‘I wish he hadn’t died,’ said Cor, hating the childishness of his words as the tears flowed all over again. ‘I wish I had him back again. I miss him.’
The old man swung his legs out from his bed, and Cor was struck by how wiry and muscular they were. The one that had been bent strangely was swollen and purple at the joint, but didn’t seem to be giving the old man too much pain. The man reached over and handed him a square of soft cloth.
‘To wipe your eyes,’ he explained. Cor dried his tears and handed the cloth back to the old man, who neatly folded it and placed it under his threadbare pillow.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ asked the old man.
‘Cor. It’s Cor.’
‘Is that short for something?’
‘Corvus. Sister said he was some important man from history.’
The old man nodded. ‘He was one of the Emperor’s Primarchs. A hero, they say. Didn’t your parents teach you any history?’
Cor shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. They died when I was little.’
‘Ah, well, one should always pay attention to history. Those who don’t will only repeat the mistakes of the past,’ said the old man, reaching up to touch the wound on his scalp.
His fingers came away tipped with blood.
‘Does that hurt?’ asked Cor.
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘I imagine it should, but I do not feel anything. Is that a good or a bad sign, do you suppose?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bad, I should think,’ said the old man. ‘Pain should be embraced, it keeps us alive and teaches us valuable lessons. It tells us not to be so stupid the next time we think of trying something reckless.’
The old man twisted around to take in his surroundings.
‘Tell me, boy, where am I? I don’t recognise this place.’
‘Saint Karesine’s,’ said Cor, wiping his eyes dry again.
‘A schola progenium?’
Cor nodded.
‘How did I get here?’
‘Me and the others found you in a sump pool at the edge-drifts. Looked like you’d been attacked or you’d fallen from higher up the spire.’
‘Like I’d fallen?’
‘Yeah, maybe from one of the commercia levels.’
‘How curious,’ said the old man.
‘Hey, do you remember your name yet?’
The old man looked thoughtful for a moment, his brow furrowing as he chewed his bottom lip.
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, but I expect it will come in time.’
‘So what we ought to call you ’til then?’
‘I’ll tell you what, boy, why don’t you pick a name until I can remember my real one?’
Cor sniffed and wiped his face with his other sleeve. He smiled and said, ‘How about Oskyr?’
‘Oskyr?’
‘Was the name of a cliff-hawk I had when I was real young. It was my friend until it bit me then flew away.’
The old man laughed, the sound thin and reedy, but full of genuine amusement. He nodded and said, ‘Oskyr. Yes, that will do.’
The old man stood, testing his bruised and swollen leg. It held his weight and seemed to satisfy him. Drawing himself up to his full height, Cor was struck by how tall he was.
The old man smoothed his long shirt down and cleared his throat.
‘The children in this room? They are all suffering from blight?’
‘Most of them, yeah.’
‘Then we must get to work,’ said Oskyr. ‘Tell me, Cor, do you have any medicae supplies in the building?’
Cor shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe Sister Caitriona has some. Won’t be much, though.’
‘Then you must ask, boy! We will need supplies if we are going to heal these souls!’ cried Oskyr, with a sudden burst of energy. ‘I’ll not have such kindness as you and your Sister Caitriona have shown me go unrewarded.’
‘Are you a medicae?’ asked Cor. ‘Can you heal them?’
Oskyr grinned and gave a curt bow.
‘I believe I may have some skill in such matters,’ he said.
Cor and Oskyr set to work immediately.
Sister Caitriona had been sceptical at first, but when the old man outlined his plan for the care of the sick children, she reluctantly allowed Oskyr to stay.
There had never been credits enough to keep a proper medicae on staff, so the prospect of Oskyr’s help was too good to forego. The children set to work sweeping the back dormitory and warming it with fires banked in the grates. Blankets were washed in boiling water and Oskyr prepared a list of supplies he required.
Sister Caitriona excused herself from the room whenever supply runs were discussed, claiming she couldn’t know the details of how they planned to obtain what was needed.
As the days and weeks passed, Oskyr’s health improved markedly, though his memory remained clouded and no hints of how he had come to be lying bloody returned to him.
Cor and Zara went out together, hitching lifts up into the upper reaches of the hive on the exterior risers, and swinging from the bridge chains to reach the glassed-in commercia. The victory celebrations following the Archenemy’s defeat on Gandor’s Providence were winding down, and Agri-Hive Osleon was suffering a collective hangover.
The storekeepers were tired and less vigilant, but pilfering their goods was dangerous work and the hive wardens were still out in force. Everyone in the up-spire districts knew to look out for guttersnipes from below, and the shopkeepers were wary as soon as a sun-starved face showed itself. The children worked in pairs, one distracting the shopkeeper while the other darted in to steal what they needed.
Strang and Pasco hit the Mechanicus yards in the forge levels, making off with rubber tubing, glass beakers and flasks, crucibles, mortar and pestles, as well as a host of items whose purpose was a mystery. Other children procured ingredients from a variety of other sources, many of which seemed strangely at odds with the notion of healing. Over the course of five days, the progena of Saint Karesine’s stole a small fortune in equipment and ingredients.
Then the real work began.
Saint Karesine’s became a hive of activity, with a fully stocked infirmary of sorts set up in a section of the basement that wasn’t completely flooded. Fluid from bubbling vats was drawn through yards of pipes and filters, dripped into spherical beakers and boiled before being mixed with powders, tinctures and acrid chemicals. The schola progenium was filled with sweet vapours that cleared throats and kept the occasional algal-blooms at bay where it vented into the outside world.
Cor acted as Oskyr’s assistant, mixing vials of strangely coloured liquid and grinding powders with the mortar and pestle. He laboured night and day, and often the old man would carry Cor to his bed in the upper dormitory with paternal affection and lay him to rest.
Oskyr himself was no less tireless in his researches, working long hours to find the perfect balance of medications. By this time, Oskyr – or Papa Oskyr as he was now known – was as much part of Saint Karesine’s as Sister Caitriona.
Progress was slow, but over the course of only a few weeks, the children in the back dormitory began to respond to Papa Oskyr’s treatments. First in ones and twos, then in ever greater numbers they began to recover until, at month’s end, the last child was given a clean bill of health.
Finally, the schola progenium didn’t feel like a sick joke.
Cor woke one morning to the weak glow of light reflecting on the underside of pipework outside the cracked glass of his window. His head was pounding with a splitting headache and he groaned as he sat up in bed. The dormitory was deserted, every bed except his and Zara’s empty and with the sheets pulled back. Zara sat on the bed across from him, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
‘Morning,’ Cor said, his tongue struggling to form the wor
ds, and his thoughts moving sluggishly, as if through a thick fog.
‘It’s morning?’ she said, blinking and rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘I think I see light,’ said Cor, wiping a clear patch in the window’s grime and peering out.
She nodded and said, ‘Damn, it’s hot in here.’
Cor leaned down and put a hand out towards the wire-mesh grille on the wall next to his bed. Warm air blew softly from the vent, sickly sweet and curiously fragrant. Cor coughed and spat a mouthful of thick, gummy saliva into the chamber pot beside his bed.
‘Feels like I spent too long in a chem-fug last night,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Zara, wiping sweat from her brow.
‘Did we?’
‘No. At least I don’t think so.’
‘Would we remember if we did?’
Zara shrugged and yawned. ‘You know where Pasco is?’
Cor shook his head and looked out through the window. The high clouds parted for a second and he thought he caught a glimpse of sky through the murk. He smiled to see light reaching this far down into the depths.
‘I ain’t seen him,’ he said. ‘Figured he went out late with Strang and Hetta. Maybe Oskyr sent them for some more compounds.’
‘I thought I heard him come back.’
Zara rose from the bed, steadying herself on its iron frame. Cor offered her his arm and the two of them walked towards the doorway. Cor felt weirdly light-headed, exhausted from the late nights and all-day supply runs up-hive.
When this was all finished, he’d sleep forever.
They reached the top of the stairs and gingerly made their way to the lower hallway. Halfway down, something struck Cor as out of place.
‘Can you hear anything?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘You ever know this place to be quiet?’ asked Cor.
Zara screwed up her face, as if he were asking her to describe the inner workings of a warp-engine. She gave up and simply shrugged, using the wall to support herself as she took the last few steps down to the ground floor. She made a half-turn and screamed at something beyond Cor’s line of sight.
He ran down after her and it took him far longer than it should have to process the scene before him. A low-lying vapour drifted through the hallway, a noxious yellow green, and Cor covered his mouth at its reeking stench. He saw Sister Caitriona on her knees, her head resting on the floor in a pool of blood. Zara sank to the floor, staring in horror at the grisly sight.
‘Sister!’ cried Cor, and the fog wreathing his thoughts blew away like morning mist. He ran over to Sister Caitriona and lifted her shoulders, trying to shake her awake. ‘What happened? Where is everyone?’
Sister Caitriona’s forehead was bloody where it had been bashed on the floor, and her eyes were rolled back in their sockets. Thin ropes of greenish saliva drooled from her slack mouth. He saw the timber floorboards were splintered where her head had been lying. Cor tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but the only conclusion he reached was insane.
‘Looks like she did this herself,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Zara, pressing her hands over her mouth. ‘Why would she do that? It don’t make no sense.’
‘None of this does,’ said Cor, cradling Sister Caitriona’s body in his arms and feeling his world come crashing down around him again.
He looked up as he heard a scrape of metal.
‘Look out!’ screamed Zara.
Cor threw himself to the side as a hulking form emerged from the door to the basement. He felt searing fire burn his shoulder, swiftly followed by warm wetness spilling down over his chest. He rolled to his feet in time to see Strang coming at him with his sharpened bolt-shiv. Its entire length was wet with blood.
‘Strang? What are you doing?’ yelled Cor.
‘I’ll kill you!’ yelled the older boy. His eyes were wide and bulging, and yellow green saliva coated his lips.
‘No, wait!’ cried Cor, but Strang wasn’t listening.
He charged Cor, swinging his bolt-shiv wildly. Cor ducked and threw a punch with his good arm. More by luck than judgement, it connected with Strang’s chin and sent him sprawling. Pain shot up his arm from what was likely a bunch of broken fingers. Strang had a jaw like iron.
‘I have to kill you!’ yelled Strang, pressing his fists to his temples and drawing blood where the bolt-shiv sliced his skin. ‘The worms in my head! It’s the only way to get them out! Gnawing, gnawing me. They want your eyes, Cor! They’re so pretty and wet!’
‘Strang, please! What are you talking about?’
The older boy threw himself at Cor again, and this time there was no evading him. Strang’s speed and strength was too great, and Cor was barrelled to the ground. The bolt-shiv stabbed down into his wounded shoulder again and he screamed in agony. He tried to throw a punch, to get his attacker off him, but Strang pinned his arm to his side.
‘The worms, Cor! They wanna eat your eyes!’
Strang lifted his bolt-shiv high, ready to plunge it down into Cor’s chest. He heard a screeching roar somewhere nearby. Cor screamed, but the blade never fell.
He looked up to see Strang staring in disbelief at the juddering teeth of a chainsword jutting from his chest. Blood dripped from its rusted edge. The blade tore clear and Strang toppled sideways, crashing to the floor with a bubbling sigh.
‘But the worms are hungry…’ said Strang, before the life fled his eyes.
Cor saw Zara standing over Strang with Sister Caitriona’s chainsword held tightly in both hands. She was breathing heavily, looking down at the weapon she held. Whatever charge was left in the weapon died, and Zara let it fall from her fingers with a cry of horror. The ancient blade clattered to the floorboards.
‘I killed him,’ she sobbed. ‘I killed him…’
Cor struggled to push himself upright, but only succeeded in propping himself up on one elbow. Thick mist was drifting from the basement, and Cor coughed, wincing as the wound in his shoulder sent a jolt of pain down his spine.
‘You had to,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘He was gonna kill us.’
She shook her head. ‘No. No. No… this can’t be happening. What’s going on here, Cor?’
Before he could answer a blurred shape loomed out of the mist behind Zara. Cor shouted a warning, but it was too late. Tall and powerful, yet slender and wiry, the figure wrapped one arm over Zara’s chest and planted another over her face. The bronzed mouthpiece of a rebreather covered the girl’s mouth and nose, thick with wadded gauze that dripped chemicals from its outflow nozzle.
She struggled briefly, but whatever concoction was in the mask swiftly overcame her strength to resist. She slumped against the figure, who dropped her limp body to the floor.
‘It never ceases to amaze me, all the different reactions to the chemicals,’ said Papa Oskyr, looking down at Strang and Sister Caitriona. ‘Of course, there will always be some individuals more resistant to the soporifics, and, given your natural immunity to the blight, I really should have suspected you might not have succumbed. Sloppy of me. I blame the blow to the head.’
Oskyr reached down and Cor flinched as a needle punctured the meat of his upper arm. He cried out as Papa Oskyr lifted him from the ground and slung him over his shoulder. Even bloodily wounded and groggy, Cor was stunned at the old man’s strength.
‘Who…?’ managed Cor. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Papa Oskyr,’ said the old man brightly as he bent to drag Zara by her hair. He bore them both into the back dormitory, propping Cor up against a bed and lying Zara on the floor next to him. Cor tried to get up, but whatever Papa Oskyr had injected into him rendered his limbs leaden.
It was all he could do to turn his head.
Every bed in the back dormitory was occupied, each figure’s cheeks sunke
n and drained, their eyes fixed open and empty of life. A looping mass of rubber tubing ran from every bed to a pair of heavy tanks like a custom chem-lung rebreather rig. Viscous green fluid swirled in the tanks and brass-rimmed gauges were maxed out in the red.
‘Why are you doing this?’ said Cor. ‘You healed them all…’
‘Well, of course I healed them,’ said Papa Oskyr. ‘What good are sick people to me? Only fit and healthy specimens could provide what I needed to restore my physiology and memory.’
Papa Oskyr marched towards the rebreather tanks and checked the gauges. Satisfied by what he saw, he unhooked the pipes and slung the tanks onto his back. He fitted a fabric rebreather mask to the pipes and slipped it over the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. Eyes Cor now saw were cold as napped flint.
‘It has been quite diverting spending time here, and you have my thanks for giving me a place to hide from Imperial sweep teams while I healed, but, alas, all good things must come to an end, and I have much to do.’
‘But… you wear the eagle…’ said Cor, raising a trembling, palsied hand to point at Papa Oskyr’s shoulder.
The old man glanced down at the pink flesh of his shoulder and the two-headed eagle tattoo there.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I tell you that history was important? You see, this eagle is special, Cor. This is the Palatine Aquila. My Legion was granted the honour of bearing this icon after we saved the life of the Emperor Himself during the Proximan Betrayal. In hindsight a foolish act, but we weren’t to know that at the time.’
Papa Oskyr marched back down the chamber towards Cor, and squatted next to him. He reached inside the pocket of a wet coat that looked like three coats sewn together, and withdrew a small mechanical dancer, the one Cor had placed in the cold hand of his brother. The old man closed Cor’s numb fingers over the toy and placed his other hand over his heart. His head cocked to the side as he listened.
‘Your heart flutters like a little bird, boy, it’s just aching to be free,’ said Papa Oskyr, reaching into another of his coat’s pockets. Cor tried to speak, but nothing came out.
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