Davis chances a quick peek into the Repository. He sees a warzone; dead Turai mangled by attack drones, burnt-out shells of those same drones scattered across the floor, craters in walls and a slow leak from an almost-empty Cyllan aquarium high above. The lights are dim, punctuated by the flickering of dead and dying cogitator machines.
The coast looks clear. Maybe the Emperor is holding to his end of the bargain.
"Follow me," Swims grunts, shouldering his SCAR and heading into the monastery-turned-bloodbath.
The team clears the Repository, heading out into an empty corridor between the Imperial archives and the Halls of Tranquility. In some respects, the Imperial security network's in worse shape than the physical security. There are no codes and no hacking needed to enter the massive Halls.
Enormous pillars loom out of dim, sepulchral lighting. Each pillar is etched with the history of a single world in the Imperium. The space echoes with the team's rapid footsteps. It's almost like they're stepping through some ancient Egyptian tomb. Almost.
Luis notices Arketta's moving with the group, but she's still not entirely with the group. Like she's playing a game but only knows half the rules. Her faceplate's opaque, though, displaying the camo fields just like the rest of the team.
Angel doesn't like it. If the Imps were going to stab them in the back, now's the time for it. The Emperor knows where they're headed. There's plenty of cover, but then again, those wide pillars make for good hiding spots. And the Imperials have always been fairly good at sneaking.
Which is why Angel's not surprised when he spots four Jade Caretakers. Davis sees one of them. Two roughly ahead of them, two on the right. Swims hasn't spotted them. They're close, within eighty feet, attempting to get an L-shaped ambush position on the team. They haven't fired yet, however. Angel notes with more consternation that of course they would wait until the team was closer to the center of Halls. Makes it that much harder to retreat back to familiar territory.
Davis may not see the other Caretakers, but he knows that where there's one, there's bound to be more. "Hold up, everyone," Davis says. "Swims-the-Black, stay with me, everyone else take cover."
As everyone else runs for cover, Davis lets his rifle hang on the sling and motions for Swims to do the same. We have no quarrel with you, he signs. Your Emperor has given us safe passage to the Black Gate. The Turai and Caretaker we engaged at the Cortex was a case of self-defense, they engaged us and we responded in kind. Swims-the-Black here can attest to that. All we want is to progress to the Black Gate in peace. There's been enough bloodshed for one day.
Luis takes Davis's cues and falls back with Arketta and the rest to the cover of the nearest pillar. (Arketta, he notes almost an afterthough, may be suffering from either a consussion or the same kind of freaky-ass Frisbee screwup Dietrich got--Brain's are always touchy, and patching fresh cells in according to a pre-programmed pattern can't be good for the existing nueral connection) He shoves the thought aside and waits for the response to Davis' silent 'speech'. He hopes it's not hostile--the atmosphere of the place makes fighting in here feel like urinating in a church, but he'll do it if he has to.
The one Davis spotted signs back. The Caretakers don't lower their weapons, however. "We are here to make sure you reach the Gate. Keep moving."
Swims-the-Black steps forward, apparently convinced of their intentions. A Whiirr's intentions are written on its fur, in its movements, and Swims seems to think the Caretakers are holding to the bargain.
The "lead" Caretaker steps backward in time with Swims. The second Whiirr covers Davis. The two off to the right hold their position. They'll probably follow the team from behind if they decide to keep moving. If it's still going to degenerate into a fight, they don't want to expose themselves yet.
Davis considers asking if they're there to make sure they get to the Black Gate safely or make sure they go there instead of heading off to make trouble elsewhere, or if they're just here to kill them and this is just an effort to get them to lower their guard. Then he decides that why can't both of the first two be true, and if the third one is true, there's no way to tell.
He turns back to the team. "Come on, form up, let's get out of here," he says.
The team forms back up and cautiously moves through the Halls of Tranquility. The Jade Caretakers move with them, two in front and two behind, never coming closer than forty feet or so. After an eternity of suspicion, measured steps, and glances past the Whiirr into the darkness, the procession comes to the entrance to the Court of Heavenly Purity, its gaping doors flanked on one side by one intricately carved pillar for Napai and the other by a featureless pillar. Gentle golden light flows softly into the Halls from the court beyond.
The front two Caretakers lead the team into the Court. Ornate doorways, their hatches shut and locked, indicate a labyrinthine network of side passages. Majestic arrangements of smart fabric display confused error patterns. Rainbow test glyphs flicker over the projected colors. The doors back to the Halls shut, the Whiirr rearguard staying outside to guard the Court as no doubt they do every day.
Not every day sees seven haggard warriors walk into the Imperial throne room, however. The space is more intimate than one would come to expect from the rest of the Palace. There is a line of columns, of course, with flowing reactive tapestries between each pillar attempting to project feeds from the Cortex, feeds that even now are being moved and shuffled around, stolen and copied and twisted and shared. The seating arrangements are chapel-meets-auditorium, concentric crescents of gilded chairs, each with their own flickering holoprojector. The people making up the Court appear to have been evacuated some time ago. Only an Avatar of the Emperor, flanked on either side by two Caretakers, remains.
The golden giant rises from a winged throne. Behind the chair, a Gateway - this one gold, not the usual chrome/steel gray - looms over the Court. When the Emperor stands, the angles are such that the Black Gate creates the impression of a great halo.
Unlike the Cortex construct, the Avatar's eyes are not a human green. The metallic face of the machine is beautiful, impeccably sculpted, but its proportions are off. Its arms are slightly too long, its knees sit just the wrong height.
A quiet click behind the team is all the sound the sealing exits make.
Arketta freezes in place when the Emperor comes into view. Unsure of herself, she slings her rifle, removes her helm, and kneels, crossing her arms in front of her in the sign of the akwhela.
"What are you doing!?" hisses Ngawai. To be honest, even Jonnoperest seems intimidated, and Swims-the-Black stops in his tracks for a moment before falling back next to Davis.
Angel moves with the group, keeping his rifle low but pointed rather directly in the direction of one of the gatekeepers trying to keep from being spotted. The Imperials seem to respond well to not entirely subtle messages.
Angel allows himself to be overawed for a moment in throne room, but Arketta's actions give him a handy distraction. While her helmets off and he can't use the comm system, he drops to one knee and raises his visor to talk into her ear, trying to get to whatever part of her training is still there.
"On your feet soldier. Your a warrior from the homeworld - you kneel to no gods or kings."
Davis hears Arketta kneel behind him. He retracts his visor and looks back over his shoulder at Arketta as Angel takes a knee next to her and whispers in her ear. There's no anger, aggression, shock, or disappointment on his face. Davis merely flashes her a friendly, confident smile, then cocks an eyebrow, as if to ask her You're one of the Narsai'i now. Are you going to stand up?
The Avatar still sounds vaguely like Morgan Freeman in person, Davis notes as the golden humanoid speaks.
"We are pleased to finally meet you, Garrett Davis. Although... some of you we already know. Fourth Claw, we did not expect to count you amongst our enemies, not after our generosity after the Arena. You betray us twice over."
"That was the moniker of a foolish slave who knelt to false gods," Swims replies. "And you have betrayed so many more than I." Barely-held aggression is emblazoned across the alien spacer's fur.
Arketta looks up at Angel. The Delta operator can tell there's something in there fighting, shattered beliefs and new hopes struggling against whatever baseline Imperial code was imprinted by the healing device.
"Turai Quis," The Avatar addresses Arketta. "You at least have come to your senses. Take up your weapon and kill these traitors."
Arketta, a maelstrom of emotions on her face, stands and reaches for her SCAR-H. She pushes Angel back a step, planting the barrel to Davis' head.
The machine looks over the team before eyeing Davis. "We have coaxed you from your hole and funneled you here, and you have followed." It nods to the Caretakers.
"We will uphold our bargain. Your corpses will pass through the Black Gate and we will set ourselves to repairing the damage you have done. Take comfort in the fact that you will have helped build a stronger Imperium and be honored that you will die at the hands of its immortal ruler."
Arketta manages a whisper in that silence between the Avatar's command and the barrels raising, a whisper very familiar to Stanhill. "Live free or die."
Luis shakes his head at Arketta's words, "That's the only way." His barrel comes up and around at the 8 O'clock Caretake as he switches to full auto. As he cuts loose, he knows if his gut reaction to Arketta's meaning is wrong, Davis may be dead. On the other hand, if he doesn't take this guy out, they might all share that same fate. Gotta do it for the team...
Davis feels the bump of Arketta's barrel up against his head, and hears her whisper through the encrypted comms. He looks up at the Avatar and smiles as he flicks the fire selector on the SCAR-H to three round burst. Seven of us, five of them, I think we've got this. Only one way to find out...
Luis' last reserves of adrenaline hit him with a thump and the countless hours in the kill house take over. His brain's riding the training like a surfer, more along for the ride than anything else. His peripheral catches Jonnoperest going to a knee, bringing up his own weapon. The rebel's sluggish in comparison. Luis' target is a massive Whiirr, bigger than Swims-the-Black, covered in gilded carapace like some horrendous insect. The Caretaker's breaking into a run, a mad dash to get to melee, to break up the team's cohesion and make it a furball.
Luis feels rather than hears the shots, smells the gunsmoke and sees his Caretaker stop mid-charge. The Whiirr stumbles, falls, rolls, and painfully staggers towards the team, blood pouring from half a dozen holes punched through the carapace.
Ngawai darts left, seeking cover in the luxurious Court seats. Her SCAR barks. One shot glances off the left-front Caretaker's armor, the second punches through the alien's shoulder. Not even a grunt escapes the warrior's mouth as it too lopes towards the team.
The Avatar moves with superhuman speed just as Arketta's barrel swings from Davis to the golden automaton. The SCAR's report is thunder in the cavernous throne room. The machine's arms try to cover its torso as it sprints headlong into the fusillade. Armor-piercing rounds ricochet off heavy plate, dig into joints, find weak spots, and tear through the thing's faceplate. Black fluid and quicksilver spray from where a man's eye would be. Undaunted, as if its head was ornamentation rather than a vital location, the Avatar crosses its torso with its arms, reaches Davis and Arketta, and snaps its limbs out in a sweeping crescent. Arketta passes some of her rifle brass, still hanging in the air, as she half-flies, half-slides across the Court floor and into the row of seats opposite Ngawai. Davis catches more of the thing's force. The ornamental feathers on the Avatar cut like blades, ripping open Davis' breastplate, tearing through the skinsuit, and cutting up and across his ribcage. There's blinding pain and Davis's vision blurs. He goes head over heels backwards, trailing blood with every movement like a gory pinwheel. He lands in a heap, hands still clenched around his rifle. From his spot on the now-slick floor, Davis retaliates not at the Avatar, but at one of the Caretakers charging in a little behind their overlord. The burst geysers marbled floor and spangs off the Whiirr's leg, staggering but not slowing the beast.
Angel looks like the Avatar's next dance partner, but the Delta scout isn't having any of it. He takes a step back, fires, takes another step back, fires again. The machine's plating gleams like the sun, bathed in Angel's muzzle flashes. Riviera's shots are too close to be stopped by armor - they punch angry, ragged wounds through the Avatar's torso, taking gouts of the quicksilver and evil black oil with them. The thing staggers, growls, and keeps coming.
A Caretaker, yet to be touched by bullet or beam, crashes into Jonnoperest. The alien and the golden-eyed rebel tumble to the floor, where the Whiirr kisses Jonno's head to the deck, hard. Jonno tries to wedge his rifle under the Whiirr, but the Caretaker elbows the weapon out of the way. It raises its beamer, meaning to crack the tech's helmet, skull, and all.
The Caretaker Davis tagged sees Swims going for the Avatar. The slave-warrior slams into Swims-the-Black, scoring a deep cut along the shipmaster's armor. Blood wells slowly from Swims' chest. The two Whiirr wrestle, arms straining to bring rifle or blade to bear. Swims's rifle barks twice into the air as he struggles.
Finally, the Caretaker Ngawai wounded stops short of the melee, takes aim with wavering, bloodied hands... and snaps a pulse-beam right over Luis' head. The missed shot blasts a smouldering crater into one of the ornate pillars decorating the Court.
Davis screams as the Avatar tears open his armor, undersuit and torso, but stays on target and delivers a good hit. "Need cover!" he shouts as he slides backwards on his own blood towards cover, muscles burning in agony as he keeps an eye out for a target of opportunity.
Luis turns, his fugue-state in full bore as he check his SMG, and opens up on the guy who just shot him. One triple-shot, and he's turning his attention and the entire rest of his magazine on the Avatar. His all-training side trusts Nagwai to handle finishing whatever's left of that one and the one he plugged first.
As he turns, Luis catches Jonno's plight out of the corner of his eye, but there's nothing he can do. The thinking part of his brain, out of the loop and disconnected, starts mentally appending Jonno to the List, the one of the people he's failed, the team mates he couldn't help. The one that will either get Jonno's name, or the entire Operation Checkmate team. Sorry, buddy. He cuts loose on the Avatar, aiming for the chest, where he hopes that fancy node Hethna Vos told them about will be. Maybe this thing's thermal exhaust port? Gotta be better than more headshots.
Angel growls back, moving at a measured, steady pace back as the now headless creation continues forward. Lowering his rifle a bit to hit more as yet unsullied center of mass, he continues firing and tries to keep up his dance with the Avatar.
Luis' UMP45 pops twice, slamming rounds into the Caretaker who just missed the Delta operator. The Whiirr slides on his own blood into cover not ten feet from where Ngawai's crouching. Luis pivots and the double pop from his submachinegun stretches into an echoing thunderstorm as he dumps his mag into the Avatar. Sparks fly, some the brief, hot, faint lines from ricochets, others bursts of blue fire, spurting from the Avatar's torso as the .45 rounds careen around inside.
Swims continues his struggle with his could-have-been-a-battle-brother Caretaker. Their arms locked, neither can bring blade or rifle to bear. Not until Swims-the-Black hauls off and headbutts the Caretaker. The stunned Whiirr abruptly falls on his ass in a sitting position in the middle of the chaos.
Ngawai sees the Caretaker Luis tagged take cover on the opposite side of her own little row of chairs. The Apprehender darts out from her cover as quickly as she got there, firing her SCAR behind her at the wounded Whiirr. She shoots through the robust Court seats. The bullets geyser soft exotic padding before punching through the Caretaker. The big Whiirr slumps forward onto his face, moaning and writhing in an ever-expanding blood pool.
Angel blasts the Avatar twice more, even as Luis' gunfire perforates the armored carapace. The second shot hits something that makes the machine stumble - a well-timed hit that gives Angel that extra split-second to backpedal his throat away from the Avatar's grasping hands. The royal automaton still lives, but now it moves less quickly, less precise, like it was punch-drunk.
Arketta's mag falls with a clatter onto the floor. She quickly slaps another one home and takes aim at her Emperor.
The Caretaker astride Jonnoperest brings his rifle down and the golden-eyed rebel dies.
Luis' first target, a Caretaker streaming blood from a dozen ragged wounds, lopes into melee. It stabs its spear towards Luis, who barely manages to knock the shaft aside in time. The alien then swings the weapon around towards Angel's back. The scout spots the sweeping spear reflected in the Avatar and jukes right, again just barely avoiding doom.
Davis feels hands on his backplate, then he's sliding across blood-streaked tile, dragged towards the cover of the Court auditorium chairs. He sights down his SCAR in time to see the Caretaker split Jonno's skull, but he doesn't have a shot. Angel and Luis' artful dodging makes it awfully hard to pin down a target, and Davis isn't in the business of Blackwatering his teammates.
"Thanks for the assist," Davis says, and looks up at whoever it is that pulled him behind cover. After he looks up at whoever it is who hauled him into the auditorium seating, he takes a knee in between the seats, poking just his head and rifle out of cover, and watches the back of whoever just saved his ass, looking for an open Caretaker to take a shot at.
Luis ducks under the Whirr's spear, his hands already going to switch his magazine by instinct. He finds purchase on a fresh one and slaps it into place. The gun comes up, still on auto from most recent use. fighter Luis doesn't bother changing it, and Mind Luis can't blame him. As he pulls the trigger to loose half of the fresh magazine into his target, he mutters, *Not today, Chewbacca.* Even in Imperial, he doesn't expect his opponent to get it. Not due to cultural difference, though. Due to cessation of life.
Admiral Duck Sauce
