I'd just decided that the firing I'd heard was overheated ammo cooking off, or xenoist traitors deciding they'd rather shoot themselves than be burned to death, when Crassus was back on my combead.
'Commissar. The inquisitor's team are pinned down inside the warehouse. They want immediate extraction/
Well, what they want and what they'll get are two different things, I thought. Venturing into that inferno would be suicide. Let Crassus try if he wanted, but it looked to me as though Orelius and his cohorts were about to report to the Emperor in person, and there was damn-all any of us could do about it.
Then a truly horrifying thought struck me. I'd been the one who set fire to the building. If the Inquisition thought I'd been responsible for the death of one of their own, and had just stood by and let him burn without even trying to rescue him, I'd be a dead man - if I was lucky. I dithered for a fraction of a second, which seemed like eternity, and came to a decision.
'Stay back. We'll handle it,' I told Crassus, and leaned over the driver's compartment to call to Jur-gen. 'Take us in!' I shouted.
As usual, where anyone else might have hesitated or argued, he simply followed orders without thinking. The Salamander lurched forwards, accelerating towards the blazing building as rapidly as it could.
'There! Those loading doors!' I pointed, but my faithful aide had already seen them, and a hail of bolter shells ripped them to shreds an instant before we hit. We bounced into the shadowy interior of the warehouse, billows of smoke shrouding everything, pieces of tattered door spraying from under our tracks. I coughed, tore off my sash, and tied it around my face. It didn't do a lot of good, to be honest, but my lungs felt a little less choked than before.
Las-bolts started striking the front armour of the vehicle, which at least gave us a clue as to where the enemy was, and Jurgen was about to reply with the heavy bolter again when I forestalled him.
'Wait/ I said, 'you might hit the inquisitor.' That would have been the crowning irony. Instead, he swung us over to one side, slamming into a pile of stacked crates, and bringing them crashing down. Sudden screams were abruptly cut off. I twisted my head frantically, trying to orientate us, and the whole vast space was suddenly lit in vivid orange as the roof whooshed into flame.
'Frak this!' I said, on the verge of ordering Jurgen to withdraw, then I caught sight of a small knot of figures hurrying towards us. I pointed, and Jurgen swung the Salamander round, stopping us almost dead. There were five of them, running for their lives, with an indeterminate number of shadowy figures in pursuit. Orelius I recognised at once, turning as he ran to loose off a volley from his bolt pistol. A couple of the pursuers fell, but las-bolts continued to impact around the inquisitor and his retinue. A heavily muscled man I recognised as one of his bodyguards from the governor's party was firing, too, but went down hard as one of the las-bolts caught the back of his head. Orelius hesitated for a moment, but even from where I was standing it was obvious the fellow had been dead before he hit the floor.
The rest of his party were in real trouble, so, despite my natural reservations about making myself a more obvious target, I clambered up to the pintle-mounted
bolter I'd made sure was installed. Not every Salamander has them, but I've been grateful enough for their presence in the past to insist on having one available if at all possible, and I blessed that foresight now as I took advantage of the extra height the vehicle afforded me to fire over the heads of the inquisitorial party and strike home against their pursuers. A gratifying number went down, or scattered, but too many carried on firing. I'd expected them to start shooting at me, but to my relief they continued to concentrate their fire on the fleeing figures before them.
The scribe I'd seen with Orelius was out in front; long white beard flapping as he ran with surprising dexterity for a man of his age. It was only after I saw him take a las-bolt to the leg, which sparked but continued to function, that I realised his lower limbs were augmetic. Behind him were two women: Rakel, whose green dress was now heavily stained with blood, apparently from a chest wound, but who was still babbling nonsense without appearing to inhale, and another who held her up. She was swathed in a hooded cloak of the deepest black I'd ever seen, which seemed to swallow the light that fell on it, blurring her outline. I saw her flinch as a las-bolt scorched the material, but she kept coming, supporting the gibbering psyker with surprising strength.
I hosed down their pursuers again, hoping to throw off their aim at least, but for every one I felled, another seemed to replace it, moving with an eerie precision which seemed somehow familiar. There
was no time to worry about it now, though. I reached down to grasp the fingers of the old scribe, which to my total lack of surprise were also augmetics, and haul him aboard.
'Much obliged,' he said, dropping into the crew compartment, and glancing around with evident interest. 'An Imperial Guard Salamander. Good solid piece of kit. Manufactured on Triplex Vail, unless I miss my guess…'
I left him to gather whatever wits he had, and turned to the others.
'Jurgen!' I shouted. 'Help the women!' Orelius took a las-bolt to the shoulder, dropping his handgun. I wasn't about to lose him now, not after going through all this, so I jumped down, drawing my laspistol, and went to help him up.
'Commissar Cain?' He looked slightly confused until I remembered my makeshift smoke mask and pulled it down; it wasn't doing a damn bit of good now anyway. The whole building around us was ablaze, the heat terrific, and I suddenly remembered the promethium tanks of the heavy flarner aboard the Salamander. Well, it was too late to worry about that now. ^Vhat are you doing here?'
'I heard you needed a lift,' I said, hauling him to his feet, and aiming a couple of speculative shots in the vague direction of the enemy. I dragged him back to the vehicle, where Jurgen was doing his best to help the women, but Rakel wasn't exactly cooperating. She seemed terrified of him, struggling against her companion's grip in an effort to get away.
'He's nothing! Nothing!' she shrieked, which seemed a little harsh to me. All right, he wasn't the most prepossessing trooper in the guard, but once you got past the smell and the interesting collection of skin diseases, he had his good points. Then she convulsed suddenly and passed out, dribbling foam between her clenched teeth.
I hustled Orelius aboard, hefted Rakel's dead weight like a sack of tubers, and let the scribe take her. He lifted her easily with his augmetic limbs, and I climbed up myself beside the woman in black as Jurgen returned to the driver's compartment and gunned the engine.
'Jurgen! Get us out of here!' I yelled, and he opened the throttle fully
'With pleasure, commissar.' The Salamander leapt forwards, breaking for the shattered loading door we'd come in by, and clipped the frame as we passed through, gouging a shower of sparks from it. As we gained the street, the furnace heat seemed to drop away, although it was still hot enough to raise blisters from our paintwork. I sagged with relief, trembling with the reaction, still trying to comprehend what an insanely risky thing I'd done. As if to underline how close we'd come, the building collapsed behind us with a roar of tumbling masonry.
Well, there's no point cheating death with an act of insane bravery if no one's in a position to praise you for it, so I voxed Crassus.
'Crassus/ I said. The inquisitor's safe.'
'So I am.' The woman in black dropped her hood, revealing a face I'd thought about often in the last few days. With blonde hair and blue eyes, she was even more beautiful than I'd remembered, and the voice I'd last heard singing sentimental ballards still had the faint edge of huskiness that had made my heart skip.
Amberley Vail gazed at me with what I took to be faint amusement as my jaw dropped open, an inquisitorial electoo flashing into visibility in the palm of her hand. Thank you, commissar/ she added, smiling sweetly.
Editorial Note:
Once again, it seems prudent to insert a little material from other sources here, as the Valhallans' expedition against the xenoist defectors w
as to have unexpected repercussions. Cain, as we might expect, has little to say on the matter himself as his attention was elsewhere.
The first is extracted from the after-action report of Major Ruput Broklaw, made on 593.931 M41, shortly after the engagement was successfully concluded.
After the preliminary bombardment ceased both infantry platoons disembarked from their Chimeras, which had been dispersed around the perimeter of the rebel-occupied zone in accordance with the previously determined deployments. Third Platoon was supported by First Sentinel Squadron on the left flank, Fifth Platoon by Second Squadron on the right, leaving Third Squadron with the company command element as a mobile reserve.
Resistance was light, as anticipated, and Fifth Platoon rolled up their flank with little difficulty apart from a couple of heavy exchanges of fire with dug-in survivors of the bombardment. Lieutenant Faril called in Sentinel support for the two squads thus engaged, which committed our reserve squadron. The flamer-equipped Sentinel in each group clear out the entrenchments with little difficulty after the other two laid down suppressive fire from their multi-lasers to allow them to approach.
On the left, things didn't run quite so smoothly. As Fourth Squad of Third Platoon came under crossfire from two enemy positions, pinning them in place. The flamer Sentinel sent to assist was struck and disabled by a krak missile, forcing its fellows into a defensive posture which severely attenuated the effectiveness of their suppressive fire.
At this point, Lieutenant Sulla broke the deadlock by leading her command squad in a flank attack against one of the enemy positions, while Second Squad under Sergeant Lustig hit the other. By luck or good judgment, both were able to carry
the positions almost simultaneously, allowing the remaining Sentinels to close and Fourth Squad to advance.
I am stiff undecided as to whether Lieutenant Suffix's action was bold or reckless, but it was undeniably effective.
Extracted from Like a Phoenix From the Flames: The Founding of the 597th, by General Jenit Sulla (retired), 097.M42.
Notwithstanding Commissar Cain's assurances that resistance would be light, as indeed was to prove the case, I felt more than a touch of apprehension as the barrage ceased and Major Broklaw gave the order to advance. Not at the prospect of combat itself - the pitiful handful of rebels we faced seeming little to fear after the tyranid hordes we'd bested on Corania scant months before - but at the realisation that my first real test as an officer was upon me, and the fact that one of the most renowned heroes in the Seg-mentum had reposed his trust in me was an added burden which I felt ill-equipped to bear.
All went well at first, however, with the squads in my platoon advancing swiftly to contact. My readers may well imagine the frustration I felt as I sat in my command Chimera, listening to the vox chatter, reliant on the reports from my subordinates for a full tactical analysis, for until my
unlooked-for promotion, I would have been among them, facing the Emperor's enemies head-on, as a soldier should. My impatience increased as it became clear that one of my squads, women I'd served alongside and men I was beginning to know and respect, was pinned down, taking casualties and unable to advance. As the Sentinels which should have relieved them ran into trouble themselves, I could stand by no longer, regardless of the commissar's admonition to be cautious. Especially since, knowing his reputation, I was certain he would not have hesitated to put himself in danger for the good of his fellows were he to find himself in a similar position.
Calling on my troopers to follow me, and taking but a moment to switch the command channels to the combead in my ear, I jumped from the rear ramp, eager to join the fray.
The sight which met my eyes was to give me pause. The elegant buildings and thoroughfares through which we'd driven were no more, their places taken by heaps of rubble through which barely recognisable pieces of their original form could still, in places, be discerned. A thick pall of dust and smoke hung over everything, reducing the bright afternoon sun to a sullen grey, and for a moment, I couldn't still the flicker of regret which rose unbidden in my breast. Even tainted by the alien as it had been, the architecture had been undeniably elegant.
I had little time for reflection, however, as the crack of las-fire reminded me forcefully of the dire peril my soldiers were in, and with a cry of 'For the Emperor!' I led my doughty quartet to the rescue. A quick study of the tactical slate in the Chimera had shown me that I had an unengaged squad sufficiently close to the most distant of the enemy positions to flank it with a high probability of success, and after a few terse instructions to the sergeant leading it, this indeed was to prove to be the case. That left the nearest to us.
We took them completely by surprise, a couple of frag rounds from our grenade launcher bursting among them and causing great dismay, before charging home to dispatch the survivors with pistols and chainsword. Cowards all, as those who oppose the Emperor invariably are, they broke and ran, exposing themselves to the vengeful fire of the squad they'd been pinning down, who were only too keen to even the score. I'm proud to say that of the team under my direct command only one man was wounded, taking a las-bolt to the leg as we charged, while none of the traitors escaped alive.
[From which we may safety conclude that, whatever her martial abilities, Sulla was no literary stylist.]
NINE
Things are very seldom what they seem. In my experience, they're usually a damn sight worse.
– Inquisitor Titus Drake.
It goes without saying that, given my profession, I've had more than my fair share of unpleasant surprises. But to find that the woman I'd spent a pleasant social evening trying to impress with my half-formed speculations about events she was privy to, and, it must be admitted, had been quite smitten by (insofar as I've ever been susceptible to such things1), was really an undercover inquisitor came pretty close to the top of the list. And if that wasn't
1 At the risk of appearing egotistical, I suspect he's protesting a little too strongly here…
bad enough, the expression of tolerant amusement on her face at my utter stupefaction increased my discomfiture a thousandfold.
'But I thought… Orelius…' I said, barely making sense even to myself. Amberley laughed as the Salamander hurtled through the streets back to the fortified compound where Zyvan had established the headquarters of our expeditionary force. Through the vox bead in my ear, I could hear the firefight in the Heights continuing. Sulla had apparently done something stupid, but we were winning comfortably with few enough casualties for things to be fine without any further interference from me, so I felt justified in ordering Jurgen to take us back to the staging area as quickly as possible. Rakel and Orelius quite clearly needed medical attention, which gave me the perfect excuse, and I supposed it was my duty to see the inquisitor safely on her way as quickly as possible.
As it turned out, of course, I was to see a great deal more of her before we left Gravalax, and even that would be just the beginning of a long and eventful association which was to leave me in mortal peril on more occasions than I care to contemplate. Sometimes I wonder whether, if I'd had some premonition of who she really was the first time I saw her, I'd simply have left the room and avoided all the horrors to come in the ensuing decades; but I doubt it. Her company, on the rare occasions I was able simply to enjoy it for its own sake, more than made up for all the times I was left fleeing for my life
or facing imminent painful death. Hard as that may be to understand, if you'd met her you'd think the same, I'm sure.1
'Orelius?' She braced herself as Jurgen swung us around a bend most other drivers would have thought too tight at half the speed. 'He helps me out on occasion.' She smiled again. 'He seemed very impressed with you at the governor's party, by the way'
Then he's an inquisitor too?' I asked, my head still spinning. Amberley laughed, like water over stones, and shook her head.
'Good Emperor, no. He's a rogue trader. What in the warp made you think he's an inquisitor?'
'
Just something a friend said,' I said, thinking that would be the last time I took Divas's word for anything. But I suppose, to be fair, he hadn't been all that wrong as it turned out, and he hadn't been responsible for my own febrile imaginings.
'And the guy with the beard?' I indicated the scribe, who was leaning over the lip of the driver's compartment carrying on an enthusiastic conversation with Jurgen about the finer points of Salamander maintenance.
'Caractacus Mott, my savant/ She smiled fondly. A mine of information, some of it useful.'
The others I've met,' I said. I indicated Orelius, who had taken out a medkit and was tending to
1 Frankly, I doubt it. But we certainly seemed more at ease in one another's company than either of us were used to with anyone else. Make of that what you will.
Rakel as best he could with a damaged arm. 'What's wrong with her?'
'I'm not exactly sure/ she replied, a thoughtful frown appearing for a moment on her face. That, I was later to discover, wasn't entirely true; she had her suspicions, but the truth about Jurgen wouldn't be confirmed for some time yet.
To cut a long story short, we made it back to HQ without further incident, and dispersed to our various duties. Amberley went off with the medicae to ensure that her friends were properly patched up, although as I was to find out for myself on subsequent occasions, having an inquisitor hovering in the corner doesn't exactly help them to concentrate on stemming the bleeding or whatever. I went off for a shower and a change of clothes, but was still smelling faintly of smoke when Broklaw and the others returned in high spirits.
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