-Pegruatania, Administratum's Archive World-
Pegruatania was a small, low-gravity, slow-rotation planet; its days and nights lasted approximately 35.8 hours. Located in Segmentum Tempestus, in the Stromia Trititania Sector, in the Stromia G9I3 Subsector, in the Pelinov System, composed of three planets, the aforementioned being the smallest and most distant from the faint, dying star they orbited.
Pegruatania's original appearance has been forgotten by time, now covered by kilometers of brutalist imperial architecture, dark complexes and buildings interconnected by streets, bridges, and passageways, tearing through the sky and concealing its true surface. The entire planet has been converted into a gigantic archive of the Administratum.
Documents, messages, logistics, storage of historical records and administrative knowledge, and more. Piles and piles of scrolls entered the planet, but only a handful left, for the empire's bureaucratic machine was slow and overwhelming, like the Titans, and if there was any incorrect information, an eternity would pass before the error was corrected, with numerous victims being made due to the incompetence of those who worked there.
The population was small, composed mostly of Scribes, low-level officials responsible for maintaining records; Ciphers, messengers who memorize what is dictated to them with a single reading without knowledge of the content of the messages they carry; Menials, low-level, unskilled workers recruited from the non-adept population; and Subordinates, slaves who act as engineers, artisans, and in unskilled occupations.
Servitors were a rare sight due to an incident involving one whose job was to light the countless candles that gleamed in the main complex, shining like a sea of stars. After all, the Scribes needed light to work, but a single stumble by the lobotomized being was enough for the flame of his candlelighter to come into contact with a precious tower of documents that had been awaiting processing for a mere five hundred years.
A blazing inferno ensued, the fire spreading to increasingly ancient sections, now rediscovered after the clearing of rubble and ashes. The value of the victims' lives was small compared to the damage to the infrastructure and the loss of three thousand five hundred years of records.
How would the Cadian regiment from two hundred years ago receive its supplies? How would the parts for the water filtration system of the Hive Cities, ordered seven hundred and fifty years ago, be delivered? How would the medical equipment for the sick from nine hundred and seventy-five years in the past help the patients?
An apology and a request to restart the process was all that the people waiting for a response received. After that, the number of Servitors was reduced to prevent another accident, the Planetary Defense Force was expanded, and an Ordinates, a minor administrative officer, was sent to the planet to ensure that the grueling routine continued as it should.
In a distant window, far from the tired and half-blind eyes, worn down by years of writing by candlelight on a planet with little sunlight, a glow unlike any other emanated from the dark interiors of the buildings.
Old men and women, pale and withered, their appearance acquired through years of repetitive work in the darkness, lay scattered on the floor, fresh blood dripping from their noses, eyes, and mouths, trapped in a catatonic state, murmuring something incoherent before life left their bodies.
Their corpses, shrouded in white robes, formed a trail ending in the same strange light that had now returned, accompanied by a high-pitched buzzing and the muffled screams of their next victim.
Clicking her tongue and muttering something in Aeldari, the Howling Banshee opened her hand, freeing the Scribe's head, which was in the same situation as the other workers.
Surveying her surroundings, she spotted a small plaque attached to the wall to her left, frowning in confusion for a second before all the knowledge she had extracted from the primitive brains of the Mon-keigh struck her like lightning.
High Gothic, they called it, a jumble of guttural noises and childish scribbles, but in the end, she was exactly where she wanted to be. Entering the room next to the plaque, she found herself in the Department of Star Charts and Planetary Records.
The walk was short, as she found herself on what, for lack of better words, could be described as a metallic balcony overlooking a labyrinth of bookshelves, so vast that they soon slipped out of her reach, becoming mere dots in the distance.
Between each colossal wall, the candlelight moved like tiny luminous insects, carried by the mortals who lived there, writing, searching, cataloging.
The sound of autoquils mingled with their footsteps and the incessant prayers emanating from the Loudspeaker Servitors attached to the walls. Speaking of the cadaverous beings, yet still alive in torment, one of them was connected to a large machine ahead, basically a head covered in wires attached to a metallic panel full of lights and buttons that beeped and blinked.
The information quickly coursed through her brain, a Cogitator operated by a Servitor, for thinking machines were heresy of the highest order. At least that she could agree with; after all, why would a stronger servant heed the requests of its weaker master? It was bound to cause a revolt.
The red lenses that the head had in place of eyes shone with a dim light as she approached, and the round object in its mouth, a Vox device, released a voice devoid of emotion.
"Greetings, how can I be of service?"
Beneath her helmet, the Banshee's perfect face contorted in disgust. The creature before her couldn't even be considered a Mon-keigh. His kind truly was nothing more than a savage beast to do something so monstrous to one of its own.
Twitching her jaw, she pondered how she should utter her next words. Sighing, she performed the movement of her tongue, the muscles and vocal cords working with ease to answer the question, for compared to her mother tongue, High Gothic was merely a humiliating sound to make, leaving her glad that there were no others of her kind nearby.
"I desire the location of the planets with Orkoid presence in the neighboring systems."
"Understood, please wait."
The head fell silent, and seconds later, the light from its eyes intensified, displaying a holographic screen with a seemingly endless list of planets and their locations.
The Eldar took a step back upon seeing so many names; the Greenskins lived up to their reputation as a plague, just like the humans, but at least the Mon-keigh were useful occasionally.
A pang gripped her heart, making her think for a moment that her search would never end, but dispelling the doubts in her soul, she deepened her search.
"Show me the planets with Orkoid presence near the ruins of the Craft World known as Kirian-Niekt."
The holographic screen disappeared and the Servitor fell silent. Surely there would be records of her former home here; she traveled to the ruins and sighted the colossi that were the Imperial Ships eliminating the remnants of the Ork fleet, and Pegruatania was not far away.
Anger replaced the sadness caused by her great loss, but when the holographic screen returned, illuminating the environment like a beacon, she couldn't help but feel hope, for now the number of locations she would have to visit was achievable.
Sennoth
Melora
Sezuno
Venthea VI
Grand Hope
Green Morgue
With a simple command, all the necessary information was transferred to a Data Slate ejected from the Cogitator, now in the hands of the Banshee who held it like a valuable treasure. With her objective accomplished, she commanded the Servitor, and consequently the machine to which it was connected, to deactivate.
The various lights went out and the incessant hum of the device fell silent. There was only a second of silence before a deep red light filled the room and a deafening alarm reverberated through the walls.
She had been discovered, nothing surprising since she hadn't bothered to hide the bodies.
The hurried sound of boots stomping on the floor and the screams in Low Gothic approaching spurred her to escape without wasting any time. Storing her prize in the pouch hanging from her waist, the Banshee ran towards the edge of the balcony, stepping onto its safety railing and diving with open arms towards the lower levels, just in time to hear the guns being fired and the bullets raining down around her.
-Green Morgue-
In the city of the Thumb of Gork, the fortress of the late Rukzod Nidkilla lay in ruins, now a complex of burnt and dilapidated metal carcasses, whether due to the ensuing conflict or the former subordinates looting everything of value.
The abandoned and silent environment served as a tombstone and symbol that no leader ruled forever; however, this image changed as soon as a being revealed itself within.
The Lictor dissipated its camouflage on the highest level of the fortress, detaching itself from the ceiling and landing on the ground below without a single sound. Devouring the brain of the city's former leader proved useful in getting an idea of the location of what it sought. Crossing the threshold of the broken doors just ahead, it entered the closest thing this place had to an office, Rukzod's old room, stripped of its furniture and trophies, now decorated with bullet holes, dried blood, and dark footprints.
The Tyranid paid no attention to that, focusing instead on the papers scattered on the floor, each covered in what others would define as childish drawings, but which were actually glyphs serving as notes and records.
Perhaps devouring so many Green-Skin brains hadn't been such a good idea. Yes, it could understand what was written, but no matter how hard it searched, it didn't find what it wanted, which made it feel something strange deep in its mind.
Requests to the guild, messages to his subordinates, threats—nothing truly useful. The Lictor's fist clenched and trembled before returning to normal, a change so rapid that perhaps even it hadn't noticed.
The being concentrated, sifting through acquired memories: a request to the guild, waiting for a convoy, the loss of a treasure, and an encounter with the strange Ork who completed the mission.
Yes, perhaps he possessed what the Lictor desired. With its next objective in mind, the Tyranid vanished, leaping out the nearest window and heading towards the city streets, preparing to observe its next prey before striking it down.
-XXXXXX-
In one of the many fortified enclaves covering the city, a group of Orks gathered deep within the main building, away from prying and unwanted eyes, inside a cold, well-lit room where a frigid mist drifted, carried by the poor ventilation.
There, several Painboyz and Mekboyz surrounded an operating table, and resting upon it was the body of Rukzod Nidkilla, his head sewn back on and the numerous bullet holes in his body closed.
This was only the beginning of the project; rows and rows of carts filled with bionic parts, medical supplies, and scrap metal entered the area, pushed by Grots and stopping near their masters.
With that done, the operation began. The few still loyal to the former leader started their attempts to bring him back, for the city needed order, and the way things were going, there was only one Ork capable of doing it. The moment Rukzod returned bigger and stronger, the traitorous Grots would be crushed, and those smart enough to realize who the boss was would gather under his banner.
The atmosphere was filled with the sound of tearing flesh and breaking bones, weak and rotten organic parts being replaced by the certainty of steel, sparks ripped through the air as frozen blood turned to liquid again, staining the ground red.
The Oks, wearing surgical and welding masks, worked tirelessly, silently observing the mangled body below as shadows danced around it.
A tangle of wires and chips to transmit the electrical impulses from the partially devoured brain, a fuel pump in place of the withered and dark heart, oil in place of blood and a turbine in place of lungs, cameras in place of eyes and receivers in place of ears, legs and arms with pistons and a solid plate in place of ribs.
It was like a jigsaw puzzle, and they would do anything to solve it.
-XXXXXX-
The night was still long and the movement of the factions had not ended. Trucks crisscrossed the streets, their headlights snaking through the darkness, heading towards distant sections of the city, each carrying a load of large metal cylinders.
Whenever one arrived at their destination, be it an abandoned building or an old warehouse, they deposited their cargo in the place marked on the map, leaving it in the hands of the Orks and Grots who awaited them there, binding them to a strange cubic machine before departing the next day.
Outside the city, the number of Tyranids increased. To the uninitiated, this was merely strange behavior from these animals, but to the more experienced Orks, including Azgruz, something was clearly wrong, as the giant insects did not attack, but waited, forming a large, imperfect circle around the Thumb of Gork.
Whatever happened, the city was far from having a moment to recover.
END OF CHAPTER