by Andy Hoare
‘What’s the problem?’ Solomon heard Bukin call from below. ‘You see something?’
‘Nothing, yet,’ Solomon called back down the chute.
‘Then move yourself,’ Bukin growled back, and Solomon stood upright and looked around the drainage channel.
The rockcrete surface was slick with corrosion, the result of long years of practically non-existent maintenance as the scrubber blades high overhead had sucked the air through the chamber. The corrosion extended right up the tower walls, what looked like crusted mineral deposits gleaming in amongst the moisture coating them. Pools of almost glowing liquid were scattered all about, and it took Solomon a moment more to orient himself. Then he saw the direction he should be moving in, and unslinging his rifle set out at a stooped run.
As Solomon dashed across the rockcrete channel bottom, his nostrils were assaulted by the sharp tang of the irradiated, chemical-laced water. It reminded him of the bleaching yards the Honourable Concern ran back home, where grox urine would be fermented for an entire year before being refined and shipped off-world for no possible reason anyone on Jopall could imagine. In fact, it was worse even than that, the vapours stinging Solomon’s eyes and bringing tears streaming down his cheeks.
His vision blurring, Solomon pulled down his goggles as he ran, almost dropping his rifle as he struggled to get the device straight. Panic rose in him again as he almost tripped on an object bobbing along just beneath the surface of the glowing liquid, but he kept his footing and dashed onwards towards the base of the ramp leading up towards the first tier of the weir.
The ramp was at least forty metres long, and it rose at least four metres over that length. Ordinarily, the gradient wouldn’t be a problem, but the ramp was coated in moisture and corrosion and Solomon had to climb not just it, but the next three in the next ten minutes or be washed away and drowned. Glancing back towards the chute and the concealed hatch, he considered heading back to tell Vahn and the commissar that this route wasn’t viable.
Then Solomon realised he had no choice but to go on. Deeply ingrained conditioning bubbled up inside his mind and the doctrine of the Indenti of Jopall came back to him. Only by service and sacrifice could the blessings bestowed upon his home world be repaid. Most Jopallis repaid the Imperium one enemy life at a time, counting off their debt as their kill-count mounted. But there were other ways too, including the performance of bold deeds when only the Emperor was watching. Glancing around the interior of the scrubber tower one last time, Solomon judged that indeed, only the Emperor would know his fate if he failed now.
By the time Solomon had struggled to the lip of the highest level of the weir, he was covered in chemical sludge and his eyes were stinging and almost gummed shut. His skin tingled as he imagined what radioactive substances were mingled with the slime, the liquid pumped into the mineral deposits far below the facility to generate heat. Throughout the climb he had managed to keep one thing above the slime and actinic liquid slowly rising in each tier, and that was his precious sniper rifle.
Reaching out a hand to steady himself against the two metre high lip, Solomon heard a deep, watery gurgle fill the stinging air of the chamber.
‘What now…’ he muttered as he saw that the liquid held on the other side of the lip was lapping over its edge. He saw then that he had only minutes to reach the gate beyond the last tier and the relative safety of the carceri chamber beyond. Turning, he looked back down towards the floor of the drainage channel, and saw the assault force approaching the lowest level of the weir and preparing to climb over the first lip.
Waving towards a figure he assumed was Rotten, Solomon turned and climbed up onto the last lip. Grunting, he pulled himself erect and looked towards the distant gate.
There, looking directly at him was a rebel lookout. The two men stood frozen for a moment that stretched into what felt like hours. Then both acted as one, the rebel lifting some form of communicator to his mouth at the very same moment Solomon brought his rifle up and sighted through the scope.
‘You,’ he said as he squeezed the trigger. The rebel’s head jerked backward, a small but lethal wound having appeared in the centre of his forehead, ‘Are number one.’
A shout rang out from further along the gate, and Solomon snapped his aim right and tracked the source. It was another rebel. He’d obviously seen his companion fall but, thanks to Solomon’s rifle’s silencer, hadn’t yet realised why.
‘Two,’ Solomon intoned as his second shot trepanned the man’s cranium with explosive force.
Before the second rebel’s body had even hit the ground, Solomon was running along the narrow dam, the overlapping liquid splashing at his passing. He heard more shouts, this time coming from behind and below as the leading members of the assault force tried to find out what was going on at the top of the weir. Solomon had no time to answer them however, as he caught sight of a third rebel. This man had clearly seen him, and decided to make a dash for the gate to bring help.
‘Three,’ Solomon muttered as his third shot punched into the rebel’s back and sent him crashing against the gate hatch he was about to haul open.
Now the chemical liquid was spilling over the lip of the highest weir, lapping Solomon’s ankles, and he could see that time was almost up. Any moment now, the liquid would surge over the lip and set off another chain reaction in the lower tiers. Then, millions of litres of the stuff would surge down the drainage channel and drown anyone still crossing it.
‘Hurry!’ he shouted down. ‘It’s rising!’
Rotten was the closest member of the assault force, and on hearing Solomon’s warning he relayed it back along the column. In moments, the entire assault force was swarming forward, Commissar Flint yelling commands to ensure a smooth cover-and-move advance despite the urgency of the situation.
With the assault force heading for safety, Solomon dashed along the dam, which was now almost entirely submerged as the liquid in the upper tier surged over it. Passing the bodies of the slain rebels he rushed towards the gate they had been guarding, finding the mighty iron portal half a metre ajar. He slowed as he approached, checking back over his shoulder and seeing that Rotten, Vahn and Skane were helping each other over the weir and climbing onto the dam. Edging his way towards the open gate set in the rockcrete wall of the chamber, Solomon peered cautiously through into Carceri Resurecti.
‘Pash…’ he swore in his native Jopalli tongue. ‘Why me…’
NINE
Resurecti
Commissar Flint hauled himself up onto the dam, which by now was functioning as anything but. The stinging liquid in the upper level of the weir was flooding down over him, and it took all his strength to pull himself up against the torrent. Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, he saw that Kohlz had waited for him, against his express orders, and was offering his hand to help Flint up.
Pulling himself up with his aide’s help, Flint checked that no one was left behind on the sloping ramp of the weir, and waved Kohlz on to the safety of the gate area. Even as the two ran the liquid swelled upwards towards their knees and the chamber filled with the roaring of millions of litres of the stuff.
Reaching the end of the dam, Flint climbed up onto the lip around the gate, finally out of the stinging liquid. The assault force had reached the gate not a moment too soon, and as its members stood soaking around the portal, the tide broke over the upper dam.
A great swell appeared in the centre of the upper enclosure, the irradiated liquid chemical bubbling as if some gargantuan beast of the deepest ocean was rising to the surface. An unseen valve somewhere in the guts of the overflow was forced open and a column exploded upwards with the force of an artillery shell. Flint and his companions were forced back towards the gate, the sheer spectacle of the tower of surging liquid rendering them impossibly vulnerable.
When the mass came crashing down around the spout, the upper enclosure burst spectacularly over the dam. In moments, billions of litres of irradiated liquid flooded each level
of the weir in turn and surged down the overflow ramp. The drainage channel the assault force had passed along scant minutes earlier was transformed into a raging watercourse as mighty as any natural river Flint had ever seen, obscuring the access point the force had entered by and gushing away into the brightly lit tower.
As the roar receded and the flow decreased, Flint took a deep breath and turned towards the assault force. Every one of them, from the provosts and the other members of the 77th to the penal troopers and the claviger-wardens were soaked from head to toe in actinic chemical and stinking slime. Dragoon Lhor was attempting to clear the nozzle of his heavy flamer and get its pilot light re-lit, while the combat medic Karasinda was tending to a minor wound suffered by one of the provosts. The Savlar, Becka looked thoroughly dejected, her mohican hanging in lank strands around her face. Bukin was lighting a cigar – Flint had no idea how he had kept it dry.
‘Solomon,’ said Flint, addressing the Jopalli by the gate. ‘You’re off point. Good work.’
Flint expected Solomon to express his gratitude or relief at being relieved of point duty but the man seemed barely to register the command. He was looking through the gap in the huge iron doorway he was guarding, and his face had turned completely pale.
Vahn had seen the man’s face too. ‘What is it, Solomon?’ he said.
Seeing the man wasn’t going to respond, Flint gently but firmly moved him aside and leaned into the gap.
‘Damn…’ said Flint.
‘Resurecti,’ said Vahn.
The vast, stygian void of Carceri Resurecti loomed beyond the gate, Flint’s senses having difficulty translating the space into a reality his mind could make sense of. The largest of the carceri chambers, the floor stretched so far that the opposite wall was lost to atmospheric haze. Because he was already wet, it took Flint a moment to realise that a fine drizzle was coming down from far above, and he saw that the upper reaches of the vast space were smeared grey with dirty clouds. The complex’s generatoria were crippled, but the liquid pumped down into the geotherm sinks was still circulating, Flint realised. Each carceri chamber was developing its own climate, and in Carceri Resurecti, it was raining.
But this was no ordinary rain. It was raining blood.
The space overhead was cut by dozens of precarious iron gantries, and along these walkways were mounted the shrivelled remains of hundreds of corpses. The drizzle falling above was washing the bodies, their fluids mixing with the water droplets and staining the air below pink. Flint’s gorge rose and some of the very first prayers he had ever been taught came unbidden to his lips. It was almost as if dark forces were converging on Furia Penitens, drawn by the vile deeds of traitors and murderers. Even as he walked the halls and chambers it was as if these forces were reshaping reality to better resemble their own blasphemous patterns…
‘Strannik,’ Flint said coldly as he looked away from the vile spectacle with open disgust. He’d seen anti-Imperial insurgents desecrate their enemies’ remains in a less blasphemous manner. The rebel colonel who had led the uprising was clearly an individual of exceptional depravity to have ordered the bodies, or what remained of them, strung up in such a way.
Tearing his gaze from the bodies, Flint swept the chamber for signs of more rebels. The immediate area seemed clear, yet the haze as well as the dark forms of machines looming out of it obscured much of the view. The nearest of the gantries cutting overhead was clear of enemies, while the others were too far distant for Flint to be sure that no lookouts were stationed on them. In fact, such a lookout could be lining Flint up in his gun sights right now and he wouldn’t know about it.
The centre of his forehead suddenly itching, Flint ducked back inside the gateway and found the members of the assault force looking back at him dejectedly.
‘What?’ said Flint.
‘Some of these ladies are not too happy, commissar,’ Corporal Bukin drawled, his shotgun held across his chest. ‘Some think they don’t get paid enough for this khek.’
‘Service is its own reward,’ Flint quoted the Dictum Commissaria.
‘Solomon told us what’s out there, sir,’ said Vendell. ‘We don’t want to join them, that’s all.’
Flint didn’t answer straight away, taking a moment to gauge the situation instead. The slime-streaked faces that looked back at him were more fatigued than mutinous. He’d stared down the most determined of turncoats in his time and he knew the signs well. There were plenty of commissars serving in the Imperial Guard that would have drawn a bolt pistol and shot Vendell through the head as an example to the rest, but Flint was more experienced and knew that while such field executions had their place, this was not it.
Instead, he passed over Vendell’s comment and addressed Vahn. ‘Twenty minute layup,’ he ordered. ‘Get your people cleaned, fed and watered.’ Then he turned to Bukin. ‘Corporal, perimeter security detail. Get on it.’
Bukin grumbled and his provosts cast jealous glances at the penal troopers, but the tension was broken and if there had been any genuine threat of mutiny it was dissipated, for the moment at least. In showing favour to the penal troopers over the provosts, Flint had demonstrated empathy for the ex-convicts, and earned a modicum of trust. No doubt Bukin would resent it, but Flint didn’t care.
As the chief provost chivvied his section into action setting up guard points around the area and disposing of the corpses of the rebels Solomon had dropped, Flint took the opportunity to clean up himself. His storm coat was coated in a fine layer of chemical residue, and his high boots caked in sludge. He struggled to shrug the coat off without getting more of the irradiated muck on the cuirass he wore beneath it.
‘Let me, sir,’ Dragoon Kohlz said, appearing behind and taking hold of the heavy coat and pulling downwards.
‘Really, Kohlz,’ Flint protested, ‘there’s no need…’
‘No problem, sir,’ Kohlz said, then hissed, ‘It’s Gruss, sir. He’s using a sub-etheric relay to communicate with someone inside the complex. I’ve been picking up strange vox-signals since we set out from the laager and I’m sure it’s him. You’re welcome, sir.’
Glancing surreptitiously towards the Claviger-Primaris, Flint hissed back, ‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain, commissar,’ Kohlz replied. ‘But the signal’s encrypted.’
‘Thank you,’ said Flint as Kohlz carried the filth-encrusted storm coat off to wash it in the now-still waters of the weir’s upper tier. Flint doubted the water was much cleaner than the coat, but it might do some good. Flint drew his bolt pistol and checked its mechanism was clear of the crap he’d had to wade through, causing several of the penal troopers to glance warily his way as they cleaned up or unwrapped ration packs. Flint used the distraction to study Gruss more closely, trying to work out if he might be talking into a vox-pickup hidden beneath the glossy, blank-faced visor of his armoured helmet. Of course he could, Flint thought, but did that mean he couldn’t be trusted?
Perhaps the chief warden was simply communicating with his fellow clavigers, but if that were the case a personal vox would be sufficient and Kohlz would have been able to detect it easily. No, Flint thought. Far more likely Gruss was communicating with Lord Governor Kherhart, keeping his master informed of proceedings. Again, nothing intrinsically wrong with that, he thought as he glanced sidelong at Gruss while ostensibly cleaning the basket hilt of his power sword of slime. Studying the chief warden’s stance, he certainly could be holding a conversation with someone over a secure vox-channel.
‘Kohlz?’ said Flint as his aide was finishing off with the storm coat. ‘Anything from regiment?’
‘No, commiss…’ Kohlz started, then changed tack as he caught Flint’s meaning. ‘I’ll check, sir,’ he said as he crossed to where he’d set down his Number Four, its console protected from the liquid by a rubberised cover.
Flint strode casually over to Kohlz as his aide knelt down and lifted the cover from his vox-set. Through his peripheral vision Flint saw Gruss look sharply up.
‘Anything?’ said Flint.
‘Trying to raise headquarters now, sir,’ said Kohlz, then he hissed, ‘There was a signal, sir, but it cut out suddenly.’
‘Commissar?’ said Claviger-Primaris Gruss as he approached. ‘Is there a problem?’
Flint pretended he hadn’t seen Gruss approach, nodding in casual greeting and replying, ‘No problem, just checking in with HQ.’
Gruss looked slowly about the interior of the tower. The brilliant light lancing down through the motionless blades of the air-scrubber was fading as the sun moved across the sky, but Flint read his meaning.
‘We thought the open construction here might allow a decent signal through,’ said Flint.
Gruss nodded slowly, and said, ‘And did it?’
‘Kohlz?’ Flint said to his aide.
‘Nothing, sir. This set doesn’t transmit on the sub-etheric, but the higher bands are just hash.’
‘I could have told you they would be,’ said Gruss. ‘Most of the generatorium’s outer skin is covered by a demodulation grid. Individual nodes are deactivated to allow sanctioned signals through.’
‘But unsanctioned signals get overridden with hash,’ Kohlz finished. Gruss nodded silently in response.
‘Why weren’t we told?’ Flint growled. ‘How are we to contact the main force?’
‘This facility,’ Gruss replied, his metallic voice sounding oddly distorted as it growled from his armour’s phonocasters, ‘Is rated amongst the most secure of its type in the sector. My primary duty is to keep it that way.’