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This page is still just WIP, note the main character goes by the name Bane, sorry- Baeine, Might be a bit too obvious methinks as a serious character name. Plus there are a few issues in the text, which needs balancing.
Synopsis: it follows the fall and rise of a senior IG officer court marshalled and sent to a penal colony, then offered a reprieve leading a chemdog penal legion where he makes something of a return to form. All the while he bears a grudge about his past and due to a handy plot device based on partial amnesia seeks to uncover the truth about his past and the dastards that stitched him up- or did they... dundundur! The survivors of his old regiment have been subsequently split up and dispersed among many other regiments, but they begin to hear news that he is still alive and leading a force of rogues, whereby they desert their respective places of exile and come to join his motley crew bringing bits of information about the events surrounding his downfall as they experienced it. I want to focus more on the human aspects of the situation, things like honour, loyalty and also addiction (chem inhalers) and self-control. His "Old Guard" rediscover him in quite a worrying state, with little memory of his glorious upstanding moral past they find it difficult to come to terms with their great leader's current ruthless warmongering and the band of cut-throats that surround him. Whilst Baeine's new unit is a very successful force, Imperial authorities are very concerned about a convict gaining so much fame and the fact that his old soldiers have gone AWOL only to join up with him. The authorities are finding it difficult to chastise and interfere in Baeine's force because of it's success, but hidden powers conspire...
The main villains in the story are not so much the traditional xenos, but the state of corruption and confusion of loyalty and motives in the Imperium in general, again allowing me to focus on human issues. Anyway, that's what you can expect in the near future. Here's the first page.
”…Don’t try to move. Don’t try to speak. The chances are that you won’t remember much. How much I can’t possibly know. And I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or not. I tried to do as much as I could to repair the damage. I leave you in the knowledge that I saved your life. Again, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
I wouldn’t broadcast the nature of your resurrection to the authorities, because I used some rather unorthodox means to set right the debt I owed you. The debt is repaid, but I can’t believe that you’ll thank me for it. The authorities will be with you soon I should expect, and what happens now is in the hands of His Divine Will.
The tissue trauma to your limbs, torso and brain was severe. I used all the medical abilities in my power. And then I used those beyond my power. Perhaps recklessly I deemed it fit to use something xenological… the side effect of the growth hormone is an increased corporeal capacity. The extent of this will become clear to you soon enough, I have no way of predicted the extents of these augmentations. It may be obviously unnatural. Such is the manner of my repayment to you. I make no apologies. I did what I could. And it is done. May the Emperor guide you Brigadier Baeine. We will not meet again.”
Then the holograph flickered and faded. It had emerged in a beam of prism tones from the underside of his left forearm where there were a series of marks, horizontal marks like scars or imprints. The medlab was well-lit and silent but for a dripping sound of fluid, and his laboured breathing, the fluid seemed to be blood dripping from the metal slab on which he lay onto the dirty white tiled floor. There were straps binding his forehead, arms and legs. Apart from that, he was naked. He did not show any signs of wounds, he didn’t even feel sore. It was as if there had been no surgery. His breathing and his heart began to calm, he could feel the cold of the air, he could smell and taste the bitter chemical atmosphere. He listened to what he assumed was his blood dripping, and a distant hum of machinery for some moments, partially numb, but mainly stirring resolve. Instinct drove him to rise. Quite easily the thick bands bit into his skin and then snapped as his muscles flexed. He was free.
There was no pain. The blood beneath him was cold and thickened, it was old. He stretched his hands to his upper and lower back but there were no wounds, and no scars.
He could now read clearly the marks on his left forearm were codes. He touched the first and the hologram reappeared and the message repeated once more. This time he heard the beginning of it, the woman introduced herself as “Inquisitor Roisin Morholt, I can’t hear you or see you so don’t try to move. Don’t try to speak. The chances are…” and on it went.
He examined her features, she was so masculine and powerfully built in her face alone it was only by her voice that he could tell the figure was female. She had cropped iron coloured hair and a thick square jaw. A black-green stylised “I” (the mark of the Inquisition) was tattooed down the length of her face from her hairline, between her eyes, crossing her mouth and meeting her chin. The letter was almost like a pillar holding up the heavy stone of her brutal features. He heard something outside of the room. Immediately his heart pounded and his body became suddenly warm. Without having to think, he tapped the mark on his forearm again and the hologram dissipated once more.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps, voxcasts and military commands. Plasteel clanked on plasteel, someone was coming.
This message was edited 4 times. Last update was at 2012/08/28 16:29:54
