Tales from the Aprior Sector
A series of short stories starring the Knights Inductor and other residents of the Aprior Sector. By Not LongPoster.
The Emperasque's Verdict
The Knights Inductor stood assembled in the cavernous hangar underneath their fortress-monastery. Before them stood the Emperor Himself, in the form of the mighty Tarrasque daemon which He had summoned and possessed, there to pass judgment on the Knights and the Aprior Sector. Even the Silencers could feel the raw power embodied in Him, and everyone could sense that He was displeased.
“INQUISITOR RIGHTINA'S REPORT WAS EXTREMELY THOROUGH, AND EXTREMELY DAMNING. YOU HAVE CONSORTED WITH XENOS, HERETICS, AND MUTANTS OF EVERY VARIETY, ENGAGED IN GROSS DEVIATIONS FROM THE STC CANON, INCLUDING THE STUDY OF XENOTECHNOLOGY, AND FLAGRANTLY VIOLATED THE SPIRIT AND LETTER OF THE CODEX ASTARTES. HONESTLY, ANY ONE OF THOSE OFFENSES WOULD BE ENOUGH TO DECLARE YOU TRAITORS AND HAVE THE WHOLE SECTOR PURGED. WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY IN YOUR DEFENSE?”
Chapter Master Zakis Randi stepped forward. “My liege, we –”
He was interrupted by a clamor and clattering from under the hangar floor. Panels slid aside, revealing an elevator rising from the depths of the Torch. A fully enrobed Artisan, with a synthesized, vaguely Vostroyan or Valhallan accent, was swearing profusely over an oblong, enshrouded object, alternately pleading with and cajoling the machine spirit of whatever rested under the shroud. The Emperor's eyebrow-ridges rose in amusement at the sight, when the Artisan looked up, and saw Him for the first time.
“Oh – Omnissiah preserve me – Chapter Master Randi, I had no idea – you never said He would be here!” Zora gasped, her eye-lights wide and round.
“Just show him what your Workshop made,” Randi whispered gently.
“Oh – the device – yes!” And with a flourish, Zora whipped the shroud aside, revealing a massive weapon that looked like it had come from a Titan. As she chattered about it, Zora's confidence buoyed, and her voice became stronger. “This, Your Eminence, is our Unity-pattern gravity-manipulation mass driver. It has three barrels, so that each one has time to cool between shots, allowing us a rate of fire of two hundred rounds per second, and an underslung chainsaw bayonet if the enemy gets too close. We originally designed it for Titans and super-heavy tanks, but we built this one with a stock and external trigger for you!”
“IS IT BASED ON AN STC PATTERN?”
“No, Your Eminence!” Zora declared proudly.
“DOES IT CONTAIN REVERSE-ENGINEERED XENOTECHNOLOGY?”
“Yes, Your Eminance! The barrels are based on Tau railguns for their heat-resistance, the projectiles are based on Eldar shuriken and Tyranid borer beetles for aerodynamics, adaptive armor-piercing ability, and limited homing capacity, the moving parts are painted red so that they go faster, and the chainsaw bayonet's blades are based on Necron phase technology for superior cutting power.”
The Emperor stared dumbfounded at the weapon. “IS THERE ANYTHING OF HUMAN ORIGIN IN THIS MACHINE?”
“The accelerators are based on knowledge we gained from our study of the STC canon, the chainsaw track is based on the treads from the Land Raider, it fits on a Titan, and it was human diplomacy and ingenuity which led to its creation – I guarantee, there is no other species in the galaxy which could have built this weapon.”
The Emperor hefted the weapon, and raised it to His shoulder, sighting down the length, finally asking, “IS THERE ANY AMMUNITION?” Zora indicated a drum the size of a Crusader torso, which the Emperor took, and then vanished with a puff of purple smoke and a CRACK of displaced air. After the longest ten minutes of Randi's life, the Emperor reappeared, with a grin which stretched from ear to ear. “JUST TESTED IT IN THE EYE OF TERROR,” He explained. “LET'S JUST SAY...YOUR UNORTHODOXIES DO HAVE THEIR USES.”
Randi took that as a good sign.
Training Day
Kaptin Feegul generally liked his job. Humies never seemed to grow big enough to fight properly, but until they did, he would stand between them and the big nasties of the universe, and this “Aprior Sector” never seemed short of big nasties – from buggy Tyranid boys, to metal Necron boys, to spiky Chaos boys, there was always plenty for an Ork to do.
Still, there were some unpleasant duties which every Warboss had to face, sooner or later, like Deff, and paying Teef to your Bigger Boss, and, most frustrating of all, breaking in the new Boys. It seemed that, wherever his Shhh! went, there were more Orks willing to join him, and, somehow, he had to mold them to fit in.
And the most frustrating task of all was drilling. Orks had genetic memories of how to fight and build, but they had no idea of how to move or sneak around – that had to be taught.
Feegul surveyed the assembled Boys; every one of them eager to fight, but without discip – dissap – doing what he told them, his force would be worse than useless. “DETAIL!” he bellowed, “LEFT FACE!” And sure enough, no two boys faced the same direction when they were done. “NAW, YA GITZ – YER UVVER LEFT!” That didn't help matters – Orks had no instinct for “left” and “right,” it seemed, so he had to beat it into them. This was complicated by the fact that, sometimes, he got them mixed up himself, which meant that some of his Boys knew them one way, and the others had them the other way, and all of them were firmly convinced that they were right.
Finally, in desperation, he howled, “DETAIL! FACE DIS WAY!” And, by Gork and Mork, they did! They knew it – right out of the ground! Feegul was overjoyed. “DETAIL! FACE DAT WAY!” And they all turned back to face him – exactly the same angle and direction. Indeed, if he were asked, he would be unable to define “dis way” and “dat way,” but he somehow knew which way they ought to go – and apparently, so did his Boys! Of course, this raised the question of how he got them turned around. Perhaps...“DETAIL! FACE DA UVVER WAY!” Sure enough, he found himself facing three dozen Ork backsides.
Perhaps training the new Boys would be more enjoyable from now on.
Shadows in the Forest
Inquisitorial Stormtrooper Team Dagger Alpha Three advanced invisibly through the forests of Aprior Quartus Delta. Their goal: Wells Defense Works, the largest munitions manufacturer in the Sector, nicknamed “the Arsenal of Freedom” by the Apriori. Task Force Dagger was powerful enough to overwhelm any system, but a determined foe – and the Apriori were nothing if not determined – would exact a heavy penalty in return, unless this manufactorum could be destroyed. With D-Day only three weeks away, time was running out.
The team's leader, a man known only as 'Chief' by his squad-mates, called for a status update: “Specs, distance to target?” He and his team knew, thanks to the machine spirits in their goggles – specially gifted by one of Inquisitor Lord Damnos' Forge World contacts – but it was protocol to confirm with the electronics specialist.
“Two klicks, ETA forty-five minutes at this pace,” a severe woman's voice replied. “Estimated five hundred meters to detection perimeter.”
“Final status check. Charges?”
The team's lead demolition specialist checked his demo charges – again – and confirmed that they were in working order. “Green.”
“Weapons? Stealth systems?” Green status lights winked on his visor as each team member confirmed. “Commencing final approach to target. Commence vox silence.” The familiar hiss of the vox-caster bead ceased, and the team continued their advance.
Suddenly, the team's point-man raised his hand to halt his comrades. Pointing, he indicated a scrap barrel that – now that Chief thought about it – hadn't been there a moment ago. Chief signaled Scope to flank to the barrel's left, while he flanked to the right – was it a trap? A sensor post? Their stealth systems should keep them hidden, but it couldn't hurt to check – and it could hurt a lot to remain ignorant.
The moment of flanking the barrel proved rather anticlimactic, as there seemed to be nothing in it. Chief signaled his team to regroup, when deep, throaty laughter echoed among the trees. As one, the team turned to see a massive Ork Nob lazily sitting on a log that they had passed moments before – as if he had appeared from thin air!
“Ya get points fer observation, but yer speed needs work – whoever left dat barrel dere was a sloppy git, and ya coulda caught 'im,” the Nob said conversationally.
Specs signed, 'shall we attack?'
“Wouldn't try it if Oi was you lot,” the Nob answered – so he knew Cadian battle-sign! – “on account of dere bein' six of you, an' a dozen of us.” As he spoke, eleven Orks appeared from the undergrowth, heavily camouflaged, larger than any of the stormtroopers, and very, very well armed. “Now, technic'lly, we 'aven't seen ya do anyfing wrong, but I got da feeling dat ya ain't here ta sell Eatin' Squigs. If Oi was you, Bitty Boss, Oi'd call it a day, and ferget why ya came.” The Orks started vanishing into the forest once more, until only their Nob was left. “Remember, Da Green Shadow's always watchin' from da – er – shadows, roight? Oi dun wanna see yer mugs 'round 'ere again, or we'z gonna put yer skulls on a pointy stik ta warn da next lot of ya.”
With little choice, Chief signaled his team to abort, and they trudged away from the manufactorum, but not before he asked: “How?”
The Nob laughed again. “Yer tek-boyz are good, but they 'aven't figured out a way ta hide yer stink!” Winking at Chief, he, too, vanished, leaving the team apparently alone in the forest.
Except for the shadows, of course.