Only in Death, page 30
‘How’s it looking?’ Kamori asked him.
‘Sunny, some cloud,’ Varl said.
Kamori’s eyes narrowed.
Varl sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Vigo. If you can’t make light in the face of certain death, what can you do?’ he asked.
‘Punch you in the face,’ Kamori proposed, and pushed past Varl to the firestep. He got up and looked out. Maggs and the other men in the cloche were firing sporadically, but the hits ringing off the cloche dome were growing more persistent.
‘They’re on the cliffs right below us,’ said Maggs. ‘You can bet they’ve come in force. They’re pushing over the top a few at a time, but all they need is one lucky break.’
‘Or one lousy mistake,’ Kamori replied. He jumped off the step and clicked his micro-bead. ‘Commander? Kamori, topside. It’s holding here, but it’s going to get hotter.’
‘What’s Baskevyl’s estimation?’ Rawne came back.
‘We can’t actually locate him at the moment, sir.’
‘Say again, Kamori. For a moment there, you sounded like a fething halfwit.’
‘I said we can’t locate Major Baskevyl at this time, sir,’ Kamori stated flatly, grimacing at Varl.
‘Not what I want to hear, Kamori,’ Rawne replied. ‘Take charge up there and keep me advised.’
‘Looks like you get to do the shouting, then,’ Varl said to Kamori. Kamori nodded. He turned to the men he’d brought with him. ‘Fill some gaps! Come on, shift! Sonorote, get each of the cloches on this level and the one below to sound off with a situation report. Make it fast, man.’
Cant reappeared, looking glum.
‘I can’t find Major Baskevyl, sir,’ he said.
‘Oh, you can’t, can you, Cant?’ asked Varl.
‘Go feth yourself, Varl!’ Cant snapped.
‘Shut up, both of you!’ Kamori growled. ‘Get to a hole and start shooting out of it!’
A gritty blast blew down the hallway as Blood Pact grenades found an open slot on a nearby cloche.
‘Move!’ Kamori yelled. ‘Hold the line and deny them!’
III
‘Ludd! Ludd!’ Rawne yelled, striding through the smoke of lower east six.
‘Yes, commander!’
‘Major Baskevyl has deserted his post.’
‘Sir?’
‘You heard me, Ludd!’ Rawne snapped.
‘Sir, I’m sure there must be some explanation. Major Baskevyl is–’
‘Does this look like a game to you any more, Ludd?’ Rawne yelled. ‘I don’t want to hear you make excuses! I just want you to nod! Can you do that?’
Ludd nodded.
‘Good. Major Baskevyl has deserted his post. Deal with it.’
Ludd nodded.
IV
Baskevyl paused at the top of a stairway to let a fire-team race past him, double-time, heading towards the upper level. As he stepped to one side, he set down the heavy kit bag he was carrying.
He was about to make his way down when another squad hurried up the staircase towards him.
‘I need one of your men,’ Baskevyl told Posetine, the squad leader.
‘We’re all directed upstairs, sir,’ Posetine said apologetically. ‘Commander’s orders.’
‘Well, I understand that, but here’s one of mine. I need the help of one of your men.’
Posetine looked awkward, but he guessed he would be in trouble if he tried to argue with the senior Belladon officer. He looked back at his men reluctantly.
‘Merrt, step out and go with Major Baskevyl.’
Merrt glowered and stood to one side. He knew Posetine had picked him because he was no bloody good.
‘Thank you, Posetine,’ Baskevyl said. He hefted up his kit bag and ran down the stairs past the troops. ‘With me, Merrt.’
‘Major!’ Posetine called out after them. ‘Major, do you know they’re trying to reach you on the link? They’ve been calling for a few minutes now.’
‘I know!’ Baskevyl yelled back. He’d taken his micro-bead off and stuffed it into a pocket precisely so he couldn’t hear the intervox. ‘Carry on, Posetine!’
‘But–’ Posetine began. Baskevyl had vanished.
‘Shift it,’ Posetine told his squad and they began to move again. Posetine adjusted his own micro-bead. ‘Squad eight six moving up to west five. If you’re looking for Major Baskevyl, we just saw him heading down into the basement levels.’
‘What are we gn… gn… gn… doing?’ Merrt asked, jogging to keep up with Baskevyl.
‘I’ll explain when we get there.’
‘What’s that book?’
‘Just follow me, Merrt.’
Merrt hesitated. ‘This leads down to the gn… gn… gn… power room,’ he said dubiously.
‘Come on man!’
No one had been left to guard the power room. The chamber was as Baskevyl remembered it. He could smell energy, and feel the slow pulse of the glowing iron power hub. Baskevyl put his kit bag down, took a few steps forwards and touched the warm metal.
‘Major?’
‘Wait,’ Baskevyl said, holding a hand up. He pulled the black-bound book out from under his arm, set it on the floor and knelt down over it, turning the pages.
He looked up abruptly. The scratching sound was quite loud. It was coming from just below them and through the walls around them.
‘Merrt?’ Baskevyl whispered. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘Yeah,’ Merrt replied. ‘Do you see that?’ He pointed.
Baskevyl saw the faces that had been drawn in the dust on the walls, eyeless faces with open mouths. He knew they hadn’t been there when he and Merrt had entered the room.
‘This place is cursed,’ he said.
‘I know it,’ Merrt replied.
‘There’s something here. It’s been here forever. It’s trapped us here.’
‘It wants us dead,’ said Merrt.
Baskevyl shook his head. ‘I think it wants us to stay. I think it wants company.’
‘Forever?’ Merrt asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Then isn’t that the gn… gn… gn… same thing?’
V
She was standing on the cliff edge, right out in the open, staring in at the cloche hatches. The desert wind was tugging at her black lace skirts.
Maggs shot at the next few Blood Pact warriors attempting to rush the dome.
‘Why don’t you take them instead?’ he yelled out of the shutter at the old dam.
‘Who the feth are you yelling at, Maggs?’ Varl shouted from the neighbouring slot.
‘Her,’ Maggs replied.
‘Oh, don’t start with the–‘ Varl started to say. He shut up. ‘Feth me, Wes.’
‘You can see her?’
‘Shit, yes.’
‘Then it must be time. Throne, this must be it.’ Maggs leaned forwards and yelled out of the shutter at the dark figure waiting silently at the edge of the cliff. ‘Is that it, you old witch? Is it time now? Is this the end of it all? Is it?’
Very slowly, the awful meat-wound face nodded.
VI
When Nessa took a hit to the shoulder, Banda dragged her out into the hall to find a corpsman and left Larkin alone in the gunbox. His long-las had finally given up and he was using a standard pattern rifle. Looking out of the slot, it was distressing to see how far up the outer walls and bulwarks the Blood Pact had managed to climb. They were attacking the lower casemates. Larkin heard grenades and the bitter zing of nail bombs. The enemy would be inside in minutes, if they weren’t already.
He peppered those in range with shots. ‘Fire support here!’ he called out. ‘I need shooters at this slot!’
‘You’re on your own, Tanith,’ said the voice.
Larkin turned around. He knew what he would see.
Lijah Cuu stood in the doorway of the gunbox facing him. His thin, scar-split face was drawn in a leer. His uniform was filthy and marked with rot and smears of soil.
Cuu had his warblade in his hand.
‘All alone, sure as sure.’
Larkin shivered. Sheet ice was creeping across the inside walls of the overlook, creaking like flexing glass. Larkin could smell rich putrefaction and decay.
‘I’ve killed you once, you son of a bitch,’ Larkin whispered. ‘I can do it all over again.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, Tanith,’ said Cuu. ‘Not this time around.’
‘I’ll tell you how it fething works,’ Larkin replied. ‘You’re just a phantom from my crazy old brain. You’re not real, so get the feth away from me! I’m busy!’
He turned his back on Cuu and began to fire out of the slot.
Slowly, steadily, the footsteps came up behind him.
VII
Zweil hobbled into the field chamber. He had been drawn from his prayers by curious sounds, sounds that were more than the usual moans and cries of anguish.
In disarray, the chamber had come to an odd halt. The wounded men, in their cots, were staring out in bewilderment. Corpsmen and stretcher bearers, bringing in the latest casualties from the repulse, had also stopped in their tracks, open-mouthed. Some were making the sign of the aquila. Others had dropped to their knees.
Zweil felt his guts turn to ice.
The dead had come back to them. The lost were all around them, thin grey shapes, shadows made of dust, transparent spectral figures cut from twilight. They lingered by bedsides, or hovered in the central aisle of the chamber, like silent mourners gathering for a funeral.
Some men were speaking to them out loud, crying out in fear or wonder, greeting old friends and fallen comrades, weeping at the sight of long lost loved ones. To them, the vague figures were wives and sweethearts, parents and children, brothers and sister, warriors of Tanith, Verghast and Belladon who had fallen on the long march to this dismal last battle.
Zweil saw men close their eyes or cover their faces with their arms, saw others open their arms wide for embraces that would never come. Some of the wounded men were trying to get out of their beds to reach the shades standing over them.
‘No,’ Zweil whispered. ‘No, no, no…’
Dorden was beside him, his eyes streaming with tears. He gripped Zweil’s arm tightly. ‘My son,’ he gasped. ‘Mikal, my son.’ Dorden pointed. Zweil saw nothing except a shadow that should not have been.
Zweil stepped forwards, pulling free of the old medicae’s grasp. He raised his rod and held up the heavy silver eagle he wore on a chain around his reedy neck.
‘I abjure thee,’ he began. ‘I command thee, be gone hence and be at peace–’
Voices rose in protest all around him, calling him a fool, a meddler, begging him to stop.
‘I abjure thee now, by the light that is the Golden Throne of Terra,’ Zweil cried.
‘It’s my son!’ Dorden yelled.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Zweil firmly. Hark had been right, feth him, and Zweil had been a fool not to pay heed. Hinzerhaus was a place of damned souls, where the dead gathered to drag the living down into the lightless places.
‘I command thee, daemons, be gone from here!’
Dorden clawed at Zweil, and the old priest pushed him away. Someone was screaming.
The shadows were thickening, becoming darker.
Blood, not dust at all, was streaming down the chamber walls.
VIII
They had held on to the gulley ridge for fifteen minutes, a period that had felt like centuries. Only eighteen members of E Company remained, and most of them were wounded. Unable to maintain a viable line, the survivors had drawn back into the throat of the gulley, until they were in amongst the wreckage of the crashed transport.
Dalin was down to his last clip. He fired his rifle with one hand, holding Meryn upright with his other arm. Meryn was almost comatose from blood loss.
He dragged the captain across the scree, shots lacing the air around him. The Blood Pact was streaming in over the top of the ridge, crashing down across the bank of loose stones, sliding and running. The warriors were uttering loud war cries and brandishing pikes and axes.
Cullwoe closed in beside Dalin, snapping off rounds from the hip. He nailed two of the charging warriors and sent them sliding down the loose stone slope on their faces.
‘You know what this is, right?’ Cullwoe cried.
Dalin didn’t have time to reply. The bolt from a las-lock exploded Khet Cullwoe’s midriff. He collapsed in a spatter of his own blood, ribs poking from his smouldering abdomen.
‘I know what this is,’ snarled Neskon. ‘It’s a fething bastard way to die!’ His flamer roared and enveloped six enemy troopers in a sheet of white-hot combustion. They ignited, thrashed, and fell. One wandered a long way on fire before falling to the ground.
‘Come on, boy!’ Neskon shouted, ripping off another cone of fire. His flamer was beginning to splutter, its tanks all but done.
Dalin emptied the last of his clip and threw his rifle aside. Steadying Meryn, he bent down and took Cullwoe’s rifle, and the last fresh clip Cullwoe had tucked into his belt loop.
‘Come the feth on!’ Neskon yelled. His flamer dried. He pumped it and worked the feed, but it was dead.
‘Help me with the captain!’ Dalin cried.
Neskon turned, pulling off his tanks and dropping them with a clatter. A las-round hit him in the hip.
‘Fething hell!’ he barked. Neskon did not fall down. He drew his service pistol and showed himself to be a damn good shot with a regular firearm. No one ever expected subtlety from a flame-trooper. Neskon banged off two rounds and blew a warrior with a pike over onto his back.
Neskon grabbed hold of Meryn and slung the man over his shoulder.
‘Back to the gate!’ he said, his voice hoarse with pain.
‘There is no gate, Nesk!’
‘Oh, we can pretend,’ Neskon advised him. Together, they backed away through the burning wreckage of the Destrier, firing at the oncoming line of raiders.
‘You can do this,’ Caffran said.
Dalin glanced around. His father smiled and nodded to him. Then he was gone, and Caober, Preed and Wheln were beside him, adding their firepower to the hopeless retreat.
‘First-and-Only!’ Wheln yelled.
All four of them sang out a response, blasting their last shots into the faces of the enemy. In all the noise and fury, it sounded to Dalin as if the entire regiment was with them, shouting the war cry at the top of their lungs.
‘Come on! Make for the hatch! The hatch!’
Dalin glanced over his shoulder. He saw Ban Daur and an awful lot of Ghosts behind him.
‘Sacred feth!’ he whispered in disbelief.
‘Come on!’ Daur yelled to them. ‘Have I got to come and get you?’
The Blood Pact surged down the gulley. G Company came pouring out of the second gate and waited there to greet them, weapons raised.
IX
Trying to ignore the sheet ice slowly caking the power room walls, the scratching from under the floor and the fizzle of corposant scudding over the ceiling, Baskevyl tried to lift the lid off the power hub.
‘There’s a gn… gn… gn…’ Merrt said.
‘A what? A bloody what? Spit it out, man!’
‘A latch! There!’
‘Yes, all right. I’ve got it. Now lift.’
The lid came up, It was heavy, and they struggled with it as they lifted it clear. Hot, fetid air, as musty as–
dry skulls in a dusty valley
–the most barren, sun-baked desert, wafted out of the kettle.
‘Now what?’ Merrt asked.
Baskevyl looked into the hub.
It was a deep, hemispheric cavity. The bowl of it was covered in a rind of dust that looked like limescale or some mineral deposit manufactured alchemically deep under the earth.
The worm was inside the kettle.
It was a circular band of machinery, about two metres in diameter, segmented like a snake’s scaled body, and it sat inside the waist of the cavity. It was rotating very slowly, pausing and juddering hesitantly, emitting a soft glow. Each pause and judder corresponded to a dip in the brightness of the wall lights.
Baskevyl stared at it. Where the segmented hoop was joined, there was a metal clasp that looked for all the world like a snake biting the tip of its own tail. It matched exactly the embossed emblem on the spine of the book.
Baskevyl reached into the kettle and felt the slowly moving hoop brush his fingertips.
‘It’s dry,’ he said.
‘This entire fething bad rock is gn… gn… gn… dry,’ Merrt retorted.
‘No, the kettle’s dry. It’s run dry, after centuries, used up its… I don’t know… fuel. Its working on the very last of its reserves.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Merrt asked.
‘I don’t,’ said Baskevyl, ‘but Domor, he can read schematics. Apparently, this is essentially a basic cold fusion plant.’
‘What’s that?’ Merrt asked.
‘Fethed if I know.’ Baskevyl walked over to his kit bag. ‘Help me with this,’ he said.
‘With what?’
Baskevyl started to pull canteen bottles from the bag. Merrt approached.
‘What’s in the bottles?’ he asked.
‘Water,’ said Baskevyl.
They heard a sound behind them and turned.
Ludd came down the steps into the power room, aiming his pistol at Baskevyl.
‘Major Baskevyl,’ he began, ‘you are found derelict of your post, and have acted contrary to the express orders of the commander…’
Elikon M.P., Elikon M.P., this is Nalwood, this is Nalwood. Please respond. Please respond. We are under sustained and massive attack. Cannot hold out much longer. Casualties high. No ammunition remaining. Please, Elikon, can you hear us?
Nalwood out. (transmission ends)
