Skyhook

2019 | English | Short story | Full

(*) Photo by Manuel Boxler on Unsplash

Details

• Year: 2019
• Language: English
• Word count: 1800
• Type: Short story

Text

(A Warhammer 40,000 writing sample)

There is an old saying among the people of Katra, one of those small pieces of old-time wisdom that is passed from parents to children, as if a priceless family heirloom, somehow expecting it will be more useful to the next generation than it’s been to the last. It goes like this: “The day you run out of luck; you’ll know.”.

Sullivan Curtius had never felt particularly lucky, growing in an underdeveloped corner of a remote region of Katra, suffering the brutal, barely livable conditions of the agri-world one tends to accept and trust only the harshness of daily existence. For a planet dedicated mostly to raising enormous amounts of Grox–large reptilians that can live almost anywhere, eat almost anything and kill almost anyone–the backwater world was barely populated, with the majority of its ill-fated inhabitants concentrated in the few enclaves deserving the name “city”, and everyone else turned to stockmen scattered in the endless plains of tundra, guiding the semi-feral herds from station to station, ranch to ranch, hacienda to hacienda.

Growing up in such a place it was not uncommon to be beaten regularly by farmhands, wranglers or the local authority enforcers for no particular reason–or for very particular ones–, which was still better than being stomped, bitten or eviscerated by one of the aggressive beasts before, during, or occasionally, after the lobotomy procedure. Sullivan wouldn’t call that luck.

Still, he always wondered how you were supposed to know of such a thing. Would you notice something different in the air, like static electricity? Or maybe your subconscious would tell you “It’s over now.” in a deep, somber voice? He didn’t know, of course, but finding himself in an overcrowded speeder van, handcuffed, almost unable to breathe stale recycled air, wearing a jagged prison uniform with a rusty nameplate showing CR-4599330 as his only identification, he thought maybe, just maybe this could be considered a case of bad luck.

Chaktal was one of the many Penal worlds in the Imperium, an unremarkable one at that. Sand, dunes, desert, repeat. Detention centers had been built thousands of years ago reusing the natural cave systems found all around its surface, expanded by the inscrutable devices of the Mechanicus when and where it was deemed appropriate, until the resulting shape was like a giant, unending insect nest. Living conditions were, not entirely unsurprisingly, miserable: overcrowded cells that would shame most Hive City slums, food rationing, water rationing, air rationing; endless, meaningless work moving gigantic loads of sand from one cave to another, just to put them back where they were a few days later. Miserable indeed. That is, for all except the warden and her small entourage. A lithe old crone–ancient even–Lady Ganguly had the charm of a frenzied rattlesnake coming at you at night, deeply wrinkled skin that mirrored the landscape of her world, and short white hair that created a stark contrast with her dark, deep, old eyes. She seemed to have particularly enjoyed their last conversation, though.

“Inmate CR-4599330”, she had said in an exceptionally rare one-to-one meeting at her office, semi-closed eyes focused on a data slate lying on her lap, slowly enumerating the digits of his identification, “it seems it has been decided that you are to join the pool of candidates for a new penal battalion being formed at this very moment, here on Chaktal, to support the glorious efforts of the Imperial Guard in its pacification duties in the subsector. It is rather unusual to single out so few of you among the billions of ‘customers’ I must attend,”–she seemed to particularly enjoy her own clever phrasing there–“but I am sure you will find in this new opportunity to serve the Imperium a chance to redeem your past offences, whatever they were.”.

Just after that he had been forcedly rushed out of the room by the security guards, pushed with less consideration than usual through the poorly lit corridors of the administration area caves and directly into one of the further garages, where a speeder van full of other similarly confused prisoners was waiting for him, doors barely able to contain the bodies inside. A token guard was also there, stub guns at the ready just in case anyone got any ideas.

A sudden bump, followed by a second, more intense one, pulled Sullivan back to reality. A flickering red light and the gasps and grumbles of his fellow passengers added to the distress of the situation. Before the guards could do anything the speeder violently shook and started spinning out of control. Disoriented and somewhat grateful for all the bodies that would cushion him during the violent bumping ahead, he passed out.

“In the Emperor’s name, look what we have here!”, said a woman’s voice, her strong accent recognizable even if heavily filtered by a rebreather. “Damn my augmetic eye if it isn’t old Sul.” And raising her voice, she added “Hey, K, GroxBoy is here!”

“I remember Sullivan. You call him ‘old Sul.’ Sullivan is not old. Sullivan is also not Lucius Kapour.” answered a monotone, soulless voice from the distance, slightly muffled by the sound of the wind.

“It’s good to see you, too, Xandra. And I recall asking you to stop calling me that.” Sullivan said softly, still confused, his eyes fighting to get used to the lighting. The woman’s voice was familiar enough, having heard it a thousand times before. As was the rhythmic, emotionless tone of her personal Servitor, K2348-something-something, frequently shortened to K for pragmatic reasons. Alexandra Eze was a pragmatic woman indeed. A pragmatic, dangerous woman. Part bounty hunter, part delivery girl, a true handywoman unafraid of taking the oddest jobs on the subsector, for a price.

“I know that, half-brain, but when life gives you lemons …” Alexandra ignored him, continuing instead her pseudo-conversation with the Servitor.

“Lemons are not free. Lemons are not given.” replied the half-man, half-machine abomination. Most Servitors are designed to perform a single, simple task, but in the case of Alexandra Eze’s machine it seemed the Tech-priests of the Mechanicus added the ability to annoy her as an extra feature. How she had managed to cope with that for so long without shooting it, or at least dumping it at the nearest Forge World for repurposing was a mystery better left for another time.

“It’s an old saying, K, it means you deal with what you’ve got.” She was clearly frustrated, and not just with the Servitor’s limited communication skills. “The old witch Gungely might have been warned about our intentions and hid Lucius Kapour in another transport. Damn! I knew the bribe was not high enough, you cannot find a decent venal officer for that kind of basheesh these days …” she thought aloud.

Sullivan was now getting a clearer image of the situation. He was sitting back against a wooden crate on the metal floor of a large cargo area, standard imperial design by the looks of it, a steady rumble indicating they were en route to somewhere. In front of him, high over on the ceiling, the prison speeder van hung clumsily grabbed by a large metal arm with three long fingers the size of a man, sluggishly swinging like an oversized pendulum. So, the bumps and hits were the van being grabbed from above and dragged into this hangar. Bold.

“Maybe you should have given them lemons.” K said, trying its best to keep with the conversation.

“Oh, shut up! And keep looking for Mr. Kapour. How many prisoners are left, anyway?” Alexandra replied.

Still dizzy, Sullivan painfully, slowly stood up with the help of the crate, putting himself together the best he could. He then smiled at the svelte figure of the bounty hunter with a smug, opening his arms.

“Well, thanks for the mix-up, Xandra, I guess I’ll better go now and” he said.

“Go where? There is nowhere to go.” Interrupted the brute. Sullivan looked at the Servitor, realizing the cybernetic creature was checking the face and plate ID of a prisoner with his still—looking human right arm, while firmly holding him by the throat with his mechanical, oversized left appendage. The other prisoners were laying scattered all around the bay, most of them still unconscious or barely recovering. After making sure the prisoner in hand–a bald, old, frail man still very much dazed–was not its quarry, the Servitor unceremoniously threw him to the side, through the still open hangar floor bays and directly back to the harsh deserts of Chaktal. The poor soul didn’t even yell while falling.

“Finders, keepers; Sul!” Alexandra laughed with confidence and pointed her ancient-looking stub revolver directly at Sullivan’s nose. “Why the grim face? Don’t you miss me at all?”

Her ebony skin and close-cropped hair gave her a soldierly look, with hard eyes–one natural and one bionic, a gaudy match of black and red–that wasn’t softened by her naturally pleasing low nose and full lips, especially when hidden by a semi-transparent breathing apparatus. Clad in a well-worn leather vest armor, dusty military pants, a couple utility belts full of pouches and who-knows-what, and a machete and her old gun holder at her sides, she was in Sullivan’s mind the vivid image of an Imperial Inquisitor, not that he had ever met one.

“It’s not like my situation has improved a lot, has it?” he replied with a harsh voice, raising his hands to make sure he didn’t pose a threat. He had seen her kill before for less.

“I guess not!” she smiled. A pleasant but threatening smile. “At least there is not as slave-collar and frenzon dispenser waiting for you now, so …”

“What about them?” Sullivan interrupted. He didn’t care that much for the rest of the lot—-you don’t make many friends in a prison cave–but depending on how things went he could use the help.

“Do you really care?” she asked.

Sullivan gave a slight, unconvincing nod.

“I know you. I don’t know them.” She said in a cold, ruthless tone, while holstering her gun once she was sure Sullivan wasn’t a threat.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Xandra?”

“Some can still be sold as slaves, if the market is right. Others, not so much.” She shrugged with indifference. “How’s it going, K?”

“This one is not Lucius Kapour. This one can be sold.” the Servitor answered with a dead voice, throwing the choked prisoner back to the cold floor. He then lazily moved to grab another one.

Sullivan’s face hardened.

“What about me, then?” he dared to ask.

The bounty hunter fixed her eyes on him for a couple of seconds that seemed to last much longer, the faint sound of the mechanical crimson lens changing focus specially unsettling.

“You’re going to help me finish the job, Groxboy.” she whispered.

THE END