Chapter 21

* * *

Wakrufmann was definitely not expecting the girl, but she welcomed her with quiet cordiality. Although 'cordiality', apparently, was not the right word. Sitting down next to the heater (she wonders who it was on for, were other guests here, or did the priestess and her appliances also need outside heating?) Olga thought that Jennifer's attitude should be called polite benevolence. And that was probably the best thing right now. The girl was already used to the fact that personal attention to her brought only trouble, so it was better this way.

"I have... questions!" Stated a newly minted content consumer. "Lots of questions!"

"That's interesting," Jennifer remarked. "Are they conceptual or detailing?"

"What?" Olga was confused.

"Do you not understand anything? Or is the overall plot clear, but you need to clarify certain aspects?"

"Well... more like the second... I guess. Yeah. I've only watched part of the first season, of course, and maybe it all reveals afterward, but..."

Olga was embarrassed.

"Ask," Jennifer interrupted her rant.

The girl sighed as if she were gaining air before jumping into the deep sea.

"Why did Hold continue her research on the Eldar ark ship? Didn't the Lords of Zuen expressly forbid such work? Wasn't she in charge... what's-his-name... magician..."

"Magos," Jennifer corrected.

"Yes, the chief magos of the Forge! And acted like an ordinary technician."

Jennifer wanted to smile again, both in the encouragement of Olga's mental exercise and for her satisfaction. The choice of educational content was the right one, one could say - a perfect hit.

"Because the quest for Knowledge is the highest form of service to Omnissiah," Jennifer said ceremoniously.

"But Lord Xillag referred to some 'ninth truth' when he approved the edict!" Olga wrinkled her forehead, remembering. "Something along the lines of 'The Xenos Technique is inherently heretical,' right? If it's heretical, then you definitely can't research it, or they'll burn everyone? Isn't that right?"

Jennifer made a strange sound. If Wakrufmann were an ordinary person, Olga would have thought she was just snorting. Although... The girl could not get out of her mind the fact that her companion was in fact under fifteen, which means that technically the Martian was younger than the Earth girl. She wonders if everyone here grows up so quickly, or is it purely a Martian acceleration?

"Xillag misunderstood the wording of the ninth universal law," Jennifer began her elaborate explanation. "And there's a small digression to be made here. As I'm sure you know, all the Imperium and Mechanicus worlds use the same standard language, Gothic, to communicate with each other. Why? Because adverbs are formed based on the specific conditions of a particular world. For example, the language of the world Valhalla has seventy-six words to describe the various variations of white, and red and green are designated as shades of blue, 'siny'. That is, literally, red is 'hel'siny' and green is 'tumf'siny. Bright blue and dull blue. Any translation will carry inaccuracies and errors, and the more translation cycles the message goes through, the more errors will accumulate. Understand?"

"In general... What does this mean for the lord?"

"All of the above also applies to the universal laws of Adeptus Mechanicus. They were formed, stated, and continue to exist in binary form as a mathematical formula. In their original form, they cannot be distorted, just as you cannot tamper with zero or one just a little. A symbol is a symbol; when changed, it either changes its meaning or loses its meaning entirely. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Olga scratched her nose and ear, frowning in intense thought.

"However, what is obvious and understandable to Adeptus Mechanicus in its original form must be translated into Classical Gothic. This is an arduous task, and here a problem arises which has, at least for now, no correct solution. The translation largely becomes a retelling using understandable analogies. One can interpret the content as carefully as one wants, but it will still not be a law, but a story about a law. Understand?"

"Well... it kind of makes sense... It's like a poem, right?"

"Nice analogy," Jennifer approved. "So, in all human-populated worlds, including Questor Mechanicus, our laws are carefully interpreted in Gothic and local languages to avoid misunderstandings. However, locals often forget that their dialects change over time. And instead of revising the interpretation according to the changed conditions, these people prefer to memorize the wording by heart. This is how the trouble happens - the meaning of the action gets lost behind the ritual. Is it clear yet?"

Olga scratched her other ear as if wanting to warm it and increase the efficiency of sound transmission. The girl looked at Jennifer warily, squinting, rubbing her palms, or rather her fingertips, sticking out of the long sleeves of her sweater.

"Clarify the obscure," Jennifer recommended again. "It's not dangerous."

"But..." Olga shook her head. "Everything is ritual... Everything is as the ancestors ordered. Thousands of years and all that. And now you say..."

The girl gulped.

"Go on," Wakrufmann tried to put a maximum of benevolent encouragement into her artificial voice.

"Well, I mean, I don't want to teach you your faith, but, you know..."

"Yes?"

"And you say the ritual may not be useful. Is Lord Xillag a fool, then?"

"Look!" Wakrufmann turned her whole body toward Olga so that her fluttering robe filled almost the entire room for a moment. The metal arm pulled from somewhere in the depths of the red robe a sheet of paper with typewritten lines. The girl would not have been surprised to find that the fifteen-year-old 'cog' was printing them out right now, somewhere in a mechanical body crammed with amazing gadgets.

"Here are the universal laws of Adeptus Mechanicus, canonically translated into Gothic. Read them carefully."

Olga looked at the lines, which, unlike the Priest's folio and the Squad's pamphlets, were in a very simple, chopped font. The style was reminiscent of the Machine cards at the Ballistic Station.

00. Life is Directed Motion.

01. The Spirit is the Spark of Life.

02. Sentience is the ability to learn the Value of Knowledge.

03. Intellect is the Understanding of Knowledge.

04. Sentience is the Basest Form of Intellect.

05. Understanding is the True Path to Comprehension.

06. Comprehension is the Key to all Things.

07. The Omnissiah knows All, comprehends All.

08. The Alien Mechanism is a Perversion of the True Path.

09. The Soul is the Conscience of Sentience.

0A. A Soul can be bestowed only by the Omnissiah.

0B. The Soulless Sentience is the Enemy of All.

0C. The Knowledge of the Ancients stands Beyond Question.

0D. The Machine Spirit guards the Knowledge of the Ancients

0E. Flesh is Fallible, but Ritual Honors the Machine Spirit.

0F. To Break with Ritual is to Break with Faith.

"Why are they divided into two parts? Is it done that way on purpose?"

"Good for you! It took me seven years of education to get to this point. The universal laws are divided into two parts. The first eight are Revelations. The second is Warnings. Once again, Warnings. Not prohibitions."

"But it says here that the mechanisms of other races are a perversion of your True Path, right?" The girl didn't understand. "So the Eldarian mechanisms that Magos Hold studied are a perversion?"

"Exactly."

There was silence, interrupted only by the background sound of all the devices that were stuffed into the tech-priestess's dwelling. Olga felt as if her brain was about to boil. The girl felt like she was taking an exam.

"I don't get it," she finally admitted. "Ok, it's not a ban, but a warning. There's no word 'heresy,' and it's not written explicitly that 'you can't". But it's still canonical to say that xeno machines are 'bad'. So what's the difference?"

"It's very simple. In the same Valhalla there is a proverb 'Shtudirat an meian oshibkritt'."

The words sounded familiar, but it was too hard to try to make them out. She needed to switch her mind from the previous task to the new one. In general, Olga often caught herself that, despite the obvious 'Franco-Germanic' nature of Gothic and its offshoots, something Slavic often slipped into the words and phrases. Perhaps Russian was also one of the progenitors of the modern languages of the Imperium.

"Hold did not study Eldar technology to reproduce it. And not to satisfy her curiosity. But to understand their deviations from the True Path. In order not to create perverted machines while creating mechanisms of similar functionality. One cannot adhere to a benchmark without understanding the concept of error. To resort to a simple analogy, this is how a child learns to write. Literacy and blunders follow hand in hand. And spelling is learned only with the development of skill, with the understanding and comprehension of errors."

"A smart man learns from other people's mistakes, a fool from his own," Olga quoted without hesitation.

"That's right! And Hold, as you note, is shown to be a very clever magos, isn't she?"

"Wait, but then why didn't she explain all this to the Lord Knights of Zuen?"

"Because she was proud, stubborn, and arrogant. This is the tragedy of Magos Hold and the whole Zuen system. And the basis of the cross-cutting plot. 'Knights' is not a story of pathos overpowering, though there is plenty of that there, too. It is a tale of the tragic mistake of mutual misunderstanding when Ritual was uncritically opposed to Knowledge, and Knowledge proved too arrogant to condescend to communication."

"So Zuen's misfortune came about because the two forces simply refused to listen to each other?"

It took Olga some time to realize the fact that in 'Knights of the Zuen World' the characters are not as black and white as in the Beacon Imperial entertainment shows available to her.

It's a fictional story, by the way" Jennifer reminded her, just in case. "However, the tale is enlightening and instructive for the young inhabitants of worlds under the hand of Mars. It teaches us that when our superiority turns into arrogance, the consequences can be varied. They may not even lead to disaster. But they can never be good."

Olga thought deeply again. Jennifer waited patiently. The servo scull hovering over her left shoulder was laboriously weaving the wire 'pigtail' of the future cable, the metal fingers moving with incredible speed and precision. A large machine in the corner, looking like a gutted refrigerator that had a washing-machine drum with vertical slots hammered into it, buzzed

"I have one more question," Olga finally made up her mind. "About Mars..."

"You can ask it, but I don't think I'll have time to answer it before you have to go back," Wakrufmann remarked. And she added encouragingly. "Your questions are interesting, they require extensive, complex answers."

"How are you different from the Empire?"

Jennifer was quiet for a moment, covering her optical lenses. Then she clarified:

"You want to know the difference between Imperium and Mars?"

"Well... Yes," Olga bowed her head and gave out in a hasty, stifled voice. "You look more decent somehow, though you also have snakes in your heads... You seem to be for progress and knowledge, but it is strange, unusual. Knowledge with prayers. Communication with ritual. And Machine complained that he is not communicated with, but prayed to, and he does not like it. Here..."

"It's not a question," Jennifer stated. "Rather, it's a request for a series of educational lectures that should talk about the history, the culture of Mars. About the fundamental differences in the approach to collecting and structuring knowledge. About the concept of divided humanity that holds adaptability and conservatism in different hands. And much more. I'll think about how to enlighten you in the best way possible, but it won't happen today. Ask a different question. A shorter one."

"Well... ok.

Olga cheered up. Jennifer took her completely seriously and seemed to really want to share her knowledge. Like the Priest, but better. By combining the lectures of the monk and the pinions, it would probably be possible to compose in her head as soon as possible a complete image of the dual Empire of humans and mechanicus. And then, perhaps, find a better place for herself in it.

"I wanted to ask you something else," Olga began. "So, about Omnissiah... He, the Machine, the Machine God, are all the same?"

"Yes and no," Wakrufmann's mouth smiled sinuously. "They are hypostases of the Demiurge. But at the same time, they are different cycles that we are aware of. I'll explain with the simplest example. You imagine... for example, a machine to toast slices of bread?"

"Toaster? Of course!" The question couldn't have been that simple, and there must have been a catch somewhere, but...

"The first cycle, the first hypostasis of the Demiurge, is the Driving Force. The aspect of the will of the Universe is embodied in the law of physics. In its most simplified form, it's like this."

Another card flew out from under the red robe right into Olga's lap with a rustling sound.

I=U/R

"The current in a circuit section is directly proportional to the voltage and inversely proportional to the electrical resistance of that circuit section. Is that clear? Not a formula, but the fact that there is a law?"

"Well... The fact that there's even such a law of physics? I see."

"This is the will of the Driving Force. The existence of a phenomenon that can be realized."

The next card showed a dissected toaster - separately the body, heating spirals, all sorts of electrical parts, screws, nuts, washers, and some other insides and wiring, surrounded by incomprehensible abbreviations and symbols.

"General blueprint. How an objective phenomenon can be used to produce another phenomenon. Transformation of electromotive force into directional thermal radiation."

"How do you make a toaster based on the law of amperage?"

Physics has never been Olga's strong point, nor has any of the exact sciences, but in Jennifer's interpretation so far it has been relatively clear.

"Right. And this is the will of the Omnissiah. The next cycle is a phenomenon materialized in Knowledge."

"First the law of physics, and then the knowledge of how to use it? And the third step, which is Machine God?"

The Tech-priestess bent incredibly, seemingly even lengthening in size, and... She pulled out the most ordinary toaster from the shelf and solemnly handed it to the girl with the words: "And here you have Knowledge materialized in a mechanism. The embodied will of the Machine God of the Cult of Mechanicus."

'Cult' didn't sound good. Olga was used to the fact that 'cultists' were very, very bad, but she decided to leave the clarification of the slippery subject for later.

"I'll write that down... Later," she said, twisting the 'bread crisping machine' in her hands and wondering what the toaster was for. After all, a tech-priestess doesn't eat human food.

"I'll write it down and think about it. I have to figure it out... Carefully."

"Reasonable intention," approved Wackrufmann. "Let me take the device."

"And I knew one comp... cogi... coggi..." Olga decided to flaunt her knowledge and involvement in important matters one last time.

"Cogitator?" Jennifer came to the aid.

"Yes! The Cogtitator. He called himself the Machine, too. But it must have been a different Machine, just a consonance..."

Olga became confused and silent, putting her thoughts in order. She felt hot as if a jug of warm lard had frozen in her stomach - heavy, unpleasant, rising with a greasy taste to her tongue. The blood pounded heavily, almost to the point of pain in her temples, and the otherworldly, grave wailing wouldn't stop, drilled into her ears.

Wakrufmann looked intently at her companion. Olga was sitting on the edge of a chair, bent and hunched over, like a little animal, hiding the last crumbs of warmth in the fur on her belly. A quick diagnosis showed a rapid increase in heartbeat and a simultaneous drop in her outer coat temperature. Increased sweating and five other abnormal imbalances of the fragile body.

From the medical point of view, Olga was in a deep fainting state with massive blood loss, while being conscious, at least conditionally. And she went into this state in less than a minute. While Jennifer was calculating her options, from paramedical measures to an emergency evacuation signal, the girl woke up as if at once. She jerked her head so sharply that her marvelous glasses flew off, despite the safety strap, the priestess managed to pick them up with her mechanodendrite.

"Baby," the girl whispered so softly that a human could not hear her; only the priestess' sensitive microphones could do that.

"They did it," Olga blurted out even more quietly. Almost immediately the girl said something to the contrary. "They didn't make it."

And she lost consciousness for real. Jennifer managed to pick up the girl as well, like the glasses before. The urgent request was already gliding through the electronic networks, transforming into radio signals, bypassing the encryption blocks to reach one single recipient.

As Wakrufmann carefully placed the precious burden on the warm floor, the alarm siren howled. Not a train siren, but a stationary one, five times louder than the locomotive siren. A general alarm, at least on a city scale. Or perhaps even continental.

* * *

"Mr. Commandant," said Bertha Konvasquez softly, respectfully, and at the same time harshly.

The train commander leaned back in his austere chair, upholstered in real leather, and looked at the troopers standing in front of him. Though the commandant was seated, he seemed to be looking down from a very high spire. But the Priest and Bertha were not shy, though perhaps they should have been.

"W-w-well...?" The skinny, bald man with a wide scar across his jaw, a reminder of the too-short visor of the helmet that didn't cover his whole face, gritted through his teeth.

Because of the peculiar organization of the Planet Regiment - the part of the Sanitary Epidemiological Squad that was based directly on the planet, unlike the spatial cleansing services - the main tactical leaders combined several hypostases and positions at once. Baldy was both company commander and commandant of the train, and also had a rank in the system of Ecclesiarchy, although he wore a cassock in exceptional cases. That is, whichever way you look at it - the king and god of everything on 'Radial-12'. However, the monk and mentor were determined to ask certain questions and get answers. Though the two men stood erect, as they were supposed to, there was a sullen determination in their postures.

"Are we being disbanded?" Bertha asked straightforwardly. "The locomotive is gone. The train is almost disarmed, the section with the rocket battery is disconnected. The hospitalers left yesterday. My squad is the only one left with a full combat unit. Anything happens, we can't even call fire on ourselves now."

The Priest was silent but gave a comprehensive demonstration that he shared his colleague's thoughts. Instead of answering, the commandant interlocked his fingers in an unconscious gesture of protection. The Mentor and the monk didn't need to look at each other to think the same thing. The commander was not at his ease, though he successfully concealed it. He looked at his subordinates, almost forcefully, with a long stare that suggested an unmistakable desire to dismiss them all with disciplinary consequences.

"Yes," the commandant finally reported forcefully. "The system of radial and concentric armored trains has been rendered ineffective. The railroad materials is likely to be removed to Sabbat worlds. Personnel will be dismounted and withdrawn to resupply the Second Regiment, to orbital facilities and astropathic stations."

"And who will remain to serve and protect here on the surface?" Bertha asked perplexedly.

"Another service would be created, under the aegis of the Arbitrators and without armored trains. Special Response Teams, organized like the airborne units of the Guard. With air transport."

"But that's...!" Bertha was almost indignant, but the Priest quickly and firmly grasped her hand and squeezed her fingers.

"We get it," the priest briefly summarized.

"The planetary part of the Squad has suffered too many losses and is costing too much... from the point of view of the Administratum. Self-propelled sanitation centers are not mobile, and in order for them to intervene promptly, dozens of trains have to be kept on the move at all times. With the appropriate service structure."

"But..."

Bertha faltered. What the Commandant had said was impossible, unrealistic. Armored trains under red and white flags were a given, as much a symbol of the Ice Port as the icons of the Emperor, as the images of Astra Telepathic and the rituals of the Ecclesiarchy. They have always been and should continue to be, as long as the system exists and people live in it. Everything that was going on had the shadow of a joke, too silly and deliberate to be funny. Something akin to farting in the middle of a dinner party. But the commander was not joking.

"The High Command plans to organize no more than ten bases to cover the entire continent," continued the commandant. "Now the tasks of purification will be performed by compact, small forces, which can be quickly transferred by air transport, and in special cases landed directly from orbit."

"Does the High Command have any idea how much it would cost to build and maintain at least two or three operational military airfields?" Monk asked sarcastically, and it was obvious that the question was clearly rhetorical. "Not refueling and hopping sites, but real ones, with all the services and personnel? Not to mention geostationary orbital stations? А!"

The priest grinned bitterly.

"I think I understand. The bureaucrats have made beautiful plans about how to optimize unused space? Old runways mothballed orbital points on asteroids. And equipment reclaimed, from scrap that's been written off after all the storage and repair regulations are worked out. Right?"

"Is this new to you?" The commandant grumbled. "All the Squad's equipment has been in service for centuries."

"Yes, 'armor' that is on the move only by the grace of Omnissia. But not planes, which should be ready at any moment, in any weather, to drop a landing force hundreds of kilometers away. Or thousands."

"Enough arguments, my friend," the commander said in an unusually soft, almost friendly voice. "It's already been decided. The Sanitary Epidemiological Squad... is obsolete. And no longer needed."

"It's a mistake," Bertha squeezed out, aware that she was close to heresy but unable to remain silent. Now her life, her faith, and her principles, long and carefully constructed in the struggle against doubt and hesitation, were crumbling. Gone was the purpose of life that had allowed the mentor to survive several terms of obedience as a volunteer.

"I know all the things you can object to," said the commandant with a weary doom. "About the armored vehicles, the heavy weapons, and so on. I was against disbanding, but it doesn't matter anymore."

"A hundred years of vigil and watchfulness..." said the Priest sadly. "Thousands of victories. We shouldn't..."

A lamp with a glass lampshade in the shape of an exotic flower, the only decoration of the austere office, flickered. Bertha inadvertently thought that from here, from the third floor of the staff wagon, there must be a beautiful view. If, of course, the steel shutters were pulled down. The yellow light flickered like a fly in a spider's web, chirping the incandescent bulb like a dragonfly under a hood, then everything settled down.

"Of course we should," replied the commandant bitterly. "The great accomplishments of the Squad will continue to inspire great feats, to fill hearts with the fire of sacred duty and fury. It's just..."

He sank and lowered his eyes.

"It's just that it will be a different squad," the monk finished.

The commandant was silent, still looking away.

So a quarter of a minute, maybe a little more, passed while three people of very different backgrounds and positions were silent, thinking about their things, united by a common sadness.

"May I ask you two questions?" sullenly, with an unconventional, but restrained, yet unemotional attitude, Bertha asked.

"Permission granted. And then, if you would be so kind as to remember that you are respectful servants of the Ecclesiarchy. Behave yourselves appropriately and do not think of forgetting that again. Consider this hour as a mercy for your long and blameless service. It is unlikely that the new leadership will be as patient and tolerant."

The Priest nodded silently. He thought for a while and then saw fit to add:

"We sincerely apologize. We apologize for... loss of the chain of command. It's just that the news has been... a little out of character."

"It won't happen again," added the mentor grimly.

The commandant shook his head, and moved an eyebrow, suggesting that questions be asked at last.

"First," Bertha began. "Can we find out who this girl is who's been transferred to us for reinforcement? She's not a prisoner or a volunteer. She can't do anything. Why is she here?"

"Just to die," the commandant said indifferently.

"But she's just an uneducated savage from a relatively developed world," the Priest remarked. "She's only to blame for the bad mentors on her planet who didn't bring the Emperor's light to the flock."

"Isn't that enough?" the commandant grimaced. "Since when does sinfulness necessarily require intent and meaningful action?"

The Priest and Bertha looked at each other understandingly and silently.

"The second question," the commandant reminded me with obvious irritation, indicating that the moment of unity between superiors and subordinates was coming to an end.

"I'd like to..." Bertha hesitated, stumbling, seeing the light flicker again. This time the yellow light was deadly pale, almost white, like a lamp in a morgue, where the light reflected off the white tiles.

"Something's wrong," the monk muttered. "There's something strange going on with the light... Since this morning..."

For a moment the light shone so brightly, it was as if a tiny sun was shining in the office. The blinding white light stung the eyes ahead of the reflex, and the mentor felt as if she'd missed a stiletto to the head before she could defend herself. She staggered back and covered her face, hissing through her teeth in surprise. She glanced cautiously through her fingers, noting that the lamp hadn't even burned out, though it should have with all the surge. Surprisingly, her eyes didn't hurt at all. Berta felt no discomfort at all.

Alarm bells rang distinctly in the head. The Ice Port was a strange place, it was whispered that long ago there had been a terrible battle in a nearby star system, where unholy sorcery on a vast scale was used, so that the planets crumbled into dust and the star from which the enemies drew their energy had aged millions of years into a red giant. Reality thinned for many parsecs around, making the Port system so convenient for astropaths. A side effect has been the frequent breakthroughs of the Other, which is what the Squad was created for. The nearby Immaterium often manifested itself quite harmlessly, with these effects. But...

The Priest was right, something wasn't right.

The commandant bowed his head and mumbled something, then slammed his hands sharply on the glass plate on the metal table.

"Yes, I would like to," Bertha began again, and suddenly the Priest sharply grabbed Bertha by the sleeve and yanked her back a step.

The Mentor unwillingly took a step after her massive companion and then wanted to be indignant, but did not. There was something wrong with the commander of the 'Radial', something very strange. The Commandant had his head low so that he couldn't see his eyes, and he was pounding the table with his hands, one hand outstretched, the other clenched into a fist with his forefinger outstretched. And so on and on, changing hands. The muttering intensified, something scarlet dripped on the edge of the glass

"I think we're in trouble," the Priest whispered.

The commandant raised his head sharply and chuckled, pursing his biting lips.

"Six wagons, six trains, six stations, six cities," he hissed. "Six planets and a total of six! Armored train number twelve, that's two whole sixes! We are doubly happy, doubly blessed. And who is against us? Who doesn't understand the meaning of Six? Who can't add up one and five, two and four, three and three?!"

There was a loud sound from below, piercing and inappropriate in this setting. Someone struck the kettledrums, the ringing had not yet subsided when the dying note was supported by the howl of the trumpet. A third invisible man played the bassoon, bringing out a pure saxophone tune, cheerful as a holiday evening diner, nothing like the stern and solemn marches that the company band played.

"Six!" shouted the commandant. "There should be six of us too, Three is not symmetrical, not harmonious, not aesthetic!"

Bertha carefully, trying to be inconspicuous, put her hand behind her back. The commandant fell silent, his head tilted strangely, and continued to move his bloody lips, dropping flakes of pink foam onto his chest.

"Baby," he whispered. "Baby..."

Bertha pulled a small six-shot pistol from a concealed holster behind her waist, almost a toy, indispensable, however, for finishing off the wounded. Also, in such force majeure circumstances. Many people have made the mistake of believing that a possessed man's strength could be determined by his build and muscles, a misconception that usually proved to be the last. So Bertha, despite her strength as a native of a planet with one and a half times the force of gravity, was not about to wrestle with the insane commander on her fists.

But the Priest was ahead of her.

The monk had no pistol. But he did have a long, narrow knife without a guard. Pastor drew it from a pocket disguised by the stitching on his uniform pants and stepped toward the commandant, drawing the blade. The movement came out smooth and cohesive, giving off a good experience, and the knife entered the commander's neck all the way through. The Priest swung back at once, jerking the blade toward him, turning the stab into a terrible wound, part cut, part lacerated. The blood poured out in a steady stream, and Bertha thought for a moment that the mortally wounded commander's eyes made sense, reflecting endless wonder and incomprehension. A second later the commander rolled his eyes and collapsed on the table, snorting blood and collapsing further, knocking over the lamp.

The monk wiped his splattered face, the assassin's hands trembling slightly. Bertha clutched the hilt of her pistol, watching her companion anxiously. The Priest answered her with an equally attentive, wary gaze, and said firmly: "Fuck the six!"

The Mentor took a breath. The monk seemed fine.

"We were attacked," she quickly surmised.

"Not the train," the monk answered just as emphatically, listening. "The range is wider."

Bertha cursed, saving time, making up for the brief words with energy and hatred. Behind the walls of the staff wagon, there was indeed a sound. The sirens of the various services, giving off the onset of all possible disasters at once, the rumble of machinery and engines of heavy vehicles, the firing squad, seemingly several in different directions at once. And the screams. Heart-rending screams, almost indistinguishable because of the thick armor, but seasoning the general noise with a note of insane terror, like a few peppercorns - a ready meal.

"And we don't even have missiles," whispered Bertha, feeling a treacherous shiver in her knees and fingers.

"Pull yourself together!" the Priest barked at her. "The Emperor will protect! The Emperor will direct! Command for His sake! For His glory!"

The monk smacked the mentor across the face with his free palm, knocking out the creeping panic. Bertha shook her head and looked at the shepherd almost sanely.

"Yes, of course," the woman murmured, clinging to the monk's words as if they were the only solid support in a universe gone mad. "For His sake, for the sake of the Emperor... one must be strong. Strong!"

"Special circumstances," the priest thought aloud, nodding approvingly, fumbling in his pockets for a handkerchief. Bertha held out hers, and the monk wiped the knife. A premonitory convulsion twisted the dying commandant's body, his heels clattering on the thin mat covering the metal. But the dying man was no longer of interest to the living; it was only an empty shell, temporarily in the service of evil, now useless and harmless. And the commandant's soul would still have time to mourn. But afterward.

"Yes," Bertha agreed, regaining her determination. "I'll take command, and you'll be the commissioner."

"Don't disappoint me," the Priest grinned. "If anything, my hand won't flinch."

"Already flinching," returned the crooked grin of the mentor, the self-appointed commandant of the 'Radial'. "So... An announcement first, or into our wagon?"

"A wagon, I think," suggested the monk, curtly, "if it's the same there..."

Both thought the same thing at the same time - why had they not been touched by the hostile influence? Bertha decided that she must have been protected by the proximity of the holy father, and the commandant was not so firm in his faith. The Priest was left puzzled, for he did not consider himself so blameless that he would not even get a headache where people went mad and turned to filth in a matter of seconds. But he decided to think about it later - all in the Emperor's hand, and if He had kept his servant sane, there must be a reason for it.

Meanwhile, the cacophony of atonal music on the first floor was gaining power. It was as if each musician was making his or her own torn, meaningless melody that couldn't even be called music. It seemed as if a herd of gretchins had gotten their hands on the instruments. Together, however, these squeaks and howls formed a bizarre rhythm, surprisingly cheerful, penetrating to the deepest and most secret parts of human consciousness, inherited from reptiloid ancestors. The music of exhilaration, triumph, and happiness stirred the thoughts, demanded surrender to the frenzied feelings. The monk furtively poked himself in the thigh with the tip of his knife to clear his mind. The prick of pain really distracted him, allowed his mind to regain control of his desires.

"Let's split up," Bertha decided. "Speed is everything. I'll go to ours, you go to the microphone. And make sure no one breaks into the command center."

The Priest grimaced and made a dissatisfied face. He didn't think it was the best, or even the most damaging, but since Bertha was in command, she had the tactical upper hand.

The monk began to quickly search the study in search of more serious weapons. "First let's deal with the orchestra. This is the music of heresy, and it must stop."

* * *