Epilogue

* * *

No one remembered why the squad was called the "Communist Sanitary Squad". Arguing about the name, as well as trying to find some kind of prototype, was a traditional discipline of the newcomers. No, why "Sanitary" - it is clear, the "cleaners" were doing that too. But where did the main work, that is, the actual purification go? And who were the "communists"? It was prescribed to consider them unconditionally a good thing, as well as the red banner of the detachment, but without any reference. Even in the Lives of St. Clarence, the official patron of the Squad, there was no answer, not even a hint of a clue. Nevertheless, the Squad has maintained an unbroken tradition for more than five hundred years, bearing the burden of dignified and responsible service.

A tracked armored vehicle was hurtling down the street, spitting steel links out of the sidewalk. A siren wailed, though there was no need to do so no one would think of doing anything to obstruct the Squad. On the contrary, everyone, whether on foot or on wheels, was in a hurry to get out of the way of the car under the red flag of the SCC. The old engine sipped on promethium and murmured with the smooth monotony that is characteristic of tried, venerable machines with a well-honed Spirit inside. Normally the crew tried to leave in a lineup of at least five transporters of varying caliber and purpose, plus a BaneWolf in case things got really bad. But shit hit the fan again, and a reserve crew with punished and rookies, a total of ten men plus a senior mentor, was thrown into action. Big Bertha couldn't be counted as either a rookie or an offender, but there were no other mentors at the base, so she took command of the rabble. Now it was up to her to figure out how to get things done without getting killed by the whole squad.

Inside the vehicle was shaking and rattling. Bertha was making a mental note of what the companions were doing and guess what kind of trouble to expect. Everyone was busy. The "Holy Man" was kneeling in the corner, as usual, praying under a handwritten poster that said, "Fuck the Evil!!" The poster was pretty shabby, even though it was a sheet of sturdy, flexible plastic. No wonder, considering that the proclamation had already changed three armored cars.

The "Priest", on the contrary, was not praying. He was busily checking the chemical sprayer, covered with parchment scrolls, like the annual letter to the Golden Throne of good behavior, with Ecclesiarchy stamps. The staff priest believed in general that prayer should be offered only after a good deed was completed, not before.

"Crybaby" sobbed, fingering his dirty, oily face with his chubby palms. It happened to him regularly. The staff flamethrower was afraid of dying in sin, and even more of fire and acid. The "Sinner" indulged in his favorite pastime of embroidering another symbol on his red reflective vest despite the shaking. Bertha didn't share the belief that if you put nine hundred and ninety-nine sacred prayer lines on your gear, then the evil forces wouldn't notice your soul and there was a chance of getting into the three percent of survivors of docility. As a three-time novice already, Bertha could responsibly report that the honorable service of Purification was killing everyone without discerning the labels. On the other hand, the hobby of embroidery was harmless and godly and reliably occupied the mind, which was a good thing from all sides.

The Savlar's nose turned up absentmindedly, revealing to the world the unhealed ulcer he'd got from his distant mines. The ex-convict, of course, had never been anywhere near the famous moons, but he told everyone that he had crawled out of the deepest dungeon. Everyone pretended to believe him. The "Savlar" was clearly trying to impress the new girl, but, frankly, not very well. She withdrew into herself, as usual, staring blankly through space, as if she were seeing something beyond the grasp of mere mortals. Well, or moved to the point of losing touch with reality.

The lass was a headache for the tutors, and no one could say exactly why. Yes, a savage from some barbarian world had a poor command of normal speech. At first, she couldn't even pray like a human and understood nothing of everyday life. The whole squad laughed good-naturedly, telling each other how the blonde tried for the first time to put on a hazmat suit and gas mask. And "Olla" - so the girl was listed in the accompanying documents - was a sullen loner, who and with no one was not a friend and not even a couple of words without an absolute need. On the other hand, what Olla did not know, she learned quickly. She prayed regularly, and being unsociable was not a vice. The "Sinner", for example, never spoke to anyone at all, communicating only in gestures. He deemed it unworthy to desecrate the universe in which the Emperor resided by the sound of insignificant speech. As for equipment, the squadron learned how to properly handle government property quickly, usually no longer than a day.

The armored truck jerked particularly hard so that the "Smoker" coughed and choked on the smoke of his vile pipe. Аnd the "Wretched Man" smacked his head first on the bracket and then, in the opposite direction, on the acid cylinder. Through the armor again came the shrill howl of the siren, with which "Driver" was clearing an already free path. Bertha sighed, gripping the handrail tighter. She turned her thoughts back to the new girl.

Yeah, she didn't give her much cause for concern. The squad had seen far more colorful adepts. But still... There was something about her that wasn't right. Something alien and strange. Not threatening, strange. As if she'd descended from the highest floors of some steeple in a rich Hive, but her mind was still in her old life. This case should be Olla's first real, "combat" experience, and the mentor was very concerned about the acid reagent handler. More precisely, the girl's aloofness, her uncomplicated indifference to what was going on around her.

The red light above the side sliding panel that replaced the usual transporter hatch lit up. That meant no more than a couple of minutes left.

The mentor was distracted for a moment, and when she looked at her ward again, she found her staring at Bertha in turn, and quite consciously.

"Deceived," said Olla unexpectedly, with a strong accent, but quite understandable.

The car was wildly noisy, the soundproofing had become in disrepair long ago, but communication was through the radio and laryngophones, so everyone could hear the new girl.

"What?" asked Berta, reflexively, almost like an ordinary person, not a Mentor.

"He fooled me," the girl repeated, dull and expressionless, wrapping herself in the sizeless jumpsuit like a warm cloak. The rubberized fabric creaked and creased with difficulty. "Savlar" laughed vilely, snorting and dropping slime with a hole instead of his nose. He stopped, catching Bertha's very grim look.

"It happens," the Priest said as smoothly and evenly as he did, crossing himself with an aquila. "Everyone is deceived by someone. Only the Emperor is perfect, was and will be, blessing the galaxy with himself and through himself."

Olla looked at the priest with a wild look and then went back into herself as if to turn her pupils inward. But she clutched tightly to her gas mask bag. Bertha sighed, feeling the hot air filtered through her respirator. Some nuance seemed to have cleared up. Apparently, the girl really was a city girl, recruited "on trust." It was rare, but it happened, too. She is guessing the girl won't be in the squad for long.

The "Priest" stood up, grasping securely the handrail that ran the full length of the compartment under the low ceiling. He yelled loudly:

"Come on, brothers, let's fuck the evil's ass!"

"Fuck the Evil!!!" A chorus of ten gulps came back in more or less unison. Only Olla seemed to remain silent. Oh, and "Crybaby", who was clutching the sprayer with both hands, so that the tears were already rolling down his face in generous streams. It got cold in the car, despite the midday heat and the running engine. Her mentor saw the frost gather in the corners in a whitish film, and shuddered to think what lay ahead of them. If the manifestation is so clear and strong, then the real trouble lies ahead. And BaneWolf, with his blessed acid cannon, the last argument for the worst-case scenario, is gone...

"Put on respirators!" commanded Bertha. "A closed cycle!

A red light blinked, the transporter slowed down, jerked, turning around on the spot and backing up.

Let's work.

Olla got tangled up in the gas mask gear again, and the "Wretched Man" unexpectedly helped her untangle the corrugated hose, properly buckled the strap, grabbing the absorbent cylinder in the right pocket so it wouldn't fall out. The girl hesitated, pulling on the gas mask, but managed it. Behind the round glasses, her gaze finally lost its mad notes, became empty and unexpressive.

Bertha sighed heavily again, trying to make it look imperceptible in her respirator. She thought that the blonde was finished, and soon. And whoever had recruited her into the Purification was a total asshole. The common man had no place among the novices of Adepto Purificatum, where hell was no farther than the exhaust of a chemical flamethrower, or even the mere thought of evil.

Then the armored vehicle shuddered, swayed on its worn shock absorbers, and finally froze. The sliding panel slid aside, and there was no more time for idle reflection.

* * *

Fidus did not like the family mansion. Hidden deep in the rock, the apartment complex was technically more of a fortified bunker. But it reproduced the ambience of an old mansion. It was gloomy, empty, and lonely to live here. Even the servants did not brighten up life, because many generations of Kryptmans were traditionally served by servitors.

Fidus wandered through the dark enfilade of rooms, sadly and methodically drinking wine from the deep cellar. The wine was good, but it intoxicated him slow. It only made his melancholy worse, and his thoughts were too much. More than the young inquisitor, the worthless son of a great father, would have liked.

You deceived her.

"No."

Fidus suddenly realized that he had said it aloud. He shouted, rather, trying to drown out the quiet but piercing whisper from the void.

You deceived her.

"No," whispered Fidus. "There was nothing I could do."

But you didn't even try, the voice didn't stop

Kryptman waved his hand as if trying to ward off a ghost. He dropped the bottle, which clattered on the thick carpet. It gurgled softly - the wine spilled in a thin stream, soaking into the fabric at once. The shadows seemed to thicken even more - some of the solar panels that powered the lights directly had failed after the recent storm. He should have sent a repair crew outside, but Fidus forgot.

Kryptman sat down in the first chair he could find, wrapped his arms around his aching head. Repeated a third time, threw into the middle of nowhere in despair:

"No..."

Yes, came back from the darkness.

Yes. You betrayed a person who wasn't afraid to go through hell to save you. Sacrificed her so as not to draw more attention to yourself.

The straw-haired girl appeared to Fidus's inner eye as clearly as if the inquisitor were looking at a pict. She was short, thin, and had very beautiful eyes of a rare shade - transparent blue, like the sky at dawn. Beautiful and very expressive.

"Yes, I betrayed her... " Fidus whispered as if confessing to himself in the semi-darkened crypt of the family bunker could fix or change anything.

He wanted to get drunk, to forget, not to listen. But even in the hop, the inquisitor could not hide from the unspoken call of conscience. The synthetic air-conditioned air smelled of good wine, a little more of dust. And a heavy sadness.

Kryptman sat silently for a long time, burying his fingers in a loose lock of hair. The pain returned with renewed vigor, despite medical assurances that the body had been restored to its former condition, including complete regeneration of the nerves. The red-hot needles methodically tormented the entire left side of his body, from his ankle to his neck. His fingers trembled in an uncontrollable tremor.

Fidus threw back his head and blinked, feeling everything in his field of vision blur.

"Yes, I betrayed her," he repeated. "Yes, it's true..."

He sat like that for a long time, dropping his hands limply, blinking frequently. The younger man's lips were moving rapidly and finely as if Fidus were engaged in a silent and furious dialogue with someone unseen. Then Kryptman slapped himself painfully across the face as if wiping away a painful stinging insect.

She had kissed him then, on their last meeting, short and crumpled. Olga stood on tiptoe and pecked Kryptman's cheek. He was silent because he didn't know - what to talk about. Neither did she - the girl was very bad at gothic. But in her eyes Fidus read naive, trusting gratitude, and hope, and absolute trust. Faith in the man for whom she had risked so much, body and soul. In the one who had come between her and the demon, like a true hero who denied fear.

Into someone who already knew there was nothing, he could do to help her. Doesn't want to help her, so as not to put his already miserable, unsuccessful career in jeopardy again.

Will you help me? - she asked, ridiculously twisting accents and separating syllables

You won't leave me?

And he replied:

Yes. I'll help.

And he was silent, his jaw clenched shut, making unimaginable efforts not to reveal himself, to hide the storm in his soul. He seemed to have frightened the girl with his stone face without a trace of emotion. At any rate, Olla left with her head bowed, often turning around with a pitiful, pleading look. Grim and voiceless adepts escorted the girl, who was marching straight to her indefinite service in Adepto Purificatum.

The place from which they don't come back.

You could've saved her.

"Yes, I could," Fidus whispered hopelessly, answering himself. "At the cost of rank and regalia."

Having ceased to be Inquisitor Kryptman. Breaking the long chain of the Emperor's servants that has been forged over the centuries, piece by piece, life by life.

"God, forgive me, help me," cried Fidus, feeling the remnants of the groggy feeling leave his consciousness. In vain, no one came to help and soothe the inquisitor's sick conscience.

Kryptman got up and unsteadily walked to the library. He was shaking as if in post-operative fever, so the road took a long time. The library greeted the young master as the rest of the house did with silence and half-darkness. Fidus gestured to the servitor, who had rolled up, and followed the machine with the brain of the former man down the aisle between the cupboards. The servitor needed no light, destructive to old folios. The mechanical servant was guided by an infrared searchlight

Kryptman, too, could have walked through the book warehouse with his eyes closed. He had spent so many years here as a child. But he preferred to turn on the cozy lamp above the reading table. It remained to find what he was looking for.

Here is a row with selected recollections of the great figures of Ordo Hereticus. Here are practical guides to the methods of interrogation and investigation, the most shabby, read-out of all the books. An introduction to the art of unraveling criminal mysteries for the young inquisitor... Copies of some of the Kryptmans' reports, published "in folio," for parade performances. Annual handbooks and glossaries on sects, cults, heretical communities, and xeno-races. All wrong, all wrong.

Yeah, here.

A separate cabinet stood apart and seemed like a novelty compared to the carved wood that reigned in the temple of old literature. It looked as if it had been hastily made, with diligence, but without any experience in carpentry. It was solid, sturdy, and a little crooked. A dozen wide shelves were filled with journals of all kinds and quality, from sumptuous notebooks covered in real leather to a few notebooks sewn into a single booklet with an awl and thick thread.

Fidus froze, looking at the last shelf, about three-quarters full. And the last diary, most sumptuously published, by special order. Not from the skins of the most devoted adepts, as it were, but also very dignified and rich. The red-and-black volume seemed to complete and crown a long line of memorable entries.

Kriptman picked up the journal with a trembling hand and carried it to the reading table, which looked more like a lectern. Fidus sank into the hard chair and froze again, as if hesitant to read Kryptman Sr.'s notes. Time itself seemed to stand still in anticipation, the minutes dying, barely born, one by one. Finally, with a barely audible rustle, the book opened.

'I began to keep a diary long ago, more out of tradition than a practical necessity, and also to satisfy my vanity. I thought that the hour would come when Inquisitor Kryptman would be gone, but that the record of his life would remain for centuries, preserving the memory of me in a different way than the archives of the Ordo Hereticus, which conceal everything and let nothing out. This is certainly a sin, but I think it is a forgivable one. There did not seem to be much left to record, for I say openly before men and God and my conscience that I have always faced the threat, no matter how severe my fate was.

However, things turned out differently ...

I have lived long, much, much longer than I had expected in my wildest dreams. My life ends in honor, respect, recognition of colleagues and comrades-in-arms. And every step of this way is marked in the chronicle that began with one skinny notebook and now occupies more than one cabinet of my vast library. Today I am looking at a vast collection of volumes that strictly and impartially record the ups and downs, the successes and failures. But I confess that I feel ... only sadness. For I shall soon be leaving this world which has been blessed by the grace of the Emperor, a world in the keeping of which I have also been a part, of which I am proud, without concealing it. But it is not death that frightens me and makes me timid. It is not death that frightens me, but the certain knowledge that I have lost the main battle. And the knowledge of this cries out from the pages of my memories, my unbiased diary.

Yes, I am going away defeated. But in the sadness lies a comforting germ, the name of which is hope. Hope that the hour will come when my research will be remembered, extracted, and used to know the Great Enemy. Perhaps the most terrible of all, which mankind has met and will meet in the victorious march through the galaxy.

The last volume of my chronicle is not a diary, not a painstaking daily record of events. It is a cumulative story, an extract of my quest, of the struggle I have waged for decades and - alas - alone, feeling the skeptical smiles behind my back and hearing the benevolent sneers of disbelieving colleagues.

If you are reading this, it means that my hope was not in vain. The crumbs of knowledge that I picked up like bread crumbs in a forest full of mysteries and dangers, the sinister facts that I painstakingly collected and categorized - all will be useful to you, no matter who you are, who opened this book.

If you are my colleagues of the Inquisition, remember me with a kind word and thank me for my unrequited, ungrateful labor, which brought me only sarcastic mockery during my lifetime. I do not consider myself worthy to sit beside the Emperor in death. My soul will fade into nothingness so that your commemoration will not reach me. But it is not the dead who need a good word, it is the living who need it, and so you will not do good for me, but for yourself.

If my son is browsing through these pages, I will refrain from admonishing and commenting, for all that needs to be said has already been said.

Turn the page and find out that many years ago, during an operation on the Sta... '

From here on, the entry was cut off, the tail of the "a" dropping down, thinning, instead of curving into a hook. This letter was the last letter Fidus Kryptman the Elder wrote. And the last thing he ever did.

The son turned the page, revealing a large black-and-white full-page drawing that was enclosed separately. He stared at it for a long time, then took another picture out of his pocket, put it next to him, and stood staring at it again.

The images were completely different. One drawing was done in the confident style of a good artist - every inquisitor necessarily took a course in academic painting, because the equipment was not always at hand. Often one had to rely only on one's memory and a steady hand. Fine paper, expensive charcoal, smooth and accurate lines.

The other was scribbled with the cheapest stylus on a similarly crummy sheet of old notebook paper that had come out of recycling and was doomed to perish in the same place. A hand that, at best, scribbled a man with circles and straight lines.

And yet, the two completely different images, separated by nearly a decade and a half, quite clearly depicted the same creature.

A large, disproportionately bulbous head. The round eyes were rolled out, and the mouth was gnarled with small triangular teeth. Senior Kryptman's drawing conveyed in great detail the expression of absolute, boundless anger on the muzzle, which could well be called the face. Junior had seen both mutants and xenos, and was used to perceiving and not being surprised by their strangeness. But still, the sight of the creature made him shiver, and a trickle of icy sweat ran down his spine. He wanted to look around to see if the shadow of death with the head of a toothy mantis was creeping up behind him.

Fidus leaned back on the hard chair, polished by the backs of dozens of generations of Kryptmans. And whispered again a phrase that Olga had heard once before, but did not understand.

"Father, were you really right?"

* * *