Aurelian Standard Time, 05:10.
Two kilometers outside the main blast doors of Sycamore Hive, a fine drizzle fell continuously.
Paul knelt on one knee in the mud. The surface of his dark grey Mark VI power armor was beaded with water, the World Eaters crest on his chest plate reflecting a bloody sheen in the rain.
The observation scope in his hand was an [Artificer Periscopic Multi-Spectral Reconnaissance Scope] exchanged from the store, valued at three thousand Imperial Coins.
"Sycamore population base: two hundred and eighty-four million. Number of ore veins: seventeen primary veins, twenty-nine secondary veins..." He muttered the data under his breath, his deliberately tuned synthesized mechanical voice sounding exceptionally clear in the rain.
Beside him, [Tau Buddy You're Right] half-crouched behind cover. His Alpha Legion grey-blue power armor had its optical camouflage engaged, almost completely blending into the surrounding concrete ruins.
Only the switchable dual-layered serpent scale insignia on his pauldron occasionally reflected a faint glimmer when struck by raindrops.
"Hive garrison establishment," Paul continued. "Merchant Guild local enforcers: ten thousand four hundred personnel. Standard equipment: Hysman-pattern lasrifles and Hysman-pattern flak armor. PDF troops: five thousand two hundred personnel. Mixed equipment, with two-thirds using outdated solid-slug firearms."
He paused, the crosshairs of his observation scope locking onto the defenses above the main blast doors. "Four twin-linked heavy bolter turrets. Barrel length 1.5 meters, rate of fire three hundred and twenty rounds per minute, armor-piercing payload."
He shifted the scope's lens. "Two single-barrel heavy lascannons. Maximum output one hundred and eighty megajoules per second, charge time 3.7 seconds."
The lens continued to sweep across the structure. "Firing ports equipped with hydraulic ballistic shutters. Approximately twenty centimeters thick, composite ceramite plating. Motorized opening and closing systems, estimated response time of 0.5 seconds." Paul paused again, adding, "There are also concealed pillboxes on both sides behind the gate. Judging by the thermal dissipation patterns from the ventilation shafts, they're hiding at least six heavy stubbers or autocannons."
[Tau Buddy You're Right] crouched in front of another shattered window. A neutral, voice-changer-processed voice emanated from beneath his visor. "This firepower configuration is enough to turn a Mark IV power armor without an active energy shield into a sieve within ten seconds. It could even severely damage the frontal armor of an Armiger-class Knight."
Paul lowered the binoculars, his dark golden pupils contracting slightly behind his visor.
The Wisdom trait deployed silently.
Pale golden psychic ripples radiated outward from him, piercing through the curtain of rain and washing over the main blast doors.
Within his perception, there were at least two hundred life signatures behind that massive gate. Thirty-seven of them possessed robust and powerful heartbeats—enforcer sergeants who had undergone basic augmentations. The vast majority of the rest belonged to able-bodied ordinary soldiers.
"The garrison commander is no fool," Paul deduced. "To maintain the main gate's defenses at this level..."
He recalled the corrupt PDF commanders from Kent Hive during the Adela era, men who couldn't even figure out how many soldiers they had under their command.
"...It seems the governor of Sycamore Hive is much more competent than Adela."
[Tau Buddy You're Right] tilted his head up slightly. "Paul, are we still attacking the main gate according to the original plan? Even if we are Astartes, a frontal assault against this kind of chokepoint will cost us."
Paul did not answer immediately.
He pulled up the holographic structural map of Sycamore Hive. Both the previous intel and this holographic schematic were information transmitted back by Deep Sea.
On the map, the main blast doors were marked as a primary defense node. Deep within the hive, at the border between the Underhive and the Lower Hive, there was a passage marked with a dotted red line.
Beside it was an annotation: [Old Drainage System Maintenance Tunnel. Diameter: 10.5 meters. Leads directly to Underhive Mining District 9. Partially collapsed, but the main thoroughfare remains passable. Previously used by gangs for smuggling contraband. Sealed off three years ago due to mutant beast incursions.]
Paul tapped his finger on that tunnel.
"No rush," his voice carried through the sound of the rain, laced with patience. "We wait for Tax Bro and the others to infiltrate the inner city through the sewers provided by Deep Sea and kick up a fuss. When that happens, the garrison's attention will be drawn to the disturbance in the Lower Hive. The focus on the main gates will be diverted."
He turned to look at [Tau Buddy You're Right]. "Furthermore... I am going to show the garrison here what the power of a Storm tier psyker combined with a Champion Astartes truly looks like."
[Tau Buddy You're Right]'s helmet tilted slightly to the side. "Understood. So should I just hang back later and act as your hype man?"
Paul chuckled. "Whatever works for you, assuming you don't want to field-test that new strength you just acquired."
The two waited quietly inside the abandoned outpost.
The rain poured down heavier.
Time ticked by, minute by minute, second by second.
Paul kept his eyes closed, but his Wisdom trait remained active.
He could perceive everything.
The left-wing squad composed of Tax Bro, White Scars, G Bro, and [Have You Been Loyal Today?] had already slipped silently into the depths of the Underhive through that old drainage tunnel.
Their life signatures moved through the darkness of the hive's absolute bottom like four burning stars in Paul's vision.
On the right wing, [Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work] and [Execute Old Man the War Criminal] were lying in wait inside a rocky crevice three kilometers outside the hive's right auxiliary blast doors, like two hunters quietly waiting for their prey.
–
Sycamore Hive, Underhive Mining District 9.
The environment here was even more wretched than the Underhive of Kent Hive.
The air was thick with the pungent stench of chemical waste, intermingled with the foul odor of rotting corpses.
The ground was a viscous slurry of oil slicks and unidentifiable liquids that squelched with every step.
Pipes and heavy cables hung from the ceiling like jungle vines, some of them still hissing as they leaked coolant and high-pressure steam.
Tax Bro stepped into a puddle of dark green sewage, the boots of his Mark IV power armor sinking a full ten centimeters into the muck.
"Holy shit," he cursed softly over the regional comms channel. "This place is even worse than Kent Hive's Underhive. That bastard Adela at least sent people down occasionally to clear out the corpses."
White Scars crouched to the side, his white power armor exceptionally conspicuous under the dim Underhive illumination. He used the tip of his power tulwar to pick up half of a rotting arm; judging by the uniform, it belonged to some unlucky worker.
"Time of death: no more than three days," White Scars's voice, filtered through his voice-changer, carried the cold, mechanical detachment of a cogitator. "There are bite marks around the severed end. Dental analysis indicates... teeth belonging to some kind of mutant beast."
G Bro was scanning the surrounding environment. His power armor helmet, integrated with a multi-spectral auspex, was currently displaying the airborne toxin concentrations. "Hydrogen sulfide levels exceed safety margins by four hundred times. Methane exceeds it by two hundred and twenty times. Trace amounts of cyanide gas, but the presence is constant. An ordinary human without a rebreather would fall unconscious in three minutes and die within ten."
[Have You Been Loyal Today?] hefted his twin-linked heavy bolter onto his shoulder. "Stop analyzing and find the elevator. Our mission is to cause chaos and loot, not to conduct an environmental survey."
Tax Bro nodded, pulling up the map of the Underhive.
The holographic projection unfolded in his visor's HUD, marking the location of the nearest heavy-lift elevator. The linear distance was thirteen hundred meters, but they would have to navigate through three corridors choked with discarded machinery to reach it.
"Let's move."
The Imperial Fists Astartes took the lead, his bright yellow armor acting like a moving beacon in the oppressive gloom.
The four suits of power armor advanced through the cramped passages of the Underhive.
They deliberately muffled their footsteps, but the low hum of their power armor's servo-motors still echoed through the labyrinth of pipes.
Two minutes later, they encountered their first group of living humans.
They weren't guards, but a cluster of Underhive residents huddled together at a corner intersection.
There were about twenty of them—men, women, children, and the elderly—wrapped in tattered rags, their bodies covered in grime and festering sores.
Upon seeing the sudden appearance of four towering giants, these people were so terrified they couldn't even scream. They simply huddled closer together, trembling uncontrollably, their eyes as dead and hollow as livestock waiting for the slaughter.
Tax Bro paused his steps.
Beneath his visor, his brow furrowed.
Even though he knew exactly what the bottom levels of a hive city looked like, seeing it with his own eyes always made his chest feel... tight.
"Keep moving," White Scars's voice chimed in. "Mission priority."
Tax Bro took a deep breath. His power armor's air filtration system scrubbed away the vast majority of the stench.
He resumed his march, stepping past the huddled Underhivers.
Those people didn't even dare to raise their heads to look at them.
Two hundred meters later, they arrived at the elevator platform.
It was an antiquated freight elevator. Its thick steel cables were heavily rusted, and most of the indicator lights on its control console were dead.
The platform itself was roughly thirty square meters, more than large enough to accommodate four suits of power armor.
"Checking cable load capacity," Tax Bro said. He crouched down, gripping one of the thick cables with his armored gauntlet and applying a slight amount of force.
Screeech!
A grating sound of protesting metal echoed out as flakes of rust showered down.
"Maximum load capacity... roughly fifteen tons." Tax Bro stood back up. "The four of us, plus our gear, weigh in at about twelve tons. It's barely enough. But if the cables snap while we're climbing..."
G Bro had already stepped up to the control console, attempting to see if he could restore power to the elevator.
Three seconds later, the indicator lights on the panel flickered to life one after another, only to slowly dim and die out entirely.
"The control system is completely shot. The logic-engines are too degraded," G Bro reported. "Looks like we're climbing up ourselves. Brace yourselves for a cable snap."
The four Astartes began their ascent.
Fortunately, their physical attributes had increased astronomically. For them, this level of physical exertion was absolutely trivial.
They scaled through the pitch-black vertical shaft of the Underhive, climbing steadily toward the Lower Hive.
Three minutes later, the four hauled themselves out of the elevator shaft and into the Lower Hive.
The instant they pulled themselves up, thirty lasrifle muzzles were leveled squarely at them.
"Who goes there?!" a voice roared from the opposite end of the corridor.