Chapter Eleven

Cat departs from Nova Castille for Magnagorsk Hive, a trip that takes the better part of a day by rail. Magnagorsk is much grimier than Nova Castille, and is much more representative of Imperial hives. Crowded, cramped, bustling, and polluted, the stacks of Magnagorsks's factories belch smog into the ruddy air, the multiple domes and spires of the hive itself having centuries of grime and smoke caked onto it's surfaces. The rail terminal that disgorges Cat is not much prettier. There are the usual milling throngs of people going from one place to another, and life appears, as ever, to be cheap. It is only Cat's intimidating visage and stance as a tech-priest of some kind that allows her to be relatively unhindered by the occasional tough-looking thug. That, of course, and the fact that the militant Divine Light of Sollex cult has a presence in the shallows of the underhive here. Getting on their bad side is something even most underhivers would rather not do.

Cat is very aware of people's reaction to her, eyes flicking here and there through the crowd. Wearing unfamiliar clothes and dealing with keeping her more eye-catching upgrades out of sight make her have to pay close attention to herself in a way that's vaguely uncomfortable.

Cat makes her way to the Sollex ashram. It is in the bowels of the hive, fairly close to the middlehive, but still far enough into the underhive for most people to avoid it. The doors to it are about twice her height, and twice as wide as they are tall, and the doorframe is etched with loving care in binary code, relating several dozen Cult Mechanicus oaths.

Cat notices several people who were previously squatting or hunched over nearby, rousing themselves and moving away from the doorway once they notice Cat standing before the doors.

Cat pauses for reverent moment to let her eyes slide over the doorframe, hands starting up as if to touch the etching. She catches herself before it is more than a twitch of the fingers. The movement catches her gaze and she examines one of the figures, just to see why they might have been huddled near this portal.

They are typical underhivers -- perhaps this area is warmer than others, since the Sollex are rumored to work with light and lasers a great deal, and the plasma reactors to power them must give off a lot of heat. It certainly seems warmer here than elsewhere in the underhive, except for the bowels of the factories which are probably a lot less pleasant.

After reassuring herself that there is nothing unusual about the underhivers, Cat moves to pass through the door.

The doors split open with a pneumatic hiss, and the circular chamber beyond is bathed in thin beams of (hopefully harmless) laser light, flickering over the metallic walls and floors. "Step closer, child of the Omnissiah," a soft voice hisses from vox-grilles near the door.

The Tech Priest steps through the perfectly maintained doors, folding her hands into her sleeves in a gesture so practiced and so familiar that she doesn't realize that she's done it. Her eyes try to trace the thin beams to their sources.

The doors close behind her silently, and the wall before her splits open, along with part of the cieling. Lowering itself as if on a boom of some kind, a figure in grey-brown robes -- but no obvious legs -- descends down to a point somewhere above Cat. "The mysteries of light, of photon and prism," it intones, "here in the Ashram of the Sollux, these we weave for truth and the blessings of the Machine Spirit. May the light of the luminescent fiber-optic circuits illumine you to your future, sister."

Cat bows deeply, intoning through her vox-grille "The blessing sings to me like the Omnissiah's gears."

The tech-priest -- of a sorts -- lowers himself a bit more, so that what is under the hood can be seen. THere are few remains of a human face within, and the visage is taken up mostly by tubes and a triptych of sensors. "Who are you who have come here, sister? Your creed, your sect? Why do you seek out the architects of light?"

Cat looks at the questioner and says, simply, "I am a seeker of the truth to be found in the Machine God's manifestations in this world. I seek to have light thrown on a murky situation and have come to those that know more of both truth and light than any other."

The gatekeeper tilts his head, accompanied by a faint mechanical whine. "If you seek illumination, then you have come to the right place. But be warned; light has many frequencies, some of which are not seen. Ask what ails you, sister."

The Tech-Priest says, "It only takes the right eyes to see even the strangest light. I seek out one that would wish to corrupt the Omnissiah's purity with knowledge that is not meant to be used."

"You tread a dangerous line, then, sister. For we guard the purity of the light. And we brook no corruption!"

Cat bows again, making sure to stay still and apparently calm in front of the gatekeeper, "And this is why I seek you. Yours are the eyes that can see the trail toward that which must be eradicated. The eyes to see the shadow even after it has passed through."

The boom is apparently set in tracks on the ceiling; the figure begins to circle Cat appraisingly. "You speak flatteringly yet wisely, sister. Very well. What is it that you seek?"

Cat stands upright, not moving as she's examined, "A creature, perhaps a man, brought corruption in the form of heretek to a small hive and destroyed many that might have been brough to the light. I wish to find the corruption to assure that no more leaks out to seek to corrode and rust that which the Machine God would have run smooth."

The gatekeeper rasps, "Interesting. And we have information for you relating to him? Was this man a priest of the Machine God?"

Cat shakes her head, "He was not. But he had tek that may have come from followers of the Machine God that had begun to bow under the weight of disrepair."

The gatekeeper steeples his hands; they are actually a dozen fine manipulators on each hand, each with about five joints, and they make a tiny ticking sounds as he taps his digits together. "I see. What was the nature of this tek?"

She pauses for just a moment as if gathering herself to say something that is too horrible to say lightly. And then she just speaks the name of the dread number.

THe gatekeeper is silent and still; he no longer circles her, instead the only sound is the faint tic=tic-tic of some clockwork mechanism within the chamber. "I can only fathom," the gatekeeper says severely, "that the magoi of the Lathe systems gave you this information. It is the Necrontyr, then, child? This mere mortal, flesh-and-blood man was of the Necron?"

Cat's only answer is to nod once, hands still folded into her sleeves.

The gatekeeper comes back around to hover before Cat. "I pity you, child. You are entering a world of the Cult Mechanicus that most tech-priests need never expose themselves to, that most are blessedly ignorant of. Secrets that the Lords Dragon hold quietly to themselves for fear of heresy spreading throughout our ranks -- and the secret behind their title is but a part of that.

"But there is much to speak of, I envision. You came here seeking if some of our number have conspired with the Necron, who have given a man the technology of the Ancient Enemy?"

Cat says, "I came here to see if you have found any that have done so. I would not accuse such reverent beings of such corruption."

"Very good, then. We do not know of any who have done so... but there is one group who might have.

"They are a cult of hereteks, deep within the depths of this hive, so deep even we have not been able to root them out. The Arbiters of the hive have said that they are a Chaos cult, but they are more than that. Their ties are not with Chaos, but with the Ancient Enemy. And the reason for this is so: cultechs have arisen in the past thousand years devoted to this Ancient Enemy, confusing the Necron with the Omnissish and the Machine God. This is a perversion and heresy of the highest sort."

Cat lets the information sink in, feeling pity and almost horror at any that could make such a horrible soul-risking mistake. She speaks carefully, "They hide in the bowels of the hive as a short hides in the deep heart of a broken machine."

"Just so. You are correct, but this is no mere fault in the wiring of a machine, child. They are a perversion, an inversion of power flow. They have failed to heed closely to the catechisms which were written millenia ago specifically to preserve us from just such false beliefs."

The Tech-Priest is quiet again for long moments, processing, and then says "It may be that they seek to spread this heresy. It can not be allowed."

"No. It cannot." He pauses. "What are your intentions, child?"

"To seek out and destroy the root of this heresy." Cat says without thinking. Her body shifts, almost into a posture of defiance.

"On your own?"

Cat holds her chin slightly up. "If that is the only way."

"We have attempted to rout out these cultechs for a hundred years, though our resources are minimal. Very well, though. We will provide what information we can to you.

"They are in the depths of the hive" He rattles off a string of coordinates and address for what seems to be just above where the underhive turns into underworld. "But do not go there alone, child. You would not survive ere long there. You will need companions. You have companions, yes?"

The information gets stored away, the numbers singing like music with their sheer perfect detachment. At the gatekeeper's question, Cat inclines her head, "I have those that would stand beside me."

"Good. It is unto the lion's den that you travel... or rather the dragon's den. We shall redouble our efforts to shine the light of the Omnissiah upon those who would hide themselves from it in heresy and lies."

Cat bows again, "I will endeavor to remember that light even in the deepest reaches of the dark."

"Good. Then go with the light of the Omnissiah, child, and 'ware the light of truth, for often it illuminates, but just as often, it may focus and burn."

Cat bows to the gatekeeper, intoning, "May your manipulators always move true and quick." Before exiting the room, backing out respectfully.

The doors quietly open behind Cat, letting her out, before closing again in front of her.

Cat is silent for quite a while as she starts on the next leg of her trip, not wishing to even vox Spike and Havelock until she was well clear of the Sollex.

While not quite out of the underhive, just half a kilometer from the constabulary checkpoints that mark the 'official' delineation between middlehive and lower, within the throng of people Cat walks along with, a similarly-robed and cowled-figure manages to settle in to pace beside her. "May the Machine Spirits ever look favoably 'pon you," the other tech-priest says.

The greeting catches her attention and she finally speaks, "May the Omnissiah guide your hands true."

The tech-priest appers a bit more ragged than Cat is, but he is still quite apparently of the Cult MEchanicus. "What brings you to Magnagorsk, if I may ask?"

Cat is not sure what to make of being approached so, but says, "I am searching for a quarry."

"Indeed. I could not help but notice you entering the Ashram of the Sollex. Forgive me, it is not my nature to pry. But it occurrs to me that they may not have given you all the information you sought, no matter what that information may have been."

She pauses in her walking, turning squarely to confront the other Tech-Priest, "And you would propose to give me fuller knowledge, brother?"

THe tech-priest pauses as well, turning to face her. "I do not make such a prsumption. I do not, after all, know what it is you spoke with them about. But the Sollex are notorious for speaking only what they think should be shared, and leaving much to themselves."

Cat tips her head, examining the ragged Tech-Priest, "There is truth in what you say. Why do you watch for those consulting them?"

"Because we have found that they will deliberately and willfully allow harm to come to servitors of the Machine God, for their own ends."

"Who is 'we'?"

"The tech-priests of Magnagorosk. Why? Who else would I represent?"

Cat nods absently, "My apologies, brother. My mind is much abstracted with the hunt. My companions and I are in pursuit of a bounty."

"Ah. It is no worry, sister. I understand. It is quite warm here, though in time I hope to transcend the frailties of this flesh, as we all do. We have seen many comings and goings. Perhaps we might help you in your bounty?"

Rarely one to make snap decisions, Cat considers for a moment before saying, "A man have been tracked back to here that brought heretek to a hive and nearly destroyed it. The family of one that was destroyed in the unfortunate incident have set us on his trail."

"Heretek? Oh, my. Yes, I can see why you would wish to consult the Sollex. But heretek is something I am sure I can help you with. But come, let us go from this heat. There is a place near the air processors which is cooler, and also nearby. Perhaps we can help?"

The offer of speaking somewhere more private takes some thought and Cat says, "I have a rendezvous to make..."

She adds after a moment, "But I have time to talk."

The tech priest nods, and gestures, starting to head back down into the underhive. "I am sure you will find it helpful. This way. it isn't far."

Cat is careful as she follows the stranger, eyes slightly narrowed. She, like any sane person, does not truly trust strangers.

Naturally enough, and unsurprisingly, the area that the tech-priest leads cat to is increasingly rougher and less savoury, even as underhive areas go. The looks the two get are a bit sharper, a bit more lingering, a bit more appraising.

After looking around her carefully, Cat pauses and says, "This is deeper than I wish to go."

The tech-priest pauses, and turns. "It's just up ahead, I assure you."

Cat asks dispassionately, "Why is a Tech-Priest so familiar with this depth of the underhive."

"The machinery here is often of interest to us. Sometimes it is centuries old, when the hive was first built, and we come to study it."

Cat stops in her tracks again and says, "I think we will go back the way we came. If you wish to speak with me. You can do so on the transport." Beneath her robes, her new manipulators twitch with near-irritation.

The tech-priest pauses, considering for a very long moment. "Very well, sister," he says carefully. "I apologize for taking your time."

Cat continues, "One would be more interested in speaking with you if you were not quite obviously prevaricating."

"I assure you, lying is furthest from my mind. I seek only to help a fellow of the Cult."'

Cat nods, eyes flat, "Then perhaps I will see you again. Good journeys. Brother." She turns and, back stiff, moves to make her way back toward the train.

Cat returns to Nova Castille a day later, having spoken to the Sollexus order. Meanwhile, Spike and Havelock have completed their checking of the records regarding the noble family which was slaughtered, and the Arbiter's decision that it was some kind of Chaos cult being corrected.

Cat meets the two as arranged in a somewhat crowded, noisy, but close tavern in the middlehive. There is ample opportunity to find an isolated booth that is free from any obvious evesdropping.

Cat settles into her seat, having to carefully arrange herself to keep the new tentacle-like attachments from being very obvious. "There was a suspicious Tech-Priest, but otherwise, very uneventful."

"Suspicious," Havelock says, dubious.

Cat nods, "He spoke with me as I was leaving the Sollex. Attempted to get me to follow him into the underhive to speak with me."

"Hnh," Havelock grunts. "Subtle."

Spike says, "What did the Sollex have to say?"

The Tech-Priest shows no signs of amusement as she says, "If I had not been alone, I would have gone to hear his word. I suspect him to be part of a heretek movement..."

Cat continues, "The Sollex said there is a splinter of Tech-Priests dealing with heretek."

Shaking her head in disgust, she says, "Or that they might be dealing with it. They have confused the Omnissiah with the Necrons. They are sadly misled. I suspect the man that approached me may be with them."

Spike says, "With the Necrons?"

The three make the trip to Magnagorsk via rail. There is nothing untoward about the trip, and nothing appears to be suspicious. There are a few tech-priests here and there on the train but nothing to distinguish them. The rail terminal at Magnagorsk is somewhat more ratty and grimy than the one at Nova Castille, but it's still somewhat servicable. The local constables are quite heavily armed and armored, wearing carapace and carrying shotguns and looking quite ready to fill offenders with lead and let the Emperor ask the questions.

Spike glances around curiously, murmuring quietly, "This an unstable area or summat?"

"It's Magnagorsk," Havelock answers. "It's the heart of Sector manufacturing."

Spike nods slowly as he looks around, not really understanding but not wanting to be a pest.

Finding a cult is not as easy as looking them up in the local address directory. A few discrete questions does point the group in the general direction of the north quarter of the underhive, though, where there have been occasional rumors of cult activity, and where Emperor-fearing people simply don't go. They don't normally go into the underhive anyway, but any 'good' person would avoid that part of the underhive as it is.....

Spike glances around as they walk, murmuring quietly, "So... what're our victory conditions here, people?"

"Ideally," Havelock says, "these teks turn out to be our Necron cultists."

Spike says, "Yes, but are we going to gather info on them, kill them, what?"

"Both," the psyker says. "Those are our jobs."

Cat says, "Ideally, we convince them of the folly of their thoughts."

Spike smiles quietly to himself and simply pads along silently behind his teammates.

If anything, entering Magnagorsk's underhive is even more harrowing than that of Vaxanide's. Dark, grimy, lots of people staring at the group as if they're interlopers... and more than a few heavy weapons here and there, like makeshift bolters. There is a distinct sense of unfrinedliness.

Spike raises a worried eyebrow within his cowl, and simply tries to be a bit more alert and dangerous looking... and to cover his teammates' backs.

Spike murmurs quietly, "Cat, what do these folks look like, please?"

There's a moment or two where the only sounds from Cat are of her various accoutrement moving against one another, finally, she says, "They may be hard to spot. They will look like normal people." She pauses again, forced to admit, "My idea of normal may be somewhat different than your own."

Havelock snorts, once, and lowers the brim of his hat.

Spike laughs softly at that!

Cat walks along a moment, still thinking, "I might be more successful finding them than others. Though I might put myself in danger of being branded heretek by the locals."

Spike says, "Um..." he glances around, then murmurs, "Are we sure the locals themselves aren't heretek?"

Cat shrugs, "It would be hard to do without flaying them open. Or getting a very intimate look at them."

Spike nods and shrugs, "All right. Following you lot then, since I don't know how to pick them out."

Cat suggests, "In a strange place, finding a low establishment that serves intoxicants of various kinds is a good way to find information on unsavoury elements."

"Alright then," Havelock says. "Seedy dive it is."

Cat leads the way, and the group finds a rather run-down place of a bar. It appears to be made from scrap metal, mostly. An old voxceptor in the corner is churning out music that might have been popular a hundred years ago. It is dark and smoky and a bit uncomfortably warm, with at least two tables of what seem to be professional drinkers, mostly in down-and-out worker's clothes (who probably work for one syndicate or gang or another as cheap, unregistered labor.) There's a worn-looking matron of a bartender, who seems to serve mostly from a tank full of some kind of homebrew. She eyes the three newcomers as they enter, as does (briefly) a group apparently playing a rather fast and furious -- and verging on full-contact -- game of Heretic's Poker. While playing Heretic's Poker is frowned upon by the Ecclesiarchy and the Imperium in general... who's going to tell these gentlemen what is and isn't proper in the sight of the Emperor? Especially when they all appear to be carrying some kind of combination shotgun-battleaxe. Most likely heavies or enforcers of some kind, for a gang or syndicate.

"If you're religious," Havelock murmurs, "I suggest you swallow your piety and not say a damn word about the Heretic's Wake."

Spike watches expressionlessly, and tries to make sure his group is seated at the very least with their backs to a wall. If he can't succeed at that, he sure wants his back to a wall -- with a good field of fire to cover his mates.

Cat says, "I will do my best to not disrupt things."

Spike snorts quietly, "Would I admit to such a deck?"

"Good lad," says the psyker.

The group sits at a table in the corner of the room, managing not to make themselves too obtrusive. Still, it seems like they've gotten the attention of the poker players, though fortunately the players are more interested in their game -- which at times is boisterous and at other times bawdy and always loud. The barkeep wanders by tiredly at some point, wiping her hamlike hands on a towel. "Yawan summada brew?" she asks, drawling.

As she asks that, Spike and Havelock almost simultaneously notice, just outside the door leading into the dive as it opens to let another trio of underhive gangers in -- they're wearing colors, at any rate -- a tech-priest with mechadendrites in robes as ratty as any, but with a curious feature: they can actually see his face, mostly hidden under the robes. He has a single bionic eye prosthetic, but that's a lot less visible augmentation than most Mechanicus have.

The tech-priest looks like he's lurking outside, but as soon as the door opens and he notices Spike and Havelock noticing him, he ghosts; he seems to already be moving away as the door shuts.

Cat is too buy trying to decide how best to answer in a way that will not offend the barkeep and misses the unusual Tech-Priest.

Spike raises an eyebrow at the fleeing guy, then shrugs. He turns to Cat and murmurs, "Think we saw your friend outside... leaving."

Cat turns and looks at Spike, head tipped inquisitively.

Spike glances up at the barkeep, "Three," then waits for her to leave before he quietly describes the individual he saw to Cat.

The barkeep nods desultorily and goes to the tank, using what looks like an industrial tubing clamped with battery cables to pour out the... "brew."

After listening carefully, Cat's brows draw together and she slowly shakes her head, "This does not sound like the one that I encountered. It is a bit inauspicious that someone else may recognize me."

Spike nods silently, thinking... then he shakes his head, "Well, we can give the guy a moment to find his mates and bring them along, if he's going to... or try following?" He glances inquiringly between Havelock and Cat.

Cat defers to Havelock.

"Follow," Havelock says.

Spike nods, rising and slinging the rifle smoothly over his shoulder, padding swiftly for the door.

Cat waits to see if Havelock follows. She trusts his sense of tactics.

The pskyer is rising to follow.

Spike manages to keep the tech-priest in sight, even through the twists and turns he makes; the Mechanicus doesn't seem to notice his tail, though he does seem to be talking quietly over a vox.

Cat does her best to hang back from Spike.

Havelock has no intention of calling off the hounds now. He drops his pace.

As he draws closer -- unseen -- to the Tech-Priest, he can hear the Priest's end of the conversation. "... Yes, it is the one you described. I am sending you the images of her companions. No, I do not know who they are; they appear to be bounty hunters. Perhaps someone was sloppy...."

Spike quietly passes on the overheard information to the others, then murmurs, "Stay with him or pull back?"

Cat murmurs, "He would be a good lead to find the one that tried to draw me away."

Spike murmurs over the vox, "He could also be leading us into ambush. Stay alert on my backtrail, please?"

The presumably renegade heretek leads the group through the corridors deeper into the underhive. He appears oblivious to the presence of his tail, and Spike is like a ghost in trailing him. Soon, though, it is clear that the heretek is leading the group to the old logic engines which once ran the hive's systems, before they were moved to the middlehive. These logic engines are silent, now, but titanic and labyrinthine... and somehow a fitting lair for heretical Tech-Priests.

Spike murmurs on the vox, "How far do we want to follow, Havelock?"

"We need answers. Proceed-- we have your back."

Spike murmurs, "Acknowledged. Spike out." He continues to drift along on his target's tail, silent and warily alert.

Eventually the heretek comes to a door, at which he places his hand against a panel beside it. There is a faint mechanical sound, and then a small panel opens up on the door at eye-level. Luminous green eyes peer out from that hole, and the heretek and whomever is on the other side of the door exchange fast sounds which seem to be some kind of mechanical chatter. The door then opens, allowing the heretek to enter.

Spike crouches very low, darting forward as he pulls a tiny but sturdy little metal spike from a thigh pocket. As the heretek hustles unwittingly through the door, Spike spikes the doorjamb so the door will not completely close and lock.

Spike murmurs on the vox, "Just spiked the outer door open. Shall we follow?"

"I'll have Cat guard our retreat. I'll join you momentarily."

From beyond the door, Spike can hear two voices, normal now, fading into the distance as if in idle conversation.

Spike says, "Losing the heretek. Wait for you or no?"

"Go if you can leave the door spiked."

Spike murmurs, "Acknowledged," and gently tries slipping through the spiked door, peering cautiously in to see what's there.

Spike opens the door carefully. Beyond is a dim corridor, the overhead light panels flickering a bit. It is narrow, barely able to handle two people walking shoulder-to-shoulder. In all it looks much like one would expect a centuries-old maintenance corridor to be... except it is meticulously clean and free from rust or corrosion.

Spike nods silently to himself and drifts soundlessly down the corridor, keeping the heretek and his companion in sight.

The corridors are a maze, and it seems to Spike that he might loose his way back shortly. The heretek and the other -- who from this angle wears black, tattered but clean robes with green trim, and towers over the other by a good foot -- are walking contentedly through the corridor. They stop at a door in the side of the corridor, the taller one opening it; Spike can't see in from where he's at.

Meantime, Havelock and Cat arrive at the entrance to the heretek lair.

"Just keep this route clear," Havelock murmurs, and tugs his hat down. "And keep your channel open." With that, he eases himself through the door, careful... and then reaches for the Warp.

Spike pulls a piece of chalk and immediately starts making marks on the walls so he can exit quickly, low down by his feet where folks won't notice right away.

Convincing physics that light now bends through him like glass, Havelock's form breaks up into a murky, mottled shifting as he moves; and then he ghosts down the corridor in pursuit.

The corridors are almost eerily silent, though that makes sense, in a way; chanting or the usual verbal accoutrements of a typical cult would be all too easy to carry in even the underhive. Then again, this isn't a typical cult.

Spike darts forward to try spiking this door too. He's getting a little worried, though -- he sure hopes Havelock is tracking him successfully.

"This is a curious time for naughts and crosses, isn't it," the psyker opines under his breath, from somewhere close by.

Spike grins at that, glancing back with a touch of relief -- then he cautiously checks the door, to see if he can slip through it safely as well. Just before he's about to jam it he realizes maybe he shouldn't do that... this door is different, and it might be noticed. On the other hand... it doesn't seem to have a lock?

Spike tests it gently, peering through with caution.

The room beyond appears to have once been the antechamber to the central core of the logic engine. As he peers through, the two are going through a sort of tabernacle curtain into the central core beyond. The curtain is made of heavy woven synthetic cloths and appear to be very thick and layered; Spike can't see what's beyond.

Spike whips soundlessly across the room to keep up, cautiously pausing once again at the curtain.

Havelock must go slower than Spike; while he is plaguey hard to spot in the shadowy corridor, if he should run his ringing bootheels will give him away.

No sound travels well through the curtain, there is the faintest of muffled sounds.

Spike slips through the slightly wavering layers of the curtain, careful not to emerge on the other side, so he can try and see what's there.

Spike peers around the edge of the curtain at last... and looks into mechanical Hell. If the Cult Mechanicus has a concept of Perdition, this must be at least the foyer to it.

The circular chamber once held a mechanophylactry, the thinking machine core to a logic engine that the Tech-Priests claim is the physical embodiment of the Machine Spirit in residence within the logic engine. Spike has seen a few before, usually the mechanophylactries in the logic engines aboard Void ships. Now, though, the mechanophylactry is gone, replaced by a smooth and sleek and alien sphere of black metal, trimmed in green hieroglyphs. The two he has trailed are standing before the sphere, while four other hereteks are spread around the sphere, facing it as well and plugged into it. Spike is used to the large, solid, clunky, sometimes noisy technology of the Imperium. This... this seems almost sinful in it's simplicity and featurelessness.

Spike's eyes widen in shock... then he takes a deep breath and studies it carefully for a few heartbeats so he can describe it later. Over the vox he subvocalizes, "Savant, definitely Necron. Coming out." He carefully uses a lower ranking, more ambiguous method of address for Havelock -- he doesn't want to accidentally give away any names.

There is a confused sort of blur a few feet behind him. "Wait a moment," Havelock murmurs. The blur holds up what might be a hand.

Spike nods silently, still watching carefully.

Havelock shakes his head, indistinctly, and says, "No good. I can't focus enough to suss out their life signs. Did you see more than two there?"

Spike says, "Four plus our two."

"We need to bring down at least five of them."

Spike's voice actually sounds startled over the vox, "What?!" Then he adds, "Why not leave, bring back arbiters?"

"We aren't Inquisition today, remember? And the word of two bounty dogs isn't going to be worth two bent pennies to the Arbites, especially not where the Underhive's concerned."

Spike sighs quietly, then starts watching with an eye more towards tactics. He murmurs over the vox, "Could we back out, wait for our pigeon to emerge again, grab him then? Let the Arbites question him? What're our victory conditions here?"

"No Arbites," Havelock says. "No anyone. We are on our own here. We need to break this cell, ideally keep one for interrogation, and call in Moth once we have... Throne, *whatever* that is in there."

Spike glances around thoughtfully, checking to see if he can spot anyone aside from the 6 currently in view around the small sphere.

Havelock murmurs, "Oi, guns or blades or clubs, what have they?"

Spike murmurs, "So... unjacked first, jacked next... moment..." He checks for that too. "Jacked-in unarmed. Don't know on the other two."

"Okay then. Change of plan; I'll engage the other two. You start executing the others before they can rise. No offense," Havelock adds, "but I think you'll be swifter about it than I."

Spike gives the blurry outline a startled glance, not understanding Havelock's tactics... then he shrugs, "You're the boss!" He sets up his weaponry for rapid reload, so he can fire the Nomad, fire the Widower, then reload and fire each of the weapons again.

Havelock drops the psychic illusion. "Just give me a moment to try once more..."

Spike silently shifts so he's got the best line of sight for his imminent attack, aiming carefully and waiting for Havelock's go-ahead.

Havelock closes his eyes a moment, casting his consciousness out across the skein of potential futures. "Alright," he murmurs. "I can see it now." He reaches back, drawing the black sword. "Ready when you are."

Spike takes a breath, lets it out slowly... and gently squeezes the trigger.

The room is quiet, then there is but a single sound, barely heard, and suddenly the tech-priest jacked in at the other end of the room sparks and stutters, he chest having shattered. With a rattle and a binary chitter, he collapses to the floor.

The two men who entered the room stare for just a moment... giving Spike a chance at one more shot before things start happening.

Havelock lunges through the curtain then, to prolong the chaos just a heartbeat longer-- and trusts in his glimpse of the future to keep him out of the assassin's eyeline.

Spike is already sighting down the Widower Dartcaster in his other hand at the second furthest away jacked in heretek, and he dispassionately fires again.

The second jacked-in tech-priest is struck, but doesn't immediately go down. On the other hand, it barely reacts.

And suddenly a deathless, rasping, staccato voice fills the room. "We... are under... attack... fools. Defend... the... necrophylactry!"

Spike is already reloading, slapping another clip into the Nomad. He brings the sniper rifle smoothly up and squeezes off another shot -- this at one of the two remaining undamaged, jacked in hereteks.

The third heretech jacked into the sphere goes down into a crumbled, jangling heap of mechanical augmentations. The heretech that Spike had been following pulls out a hand-cannon, looking around the room quickly... and spots Spike. "There!" He shouts, alerting the larger heretech.

Havelock bursts toward the larger of the hereteks, Force sword drawn. The killing intent sizzles along its edges, crackling. Havelock's blade cuts lightly across the larger heretek's thigh, but the coiled killing-will in the blade fails to uncoil, held back by surprisingly powerful resistance in the heretek. Havelock starts to circle, retaking his measure.

Havelock's blade cuts through the heretech's robe and something underneath -- it's 'something' since Havelock has never felt his blade's 'feel' when cutting like that ever before. The large heretech roars, throwing off the robe as he throws a punch at Havelock -- a fist of some metal that's so dark a green as to be almost black, and blades upon the back of the hand of a scintilating, shimmering green.

Havelock leans deftly out of the way-- he wouldn't have needed to see the future to see that blow coming.

The claws hiss and sing through the air as they go through the place where Havelock had been a half-second before. This close, Havelock can see the creature beneath the robes a little better, now. It is indeed human, and a tech-priest -- or at least once was. The green metal is sleek and smooth and clearly of Necrontyr origin, in some cruel parody of the holy and allied Cult Mechanicus' solid and staid technologies that have been with Man for centuries. The slickness of the augmentations appear almost carnal in the way they meld with and mould to the human form; certainly they are enough to make any typical Emperor-fearing human wince and look away.

Fortunately, Havelock is not typical, and not particularly fearful of the being he regards as his spiritual forebear. "Let's be havin' ya," he hisses, "Let's go...!"

Spike is swiftly slipping a poison dart into the Widower as he mentally reviews: of the four assigned to him, two are down, one is lightly injured, one unharmed. Right. He sights down the dartcaster at the unharmed heretek and pulls the trigger. He's not worrying about the other two -- Havelock has claimed them.

There is another sound. Lost amongst the sounds of the growing battle, it accompanies the fourth jacked-in heretech going down. Meanwhile, the other heretek, seeing his companion engaged with the templar, snarls behind his minimal augmentations and fires the hand-cannon at Spike.

Spike drops back slightly so the heavy curtains flare around him, blurring his silhouette.

Havelock seizes the momentum, swinging the blade 'round in both hands, diagonally upward underneath the blow that he dodged so easily.

Havelock's blow comes in hard at the brute's head, but the renegade ducks the blow with a surprising show of agility. Letting the momentum carry him around, Havelock's off hand whips back under his coat as he turns, only to come up with a foot of steel in its grip.

The psyker's knife scores the brute's body; Havelock gives half a step, reversing the grip on his knife, bringing his sword back into line.

Spike sights down the Nomad once more, aiming at the lightly injured heretek. If he can take that one down, then he can dispose of the annoying little twerp shooting at him.

The last jacked-in heretek collapses under the shot from the Nomad. This leaves the heretek he had been trailing to aim and take a shot at Spike.

Spike swiftly reloads the Nomad -- then turns his aim, with a wicked gleam in his eye, on the shorter of the two hereteks. "Oi, think mine's bigger?" He fires.

The heretek takes the shot in the chest, and Spike has enough time to see the heretek's eyes widen. "No...," the tek rasps. "Not... yet.... Not with so much... left...." And he collapses into a puddle of blood and oil on the otherwise pristine floor.

"Just you and me now, heretek," Havelock hisses, the black blade tracing a whistling arc through the air.

Havelock's Force sword lashes across the renegade's chest, trailing a curtain of hissing blue sparks. Again the creature rebuffs his psychic assault, so he falls back upon more traditional means: he follows up by jamming the mono-edged combat knife into the creature's craw.

The ribs have been shredded -- what can be seen beneath them now is what seems to be a human -- shriveled, atrophied -- locked into a sleek armored exoskeleton. The face and most of the chest is concealed by mechanical augmentations of that same terrifyingly alien style. The brute is about to lash out again at Havelock, when it suddenly stiffens, it's back arching, and that voice again fills the room, this time seeming to emanate from the heretek: "Hold your blows, psyker. I would parley."

Spike slings both weapons after making sure they're reloaded and ready to roll, then turns and grabs a double handful of one of the layers of the curtain. He gives it a hard yank, trying to pull a piece free.

"Wait," Havelock says, switching his knife grip again, defensive, "This isn't the puppet-- you're in the sphere."

The curtain is too solidly-mounted to be simply yanked off; it looks like a sharp knife might cut it, though.

"You are correct. You have proven yourself capable, the both of you. You are not mere mercenaries, are you?"

Straightening, Havelock holds his blade at extension, level with the puppet's eye, "What of it?"

Spike flips out one of his throwing knives and swiftly slashes down a large piece of curtain.

"I would know what coin you would take payment in. I could use beings with such excellent capabilities as yourselves. Great riches and rewards would be yours if you would accept tasks from me."

"That's funny you should mention that," Havelock says with a wry smile. "You know what the rarest thing in the whole Imperium is?"

"Many things are rare, psyker. What is it that is rare in your eyes? If it is something you desire, perhaps I can find it for you."

"Freedom," Havelock answers, "The rarest thing in the Imperium is freedom. But, you know-- the Inquisition's already given me that." And then he lunges, driving the point of the Force sword at the puppet's eye.

There are two sounds then: the puppet-brute screaminig in pain, and the voice howling in rage. "Foolish human!" the voice snarls even as the puppet twitches, dying on Havelock's spearpoint. "Your Cults Imperialis and Mechanicus are chains that bind you, and the largest chains are your damned Inquisition! You will die in slavery as your kind have for ten thousand years! You should have embraced the truth... embraced the destiny that lies within the Calixis Sector! Now you will die with the billions of the rest of your vermin race!"

"Not yet," Havelock answers, and uncoils the helix of killing energy in the force-blade.

The puppet is consumed in the psychic fire, ripping it apart from the inside out. What screams now is not anything that is alive, but rather some sort of psychic reaction through dead and dying flesh.

Spike grins in relief at Havelock's pronouncement about freedom -- he'd been listening rather nervously to the bargaining. Once the large curtain fragment falls into his hands the little assassin whirls and whips over to the sphere, swinging the curtain out over the sphere so it falls draped over the filthy alien object. With a bit of hasty work he'll soon have a loose insulated bag tied closed at the top, which contains the sphere.

Spike grins over his shoulder at Havelock as he works, "Noisy little beggar, ennit? Want to take it along too? Plenty of curtain, although I think we should hurry?"

Havelock twists the sword once, then turns, pulling it up and over, wrenching it free. He whisks it in a wide circle to flick the remaining un-vaporized debris from the blade, and then flicks it back in a parade-rest against the length of his arm and shoulder. Sheathing his knife again in the back of his belt, he says, "We'd best. I'll have Cat establish contact with Moth at once."

Spike simply breaks the struts and supports free with a fine disregard for niceties. Shortly thereafter he comes trotting back to Havelock, dragging the bundle behind him, "Can you take this too, or is it safe to tie onto my belt? Want to have my hands free to shoot on the way out."

Havelock says, "I'll take it. Let's be out of here." Wrapping the neck of the makeshift bag around his off-hand, he nods to the exit. "Go."

Spike nods once, pulling the Nomad around so he can shoot from the hip if necessary, then slipping out through the curtains, peering around carefully and running point for Havelock again.

Havelock follows, finally letting his precognition drop, feeling the painful pressure behind his eyes easing. "You thought I might go over," he says.

Spike glances over at Havelock and grins, "More like thought the damn thing might be able to strike successfully at you while you thought it was parleying with you, lad. I've seen how you look at dead things -- you wouldn't go willing."

"I saw you shoot me," Havelock answers.

Spike glances back startledly at the psyker, "What? -oh..." he goes back to scanning ahead on point as he quietly adds, "Under what circumstances?"

"If I'd agreed." He checks their six, and says, "It's all right. I'd worry if I hadn't seen it. It means you're getting paranoid enough to work for the Inquisition."

Spike grins quietly to himself and doesn't say anything. He just swiftly leads Havelock through the maze, following his little assassin's marks and keeping an eye out for any other hereteks. He thinks, but does not mention, that he's heard of loyalty tests which include killing one's companions. He's quite sure he doesn't want to be a loyalty test, though, and he actually respects Havelock. He murmurs quietly, "Just pleased you said no."

"I already have everything I want," Havelock says. "The xenos has nothing to offer me."

Spike smiles again, but says no more until the two of them, plus their grisly cargo, have safely emerged once more into the Underhive. He grins cheerfully up at Cat, giving her a mock salute, "All safe and sound, Tech Priest!"