3: NEW ENEMIES
Cardinal Crimson basked in the adoration of his flock, the warmth of his convictions, and the glow of the molten pits of acid and waste surrounding him.
‘We bring not judgement upon the wicked,’ he called out to the gathered throng of Redemptionists. ‘We bring holy salvation. Let all who have sinned, be they unbelievers or witch-wyrds, blasphemers or debauchers, heretics or mutants, cleanse their souls in the scalding bath of truth.’
He paced back and forth atop a rocky abutment, his dais, and gestured to the hundreds of believers who lined the bubbling, green pools below. As his followers chanted ‘Burn their sins, burn their sins, burn their sins away!’ Crimson raised his arms above him and looked skyward, as if peering through the miles of rock and metal of the hive to the face of the Undying Emperor himself.
The flowing sleeves of his red robes fell back revealing arms that were little more than patches of blackened skin over exposed muscle and pitted bones. Strips of sinew and tattered shreds of leathery, flaking skin barely held together skeletal hands.
‘Let them find salvation everlasting in the flaming fire of our faith,’ he continued. ‘Let them reflect on their evil ways as we burn their sins away. Let righteous redemption come to them at the end of their wicked days. It is the way. It is the will. It is the commandment of our Lord and Saviour, the Undying Emperor.’
The chanting grew louder and faster at the utterance of His name, becoming a single word over and over: ‘Burn. Burn. Burn!’
Crimson tossed back his hood and dropped his robes to the ground, standing half-naked before the fervent mass with his arms raised to the heavens. The burned flesh extended across his entire body. Not a single strand of hair was left on his head or chest. Large chunks of skin seemed to have been eaten away, exposing ribs, muscles, and even organs. What flesh remained was blackened or glowed bright red as if inflamed. His eyes bulged in empty sockets beneath the bare skull of his forehead. His large, hooked nose remained intact, but his lips seemed to have been completely dissolved, leaving the Cardinal with a permanent, grizzly smile.
‘I, who have walked through the fire of faith and bathed in the burning acid of truth will reveal the path to the wicked,’ chanted Crimson. ‘It is the will. It is the way.’
The chanting paused as the crowd intoned the words back. ‘It is the will. It is the way.’
Crimson lowered his bony hands and pointed to the wings of his cavernous cathedral. ‘Bring forth the heretics!’ he called, ‘and let them bathe in the truth this day.’
The crowd intoned again on cue: ‘It is the will. It is the way!’
Two groups of Cawdor gangers, resplendent in clean blue cloaks and gleaming orange armour, climbed onto the abutment, dragging captives up the rocky slope behind them. Where the gangers were freshly bathed and dressed in new or cleaned clothes, the captives were dirty, and what was left of their clothing was torn and bloody. Multiple bruises and cuts showed through the gaps in their clothes, and most were barely conscious.
One group struggled with an Escher woman who pulled at her chains and spat at her captors. ‘You brainwashed sons of ratskins can all go straight to bottom of the sump and rot!’ she screamed.
The bronze mohawk that swept over her head into a ponytail was matted with blood and large patches of hair had obviously been ripped out. The gang tattoos she wore across her forehead and above her ears were marred in several places by long gashes. Blood had pooled and dried around her ears and nose, while sweat and dirt streaked her bruised and battered arms, legs and torso.
Still, the thick-muscled woman towered over her captors. She glared at them as they pulled her across the raised outcrop and yanked on the chains shackled to her wrists, pulling over two of her captors. ‘I will not burn for your enjoyment!’ she yelled as she ran, half-stumbling, toward the edge of the flat, rocky dais.
The other gang members, holding their own captives, could only watch as she made a break for the wings of the cave. Before she could reach the edge, Cardinal Crimson leapt from his spot in the centre of the dais, landing between her and freedom.
‘No,’ he said, loud enough for the congregation to hear. ‘You will burn for your own salvation.’ With that, Crimson grabbed the tall, powerfully-built Escher by the neck and leg and lifted her over his head. He took two steps forward and tossed her off the edge of the rock like a sack of garbage. She soared, screaming and cursing, through the air, landing in the bubbling pool of acid. Her screams intensified into an incoherent wail as she sunk into the roiling mass. The acrid smell of charred flesh wafted over the crowd, who had resumed their chant of ‘Burn, burn, burn!’
One by one, the other captives were given unto the cleansing pool, and with each redeemed soul the chanting grew more fervent until the words echoed throughout the cavern. After the last body had been consumed by the pools, Cardinal Crimson, now fully robed once again, stood alone on the rocky platform and raised his hands toward the heavens. The chanting ceased immediately.
‘The souls of the wicked have been cleansed today and we have sent them to their final reward at the left hand of the Undying Emperor,’ he intoned. ‘Go forth and spread the word. Go forth and bring the heretics unto me and I will bathe them in the holy fire of Redemption.’
The enthralled masses replied as one: ‘It is the will. It is the way.’
The service concluded, Cardinal Crimson bowed his head and left the dais. He was immediately surrounded by a retinue of gangers and robed deacons who escorted him through the teeming crowd. Parishioners surged forward, hoping to get near or even touch their leader, but the circle of bodyguards shoved back, forcing open a path through the masses, and sending more than one congregant into the acid pools as they guided the Cardinal to safety.
One of the deacons, a middle-aged man named Ralan with thin black hair slicked off to one side, a piercing look to his eyes, and an acid burn that wrapped around his neck in the rough shape of a hand, walked to the side but always just behind Crimson. He cleared his throat, as if trying to get the Cardinal’s attention, but afraid to speak out of turn.
After a few minutes of coughing and clearing his throat, the deacon opened his mouth. ‘Cardinal?’ he asked. ‘A message arrived for you during the service, and I knew you would want to read it as soon as possible.’
Crimson glanced at the deacon. ‘You read the message?’
‘Of course not, sir.’ Ralan bowed his head in contrition. ‘But it came from that special messenger. The one you hired recently, sir. I knew the matter to be urgent.’
Ralan held up an envelope. Crimson, galled at the impertinence and stupidity of the man to bring this matter to him in such a public place, snatched the envelope out of his hand. He glared at Ralan until he fell out of his customary position back into the crowd of deacons and bodyguards at the rear of the procession.
Crimson opened the message and read it quickly. It was only four lines, but he read it twice to make sure that it wasn’t a mistake.
‘May the Undying Emperor damn him to the depths of the Underhive,’ he muttered under his breath. He looked back at Ralan. ‘Did the messenger wait for a reply?’ he asked.
The deacon nodded his head, his lips pursed tight together.
‘Good. We shall have further need of him,’ said Crimson. He continued on in silence for a few minutes, then asked, ‘And what of that other matter?’
Ralan looked pained to have to answer verbally, but finally unpursed his lips and said ‘It is being taken care of, sir.’
‘Be sure that it is, Ralan. Be sure that it is.’
Kal sat at his regular table in the Sump Hole nursing a Wild Snake. Normally, he would have gulped down the entire bottle in a single shot, snake and all, mostly to avoid actually tasting the vile stuff. But it was morning, plus he had a lot on his mind. His pockets were empty, his worst enemy was holding his best friend hostage and even if he did find this Jobe Francks, that still wouldn’t get back the money he had lost at the tables.
All in all, it should have been a fairly normal morning for Kal Jerico, but he knew it was about to get worse.
‘Fry up some millisaur eggs, bud,’ called a familiar voice. ‘And don’t try to pass off giant spider eggs like last time. And bring me a Snake to wash it down with.’
Yolanda dropped into the chair opposite Kal without even looking at the bounty hunter. ‘Nothing worse than the taste of that man’s eggs,’ she said. ‘Except the aftertaste they leave behind.’
Kal took a long draught from his bottle and tried not to make eye contact with his partner. But he could see her looking at him now through the murk of the half-filled bottle. She cocked her head to one side, regarding him with a raised eyebrow.
‘What in the hive is the matter with you, Jerico?’ she asked. ‘It looks like you lost your best friend…’
Kal stared at his bottle.
‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘It’s Scabbs isn’t it? What happened?’
Kal broke his silence. ‘It’s not Scabbs, though I haven’t seen him yet this morning. It’s worse.’
‘Oh no!’ said Yolanda. ‘You lost our money, didn’t you?’
She slammed her fist down on the table so hard, it knocked Kal’s bottle over. Kal’s hand whipped out and caught the bottle by the neck and righted it without spilling a drop. ‘It’s even worse than that,’ said Kal. ‘I lost Wotan.’
Yolanda had raised her hand up and pointed a finger at Kal, but stopped in mid-gesture. ‘The dog?’ she asked. ‘That’s why you’re so bummed? You lost your stupid dog?’
Kal nodded, not even bothering to correct her. Wotan was a cyber-mastiff, no mere dog.
‘But the money’s okay, right?’ she asked.
Kal shook his head.
‘Kal Jerico! You scavving idiot!’
Yolanda jumped to her feet and slammed both fists onto the table. This time there was no saving the bottle. It bounced right off the edge and shattered on the floor.
‘It still gets worse,’ said Kal, figuring at this point, she couldn’t get any madder.
‘How?’
Kal snapped his fingers toward the bartender to get another bottle. ‘Well, it’s a long story that involves Nemo and Cardinal Crimson.’
‘Holy, scavving Helmawr’s rump!’ she cried. Her face was now so red that the tattoos running across her forehead and temples practically pulsed and glowed.
‘Yolanda, you’d better sit down and take a breath before your head explodes,’ said Kal. ‘And let me explain how this wasn’t my fault.’
‘That’s not terribly likely,’ she said. Just then her eggs and Snake showed up, so Yolanda sat.
With Yolanda glaring at him over a plate of runny, grey millisaur eggs and a bottle of foul-smelling homebrew, Kal described how he’d been tricked into losing the money and then forced by Nemo to take on a bounty to get his cyber-mastiff out of hock.
Yolanda pushed the empty plate away and downed the rest of her Snake. ‘So, how does Crimson enter into all of this?’ she asked.
‘Well, this Francks character is some sort of Cawdor prophet who wandered into the hive from out of the Wastes,’ said Kal. ‘Crimson supposedly knows something about his history that might help us find him.’
‘So what are we supposed to do?’ asked Yolanda. ‘Just walk up to Crimson and ask him to turn over his precious prophet?’
‘That was pretty much my plan,’ replied Kal.
‘Are you scavving crazy?’ she yelled. She slammed her bottle down on the table, rattling the dish dangerously close to the edge. Kal could see her tattoos begin to throb again. ‘Every time we get mixed up with those two lunatics, we end up smelling worse than…’
Scabbs walked up, preceded by his odour. Yolanda gagged and it looked like she might toss her breakfast back onto the table. ‘Well, worse than him after taking a bath in raw sewage.’
‘Hey, I took a bath after that, I’ll have you know,’ snorted Scabbs. He plopped down into the last chair with an audible squish.
‘Maybe next time you should use soap,’ snapped Yolanda.
‘And water,’ added Kal.
‘You just keep your trap shut, Jerico,’ she snarled. ‘You have no right to talk to him that way this morning.’
Scabbs scratched at a patch of skin hanging from his chin. ‘Did I miss something?’ he asked.
Yolanda jabbed her finger at Kal. ‘Mr Lucky lost all our money and his dog last night and ran us afoul of both Nemo and Crimson.’
Scabbs glanced back and forth from Yolanda to Kal, with an odd expression on his scabby face that Kal couldn’t quite read. ‘Is that all?’ he finally asked. ‘That’s a pretty normal day’s work for Kal Jerico. Besides, I’m sure he’s got a brilliant plan to get back Wotan and our money, don’t you Kal?’ He looked at Kal with a big smile on his face.
‘Yes, Jerico,’ purred Yolanda. ‘Tell Scabbs your brilliant plan.’
Kal looked at the doting smile on Scabbs face and the sarcastic smirk on Yolanda’s – and found inspiration. ‘I did have a good plan,’ he said, ‘But in times of need, I think it’s always best to turn to our friends and family, don’t you?’
The smile and smirk disappeared from both of their faces, replaced by the furrowed brows of befuddlement. ‘Yolanda, I want you to contact the Wildcats and find out anything you can about Cawdor gang activity that might point the way toward Francks.’
‘That’s actually a pretty good idea, Jerico,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Scabbs and I are going to pay a visit to an old friend who can keep an eye on Crimson for us and let us know when Francks contacts our acidic Cardinal friend.’
Scabbs smiled again and clapped Yolanda on the shoulder. ‘See Yolanda? What’d I tell you? Kal’s on the job.’
Jobe Francks checked the information Bitten had given him and then looked at the building in front of him. It was always tough to locate anything in the Underhive. It wasn’t like the buildings had addresses painted on the walls. Most didn’t even have walls. But this had to be the place. The note said ‘North corner of Glory Hole settlement, orange two storey building’.
Perhaps he was just tired. He had been up for twenty-four hours now, and he’d been travelling all night through the Underhive, which is tough for a juve let alone someone his age, but this two storey building didn’t look like a Cawdor gang hideout.
For one thing, all of the walls, doors and windows were intact. For another thing, he’d seen no patrols or guards, and here he was supposedly standing outside the front door to – he checked the parchment Bitten had given him again – the Universal Saviours.
Lastly, there were no slogans painted on the side of the building, or anywhere along the street for that matter. No ‘Death to the heretics’ or ‘Praise be to the Undying Emperor’ anywhere to be seen. Not even a single ‘Be Saved or Die’ banner. It was refreshing to say the least. Even in his day, the hardliners were already in the majority. It seemed it was much easier to convert people to an absolute faith than one that depended too much on personal beliefs.
Still, Francks was sure even a moderate gang would have an extreme reaction to a stranger wandering into their hideout, so he knocked on the door first. A few moments later, a much too young voice behind the door asked, ‘What’s the password?’
Jerod had said nothing about a password. Jobe tried the simple approach. ‘Bitten sent me!’ he called through the door.
He could hear sounds of footsteps and hushed voices through the door. A moment later, the door opened a crack. A young pair of eyes just visible beneath long, straight hair peered out at him through the gap. ‘Are you Mr Francks?’
Jobe almost laughed. He didn’t think he’d ever been called mister before. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Jobe Francks. Can I come in?’
The door closed again and he could hear more hushed voices. Then the door opened all the way and he walked in. As soon as the door closed, Francks slapped the young juve across the temple with the back of his hand.
‘Do
n’t you ever open the door again unless you hear the password,’ he growled. ‘Do you understand?’
‘But Mr Bitten told us to expect you, Mr Francks,’ he protested, his voice rising into a whine.
‘And you have only my word that I am Jobe Francks, he snapped back. ‘What if I’d been some rival gang member, huh? You’d all be dead right now because you opened the door without authorization.’ Francks looked around the room. There were maybe half-a-dozen juves sitting around tables. He couldn’t tell what they had been doing; perhaps playing cards. There were no weapons and no upper echelon gang members in sight.
‘Where is your leader?’ he asked the long-haired juve. ‘Where’s the rest of the gang? And why aren’t you juves cleaning weapons or at least guarding the hideout?’
The kid ran long fingers through his stringy hair, pushing the strands off his face for the moment. Francks could see the fear in his eyes – more fear than there should have been even given the browbeating he was currently undergoing.
‘Every… everyone’s out,’ he stammered. ‘They were… we’ve been called out by the Righteous Saviours. They all left hours ago.’
Tears welled up in the juve’s eyes and Francks softened a bit, putting an arm around the kid’s neck and leading him to one of the tables. ‘It’s been bad, hasn’t it?’
The young juve plopped into the chair. Even without his cloudy-eyed sight, Francks could see the weight this kid was carrying. There was every chance he’d be the leader of the Universal Saviours by nightfall.
‘They say we harbour heretics,’ he began, ‘but we don’t. It’s just that our leader, Breland, won’t condemn every wyrd and unbeliever on sight. He says, “We are all on separate paths to salvation, but the paths converge to a single point, like spokes on a wheel.”’
‘Breland sounds like a smart leader,’ said Francks, adding to himself, ‘perhaps a little too smart for his own good.’ He looked around the room again. Like outside, there were no slogans painted on the walls, no altars of fire or sacred pools of acid. What he did see were books. Lots and lots of books. An expensive habit, thought Francks. Bound tomes were virtual relics, worth at least triple their number in weapons.
Cardinal Crimson Page 6
