Stars and Shadows - Chapter 2

In an orgy of glory-gloating and propaganda and pretty people dressed in clothes worth a week’s rations for an army, the speech continues. It goes on for a few hours, dragging out the time with little of consequence, and when it’s done, she turns, she marches smartly away alongside the others, and heads out to a bar.

It’s practically universal, the pressures of performance and the allure of shore leave putting everyone in a festive mode. Still, most other squadrons tend to avoid hers, and she gets a few begrudging respectful nods but not many invites to come along. Liones gets one, which he declines with as much arrogance as he can muster, but Jacobi and Tah all manage to find some comradery before they make their ways back. She has a plan, and they’re curious. It’s good enough to earn her the first few hours of leave.

Sikari leads them off somewhere else, down several side alleys, deeper and deeper away. Part of having trained dogs stuck on a leash is knowing when to smack them on the nose for doing something wrong and when to give them a treat for doing something good, and for most characters in her group, a treat is something a little different then making them sit alongside a crowd of assholes who they hate as much as they hate them. She can almost feel it, the same sensation from when she saw the mutant, that of slipping back into old habits.

This time she lets it happen. The motive is different, she tells herself as they head deeper, taking side-tunnels and pathways that sometimes even the Arbiters avoid. A full squadron of Imperial Guard, even down at this level, is enough to dissuade most pick-pockets and worse, but there’s some degree of reputation upholding them. The western sector of the Hive still has rumors about what Marquis and Veronica used to do, to an indeterminate number of people and apparently very well, and hell knows she herself has at least one bounty on her down here. One of the older ones put out on her called for just her teeth. Worth it, considering what she bit off with them.

It took… way too long to research the different members of her squadron. Some of them were simple enough; Michael, Jacobi, Liones, they were easy, the three “high-born” from mid-hive or higher, all either born safe or just too composed to get in any real trouble, with the possible exception of Jacobi, who’d talked his way out of as many problems as he’d talked his way into. The rest, however, were a little more… challenging. Between the semi-feral nature of Jaks, their strange partnership and history with Marquis, and the stranger still habits of Tah, sometimes finding out anything at all about their past was the issue and sometimes finding things they hadn’t done to someone was the more pressing concern. This place, at least, is high up enough and neutral enough that she’s fairly certain it won’t lead to any trouble. Better to drink themselves under the table down here where violence is only a possibility instead of a certainty in any bar the more reputable members of the Guard might find themselves in. Throw a haymaker because someone insulted her upstairs could get her reprimanded, but down here, it gets her a free shot. Also, there’s less officers at this one. More room to get wasted, and getting wasted sounds just fine to Sikari right about now.

The dingy, low hanging ceilings feel like home. Tah, of course, is enjoying herself thoroughly; every set of pipes, or exposed wiring set, or even particularly cramped hallway leaves her beaming with joy and giving very slight bows of prayer as they pass. Liones in particular embodies the exact opposite side of the spectrum, his permanent scowl deepened considerably into a grimace as they walk. He steps almost tentatively, prompting the occasional nudge from behind from Jaks, as if terrified of stepping in anything unclean. Michael is a close second in terms of concern, though his eyes dart less towards the dirtied floors beneath him and more to the sets of eyes that follow them as they move, side-corridors and improvised living quarters full of opportunistic folk ready to move if they sense weakness. The boy sticks close to Jacobi, who does his best to offset the impression Michael gives off of a rat surrounded by hungry underhivers using an easy smile and the occasional confident wink. The rest of the group look right at home, with Jaks actually waving to someone covered in enough poorly-inked tattoos and piercings to both build and fill a ledger, who, even more surprisingly, waves back, and Marquis watching with a fond look as someone gets dragged away with a yell of protest and thrown out of view.

The bar itself is also very much at home here, between the levels of the mid-tier floors, the manufactorum, and the crowded, chaotic hellhole that is the Sumps and the sewage system leading into them. This deep into the hive, almost a mile below the pathways where the Guard had their parade, the ceilings aren’t massive, vaulted things that rise until they’re nearly invisible, or even arched cathedrals of space that allow buildings to grow beneath them as if in a dome. Here, every structure is just part of another structure, and without heading higher, one could go their entire lives without a ceiling over their heads more than twelve feet tall. The bar follows suit, its only real doorway a metallic frame between two hallways, one of which was packed with tables, side-rooms that once held material goods and now acted as private booths for a variety of purposes, and one particularly large room that once held bunks for dozens of workers, sacrificed to create a competent bar. Most of the stuff sold is rotgut, brewed in industrial vats or mostly-unused urinals, with only the rare (and viciously overpriced) bottles of common amasec adding much variety. Sikari had heard that once you got used to the taste, you could start to feel the differences in kick and flavor to the rotgut brewed in a vat versus one brewed in, say, an industrial drum, but she’d been drinking it a good six years on and off and really couldn’t feel anything beyond the taste of shitty ethanol and a kick like a pissed-off mutant aiming for the throat, so… eh.

There’s a bit of a crowd here, and she recognizes quite a few faces, lower-hivers inducted into the Imperial Guard stationed both on and off world now returning to familiar stomping grounds and the regular denizens of The Hole, the premiere quality joint this low in the Hive. Some of them nod to her, though none she readily recognizes, and most of those she does know are from a distance. She always kept to herself; any information they have of her and vice-versa comes from rumors, watching from afar, or some other, sneakier means of attaining information. She ignores most of them, moving ahead of her group, sending the same signals as any other gang down here; fuck with them, and there’s consequences. Marquis and Jaks have their own reputation, despite their relatively peaceful, calm demeanors, and they don’t need to posture to be quantified as a threat, while Tah has the sort of “enigmatic stranger” energy to her and a strange look in her eyes, far too calm and at ease for someone in this setting. Liones and Michael, on the other hand-

“You’re doing it again, boss,” Tah says from her side, having snuck up silently. Sikari almost gives a gasp of surprise, catching herself in time to keep up appearances.

“Doing what, exactly, Tah? And I told you not to sneak up on me like that,” Sikari replies.

“Calculating instead of thinking. There are many beauties to the forms within the walls, but it is by thinking beyond them that we create them. You should really relax more. We can’t all be robots around here, and you’re a real bore when you try to be.”

Sikari huffs out a breath, almost a laugh. “You know how I feel about your “sayings”, Tah. Could you just this once keep it to a minimum? I just want to get drunk and relax for a bit, not have to worry about if some ganger or Inquisitor is going to fall out of the sky onto your head, or mine right after.”

Tah gives a little laugh, a breathy, quiet sort of thing, not unlike the intense but mouse-like person behind it. “I would never seek to challenge or insult an Inquisitor, so if they do come down here, it won’t be because I tried to bring them. That, at least, is a blessing from within the walls, wouldn’t you say?”

Sikari rolls her eyes at her squadmate, an action she knows is being mirrored by anyone else in earshot, Jacobi especially, moving a finger in a circular motion by his temple as he whistles towards those in the rear. Michael nudges him, lightly but with a smile, mouthing to him to “be nice!”.

“I wouldn’t know much about anything within the walls, Tah,” Jacobi says, “but it hardly takes much to call down something nasty on your head, speaking to the wrong person. Not everyone sees the same things you do, after all, and it’s hard to convince others of the truth.” There’s an element of humor to the voice, but also a sincerity that still messes with Sikari’s head, like he actually believes the idioms he likes to use, or believes them just enough, at any rate.

Tah shrugs, shoulders popping up and down while the rest of her body barely moves. She’s already looking away, her gaze following a tube pumping water or air to some other part of the hive, a far-away look on her face. Undeterred, Jacobi steps forward, throwing an arm over Sikari’s shoulder. “Not to worry, dearest Tah!” he says with his usual dramatic flair; “Between the lot of us, we’re sure to get the captain here to laugh at least once tonight!”

Sikari scoffs in mock anger, throwing his arm off her shoulder. “I laugh! Sometimes!”

“No, you really don’t,” Jaks says with a giggle, leaning against Marquis as they walk. She nudges him as if to laugh along, but he just gives her a bemused smile and keeps his eyes open. It’s foreign territory, and he’s doing as he always does in new spaces, finding avenues of escape, looking out for the weakest members of their group, tracking those outside it. It’s not unlike what Sikari did for fun back at the speech, running scenarios, but far simpler, never really moving past the first two vague steps she might need to take to kill someone or get away.

Not everyone is as relaxed, though. The high-hivers, Michael and Liones, both look uneasy. Liones’ irritation is more towards Sikari’s sheer audacity in forcing him to come down here, though she knows well and truly that when properly sloshed he fits right in with the rest of the crowd, if not in mannerisms or speech then in volume and behavior. Still, he probably has far nicer places to go, and she’s cleared him and some of the others to head out after a bit to indulge themselves, but partially as a show of force and partially as an effort to promote some actual emotional unity among the team, she wants at least the first two hours or so to include communal drinking, one of the oldest and most tried-and-true methods of uniting a band of humans throughout history.

Besides, rotgut will put some hairs on your chest, or so they say, and Michael could use some of the metaphorical courage.

Sikari leads the group up to the bar, the group collectively taking up a table near one of the hallways’ walls and half of the bar itself, sitting on old, rickety stools and tables made up of scavenged parts or barrels, old machinery, and even doors removed from their hinges and servos.

“Whatever the case,” she says, turning in her seat to look at her squadron; “drinks are on me tonight so long as they’re in this bar, so pull up a tab already.” She seats herself at the far end of the bar and signals to the bartender, an older (by lower-hive standards, maybe in his 30s) individual who seems to be made up more of metal than man. Not like a tech-priest, a Magos, with their holy replacement of the flesh with blessed machines or biomodifications; constant piercings and minor cybernetics make up his and many other’s aesthetics, old battle wounds plastered over with homemade prosthetics and crappy servos.

“We’ll have a round of your lightest rotgut for the little ones and some of the regular stuff for me, the big one and the crazy-looking ones, Murk,” she tells him. He gives a nod, most of his face paralyzed, but the nuances clear enough; if you’ve got the coin, he’s got the drink. Before long Jacobi and Jaks are passing out the cups, two glasses of a dirty-brown liquid with occasional bubbles flowing through it making their way to Michael and Tah while the rest of them take hold of metallic glasses filled with clearer things that smell of acid and fizzle lightly when in contact with the open air. Michael holds his stomach as if about to vomit at the thought, and Tah drinks it like mother’s milk, downing the cup in one long pull that leaves the others laughing and cheering in approval and following along, taking long draws on their own beverages.

Sikari downs hers quickly as well. It’s like the other’s mentioned, she’s never been much of a social butterfly, but growing up in the hives can still grant an appreciation for some of the finer mind-numbing substances around. The taste is absolutely vile, reeking of something vaguely rotten and burning like fire on the way down, leaving the throat feeling ragged, as if one swallowed gravel. It’s not until it reaches the stomach that the effects kick in, a riotous heat that leaves one mildly giddy and more than a little out of sorts quite fast. She shakes her head to rid herself of the haze in her head and the smell of ethanol in her nostrils. Her actions are mirrored by the half-dozen others around her, each of them downing their beverages in one swig or, for those less fortunate with their swallowing, two. Jaks and Marquis both give overdramatic gasps of satisfaction, though they’re alone in their little show; those that don’t start coughing and gasping at the very least grimace, though she’s happy to see Jacobi being one of the drinkers easily overwhelmed by the taste.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Cheers Jacobi through the coughs, with a hearty yip from Jaks. Even Liones, ever so prim and proper, seems a little shaken, blinking tears out of his eyes and shaking his head as if to clear away the fumes. Sikari does smile, for a moment, something that Tah takes no time in pointing out, giggling like a child as she points to their sergeant, getting Michael to chuckle and inciting Jacobi to a childish howl. There are more than a few ugly looks sent their way as they disrupt the otherwise well-practiced routines of drunken misery around them, but they ignore them. Some of the looks are even relatively positive, gangers and the rare fellow guardsmen giving whoops of encouragement or raising drinks in a toast to the unusual but energetic display.

It’s an energetic display that continues for a bit, with Jacobi leading the crowd both in libations consumed and in energizing the group to have a good time, ad within an hour or so even Michael is enjoying himself. Liones does leave, with Sikari’s permission, a little after that, headed for the higher-rung areas of the hive, and she sends Marquis with him, letting the older mercenary guide them both out and go off to enjoy some of the habits found in the cleaner habitats of up-hive. There’s little that the smaller fellow likes more than being let off his leash to cause some mayhem here or there, and she knows him well enough that he’d never do something so outright illegal as go rogue, not with her around. The rest of the team also begin to gradually splinter, with Tah, Michael and Jacobi sticking close as Jaks heads out, knowing her, to hunt something for dinner, for old times sake.

“I’d say that went fairly well,” Jacobi says from her left, leaning rather casually against the bar. She gives him a look in return, something between a laugh and a grimace.

“Oh come on, it was hardly all that bad,” he says.

“It was the minimum,” she tells him, unable to hide a slight, smug smile. “But that means that it’s a start, and I’ve been working with less.”

“Mhmm”, replies Jacobi, taking the cue and letting things go quiet, without him boistering. The silence stretches comfortably between the two of them. Sikari is, relatively, at peace. The drink running through her is strong and familiar, if disgusting to taste, and she’s content to let the dynamics she’s worked so hard to create play out for themselves. Those that remain are relatively comfortable and at home here, and it’s almost relaxing to be in someplace familiar and still have an achievement in front of her.

When Michael perks up like a nervous animal, it takes her a moment to snap back to full awareness. She follows his gaze; in times of conflict, the kid ain’t much of a fighter, near useless unless they’re stationary or fortified, too nervous to aim properly at anything but a general horde, but when everything’s quiet his instincts are second to none. It’s almost dissonant to see it in action; Sikari, like many grown in the underhives, have similar reactions, always on the lookout for danger or nuances in behavior that might indicate a threat, so to see it in a high-born noble’s son is strange to say the least. Either way it’s useful to have prey animals in the group (though she flinches a bit when she refers to him as such); they make for good early warnings, always on alert.

And she shouldn’t have relaxed. That’s when life gets you.

She follows his eyes and immediately singles out the focus of his attention. Walking stiffly but confidently into the hallway is a man completely at odds with their surroundings. Much like Liones but far less noble-looking, the man who enters is a shrew, a perpetually smug smirk decorating weak, sallow features. He’s gained weight since she last saw him, and since the time before that, somehow remaining sallow and vaguely sickly while gradually growing out his gut every time she sees him. Wearing his regular uniform, the man is clad in stark black armor, with several smaller medals and signs of official status pinned upon it, and a regal-looking cloak of velvet lining draped over his shoulders.

Some part of Sikari secretly hopes that, in regiments stationed further from their home worlds, or less rife with the influences of local nobility, a man like him would never have made Commissar. It’s not that he’s incompetent; he’s a decent tactician, capable of moving the right pieces more or less to their proper places (if only just, she reminds herself), and when he gets going properly he can roar out catechisms and motivational cries like the best of them, his skinny frame hiding a surprisingly robust set of lungs. Really get him going, as she’s seen only twice in particularly tense rebel engagements, and he’ll execute deserters or weak links at the drop of a hat, too. Hell, she once saw him lead a charge into a horde of the Grey on a local moon like something straight out of a war pict. No, it’s not lack of ability that pisses her off, it’s lack of… well, anything else, but primarily a lack of basic decency, and an excess of an attitude that seemingly revels in lording over others.

She stands at attention as he walks in, with Michael following behind by less than a heartbeat. The delay in the movements of Tah and Jacobi draws his eye, but between the drinks, the unexpected location, and the crowd, he seems to disregard the minor breach of decorum, for once.

“Sergeant Sikari.” Smiles Tarrick the Commissar, “how entirely expected to find you returned to your home territory. What a pity it’s someplace so decidedly distasteful. Perhaps one of these days you’ll come join us upstairs, with the other officers, hmm?”

“Of course, sir,” she says, keeping her face as neutral as she can. She hates that she can feel a tic in her eye when he says the veiled insult after the open one, hates that she knows he’s seen it.

“At ease, guardsmen. Sergeant Sikari, a moment.”

The squadron all remain just as tense as before, Sikari’s dislike of the man reflected and multiplied in many of them. She’s not the only one to have run-ins with the man, and half of her squadron was assigned to her by him or his predecessor directly, even if operating under the recommendations of others. She gives a slight nod back towards Jacobi, who walks over to the table, turning his back to Tarrick and seating himself across from Michael. Without checking to see if the three of them are keeping quiet as she needs them to, she follows after him. They remain well within earshot of her group, Tarrick electing to step away more for appearances than any actual privacy, his smugness radiating off of him at the crowd surrounding them and trying to sneakily catch what their conversation might entail.

“You’ve been doing exceptionally well lately, Sergeant,” he begins. “Truly, your efforts with this… unruly squadron of yours are noteworthy. No less than three survived incursions into Grey territory, and that nasty business on Tau 2 with the little uprising, hmm? So noteworthy, in fact, that you’ve been assigned a special detail.”

She’s not sure if some tick in her face is what gives her away or if Tarrick was already ready to gloat, his smirk expanding ever so slightly over his sallow face. “You’re being requisitioned for a new function, here, on-planet,” he continues. “You’ll be supplying the Adeptus Arbites with additional forces for a classified project, acting in tandem with the Arbiter regiments on-world. There’s news of a Judge incoming planetside, and she’s requested you specifically as a security detail and tool.”

She blinks at that, holding back a frown. She’s worked way too hard to improve her standing and rank in the Guard to let both rot, standing stagnant on-world while others earn glory against the Grey, getting the security and power they need. That she needs.

“If I may, sir”, she says, keeping her tone neutral and even, “I believe the cohesiveness of my unit, while improved, is not yet equal to some of the higher-ranked units in the regiment, which would be far better suited to such a prestigious position.”

“Despite how correct your assessment may be,” Tarrick says, voice oozing satisfaction, “your unit was personally requested by the commander-general for this assignment. I find the situation quite agreeable, Sergeant. You’re likely to find many opportunities for glory and improvement amid such a special function.”

“But sir-“

“And even if there weren’t,” he continues, steamrolling over her; “you’ve received your orders, Sergeant, and I expect you to follow them. Entirely, and without question, as is demanded and required of all loyal servants of the Emperor and the Thrones.”

He leans close, looking her dead in the eye, and for a moment she sees the thing behind what she hates about him, the indomitable iron will that backs the attitude of an absolute and absolutely competent bastard. “And you and your soldiers are ever so loyal, Sergeant,” he tells her in a harsh whisper. “I heard what happened to the previous Commissar overseeing you, and I know his fate was well earned. But I’m not him. Prove me right, and I’ll be proud to stand by your side as a defender of the Imperium. But fail to do your job, and I do mine.” His hand touches on the bolt pistol at his side, an ornate and brutal thing covered in gold filigree and tremendous detailing, yet still blunt, vicious and lethal, capable of shooting a micro-rocket propelled explosive round with enough stopping power to erase a man’s chest cavity if used properly.

She replies only with a nod and the sign of the Thrones across her chest, arms crossed in an x-shape and fingers pointing up to symbolize each of the ten seats. She can almost feel the bile coming up the back of her throat.

“Good. I’ll leave you to your libations and celebrations, then, Sergeant. Do the Guard proud. And remember that the Emperor is always watching.”

With that, he turns on his heel, shoes clacking smartly against the floor as he walks back into the shadows. Between the bolt pistol at his hip and the absolute hell any ganger would call down on themselves should they try and assault him, he’s nearly invulnerable down here. Just like in the guard, wherever he walks, his gaze is avoided, the bolt pistol at his side stared at both in jealousy and fear. She looks at the back of his head, and while she is standing in proper position, the Thrones still poised on her chest, she feels the gears in her head turning. Scenarios, running through her mind on a loop, a dozen permutations of a singular moment; how quickly and quietly she’d have to move, what weapons are available, how hard to hit, how it would feel for that smug smile to crack and flood with blood as she broke it beneath one of the thick metal mugs-

Jacobi slaps his hand onto her shoulder, jostling her and semi-hugging her as he does so. “Next round’s on me folks!” he crows, loudly enough for some of the other patrons in the bar to look over. “We’re on special assignment! That calls for more of this shit rotgut, I say!”

The tables around them take up a cheer, most too drunk to feel more than passing concern over the only-recently vanished Tarrick, who turns a corner and vanishes into the underbelly of tunnels in the Hive-city. As Jacobi turns and walks her back to the bar, letting Sikari forcefully shrug off his arm, he whispers in her ear; “Not the best call, captain. Best wait till there’s less witnesses, yeah?”

She glares at him, rolling her eyes as she sees the lack of effect it has on him. There’s a large smile on his face, but as always, it’s hard to tell whether or not he’s joking. She follows along, trying to keep her face calm and steady, and by the time she gets back to the bar her breathing has somewhat returned to normal. She waves Jacobi away as she signals for another drink, downing it in one go again.

The wording was already vitriolic enough, but an assignment like this is a death sentence to a Guard unit, career-wise, and more literally for her unit personally. While an Arbiter might be far too heavy a target for all but the craziest of hive-gangs to go after, incredibly well equipped on a capital world like Utoria and deeply connected to the Hive’s power structures, the expendable Guard grunts brought with them? Not so much. Especially when so many of her squadron has ties to a variety of the underworld’s scum, most of it bad. Marquis and Jaks both have active bounties out on them, as does she. Besides all of that, she already despises the politics of the Guard; having to cope with the politics that having her high-hivers so close to their home in the upper spires will cause is a headache that she can already feel coming on.

Sikari orders a third glass. The bartender gives her a look, one that her glare quickly shuts down as he refills the metallic mug. Feeling the burn down her throat, tingling in her head and running like battery acid through her chest, Sikari growls and smiles to herself.

Fine, then, she thinks. Same shit, different day. Expected to lose.

Better, then, to find some way to win.