‘I…’ Squatz gulped. ‘I don’t know. Honestly. I don’t.’
‘Squatz?’ Kal pushed the barrel of his weapon into Squatz’s cheek. ‘You know everything that goes on around your bar.’
‘Really, Kal,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. Whoever hired Krellum, did it quietly. I didn’t even know he was in town. He always used to come by for a bottle of House Special before a job, but not last night. Maybe that crazy preacher scared him off. Did a number on the rest of my patrons.’
Kal holstered his laspistols and looked hard at Squatz. ‘I’m only going to ask this once,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want to have draw my guns again. What did this preacher look like?’
A group of Universal Saviours crowded around Jobe Francks in the hideout. The word had spread that the ‘Prophet of the Body’ was in their midst, had even saved the gang from a grisly death at the hands of the Righteous Saviours. Food and drink had been piled on the table next to Francks and he had to admit that it was pleasant to have a crowd listening to his every word and handing him food instead of throwing it at him.
After telling the gathered gangers the story of the factory battle – downplaying his role as simply the power of suggestion upon the weak-minded – Francks told them the tale of the Return of Bowdie. He described Bowdie’s death at the hands of the intolerant Ignus and how Ignus had disposed of the body in the Acid Pools.
As he told the tale, Francks’s eyes clouded over and he found himself transported back in time once again. ‘I was on the run after that day,’ he said, his voice seeming to echo as if it had to travel over a vast distance to reach his own ears. The New Saviours had eyes everywhere, and Ignus still wanted me dead.’
He heard a gasp, probably from one of the juves, but it barely registered as his subconscious mind had taken over. ‘I found myself back at the acid pools again, a week after Bowdie’s death,’ he said.
And then he was there.
Francks looked about. The Universal Saviours’ hideout had faded away, leaving him alone in the middle of the pools. He was scared. He’d been running. A couple of New Saviours had chased him through the settlement, but he’d given them the slip and run out into the middle of the pools.
The only people who came out this far were acid farmers, and it was too late in the day for even them. The encroaching darkness gave him some protection from prying eyes, but made it difficult to pick his way across the uneven pathways.
He stopped. An odd sound put him on edge again. He drew his laspistol and peered about, trying to find the source of the sound. There it was again.
Thump-plop. Thump-plop.
He whirled around, but there was nothing behind him.
Thump-plop.
He stood still and concentrated on the sound, but in the vast open field of pools, it was almost impossible to tell where the sound came from.
Thump-plop.
Francks scanned the nearest pools, looking for movement in the gathering darkness.
Thump-plop.
He moved slowly toward an intersection of two paths.
Thump-plop. There.
Ripples hitting the near bank of one of the pools. He crept around the pool, nearly tripping over a loose piece of masonry at the edge of the pool.
All of a sudden, a certain dread fell over him. This was the pool where Bowdie had been gunned down. Thump-plop. He moved to the spot where Ignus had stood, fearing what he would find there. And there it was. He gasped.
Bobbing up and down in the acid, periodically slapping into the bank of the pool was a large dark shape, the size of a human body. Francks fumbled in his pocket for a torch and, throwing caution to the wind, flicked on the beam. He aimed the torch down toward the pool and almost cried out loud when he saw the face of Syris Bowdie.
The body didn’t have a mark on it; not from the attack and not from the acid. His skin and clothing glistened from the liquid, but had not been eaten away at all by the toxic pool. His hair floated around his head like a wreath and his cloak was wrapped around his body like a shroud.
Francks reached down to grab his leader by the arm and pull him free of the acid, but his hands began to burn as soon as he touched the wet clothes and he dropped the torch into the pool. It sizzled and popped as the acid ate its way through the casing. Francks grabbed his own cloak, wrapped it around his hands and reached down again.
‘It was then I heard shouts and the sound of gunfire from behind me,’ said Francks to the assembled Saviours. The vision began to fade as soon as his hands touched the acid. He was back in the hideout with his new parishioners. ‘Ignus’s men had seen me. I had no choice but to run. When they reached the body, I knew I hadn’t imagined it because they all stopped and aimed their own torches down into the pool. I got away because they found him. His very presence saved my life.’
‘A miracle,’ gasped one of the juves.
Francks nodded. ‘Yes, it was,’ he said. ‘But no one was to know about this miracle. I watched from a safe distance as Ignus was called out to the pools. He screamed at his men and they weighted the body down with ropes and huge chunks of masonry then tossed it back into the acid.’
‘But it came back, isn’t that right?’ This question came from the leader of the Universal Saviours. Francks looked at him with a furrowed brow. ‘I have read accounts of the Return of the Body,’ he explained.
Francks smiled. ‘Yes. Bowdie returned once again two weeks later. This time he was seen by several acid farmers. They pulled him out and brought him into town. Unfortunately, the body disappeared that night and was never seen again.’
‘Another miracle?’
Francks shook his head. ‘No. I suspect his final disappearance was the handiwork of a somewhat less than divine being.’
Cardinal Crimson lounged in a soothing bath of hot oils mixed with a special elixir of vital essences. He had no idea what the medics put into the elixir, but the stench of the bath often brought to mind the scent of the sacrificial altar. He felt that not knowing was better for his soul. He was doing holy work on this world – in fact it was a miracle he was alive – so the pain and suffering of a few was a just cost for his continued good work. He knew the Undying Emperor understood it was all for the good of humanity.
The baths were a twice daily ritual to prevent the remnants of his skin from drying out and flaking away, to keep his exposed muscles supple and pliant so they wouldn’t tear apart when he moved, and to stave off infections that now had ample opportunities to invade his scarred body.
It was a time of quiet reflection and, more importantly, a time of utter vulnerability. His inner circle knew not to disturb the Cardinal during his bath. It was drawn by the medics, who then left by a back entrance and returned only after Crimson dressed and returned to his duties.
And so, Crimson soaked and dozed and dreamed of sitting at the right hand of the Undying Emperor, where he passed judgement on the blasphemers. ‘Down to the Abyss with you, witch-wyrd,’ he called out. He looked out at the gathered throng of wyrds, mutants and heretics. ‘Be gone,’ he called. ‘There is no place here for the damned or the deformed.’
One of the misshapen figures, a mutant with pink, fleshy growths on his bare head and shoulders, opened its mouth to protest. ‘Excuse me, your eminence,’ it said. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your bath, but there is an important matter…’
Crimson stared in disbelief at the mutant, trying to make sense of the creature’s statement when he recognised the voice and opened his eyes. ‘Ralan,’ he said, staring at the officious man standing in the doorway. He fiddled with a piece of parchment, absent-mindedly pulling off bits and dropping them on the floor. ‘If this is not as important as you think it is, I will hand you over to the medics and you will get a much more personal bathing experience during my next treatment.’
Ralan swallowed hard and passed his hand over his stringy hair, which was plastered to his head by the heat and humidity of the bathroom. ‘I’m sure you would want this report as soon as possible, yo
ur grace,’ he said. ‘It concerns the heretic Kal Jerico.’
Crimson stood and exited the bath, the oils still glistening on his skin and exposed bones. ‘Robe!’ he commanded.
Ralan dashed across the room and grabbed the robe. He draped it around the Cardinal’s dripping, skeletal frame and followed him out of the room.
‘What has the heretic Jerico done now?’ asked Crimson as he stormed down the hall, his robe billowing out behind him.
Ralan had to run to keep up, and the exertion made him wheeze. ‘It seems the bounty hunter is on the trail of the prophet, he said between huffs. ‘He is out searching for Jobe Francks right now!’
Crimson slammed open the door to his office. ‘Why must that man defile everything we try to do in this world?’ he said. ‘He is the hand of Chaos reaching out of the void to thwart me at every turn.’
‘But sir,’ said Ralan, ‘he is just looking for Francks. That doesn’t mean he will find him.’
Crimson fell back into his chair and grabbed his head between both bony hands. ‘But he will find him, Ralan,’ he said. ‘The man is relentless. He will find the prophet and he will ruin all that we have worked so hard to achieve.’
‘Perhaps…’ began Ralan, but then stopped.
The Cardinal pulled at his hair and began screaming. ‘Damn Jerico! I want him dead, Ralan. Dead. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Cardinal.’
‘Put all of our gangs on the task,’ said Crimson. He shook his hands in the air. Wisps of grey hair floated down toward the desk. ‘Kal Jerico must be dead by the end of the day.’
‘Yes, Cardinal.’
Ralan turned to leave, and Crimson smoothed his hair back down and took a breath. As his rage ebbed away, his mind cleared and a thought occurred to him. Crimson started to laugh. ‘Wait, Ralan,’ he said as his aid left the room. ‘I have a better idea.’
Ralan turned at the door, and Crimson thought he detected a note of scorn on his face. Crimson waited for the obligatory ‘Yes, Cardinal’ but it did not come.
‘I think we may be able to use this information to our advantage,’ he said. ‘I think we can use the chaos that the heretic Kal Jerico is bound to sow to help the cause of Redemption this time. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he plays his part right, I will have the chance to redeem Kal Jerico’s soul in the pools of fire before this is all ended.’
‘What would you have me do, your eminence?’
‘Bring me Kal Jerico, alive!’
Yolanda awoke in the Wildcats’ hideout. It was strange but familiar, like waking in your childhood bed after a long nightmare. She was warm, which reminded her of the melta that had been aimed at her back, but a quick hand check beneath her vest came up clean. Her skin seemed to be unharmed. No, the warmth was all over, which was odd. Underhive hideouts were not known for warmth.
Then she remembered. This had once been her room when she led the Wildcats. It was right above the kitchen in the back of a burned-out eatery. The Wildcats had found the kitchen intact, including all the old pots and pans. The dining room was more rubble than actual walls, but the kitchen and the apartment above were another matter. It had become the official bedroom for the leader of the ’Cats.
‘Themis must be trying to butter me up,’ said Yolanda, ‘giving me her room to sleep it off. I wonder what this will cost me down the line.’
‘Not a thing, if I know Themis,’ said a voice in the dark. ‘She thinks she still owes you for that Spyrer rig you gave us.’
Yolanda recognised the lilting, high-pitched voice. ‘Evening, Lysanne,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t a gift. It was a loan. I hope you haven’t got it shot up.’
Lysanne opened the door to let some light in the room. The teenage Wildcat looked much the same as Yolanda remembered. She still wore loose, black trousers and the wrap-around robe that tied at the sides. She’d dyed her hair black with a streak of purple running down the parting. She’d also received her Wildcat tattoo, a series of whorls and interlacing lines of black, blue and purple across her forehead. As she rose in the gang hierarchy, the tattoo would grow past her temples and eventually over her ears.
‘Not to worry,’ said Lysanne. ‘We’ve kept it safe. We never take it into battle. It would make us too big of a target. But it does have other uses.’
Yolanda remembered. It had been a Malcadon rig from the Spyrer unit sent down to hunt the Vampire. Not only could you climb sheer cliffs while wearing the rig, it also had web spinners. ‘I’ll bet you can get into some interesting spots with that rig,’ she said.
Lysanne nodded. ‘So, are you ready for some supper? The mavants are already serving downstairs.’
‘I was out that long?’ asked Yolanda. She got up and collected her weapons from the bedside table.
‘All day,’ said Lysanne. ‘Some of the newer girls wondered if you’d ever wake up.’
‘Hope I didn’t disappoint anyone,’ said Yolanda with a smirk. She fastened her weapon belt and followed Lysanne down the stairs.
‘Well, I made fifty credits betting on you,’ said Lysanne over her shoulder. ‘So, I’m happy.’
Yolanda chuckled. ‘You should cut me in for half. I think I earned it.’
‘What, saving your life wasn’t payment enough?’
‘Fine, we’ll call it even.’
Lysanne guided Yolanda through the kitchen. Three mavants, male slaves bound in service to the gang, toiled away in the kitchen. One stood over the burners stirring a steaming pot. Another was busy cutting bread and stacking it on large platters. The last one held a tray full of bottles and waited, head bowed, while the two women walked past and through the swinging door. All three wore nothing but dirty white shirts and shorts. Their heads looked like they’d been shaved with dull knives. Patches of hair remained in some places, while cuts and scabs could be seen in the bare spots.
‘Themis has given the mavants trousers?’ asked Yolanda, looking back as they went through the door.
‘I am nothing if not compassionate,’ said Themis.
‘Well, you can take compassion too far when it comes to men,’ said Yolanda. She sat down on a cinder block at the main table, a large block of petrified wood the Wildcats had found years earlier. It was their prized possession. ‘Even a little starts to give them ideas, makes them think they own us… instead of the other way around.’
Themis smiled at the Wildcats’ former leader. ‘How is Kal Jerico?’ she asked.
‘Still getting me into more trouble than he’s worth,’ said Yolanda. ‘That’s why I came to see you.’
The drink mavant walked around the room distributing bottles of Wildsnake to the assembled Wildcats. He placed the last bottle in front of Yolanda and turned toward the kitchen. She kicked him in the rear as he passed, sending him tumbling through the door. ‘Serve the guest first,’ she called after him.
‘Does it have anything to do with those Goliaths who attacked you?’ asked Themis.
Yolanda upended the bottle and poured its contents down her throat, snake and all. ‘Nah, that’s old news.’ She tipped her bottle toward Themis who nodded in return. It was all the two would say on the subject. Gratitude was seen as a weakness by the Escher, but both women knew there was a blood bond between them now.
‘Now we’re looking for some crazy Cawdor prophet,’ continued Yolanda after the exchange. ‘We wondered if you had heard anything. Has there been any unusual Cawdor gang activity in the last few days?’
The bread mavant entered the room. His fellow slave must have explained the proper etiquette for serving guests because he shuffled immediately over to Yolanda with the tray. She grabbed a slice and pushed him on around the table.
He served Themis next. Themis ripped her bread apart and stuffed a large chunk into her mouth. She talked around the wad. ‘There was something about a madman coming into Hive City the other day from the Ash Wastes. Wild hair and creepy eyes. Wearing rags that our mavants wouldn’t be caught dead in. Looked more animal than human, but I guess that’s normal fo
r men, huh?’ she laughed.
‘That could have been anything,’ said Yolanda. ‘Scavvies try to break security all the time.’
‘Ahh, but this one made it through security, supposedly someone found the guard wandering the docks later. And I heard the mystery man left with two Cawdor.’
She looked at Lysanne, who was last to get her bread and had just slapped the mavant on the butt. ‘What’s the name of that gang,’ asked Themis. ‘The Cawdor that hang around Madam Noritake’s all the time.’
‘The Soul Saviours?’ said Lysanne, but it was more of a question than an answer. ‘I think. Or maybe the Savers? All their names sound the same to me.’
‘That can’t be right,’ said one of the other ’Cats, a juve with long mousey-brown hair that Yolanda had never met. ‘Because we heard today that some wild-haired Cawdor helped the Unies – the Universal Saviours – escape from the Righteous Saviours down in Glory Hole.’
‘Was it the same guy?’ asked Yolanda. She chewed on her bread and tried to digest both the hard crust and the information about the travelling Wildman.
‘Probably not,’ said Lysanne. ‘I heard that report as well. This guy was wearing the blue cape and orange armour of a Cawdor.’
‘But one of the Righteous told me he had weird eyes,’ said the juve. ‘All cloudy and swirling. He said it was a wyrd. Used some kind of witch power on them. When they woke up, the Unies and the wyrd were gone.’
Themis gave the juve a stern look. ‘What were you doing talking to a Cawdor?’
The juve blushed and stared at the crust of bread on the table in front of her. ‘Nothing sacred, that’s for sure.’
The Wildcats began laughing. Several of the girls slapped the juve on the back and congratulated her on such a brazen conquest. Yolanda just kept chewing her bread and thinking. Two reports in two days of a wild-eyed man connected with the Cawdor. That had to be more than mere coincidence. Kal would want to know about this.
The soup came out from the kitchen and the mavant Yolanda had kicked reappeared with another tray of Wild Snake. She looked around at her laughing sisters and at the amusing mavants. Jerico could wait, she thought. She needed a girls’ night.
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