Serial Blog Post

The Herald of Night

Part IV

Jearin’s head was a jumble of rage, frustration, and pain. At least here, in the middle of New Valoria’s poor district (poorer than the rest, he supposed) people minded their damned business. He didn’t have to put up with any stares, snide comments or worse, ‘Are you okays?’ while he stumbled to Seager’s.

Like most of New Valoria, the old district was a maze of boring, monotone rockcrete and plasteel, easy to get lost in had Jearin not grown up there. And that was before the knee to the head. There were differences of course. Here, there weren’t as many city enforcers for one. The shops had stalls that danced dangerously close to the streets, and the smoke from the manufactorium districts was a constant veil that stained the world a miserly soot brown. It brought with it the scent of industry, and that mixed with other aromas that accompanied the squalor of a busy city. That Emperor forsaken soup of a stench was the strongest contrast. Acrid and vicious, he only seemed to notice it when things were going wrong. It was as if the city itself were out to get him.

In the thin lines of pristine sky above, a stark contrast to the dusty, filthy streets that separated the blocks of grimy structures below, engine flashes lit up the night, practically the only stars Jearin could see this far into the city. They replaced the stars the woman had planted in his head earlier with her knee, though Jearin wondered if a few of those still lingered. Falian Station shined like a guiding star above. And as always, Rasmos Alpha, staring down at Jearin as he arrived at Seager’s place, judging him, hounding him.

Jearin stumbled in and slammed the door behind him. “Well, that was fun,” Jearin said, leaning back against the heavy wooden door and sliding down onto his haunches. “Thanks for letting me stay the night old man.” He hadn’t asked, but Seager was used to his arriving at odd hours and unannounced.

Seager guffawed from behind his desk, a large metal work bench that took up nearly one full corner of the large room that was Seager’s workshop and home. The workbench was cluttered, like the rest of the place, like Jearin’s mind just now. Only more so. Tools and unfinished projects were strewn across the surface, hiding dried puddles of oil and recaf stained schematics and note sheets. Boxes and yet more projects, too large to fit on the work bench, were strewn in a haphazard manner across the home.  There was a sofa and a pair of chairs in the middle of it all, a tiny island of peace and relative organization amidst a sea of confusion and chaos.

Behind a pile of boxes to Jearin’s right, filled with scrap metal and, Jearin imagined, spiders and other critters, was the fireplace. He’d only seen it once, when Seager had taken him in as a boy. Next to the work bench was a cot that was Seager’s bed, weighed down with books and Seager’s tool boxes. On the ground next to it was a neat pile of blankets and pillows which was where Seager actually slept.

Jearin placed his head in his hands, his annoyance at the mess causing the pain in his head to blossom. “You know, we’re going to have to clean this junk pile up one day. It’s driving me nuts. Emperor’s ball’s man, you’ve got a pile of sticks in the corner.”

Seager shot up from his stool, his kindly blue eyes blown into comical proportion by a pair of goggles that helped the man with his poor site when he was working. “Watch your tongue, boy. I’ve told you a million times, I’ll have none of that talk in my home. And you touch anything in here without asking and you can sleep on the back porch.” Seager had a way of sounding intimidating when he didn’t look it. His face was jovial, no matter what was happening. His thick, white beard was a tangle of stray hairs and unintentional braids. His hair, shoulder length and of identical hue, was the only pristine thing in the place. It was slicked back and shining and Jearin could smell the floral soap he used from across the room.

“And the sticks are for the fireplace. You’re always whining about not being able to use it.”

Jearin’s eyebrows quirked in amusement. “I usually sleep outside anyway.” He motioned to the boxes. “And you mean that fireplace? The one I can’t get to without moving stuff which will get me kicked out? I’m fine by the way, thanks for asking.”

Seager sighed, as he always did, with his shoulders. An exaggerated lift followed by a dramatic and sudden drop accompanied a hurricane force exhalation of annoyed worry. Jearin didn’t have to see it. He knew it, knew Seager better than knew the city streets. It was one of the few things that still made him feel bad. Guilting the old man, playing on his emotions, it was almost too much for him to handle. Almost. He knew he was being an ass. That counted for something, he told himself. He was still a good guy.

Tomon Seager was a big man in almost every sense of the word. As the barrel-chested man rose fully from his work bench and placed his goggles down gently on the work bench, Jearin smiled wistfully. Jearin was a good bit taller than most of the people he passed on the street. Seager was taller by a full two heads than he. The old man covered the distance between the two in four long, purposeful strides, his bare feet thudding on the ferrocrete floor with the immensity of a power armored tread. The old man wasn’t subtle, and did everything with a mighty intensity, even when doing something as simple as walking.

He crouched down, still towering over Jearin and took his head in his hands with a gentleness that betrayed his powerful frame. “Let us see.” He held Jearin’s eyes opened and squinted, turning his head side to side. His hands were calloused, with long, thick fingers knobbed like old branches. They were nearly big enough to wrap around Jearin’s skull. Had been when he was just a boy.

Jearin couldn’t help but smile. When he was just a boy, and the silver in Seager’s hair had yet to migrate south of his temples, the old man would put him to bed at night with tales of the God Emperor and his Avenging Angels, the Astartes. Space Marines. He had spoken of them with reverence and awe. They were nigh immortal warriors, immune to fear, pain, and suffering. They were taller than the tallest man by full meters and strong enough to lift a ground car. Seager had laughed his rare, thunderous laugh when Jearin had asked him if he was a Space Marine. “I’m not brave enough, not strong enough, not worthy enough to join the Emperor’s angels of death, my boy.” Always humble, always kind.

Seager’s breath was warm on Jearin’s face as he spoke, the smell of bitter recaff mixed with the sweetness of south-island flame a welcome reprieve from the less enjoyable smells of the city. Even to this day, Seager wouldn’t admit to spiking his caffeine with the liquor. Not to Jearin, anyway. He was a pious man, but Seager had always said everyone was allowed one vice. Alcohol was his. But, Jearin suspected guilt wasn’t why he hid it. He was still trying to hide the soul crushing truth from Jearin. Despite all his bombastic piety, despite all his talk about how a life filled with service in the Emperor’s name was a fulfilling one, Seager knew that truth. Life was hell. Life was torture. You had to do whatever you could to get through the day. You had to find your drug, your cure. The thing that numbed the pain of your worthless existence. Seager still hoped that faith in The God Emperor would be Jearin’s.

“You’ve taken a right good blow to the face, my boy.” Seager turned Jearin’s head to the side and nodded. “Yep. A right good smash.” He let go and stood up, hands on his hips. “No concussion, but whomever hit you did a right good job. I’ll get you something for the pain. No ice right now, so a damp rag will have to do. Lay yourself down.”

The old man motioned to the sofa as he went to the kitchenette across from the door. Jearin nodded and rose slowly, fresh starbursts blossoming across his vision. The faucet coughed and sputtered for a moment before fresh, filtered water trickled slowly out. Jearin threw his coat onto one of the chairs flanking the sofa before plopping himself down onto it. “Boots off, you little heathen,” Seager barked.

With a wry grin, Jearin did as Seager ordered, untying them and scooting them off to the side. “So, you got the filter working but now the ice maker is broken?” Jearin leaned back and laid his head down, dull, yellow street light leaking through the sunroof above and into his eyes.

Seager chuckled. “Aye. That’s the way of the galaxy. When you fix one thing, another breaks. Always work to be done, never time to rest.”

“Do you ever hear yourself talk, old man?” Jearin winced, the pain shortening his temper. “Sorry.”

Seager turned off the faucet and walked over to Jearin, his bulk and kindly face filling his field of vision. “Here you are,” he said, placing a cool, damp rag over Jearin’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Jearin mumbled. He melted into the old sofa, the coolness of the rag and the cloudlike softness of the worn out cushions a welcome, if superficial reprieve from the pain blossoming in his skull. “Sorry I’ve not been around much.”

Seager slurped loudly from his recaff as he sat down onto the free chair. “You say that every month you come in unannounced. As always, no reason for an apology. This is as much your home as it is mine. Wiped your snotty nose in this place, fed you, nursed you to health when you were sick.” Seager trailed off and slurped from his recaff again. “It’s nice to have the company anyway.”

Jearin’s stomach turned over. “Not much business these days?”

“Ah, you know how it goes. Ebbs and flows. But the Emperor will provide, as He always does. Just remember your prayers and all will be well.”

“Prayers,” Jearin said, pressing the wet rag hard to his face. “I’d rather you had something more tangible.” The old man would have had something more tangible if the deal hadn’t gone sour.

Jearin prepared for a rebuke. Instead, Seager just chuckled. “As would I. Prayer will do for now.” He sighed his heavy, mountainous sigh. “And I didn’t say that for sympathy. I meant it. It’s good to have you home, boy. Even if it is to take care of a bump on the head.”

Jearin’s stomach continued turning itself into knots. “I appreciate it, old man. Still. I’ll try to visit when I don’t need something. I owe you that, at the very least. After all you’ve done.”

“You’re a grown man. You got a life to live. You’ve got a job…”

Jearin felt the words like they were aimed at his heart. Seager didn’t mean it that way, just as he hadn’t been looking for sympathy. But, when it came to Jearin, the old man wielded his emotions, his disappointment, with all the grace of an industrial wrecker. “Seager,” Jearin started, but a gentle touch on the shoulder and a reassuring squeeze silenced him.

“Rest, boy. We’ll talk tomorrow, aye?”

Jearin didn’t argue. He just nodded and allowed himself to sink further into the couch that had long been his bed. No matter how old he got, no matter how big he got, it still fit him just perfectly. As he began to doze off, Seager threw a blanket over him, its warm embrace welcoming him home. Jearin smiled. “Thank you.”

He felt Seager kneel beside him. “Holy Emperor, hear me. Protect Jearin. Guide him back to health as you guided him back to me this night. I ask nothing for myself, only that you heal him.” Jearin’s stomach did one final twist, and he thought he might be sick. He remembered suddenly why he never came back. Jearin’s smile faded. He wasn’t a good human being. He hadn’t deserved the old man. He never would.

As sleep took him, his mind filled with dark and terrible thoughts. He dreamed of avenging angels, stars, and evil eyes.

________________________________________

This is a work of fiction based on the Warhammer 40,000 universe created by Games-Workshop Ltd. I will remove this work upon request.

Serial Blog Post

Okay. Part three was a bit of a struggle at times. I knew what I wanted to happen. Or at least, I thought I did. I didn’t want to take too much time over thinking it, so I just tried to roll with the punches. Almost literally, at least for Jearin here. So, here’s the next part. Hope you guys enjoy. As always, next to no editing so…it’s rough. But, I had some fun writing this and can’t wait to see what trouble Jearin gets into next. It’s bound to be a lot.

The Herald of Night

Part III

“This is it?” The buyer half asked, half snorted. He held up the black cube with the strange markings carved into its surface, its edges slightly green and glowing gently in the gloom. Between the snort, the half missing nose and large, gnarled ears, the buyer would have looked rather piggish were he not stick thin. He even smelled like one.

Jearin wrinkled his nose and moved the conversation forward before he gagged. “What do you mean, ‘this is it?’ Red? You’re holding a xenos artifact in your hand. That’s what you asked for, yeah?”

Red snorted again and looked back at the two figures that stood next to the statue of Lord Solar Auletia, commander of the Imperial expedition that had brought Rasmos back into compliance. The verdigris that filled the irises of her bronze eyes gave them false life and she appeared to stare disapprovingly at the transaction unfolding beneath her. Jearin wished Red had picked a different spot to meet, suddenly.

One of the figures was a burly, mountain of a man with tattoos snaking up and down his arms, like vines wrapped around the sculpted, corded muscle of an ancient statue. He had no augmentations that Jearin could see. What Jearin could see was fear, and the man’s eyes all but screamed ‘coward’ where his face was a rather well acted attempt at stoicism.

It was the woman that had Jearin worried. She was slight, a head shorter than he, and similarly clad in a coat that concealed what was no doubt an arsenal of weapons. It also hid bionics, and not the trashy kind you could get on the cheap in any back alley. Her movement had been too fluid, her tread too heavy.

Red turned back. “It’s a damn rock, Jearin. You want me to pay ten-thousand credits for a rock?”

“Not a rock,” Jearin said, holding out his hand. Red plopped it into the open palm. It was as light as a feather despite its appearance. Jearin took a knife out from under his coat and the two figures flinched, stopped only by a wave from Red. Jearin could have used any of a dozen metal tools he had in his pocket to demonstrate, but he had to be sure. The woman was definitely sporting bionics. Jearin grinned at Red. “Your associates a little jumpy?”

Red snorted and wiped away a bit of snot as it leaked from the scared opening in his nose. “Never can be too careful, certainly not around smugglers.”

Jearin’s grin only grew wider, if only to hide his growing unease. “Careful? Around me? Only one of us works for a man who’s killed a hundred people. I should be distrustful of you.”

“You don’t work for anyone, boy. And if this is all you brought me, you damn well better be worried.”

“Exactly,” Jearin said as he tapped his knife against the onyx cube. It sang a metallic note and Red’s brow twitched as he tried to hide his surprise. “See? Not a rock. Now, your associates can stand down.”

“Okay, you brought me a metal cube instead of a stone cube. You still think that’s worth ten thousand credits?”

“I do,” Jearin said, tossing it back to Red. “A deal’s a deal. You asked for a xenos artefact. I snuck past the patrols, got it, brought it back, and here I am. Ten thousand credits.” Jearin held out his hand.

Red snorted and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “This isn’t an artefact. This is a piece of metal with xenos runes on it.”

Jearin shrugged and shook his hand, the unease in his gut growing as he eyed the pair behind Red and the growing shadows, like fingers stretching out to grasp him. “Easy enough to sell to some noble for twice what you paid for it. Maybe more.”

The burly man spoke from beneath the statue, his voice sharp and edges with a soft quiver like a slightly off tuned string instrument. “Yeah, well, why don’t you sell it to the nobles for that much?”

Jearin pointed at the man. “Sell to a noble, your more likely to get caught by the authorities. Especially if they don’t like what I’m selling.”

“What if I don’t like what you’re selling?” Red asked, his voice deepening in tenor where the burly man’s had been high. It was the difference between an experienced musician and a novice; a killer and a thug. The problem was, it was the silent ones, Jearin had learned, that you had to fear most. He had watched the woman more closely out of the corner of his eye, waiting with bated breath for her part to come in, loud and final. Her silence was the silence before the crescendo.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I? And you aren’t likely to run with the Arbites. Even you aren’t that stupid.”

“Careful,” Red growled. “Be very careful, Jearin. You’re on thin ice.” Red turned the cube over and ran a finger along the runes. “Tell you what. Tell me what it says. Tell me what it does. Show me this is a real artifact. Then, and only then, will I give you the ten thousand you think you’re owed.”

Red felt sweat trickle down his spine along with the sense of unease. His limbs tensed, his mind sharpened. This wasn’t going to end well. “That’ll be one hundred thousand,” Jearin said, his voice conveying none of the unease he felt.

The burly man stepped forward, but the woman stopped him in his tracks with a metal hand wrapped around his wrist. He looked back angrily but the retort in his throat died there beneath her icy glare. Red glanced back momentarily, then returned to Jearin. “I beg your pardon?”

Jearin licked his lips. “One hundred thousand, and I take this home and find out if it does something. You pay me that, and I’ll do all sorts of experiments with this Emperor forsaken hunk of metal. But you pay me, even if it turns out to be just as I said, piece of metal.”

Red’s face went blank and Jearin fought the urge to reach for his pistol. This was going to end worse than he thought. “You think this is a game, boy? The boss wanted real xenos tech. Something worth more than money. One of those glowing green swords the old timers tell us about. Or a shield or something the boss can use. Not a mantel piece!”

“No, this isn’t a game,” Jearin replied, sweat pooling on his brow. “That’s why it’ll cost you one hundred thousand. It’s bad enough that I have to sneak onto a planet that’s been quarantined by the Imperium. Now, you want me to play with xenos tech? My face might melt off, I might blow up a city block. Emperor’s balls, man, I might lose my soul. You think that sort of risk comes free?

“And a sword? As hard as it was to get this piece of metal out, this was nothing compared to the red zones. That’s where all the good stuff is. That’s where those ships with the big “I” on their sides float about. That’s where the Imperium patrols most densely. And they’re not even the scariest part. Little metal bugs that flit around and tear your skin off, unstable gravity fields that might shoot you a thousand meters into the air, or traps that shot lightning and turn you into a cinder. You want something from there? You best pay me enough to buy my own yacht. You get what you pay for, Red. Now, pay up.”

“Or what?” Red said, dropping the cube and stepping forward. His scent was overpowering and Jearin couldn’t help himself. He cringed, coughed and stepped back.

“Fine,” Jearin said, regaining himself. He leaned down to grab the cube, the motion stopped by a boney hand as Red pushed him back. Jearin’s fingers twitched. “I’ll take the cube and go. Find another buyer.”

“Nah,” Red said. “We’ll take the cube. But, I’m generous fellow. You tell me what the runes say, and I’ll give you five.”

Jearin flex his fingers and forced to himself to meet Red, eye to eye, forced down the bile that built up in the back of his throat. “I can barely read High Gothic. You think I know what those xenos runes mean?”

Red snorted. “I happen to know you do. You play with all this xenos tech, deal it out to buyers, and you’re telling me you don’t know a rune or two? For lying, it’s now four thousand.”

Jearin glanced between Red, his two goons, the cube, the statue and the setting sun. Curfew was almost upon them. “I told you, I don’t know what it says.”

Red shook his head and sneered. “You don’t get it. For wasting my time, the price is now your head. You don’t tell me, I kill you. Tell me, and you walk away without any trouble.” Red reached back behind him. The woman twitched.

Jearin didn’t even think. He struck with his left palm and heard a sickening crack as he caved in what remained of Red’s ruined nose. As the thin man tumbled backward, Jearin reached for his auto-pistol with his other hand.

It was the burly man who drew down first. He slung a shotgun over his shoulder and leveled it at Jearin, but Jearin paid him no mind. His attention was on the woman as she pulled a power maul from under her jacket and broke into a run. “Don’t shoot him,” the woman growled as she covered the distance between them in the time it took Jearin to draw. Jearin was quick. He Not the quickest, but he knew he wouldn’t be cheated when the situation called for it. He wasn’t quick enough here.

The woman struck his hand with the maul and jolt of pain surged up Jearin’s arm, his pistol flying into the gloom. Weather by luck or poor design, the woman hadn’t activated the energy field on the weapon. It looked exactly like one of the mauls wielded by the Arbites, and Jearin knew he might have lost his arm had it been active. He recovered and ducked the return swing, but before he could strike, the woman’s knee struck him in the face and sent him sprawling backward.

Stars danced and filled his vision, joining the multitude of natural and artificial lights that filled the darkening sky. It was strangely beautiful, and Jearin spent a moment admiring it as his mind slowly processed what had happened. The woman and the burly man filled his vision, obstructing his view of the sky, but the stars still danced. “Sure I can’t shoot him?” the burly man asked.

The woman shook her head. “My boss said she wanted him alive and mostly unharmed.” She pointed the maul at Jearin’s face as he made a move to get up. His heart raced as his senses flooded back into real time, the dull numbness on his forehead the precursor to painful bump to come. Assuming he lived, anyway. Maybe he would die. Maybe he’d be tortured. Maybe he could reach the knife in his boot. As Jearin’s heart raced, his mind slowed, processing the information at hand and analyzing all the possible ways this could end. All the possible ways his life could end and trying to find out how to avoid it.

“To hell with your boss, you work for me,” Red snarled as he got up on shaky knees, blood gushing from his broken nose. He glared down at Jearin. “That boy’s hide is mine. I don’t care what your boss wanted with him, or the artifact.”

“Curfew is in effect!” A voice cut through the gloom. The woman, Red and the Burly man turned to the voice, no doubt a city guard. It was all Jearin needed. He bolted up and grabbed the cube. He hadn’t lied about how hard it was to get to Rasmos Alpha. He also hadn’t lied about all the dangers. He had lied when he said he couldn’t read the script and that he didn’t know what the cube did.

“Light of the sun,” was the closest translation. The script was so old, so alien, even the simplest phrases were hard to decipher exactly. It wasn’t quite a flash or stun grenade, but it would do just fine here. With a click and a twist, Jearin activated the cube. He turned his eyes away as the other three turned towards him. It flashed with white hot light. Red, the woman and the burly man let out a simultaneous curse that would have been amusing were Jearin not fighting for his life.

The distraction gave Jearin the time he needed. He was on his feet and bolting through the woods as fast he could, branches and bushes smacking and cutting his face. “After him,” he heard behind, but no footsteps. The city guard must have been stunned as well, but that wouldn’t last. Jearin broke from the trees and headed right for the brick wall, not bothering to find an entrance. He leapt and scrambled up the side and over the top with ease. He had lived his entire life on the streets of the capital. This wasn’t the first time he’d run from the city guard, wasn’t the first time he’d had to jump a wall. It wouldn’t be the last. He grunted as his feet struck the ferrocrete sidewalk, ignoring the handful of gasps and stares he got from passerby.

Most people had the good sense to ignore what happened on the streets, so long as it didn’t affect them. But there were still those too nosey to mind their own damn business. Jearin had half a mind to stop and punch each and every one of them. He might have done so were he not running for his life, but then, if he hadn’t been running for his life, he wouldn’t be this irritated and they wouldn’t have had a reason to stare.

Jearin dodged a street car, its horn blaring and ducked down an alleyway. He followed the winding paths behind the scenes of the busy streets until his lungs burned, each breath like the backwash from a lander.

Jearin leaned against the alley wall and slumped down to the floor as he caught his breath. He cursed and smacked his fist against his palm. “Stupid,” Jearin said. “So stupid. Why’d you do that? Why’d you agree to meet Red alone?”

As his heart slowed, his mind began to race and Jerain’s hands shook with a mixture of rage and leftover adrenalin. His mind jumped from one thing to another, bouncing from emotion to emotion, scenario to scenario, and then back again. He was grateful that his mind was calm in the middle of a life or death situation, but the rush of nerves after was almost unbearable. He was ready to fight, his body in a primal state of survival, but he had no one to strike out at.  Only himself. “Stupid!” Jerain roared.

A trashcan tumbled over and Jearin shot to his feet, hand reaching for his pistol. He cursed again. It was still in the park. He sighed as a scrawny little boy crawled out from behind a pile of refuse. He was a sorry sight, and not least of which because his clothing was tattered and worn, his face caked in grime. Jearin sighed, his shoulders slumping. The kid wiped at his mouth and sniffed. “You got any credits, sir?”

Jearin frowned. Another feeling, one worse than fear and anger, crept into his heart. Sympathy reared its ugly head. “Sorry, kid,” Jearin said. “Just got robbed for all my worth. But if you’re feeling limber, check out Cylian’s on the corner of Imperator Avenue and Victrix Lane. The lady there gives out free bread to poor little wretched like you.”

“I’m no wretch,” the boy spat. He threw a piece of garbage and Jearin scampered off down the alley.

Jearin shrugged again and turned to go his own way, the numbness in his head slowly giving way to a dull ache. “Yeah,” Jearin said. “Same kid. I’m no wretch either.”

________________________________________

This is a work of fiction based on the Warhammer 40,000 universe created by Games-Workshop Ltd. I will remove this work upon request.

Serial Blog Post

The Herald of Night

Part II

Rasmos III Beta, one hundred and fifty years later

Jearin Salvos. Smuggler, thief, wretch, heathen, all around decent human being. The latter was what he called himself when things got rough. And they usually were. It was what he told himself he was when he stiffed the bar tender a hundred credits after a night of hard drinking. It was what he repeated into the mirror, face covered in blood after a deal gone wrong. The buyer’s blood, with a dash of brain matter above the lip after he’d shot him between the eyes. It was what he told himself as he stared down at the fifty-thousand credits he’d taken from the buyer’s body. That, and it was his by right anyway. Decent human being. Yes, he called himself that a lot. He just didn’t believe it any more. It was simply habit.

With a sardonic grunt, Jearin leaned back against the red brick wall that lined Victrix Park and took a drag from his lho-stick. Victrix Park was a one-hundred square mile patch of greenery grafted into the rusted steel heart of New Valoria, Rasmos Beta’s capital. It was newer than the city itself, inserted a century ago after the Imperium had smashed the rebellion that had taken hold in the Rasmos system. He thought it a rather kind reminder of awaited rebellion, traitors, and heretics. At least, compared to the reminder they had left hanging in the sky above. If Victrix Park was a gentle show of the Imperium’s majesty, Rasmos Alpha, that still weeping scar in the evening sky, was a painful and not so subtle expression of the Imperium’s wrath.

A thin line of glowing magma, erupting from tortured tectonic plates, split the planet down the middle, pulsing with malice and the echoes of the destruction unleashed a century ago. If he hadn’t been there recently, Jearin might have believed it was the eye of a slumbering beast from one of old Seager’s ancient fairytales. If he had been a religious man, and Holy Emperor knows he wasn’t, he might have feared that that eye would snap open at any moment and sear his heathen soul.

Jearin took another drag of his lho-stick as he contemplated the burning eye and his lack of decency, the sweet burn of the narcotic smoke stinging the back of his throat as it drifted into his lungs. He held it there for a moment until the edge of his vision vibrated and his eardrums began to hum like a distant swarm of insects. He dropped the lho-stick and snuffed it out with his boot, the tension of the upcoming meeting drifting away with the cloud of exhaled smoke. No matter how many times he’d made a deal, he still had nerves. That, he told himself, was just another example of how descent a human being he was. He knew what he was doing was wrong. No self-respecting Imperial citizen would sell xenos tech, after all. He had a conscience. That, and a strong sense of self preservation. Mostly that. If one of the Adeptus Arbites found him with xeno tech, he was as good as dead. If the buyer didn’t like the product? He might be dead. Or injured. Or, weapons discharges would alert the local guard or the Arbites. In which case, he was dead. A million things could go wrong.

Jearin shivered as a harsh breeze cut through the park, the leaves of the myriad trees whispering as the cool air gave them life. He pulled his leather trench coat tight around him, thankful that it was useful for more than just hiding xenos artifacts and weapons. Jearin nodded to a young couple as they strode by, richly colored clothing and extravagant hair styles waving in the wind. His dark gaze lingered on the young woman’s backside as they passed. He ran his fingers through neck length, onyx hair and his bottom lip flattened out. She wasn’t half bad, not for a rich woman. Neither was her partner, truth be told. No bionics. Rare, and attractive in of itself. Rare for a person of wealth, anyway.

As they passed, the wind carried her scent with it. Or maybe it was the lucky, horse faced twig that walked with her. It was a powerful, nose stinging odor, like some Emperor forsaken concoction of spices and citrus. It made his nose wrinkle and he wondered how the planet’s nobles could stand to smell that way. He’d rather smell like he crawled through a river of shit, and he often did. The smell of money, filthy rich money, was more repulsive than sewer water. Sewer water was just waste; byproduct of food and nutrients, flushed away to be forgotten. Money smelled the same way, just, never forgotten. It was constantly flushed down upon people like him, a constant reminder of how unlucky he was to come from a poor woman’s womb.

Jearin reached into his pocket and ran a thumb over back of his auto pistol’s handle. How he’d love to end their pampered lives and steal their money. He sighed and let go of the pistol. Funny thing about life. If you have money, connections, you can get away with a lot of things. Murder, for one. They could have killed him, and no one would have batted an eyelash. He didn’t have those things. No one would miss him. Someone surely would miss them.

He’d be dead inside a week. They did have connections, sure as he didn’t. An Arbites squad would have hunted Jearin down and put a slug into the back of his skull. That’s if he was lucky. With the money they had, their families would have hired someone a lot more creative than the single minded Arbites. Another funny thing about life. A scalpel, small and seemingly insignificant, was a hell of a lot more painful than a hammer.

The couple turned to their right and made their way out of the park. Jearin looked about as the sun began to touch the grey and steel horizon, manufactorum smoke muting the radiance and bruising the sky as darkness began to descend. Jearin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a golden watch. It was a fine imitation of an ancient Terran design. Hardly practical, as Jearin had to wind it up every morning. But something about the weight, the honest machinery of it gave him a comfort. It wasn’t alien tech, it wasn’t some arcane clock of unknown make, thrice blessed by devotees of the Machine God. It was a bunch of gears and cogs that counted down the seconds. Nothing more, nothing less.

He flipped open the gold facing and read the hands as Seager had taught him. He cursed. Even if he was ahead of schedule, he’d waited too long. Curfew was less than an hour away. If he was caught in the park after that, the city police would be the least of his worries. Good thing was, while the park emptied out and the local black helmets changed shifts, it was a perfect time to make a deal of this kind.

Jearin cleared his throat and began a brisk walk towards the park’s forest. He gave one more look around, just to make sure he wasn’t being watched, then broke into a run. The sooner he had his money and was out of the Victrix Park, the better. As the shadowed eaves of the woods loomed over him, he couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched. “Yeah, well,” he thought out loud. “What else is new?”

________________________________________

This is a work of fiction based on the Warhammer 40,000 universe created by Games-Workshop Ltd. I will remove this work upon request.

Serial blog post

Well, it’s been a minute. And I’m here to tell you, it may be another minute. But, I’m hoping to give myself a reason to keep this damn thing going. In the coming months, in order to give myself something to do beyond beat myself up over the shape of my novel, I’m going to try and post a serial. Based in one of my favorite universes, Warhammer 40,000, the virtues of which I have extolled in my previous posts, this is just another creative outlet that doesn’t require a ton of work on my part. Just, fun. Or whatever.

I’m hoping this will help break the dam that’s built up in my head over the last month or so and help me break through this writer’s block. There will be minimum proofreading and editing. In part, because I want to see how far I’ve come. Mostly though, I just want to force myself to write without having to worry about how (im)perfect my writing is. So, without further rambling, this is Called the Herald of Night. It’s is based on a bit of fluff and head canon that I’ve had for a long time. Hope you enjoy.

This is a work of fiction based on the Warhammer 40,000 universe created by Games-Workshop Ltd. I will remove this work upon request.
The Herald of Night.

Part I

A star was born, and the fury of its christening illuminated the dim confines of the observation deck of the Inevitable Judgment. Inquisitor Haverman squinted slightly, the implants in his eyes adjusting too slowly, something they were prone to doing more and more as he reached his one hundred and seventieth year.

A trio of servo skulls hummed as they descended from the shadowed eaves of the vaulted ceiling above, empty eye sockets glowing a dull, ominous red. They came to life with a droning whir and circled their master. The voices of their owners had long ago been stolen, only able to speak now in a stream of yellow parchment that spilled from jawless mouths.

Inquisitor Haverman turned from the birth of another star as its terrible light bled into the observation deck. It was the light of judgment. The light that preceded the death of a world. He took hold of the parchment spilling from the nearest servo skull. So much death. So much loss. So little need. Yet, necessary. Required. The searing light of the newborn star began to die, its halo replaced slowly by a wall of incandescent fire, violet lightning spreading outward from its molten cradle like the fingers of death.

Another star was born, its birth more magnificent and terrible than the last. And then, another. Inquisitor Haverman clenched his eyes shut. He let the parchment slip from his boney grasp and pressed a branchlike finger to his temple. It wasn’t the light that tormented him. It was the wailing, the cries of a billion souls as they echoed across the immaterium, a haunting and otherworldly symphony that always accompanied the birth of those terrible stars and the deaths of worlds. How beautiful, how terrible, how awesome. How easy it was.

The power to destroy a world, to end billions of lives. That was the power at his command. That was the responsibility that he had to shoulder. That was why, whenever he ordered the death of a world, Inquisitor Haverman chose to observe from the observation deck of his Black Ship. Away from the cold, dreadful silence of the nulls that haunted the halls of the Inevitable Judgment, Inquisitor Haverman could hear and feel the consequences of his responsibly. Of course, he could never allow guilt to cloud his judgment. That would require him to feel it in the first place, and there was no guilt in carrying out the Emperor’s will. But he could never allow himself to take it for granted, and here, he could fully comprehend that responsibility and its dreadful consequences.

Another cyclonic warhead detonated, silent but for the whispers of the dying breaths of uncounted millions in its wake, carried to Haverman’s mind by the infinite tides of the Immaterium. Haverman waved off the servo skulls and they obeyed. He didn’t want the data now. He didn’t need it. He needed the silent screams of the condemned. Those he had condemned. He watched as the detonation of the warhead spread outward and upward into the atmosphere from the flickering cloud at its epicenter, sheets of flame like the petals of a ghastly flower, blooming as it fed upon the blood of millions.

“The death of a world can be quite beautiful from the void of space,” Haverman said, his voice dry like old parchment. He lifted his bearded chin, shaped and pointed like a dagger, filaments of silvery-white hair like strands of fresh silk falling backwards from his shoulders. Silence once again filled the observation deck as the echoes of his crackling voice faded into the gloom. He turned his head, slowly, deliberately as if drawing the edge of his dagger-like beard across the neck of a condemned world.

Haverman slammed the bottom of his adamantium cane against the deck with the sound of thunder. The hooded figure, huddled and poorly hidden to his enhanced vision, startled and nearly fell forward. Haverman clicked his tongue. “Much better, acolyte Davelor. No need to hide in the shadows. That domain is mine, anyway. Mine and the monsters we hunt. Perhaps, someday soon, it too will be yours. But not this day.” He waved the hooded acolyte forward and it obeyed. He eyed it with the same paternal instinct as a Carvarian Lion would his cub, and the acolyte approached with the appropriate caution.

The acolyte met Inquisitor Haverman’s gaze, sharper still than his beard, for only a moment. Haverman snorted as those pale eyes, as cold and hard as a glacier, turned to watch the unfolding destruction below. “What do you think of this, acolyte?” Haverman asked as he too turned back to the dying world. Classified as Rasmos III Alpha by Mechanicum Explorators, it was slightly larger than its twin, Rasmo III Beta, the two orbiting each other around a common barycenter. Rasmos Alpha was the most populace of the two worlds. At least, it had been less than an hour ago. Much would change. Much had changed.

Haverman pounded his cane into the deck again after a moment of silence and the acolyte flinched. “If you are to sneak into the observation deck, the least you could offer is some conversation, acolyte Davelor. This is not a trick question. I assure you, this question comes without the risk of punishment.”

“Yet, I may still give the wrong answer.” The voice was as cold and smooth as the acolyte’s glacial eyes. “The answer determines much of my future.”

Haverman nodded slowly. “Indeed, so. Perhaps more than you know. And such a response, such a decision requires swift and concise action. Your delayed response could be as deadly to your future as any answer, just hesitation would in a firefight. But the Emperor, in His wisdom, has seen fit to give you another chance. So, tell me acolyte. What do you think of this?” Haverman swept his hand from right to left over the vista of stars and the burning world once known as Rasmos III Alpha. It could have been a macabre painting, suspended in the rafters nearly fifty meters above, stretching to the floor at their feet and across the deck, end to end.

The acolyte took in a deep breath. “Some may question your right to destroy a world. Those who understand know that you have no right to let it live.” The acolyte exhaled the recited response, then breathed in again. “As for what I feel, Inquisitor, I feel no remorse for the lives lost. They betrayed The Emperor, His Imperium, their humanity. They used alien technology to advance their own ends, without though of how such blasphemy might corrupt their souls. They used that technology to fire on agents of His most Holy Inquisition, on soldiers of His Imperial Guard. They deserved nothing less than Exterminatus.”

Haverman shook his head, his thin hair waving back and forth in a slow, ghostly dance. “You are still reciting lessons, acolyte.” He pointed the silver skulled head of his staff at the hooded acolyte, the diamonds set into its eye sockets glowing with the light of a burning world. “Combine what you think and what you feel. Dig deeper into your soul. What do you see here? Why did this happen?”

The acolyte’s cold gaze regarded the burning sphere again as if searching for meaning amid the swirling clouds that now consumed it. “It is a warning,” the acolyte said. “Neither Rasmos Alpha or Beta are particularly vital to the Imperium. Of the two, Rasmos Alpha holds the most mineral wealth, but minerals can be mined from the bedrock of a world, dead or not. “Rasmos Beta has fewer people, and no trace of xenos technology on its surface. The six billion souls that inhabit it may yet be salvaged once the Imperial Guard and The Astartes have finished crushing the rebellion. But they will need a reminder. The whole sector will need a reminder.”

The acolyte nodded towards the world. “A scar in the night sky. A wound, visible for all eternity, and etched in the memories of those that inhabit Rasmos Beta. Should the seed of rebellion ever find its way into the hearts of those on Rasmos Beta, they need only look to the heavens to be reminded of what heresy and betrayal will bring them.”

“Very good,” Haverman said, his thin, blue lips stretching into a smile. “But, do not forget, when the taint of xenos technology, when the sweet allure of alien culture has seeped into the roots and foundations of a world…”

“We must tear it up, and burn it as we would a rotting tree,” the acolyte finished. “Abhor the alien, as you would the mutant, the heretic.”

Haverman nodded, a reply dying on his lips as one of the servo skulls floated down to hover before him. The voice of the Inevitable Judgment’s captain sputtered from a vox grill protruding from the skull’s side. “Lord Inquisitor. The governor of Rasmos Beta wishes to speak to you. He wishes to offer his surrender.”

Haverman chuckled, the sound dark and humorless. “I’m sure he does,” Haverman said. “Come, acolyte. There is much work to be done.” Haverman turned and left the observation deck, his acolyte in tow, and the embers of a dead world in his wake.

DFWCon and the mystery of the missing blog post

It’s been about two months since my last blog post, which is obviously a bit longer than my target of a post a week, isn’t it?

It likely won’t be as long before my next one, but I can’t promise anything.

Last time we spoke, I had not been to DFWCon. I have now. Obviously. So I wrote a little something about what I learned there. I actually wrote this for someone I met while at DFWCon, a wonderful lady named Andrea. So while she’ll post it to her blog, here’s a little more of a private version.

 

It’s been over a month since DFWCon and I’m still processing all that I learned.

Yet, that’s just it. The more I think about it, the more I realize I didn’t really learn a ton. It’s not that there was nothing to learn, it’s that the things I learned were things I already knew.

Call it a reeducation or a reminder. Call it a reawakening.

The truth is, I was scared to go to this convention. In his book On Writing, Stephen King seems to have what I would describe as a negative opinion of conventions or writer’s gatherings. I, for my own reasons had similar thoughts. “Seriously, how many famous authors ever went to a convention and suddenly became the great authors we all know and love?”

No matter the answer, regardless of the truth, I went. A slight nudge from a dear friend helped me make the choice, and I’m truly happy that I did go. Despite all my apprehension, despite that I really didn’t learn anything -new-, even if I never get published, what I discovered at DFW Con is worth more than the couple hundred dollars I spent on the ticket and gas.

I met some wonderful people. To name but a few, Krystal Sanders and Gregory Attaway, with whom I now meet once every other week for a writing group. We read each other’s works in progress and offer our criticism and praise. (My first submission will be read this Thursday and I’m a nervous wreck.)

Andrea McAuley, a fellow fantasy writer who provided the impetus for this piece and with whom I spent two hours writing word sprints just weeks ago. (The words were terrible, but I credit her asking for a writing partner and those two hours with getting me past a rough spot in my novel.)

I met several other people, all of whom were wonderful but I feel I should give a special shout out to literary agent Lauren Spieller. Despite it being late in the evening and the end of the mixer on Saturday, she took a moment out of her night to listen to some awkward geek share his idea for a story. After my sputtering attempt at a pitch, she seemed genuinely interested.

“I’ll tell you what, whether it’s six months or two years from now, contact me when you have a full manuscript. Just remind me it’s the fantasy story with the bad ass, dress wearing lady.”

I am scatter brained. Absent minded, even, but I’ll still remember those words until the day I die. She handed me her card, which I still have taped to the left side of my desk. I remember it well.

And that leads me to what I discovered. Beyond the self-doubt class and the distancing words class and all the others, I learned more about myself than I did about writing.

I’ve always considered myself a ‘self-taught’ writer. I didn’t take many classes on literature or writing, I just wrote. I took what was in my head and put it down on paper. When I was at my best, it came from my heart.

When some big-time agent showed just an ounce of interest in my story idea, when she gave me a hug when I told her about my mother’s struggle with Alzheimer’s, I understood. Just write.

Write.

Let me write that again.

Just write.

Sometimes, my anxiety tells me that it’s pathetic that I needed some random person to like my idea for me to understand that I’m not as terrible at writing as I think. Sometimes, my anxiety tells me that my few beta readers are just telling me I’m good to make me feel good.

At DFW Con, I learned to tell my anxiety to shut the hell up.

I learned that I just need to write. Every word, sentence, paragraph and chapter makes me a better writer.

Even if Lauren gets my manuscript and decides it’s not for her, or not good. I’m still going to write. Even if my novel/story idea does suck (and let’s face it, how many novels get published?) I’m going to write.

I’m going to write because how many people do you know have finished writing a novel?

I’m going to write because the more I write, the more I fall in love with my characters.

I’m going to write because I need to get out of my shit job, and right or wrong, this feels like my only escape.

I’m going to write because it makes me feel good when I do.

I’m going to write because the more I do, the more real my world, the cultures, the people and the history becomes.

I’m going to write because I want to share my story ideas with people.

I’m going to write because the more I write her, my main character (her name is Flavia) reminds me more of my mother before dementia robbed the world of her brilliance. She reminds me of my sister, my aunt and dozens of other strong women in my life who don’t get the respect and credit they deserve.

I’m going to write because the other main character (who has yet to appear) reminds me more and more of myself, in ways I love and despise. He’s what I aspire to be, what I hate about myself, what I wish I could be, and most importantly he represents my hope that all good people deserve a happy ending.

I’m going to write because I love it, because I believe that’s what I was put on this earth to do.

I’m a story teller, and that’s what DWFCon taught me.

 

“There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.”

– Frank Herbert