Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 136 Empty Eyes

941.M41, Invernus, the seventy-second floor of the bottom nest, the abandoned stasis field station. Rusty water droplets fell onto the cold grating floor, splashing up tiny, sour water droplets. Fifteen slender figures huddled behind the collapsed stasis field generator ruins, like fifteen abandoned, dusty wax figures.

They are the last survivors of the Invernus Star Language Choir.

Eleanor, a high-ranking Star Speaker, leaned against the cold terracotta shell, her empty eye sockets staring into the darkness at the end of the passage. She was no ordinary Star Speaker; she was a Zeta-class, one of those marked as "high-potential" by the Star Court before the soul-binding ritual.

At this moment, she used her remaining psionic energy to weave a barrier, compressing the psionic fluctuations of the fifteen people to an almost imperceptible limit. This was the only reason she could hold out in the bottom hive for a month without being found by orcs or warp demons. Any other low-ranking Astromancer would have had this choir torn apart by the WAAAGH! force field on the very first day.

But the price was enormous. Dark green psionic noise, like countless red-hot needles, repeatedly pierced her skull—the remnants of WAAAGH! The force field, ever since Grom's death, had clung to every inch of the Underhive like rotting pus. Her lips moved unconsciously, repeatedly reciting short phrases from the Silent Codex, using this rhythm etched into her bones to forcefully anchor her crumbling consciousness to reality.

The young Star Speaker Liam behind him suddenly curled up even tighter, his knuckles digging into the gaps in the grille, his nails splitting but he felt nothing.

"I heard it—something's crawling—in the pipes—" Her voice was as faint as a whisper, "They're calling my name—"

"Shut up." Eleanor's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper. "That's not them. It's an echo from the warp. Don't listen to it."

She knew what it was. It was the whisper of demons in the warp, the hungry shadows drawn by the WAAAGH! force field. There were originally more than twenty of them; now only fifteen remained. In the past month, they hadn't survived—either their consciousness was torn apart by the psionic surge, or they had become monsters possessed by demons. In the end, she herself had pierced their hearts with an energy dagger. Her psionic barrier was now as thin as paper, unable to withstand any further impact.

She could hear the elevators running for days. The rumble of those massive metal platforms rising and falling in the shafts echoed from the depths of the bottom nest to the seventy-second floor, broken into intermittent muffled sounds by the rock layers and ruins. The Imperial army was clearing out the bottom nest layer by layer, the sound of blaster fire coming from afar, sometimes dense, sometimes sparse.

Her psychic senses continued to extend outward. She heard the roar of elevators, the volley of explosives, and the dying roars of the Greenskins—people were clearing out, advancing, and fighting in the direction of the hive. It was the Imperial army. That was enough.

She leaned against the wall and slowly stood up; long-term malnutrition had made her legs as weak as cotton.

"Let's go. We'll get out of here. We'll either die at the hands of a gun or in the sunlight."

Fifteen figures, supporting each other, ascended the rusty passageway. The gunfire outside grew clearer—the roar of explosives, the hiss of laser guns, and the howls of the green-skinned soldiers echoed through the narrow tunnel. They moved slowly, each step feeling like walking on a knife's edge. Eleanor led the way, her psychic senses spreading like a net, avoiding all areas of fire, and slowly approaching the elevator shaft, following the direction from which the gunfire subsided.

When they finally emerged from the passage, they ran into an elite infantry regiment of the Garros Planetary Defense Force.

Countless explosive guns were instantly aimed at them. The elite soldiers, clad in CMC300 power armor, stared at the group of ragged, hollow-eyed people, their fingers on the triggers. In their hearts, any suspicious person could be a potentially huge risk.

The captain leading the team stepped forward, about to begin questioning, when his gaze swept over the twisted and deformed silver insignia of the Celestial Court pinned to Eleanor's chest. His brow furrowed briefly, then relaxed. He recalled the report from headquarters—someone deep within the Nest was sending out Celestial Speakers for help, a weak signal that had persisted for weeks. Governor Cohen had personally ordered all troops deployed to the Nest to be on the lookout for possible Celestial Speakers.

"The Star Language Choir?" the captain asked, his tone less sharp and more like a confirmation.

Eleanor looked up, her empty eye sockets facing the direction of the voice. "Yes," she said hoarsely.

He paused for two seconds, then turned to the soldiers and said, "Take them with you. The elevator is returning in fifteen minutes; bring them back first and hand them over to the command post."

The return journey was exceptionally difficult. The fifteen Star Speakers were protected by soldiers in the middle of the column, as remnants of the green-skinned warriors constantly emerged from the pipes along the way, the roar of bomb guns and chainswords echoing through the narrow passages. Eleanor found these warriors to be unusually powerful, not at all like mortal warriors, but like the legendary Emperor's angels of death.

When they finally reached the elevator shaft, the massive metal platform was already there, its steel cables gleaming coldly in the dim light. The platform was already crowded with thousands of people of all kinds—civilians who had climbed up from the bottom of the pit.

The ragged survivors, most with blank stares, looked down at the latticework beneath their feet, and no one spoke. Soldiers stood guard outside the platform.

In a corner of the platform, dozens of figures clad in force-feedback power armor stood out conspicuously. The family crests on their terracotta armor gleamed a dim gold under the emergency lights—the mark of an ancient family from Invernus. They surrounded a dozen or so people, men, women, and children, their clothing, though not particularly glamorous, still maintained a semblance of decorum. The person in the very center, protected by the armor, wore dark civilian clothes with a silver family badge pinned to his collar, his gray hair meticulously combed. His self-glow swept across the CMC power armor of the elite infantry of Garros, lingering for a moment on the gray-white terracotta plates, the intricate joint servo structure, and then on the skull and gear emblem. He then looked at the group of Astrologers surrounded by soldiers—empty eye sockets, chapped lips, distorted Astrologer emblems. His lips twitched slightly, but he didn't speak, simply withdrawing his self-glow and staring back at the grille beneath his feet, as if he hadn't seen anything. The younger man beside him—who was probably his offspring—moved his lips as if he wanted to say something, but was silenced by a single look from him.

The captain ignored them. He glanced at the platform, made sure everyone was in position, and pressed the ascent button. The cables hummed softly, and the platform began to slowly rise. The darkness receded beneath their feet, and the light above grew brighter. Eleanor looked up, her empty eye sockets facing the light, and for the first time, tears streamed from her dry eyes.

The elevator stopped at the central elevator hub. As soon as the platform's hatch opened, several black figures silently blocked the exit, their sharp lights locking onto the Star Speaker.

Silence fell over the platform. The leading nobleman froze, as if struck by lightning, when he saw the silver Inquisition rose insignia on the black-clad figure's chest. He slowly lowered his head, his gaze shifting from the elite power armor of the Garros elite, from the Star Speaker's face, and finally settling on the blood-stained grille at his feet, never to rise again. The young progenitor beside him moved his lips, but a hand pressed down on his shoulder, forcibly pressing his mouth shut. Dozens of private soldiers in force-feedback power armor instinctively reached for the slingshot handles at their waists, but seeing their master's posture, their fingers loosened one by one, hanging limply at their sides.

Leading the group was the intern interrogator, his grey robe embroidered with the Inquisition's seal. He carried a portable genetic scanner, its beam sweeping across the fifteen Star Speakers like a knife. Behind him stood six battle nuns, their grey and white power armor gleaming coldly in the sunlight, the rose emblem on their breastplates faded like congealed blood. Their fingers rested on the hilts of their chainswords, a low, continuous hum emanating from their sheaths. Their posture answered all questions: ready to slit the throats of anyone marked "heretic."

"Psionicists. No registration record." His voice was icy. "Detain them all and take them to the temporary interrogation room for genetic testing and psionic contamination screening."

"They're from the Invernus Star Language Choir." The captain stepped forward. "They're survivors we rescued from the bottom nest; command reported that..."

"The Empire has no such thing as a survivor psyker." The intern interrogator interrupted him, his finger pointing to the explosive pistol at his waist. "Either get out of the way, or we'll detain you for obstructing the Inquisition."

The battle nun behind him didn't move. But the chainsaw sword slid two inches out of its sheath, its serrated teeth spinning in standby mode, emitting a low, continuous hum. The sound wasn't loud, but it drowned out all the noise in the square.

On the metal grille in the corner of the square, dark red bloodstains never dried. Every day, new blood seeped down from the gaps in the grille. The moment a bomb blew off a head, blood and bone fragments splattered onto the grille, only to be covered by disinfectant spray by the maintenance crew, and then new blood would cover it up again. Layer upon layer, seeping into the texture of the metal, impossible to wash clean.

Ulf stood at the entrance to the square, his fingers gripping the handle of his explosive rifle. He watched as Inquisition agents dragged emaciated Astro Speakers, fresh from the Undercity, away from the soldiers. A young woman was pulled out by the arm; her empty eye sockets stared at the sky, her lips frozen purple, and she offered no resistance. Liam stumbled as he was shoved, falling to his knees, his knees striking the blood-stained grilles.

His hands began to tremble. He told himself about those executed men; the scanner flashed red—they might be alien slaves, they might be infected, they might not be human. He told himself this. But the pool of blood never dried. New blood flowed onto it every day. He saw it every day.

His hand didn't leave the grip, but his thumb moved off the safety.

He pushed aside the soldiers blocking his way, stepped forward, and stood before the interrogation trainee.

"Put down your guns. They are Invernus."

"Vice Commander Ulf," the interrogator trainee said without yielding an inch, "the Inquisition's authority to deal with heretics surpasses that of any local military force. These psionicists have lost their organization, have no identification records, and may have been corrupted by Chaos. I have the authority to execute them on the spot."

"You didn't." Ulf's gaze was as cold as ice. "This is Invernus. Whether they are corrupt or guilty, only Governor Cohen can determine."

Just then, Cohen's voice came through the communication channel. It was flat, devoid of any emotion: "I'm on my way. Everyone, stay put."

Less than five minutes later, Cohen Severus stood at the entrance to the elevator hub. His grey-white power armor was covered by a crimson sage's robe, and his helmet hung at his waist. He didn't look at the two opposing sides, nor at the Inquisition's agents; his gaze fell directly on Eleanor.

"Was it you who sent the distress signal for Invernus?" he asked.

Eleanor recognized the voice. It wasn't the captain's voice, Ulf's voice, or the interrogator's apprentice's voice. There was no anger, no tension, no procedural indifference, only calm.

"It was me, sir." Her voice trembled. "After the Greenskins took over the relay station, I led the choir to escape to the Deep Nest—and then shouted into the warp every day. I thought—no one would hear me anymore."

Cohen's gaze swept over the distorted Star Language Court emblem on her chest, then over the fourteen ragged Star Languagers behind her, and finally over the ashen-faced interrogator trainee.

The interrogator trainee stepped forward. "Sage, according to Imperial law, all unregistered psychics must..."

"I know," Cohen interrupted him, his tone flat.

There was a moment of silence. The pool of blood gleamed a damp, dark red under the light.

“They are survivors of the Invernus Star-Speaking Choir, and their identities are verifiable,” Cohen said calmly. “You need to investigate, and I won’t stop you. I have only one condition.”

The intern interrogator stared at him.

"Give them a decent living before the examination. Food, water, a place to rest, clean changes of clothes, and a medical check-up. They've just come out of the bottom nest and are in no condition to be properly tested."

The interrogator trainee removed his fingers from the bomb gun but said nothing.

Cohen's gaze fell on the inscription of interrogation on his chest. "I'm not asking you. I'm informing you. A fifth-tier Forging Sage has the authority to request the protective detention of associated personnel until their identities are verified. Your people can be responsible for guarding them. The interrogation will also be conducted by your people. But they must first be restored to their basic state, and then your team will interrogate them—my people will be present to oversee the process. The entire interrogation will be recorded, and I need a copy to submit to the Mechanicus for their records."

The trainee interrogator paused for a moment. "If the investigation confirms chaotic contamination..."

"Then execution is the only option." Cohen's voice remained unchanged.

In the corner of the square, the pool of blood was still there. Cohen didn't look at the blood, but Ulf stared intently at the damp, dark red stain. The standoff wasn't over, but the gun barrels had been removed from each other.

The trainee interrogator stared at Cohen for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. "Alright. I'll designate the interrogation location. Your men are not allowed near it until the interrogation is over."

"The interrogation will take place in the temporary interrogation room at the Joint Forces command post. Your men will be responsible for guarding them, and your men will conduct the interrogations." Cohen's voice remained calm. "My men will be responsible for their safety and basic treatment until the interrogation is over."

The intern interrogator remained silent. He waved his hand, and the agents parted to make way, but their gazes did not leave the Star Speaker. Six combat nuns, chainswords in hand, stood silently behind the agents, motionless. The serrated edges of the chainswords had slid back into their sheaths, but the deep, ever-present hum still lingered in everyone's ears.

Eleanor looked up, her empty eye sockets facing the direction from which Cohen's voice came. Her lips moved, but no words came out.

Cohen didn't look at her again. He turned to Ulf. "Take them to the medical station. Treat their external wounds first, give them clean clothes, hot food, and beds to rest in. Have two squads of Allied soldiers guard them the whole time, and don't allow anyone to enter."

Ulf pressed his right fist against his chest. "Yes."

"I will not allow any accidents to happen during the interrogation," Cohen said to the interrogator trainee. "Their safety during the interrogation is the responsibility of your people."

The intern interrogator did not answer. He simply stood there, his gray robe motionless in the wind.

Liam was helped up from the ground by two Allied soldiers. A young female Star Speaker was released from the arm by an agent, stumbled, and was caught by her companion. Supporting each other, they followed Ulf and the soldiers toward the medical station.

The pool of blood was still there. Damp, dark red, and undried. Ulf paused as he passed the bloodstain, but didn't look down. He led his group across the square toward the medical station.

Cohen stood at the entrance to the elevator hub, watching the Star Speakers' figures disappear around the corner of the corridor. His self-glow swept across the dark red pool of blood in the corner of the plaza, paused for a moment, and then moved away. He didn't look at the people from the Inquisition, didn't look at Ulf, and didn't say a word. He turned and walked towards the command post.

After dropping off the Star Speakers, Ulf returned from the medical station. The Inquisition agents in the plaza had been redeployed to the identification station, the battle nuns standing silently behind them, their fingers still resting on the hilts of their chainswords. A new batch of evacuees rising from the bottom nest were being shoved towards the scanners.

He stood beside the pool of blood, watching as an agent took a sample from a frail old man's fingers. The scanner beeped briefly, green light, clearance. Next one, then another, green light. The next one, red light.

A blast from the explosive gun went off. Another headless corpse fell against the grille, fresh blood flowing down and covering the already blackened bloodstains. Those around screamed and recoiled. The Inquisition agents, expressionless, recorded something on a data panel. The Battle Sister didn't move.

Ulf's hands began to tremble again. But he didn't step forward. He didn't draw his gun. He just stood there, looking at the bloodstains that would never dry, looking at the executed men—perhaps alien servants, perhaps fathers, perhaps workers, perhaps none of them.

He doesn't know. He never will know.

He turned and walked back to his post. His thumb remained on the safety pin, but he didn't pull it out again either. Behind him, the scanner at the inspection station beeped again. Green light. Cleared.

Cohen stood at the entrance to the command post, his back to the square. He could hear the muffled thuds of exploding guns, the screams of civilians, and the cold commands of the Inquisition agents. He didn't turn around. His face was expressionless. Before the pool of blood was covered by fresh blood, he was back in front of the sand table. The two dark red arrows of orc reinforcements on the sand table had advanced further.

He said nothing. He didn't need to say anything.

Because the court was right. He knew it. They knew it too. If even one infected alien slave managed to slip through the identification station, everyone standing here today—Ulf, Liam, Eleanor, every wounded soldier in the medical station, every civilian in the square—could be torn apart from the inside by gene-stealers in the next Greenskin offensive. Better to kill the innocent than let the guilty go free. It wasn't cruelty, it was arithmetic.

But he spoke anyway. Not because he thought the Inquisition was wrong. It was because the distress signal sent by those fifteen Star Speakers had indeed reached the Black Pearl. They had indeed endured a month in the darkness of the Deep Nest. They truly deserved a meal, a clean set of clothes, an hour of sleep, and then a judgment of life or death.

Outside in the corridor, the bells were still ringing.

Inverfenes slowly, painfully, inch by inch, rose from the ruins. In the darkness of the underworld, countless people still waited. The boom crane was still running. The court's identification station was still operational.