Chapter X: Making connections

The tormented soul of some beings, those exposed to daily suffering that borders on an odyssey of survival and the struggle to maintain sanity, often requires certain vices to carry on.

Some, perhaps, drown their sorrows in passions, others in vices, and then there are those who find something greater than themselves to cling to and persevere. The latter were a common and familiar sight across the Imperium.

Ordinary people who held the divine figure of their glorious God-Emperor in the highest regard, exalted and magnified in the eyes of the masses across the vast cities of the Imperium by the fervent and meticulous voices of the millions, if not billions, of preachers. They sang hymns and litanies that spoke of glorious and divine passages, calling upon all to surrender and seek salvation and mercy in the eyes of the all-powerful and ever-present God-Emperor.

However, perhaps the fervour and constant exposure to such devotions over nearly ten thousand years had backfired on the Imperium itself, as, on the streets of Vandalor, one could find people weary and tired of so many sweet words.

For sweeter things, and for some respite from the daily torment of life and survival, many found solace in strong alcoholic drinks and music that didn't speak of the dark times they lived in, nor the glorious grace of the God-Emperor, nor of how they must all offer their respect and unwavering loyalty. Far from hearing the metallic vocal cords of preachers and priests in the labyrinth of streets, four dozen figures sat in metal chairs that offered very little comfort.

Yet, through the nature of the frequent customers of O'Shalle's Bar, that discomfort became a welcome and reassuring familiarity. In that dreary place where cheap drinks and bad music echoed, it was where a vast majority of men and a handful of women came to spend a fraction of their precious and almost non-existent free time after their long shifts of gruelling work.

In a quiet and subdued tone, some conversed with one another, talking about their jobs and certain things that piqued a little interest in their numbed minds, minds that longed for something to focus on beyond work and maintaining their own sanity. Though there were no laughs or smiles, there was serenity and fleeting peace.

Behind the large, featureless metal counter stood the owner of that patch of land and metal known as a bar, which hundreds if not thousands over the years had made their favourite place. A man of advanced age, yet with enough vitality to display a powerful and intimidating physique, something necessary for dealing with those who occasionally went too far with their drinks.

Though a mask with tubes covered half his face, one could still see the long, thick white beard of the man, along with a mane of white hair. His eyes, unlike those of many of his regulars, were the same green eyes he was born with. Scars and wrinkles adorned his face, physical marks of time's passage on a man who looked on defiantly, with a light of his own, stubborn against the very nature of life as it drew towards its twilight. Yet his will made it clear that even so, many decades remained before his body and spirit would fall into the divine embrace of the Emperor.

Truman O'Shalle, a man with a unique history throughout Level 01 of Vandalor, owned that bar. His veteran eyes, which had seen countless horrors and bore witness to glorious passages forgotten even by the Imperium itself, now gazed cautiously upon a tall and imposing figure before him. Accompanying the man was a regular of his bar, who was introducing him.

"Well then, granddad, this is my friend and workmate, Gino…" The name of the individual, as well as the connection that bound them, were the only things the old Truman heard from the stream of words spoken by Beatrix, while his eyes scrutinised the young man named Gino.

In the dark eyes of the young man, Truman saw something he didn't like—something unsettling. In his appearance, there was more than just a well-fed, well-off youth. His years of experience told him that this lad didn't belong here, just as the horrors he had fought through and could never speak of seemed to have been ripped from reality and placed in front of him like some cruel joke.

His suspicion was reinforced when the young man spoke and extended his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. Bea's spoken very highly of you and your drinks." His words were polite, but his accent and manner of speaking reminded Truman of the high-ranking officers who casually condemned thousands of men in the trenches of battle without a second thought.

The accent grated on his ears, but out of politeness and as a near-instinctive response born from his old training, Truman straightened his back as his thick hand reached out to grip Gino's. The young man's pulse was strong and sure, a fact that surprised Truman, who wasn't accustomed to such vigour in his patrons.

"O'Shalle. I hope my drinks live up to your expectations," Truman said, his deep, raspy voice delivering the same line he had uttered countless times before.

Truman's green eyes briefly left Gino and shifted to Beatrix as he wondered to himself, What sort of person have you brought into my bar, girl? He let out a small sigh.

"Give me the usual, granddad, and get Gino here a 'Rat Queen's Kiss' to get him in the mood, eh?" Beatrix chuckled, removing her metal mask as she settled onto one of the barstools in front of Truman's counter.

Casting one last glance at Gino, who also took a seat beside Beatrix, Truman shook his head and went to prepare the drinks, ears alert to their conversation.

"The people that come here usually have some time to spare, you know? I mean, they've got decent jobs." Beatrix began, nodding towards a group in the corner. "See those guys sitting over there? I know they work piloting cargo ships in the trade sector, and they've always got plenty of credits when I beg for a drink from them, hehe."

For a moment, Truman thought the girl was selling out his customers to be robbed by the young man. He was about to raise his voice and throw them out when he heard Gino say, "Do you think if I go over, they might teach me how to fly a ship?" This made Truman bite his tongue and give Gino another look.

"Of course not, you idiot," Beatrix scoffed, her voice loud enough for Truman to hear. "You're a stranger, and those guys don't own their own ships. Letting you use one from work? That's pretty much impossible." Her mocking smile spread wide as she teased him.

Placing the drinks on the counter, Truman observed the two as the metallic clink of the glasses echoed, spinning slightly before coming to a rest in front of them.

"You don't come here for drinks, do you? What are you really after, lad?" Truman asked slowly, drawing out the last word as Beatrix's face twisted into an "Oops" expression.

Resting his hands on the glass, Gino looked at the drink, noting its purplish hue before turning his gaze back to Truman. "I'm here to earn credits, sir. Bea mentioned that there are people here with skills I could learn. That's all." Gino responded calmly, with a measured pause, understanding exactly what Truman had been implying.

Truman merely let out a snort at Beatrix's outburst. "And he sings well too, granddad! Instead of playing that rubbish music you like so much, you should pay us a few credits to sing exclusive songs you won't hear anywhere else!" The visible grin on her face briefly irritated Truman, but instead of responding, he simply shook his head. He was used to her personality and outlandish comments by now.

"If that's the case, then I won't make a fuss, lad. Just make sure you buy something and don't bother my regulars too much." With a sigh, Truman moved off to clean a table that had been vacated during the exchange, finishing his statement without further protest.

The two youngsters exchanged smiles and clinked their glasses together with a hearty "Cheers!" before taking their first sips. Gino was surprised by the intensely sweet and metallic flavour of the drink, and the alcohol's aftertaste quickly left him feeling light-headed for a moment.

With a knowing, conspiratorial grin, Beatrix leaned in and said, "Strong, isn't it? Wait until it kicks in."

Gino could only nod as he looked at the drink with newfound respect. Turning to survey the rest of the bar, his eyes scanned the faces of the patrons. He noticed a pattern—these people lacked the submissive, weary expressions of the crowds outside. Despite their tired eyes, there was a spark of willpower still present, far removed from the servile demeanour he had observed in the general population up until now.

Beatrix, noticing his gaze lingering on the patrons, murmured quietly, "Old Truman's got a few regulars with some interesting skills and jobs, you know? Even granddad's got a trick or two—he's the one who taught me how to handle a weapon."

This revelation made Gino glance in surprise at Truman's broad, sturdy back as the man carried a tray of empty glasses. Truman caught Gino's gaze and returned it with his own, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

Perhaps it's worth spending some credits to make connections here... Gino thought to himself, finishing the rest of his drink. With a grin, he turned to Truman and said, "Another of the same, sir."

As the night descended over the hive city of Vandalor, Gino and Beatrix continued to drink, their voices and laughter brightening the grim atmosphere of the bar. With his focus split between enjoyment and the subtle task of integrating himself into the place, Gino allowed his old self—the one who had made so many friends and connections on Earth—to come to the forefront. His progress might have been slow, but it was steady. It was only a matter of time before the patrons of O'Shalle grew used to him and his presence.

...

While the atmosphere at O'Shalle's bar was one of raucous youth and novelty, a very different scene unfolded hundreds of levels above, deep within the heart of Vandalor. Inside a grand building adorned with religious motifs, a large hall lay filled with stained-glass windows and cages containing various materials. Dozens of figures in hooded robes moved about, tapping away on datapads strapped to their wrists, their eyes flitting across streams of data.

The hum of cogitators and servitors filled the background, processing terabytes of complex information.

In a far corner of the room stood the imposing figure of a man, his chest emblazoned with a rosette. Flanking him were two others, each holding documents and holopads. Together, the three of them gazed with a mix of reverence and disbelief at the sight before them.

Resting on a white plastisteel support was a transparent sarcophagus, adorned with inscriptions written in High Gothic and another, more ancient language. Several tubes jutted out from various parts, as if violently torn from its sides, while a thick golden base—almost 30 centimetres deep and laced with circuits and unrecognised technology—completed the artefact.

This piece, retrieved from Level 04 in the outer rings of Vandalor, had been smuggled all the way from Terra itself. It was the very reason why Inquisitor Tiberius Durkssen found himself so far from his designated region.

"Are you certain of what you're telling me, Pietro?" Tiberius's trembling voice asked the figure at his right, his Acolyte and loyal follower for many years. Pietro's pale, trembling hands extended a piece of parchment brought to him by the other figure to Tiberius's left.

"Yes, my lord. This sarcophagus dates from the time when our Emperor walked among us. And perhaps even long before that..." Pietro's usually expressionless, synthetic voice betrayed a hint of emotion as he spoke these words.

Inquisitor Tiberius gazed at the sarcophagus with disbelief, his mind racing to process the immense ramifications of what had just been revealed.

Before him lay an archeotech artefact of profound significance, not only to the Inquisition and Ecclesiarchy but also to the Adeptus Mechanicus and numerous other factions of the Imperium. The echoes of Tiberius's discovery would undoubtedly reverberate far and wide.

"I fear this conspiracy has taken a turn beyond even my own authority..." Inquisitor Tiberius muttered to himself, then turned to his Acolyte with a grave and urgent tone. "Pietro, you're to summon the patriarchs and heads of the noble families of this cesspool. We need an emergency meeting. I must brief them on the situation before others arrive to investigate on their own and attempt to wrest this case from us."

Pietro quickly began tapping on his datapad as Tiberius continued, "I will need their full support to gather all possible clues and trace whatever is lurking within this city."

Both Inquisitor and Acolyte began walking towards the exit of the chamber as Tiberius gave further orders. At the threshold of the double doors, the Inquisitor turned back and commanded, "Object X-761 is to be placed under maximum quarantine, with constant surveillance. No one is to approach it unless authorised by the highest ranks. I want a full record of every individual who requests access to study this artefact. Is that understood?"

His words prompted every worker in the chamber to nod in submission and fear, their eyes cast downward.

Soon, dozens of Adeptus Arbites cordoned off the area and established an extreme security perimeter around the building, preparing to move the artefact to a more secure location. Dozens of other figures, bearing the insignia of the Inquisition, carried candles and secretive objects, while servitors and cherubim echoed hymns and litanies of purification to ward off any taint.

Vandalor was on the brink of being engulfed in a storm, one that Inquisitor Tiberius sought to weather with answers in hand, as the mystery continued to grow darker and more ominous.