Chapter Five
From the outside, the Hole appeared to be nothing more than a dilapidated manufactorium, the uniform grey of its crumbling brickwork scarred by slender lines of creeping weed and brown-edged ivy. Long, thin windows gaped open, their glass long since smashed, splinters of darkness lodged in the building's skin. High above, a handful of lean crows described desultory circles around the flat roof, oblivious to the automatic weapons systems discreetly hidden there.
A high wall surrounded the shell of the surface building, rusted barbed wire sprouting along its length and a large pair of simply wrought iron gates barring entry to the casual intruder. Wild grass, heavy with hairy seeds, swayed drunkenly in the breeze alongside a wide, pitted roadway that bisected the empty space between this outer wall and the inner building. The track was wide enough to accommodate a Chimera transport comfortably and led to a large doorway in the building's front, a recessed portal that never opened. There was only one way into the Hole from the ground and the roadway wasn't it.
Two and a half kilometres away, a black, unremarkable groundcar entered the underpass leading from Brachius City's bustling Magenta Quarter to the city's ageing monorail complex. A few hundred metres into the underpass, it turned smoothly onto a small access road, branching off from the main highway. After its ident signals had been verified by a series of automatic scanners set a further hundred metres into the ceiling of the access tunnel, a section of wall to the groundcar's right swung away with a groaning hiss of hydraulic power. The groundcar swung into the resulting opening, its driver switching its headlamps onto full beam at the same time.
In the back of the groundcar, Interrogator Vivienne Dranguille thumbed her voxbead.
"Smyre, this is Dranguille. Tell the Inquisitor I have a present for him, although it's not the one he-"
Involuntarily, she brought her finger up to the receiver embedded in her ear, the low, urgent voice of the Hole's adjutant filtering through to her brain like ice cold water. She glanced at LaFayette, hunched in the seat next to her.
"Smyre, slow down. What the hell are you talking about?"
The air was cold and, for a moment, he felt nothing. A curious sense of disembodiment threatened to overwhelm him. Then, he breathed in and sensation flared painfully in his mouth, tongue and throat. His lungs burned with the coldness of that breath and, as if kicked into wakefulness by that shocking inhalation, his brain became suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the rest of his body.
Goosebumps peppered the exposed skin of his legs and arms; something wet and cold slid and squelched under his back as he shifted his weight experimentally; there was a warmth on his face and chest that seemed at odds with the coldness he was feeling in his extremities.
What was going on? Where was he?
He breathed again and, again, a sliver of cold air plunged into his chest like an assassin's dagger.
Dagger.
For some reason, that word seemed horribly and painfully important. Slowly, for they were gummed together, he forced apart his eyelids. And winced. The sky was a pale, washed out blue, smooth and fragile like the shell of some exotic bird. Two suns hung in the sky – one a large and watery pinkish yellow, the other a fierce orange disc, burning ferociously in his vision.
Where was he?
He flexed his fingers gingerly. They were heavy and distant, but they moved feebly. That was something, at least. Without really thinking about it, he half-turned to look at them and felt powdery snow brush against his cheek. Again, his body shifted wetly under him, but his eyes were making sense of his surroundings now.
He was lying on snow-covered ground – freshly fallen snow by the look of it, although the sky was clear of cloud. He looked at his body again and sighed. He was lying naked on snow-covered ground. Great. Carefully, he pulled himself up into a sitting position, turning his head to survey the land around him.
White everywhere. A vast uneven expanse of it stretched away from him on all sides. No mountains. No sea. No significant geographical feature to speak of. No sign of civilization.
He pulled his feet up under him, hugging his legs to his body, rubbing his numb hands against them, trying to desperately to generate some warmth. His fingertips were the same light blue as the sky. That couldn't be good.
With an effort, he pulled himself to his feet, teetering unsteadily on legs apparently unused to such exercise.
How long had he been unconscious? Why was he here? The last thing he remembered was –
He frowned. No, he couldn't remember anything. Not really. Vague images lurked on the edge of his conscious mind, but they were as insubstantial as the scraps of mist that escaped his mouth with every exhalation.
This was no good. He had to find shelter, had to start moving. But in which direction should he move?
A howl, high-pitched and echoing, sounded behind him. Once again, he felt the stirrings of remembrance within him, but, once again, he found precise recognition maddeningly elusive.
"At least I know which direction not to go in," he muttered to himself, forcing his legs to move – one after the other – carrying him away from the menacing howl that echoed again across the snowbound wasteland.
Livia was waiting for them in the Hole's transport pool, her slender form flanked by two heavily built stormtroopers, assault rifles cradled in their arms. The underground hangar was lit by bright fluorescent strips which bathed the stationary vehicles, including a battered guard issue truck, in a harsh, sickly light. The groundcar purred to a slow halt, the driver switched off the engine and Dranguille flung the door open, dragging LaFayette behind her.
She stalked up to Livia, scowling.
"Believe me, Sister," she said. "I don't need a medic."
Livia regarded her coolly from underneath her fringe. "No, but you'll need answers." Her eyes flickered over LaFayette, her expert gaze taking in the way she was holding her wounded arm. She turned to the guard to her right. "Escort the prisoner to cell 34-A. Ensure she is fed and watered, and have someone patch her up. The Interrogator and I will deal with her shortly."
Dranguille watched LaFayette being led away, her shoulders slumped. She supposed the criminal hadn't really understood the implications of surrendering to the Inquisition, but she suspected she was beginning to now. Adjusting her eye dressing absently, Dranguille turned back to Livia.
There was something different about the Sister, she realized. Something in the way she carried herself, back straight, hands clasped behind her. Something in her eyes. Something hard, brittle.
"Sister, what's going on? Smyre said something about Brecht being attacked. He said you were in temporary command." Dranguille licked her lips, uncertainly. "What… what's been happening here?"
Livia's answering smile was utterly without humour. Then, she told her everything.
Another howl, long and mournful, split the chill air and sent a knot of fear tumbling and unravelling in his gut. He had no idea how long he'd been trudging through the loose snow, but a comprehensive, strength-sapping tiredness had settled on his limbs. His eyes were half-closed against the glare of the snow and it had been increasingly difficult to resist the temptation to close them fully, drop down in the snow and give in to the weariness that was threatening to overwhelm him. The howl of the unseen beast that had been following him ever since he'd woken up in this seemingly endless waste put paid to those thoughts now. At least, for a while.
Glancing furtively around him, he quickened his pace. And swore, as his foot once again came down on something hard and sharp-edged covered by the deceitfully pure snow. He stopped and, balancing awkwardly on one leg, tried to bring the injured foot up so he could see just what damage had been done. His stomach lurched, as he toppled over and landed on the cold ground , scraping his side against yet another hidden stone.
"By the Emperor!"
The Emperor? Emperor of what? Of who? He had no idea, and yet the title had come as easily as the word 'warp' had the last time he'd tripped and fallen.
Gingerly, he felt his side with numb hands. The fingertips came away wet with bright red blood. Wonderful.
Again, he glanced around him and noticed, with a sudden start, that the landscape had changed subtly while he had been walking. The ground ahead was darker, splotches of mud showing through the thin covering of white. Wisps of mist drifted across them and the air, he realised, had acquired a distinct smell of sulphur.
His unseen pursuer howled again, this time much closer. All thoughts of his injury obliterated by the fear that threatened to possess him, he scrambled to his feet and turned in the direction of the sound. And stopped, his mouth suddenly dry.
For the first time, he could see the creature. Not clearly. Not yet. But its black silhouette was easily visible against the white snow. At the moment, it was a dark blot, but it was moving at a ferociously quick pace.
Heedless of the hidden stones that threatened to trip him, he began to run, the tiredness sloughing from his limbs like the skin of a snake, replaced by a fierce, desperate urgency.
"Brecht's dying."
Livia sighed and then shrugged. "Probably. I don't know." She leaned forward across the table. "I do wish you'd let me look at that dressing. Or at least give you some anaesthetic. It must be stinging terribly."
"I'm fine." Dranguille's tone was clipped, her mouth a tight line. Her eye narrowed with an anger that was beginning to look disturbingly like contempt. "And is that the best you can do? 'Probably'? What kind of prognosis is that?"
"I can dress it up for you in medical terminology if you'd like, but I thought you'd appreciate something more direct."
Livia settled back in her chair and glanced around the room. Smyre was hovering near the door of the conference chamber, his eyes widened with worry in the otherwise placid mask of his face. He hadn't contributed to the conversation yet. It occurred to her that, in making her the base's temporary commander, he had foregone his customary neutrality. It occurred to her that he had a vested interest in her now. Perhaps that was why he was looking so concerned.
Dranguille's palm slapped the polished surface of the veilwood table.
"This is intolerable! That the Inquisitor should be struck down in this facility by the hand of one of our own operatives…"
"The Enemy is subtle," said Livia softly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Livia shrugged. "Just something they taught me in the scholum."
"Well I think we can do without your childhood platitudes, Sister. Believe me, there's nothing subtle about a knife in your back."
"Then you're missing the wider point," said Livia, calmly. "If you'll excuse the pun." Dranguille's eye narrowed, but she didn't interrupt. Livia glanced across at Smyre and, as if he had somehow picked up her unspoken desire for support, the adjutant finally moved across to the table and sat down at it, although, Livia noted with some amusement, at a point precisely between the two women sat at its opposite ends.
"What's been happening in the last few hours issubtle," insisted Livia. "Things have been happening so quickly, we've not had time to think about it – only react. It's only in the last hour or so that I've begun at least to identify the pieces of our particular puzzle." She stared at Dranguille, intently. The other woman was beginning to calm down and she was glad of that. She needed her insight. She needed her detachment. Not for the first time, she wondered if there had been anything going on between the Interrogator and Brecht. She pushed that thought aside and took a deep breath.
"Let's start with this morning. We don't know what happened at the Querin residence," the Sister continued, "because the only two surviving witnesses are currently comatose in the sickbay of this facility. Coincidence? Unlikely. So, the decisions we need to make in the next few hours are necessarily affected by our ignorance of a number of key issues. Firstly, what caused the destruction on the top floor of the under-governor's mansion? None of our personnel were carrying explosives or heavy munitions. The Inquisitor is a powerful psyker, but even he would have needed some kind of accelerant to cause the kind of devastation we're talking about here. So, what was it?" She pushed the first of her documents across the table towards the Interrogator, who took it wordlessly, scanning the information inscribed on the dataslate quickly.
"Psycho-sensitive response charts for the time of the explosion?"
Livia nodded. "The last sheet is taken from the astropathic centre in Secundus Fortis. The response was strong – and unusual – enough to be recorded in the duty log and appended to the official daily Imperial transmission."
"So I noticed. 'Astropath van Oosterhuisen bled from his left ear and uttered the phrase "the walls bleed night" seventy-three times, before the sedative took effect.'" Dranguille looked up. "And what conclusions do you draw, Sister?"
"The explosion was psychic in origin. One or more of the Querin household were powerful psykers."
It was Dranguille's turn to sigh. "Yes, well, the daughter had psychic potential. There was no doubt about that. It's possible that her ability was inherited."
Livia frowned. "I was working on the assumption that the Querins had a psyker in their employ. Are you saying…?"
The Interrogator held her hands up and her eye glittered with grim humour. "Alright, I suppose it's time I told you what I know about all this." She glanced across at Smyre. "The Adjutant already knows most of it."
Smyre inclined his head, slowly, not quite meeting Livia's inquiring glance.
Dranguille leant forward, clasping her hands together and resting them on the table. "We knew all along that the cultists were at best a distraction, at worst a front for something more dangerous. You don't call yourself 'The Cult of the True-Seers' and advertise yourself with all-night parties in the WireWild, if you're being serious about worshipping the dark powers. And the compound on the edge of town was a joke. Why do you think we used the PDF and not our own company of stormtroopers? The local commander was virtually begging Janner to let them play a part." Dranguille's face hardened. "No. We knew there was something else going on. We just didn't know for sure who was involved. Marchmont had dropped hints about the cult being controlled by a more exclusive 'inner circle' and that the cult within a cult was composed of members of Brachius' elite. Brecht believed him."
"Why didn't Brecht just take the information from him? With his psychic ability, it would have been child's play to do."
Dranguille looked at Livia sharply. "You really don't know Brecht very well at all, do you? Taking the information directly from Marchmont's mind would have compromised a number of other delicate operations. Brecht wasn't prepared to do that." The Interrogator sighed. "It's all a moot point now, anyway. Marchmont's dead."
"And his lover is enjoying our hospitality in cell 34-A?"
"Quite." Dranguille rose. "So I should be on my way, really. It's time to find out exactly what she knows." Dranguille began to move away from the table, but Livia's voice stopped her in her tracks.
"Wait a moment." Livia glanced across at Smyre, who, she was pleased to see, looked more relaxed than he had been at the start of the meeting. "Firstly, you're not going anywhere near that cell without me." Dranguille stiffened and raised her eyebrow questioningly. Livia ignored her. "Secondly, we have a more urgent matter to discuss. How was Vollex corrupted? How did his body transform? How did his dead brain matter turn into strip upon strip of paper?"
Dranguille sat down heavily. "Ah," she said, softly. "The book."
"Yes." Livia leaned forward, her eyes gleaming intently. "The book."