The Rose At War, page 23
Melia, volunteering to stay with Rayos.
Upon Ordination, the Sisters of her Order offered a prayer…
‘Imperator illam possedit me precor. In omnibus meis actionibus et officiorum. Omnium cogitationes et opera. Et ego armis exceptus…’
Emperor, I pray that you will utterly possess me. In all of my duties and actions. In all of my thoughts and deeds. I am your weapon and your vessel…
Guide me, my Emperor, she prayed. I cannot get this wrong.
With the words, she lifted her chin, and made her decision.
Yes, she must follow the inquisitor’s orders…
But she did not intend to do so blindly.
‘Corporal,’ she said. ‘You withstood Zale’s mental assault, correct?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘You will run reconnaissance on the smeltorium, and locate Sister Melia. Your squad will stay with me. If you are right about this connection, then Zale will be closer than we think.’
The corporal saluted. ‘Aye.’
‘Remember, corporal, this is recon, not a combat mission. Do not call attention to yourself, and do not engage. Stick to the upper levels. Return to the smeltorium, and watch.’
‘Aye.’
She nodded, approving of this young man, his choices and his discipline. ‘Go with His grace, corporal. And return with His wisdom.’
‘Ave Imperator.’ He offered her a salute.
As he slipped out of the far door of the cargo lift, however, he turned back.
‘Sister Superior,’ he said. ‘I do have… one last suspicion.’
‘Go on.’
‘It is my belief,’ he said, ‘that Zale is up to something. I think he’s here for a reason.’
‘Then we will prevent that reason,’ Augusta told him flatly. ‘One way or another, the witch must die.’
He was in her head.
Like a burrower, like the stain of Chaos. Like the fear wielded by the Lautis daemons. Like a necron scarab, its claws scratch-scratching with the taint of steel and death.
Stubbornly, Melia held to her chant, the litany – like her novitiate childhood – both comfort and reflex. She had been taught this as a girl, kneeling beside her dormitorium bunk and praying to that tiny, carved effigy… she knew how to face fear, how to surpass witchery. And yet it still lingered, like an ache in the back of her skull.
Images tumbled like the edges of rocks.
She was in the belly of the Kyrus, in command of the squad. Kimura was there, and Jatoya; they described a perfect skirmish manoeuvre along the flickering-dark corridor.
Domine, libra nos…
Words lingered like hope, but she could not quite grasp them.
The Sisters moved onwards, the font-waters of Lycheate sloshing at their feet. Bodies bobbed past them – Sister Felicity Albani, the missionary Tanichus, the tech-priest Jencir, his flayed skull all covered in blood. Phantoms rose from her past, and they laughed like Scafidis Zale, lush and rich and warm.
You are to blame, Melia.
Jatoya was twice the warrior you are.
Look at your errors!
Look at them!
In the Kyrus’ corridor, she saw the bomb. She went to cry out, but it was too late – the detonation was colossal, and the flame was livid and hungry for life. The impact of it threw her backwards. Debris creaked and screamed; her visor was smudged with smoke. There was a hole ripped in the side of the ship – it was injured and in pain, crying out. She tried to pray for it, but she was not the priest it needed, and Rayos laughed at her ignorance. The wind shrieked past her, wreckage and bodies all sucked out into the void. She caught a last look at Jatoya’s face as the Sister scrabbled madly at the wounded metal, and was gone.
The woman’s still-armoured body spun outwards into nothing, and her voice cried the Requiem.
Dies Irae, Dies Illa!
You did this,+ Zale told her. +You failed. You’re weak, inadequate. The Emperor does not want you, Melia. You do not deserve Him. And you know it!+
She held to her hymn, angry, stubborn, refusing to give up. She filled her mind with the chapel on Ophelia VII, with His image, His light. She cried denial, her defiance loud:
‘Thou shalt not suffer the witch to live!’
With a crack like the split in a window, the image splintered, and was gone.
Startled, she blinked.
Her head was pounding. She was still in the bar. Scafidis Zale was before her with his arms folded, and one elegant eyebrow raised.
‘Impressive,’ he said, the word almost a compliment. ‘You’re going to take more of my concentration than I’d realised.’
She faced him, continuing to recite the litany. She repeated the words like a lifeline, over and over, wreathed in anger and defiance.
‘Domine, libra nos.
‘Domine, libra nos…’
‘Makes a change to name, rank, and serial number, I suppose.’ He laughed at his own humour, then chewed the inside of his lip, thinking.
‘Domine, libra nos…’
‘You listen to me, Sister Melia.’ He stepped forwards, cupping her cheek in his hand with a gesture that seemed almost affectionate. He bore several rings and his gold eyes shone like Sol itself. ‘We are going to take a little walk, and explore some of the glories that this planet has to offer. Not its people – you’ve already seen too many of those – but its secrets. Some of the things that the Mechanicus believed broken, and that the heretek Vius, in his cleverness and his determination, managed to discover. The things that Rayos has been… moving… for me.’ He stroked his thumb over her cheek. ‘You may fight me if you wish, Sister, but the outcome will be the same. Your Emperor cannot save you.’ His smile was pure charm. ‘Not from me.’
‘Domine, libra nos.’
Melia kept praying as the images broke over her again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The stimm brought Istrix upright in a rush, her face pale, her green eyes briefly wild. She took in her surroundings with a single, blazing-cold glance, and came straight to her feet.
She swayed, her hand going to her field-dressing, and her missing pauldron. Instinctively, Rufus offered her assistance but she refused. Outrage flared from her shoulders as she turned around.
She snapped, ‘Where is Corporal Mors?’
Augusta replied, ‘I sent him on reconnaissance.’
‘What?’ The inquisitor spun back to her. ‘Are you deficient, Sister? I did not give you leave to take the initiative. To make my decisions for me. You disobey an order of mine again, and you will find yourself wielding a very different selection of weaponry.’ A flicker of spittle flew from her lips as she thundered, ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Ma’am.’ Startled by her vehemence, Augusta offered her a curt salute, but Istrix had already turned away, scornfully dismissive, to retrieve her shoulder-armour. Her voice in the vox demanded the corporal’s immediate return, and on the double.
The Sister Superior held herself still. Mors had given her new questions to consider, but as yet, she did not know the answers.
Beside her, Akemi shifted uncomfortably, her armour creaking; the soldiers were exchanging uneasy glances, though they said nothing.
But Istrix paid none of them the slightest attention. Instead, as she fastened her pauldron back into place, her gaze fell on the ration-crumbs, and narrowed.
‘How long,’ she asked them, the words like cracking ice, ‘did you leave me unconscious?’
‘Moments only.’ Augusta offered a penitent prayer to accompany the lie. ‘We roused you as soon–’
‘But long enough to pause for a rest?’ Istrix’s tone was savage.
‘Ma’am–’
‘Enough!’ The inquisitor silenced the Sister Superior with a bark that was almost a bellow. Her face was flushed, now, showing the neat lines of scars. She looked like she would split along those lines, detonating into flying fragments of furious flesh.
Augusta inhaled. She prayed for calm, and for clarity.
For truth.
‘We will hold this location until Mors returns,’ the inquisitor said, her sarcasm as bitter and lethal as a lake of acid. ‘And then we will move out for our meeting with Rayos.’
‘Inquisitor, we do not know that Rayos can be trusted.’ Privately, Augusta thanked the Emperor Himself for her years of training, for the canoness’ strict discipline that enabled her to keep her voice controlled. ‘We cannot reach Sister Melia. And, dependent upon Mors’ intelligence, I suggest that an assault upon the tech-priest’s location would be the best option.’
‘I have already told you, Sister.’ Istrix ground crumbs under her boot. ‘You will not open fire without my orders.’
Viola tensed; Augusta could see the young woman’s gauntleted hands tighten on the heavy bolter, though she did not turn around.
‘When this mission is over,’ Istrix continued, ‘I will be accompanying you back to Ophelia VII. I will be commanding an audience with your canoness, and I will be delivering my report on your performance and behaviour… in person.’
Augusta was beginning to feel the same sharp, furious sense of helplessness that she’d felt in the shuttle, the same sense of being tumbled by forces outside her control.
And, down here, she liked it even less.
‘Corporal Mors, incoming.’ The man’s voice was accompanied by the impact of boots on the top of the lift. Weapons twitched; Istrix gave one of the soldiers a curt nod. Smoothly, Adriene stood on the bench to open the hatch, while Rufus and Lucio raised their rifles for cover.
‘Clear,’ she said.
Mors’ long figure dropped into the lift, his rifle over his shoulder.
Istrix waited for him, arms folded. ‘Well?’
‘Ma’am.’ He glanced from inquisitor to Sister, and offered a salute. ‘Your hunch was correct, Sister. Rayos has betrayed us, and Zale was at the smeltorium.’
Istrix bridled, pulling herself up to her full height.
‘Go on, corporal,’ Augusta said.
‘We saw Zale speak to Rayos and leave, heading towards the other side of the city. He had back-up, two armed city thugs, and he had Sister Melia with him. She was unhurt, though she seemed to be dazed.’
In the vox, Viola commented darkly, ‘Told you so.’
‘Viola.’ Augusta’s disciplinary bark was sharp. ‘That’s enough.’
The younger Sister shifted again, but said nothing.
Another issue: Viola had a strong will, and stronger opinions. She’d disobeyed her orders once before. And with the increasing pressure that Istrix was placing upon the squad…
This was all going to detonate, and soon.
The Sister Superior said, ‘We should target them now, inquisitor. The heretic must die.’
Mors glanced from face to face, as if trying to understand the tension. His expression was pained. Her orders had already killed his squadmates – presumably he was wondering if she would end up killing all of them.
‘We’ve got another problem,’ Caia’s voice said. ‘Incoming cityside.’
Outside the cargo-lift, the city’s shifting, curious crowd was closing on the Sisters’ location. A glut of filthy figures – many of them deformed or subhuman – were weapons-in-hands and loitering, their grins eager. Their leader looked orkish, big and green and tusked; its face was half metal and it wore a freebooter’s distinctive hat. There were soldiers, worn ragged, gangers in various muddy colours, knots of mutants with robes and appendages, and at least one of the shadowy Mechanicus renegades, all cloaked and clawed. Its visible flesh was stained and rotting, and it was flanked by the scuttle and rumble of clumsy servitors.
The group looked ramshackle, but determined.
‘They must have followed the corporal,’ Istrix said. The words were cutting, and pointedly aimed at Augusta.
‘I fear, ma’am,’ Augusta returned, ‘that our force has been all too visible. They’re scavengers, they must be after our wargear.’
Viola added, ‘And the reputation to go with it.’
‘We should attack,’ Augusta said, again. ‘We must eliminate Zale before we lose him.’
‘We will move out,’ Istrix told her shortly, ‘and we will follow Zale’s route. But we will not engage him – not yet. I want to know where he’s going.’
When they moved, the crowd from the city followed them.
Not close, but close enough.
The people – if that’s what they were – carried anger and fear, a rising need to obliterate or control these icons of Imperial faith that had landed in their midst. The swell of them came on like a slow ripple of hunger, the freebooter ork at the centre.
Augusta knew that they were no match for four fully-armed Sisters, backed by the lasrifles of the Militarum soldiers, but they seemed content to hang back, and they made good use of the local cover.
It seemed like they were waiting for something – some signal to attack.
Yet Istrix still didn’t care; still, she was focused only forwards. She kept moving, and she left the fully armed horde, loitering, at their backs.
With every junction they passed, Augusta’s frustration grew stronger. Powerful priorities pulled the Sister Superior in opposite directions – to doubt the inquisitor was heresy, and yet those doubts grew with every moment. Augusta needed to stop and think and pray; to follow her faith, and her honour.
To follow His Guidance.
Yet it seemed even more lost here than it had been in the catacombs of the Lautis cathedral.
Is she Your vessel?
Or is she corrupt?
Istrix’s forward motion remained utterly, obsessively relentless.
Behind Augusta, Sister Viola walked at the rear, her heavy bolter daring the crowd to come closer. Caia stayed in the lead, auspex and weapon both in hand; Akemi still flanked the Sister Superior. The youngest Sister’s fingers twitched, as though she missed her little silver fetish.
To Augusta, this was looking more and more crazed – perhaps Mors had been right, and this was all some elaborate game…
Everything has an Operandus.
The lesson she had been teaching her Sisters – but if there was a pattern here, then she still could not see it.
Behind them, the horde hung back, mocking. They loosed the occasional shout, pieces of chants like the edges of some violent promise. They still kept their distance, but Augusta knew: if they saw the right opportunity, they would surge forwards and tear the inquisitor’s entire retinue to screaming, bloody pieces…
Or – and the Sister Superior laid her hand on her chainsword – they’d make the attempt.
The group moved on.
Soon, they passed a familiar bottleneck – walkway, tank and crane, all identical to the previous layout. It bore an embossed numerical sequence in exactly the same place, and the scored-out cog-symbol of Triplex Phall.
Augusta said, her tone short, ‘We should hold this location, inquisitor. If we take a stand here–’
‘We will keep moving.’ Istrix did not even bother to pause. ‘I have already said – I need to know where they’re going.’
Under her breath, Augusta let herself curse.
But the inquisitor’s boots did not stop. They clanged onwards, continuing with her inexorable, headlong march. It seemed as though some fierce, white flame pulled her, some need she would not stoop to explain.
The Sister Superior was becoming more and more convinced that the inquisitor’s mission was not just the will of the Emperor. Like Viola, she felt rising frustration; she wanted to loose her rage at the dirty brown sky, to open fire at last, to sing until this entire ruined world knew the wrath of the Emperor Himself, and of His Adepta Sororitas…
‘Inquisitor,’ she said. ‘A question.’
Istrix answered her with a short laugh, a snort as cold as the frozen air. She said, her tone almost patronising, ‘You wish to know about Zale?’ She glanced back, her odd smile making her scars crease and wrinkle. ‘I have been chasing him a very long time. He knows he cannot overpower me, either physically or psychically. He is not strong enough to face me himself. So, I think he’s found himself another force.’
Another force.
By the Throne!
With an effort, the Sister Superior stopped herself swearing aloud.
‘Something must be left here…’ The words were Akemi’s, though Istrix did not react to her outspokenness. ‘Something like the Breacher. Something that the Mechanicus forgot, or overlooked.’
The inquisitor said nothing; she seemed too intent upon the realisation of her goal.
‘Which explains,’ Augusta commented, ‘why he was dealing with Rayos. She must have found something, uncovered something…’
The remainder of her sentence remained unspoken: And we have walked straight into this… you are walking us straight into this…
‘So, we’re expecting an ambush?’ Viola echoed her thought, her voice edged with fervour.
Augusta felt an urge to grin – the release of pure combat would be welcome – but she had to keep her head. This was insane. They were surrounded. They had enemies both ahead and behind. And if there was a force ahead of them, then they had no idea of its armament or capability.
And yet, they would just walk straight into its centre?
Was Istrix that fixated with Scafidis Zale?
Augusta noticed the corporal frowning. He caught her looking and turned away, lifting his chin and flattening his expression.
Her suspicion and annoyance peaked. In the Emperor’s name, this was idiocy.
‘Inquisitor,’ she said, trying again. ‘We must remove the threat at our backs. If we are expecting battle–’
‘Sister. Superior.’ The words were a nasty hiss and Istrix stopped dead, turning sharply on her heel and coming back to face Augusta, her expression incensed. ‘Your continued insubordination is intolerable. If you question my decisions one more time, I will execute you for heresy, right here and right now.’ Specks of froth flew from the corners of her mouth as she thundered, ‘Do you understand?’
