The Cygnan Martyr

Marr pauses and looks at his two servants. “If push comes to shove, I will intervene with all the powers at my disposal. But it will not come to this. You will observe; you will listen. You will stay incognito. You will make up a convenient cover story, and I will give you the means to make it believable.” With a wave of his hand, Marr orders the menial to bring forth a large metal box. Inside, Drizz and Yuri find chem-cloaks, respirators, a medkit, a purse filled with 1000 throne-coins, and four sets of clothing cut to the latest fashion in Hive Gloriana. The menial hands them an invitation to the auction, a large sheet of vellum filled with spidery scrawls and embossed with the seals of the administratum and the sorrowful guild, a data-slate containing the names and profiles of about a hundred lesser criminals and a credit block over one million thrones – a fortune in the shape of a small brass automatism. Marr smiles “Don’t think about running to the bazaar and gorging yourself. You need a banking matriculator to extract these funds and relay them to the Chancellery Court. The provost will have such an item. Use the money to bid on artifacts you want to keep out of the hands of the other visitors or to bolster you cover story. Or bribe the right people with it. You are used to make decisions on your own, and I trust you will use these funds wisely. Do you have any further questions?” Drizz and Yuri look at each other. Both are very eager to discuss their strategy – but not in front of Marr. They shake their heads. “Then it is time to for me to bid farewell and wish you the best of luck. The airship Cygnan Martyr has been chartered to ferry the participants to the House of Dust and Ash. You will travel to the Telfer Port District; a speeder will get you there in less than an hour." After that last exchange, inquisitor Marr bids the two acolytes goodbye.
After retrieving their weapons they are brought to a speeder, an arrow shaped antigrav jumper, its hull covered with hammered silver and reliefs showing the triumphs of imperial man, the pilot an integrated servitor. As the vehicle ferries them to the outskirts of Hive Gloriana, the two talk about their new assignment. The stummer provided by their mistress hums along, as the acolytes talk strategy. Yuri snorts “Observe! Listen! Bullshit! Something big is going on, but this Marr-fellow would not tell us even if his rancid comfy-chair was on fire. We are played as pawns, and I don’t like it one bit.” “I concur, but we do not know nearly enough now to act on our own. Also, we have no backup at all, apart from what he promised. We should go with his assignment, for now. As soon as we find out what kind of game Marr plays, we consider our options.” “Void’s teeth, it’s like that rotten time on the His Omniscience again.” Drizz grins “As they said at home: If you do not like catching snakes, beware of becoming too good at it, or you will do it the rest of your life. Concerning our cover story: I will pose as the trader in obscure goods and antiques who wheedled an invitation at the last moment and came from far away to take part. Asked about the How, I shall hint at blackmail or worse. You are my bodyguard. I will talk to the other buyers, you will mingle with their servants and hired guns.” Yuri just nods. The rest of the flight they concoct cover names and arrange gestures, expressions and stances for their cipher code language: Even a well-practiced team like these two needs to update their ciphers in while.
After an hour of fast flight, the speeder sets down in the dock area of the Telfer Port District. The hive ends in a steep cliff, about 200 feet above the churning, acidic waters of the Balemire Sea. Towards the horizon, the ruins of chemical works and hive structures jut out of the waves. Gantries, pipes and gangways reach out from the cliffs to a dense mass of airships. The area is covered with a dense, orange haze – each breath scours the throat. The acolytes don their respirators and shove through a mass of dockside workers and travelers, most of them clothed in heavy chem-resistant gear, towards the docks. A very long time ago, normal ships plied the routes on Solomon’s oceans, but now the waters are so corrosive and the chemical fog so heavy that airships have to be used. Between two heavy gas tankers, Yuri makes out a fish-shaped airship about 40 meters long and 14 meters wide with a fine painting of an imperial saint pierced by a multitude of arrows – the Cygnan Martyr. The ship looks tarnished, but well cared-for. A house-sized cabin with two observation decks is slung beneath the armored gas balloon. A row of long lighting rods runs down the airship’s spine, and at its stern steering fins cluster around heavy directional thrusters. At the front, a iris-like observation dome surrounded by searchlights houses the cockpit. Fuel lines and steel cables tie the airship to the docks. A dozen men in gas-masks and heavy working gear make some last preparations for the voyage or carry crates with supplies into the belly of the ship. At the lower balcony, close to the gangway, some human shapes in heavy cloaks with faces hidden by ornate respirators watch the bustle. Drizz whispers “Our competitors. Let’s try to make a fitting first impression.”