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A bit of WH40K fiction
Up above an arctic storm was lashing the towers of Dwumfords Hive. Sleet and freezing rain was attacking the soaring edifices and bridges of the upper city; coating the homes of the rich and powerful in ice that would only melt when the distant summer came. Down where I was guiding my bicycle through yet another souk, the storm manifested as an endless series of drips and rivulets of dirty water sluicing down from above. I had been told that once the storm passed, I should make my way to an upper level to view the dawn lighting up the ice-encrusted spires. Beautiful and inspiring, I was told.
Sod that. With any luck, I'd be off this world and long gone before the rain stopped.
So there I was, my dinner of fish stew in the basket and a dying glo-globe lighting my way as I maneuvered around the edges of the end-of-shift mob in the souk. All around me people were haggling over prices, shoving, arguing, and then coming to an agreement and shaking hands like old friends. Dozens of bikes like mine competed with pedicabs and even a few draft carts for space to move. It was a typical evening in the not-quite Underhive. I was surrounded by thousands of people.
And I was being watched.
I've lasted this long by developing a sense for this. Someone was following me. Looking around, making sure it looked to any observer that I was just trying to find a faster lane of travel, I spotted three likely candidates. Not moving, not haggling, conspicuously inconspicuous. Three was too many. I picked an exit from the souk and pedaled hard, sending up a spray of oily water in my wake. My three watchers reacted instantly, going from "trail" to "pursue" so seamlessly it was almost a thing of beauty. If only I wasn't the one being pursued.
Three random turns, and I dumped the bike and scampered into a narrow alleyway. I stopped several feet in and ate my stew. Somehow, I figured that eating now was going to be a good thing. As a slurped down the overly spicy meal, I tried to think who these guys could be. Arbites? Not likely, since I doubt the Merchant House families I had just scammed would want news of their gullibility to enter the official records. House assassins? Possibly, but why hesitate? They could have gunned me down in the souk easily, and to hell with the innocent bystanders. The local authorities would just pass it off as gang violence. It was possible they wanted me alive, to retrieve what I had liberated, but that made the whole operation clumsy. They'd know that my only options for leaving were the port or the maglev, easier to stake them out if they wanted me at their leisure.
The bike was stolen within minutes, of course. Fitting, since I had stolen it myself. At some point, I imagine every bicycle in Dwumfords must have been purchased legitimately. But in the centuries since then, they've passed from owner to owner by the simple act of taking one when the previous rider was inattentive...
...I froze as one of the three I had spotted moved down the narrow street. I could see now that it was a woman, and she moved like a trained fighter. I tried very hard not to look at her, but to instead focus on the wall and let her remain in my peripheral vision. Like I said, people know when they're being watched. My hunter stopped in the middle of the broken pavement, stared directly at me for several seconds (or so it felt) then touched a jeweled stud on the collar of her long rain coat.
"Wind meets Rocks. Fond Hearts. Reunion."
Without moving a muscle, I relaxed. So that's who was chasing me. The bastard!
OK, who wants to see Part 2?
Sod that. With any luck, I'd be off this world and long gone before the rain stopped.
So there I was, my dinner of fish stew in the basket and a dying glo-globe lighting my way as I maneuvered around the edges of the end-of-shift mob in the souk. All around me people were haggling over prices, shoving, arguing, and then coming to an agreement and shaking hands like old friends. Dozens of bikes like mine competed with pedicabs and even a few draft carts for space to move. It was a typical evening in the not-quite Underhive. I was surrounded by thousands of people.
And I was being watched.
I've lasted this long by developing a sense for this. Someone was following me. Looking around, making sure it looked to any observer that I was just trying to find a faster lane of travel, I spotted three likely candidates. Not moving, not haggling, conspicuously inconspicuous. Three was too many. I picked an exit from the souk and pedaled hard, sending up a spray of oily water in my wake. My three watchers reacted instantly, going from "trail" to "pursue" so seamlessly it was almost a thing of beauty. If only I wasn't the one being pursued.
Three random turns, and I dumped the bike and scampered into a narrow alleyway. I stopped several feet in and ate my stew. Somehow, I figured that eating now was going to be a good thing. As a slurped down the overly spicy meal, I tried to think who these guys could be. Arbites? Not likely, since I doubt the Merchant House families I had just scammed would want news of their gullibility to enter the official records. House assassins? Possibly, but why hesitate? They could have gunned me down in the souk easily, and to hell with the innocent bystanders. The local authorities would just pass it off as gang violence. It was possible they wanted me alive, to retrieve what I had liberated, but that made the whole operation clumsy. They'd know that my only options for leaving were the port or the maglev, easier to stake them out if they wanted me at their leisure.
The bike was stolen within minutes, of course. Fitting, since I had stolen it myself. At some point, I imagine every bicycle in Dwumfords must have been purchased legitimately. But in the centuries since then, they've passed from owner to owner by the simple act of taking one when the previous rider was inattentive...
...I froze as one of the three I had spotted moved down the narrow street. I could see now that it was a woman, and she moved like a trained fighter. I tried very hard not to look at her, but to instead focus on the wall and let her remain in my peripheral vision. Like I said, people know when they're being watched. My hunter stopped in the middle of the broken pavement, stared directly at me for several seconds (or so it felt) then touched a jeweled stud on the collar of her long rain coat.
"Wind meets Rocks. Fond Hearts. Reunion."
Without moving a muscle, I relaxed. So that's who was chasing me. The bastard!
OK, who wants to see Part 2?
The sky over the hive was the color of a hololith tuned to a dead channel
Just as a note, as far as my impression of the WH40K vocabulary goes, Imperial citizens, even cynical hard-boiled cloaks, tend not to use the names associated with Ruinous Powers in vain. You never know who's listening, and don't want to attract attention, whether from the Ruinous Powers or the Inquisition. Such curses are usually shouted by cultists who don't give a damn about either. So I'd suggest replacing "Chaos take" with "to the warp with" or "Emperor damn" or the like.
It's also worth mentioning that Adeptus Arbites and local law(lessness) enforcement organizations are two different things. The former tend to involve themselves only in matters of planetary scale (sedition, corruption interfering with planetary tithe, etc.) and usually don't deal with the local affairs. So, local LEOs are usually referred to as "Arbites" only by people with a large experience with inter-world travel, while the locals would refer to them by a local name. On the other hand, it does seem that the character is one of such folks, and here the use of this term reinforces this impression.
Also, nice use of Glossia. I wonder if Thorn and his apprentice are involved?
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I've been thinking of grabbing Rogue Trader one of these days. It intrigues me the most of the WH40K RPGs, though Deathwatch is somehow interesting, too.
I have very little WH40K experience, though, mostly playing the old Epic 40K a few times. It sounds interesting, and, well, your Dear John letter to the Traveller universe was a good analysis, too.
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