[Ravenor 01] Ravenor - Dan Abnett

by Dan Abnett

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "Don't make me go in the shower. She's in there. She's in there. She's all bloody and broken."

  "Who is? Zael, what are you talking about?"

  "Nove."

  "Who the frig is that?"

  "My sister."

  "You told me your sister was dead," Kys said.

  "She is." Zael wept. "Go in there and see for yourself."

  Kys let him slump. She walked towards the shower stall. The only light in the cabin was welling out from behind the glass.

  Kys realised she had no weapon on her at the same moment she realised there was no reason for her to be armed. The boy had suffered a nightmare. That was the end of it. Why was her heart beating so fast? Why was she so scared?

  The fish scales. She thought of them at the very last minute. They were sharp, easy to TK. Mr. Halstrom had admired them. She mind-lifted them off her throat stud and hovered them in the air.

  This was stupid. The boy had been dreaming. There was nothing in the stall.

  She took hold of the door handle. The scales were circling in the air.

  She opened the door. Inside the shower stall was-

  Nothing.

  Kys sagged and breathed out. The scales flew back to her throat and fastened themselves again around the top stud.

  "Shit, Zael. You nearly had me there. I really thought..."

  She looked round and saw the boy was crawling towards the open cabin door.

  She bounded across to him and grabbed him by the hair. He squealed. "Listen! You actually scared me then with your game!"

  "It wasn't a game!" Zael whined. "It was a message."

  They entered the second salon. It was as busy as the first. At a question from Preest, a Vigilant pointed them up towards a booth on the third gallery.

  They climbed the stairs. Almost at once, it was obvious the third gallery was quiet, almost empty.

  "I don't like it." Nayl whispered.

  "Oh, do shut up," Preest said.

  The booths they were passing were vacant, as if they had been cleared.

  A tender hurried past. "Akunin?" Preest called out. "Where do I find Master Akunin?"

  "Gone!" the tender cried, and in another moment, so was she.

  "I think it's time to split," Nayl said.

  "Agreed," Ravenor said. "While we still can."

  Two figures stepped out of a booth ahead and blocked the gallery. One was a nekulli, armed with a traditional saw-toothed lance. The other was a human in head-to-toe battleplate, polished a deep, silvery blue. He had a falchion in his right hand.

  "About face." Ravenor hissed. They turned.

  Three more figures stood behind them. One was a man of heavy build with sandy-white hair. To his left stood a kroot with a billhook, to his right, a man in chequered leather armour, wielding a boarding axe.

  The man with the sandy-white hair was wearing the camo-armour of a game agent and held a huntsman's hooksword. He looked familiar, very familiar, to Nayl. For a second Nayl thought it was Feaver Skoh. But this wasn't the man Nayl had seen in the cavae of the Carnivora. Nayl had a good eye for faces. This man was a brother or close kin. A dynasty of xeno-hunters, that's how the Skohs had been described.

  "What is this?" asked Preest. Ravenor could hear the tremor in her voice.

  The game agent smiled. "This is the end of the line."

  At the far end of the gallery behind the game agent and his comrades, Ravenor could see Vigilants gathering, forming a cordon. No one was going to intercede on their behalf. As far as the Order of Vigilants was concerned, this was private business, and would be concluded privately, as per the weapon-laws of the Reach.

  +Go.+

  At the single word, Nayl and Ravenor/Mathuin began to move. Mistress Preest's aristocratic canopy went clattering over as they up-ended it and drew the weapons concealed within its hollow poles. Stave-swords, with handgrips as long as their thin, straight blades, slithered out into their hands.

  Nayl went straight for the game agent, who bellowed and lunged to meet him. Stave-blade encountered hooksword with enough leverage to send the hunter stumbling sideways. But the man in chequered armour and the kroot were right behind their boss. Nayl dummied left out of the swooping downward path of the boarding axe, and smacked the pommel of the stave-sword sideways into the side of the man's head. He cried out and fell down on one knee. Then a scything blow from the kroot's billhook ripped a chunk out of Nayl's quilted coat. The coat was lined with wire-mail, and severed metal loops and scads of downy quilting shredded into the air. Nayl leapt backwards out of range of the kroot's next swing, doubled round to slam-kick the chequered fighter in the face before he could get to his feet again, and came up facing both the kroot and the recovered game agent as they rushed him together.

  Ravenor moved the other away, taking on the nekulli and the bounty hunter in the polished blue battleplate. Ravenor's stave-sword parried three vicious strikes from the man's falchion, two off the blade and one off the handgrip base. The nekulli tried to flank him while he was occupied, but Ravenor broke to his left, swinging the stave-sword round in a two-handed, overhead slice that described an arc of almost three hundred and sixty degrees. The nekulli staggered back, wobbled and collapsed, his throat slit.

  With a furious exclamation, the man in plate charged in, hacking with his sword. His skill and speed were both considerable. Ravenor parried and deflected the rain of blows with a fluid, switching combination of single and double-handed grips, rotating the stave-sword like a quarter staff.

  Nayl had never tangled with a kroot before, though he'd had sight of them often enough to know what one was. Rumour said they were a mercenary race or a slave-kind, serving some technologically advanced species beyond the Imperial fringes, a species that only a few rogue traders had ever encountered. Despite its size - it towered over him - and its odd, jerky movements, it was formidably fast and seemed to possess unerringly acute senses. With its crude billhook, it managed to smash aside every clean stroke he made against it. It stank terribly of musky, rancid sweat. It would have been match enough for him, but he still had the game agent circling in from the right.

  The kroot landed another rending blow that ripped into Nayl's armour coat. He staggered backwards, wrong-footed, and the game agent slammed in, his hooksword striking across the side of Nayl's helmet.

  Nayl went sprawling. His buckled helmet bounced off his head across the gallery floor.

  "Harlon!" Preest yelled. The mistress was no fighter. She was caught, petrified on her carriage, between the two melees.

  The kroot pounced forward onto Nayl and chopped his billhook down. Nayl rolled, leaving the tatters of his coat behind, pinned to the gallery deck. He leaped to his feet in time to meet and block the game agent's sword, turning its blade aside with his blade and bringing the end of the long handgrip round and up hard into the agent's face.

  Bone broke, blood spurted, and the agent tumbled backwards with a raging curse. But the kroot was surging in at Nayl from behind.

  "Nayl! Nayl!" Preest screamed exasperatedly. She jumped off her ornate carriage and aimed the actuator wand at it. It moved away from stationary with a rapid acceleration, hurtling forward half a metre off the floor.

  Nayl began to turn at the sound of Preest's voice. He was stripped down to his bodyglove, and that would not withstand a direct hack from the kroot's razor-sharp weapon.

  The unmanned lifter carriage, travelling at nearly thirty kilometres an hour, struck the kroot from behind and bowled him over. He tumbled awkwardly, emitting a strangled squawk, and went sprawling. Nayl came in, plunging his stave-sword down, blade-first, and impaled the thrashing avian to the gallery floor.

  The kroot went into death spasms, beak clacking and bony limbs beating the ground. The violent motion ripped the stave-sword out of Nayl's hands.

  The man in chequered armour, his face a mask of gore, was back on his feet. He hurled himself at Nayl. The man had lost his boarding axe. His han
ds clenched around Nayl's throat.

  Nayl rolled expertly with the force of impact, going down on his back and propelling the man right over him with his legs. The man crashed over into the nearest booth, destroying the meeting table under his weight.

  Nayl was back on his feet in a moment, but now he was unarmed. The game agent came towards him, chopping with his hooksword. Nayl could do nothing except dance out of the way of each swing. Behind him, Preest was still shouting, and Ravenor was trading blow for blow with the battle-plated hunter.

  He'd been in worse positions, Nayl thought. But right then, he couldn't bring a single one to mind.

  Kys dragged Zael out into the companionway. He was muttering, sobbing.

  "What do you mean, a message? What's the frigging matter with you?" she snapped.

  He murmured something.

  "What?"

  Zael murmured again.

  "I can't hear you! What did you say?"

  Zael looked up at her. Blood was dribbling from his nostrils. Kys couldn't remember hitting him. Why was his nose bleeding?

  "Nove..."

  Wary for a moment, and suddenly terribly calm, she pulled him to his feet.

  "Nove is your sister. I'm not your sister."

  "I know. She came. She told me."

  "Told you what?" Kys asked.

  "It's a trap," he said. "It's a trap."

  "Oh, God-Emperor," said Halstrom abruptly. His tone was enough to make both Thonius and Frauka look up from their latest game.

  "What?" Thonius asked tersely.

  Halstrom began punching the keyboard rapidly.

  "Something's wrong. I've lost contact with the mistress' landing party."

  Thonius got to his feet. Frauka lit another lho-stick.

  "Bad transmission," the blunter said, carelessly.

  "No, no," said Halstrom. "We're being blocked."

  "Are you sure?" Thonius said, leaning in over Halstrom's shoulder.

  "No, I'm not," Halstrom said. He depressed another few keys. Nothing happened. "Bridge controls just went offline," he said.

  "That's impossible!" Thonius cried. He was nursing his bound-up limb with his free hand, as if it was suddenly giving him pain. "You've made a mistake."

  "I assure you, interrogator, I have not." Halstrom began. "Primary controls are locked out. The entire system is-"

  "Who the hell's that?" Thonius said sharply. He was looking at the hololith displays that showed the feeds from the pict-sources overlooking the jetty. A dozen figures were marching down the jetty towards the Hinterlight's airgate. They were uniformly tall, and hidden under hooded storm coats. Four of them were paired off to share the burden of two long, and clearly heavy, pannier crates.

  "Seal the airgate!" Thonius hissed.

  "I can't!" Halstrom replied. "We're locked out!"

  The main hatch onto the bridge rattled open behind them. Madsen strode on deck, escorted by her two Ministry colleagues.

  "What is going on?" she asked.

  Halstrom began to rise from his throne. "Mamzel Madsen, you're not permitted up here-" he began.

  "Oh, that's right," she said. Her arm came up and a snub-nosed automatic pistol was suddenly aiming directly at Halstrom's forehead.

  "Sit," she ordered.

  Thonius tried to ran. Ahenobarb wheeled around and landed a monstrous punch that sent Thonius tumbling across the deck.

  "Oh, f-!" started Frauka, dropping his lho-stick. Madsen turned casually and shot him.

  The raw boom of the gunshot made Halstrom flinch. Frauka looked down in surprise at the bloodstain soaking out across his shirt, and then toppled backwards over the arm of his seat.

  Kinsky, his face a malicious grin, walked up to Halstrom.

  "Sit, she said," he laughed.

  Halstrom sat, feeling his legs going weak.

  "Y-you can't do this..." he mumbled.

  Ahenobarb was carrying a kitbag over his shoulder. He dropped it to the deck, unfastened it and pulled out a metal object that looked for all the world like a limpet-mine.

  He twisted the setting dial, and a red indicator light began to wink on its surface. It was a psionic nullifier unit, extremely high powered, with a mag-clamp built into its base.

  Ahenobarb strode over to Ravenor's chair, slammed the device down onto its sleek casing, and locked it into place.

  Preest was still shouting. Give it a rest, woman, Nayl thought. It's not doing any good. He leapt sideways from the game agent's darting sword, trying to draw him round so he could grab one of the fallen weapons. Even the kroot's frigging billhook would do.

  The game-agent was smarter than that. He kept pressing in, driving Nayl towards the gallery wall.

  Preest was looking back at Ravenor. The whirling stave-sword was slowly getting the better of the battleplated man's falchion. A swing, a strike, a bright flare of sparks.

  "For Throne's sake, Ravenor!" she yelled. "We have to-"

  Ravenor suddenly staggered. Was he hit? She hadn't seen him take a hit. Why was he-

  Ravenor fell flat on his face. Horrified, Preest couldn't rid her mind of the simple cliché... like a puppet when the strings are cut.

  The game agent aimed the tip of his hooksword at Nayl.

  "Time to surrender, I believe," he said.

  "Oh, I can go all night," Nayl panted.

  "I'm sure. But can they?"

  Nayl looked around. Ravenor was face down on the ground, still, dead. The man in the polished blue battle-plate now had his falchion to Preest's throat.

  At last, she had stopped yelling. Her eyes were wide, blinking, wet with frightened tears, staring right at him.

  "Fine," said Nayl, raising his hands. "Fine!"

  PART THREE

  Lost with all Hands

  ONE

  The bulkhead glow-globes and recessed lumin panels began to go out. All along the corridor, they dimmed to black. Then the background whir of the atmosphere processors began to fade too. In a few seconds, the air became warm and still.

  "Come with me," Kys said.

  Zael followed. He didn't make a sound, as if he didn't dare make a sound. That was good. The last thing she needed was a freaking-out idiot.

  She went by touch along through the humid dark. The last psi-taste she had felt had been Ravenor... or rather the sudden, abject lack of Ravenor. Kys hadn't realised how much she was usually aware of his presence when he was around. Like a tinitus, like a hum at the back of her skull.

  Twenty seconds ago, it had just gone away. As if a switch had been thrown.

  Had he suddenly left the Hinterlight. That seemed unlikely. He'd have told her, surely? Was he dead? She hoped that was unlikely too. The abrupt loss of contact had been pretty much simultaneous with the sudden cessation of ship systems. Something had gone wrong. And it didn't take a genius to realise the bridge was not the place to go. It's a trap. Yeah, right.

  Groping along in the darkness, feeling for shapes and obstructions with her telekinesis and leading Zael by the hand, Kys suddenly heard a deep, metallic slunk. The ship's internal mag-locks had just disengaged. Invisibly in the blackness around her, she heard all the doors and hatches open. What next? Was A-g going to cut off?

  +Thonius?+ she tried.

  Nothing.

  +Ravenor?+

  "No one's listening, are they?" Zael said.

  "I'm not so sure of that," Kys said.

  They both jumped as emergency power cut in, flooding the hallway with a cold, green auxiliary glow. Secondary air pumps began to wheeze and stir some breeze back into the atmosphere.

  Kys blinked to get used to the new, chilly gloom.

  It's a trap.

  "What did you mean?" she asked Zael. Wide-eyed, he looked at her and shrugged. "Nove said it was a trap. We were going into a trap. I think that Kinsky is part of it."

  "Shit," Kys said. If she'd had her way, those bastards would be dead now. Maybe Ravenor would listen to her next time.

  Next time. Ho ho.

  Sh
e wasn't going to die like this. Not if she could help it. She had one trump up her sleeve.

  "Zael? Zael, what else did your sister tell you?"

  The boy began to cry.

  "Stop snivelling, this is important."

  "She was all mushed up..." Zael sobbed.

  Kys crouched down and - though revolted by the contact - hugged the weeping boy to her. "It's okay, Zael. I mean it. We're going to be okay. I promise you. Nove scared you, I know, but she only came back to warn you. She wants you to live."

  "Does she?"

  "Yeah, she does. That's why she tried so hard to reach you. All those dreams."

  Zael sobbed again.

  "Come on, Zael. Come on. Tell me what else she said. She wants you to know. She wants me to know."

  Zael pulled away from her and wiped his eyes with both hands.

  "It didn't make any sense. Not much of it."

  "I'm sure it didn't," Kys said, rising and turning away. "God-Emperor, I could use a weapon."

  "The guy has some"

  "What?"

  "The guy has lots."

  She glared at him. "And the guy is?"

  "Nayl," he said. "He has lots of weapons in his cabin."

  "Nove told you this?"

  Zael chortled through his sniffs. "No, lady. The guy did."

  Nayl's cabin was a few doors along. Like all the hatches, it was wide open now.

  "Stay here." Kys told Zael, and went inside. The cabin smelled of socks and used bodygloves. "Wash much, Harlon?" she said aloud.

  The cabin was littered with armour, equipment and junk, not to mention dirty laundry. She picked over a few pieces in the gloom, discarding heavy blades and team-portable infantry support weapons. She didn't have time to make a thorough search. On the top of a cabinet, she found a Hostec Livery ten-shot, a decent, rugged autopistol. It was wrapped up in its own holster and shoulder rig. Kys strapped it on, buckled the rig about her bust, and drew the auto to check its load. Fat to the max. Nine in the clip and one in the pipe. The loops of the rig supported three more loaded clips.

  Kys put the pistol away in its sheath and walked towards the doorway. On the way, she saw a flanged boline lying on a shelf. She scooped it up and, dagger in hand, reached the door.