Mortensen pulled away from the tarnished metal, hawked and spat on the bulkhead. Anxiously he rubbed at the spot with the bottom of his fist, revealing an ancient designation plaque: ‘Maintenance Duct C – Reserve Fuel Tank.’
Mortensen could barely imagine what it must have been like in there: monsters having their shadows burnt into the walls and floor as the fuel vapour erupted around them. The Redemption Corps had more urgent problems. The bulkhead began to grow hot to the touch and tremble on its rails.
‘Go, go, go, go!’ the major urged, pushing the storm-troopers out of the compartment and away from the door. Moments later the bulkhead was blasted out of its seals, blue flame fanning out across the ceiling. The corpsmen hit the deck, shielding themselves from the intense heat. Only Mortensen could stand the unbearable temperature, feeling nothing as he did, and pulled the last of his men through a second bulkhead. Gritting his teeth, the soot-stained officer slammed his shoulder against the hatch and manually rolled it aside.
As the air in the corridor cooled, the troopers staggered tentatively to their feet cursing and complaining.
‘Quiet!’ Sarakota suddenly cried putting his hand up and twisting his head left and right.
‘What can you hear?’ Mortensen demanded.
The sniper was about to reply but the words died in his throat. He merely looked up in horror. A pair of grapnel-like claws shot out of a ceiling vent behind them, hooking themselves under Eszcobar’s jaw and tearing him up off his feet. The hybrid had problems getting the death-worlder up through the opening at first, with the Autegan refusing to let go of his bulky flamer. The corpsmen were largely back on the floor but Preed and Sarakota were near enough to grab for the trooper’s flailing boots. Eszcobar’s spasming trigger finger caused his flamer to chug sporadic puffs of flame wildly around the room, forcing both men to duck.
Krieg was better placed from behind and leapt for the corpsman’s rapidly disappearing legs. The creature wasn’t going to release its prize that easily, however. Eszcobar let out an awful roar of pain and frustration that echoed horribly around the vent system. There was a crack and a gush from above. It looked like Krieg had had a bucket of blood poured over him. The deathworlder’s arms went limp and the ungainly flame unit fell to the floor. With this the Autegan’s body was tugged upwards, taking Krieg’s head and right arm up into the vent. Now Krieg’s Commissariat trousers were flailing, his left hand patting furiously for his hellpistol.
This time it was Golliant who got to the vent, grabbing one of the commissar’s leather boots, preventing Krieg ascending any further. Mortensen dived for the second, swinging from the commissar’s calf, hoping the extra weight and momentum would drag him down. A similarly horrific roar was building in the cadet-commissar’s chest as the two soldiers wrestled him down.
Something gave and all three men tumbled to the floor. As Mortensen pushed himself off the deck he was stunned to realise that Krieg had lost his right arm at the shoulder: the slashed leather greatcoat hid the worst of the gushing stump, torn flesh and sheared bone. Sarakota swooped under the vent, pushing the business end of his rifle up through the opening, plugging round after explosive round up at the creature. Finally the rifle ran dry and the hybrid’s strange, alien screeching died away, the commissar’s amputated limb falling back out of the vent with a light thud.
‘Vrek that!’ Greco declared shaking his head and hugging his hellgun to his chest. Keeping his injured back to the wall he sidled along the corridor away from the gaping vent. Ordinarily Mortensen would order him back but had to admit that the corpsman had the right idea. They had to get back to Vertigo.
‘Sergeant, get ’em up,’ Mortensen ordered, looking at Krieg’s vacant and mangled face. ‘Back to the bird, double time it.’
Minghella was already up to his elbows in the commissar’s gore.
‘Rhen, we’ve got to go,’ Mortensen insisted firmly.
‘Got to clamp this artery or he’ll bleed out well before we reach the bird,’ grumbled Minghella, half to himself.
‘Better him than us, sergeant,’ Mortensen barked.
‘Got it!’ Minghella announced, precious moments later.
Vedette and Sergeant Conklin started barking orders and encouragement, pulling the injured Sass and Greco to their feet. Minghella took the arm of the dazed and bleeding Necromundan over his shoulders. Conklin did the same with the spire-breaker.
‘Vedette, we lost the master-vox. See if you can raise Rosenkrantz on the bead,’ the major continued. ‘Inform the flight lieutenant that we will be requiring an immediate evacuation.’
‘Roger that, sir,’ the Mordian returned with bleak enthusiasm.
Mortensen watched a stone-faced Golliant scoop Krieg’s trembling body up from the blood-drenched floor and throw him carefully across one shoulder, the commissar’s detached limb in his other hand. Nodding, Mortensen watched the solemn aide stride up the corridor before turning his attention back to Sarakota who was still pointing his rifle at the ceiling.
Mortensen snatched up Eszcobar’s blood-drenched weapon and handed it to the sniper who abandoned his own spent rifle.
‘Kota, get up front and find me a way back out of this deathtrap.’ Holding the flame unit out in front of him with both hands the corpsman ran from the room. Casting his eyes up at the vent with a shudder, Mortensen did the same.
What was left of the troop hurtled along the foreign passages and oddly-orientated corridors of the alien hulk. The horrific denizens of the place were not the only reason for their hustle. A chain reaction of explosions was now wracking the warped vessel, undoubtedly initiated by their unintentional ignition of the reserve tank fuel vapour. Most of the time the dull detonations seemed to be tearing up the craft in the sections behind the escaping corpsmen, but occasionally they sounded like they were ahead of the fleeing column of soldiers, no doubt down to the vessel’s insane design and construction. The second and even more pressing concern was a gathering horde of hybrids not far behind them, crawling literally out of the metalwork and flooding the passages with danger and death.
Mortensen had never been so glad to see the Vertigo – and she was always a welcome sight. Rosenkrantz had brought the bird down further into the cavernous chamber and hovered above the platform still trailing their ropes. Then the damnedest thing happened. Vertigo opened fire.
At first the major thought the pilot was offering cover fire as usual: he expected the vicious hybrids to be on their backs at any moment. The Spectre’s autocannons were shredding the deck in front of their toecaps however, driving the corpsmen back across the platform and into the embrace of their pursuers.
‘Vedette!’ the major bellowed. She hadn’t reached Rosenkrantz and now he was beginning to realise why.
Black-armoured shapes began to appear on the ramp and rappel down the dangling ropes. For the first time Mortensen noticed the damage in the troop bay: the shredded conduits hanging from the ceiling, the faint smoke still escaping from the crew compartment. It looked like the Spectre had been rushed: taken by force with grenades and merciless determination. As the autocannons fell silent it became apparent that Flight Lieutenant Rosenkrantz was no longer in command of the craft, forced down to the edge of the ramp as she was, hands bound behind her back and pushed down onto her knees. Her captor was a slender figure in obsidian armour and a ribbed cape, sporting a crown of twinkling metal pins that were inserted over her entire skull. She was holding a bolt pistol to the pilot’s temple.
If that were not plain enough, two Inquisitorial Valkyries dropped down out of the roof, flanking the captured Spectre and fixing the storm-troopers in their sights. The first wave of battle-sisters down off the ropes were now advancing towards them, helmets on and bolters raised. A Celestian with a skull face-plate came boldly forward, the barrel of her bolt pistol never straying from the major’s chest.
‘Drop your weapons!’ she ordered s
imply.
The corpsmen looked around at each other, the prospect of abandoning even an empty weapon daunting. Conklin hugged his beloved bolter and threw the gathering one of his replacement fingers. Mortensen pulled the master sergeant’s arm down. Enough of his men had died today for what amounted now to little more than a half-baked idea. The major wouldn’t sacrifice any more just for him and it was clear from what Krieg had told him, that was what they were here for.
‘Do as she says,’ the major told them unequivocally; slowly unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor. Vedette hesitated and Mortensen could feel her eyes around the chamber, looking for an opportunity, a chink in the armour. ‘While we still have time, corporal,’ the major added softly.
Slipping out of her hellpack, the Mordian allowed the weapon system to topple to the platform. One by one the Redemption Corps emulated their officer, reluctantly abandoning their weapons and raising their palms, including Golliant, who had to dump Krieg’s beloved hellpistol on the deck.
As one of the sisters came up behind the major and began to bind his wrists behind his back, the skull-faced Celestian drifted forward, resting the muzzle of her ivory inlaid bolt pistol on his chest.
‘Your mistress is going to wish that she’d never met me,’ Mortensen told the sister with menace.
‘On the contrary,’ the Celestian came back confidently. ‘She’s been looking forward to this for a very long time.’
IV
The Incarcetorium was in chaos: fleeing security staff; escaping corpsmen; a full-scale prison riot and battle-sisters fighting for their lives.
The only route through the complex that Krieg’s time locks had left secure was the maximum-security subway, leading between the oubliette sub-section that held the incarcetorium’s most dangerous criminals and the compound landing strip.
Sidling along the subway wall, his right arm still strapped to his chest where Crayne had re-attached and bound it and the ivory-inlaid bolt pistol gripped firmly in his left, Krieg waited and listened behind a sharp corner. He was finally rewarded by the march of boots on the rockcrete and the sound of something being scraped along the floor.
Krieg waited. And waited.
Koulick Krieg…+ Like a jackhammer inside his mind. The inquisitor was inside his head again. Not this again, the commissar thought. Not now.
…Kriiiiieg+
Blood fell from his nose in a brief, thick stream, striking the rockcrete floor with a splat. The hand around the pistol began to shake, but not in the way he’d come to expect. His whole arm felt pumped for action: the adrenaline burning through his veins. Instead of the disorientation and sickness that overwhelmed him before, he felt completely in tune with his surroundings: like he was capable of anything, despite his pitiable physical condition. His heart flooded with the desire to kill. The pistol felt like it was going to explode in his hand if he didn’t sate its desire to end lives with it. The commissar’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t common bloodlust or battle fury. Only one life would do.
Finally two sisters rounded the corner, dragging something between them. The first couldn’t have even seen him. His bolt pistol simply slid forward along the wall and spat several rounds of explosive-tip straight through her temple. The second had a millisecond to come to terms with the very definite fact that she was going to die. Instead she decided to go for something on her belt, dropping the load she was carrying with her compatriot. It didn’t make any difference to Krieg. He still spread the contents of her devout little mind across the subway wall.
It was only then the commissar realised that they had in fact been carrying the major and that he’d come very close to blowing the Gomorrian’s head off. At first he thought he had, Mortensen’s body lying as it had fallen in a naked heap. He wasn’t moving.
Stepping out fully from behind the corner, Krieg presented himself to the remaining battle-sisters. Diamanta Santhonax stood there, a vision in her obsidian armour and dramatic cloak, the pins adorning her shaven head glimmering in the dim light of the corridor. Her thin lips curled unreadably. Krieg brought up the bolt pistol. It was her life he needed.
The canoness’s bodyguard stepped out from behind her. As usual the odd-looking fourteen year old was clutching the adamantium relic of their order – the crusader shield of St. Valeria the Younger. Her eyes, always seeming to Krieg just a little too far apart, flashed with a feline intelligence but the rest of her face was just a lifeless mask. She was nimble, even in her ancient armour, and broke into a run, darting up the subway at the commissar, her ermine-lined cloak flowing behind her.
Instead Krieg was forced to turn the wrath of his side arm on the henchwoman, but she had a well-practiced fashion of hiding her agile little form fully behind the shield as she rocketed up the passage towards him. Krieg hammered the relic time and again, hoping age had weakened the ancient shield, but the adamantium soaked up the punishment. Sparks flared off the metal, the bolts not even leaving the hint of a blemish on the gleaming surface.
In seconds the ammunition was spent and the Celestian leapt the final few metres, using the shield to batter Krieg into the wall. She was light, but the artefact wasn’t and the impact made the cadet-commissar cry out as the shield pressed his strapped arm into his chest and his chest into the wall.
Krieg had no time to get over the burning throb rattling up and down the delicate, re-attached limb. The subway was echoing with the chugging bleat of the short chainsabre the henchwoman had drawn from behind the shield. The sister gunned the sabre and flew at Krieg, swinging the blur of wicked barbs in well-practiced manoeuvres. As Krieg ducked and weaved like a drunkard, the sister spun and swung, carving up the wall in plumes of dust-shredded rockcrete. Krieg realised that he couldn’t keep up with the furious assault when the chainblade came in low and wide and ripped across the flesh of his thigh. He clutched the deep wound with his good hand and staggered into a clumsy evasion.
The sabre came straight at him, the intended target his solar plexus. His awkward turn managed to grant him the precious centimetres he needed and the force intended to take the sword through his body actually put the sabre deep into the wall by his hip. Krieg knew he couldn’t waste the opportunity and snatched at the sister’s face with his bloodied hand. For his trouble the henchwoman brought the adamantium edge of her shield across his jaw, slamming the back of his skull into the wall. She brought it back and forth in this way, sloshing the commissar’s head around like a toy until he released his grip and crumbled to the floor.
Putting one boot up against the wall she gunned the sabre handle once more and heaved the struggling chainblade out of its rockcrete scabbard. Krieg heard the blade slow to an idle chug as the sister held it over him. Looking up Krieg saw her glance at Santhonax for approval to kill him. Santhonax stepped over the still, naked body of Zane Mortensen and clapped her gauntlets together in cruel appreciation.
‘Cadet-Commissar Krieg,’ she grinned nastily. ‘I gave you a simple task: I asked you to kill one man. I gave you the authority and opportunity and you failed miserably. Please forgive me if I don’t seem a little more concerned.’
‘Any thug can kill,’ Krieg echoed from their earlier conversation.
‘And yet you seem to have trouble doing it.’
‘I’m happy to disappoint you,’ the commissar croaked. ‘But tell that to your battle-sisters and the pilots of your carriers. I didn’t have too much trouble with them.’
The canoness’s grin waned: ‘If that’s the truth then they’re even more pathetic than you are and therefore don’t deserve to live.’ She nodded coldly at the henchwoman. ‘End this fool’s feeble existence.’
The chainsabre roared. The commissar steeled himself for the furious blade. He flashed his eyes once more at the prone major, surprised to find him not so prone anymore. Swinging his legs around for momentum and his lower back off the floor, Mortensen brutally hamstrung the canoness,
sweeping her boots clean out from under her. He’d picked the moment perfectly. So unexpected was the attack that Santhonax fell straight back, unable to break the fall with her gauntlets, and smacked the back of her head sickeningly against the rockcrete. The adamantium pins found their mark, hammering straight through the skull and into the brain.
The chainsabre died in the henchwoman’s fingers as she watched her mistress fit and spasm on the floor, with blood frothing and dribbling out of the corner of her mouth. Mortensen squirmed around, holding his meaty elbow above her nose in an open threat. One move from the Celestian and the storm-trooper would drive his arm through the battle-sister’s face and drive the pins in flush to the bone, killing Santhonax instantly.
‘You have your orders,’ Santhonax coughed with fanatical determination at the henchwoman.
Bolstered by the canoness’s insane certainty, the battle-sister brought the hungry blade back to life above the cadet-commissar. Once again, Krieg prepared himself for the buzzing caress of weapon’s serrated teeth. For the second time in as many moments, Mortensen saved his life.
Tearing the canoness’s tapered pistol out of its belt holster, the major blasted at the henchwoman, the las-bolts slashing at the side of her face and forcing her to bring up the crusader shield. The final few impacted uselessly on the artefact, but as the shield lowered Krieg could see the major had caught her several times on the cheek and once in the eye. Instead of the usual cauterised holes the commissar had come to expect from a laspistol, the wounds were merely light burns, although the one in her eye had clearly ruptured something.
The chainsabre clattered to the floor and the heavy adamantium shield came down, dragging the svelte body of the henchwoman down with it like an anchor. Her one good panic-stricken eye jumped around the room, but her body lay awkward and motionless as though she were paralysed.
Honour Imperialis - Aaron Dembski-Bowden Page 57