Agency of Regulative Servility (Delaque) V Brotherhood of Steel (Orlock)
The heavy thud of boot on ferrocrete echoed within the tech-chamber, the sound disappearing into the darkness above. Bunker-like and rectangular but with a vast ceiling, eight dimly lit pillars edged the space as the bulky Orlock stepped inside.
One way in, one way out he considered, scanning the interior. His servo-claw unconsciously flexed while his free hand gripped the holstered plasma pistol at his side.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, a shift in the air brought the warriors attention to the pillar on the far left as a tall and slender figure seemed to materialise from the gloom itself; somehow darker again than the surrounding shadow; bright blue orbs glowing where the eyes should be in a face too pale to be human. The Orlock didn’t move.
‘Welcome, Mr. Odin’. The drawn-out voice, or was there two, sounded at once feminine and masculine, strangely deep and sharply accented. Although the figure was clearly in front of him, the greeting emanated from all sides as if there were multiple speakers. The noise made him uncomfortable, though his iron resolve forced his eyes to maintain contact with the blue.
Odin motioned sharply with his chin and said ‘You the seer then?’
‘Indeed’ came the reply. It was short and so was Odin’s patience.
‘Get on with it then Laq,’ urged the Orlock ‘I haven’t got all fraggin day.’
Another voice, this time female but equally strange hissed from a pillar to his right ‘You’ll address the Director with respect sump scum!’
In one smooth motion Odin drew his sidearm and levelled it at the newcomers glowing blue eyes. Over the hum of accelerating plasma: ‘That so?’ he challenged.
The click-clack sound of primed weapons surrounded him and half-a-dozen more dark shapes melted out from the surrounding murk, blue eyes glaring dangerously. Odin hesitated, then lowered his pistol, spitting the sour taste in his mouth somewhere between himself and the woman as he holstered the weapon. Her pale face was a disapproving mask.
‘Thank you Mrs. Quell’ said the Director ‘Mr. Conceal, if you will.’
As if on cue the surrounding Delaque lowered their weapons and floated back into the shadows, leaving one of their number closest to Odin’s left. The ganger held out a gloved hand, proffering two data slates which Odin accepted cautiously as the man returned to the dark with his kin.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he questioned. ‘Aren’t they Laq like you?’
Ignoring the questions, the Director spoke once more. ‘You hold both the information required and payment for the assigned task Orlock. As promised, the potency of their munitions will be reduced and so will your losses.’ The disparate voice hardened, the warning clear. ‘Do not disappoint, Mr. Odin.’
‘Keep your secrets Laq,’ Odin responded sharply. ‘The Brotherhood of Steel won’t fail.’
‘Excellent.’ The Director said, drifting back into the gloom. Blue eyes flared briefly before disappearing into a distance Odin knew couldn’t exist in such a space; the voice quieter now though no less insistent, echoed from the dark all around. ‘Some lessons must be learned the hard way, Mr. Odin.’
The Orlock stepped forward several paces in the direction of the departed Delaque leader, reaching into the shadows with outstretched servo-claw. A few steps further and the weapon met solid ferrocrete. Odin exhaled a breath he didn’t know he held.
‘Impossible,’ he muttered, spitting once more before turning to leave.
A gloved hand reached out and flipped the vid-array activation switch with a sharp click. An urgent electric hum sounded then settled into background noise as the connected wall of pict-screens flared into life. The sudden illumination cast an intense light across a pale individual in black robes seated in a high-backed, and equally dark, leather chair. The figure settled back into the upholstery with a soft creak, bright blue orbs-for-eyes scanning the screens idly as black robed figures moved into several of the views.
The information was good thought Mr. Control. The Agency had ensured rival entities in the area were redirected and misinformed; the remaining resident scummers fled at the sight of his armed agents as they moved through the plasteel corridors linking one of many filthy hab-blocks to Sector 86B.
Standard secure and deliver, mused Mr. Control as he tightened his grip on the head of his ever-present cane, a symbol of his authority within the Agency. The Guild of Coin will of course retain the Agency’s service to the mutual benefit of both. The corner of his mouth twitched in an almost smile.
Tapping his comms-bead, a soft tone indicated the vox-line was ready for secure communications to his team.
‘Miss Supress, cover fire corridor right for Masters Coerce and Lockdown,’ said Mr. Control, his voice firm and authoritative. ‘Advance and secure the objective in the east-quadrant; remaining agents with me.’ His tone was calm and assertive; confidence absolute.
As the three Delaque peeled off towards their assigned sector, the surrounding agents spread out around Mr. Control in a loose formation and approached separate access doors to the north and west quadrants.
With a gesture to the nearby control consoles, a pair of agents each thumbed their respective access switches and with a well oiled hiss the doors opened. As Mr. Control moved to cross the north-door threshold, the scent of work-sweat mixed with gun-oil flowed in from the open chamber and adjoining corridor to the groups immediate right. He stopped suddenly and the agents around him froze in response. Something isn’t right he thought, blue oculars flaring in sudden wariness.
Ears straining, the faint sound of bodies and boots shifting weight in anticipation could be heard from both across the room and down the corridor. *click*. The sound of a sidearm cocking was unmistakably sharp.
With sudden urgency the Delaque leader hissed: ‘AMBUSH!’ And the scene exploded into chaos.
‘AMBUSH!’ came the voice over the pict-screens audio-out, distorted by distance and electronic crackle. Boots pounded and a thud and whistle preceded the boom of detonating frag grenade; three east-bound Delaque gangers thrown to the floor while the group surrounding Mr. Control sprung into action.
The waiting Orlock gangers were on them in seconds, launching a hail of gun-fire as they advanced on the Delaque. Return fire soon sounded and the Orlocks ducked for cover; those few rounds that did strike home appeared ineffectual, the targets first surprised then encouraged by the result.
The seated figure nodded, clearly satisfied and continued to watch as an especially brave Delaque ganger leapt into the corridor guarded by Odin, the Orlock leader in turn surrounded by his entourage. The ganger fired his web-gun, normally quite potent, the weapons’ modified solution was no more than an inconvenience to the Road Captain as he counter-charged, inflicting grievous damage with plasma pistol and servo-claw.
As more and more of the Delaque gangers fell, Mr. Control himself was assailed by a mechanical beast, sharpened tooth and claw cutting deep into the gang-leader as it struck. A bright blue flash emanated from the head of the archaic cane carried by Mr. Control, briefly interrupting the pict-stream in a flare of unleashed energy. As the vision returned, all that remained of the cyber-beast was a puddle of molten slag.
Switching his view to another screen, the figure watched as an Orlock ganger took advantage of the distraction and levelled his shotgun at the Delaque leader, discharging the firearm and sending a heavy slug into his side.
Mr. Control slumped to his knees, pain and disbelief etched his usually impassive face. The seated figure sat forward, watching intently as the Orlock leader stepped over motionless bodies to stand in front of his enemy.
The information was bad thought Mr. Control, sinking to his knees as shock set in. Something warm and wet began to run down his side. The Agency had made a mistake he considered, and he was to pay the price.
‘All Agents, retreat’ he voxed for the last time, the final word little more than a cough of blood as the bulky form of the enemy leader stepped in front of him. Mr. Control grimaced before setting his face in a resolute mask. He cast his blue eyes upward to meet those of his vanquisher.
‘Bit late for that Laq,’ Odin said, lifting a heavy boot and bringing it down with a thud.
The body of the Delaque leader hit the floor heavily and for a moment the seated figure was unsure if Odin would honour the deal; Mr. Control was to remain alive. Seconds seemed to stretch on for minutes as the Orlock appeared to contemplate his next move.
‘Move out, leave the spooks,’ Odin said finally, turning away ‘we’ve got their creds and the guild bond; that’s enough for one day.’
The Director sat back into the dark leather of his chair and watched the Orlocks depart. His head tilted slightly though his eyes never left the screens ‘Mrs. Purge,’ he said almost seemingly to himself, ‘reclamation crew to sector 86B at once.’
The heavy thud of boot on ferrocrete echoed within the tech-chamber, the sound disappearing into the darkness above. Bunker-like and rectangular but with a vast ceiling, eight dimly lit pillars edged the space as the bulky Orlock stepped inside.
One way in, one way out he considered, scanning the interior. His servo-claw unconsciously flexed while his free hand gripped the holstered plasma pistol at his side.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, a shift in the air brought the warriors attention to the pillar on the far left as a tall and slender figure seemed to materialise from the gloom itself; somehow darker again than the surrounding shadow; bright blue orbs glowing where the eyes should be in a face too pale to be human. The Orlock didn’t move.
‘Welcome, Mr. Odin’. The drawn-out voice, or was there two, sounded at once feminine and masculine, strangely deep and sharply accented. Although the figure was clearly in front of him, the greeting emanated from all sides as if there were multiple speakers. The noise made him uncomfortable, though his iron resolve forced his eyes to maintain contact with the blue.
Odin motioned sharply with his chin and said ‘You the seer then?’
‘Indeed’ came the reply. It was short and so was Odin’s patience.
‘Get on with it then Laq,’ urged the Orlock ‘I haven’t got all fraggin day.’
Another voice, this time female but equally strange hissed from a pillar to his right ‘You’ll address the Director with respect sump scum!’
In one smooth motion Odin drew his sidearm and levelled it at the newcomers glowing blue eyes. Over the hum of accelerating plasma: ‘That so?’ he challenged.
The click-clack sound of primed weapons surrounded him and half-a-dozen more dark shapes melted out from the surrounding murk, blue eyes glaring dangerously. Odin hesitated, then lowered his pistol, spitting the sour taste in his mouth somewhere between himself and the woman as he holstered the weapon. Her pale face was a disapproving mask.
‘Thank you Mrs. Quell’ said the Director ‘Mr. Conceal, if you will.’
As if on cue the surrounding Delaque lowered their weapons and floated back into the shadows, leaving one of their number closest to Odin’s left. The ganger held out a gloved hand, proffering two data slates which Odin accepted cautiously as the man returned to the dark with his kin.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he questioned. ‘Aren’t they Laq like you?’
Ignoring the questions, the Director spoke once more. ‘You hold both the information required and payment for the assigned task Orlock. As promised, the potency of their munitions will be reduced and so will your losses.’ The disparate voice hardened, the warning clear. ‘Do not disappoint, Mr. Odin.’
‘Keep your secrets Laq,’ Odin responded sharply. ‘The Brotherhood of Steel won’t fail.’
‘Excellent.’ The Director said, drifting back into the gloom. Blue eyes flared briefly before disappearing into a distance Odin knew couldn’t exist in such a space; the voice quieter now though no less insistent, echoed from the dark all around. ‘Some lessons must be learned the hard way, Mr. Odin.’
The Orlock stepped forward several paces in the direction of the departed Delaque leader, reaching into the shadows with outstretched servo-claw. A few steps further and the weapon met solid ferrocrete. Odin exhaled a breath he didn’t know he held.
‘Impossible,’ he muttered, spitting once more before turning to leave.
A gloved hand reached out and flipped the vid-array activation switch with a sharp click. An urgent electric hum sounded then settled into background noise as the connected wall of pict-screens flared into life. The sudden illumination cast an intense light across a pale individual in black robes seated in a high-backed, and equally dark, leather chair. The figure settled back into the upholstery with a soft creak, bright blue orbs-for-eyes scanning the screens idly as black robed figures moved into several of the views.
The information was good thought Mr. Control. The Agency had ensured rival entities in the area were redirected and misinformed; the remaining resident scummers fled at the sight of his armed agents as they moved through the plasteel corridors linking one of many filthy hab-blocks to Sector 86B.
Standard secure and deliver, mused Mr. Control as he tightened his grip on the head of his ever-present cane, a symbol of his authority within the Agency. The Guild of Coin will of course retain the Agency’s service to the mutual benefit of both. The corner of his mouth twitched in an almost smile.
Tapping his comms-bead, a soft tone indicated the vox-line was ready for secure communications to his team.
‘Miss Supress, cover fire corridor right for Masters Coerce and Lockdown,’ said Mr. Control, his voice firm and authoritative. ‘Advance and secure the objective in the east-quadrant; remaining agents with me.’ His tone was calm and assertive; confidence absolute.
As the three Delaque peeled off towards their assigned sector, the surrounding agents spread out around Mr. Control in a loose formation and approached separate access doors to the north and west quadrants.
With a gesture to the nearby control consoles, a pair of agents each thumbed their respective access switches and with a well oiled hiss the doors opened. As Mr. Control moved to cross the north-door threshold, the scent of work-sweat mixed with gun-oil flowed in from the open chamber and adjoining corridor to the groups immediate right. He stopped suddenly and the agents around him froze in response. Something isn’t right he thought, blue oculars flaring in sudden wariness.
Ears straining, the faint sound of bodies and boots shifting weight in anticipation could be heard from both across the room and down the corridor. *click*. The sound of a sidearm cocking was unmistakably sharp.
With sudden urgency the Delaque leader hissed: ‘AMBUSH!’ And the scene exploded into chaos.
‘AMBUSH!’ came the voice over the pict-screens audio-out, distorted by distance and electronic crackle. Boots pounded and a thud and whistle preceded the boom of detonating frag grenade; three east-bound Delaque gangers thrown to the floor while the group surrounding Mr. Control sprung into action.
The waiting Orlock gangers were on them in seconds, launching a hail of gun-fire as they advanced on the Delaque. Return fire soon sounded and the Orlocks ducked for cover; those few rounds that did strike home appeared ineffectual, the targets first surprised then encouraged by the result.
The seated figure nodded, clearly satisfied and continued to watch as an especially brave Delaque ganger leapt into the corridor guarded by Odin, the Orlock leader in turn surrounded by his entourage. The ganger fired his web-gun, normally quite potent, the weapons’ modified solution was no more than an inconvenience to the Road Captain as he counter-charged, inflicting grievous damage with plasma pistol and servo-claw.
As more and more of the Delaque gangers fell, Mr. Control himself was assailed by a mechanical beast, sharpened tooth and claw cutting deep into the gang-leader as it struck. A bright blue flash emanated from the head of the archaic cane carried by Mr. Control, briefly interrupting the pict-stream in a flare of unleashed energy. As the vision returned, all that remained of the cyber-beast was a puddle of molten slag.
Switching his view to another screen, the figure watched as an Orlock ganger took advantage of the distraction and levelled his shotgun at the Delaque leader, discharging the firearm and sending a heavy slug into his side.
Mr. Control slumped to his knees, pain and disbelief etched his usually impassive face. The seated figure sat forward, watching intently as the Orlock leader stepped over motionless bodies to stand in front of his enemy.
The information was bad thought Mr. Control, sinking to his knees as shock set in. Something warm and wet began to run down his side. The Agency had made a mistake he considered, and he was to pay the price.
‘All Agents, retreat’ he voxed for the last time, the final word little more than a cough of blood as the bulky form of the enemy leader stepped in front of him. Mr. Control grimaced before setting his face in a resolute mask. He cast his blue eyes upward to meet those of his vanquisher.
‘Bit late for that Laq,’ Odin said, lifting a heavy boot and bringing it down with a thud.
The body of the Delaque leader hit the floor heavily and for a moment the seated figure was unsure if Odin would honour the deal; Mr. Control was to remain alive. Seconds seemed to stretch on for minutes as the Orlock appeared to contemplate his next move.
‘Move out, leave the spooks,’ Odin said finally, turning away ‘we’ve got their creds and the guild bond; that’s enough for one day.’
The Director sat back into the dark leather of his chair and watched the Orlocks depart. His head tilted slightly though his eyes never left the screens ‘Mrs. Purge,’ he said almost seemingly to himself, ‘reclamation crew to sector 86B at once.’
