The Squad Chapter 25
RiP
Seeker of Silence
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Part 5
A bit of kindness
Chapter 25
"Two hundred and fifteen kilometers per hour," commented Schmettau. "It seems that for this steam monster, the resistance of the medium has been abolished."
The Inquisitor had swapped his sybaritic robe and slippers for a blue wool tracksuit with white stripes on the sides, and special shoes that Olga would call sneakers. From the outside, Schmettau looked more like an elderly but vivacious athlete who, despite a solid tummy, was still trying to hold on to some kind of shape. A retired middle-aged administrator balances his love of meat with sports, and he will run for another ten years from the inevitable heart attack. In practice, however, it was the form in which Kalkroit preferred to pack in a battle suit.
"When I see such things, I come dangerously close to the idea that the Machine God is an independent deity, and not a hypostasis of the Emperor," honestly confessed the inquisitor. "Of course, I think about it briefly and with the obligatory penance to atone for heretical thoughts. But still..."
Pale bowed his head in silence, admitting a certain rightness in the master's words. The image from the satellite was jittery, the channel density was insufficient for a normal broadcast, and the darkness of the night was also interfering. Essen experimented with contrast, removed the color, and then cranked the resolution almost to the minimum, as a result, the converging transports seemed poorly docked rectangles. But even so, it was clear that the monstrous hauler at the head of the 'Radial' had gone far beyond what was possible for an ordinary machine. In the thermal spectrum, the steam locomotive glowed like a transparent glass toy with a crimson bulb inside. Over the years Kalkroyt had dealt with all sorts of machinery, so he knew that the old tractor was long overdue to drive straight into the Omnissiah Palace.
"They have a chance," the inquisitor suggested. "I think they might get through first. Barely, but they might."
The pursuer plowed the snow-covered steppe, like an ironclad with a battering ram. Snow fountains flew around, leaving a visible trail on either side of the low railroad embankment. The tracks were converging at an acute angle, and the automatic hand had already moved the rails.
"Yes, there's a chance. But it's going to be in meters," the archivist said, looking at the screen. "And I don't see how that helps them. A clash is inevitable anyway."
"Soon they'll be out of sight," added Pale, frowning. "And we can't reassign another satellite quickly, we don't have the authority."
"Well, then, we don't have much time left," decided Schmettau philosophically, then turned to the archivist. "What news?"
Moving with a sedate slowness - influenced more by numerous injuries than by senile infirmity - Kalkroit's longtime secretary laid out over a large map an equally large sheet of transparent and flexible plastic. The map depicted the industrial region and 'City-22,' the epicenter of a hemispheric disaster. A major transportation hub as well as a concentration of local culture with two museums, a real theater, and, of course, temples. The pen of the archivist had already made three-color marks on the transparent sheet and evaluating the scribbles of the assistant, the inquisitors grimaced as if they bit one lemon from both sides at once. The sight did not inspire optimism.
"I thought it would be better," thought Schmettau aloud. "Heads would fly. A lot of heads. To miss such a breakthrough... Either the local Inquisition has decayed to the point of complete incapacity, or..."
Kalkroit cast a brief glance at his companion as if to invite him to show his keenness of thought and to finish the assumption. Pale got it right, and did not let him down, giving it away at once with his usual reasonableness:
"A heretic of sectoral scale has worked here. Rather, a group of well-trained and experienced specialists, skilled in high-level sorcery practices. I would assume that there is at least one renegade among them who knows how to bypass the complex security net. Otherwise, even very clever sorcerers wouldn't be able to fool everyone, both the arbiters and our brethren, so cleverly."
"Hmm... Yes, I think you're right," agreed Schmettau. "And I seem to recall that the old senile Wimpfen warned of something similar... I'll have to reread that memorandum of his."
Kalkroit chewed his lips, trying to remember, the archivist prompted:
"The quarterly bulletin 'On Possible Threats', a general mailing on the system, was given to you along with other materials on the Beacon according to the regulations of the status of the present but not officially included in the Inquisitor's investigations."
"The bulletin will be delivered," Essen promised. "Wimpfen had warned of the possible presence of a 'roving' group of Slaaneshites who organized specific sorcery practices on the client's sacrificial material. Sort of like high-level mercenaries, working for a fraction of the energy released in the course of the sacrifice. They are so effective that they provided a certain guarantee for their work."
That Wimpfen suggested a connection between the mythical 'mercenaries' and the irretrievably destroyed cursed 'Alpha' Legion of Renegades, Essen kept silent. That was the main reason why the memorandum was sent 'under the table'.
"Even so?" Schmettau was genuinely surprised. "I can see why no one took the warning seriously. These freelance companies are settled in hives or very dense systems, on such sparsely populated planets, it is difficult for them to hide. But the gravity of the mistake doesn't make it any easier. Okay, let's take a look at the new rundown. So..."
The inquisitor ran his thick finger along the red dotted line, which was accompanied by frequent symbols in the form of little bombs.
"I see the bogeyman crawling from the coast right toward the city."
"There is no way to stop it," commented Palet. "Not enough force, everyone within ten kilometers of the epicenter has lost their human form in the literal sense. A fifty-kilometer radius is almost guaranteed insanity, the only exceptions being the small groups gathered around the conductors of the true faith. Garrisons, police detachments, congregations in temples, and so on. The 200-kilometer line."
"I see," Shmettau interrupted, glancing at the pad of operational markers. "So there's not much power and even less organization, and what the Inquisitors and Arbitrators can manage is a drop in the sea. But the potheads have shown themselves to be fighters, I see..."
"Ordinary mechanicus are just as exposed as ordinary humans," Essen explained. "But the Martian detachments that have arrived are, in fact, the only organized force in the region. They even tried to set up some sort of evacuation until a row of hosts appeared in the center of the city."
"Not at a good time the planetary leadership decided to disband this... squad," said Schmettau.
"From what we've seen of the 'Sixty-four', that's not a fact," Pale said. "Obviously, the purificators are just as vulnerable as the others."
"But someone commands the Twelfth," muttered Schmettau. "And I don't believe Fidus is a conductor of the true faith. Well, all right. By all signs, the city will be blown to smithereens by an oceanic alien. Orbit's silent?"
"Rather confused," replied the archivist. "Their protocols are not designed for this scale of sabotage, and the available forces are insufficient. They're sending out requests, preparing landing parties, but I'd say for another five or six hours the orbital forces are useless."
"Of course," said the Inquisitor sardonically. "And then they'll turn panic-stricken to the Fleet and start carpet-bombing to bury evidence of personal incompetence under the rubble. Everything as usual."
Essen and the archivist looked at each other, silently and synchronously shrugged their shoulders, as if that were the harsh truth of life, there was nothing to be done.
"What about the impact in general? - Shmettau continued grumpily. "Have you determined the nature and the origin?"
"As our surveillance and radio interception service shows," the archivist spoke tediously, monotonously, like a real servitor. "The nature of the hostile influence is not constant, it is a combination of alternating attacks with a well-defined amplitude. It seems the most accurate term for what is going on is 'pulsation'. Take a look at the rhythm."
The archivist handed a long scroll to Schmettau with all due deference. The sheet looked very much like the charts the inquisitors had evaluated before, but with only one line, like a cardiograph tape. Essen, taking advantage of his height, peered over the patron's shoulder.
"Periodicity..." Kalkroit muttered, scribbling symbols on the timeline with his fingernail. "Clearly marked peaks, where people went mad en masse, then remission. At first, it was about twenty minutes between peaks, now it's down to three or four... A very strange rhythm. Strange... and familiar. I feel as if I had seen it before, but had long ago and firmly forgotten it. Essen, does anything come to mind for you?"
Pale silently twisted his scarred head.
The inquisitor walked around the table for a while, massaging his lower back. The archivist patiently waited for instructions, while Essen, judging by the deep wrinkles on his forehead, was engaged in vigorous mental activity, apparently trying to remember the nature of fluctuations after Schmettau. The Inquisitor's sneakers creaked faintly on the new soles, and the video broadcasting equipment hummed softly. On the screen, the two radial armored trains were approaching inexorably, but Kalkroit forgot about the chase, lost in thought.
"Once again the captain requests permission to go higher," Essen reported as he put two fingers to his earlobe. "We're in too low an orbit, the influence is affecting the servitors and the spirit of the propulsion system. The crew is feeling some mental confusion. One had to be isolated."
"Then we won't be able to monitor the situation adequately," Kalkroit grumbled irritably. "And so we pick up the crumbs. As for confusion, he who is unable to keep his soul in service is unnecessary."
Essen wanted to say something, mechanically stroking the scars on his head, but refrained.
"No, I refuse," decided the inquisitor. "We'll stay here as long as possible. I need uninterrupted connections to the satellite network. And photocontrol, as far as possible."
"As you wish," Essen bowed his head, thus demonstrating his disagreement with his patron. He usually said 'as you command,' but this time he was showing unobtrusively that he considered his master's wish to be a personal whim, not a matter of the moment.
"Exactly. This is my..."
Kalkroit froze in place with his mouth open, then snapped his lower jaw like a real ork.
"Now," he commanded the archivist curtly. "Call our medic... No, you'd better find a reference book. Not the encyclopedia, but the yellow one, with the title, I think, 'Emergency Medical Care of All Kinds for First Wave Colonists' or something like that. And you..." that was addressed to Essen. "Bring my diary. Notebook number," the Inquisitor hesitated for a moment, remembering. "Eighty-nine. It has a torn corner, and the cover is stained with blood, you can't tell the difference."
"With your blood?" Essen managed to combine the question with a military U-turn and the first step toward the Schmettau library.
"No," the inquisitor grinned wryly. "Fidus's wife. The mother of his son."
Pale took another step, and then the leisurely but thorough thoughts in his head came together like cogs turning together - a possible group of experienced sorcerers, a specific rhythm, a medical guide for colonists, the blood of Kryptman Sr.'s wife.
"Shit," whispered Essen, who normally had the impressionability of a tank and considered profanity a pointless waste of time.
"Exactly," said Schmettau just as quietly. "Exactly..."
* * *
Olga was in pain. In general, she was used to pain in all its forms, especially 'imperium' pain. The world of an unlit and unhappy future greeted her mainly with trouble, beatings, hunger, and fear. It is possible to say, the problems complimented each other harmoniously if something became less, the other significantly added, not allowing to be bored and reminding - she not in a fairy tale. But this time the pain was different. It poured over the body, filled the body, poisoned the feelings and the very soul, like a generous portion of liquid soap tipped into the tea. Olga turned into pain.
Help... she whispered, or rather thought, shouted into the infinite Nothingness, where no one could or wanted to hear the cry of a dying soul.
Painful...
And this pain would last forever, it would only change shades and focus, Olga knew for sure. Her ribs would hurt, and they were pounded on with a hard fist like a drum. And then the girl would be thrown, like a dirty rag toy, into the bathtub-with chipped enamel and yellowish streaks from the leaky showerhead, constantly wound around the faucet. There, swallowing bitter tears in prostration, Olga would pour hot water over herself, unable to understand where the blood was coming from. Four days in the hospital, where she would finally be taken by an ambulance, would follow. After that, two excruciating weeks during which she would only be able to sleep on her stomach. She would answer inaccurately to the questions of the smelly and sweaty cop, and of the medical lady who tiredly asked why the stupid girl had bathed herself.
And on and on, with no beginning and no end, in a looped time. Usually, repetition kills everything, including fear. Take one blow, and it burns your soul. But on the thousand and one, you'll only grin... But not now. With each cycle, the girl felt herself approaching the edge of madness. That she was being purposefully led to madness, to a state where nothing remained of the old Olga.
And again a fist twisted her long hair, firmly, with unhurried authority. After that, the girl began to cut her hair short, so that it was impossible to grab the strands, a few times it helped. But there is no 'after,' only endless 'here and 'now'.
And who's the most beautiful? Who's ready..?
"Potential offense."
Something had gone wrong. A strange voice that wasn't supposed to be here. The room, the brother, the bathroom, the stinking cop in the hospital, and the medicine lady - there was no space for anything else in the world around... And yet this something was squeezing into the looped world, breaking it, squeezing the horrors of the present-past, pushing them into the background. Nothing ended, but the girl sighed a little easier.
"Violent, unauthorized restriction of the freedom of an Ecclesiarchical novice is possible."
She's heard it before... where? When?
The brother, who must also have sensed the impropriety of the situation, not letting go of his victim, turned toward the door. There was a figure standing in the doorway, a dark brown robe with white edging hanging from it like a hanger. From beneath the hood, an expressionless, polished metal mask with several slits and glowing green eyeglasses stared down at the victim and the villain.
"The response protocol?"
Where the man's mouth would have been, an oscillographic green stripe jumped up and down accompanying each word spoken with a mechanical accent.
Jennifer.
Olga did not understand where the name came from. But the knowledge that there was a woman under the mask and cloak, and her name was exactly Jennifer, was absolutely accurate.
"What, you want to join in?"
A little more pain followed, naturally growing into a lot of pain.
"Perhaps I wouldn't mind joining in the perverse experience," Jennifer stepped forward, raising her hand. "But, alas, there is no functionally necessary equipment."
The metal curtains on her right eye suddenly came together for a moment, as if the strange guest had winked.
"You shouldn't think so, there are many different ways," the brother's voice suddenly became a kind of ringing, enveloping... soporific... It wasn't human at all.
Olga remembered the cold concrete warehouse in the crazy world of dust, snow, and sand.
Segmented tentacle with three claws.
Bitter smell. The whistle of a hypersonic torch with a working part made of magnetostrictive material.
"Source of danger. Decontamination. Execute," Jennifer's voice sounded muffled again as if it came from a deep barrel or a wide pipe. A rounded zero-point eighteen-hundredths of a metric ton in one swift step was nearby, literally ripping the girl from the inhuman embrace.
Olga blinked and found herself half-lying in the ... room. Although it would probably be correct to call this space an abstract idea of a room. It had no fixed size or shape, the tiles flowed like plasticine, turning into old wallpaper hanging in shreds, which in turn turned into hospital walls, hateful and familiar. There was some furniture here, broken, broken, just like in Ballistic, and a moment later the debris became a whole Soviet chipboard set, as familiar and hateful as the hospital smell from the walls.
And there was almost no pain... The pain was excessive but mostly physical, and the soul felt as if it had been pelted with a bucket of clean water, washing away the acidic goo.
"Tech-priestess Jennifer Wackrufmann," Olga remembered, speaking the words slowly and carefully. "Tech-priestess is your rank."
With her arms around her knees, she sat in the middle of the room, swaying from side to side and giggling softly.
I'm going crazy. I'm going crazy...
"Those who go crazy believe themselves to be perfectly normal," Jennifer objected.
"Can you read minds now, too? - The girl continued to giggle. The laughter broke into a deep, sobbing sob.
The light... it got noticeably brighter around her. Like in alien movies, when a bright white cone hits from above. Only the light was warmer and softer, kinder or something.
"You do realize that everything around you is a figment of your mind, don't you? And the hope of hearing something new from the image of a virtual friend is rather irrational, isn't it?"
Olga blinked and thought about what she had heard. The thought seemed surprisingly sensible and gave the impression of an anchor. Or a rock in a rough sea. She could climb on it to catch her breath and look around - how far was the shore?
"You're a nerd. Rare. Even in my imagination," the girl whispered.
But if this is all imaginary, why is she whispering? After all, anything is possible here?
"Bummer!!!" she shrieked in her voice, and the echo came back, crushing the sound into a million pieces.
"Bummer," Olga repeated and moved her hands over her stomach.
Yes, it hurts. But it's bearable.
"And whose fault is that?" Wakrufmann asked sarcastically. "If you don't like it, you could imagine me up better."
Jennifer winked again.
"Don't go," Olga asked. "Please. Or... It will... come back. I'll try to imagine you better."
She stifled another burst of sobs, feeling the tears burning her eyes.
"It will come back," Wakrufmann stated mercilessly, and Olga cried nonetheless, with quiet wistful hopelessness. She curled into a ball, habitually pulling her knees up to her chest to cover her stomach, wrapping her head around it.
"This is silly," Jennifer said.
"The end!" Olga howled. "The end! All the good things are over!!!"
"Stupid," the techno-priestess repeated, and the earth girl felt.... something.
It was like the touch of a warm hand, but kind of aimless. It was as if some kind and compassionate force was poking around blindly, demanding and insistent.
"You wouldn't understand," Olga whispered. "You won't understand how it's... how it..."
"Yes. I had a completely different experience of a traumatic situation," Wakrufmann stated dryly. "During the explorations, our expedition awakened something that shouldn't have lived. Ancient xenomachines that, you might say, 'came to their senses' and began to execute a standard program. The protocol of interaction with the living. They sliced off my skin in order to better understand the structure and work in the dynamics of the muscular system. Then they dissected me, taking apart my organs, without anesthesia of course, because pain triangulation is a very effective way to study the principles of nervous system functioning. Fortunately, the Emperor's angels and the Skitarians got there in time before the enemies vivisected my brain. Afterward, the magos placed what was left of me on life support."
"They made a 'cog' out of you," Olga guessed.
"Not really. That was afterward. At that point, the Martians simply preserved my brain. There was a suspicion that there had been contact with a new threat that had not yet been studied or classified. But all the records were damaged, and I was the only living witness capable of testifying. More precisely, technically alive. Technically, my body represented the material of a lifetime autopsy, laid out on fifteen laboratory benches."
"You didn't tell me about it... I didn't know that... and I couldn't have known! We're not in the memory! Not in my memory!"
Olga scrambled, trying to crawl away into the darkness, away from the Martian imposter.
"It's more accurate to say we're in a complex simulation. It uses the computational resources of your mind and is based on your memories. However, the tools used by the aggressor are, shall we say, partly immaterial. In other words, we are now in a wonderland of possibilities... different things are possible there. For example, you can learn a story you haven't yet been told, but only intend to."
"A time of wonders... a place of wonders," Olga repeated.
But what should I do?
She thought it, but the thought echoed back with a familiar echo, rattling like doomsday trumpets.
"And how do I find out that you're not..."
She faltered, trying to formulate. Everything was mixed up in Olga's head.
"Infiltrator," Wakrufmann said.
"What?"
"The infiltrator tries to break through the simulation to help you escape from the hallucination. Your subconscious senses his mood and creates an image of someone you can trust on the basis of positive influence. That is me. It's funny how you associate me with safety."
"Or it's another hoax."
"Yes, that's possible too," agreed either Jennifer, or not Jennifer, or the pure hallucination of Olga's disintegrating mind.
"Filtrator," the girl repeated the strange word and clung to it. "Why is everything so confusing!"
"Because your consciousness is corrupted," the non-existent Jennifer stated ruthlessly. "They're trying to break it, to distort it. Your mind is under pressure, your concentration is broken. Consequently, you cannot concentrate, cannot leave the maze of hostile influences."
"But what to do?"
"An anti-stress cuddle?" Wakrufmann suggested.
Olga, no longer holding back tears, could only nod. The warmth of the mechanical body literally demanded to freeze, and not to move, to stretch the seconds of this feeling of absolute security and sympathy.
"Focus on the warmth," Jennifer advised. "Imagine there's nothing else in the world. Feel the warmth. Imagine there's someone who loves you. Only you, just because you are. It could be the Emperor, Omnissia, or your mother. Of course, Omnissia is the best, but that's not necessary and not that important right now."
"Warmth," Olga whispered.
"Good. Then add another sensation. See the light. A warm, kind light."
The girl honestly focused on the light, and it seemed to work.
"What do I do now?"
"From the experience of a previous encounter with the forces of the Immaterium, wait until that illusion is finally shattered by the damage you've done. Concentrate on the light so that the savior can find his way to you and show you the way out."
"By me? You're the one who's been messing around. And this... you handled it."
"Let me remind you again," Wakrufmann's firm hands gently stroked Olga's shoulders and head. "Here I am a figment of your consciousness."
"I'm scared," Olga burst into tears. "I'm so scared... And I feel bad..."
"The machinations of hostile forces are deadly," Jennifer explained, pulling the girl closer. "They deceive with the truth. They take a drop of truth and poison it, letting doubt and pain take their course. They are like shadows that wind themselves where there is no light. Their task is to show that the world is darkness. To catch the target in a moment of confusion and frustration, to implant the idea that there is nothing left but misery and despair. Their victim is always a lonely man in the darkness of doubt. This is their strength, but also their weakness. Light dispels the darkness. Go to the light, go to those who are willing to help."
"No one can help me," Olga whispered. "No one..."
"Is that so?" Jennifer was genuinely surprised. "What about the Squad?"
"They..." Olga hesitated.
"Let me remind you," Wakrufmann said with her usual measuredness. "That the squad did not hesitate to enter the house infected ruinous power. And passed through the underworld of the other world without flinching, without allowing fear to take possession of their souls. Have you forgotten?"
"N-no..."
"What do you think they're doing now?"
"I... I don't know..."
"Let's put the question another way. Which do you think is more likely, being abandoned or trying to help?"
Olga sighed, pulled away from Jennifer's hard, warm face, and wiped her crying face with her small palms, smearing away the salty tears.
"They burn people..." sobbed the girl.
"But the Priest came to you to tell you how the Imperium works. To bring you not blind faith, but knowledge. For that was his duty as a shepherd of men."
"Bertha beat me up!"
"And she also shot at the shadows of evil dreams when they attacked you in the lost city. They attacked you, sensing the emanations of an alien from another world, another time."
"They're angry bastards," Olga whispered.
"And which one of them was really mean to you?" Jennifer clarified ruthlessly. "As far back as I can remember, as far back as we can remember, even the evil bastard Savlar brought you a glass of water."
"Kryp," Olga muttered. "He abandoned me."
"Yes. It's true," Jennifer agreed.
"He abandoned me!" repeated, shouted in her voice, letting the burning resentment, the terrible disappointment finally break through. "He dumped me!!! I saved him, I helped him, I believed him! He promised! He promised!"
"Yes, that's true," Jennifer repeated. "And he came back for you. Didn't he?"
"What?"
"He came back for you," Jennifer repeated. "Kryp gave up his inquisitor's life to join the Squad as a volunteer. He abandoned you, and he was willing to die for you. Wasn't he?"
Olga was silent, looking at the face of the techno priestess of metal and glass. She was silent and remembered, feeling the boundless darkness of despair recede. How the shadows whimpered in powerless anger, dispersed by the light.
"You are not alone. And you were not abandoned. We are not abandoned. We are not alone."
Olga no longer understood whose words it was, or who was saying them. But she could feel the seeker's attention concentrating on her. They had almost found each other so that there was only a little bit left, just a little bit.
"What should I do?" Olga asked, already knowing the answer.
"You know what to do," Jennifer said, and Olga repeated. "I know what to do."
The light enveloped her, drawing her in, gently calling her along, to a place where pain could be quenched and the soul belonged only to the person himself.
"Baby." soundly and clearly said Wakrufmann, who remained somewhere behind, behind to fight for Olga, covering her departure from the tenacious embrace of the enemy.
"What?"
"Baby," Jennifer's disappearing voice repeated. "Remember. A baby is very important. It's the most important thing in the world..."
When she opened her eyes, Driver first cursed floridly, extremely inventively, then said a short prayer, and only then, making sure that the girl looked more or less normal, put the pin in the grenade, on which her fingers were already stiff.
"Ouch. What's that on my head for?" The girl asked perplexedly, flapping her cornflower eye, probing the 'Faraday cage' with trembling fingers.
"Well, praise be to the Emperor, we got you out, it seems," summed up the Driver, climbing over to the old familiar seat behind the levers of 'Chimera'. "Less to worry about..."
"Demetrius... why are you naked?!" the girl shrieked.
The loud sound of the slap rang out like a pistol shot.
"You put a muzzle on me! You stuck a needle in me! You sick pervert!!!" came from the passenger compartment in such a way that it seemed to vibrate the armor steel.
"...Or more," grinned the wise tankman, listening to Olla's wild cries and Demetrius' confused excuses. The engineer clicked a button on the tangent and reported. - The orderly pulled the blonde out. Both seemed to be in order.
"Who's yelling in there?" Bertha asked. The mentor's voice was trembling and intermittent, like she was dragging something heavy, even for herself. In the background, something metallic rattled and seemed to gurgle, shimmering.
"So, collateral damage," smiled the driver again.
"Then get them over here to headquarters! Both of them!" Bertha yelled.
"Roger that."
"Start the turret, check the armor-piercing cassette, we'll shoot straight from the wagon," Bertha ordered. "Send Demetrius to HQ, let him get ready to open the doorway for your fire. Enemy on the port side left panel! Move on command!"
"Understood. I'm on it," the mechanic reported and reminded me. "I only have two boxes."
"As many as there are, all for them," barked the mentor. "Move on, quick!!!"
A bit of kindness
Chapter 25
* * *
"Two hundred and fifteen kilometers per hour," commented Schmettau. "It seems that for this steam monster, the resistance of the medium has been abolished."
The Inquisitor had swapped his sybaritic robe and slippers for a blue wool tracksuit with white stripes on the sides, and special shoes that Olga would call sneakers. From the outside, Schmettau looked more like an elderly but vivacious athlete who, despite a solid tummy, was still trying to hold on to some kind of shape. A retired middle-aged administrator balances his love of meat with sports, and he will run for another ten years from the inevitable heart attack. In practice, however, it was the form in which Kalkroit preferred to pack in a battle suit.
"When I see such things, I come dangerously close to the idea that the Machine God is an independent deity, and not a hypostasis of the Emperor," honestly confessed the inquisitor. "Of course, I think about it briefly and with the obligatory penance to atone for heretical thoughts. But still..."
Pale bowed his head in silence, admitting a certain rightness in the master's words. The image from the satellite was jittery, the channel density was insufficient for a normal broadcast, and the darkness of the night was also interfering. Essen experimented with contrast, removed the color, and then cranked the resolution almost to the minimum, as a result, the converging transports seemed poorly docked rectangles. But even so, it was clear that the monstrous hauler at the head of the 'Radial' had gone far beyond what was possible for an ordinary machine. In the thermal spectrum, the steam locomotive glowed like a transparent glass toy with a crimson bulb inside. Over the years Kalkroyt had dealt with all sorts of machinery, so he knew that the old tractor was long overdue to drive straight into the Omnissiah Palace.
"They have a chance," the inquisitor suggested. "I think they might get through first. Barely, but they might."
The pursuer plowed the snow-covered steppe, like an ironclad with a battering ram. Snow fountains flew around, leaving a visible trail on either side of the low railroad embankment. The tracks were converging at an acute angle, and the automatic hand had already moved the rails.
"Yes, there's a chance. But it's going to be in meters," the archivist said, looking at the screen. "And I don't see how that helps them. A clash is inevitable anyway."
"Soon they'll be out of sight," added Pale, frowning. "And we can't reassign another satellite quickly, we don't have the authority."
"Well, then, we don't have much time left," decided Schmettau philosophically, then turned to the archivist. "What news?"
Moving with a sedate slowness - influenced more by numerous injuries than by senile infirmity - Kalkroit's longtime secretary laid out over a large map an equally large sheet of transparent and flexible plastic. The map depicted the industrial region and 'City-22,' the epicenter of a hemispheric disaster. A major transportation hub as well as a concentration of local culture with two museums, a real theater, and, of course, temples. The pen of the archivist had already made three-color marks on the transparent sheet and evaluating the scribbles of the assistant, the inquisitors grimaced as if they bit one lemon from both sides at once. The sight did not inspire optimism.
"I thought it would be better," thought Schmettau aloud. "Heads would fly. A lot of heads. To miss such a breakthrough... Either the local Inquisition has decayed to the point of complete incapacity, or..."
Kalkroit cast a brief glance at his companion as if to invite him to show his keenness of thought and to finish the assumption. Pale got it right, and did not let him down, giving it away at once with his usual reasonableness:
"A heretic of sectoral scale has worked here. Rather, a group of well-trained and experienced specialists, skilled in high-level sorcery practices. I would assume that there is at least one renegade among them who knows how to bypass the complex security net. Otherwise, even very clever sorcerers wouldn't be able to fool everyone, both the arbiters and our brethren, so cleverly."
"Hmm... Yes, I think you're right," agreed Schmettau. "And I seem to recall that the old senile Wimpfen warned of something similar... I'll have to reread that memorandum of his."
Kalkroit chewed his lips, trying to remember, the archivist prompted:
"The quarterly bulletin 'On Possible Threats', a general mailing on the system, was given to you along with other materials on the Beacon according to the regulations of the status of the present but not officially included in the Inquisitor's investigations."
"The bulletin will be delivered," Essen promised. "Wimpfen had warned of the possible presence of a 'roving' group of Slaaneshites who organized specific sorcery practices on the client's sacrificial material. Sort of like high-level mercenaries, working for a fraction of the energy released in the course of the sacrifice. They are so effective that they provided a certain guarantee for their work."
That Wimpfen suggested a connection between the mythical 'mercenaries' and the irretrievably destroyed cursed 'Alpha' Legion of Renegades, Essen kept silent. That was the main reason why the memorandum was sent 'under the table'.
"Even so?" Schmettau was genuinely surprised. "I can see why no one took the warning seriously. These freelance companies are settled in hives or very dense systems, on such sparsely populated planets, it is difficult for them to hide. But the gravity of the mistake doesn't make it any easier. Okay, let's take a look at the new rundown. So..."
The inquisitor ran his thick finger along the red dotted line, which was accompanied by frequent symbols in the form of little bombs.
"I see the bogeyman crawling from the coast right toward the city."
"There is no way to stop it," commented Palet. "Not enough force, everyone within ten kilometers of the epicenter has lost their human form in the literal sense. A fifty-kilometer radius is almost guaranteed insanity, the only exceptions being the small groups gathered around the conductors of the true faith. Garrisons, police detachments, congregations in temples, and so on. The 200-kilometer line."
"I see," Shmettau interrupted, glancing at the pad of operational markers. "So there's not much power and even less organization, and what the Inquisitors and Arbitrators can manage is a drop in the sea. But the potheads have shown themselves to be fighters, I see..."
"Ordinary mechanicus are just as exposed as ordinary humans," Essen explained. "But the Martian detachments that have arrived are, in fact, the only organized force in the region. They even tried to set up some sort of evacuation until a row of hosts appeared in the center of the city."
"Not at a good time the planetary leadership decided to disband this... squad," said Schmettau.
"From what we've seen of the 'Sixty-four', that's not a fact," Pale said. "Obviously, the purificators are just as vulnerable as the others."
"But someone commands the Twelfth," muttered Schmettau. "And I don't believe Fidus is a conductor of the true faith. Well, all right. By all signs, the city will be blown to smithereens by an oceanic alien. Orbit's silent?"
"Rather confused," replied the archivist. "Their protocols are not designed for this scale of sabotage, and the available forces are insufficient. They're sending out requests, preparing landing parties, but I'd say for another five or six hours the orbital forces are useless."
"Of course," said the Inquisitor sardonically. "And then they'll turn panic-stricken to the Fleet and start carpet-bombing to bury evidence of personal incompetence under the rubble. Everything as usual."
Essen and the archivist looked at each other, silently and synchronously shrugged their shoulders, as if that were the harsh truth of life, there was nothing to be done.
"What about the impact in general? - Shmettau continued grumpily. "Have you determined the nature and the origin?"
"As our surveillance and radio interception service shows," the archivist spoke tediously, monotonously, like a real servitor. "The nature of the hostile influence is not constant, it is a combination of alternating attacks with a well-defined amplitude. It seems the most accurate term for what is going on is 'pulsation'. Take a look at the rhythm."
The archivist handed a long scroll to Schmettau with all due deference. The sheet looked very much like the charts the inquisitors had evaluated before, but with only one line, like a cardiograph tape. Essen, taking advantage of his height, peered over the patron's shoulder.
"Periodicity..." Kalkroit muttered, scribbling symbols on the timeline with his fingernail. "Clearly marked peaks, where people went mad en masse, then remission. At first, it was about twenty minutes between peaks, now it's down to three or four... A very strange rhythm. Strange... and familiar. I feel as if I had seen it before, but had long ago and firmly forgotten it. Essen, does anything come to mind for you?"
Pale silently twisted his scarred head.
The inquisitor walked around the table for a while, massaging his lower back. The archivist patiently waited for instructions, while Essen, judging by the deep wrinkles on his forehead, was engaged in vigorous mental activity, apparently trying to remember the nature of fluctuations after Schmettau. The Inquisitor's sneakers creaked faintly on the new soles, and the video broadcasting equipment hummed softly. On the screen, the two radial armored trains were approaching inexorably, but Kalkroit forgot about the chase, lost in thought.
"Once again the captain requests permission to go higher," Essen reported as he put two fingers to his earlobe. "We're in too low an orbit, the influence is affecting the servitors and the spirit of the propulsion system. The crew is feeling some mental confusion. One had to be isolated."
"Then we won't be able to monitor the situation adequately," Kalkroit grumbled irritably. "And so we pick up the crumbs. As for confusion, he who is unable to keep his soul in service is unnecessary."
Essen wanted to say something, mechanically stroking the scars on his head, but refrained.
"No, I refuse," decided the inquisitor. "We'll stay here as long as possible. I need uninterrupted connections to the satellite network. And photocontrol, as far as possible."
"As you wish," Essen bowed his head, thus demonstrating his disagreement with his patron. He usually said 'as you command,' but this time he was showing unobtrusively that he considered his master's wish to be a personal whim, not a matter of the moment.
"Exactly. This is my..."
Kalkroit froze in place with his mouth open, then snapped his lower jaw like a real ork.
"Now," he commanded the archivist curtly. "Call our medic... No, you'd better find a reference book. Not the encyclopedia, but the yellow one, with the title, I think, 'Emergency Medical Care of All Kinds for First Wave Colonists' or something like that. And you..." that was addressed to Essen. "Bring my diary. Notebook number," the Inquisitor hesitated for a moment, remembering. "Eighty-nine. It has a torn corner, and the cover is stained with blood, you can't tell the difference."
"With your blood?" Essen managed to combine the question with a military U-turn and the first step toward the Schmettau library.
"No," the inquisitor grinned wryly. "Fidus's wife. The mother of his son."
Pale took another step, and then the leisurely but thorough thoughts in his head came together like cogs turning together - a possible group of experienced sorcerers, a specific rhythm, a medical guide for colonists, the blood of Kryptman Sr.'s wife.
"Shit," whispered Essen, who normally had the impressionability of a tank and considered profanity a pointless waste of time.
"Exactly," said Schmettau just as quietly. "Exactly..."
* * *
Olga was in pain. In general, she was used to pain in all its forms, especially 'imperium' pain. The world of an unlit and unhappy future greeted her mainly with trouble, beatings, hunger, and fear. It is possible to say, the problems complimented each other harmoniously if something became less, the other significantly added, not allowing to be bored and reminding - she not in a fairy tale. But this time the pain was different. It poured over the body, filled the body, poisoned the feelings and the very soul, like a generous portion of liquid soap tipped into the tea. Olga turned into pain.
Help... she whispered, or rather thought, shouted into the infinite Nothingness, where no one could or wanted to hear the cry of a dying soul.
Painful...
And this pain would last forever, it would only change shades and focus, Olga knew for sure. Her ribs would hurt, and they were pounded on with a hard fist like a drum. And then the girl would be thrown, like a dirty rag toy, into the bathtub-with chipped enamel and yellowish streaks from the leaky showerhead, constantly wound around the faucet. There, swallowing bitter tears in prostration, Olga would pour hot water over herself, unable to understand where the blood was coming from. Four days in the hospital, where she would finally be taken by an ambulance, would follow. After that, two excruciating weeks during which she would only be able to sleep on her stomach. She would answer inaccurately to the questions of the smelly and sweaty cop, and of the medical lady who tiredly asked why the stupid girl had bathed herself.
And on and on, with no beginning and no end, in a looped time. Usually, repetition kills everything, including fear. Take one blow, and it burns your soul. But on the thousand and one, you'll only grin... But not now. With each cycle, the girl felt herself approaching the edge of madness. That she was being purposefully led to madness, to a state where nothing remained of the old Olga.
And again a fist twisted her long hair, firmly, with unhurried authority. After that, the girl began to cut her hair short, so that it was impossible to grab the strands, a few times it helped. But there is no 'after,' only endless 'here and 'now'.
And who's the most beautiful? Who's ready..?
"Potential offense."
Something had gone wrong. A strange voice that wasn't supposed to be here. The room, the brother, the bathroom, the stinking cop in the hospital, and the medicine lady - there was no space for anything else in the world around... And yet this something was squeezing into the looped world, breaking it, squeezing the horrors of the present-past, pushing them into the background. Nothing ended, but the girl sighed a little easier.
"Violent, unauthorized restriction of the freedom of an Ecclesiarchical novice is possible."
She's heard it before... where? When?
The brother, who must also have sensed the impropriety of the situation, not letting go of his victim, turned toward the door. There was a figure standing in the doorway, a dark brown robe with white edging hanging from it like a hanger. From beneath the hood, an expressionless, polished metal mask with several slits and glowing green eyeglasses stared down at the victim and the villain.
"The response protocol?"
Where the man's mouth would have been, an oscillographic green stripe jumped up and down accompanying each word spoken with a mechanical accent.
Jennifer.
Olga did not understand where the name came from. But the knowledge that there was a woman under the mask and cloak, and her name was exactly Jennifer, was absolutely accurate.
"What, you want to join in?"
A little more pain followed, naturally growing into a lot of pain.
"Perhaps I wouldn't mind joining in the perverse experience," Jennifer stepped forward, raising her hand. "But, alas, there is no functionally necessary equipment."
The metal curtains on her right eye suddenly came together for a moment, as if the strange guest had winked.
"You shouldn't think so, there are many different ways," the brother's voice suddenly became a kind of ringing, enveloping... soporific... It wasn't human at all.
Olga remembered the cold concrete warehouse in the crazy world of dust, snow, and sand.
Segmented tentacle with three claws.
Bitter smell. The whistle of a hypersonic torch with a working part made of magnetostrictive material.
"Source of danger. Decontamination. Execute," Jennifer's voice sounded muffled again as if it came from a deep barrel or a wide pipe. A rounded zero-point eighteen-hundredths of a metric ton in one swift step was nearby, literally ripping the girl from the inhuman embrace.
Olga blinked and found herself half-lying in the ... room. Although it would probably be correct to call this space an abstract idea of a room. It had no fixed size or shape, the tiles flowed like plasticine, turning into old wallpaper hanging in shreds, which in turn turned into hospital walls, hateful and familiar. There was some furniture here, broken, broken, just like in Ballistic, and a moment later the debris became a whole Soviet chipboard set, as familiar and hateful as the hospital smell from the walls.
And there was almost no pain... The pain was excessive but mostly physical, and the soul felt as if it had been pelted with a bucket of clean water, washing away the acidic goo.
"Tech-priestess Jennifer Wackrufmann," Olga remembered, speaking the words slowly and carefully. "Tech-priestess is your rank."
With her arms around her knees, she sat in the middle of the room, swaying from side to side and giggling softly.
I'm going crazy. I'm going crazy...
"Those who go crazy believe themselves to be perfectly normal," Jennifer objected.
"Can you read minds now, too? - The girl continued to giggle. The laughter broke into a deep, sobbing sob.
The light... it got noticeably brighter around her. Like in alien movies, when a bright white cone hits from above. Only the light was warmer and softer, kinder or something.
"You do realize that everything around you is a figment of your mind, don't you? And the hope of hearing something new from the image of a virtual friend is rather irrational, isn't it?"
Olga blinked and thought about what she had heard. The thought seemed surprisingly sensible and gave the impression of an anchor. Or a rock in a rough sea. She could climb on it to catch her breath and look around - how far was the shore?
"You're a nerd. Rare. Even in my imagination," the girl whispered.
But if this is all imaginary, why is she whispering? After all, anything is possible here?
"Bummer!!!" she shrieked in her voice, and the echo came back, crushing the sound into a million pieces.
"Bummer," Olga repeated and moved her hands over her stomach.
Yes, it hurts. But it's bearable.
"And whose fault is that?" Wakrufmann asked sarcastically. "If you don't like it, you could imagine me up better."
Jennifer winked again.
"Don't go," Olga asked. "Please. Or... It will... come back. I'll try to imagine you better."
She stifled another burst of sobs, feeling the tears burning her eyes.
"It will come back," Wakrufmann stated mercilessly, and Olga cried nonetheless, with quiet wistful hopelessness. She curled into a ball, habitually pulling her knees up to her chest to cover her stomach, wrapping her head around it.
"This is silly," Jennifer said.
"The end!" Olga howled. "The end! All the good things are over!!!"
"Stupid," the techno-priestess repeated, and the earth girl felt.... something.
It was like the touch of a warm hand, but kind of aimless. It was as if some kind and compassionate force was poking around blindly, demanding and insistent.
"You wouldn't understand," Olga whispered. "You won't understand how it's... how it..."
"Yes. I had a completely different experience of a traumatic situation," Wakrufmann stated dryly. "During the explorations, our expedition awakened something that shouldn't have lived. Ancient xenomachines that, you might say, 'came to their senses' and began to execute a standard program. The protocol of interaction with the living. They sliced off my skin in order to better understand the structure and work in the dynamics of the muscular system. Then they dissected me, taking apart my organs, without anesthesia of course, because pain triangulation is a very effective way to study the principles of nervous system functioning. Fortunately, the Emperor's angels and the Skitarians got there in time before the enemies vivisected my brain. Afterward, the magos placed what was left of me on life support."
"They made a 'cog' out of you," Olga guessed.
"Not really. That was afterward. At that point, the Martians simply preserved my brain. There was a suspicion that there had been contact with a new threat that had not yet been studied or classified. But all the records were damaged, and I was the only living witness capable of testifying. More precisely, technically alive. Technically, my body represented the material of a lifetime autopsy, laid out on fifteen laboratory benches."
"You didn't tell me about it... I didn't know that... and I couldn't have known! We're not in the memory! Not in my memory!"
Olga scrambled, trying to crawl away into the darkness, away from the Martian imposter.
"It's more accurate to say we're in a complex simulation. It uses the computational resources of your mind and is based on your memories. However, the tools used by the aggressor are, shall we say, partly immaterial. In other words, we are now in a wonderland of possibilities... different things are possible there. For example, you can learn a story you haven't yet been told, but only intend to."
"A time of wonders... a place of wonders," Olga repeated.
But what should I do?
She thought it, but the thought echoed back with a familiar echo, rattling like doomsday trumpets.
"And how do I find out that you're not..."
She faltered, trying to formulate. Everything was mixed up in Olga's head.
"Infiltrator," Wakrufmann said.
"What?"
"The infiltrator tries to break through the simulation to help you escape from the hallucination. Your subconscious senses his mood and creates an image of someone you can trust on the basis of positive influence. That is me. It's funny how you associate me with safety."
"Or it's another hoax."
"Yes, that's possible too," agreed either Jennifer, or not Jennifer, or the pure hallucination of Olga's disintegrating mind.
"Filtrator," the girl repeated the strange word and clung to it. "Why is everything so confusing!"
"Because your consciousness is corrupted," the non-existent Jennifer stated ruthlessly. "They're trying to break it, to distort it. Your mind is under pressure, your concentration is broken. Consequently, you cannot concentrate, cannot leave the maze of hostile influences."
"But what to do?"
"An anti-stress cuddle?" Wakrufmann suggested.
Olga, no longer holding back tears, could only nod. The warmth of the mechanical body literally demanded to freeze, and not to move, to stretch the seconds of this feeling of absolute security and sympathy.
"Focus on the warmth," Jennifer advised. "Imagine there's nothing else in the world. Feel the warmth. Imagine there's someone who loves you. Only you, just because you are. It could be the Emperor, Omnissia, or your mother. Of course, Omnissia is the best, but that's not necessary and not that important right now."
"Warmth," Olga whispered.
"Good. Then add another sensation. See the light. A warm, kind light."
The girl honestly focused on the light, and it seemed to work.
"What do I do now?"
"From the experience of a previous encounter with the forces of the Immaterium, wait until that illusion is finally shattered by the damage you've done. Concentrate on the light so that the savior can find his way to you and show you the way out."
"By me? You're the one who's been messing around. And this... you handled it."
"Let me remind you again," Wakrufmann's firm hands gently stroked Olga's shoulders and head. "Here I am a figment of your consciousness."
"I'm scared," Olga burst into tears. "I'm so scared... And I feel bad..."
"The machinations of hostile forces are deadly," Jennifer explained, pulling the girl closer. "They deceive with the truth. They take a drop of truth and poison it, letting doubt and pain take their course. They are like shadows that wind themselves where there is no light. Their task is to show that the world is darkness. To catch the target in a moment of confusion and frustration, to implant the idea that there is nothing left but misery and despair. Their victim is always a lonely man in the darkness of doubt. This is their strength, but also their weakness. Light dispels the darkness. Go to the light, go to those who are willing to help."
"No one can help me," Olga whispered. "No one..."
"Is that so?" Jennifer was genuinely surprised. "What about the Squad?"
"They..." Olga hesitated.
"Let me remind you," Wakrufmann said with her usual measuredness. "That the squad did not hesitate to enter the house infected ruinous power. And passed through the underworld of the other world without flinching, without allowing fear to take possession of their souls. Have you forgotten?"
"N-no..."
"What do you think they're doing now?"
"I... I don't know..."
"Let's put the question another way. Which do you think is more likely, being abandoned or trying to help?"
Olga sighed, pulled away from Jennifer's hard, warm face, and wiped her crying face with her small palms, smearing away the salty tears.
"They burn people..." sobbed the girl.
"But the Priest came to you to tell you how the Imperium works. To bring you not blind faith, but knowledge. For that was his duty as a shepherd of men."
"Bertha beat me up!"
"And she also shot at the shadows of evil dreams when they attacked you in the lost city. They attacked you, sensing the emanations of an alien from another world, another time."
"They're angry bastards," Olga whispered.
"And which one of them was really mean to you?" Jennifer clarified ruthlessly. "As far back as I can remember, as far back as we can remember, even the evil bastard Savlar brought you a glass of water."
"Kryp," Olga muttered. "He abandoned me."
"Yes. It's true," Jennifer agreed.
"He abandoned me!" repeated, shouted in her voice, letting the burning resentment, the terrible disappointment finally break through. "He dumped me!!! I saved him, I helped him, I believed him! He promised! He promised!"
"Yes, that's true," Jennifer repeated. "And he came back for you. Didn't he?"
"What?"
"He came back for you," Jennifer repeated. "Kryp gave up his inquisitor's life to join the Squad as a volunteer. He abandoned you, and he was willing to die for you. Wasn't he?"
Olga was silent, looking at the face of the techno priestess of metal and glass. She was silent and remembered, feeling the boundless darkness of despair recede. How the shadows whimpered in powerless anger, dispersed by the light.
"You are not alone. And you were not abandoned. We are not abandoned. We are not alone."
Olga no longer understood whose words it was, or who was saying them. But she could feel the seeker's attention concentrating on her. They had almost found each other so that there was only a little bit left, just a little bit.
"What should I do?" Olga asked, already knowing the answer.
"You know what to do," Jennifer said, and Olga repeated. "I know what to do."
The light enveloped her, drawing her in, gently calling her along, to a place where pain could be quenched and the soul belonged only to the person himself.
"Baby." soundly and clearly said Wakrufmann, who remained somewhere behind, behind to fight for Olga, covering her departure from the tenacious embrace of the enemy.
"What?"
"Baby," Jennifer's disappearing voice repeated. "Remember. A baby is very important. It's the most important thing in the world..."
When she opened her eyes, Driver first cursed floridly, extremely inventively, then said a short prayer, and only then, making sure that the girl looked more or less normal, put the pin in the grenade, on which her fingers were already stiff.
"Ouch. What's that on my head for?" The girl asked perplexedly, flapping her cornflower eye, probing the 'Faraday cage' with trembling fingers.
"Well, praise be to the Emperor, we got you out, it seems," summed up the Driver, climbing over to the old familiar seat behind the levers of 'Chimera'. "Less to worry about..."
"Demetrius... why are you naked?!" the girl shrieked.
The loud sound of the slap rang out like a pistol shot.
"You put a muzzle on me! You stuck a needle in me! You sick pervert!!!" came from the passenger compartment in such a way that it seemed to vibrate the armor steel.
"...Or more," grinned the wise tankman, listening to Olla's wild cries and Demetrius' confused excuses. The engineer clicked a button on the tangent and reported. - The orderly pulled the blonde out. Both seemed to be in order.
"Who's yelling in there?" Bertha asked. The mentor's voice was trembling and intermittent, like she was dragging something heavy, even for herself. In the background, something metallic rattled and seemed to gurgle, shimmering.
"So, collateral damage," smiled the driver again.
"Then get them over here to headquarters! Both of them!" Bertha yelled.
"Roger that."
"Start the turret, check the armor-piercing cassette, we'll shoot straight from the wagon," Bertha ordered. "Send Demetrius to HQ, let him get ready to open the doorway for your fire. Enemy on the port side left panel! Move on command!"
"Understood. I'm on it," the mechanic reported and reminded me. "I only have two boxes."
"As many as there are, all for them," barked the mentor. "Move on, quick!!!"
* * *
