Chapter 12

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"Well..."

Inquisitor Schmettau pursed his lips, pulled a folding comb from his pocket, and carefully combed his hair. Not for the sake of improving his hair, but rather to take a short pause, to occupy himself with some fleeting duty. The artificial hair rustled faintly under the plastic teeth.

"Unexpectedly," said Schmettau quietly, folding up the simple instrument with a neatness (perhaps the least bit deliberate).

Essen Pale stood at attention in silence, looking now at the inquisitor, at the big screen, where a short satellite recording was repeated over and over again. First, a general plan, covering a couple of thousand square kilometers. Part of the industrial area and a section of the railroad tracks, where the armored train was parked. Houses and industrial complexes were decked out in lights, work continued around the clock, despite the threat of heretical invasion. Astropathic towers on the asteroids required a constant supply, especially now, with the steadily increasing traffic that fed equipment, equipment, and troops to the distant battle for the Sabbat worlds. The atomic train, on the other hand, was lurking in the darkness.

Almost a minute of recording, where the movements of individuals are indistinguishable, but one can see the blocking of all civilian vehicles and the pulling down of armored vehicles. Kalkroit did not need to listen to the radio conversations, he already remembered every last note. A rank-and-file report from the 'convicts', then the radio operator switches to a quick, hurried speech, and then... Yes, then things began to develop very quickly. Too fast and unexpected, given the drop in warp-storm activity and the long string of false alarms with the seers' mistakes.

Schmettau rubbed the hump of his nose with two fingers, just like a bespectacled man who had removed his spectacles, though the inquisitor never wore spectacles or pince-nez. His assistant sighed softly, shifting from foot to foot. It was pitch black in the corner of the screen, and all of a sudden it exploded in a shower of flames. "Radial-12," using a battery of guided missiles, exactly as per protocol and the summons from the mentor. A dense beam of orange trails crossed the darkened tundra with deliberate slowness and struck the suburbs, covering an entire block. A few minutes later, a second strike followed. It was help from 'Radial-64', giving a volley at the limit of missile range.

One wonders how many guards in the cordon were killed...? Technically, the arbitres and police had five or seven minutes between the request and the attack. Enough to save not everyone, but many. If the proper orders had been given, and Schmettau suspected that they had not bothered to do so in time. The long months of peace and near-zero warp disturbances had relaxed the local services considerably.

'The Emperor will protect,' Kalkroit said to himself, conjuring up an aquila in his mind as well. God is omniscient, he does not need pompous and public gestures, the main thing is faith in the soul. He created in His wisdom the Inquisition, giving it a perfect organization, which, among other advantages, helps to avoid the bureaucratic cumbersomeness of traditional agencies.

"Is there an estimate of casualties?" The inquisitor asked the assistant.

"No, sir," said Pale cheerfully and without pause, knowing full well what the patron was primarily interested in. "Presumably the whole squad is dead. At any rate, they are presumed dead. Planetary rescue services are waiting for the fires to die down so they can start searching for bodies and evidence."

Schmettau once again scrolled through the passage with the direct hit. Sixty missiles... Yeah, there wouldn't even be ash left after that. Still, several square kilometers are blazing, as if a promethum pipeline had been brought to them. However...

"Check the armory," Schmettau ordered curtly. "Request information directly from battalion command. I want to know what the launchers were loaded with."

"Sir?"

"If the volley was a combination of volumetric and penetrating projectiles, there's nothing more for us to do here. The kill zone is plowed and burned to the rock bottom," Schmettau explained patiently. "But deliveries of large-caliber armor-piercing missiles are now irregular. It's possible the strike was a superficial one. And in this area, the catacombs are buried."

"They couldn't have come down that fast, I'll find out and report back."

What the inquisitor valued in his right hand especially was the rare ability to object, but at the same time meticulously execute the order. Alas, Essen had great problems with imagination and flexibility of thought, or rather these properties were completely absent in his assistant. And with diligence and for the benefit of Kalkroit himself. However, Pale's virtues more than compensated for some defects in his thinking process.

"The captain recommends we move to a higher orbit," Essen reported in the meantime. "Such proximity to the surface forces us to perform complicated maneuvers, we are consuming fuel, and the crew is fatigued."

Schmettau pondered the suggestion.

"No," he said. "First I intend to make sure that Kryptman is no longer among the living. Right after that, we'll leave the system. The team will receive a bonus for responsible service."

"As you command," Pale lowered and lifted his chin with machine-like clarity, turned on the spot, and then walked out, literally stamping his steps.

Schmettau sighed, shrugged his shoulders as if his jacket had become too tight for him. He relaxed perceptibly. He played the tape twice more, although he had already learned and memorized it to the last frame. Then he wandered around the office, hidden near the heart of the Inquisitor's ship. The place held many secrets and was a History in itself. How many secrets were revealed to the fastidious investigator among the white walls, how many hardened heretics confessed their terrible transgressions, weeping from the happy opportunity to repent...

Schmettau pressed a hidden lever, or rather a section of wall, unremarkable in appearance. Obeying unseen sensors, a secret hatch opened, and behind it a special vault, the existence of which even Essen, privy to all the secrets of the master, did not know. Here Schmettau erected an altar of hatred to his best friend and loyal comrade-in-arms, who turned out to be an enemy and traitor.

Kalkroit walked along the wall, barely visible beneath the drawings and picts, most of which were many decades old. The Inquisitor paced slowly, touching the yellowed picts with moments of former triumphs frozen forever with his fingers.

Here are two young arbitres who have just emerged from the walls of the Progenium Hall, they smile into the camera, not yet knowing that a few minutes later a discreet gray man will approach their friends and make them an offer they can refuse. But what kind of servant of the Emperor are you, then?

Here they are, but a couple of years older, at the first fire. A small, inconspicuous case, after which only a long code and a thin folder in the archive of Ordo Hereticus were left. Just a petty sorcerer, capable only of smothering old men and infants with sweat. He burned in the cleansing flames, long forgotten by all, most of all by the wicked lords he had served so poorly. But Kalkroit remembered.

Schmettau and Kryptman. Kryptman and Schmettau. Fear and Terror for any and all who have rejected the gifts and sacrifice of God the Emperor. Together they began, and together they walked the path of His service.

Their duo proved strong and effective because the inquisitors combined each other's strengths in the best way possible, compensating for their weaknesses. Kryptman was the epitome of fierce pressure, of brilliant improvisation. He was always pushing forward and only forwards. And Schmettau was someone who was inconspicuous and not famous, always in the second role, always behind the leader. But without number two, the leader is helpless and blind. Unlike his friend, Kalkroit always thought about 'what happens if...'. Always ready for any counterattack and invariably disappointed enemies, ready to escape from under the crushing blow Kryptman to strike from behind.

Kalkroit paused for a moment at the next pictograph. The yellow rectangle was a reminder of the deadly Heresy that sought to penetrate the soul of the Imperium. Yes, it was a grievous affair in the Schola Progenium on Hagia, where traitors had defied the very essence of His holy cause.

The Throne of Correction must suppress the misguided thoughts of the progenitors, not even heretical ones, but the simplest ones common to adolescents. If these thoughts introduce excessive deviations into the student's behavior. Enemies, on the other hand, have created imperceptible 'improvements,' turned the noble machine into a perverse mechanism that poisons the hearts of future commissioners, naval officers, priests, sororities, administrators. Drop by drop the invisible poison oozed into the souls of young people, the future backbone and core of the Empire. Changing students, already deprived of parental care; perverting the precepts of the abbots in the heads of children orphaned by the actions of the eternal enemy.

'ryptman! Schmettau exclaimed mutely, addressing the ghost. You believed an under-educated Sororite who fled from Schola. You dismissed my objections. You convinced me to suspend the exploitation of an unregistered psyker in Sanyera and to send all the acolytes of our groups to Schola.

Kalkroit clenched his teeth that could bite through a steel wire.

You weren't wrong. And after that, I believed you without a doubt.

With the tips of his fingers, as if a pict could burn artificial flesh and nerves, Schmettau touched the penultimate image. It was taken just after a meeting at which two of the inquisitors, no so young, were deciding how to play out the final notes of a composition that had lasted twenty-seven years. They had both long since given up their youth, but on that day each had to restrain with an iron will the feverish readiness and impatience. The moment of the greatest triumph was approaching, a victory that would rattle through the millennia and engrave two names on the tablets listing the Inquisition's greatest victories.

But this never happened.

In the moment that preceded the great triumph, the most faithful betrayed a friend, abandoned a colleague. Destroyed everything for which so much had been sacrificed. But most importantly, he did not admit a mistake. If Kryptman realized that he was chasing a mirage, say it out loud, and Schmettau would forgive him, and then help with all available resources and connections. All stumble, for only He, is blameless, and man is weak and imperfect, even the best of the best. And an inquisitor as great as Kryptman would have been able to level the damage done.

But the old friend did not admit the error. And though no one believed the tales of the terrible enemies of Mankind that lurked in obscurity. But after much deliberation, weighing Kryptman's explanations on the impartial scales of logic, the brethren decided that at that time the inquisitor's actions could be considered justified. When this happened, Schmettau nearly became a renegade because his world was turned upside down twice. Betrayal was not only accomplished but justified. The inquisitor kept from falling into heresy, but he did not forget or forgive anything.

The traitor had cheated for the last time by going to the other world, depriving Kalkroit of the sweet triumph of vengeance. But Schmettau knew that his thirst could be quenched in another way. Not all the way, not even half of the desired satisfaction, but at least a small fraction. After all, not only honors are inherited, but debts as well. Such was the case on his home planet of Schmettau, and he believed it was fair.

The last pict. A stern, sullen father whose lips have long since forgotten a smile, burdened with much knowledge of human weakness, of enemy treachery, of the unseen horrors that accompany everyone and are ready to enslave forever, if you let them slacken. And the son, a boy of about five or six, a child who already knows about the coming and inevitable destiny. The future apprentice, the inevitable heir to the deeds and glory of his famous father.

"Are you still alive?" Schmettau asked softly into the emptiness and silence. And he answered himself:

"I think so. You didn't take over your father's mind and will, but you inherited his survivability. You can't be killed that easily."

There was a long pause, during which the inquisitor froze like a statue. Only after many minutes did Kalkroit whisper:

"I believe in you, boy. Don't disappoint me. Don't deny me the pleasure of scattering your ashes with my own hands."

* * *

"Oh, God..."

Whose voice? Probably Savlar's, only he's the one who makes such a disgusting snarl. Or maybe not... Anyone with a broken nose.

Broken...

Nose...

What's broken on me this time?

The girl moved her fingers and toes. Her body obeyed, though it protested. But her eyesight was worse; it was either blindness or complete darkness all around her.

"The Emperor is with us, my brothers and sisters."

A Priest, who else. Well, at least two companions are alive. That's three people so far. Progress, with Kryp on Ballistic there were two. That was enough to survive.

Someday I will be in the good universe, Olga thought, and it will be bright, warm, and safe around me. The next thought was sobering. Yes, someday, just not in this life, not in this future.

Olga stretched out her invisible fingers and raised them to her face, afraid to touch it. Her face was smeared sticky and warm, her forehead was sore, her right cheekbone was numb. She seemed to have been punched in the face again... Or she'd been hit herself.

Okay, the face. It's unmasked. The girl let out a sigh, remembering the dire warnings to never, under any circumstances, remove her gas mask at work. Bertha's and Priest's spells were reinforced by an impressive set of 'picts', that is, ordinary photographs, which should be used to illustrate the work of the mentally ill. Who was the 'lord of decay' Olga did not really understand, but judging by the pictures, he could do many things and all of them were amazingly disgusting.

But now, never mind... If she had inhaled a batch of evil germs, it was too late to be sad.

The flash of greenish light was objectively dim. It was physically impossible for a chemical lantern to burn brightly. But in the darkness it lit up like a little sun, hurting the eyes.

"Let us praise Him," the Priest cried, raising the source of light high above his head.

Hurrah, hurrah, eyes intact, thought Olga, trying to get up on all fours at least. A strong hand picked her up under her belly like a kitten and pulled her to her feet.

"Ouch," the girl exhaled, barely able to stay on her feet.

The Sinner, who came to her aid, looked at her very angrily, as if he were preparing to strike. But then he turned away, his lips pressed together angrily.

And when did I ever hurt him?

Yes, something happened... But what exactly?

Apparently, her consciousness, overloaded with acute impressions, simply cut off some of the functions, because only now Olga began to remember - what actually happened? There were two reference points in the memory - the wild scream of Bertha, summoning fire upon herself just like in a Soviet movie. And... now. Darkness, drying blood on her face, the absolute uncertainty. And what lay between 'then' and 'now'?

She had to pull the scraps of memory out of her mind like small fish on a troll. Yes... Somebody was screaming to get out. Someone ran away. Or just run at random. Someone was hysterical, screaming that he didn't want to die. Surely Savlar, some jackal, not a convict. But on the whole, there was very little panic in the squad. Maybe just a little. But then, what happened then? And what made the Sinner angry? Olga looked for the cart with the cylinder and could not find it, though the cylinder with the fire mixture itself was found nearby. The memories continued to form a fragmented, but more or less coherent picture.

Yes, someone was surprisingly quick and clear in giving an estimate - there's about a minute or so to spare. It's no use running out of the house, so we have to go downstairs. And... they ran. Olga threw, her cargo and immediately got a strong smack from Bertha, accompanied by a gun at the very nose. So the cylinder had to quickly go from the cart to over her back. Good thing there was a suspension system like backpack straps special for such an occasion. It good thing the servitor helped, Kryp's servant had the might of a robot.

The cylinder seemed insanely heavy, but death, which was already flying on the wings of launched rockets, drove forward better than a whip. They ran... and ran, someone leading them all onward and down a series of staircases and shabby corridors, where stale dust accumulated in the corners like a terrible cobweb and it seemed that no man had set foot in years. The balloon had a life of its own as it ran, skidding the runner around corners and bouncing against walls. The short but surprisingly fast legs of the flamethrower elf flashed ahead, and behind her someone was painfully pushing at her back. And Kryp was there all the time as if he decided to serve as a human shield, catching threats to his ward.

Yes, after all, this Fidus is not a bad man, even though he is a jerk. And while fleeing, Olga ripped off her gas mask and immediately lost it.

While the girl collected herself, Bertha and the Priest restored some semblance of order. Bertha walked in a circle and scattered glowing sticks that flickered with inanimate green fire, like radiation in cartoons. The monk, who had come out of his trance, raised the squadmates, sometimes with a kind word, sometimes with a simple clap of the palm, and once or twice with kicks. Olga saw almost everyone except Smoker. Was he dead?!

The compartment seemed to be tucked away in a basement or garage. At any rate, the layout was like that of an underground parking lot. The junk in the corners and some boxes with plywood doors made it look like a warehouse. Very old, with mold and puddles of condensation. It smelled musty and damp... but... The girl took a deep breath, cringing at the stench of laundry soaked for a week.

Fire. There was a palpable smell of burning, not like burnt wood, but more like charcoal and chemistry. And the smell was intensifying.

"Stand straight, stand proud! Don't drop your gear!" The Priest clapped his hands resoundingly, rolling his bloodshot eyes. "The enemy does not slumber, in line, all in line!!!"

Olga looked at the Sinner, who was standing half-turned toward her, crouched over, arched on one side. Judging by the movements of his shoulders, he was either flossing or pulling his nose. Olga remembered that it was the Sinner who had saved her... only it was unclear how. Yes, that's right! The girl missed the turn, accelerated with the cylinder so that she skipped past the jamb with the door knocked out. Kryp didn't notice, distracted by something, but Sinner did the opposite - and yelled loudly 'Olla, over here!!!'. Well, at least he can talk. But the girl's conscience still gnawed a little bit, after all, it was her fault (albeit a weak one) that the silent man had opened his mouth. Or whatever it was supposed to be called nicely for breaking vows.

Olga walked unabashedly around the Sinner, raising her hand to touch his shoulder and thank him. But he glanced at her himself, and the gesture was cut short at takeoff. The girl jerked her fingers away, pressing her palm against her chest as if afraid of getting burned. The Sinner did not brush his teeth. He had pierced his lips with a short awl or screwdriver and was now sewing his mouth shut with stitches of ordinary twine.

"God... Jesus... God damn it, God..." the girl whispered, feeling the tears flowing profusely down her cheeks.

Is it because of me?

Olga vomited, unexpectedly and with one sudden, sane and sober thought - it was good that there was no mask, or she would have choked to death. The girl spat, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and cursed quietly but fiercely. She felt no guilt, but rather an anger, a lot of anger at everything. From the uncomfortable, stuffy overalls to the stupid man who was doing unhealthy shit because of his stupid superstitions.

"So, work and work on discipline," the Priest concluded, looking around at the despondent troops. "The Emperor's chosen warrior even retreats with dignity, guided only by contempt for the enemy!" and added more quietly. I see no Smoker. Is he gone? How?"

"He didn't," Berta said briefly, but exhaustively. "He took a wrong turn. When it started pounding on the brain. Or maybe..."

She wasn't finished. The monk inhaled a whistling breath and shook his head bitterly.

"It's sad," he said sincerely. "It's so sad."

That seemed to be the end of the question of the missing squad scout.

The Sinner finished his hard work, cut the twine's protruding tail, and crossed himself with an aquila. Blood trickled profusely down his face and neck, making him look like a vampire. The Priest who passed by squinted and said nothing, trying to organize a semblance of a fighting formation.

"Old foundations," said Fidus, and turned on a powerful flashlight that shone like a small searchlight. The bright yellow-and-white beam circled the garage, picking out old junk from the dark corners.

"The house was built on something else," the Holy Man caught his thought. "It looks like an old workshop. So there must have been a way into the transportation network from the time of the first development. Even before the astropaths took over the Ice Port."

"It was buried so nothing goes out... all sorts of things," Crybaby doubted and was sad. He clearly did not want to go any deeper. Neither did Olga, especially after the remark about all kinds of things climbing to the surface.

"Not all of it," the radio operator said encouragingly. "There's a chance. We should go down," said the Holy Man, almost simultaneously with Crybaby, who, on the contrary, suggested. "We should wait here."

The small and weeping flamethrower spoke very seldom, and his voice was as frail and silent as his build so that in the green half-light of the catacombs the words sounded sorrowful and wistful.

Bertha and the Priest looked at each other.

"We can't," the monk shook his head, sniffing the air noisily again. "There's a big fire above us now. They won't smother it, the fire will go down..."

It was difficult for the monk to speak; he must have broken his voice in a fit of holy madness. The Priest was now and then breaking into an incoherent wheeze. Coughing, he added:

"And it will burn out the oxygen. If we don't burn, we will suffocate."

Bertha looked doubtfully toward the large double-wing hatch that closed the prospective escape route.

"We're going to need a miracle," said the Wretched Man.

"The Emperor is gracious," the monk said sternly, jumping up so that he could better 'fit' the mechanized suspension of the sprayer on his body. "But he only bestows miracles on those who try.

For it is said, 'Fight and shells will be given to you'. Besides, we are still breathing, so there is a supply of air. And definitely not from above."

The smell of burning intensified. It seemed to Olga that a wave of warm air came out of the ducts under the low vault, and it became harder to breathe. Apparently, the fire raging upstairs was getting closer.

"Let's pack up and go," the bodybuilder said very calmly, softly. "We can't stay here."

"Those without masks, go away and breathe through the rags," the monk commanded, lifting the sprayer and turning the regulator. At first, the girl did not understand what the militant priest was going to do, but then she realized that the priest would melt with acid the lock on the hatch. Apparently for the lack of explosives and cutting torch. The procedure, however, was far less toxic than destroying a pot of soup upstairs. The metal, unlike the tiles, melted and flowed under a faint trickle of acid, like wax in boiling water, almost without effect or smoke.

The Priest seemed to be saving his ammunition. He had no spare cylinder, so Bertha and Luсt finished the job with heavy boots. At last, the old metal gave way with a heartbreaking creak. The hinges were rusted, but not too badly. Kryptman shined the flashlight further.

Behind the broken hatch was a fairly wide passageway, running down a pronounced slope. There had once been a mechanized delivery tunnel, where wagons or small trucks rode. Unusual for a residential house, albeit a large one, but logical if there had been some kind of shop here before, on whose foundations the house had been built.

"All right, it's going down," the Priest thought aloud. "I'm sure it's not a one-way trip. We'll get somewhere," he looked back at the Holy One and asked for sure. "Anything?"

The man shook his head in silence, fluffing out the rocker's uncombed mane. The radio was alive, but picking up static and nothing else.

Olga really wanted to clutch in her fist the homemade eagle left behind by an unknown predecessor. But the aquila was hiding on her chest under several layers of clothing. Kryp silently pointed to the servitor on the girl's cylinder, the mechanical man extended a broad palm, but he was stopped by Bertha.

"No. He's a self-propelled turret now," the Mentor ordered briefly, angrily. And she muttered to herself under her breath. "Oh, I wish he had a heavy stabber with a box and a 'sleeve,' it would be just right on his arm..."

Kryp looked at Olga guiltily, the girl turned away and tried to pull the cylinder from the concrete floor. The iron cylinder was heavy, and the handler was tired, but Kryp still helped her silently.

"Line up, I'll go first, Sinner behind me, Crybaby closes in," Bertha continued to give instructions. "The Tower in the middle, he's the tallest, he can shoot over the heads."

The Tower, and who is it, thought Olga, and immediately guessed that it was the servitor's nickname. The flamethrower one goes behind, most likely because of her. The most unreliable link in the group... And to hell with it, after all, the girl didn't ask anyone about the Squad.

"A long way to the home!" Savlar shrieked, like a hungry cat in front of an empty bowl, in a searing and disgusting way. The shriek was cut short by the sound of a good slap. Bertha cut off the non-musical accompaniment in the simplest way possible.

Olga thought that there would be some more admonition or at least a collective 'Emperor protects', maybe a word in memory of Smoker, but everyone went without further words. They must have prayed and asked for protection for themselves.

And they moved down into the damp darkness, away from the approaching fire.

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