Despite the spaceport being under strong interdiction, merchant shipping does continue, mostly between the surface and an ersatz platform in orbit. Since they are both going to Scintilla, a shuttle is taking both Havelock and Spike up to a waiting passenger/cargo ship that makes the Scintilla-Vaxanide run fairly regularly.
Spike cheerfully bids Tech-Priest Cat goodbye, quite pleased at the prospect of upgrading his weaponry at Inspector Moth's behest. He eyes the psyker thoughtfully, wondering how Havelock feels about being sent off to wherever. "So... where are you going to again, Savant?"
"Shouldn't say, like as not. I don't think they care for scrutiny," Havelock says. "But the Temple's a branch of the Scholastica Psykana, if that's what you mean. Local to Calixis, supposedly traces back to Angevin's days... but then again, so does everything even remotely old in this sector." He shrugs. "Anyway. When you get to Gunmetal City, stop by the Fane of Fykos. They're the place to go for precision arms. They're used to serving the nobility so you'll likely need to show a little gelt to make them take you seriously. After that... just in the lowest level of the Spire... around D-Section, there's a place. Not far from the tube-lifts, across the avenue from a city park; looks like someone's townhouse from the outside, actually. There's no sign... if you don't know what you're looking for, you're not supposed to be there."
Spike nods, listening intently, and murmurs, "And what am I looking for?"
Havelock says, "You're looking for Cadence Arms and Incunabula. They don't advertise, but... they'll have what you need."
Spike nods again, looking pleased within the heavy cowl, "Thanks." He considers, then curiously adds, "How'd you find out about them?"
Havelock looks up, then, and says, "I have no idea."
Spike blinks... then grins, reaching out as if to lightly clasp Havelock's shoulder as he says, "Thanks anyway, then."
Havelock takes a reflexive step back. "You're welcome; I hope it's of use to you. And be careful if you venture any lower in Gunmetal City, Spike; the gun is second only to the Emperor there. No one's shy about employing them."
Spike looks a bit surprised when Havelock shies back, but doesn't push the point. Instead he curiously asks, "Do you ever wonder about the brain wipe and why it happened? Do you remember any childhood?" Spike is Voidborn; social delicacy isn't in his makeup.
"No," Havelock says. "I don't remember where I was born nor my given name-- I'm sure that Havelock isn't it. This probably isn't my face, either. As for why... it's probably better if I don't know. It means I very likely knew something I'm better off not knowing."
Spike nods, not really understanding, "Like... Chaos stuff or something?"
Havelock shrugs. "Possibly. Or xenos. Or any number of other things that would fracture your sanity. Perhaps it was none of the above and my own power drove me mad once already. Either way... it's probably best that I don't rediscover it."
Spike nods again, "Okay. Well, good luck with not remembering then. Um... or... however that works..."
"Thank you, but it's not necessary. The Inquisition's done a fine job in making sure of that already."
Spike grins at that and turns his attention back to the passenger/cargo ship they'll be riding. It won't be as nice as his natal home, of course -- mere civvies can't approximate the wonderfully controlled enthusiasm of a military ship -- but at least it'll be off the mudballs again!
The trip to Scintilla goes without incident. The trip is, in fact, pleasantly boring considering that only the thin energies of the Gellar field protect the merchantman from the horrors of the Warp.
Upon arrival at Scintilla, the two Acolytes split up, and Spike takes a shuttle down to Gunmetal City, a sprawling dirty hive that sits like a spike driven into the crust of the planet. The spaceport for Gunmetal City is fairly sprawling, with a few supertransports landed and taking on cargo, but Spike is able to find directions from the various grimy signs well enough.
Spike carefully follows the directions from Havelock -- once he disembarks from the shuttle taking him to Gunmetal City, his first stop is the Fane of Fykos. He grins at the name, already excited internally at the marvelous weaponry he's seeing around himself. He's eager to browse for really fine precision arms here, to see how much he can purchase with the thrones given to him by Inspector Moth.
The base of the Spire -- essentially as low as you can get in the Upperhive and still be breathing relatively fresh air -- is heavily policed, though local constables are carrying far heavier weapons than those at Vaxanhive. While they do not hinder Spike's entry into the upperhive, he is given a stern warning 'not to cause trouble' in that hallowed of regions. Nevertheless, he is otherwise unimpeded. In this part of the upperhive, the clothing is finer, the air is fresher, and the guns are more undersated and elegant. Which isn't to say that they're not powerful; Spike sees one nob carrying a pair of duelling pistols which could possibly blast a hole in a wall.
The Fane of Fykos is a region of the Spire, the lowest level of which is on the same level as the Spire, and it's a virtual exhibition of firearms and weapons. While it's all owned by the Fane, there are some fairly well-delineated areas, and soon enough Spike finds himself going through a veritable bazaar of precision weapons of all makes and patterns.
Spike's eyes light up with delight and he browses happily. He remembers himself after a while, considering silently as he studies the lovely, dully gleaming weapons. He's still got another place to check out too -- Cadence Arms and Incunabula. So... hm. He'll ask about precision rifles here, he thinks, then go see what Cadence has. Considering Havelock remembered it *past* the conditioning and mindwipe, it must be quite amazing. He straightens, looking around for someone to talk to.
It doesn't take long for Spike to spot one of the merchants operating this particular area of the Fane. Large -- partly muscle, but also partly rich living -- and of course armed, the balding merchant had what looks like a hand cannon strapped to his thigh as he keeps close watch on his inventory and the browsers, including Spike.
Spike nods interestedly to the man, "Emperor smile on you, weaponsmith. What fine precision rifles would you recommend?"
The merchanter's brow goes up, and he beams -- it seems many of his teeth have been replaced by metal ones. "Ah, Emperor's blessings to you, and you've come to he right place! The Fane makes some of the finest precision rifles in the Imperium! I've just got in a lot of excellent Lathe-pattern hunting rifles fresh from the factory."
Spike shakes his head slowly, "Not a hunting rifle, please. I want something... finer, more precise. Something... an Inquisitor would be proud of."
The merchant pauses, then eyes Spike carefully. "Such quality," he says slowly, "is not, of course, without it's price, you realize."
Spike nods calmly, and his hand emerges from under the enshrouding cloak for just a moment, holding a bag that jingles slightly when it's turned over, then tucked away again, "Of course. It would be annoying to have one's time wasted."
The merchant nods, soberly. "Indeed." He glances around, and makes a hand-sign to one of the assistants. "Come, then!" he says more jovially, gesturing to a curtained, discrete passage that leads to the back of the store. "This is not the sort of ware we keep outside amongst the peasants of weapons, or even the knights. This, is the nobility of firearms."
Spike looks pleased, smiling as he silently pads after the merchant.
THe back of the store is a bit of a twisty maze, and the merchanter almost reverently opens up a side door. Inside, there is a table, upon which is a stand that holds a Nomad Hunting Instrument. At casual glance it's like many other precision rifles, though Spike has heard of it as being almost legendary.
"This...," the merchanter says, in almost a stage whisper, "is it. The very best outside of the Officio Assassinorum. We have two in stock at the moment; one is being prepared for another client. This one can be yours for two thousand Thrones. No questions asked, of course. We will take your measurements and one of our gunsmiths will tailor the stock and grips to fit you perfectly, which is part of what makes this weapon utter royalty amongst precision arms."
Spike drifts mesmerizedly into the room, his gaze caught by the amazing rifle. He pushes his hood back absently, then almost reverently runs his gloved hands lightly over the gleaming metal. After a moment, unless the merchant objects to its being touched, he picks it up, checking how it feels in his arms, almost cradling it as he rests his cheek against it and sights. His voice is a quiet murmur, "Range, clip size?" He adds after a moment of regarding the rifle's workings, "Very reliable?"
Ther merchanter says, "The magazine holds four rounds of any type of that caliber. The range is... well, frankly the range is dependant upon the quality of the operator. Two hundred and fifty meters is the mininum." His voice drops a few degrees of warmth. "And if you must ask about reliability, I would say you are not familiar with our reputation for this particular piece."
Spike's breath catches for a moment at hearing the range, and he grins like a kid in a candy store. He's in love. He makes a mental note: if he has to, he'll take a few jobs for the Sons of Dispater to help cover the cost of this wondrous rifle! He knows the rough locations of the sector guildhalls, and he can just search for the subtle signs and markings which will help him locate them more precisely. He's lost enough in contemplation of the beautiful tool that he doesn't catch the coolness of the merchant's reply -- he simply sets the rifle gently down again and nods to the man, "I'll take one."
The merchanter nods, visibily pleased. "Of course." He snaps his fingers, and through the door comes a shorter, somewhat dour looking man whose bandolier is loaded with tools. "Jorge will take your measurements and begin to craft the stock and grips to your physiognomy. First, though, for weapons of this type we do have a strict payment-first policy.
Spike reviews mentally: the Inquisitor gave him 2500 gelt. He wants to purchase a better, armored bodyglove as well, and he wants to check out Cadence as well. So he'll have 500 thrones left after this purchase -- that should cover the bodyglove. He'll need to take a job for likely at least 1K to cover anything he can't bear to leave behind at Cadence. He nods absently to the merchant, still a bit in awe at the lovely rifle, and pulls out the pouch from Inquisitor Moth. While he doesn't realize how it looks, his attitude seems almost like the very wealthy as he counts out 500 thrones and pours the rest casually into the merchanter's hands.
The merchanter manages not to do any sort of happy dance as Spike hands him the 2000 Thrones. "Thank you, sir. Jorge, if you would?" The merchanter departs, as the gunsmith begins to laconically take a tape measure and begins to make quick yet precise measurements of Spike's upper body, arms, biceps, and other measurements that seem less like gunsmithy and more like some form of geomancy.
Spike patiently moves as directed, pushing back the cloak as necessary. Once Jorge's done, Spike asks, "Where would one go for a hardened bodyglove, please?"
Jorge considers. "If you're not looking for a specific model, there's an armorer a few levels down in the middlehive, section K, corridor 892. They'll have hardened bodygloves and the like.
Spike nods, "Thanks. Need me for anything else?"
Jorge shakes his head. "Neh. If you're going to get armor, why don't you do that, and by the time you get back I'll have this fitted out for you, and we can fine-tune it then.
Spike nods again, glancing almost greedily at the gun one more time before he shakes the cloak back into place and padding silently out. He nods to the merchanter as he exits, then stands for a moment, looking around to orient himself. Once he's sure where he is he heads off for the middlehive. Section K, corridor 892 is relatively easy to find, and he slips into the store, glancing around for a nice quality hardened bodyglove.
Finding the armorer is simple enough -- he has a well-armored Ogryn abhuman as shop security and latest-pattern model, which makes it all the more distinctive. The hardened bodyglove is quick enough to find and fit properly, and with tradein on Spike's current bodyglove the price is only 250. After that, it's back to the Fane to pick up his shiny new rifle, and then to find the local Sons of Dispater guildhall.
Spike had had the red dot laser and the fire selector refitted for the Nomad, although the silencer wasn't modifiable to the beautiful new rifle. Undeterred, Spike had patted his trusty old hunting rifle and traded it in, with the silencer. That had covered the cost of the refittings. Now he has 250 thrones in his pouch, one more place to go shopping with an ensuing need for more gelt -- and a new rifle that makes him practically burn to use it!
Finding it takes a few hours, but finally when Spike raps on the door, and gives the right passwods, the door is pulled open by a heavilly-scarred woman who looks around to ensure Spike isn't being followed, before ushering him and bolting the door shut behind him.
He nods to the woman, giving the correct signals to be passed in smoothly so he can find a job.
The woman nods, pointing Spike down the hall to where a somewhat grimy Squat is seated, going over a massive ledger about the size of him.
Spike pads silently down the hallway and waits patiently for the Squat to be available.
The Squat looks up finally. "Well don' jus' stand there," he says a touch gruffly. "Come on in an' tell Uncle Jasper what type of work you're lookin' for."
Spike grins faintly within the hood -- if there's one thing he's learned as a sniper, it's patience. He murmurs, "Uncle. So what's stirring? I'm fresh to the city."
The squat ahs! and straightens in his seat a bit. "Well, welcome to Scintilla, then! So! You a blademan, or do you prefer to reach out and touch someone?"
Spike grins again, his eyes glittering. "The latter, Uncle. What's the going rate?"
Jasper says, "Depends on the job, really. Putting a bullet into a nob is going to give more than doing the same for any but the most exceptional underhiver. What do you think you can accomplish?""
Spike thinks about that for a moment... then shrugs his cloak back to show the gleaming new Nomad for a moment. He grins at the Squat, "Got a lovely new lady to take on her maiden cruise, Uncle. What do you have for me?"
Jasper snerks a little. "Ah. Well, be sure to sight 'er in first. Okay, let's see...." He flips through the ledger seemingly randomly. "Here we go. Lesser nob of the Fane of Goskin. Contract on him for two thousand."
Spike grins, pleased at a chance to use the lovely new rifle, "That'll do. Got someplace I can sight in and get all the information you have on the contract?"
Jasper pulls out a slender file folder that has a variety of mismatched papers within it. "This is the information we've got on the target. Anything more and you'll have to get it, as usual. And there's a coupla abandoned corridors in the underhive you can use to sight in."
Spike accepts the file, tucking it away under his cloak, and murmurs, "Half now, half after, yes?"
Jasper nods, "As usual, yes. You know how we feel about welching, so I won't insult you by going over the policy in detail." He sets a small bag of thrones on the table as well. "We've plenty of time to get the hit done, so set it up right and proper."
Spike blinks a bit startledly that Uncle Jasper would even mention welching -- have they perhaps had trouble with that here? He shrugs mentally; none of his business and he's not been called upon to hunt down the traitors. He nods silently, pleased to hear he has plenty of time, and the little bag also vanishes under his cloak. Shortly thereafter he's happily and thoroughly checking and double checking the sights on his beautiful new rifle. After that he finds someplace quiet where he can peruse the information in the file, and then he takes a break to let the information percolate around in his brain -- he heads for the lift-tubes to the lowest level of the Spire.
The area that Spike has been directed to by Havelock is a little plain, though in good state. It doesn't take long for Spike to find the park, or the townhouse. He's pretty sure that the guy lounging against the wall is a guard of some kind, though the guard is casually not looking at anyone in particular.
Spike glances around thoughtfully, smiling faintly as the guard doesn't really look at him, then heads for the apparent townhouse's door. This must be the much vaunted Cadence Arms and Incunabula -- interesting. He knocks politely.
The door opens shortly, and the long-haired man who answers asks simply, "Yes?"
Spike murmurs, "Cadence Arms and Incunabula, yes? I would like to make a purchase."
The man looks over Spike for a moment, then nods, and steps back, opening the door wider. "Please come in."
Spike enters silently, glancing around with interest. Maybe he can find a good holdout weapon here.
The man closes the door behind Spike, then ushers Spike out of the foyer into a sort of display room. It's not as sharp and fancy as the Fane of Fykos store, in fact it looks a little shady, with no display cases or floor models. On the other hand, it's all very neat and tidy, with weapons on their cases, and a second attentive guard/merchant. There are two other customers there, one perusing a selection of darts and the other choosing between types of concealable pistols.
The blonde man asks quietly, "Was there something specific you were looking for?
Spike glances around casually, then nods to the man, "Something... special, please." Spike is guessing this place is laid out much like the previous fane -- with the "good stuff" in the back.
The man purses his lips, takes a glance around the room, then nods. "We have a lot of things that could be considered 'special.' This way, please." He leads Spike to the next room over. For starters, this room would be a blade fetishist's dream, with the various weapons on display here. There's even an eviscerator... still with a Redemptionist badge hanging from the hilt, suggesting some prior ownership. There are also a variety of blades designed for the use of poisons, as well as a selection of rather exotic weapons.
Spike shakes his head thoughtfully, "Nice, but not really my style. More... pistols, please?"
The man ahs, and nods, moving to the side with the exotic weapons. "I understand, I think. This is what most people mean when they ask for 'special pistols." He reaches under the exotics counter, and pulls out a typical weapon case. Opening it reveals what looks like a large-bore needle gun along with a variety of accessories for it. "A Widowmaker dart-caster."
Spike drifts over to thoughtfully consider the weapon. "A dart-caster... hm. Do you include specialized training?"
The man nods. "We do, yes." He considers for a moment, then nods again, "I will include it in the price of the weapon for you. It is a very specialized piece of hardware, and I would like for it to be found in the hands of someone who understands it's intricacies and quirks.
Spike smiles and touches it lightly, nodding, then carefully picks it up to check how it feels in his hand. As he does so he adds quietly, "Silent? Any flash? Range? What kind of specialized load can it carry?"
The man explains the basic details of the weapon, and what sorts of ammunition it carries. He stresses that it's short-range but otherwise undetectable, and demonstrates how to load and operate it.
Spike draws in his breath slowly, watching and listening in clear admiration. When the blonde man is done, Spike's eyes are alight with pleasure and he says, "I want to see it shot."
The man smiles knowingly and gestures Spike to follow him to a second back room. This one is long and narrow, and there is a target dummy set up. The man checks the dartcaster, loads it with a single round, and hands it to Spike.
Spike grins delightedly, then carefully takes the pistol and takes a deep breath. After that his face is expressionless, and he brings the pistol up and fires it in a smooth, deceptively controlled movement that is much faster than it appears. He lowers his hand and studies the results thoughtfully.
The dark penetrated quite surprisingly deeply into the target, almost going right through it. It's certainly one of the more penetrative weapons Spike's ever used.
Spike is still staring in silently awed pleasure at the target as he murmurs, "The Widowmaker and five each of the fractal-edged razor darts and the poisoned darts -- how much?"
"One thousand, one hundred and fifteen," the man says almost automaticaly. "That does include the training."
Spike nods almost mechanically, then considers a moment. He turns, eyes still shining, and says, "Done. When does the training start?"
"We can begin right now if you wish."
Spike grins and pulls out his pouch, "Done!" as he counts out the appropriate gelt.
Meanwhile, Havelock is only a few minutes after parting ways from Spike when he suddenly finds three figures standing before him, wearing blue storm coats and black robes. "Lionius Havelock," the middle, shorter figure says quietly. It is not a question.
Havelock raises his head, slowly, "Lead on, then."
Silently, the three Templars lead Spike to a pair of landspeeders that are already waiting for them just outside the terminal. Most people seem to be giving the group a wide berth, casting nervous and curious glances at them. Even Templars still receive some level of caution if not outright fear from non-psykers.
Havelock follows, silent. He knows better than to ask questions. However the Inquisition intends to shape him, that matter has been settled long ago. And, really, what else is there for him?
The trip to the north polar region goes quickly in the landspeeders, though there are so many twists and turns that Havelock is pretty sure he won't be able to tell just which directions they went in. Finally, though, the basalt temple-monastery rises up out of the frozen wastes and titanic snowdrifts, and the landspeeders angle in to land through one of the wide bays.
Within, there is no light except what comes from torches in sconces set on the walls. The templars who brought Havelock here disembark, and bow ritually to the storm-coated Templar who stands there, Nemesis force-sword sheathed at his side. His is a grave visage, lined and with many years in his grey hair. But he still appears healthy and hale. "Lionius Havelock," he says, not unwarmly. "Welcome home."
Havelock salutes-- it's the only obeisance he knows he can execute correctly-- and says, "You have me at the disadvantage."
The man smiles a little, self-depreciating. "Forgive me. I am Templar Ordinator Gaius Joachim Carter. I will be in charge of your evaluation and training.
"Come. There is much to go over. Walk with me, if you would, Havelock."
Havelock ascends the steps, then. "Lead the way."
Carter leads Havelock through a doorway, and along a balcony that overlooks the traning floor of the temple. There are a dozen trainees there and almost as many instructors. "Tell me, Havelock... do you know why you are here?"
"I was told you requested me," Havelock answers.
"Yes, that is true. It was felt that it was time.... But I am getting dangerously ahead of myself. You served in the Guard, didn't you?"
"I don't know," Havelock answers, honestly. "The mind-scrub left only the tools to do a job. Skills, data, information. Names, places, times..." He shrugs, and shakes his head.
"Yes... that is the tragedy of mind-scrubbing. But who am I to speak of tragedy in this day and age? We who serve the God-Emperor, must do so without care for the individual, when the billions, nay, the trillions must survive at even such a cost. I understand that you have accounted well for yourself."
"I've managed to serve the Inquisition passing well," Havelock says. "At this point, it's worked out as well as it possibly could have. And for my part, I'm... just lucky to be sane. The engrams are falling apart."
"Oh?" Carter asks, sounding concerned. "In what way?"
Havelock shakes his head. "I don't... think they made use of a complete personality overlay. My head is full of locked doors... it's as if everything is just out of reach, words unreachable on the tip of my tongue. And the reflexes..." He frowns, "The muscular override is fraying. I saw a Space Marine and the obeisance engram almost dislocated my shoulder."
Carter is silent for a moment. "He had them use as complete an overlay as possible in your condition. But it is not only the Black Door in our minds that we must be ever watchful against opening inward. In your case in particular, the doors that are locked are locked for a reason. Gauthe felt that he owed that much to you."
At mention of 'Gauthe,' a name that Havelock has never heard before, he gets a sudden image of a husky man with long, scraggly hair under a pointed cap, and wearing a dark storm-coat. An Inquisitorial "I" pin for the ratty ascot is the only mark of his rank. The image is there and gone in a flash.
Havelock is compelled to sit, notwithstanding that there is no chair.
Carter quickly takes Havelock's arm, keeping him from going sprawling. "Easy, lad. The mind-wipe is breaking down, and it will break down even more in the coming days. But you're strong enough to go through it. You wouldn't have been a Templar if you couldn't."
Through his teeth, Havelock says, "That's why you asked for me."
"Aye, lad. We take care of our own, even when they don't know it. But once a Templar, always a Templar. It takes a certain mindset that you have, lad. And with the appearance of the Tyrant Star, I don't think that there's much choice but to bring you back into the fold. I'm truly sorry, son. If it had been up to me, I'd have let you retire as the psyker for some noble matron on a feudal world where the hardest thing you'd face is to keep from snickering at the court gossip. But you belong to the Inquisition, and it'd be a crime to keep you from all that you're capable of doing, not only for God-Emperor, but also yourself."
Havelock covers one of his eyes, and rasps, "Can you tell me... can you tell me why I'm closed off? Who nailed my mind shut? By the Throne, someone's done... something to me. Was it the Inquisition?"
Carter helps Havelock to sit on a bench nearby. "Yes and no, lad. Like all things in this world, there's no easy answer. When you were found, your mind was already almost gone. There had been a fight, and... well, you survived, which right now is all that you need to know, and all that I know. But your mind was broken. Gauthe could have just had you shot as a mercy but he felt you deserved better, some sort of peace of mind.
"But near as we can tell, something went wrong. Some of those locked-away engrams remained even after the mind-scrub. And they've been playing merry havok with the personality overlay."
Havelock scrubs his hands over his face. "I believe you."
Carter nods. "We'll help however we can. But the locked doors... some of them we can't open. The rest... trust me lad, at least one of them shouldn't be opened."
"I'll settle for not losing my mind," Havelock sighs. "Where do we start?"
Carter claps a hand on Havelock's shoulder. "At the very beginning, lad. As a templar novitiate. But much of this is in your reflexes and muscle-based memory, so it will come naturally. Inquisitor Moth asked us to return you to Vaxanide as soon as possible.
"Hopefully there's a Vaxanide to return to," Havelock nods. "Let's get started."
It is less training and more reminding Havelock of what he already knows. The sword-forms, the psychic exercises, they all are like a memory returning. Thus, within a few days, he has passed the novitiate trials.
On the last day, Carter takes Havelock aside, and says, "Lionius, you've done well, though that shouldn't be a surprise. You've done all this before. But now you're in the entourage of an Inquisitor. You should return here every so often but like most Templars you already know your course of development for the future."
Havelock nods. He prefers not to speak if he can avoid it... practically every night has seen some piece of his memory returning and the dreams have not been gentle. His throat is a ruin.
Carter says, "There's only one last thing that needs to be done before you go back to Moth, lad. And I don't rightly know how it will play out, but Gauthe was insistent, and... to be honest, I can't fault him." From underneath the storm-coat, he pulls out a sheathed sword, holding it in both hands as he offers it to Havelock. "This is yours, lad. From a mayhap happier, and also less happy, time."
Havelock just looks at it for a long moment. And then, slowly, he takes the scabbard from Carter. Unlocks the blade, unsheathing six inches of it; the blade is black, perfectly smooth and gloss, Lathe-forged steel like black glass. Along the exposed section is a bright flowing sigil... he knows that it is his, but he can't place its meaning. Perhaps later, when he rembers the Temple's secret tongue. He sheathes the blade and nods. "Ordinator," he murmurs, and bows his head.
Carter returns the bow. "You are a Templar Tritus now, Havelock, no longer just another sanctioned psyker, though you were always more than that. Best of fortune to you, lad, and remember you may return at any time."
Careful around his ravaged voice, Havelock whispers, "You will see me again, Ordinator. One of me, at least." He manages a wry smile.
Carter smiles. "One of you is the same as you, lad. Be well."
This time it is only one Templar who flies Havelock back to the Gunmetal City spaceport, and the trip is mostly silent, with no idle conversation.
Havelock spends the trip with the blade in the crook of his arm, the hilt against his cheek. Back to work, he thinks.
Alone again with a few hours to spare before he needs to return to the spaceport, Havelock finds himself wandering the streets of the Gunmetal middlehive, apparently aimless, but knowing full well that nothing is ever entirely aimless to one who can perceive the Empyrean. So he lets his feet take him where they will for the nonce.
He finds himself outside what appears to be an abandoned rail-transit station, graffiti-crusted and dark. Curious, he draws closer... walks around the perimeter of the building at arm's length, drawing one gloved fingertip along the grimy wall. He pauses in the adjacent alley when his hand rests on a side-door almost entirely obscured by pollution and vandalism. It opens when he tries the handle. He is not surprised, for some reason.
Inside is nothing but a large room filled with rows of lockers; this must be the employee entrance. Or was, at any rate. The benches, lockers, the bare concrete floor, all of them are covered with a thick layer of dust. It is very silent, even the ceaseless racket of the middlehive seeming dull and muted. Havelock finds himself wandering alongside the rows... and counting. "One... two... three." He pauses and turns down that aisle. "One... two... three... four... five... six... seven. Seven."
There are no nameplates, only dented and badly faded numbers. Otherwise, the lockers are entirely featureless and identical, save for the variations in patterns of wear and denting and fading. He tries the handle, only to be greeted with a dull sound of sliding metal; the handle catch flips back and forth, useless, as if it were missing some crucial part inside. He frowns.
He reaches into his pocket and finds the little Psykana mercy-blade-- the one he's supposed to keep around his neck and instead does his level best to forget he owns-- and carefully starts to unscrew the handle from the door.
Inside is...
...nothing. More dust, and a long-abandoned cobweb.
He looks down at the empty locker. A single screw holds the floor of the locker down. He pauses. Why would the floor need to be held-- he kneels and starts to unscrew that one as well.
With a dull metallic sound and a puff of dust, the floor of the locker pops away from the little flange holding it down over a narrow gap in the concrete floor. Havelock reaches down into the darkness... something there, heavy, rugged cloth. He puts the knife aside and begins to haul it out of the dark.
A rucksack; a Guard-issue rucksack. He eyes it a moment. I guess I did serve in the Guard.
He glances about; the station is still dark and abandoned as ever. Careful, he replaces the false-floor and reattaches the locker handle. Pocketing the knife, he sits down on one of the decrepit benches and opens the rucksack.
One by one, he removes the contents and sets them down on the bench. A Guard-issue Calixis Survival Kit, still sealed. A Guard-issue personal grooming kit, with a couple of long-expired wake-pills still rattling around in the bottom, which makes him laugh for some reason. A set of dog-tags. "LOTOS WHYTE, SCINTILLA SEC. 001-224-771422766122" He narrows his eyes. Lotos? Throne blind me, no wonder they gave me another name.
There is a roll of some kind of dark cloth in the bottom; he picks it out and shakes it loose. It unfurls into a heavy storm-coat with hard ceramic plates over the shoulders, each of them fringed with old and faded purity seals. Something clatters out of the coat when he stands with it; he bends down to pick it up. A long knife; a combat knife, but not one of the Guard's heavy cutters... a killing instrument, long and narrow with a slight projection near the tang for a grip ring; the handle itself moulded to fit a specific hand, black. He picks it up, tests it in his hand... then chides himself, mentally. As if the balance would somehow spoil after all this time in the dark. He sets it down with the coat on the bench.
Two more bundles of cloth, tightly wrapped; one small, a tightly-wrapped oilcloth. And the other large... a roll of black samite wrapped around a featureless silver mask. He doesn't bother to try the mask on... he already knows, this is his. His Templar robes. But for some reason staring into the blank, tarnished silver gives him a sickening vertigo, and he wraps it up again, tightly, before putting it back in the sack. Some things... he is still not quite ready to face, it seems. So he turns to the last of the hidden treasures.
Inside the oilcloth is a gun. A stub revolver, clearly well-cared-for... a Khayer-Addin piece, he seems to think. Target gun. Or dueling. Or assassinating. He seems to recall he's tried his hand at most of those pastimes, at one point or another... but the details are murky and the timeline nonexistent. But he sees someone has modified the gun... carefully filed the trigger guard for a higher grip... longer thumb safety... even the hammer's different. Did I...? No, I was never a gunsmith...
"Peck," he whispers, and then bites down, choking off a sudden wave of grief. "Oh, fuck...! Peck, what happened to you? Did you get out? Was I able to..." To what? I was the last one to leave... did they escape?
From what?
He covers his eyes, putting the gun down on its cloth again. Throne, he thinks... what have you fuckers done to me?
Enough of him has come back for him to remind himself that he's got to get back to the spaceport... and it's not going to do for him to go back to work looking like he's been weeping. He clears his throat, careful, and starts to pack these things up. He pauses, finding one last thing, crammed awkwardly into the very bottom of the rucksack.
It's a hat. It's bent and wrinkled from being hastily shoved into a sack for Emperor only knows how long, but... it's a great black wide-brimmed hat, like every peasant in the Imperium of Man imagines a Witch Hunter must wear, save that it has no great misplaced buckle on it. And this treasure, bent and mistreated as it is, manages to cheer him up immensely for the sheer absurdity of it. "Oh, I'm wearing this home," he whispers, and perches it crookedly on his head.
With that, he picks up his sword, shoulders the rucksack, and quietly departs. There might still be time, he thinks, to see a haberdasher about the brim.
For the next few hours, the blonde and oddly calm man goes over the specifics and quirks and procedures for the Widowmaker dart-caster. He is quite thorough, and unfailingly polite. He does not automatically assume Spike knows nothing about using weapons, but also does not presume Spike knows everything, instead politely inquiring as to Slate's comfort and knowledge level for each major portion of the weapon. When he's done, Spike knows more than a little about the dart-caster, and a bit about other, similar weapons as well.
Spike thanks the man cheerfully once the training is over. After that he heads out to find someplace quiet where he can re-read the file and check for local news.
Spike ends up at a middlehive pub. The alcohol is watered down, the food tastes like spiced cardbord, but it's nothing Spike hasn't had in space before. He hits paydirt in the early evening, when a bravo of the Fane of Goskin is drunk and grousing about the tension between the Goskin and Henrik Fanes. Looked upon as a minor tiff by outsiders, the brovo asserts that it's ever so much more important, o course, in fact the sector government should come in and do something about those Henrik bastards, Throne blast it!
Spike asks the occasional question to keep the guy rambling on, casually keeping the man's beerjack filled and encouraging him to talk about how secure the Fane of Goskin is, and whether there's anyplace the Fanes might be meeting to try and settle the issue. He figures the answer to the latter question is definitely no, but if he can get the guy talking about the Goskin's travel plans (if any) then he'll know where to set up for a good shot.
The bravo snerks. "S'impregni... imprengan... inprick... uh, can't get inta it. Bu tha's not what has us worried. 'E's a nob of th' Fane, has to do his daily rounds. We guard 'im, 'course, but... yaknow, gotta *hic* do our bes'. Sucks void that he has to be out in the open, but. *hic* An' nah, not worth meetin' wi' Henrik. THey're pernic... pernish... perver... uhm, stubborn. Dollards. Yeah."
Spike says, "What rounds are so important that someone as important as the Fane has to make them, though? Can't he send a minion instead?"
The bravo takes another pull of the tall, decent beer Spike bought for him. "Ahhh," he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "'Course not. 'E's a nob -- noble. 'E's in charge o' the Fane's marketing. Has to make sure, pers'n'ly, tha' Goskin's shops are showin' off th' goods."
Spike brightens, "What kind of goods? I'm in the market for some things myself. Where is this market?"
The bravo brightens, "Oh, hey! Ammo! Standard rounds, but the best y'll find outside th' Mechanicus forgeworlds. Better'n some, I'd say, too. Always needin' ammo, yeah. Level K, subsection F12, Kealy Plaza. Park an' duelling range, can't miss it.
Spike quits plying the man with beer at that point, happily chatting with him once he remembers Havelock's advice to ask about someone's piece if he wants to strike up a conversation. He has a cheerful argument regarding the benefits of the damage capabilities of standard ammo, as opposed to armor piercing, before he finally calls it quits for the night. After that he hunts down a small inn and curls up there for the night, well pleased. In the morning, after a peaceful night's sleep, he heads off for Level K, subsection F12, Kealy Plaza. He makes sure he's there just before dawn, so he can locate a good high spot for observation; he intends to spend the day there, just watching.
Kealy Plaza is clearly Fane of Goskin territory, a huge area the size of a regimental parade field, with a few shorter buildings scattered here and there, with the majority of the buildings and shops lining the walls. Like most parts of the hive, the centuries-old structure is visible, climbale, and lost in shadows more often than not. The plaza's 'duelling ranges' are also unmistakable, broad trenches in the floor that are about thirty yard long and five accross, into which two duellists walk in and one walks out. They appear to get more than a little use from the middlehive inhabitants and the minor nobs, and while Spike is there he is witness to three duels: one with revolvers at the traditional ten paces, and a rather bizarre -- and messy -- one with eviscerators at one pace. Nobody walks away from that one... not even the seconds.
Spike winces amusedly, watching that one almost bemusedly -- doesn't it rather miss the point if *everyone* dies in the duel? He grins relaxedly, resting his chin on his hands where he's lying on the floor of his observation spot and enjoying the peace. This is his favorite part of a hit, next to getting away clean.
Not long after the call for morning ablutions and prayer, and the factory floors go over to the day shift, from his perch Slate spots Franko Jhonas, of the Fane of Goskin, emerge from one of the transport tubeways and begin to make a round of the plaza. He has about half a dozen guards with him, surrounding him loosely; obviously nobody thinks that there will be violence this early in the Fanes' mutual saber-rattling.
Spike watches in silent interest from his spot, absolutely still so he doesn't draw any attention to himself in his high spot. He's watching to mark the Goskin's travel patterns, to check for good clear lines of fire, to see if he needs to pick another spot from which to shoot... and then, once the Goskin has departed, to check and make sure he has an easy and clear path away from the assassination.
Spike's patience stands him in good stead. From the perch he finds an excellent position to take out Jhonas, and maps out the quickest and best escape route: a service hatch that leads into the ventillation support system, a series o crawlways that will at the very least take him out of this section of the hive.
Spike is very pleased. This looks like a nice, simple hit -- the Goskin wasn't even wearing any armor on his head. Spike makes sure to check the ventilation wind (if any) periodically during the day, and decides on exactly where he'll shoot to, as well as what load to use. After that he heads down to the little inn and has a nice dinner to fill his now growling stomach, then spends the evening peacefully darkening the metal of the Nomad, making sure no wink of bright metal will betray him.
Spike finishes prepping his lovely new sniper rifle, then shoulders it and heads out through the darkness, slinking comfortably along as he locates a new place to hide after the hit. He pays for the room to be available for him tomorrow, then slips just as invisibly back to the inn. He sleeps the sleep of the just, awakening at the required time the next morning.
The following morning, Spike is in place, and hears the call to morning ablutions. The factories turn over their shifts, and not long after, Jhonas begins his morning rounds.
Spike has the rifle set up and braced, and he's sighted it as well. He's made sure he's not in line of fire for anyone nearby, had a bite for breakfast, set up a tripwire in the doorway of the room he's in, made sure his exit route is clear, and done everything else he should to properly prepare. He waits silently and still for the Goskin to head for where he's supposed to die.
Spike checks to make sure the guards are no less twitchy than they were the day before as well -- he wants a calm target.
Spike sights carefully down the rifle's laser sight, waiting patiently. Eventually his target obligingly appears in the sight, and after a moment to breath in, then slowly release, Spike gently squeezes the trigger.
Almost before he even hears the sound of the rifle-shot, Jhonas stops in his tracks and, almost peacefully if not for the sudden loss of a portion of his skull, slumps to the ground. The gunshot, however, gets his bodyguards moving quickly, moving to protect their charge -- though it will take them a few moments to realize he's dead -- and to look for where the gunshot came from.
Spike raises his head, double-checking visually to make sure his target is indeed missing a significant portion of the head. Good -- looks like a clean shot. He slides back, dragging the rifle with him, then swiftly packs and slings it and the tripwire. He checks the baffling capabilities of his synsuit are still on and working smoothly -- he'd originally turned it on when he first entered the building, but it doesn't hurt to be sure. He's trotting silently, swiftly, and calmly along his planned escape route as he does so, pausing before each corner to listen for a moment.
Soon thereafter he's outside the building and strolling relaxedly on his way towards his new hidey hole.
It is a clean hit. There is some chaos and confusion, and some dispatch of the constabulary, but the trail is cold long before the police get on the scene. Spike is just hearing news over the loud-hailers that one of the nobles of the Fane of Goskin was assassinated and that outright war between Goskin and Henrik has started, by the time he reaches his now hiding spot.
Spike is quietly pleased at how smoothly things went. He has a nice brunch at the new inn, then goes to his room and carefully checks and cleans all his weaponry. That takes a pleasant few hours to do right, and once he's done he decides to treat himself to an afternoon just for himself to relax. He'll go pick up the rest of his contract money on the morning of the day he's due to depart; he's in no rush and all his bills are paid.
Spike turns on the public vox-receiver as he works on his weapons, and continues to listen to it as he stretches out and does a bit of relaxation exercise to loosen up his muscles. He's curious as to how things are out there.
Later, as the evening wears on, and shortly after the chimes and bugles call for evening ablutions and the start of the evening shift at the factories, there is a knock on his door.
Spike raises a wary eyebrow, shifting so he has some cover from the bed and putting his hand on the Widower under his cloak. The other hand is on his duffel, in case he has to leave quickly -- he never unpacks much. He calls, "Yes?"
The answer is a quiet voice. "Mordecai Jhagatai. Please let us in. We would like to talk with you. We are from the Inquisition. You are not in trouble."
Spike raises the other eyebrow, entirely disbelieving. However, he shoulders the duffel under the cloak and steps to the door, unlocking it. He darts back lightly in the next instant, making sure the door can't be slammed back on him, and with the Widower still easily to hand.
Spike says, "Door's open."
The visitors wait until Spike says the door's open, and they open it silently and quietly. They are dressed casually but a touch intimidatingly, apparently for blending into the shadows of the hive's nightcycle. The one in front is a somewhat bookish woman wearing a black greatcoat; under her coat is a body glove as well as a belt that seems to have numerous scroll cases upon it; a laspistol is worn prominently as well. Her two companions are a bit more heavily armed, one with paired bolt pistols and the other with what looks like a sawed-of stubber. The man with the stubber closes the door behind him. "Acolyte Jhagatai," the woman greets him neutrally. "Or do you prefer 'Spike?'"
Spike looks slightly surprised within the cowl -- so they really are Inquisition! He nods after a moment, "Uh, Spike is fine, thanks."
She ducks her head in a nod. "We are here at Inquisitor Andrea Moth's recommendation, but not her knowledge. In fact it is important that you do not inform her that this meeting has taken place. I know that this is a large thing to ask of you, but may we have some time to speak with you?" Her lips quirk. "The pay for your hit will keep, Uncle Jasper won't be worried about you not coming to collect for at least another day or so, so we have some time, if that is a concern."
Spike stands very still, shocked and thinking hard... then he says softly, "Talk, aye. May I know who I'm talking with?"
She nods. "Certainly. I am Interrogator Vas Kalin. This is Acolyte Germanicus Innocent," she indicates first the one with the short stubber, "and Acolyte Allessandro FitzMarkov." FitzMarkov nods politely; Innocent seems made from stone. "Our master is an Inquisitor of the Calixis sector's cabal, but there is a higher calling within the sector's Inquisition which we hold to, and it is this that Inquisitor Moth has recommended you for. May we sit?"
Spike takes a slow breath, then nods towards the bed, "Please. Be comfortable." He'll slowly close the door after the last acolyte, then sit on the floor with his back to the wall next to the door.
Innocent checks out the window carefully, while Fitzmarkov quickly checks the room for other observers while Kalin puts a bug-detector/jammer on the table, turning it on and filling the room with barely-heard ultrasonic white noise. She sits primly on the bed. "Thank you. How long have you been in the Calixis Sector, Spike?"
Spike considers a moment, then answers, "Uh, little less than a month, Interrogator?"
"So you've little familiarity with the Inquisition of the Calixis Sector, how it's organized and laid out and so forth?
Spike says, "No ma'am."
"That's fine. It means fewer preconceptions.
"The Inquisition tries to put on a united face to the people of the Imperium, but in truth we are fractuous, divisive, political, sometimes even conflicting. Moth represents one of the more moderate voices, and a source of excellent judgement. But many Inquisitors go to great extremes of belief and views. And nowhere in the Imperium is this divisiveness exemplified best than in Calixis. If the various xenos weren't enough, the heretics and witches and so on... there is Komus, the Tyrant Star, a puzzle to unravel and understand and at the same time protect the people of the Imperium from."
Spike nods silently, listening carefully.
"Spike, no other thing so divides the Calixian Conclave of Inquisitors as the Tyrant Star. What it means, what it portends, what it represents... any Inquisitor who says anything of it has only a piece of the puzzle. Centuries ago, the Conclave formed the Tyrantine Cabal, a group of inquisitors within Calixis, specifically to study the Tyrant Star and the prophecies relating to it. Your Inquisitor Moth came to Calixis specificially to join the Cabal, based on certain... experiences she had early in her career.
"The Cabal is not entirely popular, especially with the extremist Inquisitors. Not only do the Puritans feel that what the Cabal does is bordering on heresy -- they believe generally that ignorance is blessed and to understand chaos is to embrace it -- but the Radicals accuse the Cabal of obfuscating information about the Komus and hiding information from other Inquisitors about it."
Spike sounds a bit bemused, "The... Komus? The Tyrant Star?" He hesitates, then adds, "Do they?"
Kalin smiles a bit. "Well. The answer is complicated. Officially, the Tyrantine Cabal does not restrict the flow of information between Inquisitors. Unofficially... yes and no.
"I am here today to ask you to join the Tenebrae Collegium. The Collegium is an apparatus of the Tyrantine Cabal that operates secretly and without the knowledge of the rest of the Inquisition. We are headed by Inquisitors, and for those of us whose masters are not members of the Cabal we still follow them. But we have other purposes. Primarily, we seek out information relating to the Tyrant Star. We collect, collate, and analyze. And when neccessary, we isolate that information.
"We do this in part to protect that information. Puritans would destroy any information about it that we might possibly find. Radicals... well, some might use that information heedlessly and run the risk of corruption by the Ruinous Powers. We try to keep the most dangerous information out of the hands of those who would destroy it or misuse it. At least, until the entire puzzle is resolved.
"Inquisitor Moth is an excellent Inquisitor, and while Puritans distrust her because she is a psyker, and Radicals distrust her because she killed her original mentor because he was a Radical himself and straying too close to the Ruinous Powers, she will provide much to the Tyrantine Cabal. Yet even she will not be aware fully of what the Tenebrae Collegium will be doing on her behalf to protect the people of the Imperium -- and it's Inquisitors! -- from the Tyrant Star."
Spike straightens a bit -- a way to be *really* helpful to the Inquisitor? He'd like that... although not being able to tell her -- although she'd specifically asked for them to contact him... he nods once, "All right. What do you need from me?"
Kalin looks a touch relieved. "Your friend and fellow acolyte, Lionius Havelock, will be at the Calixian Temple for several more days. It is enough time to induct you into the Tenebrae Collegium and condition you to prevent your mind from being easily read or to give away deceptions with your body language. I want to stress that Moth knows of the Collegium, which is how she recommended you to us. But she also understands that she will not be told you were approached, or what your decision is, and will know better to not ask. Perhaps someday, especially if you yourself reach the rank of Interrogator, she might learn. Or even better, if the puzzle of the Tyrant Star is worked out in your lifetimes. Until then, she must not know; it provides her with deniability as well as lends you certain freedom of movement and action whilst still remaining under her protection.
Spike nods silently, fascinated. He's both pleased and leery of the training -- but it will be useful to him as an assassin for Moth as well as for the Tyrantine Cabal. He wonders in slight amazement if the Tyrantines are that close to figuring out the... Komus? Was that what the Interrogator had called it?
Kalin smiles, then. "Good. That you were present on Vaxanide when Komus appeared is even better, so we very much need to know all that you can tell us about it. So. You will join the Tenebrae Collegium as a shadow agent?
Spike nods firmly, "It's an honor, Interrogator, to so serve the God-Emperor."
Kalin nods, smiling still. "Good. And yes, Spike. It is. I have never looked back since joining the Holy Orders, and I have never looked back since joining the College, either." She stands. "Come, then. There are procedures to undertake to induct you properly, and to prepare you for the mental conditioning if you're ready for it."
Spike scrambles lightly to his feet, following the Interrogator. It's as he does so that he amusedly wonders what would have happened had he said no. He suspects the stubbers are not decorative only!
Kalin leads Spike and the other Acolytes to the underhive, taking various twisting paths that are not easy to follow or track back. The place she leads Spike to is a quiet, rather isolated location tucked within one of the unused hydroponic gardens that has since overgrown and become wild. It is a surprisingly peaceful and isolated place, with a pleasant, fresh scent and a relative isolation. The induction ceremony is quiet and somber, involving rather harrowing oaths of secrecy, but these are nothing that Spike didn't go into without knowing of ahead of time. The brief instruction that Kalin gives, and the mental conditioning called 'Labyrinthine Mind' that FitzMarkov -- a sanctioned psyker -- sets in Spike's mind, takes a couple of days.
By the time they're done, Kalin has received word that Havelock is already on his way back to the spaceport, and Spike should meet him in the departures area for their ship's shuttle.
Spike nods at the news -- he'll just have time to collect his payment from Uncle Jasper, then get to the shuttle. He trots swiftly through the twisting streets, taking a very circuitous route to make sure he's not being followed... as he follows guild marks to his location.
Uncle Jasper is a little surprised that Spike is so late in picking up the second half of his payment; considering that a full-blown war has sprung up between the two Fanes, he would have been certain Spike would have taken his payment at first opportunity and jumped planet. But there is no problem in picking up the payment, and any search for the assassin has long gone cold. Spike is not hassled or harrassed at all on his way to the spaceport.
Spike quietly thanks the contract disseminator, then slips silently off. He turns up at the spaceport and smiles, spotting Havelock's amazing hat first. Well... good to see the psyker is feeling a little better.