Apparently it seemed to work just as well on fellow Enforcers too.
‘Nice work upstairs.’
Sacris felt himself turning red with shame. He knew that this was just a foretaste of the ridicule he would get from the massed ranks of his colleagues. That the first assault came from someone he admired hurt even more.
‘I… I came down here to say thank you.’
Klimt waved Sacris away.
‘Forget it. You survived - that’s all that matters.’
‘Thanks to you.’
Klimt let a small but ironic grin crack his otherwise stern face.
‘Well, let me give you some advice -don’t let it happen again.’
Sacris noticed that despite his calm demeanour, Klimt was nervously moving his hands on the handlebars.
‘Are you going out into the city to help with the pacification?’
Klimt paused long enough to arouse Sacris’s suspicion.
‘No… I’ve got to follow up a lead on the assassination.’
This struck Sacris as odd.
‘And you were going alone?’
Klimt gave the younger man a withering stare.
‘Yes.’
Sacris looked the elder Enforcer directly in the eye.
‘It’s a breach of regulations to go into a potentially life-threatening situation without back-up.’
Klimt held Sacris’s gaze.
‘You think I’m unaware of regulations?’
Sacris smiled and Klimt looked away.
It was true, he needed back-up, and he knew the young Enforcer was angling to come with him. Maybe to get out of the fortress, but more likely to try and make it up to Klimt for saving his life earlier. The reasoning didn’t matter.
The older Enforcer paused. Who else was going to help him? Everyone else was either out in the streets fighting to maintain order, recovering from injury or ass-welded to a desk job. And did he really have to tell this eager, but - from what he’d seen so far - unimpressive, young officer the whole truth?
Klimt looked up and nodded his head in the direction of the exit.
‘Suit up and be back here in five minutes.’
* * *
THE RIDE INTO the Downside was hard. Burning vehicles lined the streets. Broken glass covered the sidewalks, shop fronts were ablaze and buildings were being ransacked indiscriminately.
It was the worst day on the streets that Klimt had seen. The atmosphere was pure poison and the relationship between the population and the Enforcers which, thanks to Governor Schaar’s skilful playing off of these two opposing forces, permanently bubbled somewhere between hostile and hateful was now boiling over in a way that it had always threatened, but somehow just avoided.
Turning off from the main street, the concentration of violence thinned out considerably and the road ahead seemed clear.
Most of the rioting was occurring near the Central Amphitheatre in the heart of the Downside. This was where Schaar had been giving his annual Festival of Light address when two sniper shots from a nearby rooftop turned the world upside down.
It was funny. As Klimt rode through the streets of the Downside, he couldn’t help but remember the first time he experienced its degenerate charm.
His first sight of Persana had been from the air. Through the plastiglass window of the transport ship, it appeared to him as a gleaming jewel dwarfed and bracketed by the giant twin structures of the power station and the fortress at either end of the city.
He didn’t know then that life inside the ‘jewel’ was anything but precious.
Klimt had been expecting a squad flyer to take him to the fortress from the spaceport, but was surprised to discover that he would be sharing a bike with the man who had just introduced himself as his partner.
‘You want to learn about Persana?’ Yedas had asked as they walked to the bike.
‘Sure,’ Klimt had replied glibly.
The only thing that matched the arrogance of Klimt’s response was the shock he received as they hit the Downside.
Sat on the back of the bike, Klimt was rapt at the procession of human and alien life at its rawest that unfolded before him.
The energy on the streets was palpable. Street vendors and musicians rubbed up against pick-pockets and gang members, all of them trying to scratch a living on the grey, eroded sidewalks, alongside Salvationists who believed that the Emperor himself was coming to take everyone up to the feet of his Golden Throne in one enormous rapture.
It was ugly and beautiful in equal measure.
They stopped in the traffic and Yedas turned to him.
‘Bet you’ve never seen such a collection of freaks, weirdo’s and outcasts?’
Klimt had to agree that he hadn’t.
Yedas began to laugh as the traffic began to move again.
‘And they think that fraud Schaar is going to save them?’
The engine roar drowned out his laughter, but Klimt could feel the vibrations through his partners body as the bike drove on through the night.
* * *
THE TWO ENFORCERS arrived at the grim hab-block on the edge of the downside just after midnight. The building stood four storeys high and its exterior brickwork was half eaten away by the chemical storms that occasionally befell this part of town.
The stairwell was deserted and rain damage stained the walls. Sacris brushed corrosive moisture drops from his uniform as he climbed the steps.
On reaching the fourth floor, the two Enforcers turned left and continued down the dark, peeling corridor until they reached door number four-zero-four.
Klimt nodded at Sacris. Both men drew and cocked their pistols.
The rotten door flew off of its hinges with one kick from Klimt’s right boot. Both Enforcers entered the room crouched, their guns drawn. The apartment was silent.
As Klimt went off to search the other rooms, Sacris tossed the sitting room. Not only was it dark and dank, but the floor was covered with rotting food and assorted garbage.
In the corner, by a dust-encrusted pict-viewer, were fifteen identical boxes, stacked up like cans of provisions.
Each box contained forty inhalers. They were meant for citizens with respiratory problem but their alternative street use was as a delivery system for a potent vaporised form of the drug Idea.
Sacris was pretty certain that the occupant of the apartment was not a licensed apothecary.
Exiting the main room, Sacris called after the senior officer. There was no response. As he moved through the dark apartment, the younger officer began to realise that he was enjoying himself.
His train of thought was derailed the moment he entered the bedroom.
The corpse that lay atop the unmade bed had been shot in the head, the rear of the skull obliterated by the exit velocity of the bullet. The wall behind the bed was daubed a violent red.
But it wasn’t the blood that made the wall striking.
Virtually every inch was papered with a vast collage comprised of images and text relating to the late Planetary Governor Schaar.
‘By the Emperor…’ Sacris whispered.
Many of the images in the collage had been culled from a variety of news sources, yet some had obviously been taken covertly by stealth camera at various public events.
Different news headlines - detailing Schaar’s strained relationship with the Imperium and the Enforcers - bracketed and bordered the images. Judging by the yellowing of much of the central part of the collage, the pictures and articles had been built up over a substantial period of time.
The most recent article was dated two weeks ago and detailed Schaar’s continued resistance to the Imperium’s plans to call in the forces once and for all.
It had been a popular move with the general populace of the Downside.
Written through the middle of the collage in fresh, black paint was one word: Heretic!
Klimt stood transfixed by the wall. Sacris couldn’t help but look at the body.
The man on the bed wa
s small and feral in appearance and wore threadbare clothes that were in keeping with the general decor of the apartment. His face was contorted. His eyes rolled up inside the lids.
Resting across the body was an AP-24 sniper’s rifle. Neither needed to say that it was the same type of gun that had been used to kill the Governor.
Sacris rubbed his hand through his hair before finally speaking.
‘Looks like that’s the Schaar case closed.’
Klimt raised his head and looked over at Sacris with suspicion.
‘Why do you say that?’
Initially Sacris thought his superior was joking, but soon realised he wasn’t.
‘The shooter obviously came back here after he killed Schaar and sucked down on the barrel.’
Klimt motioned with his head in the direction of the wall.
‘Pull the bullet out of the wall.’
Sacris looked over at the hole in the wall where the bullet had entered. Pulling his knife from his gauntlet, he dug into the plaster and extracted the bullet from the wall.
It fell into his palm. Sacris examined it closely.
‘This bullet is from a pistol.’
Klimt nodded. He shifted on the spot, looking down at the corpse on the bed before adding:
‘This man was murdered by Governor Schaar’s assassin.’
Sacris took a moment to check what he’d just heard.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Believe me,’ Klimt said.
Sacris sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know what to think.
‘Sir… what’s going on here?’
There was silence in the room, a silence that overpowered the stench of damp and death. The situation was a lot more serious than Klimt had envisaged and Sacris had seen too much already.
He reached into his right side pocket and handed its contents to Sacris.
Sitting in his palm was a ceremonial necklace and a single bullet. The bullet was of the same calibre as that used by the rifle currently lying on top of the corpse.
‘I don’t understand…’
The older officer relaxed his stance and looked down at the floor as he began speaking.
‘Earlier today - before I saved you - I received a package.’
Klimt shifted awkwardly on the spot.
‘Inside was the necklace, the bullet and a printed note with this address.’
Klimt looked over at the corpse wistfully.
‘I didn’t know he lived here.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He is, or was, Scabus Jenk.’ Klimt paused for a second. ‘He was also the last person to see my partner alive ten years ago.’
Sacris looked down at the necklace and the bullet in his hand.
‘You think he sent you this?’
Klimt smiled weakly.
‘Someone did.’
Closing his fist around the necklace, Sacris took a moment to process what he’d just been told. Klimt stood by the window looking out at the oppressive night sky.
Sacris got up from the bed and walked into the bathroom. He felt dirty and needed to wash his face. Klimt was still staring out of the window when he reentered the bedroom.
‘Someone definitely knew you were coming.’
Klimt turned and saw Sacris standing before him holding a cheap, white envelope.
‘It was taped to the mirror in the bathroom.’
Klimt’s name was written on the envelope in black ink. He took it and opened it hesitantly, scanning the note inside.
He let the envelope and note fall to the floor.
‘We have to leave.’
Before Sacris could reply, Klimt had walked past him and out of the door.
Sacris moved over and picked up the crumpled, printed note from the floor. It read: Ten years asleep. See you at the mausoleum.
* * *
AS THE BIKES tore through the guts of the Downside on this night of eternal darkness, Klimt couldn’t help but conclude that in the last fifteen years - despite the prevailing wisdom of the time - things had gotten worse under Schaar.
A planet ravaged by war, sixty-five per cent unemployment, a forty per cent rise in crime and a population more dependent on handouts than ever before.
This was Governor Schaar’s legacy.
As he and Sacris turned down the deserted back streets, Klimt noticed a huge mural, freshly painted on the wall of an abandoned market. The mural read: Blood cries for blood.
The words evoked something in Klimt, his mind wandering back ten long years.
It was just before the incident at the power station and Yedas had recently been informed that the case against Jorsted was about to be dropped. The heat was building and Governor Schaar was openly pushing for Yedas’s badge; leaking allegations to the press that Yedas had roughed up Jorsted a little too much during one particular interrogation.
Klimt had been there when this had allegedly occurred and Yedas had treated Jorsted like any Enforcer would have treated any other suspected criminal on Persana.
That was the thing about Yedas. He was always by the book.
At the time, Klimt had naively thought his partner would get a token punishment and that would be it. With the benefit of hindsight and experience, he now knew that Yedas was facing suspension and redeployment to another posting or - as seemed more likely -expulsion from the force.
On this particular night, Klimt had come to see Yedas about some evidence relating to another case. It was late and Yedas was in his room. As Klimt approached he could see that the door was open.
He peered round the half open doorway of Yedas’s quarters. On the bed, Klimt could see his partner sitting, head in hands, weeping softly to himself.
Klimt hesitated. Should he go in or turn and walk away? He took a few moments before finally turning away from the door and moving back towards his own quarters.
He’d thought no more of it until tonight. But now, for the first time, he considered whether Yedas had left the door open on purpose. Perhaps in the hope that someone would find him before it was too late.
* * *
ON ENTERING THE power plant for the first time in ten years, Klimt felt a shiver climb the length of his spine. The bullet holes in the cold floor still remained. The dents in the coolant tower still pock marked its surface.
Climbing the gantry, Klimt was overwhelmed by the heat pouring forth from the central core. For a second it was as if the last decade had never happened. He half-expected to find Scabus Jenk cowering in the same alcove.
The almost familiar voice behind him shattered Klimt’s nostalgic interlude.
‘You made it then?’
Klimt turned. He recognised the outline of the man before him immediately. He cleared his throat and tried to speak without betraying the emotion in his voice.
‘How could I not, old friend?’
* * *
THE EVENING AIR was cold, but inside Sacris was bubbling with rage. Not only had Klimt lied to him, he’d also forced the younger Enforcer to sit outside and wait like an errant child when Sacris reasoned Klimt needed back-up most.
He’d argued this with Klimt, but to no avail. He truly was as stubborn as his reputation suggested, but Sacris was surprised that someone could be so self defeating in their stubborness.
The high esteem in which he held the older officer plummeted the colder he got. What was the point of waiting around for Klimt to be brought out in a body bag while he froze to his saddle?
It was in this growing spirit of rebellion and disillusionment that Sacris finally got up from the bike and began the slow walk into the power plant via the south entrance.
I’ve made one bad decision already today, the young Enforcer thought to himself as he cocked and loaded his sidearm.
What difference is one more going to make?
* * *
AS THE TWO men faced each other across the platform that surrounded the central core, the static in the air was almost audible.
‘You look
well, for a dead man.’
Yedas laughed. It echoed around the high roof and encircled Klimt until he wasn’t sure if it was Yedas laughing after all, but rather himself.
‘As droll as ever,’ Yedas intoned, barely suppressing his disdain. He’d always had a way of making Klimt feel inferior and that talent had seemingly remained undiminished in the intervening years.
‘You caught up with our old friend, Mr Jenk?’
‘I found his body, if that’s what you mean.’
Yedas put his hands into the pockets of the duster he wore. Klimt’s body tensed.
‘I’d like to say that he’d improved as a person in the decade I spent with him, but when you’re dealing with Downside scum as thick and recalcitrant as that, you’re deluding yourself if you think they ever rise above what they are.’
Yedas removed his right hand from his pocket and rubbed his face idly.
‘Still, he served his purpose.’
‘And that was?’ Klimt asked icily.
Yedas smiled at his former partner.
‘To help me set Persana on the long road to salvation.’
As he talked, Yedas appeared so perfectly calm and detached it was almost as if he were reciting lines he had learned by rote.
‘The heresy on this planet that the Enforcers have allowed makes me sick to my stomach.’
‘There has been no heresy on Persana.’
Yedas let out a muted laugh.
‘You think those heretics down in the south aren’t in league with Schaar? From the day he took office, everything he has done has been to line his own pocket and to undermine the Enforcers’ authority.’
Looking at Yedas, Klimt realised that the image of Yedas as a raving madman he had constructed in his mind on the drive over from the apartment block was being demolished before his eyes.
Yedas was many things, but mad was not one of them.
‘Why do you think he’s resisted the call for Astartes reinforcements? It would reveal this whole war, this whole abortion of a society he sits atop, as being the abomination it is.’
Klimt breathed deeply, absorbing what his former partner had just said.
Blood Cries for Blood - James Peaty Page 2