Joyce glanced at the command boat moored further along the riverbank. The commissar had gone in there to talk with the witch. With a bit of luck he might even shoot her.
‘The name’s Iverson,’ the dead man said, watching Skjoldis from across the table. His eyes were no longer monstrous – the left was a faded blue, the right a failing augmetic – and his scars no longer burned, but their geometry was unchanged. That tortured lattice held her gaze like a cage.
He looks younger, but it is him, Skjoldis decided. And he is not dead.
‘It’s an old wound,’ he said, misunderstanding her fascination. ‘Razorvine. I walked right into the bloody stuff. Strange to think it, but I was green to Phaedra once.’ He smiled with bleak humour, distorting the mesh. She saw many things caught up in that net: determination and despair, broken faith and unbreakable hate, courage and the fear that courage was only a lie, murders old and new… but not a trace of recognition.
He does not know me. But how can that be? And how can he be younger?
‘It was a lifetime ago,’ he said.
She caught her breath, misunderstanding his statement.
‘But are you still a fool?’ Machen mocked from the doorway. ‘It seems to me you must be, walking into a den of renegades.’
‘I’m not here to judge you,’ Iverson said, keeping his eyes on Skjoldis.
He does not know me, but he senses I am the authority here, she realised.
‘You really expect us to believe that prattle about a pardon?’ Machen snorted.
‘No, I don’t expect you to believe it, captain,’ Iverson said. ‘There’ll be no pardon for any of us, but it’s what your men needed to hear.’
Machen snorted. ‘Then why would we help you?’
‘Because we’ve all been betrayed,’ Iverson said. ‘And because we want the same thing.’
‘Justice,’ Vendrake said quietly. He was slouched in a chair, but his eyes were bright.
‘To the Hells with justice!’ Machen spat. ‘I want to see those bastards burn!’
‘Then let me help you,’ Iverson said, talking to them all, but speaking to the witch. ‘Trust me.’
I do, Skjoldis discovered to her surprise. Against all sense and sanity, I do trust you, Iverson. Whatever you were in the past, you are untainted now.
And finally, with the relief of one who has carried a burden too long, she told them about Abel and the Counterweight.
‘The pendulum falls…’ Verne Loomis stuttered. ‘Three days… We have… three days…’ His nose erupted in a welter of blood and his eyeballs rolled, showing the whites. Roach caught him before he hit the ground.
‘Easy Verne,’ the scout whispered, setting the trembling man down gently. ‘We hear you. You just rest up now.’
Roach felt bad for his fellow greyback. Loomis hadn’t been right in the head since he’d walked in on the warp-spawned nightmare in Dorm 31, way back in space. That horror had turned him into a wall-eyed scarecrow that saw things that nobody else could see. Sometimes those things made him giggle and sometimes they made him cry like a baby, but lately they mostly made him scream.
‘It hurts,’ Loomis moaned. ‘Every time she talks to me it’s like she turns my head inside out.’
‘I know, but you done real good and she’s gone now,’ Roach said.
Unfortunately for Loomis his experience had left him sensitive to the wyrd, so he’d drawn the short straw of ‘talking’ to the witch long distance. He was the Arkan infiltrators’ psychic vox-receiver and it was burning him out.
‘Whenever she does it they can see me,’ Loomis grabbed Roach’s wrist in a vicelike claw. ‘They can see right inside of me and I know they want to come in.’
Roach turned to the others. ‘He can’t take much more.’
‘He won’t need to,’ said Klint Sandefur curtly. ‘He’s done his duty. The rest is down to us.’
The blandly handsome Arkan lieutenant cast a steely eye over the men gathered in the empty silo. They were deep in the bowels of the Diadem, well below the waterline. It was about as remote as they could get on the rebel refinery, but nowhere was really safe. They only gathered when Loomis got twitchy, which meant the witch had something to say.
‘You all heard Loomis. We don’t have much time,’ Sandefur continued. He was the leader of the eight-man infiltration team who had ‘betrayed’ their colonel and signed up with the rebels. Roach couldn’t fault his smarts, but he was a cold bastard and too heavy on the Creed by a long shot.
‘Redemption Day is coming and I don’t want any mistakes,’ Sandefur finished sternly.
‘Can’t come soon enough for me, lieutenant.’ Jakob Dix drawled. ‘Another month hanging out with these xenos lovers and I’ll start buying into their Greater Crud!’
‘You do and I’ll shoot you myself, Trooper Dix,’ Sandefur said without a trace of humour. ‘We’ve been sleeping with the enemy near on five months now. This isn’t the time to fall for them.’
The man thinks he’s the Whitecrow in waiting, Roach decided. He stifled a scowl as he weighed up his comrades. Mister Fish wore his usual serene smile, unmoved by Loomis’s news. Dix was grinning like a ghoul in a graveyard and his buddy Tuggs was smirking along with him, showing buckteeth big enough to stop a bolt-round. The black crags of Pope’s face were unreadable in the shadows, but then they were pretty much that way in any light. Guido Ortega’s expression was only too easy to read. His eyes were wide and he was biting his flabby lips nervously. Roach guessed the Verzante pilot had given up on Sandefur’s ‘Redemption Day’ ever coming and probably hadn’t lost much sleep over it. Thinking it over, Roach realised he felt much the same way himself.
The rebs have treated us pretty good, he admitted. Better than the Guard ever did. Even the blueskins ain’t so bad once you get used to them…
‘I know this has been tough on all of you,’ Sandefur was saying. ‘We’re soldiers, not filthy spies, but you’ll get the chance for some payback.’ He turned to Roach. ‘You’re certain you can breach the Eye, scout?’
‘No problem,’ Roach answered with a nod. ‘See, we got this blueblood chump in our gang, name of Olim. He’s got a regular shift up there. Man’s the platoon punch-bag and I’ve become his best pal in the whole world. He’ll get me in for a look-see.’
‘Do you have a problem with that, Mister Roach?’ Sandefur asked, catching the scout’s sour tone.
‘No sir, I’m just dandy,’ Roach said, ‘but things could get messy in there.’
‘Nothing we can’t clean up!’ Dix quipped, raising a guffaw from Tuggs.
‘Well let’s make sure you’ve got the right tools for the job.’ Sandefur turned to the dark skinned greyback. ‘Pope, did you secure the devices?’
‘I got ’em right here.’ Pope, who’d wangled a stint guarding the tech-priests’ arms laboratorium, slapped the satchel on his shoulder. ‘Swiped four of ’em. Couldn’t risk no more. The cogboys watch their new toys like hawks.’
‘Four it is then,’ Sandefur said crisply. ‘That’s one per man taking a shot at the Eye. Pass them round, greyback.’
Pope pulled out a bundle of glassy, needle-like daggers with bulbous hilts and handed them over to the men chosen to strike at the comms centre: Roach, Fish, Dix and Tuggs. The two Badlanders eyed the fragile weapons dubiously.
‘What d’you expect me to do with this here toothpick, lieutenant?’ Dix snorted. ‘It ain’t fit to slice an owlskunk’s hide. Won’t do spit against an iron-plated zombie!’
‘You got that wrong, Dixie,’ Pope drawled. ‘I seen these pigstickers being tested out. One jab’ll put down the biggest of the cogboys’ freaks.’
‘And one jab is all you’ll get,’ Sandefur warned. ‘We got the word on this gear from the colonel’s source. They’re brand-new tech, something the cogboys have cooked up with their blueskin pals…’ He trailed off, loo
king uneasy at the blasphemy he was describing.
‘It ain’t right messing with stuff like that,’ Dix said, sniffing his blade suspiciously. Tuggs nodded in vigorous agreement.
‘Look, I won’t pretend I like it any better than you,’ Sandefur snapped, ‘but we’ll be turning the heretics’ weapons against them. And you’ll need every edge you can get in the Eye.’
‘Go on,’ Roach encouraged, genuinely curious now. ‘Tell us what these things do.’
Sandefur straightened and nodded. ‘Those blades are mods of EMP tech. They’ll hit a target with an electromagnetic pulse that’ll fry its machine spirit, but one charge is all they pack, so choose wisely.’
‘We’ll make ’em count,’ Roach promised.
‘See that you do, Dustsnake,’ Sandefur said. ‘Right, we’re done here. You all know your parts, so let’s make Providence and the Emperor proud.’
‘It is done,’ Skjoldis said. ‘They have heard me.’ She sank back into her chair, drained by her efforts.
‘Good work,’ Iverson said. He turned to the two captains. ‘Brief your men then do it all over again. Hammer the plan home until they’re breathing it. There will be no second chances. And find me a chainsword.’
They left without a word. All the words had already been said, all the arguments fought to a standstill. After Skjoldis’s revelation Machen had raged and Vendrake had laughed, but Iverson had stuck to questions until the questions had become tactics and Abel’s plan had become their plan.
He knows it is our only chance, Skjoldis observed. He saw that from the beginning and embraced it with the fatalism of a drowning man.
‘Do you trust this Abel?’ Iverson asked. He had asked before, but now they were alone he wanted the truth.
‘No,’ she said, ‘but I trust his hatred for the Sky Marshall.’
He nodded, holding her gaze. ‘Have we met before, witch?’
She froze, half expecting his scars to ignite with hellfire, but his expression was simply puzzled.
‘That is not possible,’ she answered cautiously. ‘You said you were taken from Providence as a boy, while I have been away scarcely a year.’
‘I know, but the look on your face when you first saw me…’ Iverson faltered and she glimpsed something barbed shift beneath the black ice of his soul.
‘I was sleeping,’ she said. ‘You walked in on a nightmare.’
‘I see,’ he said, but he obviously didn’t.
And I hope you never do, Holt Iverson.
The Last Day: Counterweight
The witch knew me. Her veil couldn’t hide the recognition in her eyes. Perhaps it was a consequence of her wyrd, some remote viewing or precognitive vision, yet neither would explain her dread of me. But I’ve no time to dwell on this mystery. Despite Raven’s strangeness I must trust her as she trusts her shadowy benefactor, Abel. They are both enemies of my enemy and perhaps that’s the best that friends can be in Hell. Besides, Abel’s plan offers our only chance of ending this heresy.
Abel. He claims he’s been building a network of dissidents for years, fomenting discord and preparing for a day of reckoning. Well, that day is today. In nine hours mutiny will break out on the Sky Marshall’s battleship. The resistance doesn’t have the muscle to take the ship, but that’s where we come in. Abel calls us his ‘Counterweight’ – the secret weapon that will swing the balance of power. His mutiny will open a window for us to reach the Sky Marshall and end this. But first we have to get into space.
There aren’t many ways off Phaedra, but the Diadem offers one of the few. The old refinery has its own shuttle, a rickety tanker used to ferry promethium into orbit. With its silos emptied the tug will easily take half a regiment – not a comfortable ride, but a short one at least. Unfortunately the Diadem is one of the most heavily defended enemy bastions on the entire planet. We can’t hope to capture it, so we’ll have to get in and out before the rebels know what’s hit them. Once the assault begins there can be no hesitation and no mercy. We push on until the job is done – or until we’re done.
Three hours from now a convoy of Concordance janissaries will pass through a choke point in the river, a narrow fjord overlooked by an escarpment…
Iverson’s Journal
Howling with blissful rage, Audie Joyce leapt from the cliff top and plummeted towards the stalled convoy far below. The four ships looked like toys overrun with swarming ants. The gunboat in the lead was a blazing ruin and its three charges, all cumbersome hover barges, were in disarray. Rebel janissaries scurried about the decks, tormented by hidden snipers and heavy fire from the Sentinels lining the ridge. Iverson’s gunboat was steaming up behind the convoy, packed with greybacks. Machen was clinging to the prow like an iron barnacle, excluded from the sky dive by his massive Thundersuit.
This glory is mine to lead, the young preacher thought.
‘Flay the xenos lovers, brothers!’ he shouted. As the ships raced closer he opened up with his heavy stubber, heralding his path with a hail of bullets. Plunging through the air alongside him, his fellow Zouaves followed suit and stitched the rebels with high velocity rounds. Together they were a coterie of armoured angels, falling into fiery atonement.
A beam of incandescent light flared up from an emplacement below and struck the man to Joyce’s right, detonating him in a whirling nova of blood and steel. The preacher knight cursed, feeling the loss of his brother like a physical blow. He swivelled his aim and tore apart the rebels manning the lethal rail gun before it could fire again.
A flock of small saucers rose from the convoy to meet them, tilting awkwardly as they tried to aim their underslung weaponry towards the sky. Joyce whooped as he smashed through the strata of drones, scattering them like broken spinning tops.
‘Thrusters!’ he ordered, triggering the repulsion jet on his back. The Stormsuits didn’t carry true jetpacks, but the single use rockets were enough to cushion their fall. As the Zouaves slowed, a stray blast from a drone ripped through another knight’s rocket pack. Trailing puffs of steam he shot past Joyce and hit the leading barge like a missile, pulverising a gaggle of rebels and punching right through the deck. A second later the ship quaked as the human bomb ruptured something vital in its guts. Black smoke poured from the rent as Joyce crashed down into chaos. Grinning fiercely he fired up the buzz saws attached to his wrists and tore into the rebels, hacking a blind path through the choking, flailing mob. His heart soared as blood spattered his armour, lending it a crimson sheen.
‘Blood for the God-Emperor!’ the preacher bellowed, saying the words aloud for the first time.
‘We’re done here, Silverstorm,’ Vendrake called into the vox. The Zouaves were down and Iverson’s ship was seconds away from the convoy. ‘You know the drill. Head for the rendezvous point, double time.’
Yanking levers expertly, he hauled his Sentinel away from the precipice and spun about. Up ahead the escarpment dipped sharply into the jungle, but Vendrake charged down the incline as if damnation was on his tail. And maybe she was. Lady Damnation, chasing him down in a rust-bitten Sentinel that reeked of the burial pit and ran on unclean truths.
I’m coming for you, my love, he heard her sing again, closer now, always closer. Vendrake’s Glory-fired eyes tracked every dip and snarl in his path like violet lasers, triggering live wire reflexes that bound him to his machine. He’d given Iverson his word he wouldn’t use the Glory today, knowing all along that his word was worthless.
I lost my honour at Trinity. I just didn’t know it until I got to Phaedra.
As his gunboat bore down on the rearmost barge Iverson thumbed the activation stud of a borrowed chainsword. Angry tremors reverberated up through his metal fist, falling into harmony with the martial beats pounding from Machen’s shoulder speakers. While his comrades crouched in cover the Zouave captain stood tall at the prow, suppressing the rebels with a constant stream of fire. He was
like a tank and an orchestra combined, his music vying with the chatter of his heavy stubber. Sporadic ripostes flared back from the barge and scorched his iron hide, but he paid them no heed.
‘Now!’ Machen called, silencing his gun. His comrades surged to their feet and Zsombor, the last Corsair, cast his grappling hook. A wave of other grapples followed, launching from the gunboat like a shoal of barbed worms. They snarled in the gunwales of the barge and bound the ships a moment before they collided. There was a bone jarring impact and the greybacks roared furiously, eager for the fight.
‘For Providence and the Imperium!’ Iverson shouted as he leapt over the narrow divide. His kinsmen followed like grey wolves, their lasrifles bristling with bayonets. They landed amongst a rabble of surprised janissaries who’d been crouching in cover. Before the rebels could level their guns Iverson was in close, slashing and stabbing and thinking of Reve.
She was a traitor… He sawed through an officer’s breastplate… She would have turned on us… Felt the teeth chew into the ribs beneath… She’ll answer me… Thrust through the turncoat’s back, ripping away the face of the man behind… When she comes back… Yanked the blade free… Why hasn’t she come back?
A withering fusillade rained down on the brawling mob, slicing indiscriminately through greybacks and janissaries alike. Iverson spun and saw a band of armoured xenos warriors perched on the upper deck. There were six of them, three kneeling and three standing behind, formed up in a classic defensive line. They fired their pulse rifles in disciplined, alternating bursts, cooperating to maintain an unbroken barrage. Iverson’s bile rose at the sight of their backswept helmets and impassive lens-studded faceplates. Fire Warriors – the true enemy.
‘Machen!’ he yelled into his vox-bead. ‘Upper deck – take them down!’
The Zouave acknowledged with a hail of bullets, but none found their mark. The air around the xenos squad crackled and scattered the rounds like sparking confetti. Iverson swore as he noticed a peculiar, tetrahedral machine hovering above the warriors. The thing must be some kind of shield drone, upgraded so it could throw a barrier around an entire squad.
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