[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  Although Tarsus High kept the same time as the hive below, in order to facilitate the never-ending flow of commerce, the concept of day and night had no more relevance aboard the orbital than it did on any of the starships constantly arriving and departing from it. That made it hard for Elyra to reliably estimate the number of other psykers sharing their refuge, as they tended to sleep and eat whenever they felt like it. There weren’t that many, she was sure; apart from Zusen, Trosk, Ven and Voyle, she’d only met a handful, most of whose names she didn’t know, although she suspected there were an additional few who preferred to remain completely concealed among the sprawling vegetation. All the ones she had come into contact with were wary, radiating the same aura of general distrust that Trosk did, and were reluctant to engage in conversation with anyone.

  Though she might have found this frustrating, given her determination to gather as much information as she could, in some ways it came as a relief. The less contact she had with the wyrds, the less chance there was of letting something slip which might unmask her as an Inquisition agent. The real fear she had was that one of the rescued might turn out to be a sufficiently powerful telepath to break through the carefully constructed barriers in her mind, and lift the truth of her mission directly from her thoughts, but fortunately the only “paths she’d encountered here so far were epsilon-grade at best: a pale young woman with dark hair, who seemed to spend most of her time talking to the plants, and a man of about her own age, whose main topic of conversation was how frustrating he found it being surrounded by people who knew of his gift, and were accordingly reluctant to play cards with him for money.

  Her cover story, too, didn’t exactly lend itself to worming information out of her fellow refugees: having gone to some lengths to establish a reputation for being a paranoid sociopath, she could hardly start trying to be everybody’s new best friend. To her barely concealed relief, Trosk seemed as keen to stay out of her way as she was to avoid him, spending most of his time with Ven, while Zusen, though as friendly as ever, knew no more about the setup here than she did, and seemed content to leave things that way.

  All of which left Voyle as the only possible source of the information she wanted, and Elyra determined to cultivate him, without appearing too obvious about it. It helped that he was evidently attracted to her, though understandably wary, given what he thought he knew of her nature, so she played on that as subtly as she could, managing to give the impression that his interest might possibly be reciprocated without ever actually saying so.

  Accordingly, when he clambered out of his bedroll while she was preparing a makeshift stew from vegetables scavenged from the surrounding beds, over a fire she’d kindled from the surfeit of dried-out twigs littering the floor, she waved him over to join her.

  “Eaten yet?” she asked.

  “No, I haven’t.” Voyle ambled over, apparently agreeably surprised by the invitation, and warmed his hands at the flickering flames. “You’re not getting tired of the view, then.” He reached out and plucked a stunted ploin from a nearby espalier, which he bit into, and grimaced.

  “Not yet.” Elyra glanced up at the disc of Scintilla, where the terminator line had just reached the position of Hive Tarsus, bisecting the planet neatly between day and night. The night side was speckled with the lights of minor settlements, and she was able to pick out the greater glow cast by the furnaces of Gunmetal City without difficulty. Part of the larger moon was just visible behind the nightside limb, a ghostly fingernail paring of reflected sunlight, its craters thrown into stark relief by the harsh illumination. “I’m not sure I ever will.”

  “Better enjoy it while you can, then,” Voyle said, abandoning the unripe fruit in favour of the steaming bowlful of vegetable mush Elyra ladled out for him with visible relief. “We’ll be moving on soon.”

  “How soon?” Elyra asked, and Voyle shrugged. “As soon as they can arrange a ship for us. No more than a day or two, I hope.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Elyra ate a spoonful of her own stew, trying to mask her shock. She’d expected a little longer than that to try and find a way of contacting the Tricorn. When she spoke again, she made sure to inject the right amount of scepticism into her voice. “Assuming your patron can just whistle one up whenever he feels like it, of course.”

  “He should be able to.” Voyle smiled, apparently amused at having predicted her reaction so accurately. “He owns one of the biggest merchant fleets in the sector.”

  “Really?” Elyra chewed a piece of tuber, and smiled with just enough warmth to encourage him. If true, this was vital intelligence for Carolus. It made sense, she supposed: the owner of a shipping line would be in the perfect position to organise a sector-wide network like the one the Sanctuary apparently maintained. The Shadow Franchise were probably unaware that they were being manipulated, used as a smokescreen by a wider conspiracy, although if they were making enough money out of the arrangement she didn’t think they’d object too much even if they did discover the truth. “I guess you must trust me a little to share something like that.”

  “A little,” Voyle agreed, smiling.

  “But not enough to tell me his name.”

  “Alaric Diurnus.” Voyle smiled again. “All you had to do was ask.”

  “Diurnus,” Elyra repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “I suppose if anyone could set up an operation like this, it would be him. But what’s the catch?”

  “The catch?” Voyle laughed, in an open, friendly manner, which under other circumstances she would have found engaging. “Why would there be a catch?”

  “Because Diurnus is a Rogue Trader,” Elyra said, “and they’re not exactly known for their altruism.” She felt safe enough revealing this degree of knowledge about the man, as his activities were widely known throughout the sector. On some worlds, particularly ones where Diurnus Lines held a virtual monopoly on shipping, he was even something of a folk hero, a popular subject for pict dramas and story texts.

  “He expects a little something back from us,” Voyle admitted. “Psykers are obviously useful to him, and the Adeptus Terra keep their sanctionites on a tight leash. Sponsoring the Sanctuary gives him a useful pool of talents like ours, without any bureaucratic restrictions on their activities.”

  “I see,” Elyra said, trying not to let the concern she felt at the prospect of a cadre of wyrds in the personal service of a ruthless and powerful man like Diurnus enter her voice. “Seems like a fair trade to me.” Contacting Carolus and telling him what she’d learned was now more urgent than ever. But, as she smiled and ate stew, she couldn’t imagine how she was going to manage that.

  Hive Sibelius, Scintilla System

  258.993.M41

  Horst was feeling angry, worried and confused, and trying to keep all three emotions from his voice. He wasn’t sure how well he was succeeding, but the man who called himself Pieter Quillem seemed relaxed enough; if he was picking up on the undercurrent of tension in the room, he was too good an operative to show it.

  “So it was one of your people Danuld spotted,” he said, and Quillem nodded, in a matter-of-fact fashion.

  “Carys isn’t usually inclined to take unnecessary risks, but she isn’t quite herself at the moment. I’m sorry if she alarmed you.”

  “Alarmed isn’t quite the word,” Horst said, still trying to take the measure of the man Vex had so unexpectedly returned with. “How long have you been keeping us under surveillance?”

  “Since you arrived in-system,” Quillem admitted, as though that was a perfectly reasonable thing to have done. “Inquisitor Grynner was understandably concerned about his friend’s disappearance, and wanted us in a position to respond quickly if he needed help.” It sounded plausible enough to Horst, as it would to anyone familiar with the shadowy world inhabited by acolytes of the Inquisition, where even allies were seldom to be completely trusted, but that didn’t necessarily make it true. “And we do seem to be involved in the same investigation, exactly as Inquisitor Grynner surmised.�
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  Horst nodded. Inquisitor Finurbi had returned to Scintilla in response to a message from his old friend, requesting assistance, and it did indeed appear as though the two groups had been following separate threads of the same tapestry of heresy. None of which did anything to dispel the real source of his unease. “Which doesn’t change the fact that we were specifically warned not to trust any other members of the Calixis Conclave,” he said.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Quillem replied, a hint of amusement appearing on his face. “Inquisitor Grynner isn’t one. He’s a free agent. The Faxlignae don’t confine their activities to a single sector, and neither do we.”

  “The who?” Horst asked. The name didn’t mean anything to him.

  “The Faxlignae,” Quillem repeated. “An extremely pernicious and well-resourced network of heretics, who scavenge any xenos artefacts they can. We still don’t know what their primary agenda is, but recently they seem to have started collecting psykers too, which is why Inquisitor Grynner felt we could do with the assistance of a witch hunter.”

  “The mercenaries who attacked the Black Ships holding pen on Sepheris Secundus were equipped with xenos weaponry,” Vex said, glancing up from the cogitator he’d begun working at the moment they’d arrived back at Vorn’s apartment. Horst noted the spark of interest in Quillem’s eyes, and inwardly cursed the techpriest’s lack of discretion.

  “Then it seems an exchange of information would be to everyone’s benefit,” the interrogator said. “We’d be particularly interested to hear where you recovered the wraithbone from.”

  “The what?” Horst asked, wrong-footed for a moment.

  “The artefact,” Vex supplied helpfully. “He knows what it is.”

  “Really?” This time Horst didn’t bother to disguise his scepticism. “Despite the fact that you’ve been getting nowhere running it down?”

  “It appears that I’ve been consulting the wrong archives,” Vex admitted, his habitually level tones not quite managing to conceal his chagrin at having made so elementary a mistake. “I’ve been labouring under the misapprehension that the artefact was a piece of archeotech, whereas in fact it’s of xenos origin.”

  “Eldar, to be precise,” Quillem said. “We were tracking this fragment when it went missing from the freighter transporting it. Stolen, so far as we could tell, by powerful psykers.”

  The implication was obvious, Horst thought. Tonis’ group had snatched it, to use in their infernal psychic booster. Which raised the question of how they’d known it was aboard the vessel in the first place.

  Before he could consider the question further, to his astonishment, the door leading to Vorn’s room opened, and the elderly acolyte hobbled out, carrying a portable vox receiver. He glanced curiously at Quillem, then turned to Horst.

  “Message for you,” he said, proffering the device.

  “Who from?” Horst asked, glancing at Quillem as he spoke. He’d immediately assumed that it would be some sort of communiqué from Inquisitor Grynner, but the man from the Ordo Xenos seemed as surprised as he was by the interruption. Drake or Keira would have contacted him directly using their comm-beads, and he couldn’t imagine who else knew they were there.

  “Says his name’s Kyrlock. Wanted the inquisitor, but says you’ll do.” Vorn shrugged, his greying hair tumbling around his shoulders, and Horst found himself thinking that the old man wasn’t nearly as frail as he liked people to think.

  “Vos?” Heedless of Quillem’s presence, Horst took the communicator at once. “Where are you? Is Elyra there?”

  “Hive Tarsus. We got separated, but I hope I can get a message to her. She’s with a heretic group calling themselves the Sanctuary of the Blessed. Mean anything to you?”

  “No.” Horst glanced at Quillem, who shrugged; clearly he’d never heard of them either. “Do you want picking up?”

  “Not yet. I’m supposed to be working for a Franchise fixer named Greel, who has some dealings with the heretics; if I stay put, I might be able to find out where Elyra’s gone.”

  “Good,” Horst said, pleased to find Inquisitor Finurbi’s instincts had been right about Kyrlock as well as Drake. A lesser man would have been tempted to accept the offer of relative safety, but the former Guardsman hadn’t even hesitated before answering. “We’ll wait for your call.”

  “There’s something else,” Kyrlock said. “Greel sent me to collect a data-slate from a scholar in the local lodge of the Conclave of the Enlightened. I don’t know what’s on it, but it could be important.”

  “Just a moment,” Vex interrupted, looking up from the cogitator in the corner. “I’m setting up a direct data-link. Can you activate it?”

  “I think so,” Kyrlock said. “It’s just a standard slate.” After a short pause he spoke again. “How’s that?”

  “Puzzling,” Vex said. “The data’s coming through, but I’m not sure what it means. This will take some consideration.”

  “Just so long as we’ve got it,” Horst said. He glanced at Quillem. “We’ll think about your offer.”

  “I hope so,” Quillem said, too practised, or too confident, to press the matter. He stood. “We’ve both got a lot to gain from cooperation. I’m sure you’ll see sense.”

  For a moment Horst considered trying to prevent him from leaving, but there seemed little point: Inquisitor Grynner’s people obviously knew where they were anyway. “We’ll think about it,” he repeated instead.

  Keira’s conversation with the black-garbed inquisitor had been a series of surprises, the first of which had been an invitation to discuss matters in his private quarters, rather than the interrogation suite she’d expected. They were as Spartan as she’d inferred from his demeanour, although the living room had included a fire in an age-blackened hearth, and a scattering of worn armchairs, one of which she’d selected after being prompted with an airily waved hand and a perfunctory “Sit, sit. You’re making the place look untidy.”

  Her choice had been prompted by two factors; it faced the door by which they’d entered, and its padding made it seem natural for her to remove her sword from her belt, resting its scabbard between her knees, where she could draw the blade instantly if she felt the need.

  “As you’ve probably realised by now,” the man said, dropping into a chair facing her, and steepling his fingers, “you’ve piqued my curiosity. What exactly were you hoping to achieve by breaking in here?”

  “I can’t discuss it,” Keira said. “If you know who I am, you know we’re operating under Special Circumstances.”

  “Then let me speculate,” Karnaki said. “You were hoping to find some clue as to the nature of the warp entities you encountered on Sepheris Secundus and aboard the Misericord. Which I suspect very strongly weren’t actually daemons at all, by the way, but you could certainly be forgiven for thinking so. It’s probably also occurred to you that the case of Tonis’ apparent possession was extremely unusual, and that any other instances of techpriests so afflicted might provide you with a fresh lead.”

  “I can’t discuss it,” Keira repeated, masking her shock and surprise as best she could. If this man knew as much as he appeared to about their business, the only explanation that she could see was that he was one of the shadowy enemies Inquisitor Finurbi had cut himself off from the Conclave to evade. She steeled herself for the ordeal she was certain was coming, knowing all too well that once the interrogators started, no one could hold out indefinitely; but she’d been trained to resist, and was determined not to break until the others would have had enough time to reach safety. If necessary, there were ways to end her own life no one could prevent, although she’d be loath to use them; the longer she could hold out against the torturers, the more time she could buy for the other Angelae.

  “Of course not,” Karnaki said, nodding. “But there’ll be no need for that kind of unpleasantness. If necessary, I can simply take what I need directly from your mind.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Keira asked, gripping
the hilt of her sword. She could reach him easily from here, and she clearly had no choice now other than to kill him. But however hard she tried, she couldn’t complete the motion; her body refused to obey her will, simply sitting passively in the overstuffed chair. It seemed Karnaki was a formidably strong psyker, perhaps even as strong as her own patron.

  “Because at the moment I don’t see the need,” Karnaki explained calmly. “You would find the experience extremely uncomfortable, perhaps even more so than the physical methods of coercion you were picturing so vividly a moment ago. And so deep a probe against so disciplined a mind would leave you severely damaged.” The matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke sent shivers down her spine, in spite of the calming litanies she began to subvocalise, in an attempt to keep him from reading any more of her thoughts.

  “What do you want, then?” Keira asked.

  “For the moment, merely to assure you that you and your colleagues have nothing to fear from me,” Karnaki said. “You’ll recall that Inquisitor Finurbi left Sepheris Secundus to consult with a trusted colleague, Inquisitor Grynner. Not surprisingly, Grynner was perturbed by his friend’s disappearance, and consulted me about the apparent daemonic aspects of the case.”

  “I’ve heard of Grynner,” Keira conceded. There was no point in attempting to conceal that. “But the boss never mentioned you.”

  “Probably because we’ve never met,” Karnaki said. “The connection is merely through a mutual friend.” He looked at her appraisingly. “Tell me about the warp entities you saw.”

  “I can’t discuss…” Keira began, but she couldn’t prevent the flood of memories his words released from surging to the surface of her mind, and after a moment Karnaki leaned back in his chair with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

  “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know,” he said, and Keira found that she was able to move once more, as easily as if the paralysis which had afflicted her had never been. She was on her feet instantly, the sword hissing from its scabbard; then suddenly her muscles locked again, and she froze into immobility, the keen edge millimetres from Karnaki’s throat. “Please don’t do that, it’s unconscionably rude.”