He swiped long fingers across his forehead to wipe away the beading sweat, and began to grumble again. A litany of complaints and epithets about Kal Jerico, Wotan and Yolanda escaped his lips in a matter of seconds.
And then Roddy, overcome by emotion for only the second time in his life, yelled, ‘Dammit, Wotan. Why don’t you just go and find that scavving Kal Jerico and leave me alone.’
‘Wotan… Go… Find… Jerico.’
The metal mastiff’s ear perked up, which somewhere down in the base of its mechanical brain it knew were nothing more than a bunch of gears responding to a subroutine in its programming that pulled on wires to rotate extraneous flaps on either side of its head back and forth.
But still there was an odd sensation of something akin to relief – almost joy – in hearing that command. Wotan now had a task, a direction to follow – a purpose.
‘Find Jerico.’
The command processed across sensors and odd bits of wiring, through solid state transistors, deep down into the salvaged memory core of an ancient construct built in another age for another purpose. Out of that core came more commands. Simple commands like the ear perk and the ensuing tail wag and tongue lick, but also more complex commands that propelled the metal mastiff into action.
Wotan bounded out from beneath the table past the stick-like human cowering by the bar. For some reason that went beyond simple wiring and programming, he stopped and growled at the stick, taking one last snap that caught a square of the man’s trousers and just a small patch of skin.
His mouth opened into a big grin and his tongue, a moistened scrap of rubber that ran on small hydraulic compressors, lolled out to the side as he ran through the swinging door out into the street. Behind him, the door clattered to the ground, ripped off its hinges by the force of the impact, but that didn’t concern Wotan.
Another program began running in the background of his metal brain, and he put his nose to the ground to sniff the dirt. The same compressors that moved his tongue now drew air into his body, where it was analyzed in a small compartment in his chest. Mixed in with the remnants of various waste products and the ozone-rich scent of laser fire were wisps of leather and hair gel.
Jerico. Kal Jerico.
Wotan ran off to the left, following the trail. He would find Kal Jerico, and nothing would get in his way. Nothing.
Kal needed to find his trousers. While he’d enjoyed the last couple of hours immensely, Sandi still hadn’t gotten the chance to show him her much talked about grape trick, and a small niggling doubt had remained at the back of Kal’s mind throughout all the shenanigans.
He’d found himself almost disinterested when Brandi and Candi had invited him into a bubble bath. Almost. And really, an entire bath filled with hot, clean water was nearly more exciting than the two voluptuous women lounging amidst the bubbles. That was a luxury you never saw below the Spire, not even in Hive City.
The enticement of getting squeaky clean in a hot bath, while at the same time playing dirty with a blonde and a brunette, proved too much for Kal. But the entire time he spent soaping Brandi’s back while Candi ran her wet fingers through his braids and down his chest, he couldn’t help thinking back on the last time he and the girls had enjoyed each other’s company in this plush and quite comfortable prison.
It was a prison. A prison made to hold Kal Jerico inside, content to never try to leave. He probably could be happy here for a time. Fine, fresh food, clear water with no aftertaste burning the back of your throat, a soft bed, and even softer company; but it was a prison, and eventually the warden would come calling with a job he needed performed.
So, as the girls slept in the bed, their silk covered breasts rising and falling in a rhythmic and intoxicating dance, Kal pushed his impulses deep down inside and turned away from the bed to look for his trousers. He knew that at any moment Lord Helmawr or, more likely, one of his many lackeys would burst through the locked front door and escort Kal away from his heavenly prison. This time he intended to be dressed.
He eventually found a set of drawers hidden beneath the bed skirt. He eased the first drawer out as Sandi turned over in the bed above him. Her leg slipped off the edge of the bed, bringing her pearl-white thigh dangerously close to Kal’s lips. The lilac perfume she wore wafted across his face, practically pulling him into the warmth of her exposed skin.
He shook off the intoxicating effects and closed the drawer. It had been empty. He moved to the next one and tugged on the handle. It didn’t budge. He pulled a little harder. Still nothing. Kal braced his foot against the bed and yanked with all his strength. The drawer flew out, almost smacking him in the face. It soared over his head and clattered to the floor behind him, spilling his leather coat and trousers, which had been jammed inside, across the couches far beyond.
Kal glanced up as three heads full of thick, lustrous hair peered over the bed at him. He smiled. ‘Good morning again, girls,’ he said.
‘What are you doing, Kal?’ purred Sandi. ‘You know you can’t leave us, even if you wanted to.’ She cocked her head and let a sly smile play across her lips. ‘And we know you don’t want to.’
Kal scooted away from the bed towards his clothes. It was just a little too tough to bluff the girls without his trousers on. ‘It’s not that I want to leave,’ he said as he reached for the couch. ‘I just know that at any moment, I will be pulled away from you.’
Brandi, the blonde, slid out from under the silk sheets and sauntered towards Kal. ‘You can stay as long as you like, Kal,’ she said. She bounced ever so nicely as she moved. ‘You’re the master and we’re your willing slaves.’
Kal shook his head again and backed away like a wounded crab. ‘That’s not exactly true,’ he said. His flailing hand finally found the leather trousers draped on the couch behind him. ‘The real master here is Lord Helmawr, and we all jump when he says “how high”.’
Kal thought about what he just said, and was about to reverse it, when he noticed the girls were no longer advancing upon him. He pulled himself onto the couch and draped the trousers over his lap before glancing over at them.
All three girls sat on the edge of the bed, faces cradled in their hands, crying soft tears and moaning, almost in unison. Kal slipped his legs into the trousers and pulled them up in one swift move as he stood. Snapping the tight, leather leggings around his waist as he crossed the room, Kal stood above the girls.
‘What?’ he asked, looking from one to the other down the line. ‘What’s wrong? What did I say?’
For a minute, the girls did nothing but sob quietly into their hands. Kal wanted to reach out and hold them, but worried this might be just another ploy to keep him from getting dressed.
Finally, Candi, the brunette, grabbed an edge of the silk sheets and dried the tears streaming down her face. She looked as if she were about to burst back into tears, when Kal put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up into his face and he could tell that this was no act. The girls were truly distraught, and it had something to do with Lord Helmawr.
Kal looked deep into Candi’s big, brown eyes. ‘Tell me, Candi,’ he said. ‘Why are you so sad? What’s happened to my father?’
‘He’s… he’s…’ she started, but couldn’t seem to finish.
Kal sat down beside Candi and swept her into his arms. He held her tight and stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m here to help.’
‘Lord Helmawr is… dead,’ she said at last and began sobbing again.
The other two girls, whose wailing had dwindled to mere weeping, turned on the waterworks again. Kal looked at the three wounded women and knew his work here was just beginning.
One set of scummers toiled away at the loose panels atop the transport. The rest had hidden themselves amongst the mutant bodies behind the ship. From his vantage point just over a dune in front of the ship, the hooded man couldn’t tell which of the rot
ting bodies hid scummers and which didn’t. He had to grudgingly admit that these men were good at their jobs.
But as the scummers continued to peel away the plasteel plating, he began to wonder if this plan would produce the desired results. Using chainswords and the few melta bomb charges in their supplies, the team had made great progress in creating a breach hole. The melta bombs worked well on the plasteel hull, but would have had little effect on the reinforced rear hatch. This was the only way inside and, from his angle, it looked like they would cut through within minutes. If he were in charge of the royal troops, the hooded man wouldn’t rush out the back and give up tactical advantage. He’d wait for the hole to open and then fight his way out on to the roof to gain the high ground.
He considered informing the scummer leader of his concerns, but decided not to bother. They would lose more men if that happened, but they would still prevail, and they were just mercenaries; not really anything to be concerned over.
A grinding noise echoed across the dunes as the reinforced hatch opened. Las blasts with accompanying tracers lanced into the mound of ash behind the downed transport. Dust and bits of dead skin and bone vaporized, sending an acrid cloud into the air.
The barrage continued for a full minute before stopping. Kyrian and his men maintained their silent vigil beneath their rotting shields. They were either well trained or dead.
The royal troops unleashed another salvo a moment later. This one lasted only ten seconds before troops began to rush out. They dived and rolled and crawled into defensive positions around the base of the transport. Once in position, the exterior soldiers took up the covering fire as the rest of the squad rushed out and found cover. He counted twenty in all – probably all but the officers.
Still, Kyrian’s men held their positions.
The onslaught from the royals continued unabated. They fired in crossing patterns out in three directions from the transport, covering the perimeter with laser blasts and a few explosions.
After two minutes of continuous fire, a command emanated from inside. The royal troops inched out away from the transport, turned as one to face the ship, and began firing at the roof. An explosion engulfed the air above the transport. The hooded man almost felt sorry for the poor scummers trapped on top. He did not, however, feel anything at all for the royals as the ambush sprung up behind them.
The scummer leader and his men rose up from beneath the dead muties as the royals opened fire on the breach unit. As the explosion ripped through the air, deafening everyone in the area, the mercenaries opened fire. Half of the royals dropped before they even knew they were under attack.
When the other half turned to face their enemy they realized the error of their previous tactics. A fog of ash and burnt flesh lay between them and their attackers. As they fired blindly into the cloud behind the ship, the scummers emerged from the smoke at their sides, having moved to flanking positions after the first volley.
Moments later, the royal troops all lay in the wastes, holes burnt in their chests and heads, their bodily fluids mixing with the ash. The hooded man slid down the dune to the front of the transport.
‘Area secured,’ said Kyrian, with a certain sarcasm underlying the report, as if the fact was not evident from the carnage surrounding them.
‘Good work,’ he replied. ‘Sorry about your men on top. But sacrifices must be made in battle.’
‘Not to worry,’ replied the scummer leader, ‘I think you will find we suffered no casualties at all.’
Just then, five scummers emerged from the back of the transport, dragging several royal officers behind them.
‘Passenger compartment secured,’ one reported.
‘Excellent work,’ replied Kyrian.
The hooded man shook his head. His employers had obviously spared no expense at all on these troops. They had just taken out an entire transport full of royal soldiers with hardly a scratch.
He walked up to one of the royal officers. From the number of bars and medals on the man’s uniform, he appeared to be the leader. He motioned to the scummer holding him to pull the officer to his feet.
‘Captain,’ he said. ‘Where’s the package?’
‘Colonel,’ replied the man, trying very hard to puff out his chest and regain some bit of composure. ‘Colonel Shepard. Royal Guard. Serial number one-eight-nine-alpha-gamma-six…’
A huge metallic limb shot out from beneath the folds of the hooded man’s cloak and grabbed the colonel. Long, claw-like fingers encircled the officer’s neck. Hydraulic gears, metal plating and the hint of a weapon barrel could be seen on his arm, still partially shrouded in the cloak. With a casual flick of his wrist, he snapped the colonel’s neck.
As the metal-encased arm disappeared back into the folds of the heavy, grey fabric, he turned to the next officer. ‘Captain?’ he said. ‘Where’s the package?’
Valtin Schemko, Lord Chamberlain and senior political advisor to Lord Gerontius Helmawr, looked up from the papers spread out on his desk and motioned the man at his door to enter. He welcomed the break from the tedium of his current duties, even though it meant dealing with Kauderer and the latest crisis to hit House Helmawr.
Hermod Kauderer, Master of Security and Intrigue for House Helmawr, swooped into the room like a hawk, which is exactly what the other senior advisors called him when he wasn’t around. His angular face, sharp beak of a nose and icy, soulless eyes were more than enough to warrant the nickname, but his tendency to constantly scan his surroundings, as if searching for his next meal, was what really tended to put people on edge around him. Everyone feared Kauderer and what he could do to them with the information he supposedly had stored in his impenetrable office.
Everyone, that is, except Valtin. The two men had come to an understanding after some recent unpleasantries involving spies working right under Kauderer’s slightly hooked nose. Kauderer had also dispatched a rogue spyrer unit into the Underhive at the time to further his own agenda. That unit nearly killed Valtin as he helped his uncle – one Kal Jerico – hunt down another Helmawr relative who had stolen vital information from the old man.
The fact that Valtin now possessed that intel, and Kauderer did not, had gone a long way to cementing his current political position as well as his ability to handle Kauderer without fear.
Valtin gestured to the chair in front of his desk. The house spy glared back at the Lord Chamberlain and, to his credit, only hesitated a moment before sitting. Kauderer enjoyed using his height to intimidate, so rarely sat in meetings. Valtin had broken him of that habit, at least in his presence.
‘I can tell by the look on your face, Hermod, that all does not go well with our rescue efforts,’ said Valtin. In fact, he could never read Kauderer’s expression, as he had incredible control over his hawkish features. But with Kauderer, it was always a good bet that he came bearing bad news.
‘As usual, you are correct, Lord Chamberlain,’ said Kauderer. ‘The last report from the transport suggested a renewed attack. The message was somewhat garbled. I have my best men working to decipher the text.’
Valtin wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn Kauderer’s hands fidgeted just below the top of the desk. Kauderer detested uncertainty when it came to information. Valtin allowed himself an inward smile at seeing a crack in the man’s icy demeanour.
‘More muties?’ asked Valtin. ‘I’m sure the colonel’s men can handle those barbarians and their scavenged arsenal.’
‘It is unclear, my lord,’ said Kauderer.
Was that a twitch in his left eye? The stress seemed to finally be getting to Kauderer.
‘The colonel reported increased efforts to breach the hull,’ continued Kauderer. ‘The transmission ended abruptly after that.’
Valtin ran his fingers over his recently grown goatee as he digested this new information. He had to admit he had no idea what to make of the situation, which forced him
to relinquish some control of the conversation back to Kauderer.
‘What is your assessment, Hermod?’ he asked. ‘What’s going on down there?’
Kauderer’s shoulders rose and straightened slightly, and it seemed his haughty demeanour took on a bit more shine. ‘I believe whoever shot down our transport has now arrived to claim their prize.’
Damn,’ said Valtin. ‘How did this happen? What happened to security?’
Kauderer’s glare returned briefly. ‘Security on our end was airtight,’ he said. ‘I handled the negotiations myself, and no one outside this office even knew what was in that package.’
‘The merchant, then?’
Kauderer nodded. ‘We paid him a noble’s ransom for his silence, but we have limited control of off-world merchants. He must have talked.’
‘This would point, I assume, to one of the other houses?’ said Valtin, stroking his goatee again. ‘No one else in the spire would have the resources and no one outside Hive Primus would have a motive. What steps are you taking?’
‘I have agents on the way to interrogate the merchant,’ said Kauderer. ‘He’ll tell us what he knows, and then serve as an example to others to never cross House Helmawr.’
‘And the package?’ said Valtin. ‘How close are Katerin and his men? Will they reach the transport in time to secure the package?’
Kauderer shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to tell. All will depend on how long the colonel can hold out and how determined our enemies are to thwart us.’
Valtin nodded. ‘Keep me informed,’ he said. ‘I want to know the moment Katerin enters the transport.’ He looked down at the guest lists and table assignments spread out across his desk and shuddered at the thought of returning to that task.
‘We need that package, Hermod,’ he said, looking back up and staring at the house spy. ‘The survival of House Helmawr depends upon it. There is precious little time. The Kal Jerico gambit will only buy us so much.’
2: Body Count
Lasgun Wedding Page 3
