Blood Cries for Blood - James Peaty

by Warhammer 40K

  BLOOD CRIES FOR BLOOD

  James Peaty

  AS THE CHILL air whipped around the cabin of squad flyer nine-two-four, the pilot couldn’t help but smile at how typical it was of life on Persana that something like this could happen on the coldest night of the year.

  They’d been leaving the fortress, flying over a crowd that had assembled outside when, from below, someone had fired upon the flyer and shattered the rear shield.

  The crowd had been massing nightly outside the imposing building over the last week, protesting at alleged Enforcer brutality in the city’s Downside. That in itself made the pilot smile. How could you be anything other than brutal on the streets of the most degenerate slum this side of the Rhuric Nebula, especially with the threat of civil war looming?

  But then that was Persana for you.

  Not much made sense.

  Clearing the Downside, flyer nine-two-four moved towards the power station at the city’s southernmost point. Two officers were staking out the station and they needed a full sweep of the surrounding area before they could move in.

  It was boring work, made worse by the added ventilation that chilled the pilot and his partner to their bones.

  To pass the time they listened to the commercial band transmissions while their spot-lamps swiped around the base of the fossilised diamond that powered the city, fuelled the planet’s economy and dominated the southern skyline.

  ‘…spokesman said that no charges would be brought against Merden Jorsted. The Governor’s aide is being held after allegations were made linking him to an off-world organised crime ring. The news adds further strain to the already tense relations between the Governor’s office and the Enforcers, who are in dispute because of the Governor’s reluctance to call in Imperial Guard reinforcements to help deal with the southern secessionist threat…’

  ‘Boring.’

  The pilot spat a lump of phlegm out of the side window as he switched off the transmission. Usually his partner could deal with his dismissive attitude, but today it irritated him.

  ‘Don’t you ever take an interest in current affairs?’

  The pilot snorted.

  ‘As if I give a shi-‘

  The radio crackled back into life.

  ‘Flyer nine-two-four, do you copy?’

  The pilot flicked a switch above his head.

  ‘This is flyer nine-two-four. We’re in position over the power station.’

  ‘Nine-two-four, get back to the fortress. We’ve got a full scale riot breaking out here and we need aerial support.’

  The pilot turned and shared a look of exasperation with his partner.

  ‘Confirmed, control, we’re en route.’

  As the flyer peeled round, the pilot looked into his aft monitor at the image of two small figures waiting near the south entrance.

  ‘You’re on your own now, boys.’

  * * *

  AS THE TAIL lights of the flyer receded into the distance, Enforcer Klimt shivered. The night air was bitter. The cold seemed to be burning him from within. To stave off the growing discomfort he amped up the internal heat on his body glove. It didn’t seem to make much difference.

  He rubbed his arms and prayed they’d hurry up and get inside the power plant soon. Unfortunately, he knew they had to wait a while before making their entry.

  Damn regulations.

  Shifting in the saddle of his bike, he looked over at Yedas.

  The older man seemed anxious. It was unlike him but, considering recent events, his distraction was understandable.

  As usual, Yedas was railing against the regime of Governor Schaar.

  ‘He knows I know he’s dirty. That’s why he wants me off of the street.’

  Klimt was used to Yedas’s’ rants, but in the last few weeks they had escalated to a whole new level.

  ‘Personal prejudices aside, I think Schaar’s done a good job,’ Klimt said.

  ‘You’re young,’ Yedas snorted. ‘I’ve been on this planet for twenty years. I know what it was like before he came along.’

  ‘And that was?’

  Yedas pulled out the necklace he wore under his uniform. It was the only memento he kept from his homeworld and he had a habit of playing with it when he was nervous.

  ‘More disciplined. The scum from the Downside knew their place.’ He let the necklace hang outside his uniform.

  ‘The poor like Schaar because he blames us for their problems. The rich tolerate him because they make money and now this “war” will mean that he can tighten his grip on power and line his pockets even more.’

  Klimt shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Things seem to be improving though.’

  Yedas bridled. Klimt took this as a bad sign. Even though he was only eighteen months into his posting on Persana he knew his partner’s body language intimately.

  ‘Schaar is a passing trend.’

  Klimt laughed and tried to make a joke of Yedas’s escalating anger.

  ‘Maybe to you, but the rest of us have to get on with the world as it is and the one constant is that everything changes in time.’

  Yedas stared at him without blinking.

  ‘That sounds like heresy to me.’

  * * *

  ONCE INSIDE THE power station the two Enforcers moved stealthily through the cavernous lower hall. As they approached the gang of six who stood near the stairs to the upper gantry Yedas shattered the silence.

  ‘Enforcer! Put down your weapons!’

  Klimt’s surprise was buried under a hail of fire. The two officers quickly dived behind a pair of adjacent coolant towers as bullets ripped through the metal and gouged up rockrete.

  As Yedas returned fire and one of the criminals fell, two of the gang ran for the upper levels. Seeing this, the older Enforcer turned to his younger partner.

  ‘I need you to cover me.’

  Klimt nodded and began offering covering fire as Yedas weaved his way from behind the coolant tower to the ladder that led to the upper gantry and the central core.

  Continuing to duck, he quickly fired off six shots. The tower took more rounds into its metallic shell. Hearing the tearing and denting of the metal that protected him, Klimt knew that his haven wouldn’t be that for much longer.

  Diving into the crossfire, Klimt began to roll along the cold, hard floor. Rockrete chips rose up as he evaded the bullets that buzzed around him.

  His body glove softened most of the impact, but it still jarred him from his jaw down to the base of his spine.

  There were three gunmen firing at Klimt. They were positioned behind a stack of empty barrels covered with a dirty tarpaulin.

  Klimt continued to fire. As he reached a similar vantage point behind a smaller stack of barrels, one of his shots caught the central gunmen right between the eyes. A halo of crimson jetted upwards.

  Above the gunmen’s heads hung a platform suspended by two chains on a pulley. It was used to winch waste to the upper levels to help power the secondary core and was made of wrought iron, about four inches thick and roughly twenty feet wide.

  Rising from his crouched position, catching a bullet in his left arm as he moved, Klimt fired off two rounds at the chains securing the platform to the pulley. The chains broke and it fell, crushing the gunmen beneath the huge panel of metal. The noise was deafening.

  As Klimt emerged from his position. His arm burning from the wound, he assessed the scene. Four lay dead. That left two more on the upper levels being pursued by Yedas.

  Klimt heard the gunshot from above.

  As he rushed along the upper gantry, Klimt blocked out the sound and fury of the liquid metal core of the central generator.

  Ste
pping out onto the circular platform that surrounded the top of the core, Klimt could see no one. Turning and surveying the scene, he paused when he heard a noise behind him.

  Leading with his pistol, he knelt and moved towards a tiny alcove. The source of the noise was the low moaning of a man. Klimt moved in closer. He was small, feral and dressed shabbily. Blood poured down his face from a head wound that appeared to have been inflicted by a blow from the handle of a pistol or a similar blunt object.

  The man recoiled as Klimt pushed his gun into his face.

  ‘Where’s your partner?’ Klimt shouted.

  The man snivelled and pointed at the bubbling core.

  ‘And the other Enforcer officer?’ Klimt asked desperately.

  The man hesitated. His eyes danced and refused to make contact with Klimt’s. The young Enforcer lost his composure. He grabbed the cowering criminal by the throat and pushed his sidearm forcefully at the man’s head.

  ‘Answer me, or I swear I will shoot you where you sit!’

  The shaking criminal finally spoke.

  ‘He… he struggled with Jonek… They both fell into the core.’

  On hearing this Klimt released the man’s arm, which he was gripping like a vice. Klimt fell back on the platform onto his backside.

  He let his pistol drop and suddenly felt cold again.

  * * *

  AS THE GUN barrel pushed tighter against his head, one thought swirled around in Sacris’s mind.

  ‘I’m an idiot!’

  How it had happened, he wasn’t sure. Fatigue after a twenty-four hour crowd control shift? Maybe, but every other member of the Enforcers stationed on Persana was out doing the same and they weren’t being held at gunpoint in the lobby of the fortress.

  But then it wasn’t everyday that the Planetary Governor was assassinated.

  As the only other two officers in the foyer at the time tried to placate the screaming perp, Sacris found it ironic that he should get caught out like a first year cadet on a day when virtually every other Enforcer was out trying to prevent Persana from slipping further into anarchy.

  If he hadn’t begun to black out from the pressure on his throat, he may even have allowed himself a sardonic smile.

  The assailant was young, barely out of adolescence. He was nervous as hell and coming down off of Idea or one of the other low grade chems that the denizens of the Downside frequently used.

  ‘Stay back or I’ll shoot!’

  As the elevator doors opened and deposited an unusually pre-occupied Enforcer Klimt into the fortress foyer, the last thing he was anticipating was becoming embroiled in a hostage situation.

  That his imminent departure to a new posting on Caldana was now on hold, thanks to the fall out from Governor Schaar’s assassination, merely compounded the confusion he already felt due to the package that lay open on his bunk upstairs.

  All available Enforcers had been placed on active duty until further notice, but Klimt was having a hard time focusing on anything at the present time.

  That changed the moment Klimt saw the young officer with the gun pointed at his head. All thoughts of personal distraction became secondary.

  All that mattered was the job before him.

  The medic and the duty officer turned sharply as they saw Klimt striding towards them. He was dressed in his blue Enforcer uniform and his sidearm was clearly on view.

  ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ the duty officer squealed. Klimt shot him a look that let him know exactly what he thought of his advice.

  The shooter was becoming visibly more agitated. The narcotic euphoria of Idea had made it seem perfectly rational to overpower the tired officer who’d wearily taken off his helmet and left his gun holster unbuckled. But now, without Idea whispering in his ear, the implications of this action were quickly catching up with him.

  ‘Stay back!’

  Klimt said nothing, but continued to move forward until he faced the gunman and Sacris barely ten feet away.

  The gunman was perspiring profusely, his hands shaking rhythmically. The gun, growing ever slicker in his palm, was erratically working the circumference of Sacris’s temple.

  Sacris remained rigid. His body locked in position so as to not give his captor any sudden cause to fire. Even though his shoulders burned and his concentration was waning, when Klimt nodded, Sacris knew he would be okay.

  ‘I told you the first time, stay ba-‘

  He didn’t know what the object was - an explosive? a knife? - but as it left Klimt’s hand on a trajectory towards his face, he reasoned that he had to shoot it.

  Raising the gun from his hostage’s temple to shoot the object in mid-flight gave Sacris the opening he needed. In a second he had shifted his body enough to throw the shooter off balance.

  Three shots rang out.

  As the medic quickly moved in to examine his neck, Sacris looked up and saw Klimt approaching. He began to formulate an appropriate ‘thank you’, but before he could open his mouth, Klimt walked straight past him.

  Kneeling down alongside the gunman’s body, Klimt picked up the bullet-shattered dataplate. Without breaking his stride, Klimt tossed the broken dataplate at the surprised duty officer and continued walking back towards the elevator.

  ‘I was going to get you to send that to Caldana for me. Broadcast a personal transmission instead; tell them I won’t be leaving here until the trouble in the city is over.’

  As he entered the elevator and turned to face the eerie silence of the foyer, Sacris and Klimt shared a glance.

  In the two years he had been stationed on Persana, Sacris had never spoken to Klimt, but his reputation preceded him.

  He was a legend among the other officers, forging his formidable reputation on countless cases during the decade of bloody civil strife. Many recent graduates took it on themselves to observe Klimt in action. It was a way of learning how to deal with life on the tinderbox that was Persana, something even other senior officers encouraged.

  Sacris had studied Klimt from afar and knew his expression, style and body language as well as he knew his own. It was therefore all the more surprising for Sacris to see Klimt nervously fiddling with his pistol as he waited for the elevator doors to close.

  * * *

  IT WASN’T UNTIL the medic had checked and discharged him from duty that Sacris realised just how quiet the fortress actually was.

  As he stood by the near-indestructible plastiglass window of his quarters and looked down, Sacris thought that - without sound - the violence and movement of the riot in the city below was almost poetic.

  Angry oranges and yellows were crowned by thick black smoke. It looked a lot like the ceremonial war paintings that Sacris’s grandfather used to paint back on their homeworld.

  Sacris slid his hand across the control panel that was mounted to the left of the window. The plastiglass silently disappeared into its distributor frame. The noise from below was deafening.

  The din of breaking glass, gunshots and human screams collided, each of them vying for primacy but merely flattening together into the collective sound of the city tearing itself apart.

  Sacris flicked the switch on the control panel and the plastiglass reformed in an instant. Silence returned and the only reminder of the terror below was the acrid smell of smoke and fire that filled the room.

  * * *

  THE CONTENTS OF the package had deeply unsettled Klimt. Apart from the interlude in the foyer he’d been wrestling with its implications all day. Like some weird code it brought together the ghosts of the past with the twilight of his present, but without any pattern as to its deeper meaning.

  As he sat alone, staring at the twisting object hanging from the handlebars, Klimt finally knew what he had to do.

  * * *

  THE AIR WAS always cooler in the vehicle pool and many Enforcers used to escape down there when the pressure of law enforcement on Persana got too much. Sacris was usually one of them, but tonight, as he entered the open basement, he was going
there to apologise.

  He’d approached Klimt’s quarters with a certain amount of trepidation and was disappointed when he discovered - after finally mustering the courage to knock on the senior officer’s door - that he wasn’t there.

  As he’d turned to leave, he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘He’s in the vehicle pool.’

  It was Enforcer Magellan. He was standing in the doorway of his quarters situated across the corridor from Klimt’s.

  Magellan was recouperating from an incident in the Downside two months previously and leant on crutches as he smiled at Sacris. A street gang peddling liquid Idea had gotten the upper hand on Magellan and his partner. The incident had cost Magellan’s partner his life and it had been touch and go as to whether Magellan would follow. Luckily, the medics had managed to save him, albeit at the expense of one of his kidneys.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Five minutes ago.’

  He thanked Magellan and made his way down the corridor to the turbo shaft at the end of the hall.

  Entering the relatively empty vehicle pool, Sacris saw Klimt was sitting on the saddle of his bike. He looked as if he were looking at something suspended on his handlebars.

  As he approached, Sacris wasn’t sure what he should say. ‘Thank you,’ was the intention, but he was concerned that he would appear even less substantial than he had when Klimt saved his life.

  On reflection, Sacris realised that pride was getting in the way of sense. This was a mistake that Enforcers were encouraged to avoid.

  He began to walk over.

  * * *

  SETTING TO WITHIN a few feet of the senior Enforcer, Sacris noticed that Klimt appeared to take an object that was hanging from the handlebars and put it in his pocket.

  Klimt looked up and stared at the young officer.

  ‘It’s Sacris, isn’t it?’

  Klimt could tell that the younger man was a little awe struck, but he continued to look into Sacris’s eyes without blinking. It was a trick he’d developed over the years that managed to unnerve even the most hardened perp.