Editing Toyhammer (section)

=Chapter 14=

Scratching my head, I looked at the rather miffed Techpriest standing in front of me. He was of a rank that I couldn't bother remembering, but by the looks of it he was ranked pretty high up the ladder of hierarchy.

And he was pissed. Probably because in my other hand I was holding the plug that (usually) powered the rest of Michael's small computer suite.

"... in times like this, you guys can still just browse on the internet!"

"We are researching the true extent of the information leak we have discovered here, Vincent... it appears to be that information about many Imperial and xeno forces have been leaked out into this data hub that you call... 'The World Wide Web'... we have found many disturbingly accurate content of our universe in this place called... 'Lexicanum'... and more disturbing still is the files and information found on this information gathering place of... codenamed 'fat guys' and these... 'fags'." The techpriest paused for a moment.

"I do believe striking one's head against the wall is detrimental to efficiency, boy."

Gnashing teeth in constantly tested frustration, I marched out of Michael's study, and looked outside to see Alice and Michael bumping out the driveway and onto the road in my pickup truck.

A roughly trimmed fingernail scratched at my scalp as I looked on.

I don't remember giving Michael my car keys.

Then... why was he driving off in my car?

Ah, hell...

I sighed, and laid my head down on the kitchen counter top as an Eldar Falcon Grav-tank swept past. The captured pistol – a M1911 Colt .45 caliber semi-automatic – was placed on the bench, pointed at the bread-box. Michael had always hated that flower-patterned wooden box, so it wasn't like he would have minded it. Making sure the safety was on, as tempting as was to shoot the bright pink box, I left it there as I heard a car start up. Standing, I looked out the window as the car reversed out of the street.

My stare hauled its way over to the rapidly disappearing cloud of smoke that my pickup had left behind.

Well... good luck to them. I didn't know if there were any more cultists around – sure, we had at least one under lock and key (she was sitting on the couch, under the watchful senses of the miniature 40k 'siege experts') – but there were at least two or three more, wasn't there? I knew at least two were out of commission, having been shot by various weapons, but...

My mind jinked to the side of the question.

Sleep was sounding like a really attractive option right about now.

"Vincent?"

"Mhmgh...?" I muttered to the hardwood counter-top. Yeah, great conversation starter there, mate.

Poke.

My cheek curved inwards, then back out as I mumbled incoherently. Elsewhere, my glasses clattered as someone bumped into them. There was someone – a miniature - there. I didn't really care.

Things were... interesting out in Michael's house. An entire miniature army from almost every faction of the Warhammer 40k universe. Humans, Eldar, Tau, Orks... I hadn't really considered this actually happening... but still...

That's so freaking cool! I mean... Warhammer 40,000! IN. HIS. HOUSE!

My mind was getting rather sidetracked... hey, come back here, thoughts!

Meh. I flopped back down, my interest deflated.

Poke.

The tiny fists pressed against my cheek again, and I croaked out a grunt as they left.

"Is anyone alive in there?" The voice beside me asked. He was now tapping my head.

The Kasrkin Shock Trooper resorted to kicks. Okay, no more Nice Giant.

I picked up my arm, raising it high above my head, and brought it back down on the poor bastard that kicked me.

SLAM!

There was a little squirming and a lot of confused looks from bystanders as I looked down at my palm. It was raised off the ground, so that it wouldn't hurt the Cadian trapped underneath.

"Yes?"

"... can you please get off me?"

"Sure."

I lifted my palm off the table, to allow the Kasrkin – Sergeant Leon Cadiasson – to crawl out. I hadn't put that much pressure on his back – just enough to knock him down.

"What was that about? I only"

"I kind of looked dead?

The bald man thought about that for a second, scratching the stubble on his chin. He then nodded as he came to the affirmative answer.

"Yeah."

"Alrigh... wassamatter?"

"..."

Admittedly, I was hard to understand when I was tired. A lot of mumbling, a lot of muttering and a whole lot of half-thought out answers.

"What. Is. The. Matter?"

"Uhm... nothing. I just wanted to see who you were."

"..."

"You... you're Michael's friend, aren't ya?"

I nodded mutely, still rubbing my face. Reaching out, I pulled open a drawer, which contained Michael's cups and mugs, and opened his fridge. I found myself fumbling about inside the bright, cold room as I picked my way through the half-empty fridge, and found the jug of cold water that he kept inside.

Pouring myself a drink, I replaced the jug as the Kasrkin Sergeant sat down and pulled a durable-looking canteen from his hip. Things went... like something second-nature after that. My hand dove into the drawers, extracting a spoon. I poured some water into the spoon and the elite trooper dipped his vessel into the spoon.

We both drank in silence, and out of the corner of my eye I saw others were gathering about to join us.

Taking the opportunity to inspect the warrior, I looked down, drinking in every detail about this soldier of the future.

He was – as other Kasrkin were – dressed in heavy carapace armor, painted an olive drab green. The shapes were distorted, broken up by jagged red splashes, outlined in white. They would have vaguely reminded me of lightning bolts, if they weren't such a deep crimson color. Almost every surface was covered in the personal layout of pouches, control panels and what I presumed to be various kinds of grenades and smoke markers. The outline of the human warrior was further broken up by his massive backpack, which was half power source, half storage for more consumables.

His weapons were holstered, although I could see the power cables that connected the power sword and the... 'hell-pistol' at either hip, and seemed ready to leap out of their own accord if he were to sense danger. I saw his sly grin as he unholstered it.

Peering closely, I realized that this wasn't the typical pattern hell-pistol: There was – instead of a large cable with maybe one or two others – a series of different cables, all different in their markings. The body of the hellpistol itself was also much different: the boxy design had been extended upon, with a large sleeve around the barrel. On the side of the pistol was a port, I'm guessing for a las-pack of some sort, and mounted onto an optics railing was an optical scope.

"Cadian 'Sundering Lance' pattern hell-pistol, the best there is when it comes to personal las weaponry. The cogboys oil themselves whenever I ask them to maintain it."

I found myself smiling as he proudly displayed his overly large gun, and turned my attention to his sword.

The 'sword' itself was a fine weapon; straight edged, it looked like a chisel, if you looked at one from the side. Its coloring, however, was atypical of the usual blades that I had seen; instead of silvery metal, all polished and gleaming, this sword was of a black material, except for the straight silver edge of the weapon.

"Its was a piece of work done by a Magos." The Kasrkin explained. He took a breath, and let out a contented sigh. "Its not shiny, like the rest of the stuff the officers use. This is a working soldier's weapon."

I nodded, still transfixed by the quality of the weapons in his hands. "Cool."

The Kasrkin grinned. "Only until I start shooting." He chuckled.

Shaking my head with a matching grin, I turned to look at the rest of the miniature warriors in Michael's house. What a lucky guy... in some ways.

More of the Kasrkin's comrades – other Kasrkin as well as regular Guardsmen – trotted over, with worried expressions. There was a quick, whispered conversation from them. A few glanced over to their left.

I looked out, following their gaze from my seat in the kitchen, out to the gathering of techpriests around a Heavy Bolter team currently posted at the corner of the countertop, a nice roost to pound any enemies below.

"Something's wrong." One man quipped. Judging by his voxcaster and his heavy emphasis on optics, I was guessing he was a spotter of some kind.

Good pick. The guy knew how to state the obvious.

I walked over as quietly as I could, over to the Guardsmen and the Cogboys.

The red robes and cogwheel symbols emblazoned on the backs of the techpriests set them quite apart from the camouflaged Cadian Guardsmen, a three-man team of which was arguing with the half dozen cogboys. Around them were also the fireteam no doubt assigned to keep them

"You want to confiscate more of my shells!" The leader – I presumed he was a corporal or some similar rank – was gesturing broadly as he blocked the two servitors from taking a pair of drum-magazines which reminded me of the '30s era Tommy guns.

"1 4m 4f1241d 50, b01." [I am afraid so, boy.]

There was a pause as the Corporal tried to translate the letters and numbers jumbled around in his mind. He turned to his teammate. "What did he say?"

Trooper Sohm Vekt sighed, and checked a data-slate. " 'I am afraid so, boy.' " He translated.

Red robes were gilded with black and silver... I presumed this was the leader of the techpriests around here, nodded his head as he shot a withering glare with his organic eye to his junior comrade. C0gb01 wilted under his superior's stare.

The Corporal stepped forward, face furrowed in frustration.

"But this is critical to the functioning of my section! You can't just take them away!"

"We are running out of ammunition, and we're making sure everyone is as well supplied as possible... so that if one team is hit, we won't lose half of our remaining bolt shells."

"So you're going to make sure everyone has an even supply of bolt shells." I sighed, scratching that my five o'clock shadow. The others whirled around, too deep into conversation to notice a hundred meter tall human creeping up on them.

The Techpriest sagged as he nodded his head, his metal arms – I counted at least five – crossing across his chest as he readied himself for explanations.

"You are correct." He deadpanned, looking back up to meet my eyes.

I waved at him.

"Vincent. Friend of Michael."

"Techpriest Enginseer Karos 2938-19384."

"Okay... so... does this mean that we're gonna lose all capability for solid slug weapons?" I asked.

Hesitation. A shake of the head in disbelief, then a resigned nod.

"Many of our projectile weapons are running short in munitions." He finally admitted.

The pit of my stomach was already churning at the thought of such an event: the Ruinous Powers were practically at our doorstep, and fully two thirds of Imperial firepower – if I was right with my guess, anyway – was about to be cut off due to a lack of ammunition.

Fuck.

Michael needed to know about this, fast.

Plus, we needed to fix this problem. Faster.

"Why didn't you tell Michael about this?"

Their leader shrugged. "I mistaenly presumed Michael would be like any other Governor."

I sighed in frustration. "How can we solve this?"

"We require a blessed fabricator munitoria, Omnissiah bless its creator. A Mars pattern Primus, if possible." I was sure that was only for nerd-related values only a cogboy could understand. Like getting a hold of a top-of-the-line computer, I guessed. Karos continued on with his explanation.

"Some of the vehicles that were transported here, attached with which parts of the 1337th Logistics and our own Explorators, are thankfully fabricators... however we are still missing some types of ammunition..." He looked pointedly at the Heavy Bolter that the Cadians had returned to crewing.

"Like Heavy Bolter rounds." I finished for him.

"Exactly." The vox-unit exhaled, and it was a surprisingly human and despairing sigh that came out through the slit-like filters at his 'mouth'. "To compound this problem, the 938th has been issued equipment based around fighting the forces of Chaos... particularly the Traitor Marines..."

Sohm nodded gravely. "Therefore, we have a disproportionately higher number of bolt weapons and lascannon to deal with such a threat."

The techpriests and I both stared at him for a second.

"I translate the requisition forms to local dialects." Sohm shrugged, and returned to his crew.

We all nodded in understanding, and returned to the discussion at hand.

"The lascannon and other las weapons can continue functioning until the las-packs wear out... statistically, with current combat intensity, we will not need to worry about that for another month or so."

"Right. So the Heavy Bolters are going to run dry soon... What about the tanks?"

"They thankfully have not expended nearly as much ammunition as the infantry, although they do have their own bolt weapons, we estimate that one major engagement is enough to expend the last of their remaining munitions."

"... damn."

The techpriest silenced my next thought with a gesture, sending his five 'arms' in several directions. One popped off. Cursing quietly, he turned around to retrieve it as his acolytes rushed to his aid. I could hear snatches of both conversation and condescending

"But!" He called out, still twisting around like a dog chasing his tail. "The 1337th specializes in consumables, (Everything in its place! Red wire to red!)... which includes the ability to produce some of the blessed munitions of the (Grr... damnation! Leave no plug unplugged, silly boy!) holy Omnissiah's beneficent (Cut off that oil leak!) design."

"One of which produces tank shells?" I asked, hopefully.

"Leman Russ and Baneblade Battle Cannon have no fear of running short in munitions." The Techpriest answered, his arm problem fixed. "However, we are fast running out of the raw materials needed to produce the shells."

"..." Its a good thing Games Workshop never really made logistics a part of these battles...

"Alright... when Michael gets home, we'll load up your techpriests and a salvage crew. I'll take you to a place with lots of raw materials."

The techpriest looked up at me, and gave a short bow.

"May the Omnissiah bless you and guide your hand, Vincent."

Manners asserted themselves, and I found myself bowing in return.

The Cadian Kasrkin looked up at me, waving his grox-vox. It was basically a bullhorn, evidenced when he let rip with the decibels.

Grim and powerful, the voice of Inquisitor Danilov sounded over the vox.

"Vincent? We require your assistance. The Cultist wishes to repent, and we are preparing for the rituals."

- - - - - Half an hour later...

I stopped as the rest of the local Imperials and even some of the alien factions paused in silence, looking on with baited breath and loaded guns, all directed at the figure at the center of the cleared out room. Batel sat at the center of a pentagram, which had been marked out carefully by candles - I think we were chewing into Michael's blackout supplies there – and connected by white strings running from candle to candle.

Sitting at the center of the room and at the center of everyone's attention (and Imperial gunsights) was the former cultist, now the penitent witch. Her tattered clothes had been replaced by a white robe – Michael's bathrobe, if I didn't miss my guess – and most of her wounds had been patched up, more or less. It was a ritual that Raquel and the other Inquisitional lackeys had insisted on, a sign that she was repentant and would turn away from Chaos.

Standing atop a side-table, Inquisitor Danilov strode up to her, flanked on either side by Sanctioned Psyker Ishabeth and the Penitent Witch Raquel, the psychic aide to the Inquisitor. Behind them strode the powerful figures of Justicar Amadeus, Father Jeremiah and Canoness Samisha. They moved in a triangular formation, their steps carefully measured.

The six leaders of the ritual stopped, and Raquel alone stepped forward, whispered something to Batel, and stepped back as the penitent witch nodded quietly.

"Let us begin." Raquel's fragile voice intoned. "Repeat after me, penitent one."

Batel nodded weakly, and the smaller witch began to recite the litany;

"Immortal Emperor, at your feet I lay my soul."

"Ihmohtaal Ehmprah..." Her voice broke. Tears sprang to her eyes. Raquel and Ishabeth's hands reached out, and the two female psykers touched fingers. Batel seemed to regain her strength as their eyes met. "Aht hyoor feeat hy... hy rhehsht hmi sho-hol."

"A stained soul, heretic am I, faithless am I."

"Ha.. ha shtehn'd sho-hol, haerrichic haim hy... fhaeth-hess haim hy..." A small, but noticeable sob escaped her lips. There was something else going on, something in the background... I shook my head. I wasn't a psyker, but I knew a few: Librarian Vasili was crouched down now, palm to his crackling forehead and muttering something under his breath. Other Grey Knights were doing the same. The Eldar were chanting softly in the background of the ritual.

"A witch penitent, a sinner redemptive."

"Ah weetch pen-ee-tehnt." Fingers clamped tightly as Batel gripped the hem of her robe with a white-knuckle grip. "Ah sihnnher reh-dehm-chive." A smile faintly crossed Raquel's hopeful face.

"So I ask you for your beneficent grace."

"So... I hask yoo foar hyoor." She choked on her tears, forcing them back down as she focused on the words being framed by Raquel's lips, urging her to finish the litany. "ben-eff-ish-ient ghrace."

Batel took a deep breath, her dark purple hair shimmering as she furiously nodded her head down.

"And a chance for your forgiveness."

"Ahnd a chansh for hyour forgivenessss."

Danilov strode forwards.

"So ends the Litany of the Witch Repentant." He boomed, needing no aid to carry his voice across to even myself.

The room seemed to brighten up as she finished the litany without being shot, with many of the miniatures who could appreciate what she had just been through nodding solemnly in quiet approval, others reciting their own prayers and litanies for her safe recovery from the taint of Chaos.

Raquel looked over to Inquisitor Danilov, who nodded once.

"Penitent witch! Once a servant of the Ruinous Powers!" Everyone turned to the sudden surge of angry shouts. "Know this: the path to redemption is littered with traps! Even failing once will end your life, and damn your soul to eternal fire! Do you wish for this!"

Batel paused, shocked by the sudden outburst, but nodded nonetheless.

"Then good luck to you." Danilov sighed. The powerful figure of the Inquisitor strode forward. "And I shall be there to end your suffering if you do. Cast away your hope, young one. Replace it with vigilance and faith in the Emperor. Or resign yourself to a fate worse than oblivion itself."

Father Jeremiah bowed his head, and began to recite his own prayer.

"Penitentiaria venefica, purgabas vester dedeci et petabo redemptonem."

[Penitent witch, purge yourself of sin and find redemption.]

The other Imperials nodded in agreement, their faces set into grim determination. Batel probably didn't understand, because now she smiled faintly, as if dizzy. I stepped forward as she began to tilt backwards.

"Easy there, Batel..."

She sank into my arms, no doubt exhausted from the psychic aspect of the exorcism. Batel sagged as she let out a long pent up breath, and fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

"Uh... hello? Hey..."

Cleaning up after the ritual wasn't too hard, with myself and the rest of the psykers as help, but the difficult part was to listen to the senior psykers as they meditated. Zara and her retinue had deemed it a worthy cause to join and review the girl's tentative steps to reclaiming herself from Chaos.

"The girl has willpower." Vasili noted, sipping on a bowl of ritual wines. "I've never seen so much of the taint excised in the first ritual."

I poked my head into the conversation as I rolled up the anointed string, and tucked it into my pocket. I moved on to pick up the candles.

"You mean that it wasn't all?"

The others looked at me, a confused expression on faces which did not have a helmet over it.

"Of course not, Vincent." Justicar Amadeus called out. "Certainly, we have begun to exorcise her inner daemons, so to speak, but the entire process may take a few days... of course, if we push her any further we might end up doing more harm than good... the Ordo Malleus has learned that such cases need a more... delicate approach than other problems the Inquisition meets."

"Like bombing an individual from orbit?" I asked, knowing full well that fluff-wise, the Inquisition's more pro-active members weren't quite the most... efficient of judges.

Inquisitor Danilov's face went puce. "Orbital bombing has proven more than effective sometimes." He sniffed, harumphing in indignity.

"But your analogy is valid, Vincent. Yes, we do have some rather... messy..." There were a few snorts from the surrounding veterans. "...methods of neutralizing threats to the Imperium, but do give the Inquisition some credit where its due." Danilov – who I put at maybe his late fifties - was staring down Space Marines with centuries of experience as they smiled quietly to themselves. "We do not blunder into problems like a grox laden with contact explosives in a ceramics emporium."

I nodded in understanding, and after I tucked the candles away in the kitchen, I found myself a pair of cups. Filling them with water, I walked out of the kitchen and returned to Batel's side, pressing the cold surface of the cup of water against her cheek.

She awoke with a yelp, but I had already removed the cup. Now I handed it to her with my best guilty smile.

"Sorry."

"Sh'ohkay." She mumbled, reaching out with both hands, taking a small sip of the cool liquid. Her face brightened. I knew the refreshing feeling that you get from quenching one's thirst, and this one looked like she had been going without water for a while. Batel kept chipping away at the water, eventually draining the last mouthful with a sigh of contentment that could only be described as a purr.

"Feel good?" I inquired, taking another mouthful from my own cup.

"Hai've bheen worsh." Batel lisped, sniffing a little. "Halthoo hai've shmealt bhettar."

I've been worse... although I've smelt better. My instant reaction to this was a snort of derisive laughter. Batel's cheeks reddened. The lopsided grin I had plastered to my face turned into a hung head of apology.

"Uh... sorry about that..."

Any other thoughts stopped as a car screeched to a halt outside. Michael and Alice must have returned.

Then, out at the front of the house, the various soldiers on picket duty began screaming in alarm, sending the whole house up on alert.

A loud voice – I recognized it as Sergeant Leon – roared over the network of vox-hailers.

"Attention all forces! Unidentified vehicle is up the driveway! Everyone head for cover!"

Machines roared and vehicles fishtailed as they turned corners, gunning for the hallways, nooks and crannies to hide in.

For a single heartbeat, I could feel everyone was silent: The car's guttural engine had simply died away, and the miniatures had all fled to carefully prepared hiding places.

At the front door, a powerful fist crashed into the door.

"Hon-nee!" The voice was vaguely male, probably someone just out of his mid-life crisis. It was laced with malice and mockery as it bellowed out. "I'm heere tah take ya ho-ome!"

What. The. Hell. Was the guy drunk or something?

I turned to Batel, who was already scrambling for cover.

"Who was that!"

Her wide eyed, panic stricken face told me everything, with her answer only confirming my fears.

"Raihan... he'sh mhai shtepp-fahderr."

The door's lock burst in, trailing purple flames as it was melted by the eldritch energies, writhing on the ground as if the tortured metal could feel pain.

A large, stocky man stepped in, whatever flesh wasn't covered in the remains of his clothes or in the many dirty bandages that wrapped around his arms were an off-parchment brown. His face looked like he was on a drug high, his pupils little pin-pricks as he looked down on us, face twisted into a grotesque grin. There was a Wheel of Chaos carved onto his forehead, the circle with eight spokes that spilled outside of their boundary, and all across his body I could see the twisted sigils of Chaos.

To my horror, from between his feet streamed in a carpet of miniature cultists, all servants of the Ruinous Powers, whooping and cackling praise to their dark gods. From Cultists to Marines, the Legions of Chaos streamed in.

We had assumed it was all some normal guy who had wandered in; everyone had high-tailed it for cover, and nobody had been left to watch exactly who was outside. Now we were paying for it, big time. Scattered throughout the house, we'd be lucky if they didn't just swarm anyone breaking cover and trying to regroup...

I looked at the gathering forces as they gathered around the legs of their own living Titan.

It wasn't until now, however, that I noticed that there was a figure perched on the man's shoulder. He was – quite obviously – a Chaos Sorcerer, his arms still wrapped in the warp-fire that had burst the door handle in. Purple lightning, malevolent and seemingly alive, danced over his body.

"Surrender the Key to me, mortals, and I shall make your death swift!" He roared.

I palmed my face. "Aw hell no."

Miles Henderson looked up as Alice and Michael left the store. He smiled to himself as he found himself a magazine and began to flick through it.

Boy, they'd both changed a lo~

The hand seized him, whipping the man around on his seat.

"Hurk!"

"I require your assistance."

His eyes widened as he saw his assailant.

"You! You're~!"