[Caiphas Cain 03] The Traitor's hand

by Sandy Mitchell

  'You really are remarkably tiresome,' the daemon said petulantly, apparently unphased by the detonation of the las bolt, which did nothing beyond marring the pale flesh of her skin. 'Have it your own way, then.' The blemish disappeared, fading into invisibility in the space of a heartbeat. 'Let's see how you like being killed for a change, shall we?'

  She charged forward, beautiful and terrible, scattering her few remaining acolytes as she came. I fired again, repeatedly, the las bolts just as ineffective as before, flinching as the daemon reached out for me…

  And then reeled back, an expression of confusion and doubt clouding her strangely elongated eyes.

  'What?' She glanced around in perplexity, and began to back away. 'What are you doing?' I fired again, and this time the las bolt left a real wound, a faint pockmark which leaked some ichorous fluid. I nudged Jurgen's arm, urging him forward. We had to stay close to her.

  'Come on!' I yelled. 'It's now or never!' I swung my chainsword, eliciting a gout of ichor from one of the reaching hands, and a squeal of outrage which rang in my skull like an opera singer hitting and holding a perfect note. Mahat and Karim snapped out of their stupor and began firing, fortunately proving good enough marksmen to hit the huge target in front of them without endangering Jurgen or myself. More wounds began to open across that pale and sensuous skin.

  'You can't do this, it's not fair!' the daemon howled, bounding forward again. I dodged frantically, opening a slash across its leg with the chainsword, and Jurgen leapt to one side, raising the melta but before he could fire, the thing's long, sinuous tail snapped round against the side of his head. He dropped to the ground, stunned, the precious heavy weapon falling with him.

  'Stop it! Stop it, you horrible little man!'

  It backhanded Karim, sending him flying backwards in a tangle of limbs and lasgun, but Mahat kept firing doggedly. Beije, I noticed, was still standing there, his mouth open, like a half-witted shop dummy.

  'Shoot it, you moron,' I yelled, diving for the fallen melta, praying to the Emperor that they could keep the daemon occupied long enough for me to reach it, and that it would stay pinned within the radius of Jurgen's peculiar aura. My aide stirred, staggering to his feet, shaking his head groggily, and stumbled a step forward, trying to unsling his lasgun.

  'What?' Beije seemed to become aware that he still held a laspistol, and cracked off a couple of badly-aimed shots, which at least attracted Emeli's attention. Her head snapped round towards him, that long, sinuous tongue lashing out to entangle his arm. Squealing in terror, Beije was pulled inexorably towards her gaping jaws.

  'Good! Keep her busy!' I shouted encouragingly, while the pudgy commissar scrabbled frantically for his chainsword. I rolled to my feet, hefting the weight of the heavy weapon, marvelling for a moment at the ease with which Jurgen seemed able to lug the thing around, and pulled the trigger.

  A bright, actinic flash seared through my closed eyelids, leaving dancing afterimages on my retina, I blinked my vision clear and found the daemon reeling, a hole punched clear through its torso. Any mortal creature would surely have found such a wound instantly fatal, but Emeli simply staggered, rallied and turned back to face me.

  'Not this time,' she said, an expression of utter malevolence washing across her inhuman features, dropping Beije in the process. She bounded towards me with preternatural speed, failing to see Jurgen in her eagerness to close her hands around my neck.

  'I'm coming, commissar,' my aide said, still dazed and entangled in the sling of his lasgun. He stumbled into the daemon's leg, and it screeched as though he was white hot, leaping away with an expression I can only describe as terror on its face.

  That was all the opening I needed. I fired the melta again, blowing a chunk of its head away. The daemon howled, all pretence of civilisation gone, and rushed at me, intent on murder. I worked frantically to bring the heavy weapon round, cursing its weight and mass, sure I couldn't make it in time…

  And it staggered, its entire body erupting in spatters of ichor. The crackle of lasguns echoed around the chamber, deafening me and drowning out even the shrieking of the doomed warp entity. For a moment it writhed, tormented, unable to decide where to go, then it vanished with a thunderclap of imploding air. Dazed, I stared around the room, finding it packed with Valhallan uniforms.

  'You forgot to vox,' Detoi said laconically from near the door. 'So we came to see how you were getting on.'

  'Not so well that we're not pleased to see you,' I said, sagging with relief. I indicated the handful of feebly-twitching acolytes still scattered around the chamber. 'Bring them, and let's get the frak out of here. And try not to look at the walls, they fry your brain.'

  'No problem.' The captain beckoned a couple of troopers armed with flamers forward. 'Burn it all down.'

  'Works for me,' I said, wondering for a moment what Maiden would say, and deciding I didn't give a frak. I turned to Jurgen, who was looking as alert as he ever did, and handed him the melta, which he accepted with as close as he ever got to enthusiasm. 'You dropped this,' I said.

  'Sorry about that, sir,' he responded.

  'You think you've won, don't you?' One of the cultists turned to me, glaring defiantly for a moment before Magot jabbed him none too gently with the butt of her lasgun to get him moving again. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, and after a moment I recognised him as one of the aristocratic by-blows infesting the Council of Claimants, although if I ever knew his name I couldn't recall it.[108]'But she'll be back. Slaanesh is eternal, and so are his servants.'

  'Yes, but you're not,' I snapped, fighting the urge to put a las bolt through his head there and then. 'And you'll hang long before I do.' I turned to Beije, who was staring vacantly at the daemon slobber on his sleeve as though it might be about to sit up and bite him. 'See you at the tribunal,' I said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  'Revenge is a dish best served with mayonnaise and those little cheesy things on sticks.'

  - Osric the Loopy, planetary governor of Corania (appointed 756.M41, removed from office by the Officio Assassinorum 764.M41)

  AS IT TURNED out, I didn't have to wait long for my day in court. Under the circumstances, Zyvan graciously allowed the Commissariat to convene the tribunal in his headquarters on Adumbria once the warp currents had stabilised enough to put the astropaths back to work, and a brisk exchange of signal traffic had established that no one could be bothered making the trip out from the subsector office on Corania for what everyone involved seemed to think was an open and shut case.

  By that time the rest of our fleet had finally arrived, metaphorically red-faced and panting, just in time to play a couple of quick rounds of hunt the heretic. The last survivors of the Khornate invaders were picked off in pretty short order once our reinforcements arrived, leaving the five regiments who'd borne the brunt of the fighting to grab some much-deserved R&R, and Kasteen and Broklaw had found time to meet me in Skitterfall and sit in on the proceedings.

  'I appreciate this,' I said, making myself as comfortable as I could on the bench outside the conference suite where the two Kastaforean commissars and the Valhallan from the 425th were concluding their deliberations. Beije sat on the opposite side of the lobby, alone save for Asmar, still rubbing absently at his arm where the daemon had licked him; I suspected he'd acquired a lifelong nervous tic from the experience.

  'It was the least we could do,' Broklaw assured me, cracking his knuckles and stifling a yawn. 'You've put yourself on the line for us any number of times.' This was true, albeit never from choice.

  'Quite.' Kasteen shot a venomous glance at the other commissar. 'Is it true you challenged him to a duel for insulting me?'

  'I thought of it more as an insult to the regiment,' I said, playing things down as usual.

  Kasteen nodded, apparently not fooled for a moment. 'Thank you anyway,' she said.

  'So how are things with the lord general?' Broklaw asked, breaking the awkward silence.

  I shrugged. 'P
retty much as usual. Still not much of a regicide player.' Nevertheless, the social evening I'd spent with him the previous night had been a pleasant one, only slightly overshadowed by the possibility that it could have been our last. Neither of us expected Beije's ridiculous charges to stick, especially as Zyvan had quietly seen to it that the triumverate of commissars comprising the tribunal had been given access to some very highly classified files and been left in no doubt what would have happened if I hadn't acted as I did, but there was always the possibility that one or other of the Kastaforeans would apply the letter of the regulations rather than a dose of common sense. (Which, I've observed, is remarkably scarce in most cases.)

  'I thought you might care for some refreshment,' Jurgen said, materialising a few paces behind his bouquet and passing round a tray full of tanna bowls.

  I took one gratefully. 'Thank you, Jurgen,' I said, taking my first sip of the fragrant liquid.

  'Commissars.' One of the lord general's personal guard appeared at the door to the conference suite. 'The tribunal is ready to announce its verdict.'

  'Typical,' I said with heavy humour. 'Wait all afternoon for a decent brew, then…' I replaced the bowl on the tray.

  'I'll keep the pot warm for you sir,' Jurgen said, which was as close as he would come to wishing me luck or expressing concern, and I nodded.

  'I won't be long,' I said, stilling a sudden fluttering of nervousness which took me completely by surprise. Damn it all, I'd just faced down a daemon, and not for the first time either; a few minutes listening to my colleagues huffing with self-importance couldn't hold a sconce to that. So outwardly, at least, I was completely impassive as I walked into the conference room, Beije at my side, and stood at parade rest in front of the trio of black-clad commissars seated behind the polished wooden table.

  Dravin, the commissar of the Valhallan tankies, was chairing the tribunal by virtue of his length of service (roughly twice that of either of his colleagues), and rested his elbows on it, cupping his chin on steepled hands.

  'This has been an unusual case,' he began without preamble. 'And one which my colleagues and I have had to regard with the utmost seriousness. Fortunately, our verdict was unanimous in all particulars.' He paused for dramatic effect. Beije licked his lips nervously, and I remained impassive with the ease of the practiced dissembler; you don't play as much poker as I do without learning to mask your feelings. Dravin indicated the data-slate in front of him. 'We have no hesitation in finding all the charges made against Commissar Cain completely baseless and without foundation.'

  I inclined my head, in what I calculated would be a sufficiently restrained response for a man of my reputation, and savoured the mew of disappointment which escaped from Beije's tightly clenched lips.

  Dravin returned the nod. 'However,' he went on, 'we feel that under the circumstances we have had no option but to introduce new charges of our own. Charges I'm bound to say which disappoint us, and which reflect badly on the reputation for scrupulous conduct for which the Commissariat has always stood.' This was a surprise, I must admit, and a thoroughly unwelcome one at that. But I kept my feelings from my face just as easily as before, did my best to ignore the look of vindictive triumph on Beije's, and nodded gravely. No point in panicking just yet.

  'I await your verdict with interest,' I said levelly.

  'No doubt.' Dravin glanced down at his data-slate again. 'Tomas Beije, you are charged by this tribunal with conduct unbecoming to a commissar. Your unwarranted interference in Commissar Cain's pursuit of his duty could have had the most catastrophic of consequences not only for the world of Adumbria, but the entire sector.'

  I glanced across at Beije. He seemed to be hyperventilating, incapable of making any sound other than 'Wha… Wha… Wha…'

  'Under the circumstances we have no option but to recommend your immediate removal from field duties pending further enquiries. I'm sure you're aware that the most severe penalties may be deemed appropriate once properly formulated charges can be brought.'

  So as you'll appreciate, it was with a light heart that I rejoined Kasteen, Broklaw and Jurgen in the corridor outside. Beije tottered out after me a moment later, looking as though he could already see the firing squad taking aim, and I took him gently by the arm.

  'If it helps,' I said, with all the sincerity I could muster, 'I intend to testify that in my opinion you acted throughout from the best and most noble of motives. I'm sure you would have done the same for me.'

  'Of course,' he said insincerely. He began to pull away. 'Now if you'll excuse me I really must break the news to Colonel Asmar…'

  'Of course.' I nodded sympathetically. 'As to our other meeting, Jurgen will be acting as my second. When you've had time to appoint one, perhaps he would be so good as to convey a time and place convenient to you.'

  'That, ah, won't be necessary.' Beije licked his lips, glancing at my chainsword, no doubt remembering I'd last used it on a Chaos Marine and a daemon. He turned to Kasteen. 'I may have passed certain remarks in the heat of the moment. If any offence was caused, I most sincerely apologise.'

  'None taken, I can assure you,' Kasteen said graciously.

  'Good. Well then…' Beije tottered away, and I smiled with satisfaction. I'd let him sweat for a couple of days before I pulled a few strings to get him off. I'm not really a vindictive man, for all my other faults, and there was no point in letting them shoot the man. He might just have learned something from the experience, and even if he hadn't, it was going to be far more fun watching him squirm every time he was reminded that he owed me his neck.

  'Well then,' I echoed, turning back to my friends. Despite the damage the battling Chaos cults and our own forces had done, life in Skitterfall was returning to normal, and I felt I had something to celebrate. 'I seem to recall a rather pleasant little restaurant not far from here. Care to see if it's still standing?'

  [At which somewhat self-satisfied juncture, Cain's account of the Adumbria incident comes to a natural end.]

  * * *

  [1] In point of fact Cain's record as a schola student is best described as unremarkable. His academic results are, by and large, on the low end of average; the only areas in which he did belter than this being sports and combat techniques. His disciplinary records are surprisingly free of infractions, which, given his character, probably means the one thing he truly excelled at, even in those days, was not getting caught.

  [2] An Imperial world recently cleansed of an ork incursion. For once Cain and the 597th had been out of the thick of the fighting, seeing relatively little action, and his brief anecdotes about the exceptions needn't concern us at this juncture.

  [3] By this point, roughly five years after the adventures on Simia Orichalcae presented in the previous volume, Cain was almost a third of the way though his period of service with the 597th. His activities in the interim are recorded elsewhere in the archive, but are irrelevant to the present account.

  [4] Cain is exaggerating a little on both counts. Tallarn regiments do tend to have an inordinate number of Chaplains compared to most others, often attached as low down the command structure as individual squads, but few of them are quite as fanatical as the members of the Redemptionist cult. It cannot be denied, though, that their entire culture is remarkably pious, and few natives of that world are prepared to take any significant decision without consulting a cleric for guidance as to the will of the Emperor in the matter.

  [5] A slang term for tech-priests, common among the Imperial Guard, apparently derived from the cogwheel insignia of their calling.

  [6] Actually just the sentient ones. So far as we know.

  [7] The equivalent point on the opposite side of the planet was occupied by one of the landlocked seas, making this one the obvious site for the largest starport on Adumbria.

  [8] A local dialect word describing the exact degree of twilight prevailing at that particular location. The Adumbrians have over thirty nouns for semi-darkness, each one more improbable-sounding than t
he last, and deliniating a subtlety of difference which could only matter to a people with far too much time on their hands.

  [9] Presumably became none of the capital ships were ready to break orbit in time.

  [10] Jurgen, as I discovered shortly after my first meeting with Cain, was a blank; an incredibly rare ability which effectively nullifies any psychic or daemonic forces in the immediate vicinity.

  [11] Cain is probably being too modest here. Zyvan had a healthy respect for his tactical sense and Cain's position outside the chain of command meant he could express his opinions rather more freely than most of the lord general's subordinates would. His eventual appointment as the commissariat liaison to the lord general's office was at Zyvan's instigation and his role there was as much as an independent advisor as it was as a commissar.

  [12] Cain's apparent familiarity with the habits of infants is not explained anywhere else in the archive. However, he was serving with a mixed-sex regiment at the lime, so it's quite likely that the inevitable occurred on more than one occasion.

  If so, as the regimental commissar, he would have been responsible for ensuring the welfare of all concerned.

  [13] Assistant Squad Leader, a junior non-commissioned officer trained to take over if the leader becomes a casualty. When, as was the case in the 597th, squads are routinely split into fireteams, the ASL talkes command of the second team when they operate independently.

  [14] Which I choose to take as a compliment…

  [15] One of the reasons the Galaxy-class troopship remains so popular, even though none have been built since the Age of Apostasy and the means to do so are now thought lost, is that it has sufficient hangar space to embark an entire regiment under optimum conditions. Of course this assumes that it would have sufficient dropships aboard for the task, which few do, the slow-moving shuttles being easy targets in a war zone, and difficult to replace.