Thy Fearful Symmetry - Dark Heresy (IC)

[LCP]

Thy Fearful Symmetry

OOC thread (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=12962924#post12962924)

Chapter I
The Reward for Treachery is Retribution

The world of Pry: a dark, swollen gas giant of approximately a hundred and fifty standard Terran planetary masses. Racing around its parent star in a blisteringly close orbit of just under a hundred hours, it was tidally locked – one side of the planet perpetually facing inwards towards the blazing solar furnace, while the other stared eternally out into the freezing darkness of the interstellar void. Currents of superheated gas - the breadth of continents on smaller worlds – streamed across the frontier of twilight from hot to cold, a conveyor belt of gases whipped up from the planet’s bloated heart by the solar blowtorch on the illuminated side.


http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v700/LordChilipepa/Pry-1.jpg

Sheltering in the shadow of the leviathan, the space station of 41 Pry drifted, a speck of metal hanging in motionless silence over the maelstrom below. Positioned at the confluence of several stable warp routes, Pry had seemed the ideal location for a supply station on the long route between Scintilla and the worlds of the Markayn Marches – that was, if it had not been for the necessity of approaching so close to an active star, where a shield failure outside the protective shadow of the gas giant could mean the flash-cooking of an entire ship. The vessels of the Chartist Captains are old and ailing beasts, and they had avoided 41 Pry like the plague since the moment of its construction, much to the chagrin of its owners.

Instead, the space station had been adopted by a rather less salubrious crowd – valued for precisely the same inaccessibility that had kept legitimate business away, 41 Pry had become a seething hub of criminal activity, the blackest rogues and shadiest smugglers of the Golgenna Reach coming here to exchange and acquire contraband. Ghostfire pollen from Iocanthus, stolen goods, the illicit drugs of a dozen hive worlds; it was even rumoured that xenotech changed hands in the corridors of 41 Pry, if you knew who to ask. Inspections this far out were infrequent, and on-station officials often less than incorruptible: the identity of the shadowy consortium that currently owned the station was unclear, but they were known to have deep pockets.

Shields flaring white under the high radiation density, a ship was approaching 41 Pry. Unremarkable and unmarked, it bore the first Imperial officials to visit the station in six standard years.

Their lives depended on keeping that fact a secret.

1


++ONE WEEK PREVIOUSLY++

Do you know what this is? Al-Subaai had asked them. Wraithbone.

The merchant ship Hypatia had taken three weeks to reach Scintilla from its rendezvous with the Navy corvette Instigator near the silent world of Abandoned Hope. It had carried four agents of the Inquisition, and a single scuffed ration tin containing the fragments of something incalculably older than even the Golden Throne they served. It was that tin that Al-Subaai had upended onto the hardwood desk, letting the slivers of alien ivory skitter across its varnished surface.

There had been three days before he had seen him. As soon as their shuttle had touched down in the windswept cloister of the Tricorn Palace, jutting on its rocky pinnacle from the sea-cliffs of Hive Sibellus, the silent servants of the Inquisition had come to take them away from each other, ushering them each to separate chambers in the echoing marble halls of the fortress. Three days of intensive questioning and debriefing by men with titles like Interrogator and Inditor, uncertain and alone, before they had been brought together again.

What did it look like?
Where did you find it?
What did you see?

The questioners had been interested in many things. They had relentlessly probed the nature of the ‘psychic phenomena’ that had so nearly brought their mission on Abandoned Hope to an end. They had traced and retraced the circumstances leading up to the death of the psyker, Ignace Erriphias. They had questioned keenly the nature of the alien gate that had brought them – so the four said – to another world. Most of all, though, they had asked about one word – the shadowy ‘Tenebrae’ of the acolytes’ report. Every detail regarding that strange term, it seemed, was precious to them.

It was only on the fourth day that they saw each other again, and that their master had deigned to see them. Accompanied by men in faceless carapace armour and a lean, sharp-faced character in a priestly cassock, the solemn Inquisitor had spoken with an air of grim excitement.

The alien material, he said, was the vindication of his most firmly-held beliefs. His acolytes had stumbled across a piece of a puzzle that the Inquisition had laboured over in secret for centuries. An ancient prophecy, the Hereticus Tenebrae, or “heresy of shadows”. Fragmentary, cryptic and blasphemous, it was the subject to which Al-Subaai – and certain others – had devoted the better part of his career. Though its dreadful prophecies had been shown to successfully predict catastrophe after catastrophe, none of the secretive cabal of Inquisitors were able to agree on the nature or purpose of the thing it heralded. They had worked in secret for generations, each pursuing their own lines of investigation. Now, these fragments of ‘wraithbone’ showed at last a solid link between the subject of the prophecy and the ancient race of the Eldar – the domain of Al-Subaai’s own Ordo Xenos.

The secrets of the Tyrantine Cabal were not to be disseminated lightly, and he told them nothing more. Further revelations would be earned, not given: this first tentative induction was reward enough for their momentous achievement. In the meantime, the Inquisition still had need of their services.

“Our adepts have not been idle,” said Al-Subaai, placing a leather-bound file of crinkled documents on the table. “Following your encounter on Prol VII, we have finally secured the cooperation of the Mechanicus.” Pulling out one sheaf of parchment, he held it out for inspection. “In 981.M41, the Explorator vessel Byzantium set off for Port Wander, en route to the Koronus Expanse. On its passenger manifest,” – he produced another piece of paper – “a certain Magos Xenobiologis, by the name of Phaestus.” He let the name sink in. “Having returned from the service of the Inquisition, it seems the elders of the Lathes wanted him out of their hair.” He looked briefly up at Jericus. “Or in this case, their cranial cables. He accepted a startlingly low-ranking position in the Explorator corps and took ship on the Byzantium.”

“The Byzantium never reached Port Wander. It was registered as lost with all hands, and assumed destroyed in the Warp.” More paper was shuffled. “In the eighteen years since, there have been three sightings of ‘ghost ships’ matching its description, ranging the breadth of the sector – although they have never been correlated until now.” He allowed himself the tiniest smile. “The bookworms do have their uses.”

“Most importantly, they have discovered something rather more recent. A long-range Astropathic transmission, sent out-sector through a relay on Guytoga. Its encryption key was Lectoprioritas 50, which our recalcitrant friends of the Mechanicus have reluctantly confirmed was Phaestus’ authorisation ‘in life’.” He paused. “Their revered cogitator records list him as lost with the Byzantium, and so they still prefer to insist that Phaestus is dead.”

“Unfortunately for us, the Guytogan Astropathic choir was struck by a noophagic virus shortly after the recorded date of the transmission.” He frowned. “All twelve of the astropaths involved in sending the message perished, and their cerebral cortices severely necrotised. The virus was believed to be an off-planet strain, and should have been investigated... but it was not.” He paused. “Nevertheless, we have identified the recipient of the message... one Captain Maximilian Vyres.”

“Vyres is a free trader who plies out-sector routes, trading in rare breeds of Xenos animals. His range reaches as far as Ultima Segmentum, and he has not been seen in the Calixis Sector for some years. Whatever the contents of Phaestus’ missive, it caused him to extend his stay in the Eastern Fringe for four months.”

A final dossier hit the table.

“Now, Vyres is returning. We hear from our informants that he is planning to sell off his cargo at the space station of 41 Pry, and we also hear that the heretics known as the Beast House are involved in the sale... which means he’s moving more than bull loxophants for the pits. Apparently Vyres is staging a secret auction away from the main market – selling his more exclusive goods to his more exclusive clients. There are rumours that he has brought back something truly special.”

“Maybe it’s a cover to meet with Phaestus. Maybe it’s what Phaestus told him to get, and he’s decided it will fetch a better price on an open market – free traders of Vyres’ type are not known for their trustworthiness. Whatever the reason, if we’re going to catch Phaestus before he disappears again, 41 Pry is the place.”

“This is Father Drake,” Al-Subaai, indicating for the first time the tight-lipped man who stood beside him. “He is the fifth acolyte who will be joining you for your mission – which is to attend Vyres’ auction, undercover. You will locate Phaestus or his cat’s-paw, and capture them for interrogation. You will identify what Vyres has brought him, and secure it for examination, or destroy it if you cannot. Finally, and secondary to the other objectives, you will note the names and faces of those present at the auction. Their very presence will be proof of their guilt in the Emperor’s eyes.”

He passed the dossier across the table. Opening it, Jericus found it was packed with slim data-slates.

“The mission details are in these documents. Your ship anchored in high orbit six hours ago, and your shuttle is waiting in the cloister.”

He made the sign of the Aquila.

“The Emperor Protects.”

1

Now, Sergeant Red - late of the 345th Guytogan Rifles- waited on the launch deck of the Miranda, watching the vast world of Pry grow slowly larger in the scratched viewport he had found. It was only thanks to the attenuation of the reinforced tint-glass that he could look at it at all, the immense, blinding furnace of its sun surrounding its cinder-black silhouette on all sides. In its shadowy lee, a tiny glint of reflected light might just have been their destination.

Behind him, the heavy void shuttle waited. It was a step up from their battered old Arvus Lighter, although not quite the upgrade he would have wanted – the Mercator was the civilian’s Aquila, a glorified joyride for wealthy noncombatants. He had been assured that a Navy craft would draw too much suspicion, but he still wished for something with guns.

That was the warning bell. In the cockpit, the green-lit figure of the pilot was flicking rows of switches, bright running-lights glowing into life along the shuttle’s stubby wings. Ten minutes to decompression: the Miranda’s crew were evacuating the launch bay, leaving the Acolytes alone with their craft. The Miranda herself was not going to come all the way into a berth at 41 Pry, but rather anchor above the planet itself – the plucky little transport ship had enough fuel for the return journey, and did not want to end up locked to the station’s docks if a hasty escape proved necessary. For one thing, the dock workers might notice the decidedly military alterations that had been made during the Miranda’s refit in the Battlefleet dockyards.

The launch crew were motioning him in now, making hurried motions with their bulky, padded arms. In the silent, blazing vacuum outside, the crumbling bulk of 41 Pry hung silently against the crimson cloud oceans of its parent planet – waiting.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Sargent Red turned towards the shuttle, ever-so uncomfortably. The new clothes were startched just that little bit too much, and he felt naked without the Guytogan camoflauge covering his hide.
He opted instead for simple matte-black combat fatigues, just on the off-chance one of the scum aboard 41 Pry could read Imperial Guard colours. His armour had gotten intimate with a paint brush, too. The entire thing was now a colour matching the new combat fatigues. No red trim, no imperial Aquila watching his back, no proudly displaying the 345th's banner on his shoulder.

The only concession he made to sytle and design was a white lambda painted where the 345th's seal once was, surrounded by an iron halo, and puncuated with four skulls.

One for each man he had lost during this investigation.
Phrenz he couldn't do anything about. Likewise, Ignace. But Kat and Bosc were his own fault. He'd even tried to save them. The loss weighed heavily on him.
Red still had nightmares about the fires on Prol, and sometimes, he could still smell the burning books and hear the omni-present, pursuing beat of owl's wings.
That was absurd, of course.
The Owls didn't make any noise.

Red stepped aboard the shuttle and plopped down in his chair opposite Tychon. No. Opposite Gideon Kastor, his employer. The sargent had never exactly gone undercover before, and the transition to pseudonyms was something he found jarring. The role as somebody's dog-on-a-leash, though, made him feel right at home, just like he was with the Dross Serpants again.

Thinking of such, the Sargent took great care in unfastening his quiver and bow, stashing it under his chair, and produced a cloth-wrapped pistol from one of his fatigue's many sets of pockets and lay it beside the bow.
Carrying too many guns into the auction might prove to be a bad thing. Hopefully, his perceived role as Gideon's bodyguard would let him keep his rifle.
He'd recently taken to calling it Abagail. No idea why. The name just appealed to him.

"You ready for this, Lambda?" Red asked, keeping the nervous tremor out of his voice as much as possible, and looking directly at the cell's newcomer.
"Actually, come to think of it. That's a bad idea. Let's start using the pseudonyms we decided on, shall we? Even over the commbeads."
Red immediately reached up to the visor on his helmet and pushed it down to punctuate the point. He couldn't afford to be recognized by anybody who had been on Prol.
Then he settled in for the ride.

[Etcetera]

Erasmus Keter smoothed back his hair instinctively, the unfamiliar weight of his concealed holster combined with the loss of his usual arms leaving his shoulders slightly off balance. He drew his robes up around him, plugged in his combead and lit a lho-stick, enjoying the smooth taste for a few seconds before collapsing into a fit of coughing. He paused, engaging his internal filters with a brief mind-pulse, then tried again.

Much better.

[Thragka]

The man now calling himself Titus Vane did not look as priestly as Tauron Drake usually did. Gone was the cassock and vestment, and the heraldry and symbology of the Aquila and the Imperial Creed. He still had all his weapons, though, and as he reached Red, he handed his chainsword hilt-first to the Sergeant - wordlessly, but with a look of solemnity that invited his comrade to treat the weapon the same way. Then, he lifted the rifle, shotgun and flamer from where they had been slung across his shoulders and back and laid them heavily, with associated thuds, in a neat line on the floor. He deliberated over the hammer, before placing it down too. Finally, he checked that his pistol was still by his side, holster on his black leather belt.

After much deliberation punctuated with a lot of frowning, Drake had chosen a sombre outfit from the Miranda's supplies - black trousers, and a black dress shirt that Tauron's vestigial fashion sense hoped looked elegant but not flamboyant. His thin flak armour was between them and an equally dark and slightly bulkier longcoat - his thin frame making it not seem too bizarre. The armour was dull and had never been in perfect condition, and he felt fairly sure it looked of about black-market quality.

As he sat down aboard the shuttle, grazes and thin lacerations he had inflicted on his back not an hour earlier sang out in pain - he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the purity of feeling purged of sin, and the assurance it gave him that the Throne was watching over him.

"We go to bring His light into the darkness," he said aloud to the others - possibly the last prayer he would openly utter for the duration of the mission. "The Emperor protects." He felt as yet unable to judge how the other acolytes thought he fitted in to Lambda Cell, and on the week aboard the Miranda he had struck up a few short conversations about their past missions, but had done little more with them besides planning for the arrival to 41 Pry. But he respected them and what he knew they had already accomplished; some of the Emperor's most devoted servants were aboard the shuttle with him, and he owed it to himself and to the Imperium to live up to that standard.

[Destro_Yersul]

Three hours ago, Tychon Urbanus sat in his room aboard the Miranda, staring at a box full of purity seals. It felt wrong, somehow, to leave them behind. Like he was abandoning a small part of himself. The little blessed Aquila he had acquired from the Instigator's priests had to stay too, as much as he would have liked to bring it along. The same went for his scuffed old boots, and his regular belt buckle. Appearances were important for this mission, and the responsibility to lead fell squarely on him.

It was not something Tychon was used to.

A pile of clothing, selected from the ship's stores, was arrayed on a rack by the door. There was no more putting it off. 41 Pry was waiting, and he would have to be ready. Tychon locked the door, and began pulling things off the rack.

One hour ago, Gideon Kastor stepped out of Tychon's room. His long hair was washed, combed, and pulled neatly back, resting under Tychon's wide-brimmed hat, the metal studs newly polished. Mr. Kastor had discarded the stubble that Tychon habitually neglected to be rid of, and had decided on clothing in the fashion of Metallican nobility. He wore a navy blue vest over a white shirt and blue cravat tie, and pinstripe trousers. Over that went a light coat, black with gold trim, and over that went the flakcloth greatcoat. Glossy black highboots ringing on the deck as he walked, Kastor made his way towards the common area of the ship in preparation for the shuttle launch.

As he walked, he checked the time on a gold pocket-chrono. Tychon had taken the opportunity in accessorising to pick up nicer replacements for a few of his old things, as well as some new ones. The chrono was new. The silver lho stick case in the shirt's breast pocket, and the silver lighter that accompanied it, were replacements. A matching flask, filled with rotgut alcohol instead of the amasec one might expect, was stashed in his greatcoat's inside pocket. Never much for jewelry, the only additions in that department were a pair of patterned silver rings. His gold wedding band was staying behind with the purity seals. Mr. Kastor was not married.

Passing a viewport, Tychon stopped to look at his reflection against the blackness of space, running a gloved hand over the scar on his chin. Shaving around that had been the Emperor's own job.

"I look ridiculous..."

Muttering to himself, the gunslinger continued walking.

Ten minutes ago, Gideon Kastor climbed onto the Mercator shuttle, shades of Abandoned Hope flashing through his mind. At least this time, the place they were bound for was metal and machinery, much more civilised than the Eldar world. If 'civilised' could truly be applied to it in any way, at least.

Settling into his seat, Kastor's eyes flicked over the others in the shuttle. The sergeant, his loyal bodyguard. Ignace, he had said he was going by. Titus and Erasmus, advisors and aides. Tychon was especially nervous about Titus. Tauron Drake could read, whereas the gunslinger couldn't. If he got caught alone somewhere and had to examine papers of any sort, the game would be up. Nova, or whatever she was calling herself, hadn't arrived yet. Tychon hoped Akadia wasn't watching when she did.

"So," he said, checking to ensure all five of his pistols were in their proper holsters, "here we go again, aye?"

[Etcetera]

"Once more, unto the breach.", droned Erasmus, flashing a wink and a battered lighter at Kastor.

A strand of hair sprung up, and Jericus smoothed it down.
"We ought to work out some codes before we go in. Mr Vermillion is in the Mine Lobby, that sort of thing."

[Rizhail]

Nova strode into the hangar a few minutes before decompression, her pack and equipment harness loosely dangling over one shoulder as she headed straight for the cell's new shuttle. The outfit for her disguise instantly stood out, as different from her normal attire as night from day.

Gone were the pure white tabard and cloak, the light gray breeches and tunic. The matte black, skin tight mesh armor she normally wore hidden under her clothes was now the base piece of her outfit, though modified to fit her cover story. The fabric-like material had been split into an upper and lower part at the waist to reveal some skin, and a moderately deep neckline had been added to the top part. An ornate vest and leggings, decorated with a skulls and blades motif, rounded out the outfit. Though she knew the Inquisition's armorers would be displeased with her armor modifications upon the team's return, Nova preferred their displeasure to the thought of not having armor after what happened on Abandoned Hope. With her hair held back in a tail by an elaborate skull pin and her matched blades hanging from her belt, the assassin would not have looked out of place in a death cult or wandering the battlefield on a feral world.

Nova's pace varied as she strode toward the shuttle, seemingly trying out different styles of walking to fit her cover. She finally settled on a slow, sure pace, swaying her hips slightly while holding her head high.

Stepping onto the shuttle, she sighed. "It apparently never occurred to whoever programmed my disguise skills that there might be a middle ground to strutting like a noblewoman or swaying like a joy girl," Nova said as she secured most of her gear in a storage compartment. Only the swords on her belt, the daggers at the small of her back, and a small pouch containing useful tools on her hip were going with her onto the station; the rest would be on the shuttle, just in case. "But I think I have it down. And I should at least provide a bit of a distraction to anyone who might otherwise examine you too closely, Gideon," she continued, smirking at Tychon. "Hmm... how should each of us refer to you? Mr. Kastor, boss, Lord Kastor if you're feeling ambitious? I'll simply refer to you as Gid or Gideon due to our cover, but the rest of you will want to pick something more in-line with your cover professions."

"Speaking of aliases, I'll not be taking one. The only way my identity would be compromised is if one of three inquisitors and four acolytes from my last cell suddenly turned traitor, so it won't be needed. And it's one less new name to confuse."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Mr. Kastor," Tychon decided. "Lord Kastor feels too self-important, and boss is too informal."

[Thragka]

Drake - Vane - nodded. "Anything else would seem inappropriate, if not suspicious." Leaving his backpack beneath his seat, he stood up once more, to move the weapons from the floor to compartments.

"As for codes, an abort phrase is probably most pertinent. Or a code that one of us is in danger. I do not know what other situations we can expect to arise."

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red - he still had trouble thinking of himself as Ignace Bosc, allowed himself to appreciate the view of Nova as she walked into the room. Distracting was one way to put it, but Red had spent the past year either in transit aboard massive, unfamilar voidships, attempt to unravel this Phaestus plot or on a battlefield, scared for his life.
And now, his face was hidden beind tinted glass.

He positively leered.

After a moment, the Sargent stood up and banged upon the cocpit door.
"All personnel aboard." He shouted through the armoured steel before returning to his seat and strapping in.
"Don't forget the codes for 'my cover is compromised', 'my cover is blown', and 'Sweet God-Emperor, run!'." The Guardsmen suggested unhelpfully.

[LCP]

Before any of the assembled Acolytes could reply to Red with a constructive suggestion, a blaring horn sounded in the hangar outside. Even filtered as it was through the Mercator’s ceramite hull plating, the sound was deafening.

The Miranda was closing for the approach. The deck rumbled like tectonic plates grinding together, its tremors shivering up the shuttle’s hydraulic landing gear. In his mind’s eye, Red could see the huge, cog-toothed launch shutters lumbering open, spilling the launch bay’s thin air into the black and endless void.

“Welcome aboard, Mr Kastor,” came the pilot’s voice over the comms. “Launch in thirty seconds, counting.”

The Mercator’s engines sparked into life with a powerful, rising whine. Jericus recognised the hiss-click of void seals being tested, the passenger cabin becoming an airtight box. Padded restraints swung down, ready for them to use.

“Five,” came the polite, crackly voice. “Four. Three, two, one...”

There was a stomach-turning lurch, and then a punch of acceleration as the Mercator’s jets kicked in. Hugging the teardrop shadow of the gas giant, the tiny craft dropped clear of the Miranda’s belly and arced away towards the silent bulk of the station below.


~

The Mercator had no viewports in the cabin, but there was a visualiser screen that relayed a pict-feed from the cockpit. Bringing up the picture in faint and fuzzy shades of green, ‘Erasmus’ watched their approach with a kind of scientific disinterest.

41 Pry appeared just as the briefing slates had shown it – a great cruciform of metal, hanging in low orbit above the whipping clouds of the gas giant’s uppermost atmosphere. Later additions crusted its pure design like crude and dirty barnacles, breaking its symmetry where they rose in a sooty stack behind the exhaust flues of the refinery systems.

The long harbour arms had sustained some debris damage in places. How long ago, it was difficult to say, but repairs had evidently been a long time coming – the old wounds still gaped, the station’s punctured metal skin held together only by skeletal scaffolds of girders, open to the void. Perhaps the station’s inhabitants had found it easier to work around the exposed sections than to repair them.

As they closed in, the sheer scale of the structure became apparent. The harbour arms yawned like canyon walls, big enough to swallow the Miranda twice over in their gape – in the other arms of the cross, other ships already rested at anchor, their crenellated bridges rising above the forest of antennae, hatchways and defence turrets that blistered the tops of the docks. There was a little merchant ship, not unlike the Miranda; on the other side of the station, a great Jericho-class hauler wallowed at its mooring, huge, snaking cables pumping 41 Pry’s hydrogen harvest into its tanks.

At the head of the cross, the third ship hung lightly at anchor, as if poised to break away at any moment. Longer but narrower than the merchant vessel, it had the look of a sprint trader – but a sprint trader that was prepared to fight its way out of a corner, if the dorsal weapons batteries were anything to go by. Were it not silhouetted against the red blaze of the planet below, it would have been almost impossible to spot – its hull was painted void-black, its lit windows and running-lights the only clue it was there at all.

Another instant, and the ship was blotted out by the soaring dome of the Station Primaris, and the jury-rigged bulk of the Stack. They were coming into Alpha Dock, the only dock that didn’t hold a ship. At the inward end of the long harbour arms, its shuttle bay was gaping open like the mouth of a baleen whale, great mechanisms clattering away in silence as the Mercator angled in through the opening jaws.

The Acolytes felt the push of force as the shuttle spun its jets around, burning off its speed in a sharp braking manoeuvre. With it came the sudden weight of artificial gravity reasserting itself once again, the station’s a little stronger than the sometimes-flighty field the Miranda possessed. Inching down on howling thrusters, the Mercator made contact with the deck. Internal mechanisms vented vapour, and all around came the sibilant whistle of air as the cabin decompressed.

“Orders say your contact should approach you here,” came the pilot’s voice. “Shuttle’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

With a rush of unaccustomed light, the rear hatch hissed open. Outside, the sights and sounds of a huge and bustling shuttle-bay assaulted them – and in the foreground, a man in the shabby blue robes of some kind of port official was waiting for them.

“Mr... Kastor?” asked the man in a thin and feeble voice. He looked around at the emerging group, clearly not sure which face he should be addressing. “I have been asked to convey a message from supervisor Nahum Sawney. He welcomes you to 41 Pry and invites you to join him at the Bridge.” He coughed to clear his throat. “Will you be requiring a guide?”

OOC: Obviously feel free to conclude conversations about code-words etc. with a timesplit to when you were still inside the shuttle.

Also, for anyone who’s interested, feel free to roll an Awareness check to get a more thorough first impression of the landing bay.

[Thanatos 51-50]

The black-clad Red stepped forward.
"Ignace Bosc." he introduced himself, injecting as steely a tone as he could manage.
"Mr. Kastor will be requiring you to guide him to the bridge, if he does, indeed, wish to join the Supervisor. He will also require a detailed map of the station."
Red flashed a grin before he remembered the visor hid his face.
"Security."

[Destro_Yersul]

Then:
"Keep things simple. I ain't gonna remember half a million new codes." Tychon stopped, considering the words. He was going to have to make an active effort to talk less like a midhiver. "Infernis rising, for danger?"

Now:
Gideon Kastor strode down the ramp, idly watching the goings on in the port and trying to be disinterested in his immediate surroundings. Let the security man handle those. It was going to be difficult, he realised, to conceal his contempt of the criminal element in a place like this, but if he was lucky they might take it as a noble's contempt for those beneath him. Time would tell.

Part of the conversation jerked him out of his thoughts, and he turned his attention to the official. "Inform the supervisor it would be my pleasure." Provided, of course, went the unspoken connotation, that he has something interesting to say.

OOC:
Yon awareness test, vs 49: [roll0]

[Thragka]

Vane buttoned his coat, hoisted his backpack and silently followed his master out of the shuttle. His role would come later; for now, let Security bluster about to make sure Mr Kastor's arrival was treated with the respect it deserved.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Aboard the Aquila

"In the Guard, we would call for an Angel of Mercy to let any sharpshooters know we were in trouble. Infernis rising works better fo this situation." The solider replied, mulling over the code for a moment. "How about something like 'the forges are hot' if we think our cover might be compromised?"

41 Pry: Alpha Dock

"Ignace Bosc" nodded slightly behind his impassive mask, and then set a full glare upon the toady that joined them. There were many problems with having your visage hidden from sight, but it certainly helped to intimidate.
"You heard the boss, Escort."

Belated Awareness and "Don't mess with me" rolls.[roll0]
[roll1]

[Etcetera]

Erasmus glanced around the bay, taking everything in with a sort of hunger. It was good to be somewhere a bit less primitive, even if doubtless countless organics were profaning machines in the bay at that very moment, He'd deal with that later.

Awareness: Per 34 [roll0]

[Rizhail]

Nova descended that ramp, a half step back and to the right from Tychon. She ignored the conversation, trying to appear bored while she casually looked over the hangar.


Awareness: [roll0] vs. 48 (28 base, +10 skill mastery, +10 heightened senses: sight)

[Destro_Yersul]

Then:
"That works. As long as we're running with that theme for things, let's say "shift change" for abort, and "forge overheated" if we know our cover's blown. I don't think "Run like frak" really needs a code."

[LCP]

Alpha Dock

The landing bay was impressive in scale, if not in how it had been maintained. The vaulted hull-plates of the original construction had been haphazardly patched in places with irregularly-placed squares of later metal, riveted in place and beginning to rust. In the high girders of the roof, steel rods that might once have supported long banners hung on burnished chains, left to gather dust.

The bay was packed with small craft. Many were drab, powered-down units, service shuttles of the station itself waiting to be wheeled down to the launch pads from where they stood stacked like shopping trolleys along the rear walls. Others were larger and more varied, flyers from the visiting voidcraft standing at refuelling banks or taking on cargo – a couple of superannuated Sentinel walkers stomped slowly across the mesh decking, huge power-lifter arms hefting crates and containers twice their size with a straining whirr of servos.

In the centre of the cavernous space, a bevy of servitors were working on what looked like a Lathe-world bulk hauler, its massive, rusted hull half-draped with dusty blue tarps. Sparks flew from augmetically-installed power tools, some kind of modification work going on inside the old workhorse’s empty cargo hold. Beyond it was a higher landing platform, reserved for a more exclusive class of civilian craft. On it, among the others, was a sleek silver sky-yacht, its curving lines wholly at odds with its surroundings.

It was a shuttle Red and Jericus had seen before, at another berth, on another world. There, the landing pad had looked out over an ocean of verdigrised roofs, the cold winds of Prol VII whipping its tarmac... but it had been the same shuttle, sitting next to the bull-nosed gun-cutter of Secutor Ferox. They knew it, and they knew its owner.

Barring the shuttle, there was no sign of him here.


"Mr. Kastor will be requiring you to guide him to the bridge, if he does, indeed, wish to join the Supervisor. He will also require a detailed map of the station."

The port official seemed almost bored by Red’s attempts at intimidation. Peeling a sheet of thin, glossy paper off his clipboard, he handed it to Red.

“You are welcome to a copy of the visitor’s map,” he said, and Red saw that that was what he was holding – a relatively simple document, outlining the major hab-zones of the station and what could be found within them. “More detailed schematics are issued solely at the discretion of the Board.”

Looking over his shoulder, he hesitated for a long minute as one of the heavily-laden Sentinels thudded past – when it had cleared the way, he motioned to one of the blue-robed adepts who stood elsewhere on the deck, a younger man hurrying across.

“Mr Kastor, this is Junior Supervisor Clemens,” said the first man, making sure to emphasise the junior. “Clemens, Mr Kastor requires a guide to the Bridge, Pryside of the dome. You know the way?”
“I do, senior,” said Clemens. He looked up smartly at Tychon. “Are you ready to depart, sir?”

[Destro_Yersul]

Mr. Kastor nodded, gesturing for Clemens to lead the way with one hand. His staff had everything they needed, of course, so there was no need to check. Folding his arms behind him, he fell into step behind his guide. "That upper platform," he said, angling his head to look up at it again, "will my shuttle be moved up there, or is it to stay where we landed? I like to know where my property is."

[LCP]

"No, sir. That is an overflow zone." Clemens consulted a dataslate in his hand, scrolling through some kind of list. "We have no more booked arrivals for some time; your shuttle should remain where it is." He looked up at Tychon. "Is that satisfactory?"

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red glared through the smoky glass of his visor for a few extra-long moments at Octavian's shuttle.
"Sir," he cut in, falling in neatly beside Tychon, "If there's any way for us to acquire a list of recent arrivals, it would make my job significantly easier. Especially if one of your rivals is at dock." the faux-Security expert prattled, desperate to relay the danger of Rhodes' shuttle being present.
"We wouldn't want a repeat of that incident with Erasumus and the uprising in the Infernis, would we?"

[Etcetera]

Erasmus shot a glance at Red, but kept silent.

He wondered how one might go about getting servitor control codes for the bay. Probably with menaces, which ruled that one out.

Common Lore: Tech check on the security and safety systems of this type of station
vs 60 [roll0]

oh boy

[Destro_Yersul]

"Quite so, Mr. Clemens." Tychon cast another glance at the upper platform. "Have a look into Mr. Bosc's request. If at all possible, I would like to make sure I don't meet certain people here."

[LCP]

Clemens looked slightly uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Mr Kastor, but such records are not available to visitors." He gave an anodyne smile. "I'm sure you value your own privacy as much as our other guests."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Possibly even moreso." Tychon had expected as much, really, but didn't say it. There was no harm in playing up the paranoia aspect of Mr. Kastor. "If you can't tell me that, what can you tell me? The more my security man, and myself, have to go on, the happier I will be with your capabilities as a guide."

[LCP]

"Tell you about what, sir?" asked Clemens, with attentive politeness. "If you wish for particulars about the station, I'll be glad to point them out to you on our way."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Do so. I have not been to 41 Pry before." Tychon suspected there was a lot the man wasn't going to tell him. You could hide a regiment of guardsmen in the dark corners of a place like this. Or a regiment of worse things. Hordes of pale shambling creatures with bulbous eyes flashed through his mind, and he suppressed the urge to shudder.

[LCP]

“As you wish. This way, sir.”

There was one exit from the shuttle bay – a wide and high-ceilinged transit corridor, sealable by a pair of immense blast doors should the outer airgates fail. Half of it was taken up by a sunken rectangular pit, built to accommodate a straight set of rails on which heavy cargo platforms shuttled people and goods back and forth into the heart of the station. The other half was an open concourse, its decking worn smooth and faded by many centuries of passing feet.

At the mouth of the corridor, where the floor was scored by the sockets of the blast shutters, Clemens stopped them, calling an elderly-looking grav-platform from a rank that stood by the entrance. Ancient impellors straining under its weight, it whirred over with a sallow man in some form of guild heraldry at the helm – Tychon noticed that the man’s right hand had been replaced with a clunky but functional augmetic.

It reminded Red of the grav-lecterns on Prol, although where those flimsy platforms had been finished in lacquered wood, this was a harsh, lumbering thing of metal, its corners painted with yellow and black chevrons. Apparently on board Pry 41, only the plebs had to walk – patricians got to float.

The operator swung open a ‘gate’ in the thin railing that enclosed the platform, ushering the party on board. Clemens followed them, closing it behind him and straightening out his robes as the platform groaned up into the air. Walkers ducked out of its path, its descending underbelly threatening to clip the taller of them across the back of the skull as it skimmed overhead.

“There are corridors like this leading from each of the major docks,” said Clemens, gesturing serenely to their surroundings as they slid past. “When a ship’s crew are on shore leave, the walkways can get quite crowded – hence these platforms.”

Their guide’s next words were drowned out by a rush and roar of machinery, as a grimy black engine came thundering down the rail track in the opposite direction. It pulled a car of passengers and two flat-beds of stacked wooden crates, a handful of armed men in no coherent uniform sitting sentry on the mounds of boxes.

“The trains move cargo to and from the dome market,” explained Clemens. “Not far, but there is always a lot of cargo to move. Better to mechanise.” He looked across to Tychon with a simpering smile. “I’m sure a man of your business interests understands such problems of logistics still more than I, Mr Kastor.”

After a short time, the platform reached the end of the tunnel. There, another cargo locomotive was sitting idle at the end of the rail pit, heavy boxes being unloaded from the back – beyond it, the wide corridor opened out into a still wider expanse beyond.

The dome market certainly did not disappoint. Soaring overhead was the armourglass dome that the Acolytes had glimpsed briefly in their approach – huge, vaulted windows into the glittering void of space arched their backs overhead to meet a central point, casting striated shadows across the plaza below. Three other access tunnels radiated out from the cardinal points of the circle, cutting the perimeter like the bars of a crosshair: at the centre point where they would have met, beneath the apex of the colossal dome, a tall metal tower rose halfway to the ironwork of the roof, crowned with an enormous four-faced clock.

On the burnished brass of the clock faces, shift divisions as well as simple times were marked, mounted on traversable bearings so that they could be adjusted if management so desired. It looked as if they were coming up to the end of the day cycle on station time.

Below the clocks, a tangle of pict-recorders looked down into the plaza. Nova thought she could see some narrow glass windows above the clock faces – possibly this was a guard tower as well as a timepiece. Clemens made no comment on it, instructing their pilot to set down the grav-platform and leading the party back onto the solid deck.

If the tower was a guard tower, it could hope to do little more than observe. The space it looked over was far too broad and sprawling to be policed by one isolated crow’s-nest of enforcers. Easily the size of an airfield, the walls on its far side pressed in where the bulk of the Stack had crept up the flank of the dome, putting down jury-rigged roots that fizzed and shone with neon signs advertising a dizzying variety of station-side establishments. In the shadow of that overgrown cliff-face of bulkheads and sheet metal, a semi-permanent penumbra of shops, food vendors and little market stalls clung to the edges of the plaza like a colony of limpets. They stretched all around the circumference of the dome, encircling the central space in a forest of stalls and booths.

In the central space itself, a different kind of market had been set up. Huge open-topped cargo containers, numbers and letters stencil-sprayed on their sides in flaking white paint, had been laid out in rough lanes around the clock spire, facing each other. Rising head and shoulders above their metal walls, huge animals shuffled and bellowed, packed together like canned fish for the swarms of humans who ogled and dickered over them. There were great grey loxophants, prehensile trunks reaching down for the treats offered by the teasing crowd; glistening amphiceres, wallowing in cargo-containers half full of brackish water as assistants perched on high stepladders hosed them down with fine sprays of moisture. Many of the massive amphibians had fresh scars on their spade-shaped muzzles, seemingly gained trying to headbutt their way out of their steel prisons.

There was a rank animal stink rising off the market, but it didn’t seem to affect Clemens in the slightest. Leading the way towards it, he began to talk again.

“This is the cargo just come off the Bold Endeavour, Captain Vyres’ ship. Animals from all over the Calixis Sector, and beyond. Many of these will be bound for hive circuses and fighting pits, but there is also a brisk trade from other sectors. The agri-world collectives are always interested in new, profitable breeds, and of course there are private collectors...”

Closer to, one could see the smaller crates and cages that had been set down around the larger containers. Languorous crotalids lay sprawled behind iron bars, watching the punters go by with yellow, slit-pupilled eyes. Four-winged hawks scrabbled and beat their wings against walls of wire mesh, giving voice to weird, ululating cries that drifted over the hubbub of voices that pervaded the echoing market.

If the animals on sale were peculiar, the people buying and selling them were just as strange. Forging a path into the crowd, ‘Mr Kastor’ found himself swallowed up by a sea of humanity at its most diverse. Weathered frontiersmen, still wearing sturdy boots and heavy coats; hivers in slick bodygloves or brightly-dyed clothes, some reeking of wealth, others only of sweat and the grease-fried meat. Gaggles of voidsmen on leave bounced aimlessly between the enclosures, there only to gawk at the creatures on display.

The punters were not the only ones, either. There were men in some kind of ship’s uniform who seemed to be doing the bulk of the moving selling, but every local with an animal to sell had taken advantage of the temporary market to set out their own cages and stalls. Perhaps some of them had even been brought by the ship – even a lean sprint trader like the Endeavour was a big place, after all.

“Vampire squid! Straight from Goldmann’s world, still swimmin’. Sacs and all, yours for a steal.”

“You sir, will you buy? Powdered thornox horn! Put some spring in your spring, sir, if you know what I mean. Medicinal!”

There was still the remnants of an open space at the base of the clock spire. There, with his back to a row of lowing loxophants, a harassed-looking man was managing a crowd of shouting bidders, a pair of assistants aiding him in entering names and numbers into a huge ledger. Clemens led them straight past, brushing aside the hawkers and ‘entrepreneurs’ who tried to waylay them along the way. He was leading them towards the towering wall of the Stack, the place where the glow-signs blazed.

Escaping out the other side of the animal market, the Acolytes found themselves moving into the bazaar of more permanent establishments that hunkered around the edges of the plaza. Strange smells wafted from sizzling food stalls, and shrouded booths sold strange and gleaming things. Here and there, real shops were built into the metal walls of the station, their windowless insides shrouded in darkness. Bent old shopkeepers watched them with avaricious eyes, while pedlars approached them with dirty hands full of dubious wonders.

Passing a hefty array of elevators that connected to the upper and lower levels of the hab-zone, they turned down a broad avenue between two descending walls of steel. Its sides were lined with neon-signed establishments, gnawed like caves into the base of the metal canyon. The place was heaving with bodies – voidsmen and station workers coming off-shift, laughing and shouting in an echoing din almost as great as that of the market.

“Many of the workers come here in their time off,” said Clemens. “Not far now.”

Red’s armed presence helped to clear a way for them through the seething crowd, and before long, Clemens brought them to a stop. They were standing outside a dingy-looking club, the muffled sound of loud music thumping from inside – over its wide double doors, a luminous yellow sign fizzled feebly.


THE BRIDGE


“This is where your friend should be,” said Clemens. “I wish you a profitable stay on 41 Pry, sir.”

Although he seemed to be saying goodbye, he did not turn and leave – instead, he waited politely in place, like a waiter expecting a tip.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v700/LordChilipepa/DomeMarket-1.png

[Destro_Yersul]

"Thank you." Tychon paused before going in the door. He wasn't sure if Clemens was actually expecting a tip, and if he was, what sort of tip might be appropriate. Of course, Mr. Kastor didn't necessarily need to deal with things like that. "Titus, make sure Mr. Clemens recieves appropriate compensation for his services as a guide."

With the buck sufficiently passed, Gideon Kastor entered The Bridge.

[Thragka]

Titus nodded dutifully, stepping aside to Clemens. He spoke quietly to the guide as he seemed to fumble in his pocket for the money.

"Your, ah, senior supervisor would seem to believe in a place for everyone and everyone in their place, hmm?" he vouched conversationally, a hint of a smile twitching across his lips. "I recall the hierarchy of service in an institution this size, before I joined Mr Kastor's service. It certainly contributed to my acceptance of his offer."

Titus handed over thirty thrones-worth of House Krin bankers' notes, folded over in his palm. "Still, there were some perks, I recall. You must have the run of the station. And those magnificent beasts passing through - Captain Vyres's, you said? Very impressive. Do you have the chance to see such wonders often, on 41 Pry?"

OOC:
Trying to Charm the socks off Clemens. Fellowship 46: [roll0]

[LCP]

Clemens took the notes with a deft motion born of long practice - if you weren't watching closely, you would barely even have noticed the money change hands.

"I wouldn't wish to say a bad word about any of my superiors, sir," said Clemens, glibly. "As for the animals, the central Dome is always being used as a market space for traders. Captain Vyres' cargo is one of many that have been sold off on 41 Pry." He inclined his head politely. "I'm sure anything you're looking for here, you'll be more than able to find."

Consulting a cheap pocket-chrono, he looked back towards the crowds beneath the clock spire.

"I will be expected back at the dock. If you have no more questions, sir, I'll take my leave."

[Thragka]

Titus held Clemens's gaze coolly for a moment, and then nodded. His expression a glaze of propriety, he followed Mr Kastor through the double doors.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red ignored the conversation with their guide, and slipped inside the Bridge with Tychon, immediately eyeing the crowd for Rhodes - or any other dangers.

[Etcetera]

Jericus followed the merry gang, leaving a faint trail of smoke in his wake.

He was enjoying this.

[LCP]

The air inside the bridge was thick with a heavy, sweet-smelling fug – human and chemical odours hanging greasily in the air. Passing through the double doors, Tychon found himself swallowed up by a kind of smoky darkness that was familiar from his old days on Gunmetal.

The place had once been part of the station’s original architecture – either that, or it had scavenged its fittings extensively from other parts. Standing in the centre of a raised grillework dais, its bar was a circle of defunct control panels, their cogitator banks removed to make way for a brushed chrome serving surface. No doubt that was where the place got its name.

On the left, the floor panels were sunk down in a dance pit, lit by glaring stablights that pierced the omnipresent gloom. Ranged around the walls, tatty alcoves with in-built seating and bolted-down tables hosted a throng of drinkers. The hubbub of their voices was raised to an unnatural volume in order to overcome the bass, thumping pound music that was being piped in via the club’s speakers, just visible in the tangle of heating and ventilation ducts that swarmed across the low ceiling.

Patrons were still flowing in in considerable numbers – soon enough, Tychon guessed, the music and the shouting were going to get a lot louder. Gravitating subconsciously to the high ground of the bar, he looked around, realising somewhat belatedly that he had no idea what this contact was supposed to look like.

“Drink for you, gentlemen?” asked the man behind the bar, oozing up with an oleaginous grin. “Something for the lady?”

He stopped as he saw Red, the lethal bulk of the Sollex and Tauron’s chainsword catching his eye immediately.

“Hey, you can’t bring those in here!”

Another man stepped out of the gloom on their left, leaning his elbows on the bar to make himself heard to the barkeep.

“It’s alright, Jax, they’re with me.” He was a short man, a small, round head finishing in a sharp chin lined with sharp stubble. A credit disk slid across the bar-top, and the barkeep shut his mouth with a reluctant expression.

Looking up at the Acolytes, the newcomer offered a stubby-fingered hand to the first of them who would shake it. Emerging from the sleeve of a jacket that seemed a little too large, colourful and expensive to match the rest of his clothes, it was clean, but had the calluses and short fingernails of someone who was used to manual work.

“I assume I have the pleasure to be addressin’ Mr Kastor and company?” he asked, with his best attempt at a cheeky grin. “Nahum Sawney at your service, gents. Lady,” he added, with a flourish.

“You folks waiting on anything from Jax, or would you like to take a seat?” He gestured towards an empty alcove in the corner. “I understan’ we’ve some business to discuss.”

[Etcetera]

Erasmus winked at the barman, pulling a handful of credits from his belt.

"A bottle of your strongest, friend. I always find business goes better with a little... grease in the wheels, as it were."

Business related expenses.

[Thragka]

Titus shook his head; Erasmus might want a bit of social lubrication, but someone had to keep a cool head if the business talk became complicated - in any sense of the word.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red interposed himself between the small man and his "Employer". Those were big sleeves. Big enough to hide a small firearm. Best to play up paranoia aspects.

"D'Y' have anything brewed from fungus? Developed quite a taste for it a while back." he asked of the bartender over his shoulder, never removing his impassive gaze from the man whose hand he firmly held in place, accepting the handshake for a little bit too long.
Long enough to squeeze. Hard.

[Destro_Yersul]

Normally, Tychon would have leaned casually on the bar. Now, however, did not seem the time for that. "Rye, if you have it," he asked of Jax. Being important, it seemed, had its benefits. Chief amongst them keeping your weapons. Tychon was glad that the bartender hadn't noticed his own assortment of pistols, but then, attracting attention was Red's job.

"Now then, Mr. Sawney." Mr. Kastor drew a lho stick from the case he had taken off the Miranda, sticking it in the corner of his mouth and lighting the end. "What shall we talk about, hm?"

[LCP]

“Why don't we sit down and talk about it?” said Sawney, still raising his voice to be heard above the thump and clamour of the music. Freeing his hand from Red's vice-like grip with a slightly unnerved expression, he recovered quickly, gesturing around him. “Too public standin' here, I'd say.”

Jax brought them their drinks – a bottle of something clear and ethanol-smelling for Jericus, and a tumbler of something cloudy and yellow for Red. Leading the way to the alcove he had indicated earlier, Sawney sat down on the flaking synth-leather upholstery of the seats, gesturing for them to do the same. It was a little quieter here, the acoustics of the place conspiring to muffle the hard echoes that plagued the rest of the club.

“Pleasure to meet you at last, Mr Kastor – in person, that is. Sorry to have to bring you to a place like this, but I don't have the passes to get you into anywhere more gentrified.” He took a swig from a glass of his own, already resting on the table – half-empty. “The one thing you can't get for cheap here is space, pardon the observation, Mr Kastor. Except the kind we float in, anyway!”

Setting the glass down again, he leaned forwards.

“I'm given to understand, sir, that you're wanting a ticket to Captain Vyres'... private party.” He paused. “That is right, isn't it?”

[Rizhail]

Maintaining her aloof attitude, Nova ignored the bartender's query, taking in the sights of the establishment with a look of disdain. She nodded curtly when Nahum introduced himself, and stayed near Tychon as the group headed toward the alcove.

Nova remained quiet, letting the others do the talking; afterall, her role wasn't one that required her to speak much. She took the opportunity to give the cell's contact the once over, looking for any tell-tale signs of armament or anything suspicious. Considering the situation, it payed to be paranoid.


Mind if I throw in an awareness test or two, LCP? Basically a 'see if there's anything interesting/suspicious in the club' check, and a similar one for our contact.

If yes:

Both vs. 48 (28 base, +10 skill mastery, +10 heightened senses (sight). Same bonus for hearing, vs. 38 for any other senses)

Awareness vs. the bar: [roll0]
Awareness vs. Mr. Sawney: [roll1]

[Thanatos 51-50]

"Ignace Bosc" carefully placed his glass under his visor and took a conservative sip of his rotgut, in order to hazard a guess at just how much he could imbibe before he risked incapacitating himself.
The "bodyguard" sat with his back to the bulkhead, with as clear a view of the dance floor as possible, the bulky, dangerous rifle laid casually across his lap, and he adjusted the chain sword so that the hilt reached tenderly for the priest's loving grasp.

"Also, any information you have on their security. And a..."
The solider paused, thinking of an appsroriate euphamisim. "Guest list."

Red let his request hang there as if finished, and then sat up suddenly.
"Oh. And we'd like to speak to Mr. Swaney."

[Destro_Yersul]

"It is, yes. I'm interested to see what sort of show he's putting on this time." Mr. Kastor had, evidently, decided he was not fond of the club's music, leaning into the quietest part of the booth in a way that conveniently left him a clear line of sight to the rest of the club. And clear firing lines, if it came to that. "Apology accepted, Mr. Sawney," he added as an afterthought. "I imagine that the noise in here is one of the best forms of privacy available on the station."

[LCP]

To Nova’s eyes, there was nothing too worrisome about their contact – she could see no signs of a hidden weapon anywhere about his person. Although the jacket was loose enough to cover a sizeable pistol, he wore it unbuttoned, and moved his arms too freely to keep a holster hidden. She could smell cheap soap and slightly more expensive alcohol lingering in the air around him.

The club itself was a more challenging prospect to examine, its murky shadows shot through with coloured lights and wisps of artificial smoke. Its patrons seemed as diverse as the marketgoers under the dome, although there was a strong contingent of station-workers and visiting voidsmen recognisable from their grimy work fatigues. Clustering in rowdy packs, they contributed almost as much to the noise of the echoing place as the music.

The lowered pit was still empty of dancers, most of the patrons clustering around the recessed benches and tables. Peering through the drifting fug, Nova saw that there was a raised ‘stage’ beyond it – perhaps the scene of some entertainment the drinkers were anticipating. It was certainly empty for now.

On one of the rusted stanchions that supported the pipe-tangled ceiling, she noticed something else. It was a metallic glint of reflected light, hardly remarkable in this steel-walled place – but it came from a thumbnail-sized fly that was crawling slowly around the old pillar. She had a funny feeling that it was watching them.


"Oh. And we'd like to speak to Mr. Sawney."

Their contact looked more than a little thrown off.

“That’s me,” he said, after a hesitant pause. “Nahum Sawney, atcher service.” He looked across to Tychon, an unsure finger flicking to point at his ‘bodyguard’. “Come to think of it sir, I don’t think this gent’s been introduced.”

Anxious not to offend, he let the question hang in the air for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing.

“Anyway, regardin’ the Captain’s do,” he said, “you fellows came to the right man.” Recovering a little of his confidence, he squared his shoulder and leaned forwards over the table. “See, Vyres’s got these outsiders runnin’ the gig – don’t know where they’re from, but hard bastards. Hard as bullets. That market in the dome, they’re all up in that too, gettin’ the punters in. They know who’s buyin’.”

“They do a lot of hirin’, though – haven’t brought much muscle with them, when it comes to movin’ crates and cages. I’m a cargo supervisor in the stern docks, where the Endeavour’s at – me and my boys have been moving the goods off the ship last few days, gettin’ them into the right places. They’ve paid us well for it, too. Now our shift’s over and their own people are taking over.”

“Captain Vyres, though, he’s a bit more accessible-like than these friends of his. Got to know him through the set-up of this auction of his, well enough to talk to anyway. Heard for your people that you were looking for an in, so I put in a word for you with the Captain, told him you were looking to make some... exotic acquisitions. Told him you were rollin’ in it,” he added with a grin, which he quickly retracted when he sensed he might have overstepped the mark, “which I’m sure you are, sir, pardon the expression. His eyes fairly lit up.”

“So, he puts in a word for you with his friends doing the organisin’, and your name ends up on the guest list just like you wanted. The auction room’s down in the substructure, away from all this noise.” He made a broad gesture at their surroundings. “There’s parts of the old refinery levels where you could lose an army, I reckon. Very secluded, if you get my meaning.”

“Sorted myself out to have the next couple of shifts off, so I can take you down whenever you’re ready. The way ain’t far from here.” He scratched his knuckles. “Can take you right away, ‘less you have any business here in the dome first?”

[Destro_Yersul]

"This is Mr. Bosc, my security man." Gideon smiled thinly. "I pay him to be suspicious."

Taking a drag from his lho stick, Mr. Kastor listened to the small man's proposal. Nahum Sawney seemed to know what he was doing, at least. He would probably have to have the priest, or someone, tip him too.

"Tell me about the good Captain's friends? I'm interested to hear any more you might know about them. After that, I believe we'll be ready to go, unless any of my party has something to take care of first. Nova likes to pick up a keepsake, here and there." Tychon wasn't sure how accurate that statement was, but Akadia had always wanted some trinket or other, when they had visited the markets in Gunmetal. He felt it ought to apply here, though the wares of 41 Pry were of an different sort entirely.

"Though, I should be liking a map. Place like this, it wouldn't do to get lost. That would likely be unhealthy."

[LCP]

"Tell me about the good Captain's friends? I'm interested to hear any more you might know about them.”

“Can’t tell you much, to be honest. Everyone they brought with ‘em, they ain’t part of the dock crowd – brought in from off-station, or up from the sub-levels. Trappers an’ hunters, half of them, people who know what they’re doin’ around animals. Got an Ogryn with ‘em too, for handling the big critters. Ugly bugger.” Nahum took a sip of his drink, grimacing. “I think he just likes bein’ allowed to hit things for a livin’.”

“The guy in charge, none of us have seen him. Heard of him, though – there’s some as say they’ve seen him around the station before. Mr Fox, I heard his men calling him. He seems to be the only thing that scares ‘em.” He paused, a look of sudden worry crossing his face. “Just the kind of man you want running a secure kind of event, though, sir. Professional, like.”


"Though, I should be liking a map. Place like this, it wouldn't do to get lost. That would likely be unhealthy."

“Got one of the visitor maps on me,” said Sawney, reaching into the over-capacious pocket of his jacket and producing a crumpled piece of glossy paper identical to the one the snooty official at Alpha Dock had handed them. “Only good for the hab-zones, though sir. To get a proper schematic of where we’re goin’, you’d have to go through the Handsmen’s guild. They don’t give that stuff up without a struggle.”

[Thanatos 51-50]

"So, say we were looking to locate a particularly pliant Handsmen with one. One that responds well to... persuasion." Red suggested, hoping the 'Supervisor' thought he meant 'Bribes' and not 'Threats of brutal murder'. "Where would one be apt to find such a person?"
He hazarded, hoping their contact was as nefarious as he thought.
"Oh, and Vyrnes' Guest list. If we could get our hands on that, I'd be..."
Red took what he could only hope was a predatory sip of liqueur. "Appreciative."

[Rizhail]

"I would like to see the market before we move on with business," Nova said in response to Tychon's comment, her eyes lighting up. "Who knows what we might find before we move on to the main event?"

The chance to sate her curiosity, and use the cover of the busy markets to plot with her comrades, was too good to pass up.

[LCP]

Nahum spread his hands. "The Handsmen keep to their own. Got a guildhouse somewhere down below the dome, but I couldn't tell you who to talk to." He shrugged. "Same for the others at the auction... it was pushin' my luck just to get you in. You'd have to ask this Fox." He took another swig. "And good luck to you if you do."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Perhaps it's best to drop the matter of the guest list. Wouldn't want to tip our hand, would we? I think we ought to look into the Handsmen's guild, though. And it seems Nova would like to see the market. You'll have to give us some time before taking us below." Tychon very much hoped that this was how rich people talked.

[LCP]

"As you like, sir. Best not to be too long about it, though - the other guests'll be arrivin' not long from now." Sawney sat back. "Shall I wait here for you, then?"

[Destro_Yersul]

"Yes, I think that's best. We won't be long." Tychon himself was going to go see the handsmen. Let Nova wander around the market, she could take care of herself. Standing up, he made his way back to the door and stepped outside.

Once the others had followed, he turned to them. "Ignace, Titus, I'd like you with me to go see the Handsmen. Erasmus and Nova are free to wander the markets, or whatever they like, until we get back."

[Etcetera]

Jericus took the boss up on his offer, standing up and ambling towards the market, keeping alert and his hand close to his moneybelt. He stopped a short distance from the table and waited for Nova. Splitting up further probably wasn't the best of ideas.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red glanced around the market, digesting the plan.
He saw no reason to not bring Jericus and Nova along, but.
Oh, yeah. Their cover for even coming back out without Swaney.
"Er... You got it, boss."

[Rizhail]

Nova strode after Jericus, maintaining a relaxed demanour as the pair headed for the market. "Let's see what all of the fuss is about, shall we?"


Nova is on the lookout for anything completely out of the ordinary (odd trinkets, exotic equipment, etc), as well as any weapons that scream 'hilarious/awesome way to murder heretics'.

[Thragka]

Tauron had kept silent during the brief talk with Mr Sawney - it seemed they wouldn't get much from this middleman. Following Tychon out of the club, he nodded his agreement. He had no idea whether bringing Jericus along would be a benefit or mistake in trying to get something from the Handsmen, but only a fool runs his tongue when he has nothing to say, so he refrained from offering an opinion on that point.

[LCP]

Tychon, Tauron & Red

Outside the Bridge, Tychon followed a particular flow of bodies towards an imposing array of rectangular towers that he took to be elevator shafts. The people queuing up at their gates lacked the bustling jollity of those diverting to the bars and gyn-sinks or the marvels of the market – they ranked up in grey files, waiting to be shuttled into the bowels of the station.

Pinned up on a wall was a diagram that was almost as confusing as it was helpful – down one side, a sprawling legend was laid out in tiny, close-packed lettering, instructing visiting crews of the zones they were permitted to visit, and how to get there. Scanning it as quickly as he could, Tauron picked out a symbol which looked like it had a good shot at being the Handsmen’s sigil – leading the other two towards one of the lifts, he keyed in the number he had seen written beside it.

Half a dozen others crowded into the lift with them, making the space cramped and sweaty with their bodies – these people had no conception of how important ‘Mr Kastor’ was supposed to be. With a cracked old chime, the shutters closed and the lift dropped, its own dingy lighting doing a poor job of keeping the interior from falling into darkness.

Descending some distance, the cabin seemed to shunt and rattle sideways for a part of its journey, as if transferred to rails – rising a short way, it finally came to a halt, its doors sliding open. The other passengers flowed out, heading off in silence. Stepping out onto the decking, the three intrepid explorers found themselves on a low-roofed concourse with a metal grid for a floor, occasional curls of moisture exhaling from a tank-sized ventilation aperture in the wall facing them.

Consulting the zone index engraved in the wall once again, the three Acolytes headed right. This way, the corridor was queerly empty, only the occasional member of station personnel crossing their path. Fine layers of dust adhered to the bundles of cabling that threaded the steel panels of the walls, leading off down herringbone-pattern side passages that hummed and throbbed with unseen machinery.

At the end of the corridor, a large pair of dusty blue doors waited, their edges chipped and glinting with flecks of exposed metal. Above them, an angular and stylised picture of a right hand had been stencilled onto the surface of the bulkhead with black spray-paint, palm open and fingers held together in a gesture of benediction.

Stepping up, Red rapped on the surface of the door. There was a long, long pause – then, a vox-grille which Red had scarcely even noticed blurted into life by the side of the aperture.

“The hallowed and respected guild of Handsmen acknowledges your position at gate” – there was an artificial pause, and a harsher, more mechanical voice interjected with the word “FOUR”.

“State position and cause of visit.”

1

Nova & Jericus

Stepping out of the club, it would almost have been difficult not to get swept back into the currents of the market. Wandering through the narrow lanes of the permanent bazaar that clung to the walls of the Stack, Nova and the tech-priest browsed its stalls in a leisurely fashion.

There were a bewildering variety of goods on offer, from a bewildering variety of sources. The ‘streets’ were lined with stalls rigged up from crates and awnings, most of the booths and kiosks that sprouted up among them looking as if they had been cobbled together from scrap metal. Bottles of Wobble and Gorsk gyn glinted glassily on racks beside other, more exotically-coloured beverages, sometimes lit from behind or beneath by cheap glow-shows to increase their appeal. A sallow man with a lean face and bad teeth sat on a stack of book-boxes, hawking slim, recycled-paper volumes to passers by. Jericus caught sight of a couple of the titles and smiled to himself. They seemed to come in two varieties – penthrift dreadfuls like ‘Vandire’s Maze’, and cheap erotica from the Luna Mills publishing house on Malfi.

In a clearing amidst the man-made forest, a pair of showmen were performing a striking demonstration with an Acreage lightning chain, the kinetically-charged metal flashing and sparking as it whirled and looped in their gloved hands. Behind them, a salesman was holding up ingots of the same material, haranguing the captivated audience with exaggerated claims of its miraculous qualities. Contriving to ‘accidentally’ drop one of the heavy metal bars, he held up his hands for ‘calm’ as the crowd marvelled at the sheet of writhing blue-white sparks that flew out from the impact.

Every variety of the Imperial citizen was in evidence. Men with feral world piercings and tattoos sold strange oils and cloaks braided from some silky, moss-green fur; hivers with a lifetime’s worth of soot and industrial pollutants darkening the recesses of their skin hawked bags of ‘miracle dust’ and paper twists of chemical powders that apparently did everything from curing your tumours to giving other people new ones. Weather-worn frontiersmen displayed bundles of alien ivory and exotic pets in cages – Nova stopped in front of one suspended birdcage that held a swarm of scuttling hexapod vertebrates, curious little membranous wings emerging from behind heads that seemed all jaws. As she peered closer, one of the creatures flew violently against the bars, chomping its blunt, over-sized teeth in her direction.

Here and there, there was the odd priest, looking more than a little out of place amidst the anarchic riot of the bazaar as they cried the names of Saint Drusus and the Emperor. Scrutinising one of them as he passed, Jericus was fairly confident that he – and probably the greater part of the others – was a charlatan, shilling some snake-oil faith cure that could apparently be painted onto paper and sold at a profit.

Behind one such pulp-board pulpit, the Stack wall had come back into view for the first time. Nova was drawn by the shop-fronts she could see there. Besides the clubs and liquor dens, there were apothecaries, armourers and all manner of shady-looking emporia, their strange goods peering from behind windows of grime-encrusted plastiglass. Winding a little closer past a row of shaded stalls, she made out a few of the shop names.

Trismegistus and Friends:
Apothecary & Chymist

Lopez’s Exotic Art

A. Al-Radhaz, Purveyor of Curiosities

The interior of the last was so dark as to almost make her doubt it was tenanted – the only thing countering its generally derelict air was the glimmer of the glow-globe over the door that bore the word ‘open’. Behind its grimy windows, strange shapes hung silhouetted in the half-light.

Jericus, meanwhile, had spotted something else. Flagged with a huge banner that did its best to rear itself above the level of the trestle-table bazaar, a stall that ran for several tables’ length of space squatted under the words


SALVAGED FROM THE RUINS OF LOMAR!
LOST TREASURES FROM BEYOND THE MAW
ONE TIME ONLY!

Beneath the cloth hoarding, Jericus thought he caught a glimpse of some very interesting objects indeed.

OOC: Hopefully that gives you a flavour of the place. You can run with what I’ve given you here and choose something mentioned to examine more closely, or if you’d like to look for something else you can make an Inquiry check. The market's a big place!

I also assumed that you were not interested in buying an elephant, but if you are you can obviously visit the animal market in the centre as well.

[Etcetera]

LCP and Nova:

Jericus surveyed the tables of treasures with a keen eye. He'd always had something of a weakness for this sort of merchant, even though he knew that the first law of Magos Sturgeon probably applied more here than anywhere else.

[Thragka]

Down in the depths
Tauron shot a glance at Tychon, before turning to the vox-grille. To took a moment to trawl through two decades of memories, back to when the abbot would instruct him and the other noviciates on Correct Forms of Address to the Many Honourable and Esteemed Individuals, Guilds and Societies of the Imperium, although Throne on Earth only knew how fashions had changed across time and space since then ...

"The honourable Mr Gideon Kastor and his retinue respectfully greet the venerable guild of Handsmen. The gentlemen humbly request an audience to discuss transaction, or alternate arrangements, concerning the procurement of a map of 41 Pry that the esteemed Handsmen do care for and surely keep to higher standards than its lay population." Tauron frowned for a moment, played what he had just said back in his head, and then gave a minuscule nod as he stepped back.

[LCP]

Tauron, Tychon & Red

There was a long silence from the speaker, followed by the electronic crackle of a brief shuffling noise. A more human voice came over the system.

“The guild does not sell documents to the public,” said the voice. “Hab-level maps should be available from the dock officials, sir.”

The door remained securely shut.

[Destro_Yersul]

Looking for a Map
Deciding to take matters into his own hands, now that introductions had been made, Tychon addressed the grille. "We asked them. THEY told us to come to you. I've got some important business on this station, business which I'm sure that everyone is getting their cut from. I'm not after a hab level map." Folding his arms across his chest, he waited to see what they would say to that.

[Rizhail]

Jericus and Nova

Nova followed Jericus to the table of random treasures, preferring not to split up while in an unfamiliar and potentially hostile place.

She casually looked over the various items on the tables, letting Jer take his time before she dragged him over to the curiosities shop.

[LCP]

Tychon, Tauron & Red

There was another pause. Tychon thought he could hear muffled voices at the other end of the line, as if the guildsman was conferring with someone else. Finally, the voice came back.

“Levels outside the hab zones are not open to visitors. Refinery schematics are not to be issued without authorisation by the Board.” A brief hesitation. “Whoever you are conducting your business with should be able to procure for you what you are authorised to see. The Guild is not responsible for hospitality to visitors.”

Tychon had the feeling he was talking to someone who didn’t habitually have to deal with such requests. Whoever was on the other end of the line, the voice that crackled over the speaker seemed to carry undertones of a keen desire to be left alone by these strangers at the door.

1

Nova & Jericus

“Ah! Sir. Mamzel,” said the nearest of the men running the stand, bowing unctuously to Nova as she stepped up behind Jericus. “Come to see our wares? All the way from the Expanse, genuine salvage from the old worlds.”

Running an expert eye over the goods on display, Jericus quickly dismissed most of them as junk – many of them undoubtedly old junk, but junk nonetheless. Here were bearings and rivets of exotic materials being sold as nothing more than talismans, broken fragments of unidentifiable machinery being sold to those too easily mystified by the salesmen’s patter.

There were a few items, however, that drew the tech-priest’s eye. Battered and covered with strange patterns of weirdly-coloured corrosion, a bulky metal gauntlet out-sized most of the other pieces on display. It trailed the decayed remains of some wires and cables that would once have connected to some external power source: they fed into a bulky torc or collar that ran around the forearm-guard, just below the wrist. Mounted on the circular ridge were a dense array of tubes, the tips of sharp metal bars protruding from their apertures.

Behind another of the tables, a slim hoop of metal hung on a brass peg. It might have been a discus or a bracelet for a monstrous arm. Whatever it was, its outer edge was fitted with chainsword-like teeth, their mechanisms hidden within the body of the disk itself – if they had ever moved, their motors must be miracles of miniaturisation.

Finally, there was a third, more unassuming object. A polyhedral box of brushed steel, it was only the size of Jericus’ fist, or slightly smaller. Aside from a small octagonal power-port in one side, it seemed to have no outputs or apertures, its purpose seeming wholly opaque. From the scuffing of its corners and the weathering of its surface, however, it did seem truly ancient...

OOC: One of these objects (which one can it be?) can be identified by Jericus with a Challenging (-10) Common Lore (Machine Cult) check.

[Thragka]

Bothering the Handsmen

Tauron thought it would be worth one last-ditch effort - at least the voice through the grille sounded noticeably human.

"With respect, we do not wish to impugn the reputation of the Guild by implying that they should acceed to every visitor's request. It is simply that, as Mr Kastor remarks, the dock officials' maps are rudimentary in the extreme, as we are sure you are aware. Mr Kastor was made aware of your expertise in the course of his inquiries, and we simply hoped that we could make an honest transaction or exchange for a map made by one who actually cared for the station. If it is a question of security, we can offer collateral." He paused. "We can even offer our expertise, should any of it approach any matters that concern you; Mr Kastor's technological aide is an electro-priest."

[Destro_Yersul]

Bothering the Handsmen
"Quite so. The gentlemen I am working with, unfortunately, have neglected to provide me maps of a suitable quality. For that I was directed to you. All I want is a map. Once I've got one, I shall be happy to go on my way and leave you alone. I assure you, however, that if I do not get a map, and if I should get lost or otherwise come to harm during the course of my stay as a result, I will not be happy, and shall immediately terminate business dealings with the station." Tychon paused a moment to let that sink in. "I am a very rich man," he added. "I'm sure you know what that means."

That was, regrettably, the gunslinger's best card. If they still said no, he didn't have much else to bargain with.

[LCP]

Tychon, Tauron & Red

There was a whispered conference at the far end of the speaker. Finally, the voice came again – or at least, a voice. This was someone new, and who spoke a little more confidently.

“Mr Kastor?” came the calm voice. “I am overseer Allam. If you can provide us with the name of the station personnel with whom you are conducting your business, I will see what maps they can authorise you for.”

1

Jericus & Nova

Looking down at the little metal box, Jericus had a sneaking suspicion he was looking at something special. It might be wishful thinking, but the thing’s design matched what he had heard of the sacred Grey Devices – holy mysteries of the Machine Cult.

It might be a clever forgery, or merely a coincidental resemblance of some discarded component of a more mundane machine. Or, it might be the real thing...

OOC: For the information Jericus would know about Grey Devices, see p.146 of the Inquisitor’s Handbook.

[Destro_Yersul]

Bothering the Handsmen
Tychon mentally cursed the overseer. Hopefully, whoever was running the auction had clearance. Surely they'd recieved approval from the Board? He was about to find out. "The gentleman running things calls himself Mr. Fox. I'm not sure if he's one of yours, or if he has his own liason."

[LCP]

Tychon, Tauron & Red

The Handsman fell silent again, although not, Tauron thought, long enough to get in touch with some other part of the station. There were some indistinct noises, but the speaker did not come back on - instead, a view-slot in the door slid open. Tychon saw a pair of worried-looking grey eyes looking out at him.

With a clunk, the view-slot shut, and the door creaked an inch or two open instead. A young, pallid face leaned out, regarding them with evident nervousness. His right hand was a bulky but functional augmetic.

"Which levels were you wanting schematics of, sir?" he asked. By his voice, this was the first man they had spoken to, not Allam the overseer. "We - we're very sorry for the inconvenience. It's just protocols, you understand..."

[Destro_Yersul]

Actually Getting Somewhere
Tychon had to fight the urge to smile, settling on something a little closer to a suitably grim half-smile. Mr. Kastor was a serious man, who had technically just threatened these people. "Not to worry," he said, "I knew you would see it my way in the end. I'll be wanting all the levels you can authorise for me, downloaded to a dataslate. I can provide compensation for the slate, if you require it."

[Etcetera]

LCP and Nova
Erasmus bit the bullet, getting the stallholder's attention and pointed to the cylinder.

"Hello! Friend, how much would you charge me to take this piece of junk of your hands? I'm thinking it'd look good in my cabin, yes?"

Erasmus had a truly inspired attitude to interior design.

[LCP]

Tychon, Tauron & Red

“No, no, that... won’t be necessary,” said the man behind the door. “If you’ll just wait here, we’ll have it for you as quickly as possible.”

The door clunked shut again. After an interval of approximately three minutes, the nervous handsman reappeared, holding a stack of three cheap, boxy dataslates. He thrust them into the hands of the first person who would take them, still not opening the door any further than was absolutely necessary.

“All there, sir,” he said. “Apologies for the, for the delay... we didn’t mean to create a difficulty.”

1

Jericus & Nova

”Junk?” said the stallholder, approaching with a genial smile. “My friend, this junk’s come half a sector to be here. Genuine archaeotech, unearthed from the sleeping cities of Lomar.” He picked up the polyhedral box, turning it over in his hands. “Ah, this is a very special piece. They found this on a raised altar, you know, in a shrine of its own. Got it from a free trader who’d fallen on hard times. Said he was sure it was some priceless relic... but then he didn’t have the time to get it checked out.”

He set the box down again with a gentle click of metal.

“Artefact like this, got to be worth at least two-seventy.”

OOC: Test Barter if you want to haggle him down.

[Thragka]

Team Successful Social Interaction!

Tauron accepted the dataslates without comment, and decided he wouldn't terrify or embarrass the young man further by turning them on to check the contents right there and then. But that was the extent of Drake's sympathy for him; he felt no guilt about bullying this innocent, because, in truth, if even without realising it, the young Handsman was helping the Emperor's servants realise His will. And what better result could come from a chance interaction with strangers?

[Destro_Yersul]

Team Successful Social Interaction
"Thank you," Mr. Kastor said, somewhat self-importantly. "I won't trouble you any further, as promised."

Gideon Kastor was a man of his word, even if his word was delivered with a grim and ever so slightly predatorial smile. Turning without a backwards glance, he waved to the others. "Titus. Mr. Bosc. We have business to take care of."

[Thanatos 51-50]

[Team Successful Social Interaction (It probably helped that Red did nothing)]
Red did as best as he could to look dejected that he wouldn't be able to kill, maim, and burn the entire handsmen's guild and worldlessly followed Titus and Tychon back to the market.

[LCP]

Tauron, Tychon & Red

Back through the dust-clogged maintenance corridors that led to the Handsmen's door, and one of the elevators in the central spine hoisted them back to the dome level the way they had come.

The market was still in full swing - there was a definite air of revelry to the place now, people flowing from some unseen levels towards the showmen and drinking-dens that fringed the outer bazaar. Still the animals in the metal pens brayed, filling the recycled air with their warm stink.

Spotting Jericus and Nova amidst the bustle and confusion would be nigh-impossible - at least, by eye. However, there was a lot else to see.

[Etcetera]

hurr durr how do i fellowship
Erasmus held the gaze of the stallholder for a few seconds, waiting for him to make a lower offer.

...

Erasumus sighed, forking over 270 thrones. He hoped he's made the right decision. Ah, the exciting life of the itinerant tech-priest.

Still, there might be a chance to recoup his investment later on. Through entirely legal and honest means, of course.

[LCP]

Jericus & Nova

The stallholder took Jericus' money with the gleeful eagerness of someone who had not met the "stare in silence" school of haggling before, but was hoping to encounter it more in future. Waiting a moment or two to make sure this particular customer wasn't about to be convinced to buy anything else, he scuttled away to attend to another onlooker.

OOC: So, on to Nova and the curiosity shop now? Does Jericus go with her?

[Thragka]

Tauron, Tychon & Red

Tauron gave a perfunctory glance about the market before turning his attention back to the spoils of diplomacy. "Let us find out just how successful we have been," he said, switching one of the dataslates on.

[LCP]

Tychon, Tauron & Red

The data-slate fizzled reluctantly into life. Tauron caught a glimpse of an authorisation screen that vanished as soon as it appeared, some code having been entered to put its demands for passwords and idents to one side.

A message appeared in the centre of the screen in flickering green letters.


++LOADING++
++HAVE PATIENCE++

This persisted for about a minute.

Finally, inching onto the screen in slow-loading bars, a three-dimensional image of the station appeared. It was a wireframe model, seeming to correspond closely with what Tauron had seen of 41 Pry on their approach – its internal structure, however, was criss-crossed by a rat’s nest of hair-thin lines in varying shades of the data-slate’s luminous green, until the heart of the thing seemed a solid mass of colour.

He could see passageways and chambers marked with their own schemes, nestling in cradles of pipes and refinery equipment in the station’s bowels. There were the black voids of deep holds, and the dim bulk of massive capacitor banks feeding the ion pump below. Running down the side of the screen were a series of commands and filters that could be activated to get a less overwhelming picture – but their functions were as opaque to Tauron as the complex map itself. They would take some mastering.

Moving the slate to the back of the stack for the moment, he activated the other two in turn. The first was some form of internal documentation, laying out how the station was broken into zones, sub-zones and decks in exactingly technical and unhelpful detail. The second was a map of the Stack, rather less polished than the rotating schematic of the station as a whole – it appeared to have details, however, that the main map lacked.

1

Nova & Jericus

Finding nothing of interest herself at the dubious archaeotech stall, Nova tugged on Jericus’ sleeve, leading him towards the darkened windows of the still more dubious-looking ‘curiosity shop’. Jericus looked in through the grimy plastiglass with some suspicion. He was fairly sure that the cheap fiction on sale in the bazaar contained stories about people being disappeared and made into meat pies in establishments pretty similar to this one.

Nova appeared to have no such reservations. Jericus heard the door open with the discordant tinkle of an old brass bell, and resignedly followed her inside.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light. There were lumen globes on the walls, but only two out of five were still working – and even they seemed to burn low, shedding light unevenly through the milky glass of their covers. Everywhere their light fell, it cast long shadows from stacks and stacks of strange clutter. Some of it seemed new, while other stacks were coated with thick layers of dust. No two items were alike – he started round in alarm as he heard a chitinous clicking by his ear, only to see a mouse-sized insect (http://webecoist.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/gigantism-giant-weta.jpg) staring at him through the bars of a wicker cage that dangled from a hook set into the door-jamb.

Its rubbed its mandibles together, drooling a string of caustic-looking saliva. Jericus stepped back, nearly knocking over an antique vid-picter that stood on a dust-coated hardwood tripod behind him. A tarnished brass plate on its side bore the design of a silverfish - no manufactory mark Jericus was familiar with.

Up ahead, Nova walked between the narrow aisles, gazing at their contents. Here, a rack of metallic-coloured powders in glass tubes; there, a suspended mesh bag filled with balls of a strange, amber-like accretion that glowed softly in the low light and gave off a pungent chemical odour. There, a cluster of strangely-shaped objects – technological artefacts comprising of paired hemispheres of curiously iridescent metal – hung by fine chains from a hook by the empty counter, beneath a plaque that supported a weapon that was either a hunting rifle, a crossbow, or both. Its stock was adorned with a crude, hooked blade, and its body had been ornamented with a set of faded, organic-looking quills.

By the counter – presently unmanned – a leaning and ramshackle bookshelf supported rows of crumbling, worm-eaten books. On the counter itself was a strange little potted plant. Nova had the uncomfortable feeling that the central flower - a bulbous, veiny thing like a cross between a Catachan mantrap and a head of cabbage - was moving imperceptibly to follow her movements.

On the other side of the pokey shop, a curious stone object stood alone on a tiny side-table of its own. Carved from some smooth black stone, it was a strange-looking idol, small enough to fit in a human hand. It resembled a tightly-coiled leech or lamprey, although its its worm-like body sprouted sets of curiously vertebrate-like wings or fins that wrapped it as closely as a rain-cloak. Its circular mouth opened into some dark recess inside the statuette, a gaping hole fringed with concentric rows of needle-sharp, inward-pointing teeth. It smelt of brine and ice.

Attached to its base were a pair of parchment tags – one yellowed and old, the other seemingly new. The older one read “Phagir Polar Expedition, 699.M41”. The newer one said “SOLD: S. Verenwen, for collection on departure,” in the same crabbed handwriting.

Next to it was a shelf filled with racks of smooth, sealed amphorae. Noticing another of the yellowing tags, Nova picked it up to read it.


Index 1775 – Essential Salts
For J. Curwen.

“Careful with that, please.”

The hollow voice nearly made her jump, coming from immediately behind her. Only the strongest restraint of her programmed instincts stopped her from delivering a swift chop to the speaker’s windpipe – instead, she took a moment to master her reactions, and placed the jar back on the shelf, turning to see who it was.

The shopkeeper was a tall, thin man, dressed in austere but shabby clothes that seemed many decades out of date. There was something in the cast of his dark, high-cheekboned face that was strikingly reminiscent of Al-Subaai, although his black, languorous eyes were nothing like the Inquisitor’s piercing blue stare.

“Apologies if I surprised you, mamzel,” he said, in the same sonorous tones. He spoke with a polite, old-fashioned manner. “I did not mean to accuse you of any clumsiness... these vessels are unusually fragile.”

He stepped forwards, reaching up and straightening the urn she had placed back on the shelf by a fraction of an inch. His clothes rustled when he moved, leaving behind a rich, musty smell.

“Is there something here that has taken your eye?” he asked. “I am afraid these items are set aside for other customers, but I am delighted to see customers in my little shop.” He gestured with one long-fingered hand to their surroundings. “Please, feel free to... browse. Or is there something specific I can find for you?”

His eyes slid over to where Jericus was standing.

“Or for your friend, perhaps?”

[Thragka]

Tychon, Tauron & Red

After passing the dataslates to Tychon and Red as desired, Tauron put them away in his pack, something like satisfaction glinting briefly in his eyes. He took a better look at the closest stalls of the market as he waited.

"So. Our next step, Mr Kastor?"

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon, Tauron and Red
Glancing briefly at the slates, and satisfied that at least the ones with maps had what he was looking for on them, Tychon straightened. "Now? We locate the others, and return to the good Mr. Sawney." Mr. Kastor regarded the marketplace, mentally tallying the number of thrones in his pockets. "I have my suspicions," he said, lowering his voice, "about the quality of the merchandise to be found here. Still, we may find a few good shells amongst the spent."

[Rizhail]

Jericus and Nova
Nova pursed her lips for a moment, trying to decide if she wanted to look around or accept the shop keeper's help in finding specific items of interest. Much as I'd like to wander the store, I doubt we can afford too much time indulging my curiosity, she thought. Best to see if he has anything useful and move on.

"I'm curious about the odd weapon you have hanging over the counter; the one that looks like a bolt thrower of some sort. What is it exactly? And do you have any other interesting weapons like that?"

[LCP]

Nova & Jericus

"This?" asked the shopkeeper, looking up at the item in question. "A trophy, really. Something one of my suppliers brought back from the Fringe."

Reaching up with his long arms, he lifted it gently down.

"A krootbow, I believe it's called. Carried by xenos savages, working for rather more advanced masters. A crossbow at first glance, but you see the magnetic impellors here, and here." He set it down on the counter. "A cost-efficient way of arming mercenaries, I suppose, but a toy, really - nothing truly curious about it. I mount it up there because it catches the eye."

He spread his hands in a supplicatory gesture.

"Alas, even such toys are hard to come by. I had a very interesting piece recently, but it was collected just today. Obtained to order, you see." He made to return to the krootbow to its plaque. "It's a collector's market, mamzel." There was a significant pause. "Do you collect?"

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon keyed his commbead, watching carefully around himself for people paying too much attention. "Nova. Location? Done here."

It wasn't a whole lot, but it got the point across. Tychon didn't want to be more than terse over their channel, no matter how secure it was supposed to be.

[Rizhail]

Jericus and Nova

The assassin smiled slightly. "I am a collector, of sorts. I like to collect seemingly primitive, lethal things. Blades made from exotic materials, strange alien weapons like that krootbow, trinkets and totems made from xenos beasts, and other items of that nature."

Glancing around the shop again, she asked, "So, do you have any curious things of that sort?"

A moment later her commbead beeped. "A moment, please," she said as she tapped the small device.

To all:

"At a curiosities shop in the market. Erasmus is still with me," Nova responded over the comm.

[LCP]

Nova & Jericus

The shopkeeper gave a thin smile. Nova couldn’t help but feel there was something opaque going on behind his hooded eyes as he waited for her to finish speaking on the comm-bead.

“I do have some items that might... pique your interest.”

Producing a silver key from under his flowing clothes, he turned to a bulky cabinet that occupied one wall of the shop. Dusty and seeming of cheap manufacture, it was only when he opened the doors that Nova realised how massively reinforced they were.

Inside there were only a few items, each standing a respectful space from the next. Before Nova’s eyes, a fat grub writhed in a jar of yellowish liquid, its soft and pallid body ending in a long, stiletto-like proboscis. On the uppermost shelf, what looked like a rose cutting had sprouted in a pot of dark, crumbled earth, filling the glass bell jar that had been placed over it with a strange, skeletal latticework of thorny branches.

Running his graceful hands over the contents of the cabinet, the tall man chose one other object after the other to display.

“If the krootbow pleases you, this may please you too. A Scythian blade.” The thing he held in his hands was a strange, curved dagger, seemingly carved from the claw or fang of some Xenos beast. The edge looked monofilament-sharp, a long groove running the length of the blade. “Probably intended for ritual sacrifice, before it fell into human hands. You see the curious copper canister in the hilt?” He turned it over so she could see. “It still contains a charge of the Scythians’ ceremonial venom. Pressure causes it to be secreted through this groove, like a snake’s fang.”

“Then there is the fusil.” Setting down the blade, he picked up a slender weapon from the shelf. Its aesthetics were strange – though to human eyes its plates and angles looked as if it had been bolted together from scrap, it was made of strange metals with odd, oily colours, and engraved with intricate, worm-like patterns of spirals that must have taken some skill to make. Running in some of the grooves were fine skeins of copper wire, running back to a black lozenge of opaque material that seemed to conceal the firing mechanism.

“I received this from a free trader who claimed he had taken it from strange creatures who stole aboard his ship. He had several such weapons, but this was the only one that survived his ham-handed attempts at modification. You see, he adulterated the breech to take Imperial-pattern plasma flasks.” He spoke with an easy contempt, as if this was the act of some pitiable philistine. “He claimed the Xenos that carried these were strange, boneless things that stowed away in the dark holds, cloaking themselves in shadow. When they were slain, their bodies liquesced into a stinking black oil.”

He held out the rifle for Nova to hold.

“A story that one would be wise to treat with scepticism, but the alien craftsmanship is undeniable. Its mechanism is mysterious even to me.”

“Finally, there is this,” said the shopkeeper, returning the fusil to the cabinet and producing something new in return. A thick but hollow cylinder of plastiglass, it was perhaps the size of Nova’s fist. Its heavy lid was clamped firmly down by three lever-action clasps, a rubberised ring beneath it forming an airtight seal. Inside a heavy liquid metal, like mercury, sloshed against the thick walls.

“The prize piece, I would say. Brought back from the shadow of Molus by an acquaintance of mine. Liquid armour.” He turned the container over, and the metal slithered round in response in a way that was not entirely in accordance with the action of gravity. “They say the tech-priests are still not certain whether this is some Xenos relic, or a life-form in itself. The first explorers found puddles of this material in the deepest places of the ruins there.”

He righted the container again.

“It has many strange qualities. Impenetrable to auspices. Hyper-dense, thermally impervious. And it attaches itself to skin... a living sheath, stronger than carapace.” He placed the container back on the shelf. “This is only a fragment of the original body of metal, but it is still enough to cover an arm or more.” Again came the thin smile. “Even this small amount is precious beyond words. But of course, I am a man of numbers.”

While he was talking, however, Nova’s eyes had fixed on something else. Resting one shelf from the bottom was a cracked and scorched helmet, chewed and split as if by the teeth of a chain-weapon. The glass of its insectile eyes was fractured and broken in, giving it an empty, hollow stare – but something in the back of Nova’s mind still recognised its slender and featureless visor, and its conical, swept-back peak.

It was the face of the ghostly thing that had appeared to them beyond the gate – but the armour of that misty apparition had not been made with the same serrated ridges and barbed curlicues. The visor was split down the middle by a dark slit, and from behind it Nova could hear cold, high laughter, echoing from somewhere in the blackest crevices of her sterilised memories.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red clicked into his commbead
"Want to be more specific? That represents about half the market.
Also: See any nice guns?"

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon, Tauron and Red
"That's useful," Tychon grumbled, looking around at the multitudinous stalls hawking dubious curiosities. "More trouble than she's worth, sometimes. Ah well, no sense standing here doing nothing, yes? Circle the market."

With that, he picked a direction and started walking in it, adjusting his vest as he did so.

[Rizhail]

"It's a shop with an extremely dark front and a sign labeled 'Al-Radhaz, purveyor of curiosities' on it. It's across the path from a large outdoor stall selling salvaged materials. There aren't a lot of landmarks around here, though I can give you directions as though you're coming from the Bridge," Nova replied to Red's first question. "And unless you like xeno weapons, the answer appears to be no."

((OOC: I'm assuming that Nova can, and will, pass along some general directions to the shop. Otherwise, we'll be playing tag in a densely packed market.))

Jericus and Nova:

Having finished speaking with the others over her comm, Nova turned her attention back to the shopkeeper.


“I do have some items that might... pique your interest.”

"Excellent." She followed him to the bulky cabinet, her curiosity piqued by the odd items stored therein.

The Scythian blade brought a smile to her face. Venomous, razor-edged, brutal. I may have to procure this one, she thought as she looked it over, taking in every detail.

Her opinion of the fusil was not as pleasant. The rough, salvaged appearance of the weapon, combined with its unknown mechanism and use of volatile plasma flasks for ammunition, was met with a frown as she hefted the weapon. I doubt even Red would want to use this, though Jericus might find it interesting. She turned and raised an eyebrow, and the alien weapon, in the tech-priest's general direction before the shopkeeper returned it to the cabinet.

She only heard half of the shopkeeper's spiel on the liquid armor before the broken helmet in the cabinet caught her eye. Time seemed to stand still as Nova stared at it, a mixture of anger and fear leaving her frozen in place.

The shopkeeper had been done talking for nearly a minute before she finally relaxed a hair and spoke again. "Where did you get that?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She realized a moment later that her right hand was gripping the hilt of one of her sheathed knives; taking a breath, she let it go.

The fragments of memory brought up by xeno spirit on Abandoned Hope and the cracked helm before her were frightening enough that she wasn't certain she really wanted to see anything else the shopkeeper might have of them, but morbid curiosity drove her to ask anyway.

"And do you have anything else like it?" she continued, her voice somewhere close to her normal tone again.

[LCP]

Jericus & Nova

The shopkeeper's eyes dropped to look where she was pointing.

"That?" he asked. "I believe I acquired it from an old soldier. A battlefield trophy." He looked carefully at Nova's face. "I did have some other items like it, but alas... stock sells..."

[Destro_Yersul]

Team Market Search
Tychon picked his way through the market, following Nova's passed-along directions. Keeping an eye on the market stalls for anything that looked somewhat interesting as he passed, the gunslinger headed towards the assassin's given location.

[Thragka]

Team Market Research Department

Tauron also kept an eye out as they went looking for the rest of the cell, trying to maintain a nonchalant expression towards any obviously xeno or heretical objects - he had seen few, even on a frontier world, but he suspected Titus Vane would not bat an eye at typical black market wares.

[Rizhail]

Jericus and Nova:

"Indeed..."

Nova turned back to the shopkeep, not sure whether to feel relieved or annoyed that any other items like the helm had been sold. "If that is the case, I'd like to take a closer look at this Scythian blade. And would you happen to have anything else like it? Other Scythian artifacts, or similarly curious blades?"

[Etcetera]

Team Retail Therapy

"Curiosity killed the cat."

Eramus communicated this vital piece of information to remind everyone he was still there, then continued browsing the miscellanea, willing them to float up and disappear into his all too empty pockets.

[LCP]

Nova & Jericus

The shopkeeper made a fluid gesture of regret.

“Alas, what you see is all I have. If there is something specific you wish to acquire, however, it is possible for arrangements to be made.”

He handed the dagger to her, hilt-first.

“The edge is extremely sharp,” he added, as a caution. “Be careful not to break the skin.”

1

Tychon, Tauron & Red

Entering the bazaar was like diving into a coral reef. Surrounded by diverse colours, the three acolytes walked down aisles of tatty stalls selling everything and anything to the appreciative passer-by. Strange creatures chittered and rasped against the inside of hanging cages, strange scents wafting from bubbling pots of strange food. The stallholders and market-goers wore the trappings of a hundred different worlds, and spoke in a babble of different dialects, some barely recognisable as variations of Low Gothic.

Finding their way from where they had emerged from the Bridge, the three eventually caught sight of a high cloth banner bearing the words


SALVAGED FROM THE RUINS OF LOMAR!
LOST TREASURES FROM BEYOND THE MAW
ONE TIME ONLY!

It hung over a sprawling stall that seemed to be selling tech-salvage, every lost cog of its jumbles of metal advertised as archaeotech from the Expanse. In the bulkhead wall behind it, permanent shops clustered like barnacles.

Over the door of one particularly ancient and run-down looking establishment, a feeble glow-globe flickered fitfully, doing little to alleviate the permanent shadow in which the place crouched. Painted over the lintel of the door in peeling letters were the words


A. Al-Radhaz, Purveyor of Curiosities

The shop window was crusted with decades of dust and grime, - behind it, the inside was so dark that the mounds of strange clutter on display were visible as little more than queer silhouettes. Sitting closest to the glass, a little porcelain cat waved its paw at passers-by through some simple reciprocating mechanism. There was something about its proportions that Tauron did not like...

[Destro_Yersul]

"Ah, here we are." Tychon ignored the junk stand with the huge banner. It was possible that some of their goods were genuine, like it was with every other dubious stall here. But as with the others, he had no real method of telling which was which. If only there were some guns.

Holding out no great hope for the merchandise in the curiosity shop, Tychon stepped inside.

[Thragka]

Tauron frowned for a moment at the cat statuette. Perhaps it was its proportions that sat poorly with him. Cats, in Father Drake's experience, were naturally malnourished and mange-ridden, desperate, cruel scavengers - how anyone would be comfortable with a fat, happy one waving at them eluded him. It looked as if it were planning something.

He followed Tychon into the shop, giving the figurine something of a scowl as he passed. Trying to put the unease it engendered out of his mind, he looked around for Erasmus and Nova.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red gave the banner a small, satisfied smile.
Purveryor of curisoties. Too bad none of those curios weren't going to be good, solid human guns.

For a few moments, he allowed himself to daydream about a high-powered, easily-concealable laspistol.
That would be something... interesting to bring to the auction, if they got upset about the Sollex's sheer killing power.

Nevertheless, he strode inside, following close on the heels of his "Employer".

[Rizhail]

Jericus and Nova:

Nova took the offered blade, taking a moment to get a feel for its weight and balance. Though she preferred longer blades, the dagger certainly appeared lethal enough, and the ability to pump venom through it was intriguing.

"Would it be possible to acquire a weapon or two similar to this, but in a larger form? I know these Scythians wouldn't be the only xenos to use envenomed weapons, and even some human cultures have them. If you knew of a way to procure a sword of some sort with the same function, and one of high quality at that, I would certainly be interested in making a deal."

"If not, then what would you require to part with this blade?"

[Etcetera]

Nova:
You kinda don't need to use spoilers any more, given that the rest of the team have entered the same shop as us.

Erasmus turned at the sound of footsteps and gave a toothy grin as his boss and colleagues entered the tent.

Dammit, how had Erasmus talked the first time? Jer couldn't remember.

Erasmus nodded to his boss.

[LCP]

Nova & Jericus

The shopkeeper repeated his slight, shallow smile, opaque thoughts seeming to move behind his dark eyes.

“A Scythian blade is not merely a syringe for poison, mamzel. It is a ceremonial artefact, a work of art. As for larger specimens... enquiries could be made, at some expense. When would you be returning to this little station?”

He took the dagger from her and placed it back on its stand.

“As for the talon, I would value it at... no less than thirteen hundred throne gelt, Scintillan value.” He glanced to 'Erasmus' and back to Nova. “Is that within mamzel's means?”

OOC: You can make a Barter check to haggle this price down.

Everyone

The door of the shop swung open with a creak instead of a jingle. Looking round, Nova saw the others at the threshold, stepping slowly into the gloomy jumble of the interior as their eyes adjusted to the sudden shade.

Looking around, Tychon found his gaze wandering across shelves and stacks of bizarre clutter – much of it old and dusty, much of it strange and foreign to his eyes. Jericus was wandering alone among some of the cramped aisles nearer the front window. Towards the back of the shop, Nova was standing with a tall, dark man in musty robes, beside a cabinet which the man had smoothly and quietly folded shut the moment they had entered. There was something about the cast of his features that bore a disquieting resemblance to the Inquisitor.

“Friends?” he asked, seemingly to Nova. There was the hint of a far-off accent to his voice – one Tauron couldn't place.

OOC: A detailed (but not comprehensive) description of the shop's interior can be found in Nova & Jericus' spoiler here (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=13054565&postcount=80).

[Rizhail]

"Indeed," Nova replied. "As for the blade, that is within our means, but I must clear it with our accountant first. He becomes somewhat irate if I spend overa thousand thrones without letting him know. I'll return to purchase the blade within a day or so, once our other business is concluded."


No haggling from Nova here. I doubt I could roll well enough untrained to succeed, and it wouldn't help against a price that starts that high.


With a slight bow, she turned and walked to the where the others had entered the shop. "So, how did it go?" she asked Tychon quietly.

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon didn't answer immediately. He had stopped near a display, peering at some small curio or other. Straightening when Nova approached, he nodded. "We sorted out the last few details satisfactorily. I've other business to get to now. Let's get going, shall we?" It was not inflected as a question. Mr. Kastor had a limited amount of patience, after all. Rich men did not often need to wait.

[LCP]

"As for the blade, that is within our means, but I must clear it with our accountant first. He becomes somewhat irate if I spend overa thousand thrones without letting him know. I'll return to purchase the blade within a day or so, once our other business is concluded."

The shopkeeper nodded.

"I will look forward to making your acquaintance again," he said, keeping his voice low and stepping out of Tychon's eyeline as soon as he clocked that the newcomer was not a customer. The man's silver key turned in the door of the cabinet with a soft click - when Nova looked round, he had vanished completely, retreating without a sound into the deeper shadows of the crumbling shop.

[Rizhail]

"Right behind you," Nova replied with a slight bow, following Tychon as the group headed for the door. Once outside and back amongst the crowds, she spoke up again, just loudly enough to be heard over the din. "So, how did it go, and what's the plan?"

[Thanatos 51-50]

"We got our hands on a map." Red muttered to Nova and Jericus, dodging through the crowds with the practiced ease of a Hiver, speaking only when adjacent to the group and he could communicate in a low whisper.
"Mister 'Fox', it seems, is a particularly powerful and dangerous man. Moreso than we might have gone in assuming."

[Thragka]

"You might want to take a look at the data-slates we obtained, Erasmus" added Tauron. "They might yield more information to you than the rest of us."

[Etcetera]

"Ah, yes."

Erasmus reached out to take the dataslates and began to peruse them.

[LCP]

There were three data-slates. The first was a two-dimensional map of the Stack, broken into levels and segments interwoven with thread-like corridors; the second was the documentation of whatever arcane indexing scheme had been applied to the station's various parts.

The third was a detailed three-dimensional schematic of the station as a whole, rotatable, enlargeable and examinable in a dozen other ways if you could figure out the obscure controls. They had had maps like this back in Jericus' old mine-works, although the demands they put on the memory of something as simple as a data-slate were so stringent that most of the workers just used paper maps rather than wait for the things to respond. By the speed at which it was loading onto the screen, this one looked to have the same problem.

Waiting for the machine to finish its glacial preparations, Jericus quickly explored its functions. It was a trivial matter for him to master, although to understand what parts of the station he was looking at would require more detailed reference to the index on the other slate.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Right now," said Mr. Kastor, heading back towards the Bridge at a brisk walk, "We find our friend. Once we've done that, we should be able to get a better picture of our situation."

[LCP]

Sawney was waiting roughly where they'd left him, although the club had begun to fill up quite a bit more than when they had last been there. As they approached, he seemed tense - a look of noticeable relief came over his face as he noticed them coming towards him.

"There you are," he said, getting up from his seat all energy and eagerness. "Ready to get goin', Mr Kastor? I think we might be cutting it a bit fine by now, if you catch my drift."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Lead on, Mr. Sawney." Tychon gestured to the door with one hand.

[LCP]

“Right we are,” said Sawney, scurrying past them towards the door. “Follow me, sir.”

As they turned to leave, Tychon noticed something out of the corner of his eye – a metallic glint in the air that flitted from the stanchion behind where Sawney had been sitting, as of the flight of some tiny iridescent insect. When he looked again, however, he could discern nothing; it had moved fast, and finding something so small in the riot of noise, fug and coloured lights that the Bridge was becoming was close to impossible. He was barely sure he had seen it all.

Outside, Sawney led them back into the shadow of the Stack, past the towering bulk of the main elevator stacks they had used before. He evidently had expert knowledge of the teeming habs, leading the way out of the roar of the crowds through cramped alleys and into echoing corridors. Passing the occasional stream of the common workers, they worked their way back into the steel warren, until at last they found themselves standing in front of a blast-shuttered door. Quite why blast shutters were necessary here in the heart of the hab-zones did not seem readily apparent.

Sawney gave a hard, tinny knock on the doors. After a brief pause, a port opened in the frame. With a tired mechanical whir, a picter-lens extended telescopically from the wall. Sawney leaned cooperatively towards it, and it imaged his face with several loud clicks. Slowly, it rotated to inspect the newcomers behind him – as quickly as a startled ferret, it sucked itself back into its hole, the shutter closing up behind it.

There was a rattle of unseen mechanisms, and the doors drew back on their bearings. Stepping over the threshold, Sawney led the way inside.

The other side of the door was a large antechamber. Brutally utilitarian in design, it had been dressed up with a selection of temporary trappings to soften its lines. Glow-globes, recently affixed to the walls, shed a low light over a rich red carpet and several cloth-draped tables, attended by slightly scruffy-looking but highly dressed-up servants. The tables themselves were laden with an assortment of alcohol in flute glasses, and trays of little delicacies on sticks.

Several other doors led out of the room, and occupying the centre of the back wall was the incongruous shape of a heavy freight elevator, its wire-cage gates currently shut. All these details had to be glimpsed in a moment, because a dark-skinned man in a flamboyant but non-military uniform was approaching them at a rate of knots, a huge and self-confident grin on his face.

“Nahum, you old dog! You finally made it!” He let out a hearty chuckle as he grasped Sawney’s hand in a bone-crushingly firm handshake. Nova noticed a chunky gold ring on his little finger. “Took your time!”

Before the dock supervisor could reply, the man had already turned fluidly to Tychon, subjecting him to the same handshake. Refusing to let go for a good few seconds longer than Tychon would consider normal, he looked him straight in the eye.

“Mr Kastor! Pleasure to have you here. I,” he said, emphasising the syllable as if it were one of his favourites, “am Captain Maximilian Vyres. But please, call me Max.” He seemed to like that one quite a lot too.

At last, he let go his grip and stepped back. “Alright, Nahum, you’re dismissed. Don’t hang about, man.” The supervisor bowed and darted away – his payment must have been sorted out well in advance for him to go so quietly.

“These are your retainers?” asked Vyres, gesturing with both hands to the others. His wandering gaze stopped on Nova with an obvious air of appreciation. “Grace of the Throne, who’s this? We must be introduced.”

He clapped his hands together.

“But first, some other introductions are in order. Ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to present Mr Kastor. Five down, two to go!” Turning on the spot, he clapped one be-ringed hand to Tychon’s shoulder, guiding him forwards into the limelight. “Mr Kastor, allow me to introduce to the rest of our illustrious company.”

The milling servers moved swiftly out of the way, revealing three unmoving parties standing by the tables. Max introduced them one by one.

“Mr Kastor, Eustacia D’Aragnia, Dowager Margravine of Malverre.” A woman whose face was all breeding nodded demurely back. She was dressed in the elaborate fashions of Malfian nobility, and a slim, hawk-featured man with one conspicuous bionic eye stood behind her, watching the newcomers assiduously. Unlike his mistress, he wore a compact, unadorned black bodyglove – from the look of him, Red had him pegged as an up-hive bodyguard of the first degree.

“Lazerus Norton, owner of the Scintillan Sanguidromes. You know, the circus shows.” This one was a stocky, well-built man, with a scar-blunted face and thick, muscled arms that spoke of a background quite different from the Margravine’s. He wore ostentatiously wealthy clothing with a heavy gold chain around his neck, and was accompanied by two retainers – a short, wiry-looking scribe and a hulking bodyguard who had the look of a feral-worlder about him. His clothes were crude and exotic, and there was a long-bladed chainsword slung over his back. Jericus noticed the studs of an injector rig protruding from the iron torc-collar circling the bodyguard’s thick neck.

“I prefer amphy-theatres, Captain Vyres,” said Lazerus, in a rough voice that carried the heavy strains of some down-hive accent.

“Apologies. The amphitheatres,” said Max, not breaking stride. “A very big concern indeed. We’re very happy to have Mr Norton here.” Keeping up the smooth pace, he moved on to the third introduction. This man stood alone, watching the newcomers with queer, pale eyes.

“And this is Simeon Verenwyn.”

For the first time, Max paused, seemingly unsure of how to describe his guest. Verenwyn supplied the details for him.

“A gentleman of Solomon, of considerable private means.”

“Yes,” said Max. “Yes, exactly.”

Verenwyn was short and slight, neither as richly-dressed as the Margravine nor as physically imposing as Norton. There was something unsettling about those pale eyes of his – Jericus thought it looked like some subtle aug-work had been done there, altering them into an aspect that was not entirely their original human design. Threading from the corner of his right eye, a thin filament of wire ran back to a cranial implant somewhere beneath his tightly pulled-back hair. His skin was delicate and almost translucently white, and when his hands emerged from where he seemed to habitually keep them behind his back, Red could see he wore supple leather gloves.

Letting go of Tychon’s shoulder, Max began to look round to his right. “And of course,” he began, “there’s” – but his words were interrupted by a deep, rich voice, and the fall of a huge, heavy hand on Jericus’ shoulder.

“Actually,” drawled Rhodes, “I believe we’ve already met.”

The towering nobleman barely looked a hair different from their encounter with him on Prol, his glorious moustache still immaculately waxed. Still dressed from the same well-tailored frontier wardrobe, a soft outdoor coat hung from one of his broad shoulders. Peeking over the other was the sleek metal barrel of the Nomad rifle.

“Mr Kastor’s associate and I have met before on... Fedrid, I think it was?” There was a glimmer in his eyes that seemed to say play along. “A hunt, I believe it was.”

The great hand lifted free of Jericus’ shoulder and extended for him to shake.

“I never forget a face. I’m afraid I can’t say the same for names, however. What was yours again?” he asked, smiling carefully. “Octavian Rhodes, at your service.”

[Etcetera]

Jericus' eyes widened in realisation.

"Oh, that Mr Rhodes? What a coincidence! I assumed it was some other Rhodes, yes, but how wrong I was!"

Jericus took the extended hand and shook it, matching whatever force Rhodes was putting into his grasp.

"Erasmus Keter, at your redoubtable service." Jericus put quite some stress on the opening syllables of the sentence. He gestured to Red.

"And you also remember Mr Bosc, of course? I recall you two getting on swimmingly on... Fedrid.

Pity about what happened to the other Rhodes, though."


By hook or by crook Jericus was getting that Nomad.

[LCP]

Rhodes raised his eyebrows.

"Mr Bosc? You know, I believe I do," he said, his voice still oozing suave etiquette. "A pity your other friends couldn't make it."

"But you haven't met Mr Kastor?" said Max. He flashed his gleaming white smile again. "Let me tell you, Mr Kastor, this guy! Fedrid has to be his favourite world in the whole damned sector. Asks me to get him a Fedrid Sa'vak, payment up front - soon as it's delivered, turns it loose so he can hunt it!"

Rhodes smiled politely at the free trader's chuckling.

"How many beaters did you lose that day, Octavian?"
"A couple of indentureds, and half a dozen servitors," replied Rhodes. "Well worth the expense for trophies like that, my friend."
Vyres laughed. "If I'd known it was trophies you were after, I'd have snuffed the bastard before I sent it to you."
Rhodes blinked, but his paper-thin smile didn't falter.
"Oh, that wouldn't count at all. I rather think I would have wanted my money back if you'd done that."

There was a note in the nobleman's voice that perhaps discouraged Vyres from further joking.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Kastor," said D'Aragnia, stepping forwards into the conversation with a pale hand extended to Tychon. Tauron noticed how her bodyguard smoothly shadowed her movements, always remaining a fixed distance away. "Would you do us the honour of introducing these other friends of yours to the rest of us?"

[Destro_Yersul]

"Pleasure to meet you, Max. And, of course, your friends."
Gideon Kastor nodded politely to each of the introduced dignitaries in turn. They were an eclectic bunch, and he had to suppress a smile imagining how poorly Tychon Urbanus might sit with them, and they with him. He didn't have anything to offer each of them, but when it came time for Octavian Rhodes, he thought he should put in something.

"Mr. Rhodes. I'm afraid my technical advisor has never mentioned you." Extending one of his gloved hands for the large man, Tychon took great solace in the knowledge that, whatever interactions the cell might have had previously with him, he had not been along to see them. It might have blown the whole game right here. "That's quite the weapon you've got there. Can't say as I don't prefer pistols, myself, but if I were a rifle man I might want one like that. How's it handle?"

The mention of two others to come hadn't escaped him, but he kept it to himself for now. Let Max reveal those details in his own time. Handshakes were due all around, evidently, and it likely wouldn't be polite to inquire just now. "Madame D'Aragnia. Erasmus has introduced himself, already. The gentleman with the helmet is Ignace Bosc, and this is Titus Vane, my personal assistant. And of course..." Turning his head slightly towards the assassin, Mr. Kastor smiled appreciatively. "Nova. I found her on a backwater world, and I must say retaining her services has been one of my finer decisions."

[LCP]

"Mr. Rhodes. I'm afraid my technical advisor has never mentioned you."

“I believe he was working for another agency at the time,” said Rhodes, shaking Tychon’s proffered hand. Though he was evidently stronger than Max, his handshake was merely firm, without the captain’s squeezing vice of a grip. The eye contact was still there, though, and in the aristocrat’s deep brown eyes, Tychon thought he could see a strange glimmer – a glint of amusement, as though Rhodes saw straight through him and found it funny.


"That's quite the weapon you've got there. Can't say as I don't prefer pistols, myself, but if I were a rifle man I might want one like that. How's it handle?"

Rhodes’ smile turned up at one corner. “Oh, well enough. I’m afraid when it comes to a hunt, a pistol doesn’t quite cut it... although I appreciate a well-crafted piece as well as the next man.” He raised an eyebrow by a fraction of an inch. “Are you a collector? I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve heard what it is you do.”


"Nova. I found her on a backwater world, and I must say retaining her services has been one of my finer decisions."

“I’ll say,” said Vyres, with considerable emphasis. He cocked a charismatic eyebrow with such practiced dexterity that it almost rose clean off his face.

Snapping his fingers, he pointed both his index fingers at Tychon and the others, thumbs pointing up like the hammers of cocked pistols. “Drinks?” he asked. “Of course you want them. Drinks here!” he called, turning to gesture commandingly at the servants behind the tables. They came hurrying over.

“Please,” he said, gesturing around himself, “help yourself to the spread. Get to know each other. We’re waiting on two more arrivals, and then we can get started.”

Shooing his lackeys into more agitated motion, he began to do exactly what he had suggested. The party in the antechamber swiftly relaxed back into its original state.

OOC: Feel free to approach and speak to the different auction-goers, splitting up or staying together as you wish. No need for spoilers. Skill tests like Gossip may be handy in places.

I’ll move this scene on as soon as a certain amount of chatting time has passed.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red gazed at the Nomad enviously behind the protective sheen of the helmet's face-shield.
"Rather, Octavian." he said, careful to try and keep the venom out of his voice "You may wish to get your scope re-calibrated. If I remember Fedrid correctly, the both of us were hunting the same game, and you... well, you quite failed to kill it, at least. Although you did bag yourself a marvelous feline. It's a pity you weren't able to get a good pelt off her, what, with all the damage."

The Guardsmen pointedly turned his back to the Heretic, and resisted the urge to spit any furhter venom in the man's direction, instead fixing an eyes on the Malfian's bodyguard. He knew the actual, dyed-in-the-woll bodyguards would be watching him. It's what they were paid to do, and he had come conspicuously armed. No doubt they already had him pegged as a rifleman, and he wanted to get a feel for them in case this all went down the sump pipe.

He circled away from his "charge" and approached the Noblewoman from the rear, eventually standing a pace and a half way and to the right of her bodyguard.

[Destro_Yersul]

"A collector, yes," Tychon said to Rhodes, reaching into his jacket and producing one of the fatebringers. Judge, specifically. "This is one of the pieces I keep for personal use. Though, I'm not here looking for weapons today, as should be obvious." Allowing Rhodes a few moments to look at the pistol, Tychon spun it back around and slid it into its holster with practiced ease. "You'll have to tell me about Fedrid sometime. I confess I'm curious. Right now, though, I think I should like a drink."

Ignoring the implication that Rhodes could see right through him, Mr. Kastor excused himself towards the bar. First order of business would be getting himself a nice bracing shot of whatever whiskey equivalent the captain was keeping on hand, and then speaking with the captain, and perhaps some of the guests. Something about Simeon made him nervous, but the Dowager seemed cordial enough, and Norton looked like the sort you'd rather have as friend than foe. It wouldn't do to go making too many enemies just yet.

Picking out the Captain as his first mark, Mr. Kastor approached, drink in hand. "Max," he began, "You mentioned two others might be coming?"

[Thragka]

Tauron felt even more ill at ease at the party than he had in the market. This was quite possibly the fanciest event he had ever been to, and he had barely any idea how to comport himself. Were personal assistants permitted to mingle? He guessed that he was higher up in the pecking order than Captain Vyres' food- and drink-servers, but that was about all he could say. He contented himself with quietly shadowing Tychon, making polite eye contact with and simply nodding at any other assistants he came across.

[Rizhail]

In keeping with her cover as murderous eye-candy, Nova remained quiet throughout the introductions, bowing slightly when Vyres introduced himself and putting on a self-satisfied grin at Tychon's compliment. She spent her time subtly checking out the various guests and their bodyguards, running through the most common mental exercise of an Inquisitorial assassin: figuring out the best way to kill everyone else in the room. Just in case.

[LCP]

The assembled auction-goers seemed to take some notice of how ‘Bosc’ replied to Rhodes. Norton’s crumpled face darkened, clearly not liking the idea of some goon of a bodyguard taking such a tone with someone like Octavian; by contrast, the Margravine watched the interaction with a veiled curiosity. If Verenwyn cared, it didn’t show – his smooth face was difficult to read.

“Well, I think the real game eluded us both, Mr Bosc, didn’t it?” replied Octavian, keeping his voice polite and charming. Only Red and Jericus could hear the knowing undertone to the name ‘Bosc’. “A challenging chase is always the most rewarding.”

Closing the conversation with a smile, he turned to mingle. Resisting the temptation to watch the towering nobleman’s back, Red turned his attention to the Margravine’s bodyguard. Behind him, Tychon buttonholed the captain.


"Max," he began, "You mentioned two others might be coming?"

“You got it,” said Max. “We’re a party of seven today – very exclusive,” he said, lowering his voice. “Whatever you paid Sawney, trust me, the man deserves it.”

Passing his left hand over the flute glass his hand, he took an unsuitably large swig of its contents. A deft flourish of his wrist produced a compact data-slate from under his captain’s jacket.

“The guys we’re waiting on... no name for the first. A representative of the Constantine Conclave, whoever they are. The House check these guys out, not me. The other, well,” – he tucked the slate back into his inside pocket without having to read it – “Mr M. is a man of sector-wide concerns. I imagine a big player like you will have heard of him already, eh?” He took another swig from his glass.

Tychon was only half listening, looking out of the corner of his eye at the stranger Simeon as he did his best to take in what Vyres was saying. The little gentleman from Solomon seemed content to keep to himself, not really participating in the currents of small talk that surrounded him – he stood like a sentinel by the nearest table, watching the others with those queer, pale eyes. Though his clothes were not as gaudy as those of Norton and the Margravine, they were equally well-made, and quite voluminous considering his slender frame – there was easily space for a concealed weapon under all that cloth. If there was one there, however, Tychon could make out nothing that constituted a definite sign of its presence.

“...so,” he realised Vyres was saying, “what is it that brings you here, Mr Kastor? Lazerus is buying for the ring, Eustacia’s stocking a menagerie... which one are you? Business, or pleasure?” He cocked an eyebrow again. “If this is your kind of scene, this could be the start of a beautiful... business relationship.”

Meanwhile, Red had worked his way round behind the Margravine. She was making small-talk with Norton; her bodyguard, however, was watching ‘Mr Bosc’ like a hawk. Stopping a safe distance away from them, Red noticed the subtle movement of the man’s hand in response, minimising the time it would take for him to draw his sidearm. He was observing the polite protocols of the perception, but he was ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

Seeming to sense her employee’s tense silence, Eustacia looked round. That belied a more keen awareness of her surroundings than Red would instinctively have credited her with – noticing him, she smiled and gestured to the nearest of the tables.

“You should take the helmet off, Mr Bosc! Captain Vyres’ caterers really have done surprisingly well. Try something.”

Standing at the back of the group still around Tychon, Nova noticed that Norton’s feral-looking bodyguard was also giving Red a wary eye. That one looked like a challenge in a close-up fight, particularly armed with a weapon like a chainsword. She found herself wondering what the injector collar contained. A device like that might make a man exceptionally dangerous when activated – but it might also make him exceptionally stupid.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Pistol. Red thought, keeping an eye on Norton's hand. Same trick he would have used, blink-of-an-eye weapon draw, it was useful. Still, a firefight was not much to be concerned about.

"You'll forgive a man for some vanity, I hope." he replied evenly to the woman, flickering his eyes over to check on his employer. "I lived my entire life on both ends of the rifle, as it were. A man does not lead such a life without scars.
Besides, there is a terrible lack of Verdad Suero outside of the rock I grew up on."

[Etcetera]

Erasmus, freed from the social binds of pretending to be interested in Rhodes and not the Nomad, made his way with haste to the drinks.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Very possibly, if it is who I suspect." Mr. Kastor swirled his own drink around in its glass. It was incredibly difficult to get fine drinks like this back in gunmetal, at least, if you possessed generally lesser means. He would have to enjoy this while it lasted.

"As for me, it's pleasure. I'm a collector of oddities and other things. Pistols for one, as I was telling Mr. Rhodes. Do you shoot, Captain?"

[LCP]

D’Aragnia gave an effervescent laugh at Red’s excuse.

“Really, Mr Bosc. If we were at all concerned about scars, Mr Norton here would have to wear a bag over his head,” she said, lightly. Norton scowled, but bit back his wounded pride; the circus magnate clearly had limited experience of dealing with women like the Margravine.

“Come now, it’s positively rude to skulk behind armourglass like this.” She paused, lowering her voice a fraction to make the conversation more private to the immediate group. “I for one demand to hear how two of the mysterious Mr Kastor’s retinue seem to know dear Octavian so well, and I refuse to hold a conversation with someone dressed as a cycle-courier.”

The woman’s tone was light-hearted, but Red realised that now Norton too was waiting silently on his reply. She had manoeuvred him into the centre of the conversation with some skill.

Behind them, Tychon and the captain were still talking.


"Do you shoot, Captain?"

“Well, not like Lord Rhodes over there,” said Vyres, layering on the false modesty. “Still, you know... a man’s got to know how to defend himself, out on the frontier.” He adopted a chummy, confidential tone. “Some of the things my crew’ve seen, Mr Kastor. They’d make your blood run cold.”

“Speaking of the frontier...” he said, an unrepentant grin sneaking over his face as his eyes slid sideways, “where did you pick up this beautiful thing?” He nodded towards Nova. “Calixian? Or some place further afield? I’ve been many places, but I don’t think I’ve seen clothes quite like those before.” His wandering eyes skipped back to Nova, and he widened his smile at her. “They suit you.”

[Destro_Yersul]

"A little further out," Tychon hazarded. Growing up in a hive didn't lead itself to knowing a whole lot of other worlds. "I'm not sure the planet had a name, actually. Not an Imperial one, at any rate. Nova, what did you call it again?"

That ought to pass it off easily enough. "I've seen my share of interesting things too," he told the Captain as added insurance, removing Judge from its holster once again and spinning the pistol expertly around on his finger. "I agree with your stance on defence, Max. There are a lot of dangerous places in the galaxy. By the end of today, I hope to own something from one of them."

[Thanatos 51-50]

"I'm afraid if that is your ultimatum, madame, then you'll have to ask those questions of our technical advisor. Things being as they are, I bid you adieu and wish you a fine evening."

Red broke away from the lady and her bodyguard, and with the most casual air he could muster, retired himself to a private corner of the room where he had a generous view of the entrance and the remaining nobles, eyes intently checking the shadows.

[LCP]

D’Aragnia’s eyebrows rose as Red unceremoniously walked away. Though his peripheral vision was darkened by the visor, Red thought he saw the woman’s bodyguard watching him longer than she did, the man’s hand still not moving far from his pistol.

Aware of how much attention he might have drawn to himself, he tried to identify an unobtrusive place to stand. Jericus was uninhibitedly helping himself from one of the tables Vyres had laid out. A few feet to the tech-priest’s left, Verenwyn was looking down at a tray of canapés as if they were alien artefacts, picking each different kind up in turn in his gloved left hand and then setting them down without a single one touching his lips. His right remained behind his back.

Probably not the best place to loiter, unless he wanted to precipitate a very awkward silence. He began to move away, but was stopped by a voice beside him.

“A small sector, isn’t it, Mr Bosc?” said Rhodes. His eyes smiled insincerely. “Who’d have thought we’d cross paths again?”

Heedless of the visor Red was wearing, Rhodes pressed a glass of something bubbly into the guardsman’s hand, taking a sip from one of his own.

“I hear you got awfully close to catching that wily old beast on Fedrid,” he said. His voice was quiet, but conversational – no-one listening in would have suspected an iota of subterfuge. “Bad luck, old boy. Still, try, try and try again, eh?”

Draining the last dregs of his glass, he produced a case of cigars from under his coat and lit one up. Before putting it away, he proffered the box silently to Red.

“Of course,” he said, “I suppose you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t still in the hunt. I rather think we’re here after the same old game.” He exhaled a puff of rich-smelling smoke. “Think you have a fix on your mark yet?”

The last words were quieter than the others. As he spoke them, Rhodes’ eyes slid sideways to the others standing talking in the centre of the room.


~


"I agree with your stance on defence, Max. There are a lot of dangerous places in the galaxy. By the end of today, I hope to own something from one of them."

“Trust me, Mr Kastor,” said Vyres, in tones that reeked of confidence, “you will not be disappointed. We’ve got something truly special for you this time.”

“I’ve heard all sorts of wonderful rumours about what that might be, Maximilian,” came D’Aragnia’s voice. The Margravine came gliding into the conversation like a gondola on a lake of mercury, smiling and nodding to Tychon as she did. Following much less elegantly in her wake, Norton and his coterie also did their best to join the conversation. “Is it true you’ve come all the way from Ultima Segmentum?”

Max grinned and spread his hands.

“All the way past Ultramar, my lady,” he said. “Let me tell you, Calgar’s boys in blue can be real stick-in-the-muds about some things.”

The Margravine laughed. A little slow on the joke, Norton leaned into the conversation. “It’s a long way to bring goods. You kept them fed?”

“The really valuable pieces we keep in stasis, Lazerus,” said Max. “But we’ve got some items from closer to home, as well. We know how to keep them in shape.”

“Heard you’ve got some fighting sapients this time,” said Norton. “I’d be very int’rested if that’s true. The fierce ones go down very well with the crowd.”

“Mr Norton, you’re going to spoil all the captain’s surprises,” said Eustacia, in tones of light-hearted rebuke. “I’m sure Maximilian will show us what he’s brought in due course.”

Max merely gave a mysterious grin. He was clearly enjoying every minute of it.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red took a cigar before sliding it into his pocket.
"Men like us, Octavian. We go where the Hunt leads us." he commented dryly, smoothly returning the bubbly to the drink trolley.
"I suspect we both expected each other, though I am surprised you got your financials in order to attend. I trust you had help from your friends in Sinophia Magna?"

[Rizhail]

“Speaking of the frontier...” he said, an unrepentant grin sneaking over his face as his eyes slid sideways, “where did you pick up this beautiful thing?” He nodded towards Nova. “Calixian? Or some place further afield? I’ve been many places, but I don’t think I’ve seen clothes quite like those before.” His wandering eyes skipped back to Nova, and he widened his smile at her. “They suit you.”

It was only through sheer force of will that Nova didn't give Vyres her best 'I can kill you faster than you can blink' glare when he referred to her like an object. Instead, she maintained her smile and gave him a slight bow in response to his comment on her attire.

"It's called Hekatarii, Gideon," she replied to Tychon's prompting, picking the first thing that came to mind. "Not the most pleasant place for offworlders, though it can be quite accommodating if you enjoy a good bloodletting..." Nova gave her best feral grin, curious how the captain would respond.

[Destro_Yersul]

"That's what I've heard, captain. I'm looking forward to it."

Mr. Kastor nodded to Eustacia as she joined the conversation. "Madame," he said, "I fear I must apologise for my security man. Mr. Bosc is surly at the best of times, but he's one of the finest shots I've ever seen." Hoping that would be enough to head off any potential insult from Red's actions, he switched on the charm. "Max tells me you're stocking a menagerie of some sort. Would it be private, or might you show a guest around some time? As I was just telling the good captain, I am a collector myself."

[LCP]

"I suspect we both expected each other, though I am surprised you got your financials in order to attend. I trust you had help from your friends in Sinophia Magna?"

Red was gratified to see Rhodes genuinely taken aback. After a moment or two's silence, the nobleman narrowed his eyes in wary respect.

“Now how do you know that?” he murmured, sotto voce...


~


"Madame," he said, "I fear I must apologise for my security man. Mr. Bosc is surly at the best of times, but he's one of the finest shots I've ever seen."

“That must be why he prefers Octavian's company,” remarked the Margravine, teasing. Already keyed in to the conversation, she turned her head to Nova when the assassin spoke. “Hekatarii? I don't think I've heard of that world. Have you met dear Lazerus' gladiator? You must have so much in common.”

The tall man behind the circus magnate remained silent, seeming uncomfortable at being made the subject of the others' attention. Norton intervened on his behalf.

“Thrax's world was called Vargary, m'lady,” he said. “Not quite the same.”


"Max tells me you're stocking a menagerie of some sort. Would it be private, or might you show a guest around some time? As I was just telling the good captain, I am a collector myself."

“Really? Well, if your business ever brings you to Malfi, you must call on us, Mr Kastor,” said the Margravine with a demure smile. “The Gilded Menagerie is a rather exclusive concern, but I'm sure arrangements could be made.”

At that moment, the door behind them chimed, rasping open once more. The assembled guests looked round as one as the newest additions to their party stepped over the threshold.

There were four of them. Bringing up the rear were three men in grimy clothes and tatty, brightly-coloured jackets – underhive clothing, though Red was damned if he could place what hive they hailed from. Nowhere on Guytoga, that was clear enough – not Gunmetal City either, as far as Tychon could see. Their skin was marked with complex glow-tats, and they each carried a stubby autogun over their back. It might be cheap, but it was more firepower than any of the other groups were carrying – Nova saw D'Aragnia's bodyguard tense. Norton's Vargarian flexed the fingers of one scarred fist, his dark eyes fixed on the newcomers.

The person they were following stood a head shorter than any of them, surveying the antechamber with an air of proprietorial confidence. She wore the same underhiver colours as her bodyguards, a dyed leather jacket and a flak vest augmented with a solid metal plate over her ribs. Like them, her skin had the fish-like pallor of someone who had lived a life hidden from sunlight. Her hair was cut short, and a small scar marked her face just below her right eye. Dark eyes held markedly dilated pupils, so that you could scarcely see the whites; at her belt, a stubby chain-knife competed for space with a more traditional blade. Tychon saw the outline of a heavy-looking hand cannon as well, beneath the scuffed leather of her jacket.

“'Sup, losers!” she said, loudly. “The money has arrived.” She looked around the room. “Which one of you is the captain?”

Eustacia looked at the newcomer as if she were a dog that had just done a rather curious trick.

“Who is this, Maximilian?” she asked. “I was told that this was to be quite an exclusive event...”
“Yeah, well who let you in then, auntie?” The newcomer made a flicking gesture between her thumb and her teeth, before her eyes fixed on Max. The dilation of her pupils really was unusual, Jericus decided – there was probably some pathology there.
“Maximilian. That's you?”
“Captain Vyres,” said Max, stepping forwards – his voice was possibly the only one in the room that could match the woman's self-confidence drop for drop. He held out a cautious hand for her to shake. “You'd be from the Constantine Conclave?”
“Wrong!”

The woman spat into her hand, and before he could draw back Vyres was shaking it. From where he was standing, Tauron could see a complex glow-tat that wrapped around the woman's upper arm – some kind of leech or centipede, all legs and teeth. “Mister M sends his regards. He un-for-tunately couldn't be here, so he sent me. The name's Milicent Stubbs. You can call me Millie.”

The reaction of the other guests to the name of 'Mr M' was more than noticeable. Seeing it as clearly as any of the Acolytes, the newcomer turned to them with a triumphant grin.

“Yeah, that's right, fragheads! You can put your wallets away, save yourself some pain.”

Norton was now muttering furiously to his scribe, the scrawny man feverishly tapping something into a data-slate. Eustacia examined the newcomer with an expression of acute distaste, while Verenwyn simply stared. Rhodes, Red noticed, was watching the captain, not the woman.

“Lot of guns you've brought there,” replied Max, keeping his cool with surprising ease. He extricated his hand from Millie's grip and surreptitiously wiped it on his jacket. “We're running an auction here, not a firing range.”
“Yeah, well, far as I can see these trogs are all packing iron,” said Millie, gesturing about herself to Red and the other guards. “We'll give you ours if they'll give you theirs.” She looked around. “Who are these guys, anyway?”

Clearing his throat, Vyres stepped sideways, making a grudging introduction.

“Miss Stubbs; Mr Lazerus Norton. Eustacia D'Aragnia, dowager Margravine of Malverre. Mr Simeon Verenwyn of Solomon. Lord Rhodes of Cantus, and the eminent Mr Kastor...”

[Thanatos 51-50]

"It turns out, libraries are good for something other than setting them ablaze, Octavian. Just an interesting fact I picked up from a recent hunting trip." the Guardsmen responded as smoothly as he could, though he found himself unable to keep the grin from his voice. "Besides, where's the fun if you get to keep all the secrets and I have none of my own?"

~

When Millicent Stubbs enterted the room, Red delighted at the Underhive style she and her companions showed. It reminded him of home. "Pleased to meet you, Millie Mother-Fraggin' Stubbs!" he called out. "May your arrows fly true."

[Rizhail]

Millie's entrance provided the first time that evening that Nova didn't have to fake a reaction.

The assassin was less than impressed by the new arrival and her entourage.

The hiver's over the top attitude irritated Nova on a personal level, while the aggressive nature of the newcomers put her more professional side on edge. She was confident she could take them in a fight; guns didn't mean much when Nova could be in sword range in a heartbeat, and she had yet to have a problem taking on hive gangers. We'll have to be careful, though. They wouldn't have been sent here if they weren't good at their jobs, and the leader appears to be drugged to the gills.

As much as a fight wasn't the best idea, Nova almost hoped one would happen before the mission went too much farther. After her near death experience with the daemon horde, the thought of taking down a few human enemies was almost pleasant.

[Destro_Yersul]

"I can only assume so," Tychon said with a smile. "If Fedrid is indeed Octavian's favourite world, they must have plenty in common." The drinks, he had decided, were excellent, and he would have to be careful and stop himself from having too many. "And of course I shall call on you, if I find myself drawn to Malfi."

~

Then, Millicent Stubbs arrived. Mr. Kastor raised an appraising eyebrow, attempting to keep his reaction to the name she worked for to a bare minimum. There was evidently a lot of money in play here, but more importantly, the field of suspects for association with Magos Phaestus was currently rather low. Rhodes had his own agenda, and he knew why Eustacia and Norton were here. He didn't know about the Constantine Conclave, but suspected not, if Vyres hadn't had them invited himself. That left Millie or Simeon as the Magos' representative.

Tychon raised his hand to his face at Red's outburst, pressing his forehead between thumb and fingers. "Evidently," he murmered, "surly only extends so far."

Straightening back up, the gunslinger folded his arms behind his back. Millicent and her goons had a lot of firepower, but he was confident he could out-draw any of them if it came to that. "Miss Stubbs." He responded when his name was called, inclining his head slightly. Mr. Kastor was a proper gentleman, after all, polite no matter the circumstances.

[Thragka]

Tauron was balanced in a state of having to perpetually suppress a frown. Although Tychon was playing the role of Gideon well, Tauron was on edge, concerned that at any moment one little slip would give the cell away. He did not think much of Red's arrogance towards Rhodes - not at all because it was rude, but more because it seemed eminently foolish to risk jeopardising their cover so early into the operation.

Still, it was better than pandering to Rhodes' sensibilities. An undercurrent of disgust was rising in Drake's belly. Here were the nobility, duty-bound to uphold the Emperor's laws, and yet they welcomed the Enemy by consorting in the xenos trade. Their airs and graces meant nothing; their heresy was blindingly obvious, and they were fools if they pretended their station would protect them from justice.

Nonetheless, they weren't stupid, and Tauron nearly winced twice during Tychon's conversation with the Margravine. To him, it was obvious that Gideon had blundered by leaping at the Margravine's invitation to Malfi - for her, it had just been an opening move in the conversation, and he had mis-stepped by playing into it too quickly. It worried him that Gideon would make a fool of himself without even realising it if he couldn't play with the circuitous , riddling nature of a conversation with somebody who had been trained in the art of communication. Hopefully, it would lead to no worse than private mockery at the Margravine's next social engagement.

The arrival of Miss Stubbs was a welcome interruption. Tauron found her forthrightness refreshing, and in other circumstances would even have welcomed a conversation - in his current capacity as assistant, though, he contented himself with as sincere a smile as he could get away with and a genial nod.

[LCP]

"Besides, where's the fun if you get to keep all the secrets and I have none of my own?"

“Indeed,” murmured Rhodes. “Best be careful, old boy. You might sprain that brain of yours.”

As Millie entered, the nobleman put an avuncular hand on Red’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your own kind,” he said in a lower voice, a gleam of white teeth showing beneath his moustache as he flashed a superior smile.

Removing the hand, he headed off to mingle. For such a big man, he was good at remaining unobtrusive – the way he moved, you would hardly have picked him out among Vyres’ servers...


"Pleased to meet you, Millie Mother-Fraggin' Stubbs!" he called out. "May your arrows fly true."

Red’s shout caught Millie’s attention immediately, her head snapping round like a startled feline. She blinked once or twice, then looked back to Tychon and the others around him.

“Who’s the goon with the bucket on his head?” she asked, blunt as could be. “One of yours?”

“One of Mr Kastor’s, dear,” said Eustacia. “You two should get on famously.”

Her tone of voice indicating that the ganger’s arrival had ended her participation in the conversation, D’Aragnia drifted serenely away, her bodyguard following neatly after. Stubbs stuck her tongue out at the aristocrat’s retreating back, and one of her associates smirked.

“Hey, there’s a spread,” she said, her eyes alighting on the tables. She slapped Vyres on the back. “Nice one, Maxy boy.”

Stepping over to the table, she grabbed a bunch of canapés on sticks in her left hand, and picked up a glass in her right, downing it in a single swallow. Setting it down, she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist, and stuffed five little cubes of cheese into her mouth at once, chewing loudly as she picked up another glass.

“Sho,” she said, speaking with her mouth full. She pushed an empty bottle out of the way and sitting down on the corner of the table, still chewing. “What’re we waiting for, Max? Let’sh get this show on the road.”

“There’s one more guest still to come,” said Vyres, keen to regain control of the conversation. Before he could continue, Millie cut him off.

“One more? I thought me and the boysh were bein’ fash’nably late.” There was a pause where no-one spoke: she glared at her followers and barked a single, loud, unamused laugh, spraying a crumb or two as she did. They took their cue and laughed uproariously.

“Who’re we waiting on, then?” she said. “More aristos?”

“A representative from the Constantine Conclave,” said Max. “They should be arriving any minute...”

From the wall on the left, there was a clunk as one of the side doors unlocked. Heads turned as a slight figure stepped through.

“As a matter of fact, Captain, we ran into them just outside.”

The man who spoke was neatly and soberly dressed. A long, matt-black coat hung over a loose linen shirt and a fitted waistcoat, his hands encased in supple leather gloves. Only a few inches taller than Stubbs, his face was completely hidden behind an intricate ballroom mask, made from some sculpted metal. It was in the shape of a fox’s head.

Stepping through the door after him came two lean followers in much cheaper, dirtier clothes. One was a tall, wiry woman with hollow eyes and cheekbones like knife-edges, the other a dark-eyed man with a bristling black beard. They both had the look of the frontier worlds about them, their garments hard-wearing and faded; over the woman’s left shoulder was slung a scuffed and battered old hunting rifle, as if in imitation of Rhodes’ Nomad. The bearded man appeared unarmed except for a cylinder of steel at his belt – some kind of telescoping baton, by the look of its rubberised grip.

Between them stepped out a man in trailing burgundy robes. An adept’s cowl hung down over his face, but emerging from his baggy sleeves Tychon could see the burnished brass of two sculptural augmetic hands.

“Ladies, gentlemen, the proxy for the Constantine Conclave,” said the man in the mask, making the slightest of motions towards the cowled figure. The eyeholes of the fox mask swept the room, and even Millie held silence. “Are we ready to begin?”

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon did not want to be the first to speak. It didn't seem right to break Mr. Fox's silence, like it would draw undue attention to him and the others. He held still for the moment, merely nodding politely.

[LCP]

“Well, I think we’re all here,” said Max, clapping his hands together. “Ladies, gentlemen, Miss Stubbs... if you’ll follow my colleague here, I think we’re ready to get started.”

There was the most fractional of hesitations before the word ‘colleague’. Max’s restored flow of bravado washed it away in moments, but Tauron noticed it. There was something about the man in the mask that gave the captain pause.

Fox Mask gave his two companions the tiniest of nods, and they strode over to the incongruous old cargo elevator at the back of the room. There was a clatter of chains as the doors were unlocked, and a rattle of old, un-greased bearings as they were drawn open.

“Kyrie will take our guests to the auction room,” said the auctioneer. The tone of correction in his voice was minute but precise. “I will rejoin you there.”

The bony woman with the hunting rifle stepped into the lift. Turning to face back into the room, she didn’t say a word – she just waited, subjecting the guests to a lazy, silent stare. Outside the lift, her boss made a polite gesture, and the representative of the Constantine Collaboration shuffled in after her...

[Destro_Yersul]

"Mr. Bosc, Erasmus." Tychon waved to the two errant members of his party to join him by the lift. Retrieving a few extra delicacies from the tables for himself, he walked over to the old metal doors, chewing on a small sandwich. Once inside, Gideon Kastor pressed himself into one of the elevator's corners. He would have nobody at his back in the enclosed space, if he could at all help it.

[Rizhail]

Nova remained at Tychon's side as the gunslinger entered the elevator. She leaned lightly against the wall, hands resting lightly on her hips near the hilts of her various blades while she kept an eye on the more suspicious/hostile participants in the auction.

[LCP]

Although the nobles looked circumspectly at the battered old lift, the auction-goers filed after Tychon into the lift. Stubbs was the last to enter, having been stuffing her pockets with vol-au-vents.

The woman with the hunting rifle pulled the doors shut. Crammed into the space with the rest of them, Millie turned to look at who she was rubbing shoulders with: it was Red.

“Fanschy ride we got here, huh?” she said, spraying a few crumbs of pastry as she spoke – she hadn’t stopped eating since she had started. Before Red could answer, Kyrie pulled a heavy lever, and with a heavy clanking of chains the elevator started down into the dark...


~

The lift had a long way to go. After a descent of nearly three minutes, it clattered to a halt; pulling open the doors, Kyrie gestured for them to follow her.

This was a far cry from Max’s dressed reception chamber. They were somewhere in the bowels of the refinery levels, that much was clear – thick pipes, like the intestines of an iron whale, wormed their way over the corrosion-stained walls, coils of rope and stacks of tools constricting the space in the already-narrow corridor the lift opened out into. Deep gurgling sounds and echoing, metallic booms reverberated faintly through the piping, coming from somewhere in the metal maze’s mechanical heart.


http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v700/LordChilipepa/RefineryLevels3.jpg

They passed perpendicular side-corridors that led off through banks of dully glowing furnace grilles, red heat quivering in the air. In the ceiling above them, tangles of ventilation ducts hung from the highest girders, swaddled in tattered shrouds of yellowed, aged insulation foam. Far down in the sweltering gloom, a group of men were working on one of the lower vents, the clatter and clink of their tools audible over the hum of the machines. They were stripped to the waist to work in the suffocating heat of their surroundings – glancing over his shoulder as he passed, Jericus saw the yellow gleam of luminum tats on their sweaty skin.

The workers paused for a moment to watch the strangely-assembled party passing at the far end of their corridor. They quickly seemed to decide that the newcomers were not worth bothering and went back to their task.

The party’s guide led them on, leading the furnace banks behind. They ducked under a tarpaulin collecting leaking fluid from a riveted roof-plate, funnelling the pattering rain into a single rivulet of falling water – soon after, they came to a heavy and ancient-looking blast door. A huge, faded number nine was stencilled across its face in flaking yellow paint.

Kyrie punched a quick quartet of numbers into the bulky keypad that stood to the right of the doors, and they ground open. Beyond them a great, hangar-like space opened up.

The auction hall had once been some kind of storage room or warehouse. It was lit from above by high striplights, leaving deep shadows in the corners. In the centre of the bare metal floor, rows of chairs had been laid out before a raised, temporary stage, bolted together out of prefabricated parts. Behind it, a great many crates and cages stood shrouded by heavy canvas sheets.

Occasionally, one of the cages would rock or shake, animal noises coming from within. A hulking shape was stalking between them, putting down such insurrections with prominent displays of the enormous shock-prod in its hand. It was an Ogryn, huge and heavily-muscled: the abhuman’s bare arms were criss-crossed with scar tissue, and his mouth was a jagged cage of yellow and broken teeth.

Others walked in the giant’s shadow, keeping a careful watch on their charges. Like Kyrie the guide, they had something wild about them, dressed in the clothes of hunters and trappers and more often armed than not. More than a few of them looked like they hadn’t washed in a while.

D’Aragnia and the others politely ignored them, taking seats instead as Max hurried forwards to somewhere behind the stage. Before the free trader could even get where he was going, there was a click of boots on the hard metal, and a man in a fox mask stepped up behind the podium.

How the auctioneer had got down here so quickly without taking the same lift, it was hard to tell. It certainly appeared to be the same man – the same height, the same build, the same clothes. Removing and folding his coat, the Beast House facilitator surveyed his audience.

“I believe we all know why we are here,” he said. “The proceedings, therefore, will be short and simple. We have eleven lots to auction, and they will be auctioned in turn. The winning bids will be recorded, and paid in full at the end of the auction. We have set up an account to which all transfers will be made.” There was the briefest of pauses. “All transaction fees, tariffs and tributes will be underwritten by the House.”

Max had now taken up a position by the stage, and the other auction-goers were all seated. Millie had chosen a seat apart from the others, putting her feet up on the chair in front and leaning back with her hands behind her head.

“One and only one member of each party is to place bids,” continued the auctioneer. He surveyed the hall. “Let us begin. Grum?”

Behind him, the ogryn gripped the canvas covering of the largest of the cages, and pulled it away. Around it, others hastened to unveil the others, unveiling a snarling and hooting menagerie of the savage, the alien, and the bizarre. Their sudden cries echoed from the metal walls of the auction chamber, making it sound for a moment as if all the hounds of Tartarus had been released in its confined space. Many of the guests craned their necks to get a better look: in the harsh light of the chamber, Tauron saw Rhodes and the hiver girl smile.

“We begin with Lot One,” said the auctioneer, speaking with the same level, matter-of-fact voice as his subordinates began to quell the alien cacophony from behind. “Karrikian Angle-Grinder Slugs, one hundred and four...”

Auction Lots
This spoiler describes what you can see of the auction lots arrayed behind the auctioneer.

Lot 1: A reinforced metal crate, containing a trio of piglet-sized molluscs on a bed of rank straw. Their ‘heads’ are armoured with plates of off-white shell, and their undersides are a carpet of razor-edged denticles. Apparently they are representative specimens of a much larger bulk order.

Lot 2: A glass box containing a roughly human-sized alien. Its body is invertebrate, and ends in a root-like mass of tentacles which apparently provide its primary means of locomotion. Emerging from its upper body are three spindly, triple-jointed arms, ending in hand-like grasping appendages. It has an endoskeletal ‘head’ with two large, butterfly-like eyes, but nothing resembling a mouth – only a frill of feathery respiratory organs.
Its skin is moist and rubbery, and undergoes vivid changes of colour in a manner similar to a cuttlefish, constantly rippling with bright, iridescent patterns. It makes curious musical sounds, and is kept moist by automated sprinklers inside its container which puff out periodic mists of water vapour.

Image ( http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii78/bravest_slann/Thyrrus.jpg)

Lot 3: Three Kroot, locked in the same barred cage. Their skin is scabbed with recent scars, and they look hungry, wearing only filthy loincloths.

Lot 4: A set of five tall cages, enclosed with a fine wire mesh over the sturdier bars. Contained within are a colony of thirty or more small, arboreal creatures, perching on or jumping between jumbles of dead wood that have been left for them to play upon. They are covered with fine, strikingly-coloured fur, and have dextrous paws and large, inquisitive eyes. Occasionally, when one yawns, you can catch a glimpse of some startlingly large carnivorous fangs.

Lot 5: An incubator containing a clutch of five large, leathery eggs. They measure approximately thirty centimetres end-to-end.

Lot 6: An ornate cage containing three small songbirds. They have extravagant, curling tail feathers several times the length of their own bodies, which glitter in metallic shades. When startled, they seem to twitter in harmony.

Lot 7: A thick armourglass tank of water, at the bottom of which swim a dozen or so finger-length worms. They are luridly coloured in blue and yellow, and fringed with feathery, anemone-like tendrils that undulate slowly as they crawl over one another.

Lot 8: The largest of all the cages, with bars that look like they might have been Land Raider axles in another life. Contained within are a pair of hulking Ambulls ( http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v700/LordChilipepa/Ambull-1.jpg).

Lot 9: Three separate cages, each containing a single animal. The creatures are hairless, eyeless quadrupeds with long, crocodilian jaws and low, powerful bodies like Terran canines – there, however, the similarities end. The animals’ skin and muscles are almost completely transparent, making the blood vessels and internal organs startlingly visible. Even their bones and teeth are made from some translucent cartilage, giving them an eerie, ghost-like appearance. They prowl hungrily back and forth in their cramped cages, which are almost as heavily reinforced as the cage holding the Ambulls.

Lot 10: A small, cylindrical tank of murky water, with a nest of rotting wood and organic detritus at the bottom. Occasionally, something like a grey, eyeless eel can be seen poking its smooth, worm-like head from out of this hiding-place.

Lot 11: A huge metal coffin, bristling with wires and cables. Jericus recognises it as a Locke-pattern stasis pod. It is an astoundingly valuable machine in its own right, particularly one this large – it could easily contain the Ogryn. However, it evidently already has something in it: its coolant tubes are humming, and it is hooked up to a portable generator that looks as if it is capable of supplying some serious power - it also appears to be powering the other amenities in the auction room, such as the lighting.

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon himself selected a seat where he could keep an eye on the others, especially Simeon. Millie was too loud to need an eye kept on her, and he wasn't especially worried about D'Aragnia, but the gunslinger wanted to be able to watch the other participants in the auction as much as he was watching the auction itself.

Speaking of which, some of the lots looked interesting. He meant to avoid the slugs, after seeing the bionics on Keynes' skeleton, but the little birds looked harmless. He resolved to win those, though he suspected that the Inquisitor would never let him keep them.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red tried to look as disinterested in the elevator as possible, and with his face throughly obscured, such a feat was not difficult to pull off.
"'Fancy' is a word that describes it, yes." he admitted to his fellow Underhiver. "Believe it or not, I've seen fancier."

~~~

The Guardsmen resisted the urge to bring his rifle to bear and sweep the room. It echoed the dream which still haunted him from Abandoned Hope a little too closely. Instead, he contented with pinching himself.
He sat in a chair which gave him as unobstructed a view of his fellow auction-goers as possible, in fitting with his disguise as a bodyguard, and he swept his gaze over the lots.
Eleven. That was the prize. That had to be it.

That was the easy part. The hard part would be identifying Phaestus' stand-in. Millie or Rhodes, for some reason, struck him as exactly the type of people who would do such a thing, and Rhodes was likely hunting the Magos as well, so that left Millie. She had already openly admitted to being a stand-in, was severely out of her element and blitzed out of her head.

Red kept a close watch on Millie.

[Thragka]

Tauron sat beside Tychon, in the perfect position to whisper in his ear - just in case there were placards to read or papers to sign in the near future. He kept his cool as he silently surveyed what could be seen of the lots, but inside he was seething with disgust and anger - there was more heresy arranged neatly in this room than he had come across before in his life, and he would not be Tauron Drake if he did not respond to that with a connate, raw anger. It was like a slap to the face - well, not literally, because an actual slap to the face would faze Tauron very little indeed, but he imagined that this was what people meant when they used the simile.

In his head, he recited a litany of self-control, but when that was done he took the liberty of allowing himself to recite a prayer detailing the promised punishment for those who consorted with xenos. It was a personal favourite, after his time on Ganf Magna, and one he could expound upon in great detail for an appropriate sermon. Vividly.

[LCP]

As the auctioneer finished speaking, Max stepped up onto the stage. Evidently they were about to receive the sales pitch for Lot One.

“We picked these beasts up on our return trip,” he said, swaggering across the stage to the crate. Gesturing for two of his helpers to angle it up so the bidders could see, he grinned. “Easy enough to fish out of the swamps, but harder to keep caged. Show ‘em the teeth, man.”

Putting on a very thick pair of armoured gloves, one of the Beast House handlers lifted one of the specimens out of the box, holding up its razor-toothed underside for all to see. As he did, the thing writhed and wriggled slowly in his grip, drooling a yellowish fluid – where the falling drops struck its container, they sizzled and smoked.

“Trade in these beauties is banned by Imperial edict,” said Max. “Administratum says it’s a pest control policy, to keep them from escaping. They say breeding colonies can undermine human structures. What they don’t mention are the cases of them using to dispose of bodies, without a trace left behind. It’s not just that they can eat anything, ladies and gentlemen, it’s that they will.”

The auctioneer interrupted Max’s showmanlike ramble with a precise, clinical statement.

“Bidding for the slugs will start at ten thousand throne gelt.”

“Twelve thousand!”

It was Millie’s voice that placed the first bid, the hiver sticking her arm in the air with an emphatic grin. The other auction-goers looked round at her with varying degrees of irritation.

“Thirteen,” responded Norton, gruffly. No-one else seemed to be getting involved, the two battling higher. Tychon put in a couple of token gestures, but quickly retreated as the sums leapt higher – the circus-owner clearly had designs for the molluscs, and Millie was not one to be out-done. By the time Norton finally triumphed, the price had risen to forty-eight thousand. Millie retreated in bad temper, glowering at one of her companions who had appeared to show her a message on a battered data-slate just before her bidding had ceased. It looked like the hivers were receiving instructions in real time.

The slugs were carried back, and Lot Two was wheeled out. Many of those who had seemed to switch off during the bidding war for the Angle-Grinders craned forwards to see: stepping forwards, Max began his patter again.

“This, my lords and ladies, is a Thyrrus. As of this moment, I’d lay a wager of my ship that it’s the only one in the whole sector. Sapient, ladies and gentlemen, and technologically advanced, though we don't understand their technology – the Guard are fighting these things as we speak, out on the Stemvari Front, and they're no closer to winning than when they started. No-one knows where they come from, or how to decipher their language, but they make strange and wonderful things. This one likes to sing, when it’s left alone – you should hear it sing.”

“Bidding begins at fifty thousand,” said the auctioneer. Max grinned. “You know me, ladies and gentlemen. Putting a price on the priceless.”

This time the bidding became energised almost immediately. Once more Tychon’s bids were quickly left in the dust, along with Norton and Millie this time – Red saw the woman fume as her mysterious messager reined her in once more. He had the feeling that left to her own devices, she would probably have tried to out-bid everyone on everything.

Still in the contest were Simeon and the Margravine, the noblewoman’s clear calls underscored by the gentleman from Solomon’s soft, understated voice. For a long moment, it seemed like Simeon might take the prize, but D’Aragnia committed to a final stretch and ended the struggle at a hundred and eighty-one thousand.

The Kroot were up next, cowering sullenly in their cage as Max extolled their ferocity and savage loyalty, making a point of how he had brought them all the way from the alien domains of the Eastern Fringe. Once more Norton and Millie locked horns. Simeon too showed interest, but could not match their determination; this time, Millie seemed to be freer to bid. Eventually, however, her companion tapped her on the shoulder with the data-slate in his hand, and her rampage slammed to halt - Norton was victorious again. Millie looked as if she might explode. The concept of anyone having more money than the huge amounts she had clearly been given to play with had evidently not occurred to her.

“Lot Four,” said the auctioneer. “A breeding tribe of thirty-two Pack Lorisids.”

“Not just for decoration, ladies and gentlemen,” added Max. “They may look pretty, but on Alagasie the locals put up steel shutters to keep these devils out. Chain up a bull grox beneath their nesting tree, and all they'll leave are bones."

As if to emphasise his point, one of the nimble mammals leapt against the side of its cage, striking the wall with a loud clang and clinging adroitly on. Its big, greenish-yellow eyes gazed soulfully out at the auction-goers – it was difficult to believe that such a sweet-looking creature could be dangerous. Imagining that Max might exaggerate seemed much less of a stretch. Still, the pitch had got Norton’s attention.

Making enough of a bid to demonstrate interest, Tychon retired once D’Aragnia entered the fray. The Margravine carried the contest swiftly at thirty-five thousand, willing to lay out more than Norton would on such a chancy acquisition. Millie appeared to be sulking, not placing a single bid.

“We move on to Lot Five, and the first of this evening’s more significant items,” said the auctioneer, as calm as ever. “A clutch of five Loxatl eggs, taken from the outskirts of the Sanguinary Worlds. Properly incubated and, this should be stressed, live.”

Max didn’t need to say much – he only gave his self-adoring grin as he watched the ears of his audience prick up. Stepping forwards to the edge of the stage, he spoke a single sentence.

“I trust all you fine people know what imprinting is.”

Norton’s scribe began to murmur excitedly in his master’s ear - the only one among the other guests, except possibly for Millie, who seemed not to immediately recognise the provenance of the eggs. Speaking up to maintain the order of the auction, the auctioneer spoke again.

“Bidding for this item will begin at one hundred thousand.”

[Thanatos 51-50]

"Erasmus. Mr. M has real-time data on the room. Let's see if we can see what Miss Stubbs sees, shall we?" Red breathed into his commbead,eyes fixed intently on his Underhive counterpart. She was hungry - very likely frightened.
Red suspected she was press-ganged into service.
He turned his attention to the others, and leaned foward in his seat, doing the best he can to conceal his motions as he popped the chamber of his rifle's launcher and unloaded the frag shell inside.
The Guardsmen froze, and intently scanned the room.
Anybody watching him, or were their eyes on Max's show?

[roll0]

[Etcetera]

Jericus surreptitiously pulled out his dataslate, switching it to receive in an attempt to pick up the hiver's instructions.

Tech Use vs 60: [roll0]

[Destro_Yersul]

Biding his time, Tychon watched the eggs. Loxatl, whatever those were. He'd have to ask Jericus later. Norton would probably make a go at these, or D'Aragnia. They didn't seem like something that would have interested Simeon overly much.

Once the first bid had been placed, the gunslinger stole a sideways glance at the representative of the Constantine Conclave. He was interested to see what, if anything, the hooded man with augmetic hands was willing to bid on. From there, it would all be a matter of what the others wanted to give up for these...

[LCP]

The guardsman froze, and intently scanned the room.
Anybody watching him, or were their eyes on Max's show?

Most of the other auction-goers had their eyes on the stage. The only exception was Rhodes. Like Red, the nobleman had taken a seat near the back, keeping the rest of their fellow guests in view; also like Red, he appeared to be watching the backs of the others’ heads.

Rhodes was watching the representative of the Constantine Conclave when Red looked, but he seemed to feel the soldier’s gaze. Looking over his shoulder, he met Red’s visored stare.

Beside Tychon, Jericus had no luck at intercepting the transmissions Red claimed Millie was receiving – it wasn’t a task the tech-priest’s data-slate was designed for. Tychon, meanwhile, was nudging Tauron into readiness as the bidding for the eggs began.

Norton led the bidding, but he was far from alone. Simeon joined the contest in earnest, and soon enough, he and Tauron were rivals in a bidding war that saw Norton pushed to the sidelines.

The representative of the Constantine Conclave was as silent as before – as, for that matter, was Rhodes. In their isolated group, Millie and her confederates were conferring in not-so-hushed voices.

The bidding passed the two hundred mark, and for the first time Simeon displayed signs of caution. Looking straight at Tychon with his strange eyes, the slight gentleman raised the stakes to two hundred and thirty, watching for the next move.

Tauron bid two-forty, and there was a long pause as Simeon considered his options. The auctioneer seemed about to call it when another voice called out.

“Two-fifty!”

Millie had joined the bidding, a fierce grin on her face. A couple more bids, and the hiver raised the stakes straight to three hundred. Conceding defeat, Tauron backed out.

“Lot Five is sold, for three hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer, conclusively. As his associates removed the heavy incubator from the stage, Millie leaned even further back in her chair, throwing both her arms up over her head in a gesture of victory.

“Boom!” she shouted. “Suck on it, gakwads.”

The other guests pointedly ignored her, although the auctioneer subjected her to three seconds’ worth of silent stare from behind her mask. She seemed to think better of any further pronouncements.

“We move on,” said the auctioneer, pointedly, “to Lot Six. From the world of Pulchressima, three Gilded Lyrebirds.”

“That’s the three Gilded Lyrebirds, here or anywhere, ladies and gentlemen,” said Max, resuming his patter. “Endangered isn’t the word. The Pulchressian authorities will not have been happy when they realised these three were missing.”

A ripple of laughter went around the room. The auctioneer, as always, seemed unmoved.

“Bidding begins at seventy-five thousand,” he stated. “The floor is open.”

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red held Rhodes' gaze for a long moment, flipping up his visor and looking pointedly at the Conclave representative, then back at the Noble, letting the obvious question in his gaze shine through before returning his gaze to Millie and back to Rhodes.
The solider jerked a thumb curtly over his shoulder to indicate Millie's data-slate, and waited for a reaction.

After getting it, Red slid the yellow-taped frag shell into his grenade pocket before replacing it with a red-marked, incendiary shell and finishing the reload.

Straight Fellowship test? There really is no "Innuendo" skill.
[roll0]

[Destro_Yersul]

Now the birds, Tychon actually wanted. They didn't look dangerous, and the Inquisitor might want to restore them to their proper owners, if they had indeed been stolen. They'd lost the eggs, but that only meant their reserve of money was still technically untouched. Taking advantage of that, Tychon decided on a price and hoped that this time, Millie wouldn't jump in right as he was about to win.

Going with an upper ceiling of 450,000 for the birds. Tychon doesn't actually expect it to get that high, if the other lots in the auction are any indication, and will be increasing his bids by 15 - 25 thousand at a time.

Dunno if you want to do the roll again?

[LCP]

Rhodes seemed to take Red’s meaning – however, he was almost immediately distracted by the auctioneer’s announcement of Lot Six. Something about the word ‘endangered’ seemed to make the nobleman prick up his ears.

His sole competition was Eustacia. The Margravine led strongly, and continued in the same vein. A three-way contest from the outset, Tauron and Eustacia were clearly drawing on deeper pockets than Octavian: soon enough, the man from Cantus bowed out, and two remained.

“One hundred and forty.”

“One hundred and fifty-five.”

“One hundred and seventy.”

Tauron’s bid seemed to give D’Aragnia pause. There was a moment of hesitation where the auctioneer waited on the Margravine’s next bid – then, with a gracious nod of her head, she ceded the contest to Mr Kastor’s capable representative.

“Sold,” said the auctioneer, “to Mr Kastor, for one hundred and seventy thousand thrones.”

The fluting birds were carried back off the stage. Max looked a little disappointed that they had fetched so little, but the auctioneer pressed on with emotionless precision.

“Lot seven,” he said. “Twelve Euphoria Worms.”

“You may not have seen these before,” said Max. “Native to Talassar, if you know where that is. They secrete a contact narcotic that is illegal across half of Ultramar. Just holding one in your hand is enough to give a powerful hit. Lethal, of course, in concentrated doses... by all accounts, a very pleasant way to die.” He slapped the side of the tank like a father congratulating a high-achieving child. “Great breeders, too. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out the implications.”

“Bidding begins at one hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer. Almost immediately, the bids began to fly. Tychon motioned for Tauron to stay out of it, having no desire to add to his worm collection. When the dust settled, Millie was victorious, taking the worms for only slightly less than she had bid for the Loxatl eggs. She seemed insufferably smug about it. Rhodes, Red noticed, was paying closer attention to the hiver than before.

Lot Eight rolled around, and Millie was victorious once again, beating both Norton and strange-eyed Simeon out of the arena with an eye-watering final bid to claim the grunting Ambulls as her own. She taunted the little gentleman from Solomon remorselessly, drawing pointedly to his attention how he was yet to win a single item – he suffered her abuse in icy silence. Meanwhile, the representative of the Constantine Conclave remained in undisturbed silence, still yet to place a single bid.

With the Ambulls sold, Lot Nine was brought up onto the stage, one cage at a time. The translucent hounds snapped their fanged jaws at the bars, rattling their cages – a jab of the Ogryn’s shock-prod set one spasming with a crack of electrical discharge, and the others quietened down.

“Glasswolves, ladies and gentlemen. Cave predators, from one of the moons of Circe. Hunt by scent and sound alone, and bite like bastards.” Max batted the side of one of the cages, and the animal within snarled and snapped in reply. “What we’ve got here is two males, and one alpha female. Suitable for breeding, or for putting straight into the pits.”

The auctioneer looked at the savage, transparent things for a few long moments before setting a starting price. Though they were certainly impressive, they seemed to command less interest than the items preceding them, Norton starting the proceedings by declaring that they were too grotesque even for the fighting pits. Tychon’s instructions to Tauron to drive up their price were of limited effect: they eventually passed to Simeon for the sum of one hundred thousand.

“Lot Ten,” said the auctioneer, moving on. “The Fensea Basilisk.”

The grey eel stirred from its murky lair, pressing its smooth snout against the glass that confined it. It seemed to have rows of vestigial legs protruding from its pale belly, wriggling like fins as it explored the soupy water of its glass prison.

The Basilisk, Max claimed, was an innately psychic organism. Otherwise defenceless, it was capable of inducing a fear response powerful enough to cause cardiac arrest in weaker subjects. Fantastically rare, it was a zoological curiosity in itself – and also an extremely effective tool of interrogation against those conditioned to resist more conventional forms of interrogation.

The bidding for the Basilisk was rapid and fierce. Millie made an early play, and no mysterious messager appeared to rein her in. This time, however, Simeon matched her bid for bid, quickly leaving the others behind. The hiver’s enraged sulk returned more strongly than ever when the message finally arrived on her mysterious data-slate to stop her from bidding any higher, leaving the gentleman from Solomon to take the little creature for the price of a hundred and ninety thousand.

“And so,” said the auctioneer, “we move onto Lot Eleven.”

Taking care with its thrumming cables, the Beast House handlers manoeuvred the stasis coffin delicately onto the stage. It squatted there like a monolith to some steel god, casting its shadow over the auction-goers in the foremost seats.

Leaving his podium behind, the auctioneer walked to the front of the stage.

“Since you are here, I trust you all know what this contains,” he said, slowly. He held up a gloved hand to cut off Max’s habitual salesmanship before it could begin. “Captain Vyres has told me that he lost seventeen of his best men capturing it. It goes without saying that should the House not be satisfied that the winner of this auction can properly... contain it, once it has been delivered, then the transaction will be considered void. A surcharge will also have to be paid for the coffin, since we do not consider it safe to allow the contents to be removed before time.”

The coffin remained still and silent, the humming of its pipes the only accompaniment to the masked man’s ominous words.

“The minimum bid for this item will be one million thrones,” said the auctioneer. He clasped his hands behind his back. “You may begin.”

There was a long pause as the other auction-goers looked around at each other, waiting to see who would be the first to bid. Giving them all a lazy stare, Millie spat onto the metal deck.

“One mil? Weak,” she said. She stuck one tattooed arm up in the air. “Two million, right here!”

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red forced a laugh up from his belly, and tightened the muscles in the back of his neck. The Guard teaches you many things - and one of the tricks you pick up is how to make your voice carry out across the din of battle without hurting your throat.
The Guardsmen laughed as loudly as he could. Loud enough to feel his own teeth vibrate.
"What Spire are you from, Stubbs?" he asked out loud, leaning forward in his chair again to disguise that his right hand curled around Abagail's pistol-grip.
"Where I'm from, Boss, a man who doesn't show you the goods is running a shell-game." the 'Bodyguard' said loudly, the implication ringing clearly. "Stubbs' folk may be more good-natured, but a man with a fox-mask ain't usually the most trustworthy of specimens."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Now, Mr. Bosc," Said Gideon Kastor, raising his own voice to be heard just as well as Red's. In the manufactorums of gunmetal, it was often necessary to know the same trick. "I trust Captain Vyres has indeed procured the... special... item, or we would not all be here, no?" With a smile, Tychon stood and bowed to the Captain.

"Surely, Max, you have a pict-record of some kind that would suffice for display of the contents? Naturally it would be too dangerous to open the coffin, but I have yet to meet something that can leap out of a recording. Let's have a picture, and you'll have two and a half million, from me."

[LCP]

Heads turned at Tychon's words. There was a long silence.

Simeon broke the silence, speaking in his quiet, high-pitched voice.

“Is it possible,” he asked, “that Mr Kastor does not know why we're here?”

The Margravine gave a little laugh. Up on the stage, the auctioneer remained silent, looking left to where Max was standing. The captain looked a little uncomfortable at being the subject of such sustained attention from his confederate.

“Someone carrying a pict-corder would have been a liability,” he said, at last. “But even if we did have picts, you wouldn't see much, Mr Kastor. That's the nature of this... particular beast.”

When he was satisfied that the captain was finished, the auctioneer looked back to Tychon.

“There you have it,” he said, softly. “Now, if we may proceed. Mr Kastor, if you are not satisfied with the conditions, you are not obliged to bid.”

[Destro_Yersul]

"I confess, Simeon, that I don't know why you're here. I know why Madame D'Aragnia is here. I know why Mr. Norton and Lord Rhodes are here. I'm here because I heard there would be some interesting items up for auction. Indeed there have been, though what truly interests me is the contents of that coffin. My offer stands, two and a half million, unless you would like to beat it?" Still standing, Tychon fixed the little gentleman from Solomon with his most level stare.

[LCP]

Simeon simply returned Tychon's stare. His modified eyes were good for that sort of thing: Tychon could swear the little man wasn't blinking at all. Like a snake.

"Two seven fifty," said Simeon, simply.

"Two eight," chipped in Norton, not to be outdone.

"Three!" snapped Millie.

[Destro_Yersul]

Satisfied that he had at least avoided answering Simeon's question, Tychon settled back into his seat. He'd lost face there, and he knew it, but there was nothing for it now. Damn Red for speaking up like that. "Three two fifty," he said.

[LCP]

"Three three," drawled the Margravine, making her entrance into the contest.

"Three five!" shouted Millie, aggressively.

"Three six five," came Simeon's voice once again...

[Destro_Yersul]

"Three eight." Tychon leaned forwards, watching the others. They were getting alarmingly close to the amount of money he had left in reserve. At the rate things were going, it looked like another million thrones wouldn't take long to go by. And then? Well, he'd be forced to bow out...

[LCP]

"Three nine," replied Simeon in an even voice. Norton and the Margravine were looking uncertain about staying in the contest as it climbed.

"Four!" said Millie. "Four mil."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Four million, two hundred!" The gunslinger was, at this point, sincerely hoping that the surcharge for the coffin wasn;t going to be too steep.

[LCP]

There was a frantic muttering from some of the gangers with Millie, particularly the one with the message slate. She ignored them, looking Tychon straight in the eye.

"Four four," she said, with blunt aggression, "and let's call it."

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon held her stare, doing some mental arithmetic. Four five plus the one seventy for the birds would put him at four six seventy. Only another three thirty from their max, and that coffin looked incredibly expensive. Still, they could probably make it. The gunslinger cleared his throat, the picture, he hoped, of a man who was not in the slightest bit ruffled by her attempts at intimidation.

"To you, then, Millicent Stubbs."

Three thirty margin was not a chance he wanted to take.

[LCP]

“Yes!” said Millie, a savage grin slashing her face. Twisting round in her chair, she pointed a finger at D'Aragnia. “You can suck it,” she said, before pointing to Norton, “and you can suck it,” - she pointed to Rhodes, “and you can suck it,” - she pointed to Simeon, “and you can suck it twice.”

“Five million,” said Simeon, quietly.

“What did you say?” demanded Millie.

“I bid five million thrones,” he said. The little man turned his yellow eyes on the hiver, as her face began to darken. “Your bid.”

“You son of a...” began Millie – behind her, her associates were conferring frantically over the message slate. Shaking her by the shoulder, they got her to look round: whatever torrent of abuse she had had planned evaporated, replaced by a huddle of murmuring voices. Whatever Stubbs' friends were showing her, she did not sound pleased.

“Any further bids?” said the auctioneer, waiting patiently. There was no response: Milicent was lapsing slowly into a furious, scarlet-faced silence. “If there are none, then we will say -”

The silence was broken by a tiny, tinny noise – the churning, whirring sounds of a small printing device. Up in the front corner of the seats, the cowled representative of the Constantine Conclave was printing a spool of shiny paper from some kind of handheld machine. Tychon watched as one burnished metallic hand broke the print-out off at the seam, and handed it to one of the Beast House attendants.

The man who had taken it looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, and carried it quickly to the auctioneer. Looking down at the little white slip, the masked man hesitated before returning his attention to his audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have a winning bid.”

He folded the paper carefully in half. A muttering wave of discontent swept across the room, culminating when Millie jumped to her feet. As she did so, she knocked over the chair she had been resting her boots on with a bang.

“This is grox-****!” she called out. “How much?”

“We are satisfied that no party in this room can match the gentleman's bid,” said Fox Mask, pocketing the slip of paper. His voice carried a ringing note of command, now – a strong current of order amidst the rising tide of confusion and anger before him. “We would like to thank you all for attending this auction; if you will please remain seated, arrangements have been made for the transfer of funds -”

“Grox! ****!” shouted Millie in reply. “We all saw that fraghead come in with you. How much did he pay you, huh?” The representative of the Constantine Conclave sat silently, barely even seeming to notice the woman's tirade. “Or is he one of yours? Yeah, that's it. Shoulda known, shouldn't we? The House always wins.” She looked around the hall, looking for support. “Why even bring us here, if you're gonna pull a stunt like this? To sell your gakking birds and beetles?”

“I too would appreciate knowing what the... honourable representative has bid,” said Simeon, his soft tones in stark contrast to Millie's angry shouting. With an affirmative grunt, Lazerus Norton leant forwards in his chair. “Me too.”

The hands of Millie's associates, Red noticed, had crept ever-so-slightly nearer to their guns – and the Beast House handlers had seen it too, spreading out across the back of the room. Next to the stage, the Ogryn lumbered rather less subtly forwards, drawing himself up to stare menacingly at Stubbs and her gang of hangers-on...

[Destro_Yersul]

"If I may?" Put in Tychon, rising to his feet once more. Once again, his voice was calm, but loud. "The Number, Mr. Fox, is just a number. Satisfy our curiosity? Surely one minor declaration to quell any potential... unrest..." with that, he was looking at Millie, "is a small concession to make."

[LCP]

“The conduct of this auction is the domain of the Beast House, Mr Kastor,” said the auctioneer. “Your opinion is not relevant.”

Tension tautened like tendons in the air. Still pent in their cages, the glasswolves bayed and snapped their jaws – the knuckles of Grum’s ham-sized fist whitened as the Ogryn tightened his grip on his shock prod.

“I’d quite like to see...” began Max, but the auctioneer froze him out too. Beast House handlers were walking forwards out of the shadows that gathered in the cage-cluttered corners of the room, making their presence known. Even before factoring in the Ogryn, it was becoming clear that both the captain’s men and Stubbs’ armed band were heavily outnumbered.

Spitting onto the deck, Millie stood her ground.

“You don’t scare me, foxface. We were warned that you Beast House ladies were twisty bastards.” Brushing back her jacket, she rested her hand on the grip of the huge hand-cannon that was holstered at her hip. “So the question is, are you gonna tell us what your friend there’s bid, or are we gonna have to make a scene?”

“The auction is concluded,” repeated the auctioneer, with icy force. “Lot Eleven has been purchased by the Constantine Conclave. Take your seat, and arrangements will be made for your purchases to be transferred.”

Millie showed no signs of being about to sit down. Norton and D’Aragnia’s bodyguards looked on edge, hovering on the edge of the confrontation: only the member for the Constantine Conclave himself seemed unconcerned, sitting in place as if nothing untoward has happening at all. Glancing over his shoulder, Nova noticed that Rhodes’ seat was empty. The nobleman had risen silently from his chair, extricating himself from the escalating stand-off – he looked to be headed for the corridor...

[Destro_Yersul]

Of course. Of course Mr. Fox would be too arrogant to take the simple way out, invent a huge number, and save some face. That would be too easy, especially with Tychon giving him the perfect set up like that. With a shrug, The gunslinger sat back down, draping his arms over the back of the seat in such a way that his hands ended up right next to his pistols.

"Mr. Bosc," he said in a lowered voice, "No violence unless someone takes aggressive action towards us specifically."

The final exchange was giving him a lot to think about. He had initially discounted the conclave member, but the man had outright purchased the most expensive lot in the auction. Phaestus was very likely not the sort to leave something like this to chance. He would have to keep a very close eye indeed on where the hooded figure ended up going.

[Thanatos 51-50]

"Mr. Bosc" swung out of his chair. And proceeded to the nearest exit.
"Rhodes is on the move. Electing to pursue." he whispered into his commbead, swinging the assault rifle to his shoulder as he crossed the exit threshold.
As soon as the nobleman drew in sight, Red pitched his voice to carry only as far as the Noble.
"Oh, is this a repeat of Fedrid, Octavian? Heading for the hills the moment things get tense?"

[Rizhail]

Nova took to her feet, her hands resting on the hilts of her blades. She held back from drawing her swords at Tychon's orders to Red, merely keeping herself ready should the inevitable occur and a fight break out.

"What's the plan, Gid?" she whispered, sizing up the ogryn and the handlers while waiting for his reply.

[Etcetera]

Erasmus emulated the actions of his betters, placing a hand on the comfortably oversized grip of his Tranter and sidling backwards towards the door.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Simple. We keep an eye on things, pay for our birds, and then we go take care of a few last things before leaving the station." Tychon was watching Millicent with interest. If the ganger got herself killed, he wondered, who would take possession of the lots she had won? "I want no new enemies right now."

Nova was smart enough, he thought, to know what he meant by 'a few last things.' They had a mission, after all.

[LCP]

Red

On the other side of the back door, a narrow corridor led to a sharp right turn – by the time Red had hurried out of the auction chamber, Rhodes had already disappeared around the corner.

Red followed hard on his quarry’s heels. Turning the corner, he saw a long, narrow corridor stretching out ahead, between high walls of machinery – dead ahead was the nobleman’s receding back. He was moving fast – and appeared to be speaking into his cuff.


"Oh, is this a repeat of Fedrid, Octavian? Heading for the hills the moment things get tense?"

At the sound of Red’s voice, Rhodes’ head snapped round – in the blink of an eye, he had whirled round, the Nomad leaping into his hands with startling speed.

“On the contrary, my dear boy. I’m just beginning.” Though he was facing Red now, he was still pacing steadily backwards down the corridor. “Good to see you’re learning enough to excuse yourself from the crossfire, too.”

“Our mysterious Mr M showed his hand the moment that underhive whore walked into the room,” he said, taking another step back. “No-one sends an attack dog like her to make a legitimate bid. She’s here to take the prize by force, and that means she has backup. I’d rather not be penned in there with the others when they find out what it is.”

He stepped back again, and the barrel of the Nomad rose by a fraction.

“Speaking of which, Mr Red... you appear to have left your friends behind.”

1

Not Red


“Lot Eleven has been purchased by the Constantine Conclave. Take your seat, and arrangements will be made for your purchases to be transferred.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re going to do that,” said Millie, her voice dripping with barbed, heavy-handed sarcasm. Her associates were on their feet around her, D’Aragnia and her bodyguard sidling out of the space directly in front of them. “I think this whole auction is a fix. You think it’s just this nerk?” she asked, gesturing in the direction of the Constantine representative as she addressed the rest of the guests. “I’ve got your number too, gakhead,” she continued, fixing on Simeon. “You think we’re stupid? You ought to know, anything that’s worth knowing, Mr M knows it.”

With one swift motion, she popped the fastener on her holster, and the hand-cannon was in her grip – sweeping the room with it, she used it to point to Verenwyn, to the man with the brass hands, to the auctioneer. There was a scramble of movement from the Beast House men in response, some of them producing brutal-looking shotguns. The animals in the cages were howling and chattering.

“You’re all in this together!” she yelled. “That box belongs to us!”

“You’re out of your depth, Miss Stubbs,” replied the man behind the fox mask, with icy calm. “Put the weapon away and you might be allowed to leave.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. She took a single step back with the pistol still raised, and her men unslung their autoguns. “I think we’re gonna to take what’s ours, and then we’re gonna leave.”

One of her companions raised a whistle to his mouth, and blew. From the direction of the ceiling, there was a heavy, reverberating thump of metal . The guests looked up as one, their eyes drawn immediately to the rectangular ventilation ducts that tangled with the ceiling girders above...

A metal grille dropped from the centremost duct, falling to the floor with an echoing crash. Swinging himself half-out of the hole it left behind, a huge, heavily-muscled man dropped into sight on some kind of harness. He was one of the workers they had seen in the corridors outside, on their way here – looking at the snaking luminum tats that etched his skin, Tychon realised now that they were the same savage designs that adorned Millie and her friends.

The man was holding a heavy stubber. As the situation began to sink in, more clangs of falling metal rang out – tattooed faces were appearing high up in the walls, men and women with battered autoguns taking aim at the guests and Beast House personnel down below. They were in the ducts...

[Destro_Yersul]

No sooner had he heard the clangs from above than Tychon was on his feet, his twin fatebringers practically leaping into his hands. He took quick stock of the situation, silently thanking the Emperor for the reflexes borne of Gunmetal. Six gangers with autoguns, one man with a heavy stubber, and Millicent Stubbs. Against? Norton's bodyguard, Eustacia's bodyguard, Max and his crew, the Beast House... six of them, plus the Ogryn and Kyrie. And Mr. Fox, couldn't forget him.

Discounting the malfian noble, the circus owner, Simeon and the Constantine Conclave's man (What was his name, anyways?) It still wasn't very good odds. "Titus. Erasmus. Get after Mr. Bosc. Nova, gangers." The gangers had a straight shot down their aisle. He had to count on Nova to be faster than them. The chairs would be terrible cover, but it was better than he was likely to get anywhere else in the room, unless...

Pushing past his own chair, Tychon let it clatter to the floor. Sliding around the corner of the row behind them, he made for the door Rhodes had left through. The heavy metal would make much better cover than the chairs would have, and he would still have a good view of the auction hall.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red danced the laser sight over Rhodes' chest ominously, unaware of the clamour in the next room.
"Take one more step, Octavian, and I prove that the Underhive raises men of action with a surprising consistency." he threatened, "Don't forget everything you learned on Prol."
Red paused for a half-breath to let the threat sink in, and to move his finger to the secondary trigger - the one that would launch a firebomb straight into Rhodes' chest. "It may not surprise you to learn that I don't want Stubbs to get her hands on Lot Eleven either, much less her mysterious benefactor. Your world is worth less than a Ratling's to me, and you know it, but it seems Fate conspires to make us allies of convenience again."
Red looked disgusted under the smoked armourglass as he realized what he was saying. "So, you tell whoever you have on the comm that you're joining the fight in there - and to take Millie and old Brass-hands alive - or you tell them to bring buckets of water."

Half-Action: Aim
Ready Action: Launch Firebomb at Rhodes if he A) steps away, B) Takes an aim action or C) Takes an attack action

There's no combat map, but I assume he's at least five meters away and less than 22 meters away? That's a short range bonus for the Aux Launcher and puts me out of the blast radius of the firebomb. :smallamused:

[Etcetera]

Erasmus obediently followed Bosc out the door, sidling round Tauron.

[LCP]

Red

“My dear... ‘Red’,” said Rhodes. There was something Red didn’t like about the man’s graciously condescending smile. “They’re already on their way. In fact, I’m just on my way to meet them. Why don’t I go and collect my friends, and you can run and fetch yours?”

Echoing down the corridor behind Red, a deafening storm of sudden gunfire assailed their ears.

“They sound like they might be in need of some assistance.”

1

Not Red

Tychon was on his feet like a thunderbolt, diving for the door – before the others had even had time to parse his words, the gangers in the ceiling opened up.

A hailstorm of bullets blitzed the floor around Nova, Tauron and Jericus, punching through plastic chairs and striking corkscrew slivers of steel from the deck. Up ahead, a woman with a luminous skin-wing tattoo over her left eye was giving a similar treatment to the Beast House men hunkering in the Ogryn’s shadow, her bullets sending the first man running for cover as the second was hit repeatedly. Blood welling up through his filthy leathers, the man staggered back against the cages, the glasswolves within snapping and snarling in reply.

The Ogryn himself seemed not to care. Beady eyes glittering in his sunken eye-sockets, Grum cast around to find the source of the shooting, veins bulging in his massive neck. Seeing the woman dangling from the duct, he bared the rotten stubs of his fang-like teeth, giving voice to a growl that was audible even over the chatter of the guns. Even the abhuman could not reach her up there.

Behind him, a deeper beat joined the rattle of gunshots as the heavy stubber opened fire. Heavy-calibre rounds chewed across the floor towards the Ogryn, sending Grum stumbling sideways with one hairy forearm raised to protect his face. Accuracy didn’t seem to be the gunner’s strong point – as the Ogryn stepped simply out of the bullets’ path, they found one of the caged glasswolves instead, smashing it back against the bars of its cage in a whimpering mess of weeping, translucent ichor.

On the other side of the auction chamber, another burst of autogun fire sent one of the handlers reeling with blood running freely down his arm. From somewhere in the front seats, Nova heard the throaty roar of Thrax’s chainsword firing up. Millie’s gangers had spent their element of surprise.

OOC: The Surprise round is now over. Here begins a full turn, following the initiative order in the OOC (meaning that Tychon gets another full round of actions straight away). Jericus’ post above is good for this round, but he still needs to make a Pinning check, same as Nova and Tauron.

For those of you who aren't Tychon, you are fairly high up in the initiative order, but remember that Eustacia, Phipps, Millie and the Auctioneer will be getting a chance to act before you.

[Thanatos 51-50]

"I'd better stop stalling, then. And, since you're not one to bow to my authority...."
Red didn't bother to finish his sentence. He just squeezed the trigger.

Half action: Fire grenade.
[roll0]
[roll1]
Other half action: Reload with frag

[Destro_Yersul]

With the solid metal of the door largely between him and the gangers on the beams, Tychon felt somewhat safer. Checking to make sure the sights on both fatebringers were active, he leaned around the corner, raising the pistols and taking aim at the ganger firing suppressively at the rest of his group. Something needed to be done about him, and fast.

Fire! [roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
two shots, one with each gun. Both rolls should be against 71. One hit, one miss. nice damage roll, though.

[Thragka]

Tauron spent a long second in something approaching panic as Tychon snapped out an order and began to respond to the hail of gunfire with his own pistols. Frozen, bile rose in Drake's throat as he saw Tychon stand and make for the door after Red. He knew he should get up and follow, he knew he could if he willed himself too - but the further away Tychon got, the more inevitable it seemed that the gangers would fire again at any moment. And then, sickeningly, it was too late, and there was no more time to move forwards, only to scuttle backwards inelegantly.

Ashamed at his cowardice, Tauron scrambled closer to the dais.

[LCP]

Red

Rhodes raised an arm to shield himself as the firebomb shot towards him, drawing the thick fabric of his coat over his face. The grenade went off with an oily blast of smoke, its wash of flame cracking the ancient, flaking paint from the rusted walls. When the smoke cleared, the nobleman was stumbling back, beating frantically at tongues of flame that clung to the right sleeve of his coat.

1

The Auction Chamber

Tychon’s second shot struck its mark squarely in the chest, smacking the dangling ganger back in his harness. Crying out, the man twisted round, his eyes alighting on Tychon - the bulky vest he was wearing was evidently black market flak armour, by the way the Fatebringer round had failed to bring him down.

Across the room, Millie braced her pistol in both hands, raising it to take aim at the auctioneer on the stage. It was a truly monstrous side-arm, more alike in size and shape to a bolt pistol than to any sensibly-designed hand cannon – it fired with a raucous thunderclap of a sound, jerking Stubbs’ forearms back with the recoil.

The hiver’s aim was dead on. There was a crack of splitting metal, and the auctioneer’s head snapped back, the sheer momentum of the shot spinning him round to sprawl against the frost-rimed surface of the stasis coffin. Staggering back to his feet like a man concussed, he looked round at his attacker: the fox mask had split down one side, thick blood seeping through the dark fracture.

For a moment, he stood there, reeling. Then, as the autogun muzzles of Millie’s associates on the ground began to rise towards him, he sprang unbelievably into action, vaulting down off the stage to land cat-like on his feet. Even as he was straightening up, one gloved hand was drawing a powerful pistol of his own from under the neat black coat, his arm snapping straight to aim right back at Stubbs. The hiver had to throw herself to one side to avoid the return shot, the auctioneer’s bullet biting a sizeable crater out of the wall behind her.

In the centre of the seating, D’Aragnia’s bodyguard was already moving, almost as fast as the two lightning combatants trading shots on his right. Shouting for his charge to get to the exit, he followed her at a half-run, pausing at the edge of the chairs. His bionic eye fixed on the target Tychon had been shooting at, and the bodyguard raised his own pistol with expert speed. The shot missed the dangling ganger by inches, striking sparks from the ventilation duct beside him. Twisting in the non-existent wind, the hiver raised his weapon to search for the source of this new threat.

Taking her servant’s cue, D’Aragnia ran for the door. She could move surprisingly swiftly for one in such an elaborate dress – as she turned the corner of the door, she came to a halt, seeing Tychon blocking her path with his pistols in his hands.

[Rizhail]

As much as she wanted to dash across the room and remove the drugged up hiver's head from her shoulders, Nova wasn't willing to walk through a hail of stubber rounds to do so. "Out the door and regroup!" she called to Tauron and Jericus as she sprinted for the door.

"Too much fire to charge through for now, Gideon," Nova called between breaths as she caught up to Tychon and squeezed into cover near him. "If I can catch them at a moment when they're not firing, I can cover the distance to Stubbs and her crew in a heartbeat; until then, we need a different plan."


End of turn willpower test vs. pinning: [roll0] vs. 40

[Destro_Yersul]

"Madame." Gideon Kastor waved the Margravine past him, shifting slightly to allow her by. The gangers were enough to deal with for now, he'd rather not have to tangle with Phipps as well. "Wouldn't go too far this way if I were you. Mr. Bosc has the flank, and I heard some gunfire from further down."

Assuming that allowing her past is a free action.

[LCP]

The Auction Chamber

Stumbling hurriedly through the door, the Margravine heeded Tychon’s words, hearing the crackle of flames from the corridor. Peeking out of cover, Tychon saw the other guests were scrambling for the same escape route – their prime position was quickly going to become a bottleneck.

Inside the chamber, the heavy stubber opened up again with a rattling roar, stitching the floor with bullets. This time, Millie’s man had found his aim: Grum the Ogryn howled in pain as the machine-gun rounds punched into him, shielding his face from the gunner’s fire with one massive forearm. Blood puffed and spat from the wounds the stubber blasted in his pale skin, but the abhuman’s scarred muscles were denser by far than human flesh.

Simeon, Norton and his retinue were scrambling up out of the seats, heading for the left wall and the cleanest route to the door. As they did so, the other gangers opened up. One of the reeling Beast House men on the far right was minced by a hail of bullets from above, the fully-automatic onslaught tearing his arm out of its socket even as he fell. Others dived for cover, one of the tattooed roughs who stood beside Millie firing wildly to keep them ducking. Tychon and Nova ducked back into the cover of the doors as the man Urbanus had been targeting returned fire, raking their position with an inaccurate spray of shots.

The two others on the ground had a bigger target in mind. Lifting their weapons to their shoulders, they sent two chattering streams of bullets Grum’s way. The giant staggered and roared, rosettes of blood blooming across his filthy vest, but still he soaked up the gangers’ punishment, feet rooted to the deck. The two men looked nervously at each other as Grum hefted his brutal shock prod, lumbering forwards into the charge.

Plastic chairs buckled and scattered aside out of the path of the bloodied juggernaut, Phipps and Norton throwing themselves flat in order to dive out of his way. Grum swung the shock-prod up over his shoulder like a maul as he came barrelling into his tormentors. The first blow connected like a thunderbolt, the snap of actual electrical discharge coming almost as an afterthought – trailing sparks, its victim flew back, stunned senseless. Strings of spittle sprayed from Grum’s rotten teeth as he bellowed in fury, turning on the next in line.

The Ogryn’s charge seemed to be a rallying point for the Beast House men. Following the auctioneer’s lead, one came vaulting down over the front of the stage, drawing a pistol and a vicious-looking blade. Tychon’s eyes were not on him, however – they were on the representative for the Constantine Conclave.

The other guests – Verenwyn, Norton – were already coming their way, the door Tychon had chosen being the fastest exit from the death-trap of flying bullets that the auction chamber had become. Simeon and Norton’s scribe were already at the threshold, Lazerus and his gladiator lagging a little further behind. The man with the brass hands, however, seemed to be displaying far less sensible behaviour. Rising calmly to his feet, he was proceeding at a walking pace around the front of the stage, heading for the main door through which they had first entered – the one behind the stage and the stashed cages. The gauntlet of stubber fire he had to cross to get there seemed not to bother him in the least.

1

The Corridor

Red watched with satisfaction as Octavian staggered back against the wall of the corridor, beating at the fires in his clothes. Sizing up another shot, his finger tightened on the trigger – he stopped as he heard a noise on the right, well past his smouldering target.

Looking round, he saw a quintet of human figures appear at the end of the corridor. They wore heavy flak coats, insignia-less and charcoal grey; beneath them, Red could see the glossy black plasteel of carapace chestplates. Their faces were covered by sculptural steel masks, like the faces of cherubs carved in a cathedral column. Armourglass lenses glinted behind the hollow eyes, dark and expressionless.

Five matt-black hellguns swung up, and five backpack charge units began to emit a rising whine as five wavering dots of laser light swung across the walls of the passageway towards Red...

OOC: There is something about the style of the masks that evokes - faintly - the masked men that Red saw in the mirror (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12548335&postcount=630) on Dain Rhealtha.

[Rizhail]

Nova jumped back a few steps, attempting to keep out of the gunman's line of sight. "Still a little too hot to charge into, though it looked like the Ogryn was having fun in there."

The assassin tried to steel herself, waiting for just the right moment to slip back into the auction room. "Do we want to stop Stubbs and her boys, or focus on moneybags making his way for the exit?"


Moving left a bit to cut of LoS for the gangers.

Willpower test to break pinning: [roll0] vs. 40

EDIT: Seriously? Is that the fourth or fifth 60-something I've rolled in a row? If it wasn't for the fact I get a +30 to my check next time around, I'd spend another fate point.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Let's keep the attention on Miss Stubbs. She's the one broke up this affair." Mr. Kastor waved Simeon and Rabilas through behind him, clearing his field of vision for another shot at the ganger on the ceiling. Another good hit would be likely to bring the man down, freeing their position from the immediate threat of return fire. "And Simeon, I'll give you the same advice I gave Madame D'Aragnia. Mr. Bosc has our flank, and from the sound of things..." Seeing his chance, the gunslinger took his shot at the ganger, the report serving to punctuate his words. "He's got his hands full. Unless you want a fight, don't go too far."

Half aim, single shot. [roll0] vs 91
[roll1] damage. +2 more if he goes into criticals.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red spared the approaching kill-team a glance.
Hellguns. That presented a problem. And they were going to fill the space between them with more las than he could get away from.
He wasn't going to have a better chance than this to take out Rhodes.

Al-Subaai did not pick Red out of the trenches because he hesitated before taking the shot.

"Primer Ratio Imperator." he muttered under his breath.
Then he pulled the trigger anyway. Three rounds.

Yep. Methinks I'm going to use the semi-auto from the OOC thread. Be an outright shame to waste the chance to waste Rhodes.

[Etcetera]

Jericus cautiously rounded the corner, drawing a pistol the spitting image of the one wielded by the soon to be late Ms. Stubbs. He poked his head out past the wall, trying to get a look at the situation in the corridor without exposing himself.

[Thragka]

Tauron took a moment to collect himself, eyeing the Constantine representative as the man made his slow way across the room. Al-Subaai's words came back to him. You will locate Phaestus or his cat’s-paw, and capture them for interrogation. You will identify what Vyres has brought him, and secure it for examination, or destroy it if you cannot. There was no immediate opportunity to either identify or secure the coffin, and if the brass-handed man was working for Phaestus, it looked like he was heading for the exit in any case.

Satisfied that any immediate grandstanding would not be of long-term benefit to the Emperor, Tauron sprinted pell-mell for the exit and the rest of the acolytes.

[LCP]

The Corridor

Flames still licking at his sleeve, Octavian dived to one side as Red’s volley lit up the passageway. It was a fool’s game to try and outrun a lasbolt: Red corrected his aim to follow the nobleman’s path, the second and third bolts connecting solidly with their target. The first scored a scorched wound across Rhodes’ cheekbone; the second hit him squarely in the shoulder, smashing him back hard against the wall of the corridor.

Something small and metallic came tumbling Red’s way in reply. Grenade, came the instinctive reaction – looking to see where it had landed, he realised his mistake a fraction of a second before the photon flare went off.

White light flashed bright as a sun, making the smoky armourglass of his visor seem as transparent as water. Blinded, he stumbled back, hearing the whine and crack of hellgun discharges pierce the air with their staccato drumbeat. He had no idea where they were coming from any more, only feeling the heat of their passage as they blazed past him – miraculously, the first volley left him untouched.

From somewhere overhead, there was a mechanical hiss, and he felt water begin to patter against his helmet. The smoke from his firebomb had finally set off the station’s antiquated sprinklers.

OOC: The sprinklers are spraying the area of corridor stretching from 1 square behind Red to 2 squares beyond Rhodes. They put out the fire on Rhodes’ clothes and impose a -10 penalty to hit anyone inside their area of effect with missile attacks, making life a little harder for the kill-team.

Red is blinded for 3 turns - see p.136 of the core rules.

1

The Auction Chamber


“Simeon, I'll give you the same advice I gave Madame D'Aragnia. Mr. Bosc has our flank, and from the sound of things..."

While Norton’s clerk nodded in obedient terror, Simeon didn’t seem to be listening. Shoving straight past Tychon and the others, he ran straight for the corridor behind them, hanging a left and sprinting into the darkness. Turning to follow him, Jericus advanced cautiously to the junction – just as he was about to stick his head around the corner, there was a flash of piercing white light from somewhere on the right, and a fusillade of scarlet lasbolts screamed down the corridor.

Moving as quickly as he could before darting back into cover, he took his chance to look. Right in front of him, Red and Rhodes were stumbling back from each other, blinded by the flash. A spray of water was descending on them from fire sprinklers in the ceiling, raising a trail of thickening smoke from a dying fire on Rhodes’ coat sleeve. Beyond them, five dark figures in sinister steel masks were aiming heavy-duty las weapons in Red’s direction.


~

In the auction chamber, the fight between the hivers and the Beast House men was heating up. Cowering in cover, the handlers took pot-shots at their attackers: in return, they were raked with automatic fire, the ganger's bullets richocheting wildly from the cover offered by the animals' cages. Falling back after his mistress, Eustacia’s bodyguard traded fire with the ganger Tychon had been targeting, coming out of it worse when one of the man’s wild shots grazed his ribs.

As the handler in front of the stage ran forwards, the heavy stubber turned its lethal attentions on him, chewing chairs into plastic matchwood – the gunner’s aim was off again, and the Beast House man danced through the hail of fire unscathed. Seeing him coming, Millie stepped back, spinning her pistol back into its holster and drawing her chain-knife instead. Her other hand produced a cylindrical packet of paper, from which she poured a heaped handful of whitish-yellow powder. Clapping the hand over her nose and mouth, she inhaled deeply – when she took her hand away, her lips and lower chin were still caked with the stuff. Letting out a wild whoop, she cast the packet aside, pulling a long combat knife from her boot in her free hand. In her right, the chain-blade buzzed.

Her companions on the ground were not so fearless, and backed away as the shadow of Grum loomed over them. Bullets pounded the Ogryn, one striking the man he had laid out as well. The abhuman shrugged them off, barrelling forwards with a bestial roar. Millie stood in his way, grinning like a maniac – as the shock-prod swept round, however, she dodged in the wrong direction. Grum’s blow swept her feet from under her, the naked metal connecting with her shins with an audible crackle of electricity.

Behind the melee, one of the crouching Beast House men swung around the corner, raising a shotgun at one of the gangers’ exposed back. The weapon roared in the echoing hall, hitting its target hard – only the hiver’s flak vest saved him from a messy death. He still staggered from the impact, the breath driven from his lungs.

At the far end of the hall, Kyrie’s hunting rifle barked. It was almost a perfect kill-shot, but her dangling target moved at the last second. Instead, the bullet clipped the ganger’s skull, sending blood coursing over the skinwing tattoo that covered half her face. Rocking back and forth like a pendulum with the imparted momentum, the woman twisted round in her harness, searching the floor below for her attacker.

The handler who had survived the heavy stubber’s hail of bullets came rushing at Millie, but failed to connect. Behind him, the auctioneer seemed to have vanished, ducking under the dark struts that supported the stage to reappear in cover on the other side. Max was following his example, falling back to behind the shielding bulk of the generator; on the left side, the Constantine representative was still walking calmly towards the door the captain was now eyeing up for a sudden dash.

Norton and his gladiator now seemed to be following the lead of the man with the brass hands. A stocky hand cannon had appeared in the circus magnate’s grip.

[Rizhail]

Happy to leave the gangers to the Ogryn, and not too thrilled about potentially facing the beast herself, Nova remained where she was. She drew her swords and pressed her back against the wall, out of the way of anyone else who wanted to flee down the hall full of las fire.

"Either draw the shooters down to us or let them flee. Standing and shooting in a hallway is suicide!"


Can't really see a good option for Nova, despite the lack of pinning this round. So, basically holding/skipping her turn. Especially since both Red and the kill team go before her, so she couldn't help him anyway. :smallsigh:

[Etcetera]

Jericus pulled up the station maps on his dataslate, trying to find a route to flank the killteam.

[Thanatos 51-50]

God-Emperor! His eyes!

Red staggered away, torwards the wall, reaching one gloved hand out to brush its metal surface and followed it to the corner. He knew there was cover there, and he pushed off the corner, and began stumbling down the hallway.

Full Move. 2S, 1SE, 1E. This triggers an AG test at -10, so:
[roll0]

[Destro_Yersul]

"Change of plans, then." The bright flash from the corridor behind them, and the appearance of Red, was forcing Tychon to consider his options very carefully. Only the ganger on the ceiling had a good angle on them. The rest, he could worry about later. Bracing his pistol with his forearm and squinting down the iron sights, Mr. Kastor took fresh aim at the ganger. Simeon, curse the fool, had ruined his last shot. "Nova, assist Mr. Bosc. Madame D'Aragnia, what is your man's name?"

[roll0]
trying this again. Same action, BS91.

damage [roll1], again with +2 if it's a crit.

[LCP]

“Phipps,” said D’Aragnia, as Tauron came barrelling into cover beside them. “His name is Phipps.”

Nodding without shifting his aim, Tychon fired. This time, the gunslinger’s shot struck with devastating accuracy. The bullet nearly cut the ganger’s arm in two, punching through at the elbow in a spray of bloody cartilage and shattered bone. Arterial blood fell in a trickling rain to the floor below as the dying man slumped in his harness, hanging there like a corpse on a gallows.

Freed of the ganger’s suppressing fire, Phipps made a run for the door, slewing to a halt as he saw Tychon and Nova blocking the entrance. Seeing his mistress behind them, a moment’s reading of the situation seemed to inform the bodyguard that they were not enemies; nonetheless, he kept his guard.

Behind them, Red came staggering round the corner, still blindly feeling his way. Leaving the sergeant to his own devices, Jericus pressed his back to the wall, fingers dancing over the intricate symbols of the data-slates they had been given. Schematics flickered and flashed under his fingertips, and Jericus alighted on the zone he was looking for with astounding speed.

In the hall, the auctioneer had fallen back into the shadow of the generator, pressing in beside the terrified Vyres. Hugging the cover the great machine provided, he rose to the edge of his hiding place, loosing a roaring shot from his pistol at the man with the heavy stubber who was so brutally punishing his men.

The bullet missed by a foot or so, striking sparks from the duct to the gang gunner’s left. Swivelling in his harness, the man opened fire again, his heavy weapon’s mechanical chatter filling the hall with its echoes.

The auctioneer was fast, but the bullets were faster. As he ducked back into cover, one of them clipped the corner of his bloodied mask, knocking him sprawling against the deck – another tore the sleeve of his coat, while three punched messy bullet-holes into the generator itself. Wrenching noises of mechanical destruction accompanied their impacts, the shots spitting sparks and shards of broken metal as they struck home.

There was an electrical crackle from somewhere inside the humming block of machinery, followed by a sudden bang. With an ominous wobble, the humming of the generator slowed and deepened, before shutting off completely.

The lights went out. There was a heartbeat’s silence – and it was total silence. Even the gurgle of the stasis coffin’s tubes of coolant had ceased. Somewhere out there, Nova thought she heard Vyres whimper in terror.

From out of the darkness, there came a squeal of tearing metal, like a steel coffin-lid being ripped off its hinges. It was followed by a clattering crash, like a steel coffin-lid being thrown the length of the room and landing amidst a slew of broken chairs. Tychon was only guessing, of course, but that was what it sounded like.

There was a hollow clang somewhere up above, like a heavy blow against an empty oil drum, and the people in the darkness began to bellow and shout in wild confusion.

OOC: A new challenger appears!

Initiative: [roll0]

The actions of the other NPCs take place in the dark, and so I’m not reporting them. There is no shooting for the remainder of this round.

Here (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v700/LordChilipepa/OfficialSchematic-1.png) is the map Jericus pulls up. Freight Elevator 42 is the lift you came down in. The map seems to believe that the auction room and the adjoining complex of the rooms to the right are empty and unused storage spaces. The rest of the zone is part of the refinery network.

And here is the combat map:
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v700/LordChilipepa/EverythingsGoneDark.png

Note that while the auction chamber is dark because the lights have shut off, the darkness in the corridor is just fog-of-war to mask the bits you as a group can’t see. The lights are still on outside.

Since the auction chamber is not light-tight, you can make Awareness checks to try and pick out where NPCs are moving (few of them have moved far from their previous location). For Grum, this is at -10. For Millie and her gangers, this is at -20 (even the ones up in the rafters – their luminum tats make them more noticeable). For everyone else, this is at -30. Shooting in darkness incurs a -30 BS penalty, regardless of the target.

Back to you guys!

[Destro_Yersul]

Mr. Kastor nodded, even as Phipps slewed to a halt in front of them. Speaking quickly, he slid one of the long pistols back into its holster, producing a lamp pack from his coat pocket in its place. "Phipps," he began, waving the bodyguard past him with the lamp pack. "I think we've been placed on the same side for now. There are likely hostiles in that corridor behind us. Mr. Bosc? Did you get a good look at them?" Flipping the lamp pack on, Tychon swept the room with its beam. Backlit as they were, the extra light wouldn't do anything to relay their position that wasn't already being done. "Oh, and I suspect Lot 11 has escaped. Ideas on what to do about that would be welcome."

OOC:
Tychon and his lamp pack are placing priority on verifying three things: One, Millie is still down and out. Two: The large stasis pod has indeed been thoroughly destroyed and emptied. Three: The gilded lyrebirds are still there. Anything else you want to tell me is gravy. Further actions dependant on answers.

[LCP]

The beam of the lamp-back twitched through the shadows, sliding over the ghostly outlines of scattered and broken chairs. Swinging left, it alighted on the cages of the auction lots, casting golden reflections from the lyrebirds’ cage. The birds twittered agitatedly in the sudden glare. behind them, illuminated by back-scattered light, the Thyrrus pulsated with strange colours behind its dewy glass.

The beam swung right, and fell on Grum’s broad, sweat-stained back. The Ogryn twisted his thick neck to squint round at Tychon as it struck him – as the light slid off his shoulders, it illuminated two of Millie’s gangers dragging their leader’s stunned form back away from the towering abhuman. Tychon heard the giant’s angered snarl.

A little further right, and Tychon found what he had been looking for most of all. Lying amidst the wreckage of the seating, the door of the stasis coffin lay like the debris of a shuttle crash, two long rents ripped vertically through its thick steel. Turning the lamp back along its path, Tychon illuminated the coffin itself, standing ruptured and empty.

OOC: We’re still in combat time here; Tychon is first in the initiative order so the rest of you may as well have this information to act on.

I think between the chit-chat and the torchlight searching, Tychon has spent his full action for this turn.

[Destro_Yersul]

"I was right." Tychon's heart skipped a beat when the lamp-pack's beam alighted on the empty coffin. "It's loose."

[Thanatos 51-50]

"Wait. What's loose?" Red asked, frantically attempting to blink the painful white from his eyes. He frantically tried to push the Death Light into Jer's hands.
"Erasmus. Where are you?" he asked out loud.
"Frag in the chamber. Take the blighters out."

[Etcetera]

Struggling with the trigger assembly, Jer took the proffered rifle, poked the pointy end round the corner and fired.

[roll0] vs 33

[Rizhail]

"Well, at least neither brass hands nor Stubbs get to have it," Nova said sarcastically as she rummaged through the pouch at her waist. Finding her photo-contacts, she put them on but left them inactive for the moment to avoid being blinded by Tychon's lamp pack.

"What are we looking at down that tunnel, Bosc?"


Yeah, just spending a turn pulling out the NVGs and NOT charging into either the laser death tunnel or the 'this room is about to be a scene out of every sci-fi horror movie' room.

[LCP]

Taking Red’s Sollex in hand, Jericus span round the corner, raising the stock to his shoulder and peering through the falling mist of water. He paused for a split second as he noticed two faint spots of laser light wobbling on his chest.

The first hellgun shot tore a molten scar out of the wall, a trail of steam hissing in its wake. The second ripped into Jericus’ arm with the smell of cooking flesh, nearly making him drop the gun Red had given him. Gritting his teeth, the tech-priest fired back. There was a dull thump of pressurised gas, and then an echoing boom as the frag grenade went off.

When the smoke cleared, the wavering figures on the other side of the sprinklers’ haze were still standing. Their armour seemed to have absorbed the worst of the blast – more pertinently, there were only two of them. The others had fallen back around the bend, Rhodes with them; one more waited at the corner, while these two were backing up with their guns squarely trained on Jericus’ cover.

In the auction hall, there were shouts and yelps as the combatants groped their way through the sudden darkness, their eyes adjusting much too slowly. Tychon’s roving torch-beam, however, had lit up the position of Grum the Ogryn for all to see – up in the rafters, the muzzle-flare of the heavy stubber began to flicker and flash, spitting bullets in the snarling giant’s general direction.

Suddenly, the stream of gunfire seemed to jerk to the right – then, with an abrupt, agonised scream, it cut off. There was a wet pattering, like a sudden rain, and the clang of something heavy and metallic falling to the floor. The shouts of the others stopped.

At the far end of the hall, there was a mechanical grinding as the main doors slid open, some party or other making their escape. Silhouetted in the dim light it brought, Nova could see the empty harness of Millie’s gunner hanging in ragged tatters, as if it had been pulled from the jaws of an industrial thresher – on the floor eight metres below it, the heavy stubber lay, its barrel bent through nearly thirty degrees.

There was a dark smear on the side of the ventilation duct that the shredded harness dangled from. Hypothetically, if a mangled body had been dragged swiftly up into the forest of pipes and girders between them and the ceiling, it might make a stain that looked a lot like that.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Lot 11, Mr. Bosc." Hearing the lasfire, Tychon looked back. "Don't be a hero, Erasmus. I need you to find us an exit." The gunslinger focused back on the auction room, and the dangling harness. Mangled fabric, a bent heavy stubber, and no sign of the ganger barring a bloodstain on the vents... It was on the ceiling, whatever it was. Tychon wasn't sure he wanted to find out. Making a mental note to look up often, he focused the lamp-pack's beam back on Millie and her two friends, then reconsidered. Flipping the beam back off, he dropped it into his pocket and pushed the door shut. That wouldn't hold it, if the stasis pod was any indication, but it might want to pick an easier target.

Edging his way past the others gathered in the hallway, Mr. Kastor put a little distance between himself and the door. "The one we came down is likely none too friendly at the moment."

[roll0] vs 91, targetting the injured ganger helping Millie.
[roll1] damage. +2 if it crits.

Actually, the more I think about this, the less sense it makes. Changing my action, since Tychon goes first anyways and nobody has actually reacted to him yet.

[Thanatos 51-50]

"Five men with hellguns. Carapace armour. Probably Servants of Twilight." Red rattled off as the edges of his vision become more "impossibly blurred" than "Blinding white pain". "Obviously with Octavian."
"Anybody have a plan of attack for Lot Eleven?" he asked as his laspistol jumped to his hand. He hated being unarmed, even if his faithful Sollex was in a comrade's hands.

[Etcetera]

Jericus swore. That was the last time he did something for Red. Thankfully the shot had hit his left arm, at least. He passed the Sollex back to Red and picked up his Tranter again.

[Thragka]

Tauron unslung his pack from his shoulders quickly to retrieve his own lamp pack, activating it in his left hand once his bag was back on his back, and drawing his pistol in his right.

"More light, if you need it, sir," he said to Tychon.

[Rizhail]

"So, we have a monster loose in there and enemy soliders out here. Do we try to contain this thing? Get up station and get the hell out of here?"

Nova edged toward the corner, staying just out of sight of the hellgun wielding foes and peeking down the hall in the other direction. "I'm all for falling back, by the way. I'll fight anything that moves, but I'd much prefer to be able to see it coming."


Rolling awareness to see if anything interesting is noticeable down the corridor away from the enemy squad. Because she's not dumb enough to stick her head out into the sights of a pair of hellguns.

Awareness vs. 48 (28 base, +10 skill mastery, +10 Heightened Senses Sight)

EDIT: Aaaaand guess who's so tired he forgot to actually put a roll tag in the post. >.> It's in OOC.

[Thragka]

"I doubt we will be able to secure or destroy it at this juncture," said Tauron, almost snappishly. "If we are unlucky enough, we may just be able to identify it."

[Destro_Yersul]

"I wouldn't put money on us seeing it coming, if it came to that. I think it's best if we just get off the station." Tychon replied, still focused on the corridor and its load of armour-clad kill team goons. "Wouldn't you agree, Madame?"

[LCP]

From the other side of the door Tychon had just closed, there came the sound of a spray of gunfire, followed by a muffled scream. Bad things were happening in there.


"Wouldn't you agree, Madame?"

The Margravine nodded. “Absolutely,” she said.

As Red’s vision finally cleared, he nosed as boldly as he dared around the corner of the corridor. Through the falling spray from the sprinklers, he could see no sign of the men who had blinded him – the last of the kill-teams’ rearguard had disappeared around the far corner, the receding echo of their boots and the spent case of the flash grenade the only traces they left behind. In the other direction, Nova could only see the gathered gloom of the station's industrial innards, dimly illuminated by distant furnace-lights. The tunnel wound emptily away out of sight between the nearer banks of dormant machinery.

There was a reverberating, bestial howl from behind the door, accompanied by the desperate wailing of the caged Kroot. Bad things were definitely happening in there.

OOC: Unless anyone wants to re-open the door and jump back into the thick of things, we can break combat time here.

[Thragka]

Tauron visibly relaxed when Tychon shut the door. "In that case, my lady, Mr Kastor, may I suggest that we egress quickly? I am certain somebody on this station will be coming down to attempt to take control of the situation. I am not sure we would want to be here when that occurs."

[Destro_Yersul]

"You may, Titus, and I'd agree with you. Before we go, though, I think we ought to see if Captain Vyres made it out the main door. It was opened just before I shut that one." Pointing at his own door, Tychon started down the hall after the kill team. He didn't intend to go back into the darkened auction hall: that would be suicide, if the sounds coming from it were any indication. "Erasmus, do you have a way out for us yet? I doubt Octavian's friends mean to accomodate enyone else on the lift."

[Rizhail]

When the howling and wailing began, Nova flinched. Staring hard at the door, she turned to face it...

LCP and Lurkers only (unless the latter also like surprises)

...and the entire corridor changed in the blink of an eye. Gone were the darkened steel walls, the sealed door, the weak lights high above. Gone were the others hiding in the alcove from threats all around.

White stone walls streaked with dried blood led to a great wooden gate, sunlight shining through cracks in its surface and highlighting the heavy dust drifting through the air. The bestial howls and wails were still there, as whatever beast the arena's masters had chosen for the day mauled the poor bastard thrown into the arena before Nova. A thunderous roar began in the crowd outside, drowning out the final screams of the beast's victim.

She stepped toward the gate slowly, carrying the mismatched blades she had been able to scrounge from the piles of scrap and broken gear her peoples' captors liked to toss down to the slave pits. Her fingers and toes tingled, the beginning effects of whatever drug had been injected into the pit fighters before their fights.

All of this happened in moments, and Nova was thrown into shock. Even as she tried to recover, she felt a presence in her mind, something pushing her away. The vision and sensations suddenly grew distant as a voice, one that sounded so like her own, spoke to her. It had a sing-song quality to it, taunting her as darkness closed in.

My turn...


...and calmly walked toward the door, staring intently at it. She stopped a few steps short, eyes narrowed.

She snapped out of whatever trance she was in, and looked back over her shoulder at the others. "I'd suggest Phipps in front, anyone who can't fight in the middle. I'll be a few steps behind, just to make sure nothing follows us. There are a lot of nasty things in that room besides lot 11 that could try to escape."

LCP only, again

Goodbye cautious, Inquisitorial Nova, hello bloodthirsty, mentally borked Nova.

She's going to wait for the others to head down the corridor a ways before she (quietly, if possible) opens the door and takes a peak inside to see what's happening. Fighting will likely ensue.

And if she can get through this adventure without burning another fate point, I will be pleasantly surprised.

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red flattened his back against the wall as the others flew past him.
Fighting Lot 11 wasn't exactly something he had in mind for a good time, and killing Rhodes was.

Then Nova spoke.
"Um. Nova. The fighting is this way." he said, indicating the corridor with the bayonet-point of his rifle.

[Etcetera]

"There's a larger elevator shaft some distance from here if we turn left at the corridor - it's might be a little more policed than the freight, but I guess it'll do."

[LCP]

"Phipps stays with me," said D'Aragnia, forcefully. Her eyes tracked between the different Acolytes' faces as they discussed their options - she was paying close attention.


"I doubt Octavian's friends mean to accomodate enyone else on the lift."

"Octavian?" she repeated. "Whyever not?" She looked over her shoulder at the closed door. "It's that awful Stubbs woman who started the shooting. Octavian needs to get out of here as much as we do."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Likely Nova assumed you would be going with us to the elevators, Madame D'Aragnia. It's the best option, I would say, and means Phipps stays with you and comes with us. As to Octavian's friends? Because they were the ones shooting down the corridor at Mr. Bosc just then. I don't know about you, but I'd rather find a seperate elevator than risk being on the receiving end of friendly fire." Tychon hoped the explanation would be enough to assuage the Margravine.

[LCP]

D'Aragnia looked uncertainly towards the corridor.

"The fastest way out of this pit has to be the way we came," she said. "Octavian knows me. He wouldn't shoot."

She sounded less than certain.

Something soft and heavy hit the other side of the closed door with a reverberating thump. A terrified scream preceded a chattering chorus of automatic fire, the impacts of the bullets ringing through the bulkhead walls - somewhere over the muffled din, Jericus thought he made out the squeal of shearing metal...

[Thragka]

"With the utmost respect, Your Ladyship," said Tauron softly, "without a doubt you noticed that Mr Rhodes barely placed a single bid, and certainly none with the intention of winning a lesser lot. He even went as far as to leave the room just before the conflict erupted. I would go so far as to surmise that he is intimately associated with the pandemonium. We should not trust him."

[Destro_Yersul]

"Regardless," Tychon put in, "Things seem to be escalating in there. We should go, and quickly."

OOC:
I put in an earlier post, but you may have missed it. Tychon headed over to the far end of the corridor to see if anyone made it out through the main entrance. Did he see anything? he's got high enough move to get there and back pretty quickly.

[LCP]

D’Aragnia seemed to take pause to consider what they had said. Satisfied that the immediate fire-corridor ahead was clear, Tychon made a quick dash forwards through the sprinklers’ haze, ignoring the falling water as it soaked his clothes. Coming to the T-junction at the far end, he slowed his pace, all too aware that enemies might be waiting to the left or to the right. The right, however, was his more immediate concern: to the left, the jury-rigged tarpaulin they had passed on the way down - and its attendant leak - provided at least some obscuring cover.

Peering slowly around the corner, Tychon could see a trio of human figures outside the auction hall’s main entrance. Looking more than a little ruffled, Lazerus Norton had emerged into the centre of the corridor, accompanied by his barbaric bodyguard. The Vargarian was gripping the third man by the shoulders, pinning him to the wall. Behind the gladiator’s muscled shoulders, Tychon caught the gleam of burnished augmetic hands. By the sounds of things, Norton wanted answers as much as they did.

OOC: Sorry Destro, missed that.

[Destro_Yersul]

"Norton!" Tychon hissed through his teeth, half-hidden behind the corner. If Lazerus looked his way, he would see Mr. Kastor beckoning hurriedly, and shooting pointed looks at the door to the auction hall. If he didn't, well, Tychon had no time to stick around. A quick glance to see where Rhodes had gone, and he'd be off back to where the group was standing by the side door.

At least his coat and hat were water resistant.

[LCP]

Norton's head whipped round like a startled dog at Tychon's attention-grabbing hiss. The big man's eyes narrowed - Tychon noticed he still had his pistol in his hand.

Tychon's charades regarding the door seemed to confuse him. Nonetheless, he took a step back, glancing backwards into the darkness within - hearing a lingering scream from inside, he mashed his palm against the keypad of the door. Automatic security kicked in, and the gates slid shut.

Looking briefly left, Tychon could see no sign of Rhodes or his escort in the red-lit shadows of the corridor beyond the tarpaulin. From this position, his line of sight was fairly limited - but it would have been difficult for so many to hide so completely in the cover the decaying fixtures offered.

[Destro_Yersul]

Talking quickly, in a voice just loud enough to be clearly understood from here, though ultimately less concerned now that the door had closed, Tychon kept glancing both directions, to make sure none of the kill team was coming back. "Norton, your adept's with us. Down the hall. We're leaving, you should come along. Bring brass-hands. The Margravine and I want answers too."

Waiting just long enough to see Norton's reaction, Tychon headed back down the corridor to rejoin the others.

[Rizhail]

Nova took a few steps back, taking up her spot at the junction between the main corridor and the side door Tychon had sealed, patiently waiting for the rest of the group to follow the gunslinger toward the other entrance to the auction hall. She noted Tychon gesturing and talking to someone around the corner, but did not follow, guarding the group against whatever might try to follow from the auction hall.

LCP Only

If the rest of the group follows Tychon, Nova will slip back over to the door, try to crack it open, and get a peak inside to see what's going on (and what might be in there to fight).

If anyone else *cough*Red*cough* bugs her about moving on or otherwise draws attention to her, she'll give up on fighting the beasty for the moment and move along. She's crazy, but she's not willing to evoke anything more than mild suspicion in the others just yet.

[Thragka]

"Erasmus, can you find out where that elevator shaft emerges on the main level? We do not want to go stumbling blindly into the unknown."

[Etcetera]

Jericus did so.

[LCP]

Regarding Tychon warily, Norton made a curt gesture to Thrax. The scarred gladiator pulled the Constantine Representative away from the wall, ready to drag his prisoner along after his master.

The second the Vargarian’s eyes strayed towards Tychon and Norton, one of the Representative’s mechanical hands balled into a fist. The red robes of the silent bidder’s sleeve fell back, revealing an augmetic forearm behind the augmetic hand, as he delivered a clinical uppercut to the burly gladiator’s jaw.

The Constantine Representative attempts to break free: we’ll represent this as an attempt to escape a Grapple.

[roll0] vs. [roll1]

Let's not bother with a clunky bunch of initiative rolls if you guys want to get involved – let’s just do this in blocks, you then NPCs. After this post, you're up.

Thrax was taken completely by surprise. The blow knocked him back with surprising force, freeing his grip on the Representative's slight figure. Standing on his own two feet, the robed man looked poised to run. It was a funny thing, Tychon reflected in the split second that was available to him - there was nothing about the Representative's body language that betrayed a single iota of fear...


~

Still lingering with the others outside the side door, Jericus began to trace the route of Central Elevator Array 81B. It appeared to be part of one of the clusters of personnel lifts that ran down from the junction between the market dome and the Stack. Assuming they could ride it all the way up, it would deposit squarely in the centre of the hab-levels. Going it down, it seemed to lead only to the lowest bowels of the refinery decks.

[Destro_Yersul]

"None of that," Tychon said under his breath, crossing the distance between him and the representative in a few long strides, then dropping his shoulder and crashing heavily into the other man. The short run up had given him the advantage, sending his erstwhile opponent sprawling. Taking another step, the Carnodon appeared in his hand, pointed downwards. "No more tricks."

With any luck, that would give Thrax the chance to grab him again. This time, Tychon reflected, they might want to tie his hands. Let him be fearless if he liked, he wasn't about to get anywhere if Executioner had any say in the matter.

[LCP]

Tychon's takedown was perfectly executed, but its result surprised him. Rather than the soft impact of human flesh, his shoulder crashed against hard metal with a stab of pain - the Constantine Representative fell back against the floor with a noise like a shelf of saucepans, his concealing cowl falling back.

The face beneath the hood was, like the arms and hands, a sculptural work of brass that was curiously inhuman in its symmetrical perfection. Glass eyes stared blankly up at Tychon from perfectly-burnished sockets. Behind the brass faceplate, tubes of some recycled fluid fed in to some hidden kernel of surviving flesh.

The Representative made no move to escape as Thrax grabbed hold of him - it? - again. It had no words in reply to Tychon's demand - only an internal burble of electronics somewhere inside its augmetic body...

[Etcetera]

Jericus' eyes lit up at the sound as it rekindled memories of long days spent under the watchful eye of old Magos "Clumsy" Kurtz in the Schola Mechanicum.

He poked his head round the corner, proffering the dataslate to Tauron.

"Boss! Need any help with the metal man?"

Now that Jer thought about it, he didn't recall being very fond of Magos Kurtz.

[Thragka]

Tauron took a moment to look at the schematics Jericus had managed to coax from the dataslate. He frowned. We're not getting to the shuttle without navigating that bedlam.

The tech-priest's mention of "metal man" caught his attention. Stowing the dataslate, he tried to see what was going on. He nearly smiled, vague notions of blasphemy against the Mechanicus's Omnissiah coming to mind. Is there no heresy someone on this station will not perpetrate?

[Destro_Yersul]

"We're fine, Erasmus. Mr. Norton's gladiator has hold of him."

Cursing mentally, Tychon gave thanks for the thick weave of his greatcoat. It had probably saved him from the worst of the impact. Rubbing his shoulder with one hand, he kept the handcannon trained on the representative with his other.

"Should be moving on," the gunslinger said to Norton. "It's going to get a lot less healthy around here once Lot 11 is finished with whoever was left inside."

[Thanatos 51-50]

Red followed the rest of the party, slowing sweeping his laser sight over all the angles of approach and keeping his head on a swivel.
When he made it up to Tychon, the rifleman let loose a heavy sigh.
"In retrospect." he said, "I really hope I was wrong in pegging Millie as our enemy's agent." he muttered aloud, looking at all the brassworks.
"It's not going to be any fun questioning this one, though."

[LCP]

“There’s beasts I bid good money for in there,” said Norton, looking back towards the door with a pugnacious expression. “If this is some trick, the Beast House’ve crossed the wrong man.”

He looked back to Tychon, nodding along the corridor they had come from – and down which, presumably, Octavian’s masked allies had retreated. “We get the lift back to the top, we get the station guards down here, right? You get what’s yours and I get what’s mine.”


"In retrospect." he said, "I really hope I was wrong in pegging Millie as our enemy's agent." he muttered aloud, looking at all the brassworks.
"It's not going to be any fun questioning this one, though."

Red’s words seemed to give both Norton and D’Aragnia – who had followed behind – pause for thought. The circus magnate narrowed his eyes in slow concentration.

“What enemy?” he asked.

Nova Only

Lingering behind as the rest of the group trickled after Tychon, Nova crept up to the edge of the door. Sliding it back by a fraction of an inch, she pressed her eye to the gap.

The auction chamber was dark and still. There was something dark slumped on the other side of the door – it smelt of blood, but its shape was so torn and maimed that it was hard to say whether it was a human body. On the other side of the hall, the second side door stood open, shedding a dim, pale light over the wreckage of the scene.

Lying face-down amidst the crushed and scattered chairs, an immense body lay with one scarred hand reaching out for a fallen shock-prod. Something had torn the Ogryn open, tearing out a section of spine through the corded muscle of the abhuman’s back. In the faint light, Nova could just about make out Grum’s gaping, glassy-eyed face staring blankly back at her, the Ogryn’s blood-streaked skin turned greyish-white in death. The gangers’ harnesses hung torn and bloody from the ceiling ducts, but there was no sign of what had killed them – only the bloody ruin it had left behind.

It looked like the others in the auction chamber had made their escape, probably through the open side door. Still trapped in their cage, the Kroot were keening pitifully, raising the occasional animalistic sound from the other lots. Of Lot 11, there was no sign – but one of the ventilation ducts had been torn wide open, opening a dark gullet of metal in the high rafters.

[Thanatos 51-50]

"You just witnessed Mister Kastor in action." the "bodyguard" replied bluntly. "Do you honestly believe that a man of his martial prowess would require somebody like me if he didn't need to maintain vigilance against an enemy? We had intelligence that such an individual may have an interest in this auction as well and was likely acting through an agent. Mister Kastor judged that we should come despite this fact."
Red turned his impassive smoked armourglass facade to face the circus magnate. "That is just a tiny bit more than you need to know."

[LCP]

“That right?” said Norton. “You want to keep a tigher leash on this one, Kastor. He don’t know how to speak to his betters.” He looked to Red. “You understand?” he demanded with aggression. “No bloody low-hive muscle talks down to me. You brought your enemies here, you put the rest of us right in the bloody line of fire!”

“Something, no doubt, we can hold Mr Kastor accountable for once we’ve got above-decks, Mr Norton,” said D’Aragnia from behind. “According to his assistant, there’s another lift further into the tunnels behind. Apparently,” she said, lingering on the word, “the way we came is cut off.”

“Thrax,” barked Norton, still obviously in a bad mood. “Get this one on his feet.”

The Vargarian gladiator manhandled the Representative upright. The metal man seemed to take the rough treatment with total equanimity, still not speaking a single word. Tychon wondered if he could.

[Destro_Yersul]

"That will be all, Mr. Bosc." Tychon gave Red the command in a short tone, then smiled, hoping he could defuse this. "I don't keep Mr. Bosc around for his social skills, Mr. Norton. I'll have a word with him once we're out of here. As to my enemies, I'm sure we all have some, but I didn't bring them here. They sent their agent for the auction, as did I. I'm not a man to cower in fear, especially not if it would mean I miss an event like this one. Though, unfortunately, it seems to have gone downhive for us all with or without the intervention of my personal nemesis."

Madame D'Aragnia, he noted, was not especially accepting of his assurance that the way they had come was cut off. "The Margravine is right," he said. "If we go back the way we came, we're either running into a group of men with armour and hellguns, or a long wait for the lift to come back down. They've got a head start, so my money would be on the latter, and I don't much like the idea of standing around in one place for long down here."

Starting back down the tunnels, he let the others make of that what they would. "Erasmus found another lift. Should bring us out near the market. If we can get a large contingent of station guards to come back down with us, I will be only too happy to take those Lyrebirds off the Beast House's hands. As you said, Mr. Norton, good money is on the line. I'm not losing what's mine if I can help it."

[LCP]

D'Aragnia and Norton exchanged glances. Looking to her bodyguard, the Margravine nodded.

"Alright, Mr Kastor," said Phipps, quietly. "Lead on."

[Rizhail]

LCP only:

Nova frowned as she surveyed the carnage. As much as she wanted to hunt down the beast, or at least track down the survivors who had fled the hall, she had no desire to get ambushed crossing the darkened room.

Especially now that she was back in control of her own mind and body again, at least for a time.

Nova activated her photo-contacts and scanned the room again, trying to see if any of other players in the auction were amongst the (identifiable) dead. As the ogryn's remains passed under her gaze again, she sighed and activated her commbead. If the beast can do that, I'll have to find a better spot to corner it. Getting pounced in the dark or pulled into a vent is not how I plan to go.


Everybody:

"Lot 11 is gone, Gideon," came Nova's whispered voice over the cell's commbeads, highlighting the fact that she hadn't followed the rest of the team down the corridor. "I'm looking through a crack in the side door; whatever that thing is, it ripped the ogryn's spine out and shredded a vent grate while we were out in the side hall. Unless it's found a good hiding place in the auction hall, it's out in the ventilation system.

There's also signs some of the other auction goers bailed out another side entrance."

[Destro_Yersul]

Nodding, tychon took the lead, waving Erasmus up front with him. He'd need the map to refer to. He kep an eye out for Nova as well, the fact that she'd stayed behind slightly worrisome. Still, at least her apparently opening the door to check on what was inside hadn't warned it of their position.

"Nova says it's not inside the hall anymore," he told the others. "Killed the Ogryn and broke into the ventilation system. Could be anywhere now, we'll have to hurry."

[LCP]

“Not in the hall any more,” muttered Norton’s clerk. The scrawny little man looked fearfully around at the walls. “Brilliant.”

Norton and D’Aragnia were clearly no happier about the situation than Tychon or the others, but as the Acolytes led the way, they followed. They left the ominous door and the muffled cries of the animals behind, forking left into the narrow service corridors that wormed their way towards the centre of the refinery complex.

The walls here were not walls, Jericus realised. There would have been no need for bulkheads this thick. They were walking between the ironclad flanks of great machines, armoured pipes weaving in and out of their riveted skin. At eye level, the occasional pressure gauge was visible, their thick glass faces smeared with dust and thumbprints. Here and there, a deep red glow flickered from behind locked grates. There was a stale heat that throbbed from the metal of the walls – without the maze of ventilation pipes that snaked overhead, he didn’t like to think what the atmosphere in here would be like.


http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v700/LordChilipepa/RefineryLevels2.jpg

Whoever paid for the upkeep of this place clearly did not care much for workers’ conveniences. The only lighting was in the form of strip-lights, strung haphazardly from the same mesh ceiling plates that supported the vents. Sparsely spread, they left deep pools of shadow between their islands of light – where some of them were non-functional, the only light came from the furnace glow of the machines.

Louder than their echoing footsteps, Nova could sense the throb and roar of the machinery deep in the station’s heart. It reverberated through the decking here, so low-pitched that it was felt more than heard. There was a sharp tang of heated metal on the air, polluted with strange, chemical odours that came and went as they passed through the twisted alleys of rusted pipework. Grey dust lay heavy on the floor, scuffed and brushed aside by the bootprints of a hundred passing workers. Some of the footprints seemed fresher than others – she wished she had made a study of their fellow auction-goers’ shoes.

At the back of the party, Thrax kept a tight grip on their brass captive. The Representative walked without resistance or complaint, keeping his expressionless eyes down. His strides were smooth and precisely timed, like a metronome.

Now that the stranger’s hood was down, Jericus could see the back of his head. There were traces of flesh still visible there, under the extensive aug-work that had been done. There, in skin as pale as a subterrene worm’s, he could see the marks of deep surgical scars... and in tiny, tiny tattooed characters, the precise dots and bars of a serial code.

They were escorting a servitor. A beautifully-fashioned, highly advanced servitor, but a servitor nonetheless. Old stories sprang to the forefront of the tech-priest’s mind: the False Men, the Janus Simulacra and the controversies that had raged about them. Unless it was a very elaborate disguise, they were either dealing with an item of exquisite value, or a heresy of the first order.

Ahead, they were approaching a T-junction. About ten metres from the turn, D’Aragnia’s man Phipps stopped dead – there were noises coming from up ahead.

Muffled, as if through several sets of genuine walls, sporadic blurts of solid-projectile gunfire were just about audible, growing louder then fainter again. Somewhere not too far away, the auction chamber battle was still raging, on the move – but closer to hand, there was another sound. A series of metallic scuffing noises, echoing from somewhere out of sight.

“Oh God-Emperor,” murmured Rabilas, wide, watery eyes drifting inevitably up towards the thick vents criss-crossing the ceiling. One of them was trembling, ever so slightly. “God-Emperor, deliver us...”

From around the corner, there came a shriek of shearing metal, and the echoing clang of something heavy dropping to the deck. Then, silence.

[Thragka]

"In my experience, the God-Emperor helps those who help themselves," said Tauron. "We must open ourselves to His courage."

He paused a moment. "Mr Bosc, if we're going to need to move quickly, perhaps I can relieve you of your sword."

[Thanatos 51-50]

"Mr. Bosc." wordlessly drew the clumsy, awkward chainsword and offered it, hilt-first to the "Personal assistant" before shouldering his rifle and dropping into a crouch, approaching the corner at a low angle and peeing around it, first with the deadly mono-edged steel of his bayonet, then with the thin, lethal muzzle of the sollex, and finally with his eyes and the laser sight.

[Thragka]

Tauron holstered his pistol and accepted the chainsword, wrapping his fingers around the hilt as though shaking an old friend's hand. He closed his eyes for a brief moment of contemplation.

God-Emperor on Holy Terra, my life is yours to use, and every action I take is for your glory. The heretic asks for deliverance, not knowing death would be his redemption, and if it please you to take your servants' lives now and so end Your enemies', so be it. But I believe our task is blessed, and we must yet survive to see the work of your Holy Inquisition be completed. Let us not throw our lives away in vain when we can spend them later in your service. Grant your servants the courage to meet their foes, and yet the knowledge of how to escape this foe that we might serve you better against the next.

[Destro_Yersul]

Tychon stopped, biting his lip. If it was Lot 11 behind that corner, they were likely in some very serious trouble. It was possible they could go back to the last junction, get around it, but then it was probably faster than them. Running would do no good. "What do you see, Mr. Bosc?" he subvocalised into his commbead, dropping a few steps back. If Tauron and Red wanted to put themselves in the thing's way, Tychon wouldn't stop them. He'd try to help if he could, he wasn't about to do a runner, but he had no interest in being near whatever was around that corner.

[LCP]

Red

Around the corner, a bulky pipe junction protruded from the corroded wall. A tangle of armoured conduits fed into a single contained block, its outward face a jumble of dials and padlocked valves. Beyond that, the corridor jinked around another corner, heading deeper into the red-lit heart of the station.

It was the vents overhead that immediately caught his eye, however. Slightly further from Red's position than the bulk of the machinery, the central duct had been torn open like a ration wrapper, wisps of condensation drifting from the torn metal.

Scanning the corridor as intently as he could, he could see no trace of whatever had done the damage. The passageway seemed empty - but still, something felt wrong.