The Subsector Project

Caomer Subsector – Clydrome Proxima – 898.M41

  To call the night skies of Clydrome Proxima “astounding” would be a disservice. They were a masterpiece of the Emperor’s benediction, a tapestry made material in the nebulae surrounding it on all sides, shining exotic light down onto His servants as they toiled beneath His grace.

A temperate world, a rich world, a valuable yet isolated world, all these labels could be applied without distinction. One could wax eloquent about the political structure of guilds and merchant families, of their tendency to build towering observatories amidst their cities to proclaim their faith all the louder. Perhaps critiques could even be leveled at the nocturnal veneration of this tableau reducing the efficiency of the tithe’s collection, creating an eternal franticness in the lives of the population’s extractive and manufactorial efforts.

Yet for all this, one could not understate the evident beauty of the universe seen from the surface of Clydrome Proxima. One could not admonish the rich and powerful spending their dalliances before the Emperor’s Tarot, the oculus, the canvases and artistic facades upon which they wrought their observations. Or at least, you’d imagine one could not.

///

  Abrea of Clan Grint lacked the eyes for the finer points of aesthetic composition. Rather than viewing the beauty of the heavens with either the rapt religious zeal of the huddled masses, or the artistic inspiration of the elite, the nursery of star formation in the skies above Clydrome Proxima only conjured one word to her mind: Tired.

She tried to stifle a yawn, scratching at the stubble growing on her once-bald head as she stepped into the onrushing darkness of sunset, joining a crowd of workers and menials moving down the arterial thoroughfare. She ignored the firework hues rising above her, replacing the purple-tinged blue of the world’s daylight, and sought instead for the solace of a nearby recaf vendor’s stall.

“Rising stars.” The man mumbled in greeting, handing over a steaming paper cup of the ubiquitous beverage. Abrea muttered something indistinct in response, tossing a random handful of gilt slate denominations onto the countertop, the local currency feeling oblong and uncomfortable in her hand. Without bothering to wait for change, she turned on her heel, moving back out into the crowd.

I’m not built for this world. She mused, immediately scalding her mouth on the liquid, grimacing as workers jostled past her. All were garbed in the same greys and browns of the local custom she wore, but each accented with a different sash, decorative pin, or patch to denote some obscure local rank or devotion known only to them.

Abrea just took what her brother, Gerion, had provided her. A garishly-painted green pin the size of an apple hanging from her tunic evidently meant enough to fend off unwanted attention from local thugs, but was sufficiently servile to also not warrant anyone actually speaking to her. Just the way she enjoyed it.

She chanced running her mind across those around her, just for an instant, caressing their thoughts tenderly to avoid any unintended side effects in case another psyker walked amongst the crowd. Sipping her recaf, she let the flow of humanity carry her betwixt the spires of Naftin Hive, towards the posting she’d held for three solitary months. She loathed the limitations placed upon her by the inquisitor’s caution, loathed the toadying she was forced to engage in to penetrate the Vice-Guilder’s defenses, loathed the whole world with its unusual work cycle.

Clydrome Proximans lived inverted lives compared to the majority of the Imperium- rising at dusk and sleeping at dawn, conducting business primarily during night hours. Supposedly, this allowed their masters to spend as much time in veneration of the heavens as possible, taking in the full majesty of the stellar phenomena around them. However, the arrangement also made the population thin and pale, and resulted in the shunning of anyone who caught so much as a hint of a tan.

This wasn’t a problem for Abrea, naturally wiry and pale, but the reversing of her lifelong sleeping cycle was certainly taking its toll on her wellbeing. She continually included this fact in her reports back to the inquisitor and the others of his retinue. Such was the lot of her devotion to the throne, not in veneration of distant clouds of gas, but in the sacrifices of her sleep schedule.

///

  After a series of stairways, a brief tube shuttle trip, and taking a strategic path to avoid the annoyance of a street preacher she’d insulted the night before, Abrea arrived at a nondescript door set into the side of one of the larger spires, flanked by a trio of household guards. She flashed an ident-chip at their flat, mirrored visors, and sipped her now luke-warm recaf.

“Rising stars, miss Pennifor.” Abrea cursed internally. They all looked the same through their helmets, but she knew the voice of the man before her who held his hand out to more closely inspect her ident. Indeed, she’d been rotating her entrances to try and avoid his attention.

“Ah, Lieutenant Laral, I thought you were still up on fourteen.” She made a mental note to have Gerion obtain an updated guard rotation as the man removed his helmet. He was an annoyance, a thorn in her side threatening to lock her into endless, droning conversation, disrupting her observation of the guilder households. Were she left to her own devices, she could’ve crushed him to a pulp with a thought, split him open like one of the wild grox she hunted in her youth. The idea tempted her, but she held back, orders were orders.

“Perhaps I was reassigned, or perhaps I simply missed your company to brighten my mornings.” He grinned, his teeth straight and bright against his pale skin, not unattractive, but painfully naive and unworldly. Not her type, even if she hadn’t been wearing a false identity.

“How sweet of you.” Abrea regretted her words immediately. They were thickly layered with sarcasm, she simply could not help herself. Yet the man was seemingly immune to such intricacies of language, and she saw in his mind precisely how little it impacted his base desires. “You know how much I enjoy exploring the city, so I tend to vary my entrances.” Laral nodded, as though exploring the depths of a hive were the most normal pre-work activity in the world. His companions idly leaned against the frame of the doorway, seemingly disinterested.

“I could show you a little more of it sometime- a local perspective, if you will.” He grinned at her, still holding the fabricated ident-chip in his hands. Evidently, he didn’t intend to let her go without an answer, and was more than capable of making her life hell if it wasn’t to his approval. Abrea felt her muscles flex, corded and bulging beneath her austere clothing. She could feel the call of her hunter’s instinct pushing her to flay him where he stood for his impudence. She gritted her teeth.

“Oh that would be simply lovely!” She tried to pitch her voice girlishly, fluttering her eyelashes wildly in his direction. “But I’m sure you have so much to do-” Laral frowned, finally seeming to sense her reluctance, his fingers closing over her ident.

“Let that concern me, it is my invitation, after all. A dawn meal will do you well.” While his tone remained friendly, she could see precisely what rejection would mean for her ability to retain her position in the Vice-Guilder’s household staff. Contempt burned through her heart. He was a small man, scum of this insignificant world, with a gesture she could gut him.

“I would be delighted.” She tried to smile, but ended up making a face closer to a grimace. The lieutenant seemingly didn’t notice.

“Excellent! I’ve bargained for a shift at the surface entrance on thirty this morning, meet me there at the end of your shift and we shall take in the dying light of the stars together!” His mind showed pride at getting her to commit to such an event, a weak and pathetic abuse of his power. She ground her teeth together as he finally handed back her ident-chip.

He stepped aside, shifting to replace his helmet. The livery of the Vice-Guilder was ostentatious and preening on his tabard, an external reflection of his thoughts. Abrea moved to the door, but for the first time, one of Laral’s fellows spoke, halting her in place as he gestured to her recaf.

“Outside contraband, you know the rules.” His voice was stern, a stickler. Abrea wanted to scream, or to toss the lukewarm liquid into his eyes. She settled for marking the pattern of his mind, vowing to return the favor at some point in the nebulous future of after the mission. She gulped furiously for a moment, before disposing of the cup with as much contempt as she could muster and hustling inside to avoid any more cajoling from Laral.

A terrible world, a terrible morning, a terrible mission.

///

  For reasons beyond Abrea’s ken, the guilders of Clydrome Proxima seemed to abhor the use of servitors within their households. Doubtless helpful for her mission, as she was better able to extract information from her fellow servants as she infiltrated the Vice-Guilder’s household, but strange compared to the societies of similarly-wealthy worlds she’d experienced in the past.

Her days, as a result, were monotonous. She served at the behest of Vice-Guilder Bannyun’s household. Bannyun was a whale of a man, near-constantly ensconced in a deep and luxurious chair at the pinnacle of the observatory spire. She wondered, sometimes, when he’d last slept in his own bed, rather than at the eyepiece of the oculus, eternally staring into the void.

The Vice-Guilder’s sedentary nature meant that she was more often commanded by his personal manservant, or his lady-wife, or any one of the seemingly-infinite list of people who outranked her, or were privileged enough to issue commands by dint of tenure. In essence, she filled the role of a servitor in all but personhood (not that that mattered much to those issuing the orders). To avoid popping any heads, or cutting into the flesh of any of the contemptible emperor-botherers ordering her around, Abrea repeated a mantra in her head over the course of the day: Secret, servile, shut the frak up.

She knew why the inquisitor had banished her to this assignment. He claimed it was for her ability to read those in the household, yet forbade her from doing anything more than surface-level investigation. It was a test, a test of patience, a test of restraint. She pursed her lips as she gathered soiled clothing from the lady Vice-Guilder, thinking of the last time she’d failed to restrain herself.

Hot, red, blood. Burning flesh. The burning ozone scent of warpcraft as she had eviscerated the cultists. His admonishment had been stern. She had quailed beneath his glare as he explained their lack of additional leads to investigate.

“Blood is insufficient.” The inquisitor’s voice was soft, but firm and measured. Gerion had stood aside, his face impassive as she received her haranguing. “Until we know the full extent of the archenemy’s infiltration, we cannot give in to our basic desires, else we are no better than them.” The inquisitor stared down his striking nose, disappointment evident.

Abrea felt as if she’d been slapped. She’d have preferred the electric agony of the scarification rituals of her childhood. In that instant, she felt as if he had personally channeled the Emperor’s displeasure. She should’ve known that would not be the full extent of his vengeance.

The true admonition of her master came in the form of this assignment, servitude without a definite end. Attention to detail without a specific goal. Days on end of observing guard rotations, the movement of those who came to visit the Vice-Guilder. Careful telepathic snatches from those she was certain lacked the defenses to fend her off, and eavesdropping on those about whom she was uncertain.

She missed feeling the hunter’s instinct flowing freely through her mind, missed the feeling of the Warp empowering her muscles and breaking her enemies, even missed her haughty twin brother, and the wordless arguments they shared. Yet she would not allow her present situation to break her. She would not allow herself to fail the inquisitor once again. She would wait, she would observe, she would make her reports with minimal complaint (although naturally, some complaints were essential, such as those regarding recaf quality and availability).

Abrea would persist until such a time as she was allowed to exercise her rage. She prayed silently for the benediction of the Emperor, and that he would send her an opportunity to do so, and soon.