Week 14: There’s Somethin’ Movin’ An’ It Ain’t Us!
Amid the glowing gunk and sloughing slime of the pipe-warrens beneath Cog-Port, a shadow moved. In bursts and creeps it traversed the tunnels, rushing, pausing, slinking, and then stopping.
Adept Chumlee B-Vor, 1st secretary to the CCCP vice reg-arch for Corpse Town, looked around his office, sweating. He took out his auto-pistol for the 10th time that hour and nervously checked the clip. Fully loaded. Rather than return it to the holster, he put in on the desk in front of him.
He ought to have been satisfied. Never before had someone risen so fast through the ranks of the CCCP bureaucracy. He hadn’t even held the position of 2nd secretary. Straight from 3rd to 1st. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with worry, he would have been considering how to take those next few steps to the title of Vice Reg-Arch itself. Or never mind the vice, straight to Reg-Arch.
However, he couldn’t help but feel that he hadn’t earnt this promotion. Chumlee was not being modest, he was painfully conscious that he had done nothing to expedite this role’s vacancy. The roles he had occupied in the past had become vacant through carefully plotted fatal heart attacks, mysterious-to-everyone-but-Chumlee disappearances, mental decrepitude brought on by involuntary lobotomies, and the “accidental” detonation of explosives.
The 1st and 2nd secretaries though… well, their death certificates had read ‘consumption.’ When Chumlee had queried this, noting to the medical-adept that he had not heard any coughing from either, the doctor had looked momentarily confused, then clarified, “No, no. Not the lung-rot. I mean consumed.”
“Eaten?”
“Well, chewed at the very least. And, yes, there’s enough parts missing to assume that much of our unfortunate colleagues must have been swallowed.”
The consumption itself had not overly concerned Chumlee. People got eaten in the underhive. It was a fact of life. What had worried him was the location of said consumption: The adepts’ offices. That, and the state of the offices themselves, both of which had large holes in the floor leading into dank, mucus slicked tunnels.
Chumlee picked up the autopistol again, then lifted his legs from the floor and huddled in his chair, trembling.
Beneath Corpse Town, the shadow resolved into legs, spines, and compound eyes, all extending from a carapace body. It crouched and began to make the unmistakeable sounds of a creature straining to unburden itself of a load that was solid, heavy and better out than in.
Brother-Leader Igor knocked on the door of Doctor Keets’ chamber. “Oh Doctor, Salvation of the Lost. Arbiter of justice. Priest of power. Holiest of holy men. Grant me permission to enter.” Igor knew this for the performance it was, but it never paid to trust that all those at your back were completely aligned with your conspiracy. He waited for a performative few seconds of silence, then with a degree of cringing he thought appropriate pushed the door open.
Doctor Keets’ chamber was holy indeed. On the walls were painted symbols that Keets had described as “primal expressions of mankind’s honest truth” but that Igor thought were crude, ugly, and poorly executed daubings. On the shelves stood trinkets and statues of similar quality to the symbols. But, holiest of all, was the yawning chasm that had appeared in the floor. Around it glistened the bloody remains of Doc Keet. Igor smiled.
The creature shuddered, it heaved, it strained until at last with a sigh of relief, understanding of which transcended the species barrier, it relaxed. At its rear, a crystal glistened in the dark. Its sharp edges, and layered depths reflecting and refracting the glow of gunk and sizzling lumens.
“A terrible tragedy.” Said Igor laconically. “And an appalling mess,” he added with vehemence. He abhorred disorganisation. It was all well and good worshipping Chaos, but, to his mind, it would never beat a well-thought out, clearly organised and properly executed plan. Keets had wittered on about chaos being a ladder but - he reflected peering into the hole’s black depths - no ladder was going to help him now.
“Brother-Leader Igor!” came the voice of one of his juniors, “Brother de Wripenzplatschgratschkruppenveltskraftenborgovski III Junior has reported back - All Vibro-nomes placed! Though, the Eschers in our pay admit that some were disabled by the usurpers they also claim to have reactivated a few.”
“That will be enough,” said Igor with satisfaction. His plan was coming together. He took a last look round Doc Keets’ chambers, noting the remains of the vibronome he had gifted the doctor. “All is proceeding as planned. It begins.”
The creature twitched its antenna. Something had changed. It was picking up good vibrations. With its front legs, it began to scythe easily through the wall, driving a new tunnel in search of that which summoned it and the promise of fresh prey when it got there.