Imperial nobility - The Mistress

 

Whenever she slept, she slept in desperation. Her dreams were filled with broken dreams and shattered hopes and visions of a future taken away from her by destiny. 

To whatever realm she was brought by the minions of her slumber, she could then hear the melodies of her cage, both natural and far more esoteric in origin. The subsonic purr of the surely cursed Gyptian cat he had brought back for her from his countless unholy travels. The quiet whirring of the cruel beauty apparatus that eagerly tortured her form into something pleasing to him every dim and gloomy morning. And the painfully slow, rhythmic dripping of the gilded tap, ticking like a faulty clock that dragged seconds into degrading hours of shame. There were no folly birds singing in the morning light — only moaning gusts of wind, bringing no novelty and no soft relief, their whispering voices broken by the sharp and cruel corners of millennia-old walls.

She also re-smelled the chemically altered sweat of her unwanted lover, the most expensive perfumes exhaled by his seduction-augmentations constantly and the alchemical odour of his rejuvenated skin. On top of this there was always the scent of toxic industrial fumes, of smoking furnaces and unwashed masses way below, desperately creeping through the filters of the air recyclers placed in the highly decorated ceiling.
 
But worst of all was feeling the waning memories of lustful grasps and scratches of passion on her genetically sensitised skin again, the lulling softness of the silken sheets soaked with bodily fluids and the tearing reaction of her body to the ebbing power of her drunkenness and the abating ultra-amphetamines. Reliving those moments of sickly desire and inhuman cravings she had felt when he was with her filled her with hatred and loathing. For him. And for herself.

She remembered her father collapsing to his knees and begging her through tears on the dreadful day the herald of His Highness Chuttrak Mane — Grand Baron of the Western Mega-Watt Clans, Alumni-Seneschal of Ursh Sector Theta-4, and former Lord Commander of the Imperial Contingent at the Dyatlov Pass District — came to her family’s home to court her as a mistress. 

Back then she had been a proud young woman. Many a man had fallen for her charms and good looks and had ruined himself through scandal and debt while pursuing her as a lover or as a wife. None had been good enough for her — no war-crippled hero, no cosmetically perfected suitor, no gem-enriched trader in forbidden goods. And this gluttonous, eccentric hog of a man was none of those things. He was merely a forgotten warlord of the past looking for a new sensation. But he possessed what all the others before him had lacked — something she desired more than lofty titles, lush hydroponic gardens, and jewellery brought from alien worlds: Access.

He resided in an elaborate mansion within the Imperial Palace, got weekly invitations to the highest social gatherings there, and friends in positions so secret they would never even be mentioned to a despicable lower noble such as her father. But all of this – the pleading of her parents, the illustrious society she would get to be a part of, or the standing making her untouchable for almost everyone – would not have been enough. No. Love. True love was the only thing she even had considered worthy to take such a step. 

And there was true love in her life, though she found it so recently back then, that the uncounted arms of fate must have wrestled themselves to make such an occurrence. Just two weeks before the emissary of Lord Mane had arrived, on a quite boring and inappropriate feast to honour one of her long discarded paramours she had met a man who conquered her heart with the first look of his dark and mysterious eyes, broke her will with just a hint of a smile and inflamed her soul so thoroughly that she never recovered. His name was Lord Astrides – or so she thought back then - and he was no regular man at all. He was enormous, as tall as the mountains of Ural, but not so rugged and derelict. His muscles moved under his dark skin like snakes and vipers crawling beneath a blanket made of woven bronze. His fearless eyes were dark as the black hole stars she had read so often about in scholastic books of her childhood, and he towered over her friends and acquaintances like a dark marble statue of the Emperor himself would always tower over the pathetic figures of her ancestors in the dark crypt of the mundane mountain tower she had to dwell in. The mediocre festival hall in all its inexpensive splendour looked like it was illegally built around him, shaming his powerful physique and unsuccessfully trying to diminish his presence. Only the most powerful man of the region had been allowed near him and even those conveyed their unimportant successes and irrelevant achievements only in a faint voice, cracking from respect and fear. Because he was no simple man, he was a son of the Emperor himself, one of a new kind of humanity, an Angel from beyond, a god walking between vermin, an Astartes warrior of the Imperium. 

And then his eyes had met hers for the first time. His eyes pierced into hers like the unworldly darkness of the long-sealed, hand-hewn well shaft deep beneath her ancestral halls — the one her father had shown her when she was just a child. She remembered his wicked smile as he teased her about how easily it could become her final fate if she ever betrayed or dishonoured their House. And though the well had been sealed days after her mother’s mysterious and untimely death, and ordered forgotten by her father, she never did. Instead, she started to use it in her thoughts as a bottomless vault for her unhallowed wishes, her most cancerous thoughts, and her vilest secrets. Secrets she now saw openly displayed in the vast and gloomy expanse lurking behind the black irises that gazed sternly down upon her — a sight shockingly different from the times she had looked into a man’s eyes before, always admiring only her own reflection in them, fascinated by the seductive power she had imprinted upon the poor souls standing before her. None of that was true any more.
 
Even in her dreamscape she kept no tangible memories of the rest of the evening, not of his deep and thought-provoking words spoken beneath the ever-clouded stars of Terra, the gentle touches of hands made for murder and destruction and all those unrememberable secrets whispered in her ear. 
He never left her mind from that night onward, and she met him — though far too scarcely for her taste — in secret during all the time she had been handed over to Lord Mane, living in his mansion amid splendour and riches while enduring his disgusting company through seemingly endless nights of depravity and soulless affection. And so she brought her love the breathed syllables of the old man’s drunken and exhausted sleep, the muttered words of triumph he tried to impress her with while mindlessly abusing her, as he was accustomed to doing with all his possessions — except for the ancient weapons and war machines he prized above everything else.

And through all that time she hoped only for one passionate kiss or one intimate touch, knowing those moments would most likely never come. Her love was forbidden by the highest and most secretive rules of the palace, and so her soul shattered anew every morning when she awoke into the nightmare of her life. Desperately she would touch the tiny symbol of the multi-headed serpent he had carved into her thigh the night before — the only solid thing left, for even the memory of the time she had spent with him was already fading. She must have been closer to him than ever, and so silently she whispered his naming phrase — a sentence he had taught her never to memorise: "I am Alpharius."

D8-1-STOR3-55.7 - an exemplary Astartes chamber

+++ Pandora-Gamma-Prio.IV.00000511
+++ Temporal reference: 115.716.M30
+++ Internal Space Occupation Report 82.004.Convex

As requested by Your Highness, 

I herewith report the current occupation status of Chamber D8-1-STOR3-55.7, contaminated three hours ago by plasma discharge resulting from the structural failure of the magnetic insulation of plasma waste pipe 5912134.6253.Sigma in 681.717.M30.

The plasma pressure present at that time penetrated the inner chamber back wall 14.887 seconds after the collapse of the insulating magnetic field, according to the air-pressure augurs in the affected section. Contaminated plasma spilled into the chamber until emergency measures were undertaken by the occupant.

Chamber D8-1-STOR3-55.7 was assigned to the VIIth Legion, Imperial Fists, for use during their stay aboard the “Pandora’s Curse”. According to Legion data provided to me by Gundran Shepa (Legion serf), it remains occupied by Battle-Brother Ruphert Gavallion [pic_attached_below], a recent addition to the heavy security forces assigned to our vessel by direct order of [REDACTED].

The chamber appears to function as living quarters for the Battle-Brother, as well as an arming chamber and equipment workshop. It is fitted with the standard air-conditioning system (currently inoperative due to radiation contamination of the particle filtration system, a consequence of the aforementioned incident), as typically installed in maintenance chambers on Deck 8.

A non-standard berth has been erected in the far larboard corner of the chamber, in addition to a Type-6 sink installed on the starboard wall, as requested by Legion Command in Furnishing Request FR-6673.922. The power and plasma energy connectors provided by our volta- and plasma mechanics supply a heavy rack furnished by the Legion and installed by their own technicians. It is evidently used to store, maintain, and repair the power armour in which the Sons of the Emperor march into battle.

In addition to the aforementioned alterations, a weapon rack and several shelves have been installed in the chamber by Legion craftsmen without prior authorisation.

Contrary to Ship Directive Alpha-Sec-226.8d, the chamber was, and remains, used not only to store a multitude of Astartes-pattern close-assault weapons, but also a mid-range firearm (identified to me as an “M84 Union Model Bolter”) and its highly explosive ammunition. [pic_attached_below]

The Battle-Brother’s personal combat shield had also been stored in front of the weapon rack in a shield stand; however, he employed it to seal the plasma breach by pressing it firmly against the rupture in the inner wall. He maintained position until Delta Shift Repair Crew 8.44 arrived at the scene, only 3.2 minutes after the alarm was triggered.

Regrettably, Midshipman Gornellius and Voidsman Rampac suffered fatal radiation exposure while securing the makeshift seal to the chamber’s inner wall. They expired two and three and a half hours respectively after the incident.

Battle-Brother Gavallion was examined and treated for severe burns to his hands and forearms, but reported back to duty twenty-four minutes after completion of medical treatment.

My offer to provide the Battle-Brother with more spacious and comfortable quarters as compensation — or at minimum for the duration of the decontamination process — was politely declined by Legion serf Shepa. Said refusal was accompanied by handwritten and detailed fortification instructions for the affected wall structure, provided personally by Battle-Brother Gavallion.

Long live the Emperor, and hail His glorious Navy.

Quartermaster Deck VIII 
Brent Motillion

Imperial Citizen - Helmuthros Baran, Veteran-scriptorus of the Logisticae

Helmuthros Baran frantically rubbed his hands. The cold he felt never ceased. He was old. Very, very old. Juvenile treatments had brought him to his 177th year of life, but nobody had told him about the side effects. He felt hollow somehow. It was as if every breath he took created a deep, crunching echo in his chest.

A beam of pale artificial light illuminated his desktop. He no longer wrote with the others in Hall Alpha 44 of the Logisticae scriptorium. The heating there was dreadful. So he had obtained special permission to work in his private study, a remuneration for almost 150 years of service. And in all those years he had never told them. Not even the boy. He should have. Karpat was a good child—ambitious, of course, but also true of heart and brave beyond the usual unexciting profession they both shared.

And now it was too late. Too late to share his deepest secrets with the boy he felt for like a son. He had taken Karpat Jaleph under his already brittle wings as soon as he had learned of his exceptionally high administrative intelligence and his quite unusual interest in Terran history.

And a good part of that late history was still alive behind Helmuthros’ eyes. The early years of his service: accompanying dangerous military expeditions of a Warmaster who called himself only the Emperor, serving as an army purser at merely seventeen years of age. He had begun chronicling his experiences soon after joining, as he started seeing things nobody in his family could ever have dreamed of. Faraway lands where indescribable creatures crawled and flew; strange skies with suicidal clouds and rainbowed winds of fear and despair. Yet in the end, all of this paled in comparison to the secrets he had been told and shown in his childhood in South Pacificus.
The old man shivered from head to toe. Once again, he heard the forgotten songs of ancient sand and felt the inverted shadows of cursed rocks upon his skin. And he saw it. A chill ran down his spine, ignoring the thermo-pack they had provided him with after his last treatment.

He stood up, rubbing his shoulders, and stretched his back. A protesting crack followed. Then he slowly strode over to the cogitator they had rolled in a few weeks earlier. It hummed, still unable to harmonise its unwelcome noise with the buzzing of the old dataslate on his desk. Everything was irritating, even here—in his private room.

He walked slowly past the flickering data screen projecting delivery quotas and acquisition datasets to the back of his cell and sat on an elegant stool beside his bed. It was sunny today beneath his section of the climate conservation field, and rays of honey-coloured light fell through the window. Of course, they provided no warmth any more, having been filtered and modified countless times while passing through the force shield of the Imperial Palace.

He knew he should have told everything to his boy. Not just the adventurous parts of his childhood stories, the fables and fairy tales of the Pacific dusts. It was too late now. Karpat Jaleph was gone, drawn towards the forbidden plains no longer covered and suppressed by Terra’s oceans.

Helmuthros stooped down and turned the bed heating up to eleven. Then he took off his fur-lined boots and slid beneath the thick blanket, curling into a foetal position. He stared at the scuffed back of his bookshelf and closed his eyes. He would soon fall asleep, and he knew what he would dream of again: a place so barren and hot that it freezes your soul.

Imperial Citizen - Crina Nurklin, Punch operator

My name is Crina Nurklin, sir. I serve the Emperor, His Majesty, the Lord of Mankind, by operating a plasma punch machine in Manufactorum Hypercubus-Beta-44-9x. I have been assigned to it for three years now. With my help, it produces steel-sheet aquilas, the kind that get riveted onto the helmets of soldiers fighting out in the last Terran wastelands.

My date of birth is 012.700.M30, so I am seventeen years old at the moment.

Of course, I am a registered Imperial citizen! [proudly pointing at the handwritten certificate on her belt]. And I have never missed a shift or failed an inspection.

I am a licensed Grade VII plasma operator [touching the handwritten licence tucked into her belt]. I earned it early. Because of that, I am permitted to use Viena’s public transportation system up to Class Gamma-Blue.

Since the last Unification Day, I have had my own flat [lifting the spherical mag-key hanging from her belt], about a quarter chronosegment from my workplace. It is part of my work contract. The manufactorum justiciarix told me it could be upgraded to a family-sized unit one day, if I ever apply for a birthing licence and the Administratum sees fit to grant me one. But I am not there yet, Securitor. I am currently... single. [a brief, embarrassed smile]

Is it small? Yes. But it is mine. And it is much better than the mattress-alcove I used to have in the machine pedestal.

I now have my own sink and a small oven. And a proper sleeping alcove, wide enough that I can turn over at night without hitting metal.

The loo and the lye-shower are shared, of course. But they are on the same level, and I only share them with about eighty people, which is for sure considered more than decent.

I have saved enough to buy a few things already. A new data-slate. Some pre-disinfected food. And a few rag-paper books. Mostly authorised war reports. Some instructional manuals. And my parents gifted me a carpet. The floors are quite cold. And I acquired… some other reading. Stories, mostly. About soldiers in difficult situations, finding a little... solitude together before things get worse. [she clears her throat, faintly blushing]

Back to the matter at hand, sir? Yes. Of course.
Yes, I shot the man who tried to break in. Yes, sir. Seven times.
[pointing at the handwritten weapons license the security officer is holding]

 

Augean RT-56

The Vienaen Manufactorum Conglomerate proudly presents a joint venture (*under legal code IEC-§33.Alpha.588.0003.7944.Indigo*) of the most prolific old-data interpreters, ironmongers, and war-smiths — a new hope for the desperate peoples of the deserted wastelands — the elegant and powerful Augean RT-56 Caterpillar! (Logisticae Data Number 900.26.712-Phi-6v6)

With an impressive length of approximately 7 im [Imperial Metres] and an exceptionally high top speed of 56 ikm/eh [Imperial Kilometres per Engineering Hour], the Augean is a force to be reckoned with by the remaining tech-savages and plunder-hobos of the Uncivilisation.

The military variant (Logisticae Data Number 900.26.721-Phi-6v6) is equipped with a .50-calibre light-duty autocannon manufactured by the famed gunsmith family Rott — the notorious Rott Reminder 44-X. (*Please note that the default system is a weapon built to be used by non-Arbites law enforcement agencies. A military grade weapon system may be purchased separately*)

The Augean RT-56 is a truly miraculous vehicle, with more purposes than even the most creative minds could imagine.

The frontal drive section is standardised to allow six ISS.0 [Imperial Standard Size] persons an idyllic journey, while protecting them from thrown stones and hurled empty bottles by a robust bodywork consisting of two formidable layers of 4 imm [Imperial Millimetres] of mild steel. (*Please note that this was tested under laboratory conditions only*). The Reminder 44-X autocannon is also comfortably accessible from this part of the caterpillar.

All seats are heavily padded for increased comfort, and the front-seat passenger even has direct access to a robust Vista-79 cogitator to be used for navigation and advanced engine control. We also prided a small promethium fired kiln for the cabin. It can be used either for heating - in cold desert nights or even Antarctic climates - or as an almost luxurious cooking stove. (*Please note that all four side windows must be opened to operate the kiln longer than 20 em [Engineering Minutes] continuously*)

 
But the true wonder of the Augean RT-56 Caterpillar lies in the rear section. It is delivered entirely empty, offering more space to fill according to your own needs than you could ever hope for.

Do you require a recycling-water transport? No problem! Simply purchase a compatible plastek tank and install it. Or do you intend to travel far and wide and need a perfectly safe place to rest your weary head? Just acquire a folding bed (*Please note that we strongly recommend securing it to the floor plate*) and a pest-resistant mattress. (*Please note, however, that regularly resting for more than four hours on a biocidally pre-treated mattress may cause serious health complications within weeks of use*).

Any other ideas? Sure! Simply try them out and recommend your innovations to friends, neighbours, and comrades. (or to me, your humble author. Maybe I can map them)

Augean RT-56 - the newest way to crawl with style

[No warranty of any kind is provided with this product. Always use at your own risk.]

Imperial Citizen - Varra, Siever slave

I’m Varra. Prmin’pare of octagon. Six… no, wait… seven slaves call me master. Grut, Hinja, Chua, Fang, Billera, Zinmis and Jabbis are their names. Yes, seven. Chua sleeps with me.

Once I was mining worker in Ursh. Hard work. Bad food. Then war came. Big warriors. Metal men. Black. They came in the night. Killed many Urshian tribe-warriors. Put chains on the rest. Also chained us. Other barbarians, named Xerix, marched us to their land. Brought us to the great pit and gave us tools. The metal men have big fortress there. Strong fortress. Clad in black Dydahnium. 

We live in Octagon Lamba.33-D81-664 in the Great Pit. All of us sieve. I sieve best.
Made 33 Grams Yrhidium one day. Got extra food after it was reported. 

We use short tunnels for sleeping (2) and a big chamber for living (1). Our dust barrels are also stored there (3). One for Yrhidium and one for Dydahnium. There are pipes running through (4). Bringing air. Taking smoke. We have a wash place (5). Good water. And have an extra place as loo (6). 

These Octagons are strange. I know mining. Nobody surveys like that. Looks like a madman has been looking for some… thingy. Diggin' in all directions. Also, markings on the tunnel walls. Symbols. We don’t look at them. They make us sad.