Office of the Minister of War, Orsolya
Three days later…
Glimmering spires pierced the deep blue sky above Upper Gorev. Unhindered sunlight warmed the smooth domes and fat ziggurats bulging across the district's surface. In the distance, gold glinted on the towers rising from Governor Jagoda's palace, alone on its island. Curtains swished inside an open window looking out over hanging gardens.
"Never did me any good." Minister Ormond Theomi scratched at the eczema riding up his neck. "All this sun." The minister whisked the curtains shut and turned back to his wide desk. A bulging gut moulded around the curving edge. "Those underhivers scraping the shit from our underbelly have no idea how lucky they are." A red light blinked on a holoscreen separating the minister from the only other man in the office. The minister swayed over his desk and pawed at the button beneath the intercom. "Yes, Dafna?"
"Minister, I have Vice Admiral Curzon requesting vocal audience."
The minister made a fist and rapped his knuckles on the desk. "Conference or courtesy?"
"Courtesy, sir."
"Then yes." The minister brushed down the creases on his khaki tunic and dragged his chair beneath his rump. Three rows of medals jangled on his breast. Smoke rings rose from the minister's companion.
"The wellest of mornings to you, Minister Theomi." The holoscreen turned blue and a thin, white line crawled across it, spiking in time with the speaker's voice. "And to His Excellency."
"Not well enough to regard one another, Vice Admiral…?" The minister eyed the blank feed where the admiral's face should have been.
"Minister, would you have five minutes?"
"Six, for you, Admiral."
"Yes, well news has been passed up to me concerning an incident in the Avramides district. I am told by a reliable source that a massacre of xenos conducted by undesirables took place three days ago. No official statement has been released."
"Not a query for the Foreign Ministry, Admiral?" The minister slid a palm-sized container lined with gold open and picked out a cigarette. "Sounds like an extension of our foreign policy to me—haha!"
"I spoke with Foreign Minister Steincrohn just now, Minister. Though assuring me Avramides was of no tremendous consequence, I see different."
"And you saw this massacre then, Admiral?" The minister fitted his cigarette in to a long holder.
"Minister, don't be absurd. I have been reliably informed of a breach of ceasefire in the Avramides district resulting in many hundreds of xenos casualties which the administration has yet to issue statement, let alone acknowledge."
"Reliably informed by whom, Admiral?"
"Minister, a state of war may well be declared between the Imperium and the Craftworld Eldar once news of this reaches the stars."
"Pardon me if my current affairs are not up to speed, Admiral, but hasn't the Imperium been locked in a state of perpetual war with the xenos sub-races? Their presence in the galaxy – a violation of sacred law – dims the stars, and only the God-Emperor may rekindle their flames. If such a massacre did in fact transpire, the administration's voice would be heard all across the sub-sector."
"You believe you can cover this up?"
"Cover what up, Admiral? We have the press and all other arms of the media. If you would prefer an investigation in to the happenings in the Underhive, I may be able to start the ball rolling…"
"That will not be necessary, Minister. I hoped to make you aware of what was and what is to come. Your good health, sir, and my compliments to Governor Jagoda."
"Er, and yours, sir—" The Admiral's signal faded. Leather creaked. The minister's companion uncrossed his legs then recrossed them.
"Do you believe you can cover this up?"
The minister, hunched over the scrolls and dataslates overflowing from trays, smoothed his oiled hair. "It will be declared illegal to shelter, to aid, to abet any xenos in very short stead. No-one will mourn the Zalilean Remnant. Your men did well, my friend."
"Well, it takes an actor of rare talent to put on a sloppy performance with deliberation, Ormond. My men are the best, be it with scalpel or sledgehammer. Now that I mention actors…"
"Indeed, they are. I can already see a man of your talent would be well suited to assume a position of office in the new order if that is what you wish."
"I always saw myself reaching out to politics in my twilight years. Maybe even starting a family."
"Hm. Perhaps that can be arranged."
"Yes… Robert Bertel Holbein, family man, Minister for War."
A slow smirk crept across the minister's chops. "Hmph—hmph. My, my, Obrist, I may yet have use of this chair."
The Obrist picked up his beret from the arm of his chair and screwed it on to the white stubble covering his head. "Where else can you go if not up?"
"You mean the—the governor's palace?"
"Long way to fall." The Obrist shook the minister's sweating hand. "Good day to you, Governor."
Governor. The minister sat silent in his chair long after the Obrist's whistling had faded away.
INI Safehouse, Elek district
Thin blades lined a tray. Waxen skin shone beneath spotlights. Masked and gloved, Seroni Bukharin laid a pair of scalpels inside a refrigerated locker and pushed the door shut. Fingers tapped the pressure door behind her. Oh, not you. The face filling the pressure door's porthole withdrew and a square bottle knocked against the glass.
"Commander." Seroni sealed the clinic behind her and dropped her used mask and gloves in a bin. Searing water blasted her hands.
"From the Circus and I." Commander Sorge, clad in plainclothes, perched with one knee up on a worktop. He slid a deep blue bottle along to Seroni. "All our gratitude, Major."
"Is that what you call it?" Seroni shook her hands and held them beneath a nozzle.
"More of a—" Air howled over Seroni's hands.
Seven, eight, nine, ten. Seroni bent her knee and removed the puffy shoe covering her own boot.
"Circus has more of a benign ring. Somewhere I'd take my children for an afternoon."
"God-Emperor forbid you have children." Seroni stacked her shoes on top of each other in a rack.
"Well—heh—that may be up for assessment..." Sorge scratched his nape.
"Do you want to see the body?" Seroni, her back to Sorge, reached behind her for the knot holding her gown around her waist. "I've done all I can to alter the facial structure, bring the hairline forwards and reshape the nose."
"It won't be me you need convincing." Sorge's fingers loosened the knot. "Witnesses to the butcher's crimes will confirm the killer's identity."
"Who is she, this Butcher of Lutufeyo?" Seroni hung her gown from a peg on the wall.
"She is the administration's saviour. Even in death, a dried-up xenos can still be of use to our cause."
"And once served up to the administration, the people lay down their pitchforks, go home, and assume their rational existence, forgetting their irrational anti-xenos passion? Commander, they will burn this city to the ground regardless of whether a scapegoat is offered up. It's too late to keep the blaze in check. Let it burn the bad away."
"So, it may seem." Sorge hooked a finger around his cuff and eased it away from his chrono. "Major, you don't mind if I turn your vox on, do you?"
"Do what you want." Seroni squeezed sanitiser from a bottle and scrubbed her hands. "I'm done here. Enjoy that bottle, Commander. I wish you the shallowest of hangovers."
"You may want to listen." Sorge brought down a table-top vox from a shelf and extended the aerial. Dust layered the casing. "Should be on in…" He twisted the thick dial. Static warbled and crackled then the crashing and thundering of military marching music burst in to the room.
"Today, the nine-hundred and twenty-third day of his excellency Simho Jarani Maria Jagoda's reign, a state of martial law is now in effect in Greater Orsolya and all neighbouring boroughs. Article one. Gatherings of more than three adults in public are forbidden. Article two. The purchase, sale, manufacture, and possession of firearms and explosives by civilians is now outlawed. All deadly weapons must be turned in at stations of the people's commissariat nearest your domicile. Violators of article two will be interned without trial. Article three. It is prohibited for any citizen to approach military outposts, manufactorums, power stations, and government buildings without a reason. Article four. The citizen's curfew now begins at two-oh double-oh and lifts at oh-five three-oh. Violators of article four will be interned without trial—"
Sorge twisted the volume dial. "I'm sorry."
"Never in your commissioned life have you ever been compelled to that utterance, Commander." Seroni zipped up a hooded sweater. "Don't play me."
"It may be difficult to depart Orsolya. No, for that I am sorry."
"I want protection."
"From who—?"
"Oh, don't play innocent with me, Commander. I know the Obrist is here, and how long his memory reaches."
"My word…" Sorge laid a hand on his heart. "Not as a commissioned officer, as a person."
"I'll practise my trade wholly independent of you and your thugs. No chaperone, no surveillance."
"My word."
"Yeah…" Seroni pulled on a leather jacket and turned the collar up. "Your word."
"Brunzmann Stadium please, Major. There's plenty of demand for practitioners up there." A keycard flew at Sorge. He snatched it from the air. "Many thanks."
"Lock up when you're done." Seroni slung a shoulder bag and unsealed the door. "Wear PPE if you're going in there too."
Sorge flung a mock salute at Seroni. "Ma'am." Seroni turned her eyes to the floor and banged the door behind her. Swathed in gloves, mask, and gown, Sorge flicked the row of light switches inside the tiny clinic. Angled lamps bathed a blanket-covered body in bright light. Well, well, well. Sorge laid the edge of the blanket on the xenos's neck. A flesh-ripper in a past life, were you, Major? His fingertips tapped the xenos's jaw. Rock solid. And nothing to say in your defence, Butcher? All those innocent civilians, Vantorout too. Sorge kneeled and brought a lamp down to table level. Very fine scars ran behind the xenos's ears.
From a bag at his feet, Sorge drew a full flask from the top compartment. He unscrewed the cap and tipped the flask back. Metallic-tasting liquid seared his throat. "…Ahhh." Sorge drained the flask entirely and shook it. Fingertips tingling and ears smarting, Sorge slid a hammer from the bag and raised it above the xenos's head.
Running figures flashed past Sorge's window. Automatic weapons crackled. The stench of smoke crept through the Siluvi's air vents. Sorge flexed his right hand and rolled the wrist. Headless mannequins crowded a gutted shopfront. Legs were stuck to arm sockets and arms protruded from the legs. Heads covered in wigs and smeared in bright paint topped spiked railings further down the street. The head at the end of the row dragged Sorge's eye away from the road. A swollen tongue hung over fat lips. God-Emperor Almighty. On the passenger seat, a wooden haft poked out of the bag. Sorge nudged the hammer inside the compartment and drew the zip all the way along.
Sorge's foot booted the brake pedal. A four-wheeled armoured vehicle barrelled out in to the road in front of the Siluvi. Rocking on its chassis, the Siluvi jerked forwards and stalled. Sorge wrenched the car's onboard Volg SPC from the door bracket and brought the stubby muzzle up. Armed personnel wearing respirators and full body armour spilled from the vehicle's compartment and rushed the Siluvi. Sorge, his finger off his trigger, tracked the soldiers surrounding the Siluvi. His thumb rested on the Volg's safety catch.
A gauntlet banged on Sorge's window. Sorge took his left hand away from the Volg's foregrip and activated the Siluvi's door locks.
"Sir, I must ask you to lower your weapon."
Sorge thumbed his safety catch. "You first."
"Richard?" A grinning face loomed in the passenger window.
"You've changed your battledress, Obrist."
"Nar-har! I like to think Urgraf moves with the times. Come on, you dog! Let's get a drink. I know a good bar."
"I don't normally frequent bars but…" Sorge safetied the Volg and returned it to its bracket. The Urgraf backed away from his car and remounted the armoured car. "Could make an exception."
The blasted streets soon gave way to parkland and a long, straight run through gardens up to the untouched Hotel Vekaria. Thick, white pillars rose up the thirteen floors and the red, almost mahogany exterior, radiated warmth. How in Macharius's name is that still standing? Sorge drew the Siluvi in to a parking space opposite the grand entrance hall. The Obrist's vehicle rumbled on, only stopping in front of the long carpet before disgorging the Urgraf protection team who formed a small parade for the waiting Obrist.
"Pardon me for the scare just now, Richard. We couldn't be sure whether CP rode with you. Wouldn't look good, a shootout between us and the Navy. We'd rather be known for the right reasons than the wrong—haha!"
Sorge passed through a gold-engraved door held open by the Obrist and in to a tiled entrance hall. A youth in a bright red uniform approached, saw the armed men in tow, then scurried away.
"I'm friends with the proprietor. A close associate of Minister Theomi. D'you want to come through to the bar?"
"Why not."
Hundreds of bottles lined shelves behind the long, curving bar. Tumblers, standing upside down, were stacked in pyramids. Behind Sorge and the Obrist, vacant gambling booths and empty holo-kiosks filled the Vekaria's lounge.
"Obrist, sir!" A dark-skinned man in a red shirt and black waistcoat swaggered out in to the bar. "Making a sad day sunny."
"Hello," Sorge said.
"Hello, sir."
"Richard."
"Hertzel. At your service, sirs."
"We'll take the Infuriator today. Two glasses."
"Two glasses, at once." Hertzel retreated behind the bar.
"Infuriator? Little early to get tight, Robert."
The Obrist dug a paper notepad bound in a pink, flowery cover and slapped it on the wood surface. "Made our hundredth tally last night."
"Yeah, er, what's the Infuriator?"
"My special. They keep a bottle in reserve for my good days." The Obrist flipped the notepad's cover open and ran his thumb down crossed-out names.
"Martial law, city lockdown, mass looting, can this be considered a good day?"
"Mm—look." The Obrist slid the notebook over. "See these names? He was OSEC, he was too. These men were Ninth Division—thirty-three of them. Fifteenth Division—twelve of them. Solid, solid few months' work, right there. I'm proud of what we've done."
"Interesting…" Sorge swept the pages back. His eyes rolled down name after crossed-out name. "Mansuri, Grelber, Dring… I recognise these names." Sorge shoved the notebook back at the Obrist. "You should have brought this up to the office first. They're field assets."
"Apologies for the dust." Hertzel reappeared bearing a dusty, red bottle in his arms. "New day, a new bottle." Two tumblers clinked on the bar. "Will you be toasting, sir?"
"I don't think so—"
"—A solid few months' work." The Obrist banged a tumbler on the bar. "Infuriate me!"
Liquid filled the tumblers. The Obrist chucked his back. Sorge raised his own to his lips and tilted.
"Enjoy, sirs." Hertzel left the bottle on the bar.
"Refill, Richard?" The Obrist seized the bottle.
"No, thank you, Robert." Sorge trapped his shaking right hand beneath his thigh.
"A solid few months' work and a clean page." The Obrist bumped his tumbler against Sorge's. "Now, how does one feel about straddling the saddle of politics, Richard? We are men of influence, of wit, and guise. Come the lull in the storm's wake, the new order will cry for men, men with the hearts of beasts and minds of judges."
"Yes."
"And still…" The Obrist patted the notebook. "Dissidents range free. I'd be very happy for naval assistance now you mention it. Any more names spring to mind?" The Obrist scraped the yellowing pages over.
"None you haven't already written off."
"Oh, no, no, I'm far more interested in these." The Obrist turned over to names written in ink that had yet to fade. "The boy Hertzel knows how to help an old man out. Does INI share that same courtesy?"
Sorge's eyes settled on a fresh name: Bukharin, S. – CPT. "Your MO."
"Ex-MO. I was hoping a well-connected gentleman might… throw down some breadcrumbs, so to say." The Obrist smirked. "We've got a lot to talk about."
"I've not seen your MO in three years, not since we departed the cruiser."
The Obrist gripped the Infuriator and tipped it over Sorge's tumbler. "What were your last words to her?"
"A thank you, to which she ignored." Sorge shifted his full glass away from the glugging bottle. Red liquid splattered on the wood. "Hmph. That's one thing I didn't think you'd lose with age. The old wink and the sign."
"And not a sight of her since?"
"No but you could tell me more."
"Agh…" The Obrist nostrils wrinkled. "Bitch."
"Quite."
"Now him." Fingers stabbed at the last entry; a single name.
Larn.
"Now…" The Obrist clapped his hand on Sorge's shoulder. "Old friend. I have, on very sound authority, been informed the Jagoda Administration needs only a nudge before it all collapses inward in to a political maelstrom, and within the forthcoming vacuum, office doors open. Offices of power, of influence close to the throne." The Obrist circled his fingertip around the last entry. "With every little problem, another, bigger problem arises. Were you to rid me of this problem, I could see a comfortable and influential placement well-suited to a man of your quality vacated." The Obrist gave Sorge's shoulder a squeeze. Scars cutting down his face stretched.
Burning rubbish, piled in the street on the way up to the stadium, slowed the Siluvi to walking pace. Stones bounced off the windscreen. Rotten fruit and vegetables exploded. Rioters surrounded the Siluvi. Bits of iron and wood hammered the bodywork. A crack split the windscreen. Sorge scrabbled for the glove compartment and dragged a full-face respirator and a handheld 350 unit out. From a hatch on the floor Sorge dropped a primed CS grenade and took hold of his Volg. The Siluvi rocked. Grey smoke crept up the windows. Clawing hands fell away. A chain grated over the roof and clanged upon the road.
Shrouded, Sorge tripped the Siluvi's locks and shouldered his door open. Coughing rioters sprawled in the road crawling along on their elbows and knees. Fingers plugged streaming eyes. Phlegm glistened on chins. Sorge twisted the pin from another CS grenade and bowled it up the street. Rioters scattered before the spreading gas. Hunched over, Sorge swiped his mask clear and darted across the street and in to the stadium's shadow. He removed his left hand from his foregrip and pulled the 350 out of his thigh pocket. "Any station, this net. Any station, this net, this is Commander Sorge."
A chair crashed against the road. Giant splinters flew outwards. Barefooted children scampered after a stray hound, sticks flying above their heads. "Any station, this net. Any station, this net, this is Commander Sorge. I am approaching the Ahrens Gate on foot. I require you hold your fire to the south-west—ugh." Burning vices clamped around Sorge's lungs. He lurched forwards. Condensation seeped up the inside of his mask. The 350 clattered to the ground and bounced. Sorge wrenched his respirator off. His knees smacked the road and he tipped over.
"Richard…? Richard, the xenos are revolting."
A cushion supported Sorge's head. He lay on a leather couch in the stadium's commander centre. "Mmm, too pointy-eared and sharp-nosed for their own good."
"No, no, Richard, they are rioting."
"Hunh, not so above it, after all. Is that you, Innes?" Grey peppered a face hovering above Sorge.
"Hullo, Richard." A plastic cup touched Sorge's lower lip. "MO's orders."
"Mmm, I know an MO." Sorge pushed himself up from the couch and tipped the cup's contents down his throat. "She'd rather not know me."
"Richard, your heart." Innes Barakat's hand caught Sorge's shoulder. "I did wonder when the seventy Abelinos a day would catch up to you. You're not a bucking ensign any more, you know. We'll be sweeping up bits of your lungs from the carpet next!"
"Aahh…" Sorge batted Barakat's hand away. "Is that air freshener?"
"Mm, someone needs a reminder that holy oil cannot cleanse the skin."
Sorge stuck a thumb in his belt and tucked his loose shirt in. "Ha! Glad the AdMech aren't rioting too. We'd really be up the spout then." Sorge moved over to the angled window overlooking the stands. In the four corners, the stadium's floodlights threw illumination over the tent rows and fenced-off enclosures. Smoke curled from a mess-tent's chimney. A plasma cutter lit up a workshop. "Let's have a look at these revolting xenos."
PDF shoved electro-pikes through gaps in the fence ringing the Zalilean's tents. Sparks fizzed and spat at xenos clinging to the links. Sorge and Barakat slipped through the wet mud on the pitch surrounding the enclosure. An NCO wearing a slung Kazalak carbine met the officers.
"Hello."
"Hello." Sorge shook the NCO's hand. "What is the situation?"
"The—the xenos…" The NCO flicked his hands at the Zalilean enclosure. "They start a fight with the er… the—the blueskins."
"Right, can you stand your men back?"
"Are you an officer?"
"Yeah, Commander Sorge, Commander Barakat. Let's have some space."
The PDF withdrew from the fence and planted their pikes in the mud. "Ambassador? Is Ambassador Galah-shah here?" Zalileans shied away from the fence and slunk inside their tents. "Ambassador, if you can hear me, please come forward. It is Commander Sorge!" A robed blueskin wearing a flat, wide-brimmed hat ducked out of a tent and squelched over. Moisture shone on lidless, red eyes. A dark grey lump swelled on its cheek. It kneeled, laid a three-fingered hand in the mud, and stood up and raised its palm. "Fio."
"Do you speak Gothic?"
"You assume I do not speak your tongue because of the colour of my skin, human. Why do you keep us penned in with the exiles?"
"Would you rather a diplomatic incident fan these flames, Ambassador?"
"I am a labourer, only a designated talker for my people, human. Your streets already run with the crystalline blood of the exiles. By housing us in cages, you reinforce failure." A tent-flap behind the blueskin lifted and Ambassador Galah-shah shambled over. She held a lit cigarette between her thumb and forefinger. Dried crystals clung to a cut on her cheek. "See how the black tar corrupts the ambassador-in-exile." The blueskin bared his teeth. "Grant us isolation from these ruuni'va."
"Hello, Ambassador."
The ambassador wobbled and thrust her hand at the fence. "Where is the deathly face?"
"Ma'am?"
"The one with the deathly face!" The ambassador placed the cigarette between her lips and shook the fence.
"Please don't shake the fence, ma'am," Barakat said.
"Who gave you those cigarettes? You don't smoke."
"Oh, the one with the deathly face."
The one with the deathly face…
"Who does she refer to?"
"I'm not entirely sure."
"I can hear you." The ambassador's shoulder flexed the fence. "Word-breaker."
"Ma'am and sir, you'll be pleased to know you will no longer be housed within this pen. This was a temporary solution to an immediate problem. Please bear with me. New quarters have been arranged. We are awaiting transportation and security. In the meantime, please keep away from the fence and each other. These men behind me only strike you because you strike yourselves. Remember that."
"Are we infants in his eyes?" The blueskin hissed at the ambassador.
"Worse." The ambassador flicked her cigarette. Ash landed on Sorge's sleeve.
"Thank you, both." Sorge and Barakat left the two aliens and headed back along the track.
"I didn't hear about any other arrangements for the xenos, Richard. Is something in the works?"
"There's not a damn thing, Innes. I may have one idea though."
"Anything along the lines of taking it easy for a bit?"
"Hah! You bloody old woman, Innes." Sorge swung his hand and struck Barakat's shoulder. Barakat's heels slipped in the slick mud. His arms flew outwards and windmilled.
INI Safehouse, Lower Gorev
Four card rows lay face down on the desk in front of my crossed boots. Five and Four of Stars, Three of Blades, Two of Hammers. I laid the lowest value card on top of the three. Eight monitors attached to articulated arms hung over the desk. Each separate feed displayed a section of the hab; kitchen, living area, sleeping quarters, and refresher unit. None showed the woman's whereabouts.
I turned over a card and set it at the top of the facedown deck. Champion of Blades. A lonely Emperor of Stars slid over to sit in front of the champion. I picked at long hairs curling along my jawline and overturned a new layer. A chalk-skinned woman in a white dress, her head tilted, looked down solemnly on her upturned palms. Bride of Skulls.
A shape glided in to the eighth monitor and stuck an arm in to the refresher unit. Thick, dark hair fell down a pale tank top. I laid the Bride of Skulls on the Emperor of Stars and lined the edges up. Water jetted from the splayed head, splattering the woman's outstretched hand. She shook it, stepped back, and crossed her arms across her stomach. I tilted forwards in my chair and killed the feed on monitor eight.
Unfilled textboxes and dotted lines packed the three-page itinerary. Week 1 – Initial contact. I turned over to the second page. Week 3 – Ranger Tactical Doctrine. Week 4 – Once trust has been re-established, inquire as to the identity of the Prophet. I dropped the document inside a drawer and stretched my arms above my head. The Bride of Skulls stared up at me from the desk. I dug a nail beneath the corner and picked it up. Butcher.
Untended fires roared all across Lower Gorev. Shattered furniture, burning tyres, and stinking waste clogged junctions and crossovers. I nosed the borrowed Siluvi forward at crawling pace, keeping the stadium on my left. A couch tipped out of a window and crashed down in to the street ahead. Springs burst from torn cushions. One bounced off the Siluvi's bumper. Three Gorites jumped after the couch and heaved the broken remains on to smouldering tyres and a car chassis blocking the road south and west. Liquid fuel soaked the barricade. A match soared through the air and ignited the rubbish. A Kazalak underfolder aimed skywards and let fly.
The armed Gorite wheeled and lifted his Kazalak at me. I fell sideways and flung my arm over my face. Cracks hammered the windscreen. Oil spurted from the bonnet. I broke the Siluvi's Volg from the bracket and pummelled the passenger door open. Thrown stones bounced off the Siluvi's body. An empty magazine clattered at the gunman's feet. Grinning, he rocked a loaded magazine in, jerked the charging handle back halfway and shunted it forward. The muzzle climbed and settled on me.
Click. Pink clouds burst from the Gorite's chest. He swayed and sat down. His limp head dropped. Blood rolled from his lips and landed on the jammed Kazalak in his lap. I held the Volg's bright reticule on the sitting Gorite. Walk away. His two companions bounced on their heels; rocks held in their fists. Walk away. A rock fell and the bare-handed Gorite rushed at his friend and ripped the Kazalak from his hands. I squeezed the Volg's trigger twice. The Gorite slumped next to his friend. His head slipped in to his lap. Blood dripped inside his ear.
I whipped the Volg's optic over to the third Gorite. Do you want to die? The Gorite barrelled at his friends. Two reports echoed around the district. A body slammed in to the dirt and twitched. I rushed the three, the Volg's stock clamped to my shoulder, reached down, and unlatched the Kazalak's magazine. Smoke blew clear of Gorites watching me from derelict habs. Stray children flicked stones at me. A lone mother buried in shawls rocked a pram.
A thermite grenade burst in the Siluvi's cockpit. Glass popped and sparks crackled. I leaped at a six-foot-high wall and swung a leg up. Behind me, tyres began popping; more gunshots stirring the district. Chipped glass, embedded on top of the wall, grated against my trousers and the protruding material beneath my plate carrier.
Slobbering jaws snapped at my trouserleg, tore through the cotton, and sunk in to my calf. I yelped and swung my boot backwards at a growling dog. The heel smacked teeth, bringing out a yelp and a whine. Bony legs carried the yammering hound away. Sharp punctures wept blood. Swearing, I limped over dead ground to the stadium.
Blood squelched inside my boot. Stretcher-cases lay in rows on the tent matting. Walking-wounded formed a queue stretching outside the tents and back along the track. Mutters and glares followed me. Eyes fixed on my Volg sitting against the ammunition pouches attached to my plate carrier.
"Excuse me, there is a queue." A masked orderly advanced on me, arm raised and finger pointing. "Get in line and wait to be seen, skull-face. No exceptions."
"I'm fucked up."
"You're…? What?"
"You'll see." My hand closed around the Volg's grip. The orderly, five inches my height, shuffled back and vanished inside a pod. I sneered at the orderly zipping the door closed and limped down a narrow passage. "Hello…?"
"Who's that jumping the queue?" A robed and masked doctor brushed a hanging screen aside. "Are you taking the piss?"
"Taking the piss…?" I hobbled at the doctor. "Seroni?"
The doctor seized my arm and hauled me inside the theatre. "Shut—" She whisked the screen across.
"Wait, you're not—" Seroni lifted a finger. Feet clomped along the matting outside. I pulled my mask down and tilted my cap's peak.
"Come, come." Seroni led me over to a reclining chair and patted the headrest. "Sit. Where are you hit?"
I gripped the bright steel arms and eased my body on to the chair. "No, it was—agh! It was a fucking dog." My Volg slipped over the edge and dangled by its sling. "Stray or summat."
"Right, you'll need an injection." Seroni laid her thumb on a scanner and unlocked a cabinet. "God-Emperor knows the diseases they carry round here."
"Mmm." I unknotted my laces and wiggled the boot off. A reddened and very damp sock clung to my foot. "D'you mind if I use your bin?"
"You'll be keeping that on your person." Seroni brought an uncapped needle over. Her eyes rested on the Volg. "If I entered a building with my safety disengaged, how might first impressions go?"
"Oh, shi—" I reached down and flicked the catch. "Lucky we're leaps and bound past that then, eh?"
"Can you roll your trouserleg up?" Seroni swung a tray attached to an articulated arm around. A spotlight blinked in my face.
"Yeah, it's—it's the back of the leg." I rolled up the damp cotton and twisted on the chair. The peak on my cap caught the headrest and rode around. My plate carrier touched my chin. "What you doin' down 'ere anyhow? Who's dragged you outta your cushy billet?"
"Who d'you think?"
Cotton wool soaked in sharp liquid stung my calf. "Why didn't you leave?"
"The Obrist."
"Sorge is worse."
"Beg to differ."
"He wouldn't have pursued you. You're low-level surveillance, nothing too rich."
Seroni crushed the stinging cotton wool in to my calf. The muscle clenched. "Thank you, Sergeant, I do have a life up at Maretuka. We're not all revolving around your cockfights."
"You're not waving on the sidelines now. It's Navy or Urgraf locking horns out there."
"I hate them all. I am between you and them."
"There are other sides—"
"—They all fight." Seroni spread her fingers across my leg. "Relax your calf. There will be a slight pain. There, all done."
"I'm sorry for this."
"I dearly wish Sorge shared the sentiment." A thin dressing wrapped around my leg. "As slimy as ever."
"Did he want you in easy reach or…?"
"I've done what he asked; defiled a corpse. Now, with the city in lockdown, I'm trapped here."
"W-w-wait, defiled a corpse?"
"Some hairbrained Navy plot to restabilise the city. They bring the Butcher of Lutufeyo—a lookalike—before the city council, OSEC, the judges, everyone, and they take the credit."
"So, you…"
Seroni clapped her hand on my bandage. "We're done."
"Agh! So, you can make someone look like someone else, yeah?"
"Yes, we're done."
"Sero—er, ma'am? I have a favour to ask."
"You, you have a favour to ask! Sorry, have you mixed up favour with thank you and goodbye?"
"'Ere…" I pulled at the laces on my other boot. "We both win."
"I'm not asking you to humour me."
"Nah, look." A film roll fell in to my hand from inside my boot. "You'll want to keep this safe. I swiped it from Sorge."
"Film…?" Seroni peeled off an elastic band and held the film beneath a magnified lense. "Kazalaks, RPGs… Why would Sorge take pictures of a shipment bearing his own signature?"
"Don't you think it's convenient, a xenos is there to take the fall for the reservist's murder last month. I reckon Ben Vantorout—so his name was—weren't so misinformed after all. Sorge knew that Ben knew, so Sorge works his scene, lays the blame on the xenos and gets his Martyr. The city goes up in flames for a few weeks, Sorge conjures up the Butcher, dead at the Navy's hands. His prestige skyrockets. Promotion, political clout, the lot."
Seroni clicked the spotlight off. The film had unravelled in her fingers. "How do I hurt him?"
"You take that film, develop it, then send it to a friend of mine named Josef Herle. He's in a homeless shelter in Lower Gorev. He'll have a dog with him named Trip – pointy-eared, well-behaved fellow."
"Then?"
"Don't worry. He'll know what to do."
"Is that it?"
"Flesh-ripper, yeah?" I slid my damp and dry socks inside my boots and jerked the laces tight.
"That's one word for it." Seroni wound up the film. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"
"No."
Great mud clods fell from my squidging boots on the way up to the stadium's lounge and stuck to the edges of the steps. Commander Barakat met me at the door and ushered me past the sentries. "Is that blood on your leg, James?"
"I box dogs off-hours."
"…Right. We've an O group in session. Give us a minute."
No Obrist, thank the Emperor. I hovered behind the officers gathered around the basin projecting a three-dimensional map of the city's districts. Pink orbs pulsated over Lower Gorev, Lutufeyo, Elek, and Avramides. Sorge held two PDF officers' attention, both of a senior rank. Too many dead to feel sorry for, Commander? Anything to say in your defence or does the commission absolve you entirely? Officer and a gentleman! Refuge of a liar and a scoundrel.
Thunder rumbled outside. "James." My fist swung. "Oh, God-Emperor—!" Sorge caught my wrist. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you so suddenly."
"Wake me…?" I sat, legs crossed, on a low shelf in a corner of the lounge.
"Ha, I thought you'd died for a second." Sorge's fingers relaxed. "Is that your blood?"
"I'm done." I swung off the shelf and tugged the slack from my Volg's sling. "I'm done."
"What d'you mean? What's happening down there?"
"It won't work."
"Won't work? You've had three days."
"You're fucked if—"
"—You've had three days, James. At the end of this week, a report on the xenos question sits on Admiral Curzon's desk. With nought to show for the trust I placed in you, handling of the asset passes to Naval Headquarters. Next week, no more roses, no more chocolates. It'll be a Special Interrogation Unit working her. There'll be no hugs and smiles from them."
"You're fucked if you think I want this."
"Want? That's not your decision to make. I decide what is best for you. I decide."
"Send me back to Espi—"
"—Back to Espi and Aimo stays a vegetable. Joe… he stays in the shelter. Anyway, you're staying regardless. Not a soul enters or leaves Orsolya. Governor's orders."
"The slant-eared lot and the blueskins done upped and scarpered though. Their pen's empty."
"CQS Phang's new assignment. Yours concerns our asset. Let me see some progress and I'll see about Aimo's medical bills."
"Okay, gimme this…" I tapped my cap's crown against my open palm. "No shit, now. What am I really here for? The grooming, the pardons, the pimping out. It's not officer-cut." I laid my hand on top of my head. "Here's my ceiling. Maybe I make OR-6 in eight or ten years, but I'm as comfortable as I can be with these stripes. Pips just give me anxiety."
"Off the record, listen to me. Your job is to ensure my promotion. That's you and every NCO and OR beneath you; Navy, Guard, PDF. All you are here for is to allow officers – some like me – to fill out their checkboxes and meet their monthly performance indicators. You are another speck of grime on my ladder, James, and if you have to fuck on order, I am more than happy to take responsibility. Anything, anything you can learn will make these next hundred hours worthwhile."
"You want me to turn her."
"We'll see where things go. Succeed with one and perhaps others may follow." Sorge smiled at me and sauntered over to the few officers remaining after the O group's dissolvement. I swivelled my cap around and scraped my fingernail over a faded navy patch clinging to the material by threads. How do I hurt him? My thumb and finger ripped the patch free and let it fall.
Muddy water, pooling in wheel-ruts cutting between the fences on the pitch, flew from beneath a Wolfhound's tyres at wounded huddling on plastic chairs beneath a sagging awning pitched outside medicae tents. A drop pattered Ovi van der Beek's shoulder. Ovi shifted his chair and nudged a bucket under the offending leak. Dirty water sloshed inside the bucket.
A slight figure hidden beneath a cap and a skull-printed mask plodded in the Wolfhound's wake. Wet mud encrusted his tan boots and climbed up his trouserlegs. The man sitting beside Ovi lurched from his chair. Dressings, running around his head and beneath his jaw, held pink gauze to his cheek. A raincape crackled over bare legs and unlaced boots. "James!"
"Thay?" James slogged over and pumped Thamer's arm. "They glued your face back on then?"
"Yeah-heah, taped me back up. Number one, yes?"
"Number one."
"All good on your end? You—you look grey."
"Urgh…" James tugged his mask down. "Never try understand an officer, mate. We're 'ere to make sure they got promoted."
"Nothing surprising there. Are you after Q?"
"Why, what's Q up to?"
"Err, Vekaria, he said. Some diplomats or other."
"Yeah? D'you want to tell me more on the way?"
"Mm, can I get dressed first?"
"What, you prefer to stand 'ere and shiver?"
"Are you heading out?" Ovi stepped around the smirking Thamer coming the other way. "James, is it?"
"Wassup, OSEC?" James fixed a loose clip on a utility pouch. "Yeah, we're off on a razz. Fancy stepping on the top shelf? We could use someone on the fifty."
"Err, I did not understand, please."
"Aww, not you too. D'you want the fifty cal or not?"
"I—I'll gun for you. I'll stand on the gun if you say so."
"So, what's all the fuss then?"
"The drones, they are—they are not good."
"Why?"
"They were stolen from my friend by the mercenaries."
"You'd better come with me."
"Err, I left my—"
James seized the front of Ovi's shirt. "—No, no. Iggery now, OSEC."
"Your friend – he is coming too?"
"Long as he keeps it in his trousers, we'll be grand. C'mon." James hauled Ovi out on to the track.
Rain stung Ovi's eyes. Upright inside the Wolfhound's turret, Ovi held on to the massive Krupnok's spade grips on the bouncing ride over the ruined pitch. "You reading me up there, OSEC?" A mic attached to a loop on Ovi's vest chirped. "Oi, lad, you hearing me?"
Ovi squeezed his mic. "To the asshole on the other end. I'm Ovi, twenty-eight, married and expecting."
"Ha-ha! Good lad. I've got a battle-buddy in Vermino. We did two tours together."
"Two tours…? I didn't know you were that old."
"I've been around a bit."
Ovi jerked forwards. His chin smacked the edge of the Krupnok. "Umph." Beneath him, a door slammed.
"Hello?" Ovi ducked down from the turret.
"I wondered whose legs they belonged to." Thamer, bulked up in a black plate carrier, laid a slugthrower on the dash. "Catch." A grey ceramite flew in to the back.
"Oh!" The ceramite bashed Ovi's knee. Black strands and dark stains coated the padded interior. "Is that blood inside?"
"Yeah, should be mine. Keep it." Thamer unzipped a compartment on a backpack by his feet. "Compliments of the medicae." An unopened, glass bottle shook in Thamer's fist. "Best Vinod."
"Aw, you're a gentleman and a scholar, Thay!" James plunged his foot on to the accelerator. Ovi tumbled backwards.
Bubbles popped above gushing drains. Swaying in the turret, Ovi ducked under a low-hanging powerline. A tall fence, bright green, ran along a playground with painted squares and a snaking ladder. Broken glass and loose tiles now littered the playground and smoke rolled from the blackened window frames.
"Quanto Drive. I went to school there."
"They'll rebuild," Thamer said. "It's not like Cadia. We've still got a home."
"Er, Thay?"
"You are Orsolya-born?" Ovi dipped his head. Another sagging cable dragged across the turret plating.
"All of our team is—well, James excepted."
"Were you both at Cadia? Was it true, what they said, that the planet exploded?" Ovi's plate carrier hit the Krupnok's grips and his ceramite clunked upon the sights.
"Err, let's leave off, yes? You must have been at Vurinta Academia. Maybe a few years behind me. I am thirty, see." The Wolfhound's wheels spun.
God-Emperor, I will have a heart attack if he does that again. Ovi clung to the spade grips. "Er, yes, yes, Vurinta. Criminal psychology. I chose OSEC. Now, I ride my second year on the street in an armoured car manning a Krupnok."
"Knew what you wanted to be then. I believed law enforcement was my journey to manhood if only to stop my father laying in to me nightly. He would blindfold me and beat me with a pipe then do the same to my mother if she so much as blinked. There will be a fourteen-year-old cold case regarding one Kravos Thamer, murdered walking home one night from a drinking session. Killer unknown, murder weapon half a brick."
"We have lots of cold cases in our archives, Thay. Most will never be solved."
"Solved that one though, haven't you?"
"I…"
"I will tell you what. Once Orsolya is safe, I let you bring me in. We can close the case."
"Nobody will care what a sixteen-year-old did, one night in Orsolya. Dozens of murders happen every night."
"I have sat on this one for nearly half my life."
"And your mother?"
"I ran to a recruitment office the very same night. Nobody was there so I sat on the step outside. I sat there all night with blood on my fingers. Come dawn, they let in, took me through the oath, and accepted my signature. Never looked back."
"Done alright for yourself though, haven't you?" James said. "Fourteen years and you're still kicking and swearing. Nice wound the ladies'll love too. Me, 'alf my time I spent in chokey."
"How did it feel, Thay?"
"I don't feel anything."
"About your mother." The Wolfhound swung left at a junction. "Er, James, Cesur's Way takes us in the in to Elek. We want to remain in Lower Gorev."
"Detour, innit."
"Thay, what did he say?"
"Alternate route."
The hab blocks of the 200 Sector in Lower Gorev fell away to older, residential apartment blocks then to brown-walled, multi-layered homes. Rubbish blew across the wide streets. Light blazed from holographic advertisements looming over Elek. Giant letters, fallen from a neon sign, lay in the street. Looters sifted through overturned bins. A stone cracked a side window. Ovi ducked his head and jerked the Krupnok around.
"We must be engaged in order to engage. Remember that, OSEC," James droned. "You're our first response."
"Yeah, I copy." The looters scattered from the Wolfhound. Still haven't told us why.
Rats frittered around a line of rectangular bins grouped against the back of a two-storey flophouse. Chained lights flickered above a balcony. A hanging lamp swung from a hook.
"Urgh, what is that?" Ovi clapped his hand over his mouth. "Uhh…" Ovi dropped from the turret.
"Never smelt a stiff before, 'ave ya?" James brought the Wolfhound in a circle and backed up to the bins.
"Stiff—urgh!" Ovi dove for the door, dragged at the handle, and slithered outside. "Mm—" Ovi parted his ceramite's clasp and tipped it off.
"Come on, Ovi." Thamer's hand rubbed Ovi's shoulder. "Get the last out. That's it, young warrior."
"W—why?" Ovi scraped his cuff across his mouth.
"We're here to pick up a package."
"No, no, why is there a dead body?"
"How else do you discourage the curious." Thamer hoisted the lid on the bin at the end of the row. "Ah. Nasty stuff, double-ought. The rats will enjoy him." The lid clanged shut. "Ovi, we're moving this."
"Er, where?"
"Just to the side." Thamer settled his Volg at his hip and gripped an edge. "Come on."
"Is James…?"
"He's on stag."
"Er, please?" Ovi got his hand around the other edge.
"Never mind. Two different cultures—hup!" Iron grated against ferrocrete. "That's it."
"Cultures, why?"
"You—you learn a whole new language in the Guard, or – as he would have it – the Crotch."
Behind the bin stood a door. Thamer twisted an old brass knob and shouldered his way in. "Coming?"
"More dead bodies?" Ovi scrambled inside after Thamer and hauled the door shut.
"I hope not. Help me roll this back." Thamer stooped and dug his fingers underneath the edge of a flea-bitten carpet lying on the floor of an unfurnished room with mould-ridden walls.
"What's down there?" The carpet rolled back from a hatch.
"Our package." Thamer swept a card through a slot. "Mind your feet going down."
An airtight bulkhead at the bottom of a shaft dilated and unlocked after Thamer swiped his access card. "You await me here." Thamer led Ovi in to a narrow chamber filled with dead surveillance screens. "Ovi, you come no further from this point."
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yeah, fine." Ovi slumped in a swivel chair and loosened the straps holding his plate carrier to his chest. God-Emperor, the smell. How can anybody become used to such a stomach-turner? Ovi drew air in to his lungs, held, then let it out. God, I can still smell it.
Ovi's right knee jiggled. His chin rested in his fist. To his left, a door rose and through it stumbled a barefoot woman wearing a grey boilersuit tied off around her waist and a bag over her head. "Thay?"
"No names!" Thamer shoved the woman along. "C'mon, you first."
"Who is—?"
"Let's go!"
Ovi flew from the chair. Who on Haven is that? His eyes fell on the woman's tank top. God-Emperor. Dry-mouthed, Ovi made for the ladder. Beneath him, the woman began to climb at Thamer's urging. Ovi chin touched the edge of his plate carrier. Damn it, Ovaiz.
A masked James, on guard outside the Wolfhound, ran around to the passenger door held it open. Ovi clambered inside and got up in to the turret. Faces watched at windows on the other side of the street.
"Cityspeak only," Thamer said once he had bundled the woman aboard.
Ovi straightened his mic. "I was raised on the west bank."
"Fine, stay in Gothic. But no names."
James flung the Wolfhound back towards Lower Gorev. Ovi, one hand on the Krupnok's grips, bent down. Plastic ties bound the woman's wrists together. A transparent bag hung from a hook in the ceiling. Winding down from the bag, a thin tube plunged in to the woman's arm. "What is—?"
"Man your weapon." Thamer passed a capped syrette back to Ovi. "If she tries anything, plug the bag with this."
Ovi slid the syrette through the loops on his plate carrier and stood back up in the rattling turret. A mag-train line standing on ferrocrete pillars marked the crossing-over between Elek and Lower Gorev. Beneath the pillars, two civilian vehicles, parked fishbone, heaved beneath metal plates welded all over the bodywork. Armed civilians draped in bandoliers and linked belts milled around them. James slowed the Wolfhound and ghosted the last fifty feet.
"Raise your bore. Get down from the turret," Thamer said. Ovi elevated the Krupnok's muzzle and ducked inside the passenger compartment. "I'll handle this." Thamer unclipped his Volg and stepped out of the door, his hands held out. A civilian wearing a slung Kazalak and an open flak jacket met Thamer halfway between the barricade. Thamer laid his palm on his plate carrier when the civilian threw an arm at the Wolfhound and thrust his face at Thamer. James, still silent, rested his Volg's muzzle on the dash. A cylindrical suppressor elongated the weapon. A concussion grenade rested on his thigh.
Thamer slapped something in the civilian's palm then shook his hand and strolled back to the Wolfhound. "They are letting us through."
"What did you say to him?"
"I told him I was Orsolyan-born, raised, and educated. I act as a guide for naval peacekeepers on a mercy mission."
"Spartacists?"
"Not quite." Thamer clipped his Volg to his sling. James eased the Wolfhound through the barricade. Men, women, even children toted firearms. Tumbledown huts clung to the smooth ferrocrete underneath the mag-line. "Everyone is making their own island now." Thamer threw a look at the woman behind him. "Orsolya for the humans."
Ovi leaned slightly over to the passenger's side. Why the silence, James?
Looted shopfronts surrounded an arcade filled with sparkling glass shards. Stuffed, fluffy toys spilled from shelves and antique furniture, wood and crockery, spat in little, burning heaps. More looters tore at a chattering 319 unit inside a derelict OSEC riot vehicle. Voices squawked until all the wires were wrenched free and the unit crashed on to the vehicle's floor.
Ovi dragged the Krupnok around and clasped his mic. "Trouble ahead."
"Seen. Spartacist roadblock." The Wolfhound slowed before a pair of six-wheeled armoured cars parked behind rubble shunted in to piles tight enough to throttle traffic. Long muzzles protruded through gaps in bagged walls. A bulldozer, its wide scoop lowered, blocked a side road. Iron spikes stuck up from a mat thrown across the street.
"Money." Thamer dug in his thigh and back pockets. James dumped a handful of Rako in Thamer's lap. "That last checkpoint cleaned me out—thanks."
Ovi squatted beneath the turret. "You bribed them?"
"I paid them not to search us." Thamer swept the money in to an empty grenade pouch. "Cover me, yes?"
"Er, should I…?" Ovi reached for the Krupnok.
"Wait 'til the shooting starts." Unarmed, Thamer went forward to the barricade, his arms spread. A shaven-headed man in a green vest slung a Stronica autopistol and shook Thamer's hand. Tattoos covered his arms. Helmeted heads bobbed behind the sandbags. James lifted a cogitator screen and pointed Ovi at a map of Lower Gorev.
"Yes, yes, I take you there with my eyes closed. Why do you not speak?" James's forefinger touched his mask then aimed at the woman.
Why do you hide from her? Ovi gazed at the woman. Slim fingers interlaced and sat in her lap. Her head was tilted backwards. Some history you share? James clicked his tongue and closed the cogitator screen. Thamer, the Spartacist in tow, came over to the driver's door.
"'Allo." A strong accent rolled through James's lowered window. Brown stubble sprouted on the Spartacist's round chin. Fuzzy moustache ends drooped over his lips. Wide gaps separated his crooked teeth.
"No, no, no, Gothic only," Thamer said.
"Ah! Gothic, yes?" The Spartacist grinned at James. "You offworlder?" The peak on James's cap dipped. "Heh, skull-face, very frightened."
"And now inside." Thamer opened the passenger door behind James. "See?"
"Ah, hello." The Spartacist beamed and shook Ovi's hand. "You are the officer in charge?"
"I—I am staff sergeant." Thamer patted his plate carrier.
"You are PDF?"
"Navy, navy. We are subordinate to the naval intelligence directorate. Our mission is classified."
"Ahh, very shush-shush." The Spartacist squeezed the sides of Thamer's mouth. "Heh."
"Yes, shush-shush." Thamer's grin faded.
"OH!" The Spartacist leaned around Ovi. "You have a prisoner. Very good, very good."
"We move our assets around frequently."
"Very good, very good." The Spartacist looped behind the Wolfhound and opened the woman's door. "Ah, you put her to sleep?"
"Morphia. Very dangerous, this one, very."
The Spartacist thrust his head at the bag. Nostrils flared and he sniffed. "Offworlder." Black fingernails closed around her chin. "Xenos."
He can tell by the smell? Ovi edged away from the xenos.
"I want you to know what we want to do to you. First, we undress you. Slowly. After that, I'll cut your eye out but only one so you can see what we'll do to you next. I'd cut off your breasts too but don't want to risk you dying on me and spoiling the party." Rings bulged on a grimy hand slithering up the xenos's thigh to grope her breast. "In the morning, we tie you up between two cars and start driving. These will be no more." The Spartacist bumped his forehead on the xenos' dug in to her breast. "Start praying to your god."
"Okay." Thamer's hand came down on the Spartacist's shoulder. "You search. We go through now."
The Spartacist swung around. "I take the prisoner. You go through."
"My friend…" Thamer poured Rako in to the Spartacist's hand. "Orsolya will be ours once more. We make no more xenos here."
"Ours?!" The Spartacist gripped his autopistol and shook the stubby muzzle at Thamer. Rako spilled on to the road. "We will kill them all first, drag them between our cars, and take their children's hides to auction."
"And yours will be in the van, friend." Thamer raised his palms and indicated the xenos. "We take the prisoner, take out of Orsolya. No more Zalileans, no more blueskins. We want Orsolya for the humans again. Ovi, pass out the Cain G."
"The…?" Ovi lifted a rocket launcher off the cargo shelf and passed it out to Thamer. His leg brushed the xenos's knee.
"Ahhh." The Spartacist hoisted the launcher on his shoulder and flipped the aperture out. "Kill many, many, many xenos with this."
"Many xenos. Ammo too."
Are we really doing this? Ovi swung a case containing three warheads down from the shelf. The Navy's just directly supplied the biggest, most dangerous gang in Orsolya with deadly weapons.
"Very good." The warheads landed at the Spartacist's feet. "Yes, very good."
"Okay, we go through."
"It is beautiful." The Spartacist patted the Wolfhound's flank. "Very beautiful in there."
God-Emperor, he doesn't want the car, does he?
Chanting Spartacists rode upon the Wolfhound's roof and bonnet letting automatics loose at the sky and waving huge images of War Minister Theomi above their heads. Legs dangled over the sides. Blasts flew from the horn.
Ovi, walking just ahead of the Wolfhound with Thamer, James, and the xenos woman, ducked his head and clamped his hands over his unprotected ears. Spartacists, their bodies broadened by homemade body armour, lined the streets swinging cudgels and chains and beating staves on crude shields. Men in PDF Squares camouflage and OSEC blue packed their ranks.
"Left!" Ovi trotted up behind Thamer. "Carsi Drive. We go left."
"Yeah, keep it slow and easy." Thamer jerked on the xenos's wrists. "No touching guns."
Spartacists detached themselves from the crowds and rolled over to James and Ovi. Hands pawed at Ovi's Volg and lifted it off his plate carrier. "Give it him," Thamer said. Ovi squeezed the quick-release and let the carbine go. A masked man in OSEC blue, taller than anyone else by far, raised the weapon above his head and bore it shrugged off scrabbling fingers and popped the clips holding his plate carrier on his shoulders. James's cap spiralled over the mob's heads and disappeared. His own suppressed Volg disappeared in to the crowd.
"Drone!" Ovi flung his arm at a drone hovering about a hundred feet above the street.
"Don't point! How many?"
"One—no, two."
"Ignore, ignore." Thamer shoved the xenos's head down. Desultory gunfire split the Spartacist's clamouring. Bare-faced, James shoved a palm at an approaching Spartacist eight inches taller and drew a knife from a sheath on his trouserleg.
"Thay…" Ovi lurched at Thamer. A third drone soared over the mob further down the street. A single ocular glowed red. "Thay, it's the Obrist!"
"Who's the—?" A Volg's staccato rattle clapped Ovi's ears. The drone sparked and smoke hissed from its plates. Spartacists scattered before the plummeting unit slammed in to the road surface. Cracked plating ruptured and burst outwards. Black bags nestled within the drone's guts.
"PT!" Thamer bundled the xenos down. Ovi dropped and clutched his head. Searing air blasted Ovi. Over and over he rolled, asphalt tearing at his skin. Feet struck him. A toecap rammed his ribs. Black fingernails scratched at his neck and thumbs crushed his Adam's Apple. A knee pinned Ovi's squirming body to the road. Spots danced in his eyes.
Fingernails scraped across Ovi's neck. The pressure on his back slackened. Smoke stinging Ovi's eyes, he planted blood-soaked hands in the scarred road surface and pushed himself up. The gap-toothed Spartacist sat there, legs splayed, hands trembling, jaw agape. Pink sinew, stretching from an empty socket, held an eyeball to his cheek. James kneeled next to the Spartacist and wiped his knife on the man's trouserleg. Bright trails ran from tiny stone chunks piercing James's left cheek. A slung Kazalak sat against his hip.
Torn sleeves flapping, Ovi staggered after James down the dust-swept Carsi Drive holding the Spartacist's Stronica in one hand. At his shoulder, Thamer, blood seeping from a gash on his scalp, held the xenos by the nape and drove her along. A pink, crystalline substance glinted on the ground.
"She's—" Ovi brought his fingers to his burning ear. "Agh." They came away bloody.
At the drive's mouth just before the dash across the street to the Vekaria gardens, James held by the corner and planted his right hand on his crown. What is he doing? Blood shone on James's upper arm. He pointed two fingers at his eyes and swivelled them around. Watch the immediate area. Ovi tightened the Stronica's sling and tucked the folding stock beneath his arm. James bit the plastic outer from a dressing, shook it loose then wound it around his arm and tied it off.
Interlocking branches formed a ceiling over thick hedgerows. Kazalak sling taut around his shoulders, James advanced along the tunnel up to the bright circle at the far end. Ovi wiggled a finger in his ear. Something, anything. Thamer, still bleeding, half-carried the xenos along. The sodden bag clung to her mouth and nose. Pink footprints trailed her. Ovi matched Thamer's sluggish pace and pointed between him and the xenos. Come on, Thay, you're bleeding. Thamer passed the xenos's wrists over and slipped the Stronica's sling from Ovi's shoulder.
Bright sunlight peeped through turquoise leaves sprouting from winding branches. Could be another world. Ovi traded the xenos for the Stronica and covered Thamer out of the tunnel. James prowled ahead; a grey speck among the tree trunks.
Three inches above the grass stalks, a hair-thin wire ran between tree trunks. I pinched the damp wire between thumb and forefinger. They're expecting someone at least. I laid my off hand on my head. Ovi scuttled up to my shoulder. "Trip-wire."
"What?" Blood ran from Ovi's ears.
"Trip. Wire." My fingers scissored and I swung my leg over. Ovi's jimmying foot grazed the wire. Moisture landed on the stalks. He stumbled past me and fell against a tree. Poor prick ruined his ears. I twisted the plug buried in my right ear. Thamer hoisted the asset in to his arms and swung his leg over the wire.
Twigs snapped beneath Ovi's and the asset's feet. I raised a clenched fist then laid my hand on my crown. Ovi crunched over to me. I clicked the Kazalak's change lever up twice and let it hang, bore-down, against my hip.
"What are we—?"
My hand touched the Stronica's body and I moved the weapon's selector back to the safe setting. Linking my fingers, I placed my hands on my head. A whistle cut through the trees.
"Hey!" Thamer dragged the wriggling asset over. "What the fu—?"
"Whsss!" Air hissed from between my teeth. Fifteen feet ahead, four shapes in head-to-toe foliage suits rose from the grass. Long, cylindrical muzzles protruded from rifles clad in the same foliage. Ovi's hands flew up. Thamer shoved the asset's head down and lifted his left hand.
The gunmen spread out around us. A suppressed Volg marksman's rifle glided at me. Its owner swept a thin veil from his eyes. "Been picking up strays, I see." Crinkles appeared at the edges of deep brown eyes. Youness. My arms dropped.
"Getting caught in the rain too." Thamer's lips split. He bumped a fist against Youness's glove.
"Bit for your troubles?" Youness tapped his closed hand on mine. I laid my forefinger on my lips and pointed at the asset. Youness held his first and second finger up and twirled his wrist. Move out.
Foldout barricades and hardbags bolstered the Vekaria's façade. Coiled wire stretched across the long, straight drive leading up the front entrance. Armed PDF manned tripod-mounted, belt-fed guns inside two dugouts on either side of the drive. Strung mines lay a little beyond the wire.
Youness, his head bare of foliage, led Thamer, Ovi, and I through a dog-leg gap in the hardbag wall and over to the front entrance. "Q, I'm coming in with our friends from Cadia, plus one bagged." I caught the swinging door and held it open. Thamer drew the asset's arm around his shoulder and hauled her through. Bleeding feet slid across the tiles. "P1 med required."
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" A concierge behind a counter poked his head around a cogitator. His blue ocular dilated.
"Another room for our special guests," Youness said. "Single, north-facing windows."
"North-facing?" Ovi mouthed at me.
"That had better not be your blood on my floor, Youness." Phang, armed and armoured, cantered down one of the curving staircases flanking the concierge's counter. "If it is, you'll be in trouble."
"Ehhh, not mine. Picked up a stray wandering the woods."
"What are you doing here? This isn't your assignment." Phang clapped my shoulder. "Ahh, never mind. We're understaffed here as it is. Thay, what have you been throwing down with?"
Thamer sniffed and scratched at the fresh and faded dressings encompassing most of his head. The asset sat on the floor beneath him. "His idea, bringing in the stray." Thamer's knee jutted out. The asset's head jerked forwards. "I am sick of carrying her."
"Hey, don't strike her again like that." Phang prodded Thamer away from the asset. "For God's sake, snip those ties. She's not a prisoner here."
"Knife?" Thamer stuck out his hand. "Rioters took mine." Two PDF stretcher-bearers clattered down the staircase.
"Blades on you, guys?"
"Er, no, Sergeant Major." The stretcher-bearers set their unit on the tiles. "Sorry, Sergeant Major."
The asset planted both feet flat on the tiles and stood. "That's enough!" Phang whipped his Volg up. "Lady xenos, please, you are surrounded." Youness and I whisked the stretcher-bearers aside and aimed our Kazalak and Volg at the asset. Closed fists touched the bag. The asset ripped her wrists apart. Broken ties flew off and pattered on the floor.
"Throne of Terra." Ovi shrunk back from the asset. "It's her. It's the Butcher." My thumb flicked the Kazalak's lever down. Youness's forefinger touched his trigger. Bright red welts ringed the asset's wrists. Her head turned towards me.
"Sir, I have Room 107 free." The concierge, cowering behind his cogitator, laid a keycard on the counter and yanked his hand back.
"Room 107, check." Phang, one hand on his Volg, swiped the card. The asset stepped on to the stretcher, lay down, and crossed her arms across her chest. "Guys, Cain Med, please."
The stretcher-bearers edged over and hoisted their charge. I watched them carry the asset over to the lifts. Once the doors closed, I returned my weapon to safe.
"Okay." Phang's eyes passed around Thamer, Ovi, Youness, and I. "Orders group in the conference suite, first floor." To the concierge, Phang flipped a Rako stick. "Sorry about the mess."
Fruit, piled in wooden bowls, perched atop an oiled table every four feet. A tall, slim chronometer with a glass face ticked behind me. Soft clicks came from a Kazalak magazine I fed loose rounds in to. The one-piece combat vest I had taken from a Spartacist hung from the carved back. Phang, Thamer, Youness, and Ovi lounged on the cushioned chairs around the table. Personal weapons, ammunition, and 350s sat on the tabletop.
"Well, Loay?" Phang nudged a folding-screen cogitator aside. "You are the senior, you start."
"Err, l—look I had no idea who in the Warp I pulled outta that padded cell." Thamer crossed his fingers. "Heart to lie, do or die."
"You could've just asked." Ovi hopped his chair closer to the table's edge. "It wasn't—"
"—Let Staff Sergeant Thamer continue, OSEC."
"I've—I've said all I can say, Q." Thamer, his mouth askew, picked at his bandages. "Please—please excuse me, gentlemen." Thamer crossed behind Ovi and let himself out of the suite.
"James?" Pressure increased on the stacked cartridges. "Sergeant? Beyond any reasonable doubt, do you believe that removing a naval intelligence asset from its classified location and transporting it here, through a city on the brink of collapse, was in our best interests?"
"She belongs with her people." I locked the magazine in to place.
"Sorry, can you…?" Phang spun a finger around his ear. "You are whispering."
"She belongs with her people." Two wax-covered plugs slid inside my thigh pocket. "Beyond any reasonable doubt, I can say it is in our best interests."
"Yes…?"
"Yes." I pulled my vest on to one shoulder and the Kazalak's sling on the other. "Nunnit else to say."
"Ovi, can you expand on this?"
"Err, James didn't really interact much directly, he just had us do the heavy lifting, you know. He—he would not speak around the woman. Scared of her maybe…" My hand touched the doorknob.
"James, could you sit down? We are not done."
"Okay, now I am interested." Youness picked at his beard. "Ovi, your name was?"
"Mm-hm. I am quite certain the woman is the Butcher of Lutufeyo and that James and she may know one another from history—er, the past—they—they have a past." Red-faced, Ovi squeezed his fingers in to his eyes.
"What brought you to that assumption?"
"It's his job, you prick." Youness brushed beard shavings from his front.
"Well, I am not an interrogator, but—"
"What are you accusing me of?" I dropped my vest and rifle on a chair.
"I—I'm not accusing you of anything."
"She's 'ere to be evacuated with the rest. Zalileans, blueskins, any xenos left on Haven won't see the month out at this rate. Out there, right now, the Spartacists, the Obrist, and Sorge; all the evils of men. Like what Thay said, everyone's making their own island. Come the storm, we'll want all guns facing outboard. Now, Q or Youness, I'd like a catch-up on our ammo, manpower, disposition and details of every contact you'd had over the past three days."
"Wil that be all, sir?" Youness's fingertip, pressing in to his temple, bent backwards.
A smirk crept across my lips. "I want what you're wearing."
After the orders group, I crossed a landing overlooking a long hall host to armchairs and a wide fireplace at the end. A lone cleaner worked a mop over chequered tiles. Can't be good for business, this. A pair of PDF troopers in armour and ceramite rounded the corner ahead. "Cain Med anywhere?" The troopers exchanged looks. "Gothic, either of you?"
"Yes, yes."
"You speak Gothic?"
"Yes, yes. Zonooristas, man." A gloved hand thrust at me.
Not this shit again. I dug out my 601 and handed it over.
"Wit CQS Phang, yish?" The other said.
"CQS Phang, yeah."
"Okay." The trooper slapped my 601 in to my palm.
"Cain Med?" I lifted my elbow and tugged on the dressing wrapped around the torn sleeve. "Medicae."
"Urgh." The trooper threw a thumb over his shoulder. Both shouldered past me muttering in Cityspeak.
Wheeled screens stood on a polished, red floor inside a dance hall. Each in their own sectioned-off area, Zalileans and blueskins occupied foldout beds. A PDF officer wearing a sports cap ducked outside tent pitched by the door. Dark marks stained his t-shirt "Hi."
"Hello." I shook the officer's hand. "James."
"Shmulik. You're with the sergeant major?"
"Yeah, CQS Phang. He likes it if you call him Q. See, Q's not like normal quartermasters in that he doesn't immediately give the arsehole if you ask a favour."
"Ah-hah, good to know."
"How's it looking in here anyway?"
"Well, between the slant-ears and the blueskins, there's not a thing we can do except administer plasters and provide oxygen. Not much for a surgeon to do really."
"There'll be work. Soon." I fished around in my thigh pocket. "Abelino? I swiped it from my OC."
Shmulik sniffed the abelino. "Mm, not me. There'll be someone in need. Thank you."
"I'm after a Zalilean, one brought in a little while ago."
"Should be on casualty return…" Shmulik swept the tent flap aside and flipped up the screen on a cogitator. "Last recorded was xenos female, dark, name unknown, multiple lacerations to the soles. Last bay on the right."
"Sir, I'd like to ask her some questions, if you wouldn't mind."
"Oh, you're on Commander Sorge's staff?"
"I'm on commission for Naval Intelligence. We believe this woman's knowledge can be of use to the directorate."
"Of course. I'll see you're not disturbed."
Drawn curtains screened bed-ridden Zalileans and their loved ones. "Youness here—" The 350 burbled on my shoulder. I twisted the power dial. Youness's voice faded. At the far end of the row, I put my eye to a crack. Alone in the screened-off bay, a woman lay on a foldout bed. An oxygen mask clung to her face and a dressing swathed her head. I eased the screen to and swivelled a chair around and set it down next to the woman's bed. Beneath a thin sheet, her chest rose and fell. Deep grey ringed her eyes.
Strung me along good and proper. My left knee bounced beneath my locked fingers. Strung us all along. A slender hand lay on the sheet, the thumb and forefinger nothing but stumps. I dipped my head and scratched at a scab. My right hand settled on the ridged grip pressed to my trouserleg and drew the knife. Sorge cannot win.
The woman turned her head. The pillow bulged around her right cheek. Her eyelids cracked and fluttered open. I slipped the knife back in to its sheath and dug out a snapped pencil and a piece of torn-up notepaper. The blunt nub scratched along the lines. Gold eyes followed the folded-up note on to the side table where the oxygen bottle sat then latched on to me on the way out of the bay. Her maimed hand rested palm-up.