Kasr Kraf, Aptus District
At 2200 hours the 5000 men of the Cadian rearguard withdrew from their positions along the northern bastion wall, trading places with the warriors of the Adeptus Mechanicus who would continue to hold the line against the Chaos armies long enough for the Imperial Guard to fall back within the city's limits.
Packed into the tight confines of a Hennus lorry with the remaining thirty men in C Company, Acting-Sergeant Aimo Garst sat squeezed in between James Larn and Cyrano Semirechye, his arm around the former's shoulder as a gesture of comfort. Larn had taken the instant demotion Corta had issued after the incident with Lieutenant D'ambrosia and Izuru without even a murmur of discontent. No protests came out, no complaints, just blank-faced acceptance and a dumb subservience when Corta had placed him under arms. Sorry, James, Aimo thought squeezing his best friend's shoulder. It happens. It has happened. Just move on and take the punishment.
Sharing James' gloominess was the entirety of Cannon Company. Blood and dirt-covered men, a shadow of their normal selves stared listlessly into space with only the bumping of the lorry's motion jostling them out of their partial daze. Nearly all were awake; too afraid to sleep lest it invite the nightmares that had been plaguing everyone for the last week.
Carstan Perandis, Elias Katecka, the cook Weld, that Siphani sergeant, and Lieutenant D'ambrosia, Aimo counted off the names of those deceased. D'ambrosia though he was not so sure about. She had been the first to be whisked away when, at 21:30, the first of the ambulances arrived to remove the wounded to the rear, wherever it was. Aimo was not sure the term 'rear-area' would apply for much longer with the enemy closing in on the city. It was only darkness that had halted him. And come dawn he would most likely renew his assault upon the perimeter.
Though well-hardened by now to the moans of the wounded men as their stretchers were lifted inside the Medicae Hennus's, Aimo could not help but wonder what his fate would be, and when. He had survived this long, survived Nereus, Nemtess, and so far Cadia. If he was going to go then it would surely be soon for the platoon-sized remainder of the company was being trucked down to the airbase for embarkation; at least that was what he believed. If I had to go then I'd want to go fast. I wouldn't want anyone worrying about me or having to carry me anywhere. Just let it be. I've seen a lot of men die very quickly, and a lot die extremely slowly. Getting shot in the stomach's the worst. You're awake for hours in agony, praying someone gives you an overdose of morphia. I Hope to God when it gets here it's quick.
Aimo wondered too about James. He was not aware of it but Aimo secretly admired him and above all respected him for his resilience. If Nemtess couldn't kill him then Cadia probably wouldn't either. James Larn will survive this; that's for certain. Aimo smiled to himself, put a little more at ease by that thought. Maybe it's why Izuru likes him? The xenos issue aside Aimo had nothing but respect for Izuru. She was a crackshot and had been absolutely lethal with the company's autocannon during the fight for Bastion 33, quite likely the deciding factor in it too. If only we had a company of women like her. Aimo glanced sideways at James. She's been good to you she has, mate. I just hope we see her again.
The strange man that had spoken to James in brief dug into Aimo's mind. Who was he and what interest did he have in Izuru? More to the point how did he know exactly where she was? It did not take a genius to suss that there was an informant in the company spying on her. But who? Aimo's eyes passed across the faces of each man in the back of the lorry, eyeing them with suspicion. The Highlanders? The Tabors perhaps? Or the Scribe! That reporter was the sole man out of place, always on his own, always snooping around. And had he not expressed an interest in Izuru beforehand? You're going to be spitting out teeth come tomorrow morning, pal. Aimo worked his finger joints and wrists, loosening the sores muscles. He would talk. By thunder Aimo would make him talk.
12th Casualty Clearing Station, Aptus District, 22:46
By the fifth week of the invasion Major Fillip Serreck was no longer moved by the awful sights he had encountered. As he had moved south, first off Cadia Primus then down to Kasr Kraf, Serreck had become accustomed to coping with horrific injuries. But it had been a while before that stage had been reached. When the fighting started, he and his fellow surgeons were far from ready for the awful sights they were to encounter. Early on one of his colleagues was traumatised when an amputated leg was carried out of the operating theatre and handed to him. Serreck was equally shockable, having only graduated from his Medicae training two months before. His most traumatic experience occurred when he took a dressing off a patient's face only to find himself gazing into a crimson hole; the eyeball was stuck to the dressing. Even such terrible wounds failed to move him in the late stages of the invasion. When the 12th Casualty Clearing Station set up in the Aptus District Municipal building, he was ready for anything. There were no beds and no sheets at the CCS. Wounded patients were brought in by Medicae units, and had their operations on their stretchers. Those same stretchers were then laid on the floor and covered with blankets that were often blood-soaked and reeking. No medical officers were available to deal with the wounded once the surgeons had operated. Nursing orderlies were expected to deal with post-operative pain by administering shots of morphine. They were also supposed to keep everything running smoothly.
This was easier said than done given the facilities at the Muncip building. The water, though still available, had been contaminated leading to several patients falling sick when they drunk it without realising. Clean water could only be sourced by carrying 20 litre fuel cans across the road to a five-storey hab-block and boiling the contents upon the stoves inside the shared – and very sparsely-fitted – kitchen. A downside to using the fuel cans for water transportation was that when drunk it had the bitter after-taste of vehicle fuel in it. But there was no other way to move the drinkable water in large amounts. Peace and quiet was non-existent, which must have doubled the work for the staff since alert patients were much more trouble than those that were sedated by morphine and could sleep without the disturbance of the nightmares. God-Emperor help patients who were shell-shocked. The Aptus District, being Kraf's most northern borough, was routinely subject to strafing by ground attack aircraft during the day and bombing during the night. Worse was that Aptus fell just outside the limits of the city's void shield. Though it was a blessing just as much as it was a curse, for the Chaos air and artillery usually only expended their payloads upon the shield, usually, leaving the CCS mostly alone. The seven Hyperios automated missile turrets that were mounted on rooftops around the district had all been knocked out, leaving only a few Scoba 40-millimetre batteries and 'Land Pattern' Scoba and Tranta stubber emplacements to provide air defence to the district. When planes attacked and the gunners went into action some patients nearly went mad with terror forcing Serreck to rely on a combination of trickery and bluffing in order to keep the patients quiet. This deception irked him to no end but acting the part of a soldier's sweetheart or wife was all he could do to keep his patients feverish ramblings to a minimum.
One man, whose legs had been paralysed after he had been hit in the bladder, kept asking when he would be treated by the surgeon. No amount of convincing on Serreck's behalf could persuade the man that he was indeed a surgeon. To calm him down, Serreck arranged for the bandages to be removed and a new Elastoplast placed over the wound the next time the man was given morphine, so that when the man woke up, Serreck could tell him he had his operation while he was asleep. On being told this, the man felt the plaster, smiled blissfully, and went back to sleep. He was still alive when he was sent off to be evacuated from the airbase. Another strategy Serreck used to reduce his workload was to make himself scarce, except when patients called out to him. Even then, he had to creep around the ward, especially when he was carrying the urine bottle; if he was seen with it, the patients started clamouring, competing with each other to use it first.
Notwithstanding the difficult conditions, Serreck was ashamed at how callous he became. At times he could not stop himself hoping that wounded men would die so that he would have room to take on new cases who were queuing up for a spot in the CCS. With over 300 cases there was simply not enough room for everyone inside the Muncip building, forcing stretchers to be left in the driveway outside the front in tents or in the open air.
Ironically, some of the cases received their best treatment after they had died. All dead were washed, their wounds were dressed, and they were clothed in clean pyjamas. Finally they were sewn into a blanket before being buried. Every dead man and woman was given a proper burial service.
"Lorries out front, Major," an orderly said to Serreck as the surgeon was sitting at the foot of the stairs in the building's hallway with his chin in his hands.
"More wounded?" Serreck stood up, wincing as his sore feet took the weight of his body. He had not slept in three days, and was thoroughly footsore and nearing the end of his energy. "There's far too many for us to treat as it is."
Leaving the stifling confines of the Muncip building, Serreck trotted down the stone steps, through the narrow gap of wounded who were waiting to be treated. It was pleasantly cool out in the night air, and indeed Serreck might have called it a pleasant night if not for the overpowering stench of sweat, blood, and body odour that hung over the CCS like an invisible cloud. Hopeful faces looked up as he passed; many giving silent pleas for their wounds to be examined. Not possible right now, I'm afraid, Serreck thought. Some degree of coldness had to be maintained in the situation, dire as it was. Serreck's only worry was that there might come a time where he became too apathetic to the plight of the wounded.
A pair of Hennus lorries, both with their rear compartments covered in canvas, had pulled up outside the seven-foot-high wall that bordered the Muncip building. Where the twin gates could normally accept the passing of a motor vehicle, the layout of the tents and arrangement of the wounded prevented any traffic from driving through, forcing the vehicles to halt in the road. With such damage to the surrounding habs and road, the normally uniformly zig-zagging carriageways were strewn with potholes and rubble that had fallen from bombed-out buildings, forming slopes that – in some cases – took up the entire roadspace, plunging the speed of any passing traffic to a painful crawl. Fires burned in places too, and with no fire brigade to tend to them, they remained alight; each blaze its own little apocalypse.
Buttoning his white coat, Serreck raised a hand in greeting to a soldier in filthy, blackened OGs when he jumped down from the cab of the lead Hennus. "Good evening. Major Fillip Serreck."
"Evening, sir." The soldier, an officer, made his weary way over to Serreck. "Second Lieutenant Simon Corta. We've come from the perimeter."
Nodding at the lieutenant, Serreck shook his hand. "How is the perimeter?"
Removing his cover and fixing the chinstrap through his belt, Corta turned and indicated the men that were dismounting the Hennus's. "Holding for now. Zeke and the Marines gave us a bit of a rough time today." Corta drew a crumpled beret from the inside of his flak jacket and arranged it on top of the mess of greasy hair that stuck up on his head.
"You held them off though?" Serreck was surprised that a mere Guard platoon had fought so hard, and against the enemy's feared shock troops. "How many men do you have here?"
"Well, there's thirty of us – we were 150 originally – and twenty of those in the grey over there. We're Cannon Company, the others are Voynuk Siphanis."
150 men. Eighty per cent casualties. Tragic though it was, Serreck had seen Guard formations, Cadian and otherwise, retreating past the CCS in even worse condition. Some units had had all of their officers and NCOs killed, leaving a gaggle of privates, guardsmen, troopers, gunners, riflemen fusiliers, sappers, and signallers all wandering in one direction; Kraf. Cannon Company was lucky to have even one officer still leading them.
"Is this the only hospital in the area?" Corta asked, motioning his men to stay together in a group and not wander off.
"Oh, we're – we're not a hospital I'm afraid, just a clearing station," Serreck said quickly.
"Some of my men are wounded…"
"Er, this is Twelfth Casualty Clearing Station. It's really only the last stop before the ships. I'm just waiting for the lorries to return so I can get more wounded loaded up and driven to the evacuation points." Glancing at the ragged crowd, Serreck lowered his voice. "There's no clean water. No food. No beds. No power. And as you can see, we're overflowing. I've shut down the operating theatre too. We are very low on medical supplies. I'm sorry for your men."
"No communications, sir?"
"Infrequent despatch riders only."
"I have a man in my company I have placed under arrest."
"Haven't seen a single provost around, I'm afraid, Lieutenant."
Looking down at the dirt at his feet, Corta nodded. "Okay, okay. We won't bother you. I'd just like a place for me and my men to rest for the night. We'll be off in the direction of the smoke first thing tomorrow."
"Take them inside that hab opposite us. There's running water there but be careful you boil it first."
"Why not move the wounded over there then if there's power?"
"Impossible. Many are too sick to move. I've got three-hundred patients here, you know."
"You didn't perchance see an officer brought in not long ago? Same uniform as the Siphanis, same colour skin. Gunshot wounds to the torso."
"Sorry. We've only candles and – well – we're all a bit tired. I'm – I'm fairly sure the Siphani officer was moved on from her. We just had three ambulance-loads go down to the airbase not an hour ago."
"Thank you, Major." Corta smiled, hopeful that Leesha D'ambrosia was being safely evacuated. "Any chance of a drink?"
"Of course, plenty of it too. Just watch the aftertaste; bit sour."
Once Simon Corta had got the Cannons and Siphanis settled on the ground floor of the hab-block he picked out Acting-Sergeant Aimo Garst and Corporal Dranno to accompany him over to the CCS.
"Lumme. Didn't think it'd be as bad as this," Dranno said sombrely as he, Corta, and Aimo walked past the many tents and stretchers that dominated the front drive. Inside was worse. Walking wounded sat on the stairs, more of the stretcher-bound were lying about, and very few orderlies were moving around. Directed to the cellar, Corta led Aimo and Dranno down a set of narrow steps and into a makeshift theatre that was lit only by candles and lamps. The single bulb screwed into the ceiling was dead. Beneath it, the operating table was bare, the tools laid out on trays beside it clean.
"Major? That water you mentioned." Corta approached Major Serreck who was talking with a chaplain.
"Sorry, Lieutenant, it'll be upstairs," said Serreck. "Look for the fuel cans."
"Fuel cans?" Dranno frowned.
"Right, back upstairs, you two." Corta directed Aimo and Dranno back up the stairs, into the midst of the wounded again.
"What they putting water inside fuel cans for?" Dranno wondered aloud.
"Least they got water," Aimo muttered.
"Just look for the... look for the fuel cans," Corta strained to remain outwardly calm. The irritable business with Larn and the stickie spy had incensed him, putting a very sour taste in his mouth. That it came right after the successful defence of the bastion caused his good spirits to plummet. In some ways he wished that D'ambrosia had let her suspicions lie so the co-operation between the company and the 'mercenary' could continue unimpeded. Damn you, Leesha, for forcing my hand, Corta fumed. And you, Larn, what the hell got into you? He knew exactly what had got into him; the stickie. Despite resembling a human, and a stunningly beautiful one at that, she was still Xenos, and therefore enemy. It could not be excused. It was heresy.
"Sir?" Aimo stepped back when Corta inadvertedly kicked a watercan with the toecap of his boot.
"What, Sergeant?" Corta gripped the handle of a can and lifted it up, passing it to Dranno. "Go on, take it back to the men, Corporal."
With Dranno out of the way, Corta braced himself for the complaints Aimo was about to bombard him with.
"Sir, I just want to say that I think executing the stickie was the wrong thing to do," Aimo said coldly.
"Oh, the wrong thing to do, Sergeant?" Corta glared. "By accepting the stickie's aid, we broke protocol. We break protocol, we suffer the consequences."
"She's not a bad person, sir. She's genuinely trying to help us."
"You can confirm that for certain? Did you remember from the lectures during training: the dangers of fraternisation with xenos?"
"Yeah, yeah, sir I do. I just—"
"Your friends with Larn. Tell me what the situation is between him and the stickie."
"Not what you think, sir. Absolutely not what you think," Aimo said earnestly. "There's history yeah, but it isn't what you think. This goes back before Cadia, to Nemtess, maybe even further back than that. Honestly I don't know."
"Well then how can you know? I'm trying to find out how deeply involved Larn has been with the stickie. This is a serious breach of regulations; an article 104 case. He could be placed in a court of law, tried, and hanged for fraternisation with the enemy. And – Aimo – you have my word that is the very last thing I want for him."
"Uhh…" Aimo scratched his temple worriedly. "I can't say what Larn's been talking about with the stickie. But I know him, sir. He's a good lad, clever too. He's not dumb enough to spew out any tactical information to her."
"No, but is he dumb enough to fall for her deception and be seduced by her looks?"
"He's nineteen, sir…"
"He's old enough to kill, and kill well at that. Therefore he must be old enough to work out what the thing between his legs is for." Corta tutted in disdain, picking up a second watercan. "I can't protect him, Aimo."
"Can't we just forget 'bout this, sir? The major isn't around, or the CSM, or the commissar. We're on our own here."
"It's not them I'm concerned about."
"That man who took her."
"Do not speak about this to anyone else," Corta said firmly. "All our lives may be forfeit because of this stickie."
"Roger that, sir." Aimo looked at his commanding officer stonily. "But I'm saying, right now, I'm with Larn." With that Aimo left Corta behind before the latter could reply.
Bloody officers. Bloody, bloody, bloody cretins. Shower of bastards, the lot of them. Aimo scowled despondently, kicking at the rubbish that was carried across the road in the wind. Got to stick their foot in where it's not welcome.
Dumping the heavy can in the centre of the wide hallway, where Cannon and Siphani alike were lounging around, Aimo trekked over to Larn who sat in the corner beside a stairway, on his own. He was not one of the men who rushed over to the water to fill his canteen.
"Alright, pal?" Aimo plonked himself down beside Larn and put his arm around his shoulder. "Want a water?"
"Go 'way," Larn whispered. His arms were wrapped around his legs, which were drawn up close enough for him to rest his forehead upon his knees.
"Number one, pal. We won. We're going home tomorrow."
"Not all of us."
"Aah, I know. There'll be other six-foot-tall warrior women with autocannons waiting for you on Haven. You like it when they're taller than you, don't you?"
"Don't want any of them whores."
"Come on, James, look at me. Look at me." Aimo clasped the back of James's head when he looked up, gently leaning his head against his. "We beat Zeke. We beat Nathaniel. We won."
"Not yet."
From deep down a slow creeping dread arose in Aimo's stomach. "Aw don't, James. Don't do it."
"I'm going tonight. I've got to, mate. Everything she's done. I owe her. We owe her for Bastion Three-Three."
"Bloody hell," Aimo muttered. Digging into an empty ammunition pouch he took out James' Moses and passed it over. "I told Corta I'm with you. So yeah, I'm with you. Don't let him see this. You're s'posed to be under arrest."
"Mm, ta." James took the small piece and examined the many scratches upon the body, running his thumbnail along the rough wooden grips. "I need my gat."
"Your bundook got wasted. I saved your grenade launcher from the vultures. Keep it hidden now." Aimo handed the Castra and corresponding bandolier to James discreetly. "Is that Izuru's shirt?"
"Lost mine when they stripped me, didn't I?" James replied flatly. "Scumbags fleecing me of my shit."
"Er, sorry 'bout that. Corta had me acting sarn't whilst you were out. I'm – I'm actually acting sarn't now really."
"Oh, you're sucking Corta's dick now, are you?"
"Doing it for all of us, James. I know officers are all cunts but Corta was only doing it 'cause he was supposed to as an officer. If he hadn't then discipline would've shattered. I know we understand Izuru's on our side. But everyone else don't. To them she's a just a stickie. And she's got no real business taking fire for us, has she? Thought she was s'posed to be finding someone here?"
"She stayed 'cause she's trying to make up for losing her company. It's what her superiors ordered her to do, come and fight alongside us."
"Yeah but why?"
"I don't know."
"And that civvy who nicked her. Now I reckon it's the Scribe who's spying on her—"
"He's not the traitor," James butted in. "I'm the traitor. I made a deal with that bloke – an inquisitor – so me and you lot could get off light on the punishment when we first landed on Cadia. I'm the traitor."
Sitting back against the wall, Aimo stared blankly ahead, aghast at James' confession. "Shit, mate. What've you done?"
"I did it for you, Aimo. And Cyrano, and Ral, and Kat, and Rinek, and the cooks. All of us what made it here from Nemtess. I've done things I'm ashamed of and I can say now that's right up there with them."
"Did Izuru know? Did you tell her?"
"She's not stupid…"
"Well, all the more reason to go and bloody rescue her then. You owe her a sincere apology." Continuously clenching and unclenching his fist, Aimo said, "fuck it, I'm in. I'm not sucking Corta's dick. Bloody Draino can be acting sarn't for all I care." With a warm grin, Aimo grasped James' hand and squeezed. "You and me."
"I want the Highlanders too," James said, not returning Aimo's grin, his face a frozen mask.
"Cyrano too. That'll do for me. You stay here and act like you're under arms. I'm gonna go and find some gear."
"Okay, get it done. Just make it quiet-like."
Bastion 43, Aptus District, 02:23
Expecting to find the sheer, two-hundred-foot-high concrete wall that made up the thirty-one sluice gates throttling the River Luten intact, Lieutenant Colonel Donjeta Lapraik was perturbed to find a safety hatch had been forced open. She, Ral Bleak, and Tom Carillo, having marched all afternoon and into the night, had found the river, and had continued along its western banks in a southerly direction, hoping to make the city's perimeter before dawn. With no contact with Zeke it seemed like they had managed to stay ahead of his advance. The discovery of the forced entry to the bastion though marred Lapraik's hopes.
"What's wrong, ma-am?" Bleak, his white face sweating from bearing Carillo, asked anxiously. The three had descended from ground level to a narrow concrete walkway that looked over the surging river on the left, and up at a smooth concrete wall on the right. It was bordered only by a thin guard-rail and was slippery from the moisture in the air.
"Zeke forced access to the bastion wall. He is now ahead of us, Private. I urge you to be on your guard," said Lapraik, keeping her voice to a whisper despite the audible rush of water cascading from the sluice gates.
"Oh, no more than we already are?" Carillo, still in deep pain from the round lodged in his backside, groaned. "Right helpless lot we are."
"Ssh, Tom," Bleak hissed. "We're lucky the colonel's with us."
Shuffling along in her wake, the two had strained to keep up with the colonel's brisk pace. It had struck Ral as strange that an intelligence officer could exert herself in such a manner. Though free of any burden it was still a tiresome march, and she did not appear in the least bit out of breath.
"Dark in here. Watch your feet and your head," the colonel whispered from within the tunnel's mouth.
"No shit. Do we have to go in there?" Carillo dragged at Ral a little reluctantly.
"Yeah, we do. Look, I promise when we find somewhere safe I'll take a look at your arse."
Hobbling into the pitch-dark tunnel, the two found they had lost sight of the colonel. "Ma-am?" Ral called out softly.
"Here." The colonel's reply came from a scant three feet away. "Wait one."
"I'm not having a man's hand up my arse," Carillo continued. "Property of Thomas Carillo that."
"Guard property, not yours. Signed yourself away on that dotted line: body, spirit and all."
"Aw, that's a rosy thought."
"It's fact. Anyway, it's not a colonoscopy. Nothing's going up your arse. I'll just pick the round out and, there, you'll have a nice scar for the girls to kiss."
"Ahem."
Both men fell silent at the colonel's behest. "Private Bleak, Private Carillo, if I can have your attention?"
"Ma-am?"
A tiny zipping sound was followed by a rustle of cotton. "I thought the wall looked shinier." The colonel switched on a tiny, palm-sized torch and shone the beam across the damp wall. "Aah. It reviles me to look upon it."
"What is it?" Ral brought Carillo closer to see a crude shape that had been daubed on the wall.
"Chaos."
Ral recognised the eight-pointed Chaos star which had been, quite appropriately, painted on in blood. Though in the weak torch light it was difficult to tell if it was the genuine article, or just a blood-coloured paint. Neither he nor the colonel felt like touching it.
"Be on your guard from here on," the colonel muttered, unslinging her M-35. Keeping the torch in her left hand, she pointed the yellow beam ahead, now fully alert for Zeke.
"Shush now, Tom," Ral breathed, wishing he had a weapon with which to defend his and Carillo's lives, now forced to swallow his rising anxiety. "Got to move along quietly now." If our lot don't know about this breach in their line then what else don't they know?
Freezing in her paper-thin medical garments, Keladi Lethidia stumbled as close to the burning building as she could bear, desperate as she was for warmth. The devastated city that had greeted her upon her ascension from underground saw a prickle of fear that exacerbated as the day wore on. Too frightened to stray from the hole the bomb had caused, Keladi had squatted in the corner of a bombed-out habitation block nearby, with her back to the only one of the four walls still standing. Putting weight upon her feet hurt her, even though she had painstakingly dug out every shard of glass before the climb. With her mind in turmoil she could not focus enough to properly seal the cuts on her bare feet, leaving them red and sticky with crystals. Having nought to occupy herself with but the going's-on of a planet at war, Keladi listened to the rumbling thunder and sporadic thumps going off in the distance. Is this Cadia? She wondered. Her last memory was of the descent through the atmosphere in the life pod with Avele Swifteye. What had become of him?
Come nightfall, Keladi ventured from her hiding place and out into a city on fire. Thick pillars of smoke rose up into the purple-tinged blackness, their sources great, swirling infernos where human habitations had once stood. Sharp stones and warm dust tore at Keladi's feet as she wandered aimlessly along a once-zig-zagging street. In such a sorry state it was now made up of mounds of rubble of varying height and breadth. Underneath a window without glass, Keladi saw her first human body, covered in a soot-blackened blanket, and one of many arranged in a long line. More out of practical concerns than any real curiosity, Keladi lifted the corner of the blanket and peered underneath, letting the rough material drop quickly when the human's face was illuminated by the light from the flames. It was a sight no being should have to look upon. Keladi herself knew well enough what occurred to an Eldar body after death. The process for a human body however was ghastly.
Jain Zar absolve me. Keladi stepped back, making the sign of Ulthwé, apologetic at her transgression. Let their bodies be at rest.
Walking beside the line of blankets, Keladi held her foot up to the hobnailed soles of each human's boot. Once more I ask your forgiveness, Jain Zar. Theft from the deceased brought a sick feeling rising inside her throat. I hope your god will understand, human warriors, I do this out of necessity.
At the far end, Keladi found a human with small enough footwear. As a sentiment gesture, she made to find the human's identity tags, reaching up to lift the blanket from where it rested. The wool was already in her hands when Keladi realised there was nothing above the shoulders. Curiosity triumphed then, and she pulled the cover off, revealing a dry stump where the human's head should have been. Throwing the blanket back, Keladi sat with her hands held over her yammering heart. She would have normally lost any edible nutrients within her stomach over such a repugnant sight. But with an empty, growling belly devoid of foodstuff, all Keladi could do was double over, dry-heaving. The boots were almost brushing the tips of her nose, inviting her to take them. It took Keladi several tries to properly unlace the heavy leather articles, and pull them both free from the gaiters that were keeping the human's trouserlegs tucked in. Once with both boots beside her, Keladi looked at the grey socks that were now poking out from beneath the blanket. The footwear of course, but now she was contemplating touching the human's skin to retrieve the socks. Jain Zar, she longed for her skintight bodysuit, longed to be warm, longed to not be alone.
Over the blowing wind and the creak of the stiff leather, Keladi did not hear the human soldier. Clumsily she threaded the bootlaces through the round holes, drawing them as tightly as possible, only stopping when she glanced up at his approach. Freezing in place, guilty at the image she must have been giving, Keladi projected a sorrowful, pleading expression at the soldier. Kneeling next to the dead human's socks, the soldier, one of startling youth, slowly pulled the blanket down to cover the feet. At no point did he point at Keladi's face or ears and exclaim something in Gothic. Why does he not recognise my race? Does darkness make the illusion? Keladi had her face to a blaze, there was not a chance he had not seen her for what she was.
Further unsettling Keladi was the generous offer of a canteen. Confused at the charity, Keladi jerked the felt-covered water carrier from the human's outstretched hand and pulled the cork stopper free, wetting her parched throat. A question was directed at her, which of course she could not answer. Pointing at her throat, Keladi mimed that she was mute, hoping that would brush off the human's question. Apparently satisfied with the answer, or simply not caring, the youth nodded when Keladi gave his canteen back. Pointing up at his ear, he inquired whether Keladi was deaf or not. Yes, Keladi nodded, pointing at her own ear.
Look here, the human reached inside his collar and produced the pair of metal tags he wore around his neck. Razek was his second name. His thumb covered his forename. Waiting for Keladi to read the name, Razek pointed at the first three letters. Raz.
Raz? Keladi, bemused, fell back on tying – or trying to tie – her laces. Seeing her fumbling, Raz made a silent offer of assistance, bending down and forming neat knots on both boots with practised swiftness. Why the willing aid? Can he not see I am Eldar? Confused,Keladi flexed her bare feet inside the hard leather, feeling her toes brush the inside of the toecaps. Even more unusual was the greatcoat Raz offered her even though he had been wearing it underneath his webbing. Nursing her rising nerves at the overt kindness from the stranger, Keladi pulled her arms through the thick sleeves and buttoned the greatcoat up over her shirt, unused to the weight and uncomfortable itchiness.
Come on. Raz beckoned, keeping an open face. However much Keladi could not understand the other's dialect, the inviting tone and friendly manner, all given without force or any falseness, calmed her. Follow me or stay. Giving Keladi the choice, Raz went back the way he had come, not looking to see if Keladi was following.
Is he alone? Cautious of others, Keladi followed Raz underneath a collapsed floor which had fallen at an angle, leaving a rough triangular shape to head through. The human's passage was unhindered by the low ceiling. Keladi had no such fortune and was forced to stoop. Her height was a dead giveaway for she was sure that there were not many human females over six feet in height.
Jain Zar protect me, Keladi prayed, realising with horror that Raz was leading her over to a gang of five of his comrades who were sitting in the middle of the street. At Raz's sighting, someone called out a greeting. When Keladi was spotted all five of the humans got up, two even unslinging weapons, unsure of who she was. Before any questions could be issued, Raz stepped in to explain. Not wanting to meet any of the humans' eyes, Keladi stared at a spot on the ground, hoping Raz would do her talking for her. Not one of the humans bore rank insignia on their drab uniforms, suggesting none were officers. Indeed, there seemed to be a slight air of disorganisation about the six soldiers, with nobody really being in command.
Are we within friendly territory? Behind enemy lines? Why linger out in the street? Keladi wondered after the discussion went on for longer than she had anticipated. Such was the extent of the destruction, lanes, arrow-straight where the paths were normally zig-zagging, had been blasted directly through structures. Because of the darkness the humans could not see this. Keladi could.
Why do we tarry here? There are enemies nearby surely. Keladi went over and tugged at Raz's arm. This did not go down well with one of Raz's friends who unfolded a blade bayonet from the underside of his carbine's barrel and pointed it in Keladi's direction.
Silence followed. It was Keladi who first felt the change in air pressure at the passing of the bullet. But it had not come from the carbine, rather far off, delaying the sharp crack that the rifle gave. Whirling around, Keladi, Raz, and the five other humans fled pell-mell along the street, greatcoats and halves of loose web-belts flapping. The loud clatters of rifles dropped at the wayside were drowned out by the piercing whiz-bang of single rounds as they passed by. Faster than any of the humans by far, Keladi was nonetheless handicapped by the heavy boots and her feet flapping about inside them. Sharp thuds came from bodies falling beside her. Soft grunts were given off by the humans as they fell like ninepins on their faces to lie still in the dirt. Gasps from Raz behind Keladi as the sudden exertion sapped his energy. Still the unseen enemy fired. Throwing herself up at a wall at the end of the street, Keladi climbed upwards, throwing a leg over the parapet. A blurred object sailed over past her; Raz's carbine. Straddling the wall, Keladi lay down on the narrow surface and stuck her arm out to help Raz up. Then the sporadic rifle shots were replaced by a slow stutter of an automatic weapon, a rolling, punctuating thunderclap that kicked up showers of stone and dirt as it marched down the street, stitching a pattern up Raz's back as his fingertips brushed Keladi's. Falling onto his back, Raz was raked repeatedly by bursts of the automatic, even after he stopped moving.
Panicking now, Keladi dropped down on the other side of the wall, hearing only silence now the guns had ceased their murderous barrage. Casting about, Keladi spotted Raz's carbine lying on the flagstones. Grabbing the weapon in one hand, Keladi dragged it over, its affixed blade bayonet dragging on the stones before she could get an awkward hold on it. Crouching in place, Keladi was bowled over onto her front when the wall burst behind her. Fragments of hot masonry peppered her back, slicing through the wool of her greatcoat. Sobbing on her knees, Keladi dragged herself forwards on one hand as rifle and automatic alike chewed up the wall. Gripping the carbine, she grasped the stiff bolt and jerked it back. A round flew from the chamber, tinkling on the hard floor and spinning away. Shunting the carbine's bolt forwards again Keladi fired blind behind her, squeezing her eyes shut, not looking where she was shooting. Unable to tell if returning fire had done any good, Keladi struggled to her feet, managing only one more shot before the carbine either jammed or ran empty. Flinging the weapon away, she ran as loud ricochets spattered off the stone, slicing into shredded foundations and rent beams piled around her.
A second smooth-faced wall reared up in front of her, blocking her flight. Too high for her to scale unassisted, Keladi pressed her back against the smooth stone and hugged her knees together. Human shouting was coming from the street she had fled from. They were still shooting at the space she had just vacated.
Jain Zar, not like this, I beseech you. Keladi buried her face behind her knees, her feet drumming on the ground in terror.
"Take my hand." A voice said.
Turning white in fright, Keladi craned her neck to see a human female extending an arm to her from the top of the wall.
"Hurry!"
With no other choice, Keladi jumped, grasping the human's hand, letting her be pulled up the wall. Reaching the parapet, Keladi was taken into the human's arms and gently lowered. Shock gripped her when she saw the human's feet did not touch the ground. What are you? Keladi shrunk away, certain the strange human, clad in an alien cape and metallic bodysuit, had nefarious intentions for her.
"Take this." Within the human female's clawed gauntlet, a cord holding a tiny stone dangled.
Jain Zar! Astonished, Keladi reached for the spirit stone, grasping the artefact containing her soul.
"Fly." The strange human pointed over Keladi's shoulder, showing her the way to go.
Rubbing her throat, Keladi followed the direction with her eyes. "How did you come by this?"
Where the being had been, there was now nought but thin air.
The Citadel, Houdt District, 05:10
"How long now, Scion?" Osvat Radu Zeleska asked, stifling a yawn. In the early hours of the morning the security wing of the Inquisitorial complex, located in the upper levels of Kraf's citadel, was cold. As a rule with all Cadian institutions, the heating went off at 2200 and came back on at 0600. Today was no exception.
"Seven hours, forty minutes, and fifty-seven seconds, My Lord," the Scion rattled off the timing in a monotone. Such was his conditioning he remained quietly observant at all times without breaking concentration.
That long without a single twitch. Remarkable, Zeleska thought, leaning down to see the console's largest screen, and the room it displayed. The stickie woman was sat at a table that contained a table and two chairs, all bolted to the floor. Between her manacled hands was a solid iron bar. I think I've waited long enough, Zeleska smiled. "Turn off all surveillance equipment. No cameras, no bugs, no servo-skulls."
"Yes, My Lord."
"And remove yourself from this suite."
"Yes, My Lord."
Obedient men. Men of few words. Men suited for Zeleska's service. How he would enjoy seeing how this stickie ticked.
Displaying neither fear, anger, depression, nor any emotion for that matter, Izuru sat, still as a corpse and staring straight ahead, a stern look upon her features. Dominating her fraught senses, Izuru had shunted the collective pain from the Siphani's assault away, further blocking out the agonising thump of rifle butts on her body, instead concentrating upon the faces of her comrades-in-arms. Singling out James', Aimo's, Peter's, and Woulter's faces, Izuru focused her mind upon them, praying intently for their safety. A powerful swell of affection had arisen when, under threat of death from the Siphani officer, James had thrown himself into the line of fire for her. As gallant as the action was, Izuru very nearly bit her tongue off in frustration when James had fired upon the officer. You young fool, she thought. Had he not said before that he would not help her if she was ousted as a stickie? A noble, selfless deed, but it was foolish. Now this strange new development led to the question: what had James not told her?
With time her only companion, Izuru had withdrawn within herself. Those watching her from behind screens would find no satisfaction in seeing her in distress. Any out-of-the-ordinary blink, any shuffle, any nervous tic shown would be seen as a weakness, and one her captors would use against her. Show nothing but contempt for these human scum. Accept nothing from their hand, however inviting it may appear. As an officer of rangers it is my duty to escape, or otherwise cause as much mischief to their operation as is possible.
The opportunity to cause mischief, or otherwise be as much of a nuisance as was within her abilities, arose when the reinforced steel door hissed upwards, admitting the same human who had 'saved' her from the firing squad into the room. Refusing to acknowledge or even look his way, Izuru nonetheless immediately broadened her senses and took in the man's appearance. Black leather boots with steel toecaps that clacked loudly on the stone. A grey, sleeveless jerkin with gold trim around the hem and a chain with a red letter I at his throat. Around his shoulders sat a soft, brown leather holster, with facilities for a sidearm and a knife. Both of those were empty. Studying the man's face when he sat down on the other chair, Izuru took note of his prominent jawline, cheekbones, and wide forehead. He possessed similar, boyish features to James, and so damnably similar they were that Izuru's guard dropped, if only for a moment. Those blue eyes, pale, like a river, made her feel uncomfortable. They were James's eyes, but without the warmth and compassion for his friends. Who are you?
Gently placing a tablet upon the table between them, the boyish-faced human said, "you looked different over the comm. You were less scarred back on Nemesis Tessera too."
Him! Izuru's mind flashed back to Nemtess and the party of abductors she had torn to shreds to protect Keladi. The ghostly figure of the human she had seen over the comm had intrigued her. Now, face to face, she retained her guard, preferring to let the stranger explain himself to her.
With an easy smile, the human leant forwards and swiped the tablet back. "Already I see I need not go over your record. You are no doubt familiar with your criminal past, Izuru Numerial." When Izuru did not reply, he continued. "Osvat Radu Zeleska. Most esteemed servant to His Imperial Majesty. Acolyte to Lord Inquisitor Torquemada Coteaz. Member of the Ordo Hereticus."
Impressive. Do you always begin conversations with your list of titles; arrogant beast? Izuru never turned a hair, choosing to raise her shackled hands, appearing bored.
"Not just yet, my dear." Zeleska returned the tablet to his hands and made some changes. "I have here your parole," he said, resting the tablet upon the tabletop and turning it in Izuru's direction.
Skim-reading the green lettering, Izuru glanced up at Zeleska, fixing him with a mildly-condescending expression before sitting back in her chair. And what of it?
"Aha." He smiled, a not-so-convincing chuckle following on from that. "This is not an interrogation. Believe me, my dear, I am not looking for any information from you."
Liar, there is always something you seek. Such a handsome face, with a charm accompanying it would have no doubt swayed many an impressionable human female both into bed and then underneath Zeleska's thumb. Sneering at the attempts to sway her with gentle prodding and charm, Izuru gripped the metal bar in her hands, stared at Zeleska, and began to pull. Straining at first, unable to keep it from appearing on her face, Izuru's jaw tensed as she worked both ends of the bar upwards, gradually forming a perfect U-shape with the metal. Showing the result of her efforts to Zeleska, Izuru let the deformed manacles slap loudly on the table. I can break you as easily as I have broken this.
Leaning back in his seat, Zeleska's smile vanished, replaced with what could only be described as acute arousal. Glancing at the tablet, Zeleska threw it over his shoulder. The thing collided with the grey-green wall with a crash of shattering glass.
"Already I can see that you are a remarkable woman," Zeleska said, now serious. "I drop all pretences. I have your young friend, the redhead, in my company. She is well cared for, I assure you."
That Zeleska might use Keladi as leverage had already occurred to Izuru. Not for one second did she buy Zeleska's ploy that Keladi was in his clutches. If there was no body then there was no proof.
"Already I can see that you are a thoroughly unremarkable human," Izuru said softly. "What you cannot win through charm or money, you take through blackmail or force."
Likewise refusing to turn a hair, Zeleska said, "perhaps some refreshment will sweeten that tongue of yours? I have physicians that will tend to your injuries. A bed for you to rest in. Will you at least accept my hospitality? Let us do away with those shackles. I do not like to see a person bound."
"As charitable as you seem, I do not believe for one second that you harbour any compassionate thoughts for my welfare, Inquisitor. We are enemies. And as an officer, I cannot accept anything you offer."
"But what about the boy? He was very eager to rat you out so as to avoid losing the flesh from his back. Did you enjoy his company despite being enemies?"
"I have kept the company of many different humans on my travels. All had their part to play. And I can say that all performed admirably in their own particular manner. The boy was most useful in assisting me. He was a harmless catch, easily swayed by looks and simple compassion."
"A harmless youth, I agree. Still, I'm tired of sitting around in this dingy closet. Let us adjourn." Clapping his hands together, Zeleska got to his feet and showed Izuru to the door. "I uh, seem to have misplaced the keys for those shackles."
Of course you have, Izuru thought, keeping her face impassive. Skilful as she was at deception, she had no idea whether the Inquisitor had bought her story. He did genuinely seem to believe that James was harmless though, which could work in her favour. Arrogant, self-serving, but clever to boot, were Izuru's initial thoughts on Zeleska. On her feet now, she could see that Zeleska matched her height exactly and could look her squarely in the eye. A combatant? Which hand do you favour? How proficient are you in martial arts? Questions circulated Izuru's brain. Now that the Inquisitor had made the mistake of letting her out under escort, she could plot her escape. It was not to say that it would be a walkover. The human was evidently intelligent enough to leave himself without a weapon so as to safeguard himself from a possible assault and being disarmed in a struggle. A cautious, watchful manner would need to be observed.
At Izuru's shoulder all the way, the Inquisitor directed her up from a series of corridors lined with damp, and up a narrow flight of stairs that spiralled tightly.
"Please, after you." Zeleska smiled at Izuru, indicating she was to pass through a door he had opened for her at the top of the stairs. "Please."
Where the grungy chambers below had smelt distinctly uninviting, the floor above was clean, the walls decorated with marble columns and pieces of art. A red carpet, soft and spongy, pressed upwards in response to Izuru's footfalls. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, bearing many brackets of light that cast a warm glow. The smell of cooked food was in the air.
"It would please me immensely if you would join me for breakfast," Zeleska said, guiding Izuru over to a set of double doors, one of three pairs that led to other rooms unknown. "I make a habit of rising early. Actually, before we eat, would you like to change?"
Remaining silent, Izuru fixed the Inquisitor with a baleful stare that she hoped would convene her message clearer than any words.
"A change of clothes? There is a refresher unit you can make use of." Zeleska misunderstood, believing it to be confusion on her behalf.
"Inquisitor." Izuru raised her bent shackles. "How am I am to change when I am compounded by broken shackles?"
Flashing her with a charming smile again, Zeleska dug into the pocket of his finely-cut breeches and showed Izuru a small key. "Excuse me. I seem to have located the key." Never taking his eyes off her, Zeleska unlocked the shackles. "There. In the room to your right is the refresher and a change of attire. Once you have finished, I pray you enter the room behind me. I will be waiting."
With an armed squad, no doubt. Izuru glanced over Zeleska's right shoulder at the double doors. The three were identical, and there was no way of telling what the layout of the rooms were beyond. It did put her at quite a disadvantage. But her hands were free.
"Take as long as you need," Zeleska said. "There is no rush."
No, none whatsoever, Izuru thought. The message she was reading was plain. The Inquisitor sought a bed-warmer of some degree. But a xenos? How could he have such exotic tastes? And how were they tolerated by his superiors? That too was transparent. As an Inquisitor he could do as he pleased. After all was the Inquisition not responsible for all internal security affairs of the Imperium of Man? The mere thought of the sick and twisted desires the human had for Izuru very nearly turned her right around with the intention of seeking him out to throttle him with her bare hands. Despicable, depraved, and thoroughly unremarkable, Izuru sneered with contempt. But something else niggled at her. The words thoroughly unremarkable had been how she described James. That could not be right for she was inexplicably comparing him to the Inquisitor. Forgive me for making such a connection. You are not like him. You are a better human by far. I am proud to have fought by your side, doing something that really mattered.
This farce must end, and end soon. Izuru looked across the opened chests and closets containing articles of clothing. Some garments were arranged fancifully upon tables. Izuru recognised stays, some with sleeves and some without. Jumps, lace-up mostly were hanging up in heavy amounts. A corset Izuru dismissed instantly. Does he seek a mistress? She was reviled at the thought, passing over the impractical and ugly affects. What are these? Izuru stared down at a pair of round cups with straps attached. Three of them were laid out on the tabletop, all in different colours and different sizes. Breast support?
Refusing point blank to submit herself to Zeleska by accepting the clothes, Izuru dug into the back of one of the wooden drawers, finding a pair of black combat fatigues to replace her khaki t-shirt and Lizard Pattern trousers. Warrior I am, Inquisitor. Whore I am not. Seeing various tiny tubes of paint, intended for decorating the face, sitting upon the top of the drawers in front of a mirror, Izuru dashed them all on the floor. Petty as it was, she felt the need to make a statement. Spitting into the Inquisition's face was the best way to do it.
I will not give you the satisfaction. Izuru cast her eyes about for any obvious surveillance before heading to the only other door at the end of the room. Inside was a spacious refresher unit, a shower, bath, human latrine, a sink, and a mirror. How can men like this live in such luxury whilst so many struggle to find even basic amenities? Izuru wondered. The strange class system that humans abided by was alien to her. On Ulthwé and Alaitoc every family had access to such facilities, and never wanted for anything.
Placing the fatigues at her feet, Izuru reached up and hauled a dormant servo-skull down from where it was resting upon a shelf, leaving it outside so nobody could spy on her. If he intends to use that to peep at me, I will break his back. Unsatisfied, Izuru ransacked the room with a furious intensity, going over everything she deemed suspicious until, satisfied, she disrobed and stood underneath the hot water and began to scrub the dirt, sweat, and dried blood away. Any being that enters I will kill with my bare hands, Izuru vowed, keeping a close eye upon the door. Undisturbed, Izuru hastily dried off and leant over the sink to look at herself in the mirror. Where the muck had vanished, bruises had arisen upon her forehead and cheeks. New scrapes and gashes had appeared, criss-crossing all over her face. The burn mark upon her right cheek stung. She could feel more bruises in her sides, on her arms and legs. Gently pressing her rib-cage, Izuru winced. Where she had shielded James from the grenades underneath the bridge, the concussion may have cracked some ribs. Despite their higher resilience to human rib-cages, it still hurt terribly.
No fear, no hesitation, Izuru thought, drawing her thickening hair into a severe bun befitting a warrior, and donning the fatigues. No weapons presented themselves at this stage. Somebody had made sure there was nothing she could use well beforehand.
"You are refreshed?" the Inquisitor asked, raising a glass in greeting when Izuru thrust open both doors and strode into a dining room. Clasping her hands behind her back casually, Izuru turned her attention to the monstrous, rectangular table of food the Inquisitor was sitting at the end of. Speechless at the sheer range of foods, not just the quantity she was seeing, Izuru's expression darkened. "You eat like a god, whilst men out in the field go on rations I would not feed a hound."
"Such is the way of humanity. Those men fighting that pointless little war out there are insignificant to the Imperium." Zeleska rose, taking his glass over to a mantelpiece above an unlit fireplace. "I have Sacra, Amasec, Ploin Juice, Orange Juice too. That last one was a strain to locate, I can tell you." Zeleska grinned from ear to ear. "Name your beverage."
To accept was to submit. "Show me Keladi," Izuru said, deciding to play along.
"Over on the table: jellied heffen tongue, roast starfin cheek, some real beef too. I am assured by my chef that the product is indeed genuine, despite the bovine species being officially recorded as extinct."
"Show me Keladi, and I will consider your request," Izuru said, adding, in a coquettish tone. "I apologise for just now, My Lord. I was out of line."
"Accepted without reserve." Zeleska, appearing surprised at Izuru's change of heart, offered her a drink when she took an empty glass from the mantelpiece. "Now allow me to be the one to apologise for the treatment. We are a cautious organisation, especially when it comes to dealing with xenos."
"But surely you deal with heretics, not xenos. You are Ordo Hereticus, not Ordo Xenos." Izuru took a sip, it taking all of her willpower not to spew the foul, bitter liquid back up.
"That is an interesting and complicated story. Sadly, I am unable to speak about it," Zeleska said, his smile fading. "Now, you are wondering what I seek from you. What I had intended to do was explain it after your parole signing. I want you to join my retinue. As an Inquisitor I can give you protection from the usual petty prejudice that you will find in abundance from the common citizen. There are other benefits too, which I you will learn more about after you have signed your parole."
"Show me Keladi first, and I will sign. You have my word." Izuru promptly drained her glass and set it back on the mantelpiece. Disgusting.
"Are you not hungry?"
"I have a hunger to see my kin safe," Izuru replied stonily. "Keladi. Parole."
Downing his own glass, the Inquisitor conceded. "Very well, let it be so. Follow me."
Departing the dining room, the Zeleska followed Izuru through a narrow door that had appeared from a panel in the wall – it had been completely invisible before – and along a corridor to another set of stairs leading upwards. "It was most fortunate an associate of mine discovered your friend's location and led me to her in time," Zeleska said, putting a friendly hand upon Izuru's shoulder, guiding her ahead of him up the stairs. "You know, I rescued her from the dastardly clutches of the Adeptus Mechanicus not two days ago. Emperor only knows what would have happened had she fallen prey to their foul machinations."
"We must be grateful that your colleagues were on hand to inform you of her whereabouts. Such monstrous unions of flesh and steel deserve only the executioner, Inquisitor."
"Please. I would have you know me as Osvat."
"Is that all you would have?"
"We will see." Zeleska smiled. The lies – half-lies to be frank – had come easily, flowing off his tongue with an oily smoothness. Once the ruse was up, and the Eldar in his grasp, he would be examining her assets in thorough, something he was looking forwards to immensely.
"Pardon me. I am curious about your lineage. Though I have not encountered many of your race on my travels, I am certain that I would recognise one if in a crowd…"
"I am mixed-race," Izuru put bluntly.
Mixed-race? That Zeleska did not know, and he prided himself on how deep he usually researched his quarry. Was such a thing possible? "Already you have exceeded my expectations, Izuru. I would be honoured to have you by my side. You will accept my offer, won't you?"
"That remains to be seen."
With the constant indecision and back and forth, Zeleska began to grow impatient. Will she, or won't she?
Two floors above Zeleska's quarters was an observation suite. It was a room with a sloping ceiling and a floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows at the west end, overlooking the tarmac that was reserved for VIP usage. Underfoot there were no carpets, no finery, nothing to suggest the luxury scarcely two floors below, only a chair, and a single occupant. Signalling the four masked Scions, two guarding each door, to wait outside, Zeleska led Izuru in.
"There, as promised." Zeleska smiled warmly, content with the lie.
"I require a moment." Izuru said, her face near-cracking with relief. "Just a moment."
"I'm afraid that will not be possible. I would need you to sign your parole first."
"Very well."
"Would you please – also – converse in Gothic. Just for now."
"Of course. Keladi is fluent. She will understand regardless."
"Thank you."
Keeping close, but not to a disrespectful extent, Zeleska clasped his hands behind his back and waited for the reveal, tapping the device upon his wrist that would summon the Scions into the room.
"Hello, young one. I have found you," Izuru whispered, leaning down to rest an affectionate hand upon Keladi's shoulder.
"Take you time," said Zeleska. He had all the time in the world. Her times was fast running short.
"Did he hurt you?"
"I swear upon—" Zeleska began, instinctively bringing up his hands to protect his face when Izuru spun and rammed the base of her palm into his nose. Slower than the Eldar, Zeleska's face screwed up with the impact. His damaged nose spurted blood from both nostrils. Receiving a follow-up kick underneath his left armpit, Zeleska fell sideways.
"Liar!" Izuru spat vehemently, hauling 'Keladi' up from the chair, and lifting her off her feet.
Stabbing the alarm on his wrist, Zeleska kept silent. His silence ended in an anguish-filled roar when Izuru bundled 'Keladi' backwards in the direction of the stained-glass window with the intention of using it as an escape route.
Kicking in the doors, the four Scions, reinforced by eight more, filed into the room, their vocal distorters crackling, hot-shot lasguns acquiring Izuru's figure.
"Don't shoot!" Zeleska shouted nasally, just before the window shattered, and Izuru jumped.
"My Lord." Argus Degrelle, coming in behind the Scions, leapt to his master's aid.
"Unhand me." Zeleska snarled. Damn myself for being so trusting.
Enraged, Zeleska pushed past the poised Scions, stopping in front of the destroyed window and peering down at the landing pad four storeys below; the wind whipping his hair. The drop – damnably – was broken by a smooth, sloped section of the roof partway down, leading straight to the landing pad.
"Shall I land-lock the ships, My Lord?" Degrelle asked, passing Zeleska a handkerchief.
Clasping the handkerchief to his nose, Zeleska shook his head. Izuru would not be leaving the planet just yet. That red-haired bitch of hers was still out there. There was still time. "No, form a perimeter on the east bank of the river. Seal off the road and rail bridge too."
"Yes, My Lord."
"NOW!" Zeleska yelled. Damn himself to Chaos for letting this happen. "Argus, come here."
"My Lord?" Degrelle pivoted smoothly and bowed.
"Our man in Cannon Company?"
"Standing by, My Lord."
"Good." Zeleska licked his lips. "Good. Tell him to remain on standby. He may be receiving the mark again. If he does, have him in a constant state of readiness. He will act only on my command. Is that clear?"
"Yes, My Lord."
Standing tall before the shattered glass, the wind ruffling his hair, blood running over his lips, Zeleska said, "when the time comes, I will finish this myself."
Aptus District, 05:58
As desertions went, ours could not have gone smoother. Having retreated from the entrance hall and broken into various rooms in the hab-block opposite the CCS, Cannon and the Siphanis had shored up for the night, with only one man on stag in the entrance hall. It was Gale. Slipping by him was out of the question, so we told him the truth – or at least partly. Payback was our reason for going absent without leave, something Gale volunteered himself and his two cooks without hesitation.
"Why'd we want you along? You're a cook." Aimo snorted.
"Survived this long, haven't we?" Gale grinned. "Besides, Zeke wasted one of our own."
"Thought you didn't even like each other."
"Like? No. Weld was one of mine though. And I didn't give permission for him to die, or for Zeke to waste him."
"Well, go get your lads then." Aimo shrugged. "Fine by you, mate?" he asked me.
"Fine."
With me, Aimo, and the three cooks came the Highlanders, Cyrano, and Josef Herle. It did not take much persuasion, each of us sick of constantly being on the back foot and in retreat. The opportunity for some payback was accepted by the Highlanders especially, prompting Aimo to quickly shush them for fear of giving the game away to Corta. Our next problem came, not from lack of weaponry, rather ammunition, having expended most of it during the Battle of Bastion 33, forcing us to scrounge anything we could from the equipment taken from the wounded in the CCS; any pilfering of ammunition from the company would have been noticed and quickly questioned, leading to Corta's interference.
It was a few minutes to six in the morning, just before dawn, when we departed the CCS with as much discretion as ten armed men could. Leading from the front, with a sizeable dispersion between me and the main body, I had a Lecta held from the hip, ready to deliver a large volume of automatic fire in the direction of possible ambushes, allowing the rest of us to disengage and withdraw. My Castra was slung over my back, gently knocking against the battered, two-piece Cadian body armour I now wore over my – Izuru's – LP jacket and officer's web gear. Behind, leading the main body, Aimo carried the KP-70 slung across his chest, the bipod extended for a quick set-up. The only other stubber with ammunition was the single Rekyl borne by the Highlanders, who brought up the rear. Between us all we packed a strong percentage of automatic fire that could be very quickly brought to bear upon a target. But just how long we could keep it up was an altogether different matter. Ammunition concern aside, I believed, or thought I believed, that the sounds of combat were getting louder, coming further and further south in our direction. That couldn't be right. The Clankers now occupied the bastion walls. Zeke should still be outside the city. Glancing up at the skeletons of buildings rising seven, eight, or nine storeys around us, I listened, not altogether unworried that Zeke may have somehow bypassed the city's defences. That thought made the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stick up. We were in no state to have another scrap with Nathaniel, especially with so many wounded nearby.
Unbeknownst to me, the cellars, underground tunnels, and bunkers – most habs underground – were heaving with personnel, both civilian and military. Those hundreds – thousands – that had fled from their own worlds to Cadia then across the continent to Kasr Kraf were resorting to hiding underground to avoid the bombing that had claimed most of everything outside the void shield. Cresting a small bank, I brought my Lecta to bear when a figure staggered up out of a cellar, a bottle in his hand. Aware I had stopped, Aimo raised a clenched fist, halting the others. Turning, I motioned the team to stay put and I would investigate.
"What you doing out here?" I asked in an undertone when I reached the slouching man. His uniform was not double-breasted Cadian khaki, or olive grey, more a mustard colour. It did not disguise the stains down the front.
"Livin' it up, mate," the man replied in a slurred voice, the contents of his bottle sloshing around.
Grabbing the man's collar, I sniffed the air around him and shoved him away. "You fuckin' drunk arse."
Clattering down the steps into the cellar, I found the place packed with soldiers and civilians. Playing a torch beam around, just how jam-packed the cellar was became apparent. A strong scent of alcohol clung to the air. Back on ground level I waved the others forwards. "Okay, we got grunts and civvies packed into cellars. They're drinking anything they can find 'cause there's no water."
"They won't be any use if they're pissed or hungover," said Aimo.
"Anyone not drunk?" Cyrano asked.
"I dunno what the situation is here. There could be hundreds of cellars they've occupied."
"Well, shouldn't we see if anyone's sober?" Gale said, "we could use them back at the CCS."
Seeing it his way, I called down into the cellar, "anyone sober down there?"
Nothing coherent came from below. "Move on then."
Every single dwelling along the street was occupied. Any troops that hadn't drunken themselves into a stupor were ballbagged – too tired to come out – and absolutely refused to budge. "Dunno why you're bothering, chum," an exhausted private bearing the yellow and blue flash of the Imperial Logistics Corps on his shoulder groaned. "We've already been down to the evac zones. There's queues miles long at the airbase. If we're not standing there waiting, we're getting shot up by Zeke planes 'cause ours have all buggered off."
"We're not going to the evac zones," I replied angrily, "I need blokes with balls and bullets to come and defend a casualty station. There are 300 wounded men there, and Zeke's inside the city walls, in case you 'aven't heard. He's gonna be rolling down this street soon. And you know what he's gonna do when he gets here? He's gonna laugh. Laugh at you."
"Bloody drunks," Olen Azar muttered. "Should shoot the lotta you."
"Stand down, Azar," said Gale.
"Okay, we'll split up into groups of three. Spread out and find somebody sober, with ammo too. "Highlanders with me. Aimo, take Cyrano, and Scribe. Gale, you and your cooks. Let's get it done."
"Isn't he acting sarn't?" Azar pointed at Aimo. "Why you ordering us about, Private?"
"I'm with you," Aimo said to me.
"Yeah, we're with you," Gale added earnestly. "Got your head screwed on tight."
Between our three groups combing cellars, we drew together a scratch force of about forty able-bodied and sober men. Only half of them had any ammunition for their weapons which were a mixture of M-36s and .338s. Less than half of those with ammo still had their flak vests and ceramite covers, or any gear for that matter; so many of it having been discarded somewhere back along the road.
"Can I have your attention?" I asked, once the forty, including us, were gathered outside in the street. "Can you hear that?"
"Speak up, sir!" someone shouted.
Sir? That caught me off-guard. Did they really believe I was an officer? Continuing despite my discomfort at having to address a large body of men, I raised a finger, listening to the gunfire in the streets further to the north. "That's Zeke fighting in the streets. He's banged through the bastion wall somewhere. So we – right here – are no longer as secure as we thought we were. I want all of you to come with us back to the CCS a few blocks south of here and dig in, set up firing positions, and be ready for Zeke. You're still soldiers, lads, all of you, no matter how far down the shitter you think we are. There are 300 wounded men down at that CCS. Maybe some of your pals are there even." A few murmured acknowledgements to that. "Now I don't know you, and you don't know me. But I'm asking, grunt-to-grunt, to willingly come down and do something right instead of wasting your sorry lives away in those holes in the ground you climbed from." Quiet, sullen faces stared back at me. A few were listening, still standing up straight, at least trying to look like soldiers. "Now I'll come clean before any of you get the wrong idea. I'm not an officer. I'm not a sarn't, not a fullscrew, not even a lance jack. I'm just a grunt like most of you. Now I know officers can be full-on cunts, but – difference is – I'm not ordering you to come down with us. I'm asking you as a brother soldier to please give one last push against Zeke. For all our sakes. This ain't for glory, or gongs, it's just survival. I'm not asking you – any of you – to be heroes. Just do something – do a job properly so we survive and come back another day and show Zeke and Nathaniel that we – us lot – are proper fucking nails that deserve respect."
Silence followed. Bitterly a few men shook their heads and fell out. Around a quarter of the crowd departed, leaving roughly thirty able-bodies. "Okay, move your fucking arses, we got stuff to do!" Aimo shouted, corralling the now platoon-strength unit into motion.
"Proper inspiring stuff that," Joe Herle, near the fore-front, had been scribbling. He grinned up at me as I stepped down.
"Don't put that in the paper, mate," I said, rubbing my sore eyes.
"It'd make a good bit of inspirational writing though."
"I don't want my name written down in some column."
"Um, how about I give the speaker as anonymous?"
"Fine, fine, just some random bloke. Make him a sarn't. He deserves it more than me."
"I don't know. That sounded fairly heroic."
"That weren't me up there. People giving speeches like that don't exist really. It's just a sham. I didn't know what I was saying; where it came from. Just stupid…"
"Well it wasn't half bad," said Herle, turning away to follow the others.
"…Stupid," I murmured, rubbing the itchy stubble on my chin. Glancing around, I caught sight of a patch of red, bold red. Thinking it blood for a minute, I dismissed it, not soon after realising it was hair when it billowed after a gust of wind caught it.
"Keladi?" It couldn't be. She had to be dead. I told myself, and Izuru, with firm conviction, that Keladi was certain to be dead. "Keladi?" The hair moved back from a hole blasted in the face of a half-buried hab-block, out of sight. "Oi, Keladi!"
Bending low to step through the hole, I saw a girl wearing a massive greatcoat and black leather marching boots sitting in the corner where two walls met. "That you, Keladi?" I asked, moving closer cautiously. She had the hair: thick, red, and bright. If only her face was the same, which it wasn't. "Keladi Lethidia?" I slung my Lecta on my shoulder and tipped the brim of my cover back. "Keladi Lethidia?" The being that raised her head to look at me had the face, and ears, of a human. Bizarrely she recognised the name I had said. "You are Keladi Lethidia, aren't you?"
Keladi, looking pale and terribly thin, raised her altered face, a brief flash of recognition crossing her features. She remembered me from the Grace.
"What have they done to you?" I stepped closer, keeping my hands raised. "They've changed you. Have you seen it?" Of course, she hadn't. The poor girl must have been wandering around Kraf for days, petrified that somebody would recognise her as a stickie but ignorant of the surgical changes she had undergone. And the real kicker. She still could not speak Gothic, dropping a huge language barrier between us. Blast it. I needed Izuru.
"Number one," Keladi said in a little voice, somewhat botching the pronunciation. "Number one?"
"Number one." I offered her my hand, pulling her upright. "Don't you worry now. I'll keep you safe. Least until Izuru gets back."
"Izuru." Keladi's face lit up hearing her surrogate big sister's name spoken.
"I don't know." I shrugged, raising my arms in a dramatic gesture, hoping Keladi understood. "I don't know."
The mere mention of Izuru's name lifted Keladi's spirits. With energy drawn from God-knows where Keladi rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, excitable now she had encountered someone she knew – or at least was not a total stranger. Like Izuru she was taller than me by quite a margin, allowing her to lean forwards and rub her cheek against mine before following on with the other. Some odd alien gesture of affection presumably.
"Yeah, alright, our stickie," I cut in, my face aflame. "Zeke's rolling through town here. Let's get back to the CCS, and I'll fix you up with a gat and clobber. You're fighting with us. You gotta dig out now."
Understanding, Keladi fell in obediently beside me. Right, we've got you, lass. Now all we need is Izuru. The rescue effort had fallen flat. It did seem a trifle selfish though, what with those defenceless wounded at the CCS in their hundreds. Tutting to myself, I realised the endeavour that lay ahead. Despite being a lowly OR, I accepted – had to accept now – that I had responsibilities that extended all the way up into the treble figures.