Day 268, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium
Hive Spire
Inside a sumptuous hall decorated with antiquities from the pre-fall age, the black lacquered metal walls were exquisitely embossed with the two-headed-eagle crest and the Korvax family sigil — a shield bearing crossed cogwheels and a copper-hued power blade. High above, a thick stained-glass window looked down over a sea of smoke and scattered lights of the Hive City below, where the lives of millions played out in filth and despair.
A tall man sat on a black steel chair at the center of the room. Half his face had been replaced with cybernetics; one eye glowed a faint red beneath white hair receding with age. Lord Valen Korvax, current head of House Korvax and one of the three supreme rulers of Hive Karthion, regarded the view with cold calculation.
Footsteps sounded as another man entered the chamber. He moved with quiet precision; his dark suit was close-cut, a silver cog emblem pinned to his left breast. His eyes were sharp, his motions disciplined — the trained bearing of someone with military experience.
"My lord, intelligence from Lower Hive, Sector Z, has arrived." Malvik knelt and presented a data-slate. Valen nodded slowly as he scanned the figures and reconnaissance images sent from agents operating in that sector.
"Population density is lower than the standard compared with neighboring districts… output is 43% below Sector E… crime rates increased twelve percent in a single month… such conditions are unacceptable," Valen said in a low, steady baritone.
"Shall I initiate a Purity Sweep like in Sector X?" Malvik asked. His tone was even, but the question trembled with the implication: Korvax "Purity Sweeps" meant sending the house's armed retainers into a district to eliminate gangs and dissenters, heedless of civilian casualties. Valen's red optic flared and reflected across the metal at his cheek.
"No… not yet. We will not destroy what still has use," he replied coldly. "Those gangs may be worthless to Malvernis or Thalric… but to me they are raw material not yet forged. They can be turned into my servants — or, properly disciplined, an effective private militia."
"You would… use them?" Malvik looked up, surprised.
"Yes." Valen rose. "We will create Project Z Renewal — in name a reconstruction program, in truth a labor reconditioning initiative." He stepped to the window and gazed down into the dark below, where failing lights winked across the sprawl.
"We will announce the construction of a modern production plant, one claiming efficiency comparable to Sector C… but staffed with cheap labor from the gangs that already control the area. We will offer those gang leaders concessions and resources in exchange for their cooperation in controlling their zones and delivering labor."
"And if they refuse?" Malvik asked, momentarily taken aback.
"Then they are waste to be cleared out before the forging begins." Valen turned, a smile as cold as an ice-world cutting his features.
"And Malvernis and Thalric? They won't let our influence spread into Sector Z unopposed," Malvik said. He and Valen both understood how ruthlessly the rival houses guarded their spheres.
"I do not need them to consent. I only need them to be too slow to stop me." Valen's voice was flat as he returned to the data-slate.
"Spread the rumor that this factory is sponsored by the Mechanicus and falls under Adeptus Arbites production quotas — make them fear touching it," he ordered.
"Understood, my lord. I will have the intelligence unit plant the false reports within a week," Malvik replied.
"Good. Soon Sector Z will become our new copper mine… and as output rises, I will have the pretext to pressure the High Council to expand House Korvax's commercial authority." Valen raised a glass of dark wine and took a sip, then looked straight at Malvik.
"Prepare the operation — and remember: do not spill so much blood that the Arbites take notice, but spill enough that the gangs do not mistake mercy for weakness."
"Understood, my lord."
Valen turned his gaze back to the ocean of smoke and iron below. The grinding of a thousand machines rose up in a terrifying chorus, like a demon laughing beneath his feet — but above all that sound was the music of coin and resources being produced for him.
______________________________________________
Sector Z
Eric woke slowly. The first sensation was a dull ache in his arms and legs. He carefully set the pistol he'd been clutching on the floor, put the safety on for good measure, then stretched his hands upward and rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiffness.
He got up and went to the small sink to wash his face, using a damp cloth to wipe the sweat from his skin. He brushed his long white hair — greasy and a little tangled — and thought ruefully about buying shampoo, if only it weren't so expensive. He took care of his other morning needs as best he could.
Once he was dry, he went back to the main room. He removed his undershirt, picked up the strip of cloth he used to bind his chest, and wrapped it on tightly and securely. He breathed a little easier; the binding offered some protection from heat and chemicals, even if it made him hot. He pulled on the scratched black boots — a free secondhand pair — and felt slightly uncomfortable in the heavy outfit. He had no idea how many kilos it weighed, but he'd have to get used to it until he could find better work. He hung his gas mask around his neck.
Eric fumbled in his pack for the corpse-starch bar he'd bought yesterday. He unwrapped the thin foil and revealed a white, rectangular block that smelled faintly rancid. He nibbled at it slowly until it was gone. He hated the gummy, flavorless texture, but the alternatives were either unaffordable or unsafe. A single slab of processed grox meat cost enough to buy thirty corpse-starch bars — and thirty bars, by his reckoning, would keep him alive for a month. So he endured the tasteless ration; it at least kept him full for a day.
He drank, wiped his mouth, and tightened his gas mask to check the fit. He inspected the pistol, checked the rounds and the safety, then slipped it into the pocket of his heavy coat.
He locked the door behind him. The fact that he was the only resident of the building was both comforting and unnerving — comforting because nobody else could surprise him in his room, unnerving because anything could be hiding in the dark. He moved down the corridor, pistol in hand, and finally stepped out into the street.
His lodgings were a fair distance from the denser population and the factories, which made his commute long. Everything outside looked much as it had the day before.
As Eric cut through a narrow alley shortcut, he noticed a strange symbol painted on the wall — an eight-pointed star. It was the same mark he'd seen on the mummy-like zombie back in the Underhive. Something odd was going on. Then again, odd things happened here all the time, and this symbol was probably just another one of them.
Suddenly two men in tight, strange leather outfits stepped out and blocked his path. Eric saw they wore a bizarre emblem that merged male and female symbols into one. The exposed skin on one man was scarred from torture, and both reeked of cheap perfume, alcohol and drugs.
"Where're you off to? Fancy a sermon — or to join the Cult of Pleasure?" one of them sneered. This place was full of lunatics. Eric wouldn't let them talk more. He flashed his pistol, fired twice, and both men dropped. Repetition and necessity had made him practiced; he felt oddly proficient with the sidearm after so much real use.
He exhaled, annoyed and guilty, then dragged the bodies to the side of the alley, collected the spent casings, checked their weapons, and continued on as if nothing had happened.
Eric told himself he didn't want to kill, but the situation had left him no choice: if he didn't act, he would have been assaulted or worse. He kept walking toward the denser part of the district, trying not to draw attention. He passed Magda's shop, the church, and the stretch where the Mad-Max-style gangs frequently clashed — the same area where factory-made rounds from his plant often got used. He checked in at the factory and began another shift.
As Eric cut through a shortcut alley, he noticed a strange symbol painted on the wall — an eight-pointed star. It matched the mark he'd seen on the mummy-like zombie down in the Underhive. Something weird was definitely going on.
But weird things were common here, and this symbol was probably just one more oddity. Still, as he walked, two men in tight, bizarre leather outfits stepped out and blocked his path. Eric noticed a strange emblem on them: a hybrid of the male and female symbols fused into one. One of the men had tortured flesh exposed beneath his clothing, and both smelled of cheap perfume, alcohol and drugs.
"Where are you going? Fancy a sermon — or joining the Cult of Pleasure?" one of them taunted. This place was full of lunatics. Eric didn't wait to hear more. He drew his pistol and fired straight into both their heads. Repetition and necessity had made him efficient — he felt oddly practiced with the sidearm after so much real use.
Both men collapsed. Eric sighed with a mixture of boredom and guilt, dragged the bodies to the side of the alley, collected the spent casings, checked their weapons, and continued as if nothing had happened.
He kept telling himself he didn't want to kill, but the situation left him no choice: if they hadn't been shot, he would have been assaulted or worse. He walked on toward a more populated area, deliberately trying not to draw attention. He passed Magda's, the church, and the stretch where the Mad-Max style gangs often clashed — the same place where rounds from the factory he worked at frequently got used. He checked in at the factory and started another shift.
After work that day, tired as usual, Eric planned to dig up a little more information. He took a dark shortcut into an alley to find an information broker some coworkers had been whispering about. The passage was rank and shadowed, but he'd grown used to the smells and the dark. He kept his pistol tight in his pocket. This would be the third person he'd have to deal with besides the factory recruiter and Magda. People here couldn't be trusted. In this body — a seemingly fragile, attractive woman — he knew he could be harassed, captured, enslaved, or sold.
Why was being a woman so damn hard? Vulnerable, and also eye candy for predators.
Partway down the alley, he spotted a man in the distance acting oddly; the air nearby shimmered. Then the man flung a ball of fire and, for some reason, lightning shot from his fingertips toward the wall, lighting the alley in a sudden flare. Magic, in the 41st Millennium? Eric scoffed at himself — of course he'd have to run into a spellcaster now. Whatever it was, it looked dangerous, and it was fortunately some distance away, so Eric bolted before the man could notice him.
At the end of the twisted alley he reached a door set in a gray wall and pushed it open. Inside was the kind of shop and dwelling common in the Lower Hive: dim, dingy and filthy. Behind the counter sat a man wrapped in a heavy cloak, all but his strange, glowing blue eyes hidden from view. Such luminescent eyes were odd, but in this place who knew what was normal?
When the man saw him enter, he peered up and spoke in an odd, almost mesmerising voice.
"Welcome, madam… You must be new. What do you seek? News from above… or a noble's scandal you can use for blackmail? I have it all… but everything has a price, depending on its rarity. Or perhaps you're after rare goods?" he said, pulling back part of his cloak to reveal rows of items under his garments: jewelry, ammunition, something resembling drugs, shampoo and bars of soap. Eric's eyes fixed on the soap — he desperately wanted it, even though he knew water was expensive and he could probably only afford to wash his face or hair. More striking, the back of the stall was an arsenal: pistols of many sizes, submachine guns, assault rifles, shotguns, heavy machine guns, what looked like anti-vehicle rifles and grenade launchers. There were also large automatic weapons without conventional magazines that seemed battery-fed (he didn't know what lascannons were), and other monstrous firearms (he didn't recognize the Bolter either). On another shelf sat prosthetic limbs of every kind and size, and a few servitors.
He thought this broker wasn't an information dealer at all — he was an illicit arms merchant, with a small arsenal to prove it.
"I just want to ask if there's any way up from here besides the usual routes," Eric said evenly, forcing his voice to sound less like his naturally sweet tone. Still, his eyes kept flicking to the cache of goods behind the counter.
"You really came to ask me that? Waste of time. The alternatives are all ridiculously dangerous," the merchant said. "Best bet is to enlist in the Imperial Guard. That information costs two culfs — pay up. And between you and me, I know you're more interested in the stuff behind me than in intel. Fancy a gun? A pretty thing like you could buy two lascannons with her price." The dealer grinned and made a gesture asking for payment. Eric bristled at the comment. Even with his face hidden by a gas mask and his body wrapped in heavy clothes that made it hard to tell male from female, people here treated him like an object. He disliked the talk, even if most of the men who spoke that way ended up dead.
"All right…" he replied, annoyed, and fished two coins from his pocket. The dealer accepted them, dropped them into a chest, bowed and touched his chest in the two-headed eagle salute.
"Heh. Thanks. Come again. If you've got more money you can buy anything from me. I never knew there were beauties like you up there — you don't look like you're from any noble house, and you don't look like you came from down below either. If you were noble-born, I'd have heard about you already." The merchant, pleased and sly, stroked his chin while sizing Eric up.
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not connected to any nobles, and I've only been here a week," Eric said, deflecting and trying to sound casual. He wanted to avoid suspicion and maybe win a little goodwill or a discount by chatting.
"Interesting. Hope to see you back," the merchant said.
"Thanks. I'm Erica de la Cruz. What's your name?" Eric revealed, taking off his mask enough to introduce himself — it felt good to speak to someone without a mask between them.
"Haha… she is beautiful. That name sounds noble. I think you're lying about not having ties upstairs. I'm Raul Menendez — pleasure," Raul said, slapping the counter and laughing when he saw Eric's face and heard the name. The name sounded Spanish; he might be useful. Still, Raul was untrustworthy — the sort of merchant who would sell anything for the right price. But if Eric could get on good terms with him, it could pay off.
"Nice to meet you. If I don't die first, I'll stop by again," Eric said, putting the mask back on and heading out. Raul's voice called after him.
"It's a shame a beauty like you is stuck down here. You should be using proper shampoo and conditioners," Raul joked. Eric turned, hopeful that Raul might offer a gift or discount — but Raul simply smiled and added, "Minimum fifty culfs."
Eric's shoulders sank. Of course the things he wanted — shampoo, soap — were outrageously expensive here. He wanted to wash his long white hair and not cut it, but he'd set aside half his savings for his plan to get out of this place.
He wandered the alleys for a while, lost since he'd only been here a short time. Luckily, the spellcaster he'd seen earlier was gone — he didn't fancy fighting a mage. Eventually he made his way back to Magda's shop to buy supplies and greeted her as usual. She looked a little rough today; the counter was full of prosthetic hands to repair. Eric removed his mask, breathed deeply, and said the line he always used.
"Corp-starch bar and a bottle of water, please, Magda."
Magda looked up. The remaining corner of her eye was already darkening with a bruise.
"All right — one moment." Her voice was flat as she steadied herself and stood to fetch the items. Eric tried to make small talk; he'd been isolated and on edge, and some conversation was better than none.
"Why have you been so busy lately?" he asked, glancing at the pile of weapons waiting for repair.
Magda set the packet down and rubbed her temple before answering.
"I don't know much, kid. But it looks like something big is coming, and I've been swamped with work — so please, stop pestering me," Magda said in her flat voice, exhaustion clear in her eyes. She turned back to the workbench and resumed repairing a weapon.
A big fight, huh? And all those daily shootouts before and after shifts weren't big enough? Or are people just bored and buying guns to blow off steam? Eric thought. If a major battle really was about to happen, he'd have to be even more careful — it could affect him badly. Still, if a lot of people died tomorrow, at least there'd be fewer stray bullets to worry about, he grimly noted.
"Thanks for the tip, Magda," he said, and reached into his pocket for his coins. Suddenly Magda went quiet — as if she'd seen something, or there was something behind him. Eric hadn't heard a thing.
"Is something wrong, Magda? Say something," he called. Magda stayed silent. A chill ran through him; when she fell quiet like that, it meant trouble. Something was definitely behind him.
"This isn't funny!" he snapped, his voice sharpening in a tone that sounded oddly high and strained.
When Eric turned, he literally recoiled at what he saw.