Week 13: Bad Vibes
From under his hood, the Chief of the Lost Council glared at Doc Keets. The plan, he reflected, had been fool-proof. Construct bombs using the time-honoured technique of high-explosives triggered by a fuse of rat-piss infused cloth. What could go wrong? Doc Keets is what could go wrong. He had cast what he called “spells” over the bombs. He had “imprecated” (as he put it) these so-called gods to assist the gangs working for them. He had promised the “intervention” of what he had called “the angels of our darkest, most powerful natures.” And what had happened? Nothing. Obviously, the chief thought, because he was fairly sure that covering bombs in green goo and blood was not conducive to their good function. Neither goo nor blood burnt like rat-piss.
The Chief of the Lost Council still glared at Doc Keets. The man was clearly an idiot. Yes, he could perform that parlour trick with the walls pouring blood and pestilence. Yes, he could summon screeching ghosts and ghouls in the flames and smoke of their promethium fires. And yes, he could apparently detonate poor saps like Brothers Gaspard, Zu, de Wripenzplatschgratschkruppenveltskraftenborgovski III, and Klamidiya at will. But, other than that, what benefit had he brought the Lost? None, the chief decided. None. At. All.
The council were chanting again, Doc Keets leading them. Amid the clamour and the dancing shadows, the chief took the opportunity to whisper to his neighbour.
“I have a plan. A better one. First, we need to dispose of the fool. Have the blessed vibro-nomes finished recharging?”
His neighbour nodded.
Sometime later, the chanting was finished and the council were dispersing. The chief knew Doc Keets would soon retreat to his chambers for what he described as “self reflection.” The chief, who had long ago replaced his organic eyes with bionics, had a good idea what that entailed.
“Doc Keets. Greatest of holiest of holy men. Salvation of the Lost. Arbiter of justice. Priest of power. You have the gratitude of all the lost.”
Doc Keets nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes! Through me all things are possible! But Chief Igor,” the chief bristled at the use of his first name, “I must away and reflect, I recommend you all genuflect before the altar to the great gods of the warp. The source of all power. The great lords of Chaos.”
“Of course, but first we wish to bestow upon you a gift. An item unique to we, the Lost.” The chief removed from beneath his cloak a freshly charged vibro-nome, its chrome skin glinting in the fire light. “This is no bolt-shell, this is a vibro-nome. It’s frequencies attuned to the desires of the beast within us all.”
In Doc Keets’ eyes, the vibro-nome was twice reflected.
Yet more time later, the Chief and the man with whom he had spoken during the chanting stood in a that sparkled with chrome vibro-nomes. One was missing but, from the way their teeth were already on edge, in operation.
“You know what to do,” the chief said. “Our allies must ensure they are not disturbed. When this is complete neither that foolish doctor nor the CCCP will stand between us and our birthright.”
Chumlee B-Vor had never liked Eschers. Some might like their hair, their finesse, or – more likely – their chems, but when he became Reg-Arch of Corpse Town he would hound the flash fuckers into the sump. Them and their abominable cat lizards creatures. What was worse than a Escher though, was an seething, chem-addled Escher throwing demolition charges onto the desks of hard-working CCCP adepts.
“It didn’t go off!” The woman had raged. “Your promised ‘high-tech this and fool-proof that’ but not even a pop!”
“Are you sure you set it right?” He had ventured.
“You calling us fools?” Snarled the Escher queen.
Chumlee B-Vor considered his response. The devices were more or less fool-proof; he’d tested them himself. The third ogryn had grasped – eventually and presumably encouraged by his two friends - the basic concepts of “press button, leave bomb, run away.”
“Perhaps there was a flaw in, er, the 3rd secretary’s design.” he had allowed. “I’m sure you did your best. I will report the issue.”
The Escher spat, turned on her heel, and stalked from the room. On Chumlee B-Vor’s desk, the Escher’s spit had sizzled, adding to the stain left by the rat piss only a few cycles before.
Though the plan to strike at the heart of the Lost’s operation had been a failure for the CCCP, Chumlee B-Vor had turned it into a personal victory. He had gone to report the failure to the Reg-Arch. He had been careful to give full credit to the 3rd secretary for both the plan and the choice of the demolition charge timers. He had looked suitably admonished as the Reg-Arch raged.
He had said: “I am sure 3rd Secretary Demetrius von Collander will soon resolve the issue so we may strike again and more surely this time. Indeed, I understand he is at work on the devices at this very moment and I daresay that explains -” with delectable timing came the sound of a distant explosion “- his lateness.”
Chumlee B-Vor smiled and thought of the office, the secretaries, and the new desk that awaited him once cleaning and repairs were complete. In that moment of reflection, he would have laughed had the intercom not buzzed into life.
“3rd secretary, we have a problem,” croaked the metal-on-metal voice of Senior CCCP Tech-Adept Mushkalleh. “An emergency, I believe.”
Adept Chumlee B-Vor, 3rd secretary to the CCCP vice reg-arch for Corpse Town, sighed.
Corpse Town is buzzing. The gangers feel it in their fingers and their teeth. They can see it in the water where ripples form with no pebble tossed. They can even see it in the air where particularly thick bands of pollution form bands and waves. This is generally thought to be a bad thing, though no ganger could explain why and indeed some quite like the feeling.
Within the CCCP compound, the tech-adepts are close to explaining why and it is universally known to be a very bad thing indeed. Contrary to the accusations their masters may throw their way, the tech-adepts have not been lazy. Ever since the Lost’s cyborg-led raid on Corpse Town, they have been studying the evidence before them: The cyborg and Lost corpses; the mysterious crystals; the probe-like metallic vibrating devices extracted from the cyborgs. The tech-adepts have begun making connections between all three. Their conclusions are troubling.
As the vibrations are detected and then become unmissable throughout Corpse Town, the tech-adepts alert their masters. So alerted, their masters sound klaxons. Meanwhile, the Lost Council are altogether more content though their klaxons also sound.
For both the gangs in the employ of the CCCP and those in the employ of the Lost, duty calls.