Breckett’s Journal, Chapter 1

The panting outline of a ragged silhouette was projected onto the wall, barely illuminated by the sole crimson light source in the musty enclosure. Various harnesses slid heavily to the ground with a dull thud, echoes reverberating off of the surrounding metallic surfaces.
“Can’t see a bloody thing,” a voice grumbled under breath, “come on, come on, Throne of Terr—“
Guided by muscle memory in the absence of sight, a dirty gloved hand fumbled across the dimly pulsing control panel until it collided with a weathered switch. With an audible click, the air was filled with a low hum, slowly building in volume and pitch, followed by the telltale flicker of fluorescent lights, activating in segments from the rear of the cabin to the front. Pupils dilating from the sudden gleam, the beleaguered figure instinctively gazed at the floor, brows furrowed while adjusting to the luminosity. Pressing a worn red button next to the microphone, the raspy voice growled again.
“Initialize. A.R. point zero zero six two, it’s Breckett, hull’s clear. Confirm receipt,” the man muttered, rubbing his temples.
“It’s about time,” crackled a reply from the vox grille, “we were starting to think you wouldn’t be joining us.”
“It was touch and go there for a minute, shame about Nolly’s ear. Poor sod was already half-deaf.”
“At least three quarters now, by my count. Soon as they finish closing out the ‘tract, your share should clear.”
The Broker always verified the priority contracts first; Alphas and Betas always took a few extra hours to clear. It was an inconvenience to be sure, albeit a mild one that had long since ceased to evoke a reaction. “I suppose I’ll just have to kill some time. Don’t hang out there all night, you hear?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Breck. Terminate.”
Breckett was keenly aware that he could probably use a shower, and that he probably didn’t need a drink, but had neither the motivation nor willpower to do anything but indulge in the latter. He would oil his rifle tomorrow, he thought, as he stripped the magazine from the chassis and placed it gently upon a rusty rack. Hastily, he shed his battered flak armor and slacks, collecting them into a haphazard stack before placing them in a small metal locker. Pulling a distressed faux-groxhide duster around himself from the coat hanger inside, he closed the door as he made his way toward the glowing amber exit signal to his right.
It wasn’t a long walk from the landing platforms to the cantina; someone had the good sense to build them next to one another. Short gusts of humid winds swirled the smog and pollution together in an intricate dance over the grated walkways. Out of habit, Breckett pulled his collar up around his nose and mouth, as if inhaling through a soiled shirt in an effort to filter dirty air wasn’t an exercise in futility. Still, even with the perpetual haze, it smelled much better up here than it did in the lower levels of the hive. As far as he was concerned, a nigh-toxic atmosphere certainly beats no atmosphere at all, however marginally.
The airlock pistons whined and hissed as they exposed the interior of the cantina to the churning smoke outside. Breckett casually sauntered in, mostly unnoticed, save for the jittery gaze of a handful of shell-shocked drunkards in the corner of the hall. As the doors sealed behind him, he regarded the small queue snaking along the far side of the chamber. The procession shuffled forward each time a patron broke formation in search of a suitable place to imbibe. Bringing up the rear, Breckett tapped his foot to the rhythm of the automated servo-motors that dispensed what limited choice of refreshment was available. Approaching the front of the line, he scanned the neon bill of fare, confirming the steep cost inflation he had overheard a group of strangers bewailing during the transit.
“Fething clerks,” he spat to himself, “is there anything they don’t ration?” The fellow directly ahead exhaled in amusement before meandering off to find a seat. Breckett approached the kiosk, offering a brief biometric scan and eyeballing the menu a final time before making a choice. The selection buttons toward the top of the panel showed signs of constant use, chambered edges rounded off and elevated ridges worn completely smooth. Even the visual aid textures off to the side of each label seemed to fall prey to the traffic-induced erosion. In contrast, the items in the bottom third of the array had been unavailable for so long that some of the stock indicator bulbs had burned out ages ago. Ironically enough, Breckett mooned, should a blind man enter the cantina, these elements would likely be the only decipherable listings on the entire surface. He smirked in mild bemusement.
Toward the middle of the selection, a small amber light pulsed weakly, signalling the impending depletion of a particular supply. “HYDRATION, SPRING,” the tattered label divulged. His gaze often lingered here in yearning curiosity. Breckett had never tasted genuine freshwater, having spent most of his life aboard transit spacecraft and within the confines of zero-waste urban habitation grids. The environments in which he was accustomed to making landfall often contained raw, unprocessed water-- albeit profoundly radioactive if not venomously septic. As if prompted by an outside force, Breckett watched his finger approach the irresistibly dwindling selection. Even before the clerks of the Munitorium arrived with their quotas and allowances, spring water was a tall order, figuratively speaking. Now, however, between the war effort and the planetary tithe audit, it was probably worth its weight in Auramite.
“Insufficient metrics, please make another selection.”
He frowned. The automated words were articulated so plainly, so matter-of-factly that they dug into Breckett’s ears like scything talons, as if to imply that he should have known better. He should have, of course, but far be it from a dilapidated vending machine to deny him a respite from the industrial hellscape he and so many others found themselves trapped within.
“Throne of Terra, is this really it?” he questioned out loud, the syllables narrowly squeezed out from behind gritted teeth. His indignant words caught the ear of a bystander who raised a wobbly glass, but were generally disregarded. He let out a morose sigh, before collecting his consolation prize and limped cynically to the nearest table.
“Back in one piece, eh?” a familiar voice cooed, “Emperor must have a soft spot for the sorry after all.” Breckett didn’t look up; he could recognize Illyria’s insipid small-talk from the other side of the Rift during a warp storm. “Shower wouldn’t have killed you, you know,” she added, throwing back a tall shot of Amasec and taking a seat.
“More or less. Say, they haven’t fixed the reclaimer yet, have they?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Tastes like piss.”
She blinked. “It’s recycled, Breckett. It's supposed to taste like piss. Why do you think I put so much Tranq in it?” She grinned wryly, revealing the gap where a tooth once gave way to a brawl. Breckett’s tight grimace relaxed into a sideways smile when he felt a fleeting vibration, followed by an electronic melody. As if triggered by Illyria’s remark, his personal communicator notified him of a deposit into his account. He looked over his shoulder at the auto-vendor, and back to Illyria.
“Be right back,” he remarked, clamoring to his feet.
“What, got someplace to be?”
“I’m getting a drink.”
She raised an eyebrow and turned toward his glass, and noticed it was still half-full. Always the optimist.
“Excuse me,” Breckett offered in condolence as he shoved an especially inebriated patron out of his way.
“Who the feth--” they began, before Breckett glared Adamantium knives directly through their soul. Another time, perhaps.
Breckett shot one final look toward his communicator before fixing his gaze upon the selection panel. Wavering only for a moment, he guided his index finger toward the blinking indicator from before, and depressed the button with what conviction he could muster.
“Insufficient metrics, please make another selection.”
Something had to be wrong. He hadn’t so much as paid his monthly habitation fees, nor made a nutrition requisition. The message was still right there on his communicator, the credits had cleared and--
“Corpse fething Emperor,” he seethed. There was no mistake. He had just risked his very life and limb on some backwater planet chasing some trinket for some bastard he’d never so much as meet. He did everything right, not a single disciplinary incident since the day he joined the Guild. This was his reward, and it wasn’t worth so much as a drop of water. His body tensed, veins beginning to coalesce on his temples and forearms.
“Move it along,” came a jeer from behind, “plan on standing there all bloody night?”
Breckett saw nothing but crimson shades. Growing up, he had always heard folk rhymes about the Blood God and his butchers. This must be how they felt. He shifted his weight to support a right hook, but a firm hand on his shoulder turned him about-face. It was Illyria, with an alien look of concern painted across her features.
“Give it a rest, Jagga,” she intervened with an insincere wink, “Breck here is just buying us a round.” She turned back to Breckett, cocking her head to the side in concern. “You didn’t get lost, did you?”
Still regaining his composure, he turned to acknowledge his companion. “I think I’ve had enough for one night.” Just before departing, he halfheartedly lashed out at the offending machine with an open handed rebuke, just barely catching it with the side of his palm. As he made his way to the airlock, he heard the cruel machine claim the last laugh.
“Insufficient metrics, please make another selection.”
Breckett stepped briskly into the foggy outside air, banking left toward the Guild office. He’d had it. He had no idea what he was going to do about it, but he couldn’t keep scraping by on pissant jobs, making just enough credits to drink himself to sleep and do it all over again the next day. The trek felt like it was mere seconds, despite the half-kilometer route of snaking walkways. As he approached the entrance, illuminated with fluorescent radiation, he took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and slowed to a dignified strut. As the airlock hissed open, Breckett’s momentum was halted by a vaguely recognizable acquaintance that he did not have time to chatter with.
“Oh hey, Breckett, right? Nice work out the--”
“Excuse me,” he interrupted, squeezing impolitely past. The airlock closed unceremoniously behind him.
“Prick.”
As he pressed forward, Breckett’s eyes slowly adjusted to the warm, incandescent glow of the main hall. Making a beeline to the front desk, he attempted to salvage his lost inertia, clearing his throat.
“I need to see the rep.”
“Sure thing, take a seat and I’ll call you in a minute.”
“It’s important.”
“The Emperor’s patience be with you.”
Sarcasm, fabulous. As Breckett formulated a doubtlessly scathing retort, the heavy iron door heaved open directly in front of him, slamming audibly into the wall adjacent as a parade of upturned noses came pouring out. It took him a moment to recognize the forerunner of the procession, and by the time his eyes betrayed his astonishment, he was jarred backward by an abrupt shoulder check.
“Watch it, green,” the haze oozed self-righteous condescension. Breckett watched as Tenak Vanglore, by far the most successful Hunter to set foot on this backwater, led his crack team, the Doom Divers, pompously out of the lodge. The airlock hissed shut, followed by an inelegant silence fell over the room. The concierge didn’t even look up from her papers.
“Prick.”
Breckett rattled his skull, dispelling the surreality of what had just occurred. The door remained open, swaying back and forth on its rusty hinges. The man he was looking for was inside, shoulders hung low, shaking his head side to side while shuffling papers and clearing display screens. Wiry spectacles perched atop an angular nose, betraying a lofty, perhaps even academic background. Breckett knocked on the suspended door gingerly, and bleated a greeting.
“Mr. Gammon?”
“Oh, good evening Breck. How was your assignment?” The man quickly shook off any signs of dejection at the sound of another living soul.
“Fine. I need something.”
“Already?” the dispatcher let out a hearty laugh. “Well, there’s no shortage of work with all of the new Cloaks in town, here’s--”
“I need something big.” Breckett stared, expressionless.
The stately man furrowed his bristly brow. “Don’t we all?” he continued without missing a step. “Like I was saying, a solid Beta just came in.” He held out a folder, gesturing for Breckett to take it. “Not too hateful, should be open and shut.”
Beckett eyed the manilla folder dubiously. “I said big, sir.” Small beads of perspiration were beginning to form along his hairline and collar, cascading downward but not quite yet coalescing into visible pools. He wasn’t budging, for better or worse. After a few moments of tense silence, he was met with a dismissive hand wave.
“Come back tomorrow. I don’t have anything for you, and it’s getting late.”
The sputtering flicker of a single humming display monitor, the only one left on, caught Breckett’s eye. A mission briefing, by the looks of it. Vanglore and his team left in a sour mood. His curiosity was piqued. “What’s that there, then?” He pointed a finger at the monitor,
“It’s rotten, is what it is. Vanglore and his yuppies were a Hail Mary. Don’t quite live up to their daring reputation.” The dispatcher flashed him a pensive look. “You know someone with an army and a deathwish?”
“How much?”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s Sigma. You didn’t see anything, now go home.”
Breckett’s demeanor began to crumble; this calm, collected facade would not last. “Do you see any Sigmas around? Other than the ones that just walked out the door? Throw me a bone, for Throne’s sake. How much is the damn job worth?”
The dispatcher let out a long sigh in response to the relentless perseverance. He slowly removed his copper bifocals with one hand, resting his forehead into the palm of the other. “Breck,” he began, almost paternally, “I like you. You have a future here, and I mean that. Don’t be in such a rush to get yourself killed.” He paused, reflecting for a moment, before banishing a wayward thought with the shake of his head. “Besides, how would that make the Guild office look? Attrition is a big enough problem as it is. No suicides.”
Breckett was dampened, but not entirely deterred. He reflected on the day’s events, finding the impetus to redouble his efforts. “Let me be straight with you sir. I need it. You’ve seen firsthand what I can do when it comes down to the wire. Whatever those jumpy ratlings turned down, I can handle it.” Gammon didn’t flinch. “Besides,” he continued, “since when does the Guild tell the Broker no?”
That struck a nerve. “The bolts on you, kid.” Gammon chuckled condescendingly. “You don’t have the personnel, for starters.”
“Look, I’ve got six good m—“
“Absolutely fething not.” Gammon’s face was Bloodletter red. “Take less than twenty and you’re dead before your boots touch the ground. Vanglore’s crew has ordinance, a Leman Russ for Throne’s sake!”
“Ten is more than—“
“We’re done here. Go home Breckett.” The dispatcher turned his back on the indignant upstart.
Breckett planted his feet, digging in, prepared to fight to the last. “Twelve bona-fide specialists, okay? We do twenty on paper and I cut you in for half of the eight ghosts on the backend.” He extended his hand with a conviction that surprised even the old man. After the heated exchange, the room fell abruptly silent for what felt like Terran decades. The passage of time ground to a jarring halt, inching by like ice cold molasses. The chattering of an antique chronometer carried on, as if desperately trying to fill the expanding void between each mechanical tick with the strained clack of well-worn clockwork gears and a tired pendulum.
“Emperor’s bollocks,” relented Gammon, meeting the extended hand with his own. “You’re mad, Breckett.”
Beaming with victory, Breckett shook the old man’s hand enthusiastically, grinning widely as he did so. “Finally,” he thought to himself, mulling over the gravity of what he had just agreed to, “Now where am I going to find another eleven men?”