
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They inched their way through the tunnels, their progress agonisingly slow.
Telin only focused on the next step in front of him. Between his loaded pack and the weight of the boy, his shoulders burned. Routine became essential; simple mechanical process. One foot in front of the other. The thought of the fee claim, of revenge against the thieving scum drove each step.
Kelpo started to fall behind. Twice he had stopped to catch his breath.
Telin set the boy down carefully, turning to look at his friend.
Kelpo held himself upright; one hand braced against the tunnel wall. The other encircled his ribs, tenderly. After a moment, he pressed his back to the wall, eventually sliding down into a slump; head bowed. The man’s breathing came ragged; air filters rasping in the dark.
“He needs rest.” The boy had appeared at his side now, rubbing his eyes groggily. “Kelpo Marr’s wounds have not reacted well to Void Exposure.”
“We can’t afford to stop. Our ship is hidden, but a crew that size isn’t gonna take our escape lying down. We need to get back to the one of the outposts.”
“Be that as it may, Kelpo Marr requires rest.”
Kelpo flapped a hand at them.
“S’alright.” He slurred. The crude bandages holding his face together were peeling. His skin had paled to an ashen grey. “Just gimme a sec.”
Then Kelpo’s head lolled to the side, listless.
The boy crouched beside Telin, studying Kelpo. The stocky scavener’s face was a bloody mess; his wounds having reopened during their tumbling descent.
“How far is your ship?” the boy asked, brow knitted.
“Not far. A klick, maybe less.”
“Too far in his present condition. We camp here.”
The boy’s commanding tone proved too much for Telin. He brusquely grabbed the boy by the shoulder, rounding on him.
“Now listen here, kid.” the Scavenger snapped. “You don’t give the orders here. We found you. Your ship? Our find. You? You’re a rescue fee.”
With detached serenity the boy took a simple hold of Telin’s wrist. He squeezed, ever so slightly; with anatomical precision.
Telin yelped as white hot pain lanced through his arm. The boy spoke slowly, icily calm:
“Two things to remember, Telin Voss.” The boy’s voice was level, matter of fact; “First, touch me again and you will draw back a stump. Second, do not speak to me that way. Not once, not ever. Do you understand?”
Telin hissed but nodded. The death-grip released. The pain vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“You are welcome to your finders fee. I do not begrudge a man his income. Indeed, I would pay it myself, present resources notwithstanding.”
The boy resumed examined Kelpo’s wounds, as matter of fact as ever:
“We achieve nothing by bickering. Help me attend to him, or we are both to blame.”
Telin unpacked what little remained of their medical supplies, handing them over. Concern for his friend overrode wounded pride.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” Telin shook his head, massaging his swollen wrist.
The boy pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had removed Kelpo’s faceplate and attended the man’s wounds with the same careful precision as ever.
“Truth be told? I can’t remember. Our fall earlier, our altercation just now? Instinct; some kind of ingrained muscle memory.” The boy shrugged, “It is sufficient for me to understand that I possess a tremendous capacity for physical violence.”
“You were trained for this?”
“Evidently.”
“And when we fell in the tunnel, what happened?”
“If I could tell you, I most certainly would.” The boy never flinched as he peeled Kelpo’s bloodied gauzing away. “If it worries you, then rest assured it terrifies me. How does one explain the inexplicable?”
The boy daubed at Kelpo’s weeping flesh, holding it together as he strapped the primitive plasters back into place. There was no masking the anxiety in his voice.
“It comes in flashes. Vague premonitions; snatches here and there.” The boy wiped anti-septic cream into the bruised flesh massing over Kelpo’s ruined eye. “And with those flashes, memories. An Old War, terrible to behold. Entire colonies burned. I am fearful forget; terrified to remember.”
The boy shook his head, resolute.
“Ancient history. Dwelling on the past will not help us here in the present.” He finished sealing the final bandage, locking Kelpo’s visor back in place. “There. That’s the last of our supplies. If he moves from here, it will be with our direct assistance.”
The boy turned his attention to Telin now.
“Weapon inventory.” The boy said. “Show me.”
Telin grudgingly unslung his pack, setting it between them. He laid out its contents carefully.
The boy picked over it smoothly. First the snub nosed pistol. He turned it over in his hands, scrutinising it. He popped out the magazine, re-secured it expertly. Then he pulled back the slide, inspecting it for blockages. Satisfied, he set it down. There were no spare magazines; its ammunition painfully limited.
Then he looped the grenades into the straps of Telin’s carry pack, for easy access. The knuckle duster was next, looking massive over his small hand.
Telin watched the boy work, an icy feeling in his gut.
The boy frowned. There was something missing. He fixed Telin with a look.
“You are carrying a knife. Your left boot, secreted away. Give it here, please.”
The knife was well hidden. How could he possibly know?
Telin handed it over without further protest.
The boy unfurled a grey emergency blanket from the pack; throwing it about his shoulders like a poncho. The wicked blade served as a makeshift broach.
“Shouldn’t I get a weapon?” Telin asked.
“That cutting beam you carry will suffice, Telin Voss. You were not designed for war.”
The boy spoke with a measure of himself now.
“You will have to carry him; for all my training, I lack your physicality. I do not know these tunnels, or indeed what has become of the world beyond. You will guide me from this place. In return, I will ensure you and your friend’s survival.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Telin grunted, sparing a glance at Kelpo’s sorry state.
The boy stood up, his makeshift poncho flapping in the wind; the pack looped with grenades seeming huge on his slight frame.
“And if they try to stop us?” Telin asked.
The boy’s voice was hard as he looked at Telin directly.
“Well.” The boys eyes flashed ever so slightly. “You have your skills. I have mine.”
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The loading teams stood back from the dig site as the end of the chains clacked into view. The Liset twisted in the open air, suspended like a speared shark. The storm was beginning to clear.
Vern and the rest of his team watched it as the ancient ship was cinched to the belly of the Severance Package. Isolde seemed to take particular pity on the ancient spaceship. Parson-Luk rested a weathered hand on her shoulder and gave it a slight shake, breaking her from her reverie.
“Time to go.” Vern said. “Loading team has done their job. Now we finish ours.”
They clambered onto an open top assault skimmer. The ship was kitted with all manner of net launchers, rocket pods and beam projectors. Vern took the pilot’s seat; the brutish Grineer occupying most of the rear seating with his sheer bulk.
They shot off into the distance, closing on the beacon where Ladahr and Bycek lay carefully in wait.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“This way.” Telin huffed, one eye on the map. “Not far now.”
The tunnel mouth was just ahead. It fed into a small bowl gulley. At the far end of the valley, trussed under the soaked sheeting of a flapping camo net, lay their salvation.
Telin forced himself forward, lugging Kelpo.
The boy walked beside them, pistol low at his side. He stopped at the cave mouth; peering across the horizon, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The snow coated hills loomed around them.
“Wait.” The boy cautioned.
Telin waited. Nothing but howling wind and drifting gusts of snow. Ahead, the landing skimmer waited. The flapping camo netting flapped at them, seemingly beckoning Telin closer. The scavenger shook his head.
The scavenger started forward once more, shrugging as he adjusted his grip on Kelpo.
The boy called out to him, again, voice lost to the wind.
Heedless, Telin kept shuffling forward.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Target sighted. Taking the shot.” Bycek breathed; snuggling the Opticor rifle tightly against him.
An optical cable ran from the top of the rifle directly into the side of his boxy helmet. He sighted on the battered scavengers.
He pressed the record button on the side of his rifle.
The difficulty with hunting with an Opticor was just that: it was an Opticor. The targets you hit tended to vaporise. Documentation formed an essential part of payment.
The Rec light on the edge of his HUD winked to life.
He grinned and squeezed the trigger.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Telin shuffled forward; focus entirely on putting one foot in front of the other.
The snow was thick in the valley. His boots sank to knee level in places. Telin didn’t care. The sight of the drop ship, of salvation, drove him on.
Something smashed into Telin and Kelpo from behind, knocking them flat.
Then he felt the wave of pure heat pass overhead.
The snow around him melted in an instant as the hills behind him exploded in a flash.
Then he heard the keening after-roar of the beam rifle as it split the sky.
The boy had knocked them flat against the ground. The cave mouth beyond became molten slag.
Kelpo awoke with a fitful start. Telin rolled on top of him; a finger jammed over where his mouth would be; interspersed with the occasional throat slashing gesture.
This was no signing cant, or hidden message. It was a very universal, frenzied warning:
Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe.
Kelpo nodded, eyes bulging from pure adrenaline. Telin glanced about, a hasty plan forming. He turned to the boy.
Who was nowhere to be seen.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bycek frowned, rising from his firing position in surprise. The shot had been on target. Scope calibration showed no change in trajectory. His aim had been true. The scavengers had been there one second, and were gone the next. But there were no scattered body parts, no strewn boots or descending ashfall common with a successful strike.
Bycek unplugged the optical cable; examining the impact area with the naked eye.
The cave mouth was gone. Steam rose in a tremendous plume over the mountainside; revealing charred rock once buried for centuries. Slush sizzled as it slid over collapsed rock. EMP from the blast wreaked havoc with the optics of Ladahr’s drones. Their screens darken momentarily before resetting.
Torr Bycek frowned, ran the playback. There were the targets. Centre mass, a clean sighting.
Then a blur; a snatch of visual artefacts on the scope feed. The shot fires.
Bycek replayed it again, at a fraction of the speed. He thumbs the clip forward manually, frame by frame.
The shape moves too quickly to be natural. It is energy, incorporeal. It hits the two men with blinding speed. It is not of any fixed form or speed that he can discern.
The truth of it only becomes visible by the time his target falls into the heaped snow. A pico-second.
Bycek pressed pause on the clip. He backs up to the moment in question.
It is a boy. He is young, barely a teenager. A shock of dark hair and pale skin. His face is masked by an ornate rebreather, but beyond that his skin is entirely exposed to the perilous elements, seemingly without consequence.
The boy is looking directly at Bycek. The unremitting fury in the young man’s eyes caused Bycek to blink and close the playback window entirely.
Bycek felt a sharp intake of breath. A jolting coolness in his chest. He looked down.
There was a knife buried in his sternum. Blood pooled out across the front of his environment suit; soaking the insulated fabric.
“Oh.” He managed in faint surprise.
The sniper toppled forward, dead before he even hits the ground.
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Ladahrr saw Bycek’s vitals flatline at the very same moment he realised their quarry survived the alpha strike.
The Master of Moa’s walker was hull down between a series of boulders, superbly camouflaged. He tapped in a duo of commands. The Moa walkers burst from concealed positions, their keening shrill rending the air. From six angles of attack they dart forward, converging from the hills above.
Three small objects flitted through the air. Ladahr’s eyes are good. He saw the grenades, his brain not quite registering them as possible. Their trajectory was improbable, their scattering all too wide to come from a single origin point.
They are not thrown. By some unknown force, they are guided.
A trio of airbursts rend the sky. Two of the Moa go dark instantly; scattered across the hills in component pieces.
A sharp series of gunshots fells a third; a fourth. He hears a pistol clack empty.
One of the scavengers burst forth from the snow. He was holding a primitive plasma cutter, yelling unintelligibly. He was a sitting duck.
The surviving Moa screech and bounded toward him. What happened next defied all conventional logic.
A boy popped into existence between the Moa, hands raised either side; appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Now Ladahar knew he was losing his mind.
The air displaced between the boy and the two Moa; sending them flying in separate directions. One tumbled gracelessly in front of the yelling scavenger. He scythed the plasma cutter down in a ruthless arc, silencing it.
The last remaining Moa was still recovering when the boy raised a hand. A pulse of arcane power split the very universe; bursting the drone’s skull. It toppled headless to the snow, flitting sparks.
Ladahr wrestled with the controls of his walker. Every drone feed on his goggle display was dark. Void Energy readings maxed out on every scale; playing havoc with his instrumentation.
There was a break in the carnage. The boy collapsed to his knees, exhausted; alone and exposed in the open. The scavenger with the plasma torch could only look on. This was the hunter’s chance.
Ladahr’s walker tore forward. He primed every onboard weapon system. Electrified net launchers; missile volleys, cutting beams; the arsenal was appreciable. He prepared to fire all of them. They were not intended to be fired simultaneously. Doing so was possible, but required every ounce of his considerable skill, every shred of his determined concentration.
It is understandable then that he did not see Kelpo Marr perched, on the rocky outcrop Torr Bycek once occupied; grey-faced but resolutely determined.
Nor did he see the Opticor primed in his hands.
The Opticor is a Corpus anti-material rifle. It is intended for the comprehensive destruction of high-value targets; substituting rate of fire and ease of field deployment in favour of overwhelming single shot firepower. It is not an easy to use weapon for the untrained; possessing tremendous recoil, heavy weight and complicated optical software.
Kelpo Marr was entirely ignorant of these limitations. He was an untrained shooter. Moreover, he was physically impaired, almost delirious from a combination of blood lose, hypothermia and bruised ribs. The strain of his hasty climb had all but overtaken him.
Under such strenuous conditions and adverse circumstances, it was forgivable to miss a target; particularly one target moving at such speed.
No matter. Such was the power of the Opticor, it only required that Kelpo aim in the general direction of the target.
The Master of Moa didn’t have time to scream as the beam enveloped the walker; wiping it from existence. The walker’s ammunition stores cooked off in a mushroom cloud visible from miles around.
Kelpo Marr for his part collapsed, overcome by the sudden exertion.
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The signs of the battle were visible fully a kilometre out before they touched down.
The camo tent was gone, and with it, the ship it so carefully concealed.
Vern’s team fanned out across the wreckage. Small fires still burned despite the savage cold. Drone parts and smouldering shrapnel decorated the hills around them. Isolde sniffed the air and smiled to herself, tipping her head back and feeling the cool snowflakes kiss against her skin. The cold didn’t seem to bother her. Neither did the burning stink of flesh permeating the air.
Parson- Luk found Bycek’s body; already half hidden beneath the falling snow.
There was nothing left of Ladahr, but for two mechanical stumps and a greasy smear across the landscape.
Terrenus Vern did not mourn the loss of his men; at least, not outwardly. They were mercenaries. Losing comrades was part of the business But they each saw the set of his jaw, that hardening in his demeanour.
This was personal now.
-
I've only listened to the first episode but glad you guys are enjoying the lore so far! Great job on the podcast folks. 🙂
-
“There are many things that please an Ostron, Surah. Credits are one. Good company to spend them with are another. But most of all?
The Hunt. Always The Hunt.”
- Parson-Luk of Cetus, on life’s simple pleasures.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Telin and Kelpo fell screaming in the dark. The floor of the dark pit below rushed toward them. Telin squeezed his eyes shut. Braced himself.
Telin felt a hand grip the furred hem of his suit with unnatural strength.
A gale force wind blasted them sideways, hurling them to one side. The grip on his suit released.
They landed in a side tunnel feeding the lower echelons of the main ice shaft; hitting the ground with bone jolting force, tumbling end over end.
Telin took in a terror stricken breath in as he rolled onto his back, patting himself, wiggling his toes.
He had been deposited; no, thrown some ten feet down the side passage. He could feel every bump and bruise and ache and sore, but mercifully, he was alive; mercifully, unparalysed. Kelpo sprawled a few metres down, groaning but alive.
It was a miracle. Or perhaps not.
The boy stood tall in the gloom, looking down at them. His wide eyes glowied with an ethereal blue fire. It was the only light source in the dim chamber. The very air around him seemed to shimmer and warp.
Telin shrank back in terror.
“Void Demon!” he gibbered.
As suddenly as it appeared, the maelstrom enveloping the boy evaporated. His eyes rolling back in his head as he flopped to the floor, shivering.
Stillness reigned. The boy lay there, limp and still and very much the young man he physically appeared to be; scarcely into his teens.
The two scavengers kept their distance.
Void touched.
It was a forbidden thing.
You heard the stories as a child. Strange realms beyond the furthest stretches of the Solar Rail; where time and space and the natural order no longer applied. A twilight realm of eldritch power; where men lost their minds and eyeless horrors reached out from the chittering dark; to pluck children from their beds.
It was a nonsense to Telin. An old wives tale; used to scare traders and their corpus into being good little workers. A fantasy.
And yet it rang true. By every metric it was true.
Telin and Kelpo looked at the unconscious boy. He seemed a pitiful thing now, broken and small.
But for their ragged breathing and the echoing whisper of the tunnels around them, there was no sound.
“What do we do?” Telin asked eventually.
“Can’t leave him here.” Kelpo rasped. “Not like this.”
“Boy is cursed.” Telin hated the superstitious quiver in his voice. “We’re in way over our heads here.”
“Cursed or not; he saved our skins.” Kelpo countered, coughing. His face had become unusually drawn and pale as he looked at Telin. “I can’t carry him alone.”
“You okay?”
“Been worse.” Kelpo grimaced.
“That’s a lie.”
“Oh absolutely.” Kelpo coughed. “But whinging about it isn’t gonna help.”
“You rest up. I’ll carry him.”
Telin approached the kid gingerly, placing a hand on the boy’s forehead. Despite the environment, the boy’s forehead proved warm to the touch; even through Telin’s insulated glove.
He carefully started picking the boy up, groaning. Kid or not, the boy wasn’t exactly tiny either.
“Void Demons, angry mercs; pit falls...” Telin seethed as he shrugged the boy over his shoulder. “Our fee just went up.”
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Brakarr pulled the line hand over mechanical hand; hauling a tangled knot of abandoned harnesses into the light beaming down from the spot-lamps set into his war rig. The empty harness twirled in the wind. He cast the line aside with a snarl as Parson-Luk chuckled.
“Good Utz,” the Ostron chuckled, admiring their prey’s tenacity and the Grineer’s frustration in equal measure. “Only worthy prey chews from the snare.”
Vern keyed his com bead.
“Isolde. Status?”
“They live.” The girl replied. Vern was thankful she had the courtesy to use the com rather than answering in his head. “But the Sleeper’s Dream begins to fade.”
“Translation?” Vern’s voice was impatient.
Isolde studied the central column of the ruined star ship. The recovery techs were in the process of stripping the melted biomass from the wreck; peeling its layers and steadily revealing the true outline of the war machine beneath.
“Ladahr and Bycek will need to be quick.”
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Ladahr Morval, Master of Moa, leaned into the wind, squinting past the visual artefacts the atmospherics inflicted on his visor. His charges swept wide in a hunting pattern; scanners flitting over the ice and rock. He would need to keep a close eye on their handling in such extreme conditions.
They had all but completed a 5 kilometre radius around the insertion point; making good time in spite of the harsh terrain. The Moa were agile bipeds, with birdlike intelligence. Each were heavily customised; carrying a variety of onboard weaponry suited for multi-purpose force deployment. This granted Ladahr tactical flexibility, but the units themselves could prove squirrelly because of it.
Particularly in these conditions. Surface temp was as cold as it got on Venus. Most of the planet was burning hot; vast swatches of molten rock swathed in drifts of imported coolant. The coolant mines formed a major part of Venus’ local economy. The Orokin had seeded certain areas with ancient technology; arcane engines embedded deep within the planet’s surface which permitted the altogether more primitive efforts the Corpus employed. The majority of the planet formed an unusual tableau of extreme contrast: as floating glaciers drifted over the barren landscape, slamming down into the ground and rendering the planet habitable.
The arcane engines that powered these unique phenomenon led to rare pockets of microclimates; such as the Frozen Zone they hunted in now. The snow itself was primitive coolant, that had long since morphed into its own unique property.
Drone 4 was experiencing sensor fluctuations. The hunter let it slide initially, but now they were affecting field performance beyond acceptable efficiency thresholds. Enough. Ladahr brought his scouting mech to a halt, hopping down and keying a series of instructions into a control slate. The affected Drone chirped and trotted over obediently.
Torr Bycek dismounted from the rear cage as well, glad to be stretching his legs. He trudged uphill towards an overlook point, his trademark beam cannon in his hands.
The two often worked together in the field; rifleman and outrider. Sniper and spotter.
Bycek seldom spoke. That suited Ladahr. He was better with machines than people.
Ladahr busied himself with the repairs; popping open the offending ocular lens on the drone and humming tunelessly as he worked; the sound all but lost in the storm around him. An old habit, it helped him tune everything out. All distractions.
Ladahr was still humming when Bycek tapped him on the shoulder.
“Over here.” It was a veritable speech by Bycek’s standards. “Found something.”
The two hurried to the top of the outcrop.
The vista below was all but snatch-stolen by the churning gusts of snow. But between Bycek’s advanced scope and Ladahr’s scouting optics, there was something there. Hidden at the base of the valley, by an old tunnel. Ladahr tapped a series of commands into his belt.
The Moa took positions on all sides of the valley, training their viewfinders at the base of the tunnel. Ladahr saw what they saw through the visor.
Multiple angles, full spectrum analysis.
A camo tent, scrappily erected around a small, two man skimmer. A low budget model by all accounts. A rental, Ladahr sneered. The netting was mag-shielded, designed to hide a parked ship from unwelcome attention. The snow rendered it all but invisible in the howling storm.
“Good eyes, Torr.” Ladahr hissed, clapping him on the back.
Bycek grunted. He was already settling into a firing position.
Ladahr hurried back to his walker, snatching up the bulky field set from the dashboard.
“Vern, this is Ladahr.” The Master of Moa sent. “Piping coordinates to your position.”
Another flurry of commands marshalled his drones. The Moa slunk forward, settling into the snowy hills overlooking the tunnel entrance. All but invisible but for the tips of their spy lenses.
“We have them.”
-
"There are risks to employing freelancers. There are any number of variables, and with those variables; potential outcomes. They can prove expensive. They can prove reliable. They may have a particular value, or a unique skillset, but no two are alike.
Far too often, they are trouble."
- Teachings of the Free Market, Collected Thoughts of Frohd Bek, Third Edition
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They hesitated at the top of the ice shaft. The boy was delaying them now.
He lingered at the narrow gap leading back to the ruined space craft. They had been careful to sweep the ground behind them; masking the trail as best they could. They had not survived this long in the Frozen Sector without learning a few tricks.
"Kid, we need to move." Telin warned. "You said it yourself."
"This feels wrong. I am forgetting something." The boy's hands balled in frustration as he looked up at them, eyes wide and suddenly helpless. "Something important."
Any pity Telin felt was quickly overwhelmed by the thrum of propulsion drives. Multiple landing craft, on an approach vector. Full burn. They were almost on top of them.
Kelpo didn't waste time debating. He was already fitting the boy with a descent harness; cinching its straps with thinly disguised panic.
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Landing barges kissed down simultaneously; grav-drives kicking up a tumult of swirling snow. Scavengers bundled out in wet splashes; boots squelching in pools of melting coolant. Above, out-riders and aerial drones flitted through the howling wind, search lights piercing the gloom.
The Severance Package lurked in the sky above; an ominous shadow on the Venusian sky.
A full complement of the Severance's crew had been deployed; every able bodied man and woman not actively manning a station. Climbing lines were staked around the access tunnel leading down to the crash site. Scouting drones led the charge, and a dozen scavengers followed; smoke steaming from rebreathers as they fast-roped down. Others set up a perimeter, distributing pulsing flares and marking landing zones for further reinforcements; waving glowing marshalling wands that strobed in the darkness.
Vern and his hunters strode through the chaos at their own pace, indifferent to the surrounding bustle.
The two largest of the group were the lumbering Grineer, Brakarr; and the Moa Master Ladahr.
The Corpus master of hounds rode a small bipedal walker; a large cage rattling behind it. The cage contained two parallel lines of dangling puppets, who rattled in their moorings with each lurching stride
The Hunters stopped by the yawning hole in the surface of the ice. Vern addressed them quickly, yelling above the surrounding din.
"The Frozen Sectors are vast. Our quarry arrived here on a ship. Ladahr; sweep the area with your Moa. I want it found! Bycek, you're with him."
Ladahr's walker took two hunching steps backward. The cage on the back opened up, whirring as it lowered out six stalker-pattern Moa onto the steaming ground. Ladahr unbuckled a Lecta energy whip from his belt; holding it aloft. He snapped it to life and cracked the whip against the ground. It sparked and crackled. The Moa shrilled as they activated.
Torr Bycek clambered into the empty cage, which folded into a rear saddle. His Opticor unfolded with a mechanical clack as he buckled himself in. The two men often functioned as a unit.
They both saluted, and vanished into the storm; the Moa bounding before them like ravenous pack hounds. Vern watched them go.
"The rest of you, with me."
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The descent proved difficult.
The boy did not lack for confidence, but he was physically frailer than his stern demeanour suggested. He was no match for the two scavengers, in terms of field craft. Soon he was a good five metres above them, and falling behind.
"Keep pace, boy!" Telin growled. "They'll be on us in no time; the speed you're moving."
"I am trying!" the boy shot back, face screwed in determination. "And stop calling me boy!"
The scavengers for their part moved too slowly for their own liking. They were battered and bruised; badly wounded in Kelpo's case. Kelpo offered no complaint; primarily because doing so proved far too painful. His ravaged face flared from the pinch of the biting cold. Instead he focused on the mechanical movement. On routine and experience. Play out the line. Find purchase with your feet, inch downward; repeat.
There was no choice. The sounds of engines had long since faded, which meant only one thing.
Their pursuers had landed, and they were out of time.
"The trail begins here, Surah." Parson-Luk knelt by snow melt surrounding the damaged space craft; sniffing the ground. Their prey had covered their tracks well: the snow looked clean, unblemished. But there were few trails the Ostron trapper could not follow. The planets changed; the terrain along with it. His senses never did.
The Ostron picked his way across the chamber. He barely left a trace on the snow as he moved; a stark contrast to the meandering churn the salvage crews left as they teemed over the ruined ship; securing tethers and preparing the ship for extraction. Vern went to follow, but for a tug at his sleeve.
"A moment, Terrenus."
Few were permitted to call Vern by his first name. Isolde was one such exception.
Brakarr stood guard as Vern and Isolde clambered inside the ruined ship.
"They've moved on from here." Vern murmured, "The Ostron has the scent."
"Parson-Luk has one method; I another." Isolde replied, running an almost sentimental hand down the ruined ship's walls as she walked. "Two paths, converging on the same destination. Have I ever failed you?"
Vern knew better than to doubt the Void witch. He followed.
They found themselves before the empty casket.
"Behold, the Sleeper has woken." Isolde smiled sadly, "His Dream is now ended."
"We're wasting time."
"Patience, Terrenus. Indulge me."
Isolde knelt before the golden casket, folding her hands across her chest. She closed her eyes.
The walls of the chamber began to sweat. The very air itself crackled, threatened to tear.
Her lips began to move.
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The boy had halted. They were a long way down the shaft, and had been making good time. Even the boy had found his rhythm. There was still so much farther to go.
Now this. Telin only noticed when he looked up and spied the boy; frozen in his tracks. The boy stared up, unmoving.
"Boy." Telin whispered up at him. "What's wrong. Boy!"
"Shh!" the boy hissed.
"Answer me!"
"Listen."
Telin listened. He heard the lingering plop of condensation in the chamber. He heard the distant rumble of landing craft circling the dig site. Closer still, he heard Kelpo's rasped breathing; his own, laboured from the arduous descent.
Beyond that, nothing.
Snarling, Telin clambered up level with the boy. The boy stared rapt withal; his eyes staring a million miles away.
"Snap out of it, kid." Telin gave him a shake. "This is no time to be going squirrelly on me now."
"You don't hear it, do you?" the boy sighed in breathless wonder. Tears sparkled in his eyes.
"Hear what?!"
The boy smiled as he wept openly.
"The music."
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If Isolde made a sound, Vern certainly couldn't hear it.
He coughed and started when he discovered blood pattering down his front. The hunter swiped at his nose and stepped hastily from the chamber, distancing himself from her arcane mutterings.
Outside proved no different. All around the ship, work crews staggered groggily. Some in wonderment; others clutching their heads as though experiencing a keen and sudden migraine. Many vomited within their suits, and doubled over; choking. Perimeter lights flickered on and off. High on the surface, even Ladahr's pack units suffered a momentary spasm of confusion, temporarily losing their stride and tumbling head over heels before recovering scrappily.
Only Brakarr seemed unaffected. He had worked with Isolde in the field before. After their first mission together, his fee request had been singular:
Void dampeners, the most expensive available.
"Our Witch sings?" The Bombard rumbled.
Vern nodded groggily, collecting himself. His com bead hissed raw static in his ear. He unplugged it, trudging his way to where the Ostron crouched patiently in the shadows; visible only by the merest glint of the teeth encircled the neck of his primitive furs. The Grineer enforcer followed, plodding heavily through the snowdrift.
"Report." Vern grunted, finally recovered.
"They mask the scent, Surah; but the Void… it leaves a taste." The Ostron reached forward and swept aside a seemingly innocuous snow drift.
Hidden behind it was a narrow crawl space.
"See how it reveals them so."
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Telin was moments from slapping the kid when a spotlight blazed to life at the height of the shaft.
Telin's heart froze in his throat. They were exposed, their only available cover: a jutting spar of metal; some forgotten section of ancient wreckage.
The light swept from left to right, spearing toward them.
Telin grabbed the kid and swung to the left, feet braced. He slammed an ice pick into the far wall; wincing at the sharp crack as it impacted.
The light snapped off. Telin and the boy were eye to eye; the boy blinking as he finally snapped out of it. They stared at each other in terror, almost nose to nose. The only sound Telin felt in the dark was the terrified hammering of his own heart.
Then something yanked the boy's cable upward, jerking them both out of cover. Telin spun and slammed bodily into the wall; stubbornly clinging to the boy's harness. The beam snapped on again, bathing them in damning light.
Something took hold of his own cable, and started hauling it upward.
Whatever it was, it was immensely strong. They might as well have been on a motorised winch. Kelpo looked up, aghast; as his companions were pulled steadily toward the blazing light.
Telin fumbled with the utility harness attached to his rigging. One handed, he produced a knife and began frantically sawing at the boy's cable. Eventually it frayed, then snapped entirely. The weight on Telin's own harness increased exponentially; tightening against his ribs and legs. Crushing the wind out of him. The survival knife tumbled from his fingers.
Telin didn't have time to think of anything else. His next response was instinctual.
He took a firm grip of the ice pick. Then he unsnapped his harness.
They fell.
Telin swung the pick; striking again and again. It never bit.
Their heart-stopping fall suddenly came to a bone-jolting halt.
Kelpo had Telin's harness with his free hand; all but dislocating his arm in the process.
Kelpo howled through mangled lips. Kelpo Marr was as strong as an ox, but there was no way he could hold their combined weight. Telin twisted about in the harness with no purchase, no angle at which to help.
The boy appeared in view. He clambered up onto Kelpo's harness, in a surge of spry agility. Somehow, he had produced the survival knife Telin had dropped.
Telin watched the boy sawing through Kelpo's cable. Telin's eyes bulged in horror.
"Kid what are you -"
The cable snapped.
-
[Thank's for that ArtPrince17, that's good to know. From what I can tell, the Tenno are being awoken en masse; and this is but one small story in that larger canvass. I suspect the review I quoted was somebody throwing shade for throwing shade's sake. I'll ignore them and soldier on - we've a story to tell.]
-
[Brief question - I am posting this story on FF.Net simultaneously to publishing it here. I've received a review saying "Huh, so this is AU? [Author's Universe]" - is there anything you guys have read to date that strikes you as jarringly non-canon?
I don't want to write something that isn't conceivably within the boundaries of possibility, and this story is entirely intended as being canon within the existing lore.The setting is a remote fringe of Venus, in a confined area where Orokin terraforming has made more of an impact relative to the wider planet's condition, as we've seen on the devstream. If this is inaccurate I might rewrite to transplant the whole story to Europa, but thoughts welcome.
Regarding the Grineer mercenary referenced in the most recent section, and the use of freelance salvage teams - I don't think it's beyond the realms of possibility that the larger corporations would out-source to save costs and minimise in-house losses, but I'll defer to anyone who can assist my own understanding of the universe; I've only been writing in it since Tuesday! Speaking as somebody who has worked for several global corporations, the bigger fish will invariably try and cut costs by off-loading the hard labour further afield.
More to come later this evening; thanks for reading and suggestions welcome.
- Kat]
-
“In a Tier 0 Contact situations, extreme caution cannot be overstated.
Force composition is key. Trained Nullification Units and advanced military grade proxies (Bursa/Jackal Class Minimum) should be deployed to contain the site, and - if necessary - neutralise potential threats prior to any successful material extraction. Overwhelming force is considered mandatory.
Void Exposure is likely. Handling teams may experience disorientation, inclement elemental fluctuations and temporal distortions of a particularly unusual and distressing nature; potentially fatal.
Failure to follow these steps risks a catastrophic loss of life and material.”
- Corpus Navy Field Manual: On the Containment of Tier 0 Assets
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The boy bolted upright, yelling.
Telin and Kelpo leapt back, yelling in turn.
Scattered, delirious; the boy ranted; almost frenzied. His knuckles stiffened on either sides of the pod as hunched forward; stricken.
He blinked, caught himself. An unnerving calmness washed over him in an instant.
The boy took one look around.
Then he spied the two panicked scavengers, all but pressing themselves against the far wall.
The boy took another look around, twisting about in the golden casket. He noted the blood flecked on the walls, the small minefield of discarded equipment and broken teeth. The scorch marks on the walls, and the frost that crept into the edges of the chamber, petering out only around the lingering heat generated by the Statis Pod.
“Oh.” he said at last.
The two scavengers didn’t dare breath.
The boy fixed them with a suspicious glare.
“Who are you?” he asked after a moment, curious “What are you doing here?”
He blinked again, looking down at his hands, turning them over. They seemed unfamiliar to him.
“What am I doing here?”
Telin mumbled something. Kelpo managed to cough a little blood against the inside of his helmet.
Telin rallied first.
“Uh… we’re a rescue team.” He cleared his throat, somewhat theatrically. “Here to save you.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He took in the carnage all about the pod once more.
“Distressing.” He remarked absently.
The boy pointed at the three dead men strewn about the chamber. Each had suffered a grievous head wound. If the carnage bothered him, the boy didn’t show it.
“These men?” he asked. “They too formed part of the rescue effort?”
The boy stood up. He was tall for his age, though still only as high as Telin’s shoulder.
“Uh… no. They were, erm… thieves.” Telin coughed. “Hoping to steal something they had no rightful claim on.”
The boy approached each of the bodies in turn; picking the scene apart with a practiced serenity that bordered on the disturbing. The boy’s manner of speech was very particular; the enunciation clipped but perfect; the word selection just so.
“Facial wounds.” He crouched over Wen’s body. “Consistent with a thrown weapon of immense force; a Glaive perhaps.”
He spied the drone hovering in the air; the damage to one of its hover drives.
“… or perhaps not.”
The semi-decapitated drill operator was next. The boy sank to both knees, running a finger over the cauterised head wound; probing it without the slightest degree of hesitation.
“Energy weapon discharge, point blank.” The boy cocked his head to one side, clucked his tongue. “Poor marksmanship.”
Last was Speyer’s body. They had removed the man’s helmet to fix Kelpo’s own. There was no retrieving the scanning wand. It warbled and shrilled all manner of strange sounds the moment the boy touched it, before shorting out completely.
“This… I have no idea.” The boy stood up, turning to address them once more. “You did this?”
The scavengers nodded, meekly.
“And these men… they deserved to die?”
Another collective nod, this one a little numb.
“Good.” The boy nodded curtly. “What are your names?”
“Telin Voss.”
“Kelpo Marr.”
“Well thank you for your assistance, Telin Voss and Kelpo Marr. I’ll be going now.”
With that, he stepped from the pod and wandered toward the front of the ship. The chamber was freezing, yet the boy was dressed in little more than a form fitting sleeper suit and a respirator, and pottered about the place without even the slightest sign of discomfort.
The two scavengers mutely followed, entirely unsure what to do. Part of their distress was the strangeness emanating from the boy. Suit readouts flickered and danced; showing crazed, non-sensical readings. The air itself seemed to crackle with static intent.
They found the boy standing before the frozen lump at the center of the ship.
He frowned up at them; finally appearing the slightest bit distressed.
“Where am I?” the boy ask quietly.
“Sector 2-12; edge of the Frozen Wastes.” Kelpo replied.
“No, no…” the boy shook his head impatiently. “I mean… what planet are we on?”
“Venus.” Telin replied, incredulous.
“You don’t remember?” Kelpo asked.
“Not the faintest thing.” The boy chuckled softly. “It is funny, you know: I could tell you a thousand things about that room back there. The blood spatter. How and why it arced the way it did. How many rounds were discharged in the fight. The impact trajectory of that single bullet on your environment suit, and the chances of your survival from your facial wound over the next twenty four to thirty six hours.”
Kelpo was growing paler by the word, but the boy was simply shaking his head in bafflement.
“But where I am now? How I got here?” he studied his hands again, in seemingly morbid fascination. “Nothing.”
“You’d better come with us.” Telin said. “We have a ship, not far from here. But others are coming. Men with guns.”
“I am not afraid.” The boy countered boldly.
“Sure, but you’ll freeze.” Kelpo started.
The boy’s eyes were suddenly hard.
“Do I appear cold?” the boy asked severely. “Does anything in my demeanour suggest a material craving for warmth? Is all you see a small child, looking to be sheltered?”
“Uh… no.” Kelpo mumbled, entirely creeped out by the angry Pod-man-child by this point.
“Good. You said we were being hunted. Tactical response is clear. We cannot stay here.” He was already clambering out of the hole when he stopped and turned. “I trust you men have a plan?”
Telin and Kelpo looked at each other blankly.
“We’re working on it.” They said in unison.
The boy scowled, and disappeared into the freezing beyond without a second word.
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The Severance Package drifted toward the dig site. Far below, the extractor skiff sat on the snow. The crew and the surviving drilling technician were being debriefed by a selection of his men groundside.
Kahrl Bravic listened to their report over the com line.
Three men dead. A drill rig heavily damaged by way of a hasty extraction. No cargo retrieved.
A total loss.
There was no point in punishing the survivors. People were assets; his drill team some of the best at what they did. Out here on the frontier, replacing the dead would prove difficult. Bravic was not above punishing incompetence, but beyond Wen and Speyer, his team had been salvagers first, mercenaries second.
Not so his Kill Team. They were an assembly of his best: trackers, bounty hunters, assaulters and assassins. A mishmash of hired guns and retired military specialists. Bravic kept them on payroll; an expensive edition to his stable, sure; but valuable for certain delicate situations.
Situations like now. Bravic wanted blood.
Two no-name scav-rats did not get the luxury of denying him a Tier 0 Find and living to tell the tale.
His Chief Hunter was a retired Index gladiator; Terrenus Vern.
Vern was not the most imposing figure at first glance; average build, non-descript beyond a tight lipped grimace and a mirrored set of range-finder goggles. He was a hunter of prudence; utterly dedicated to the task of finding and ending people’s lives. True to his reputation, the man was a walking collection of ammo belts, stored drones, firearms of all classes; throwing knives and grenades. Anything to get the job done, body count be damned.
Bravic watched from an observation gantry as Vern prowled the aft crew deck now, addressing his team:
“Targets are Freelance Salvage Brokers; names are Kelpo Marr and Telin Voss.” Vern’s voice was a throaty rasp. “Linking you relevant trade history now.”
Five hunters stood in loose assembly before him. Vern had led the team for years; had built it from the ground up. A duel here, a contract acquisition there. Each were hand-picked for a given role; chosen killers all.
“No formal military training, but qualified survivalists and scrappers.” Vern was ticking off points on his fingers. “They are physically fit. They are resourceful. They are profit motivated. This is their terrain, not ours. Do not underestimate them.”
“Notable cargo?” That was their Moa Runner, Ladahr. In the field Ladahr oversaw the deployment of their automated proxies; a customised pack of bipedal robots intended to overrun and overwhelm fleeing prey. He was swathed in heavy furs, which covered a high-tech hard-suit below. A full-faced set of VR-Goggles allowed him to see through the eyes of each and every proxy; sometimes multiple at a time.
“A Tier 0 artefact has been identified on site. Separate teams will be deployed for their retrieval.”
“Amateurs.” scowled Brakarr, a hulking Grineer Bombard.
“Allies.” Vern corrected severely. “There’s to be no friendly fire. Penalties will apply. We’re not paid to torch our own. Understood?”
Brakarr snarled, but bowed his head in deference. The single largest member of the team, the Grineer mercenary had been the hardest to recruit; a towering gene-brute whose love of advanced Corpus prosthetics outshone any traditional loyalty to the Twin Queens. Brakarr forwent any contract pay; asking instead for only the most advanced ordnance and the regular means to deploy it.
Vern continued.
“A Sleeper Pod was noted amongst the salvage claim. Potentially a third target; yet to be confirmed.”
“Alive or dead, Surah?” asked Parson-Luk of Ur; their Ostron tracker. His earrings jangled as he scratched at the back of his scalp; a nervous tick that vanished while on a hunt.
Vern turned to look up at Bravic. Bravic shrugged expansively.
“Whatever works. Boss just wants the job done, and quickly. This is time sensitive.” Vern met each of their eyes in turn. “We don’t drop balls for Anyo Corp. Not now, not ever.”
“Confirmation of payment terms.” Torr Bycek; their designated rifleman. He wore the regulation box helmet of a Corpus crewman. Less regulation was the truly massive Opticor beam cannon held in his hands.
“One hundred thousand credits to a man upon mission completion. Five hundred thousand credits per confirmed kill.” Vern pointed at Bycek’s rifle. “Disintegration will require confirming scope footage, Torr.”
“And if the Sleeper wakes, and must be found?” asked the final member of the team, her voice a deathly whisper that somehow carried. “What price will you pay?”
A pale skinned, slight figure, the girl was plainly dressed in a dark crimson body suit; seemingly indifferent to the climate. A black shawl framed her slender face; drenching it in shadow. She carried no weapons of any kind.
Isolde, the newest member of the team. Even Vern found her unnerving.
“One million.” Kahrl Bravic boomed from the catwalk above. "Even."
The hunters looked at each other, murmuring. Even Isolde raised an eyebrow.
Vern clapped his hands, once. The team snapped to attention.
“I have your attention. Good. We’ve a job to do. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Good. Let’s get to work.”
-
“With every crisis, opportunity.”
- Ancient business proverb
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“Tell me again how you’re still breathing, Kelp?”
Telin hastily patched the cracks in his visor, sealing it with crude industrial tape. A bargain basement solution; cheap by his own frugal standards. He could barely see. In a panic he dumped his gear all over the hold, desperate to salvage the situation.
Now he was trying desperately to salvage whatever remained of Kelpo’s face. What little medical supplies they carried were swiftly used up. Kelpo’s face sooner became more gauzing and hastily wrapped bandages than exposed skin. His suit bleeped at him petulantly, a constant reminder of his depleting oxygen levels. The entire facemask was broken.
“Thick skulled, hard-headed. Plain old stubborn.” Kelpo’s voice words came out thickly slurred. “Take your pick.”
“Don’t make me laugh. This is hard enough without you fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting.” Kelpo scowled.
The man was a mess. The bullet had shattered Kelpo’s helmet, fragmented and torn ragged chunks out of his mouth, cheek and left eye. It was doubtful the eye could be saved without prosthetic replacement.
In a way, the antiquated nature of their environment suits saved his life; the older respirator serving as additional protection from the shards of slicing metal. It was through this same respirator that Kelpo took ragged breaths now, his face swelling massively and sealing his ruined eye shut.
The most pressing concern was the environment suit. The terraformed atmosphere was acceptable in very limited doses, but prolonged exposure at surface levels was a death sentence.
So Telin did what scavengers did best. He scavenged.
First he needed a set of tools. HWK-44 remained embedded in the remains of Wen’s face, where it warbled feebly. Telin crouched over and took a firm grip of the drone’s chassis and gave it a firm tug. It didn’t budge. Completely disgusted, Telin swallowed and tried again, this time adding a twist.
The drone ripped free, together with most of the contents of Wen’s skull.
Telin did his best not to recycle the contents of his stomach into his environment suit. It proved a struggle.
“Still with me buddy?” he asked HWK.
The drone’s left spinner was a mangled wreck, but it kept itself afloat; spooling up one of its propulsion generators to compensate. It hooted groggily.
“Good. We’ve work to do.”
Speyer’s visor served as an acceptable replacement for Kelp’s, once it had been duly emptied of the loose teeth skittering around inside. Telin made Kelpo keep his original respirator. Primarily because he was concerned removing it would do more harm than good.
HWK-44 got to work fusing the back of Kelp’s newly acquired helmet shut. Kelp held his head in his hands and tried his best to stay still. Telin had dressed the man’s wounds as best he could with sorely limited expertise, but throwing gauzing at the issue wasn’t going to help unless they got him proper medical attention, and quickly.
Meanwhile, Telin took inventory.
An initial glance gave them Wen’s pistol, some emergency flares, and a wicked looking knife Telin found secreted in Speyer’s boot. He then opened Speyer’s pack, which afforded him three hand grenades and an emergency survival kit. Another knife. Some kind of knuckle duster. There was more inside, but something else caught his attention.
A squawking, tinny rasp emanated from the ruins of the dead men’s suits. Speyer’s men, doubtlessly looking for a sit-rep.
Then a heavy set of boots slammed down on the forward deck.
“Boss, you there?” a modulated voice called. “We’re all set!”
The footsteps clanged closer.
Telin searched with increased urgency. He scattered the contents of the pack across the floor.
A lumpy box fell onto the ground. Telin snatched it up.
It unfolded in his hands. Detron was the brand stencilled along the side. Telin had seen the weapons from afar; carried by patrolling crewmen. He had never held one, nor had he any idea how it worked; how difficult it was to fire.
The footsteps rang closer; descending the the rear ramp now. Telin rose to his feet, ducking against the low wall. He waved at Kelpo. As groggy as his friend was, the message was clear. Kelpo lay flat on the deck, sprawled amongst the corpses of the two fallen marauders.
Telin held his breath and waited.
He heard the rasping of the rebreather before he saw the nose of the rifle poke through the open hatch. An arm followed, then the shoulder it was attached to. The crewman instinctively started forward when he spied the three bodies piled messily across the floor.
Telin pressed the Detron to the back of the man’s head and squeezed the firing stud.
There was a keening flash, and a shockingly limited amount of recoil. A tremendous sheet of blood painted the far wall. The man’s corpse clanged gracelessly to the floor, his skull neatly vaporised above cheek level.
The Detron, it transpired, was user friendly.
Telin looked down at the body in stunned silence. He had never killed a man before. In less than thirty minutes, three now lay dead from one not entirely simple find.
Part of him wanted to cast the weapon aside in disgust. A deeper, rage-fuelled part of him felt perfectly calm.
The squawks on the dead men’s com channels grew louder, more insistent.
Outside, they heard a single large propulsion drive snort into life with roaring flare. The discarded gear scattered throughout the hold began to vibrate and jump under the ever increasing thrum of the drill gaining power. Everything rattled.
Then there came a rattling of chains. A snaking, uncoiling sound, as they tightened.
The entire ship jolted, once.
Then the ancient ship began moving, emitting a metallic screech as it was dragged steadily across the subterranean cavern with ever-mounting speed.
Both scavengers swore as they drunkenly pulled themselves toward the front of the ship; lurching from stanchion to stanchion. The nose of the ship began tipping upward just as Telin pulled himself through the access wound.
The drill was above them, its chains taut with the strain of lifting the immense ship. Three immense chains secured the ship to the drill. Perched atop the ascending rig was the single surviving member of Speyer’s retrieval team. He was gesturing frantically to companions far above and out of sight.
The ammo counter on the side of the Detron read: 4. Telin was no soldier. He had no spare ammunition for it, nor would he know how to reload it even if he did. Still, he was a scavenger.
Improvisation was in his nature.
He took aim at the heavy chains lifting the ships slowly from the cavern floor. He squeezed the trigger; once, twice, three times. He missed repeatedly. Three creaking chains continued to haul them upward, taunting him.
The ship left the ground entirely now.
Telin took careful aim, trying to see past the hastily taped patches obscuring his vision. He pressed the firing stud one final time.
His final shot missed the chains completely, sparking off the hull of the boring drill and sizzling the paintwork ever so slightly. The drill operator swore down at him with a balled fist.
Marksmanship was not his strong suit. Telin swore and threw the useless weapon aside.
“Tel!”
Telin looked down. Kelp had appeared in the gap of the hull, his gnarled face a frenzy of determination. He thrust something up into Telin’s hands.
“You dropped this!”
It was Telin’s battered plasma cutter.
The cutter was ancient. It had limited range, a temperamental battery; little to no accuracy. All but useless at the best of times.
It was perfect.
The cutter snarled to life in a flaring arc of plasma, slashing through the chains and spraying the cavern in a bubbling shower of molten sparks. The first chain snapped and the ship swung low like a pendulum, carving a runnel across the snow. Then the second chain then gave way, tipping the ship on its side entirely and spilling the two scavengers down onto the floor below.
The third chain groaned and quivered under immense strain. The drill operator visibly panicked as the rig itself spun giddily on its axis, entirely off-balance. Spinning with it was the ancient ship, suspended by a single tether. The metallic groan reached fever pitch.
Kelpo realised they stood directly beneath it.
“Move!” he bawled, hurling himself bodily into Telin.
The chain snapped. A shadow descended. There was a tremendous crash, and a splash of bubbling coolant.
Both scavengers blinked. Inches from them was the nose of the beached star ship, staring at them goofily. The glowing ends of the severed chains sizzled in the dark.
The drill disappeared up and out of sight, leaving them alone.
For a moment neither man spoke. They lay on their backs, battered and exhausted.
“Good shout with the cutter.” Telin breathed.
“Yeah.” Kelpo panted. “Thanks for patching me up.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. You look terrible.”
“That’s a first.” Kelpo grin instantly became a grimace. He groaned and put a hand up to his bolted on visor. “Tell me you have a plan beyond me getting shot in the head again.”
“Workin’ on it.” Telin propped himself up on his elbows. “I hate to say, but we need to move.”
“Yeah, just let me rest here a moment.”
Telin was already dusting himself off. He shook his head.
“No. No time. We need to go. Get the casket, wake the kid; back to our ship.”
“What about the salvage?”
“Far as I can tell?” Telin hauled Kelpo back to his feet. “Kid is the salvage.”
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“You sure this is a good idea?” Kelpo asked a final time.
They stood before the golden casket. The ship had fortunately landed flat on its belly, though not before rag-dolling the various corpses strewn about the hold. Scattered gear lay everywhere. Blood coated the walls, flecked the ceiling. Before the abortive extraction, the room was a mess. Now it was like an abattoir.
The sleeper lay serene, oblivious to it all.
“You got a better one? We’ve no lift gear, and I’m not leaving the kid to thieving scum.”
“Telin Voss, developing a conscience?” Kelpo asked askance.
“Hardly. We’ll sell the kid. Get what’s owed.”
“You’re all heart, Tel.”
Kelpo knelt down before the casket, examining the control panel. For all its ornate presentation, Corpus variants had evidently borrowed large elements of its design. He began keying in the revival sequence.
“I hope this kid can walk.” Kelpo grumbled as he typed.
The casket began to glow as its doors prepared to open.
“Focus.” Telin shushed him. “He’s coming around now.”
“I’m just saying, I’m not carrying him. I don’t even have a face anymore.”
Telin didn’t get a chance to respond.
The pod opened with a whooshing hiss as it vented air into the hold.
Neither man dared to breath. Their entire investment was on the line.
The boy’s eyes snapped open.
-
“It’s a question of margins. You can make all the turnover in the galaxy, but if your operating costs are too high, one will never attain a state of True Profit. Beware the Referral Fee. If you find yourself in this position, the Path is clear.
Eliminate the Overhead.”
- Nef Anyo 3:15, Meditations on Maximising Profit
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The two men sat outside on the nose of the ruined ship, warming their gloved hands on the small heat source HWK 44 had deposited in the air before them. A spinning orb rotated in the drone’s gravity fields; a tiny iridescent ball of plasma that wobbled and fizzled in the gloom. The drone for its part did not seem to mind the wait; it was simply happy to be unpacked and of service.
The drone’s owner was quite another matter.
“You called it in, right?” Telin asked for the third time in as many minutes.
“I did.” Kelpo nodded patiently.
“And they recognised our claim?”
“They did. Proper authorisation codes and all.”
“Right, right. Just checking.”
“You seem worried.”
“You’re not?” Telin asked. “This is big, Kelp. Bigger than anything we’ve ever landed. How long have we worked the ice?”
“Three years, two months and four work cycles; adjusting for time dilation.”
“That’s alarmingly specific.”
“I can be an alarmingly specific person, Tel. We climb coolant glaciers for a living. You think I got this far by being sloppy?”
They had left the casket where it was, safe in the belly of the ruined freighter. Without advanced lifting equipment there was no moving it. Their claim had been processed, the wheels were in motion. Now all they had to do was wait.
The wait ended when the transmitter strapped to Kelpo’s belt crackled.
“Eyes up, Broker 7242. Extractor arriving in 5, 4 –”
The remaining countdown was drowned out by a bellicose deluge of steam and fire.
Both men leapt to their feet. With a wave of his hand, HWK snapped back into position on Telin’s shoulder. The cacophony was brief; the roar of the plasma drill bursting into a the chamber in a final spray of smoking debris. Ashen flakes of melted rock drifted through the chamber like settling fallout.
The extractor unit was chain fixed; a deep level boring drill that combined plasma torches with a wickedly sharp set of drill-teeth. Clinging to the chain were two armoured figures; clad in heavy-plated environment suits. Industrial grade respirators granted them an almost insectile appearance; all coolant pipes and moulded goggles.
The drill whirred to a halt as it winched down to the base of the vaulted chamber; its teeth still steaming liquidated coolant as it settled. The drill operators spared a glance around the chamber. One of them murmured into a wrist-com, and they began clambering down to the floor.
As Telin and Kelpo approached, two more men slid down the chain, clambering down from the rig with an ease borne from experience. Both were dressed in hard-suits not entirely dissimilar to Telin’s own, though a slightly newer model. Their face masks were a mirrored silver. Telin saw the sigil on their hard-suits, and frowned.
It seemed familiar.
The largest of the newcomers stepped forward, hand raised in greeting. Telin was not a small man by any stretch, but even so this brute dwarfed him.
“Broker 7242?” the man asked, his voice heavily filtered through the filtration mask. He touched the side of his visor and it smartly depolarised, revealing a weathered face, heavily tattooed. His suit left his face entirely exposed behind the visor; hinting at an altogether more advanced filtration system.
Kelpo stepped forward, holding up his Salvage Licence. Corpus runes played across the surface of the tablet. The larger man took it in with the briefest glance, nodding once. He produced the corresponding Requisition Slate, flashing it briefly.
Kelpo proffered a hand.
“7242 at your service. Name’s Kelpo Marr. This is my business partner, Telin Voss.”
“Speyer.” There was no surname forthcoming as he shook their hands, brusquely. “This here’s Wen. Quite a find you have here.”
“I’ll say. You’re going to need heavy lift gear to shift it.”
“We’ve it covered. Let’s take a look.”
Speyer turned to his men.
“Loading Team!” he bellowed, “Let’s make some credits!”
Automatically the rest of the men began unpacking further chains from the boring drill; fanning out either side of the ruined ship. The bulk of the chains were propped up by grav fields, which bobbed and thrummed under the strain.
“You reported a survivor?” Speyer asked publicly.
“Yeah, still inside.” Kelpo grinned, beckoning. “This way.”
Telin had yet to say a word. He studied the sigil on the back of Speyer’s environment suit. It showed a Raptor drone, clutching a hammer. A Europa marker; one of the larger indentured crews, maybe? Boxed crooks for the most part; failed mercenaries, jailed thieves. Hired guns, out in this part of the world. Dangerous men, for dangerous work. Telin couldn’t quite place it.
Still, a chill colder than anything beyond the confines of his hard-suit crept along the nape of Telin’s neck.
They paused at the entrance wound to the ship. If Speyer was perturbed by the unusual nature of the ship, he didn’t show it. The man was evidently hardened - and certainly better travelled than Telin, who had spent most of his life here on Venus.
“You first, Gentlemen.” Speyer motioned. “Your find, your show.”
Telin and Kelpo dropped down into the ancient ship. Before the next men came through, Kelpo caught his eye and flashed a hand gesture. It was Miner Sign; taught between members of the lowest echelons of Corpus Society. A single phrase, almost too quick to process before it was gone.
Worried.
Speyer and Wen squeezed through behind them, taking in the ship with practised detachment. Telin could hear large bolts being machine-stamped into the side of the ship’s frozen hull. Speyer’s team evidently did not place a high priority on conservation.
“Should… should you guys be that rough with this kind of find?” Kelpo winced as another bolt was slammed into the ship. It sounded like a gun shot in the confined space.
“It’s not the ship that matters.” Speyer shrugged expansively. “Show me this survivor.”
They moved forward, Speyer pausing only to examine the shrouded figure in the centre of the ship with an incredulous shake of his head.
Speyer clapped his hands when he was presented with the golden casket, barking a small laugh. He crouched down and examined the readout on the boy’s casket.
This was not protocol. Where was their initial Finders Fee, the balance on Verification? This flew in the face of Anyo Corp due process. The credit counter on his HUD remained unchanged. None of this was normal. Pieces began to form in Telin’s mind. Smaller details, filling a larger whole.
While Speyer was unarmed, the rest of his men were most definitely packing. Detron hand cannons, antique slug throwers and Flux rifles. Ship boarding weaponry; compact, brutally efficient. Favoured by the marines of the Corpus Fleet. Or pirates.
Then it clicked. The Europa symbol on Speyer’s hard-suit was no work crew at all. It was an infamous chain gang, notorious for their participation in the sub-sector food riots.
Telin’s Life Lessons bore none of the gravitas of Nef Anyo’s teachings. There were no grand designs or hidden messages. No messianic vision. Just practical sense, thoroughly rooted self-interest:
If a deal seems to be going bad, it most definitely is.
Telin was suddenly acutely aware that Speyer’s lackey Wen had casually sidled to the entrance of the broken throne room, effectively boxing them in. Telin rapped his knuckles against the breastplate of his environment suit; a different coded language altogether; this one used in the labour pits of Solaris United; rapped out against gantries to alert workers about the approach of particularly vindictive overseers.
Danger.
Whether Kelpo understood or not, Telin couldn’t tell. There was no time.
“And he’s definitely alive?” Speyer was asking.
“There’s no telling how long he’s been there, but yeah.” Kelpo nodded, “Readings are stable.”
“Excellent. Truly excellent find.” Speyer turned and glanced up at his companion. “Pay the man, Wen.”
Far too quick to process, Wen produced a snub nosed pistol and neatly shot Kelpo in the head.
Kelpo toppled without so much as a murmur.
With a roar, Telin was on the man in a flash. Or at least he would have been, had he not been neatly tossed across the room. As the wind slammed from his lungs, Telin became very aware that he was no trained fighter, but that the men currently in the process of murdering them very much were.
Speyer and Wen looked down at him, with a combined look that could have been described as pity, were it not so laced with contempt.
“Brave effort, Scavver.” Speyer smiled. Then his face grew stony.
“Kill him.”
HWK-44 let out an avian shriek as it flew loose at high speed; crunching into Wen’s faceplate with a splintering crack. The man toppled lifeless to the floor, the drone wedged in his face.
The pistol tumbled free from the man’s hands, skittering across the floor.
Speyer and Telin both looked at the gun.
They looked back at each other.
They dove in unison.
Speyer had size, but Telin had a scrappy speed. Neither worked. Both landed in a sprawling heap at the same time, wrestling and snarling over the gun. Sledgehammer punches landed into Telin’s sides time and time again. Enraged, Telin jolted his helmet into Speyer’s, hard.
The pricing difference was clear: a disconcerting rivulet snaked its way across Telin’s vision, venting oxygen with a wet hiss. Speyer’s own visor remained pristine. Speyer guffawed, then savagely elbowed Telin in the throat. Telin fell back, gasping.
The gun came free in Speyer’s triumphant hands.
He shoved it in Telin’s face, leering over him.
Telin became keenly aware of every porous detail. The silver barrel of the battered pistol. The way the light glinted off the cracks of his visor. The cold, murderous rage in Speyer’s eyes.
This was it. This was how it ended.
A sheet of red exploded across Telin’s vision.
Stricken, Speyer’s body tumbled to one side. Jutting out the back of his neck was a low budget scanning wand. It had been driven clean through the base of the skull; spearing out between his teeth. The man’s leg kicked and spasmed, not quite accepting the suddenness of his fate.
The wand for its part emitted a keening wail, declaring the very sudden flat-lining of its victim.
Kelpo stood over him, chest heaving. His faceplate a broken wreck, venting oxygen and streaming blood across the deck.
“Tel old buddy.” Kelpo managed through mangled teeth. “Somehow I don’t think they’re inclined to share.”
-
-
"Ah, Venus: illustrious jewel in the Corpus Empire. Endless days, limitless opportunity. A planet of contrasts; extreme heat, matched by boundless tracks of shimmering ice. Our predecessors the Orokin seeded the skies with blocks of ice; smashing them down and rendering the planet fit for surface occupation. Their vision is continued today by the tireless work of Anyo Corp, who are proud to announce yet another lucrative third quarter."
- extract from Profiting from Profiteering - A Corpus Trader's Guide to the Origin System
"Stay away from the Frozen Sectors. Original Orokin tech; don't ask me how it works. High yield salvage, if you don't freeze, but the crews it attracts are… unsavoury. Stick to the hot zones. You'll live longer.
- Unknown Solaris United worker
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A war barge rumbled over the Frozen Sectors. Unlike the clean, square lines of a traditional Corpus trading vessel, this was lumped with additional armour plating, bulging anti-air turrets; even a cruel looking grappling hook design for spearing other barges. Chains trailed low beneath its hull, securing a small collection of smaller strike skiffs and landing skimmers. A passing trader had once remarked that it was the most Grineer-looking Corpus vessel to ever behold.
The trader's comments were quietly noted, and then his skull mounted on the prow. The crew of the Severance Package were not known for their subtlety.
Appearances were deceiving, however. The crew of the Severance had not acquired such a vast array of hardware by being simple marauders. They were the best at what they did, and were amply rewarded for it. Internally the ship was festooned with drone manufactories, scanning equipment, redundant shield systems; every modern convenience a Corpus sub-contractor could hope for. The ship had been built under the merciless drive and singular drive of its captain, Kahrl Bravic.
If Bravic belonged to one of the trading families it was impossible to tell. He cut an immense, savage figure, corded in lean muscle. His head was shorn; his face a bristling beard of silver grey. The man's left arm was a Grineer augment, a battle trophy from some ancient skirmish he never spoke of, and none were stupid enough to ask. Similar trophies adorned either hips; twinned Grakata sub-machine guns; retro-fitted with all manner of optical attachments of dubious utility. The only visual sign of his allegiance to Anyo Corp was a single armoured shoulder pad, stencilled with their logo.
Bravic lounged in the throne seat, one armoured boot resting on a console before him. He idly toyed with small Moa articula as he watched the trade displays. He had taken a position on a number of weapon shipments entering the Jupiter markets. Just as well. Grineer galleons had blockaded the shipping lanes, spiking the value. Bravic was pleased. The port side rail guns could use an upgrade.
Kahrl Bravic was no mere scavenger; indeed, the Severance was but one of a fleet of scavenging barges he operated in this sector. His portfolio work was simple, but calculated on ruthless principle: predict the next war, take the necessary long positions. If necessary, start the fight yourself, loot the dead; repeat.
"Transmission coming through from Prospect 141." Teico, his coms officer announced.
Teico was the only person on board who bore the closest resemblance to a traditional Anyo crewman. This served Bravic's purposes: he looked more official when they absolutely had to deal with the powers that be.
"Put it through."
The message was encrypted, Kef Mehrino was the sort of paranoid, low level idiot that believed such measures were necessary out here on the frontier. Bravic quickly ran their agreed upon cypher, and digested the information carefully. He very suddenly sat up in his throne.
Kef Mehrino may be a fool, but he had his moments. Bravic snapped his fingers at a passing officer.
"Speyer, prep a collection crew." Bravic ordered, "You'll need dig gear, boring drills. Probably a grav lift."
Built like an Eidolon and twice as mean; Speyer had done a significant amount of field work on Europa, the icy moon of Jupiter. Ice work in particular was his specialty. There were few more dependable.
"What are we looking at, Boss?"
Bravic gestured magnanimously, the servos in his arm whirring.
"Take a look."
Speyer had an aquiline face; his skin daubed in the ritualistic blue tattoos so many of the Anyo Corp favoured. His brow knitted as he took in the site telemetry.
"This what I think it is?"
"I believe so. Tier 0."
Speyer let out a low whistle. After a pause, he concluded:
"I'll need six men. Armed. One of the larger skiffs too."
"Done." Bravic nodded.
"Anything else I need to know?"
Bravic set the articula aside, folding his arms.
"A two man crew called it in. Site rights are theirs."
"They licensed?" Speyer asked.
"Unfortunately."
Speyer scratched at his jowls; mulling it over. Bravic studied his lieutenant carefully, not saying another word.
"Your thoughts, Boss?"
"It's your call. Dangerous work out in the ice."
"A lot can happen." Speyer agreed sagely.
A ghost of a smile tugged at Kahrl Bravic's lips.
"… and I'm not inclined to share fees."
-
[][]//Broker Ident 7242 [Full Serial No. Redacted], reporting salvage find. Deep dig, lift gear and boring team required. Filing fee claim and requesting site rights be recognised.”
>>//"Transmission acknowledged and order recognised, Broker 7242. Stand by for processing."
[Considerable time lapse detected in response rate. Penalty auto-docked from tardy response time. Increased penalty rates applied for remaining trade cycle.]
[][]// "Transmission repeat: requesting fee and site rights be recognised. Possible Tier 0 find. Repeat; Tier Zero. Importance: Maximum. Do you want this damn thing or not?"
>>// "Site recognised. Confirm coordinates for extraction team.”
[][]//"Coordinates sent. Additional: survivor presence detected. Query: If Orokin; additional Fee Scale apply??"
- Excerpt from Tenno intercepted transmission, Prospect 141, Venus Surface Station
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Assistant Controller Kef Mehrino was not a senior member of Anyo Corp.
Any number of fundamentally depressing observations reminded him of this. That he was sat in the Data Traffic control tower of an all but forgotten surface way station was one. Another was his team, or lack of one. They were freelancers for the most part, low paid serfs and directionless clerks; scarcely more intelligent than an indentured crewman. Strictly entry level. Hired help, he thought; lip curling unconsciously. They have no appreciation of the greater pursuit of Profit.
Most damning of all was the view. There was none. Just the endless howling blizzard of the most recent storm, occasionally broken up by the flitting lights of a passing star freighter. Kef often wondered why they Corp had installed a window in the first place. He was sat behind a large desk overlooking the open plan trading floor. A vista of desk and swirling data bathed the trading floor below. To the layman, it might be impressive. To him, it was a damning reminder of his own insignificance.
The station, locally identified as Prospect 141, was one of several across the surface city of the planet. Most of the cities were underground, set deep within the ice. While the orbital stations formed the bulk of civilised society on Venus, that did not mean a presence was not required in the more… untamed parts of the Corpus Empire. Beneath his tower were the habitation stacks; which became steadily more lawless the deeper you went. Right down to the coolant pits at the very foundation of the city itself.
Still, Kef was proud of his meagre station. He was part air traffic controller, part data handler and broker; with a measure of autonomy that was the very envy of the junior staff. He was even allowed to handle a limited portfolio, provided of course that the traditional Anyo tithes were observed; promptly and without complaint. The interest penalties were extortionate, and if one could not pay with credits then one often paid with one’s life.
That is not to say that Kef Mehrino was satisfied with his station in life. He was a talented and capable broker, he knew it in his bones. His ambition far outstripped the limited confines of his role, and with that ambition came an appetite for …certain risks. It was this very ambition that required him to consider the few advantages of being placed in a command position with so many hired hands on the lawless frontier. Nothing blasphemous, no. But a certain eye for a quiet deal here, a neat transaction there. It had gotten him this far, and would only get him further. The key was to recognise the opportunities, and – when presented – seize them.
One such opportunity presented itself that very morning, early in the mid-cycle shift.
One of his techs stabbed at his keyboard with unusual ferocity. One of the newer crew members. Kef spared a glance at the biometrics display. It depicted the entire status of his trading floor.
Elevated pulse detected. Excitement? Stress?
Potential impact on efficiency. Lack of focus. Unacceptable. He had best get to the bottom of it.
Junior Clerk A-42. What was the man’s actual name? Tohrin, Baldo?
“Torbo.” He smiled broadly, pleased to have finally remembered.
“Actually it’s… Jef, Sir.” The clerk mumbled, turning pale. “Torbo rotated off-world two cycles ago.”
Kef scolded himself for the momentary lapse in memory. That only rendered Jef paler. Though the Assistant Controller was but a larger cog in the Anyo Corp’s machine, hierarchy mattered here. Kef’s team knew all too well how truly ruthless he could be in maximising Prospect 141’s efficiency. A number of empty chairs on the floor stood testament to that.
“Well then… Jef. Approach. What do you have for me?”
Jef rose to his feet and wound his way between work stations, visibly trembling as he approached Kef’s dais. Hands knitted, the man’s bow seemed almost too deferential for Kef’s exacting taste. Kef did his best to hide his disdain as he received the report.
“Salvage report from the South-East Sector.” Jef began, “Two man scouting team claiming site rights.”
“Noted. I also note your bpm is higher than your tracked average. Is something the matter?”
Jef lowered his voice, and then added: “They… they’re reporting a Tier 0 find, Sir.”
“Are you certain?” Kef was surprised at the sharpness in his own voice.
“Yes Sir. The data pipe checks out.”
“Beam it to my desk. Maximum encryption levels.”
“Already on its way, Sir. What… what should we do?”
Kef ignored him. His eyes absorbed the information greedily. Image feeds, telemetry data.
His own heartrate spiked. He silenced the warning sigils on his display with a petulant stab of his finger.
“Have you shown this to anyone else, Jef?”
“No, Sir. You’re the first to know.”
“Good. Keep it that way. There’s a bonus coming to you in your next pay packet. Further disclosure of any information recently discussed will result in said bonus being revoked, together with indefinite contract cancellation. Do I make myself clear?”
Jef swallowed audibly, but nodded.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir.” Jef paused, hesitating. “Sir… but what should we do?”
“Protocol is clear. Don’t stress yourself any further with it. Leave this entirely with me. Erase your cache, and put it from your mind. I’ll make sure this goes to the right people.”
Junior Cleric Jef saluted, his dismissal clear.
“And one last thing, Jef.”
“Sir?”
Kef Mehrino sat back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled. His eyes remained fixed on the data feed, which rotated over and over again. The downed ship, the underground chamber. Two scavengers, climbing inside and disappearing from view.
“These men, they are one of our sub-contractors?”
“Yes Sir. Entry level, but reliable. One of the smaller freelance teams we run in the fringe sectors.” Jef smiled, flushed with excitement. “I expect this is their big break.”
“Yes, yes I imagine it is.” Kef mused, uninterested. “Do me one last favour.”
Kef Mehrino looked young Jef squarely in the eye.
“Get me Kahrl Bravic on the line.”
-
“In the event of a Tier 0 Site Discovery, all personnel are required to document their findings and log appropriate fee claims immediately in advance of site processing. Failure to do so on time and within stated parameters will result in immediate censure, with the offending parties potentially risking indefinite termination, personal liquidation or, more seriously, denial of their introductory finders fee.”
- Corpus Salvage Edict 47-19
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“We should call it in.” Kelpo said, after a moment.
The two men had not moved from their spot at the entrance to the vast chamber.
“In a bit.” Telin shook his head, “I want to know what we’re looking at first.”
“A big fat payday, that’s what.” Kelpo chuckled. He was already unpacking his com unit. “I’ll get the transmitter juiced.”
“Wait.” Telin held a hand up.
“Wait? You serious? You know how seriously Anyo reps treat protocol. ”
“I mean wait. This is good salv, Kelp. Life changingly good salv. Let’s get a proper sense of what we’re dealing with before we call it in.”
“This is a bad idea, Tel. And changingly isn’t a word.”
“It will be when we get paid, Kelp. You wanna get short changed?”
Kelpo hesitated, then wrapped the transmitter back up. Like any good freelancer, a healthy focus on margins was the quickest way to the man’s heart.
“Good.” Telin snapped on a hand held torch and started forward. “C’mon.”
The two scavengers circling the downed ship with some trepidation; Kelpo with his scanning wand, Telin playing his light over the crumpled hull. The ship was big; far bigger than the small skimmer that had brought them here.
As battered as it was, the original design of the ship was much too streamlined to be of Corpus design.
“You think it’s Orokin?” Kelpo asked.
“Gotta be. No Grineer ship matches this description.”
“Survivors?”
Telin crouched down and scooped up a frozen chunk of organic matter. The ship’s very innards had burst. He scraped it into a sample jar affixed to his belt. It was all but frozen solid
“Doubtful.” Telin grunted, slapping his hands clean.
Telin swiped snow from the display gauge mounted on the wrist of his environment suit. He keyed a series of commands into it.
The boxy shoulder pad of his suit snapped free and rose into the air of its own volition, repulsors humming. With a metallic clack it unfurled into a drone. It was an avian thing. Unlike the more salubrious models adopted by those higher in Corpus society, HWK-44 was custom made; smaller – a patchwork to be sure - but not lacking in craft. Its hull was stencilled in all matter of logos, memes and serial numbers; a testament to its mongrel heritage.
It chirped an enthusiastic greeting. Telin gestured to the wreckage; all business.
“Audio and visual feed up to five hundred meters; full site documentation; repeating. Prepare for tight beam broadcast on my signal. No stream, we don’t know who’s out there.”
HWK emitted an affirmative cheap and swept into the air, panning sensor beams all over the site. The drone was part aide, field assistant and occasional pet. Under normal circumstances, Telin would have mapped the site himself, rather than risking HWK in such an extreme environment.
These were not ordinary circumstances.
The scavengers stepped onto the hull. It sounded metallic, felt as much to the touch. There were no discernible access hatches that Telin could see.
A deep scar had riven its way through the front of the hull; some kind of beam weapon based on the impact profile. Whatever semi-organic material the ship was composed of had failed to heal the damage fully. Telin was from a mining family; the fused tissue looked like any number of industrial accidents he had seen as a boy.
The gap was just barely wide enough to accommodate the bulk of a single man. The scavengers hunkered down over the wound, peering down into the dark recess.
Darkness stared back at them.
“You seeing this?” Telin asked, incredulous. “This ship wasn’t built. It was grown.”
Kelpo shook his head, dumbfounded. Without a moment’s hesitation, Telin started lowering himself into the gap. Kelpo met his eye as he hovered halfway through the hole.
“You’re not actually going in there, are you?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained!” Telin grinned. Then he vanished.
Kelpo swore vehemently.
“Tel!” Kelpo yelled. “Tel you bastard; you okay?!”
No response came. Cursing, Kelpo squeezed through and followed.
He yelped as he clattered to a metallic deck. Telin hauled him upright.
“That’s gonna bruise.” Kelpo muttered.
In response to the sudden commotion, the ship’s internal lights began glowing to life. They pulsed sickly; lighting in fits and starts. It was a testament to the ship’s design that it still managed to function after so much trauma.
Instinctively Kelpo produced his scanning wand, wielding it like a particularly ineffectual sword. Telin for his part took point, his suit’s lighting rig automatically dimming in response to the increasing visibility.
The inside of the ship had fared just as poorly. Nearly every console was fried, and scorch marks blanketed the floor and walls. Even in the ship’s bizarre internal microclimate, the invading ice chased every surface. Curiously, it still seemed warmed inside the ship than without.
They were stood in what appeared to be the central corridor of the ship. A descending ramp fed deeper into the ship. It too had been fused open; its surface warped and buckled by extreme heat.
“No flight seats, no crew restraints. No damn cockpit.” Kelpo shook his head, “Just what the hell is this thing?”
Telin reached up and keyed the record button linked to the side of his visor. He panned from left to right, documenting the devastation.
“Advanced tech, that’s for sure. Way above our pay-grade. Wonder what could have done this much damage.”
Wand scanning, the two men crept deeper into the ship.
Telin stopped in his tracks so suddenly Kelpo walked smack into him.
Any protestations were cut short by the sight before them.
Slumped in the centre of the ship was an immense figure; of a scale far larger than any human; gene enhanced or not. It was tethered to a central station that had all but collapsed in on itself; the heaped flesh of the ship having pooled around it like melted wax. Entombed, its angular lines were blurred by a coating of ice; its silhouette all but indistinguishable.
“Hell is that thing?!” Kelpo hissed.
“How should I know?!” Telin shot back. “And why are we whispering?! It’s clearly dead!”
“I sure hope so!”
They kept a cautious distance from it as they crept forward. Telin looked down and realised he was toting the plasma cutter like a rifle. He shook himself and lowered it. No sense risking the salvage.
Kelpo’s scanning wand piped up.
“Readings ahead.”
The plasma cutter was half raised again.
“That thing alive?” Telin asked, eyes narrowed.
“Yes and no. Trace biological activity; all but dormant.”
“Good.” Telin glanced over his shoulder, “I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”
“But that’s not the only signature I’m reading. This next one’s all over the damn scale, but localised. It’s coming from deeper inside the ship.”
They stepped gingerly past the frozen giant. The corridor wove around, feeding into two separate ramps. To either side were two rooms too badly damaged to enter.
At the very rear of the ship lay one final door. The door itself lay broken on the deck, scorched and blackened beyond recognition. Beyond it lay the single largest chamber, some kind of throne room.
It was here where the flesh of the ship’s organic material had pooled thickest. encasing a large throne at the back of a vaulted chamber. The throne itself had buckled under the force of impact; all but webbed beneath the fossilized flesh. Kelpo’s wand lit up as they played it over the wreckage.
Telin studied the throne carefully. He spoke aloud, for the benefit of the recording.
“Some kind of emergency response. The ship dumped its biological material around critical components. Whatever was in that chair, the ship died saving it.”
“You talk like it was alive.” Kelpo shook his head.
Telin shot him a look.
“Take one look and tell me it wasn’t.”
Kelpo shrugged, stepping forward and kneeling over the broken throne.
“Signal’s erratic but it’s here. Definitely getting some weird readings.” He produced a small handheld cutter and began surgically stripping at the wall of flesh. “Give me a hand here Tel.”
They got to work, working with the practised methology of seasoned scrappers. Entire rolls of fat were spliced from the throne, where they were cast aside steaming to the deck.
The throne itself took a lot more practised cutting. When they finally prised it away, it revealed the golden casket beneath.
“Statis pod.” Kelpo grunted.
And inside, its occupant; perfectly preserved. A young teenager, scarcely older than a boy. His face was hidden by an ebony respirator, chased with silver. His hair was a dark black, shaved on one side. Small implants dotted either side of his brow. He slept peacefully, oblivious to the grim reality of his surroundings.
Kelpo leaned down and checked the readings on the side of the casket.
“Well, there you have it.” A pause. “He’s alive.”
This time it was Telin’s turn to swear. This complicated matters greatly.
A survivor meant an entirely different fee structure. Potentially a forfeit on full salvage rights.
“Call it in.” Telin glowered. “Advanced ship; possibly Orokin origin.”
His voice floating over his shoulder as he stalked out of the chamber.
“Ask ‘em if there’s a discretionary bonus for a rescue.”
-
Breath hot against the inside of his facemask, Telin tested the give on the static line; grunting in satisfaction.
“I still say we should have sent a drone.” Kelpo’s voice growled up from the darkness further below.
The ice shaft was strewn with the remains of an old Corpus freighter, which had ploughed a tunnel deep into the planet’s surface a century before. Girders and twisted gantries jutted out of the smooth ice like scary fingers, offering a precarious handhold here, a momentary respite there. Not that one could afford to be complacent: one careless misstep meant certain death.
The only light was from the rigs affixed to their environment suits.
Chest heaving, Telin caught his breath. A momentary lapse in judgement made him look down. A mistake. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a lurching feeling in his stomach.
“Exercise, Kelp.” Telin managed, as he steadied himself “It breeds character.”
“I’ve plenty of character.” Kelpo panted between strikes of his ice pick. “It’s the falling that concerns me. Salvage contracts don’t mend broken spines.”
“But they do pay creds.” Telin slammed an ice pick into the sheer surface. “Creds we badly need.”
It was true. They were subcontractors; an independent salvage team on the lowest rung of Anyo Corp’s payroll. The megacorps controlled most of the big surface digs on Venus. Out here was the Badlands of the frozen rock; at the very fringes of Corpus territory. There was no law here, and any expeditions brave or foolish enough to operate this deep were often machine led, driven by automated proxies.
Or madmen, Telin grinned.
Budget dictated their approach. They had a two person skimmer some three klicks south of their current position, and had hauled their scaling gear here by hand: crude projectile grapples and climbing webbing. His shoulders ached from the ascent.
The risk of exhaustion, hypothermia and falling down bottomless pits aside, Telin was thoroughly enjoying himself. Old enough to know better, young enough not to care; this was exactly the type of adventure he had signed up for. Frontier salvage work, far removed from the shipping lanes and polite conversation of the Market Cities. Not for him, no Sir.
His tastes were a little more… visceral. Hurricane winds and stomach lurching pitfalls. Honest work, tactile; raw and untamed. Fortunes and opportunity awaited those adventurous enough to brave Venus' surface. All you had to do was get your hands dirty. Or frozen.
Such was Telin’s view of the world. This was unfortunate, as fate - it transpired - had an entirely different plan in mind.
It was then that Kelpo’s scanner emitted a strange pinging sound. Telin twisted about in his harness.
“What was that?”
“What was what?” Kelpo huffed, hauling his bulk onto the same outcrop, feet dangling precariously. The two men sat panting on a sturdy section of metal plating that might have once been a deck plating, or a ceiling. It didn’t matter. It just meant they could have a badly needed rest.
His oldest friend, Kelpo was a stocky fellow; all arms and no neck. Familia glyphs of home and corpus stencilled his skin, underlit by the lighting rig around his environment suit.
Like Telin’s, it was a ramshackle job; the most reliable he could afford to build, and heavily customised. Their mouths were obscured by breathing masks; their faces ghostly pale in the transparent visors that cast them in an eerie greenish glow.
Telin pointed at Kelpo, breathlessly.
“Your scanner just pinged.”
“It did?” Kelpo frowned, rummaging in his pack. He produced a battered sensor wand, and gave it a perfunctory slap. For a moment nothing happened. He cursed, and slapped it again.
The sensor wand lit up at the same moment Kelpo’s eyes did. The scavenger grinned toothily, scrambling to his feet. The signal was unsual; an echoing return, indicating heavy interference.
“What’s the read, Kelp?” Telin asked, his visor almost touching Kelp’s.
“Secondary tunnel, due north. We’re right on top of it.” Kelp pointed at an impassive wall of ice. “There.”
Telin shrugged his own pack to the floor, unfurling a long object triple wrapped in thick cloth.
The cutting beam was a boxy wedge of metal. Like all of their gear, it was all but bashed together with spare parts and a can-do attitude. It felt heavy and clumsy in his gloved hands.
Telin settled into a crouch, the plasma cutter braced.
The beam kicked once as it lanced into burning life a licking purring sound emanating from the ice as it hissed venting steam. The power pack bleated in alarm, over-heating. Telin depressed the trigger.
A smooth crawl space had been speared through the icy rock. Telin slung his pack back over his shoulder and scrambled through the still-bubbling ice water. Kelpo followed behind, splashing noisily.
Telin clambered to his feet and almost fell over in shock. Kelpo clamped a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
“Well I’ll be damned.” Kelpo breathed.
Kelpo’s initial read had been wrong. It was not a tunnel at all.
The chamber was a natural formation; a vast vaulted ceiling of icicles and frozen rock.
Less natural was the crashed ship at its center; a twisted ruin of curling metal and burst organic matter. Frozen coolant had warped the ice around it an oily black. The rock itself had been scorched and frozen over. Whatever impact trajectory the ship had taken, it could not be described as a gentle landing.
There was no impact hole from the surface. This had sat here for hundreds, if not thousands of years.
Kelpo’s scanner wand cheeped manically. He twisted it off, leaving the two men alone in stunned silence.
After a moment, Kelpo was the first to speak.
“So… what do you think it is?” he asked.
Telin’s eyes never left the shattered ship.
“Opportunity.”
Scavengers - A Warframe Story [Second Dream Spoilers]
in Fan Zone
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Registering weapons fire in Market Sector L-43."
"Gang related?"
"More than likely."
"Noted. Have we any market exposure in the region?"
"Uh, No Sir. It's a Low-Tier Sector. Minimal tithes."
"Log it for the record. Keep me posted if it escalates beyond acceptable thresholds."
- City Watch Communique, Prospect 141
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Aboard the Severance Package, the techs assembled around the silent golem, quietly marvelling. They were scrappers by trade, simple engine-smiths and recovery experts. Humble men of a humble trade, though not lacking in skill. They worked all manner of machines, long forgotten and broken on the blasted Venusian wastes. They were pragmatic, used to the unfamiliar. Grineer scout ships, shot down by automated Corpus pickets; civilian haulers, felled by Void Surges or mysteriously abandoned from eons past. They had seen it all.
Right now none of them had any idea what they were looking at.
It lay on the table, imperiously elegant; rendered in a deep ebony and spotless navy. Sharp antennae jutted out from its head, and swooping pauldrons rose up from its shoulders, accentuating its sleek curvature. White detailing decorated the darkest segments of the armoured carapace. A blue cloak spilled down from its shoulders, edged in white. The golem was entirely lifeless, laid out on the scanning slab like some ancient fallen warrior, awaiting a funeral pyre that never came.
"Well?" Kahrl Bravic asked. He towered over most of the people in the room; especially the young girl.
"You ask me how much it is worth." Isolde replied. "And I repeat myself: it means a great deal to some. A great deal more to others."
"No riddles, child." Bravic warned, his mechanical arm whirring as banged a fist against the guardrail. "Trade! How much can we expect?"
Isolde looked at Vern. Vern, stood a respectful distance away, nodding solemn encouragement. Isolde sighed, pointing out some of the finer points of detail on the ebony chassis.
"Consider the engravings on the outer chassis. The stencil work, just below the antenna. Even the curvature of the helmet itself. It is custom made. Master-crafted, rendered by ancient artificers. A reward, in exchange for great service."
"You're saying it's valuable?" Bravic asked.
"I am saying it is Orokin." Isolde fixed him with a bald stare, each syllable precise. "It is priceless."
"But if we were to charge." Bravic prompted again, gesturing expansively. "Hypothetically."
Isolde stared at him coldly. "Careful, Captain Bravic. Your greed is showing."
Bravic's expansive smile was all gold, studded with platinum. "Indulge me."
Isolde heaved a sigh.
"Speaking… hypothetically. Without an operator, a Warframe is just that; a frame. A tool, without mind or purpose. A puppet without strings. Extremely valuable, certainly, but as a decoration or research subject. Nothing more."
"And with this… operator?" Bravic pressed.
Isolde looked at Vern. Vern nodded in approval.
"If you were to present this prize to Anyo Corp, fully assembled and functional, your prize is an instrument of war not seen since The Great Collapse. You have journeyed the Rail, Captain Bravic. You know the Tenno have been a bane to Nef Anyo, indeed the Board as a whole. Its value will not measure in credits alone."
"Can you pilot it?" Vern asked, quietly. Isolde shook her head adamantly.
"Impossible. The frame's systems are slaved to the will of its original operator. His neural pathways, his connection to the Void. Without him, the link remains closed; the frame… bereft of function. Once imprinted, Transference from another operator becomes impossible."
Bravic nodded. He was a greedy man, but not without wits. He looked at Vern, eyes glinting with malice.
"Bring me this operator, Vern. Alive."
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The trolley was a grandiose term for the cart they bundled Kelpo into. It was a battered hover-crate, unwieldy and huffing on tired grav-skids. Its usual cargo was cheap beer, illegally brewed. Now it carried a hastily piled jumble of blankets, cushions and throws. Lumped on top of this mess was a stocky scavenger by the name of Kelpo Marr who awoke, bewildered, to a scene of abject chaos.
Merchants leapt out of the way as Telin snarled, driving the cart forward with a desperation tinged with equal parts rage and panic. He spotted Kelpo reaching up to remove the breathing mask.
"Leave it on buddy!" Telin shook his head. "We're getting you out of here!"
Rattling about Kelpo in the cart was a box of shotgun cartridges. He blinked and picked the box up, turning it over in his hands; thoroughly disorientated. There were no less than three forms of painkiller coursing through his system. That didn't matter. The pain was gone. He took in the market serenely, blinking and smiling serenely at the unfolding havoc.
Neera navigated at the front of the cart; antique shotgun held close, barrel toward the ground. She knew the terrain best. The traders saw her, knew her troubled history, and hastily made room as they hurried down the street.
The boy kept one hand on the side of the cart, another on the chunky revolver appropriated from inside the Mangled Moa. He had salvaged every weapon that could be conceivably carried, and they rattled noisily as he struggled to keep up with the cart. He flashed Kelpo a thumbs up as soon as they made eye contact. Kelpo beamed.
Neera directed. She knew the direction she wanted to go: a service stairwell long disused at the far end of the market. It had been an escape route for Solaris United dissidents over the years, though the brutal crackdowns had ensured it was long since forgotten. It was their best chance.
It was also almost fully a kilometer away.
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The One Forty Ones lacked many things. They lacked education, impulse control; common sense, more often than not. They made up for each of these myriad shortcomings with brute force, crude firepower and superior numbers. If a city market presented a dozen potential escape routes, the best solution was to simply block every single one with as many bodies as possible.
Their strategy lacked subtlety, true. There was no doubting its effectiveness.
The first bullet caught the cart in the front grav-skid; exploding it and sending Telin and Kelpo hurtling through the air; landing messily in a shower of spilled cushions and tinkering shotgun cartridges. Neera and the boy dove in opposite directions. Bullets sliced through the air, sparking off duct work and sending the crowds scattering in shrieking panic.
The gang's accuracy was lamentable. Hapless traders screamed and went down. Some lay still, others rocked back and forth clutching wounds. Advertising signs burst in showers of sparks and descending glass.
Telin grabbed Kelpo and dragged him behind the upturned cart. Shots stapled across the bodywork of the sorry cart. Neera found herself laying in the remains of what had once been a market stall. It now resembled a shredded tent held up by ever-splintering wooden stilts.
The boy was the first to return fire. There was no elaborate leaps or Void trickery. Just a low crouch and a determined response. The revolver roared; each barking shot dropping its intended target.
Now it was their pursuers turn to dive for cover. Neera watched gangers slide behind crates and overturn steel tables. She spied one brute, fixated on the boy out in the open. She braced the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. By the time the kick settled, her target had flopped backward, mercifully out of sight.
It wasn't enough. Nowhere nearly enough. The boy cast the spent revolver aside, pumping out shell after shell with his shotgun. Rounds snapped closer and closer. He was completely exposed in the open.
"Alive!" a hoarse voice barked. "We need him alive!"
One goon evidently took the advice on board. There was a hollow cough and something round and fast and hard punched the boy in the stomach. The beanbag round folded the boy sharply. He collapsed, blinking back tears and choking through his respirator; winded. The shotgun tumbled from his hands.
"Drop your guns!" one of the gangers roared, voice piqued with adrenaline. "Drop your guns or we drop you!"
The boy rolled onto his back, gasping for air. Neera hesitated, then flung her shotgun out into the open. She stuck her hands out over the remains of the stall, before hesitantly rising into view.
Mercenaries closed in from all directions; weapons raised. They barked an unintelligible cacophony of conflicting orders. Telin rose into view behind the cart; hands raised, expression stricken.
He was the first to notice the sign board. He knew the markets well; did most of his salvage trading here.
A large billboard depicting Nef Anyo drifted through the air. This was not unusual: independent status or not, Prospect 141 was an unspoken vassal of his corporation. Anyo Iconography came with the usual territory.
Less usual was that the billboard was now staring directly at him.
Then it winked.
At the same moment, every rolling ticker screen and LCD screen flushed a riot of neon yellow. Smiley faces rotated on each and every surface. Even Nef Anyo's typical ceremonial hat blinked out of distance, replaced with a cartoonish depiction of a jester's.
GET DOWN, rolled the text on the ticker screen, over and over.
Telin looked at Neera. Neera looked at him.
The smiley faces flushed an angry, impatient red. The ticker screens updated:
NOT KIDDING. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT.
The scavengers threw themselves flat.
With an ear-splitting hiss a ball of pure energy ripped through the market; spears of light keening as they stabbed out from its centre. Tents split, decking singed. Display screens erupted in sheets of sparking fire. Entire stalls collapsed as the energy ball coursed through, sowing destruction in its wake. Mercenaries screeched; clutching cauterised stumps or simply disintegrating in steaming chunks of meat as they fell apart.
Kelpo for his part stared at the ball of twisting light as it sped toward him, transfixed. Telin tackled him to the ground as an energy beam narrowly skimmed overhead, singing his environment suit. The ball surged into the far distance, sowing chaos and panic in its wake.
"Hell was that?!" Neera gaped. What little was left of her cover was a charred ruin. Similarly charred were the bodies of the mercenaries around them; rendered in gruesome vivisection across the smoking clearing.
"Nothing good!" Telin shouted, helping Kelpo to his feet. "Run!"
They fled, leaving behind the ruined market.
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On the billboards, the smiley faces flushed a cheerful yellow once more.
A lone figure stepped out into the street.
A young girl, slight of frame. She picked up a discarded pistol, examining it with practiced curiosity. The ball of light had neatly snipped its barrel in half. She shrugged, nonplussed; discarding it and surveying the destruction as she padded through the ruined market.
The girl was pretty: bright-eyed, button nosed. A pair of battered goggles with scuffed lenses were pushed up on her forehead; lending some semblance of control to the mane of blonde hair that spilled loosely down her shoulders. She picked up another gun: the shotgun the boy had been using. It was still intact.
Her hands expertly dismantled it, scattering its component pieces across the ground. She patted her hands clean. Too crude a weapon for her.
A tide of mercs sprinted into the street, encroaching from all sides. A backup team. Of course there was a backup team, she thought.
The mercs slowed as they entered the ruined clearing, marvelling at the sheer carnage on display. A different gang this time: all respirators and weather-stained greatcoats.
The girl smiled brightly, offering a wave.
"Hello!" the girl beamed. "I'm Sara. You guys looking for somebody?"
The mercs slowed, unsure of themselves. One of them stepped forward. He had a welder's mask serving as a crude helmet. The faceguard had been retracted, revealing a puffy face and heavy stubble.
"Where'd they go?" the man sneered, starting forward.
Sara's expression never lost any of its perkiness as she shook her head.
"Couldn't possibly tell you. Well I possibly could, but then I'm stalling. Telling you would somewhat defeat the purpose."
The merc growled and started forward. An electrified truncheon sparked to life in his hand. She watched his approach with baffled surprise.
"This is your default solution? A Prova? That's your go-to here?"
She was still smiling when he went to grab at her.
The rest of the hired guns emitted a collective wincing hiss. The merc hit the floor, arm fundamentally broken in several unnatural places. The Prova still fizzled as she tossed it aside.
They drew in unison. A wall of clattering weaponry bristled from all angles. Shotguns, compact machine pistols and slug-throwers. Even a ramshackle flamethrower.
"A flamer?" Sara grinned. "Better."
They opened fire. The surviving market stalls collapsed; chopped into matchsticks or torched outright.
Sara moved quickly. A neat hand-spring carried her across the clearing. She dove behind a bullet-chipped packing crate. The crate itself melted under the hail of withering bullets. By the time the licking flames cleared, the crate had all but vanished; reduced to mouldering slag.
Sara too was gone.
The mercenaries approached, confused. Weapons hunted for targets.
The girl's disembodied voice rang out across the abandoned market; echoing off billboards and rebounding through the twisting, empty streets. Now it carried a mechanical echo to it.
"You missed."
The mercs spread out, weapons raised; turning in all directions. They looked about, nervously trying to place the source of the voice.
The girl's voice came from the shadows directly above. Hard-edged now.
"My turn."
It descended from the ceiling, yellow eyes blazing.
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The streets had emptied, eager to be out of the way of the marauding gang and the ensuing carnage. Food riots and mass protests were not uncommon, this deep in the city. Tonight something was different. There was a malice in the air that the locals could sense. Something dangerous lurked the streets. Void trickery, black magic. Better to stay away and indoors, wait it out.
All around, they could hear men shouting. Dashing feet and clanking footsteps. Rattling gunfire rent the air. Screams too. The hush-purr of beam weapons. That keening starburst of energy. More screams. Twice they had to double back on themselves, as hired guns sprinted in the general direction of the Mangled Moa. They sounded more panicked and confused than Telin's motley crew.
They were almost clear of the Market Sector. The exit was right ahead.
Neera rounded the corner first, clutching a small boot knife as her sole form of protection. The boy followed. He moved slowly; still winded, but mobile, hands held low at his side.
They crept forward. The alleyway was dimly lit, foul smelling. Steam hissed and twisted in the air as environment containment systems ticked and hummed around them.
Neera looked at the boy. The boy nodded. Clear.
They started forward again, carefully.
A whisper-thin line of cord snagged Neera's ankle, fiendishly subtle. She was still moving forward before she noticed it pull taught.
The boy saw it far too late. He cried out a warning.
The flash was blinding. Smoke bombs blasted them with soot; choking them in oily dust.
Neera was still twisting about when something else cinched around her other ankle, yanking her off her feet and lifting her high into the air.
The boy groped about, trying to find her in the choking din. Something hard slammed into his side.
A net launcher. It ensnared him fully. The boy smelled old hide and waxed leather. He snarled and thrashed, hands pinned by his sides. He tried biting his way free; tasted a hint of copper metal on his tongue. An electrified current coursed through the net, dropping him in a tangled heap.
Telin saw none of this. One moment Neera and the boy were advancing; the next there was a cloudburst of soot. By the time it cleared the two were wriggling in their respective snares.
Telin backpedalled quickly, hauling Kelpo with him.
Something struck him in the back of his thigh, stunning him. The return whirl of the staff lashed against his chest, driving the wind from his lungs; before whirling about and tangling itself between his legs. Then Telin was on his back, staring up into the business end of a hand-carved staff.
Their assailant was leathery and bald-headed; studded with primitive piercings and painted with tribal markings. Small bone earrings jangled in the dark. He smiled brightly down at Telin, large gaps between missing teeth.
"Swazdo'lah Surah." Parson-Luk held the staff pressed against the underside of Telin's chin, cupping it towards him. "Your city is strange to me. But the hunt… the hunt remains the same."