Soulless Fury, page 21
Mother and father were arguing, and it felt like the argument had been going on for hours, and for years before that. The angry words tossed back and forth were lost to the cobwebs of the forgotten corners of his brain, but he could see them clearly, faced off across the plasteel kitchen table. Their faces were flushed red and their hair flailed about wildly. Fingers were pointed and voices were raised to the point that neighbours above, below and beside all banged on the walls.
And there was little Jeren, stuck in a crib in the corner of the only other room in their Hive City hovel. It was living room, bedroom and nursery all rolled into one. As he watched them fighting, a feeling of complete helplessness had washed over him, accentuated in his dream by the prison cell bars of his bed.
After the argument, Jeren’s mother stormed out the door and his father came to him. Jeren must have been crying, although he couldn’t remember if he was or not. He must have cried, but in his memory, he had remained silent, much as he would for the remainder of his youth.
Jeren’s father picked him up and held him tightly, telling him it would be all right, much as Servalen had tried to tell him. But then his father had set him back down in the crib, handed him a half-drunk bottle filled with a greyish protein mixture that was supposed to make babies strong and, most likely, quiet and pliable.
As this old memory flashed through Jeren’s mind, he saw something in his father’s eyes. They changed from anger, sadness and resignation to something else; something new. Jeren knew now that the new look in his father’s eyes was something he had never seen before in that household and never saw again after that day: hope.
Then, his father had said something to him that Jeren remembered because he had heard it again moments before: ‘Watch for your chance to act, and when it comes, take it.’ After that, Jeren’s father glanced into the kitchen quickly, and then left, never to return.
There were many lessons Jeren could take from that flash of memory. He could blame his father for not taking him with him when he left. He could rage at the man for saving himself with no thought as to how it would impact his son. Instead, Jeren decided to focus on the one piece of advice his father had ever given him.
Except, Jeren didn’t have to watch for his chance and react when it happened. He could see it coming and prepare. As D’onne and Servalen continued to argue, Jeren inched away from them, slowly, across the rough ground. Just a bit. Not enough to be noticeable at a glance. He then stretched out, putting his head as far from Servalen as he could get, and waited for his headache to reappear.
CHAPTER 26
FATAL INTERLUDES
Kordon Brann was desperate. He hadn’t heard from Wicker Crag and reports coming out of Down Town were not optimistic. It sounded like a war had erupted down there. And here he was, a respectable businessman caught in the middle and about to lose everything because of some petty squabble between the haves and the have-nots.
‘It’s always the middle caste that gets the squeeze,’ he mumbled, remembering his father’s last words, uttered right before he’d left the office to go jump off the top of the Abyss after an unnaturally bad run of luck had bankrupted him. Luckily, Kordon had bet against his father during those last days and ended up with a tidy sum of credits, which he’d used to start his own business.
Now, it seemed his own luck had run out. But Kordon had no intention of offing himself and making some other poor schmuck rich. No. He still had one play to make; a way to salvage at least some of the good credits he’d thrown after all the bad.
‘Hello?’ he said into the vox connection on his terminal. ‘Karga? It’s your old pal, Kordon.’
‘What do you want, Brann?’ replied the Goliath bar owner, bluntly. ‘Kinda busy here.’
‘I’ll bet you are,’ replied Kordon, still trying to strike a cordial and casual tone. ‘Nothing like a good riot to make gangers thirsty.’
‘Get to the point, Brann, before I close the link.’
‘Right,’ said Brann. ‘Always straight to the point with you. Fine. I have a favour to ask.’
‘No.’
‘Hear me out. This will be profitable for you.’
‘No!’
Brann sighed. ‘I have reason to believe my scummers are dead,’ he said, deciding to lay it all out there. ‘And I happen to know they have a large sum of credits stored with the Guild of Coin. You have the best contacts in Hive Bottom. If you can free up those credits, I’ll cut you in for a ten per cent finder’s fee. I have their ownership codes and can transmit them immediately.’
‘Fifty per cent,’ Karga replied, adding, ‘or I terminate this call, find the codes myself, and keep it all.’
Kordon was desperate. He might be able to survive a trip to Down Town to meet with the local Gelt Guilder, but he hated that place. It was dangerous and he had no protectors any longer. Plus, now that Karga knew about it, he’d never make it to the guilder’s office alive. ‘Fine,’ he said finally. ‘Give me a sec to pull up those codes.’
Kordon opened another interface on his terminal and began tapping away. He might have lied about having the codes already.
‘Kordon Brann?’
‘We’re closed, mate,’ replied Kordon without looking over his shoulder. ‘And this is a private office. Shove off.’
‘Are you Kordon Brann?’ repeated the voice. It was deep, with a mechanical edge, as if it were being spoken through a respirator.
‘Yeah,’ replied Kordon. ‘Yes, I am. Now leave. I’m busy.’
‘I am here for you, Kordon Brann.’
Kordon whipped around in his chair, furious at the impertinence, but didn’t have time to scream in horror before he was slammed against the far wall of his office. His head cracked back against the wall, and his vision swam, but he stayed conscious. He staggered towards the door to his balcony, hoping to escape from whatever had attacked him.
‘Where can I find Morn Dawingen, Drey Stummey and Nardan Keld?’
‘Who?’ asked Brann, hoping against hope that if he could remember those names and give them up, he might be allowed to survive.
‘Morn Dawingen, Drey Stummey and Nardan Keld,’ repeated the annoying, booming voice, which seemed to echo inside Kordon’s brain as well as across the room. ‘Cawdor sludge workers in your employ.’
Brann’s head throbbed and his mind felt like it had been scrambled, but he remembered the names. He’d talked to them recently about the Jerenson kid. ‘In the sludge pits,’ he replied without worrying about their fate, or the fate of anyone unlucky enough to be working with them today; only that giving them up might save his life.
‘Thank you,’ replied the intruder. It held out a skeletal appendage and Brann went flying. The last thing Kordon Brann ever heard was Karga’s voice through the vox connection.
‘Goodbye, Brann. Your time is up,’ she said as he crashed through the door and sailed over the balcony. When Kordon hit the street, his already concussed head struck the rockcrete ground hard and cracked open like an over-ripe melon.
Wicker Crag trudged along the shore of the sump with Dani, Brak and Hawk; they were all that remained of his gang of hive scum after that bloody riot. Wicker was already preparing the version of events he’d tell in Down Town, where he had led ten gangs on one hell of a chase, and gave as good as they got in a run-and-gun battle through the depths.
A heroic battle pitting scummers against gangs of all six houses was sure to play better than the truth. The only reason the four of them had survived was they had hightailed it away while the gangers fought over the mare’s eyes.
Even Krotos Hark, Wicker’s hired gun, had abandoned them over those damn spider eyes. Wicker didn’t know where the bounty hunter was now, but hoped he’d got the lion’s share. That might keep the armoured Goliath from blaming him for this fiasco of a mission. Wicker knew better. This was all Kordon Brann’s fault. Once he got back to his hideout, Wicker planned to use the rest of that guilder’s credits to gear up and hunt him down. If there was any money left after that, Wicker planned to drink himself into a long stupor.
‘What’s next?’ asked Dani, clearly mirroring his thoughts. ‘More recruiting? Anything left in the gang’s coffers? Nothing like a good scrap to get the blood up, right, Brak?’
‘Sump yeah!’ yelled Brak. ‘Nothing makes you feel more alive than surviving a big battle.’
Wicker felt himself tensing, and a day’s worth of frustration bubbling up. He’d lost friends today, but worse than that, he’d lost an opportunity. For a moment there, he’d had hope. He’d already mentally spent the take they’d get from giving the kid over to Brann, but then Mad D’onne had to get involved… Hawk put a hand on his shoulder. He looked at her and she shook her head.
Wicker sighed. As always, his sniper played the long game. He turned back to Dani and Brak, ready to lie so he could keep them on long enough to get his revenge against Kordon.
‘I’ve got big plans,’ he said. ‘We have a sizeable amount of creds stored away, and I have a new target in mind that should provide a suitable payback, er, pay-off.’
Dani smiled, causing the wrinkles around her eyes to smooth out as the skin on her cheeks tightened. She seems pleased, at least, thought Wicker. Brak’s response was different, though. His eyes widened and his mouth opened into a large circle, as if he was taking a deep breath before screaming.
As Wicker realised that Brak was staring at something behind him, the old ganger flew through the air as if a huge gust of wind had picked him up and tossed him like a leaf. Brak’s blunderbuss clattered to the ground as he soared over the edge of the sump and dropped into the lake, which seethed and hissed as it devoured his body.
Brak never did scream, but Dani began shrieking the moment her partner’s body left her side. A moment after Brak hit the sump, Dani raised her hand flamer and fired. The gout of fire nearly scorched Wicker’s face as he dived to the ground to avoid the flames. Hawk wasn’t so lucky, though. The flames engulfed her slight body, turning her flesh to ash and igniting the long mohawk that ran down her back like the wick of a candle.
‘What the sump?’ Wicker yelled from his prone position. In response, Dani pointed with her free hand before advancing on an unseen target behind the immolated sniper. He rolled over to see what was attacking, but only saw Dani fly over his head towards the sump to join her partner. Her screams doubled in intensity for a split second after the splash but were silenced by an explosion as her fuel tank erupted.
Wicker tried to draw his heavy stubber using his one hand while lying prone on the ground, but only flailed about helplessly. As he struggled to get back to his feet, the hive scum leader felt something enter his mind and command him to stop moving. He had no choice but to obey. He couldn’t move his head to look at his attacker.
‘You coward!’ he yelled, realising what he must be up against. ‘Fight like a human, you psyker scum!’
A moment later, cold, rigid claws grabbed Wicker by the arm and leg and lifted him off the ground. As he dangled there, unable to move and held aloft like a sack full of rats, all Wicker could see were rolls of pink flesh and the occasional flash of plasteel tubing. After a moment, searing pain wracked his entire body as the claws yanked his limbs apart. In an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, Wicker’s bones broke and his organs ripped apart as his entire body was torn asunder.
Enforcer Barker had returned to guard duty after replacing the gear D’onne had stolen and setting a splint on his ankle. As long as he didn’t have to fight or save anyone’s life, he’d be fine until Nox and the squad returned, and he could finally stand down from this mission.
It had been hours since D’onne had left him bound in the silo. He hadn’t heard from the sarge in that time either, so was simply following his last orders: patrol and report any activity to Proctor Bauhein.
So far, he’d made two reports. The first was a slightly altered account of his encounter with D’onne, wherein he saw her leaving Dust Falls and heading towards the Abyss, with no mention of his time held as her captive. His lost gear and injury took some fast-talking, but he wasn’t the first enforcer to lose his footing while patrolling the Abyss gates.
The second was hours later when a transport landed on the barren plains outside the wall to the city and four psi-hounds emerged. This report was more accurate, if no more useful to the proctor who, it turned out, already knew the psi-hounds were coming.
Since then, nothing out of the ordinary had happened inside or outside Dust Falls. The transport had made a huge racket when it landed and yet no gangers nor any of the vermin living in the tunnels beneath the Dust Falls plains had ventured forth to check it out or attempt to snatch it. Even the normal level of bar fights and street violence inside Dust Falls had almost completely ground to a halt. Nearly everyone seemed to be staying indoors. The big, bustling town was eerily quiet.
As Barker looked down into the Abyss, it felt to him like the hive was waiting for a heavy shoe to drop down there, at the bottom of the world. Perhaps everyone was waiting to see which way the underhive would twist in the aftermath of whatever was happening in Down Town before making their next moves.
As comforting as it was to have a quiet time on guard duty, Barker knew the tension building in the air would soon snap and anyone caught in the wrong place at the wrong time would lose more than an arm and some gear.
Barker took one last look down into the fading light of the Abyss before heading back towards the warehouse district. When he turned towards the silos, he saw the silhouette of a misshapen figure seemingly floating in the air before him. As the figure moved forward, Barker felt himself rooted to the spot. He could still feel his limbs but could not make them obey his mental commands to move.
As the figure floated in front of Barker, its grotesque body and multiple faces were illuminated by a light from one of the nearby gates. The enforcer wanted to turn away to avoid looking at the monstrosity but couldn’t move his head or his eyes.
‘You are Barker of squad HC-51086,’ the face in the middle of the creature’s torso said. It was a statement, not a question. ‘Are there others?’
Barker tried to answer, tried to shake his head, but couldn’t. It didn’t seem to matter. From the itchy feeling inside his head, the enforcer was certain the information had been scraped from his brain.
‘Good,’ said the same mouth. ‘Did any of HC-51086 talk to anyone inside these walls?’
Again, Barker’s brain itched as the psi-hound searched for the answer to its question. Barker would have told the truth, and not just because he had no idea who his superiors might have talked with, but because he was a terrible liar, especially when terrified. But he was not allowed the option.
‘Not good,’ said the small mouth, which was surrounded by rolls of flabby pink flesh. ‘We must find information elsewhere.’
Barker hoped that was that. He had no useful information and the enforcers and psi-hounds were on the same side, so it should release him now, right?
‘Time to go,’ said the mouth on the main face, which had multiple tubes feeding into it from a large piece of tech attached to the back of its head. Barker felt the hold on his mind release and took a step back, waiting for the psi-hound to leave so he could move forward.
Instead, an invisible force slammed into the enforcer’s chest, flinging him back twenty metres, which put Barker five metres past the edge of the Abyss – and falling into the kilometres-deep twilight.
CHAPTER 27
BOTTOM OF THE FOOD CHAIN
Sergeant Vessa felt pretty good about herself. From the argument she’d overheard between Mad D’onne and Scrutinator Servalen, the sergeant felt certain the two women had reverted to hating one another. At the very least, it didn’t look like they would actively work together, which would make her job easier.
Of course, she didn’t believe Servalen had gone rogue down here at the bottom of the hive. Things happened in the field and sometimes strange alliances were formed in the heat of battle. As long as all the perpetrators ended up on a slab or in custody – including those used as a means to an end – there was no harm.
As far as Vessa knew, Scrutinator Servalen was a dedicated servant to the Spire, which is what made her rise to power all the more aggravating. She made everyone around her look bad. But it was all a trick. She didn’t have to work for her successes like a normal person. All she had to do was stare at people until they gave her what she wanted: information, cult locations, contraband smuggling routes, gang hideouts, and on and on and on.
Her success rate disgusted Vessa. It was about time someone took her down, even if it was on some trumped-up charges. Helmawr wanted it and so it would be. The top of the palanite ladder would be easier to attain without Scrutinator Servalen in her way.
The other thing that had put a smile on the sergeant’s face was how they had trussed up the two female prisoners for transport. Getting them both to the lift platform had been of some concern to Vessa’s squad. She didn’t want them walking, not with their ankles cuffed, but no one wanted to get close enough to carry either woman.
Ortruum 8-8 had been no help either. Talking to the psi-hound was worse than having a conversation with the pariah. He barely even bothered to acknowledge her presence, let alone regard her as worth engaging with on an equal footing. Ortruum commanded and all humans listened and obeyed.
Jankins came to Vessa’s rescue, though, when Ortruum ordered the sergeant to prepare to move out after his repairs were complete. Vessa thought she would have no choice but to untruss the two women and take her chances on a forced march with less than a full squad.
The engineer had cut two long lengths of plasteel pipe from the nearby cliff wall. A slight rearrangement of the force cuffs binding the women’s wrists to their ankles allowed Jankins to hang them from the poles so two enforcers could haul each prisoner with relative ease.
