The thing in its coat of blood watched them silently, the single black ball of an eye catching the light of the las-bursts as they struck it. They did not knock it backward: normally even a laspistol shot would feel like an impact as explosive vapourisation of part, of the target’s surface imparted backward momentum. But the shape in red stood there, its jaw hanging slack on broken and dislocated hinges, as shot after shot burst puffs of vapour off it. They did not seem to be penetrating as they would a human body, they simply cratered its front, as though something were binding its meat into a barrier far more dense to the bursts of incinerating light.
The shotgun did better work. Under cover of the lasfire around her the crewwoman crept forward through the wrecked and tumbled benches, clamped the stock to her shoulder and sent three more booming, flaring shots ripping into the already stippled flesh. Domasa could see it happening, see the hurt, although she could not communicate it: the thing throbbed in her vision like an ulcer and it was all she could do not to drop onto all fours. But her warp eye could see it starting to come apart. The shotgun was what it needed: lasfire was a weapon for living creatures, a way to inflict trauma on a live metabolism to the point when it could not continue to function. But to fight something like this you needed a weapon that could not only break up a body but demolish it, physically rip it apart until the knot of will that held the flesh together was exhausted. The clot of warp stuff inside the corpse opposite her was starting to leak and lose cohesion: already it was having trouble stretching its limbs and the shredded flesh of its neck and shoulders was starting to settle and slump. The wretched heir was still playing the damn-fool hero, though, the way she had specifically tried to stop him from doing. Who did he think he was?
The barrel of Varro’s gun was smoke-hot and icons were flashing down the length of the case: power cell low, mechanisms overheating. But he still ran forward. The shotgun woman was reloading again and the daemon-corpse’s attention was on her; the flamer crew would not get there in time. Lasfire and shouts from Cherrick and the troopers passed over his crouched back; Rikah was two paces behind him, his own weapon approaching overheat level as he tried to cover them both. The corpse still had not moved. Its other eye had taken a hit and ruptured; its front had been cooked black as the bolts hit it, and Rikah saw places where the bone had started to show. All Rikah could think was, “How can it not die?”
It wouldn’t die, and Cherrick hated that. The thing stood there, flesh sizzling and crackling, and didn’t waver or fall. He had spent a long time learning how to break bodies and take lives, and with his mind charged and twitchy from what was going on outside the sack of meat in his sights was starting to look more and more like a calculated insult, a rebuke to his skills. Roaring wordlessly, forgetting what this thing was and what it could do to him, he advanced. He wasn’t going to be resisted by the mockery in the spreading red pool, and he wasn’t going to be shown up for a fool by the merchant-brat who was rushing right through the field of fire. He spat, and his saliva sizzled on the heat-sink fin of his custom-crafted hellgun as he ejected the spent cell, kicked it away across the floor and slammed in another. He stepped over a broken bench as the two flamer-men were lugging their weapon into position, kicked one of them in the ribs and bellowed at him to move faster.
The thing in the corpse had noticed the nature of things around it change. It could not understand that this was because its eye had gone and with it the last crude analogue of physical sense, and that it now possessed only psychic sense blunted by its looted flesh. It had never had the experience of material form, knew no way to differentiate one material experience from another. But it was starting, in some way, to sense a danger: it was now an effort to move and hold the meat together. It wanted to pop open these new bundles of inflamed emotions that were surrounding it, but it did not like the sensation of having to grip and hold the stuff of itself together—every last aspect of that sensation was utterly alien.
So it turned, but it was hard to move. It realised after a moment that there was something in the way, and just as the line of humans firing at it were starting to think that perhaps it was weakening as it walked face-first into the bulkhead, it twitched and heaved and stroked one ragged forearm-stump down the metal. The steel bulkhead parted and peeled back at the motion, like stretched cloth parting under a knife, and the meat-shape stepped through.
On the other side of the bulkhead was just air, the upper half of a double-high passageway through to the mess and to the lower decks’ chapel. Tearing open the bulkhead had opened a hole in the upper part of its wall, and the thing from the warp made its meat-vehicle fall slowly, end over end, what was left of its crude senses relishing the curve and tumble—only a sad echo of what its home had been like, but good enough. Then it stopped, and what little the thing understood of the rules of its new home seemed to mean that it would have to get up and move under its own power again. It got its arms and legs under it, lurching and slipping on broken joints forced to work at inhuman angles, and found out that it seemed to move much better now. It liked being away from the attackers and their odd sensations, but it hated being away from the strange, exhilarating taste of their souls. It tried to think of a way it could do both, but making its thoughts work in the sack of meat was hard so it picked a random direction and wandered in it, waiting to see what would happen.
Rikah had been first to the breach it had made in the bulkhead, and at first Cherrick and the others thought that he had been attacked by the way he staggered back from the opening with his mouth working. But each of them when they looked through the opening had to fight down the same visceral response at the sight of the once-human body walking away from them in a kind of dragging scuttle, its palms flat on the deck and its knees and ankles both bending through right-angles in the wrong direction to bring the soles of its feet onto the floor. Its head hung limply down, almost brushing the floor as if it wanted its ruined face to watch the bloody prints its hands and feet left on the deck behind it.
“Can’t,” gasped Rikah, breathing harshly in between dry heaves, “can’t we wait? It… has to be dying.” But Varro and Cherrick were already shaking their heads.
“Not an option,” said Cherrick without his usual unkindness. “They sometimes die, they sometimes get stronger. And if there’s another accident and this happens again there is no way that I’ll have two of them about at once. I’ve never heard of anything like that happening on any ship that survived its passage. See to Madame Dorel if you can’t come with us.” He turned to the crew and troopers behind him. “Who’s got climbing line?”
One of the troopers started to reach for the kitpack at the small of his back, then froze, arm twitching and mouth gaping under his combat-bridle. The others were reacting the same way. Varro had taken a convulsive step back and Rikah had clapped a hand to his mouth. Cherrick registered this in a half-second; a half-second later he heard the sticky sound of something wet encircling his helmet and smelled blood and burnt meat. A half-second after that he punched the quick-release on his helmet strap and sucked his body down toward his boots, and as he toppled into a clumsy roll and came up scrabbling he heard the splintering sound as the warp-thing crushed his helmet between splayed and distended fingers.
It had disappeared from sight below them, then wriggled about and walked easily up the wall and back to the tear it had made: now the sac that had been its head hung in the gap while its fingers snaked around the helmet trying to find why there was no mental death-spasm as the ceramite and fibroc shattered in its grip.
There was a boom and hand and helmet both vanished: the crewwoman had reloaded her shotgun again. Too confident, though, and too far forward. The thing’s head split open like a lamprey and sprayed hot blood and flechette-sharp fragments of skull with every bit the force of the shotgun blasts. The fountain of red decapitated the crewwoman and three slivers of bone went through the face of the trooper behind her: both pitched backward as Varro jumped forward with a yell and jammed his g
un into the dripping stump. The barrel sizzled in the meat and then he began to pump the trigger as Rikah and Cherrick both tried to drag him away.
Varro was lucky that the cell of his gun was so low, because when the clogged and overheated barrel finally hit flashpoint and exploded there was little enough power behind it to be soaked up by the warp-thing’s body. The thump of power was still enough to send him staggering back, though, his face, chest and hands painted with blood.
What came swarming through the hull breach behind him was no longer remotely human. It leaked and stank and moved on a collection of limbs, some its old human ones and some sucking tendrils of flesh that it had extended from its torso.
The thing hurled itself out of the breach, past Varro, Rikah and Cherrick and straight at the troopers who were the ones right in front of it, knocking them flying. One died immediately, gouged in a dozen places by bone claws, one thrashed two metres backwards with his throat open before he gave one final kick of his legs and lay still. There were three quick las-shots in succession that sent bursts of reeking steam up from its skin, then it leapt again.
The slow, almost thoughtful pace of its moves was gone now, now it was all predation and deadly speed. Two more dead by the time a third shot had been squeezed off. Cherrick leapt up and pelted back toward the ramp, Rikah dragging Varro away from the wails and crackling bone. The flamer crew were both screaming at them to get aside, and as Varro passed them they managed, finally, to produce a spurt of white heat that lit the assembly area ferociously and brought the stink of melted plastic to the air as three benches slumped down into pools of slag.
Acrid smoke made a wall across the room, and as the firelight died the after-images added to the dimness.
There was only silence, and Varro had time enough to collect himself and look around for a replacement weapon before the thing flew out of the dimness and sprawled over the flamer crew. They screamed in unison, their voices sounding eerily alike, like brothers, and then Cherrick took careful aim and snapped off a single hell-shot.
He hit exactly what he was shooting at, the weak spot where the hose coupled the flamer to its reservoir. There was a tiny flare as the seal was breached and then Cherrick flung himself flat as a roaring orange-white cloud filled the room. The flamer crew didn’t scream—they didn’t have time. But something howled as its flesh was incinerated and the lattice of thoughts it had tried to hold together were left with nothing to anchor them. Domasa and the three men felt the scream begin in their bones, build through their forebrains and finish somewhere in the writhing subconscious—on nights to come that scream would still reverberate through their nightmares. As Domasa saw the knot of force finally untangle and melt away, the flames swirled and all but guttered: weaving in and out of the pools of burning plastic, paths of hoarfrost glittered in disturbing patterns before they evaporated. The last of the lights blew out, and in the darkness the whispering echoes of that death-scream seemed to echo and slink through the smoke for a long time.
Lower decks of the sanctioned
liner Gann-Luctis, in transit
“We have to find out who he was.” Varro Phrax said dully. He was sitting cross-legged on the deck, head bowed. “There won’t be anything left of him here but we can piece it together somehow.”
“Why?” asked Cherrick. Varro couldn’t see him, except in occasional silhouette from his shoulder-torch as the man prowled about the scorched wreckage.
“We all need to pray for him. It frightens me to think where his soul must be. We need to pray the Emperor will find him in the warp and carry him safely home.”
“There are some dead people around here who might suggest that that’s being a little gentle, Varro.” The sneer was back in Cherrick’s voice. “And I personally don’t believe in praying for the souls of things that have tried to crush my head like a chew-seed.”
“That wasn’t him and you know it!” retorted Varro. “You know it as well as I do. That man was the thing’s first victim, as much as the rest of us!”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, I do. And I don’t care if you don’t care, because we’re going to break warp and hold a funeral for these people. All of them. Even the ones it didn’t kill itself.”
The torch-beam swung around and Varro blinked as it fell on him. The disc of white grew larger as Cherrick stamped closer until Varro was sitting and looking up into the light like a schola progenium child waiting to be let out of a repentance closet.
“That sounds like an accusation. Don’t you think that sounds like an accusation, Madame Dorel? I think it does. And I think it’s odd that there’s an accusation being made here, considering I did exactly what needed to be done to save us and the ship.”
“Think what you like, Cherrick,” Varro told him. “I’m the heir apparent. I’m the leader of this mission and the reason for it. And I say we break out of this storm and hold our funeral, and do whatever work we can to make sure that we can travel the rest of the way safely.”
“We go on.” Domasa’s voice, unexpectedly firm and strong. It made Varro jump, and Cherrick gave a hoarse laugh. Her face, swimming out of the gloom and into the torch-beam, unnerved him even more. The shadows emphasised the mutated, distended bones and the pallor of her skin, the feverish hostility burning in her eyes. “We came into this storm knowing the risks, and those risks have not changed, and I say we go on. If we broke out now it could mean months of drifting in real space, and months we do not have.”
“But we—”
“No, Varro. No. My backers are keen to help you, as am I. But my backers are keen to help because they know you are going to help them in turn. And you are going to help them,” and Varro cringed at the feel of Cherrick’s gun-barrel pressing into his temple, “by going to Hydraphur and getting your damned inheritance. And after that we shall go on to decide what our working relationship is going to be. And if you are good to us, and behave, and your charter is useful, then we will even allow you to do the occasional deal or authorise the occasional trip yourself, Varro, won’t that be nice? And if you really behave, if I am left with no doubt about your desire to co-operate with House Dorel by the time we come away from Hydraphur with our little document, why then I will even have Cherrick control his baser urges and let your wife and brat continue to live with you instead of aboard a Dorel barge as my guests and hostages. And I know you’ll agree that that will be nice.”
There was a long silence. Rikah watched, his skin cold and crawling, until Varro quietly dropped his eyes to the deck between his feet.
“I see,” said the heir. “Well, then. At least we have certain things out in the open now. The cards are all played now, at least.”
“I didn’t want to have to get so ugly with you.” Domasa told him with no real regret that Rikah could see. “But if you’re going to pull at the collar and force things, well, I don’t have much alternative, do I?” The ship twisted and groaned again, and she winced. “We’re still in the storm. I’m going to my quarters. Cherrick, report this in, will you? And you two, it’s quarters for you, and quickly, please. See how trusting I am? I’m not even going to send someone with a gun at your back. Don’t let me think you’re having second thoughts about that co-operation we discussed.”
They walked away from each other in the gloom, and as they came up the ramp Varro and Rikah exchanged a look. Behind them Domasa said something quietly and Cherrick brayed with more laughter, but neither man flinched. They held the look for a moment longer, then Rikah gave a tiny nod, imperceptible to the two at the bottom of the ramp, and Varro returned it. Then they walked away, not speaking, faces thoughtful, as the ship twisted and the warp storm howled and flared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Adeptus Arbites precinct fortress
of Selena Secundus,
Galata, Hydraphur system
After all the angst and preparation, thought Shira Calpurnia, it seemed odd to finally look through a window-slot and see the Callyac’s Promise seeming clo
se enough to reach up and touch, its spine of steeples raking the black sky. Above the Promise in turn loomed the grey bulk of the Punisher-class cruiser Baron Mykal, keeping watch with gun bays open and batteries armed. The rest of the flotilla had been herded by the Navy to dock at Hydraphur’s Ring, putting almost the whole of the moon between them and the fortress, and Naval patrols combed the space in between.
The fortress itself was in lockdown by Calpurnia’s orders, and Odamo, who had spent half a day prowling the upper levels with a team of his own auditing every security feature he could think of, had reported himself satisfied. The lower levels were sealed and guarded, the courtroom itself garrisoned by arbitrators from the fortress and the Wall. The levels between the hangars and dromon docks, the courtroom itself and the surface, had been stripped down beyond even their usual ascetic furnishings and filled with guards.
And somewhere out there, according to the message chit Culann had just come in with, the battered and braised liner Gann-Luctis had finally lurched out of the warp and into a long, exhausted coast toward Hydraphur, in formation with a watchful Navy escort. And something else too, apparently.
“A dromon runner carrying an Ecclesiarchal delegation, if you believe that,” said Umry, who had spent some time monitoring vox chatter from the Ring and requisitioning travel papers from the airspace and orbit controllers.
“Oh, I believe it.” Calpurnia replied, still standing at the window with her hands laced behind her back. She was enjoying the view. Hydraphur sunlight made everything orange-yellow and hazy; she liked the way that the airless surface of Galata gave everything outside a bright and knife-sharp precision. “The bad blood hasn’t gone away, Umry, it’s just in remission. At the moment they don’t feel that they can stop the Ecclesiarchy flying out on such an obvious mercy-mission to a vessel in distress.”
There was a faint satisfaction in her voice: Calpurnia had been intimately involved in the events that had seen the long feud between the Cathedral and the Navy chiefs fall off into a grudging truce. “Innocent though I’m sure they are, I trust you got a full passenger complement.”
[Shira Calpurnia 02] - Legacy Page 19