Struck by a sudden thought, she glanced back at the tunnel they’d just emerged from. The corridor mouth was raggedly cut, by a plasma torch or some similar tool, confirming her guess. “I think we’re in a different hull,” she said. “Remember the cluster of derelicts we saw on the way in?”
“It’s getting lighter too,” Drake added, his voice taking on a tinge of unease. He hefted his handgun warily, his eyes probing the shadows for signs of ambush. “That could mean people.”
“Probably,” Keira agreed cheerfully. More people meant more sinners to dispatch to the Golden Throne.
“Then let’s move quietly,” Horst said, “and try not to attract too much attention.”
“You’re no fun,” Keira said, vaguely surprised to find herself joking at a time like this, and returned her mind to the business at hand. Before she had time to consider the implications, she led the way down the corridor in the direction Vex had indicated.
A heavy bulkhead door was ahead of them, although it had clearly not been closed in scores of generations, its upper half propped open by thick beams. The ridge running across the floor, where its twin had once retracted into the opposite wall, had been bridged by a welded ramp of deck plating, about half a metre high, into which a groove had been worn by centuries of passing feet. Keira could see nothing of the chamber beyond, although Drake had been right, the fitful orange glow seemed brighter there.
Well, there was only one way to find out what lay inside. Picking up her pace, she trotted forwards, and up to the top of the slope.
“What’s there?” Horst asked, and the young assassin moved aside a little to give him a better view as he joined her.
“Water,” she said. The doorway was halfway up the wall of the rotated room beyond, and a balcony had been constructed there, thrusting out into the open space on strongly welded girders. Like the corridor they’d entered by, the chamber was far higher than it was wide or long, the ceiling, in which another portal, closed this time, could just be discerned, about twenty metres above their heads. Clear fluid was seeping from corroded joints in a pipe run on the wall which had evidently once been the ceiling, trickling down in a constant stream, and the walls were wet with condensation, which left the air dank and chill.
As they made their way onto the echoing deck, Keira glanced down, unsurprised to see the glint of black water only a metre or so below them. Orange highlights danced and glittered, reflecting the guttering torches stuck into sconces welded to the wall, and she nodded, with sudden understanding. With half the deck flooded, the luminators wouldn’t work, their machine-spirits affronted by the dampness.
“People must come here a lot,” Drake said, indicating the hissing flames.
“Often,” Horst agreed, from the far end of the platform. A line of ropes dangled down into the water next to where he was standing; puzzled, Keira moved to join him. The former arbitrator reached out and hauled on the nearest; after a moment, a rusting bucket broke the surface. “Thought so.” He opened his hand again, and the bucket sank out of sight.
“It’s a dead end,” Drake said, gazing around them in angry frustration. “There’s nowhere they could have gone!”
“Apart from over there,” Keira said, pointing to a portal identical to the one they’d entered the flooded hold by, on the far wall. A single rusting chain connected the platform they stood on to a similar one beneath it.
“Oh right.” Drake snorted with derision. “They carried the cart and our luggage across that, like acrobats in the carnivora.”
“They might have done,” Horst agreed, with a trace of amusement, “but they’re more likely to have used the raft.” He pointed to the platform on the opposite shore, where a dark shape lay close to the pilings, almost invisible among the shadows.
“Oh.” Drake shrugged, looking faintly abashed. “I hadn’t noticed that.”
“It’s easy to miss,” Horst assured him, more to spare the Guardsman’s feelings than because it was true, Keira thought. There was no doubt about it: however annoying he could be, Mordechai was good with people.
“Then let’s get it over on this side,” she put in impatiently, and raised a hand to the chain. It moved easily, to her surprise, the end disappearing through a hole in the decking with a faint rattle and a splash, squeaking a little as it ran over a rusting pulley. After a moment she felt the weight of the raft come on as the chain tautened, and heaved, leaning back and hauling on the wet, flaking links, drawing them in hand over hand. The smell of damp rust reminded her of blood, and she smiled, taking that as a sign of the Emperor’s favour.
“Let me give you a hand,” Horst said, joining her at the chain. “Danuld, keep watch.” He began to pull too, adding his own strength to hers, the heavy raft moving easily through the water towards them. Without words, they slipped into an easy rhythm, moving together without conscious thought.
A few moments later the dock shook, a resonant clang announcing the arrival of the raft, and Keira turned, assessing it critically. Like most things they’d seen since leaving the passenger areas, it was constructed of metal, its crude form belying the obvious care with which it had been made. An underhiver by birth, Keira was intimately familiar with the patched-together contrivances common to such regions, and she could tell at a glance that this had been made by someone who knew what they were doing, and how to use their tools. The welds were neat and regular, and the joints robust.
“Is it safe?” Drake asked, a hint of uncertainty crossing his face, and she nodded.
“It won’t sink, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She shrugged, unable to resist teasing him a little. “Not unless someone starts shooting at us. Puncture the buoyancy tanks and she’ll go down like a stone.”
“If that happens we’ll be dead before we get a chance to drown,” he returned, his intonation leaving her unsure of whether he was seriously considering the matter, or merely replying in kind. “We’ll be sitting waterfowl bobbing about on that thing.”
“We haven’t seen any sign of guns so far,” Horst reminded them, as humourless as ever, and Keira shrugged again.
“You don’t need a gun to shoot people. Plenty around here you could make a bow out of.”
“Then let’s not wait around to find out,” Horst replied practically, and strode onto the raft, adjusting his balance slightly as it wallowed under his weight. “I had enough of this sort of thing in the Fathomsound.”
Keira followed, with Drake reluctantly taking up the rear. The raft settled a little deeper into the water as each of the Angelae boarded it, but remained stable, as she’d expected. A metal mesh deck, probably made from scavenged floor plates, was welded to a frame of girders, which in turn had been fastened above a pair of cylindrical buoyancy tanks. She reached up and grabbed the chain. “Let’s get moving,” she suggested.
This time, to her vague disappointment, it was Drake who joined her, leaving Horst to watch the far shore suspiciously, his bolt pistol at the ready. The rapport they’d shared before had felt good, right somehow, and although Drake hauled on the chain with a will, their efforts simply didn’t synergise in quite the same way. They made good progress though, she had to admit that, the former Guardsman making up in sheer nervous energy what he lacked in finesse, and it made more sense for Horst to be watching their backs, the explosive tips of his pistol bolts able to do far more damage to an attacker than the simple slugs of Drake’s revolver.
To her mingled surprise and relief they made it to the far shore without incident, although she’d been mildly concerned by the appearance of a party of shipfolk on the jetty they’d just left, a few minutes into their journey. They’d shown no interest in either the raft or its occupants, however, merely busying themselves with drawing water, which they decanted into a tank on wheels; by the time the Angelae had gained the far bank, the foraging party had vanished again, trundling their liquid booty off to Emperor knew where.
“Hybris, I need a direction,” Horst voxed, as the team of acolytes di
sembarked, their boot-heels clattering on the welded metal plate of the jetty. Keira winced, certain that the noise would have alerted every heretic for hundreds of metres around, but there was no help for it; silent stalking simply wasn’t an option with her friends along.
“Straight ahead of you,” Vex responded. “They’ve opened up the distance a little, but they’re not hurrying anymore. They must think they’re safe from pursuit.”
“Or waiting for their friends to catch up,” Keira said, allowing herself to savour the memory of the kills again. This was something she understood, a welcome distraction from the doubts and uncertainty which had begun to plague her.
“Well, life’s full of little disappointments,” Horst said, and she nodded, appreciating the implied compliment.
“How does he know where they are?” Drake asked, as they began to move out again, along a corridor almost identical to the one they’d been following on the far side of the lake. “Some kind of technosorcery?”
“There’s a tracker in the cogitator’s case,” Horst told him. “Among other things. The Mechanicus are cautious when it comes to looking after their toys.”
“Could you make a bit more noise, please?” Keira asked irritably. “They might not be able to hear us coming yet.”
“Good point. Sorry,” Horst said, leaving her feeling surprised and gratified. They picked up their pace, running in silence, or, in the case of her companions, as quietly as they could, which still sounded cacophonous to her Collegium-trained ears, but at least it was a marginal improvement.
To her surprise, the flickering orange torchlight wasn’t confined to the lake chamber, as she’d expected, but appeared to be coming from somewhere up ahead as well. She began to move a little faster, drawing ahead of her colleagues, but Horst made no move to call her back; this was what she excelled at, and she knew he’d let her get on with it without interference, unless he saw very good reason to intervene. Another canted doorway was a few metres ahead, and she loped up the ramp without hesitation.
“Holy Throne!” she breathed, unable to contain her astonishment. She’d expected another platform, like the ones in the flooded hold, but this was something more, a narrow bridge jutting out and across a deep shaft, which descended further than she could see, its bottom lost in the shadows beneath her feet. Doorways and cross corridors could be discerned, pockmarking the walls of the abyss at regular intervals, the flickering light of torches or fires wherever they led to mingling with the attenuated glow of still-functioning luminators. This had obviously been a main corridor once, when the vessel had been a ship in its own right rather than a mere component of the Misericord; she glanced up, finding that, as she’d expected, it receded into the distance above her head beyond the range of her vision. A couple of faint lines might have been bridges like the one she stood on, but there was no way to be sure, and speculation was fruitless in any case. Only one thing mattered: her quarry was in sight at last.
Halfway across the bridge, two men were pushing the familiar handcart, still laden with their luggage, too absorbed in conversation to have noticed her arrival. The metal-banded chest containing Vex’s cogitator, and the all-important manuscript, was still visible at the bottom of the heap, and she drew her sword, with a faint sigh of relief, as her companions finally caught up.
“Halt in the name of the Throne!” Horst shouted, levelling his bolt pistol. The two men turned, one diving for cover behind the cart, while the other drew a shock maul from beneath his coat and began to run back towards them.
“Mine!” Keira said, advancing onto the bridge and taking up a guard position with her blade. The man hesitated for a second, then came on, no doubt confident that his power weapon would be more than a match for a sword, especially one wielded by a mere slip of a girl.
The crack of a heavy-calibre pistol echoed round the chamber, followed instantly by the whine of a ricochet, and sparks flew from the ramp where Horst and Drake were standing. It seemed one of the bandits had a gun after all.
Both men dropped and returned fire, Drake’s revolver slugs striking more sparks from the metal plating of the bridge. The gunman hunkered down behind the solid bulk of the cart and fired again, with no more accuracy than before; he clearly wasn’t used to opponents who shot back, and had probably relied on the weapon merely to intimidate up until now.
“I can’t get a clear shot,” Drake grumbled, steadying his hand against his forearm.
“I don’t need one,” Horst said, levelling his bolt pistol and squeezing the trigger.
Keira’s opponent charged in without finesse, and swung the shock maul, clearly intending to batter the sword out of the way, and fell her with the backswing. She evaded the strike easily, and kicked out, taking him in the stomach; she could have gutted him on the spot, but so crude a stroke would have been unworthy of her. Sending heretics to judgement was a sacrament, to be done with elegance and refinement wherever possible, and there was plenty of time to dispatch this one in a more aesthetically pleasing manner.
He must have been an experienced brawler: instead of folding, as she’d expected, he pulled back at the last minute, absorbing most of the impact, and pivoting to drive in a blow against her knee. Surprised, Keira blocked the strike at the last possible second, shearing the tip off the shock maul, and feeling a jolt even through the insulating gloves of her synsuit as the capacitors discharged. She stumbled, the molecule-thick edge of her blade slicing an ugly gash through the decking at her feet before she could recover her balance. Her opponent was falling, his muscles spasming as he absorbed the full charge of his own weapon; he was probably dead before he hit the mesh, but she struck upwards anyway, severing his head neatly from his body as he met the rising blade on his way down. A good, clean kill to honour the Emperor.
Horst’s pistol bolt hit the wheel of the cart and detonated, turning the fine wire of the spokes into instant flechettes. The gunman screamed, flailing backwards, and fell into view, where Drake took him at once with a shot to the head. Horst fired again too, at almost the same instant, and the bolt detonated against the metal-work of the bridge, just missing the gunman as his body jerked with the impact of the bullet.
Keira felt the weakened structure shudder below her bootsoles with an ominous groaning sound, and turned to leap for the portal. The whole bridge began to fall away beneath her as she pushed off, the metal shearing where her sword had gashed the deck plates, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought she wasn’t going to make it; then Horst’s hand closed around her arm.
“Hang on, I’ve got you,” he said, pivoting on the very brink of the abyss, as her toes scrabbled for purchase on the sloping metal, drawing her back to safety. His arms closed around her, and she returned the pressure instinctively as they staggered back onto a firmer footing, their hearts hammering in unison.
“Thanks.” She exhaled slowly, curiously reluctant to break away from the inadvertent embrace; then a grinding, tearing sound, as though the ship itself was clearing its throat, snatched her attention back to the here and now. She turned, watching in fascinated horror as the entire bridge toppled into the abyss, taking the cart, its contents, and the bodies of the thieves down with it. A carillon of overlapping echoes rose from the depths, as the plummeting debris bounced and ricocheted from innumerable obstructions, managing to muffle the sound of the final impact so effectively that she couldn’t even begin to estimate its depth.
Drake was the first one to speak, after the clangour had diminished enough for his words to be heard at last. “Nads,” he said, feelingly.
“My thoughts exactly.” Horst reholstered his bolt pistol, and turned away, without a second glance.
“The tracer’s no longer transmitting,” Vex said, cutting into their comm-beads again. “Have you managed to recover the manuscript?”
“No,” Keira said flatly. “We’ve lost it. Along with everything else.”
Drake scowled at the abyss, as if he suspected it of deliberately mocking them. “What did I
tell you?” he said sourly. “The ship’s cursed.”
“I don’t care if it’s crewed by daemons,” Horst said, a determined set to his jaw, as he began to lead the group back the way they’d come. “We’ll just have to recover the document.”
“Right,” Keira agreed, taking heart from his obvious determination. “So what’s our first move?”
Horst shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted.
Four
High Orbit, Scintilla, Calixis Sector
235.993.M41
“Daemons.” Inquisitor Grynner frowned, so immersed in the reports his aide had obtained for him that he remained unaware of having verbalised the thought, and immune from the flicker of irritation he would normally have felt at the lack of mental discipline the involuntary reaction betrayed. Jorge Grynner’s mind was the sharpest weapon in the arsenal of his unending war against the enemies of the Emperor, and he took a quiet pride in its keenness. Only rarely did he allow himself to feel surprised, and confusion was something he generally regarded as happening to other people. “Merciful Throne, what have they stumbled into?”
A polite knock on the door broke into his reverie, and Grynner found himself welcoming the interruption. Perhaps discussing matters with his most promising pupil would help to order them in his mind. He raised his voice a degree or two above the conversational, just sufficient to penetrate the barrier between them. “Pieter. Come in.”
“Inquisitor.” The young interrogator entered the inquisitor’s private study, clearly attempting to gauge his patron’s mood. He’d taken it upon himself to acquire the transcripts Grynner had been reading, a display of initiative which could either help or hinder his future career, depending on its eventual outcome. “I hope the files were helpful?”
[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing Page 6