‘…I already explained that I don’t have that.’ Said Mazrodros through clenched teeth.
‘I’m sorry, Incubi, um…’ replied the slave behind the desk.
‘Mazrodros.’
‘I’m sorry, Incubi Mazrodros,’ continued the slave, ‘as I’ve said, you can’t requisition a new weapon without a chit recording the loss of the old one. As per the new regulations, this must be ratified by your field commander.’
‘K’ren is dead.’
‘In those circumstances, the admiral of the Raider fleet may be substituted.’
‘Also dead.’
‘Well, that is unfortunate. If you can present a copy of the fleet loss report with your requisition chit, we can process it for you.’
‘Fine. Where do I get a copy of the fleet loss report?’ sighed Mazrodros.
‘Fleet Loss Reports are held at Central Fleet Command; the administration office there should be able to help,’ replied the slave. ‘Better hurry, though they close soon.’
Mazrodros took another small step forward, a tiny, numbered crystal gripped tightly in one armoured fist. The queue snaked through a labyrinth marked with spiked iron chains, winding its way across the echoing hall. He was finally at the front. The black stone bounced sound unnaturally, adding an unexpected and unpredictable delay that was at once disorientating and intensely irritating. The ever-present unlight of Commorragh filtered through the tall, fogged crystal windows, drawing elongated shadows across the tiles.
‘Fifty-seven?’ called a voice distorted by a copper-cased speaker set high above the counter.
Mazrodros stalked forward to the counter and rested his clawed hands on the lacquered surface.
‘I need,’ he growled, ‘a copy of a Fleet Loss Report.’
‘Which fleet?’ replied the slave, peering over a pair of half-moon spectacles.
‘Raider Fleet Tehadera.’
‘Very well, my lord,’ said the slave, ‘I shall investigate.’
The little man slid down off the stool and shuffled off, disappearing through an arch into a shadowed alcove. Somewhere nearby, discordant music began to play.
A while later the slave reappeared and climbed laboriously back into their seat. Mazrodros looked up from the design he’d been idly scratching into the countertop with a claw.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘We don’t have it.’
‘What?’ hissed Mazrodros, ‘Why?’
‘I expect the admiral didn’t file one.’
‘Of. Course. He. Didn’t. File. One. You. Stupid. Little. Man,’ snarled Mazrodros, leaning over the counter and pressing his face to the crystal glass, ‘He’s. Dead.’
‘Oh. Well, that explains that,’ replied the slave, unperturbed. ‘Next!’
‘No!’ shouted Mazrodros, ‘Not next. How do I get the report if the admiral hasn’t filed one because, as has already been established, he’s dead?’
His right eye started to twitch.
‘Umm. You’ll need a non-return note from Fleet Dispatch Control,’ said the slave.
‘Which floor is that?’ said Mazrodros.
‘Oh, it’s not here,’ said the little man, ‘their office is at the high anchor.’
‘That’s halfway across the city,’ said Mazrodros, ‘Can’t you call through for the note?’
‘Oh no,’ said the slave, ‘it has to be filled out properly. It’s regulations.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the Wych as she lounged on a low couch in the office. It appeared to be upholstered with stretched faces, their tanned leather visages held expressions of exquisite agony.
‘Quite certain,’ replied Mazrodros.
‘Do you have the fleet dispatch record?’
‘The what?’
‘The fleet dispatch record. It’s a numerical code that we use to track the fleet elements in and out of high anchor. It’s stamped on everything that goes out: ships, equipment, weapons,’ she said, plucking at a loose nostril on the arm of the seat. ‘Do you have anything from the fleet to hand?’
‘I do not,’ said Mazrodros. ‘As I’ve explained, fleet Tehadera was lost in its entirety, and I need the note to that effect to confirm this.’
The twitch was getting really quite bad now.
‘Well, I need the dispatch record. It’s all in the new regulations,’ said the Wych languidly. ‘The quartermaster’s office will have a list of everything that was issued. That’s probably easiest. Just get me that and I’ll write your note.’
‘Incubi…’ said the slave.
‘Mazrodros.’
‘Incubi Mazrodros,’ said the slave, ‘how can I help you? Sorry, are you winking at me?’
‘I need the fleet dispatch record number for Raider Fleet Tehadera,’ said Mazrodros, ignoring the question. ‘Dispatch control said I could get that from you.’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said the little man, ‘do you have your weapon?’
Archon Yl’aqir stepped through the portal into the quartermaster’s offices. Blood coated the walls in wide splashes. Viscera dripped from the ceiling, creating reflective puddles on the dark stone tile of the floor. A High desk lay smashed in the centre of the room. His boot nudged something, and he stooped to pick up the errant gristle. He turned it over; it was an ear.
He discarded the lump of meat and walked casually to the back wall. The remains of a corpse were hung there, impaled at head height with shards of wraith bone. Yl’aqir tilted his head, examining the shards; they looked like the legs of a stool.
A low growl drew his attention to a dark corner. An Incubi sat on his haunches; a splinter rifle held tightly across his chest. His eyes were wild as he scanned the room; another snarl left his lips as he spied the Archon and he gripped the rifle tighter. A trail of black blood indicated where the last attempt to take the rifle had failed. He turned and stalked away.
Yl’aquir stepped out onto the wide thoroughfare, a cruel grin marking his porcelain features, and his eyes gleamed with dark humour. A small human cowered nearby, ink-stained hands clutching a dataslate. He flinched as the Archon glared at him.
‘You were quite correct Mon-keigh,’ said Yl’aquir. ‘That was delightful. Now, tell me about permits.’
