Wildonion
23rd October 2008, 17:58
I recently began a short story, for my Creative Writing class, set in the 40K Universe. I am happy with how it is shaping up and want to share it in hopes of your advice and constructive criticism; I hope you enjoy what I have so far and will continue to enjoy it as I expand the work.
Underhives are hell, there is not much more that could be said for such miserable places. These are the lowest levels of the vast Hive Cities; layered structures that start below the ground and stretch out toward the heavens, trying to touch the sky with outstretched spires as they cry for salvation. These are dark places, neglected and in shambles, and they are not places for those that walk in the light of the God-Emperor’s grace. No, the Underhive is a place for those that wish to escape the law, hide from justice, or cloak their foul heresies where the faithful fear to tread. The underhive of Questus, on the planet Tix in the Eastern Fringe, was no exception.
This Underhive was once a part of a grand city, with sprawling plazas and magnificent buildings that paid homage to the Immortal Emperor. It had been a paradise world, where all the luxuries of the Imperium could be found, a veritable Eden. But that was before the dark times, before the forces of Chaos laid low the mighty bastion and scorched the earth and the sky. Now this world was almost completely dead; little survived in the blasted wastes beyond the sanctuary of the Hive City. But even the Hive was a dangerous place, with the Manufactorums on the middle levels, the Hive Gangs of the low levels and the dark places below even that to which no man laid any claim. It was here, in the lowest sections, that a stranger stalked through the shadows, trying to keep quiet and hide himself from sight. An unusual visitor for such a place; he did not belong here.
Cian Farrell crouched behind a mound of rubble, his heart beat fast and his eyes darted as he looked all around him. His eyes strained to pierce the shadows just as his ears tried to pick up every noise and decipher them. Sewage and waste water dripped from the pipes above, those lost in the blackness of the faraway roof, and they made strange echoes that confused the young man; Cian’s mind was racing with fear. He once again observed the remains of the old courtyard that stretched before him, the muted tones of the rubble piles and the sharp contrast of rusted metals. It was a hollow place, dead and buried under the Hive; only ghosts could live in this hold. Cian decided that he did not want to be here, alone and with no hope of back up, but there wasn’t much choice.
For several weeks Cian had been searching Questus, speaking with various contacts that reported to his master, the Inquisitor Jemas Riker. There was a very real possibility that a cult of Chaos had sprouted on this world, but the Inquisitor could not follow every lead and investigate every rumor. To that end, he sent his most trusted student: Cian. The young man had spoken with many of his master’s agents on this world and those that knew anything said that the Abyss—the local name for the Underhive—had become more dangerous of late. The Hive gangs were fearful to venture into the deep recesses of their domains and many had gone missing, at least more so than usual. This was a poor sign.
Cian knew that most Gangers were vicious killers and murderous scum that knew little fear, at least as long as their allies were around to watch their back. If they did not want to use their secret tunnels or conduct scavenging runs then something must be wrong. This, combined with reports of strange figures that moved through the dark, always half seen but still inspiring great dread, could mean the worst. But Cian had no proof and he knew better than to report to Inquisitor Riker without a solid lead. Riker was a good man, honest and fair, but he did not broker well with failure. In search of the evidence that he required, Cian had entered the Abyss. He had planned to search through the places that had been marked as hot spots and take note of what he saw there; he had hoped that that would have been enough. It wasn’t.
Cian had seen little but was growing more and more afraid as he continued through the dark. This place was surrounded by a fog of unease that had put him on edge. The acolyte was doing his best just to remain in control of his emotions; but his fear was dancing beyond the reach of his will. He didn’t move from his position behind the rubble, it was good cover and besides that he was hungry. Cian reached into one of the pockets of his greatcoat and pulled out a rectangular bar, wrapped in a dull grey packaging. The processed food bars he carried did not taste good, they were salty and hard to chew because of the protein paste that held them together; but it was food and that was all that mattered. It was comforting; the mundane act of eating provided a measure of solace. In the middle of this small meal, Cian heard a strange noise and thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. With a muted hiss, he spun and drew his Bolt Pistol, leveling the weapon.
Before Cian was not some monster of the Warp, intent of tearing him to shreds and feasting upon his soul; it was a large chunk of fallen glass. The reflective surface captured Cian’s face and the acolyte stared at his haggard features in shock. His dark hair—cut short and functional—was still a mess from when a sewage pipe had burst while he had been passing under it. His skin was pale and looked stretched; it was evident that he would need to bathe when he escaped. Cian’s clothing, also dark as it made it easier to hide in the Abyss, was stained and torn in several places. The smooth grey of his body armor peaked out and it, too, streaked with grim. Only his eyes, a fierce green and full of fire, made him look alive. The acolyte lowered his Bolt Pistol with a shuddering sigh, shaking his head and staring down at his boots in shame. What had him on edge?
For the last hour he had been moving through the Abyss and he had seen nothing, there had been no enemies and no signs of a Chaos threat—of any threat for that matter. Maybe the rumors that he had collected were just that, myths and superstitious garbage. That had to be it! There was nothing here to be afraid of after all. He could go, return to the surface, and escape this place. Cian was ready to turn and leave, to put all of this behind him and report his findings to the Inquisitor, when the sound from before rang out again. This time, without the visual “threat” to distract him, Cian could identify the sound: it was a drum.
The acolyte scrambled back to his hiding place while he crammed the last bit of the food bar into his mouth, before peering through a small hole between two fallen columns and out into what once might have been a courtyard. The building ahead, tall and imposing but still only a shadow of its former glory, was opening a pair of large double doors that Cian had missed when he first looked over the cavernous courtyard. There was another deep report from the unseen drum and a small procession came into view. Six men, in tattered robes festooned with various metal icons, dragged a struggling hive ganger between them. The captive, a man who was maybe just into his middle years, was struggling weakly to escape their grip; it did not help him. Cian ignored the man, he was scum and of no consequence, and instead focused on the robed figures. He squinted, trying to see who they might be, and suddenly recoiled. They bore the eight-pointed star!
The acolyte recoiled, before crossing his hands and hooking his thumbs in the sign of the Imperial Aquila; the eight-pointed star was a symbol—No! THE symbol—of Chaos! These men, they were the ones he was searching for. Cian’s mind was whirling, trying to process what he had just seen and connect it with what he had learned here on Questus and what he already knew. People had been going missing, there was a cult here, and that meant they had been taking captives. The cultists were either using foul sorceries to corrupt their prisoners, forcing them into their ranks, or they were using them as sacrifice. But what was there to gain through the blood offerings of Hive Gangers? A cold lump fell into Cian’s stomach as he realized what this could mean: If these heretics were skilled enough, if they knew what they were doing, then they could be using the sacrifices to bring forth the demons of the warp; the foul creatures that served the dark gods.
Cian decided it would be best if he left now, escaped and remembered the way back, so that he could summon the Inquisitor and bring the full might of the Inquisition to Questus. The Ordo Malleus, the Demon Hunters and the branch of the Inquisition that Riker belonged to, would handle this better than a lone acolyte. Besides, only a fool would race into a situation where he didn’t know the odds; there were at least seven cultists and he would not be surprised if there were more. That as too much even for a skill servant like himself.
Cian took several steps back, still keeping low, and turned to leave when he found himself staring at a trio of monstrous creatures. They had snuck up from behind, had been ready to pounce, when Cian started moving. The acolyte noted that each was markedly different, their features warped and twisted, with extra arms, tentacles, or bladed appendages growing from their bodies or replacing existing limbs. They were mutants, the product of Chaos and the baser filth that filled their ranks. Cian had a moment to stare in shock as the three surged forward.
The acolyte was accustomed to combat, he had served in the Imperial Guard—the Cadian Eighth Regiment—before Riker had found him; this had sharpened his reflexes and gave him strong survival instincts that had saved his life in the past. Cian rolled under a wild swing from the first mutant, leapt over an arm whose hand had been replaced with a fanged maw, and darted passed the third mutant as it brought down a hammer blow with both engorged fists. With a snarl, he spun and raised his Bolt Pistol; he took quick aim and fired a single shot into the nearest monster. The weapon did not buck in his hand as the bolt left the barrel and rocketed toward its disgusting target, leaving him ready to fire again if he must. After an eye blink’s time the round slammed into the mutant’s back and then exploded outward, leaving a gaping and ragged hole. Cian followed up the second shot, he had to be sure that this thing did not get back up.
Distracted, Cian did not see the downed Chaos-freak’s allies and one managed to club him with its arm, the fanged one. The acolyte stumbled backward, his body armor absorbing the brunt of the blow, and turned his weapon on this new threat. The Bolt Pistol sang again, its round tearing into the target’s head and then exploding—had the round been able to build up a little more speed it might have punched through the skull and exploded behind the target, but such was not the case this time. Cian retrained his weapon on the last mutant, or he meant to because the creature was gone! Looking around, searching for his remaining assailant, Cian felt a growing unease.
His fear was gone, mostly, and had been replaced with adrenaline that let him think more clearly; his mind was screaming for him to run. The cultists would have heard the shots, the escaped mutant would warn his fellows, and Cian would be captured and killed without ever warning his master what was happening here.
Cian wanted to run, to escape, but he was not sure where to go. Where could he hide that these heretics did not already know of? They had been down here for some time, that much was obvious from the reports, and they would know the tunnels well by now. What hope did a lone man have against these odds? The acolyte did not have the time he needed to contemplate this dilemma, however, as a new threat made itself know: the cultists were coming.
Searching quickly, Cian spotted a small hole that he could hide in and without thinking he scrambled over and dove inside. It was not as cramped as he had believed and afforded a good view of the sight of battle while shielding him. He watched as several cultists and the remaining mutant came into view. He could not make out the hushed conversations, but he was sure he knew what it was about. He kept his Bolt Pistol drawn and dropped his free hand to the hilt of the sword he carried, for situations where he was forced into close quarters. The small group continued to argue for a moment longer, then left; no doubt to warn their fellows.
Cian let out a sigh of relief and flicked the safety on his Bolt Pistol before returning it to the holster on his belt. He was starting to crawl from the hole when he heard a sickening crack.
“What in the Emperor’s name?” he breathed. The floor gave out underneath the acolyte, plunging him into the dark.
Underhives are hell, there is not much more that could be said for such miserable places. These are the lowest levels of the vast Hive Cities; layered structures that start below the ground and stretch out toward the heavens, trying to touch the sky with outstretched spires as they cry for salvation. These are dark places, neglected and in shambles, and they are not places for those that walk in the light of the God-Emperor’s grace. No, the Underhive is a place for those that wish to escape the law, hide from justice, or cloak their foul heresies where the faithful fear to tread. The underhive of Questus, on the planet Tix in the Eastern Fringe, was no exception.
This Underhive was once a part of a grand city, with sprawling plazas and magnificent buildings that paid homage to the Immortal Emperor. It had been a paradise world, where all the luxuries of the Imperium could be found, a veritable Eden. But that was before the dark times, before the forces of Chaos laid low the mighty bastion and scorched the earth and the sky. Now this world was almost completely dead; little survived in the blasted wastes beyond the sanctuary of the Hive City. But even the Hive was a dangerous place, with the Manufactorums on the middle levels, the Hive Gangs of the low levels and the dark places below even that to which no man laid any claim. It was here, in the lowest sections, that a stranger stalked through the shadows, trying to keep quiet and hide himself from sight. An unusual visitor for such a place; he did not belong here.
Cian Farrell crouched behind a mound of rubble, his heart beat fast and his eyes darted as he looked all around him. His eyes strained to pierce the shadows just as his ears tried to pick up every noise and decipher them. Sewage and waste water dripped from the pipes above, those lost in the blackness of the faraway roof, and they made strange echoes that confused the young man; Cian’s mind was racing with fear. He once again observed the remains of the old courtyard that stretched before him, the muted tones of the rubble piles and the sharp contrast of rusted metals. It was a hollow place, dead and buried under the Hive; only ghosts could live in this hold. Cian decided that he did not want to be here, alone and with no hope of back up, but there wasn’t much choice.
For several weeks Cian had been searching Questus, speaking with various contacts that reported to his master, the Inquisitor Jemas Riker. There was a very real possibility that a cult of Chaos had sprouted on this world, but the Inquisitor could not follow every lead and investigate every rumor. To that end, he sent his most trusted student: Cian. The young man had spoken with many of his master’s agents on this world and those that knew anything said that the Abyss—the local name for the Underhive—had become more dangerous of late. The Hive gangs were fearful to venture into the deep recesses of their domains and many had gone missing, at least more so than usual. This was a poor sign.
Cian knew that most Gangers were vicious killers and murderous scum that knew little fear, at least as long as their allies were around to watch their back. If they did not want to use their secret tunnels or conduct scavenging runs then something must be wrong. This, combined with reports of strange figures that moved through the dark, always half seen but still inspiring great dread, could mean the worst. But Cian had no proof and he knew better than to report to Inquisitor Riker without a solid lead. Riker was a good man, honest and fair, but he did not broker well with failure. In search of the evidence that he required, Cian had entered the Abyss. He had planned to search through the places that had been marked as hot spots and take note of what he saw there; he had hoped that that would have been enough. It wasn’t.
Cian had seen little but was growing more and more afraid as he continued through the dark. This place was surrounded by a fog of unease that had put him on edge. The acolyte was doing his best just to remain in control of his emotions; but his fear was dancing beyond the reach of his will. He didn’t move from his position behind the rubble, it was good cover and besides that he was hungry. Cian reached into one of the pockets of his greatcoat and pulled out a rectangular bar, wrapped in a dull grey packaging. The processed food bars he carried did not taste good, they were salty and hard to chew because of the protein paste that held them together; but it was food and that was all that mattered. It was comforting; the mundane act of eating provided a measure of solace. In the middle of this small meal, Cian heard a strange noise and thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. With a muted hiss, he spun and drew his Bolt Pistol, leveling the weapon.
Before Cian was not some monster of the Warp, intent of tearing him to shreds and feasting upon his soul; it was a large chunk of fallen glass. The reflective surface captured Cian’s face and the acolyte stared at his haggard features in shock. His dark hair—cut short and functional—was still a mess from when a sewage pipe had burst while he had been passing under it. His skin was pale and looked stretched; it was evident that he would need to bathe when he escaped. Cian’s clothing, also dark as it made it easier to hide in the Abyss, was stained and torn in several places. The smooth grey of his body armor peaked out and it, too, streaked with grim. Only his eyes, a fierce green and full of fire, made him look alive. The acolyte lowered his Bolt Pistol with a shuddering sigh, shaking his head and staring down at his boots in shame. What had him on edge?
For the last hour he had been moving through the Abyss and he had seen nothing, there had been no enemies and no signs of a Chaos threat—of any threat for that matter. Maybe the rumors that he had collected were just that, myths and superstitious garbage. That had to be it! There was nothing here to be afraid of after all. He could go, return to the surface, and escape this place. Cian was ready to turn and leave, to put all of this behind him and report his findings to the Inquisitor, when the sound from before rang out again. This time, without the visual “threat” to distract him, Cian could identify the sound: it was a drum.
The acolyte scrambled back to his hiding place while he crammed the last bit of the food bar into his mouth, before peering through a small hole between two fallen columns and out into what once might have been a courtyard. The building ahead, tall and imposing but still only a shadow of its former glory, was opening a pair of large double doors that Cian had missed when he first looked over the cavernous courtyard. There was another deep report from the unseen drum and a small procession came into view. Six men, in tattered robes festooned with various metal icons, dragged a struggling hive ganger between them. The captive, a man who was maybe just into his middle years, was struggling weakly to escape their grip; it did not help him. Cian ignored the man, he was scum and of no consequence, and instead focused on the robed figures. He squinted, trying to see who they might be, and suddenly recoiled. They bore the eight-pointed star!
The acolyte recoiled, before crossing his hands and hooking his thumbs in the sign of the Imperial Aquila; the eight-pointed star was a symbol—No! THE symbol—of Chaos! These men, they were the ones he was searching for. Cian’s mind was whirling, trying to process what he had just seen and connect it with what he had learned here on Questus and what he already knew. People had been going missing, there was a cult here, and that meant they had been taking captives. The cultists were either using foul sorceries to corrupt their prisoners, forcing them into their ranks, or they were using them as sacrifice. But what was there to gain through the blood offerings of Hive Gangers? A cold lump fell into Cian’s stomach as he realized what this could mean: If these heretics were skilled enough, if they knew what they were doing, then they could be using the sacrifices to bring forth the demons of the warp; the foul creatures that served the dark gods.
Cian decided it would be best if he left now, escaped and remembered the way back, so that he could summon the Inquisitor and bring the full might of the Inquisition to Questus. The Ordo Malleus, the Demon Hunters and the branch of the Inquisition that Riker belonged to, would handle this better than a lone acolyte. Besides, only a fool would race into a situation where he didn’t know the odds; there were at least seven cultists and he would not be surprised if there were more. That as too much even for a skill servant like himself.
Cian took several steps back, still keeping low, and turned to leave when he found himself staring at a trio of monstrous creatures. They had snuck up from behind, had been ready to pounce, when Cian started moving. The acolyte noted that each was markedly different, their features warped and twisted, with extra arms, tentacles, or bladed appendages growing from their bodies or replacing existing limbs. They were mutants, the product of Chaos and the baser filth that filled their ranks. Cian had a moment to stare in shock as the three surged forward.
The acolyte was accustomed to combat, he had served in the Imperial Guard—the Cadian Eighth Regiment—before Riker had found him; this had sharpened his reflexes and gave him strong survival instincts that had saved his life in the past. Cian rolled under a wild swing from the first mutant, leapt over an arm whose hand had been replaced with a fanged maw, and darted passed the third mutant as it brought down a hammer blow with both engorged fists. With a snarl, he spun and raised his Bolt Pistol; he took quick aim and fired a single shot into the nearest monster. The weapon did not buck in his hand as the bolt left the barrel and rocketed toward its disgusting target, leaving him ready to fire again if he must. After an eye blink’s time the round slammed into the mutant’s back and then exploded outward, leaving a gaping and ragged hole. Cian followed up the second shot, he had to be sure that this thing did not get back up.
Distracted, Cian did not see the downed Chaos-freak’s allies and one managed to club him with its arm, the fanged one. The acolyte stumbled backward, his body armor absorbing the brunt of the blow, and turned his weapon on this new threat. The Bolt Pistol sang again, its round tearing into the target’s head and then exploding—had the round been able to build up a little more speed it might have punched through the skull and exploded behind the target, but such was not the case this time. Cian retrained his weapon on the last mutant, or he meant to because the creature was gone! Looking around, searching for his remaining assailant, Cian felt a growing unease.
His fear was gone, mostly, and had been replaced with adrenaline that let him think more clearly; his mind was screaming for him to run. The cultists would have heard the shots, the escaped mutant would warn his fellows, and Cian would be captured and killed without ever warning his master what was happening here.
Cian wanted to run, to escape, but he was not sure where to go. Where could he hide that these heretics did not already know of? They had been down here for some time, that much was obvious from the reports, and they would know the tunnels well by now. What hope did a lone man have against these odds? The acolyte did not have the time he needed to contemplate this dilemma, however, as a new threat made itself know: the cultists were coming.
Searching quickly, Cian spotted a small hole that he could hide in and without thinking he scrambled over and dove inside. It was not as cramped as he had believed and afforded a good view of the sight of battle while shielding him. He watched as several cultists and the remaining mutant came into view. He could not make out the hushed conversations, but he was sure he knew what it was about. He kept his Bolt Pistol drawn and dropped his free hand to the hilt of the sword he carried, for situations where he was forced into close quarters. The small group continued to argue for a moment longer, then left; no doubt to warn their fellows.
Cian let out a sigh of relief and flicked the safety on his Bolt Pistol before returning it to the holster on his belt. He was starting to crawl from the hole when he heard a sickening crack.
“What in the Emperor’s name?” he breathed. The floor gave out underneath the acolyte, plunging him into the dark.