Chapter 304: The So-Called Bald Ones (Patreon)

…

A short while later, Chen Ye and Yoan entered a tavern buried deep within the lower hive.

If not for the faded sign hanging crookedly from a rusted chain outside the shanty structure, no one would ever have guessed that this place was a tavern at all. The structure blended seamlessly into the surrounding warrens, indistinguishable from hab-units and storage sheds that pressed in on all sides.

The sign bore a crudely stenciled aquila whose wings had long since flaked away, its original approval seal from the local Administratum rendered meaningless by age and neglect. The walls were scavenged plasteel sheets, the roof a patchwork of hive-deck scrap welded together generations ago. 

There awaited an old woman, her back permanently hunched from decades spent in low-ceilinged corridors. Her skin sallow and webbed with chem-scars that spoke of a lifetime breathing hive air. One eye was clouded white, the other sharp and watchful.

Public places anywhere in the Imperium did not welcome the soulless, especially not openly, but the elderly proprietress clearly knew Yoan was coming. She had closed early, hanging up the “closed” placard long in advance, ensuring no curious eyes or loose tongues would intrude.

The only patrons in the entire tavern were Yoan and Chen Ye.

“This is the best liquor I can offer,” the aged woman said as she shuffled forward, holding two bowls of alcohol, her hands trembling as she set them down. The drink smelled harsh and metallic, distilled from whatever passed for grain this far downhive.

Chen Ye seemed quite familiar with her. He exchanged a few words with practiced ease, raising his voice each time; her hearing was poor, and he often had to shout for her to catch his meaning. Despite the volume, his tone remained gentle, almost familial.

Yoan caught the old woman addressing Chen Ye as Grandfather during their conversation.

After she left, Chen Ye turned to Yoan and explained, “She’s the great-granddaughter of my sworn brother from when I was still mortal. During these past few days, she’s been maintaining my armour and keeping it hidden.”

Yoan nodded in surprise.

Since arriving in the lower hive of Beisu I and meeting Chen Ye, everything he had seen reinforced one fact: Chen Ye was of this hive.

He had grown up here, survived its depths, and then departed to become a neophyte of the White Scars. Few Astartes retained such a tangible connection to their origins, fewer still returned willingly.

Chen Ye knew every alley and ruin by heart, every collapsed transitway and forgotten shrine, and even kept ties with the descendants of his mortal brothers.

This alone was an uncommon anecdote among the Adeptus Astartes.

But Yoan had not come here as a sightseer.

At this point, he could not help but speculate about Chen Ye’s true purpose in insisting on meeting him in person, and here of all places. The lower hive was a domain of scarcity and unrest, not diplomacy.

Neither the Chapter nor the Imperium concerned themselves with the quality of life of the masses in a hive world. The tithe was paid, the quotas met; beyond that, suffering was assumed. If Chen Ye sought him out, it had to be for personal reasons.

“I want the people of the Beisu System to live as the Talons do,” Chen Ye said quietly. “That’s why I came to you instead of Anruida. We know each other, it makes things easier to say.”

“No… no, that won’t work…” Yoan gave a bitter smile and shook his head, trying to dissuade him.

As a Thunderborn, Yoan knew many secrets of the Talon Sector, among them, why its people were able to live as they did.

It was because some force had stabilized the fabric of reality across the sector. Warp phenomena, daemonic manifestations, and spontaneous corruption were far rarer there.

Why had the Talon Navy taken leave instead of immediately rushing to Baal?

Because during and after the Battle of Cadia, crewmen across countless fleets reported hearing whispers, voices that tempted, eroded, and sought damnation.

The Beisu System lay outside that stabilizing influence.

If its people lived as freely as the Talons in the past decades, pursuing research, art, or abstract thought in bigger form, then even solving a mathematical equation might lead them to stumble upon a sacred number of the Ruinous Powers and invite corruption. Ignorance, here, was not cruelty but containment.

Just as Yoan was about to speak further, a sudden unease struck him.

Chen Ye knew details of the Talon Perimeter Defense Ring. If Beisu was truly destined for future integration, then Chen Ye should believe this world would eventually fall under Talon oversight, and that its people would inevitably live as the Talons did anyway.

“…You’re not the only one who knows hidden, ugly truths,” Chen Ye said in a low voice. “I know corruption. I know daemons. And I know the Talon Sector is harder for the Warp to touch.”

Yoan felt Chen Ye grow more inscrutable by the moment. Back on Agrippina, this man had already seemed to know far too much than he should.

“You misunderstand me,” Chen Ye continued. “I don’t want the people of Beisu to conduct research or create art. I only want them to eat their fill, sleep without fear, and live under order.”

“That much is certain,” Yoan nodded. “It’s well established that the more a person suffers, the more vulnerable they are to corruption.”

Chen Ye smiled with clear satisfaction and raised his bowl. “Can you guarantee that to me? Guarantee that you will ensure this, within your authority.”

“I give you my word,” Yoan replied, lifting his own bowl in return.

They drained their drinks in one motion.

“So,” Yoan asked after setting his bowl down, “you told Anruida you wanted to find me… just to obtain a guarantee that already existed?”

“No.” Chen Ye shook his head. “My purpose is to see those who commit evil receive the punishment they deserve.”

Yoan did not understand what he meant. Chen Ye did not explain further, but Yoan could feel it clearly now.

The guarantee had merely been for peace of mind.

What Chen Ye intended to do next was the real reason for this meeting.

....

After finishing the drinking, Chen Ye rose and went into the back room of the tavern. Assisted by a hovering servo-skull etched with faded Mechanicus sigils, he began donning his armour.

The arming and disarming of an Astartes was normally a solemn rite, accompanied by incense, litanies, and machine-prayers, but the lower hive allowed no such ceremony.

Chen Ye simply worked quickly and efficiently, sealing the ceramite plates into place before pulling a large black robe over the armour, concealing its profile beneath heavy fabric.

He slung two power swords across his back and holstered a bolt pistol at his waist.

Fully armed, he departed the tavern with Yoan.

The proprietress knew Chen Ye was leaving. She unlocked a reinforced side passage, its locking mechanism far more sophisticated than the surrounding structure suggested, opened the adjoining warehouse doors, and led him to the items he had stored there.

“How long before you return this time?” she asked shakily.

“Decades, perhaps,” Chen Ye replied loudly. “Or maybe I won’t return at all.”

“Oh…” she smiled sadly. “Then perhaps it will be my grandson who serves you when you come back.”

Chen Ye seemed about to say something, but swallowed the words and merely nodded.

He stepped to the corner of the warehouse and yanked away a large black tarp.

A sleek, two-seater motorcycle stood revealed. Its surface was raw and unpainted, the dull grey of exposed plasteel. Its frame was heavily modified, reinforced suspension, armored cowling, and an engine clearly overpowered for civilian use.

Without paint or heraldry, the bike looked unfinished to an outsider.

Chen Ye stroked it like a lover, mounted it, then tapped the rear seat.

“Careful. Don’t scratch my bike with your greaves.”

“You can’t scratch ceramite,” Yoan scoffed. “How could my power armour scratch this?”

“I’m just saying it so you should treat it like it’s yours.”

Once Yoan was seated, Chen Ye twisted the throttle.

The bike roared out of the warehouse.

….

The motorcycle tore through the depths of the hive.

Chen Ye drove from the lower hive into the deepest strata, skirting bubbling green sludge pools and weaving between mountains of scrap and refuse.

Even at full speed, he still had time to glance at the auspex mounted on the handlebars.

This was no aimless ride.

They were heading for a predetermined target.

As they drew closer, Yoan heard gunfire.

By the time they arrived, he realized the destination was a battlefield.

In a ruined expanse of the deep hive, over two thousand fighters, armed with mismatched weapons and gear, were engaged in combat with roughly five hundred enemies. Stubbers, autoguns, and jury-rigged explosives filled the air with smoke and ricochets.

At first glance it looked like internecine gang warfare.

But Yoan immediately knew which side was the enemy.

Because the five hundred enemies were all bald, their skulls swollen, unnaturally large.

“There are Genestealers here too?” Yoan asked in shock.

Earlier, he had seen an advertisement, some lawyer spouting nonsense about “Exemplary Imperial citizen” and “baldness.” He had assumed it was merely a local cultural metaphor.

Now he realized the truth.

This was the hive he knew.

The visual and informational divide between different hive levels remained as vast as ever.

Information still traveled painfully slowly, filtered by Administratum bottlenecks and neglect.

The underhive was already fighting a Genestealer Cult uprising, while the lower hive, upper hive, and spire lived as if nothing had happened at all.