[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  Orientated again, Drake began to run towards the drop-ship, as Quillem and Kyrlock began advancing up the ramp towards the sole surviving sentry, the woman he’d stunned with his third las-bolt. Backing away, she dropped her weapon, and raised her hands.

  “Enough!” she shouted, an edge of panic in her voice. “I give up!”

  “Smart choice,” Quillem said, pulling a loop of plastek from his belt pouch, and securing her wrists with a quick tug. He glanced up as Drake reached the foot of the incline. “What kept you?”

  “A quick smoke,” Drake said, indicating the burning fruit bushes he’d been hiding behind. He hadn’t thought Quillem was capable of cracking a joke at a time like this, and was agreeably surprised by the fleeting smile he received in response to his own. Perhaps the man was all right after all.

  “This one’ll live,” Kyrlock said, stooping briefly to check on the man he’d knocked unconscious.

  “Good.” Quillem nodded, glancing at their prisoner like a canid getting wind of fresh meat. “That’s two to interrogate at least.”

  “Tusdaie, Rubi, Free Company Trooper, contract number seven three double six—” the woman began, and Quillem backhanded her casually across the face.

  “When I want to hear anything from a heretic bitch, I’ll beat it out of you,” he said. To his evident surprise, instead of being cowed, Rubi stared back at him scornfully.

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?” she said.

  “We’ll find out,” Quillem assured her. “Believe me. And if you’re so keen to enlighten us, you can be first in the queue when we get back to the Tricorn.”

  “The Tricorn?” To Drake’s surprise, the woman seemed puzzled rather than terrified, as he would have expected. “You’re Inquisition?” She shook her head. “There’s been a major screw-up somewhere…”

  “Damn right. And you just made it,” Quillem said, shoving her ahead of him up the ramp. “Ladies first. In case your friends inside have got any ideas about jumping us.”

  “Works for me,” Kyrlock agreed. “Let’s get this barge secured, so Hybris can start going though the cogitator banks.”

  “Easier said than done,” a new voice cut in, and Drake brought his lasgun up, a chill of pure dread knotting his stomach. The psyker in the strange, crested helmet he’d seen leading the assault on the Inquisition fortress on Sepheris Secundus was standing at the top of the ramp. He tried to pull the trigger, but before he could complete the motion, something picked him up and threw him aside, like the toy of a petulant child.

  He hit the ground hard, the wind driven from his chest, and tried to claw some of the screaming air into his lungs. As he staggered to his feet he saw Kyrlock swatted aside too, and prayed to the Emperor that he’d be equally lucky.

  “You bastard, you killed my people!” Quillem brought the bolt pistol round on aim, but fared no better than Drake had done; a second later he smacked into the deck plates next to the Guardsman, and lay still.

  “Not thoroughly enough, it seems.” The man in the crested helmet sounded amused, Drake thought, looking around frantically for his lasgun. There was no sign of it, and he reached for the Scalptaker in its shoulder rig instead. “But I can soon remedy that.”

  From her vantage point in the lee of a cracked and corroding atmospheric condenser, Keira watched the confrontation between Karnaki and the leader of the psykers. The man simply stood there as the inquisitor raised his bolt pistol, and with a thrill of horror she recalled her own paralysis in the face of Karnaki’s power of compulsion. For a moment she hesitated, the crossbow a reassuring weight in her hand, and wondered whether she ought to intervene; but the man was a wyrd, and a heretic, and more than deserving of the Emperor’s judgement. Her assignment, like the rest of the Angelae, was to extract Elyra if possible, and determine the final destination of the fleeing psykers. So far, Karnaki didn’t seem to be hindering that; quite the opposite, in fact, if he reduced the number of wyrds standing between her and her friend.

  An instant before the black-garbed inquisitor could fire, Elyra’s laspistol cracked, and Karnaki staggered, the ugly bloom of a las-bolt hit cratering his shoulder. The bolt pistol dropped from his hand, and the psyker suddenly moved, closing in on his antagonist with astonishing speed.

  Interesting, Keira mused to herself. It seemed that Karnaki needed to concentrate in order to control people, and if he was surprised, or hurt, his influence was broken. That could be a significant weakness, and she determined to tell the others as soon as possible. Her hand rose to the comm-bead in her ear, then fell away again. It was possible the Ordo Malleus inquisitor was monitoring the frequency they used; better to wait until she was able to tell them face to face.

  The psyker lashed out, apparently channelling his energy through his own body, striking Karnaki hard enough to send the inquisitor reeling back, before falling heavily to the ground. Keira tensed, levelling the crossbow, intending to kill the wyrd when he moved in to finish the inquisitor off, but instead he turned away, gesturing to the little knot of cowering wyrds to follow him.

  “Hurry!” he called, his voice attenuated by the gale. “The ship’s under attack: they won’t wait for much longer!”

  Elyra jogged over to join the man, with a convincing display of concern for him, and they exchanged a few words which Keira couldn’t hear over the screaming of the wind. Then both of them, and their companions, passed out of sight.

  Folding the crossbow, and stowing it on her thigh, Keira trotted over to where Karnaki had fallen. He was still alive, trying to drag himself to his feet, and looked up with an expression of relief as he registered her approach.

  “Miss Sythree,” he said. “Thank the Throne. Go after them, and kill them all…”

  Keira nodded. It was the only way to be sure. Even Elyra was a potential danger to the whole system. As she turned away, her hand falling to the hilt of her sword, an idea struck her, and she kicked down hard, grinding the heel of her boot into the wound on the inquisitor’s shoulder. His breath hissed through his teeth, and Keira found the idea of killing Elyra didn’t seem so inescapable after all. She drew her blade, and rested it against Karnaki’s neck.

  “I decide who I’m going to kill,” she said. “Not you. And if you ever try to swive with my head again, you’re going to the top of the list. Are we both clear about that?”

  “We are indeed,” Karnaki said, a hint of something she couldn’t read flickering behind his eyes.

  “Good.” She turned away, in the direction the wyrds had taken. Emperor willing, she might still be in time to rescue Elyra.

  * * *

  “Danuld?” Kyrlock voxed. He’d landed hard, but one of the agribeds had broken his fall, some pulpy red vegetables he didn’t recognise smearing his face and body armour. Somewhere along the parabola he’d described through the air, he’d become detached from his shotgun, but his chainaxe was still slung across his shoulders, a reassuring presence. He rolled to his feet, drawing it, and activating the device. The teeth whined into motion, and he began moving towards the alien ship again.

  “Still here,” Drake said, to his intense relief. “Quillem’s down, unconscious. Looks like it’s up to us.”

  “Wonderful,” Kyrlock said. “Any ideas?” He looked around, trying to catch sight of his friend through the windblown debris; after a moment he saw Drake moving forwards, crouching to take advantage of what cover he could, his revolver in his hand. Another squad of the heretic troopers was forming up behind their leader, weapons at the ready, and he sighed ruefully. As if the odds against them weren’t great enough as they were.

  “What I said before,” Drake replied. “Let the Astartes deal with them. They’re on their way.”

  Kyrlock felt a sudden flare of hope. “How do you know?” he asked.

  “I borrowed Quillem’s comm-bead. He wasn’t using it.” Drake flattened himself against the side of a storage bin. “Once they arrive, we go for the psyker. Maybe he’ll be too distracted to hex us a
gain.”

  “And maybe he won’t,” Kyrlock grumbled. “That’s a hell of a plan.”

  “Best I’ve got,” Drake said. “Can you think of a better one?”

  “Run like rut,” Kyrlock said, thinking of their flight from the army of witches on Sepheris Secundus. But neither of them would, he knew; their service with the Inquisition had changed them both.

  Then there was no time for further reflection, as the howling air was ripped by a volley of bolter fire: fixing his eyes on the psyker, he charged forwards, his chainaxe screaming almost as loudly as he was.

  “What’s that?” Zusen asked, as a renewed burst of firing echoed through the shrieking air.

  Voyle listened to the voice in his comm-bead for a moment, his face grave. “Trouble,” he said, picking up his pace, and moving off to the left.

  “I thought the ship was that way,” Elyra said, pointing in the direction they’d been moving.

  “It is,” Voyle replied shortly. “But we need to circle round. Otherwise we’ll get cut to pieces before we get a chance to board.” He glanced at her as he spoke, and his voice softened. “Thanks for what you did back there. The bastard had me. I’ve never met such a powerful “path.”

  Elyra shrugged. It had been necessary to preserve her cover, and continue with the mission; without Voyle, she’d never be able to discover where the wyrds were going. “You think I’d let anything happen to you while you still owe me money?” she said, allowing her voice to hint that she might have had less mercenary reasons for saving his life, but wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Not for a second,” Voyle said, picking up on the unspoken subtext.

  “What the hell’s happening?” Trosk asked, as they came in sight of the lander at last. Soldiers were deployed around the boarding ramp, firing desperately at the black-armoured Astartes, who were picking them off with almost contemptuous ease. They were led by a man in a strange, crested helmet, and even from this distance Elyra could feel the strength of the power he wielded; it was clear that without his warp-spawned talents, the fight would have been over by now.

  “People are dying to save your neck,” Elyra snapped. “So get aboard while there are still a few left.” Keeping low, she began to run for the boarding ramp, Voyle at her side, and the others straggling out behind.

  She glanced at the progress of the battle, and, with a sudden jolt of shock, recognised Kyrlock breaking cover to charge forwards brandishing his chainaxe. Drake was there too, running in from another direction to join the Astartes, although what assistance he thought he might be able to render was beyond her.

  The psyker in the helmet gestured towards the attackers, knocking one of the Space Marines to the ground for a moment, and as the sable giant rose, bringing his bolter to bear once again, her feet rang on metal. Suddenly aware that she was aboard the strange craft at last she turned, cut off from the view outside, and saw no more of the fight.

  Drake raised his pistol, taking aim at the man in the helmet, heedless of the las-bolts and more exotic forms of death bursting around him. Kyrlock was on the move too, and if he could just distract the man for a crucial few seconds, his friend would be within reach of his target. In the corner of his eye he could see movement on the ramp of the drop-ship, the troopers guarding it apparently pulling back aboard, but he had no time to think about that; it just meant that the psyker would be joining them, and out of reach of the vengeance he hoped to wreak, within a matter of moments.

  Something huge and black blocked his sight line for a second, a downed Space Marine regaining his feet after being knocked back by a bolt of psychokinetic force, and he chafed at the delay.

  “Enough!” the Astartes with the intricate robe over his armour said, advancing on the psyker. The wyrd gestured again, apparently intending to unleash another demonstration of his power, and faltered, as the physical world unaccountably failed to obey his will. Drake felt a sudden surge of hope; it seemed the Space Marine could somehow nullify the man’s arcane abilities.

  The psyker had evidently come to the same conclusion, turning and running for the boarding ramp, which was now clear; a few troopers were crouched at the top of it, seeking protection from the rain of bolter fire behind the impenetrable armour plate of the vessel’s hull, and keeping up sporadic covering fire in an attempt to allow their leader to reach safety.

  He never made it. Kyrlock lunged forwards, his chainaxe screaming, and struck, the spinning adamantium teeth gouging deep into the xenos armour he wore. The psyker turned, seizing the shaft of the polearm, and grappling with the Guardsman for possession of it.

  Drake hesitated, the Scalptaker aimed at the middle of the melee, unwilling to fire for fear of hitting his friend. The Astartes evidently felt the same way, preferring to keep up their barrage against the ship, preventing any of the troopers aboard from attempting to rescue their leader.

  Suddenly the psyker fell backwards, the shaft of a crossbow bolt protruding from the neck joint of his armour, where the helmet met the breastplate, and Drake turned, to see Keira jogging towards them.

  “Is Elyra here?” she called, and Drake shook his head. “I was following the group she’s with.”

  “They’re already aboard,” Drake said, suddenly realising what the movement on the ramp he’d taken so little notice of must have meant, and Kyrlock nodded in confirmation.

  “I saw her. She’s still with Voyle.”

  “Then she’s out of our reach,” Keira said flatly, turning to look at the drop-ship. The ramp was retracting, and the pitch of the engines was rising; then the duststorm enveloping them grew more dense, as it lifted from the ground.

  “We’ve still got this one,” Drake said, turning to the fallen psyker. “Perhaps he can tell us where they’ve gone.”

  “He won’t be telling us anything,” Kyrlock said, pulling the man’s helmet off. His head lolled slackly, the eyes blank, and a gush of blood spattered the dirt, released from the wound in his neck as the helmet came free.

  “What’s that?” Keira asked, bending down to the corpse. A thin chain was round the man’s neck, and she pulled it over his head, releasing a small gold medallion from inside his chest armour. “Sinning hell!”

  “Oh rut,” Drake said, as she held it up. It bore a stylised letter “I”, inset with a skull; a sigil they all knew intimately. “I think we just killed an inquisitor.”

  Epilogue

  The Emperor’s Justice, Scintilla System

  260.993.M41

  The gathering which took place in the conference suite aboard Inquisitor Grynner’s starship in the wake of the attack was a subdued one. Horst met Keira and the other Angelae in the hangar bay, his mood as sombre as theirs clearly was.

  “I’m glad you made it back,” he said to her, as they took the short journey through the intervening corridors together, conscious that there was still a great deal left unresolved between them.

  She nodded. “Thanks. But Elyra didn’t.”

  “We’ll find her,” Horst said, grimly determined, as they took their seats at the table. The Angelae looked after their own. Any other outcome was unthinkable.

  Vex, who was already seated, nodded his agreement. “The coordinates we deduced are quite promising,” he said.

  Inquisitor Grynner coughed, attracting everyone’s attention, and toyed briefly with the medallion Keira had recovered, before speaking. “It seems,” he said dryly, “that Carolus was right to invoke Special Circumstances. This changes everything.”

  “With respect, inquisitor,” Quillem put in from the opposite side of the table, “I don’t see that it does. We already knew he didn’t trust anyone in the Calixis Conclave.” Almost everyone present glanced involuntarily at Karnaki, who had resumed his former seat at the opposite end of the table from Grynner, his shoulder stiff where Elyra’s las-bolt had struck him. He seemed a little less imposing without his retinue of servo-skulls, but judging by his demeanour, his self-confidence remained undiminished.

  “True,” Gr
ynner said. “But now we have proof of a longstanding rumour which I’ve always been reluctant to believe.”

  “And that would be?” Karnaki asked dryly.

  Grynner adjusted his spectacles. “That the Faxlignae was originally founded by Radical members of my own ordo,” he said flatly, “and might still be controlled by them.”

  “Whether or not that’s true,” Horst said, trying to absorb the implications of this revelation, “it doesn’t change our duty. We have to find out what they’re planning, and stop it.”

  “Quite so,” Grynner said, and looked around the table. “Master Castafiore is plotting a course to the region of the Halo Stars we believe to be of interest to the heretics. But it’s Astra Incognita, beyond the bounds of the Imperium. Throne alone knows what we’ll find when we get there.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Keira said, speaking for the first time, and eliciting nods of agreement from around the table. “The Emperor remains our strongest shield.”

  “Then it appears we must rely on His protection,” Grynner said, “no less than your colleague, and Inquisitor Finurbi.”

  Horst nodded again, seeing his own thought reflected in Keira’s eyes. Wherever they are.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sandy Mitchell is a pseudonym of Alex Stewart, who has been working as a freelance writer for the last couple of decades. He has written science fiction and fantasy in both personae, as well as television scripts, magazine articles, comics, and gaming material. Apart from both miniatures and roleplaying gaming his hobbies include the martial arts of Aikido and Iaido, and puttering around on the family allotment.