[Ciaphas Cain 05] - Duty Calls

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Back!” I shouted to Jurgen, aiming a fusillade of las-bolts in the general direction of the renegade inquisitor, which forced him to duck into the recess by one of the doorways.[1] With precious little cover to be had in the stark stone corridor I began to retreat towards the nearest cross passage, from which my aide was now spitting some covering fire of his own, having reached this welcome sanctuary a few seconds before. I smiled ruefully as I joined him. “Never thought I’d miss those hideous statues,” I said, and Jurgen frowned in confusion. [1. Displacer fields are never completely reliable, so it’s always advisable to present the lowest possible target profile even if you’re carrying an active one.]

  “Which ones were they?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” I told him, as another plasma bolt burst close enough for the heat of it to sear our faces. “Back to the laboratory. We have to get that shadowlight thing before Metheius manages to escape with it again.” The thought of something like that loose in the galaxy was enough to give me the howling gribblies, and I’d rather take on an unarmed techpriest than a psychotic inquisitor in any case. With a bit of luck we’d be able to barricade ourselves in there just long enough for Amberley to finish him off for us, and emerge in time to take the credit for recovering the all-important artefact.

  “Might be a bit tricky, sir,” Jurgen pointed out. “He’s got us pinned down nicely. If we try to pull back he’ll toast us for sure before we reached the next junction.” A faint hint of reproach entered his voice. “If I had my melta I could take him out easily from here.”

  “Not while he’s still got the displacer,” I pointed out. With those words a possible strategy suggested itself, and I steadied my aim, bracing my laspistol across my folded arm. “Run for it. Make a lot of noise.”

  “Sir?” Jurgen looked even more baffled than usual, but as always he followed my orders to the letter, sprinting down the cross corridor we’d taken refuge in. The sound of his bootsoles echoed back in the confined space, and, as I’d expected, Killian took the bait. Clearly believing we’d both fled, he appeared a moment later in the mouth of the corridor we’d hidden in, an expression of murderous malice on his face.

  “Enjoy your trip,” I told him, planting a lasbolt squarely in the middle of his chest. He just had time to look surprised before he vanished again, with another muted thunderclap of imploding air. There was no telling how far he might have gone this time, of course, so I hurried after Jurgen as quickly as I could, catching up with him just as he reached the laboratory.

  “That was quick…” Metheius began, before glancing in our direction and apparently beginning to realise that something had gone seriously wrong. “What’s happening? Where’s the inquisitor?”

  “Emperor alone knows,” I said, aiming my laspistol squarely at his head. He was probably mostly augmetic there, of course, so it might not do all that much damage if I fired at him, but a shot or two would certainly spoil his day. “Step away from the shadowlight and keep your hands where I can see them. The mechadendrites too.”

  “I’ll get the stone thing,” Jurgen said, slinging his lasgun and reaching out to grab it with a grubby hand.

  Metheius watched with an air of smug vindictiveness as his nail-bitten fingers closed around it, which rapidly changed to one of surprise and alarm.

  “You’ve deactivated it!” His head swung round to examine his instruments, his voice quivering with shock. “That shouldn’t be possible!” He turned back towards me. “What have you done?”

  “Perhaps Lazurus isn’t quite the fool you take him for,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my greatcoat and allowing the bulge of the perfectly innocuous data-slate I was carrying there to become visible for a moment. Clearly believing that I’d come equipped with some piece of techno-sorcery provided by his former associate (which of course was precisely what I’d intended, as Jurgen’s peculiar abilities were something neither of us wanted to draw any further attention to), the renegade techpriest edged towards me, his curiosity evidently stronger than his fear of getting shot.

  “He’s found some way of dampening the warp field?” Methius’ voice was both avid and incredulous. “You must let me see. This could open up a whole new line of enquiry.”

  “Which we’ll discuss as soon we’re aboard the star-ship, and on our way out of the system,” Killian cut in, appearing at the door, his plasma weapon levelled. He glared at me, the stubby barrel pointed right at the centre of my chest. “Bring it out slowly, and hand it to Metheius. You can hardly expect me to miss at this range.”

  “Probably not,” I said, projecting as much calm assurance as I could, which I’m sure you’ll appreciate wasn’t all that easy under the circumstances. Luckily Killian had apparently bought into my fictitious reputation in a big way, which meant that his own expectation of being unable to intimidate me would help to maintain the facade. “But those things make rather a mess. You’ll probably vaporise the nullifier along with my torso.” I shrugged, keeping my laspistol pointed at the centre of Metheius’ forehead, with all the steadiness my augmetic fingers could impart. “And you must have killed enough people by now to know my finger will tighten on the trigger by reflex before I fall. If you shoot me, you’ll be killing Methius too.” I risked a quick glance at Jurgen, but he still had the shadowlight in his right hand, and couldn’t reach for his lasgun.

  Killian nodded thoughtfully, as though accepting the inevitable. “I can always get another techpriest,” he said slowly, “but there’s only one psychic enhancer.” His finger began to tighten on the trigger, and I’ve faced enough madmen in my time to know he wasn’t bluffing. An instant before he could fire, I lowered my arm.

  “All right,” I said, holstering my weapon. He could still have shot me, of course, out of sheer vindictiveness, but if I’d read my man right he wouldn’t, not for a minute or two anyway. His kind always likes to gloat first, especially if they think they’ve beaten you. I pulled the data-slate out of my pocket, and held it out towards him. “You win. Here, take it.”

  “I’m not that big a fool,” Killian told me. “Hand it to Metheius. I’m sure you have some idea of jumping me the moment I lower the gun.” Well of course I’ve got far more sense than to start wrestling a lunatic for something that can quite easily barbeque us both if it goes off, but it never hurts to keep an enemy off balance, so I simply shrugged.

  “Can’t blame a man for trying,” I said. I handed the slate, in its anonymous military field casing, to the techpriest, who started fumbling with the catch, no doubt eager to see what the miraculous device his rival had apparently created looked like. “You just press it to open the case,” I added helpfully.

  Metheius froze, looking at the dull green box in his hand as if it had suddenly started ticking. “Of course, it’ll be booby-trapped,” he said, glaring at me as if I’d almost succeeded in tricking him, which was exactly what I’d been hoping for, of course. If he’d realised what the box actually contained, things would have got very unpleasant. “Genetically coded to you, I suppose?”

  “You’re the expert,” I told him, letting his paranoia do the work for me, and trying not to let my relief at the sight of him stowing the thing in the recesses of his robe without any further attempt to examine it show on my face. “Now I suppose you expect us to just hand the shadowlight over?” I asked Killian.

  The deranged inquisitor shook his head. “No, I expect to kill you both and take it from your corpses,” he replied, clearly relishing the prospect.

  Wondering just how much longer Amberley was going to be, I shook my head pityingly. “Well, if you’re sure it can take a plasma discharge at point blank range, go right ahead,” I replied casually, keeping my hand as close as I dared to the butt of my laspistol. “Of course, if you shoot Jurgen first, I’ll have the chance to see if the nullifier works on your displacement field too. You must be standing well within its radius of effect.” I glanced at my aide. “On the other hand, if you shoot me first,
he’ll have time to drop the rock and open up with his lasgun.” One of the chief advantages of a completely unmerited reputation for unwavering integrity, I’ve often found, is that the more outrageous the lie, the more likely it is to be believed, and Killian, don’t forget, was away with the cherubs to begin with. An element of doubt began to creep into his belligerent expression.

  “You.” He switched his gaze to Jurgen, but kept the plasma pistol pointing unwaveringly at my chest. “Hand the artefact to Methius, and place your gun on the floor, slowly. If I see even a hint of treachery, I’ll vaporise the commissar.” Jurgen, as always, glanced at me for confirmation, and I nodded.

  “Do as he says,” I said levelly. “We can always recover it later.”

  Killian laughed. “There won’t be a later,” he reminded me. “The tyranids are going to pick this plateau clean, and you along with it.” That had hardly escaped my notice, of course, but as usual in that sort of situation I’d found it best to concentrate on the immediate problem, on the entirely reasonable grounds that if I didn’t I’d be comfortably dead by the time the next one rolled along.

  “Then you’d better get moving,” I suggested, as Metheius reached out a tentative mechadendrite to take the shadowlight from Jurgen. As the mysterious artefact left his fingers my aide un-slung his lasgun with a truculent expression, clearly sorely tempted to use it, but, as always, he followed my orders to the letter, allowing the weapon to fall to the floor. Metheius scooped it up with his other mechanical tentacle, and trotted over to join Killian, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “In my experience the ’nids aren’t all that likely to stick to someone else’s timetable.”

  “Drop your weapons too,” Killian ordered, returning his attention to me. I unbuckled my weapon belt, feeling oddly disconcerted as the familiar weight fell away, and stepped out of the loop of leather as my pistol and chainsword clattered to the flagstones at my feet. Metheius hesitated for a moment, then, as I’d hardly dared to hope, handed the shadowlight to Killian in order to pluck my weapons from the floor without approaching me too closely.

  “Thank you.” The deranged inquisitor tucked the small slab of stone under his free arm, and took a step towards the doorway. “I don’t suppose we’ll be meeting again.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” I told him, hearing the clatter of bootsoles in the corridor outside at last. Before Killian even realised reinforcements had arrived Amberley was inside the room, her entourage at her heels, nodding a casual greeting to me while Pelton, Simeon and Zemelda aimed their lasguns at him. Jurgen strode forwards at once with a furious expression, to pluck his lasgun and my weapon belt from the mechadendrites of the stunned-looking techpriest.

  “Ernst Stavros Killian,” Amberley said loudly and clearly, holding up her hand to display the Inquisitorial electoo that flashed into visibility as she spoke. “You have been declared Excommunicate Diabolus by the Consilium Ravus of the triune ordos, and by their authority are ordered to surrender your person to answer to the charges of treason and heresy there laid against you.” She pulled a roll of parchment that would have choked a grox from inside her greatcoat, and brandished it in his general direction.

  “Just what I might have expected from a pusillanimous puritan,” Killian sneered. “Precisely the sort of tunnel-visioned weakling the Consilium would choose to send after me.”

  “A tunnel-visioned weakling with rather more guns than you’ve got,” Amberley pointed out cheerfully, as I buckled my weapon belt and drew my laspistol to emphasise the point. Looking uncommonly pleased with himself Jurgen joined the ring of lasguns pointing at the cornered inquisitor, apparently unaware of the way Zemelda and Pelton widened the cordon a little as he stepped up to reinforce it. “And my Inquisitorial mandate does allow me the discretionary power of summary execution if you refuse to co-operate.”

  “Then you leave me with no other option,” Killian said resignedly, lowering his plasma pistol at last. I barely had time for a sigh of relief before he pulled the trigger, blowing a hole through the floor at his feet, and sending us all reeling with the bright flash of combustion.

  “Down there!” Amberley shouted, as I blinked my eyes clear of the dancing after-images. Without hesitation she leapt through the hole after Killian, Pelton and Simeon following almost at once.

  I held out a hand to forestall Zemelda as she teetered on the brink. “Wait,” I said. I pointed to Metheius, who was still staggering, disorientated and noticeably singed from his proximity to the detonation, but who would undoubtedly recover soon enough thanks to his augmetic components. “Detain him if you can, shoot him if you can’t. Jurgen, with me.”

  Reasoning from the lack of any gunfire that Amberley and her friends hadn’t run into anything inimical in the chamber below, which appeared to be identical in size and shape to this one from what I could see of it, though completely empty, I leapt through the hole, which proved to be a trapdoor of noticeably thinner stone than that forming the rest of the floor. I landed with a jolt that I absorbed instinctively, reflexes honed on the assault courses of the schola progenium having been augmented by years of experience on the battlefield, rolling clear just in time to avoid Jurgen landing on top of me. He glanced around, levelling his lasgun, peering into the shadowed gloom that surrounded us. It seemed Killian hadn’t bothered kindling the luminators down here, presumably because he didn’t think he’d need to, but I trusted my old hiver’s instincts in a place like this, and listened carefully, disentangling the sound of running feet from the echoes overlapping them with little difficulty.

  “Which way, sir?” Jurgen asked, just as the distant patter of footsteps was drowned out by an agonised scream that seemed to go on forever, before finally trailing away into reverberating silence.

  I pointed towards the source. “That way, at a guess,” I said, leading the way at a rapid trot. As I’d surmised, the layout of the corridors here was identical to that of the floor above, and my knack of orientation in an environment like this didn’t let me down. Within moments we’d caught up with Amberley and the others, who were staring at what was left of Killian in the light of the portable luminators they’d evidently had tucked away somewhere in their Guard-issue equipment pouches.

  “What happened?” Pelton asked, his face almost as pale as a genuine Valhallan’s. “He was running ahead of us, and then he just stopped. It was like his whole body was twisting.” He broke off, unable or unwilling to continue, but he really had no need to. Killian’s corpse was as deformed as the vilest of mutants, bone and muscle apparently having flowed like melting candle wax, until his soul had been wrenched from his body.

  “It was the shadowlight,” I said, addressing Amberley directly, my words tumbling over one another in my desperate haste to convey the danger the thing represented. “It’s marinated in warp energy. They thought we’d deactivated it somehow because they saw us carrying it, but as soon as Killian got out of range of whatever Jurgen does to psychic phenomena, he became exposed to the full power of the thing.”

  “I see.” Amberley nodded, understanding at once. “We’ll need proper shielding to carry it safely.”

  “Metheius was getting ready to pack it up for transit,” I said. “There must be something in the laboratory that’ll do the job.”

  “Then we’d better get back there,” Amberley said. She gestured towards the sinister black stone. “Jurgen, if you wouldn’t mind carrying it for me?”

  “Of course not, miss.” My aide smiled broadly, and trotted off to retrieve the cursed artefact. I was just beginning to heave a heartfelt sigh of relief, when Eglantine’s voice crackled in my comm-bead.

  “Inquisitor Vail,” she said. “The tyranids are attacking.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The canoness was waiting for us in the chamber we’d entered the labyrinth by, standing next to the mangled power armour on its display pedestal, surrounded by a bodyguard of Celestians. The Sister Superior in charge of them looked vaguely familiar, but it was only when
she spoke to me that I recognised her as the leader of the little troop that had got hacked to pieces on Aceralbaterra, and whose gung-ho imbecility had almost cost us the plateau. I returned her greeting cordially enough, however, as for some reason she seemed pleased to see me, and from what I could gather of the tactical situation through my comm-bead I’d need every well-disposed person in power armour I could find between me and the ’nids if I was going to get out of here in one piece.

  “I owe you a great debt, commissar,” she told me, looking oddly embarrassed. “You recalled me to my duty, when I was so carried away by vainglorious zeal I would have neglected it.”

  “Well, that’s my job,” I said modestly, but the woman just nodded seriously, taking the words at face value.

  “The Emperor sent you, of that I’ve no doubt. To have left his temple undefended while it was beset with xeno-spawned filth…” She sighed. “It would have been a grave thing indeed to have had to confess before the Golden Throne.”

  “Well, let’s hope you don’t have to check in there for a long time to come,” I said.

  Eglantine, who until now had been pointedly ignoring me, glanced up from a huddled conversation with Amberley, her expression grave. “None of us expect to survive this battle,” she said, as calmly as if she’d simply been commenting on the weather. “Nor do we deserve to. Our order has been the instrument of the vilest blasphemy. All we can do is seek to atone for that sin, and pray to the Emperor that our deeds will prove worthy of his forgiveness.”

  “Killian lied to a lot of people,” I told her, wondering for a moment if the late and unlamented inquisitor’s insanity had been somehow contagious. “You followed his orders in good faith.”

  “That merely compounds our guilt,” Eglantine said heavily. “We were so sure of our path, and so proud of doing His will, that we never thought to pray for the divine guidance that would have opened our eyes and hearts to the truth. Our arrogance was the seed of our own destruction.” All of which sounded like the kind of sermon that was guaranteed to bore me into a stupor whenever we were herded into the chapel at the schola, and which has kept me out of temples ever since, except for those occasions on which protocol and my position within the Commissariat have combined to make my presence at some service or other unavoidable.