Brood (Warhammer 40,000)
Posted: 2007-06-14 03:23am
BROOD
Part One
Rise
-I-
With a wet sniff, Nelven ticked off another item on his dataslate. Looking up from the glowing board, he watched as the gargantuan, bare steel, cylindrical tank swung out twelve metres overhead. It was enormous enough to house a very large family comfortably, and was loaded with thousands of tons of liquid promethium. It was locked down on a pallet with another similar tank, which was in turn pushed into place along with a score of other pallets. Nelven swiped the back of his hand beneath his nose as armoured shutters slid into place. Grunting, he began to move further down the yard, his crude bionic leg clanking against the steel floor. Twirling his stylus between calloused fingers, Nevlen used jabs of his thumb to scroll down to the next cargo bay's inventory.
His thick eyebrows wavered. More promethium. He had to chuckle – that made fourteen holds full of promethium, with another sixteen holds after that. Of course, Nevlen couldn't have expected anything different – the barren world, Anbosh, hanging below was primarily a processing plant for the stuff, and everyone could use promethium. It was primarily a fuel, but had other uses, such as in certain kinds of plastics and even food. It was good business really; though Nevlen had a lingering fear of the whole lot exploding. Violently. Or even one of the tanks rupturing, turning him and everyone else in the dock into clouds of ash.
Nevlen paused to let a pair of young looking Guardsmen pass him by. One sported heavy padding over half his face, and the other appeared to have the sort of burns that a bod got from an acid spill. There had been Guard all over the station, Nevlen had noticed. Word was that they had been deployed to deal with an alien threat of some kind; the usual ravening space monster story. Of course, it would explain the purple streaks of colour against the curve of planet that he could see through the shimmering containment field. He tapped his stylus against the side of the slate and half jumped when one of his hands shouted his name. Gritting his teeth, Nevlen turned.
“How's it going, old boy?” Greddle queried, half jogging towards him. Both he and Nevlen shared similar rank on ship, though this particular mission was Nevlen's command. Regardless, his 'rival' had seen fit to tag along. “Much left to load?”
“Just another two million tons.” Nevlen forced a smile. “Then it's back home.” he nodded his head and Greddle turned. Looking up past hundreds of metres of bulk mover, they could see, silhouetted against the bright slice of planet, there was a tiny shape which Nevlen knew to be the mile and one half of High Runner. Greddle knew as well, though it was impossible to make out details at such a distance. “Then back here again.”
“Right, right.” Greddle agreed, nodding slowly. “Four hauls, wasn't it?”
“Aye. Four hauls.” overhead, another one of the vast cylinders swung by. In all, it wasn't actually a lot, though the High Runner wasn't a proper tanker. The captain was a Rogue Trader, and she needed a ship that could do more than just transfer high pressure, radioactive fuels and other liquids. Frowning, Nevlen began to scroll through his dataslate's memory; he had stored the inventories of over a dozen hauls from the past year, but this one had no indication of who they were selling to. His bulky shoulders dropped a bare millimetre, and he slowly turned his head towards Greddle. “Do you know where we're taking this?”
Rubbing his thin face, Greddle closed his eyes. He was like that for a moment, then began tugging on his long mustachios. “That Hive World we were at recently. Douze Mille?”
Nevlen snorted. “This sort of volume would be a drop in a bucket for a single hive, let alone the entire planet.” rapping out a beat on his dataslate, he kept a hard glance on Greddle. The tall man noticed after a moment and smiled.
“I'll let you get to it bean.” he turned away, but the twitching of his ears showed Nevlen that the bastard was grinning. “You are very busy, after all.” scowling, but with a greater spring in his step, the quartermaster tramped off in the opposite direction, staring down at his flat cogitator. A sharp jolt made him look up, and he found that he had collided with a pair of the grinning crew. One was small and wiry, while the other was was incredibly feminine. Dornul and Brezthier, Nevlen allowed his thick, steel-grey eyebrows to collide. It served well as his query.
“Boss,” Dornul said breathlessly as Brezthier rather disturbingly flicked at his hair. “We need you to come see something.”
There was a moment of silence. Nevlen shook his head. “No.”
“Really sir, we need you to come with us.” Brezthier continued, and his friend nodded like that silly bobble-head toy the Captain had on the bridge. Teeth half-gritted, Nevlen answered by pushing through the pair, clanking further on down the stardock. Both crewmen kept pace with him, and after no more than ten metres, he stopped to knead his deeply wrinkled forehead. Dornul leaned in close, and a grizzled hand covered his face and pushed him away. Nevlen couldn't help but notice how earnest Brezthier looked, though when he opened his mouth to speak, the quartermaster held up one finger.
Before he told them to bugger off, Nevlen felt a sudden compulsion to listen. His thick index finger curled over and his frown deepened. “What did I have to see?” he asked, letting go of Dornul's head.
“Follow us, boss.” the small man said, leading him on. They left the activity of the platform, and moved further back into the station, amidst a maze made up of thousands of unclaimed containers. Before long, Nevlen was unable to see out into space, and the noises of ratings and machinery became dull and distant. He found himself wondering what he was actually doing – he should have been out in the open, counting promethium containers. Keeping an accurate record. Not fumbling about in the back. Shaking his head, Nevlen turned his head to bark at the pair who had lead him here. Before he spoke, he noticed that they appeared to have stopped walking some time ago. They were several metres behind.
And grinning. Nevlen had seen big smiles before in his life, but he didn't quite understand what was so wonderful or funny about stacks of crates some hundred metres tall. He turned fully and moved to step towards them, but then stopped himself. He rotated about on his bionic and found himself looking at something swathed in a dark cloak, and very, very large. The quartermaster's immediate reaction was to unclasp the holster of his revolver. As the being approached, its cloak swirled, and Nevlen's hand tightened around the butt of his revolver. The fine, cool wood was reassuring.
“Well met,” Nevlen spat, nodding his head. The ... person was only a few paces away, and was so effortlessly taller than the quartermaster that it belied belief. He had manstopper rounds loaded, and he wondered whether they would be enough for taking this monster down should it prove to be hostile. Nevlen would bet hard money that it would prove hostile.
It took a step forward and the revolver blurred out, focusing squarely upon the location of its head. That head shifted beneath the cowl, as though the creature was cocking its head. Teeth grit, Nevlen dropped the weapon. The dataslate clattered down with it. He touched the corner of one eye, his hand creeping slowly up to his face. He was crying. “I ... I ...” he tried, as the cloaked figure swept down, as that they would be at eye level, if the thing had eyes. Nevlen looked up, and found himself staring into a pair of eyes borne out from the void. Eyes that reflected a raw cunning and the shadow of an intelligence far more vast and far flung than anything that the quartermaster had experienced in his life. Not a spark, like a glistening star in the empty tracts of space. More like a shadow smothering the light, a mote in the Emperor's eye.
Monstrous. Alien.
Yet, still ... Nevlen found that he could trust these eyes, he bent down for his dataslate, exposing his spine to attack. Then, he retrieved his dropped revolver and holstered it. After straightening, he looked at the cloaked figure, then at the glowing screen in his hands. “There will be an empty container we can use.” he said, marching ahead. His two smiling crew mates fell in step; Dornul's heavy, Guard-issue boots thumping, Brezthier's heels clicking. The last member of their party made no sound, but like a reassuring hand, Nevlen had the sense that it was following.
Nevlen rapped the heel of his palm against the thick skin of a cylinder, eliciting a low thrum from it. A quick check of the little analog gauges at one end confirmed that it was empty. He jerked his head and Brezthier moved to open the access door, while Dornul clambered on top to release the observation hatch, though not open it, in order to let their new friend breathe. At first Nevlen wasn't sure that it would fit through, for the door was designed for a human cleaner, not something so large. However, it slipped through like liquid running through a funnel. Brezthier swung the inches thick door closed with a grunt of effort, and Nevlen bent to check its serial number.
With a rapid series of prods that came with being highly practiced at his job, Nevlen replaced one of the future loads with this special one. At once, this new information was absorbed electronically by the cogitator in charge of keeping track of the various cargoes to be loaded and unloaded. It was a very simple machine, so it thought nothing of the change.
Nevlen lead the two hands out, back on to the dock proper. Beyond the bulk of the High Runner's parasite hauler, past the thick adamantium ribs and ephemeral fields surrounding it, Anbosh boiled in the light from its star. Nevlen waved them on, sending them back to work, and then returned to his own. He looked over to Hold 15 and started counting, briefly squeezing his damp nose.
Part One
Rise
-I-
With a wet sniff, Nelven ticked off another item on his dataslate. Looking up from the glowing board, he watched as the gargantuan, bare steel, cylindrical tank swung out twelve metres overhead. It was enormous enough to house a very large family comfortably, and was loaded with thousands of tons of liquid promethium. It was locked down on a pallet with another similar tank, which was in turn pushed into place along with a score of other pallets. Nelven swiped the back of his hand beneath his nose as armoured shutters slid into place. Grunting, he began to move further down the yard, his crude bionic leg clanking against the steel floor. Twirling his stylus between calloused fingers, Nevlen used jabs of his thumb to scroll down to the next cargo bay's inventory.
His thick eyebrows wavered. More promethium. He had to chuckle – that made fourteen holds full of promethium, with another sixteen holds after that. Of course, Nevlen couldn't have expected anything different – the barren world, Anbosh, hanging below was primarily a processing plant for the stuff, and everyone could use promethium. It was primarily a fuel, but had other uses, such as in certain kinds of plastics and even food. It was good business really; though Nevlen had a lingering fear of the whole lot exploding. Violently. Or even one of the tanks rupturing, turning him and everyone else in the dock into clouds of ash.
Nevlen paused to let a pair of young looking Guardsmen pass him by. One sported heavy padding over half his face, and the other appeared to have the sort of burns that a bod got from an acid spill. There had been Guard all over the station, Nevlen had noticed. Word was that they had been deployed to deal with an alien threat of some kind; the usual ravening space monster story. Of course, it would explain the purple streaks of colour against the curve of planet that he could see through the shimmering containment field. He tapped his stylus against the side of the slate and half jumped when one of his hands shouted his name. Gritting his teeth, Nevlen turned.
“How's it going, old boy?” Greddle queried, half jogging towards him. Both he and Nevlen shared similar rank on ship, though this particular mission was Nevlen's command. Regardless, his 'rival' had seen fit to tag along. “Much left to load?”
“Just another two million tons.” Nevlen forced a smile. “Then it's back home.” he nodded his head and Greddle turned. Looking up past hundreds of metres of bulk mover, they could see, silhouetted against the bright slice of planet, there was a tiny shape which Nevlen knew to be the mile and one half of High Runner. Greddle knew as well, though it was impossible to make out details at such a distance. “Then back here again.”
“Right, right.” Greddle agreed, nodding slowly. “Four hauls, wasn't it?”
“Aye. Four hauls.” overhead, another one of the vast cylinders swung by. In all, it wasn't actually a lot, though the High Runner wasn't a proper tanker. The captain was a Rogue Trader, and she needed a ship that could do more than just transfer high pressure, radioactive fuels and other liquids. Frowning, Nevlen began to scroll through his dataslate's memory; he had stored the inventories of over a dozen hauls from the past year, but this one had no indication of who they were selling to. His bulky shoulders dropped a bare millimetre, and he slowly turned his head towards Greddle. “Do you know where we're taking this?”
Rubbing his thin face, Greddle closed his eyes. He was like that for a moment, then began tugging on his long mustachios. “That Hive World we were at recently. Douze Mille?”
Nevlen snorted. “This sort of volume would be a drop in a bucket for a single hive, let alone the entire planet.” rapping out a beat on his dataslate, he kept a hard glance on Greddle. The tall man noticed after a moment and smiled.
“I'll let you get to it bean.” he turned away, but the twitching of his ears showed Nevlen that the bastard was grinning. “You are very busy, after all.” scowling, but with a greater spring in his step, the quartermaster tramped off in the opposite direction, staring down at his flat cogitator. A sharp jolt made him look up, and he found that he had collided with a pair of the grinning crew. One was small and wiry, while the other was was incredibly feminine. Dornul and Brezthier, Nevlen allowed his thick, steel-grey eyebrows to collide. It served well as his query.
“Boss,” Dornul said breathlessly as Brezthier rather disturbingly flicked at his hair. “We need you to come see something.”
There was a moment of silence. Nevlen shook his head. “No.”
“Really sir, we need you to come with us.” Brezthier continued, and his friend nodded like that silly bobble-head toy the Captain had on the bridge. Teeth half-gritted, Nevlen answered by pushing through the pair, clanking further on down the stardock. Both crewmen kept pace with him, and after no more than ten metres, he stopped to knead his deeply wrinkled forehead. Dornul leaned in close, and a grizzled hand covered his face and pushed him away. Nevlen couldn't help but notice how earnest Brezthier looked, though when he opened his mouth to speak, the quartermaster held up one finger.
Before he told them to bugger off, Nevlen felt a sudden compulsion to listen. His thick index finger curled over and his frown deepened. “What did I have to see?” he asked, letting go of Dornul's head.
“Follow us, boss.” the small man said, leading him on. They left the activity of the platform, and moved further back into the station, amidst a maze made up of thousands of unclaimed containers. Before long, Nevlen was unable to see out into space, and the noises of ratings and machinery became dull and distant. He found himself wondering what he was actually doing – he should have been out in the open, counting promethium containers. Keeping an accurate record. Not fumbling about in the back. Shaking his head, Nevlen turned his head to bark at the pair who had lead him here. Before he spoke, he noticed that they appeared to have stopped walking some time ago. They were several metres behind.
And grinning. Nevlen had seen big smiles before in his life, but he didn't quite understand what was so wonderful or funny about stacks of crates some hundred metres tall. He turned fully and moved to step towards them, but then stopped himself. He rotated about on his bionic and found himself looking at something swathed in a dark cloak, and very, very large. The quartermaster's immediate reaction was to unclasp the holster of his revolver. As the being approached, its cloak swirled, and Nevlen's hand tightened around the butt of his revolver. The fine, cool wood was reassuring.
“Well met,” Nevlen spat, nodding his head. The ... person was only a few paces away, and was so effortlessly taller than the quartermaster that it belied belief. He had manstopper rounds loaded, and he wondered whether they would be enough for taking this monster down should it prove to be hostile. Nevlen would bet hard money that it would prove hostile.
It took a step forward and the revolver blurred out, focusing squarely upon the location of its head. That head shifted beneath the cowl, as though the creature was cocking its head. Teeth grit, Nevlen dropped the weapon. The dataslate clattered down with it. He touched the corner of one eye, his hand creeping slowly up to his face. He was crying. “I ... I ...” he tried, as the cloaked figure swept down, as that they would be at eye level, if the thing had eyes. Nevlen looked up, and found himself staring into a pair of eyes borne out from the void. Eyes that reflected a raw cunning and the shadow of an intelligence far more vast and far flung than anything that the quartermaster had experienced in his life. Not a spark, like a glistening star in the empty tracts of space. More like a shadow smothering the light, a mote in the Emperor's eye.
Monstrous. Alien.
Yet, still ... Nevlen found that he could trust these eyes, he bent down for his dataslate, exposing his spine to attack. Then, he retrieved his dropped revolver and holstered it. After straightening, he looked at the cloaked figure, then at the glowing screen in his hands. “There will be an empty container we can use.” he said, marching ahead. His two smiling crew mates fell in step; Dornul's heavy, Guard-issue boots thumping, Brezthier's heels clicking. The last member of their party made no sound, but like a reassuring hand, Nevlen had the sense that it was following.
Nevlen rapped the heel of his palm against the thick skin of a cylinder, eliciting a low thrum from it. A quick check of the little analog gauges at one end confirmed that it was empty. He jerked his head and Brezthier moved to open the access door, while Dornul clambered on top to release the observation hatch, though not open it, in order to let their new friend breathe. At first Nevlen wasn't sure that it would fit through, for the door was designed for a human cleaner, not something so large. However, it slipped through like liquid running through a funnel. Brezthier swung the inches thick door closed with a grunt of effort, and Nevlen bent to check its serial number.
With a rapid series of prods that came with being highly practiced at his job, Nevlen replaced one of the future loads with this special one. At once, this new information was absorbed electronically by the cogitator in charge of keeping track of the various cargoes to be loaded and unloaded. It was a very simple machine, so it thought nothing of the change.
Nevlen lead the two hands out, back on to the dock proper. Beyond the bulk of the High Runner's parasite hauler, past the thick adamantium ribs and ephemeral fields surrounding it, Anbosh boiled in the light from its star. Nevlen waved them on, sending them back to work, and then returned to his own. He looked over to Hold 15 and started counting, briefly squeezing his damp nose.
.