A Host of Problems: Part 1
- Location
- Dresden, Germany
You have not heard of Sephiron Prime before, and the Host of Ninefold Revelation is a name so spectacularly generic that you are fairly certain any information gathered about it from the Wilful Eternity's lackluster databank would run a great risk of being entirely about the wrong entity. The Hand of Transformation, however, is a name that rings an unfortunate bell. You don't know the precise project, but the naming scheme is intimately familiar to you. This entire thing has the noospheric signature of that warp-addled fool Tharc Raskol all over it. Probably it's going to be some sort of ridiculously overengineered Kill Servitor, with empyrean nonsense replacing sensible engineering practice and command and control concentrated in a single far too fragile point of failure.
You should know. You have been forced, over the years, to scrape the remains of two dozen Hands of whatever the hell from the walls of your workshops. Some people really cannot take criticism.
Your frustrations at having to clean up that imbecile's mess seem to bleed into your general demeanor during the journey: the crewmen and menials that approach you with this or that issue with their Pecoca do so with a worried hesitation. At some point, it begins crossing the line from being sufficiently respectful to just being annoying.
Yelling at one of them about it doesn't seem to help, possibly because you misjudged the potential volume of your Vox Caster and burst his eardrums.
You do offer to fix them, but the mutant in question has long fled by the time it occurs to you that, given his lacking organs, he might not actually be able to hear anymore.
Still, they come, bringing the little creatures with them. There are a lot of them, actually: you end up readjusting their gestation time a little bit to stop them from propagating quite so quickly. At some point, you lose patience with the minor issues and simply conscript one of the mutants as an assistant, teaching her the solution to most of the minor problems the critters might have and then giving her the implants that make dealing with these issues somewhat trivial. She takes to her sudden new task with a bright, cheerful disposition: somewhat literally, because her skin has mutated to be bioluminescent.
You focus on the more complicated items, instead: the braying Warlord of the Beastmen that pass for the Wilful Eternity's Voidsmen asking for horns on his Pecoca, for instance, or the Augur Maintenance Clans wishing for void-black fur for religious reasons you choose not to interrogate.
In the end, you have accumulated enough favor and good will that you will never be short of unskilled labor should you need it, all without having to threaten people with being horribly liquified.
Of course, what these people can do is rather limited. However, an unexpected opportunity seems to have flowered from your spontaneous employment of the young woman as a Veterinary Assistant: several of the comparatively rich and locally powerful of the Wilful Eternity have offered up some of their relatives to come into your permanent employ. This does, of course, hold the potential to be something of a hassle: the educational base of these people is such that bringing them up to your standards will be difficult and time consuming. On the other hand, it is a potential source for surgical assistants and skilled labor. Servitors have so far been fairly sufficient, but on occasion independent thinking can be preferable. Of course, independent thought might also introduce new sources of error into your laboratory environment: letting in other sapients is always a risk, in that regard.
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[] Take On Assistants
[] Do Not Take On Assistants
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You try to pick your moment to clarify your stance to Regicia, choosing not to do so at a moment where she has a sharp object literally already inside you. In the end you don't get around to it until you meet her on your way to the bridge, hours away from Sephiron Prime. She is, it seems, already preparing to deploy to the planet: her gleaming Carapace Armor is complimented this time around by a bejeweled stave that seems to also be able to function as a Taser Goad. She smiles when she sees you. You hesitate for a second or two, trying to formulate your warning in a way that strikes the correct balance between being threatening while not seeming too hostile.
"I do appreciate that we are in accord on our ambitions not being contradictory", she cants, and you note that she is transmitting the information on a tight beam. "Of course I'll be as considerate of your own ambitions as you are of mine."
Her canting holds a somewhat sly undertone, and the light in one of her faceted eyes dims for a brief moment.
Did she just wink at you?
You almost walk into the bridge's doorway.
You suppress your irritated burst of binaric, both at the irritating grasp on your psychological profile and at the near collision.
Then you look at the oculus, and both are rapidly downgraded to the least of your worries.
Above the brown ball that is Sephiron Prime, centered around the impossible bulk of a Retribution-Class Battleship, hangs an Imperial Battlegroup.
Ludmilla Kapriosa seems entirely unperturbed.
"Identified as the Mutator's Spear '', she tells you, between puffs of her Iho Stick. "Why wasn't I informed", you ask, your irritation bleeding into your voxcaster as a burst of static. The Pecoca perched on her shoulder bares its sharp teeth at you and hisses, and she scratches it behind the ear absentmindedly with her depowered metal claw, blowing out a cloud of carcinogenic vapor. "You seemed busy", she finally answers. You are halfway through unsheathing the blade in your forearm when you realize that you were in fact pretty busy, and that slaughtering the Captain and her Bridge Crew, while therapeutic, would probably be somewhat counterproductive. "I would've told you if it had actually been Imperials", she says, grinning her foul-toothed grin, "fat lot of good that would've done us."
She takes another deep drag of the Iho Stick, then waves it in the direction of the oculus like some low-level Lexmechanic pointing a lux pointer in a meeting. "Not the thing that worries me the worst, personally", she drawls.
It takes you a moment to see what she is pointing out, but when you do you find yourself reluctantly agreeing with her words.
Below the Mutator's Spear hangs a ship of black and gold, the Eye of Horus glaring through space from its bow. It is a Styx-Class Heavy Cruiser, kept in what is clearly exceptional condition, and it is very clearly in the employ of the Black Legion. "The Cruel Ravager", Madame Kapriosa informs you, and you take the time to transmit a sigh audibly for the benefit of the bridge crew.
[Roll: Politics of the Eye of Terror: 2d6, Disadvantage: 2, 5: Failure]
"Any idea who commands it", you ask, and the Captain of the Wilful Eternity shrugs.
"Doesn't seem to be extremely welcome, whoever it is", she opines, and as you continue to observe the scene before you, you are inclined to agree. The Styx Class is renowned for its plentiful contingent of Attack Craft, and they are out in force right now, swarming around the ship in a vast, well-coordinated swarm. Fury Interceptors dance around them, probably launched from what must be the fleet of the Host of Ninefold Revelation, and they seem to be locked in a complicated dance.
"Posturing", Kapriosa says, and chuckles. "Someone's none too happy about being asked to bend the knee, I'd wager."
Well. The Host of Ninefold Revelation will in all probability turn out to be a slavering horde of warp-addled madmen, but there is apparently something you agree with them on.
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Sephiron Prime is a Hive World: that much becomes apparent the very second you gain visual contact to its surface. The approach to the Space Port is heavily crowded: about as much as you would expect, for a world as ravenous as Hive Worlds tend to be. It remains something of a surprise, though: the opening of the Cicatrix Maledictum has not exactly been kind to chains of logistics, and seeing a display like this on a recently conquered world seems significant.
And it is recently conquered, that much is plainly visible. The Hive you are now steering towards had one of its Spires ripped apart by what must have been an orbital strike: you can follow the trajectory of the shell after it ripped through it by the trail of debris and the massive crater about twenty kilometers away. Towards the local south, vast fires are raging in what looks like Prometheum Refineries from afar: Lighters very similar to yours are circling to and fro, dropping water and foam in what seems like a fairly fruitless attempt to extinguish the fire.
Below you, you can see the site of what must have been a grand tank battle, it's debris stretched over an area of almost a hundred kilometers.
"Quick work", Magos Krainaima opines next to you, "probably an attempt to contest a landing that got overwhelmed."
He seems somewhat impressed, at least as far as you can tell. Metal Sutures are holding the ravaged skin of his face together, and you have no idea if they're supposed to be a new permanent fixture or a temporary solution.
You don't intend to ask any time soon. The fight with the strange Necron appears to have temporarily sated your subordinate's bloodlust, but the journey to Sephiron has seen him become increasingly more restless.
"Still a lot of tanks to destroy", Theama-Nul opines, sounding curious. "I wonder what it is we're walking into."
"Space Marines of some sort, perhaps?" Talef seems somewhat nervous, which is understandable: depending on how fanatical these adherents of Tzeentch are, his life might be in quite concrete and immediate danger.
"They're not Space Marines", you state, "or at least very unusual ones."
Heads turn to you, and you can feel their curiosity. "That's a grain freighter", you say, pointing to the hull of the Lighter and then pretending that this was intentional rather than a simple mixup of your perceptions. "The vessel behind us is as well. Whoever came here had enough foresight to set up the logistics required to get the population of this place fed before the fires of conquest had even stopped burning."
There is a brief pause.
"I have never known any Space Marine to have the logistical wherewithal for something like this."
There is another pause, this one dragging on for a few seconds longer. "But they were made to conquer the galaxy", Regicia points out, not unreasonably. "Surely…"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?", you say, not even bothering to conceal the bitterness in your canting.
You could go on and on. Eight years of siege. Eight years of being forced to cannibalize the greatest workshop you have ever known to churn out subpar nutrition slop in great quantity. Eight years of having to carefully calculate every calorie you and your charges would burn and consume.
Eight years, and then the relief, and amongst all the myriad vessels at the disposal of the Warmaster, that great strategical mind trusted by the Emperor himself to lead on the Great Crusade, not one held any sort of relief supplies.
Of course there hadn't been. Who cared about mortals, after all? They only supplied all the labor to make the weapons that kept their conquest going.
You are prevented from going on a fifty minute rant by an alarm beginning to blare through the cabin. You swivel the pictcaster around, and emit a swear-burst.
You are being locked on. Down there, within a crevice that runs across the battlefield, a Manticore Rocket Launcher has just gone active.
[Roll: Electronic Warfare: Myges Talef: 3d6: 3, 6,6: Critical Success]
Myges Talef reacts before the fact you are under attack even fully registers for you. The Scrap Code Generator he has mounted onto the top of the Lighter whirs to violent life at his command.
The piece of Scrap Code it sends out makes you shudder as it passes through the Noosphere around you. It is not a complicated thing, and has clearly been preloaded. The Missile is fast, but the vox signal runs out at the speed of light. It bears within it a simple, yet undeniable command.
'Kill Yourself', Talef orders the Manticore Battery below him, and in a horrifying burst of four proximity fuzes setting off in quick succession, it does.
There is a short pause. You can tell Talef did not expect to do so well. Then 8-Doxa Krainaim slaps him on the cooling unit with his deactivated Chord Claw, producing a horrible screeching noise as one of the fan blades temporarily comes out of alignment. "Good Kill", he opines, and really, that's all that needs to be said.
News of the Magos Infofector's action seems to make their way to someone important fairly quickly: before half an hour has passed you find yourself pulled from the queue and onto a separate approach.
You land towards the edge of the Space Port, noting with some trepidation the burned out wreckage of one of the Freighers that seems to currently be in the process of being disassembled to clear the part of the landing strips you occupied.
A second, intact freighter is hovering above the landing platform that has now been assigned to you. The Traffic Controller must have put him into a holding pattern when he assigned the landing strip to you.
Of course, the fact that they could have granted you such a priority approach to begin with does rankle somewhat, but by the time you step out of the Lighter, you are largely just glad to finally be out of its cramped cabin.
The man who greets you wears a standard-issue Cadian-Pattern Uniform, dyed a rich and dark blue. He bears subtle signs of mutation: bone spikes have begun working their way through the skin of his jaw and cheeks, and one of his hands appears to be making a slow transformation into a claw. The rank marks of a Captain are visible on his shoulders and sleeves.
More remarkable, however, are his eyes: they are purple, and leave only one conclusion when seen in combination with the man's square jaw and general demeanor. He is Cadian: one of the exiled sons of that now broken world.
Renegade Cadians are, of course, not remotely unheard of, but it is nonetheless interesting to meet one here. Even more interesting are the soldiers that accompany him: a squad of soldiers in well-maintained Cadian Battle Dress, Kantrael-Pattern Lasguns in hand. The ordinary adornments of the hordes of Chaos are absent: there are no skulls, spikes, or trophy pelts. The only concession to their new alignment seems to be the removal of the old Imperial markings, replaced on their chest plates and helmets by the icon of an eye surrounded by nine feathered wings.
The man comes to attention when he beholds you, though he does not salute. "Welcome planetside, Magos. I am Borj Karplin, Captain of the 342nd Cadian Shock Troops. If I may ask you to come with me swiftly? Sharpshooters occasionally stake out the Space Port, and there's been a bombing a couple of days back."
That does explain the wrecked freighter, you suppose, even as you hurry to oblige.
You find yourself piling into a convoy of several Tauros Assault Vehicles, speeding through the cramped pathways of the Hive at breakneck pace. The soldiers around you seem nervous, grasping their Lasguns tightly as they peer through the vehicle's vision slits.
At one point you are actually attacked: a Las Bolt strikes the vehicle in front of you, though it glances off harmlessly from the armor. Borj Karplin barks several sharp orders into his Vox Set, and the two vehicles behind yours come to a halt, Multilasers raking the surrounding buildings with fire as troopers pile out and rapidly assume position. You do not get to observe the rest of the fight: the driver finds a new and heretofore unseen reservoir of speed.
He only eases off the accelerator when you pass a checkpoint: more soldiers, some in Cadian Battle Dress, some in a pattern of Uniform you do not recognize, supported by a Leman Russ Punisher. You are in what appears to be the Administratum District now, though it too has plainly seen better days: the tell-tale scorch marks left by Las impacts remain visible all around you, and the blood hasn't yet been scrubbed from gutters in its entirety.
People are at work, around here: the Aquila is being taken down everywhere, carefully and systematically. In its place, a strange banner is being raced: a patchwork of what appears to be rectangles taken from eight different flags, arranged around the strange nine-winged eye within the center.
"The former regimental colors of the components of the Host", Borj Karplin explains, and then ceases every other attempt at providing you with utterly useless knowledge when you give him a withering stare.
Instead, he leads you through the district towards what must have once been the residence of the local Master of the Administratum: a mansion in the opulently gothic style of the Imperium, the feet of toppled statues still visible upon pedestals in front of it. Guarding the gate into the estate are what you tentatively identify as Tzaangors. The feathered and beaked beastmen are dressed more smartly then you have ever seen a Beastmen dressed, their Lasguns held tightly to their shoulders. "A demonstration of both martial might and divine favor", Regicia cants to you, and that seems a not unreasonable interpretation.
You are led through the portal, past an atrium that has plainly had most of its interior ripped out, and into what must have once been the Estate's main audience chamber: a cavernous, vaulted room, a throne stood upon a pedestal set into its far end.
It seems a little grand, but of course the bean counters of the Imperium are ever prone to grandiosity.
The woman who sits upon the throne is plainly a fallen Imperial Primaris Psyker: the implants that sprout from her scalp leave no other possible conclusion, and neither does the second head that sprouts up next to the first one, or her second pair of arms. She is clad in a gleaming suit of armor, and her lower pair of arms grasps the armrests of the throne, fingers idly toying with the sharp edges of where a pair of aquilas has been plainly torn away. In her upper left, she holds an empyrean-warped Force Stave, the Aquila that usually decorates it's top replaced instead by a symbol that is becoming increasingly familiar: nine golden wings surround a disturbingly life-like eyes, psychic fire blazing within it's pupil as it comes to rest on you.
By raw power, Primaris Psykers do not hold a candle to many of the Sorcerers you have had the misfortune of interacting with during your long career: the shackles and restraints placed on their own power see to that.
It is, however, also your experience that once such shackles, be they ideological or physical, have been broken, the now freed subject becomes far more dangerous then one that has never been held back before.
"Welcome, Eta Nu 9 35", the woman on the throne says, in perfect binaric, which is impressive, given she does not possess the cybernetics to produce or open her mouth once, not to mention the fact the language is a fairly well guarded secret.
"My apologies", she continues, and you realize that she is not actually speaking binaric: she is simply conveying thoughts directly into your mind that it has interpreted as spoken in your primary language.
"If you don't get out of my head", you vox-cast at her in pronounced Low Gothic, taking care to ensure your irritation is plainly audible within your voice, even as you begin warming up your gas dispenser with an audible hiss, images of what the gas you are a mere millisecond away from unleashing might do to a room such as this one at the forefront of your mind.
She does not, to her credit, flinch, though you do feel a flicker of disgust that does not seem entirely your own, before a presence you hadn't even noticed noticeably withdraws.
"My apologies", she repeats, both heads speaking at once in a strange harmony. "You are the Magos in question?"
You answer in the affirmative, and she continues on, dual voices almost adding up to a sing-song.
"I am Lady Czevene, Hetman of the Host of Ninefold Revelation."
She pauses for a moment, as though for dramatic effect. Then she gestures, and unseen helpers activate a Hololith Projector likely concealed within the floor or ceiling somewhere.
The figure it shows is blurry, likely extrapolated from several images now woven together to create an approximation in three dimensions. It is wearing a black robe, electronic eyes glowing from the shadow of its hood. The barrel of some sort of integrated weapon is visible poking from its sleeve: it looks like either an autogun or a needler, though the angle and resolution make it impossible to say for certain. Whatever it is, the figure is aiming it at something off the screen.
A figure steps forward from behind the throne: an unenhanced platinum-blonde man wearing a Commissars Uniform, his skin seemingly bleached of all color and his eyes peering out from stark, pronounced features. When he speaks, his Lower Gothic has the clipped, terse accent of the Schola Progenium.
"The Hand of Transformation was created by your Magos Raskol as part of a larger instance of cooperation. It was created as an asset of sabotage and subversion, intended to significantly weaken imperial governance structures ahead of incursion by the Host. Up until three months ago, it performed this task admirably."
He goes on the elaborate on the specifics of this, and you do not bother suppressing your low-pitched cant of frustration at the fully organic way of delivering information as you are subjected to a droning litany of assassinations, sabotage, and subversion.
This could have been a noospheric transfer with not even very much effort on the part of this man. How much effort is undergoing bit of brain surgery, really?
Still, from the bits of his long-winded explanation you pay attention to, this Hand of Transformation does sound somewhat impressive. Of course, now Lady Czevene's underling seems to be finally, mercifully getting to the interesting bit: how Tharc Raskol fucked up.
"Three Months ago, as part of the windup of initial operations here on Sephiron Prime, the Hand of Destiny was supposed to make contact with its handlers to undergo reprogramming procedures and be placed in stasis so as to be used for further potential operations."
The Commissar gestures again, and the image changes to the burned out chassis of a Chimera, three corpses clad dark robes laid out on the pavement besides it.
"Instead, it killed them, destroyed the facilities meant to control it, and then disappeared."
"You are certain this was the Hand of Transformation", you ask. It's a fair question to ask: this is, after all, a decently active warzone. Sometimes, people get unlucky.
The Commissar seems to agree. He gives a curt nod. "With a reasonable level of certainty: the rendezvous was in a secure rear area, it's precise location known only to the handlers in question and a select circle of trustworthy individuals. Someone else may in theory have gained access by abusing the carve outs in security put in place for the asset, but further developments have made the explanation…unlikely."
You nod, somewhat satisfied with the explanation. "This was not initially a problem", the Commissar goes on, "the progress of operation has made the asset largely obsolete, for the time being: we would have been willing to accept it's disappearance and move on."
Another gesture, another change of slides: a collage of images, eerily similar to those shown to you when the Commissar talked about previous missions of the Hand of Transformation.
"There is a high probability that the Hand of Transformation is currently working to undermine our efforts to stabilize our governance of this planet", the Commissar says, then frowns. "There are, to be clear, other insurgencies going on at the same time. We are significantly overstretched, and falling behind projected targets regarding the stabilization of the planet. Magos Raskol remains engaged in reorganizing Omit Gamma, and has thus passed the task for solving this issue on to you. The agreed-upon compensation is, of course, being shipped to Nuton's Folly as agreed."
You keep your face very steady. Omit Gamma is a Forge World: technically just a moon orbiting a Gas Giant, but still a concentration of technological resources beyond your wildest dreams. Now it is, apparently, under the control of an utter incompetent who is your clear inferior. And, of course, these people were willing to provide payment for your services, and are, in their annoyingly organized fashion, sending it to your overbearing would-be masters instead of handing it to you.
"You gave Raskol a Forge World for the creation of a Kill Servitor?", you ask, trying and somewhat failing to keep your tone neutral.
The Commissar shakes his head. "Magos Raskol provided invaluable advice on a separate project. The asset was provided merely as a token of gratitude for the smooth cooperation.
You note that you have accidentally charged the hydraulics that would spring-launch your new arm blade, and force them to discharge with an audible hiss. "May I know what the project in question was", you ask, shutting down your emotional sub-processors in order to reduce your levels of rage to a manageable manner. Magos Ko-Bea shoots you a worried look, probably noting that you are grinding your medical drill.
"That is not relevant to your current task", the Commissar responds, and you give a curt nod, not trusting yourself to keep proper control of your volume.
"There is one other thing I would like to talk about", the man goes on, and then he pauses, as though listening to a voice you cannot hear, and waves his hand. The Hololith dies, and then you hear the heavy threads of power-armored boots.
The door to the throne room bursts open.
The Space Marine that bursts through it is clad in black power armor, scripture you recognize as stemming from the Book of Lorgar etched onto every surface that can take it. It has been warped by the Empyrean: a crown of eight short horns sprouts from the side of the Helmet, and the eye of Horus on the Pauldron seems like the only thing that prevents it from blinking is the hatred with which it stares at its surroundings.
"I am Ezadarial Varth! I am an Emissary of the Black Legion! I will be disrespected no further!"
The Commissar clears his throat, and you have to give him some credit for seeming embarrassed at this childish tantrum rather then utterly terrified by the fact it is being thrown by a murderous killing machine. "Captain Karlin will continue to provide an escort for you and brief you further, Magos Eta Nu 9 35."
Lady Czevene smiles with both her mouth, bowing her heads slightly in your direction. "We once again thank Nuton's Folly for its prompt assistance. If you would excuse me now, honored Emissaries? The esteemed Ambassador of the Apostles of Blasphemy seems to require my attention."
She turns to the Space Marine, still all smiles, and for a moment you are uncertain which between the two is in more danger.
"Has your Lord Skyraal given consideration to our last offer.", she asks, and you flee the audience chamber before anybody makes anybody else's head explode, psychically or mechanically.
Emissary Varth certainly seems like he would dearly wish to.
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Borj Karplin has waited for you outside the audience chamber. When you emerge, he is arguing with one of the Tzaangors. You don't catch a lot of it, before he notices you and snaps to attention again: something ridiculous about the nature of fate, and free will in light of determinism.
Neither of them seem angry. It is, of course, warp-addled nonsense, but it beats the skinning pits and gladiatorial arenas that pass for entertainment in other organizations of this kind.
It makes you deeply suspicious. It is one thing for something to be rotten, but quite another to not be able to see or smell the rot that should, by all rights, be there.
Still, there is nothing to it. "We have secured the site of the incident, and our people have gone over the data to the best of their abilities, but there's only a limited amount of knowledge we can glean from it. I assume that is where you wish to go?"
You nod. It is about as good a start as any, to your investigation. The question is which approach you'll take, once you actually get there.
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[] Material
-This is, at its core, a manhunt, and you have the tools for that in spades. You will put together a physiological profile of the Hand of Transformation from the traces left behind at the side of the initial assault. Visual identifiers, gait profile, olfactory profile, electrical signature, thermal profile, anything and everything you can get your hands on. Then you're going to track these, and eliminate all possibilities until you find the Kill Servitor.
[] Spiritual
From the looks of it, the Chimera that housed whatever was housing the Kill Servitors control suite was pretty burned out, but there is only so much fire can do to a Cogitator, and you bet you can reconstruct at least a part of it's behavioral engrams. If you piece together the rest of it from the general information on it's behavior you have identified, you can potentially build a behavioral profile that'll allow you to predict its next action, and grant insights into the ways it has malfunctioned.
[] Empyrical
Tharc Raskol is a hack, and he always, always and without exception includes warp craft in the construction of his machines. With a little effort, you should be able to trace Warp Signatures within the Hive and then eliminate options one by one until you find the right one. A look at the site of the crime might give additional insight into what you're looking for.
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Before you can set to work, however, Karplin briefly grips his forehead, then grimaces and nods. "Yes, My Lady", he murmurs, mostly apparently to himself, and then he turns back to you.
"I have been instructed to inform you that we have begun shipments of provisions to the Wilful Eternity in gratitude for your decisive action in preventing loss on the approach to the Hive. However, these provisions do not seem to match up with the requirements put forward by your Captain Kapriosa. It is not currently possible to us to spare much food: the situation is precarious enough as is, and though one of the Insurgent's Manticores has now been taken out, they have a disturbing amount of assets spirited away within the Wastelands, and are coordinating surprisingly well. The offer I am authorized to make is that you second your Electronics Warfare Specialist to us, and he aids us in discovering and shutting down whatever networks they are using to communicate. In return, the first beneficiary of the increased deliveries of foodstuff will be the Wilful Eternity. What do you say?"
That certainly bears thinking about. Talef is useful, but the stores of the ship have been running dangerously low now, and a delivery of this nature will help stock them for a long amount of time: conversely if they remain low, you might risk mutiny. Of course, sending out Talef alone has risks: both in him
[] Refuse
You need Talef with you, and are confident you can make up any issues with morale and starvation by yourself.
[] Agree
You can spare Talef, and both getting provisions and getting in good with the local rulers is worth that price to you.
[] Agree, and send along…
-[]8-Doxa Krainaima
-Sending Talef alone is a risk, but the murderous Tech Priest should be able to provide the necessary cutting edge, and might appreciate an opportunity to get stuck into a fight
-[] Theama-Nul
-Whatever your elusive subordinate's actual specialisation is, he is a very good spy: sending him along should help cover any gaps in Magos Talefs' own area of expertise. Also, he might appreciate the opportunity to snoop.
-[] Regicia Ko-Bea
-Magos Ko-Bea is decently skilled at playing politics, and this task seems tailor-made to give her the opportunity both to garner favor of her own and to gain a better reward. Her skills at social manipulation may also aid against the Insurgents.
You should know. You have been forced, over the years, to scrape the remains of two dozen Hands of whatever the hell from the walls of your workshops. Some people really cannot take criticism.
Your frustrations at having to clean up that imbecile's mess seem to bleed into your general demeanor during the journey: the crewmen and menials that approach you with this or that issue with their Pecoca do so with a worried hesitation. At some point, it begins crossing the line from being sufficiently respectful to just being annoying.
Yelling at one of them about it doesn't seem to help, possibly because you misjudged the potential volume of your Vox Caster and burst his eardrums.
You do offer to fix them, but the mutant in question has long fled by the time it occurs to you that, given his lacking organs, he might not actually be able to hear anymore.
Still, they come, bringing the little creatures with them. There are a lot of them, actually: you end up readjusting their gestation time a little bit to stop them from propagating quite so quickly. At some point, you lose patience with the minor issues and simply conscript one of the mutants as an assistant, teaching her the solution to most of the minor problems the critters might have and then giving her the implants that make dealing with these issues somewhat trivial. She takes to her sudden new task with a bright, cheerful disposition: somewhat literally, because her skin has mutated to be bioluminescent.
You focus on the more complicated items, instead: the braying Warlord of the Beastmen that pass for the Wilful Eternity's Voidsmen asking for horns on his Pecoca, for instance, or the Augur Maintenance Clans wishing for void-black fur for religious reasons you choose not to interrogate.
In the end, you have accumulated enough favor and good will that you will never be short of unskilled labor should you need it, all without having to threaten people with being horribly liquified.
Of course, what these people can do is rather limited. However, an unexpected opportunity seems to have flowered from your spontaneous employment of the young woman as a Veterinary Assistant: several of the comparatively rich and locally powerful of the Wilful Eternity have offered up some of their relatives to come into your permanent employ. This does, of course, hold the potential to be something of a hassle: the educational base of these people is such that bringing them up to your standards will be difficult and time consuming. On the other hand, it is a potential source for surgical assistants and skilled labor. Servitors have so far been fairly sufficient, but on occasion independent thinking can be preferable. Of course, independent thought might also introduce new sources of error into your laboratory environment: letting in other sapients is always a risk, in that regard.
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[] Take On Assistants
[] Do Not Take On Assistants
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You try to pick your moment to clarify your stance to Regicia, choosing not to do so at a moment where she has a sharp object literally already inside you. In the end you don't get around to it until you meet her on your way to the bridge, hours away from Sephiron Prime. She is, it seems, already preparing to deploy to the planet: her gleaming Carapace Armor is complimented this time around by a bejeweled stave that seems to also be able to function as a Taser Goad. She smiles when she sees you. You hesitate for a second or two, trying to formulate your warning in a way that strikes the correct balance between being threatening while not seeming too hostile.
"I do appreciate that we are in accord on our ambitions not being contradictory", she cants, and you note that she is transmitting the information on a tight beam. "Of course I'll be as considerate of your own ambitions as you are of mine."
Her canting holds a somewhat sly undertone, and the light in one of her faceted eyes dims for a brief moment.
Did she just wink at you?
You almost walk into the bridge's doorway.
You suppress your irritated burst of binaric, both at the irritating grasp on your psychological profile and at the near collision.
Then you look at the oculus, and both are rapidly downgraded to the least of your worries.
Above the brown ball that is Sephiron Prime, centered around the impossible bulk of a Retribution-Class Battleship, hangs an Imperial Battlegroup.
Ludmilla Kapriosa seems entirely unperturbed.
"Identified as the Mutator's Spear '', she tells you, between puffs of her Iho Stick. "Why wasn't I informed", you ask, your irritation bleeding into your voxcaster as a burst of static. The Pecoca perched on her shoulder bares its sharp teeth at you and hisses, and she scratches it behind the ear absentmindedly with her depowered metal claw, blowing out a cloud of carcinogenic vapor. "You seemed busy", she finally answers. You are halfway through unsheathing the blade in your forearm when you realize that you were in fact pretty busy, and that slaughtering the Captain and her Bridge Crew, while therapeutic, would probably be somewhat counterproductive. "I would've told you if it had actually been Imperials", she says, grinning her foul-toothed grin, "fat lot of good that would've done us."
She takes another deep drag of the Iho Stick, then waves it in the direction of the oculus like some low-level Lexmechanic pointing a lux pointer in a meeting. "Not the thing that worries me the worst, personally", she drawls.
It takes you a moment to see what she is pointing out, but when you do you find yourself reluctantly agreeing with her words.
Below the Mutator's Spear hangs a ship of black and gold, the Eye of Horus glaring through space from its bow. It is a Styx-Class Heavy Cruiser, kept in what is clearly exceptional condition, and it is very clearly in the employ of the Black Legion. "The Cruel Ravager", Madame Kapriosa informs you, and you take the time to transmit a sigh audibly for the benefit of the bridge crew.
[Roll: Politics of the Eye of Terror: 2d6, Disadvantage: 2, 5: Failure]
"Any idea who commands it", you ask, and the Captain of the Wilful Eternity shrugs.
"Doesn't seem to be extremely welcome, whoever it is", she opines, and as you continue to observe the scene before you, you are inclined to agree. The Styx Class is renowned for its plentiful contingent of Attack Craft, and they are out in force right now, swarming around the ship in a vast, well-coordinated swarm. Fury Interceptors dance around them, probably launched from what must be the fleet of the Host of Ninefold Revelation, and they seem to be locked in a complicated dance.
"Posturing", Kapriosa says, and chuckles. "Someone's none too happy about being asked to bend the knee, I'd wager."
Well. The Host of Ninefold Revelation will in all probability turn out to be a slavering horde of warp-addled madmen, but there is apparently something you agree with them on.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sephiron Prime is a Hive World: that much becomes apparent the very second you gain visual contact to its surface. The approach to the Space Port is heavily crowded: about as much as you would expect, for a world as ravenous as Hive Worlds tend to be. It remains something of a surprise, though: the opening of the Cicatrix Maledictum has not exactly been kind to chains of logistics, and seeing a display like this on a recently conquered world seems significant.
And it is recently conquered, that much is plainly visible. The Hive you are now steering towards had one of its Spires ripped apart by what must have been an orbital strike: you can follow the trajectory of the shell after it ripped through it by the trail of debris and the massive crater about twenty kilometers away. Towards the local south, vast fires are raging in what looks like Prometheum Refineries from afar: Lighters very similar to yours are circling to and fro, dropping water and foam in what seems like a fairly fruitless attempt to extinguish the fire.
Below you, you can see the site of what must have been a grand tank battle, it's debris stretched over an area of almost a hundred kilometers.
"Quick work", Magos Krainaima opines next to you, "probably an attempt to contest a landing that got overwhelmed."
He seems somewhat impressed, at least as far as you can tell. Metal Sutures are holding the ravaged skin of his face together, and you have no idea if they're supposed to be a new permanent fixture or a temporary solution.
You don't intend to ask any time soon. The fight with the strange Necron appears to have temporarily sated your subordinate's bloodlust, but the journey to Sephiron has seen him become increasingly more restless.
"Still a lot of tanks to destroy", Theama-Nul opines, sounding curious. "I wonder what it is we're walking into."
"Space Marines of some sort, perhaps?" Talef seems somewhat nervous, which is understandable: depending on how fanatical these adherents of Tzeentch are, his life might be in quite concrete and immediate danger.
"They're not Space Marines", you state, "or at least very unusual ones."
Heads turn to you, and you can feel their curiosity. "That's a grain freighter", you say, pointing to the hull of the Lighter and then pretending that this was intentional rather than a simple mixup of your perceptions. "The vessel behind us is as well. Whoever came here had enough foresight to set up the logistics required to get the population of this place fed before the fires of conquest had even stopped burning."
There is a brief pause.
"I have never known any Space Marine to have the logistical wherewithal for something like this."
There is another pause, this one dragging on for a few seconds longer. "But they were made to conquer the galaxy", Regicia points out, not unreasonably. "Surely…"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?", you say, not even bothering to conceal the bitterness in your canting.
You could go on and on. Eight years of siege. Eight years of being forced to cannibalize the greatest workshop you have ever known to churn out subpar nutrition slop in great quantity. Eight years of having to carefully calculate every calorie you and your charges would burn and consume.
Eight years, and then the relief, and amongst all the myriad vessels at the disposal of the Warmaster, that great strategical mind trusted by the Emperor himself to lead on the Great Crusade, not one held any sort of relief supplies.
Of course there hadn't been. Who cared about mortals, after all? They only supplied all the labor to make the weapons that kept their conquest going.
You are prevented from going on a fifty minute rant by an alarm beginning to blare through the cabin. You swivel the pictcaster around, and emit a swear-burst.
You are being locked on. Down there, within a crevice that runs across the battlefield, a Manticore Rocket Launcher has just gone active.
[Roll: Electronic Warfare: Myges Talef: 3d6: 3, 6,6: Critical Success]
Myges Talef reacts before the fact you are under attack even fully registers for you. The Scrap Code Generator he has mounted onto the top of the Lighter whirs to violent life at his command.
The piece of Scrap Code it sends out makes you shudder as it passes through the Noosphere around you. It is not a complicated thing, and has clearly been preloaded. The Missile is fast, but the vox signal runs out at the speed of light. It bears within it a simple, yet undeniable command.
'Kill Yourself', Talef orders the Manticore Battery below him, and in a horrifying burst of four proximity fuzes setting off in quick succession, it does.
There is a short pause. You can tell Talef did not expect to do so well. Then 8-Doxa Krainaim slaps him on the cooling unit with his deactivated Chord Claw, producing a horrible screeching noise as one of the fan blades temporarily comes out of alignment. "Good Kill", he opines, and really, that's all that needs to be said.
News of the Magos Infofector's action seems to make their way to someone important fairly quickly: before half an hour has passed you find yourself pulled from the queue and onto a separate approach.
You land towards the edge of the Space Port, noting with some trepidation the burned out wreckage of one of the Freighers that seems to currently be in the process of being disassembled to clear the part of the landing strips you occupied.
A second, intact freighter is hovering above the landing platform that has now been assigned to you. The Traffic Controller must have put him into a holding pattern when he assigned the landing strip to you.
Of course, the fact that they could have granted you such a priority approach to begin with does rankle somewhat, but by the time you step out of the Lighter, you are largely just glad to finally be out of its cramped cabin.
The man who greets you wears a standard-issue Cadian-Pattern Uniform, dyed a rich and dark blue. He bears subtle signs of mutation: bone spikes have begun working their way through the skin of his jaw and cheeks, and one of his hands appears to be making a slow transformation into a claw. The rank marks of a Captain are visible on his shoulders and sleeves.
More remarkable, however, are his eyes: they are purple, and leave only one conclusion when seen in combination with the man's square jaw and general demeanor. He is Cadian: one of the exiled sons of that now broken world.
Renegade Cadians are, of course, not remotely unheard of, but it is nonetheless interesting to meet one here. Even more interesting are the soldiers that accompany him: a squad of soldiers in well-maintained Cadian Battle Dress, Kantrael-Pattern Lasguns in hand. The ordinary adornments of the hordes of Chaos are absent: there are no skulls, spikes, or trophy pelts. The only concession to their new alignment seems to be the removal of the old Imperial markings, replaced on their chest plates and helmets by the icon of an eye surrounded by nine feathered wings.
The man comes to attention when he beholds you, though he does not salute. "Welcome planetside, Magos. I am Borj Karplin, Captain of the 342nd Cadian Shock Troops. If I may ask you to come with me swiftly? Sharpshooters occasionally stake out the Space Port, and there's been a bombing a couple of days back."
That does explain the wrecked freighter, you suppose, even as you hurry to oblige.
You find yourself piling into a convoy of several Tauros Assault Vehicles, speeding through the cramped pathways of the Hive at breakneck pace. The soldiers around you seem nervous, grasping their Lasguns tightly as they peer through the vehicle's vision slits.
At one point you are actually attacked: a Las Bolt strikes the vehicle in front of you, though it glances off harmlessly from the armor. Borj Karplin barks several sharp orders into his Vox Set, and the two vehicles behind yours come to a halt, Multilasers raking the surrounding buildings with fire as troopers pile out and rapidly assume position. You do not get to observe the rest of the fight: the driver finds a new and heretofore unseen reservoir of speed.
He only eases off the accelerator when you pass a checkpoint: more soldiers, some in Cadian Battle Dress, some in a pattern of Uniform you do not recognize, supported by a Leman Russ Punisher. You are in what appears to be the Administratum District now, though it too has plainly seen better days: the tell-tale scorch marks left by Las impacts remain visible all around you, and the blood hasn't yet been scrubbed from gutters in its entirety.
People are at work, around here: the Aquila is being taken down everywhere, carefully and systematically. In its place, a strange banner is being raced: a patchwork of what appears to be rectangles taken from eight different flags, arranged around the strange nine-winged eye within the center.
"The former regimental colors of the components of the Host", Borj Karplin explains, and then ceases every other attempt at providing you with utterly useless knowledge when you give him a withering stare.
Instead, he leads you through the district towards what must have once been the residence of the local Master of the Administratum: a mansion in the opulently gothic style of the Imperium, the feet of toppled statues still visible upon pedestals in front of it. Guarding the gate into the estate are what you tentatively identify as Tzaangors. The feathered and beaked beastmen are dressed more smartly then you have ever seen a Beastmen dressed, their Lasguns held tightly to their shoulders. "A demonstration of both martial might and divine favor", Regicia cants to you, and that seems a not unreasonable interpretation.
You are led through the portal, past an atrium that has plainly had most of its interior ripped out, and into what must have once been the Estate's main audience chamber: a cavernous, vaulted room, a throne stood upon a pedestal set into its far end.
It seems a little grand, but of course the bean counters of the Imperium are ever prone to grandiosity.
The woman who sits upon the throne is plainly a fallen Imperial Primaris Psyker: the implants that sprout from her scalp leave no other possible conclusion, and neither does the second head that sprouts up next to the first one, or her second pair of arms. She is clad in a gleaming suit of armor, and her lower pair of arms grasps the armrests of the throne, fingers idly toying with the sharp edges of where a pair of aquilas has been plainly torn away. In her upper left, she holds an empyrean-warped Force Stave, the Aquila that usually decorates it's top replaced instead by a symbol that is becoming increasingly familiar: nine golden wings surround a disturbingly life-like eyes, psychic fire blazing within it's pupil as it comes to rest on you.
By raw power, Primaris Psykers do not hold a candle to many of the Sorcerers you have had the misfortune of interacting with during your long career: the shackles and restraints placed on their own power see to that.
It is, however, also your experience that once such shackles, be they ideological or physical, have been broken, the now freed subject becomes far more dangerous then one that has never been held back before.
"Welcome, Eta Nu 9 35", the woman on the throne says, in perfect binaric, which is impressive, given she does not possess the cybernetics to produce or open her mouth once, not to mention the fact the language is a fairly well guarded secret.
"My apologies", she continues, and you realize that she is not actually speaking binaric: she is simply conveying thoughts directly into your mind that it has interpreted as spoken in your primary language.
"If you don't get out of my head", you vox-cast at her in pronounced Low Gothic, taking care to ensure your irritation is plainly audible within your voice, even as you begin warming up your gas dispenser with an audible hiss, images of what the gas you are a mere millisecond away from unleashing might do to a room such as this one at the forefront of your mind.
She does not, to her credit, flinch, though you do feel a flicker of disgust that does not seem entirely your own, before a presence you hadn't even noticed noticeably withdraws.
"My apologies", she repeats, both heads speaking at once in a strange harmony. "You are the Magos in question?"
You answer in the affirmative, and she continues on, dual voices almost adding up to a sing-song.
"I am Lady Czevene, Hetman of the Host of Ninefold Revelation."
She pauses for a moment, as though for dramatic effect. Then she gestures, and unseen helpers activate a Hololith Projector likely concealed within the floor or ceiling somewhere.
The figure it shows is blurry, likely extrapolated from several images now woven together to create an approximation in three dimensions. It is wearing a black robe, electronic eyes glowing from the shadow of its hood. The barrel of some sort of integrated weapon is visible poking from its sleeve: it looks like either an autogun or a needler, though the angle and resolution make it impossible to say for certain. Whatever it is, the figure is aiming it at something off the screen.
A figure steps forward from behind the throne: an unenhanced platinum-blonde man wearing a Commissars Uniform, his skin seemingly bleached of all color and his eyes peering out from stark, pronounced features. When he speaks, his Lower Gothic has the clipped, terse accent of the Schola Progenium.
"The Hand of Transformation was created by your Magos Raskol as part of a larger instance of cooperation. It was created as an asset of sabotage and subversion, intended to significantly weaken imperial governance structures ahead of incursion by the Host. Up until three months ago, it performed this task admirably."
He goes on the elaborate on the specifics of this, and you do not bother suppressing your low-pitched cant of frustration at the fully organic way of delivering information as you are subjected to a droning litany of assassinations, sabotage, and subversion.
This could have been a noospheric transfer with not even very much effort on the part of this man. How much effort is undergoing bit of brain surgery, really?
Still, from the bits of his long-winded explanation you pay attention to, this Hand of Transformation does sound somewhat impressive. Of course, now Lady Czevene's underling seems to be finally, mercifully getting to the interesting bit: how Tharc Raskol fucked up.
"Three Months ago, as part of the windup of initial operations here on Sephiron Prime, the Hand of Destiny was supposed to make contact with its handlers to undergo reprogramming procedures and be placed in stasis so as to be used for further potential operations."
The Commissar gestures again, and the image changes to the burned out chassis of a Chimera, three corpses clad dark robes laid out on the pavement besides it.
"Instead, it killed them, destroyed the facilities meant to control it, and then disappeared."
"You are certain this was the Hand of Transformation", you ask. It's a fair question to ask: this is, after all, a decently active warzone. Sometimes, people get unlucky.
The Commissar seems to agree. He gives a curt nod. "With a reasonable level of certainty: the rendezvous was in a secure rear area, it's precise location known only to the handlers in question and a select circle of trustworthy individuals. Someone else may in theory have gained access by abusing the carve outs in security put in place for the asset, but further developments have made the explanation…unlikely."
You nod, somewhat satisfied with the explanation. "This was not initially a problem", the Commissar goes on, "the progress of operation has made the asset largely obsolete, for the time being: we would have been willing to accept it's disappearance and move on."
Another gesture, another change of slides: a collage of images, eerily similar to those shown to you when the Commissar talked about previous missions of the Hand of Transformation.
"There is a high probability that the Hand of Transformation is currently working to undermine our efforts to stabilize our governance of this planet", the Commissar says, then frowns. "There are, to be clear, other insurgencies going on at the same time. We are significantly overstretched, and falling behind projected targets regarding the stabilization of the planet. Magos Raskol remains engaged in reorganizing Omit Gamma, and has thus passed the task for solving this issue on to you. The agreed-upon compensation is, of course, being shipped to Nuton's Folly as agreed."
You keep your face very steady. Omit Gamma is a Forge World: technically just a moon orbiting a Gas Giant, but still a concentration of technological resources beyond your wildest dreams. Now it is, apparently, under the control of an utter incompetent who is your clear inferior. And, of course, these people were willing to provide payment for your services, and are, in their annoyingly organized fashion, sending it to your overbearing would-be masters instead of handing it to you.
"You gave Raskol a Forge World for the creation of a Kill Servitor?", you ask, trying and somewhat failing to keep your tone neutral.
The Commissar shakes his head. "Magos Raskol provided invaluable advice on a separate project. The asset was provided merely as a token of gratitude for the smooth cooperation.
You note that you have accidentally charged the hydraulics that would spring-launch your new arm blade, and force them to discharge with an audible hiss. "May I know what the project in question was", you ask, shutting down your emotional sub-processors in order to reduce your levels of rage to a manageable manner. Magos Ko-Bea shoots you a worried look, probably noting that you are grinding your medical drill.
"That is not relevant to your current task", the Commissar responds, and you give a curt nod, not trusting yourself to keep proper control of your volume.
"There is one other thing I would like to talk about", the man goes on, and then he pauses, as though listening to a voice you cannot hear, and waves his hand. The Hololith dies, and then you hear the heavy threads of power-armored boots.
The door to the throne room bursts open.
The Space Marine that bursts through it is clad in black power armor, scripture you recognize as stemming from the Book of Lorgar etched onto every surface that can take it. It has been warped by the Empyrean: a crown of eight short horns sprouts from the side of the Helmet, and the eye of Horus on the Pauldron seems like the only thing that prevents it from blinking is the hatred with which it stares at its surroundings.
"I am Ezadarial Varth! I am an Emissary of the Black Legion! I will be disrespected no further!"
The Commissar clears his throat, and you have to give him some credit for seeming embarrassed at this childish tantrum rather then utterly terrified by the fact it is being thrown by a murderous killing machine. "Captain Karlin will continue to provide an escort for you and brief you further, Magos Eta Nu 9 35."
Lady Czevene smiles with both her mouth, bowing her heads slightly in your direction. "We once again thank Nuton's Folly for its prompt assistance. If you would excuse me now, honored Emissaries? The esteemed Ambassador of the Apostles of Blasphemy seems to require my attention."
She turns to the Space Marine, still all smiles, and for a moment you are uncertain which between the two is in more danger.
"Has your Lord Skyraal given consideration to our last offer.", she asks, and you flee the audience chamber before anybody makes anybody else's head explode, psychically or mechanically.
Emissary Varth certainly seems like he would dearly wish to.
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Borj Karplin has waited for you outside the audience chamber. When you emerge, he is arguing with one of the Tzaangors. You don't catch a lot of it, before he notices you and snaps to attention again: something ridiculous about the nature of fate, and free will in light of determinism.
Neither of them seem angry. It is, of course, warp-addled nonsense, but it beats the skinning pits and gladiatorial arenas that pass for entertainment in other organizations of this kind.
It makes you deeply suspicious. It is one thing for something to be rotten, but quite another to not be able to see or smell the rot that should, by all rights, be there.
Still, there is nothing to it. "We have secured the site of the incident, and our people have gone over the data to the best of their abilities, but there's only a limited amount of knowledge we can glean from it. I assume that is where you wish to go?"
You nod. It is about as good a start as any, to your investigation. The question is which approach you'll take, once you actually get there.
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[] Material
-This is, at its core, a manhunt, and you have the tools for that in spades. You will put together a physiological profile of the Hand of Transformation from the traces left behind at the side of the initial assault. Visual identifiers, gait profile, olfactory profile, electrical signature, thermal profile, anything and everything you can get your hands on. Then you're going to track these, and eliminate all possibilities until you find the Kill Servitor.
[] Spiritual
From the looks of it, the Chimera that housed whatever was housing the Kill Servitors control suite was pretty burned out, but there is only so much fire can do to a Cogitator, and you bet you can reconstruct at least a part of it's behavioral engrams. If you piece together the rest of it from the general information on it's behavior you have identified, you can potentially build a behavioral profile that'll allow you to predict its next action, and grant insights into the ways it has malfunctioned.
[] Empyrical
Tharc Raskol is a hack, and he always, always and without exception includes warp craft in the construction of his machines. With a little effort, you should be able to trace Warp Signatures within the Hive and then eliminate options one by one until you find the right one. A look at the site of the crime might give additional insight into what you're looking for.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Before you can set to work, however, Karplin briefly grips his forehead, then grimaces and nods. "Yes, My Lady", he murmurs, mostly apparently to himself, and then he turns back to you.
"I have been instructed to inform you that we have begun shipments of provisions to the Wilful Eternity in gratitude for your decisive action in preventing loss on the approach to the Hive. However, these provisions do not seem to match up with the requirements put forward by your Captain Kapriosa. It is not currently possible to us to spare much food: the situation is precarious enough as is, and though one of the Insurgent's Manticores has now been taken out, they have a disturbing amount of assets spirited away within the Wastelands, and are coordinating surprisingly well. The offer I am authorized to make is that you second your Electronics Warfare Specialist to us, and he aids us in discovering and shutting down whatever networks they are using to communicate. In return, the first beneficiary of the increased deliveries of foodstuff will be the Wilful Eternity. What do you say?"
That certainly bears thinking about. Talef is useful, but the stores of the ship have been running dangerously low now, and a delivery of this nature will help stock them for a long amount of time: conversely if they remain low, you might risk mutiny. Of course, sending out Talef alone has risks: both in him
[] Refuse
You need Talef with you, and are confident you can make up any issues with morale and starvation by yourself.
[] Agree
You can spare Talef, and both getting provisions and getting in good with the local rulers is worth that price to you.
[] Agree, and send along…
-[]8-Doxa Krainaima
-Sending Talef alone is a risk, but the murderous Tech Priest should be able to provide the necessary cutting edge, and might appreciate an opportunity to get stuck into a fight
-[] Theama-Nul
-Whatever your elusive subordinate's actual specialisation is, he is a very good spy: sending him along should help cover any gaps in Magos Talefs' own area of expertise. Also, he might appreciate the opportunity to snoop.
-[] Regicia Ko-Bea
-Magos Ko-Bea is decently skilled at playing politics, and this task seems tailor-made to give her the opportunity both to garner favor of her own and to gain a better reward. Her skills at social manipulation may also aid against the Insurgents.
