Fire Caste

by Peter Fehervari

  ‘He is the Blade,’ the hooded ancient said in a surprisingly resonant voice.

  ‘Well that don’t make no odds to me, astro.’ Privitera scowled as she watched the Confederates disembarking from the shuttle. ‘It’s the muscle I’m after and I ain’t seeing much of that right now.’

  ‘These men have walked through the Seven Hells for your uprising,’ Iverson said coldly. ‘You will show them the respect they deserve.’

  Privitera didn’t flinch. ‘Listen up ‘sar, I’ve got people dying all over this fraggin’ ship ‘cause Abel told me the cavalry was on the way. He promised me an army.’

  ‘So you’ve seen Abel?’ Iverson asked with sudden interest.

  ‘Me?’ she snorted. ‘Nobody gets to see Abel, except maybe his pet freak over there,’ she jabbed a thumb at the astropath, ‘and he ain’t got no eyes.’

  ‘But you trust him?’ Always that same question, as if the answer could make any difference so late in the game.

  ‘Abel makes things happen. He’s in so deep he can pull all the right strings and get people synced up. Our movement wasn’t worth spit ‘til he showed up.’ She slung her shotgun over a shoulder. ‘Look, I gotta shift, man. We nearly had the bridge cracked when a whole heap o’ blueskins showed up.’

  ‘He is the Blade,’ repeated the astropath. ‘He must come with me now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you want me to meet Iverson?’ Cutler asked as he wiped the weraldur’s axe clean of daemonic ichor. The melee had reopened his wounds and he was running on raw willpower.

  Because you would have tried to kill him, said the voice in his head, and that is not possible, but he might have killed us.

  Us? Of course Skjoldis was right. She was a part of him now, her soul woven into the fabric of his own. After he’d killed the daemon she’d asked him to open up his mind and let her in. He hadn’t hesitated for a moment. Without her guidance he was lost.

  Cutler sighed and popped a couple of Furies. He hated using the combat stimms, but they were cleaner than Phaedra’s narcotics and he wasn’t going to last another hour without them.

  ‘Why would I try to kill the commissar?’ he asked.

  Later. We must go now, Whitecrow. Your men are waiting for you.

  A chorus of cheers greeted Ensor Cutler when he stepped from the shuttle. The honest joy of his men stopped him in his tracks. With O’Seishin slung across his shoulders and the axe in his hands he probably looked like some kind of barbarian king, but that didn’t deter the Confederates. As they cheered him, Cutler felt a sadness bordering on despair. So many were gone and so few were left. What had happened to Vendrake and Machen and that promising young officer, Grayburn?

  I did this, he realised. I brought the 19th to ruin.

  Whitecrow, this is not the time for self-recrimination, urged Skjoldis. Tell them what they need to hear. Let them believe in you.

  ‘Look, this is all real touching,’ a woman in security officer’s gear growled, ‘but can we cut to the chase. My guys are dying up on A-Deck.’

  Cutler looked at her with strange, mismatched eyes – one grey, the other green – and nodded. ‘I think we can turn things round for you, officer.’

  ‘And how d’you figure that exactly?’ she challenged. ‘The blueskins have got the bridge locked down.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I’ve got one very special blueskin right here.’ Cutler flung O’Seishin to the ground and grinned. ‘Gentlemen – and lady – I’d like you to meet Commander Wintertide.’

  Iverson had been following his eerie guide for almost an hour. Despite his blindness the astropath never hesitated or stumbled as he negotiated the vast, multi-tiered labyrinth of the battleship. Iverson had lost his bearings, but he sensed they were travelling into the bowels of the craft. Along the way he sometimes heard distant shouts and gunshots, but nobody crossed their path.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Iverson asked as they turned down another gloomy corridor.

  ‘You are the Blade,’ the astropath intoned. ‘I am taking you to the Sky Marshall.’

  ‘I understand that, but why would he be down here? Surely his place is on the bridge?’

  ‘The bridge flies the ship and the ship does not fly,’ his guide explained as if he were talking to a fool.

  ‘But the engines must be fuelled and functional to maintain orbit,’ Iverson pressed. ‘So the ship could fly.’

  ‘The ship does not fly,’ the astropath repeated, letting Iverson’s logic wash over him.

  He’s not wired to think, Iverson decided. He’s only a messenger. But he’d better be wrong about the ship.

  The doors of the turbolift slid open and Cutler’s team swept into the corridor beyond. O’Seishin was strapped to the colonel’s back, piggybacking like a withered child. Privitera was waiting with the forward team and a band of armsmen.

  ‘Welcome to A-Deck,’ she said. ‘We’re actually about midway up the ship, but this is officer country and “Deck 112” didn’t cut it for ’em.’

  ‘And the bridge?’ Cutler asked as the turbolift descended for the next group.

  ‘Up front, a few blocks along, but there’s only one way in and it’s crawling with blueskins. We’ve held on to this sector, but they’ve got the bridge access sewn up tight.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Right, but stay sharp,’ she said. ‘The blueskins have got drones working the vents and those floaters pack a helluva punch.’ As she turned away Cutler swallowed another Fury. He was already over the limit with the stimms, but that was the least of his worries right now.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ Valance asked, tagging along beside him.

  ‘Never better, scout,’ Cutler said as the angry glow lit up his blood. ‘Let’s go get us a bridge!’

  Control the bridge and you control the ship, he reflected as he followed Privitera. It was the age-old logic of shipboard mutinies. The uprising had gravitated here like a force of nature, but it was just a distraction from Abel’s real target. Cutler wondered how the armswoman would feel if she knew the truth. She’s just another pawn like all the rest of us sorry bastards…

  Along the way they passed scores of rebels. There were men and women from every strata of the ship’s society: armoured security troops leading studious looking adepts, smartly dressed naval ratings paired with filthy galley dogs, even a tech-priest leading a trio of combat servitors, but shamefully no officers at all. According to Privitera nearly half the ship had risen up against the Sky Marshall and his xenos allies – far more than the rebels had anticipated. Cutler read the dissenters’ faces as he swept by, clocking anger and fear, determination and desperation. And always hate.

  Our loathing of the xenos runs deep. Kircher might have glossed over it for years, maybe even decades to keep his corrupt little empire ticking along, but the hatred was always there under the surface, waiting for this moment of truth.

  To his surprise he wasn’t sure how he felt about that truth. Trinity had shaken his faith in many things, including humanity’s divine right to rule the stars, but that didn’t make the tau any better. For all his fine talk of the Greater Good, O’Seishin was just another conniving son-of-a-bitch selling another flavour of oppression.

  Better our evil empire than theirs…

  ‘Hey, slow up!’ Privitera cautioned as they came to a wide cross-junction. ‘This cuts onto the main access corridor and trust me, you don’t want to step out there.’

  There were rebels positioned on either side of the junction, all well-armed and alert, doubtless the best of Privitera’s men. There were also bodies – lots of them, scattered about in the random contortions of violent death. Most of them were human, but it was impossible to tell whether they’d been rebels or loyalists.

  And of course the rebels are the loyalists here, Cutler mused with black humour. Civil wars always play havoc with the rules.

 
‘Valance,’ he said and signalled the scout forward.

  The scout nodded and knelt by the junction. He fished a small mirror from his pouch and clipped it to the barrel of his lasrifle. Cautiously he angled the gun round the wall, reading the reflection with narrowed eyes.

  ‘The whole corridor’s packed with xenos soldiers,’ Valance said. ‘I’ve got at least fifty Fire Warriors and a Crisis battlesuit. Plenty of drones too.’

  ‘Grenades?’ Cutler suggested.

  ‘You think we didn’t try that?’ Privitera gave him a dirty look. ‘The blueskins know the game, man. They’re too far back.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Valance said. ‘They’ve got the range and the firepower. Probably packing some shield drones too, just for insurance.’

  ‘And there’s no other way in?’ Cutler asked the rebel leader.

  ‘We tried the vents, but they’re crawling with drones. I lost some good men that way.’ Privitera shrugged. ‘No man, there ain’t no way in except through here.’

  Cutler nodded and jabbed a thumb at the tau strapped to his back. ‘Well then, I guess it’s time to play Commander Wintertide.’

  Iverson knew he was getting close to his quarry now. The dingy, corroded decrepitude of the lower deck had given way to pristine white corridors fashioned from some kind of moulded plastic that hummed softly and emitted its own light. This remote sector of the ship had been remodelled from the ground up by the tau, creating a secret world within the battleship.

  How long has this been going on? Iverson wondered. When did Kircher sell out the Imperium? Five years? Ten? Twenty? How long have we been fighting for a lie on Phaedra?

  The scale of the betrayal was appalling and Iverson felt his fury catch fire with absolute conviction. It had been too long since he’d felt such pure contempt. Whatever else was true or false, right or wrong, one thing was certain: the Sky Marshall had cast countless lives into the meat grinder of this sham war. He had to die.

  And I’ll be the one to do it. This is what my life has been leading up to. This will be my redemption.

  He wondered where Bierce had disappeared to; he hadn’t seen the old ghost since he’d left Phaedra. It was almost as if his mentor had served his purpose.

  ‘We are here,’ the astropath said, coming to a stop outside an iris-like door.

  Iverson stared at the sealed hatch. ‘The Sky Marshall is through there?’

  ‘Yes,’ his guide said without inflection or interest.

  ‘Where are the guards?’ Iverson asked, indicating the brightly lit corridor. ‘We’re right in the heart of his territory, but we’ve seen nobody, not even a drone.’

  ‘They are not here.’ It was the most incontrovertible and pointless statement Iverson had ever heard.

  ‘Where are they?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘They have been summoned to the bridge.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes. Abel has arranged it.’

  Iverson shook his head and turned his attention back to the hatch. ‘And how do I get in there?’

  ‘You are the Blade.’ The astropath touched his palm to the sensor pad by the door and it spiralled open soundlessly. ‘Abel has arranged it.’ Without another word he turned and walked away.

  Abel has arranged it. Why do I like that less and less?

  Iverson walked through the door.

  ‘I am Por’o Dal’yth Seishin,’ the ambassador called out weakly. ‘You will hold your fire, warriors.’

  ‘You heard your boss,’ Cutler shouted, ‘none of us want any slip ups here so just take it easy.’ He stepped out into the access corridor with the ambassador on his back and a grenade in each hand, the pins already depressed. ‘If we do this right we might all make it through to tomorrow.’

  Scores of dispassionate lenses stared back at him above a forest of pulse rifles and carbines. The Fire Warriors were lined up along the corridor in orderly formations, the foremost ranks lying prone, the next kneeling and the last standing. Gun drones hovered and flitted over the troops like miniaturised spacecraft and right at the back, looming by the bridge door, Cutler saw the blocky shape of a Crisis battlesuit.

  Valance was right, Cutler decided. This corridor is a killing ground.

  ‘See, what we’ve got here is a stalemate.’ He advanced with his hands raised, making sure the tau got a good look at the grenades. ‘Ain’t that right, ambassador?’

  ‘What do you hope to achieve with this?’ O’Seishin asked wearily. ‘They will not let you pass, Ensor Cutler.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll talk them round. Or make them see things differently.’ Cutler stopped when he reached the first rank of Fire Warriors. ‘Who’s in charge here?’ he called.

  The Crisis battlesuit stomped forward. Fire Warriors slipped aside as it advanced to loom over Cutler. It tilted at the waist and regarded him impassively with its lens-studded head.

  ‘I am Shas’vre Zen’kais,’ a toneless voice boomed from the battlesuit’s chest. ‘You will release Por’o Dal’yth Seishin.’

  ‘I could do that.’ Cutler seemed to give it some thought. His mind was on fire with the Furies. He’d thrown caution to the wind and swallowed another couple before making his gambit. ‘But then I wouldn’t get to do this.’ He threw the grenades over the battlesuit and dived against its bulk with a yell: ‘Counterweight!’

  One grenade exploded fiercely, tearing through the second rank of Fire Warriors. The other vented a cloud of smoke that billowed out to choke the corridor.

  ‘Counterweight!’ Lieutenant Hood bellowed back at the junction. ‘Go!’

  The sniper, Toomy, rolled out of cover, sighting down his rail rifle as he moved. The three Zouaves followed him on either side, allowing him just enough time for a single shot.

  We got to make this one count, Eloise, he purred to his gun as he fired.

  The Crisis battlesuit’s sensor module disintegrated in a burst of light. Toomy managed a grin before a volley of return fire incinerated his face. Then the Zouaves were storming down the corridor like a moving shield, with greybacks and rebels racing along behind them. Intermittent pulse rounds battered their armour, melting away the heavy plates with frightening speed. Several stray bolts flashed past the knights, every one claiming a life in the packed corridor. If the xenos had a chance to rally and focus their fire the Zouaves would go down in seconds and it would all be over.

  While the blinded Crisis battlesuit flailed about, Cutler tore the axe from his belt and leapt for the nearest Fire Warriors. The aliens hesitated a split second, unsure what to do about the ambassador. Then their chance was gone and he was in amongst them.

  ‘For Providence and the Seven Stars!’ he bellowed, swinging the axe like a madman as O’Seishin shrieked and swayed about on his back.

  More tau rushed from the smoke to join the front ranks, adding their fire to the defence as drones zipped forwards. One of the Zouaves fell, his breastplate reduced to molten slag. Another barrage tore through the gap in the advancing shield wall and mowed down dozens of charging men.

  ‘Put your backs into it you worthless dogs!’ Hood shouted. A pulse round punched into his leg, another through his shoulder. The force spun him round, but he caught himself and limped on, trailing smoke.

  And then the onslaught hit the xenos line like a hammer. One of the Zouaves crashed into the Crisis battlesuit and his momentum threw them both to the ground. His comrade dashed on into the smoke, hacking about blindly with his buzz saws. The Fire Warriors in the front ranks tried to fall back, but became entangled with others rushing forward to reinforce the line. A moment later the angry tide of humanity swept over them and any hope of cohesion was gone.

  ‘Rip out their fraggin’ blue hearts!’ Privitera yelled as she rammed her shotgun into a Fire Warrior’s faceplate and fired.

  Cutler staggered from the melee, his head swimming in its ow
n personal mire. The lacerations in his chest had opened right up and he was bleeding badly.

  You must be strong, Whitecrow, Skjoldis insisted. We have to finish this. Iverson must not be allowed to escape.

  ‘I still… don’t get it,’ Cutler murmured, trying to hold onto consciousness. ‘Why does he matter? Who is he?’

  ‘Commissar Holt Iverson,’ the Sky Marshall said. ‘I take it you’ve come for your Thunderground.’

  My Thunderground?

  ‘So you’re familiar with our myths?’ Iverson asked, keeping his pistol levelled on the pair standing inside the brightly lit chamber. One was a tau Fire Warrior, lightly armoured and bare headed. The other was a man in a plain grey uniform.

  ‘You really think the Thunderground is just a myth?’ The man seemed surprised. ‘I would have thought that you of all people would be a true believer, Holt Iverson. Haven’t you chased your destiny like a bloodhound?’ He offered a smile that looked sincere. ‘But to answer your question – yes, I’ve made a point of familiarising myself with all things Arkan.’

  ‘Because we’ve been a thorn in your side?’

  ‘Because your people intrigue me.’ The smile became a frown. ‘You most of all, Iverson.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Oh, I know rather more than that, though I admit you didn’t catch my eye until Lomax singled you out for her mission. And then of course you vanished off the radar, but your record made for interesting reading.’ He spread his hands magnanimously. ‘So what do you make of my nerve centre?’

  ‘It’s impressive,’ Iverson admitted.

  The circular chamber was not particularly large, but it was alive with information. Banks of monitors and holo-screens tiled the walls all the way to the high, conical ceiling. Iverson saw live vid-feeds, topographical maps and tactical maps, psych reports and inventories… the density of intelligence was almost overwhelming. A huge photo-realistic hologram of Phaedra hovered above a dais at the centre of the room, revolving slowly. The image crawled with brightly coloured icons representing bases and troop movements, all appended with restless statistics.