From: Jacques Chester <jchester@ozemail.com.au>
Subject: Ashes to Ashes (*/*)
Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 21:04:38 -0800

Ayo choombas;

Well, here it is. The complete 'Ashes to Ashes'. Enjoy, comment and CC to 
me by email.
-- 
\ \ \
 \ \ \
  \ \ \ Ripperjack - for the dough, choombatta!
        jchester@ozemail.com.au

NOTE- Ripperjack Enterprises is a figament of my
imagination. The views expressed herein are not
necessarily those of the ficticious orginization
I don't work for.

ASHES TO ASHES - A WH40K short story.

By: Jacques NM Chester ©Copyright Jacques Chester, 1996.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to people alive or dead,
situations, plans, events, and ideas are purely coincidental and not
intended on the part of the Author. The Author reserves all
copyrights to this work. In no way can this work be copied or
transmitted without the express, written consent of the Author.
Exception is made for limited electronic propagation with
authenticated, e-mailed permission. This permission is only to
certify and distinguish the Author's and any authorised work as the
genuine article. However, constructive criticism and experimental
extension of the Author's work is allowed for and encouraged.
Permission is given to read, save, copy to diskette and edit file for
re-propagation, with the condition that the original document be
acknowledged prominentely.

Some material contained in this document is based on publishing by
the Games Workshop games company, and material published by
numerous other companies and is used without permission. This story
uses 'standardised' settings to reduce reader confusion over terms,
places and characters. Also, readers may feel free to use characters
herein in their own games; and with permission and prior
consultation, their own stories. All trademarks and copyright
material are the sole property of their owners.

A note to hardcore fiction DIY universe people - I do not feel
ashamed for writing my stories in a setting defined by someone else.
I feel no obligation to make up my own universe, and indeed I feel
that it would most likely be derivative anyway.

Instead, I am of the opinion that 'off the shelf' universes can be of
as high quality as any home-brew stuff. The quality of the universe
now boils down to me, no matter who creates it, so please refrain
from recommending me to make up something 'original'. It has been
shown time and time again that a good author writes good stories
well, but does not have to invent the best background.

---------------------------------------------------------------------


                            ASHES TO ASHES.

It just lay there.

Well, actually, a gauntlet seemed to reach out of the marsh at him.
The rest was barely visible beneath all the accumulated grime and
sediment. There was a shape - of finely tuned physique, of glowing
strength and endurance. The shape was indistuingishable. It was a
suit of armour created by the Eldar.
And it was *his* now.

Jamos glanced guiltily left and right. He quietly covered the
gauntlet and the shape with some handy leaves, careful to make sure
that the disturbed fernery would not be too obvious. He promised
himself that he would dig the suit up, and then . . .

He had heard the stories of the Eldar fighters from his father.

Great, towering warriors of indefinable bloodlust, mysterious and
withdrawn solotaires, their souls already owned by the dark gods. And
the overwhelming numbers of Guardians, fighting intensely and and
devotedly, for a cause to which no human could ever determine.

The mightiest of the Eldar fighters, his father assured him, the
mightiest mortal warriors were the Exarchs.

The Eldar exarchs, whose every incarnation was an echo of all the
previous ones, whose powers were re-invigorated at every ingestation
of a warrior's strength - mental and physical.

Jamos felt that the suit was calling him - he could sense a *power*
that held in an aura about it.
Or was that just his imagination?

He scurried home, lest he be missed.

					*		*		*
                                =

For several weeks, Jamos scarcely thought of the suit. That is, he
tried not to think of it - the merest flitting across his self of the
shape would give him shivers of anticipation, with ambition and
fantasy and fear and hate and love and bloodlust all mixed up into a
nauseous knot in his guts. Instead, he began to study everything that
he could on the Eldar, to learn better how the Exarch's armour would
work. He couldn't learn much - that the Eldar believed in paths,
where an Eldar would dedicate themself to a profession with utter
discipline and purpose. Some would choose the path of the warrior,
and become Aspect Warriors. Most, eventually, would judge themselves
to have travelled the path far enough, and would then choose another
- perhaps tending their craftworld's infinity circuit, or growing
wraithbone plants in their garden.

But for some, the path of the warrior wouldn't be quite complete.
Still further would they travel along it, until eventually they would
become entrapped in it, fated to be grafted into a long dead Exarch's
suit of aromour; doomed never to join their  brothers in the infinity
circuit - trapped instead with thousands of years of dead warriors
within the suit's own wraithbone core.

The soul of a long-dead Exarch existed in every suit. Whenever a new
warrior was grafted in, it would merge with them. Quite usually, the
warrior's own persona was simply absorbed - true death in life. But
power unknown.

All this and more wormed its way deep into Jamos' mind. Jamos decided
that he would need to prepare himself for the suit - the suit that
would bee waiting patiently for one of the mighty Eldar warriors -
not some simple boy. He began immediately to study the chivalrous art
of war, also embarking to teach himself meditation and mental
fortitude.

It was not easy. Every day, something new would call to him, some
sensation that his growing awareness craved in a perverse way. Jamos
was suffering as the Eldar, and was trying to defeat temptation in
the same fashion - devotion. Devotion to cause, to knowledge, to
self, to Emperor. Devotion above all things, above friends, family,
loves.

Devotion ultimate, devotion prime, devotion pure.

Jamos spent a lifetime alone with his devotion. As the years passed
in their unimpeded cycle, Jamos retreated to what little wilderness
lay on his world, to further his isolation. In quiet, he would
contemplate destiny, the universe. He would sit all day, blocking all
from his mind but his devotion, until he could no longer see nor
hear. On the day he did not feel thirst or hunger after a year, Jamos
concluded that it was time.

Time. Time . . .

The suit still hung in the same place, soulstones catching the light
and reflecting it in a fantastic but barely visible show of colour.
Wraithbone, mesh armour and psychoplastic was interwoven together,
all in perfection, all pure and amazing to his brutal human eye.
Gingerly, for the first time, Jamos began to disconnect the
components of the suit. First the torso from the legs, then the
helmet from the neck, and the arms from the torso.

Each component sighed as he dis-attached it, and a little ash fell
out.

He put his legs into the armour. Nothing, save for a warm tingling
sensation. Next, the torso, the two arms. His body was warming,
despite his attempts to block it out. Finally, he lowered the ritual
helmet down, snuggling it around his head.

He meditated for some time before anything happened. Firstly, he felt
the psycho-plastic of the suit begin to melt and reform itself about
his body; filling a gap here, reducing pressure there. The armour
made Jamos feel like he was inside a baloon of water that did not
obey the law of gravity. It flowed over his skin as he streched and
postured experimentally. And his body was warming, again. He stopped
moving, lay down. He meditated.

Time. Time passed.

How much, he did not know. But he became aware of a *prescence* . . .
was it the soul of a dead Exarch? Had Jamos suceeded?

"What is this?" Said a voice. The voice seemed to reverberate within
the suit as if it were a giant cave, scaring and exciting Jamos
simultaneously.
"What is this?" Came the voice again. Jamos began to form words in
his mind. They were excruciatingly loud.
"YOU ARE THE EXARCH?"
"Why do you shout at your ancestor, warrior?"
"I DO NOT MEAN TO SHOUT. I AM JAMOS."
"Jamos?" There was a questioning pause, which lengthened into angry
silence.
"Jamos? A HUMAN!?"
"YES. I AM HUMAN."
"a HUMAN using a SACRED SUIT OF ARMOUR? Using *ME*?"
"YES. I AM YOUR WARRIOR. YOU HAVE NO CHOICE, EXARCH. I AM YOUR
WARRIOR, NOW. THERE ARE NO ELDAR FOR MANY LIGHT YEARS."
"Yes. That is true."

The voice snapped off, and Jamos came to with a start, tired. He
tried to remove the suit, but the seals remained firm. He remebered
now what he had forgotten in his devotion - that the Exarchs were
doomed, doomed to be warriors for ever.

"Ahhhh, human. You see the stupidity that leads you to me. Your mind
is weak, and your flesh is mediocre. But, as it is, you can return me
to my homeworld, where a proper warrior may inhabit my body. We shall
begin immediately."
"And what if I refuse?"
"You cannot. You no longer exist, human. I am all to you now."

The Exarch walked away, with Jamos' body. Jamos could only curse
himself in his disembodied state, and watch as the Exarch drove him,
using his own feet and hands.

And so began the trek across space. From his humble hut on the side
of a mountain, Jamos was led down to the imperial space port, to be
travel to the Exarch's home.

					*		*		*
		=

The guard sat, bored. Like every other night, this night was exactly
the same. Nada.

He glanced at his weapon: A laspistol. Whilst others in the imperial
guard (a force frequently seen about the spaceport) were carrying
Lascans, plasma weapons and stubbers, he was stuck with a weapon that
would scarcely scratch them.

He fantasised, briefly, about blasting a few Orks, or leading a
raiding party against some Eldar. Armed with a laspistol? Wouldn't
work. He'd been to bars, he'd heard Imperial guardsmen talk about
their exploits. Great green hordes of fanatic death, armed to the
teeth with a variety of hodge-podge weapons.

Or silent, swift and effecient fighters, condeming many with shuriken
weapons.

And suddenly, he stopped thinking about it. About the ImpGuard, about
his laspistol, or about just how bored he really was. His muscles
loosened, including his bowels. The foul stench of death gathered it
self about the cooling, headless corpse where a single shuriken had
sliced clean through the neck.

The Exarch continued its walk.

						*		*		*

Smoke filled the little booth. It was a public booth, probably tapped
- but the dealer didn't seemed to worried. Perhaps he had a deal with
the local Comnet.

"Right, let me get this straight," He said in accented Imperial
Gothic, "You want, ahhh, secure passage to the Segmentum Centexus?"
"Yes."
"And, ahh, what is your destination?"
"The Edaneer craftworld."

There was a pause.

"Will that cause you any .. difficulties?"
"Errr, no. Just cost ya extra, thets all."
"That is not a problem. I have an excellent line of credit. What do
you want as payemnt?"
"Err, for the trip to the Segmentum Centexus, its two hundred thou
Imperial Credits. For the books, ya know. We'll teleport you aboard
the craftworld, for our safety. That's one hundred thou ImpCreds."

There was a thoughtful pause, whilst the dealer gauged his client's
reaction. Most were usually shocked by those sorts of prices.

"And, arrr, to ahhh, ensure your safe passage, and ahhh, 'isolation'
from the crew, let's say about four hundred thou. In Guilder's
credits - not imperial."

Guilder's credits - twice as valuable and impossible to trace. They'd
never make the books - just a little bank account waiting for the
dealer on the eastern fringe of the galaxy.

The Exarch glanced towards the body of the planetary ruler, and
further to the open treasure vault.

"Done. Half up front, half to be left behind on the ship. And no
tricks, please, or I will be forced to respond."

And with *click*, the dealer was staring at a blank screen.

					*		*		*
					=

The dealer was as true to his words as the Exarch was. Nobody would
know that a stowaway had been slipped aboard - all they knew was that
there was a crate, and a suitcase for a Mister Turlon. A Mr. Turlon
came for the suitcase, opened it a crack, grinned and nodded to the
captain.

Two hours later, and the ship was in orbit, preparing to make a
highly illegal warp-jump to the segmentum centexus. The navigator, a
renegade runaway from his family, was quietly meditating alone in the
ship's heart. He was locked in, prayers were briefly offered to an
emperor that would have them all dead or employed for their crimes,
and they were away.

But the warp was never meant to be easy. Just a few days later, the
navigator cracked.

Sitting alone, looking forwards fixedly with his warp-eye, the
navigator would concentrate on choosing the most favorable path for
the ship to follow, sensing the the rifts and eddies of warp-space
currents.

Always, Always had he to concentrate. Just a few minutes earlier, he
had appealed to the captain for a break. But the warp-jump was
illegal as it was - no rego, no declaration of plan or cargo, and
only one navigator. They could not risk to expose themselves to
realspace detection.

The navigator could hold out for just one more day. Couldn't he?

Exhaustion crept around the edges of the navigator's perception. Fear
flickered through his mind, cackling and dancing upon his self. The
navigator ignored it. But it grew and grew, surely the work of Chaos.
Soon, he was so distracted by his attempts to supress his fear that
it became true. The ship passed into a Warp-rip.

					*		*		*
					=

The first that the captain knew of it was a shuddering groan from the
hull. Wisened with the experience of thirty years smuggling, he knew.
There was no chance for them now.
He prayed, as the engines were torn off by unseen power, as the
tendrils of soul-thirsty daemons tugged at the hull armour, then the
pressure hull, and then the corpses within. The psychic power of the
crew of twenty was absorbed, like a drop in the ocean. Doubtless, the
ruined ship would wind up as part of some gargantuan space hulk or
another.

Doubtless, their souls would never be recovered.

The Exarch was still locked in stasis, as was part of the 'standard'
package. And the stasis generators were some of the best, lovingly
maintained for just such high class customers as the Exarch. They
were in mint condition, charged enough to halt time within the
drifting crate for another several decades, unable to be touched by
the longing daemons.

The psychic enregies of the Exarch slept, the soul alseep inside the
armour's wraithbone core.

					*		*		*
					=

"What is it?"
"Don't know, captain. Looks human .. some sort of live cargo
container. Chronoloium decay indicates that it is about twenty sol
years old. And still current."
"So whatever was in it is alive?"
"Possibly. I'd say it may be valuable."

The captain sat back in her seat. She mused over the crate for a few
thoughtful moments. As an outlaw Eldar pirate, she knew that she was
wanted by the human imperium. She'd heard stories of ingeneous traps
set by the Tech Adepts for her brethren - harmless packages in
warp-space, waiting to brought aboard before detonating.

On the other hand, she knew that the Tech Priests had been pulling
all such mines from warp-space, ever since most imperial ships had
been upgraded. All the old Mk.4 mines worked by scanning a ship's
structural makeup and mass - if they fell outside preset perameters,
then they would be destroyed.

However, imperial ships had in the mean-time become larger and more
complex - falling outside the mine's parameters. And so, the mines
had to be removed, as threats to imperial shipping.

But the Tech Adepts were not god-like, though they wished to be.
It was possible that this was a mine that had been overlooked, or
even one of the rumored Mk.5 mines.

All this contemplation took place in the space of just a few
milliseconds.

However, on the other hand, it may have been some long lost cargo, of
perhaps valuable admantine ore, or perhaps of some live human, in
transit to a new role elsewhere in the imperium.

"Teleport it aboard to cargo bay one. And try to lay in some sort of
protection for us."
"Teleporting . . now. Cargo aboard."

The captain braced herself. Five, four, three, two, one.

Safe.

She rose from her chair and headed for the cargo hull. What treausre
had she nagged - was it of value enough to warrant a pardon from the
imperium?

					*		*		*
					=

Machine Fabler was there when she arrived. He was already examining
various consoles and controls that had been covered by a well-secured
panel. He pointed to one.
"This," He said, nodding thoughtfully, "This, this is the stasis
retractor control. We'll need to use it if we wish to use what's
within."

The captain was puzzled. Weren't stasis units able to be opened
during stasis, so that the contents could be inspected?

"Aren't we supposed to be able to see it before we retract stasis?"
"No, captain. A human has rigged this somewhat clumsily to explode if
we look inside before we retract stasis." He gestured to a side of
the crate she hadn't inspected yet.

There, as subtle as the human mind could devise, was a tiny lead from
the 'crate open' control to a small Krak grenade. To the Eldar, it
was like a neon sign.

"The crate is ceramite, with an adamantine frame. Whatever's inside
would never even notice the explosion."
"Hmmmm."

She pondered again. To view the contents, they would have to risk
retracting stasis inside the crate and allowing time to slip inside.
They could not know just what was in the crate until they did.

The dillema was simple - risk opening the crate, and reap the rewards
or the dangers.

Simple.

She decided that seeing as they'd come this far, they might as well
continue.

"Alright, then. You have my permission to retract stasis. How long
will it take?"
"This is a low power unit, highly effecient but slow. It will take
several hours for realtime to pass inside the chamber. I guess that
whatever is inside is probably also in a Cybernetic trance. They'll
come to suddenly, avoiding time slips."
"Sounds good. Call me when you've finished."
"Yes, captain".

					*		*		*

Machine Fabler worked long, and he worked hard, with total devotion
to the task at hand. Devotion.

Devotion prime, devotion ultimate, devotion pure.

He spent many hours alone with his devotion. Feverishly, he flicked
switches, turned primitive dials, monitered a hundred constants.
Retraction rate. Timeslip percentile. Warp-flux. The chaos factor.

Devotion was required, lest he would go insane, insane from the power
he wielded as an Eldar. The Eldar, the children of the God of the
hunt and the God of the Harvest.

The once prophesised downfall of Khaine, god of war - who now led
them, as the one thousand avatars, against the great enemy.

Devotion. Devotion and time.

Time. Time passed..

A little light glowed a pale orange, highlighted by a row of green
diodes. Recalling human Tech-Rites, he mumbled suggestively to the
crate, smiled, ranted, cursed, threatened, caqjoled. Then, finally,
he collared a staff and whacked the crate. The light turned green.

His stiffened forefinger reached for the open control, confident that
the grenade had been disactivated.

With a *chung* and a *hissss*, the crate began slowly to open, great
adamanitine pins falling into line, ceramite plating grating into
position.

Jamos awoke.

					*		*		*

"An Exarch, captain."
"You're sure?"
"An Exarch. Hidden inside human cargo."

She offered a word up to the laughing god.

"Which one? Is it active? Where does it come from?"
Questions, questions, questions.
I don't know, I don't know, I don't know was her only answer.

Jamos tapped the communication jewel. It darkened, its energies
released into the ship's psychoplastic core.

He was nearly home, nearly home. He could sense it - he was just a
few light years from his craftworld.

Things where not happening fast enough - proceedings needed to be
accelerated, actions sped up. The Exarch's mind raced through the
options.

Kill the crew? Take control of the ship? Not enough knowledge of warp
navigation.

Take a hostage? No good. Eldar pirates didn't have many friends.

Or perhaps .. Yes, yes that would do.

					*		*		*

The captain was dreaming. Her ship was in the warp, and they had been
fleeing from the imperium. She had decided to go further than what
was normally considered safe for Eldar, gambling that the imperium
would search for her band only within a normal radius.

So far, it had been working, but suddenly, her ship was splitting
like an eggshell, and she and her crew were outside, floating in the
warp.

They were all alive and intact, as if the warp were just air they
could float in. Something was hatching out of the ship. It unfolded,
growing and assuming many shapes in her mind; the crate, the faces of
of her crew. Each face wore a different mask of expression; one being
saddened over a past loss, another perhaps happy in remembering of a
triumph. Finally, the face of Machine Fabler, his face engraved with
the unmistakable mark of raw fear.

And then, the Exarch emerged from the polymorphous shape, reaching to
her, reaching, reaching...

She jerked awake, alert. To the Eldar, dreams can often be prophetic.
To her brethren on any of the craftworlds, the next course of action
would be to consult a seer. Too often had such dreams saved a
craftworld for them to be ignored.

The captain did not have this option. She was alone, isolated from
her craftworld by her choice. She lay still, considering the
possiblity that her home was calling, in the soft, insistent tones
she had run from. The tones she would always answer, in times of the
craftworld's most dire need. Always.

On the other hand, there had been no visions of her home in the
dream. Only of her.. Shye reached out for her shuriken catapult,
suspecting that a member of her crew was trying mutiny. Perhaps
another craftworld altogether was calling its children. She had to be
wary. She shifted from her bed, as silent as the black library.

Her bed was neatly sliced in three a second later.

So there *was* a mutiner on the ship. She moved behind a low seat,
and into the arms of the waiting Exarch.

					*		*		*
			=

"Increase to full speed, heading four two six, three six six. Full
speed."
"Captain."

The Exarch allowed itself a grin. Already, the captain's soulstone
added to his light display, her soul added to his miniature infinity
circuit.

Jamos had felt it too, the *absorption* of psychic energies, of an
entire mind into the whole. It made him feel ..

"Human. Do not think that because you are conscious, that you are
powerful. I have suspended you from the whole because you are not
Eldar, and your human tendancies would certainly taint me."
"I UNDERSTAND, EXARCH. I SHALL TRY TO BANISH SUCH THOUGHTS FROM MY
MIND."
"Good. And don't shout. You are alive at my pleasure."
"AND YOU TRAVEL AT MINE."
"If you wish to delude yourself thusly."

And into the eternity of nothingness continued the Eldar ship, making
its way at superlight speeds to the Segmentum Centexus, and the
Edaneer craftworld. Soon, soon the Exarch would be home again.

Soon.

					*		*		*
					=

Just one ship day later, and they were in teleport range of the
craftworld. Three crewmembers had had their soulstones added to the
Exarch's collection, to keep its prescence secret.

"Teleport the crate aboard the craftworld in ten minutes, then set
course for our staging base. And do not disturb me."
"Captain."

There was a pause, but the communications gem didn't darken.

"Ahhh, captain? Have you seen Machine Fabler about? He's gone
missing."
"Be assured, he is with me."
"For two whole days??" Came the incredulous reply. "He must be pretty
fit. When's the happy day?"
"Just follow orders."
"Yes captain! I won't breath a word!"
"I bet." Laughed the Exarch, mimicing the captain using her soul.
"Just teleport in ten, ok?"
"Ok, captain."

Finally, the gem darkened, and the Exarch made its way to the crate,
ready to go home.

Ten minutes later, there was a flash. The Exarch was home.

					*		*		*
Time. Time ...

The Exarch had time. No greeting, no welcome home.

No Eldar. None alive, anywhere. No familiar throb of life, no pulsing
of psychic power. All that moved in the craftworld now was the Exarch
and the little warp spiders.

He wandered through warithbone gradens, staring blankly at sparkling
soulstones. All about him, the infinity flowed with the minds of
hundreds of thousands of dead Eldar, watching his fustration. There
were no Eldar.

And no Eldar aspect warriors. Just Jamos.

Jamos watched the Exarch raging, almost with abandon. Daemons looked
on, hungrily hoping that the Exarch would attack, anything.

But it did not.

It wandered though great works, viewing with a heavy eye the grandeur
of gathering places, the neatly arranged guardian armour on racks. It
passed through countless shrines to it and other Exarchs, all
untouched.

The Eldar had disappeared, vanished.

Then he noticed the bloodstained walls. Eldar blood. A blank stare
and some vague, disjointed thought made it clear where he was: Just
outside the Avatar's throne room. It pushed through the doors.

The Avatar watched with hollow, cold eyes. It had no life to feed on,
either.

There were six smaller thrones, arrayed at the Avatar's feet. Five
were filled, from the lowest from left to right, until only the top
right was empty.

The Exarch nodded. It lay its sword at the Avatar's feet, bowing, and
then assumed its place at the Avatar's side.

As it melded to the throne, the seals on its suit sprung open,
sighing.

And a whispering current of air carried away the inferior human
ashes.