by Dan Abnett
It was even possible that he too had discovered the deceit after the event, and was moving fast following some lead to make amends for his mistake. Or that he was fleeing the shame… or…
So many possibilities. I had to play the odds the safest way. I was sure Lyko was guilty to a greater or lesser extent, so I would follow him. Even if he was simply chasing Esarhaddon too, it would lead me in the right direction.
And I couldn't inform the Inquisition, or talk to Voke or Heldane. My uncertainty was such that I couldn't even trust them not to be part of it.
A complex trail of almost subliminal clues had put me on his tail. I'll spare you the bulk of the details, for they would merely document the painstaking tedium that is often the better part of an inquisitor's work. Suffice to say, we searched and processed vox logs, and the broadcast archives of the local and planetary astropathic guilds. We watched ship transfers, orbital traffic, departure lists, cargo movements. I had personnel in the streets, watching key locations, asking off-the-record questions in trader bars, calling in favours from friends of friends, acquaintances of acquaintances, even one or too old adversaries. I hired trackers and bloodhounders, and took every scent trace I could from Lyko's apartment. I had pheromone codes programmed into servitor skulls that I released into up-ports and orbital stations.
I had well over a hundred personnel on my staff, many of them trained hunters, researchers or surveillancers, but I swear the sheer load of data would have burned out our brains.
We would have failed without Aemos. My old savant simply rose to the challenge, never put off, never fatigued, his mind soaking in more and more information and making a thousand mental cross checks and comparisons every hour, tasks I couldn't have managed in a day with a codifier engine and a datascope.
He seemed, damn his old bones, to enjoy it.
The clues came in, one by one. A shipment of cargo put into long-term storage in a holding house in Hive Eight and paid for by a debit transfer from one of Lyko's known associates. A two-second pheromone trace in the departure halls of a commercial port down on the coast at Far Hive Beta. A fuzzy image captured from a Munitorium pict-watcher on the streets of Hive Primaris.
A passenger on a manifest listing making an unnecessary number of interconnecting flights between up-ports before moving off planet, as if trying to lose pursuit.
Then the key ones: a cursory excise exam of freight that registered the presence of psi-baffling equipment in an off-wo rid shipment. A series of clumsily disguised and presumably hasty bribes to key longshoremen at the Primaris starport. A rogue trader vessel – the Princeps Amalgum – staying a day longer at high-anchor than it had logged permission to do, and then a sudden change in its course plans.
Instead of a long run to the Ursoridae Reef, it was heading spinwards, via Front's World, to the twist farms of Eechan.
There was a knock at the room door just after dawn, and I sent everyone except Nayl into the adjoining room. Bequin and Inshabel had the presence of mind to scoop up all the food pails except two. I went over to the window, and Nayl sat down in a chair, with his arm casually over the back so anyone coming in couldn't see the autopistol in his hand.
I focussed my mind for a moment to make sure our twist disguises were live, and then said, 'Enter.'
The door opened and the porcupine girl from the twist bar came in. She was dressed in a glistening sap-cloak, and she looked at us curiously as she pushed back her hood.
'You take your time, twists,' she said.
'You got something, sweetgene, or you simply s'got to check the good stuff you passed on last night?' Nayl asked with a lascivious smile.
She scowled, and a head crest of spines rose in a threat posture.
'I s'got a message. You know who from.'
The Phant?' 'I ain't saying, genesmudge. I just bring it.'
Then s'bring it.'
She reached into her cloak and produced an old, low-tech tracker set, battered and worn. Holding it up briefly, she thumbed it on long enough for us to see the green telltale winking, and then switched it off again and dropped it with a clatter onto the peeling tabletop.
'S'gonna be an auction. Bidder's market, so bring lotsa yellow, he says. Lotsa.'
Where? When?'
Today at shift two, in the chew-after. That s'tell you where.'
That it?' I asked.
'S'all I have. I just bring it.' She hesitated at the door. You s'might wanna make my worth while.'
I put my hand into my coat pocket and pulled out a single, large denomination Imperial coin.
Tou take these?'
Her eyes lit up. 'I take anything/
I tossed it over to her and she caught it with one hand.
Thanks/ she said. She went out through the door and then looked back at us, as if my generous contribution to her immediate happiness had shifted her opinion of us.
Which, sadly, given this miserable place, it probably had.
'S'don't trust him/ she advised, then closed the door and left.
The chew-after was the local name given to the tracts of farmland laid waste after the harvesters had been through. Wrecklands of shredded vegetation that began to regrow within days of a harvest, such was the speed and fecundity of
Eechan's floral growth. At any one time, there were several thousand square kilometres of chew-after in the farmlands round the mainhive.
We headed south, into the most recent areas of thresh-wake, following the signal of the tracker.
Noon. That was what she had meant by shift two. The second shift change of the day. We gave ourselves two hours to get there.
On top of all my speculations about Lyko, things still didn't add up. It had been easy enough for Nayl to identify Phant Mastik as the local slaver, with a specialisation in mindjobs, but why was Lyko using him? Why was Lyko selling Esarhaddon at all?
Aemos had suggested it was part of a final trade now that Esarhaddon had completed his part of their pact. That supposed Lyko was in control, which I doubted. And if he was simply cutting the heretic loose now the work was done, why sell him? Why, indeed, come all this way to do that? Inshabel supposed that maybe Lyko was now anxious to get rid of the rogue-psyker because he was afraid of him.
I had my own theory. Lyko had brought Esarhaddon to Eechan for some other purpose, and arranging a mock sale through the Phant was simply bait to draw anyone who might have followed him out into the open.
As it turned out, I was right. I wasn't surprised. It's what I would have done.
The chew-after was a miasmal waste. As far as the eye could see, which wasn't far at all given the clinging sap-mists from the night before, the land was a gouged, punished rain of ripped shoots, shredded plant-fibre, wrenched-up root balls and pressure-flattened soil. The massive track-marks of the harvesters had left wide ruts the depth of a man's waist, at the bottom of which plant material and soil was layered into a glassy flatness like they had been set in aspic.
The misty air was wet with sap and everything was crawling with lice motes and storm-bugs. They swarmed in the air, settled all over us, and we could feel them in our clothes.
By then, although we maintained our twist disguises, we were all armed and armoured at full strength. One doesn't walk into a likely trap with a blackpowder pistol and a sharp stick. I wore body armour, and carried my power sword and boltpistol. The others were similarly heavy with bat-tlegear. If we were caught now, maintaining the pretence we were twists would be the last of our problems.
Ten kilometres south, through the swirling, sticky mists, we could hear the chugging, rending sounds of the harvesters as they moved on their way. Every few metres there was another bloody smear or furry pulp, the remains of crop rodents caught in the reaping blades of the factory machines.
"You'd think/ said Inshabel, pausing to wipe the gooey sweat from his face, 'that the wildlife would have got used to the farm-factories by now. Learned to get out of the way.'
'Some things never learn/ Husmaan muttered. 'Som
e things always come back to the source/
'He means food. He always means food/ Nayl chuckled to me. To Duj, everything comes back to food/
According to mill statistics/ said Aemos, 'there are four billion crop-rats in every demitare of field space. Rivers of them flee before the harvesters. We've seen one rat-corpse for every twenty-two metres, which suggests only two-point-two per cent of them were unlucky enough to be caught in the blades. That means the vast percentage fled. They're smarter than you think/
He paused. Everyone had stopped and was staring at him.
What?' he asked. What? I was only saying…'
'That old geezer fantisises about maths and stats more'n I fantisise about the lay-dies/ Nayl told Bequin as we moved forward again.
'I'm not sure which of you I'm supposed to feel more sorry for/ she said.
Husmaan held up the tracker the Porcupine-girl had given us and shook it. Then he slapped it a couple of times for good measure.
We waded through the plant fibre and came level with him.
'Problem?' I asked.
'Damn thing… too old/
'Let me see it/
Husmaan handed it to me. It was a piece of crap, all right. Battered by a lifetime of hard knocks, with a nearly flat powercell. A nice touch that, I thought, noting Lyko's careful planning. An unreliable tracker made this seem so much more genuine. A brand new or well-powered unit would have been as good as a written invitation beginning 'Dear people chasing me, please come here and get killed.
I shook the device myself and got a good return. Just enough juice to lead us to our deaths.
That way/1 said.
It was close to noon. The sun was up, but the sap-mists hadn't dissipated. We were bathed in a warm, yellow, filmy glare. According to the tracker, we were about half a kilometre from the auction site.
'They're expecting me and Nayl, so we'll go in with Bequin/1 wanted an untouchable close to me. 'Inshabel, cut east with Aemos. Husmaan, west. Covering positions. Don't move in unless you hear me vox a direct command. Understand?'
The three nodded.
'If you find anything, keep it Glossia and keep it brief. Go/
Nathun Inshabel armed his lascarbine and moved away to the left with Aemos along a harvester track-bed, leaving tacky footprints in the glassy,
crashed residue at the bottom of the huge rat. Husmaan's hempcloth-wrapped long-las was already armed. He darted away to the right, quickly lost in the mist.
'Shall we?' I said to Bequin and Nayl.
'After you/ Nayl grinned.
I made one last command by vox, in Glossia code, and we trudged into the ripped thickets of the chew-after.
The Phant's people had used flamers to clear a wide space in the morass of the chew-over. We could smell the burnt pulp-fibre from several dozen metres away.
The mist was still close, but I could make out several crop-runner trucks, skimmers and land speeders parked in the blackened clearing. People bustled around them.
What do you see?' I asked Nayl.
He played his magnoculars round again. 'Phant… and his twist cronies. The horned guy, and that eyeball creep. Maybe a dozen, some of whom think they're hidden around the perimeter. Plus the prospective buyers. I make… three… no, four, all hive-types, with minders. Sixteen other bodies, all told.'
I yanked up my hood. 'Come on.'
'There's an alarm strand round the site.'
'We'll trip it. That's what it's there for.'
The alarm strand was an ankle-high wire-cord tied taut between the churned root clumps. Every metre or so, the air-dried shell case of a storm bug was carefully tied to it, forming a little, hollow-sounding bell. They rattled and jangled as we deliberately plucked the wire.
In a moment, ragged-robed twist muscle loomed out of the murdered undergrowth, aiming matchlocks and blades at us.
'We're s'here for the auction/ I told them, holding up Phant's tracker. 'S'invited/
'Name?' croaked a frog-headed thing with a crossbow and a spittle problem.
'Eye-gor, from off. With his twists/
Frog-head waved us into the site. The others assembled before the low, flak-board stage on which Phant Mastik stood, looking round at us.
'Eye-gor! Off-world twist, with two others/ Frog-head announced.
Phant nodded his heavy, tusked head and Frog-head and his men backed off, putting up their weapons.
++S'glad you could make it, twist++
'You the Phant. You the twist with the stuff. But… I s'hear my own name loud, not these others/
++Let's all be known, then the sale can begin++
Phant looked down at the other buyers. One, a stunning female up-spire hiver in a tight bodyglove nodded. 'Frovys Vassik/ she said through a pan-lingual servitor-skull drone that floated at her shoulder.
She was clearly speaking some high-caste dialect cant which the drone was translating. I assayed her and her two male bodyguards quickly: Dilettante wealthers, would-be cultist types, well-armed and armoured with all the wargear spire money could afford.
'Merdok/ said the next, a frail, white-suited, elderly man leaning on a cane and wiping perspiration from his brow with a japanagar lace kerchief that had cost more than the lowly Phant's entire outfit. He had four minders, squat females in rubberised war-rena suits, each with an electronic slave-leash collar around her throat.
Tanselman Fybes/ said the bland-faced man to Merdok's left, stepping forward with a courteous nod. He was dressed in a bright orange cooler-suit, with large, articulated exchanger vanes sprouting from his shoulders. His breath smoked in the personal veil of cold air the suit was generating around him.
He was also alone, which made him instantly more dangerous than the hive retards who had brought muscle.
Той may address me as Erotik/ said the last, a bitch-faced crone who had inadvisably wedged her ancient body into a close-fitting, spiked, black bodyglove, the mark of a death-cultist.
Or would be death-cultist, I thought. She had five masked and harnessed slaves with her, all of them sweating in the misty heat. I saw at once they were out of their depth. They played at death-cult, up in the eyries of the mainhive, maybe cutting their skin and drinking blood once in a while. The closest they had come to a real death-cult was watching some blurry, fake snuff-pict to impress their friends after a banquet.
'S'greet you all. I'm Eye-gor. S'off world, and twisted as they come/
I bowed. Fybes and Vassik returned the motion. Merdok mopped his brow and Erotik gestured a very ham-fisted sign of die True Death which nearly made Nayl laugh out loud.
'Can we get started, my friend Phant?' Merdok asked, dabbing his kerchief around the sweat runs on his face. 'It's midday and bloody hot out here/
'And I have murders to do and blood to drink!' Erotik cried. Her plump and unhealthy minders oohed and aahed and tried to get their nipple-spikes and bondage straps comfortable.
'Oh dear God-Emperor… they're never going to make it out alive…' whispered Bequin.
'More fool them…' I whispered back.
Phant's men used force-poles and electrolashes to goad the sale item from the back of a crop-runner track onto the stage. It was a rangy human, straitjacketed and bindfolded, with a heavy psychic-damper muzzle buckled around his head.
++Alpha-plus quality. One only. S'bids, now?'++
'Ten bars!' cried Erotik at once.
Twenty/ said Vassik.
'Twenty-five!' cried Merdok.
Fybes cleared his throat. His cough blew cold steam out from the private atmosphere generated by his suit. 'I think that's established the common level here. I do hate mixing with proles. One thousand bars.'
Erotik and her minders gasped.
Merdok looked pale.
Vassik glanced round at Fybes with a curt look.
'Ahh. At least someone sees the true worth of the item on sale. Good. We can begin serious bidding.' Vassik cleared her throat and her cyber-skull dutifully issued white noise. 'Twelve hundred b
ars/ she said.
Thirteen hundred!' Erotik cried out, desperately.
'Fifteen/ said Merdok. 'My best offer. I had no idea this meet would be so hungry… or so rich/
Two thousand/ said Vassik's hovering skull.
Three/ said Fybes.
Merdok was already shaking his head. Erotik was walking away towards the edge of the site, complaining loudly to her pudgy sex-toys, who bustled around her.
Three five/ said Vassik.
'Four/ said Fybes.
'Anything?' I whispered to Bequin.
'Not even the slightest latent push. But those baffles could be doing their job/
'So it could be Esarhaddon?'
'Yes. I doubt it. But it could/
'Nayl?'
Harlon Nayl looked round at me.
'Nothing. The Phant's minders are getting edgy because the old witch and her sad hump-muffins are trying to leave before the auction's finished. But nothing else…'
'Five five/ Vassik's servitor-skull rasped.
'Six/ said Fybes.
Merdok had withdrawn to one side of the site with his minders, and was taking a sustaining puff of obscura from a portable water-pipe one of the war-rena slave ferns was holding for him. Erotik and her chubby concubines were arguing with Horn-head and another couple of twists on the other side of the burned acre.
'Eight five!' Vassik was announcing.
'Nine!' returned Fybes.
'Fifty!' I said quietly, tossing a huge pile of ingots down onto the stained soil.
There was a pause. A long, damned pause.
++Fifty bid++
Phant looked down at us all.
Merdok and Erotik and all their people were simply dumbstruck. Vassik turned away, screaming, and her minders had to hold her down as she went into fits of rage.
Fybes just looked at me, his breath coming slow and short in clouds.
'Fifty?' he said.
'S'fifty, count 'em. You got better?'