[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  “Break off,” Horst replied. “Search the shuttle. If you recover the manuscript, he’ll come to us.”

  “Acknowledged,” Keira said, letting the righteous fury which had sustained her drain away, and turned back to the heretic’s vessel. Horst was right, of course, safeguarding the document was their primary goal, although it rankled to let a target escape his just retribution. No, not escape, she reminded herself, merely postpone it. She hesitated. “About the things he said…”

  “He was trying to distract you,” Horst said, “that’s all. Don’t give them another thought.”

  “Already forgotten,” Keira lied, and began to make her way back to the crippled cargo lifter. However much she might wish to deny it, the dreams the psyker had taunted her with were real enough, and she couldn’t help wondering how much else he might have seen in her that was true.

  The Ursus Innare, Scintilla System

  248.993.M41

  The atmosphere in the cargo hold was different now, the transition to real space marking the end of the voyage in all but name, and their fellow passengers seemed as relieved as Elyra felt to be out of the warp. Intellectually, she supposed, everyone still realised that they were going to remain cooped up in here for several more days, but the nagging sensation of wrongness that had pervaded the very fabric of the vessel during its passage through the anteroom of hell was blessedly absent, and spirits among the scattered huddles of refugees were definitely beginning to rise. Voices had returned to conversational levels, instead of being hushed and muted, and she’d even heard laughter a couple of times, although Emperor knew there was little enough to laugh about down here.

  “Vos,” she said, casually picking up her pack, and reaching inside it for the laspistol. “Something’s moving behind that pile of rocks.” The skittering of the rodents had intensified, several of them moving to avoid something which hadn’t come into view yet, and she trusted nothing here that she couldn’t see. Come to that, she trusted precious little aboard the Ursus Innare that she could.

  “I hear them,” Kyrlock said, equally casually, and picked up the shotgun. He glanced at Zusen, feigning uninterest. “Getting anything?”

  “Not really, sorry.” The girl looked pleased and surprised to be addressed directly, though probably not as surprised as Elyra was to overhear the remark. Kyrlock had been uncomfortable around the young wyrds ever since they’d first encountered them in the mine shaft the Shadow Franchise had been using to hide the people they were smuggling off-world, Zusen in particular as she tended to stay close to him as much as she could, and his apparent willingness to trust in their abilities was a startling new development. Then again, he was a pragmatist above all else; the young wyrd had been able to guide his aim in the dark during the skirmish with the bandits, and whatever he might feel about her and her friends, he would be happy to make use of whatever advantages they could give him if whoever was approaching meant trouble. “Whoever it is out there isn’t feeling any strong emotions.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Kyrlock said, smiling at the girl in a slightly less forced manner than usual. “When people want to kill you, they’re usually keyed up about it.” He kept his weapon ready for use in any case, Elyra noted approvingly: in her experience, killers didn’t always feel strongly about their victims. Keira, for instance, would snuff out a life without a second thought if it seemed expedient, and she’d met plenty of certified psychopaths in her time who didn’t seem capable of any kind of emotion at all. Zusen returned the smile, a trifle uncertainly, her thin face taking on a brief moment of animation before returning to its usual, slightly haunted expression.

  “It’s Greel,” Elyra said, catching sight of a flicker of movement at the bottom of the nearest ore heap. She let go of the butt of the handgun, but left the pack slung across her shoulder, where she could draw the weapon quickly at the first sign of treachery.

  Kyrlock nodded and followed suit, lowering the barrel of the shotgun, but keeping his hand on the butt rather than slinging it. The franchiseman was accompanied by two thugs, both carrying shotguns themselves, although by this stage of the voyage they couldn’t have been expecting any real trouble. Elyra smiled to herself. The weapons were symbolic as much as anything, intended as a visible sign that the bearers were in charge down here rather than for actual use, but they could still make a mess if things turned ugly.

  “Looks like our ride’s here,” Trosk said, turning to pick up his pack, and nudge Ven to his feet. The young seer looked mildly confused, but there was nothing unusual about that, and after a moment he started to collect his meagre belongings together. Trosk turned to Elyra and grinned, in a manner she found faintly irritating; it was as though he didn’t feel the need to even pretend to defer to her any longer. “Better make up your mind whether you’re coming with us or not.”

  “Of course she is,” Zusen said, then glanced at Elyra herself. “Aren’t you?”

  “Let’s just see what the man wants before we start planning the rest of our lives, shall we?” Elyra suggested. Greel and his minders were picking their way across the rubble with a distinct lack of urgency, so far as she could tell.

  “That’s far enough,” Kyrlock said in a conversational tone, as soon as the franchisemen had approached close enough to hear him. The three men stopped moving, the two with guns looking distinctly unhappy, but refraining from bringing them up; that meant they’d been told to remain on their best behaviour, Elyra thought, which was probably a good sign.

  Greel closed the distance another pace or two before halting his advance, separating himself from the minders and any implicit threat they carried, subtly underlining who was in charge here. He spread his hands, to show he was unarmed. “No need for that,” he said. “I’m just here to talk.”

  “What about?” Elyra asked.

  Greel shrugged. “Oh, several things. A business arrangement you might be interested in, for one.” He glanced pointedly at the three wyrds. “When you’ve a few moments to yourself, of course.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to chat once we’re on the shuttle,” Trosk said, and Greel looked at him as though one of the rocks had just had the temerity to speak.

  “Yes, well, that’s the other reason I’m here,” he said. Trosk looked expectant. “There’s been a change of plan.”

  “There can’t be!” Trosk looked outraged. “It was all arranged before we left Sepheris Secundus!” He looked narrowly at Greel. “If you’re planning to renege on our agreement, I’d advise you to think again. The people we’re with…”

  “Are a very long way from here,” Greel reminded him, apparently unmoved by the implicit threat. “And I know a great deal more about them than you do, boy.”

  Elyra had assumed as much already, but mentally noted the fact for future use. Chances were that Greel had only the sketchiest idea of who he was actually dealing with, but it wouldn’t be the first time that the minions of organised crime had allowed the wealth of a Chaos cult to blind them to the true nature of their business partners, and aware of the truth or not, he’d still be able to name his contacts with the Sanctuary. On the other hand, maybe he did know precisely who and what they were, and simply didn’t care so long as the arrangement remained profitable. Either way, the interrogators of the Tricorn would be able to extract any useful information he had without too much difficulty if Carolus decided to have him brought in, she was sure.

  “What kind of a change?” she asked, contriving to sound barely interested in the answer. Greel glanced at her with an expression of mild curiosity, and she shrugged. “I promised your friend with the expensive hair oil I’d look after them until they got where they were going,” she explained casually. There was no guarantee that Greel had actually met the man who’d escorted Zusen, Trosk and Ven to the cavern, but she was pretty certain that he’d know who she meant; he’d set up the deal to carry them personally, cutting the expeditor who normally handled the people wanting clandestine passage off-world out of the loop en
tirely.

  “I see.” Greel nodded, as though something trivial suddenly made sense. “I wondered why you were letting the juves hang around with you.” He clearly assumed the arrangement had been purely financial. “Lucky for them you were here to hire. They’d have been eaten alive otherwise.” Reminded of the juvies’ existence again, he turned back to them. “There’s been a complication on the void station. Our usual transfer arrangements for passengers like you have been compromised, so you’ll have to stay with the others until we reach Scintilla.”

  “Compromised how?” Trosk asked.

  “That’s all I was told.” Greel shrugged, philosophically. “Got caught evading import duties, probably. That’s the trouble with smugglers, sooner or later they get too greedy and attract attention. But it was a good arrangement while it lasted.” He turned back to Elyra. “So it looks as though you’ll be babysitting for a while longer.”

  “No problem,” Kyrlock said, trying to match Elyra’s unconcerned exterior. “We thought that was what we’d signed up for anyway. No one mentioned a shuttle trip to us.”

  “Which rather raises the question of what you’re going to do once we make orbit,” Greel said, beginning to walk slowly away from the camp. Taking the hint, Elyra and Kyrlock fell into step with him, moving out of earshot of the trio of wyrds. Only Trosk seemed to be taking the news of the change of plan particularly badly, kicking moodily at a lump of rock; Ven was staring into space as usual, adrift in his expanded consciousness, and Zusen looked pleased, if anything, probably because it gave her a little more time with Kyrlock.

  “Find a good fence,” Elyra said, with a meaningful glance at her pack. Most of the jewellery she’d supposedly absconded with was still there, as Greel well knew. “Any recommendations?”

  “If you’re serious, I can think of a couple of names,” Greel said. “I could introduce you, for a modest commission.”

  “Three per cent’s pretty modest,” Elyra said. To her surprise, Greel laughed, with every sign of genuine good humour.

  “Three per cent’s not modest, it’s pathologically shy,” he said. “Try ten.”

  “On top of the fence’s cut?” Elyra shook her head. “Five, take it or leave it.”

  “Seven,” Greel said, apparently enjoying himself; it was probably a long time since he’d brokered a personal deal, Elyra thought, franchisemen of his status usually living off the tithes paid to their superiors by the lowly gangers further down the food chain, and he was relishing the chance to relive a bit of his youth.

  After a show of consideration, Elyra nodded. It wasn’t that bad a deal, when you came down to it, and if she was really who she was pretending to be she’d want to convert the loot in her pack to cash as quickly as possible. Besides, Greel would be a useful contact for someone like her, and it would be out of character not to try to cultivate him. “All right, seven,” she said, injecting just the right amount of sullen acquiescence into her voice.

  “Good decision,” Greel said cheerfully. He glanced round. “All right, you’ve got a buyer for your shinies. What’s the next thing?”

  “Whatever comes along,” Kyrlock said. He glanced at Elyra, as though wondering if he ought to speak. “We talked about chasing some bounty warrants.”

  “Money to be made there,” Greel conceded. “But it’s chancy.” He looked from one to the other appraisingly. “You’d probably make out all right, though. I’ve been hearing quite a bit about you two lately.”

  “Thought you might,” Elyra agreed, as though she’d been expecting something of the sort. Greel would be well aware of their abilities, and the reputation they’d earned among their fellow passengers. “There isn’t that much to talk about down here.”

  “Don’t sell yourselves short,” Greel said. “I saw what you did to Kantris back in the Gorgonid, and I gather you’ve made a few fresh enemies on the trip as well.”

  “We haven’t got any enemies aboard that I’m aware of,” Elyra said, and Greel laughed again.

  “My point exactly. I know talent when I see it, and I can always find an opening in the Franchise for someone with the right abilities.”

  For a moment Elyra felt a thrill of apprehension, wondering if the franchiseman was hinting that he knew that she was a psyker; but he’d shifted his gaze to Kyrlock before he finished the sentence, making it clear that he was including them both in the offer.

  “It’s tempting,” Kyrlock said, as if any other answer was possible. He looked at Elyra. “Working for the Franchise means money, contacts…”

  “And lawdogs on your arse every hour of the day,” Elyra finished. She allowed herself to look as though she was considering the offer anyway. Greel wouldn’t know she’d already been offered refuge by the Sanctuary, and the woman she was pretending to be would at least be tempted by the proposal. “I’ve done all right so far by keeping a low profile.”

  “Unless you count sleeping with your employer’s husband and stealing her jewellery,” Greel said, with a trace of amusement.

  Elyra inclined her head a little, acknowledging the justice of the remark. “Well, yes, apart from that,” she conceded.

  Greel laughed again, his good humour apparently unfeigned, although Elyra was well aware that to have achieved the eminence he apparently had within the Franchise he would have raised deceit to the level of an art form.

  “Think about it anyway,” he suggested. “And don’t worry too much about the dogs. I never do.”

  He probably didn’t, Elyra thought. Criminals tended to deal with what was in front of them, forgetting that actions had consequences until they turned round and bit. Something Greel would probably be reminded of quite forcibly once she’d found a way to report to the Tricorn.

  “We will,” she said, and shrugged. “I don’t suppose we’ll be getting a better offer before we dock, anyway.”

  The Misericord, the Warp,

  Date and Time Meaningless

  “His name’s Tancred,” Keira said. “I found his personal data-slate aboard the shuttle. Along with this.” She held out the precious manuscript, and Horst took it, covertly assessing her demeanour as he did so. It appeared as businesslike as ever. Despite the concerns he’d tried so hard to suppress, it seemed she hadn’t been unduly affected by her encounter with the rogue psyker after all.

  “Hybris.” He glanced over to where the techpriest was communing with his own data-slate. As Vex glanced up, he held out the document. “Your area of expertise, I think.”

  “Thank you,” Vex said, taking it, and riffling through the pages before stowing it somewhere inside his robe. “It appears to be intact.” A tinge of regret flickered in his voice. “This hardly seems the time or the place to peruse it, however.”

  “You got that right,” Keira agreed. “When Tancred discovers it’s missing, he’ll be right behind me.” She glanced at Horst with a flicker of amusement. “I made sure I left enough of a trail for him and his animals to follow.”

  “Good,” Horst said. “We’re all set here.” He glanced across at Vex. “Aren’t we?”

  “We are,” the techpriest confirmed. “All the relevant systems are interfaced, and awaiting activation.”

  “Good.” Keira produced a gold-plated data-slate from a pouch on her belt. “Then you can take a look at this while we’re waiting.” An expression of distaste flickered across her face. “Most of the files appear to be nothing more than pornography, but there are a few encrypted ones, which might contain something we can use.”

  “I’ll see what I can extract,” Vex said, activating the slate. “It’s unlikely that any of the ciphers are particularly sophisticated.” He busied himself with the arcane rituals of his calling, leaving Horst and Keira alone.

  “Are you all right?” Horst asked, feeling a little awkward at asking so bluntly.

  “Fine, thank you,” Keira replied, apparently just as uneasy as he was.

  “Good.” Horst nodded briskly. “We’ll all need to stay focused if this is going to work.�
��

  “Taking on an army of mutants without backup, you mean?” Drake asked sarcastically, approaching from the tunnel entrance Keira had returned by at a rapid trot, his lasgun already in his hands. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Keira said firmly, apparently heartened by the Guardsman’s display of confident cynicism. “We’re doing the Emperor’s work, so He stands beside us.”

  “I’d rather have Him standing in front of me,” Drake said, happily oblivious to the way Keira’s jaw knotted at the impious jest.

  “Did you get everything rigged?” Horst asked, and Drake nodded. “Good. Then you’d better take up your position.” Which would get him out of the way before he distracted Keira any more than he had done already with his misplaced sense of humour. Horst knew it was a common enough way of coping with stress, particularly among soldiers preparing for combat, but if it began to undermine the cohesiveness of the team, he was going to have to intervene. Far better to keep them separated as best he could.

  “On my way,” Drake assured him, and began to scale one of the rope ladders the Malcontents had left hanging from the two cross corridors which pierced the walls about halfway up, in the same manner as the upended hold where the Angelae had first encountered Tancred and his mutants. In a moment he’d gained the mouth of the passageway, and gone prone, training his lasgun on the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Hybris, you too,” Horst said. Now Keira had recovered the manuscript, it was even more important to keep the techpriest safe.

  “Very well,” Vex said, looking up from the screen of Tancred’s data-slate. “Are you coming too?”

  “No.” Horst shook his head. “A trap’s not a trap if it hasn’t any bait in it.”

  “Then I’m staying down here too,” Keira said, as if she expected him to argue. “There’s no point in making it obvious, either.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Horst agreed. “And there’s no one I’d rather have with me.” Though he spoke purely for form’s sake, it belatedly occurred to him that it was no more than the literal truth.