“I told you before, Greiss, my men reconnoitred this area. We tested the water for all known poisons and diseases.”
“We might know a few you don’t,” suggested Armstrong.
Mackenzie’s voice rose in indignation. “That water is perfectly safe. I’ve drunk it myself. Or did you think we’d been sitting on our hands for the past year just waiting for the almighty Jungle Fighters to show up and rescue us?”
“Just saying I’d like to see for myself,” growled Greiss. “Sharkbait?”
“Aye, sergeant.” Muldoon tore up a handful of weeds and approached the riverbank. The water, a short way below him, was impossibly clear and fast flowing. It was six metres wide, and it sparkled hypnotically as it caught the sun. Lorenzo shared the sergeant’s suspicion: it looked too good to be true.
Muldoon cast his weeds into the river. It hissed and bubbled where they hit, and Lorenzo could see that the water was eating into the vegetation, even as the current swept it away in a telltale cloud of vapour.
Mackenzie blanched. “It… The reports… My men assured me… Why would they…?”
“Just a guess, commissar, sir,” said Greiss with a crooked grin, “but perhaps your men just don’t like you much.”
Braxton hurried to offer a kinder explanation. “It must be as Donovits said, sir. The planet is adapting to our presence, finding new ways to fight us.”
“Maybe,” agreed Donovits, “but this goes beyond evolution, accelerated or not. If this really was a freshwater river—if it’s become so highly acidic in a matter of weeks—we’re talking about a sizeable ecological shift.”
“Could it be the orks?” asked Braxton—and he wasn’t the only man present, Lorenzo sensed, who wanted to think that—to cling to a rational, knowable cause for their woes. “Could they have poisoned the water somehow?”
“Maybe,” conceded Donovits, though he sounded doubtful.
“Don’t underestimate these orks,” muttered Mackenzie. “I told you, this new warboss is smart!”
“Yes, well,” said Greiss. “Right now, the important thing isn’t what may or may not have happened in the past—it’s what we do about it in the here and now.”
Mackenzie had been staring into the acid river. Now, he snapped to attention as if remembering his responsibilities. “Right. I hope I don’t have to tell you people to conserve supplies from here on. In the meantime, we have a more pressing problem.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Greiss wryly. “We have to cross that thing.”
They began by sending Woods up a tree.
He shinned up to its topmost branches, until its leaves hid him from view. He disturbed a bird—the first the squad had seen all day—but instead of attacking him it squawked in terror and took flight.
From his new vantage point, Woods scanned the length of the river in each direction, looking for a natural crossing. No one was really surprised when he returned with the news that there was none. That would have been too easy.
Armstrong had brought rope, so the rest of the squad stood back as Myers tied a lasso, swung it over his head and let the looped end fly. It soared across the acid river to the opposite bank, and caught hold of a tree branch. Myers tugged at it to confirm it was secure. The rope came loose, and there was a collective wince as it slapped into the river and was dissolved in an instant, before he could even think about reeling it in. Myers was left with just the two-metre length that had been coiled in his hands.
The Jungle Fighters tested a few creepers, but found them brittle, dried out by the relentless heat. Muldoon suggested they dig up some snapper flowers, and Greiss approved the idea. Mackenzie grumbled something under his breath, but he didn’t object—so soon, they were working in a heavy silence, weaving a replacement rope from the flowers’ hardy roots. They knotted several short strands together, and finally they were ready for Myers to try again.
This time, the lasso caught and held. Myers tied his end of the rope around the sturdiest tree he could find, and Mackenzie asked for a volunteer to be first across.
Lorenzo’s was the second hand in the air, as usual. The first belonged to Landon.
“You sure about this?” Greiss quizzed him.
“Makes sense, sergeant,” said the rookie. Lorenzo could see how nervous he felt about saying this, but he was saying it anyway. “Someone’s got to go over there and tie the rope up securely, and I’m the lightest. I’m the most likely to make it.”
Greiss accepted that, so Muldoon set about tying his remaining two metres of rope around the volunteer’s waist, passing it between his legs and finally over the knotted plant roots to act as a safety harness. To this, he attached the end of another length of roots, which would pay itself out as Landon went across.
Then the Jungle Fighters watched in tense silence as Muldoon hoisted Landon up until he could grip the precarious root bridge with his hands and feet. The rookie had left his heavy pack behind, but his lasgun was slung across his back, he never knew what he might encounter, alone on the far side.
Landon made his way across quickly, hanging upside-down from the makeshift rope like a squirrel. He only slowed as he neared the middle of the river, where the slack brought him down almost to its level. If he’d made a slip there, he would have been dead before his harness could catch him.
It was at this moment that Myers’ lasso, straining to cope with Landon’s additional weight, lost its grip on the branch.
Mercifully, it snagged again, only a centimetre further along. Almost a centimetre too far. Lorenzo, watching, sucked air between his teeth, knowing he could do nothing as his youthful comrade dropped—as he was caught an instant later, holding on for his life to his shaking, swaying lifeline. The acid river lapped against Landon’s lasgun, but as far as Lorenzo could see, Landon himself was unharmed.
When the rope had steadied, he resumed his crossing, hugging more closely to the rope than before until it had begun to rise again, to lift him out of danger. Then he struck out more confidently towards the far bank, and set foot on dry land at last.
Landon untied himself from his harness, and made a quick check of the area for immediate threats. He inspected his lasgun and discarded it, evidently, the acid had rendered it useless. Then he knotted the rope he had carried across with him around a tree. He retrieved the end of the first rope from its branch, and tied it around a different tree nearby, making sure he pulled it good and taut. Then he turned to his comrades, and gave them a thumbs-up sign.
Mackenzie sent Woods across next. The other Jungle Fighters had almost made enough root rope to construct a harness for him, but he didn’t bother waiting for it. The crossing was less fraught for him than it had been for Landon, Woods had two ropes to cling to, and he knew both were firmly anchored at each end. He reached the other side of the river in seconds.
Armstrong was more prudent, waiting until his safety rope was prepared and in place, attached to both crossing ropes, before he set off at a perfectly measured pace. Once he’d set foot on the far bank, he hurled his harness, and Landon’s, back to the others, so Myers and Storm were able to follow him in short order. Donovits was next, once he’d crossed the river, he called back a warning that the first rope was beginning to fray in the middle. “Best keep most of your weight on the second,” he advised.
Braxton had been watching the Jungle Fighters closely, and when his turn came he tried to mimic their actions. Only a third of the way across the ropes, however, he missed a handhold and fell. His harness brought him up short, but for a moment he was bouncing and flailing in midair.
That was when the second rope snapped, its loose ends flopping into the acid to be eaten away. Braxton scrabbled for the remaining rope, and held onto it with white knuckles. A minute passed before he felt confident to proceed further. He made one more slip, but his harness saved him again and he was quicker to recover this time. Lorenzo let out a breath of relief—and realised he had been holding it—as Braxton joined the others. Mackenzie had been rigid with wor
ry, too. Who’d have thought the commissar cared about his adjutant as anything more than a human shield?
Greiss and Muldoon, on the other hand, had been conferring in low whispers, ignoring the drama playing out over the river. As the threat to Braxton passed, and Mackenzie’s attention turned back towards them, they parted smoothly—but their eyes met for a second, and Lorenzo thought he saw something ominous in that gaze. A flicker of a resolution made and confirmed.
Mackenzie ordered the three remaining Jungle Fighters to begin work on another rope. “Waste of time,” opined Greiss. “We don’t need two ropes. The second was a backup, that’s all.”
“A safety precaution,” said Mackenzie stiffly, “that turned out to be entirely necessary.”
“Only because your Guardsman didn’t know what he was doing,” countered Greiss. “If he’d followed Brains’ advice—”
“I’m not trusting my life to—” Mackenzie began.
Greiss interrupted with, “There’s only four of us left to cross, and Muldoon and Lorenzo here aren’t crying about it. That rope’s held up just fine so far. Better to take a chance than spend another hour sitting around here doing craftwork. We’re already behind schedule.” And with that, he hoisted Landon’s pack on his right arm, and slipped his own onto the left to keep himself balanced. Then he hauled himself up onto the remaining rope and, emulating Woods, began to swarm across it without a harness.
“Come back here, Greiss!” roared Mackenzie. “I’m warning you, if you don’t come back here this instant, I’ll… I’ll…”
“Way I see it, sir,” said Muldoon nonchalantly, “there isn’t much more you can threaten him with.”
“I’ll be adding this to the list of charges against you, trooper!” the commissar yelled after the departing Greiss. “Muldoon, what do you think you’re doing?”
Muldoon had beckoned Lorenzo forward, and was tying a rope around his waist. Mackenzie pushed Lorenzo aside, and announced, “I’ll be going across next. I don’t trust Greiss and Woods over there unsupervised.”
“I’m sure Guardsman Braxton can keep an eye on them, sir,” said Muldoon, tongue-in-cheek. Mackenzie just glared at him, and said nothing.
Muldoon tied Mackenzie into his harness, then gave him the nod that he was ready to go. He didn’t help him up to the rope as he had most of the Jungle Fighters, he just watched as the commissar scrambled up to it himself. He took hold unsteadily, and eyed the acid river below him.
Then the commissar began to cross, moving hand over hand and foot over foot at a confident, unhurried pace. That was when Lorenzo caught that glint in Muldoon’s eye again, and he felt his heart miss a beat.
He had heard that the attrition rate of commissars assigned to Catachan squads was many times the Imperium average. These losses were officially dismissed as accidents, of course—a natural consequence of sending non-deathworlders, no matter how high-ranking, how well-trained, into an environment to which they weren’t suited. It was rarely acknowledged that there might be anything more to it than that—at least, it hadn’t happened within Lorenzo’s earshot. But everybody knew—or at least suspected—the unspoken truth.
The deathworlds of the Imperium bred men who were independent, proud, and loyal only to those who had earned their respect. That went double for Catachan.
“He’s doing well,” murmured Muldoon, watching the commissar’s progress with obvious resentment, “for a city boy. Too well.”
He reached up to the end of the root rope, still tied to the tree beside him, and he looked at Lorenzo as if he was challenging him to say something, to stop him—and it did occur to Lorenzo that maybe he should, maybe it was the right thing to do, but his throat was dry and the words wouldn’t come, and anyway this was nothing to do with him and even if it was, his loyalties lay with his own kind, didn’t they?
Didn’t they?
Too late. He was always too late.
Muldoon wrapped his fingers around the end of the rope and, with a smile of grim satisfaction, he gave it a good tug.
Lorenzo watched as the vibrations travelled the first half of the rope’s length, to where Mackenzie was clinging on. There wasn’t time to shout a warning, even if he had wanted to. The rope jerked itself out of the commissar’s hands, simultaneously flipping him so that he was on top of it. He flailed, caught by surprise, trying to find fresh purchase, slipped, plummeted to the extent of his harness’ slack—and then the harness gave way, as Lorenzo had known it must. A simple slipknot.
There was nothing holding Commissar Mackenzie now.
He was in freefall.
CHAPTER NINE
Lorenzo didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t turn away.
There was no time, anyhow. Mackenzie would hit the acid before he could blink.
Unless, somehow, impossibly, the direction of his fall was reversed.
Unless he had managed to reach up and, with a last desperate lunge, catch the rope above his head and ride it back up as it bounced.
The commissar’s grunt of pain was loud enough to reach Lorenzo’s ears, even over the rushing of the river. He was clinging, one-handed, to a rope that was still bucking, trying its best to shake him. The way he had dropped, the way he’d arrested his fall, the way he was hanging now, his feet pedalling the air—Lorenzo was sure Mackenzie must have dislocated his shoulder. It must have been a supreme effort of will for him to hold on at all, as the pain spread to his fingers and numbed them. But hold on he did—and more than that, he managed to lift himself, find the rope with his other hand, and finally grip it between his knees.
Lorenzo was impressed despite himself. Muldoon looked like he could hardly believe his eyes. Then his expression darkened, and he reached for the end of the rope again.
Lorenzo put out a hand without thinking, and caught his comrade’s own. Muldoon looked angry, and Lorenzo didn’t blame him, he wasn’t sure of his own motives for intervening, so how could he expect Sharkbait to understand? He held his gaze, and shook his head: Enough! But he knew he was going to blink first.
To Lorenzo’s surprise, Muldoon gave a nod of acceptance. He took his hand away. He turned so that Lorenzo couldn’t see his expression.
The rope began to tremble again. Lorenzo didn’t look, but he knew Mackenzie must be back on the move. A moment later, the rope gave a little jerk as it was relieved of the commissar’s weight, and Muldoon turned to catch the remaining harness as Myers flung it back to him.
He said nothing as he tied the rope around Lorenzo’s waist. As Muldoon hoisted his comrade into position on the crossing rope, however, their eyes met, and Lorenzo thought they shared a moment of mutual respect.
Then Muldoon turned away again, and Lorenzo was alone, concentrating on the rope between his hands and feet, the muscles in his arms and legs, and the rushing acid river below his dangling head.
Halfway across, it occurred to him that if he had upset Muldoon, he was probably about to find out all about it.
When Muldoon stepped onto the far riverbank, the last of the squad to cross, Mackenzie was waiting for him.
Braxton had reset the commissar’s shoulder, and fixed him a makeshift sling, but he was obviously in pain. Still, he greeted Muldoon with a left-handed punch to the jaw that was fast, accurate and powerful enough to knock him off his feet.
Muldoon lay sprawled in the undergrowth, wiping the blood from his lip.
Mackenzie stepped back and straightened his jacket, glaring down at the trooper.
The Catachan rubbed his chin ruefully and conceded, “Alright. I deserved that.” He got to his feet and dusted himself down.
“And a damn sight more,” hissed Mackenzie. “If you wanted to join Greiss on Death Row, you couldn’t have thought up a better way of doing it, Muldoon.”
“Hey,” said Muldoon, all injured innocence, “you can’t blame a trooper for a simple accident.”
Mackenzie’s nostrils flared. “Accident my—!”
Greiss interrupted, “You want to be carefu
l, commissar, accusing a good man of attempted murder when you’ve no evidence, especially in front of his squad. Muldoon says it was an accident, that’s good enough for me.”
Mackenzie ignored him. He was glaring at Muldoon. “I want him restrained,” he said icily. “Silence!” he bellowed at the chorus of protest that greeted the order. “I want this man stripped of weapons, and his hands tied. Braxton!”
Braxton started forward, seeming almost relieved when Greiss barred his way with an outstretched arm. “You can’t do that, commissar,” he snarled. “You make a man defenceless in the jungle, you’re as good as killing him, without a trial, without nothing.”
“What do you suggest I do, Greiss? Muldoon has proven himself a danger to this mission—to me personally. “I have the authority to execute him on the spot. Is that what you want?”
“It was an accident.”
Lorenzo had surprised himself again, but he felt he owed Muldoon something. He was committed now, everyone had turned to look at him.
“I was right there,” he said. “I saw it all. A bird flew at Muldoon. One of the black ones, from yesterday. It came right out of the tree above his head. It startled him. His arm jolted the rope.”
“That’s right.” Woods spoke up. “I saw it from here. Sharkbait slashed at it with his reaper, injured its wing I think, and sent it flapping away.”
A couple of the others gave nods and murmurs of agreement.
Mackenzie looked from one of the Jungle Fighters to another, evidently not believing a word of their story. “My harness—”
“—must have been frayed,” said Muldoon. “I’m sorry. I should have checked it more closely. I should have seen the damage before I sent you off. Sir.”
Mackenzie glared at Muldoon for a long moment. Then he turned to Braxton. “I still want him bound,” he said. “To ensure there are no more ‘accidents’.”
This time, both Myers and Storm stepped forward, placing themselves between Braxton and Muldoon, their arms folded in defiance. Woods drew his devil claw, the glint of it catching the commissar’s eye and giving him pause for thought.
[Imperial Guard 02] - Death World Page 10